Chapter I: Resolve (2)

A child went merrily forth to play,
But a thought, like a silver thread,
Kept winding in and out all day
Through the happy, busy head,
"Mother said, 'Darling, do all you can,
For you are a part of God's great plan.'"

So she helped a younger child along,
When the road was rough to the feet;
And she sang from her heart a little song,
A song that was passing sweet;
And her father, a weary, toil-worn man,
Said, "I too will do the best that I can."

WORK LOYALLY

Just where you stand in the conflict,
There is your place!
Just where you think you are useless
Hide not your face!
God placed you there for a purpose,
Whate'er it be;
Think He has chosen you for it--
Work loyally.

Gird on your armor! Be faithful
At toil or rest,
Whiche'er it be, never doubting
God's way is best.
Out in the fight, or on picket,
Stand firm and true;
This is the work which your Master
Gives you to do.

Who does the best his circumstance allows,
Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.

--Edward Young.

LOYALTY

When courage fails and faith burns low,
And men are timid grown,
Hold fast thy loyalty and know
That Truth still moveth on.

For unseen messengers she hath,
To work her will and ways,
And even human scorn and wrath
God turneth to her praise.

She can both meek and lordly be,
In heavenly might secure;
With her is pledge of victory,
And patience to endure.

The race is not unto the swift,
The battle to the strong,
When dawn her judgment-days that sift
The claims of right and wrong.

And more than thou canst do for Truth
Can she on thee confer,
If thou, O heart, but give thy youth
And manhood unto her.

For she can make thee inly bright,
Thy self-love purge away,
And lead thee in the path whose light
Shines to the perfect day.

Who follow her, though men deride,
In her strength shall be strong;
Shall see their shame become their pride,
And share her triumph song!

--Frederick Lucian Hosmer.

LIBERTY

I am Liberty--God's daughter!
My symbols--a law and a torch;
Not a sword to threaten slaughter,
Nor a flame to dazzle or scorch;
But a light that the world may see,
And a truth that shall make men free.

I am the sister of Duty,
And I am the sister of Faith;
To-day adored for my beauty,
To-morrow led forth for death.
I am she whom ages prayed for;
Heroes suffered undismayed for;
Whom the martyrs were betrayed for.

--John Boyle O'Reilly.

THE NEAREST DUTY

My soul was stirred; I prayed, "Let me
Do some great work, so purely,
To right life's wrongs, that I shall know
That I have loved Thee surely."
My lips sent forth their eager cry,
The while my heart beat faster,
"For some great deed to prove my love
Send me; send me, my Master!"

From out the silence came a voice,
Saying: "If God thou fearest,
Rise up and do, thy whole life through,
The duty that lies nearest.
The friendly word, the kindly deed,
Though small the act in seeming,
Shall in the end unto thy soul
Prove mightier than thy dreaming.

The cup of water to the faint,
Or rest unto the weary,
The light thou giv'st another's life,
Shall make thine own less dreary.
And boundless realms of faith and love
Will wait for thy possessing;
Not creeds, but deeds, if thou wouldst win
Unto thy soul a blessing."

And so I wait with peaceful heart,
Content to do His pleasure;
Not caring if the world shall mock
At smallness of the measure
Of thoughts or deeds or daily life.
He knows the true endeavor--
To do His will, to seek His face--
And He will fail me never.

--Sarah A. Gibbs.

THE ONE TALENT

Hide not thy talent in the earth;
However small it be,
Its faithful use, its utmost worth,
God will require of thee.

The humblest service rendered here
He will as truly own
As Paul's in his exalted sphere,
Or Gabriel's near the throne.

The cup of water kindly given,
The widow's cheerful mites,
Are worthier in the eye of heaven
Than pride's most costly rites.

His own, which He hath lent on trust,
He asks of thee again;
Little or much, the claim is just,
And thine excuses vain.

Go, then, and strive to do thy part--
Though humble it may be;
The ready hand, the willing heart,
Are all heaven asks of thee.

--William Cutler.

ONE TALENT

(Matt. XXV. 18)

In a napkin smooth and white,
Hidden from all mortal sight,
My one talent lies to-night.

Mine to hoard, or mine to use;
Mine to keep, or mine to lose;
May I not do what I choose?

Ah! the gift was only lent
With the Giver's known intent
That it should be wisely spent.

And I know he will demand
Every farthing at my hand,
When I in his presence stand.

What will be my grief and shame
When I hear my humble name
And cannot repay his claim!

One poor talent--nothing more!
All the years that have gone o'er
Have not added to the store.

Some will double what they hold,
Others add to it tenfold
And pay back the shining gold.

Would that I had toiled like them!
All my sloth I now condemn;
Guilty fears my soul o'erwhelm.

Lord, oh teach me what to do.
Make me faithful, make me true,
And the sacred trust renew.

Help me, ere too late it be,
Something yet to do for Thee,
Thou who hast done all for me.

Art thou little? Do thy little well;
And for thy comfort know
Great men can do their greatest work
No better than just so.

--Johann W. von Goethe.

RESPONSIBILITY FOR TALENTS

Thou that in life's crowded city art arrived, thou knowest not how--
By what path or on what errand--list and learn thine errand now.

From the palace to the city on the business of thy King
Thou wert sent at early morning, to return at evening.

Dreamer, waken; loiterer, hasten; what thy task is understand:
Thou art here to purchase substance, and the price is in thine hand.

Has the tumult of the market all thy sense confused and drowned?
Do its glittering wares entice thee, or its shouts and cries confound?

Oh, beware lest thy Lord's business be forgotten, while thy gaze
Is on every show and pageant which the giddy square displays.

Barter not his gold for pebbles; do not trade in vanities;
Pearls there are of price and jewels for the purchase of the wise.

And know this--at thy returning thou wilt surely find the King
With an open book before Him, waiting to make reckoning.

Thus large honors will the faithful, earnest service of one day
Reap of Him; but one day's folly largest penalties will pay.

--Richard Chenevix Trench.

Not once or twice in our fair island-story
The path of duty was the way to glory.
He, that ever following her commands,
On with toil of heart and knees and hands,
Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won
His path upward, and prevailed,
Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled
Are close upon the shining table-lands
To which our God himself is moon and sun.

--Alfred Tennyson.

GO RIGHT ON WORKING

Ah, yes! the task is hard, 'tis true,
But what's the use of sighing?
They're soonest with their duties through
Who bravely keep on trying.
There's no advantage to be found
In sorrowing or shirking;
They with success are soonest crowned
Who just go right on working.

Strive patiently and with a will
That shall not be defeated;
Keep singing at your task until
You see it stand completed.
Nor let the clouds of doubt draw near,
Your sky's glad sunshine murking;
Be brave, and fill your heart with cheer,
And just go right on working.

--Nixon Waterman.

JUSTICE ONLY

Be not too proud of good deeds wrought!
When thou art come from prayer, speak truly!
Even if he wrongeth thee in aught,
Respect thy Guru. Give alms duly.

But let none wist! Live, day by day,
With little and with little swelling
Thy tale of duty done--the way
The wise ant-people build their dwelling;

Not harming any living thing;
That thou may'st have--at time of dying--
A Hand to hold thee, and to bring
Thy footsteps safe; and, so relying,

Pass to the farther world. For none
Save Justice leads there! Father, mother,
Will not be nigh; nor wife, nor son,
Nor friends, nor kin; nor any other

Save only Justice! All alone
Each entereth here, and each one leaveth
This life alone; and every one
The fruit of all his deeds receiveth

Alone--alone; bad deeds and good!
That day when kinsmen, sadly turning,
Forsake thee, like the clay or wood,
A thing committed to the burning.

But Justice shall not quit thee then,
If thou hast served her, therefore never
Cease serving; that shall hold thee when
The darkness falls which falls forever,

Which hath no star, nor way and guide.
But Justice knows the road; and midnight
Is noon to her. Man at her side
Goes, through the gloom, safe to the hid light.

And he who loved her more than all,
Who purged by sorrow his offenses,
Shall shine, in realms celestial,
With glory, quit of sins and senses.

--Edwin Arnold, from the Sanskrit.

GOD'S VENGEANCE

Saith the Lord, "Vengeance is mine;"
"I will repay," saith the Lord;
Ours be the anger divine,
Lit by the flash of his word.

How shall his vengeance be done?
How, when his purpose is clear?
Must he come down from the throne?
Hath he no instruments here?

Sleep not in imbecile trust,
Waiting for God to begin;
While, growing strong in the dust,
Rests the bruised serpent of sin.

Right and Wrong--both cannot live
Death-grappled. Which shall we see?
Strike! Only Justice can give
Safety to all that shall be.

Shame! to stand faltering thus,
Tricked by the balancing odds;
Strike! God is waiting for us!
Strike! for the vengeance is God's!

--John Hay.

Bear a lily in thy hand;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

A SINGLE STITCH

One stitch dropped as the weaver drove
His nimble shuttle to and fro,
In and out, beneath, above,
Till the pattern seemed to bud and grow
As if the fairies had helping been;
One small stitch which could scarce be seen,
But the one stitch dropped pulled the next stitch out,
And a weak place grew in the fabric stout;
And the perfect pattern was marred for aye
By the one small stitch that was dropped that day.

One small life in God's great plan,
How futile it seems as the ages roll,
Do what it may or strive how it can
To alter the sweep of the infinite whole!
A single stitch in an endless web,
A drop in the ocean's flood and ebb!
But the pattern is rent where the stitch is lost,
Or marred where the tangled threads have crossed;
And each life that fails of its true intent
Mars the perfect plan that its Master meant.

--Susan Coolidge.

THE BLESSINGS

An angel came from the courts of gold,
With gifts and tidings manifold;
With blessings many to crown the one
Whose work of life was the noblest done.

He came to a rich man's gilded door;
Where a beautiful lady stood before
His vision, fair as the saints are fair,
With smile as sweet as the seraphs wear.

He needed not to be told her life--
The pure young mother, the tender wife;
He needed not to be told that she,
In home of sorrow and poverty,

Was giving wealth with a lavish hand;
He thought her worthy in heaven to stand.
"No! no!" a voice to the angel heart
Spoke low: "Seek on in the busy mart."

He found a door that was worn and old;
The night was damp and the wind was cold.
A pale-faced girl at her sewing bent;
The midnight lamp to her features lent

A paler look as she toiled the while,
But yet the mouth had a restful smile.
Doing her duty with honest pride;
Breasting temptation on every side.

"For her the blessings," the angel said,
And touched with pity the girlish head.
"No time nor money for alms has she,
But duty is higher than charity."

--Sarah Knowles Bolton.

DUTIES

I reach a duty, yet I do it not,
And therefore see no higher; but, if done,
My view is brightened and another spot
Seen on my moral sun.

For, be the duty high as angels' flight,
Fulfill it, and a higher will arise
E'en from its ashes. Duty is infinite--
Receding as the skies.

And thus it is the purest most deplore
Their want of purity. As fold by fold,
In duties done, falls from their eyes, the more
Of duty they behold.

Were it not wisdom, then, to close our eyes
On duties crowding only to appal?
No; duty is our ladder to the skies,
And, climbing not, we fall.

--Robert Leighton (1611-1684).

WHAT SHE COULD

"And do the hours step fast or slow?
And are ye sad or gay?
And is your heart with your liege lord, lady,
Or is it far away?"

The lady raised her calm, proud head,
Though her tears fell, one by one:
"Life counts not hours by joy or pangs,
But just by duties done.

"And when I lie in the green kirkyard,
With the mould upon my breast,
Say not that 'She did well--or ill,'
Only, 'She did her best.'"

--Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

UNWASTED DAYS

The longer on this earth we live
And weigh the various qualities of men,
Seeing how most are fugitive
Or fitful gifts at best, of now and then--
Wind-favored corpse-lights, daughters of the fen--
The more we feel the high, stern-featured beauty
Of plain devotedness to duty,
Steadfast and still, nor paid with mortal praise,
But finding amplest recompense
For life's ungarlanded expense
In work done squarely and unwasted days.

--James Russell Lowell.

TRIFLES THAT MAKE SAINTS

A tone of pride or petulance repressed
A selfish inclination firmly fought,
A shadow of annoyance set at naught,
A measure of disquietude suppressed;
A peace in importunity possessed,
A reconcilement generously sought,
A purpose put aside, a banished thought,
A word of self-explaining unexpressed:
Trifles they seem, these petty soul-restraints,
Yet he who proves them so must needs possess
A constancy and courage grand and bold;
They are the trifles that have made the saints.
Give me to practice them in humbleness
And nobler power than mine doth no man hold.

The world is full of beauty,
As other worlds above;
And if we did our duty
It might be full of love.

--Gerald Massey.

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted?
Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just;
And he but naked, though locked up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

--William Shakespeare.

I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty;
I woke, and found that life was Duty.
Was thy dream then, a shadowy lie?
Toil on, sad heart, courageously,
And thou shalt find that dream to be
A noonday light and truth to thee.

--Ellen Sturgis Hooper.

Do thy duty; that is best;
Leave unto thy Lord the rest.

--James Russell Lowell.

While I sought Happiness she fled
Before me constantly.
Weary, I turned to Duty's path,
And Happiness sought me,
Saying, "I walk this road to-day,
I'll bear thee company."

So nigh is grandeur to our dust,
So near is God to man,
When Duty whispers low, "Thou must,"
The youth replies, "I can."

--Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Faithfully faithful to every trust,
Honestly honest in every deed,
Righteously righteous and justly just;
This is the whole of the good man's creed.

Find out what God would have you do,
And do that little well;
For what is great and what is small
'Tis only he can tell.

SERVICE

USEFULNESS, BENEVOLENCE, LABOR

WAKING

I have done at length with dreaming;
Henceforth, O thou soul of mine!
Thou must take up sword and buckler,
Waging warfare most divine.

Life is struggle, combat, victory!
Wherefore have I slumbered on
With my forces all unmarshaled,
With my weapons all undrawn?

O how many a glorious record
Had the angels of me kept
Had I done instead of doubted,
Had I warred instead of wept!

But begone, regret, bewailing!
Ye had weakened at the best;
I have tried the trusty weapons
Resting erst within my breast.

I have wakened to my duty,
To a knowledge strong and deep,
That I recked not of aforetime,
In my long inglorious sleep.

For the end of life is service,
And I felt it not before,
And I dreamed not how stupendous
Was the meaning that it bore.

In this subtle sense of being,
Newly stirred in every vein,
I can feel a throb electric--
Pleasure half allied with pain.

'Tis so sweet, and yet so awful,
So bewildering, yet brave,
To be king in every conflict
Where before I crouched a slave!

'Tis so glorious to be conscious
Of a growing power within
Stronger than the rallying forces
Of a charged and marshaled sin!

Never in those old romances
Felt I half the thrill of life
That I feel within me stirring,
Standing in this place of strife.

O those olden days of dalliance,
When I wantoned with my fate;
When I trifled with the knowledge
That had well-nigh come too late.

Yet, my soul, look not behind thee;
Thou hast work to do at last;
Let the brave toil of the present
Overarch the crumbling past.

Build thy great acts high and higher;
Build them on the conquered sod
Where thy weakness first fell bleeding,
And thy first prayer rose to God.

--Caroline Atherton Mason.

SMALL BEGINNINGS

A traveler through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea;
And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade, at evening time, to breathe its early vows;
And age was pleased, in heat of noon, to bask beneath its boughs;
The dormouse loved its dangling twigs the birds sweet music bore;
It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern,
A passing stranger scooped a well where weary men might turn;
He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink;
He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink.
He passed again, and lo! the well, by summers never dried,
Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a life beside.

A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'twas old, and yet 'twas new;
A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true.
It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light became
A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame.
The thought was small; its issue great; a watchfire on the hill,
It shed its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still!

A nameless man, amid the crowd that thronged the daily mart,
Let fall a word of Hope and Love, unstudied, from the heart;
A whisper on the tumult thrown--a transitory breath--
It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from death.
O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last!

--Charles Mackay.

THE CHOIR INVISIBLE

O may I join the choir invisible
Of those immortal dead who live again
In minds made better by their presence; live
In pulses stirred to generosity,
In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn
For miserable aims that end with self,
In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars,
And with their mild persistence urge man's search
To vaster issues.
So to live is heaven:
To make undying music in the world,
Breathing as beauteous order that controls
With growing sway the growing life of man.
So we inherit that sweet purity
For which we struggled, failed and agonized,
With widening retrospect that bred despair.
Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued,
A vicious parent shaming still its child
Poor, anxious penitence, is quick dissolved;
Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies,
Die in the large and charitable air.
And all our rarer, better, truer, self,
That sobbed religiously in yearning song,
That watched to ease the burden of the world,
Laboriously tracing what must be,
And what may yet be better--saw within
A worthier image for the sanctuary,
And shaped it forth before the multitude
Divinely human, raising worship so
To higher reverence more mixed with love--
That better self shall live till human Time
Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky
Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb,
Unread forever.
This is life to come,
Which martyred men have made more glorious
For us who strive to follow. May I reach
That purest heaven, be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony,
Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love,
Beget the smiles that have no cruelty--
Be the sweet presence of a good diffused,
And in diffusion ever more intense.
So shall I join the choir invisible
Whose music is the gladness of the world.

--George Eliot.

MY TASK

To love some one more dearly ev'ry day,
To help a wandering child to find his way,
To ponder o'er a noble thought, and pray,
And smile when evening falls.

To follow truth as blind men long for light,
To do my best from dawn of day till night,
To keep my heart fit for His holy sight,
And answer when He calls.

--Maude Louise Ray.

"IT IS MORE BLESSED"

Give! as the morning that flows out of heaven;
Give! as the waves when their channel is riven;
Give! as the free air and sunshine are given;
Lavishly, utterly, joyfully give!
Not the waste drops of thy cup overflowing;
Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever glowing;
Not a pale bud from the June roses blowing:
Give as He gave thee who gave thee to live.

Pour out thy love like the rush of a river,
Wasting its waters, forever and ever,
Through the burnt sands that reward not the giver:
Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea.
Scatter thy life as the summer's shower pouring;
What if no bird through the pearl rain is soaring?
What if no blossom looks upward adoring?
Look to the life that was lavished for thee!

So the wild wind strews its perfumed caresses:
Evil and thankless the desert it blesses;
Bitter the wave that its soft pinion presses;
Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing.
What if the hard heart give thorns for thy roses?
What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes?
Sweeter is music with minor-keyed closes,
Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling.

Almost the day of thy giving is over;
Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted clover
Thou wilt have vanished from friend and from lover:
What shall thy longing avail in the grave?
Give as the heart gives whose fetters are breaking--
Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and thy waking;
Soon, heaven's river thy soul-fever slaking,
Thou shalt know God and the gift that he gave.

--Rose Terry Cooke.

ALONG THE WAY

There are so many helpful things to do
Along life's way
(Helps to the helper, if we did but know),
From day to day.
So many troubled hearts to soothe,
So many pathways rough to smooth,
So many comforting words to say,
To the hearts that falter along the way.

Here is a lamp of hope gone out
Along the way.
Some one stumbled and fell, no doubt--
But, brother, stay!
Out of thy store of oil refill;
Kindle the courage that smoulders still;
Think what Jesus would do to-day
For one who had fallen beside the way.

How many lifted hands still plead
Along life's way!
The old, sad story of human need
Reads on for aye.
But let us follow the Saviour's plan--
Love unstinted to every man;
Content if, at most, the world should say:
"He helped his brother along the way!"

SAVED TO SERVE

Is thy cruse of comfort failing?
Rise and share it with another,
And through all the years of famine
It shall serve thee and thy brother.

Love divine will fill thy storehouse
Or thy handful still renew;
Scanty fare for one will often
Make a royal feast for two.

For the heart grows rich in giving--
All its wealth is living gain;
Seeds which mildew in the garner
Scattered fill with gold the plain.

Is thy burden hard and heavy?
Do thy steps drag wearily?
Help to bear thy brother's burden;
God will bear both it and thee.

Numb and weary on the mountains,
Wouldst thou sleep amidst the snow?
Chafe that frozen form beside thee,
And together both shall glow.

Art thou stricken in life's battle?
Many wounded round thee moan:
Lavish on their wounds thy balsam,
And that balm shall heal thine own.

Is thy heart a well left empty?
None but God the void can fill.
Nothing but the ceaseless Fountain
Can its ceaseless longings still.

Is the heart a living power?
Self-entwined its strength sinks low.
It can only live in loving,
And by serving love will grow.

BY DOING GOOD WE LIVE

A certain wise man, deeply versed
In all the learning of the East,
Grew tired in spirit, and athirst
From life to be released.

So to Eliab, holy man
Of God he came: "Ah, give me, friend,
The herb of death, that now the span
Of my vain life may end."

Eliab gently answered: "Ere
The soul may free itself indeed,
This herb of healing thou must bear
To seven men in need;

"When thou hast lightened each man's grief,
And brought him hope and joy again,
Return; nor shalt thou seek relief
At Allah's hands in vain."

The wise man sighed, and humbly said:
"As Allah willeth, so is best."
And with the healing herb he sped
Away upon his quest.

And as he journeyed on, intent
To serve the sorrowing in the land
On deeds of love and mercy bent,
The herb bloomed in his hand,

And through his pulses shot a fire
Of strength and hope and happiness;
His heart leaped with a glad desire
To live and serve and bless.

Lord of all earthly woe and need,
Be this, life's flower, mine!
To love, to comfort, and to heal--
Therein is life divine!

--Josephine Troup.

FOR STRENGTH WE ASK

For strength we ask
For the ten thousand times repeated task,
The endless smallnesses of every day.

No, not to lay
My life down in the cause I cherish most,
That were too easy. But, whate'er it cost,

To fail no more
In gentleness toward the ungentle, nor
In love toward the unlovely, and to give,

Each day I live,
To every hour with outstretched hand, its meed
Of not-to-be-regretted thought and deed.

--Agnes Ethelwyn Wetherald.

MARTHA OR MARY?

I cannot choose; I should have liked so much
To sit at Jesus' feet--to feel the touch
Of his kind gentle hand upon my head
While drinking in the gracious words he said.

And yet to serve Him!--Oh, divine employ--
To minister and give the Master joy;
To bathe in coolest springs his weary feet,
And wait upon Him while He sat at meat!

Worship or service--which? Ah, that is best
To which he calls us, be it toil or rest;
To labor for Him in life's busy stir,
Or seek His feet, a silent worshiper.

--Caroline Atherton Mason.

This is the gospel of labor--ring it, ye bells of the kirk--
The Lord of Love came down from above to live with the men who work.
This is the rose that he planted, here in the thorn-cursed soil;
Heaven is blest with perfect rest, but the blessing of earth is toil.

--Henry van Dyke.

MARTHA

Yes, Lord, Yet some must serve!
Not all with tranquil heart,
Even at Thy dear feet,
Wrapped in devotion sweet,
May sit apart!

Yes, Lord! Yet some must bear
The burden of the day,
Its labor and its heat,
While others at Thy feet
May muse and pray.

Yes, Lord! Yet some must do
Life's daily task-work; some
Who fain would sing must toil
Amid earth's dust and moil,
While lips are dumb!

Yes, Lord! Yet man must earn
And woman bake the bread;
And some must watch and wake
Early for others' sake,
Who pray instead!

Yes, Lord! Yet even thou
Hast need of earthly care;
I bring the bread and wine
To Thee a Guest divine--
Be this my prayer!

--Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr.

If we sit down at set of sun
And count the things that we have done,
And counting, find
One self-denying act, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard,
One glance most kind,
That fell like sunshine where it went,
Then we may count the day well spent.

But if through all the livelong day
We've eased no heart by yea or nay;
If through it all
We've nothing done that we can trace
That brought the sunshine to a face,
No act most small
That helped some soul, and nothing cost,
Then count that day as worse than lost.

This for the day of life I ask:
Some all-absorbing, useful task;
And when 'tis wholly, truly done,
A tranquil rest at set of sun.

SERVICE

Ah! grand is the world's work, and noble, forsooth,
The doing one's part, be it ever so small!
You, reaping with Boaz, I, gleaning with Ruth,
Are honored by serving, yet servants of all.

No drudge in his corner but speeds the world's wheels;
No serf in the field but is sowing God's seed--
More noble, I think, in the dust though he kneels,
Than the pauper of wealth, who makes scorn of the deed.

Is toil but a treadmill? Think not of the grind,
But think of the grist, what is done and to do,
The world growing better, more like to God's mind,
By long, faithful labor of helpers like you.

The broom or the spade or the shuttle, that plies
Its own honest task in its own honest way,
Serves heaven not less than a star in the skies--
What more could the Pleiades do than obey?

--James Buckham.

SUMMER AND WINTER

If no kindly thought or word
We can give, some soul to bless,
If our hands, from hour to hour,
Do no deeds of gentleness;
If to lone and weary ones
We no comfort will impart--
Tho' 'tis summer in the sky,
Yet 'tis winter in the heart!

If we strive to lift the gloom
From a dark and burdened life;
If we seek to lull the storm
Of our fallen brother's strife;
If we bid all hate and scorn
From the spirit to depart--
Tho' 'tis winter in the sky,
Yet 'tis summer in the heart!

THE ELEVENTH-HOUR LABORER

Idlers all day about the market-place
They name us, and our dumb lips answer not,
Bearing the bitter while our sloth's disgrace,
And our dark tasking whereof none may wot.

Oh, the fair slopes where the grape-gatherers go!--
Not they the day's fierce heat and burden bear,
But we who on the market-stones drop slow
Our barren tears, while all the bright hours wear.

Lord of the vineyard, whose dear word declares
Our one hour's labor as the day's shall be,
What coin divine can make our wage as theirs
Who had the morning joy of work for Thee?

--L. Gray Noble.

"THY LABOR IS NOT IN VAIN"

"I have labored in vain," a preacher said,
And his brow was marked with care;
"I have labored in vain." He bowed down his head,
And bitter and sad were the tears he shed
In that moment of dark despair.

"I am weary and worn, and my hands are weak,
And my courage is well-nigh gone;
For none give heed to the words I speak,
And in vain for a promise of fruit I seek
Where the seed of the Word is sown."

And again with a sorrowful heart he wept,
For his spirit with grief was stirred,
Till the night grew dark, and at last he slept,
And a silent calm o'er his spirit crept,
And a whisper of "peace" was heard.

And he thought in his dream that his soul took flight
To a blessed and bright abode;
He saw a throne of dazzling light,
And harps were ringing, and robes were white--
Made white in a Saviour's blood.

And he saw such a countless throng around
As he never had seen before,
Their brows with jewels of light were crowned,
And sorrow and sighing no place had found--
The troubles of time were o'er.

Then a white-robed maiden came forth and said,
"Joy! Joy! for the trials are passed!
I am one that thy gentle words have led
In the narrow pathway of life to tread--
I welcome thee home at last!"

And the preacher gazed on the maiden's face--
He had seen that face on earth,
Where, with anxious heart, in his wonted place
He had told his charge of a Saviour's grace,
And their need of a second birth.

Then the preacher smiled, and the angel said,
"Go forth to thy work again;
It is not in vain that the seed is shed--
If only ONE soul to the cross is led,
Thy labor is not in vain."

And at last he woke, and his knee he bent
In grateful, childlike prayer,
And he prayed till an answer of peace was sent,
And Faith and Hope as a rainbow bent
O'er the clouds of his earthly care.

And he rose in joy, and his eye was bright.
His sorrow and grief had fled,
And his soul was calm and his heart was light,
For his hands were strong in his Saviour's might
As forth to his work he sped.

Whatever dies, or is forgot--
Work done for God, it dieth not.

FOLLOWING THE MASTER

I asked the Lord that I might worthier be,
Might grow in faith and hope and charity;
And straight, "Go feed my lambs!" he answered me.

"Nay, Lord!" I cried. "Can outward deeds avail
To cleanse my spirit? Heart and courage fail
And sins prevent, and foes and fears assail."

And still, "Go, feed my lambs!" was all I heard.
But should I rest upon that simple word?
Was that, indeed, my message from my Lord?

Behold, I thought that he his hand would lay
On my sick soul, and words of healing say,
And charm the plague-spot from my heart away.

Half wroth, I turned to go; but oh! the look
He on me cast--a gaze I could not brook;
With deep relentings all my spirit shook.

"O dearest Lord," I cried, "I will obey,
Say what thou wilt! only lead thou the way;
For, following thee, my footsteps shall not stray."

He took me at my word. He went before;
He led me to the dwellings of the poor,
Where wolf-eyed Want keeps watch beside the door.

He beckoned me, and I essayed to go
Where Sin and Crime, more sad than Want and Woe,
Hold carnival, and Vice walks to and fro.

And when I faltered at the sight, He said,
"Behold, I died for such! These hands have bled,
This side for such has pierced been," he said.

"Is the disciple greater than his Lord?
The servant than his Master?" Oh, that word!
It smote me like a sharp, two-edged sword!

And since that hour, if any work of mine
Has been accepted by my Lord as sign
That I was following in his steps divine;

If, serving others (though imperfectly),
My own poor life has worthier come to be,
And I have grown in faith and charity,

Dear Lord, be thine the glory! Thou hast wrought,
All unaware, the blessing that I sought.
O that these lips might praise thee as they ought!

BE ALWAYS GIVING

The sun gives ever; so the earth--
What it can give so much 'tis worth;
The ocean gives in many ways--
Gives baths, gives fishes, rivers, bays;
So, too, the air, it gives us breath.
When it stops giving, comes in death.
Give, give, be always giving;
Who gives not is not living;
The more you give
The more you live.

God's love hath in us wealth unheaped
Only by giving it is reaped;
The body withers, and the mind
Is pent up by a selfish rind.
Give strength, give thought, give deeds, give pelf,
Give love, give tears, and give thyself.
Give, give, be always giving,
Who gives not is not living;
The more we give
The more we live.

Slightest actions often meet the sorest needs,
For the world wants daily little kindly deeds;
O, what care and sorrow you may help remove
With your song and courage, sympathy and love.

NOT LOST

The look of sympathy; the gentle word
Spoken so low that only angels heard;
The secret act of pure self-sacrifice,
Unseen by men, but marked by angels' eyes;
These are not lost.

The silent tears that fall at dead of night
Over soiled robes that once were pure and white;
The prayers that rise like incense from the soul,
Longing for Christ to make it clean and whole;
These are not lost.

The happy dreams that gladdened all our youth,
When dreams had less of self and more of truth;
The childhood's faith, so tranquil and so sweet,
Which sat like Mary at the Master's feet;
These are not lost.

The kindly plans devised for others' good,
So seldom guessed, so little understood;
The quiet, steadfast love that strove to win
Some wanderer from the ways of sin;
These are not lost.

Not lost, O Lord! for in Thy city bright
Our eyes shall see the past by clearer light,
And things long hidden from our gaze below
Thou wilt reveal, and we shall surely know
They were not lost.

There's never a rose in all the world
But makes some green spray sweeter;
There's never a wind in all the sky
But makes some bird wing fleeter;
There's never a star but brings to heaven
Some silver radiance tender;
And never a rosy cloud but helps
To crown the sunset splendor;
No robin but may thrill some heart,
His dawn like gladness voicing;
God gives us all some small sweet way
To set the world rejoicing.

A BROADER FIELD

O thou who sighest for a broader field
Wherein to sow the seeds of truth and right--
Who fain a fuller, nobler power would wield
O'er human souls that languish for the light--

Search well the realm that even now is thine!
Canst not thou in some far-off corner find
A heart sin-bound, like tree with sapping vine,
Waiting for help its burdens to unbind?

Some human plant, perchance beneath thine eyes,
Pierced through with hidden thorns of idle fears;
Or drooping low for need of light from skies
Obscured by doubt-clouds raining poison tears?

Some bruised soul the balm of love would heal;
Some timid spirit faith would courage give;
Or maimed brother, who, though brave and leal,
Still needeth thee, to rightly walk and live?

O while one soul thou findest which hath not known
The fullest help thy soul hath power to give,
Sigh not for fields still broader than thine own,
But, steadfast in thine own, more broadly live.

--Julia Anna Wolcott.

Be it health or be it leisure,
Be it skill we have to give,
Still in spending it for others
Christians only really live.

Not in having or receiving,
But in giving, there is bliss;
He who has no other pleasure
Ever may rejoice in this.

WHAT CHRIST SAID

I said, "Let me walk in the fields."
He said, "No, walk in the town."
I said, "There are no flowers there."
He said, "No flowers, but a crown."

I said, "But the skies are black;
There is nothing but noise and din."
And He wept as he sent me back;
"There is more," He said; "there is sin."

I said, "But the air is thick,
And fogs are veiling the sun."
He answered, "Yet souls are sick,
And souls in the dark undone."

I said, "I shall miss the light,
And friends will miss me, they say."
He answered, "Choose to-night
If _I_ am to miss you, or they."

I pleaded for time to be given.
He said, "Is it hard to decide?
It will not seem hard in heaven
To have followed the steps of your Guide."

I cast one look at the fields,
Then set my face to the town;
He said, "My child, do you yield?
Will you leave the flowers for the crown?"

Then into His hand went mine,
And into my heart came He;
And I walk in a light divine
The path I had feared to see.

--George Macdonald.

MY SERVICE

I asked the Lord to let me do
Some mighty work for Him;
To fight amid His battle hosts,
Then sing the victor's hymn.
I longed my ardent love to show,
But Jesus would not have it so.

He placed me in a quiet home,
Whose life was calm and still,
And gave me little things to do,
My daily round to fill;
I could not think it good to be
Just put aside so silently.

Small duties gathered round my way,
They seemed of earth alone;
I, who had longed for conquests bright
To lay before His throne,
Had common things to do and bear,
To watch and strive with daily care.

So then I thought my prayer unheard,
And asked the Lord once more
That He would give me work for Him
And open wide the door;
Forgetting that my Master knew
Just what was best for me to do.

Then quietly the answer came,
"My child, I hear thy cry;
Think not that mighty deeds alone
Will bring the victory.
The battle has been planned by Me,
Let daily life thy conquests see."

PASS IT ON

Have you had a kindness shown?
Pass it on.
It was not given to you alone,
Pass it on.
Let it travel through the years;
Let it wipe another's tears;
Till in heaven the deed appears,
Pass it on.

Have you found the heavenly light?
Pass it on.
Souls are groping in the night,
Daylight gone.
Lift your lighted lamp on high,
Be a star in some one's sky,
He may live who else would die.
Pass it on.

GIVING AND TAKING

Who gives, and hides the giving hand,
Nor counts on favor, fame, or praise,
Shall find his smallest gift outweighs
The burden of the sea and land.

Who gives to whom hath naught been given,
His gift in need, though small indeed
As is the grass-blade's wind-blown seed,
Is large as earth and rich as heaven.

--John Greenleaf Whittier, from Tinnevaluna of India.

ONE PATH TO LIGHT

What is the world? A wandering maze,
Where sin hath tracked a thousand ways
Her victims to ensnare.
All broad and winding and aslope,
All tempting with perfidious hope,
All ending in despair.
Millions of pilgrims throng those roads,
Bearing their baubles or their loads
Down to eternal night.
One only path that never bends,
Narrow and rough and steep, ascends
Through darkness into light.
Is there no guide to show that path?
The Bible. He alone that hath
The Bible need not stray.
But he who hath and will not give
That light of life to all that live,
Himself shall lose the way.

IF WE COULD ONLY SEE

It were not hard, we think, to serve Him
If we could only see!
If he would stand with that gaze intense
Burning into our bodily sense,
If we might look on that face most tender,
The brows where the scars are turned to splendor,
Might catch the light of his smile so sweet,
And view the marks on his hands and feet,
How loyal we should be!
It were not hard, we think, to serve him,
If we could only see!

It were not hard, he says, to see him,
If we would only serve;
"He that doeth the will of Heaven,
To him shall knowledge and sight be given."
While for his presence we sit repining,
Never we see his countenance shining;
They who toil where his reapers be
The glow of his smile may always see,
And their faith can never swerve.
It were not hard, he says, to see him,
If we would only serve.

Think not in sleep to fold thy hands,
Forgetful of thy Lord's commands,
From Duty's claims no life is free,
Behold! To-day has need of thee.

WHEN YOU DO AN ACT

You can never tell when you do an act
Just what the result will be;
But with every deed you are sowing a seed,
Though its harvest you may not see.
Each kindly act is an acorn dropped
In God's productive soil;
Though you may not know, yet the tree shall grow
And shelter the brows that toil.

YOUR MISSION

If you cannot on the ocean
Sail among the swiftest fleet,
Rocking on the highest billows,
Laughing at the storms you meet;
You can stand among the sailors
Anchored yet within the bay;
You can lend a hand to help them
As they launch their boat away.

If you are too weak to journey
Up the mountain steep and high,
You can stand within the valley
While the multitudes go by;
You can chant in happy measure
As they slowly pass along;
Though they may forget the singer
They will not forget the song.

If you have not gold and silver
Ever ready to command;
If you cannot toward the needy,
Reach an ever-open hand;
You can visit the afflicted,
O'er the erring you can weep;
You can be a true disciple
Sitting at the Saviour's feet.

If you cannot in the harvest
Garner up the richest sheaves,
Many a grain both ripe and golden
Will the careless reapers leave;
Go and glean among the briers
Growing rank against the wall,
For it may be that their shadow
Hides the heaviest wheat of all.

If you cannot in the conflict
Prove yourself a soldier true,
If where fire and smoke are thickest
There's no work for you to do;
When the battle-field is silent
You can go with careful tread:
You can bear away the wounded,
You can cover up the dead.

If you cannot be the watchman,
Standing high on Zion's wall,
Pointing out the path to heaven,
Offering life and peace to all;
With your prayers and with your bounties
You can do what Heaven demands,
You can be like faithful Aaron,
Holding up the prophet's hands.

Do not, then, stand idly waiting
For some greater work to do;
Fortune is a lazy goddess--
She will never come to you.
Go and toil in any vineyard,
Do not fear to do or dare;
If you want a field of labor
You can find it anywhere.

--G. M. Grannis.

THE FAITHFUL MONK

Golden gleams of noonday fell
On the pavement of the cell,
And the monk still lingered there
In the ecstasy of prayer;
Fuller floods of glory streamed
Through the window, and it seemed
Like an answering glow of love
From the countenance above.

On the silence of the cell
Break the faint tones of a bell.
'Tis the hour when at the gate
Crowds of poor and hungry wait,
Wan and wistful, to be fed
With the friar of mercy's bread.

Hark! that chime of heaven's far bells!
On the monk's rapt ear it swells,
No! fond, flattering dream, away!
Mercy calls; no longer stay!
Whom thou yearnest here to find
In the musings of thy mind,
God and Jesus, lo, they wait
Knocking at thy convent gate!

From his knees the monk arose;
With full heart and hand he goes,
At his gate the poor relieves,
Gains a blessing and receives;
To his cell returned, and there
Found the angel of his prayer,
Who with radiant features said,
"Hadst thou stayed I must have fled."

--Charles Timothy Brooks.

THE HEAVENLY PRESENCE

Somewhere I have read of an aged monk
Who, kneeling one day in his cell,
Beheld in a glorious vision the form
Of the dear Lord Christ; and there fell

Upon him a rapture, wondrously sweet,
And his lips could frame no word,
As he gazed on the form and noted the love
That beamed from the face of his Lord.

There came to his ears the sound of a bell
Which called him early and late
To carry loaves to the wretched poor
Who lingered about the gate.

Could he leave his cell now glorified
By the presence of the Christ,
The Blessed Son, the Holy One,
His Saviour, the Sacrificed?

He went to his act of mercy, and when
He returned to his cell, the dim
Gay light was dispelled as the loving Christ
Re-entered to welcome him.

And the Blessed One remained, more fair,
More glorious than before,
And the heart of the aged monk was glad,
And his cell was dim no more.

"Draw nigh and abide with me, O Christ,
All through this day," is the prayer
Which sounds from my heart, and my lips repeat
Each morning, and Christ, the Fair,

Seems very near as his words I hear,
Though his form I do not see;
"When you care for the least of these, dear child,
You have done it unto me.

"With loving service fill all this day,
Do good in the name of your Lord,
And I will be near, your heart to cheer,
According to my word."

--William Norris Burr.

ONLY

It was _only_ a blossom,
Just the merest bit of bloom,
But it brought a glimpse of summer
To the little darkened room.

It was _only_ a glad "good morning,"
As she passed along the way;
But it spread the morning's glory
Over the livelong day.

_Only_ a song; but the music,
Though simply pure and sweet,
Brought back to better pathways
The reckless roving feet.

"_Only_," in our blind wisdom,
How dare we say at all?
Since the ages alone can tell us
Which is the great or small.

SOMETHING YOU CAN DO

Hark! the voice of Jesus calling,
"Who will go and work to-day?
Fields are white and harvests waiting,
Who will bear the sheaves away?"
Loud and long the Master calleth,
Rich reward he offers free;
Who will answer, gladly saying,
"Here am I, send me, send me."

If you cannot cross the ocean
And the heathen lands explore,
You can find the heathen nearer,
You can help them at your door;
If you cannot give your thousands
You can give the widow's mite;
And the least you give for Jesus
Will be precious in his sight.

If you cannot speak like angels,
If you cannot preach like Paul,
You can tell the love of Jesus,
You can say he died for all.
If you cannot rouse the wicked
With the Judgment's dread alarms,
You can lead the little children
To the Saviour's waiting arms.

Let none hear you idly saying
"There is nothing I can do,"
While the sons of men are dying,
And the Master calls for you.
Take the task he gives you gladly,
Let his work your pleasure be;
Answer quickly, when he calleth,
"Here am I, send me, send me."

--Daniel March.

SEEDTIME

Sow thou thy seed!
Glad is the light of Spring--the sun is glowing.
Do thou thy deed:
Who knows when flower or deed shall cease its growing?

Thy seed may be
Bearer of thousands scattered far and near;
Eternity
May feel the impress of the deed done here.

--Arthur L. Salmon.

TOIL A BLESSING

The toil of brain, or heart, or hand,
Is man's appointed lot;
He who God's call can understand
Will work and murmur not.
Toil is no thorny crown of pain,
Bound round man's brow for sin;
True souls, from it, all strength may gain,
High manliness may win.

O God! who workest hitherto,
Working in all we see,
Fain would we be, and bear, and do,
As best it pleaseth thee.
Where'er thou sendest we will go,
Nor any questions ask,
And that thou biddest we will do,
Whatever be the task.

Our skill of hand, and strength of limb,
Are not our own, but thine;
We link them to the work of Him
Who made all life divine.
Our brother-friend, thy holy Son,
Shared all our lot and strife;
And nobly will our work be done
If molded by his life.

--Thomas W. Freckelton.

No service in itself is small;
None great, though earth it fill;
But that is small that seeks its own,
And great that seeks God's will.

Then hold my hand, most gracious God,
Guide all my goings still;
And let it be my life's one aim,
To know and do thy will.

EASILY GIVEN