MY ONWARD PATH. I count this thing to be grandly true; That a noble deed is a step toward God, Lifting the soul from the common clod To a purer air and a broader view. We rise by the things that are under feet; By what we have mastered of good and gain; By the pride deposed and the passion slain, And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, When the morning calls us to life and light, But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night, Our lives are trailing the sordid dust. We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, And we think that we mount the air on wings Beyond the recall of sensual things, While our feet still cling to the heavy clay. Wings for the angels, but feet for men! We may borrow the wings to find the way, We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray; But our feet must rise, or we fall again. Only in dreams is a ladder thrown From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; But the dreams depart and the vision falls, And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. Heaven is not reached at a single bound; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit, round by round. JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND. MY ONWARD PATH. MARIAN LONGFELLOW MORRIS, daughter of the late Stephen Longfellow, was born at Portland, Me, April 1, 1849. She married. May 9, 1876, William F. Morris, of Boston, and now lives in that city. The greater number of the poems of Mrs. Morris were written before her marriage. AND SO I take mine onward path, alone, What though it lead through tangled brake and brier, And sharpest stones shall pierce my wounded feet? Unto that height if my faint soul aspire These words mine ear might greet: 337 "If thou but follow me through toil and pain, "But if thou wilt not bear thy cross with me. Thou canst not hope to win the victor's prize; No martyr's crown, no saint's green palm shall be Thy share in Paradise!” And so I fain would take mine onward way Aug. 31, 1875. MARIAN LONGFELLOW. RELIGION AND BUSINESS. "And after these things he went forth, and saw a publican named Levi, sitting at the receipt of custom: and he said unto him, Follow me. And he left all, rose up, and followed him."- LUKE V. 27, 28. YE hermits blest, ye holy maids, The nearest heaven on earth, Who talk with God in shadowy glades, Free from rude care and mirth; To whom some viewless teacher brings The secret lore of rural things, The moral of each fleeting cloud and gale, The whispers from above, that haunt the twilight vale : Say, when in pity ye have gazed On the wreathed smoke afar, Then as ye turned your weary eye dwell Amid that dreary glare, in this world's citadel? But love's a flower that will not die For lack of leafy screen, And Christian hope can cheer the eye That ne'er saw vernal green : Then be ye sure that love can bless Even in this crowded loneliness, Where ever-moving myriads seem to say, Go, - thou art nought to us, nor we to thee, away! There are in this loud stunning tide Of human care and crime, Who carry music in their heart Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, Plying their daily task with busier feet, Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat. How sweet to them, in such brief rest To where their gracious Lord In vain, to win proud Pharisees, Spake, and was heard by fell disease, But not in vain, beside yon breezy lake, Bade the meek Publican his gainful seat forsake: At once he rose, and left his gold; His treasure and his heart Of Christ's true riches o'er all time and First angel of his Church, first steward of his grace. Nor can ye not delight to think Where he vouchsafed to eat, From touch of sinner's meat: That we might learn of him lost souls to And view his least and worst with hope to meet above. These gracious lines shed gospel light As on some city's cheerless night The tide of sunrise swells, Till tower, and dome, and bridge-way proud Are mantled with a golden cloud, And to wise hearts this certain hope is given: "No mist that man may raise, shall hide the eye of Heaven." And oh! if even on Babel shine Such gleams of Paradise, Who day by day arise To look on clearer heavens, and scan The work of God untouched by man? Shame on us, who about us Babel bear, And live in Paradise, as if God was not there! JOHN KEBLE. 1827. ANDREWS NORTON, a distinguished scholar, controversialist, and cr tic, was born at Hingham, Mass., Dec. 31, 1786, and died at Newport, R I.. Sept. 18, 1853 He is known as the author of a volume on the Nature of God and the Person of Christ, and of a powerful work on the Genuineness of the Gospels. FAINT not, poor traveller, though thy way And know a Friend who cannot fail. CONSTANCY. 339 Bear firmly yet a few more days, Christian thy Friend, thy Master prayed, Wilt thou not strive to do the same? Till he the thing and the example weigh: All being brought into a sum, What place or person calls for, he doth pay. Whom none can work or woo, His words and works, and fashion too Who never melts or thaws At close temptations: when the day is done, His goodness sets not, but in dark can run : The sun to others writeth laws, And is their virtue; virtue is his sun. Who, when he is to treat With sick folks, women, those whom passions sway, LOSSE IN DELAYES. Good is best when soonest wrought, Hoyse up sayle while gale doth last, Time weares all his locks before, Workes adjourned have many stayes, Seeke thy salve while sore is greene, Time and place gives best advice. Crush the serpent in the head, Breake ill eggs ere they be hatched : Kill bad chickens in the tread; Fledged, they hardly can be catched: In the rising stifle ill, Lest it grow against thy will. Drops do pierce the stubborn flint, Single sands have little weight, So he led me to my cottage, And left me within the door; I see on the fair, sweet uplands Comes to me, a cheering sound. I wait for his welcome footsteps; And this, like a sweet bird, nestles COMMISSIONED. WHAT can I do for thee, Beloved, What can I do? The perfect life, All fresh and fair and beautiful, Has opened its wide arms to thee; Thy heaven is over-brimmed and full, Nothing remains for me. I used to do so many things, Love thee, and chide thee and caress; Brush tiny straws from off thy way, Tempering with my poor tenderness The heat of thy short day. Little; but very sweet to give ; And it is grief, or griefs to bear That all these ministries are o'er, And thou, so happy, Love, elsewhere, Never can need me more. And I can do for thee but this: To sadder hearts and darker homes, When sun is set, the little stars will shine. While pike doth range, the silly tench doth fly, The merlin cannot ever soar on high, In Haman's pomp poor Mardocheus wept, Yet when flowers do fade away. ROBERT SOUTHWELL, D. D. NOT MINE. MRS. JULIA C. (RIPLEY) DORR, was born in Charleston, S. C, in 1825, but has lived chiefly in the Northern States. Her present home is at Rutland, Vt. Mrs. Dorr has written much for the periodical press, and several volumes of prose and verse. Her last work is entitled "Friar Anselmo, and other Poems." Her verse is graceful, and shows her love of home and the homely virtues. IT is not mine to run |