Hear ye, O hear! that ceaseless-pleading voice, Which storm, nor suffering, nor age could still Chief prophet-voice through nigh a century's span! Now silvery as Zion's dove that mourns,

Now quelling as the Archangel's judgment-trump,
And ever with a sound like that of old

Which, in the desert, shook the wandering tribes,
Or, round about storied Jerusalem,

Or by Gennesaret, or Jordan, spake
The words of life.

Let not that image fade
Ever, O God! from out the minds of men,
Of him Thy messenger and stainless priest,
In a brute, sodden, and unfaithful time,
Early and late, o'er land and sea, on-driven;
In youth, in eager manhood, age extreme
Driven on forever, back and forth the world,
By that divine, omnipotent desire,

The hunger and the passion for men's souls!

Ah, how he loved Christ's poor! No narrow thought Dishumaned any soul from his emprize;

But his the prayer sincere that Heaven might send Him chiefly to the humble; he would be,

Even as the Galilean, dedicate

Unto the ministry of lowliness:

That boon did Heaven mercifully grant;
And gladly was he heard; and rich the fruit;
While still the harvest ripens round the earth;
And many own the name once given in scorn;
And all revere the holy life he led,

Praise what he did for England, and the world,
And call that greatness which was once reproach.
Would we were worthy for his praise.

JOHN WESLEY

359

Dear God!

Thy servant never knew one selfish hour!
How are we shamed, who look upon a world
Ages afar from that true kingdom preached
Millenniums ago in Palestine!

Send us, again, O Spirit of all Truth!
High messengers of dauntless faith and power
Like him whose memory this day we praise,
We cherish and we praise with burning hearts.
Let kindle, as before, from his bright torch,
Myriads of messengers aflame with Thee
To darkest places bearing light divine!

II

As did one soul, whom here I fain would sing,
For here in youth his gentle spirit took

New fire from Wesley's glow.

How oft have I, A little child, harkened my father's voice Preaching the Word in country homes remote, Or wayside schools, where only two or three Were gathered. Lo, again that voice I hear, Like Wesley's, raised in those sweet, fervent hymns Made sacred by how many saints of God

ว

Who breathed their souls out on the well-loved tones.
Again I see those circling, eager faces;

I hear once more the solemn-urging words
That tell the things of God in simple phrase;
Again the deep-voiced, reverent prayer ascends,
Bringing to the still summer afternoon

A sense of the eternal. As he preached
He lived; unselfish, famelessly heroic.
For even in mid-career, with life still full,
His was the glorious privilege and choice

Deliberately to give that life away

For country and for comrades; for he knew
No rule but duty, no reward but Christ.

III

Increase thy prophets, Lord! give strength to smite Shame to the heart of luxury and sloth!

Give them the yearning after human souls

That burned in Wesley's breast! Through them, great

God!

Teach poverty it may be rich in Thee;

Teach riches the true wealth of Thine own spirit.

To our loved land, Celestial Purity!

Bring back the meaning of those ancient words,-
Not lost but soiled, and darkly disesteemed,-
The ever sacred names of husband, wife,
And the great name of Love, whereon is built
The temple of human happiness and hope!
Baptize with holy wrath thy prophets, Lord!
By them purge from us this corruption foul
That seizes on our civic governments,
Crowns the corrupter in the sight of men,

And makes him maker of laws, and honor's source!
Help us, in memory of the sainted dead,
Help us, O Heaven! to frame a nobler state,
In nobler lives rededicate to Thee:
Symbol and part of the large brotherhood
Of man and nations; one in one great love,
True love of God, which is the love of man,
In sacrifice and mutual service shown.

Let kindle, as before, O Heavenly Light!
New messengers of righteousness, and hope,
And courage, for our day! So shall the world
That ever, surely, climbs to Thy desire
Grow swifter toward Thy purpose and intent.

A TEMPLE OF ART

A TEMPLE OF ART

361

WRITTEN FOR THE OPENING OF THE ALBRIGHT ART GALLERY, BUFFALO, MAY 31, 1905

SLOWLY to the day the rose,

The moon-flower suddenly to the night,
Their mysteries of light

In innocence unclose.

In this garden of delight,

II

This pillared temple, pure and white,

We plant the seed of art,

With mystic power

To bring, or sudden or slow, the perfect flower,

That cheers and comforts the sad human heart;
That brings to man high thought

From starry regions caught,

And sweet, unconscious nobleness of deed;

So he may never lose his childhood's joyful creed, While years and sorrows to sorrows and years succeed.

III

Tho' thick the cloud that hides the unseen life

Before we were and after we shall be,

Here in this fragment of eternity;

And heavy is the burden and the strife

The universe, we know, in beauty had its birth;

The day in beauty dawns, in beauty dies,

With intense color of the sea and skies;

And life, for all its rapine, with beauty floods the earth.

Lovely the birds, and their true song,

Amid the murmurous leaves, the summer long.

Whate'er the baffling power

Sent anger and earthquake and a thousand ills,
It made the violet flower,

And the wide world with breathless beauty thrills.

IV

Who built the world made man

With power to build and plan,
A soul all loveliness to love,

Blossom below and lucent blue above,
And new unending beauty to contrive.
He, the creature, may not make
Beautiful beings all alive-

Irised moth nor mottled snake,

The lily's splendor,

The light of glances infinitely tender,

Nor the day's dying glow nor flush of morn,

And yet his handiwork the angels shall not scorn,

When he hath wrought in truth and by Heaven's law,

In lowliness and awe.

Bravely shall he labor, while from his pure hands

Spring fresh wonders, spread new lands;

Son of God, no longer child of fate,

Like God he shall create.

V

When, weary ages hence, this wrong world is set right; When brotherhood is real

And all that justice can for man is done;

When the fair, fleeing, anguished-for ideal
Turns actual at last; and 'neath the sun

Man hath no human foe;

And even the brazen sky, and storms that blow,

And all the elements have friendlier proved,