Poems

For what contend the wise? For nothing less Than that pure faith dissolve the bonds of sense; The soul, restored to God by evidence Of things not seen,—drawn forth from their recess,— Rests there, and not in forms, her holiness; That faith, which to the patriarchs did dispense, Sure guidance, ere a ceremonial fence Was needful round men thirsting to transgress; That faith, more perfect still, with which the Lord Of all, himself a Spirit, in the youth Of Christian aspiration, deigned to fill The temples of their hearts who, with His word Informed, were resolute to do His will, And worship Him in Spirit and in Truth. WORDSWORTH.

As children might, impatient of the school, Despise the letters, longing for the songs And stories that they catch the echoes of. The songs are written, but first, learn to spell! The books will keep,—but if we will not learn, We shall not read them when the right time comes, Or read them wrongly and confusedly.

Around Bethesda's healing bower, Waiting to hear the rustling wing, Which spoke the angel nigh, whose power Gave virtue to that holy spring, With patience, and with hope endued, Were seen the gathering multitude. Had they who watched and waited there Been conscious of the passing thought, With what unceasing, anxious care Would they that quick'ning flood have sought,— And with what fervency of Soul,— The Power Divine, to make them whole.

Smiling June, None too soon, Comes with heart of gold,— Thoughts to win, Far from sin, With the Truth of old. Still the same, Name and fame, As it was of yore; Firm and free Will it be, Henceforth, evermore.

Here I come! Here I come! And the grasses peep; The little white daisies, too, wake from their sleep. The soft pussy-willows, in velvet and fur, By the brookside are nodding and making a stir; And the meadow-lark singing a songful of cheer, For his happiest time is the Spring of the year.

Life,—whence flows eternal beauty, Inspiration, faith, and duty,— Frame our thoughts aright, that we Emblem of that Life may be. Truth—may Thy fair buds, unfolding Round our pathway, help in moulding, Until, full perfection given, Taught by Thee, the clouds are riven, Heralding the dawn of Heaven.

A crimson rose, that in a garden grew, One summer day upraised its fragrant head; And looking proudly round: "What should I do, If I were not a lovely flower?" it said. "Sad must it be to fill a humble place, And live unnoticed throughout all your days, Gifted with neither loveliness nor grace, Nor anything that calls for words of praise.

Have all the songs been said? Are all the singers dead? Is all the music fled?— The sum and aim of life, One dreary struggle, rife With greed and sordid strife?— Man but a dull machine, Living a vast routine Of narrow purpose mean? Oh! while one leaf swings high Against an azure sky— In springtime's ecstasy, There breathes yet the sublime, There beats yet living rhyme, 'T is still the young world's prime. Nature has high commands, Bears gifts with lavish hands, To him who understands!

May we peaceful be; May we error flee! May we Life pursue; May we death subdue! May we Truth defend; May we gain Heaven's end! May we Love secure; May we all be pure!

Hear our prayer, oh gracious Father, Author of celestial good, That Thy laws, so pure and holy, May be better understood. As the dew, before the sunlight, Melts, and fadeth from our sight, So may every doubt and error Fade before Eternal Light.