We felt that man was more than his abode,
The inward life than Nature's raiment more;
And the warm sky, the sundown-tinted hill,
The forest and the lake, seemed dwarfed and dim
Before the saintly soul, whose human will
Meekly in the Eternal footsteps trod,
Making her homely toil and household ways
An earthly echo of the song of praise Swelling from angel lips and harps of seraphim.
FOR A SUMMER FESTIVAL AT THE LAURELS ON THE MERRIMACK.
ONCE more on yonder laurelled height The summer flowers have budded; Once more with summer's golden light The vales of home are flooded: And once more, by the grace of Him Of every good the Giver, We sing upon its wooded rim
The praises of our river:
Its pines above, its waves below, The west-wind down it blowing, As fair as when the young Brissot Beheld it seaward flowing,- And bore its memory o'er the deep, To soothe a martyr's sadness, And fresco, in his troubled sleep,
His prison-walls with gladness.
We know the world is rich with streams Renowned in song and story, Whose music murmurs through our dreams
Of human love and glory: We know that Arno's banks are fair, And Rhine has castled shadows, And, poet-tuned, the Doon and Ayr Go singing down their meadows. But while, unpictured and unsung By painter or by poet,
Our river waits the tuneful tongue And cunning hand to show it, We only know the fond skies lean Above it, warm with blessing, And the sweet soul of our Undine
Awakes to our caressing.
No fickle sun-god holds the flocks That graze its shores in keeping; No icy kiss of Dian mocks
The youth beside it sleeping: Our Christian river loveth most
The beautiful and human;
The heathen streams of Naiads boast, But ours of man and woman.
The miner in his cabin hears
The ripple we are hearing; It whispers soft to homesick ears Around the settler's clearing: In Sacramento's vales of corn,
Or Santee's bloom of cotton, Our river by its valley-born Was never yet forgotten.
The drum rolls loud, -the bugle fills The summer air with clangor; The war-storm shakes the solid hills Beneath its tread of anger; Young eyes that last year smiled in ours Now point the rifle's barrel,
And hands then stained with fruits and flowers
Bear redder stains of quarrel.
ANDREW RYKMAN 's dead and gone; You can see his leaning slate In the graveyard, and thereon Read his name and date.
"Trust is truer than our fears,"
Runs the legend through the moss, "Gain is not in added years,
Nor in death is loss."
Still the feet that thither trod, All the friendly eyes are dim; Only Nature, now, and God
Have a care for him.
There the dews of quiet fall, Singing birds and soft winds stray; Shall the tender Heart of all Be less kind than they?
What he was and what he is
They who ask may haply find, If they read this prayer of his Which he left behind.
Pardon, Lord, the lips that dare Shape in words a mortal's prayer! Prayer, that, when my day is done, And I see its setting sun, Shorn and beamless, cold and dim, Sink beneath the horizon's rim, When this ball of rock and clay Crumbles from my feet away, And the solid shores of sense Melt into the vague immense, Father! I may come to Thee Even with the beggar's plea, As the poorest of Thy poor, With my needs, and nothing more.
Not as one who seeks his home With a step assured I come; Still behind the tread I hear Of my life-companion, Fear; Still a shadow deep and vast From my westering feet is cast, Wavering, doubtful, undefined, Never shapen nor outlined: From myself the fear has grown, And the shadow is my own.
Yet, O Lord, through all a sense Of Thy tender providence Stays my failing heart on Thee, And confirms the feeble knee; And, at times, my worn feet press Spaces of cool quietness, Lilied whiteness shone upon Not by light of moon or sun. Hours there be of inmost calm, Broken but by grateful psalm,
When I love Thee more than fear Thee, And Thy blessed Christ seems near me, With forgiving look, as when He beheld the Magdalen. Well I know that all things move To the spheral rhythm of love, - That to Thee, O Lord of all! Nothing can of chance befall: Child and seraph, mote and star, Well Thou knowest what we are; Through Thy vast creative plan Looking, from the worm to man, There is pity in Thine eyes, But no hatred nor surprise. Not in blind caprice of will, Not in cunning sleight of skill, Not for show of power, was wrought Nature's marvel in Thy thought. Never careless hand and vain Smites these chords of joy and pain; No immortal selfishness
Plays the game of curse and bless : Heaven and earth are witnesses That Thy glory goodness is. Not for sport of mind and force Hast Thou made Thy universe, But as atmosphere and zone Of Thy loving heart alone. Man, who walketh in a show, Sees before him, to and fro, Shadow and illusion go; All things flow and fluctuate, Now contract and now dilate. In the welter of this sea, Nothing stable is but Thee; In this whirl of swooning trance, Thou alone art permanence; All without Thee only seems, All beside is choice of dreams. Never yet in darkest mood Doubted I that Thou wast good, Nor mistook my will for fate, Pain of sin for heavenly hate, Never dreamed the gates of pearl
Rise from out the burning marl, Or that good can only live Of the bad conservative, And through counterpoise of hell Heaven alone be possible. For myself alone I doubt; All is well, I know, without; I alone the beauty mar, I alone the music jar. Yet, with hands by evil stained, And an ear by discord pained, I am groping for the keys Of the heavenly harmonies; Still within my heart I bear Love for all things good and fair. Hands of want or souls in pain Have not sought my door in vain ; I have kept my fealty good To the human brotherhood; Scarcely have I asked in prayer That which others might not share. I, who hear with secret shame Praise that paineth more than blame, Rich alone in favors lent, Virtuous by accident,
Doubtful where I fain would rest, Frailest where I seem the best, Only strong for lack of test, What am I, that I should press Special pleas of selfishness, Coolly mounting into heaven On my neighbor unforgiven? Ne'er to me, howe'er disguised, Comes a saint unrecognized: Never fails my heart to greet Noble deed with warmer beat; Halt and maimed, I own not less All the grace of holiness; Nor, through shame or self-distrust, Less I love the pure and just. Lord, forgive these words of mine: What have I that is not Thine?- Whatsoe'er I fain would boast Needs Thy pitying pardon most. Thou, O Elder Brother! who In Thy flesh our trial knew,
Thou, who hast been touched by these Our most sad infirmities,
Thou alone the gulf canst span In the dual heart of man,
And between the soul and sense Reconcile all difference,
Change the dream of me and mine For the truth of Thee and Thine,
And, through chaos, doubt, and strife, Interfuse Thy calm of life. Haply, thus by Thee renewed, In Thy borrowed goodness good, Some sweet morning yet in God's Dim, æonian periods, Joyful I shall wake to see Those I love who rest in Thee, And to them in Thee allied Shall my soul be satisfied.
Scarcely Hope hath shaped for me What the future life may be. Other lips may well be bold; Like the publican of old, I can only urge the plea, "Lord, be merciful to me !" Nothing of desert I claim, Unto me belongeth shame. Not for me the crowns of gold, Palms, and harpings manifold; Not for erring eye and feet Jasper wall and golden street. What thou wilt, O Father, give! All is gain that I receive. If my voice I may not raise In the elders' song of praise, If I may not, sin-defiled, Claim my birthright as a child, Suffer it that I to Thee As an hired servant be; Let the lowliest task be mine, Grateful, so the work be Thine; Let me find the humblest place In the shadow of Thy grace: Blest to me were any spot Where temptation whispers not. If there be some weaker one, Give me strength to help him on; If a blinder soul there be, 'Let me guide him nearer Thee. Make my mortal dreams come true With the work I fain would do; Clothe with life the weak intent, Let me be the thing I meant; Let me find in Thy employ Peace that dearer is than joy; Out of self to love be led And to heaven acclimated, Until all things sweet and good Seem my natural habitude.
So we read the prayer of him Who, with John of Labadie,
Trod, of old, the oozy rim Of the Zuyder Zee.
Thus did Andrew Rykman pray. Are we wiser, better grown, That we may not, in our day, Make his prayer our own?
THE CRY OF A LOST SOUL.74
IN that black forest, where, when day is done,
With a snake's stillness glides the Amazon
Darkly from sunset to the rising sun,
A cry, as of the pained heart of the wood,
The long, despairing moan of solitude And darkness and the absence of all good,
Startles the traveller, with a sound so drear,
So full of hopeless agony and fear, His heart stands still and listens like his ear.
The guide, as if he heard a dead-bell toll,
Starts, drops his oar against the gunwale's thole,
Crosses himself, and whispers, "A lost soul!"
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