.
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, veonian 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 I 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.
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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 ANSWER.
Spare me, dread angel of reproof, And let the sunshine weave to-day Its gold-threads in the warp and woof Of life so poor and gray.
Spare me awhile; the flesh is weak.
These lingering feet, that fain would stray Among the flowers, shall some day seek The strait and narrow way.
Take off thy ever-watchful eye, The awe of thy rebuking frown; The dullest slave at times must sigh To fling his burdens down; To drop his galley's straining oar, And press, in summer warmth and calm, The lap of some enchanted shore Of blossom and of balm.
Grudge not my life its hour of bloom, My heart its taste of long desire; This day be mine: be those to come As duty shall require.
The deep voice answered to my own, Smiting my selfish prayers away; "To-morrow is with God alone, And man hath but to-day.
"Say not, thy fond, vain heart within, The Father's arm shall still be wide, When from these pleasant ways of sin Thou turn'st at eventide.
"'Cast thyself down,' the tempter saith, 'And angels shall thy feet upbear.' He bids thee make a lie of faith, And blasphemy of prayer.
"Though God be good and free be heaven, No force divine can love compel; And, though the song of sins forgiven May sound through lowest hell, "The sweet persuasion of His voice Respects thy sanctity of will.
He giveth day: thou hast thy choice To walk in darkness still; "As one who, turning from the light, Watches his own gray shadow fall, Doubting, upon his path of night, If there be day at all! "No word of doom may shut thee out, No wind of wrath may downward whirl, No swords of fire keep watch about The open gates of pearl; "A tenderer light than moon or sun, Than song of earth a sweeter hymn, May shine and sound forever on, And thou be deaf and dim.
"Forever round the Mercy-seat The guiding lights of Love shall burn; But what if, habit-bound, thy feet Shall lack the will to turn?
"What if thine eye refuse to see, Thine ear of Heaven's free welcome fail, And thou a willing captive be, Thyself thy own dark jail?
"Oh, doom beyond the saddest guess, As the long years of God unroll, To make thy dreary selfishness The prison of a soul! "To doubt the love that fain would break The fetters from thy self-bound limb; And dream that God can thee forsake As thou forsakest Him!" 1863.
THE ETERNAL GOODNESS.
O friends! with whom my feet have trod The quiet aisles of prayer, Glad witness to your zeal for God And love of man I bear.
I trace your lines of argument; Your logic linked and strong I weigh as one who dreads dissent, And fears a doubt as wrong.
But still my human hands are weak To hold your iron creeds Against the words ye bid me speak My heart within me pleads.
Who fathoms the Eternal Thought?
Who talks of scheme and plan?
The Lord is God! He needeth not The poor device of man.
I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground Ye tread with boldness shod; I dare not fix with mete and bound The love and power of God.
Ye praise His justice; even such His pitying love I deem Ye seek a king; I fain would touch The robe that hath no seam.
Ye see the curse which overbroods A world of pain and loss; I hear our Lord's beatitudes And prayer upon the cross.
More than your schoolmen teach, within Myself, alas! I know Too dark ye cannot paint the sin, Too small the merit show.
I bow my forehead to the dust, I veil mine eyes for shame, And urge, in trembling self-distrust, A prayer without a claim.
I see the wrong that round me lies, I feel the guilt within; I hear, with groan and travail-cries, The world confess its sin.
Yet, in the maddening maze of things, And tossed by storm and flood, To one fixed trust my spirit clings; I know that God is good! Not mine to look where cherubim And seraphs may not see, But nothing can be good in Him Which evil is in me.
The wrong that pains my soul below I dare not throne above, I know not of His hate,--I know His goodness and His love.
I dimly guess from blessings known Of greater out of sight, And, with the chastened Psalmist, own His judgments too are right.
I long for household voices gone, For vanished smiles I long, But God hath led my dear ones on, And He can do no wrong.
I know not what the future hath Of marvel or surprise, Assured alone that life and death His mercy underlies.
And if my heart and flesh are weak To bear an untried pain, The bruised reed He will not break, But strengthen and sustain.
No offering of my own I have, Nor works my faith to prove; I can but give the gifts He gave, And plead His love for love.
And so beside the Silent Sea I wait the muffled oar; No harm from Him can come to me On ocean or on shore.
I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.
O brothers! if my faith is vain, If hopes like these betray, Pray for me that my feet may gain The sure and safer way.
And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen Thy creatures as they be, Forgive me if too close I lean My human heart on Thee! 1865.
THE COMMON QUESTION.
Behind us at our evening meal The gray bird ate his fill, Swung downward by a single claw, And wiped his hooked bill.
He shook his wings and crimson tail, And set his head aslant, And, in his sharp, impatient way, Asked, "What does Charlie want ?" "Fie, silly bird!" I answered, "tuck Your head beneath your wing, And go to sleep;"-- but o'er and o'er He asked the self-same thing.
Then, smiling, to myself I said How like are men and birds! We all are saying what he says, In action or in words.
The boy with whip and top and drum, The girl with hoop and doll, And men with lands and houses, ask The question of Poor Poll.
However full, with something more We fain the bag would cram; We sigh above our crowded nets For fish that never swam.
No bounty of indulgent Heaven The vague desire can stay; Self-love is still a Tartar mill For grinding prayers alway.
The dear God hears and pities all; He knoweth all our wants; And what we blindly ask of Him His love withholds or grants.
And so I sometimes think our prayers Might well be merged in one; And nest and perch and hearth and church Repeat, "Thy will be done." OUR MASTER.
Immortal Love, forever full, Forever flowing free, Forever shared, forever whole, A never-ebbing sea! Our outward lips confess the name All other names above; Love only knoweth whence it came And comprehendeth love.
Blow, winds of God, awake and blow The mists of earth away! Shine out, O Light Divine, and show How wide and far we stray! Hush every lip, close every book, The strife of tongues forbear; Why forward reach, or backward look, For love that clasps like air?
We may not climb the heavenly steeps To bring the Lord Christ down In vain we search the lowest deeps, For Him no depths can drown.
Nor holy bread, nor blood of grape, The lineaments restore Of Him we know in outward shape And in the flesh no more.
He cometh not a king to reign; The world's long hope is dim; The weary centuries watch in vain The clouds of heaven for Him.
Death comes, life goes; the asking eye And ear are answerless; The grave is dumb, the hollow sky Is sad with silentness.
The letter fails, and systems fall, And every symbol wanes; The Spirit over-brooding all Eternal Love remains.
And not for signs in heaven above Or earth below they look, Who know with John His smile of love, With Peter His rebuke.
In joy of inward peace, or sense Of sorrow over sin, He is His own best evidence, His witness is within.
No fable old, nor mythic lore, Nor dream of bards and seers, No dead fact stranded on the shore Of the oblivious years;-- But warm, sweet, tender, even yet A present help is He; And faith has still its Olivet, And love its Galilee.
The healing of His seamless dress Is by our beds of pain; We touch Him in life's throng and press, And we are whole again.
Through Him the first fond prayers are said Our lips of childhood frame, The last low whispers of our dead Are burdened with His name.
Our Lord and Master of us all! Whate'er our name or sign, We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call, We test our lives by Thine.
Thou judgest us; Thy purity Doth all our lusts condemn; The love that draws us nearer Thee Is hot with wrath to them.
Our thoughts lie open to Thy sight; And, naked to Thy glance, Our secret sins are in the light Of Thy pure countenance.
Thy healing pains, a keen distress Thy tender light shines in; Thy sweetness is the bitterness, Thy grace the pang of sin.
Yet, weak and blinded though we be, Thou dost our service own; We bring our varying gifts to Thee, And Thou rejectest none.
To Thee our full humanity, Its joys and pains, belong; The wrong of man to man on Thee Inflicts a deeper wrong.
Who hates, hates Thee, who loves becomes Therein to Thee allied; All sweet accords of hearts and homes In Thee are multiplied.
Deep strike Thy roots, O heavenly Vine, Within our earthly sod, Most human and yet most divine, The flower of man and God! O Love! O Life! Our faith and sight Thy presence maketh one As through transfigured clouds of white We trace the noon-day sun.
So, to our mortal eyes subdued, Flesh-veiled, but not concealed, We know in Thee the fatherhood And heart of God revealed.
We faintly hear, we dimly see, In differing phrase we pray; But, dim or clear, we own in Thee The Light, the Truth, the Way! The homage that we render Thee Is still our Father's own; No jealous claim or rivalry Divides the Cross and Throne.
To do Thy will is more than praise, As words are less than deeds, And simple trust can find Thy ways We miss with chart of creeds.
No pride of self Thy service hath, No place for me and mine; Our human strength is weakness, death Our life, apart from Thine.
Apart from Thee all gain is loss, All labor vainly done; The solemn shadow of Thy Cross Is better than the sun.
Alone, O Love ineffable! Thy saving name is given; To turn aside from Thee is hell, To walk with Thee is heaven! How vain, secure in all Thou art, Our noisy championship The sighing of the contrite heart Is more than flattering lip.
Not Thine the bigot's partial plea, Nor Thine the zealot's ban; Thou well canst spare a love of Thee Which ends in hate of man.
Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord, What may Thy service be ?-- Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word, But simply following Thee.
We bring no ghastly holocaust, We pile no graven stone; He serves thee best who loveth most His brothers and Thy own.
Thy litanies, sweet offices Of love and gratitude; Thy sacramental liturgies, The joy of doing good.
In vain shall waves of incense drift The vaulted nave around, In vain the minster turret lift Its brazen weights of sound.
The heart must ring Thy Christmas bells, Thy inward altars raise; Its faith and hope Thy canticles, And its obedience praise! 1866.
THE MEETING.
The two speakers in the meeting referred to in this poem were Avis Keene, whose very presence was a benediction, a woman lovely in spirit and person, whose words seemed a message of love and tender concern to her hearers; and Sibyl Jones, whose inspired eloquence and rare spirituality impressed all who knew her.

In obedience to her apprehended duty she made visits of Christian love to various parts of Europe, and to the West Coast of Africa and Palestine.
The elder folks shook hands at last, Down seat by seat the signal passed.
To simple ways like ours unused, Half solemnized and half amused, With long-drawn breath and shrug, my guest His sense of glad relief expressed.
Outside, the hills lay warm in sun; The cattle in the meadow-run Stood half-leg deep; a single bird The green repose above us stirred.
"What part or lot have you," he said, "In these dull rites of drowsy-head?
Is silence worship?
Seek it where It soothes with dreams the summer air, Not in this close and rude-benched hall, But where soft lights and shadows fall, And all the slow, sleep-walking hours Glide soundless over grass and flowers! From time and place and form apart, Its holy ground the human heart, Nor ritual-bound nor templeward Walks the free spirit of the Lord! Our common Master did not pen His followers up from other men; His service liberty indeed, He built no church, He framed no creed; But while the saintly Pharisee Made broader his phylactery, As from the synagogue was seen The dusty-sandalled Nazarene Through ripening cornfields lead the way Upon the awful Sabbath day, His sermons were the healthful talk That shorter made the mountain-walk, His wayside texts were flowers and birds, Where mingled with His gracious words The rustle of the tamarisk-tree And ripple-wash of Galilee." "Thy words are well, O friend," I said; "Unmeasured and unlimited, With noiseless slide of stone to stone, The mystic Church of God has grown.
Invisible and silent stands The temple never made with hands, Unheard the voices still and small Of its unseen confessional.
He needs no special place of prayer Whose hearing ear is everywhere; He brings not back the childish days That ringed the earth with stones of praise, Roofed Karnak's hall of gods, and laid The plinths of Phil e's colonnade.
Still less He owns the selfish good And sickly growth of solitude,-- The worthless grace that, out of sight, Flowers in the desert anchorite; Dissevered from the suffering whole, Love hath no power to save a soul.
Not out of Self, the origin And native air and soil of sin, The living waters spring and flow, The trees with leaves of healing grow.
"Dream not, O friend, because I seek This quiet shelter twice a week, I better deem its pine-laid floor Than breezy hill or sea-sung shore; But nature is not solitude She crowds us with her thronging wood; Her many hands reach out to us, Her many tongues are garrulous; Perpetual riddles of surprise She offers to our ears and eyes; She will not leave our senses still, But drags them captive at her will And, making earth too great for heaven, She hides the Giver in the given.
"And so, I find it well to come For deeper rest to this still room, For here the habit of the soul Feels less the outer world's control; The strength of mutual purpose pleads More earnestly our common needs; And from the silence multiplied By these still forms on either side, The world that time and sense have known Falls off and leaves us God alone.
"Yet rarely through the charmed repose Unmixed the stream of motive flows, A flavor of its many springs, The tints of earth and sky it brings; In the still waters needs must be Some shade of human sympathy; And here, in its accustomed place, I look on memory's dearest face; The blind by-sitter guesseth not What shadow haunts that vacant spot; No eyes save mine alone can see The love wherewith it welcomes me! And still, with those alone my kin, In doubt and weakness, want and sin, I bow my head, my heart I bare As when that face was living there, And strive (too oft, alas! in vain) The peace of simple trust to gain, Fold fancy's restless wings, and lay The idols of my heart away.
"Welcome the silence all unbroken, Nor less the words of fitness spoken,-- Such golden words as hers for whom Our autumn flowers have just made room; Whose hopeful utterance through and through The freshness of the morning blew; Who loved not less the earth that light Fell on it from the heavens in sight, But saw in all fair forms more fair The Eternal beauty mirrored there.
Whose eighty years but added grace And saintlier meaning to her face,-- The look of one who bore away Glad tidings from the hills of day, While all our hearts went forth to meet The coming of her beautiful feet! Or haply hers, whose pilgrim tread Is in the paths where Jesus led; Who dreams her childhood's Sabbath dream By Jordan's willow-shaded stream, And, of the hymns of hope and faith, Sung by the monks of Nazareth, Hears pious echoes, in the call To prayer, from Moslem minarets fall, Repeating where His works were wrought The lesson that her Master taught, Of whom an elder Sibyl gave, The prophecies of Cuma 's cave.
"I ask no organ's soulless breath To drone the themes of life and death, No altar candle-lit by day, No ornate wordsman's rhetoric-play, No cool philosophy to teach Its bland audacities of speech To double-tasked idolaters Themselves their gods and worshippers, No pulpit hammered by the fist Of loud-asserting dogmatist, Who borrows for the Hand of love The smoking thunderbolts of Jove.
I know how well the fathers taught, What work the later schoolmen wrought; I reverence old-time faith and men, But God is near us now as then; His force of love is still unspent, His hate of sin as imminent; And still the measure of our needs Outgrows the cramping bounds of creeds; The manna gathered yesterday Already savors of decay; Doubts to the world's child-heart unknown Question us now from star and stone; Too little or too much we know, And sight is swift and faith is slow; The power is lost to self-deceive With shallow forms of make-believe.
W e walk at high noon, and the bells Call to a thousand oracles, But the sound deafens, and the light Is stronger than our dazzled sight; The letters of the sacred Book Glimmer and swim beneath our look; Still struggles in the Age's breast With deepening agony of quest The old entreaty: 'Art thou He, Or look we for the Christ to be ?' "God should be most where man is least So, where is neither church nor priest, And never rag of form or creed To clothe the nakedness of need,-- Where farmer-folk in silence meet,-- I turn my bell-unsummoned feet;' I lay the critic's glass aside, I tread upon my lettered pride, And, lowest-seated, testify To the oneness of humanity; Confess the universal want, And share whatever Heaven may grant.
He findeth not who seeks his own, The soul is lost that's saved alone.
Not on one favored forehead fell Of old the fire-tongued miracle, But flamed o'er all the thronging host The baptism of the Holy Ghost; Heart answers heart: in one desire The blending lines of prayer aspire; 'Where, in my name, meet two or three,' Our Lord hath said, 'I there will be!' "So sometimes comes to soul and sense The feeling which is evidence That very near about us lies The realm of spiritual mysteries.
The sphere of the supernal powers Impinges on this world of ours.
The low and dark horizon lifts, To light the scenic terror shifts; The breath of a diviner air Blows down the answer of a prayer That all our sorrow, pain, and doubt A great compassion clasps about, And law and goodness, love and force, Are wedded fast beyond divorce.
Then duty leaves to love its task, The beggar Self forgets to ask; With smile of trust and folded hands, The passive soul in waiting stands To feel, as flowers the sun and dew, The One true Life its own renew.
"So, to the calmly gathered thought The innermost of truth is taught, The mystery dimly understood, That love of God is love of good, And, chiefly, its divinest trace In Him of Nazareth's holy face; That to be saved is only this,-- Salvation from our selfishness, From more than elemental fire, The soul's unsanetified desire, From sin itself, and not the pain That warns us of its chafing chain; That worship's deeper meaning lies In mercy, and not sacrifice, Not proud humilities of sense And posturing of penitence, But love's unforced obedience; That Book and Church and Day are given For man, not God,--for earth, not heaven,-- The blessed means to holiest ends, Not masters, but benignant friends; That the dear Christ dwells not afar, The king of some remoter star, Listening, at times, with flattered ear To homage wrung from selfish fear, But here, amidst the poor and blind, The bound and suffering of our kind, In works we do, in prayers we pray, Life of our life, He lives to-day." 1868.
THE CLEAR VISION.
I did but dream.