Immortal Light

 Richard Watson Gilder, who died in 1909, and whose dream is now reality, wrote this beautiful prayer:

O Thou the Lord and Maker of life and

 light!

Full heavy are the burdens that do weigh

Our spirits earthward, as through twilight

gray

We journey to the end and rest of night;

Tho well we know to the deep inward sight,

Darkness is but Thy shadow, and the day

Where Thou art never dies, but sends its

rays

Through the wide universe with restless

might.

O Lord of Light, steep Thou our souls in

Thee!

That when the daylight trembles into shade, 

And falls the silence of mortality,

And all is done, we shall not be afraid,

But pass from light to light; from earth's

dull gleam

Into the very heart and heaven of our dream.

Divine Discontent

 An unidentified author writes thus of discontent:

When the world was formed and the morn-

ing stars

Upon their paths were sent,

The loftiest-browed of the angels was

named

The Angel of Discontent.

And he dwelt with man in the caves of the

hills,

Where the created serpent stings,

And the tiger tears and the she-wolf howls,

And he told of better things.

And he led man forth in the towered town,

And forth to fields of corn;

And he told of the ampler work ahead

For which the race was born.

And he whispers to men of those hills he sees

In the blush of the golden west;

And they look to the light of his lifted eye

And they hate the name of rest.

In the light of that eye doth the slave be-

hold

A hope that is high and brave,

And the madness of war comes into his 

blood

For he knows himself a slave.

The serfs of wrong in the light of that eye

March on with victorious songs;

For the strength of their right comes into

their hearts

When they behold their wrongs.

"Tis by the light of that lifted eye

That error's mists are rent--

A guide to the table-land of Truth

Is the Angel of Discontent.

And still he looks with his lifted eye,

And his glance is far away

On a light that shines on the glimmering

hills

Of a diviner day.

What Am I?

"Turn my eyes away from 
worthless things; preserve
my life according to
your word."
Psalm 119:37

What Am I? by Dr. Arbuthnot

What an I, whence produced, and for what end?
Whence drew I being, to what period tend?
Am I th' abandon'd orphan of blind chance,
Dropp'd by wild atoms in disordered dance?
Or, from an endless chain of causes wrought,
And of unthinking substance, born with thought?
Am I but what I seem, mere felsh and blood,
A branching channel with a mazy flood?
The purple stream that through my vessels glides,
Dull and unconscious flows, like common tides,
The pipes, through which the circling juices stray,
Are not that thinking I, no more than they;
This frame, compacted with transcendent skill,
Of moving joints, obedient to my will;
Nursed from the fruitful glebe, like yonder tree,
Waxes and wastes, -- I call it mine, not me,
New matter still the mould'ring mass sustains;
The mansion chang'd, the tenant still remains;
And, from the fleeting stream, repair'd by food,
Distinct, as is the swimmer from the flood.

Things That Never Die

 Things That Never Die

The pure, the bright, the beautiful,
That stirred our hearts in youth,
The impulse to a wordless prayer,
The dreams of love and truth;
The longings after something lost,
The spirit's yearning cry,
The strivings after better hopes--
These things can never die.
The timid hand stretched forth to aid
A brother in his need,
The kindly word in grief's dark hour
That proves a friend indeed;
The plea for mercy gently breathed
When justice threatens high,
The sorrow of a contrite heart--
These things shall never die.
The memory of a clasping hand,
The pressure of a kiss,
And all the trifles, sweet and frail,
That make up love's first bliss;
If with a firm unchanging faith,
And holy trust on high,
Those hands have clasped, those lips have met--
These things shall never die.
The cruel and the bitter word
That wounded as it fell;
The chilling want of sympathy
We feel but never tell;
The hard repulse that grieves the heart
Whose hopes were bounding high
In an unfading record kept--
These things shall never die.
Let nothing pass, for every hand
Must find some work to do;
Lose not a chance to waken love--
Be firm, and just, and true:
So shall a light that cannot fade
Beam on thee from on high,
And angel voices say to thee--
"These things shall never die."

by Sarah Doudney

To the unknown saints...

 With golden letters set in brave array
Throughout the Church's record of the 
year,
The great names of historic saints appear,
Those ringing names, that, as a trumpet, play
Uplifting music o'er a sordid way,
And sound high courage to our earth-
dulled ear;
But, underneath those strains, I seem to
hear
The silence of the saints that have no day.

Martyrs blood-red, and trodden souls, care-
gray,
In hierarchal pride no place they boast;
No candles born for them where pilgrims
pray,
No haloes crown their dim and countless
host;
And yet-the leaven of their humble sway,
Unrecognized, unguessed, avails the most.

by Kathleen Perry

sung at Shenandoah Christian Music Camp
"How Can I Keep From Singing?"

Negative and Positive Culture

 will thereby be weeded out:

Negative and Positive Culture
 
Two fields lay side by side. Only a hedge
Which ran athwart the plain dissevered them.
In one my title lay, and he who owned
The other was my brother. Each alike
Had generous part of one ancestral lot.
And each alike due diligence displayed
On that he called his own. At early spring
Each with a shining share upturned the soil
And gave it to the sun, the wind, the shower.
Thenceforth we rested not. Busily we
wrought
And wiped our briny brows 'neath burning
suns,
Biding the time of one far-off event.

At summer's end we each one came at last
To find our recompense. Each had his own,
The end for which he'd toiled. Through all
those days
My only thought had been no weeds should
grow,
But he had plowed 'mid rows of waving corn
And in so doing killed the cumbering weeds
That grew between. And now at summer's
close
Behold ! my field was verdureless and bare.
While his was clad in vestiture of gold.
How vain my toil ! His recompense how
full.
Who reaped so much, yet plowed no more
than I!

Light After Night

 Mary Elliot interprets the moral cheer of recurring dawn in these musical lines:

Dawn of the red, red sun in a bleak, aban-

doned sky

That the moon has lately left and the stars

are fast forsaking--

The day is drawing the cloudy lids from his 

bloodshot eye,

And the world impatient stirs -- a tired old

sleeper, waking.

O most unwearying prophet, ever-returning

morn!

Thou giv'st new life to a world grown old,

and marred in making;

With ever an old faith lost, and ever a

pang new-born,

But ever a new, new hope to hearts that 

were well-nigh breaking. 

The Metropolitan. 1834

God Gives Us A New Chance

Ella Higginson, under the title "When the Birds Go North Again," sings a pretty little song of hope, illustrating the goodness of God in giving to the saddest heart a new chance for blessing and achievements.

Oh, every year hath its winter,
And every year hath its rain -
But a day is always coming
When the birds go north again;

When new leaves swell in the forest,
And grass springs green on the plain,
And the alder's veins turn crimson‚-
And the birds go north again.

Oh, every heart hath its sorrow,
And every heart hath its pain -
But a day is always coming
When the birds go north again.

'Tis the sweetest thing to remember
If courage be on the wane,
When the cold, dark days are over -
Why, the birds go north again.

 

The Dead Live Beyond

 The Dead Live Beyond

His is not dead, but only lieth sleeping

In the sweet refuge of his Master's breast,

And far away from sorrow, toil, and weeping

He is not dead, but only taking rest.

What tho the highest hopes he dearly cherished

All faded gently as the setting sun;

What tho our own fond expectations perished

Ere yet life's noblest labors seemed begun.

What tho he standeth at no earthly altar,

Yet in white raiment, on the golden floor,

Where love is perfect, and no step can falter,

He serveth as a priest for evermore!

O glorious end of life's short day of sadness,

O blessed course so well and nobly run!

O home of true and everlasting gladness,

O crown unfading! and so early won!

Tho tears will fall we bless thee, O our Father,

For the dear one forever with the blest, 

And wait the Easter dawn when thou shalt gather

Thine own, long parted, to their endless rest.

"Take my hand and lead me" hymn

Hope Beyond The Grave

 Hope Beyond The Grave

This night, and the landscape is lovely no more;

I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you,

For morn is approaching your charms to restore,

Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and glittering with dew,

Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn;

Kind nature the embryo blossom will save.

But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?

Oh! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?

"Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed,

That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind,

My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade,

Destruction before me, and sorrow behind.

"Oh, pity, great Father of Light!" then I cried,

"Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee!

Lo! humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride:

From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free."

And darkness and doubt are now flying away;

No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn:

So breaks on the traveler, faint and astray,

The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn.

See Truth, Love and Mercy, in triumph descending,

And Nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom.

On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending,

And Beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.

by James Beattie, LL. D.

Nearer, My God, to Thee.

from Pilgrim's Praises

The Belfry Pigeon

 The Belfry Pigeon

by Nathaniel Parker Willis

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell

The nest of a pigeon is builded well

In summer and winter that bird is there,

Out and in with the morning air;

I love to see him track the street,

With his wary eye and active feet;

And I often watch him as he springs,

Circling the steeple with easy wings,

Till across the dial his shade has passed,

And the belfry edge is gained at last;

'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,

And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;

There's a human look in its swelling breast,

And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;

And I often stop with the fear I feel--

He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell--

Chime of the hour, or funeral knell--

The dove in the belfry must hear it well.

When the tongue swings out to the midnight

moon,

When the sexton cheerly rings for noon,

When the clock strikes clear at morning 

light,

When the child is waked with "nine at 

night,"

When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,

Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,--

Whatever tale in the bell is heard,

He broods on his folded feet unstirred,

Or, rising half in his rounded nest,

He takes the time to smooth his breast,

Then drops again, with filmed eyes,

And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

Sweet bird! I would that I could be

A hermit in the crowd like thee!

With wings to fly to wood and glen,

Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men;

And daily, with unwilling feet,

I tread, like thee, the crowded street, 

But, unlike me, when day is o'er,

Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar;

Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,

Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,

And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.

I would that, in such wings of gold,

I could my weary heart unfold;

I would I could look down unmoved

(Unloving as I am unloved),

And while the world throngs on beneath,

Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe;

And never sad with others' sadness,

And never glad with others' gladness,

Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime,

And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.

Thoughts In Sickness

"My mouth is filled with your praise, declaring your
splendor all day long." Psalms 71:8

Thoughts In Sickness

by Lord John Manners

I know not how it is, but man ne'er sees
The glory of this world, its streams, and trees,
Its thousand forms of beauty that delight
The soul, the sense, and captivate the sight
So long as laughing health vouchsafes to stay,
And charm the traveler on his joyous way.
No! man can ne'er appreciate this earth,
Which he has lived and joyed in from his birth,
Till pain or sickness from his sight removes
All that in health he valued not, yet loves.
Then, then it is he learns to feel the ties
Of earth and all its sweetest sympathies;
Then he begins to know how fair, how sweet,
Were all those flowers that bloomed beneath his
feet:
Then he confesses that before in vain,
The wild flowers flourished in the lonely plain: 
Then he remembers that the lark would sing,
Making the heavens with her music ring,
And he ungrateful never cared to hear
Those tuneful orisons at daybreak clear;
While all the glories that enrich this earth,
Crowd on the brain, and magnify its worth
Till truant fancy quits the couch of pain,
To rove in health's gay fields and woods again!
But when some pang his wandering sense recalls,
And chains the sufferer to his prison walls,
What to his anguish adds a sharper sting,
And plumes the feathers on affliction's wing?
W r hat but the thought that in his hour of health,
He slighted these, for glory, power, or wealth.
And, oh ! how trivial when compared to these,
Seem all those pleasures which are said to please!
At morn, when through the open lattice float
The hymns of praise from many a warbler's throat,
The sick man turns with pained and feverish start,
And groans in abject bitterness of heart.
Whence, say, ye vain ones, whence that soul-drawn
groan ?
Came it from anguish, or from pain alone?
Think ye, reflection was not busy there,
Borne on the sunbeam wafted by the air,
That speaks upbraiding, though its balmy voice
Whispers bright hopes, and bids his soul rejoice!
So feel I now, and should gay health once more
Glow in my frame, as it has glowed of yore,
Oh ! may I prove my thankfulness, and show
I feel the glory of all things below! 

Heaven Is Full of Children

Grandson and grandmother read
together.

        Think it, at least, highly probable, that where our Lord says, 'Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not for of such is the kingdom of heaven,' He does not only intimate the necessity of our becoming like little children in simplicity, as a qualification, without which (as he expressly declares in other places) we cannot enter into his kingdom, but informs us of a fact, that the number of infants, who are effectually redeemed unto God by His blood, so greatly exceeds the aggregate of adult believers, that, comparatively speaking, His kingdom may be said to consist of little children. As if the full import of what He had said to his disciples was, think not that little children are beneath my notice; think not that I am a stranger to little children; suffer them to come to me, and forbid them not. I have often been in their society; I love their society; the world from which I came, and to which I go, is full of little children.

"Flowers that once had loved to linger

In the world of human love,

Touch'd by death's decaying finger

For better life. above!

O! ye stars! ye rays of glory!

Gem-lights in the glittering dome!

Could ye not relate a story

Of the spirits gather'd home?" 

The Immortal Life

 The Immortal Life

The insect bursting from its tomb-like bed --
The grain that in a thousand grains revives --
The trees that seem in wintry torpor dead --
Yet each new year renewing their green lives;
All teach, without the added aid of Faith,
That life still triumphs o'er apparent death!

But dies the insect when the summer dies;
The grain hath perished, though the plant remain;
In death, at last, the oak of ages lies;
Here Reason halts, nor further can attain,
For Reason argues but from what she sees,
Nor traces to their goal these mysteries.
 

But Faith the dark hiatus can supply --

Teaching, eternal progress still shall reign:
Telling (as these things aid her to espy)
In higher worlds that higher laws obtain;
Pointing, with radiant finger raised on high,
From life that still revives, to life that cannot die.

 

The caterpillar transformed...

An Empty Nest: A Sonnet

An Empty Nest: A Sonnet

by Edwin Clarence Sprague

Deep in the forest dell I found a nest,

Empty and silent, swaying to and fro,

Rocked by the breezes that did gently blow,

Nor for a moment seemed to be at rest.

Wrecked was its structure by the brambles pressed;

Once 'twas the home wherein wee nestlings lie

Blinking with wonder at the summer sky,

Longing to soar upon its airy crest.

So may my soul be strengthened day by day,

And graced by patient waiting year by year,

That I might long to rise and soar away

When that last hour to me is drawing near

To that great realm, where in peace and rest, 

I'll leave-behind the old deserted nest.

 

Nest die cut.

At Easter

At Easter by Kate A. Bradley

I wonder if the anguished moon looked
down
Through all that long last night
And buried in her scarred breast, lean and
brown,
The memory of that sight!
I wonder of th' uneasy birds awoke
As glowed that strange, great light
Which paled the purple east where morn-
ing broke.
And sang, inspired by God's own breath,
"There is no death! There is no death!" 

There is no death, O hearts that throb in

vain

With longing, pulsing tide,

Or in love's fullness, nigh akin to pain,

Unfearing abide;

There is no death, O soul whom niggard

fate

Has left unsatisfied.

The cycles swing and joy those lips await

Who oft have sung on earth in pain,

"I rise again! I rise again!"

No sacrifice, O Self, can blot thee out,

Or satisfy the debt

Which binds thee to the usurer of doubt

With interest of regret!

Still is not life to even thee denied:

One way remaineth yet-

As was thy Christ, must thou be crucified.

But with those wounds in hands and feet,

E'en Self finds resurrection sweet!

Rejoice, O soul whose work is just begun,

That all time lies before!

Rejoice, O heart whose treasure all have

won

That dimmer, farther shore!

The stone that angels moved away that

night

Was rolled from Heaven's door;

Awake and stand forth in hope's sudden

 light,

And sing as sang the birds that morn:

"There is no death, for Life is born!"

"Consider The Lilies" by Ethel Halton

Iris die cut.

Consider The Lilies

Within the rich man's garden
Full many a flower was seen,
With crowns of gold and crimson
On cups of emerald green. 

 

They brought the dead King thither,
And every flower in bloom
Bowed down its head in sorrow
About the Savior's tomb.

 

But see- the white-winged angels
Have rolled the stone away,
And 'mid the flowers only
The white grave cerements lay.

Next day they sought to find them;

Lo! rising where they fell,

Like the white hand of an angel,

Waved there - a lily's bell.

 

So pure, so white, and spotless

It pointed in the air,

As if to tell new comers

That He had risen there.

 

Born of His white robes fallen,

Like white leaves folded up,

They found a scepter gold and small

Within each fragrant cup.

 

And so amid the blossoms

Of the rich man's fragrant bowers

Was born the Easter lily-

The angel of the flowers.

Earth's Easter (MCMXVI)

"Behold The Lamb"

EARTH'S EASTER (MCMXVI)
BY ROBERT HAVEN SCHAUFFLER

Earth has gone up from its Gethsemane,
And now on Golgotha is crucified;
The spear is twisted in the tortured side;
The thorny crown still works its cruelty.
Hark! while the victim suffers on the tree,
There sound through starry spaces, far and wide,
Such words as by poor souls in hell are cried:
"My God! my God! Thou hast forsaken me!"

But when Earth's members from the cross are drawn.
And all we love into the grave is gone.
This hope shall be a spark within the gloom:
That, in the glow of some stupendous dawn.
We may go forth to find, where lilies bloom,
Two angels bright before an empty tomb.

Easter Day by John Keble

"Faith At The Cross"

 

EASTER DAY 
BY JOHN KEBLE

O Day of days! shall hearts set free.
No "minstrel rapture" find for thee?
Thou art the Sun of other days.
They shine by giving back thy rays:

Enthroned in thy sovereign sphere
Thou shed'st thy light on all the year:
Sundays by thee more glorious break,
An Easter Day in every week:

And week days, following in their train,
The fullness of thy blessing gain.
Till all, both resting and employ,
Be one Lord's day of holy joy.

Then wake, my soul, to high desires.
And earlier light thine altar fires:
The world some hours is on her way.
Nor thinks on thee, thou blessed day:

Or, if she thinks, it is in scorn:
The vernal light of Easter morn
To her dark gaze no brighter seems
Than Reason's or the Law's pale beams.

" Where is your Lord? " she scornful asks
"Where is his hire? we know his tasks;
Sons of a King ye boast to be:
Let us your crowns and treasures see."

We in the words of truth reply
(An angel brought them from the sky),
" Our crown, our treasure is not here,
'Tis stored above the highest sphere:

" Methinks your wisdom guides amiss,
To seek on earth a Christian's bliss;
We watch not now the lifeless stone:
Our only Lord is risen and gone."

Yet even the lifeless stone is dear
For thoughts of him who late lay here;
And the base world, now Christ hath died,
Ennobled is and glorified.

No more a charnel-house, to fence
The relics of lost innocence,
A vault of ruin and decay —
The imprisoning stone is rolled away.

'Tis now a cell where angels use
To come and go with heavenly news.
And in the ears of mourners say,
" Come, see the place where Jesus lay ":

'Tis now a fane, where love can find
Christ everywhere embalmed and shrined:
Aye gathering up memorials sweet
Where'er she sets her duteous feet.

Oh, joy to Mary first allowed.
When roused from weeping o'er his shroud,
By his own calm, soul-soothing tone,
Breathing her name, as still his own !

Joy to the faithful Three renewed.
As their glad errand they pursued!
Happy, who so Christ's word convey.
That he may meet them on their way!

So is it still: to holy tears,
In lonely hours, Christ risen appears;
In social hours, who would Christ see
Must turn all tasks to charity.

Sabbath Morn by Nicolai Grundtvig

Waiting at the empty tomb...

 FROM THE DANISH OF NICOLAI GRUNDTVIG

From death, Christ on the Sabbath morn,
A conqueror arose;
And when each Sabbath dawn is born
For death a healing grows.
This day proclaims an ended strife,
And Christ's benign and holy life.

By countless lips the wondrous tale
Is told throughout the earth;
Ye that have ears to hear, oh, hail
That tale with sacred mirth!
Awake, my soul, rise from the dead,
See life's grand light around thee shed.

Death trembles each sweet Sabbath hour,
Death's brother. Darkness, quakes;
Christ's word speaks with divinest power,
Christ's truth its silence breaks;
They vanquish with their valiant breath
The reign of darkness and of death.