"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

A Thanksgiving to God for His House 3467

A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE
LORD, Thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather-proof;

Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry;

Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate;
Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor,

Who thither come, and freely get
Good words, or meat.

Like as my parlor, so my hall
And kitchen's small;

A little buttery, and therein
A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipped, unflead;

Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar
Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits that be

There placed by Thee:

The worts, the purslain, and the mess
Of water-cress;

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;
And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,

To be more sweet.

"Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth
With guiltless mirth,

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand
That soils my land,

And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,
Twice ten for one;

Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay
Her egg each day;

Besides, my healthful ewes to bear
Me twins each year;

The while the conduits of my kine
Run cream, for wine:

All these, and better, Thou dost send
Me, to this end,——

That I should render, for my part,
A thankful heart;

Which, fired with incense, I resign,
As wholly Thine;

-But the acceptance, that must be,

My Christ, by Thee.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

THE SHEPHERD BOY SINGS IN THE VALLEY OF HUMILIATION

From "The Pilgrim's Progress"

He that is down needs fear no fall,

He that is low, no pride;

He that is humble ever shall

Have God to be his guide.

I am content with what I have,
Little be it or much:

And, Lord, contentment still I crave,

Because Thou savest such.

Fullness to such a burden is

That go on pilgrimage:

Here little, and hereafter bliss,

Is best from age to age.

John Bunyan [1628-1688]

"The Bird, Let Loose in Eastern Skies" 3469

THE PILGRIM

From "The Pilgrim's Progress"

WHO would true valor see,
Let him come hither!
One here will constant be,
Come wind, come weather;
There's no discouragement
Shall make him once relent
His first-avowed intent
To be a Pilgrim.

Whoso beset him round
With dismal stories,
Do but themselves confound;

His strength the more is.

No lion can him fright;
He'll with a giant fight;

But he will have a right
To be a Pilgrim.

Hobgoblin, nor foul fiend,
Can daunt his spirit;
He knows he at the end
Shall Life inherit:-
Then, fancies, fly away;
He'll not fear what men say;

He'll labor, night and day,

To be a Pilgrim.

John Bunyan [1628-1688]

"THE BIRD, LET LOOSE IN EASTERN SKIES"

THE bird, let loose in eastern skies,

When hastening fondly home,

Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies

Where idle warblers roam;

But high she shoots through air and light,
Above all low delay,

Where nothing earthly bounds her flight,
Nor shadow dims her way.

So grant me, God! from every care
And stain of passion free,
Aloft, through virtue's purer air,
To hold my course to Thee!
No sin to cloud,-no lure to stay
My soul, as home she springs;-
Thy sunshine on her joyful way,
Thy freedom in her wings!

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]

"HE LIVETH LONG WHO LIVETH WELL"

HE liveth long who liveth well!
All other life is short and vain;
He liveth longest who can tell

Of living most for heavenly gain.

He liveth long who liveth well!
All else is being flung away;

He liveth longest who can tell

Of true things truly done each day.

Waste not thy being; back to Him
Who freely gave it, freely give;
Else is that being but a dream;
'Tis but to be, and not to live.

Be what thou seemest! live thy creed!
Hold up to earth the torch divine;
Be what thou prayest to be made;
Let the great Master's steps be thine.

Fill up each hour with what will last;
Buy up the moments as they go;
The life above, when this is past,

Is the ripe fruit of life below.