"WHAT I DO THOU KNOWEST NOT NOW."
Hast thou long thy Lord's abiding
Vainly sought 'mid shadows dim?
Lo! His purpose wisely hiding,
Thee He seeks to worship him.
Shades of night, thy strain'd eye scorning,
Have they; long enwrapp'd the skies?
He, whose word commands the morning,
Soon shall bid the day-spring rise!
Are ten thousand fears desiring
To engulf their helpless prey?
One faint hope, his grace inspiring,
Is a mightier thing than they.
Has the foe his dark dominion,
As upon thy Saviour, tried?--
As to Him with hastening pinion,
Lo! the angels at thy side.
Is thy spirit all unfeeling,
Save to sin that grieves thee there?
Thee He'll make, his face revealing,
Joyful in His house of prayer!
Hast thou seen thy building falter
Can thy God thy griefs despise?
'Mid the ruins dark, an altar
Fashion'd by His hands, shall rise.
Thee, to some lone mountain sending,
Only with the wood supplied;
He, thy God, thy worship tending,
Will Himself a lamb provide.
Has He made it vain thy toiling
Fine-spun raiment to prepare?
'Twas to give--thy labors spoiling--
Better robes than monarchs wear.
From thy barn and storehouse treasure
Did He take thy hoarded pelf?
Yes: to feed thee was His pleasure,
Like the winged fowls--_Himself_.
* * * * *
"WHAT PROFIT HATH A MAN OF ALL HIS LABOR
THAT HE TAKETH UNDER THE SUN?"
Must we forever train the vineyard sproutings,
And plough in hope of harvests yet to come,
Nor ever join the gladsome vintage shoutings,
And sing the happy song of harvest-home?
Must we forever the rough stones be heaping,
And building temple walls for evermore?
Comes there no blessed day for Sabbath-keeping,
No time within the temple to adore?
In faith's long contest have life's quenchless fountains
Bade calm defiance to the hostile sword?
But when, all beautiful upon the mountains,
Shall come the herald of our peace restored?
Must we forever urge the brain with learning,
And add to moral, intellectual woes?
Nor hold in peace the spoils we have been earning,
And find in wisdom's self the mind's repose?
Long have we watch'd, and risen late and early,
Rising to toil, and watching but to weep;
When will the blessing come like dewdrops pearly,
"On heaven's beloved ones even while they sleep?"
Since life began, our life has been beginning,
That ever-nascent future's treacherous vow;
When shall we find, the weary contest winning
A present treasure, an enduring _now_?
Ten thousand nameless earthly aims pursuing,
Hope we in vain the recompense to see,
And must our total life expire in _doing_,
And never find us leisure time _to be_?
Has not our life a germ of real perfection,
As holds the tiny seed the forest's pride?
And shall its ask'd and promised resurrection
In dreams of disappointed hope subside?
Yes, all is hopeless, man with vain endeavor,
May climb earth's rugged heights, but climb to fall;
Ever perfecting, yet imperfect ever,
Earth has no rest for man--if earth be all.
Yet oft there dwell, in temples frail and mortal,
Souls that partake immortal life the while;
Nor wait till death unbar heaven's pearly portal,
For heaven's own essence, their Redeemer's smile.
_--12th Month_, 1844.
* * * * *
From the Journal relating to daily affairs, at this time, kept
distinct from her spiritual diary, the following, and a few other
extracts, have been taken. Never suspecting that this would see the
light, she left it in an unfinished state. Had it been reconsidered,
portions of it would probably have been altered; but it sufficiently
shows her desire to understand the agencies of intellectual action,
and the philosophy of knowing and acquiring. She recognizes the
importance of systematic knowledge, questions the purpose and use
of every attainment, and manifests throughout a desire that all
the operations of the intelligence may subserve a nobler aim than
knowledge in itself possesses:--
_5th Mo. 16th_. That life is a real, earnest thing,
and to be employed for our own and others' real and
earnest good, is a fact which I desire may be more
deeply engraven on my heart. It is certainly a
matter of spiritual duty, to look well to the outward
state of our own house. There are already many
revolutions in my mental history, passed beyond the
reach of any thing but regrets. As a child, play
was not my chief pleasure, but a sort of mingled
play and constructiveness; then reading and learning;
I well remember the coming on of the desire
to _know_. In a tale, false or true, I had by no
means, the common share of pleasure--Smith's Key
to Reading was more to my taste. Poetry I have
ever loved. History I am very dull at; a chain of
events is far more difficult to follow, than a chain of
ideas--causality comes more to my aid than eventuality.
Well, the age of learning came: in it I
learned this, that, and the other; but, alas! order,
the faculty in which I am so deficient, was wanting,
I had not an appointed place for each fact or idea:
so they were lost as they fell into the confused mass.
I am full of dim apprehensions on almost all subjects,
but _know little_ of any. However, it may be
that this favors new combinations of things. I
would rather have all my ideas in a mass, than have
them in separate locked boxes, where they must each
remain isolated; but it were better they were on
open shelves, and that I had power to take them
down, and combine at will. The age of combining
has come; I feel sensibly the diminution of the
power of acquiring: I can do little in that, but
lament that I have acquired so little; but I seem
rebuked in myself at the incessant wish to gain--gain
for what? I must _do_ something with what, I
gain; for, as I said before, I have nowhere to put it
away. I love languages,--above all, the expressive
German; but I know too little to make it expressive
for myself. But my own mother-tongue, though
my tongue is so deficient to use thee, canst thou
afford no other outlet to the struggling ideas that are
within; may I not write? I did write poetry sometimes:
is it presumptuous to call it poetry? It was
certainly the poetry of my heart; the pieces entitled
"The Complaint," and "What profit hath a man,
etc." were certainly poetry to me. But the fate of
my poetry is written before. Perhaps it was a
groundless fear; but still it has given it the death-blow.
But may I write prose? I will tell that by-and-by.
This has brought down my history in this
respect till now:--
The constructive playing age,
The learning age,
The combining age,
So far the intellect.
* * * I am conscientious naturally, rather
than adhesive or benevolent. This natural conscientiousness,
independent of spirituals, has been like
a goad in my side all my life, and its demands, I
think, heighten. It is evidently independent of religion,
because it is independent of the love of God
and of man. For instance, I form to myself an
idea of my reasonable amount of service in visiting
the poor. Have I fallen short of this amount, I am
uneasy, and feel myself burdened; the thing is before
me, I must do it: why? Because I feel the
love of God constraining me? Sometimes far otherwise.
Because I feel benevolence towards the poor?
No; for the thing itself is a task; but because it is
my duty; because I would justify myself; because
I would lighten my conscience. I have called this
feeling independent of religion; but perhaps it is
most intense when religion is faintest. This latter
supplies, evidently, the only true motive for benevolent
actions. Then they are a pleasure: then the
divergence of the impulse of duty from the impulse
of inclination is done away; and I believe the love of
God is the only thing, which, thus redeeming those
that were under the law, can place them under the law
of Christ. Though it is little I can do for the poor,
I ought to feel it both a duty and a pleasure to devote
some time to them most days. To see the aged,
whose poverty we have witnessed, whose declining
days we have tried to soothe, safely gathered home,
is a comfort and pleasure I would not forego; and,
though the real benefit we render to them must depend
on our own spiritual state, their cottages have
often been to me places of deep instruction.
The useful desire to learn, may be carried too far;
we may sacrifice the duties we owe to each other, by
an eagerness of this kind; nor, I believe, can we,
without culpable negligence, adhere tenaciously to
any plan of study. The moral self-training which
is exercised by giving up a book, to converse with
or help another, is of more value than the knowledge
which could have been acquired from it. Indeed,
I am convinced we are often in error about
_interruptions_. We have been interrupted; in what?--in
the fulfilment of our duty? That cannot be;
but in the prosecution of our favorite plan. If the
interruption was beyond our control, it _altered_ our
duty, but could not interrupt it. Duty is the right
course at a given time, and under given circumstances.
A subject, which has of late been very interesting
to me, is that of the Jews. I am convinced that
much, very much, is to be done for them by Christians,
and for Christians by them; but I think the
interest excited in their behalf, in the world at large,
is, in many cases, not according to knowledge. An
historical view of their points of contact with the
professing Christian world, has long been on my
mind; and I think it needs to be drawn by an independent
hand,--in short, by a Friend. That "He
that scattered Israel will gather him, and feed him
as a shepherd doth his flock," is confessed now on
all sides. The when, the where, and the how, are
variously viewed. But what will He gather them
to? is a question not enough thought of. One
wishes them to be gathered to the Church of England,
another to the Church of Scotland; but I am
persuaded their gathering must be to the primitive
Christian faith. I say not to Friends; although I
hold the principles of Friends to be the principles
of primitive Christianity. For I do think a vast
distinction is to be made between the principles of
truth professed by Friends, and the particular line
of action, as a body, into which they have been led,
(I doubt not by the truth,) under the circumstances
in which they were placed. My belief is, that the
Jews are to be gathered to none but a Church built
"on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, of
which Jesus Christ himself is the chief corner-stone;"
and that to such a Church they are to be
gathered immediately and instrumentally, by the
Spirit of God himself. A view of the manner in
which they have been regarded and treated by professing
Christians from the Christian era to the
present time, and of their own feelings towards
Christians and Christianity, if well drawn, would be
valuable and useful.
This interest in the Jews led Eliza to devote much, labor, during
several years, in collecting information relating to their history
since the Christian era. Had her life been spared, she would probably
have made some defined use of the large mass of material collected,
which, whilst valuable as an evidence of deep research, is not
sufficiently digested to be generally useful.
_7th Mo. 3d_. This evening I have finished copying
the foregoing scraps, previously on sheets, into this
book, that they may yet speak to me, in days to come,
of His manifold mercies, whose "candle has ofttimes
shone round about me," and "whose favor has made
me glad."
_7th Mo. 5th_. I desire gratefully to acknowledge
the privilege of which we have this week partaken,
in the occurrence of our Quarterly Meeting, and a
most sweet visit from ----; full of love is ---- to
his Master, and full of love to the brethren,
and even to the little sisters in Christ. Most
kindly and tenderly he and his wife advised us,
and myself, when we happened to be alone, to wait
and watch at the feet of Jesus, from whom the message
will come in due time, "The Master calleth for
thee." Manifold has been the expression of sympathy
for us all this week, in the prospect of parting with
our dear father on the Indiana committee, in about
five weeks, and the comforting expectation expressed
that his absence will be a time of sweet refreshing
from the presence of the Lord. Oh, we have much
to be thankful for in the grace that has been bestowed.
_7th Mo. 9th_. I have been much blessed the last
few days; not with high enjoyments, but with a calm
sense of dependence and trust on my Saviour, and
assistance in watching over my own heart. This
morning I have been tried with want of settlement
and power to get to the throne of grace; but faith
must learn to trust through all changes in the unchangeable
truth and love of Jesus. I am sensible
that this has been a time of much renewed mercy to
my soul; and oh that if, as ---- told me, the Lord
has many things to say unto me, but I cannot bear
them now, I may but be kept in the right preparation,
both for hearing and obeying!
_7th Mo. 27th_. I am sometimes astonished at the
condescending kindness of my Saviour, that he should
so gently and mercifully "heal my backslidings and
love me freely." I think my chief desire is to be
preserved _alive_ in the truth, and _growing_ in the
truth; but sometimes, through unwatchfulness, such
a withering comes upon me, I lose all sense of good
for days together, and this nether world is all I seek
pleasure in. Then there is but a cold, cheerless,
condemning feeling, when I look towards my Father's
house; but when all life seems gone, and I am ready
to conclude that I have suffered so many things in
vain, how often does the gentle stirring of life bring
my soul into contrition, into stillness! and He, who
upbraideth not the returning sinner, reveals himself
as "the repairer of the breach, the restorer of paths
to dwell in."