Beside the Moldau's rushing stream, With the wan moon overhead, White as the sea-fog, landward bound, No other voice nor sound was there, But when the old cathedral bell Proclaimed the morning prayer, Down the broad valley fast and far Up rose the glorious morning star, I have read, in the marvelous heart of man, That an army of Phantoms vast and wan Beleaguer the human soul. Encamped beside Life's rushing stream, Upon its midnight battle-ground No other voice nor sound is there, And when the solemn and deep church-bell Entreats the soul to pray, The midnight phantoms feel the spell, The shadows sweep away. Down the broad Vale of Tears afar The spectral camp is fled; Faith shineth as a morning star, Our ghastly fears are dead. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882] A DOUBTING HEART WHERE are the swallows fled? Frozen and dead Perchance upon some bleak and stormy shore. Far over purple seas They wait, in sunny ease, The balmy southern breeze, To bring them to their northern homes once more. Why must the flowers die? Prisoned they lie In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain. They only sleep below The soft white ermine snow While winter winds shall blow, To breathe and smile upon you soon again. The sun has hid its rays These many days; Will dreary hours never leave the earth? The stormy clouds on high Veil the same sunny sky That soon (for spring is nigh), Shall wake the summer into golden mirth. Fair hope is dead, and light Is quenched in night. What sound can break the silence of despair? The sky is overcast, Yet stars shall rise at last, Brighter for darkness past, And angels' silver voices stir the air. Adelaide Anne Procter [1825-1864] VAIN VIRTUES From "The House of Life " WHAT is the sorriest thing that enters Hell? EVOLUTION Out of the dusk a shadow, Then, a spark; Out of the cloud a silence, Then, a lark; Out of the heart a rapture, Then, a pain; Out of the dead, cold ashes, Life again. John Banister Tabb [1845-1909] EACH IN HIS OWN TONGUE A FIRE-MIST and a planet,— A crystal and a cell, A jellyfish and a saurian, And caves where the cave-men dwell; Then a sense of law and beauty, And a face turned from the clod,Some call it Evolution, And others call it God. A haze on the far horizon, The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields, Like tides on a crescent sea-beach, Into our hearts high yearnings Come from the mystic ocean, Some of us call it Longing, And others call it God. A picket frozen on duty, A mother starved for her brood,— Socrates drinking the hemlock, And Jesus on the rood; And millions who, humble and nameless, The straight, hard pathway plod, Some call it Consecration, And others call it God. William Herbert Carruth [1859 INDIRECTION FAIR are the flowers and the children, but their subtle suggestion is fairer; Rare is the roseburst of dawn, but the secret that clasps it is rarer; Sweet the exultance of song, but the strain that precedes it is sweeter; And never was poem yet writ, but the meaning outmastered the meter. Never a daisy that grows, but a mystery guideth the growing; Never a river that flows, but a majesty scepters the flowing; Never a Shakespeare that soared, but a stronger than he did enfold him, Nor ever a prophet foretells, but a mightier seer hath foretold him. Back of the canvas that throbs the painter is hinted and hidden; Into the statue that breathes the soul of the sculptor is bid den; Under the joy that is felt lie the infinite issues of feeling; Crowning the glory revealed is the glory that crowns the revealing. Great are the symbols of being, but that which is symboled is greater; Vast the create and beheld, but vaster the inward creator; Back of the sound broods the silence, back of the gift stands the giving; Back of the hand that receives thrill the sensitive nerves of receiving. Space is as nothing to spirit, the deed is outdone by the doing; The heart of the wooer is warm, but warmer the heart of the wooing; |