English

Be patient, very patient; for the skies
Within my human soul now sunset-flushed
Break desperate magic on the world I knew,
And in the crimson evening flying down
Bell-sounds and birds of ancient ecstasy
Most wonderfully carol one time more.

Like a bread without the spreadin',
Like a puddin' without sauce,
Like a mattress without beddin',
Like a cart without a hoss,
Like a door without a latchstring,
Like a fence without a stile,
Like a dry an' barren creek bed--
Is the face without a smile.

Like a house without a dooryard,
Like a yard without a flower,
Like a clock without a mainspring,
That will never tell the hour;
A thing that sort o' makes yo' feel
A hunger all the while--
Oh, the saddest sight that ever was
Is a face without a smile!

Where is poor Jesus gone?
He sits with Dives now,
And his dogs flesh their teeth
On Lazarus below.

Where is poor Jesus gone?
He is with Magdalen,
He doles her piece by piece,
Her pittance of shame!

Where is poor Jesus gone?
The good Samaritan,
What does he there alone?
He stabs the wounded man!

Where is poor Jesus gone,
The lamb they sacrificed?—
They've made God of his carrion
And labelled it “Christ!”

We that look on, with God's goodwill,
Have one plain duty to fulfil:
To drive—by all fair means—afar
This hideous Juggernaut of War,
And teach the Future not to kill.

But there's a plainer duty still:
We need to meet the instant ill,
To heal the wound, to hide the scar—
We that look on!

What timelier task for brain and quill
Than aiding eyes no light can thrill,
No sight of all good things that are,
No morning sky, no evening star—
Shall we not help with all our skill,
We that look on?

My soul, let all thy nobler powers,
And faculties combine:
Awake my tongue, and to my thoughts
Thy tuneful numbers join.

All that's within me, bless and praise
My Saviour and my king:
When he's the subject of the song,
Who can forbear to sing?

Holy and reverend is his name;
How glorious, and how sweet!
All greatness, and all goodness too
I'th' name of J ESUS meet:

A name vile men shall one day dread,
As now the devils fear:
A name the heavenly hosts adore,
To pardon'd sinners dear;

Jehovah, we in hymns of praise
Thy matchless grace adore,
That grace that gave thy only son:
What couldst thou give us more?

He's all in all: his saints in him
Divine perfection view:
'Tis of his fulness they receive
All grace and glory too.

He freely gave his blood, the price
Of our eternal bliss:
Since no less could atone for sin,
His love would give no less.

He in the wine-press of thy wrath
For guilty men was crusht;
Humbled himself to die, and laid
His honour in the dust.

The young oak casts its delicate shadow
Over the still and emerald meadow;
The sheep are cropping the fresh spring grass,
And never raise their heads as we pass;
The cattle are taking their noon-day rest,
And chewing the cud with a lazy zest,
Or bathing their feet in the reedy pool
Switch their tails in the shadows cool;
But away, away, we may not stay,
Panting and puffing, and snorting and starting,
And shrieking and crying, and madly flying,
On and on, there's a race to be run and a goal to be won ere the set of the sun.

I have a suit of new clothes in this happy new year;
Hot rice cake soup is excellent to my taste;
But when I think of the hungry people in this city,
I am ashamed of my fortune in the presence of God.

Happy was man ere cheated sense,
By love's false fires misled,
From all the sweets of innocence
To wilder passions fled.
Free from desire he knew no fear,
Enjoyment crowned the circling year.

Since art and wisdom cannot stay
The too swift-footed hours,
Let us in pleasures melt the day
While yet we call it ours.
He only truly knows to live
Who drinks, and scorns to love or grieve.

You ask for fame or power?
Then up and take for text:
This is my hour,
And not the next, nor next!

Oh, wander not in ways
Of ease or indolence!
Swift come the days,
And swift the days go hence.

Strike! while the hand is strong:
Strike! while you can and may:
Strength goes ere long,—
Even yours will pass away.

Sweet seem the fields, and green,
In which you fain would lie:
Sweet seems the scene
That glads the idle eye:

Soft seems the path you tread,
And balmy soft the air,—