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The World's Best Poetry Volume IV. by Bliss Carman

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_I Home: Friendship
II Love
III Sorrow and Consolation
IV The Higher Life
V Nature
VI Fancy Sentiment
VII Descriptive: Narrative
VIII National Spirit
IX Tragedy: Humor
X Poetical Quotations_





Associate Editors

John Vance Cheney
Charles G.D. Roberts
Charles F. Richardson
Francis H. Stoddard

Managing Editor

John R. Howard


The World's Best Poetry

Vol. IV





American poems in this volume within the legal protection of copyright
are used by the courteous permission of the owners,--either the
publishers named in the following list or the authors or their
representatives in the subsequent one,--who reserve all their rights.
So far as practicable, permission has been secured also for poems out
of copyright.


Messrs. D. APPLETON & CO., New York.--_W.G. Bryant_: "The Future

The ROBERT CLARKE COMPANY, Cincinnati.--_W.D. Gallagher_: "The

Messrs. T.Y. CROWELL & CO., New York.--_S.K. Bolton_: "Her Creed."

Messrs. E.P. DUTTON & CO., New York.--_Ph. Brooks_: "O Little Town of
Bethlehem;" _E. Sears_: "The Angel's Song."

Messrs. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., Boston.--_Alice Cary_: "My Creed;"
_Phoebe Cary_: "Nearer Home;" _J.F. Clarke_: "The Caliph and Satan,"
"Cana;" _R.W. Emerson_: "Brahma," "Good-bye," "The Problem;" _Louise
I. Guiney_: "Tryste Noel;" _J. Hay_: "Religion and Doctrine;" _C.W.
Holmes_: "The Living Temple;" _H.W. Longfellow_: "King Robert of
Sicily," "Ladder of St. Augustine," "Psalm of Life," "Santa Filomena,"
"Sifting of Peter," "Song of the Silent Land," "To-morrow;" _S.
Longfellow_: "Vesper Hymn;" _J.R. Lowell_: "Vision of Sir Launfal;"
_Frances P.L. Mace_: "Only Waiting;" _Caroline A.B. Mason_: "The
Voyage;" _T. Parker_: "The Higher Good," "The Way, the Truth, and
the Life;" _Eliza Scudder_: "The Love of God," "Vesper Hymn;" _E.C.
Stedman_: "The Undiscovered Country;" _Harriet B. Stowe_: "Knocking,
Ever Knocking," "The Other World;" _J. Very_: "Life," "The Spirit
Land;" _J.G. Whittier_: "The Eternal Goodness," "The Meeting," "The
Two Angels," "The Two Rabbis;" _Sarah C. Woolsey_: "When."

The J.B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Philadelphia.--_Margaret J. Preston_:

Messrs. LITTLE, BROWN & CO., Boston.--_J.W. Chadwick_: "The Rise of
Man;" _Emily Dickinson_: "Found Wanting," "Heaven."

The LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY, Boston.--_P.H. Hayne_: "Patience."

Messrs. L.C. PAGE & CO., Boston.--_C.G.D. Roberts_: "The Aim,"

Messrs. SCOTT, FORESMAN & CO., Chicago.--_C.P. Taylor_: "The Old
Village Choir."

Messrs. HERBERT S. STONE & CO., Chicago.--_G. Santayana_: "Faith."

The YOUNG CHURCHMAN COMPANY, Milwaukee.--_A.C. Coxe_: "The Chimes of


American poems in this volume by the authors whose names are given
below are the copyrighted property of the authors, or of their
representatives named in parenthesis, and may not be reprinted without
their permission, which for the present work has been courteously


_A. Coles_ (A. Coles, Jr., M.D.); _J.A. Dix_ (Rev. Morgan Dix, D.D.);
_P.L. Dunbar; W.C. Gannett; W. Gladden; S.P. McL. Pratt; O. Huckel;
Ray Palmer_ (Dr. Charles R. Palmer); _A.D.F. Randolph_ (Arthur D.F.



The time is not long past when the copulative in that title might have
suggested to some minds an antithesis,--as acid and alkali, or heat
and cold. That religion could have affiliation with anything
so worldly as poetry would have seemed to some pious people a
questionable proposition. There were the Psalms, in the Old Testament,
to be sure; and the minister had been heard to allude to them as
poetry: might not that indicate some heretical taint in him, caught,
perchance, from the "German neologists" whose influence we were
beginning to dread? It did not seem quite orthodox to describe the
Psalms as poems; and when, a little later, some one ventured to speak
of the Book of Job as a _dramatic_ poem, there were many who were
simply horrified. Indeed, it was difficult for many good people
to consider the Biblical writings as in any sense literature; they
belonged in a category by themselves, and the application to them
of the terms by which we describe similar writings in other books
appeared to many good men and women a kind of profanation. This was
not, of course, the attitude of educated men and women, but something
akin to it affected large numbers of excellent people.

We are well past that period, and the relations of religion and
poetry may now be discussed with no fear of misunderstandings. These
relations are close and vital. Poetry is indebted to religion for its
largest and loftiest inspirations, and religion is indebted to poetry
for its subtlest and most luminous interpretations.

Religion is related to poetry as life is related to art. Religion is
life, the life of God in the soul of man--the response of man's spirit
to the attractions of the divine Spirit. Poetry is an interpretation
of life. Religious poetry endeavors to express, in beautiful
forms, the facts of the religious life. There is poetry that is not
religious; poetry which deals only with that which is purely sensuous,
poetry which does not hint at spiritual facts, or divine relations;
and there is religion which has but little to do with poetry: but the
highest religious thoughts and feelings are greatly served by putting
them into poetic forms; and the greatest poetry is always that which
sets forth the facts of the religious life. "Without love to man and
love to God," says Dr. Strong, "the greatest poetry is impossible.
Mere human love to God is not enough to stir the deepest chords either
in the poet or in his readers. It is the connection of human love with
the divine love that gives it permanence and security."[A]

If, then, religion is the supreme experience of the human spirit, and
that experience finds its most perfect literary expression in poetry,
the present volume ought to contain a precious collection of the best
literature. And any one who wished to give to a friend a volume which
would convey to him the essential elements of religion would probably
be safe to choose this volume rather than any prose treatise upon
theology ever printed. He who reads this book through will get
a clearer and truer idea of what the religious life is than any
philosophical discussion could give him. For this poetry is an attempt
to express life, not to explain it. It offers pictures or reports
rather than analyses of religious experience. It gives utterance
to the real life of religion in the individual soul, and is not a
generalization of religious thoughts and feelings.

The sources from which this collection has been drawn are abundant
and varied. The psalmody and hymnology of the church furnish a vast
preserve, the exploration of which would be a large undertaking. It
must be confessed that the pious people who had in their hands some
of the ancient hymn-books were justified in feeling that religion and
poetry were not closely related, for many of the hymns they were
wont to sing were guiltless of any poetic character. It was too often
evident that the hymn-writer had been more intent on giving metrical
form to proper theological concepts than on giving utterance to his
own religious life. But the feeling has been growing that in hymns, at
any rate, life is more than dogma; and we have now some collections of
hymns that come pretty near being books of poetry. The improvement in
this department of literature within the past twenty-five years has
been marked. There is still, indeed, in many hymnals, and especially
in hymnals for Sunday schools and social meetings, much doggerel; but
large recent contributions of hymns which are true poetry, many of the
best of them from American sources, have made it possible to furnish
our congregations with admirable manuals of praise.

The indebtedness of religion to poetry which is thus expressed in
the hymnology of the church is very large. Probably many of us
are indebted for definite and permanent religious conceptions and
impressions quite as much to felicitous phrases of hymns as to
any words of sermon or catechism. Our most positive convictions of
religious truth are apt to come to us in some line or stanza that
tells the whole story. The rhythm and the rhyme have helped to fix it
and hold it in the memory.

This is true not only of the hymns of the church but of many poems
that are not suitable for singing. English poetry is especially rich
in meditative and devotional elements, and of no period has this
been more true than of the nineteenth century. Cowper, Wordsworth,
Coleridge, the Brownings, Tennyson and Matthew Arnold, on the other
side of the sea, with Bryant, Longfellow, Emerson, Whittier,
Lowell, Holmes, Lanier, Sill and Gilder on this side--these and many
others--have made most precious additions to our store of religious
poetry. The century has been one of great perturbations in religious
thought; the advent of the evolutionary philosophy threatened all the
theological foundations, and there was need of a thorough revision
of the dogmas which were based on a mechanical theology, and of a
reinterpretation of the life of the Spirit. In all this the poets have
given us the strongest help. The great poet cannot be oblivious of
these deepest themes. He need not be a dogmatician, indeed he cannot
be, for his business is insight, not ratiocination; but the problems
which theology is trying to solve must always be before his mind, and
he must have something to say about them, if he hopes to command the
attention of thoughtful men. Yet while we need not depreciate
the service that has been rendered by preachers and professional
theologians who have sought to put the facts of the religious
life into the forms of the new philosophy, we must own our deeper
obligation to the poets, by whose vision the spiritual realities have
been most clearly discerned.

It was Wordsworth, perhaps, who gave us the first great contribution
to the new religious thought by bringing home to us the fact that God
is in his world; revealing himself now as clearly as in any of the
past ages. The truth of the Divine immanence, which is the foundation
of all the more positive religious thinking of to-day, and which
is destined, when once its import has been fully grasped, to
revolutionize our religious life, is made familiar to our thought
in Wordsworth's poetry. To him it was simply an experience; in quite
another sense than that in which it was true of Spinoza, it might have
been said of him that he was a "God-intoxicated man"; and although his
clear English sense permitted no pantheistic merging of the human in
the divine, but kept the individual consciousness clear for choice
and duty, the realization of the presence of God made nature in his
thought supernatural, and life sublime. To him, as Dr. Strong has
said, it was plain that "imagination in man enables him to enter into
the thought of God--the creative element in us is the medium through
which we perceive the meaning of the Creator in his creation. The
world without answers to the world within, because God is the soul of

"Such minds are truly from the Deity,
For they are Powers; and hence the highest bliss
That flesh can know is theirs,--the consciousness
Of whom they are, habitually infused
Through every image and through every thought,
And all affections by communion raised
From earth to heaven, from human to divine."

The mystical faith by which man is united to God can have no clearer
confession. And in the great poem of "Tintern Abbey" this truth
received an expression which has become classical;--it must be counted
one of the greatest words of that continuing revelation by which the
truths of religion are given permanent form:

"For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity,
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean, and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:
A motion and a spirit, that impels
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things."

We can hardly imagine that the religious experience of mankind will
ever suffer these words to drop into forgetfulness; and it would seem
that every passing generation must deepen their significance.

The same great testimony to the divine Presence in our lives is borne
by many other witnesses in memorable words. Lowell's voice is clear:

"No man can think, nor in himself perceive,
Sometimes at waking, in the street sometimes,
Or on the hillside, always unforwarned,
A grace of being finer than himself,
That beckons and is gone,--a larger life
Upon his own impinging, with swift glimpse
Of spacious circles, luminous with mind,
To which the ethereal substance of his own
Seems but gross cloud to make that visible,
Touched to a sudden glory round the edge."

If to this central truth of religion,--the reality of the communion of
the human spirit with the divine--the poets have borne such impressive
testimony, not less positively have they asserted many other of the
great things of the spirit. Sometimes they have helped us to believe,
by identifying themselves with us in our struggles with the doubts
that loosen our hold on the great realities. No man of the last
century has done more for Christian belief than Alfred Tennyson,
albeit he has been a confessed doubter. But what he said of Arthur
Hallam is quite as true of himself:

"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."

Those words of his, so often quoted, are often sadly misused:

"There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds."

When men make these words an excuse for an attitude of habitual
negation and denial, assuming that it is better to doubt everything
than to believe anything, they grossly pervert the poet's meaning. It
is the _faith_ that lives in honest doubt that his heart applauds. He
is thinking of the fact that it is real faith in God which leads men
to doubt the dogmas which misrepresent God. But conscious as he is of
the shadow that lies upon our field of vision, he is always insisting
that it is in the light and not in the shadow that we must walk.
Therefore, although demonstration is impossible, faith is rational. So
do those great words of "The Ancient Sage" admonish us:

"Thou canst not prove that thou art body alone,
Nor canst thou prove that thou art spirit alone,
Nor canst thou prove that thou art both in one.
Thou canst not prove thou art immortal, no,
Nor yet that thou art mortal--nay, my son.
Thou canst not prove that I who speak with thee,
Am not thyself in converse with thyself,
For nothing worthy proving can be proven
Nor yet disproven. Wherefore be thou wise,
Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt,
And cling to Faith beyond the forms of Faith!
She reels not in the storm of warring words,
She brightens at the clash of 'Yes' and 'No,'
She sees the best that glimmers through the worst,
She feels the sun is hid but for a night,
She spies the summer through the winter bud,
She tastes the fruit before the blossom falls,
She hears the lark within the songless egg,
She finds the fountain where they wailed 'Mirage!'"

This illustrates Tennyson's mental attitude. If all who plume
themselves upon their doubts would put themselves into this posture of
mind, they would find themselves in possession of a very substantial

Tennyson has touched with light more than one problem of the soul. The
little stanza beginning

"Flower in the crannied wall"

has shown us how the mysteries of being are shared by the commonest
lives; the short lyric "Wages" condenses into a few lines the
strongest proof of the life to come; and "Crossing the Bar" has borne
many a spirit in peace out to the boundless sea.

Robert Browning's robust faith helps us in a different way. His daring
and triumphant optimism makes us ashamed of doubt. In "Abt Vogler," in
"Rabbi Ben Ezra," in "Pompilia," in "Christmas Eve," we are caught up
and carried onward by an unflinching and overcoming faith. Perhaps the
most convincing arguments for religious reality in Browning's poems
are those of "An Epistle" and of "Cleon," where the cry of the human
soul for the assurance which the Christian faith supplies is given
such a penetrating voice. And there is no reasoning about the
Incarnation, in any theological book that I have ever read, which
seems to me so cogent as that great passage in "Saul," where David

"Could I wrestle to raise him from sorrow, grow poor to enrich,
To fill up his life, starve my own out. I would--knowing which,
I know that my service is perfect. Oh, speak through me now!
Would I suffer for him that I love? So wouldst thou--so wilt thou!"

But, after all, Browning's great hymns of faith are those in which he
faces the future, like "Prospice," and the prologue of "La Saisiaz,"
and the epilogue of "Asolando,"--triumphant songs, in which one of the
healthiest-minded of human beings showed himself:

"One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,
Never doubted clouds would break,
Never dreamed though right were worsted wrong would triumph,
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, sleep to wake!"

It would be a grateful task to make extended record of the service
rendered to religion by the great choir of singers whose names appear
upon the pages of this book. To Elizabeth Barrett Browning our debt is
large, though her note is oftenest plaintive and the faith which she
illustrates is that by which suffering is turned to strength. Our own
New England psalmist, also, has been to great multitudes a revealer
and a comforter; few in any age have seen the central truths of
Christianity more clearly, or felt them more deeply, or uttered them
more convincingly. In such poems as "My Soul and I," "My Psalm," "Our
Master," "The Eternal Goodness," "The Brewing of Soma," and "Andrew
Ryckman's Prayer," Whittier has made the whole religious world his

How many more there are--of those whom the world reckons as the
greater bards, and of those whom it assigns to lower places--to whom
we have found ourselves indebted for the clearing of our vision or the
quickening of our pulses, in our studies or our meditations upon the
deepest questions of life! How many there are, whose faces we
never saw, but who by some luminous word, some strain vibrant with
tenderness, some flash of insight, have endeared themselves to us
forever! They are the friends of our spirits, ministers to us of the
holiest things. They have clothed for us the highest truth in forms of
beauty; they have made it winsome and real and dear and memorable. Is
there anything better than this, that one man can do for another?

Washington Gladden

[Footnote A: "The Great Poets and their Theology."]


By _Washington Gladden_

THE DIVINE ELEMENT--(God, Christ, the Holy Spirit)



_Photogravure from an engraving_.

_One of Heinrich Hoffmann's wonderful scenes in the life of
Christ: the earnest, wise-faced Boy, and the eager or doubtful
but thoughtful Scribes and Doctors of the Law, are graphically

_From a contemporary engraving_.

"It was the winter wild
While the heaven-born Child
All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies."

_From photogravure after a painting by Martin Feuerstein._

_From a contemporary engraving_.

"Knocking, knocking, ever knocking?
Who is there?
'Tis a pilgrim, strange and kingly,
Never such was seen before."

_From photo-carbon print after the painting by Holman Hunt_.

"My strength is as the strength of ten,
Because my heart is pure."

_From photogravure after the painting by George Frederick Watts_.

_From a photogravure after life-photograph._

_From a life-photograph by Elliott and Fry, London._

"Two went to pray? O, rather say,
One went to brag, the other to pray;
One nearer to God's altar trod,
The other to the altar's God."

_From engraving by Brend'amour, after a design by Alexander Bida_.

_After a photograph from the fresco by His friend Giotto, discovered
under the whitewash on a watt of the Bargello palace; now in the Museo
Nazionale, Florence, Italy_.





* * * * *



The year's at the spring,
And day's at the morn;
Morning's at seven;
The hill-side's dew-pearled;
The lark's on the wing;
The snail's on the thorn;
God's in His heaven--
All's right with the world.


* * * * *


Long pored Saint Austin o'er the sacred page,
And doubt and darkness overspread his mind;
On God's mysterious being thought the Sage,
The Triple Person in one Godhead joined.
The more he thought, the harder did he find
To solve the various doubts which fast arose;
And as a ship, caught by imperious wind,
Tosses where chance its shattered body throws,
So tossed his troubled soul, and nowhere found repose.

Heated and feverish, then he closed his tome,
And went to wander by the ocean-side,
Where the cool breeze at evening loved to come,
Murmuring responsive to the murmuring tide;
And as Augustine o'er its margent wide
Strayed, deeply pondering the puzzling theme,
A little child before him he espied:
In earnest labor did the urchin seem,
Working with heart intent close by the sounding stream.

He looked, and saw the child a hole had scooped,
Shallow and narrow in the shining sand,
O'er which at work the laboring infant stooped,
Still pouring water in with busy hand.
The saint addressed the child in accents bland:
"Fair boy," quoth he, "I pray what toil is thine?
Let me its end and purpose understand."
The boy replied: "An easy task is mine,
To sweep into this hole all the wide ocean's brine."

"O foolish boy!" the saint exclaimed, "to hope
That the broad ocean in that hole should lie!"
"O foolish saint!" exclaimed the boy; "thy scope
Is still more hopeless than the toil I ply,
Who think'st to comprehend God's nature high
In the small compass of thine human wit!
Sooner, Augustine, sooner far, shall I
Confine the ocean in this tiny pit,
Than finite minds conceive God's nature infinite!"


* * * * *


All the world over, I wonder, in lands that I never have trod,
Are the people eternally seeking for the signs and steps of a God?
Westward across the ocean, and Northward across the snow,
Do they all stand gazing, as ever, and what do the wisest know?

Here, in this mystical India, the deities hover and swarm
Like the wild bees heard in the tree-tops, or the gusts of a gathering storm;
In the air men hear their voices, their feet on the rocks are seen,
Yet we all say, "Whence is the message, and what may the wonders mean?"

A million shrines stand open, and ever the censer swings,
As they bow to a mystic symbol, or the figures of ancient kings;
And the incense rises ever, and rises the endless cry
Of those who are heavy laden, and of cowards loth to die.

For the Destiny drives us together, like deer in a pass of the hills;
Above is the sky and around us the sound of the shot that kills;
Pushed by a power we see not, and struck by a hand unknown,
We pray to the trees for shelter, and press our lips to a stone.

The trees wave a shadowy answer, and the rock frowns hollow and grim,
And the form and the nod of the demon are caught in the twilight dim;
And we look to the sunlight falling afar on the mountain crest,--
Is there never a path runs upward to a refuge there and a rest?

The path, ah! who has shown it, and which is the faithful guide?
The haven, ah! who has known it? for steep is the mountain side,
Forever the shot strikes surely, and ever the wasted breath
Of the praying multitude rises, whose answer is only death.

Here are the tombs of my kinsfolk, the fruit of an ancient name,
Chiefs who were slain on the war-field, and women who died in flame;
They are gods, these kings of the foretime, they are spirits who guard our race:
Ever I watch and worship; they sit with a marble face.

And the myriad idols round me, and the legion of muttering priests,
The revels and rites unholy, the dark unspeakable feasts!
What have they rung from the Silence? Hath even a whisper come
Of the secret, Whence and Whither? Alas! for the gods are dumb.

Shall I list to the word of the English, who come from the uttermost sea?
"The Secret, hath it been told you, and what is your message to me?"
It is naught but the wide-world story how the earth and the heavens began,
How the gods are glad and angry, and a Deity once was man.

I had thought, "Perchance in the cities where the rulers of India dwell,
Whose orders flash from the far land, who girdle the earth with a spell,
They have fathomed the depths we float on, or measured the unknown main--"
Sadly they turn from the venture, and say that the quest is vain.

Is life, then, a dream and delusion, and where shall the dreamer awake?
Is the world seen like shadows on water, and what if the mirror break?
Shall it pass as a camp that is struck, as a tent that is gathered and gone
From the sands that were lamp-lit at eve, and at morning are level and lone?

Is there naught in the heaven above, whence the hail and the levin are hurled,
But the wind that is swept around us by the rush of the rolling world?
The wind that shall scatter my ashes, and bear me to silence and sleep
With the dirge, and the sounds of lamenting, and voices of women who weep.


* * * * *


If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.


* * * * *


Most glorious of all the Undying, many-named, girt round with awe!
Jove, author of Nature, applying to all things the rudder of law--
Hail! Hail! for it justly rejoices the races whose life is a span
To lift unto thee their voices--the Author and Framer of man.
For we are thy sons; thou didst give us the symbols of speech at our birth,
Alone of the things that live, and mortal move upon earth.
Wherefore thou shalt find me extolling and ever singing thy praise;
Since thee the great Universe, rolling on its path round the world, obeys:--
Obeys thee, wherever thou guidest, and gladly is bound in thy bands,
So great is the power thou confidest, with strong, invincible hands,
To thy mighty ministering servant, the bolt of the thunder, that flies,
Two-edged like a sword, and fervent, that is living and never dies.
All nature, in fear and dismay, doth quake in the path of its stroke,
What time thou preparest the way for the one Word thy lips have spoke,
Which blends with lights smaller and greater, which pervadeth and thrilleth all things,
So great is thy power and thy nature--in the Universe Highest of Kings!
On earth, of all deeds that are done, O God! there is none without thee;
In the holy ether not one, nor one on the face of the sea,
Save the deeds that evil men, driven by their own blind folly, have planned;
But things that have grown uneven are made even again by thy hand;
And things unseemly grow seemly, the unfriendly are friendly to thee;
For no good and evil supremely thou hast blended in one by decree.
For all thy decree is one ever--a Word that endureth for aye,
Which mortals, rebellious, endeavor to flee from and shun to obey--
Ill-fated, that, worn with proneness for the lord-ship of goodly things,
Neither hear nor behold, in its oneness, the law that divinity brings;
Which men with reason obeying, might attain unto glorious life,
No longer aimlessly straying in the paths of ignoble strife.
There are men with a zeal unblest, that are wearied with following of fame,
And men with a baser quest, that are turned to lucre and shame.
There are men too that pamper and pleasure the flesh with delicate stings:
All these desire beyond measure to be other than all these things.
Great Jove, all-giver, dark-clouded, great Lord of the thunderbolt's breath!
Deliver the men that are shrouded in ignorance dismal as death.
O Father! dispel from their souls the darkness, and grant them the light
Of reason, thy stay, when the whole wide world thou rulest with might,
That we, being honored, may honor thy name with the music of hymns,
Extolling the deeds of the Donor, unceasing, as rightly beseems
Mankind; for no worthier trust is awarded to God or to man
Than forever to glory with justice in the law that endures and is One.

From the Greek of CLEANTHES.

* * * * *


We praise thee, O God; we acknowledge thee to be the Lord.
All the earth doth worship thee, the Father everlasting.
To thee all Angels cry aloud; the Heavens, and all the powers therein.
To thee Cherubim and Seraphim continually do cry,
Holy, Holy, Holy, Lord God of Sabaoth;
Heaven and earth are full of the Majesty of thy Glory.
The glorious company of the Apostles praise thee.
The goodly fellowship of the Prophets praise thee.
The noble army of Martyrs praise thee.
The holy Church throughout all the world doth acknowledge thee;
The Father of an infinite Majesty;
Thine adorable, true, and only Son;
Also the Holy Ghost, the Comforter.
Thou art the King of Glory, O Christ.
Thou art the everlasting Son of the Father.
When thou tookest upon thee to deliver man, thou didst humble thyself to be born of a Virgin.
When thou hadst overcome the sharpness of death, thou didst open the Kingdom of Heaven to all believers.
Thou sittest at the right hand of God, in the Glory of the Father.
We believe that thou shalt come to be our Judge.
We therefore pray thee, help thy servants, whom thou hast redeemed with thy precious blood.
Make them to be numbered with thy Saints, in glory everlasting.
O Lord, save thy people, and bless thine heritage.
Govern them, and lift them up for ever.
Day by day we magnify thee;
And we worship thy Name ever, world without end.
Vouchsafe, O Lord, to keep us this day without sin.
O Lord, have mercy upon us, have mercy upon us.
O Lord, let thy mercy be upon us, as our trust is in thee.
O Lord, in thee have I trusted; let me never be confounded.[A]

Version of the


[Footnote A: This venerable hymn, familiar as a part of the morning
service in the Roman Catholic and Protestant Episcopal Churches, and
on special occasions in many Protestant Churches, has usually been
ascribed to the great St. Ambrose of Milan and St. Augustine, his
greater convert, in the year 387 A.D. But, like other productions of
mighty influence, it was doubtless a growth. Portions of it appear
in the writings of St. Cyprian (252 A.D.) and others in still earlier
liturgical forms of the Greek Church in Alexandria during the century
previous. It is thus probably the earliest, as it is certainly the
most universal and famous, of Christian hymns. It was translated from
the Latin into English in 1549 for the Anglican Book of Common Prayer,
which assumed its present form in 1660--during that wonderful era
which gave us the English Bible, with its unapproached majesty and
music of language.]

* * * * *


Father of all! in every age,
In every clime adored,
By saint, by savage, and by sage,
Jehovah, Jove, or Lord!

Thou great First Cause, least understood,
Who all my sense confined
To know but this, that thou art good,
And that myself am blind;

Yet gave me, in this dark estate,
To see the good from ill;
And, binding nature fast in fate,
Left free the human will:

What conscience dictates to be done,
Or warns me not to do,
This, teach me more than hell to shun,
That, more than heaven pursue.

What blessings thy free bounty gives
Let me not cast away;
For God is paid when man receives,
To enjoy is to obey.

Yet not to earth's contracted span
Thy goodness let me bound,
Or think thee Lord alone of man,
When thousand worlds are round:

Let not this weak, unknowing hand
Presume thy bolts to throw,
And deal damnation round the land
On each I judge thy foe.

If I am right thy grace impart
Still in the right to stay;
If I am wrong, O, teach my heart
To find that better way!

Save me alike from foolish pride
And impious discontent
At aught thy wisdom has dented,
Or aught thy goodness lent.

Teach me to feel another's woe,
To hide the fault I see;
That mercy I to others show,
That mercy show to me.

Mean though I am, not wholly so,
Since quickened by thy breath;
O, lead me wheresoe'er I go,
Through this day's life or death!

This day be bread and peace my lot;
All else beneath the sun,
Thou knowest if best bestowed or not,
And let thy will be done.

To thee, whose temple is all space,
Whose altar, earth, sea, skies,
One chorus let all Being raise,
All Nature incense rise!


* * * * *



The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim;
The unwearied sun, from day to day,
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.

Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth;
While all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.

What though, in solemn silence, all
Move round the dark terrestrial ball?
What though no real voice or sound
Amid their radiant orbs be found?
In Reason's ear they all rejoice,
And utter forth a glorious voice,
Forever singing, as they shine,
"The hand that made us is divine!"


* * * * *



Lord! when those glorious lights I see
With which thou hast adorned the skies,
Observing how they moved be,
And how their splendor fills mine eyes,
Methinks it is too large a grace,
But that thy love ordained it so,--
That creatures in so high a place
Should servants be to man below.

The meanest lamp now shining there
In size and lustre doth exceed
The noblest of thy creatures here,
And of our friendship hath no need.
Yet these upon mankind attend
For secret aid or public light;
And from the world's extremest end
Repair unto us every night.

O, had that stamp been undefaced
Which first on us thy hand had set,
How highly should we have been graced,
Since we are so much honored yet!
Good God, for what but for the sake
Of thy beloved and only Son,
Who did on him our nature take,
Were these exceeding favors done?

As we by him have honored been,
Let us to him due honors give;
Let us uprightness hide our sin,
And let us worth from him receive.
Yea, so let us by grace improve
What thou by nature doth bestow,
That to thy dwelling-place above
We may be raised from below.


* * * * *



Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star
In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
On thy bald, awful head, O sovran Blanc!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form,
Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines
How silently! Around thee and above,
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black--
An ebon mass. Methinks thou piercest it,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Thy habitation from eternity!
O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Didst vanish from my thought. Entranced in prayer
I worshipped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
So sweet we know not we are listening to it,
Thou, the mean while, wast blending with my thought,--
Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy,--
Till the dilating soul, enrapt, transfused,
Into the mighty vision passing, there,
As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,
Mute thanks, and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the vale!
O, struggling with the darkness all the night,
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink,
Companion of the morning-star at dawn,
Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald,--wake, O, wake, and utter praise!
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?
Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who called you forth from night and utter death,
From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
Forever shattered and the same forever?
Who gave you your invulnerable life,
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
And who commanded (and the silence came),
Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amain,--
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven
Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?
God!--let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!
God! sing, ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice!
Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!
Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm!
Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
Ye signs and wonders of the elements!
Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,
Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,
Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene,
Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast,--
Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou
That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low
In adoration, upward from thy base
Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,
To rise before me,--Rise, O, ever rise!
Rise, like a cloud of incense from the Earth!
Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,
Earth with her thousand voices, praises God.


* * * * *


God ploughed one day with an earthquake,
And drove his furrows deep!
The huddling plains upstarted.
The hills were all a-leap!

But that is the mountains' secret,
Age-hidden in their breast;
"God's peace is everlasting,"
Are the dream-words of their rest.

He hath made them the haunt of beauty,
The home elect of his grace;
He spreadeth his mornings on them,
His sunsets light their face.

His thunders tread in music
Of footfalls echoing long,
And carry majestic greeting
Around the silent throng.

His winds bring messages to them,
Wild storm-news from the main;
They sing it down to the valleys
In the love-song of the rain.

Green tribes from far come trooping,
And over the uplands flock;
He weaveth the zones together
In robes for his risen rock.

They are nurseries for young rivers;
Nests for his flying cloud;
Homesteads for new-born races,
Masterful, free, and proud.

The people of tired cities
Come up to their shrines and pray;
God freshens again within them,
As he passes by all day.

And lo, I have caught their secret,
The beauty deeper than all.
This faith--that life's hard moments,
When the jarring sorrows befall,

Are but God ploughing his mountains;
And the mountains yet shall be
The source of his grace and freshness
And his peace everlasting to me.


* * * * *


As on my bed at dawn I mused and prayed,
I saw my lattice prankt upon the wall,
The flaunting leaves and flitting birds withal--
A sunny phantom interlaced with shade;
"Thanks be to Heaven," in happy mood I said,
"What sweeter aid my matins could befall
Than this fair glory from the east hath made?
What holy sleights hath God, the Lord of all,
To bid us feel and see! We are not free
To say we see not, for the glory comes
Nightly and daily, like the flowing sea;
His lustre pierces through the midnight glooms,
And at prime hours, behold! he follows me
With golden shadows to my secret rooms."


* * * * *



Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind:
His soul, proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk or Milky Way:
Yet simple Nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-topt hill, an humbler heaven;
Some safer world in depth of woods embraced,
Some happier island in the watery waste,
Where slaves once more their native land behold,
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To Be, contents his natural desire;
He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire;
But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.
Go, wiser thou! and in thy scale of sense,
Weigh thy opinion against Providence:
Call imperfection what thou fancy'st such,--
Say, here he gives too little, there too much;
Destroy all creatures for thy sport or gust,
Yet cry, If man's unhappy, God's unjust,--
If man alone engross not Heaven's high care,
Alone made perfect here, immortal there;
Snatch from his hand the balance and the rod,
Re-judge his justice, be the god of God.
In pride, in reasoning pride, our error lies;
All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies.
Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes:
Men would be angels, angels would be gods.
Aspiring to be gods, if angels fell,
Aspiring to be angels, men rebel;
And who but wishes to invert the laws
Of Order, sins against the Eternal Cause.

* * * * *

All are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body Nature is, and God the soul:
That, changed through all, and yet in all the same;
Great in the earth as in the ethereal frame;
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees,
Lives through all life, extends through all extent,
Spreads undivided, operates unspent:
Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart;
As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns,
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns:
To him no high, no low, no great, no small;
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.
Cease then, nor order imperfection name:
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
Know thy own point: This kind, this due degree
Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee.
Submit.--In this or any other sphere,
Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear;
Safe in the hand of one disposing Power,
Or in the natal or the mortal hour.
All nature is but art unknown to thee;
All chance, direction which thou canst not see;
All discord, harmony not understood;
All partial evil, universal good:
And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite,
One truth is clear--Whatever is, is right.

* * * * *

Order is Heaven's first law: and, this confest,
Some are and must be greater than the rest,
More rich, more wise; but who infers from hence
That such are happier, shocks all common-sense.
Heaven to mankind impartial we confess,
If all are equal in their happiness:
But mutual wants this happiness increase;
All nature's difference keeps all nature's peace.
Condition, circumstance, is not the thing:
Bliss is the same in subject or in king,
In who obtain defence or who defend,
In him who is or him who finds a friend;
Heaven breathes through every member of the whole
One common blessing, as one common soul.


* * * * *


God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up His bright designs,
And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful, fresh courage take!
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense.
But trust Him for His grace:
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste.
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan His work in vain:
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.


* * * * *


O thou eternal One! whose presence bright
All space doth occupy, all motion guide.
Unchanged through time's all-devastating flight!
Thou only God--there is no God beside!
Being above all beings! Mighty One,
Whom none can comprehend and none explore!
Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone--
Embracing all, supporting, ruling o'er,
Being whom we call God, and know no more!

In its sublime research, philosophy
May measure out the ocean-deep--may count
The sands or the sun's rays--but, God! for Thee
There is no weight nor measure; none can mount
Up to Thy mysteries; Reason's brightest spark,
Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try
To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark;
And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high,
Even like past moments in eternity.

Thou from primeval nothingness didst call
First chaos, then existence--Lord! in Thee
Eternity had its foundation; all
Sprung forth from Thee--of light, joy, harmony,
Sole Origin--all life, all beauty Thine;
Thy word created all, and doth create;
Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine;
Thou art, and wert, and shall be! Glorious! Great!
Light-giving, life-sustaining potentate!

Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround--
Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath!
Thou the beginning with the end hast bound,
And beautifully mingled life and death!
As sparks mount upwards from the fiery blaze;
So suns are born, so worlds spring forth from Thee;
And as the spangles in the sunny rays
Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry
Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise.

A million torches lighted by Thy hand
Wander unwearied through the blue abyss--
They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command,
All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss.
What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light--
A glorious company of golden streams--
Lamps of celestial ether burning bright--
Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams?
But Thou to these art as the noon to night.

Yes! as a drop of water in the sea,
All this magnificence in Thee is lost:--
What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee?
And what am I then?--Heaven's unnumbered host,
Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed
In all the glory of sublimest thought,
Is but an atom in the balance, weighed
Against Thy greatness--is a cipher brought
Against infinity! What am I then? Naught!

Naught! But the effluence of Thy light divine,
Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too;
Yes! in my spirit doth Thy spirit shine,
As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew.
Naught! but I live, and on hope's pinions fly
Eager towards Thy presence--for in Thee
I live, and breathe, and dwell, aspiring high,
Even to the throne of Thy divinity;
I am, O God! and surely Thou must be!

Thou art!--directing, guiding all--Thou art!
Direct my understanding then to Thee;
Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart;
Though but an atom midst immensity,
Still I am something fashioned by Thy hand!
I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth--
On the last verge of mortal being stand,
Close to the realms where angels have their birth,
Just on the boundaries of the spirit land!

The chain of being is complete in me--
In me is matter's last gradation lost,
And the next step is spirit--Deity!
I can command the lightning and am dust!
A monarch and a slave--a worm, a god!
Whence came I here, and how? so marvellously
Constructed and conceived? unknown! this clod
Lives surely through some higher energy;
For from itself alone it could not be!

Creator, yes! Thy wisdom and Thy word
Created me! Thou source of life and good!
Thou spirit of my spirit, and my Lord!
Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude
Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring
Over the abyss of death; and bade it wear
The garments of eternal day, and wing
Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere,
Even to its source, to Thee, its author there.

Oh thoughts ineffable! oh visions blest!
Though worthless our conceptions all of Thee.
Yet shall Thy shadowed image fill our breast,
And waft its homage to Thy deity.
God! thus alone my lowly thoughts can soar,
Thus seek Thy presence--Being wise and good!
Midst Thy vast works admire, obey, adore;
And when the tongue is eloquent no more,
The soul shall speak in tears of gratitude.


Translation of SIR JOHN BOWRING.

* * * * *


A trodden daisy, from the sward,
With tearful eye I took,
And on its ruined glories I,
With moving heart, did look;
For, crushed and broken though it was,
That little flower was fair;
And oh! I loved the dying bud,
For God was there!

I stood upon the sea-beat shore,
The waves came rushing on;
The tempest raged in giant wrath,
The light of day was gone.
The sailor from his drowning bark
Sent up his dying prayer;
I looked amid the ruthless storm,
And God was there!

I sought a lonely, woody dell,
Where all things soft and sweet,
Birds, flowers, and trees, and running streams,
Mid bright sunshine did meet:
I stood beneath an old oak's shade,
And summer round was fair;
I gazed upon the peaceful scene,
And God was there!

I saw a home--a happy home--
Upon a bridal day,
And youthful hearts were blithesome there,
And aged hearts were gay:
I sat amid the smiling band
Where all so blissful were--
Among the bridal maidens sweet--
And God was there!

I stood beside an infant's couch,
When light had left its eye--
I saw the mother's bitter tears,
I heard her woful cry--
I saw her kiss its fair pale face,
And smooth its yellow hair;
And oh, I loved the mourner's home,
For God was there!

I sought a cheerless wilderness--
A desert, pathless wild--
Where verdure grew not by the streams,
Where beauty never smiled;
Where desolation brooded o'er
A muirland lone and bare,
And awe upon my spirit crept,
For God was there!

I looked upon the lowly flower,
And on each blade of grass;
Upon the forests, wide and deep,
I saw the tempests pass:
I gazed on all created things
In earth, in sea, and air;
Then bent the knee--for God, in love,
Was everywhere!


* * * * *


Rocked in the cradle of the deep
I lay me down in peace to sleep;
Secure I rest upon the wave,
For thou, O Lord! hast power to save.
I know thou wilt not slight my call,
For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall;
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

When in the dead of night I lie
And gaze upon the trackless sky,
The star-bespangled heavenly scroll,
The boundless waters as they roll,--
I feel thy wondrous power to save
From perils of the stormy wave:
Rocked in the cradle of the deep,
I calmly rest and soundly sleep.

And such the trust that still were mine,
Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine,
Or though the tempest's fiery breath
Roused me from sleep to wreck and death.
In ocean cave, still safe with Thee
The germ of immortality!
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.


* * * * *


Good-bye, proud world, I'm going home:
Thou art not my friend, and I'm not thine.
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam,
But now, proud world, I'm going home.

Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face;
To Grandeur with his wise grimace;
To upstart Wealth's averted eye;
To supple Office, low and high;
To crowded halls, to court and street;
To frozen hearts and hasting feet;
To those who go, and those who come;
Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home.

I'm going to my own hearth-stone,
Bosomed in yon green hills alone,--
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet?


* * * * *


Our God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast,
And our eternal home,--

Under the shadow of thy throne
Thy saints have dwelt secure;
Sufficient is thine arm alone,
And our defence is sure.

Before the hills in order stood,
Or earth received her frame,
From everlasting thou art God,
To endless years the same.

A thousand ages in thy sight
Are like an evening gone;
Short as the watch that ends the night
Before the rising sun.

Time like an ever-rolling stream
Bears all its sons away;
They fly, forgotten, as a dream
Dies at the opening day.

Our God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Be thou our guard while troubles last,
And our eternal home.


* * * * *



A mighty fortress is our God,
A bulwark never failing;
Our helper he amid the flood
Of mortal ills prevailing.
For still our ancient foe
Doth seek to work us woe;
His craft and power are great,
And, armed with equal hate,
On earth is not his equal.

Did we in our own strength confide,
Our striving would be losing;
Were not the right man on our side,
The man of God's own choosing.
Dost ask who that may be?
Christ Jesus, it is he,
Lord Sabaoth his name,
From age to age the same,
And he must win the battle.

From the German of MARTIN LUTHER.


* * * * *


I love, and have some cause to love, the earth,--
She is my Maker's creature, therefore good;
She is my mother, for she gave me birth;
She is my tender nurse, she gives me food:
But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee?
Or what's my mother or my nurse to me?

I love the air,--her dainty sweets refresh
My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me;
Her shrill-mouthed choir sustain me with their flesh,
And with their polyphonian notes delight me:
But what's the air, or all the sweets that she
Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee?

I love the sea,--she is my fellow-creature,
My careful purveyor; she provides me store;
She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;
She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore:
But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee,
What is the ocean or her wealth to me?

To heaven's high city I direct my journey,
Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;
Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney,
Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky:
But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee?
Without thy presence, heaven's no heaven to me.

Without thy presence, earth gives no refection;
Without thy presence, sea affords no treasure;
Without thy presence, air's a rank infection;
Without thy presence, heaven's itself no pleasure:
If not possessed, if not enjoyed in thee,
What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me?

The highest honors that the world can boast
Are subjects far too low for my desire;
The brightest beams of glory are, at most,
But dying sparkles of thy living fire;
The loudest flames that earth can kindle be
But nightly glow-worms, if compared to thee.

Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares;
Wisdom but folly; joy, disquiet--sadness;
Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;
Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness;
Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be,
Nor have their being, when compared with thee.

In having all things, and not thee, what have I?
Not having thee, what have my labors got?
Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I?
And having thee alone, what have I not?
I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I be
Possessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of thee!


* * * * *


I worship thee, sweet will of God!
And all thy ways adore;
And every day I live, I seem
To love thee more and more.

Thou wert the end, the blessed rule
Of our Saviour's toils and tears;
Thou wert the passion of his heart
Those three and thirty years.

And he hath breathed into my soul
A special love of thee,
A love to lose my will in his,
And by that loss be free.

I love to see thee bring to naught
The plans of wily men;
When simple hearts outwit the wise,
Oh, thou art loveliest then.

The headstrong world it presses hard
Upon the church full oft,
And then how easily thou turn'st
The hard ways into soft.

I love to kiss each print where thou
Hast set thine unseen feet;
I cannot fear thee, blessed will!
Thine empire is so sweet.

When obstacles and trials seem
Like prison walls to be,
I do the little I can do,
And leave the rest to thee.

I know not what it is to doubt,
My heart is ever gay;
I run no risk, for, come what will,
Thou always hast thy way.

I have no cares, O blessed will!
For all my cares are thine:
I live in triumph, Lord! for thou
Hast made thy triumphs mine.

And when it seems no chance or change
From grief can set me free,
Hope finds its strength in helplessness,
And gayly waits on thee.

Man's weakness, waiting upon God,
Its end can never miss,
For men on earth no work can do
More angel-like than this.

Ride on, ride on, triumphantly,
Thou glorious will, ride on!
Faith's pilgrim sons behind thee take
The road that thou hast gone.

He always wins who sides with God,
To him no chance is lost;
God's will is sweetest to him, when
It triumphs at his cost.

Ill that he blesses is our good,
And unblessed good is ill;
And all is right that seems most wrong.
If it be his sweet will.


* * * * *


Whichever way the wind doth blow,
Some heart is glad to have it so;
Then blow it east or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is best.

My little craft sails not alone:
A thousand fleets from every zone
Are out upon a thousand seas;
And what for me were favoring breeze
Might dash another, with the shock
Of doom, upon some hidden rock.

And so I do not dare to pray
For winds to waft me on my way,
But leave it to a Higher Will
To stay or speed me; trusting still
That all is well, and sure that He
Who launched my bark will sail with me
Through storm and calm, and will not fail,
Whatever breezes may prevail,
To land me, every peril past,
Within his sheltering heaven at last.

Then, whatsoever wind doth blow,
My heart is glad to have it so;
And blow it east or blow it west,
The wind that blows, that wind is best.


* * * * *


Thou Grace Divine, encircling all,
A soundless, shoreless sea!
Wherein at last our souls must fall,
O Love of God most free!

When over dizzy heights we go,
One soft hand blinds our eyes,
The other leads us, safe and slow,
O Love of God most wise!

And though we turn us from thy face,
And wander wide and long,
Thou hold'st us still in thine embrace,
O Love of God most strong!

The saddened heart, the restless soul,
The toil-worn frame and mind,
Alike confess thy sweet control,
O Love of God most kind!

But not alone thy care we claim,
Our wayward steps to win;
We know thee by a dearer name,
O Love of God within!

And, filled and quickened by thy breath,
Our souls are strong and free
To rise o'er sin and fear and death,
O Love of God, to thee!


* * * * *


Praise to God, immortal praise,
For the love that crowns our days--
Bounteous source of every joy,
Let Thy praise our tongues employ!

For the blessings of the field,
For the stores the gardens yield,
For the vine's exalted juice,
For the generous olive's use;

Flocks that, whiten all the plain,
Yellow sheaves of ripened grain,
Clouds that drop their fattening dews,
Suns that temperate warmth diffuse--

All that Spring, with bounteous hand,
Scatters o'er the smiling land;
All that liberal Autumn pours
From her rich o'erflowing stores:

These to Thee, my God, we owe--
Source whence all our blessings flow!
And for these my soul shall raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise.

Yet should rising whirlwinds tear
From its stem the ripening ear--
Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot
Drop her green untimely fruit--

Should the vine put forth no more,
Nor the olive yield her store--
Though the sickening flocks should fall,
And the herds desert the stall--

Should Thine altered hand restrain
The early and the latter rain,
Blast each opening bud of joy,
And the rising year destroy;

Yet to Thee my soul should raise
Grateful vows and solemn praise,
And when every blessing's flown,
Love Thee--for Thyself alone.


* * * * *


Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home,--
Lead thou me on!
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene,--one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou
Shouldst lead me on:
I loved to choose and see my path, but now
Lead thou me on!
I loved the garish days, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still
Will lead me on;
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.


* * * * *


O friends! with whom my feet have trod
The quiet aisles of prayer,
Glad witness to your zeal for God
And love of man I bear.

I trace your lines of argument;
Your logic linked and strong
I weigh as one who dreads dissent,
And fears a doubt as wrong.

But still my human hands are weak
To hold your iron creeds:
Against the words ye bid me speak
My heart within me pleads.

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought?
Who talks of scheme and plan?
The Lord is God! He needeth not
The poor device of man.

I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground
Ye tread with boldness shod;
I dare not fix with mete and bound
The love and power of God.

Ye praise His justice; even such
His pitying love I deem:
Ye seek a king; I fain would touch
The robe that hath no seam.

Ye see the curse which overbroods
A world of pain and loss:
I hear our Lord's beatitudes
And prayer upon the cross.

More than your schoolmen teach, within
Myself, alas! I know:
Too dark ye cannot paint the sin,
Too small the merit show.

I bow my forehead to the dust,
I veil mine eyes for shame,
And urge, in trembling self-distrust,
A prayer without a claim.

I see the wrong that round me lies,
I feel the guilt within;
I hear, with groan and travail-cries,
The world confess its sin.

Yet, in the maddening maze of things,
And tossed by storm and flood,
To one fixed trust my spirit clings;
I know that God is good!

Not mine to look where cherubim
And seraphs may not see,
But nothing can be good in Him
Which evil is in me.

The wrong that pains my soul below
I dare not throne above,
I know not of His hate,--I know
His goodness and His love.

I dimly guess from blessings known
Of greater out of sight,
And, with the chastened Psalmist, own

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