‘Twas but a bird-moth, which with limp horns gored
The invisibly obstructing window-pane!
Better than eagle, with far-towering nerve
But downward bent, greedy, marauding eye,
Guest of the flowers, thou art: unhurt they serve
Thee, little angel of a lower sky!
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Why came in dreams the low-born man
In vain thy whispered message ran,Though justice was its quest!Did some young ignorant angel dare-Not knowing what must be,Or blind with agony of care-To fly for help to thee?I know not. Rather I believe,Thou, nobler than thy spouse,His rumoured grandeur didst receive,And sit with pondering brows,Until thy maidens’ gathered taleWith possible marvel teems:Thou sleepest, and…
A lang-backit, spilgie, fuistit auld carl
Wi’ a pock on his back, luikin hungry an’ lean,His crook-fingert han’ aye followin his e’en:He gathers up a’thing that canna but fa’-Intil his bag wi’ ‘t, an’ on, an’ awa!Soot an’ snaw! soot an’ snaw!-Intil his bag wi’ ‘t, an’ on, an’ awa!But whan he comes to the wa’ o’ the warl,Spangs up it,…
To God and man be simply true;
Bring out thy treasures, old and new–Mean all the same when said to you.I love thee: thou art calm and strong;Firm in the right, mild to the wrong;Thy heart, in every raging throng,A chamber shut for prayer and song.Defeat thou know’st not, canst not know,Although thy aims so lofty goThey need as long to root…
Power that is not of God, however great,
Of a swift meteor that hath lost its shareIn the one impulse which doth animateThe parent mass: emblem to me of fate!Which through vast nightly wastes doth onward fare,Wild-eyed and headlong, rent away from prayer-A moment brilliant, then most desolate!And, O my brothers, shall we ever learnFrom all the things we see continuallyThat pride is…
January 26, 1885
Gordon, the lover of God,Gordon, the good part choosing,Welcome along the road!Thou knowest the man, O Father!To do thy will he ran;Men’s praises he did not gather:There is scarce such another man!Thy black sheep’s faithful shepherdWho knew not how to flee,Is torn by the desert leopard,And comes wounded home to thee!Home he is coming the…
Mourn not, my friends, that we are growing old:
Years are Christ’s napkins to wipe off the sin.See now, I’ll be to you an angel bold!My plumes are ruffled, and they shake with cold,Yet with a trumpet-blast I will begin.-Ah, no; your listening ears not thus I win!Yet hear, sweet sisters; brothers, be consoled:-Behind me comes a shining one indeed;Christ’s friend, who from life’s…