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“All things are new: the buds, the leaves,
That gild the elm-tree’s nodding crest;
And e’en the nest beneath the eaves:
There are no birds in last year’s nest!”
May has come; that time of year has passed the sweet April time,
“When all the wood stands in a mist of green,
And nothing perfect.”
The sparsely-gemmed hedges have thickened now, so that you cannot
see the gardens through their bare ribs; and little bunches of
tight-clenched buds give abundant promise of the sweet-breathed,
shell-petaled hawthorn flowers. The coy ash-trees have begun to fringe
over with their feather foliage; the ruddy bushy growth that seemed
comically like whiskers, at the base of the elms and the lindens, has
changed into a surprise of glorified green; the low shoots from the
stump of the old oak-tree in the hedge bring out their wealth of soft,
crumpled, young red leaves; the elders on the banks have gotten a deep,
full garment of green upon them now; above the ash-hued stem of the
maples there is a numberless array of small maroon-tinged fists; the
tender beech-leaves edge the low boughs that are spread out just above
the grass.
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The birds are full of importance, and excitement, and enjoyment. The
robin has his “fuller crimson”; the “livelier iris shines upon the
burnished dove,” The black rook sails lazily with broad wing up in the
blue sky: he, too, has his high nest to attend to; but life, on such
a day as this, imperatively demands to be enjoyed. The copse rings
with the laugh of the little willow-wren; the chiff-chaff ceaselessly
announces his presence; the woodpecker cries as he leaves tree for
tree; the blackcap, not singing just now, makes that “check, check,”
like the striking of two marbles together; the cuckoo, besides telling
his name to all the hills, has also a low, cooing, wooing voice for his
mate; also another cry, as of a startled blackbird, but flute-like and
liquid.
“Flattered with promise of escape
From every hurtful blast,
Spring takes, O sprightly May, thy shape,
Her loveliest and her last.”
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A sweet grey tint, that had begun to overspread the bare parts of the
copse, is deepening into such a sapphire sheet, that our ungrateful
hearts half forget or retract the regret they felt, when the fair young
hazels and the tall thin ash-wands bowed in the Winter before the cruel
bill. Only lately, it seems, on the way across the fields to the
station, a delicate fairy mass, the light lilac of the “faint sweet
cuckoo-flower,” had spread its kindly screen over the hacked and maimed
stumps of the fallen wood. But the hyacinths take their place now; and,
after these, we expect the bright rose of the ragged-robin; and, after
these, quite a garden of tall spires of the foxglove, alternating from
pale to darker red, with, rarely and preciously, a clustered sceptre of
milky white.
But why go on to the ragged-robin and the foxglove, later flowers of
the year? Truly, there are flowers enough at this season to satisfy the
most avaricious. Look but at the yellow meadows of the daffodils.
“I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er dales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
“Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.”
So the poet; and how could he but be of a May-day heart, amid such a
May wealth of flowers? It was a light, a gleam, a possession that he
thenceforth held; a sweet, living landscape of the heart, a landscape
alive, indeed, not only with colour and light and shade, but with
ceaseless gleeful motion.
“I gazed, and gazed, but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.”
No; for often, when May-days were far away, and perhaps shallow snow,
streaked with patches of brown land, slanted away under a pale grey
sky, even at such times that wealth and glory, and abundance of the
flowers, suddenly would
“Flash upon that inward eye,
Which is the bliss of solitude.”
And then, even in a lonely hour, a time of dulness and depression, a
time when this sad life seemed saddest; in such a time even, that glad
gleeful yellow landscape would come back, with something of the light
and joy of a kind deed done, or a strong word said; and, amid the pale
snow, and the ever-increasing depression, well can the possessor say
that--then,
“Then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.”
Life has its May-days, as well as the year. They come, sometimes;
rarely to some, but exquisitely beautiful when God sends them--the
May-days of the soul. The times when the Winter fogs have passed away,
and the clear sun shines down in its glory on the land; the times
when the bare brown trees have become ruddy, and have then flushed
into crowded variety of leaf; the times when the flowers, that had
been thought to be buried for ever, dawn like a smile upon earth’s
pale and furrowed face; the times when youth’s forgotten glow comes
back, and a hint of the vigour to which dreams seemed realities, and
impossibilities possible, stirs the sluggish sap of the soul. Such
times there are, when the mists of November have departed, and the
frosts of the succeeding months, and the bitter winds of March, and
the flooding tears of April; it is the May, with its lavish promise
and exuberant life, and ecstatic beauty! Times when illness or earth
or laziness or lack of power no longer chill the soul that is indeed
eager to burst into leaf; times when we are winged, when the hardest
toils are easy to us, the heaviest stone rolled away; times when soul
and body seem in perfect accord, and tongue and limb and eye instantly
execute the least mandate of the ruler within; times when the ship
obeys the lightest touch of the man at the helm; times that come like
holidays scattered through the dull half-year of school-days; times of
exuberant life and spirits and powers that visit us rarely, sweetly,
now and then, as May-day comes in the year.
I often think how little we use life thoroughly; how little we really
live our life; how seldom we are in the humour to carry out its great
and solemn purposes: how we let its opportunities fly by us, like
thistledown on the wind. Why are we not _always_ denying ourselves,
taking up the cross, and following our Master? Why are we not _always_
on the watch for every occasion in which a word may be said, or a deed
done, or a thought thought, that shall be a protest for Christ, in this
vain and sinful world? Why is God’s love but a rare Wintry gleam, and
never a steady Summer in our soul? Think, for instance, of such a thing
as Prayer; what a wonderful and beautiful thing it is! To kneel, an
atom in creation, at the Throne of the Almighty! To be able to bare our
hearts to Him, and to feel sure that the least throbs, as well as the
great spasms, are perfectly appreciated, felt, understood, sympathised
with, by that awful, loving Mind!
And yet, how Wintry our hearts are in our prayers! how seldom they
burst into exuberant flower! how constantly the sky above us seems pale
and heavy, and dull and impenetrable, and our hearts beneath abiding in
their Wintry sleep! Or a snowdrop here and there wanders out, and now
and then a pinched primrose--not enough for even the poorest garland.
But that is not all; not only in religion is it that we are more often
Wintry-hearted than May-hearted. I have heard of an artist who used
sometimes to keep his sitter waiting a whole morning, and at last send
him away, unable to _win_ the right humour to his heart, and feeling
that his work would not be well done if he _forced_ it. And in reading
Haydon’s life you may often find traces of how difficult is this mood
to attract, when it has not a mind to come.
So, too, in composition, whether grave or light, how different a thing
it is, according to our mood! How delicious a thing is it when the soul
has a May-day, and when the pen cannot overtake the mind! when
“Thought leaps out to wed with thought,
Ere thought can wed itself with speech!”
when ideas throng
“Glad and thick,
As leaves upon a tree in primrose time!”
when we seem to see,
“Smiling upward from the page,
The image of the thought within the soul!”
But these times, at least after one has written a good deal, are
comparatively rare times, and it is more often February than May within
us. A subject that seemed full of leaf when it occurred to the mind
some weeks ago, in a May-day mood, stands often a stripped bare Winter
tree when we sit down to work it out.
Yes, in most of the business of life that is not mere routine and
machine-work, no doubt the soul has its May-days--its times of _being
in the humour_ for its work, and of doing that work easily and glibly.
How many a Clergyman would endorse this, merely in the every-day case
of taking a class in his school! Words, earnest and abundant and
interesting, throng forth at one time; at another, how bare the mind,
and how unready the tongue!
And now, to what do these thoughts lead us? I think to two
considerations--one of warning, one of encouragement.
The warning is an obvious one, and yet one much and often neglected.
Let such times of warmth and light and glow and possession of blossom
be not only _enjoyed_ but _employed_. The soul’s Flower-time should
never be allowed to pass away _without having left some noble fruit
set_. It is common-place to repeat that the May-days of the soul are
most abundant and most glowing in youth, the May-time of life. And,
in connection with this whole subject, I quote, with an addition,
Longfellow’s verse:--
“Maiden, that read’st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth: it will not stay;
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For oh! it is not always May.”
This is gentle and tender advice; and far am I from wishing to correct
it, or to do otherwise than allow it, in its degree. Only there is
deeper and more grave advice to be given _with_ it, not _instead_ of
it. It is well to enjoy the soul’s May-time, but only well if it be
_employed_ as well as _enjoyed_; otherwise it will pass, and no trace
be left. We may make a great May-day show by merely gathering our
flowers and weaving them into garlands; and there may be much dancing
and excitement and glee. But then, it seems purely and simply sad to
see them next day lying neglected, limp, and withering, in patches and
dribblets, on the ground; whereas, although the apple-tree and the
primrose bank may look sobered and saddened when their blossom-time is
past, you yet know that all trace of that sweet adornment is not lost;
they are busy henceforth, maturing fruit and seed from the germs that
the bloom has left.
Therefore, to return to the principal thing, namely, Religion:
remember, when the blossom-time comes, or returns, that its fairy
brightness is evanescent. It must pass, therefore use it; enjoy it,
but put it out to usury; let it not fade and fall without having left
a germ of noble fruit behind. When the heaven seems open to prayer,
when the dull sky has cleared, and, thick and sweet as May-flowers,
the earnest longings and ready words burst from your bare heart,
seize the auspicious hour; let it not pass unemployed. Do not merely
taste, but exhaust its sweetness. When God seems to make His listening
apparent, refrain not; besiege His throne with prayers, supplications,
praises. And again, when the heart has thawed from its deadness and
indifference, and a very May-gathering of zeal for God, of love for
God and man, of high and holy yearnings and longings and resolves and
purposes, crowd upon the Winter sleep of the soul; oh, then, indulge
not in a mere sensuality of spiritual enjoyment; stay not at mere
revelling in the warm sky and profuse up-springing of flowers; set
to work to form, in that propitious hour, some germs of fruit, some
careful reforms, some holy resolves, some earnest and lofty purposes,
some self-denials, some pressing towards the mark. Prayerfully and
painfully set to work, so that, by God’s grace, when the beauty has
gone, the use may remain, and the boughs bend with fruit that were once
winged with bloom.
Oh, we all know, I say, these May-days of the soul: times when the love
of God seems natural to us, and our hearts overflow into a spontaneous
love of man; times when hard things are easy, and Apollyon in the
way, or Giant Maul coming out of his cave, rather stir the soul to
exultation than daunt it with dismay; times when God seems to us not an
abstraction, but a reality; when we can fancy the Saviour beside us, as
in old days He stood beside Peter or John; times when it seems a light
thing to spend and to be spent for Christ’s sake and the brethren;
times when the World has no allurements and the Flesh no power, and
Satan seems already beat down under our feet; times when we go out to
face the hardest duties with no secret desire that the call on us may
not be made, but rather with grave steady resolution and with face set
like a flint. There are times, I say, when God’s image seems to shine
out for a while, clearly and brightly, from the rust and mildew of
marring sin and sloth; times when, Samson-like, we rise from sleep, and
the fetters that have hitherto tied us down from life’s great deeds
become upon our shoulders like as tow when it hath seen the fire. Yes,
May seasons there are for the soul, in which there is a press and hurry
of blossom, that is well and fair if it be secured for God.
For, note this--_it is not always May_. The glow will pass, the
sunlight die, the flowers will fade, the bird-songs sink into silence.
And, if you have not profited by that gleam of heaven which opened
upon your soul, you are certain to have lost by it, especially when
such a warmth, such a light, broke, by God’s grace, through the dull
sky of a cold and worldly life. If any message from God have warmed
your bare heart into leaf and bloom, beware how you let the golden
opportunity remain unemployed. Beware lest the east winds return, and
nip and scatter the frail petals ere the germ of some good fruit be
formed. Life is ever offering to us Sybilline books, and very often we
have at last to give as much effort in old age, for the attaining of
a poor service to God, as we should have given, long ago, for a full,
rich, hearty, life-long serving Him. Late or early, however, employ
the excitements, the May-warmths of the soul. “Excitement has its
uses; impression has its value. Ye that have been impressed, beware
how you let those impressions die away. Die they must: we cannot
live in excitement for ever; but beware of their leaving behind them
nothing except a languid, jaded heart. If God gives you the excitements
of religion, breaking in upon your monotony, take care. There is no
restoring of elasticity to the spring that has been over-bent. Let
impression pass on at once to action.”
The _warning_ was obvious; somewhat less so, perhaps, the
_encouragement_. Still, this violet is to be found if we part
the brambles, and seek it among its leaves. The May feeling is
delicious--is, indeed, a foretaste of heaven, when hard things seem
easy to us, and the face of duty is scarce distinguishable from that
of pleasure. Prayer is sweet, sweet indeed, when it is easy to pray;
praise is delicious when it seems almost the spontaneous growth of the
heart. It is pleasanter to speak a painful word, to perform a painful
duty, in those moods when the uplifted heart almost exults at having it
to do. It is nothing to deny ourselves when some gleam of heaven has so
exalted us that the world and the flesh and the devil have nothing to
offer which can turn us from the ecstatic contemplation of Christ, and
the Home whither He has gone to prepare. But is prayer more acceptable,
is praise more beautiful in God’s sight when the heart is all in
flower, or when it is Winterly indeed, but exceeding sorrowful at this,
and sadly trying to gather for God a snowdrop out of its Wintry beds?
Is it more acceptable in God’s sight to speak a true word when the
heart is braced and strong, and the effort small, or _still to speak
it_ when the heart is shrinking and weak, and the effort great? Is the
deed of love or of justice or of self-denial noblest when most easy or
when most difficult to be done?
Ah, well, God knows; and He sends the May-days, and He permits the dull
days and the bitter winds. Let us serve Him through both, and then all
will be well. No doubt we _ought_ always to have a May-day in our heart
for this service. And yet, perhaps, indeed almost surely, He does not
mean this to be so in this life of discipline. Here it must not be
always easy and delicious to serve Him. Here we must serve Him through
cold and warm weather, through calm and storm, up the hill Difficulty,
as well as in the quiet valley.
Religious feelings are very variable; but rarely, comparatively,
a May-day comes: the flowers are few, and the sky closed, almost
generally. Let us, then, use diligently the warm blossom-time, when
it is with us, but let us not be dismayed when it passes from the
soul. _Perhaps_ the best words we say are those that seemed to us the
worst, and the teaching that sank most into the heart was that which
we thought weakest and most inadequate; thus may God be pleased, while
He deigns to use us and to accept our work, yet to keep us humble.
Perhaps the service that was so hard to render, and in which we had so
to fight against listlessness and wandering thoughts, may, if still
earnest, prevail or please more--who knows?--than that which seemed to
fly up at once full-fledged to heaven’s gates. If, though limping, we
still hobble on with all our might, we may be really making as much
progress as when we seemed to be skimming the ground; for God gives
both the wings and the crutches. Of course I am not supposing that
the hindrances to love and service arise from want of watchfulness,
that let the world creep in, or want of prayer for the Help which
alone is sufficient for us. But, generally, we must make up our mind
to have more days of weary toiling through the desert sands than of
refreshments at “Elim, with its palms and wells”; only, when the rare
refreshment comes, it should have braced us for the toilsome march,
when we must leave the pleasant spot behind, and labour toilsomely on
again. And, if May-days of the soul come but seldom now, and it is
oftener difficult than easy to serve God now, fear not, fail not, my
Brother or Sister. Rejoice that God gives thee something not easy to do
for Him, and think of a time, beyond this brief life, when it will be
ever natural and instinctive to love and serve God, when it _will_ be
“_always May_.”
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