Chapter 151
How shall we tell an angel From another guest?
How, from common worldly herd, One of the blest?
Hint of suppressed halo, Rustle of hidden wings, Wafture of heavenly frankincense-- Which of these things?
The old Sphinx smiles so subtly: "I give no golden rule-- Yet would I warn thee, World: treat well Whom thou call'st fool."
--Gertrude Hall.
HIS PILGRIMAGE
Give me my scallop-sh.e.l.l of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon, My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope's true gage; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body's balmer; No other balm will there be given; Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Traveleth toward the land of heaven; Over the silver mountains, Where spring the nectar fountains, There will I kiss The bowl of bliss, And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before; But after, it will thirst no more.
Then by that happy, blissful day, More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, That have cast off their rags of clay, And walk appareled fresh like me.
I'll take them first To quench their thirst And taste of nectar suckets, At those clear wells Where sweetness dwells, Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.
--Sir Walter Raleigh.
OUR WORDS
O Sentinel at the loose-swung door of my impetuous lips, Guard close to-day! Make sure no word unjust or cruel slips In anger forth, by folly spurred or armed with envy's whips; Keep clear the way to-day.
And Watchman on the cliff-scarred heights that lead from heart to mind, When wolf-thoughts clothed in guile's soft fleece creep up, O be not blind!
But may they pa.s.s whose foreheads bear the glowing seal-word, "kind"; Bid them G.o.dspeed, I pray.
And Warden of my soul's stained house, where love and hate are born, O make it clean, if swept must be with pain's rough broom of thorn!
And quiet impose, so straining ears with world-din racked and torn, May catch what G.o.d doth say.
A GOOD MAN
A good man never dies-- In worthy deed and prayer, And helpful hands, and honest eyes, If smiles or tears be there; Who lives for you and me-- Lives for the world he tries To help--he lives eternally.
A good man never dies.
Who lives to bravely take His share of toil and stress, And, for his weaker fellows' sake Makes every burden less-- He may, at last, seem worn-- Lie fallen--hands and eyes Folded--yet, though we mourn and mourn, A good man never dies.
--James Whitcomb Riley.
THE IMMANENT G.o.d
EACH IN HIS OWN TONGUE
A
A haze on the far horizon, The infinite, tender sky, The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields, And the wild geese sailing high-- And all over upland and lowland The charm of the golden rod-- Some of us call it Autumn, And others call it G.o.d.
Like tides on a crescent sea beach, When the moon is new and thin, Into our hearts high yearnings Come welling and surging in-- Come from the mystic ocean, Whose rim no foot has trod-- Some of us call it Longing, And others call it G.o.d.
A picket frozen on duty-- A mother starved for her brood-- Socrates drinking the hemlock, And Jesus on the rood; And millions who, humble and nameless, The straight, hard pathway trod-- Some call it Consecration, And others call it G.o.d.
--William Herbert Carruth.
THE HIGHER FELLOWs.h.i.+P
Do you go to my school?
Yes, you go to my school, And we've learned the big lesson--Be strong!
And to front the loud noise With a spirit of poise, And drown down the noise with a song.
We have spelled the first line in the Primer of Fate; We have spelled it, and dare not to s.h.i.+rk-- For its first and its greatest commandment to men Is "Work, and rejoice in your work."
Who is learned in this Primer will not be a fool-- You are one of my cla.s.smates. You go to my school.
You belong to my club?
Yes, you're one of my club, And this is our program and plan: To each do his part To look into the heart And get at the good that's in man.
Detectives of virtue and spies of the good And sleuth-hounds of righteousness we.
Look out there, my brother! we're hot on your trail, We'll find out how good you can be.
We would drive from our hearts the snake, tiger, and cub; We're the Lodge of the Lovers. You're one of my club.
You belong to my church?
Yes, you go to my church-- Our names on the same old church roll-- The tide-waves of G.o.d We believe are abroad And flow into the creeks of each soul.
And the vessel we sail on is strong as the sea That buffets and blows it about; For the sea is G.o.d's sea as the s.h.i.+p is G.o.d's s.h.i.+p, So we know not the meaning of doubt; And we know howsoever the vessel may lurch We've a Pilot to trust in. You go to my church.
--Sam Walter Foss.
Never elated while one man's oppressed; Never dejected while another's blessed.
--Alexander Pope.
THE OTHER FELLOW'S JOB
There's a craze among us mortals that is cruel hard to name; Wheresoe'er you find a human you will find the case the same; You may seek among the worst of men or seek among the best, And you'll find that every person is precisely like the rest: Each believes his real calling is along some other line Than the one at which he's working--take, for instance, yours and mine.
From the meanest "me-too" creature to the leader of the mob, There's a universal craving for "the other fellow's job."
There are millions of positions in the busy world to-day, Each a drudge to him who holds it, but to him who doesn't, play; Every farmer's broken-hearted that in youth he missed his call, While that same unhappy farmer is the envy of us all.
Any task you care to mention seems a vastly better lot Than the one especial something which you happen to have got.
There's but one sure way to smother Envy's heartache and her sob: Keep too busy at your own to want "the other fellow's job."
--Strickland W. Gilliland.
THE SCORN OF JOB
"If I have eaten my morsel alone,"