Isles of old song, the Moslem's ancient marts, And Scythia's steppes, they trod.
Where the long shadows of the fir and pine In the night sun are cast,
And the deep heart of many a Norland mine Quakes at each riving blast;
Where, in barbaric grandeur, Moskwa stands, A baptized Scythian queen, With Europe's arts and Asia's jewelled hands, The North and East between!
Where still, through vales of Grecian fable, stray The classic forms of yore,
And Beauty smiles, new risen from the spray, And Dian weeps once more;
Where every tongue in Smyrna's mart resounds; And Stamboul from the sea
Lifts her tall minarets over burial-grounds Black with the cypress tree !
From Malta's temples to the gates of Rome, Following the track of Paul,
And where the Alps gird round the Switzer's
Their vast, eternal wall;
They paused not by the ruins of old time,
They scanned no pictures rare,
Nor lingered where the snow-locked mountains
The cold abyss of air!
But unto prisons, where men lay in chains,
To haunts where Hunger pined,
To kings and courts forgetful of the pains
And wants of human kind,
Scattering sweet words, and quiet deeds of
Along their way, like flowers,
Or, pleading as Christ's freemen only could, With princes and with powers;
Their single aim the purpose to fulfil Of Truth, from day to day, Simply obedient to its guiding will, They held their pilgrim way. Yet dream not, hence, the beautiful and old Were wasted on their sight,
Who in the school of Christ had learned to hold All outward things aright.
Not less to them the breath of vineyards blown From off the Cyprian shore,
Not less for them the Alps in sunset shone,
That man they valued more. A life of beauty lends to all it sees The beauty of its thought; And fairest forms and sweetest harmonies Make glad its way, unsought.
In sweet accordancy of praise and love, The singing waters run; And sunset mountains wear in light above The smile of duty done;
Sure stands the promise-ever to the meek A heritage is given;
Nor lose they Earth who, single-hearted, seek The righteousness of Heaven!
WELL speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast ! Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art, If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart, Thou tread'st the solemn Pantheon of the Past, By the great Future's dazzling hope made blind
To all the beauty, power, and truth, behind. Not without reverent awe shouldst thou put by The cypress branches and the amaranth blooms, Where, with clasped hands of prayer, upon their tombs
The effigies of old confessors lie, God's witnesses; the voices of his will, Heard in the slow march of the centuries still! Such were the men at whose rebuking frown, Dark with God's wrath, the tyrant's knee went
Such from the terrors of the guilty drew
The vassal's freedom and the poor man's due.
St. Anselm (may he rest forevermore
In Heaven's sweet peace!) forbade, of old, the
Of men as slaves, and from the sacred pale Hurled the Northumbrian buyers of the poor. To ransom souls from bonds and evil fate St. Ambrose melted down the sacred plateImage of saint, the chalice, and the pix, Crosses of gold, and silver candlesticks. "MAN IS WORTH MORE THAN TEMPLES!" he
To such as came his holy work to chide. And brave Cesarius, stripping altars bare, And coining from the Abbey's golden hoard The captive's freedom, answered to the prayer Or threat of those whose fierce zeal for the Lord Stifled their love of man-" An earthen dish The last sad supper of the Master bore: Most miserable sinners! do ye wish
More than your Lord, and grudge his dying
What your own pride and not his need requires? Souls, than these shining gauds, He values
Mercy, not sacrifice, his heart desires!"
O faithful worthies! resting far behind In your dark ages, since ye fell asleep, Much has been done for truth and human kind- Shadows are scattered wherein ye groped blind; Man claims his birthright, freer pulses leap Through peoples driven in your day like sheep; Yet, like your own, our age's sphere of light, Though widening still, is walled around by night; With slow, reluctant eye, the Church has read, Sceptic at heart, the lessons of its Head; Counting, too oft, its living members less Than the wall's garnish and the pulpit's dress; World-moving zeal, with power to bless and feed Life's fainting pilgrims, to their utter need, Instead of bread, holds out the stone of creed; Sect builds and worships where its wealth and pride And vanity stand shrined and deified, Careless that in the shadow of its walls God's living temple into ruin falls. We need, methinks, the prophet-hero still, Saints true of life, and martyrs strong of will, To tread the land, even now, as Xavier trod
The streets of Goa, barefoot, with his bell, Proclaiming freedom in the name of God, And startling tyrants with the fear of hell! Soft words, smooth prophecies, are doubtless well; But to rebuke the age's popular crime, We need the souls of fire, the hearts of that old
THE PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUSSELS.
STILL in thy streets, oh Paris! doth the stain Of blood defy the cleansing autumn rain; Still breaks the smoke Messina's ruins through,
And Naples mourns that new Bartholomew, When squalid beggary, for a dole of bread, At a crowned murderer's beck of license fed The yawning trenches with her noble dead; Still, doomed Vienna, through thy stately halls The shell goes crashing and the red shot falls, And, leagued to crush thee, on the Danube's side, The bearded Croat and Bosniak spearman ride; Still in that vale where Himalaya's snow Melts round the cornfields and the vines below, The Sikh's hot cannon, answering ball for ball, Flames in the breach of Moultan's shattered wall; On Chenab's side the vulture seeks the slain, And Sutlej paints with blood its banks again. "What folly, then," the faithless critic cries, With sneering lip, and wise, world-knowing eyes, "While fort to fort, and post to post, repeat The ceaseless challenge of the war-drum's beat, And round the green earth, to the church-bell's
The morning drum-roll of the camp keeps time, To dream of peace amidst a world in arms, Of swords to ploughshares changed by scriptural
Of nations, drunken with the wine of blood, Staggering to take the Pledge Pledge of Brotherhood, Like tipplers answering Father Mathew's call- The sullen Spaniard, and the mad-cap Gaul,
he bull-dog Briton, yielding but with life, The Yankee swaggering with his bowie knife, The Russ, from banquets with the vulture shared, The blood still dripping from his amber beard, Quitting their mad Berserker dance, to hear The dull, meek droning of a drab-coat seer; Leaving the sport of Presidents and Kings, Where men for dice each titled gambler flings, To meet alternate on the Seine and Thames, For tea and gossip, like old country dames! No! let the cravens plead the weakling's cant,
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