Religious Poems, Selected

Why should this anxious load Press down your weary mind? Haste to your heavenly Father's throne And sweet refreshment find.

His goodness stands approved, Unchanged from day to day: I'll drop my burden at his feet, And bear a song away.

Be strong to hope, O Heart! Though day is bright, The stars can only shine In the dark night. Be strong, O Heart of mine, Look towards the light!

Be strong to bear, O Heart! Nothing is vain: Strive not, for life is care, And God sends pain; Heaven is above, and there Rest will remain!

Be strong to love, O Heart! Love knows not wrong; Didst thou love--creatures even, Life were not long; Didst thou love God in heaven, Thou wouldst be strong!

Sunlight has vanished, and the weary earth Lies resting from a long day's toil and pain, And, looking for a new dawn's early birth, Seeks strength in slumber for its toil again.

We too would rest; but ere we close the eye Upon the consciousness of waking thought, Would calmly turn it to yon star-bright sky, And lift the soul to Him who slumbers not.

Above us is thy hand with tender care, Distilling over us the dew of sleep: Darkness seems loaded with oblivious air, In deep forgetfulness each sense to steep.

Thou hast provided midnight's hour of peace, Thou stretchest over us the wing of rest; With more than all a parent's tenderness, Foldest us sleeping to thy gentle breast.

Grief flies away; care quits our easy couch, Till wakened by thy hand, when breaks the day-- Like the lone prophet by the angel's touch,-- We rise to tread again our pilgrim-way.

God of our life! God of each day and night, Oh, keep us still till life's short race is run! Until there dawns the long, long day of light. That knows no night, yet needs no star nor sun.

Weary of myself, and sick of asking What I am, and what I ought to be, At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.

And a look of passionate desire O'er the sea and to the stars I send: "Ye who from my childhood up have calmed me, Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

"Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters, On my heart your mighty charm renew; Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, Feel my soul becoming vast like you!"

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, Over the lit sea's unquiet way, In the rustling night-air came the answer,-- "Wouldst thou be as these are? Live as they.

"Unaffrighted by the silence round them, Undistracted by the sights they see, These demand not that the things without them Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

"And with joy the stars perform their shining, And the sea its long moon-silvered roll; For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting All the fever of some differing soul.

"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful In what state God's other works may be, In their own tasks all their powers pouring, These attain the mighty life you see."

O air-born voice! long since severely clear, A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear,-- "Resolve to be thyself; and know, that he Who finds himself loses his misery!"

Prayer is the simplest form of speech That infant lips can try; Prayer the sublimest strains that reach The majesty on high.

Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice, Returning from his ways; While angels in their songs rejoice, And cry--"Behold he prays!"

Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, The Christian's native air: His watchword at the gates of death-- He enters heaven with prayer.

The saints in prayer appear as one In word, and deed, and mind, While with the Father and the Son Sweet fellowship they find.

Nor prayer is made by man alone The Holy Spirit pleads And Jesus, on the eternal throne For sinners intercedes.

O Thou, by whom we come to God-- The Life, the Truth, the Way; The path of prayer Thyself hast trod; Lord! teach us how to pray.

Sleep, sleep, mine Holy One! My flesh, my Lord!--what name? I do not know A name that seemeth not too high or low, Too far from me or Heaven. My Jesus, that is best! that word being given By the majestic angel whose command Was softly as a man's beseeching said, When I and all the earth appeared to stand In the great overflow Of light celestial from his wings and head. Sleep, sleep, my saving One!

And art Thou come for saving, baby-browed And speechless Being--art Thou come for saving? The palm that grows beside our door is bowed By treadings of the low wind from the south, A restless shadow through the chamber waving: Upon its bough a bird sings in the sun; But Thou, with that close slumber on Thy mouth, Dost seem of wind and sun already weary. Art come for saving, O my weary One?

Perchance this sleep that shutteth out the dreary Earth-sounds and motions, opens on Thy soul High dreams on fire with God; High songs that make the pathways where they roll More bright than stars do theirs; and visions new Of Thine eternal Nature's old abode. Suffer this mother's kiss, Best thing that earthly is, To guide the music and the glory through, Nor narrow in Thy dream the broad upliftings Of any seraph wing! Thus, noiseless, thus. Sleep, sleep, my dreaming One!

The slumber of His lips meseems to run Through my lips to mine heart; to all its shiftings Of sensual life, bringing contrariousness In a great calm. I feel, I could lie down As Moses did, and die,[1]--and then live most. I am 'ware of you, heavenly Presences, That stand with your peculiar light unlost, Each forehead with a high thought for a crown, Unsunned i' the sunshine! I am 'ware. Yet throw No shade against the wall! How motionless Ye round me with your living statuary, While through your whiteness, in and outwardly, Continual thoughts of God appear to go, Like light's soul in itself! I bear, I bear, To look upon the dropped lids of your eyes, Though their external shining testifies To that beatitude within, which were Enough to blast an eagle at his sun. I fall not on my sad clay face before ye; I look on His. I know My spirit which dilateth with the woe Of His mortality, May well contain your glory. Yea, drop your lids more low. Ye are but fellow-worshipers with me! Sleep, sleep, my worshiped One!

We sat among the stalls at Bethlehem, The dumb kine from their fodder turning them, Softened their horned faces To almost human gazes Towards the newly Born. The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks Brought visionary looks, As yet in their astonished hearing rung The strange, sweet angel-tongue. The magi of the East, in sandals worn, Knelt reverent, sweeping round, With long pale beards their gifts upon the ground, The incense, myrrh and gold, These baby hands were impotent to hold. So, let all earthlies and celestials wait Upon thy royal state! Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!

I am not proud--meek angels, ye invest New meeknesses to hear such utterance rest On mortal lips,--'I am not proud'--_not proud_! Albeit in my flesh God sent His Son, Albeit over Him my head is bowed As others bow before Him, still mine heart Bows lower than their knees. O centuries That roll, in vision, your futurities My future grave athwart,-- Whose murmurs seem to reach me while I keep Watch o'er this sleep,-- Say of me as the Heavenly said,--'Thou art The blessedest of women!'--blessedest, Not holiest, not noblest--no high name, Whose height misplaced may pierce me like a shame, When I sit meek in heaven!