Human Frailty

It seems a story from the land of spirits
When any man obtains that which he merits,
Or any merit that which he obtains.

2751

REPLY TO THE ABOVE

For shame, dear friend! renounce this canting strain!
What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain?
Wealth, title, dignity, a gilded chain,

Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain?
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends.
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,-
The good great man? Three treasures,-love, and light,
And calm thoughts, equable as infant's breath;

And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,-
Himself, his Maker, and the Angel Death.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

HUMAN FRAILTY

WEAK and irresolute is man;

The purpose of to-day,
Woven with pains into his plan,
To-morrow rends away.

The bow well bent, and smart the spring,
Vice seems already slain;

But Passion rudely snaps the string,

And it revives again.

Some foe to his upright intent

Finds out his weaker part;

Virtue engages his assent,

But Pleasure wins his heart.

'Tis here the folly of the wise
Through all his art we view:

And while his tongue the charge denies,

His conscience owns it true.

Bound on a voyage of awful length
And dangers little known,

A stranger to superior strength,
Man vainly trusts his own.

But oars alone can ne'er prevail

To reach the distant coast;

The breath of Heaven must swell the sail,
Or all the toil is lost.

William Cowper [1731-1800]

STANZAS

WHERE forlorn sunsets flare and fade
On desolate sea and lonely sand,
Out of the silence and the shade

What is the voice of strange command
Calling you still, as friend calls friend

With love that cannot brook delay, To rise and follow the ways that wend Over the hills and far away?

Hark to the city, street on street
A roaring reach of death and life,
Of vortices that clash and fleet
And ruin in appointed strife;
Hark to it calling, calling clear,
Calling until you cannot stay,
From dearer things than your own most dear
Over the hills and far away.

Out of the sound of the ebb-and-flow,
Out of the sight of lamp and star,
It calls you where the good winds blow,
And the unchanging meadows are;
From faded hopes and hopes agleam,
It calls you, calls you night and day
Beyond the dark, into the dream
Over the hills and far away.

William Ernest Henley [1849–1903]

The Beleaguered City

2753

THE SEEKERS

FRIENDS and loves we have none, nor wealth, nor blest abode,

But the hope, the burning hope, and the road, the lonely road.

Not for us are content, and quiet, and peace of mind,
For we go seeking cities that we shall never find.

There is no solace on earth for us--for such as we
Who search for the hidden beauty that eyes may never see.
Only the road and the dawn, the sun, the wind, the rain,
And the watch-fire under stars, and sleep, and the road
again.

We seek the city of God, and the haunt where beauty dwells,

And we find the noisy mart and the sound of burial bells.

Never the golden city, where radiant people meet,

But the dolorous town where mourners are going about the

street.

We travel the dusty road till the light of the day is dim
And sunset shows us spires away on the world's rim.

We travel from dawn till dusk, till the day is past and by,
Seeking the Holy City beyond the rim of the sky.

Friends and loves we have none, nor wealth, nor blest abode,

But the hope, the burning hope, and the road, the lonely

road.

John Masefield [18

THE BELEAGUERED CITY

I HAVE read, in some old, marvelous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of specters pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,

With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as the sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral camp was seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum, nor sentry's pace;
The mist-like banners clasped the air,
As clouds with clouds embrace.

But when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarmed air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled;
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read, in the marvelous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,

That an army of Phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.

A Doubting Heart

And when the solemn and deep church-bell

Entreats the soul to pray,

The midnight phantoms feel the spell,

The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar

The spectral camp is fled;

Faith shineth as a morning star,

Our ghastly fears are dead.

2755

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

A DOUBTING HEART

WHERE are the swallows fled?

Perchance

Frozen and dead

upon some bleak and stormy shore.

O doubting heart!

Far over purple seas

They wait, in sunny ease,

The balmy southern breeze,

To bring them to their northern homes once more.

Why must the flowers die?

Prisoned they lie

In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.

O doubting heart!

They only sleep below

The soft white ermine snow

While winter winds shall blow,

To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid its rays

These many days;

Will dreary hours never leave the earth?

...O doubting heart!

The stormy clouds on high

Veil the same sunny sky

That soon (for spring is nigh),

Shall wake the summer into golden mirth.