Poems

We wove a web of doubt and fear,— Not faith and hope and love,— Because we looked at our work, and not At our pattern, up above! Phoebe Cary.

The Sacred Tree midst the fair orchard grew; The Phænix Truth did on it rest, And built his perfumed nest,— That right Porphyrian tree, which did true logic shew. Each leaf did learned notions give, And the apples were demonstrative.

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Awake, for the voice of Jesus calls: "Arm for the rights of Soul, And rise with me from the error of thought That bellef of sin and death has brought, For I lead to the heavenly goal! "Have I not opened and shown the way? Then why do ye stand and wait, When the Angel of Truth—whose shining wings Are laden with Life,—which always sings, Gives freely to all at the gate? "I am the fountain that never fails! Then come ye thirsty and drink; For my cup, Resurrection engraven all o'er, Is filled with Life from the heavenly shore, My arm outstretched to the brink. " Oh loving words, oh tender and true, How ye tell to all the world, His upraised Life is the beacon-light, Displaying the banner of Truth and Right, The grandest ever unfurled; For it floats Redemption on every breeze, Redemption and Love for all; And the angels chant it to every ear, For those who will understanding hear, The loving Christ and his call.

The church-bells were ringing; the Devil sat singing, On the stump of a rotting old tree: "Oh, faith, it grows cold, and the creeds, they grow old, And the world is nigh ready for me. " The bells went on ringing; a spirit came singing, And smiled as he crumbled the tree: "Your wood does but perish, new seedlings to cherish, And the world is to live yet, for thee.

Father of Life Divine, Grant us the power sublime, To bless our race; Let Wisdom from on high Cheer every drooping eye, And comfort every sigh With God's rich grace. Truth comes alike to all, Who on her name dare call, With motives pure; Then let us all unite, With Freedom's star in sight, Press onward in the right, Which shall endure.

" There is a story told In Eastern tents, when autumn nights grow cold, And round the fire the Mongol shepherds sit, With grave responses listening unto it: Once, on the errands of his mercy bent, Buddha, the holy and benevolent, Met a fell monster, huge and fierce of look, Whose awful voice the hills and forests shook. 'O son of peace!' the giant cried, 'thy fate Is sealed at last, and love shall yield to hate.

When is the course of the life Of mortal men on the earth? Most men eddy about Here and there,—eat and drink, Chatter and love and hate, Gather and squander, are raised Aloft, are hurled in the dust, Striving blindly, achieving Nothing; and, then they die,— Perish; and no one asks Who or what they have been, And there are some, whom a thirst Ardent, unquenchable, fires, Not with the crowd to be spent. Not without aim to go round In an eddy of unmeaningless dust.

Hark, hither, reader! wouldst thou see Nature her own physician be? Wouldst see a man all his own wealth, His own physic, his own health? A man whose sober soul can tell How to wear her garments well— Her garments, that upon her sit As garments should do, close and fit; A well-clothed soul, that's not oppressed Nor choked with what she should be dressed; A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine, Through which all her bright features shine; A soul whose intellectual beams No mists do mask, no lazy steams; A happy soul, that all the way To heaven hath a summer's day? In sum, wouldst see a man that can Live to be old, and still a man? Whose latest and most leaden hours Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers. And, when life's sweet fable ends, Soul and body part like friends:— No quarrels, murmurs, no delay; A kiss, a sigh, and so away? This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see? Hark, hither! and—thyself be he! — Richard Crashaw, 1610-1650.

"He gives what He gives,—be content! He resumes nothing given,—be sure; God lend? Where the usurers lent In His temple, indignant he went, And scourged away all those impure. "He lends not, but gives to the end, As He loves to the end.