Poems of Progress

O Sacred Presence! Life Divine!
We rear for thee no gilded shrine—
Unfashioned by the hand of Art,
Thy temple is the child-like heart.
No tearful eye, no bended knee,
No servile speech we bring to Thee;
For thy great love tunes every voice,
And makes each trusting soul rejoice.
Then strike your lyres,
Ye angel choirs!
The sound prolong,
O white-robed throng!
Till every creature joins the song.

We will not mock Thy holy name
With titles high, of empty fame,
For Thou, with all Thy works and ways,
Art far beyond our feeble praise;
But freely as the birds that sing,
The soul’s spontaneous gift we bring,
And like the fragrance of the flowers,
We consecrate to Thee our powers.
Then strike your lyres,
Ye angel choirs!
The sound prolong,
O white-robed throng!
Till every creature joins the song.

All souls in circling orbits run,
Around Thee as their central sun;
And as the planets roll and burn,
To Thee, O Lord! for light we turn.
Nor Life, nor Death, nor Time, nor Space,
Shall rob us of our name or place,
But we shall love Thee, and adore
Through endless ages—Evermore!
Then strike your lyres,
Ye angel choirs!
The sound prolong,
O white-robed throng!
Till every creature joins the song.

GONE HOME.

They called her, from the better land,
And one bright spirit led the way;
She saw the angel’s beckoning hand,
And felt she could no longer stay.
O white-robed Peace! thy gentle cross
Gave to her trusting heart no pain,
And that which is our earthly loss,
Is unto her, eternal gain.

“God is a Spirit”—we can trust
That she has left earth’s shadows dim,
And laid aside her earthly dust,
To grow in likeness unto Him.
“God is a Spirit”—“God is Love”—
And closely folded to his breast,
Her spirit, like a tender dove,
Shall in His love securely rest.

O, it was meet that flower-wreathed Spring,
With forms of living beauty rife,
Should see the perfect blossoming
Of this bright spirit into life.
The flowers will bloom upon her grave,
The holy stars look down at night,
But where bright palms immortal wave,
She will rejoice in cloudless light.

O, sweeter than the breath of flowers,
Or dews that summer roses weep,
Deep in these loving hearts of ours
Her blesséd memory we will keep.
Bright spirit, let thy light be given,
With tender and celestial ray,
Beaming like some pure star from heaven,
To guide us in our earthly way.

Clad in thine immortality,
E’en now we hear thee joyful sing—
“O Grave, where is thy victory!
O Death, where is thy sting!”
Pass on, sweet spirit, to increase
In every bright, celestial grace,
Till in the land of love and peace,
We meet thee, dear one, face to face.

THE CRY OF THE DESOLATE.

“It is only with Renunciation, that life, properly speaking, can be said to begin.”

“Light dawns upon me! There is in man a Higher than love of Happiness; he can do without happiness, and instead thereof find Blessedness.”—Thos. Carlyle.

O God of the Eagle and Lion!
Thy strength to my being impart;
Not for wings, nor for sinews of iron,
I ask, but thy life in my heart.
I grope in the dark, and seek blindly
The hand that shall lead to the light;
There is no one to answer me kindly—
There is no one to teach me the right.

An arrow from Fate’s deadly quiver
Seemed carelessly sped, at no mark,
But with anguish I tremble and shiver,
For it wounded my soul in the dark.
I have suffered in silence unbroken,
I have stanched the red wound with my hand;
O God! was the arrow Thy token?
Did Fate but obey Thy command?

There is no one on earth that can render
My heart its full measure of love;
There is no one on earth that is tender
And true as the angels above.
Take me up to Thy bosom, O strong One!
O wise One! I am not afraid!
For I know that Thou never wilt wrong one
Of those whom Thy wisdom hath made.

These vestments of flesh that oppress us,
Have stifled the soul’s vital breath,
Like the torturing garment of Nessus,[1]
We part from them only in death.
O Thou marvelous Soul of Existence!
Are we doomed by the might of Thy will,
Unchanged by our feeble resistance,
Thy fathomless law to fulfill?

O Fashioner! Thou who hast guided
The tempest of atoms at strife,
Hath not Thy compassion provided
A fountain of strength for each life?

And doth not Time’s changing phantasma
Still move at Thy sovereign control,
As when in Earth’s cherishing plasma
Was planted the germ of the soul?

Then lead me, for O, I am lonely!
And love me, for I am Thine own—
Yes, Great One and True One! Thine only—
And with Thee am never alone.
O God of the Eagle and Lion!
Thy strength to my being impart;
Not for wings, nor for sinews of iron
I ask—but Thy life in my heart.

THE SPIRIT-MOTHER.

Through our lives’ mysterious changes,
Through the sorrow-haunted years,
Runs a law of Compensation
For our sufferings and our tears.
And the soul that reasons rightly,
All its sad complaining stills,
Till it learns that meek submission,
Where it wishes not nor wills.

Thus, in Sorrow’s fiery furnace
Was a faithful mother tried,
Till, through Love’s divinest uses,
All her soul was purified.
O ye sorrow-stricken mothers!
Ye whose weakness feeds your pain!
Listen to her simple story—
Listen! and be strong again.

“It was sunset—and the day-dream
Of my life was almost o’er;
For my spirit-bark was drifting
Slowly, slowly from the shore.
Dimly could I see the sunlight
Through my vine-wreathed window shine,
Faintly could I feel the pressure
Of a strong hand clasping mine.

“But anew the life-tide started,
At my infant’s feeble cry;
Back my spirit turned in anguish,
And I felt I could not die.
Deeper, darker fell the shadows,
Like the midnight’s sable pall,
And that infant cry grew fainter—
Fainter—fainter—that was all!

“Suddenly I heard sweet voices
Mingling in a tender strain—
All my mortal weakness left me,
All my anguish and my pain.
On my forehead fell the glory
Of the bright, celestial morn,
I was of the earth no longer,
For my spirit was re-born.

“Pure, sweet faces bent above me,
Tenderly they gazed and smiled,
And my Angel-Mother whispered,
‘Welcome, welcome home, my child!’
Then, in one melodious chorus,
Sang the radiant angel band,
‘Welcome! O thou weary pilgrim!
Welcome to the Spirit Land!’

“But, o’er all those glad rejoicings,
Rose again my infant’s cry,
For my heart had borne the echo
Through the portals of the sky.
And I murmured, O ye bright ones!
Still my earthly home is dear;
Vain are all your songs of welcome,
For I am not happy here.

“Strike your harps, ye white-robed Angels!
But your music makes me wild,
For my heart is with my treasure,
Heaven is only with my child!
Let me go, and whisper comfort
To my little mourning dove—
Life is cold; O, let me shield him
With a mother’s tenderest love!

“Swift there came a pure, white angel,
Through the glory, shining far,
In her hand she bore a lily,
On her forehead beamed a star.
Very beautiful and tender
Was the love-light in her eyes,
Like the sunny smile of Summer,
Beaming in the azure skies.

“And she said, ‘O, mourning sister!
Lo! thy prayer of love is heard,
For the boundless Heart of Being
By thine earnest cry is stirred.
Heaven is life’s divinest freedom,
And no mandate bids thee stay;
Go, and as a star of duty,
Guide thy loved one on his way.

“‘Life is full of holy uses,
If but rightly understood,
And its evils and abuses
May be stepping-stones to good.
Never seek to weakly shield him,
Or his destiny control,
For the wealth that grief shall yield him,
Is the birthright of his soul.’

“Musing deeply on her meaning,
Turned I from the heavenly shore,
And on love’s swift wings descending,
Sought my earthly home once more.
There my widowed, childless sister
Sat with meek and quiet grace,
With her heart’s great, wasting sorrow,
Written on her pale, sweet face.

“And she sang in dreamy murmurs,
Bending o’er my Willie’s head,
‘Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed.’
Soft I whispered, ‘Dearest sister—
Darling Willie—I am here.’
Sweetly smiled the sleeping infant,
And the singer dropped a tear.

“Thenceforth was my soul united
To that life more dear than mine;
And I prayed for strength to guide me,
From the source of Life Divine.
Slowly did I see the meaning
In life’s purposes concealed—
All the uses of temptation,
Sin and sorrow, stood revealed.

“Through my loved one’s youth and manhood,
In the hour of sinful strife,
I could see the nobler issues,
And the grand design of life.
I could see that he was guided
By a mightier hand than mine,
And a mother’s love was weakness,
By the side of Love Divine.

“Then I did not seek to shield him,
Or his destiny control—
Life, with all its varied changes,
Was the teacher of his soul.
Nay, I did not strive to alter
What I could not make nor mend,
For the love so full of wisdom,
Could be trusted to the end.

“I could give him strength and courage,
From the treasures of my love—
I could lead his aspirations
To the holy heart above;
I could warn him in temptation,
That he might not blindly fall;
I could wait with faith and patience
For his triumph—that was all.

“’Mid the rush and roar of battle,
In the carnival of death,
When the air grew hot and heavy,
With the cannon’s fiery breath,
First and foremost with the bravest,
Who had heard their country’s call,
With the stars and stripes above him,
Did my darling Willie fall.

“Onward—onward rushed his comrades,
With a wild, defiant cry,
As they charged upon the foeman,
Leaving him alone to die.
Faint he murmured, ‘O, my mother!
Angel mother! art thou near?’
And he caught the whispered answer,
‘Darling Willie, I am here!

“‘O, my loved one! my true-hearted!
Soon your anguish will be o’er;
Then, in heaven’s eternal sunshine,
We shall dwell for evermore.’
Swiftly o’er his pallid features,
Gleams of heavenly brightness passed,
And my Willie’s noble spirit
Met me face to face at last.

“In a soldier’s grave they laid him,
Underneath the sheltering pines,
Where the breezes made sweet music,
Through the gently swaying vines.
Now in heaven, our souls united,
All their aspirations blend,
And my spirit’s holy mission
Thus hath found a joyful end.”

Through our lives’ mysterious changes,
Through the sorrow-haunted years,
Runs a law of Compensation
For our sufferings and our tears;
And the soul that reasons rightly,
All its sad complaining stills,
Till it gains that calm condition,
Where it wishes not, nor wills.

FACE THE SUNSHINE.

O, a morbid fancy had David Bell,
That over his path like a wizard spell,
A great, black shadow forever fell.
He turned his back on the sun’s clear ray;
From a singing bird, or a child at play,
With a nervous shudder he shrank away;
And he shook his head,
As he gloomily said,
“This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

In the solemn shade of the forest wide,
Or in the churchyard at eventide,
Like a gloomy ghost he was seen to glide.
There, nursing his fancies all alone,
He would sit him down with a dismal moan,
In the dewy grass by some moss-grown stone,
And shake his head,
As he gloomily said,
“This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

Never a nod or a smile would greet
Old David Bell, in the field or street,
From the sturdy yeoman he chanced to meet.
The children fled from his path away,
And the good wives whispered, “Alack a day!
The Devil hath led his soul astray!”
For he ever said,
As he shook his head,
“This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

One Sabbath morn when the air was balm,
And the green earth smiled with a heavenly charm,
In the peaceful hush, in the holy calm,
Old David Bell, with a new intent,
Across the bridge o’er the mill-stream went,
And his steps towards the village chapel bent.
For he said, “I will try
From this fiend to fly,
And escape the shadow before I die!”

But all along on the sandy road,
His great, gaunt shadow before him strode,
Like a fiend escaped from its dark abode.
Sometimes it crouched in an angle small,
Then up it leapt, like a giant tall;
And as David noticed these changes all,
He shook his head,
As he gloomily said,
“This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

At length, he came to the chapel door,
But the great, gaunt shadow went in before,
Leaping and dancing along the floor.
Old David mournfully turned away—
He could not enter to praise and pray,
While that impish shadow before him lay.
And he shook his head,
As he gloomily said,
“This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

He wandered away, not heeding where,
To a lonely grave, where a willow fair
Whispered sweet words to the summer air.
But he saw not the long, lithe branches wave,
For only a weary look he gave
At his own black shadow, across the grave.
And he shook his head,
As he gloomily said,
“This shadow will haunt me till I am dead!”

“Nay, nay, good David!” a voice replied.
He turned him quickly, and close by his side
Stood old Goody Gay, known far and wide.
Though Time had stolen her bloom away,
And changed the gold of her locks to gray,
Her face was bright as the summer day.
“Don’t shake your head!”
She cheerfully said,
“But face the sunshine, good man, instead!”

With a hopeless look, and a sigh profound,
He sat himself down by the grassy mound,
Where the bright-eyed daisies grew thick around.
“Nay, leave me,” he said, in a sullen tone,
“For I and the shadow would be alone;
No balm of healing for me is known.
It will be as I said,
This thing that I dread,
This shadow, will haunt me till I am dead.”

The good dame answered, “O, David Bell!
Why will ye be ringing your own heart’s knell?
For I tell ye this, that I know full well—
The blesséd Father, who loves us all,
Who notices even a sparrow’s fall,
Is never deaf to His children’s call;
His love is our light
In the darkest night:
Just turn to that sunshine, and all is right.”

“In this very grave did I lay to rest,
With his pale hands folded upon his breast,
The one of all others I loved the best.
And then, though my heart in its anguish yearned,
My face to the sunshine I ever turned,
And thus a great lesson of life I learned;
Which you, too, will find,
If you will but mind,
That thus, all life’s shadows are cast behind.”

He gazed in her earnest face as she spoke,
And then a light o’er his features broke,
As if new life in his soul awoke.
There was something so bright in that summer day,
And the cheerful language of Goody Gay,
That his morbid fancies were charmed away;
And he said, “I will try,
For it may be, that I
Shall escape this shadow before I die.”

He turned him around on the grassy knoll,
And flush o’er his forehead and into his soul
The warmth of the gladdening sunshine stole.
The good dame lifted a willow bough,
And gently laid her hand on his brow—
“Say, David, where is your shadow now?
The shadow has fled,
But ye are not dead.
Look up to the sunshine, man! Hold up your head!”

Still athwart the grave did the shadow lay,
But the face of David was turned away,
And lifted up to the sun’s clear ray.
Then the light of truth on his spirit fell,
Breaking forever the magic spell
That darkened the vision of David Bell.
His trial was past;
And the shadow, at last,
Behind him there, on the grave was cast.

O, ye! who toil o’er your earthly way,
With your faces turned from the truth’s clear ray,
Consider the counsel of Goody Gay.
Though shadows should haunt you as black as night,
Be faithful and firm to your highest light,
And face the sunshine with all of your might!
Keep a cheerful mind,
And at length you will find
That the grave, and life’s shadows, all lie behind.

HESTER VAUGHN.

[Hester Vaughn was tried for the crime of infanticide. She was convicted, and sentence of death passed upon her. Subsequently, by the efforts of benevolent individuals, and the pressure of public opinion, her sentence was commuted to imprisonment for life. Susan A. Smith, M. D., of Philadelphia, who visited her in prison, and was chiefly instrumental in obtaining her reprieve, gives the following statement in relation to the circumstances attendant upon her alleged crime: “She was deserted by her husband, who knew she had not a relative in America. She rented a third-story room in this city (Philadelphia), from a German family, who understood very little English. She furnished this room, found herself in food and fuel for three months on twenty dollars. She was taken sick in this room at midnight, on the 6th of February, and lingered until Saturday morning, the 8th, when her child was born. She told me she was nearly frozen, and fainted or went to sleep for a long time. Through all this period of agony she was alone, without nourishment or fire, with her door unfastened. It has been asserted that she confessed her guilt. I can solemnly say in the presence of Almighty God that she never confessed guilt to me, and stoutly affirms that no such word ever passed her lips.”]

Now by the common weal and woe,
Uniting each with all;
And by the snares we may not know,
Until we blindly fall—
Let every heart by sorrow tried,
Let every woman born,
Feel that her cause stands side by side
With that of Hester Vaughn.

A woman, famished for the love
All hearts so deeply crave,
Whose only hope was Heaven above,
To succor and to save;
With only want, and woe, and care,
To greet her child unborn;
A weary burden, hard to bear,
Was life to Hester Vaughn.

No friend, no food, no fire, no light,
And face to face with death,
She struggled through the weary night,
With anguish in each breath;
Till that frail life which shared her own,
Had perished ere the morn,
And left her to the hearts of stone,
That judged poor Hester Vaughn.

Who was it, that refused to draw
A lesson from the time,
And in the name of human law,
Pronounced her grief a crime?
Was her accuser, cold and stern,
A man of woman born,
Whose debt to woman could not earn
Some grace for Hester Vaughn?

The word of judgment is not sure,
To wealth and station high,
But that she was alone and poor,
Was she condemned to die.
O God of justice! for whose grace
The servile worldlings fawn,
Has not thy love a hiding-place
For such as Hester Vaughn?

Come to the bar of Judgment, come,
Ye favored ones of earth,
And let your haughty lips be dumb,
So boastful of your worth.
What virtues, or what noble deeds,
Your faithless lives adorn,
That thus by laws, or lifeless creeds,
You sentence Hester Vaughn?

What countless crimes, what guilt untold,
What depths of sin and shame,
Are gilded by your lying gold,
Or hidden by a name!
Ye pave your social hells with skulls
Of Infants yet unborn;
Then virtuous wrath suspicion lulls,
And crushes Hester Vaughn.

Ye, who your secret sins confess,
Before the Eternal Throne—
Adulterer and Adulteress!
What mercy have ye shown?
For place and power, for gems and gold,
Ye give your souls in pawn,
But Heaven’s fair gates will first unfold
To such as Hester Vaughn.

The “mills of God that grind so slow,”
Will “grind exceeding small;”
And time, at length, will clearly show
The want or worth of all.
Distinctions will not always be
With such precision drawn,
Between the proud of high degree
And such as Hester Vaughn.

Through Moyamensing’s prison bars,[2]
She counts each weary day,
Or ’neath the calmly watching stars,
She wakes to weep and pray.
Thank God! for her in heaven above,
A brighter day will dawn,
And those who judge all hearts in love,
Will welcome Hester Vaughn.

SONG OF THE SPIRIT CHILDREN.

Let us sing the praise of Love—
Holy Spirit! Heavenly Dove!
Bringing on its blesséd wings
Life to all created things.
Wheresoe’er its light is shed,
Sorrow lifts its drooping head,
And the tears of grief that start
Turn to sunshine in the heart.
Love divine,
All things are thine!
Every creature seeks thy shrine.
And thy boundless blessings fall
With an equal love on all.

Let us sing the praise of Love,
Everywhere—around, above;
Watching with its starry eyes,
From the blue of boundless skies,
Heeding when the lowly call,
Mindful of a sparrow’s fall,
Writing on the flower-wreathed sod,
“God is love, and love is God.”
Love divine,
All things are thine!
Every creature seeks thy shrine!
And thy boundless blessings fall
With an equal love on all.

Let us sing the praise of Love—
Fairest of all things above.
How its blesséd sunshine lies
In the light of loving eyes!
And when words are all too weak,
How its deeds of mercy speak!
They who learn to love aright,
Pass from darkness into light.
Love divine,
All things are thine!
Every creature seeks thy shrine!
And thy boundless blessings fall
With an equal love on all.

Let us sing the praise of Love—
Shepherd of the lambs above,
Nothing can forbid, that we
Come in trusting love to Thee.
Fold us closely to Thy heart,
Make us of Thyself a part;
All the heaven our souls have known,
We have found in Thee alone.
Love divine,
All things are thine!
Every creature seeks thy shrine!
And thy boundless blessings fall
With an equal love on all.

HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP.

Night drops her mantle from the skies,
And from her home of peace above,
She watches with her starry eyes,
As with a tender mother’s love.
The sounds of toil and strife are stilled,
And in the silence calm and deep,
The word of promise is fulfilled—
“He giveth his belovéd sleep.”

The weary soul oppressed with care,
The young, the old, the strong, the weak,
The rich, the poor, the brave, the fair,
Alike the common blessing seek.
The child sleeps on its mother’s breast,
The broken-hearted cease to weep,
For answering to the prayer for rest,
“He giveth his belovéd sleep.”

Beneath the churchyard’s sod there lies
Full many a weary form at rest,
With death’s calm slumber in the eyes,
And pale hands folded on the breast.
O ye who bend above the sod,
And tears of silent anguish weep,
Lean with a firmer faith on God—
“He giveth his belovéd sleep,”—

Sleep for the eye whose light has fled,
Sleep for the weary heart and hand;
But not the sleep of those who tread
The green hills of “the better land.”
No restless nights of pain are theirs,
No weary watch for morn they keep,
But through release from mortal cares,
“He giveth his belovéd sleep.”

Theirs is that sweet, exceeding peace,
Where love makes every duty blest,
Where anxious cares and longings cease,
And labor in itself is rest.
O, we will trust the power above
The treasures of our hearts to keep,
Safe folded in his arms of love,
“He giveth our belovéd sleep.”

THE FAMISHED HEART.

The following poem was given at the conclusion of a lecture upon “Jesus the Medium, and Socrates the Philosopher.”

“A new commandment I give unto you, that ye love one another.”
John xiii. 34.

O ye! upon whose favored shrine
Love hath a rich libation poured—
Who, even as a thing divine,
Are fondly worshiped and adored—
Spare but one kindly thought for those
Who stand in loneliness apart,
Worn by that weariest of woes,
The hopeless hunger of the heart.

As deadly as the dagger’s thrust,
Envenomed as a serpent’s fangs,
It eats like slow, corroding rust,
And lengthens out in lingering pangs.
Think not with careless jest or smile
To pass this wasting sorrow by;
For countless hearts attest the while,
That thus, alas! too many die.

I once was of the earth like you;
I loved, and hoped, and feared as well,
But on my heart the kindly dew
Of fond affection never fell.
An orphan in my early years,
Mine was a hard and cheerless lot,
For I was doomed, with prayers and tears,
To seek for love and find it not.

A bird upon a stormy sea,
A lamb without a sheltering fold,
A vine with no supporting tree,
A blossom blighted by the cold,—
The warmth of kindly atmospheres
Gave to my life no quickened start;
Love’s sunshine melted not to tears
The drifted sorrows of my heart.

Fresh from the innocence of youth,
I entered on the rude world’s strife,
But evermore this venomed tooth
Was gnawing at the root of life.
O, I was but a thing of dust!
And what should save me from my fall?
The tempter whispered, “Lawless lust
Is better than no love at all!”

Then with a flinty face I turned,
Defiant of the social ban,
For my poor, famished nature yearned
For e’en such sympathy from man.
But no! I heard, as from above,
This truth that many learn too late,
That man’s unhallowed, selfish love,
Is far more cruel than his hate.

I shrank from Passion’s burning breath,
Those sensuous lips and eyes of flame,
And from that furnace fire of death
My outraged heart unblemished came.
But darker, deeper grew the night
That closed around my suffering soul,
And Fate’s black billows, flecked with white,
O’er all my being seemed to roll.

At length, within a maniac’s cell,
I moaned and muttered day by day,
Till, like a loathsome thing, I fell
From human consciousness away.
That nightmare dream of life was brief,
For horror choked my struggling breath,
And my poor heart, with love and grief,
Was famished even unto death.

Unconscious of my spirit’s change,
Long did I linger near the earth,
Until a being, kind, though strange,
Recalled me to my conscious worth.
From thence I seemed to be transformed,
Renewed as by redeeming grace,
And then my soul the purpose formed—
To seek “the Saviour of the race.”

My aspirations served to bear
My earnest spirit swift away,
Until a heaven, serene and fair,
My onward progress seemed to stay.
I came where two immortals trod,
In friendly converse, side by side;
“O, lead me to the Son of God,
That I may worship him!” I cried.

One turned—and from his aspect mild
A benison of love was shed—
“O, say, whom do you seek, dear child?
We all are sons of God,” he said.
“Nay, nay!” I cried, “not such I mean!
But him who died on Calvary—
The humble-hearted Nazarene!”
He meekly answered, “I am he!”

“O, then, as sinful Mary knelt,
In tearful sorrow, at thy feet,
So does my icy nature melt,
And her sweet reverence I repeat.
O God! O Christ! O Living All!
‘Thou art the Life, the Truth, the Way’;
Lo! at thy feet I humbly fall—
Cast not my sinful soul away!”

“Poor bleeding heart! poor wounded dove!”
In tones of gentleness, he said:
“How hast thou famished for that love
Which is indeed ‘the living bread.’
Kneel not to me; the Power Divine,
Than I, is greater, mightier far;
His glories lesser lights outshine,
As noonday hides the brightest star.”

“You died for all the world!” I cried,
“And therefore do I bend the knee.”
“My friend,”[3] he answered, “at my side,
Long ere I suffered, died for me.
He drained for man the poisoned cup,
I gave my body to the cross,
But when the sum is counted up,
Great is our gain, and small our loss.

“Not thus would I be deified,
Or claim the homage that men pay;
But he who takes me for his guide,
Makes me his Life, his Truth, his Way.
O, heaven shall not descend to man,
Nor man ascend to heaven above,
Till he shall see Salvation’s plan
Is written in the law of love.

“Dear sister! let your fears depart—
I have no power to bid you live,
But I can feed your famished heart
Upon the love I freely give.
Mine are the hearts that men condemn,
Or crush in their ambitious strife,
And through my love I am to them
‘The Resurrection and the Life.’”

He raised me gently from his feet,
And laid my head upon his breast.
O God! how calm, how pure and sweet,
How more than peaceful was that rest!
I feel that blesséd presence yet—
It fills me with a joy serene—
Nor have I hungered since I met
The gentle-hearted Nazarene.

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