And then she smiled; and in the Catacombs, With eye suffused but heart inspired true, On those walls subterranean, where she hid

Her head in ignominy, death, and tombs, She her good Shepherd's hasty image drew— And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

* * * * *

TWO SAYINGS.

Two sayings of the Holy Scriptures beat Like pulses in the Church's brow and breast; And by them we find rest in our unrest, And heart-deep in salt tears, do yet entreat God's fellowship, as if on heavenly seat. The first is Jesus wept, whereon is prest Full many a sobbing face that drops its best And sweetest waters on the record sweet: And one is, where the Christ denied and scorned Looked upon Peter. Oh, to render plain, By help of having loved a little and mourned, That look of sovran love and sovran pain Which he who could not sin yet suffered, turned On him who could reject but not sustain!

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

* * * * *

A BALLAD OF TREES AND THE MASTER.

Into the woods my Master went, Clean forspent, forspent. Into the woods my Master came, Forspent with love and shame. But the olives they were not blind to Him; The little gray leaves were kind to Him; The thorn-tree had a mind to Him When into the woods He came.

Out of the woods my Master went, And He was well content. Out of the woods my Master came, Content with death and shame. When Death and Shame would woo Him last, From under the trees they drew Him last: 'Twas on a tree they slew Him—last, When out of the woods He came.

SIDNEY LANIER.

* * * * *

STABAT MATER DOLOROSA.

Stood the afflicted mother weeping, Near the cross her station keeping Whereon hung her Son and Lord; Through whose spirit sympathizing, Sorrowing and agonizing, Also passed the cruel sword.

Oh! how mournful and distressed Was that favored and most blessed Mother of the only Son, Trembling, grieving, bosom heaving, While perceiving, scarce believing, Pains of that Illustrious One!

Who the man, who, called a brother. Would not weep, saw he Christ's mother In such deep distress and wild? Who could not sad tribute render Witnessing that mother tender Agonizing with her child?

For his people's sins atoning, Him she saw in torments groaning, Given to the scourger's rod; Saw her darling offspring dying, Desolate, forsaken, crying. Yield his spirit up to God.

Make me feel thy sorrow's power, That with thee I tears may shower, Tender mother, fount of love! Make my heart with love unceasing Burn toward Christ the Lord, that pleasing I may be to him above.

Holy mother, this be granted, That the slain one's wounds be planted Firmly in my heart to bide. Of him wounded, all astounded— Depths unbounded for me sounded— All the pangs with me divide.

Make me weep with thee in union; With the Crucified, communion In his grief and suffering give; Near the cross, with tears unfailing, I would join thee in thy wailing Here as long as I shall live.

Maid of maidens, all excelling! Be not bitter, me repelling; Make thou me a mourner too; Make me bear about Christ's dying, Share his passion, shame defying; All his wounds in me renew.

Wound for wound be there created; With the cross intoxicated For thy Son's dear sake, I pray— May I, fired with pure affection, Virgin, have through thee protection In the solemn Judgment Day.

Let me by the cross be warded, By the death of Christ be guarded, Nourished by divine supplies. When the body death hath riven, Grant that to the soul be given Glories bright of Paradise.

From the Latin of FRA JACOPONE.

Translation of ABRAHAM COLES.

* * * * *

MYRRH-BEARERS.[A]

Three women crept at break of day A-grope along the shadowy way Where Joseph's tomb and garden lay.

With blanch of woe each face was white, As the gray Orient's waxing light Brought back upon their awe-struck sight

The sixth-day scene of anguish. Fast The starkly standing cross they passed, And, breathless, neared the gate at last.

Each on her throbbing bosom bore A burden of such fragrant store As never there had lain before.

Spices, the purest, richest, best, That e'er the musky East possessed, From Ind to Araby-the-Blest,

Had they with sorrow-riven hearts Searched all Jerusalem's costliest marts In quest of,—nards whose pungent arts

Should the dead sepulchre imbue With vital odors through and through: 'T was all their love had leave to do!

Christ did not need their gifts; and yet Did either Mary once regret Her offering? Did Salome fret

Over the unused aloes? Nay! They counted not as waste, that day, What they had brought their Lord. The way

Home seemed the path to heaven. They bare, Thenceforth, about the robes they ware The clinging perfume everywhere.

So, ministering as erst did these, Go women forth by twos and threes (Unmindful of their morning ease),

Through tragic darkness, murk and dim, Where'er they see the faintest rim, Of promise,—all for sake of him

Who rose from Joseph's tomb. They hold It just such joy as those of old, To tell the tale the Marys told.

Myrrh-bearers still,—at home, abroad, What paths have holy women trod, Burdened with votive gifts for God,—

Rare gifts whose chiefest worth was priced By this one thought, that all sufficed: Their spices had been bruised for Christ!

MARGARET JUNKIN PRESTON.

[Footnote A: Myrophores, a name given to the Marys, in Greek Christian art.]

* * * * *

LITANY.

Saviour, when in dust to Thee Low we bend the adoring knee; When, repentant, to the skies Scarce we lift our weeping eyes,— O, by all Thy pains and woe Suffered once for man below, Bending from Thy throne on high, Hear our solemn litany!

By Thy helpless infant years; By Thy life of want and tears; By Thy days of sore distress In the savage wilderness; By the dread mysterious hour Of the insulting tempter's power,— Turn, O, turn a favoring eye, Hear our solemn litany!

By the sacred griefs that wept O'er the grave where Lazarus slept; By the boding tears that flowed Over Salem's loved abode; By the anguished sigh that told Treachery lurked within Thy fold,— From Thy seat above the sky Hear our solemn litany!

By Thine hour of dire despair; By Thine agony of prayer; By the cross, the nail, the thorn, Piercing spear, and torturing scorn; By the gloom that veiled the skies O'er the dreadful sacrifice,— Listen to our humble cry, Hear our solemn litany!

By Thy deep expiring groan; By the sad sepulchral stone; By the vault whose dark abode Held in vain the rising God; O, from earth to heaven restored, Mighty, reascended Lord,— Listen, listen to the cry Of our solemn litany!

SIR ROBERT GRANT.

* * * * *

THE CHRIST.

He might have reared a palace at a word, Who sometimes had not where to lay His head. Time was when He who nourished crowds with bread, Would not one meal unto Himself afford. He healed another's scratch, His own side bled; Side, hands and feet with cruel piercings gored. Twelve legions girded with angelic sword Stood at His beck, the scorned and buffeted. Oh, wonderful the wonders left undone! Yet not more wonderful than those He wrought! Oh, self-restraint, surpassing human thought! To have all power, yet be as having none! Oh, self-denying love, that thought alone For needs of others, never for its own!

RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

* * * * *

ABIDE WITH ME.

Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide; The darkness deepens: Lord, with me abide! When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, Help of the helpless, O abide with me!

Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day; Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away: Change and decay in all around I see; O thou, who changest not, abide with me!

Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word. But as thou dwelt with thy disciples, Lord, Familiar, condescending, patient, free,— Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me!

Come not in terrors, as the King of kings; But kind and good, with healing in thy wings: Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea; Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with me!

Thou on my head in early youth didst smile, And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile, Thou hast not left me, oft as I left thee: On to the close, O Lord, abide with me!

I need thy presence every passing hour. What but thy grace can foil the Tempter's power? Who like thyself my guide and stay can be? Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with me!

I fear no foe with thee at hand to bless: Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness. Where is death's sting, where, grave, thy victory? I triumph still, if thou abide with me.

Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes; Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies: Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee: In life and death, O Lord, abide with me!

HENRY FRANCIS LYTE.

* * * * *

THE DISCIPLES AFTER THE ASCENSION.

He is gone! beyond the skies, A cloud receives him from our eyes: Gone beyond the highest height Of mortal gaze or angel's flight: Through the veils of time and space, Passed into the holiest place: All the toil, the sorrow done, All the battle fought and won.

He is gone; and we return, And our hearts within us burn; Olivet no more shall greet With welcome shout his coming feet: Never shall we track him more On Gennesareth's glistening shore: Never in that look or voice Shall Zion's walls again rejoice.

He is gone; and we remain In this world of sin and pain: In the void which he has left, On this earth of him bereft, We have still his work to do, We can still his path pursue: Seek him both in friend and foe, In ourselves his image show.

He is gone; we heard him say, "Good that I should go away"; Gone is that dear form and face, But not gone his present grace; Though himself no more we see, Comfortless we cannot be; No! his Spirit still is ours, Quickening, freshening all our powers.

He is gone; towards their goal World and church must onward roll; Far behind we leave the past, Forward are our glances cast; Still his words before us range Through the ages, as they change: Wheresoe'er the truth shall lead, He will give whate'er we need.

He is gone; but we once more Shall behold him as before, In the heaven of heavens the same As on earth he went and came. In the many mansions there Place for us he will prepare: In that world, unseen, unknown, He and we may yet be one.

He is gone; but not in vain,— Wait until he comes again: He is risen, he is not here; Far above this earthly sphere: Evermore in heart and mind, Where our peace in him we find, To our own eternal Friend, Thitherward let us ascend.

ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY.

* * * * *

WRESTLING JACOB.

FIRST PART.

Come, O thou Traveller unknown, Whom still I hold, but cannot see; My company before is gone, And I am left alone with thee; With thee all night I mean to stay, And wrestle till the break of day.

I need not tell thee who I am; My sin and misery declare; Thyself hast called me by my name; Look on thy hands, and read it there; But who, I ask thee, who art thou? Tell me thy name, and tell me now.

In vain thou strugglest to get free; I never will unloose my hold: Art thou the Man that died for me? The secret of thy love unfold; Wrestling, I will not let thee go Till I thy name, thy nature know.

Wilt thou not yet to me reveal Thy new, unutterable name? Tell me, I still beseech thee, tell; To know it now resolved I am; Wrestling, I will not let thee go Till I thy name, thy nature know.

What though my shrinking flesh complain And murmur to contend so long? I rise superior to my pain; When I am weak, then am I strong! And when my all of strength shall fail, I shall with the God-man prevail.

SECOND PART.

Yield to me now, for I am weak, But confident in self-despair; Speak to my heart, in blessings speak; Be conquered by my instant prayer; Speak, or thou never hence shalt move, And tell me if thy name be Love.

'T is Love! 't is Love! Thou diedst for me; I hear thy whisper in my heart; The morning breaks, the shadows flee; Pure, universal Love thou art; To me, to all, thy bowels move; Thy nature and thy name is Love.

My prayer hath power with God; the grace Unspeakable I now receive; Through faith I see thee face to face; I see thee face to face and live! In vain I have not wept and strove; Thy nature and thy name is Love.

I know thee, Saviour, who thou art, Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend; Nor wilt thou with the night depart, But stay and love me to the end; Thy mercies never shall remove; Thy nature and thy name is Love.

The Sun of Righteousness on me Hath risen, with healing in his wings; Withered my nature's strength; from thee My soul its life and succor brings; My help is all laid up above; Thy nature and thy name is Love.

Contented now upon my thigh I halt till life's short journey end; All helplessness, all weakness, I On thee alone for strength depend; Nor have I power from thee to move; Thy nature and thy name is Love.

Lame as I am, I take the prey; Hell, earth, and sin with ease o'ercome; I leap for joy, pursue my way, And, as a bounding hart, fly home; Through all eternity to prove Thy nature and thy name is Love.

CHARLES WESLEY.

* * * * *

THE CONVERSION OF SAINT PAUL.

The midday sun, with fiercest glare, Broods over the hazy, twinkling air; Along the level sand The palm-tree's shade unwavering lies, Just as thy towers, Damascus, rise To greet yon wearied band.

The leader of that martial crew Seems bent some mighty deed to do, So steadily he speeds, With lips firm closed and fixed eye, Like warrior when the fight is nigh, Nor talk nor landscape heeds.

What sudden blaze is round him poured, As though all Heaven's refulgent hoard In one rich glory shone? One moment,—and to earth he falls: What voice his inmost heart appalls?— Voice heard by him alone.

For to the rest both words and form Seem lost in lightning and in storm, While Saul, in wakeful trance, Sees deep within that dazzling field His persecuted Lord revealed With keen yet pitying glance:

And hears the meek upbraiding call As gently on his spirit fall, As if the Almighty Son Were prisoner yet in this dark earth, Nor had proclaimed his royal birth, Nor his great power begun.

"Ah! wherefore persecut'st thou me?" He heard and saw, and sought to free His strained eye from the sight: But Heaven's high magic bound it there, Still gazing, though untaught to bear The insufferable light.

"Who art thou, Lord?" he falters forth:— So shall Sin ask of heaven and earth At the last awful day "When did we see thee suffering nigh, And passed thee with unheeding eye? Great God of judgment, say!"

Ah! little dream our listless eyes What glorious presence they despise While, in our noon of life, To power or fame we rudely press.— Christ is at hand, to scorn or bless, Christ suffers in our strife.

And though heaven's gates long since have closed, And our dear Lord in bliss reposed, High above mortal ken, To every ear in every land (Though meek ears only understand) He speaks as he did then.

"Ah! wherefore persecute ye me? 'T is hard, ye so in love should be With your own endless woe. Know, though at God's right hand I live, I feel each wound ye reckless give To the least saint below.

"I in your care my brethren left, Not willing ye should be bereft Of waiting on your Lord. The meanest offering ye can make— A drop of water—for love's sake, In heaven, be sure, is stored."

Oh, by those gentle tones and dear, When thou hast stayed our wild career, Thou only hope of souls, Ne'er let us cast one look behind, But in the thought of Jesus find What every thought controls.

As to thy last Apostle's heart Thy lightning glance did then impart Zeal's never-dying fire, So teach us on thy shrine to lay Our hearts, and let them day by day Intenser blaze and higher.

And as each mild and winning note (Like pulses that round harp-strings float When the full strain is o'er) Left lingering on his inward ear Music, that taught, as death drew near, Love's lesson more and more:

So, as we walk our earthly round, Still may the echo of that sound Be in our memory stored: "Christians, behold your happy state; Christ is in these who round you wait; Make much of your dear Lord!"

JOHN KEBLE.

* * * * *

"ROCK OF AGES."

"Such hymns are never forgotten. They cling to us through our whole life. We carry them with us upon our journey. We sing them in the forest. The workman follows the plough with sacred songs. Children catch them, and singing only for the joy it gives them now, are yet laying up for all their life food of the sweetest joy."—HENRY WARD BEECHER.

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me," Thoughtlessly the maiden sung. Fell the words unconsciously From her girlish, gleeful tongue; Sang as little children sing; Sang as sing the birds in June; Fell the words like light leaves down On the current of the tune,— "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee."

"Let me hide myself in Thee:" Felt her soul no need to hide,— Sweet the song as song could be, And she had no thought beside; All the words unheedingly Fell from lips untouched by care, Dreaming not that they might be On some other lips a prayer,— "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee."

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me," 'T was a woman sung them now, Pleadingly and prayerfully; Every word her heart did know. Rose the song as storm-tossed bird Beats with weary wing the air, Every note with sorrow stirred, Every syllable a prayer,— "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee."

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,"— Lips grown aged sung the hymn Trustingly and tenderly, Voice grown weak and eyes grown dim,— "Let me hide myself in Thee." Trembling though the voice and low, Rose the sweet strain peacefully Like a river in its flow; Sung as only they can sing Who life's thorny path have passed; Sung as only they can sing Who behold the promised rest,— "Rock of Ages, cleft for me, Let me hide myself in Thee."

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me," Sung above a coffin lid; Underneath, all restfully, All life's joys and sorrows hid. Nevermore, O storm-tossed soul! Nevermore from wind or tide, Nevermore from billow's roll, Wilt thou need thyself to hide. Could the sightless, sunken eyes, Closed beneath the soft gray hair, Could the mute and stiffened lips Move again in pleading prayer, Still, aye still, the words would be,— "Let me hide myself in Thee."

EDWARD H. RICH.

* * * * *

ART THOU WEARY?

Art thou weary, art thou languid, Art thou sore distressed? "Come to Me," saith One, "and coming, Be at rest."

Hath He marks to lead me to Him, If He be my Guide? "In His feet and hands are wound-prints, And His side."

Is there diadem, as Monarch, That His brow adorns? "Yea, a crown, in very surety, But of thorns."

If I find Him, if I follow, What His guerdon here? "Many a sorrow, many a labor, Many a tear."

If I still hold closely to Him, What hath He at last? "Sorrow vanquished, labor ended, Jordan passed."

If I ask Him to receive me, Will He say me nay? "Not till earth, and not till heaven Pass away."

Finding, following, keeping, struggling, Is He sure to bless? "Saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs, Answer, Yes."

From the Latin of SAINT STEPHEN THE SABAITE.

Translation of JOHN MASON NEALE.

* * * * *

WHEN GATHERING CLOUDS AROUND I VIEW.

When gathering clouds around I view, And days are dark, and friends are few, On Him I lean, who, not in vain, Experienced every human pain; He sees my wants, allays my fears. And counts and treasures up my tears. If aught should tempt my soul to stray From heavenly wisdom's narrow way, To fly the good I would pursue, Or do the sin I would not do,— Still He who felt temptation's power Shall guard me in that dangerous hour.

If wounded love my bosom swell, Deceived by those I prized too well, He shall His pitying aid bestow Who felt on earth severer woe, At once betrayed, denied, or fled, By those who shared His daily bread.

If vexing thoughts within me rise, And sore dismayed my spirit dies, Still He who once vouchsafed to bear The sickening anguish of despair Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry, The throbbing heart, the streaming eye.

When sorrowing o'er some stone I bend, Which covers what was once a friend, And from his voice, his hand, his smile, Divides me for a little while; Thou, Saviour, mark'st the tears I shed, For Thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead.

And oh, when I have safely past Through every conflict but the last, Still, still unchanging, watch beside My painful bed, for Thou hast died; Then point to realms of cloudless day, And wipe the latest tear away.

SIR ROBERT GRANT.

* * * * *

THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.

When, marshalled on the nightly plain, The glittering host bestud the sky, One star alone, of all the train, Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.

Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks, From every host, from every gem: But one alone the Saviour speaks, It is the Star of Bethlehem.

Once on the raging seas I rode, The storm was loud, the night was dark, The ocean yawned, and rudely blowed The wind that tossed my foundering bark.

Deep horror then my vitals froze, Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem; When suddenly a star arose,— It was the Star of Bethlehem.

It was my guide, my light, my all, It bade my dark forebodings cease; And through the storm and dangers' thrall It led me to the port of peace.

Now safely moored, my perils o'er, I'll sing, first in night's diadem, Forever and forevermore, The Star!—the Star of Bethlehem!

HENRY KIRKE WHITE.

* * * * *

LOVE TO CHRIST.

FROM "AN HYMNE OF HEAVENLY LOVE."

With all thy hart, with all thy soule and mind, Thou must him love, and his beheasts embrace; All other loves, with which the world doth blind Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base, Thou must renounce and utterly displace, And give thy selfe unto him full and free, That full and freely gave himselfe to thee.

Then shalt thou feele thy spirit so possest, And ravisht with devouring great desire Of his deare selfe, that shall thy feeble brest Inflame with love, and set thee all on fire With burning zeale, through every part entire, That in no earthly thing thou shalt delight, But in his sweet and amiable sight.

Thenceforth all worlds desire will in thee dye, And all earthes glorie, on which men do gaze, Seeme durt and drosse in thy pure-sighted eye, Compared to that celestiall beauties blaze, Whose glorious beames all fleshly sense doth daze With admiration of their passing light, Blinding the eyes, and lumining the spright.

Then shall thy ravisht soule inspired bee With heavenly thoughts farre above humane skil, And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainely see The idee of his pure glorie present still Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill With sweet enragement of celestiall love, Kindled through sight of those faire things above.

EDMUND SPENSER.

* * * * *

THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE.

O thou great Friend to all the sons of men, Who once appeared in humblest guise below, Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain, And call thy brethren forth from want and woe,—

We look to thee! thy truth is still the Light Which guides the nations, groping on their way, Stumbling and falling in disastrous night, Yet hoping ever for the perfect day.

Yes; thou art still the Life, thou art the Way The holiest know; Light, Life, the Way of heaven!

And they who dearest hope and deepest pray, Toil by the Light, Life, Way, which thou hast given.

THEODORE PARKER.

* * * * *

KNOCKING, EVER KNOCKING.

"Behold, I stand at the door, and knock." —REVELATIONS iii. 20.

Knocking, knocking, ever knocking? Who is there? 'T is a pilgrim, strange and kingly, Never such was seen before;— Ah, sweet soul, for such a wonder, Undo the door. No,—that door is hard to open; Hinges rusty, latch is broken; Bid Him go. Wherefore with that knocking dreary Scare the sleep from one so weary? Say Him, no.

Knocking, knocking, ever knocking? What! Still there? O sweet soul, but once behold Him, With the glory-crowned hair; And those eyes, so strange and tender, Waiting there; Open! Open! Once behold Him, Him so fair.

Ah, that door! Why wilt thou vex me, Coming ever to perplex me? For the key is stiffly rusty, And the bolt is clogged and dusty; Many-fingered ivy vine Seals it fast with twist and twine; Weeds of years and years before Choke the passage of that door.

Knocking! knocking! What? Still knocking? He still there? What's the hour? The night is waning— In my heart a drear complaining, And a chilly, sad unrest. Ah, this knocking! It disturbs me! Scares my sleep with dreams unblest! Give me rest, Rest—ah, rest!

Rest, dear soul, He longs to give thee; Thou hast only dreamed of pleasure, Dreamed of gifts and golden treasure, Dreamed of jewels in thy keeping, Waked to weariness of weeping;— Open to thy soul's one Lover, And thy night of dreams is over,— The true gifts He brings have seeming More than all thy faded dreaming!

Did she open? Doth she? Will she? So, as wondering we behold, Grows the picture to a sign. Pressed upon your soul and mine; For in every breast that liveth Is that strange, mysterious door;— The forsaken and betangled, Ivy-gnarled and weed-bejangled, Dusty, rusty, and forgotten;— There the pierced hand still knocketh, And with ever patient watching, With the sad eyes true and tender, With the glory-crowned hair,— Still a God is waiting there.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

* * * * *

TO-MORROW.

Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing care, Thou didst seek after me,—that Thou didst wait, Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? O, strange delusion, that I did not greet Thy blest approach! and, O, to heaven how lost, If my ingratitude's unkindly frost Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon Thy feet! How oft my guardian angel gently cried, "Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see How He persists to knock and wait for thee!" And, O, how often to that voice of sorrow, "To-morrow we will open." I replied! And when the morrow came, I answered still, "To-morrow."

From the Spanish of LOPE DE VEGA.

Translation of H.W. LONGFELLOW.

* * * * *

I GAVE MY LIFE FOR THEE.

I gave my life for thee, My precious blood I shed That thou mightst ransomed be, And quickened from the dead. I gave my life for thee; What hast thou given for me?

I spent long years for thee In weariness and woe, That an eternity Of joy thou mightest know. I spent long years for thee; Hast thou spent one for me?

My Father's home of light, My rainbow-circled throne, I left, for earthly night, For wanderings sad and lone. I left it all for thee; Hast thou left aught for me?

I suffered much for thee, More than thy tongue may tell Of bitterest agony, To rescue thee from hell. I suffered much for thee; What canst thou bear for me?

And I have brought to thee, Down from my home above, Salvation full and free, My pardon and my love. Great gifts I brought to thee; What hast thou brought to me?

Oh, let thy life be given, Thy years for him be spent, World-fetters all be riven, And joy with suffering blent; I gave myself for thee: Give thou thyself to me!

FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL.

* * * * *

JESUS SHALL REIGN.

Jesus shall reign where'er the sun Does his successive journeys run,— His kingdom spread from shore to shore, Till moons shall wax and wane no more.

From north to south the princes meet To pay their homage at His feet, While western empires own their Lord, And savage tribes attend His word.

To Him shall endless prayer be made, And endless praises crown His head; His name like sweet perfume shall rise With every morning sacrifice.

People and realms of every tongue Dwell on His love with sweetest song, And infant voices shall proclaim Their early blessings on His name.

ISAAC WATTS.

* * * * *

MESSIAH.

A SACRED ECLOGUE, IN IMITATION OF VIRGIL'S POLLIO.

Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song: To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades, The dreams of Pindus and th' Aonian maids, Delight no more—O thou my voice inspire Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire! Rapt into future times, the bard begun: A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son! From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies: Th' ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move, And on its top descends the mystic Dove. Ye Heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour, And in soft silence shed the kindly shower! The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, From storm a shelter, and from heat a shade. All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall fail; Returning Justice lift aloft her scale; Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, And white-robed Innocence from Heaven descend. Swift fly the years, and rise th' expected morn! Oh spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born! See, Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, With all the incense of the breathing spring: See lofty Lebanon his head advance, See nodding forests on the mountains dance: See spicy clouds from lowly Saron rise, And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies! Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers: Prepare the way! a God, a God appears! A God, a God! the vocal hills reply, The rocks proclaim th' approaching Deity. Lo, Earth receives him from the bending skies! Sink down, ye mountains! and ye valleys, rise! With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay! Be smooth, ye rocks! ye rapid floods, give way! The Saviour comes! by ancient bards foretold: Hear him, ye deaf! and all ye blind, behold! He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, And on the sightless eyeball pour the day: 'Tis he th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear: The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, And leap exulting like the bounding roe. No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear. From every face he wipes off every tear. In adamantine chains shall Death be bound. And Hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound. As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air, Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, By day o'ersees them, and by night protects; The tender lambs he raises in his arms, Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms: Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage, The promised Father of the future age. No more shall nation against nation rise, Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, Nor fields with gleaming steel be covered o'er, The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more; But useless lances into scythes shall bend, And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end. Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun; Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield. And the same hand that sowed, shall reap the field. The swain in barren deserts with surprise Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise; And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear New falls of water murmuring in his ear. On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. Waste sandy valleys, once perplexed with thorn, The spiry fir and shapely box adorn: To leafless shrubs the flowery palms succeed, And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead: The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. The smiling infant in his hand shall take The crested basilisk and speckled snake, Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey, And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise! Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes! See a long race thy spacious courts adorn: See future sons and daughters yet unborn, In crowding ranks on every side arise, Demanding life, impatient for the skies! See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend! See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate kings, And heaped with products of Sabean springs! For thee Idume's spicy forests blow, And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. See Heaven his sparkling portals wide display, And break upon thee in a flood of day! No more the rising Sun shall gild the morn, Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn; But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze O'erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine! The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away! But fixed his word, his saving power remains; Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns!

ALEXANDER POPE.

* * * * *

DIES IRAE.

"That day, a day of wrath, a day of trouble and distress, a day of wasteness and desolation, a day of darkness and gloominess, a day of clouds and thick darkness, a day of the trumpet and alarm against the fenced cities, and against the high towers!"—ZEPHANIAH i. 15, 16.

Day of vengeance, without morrow! Earth shall end in flame and sorrow, As from Saint and Seer we borrow.

Ah! what terror is impending, When the Judge is seen descending, And each secret veil is rending!

To the throne, the trumpet sounding, Through the sepulchres resounding, Summons all, with voice astounding.

Death and Nature, mazed, are quaking, When, the grave's long slumber breaking, Man to judgment is awaking.

On the written Volume's pages, Life is shown in all its stages— Judgment-record of past ages.

Sits the Judge, the raised arraigning, Darkest mysteries explaining, Nothing unavenged remaining.

What shall I then say, unfriended, By no advocate attended, When the just are scarce defended?

King of majesty tremendous, By thy saving grace defend us, Fount of pity, safety send us!

Holy Jesus, meek, forbearing, For my sins the death-crown wearing, Save me, in that day, despairing!

Worn and weary, thou hast sought me; By thy cross and passion bought me— Spare the hope thy labors brought me!

Righteous Judge of retribution, Give, O give me absolution Ere the day of dissolution!

As a guilty culprit groaning, Flushed my face, my errors owning, Hear. O God, Thy suppliant moaning!

Thou to Mary gav'st remission, Heard'st the dying thief's petition, Bad'st me hope in my contrition.

In my prayers no worth discerning, Yet on me Thy favor turning, Save me from that endless burning!

Give me, when Thy sheep confiding Thou art from the goals dividing. On Thy right a place abiding!

When the wicked are rejected, And by bitter flames subjected, Call me forth with Thine elected!

Low in supplication bending. Heart as though with ashes blending; Cure for me when all is ending.

When on that dread day of weeping Guilty man in ashes sleeping Wakes to his adjudication, Save him, God! from condemnation!

From the Latin of THOMAS A CELANO.

Translation of JOHN A. DIX. [A]

[Footnote A: General Dix's first translation of the "Dies Irae" was made in 1863; the revised version (given above) appeared in 1875. Bayard Taylor wrote of the earlier one: "I have ... heretofore sought in vain to find an adequate translation. Those which reproduced the spirit neglected the form, and vice versa. There can be no higher praise for yours than to say that it preserves both."]

* * * * *

MY GOD, I LOVE THEE.

My God, I love thee! not because I hope for heaven thereby; Nor because those who love thee not Must burn eternally.

Thou, O my Jesus, thou didst me Upon the cross embrace! For me didst bear the nails and spear, And manifold disgrace,

And griefs and torments numberless, And sweat of agony, Yea, death itself,—and all for one That was thine enemy.

Then why, O blessed Jesus Christ, Should I not love thee well? Not for the hope of winning heaven, Nor of escaping hell;

Not with the hope of gaining aught, Not seeking a reward; But as thyself hast loved me, O everlasting Lord!

E'en so I love thee, and will love, And in thy praise will sing,— Solely because thou art my God, And my eternal King.

From the Latin of ST. FRANCIS XAVIER.

Translation of EDWARD CASWALL.

* * * * *

VENT CREATOR SPIRITUS.

[Sometimes attributed to the Emperor Charlemagne. The better opinion, however, inclines to Pope Gregory I., called the Great, as the author, and fixes its origin somewhere in the sixth century.]

Creator Spirit, by whose aid The world's foundations first were laid, Come visit every pious mind. Come pour thy joys on human kind; From sin and sorrow set us free, And make thy temples worthy thee.

O source of uncreated light. The Father's promised Paraclete! Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire. Our hearts with heavenly love inspire; Come, and thy sacred unction bring, To sanctify us while we sing.

Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in thy seven-fold energy! Thou strength of his almighty hand. Whose power does heaven and earth command! Proceeding Spirit, our defence, Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense, And crown'st thy gift with eloquence!

Refine and purge our earthly parts; But, O, inflame and fire our hearts! Our frailties help, our vice control, Submit the senses to the soul; And when rebellious they are grown, Then lay thy hand and hold 'em down.

Chase from our minds the infernal foe, And peace, the fruit of love, bestow; And, lest our feet should step astray, Protect and guide us on the way.

Make us eternal truths receive, And practise all that we believe; Give us thyself, that we may see The Father and the Son by thee.

Immortal honor, endless fame, Attend the Almighty Father's name; The Saviour Son be glorified, Who for lost man's redemption died; And equal adoration be, Eternal Paraclete, to thee.

From the Latin of ST. GREGORY.

Translation of JOHN DRYDEN.

* * * * *

VENI SANCTE SPIRITUS.

[Written in the tenth century by Robert II., the gentle son of Hugh Capet. It is often mentioned as second in rank to the Dies Irae.]

Come, Holy Ghost! thou fire divine! From highest heaven on us down shine! Comforter, be thy comfort mine!

Come, Father of the poor, to earth; Come, with thy gifts of precious worth; Come Light of all of mortal birth!

Thou rich in comfort! Ever blest The heart where thou art constant guest, Who giv'st the heavy-laden rest.

Come, thou in whom our toil is sweet, Our shadow in the noonday heat, Before whom mourning flieth fleet.

Bright Sun of Grace! thy sunshine dart On all who cry to thee apart, And fill with gladness every heart.

Whate'er without thy aid is wrought, Or skilful deed, or wisest thought, God counts it vain and merely naught.

O cleanse us that we sin no more. O'er parched souls thy waters pour; Heal the sad heart that acheth sore.

Thy will be ours in all our ways; O melt the frozen with thy rays; Call home the lost in error's maze.

And grant us, Lord, who cry to thee, And hold the Faith in unity, Thy precious gifts of charity;

That we may live in holiness, And find in death our happiness, And dwell with thee in lasting bliss!

From the Latin of KING ROBERT II. OF FRANCE.

Translation of CATHARINE WINKWORTH.

* * * * *

O FIRE OF GOD, THE COMFORTER.

"O IGNIS SPIRITUS PARACLITI."

O fire of God, the Comforter, O life of all that live, Holy art thou to quicken us, and holy, strength to give: To heal the broken-hearted ones, their sorest wounds to bind, O Spirit of all holiness, O Lover of mankind! O sweetest taste within the breast, O grace upon us poured, That saintly hearts may give again their perfume to the Lord. O purest fountain! we can see, clear mirrored in thy streams, That God brings home the wanderers, that God the lost redeems. O breastplate strong to guard our life, O bond of unity, O dwelling-place of righteousness, save all who trust in thee: Defend those who in dungeon dark are prisoned by the foe, And, for thy will is aye to save, let thou the captives go. O surest way, that through the height and through the lowest deep And through the earth dost pass, and all in firmest union keep; From thee the clouds and ether move, from thee the moisture flows, From thee the waters draw their rills, and earth with verdure glows, And thou dost ever teach the wise, and freely on them pour The inspiration of thy gifts, the gladness of thy lore. All praise to thee, O joy of life, O hope and strength, we raise, Who givest us the prize of light, who art thyself all praise.

From the Latin of ST. HILDEGARDE.

Translation of R.F. LITTLEDALE.

* * * * *

THE HOLY SPIRIT.

In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When I lie within my bed, Sick at heart, and sick in head, And with doubts discomforted, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the house doth sigh and weep, And the world is drowned in sleep, Yet mine eyes the watch do keep, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the artless doctor sees No one hope but of his fees, And his skill runs on the lees, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When his potion and his pill Has or none or little skill, Meet for nothing but to kill,— Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the passing-bell doth toll, And the Furies, in a shoal, Come to fright a parting soul, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tapers now burn blue, And the comforters are few, And that number more than true, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the priest his last hath prayed, And I nod to what is said 'Cause my speech is now decayed, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When, God knows, I'm tost about Either with despair or doubt, Yet before the glass be out, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tempter me pursu'th With the sins of all my youth, And half damns me with untruth, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the dames and hellish cries Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes, And all terrors me surprise, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the judgment is revealed, And that opened which was sealed,— When to thee I have appealed, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

ROBERT HERRICK.

* * * * *

HOPE OF THE HUMAN HEART.

FROM "ANIMA MUNDI."

God is good. And flight is destined for the callow wing, And the high appetite implies the food, And souls most reach the level whence they spring; O Life of very life! set free our powers, Hasten the travail of the yearning hours.

Thou, to whom old Philosophy bent low, To the wise few mysteriously revealed; Thou, whom each humble Christian worships now, In the poor hamlet and the open field: Once an idea, now Comforter and Friend, Hope of the human heart, descend, descend!

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. (LORD HOUGHTON.)



II.

PRAYER AND ASPIRATION.

* * * * *

WHAT IS PRAYER?

Prayer is the soul's sincere desire, Uttered or unexpressed— The motion of a hidden fire That trembles in the breast.

Prayer is the burthen of a sigh, The falling of a tear— The upward glancing of an eye, When none but God is near.

Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try— Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The majesty on high.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice Returning from his ways, While angels in their songs rejoice, And cry, "Behold he prays!"

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath— The Christian's native air— His watchword at the gates of death— He enters heaven with prayer.

The saints in prayer appear as one In word, and deed, and mind, While with the Father and the Son Sweet fellowship they find.

Nor prayer is made by man alone— The Holy Spirit pleads— And Jesus, on the eternal throne, For shiners intercedes.

O Thou by whom we come to God— The life, the truth, the way! The path of prayer Thyself hast trod; Lord, teach us how to pray!

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

* * * * *

THE TIME FOR PRAYER.

When is the time for prayer? With the first beams that light the morning's sky, Ere for the toils of day thou dost prepare, Lift up thy thoughts on high; Commend the loved ones to his watchful care: Morn is the time for prayer!

And in the noontide hour, If worn by toil, or by sad cares oppressed, Then unto God thy spirit's sorrow pour, And he will give thee rest:— Thy voice shall reach him through the fields of air: Noon is the time for prayer!

When the bright sun hath set,— Whilst yet eve's glowing colors deck the skies;— When the loved, at home, again thou 'st met, Then let the prayer arise For those who in thy joys and sorrow share: Eve is the time for prayer!

And when the stars come forth,— When to the trusting heart sweet hopes are given, And the deep stillness of the hour gives birth To pure, bright dreams of heaven,— Kneel to thy God—ask strength, life's ills to bear: Night is the time for prayer!

When is the time for prayer? In every hour, while life is spared to thee— In crowds or solitudes—in joy or care— Thy thoughts should heavenward flee. At home—at morn and eve—with loved ones there, Bend thou the knee in prayer!

G. BENNETT.

* * * * *

SEASONS OF PRAYER.

To prayer, to prayer;—for the morning breaks, And earth in her Maker's smile awakes. His light is on all below and above,— The light of gladness, and life, and love. Oh, then, on the breath of this early air Send upward the incense of grateful prayer.

To prayer;—for the glorious sun is gone, And the gathering darkness of night comes on; Like a curtain from God's kind hand it flows, To shade the couch where his children impose. Then kneel, while the watching stars are bright, And give your last thoughts to the Guardian of night.

To prayer;—for the day that God has blest Comes tranquilly on with its welcome rest. It speaks of creation's early bloom; It speaks of the Prince who burst the tomb. Then summon the spirit's exalted powers, And devote to Heaven the hallowed hours.

There are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes, For her new-born infant beside her lies. Oh, hour of bliss! when the heart o'erflows With rapture a mother only knows. Let it gush forth in words of fervent prayer; Let it swell up to Heaven for her precious care.

There are smiles and tears in that gathering band, Where the heart is pledged with the trembling hand: What trying thoughts in her bosom swell, As the bride bids parents and home farewell! Kneel down by the side of the tearful pair, And strengthen the perilous hour with prayer.

Kneel down by the dying sinner's side, And pray for his soul through Him who died. Large drops of anguish are thick on his brow; Oh, what are earth and its pleasures now! And what shall assuage his dark despair, But the penitent cry of humble prayer?

Kneel down by the couch of departing faith, And hear the last words the believer saith. He has bidden adieu to his earthly friends; There is peace in his eye that upward bends; There is peace in his calm, confiding air; For his last thoughts are God's, his last words prayer.

The voice of prayer at the sable bier! A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer. It commends the spirit to God who gave; It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave; It points to the glory where he shall reign, Who whispered, "Thy brother shall rise again."

The voice of prayer in the world of bliss! But gladder, purer, than rose from this. The ransomed shout to their glorious King, Where no sorrow shades the soul as they sing; But a sinless and joyous song they raise, And their voice of prayer is eternal praise.

Awake, awake! and gird up thy strength, To join that holy band at length! To Him who unceasing love displays, Whom the powers of nature unceasingly praise,— To Him thy heart and thy hours be given; For a life of prayer is the life of Heaven.

HENRY WARE, JR.

* * * * *

EXHORTATION TO PRAYER.

Not on a prayerless bed, not on a prayerless bed Compose thy weary limbs to rest; For they alone are blessed With balmy sleep Whom angels keep; Nor, though by care oppressed, Or anxious sorrow, Or thought in many a coil perplexed For coming morrow, Lay not thy head On prayerless bed.

For who can tell, when sleep thine eyes shall close, That earthly cares and woes To thee may e'er return? Arouse, my soul! Slumber control, And let thy lamp burn brightly; So shall thine eyes discern Things pure and sightly; Taught by the Spirit, learn Never on a prayerless bed To lay thine unblest head.

Hast thou no pining want, or wish, or care, That calls for holy prayer? Has thy day been so bright That in its flight There is no trace of sorrow? And thou art sure to-morrow Will be like this, and more Abundant? Dost thou yet lay up thy store And still make plans for more? Thou fool! this very night Thy soul may wing its flight.

Hast thou no being than thyself more dear, That ploughs the ocean deep, And when storms sweep The wintry, lowering sky, For whom thou wak'st and weepest? Oh, when thy pangs are deepest, Seek then the covenant ark of prayer; For He that slumbereth not is there— His ear is open to thy cry. Oh, then, on prayerless bed Lay not thy thoughtless head.

Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slumber, Till in communion blest With the elect ye rest— Those souls of countless numbers; And with them raise The note of praise, Reaching from earth to heaven— Chosen, redeemed, forgiven; So lay thy happy head, Prayer-crowned, on blessed bed.

MARGARET MERCER.

* * * * *

PRAYER AND REPENTANCE.

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 cursed 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 limed 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 blessed 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.



III.

FAITH: HOPE: LOVE: SERVICE.

* * * * *

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 armed 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 Obtained 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.

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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-Beloved'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-Beloved'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 Beloved'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.

* * * * *

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!

* * * * *

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!

* * * * *

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.]

* * * * *

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.

* * * * *

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 groped 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 reechoed 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 pierced 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 cursed 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.

FROM "ION," ACT I. SC. 2.

'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, blessed 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 blessed 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.