HYMNS OF SUFFERING AND TRUST.
One inspiring chapter in the compensations of life is the record of
immortal verses that were sorrow-born. It tells us in the most affecting
way how affliction refines the spirit and "the agonizing throes of
thought bring forth glory." Often a broken life has produced a single
hymn. It took the long living under trial to shape the supreme
experience.
--The anguish of the singer
Made the sweetness of the song.
Indeed, if there had been no sorrow there would have been no song.
[Illustration: George James Webb]
"MY LORD, HOW FULL OF SWEET CONTENT."
Jeanne M.B. de la Mothe--known always as Madame Guyon--the lady who
wrote these words in exile, probably sang more "songs in the night" than
any hymn-writer outside of the Dark Ages. She was born at Montargis,
France, in 1648, and died in her seventieth year, 1771, in the ancient
city of Blois, on the Loire.
A convent-educated girl of high family, a wife at the age of fifteen,
and a widow at twenty-eight, her early piety, ridiculed in the dazzling
but corrupt society of Louis XIV's time, blossomed through a long life
in religious ministries and flowers of sacred poetry.
She became a mystic, and her book _Spiritual Torrents_ indicates the
impetuous ardors of her soul. It was the way Divine Love came to her.
She was the incarnation of the spiritualized Book of Canticles. An
induction to these intense subjective visions and raptures had been the
remark of a pious old Franciscan father, "Seek God in your heart, and
you will find Him."
She began to teach as well as enjoy the new light so different from the
glitter of the traditional worship. But her "aggressive holiness" was
obnoxious to the established Church. "Quietism" was the brand set upon
her written works and the offense that was punished in her person.
Bossuet, the king of preachers, was her great adversary. The saintly
Fenelon was her friend, but he could not shield her. She was shut up
like a lunatic in prison after prison, till, after four years of dungeon
life in the Bastile, expecting every hour to be executed for heresy, she
was banished to a distant province to end her days.
Question as we may the usefulness of her pietistic books, the visions of
her excessively exalted moods, and the passionate, almost erotic
phraseology of her _Contemplations_, Madame Guyon has held the world's
admiration for her martyr spirit, and even her love-flights of devotion
in poetry and prose do not conceal the angel that walked in the flame.
Today, when religious persecution is unknown, we can but dimly
understand the perfect triumph of her superior soul under suffering and
the transports of her utter absorption in God that could make the stones
of her dungeon "look like jewels." When we emulate a faith like
hers--with all the weight of absolute certainty in it--we can sing her
hymn:
My Lord, how full of sweet content
I pass my years of banishment.
Where'er I dwell, I dwell with Thee,
In heaven or earth, or on the sea.
To me remains nor place nor time:
My country is in every clime;
I can be calm and free from care
On any shore, since God is there.
And could a dearer _vade mecum_ enrich a Christian's outfit than these
lines treasured in memory?
While place we seek or place we shun,
The soul finds happiness in none;
But, with a God to guide our way,
'Tis equal joy to go or stay.
Cowper, and also Dr. Thomas Upham, translated (from the French) the
religious poems of Madame Guyon. This hymn is Cowper's translation.
_THE TUNE._
A gentle and sympathetic melody entitled "Alsace" well represents the
temper of the words--and in name links the nationalities of writer and
composer. It is a choral arranged from a sonata of the great Ludwig von
Beethoven, born in Bonn, Germany, 1770, and died in Vienna, Mar. 1827.
Like the author of the hymn he felt the hand of affliction, becoming
totally deaf soon after his fortieth year. But, in spite of the
privation, he kept on writing sublime and exquisite strains that only
his soul could hear. His fame rests upon his oratorio, "The Mount of
Olives," the opera of "Fidelio" and his nine wonderful "Symphonies."
"NO CHANGE IN TIME SHALL EVER SHOCK."
Altered to common metre from the awkward long metre of Tate and Brady,
the three or four stanzas found in earlier hymnals are part of their
version (probably Tate's) of the 31st Psalm--and it is worth calling to
mind here that there is no hymn treasury so rich in tuneful faith and
reliance upon God in trouble as the Book of Psalms. This feeling of the
Hebrew poet was never better expressed (we might say, translated) in
English than by the writer of this single verse--
No change of time shall ever shock
My trust, O Lord, in Thee,
For Thou hast always been my Rock,
A sure defense to me.
_THE TUNE._
The sweet, tranquil choral long ago wedded to this hymn is lost from the
church collections, and its very name forgotten. In fact the hymn itself
is now seldom seen. If it ever comes back, old "Dundee" (Guillaume Franc
1500-1570) will sing for it, or some new composer may rise up to put the
spirit of the psalm into inspired notes.
"WHY DO WE MOURN DEPARTED FRIENDS?"
This hymn of holy comfort, by Dr. Watts, was long associated with a
remarkable tune in C minor, "a queer medley of melody" as Lowell Mason
called it, still familiar to many old people as "China." It was composed
by Timothy Swan when he was about twenty-six years of age (1784) and
published in 1801 in the _New England Harmony_. It may have sounded
consolatory to mature mourners, singers and hearers in the days when
religious emotion habitually took a sad key, but its wild and thrilling
chords made children weep. The tune is long out of use--though, strange
to say, one of the most recent hymnals prints the hymn with a _new
minor_ tune.
Why do we mourn departed friends,
Or shake at death's alarms?
'Tis but the voice that Jesus sends
To call them to His arms.
Are we not tending upward too
As fast as time can move?
Nor should we wish the hours more slow
To keep us from our Love.
The graves of all His saints He blessed
And softened every bed:
Where should the dying members rest
But with their dying Head?
Timothy Swan was born in Worcester, Mass., July 23, 1758, and died in
Suffield, Ct., July 23, 1842. He was a self-taught musician, his only
"course of study" lasting three weeks,--in a country singing school at
Groton. When sixteen years old he went to Northfield, Mass., and learned
the hatter's trade, and while at work began to practice making
psalm-tunes. "Montague," in two parts, was his first achievement. From
that time for thirty years, mostly spent in Suffield, Ct., he wrote and
taught music while supporting himself by his trade. Many of his tunes
were published by himself, and had a wide currency a century ago.
Swan was a genius in his way, and it was a true comment on his work that
"his tunes were remarkable for their originality as well as
singularity--unlike any other melodies." "China," his masterpiece, will
be long kept track of as a curio, and preserved in replicates of old
psalmody to illustrate self-culture in the art of song. But the major
mode will replace the minor when tender voices on burial days sing--
Why do we mourn departed friends?
Another hymn of Watts,--
God is the refuge of His saints
When storms of sharp distress invade,
--sung to Lowell Mason's liquid tune of "Ward," and the priceless
stanza,--
Jesus can make a dying bed
Feel soft as downy pillows are,
doubly prove the claim of the Southampton bard to a foremost place with
the song-preachers of Christian trust.
The psalm (Amsterdam version), "God is the refuge," etc., is said to
have been sung by John Howland in the shallop of the Mayflower when an
attempt was made to effect a landing in spite of tempestuous weather. A
tradition of this had doubtless reached Mrs. Hemans when she wrote--
Amid the storm they sang, etc.
"FATHER, WHATE'ER OF EARTHLY BLISS."
This hymn had originally ten stanzas, of which the three usually sung
are the three last. The above line is the first of the eighth stanza,
altered from--
And O, whate'er of earthly bliss.
Probably for more than a century the familiar surname "Steele" attached
to this and many other hymns in the hymn-books conveyed to the general
public no hint of a mind and hand more feminine than Cowper's or
Montgomery's. Even intelligent people, who had chanced upon sundry
copies of _The Spectator_, somehow fell into the habit of putting
"Steele" and "Addison" in the same category of hymn names, and Sir
Richard Steele got a credit he never sought. But since stories of the
hymns began to be published--and made the subject of evening talks in
church conference rooms--many have learned what "Steele" in the
hymn-book means. It introduces us now to a very retiring English lady,
Miss Anna Steele, a Baptist minister's daughter. She was born in 1706,
at Broughton, Hampshire, in her father's parsonage, and in her father's
parsonage she spent her life, dying there Nov. 1778.
She was many years a severe sufferer from bodily illness, and a lasting
grief of mind and heart was the loss of her intended husband, who was
drowned the day before their appointed wedding. It is said that this
hymn was written under the recent sorrow of that loss.
In 1760 and 1780 volumes of her works in verse and prose were published
with her name, "Theodosia," and reprinted in 1863 as "_Hymns, Psalms,
and Poems_, by Anna Steele." The hymn "Father, whate'er," etc., is
estimated as her best, though some rank it only next to her--
Dear Refuge of my weary soul.
Other more or less well-known hymns of this devout and loving writer
are,--
Lord, how mysterious are Thy ways,
O Thou whose tender mercy hears,
Thou lovely Source of true delight,
Alas, what hourly dangers rise,
So fades the lovely blooming flower.
--to a stanza of which latter the world owes the tune of "Federal St."
_THE TUNE._
The true musical mate of the sweet hymn-prayer came to it probably about
the time of its hundredth birthday; but it came to stay. Lowell Mason's
"Naomi" blends with it like a symphony of nature.
Father, whate'er of earthly bliss
Thy sovereign will denies,
Accepted at Thy throne of grace
Let this petition rise.
Give me a calm and thankful heart
From every murmer free.
The blessings of Thy grace impart,
And make me live to Thee.
"GUIDE ME, O THOU GREAT JEHOVAH."
This great hymn has a double claim on the name of Williams. We do not
have it exactly in its original form as written by Rev. William
Williams, "The Watts of Wales," familiarly known as "Williams of
Pantycelyn." His fellow countryman and contemporary, Rev. Peter
Williams, or "Williams of Carmarthen," who translated it from Welsh into
English (1771) made alterations and substitutions in the hymn with the
result that only the first stanza belongs indisputably to Williams of
Pantycelyn, the others being Peter's own or the joint production of the
two. As the former, however, is said to have approved and revised the
English translation, we may suppose the hymn retained the name of its
original author by mutual consent.
Guide me, O Thou Great Jehovah,
Pilgrim through this barren land.
I am weak, but Thou art mighty,
Hold me by Thy powerful hand;
Bread of heaven,
Feed me till I want no more.
Open Thou the crystal Fountain
Whence the healing streams do flow,
Let the fiery cloudy pillar
Lead me all my journey through.
Strong Deliverer,
Be Thou still my Strength and Shield!
When I tread the verge of Jordan
Bid my anxious fears subside;
Death of death, and hell's destruction,
Land me safe on Canaan's side.
Songs of praises
I will ever give to Thee.
Musing on my habitation,
Musing on my heavenly home,
Fills my heart with holy longing;
Come, Lord Jesus, quickly come.
Vanity is all I see,
Lord, I long to be with Thee.
The second and third stanzas have not escaped the touch of critical
editors. The line,--
Whence the healing streams do flow
--becomes,--
Whence the healing waters flow,
--with which alteration there is no fault to find except that it is
needless, and obliterates the ancient mark. But the third stanza,
besides losing its second line for--
Bid the swelling stream divide,
--is weakened by a more needless substitution. Its original third line--
Death of death, and hell's destruction,
--is exchanged for the commonplace--
Bear me through the swelling current.
That is modern taste; but when modern taste meddles with a stalwart old
hymn it is sometimes more nice than wise.
It is probable that the famous hymn was sung in America before it
obtained a European reputation. Its history is as follows: Lady
Huntingdon having read one of Williams' books with much spiritual
satisfaction, persuaded him to prepare a collection of hymns, to be
called the _Gloria in Excelsis_, for special use in Mr. Whitefield's
Orphans' House in America. In this collection appeared the original
stanzas of "Guide me, O Thou Great Jehovah." In 1774, two years after
its publication in the _Gloria in Excelsis_, it was republished in
England in Mr. Whitefield's collections of hymns.
The Rev. Peter Williams was born in the parish of Llansadurnen,
Carmarthenshire, Wales, Jan. 7, 1722, and was educated in Carmarthen
College. He was ordained in the Established Church and appointed to a
curacy, but in 1748 joined the Calvinistic Methodists. He was an
Independent of the Independents however, and preached where ever he
chose. Finally he built a chapel for himself on his paternal estate,
where he ministered during the rest of his life. Died Aug. 8, 1796.
_THE TUNE._
If "Sardius," the splendid old choral (triple time) everywhere
identified with the hymn, be not its original music, its age at least
entitles it to its high partnership. _The Sacred Lyre_ (1858) ascribes
it to Ludovic Nicholson, of Paisley, Scotland, violinist and amateur
composer, born 1770; died 1852; but this is not beyond dispute. Of
several names one more confidently referred to as its author is F.H.
Barthelemon (1741-1808).
"PEACE, TROUBLED SOUL"
Is the brave faith-song of a Christian under deep but blameless
humiliation--Sir Walter Shirley[16].
[Footnote 16: See page 127]
_THE TUNE._
Apparently the favorite in several (not recent) hymnals for the subdued
but confident spirit of this hymn of Sir Walter Shirley is Mazzinghi's
"Palestine," appearing with various tone-signatures in different books.
The treble and alto lead in a sweet duet with slur-flights, like an
obligato to the bass and tenor. The melody needs rich and cultured
voices, and is unsuited for congregational singing. So, perhaps, is the
hymn itself.
Peace, troubled soul, whose plaintive moan
Hath taught these rocks the notes of woe;
Cease thy complaint--suppress thy groan,
And let thy tears forget to flow;
Behold the precious balm is found,
To lull thy pain, to heal thy wound.
Come, freely come, by sin oppressed,
Unburden here thy weighty load;
Here find thy refuge and thy rest,
And trust the mercy of thy God.
Thy God's thy Saviour--glorious word!
For ever love and praise the Lord.
As now sung the word "scenes" is substituted for "rocks" in the second
line, eliminating the poetry. Rocks give an _echo_; and the vivid
thought in the author's mind is flattened to an unmeaning generality.
Count Joseph Mazzinghi, son of Tommasso Mazzinghi, a Corsican musician,
was born in London, 1765. He was a boy of precocious talent. When only
ten years of age he was appointed organist of the Portuguese Chapel, and
when nineteen years old was made musical director and composer at the
King's Theatre. For many years he held the honor of Music Master to the
Princess of Wales, afterwards Queen Caroline, and his compositions were
almost numberless. Some of his songs and glees that caught the popular
fancy are still remembered in England, as "The Turnpike Gate," "The
Exile," and the rustic duet, "When a Little Farm We Keep."
Of sacred music he composed only one mass and six hymn-tunes, of which
latter "Palestine" is one. Mazzinghi died in 1844, in his eightieth
year.
"BEGONE UNBELIEF, MY SAVIOUR IS NEAR."
The Rev. John Newton, author of this hymn, was born in London, July 24,
1725. The son of a sea-captain, he became a sailor, and for several
years led a reckless life. Converted, he took holy orders and was
settled as curate of Olney, Buckinghamshire, and afterwards Rector of
St. Mary of Woolnoth, London, where he died, Dec. 21, 1807. It was
while living at Olney that he and Cowper wrote and published the _Olney
Hymns_. His defiance to doubt in these lines is the blunt utterance of a
sailor rather than the song of a poet:
Begone, unbelief, my Saviour is near,
And for my relief will surely appear.
By prayer let me wrestle and He will perform;
With Christ in the vessel I smile at the storm.
_THE TUNE_
Old "Hanover," by William Croft (1677-1727), carries Newton's hymn
successfully, but Joseph Haydn's choral of "Lyons" is more familiar--and
better music.
"Hanover" often accompanies Charles Wesley's lyric,--
Ye servants of God, your Master proclaim.
"HOW FIRM A FOUNDATION."
The question of the author of this hymn is treated at length in Dr.
Louis F. Benson's _Studies of Familiar Hymns_. The utmost that need to
be said here is that two of the most thorough and indefatigable
hymn-chasers, Dr. John Julian and Rev. H.L. Hastings, working
independently of each other, found evidence fixing the authorship with
strong probability upon Robert Keene, a precentor in Dr. John Rippon's
church. Dr. Rippon was pastor of a Baptist Church in London from 1773
to 1836, and in 1787 he published a song-manual called _A Selection of
Hymns from the Best Authors_, etc., in which "How Firm a Foundation"
appears as a new piece, with the signature "K----."
The popularity of the hymn in America has been remarkable, and promises
to continue. Indeed, there are few more reviving or more spiritually
helpful. It is too familiar to need quotation. But one cannot suppress
the last stanza, with its powerful and affecting emphasis on the Divine
promise--
The soul that on Jesus has leaned for repose
I will not, I will not, desert to his foes;
That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
I'll never, no never, no never forsake.
_THE TUNE._
The grand harmony of "Portuguese Hymn" has always been identified with
this song of trust.
One opinion of the date of the music writes it "about 1780." Since the
habit of crediting it to John Reading (1677-1764) has been discontinued,
it has been in several hymnals ascribed to Marco Portogallo (Mark, the
Portuguese), a musician born in Lisbon, 1763, who became a composer of
operas in Italy, but was made Chapel-Master to the Portuguese King. In
1807, when Napoleon invaded the Peninsula and dethroned the royal house
of Braganza, Old King John VI. fled to Brazil and took Marco with him,
where he lived till 1815, but returned and died in Italy, in 1830. Such
is the story, and it is all true, only the man's name was Simao,
instead of Marco. _Grove's Dictionary_ appends to Simao's biography the
single sentence, "His brother wrote for the church." That the Brazilian
episode may have been connected with this brother's history by a
confusion of names, is imaginable, but it is not known that the
brother's name was Marco.
On the whole, this account of the authorship of the "Portuguese
Hymn"--originally written for the old Christmas church song "Adeste
Fideles"--is late and uncertain. Heard (perhaps for the first time) in
the Portuguese Chapel, London, it was given the name which still clings
to it. If proofs of its Portuguese origin exist, they may yet be found.
"How Firm a Foundation" was the favorite of Deborah Jackson, President
Andrew Jackson's beloved wife, and on his death-bed the warrior and
statesman called for it. It was the favorite of Gen. Robert E. Lee, and
was sung at his funeral. The American love and familiar preference for
the remarkable hymn was never more strikingly illustrated than when on
Christmas Eve, 1898, a whole corps of the United States army Northern
and Southern, encamped on the Quemados hills, near Havana, took up the
sacred tune and words--
"Fear not, I am with thee, O be not dismayed."
Lieut. Col. Curtis Guild (since Governor Guild of Massachusetts) related
the story in the Sunday School Times for Dec. 7, 1901, and Dr. Benson
quotes it in his book.
[Illustration: John Wesley]
"WHILE THEE I SEEK, PROTECTING POWER."
Miss Helen Maria Williams, who wrote this gentle hymn of confidence, in
1786, was born in the north of England in 1762. When but a girl she won
reputation by her brilliant literary talents and a mental grasp and
vigor that led her, like Gail Hamilton, "to discuss public affairs,
besides clothing bright fancies and devout thoughts in graceful verse."
Most of her life was spent in London, and in Paris, where she died, Dec.
14, 1827.
While Thee I seek, Protecting Power
Be my vain wishes stilled,
And may this consecrated hour
With better hopes be filled:
* * * * *
When gladness wings my favored hour,
Thy love my thoughts shall fill,
Resigned where storms of sorrow lower
My soul shall meet Thy will.
My lifted eye without a tear
The gathering storm shall see:
My steadfast heart shall know no fear:
My heart will rest on Thee.
_THE TUNES._
Old "Norwich," from _Day's Psalter_, and "Simpson," adapted from Louis
Spohr, are found with the hymn in several later manuals. In the memories
of older worshipers "Brattle-Street," with its melodious choral and duet
arranged from Pleyel by Lowell Mason, is inseparable from Miss
Williams' words; but modern hymnals have dropped it, probably because
too elaborate for average congregational use.
Ignaz Joseph Pleyel was born June 1, 1757, at Ruppersthal, Lower
Austria. He was the _twenty-fourth_ child of a village schoolmaster. His
early taste and talent for music procured him friends who paid for his
education. Haydn became his master, and long afterwards spoke of him as
his best and dearest pupil. Pleyel's work--entirely instrumental--was
much admired by Mozart.
During a few years spent in Italy, he composed the music of his
best-known opera, "Iphigenia in Aulide," and, besides the thirty-four
books of his symphonies and chamber-pieces, the results of his prolific
genius make a list too long to enumerate. Most of his life was spent in
Paris, where he founded the (present) house of Pleyel and Wolfe, piano
makers and sellers. He died in that city, Nov. 14, 1831.
"COME UNTO ME."
Come unto Me, when shadows darkly gather,
When the sad heart is weary and distressed,
Seeking for comfort from your heavenly Father,
Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.
This sweet hymn, by Mrs. Catherine Esling, is well known to many
thousands of mourners, as also is its equally sweet tune of "Henley," by
Lowell Mason. Melody and words melt together like harp and flute.
Large are the mansions in thy Father's dwelling,
Glad are the homes that sorrows never dim,
Sweet are the harps in holy music swelling.
Soft are the tones that raise the heavenly hymn.
Mrs. Catherine Harbison Waterman Esling was born in Philadelphia, Apr.
12, 1812. A writer for many years under her maiden name, Waterman, she
married, in 1840, Capt. George Esling, of the Merchant Marine, and lived
in Rio Janeiro till her widowhood, in 1844.
JOHN WESLEY'S HYMN.
How happy is the pilgrim's lot,
How free from every anxious thought.
These are the opening lines of "John Wesley's Hymn," so called because
his other hymns are mostly translations, and because of all his own it
is the one commonly quoted and sung.
John Wesley, the second son in the famous Epworth family of ministers,
was a man who knew how to endure "hardness as a good soldier of Christ."
He was born June 27, 1703, and studied at Charterhouse, London, and at
Christ Church, Oxford, becoming a Fellow of Lincoln College. After
taking holy orders he went as a missionary to Georgia, U.S., in 1735,
and on his return began his remarkable work in England, preaching a more
spiritual type of religion, and awakening the whole kingdom with his
revival fervor and his brother's kindling songs. The following paragraph
from his itinerant life, gathered probably from a page of his own
journals, gives a glimpse of what the founder of the great Methodist
denomination did and suffered while carrying his Evangelical message
from place to place.
On February 17, 1746, when days were short and weather far from
favorable, he set out on horseback from Bristol to Newcastle, a distance
between three and four hundred miles. The journey occupied ten days.
Brooks were swollen, and in some places the roads were impassable,
obliging the itinerant to go round through the fields. At Aldrige Heath,
in Staffordshire, the rain turned to snow, which the northerly wind
drove against him, and by which he was soon crusted over from head to
foot. At Leeds the mob followed him, and pelted him with whatever came
to hand. He arrived at Newcastle, February 26, "free from every anxious
thought," and "every worldly fear."
How lightly he regarded hardship and molestation appears from his
verses--
Whatever molests or troubles life,
When past, as nothing we esteem,
And pain, like pleasure, is a dream.
And that he actually enjoys the heroic freedom of a rough-rider
missionary life is hinted in his hymn--
Confined to neither court nor cell,
His soul disdains on earth to dwell,
He only sojourns here.
God evidently built John Wesley fire-proof and water-proof with a view
to precisely what he was to undertake and accomplish. His frame was
vigorous, and his spirit unconquerable. Besides all this he had the
divine gift of a religious faith that could move mountains and a
confidence in his mission that became a second nature. No wonder he
could suffer, and _last_. The brave young man at thirty was the brave
old man at nearly ninety. He died in London, March 2, 1791.
Blest with the scorn of finite good,
My soul is lightened of its load
And seeks the things above.
There is my house and portion fair;
My treasure and my heart are there,
And my abiding home.
For me my elder brethren stay,
And angels beckon me away.
And Jesus bids me come.
_THE TUNE._
An air found in the _Revivalist_ (1869), in sextuple time, that has the
real camp-meeting swing, preserves the style of music in which the hymn
was sung by the circuit-preachers and their congregations--ringing out
the autobiographical verses with special unction. The favorite was--
No foot of land do I possess,
No cottage in this wilderness;
A poor wayfaring man,
I lodge awhile in tents below,
Or gladly wander to and fro
Till I my Canaan gain.
More modern voices sing the John Wesley hymn to the tune "Habakkuk," by
Edward Hodges. It has a lively three-four step, and finer melody than
the old.
Edward Hodges was born in Bristol, Eng., July 20, 1796, and died there
Sept. 1876. Organist at Bristol in his youth, he was graduated at
Cambridge and in 1825 received the doctorate of music from that
University. In 1835 he went to Toronto, Canada, and two years later to
New York city, where he was many years Director of Music at Trinity
Church. Returned to Bristol in 1863.
"WHEN GATHERING CLOUDS AROUND I VIEW."
One of the restful strains breathed out of illness and affliction to
relieve one soul and bless millions. It was written by Sir Robert Grant
(1785-1838).
When gathering clouds around I view,
And days are dark, and friends are few,
On Him I lean who not in vain
Experienced every human pain.
The lines are no less admirable for their literary beauty than for their
feeling and their faith. Unconsciously, it may be, to the writer, in
this and the following stanza are woven an epitome of the Saviour's
history. He--
Experienced every human pain,
--felt temptation's power,
--wept o'er Lazarus dead,
--and the crowning assurance of Jesus' human sympathy is expressed in
the closing prayer,--
--when I have safely passed
Thro' every conflict but the last,
Still, still unchanging watch beside
My painful bed--for _Thou hast died_.
_THE TUNE._
Of the few suitable six-line long metre part songs, the charming Russian
tone-poem of "St. Petersburg" by Dimitri Bortniansky is borrowed for the
hymn in some collections, and with excellent effect. It accords well
with the mood and tenor of the words, and deserves to stay with it as
long as the hymn holds its place.
Dimitri Bortniansky, called "The Russian Palestrina," was born in 1752
at Gloukoff, a village of the Ukraine. He studied music in Moscow, St.
Petersburg, Vienna, Rome and Naples. Returning to his native land, he
was made Director of Empress Catharine's church choir. He reformed and
systematized Russian church music, and wrote original scores in the
intervals of his teaching labors. His works are chiefly motets and
concertos, which show his genius for rich harmony. Died 1825.
"JUST AS I AM, WITHOUT ONE PLEA."
Charlotte Elliott, of Brighton, Eng., would have been well-known through
her admired and useful hymns,--
My God, my Father, while I stray,
My God, is any hour so sweet,
With tearful eyes I look around,
--and many others. But in "Just as I am" she made herself a voice in the
soul of every hesitating penitent. The currency of the hymn has been too
swift for its authorship and history to keep up with, but it is a
blessed law of influence that good works out-run biographies. This
master-piece of metrical gospel might be called Miss Elliott's
spiritual-birth hymn, for a reply of Dr. Cæsar Malan of Geneva was its
prompting cause. The young lady was a stranger to personal religion
when, one day, the good man, while staying at her father's house, in his
gentle way introduced the subject. She resented it, but afterwards,
stricken in spirit by his words, came to him with apologies and an
inquiry that confessed a new concern of mind. "You speak of coming to
Jesus, but how? I'm not fit to come."
"Come just as you are," said Dr. Malan.
The hymn tells the result.
Like all the other hymns bound up in her _Invalid's Hymn-book_, it was
poured from out the heart of one who, as the phrase is, "never knew a
well day"--though she lived to see her eighty-second year.
Illustrative of the way it appeals to the afflicted, a little anecdote
was told by the eloquent John B. Gough of his accidental seat-mate in a
city church service. A man of strange appearance was led by the kind
usher or sexton to the pew he occupied. Mr. Gough eyed him with strong
aversion. The man's face was mottled, his limbs and mouth twitched, and
he mumbled singular sounds. When the congregation sang he attempted to
sing, but made fearful work of it. During the organ interlude he leaned
toward Mr. Gough and asked how the next verse began. It was--
Just as I am, poor, wretched, blind.
"That's it," sobbed the strange man, "I'm blind--God help me!"--and the
tears ran down his face--"and I'm wretched--and paralytic," and then he
tried hard to sing the line with the rest.
"After that," said Mr. Gough, "the poor paralytic's singing was as
sweet to me as a Beethoven symphony."
Charlotte Elliott was born March 18, 1789, and died in Brighton, Sept.
22, 1871. She stands in the front rank of female hymn-writers.
The tune of "Woodworth," by William B. Bradbury, has mostly superseded
Mason's "Elliott," and is now the accepted music of this lyric of
perfect faith and pious surrender.
Just as I am,--Thy love unknown
Hath broken every barrier down,
Now to be Thine, yea, Thine alone,
O Lamb of God, I come, I come.
"MY HOPE IS BUILT ON NOTHING LESS."
The Rev. Edward Mote was born in London, 1797. According to his own
testimony his parents were not God-fearing people, and he "went to a
school where no Bible was allowed;" but at the age of sixteen he
received religious impressions from a sermon of John Hyatt in Tottenham
Court Chapel, was converted two years later, studied for the ministry,
and ultimately became a faithful preacher of the gospel. Settled as
pastor of the Baptist Church in Horsham, Sussex, he remained there
twenty-six years--until his death, Nov. 13, 1874. The refrain of his
hymn came to him one Sabbath when on his way to Holborn to exchange
pulpits:
On Christ the solid rock I stand,
All other ground is sinking sand.
There were originally six stanzas, the first beginning:
Nor earth, nor hell, my soul can move,
I rest upon unchanging love.
The refrain is a fine one, and really sums up the whole hymn, keeping
constantly at the front the corner-stone of the poet's trust.
My hope is built on nothing less
Than Jesus' blood and righteousness.
I dare not trust the sweetest frame,
But only lean on Jesus' name.
On Christ the solid Rock I stand
All other ground is sinking sand.
When darkness veils His lovely face
I trust in His unchanging grace,
In every high and stormy gale
My anchor holds within the veil.
On Christ the solid Rock, etc.
Wm. B. Bradbury composed the tune (1863). It is usually named "The Solid
Rock."
"ABIDE WITH ME! FAST FALLS THE EVENTIDE."
The Rev. Henry Francis Lyte, author of this melodious hymn-prayer, was
born at Ednam, near Kelso, Scotland, June first, 1793. A scholar,
graduated at Trinity College, Dublin; a poet and a musician, the
hard-working curate was a man of frail physique, with a face of almost
feminine beauty, and a spirit as pure and gentle as a little child's.
The shadow of consumption was over him all his life. His memory is
chiefly associated with the district church at Lower Brixham,
Devonshire, where he became "perpetual curate" in 1823. He died at Nice,
France, Nov. 20, 1847.
On the evening of his last Sunday preaching and communion service he
handed to one of his family the manuscript of his hymn, "Abide with me,"
and the music he had composed for it. It was not till eight years later
that Henry Ward Beecher introduced it, or a part of it, to American
Congregationalists, and fourteen years after the author's death it began
to be sung as we now have it, in this country and England.
Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide,
The darkness deepens,--Lord with me abide!
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O abide with me!
* * * * *
Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes;
Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies;
Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee;
In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me!
_THE TUNE_
There is a pathos in the neglect and oblivion of Lyte's own tune set by
himself to his words, especially as it was in a sense the work of a
dying man who had hoped that he might not be "wholly mute and useless"
while lying in his grave, and who had prayed--
O Thou whose touch can lend
Life to the dead. Thy quickening grace supply,
And grant me swan-like my last breath to spend
In song that may not die!
His prayer was answered in God's own way. Another's melody hastened his
hymn on its useful career, and revealed to the world its immortal
value.
By the time it had won its slow recognition in England, it was probably
tuneless, and the compilers of _Hymns Ancient and Modern_ (1861)
discovering the fact just as they were finishing their work, asked Dr.
William Henry Monk, their music editor, to supply the want. "In ten
minutes," it is said, "Dr. Monk composed the sweet, pleading chant that
is wedded permanently to Lyte's swan song."
William Henry Monk, Doctor of Music, was born in London, 1823. His
musical education was early and thorough, and at the age of twenty-six
he was organist and choir director in King's College, London. Elected
(1876) professor of the National Training School, he interested himself
actively in popular musical education, delivering lectures at various
institutions, and establishing choral services.
His hymn-tunes are found in many song-manuals of the English Church and
in Scotland, and several have come to America.
Dr. Monk died in 1889.
"COME, YE DISCONSOLATE."
By Thomas Moore--about 1814. The poem in its original form differed
somewhat from the hymn we sing. Thomas Hastings--whose religious
experience, perhaps, made him better qualified than Thomas Moore for
spiritual expression--changed the second line,--
Come, at God's altar fervently kneel,
--to--
Come to the mercy seat,
--and in the second stanza replaced--
Hope when all others die,
--with--
Hope of the penitent;
--and for practically the whole of the last stanza--
Go ask the infidel what boon he brings us,
What charm for aching hearts he can reveal.
Sweet as that heavenly promise hope sings us,
"Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal,"
--Hastings substituted--
Here see the Bread of life, see waters flowing
Forth from the throne of God, pure from above!
Come to the feast Love, come ever knowing
Earth has no sorrow but heaven can remove.
Dr. Hastings was not much of a poet, but he could make a _singable_
hymn, and he knew the rhythm and accent needed in a hymn-tune. The
determination was to make an evangelical hymn of a poem "too good to
lose," and in that view perhaps the editorial liberties taken with it
were excusable. It was to Moore, however, that the real hymn-thought and
key-note first came, and the title-line and the sweet refrain are his
own--for which the Christian world has thanked him, lo these many
years.
_THE TUNE._
Those who question why Dr. Hastings' interest in Moore's poem did not
cause him to make a tune for it, must conclude that it came to him with
its permanent melody ready made, and that the tune satisfied him.
The "German Air" to which Moore tells us he wrote the words, probably
took his fancy, if it did not induce his mood. Whether Samuel Webbe's
tune now wedded to the hymn is an arrangement of the old air or wholly
his own is immaterial. One can scarcely conceive a happier yoking of
counterparts. Try singing "Come ye Disconsolate" to "Rescue the
Perishing," for example, and we shall feel the impertinence of divorcing
a hymn that has found its musical affinity.
"JESUS, I MY CROSS HAVE TAKEN."
This is another well-known and characteristic hymn of Henry Francis
Lyte--originally six stanzas. We have been told that, besides his bodily
affliction, the grief of an unhappy division or difference in his church
weighed upon his spirit, and that it is alluded to in these lines--
Man may trouble and distress me,
'Twill but drive me to Thy breast,
Life with trials hard may press me,
Heaven will bring me sweeter rest.
O, 'tis not in grief to harm me
While Thy love is left to me,
O, 'tis not in joy to charm me
Were that joy unmixed with Thee.
Tunes, "Autumn," by F.H. Barthelemon, or "Ellesdie," (formerly called
"Disciple") from Mozart--familiar in either.
"FROM EVERY STORMY WIND THAT BLOWS."
This is the much-sung and deeply-cherished hymn of Christian peace that
a pious Manxman, Hugh Stowell, was inspired to write nearly a hundred
years ago. Ever since it has carried consolation to souls in both
ordinary and extraordinary trials.
It was sung by the eight American martyrs, Revs. Albert Johnson, John E.
Freeman, David E. Campbell and their wives, and Mr. and Mrs. McMullen,
when by order of the bloody Nana Sahib the captive missionaries were
taken prisoners and put to death at Cawnpore in 1857. Two little
children, Fannie and Willie Campbell, suffered with their parents.
From every stormy wind that blows,
From every swelling tide of woes
There is a calm, a sure retreat;
'Tis found beneath the Mercy Seat.
Ah, whither could we flee for aid
When tempted, desolate, dismayed,
Or how the hosts of hell defeat
Had suffering saints no Mercy Seat?
There, there on eagle wings we soar,
And sin and sense molest no more,
And heaven comes down our souls to greet
While glory crowns the Mercy Seat.
[Illustration: John B. Dykes]
Rev. Hugh Stowell was born at Douglas on the Isle of Man, Dec. 3, 1799.
He was educated at Oxford and ordained to the ministry 1823, receiving
twelve years later the appointment of Canon to Chester Cathedral.
He was a popular and effective preacher and a graceful writer.
Forty-seven hymns are credited to him, the above being the best known.
To presume it is "his best," leaves a good margin of merit for the
remainder.
"From every stormy wind that blows" has practically but one tune. It has
been sung to Hastings "Retreat" ever since the music was made.
"CHILD OF SIN AND SORROW."
Child of sin and sorrow, filled with dismay,
Wait not for tomorrow, yield thee today.
Heaven bids thee come, while yet there's room,
Child of sin and sorrow, hear and obey.
Words and music by Thomas Hastings.
"LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT."
John Henry Newman, born in London, Feb. 21, 1801--known in religious
history as Cardinal Newman--wrote this hymn when he was a young
clergyman of the Church of England. "Born within the sound of Bow
bells," says Dr. Benson, "he was an imaginative boy, and so
superstitious, that he used constantly to cross himself when going into
the dark." Intelligent students of the fine hymn will note this habit of
its author's mind--and surmise its influence on his religious musings.
The agitations during the High Church movement, and the persuasions of
Hurrell Froude, a Romanist friend, while he was a tutor at Oxford,
gradually weakened his Protestant faith, and in his unrest he travelled
to the Mediterranean coast, crossed to Sicily, where he fell violently
ill, and after his recovery waited three weeks in Palermo for a return
boat. On his trip to Marseilles he wrote the hymn--with no thought that
it would ever be called a hymn.
When complimented on the beautiful production after it became famous he
modestly said, "It was not the hymn but the _tune_ that has gained the
popularity. The tune is Dykes' and Dr. Dykes is a great master."
Dr. Newman was created a Cardinal of the Church of Rome in the Catholic
Cathedral of London, 1879. Died Aug. 11, 1890.
_THE TUNE._
"Lux Benigna," by Dr. Dykes, was composed in Aug. 1865, and was the tune
chosen for this hymn by a committee preparing the Appendix to _Hymns
Ancient and Modern_. Dr. Dykes' statement that the tune came into his
head while walking through the Strand in London "presents a striking
contrast with the solitary origin of the hymn itself" (Benson).
Lead, kindly Light, amid th' encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on.
The night is dark and I am far from home;
Lead Thou me on.
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene,--one step enough for me.
* * * * *
So long Thy power hath bless'd me, sure it still
Will lead me on,
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.
"I HEARD THE VOICE OF JESUS SAY."
Few if any Christian writers of his generation have possessed tuneful
gifts in greater opulence or produced more vital and lasting treasures
of spiritual verse than Horatius Bonar of Scotland. He inherited some of
his poetic faculty from his grandfather, a clergyman who wrote several
hymns, and it is told of Horatius that hymns used to "come to" him while
riding on railroad trains. He was educated in the Edinburgh University
and studied theology with Dr. Chalmers, and his life was greatly
influenced by Dr. Guthrie, whom he followed in the establishment of the
Free Church of Scotland.
Born in 1808 in Edinburgh, he was about forty years old when he came
back from a successful pastorate at Kelso to the city of his home and
Alma Mater, and became virtually Chalmers' successor as minister of the
Chalmers Memorial Church.
The peculiar richness of Bonar's sacred songs very early created for
them a warm welcome in the religious world, and any devout lyric or poem
with his name attached to it is sure to be read.
Dr. Bonar died in Edinburgh, July 31, 1889. Writing of the hymn, "I
heard the voice," etc., Dr. David Breed calls it "one of the most
ingenious hymns in the language," referring to the fact that the
invitation and response exactly halve each stanza between them--song
followed by countersong. "Ingenious" seems hardly the right word for a
division so obviously natural and almost automatic. It is a simple art
beauty that a poet of culture makes by instinct. Bowring's "Watchman,
tell us of the night," is not the only other instance of similar
countersong structure, and the regularity in Thomas Scott's little hymn,
"Hasten, sinner, to be wise," is only a simpler case of the way a poem
plans itself by the compulsion of its subject.
I heard the voice of Jesus say,
Come unto me and rest,
Lay down, thou weary one, lay down
Thy head upon My breast:
I came to Jesus as I was,
Weary and worn and sad,
I found in Him a resting-place,
And He has made me glad.
_THE TUNE._
The old melody of "Evan," long a favorite; and since known everywhere
through the currency given to it in the _Gospel Hymns_, has been in many
collections connected with the words. It is good congregational
psalmody, and not unsuited to the sentiment, taken line by line, but it
divides the stanzas into quatrains, which breaks the happy continuity.
"Evan" was made by Dr. Mason in 1850 from a song written four years
earlier by Rev. William Henry Havergal, Canon of Worcester Cathedral,
Eng. He was the father of Frances Ridley Havergal.
The more ancient "Athens," by Felice Giardini (1716-1796), author of the
"Italian Hymn," has clung, and still clings lovingly to Bonar's hymn in
many communities. Its simplicity, and the involuntary accent of its
sextuple time, exactly reproducing the easy iambic of the verses,
inevitably made it popular, and thousands of older singers today will
have no other music with "I heard the voice of Jesus say."
"Vox Jesu," from the andante in one of the quartets of Louis Spohr
(1784-1859), is a psalm-tune of good harmony, but too little feeling.
An excellent tune for all the shades of expression in the hymn, is the
arrangement by Hubert P. Main from Franz Abt--in A flat, triple time.
Gentle music through the first fifteen bars, in alternate duet and
quartet, utters the Divine Voice with the true accent of the lines, and
the second portion completes the harmony in glad, full chorus--the
answer of the human heart.
"Vox Dilecti," by Dr. Dykes, goes farther and writes the Voice in B flat
_minor_--which seems a needless substitution of divine sadness for
divine sweetness. It is a tune of striking chords, but its shift of key
to G natural (major) after the first four lines marks it rather for
trained choir performance than for assembly song.
It is possible to make too much of a dramatic perfection or a supposed
indication of structural design in a hymn. Textual equations, such as
distinguish Dr. Bonar's beautiful stanzas, are not necessarily
technical. To emphasize them as ingenious by an ingenious tune seems,
somehow, a reflection on the spontaneity of the hymn.
Louis Spohr was Director of the Court Theatre Orchestra in Cassel,
Prussia, in the first half of the last century. He was an eminent
composer of both vocal and instrumental music, and one of the greatest
violinists of Europe.
Hubert Platt Main was born in Ridgefield, Ct., Aug. 17, 1839. He read
music at sight when only ten years old, and at sixteen commenced writing
hymn-tunes. Was assistant compiler with both Bradbury and Woodbury in
their various publications, and in 1868 became connected with the firm
of Biglow and Main, and has been their book-maker until the present
time. As music editor in the partnership he has superintended the
publication of more than five hundred music-books, services, etc.
"I LOVE TO STEAL AWHILE AWAY."
The burdened wife and mother who wrote this hymn would, at the time,
have rated her history with "the short and simple annals of the poor."
But the poor who are "remembered for what they have done," may have a
larger place in history than many rich who did nothing.
Phebe Hinsdale Brown, was born in Canaan, N.Y., in 1783. Her father,
George Hinsdale, who died in her early childhood, must have been a man
of good abilities and religious feeling, being the reputed composer of
the psalm-tune, "Hinsdale," found in some long-ago collections.
Left an orphan at two years of age, Phebe "fell into the hands of a
relative who kept the county jail," and her childhood knew little but
the bitter fare and ceaseless drudgery of domestic slavery. She grew up
with a crushed spirit, and was a timid, shrinking woman as long as she
lived. She married Timothy H. Brown, a house-painter of Ellington, Ct.,
and passed her days there and in Monson, Mass., where she lived some
twenty-five years.
In her humble home in the former town her children were born, and it was
while caring for her own little family of four, and a sick sister, that
the incident occurred (August 1818), which called forth her tender hymn.
She was a devout Christian, and in pleasant weather, whenever she could
find the leisure, she would "steal away" at sunset from her burdens a
little while, to rest and commune with God. Her favorite place was a
wealthy neighbor's large and beautiful flower garden. A servant reported
her visits there to the mistress of the house, who called the "intruder"
to account.
"If you want anything, why don't you come in?" was the rude question,
followed by a plain hint that no stealthy person was welcome.
Wounded by the ill-natured rebuff, the sensitive woman sat down the next
evening with her baby in her lap, and half-blinded by her tears, wrote
"An Apology for my Twilight Rambles," in the verses that have made her
celebrated.
She sent the manuscript (nine stanzas) to her captious neighbor--with
what result has never been told.
Crude and simple as the little rhyme was, it contained a germ of lyric
beauty and life. The Rev. Dr. Charles Hyde of Ellington, who was a
neighbor of Mrs. Brown, procured a copy. He was assisting Dr. Nettleton
to compile the _Village Hymns_, and the humble bit of devotional verse
was at once judged worthy of a place in the new book. Dr. Hyde and his
daughter Emeline giving it some kind touches of rhythmic amendment,
I love to steal awhile away
From little ones and care,
--became,--
I love to steal awhile away
From _every cumb'ring_ care.
In the last line of this stanza--
In gratitude and prayer
--was changed to--
In humble, grateful prayer,
--and the few other defects in syllabic smoothness or literary grace
were affectionately repaired, but the slight furbishing it received did
not alter the individuality of Mrs. Brown's work. It remained
_hers_--and took its place among the immortals of its kind, another
illustration of how little poetry it takes to make a good hymn. Only
five stanzas were printed, the others being voted redundant by both
author and editor. The second and third, as now sung, are--
I love in solitude to shed
The penitential tear,
And all His promises to plead
Where none but God can hear.
I love to think on mercies past
And future good implore,
And all my cares and sorrows cast
On Him whom I adore.
Phebe Brown died at Henry, Ill., in 1861; but she had made the church
and the world her debtor not only for her little lyric of pious trust,
but by rearing a son, the Rev. Samuel Brown, D.D., who became the
pioneer American missionary to Japan--to which Christian calling two of
her grandchildren also consecrated themselves.
_THE TUNE._
Mrs. Brown's son Samuel, who, besides being a good minister, inherited
his grandfather's musical gift, composed the tune of "Monson," (named in
his mother's honor, after her late home), and it may have been the first
music set to her hymn. It was the fate of his offering, however, to lose
its filial place, and be succeeded by different melodies, though his own
still survives in a few collections, sometimes with Collyer's "O Jesus
in this solemn hour." It is good music for a hymn of _praise_ rather
than for meditative verse. Many years the hymn has been sung to
"Woodstock," an appropriate and still familiar tune by Deodatus Dutton.
Dutton's "Woodstock" and Bradbury's "Brown," which often replaces it,
are worthy rivals of each other, and both continue in favor as fit
choral interpretations of the much-loved hymn.
Deodatus Dutton was born Dec. 22, 1808, and educated at Brown University
and Washington College (now Trinity) Hartford Ct. While there he was a
student of music and played the organ at Dr. Matthews' church. He
studied theology in New York city, and had recently entered the ministry
when he suddenly died, Dec. 16, 1832, a moment before rising to preach a
sermon. During his brief life he had written several hymn-tunes, and
published a book of psalmody. Mrs. Sigourney wrote a poem on his death.
"THERE'S A WIDENESS IN GOD'S MERCY."
Frederick William Faber, author of this favorite hymn-poem, had a
peculiar genius for putting golden thoughts into common words, and
making them sing. Probably no other sample of his work shows better than
this his art of combining literary cleverness with the most reverent
piety. Cant was a quality Faber never could put into his religious
verse.
He was born in Yorkshire, Eng., June 28, 1814, and received his
education at Oxford. Settled as Rector of Elton, in Huntingdonshire, in
1843, he came into sympathy with the "Oxford Movement," and followed
Newman into the Romish Church. He continued his ministry as founder and
priest for the London branch of the Catholic congregation of St. Philip
Neri for fourteen years, dying Sept. 26, 1863, at the age of forty-nine.
His godly hymns betray no credal shibboleth or doctrinal bias, but are
songs for the whole earthly church of God.
There's a wideness in God's mercy
Like the wideness of the sea;
There's a kindness in His justice
Which is more than liberty.
There is welcome for the sinner
And more graces for the good;
There is mercy with the Saviour,
There is healing in His blood.
There's no place where earthly sorrows
Are more felt than up in heaven;
There's no place where earthly failings
Have such kindly judgment given.
There is plentiful redemption
In the blood that has been shed,
There is joy for all the members
In the sorrows of the Head.
For the love of God is broader
Than the measure of man's mind,
And the heart of the Eternal
Is most wonderfully kind.
If our love were but more simple
We should take Him at His word,
And our lives would be all sunshine
In the sweetness of the Lord.
No tone of comfort has breathed itself more surely and tenderly into
grieved hearts than these tuneful and singularly expressive sentences of
Frederick Faber.
_THE TUNE._
The music of S.J. Vail sung to Faber's hymn is one of that composer's
best hymn-tunes, and its melody and natural movement impress the
meaning as well as the simple beauty of the words.
Silas Jones Vail, an American music-writer, was born Oct., 1818, and
died May 20, 1883. Another charming tune is "Wellesley," by Lizzie S.
Tourjee, daughter of the late Dr. Eben Tourjee.
"HE LEADETH ME! OH, BLESSED THOUGHT."
Professor Gilmore, of Rochester University, N.Y., when a young Baptist
minister (1861) supplying a pulpit in Philadelphia "jotted down this
hymn in Deacon Watson's parlor" (as he says) and passed it to his wife,
one evening after he had made "a conference-room talk" on the 23d Psalm.
Mrs. Gilmore, without his knowledge, sent it to the _Watchman and
Reflector_ (now the _Watchman_).
Years after its publication in that paper, when a candidate for the
pastorate of the Second Baptist Church in Rochester, he was turning the
leaves of the vestry hymnal in use there, and saw his hymn in it. Since
that first publication in the _Devotional Hymn and Tune Book_ (1865) it
has been copied in the hymnals of various denominations, and steadily
holds its place in public favor. The refrain added by the tunemaker
emphasizes the sentiment of the lines, and undoubtedly enhances the
effect of the hymn.
"He leadeth me" has the true hymn quality, combining all the simplicity
of spontaneous thought and feeling with perfect accent and liquid
rhythm.
He leadeth me! Oh, blessed thought,
Oh, words with heavenly comfort fraught;
Whate'er I do, where'er I be,
Still 'tis God's hand that leadeth me!
* * * * *
Lord, I would clasp Thy hand in mine,
Nor ever murmur nor repine--
Content, whatever lot I see,
Since 'tis my God that leadeth me.
Professor Joseph Henry Gilmore was born in Boston, April 29, 1834. He
was graduated at Phillips Academy, Andover, at Brown University, and at
the Newton Theological Institution, where he was afterwards Hebrew
instructor.
After four years of pastoral service he was elected (1867) professor of
the English Language and Literature in Rochester University. He has
published _Familiar Chats on Books and Reading_, also several college
text-books on rhetoric, logic and oratory.
_THE TUNE._
The little hymn of four stanzas was peculiarly fortunate in meeting the
eye of Mr. William B. Bradbury, (1863) and winning his musical sympathy
and alliance. Few composers have so exactly caught the tone and spirit
of their text as Bradbury did when he vocalized the gliding measures of
"He leadeth me."