Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?
Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew,
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus with the host of heaven came,
And lo! Creation widened in man's view.
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun! or who could find,
Whilst flow'r and leaf and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind!
Why do we, then, shun Death with anxious strife?
If Light can thus deceive, wherefore not Life?
Joseph Blanco White
The Future hides in it
Gladness and sorrow:
We press still thorow;
Nought that abides in it
Daunting us--Onward!
Goethe
VITAÏ LAMPADA
(The Torch of Life)
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night--
Ten to make and the match to win--
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
The sand of the desert is sodden red,--
Red with the wreck of a square that broke;--
The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a school-boy rallies the ranks:
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the school is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling, fling to the host behind--
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"
Henry Newbolt
THE IRREPARABLE PAST
("And he cometh the third time, and saith unto them, Sleep on now, and
take your rest; it is enough, the hour is come; behold the Son of man is
betrayed into the hands of sinners. Rise up, let us go; lo, he that
betrayeth me is at hand." Mark, XIV. 41, 42)
The words of Christ are not like the words of other men. His sentences
do not end with the occasion which called them forth: every sentence of
Christ's is a deep principle of human life, and it is so with these
sentences. The principle contained in "Sleep on now" is this, that the
past is irreparable, and after a certain moment waking will do no good.
You may improve the future, the past is gone beyond recovery. As to all
that is gone by, so far as the hope of altering it goes, you may sleep
on and take your rest: there is no power in earth or heaven that can
undo what has once been done.
Let us proceed to give an illustration of this. This principle applies
to a misspent youth. The young are by God's Providence, exempted in a
great measure from anxiety; they are as the apostles were in relation to
their Master: their friends stand between them and the struggles of
existence. They are not called upon to think for themselves: the burden
is borne by others. They get their bread without knowing or caring how
it is paid for: they smile and laugh without a suspicion of the anxious
thoughts of day and night which a parent bears to enable them to smile.
So to speak, they are sleeping--and it is not a guilty sleep--while
another watches.
My young brethren--youth is one of the precious opportunities of
life--rich in blessing if you choose to make it so; but having in it the
materials of undying remorse if you suffer it to pass unimproved. Your
quiet Gethsemane is now. Do you know how you can imitate the apostles in
their fatal sleep? You can suffer your young days to pass idly and
uselessly away; you can live as if you had nothing to do but to enjoy
yourselves: you can let others think for you, and not try to become
thoughtful yourselves: till the business and difficulties of life come
upon you unprepared, and you find yourselves like men waking from sleep,
hurried, confused, scarcely able to stand, with all the faculties
bewildered, not knowing right from wrong, led headlong to evil, just
because you have not given yourselves in time to learn what is good. All
that is sleep.
And now let us mark it. You cannot repair that in after-life. Oh!
remember every period of human life has its own lesson, and you cannot
learn that lesson in the next period. The boy has one set of lessons to
learn, and the young man another, and the grown-up man another. Let us
consider one single instance. The boy has to learn docility, gentleness
of temper, reverence, submission. All those feelings which are to be
transferred afterwards in full cultivation to God, like plants nursed in
a hotbed and then planted out, are to be cultivated first in youth.
Afterwards, those habits which have been merely habits of obedience to
an earthly parent, are to become religious submission to a heavenly
parent. Our parents stand to us in the place of God. Veneration for our
parents is intended to become afterwards adoration for something higher.
Take that single instance; and now suppose that _that_ is not learned in
boyhood. Suppose that the boy sleeps to the duty of veneration, and
learns only flippancy, insubordination, and the habit of deceiving his
father,--can that, my young brethren, be repaired afterwards? Humanly
speaking not. Life is like the transition from class to class in a
school. The school-boy who has not learned arithmetic in the earlier
classes, cannot secure it when he comes to mechanics in the higher: each
section has its own sufficient work. He may be a good philosopher or a
good historian, but a bad arithmetician he remains for life; for he
cannot lay the foundation at the moment when he must be building the
superstructure. The regiment which has not perfected itself in its
manoeuvres on the parade ground, cannot learn them before the guns of
the enemy. And just in the same way, the young person who has slept his
youth away, and become idle, and selfish, and hard, cannot make up for
that afterwards. He may do something, he may be religious--yes; but he
cannot be what he might have been. There is a part of his heart which
will remain uncultivated to the end. The apostles could share their
Master's sufferings--they could not save him. Youth has its irreparable
past.
And therefore, my young brethren, let it be impressed upon
you,--now is a time, infinite in its value for eternity, which
will never return again. Sleep not; learn that there is a very solemn
work of heart which must be done while the stillness of the garden of
Gethsemane gives you time. Now, or Never. The treasures at your command
are infinite. Treasures of time--treasures of youth--treasures of
opportunity that grown-up men would sacrifice everything they have to
possess. Oh for ten years of youth back again with the added experience
of age! But it cannot be: they must be content to sleep on now and take
their rest.
Rev. F. W. Robertson: "Sermons."
A CHRISTMAS HYMN, 1837
It was the calm and silent night:--
Seven hundred years and fifty-three
Had Rome been growing up to might,
And now was Queen of land and sea!
No sound was heard of clashing wars;
Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain;
Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and Mars
Held undisturbed their ancient reign,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago!
'Twas in the calm and silent night!
The senator of haughty Rome
Impatient urged his chariot's flight,
From lordly revel rolling home!
Triumphal arches gleaming swell
His breast with thoughts of boundless sway;
What recked the Roman what befell
A paltry province far away,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago!
Within that province far away
Went plodding home a weary boor:
A streak of light before him lay,
Fallen through a half-shut stable door
Across his path. He passed--for nought
Told what was going on within;
How keen the stars! his only thought;
The air, how calm and cold and thin,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago!
O strange indifference!--low and high
Drowsed over common joys and cares:
The earth was still--but knew not why;
The world was listening--unawares;
How calm a moment may precede
One that shall thrill the world for ever!
To that still moment none would heed,
Man's doom was linked no more to sever
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago!
It is the calm and solemn night!
A thousand bells ring out, and throw
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite
The darkness, charmed and holy _now_!
The night that erst no name had worn,
To it a happy name is given;
For in that stable lay new-born
The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven,
In the solemn midnight
Centuries ago.
A. Domett
THE QUARREL
_Enter_ Brutus _and_ Cassius
Cas. That you have wrong'd me doth appear in this:
You have condemn'd and noted Lucius Pella
For taking bribes here of the Sardians;
Wherein my letters, praying on his side,
Because I knew the man, were slighted off.
Bru. You wrong'd yourself to write in such a case.
Cas. In such a time as this it is not meet
That every nice offence should bear his comment.
Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself
Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm;
To sell and mart your offices for gold
To undeservers.
Cas. I an itching palm!
You know that you are Brutus that speak this,
Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last.
Bru. The name of Cassius honours this corruption,
And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.
Cas. Chastisement!
Bru. Remember March, the ides of March remember:
Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake?
What villain touch'd his body, that did stab,
And not for justice? What, shall one of us,
That struck the foremost man of all this world
But for supporting robbers, shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes,
And sell the mighty space of our large honours
For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,
Than such a Roman.
Cas. Brutus, bay not me;
I'll not endure it: you forget yourself,
To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,
Older in practice, abler than yourself
To make conditions.
Bru. Go to; you are not, Cassius.
Cas. I am.
Bru. I say you are not.
Cas. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself;
Have mind upon your health, tempt me no farther.
Bru. Away, slight man!
Cas. Is't possible?
Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler?
Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?
Cas. O ye gods, ye gods! must I endure all this?
Bru. All this! ay, more: fret till your proud heart break;
Go show your slaves how choleric you are,
And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge?
Must I observe you? must I stand and crouch
Under your testy humour? By the gods,
You shall digest the venom of your spleen,
Though it do split you; for, from this day forth,
I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,
When you are waspish.
Cas. Is it come to this?
Bru. You say you are a better soldier:
Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,
And it shall please me well: for mine own part,
I shall be glad to learn of noble men.
Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus;
I said, an elder soldier, not a better:
Did I say "better"?
Bru. If you did, I care not.
Cas. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved me.
Bru. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him.
Cas. I durst not!
Bru. No.
Cas. What, durst not tempt him!
Bru. For your life you durst not.
Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love;
I may do that I shall be sorry for.
Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for.
There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats,
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty
That they pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not. I did send to you
For certain sums of gold, which you denied me:
For I can raise no money by vile means:
By heaven, I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash
By any indirection: I did send
To you for gold to pay my legions,
Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts;
Dash him to pieces!
Cas. I denied you not.
Bru. You did.
Cas. I did not: he was but a fool that brought
My answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart:
A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.
Cas. You love me not.
Bru. I do not like your faults.
Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear
As huge as high Olympus.
Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,
Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,
For Cassius is aweary of the world;
Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observ'd,
Set in a note-book, learn'd, and conn'd by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger,
And here my naked breast; within, a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold;
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth;
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart;
Strike, as thou didst at Cæsar; for, I know,
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better
Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.
Bru. Sheath your dagger:
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour.
O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb
That carries anger as the flint bears fire;
Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.
Cas. Hath Cassius lived
To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,
When grief, and blood ill-temper'd, vexeth him?
Bru. When I spoke that I was ill-temper'd too.
Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.
Bru. And my heart too.
Cas. O Brutus!
Bru. What's the matter?
Cas. Have not you love enough to bear with me,
When that rash humour which my mother gave me,
Makes me forgetful?
Bru. Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth,
When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,
He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.
Shakespeare: "Julius Cæsar," IV. 3
RECESSIONAL
(1897)
God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
Far-called our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget--lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word--
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen.
Kipling