Imagens das páginas
PDF
ePub

And still the coffins came,

With their sorrowful trains and slow;
Coffin after coffin still,

A sad and sickening show;
From grief exempt, I never had dreamt,

Of such a World of Woe!
Of the hearts that daily break,

Of the tears that hourly fall,
Of the many, many troubles of life,

That grieve this earthly ball-
Disease and Hunger, and Pain and Want,

But now I drcamt of them all!
For the blind and the cripple were there,

And the babe that pined for bread,
And the houseless man, and the widow poor,

Who begged—to bury the dead;
The naked, alas, that I might have clad,

The famish'd I might have fed !
The sorrow I might have soothed,

And the unregarded tears;
For many a thronging shape was there,

From long-forgotten years,
Aye, even the poor, rejected Moor,

Who raised my childish fears !
Each pleading look, that long ago

I scanned with a heedless eye,
Each face was gazing as plainly there

As when I passed it by:
Woe, woe for me, if the past should be

Thus present when I die!
No need of sulphurous lake,

No need of fiery coal,
But only that crowd of human kind

Who wanted pity and dolem
In cverlasting retrospect-

Will ring my sinful soul!
Alas! I have walk'd through life,

Too heedless where I trod;
Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm,

And fill the burial sod;
Forgetting that even the sparrow falls

Not unmark'd of God.
I drank the richest draughts;

And ate whatever is good
Fish, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit,

Supplied my hungry mood;
But I never remember'd the wretched ones

That starve for want of food !
I dressed as the noble dress,

In cloth of silver and gold,
With silk and satin, and costly furs,

In many an ample fold;
But I never remember'd the naked limbs

That froze with winter's cold.
The wounds I might have heal'dl.

The human sorrow and smart !
And yet it never was in my soul

To play so ill a part:
But evil is wrought by want of Thought,

As well as want of Heart ! "

She clasped her fervent hands

And the tears began to stream,-
Large and bitter and fast they fell,

Remorse was so extreme;
And yet, oh yet, that many a Dame
Would dream the Lady's Dream!

Thomas Hood.
341. CHARITY, Description of.
Blest Charity! the grace long-suffering, kind,
Which envies not, has no self-vaunting mind,
Is not puffed up, makes no unseemly show,
Seeks not her own, to provocation slow,
No evil thinks, in no unrighteous choice
Takes pleasure, doth in truth rejoice, [best,
Hides all things, still believes, and hopes the
All things endures, averse to all contest.
Tongues, knowledge, prophecy, shall sink
At the first glance of beatific ray; [away
Then charity its element shall gain,
And with the God of love eternal reign.

Bp. Ken. 342. CHARITY, Heathen. My friend is shipwreck'd on the Bratian

strand, His riches in the Ionian main are lost; And he himself stands shivering on the

coast, Where, destitute of help, forlorn, and bare, He wearies the deaf gods with fruitless

prayer. Their images, the relics of the wrack, Torn from the naked poop, are tided back By the wild waves, and rudely thrown

ashore, Lie impotent; nor can themselves restore. The vessel sticks and shows her open side, And on her shatter'd mast the mews in triumph ride.

[store, From thy new hope, and from thy growing Now lend assistance, and relieve the poor. Come, do a noble act of charityA pittance of thy land will set him free. Let him not bear the badges of a wrack, Nor beg with a blue table on his back: Nor tell me that thy frowning heir will say, "'Tis mine that wealth thou squander'st thus

away." What is't to thee, if he neglects thy urn, Or without spices lets thy body burn ?

Persius, tr. by John Dryden. 343. CHARITY, Law of. A man once sat with his good wife to eat A hen, of which she was for him the

roaster. A beggar cried, “Some food I do entreat!”

But drove him off the satiated boaster. He thought not of the old proverbial verse, “The full should call the empty to their table."

[curse, Soon through his house came hunger as a

To get a single hen he was not able. From direst poverty he left his wife, And homeless roamed abroad without a

brother;

But she, in order to preserve her life,

Lady, there's not a harp in heaven In marriage gave herself unto another.

But chants its lay to thee;

To thee the immortal crown is given, Again she with her husband sat to eat

For thou art Charity! A hen, which she for him had been a roasting.

346. CHARITY, Trifling, A beggar cried, “I some of it entreat!”

The blessings which the poor and weak can “ Give him the hen !” said he, too meek

scatter for boasting.

Have their own season. 'Tis a little thing As to the beggar with the food she came,

To give a cup of water; yet its draught Behold ! 'twas he to whom she first was Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips, married.

May give a shock of pleasure to the frame She turned in tears, with thoughts that have More exquisite than when nectarian juices no name :

Renew the life of joy in happiest hours. Her spouse in wonder asked why thus she It is a little thing to speak a phrase tarried.

Of common comfort, which by daily use

Has almost lost its sense ; yet on the ear She told him, then, in full and frank reply, of him who thought to die unmourned,

All since the first beggar away was driven. 'twill fall He cried: “Ah God! that first beggar was I; Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye Praised be the mercies of an all-pitying With gentle tears ; relax the knotted hand Heaven!”

To know the bonds of fellowship again.

Thomas N. Tälfourd. “There is a law which orders Fortune's play, And moves the rich and poor upon its

347. OHASTISEMENT, Benefit of.
lever ;

I weep, but do not yield;
I begged of him who begs of me to-day,– I mourn, yet still rebel;
May God have mercy on us both for- My inmost soul seems steeled,
ever!”

Cold and immovable.
Oriental, tr. by W. R. Alger.

The wound is sharp and deep; 344. CHARITY, Publio.

My spirit bleeds within;
This man of half a million

And yet I lie asleep,
Had all these public virtues which you praise :

And still I sin, I sin.
But the poor man rings never at his door; My bruised soul complains
And the old beggar at the public gate,

Of stripes without, within ;
Who, all the summer long, stands hat in

I feel these piercing pains-
hand,

Yet still I sin, I sin.
He knew how vain it was to lift an eye
To that hard face. Yet he was always found O'er me the low cloud hung
Among your ten and twenty-pound subscrib- Its weight of shade and fear;
ers,

Unmoved I passed along,
Your benefactors in the newspapers.

And still my sin is here.
His alms were money put to interest
In the other world, -donations to keep open

Yon massive mountain-peak
A running charity account with Heaven,

The lightning rends at will; Retaining fees against the Last Assizes,

The rock can melt or break-
When, for the trusted talents, strict account

I am unbroken still.
Shall be required from all, and the old Arch-
Lawyer

My sky was once noon-bright,
Plead his own plaintiff. Robert Southey.

My day was calm the while,

I loved the pleasant light, 345. OHARITY, Superiority of

The sunshine's happy smile. Virtue distressed to Faith applied

I said, My God, oh, sure For strength her woes to bear;

This love will kindle mine; But Faith was weak, and turned aside Let but this calm endure, With an half-uttered prayer.

Then all my heart is Thine. Hope o'er the sufferer bent awhile

Alas, I knew it not ! With wan and doubtful look,

The summer flung its gold Shed the faint semblance of a smile,

Of sunshine o'er my lot, And her departure took.

And yet my heart was cold. Virtue despaired-but Charity

Trust me with prosperous days, In that dark hour appeared ;

I said; oh, spare the rod; “Rise, sister, risel Come, dwell with me; Thee and Thy love I'll praise, Lo! see my temples reared.”

My gracious, patient God.

Must I be smitten, Lord ?

Yet Solomon said the wronged shall recure : Are gentler measures vain ?

But Wyatt said true, “The scar doth aye Must I be smitten, Lord ?

endure."

Earl of Surrey. Can nothing save but pain ?

849, CHASTISEMENT, Viows of Thou trustedst me a while; Alas! I was deceived;

Rabia, sick upon her bed,
I revelled in the smile,

By two saints was visited,
Yet to the dust I cleaved.

Holy Malik, Hassan wise,

Men of mark in Moslem eyes. Then the fierce tempest broke,

Hassan says, “Whose prayer is pure I knew from whom it came,

Will God's chastisements endure.”
I read in that sharp stroke

Malik from a deeper sense
A Father's hand and name.

Uttered his experience:

“He who loves his master's choice And yet I did Thee wrong;

Will in chastisement rejoice."
Dark thoughts of Thee came in, - Rabia saw some selfish will
A froward, selfish throng,

In their maxims lingering still,
And I allowed the sin!

And replied, “O men of grace !
I did Thee wrong, my God;

He who sees his Master's face

Will not in his prayer recall
I wronged Thy truth and love,

That he is chastised at all."
I fretted at the rod,

Oriental. Against Thy power I strove.

350. CHASTITY, Appearance of I said, My God, at length, This stony heart remove;

In thy fair brow there's such a legend writ Deny all other strength,

Of chastity, as blinds the adult'rous eye; But give me strength to love.

Not the mountain ice,

Congealed to crystal, is so frosty chaste Come nearer, nearer still;

As thy victorious soul, which conquers man, Let not Thy light depart;

And man's proud tyrant, passion. Bend, break this stubborn will,

John Dryden. Dissolve this iron heart.

351, CHASTITY, Defense of. Less wayward let me be,

So dear to heaven is saintly chastity,
More pliable and mild;

That when a soul is found sincerely so,
In glad simplicity

A thousand liv'ried angels lacquey her,
More like a trustful child.

Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt.

Milton. Less, less, of self each day, And more, my God, of thee;

352. CHASTITY, Maxim of. O keep me in the way, However rough it be.

While thirst of praise and vain desire of

fame Less of the flesh each day,

In ev'ry age is ev'ry woman's aim;
Less of the world and sin;

With courtship pleased, of silly trifles proud, More of Thy Son, I pray,

Fond of a train, and happy in a crowd;
More of Thyself within.

On each proud fop bestowing some kind

glance, Riper and riper now,

Each conquest owing to some loose advance; Each hour let me become,

While vain coquettes affect to be pursued, Less fit for scenes below,

And think they're virtuous, if not grossly More fit for such a home.

lewd: More moulded to Thy will,

Let this great maxim be my virtue's guide:

In part she is to blame who has been tried, Lord, let Thy servant be,

He comes too near who comes to be denied. Higher and higher still,

Lady Montagu. Liker and liker thee.

353, OHASTITY, Violation of. Leave nought that is unmeet;

When lovely woman stoops to folly,
Of all that is mine own

And finds too late that men betray,
Strip me; and so complete

What charms can soothe her melancholy? My training for the throne.

What art can wash her guilt away? Horatius Bonar. 348, CHASTISEMENT, Observation of.

The only art her guilt to cover,

And hide her shame from ev'ry eye, Receive thy scourge by others' chastisement; And give repentance to her lover, For such calling, when it work none amends, And wring his bosom is—to die. Then plagues are sent without advertisement

Oliver Goldsmith

234. CHEERFULNESS Encouraged.

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look
Life, believe, is not a dream

Through fringèd lids to heaven,
So dark as sages say;

And the pale aster in the brook
Oft a little morning rain

Shall see its image given;
Foretells a pleasant day.

The woods shall wear their robes of praise, Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,

The south winds softly sigh,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,

And sweet calm days in golden haze

Melt down the amber sky.
O why lament its fall ?
Rapidly, merrily,

Not less shall manly deed and word
Life's sunny hours fit by,

Rebuke an age of wrong:
Gratefully, cheerily,

The graven flowers that wreathe the sword
Enjoy them as they fly!

Make not the blade less strong. What though Death at times steps in, Enough that blessings undeserved And calls our best away?

Have marked my erring track, What though sorrow seems to win,

That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved,
O'er hope, a heavy sway?

His chastening turned me back;
Yet hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell ;

That more and more a Providence
Still buoyant are her golden wings,

Of love is understood,
Still strong to bear us well.

Making the springs of time and sense
Manfully, fearfully,

Sweet with eternal good;
The day of trial bear,

That death seems but a covered way,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair !

Which opens into light,
Charlotte Brontë.

Wherein no blinded child can stray

Beyond the Father's sight; 355. CHEERPULNESS, Power of. The stoutest armor of defence is that which That care and trial seem at last, is within the bosom,

Through memory's sunset air, And the weapon that no enemy can parry is

Like mountain ranges overpast a bold and cheerful spirit:

In purple distance fair; Catapults in old war worked like Titans,

That all the jarring notes of life crushing foes with rocks ; So doth a strong-springed heart throw back

Seem blending in a psalm,
every load on its assailants.

And all the angles of its strife
M. F. Tupper.

Slow rounding into calm. 356. CHEERFULNESS, Psalm of.

And so the shadows fall apart, I mourn no more my vanished years :

And so the west winds play: Beneath a tender rain,

And all the windows of my heart
An April rain of smiles and tears,

I open to this day.
My heart is young again.

John Greenleaf Whittier.

357. CHILD, Barying an The west winds blow, and singing low

J.

Amy died I hear the glad streams run;

Dear little Amy! when you talk of her, The windows of my soul I throw

Say, she is gone to heaven. Wide open to the sun.

2d Child. They planted her

Will she come up next year? No longer forward, nor behind,

1st Child. No, not so soon; I look in hope and fear :

But some day God will call her to come up, But grateful, take the good I find,

And then she will. Papa knows everything; The best of now, and here.

He said she would before they planted her. I plough no more a desert land

Jean Ingeloro. For harvest, weed and tare;

358. CHILD, Lesson for an The manna dropping from God's hand My fairest child, I have no song to give you; Rebukes my painful care.

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray;

Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you, I break my pilgrim staff, I lay

For every day.
Aside the toiling oar,
The angel sought so far away

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be I welcome at my door.

clever;

Do noble things, not dream them, all day The airs of spring may never play

long;

[ever Among the ripening corn,

And so make life, death, and that vast forNor freshness of the flowers of May

One grand, sweet song! Blow through the autumn morn;

Charles Kingsley.

359. CHILD, Importance of an

Not there! Where, then, is he? Thy mother's joy, thy father's hope—thou

The form I used to see bright,

[their gladness; Was but the raiment that he used to wear. Pure dwelling, where two fond hearts keep

The grave, that now doth press
Thou little potentate of love, who comest Upon that cast-off dress,
With solemn sweet dominion to the old, Is but his wardrobe locked ;-he is not there!
Who see thee in thy inerry fancies charged

He lives! In all the past
With the grave embassage of that dear past,
When they were young like thee, thou vin- of seeing him again will I despair ;

He lives; nor, to the last,
dication

In dreams I see him now; Of God, thou living witness against all men Who have been babes, thou everlasting I see it written, “Thou shalt see me there!

And, on his angel brow, promise Which no man keeps, thou portrait of our Yes, we all live to God! nature,

[worship,

Father, thy chastening rod
Which in despair and pride we scorn and So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
Thou household god, whom no iconoclast That, in the spirit land,
Hath broken!

Sydney Dobell.

Meeting at Thy right hand, 360. CHILD, My Lost.

'Twill be our heaven to find that he is there!

John Pierpont. I cannot make him dead! His fair sunshiny head

361. CHILDHOOD, Beanty of. Is ever bounding round my study chair; Beautiful, beautiful childhood! with a joy Yet when my eyes, now dim

That like a robe is palpable, and flung With tears, I turn to him,

Out by your ev'ry motion! delicate bud The vision vanishes,-he is not there ! Of the immortal flower that will unfold I walk my parlor floor,

And come to its maturity in heaven! And, through the open door,

I weep your earthly glory. 'Tis a light I hear a footfall on the chamber stair!

Lent to the new-born spirit, that goes out

With the first idle wind. It is the leaf
I'm stepping toward the hall
To give the boy a call;

Fresh flung upon the river, that will dance And then bethink me that he is not there!

Upon the wave that stealeth out its life,

Then sink of its own heaviness. The face I thread the crowded street;

Of the delightful earth will to your eye A satchelled lad I meet,

Grow dim; the fragrance of the many flowers With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; Be noticed not, and the beguiling voice And, as he's running by.

Of nature in her gentleness will be Follow him with my eye,

To manhood's senseless ear inaudible. Scarcely believing that he is not there !

Nathaniel Parker Willis. I know his face is hid

362. OHILDHOOD, Crown of. Under the coffin lid;

The cows are lowing along the lane, Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair;

The sheep to the fold have come, My hand that marble felt;

And the mother looks from the cottage door, O'er it in prayer I knelt;

To see how the night comes over the moor, Yet my heart whispers that-he is not there!

And calls the

children home. I cannot make him dead!

Their feet are bare in the dusty road,
When passing by the bed,

Their cheeks are tawny and red;
So long watched over with parental care,
My spirit and my eye

They have waded the shallows below the mill, Seek him inquiringly,

They have gathered wild roses up the hill,

A crown for each tangled head. Before the thought comes that—he is not there!

The days will come, and the days will go, When at the cool gray break

And life hath many & crown, Of day, from sleep I wake,

But none that will press upon manhood's brow With my first breathing of the morning air

As light as the roses resting now

On the children's foreheads brown.
My soul goes up, with joy,
To Him who gave my boy;

363. CHILDHOOD, Eternal. Then comes the sad thought that he is not

Little children, young and aged, there!

Bear the blessing up! When at the day's calm close,

Pour around the life elixir Before we seek repose,

From your golden cup! I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer;

Love is the divine restorer Whate'er I may be saying,

Of the souls of men; I am in spirit praying,

This the new perpetual Eden For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there!

We must seek again.

« AnteriorContinuar »