Men said at vespers: "All is well!"
In one wild night the city fell;
Fell shrines of prayer and marts of gain
Before the fiery hurricane.

On threescore spires had sunset shone,
Where ghastly sunrise looked on none.
Men clasped each other's hands, and said
"The City of the West is dead!"

Brave hearts who fought, in slow retreat,
The fiends of fire from street to street,
Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare,
The dumb defiance of despair.

A sudden impulse thrilled each wire
That signalled round that sea of fire;
Swift words of cheer, warm heart-throbs came;
In tears of pity died the flame!

From East, from West, from South and North,
The messages of hope shot forth,
And, underneath the severing wave,
The world, full-hande...

Back of each soldier who fights for France,
    Ay, back of each woman and man
Who toils and prays through these long tense days,
    Is the spirit of Great Joan.
For the love she gave, and the life she gave,
    In the eyes of God sufficed
To crown her with light, and power, and might,
    That made her second to Christ.

And so in that hour at the Marne she came,
    To the seeing eyes of men;
And the blind of view still felt and knew
    That her spirit had come again.
And she will come in each crucial hour
    And joy shall follow despair,
For Joan sees her France on its knees
    And she hears the voice of its prayer.

There is no hate in the heart of France,
    But a mighty moral force
That takes its stand for her worshipped land,

"My thoughts are my company; I can bring them together, select them, detain them, dismiss them."

"The wise become as the unwise in the enchanted chambers of Power, whose lamps make every face the same colour."

"We often fancy that we suffer from ingratitude, while in reality we suffer from self-love."

"Goodness does not more certainly make men happy than happiness makes them good."

"Everything that looks to the future elevates human nature. Never is life so low or so little as when occupied with the present."

"Men, like nails, lose their usefulness when they lose their direction and begin to bend."

"Prose on certain occasions can bear a great deal of poetry; on the other hand, poetry sinks and swoons under a moderate weight of prose."

"Be always displeased at wha...

Deh fammiti vedere.


Oh, make me see Thee, Lord, where'er I go!
        If mortal beauty sets my soul on fire,
        That flame when near to Thine must needs expire,
        And I with love of only Thee shall glow.
Dear Lord, Thy help I seek against this woe,
        These torments that my spirit vex and tire;
        Thou only with new strength canst re-inspire
        My will, my sense, my courage faint and low.
Thou gavest me on earth this soul divine;
        And Thou within this body weak and frail
        Didst prison it--how sadly there to live!
How can I make its lot less vile than mine?
        Without Thee, Lord, all goodness seems to fail.
        To alter fate is God's prerogative.

We will be what we could be. Do not say,
    "It might have been, had not or that, or this."
No fate can keep us from the chosen way;
        He only might, who is.

We will do what we could do. Do not dream
    Chance leaves a hero, all uncrowned to grieve.
I hold, all men are greatly what they seem;
        He does, who could achieve.

We will climb where we could climb. Tell me not
    Of adverse storms that kept thee from the height.
What eagle ever missed the peak he sought?
        He always climbs who might.

I do not like the phrase, "It might have been!"
    It lacks all force, and life's best truths perverts:
For I believe we have, and reach, and win,
        Whatever our deserts.

Come, said the Muse,
Sing me a song no poet yet has chanted,
Sing me the Universal.

In this broad Earth of ours,
Amid the measureless grossness and the slag,
Enclosed and safe within its central heart,
Nestles the seed Perfection.

By every life a share, or more or less,
None born but it is born conceal'd or unconceal'd, the seed is waiting.

Lo! keen-eyed, towering Science!
As from tall peaks the Modern overlooking,
Successive, absolute fiats issuing.

Yet again, lo! the Soul above all science;
For it, has History gather'd like a husk around the globe;
For it, the entire star-myriads roll through the sky.

In spiral roads, by long detours,
(As a much-tacking ship upon the sea,)
For it, the partial to the permanent flowing,
...

    God is;
    God sees;
    God loves;
    God knows.
And Right is Right;
And Right is Might.
In the full ripeness of His Time,
All these His vast prepotencies
Shall round their grace-work to the prime
Of full accomplishment,
And we shall see the plan sublime
Of His beneficent intent.
Live on in hope!
Press on in faith!
Love conquers all things,
Even Death.

    Who Is Said To Have Stabbed a Person That He Might Draw It More    Naturally.(44)


Whilst his Redeemer on his canvass dies,
Stabb'd at his feet his brother weltering lies:
The daring artist, cruelly serene,
Views the pale cheek and the distorted mien;
He drains off life by drops, and, deaf to cries,
Examines every spirit as it flies:
He studies torment, dives in mortal woe,
To rouse up every pang repeats his blow;
Each rising agony, each dreadful grace,
Yet warm transplanting to his Saviour's face.
Oh glorious theft! oh nobly wicked draught!
With its full charge of death each feature fraught,
Such wondrous force the magic colours boast,
From his own skill he starts in horror lost.


44 Though the report was propagated without the least trut...

It is nothing to me, the beauty said,
With a careless toss of her pretty head;
The man is weak if he can't refrain
From the cup you say is fraught with pain.
It was something to her in after years,
When her eyes were drenched with burning tears,
And she watched in lonely grief and dread,
And startled to hear a staggering tread.

It is nothing to me, the mother said;
I have no fear that my boy will tread
In the downward path of sin and shame,
And crush my heart and darken his name.
It was something to her when that only son
From the path of right was early won,
And madly cast in the flowing bowl
A ruined body and sin-wrecked soul.

It is nothing to me, the young man cried:
In his eye was a flash of scorn and pride;
I heed not the dreadful th...

        1.

        I TO myself have neither power nor worth,
        Patience nor love, nor anything right good;
        My soul is a poor land, plenteous in dearth--
        Here blades of grass, there a small herb for food--
        A nothing that would be something if it could;
        But if obedience, Lord, in me do grow,
        I shall one day be better than I know.

        2.

        The worst power of an evil mood is this--
        It makes the bastard self seem in the right,
        Self, self the end, the goal of human bliss.
        But if the Christ-self in us be the might
        Of saving God, why should I spend my force
        With a dark thing to reason of the light--
        Not push it rough aside, and hold obedient course?

    Mood of youth,
    Mood of youth,
Eagle-like must seek the blue,
Dauntlessly its course pursue,
All the mountain-heights must view.
    Blood of youth,
    Blood of youth,
Steam-like puts full-speed to sea,
E'en though storm and ice there be,
Makes its way and romps in glee.
    Dream of youth,
    Dream of youth,
Rogue-like stealing sets its snare
In the maiden's morning-prayer;
All the springtime, fragrant, glowing,
In its airy waves is flowing.
    Joy of youth,
    Joy of youth,
Waterfall-like foams in truth,
Laughing, rainbow-gifts forth flashing,
Even while to death 't is dashing.
    Joy of youth,
    Dream of youth,
    Blood of youth,
    Mood of youth,
Clothe the world with colors golden,
Singing ...

I.

O’er the bare woods, whose outstretched hands
Plead with the leaden heavens in vain,
I see, beyond the valley lands,
The sea’s long level dim with rain.
Around me all things, stark and dumb,
Seem praying for the snows to come,
And, for the summer bloom and greenness gone,
With winter’s sunset lights and dazzling morn atone.

II.

Along the river’s summer walk,
The withered tufts of asters nod;
And trembles on its arid stalk
The boar plume of the golden-rod.
And on a ground of sombre fir,
And azure-studded juniper,
The silver birch its buds of purple shows,
And scarlet berries tell where bloomed the sweet wild-rose!

III.

With mingled sound of horns and bells,
A far-heard clang, the wild geese fly,
Storm-se...