Matin Bells and Scarlet and Gold :: :: University of Virginia Library

Lord, I am but a little child,
And have not learned the spelling
Which only leaves us good and mild,
And curbs the proud rebelling;
Though in the Grammar of Thy Grace,
The pupils always see God's face,
And need no harsh compelling.
For ages past the rod was broken
With Thy dear bleeding heart,
Wherein all have a part;
While thence the ransomed earth is soaken,
And fountains living start.

But still I study in Thy school,
I pick out here a letter
And there another, as a tool
To shape me wise and better;
For not a lesson is as hard
As my own will against Thee barr'd,
Which hugs each naughty fetter.
But at the service that is freedom
I rudely pout and pine,
And cross the danger line
To seek forbidden fruits of Edom,
Instead of tasks Divine.

There is not very much to learn,
A line or two, a copy
For which we all at seasons yearn
When tired of pleasure's poppy;
That we may trace Thy footsteps hid
By shame and shadows bright, amid

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The rabble rude and shoppy.
And if I look at Thee but blindly,
Yet Thou dost not forget;
And though my sins beset,
Thy hands beset me closer, kindly,
And teach the alphabet.

O let me try upon my knees
To master what is simple,
Read with the murmur of the bees
And in a baby's dimple;
That tiny word of blessèd trust,
Which raiseth worlds that else were dust,
And ties the maiden's wimple.
Till I can build at last a sentence
In parts that fitly twine,
And prove its meaning mine—
The riches of a free repentance,
And human love Divine.

MY CROWN.

I begged the Master for a crown
Such as the chosen wear,
Who with the thunder of renown
A nation's honour bear;
Who in the light of noble deeds
Work on with faithful friends,
And armoured all in golden creeds,
To their appointed ends;
Who in the beauty born of duty
Stand steadfast at the helm,
And toiling tarry not and carry
The greatness of a realm.

I thought I had an equal hand
Of their imperial kind,
To dare the utmost and command,
To loosen or to bind;

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I thought I had a conquering will,
Above mere place and pelf,
To find my good in others' ill,
And rule no less myself;
I thought my splendid hope was blended
With purpose for the poor,
And larger vision's clear decisions,
Would open wide their door.

But then the Master heard my voice,
In all the eager pride,
Which deemed it made a kingly choice,
To labour at His side;
He granted me my prayer at length,
Not just as I besought,
And added with the gift a strength,
To do what He inwrought;
He for my payment took His raiment
Of earthly scoffs and scorns,
To clothe my bareness with that fairness,
And His own crown of thorns.

At first it seemed a crushing load
Which never let me rest,
A ceaseless fretting and a goad,
Whose iron pierced my breast;
But in the grinding of the grief
I found the saving balm,
The very pain was its relief,
The scourge the victor's palm;
And thus the burden grew the guerdon
Which gave the needed power,
While my torn bosom seemed to blossom,
And every thorn a flower.

THE WALK OF FAITH.

The way seemed dark and lonely and the clouds a funeral wreath,
But as I went it only spread my footsteps flowers beneath;

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The stocks with threatening gesture now uplifted me on thrones,
The shades grew shining vesture and the blocks were stepping stones;
The giants and the terrors dwindled to a harmless wraith,
And all my fears were errors—for I walked alone by faith.

I looked below, it darkened, and a horror filled my breast,
I looked above and harkened and sweet tidings brought me rest;
I looked behind, the lion strode with progress grim as fate's,
I looked before and Sion flashed on me its pearly gates;
I looked within for leading and a voice of treason talked,
I looked without unheeding—for by faith alone I walked.

The way was deep and narrow, bitter thorns about were spread,
Their teeth that were a harrow pierced my naked hands and head;
But yet the wounds were pleasant with a blessing of their own,
Because the One was present who as saving balm was sown;
In beauty burst the thistles just as spirits from their spathe,
And blossoms sprang from bristles—for I walked alone by faith.

O when in wrath and thunder clove the ground with earthquake shock,
And failed my feet, yet under all I felt the Eternal Rock;
The awful void seemed paven and the bars were helping hands,
The storm was quite a haven blowing me to heavenly lands;

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And in the knell of danger I heard but the Bridegroom's tone,
While sin was still a stranger—for I walked by faith alone.

EMPTIED.

Breathing peace and joy the Master,
Came unto me in the night
Of my grieving and disaster,
Whispering “Let there be light!”
So the sorrow and its curtain,
Which eclipsed the noon of day,
With its clouds and rays uncertain,
Rolled for evermore away;
For He took on Him my trouble
Till it brightened into bliss,
While He made my gladness double
With a sacramental kiss.

Then He murmured “Not by merit
Of the toils and duties done,
Canst thou hope now to inherit
Pardon and with Me be one;
Not by strife upon high stages
Trodden and great lessons learned,
Falls the blessing for thy wages,
As a right by labour earned;
Thou must be an emptied vessel,
Cleansed of all the self and sin,
And the lusts that with thee wrestle,
Ere I make My home within.”

Therefore I arose in quickness,
Eager to be purged of each
Vanity and fretful sickness,
Woe to life within its reach;
And the passions like a canker
Gnawing at my secret breast,
Which forbade my heart to anchor
On the only Rock of Rest,
I assailed with prayer and sentence
Written in the Holy Book,

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And with vigil and repentance
Which of strength Divine partook.

Ugly appetites that festered,
Down below and left a scar,
In this grim retreat sequestered,
Fled like baffled fiends afar;
Serpentine and evil errors
Coiled about my very soul,
Strangling with their tricks and terrors
All that malice could control,
Found no more in me the portion
Which they once had pastured on,
In their time of dark distortion,
And before the truth were gone.

Thus by grace I cleansed the vessel
Surely for the Master's use,
Pure from lusts that strove to nestle
Under some devout excuse;
Purged it with His hyssop sweetly
From the follies that would cling,
Formed the whole at last completely
To a palace for the King;
Swept it throughly of the tarnished
Glory which had left it lone,
Till it shone forth fair and garnished,
Not unworthy of His throne.

Then the Lord who smelled a savour
Fresher than a maiden's thought,
Low descended in His favour
On the dwelling I had wrought;
And He filled me with His fulness
Beautiful and strong and free,
And discrowned the old gray dulness
With a splendour good to see;
And His fragrance glad and glowing
Cannot in my breast be bound,
But with blessèd overflowing
Scatters light and love around.

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STRIPT.

Once the Master dear came to me,
When I really knew Him not,
Though His presence all went through me,
While it strangely stirred my lot;
And I listened to Him blindly
With a dull astonished ear,
As He whispered to me kindly
Words most wonderful to hear;
Yet I hearkened to His message
And the music of His voice,
For my conscience felt a presage
Of a new and nobler choice.

Then He spoke, “Take off the clothing
Which impedes thy heavenward race,
And remember that betrothing
Which was promise of My grace;
For thou canst not run in fervent
Zeal one step upon the road
Thus encumbered, as my servant,
With an idle heavy load;
And I may not help thy struggles,
For the victory and right,
When the world of falsehood juggles
With the leadings of the Light.”

So I eased me of the raiment
Which I gathered on my course,
And demanded no re-payment
In my penitent remorse;
And the pride that made me stumble
With its many-coloured dress,
I renounced for garments humble
Meet for my unworthiness;
And the vulgar earthly wrappings
Which retarded me so long,
I laid low with gaudy trappings,
And took up a sacred song.

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And the vanity that clogged me
In the steep and stony track,
While its evil shadows dogged me,
All I cast behind my back;
And the scarlet tire of pleasure
Which for years had dragged me down,
With the tinsel I deemed treasure
And the roses' fading crown,
I put off and raised my carol
Higher yet to Him who led,
While I thought of His apparel
And the thorns about His head.

I discarded every vesture
That entangled me and stayed
Under bondage, or by gesture
False on doubtful paths delayed;
Though I did my service dumbly,
And in darkness followed yet,
And my hands rejected numbly
All the robes that still beset;
Till I left no rag remaining
Or pretension to atone,
And stood stript and uncomplaining
In my nakedness alone.

Then the Master came in blessing,
And His Spirit moved with might,
And His touch that fell caressing
Now arrayed me all in light;
For He garmented my nothing
With His own exceeding Grace,
And I carried as my clothing
The reflection of His Face;
For I found the road of duty
Kept me walking at His side,
And when sheltered by His beauty
I was dressed and satisfied.

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COR DULCE MEUM.

I yearned for friendship more than man
Had ever yearned before,
Since first this beating heart began
To wonder and adore—
Since like a bird it tried to flutter,
Its wings unfledged, and fain would utter
The hope it hardly dared to mutter,
The love it would implore;
And like an open flower my breast
Which sought a clearer sight,
Turned in its eager onward quest
To every ray of light.

Mine was a hunger in the frame,
And cutting as a knife,
That with the fretting of its flame
Consumed my inmost life;
I cared not for the earthly laurels
Which were to me but bells and corals,
I strove not in my fellows' quarrels
For any vulgar strife;
I thirsted for no common friend
Who could not satisfy,
I craved no solace with an end
Short of eternity.

I found a man of lofty mind,
Who served his country well,
And left the sordid baits behind,
At which the weaker fell;
To him I gave—and did not falter—
Myself as on a sacred altar,
For O I would not lightly palter
With love's pure golden spell;
But while it drew me upward still,
As he in strength arose
And shaped me with his iron will,
I did not gain repose.

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I won a maid of magic form
Who blossomed glad and good,
Unmoved by ill of lust or storm
In whitest womanhood;
To her from darkness and dejection
I offered up a whole affection,
And waited for that resurrection,
Unknown but understood;
Yet though she was a spotless thing,
I reaped no perfect rest
Whereto I might for ever cling—
Even on her snowy breast.

I had a child of every charm,
Like wedded light and air,
Who leant upon my sheltering arm
While growing still more fair;
In him I thought at last was ended,
The search by which I still contended
For peace, and I had now ascended
Past all my long despair;
But, ah, he sickened in one day
Within my very clasp,
And in his beauty passed away
Beyond my wistful grasp.

But then the doors of Heaven rolled back
From each fond useless tryst,
Revealing on my erring track
The treasures wrongly priced;
But behind man and woman sainted,
And child with glory not untainted,
The joy for which my soul had fainted,
My sweetest heart, the Christ!
The earthly answers to my call
Seemed shadows poor and dim,
And marriage, fatherhood and all,
Were only steps to Him.

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BROKEN. (1 C. 11, 24 and J. 12, 3).

Christ of His holy splendour,
Perfect and with no flaw,
Gave a supreme surrender,
Bowing to earthly law;
Yielded His flesh as token
True of a boundless grace,
Verily to be broken
Once within death's embrace;
Ever for all who tarry
Neither for lure nor loss,
Fain in His steps to carry
Still the upraising cross.

Thus with the blessèd ointment's
Savour the earth was filled,
Darkness and disappointments
All at His message thrilled;
Over the peoples vagrant
Passed that transforming air,
Till every life made fragrant
Grew with its beauty fair;
Till, though with love not spoken,
Master of fear and doubt,
Each stubborn heart was broken,
Pouring its sweetness out.

DAILY BREAD.

Dear Lord, I bless the token
Sealed with that solemn price,
I hail Thy body broken
In the one sacrifice;
For me in nameless anguish
Thy precious blood was shed,
And for Thy food I languish—
Be Thou my daily bread.

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Dear Lord, I will remember
In hours of sunny Spring
And darkest life's December
The awful Offering:
For me Thy Side was riven,
And bowed the bruisèd Head,
To me the sins forgiven—
Be Thou my daily bread.

Dear Lord I starve and stumble,
Except on Thee the first,
I feed with spirit humble,
And satisfy my thirst;
For me in pain and sadness
That holy feast was spread
To bring me light and gladness—
Be Thou my daily bread.

Dear Lord, Thy death is token
That now henceforth must be
My sinful body broken,
My life outpoured for Thee;
But useless is my straining,
And idly am I led,
Unless with hope sustaining,
Thou art my daily bread.

THE BABY WE LOVE.

Bring to the waking of duty and taking
The seal from above,
In its excellent meekness and infinite weakness
The baby we love;
Helplessness only and lovely but lonely
And lost without this,
The Divine dedication, the true consecration,
The sacrament kiss;
Bring it to making of beauty and breaking
Of earthlier ties,

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With its innocent gesture that asks the white vesture,
Whose grace never dies.

Wash in the fountain that flows from the mountain,
Whereby we must live,
In its pitiful sweetness that craves this completeness,
The baby we give;
Bathe it in waters that crown our fair daughters
With wonderful gifts,
And our sons with the merit they do not inherit
In strength that uplifts;
Cleanse it from staining and evil's enchaining,
Asleep in the blood,
That the bonds may be shattered and enmity scattered
By the mystical flood.

Mark for the fighting with God's own hand-writing
That traces our creed,
With the sign of the lowly and pledge of the holy,
The baby we need;
Born into battle and meant with its prattle
Our shadows to light,
And in awful new pureness to beacon with sureness
Our footsteps through night;
Stamp it with token the word has been spoken
That blesses with loss,
And the Church in the manner of old gives the banner,
The world-shaking Cross.

Leave in the holding of Christ and the folding
Of life from above,
Beyond earth and its welter within the one shelter,
The baby we love;
Treasure so little and vessel so brittle
Unmade by a fall,
Not for storms or the wearing of strife, and yet bearing
Eternity's all;
Leave it for ever, without one endeavour
To lessen the rod
That afflicts but with kindness, and leave it in blindness
Alone with its God.

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VIA CRUCIS, VIA LUCIS.

Oft I heard companions say,
Pretty is the primrose way,
For it leads by laughing waters
Through the pastures glad and green,
Where the dark eyed siren daughters
In their witcheries are seen;
And I trod the flowery meadows
In the dappled shine and shadows,
But they quickly all turned grey;
Via crucis
Via lucis,
And there is no other way.

Oft I saw how pleasures goad
Myriads on the downward road,
Beautiful and broad and pleasant
As if it would ever last,
With the promise of the present
And the sweetness of the past;
I essayed to live the story
Full of fantasies and glory,
But it changed to penal wrath;
Via crucis
Via lucis,
And there is no other path.

Oft I meet the festive throng,
Luring me with dance and song,
When the heat of noontide scorches
And the burden galls my back,
To the cool and sheltered porches,
On the many-fountained track;
And at times I burst the border,
Tasting fruits of fair disorder,
But they pass to bitter lack;
Via crucis
Via lucis,
And there is no other track.

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Oft I feel a secret sin
Opening honeyed depths within;
Urging me to soft recesses
On that old and easy course,
Where the warm and fond caresses
Leave but ashes of remorse;
I have drunk the tempting chalice,
But to find the dregs of malice
And the sorrow born of play;
Via crucis
Via lucis,
And there is no other way.

SON OF GOD—SON OF MAN.

What words shall I to Thee address
Who kiss Thy mercy's rod,
Thou awful and sweet Loveliness,
Christ Jesus, Son of God?

Mine eyes I cannot lift to Thee,
They blinded are with sin,
Until Thou bid'st the darkness flee
And grantest light within.

I may but smite upon my breast,
This evil breast of mine,
That seeks and never finds the rest
Which makes man's heart Divine.

I feel Thy holy presence near
In silence and in flame,
Betwixt the trouble and the tear,
The shadow and the shame.

A solemn wonder fills my soul
From which I vainly fly,
And round me like the ocean roll
Thy waves, eternity.

At last, my Saviour, Thou hast come,
In Thy calm cleansing fire,
Though I have stubborn thoughts and some
Are mingled with the mire.

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But Thou wast likewise man, and all
I suffer and disown,
The temptings but without the fall,
To Thee are not unknown.

And Thou didst choose a lowly lot,
Who hadst Thy diadem
Of many suns and stars forgot,
The Babe of Bethlehem.

For Thou wast born to every ill
And ache and cruel death,
And from Thee flows in mercy still
Like heaven Thy human breath.

A Man of Sorrows from the first
Thou hadst the scourging blame,
And nought could give Thy dreadful thirst
The love for which it came.

Into a world of woe and dearth,
Welfare for us to win,
Accursèd Thou didst enter earth,
And sinless wast made sin.

And thus Thou knowest my distress
Who hast our weakness worn,
When life was all one wilderness
And every thought a thorn.

The sufferings under which I sink
Thy portion were and more,
The bitter cup that I must drink
Thou drankest it before.

Yes, Thou didst walk with healing hand
And break the sceptred death,
About that bright and blessed land
Where sleeps Thy Nazareth.

The will not waked by priestly art
Bent to Thy sovereign power,
And many a cold and withered heart
Burst into happy flower.

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Oh, Thou didst look with human eyes
Into these eyes of tears,
And as a Sun of glory rise
Upon our world of fears.

For earthly lamps that could but cheat
Thou broughtest heavenly oil,
Bearing the burden and the heat
Of all our grinding toil.

Thou gavest to the dying health,
That hushed the fever strife,
And to the leper soul the wealth
Of Thy most wondrous Life.

And none besought Thy help in vain,
And none besought too much,
For every grief and every pain
Fled at Thy quickening touch.

Thy word was freedom to the slave,
And calmed the tempest song,
The buried heard and from his grave
Upstarted free and strong.

And yet Thou art the very same,
Though not to mortal sight,
Yet is there music in Thy name,
Thy shadow yet is light.

And Thou wilt take this little heart
To which my frailties cling,
And purge it through and set apart
A palace for the King.

I see Thy justice like the night,
I see Thy conquering love,
Which when I turn in hopeless flight
Spreads its blue heaven above.

And so I stay my trembling feet
On that most holy place,
Where truth and boundless mercy meet,
Within God's own embrace.

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I know my strongest faith is weak,
My deepest love is dead;
I dare not look, I cannot speak,
I only bow the head.

And yet I see, I have no choice
Who in Thy vision share,
While all my spirit finds a voice
And rushes forth in prayer.

I come as of Thy fellow-men,
'Tis but a little way,
One step outside of self, and then
That bright and endless day.

I bring no gifts, no righteous plea
That might Thy pity move,
I simply cast me on the sea
Of shoreless unmapped Love.

Above me opes another sky,
Beneath another land,
And in Thy dread Divinity
I touch a human hand.

Because Thou art so very high,
And I so very small,
I dare to bring myself so nigh,
My sorrow, sin, and all.

I only find (as now I come),
Refuge from Thee in Thee,
For Thou my Saviour art the Home
I sought and could not see.

In Thee I trust and nothing less,
A sinner as I can,
Thou sweet and awful loveliness,
Christ Jesus, Son of Man.

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HIS POEM ARE WE.

Eph. ii. 10.

'Tis written in the Book which cannot lie,
And will our beacon be,
While lesser lights of earth must droop and die—
“Poem of God are we;”
Made to express the greatness of the plan,
The image sure of Him,
Divinity, that hath a home in man,
However it be dim;
Meant for a witness to the truth, that yet
Is the long ages' cry,
And our God's being, who in hearts hath set
His own eternity.

Am I “His poem,” reflex of the will,
All-gentle and all-just?
And do my wishes His re-echo still,
In simple child-like trust?
Ah! do my hands that often fret and strain,
With His grand working rhyme,
And evermore beat out (if even through pain),
The old sweet heavenly chime?
Aud do my wayward steps delight to be
One, up the Calvary slope,
With His who richly there has wrought for me
A future and a hope?

God is the Poet, and He works in us
To walk His glorious ways,
To think and do His righteousness, and thus
Bring in the better days;
He builds us up high in the eternal scheme,
Word joined to living word,
Each in his place part of the song supreme,
By the pure spirit heard;
Verse matched with verse, in loving order laid
To shape a holy shrine—
Precept on jewelled precept strongly stayed,
Line upon golden line.

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Oh, daily would He polish me, and bright
And brighter make my track,
Who gives a lustre in the darkest night,
To lead his wanderers back;
And hourly doth He mould me to the form
Of the fair final grace,
By iron strokes of the distressful storm,
That veils a Father's face;
Till purified by loss, my soul He draws
In a yet tenderer tie,
“His poem” breathing but His perfect laws—
Poem that cannot die.

LITANY.

God of mercy, God of might,
Dwelling in the day and night
And revealed to love as Light,
Hear us, Father, hear.

God of patience, God of power,
That in the last lonely hour
Burst upon the Cross in flower,
Help us, Saviour, help.

God of wisdom, God of Life,
In repentance quickening strife,
Though with sacrificial knife,
Holy Spirit, come.

Heavenly Father, when to Thee
Low we trembling bow the knee,
And but doubts and darkness see,
Hear us, Father, hear.

Blessed Saviour, bid the trust,
Clinging to Thee as it must,
Live and bud in very dust,
Help us, Saviour, help.

Holy Spirit, calm and strong,
When the labouring day is long
Turning sadness into song,
Holy Spirit, come.

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God of ages, God of all,
Present at the feeblest call,
To whom nothing weak is small,
Hear us, Father, hear.

God of gladness, God of hope,
When we climb the cloudy slope,
And great doors of danger ope,
Help us, Saviour, help.

God of promise, God of grace,
Though the glory veil Thy face,
And our hearts have little space,
Holy Spirit, come.

Heavenly Father, who wilt heed
Wounded bird and bruisèd reed,
And dost us Thy children need,
Hear us, Father, hear.

Blessed Saviour, when we sink
On the precipice's brink,
Fain to flee, afraid to think,
Help us, Saviour, help.

Holy Spirit, true and tried,
Daily by our lips denied,
Who hast yet all wants supplied,
Holy Spirit, come.

God of sinners, God of saints,
When the breast with sorrow faints
At the guilt which memory taints,
Hear us, Father, hear.

God of blessing, God of peace,
If our passions will not cease,
Giving to the slave release,
Help us, Saviour, help.

God of conscience, God of care,
Though ourselves we will not spare,
Sweet in penitence and prayer,
Holy Spirit, come.

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Heavenly Father, we are frail,
Often fret and often fail,
But if we with sickness ail,
Hear us, Father, hear.

Blessèd Saviour, make our faith,
Lured not by a dazzling wraith,
Rest on what the Scripture saith,
Help us, Saviour, help.

Holy Spirit, if we bend
In the storm without a friend,
Thou who canst all comfort send,
Holy Spirit, come.

NULLA CRUX, O QUANTA CRUX!

ST. AUGUSTINE.

God unknown and yet so clear,
'Twixt the tear drop and the tear,
Girdled round by hope and fear,
In this cosmic ebb and flux,
One thing doth Thy servant know,
Out of passing pomp and show,
With their awful afterglow—
Nulla crux, O quanta crux!

Lord, I am an ignorant child,
Always weak and sometimes wild,
And with sinning sore defil'd,
Yet I have this wisdom won
From the flushing of the flower,
At the triumph of the tower,
In the pride of noonday power—
That the heaviest cross is none.

God unknown, and yet so dear,
Who the voiceless cry dost hear,
And wilt blunt the deadly spear,
I have learnt the greatest loss—

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In the fortune fair and bright,
When vain pleasures reach their height,
And the angels take their flight—
Not to have an earthly cross.

Maker, whom I dimly serve
With a faint and flagging nerve,
Though my footsteps often swerve
Ere the tiniest task is done,
I am taught this solemn fact,
In the thunder of the act
Wrought to bridge an empire's pact—
That the hardest cross is none.

God unknown, and yet as nigh
As the sadness to the sigh,
While enthroned in splendour high,
What is gold without the dross?
If no battle hath been fought
And the victory comes unbought
That by suffering was not sought,
What the crown without the cross?

Sovereign, in the sweetest cup,
When with saints I fondly sup,
Yet a shadow riseth up—
In all happiness is one;
Nowise would I wish it less,
If that Thou my portion bless,
Thou mete though in fire distress;
For a sharper cross were none.

Master, make not day too bright,
Nor the penance brief and light,
Do not take away the night
If the tempests round me toss;
I will not resign one pain,
I will kiss the captive chain,
And renounce the grandest gain,
For the cradling of Thy cross.

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Father, Thine the glory be,
And the burden fall on me,
Till the shadows break and flee,
And the rest falls after flux;
Leave some briars in my crop,
Let me taste the bitter drop,
For, if once Thy chastening stop,
Nulla crux O quanta crux!

THE WONDER OF IT.

O God, how beautiful to live
And on Thy bosom lie,
A part of all, if fugitive
And only made to die!
O more than wonderful to be
At all, upon this globe
That is a shadowy glimpse of Thee,
A glimmer of Thy robe.
I am content to love and trust
And look in silent praise,
Though I be only as the dust
Thy passing footsteps raise.

THE HARVEST.

Thou hast come to the reckoning now and the harvest;
Reaper what hast thou sown;
Didst thou say to the needy one, “Brother, thou starvest;
Make my plenty thine own?”
Hast thou stood betwixt weakness and want, with thy shoulder
Bearing burdens for them,
And received on thy bosom their wounds, waxing bolder,
With storms they could not stem?

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Didst thou sow the good seed of a great human kindness
In the wilderness dearth,
Or bid sunshine arise on the refuge of blindness
To regenerate earth?
Wast thou hands to the helpless and feet to the falling
And release to the bound,
Or a bridge to the exile's captivity calling
As from burial ground?
Could the wail of misfortune so shadowed by malice
Ever darken thy joy,
Or the sigh of the suffering poison its chalice
And deny thee one toy?
Thou hast come to the judgment at last and the reaping;
Sinner what hast thou sown?
But the thorns and the thistles of lust, for the heaping
Of a vengeance unknown?
Didst thou share thy rich fulness with him who lacked clothing
And besought it in vain,
Giving aught to the naked who wept and had nothing
But the garment of pain?
Hast thou spared of thy crusts to the sister who pleaded
In her misery rough,
When she passed by thy palace gates lone and unheeded,
Though thy dogs had enough?
Would'st thou enter the prison and loose but a fetter
If beyond thy proud class,
Or just leave by thy presence the earth around better
By a blade of green grass?
Didst thou strive in the struggle for life that is labour
Where the feeble ones fall,
With an arm for the faint and an ear for the neighbour
In the vilest of all?
Hast thou once with a finger helped one with the burden
Of his sorrow or sin,

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And found sacrifice sweeter than victory's guerdon,
Or felt mourners akin?
Thou hast come to the trial, the close and the sentence,
Sleeper, what hast thou sown?
There is no place for pardon, no time for repentance,
Now the harvest is grown.

MISSIONARY HYMN.

Fight on, fight on, though fiercely rattle
The fiery arrows on the shield
By faith uplifted, for the battle
Is still the Lord's, and who will yield?
Fight on, fight on, we dare not linger,
The trumpet notes of the command
Call us, the Cross with solemn finger
Our banner is that none withstand;
Fight on, fight on, o'er ridge and hollow
Of foaming wave and furrowed shore,
God fights with us, and we must follow
When Christ has conquered all before.
Work on, work on, but not for wages
On burning plains and fields of frost,
If wildly round the tempest rages
And often all but Christ is lost;
Work on, work on, the day is flying,
And scanty time at most we give,
For some are dead and some are dying,
But all who hear the message live;
Work on, work on, for night is nearer,
With patient toil and holy plan,
God works with us, and what is dearer
To brothers than their brother man?
Trust on, trust on, for faith is living
And from the heavenly fountains drawn,
And all our doubt and dark misgiving
Are but the heralds of the dawn;
Trust on, trust on, the Word is certain
That will the distant Sinim seal,

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And from far Ind the heathen curtain
Shall drop and Christ the Truth reveal;
Trust on, trust on, though weakness hanker
For pleasant ports by which we sail,
God is our faith, we may but anchor
Upon that Rock which cannot fail.
Love on, love on, in spite of danger
And falling men and martyrs gone,
Who died to save from death the stranger,
Fill up the broken ranks, go on;
Love on, love on, the sons and daughters
Of palmy isles shall hear our plea,
And love shall cover earth, as waters
That cover all the boundless sea;
Love on, love on, while one to cherish
And teach the Gospel yet remains,
For God is love, and though we perish,
He still the glorious work sustains.

THE FOUNTAIN.

I had a vision of a fountain fair
Whose home was heaven, whose path the purple air;
It clove a mountain's living heart, and fell
Soft as the snow, sweet as a silver bell,
Throughout all space and time for ever on
By laughing lea and pillared Parthenon,
And green green valley where the golden grape
Drew in the summer and took hue and shape
Mid red rose maidens white; for ever down,
By stony steppe, and black tormented town
At evil strife where angry figures reared
Rebellious brows of hate and disappeared,
Through solitude of sullen waste and smoke
Of countless peoples that as billows broke
At the calm feet of God like weary spray,
And flashed a moment and then passed away;
For ever on, for ever down it fell,
A thing of wonder, an ineffable

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Joy, in a lengthening line of light . . . A cloud
Of glory beyond measure pure and proud,
Above its head hung as the sunrise breaks
First upon some new world that just awakes
To life and conscious beauty and its wreath
Of stars like pearls and diamonds . . . But beneath,
Poised on a crag, a stately woman stood
In all the splendour of her womanhood,
Bare to her breasts; and the dark flowing locks
Threaded with dawn on those eternal rocks,
Made beautiful sweet midnight for a space
Around her; but the morning from her face
Shone out in conquering strength. A giant form,
Built to its perfect comeliness by storm
And stress of dangers trodden down, she set
Triumphant feet white on red ground, and met
The kisses of the sun with kiss. Her eyes
So full of stories and dear ecstasies,
Gazed down the broadening brightening stream, and took
All ages in the compass of her look.
But her clear hand, as carven out of stone,
Wrought by some artist who wrought that alone
And died content, a crystal pitcher held
Which with the sparkling waters laughed and swelled,
And overflowed and danced and laughed again
At its abundance of refreshing rain,
And overflowed in music and in might,
Always beneath the insufferable light
Of a perpetual summer—always thus
Poured out its wealth in multitudinous
Waves, as if (smitten by some prophet's rod)
That fountain was the broken heart of God.
And there she stood, and glanced not once behind,
Crowned with the beauty of all womankind.
Her gracious bust of snow, that rose and fell
In rhythmic rapture none might syllable,
Seemed laden with a universal love
That betwixt earth and heaven kept watch above
The kingdoms of the world, and cared for each,

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And gathered every one within its reach,
Infinite, cosmic, and provided food
For high and low in that rich motherhood.
But under her I saw a boundless throng
Of many peoples, who with praise and song
Brought cups of precious gold and filled them high
From her, till theirs ran over and the sigh
Of souls beyond them stilled, and these once more
For others and yet these with bursting store
Exceeded, for the thirsty who their fate
Felt and the fountain sought at last though late,
And drank and lived. But ever, till the sight
Was lost in utter distance and delight,
I saw the myriads of the nations borne
By one wild impulse through the mist to morn,
And in their masses crowding with the pride
Of holy passion to the quickening tide,
And drinking, drinking still in the new day
New life, while every shadow passed away.
But yet with bosom bare the woman stood
In the full splendour of her womanhood,
And freely took and freely gave to all
Whoe'er would have and felt the secret call
And craving. High the mountain raised its breast,
That from its riven heart the living rest
Gave out in one unending stream. And on
The awful fountain flowed, the glory shone.

“TWO MITES.”

Father, I have not much to give,
Not honour that should be
To the dear Light wherein I live,
And all was given by Thee;
For gold and silver have I none,
And grandeur of high place
Or glory of great service done,
My worship cannot grace;

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No wisdom do I bring, no lore
That were an incense sweet,
No treasures of one worthy store,
To render at Thy feet.

But yet, my Father I would come,
If not with costly price
That of its fulness yields but some,
To pay my sacrifice;
For without Thee I err and fall,
Nor could I offer less
When unto Thee I offer all
I am and I possess;
And here before Thee now I lay,
Though not in pompous rites,
And only as a beggar may,
My tribute of “two mites.”

Father, my mortal body take,
A trouble long to me,
And with Thy touch its weakness make
A temple fit for Thee;
Come, in the blessing that is power
To this frail dying flesh,
And in it as in Eden's bower
Thy will shall bloom afresh;
My lips and hands and feet refine.
Although they seek Thee late,
Stamp them with the pure seal Divine
For Thee, and consecrate.

And O my Father, keep this heart
Which cannot keep its own,
That it may never more depart
From Thee, when truly known;
Yes, take my sinful soul, that turns
At times to folly still,
And as Thy love within it burns
Show that alone can fill;
No tempest then my trust will shake,
If self has wholly died,

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And in Thy likeness when I wake
I shall be satisfied.

Father, I may not bring Thee more,
I cannot bring Thee less
Than what Thou didst bestow before,
To clothe my nakedness;
And when my joys I reckon up
On this brief earthly stage,
Thou art the portion of my cup
And all my heritage;
And if I come as beggars lone
Whom fortune rudely smites,
Or give as kings upon their throne,
I only give “two mites.”

SERVUS SERVORUM.

Lord, not large is my petition,
Though it gathers in its plea
Like the fulness of the sea
All the poor of each condition;
This is what I humbly crave,
Just to be the servants' slave,
And to carry comfort human
To the pinched and pallid woman,
Grinding out her love and life,
And the sweetness of this mortal
For the darkness of death's portal,
In the factory's iron strife,
But to swell accursed store;
This I ask and nothing more.

Lord, I do not beg for money,
But the treasure of the toil
Which wipes out the sinful soil,
Nor for pleasure's acrid honey;
I would be the carpet spread
For the pauper's weary tread,

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And his mean and muddy scraper,
Or the lonely widow's taper
Which might give some solace meet;
If with tears and bitter sorrow
That they cannot have a morrow,
Just to wash the beggars' feet,
Fallen outcast at the door;
This I ask and nothing more.

Lord, I fain would raise the drudges,
In the greedy mill and mine,
Where the sullen hours they pine,
Now to be themselves the judges;
I for spinners lost and lone
Would be just the stepping stone
From the shameful rule of shoddy,
With my crushed and bleeding body,
Till they reach the sunny ridge;
I would choose no higher station
Than the dust of the foundation,
For some future golden bridge
Which will bear the suffering o'er;
This I ask and nothing more.

Lord, I do not pray for living
With its gauds of rank or wealth,
But to scatter hope and health
In the royalty of giving;
I am burning with a fire,
To redeem from prison mire
Wretches who could not be sadder,
And to be myself the ladder
Which uplifts them where they lie,
And their gaping wounds to cherish,
Though in serving them I perish,
If a hundred times I die
And damnation be my score;
This I ask and nothing more.

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THE SKY PILOT.

“Sic itur ad astra.”

Fair weather pilot none is he,
But (far as mortals go),
He boldly launches out to sea,
Whatever winds may blow;
However billows leap and fret,
They only bid him pray,
They cannot shake his course, and yet
He works his onward way;
Round iron reefs and stormy capes,
By fierce and foaming bars,
Steadfast he steers his craft, and shapes
His voyage for the stars.

But frolic boats on idle whims
Are flitting up and down,
And heed not as it upward swims
The corpse's threatening frown;
Deep in the gulf of ocean caves
They flicker to and fro,
Or hang on crests of curling waves
(Like butterflies), and go;
They seem so gallant, while they graze
The flowery shoals in flight,
And dancing drop through purple haze
To pleasure and the night.

Though perils come he knows not when,
And terrors o'er him rise,
He carries home the souls of men,
A costly merchandise;
The souls of men are passing sweet,
And thus he cannot stay,
Who lays them at the Master's feet,
For all his holiday;
O earth is a poor fleeting jest,
And wordly joy but jars
On him who toils for other's rest,
And steereth for the stars.

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By Scylla and Charybdis bent,
He pushes on his track,
As braver ships before him went
That never did come back;
He coasts the Siren's pleasant lands,
With all their tempting store,
Nor heeds the white and waving hands
Upon the shining shore;
And if a soul too idly sleeps,
The waters cannot whelm
The pilot at his post, who keeps
His hold upon the helm.

His compass is the faith, that burns
Clear in the deepest night,
And from each dazzling meteor turns
Up to the heavenly light;
His chart is not in human books,
Nor marked by earthly times,
But (writ with God's own finger) looks
To fairer farther climes;
No dying beacon guides the road,
It only mocks and mars
By tricking out his bitter load,
He steereth by the stars.

About him drift the ghastly forms
Of vessels wrecked and reft,
Dismasted by the deadly storms
And lone and helpless left;
They wallow in the tumbling waves,
Which once they gaily trod,
And lift as out of blasted graves
Their broken arms to God;
Tost up and down with every tide,
While evils hourly grow,
They reel and shudder, and abide
The last black plunge below.

Strange currents in this ocean run,
And unmapped foemen fall,

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And in a midnight sky the sun
Hears drowning sinners call;
The darkness with the daylight strives,
And gates of wondrous goals
Look dimly down on precious lives
Of beautiful sweet souls:
But still the pilot homeward leads
His freight, through noble scars,
With upward gaze as one who reads
God's story in the stars.

The lightning flashes, rocks their fangs
Unfold to pierce his bark,
Above his head the tempest hangs,
A horror dense and dark;
The thunder rolls, and dreadful sounds
The surge beneath him sends,
And breakers grim as hungry hounds
Pursue him to the end;
He wavers not, his heart is true,
And points from passion short
To the far opening rift of blue,
And presses on to port.

“COMPLETE IN HIM.”

One left us for he was but lent
A little while, and might not stay;
The Master called him, and he went
Into eternal day.

One lies not in his native dust,
But under ocean deep and dim;
And we must hush our hearts, and trust
The Lord had need of him.

Another now is gone, this time
To life, along the Master's track;
But going caught the heavenly chime
And gave its music back.

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And yet she is not gone, but still
Holds tight the bond she ever bore,
And shares the place she used to fill
With one who makes it more.

She brought a brother back like light
To those who loved and lost so long,
And changed the sorrow of our night
Into a marriage song.

And last is Christ, though not the least,
To turn earth's water into wine—
To make life all one wedding feast;
And so we still are nine.

CREDO.

Fenced by my little study walls I daily toil and spin,
And hear from far like trumpet calls the struggle and the sin,
The joy and sorrow of the morrow from which my threads of life I borrow,
And death that is akin.
While, by my faith, of mingled glooms and glories do I raise
New towers with marble steps and rooms of builded prayer and praise;
Grand images of palaces, and graces beyond Guido
With all his fairest fantasies, start from a simple credo.
The thought that wedded is to will,
For ever making much with its creative touch,
Brings worlds of being into seeing
And ransomed out of wrong and ill.
I formed my heaven, I formed my hell,
And both have lightly trod,
And in its mighty crucible
I shaped myself and God.

Securely from my citadel I see the battle rage
Around, and as a sentinel stand on a higher stage;

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The world's great story and the glory to earth's most distant promontory,
Seem all my heritage.
I make, I mar whate'er is good—the realms that proudly rise,
The miracle of womanhood, the purple in the skies;
The green water, the gossamer, the sword blade from Toledo,
The web of the philosopher, spring radiant from my credo.
The tossing wave, the troubled wind,
The passion and the pain so often sweet and vain,
The soul of sadness hid in gladness,
I freely loose, I freely bind.
I wrought the hell, I wrought the heaven,
And ready at my nod
Compelled by faith's creative leaven,
Emerges man or God.

THE GOD NURSE.

He laid me on my mother's breast—the likest to His Love,
And feathered all my little nest from His own Peace above.
He taught me at my mother's knee the holy things and good,
To make me beautiful and free He steadfast round me stood.
He took me from my mother's side, and through this desert land
Led by the gracious living tide with gentlest Father hand.
He held me in His tender arms, if rougher grew the road,
And shielded me from mortal harms or shared the heavy load.
He cleansed me from the shameful sin, He tempered every fear
To every weakness, just to win one loyal smile or tear.

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He carried all my cares and grief and with my sickness ailed,
He found His rest in my relief and at no sorrow failed.
By my affliction He was torn and felt the fatal dart,
The daily need or tiny thorn stabbed first His faithful Heart.
For He was mingled with my woes and measured by my chain,
My enemies were too His foes and His the bitter pain.
Whatever blast of want has blown or shadow fallen on life,
He made its every pulse His own and blunted the keen knife.
For me He bore the iron breath of stormy wind and wave,
He died for me the cruel death and slept within my grave.
But what have I repaid in turn for this most constant Love,
I who so long refused to learn one lesson from above?
He wept with me when sadness came who taught the nobler choice,
And as I rose from trial's flame with me He did rejoice.
But for His wise and watchful heed what service have I wrought,
In all my grovelling selfish greed, yet hourly saved and sought?
Ah, though He washes yet my feet and shelters me from ill,
I weave Him but a winding-sheet and crucify Him still.

DRAW IT UP.

The ocean of life is around thee, my brother,
But yet thou abidest in need
And dost give to salvation no heed;
Though the wealth is beside thee, there is not another;
Draw it up, draw it up,
Bring thy heart as a cup!

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Thou art dying of thirst, when the heavenly water
Bubbles up at thy ignorant feet
And the seeking and solace might meet;
Why not drink of the fountain, that flows not in slaughter?
Draw it up, draw it up,
Bring thy love as a cup!

Thou art pining in plenty, a toiler for nothing,
But seest not light though at hand,
In the port of a neighbourly land,
And the food that is better than riches or clothing;
Draw it up, draw it up,
Bring thy faith as a cup!

The ocean of life is around thee, poor strayer,
And thou art a wanderer still
Who hast chosen the poison and ill,
When thy lacking calls loudly for penitent prayer;
Draw it up, draw it up,
Bring thy life as a cup!

AFTERMATH.

Sunshine and shadow have played on the field,
Drought and the falling of dew
Blessed it and broke and made it anew;—
What is thy yield?
Pain with its arrow and grief with its harrow
Troubled it turning each part,
Rooted up bristles of obstinate thistles
Trying the depths of its heart;
Laid very low all the pride of the heap,
Letting in beams of the morn;
What has the Master, who looks not for thorn,
Left Him to reap?

Comforts have curtained thee round with their glow
Sheltered from storm and the blight,
Raised thy poor weakness and led it to light;—
What didst thou sow?

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Ploughing has humbled the clods that it crumbled
Surely with searching of care,
Sorrow with riving has killed the surviving
Weeds that escaped from the share;
Where is the glory of fruits, that should leap
Ripe from the bosom of earth?
What shall the Master, who seeks not for dearth,
Find Him to reap?

Mercy was thine and by merit not won
Guiding thy steps through the year,
Lavish with plenty that shielded from fear;—
What hast thou done?
O when thou carvest good cheer from the harvest
Piling up gold in the sheaves,
Bountiful measure for thee and thy pleasure—
Whose are the pitiful leaves?
Why dost thou offer the blemished and cheap,
Refuse that man would but spurn?
What can the Master, who asks some return,
Reckon to reap?

Heaven has open its windows and rained
Blessings on thee and thy store,
Riches of meetness and beauty and more;—
What hast thou gained?
Think of the chances that bright with their glances
Summoned thee sweetly to toil,
Mystical meanings and wonderful gleanings
Hid in the promising soil;
Full was thy fortune and never at neap,
Bringing thee honour and all;
What for the Master, who comes with His call,
Lingers to reap?