I just have room for the moral here:
And this is the moral,- Stick to your sphere.
Or if you insist, as you have the right,
On spreading your wings for a loftier flight,
The moral is, - Take care how you light.
No Sect in Heaven.
Talking of sects till late one eve,
Of the various doctrines the saints believe,
That night I stood in a troubled dream,
By the side of a darkly-flowing stream.
And a " Churchman" down to the river came,
When I heard a strange voice call his name,
"Good father, stop; when you cross this tide,
You must leave your robes on the other side."
But the aged father did not mind,
And his long gown floated out behind,
As down to the stream his way he took,
His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book.
"I'm bound for Heaven, and when I'm there
I shall want my book of Common Prayer;
And though I put on a starry crown,
I should feel quite lost without my gown."
Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track,
But his gown was heavy, and held him back;
And the poor old father tried in vain,
A single step in the flood to gain.
I saw him again on the other side,
But his silk gown floated on the tide;
And no one asked in that blissful spot,
Whether he belonged to "the Church" or not.
When down to the river a Quaker strayed,
His dress of a sober hue was made;
"My coat and hat must be all gray,
I cannot go any other way."
Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin, And staidly, solemnly, waded in,
And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight Oyer his forehead, so cold and white.
But a strong wind carried away his hat;
A moment he silently sighed over that,
And then, as he gazed on the farther shore,
The coat, slipped off, and was seen no more.
As he entered Heaven, his suit of gray
Went quietly sailing away, away,
And none of the angels questioned him
About the width of his beaver's brim.
Next came Dr. Watts with a bundle of Psalms,
Tied nicely up in his aged arms,
And hymns as many, a very wise thing,
That the people in Heaven, "all round," might sing.
But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh,
As he saw that the river ran broad and high,
And looked rather surprised as, one by one
The Psalms and Hymns in the wave went down.
And after him with his MSS.,
Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness;
But he cried, "Dear me, what shall I do?
The water has soaked them through and through."
And there on the river, far and wide,
Away they went down the swollen tide,
And the saint astonished passed through alone,
Without his manuscripts up to the throne.
Then gravely walking, two saints by name,
Down to the stream together came;
But as they stopped at the river's brink,
I saw one saint from the other shrink.
( Sprinkled or plunged, may I ask you, friend,
How you attained to life's great end?"
"Thus, with a few drops on my brow,"
But I have been dipped, as you'll see me now
"And I really think it will hardly do,
As I'm close communion,' to cross with you;
You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss,
But you must go that way, and I'll go this."
Then straightway plunging with all his might,
Away to the left — his friend at the right,
Apart they went from this world of sin,
But at last together they entered in.
And, now, when the river is rolling on,
A Presbyterian Church went down;
Of women there seemed an innumerable throng,
But the men I could count as they passed along
And concerning the road, they could never agree,
The old or the new way, which it could be,
Nor even a moment paused to think
That both would lead to the river's brink.
And a sound of murinuring long and loud
Came ever up from the moving crowd,
"You're in the old way, and I'm in the new
That is the false, and this is the true;"
Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new,
That is the false, and this is the true."
But the brethren only seemed to speak,
Modest the sisters walked, and meek,
And if ever one of them chanced to say
What troubles she met with on the way,
How she longed to pass to the other side,
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide,
A voice arose from the brethren then:
"Let no one speak but the 'holy men;'
For have ye not heard the words of Paul,
'O let the women keep silence all?'"
I watched them long in my curious dream,
Till they stood by the borders of the stream,
Then, just as I thought, the two ways met,
But all the brethren were talking yet,
And would talk on, till the heaving tide
Carried them over side by side;
Side by side, for the way was one,
The toilsome journey of life was done,
And all who in Christ the Saviour died
Come out alike on the other side;
No forms, or crosses, or books had they,
No gowns of silk, or suits of gray,
No creeds to guide them, or MSS.,
For all had put on Christ's righteousness.
I consider Poetry in a twofold view, as a spirit and a manifestat on. Perhaps the poetic spirit has never been more justly defined, than by Byron in his Prophecy of Dante, -a creation
"From overfeeling good or ill, an aim
At an external life beyond our fate."
This spirit may be manifested by language, metrical or prose, y declamation, by musical sounds, by expression, by gesture, by motion, and by i hitating forms, colors and shades; so that literature, oratory, music, physiognomy, acting, and the arts of painting and sculpture may all have their poetry; but that peculiar spirit, which alone gives the great life and charm to all the efforts of genius, is as distinct from the measure and rhyme of poetical composition, as from the scientific principles of drawing and perspective.
The world is full of poetry;· the air
Is living with its spirit; and the waves
Dance to the music of its melodies,
And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veiled
And mantled with its beauty; and the walls
That close the universe with crystal in,
Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim
The unseen glories of immensity,
In harmonies, too perfect, and too high,
For aught but beings of celestial mould,
And speak to man in one eternal hymn,
Unfading beauty, and unyielding power.
The year leads round the seasons, in a choir
For ever charming, and for ever new,
Blending the grand, the beautiful, the gay,
The mournful, and the tender, in one strain,
Which steals into the heart, like sounds that rise
Far off, in moonlight evenings, on the shore
Of the wide ocean resting after storms;
Or tones that wind around the vaulted roof,
And pointed arches, and retiring aisles
Of some old, lonely minster, where the hand,
Skillful, and moved with passionate love of art,
Plays o'er the higher keys, and bears aloft
The peals of bursting thunder, and then calls,
By mellow touches, from the softer tubes,
Voices of melting tenderness, that blend
With pure and gentle musings, till the soul,
Commingling with the melody, is borne,
Rapt, and dissolved in ecstasy, to Heaven.
"T is not the chime and flow of words, that move In measured file, and metrical array; T is not the union of returning sounds, Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme, And quantity, and accent, that can give This all-pervading spirit to the ear, Or blend it with the movings of the soul. 'T is a mysterious feeling, which combines Man with the world around him, in a chain Woven of flowers, and dipped in sweetness, till He taste the high communion of his thoughts, With all existences, in earth and Heaven, That meet him in the charm of grace and power.
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