The Sat Guru's faith says, O Dulam, without endurance is no knowledge.
Fruitless is Joga without contentment, I with authority declare it.

On the pillar of endurance set meditation's beam, Dulam.
Bind it firm with cords of memory, set the five, the twenty-five aswing.

Pressed with conflicting thoughts of love and fear
I parted from thee, Friend, and took my way
Through the great City, pacing with an eye
Downcast, ear sleeping, and feet masterless
That were sufficient guide unto themselves,
And step by step went pensively. Now, mark!
Not how my trouble was entirely hushed,
(That might not be) but how, by sudden gift,
Gift of Imagination's holy power,
My Soul in her uneasiness received
An anchor of stability.—It chanced
That while I thus was pacing, I raised up
My heavy eyes and instantly beheld,

If this now silent harp could wake,
How pure, how strong, how true
The tender strain its chords would make
Of love and grief for you!
But, like my heart, though faithful long,
By you cast forth to pain,
This hushed and humbled voice of song
Must never stir again.

Yet, haply, when your fancy strays
O'er unregarded things,
And half in dream your gentle gaze
Falls on its shattered strings,
Some loving impulse may endear
Your memories of the past,
And if for me you shed one tear
I think 'twould wake at last:

And is this day, or is it night,
That is neither dark nor light?

Day is dead and laid in fog—
Nothing but the fog we see—
The fog and our own breath;
Nothing hear but the night watch-dog,
That howls in time of death;
A raven croaking in a tree,
And a robin in the loaning
Weeping out a mournful ditty.—
All the earth is full of pity:
Surely it has ceased to work,
It is so deeply hush'd. Yet, hark!
No, no—it is the deep sea moaning—
Nothing from the city!
City, village, upland steading—
All are buried in the gloom,

Nobler than solemn organ tone
Or earth's sublimest art,
Deeper than ocean's mystic moan,
Love sings his ancient song alone,
The music of the heart.

All down the immemorial sweep
Of life's immortal way,
O'er sunny height or deathly deep,
Where Love and Light their strong course keep,
'Tis everlasting day.

Oh, Love is strong to breast the wave
On seas of circumstance,
And Love is bold and Love is brave,
Though weeping by a lonely grave
Upon the shores of Chance!

O vision of the cloudless eye,
O Deep beyond the deeps!

What we to-day prize and most fondly cherish,
To-morrow scarce may claim a moment's reck'ning.
Yet why adjust the cause? Let doubt all perish.
Can argument withstand the spirit's beck'ning?

WHEN direful judgments pour in like a flood,
And fields, Alas! are drench'd with human blood;
When armies after armies prostrate lie,
And brother, by his brother's hand must die;
When kingdoms seem to rise, or empires fall,
One great Omnipotent conducts it all;
And those have but a superficial scan,
Who view no higher origin than man.

Be still, methinks I hear J EHOVAH cry,
Be still before your God , and know 'tis I!
'Tis I make peace, and I create stern war,
And ride to battle in my flaming car;
I guide the bullet, point the glitt'ring sword,

When the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath the spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Every burning word he spoke
Full of rage and full of grief:

"Princess! if our agèd eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
'Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.

"Rome shall perish--write that word
In the blood that she has spilt--
Perish, hopeless and abhorred,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

"Rome, for empire far renowned,

Alone? Not I, indeed! Though thou art gone,
And countless leagues between our paths we see,
I'm not, and never shall be, quite alone
The while one blissful thought
In memory caught
Of thee abides with me.

Mine eye still holds the glory of thy face.
Remembered smiles my solitude rejoice,
And in despite the ban of Time and Space
Within my soul I hear,
Still ringing clear,
The music of thy voice!

Sometimes, across these later years
One memory chaste and holy
Drifts back and makes me love my past
For that sweet reason solely;
Not any tide of time or chance
Bears out of sight the old romance.

No love on earth can satisfy
The dream of child or poet;
I who was happy, guessed it not—
I who am sadder, know it,
Yet—O dear days! O sweet belief!
O so well worth all later grief!

And all fair things, too pure for earth,
And therefore briefly given,—
Lent to us for a passing hour
And then recalled to Heaven,