Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!

Oh! we who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Nought broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

Of all the gifts thine hand bestows,
Thou Giver of all good!
Not heaven itself a richer knows
Than my Redeemer’s blood.


Faith too, the blood-receiving grace,
From the same hand we gain;
Else, sweetly as it suits our case,
That gift had been in vain.


Till thou thy teaching power apply,
Our hearts refuse to see,
And weak, as a distemper’d eye,
Shut out the view of thee.


Blind to the merits of thy Son,
What misery we endure!
Yet fly that hand from which alone
We could expect a cure.


We praise thee, and would praise thee more,
To thee our all we owe;
The precious Saviour, and the power
That makes him precious too.

Those that of late had fleeted far and fast
To touch all shores, now leaving to the skill
Of others their old craft seaworthy still,
Have charter’d this; where, mindful of the past,
Our true co-mates regather round the mast;
Of diverse tongue, but with a common will
Here, in this roaring moon of daffodil
And crocus, to put forth and brave the blast;
For some, descending from the sacred peak
Of hoar high-templed Faith, have leagued again
Their lot with ours to rove the world about;
And some are wilder comrades, sworn to seek
If any golden harbour be for men
In seas of Death and sunless gulfs of Doubt.

Here there is balm for every tender heart
Wounded by life;
Rest for each one who bore a valiant part
Crushed in the strife.

I suffered there and held a losing fight
Even to the grave;
And now I know that it was very right
To suffer and be brave.

Fell the snow on the festival's vigil
And surpliced the city in white;
I wonder who wove the pure flakelets?
Ask the Virgin, or God, or the night.

It fitted the Feast: 'twas a symbol,
And earth wore the surplice at morn,
As pure as the vale's stainless lily
For Mary, the sinlessly born;

For Mary, conceived in all sinlessness;
And the sun, thro' the clouds of the East,
With the brightest and fairest of flashes,
Fringed the surplice of white for the Feast.

And round the horizon hung cloudlets,
Pure stoles to be worn by the Feast;
While the earth and the heavens were waiting
For the beautiful Mass of the priest.

I opened my window, half dreaming;
My soul went away from my eyes,
And my heart began saying "Hail Marys"
Somewher...

O Science, reaching backward through the distance,
    Most earnest child of God,
Exposing all the secrets of existence,
    With thy divining rod,
I bid thee speed up to the heights supernal,
    Clear thinker, ne'er sufficed;
Go seek and bind the laws and truths eternal,
    But leave me Christ.

Upon the vanity of pious sages
    Let in the light of day;
Break down the superstitions of all ages -
    Thrust bigotry away;
Stride on, and bid all stubborn foes defiance,
    Let Truth and Reason reign:
But I beseech thee, O Immortal Science,
    Let Christ remain.

What canst thou give to help me bear my crosses,
    In place of Him, my Lord?
And what to recompense for all my losses,
    And bring me sweet reward?
THOU couldst not ...

The Brave young Marquis, second but to one
For whom he felt the reverence of a son,
Rides at the head of his division proud -
A ray of Glory painted on the cloud!
Mad Anthony is there, and Knox - but why
Great names like battle flags attempt to fly?
Who sings of skies lit up by Jove and Mars
Thinks not to chant a catalogue of stars!
I bow me low, and bowing low I pass
Unnumbered heroes in unnumbered mass,
While at their head in grave, and sober state,
Rides one whom Time has found completely great
Master of Fortune and the match of Fate!


Then Tilghman mounted on these Plains of York
Swift sped away as speeds the homing hawk,
And soon 'twas his to wake that watchman's cry
That woke all Nations and shall never die!

From North and South, and East and West,
    They come!
The sorely tried, the much oppressed,
Their Faith and Love to manifest,
    They come!
They come to tell of work well done,
They come to tell of kingdoms won,
To worship at the Great White Throne,
    They come!
In a noble consecration,
With a sound of jubilation.
    They come! They come!

Through tribulations and distress,
    They come!
Through perils great and bitterness,
Through persecutions pitiless,
    They come!
They come by paths the martyrs trod,
They come from underneath the rod,
Climbing through darkness up to God,
    They come!
Out of mighty tribulation,
With a sound of jubilation,
    They come! They come!

From every land beneath the sun,<...

There is a pause in nature, ere the storm
    Rushes resistless in its awful might;
There is a softening twilight, ere the morn
    Expands her wings of glory into light.

There is a sudden stillness in the heart,
    Ere yet the tears of wounded feeling flow;
A speechless expectation, ere the dart
    Of sorrow lays our fondest wishes low.

There is a dreamy silence in the mind,
    Ere yet it wakes to energy of thought;
A breathless pause of feeling, undefined,
    Ere the bright image is from fancy caught.

There is a pause more holy still,
    When Faith a brighter hope has given,
And, soaring over earthly ill,
    The soul looks up to heaven!

The morning of a gladsome day in spring
Had scarce its freshness brought to weary men,
When, o'er the meadows wet, a boy did sing,
And whistled o'er a tune, and carroll'd-it, again,
In youthful happiness unconscious then
Of aught which time might bring, of pain or woe,
But careless, pitching stones in bog or fen,
It seem'd as if he buried there, also,
All worldly cares, so blithely did he onward go.

And yet he was no careless, heedless boy,
Who thought but of the present time alone.
Of future years he thought, but with such joy,
His thoughts but pleasure gave, nor caused a groan
From out the breast that claim'd them as its own;
His thoughts were of the future, fair and bright,
And fresh from his unburden'd heart, alone,
Untarnish'd by the hard and glarin...

The sea-wort floating on the waves, or rolled up high along the shore,
Ye counted useless and vile, heaping on it names of contempt:
Yet hath it gloriously triumphed, and man been humbled in his ignorance,
For health is in the fresliness of its savour, and it cumbereth the beach with wealth;
Comforting the tossings of pain with its violet tinctured essence,
And by its humbler ashes enriching many proud.
Be this, then, a lesson to thy soul, that thou reckon nothing wortliless,
Because thou heedest not its use, nor knowest the virtues thereof.
And herein, as thou walkest by the sea, shall weeds be a    type and an earnest
Of the stored and uncounted riches lying hid in all creatures of God:
There be flowers making glad the desert, and roots fattening the soil,
And jewels in the secret d...

High is our calling, Friend! Creative Art
(Whether the instrument of words she use,
Or pencil pregnant with ethereal hues,)
Demands the service of a mind and heart,
Though sensitive, yet, in their weakest part,
Heroically fashioned, to infuse
Faith in the whispers of the lonely Muse,
While the whole world seems adverse to desert.
And, oh! when Nature sinks, as oft she may,
Through long-lived pressure of obscure distress,
Still to be strenuous for the bright reward,
And in the soul admit of no decay,
Brook no continuance of weak-mindedness
Great is the glory, for the strife is hard!

Oh! best belov'd of heaven, on earth bestow'd
To raise the pilgrim, sunk with ghastly fears,
To cool his burning wounds, to wipe his tears,
And strew with amaranths his thorny road.
Alas! how long has superstition hurl'd
Thine altars down, thine attributes revil'd,
The hearts of men with witchcrafts foul beguil'd,
And spread his empire o'er the vassal world?
But truth returns! she spreads resistless day;
And mark, the monster's cloud-wrapt fabric falls--
He shrinks--he trembles 'mid his inmost halls,
And all his damn'd illusions melt away!
The charm dissolv'd--immortal, fair, and free,
Thy holy fanes shall rise, celestial Charity!

Some day of days! Some dawning yet to be
I shall be clothed with immortality!

And, in that day, I shall not greatly care
That Jane spilt candle grease upon the stair.

It will not grieve me then, as once it did,
That careless hands have chipped my teapot lid.

I groan, being burdened. But, in that glad day,
I shall forget vexations of the way.

That needs were often great, when means were small,
Will not perplex me any more at all
A few short years at most (it may be less),
I shall have done with earthly storm and stress.

So, for this day, I lay me at Thy feet.
O, keep me sweet, my Master! Keep me sweet!

As eager homebound traveller to the goal,
    Or steadfast seeker on an unsearched main,
Or martyr panting for an aureole,
    My fellow-pilgrims pass me, and attain
That hidden mansion of perpetual peace
    Where keen desire and hope dwell free from pain:
That gate stands open of perennial ease;
    I view the glory till I partly long,
Yet lack the fire of love which quickens these.
    O passing Angel, speed me with a song,
A melody of heaven to reach my heart
    And rouse me to the race and make me strong;
Till in such music I take up my part
    Swelling those Hallelujahs full of rest,
One, tenfold, hundredfold, with heavenly art,
    Fulfilling north and south and east and west,
Thousand, ten thousandfold, innumerable,
    All blent in one yet each...

To God and man be simply true:
Do as thou hast been wont to do:
Or, Of the old more in the new:
Mean all the same when said to you.

I love thee. Thou art calm and strong;
Firm in the right, mild to the wrong;
Thy heart, in every raging throng,
A chamber shut for prayer and song.

Defeat thou know'st not, canst not know;
Only thy aims so lofty go,
They need as long to root and grow
As any mountain swathed in snow.

Go on and prosper, holy friend.
I, weak and ignorant, would lend
A voice, thee, strong and wise, to send
Prospering onward, without end.

In the long run fame finds the deserving man.
    The lucky wight may prosper for a day,
But in good time true merit leads the van,
    And vain pretense, unnoticed, goes its way.
There is no Chance, no Destiny, no Fate,
But Fortune smiles on those who work and wait,
    In the long run.

In the long run all goodly sorrow pays,
    There is no better thing than righteous pain,
The sleepless nights, the awful thorn-crowned days,
    Bring sure reward to tortured soul and brain.
Unmeaning joys enervate in the end.
But sorrow yields a glorious dividend
    In the long run.

In the long run all hidden things are known,
    The eye of truth will penetrate the night,
And good or ill, thy secret shall be known,
    However well 'tis guarded from the li...

From the mystic sidereal spaces,
In the noon of a night 'mid of May,
Came a spirit that murmured to me --
Or was it the dream of a dream?
No! no! from the purest of places,
Where liveth the highest of races,
In an unfallen sphere far away
(And it wore Immortality's gleam)
Came a Being. Hath seen on the sea
The sheen of some silver star shimmer
'Thwart shadows that fall dim and dimmer
O'er a wave half in dream on the deep?
It shone on me thus in my sleep.

Was I sleeping? Is sleep but the closing,
In the night, of our eyes from the light?
Doth the spirit of man e'en then rest?
Or doth it not toil all the more?
When the earth-wearied frame is reposing,
Is the vision then veiled the less bright?
When the earth from our sight hath been taken,