The Last Days of Autumn...

THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN.

Sir Walter Scott.

Autumn departs — but still his mantle's fold

Rests on the groves of noble Somerville,

Beneath a shroud of russet dropp'd with gold,

Tweed and his tributaries mingle still;

Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the rill,

Yet lingering notes of sylvan music swell,

The deep-toned cushat, and the redbreast shrill;

And yet some tints of summer splendor tell

When the broad sun sinks down on Ettrick's western

fell.

Autumn departs — from Gala's fields no more

Come rural sounds our kindred banks to cheer;

Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts it o'er,

No more the distant reaper's mirth we hear.

The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear,

And harvest home hath hush'd the clanging wain,

On the waste hill no forms of life appear,

Save where sad laggard of the autumnal train,

Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scat-

tered grain.

Deem'st thou these sadden'd scenes have pleasure

still,

Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to

stray,

To see the heath-flower wither'd on the hill,

To listen to the wood's expiring lay,

To note the red leaf shivering on the spray,

To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain,

On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way,

And moralize on mortal joy and pain? —

Oh ! if such scenes thou lov'st, scorn not the minstrel

strain!

O Word of God Incarnate

O Word of God Incarnate

by William How

O Word of God incarnate,

O Wisdom from on high,

O Truth unchanged, unchanging,

O Light of our dark sky!

We praise Thee for the radiance

That from the hallowed page,

A lamp to guide our footsteps,

Shines on from age to age.

The church from her dear Master

Received the gift divine,

And still that light she lifteth

O'er all the earth to shine.

It is the golden casket

Where gems of truth are stored;

It is the heaven-drawn picture

Of Christ the living Word.

The Earthen Vessel

The Earthen Vessel

The Master stood in His garden
Among the lilies fair,
Which His own right hand had planted
And trained with tenderest care.

He looked at their snowy blossoms.
And marked with observant eye
That His flowers were sadly drooping.
For their leaves were parched and dry.

"My lilies need to be watered,"
The heavenly Master said.
"Wherein shall I draw it for them.
And raise each drooping head?"

Close to His feet on the pathway.
Empty and frail and small.
An earthen vessel was lying.
Which seemed of no use at all.

But the Master saw and raised it
From the dust in which it lay,
And smiled as He gently whispered,
"This shall do my work to-day.

"It is but an earthen vessel.
But it lay so close to Me.
It is small, but it is empty.
Which is all it needs to be."

So to the fountain He took it.
And filled it to the brim.
How glad was the earthen vessel
To be of some use to Him!"

He poured forth the living water
Over the lilies fair,
Until the vessel was empty.
And again He filled it there.

He watered the drooping lilies
Until they revived again.
And the Master saw with pleasure
That His labor had not been vain.

His own hand had drawn the water
That refreshed the thirsty flowers,
But He used the earthen vessel
To carry the living showers.

And to itself it whispered
As He laid it aside once more,
"Still will I lie in His pathway
Just where I did before.

"Close would I keep to the Master,
Empty would I remain,
And perhaps some day He may use me
To water His flowers again."

Myself

Myself

What unto me is Nature after all?
I pass her by and softly go my way.
She is the remnant of my little day
Upon this beautiful revolving ball.

I am the real being. At my beck.
The seeming actual pays its vassalage;
I am the reader and the world the page;
I fling a halter round old matter's neck.

Glad to be taught of things outside, yet I
Find me indifferent to their transient
touch;
A life's to-day is an eternity
Seems not to please my spirit overmuch. 

I may not fathom now the end or what
The sweat and blood and tragedy may
mean;
But I can fight the fight and falter not.
Above the clouds the hilltops are serene.

So if I stay here years or slip away
While yet the early dawn is dim and dark,
It matters not. I am that living spark
That ever glows 'tho planets have their day

Negative and Positive Culture

The lesson of the following poem, by T. Berry Smith, is that if we cultivate the good diligently the evil will thereby be weeded out:

Negative and Positive Culture
 
Two fields lay side by side. Only a hedge
Which ran athwart the plain dissevered them.
In one my title lay, and he who owned
The other was my brother. Each alike
Had generous part of one ancestral lot.
And each alike due diligence displayed
On that he called his own. At early spring
Each with a shining share upturned the soil
And gave it to the sun, the wind, the shower.
Thenceforth we rested not. Busily we
wrought
And wiped our briny brows 'neath burning
suns,
Biding the time of one far-off event.

At summer's end we each one came at last
To find our recompense. Each had his own,
The end for which he'd toiled. Through all
those days
My only thought had been no weeds should
grow,
But he had plowed 'mid rows of waving corn
And in so doing killed the cumbering weeds
That grew between. And now at summer's
close
Behold ! my field was verdureless and bare.
While his was clad in vestiture of gold.
How vain my toil ! His recompense how
full.
Who reaped so much, yet plowed no more
than I!

Divinity

All things are mine; to all things I belong:

I mingle in them--heeding bounds nor

bars--

Float in the cloud, melt in the river's song;

In the clear wave from rock to rock I

leap.

Widen away, and slowly onward creep;

I stretch forth glimmering hands beneath

the stars

And lose my little murmur in the deep.

Yea, more than that: whatever I behold--

Dark forest, mountain, the o'erarching

wheel

Of heaven's solemn turning, all the old

Immeasurable air and boundless sea--

Yields of its life, builds life and strength

in me

For tasks to come, while I but see and feel,

And merely am, and it is joy to be.

Lo, that small spark within us is not blind

To its beginning; struck from one vast 

soul

Which, in the framework of the world, doth

bind

All parts together; small, but still agree-

ing

With That which molded us without our

seeing;

Since God is all, and all in all--the Whole

In whom we live and move and have

our being.

Samuel V. Cole, The Critic.

Divine Discontent

An unidentified author writes thus of discontent:

When the world was formed and the morn-

ing stars

Upon their paths were sent,

The loftiest-browed of the angels was

named

The Angel of Discontent.

And he dwelt with man in the caves of the

hills,

Where the created serpent stings,

And the tiger tears and the she-wolf howls,

And he told of better things.

And he led man forth in the towered town,

And forth to fields of corn;

And he told of the ampler work ahead

For which the race was born.

And he whispers to men of those hills he sees

In the blush of the golden west;

And they look to the light of his lifted eye

And they hate the name of rest.

In the light of that eye doth the slave be-

hold

A hope that is high and brave,

And the madness of war comes into his 

blood

For he knows himself a slave.

The serfs of wrong in the light of that eye

March on with victorious songs;

For the strength of their right comes into

their hearts

When they behold their wrongs.

"Tis by the light of that lifted eye

That error's mists are rent--

A guide to the table-land of Truth

Is the Angel of Discontent.

And still he looks with his lifted eye,

And his glance is far away

On a light that shines on the glimmering

hills

Of a diviner day.

What Am I?

What an I, whence produced, and for what end?
Whence drew I being, to what period tend?
Am I th' abandon'd orphan of blind chance,
Dropp'd by wild atoms in disordered dance?
Or, from an endless chain of causes wrought,
And of unthinking substance, born with thought?
Am I but what I seem, mere felsh and blood,
A branching channel with a mazy flood?
The purple stream that through my vessels glides,
Dull and unconscious flows, like common tides,
The pipes, through which the circling juices stray,
Are not that thinking I, no more than they;
This frame, compacted with transcendent skill,
Of moving joints, obedient to my will;
Nursed from the fruitful glebe, like yonder tree,
Waxes and wastes, -- I call it mine, not me,
New matter still the mould'ring mass sustains;
The mansion chang'd, the tenant still remains;
And, from the fleeting stream, repair'd by food,
Distinct, as is the swimmer from the flood.

by Dr. Arbuthnot

Things That Never Die

The pure, the bright, the beautiful,
That stirred our hearts in youth,
The impulse to a wordless prayer,
The dreams of love and truth;
The longings after something lost,
The spirit's yearning cry,
The strivings after better hopes--
These things can never die.
The timid hand stretched forth to aid
A brother in his need,
The kindly word in grief's dark hour
That proves a friend indeed;
The plea for mercy gently breathed
When justice threatens high,
The sorrow of a contrite heart--
These things shall never die.
The memory of a clasping hand,
The pressure of a kiss,
And all the trifles, sweet and frail,
That make up love's first bliss;
If with a firm unchanging faith,
And holy trust on high,
Those hands have clasped, those lips have met--
These things shall never die.
The cruel and the bitter word
That wounded as it fell;
The chilling want of sympathy
We feel but never tell;
The hard repulse that grieves the heart
Whose hopes were bounding high
In an unfading record kept--
These things shall never die.
Let nothing pass, for every hand
Must find some work to do;
Lose not a chance to waken love--
Be firm, and just, and true:
So shall a light that cannot fade
Beam on thee from on high,
And angel voices say to thee--
"These things shall never die."

by Sarah Doudney

The Reaper And The Flowers. by Henry W. Longfellow

There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
And with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
And the flowers that grow between.
“Shall I have naught that is fair?” said he,
“Have naught but the bearded grain?
Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again.”
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes;
He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.
“My Lord hath need of these flowerets gay,”
The reaper said, and smiled;
“Dear tokens of the earth are they,
Where he was once a child.
“They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
And saints upon their garments white,
These sacred blossoms wear,”
And the mother gave in tears and pain
The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
In fields of light above.
Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The reaper came that day;
‘Twas an angel visited the green earth,
And took the flowers away!