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Being laid, and dressed for sleep, close
not thy eyes Up with thy curtains; give thy soul
In some good thoughts; so when thy
day shall rise, And thou unrakest thy fire, those sparks will bring New flaines; besides where these
lodge, vain heats mourn And die; that bush, where God is, shall not burn.
TO HIS BOOKS.
Bright books! the perspectives to
our weak sights, The clear projections of discerning
Burning and shining thoughts, man's
posthume day, The track of fled souls, and their
milky way, voice The dead alive' and busy, the still Of enlarged spirits, kind Heaven's
white decoys! Who lives with you lives like those
knowing flowers, Which in commerce with light spend
all their hours; Which shut to clouds, and shadows
nicely shun, But with glad haste unveil to kiss
the sun. (night. Beneath you all is dark, and a dead Which whoso lives in, wants both
health and sight. By sucking you, the wise, like bees,
Healing and rich, though this they
do most slow, Because most choicely; for as great a
Have we of books as bees of herbs, or more:
And the great task to try, then know, the good,
To discern weeds, and judge of
wholesome food, Is a rare scant performance. For
Oft ere 'us done, while the bee feeds
and flies. But you were al! choice flowers; all
set and dressed By old sage florists, who well kr.ew
And I amidst you all am turned a weed,
Not wanting knowledge, but for want of heed.
Then thank thyself, wild fool, that
would'st not be Content to know — what was tco
much for thee!
LIKE AS A NURSE.
Even as a nurse, whose child's impatient pace
Can hardly had his feet from place to place,
Leaves her fond kissing, sets him
down to go, Nor does uphold him for a step or
But when she finds that he begins to fall,
She holds him up and kisses him withal;
So God from man sometimes withdraws his hand
Awhile, to teach his infant faith to stand;
But when He sees his feeble strength begin
To fail, He gently takes him up again.
The bubbling brook doth leap when
I come by. Because my feet find measure with
The birds know when the friend they love is nigh.
For I am known to them, both great and small.
The flower that on the lonely hillside grows
Expects me there when spring its bloom has given;
And many a tree and bush my wanderings knows,
And e'en the clouds and silent stars of heaven;
For he who with his Maker walks aright,
Shall be their lord as Adam was before;
His ear shall catch each sound with
new delight, Each object wear the dress that then
And he, as when erect in soul he stood,
Hear from his Father's lips that all is good.
'Tis all a great show,
The world that we're in —
None saw it begin;
Its courts and its halls,
The picture-hung walls.
There are flowers in the meadow,
Songs pour from the woodland,
Too many, too many
For eye or for ear, The sights that we see,
And the sounds that we hear.
A weight as of slumber
Comes down on the mind; So swift is life's train
To its objects we're blind; I myself am but one
In the fleet-gliding show — Like others I walk,
But know not where I go.
One saint to another
I heard say " How long?" I listened, but nought more
I heard of his song; The shadows are walking
Through city and plain,— How long shall the night
And its shadow remain?
How long ere shall shine,
In this glimmer of things, The light of which prophet
In prophecy sings? And the gates of that city
Be open, w hose sun No more to the west
Its circuit shall run!
HOME AND HEAVEN.
With the same letter heaven and
home begin, And the words dwell together in the
For they who would a home in heaven win,
Must first a heaven in home begin to find.
Be happy here, yet with a humble soul
That looks for perfect happiness in heaven;
For what thou hast is earnest of the whole
Which to the faithful shall at last be given.
As once the patriarch, in a vision blessed.
Saw the swift angels hastening to and fro,
And the lone spot whereon he lay to rest
Became to him the gate of heaven below;
So may to thee, when life itself is done,
Thy home on earth and heaven above be one.
OLD AGE AND DEATH.
The seas are quiet when the winds
give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no
more. [to boast
For then we know how vain it was Of fleeting things, too certain to be
Clouds of affection from our younger
Conceal that emptiness which age descries.
The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, I home.
As they draw near to their eternal
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,
That stand upon the threshold of the new.
Go, lovely rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me,
That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung
Small is the worth
Bid her come forth —
Then die, that she
May read in thee — How small a part of time they share That are so wondrous sweet and fair. Augusta
ON A G1DDLE.
That which her slender waist confined
It was my heaven's extremest sphere,
A narrow compass, and yet there
FROM " A ritEA CHER."
I Know not how it is; I take the faith in earnest, I believe, Even at happy times I think I love, I try to pattern me upon the type My Master left us, am no hypocrite Playing my soul against good men's
applause, Nor monger of the Gospel for a cure, But serve a Master whom I chose
It seemed to me I loved Him, whom till now
My longing is to love; and yet I feel A falseness somewhere clogging me. I seem
Divided from myself; I can speak words
Of burning faith and fire myself with them;
I can, while upturned faces gaze on me
As if I were their Gospel manifest. Break into unplanned turns as natural
As the blind man's cry for healing, pass beyond
My bounded manhood in the earnestness
Of a messenger from God. And then I come
And in my study's quiet find again The callous actor who, because long since
He had some feelings in him like the talk
The book puts in his mouth, still warms his pit
And even, in his lucky moods, himself,
With the passion of his part, but
lays aside His heroism with his satin suit And thinks "the part is good and
well conceived And very natural — no flaw to find" And then forgets it.
Yes, I preach to others And am — I know not what — a castaway?
No, but a man who feels his heart asleep.
As he might feel his hand or foot.
To-night now I might triumph. Not a breath
But shivered when I pictured the
dead soul Awakening when the body dies, to
Itself has lived too late; and drew in long
With yearning when I showed how
perfect love Might make Earth's self be but an
. earlier Heaven. And I may say and not be over-bold, Judging from former fruits, "bome
one to-night Has come more near to God, some
one has felt What it may mean to love Him,
some one learned A new great horror against death
Some one at least — it may be many."
And yet, I know not why it is, this knack
Of sermon-making seems to carry me
Athwart the truth at times before I know —
In little things at least; thank God
the greater Have not yet grown, by the familiar
Such puppets of a phrase as to slip
Without clear recognition. Take tonight —
I preached a careful sermon, gravely planned,
All of it written. Not a line was meant
To fit the mood of any differing From my own judgment: not the
less I find — (I thought of it coming home while
my good Jane Talked of the Shetland pony I must
For the boys to learn to ride:) yes,
here it is, And here again on this page — blame
Where by my private judgment I
blame not. "We think our own thoughts on this
day," I said, "Harmless it may be, kindly even,
Not Heaven's thoughts — not Sunday
thoughts I'll say." Well now, do I, now that I think of
Advise a separation of our thoughts By Sundays and by week-days, Heaven's and ours? Bv no means, for I think the bar is bad.
I'll teach my children "Keep all
thinkings pure, And think them when you like, if
but the time Is free to any thinking. Think of
So often that in anything you do
Just as you would not have forgotten us,
Your mother and myself, although
your thoughts Were not distinctly on us, while you
And, if you do this, in the Sunday's rest
You will most naturally think of Him."
Then here again "the pleasures of
the world That tempt the younger members of
my flock." Now I think really that they've not
Of these same pleasures. Gray and
joyless lives A many of them have, whom I would
Sharing the natural gayeties of youth. I wish they'd more temptations of the kind.
Now Donne and Allan preach such
things as these Meaning them and believing. As for
What did I mean? Neither to feign
nor teach A Phansaic service, "Twas just this, That there are lessons and rebukes
long made So much a thing of course that, un
observing, One sets them down as one puts dots
to i's. Crosses to Vs.
[From A Painter.]
THE ARTIST'S DREAD OF BLINDNESS.
How one can live on beauty and be rich
Having only that! — a thing not hard to find,
For all the world is beauty. We
know that. We painters, we whom God shows
how to see. We have beauty ours, we take it
where we go. Ay, my wise critics, rob me of my
You can do that, but of my birthright, no.
Imprison me away from skies and seas,
And the open sight of earth and her rich life,
And the lesson of a face or golden hair:
I'll find it for you on a whitewashed wall,
Where the slow shadows only change so much
As shows the street has different
darknesses At noontime and at twilight.