Real glory

Is figured in the moon; they both wax dull,
And suffer their eclipses in the full.—Aleyn.

What is glory? What is fame?
The echo of a long-lost name;
A breath, an idle hour's brief talk ;
The shadow of an arrant naught;
A flower that blossoms for a day,

Dying next morrow;

A stream that hurries on its way,
Singing of sorrow.-Motherwell.

Our glories float between the earth and heaven
Like clouds that seem pavilions of the sun,
And are the playthings of the casual wind.

1481. GLORY. True

Bulwer.

THIS is true glory and renown, when God,
Looking on the earth, with approbation marks
The just man, and divulges him through heaven
To all His angels, who with true applause
Recount his praises: thus He did to Job,
Who famous was in heaven, on earth less known;
Where glory is false glory, attributed
To things not glorious, men not worthy of fame.
They err who count it glorious to subdue
By conquest far and wide, to over-run
Large countries, and in field great battles win,
Great cities by assault: what do these worthies,
But rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave
Peaceable nations, neighbouring or remote,
Made captive, yet deserving freedom more
Than those their conquerors, who leave behind
Nothing but ruin wheresoe'er they rove,
And all the flourishing arts of peace destroy.
But if there be in glory aught of good,
It may by means far different be attain'd,
Without ambition, war, or violence;
By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent,
By patience, temperance.-Milton.

Springs from the quiet conquest of ourselves; And without that the conqueror is nought But the first slave.-Thomson.

1482. GLORY. True

WHAT is true glory? Not the loud acclaim
Of heedless throngs that shout, they know not
why,
Clamorous hosannahs, when some favour'd name
For the brief hour is echoed to the sky;
Not eminence of place that sets on high,

And gives to wield the power that rules the state; Nor royal splendours that enchant the eye

In gorgeous palaces where courtiers wait; Ambition hath not reach'd it when the prize

Long coveted by strifes or guile is won; When, like the eagle soaring to the skies

And bathed in light beneath the unclouded sun, It proudly triumphs in its daring flight, And on a world looks down in conscious might.

True glory is the lustre pure and fair

In which exalted virtue stands array'd; No changeful, transient blaze, no meteor glare That e'en while yet beheld doth straightway fade; 'Tis as a robe of sunbeams deftly made,

That glows undimm'd through the long flight of years;

That whoso wears, unreach'd by envious shade,
As dress'd in Heaven's own livery appears:
'Tis won by patient service, loving deeds

Wrought for mankind in firm self-sacrifice;
By treading the rough path where duty leads;

By trust that e'er on God and truth relies; By courage that knows not to yield, or fly, But, battling for the right, can calmly die!

Ray Palmer.

1483. GLORY OF GOD: how it is rendered. My soul, rest happy in thy low estate, Nor hope nor wish to be esteem'd or great: To take the impression of a will DivineBe that thy glory, and those riches thine. Confess Him righteous in His just decrees; Love what He loves, and let His pleasure please; Die daily; from the touch of sin recede; Then thou hast crown'd Him, and He reigns indeed. Madame Guyon, tr. by Cowper.

1484. GLORY OF GOD: may be sought in all things.

TEACH me, my God and King,

In Thee all things to see;

GLORY of God! thou stranger here below,
Whom man nor knows, nor feels a wish to know:
Our faith and reason are both shock'd to find
Man in the post of honour, thee behind.

Reason exclaims, 'Let every creature fall,
Ashamed, abased, before the Lord of all!'
And Faith, o'erwhelm'd with such a dazzling blaze,
Feebly describes the beauty she surveys.

Yet man, dim-sighted man, and rash as blind,
Deaf to the dictates of his better mind,
In frantic competition dares the skies,
And claims precedence of the Only-Wise.

Oh lost in vanity till once self-known!
Nothing is great or good but God alone:
When thou shalt stand before His awful face,
Then, at the last, thy pride shall know its place.
Madame Guyon, tr. by Cowper.

1486. GLUTTONY.

FAT paunches have lean pates; and dainty bits
Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits.
Shakespeare.

Prompted by instinct's never-erring power,
Each creature knows its proper aliment;

On Alpine heights, o'er many a fragrant heath, The loveliest breezes breathe;

So free and pure the air,

His breath seems floating there.

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.

On Alpine heights, beneath His mild blue eye,
Still vales and meadows lie;

The soaring glacier's ice
Gleams like a paradise.

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.

Down Alpine heights the silvery streamlets flow;
There the bold chamois go;

On giddy crags they stand,
And drink from His own hand.

On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.
On Alpine heights, in troops all white as snow,
The sheep and wild goats go;
There, in the solitude,

He fills their hearts with food.
On Alpine heights a loving Father dwells.

Where'er I turn my restless eye,

Wandering from earth to heaven, from sphere to sphere,

Great God! I feel Thy present Deity,

Everywhere feel Thee-Thou art everywhere. Yes! Thou are there-above the empyreum high, Veil'd all in light;

Filling creation with Thy presence bright, With the proud splendour of Thy majesty. The little flower that grows

Beneath me; the gigantic mountain steep, Whose brow is cover'd with eternal snows,

Whose roots are planted in the deep; The breeze that murmuring blows

Among the green leaves, rustling in the sun, And yonder glorious star, advancing on, Gladdening earth, heaven, and all things as he goes; These tell me that 'tis Thou

Who giv'st that sun his brightness-Thou whose wing,

Upon the rapid whirlwind journeying, From the Aurora to the West doth go;

And that the mountain's towering height

Is Thy majestic throne:

And that the flower which breathes and blooms alone,

Breathes, blooms in Thy pure sight.

'Tis Thine immensity

Which compasses all this, and more; confess'd, As in the greatest—in the least ; Atom-or comet, blazing through the sky : Thine is the circling robe

Of darkness, Thine the subtle veil

Of the opening morning pale,

When first she throws her glories o'er the globe.
And when the Spring descends

On the wide world, and decks her joyous bowers,
Thou smilest gently in her loveliest flowers;
Thy spirit with their sweetest odours blends.
When the red Sirius bears

His burning ardours through the summer hour, Thy breezes play among the swelling ears,

And calm and temper his too furious power. I seek the leafy shade

And Thou art there; among the welcoming trees I feel Thy visitings in the freshen'd breeze; My spirit rests-my cares, my sorrows fade.

Then a religious fear

Troubles my bosom, and I hear a sound: 'Humbly adore Him here,

In this mysterious solitude profound.' Thou art upon the mighty waves

Of the deep sea; and Thou dost bind

The bursting fury of the wind-
Or let it loose, when the wild tempest raves.
Where'er I go, where'er I turn,

I see Thee, feel Thee !-in the flowery mead,
As in the starry field above our head,
Where such unnumber'd torches burn.
Thou art the God of atoms-as of suns!

Of the poor, perishing worm

That in the dust the eye of mortals shuns,

Or angels pure, who veil their dazzled form Before Thee! Thou dost hear the hymn

Of this Thy lowly worshipper; of the poor And innocent lamb the bleatings, as the roar Of the fierce lion, or of seraphim The anthem; and to all beneficent Thou bendest down Thine ear, Their destined portion. Thou, who reignest, livest Eternally, the offering I present Accept in mercy; mercifully view

and givest

This transitory being; let me stand
As ever in Thy presence-see Thy hand
In all things, and in all Thy wisdom too.
Fill up my mounting soul

With holy ardour; that where'er I tread,
Like Thee I may a blessed influence shed,
And own Thee, trace Thee through the extended
whole

Of the wide universe. The race of man

Are all Thy sons--the Tartar, Laplander, Rude Indian, and the sunburnt African-Thine image all-and all my brethren are. Melendez, tr. by Bowring.

1494. GOD. Fulness of

A MILLION beats of man's united heart
Are fainter than one throb of ocean's pulse,
Which thrills her awful veins in every part,
And throws up waifs of shells and crimson dulse.

A million tides of ocean's weltering breast
Are weaker than one glance that lights the sun,
When in the banner'd east he breaks his rest,
His race gigantic round the sky to run.

A million journeys of the sun's swift foot
Are smaller than one limit of the space
Through which the tree of life from being's root
Upsprings, powder'd with stars, in heaven's face.

A million trees of life, with all their loads,

But poorly God's profound domain reveal: The crowds of worlds that throng heaven's thickest roads

Are letters of a word His lips unseal.