How We Learn

Sow truth, if thou the truth wouldst reap:
Who sows the false shall reap the vain;
Erect and sound thy conscience keep;
From hollow words and deeds refrain.

Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure;
Sow peace, and reap its harvests bright;
Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor,
And find a harvest-home of light.

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Horatius Bonar [1808-1889]

THE MASTER'S TOUCH

In the still air the music lies unheard;
In the rough marble beauty hides unseen:
To wake the music and the beauty needs

The master's touch, the sculptor's chisel keen.

Great Master, touch us with thy skilful hand;
Let not the music that is in us die!
Great Sculptor, hew and polish us; nor let,
Hidden and lost, thy form within us lie!

Spare not the stroke! do with us as thou wilt!
Let there be naught unfinished, broken, marred;
Complete thy purpose, that we may become
Thy perfect image, O our God and Lord!

Horatius Bonar [1808-1889]

HOW WE LEARN

GREAT truths are dearly bought. The common truth, Such as men give and take from day to day,

Comes in the common walks of easy life,

Blown by the careless wind across our way.

Bought in the market, at the current price,
Bred of the smile, the jest, perchance the bowl,

It tells no tale of daring or of worth,

Nor pierces even the surface of a soul.

Great truths are greatly won. Not found by chance,
Nor wafted on the breath of summer dream,
But grasped in the great struggle of the soul,
Hard buffeting with adverse wind and stream.
Not in the general mart, 'mid corn and wine,
Not in the merchandise of gold and gems,
Not in the world's gay halls of midnight mirth,
Not 'mid the blaze of regal diadems,

But in the day of conflict, fear, and grief,

When the strong hand of God, put forth in might, Plows up the subsoil of the stagnant heart,

And brings the imprisoned truth-seed to the light. Wrung from the troubled spirit in hard hours

Of weakness, solitude, perchance of pain,

Truth springs, like harvest, from the well-plowed field, And the soul feels it has not wept in vain.

Horatius Bonar [1808-1889]

LOVE

LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning

If I lack anything.

"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here:" Love said, "You shall be he."

"I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear, I cannot look on Thee."

Love took my hand and, smiling, did reply, "Who made the eyes but I?"

"Truth, Lord; but I have marred them: let my shame

Go where it doth deserve."

"And know you not," says Love, "Who bore the blame?"

"My dear, then I will serve."

"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."

So I did sit and eat.

George Herbert [1593-1633]

The Collar

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THE COLLAR

I STRUCK the board, and cried, "No more;
I will abroad.

What, shall I ever sigh and pine?

My lines and life are free; free as the road,
Loose as the wind, as large as store.

Shall I be still in suit?

Have I no harvest but a thorn

To let me blood and not restore
What I have lost with cordial fruit?
Sure there was wine,

Before my sighs did dry it; there was corn
Before my tears did drown it;

Is the year only lost to me?

Have I no bays to crown it,

No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted,
All wasted?

Not so, my heart; but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.

Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures; leave thy cold dispute
Of what is fit and not; forsake thy cage,
Thy rope of sands

Which petty thoughts have made; and made to thee
Good cable, to enforce and draw,
And be thy law,

While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
Away! take heed;

I will abroad.

Call in thy death's-head there, tie up thy fears;
He that forbears

To suit and serve his need

Deserves his load."

But as I raved and grew more fierce and wild
At every word,

Methought I heard one calling, "Child!"

And I replied, "My Lord!"

George Herbert [1593-1633]

VIRTUE

SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright!
The bridal of the earth and sky-
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue angry and brave

Bids the rash gazer wipe his

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

eye,

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,
My music shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal

Then chiefly lives.

George Herbert [1593-1633]

DISCIPLINE

THROW away Thy rod,
Throw away Thy wrath;

O my God,
Take the gentle path!

For my heart's desire

Unto Thine is bent:

I aspire

To a full consent.

Not a word or look

I affect to own,

But by book,

And Thy Book alone.

SINCE, Lord, to Thee

A narrow way and little gate

Is all the passage, on my infancy

Thou didst lay hold, and antedate
My faith in me.

O, let me still

Write Thee" great God," and me a child";
Let me be soft and supple to Thy will,
Small to myself, to others mild,

Behither ill.