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Ye all at once would answer,
They called him Mehrab Khan.
Dear to our native land,
Firm round his faithful hand.
Fill all the past with light; If truth be in their music,
He was a noble knight. Rut were those heroes living,
And strong for battle still, Would Mehrab Khan or Roostrum
Have climbed, like these, the Hill ?” And they replied, “Though Mehrab Khan was brave
As chief, he chose himself what risks to run; Prince Roostrum lied, his forfeit life to save,
Which these had never done." “Enough!” he shouted fiercely;
“Doomed though they be to hell, Bind fast the crimson trophy
Round both wrists—bind it well. Who knows but that great Allah
May grudge such matchless men, With none so decked in heaven,
To the fiends' flaming den ?”
Shouted a stern Amen!”
They raised his mangled ten.
Left bleaching in the wind, Around both wrists in glory
That crimson thread was twined. Then Napier's knightly heart, touched to the core,
Rung like an echo, to that knightly deed ; He bade its memory live for evermore,
That those who run may read.
The Singers. God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again. The first, a youth, with soul of fire, Held in his hand a golden lyre; Through groves he wandered, and by streams, Playing the music of our dreams. The second, with a bearded face, Stood singing in the market-place, And stirred with accents deep and loud The hearts of all the listening crowd. A grey old man, the third and last, Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, While the majestic organ rolled Contrition from its mouths of gold. And those who heard the Singers three, Disputed which the best might be; For still their music seemed to start Discordant echoes in each heart. But the great Master said, “I see No best in kind, but in degree; I gave a various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. “ These are the three great chords of might, And he whose ear is tuned aright Will hear no discord in the three, But the most perfect harmony."
Above and Below.
O dwellers in the valley-land,
Who in deep twilight grope and cower, Till the slow mountain's dial-hand
Shortens to noon's triumphal hour,
While ye sit idle, do ye think
The Lord's great work sits idle too ? That light dare not o'erleap the brink
Of morn, because 'tis dark with you? Though yet your valleys skulk in night,
In God's ripe fields the day is cried, And reapers, with their sickles bright,
Troop, singing, down the mountain-side : Come up and feel what health there is
In the frank Dawn's delighted eyes, As bending with a pitying kiss,
The night-shed tears of earth she dries !
- Too late!” Stay not for taking scrip or cup,
The Master hungers while ye wait; 'Tis from these heights alone, your eyes
The advancing spears of dny can see, That o'er the eastern hill-tops rise,
To break your long captivity.
It is right precious to behold
Flood all the thirsty east with gold ;
Know also when the day is nigh,
With His inspiring prophecy.
God lacks not early service here,
He counts with us for morning cheer; Our day, for Him, is long enough,
And when He giveth work to do, The bruised reed is amply tough
To pierce the shield of error through.
But not the less do thou aspire
Light's earlier messages to preach; Keep back no syllable of fire,
Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech. Yet God deems not thine aeried sight.
More worthy than our twilight dim; For meek Obedience, too, is Light,
And following that is finding Him.
A Song for Stout Workers.
Onward, brothers, onward go!
David Livingstone. Droop, half
mast colours ! bow, bare-headed crowds ! As this plain coffin o'er the side is slung, To pass by woods of masts and ratlined shrouds,
As erst by Afric's trunks liana-hung. 'Tis the last mile, of many thousands trod With failing strength, but never
failing will, By the worn frame, now at its rest with God,
That never rested from its fight with ill. Or if the ache of travel and of toil
Would sometimes wring a short sharp cry of pain, From
agony of fever, blain, and boil, "Twas but to crush it down, and on again! He knew not that the trumpet he had blown,
Out of the darkness of that dismal land, Had reached, and roused an army of its own,
To strike the chains from the Slave's fettered hand. Now, we believe, he knows, sees all is well :
How God had stayed his will, and shaped his way, To bring the light to those that darkling dwell,
With gains that life's devotion well repay. Open the Abbey doors, and bear him in
To sleep with king and statesman, chief, and sage, The Missionary, come of weaver-kin,
But great by work that brooks no lower wage. He needs no epitaph to guard a name
Which men shall prize while worthy work is known; He lived and died for good—be that his fame :
Let marble crumble : this is. Living-stone.