The Land of Song Volume Iii Part 21

RUGBY CHAPEL.

But thou wouldst not _alone_ Be saved, my father! _alone_ Conquer and come to thy goal, Leaving the rest in the wild.

We were weary, and we Fearful, and we in our march Fain to drop down and die.

Still thou turnedst, and still Beckonedst the trembler, and still Gavest the weary thy hand.

If, in the paths of the world, Stones might have wounded thy feet, Toil or dejection have tried Thy spirit, of that we saw Nothing--to us thou wast still Cheerful, and helpful, and firm!

Therefore to thee it was given Many to save with thyself; And, at the end of thy day, O faithful shepherd! to come, Bringing thy sheep in thy hand.

And through thee I believe In the n.o.ble and great who are gone; Pure souls honored and blest By former ages....

Servants of G.o.d!--or sons Shall I not call you? because Not as servants ye knew Your Father's innermost mind, His, who unwillingly sees One of His little ones lost-- Yours is the praise, if mankind Hath not as yet in its march Fainted, and fallen, and died!

Then, in such hour of need Of your fainting, dispirited race, Ye, like angels, appear, Radiant with ardor divine.

Beacons of hope, ye appear!

Languor is not in your heart, Weakness is not in your word, Weariness not on your brow.

Ye alight in our van! at your voice, Panic, despair, flee away.

Ye move through the ranks, recall The stragglers, refresh the outworn, Praise, reinspire the brave.

Order, courage, return; Eyes rekindling, and prayers, Follow your steps as ye go.

Ye fill up the gaps in our files, Strengthen the wavering line, Stablish, continue our march, On, to the bound of the waste, On, to the City of G.o.d.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

[Ill.u.s.tration: JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.]

WENDELL PHILLIPS.

He stood upon the world's broad threshold; wide The din of battle and of slaughter rose; He saw G.o.d stand upon the weaker side, That sank in seeming loss before its foes; Many there were who made great haste and sold Unto the cunning enemy their swords, He scorned their gifts of fame, and power, and gold, And, underneath their soft and flowery words, Heard the cold serpent hiss; therefore he went And humbly joined him to the weaker part, Fanatic named, and fool, yet well content So he could be the nearer to G.o.d's heart, And feel its solemn pulses sending blood Through all the widespread veins of endless good.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE PATRIOT.

AN OLD STORY.

It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad; The house roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church spires flamed, such flags they had A year ago on this very day.

The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowd and cries.

Had I said, "Good folk, mere noise repels-- But give me your sun from yonder skies!"

They had answered, "And afterward, what else?"

Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun To give it my loving friends to keep!

Naught man could do, have I left undone: And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run.

There's n.o.body on the house tops now-- Just a palsied few at the windows set; For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles' Gate--or, better yet, By the very scaffold's foot, I trow.

I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind; And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year's misdeeds.

Thus I entered, and thus I go!

In triumphs, people have dropped down dead.

"Paid by the world, what dost thou owe Me?"--G.o.d might question; now instead, 'Tis G.o.d shall repay: I am safer so.

ROBERT BROWNING.

"BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN."

Oh, deem not they are blest alone Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep: The Power who pities man, has shown A blessing for the eyes that weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again The lids that overflow with tears; And weary hours of woe and pain Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night; And grief may bide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier Dost shed the bitter drops like rain, Hope that a brighter, happier sphere Will give him to thy arms again.

Nor let the good man's trust depart, Though life its common gifts deny,-- Though with a pierced and bleeding heart And spurned of men, he goes to die.

For G.o.d hath marked each sorrowing day And numbered every secret tear, And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay For all his children suffer here.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

THE DEATHBED.

We watched her breathing thro' the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied-- We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.