Questions & Answers
The doubting grope to God with footsteps slow, The path is stony, and the thistles grow. With bleeding feet they stumble as they go, And longing cry, O Father, help us know! A bird is singing sweetly overhead; A blossom nestles in its dewy bed; A hungering heart with living bread is fed; A child's pure faith that asks but to be led.
The quest of beauty, and the keen desire To hold her captive and to gain her throne, Long time had tilled me with a quenchless fire To make her sweet perfections all mine own. Long did I dream, by beauty's spell beguiled; I saw the substance and satiety Of all completeness, wholly reconciled By nature's king, in nature's harmony: I deemed that he who drinks the draught of song, Sung by the woods and waves and hills untrod, And sings in tune thereto, to him belong The things of beauty, and of beauty's God.
Some one had said that I was in the wrong; Some one had but advised with kind intent, Yet this correction hurt and rankled long; I could not take the help as it was meant. Then came another friend with earnest eyes, And I must tell her how the words had stung.
It matters not what be thy lot, So Love doth guide; For storm or shine, pure peace is thine, Whate'er betide. And of these stones, or tyrants' thrones, God able is To raise up seed—in thought and deed— To faithful His.
Heaven is no distant walled abode, Reached with our closing breath; We enter through the gate of Life, And not the gate of death: 'Tis where God is and sheds His care,— And God is with us everywhere. He dwelleth not above the stars, In regions far apart: Heaven is not won by change of place, But by a change of heart.
Fearless and faithful, thou hast led the van And voiced the truth to ears that scarce would hear; But some seed fell on fruitful soil, and now The ripening grain is swelling in the ear. Still art thou leading, opening up the way; Still, up the mountain, we behold Truth's light, As steadfastly thou leadest into day From out the weary centuries of night.
Thus do we end our exile; then it is We find the last release, and rise, Knowing the truth which testifies. That pain and time and long captivity And life and death and destined circumstance Are only phases of our ignorance! And thus it is at last that we, After great love and long adjournments see The pinnacles of thought lighten with song, And all the spirits of the free, Calm and majestic, move along In an ascending theory! While we stand with wings and will Nerved to the task before us still; While we watch with steadfast eyes Clear and valiant as a bell The flame of thought that never dies; While we explore the secret none can tell; While we prepare, in tense tranquillity, For the inveterate miracle, The soul's perennial truth, The truth's perennial liberty! George Cabot Lodge.
Bright afterthought of summer, Flame of the golden noon, To us thou art as precious As fragrant flowers of June. Thy feathery plume, uplifted To joyous skies above, Bears message sure and tender Of God's eternal love.
There is a torment of the days and years, Born of the heart's distress, a life's despairs, A haunting horror, quite unquenched by tears. It brings thee darkness on the breath of dawn, Bedims the roses of the day new-born, And leaves thee lifeless, hopeless, and forlorn.
A message is borne on the boisterous sea, And told by the silent stars, Tis sung in a thousand echoing notes That break on the harbor-bars. It glistens in myriad drops of dew, 'Tis seen in the violet's eye, And quaffed by a thousand waiting hearts When the scented breeze sweeps by.