I count this thing to be grandly true:
That a noble deed is a step toward God,
Lifting the soul from the common clod
To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by the things that are under feet;

By what we have mastered of good and gain; By the pride deposed and the passion slain, And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,

When the morning calls us to life and light, But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night, Our lives are trailing the sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,

And we think that we mount the air on wings
Beyond the recall of sensual things,

While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings for the angels, but feet for men!

We may borrow the wings to find the way— We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray; But our feet must rise, or we fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;

But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit, round by round. Josiah Gilbert Holland [1819-1881]

THE OTHER WORLD

Ir lies around us like a cloud-
The world we do not see;
Yet the sweet closing of an eye
May bring us there to be.

Its gentle breezes fan our cheeks
Amid our worldly cares;
Its gentle voices whisper love,
And mingle with our prayers.

Sweet hearts around us throb and beat,
Sweet helping hands are stirred,
And palpitates the veil between
With breathings almost heard.

The silence-awful, sweet, and calm
They have no power to break;
For mortal words are not for them
To utter or partake.

So thin, so soft, so sweet they glide,
So near to press they seem,
They lull us gently to our rest,
And melt into our dream.

And, in the hush of rest they bring,

'Tis easy now to see

How lovely and how sweet a pass
The hour of death may be!

To close the eye and close the ear,
Wrapped in a trance of bliss,
And, gently drawn in loving arms,
To swoon to that-from this.

Scarce knowing if we wake or sleep,
Scarce asking where we are,

To feel all evil sink away,

All sorrow and all care.

Sweet souls around us! watch us still,

Press nearer to our side,

Into our thoughts, into our prayers,

With gentle helping glide,

Let death between us be as naught,
A dried and vanished stream;
Your joy be the reality,

Our suffering life the dream.

Harriet Beecher Stowe [1811-1896]

SONG OF AN ANGEL

Ar noon a shower had fallen, and the clime
Breathed sweetly, and upon a cloud there lay
One more sublime in beauty than the Day,
Or all the Sons of Time;

A gold harp had he, and was singing there
Songs that I yearned to hear; a glory shone
Of rosy twilights on his cheeks-a zone
Of amaranth on his hair.

He sang of joys to which the earthly heart

Hath never beat; he sang of deathless Youth, And by the throne of Love, Beauty, and Truth Meeting, no more to part;

He sang lost Hope, faint Faith, and vain Desire Crowned there; great works, that on the earth began, Accomplished; towers impregnable to man

Scaled with the speed of fire;

Of Power, and Life, and winged Victory

He sang of bridges strown 'twixt star and star

And hosts all armed in light for bloodless war

Pass, and repass on high;

Lo! in the pauses of his jubilant voice

He leans to listen: answers from the spheres,
And mighty pæans thundering he hears

Down the empyreal skies:

Then suddenly he ceased-and seemed to rest
His godly-fashioned arm upon a slope

Of that fair cloud, and with soft eyes of hope
He pointed towards the West.

And shed on me a smile of beams, that told
Of a bright World beyond the thunder-piles,
With blessed fields, and hills, and happy isles,
And citadels of gold.

Frederick Tennyson [1807-1898]

HOME

THERE lies a little city in the hills;

White are its roofs, dim is each dwelling's door,
And peace with perfect rest its bosom fills.

There the pure mist, the pity of the sea,
Comes as a white, soft hand, and reaches o'er
And touches its still face most tenderly.

Unstirred and calm, amid our shifting years,
Lo! where it lies, far from the clash and roar,
With quiet distance blurred, as if through tears.

O heart that prayest so for God to send
Some loving messenger to go before

And lead the way to where thy longings end,

Be sure, be very sure, that soon will come
His kindest angel, and through that still door
Into the Infinite love will lead thee home.

Edward Rowland Sill [1841-1887]

CHARTLESS

I NEVER saw a moor,

I never saw the sea;

Yet know I how the heather looks,

And what a wave must be.

I never spoke with God,
Nor visited in heaven;

Yet certain am I of the spot

As if the chart were given.

Emily Dickinson [1830-1886]

"IT CANNOT BE"

IT cannot be that He who made
This wondrous world for our delight,
Designed that all its charms should fade
And pass forever from our sight;
That all shall wither and decay,

And know on earth no life but this,

With only one finite survey

Of all its beauty and its bliss.

It cannot be that all the years

Of toil and care and grief we live
Shall find no recompense but tears,
No sweet return that earth can give;
That all that leads us to aspire,
And struggle onward to achieve,

And every unattained desire
Were given only to deceive.

It cannot be that, after all

The mighty conquests of the mind, Our thoughts shall pass beyond recall And leave no record here behind; That all our dreams of love and fame, And hopes that time has swept away,— All that enthralled this mortal frame,Shall not return some other day.

It cannot be that all the ties

Of kindred souls and loving hearts
Are broken when this body dies,
And the immortal mind departs;
That no serener light shall break
At last upon our mortal eyes,
To guide us as our footsteps make
The pilgrimage to Paradise.

David Banks Sickels [1837