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Even in the motions of the storm,
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
By silent sympathy.
“The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round; And beauty, born of murmuring sound, Shall pass
into her face.
“ And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,
Her virgin bosom swell :
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give,
While she and I together live
Here in this happy dell.”
So Nature spoke ; the work was done;
How soon my Lucy's race was run!
She died and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene,
The memory of what has been
And nevermore shall be.
song of Kilvany. Fairest she
In all the land of Savatthe.
She had one child, as sweet and gay,
As dear to her as the light of day.
She was so young and he so fair,
The same bright eyes, and the same dark hair.
To see them by the blossomy way,
They seemed two children at their play.
There came a death-dart from the sky,
Kilvany saw her darling die.
The glimmering shades his
Out of his cheeks the red bloom fades ;
His warm heart feels the icy chill,
The round limbs shudder and are still ;
And yet Kilvany held him fast
Long after life's last pulse was past;
As if her kisses could restore
The smile gone out forevermore.
But when she saw her child was dead
She scattered ashes on her head,
And seized the small corpse, pale and sweet,
And rushing wildly through the street,
She sobbing fell at Buddha's feet.
“ Master! all helpful! help me now;
Here at thy feet I humbly bow;
Have mercy Buddha ! help me now!”
She grovelled on the marble floor,
And kissed the dead child o'er and o’er,
And suddenly upon the air,
There fell the answer to her prayer;
“ Bring me to-night a Lotus tied
With thread from a house where none has died."
She rose and laughed with thankful joy,
Sure that the god would save the boy.
She found a Lotus by the stream;
She plucked it from its noonday gleam;
And then from door to door she fared,
To ask what house by death was spared.
Her heart grew cold to see the eyes
Of all dilate in slow surprise ;
“Kilvany, thou hast lost thy head;
Nothing can help a child that's dead.
“ There stands not by the Ganges side
A house where none hath ever died.”
Thus through the long and weary day,
From every door she bore
Within her heart, and on her arm,
A heavier load, a deeper harm.
By gates of gold and ivory,
By wattled huts of poverty,
The same refrain heard poor Kilvany,
“ The living are few, the dead are many."
The evening came so still and fleet,
And overtook her hurrying feet,
And heart-sick by the sacred fane
She fell and prayed the god again,
She sobbed and beat her bursting breast;
“Ah, thou hast mocked me! Mightiest !
Lo! I have wandered far and wide –
There stands no house where none hath died."
And Buddha answered in a tone,
Soft as a flute at twilight blown,
But grand as heaven, and strong as death,
To him who hears with ears of faith ;
“ Child, thou art answered! Murmur not!
Bow, and accept the common lot!”
Kilvany heard with reverence meet,
And laid her child at Buddha's feet.
THE PRESENT AND FUTURE FAITHS.
PHILLIPS BROOKS. ARRANGED.
“ ACHILLES ponders in his tent,
The kings of modern thought are dumb,
Silent they are, though not content,
And wait to see the future come.
Silent, while years engrave the brow;
Silent, the best are silent now.
We all feel certainly a disposition of the best and deepest part of us to share this silence, to be still and wait. It is the natural symptom of a time that is not sure how much of the past is good and not sure what there is waiting in the future ; a time and men “wandering between two worlds; one dead, the other powerless to be born."
I do not certainly say that such a time is best, though really in my heart I do not think the world has ever seen a better. There must be better ones to come.
The story of the world is not told yet. ancients of the earth and in the morning of the times.” How in a time like this can a man live and get the best out of it, and at the same time shun its worst? In all the uncertainty and change it is the true man's place to find what there is that is permanent and certain, and to cling to that. In other sorts of times men do not distinguish between what is lasting and what is transitory. All seems fixed together. Ice and rock alike are solid. In times like these, when the ice breaks up, the rocks stand out solid and strong among the loosened waves. It is a time to find out what is sure and certain and eternal.
ALFRED TENNYSON. EXTRACT.
Dost thou look back on what hath been,
As some divinely gifted man
Whose life in low estate began
And on a simple village-green ?
Who breaks his birth's invidious bar,
And grasps the skirts of happy chance,
And breasts the blows of circumstance,
And grapples with his evil star;
Who makes by force his merit known,
And lives to clutch the golden keys,
To mould a mighty State's decrees,
And shape the whisper of the throne ;