I questioned not her peace with God, For I've seen men who meant not ill While agonizing judgments hung I could but say, with faltering voice "And though thou walk the shadowy vale She knew it well, and knew yet more My deepest hope, though unexprest, The hope that God's appointed sleep But heightens ravishment with rest. My children, living flowers, shall come And strew with seed this grave of thine, And bid the blushing growths of Spring Thy dreary painted cross entwine. Thus Faith, cast out of barren creeds, Shall rest in emblems of her own; Beauty still springing from Decay, The cross-wood budding to the crown. BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword; His truth is marching on. I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on." He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat: O, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. H. D. THOREAU. [U. s. A.] INSPIRATION. IF with light head erect I sing, source. But if with bended neck I grope, Making my soul accomplice there They have builded him an altar in the I hearing get, who had but ears, evening dews and damps; And sight, who had but eyes before; That was the grandest funeral But no man heard the trampling, | And had he not high honor, - To lie in state while angels wait And the dark rock-pines like tossing And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek Over his bier to wave, Grows into the great sun. Noiselessly as the spring-time And God's own hand, in that lonely land, To lay him in the grave? In that strange grave without a name Shall break again, O wondrous thought! Silently down from the mountain's crown And stand with glory wrapt around The great procession swept. On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life O lonely grave in Moab's land! O dark Beth-Peor's hill! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, God hath his mysteries of grace, He hides them deep, like the hidden Of him he loved so well. E. H. SEARS. [U. S. A.] CHRISTMAS HYMN. CALM on the listening ear of night Her silver-mantled plains! Celestial choirs, from courts above, Shed sacred glories there; The answering hills of Palestine And greet, from all their holy heights, On the blue depths of Galilee There comes a holier calm, And Sharon waves, in solemn praise, men, Who once appeared in humblest guise below, Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain, Aud call thy brethren forth from want and woe, We look to thee! thy truth is still the Light Which guides the nations, groping on their way, Stumbling and falling in disastrous night, Yet hoping ever for the perfect day. Yes; thou art still the Life, thou art the The holiest know; Light, Life, the And they who dearest hope and deepest pray Toil by the Light, Life, Way, which thou hast given. I do the little I can do, And leave the rest to thee. I have no cares, O blessed Will! 239 And when it seems no chance or change Man's weakness waiting upon God Its end can never miss, He always wins who sides with God, Ill that he blesses is our good, And unblest good is ill; And all is right that seems most wrong, If it be his sweet Will! THE RIGHT MUST WIN. O, IT is hard to work for God, And not sometimes lose heart! He hides himself so wondrously, As though there were no God; He is least seen when all the powers Of ill are most abroad. Or he deserts us at the hour The fight is all but lost; FREDERIC WILLIAM FABER. And seems to leave us to ourselves [1815-1863.] THE WILL OF GOD. I WORSHIP thee, sweet Will of God! To love thee more and more. When obstacles and trials seem Like prison-walls to be, Just when we need him most. Ill masters good, good seems to change To ill with greatest ease; And, worst of all, the good with good Is at cross-purposes. Ah! God is other than we think; His ways are far above, Far beyond reason's height, and reached Only by childlike love. |