No aimless wanderers, by the fiend Scattering sweet words, and quiet deeds Where still, through vales of Grecian fable, stray The classic forms of yore, of good, Along their way, like flowers, Or pleading, as Christ's freemen only could, With princes and with powers; Their single aim the purpose to ful fil Of Truth, from day to day, Simply obedient to its guiding will, They held their pilgrim way. Yet dream not, hence, the beautiful and old Were wasted on their sight, Who in the school of Christ had learned to hold All outward things aright. Not less to them the breath of vineyards blown From off the Cyprian shore, Not less for them the Alps in sunset shone, That man they valued more. And beauty smiles, new risen from the And fairest forms and sweetest harmo nies Make glad its way, unsought. In sweet accordancy of praise and love, The singing waters run; And sunset mountains wear in light above The smile of duty done; From Malta's temples to the gates of Sure stands the promise, Rome, Following the track of Paul, meek A heritage is given; -ever to the And where the Alps gird round the Nor lose they Earth who, single-hearted, Switzer's home Their vast, eternal wall; seek The righteousness of Heaven! THE MEN OF OLD. WELL speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast! Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art, If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart, Thou tread'st the solemn Pantheon of the Past, By the great Future's dazzling hope made blind To all the beauty, power, and truth behind. Not without reverent awe shouldst thou put by The cypress branches and the amaranth blooms, Where, with clasped hands of prayer, The effigies of old confessors lie, Such were the men at whose rebuking Dark with God's wrath, the tyrant's knee went down ; Such from the terrors of the guilty drew The vassal's freedom and the poor man's due. St. Anselm (may he rest forevermore Of men as slaves, and from the sacred Hurled the Northumbrian buyers of the poor. To ransom souls from bonds and evil fate St. Ambrose melted down the sacred plate, Image of saint, the chalice, and the pix, Crosses of gold, and silver candlesticks. "MAN IS WORTH MORE THAN TEM PLES!" he replied To such as came his holy work to chide. The captive's freedom, answered to the Or threat of those whose fierce zeal for the Lord Stifled their love of man, en dish The last sad supper of the Master bore: Most miserable sinners! do ye wish More than your Lord, and grudge his dying poor What your own pride and not his need requires? Souls, than these shining gauds, He Mercy, not sacrifice, his heart desires!" Shadows are scattered wherein ye groped Man claims his birthright, freer pulses leap Through peoples driven in your day like sheep; Yet, like your own, our age's sphere of light, Though widening still, is walled around by night; With slow, reluctant eye, the Church has read, Sceptic at heart, the lessons of its Head; Counting, too oft, its living members less Than the wall's garnish and the pulpit's dress; World-moving zeal, with power to bless and feed Life's fainting pilgrims, to their utter need, Instead of bread, holds out the stone of creed'; Sect builds and worships where its And vanity stand shrined and deified, Saints true of life, and martyrs strong of To tread the land, even now, as Xavier trod The streets of Goa, barefoot, with his bell, Proclaiming freedom in the name of God, And startling tyrants with the fear of hell! Soft words, smooth prophecies, are doubtless well; But to rebuke the age's popular crime, "An earth- We need the souls of fire, the hearts of that old time! THE PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUSSELS. 149 THE PEACE CONVENTION AT The bull-dog Briton, yielding but with BRUSSELS. The shell goes crashing and the red shot falls, And, leagued to crush thee, on the Danube's side, The bearded Croat and Bosniak spearman ride; Still in that vale where Himalaya's snow Melts round the cornfields and the vines below, The Sikh's hot cannon, answering ball for ball, Flames in the breach of Moultan's shattered wall; On Chenab's side the vulture seeks the slain, And Sutlej paints with blood its banks again. "What folly, then," the faithless critic cries, With sneering lip, and wise world-know ing eyes, "While fort to fort, and post to post, repeat The ceaseless challenge of the war-drum's beat, And round the green earth, to the churchbell's chime, The morning drum-roll of the camp keeps time, To dream of peace amidst a world in arms, Of swords to ploughshares changed by Scriptural charms, Of nations, drunken with the wine of blood, Staggering to take the Pledge of Brotherhood, Like tipplers answering Father Mathew's call, The sullen Spaniard, and the mad-cap Gaul, life, The Yankee swaggering with his bowie Leaving the sport of Presidents and Kings, Where men for dice each titled gambler flings, To For meet alternate on the Seine and Thames, tea and gossip, like old country dames! No! let the cravens plead the weakling's cant, Let Cobden cipher, and let Vincent rant, Let Sturge preach peace to democratic throngs, And Burritt, stammering through his hundred tongues, Repeat, in all, his ghostly lessons o'er, Timed to the pauses of the battery's roar; Check Ban or Kaiser with the barricade Of "Olive-leaves" and Resolutions made, Spike guns with pointed Scripture-texts, and hope To capsize navies with a windy trope; Still shall the glory and the pomp of War Along their train the shouting millions draw; TO A. K. From Autumn frost to April rain, Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands, The riches of the Commonwealth Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health; And more to her than gold or grain, For well she keeps her ancient stock, Nor heeds the sceptic's puny hands, While near her school the church-spire stands; Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule, Who, for its trials, counts it less 151 It may not be our lot to wield Yet where our duty's task is wrought And ours the grateful service whence And were this life the utmost span, Than waking dream and slothful ease. But life, though falling like our grain, While near her church-spire stands the Like that revives and springs again; school. ALL'S WELL. THE clouds, which rise with thunder, slake Our thirsty souls with rain; The blow most dreaded falls to break From off our limbs a chain; And wrongs of man to man but make The love of God more plain. As through the shadowy lens of even The eye looks farthest into heaven On gleams of star and depths of blue The glaring sunshine never knew! SEED-TIME AND HARVEST. As o'er his furrowed fields which lie Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast And, early called, how blest are they Who wait in heaven their harvest-day! |