Thou Christ of mine, Thy gracious ear low bending Through these glad New Year days, To catch the countless prayers to heaven ascending - For e'en hard hearts do raise Some secret wish for fame, or gold, or power, Or freedom from all care - Dear, patient Christ, who listeneth hour on hour, Hear now a Christian's prayer.
Let this young year that, silent, walks beside me, Be as a means of grace To lead me up, no matter what betide me, Nearer the Master's face.
If it need be that ere I reach the Fountain Where living waters play, My feet should bleed from sharp stones on the mountain, Then cast them in my way.
If my vain soul needs blows and bitter losses To shape it for Thy crown, Then bruise it, burn it, burden it with crosses, With sorrows bear it down.
Do what Thou wilt to mould me to Thy pleasure, And if I should complain, Heap full of anguish yet another measure Until I smile at pain.
Send dangers--deaths! but tell me how to dare them; Enfold me in Thy care.
Send trials, tears! but give me strength to bear them - This is a Christian's prayer.
IN THE NIGHT
Sometimes at night, when I sit and write, I hear the strangest things, - As my brain grows hot with burning thought, That struggles for form and wings, I can hear the beat of my swift blood's feet, As it speeds with a rush and a whir From heart to brain and back again, Like a race-horse under the spur.
With my soul's fine ear I listen and hear The tender Silence speak, As it leans on the breast of Night to rest, And presses his dusky cheek.
And the darkness turns in its sleep, and yearns For something that is kin; And I hear the hiss of a scorching kiss, As it folds and fondles Sin.
In its hurrying race through leagues of space, I can hear the Earth catch breath, As it heaves and moans, and shudders and groans, And longs for the rest of Death.
And high and far, from a distant star, Whose name is unknown to me, I hear a voice that says, "Rejoice, For I keep ward o'er thee!"
Oh, sweet and strange are the sounds that range Through the chambers of the night; And the watcher who waits by the dim, dark gates May hear, if he lists aright.
GOD'S MEASURE
God measures souls by their capacity For entertaining his best Angel, Love.
Who loveth most is nearest kin to God, Who is all Love, or Nothing.
He who sits And looks out on the palpitating world, And feels his heart swell within him large enough To hold all men within it, he is near His great Creator's standard, though he dwells Outside the pale of churches, and knows not A feast-day from a fast-day, or a line Of Scripture even. What God wants of us Is that outreaching bigness that ignores All littleness of aims, or loves, or creeds, And clasps all Earth and Heaven in its embrace.
A MARCH SNOW
Let the old snow be covered with the new:
The trampled snow, so soiled, and stained, and sodden.
Let it be hidden wholly from our view By pure white flakes, all trackless and untrodden.
When Winter dies, low at the sweet Spring's feet, Let him be mantled in a clean, white sheet.
Let the old life be covered by the new:
The old past life so full of sad mistakes, Let it be wholly hidden from the view By deeds as white and silent as snow-flakes.
Ere this earth life melts in the eternal Spring Let the white mantle of repentance fling Soft drapery about it, fold on fold, Even as the new snow covers up the old.
PHILOSOPHY
At morn the wise man walked abroad, Proud with the learning of great fools.
He laughed and said, "There is no God - 'Tis force creates, 'tis reason rules."
Meek with the wisdom of great faith, At night he knelt while angels smiled, And wept and cried with anguished breath, "Jehovah, GOD, save Thou my child."
"CARLOS"
Last night I knelt low at my lady's feet.
One soft, caressing hand played with my hair, And one I kissed and fondled. Kneeling there, I deemed my meed of happiness complete.
She was so fair, so full of witching wiles - Of fascinating tricks of mouth and eye;
So womanly withal, but not too shy - And all my heaven was compassed by her smiles.
Her soft touch on my cheek and forehead sent, Like little arrows, thrills of tenderness Through all my frame. I trembled with excess Of love, and sighed the sigh of great content.
When any mortal dares to so rejoice, I think a jealous Heaven, bending low, Reaches a stern hand forth and deals a blow.
Sweet through the dusk I heard my lady's voice.
"My love!" she sighed, "my Carlos!" even now I feel the perfumed zephyr of her breath Bearing to me those words of living death, And starting out the cold drops on my brow.
For I am PAUL--not Carlos! Who is he That, in the supreme hour of love's delight, Veiled by the shadows of the falling night, She should breathe low his name, forgetting me?
I will not ask her! 'twere a fruitless task, For, woman-like, she would make me believe Some well-told tale; and sigh, and seem to grieve, And call me cruel. Nay, I will not ask.
But this man Carlos, whosoe'er he be, Has turned my cup of nectar into gall, Since I know he has claimed some one or all Of these delights my lady grants to me.
He must have knelt and kissed her, in some sad And tender twilight, when the day grew dim.
How else could I remind her so of him?
Why, reveries like these have made men mad!
He must have felt her soft hand on his brow.
If Heaven were shocked at such presumptuous wrongs, And plunged him in the grave, where he belongs, STILL SHE REMEMBERS, though she loves me now.
And if he lives, and meets me to his cost, Why, what avails it? I must hear and see That curst name "Carlos" always haunting me - So has another Paradise been lost.
THE TWO GLASSES
There sat two glasses filled to the brim, On a rich man's table, rim to rim.
One was ruddy and red as blood, And one was clear as the crystal flood.
Said the glass of wine to his paler brother, "Let us tell tales of the past to each other; I can tell of a banquet, and revel, and mirth, Where I was king, for I ruled in might; For the proudest and grandest souls on earth Fell under my touch, as though struck with blight.
From the heads of kings I have torn the crown; From the heights of fame I have hurled men down.
