(_Song of the Waiting Seraphs._)
_Full Chorus._
_To Him Who bade the Heavens abide yet cease not from their motion,
To Him Who tames the moonstruck tide twice a day round Ocean----
Let His Names be magnified in all poor folks’ devotion!_
_Powers and Gifts._
Not for Prophecies or Powers, Visions, Gifts, or Graces,
But the unregardful hours that grind us in our places
With the burden on our backs, the weather in our faces.
_Toils._
Not for any Miracle of easy Loaves and Fishes,
But for doing, ’gainst our will, work against our wishes--
Such as finding food to fill daily-emptied dishes.
_Glories._
Not for Voices, Harps or Wings or rapt illumination,
But the grosser Self that springs of use and occupation,
Unto which the Spirit clings as her last salvation.
_Powers, Glories, Toils, and Gifts._
_(He Who launched our Ship of Fools many anchors gave us,
Lest one gale should start them all--one collision stave us.
Praise Him for the petty creeds
That prescribe in paltry needs,
Solemn rites to trivial deeds and, by small things, save us!)_
_Services and Loves._
Heart may fail, and Strength outwear, and Purpose turn to Loathing,
But the everyday affair of business, meals, and clothing,
Builds a bulkhead ’twixt Despair and the Edge of Nothing.
_Patiences._
_(Praise Him, then, Who orders it that, though Earth be flaring
And the crazy skies are lit
By the searchlights of the Pit,
Man should not depart a whit from his wonted bearing.)_
_Hopes._
He Who bids the wild-swans’ host still maintain their flight on
Air-roads over islands lost--
Ages since ’neath Ocean lost--
Beaches of some sunken coast their fathers would alight on--
_Faiths._
_He shall guide us through this dark, not by new-blown glories,
But by every ancient mark our fathers used before us,
Till our children ground their ark where the proper shore is._
_Services, Patiences, Faiths, Hopes, and Loves._
He Who used the clay that clings on our boots to make us,
Shall not suffer earthly things to remove or shake us:
But, when Man denies His Lord,
Habit without Fleet or Sword
(Custom without threat or word)
Sees the ancient fanes restored--the timeless rites o’ertake us.
_Full Chorus._
_For He Who makes the Mountains smoke and rives the Hills asunder,
And, to-morrow, leads the grass--
Mere unconquerable grass--
Where the fuming crater was, to heal and hide it under,
He shall not--He shall not--
Shall not lay on us the yoke of too long Fear and Wonder!_