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3582. WORLD: neither to be feared nor loved.

A PILGRIM through this lonely world,

The blessed Saviour pass'd ; A mourner all His life was He,

A dying Lamb at last.

That tender heart that felt for all,

For all its life-blood gave ;
It found on earth no resting-place

Save only in the grave.
Such was our Lord, -and shall we fear

The cross, with all its scorn? Or love a faithless, evil world,

That wreath'd His brow with thorn?

No! facing all its frowns or smiles,

Like Him obedient still, We homeward press through storm or calm,

To Zion's blessed hill. — Denny.

3583. WORLD. Power of the WHENCE has this world her magic power ?

Why deem we death a foe, Recoil from weary life's best hour,

And covet longer woe?
The cause is Conscience ? Conscience oft

Her tale of guilt renews;
Her voice is terrible, though soft,

And dread of death ensues.

3585. WORLD. Quitting the I HAVE not loved the world, nor the world me,

But let us part fair soes : I do believe, Though I have found them not, that there may be Words which are things, hopes which will not de

ceive, And virtues which are merciful, nor weave Snares for the failing : I would also deem

O'er others' griefs that some sincerely grieve ; That two, or one, are almost what they seem, That goodness is no name, and happiness no dream.

Byron. Good-bye, proud world! I'm going home:

Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine.
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;

A river-ark on the ocean's brine,
Long I've been toss'd like the driven foam;
But now, proud world ! I'm going home.
Good-bye to Flattery's fawning face ;
To Grandeur, with his wise grimace;
To upstart Wealth's averted eye ;
To supple Office, low and high ;
To crowded halls, to court and street ;
To frozen hearts and hasting feet;
To those who go, and those who come:
Good-bye, proud world ! I'm going home.
I'm going to my own hearth-stone,
Bosom'd in yon green hills alone,
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies plann'd;
Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod, -
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.
Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretch'd beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all, in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet!

Emerson, 3586. WORLD. Sale of the The world for sale! Hang out the sign;

Call every traveller here to me;
Who'll buy this brave estate of mine,

And set this weaty spirit free?
'Tis going ! yes, I mean to fling

The bauble from my soul away,
I'll sell it, whatsoe'er it bring;

The world at auction here, to-day!

Then, anxious to be longer spared,

Man mourns his flying breath : All evils then seem light, compared

With the approach of death. The judgment shakes him ! there's the fear

That prompts the wish to stay !
He has incurr'd a long arrear,

And must despair to pay.
Pay!—follow Christ, and all is paid;

His death your peace ensures ;
Think on the grave where He was laid,

And calm descend to yours.—Cowper.

3584. WORLD. Question about the What is the world ? tell, worldling, if thou know it. If it be good, why do all ills o'erflow it?

If it be bad, why dost thou like it so?
If it be sweet, how comes it bitter then ?
If it be bitter, what bewitcheth men ?

If it be friend, why kills it, as a foe,
Vain-minded men that over-love and lust it?
If it be foe, fondling, how dar’st thou trust it?


And subtle serpents gliding in her hair.
By day she woos me to the outer air,

Ripe fruits, sweet flowers, and full satiety :

But through the night, a beast she grins at me, A very monster void of love and prayer. By day she stands a lie : by night she stands,

In all the naked horror of the truth, With pushing horns and claw'd and clutching hands. Is this a friend indeed; that I should sell

My soul to her, give her my life and youth, Till my feet, cloven too, take hold on hell ?

Christina G. Rosetti, 3587a. WORLD: transient.

The flower that smiles to-day,

To-morrow dies;
All that we wish to stay,

Tempts, and then flies :
What is this world's delight?
Lightning, that mocks the night,
Brief even as bright. --Shelley.

It is a glorious sight to see

But, ah ! it has deceived me sore, It is not what it seems to be.

For sale! it shall be mine no more. Come, turn it o'er and view it well,

I would not have you purchase dear. 'Tis going! going! I must sell!

Who bids ? who'll buy the splendid tear? Here's wealth, in glittering heaps of gold;

Who bids ? But let me tell you fair, A baser lot was never sold!

Who'll buy the heavy heaps of care?
And here, spread out in broad domain,

A goodly landscape all may trace,
Hall, cottage, tree, field, hill, and plain ;

Who'll buy himself a burial-place?
Here's Love, the dreamy potent spell

That Beauty flings around the heart; I know its power, alas ! too well ;

'Tis going! Love and I must part ! Must part? What can I more with Love ?

All over's the enchanter's reign. Who'll buy the plumeless, dying dove,

A breath of bliss, a storm of pain ? And Friendship, rarest gem of earth;

Who e'er hath found the jewel his? Frail, fickle, false, and little worth,

Who bids for Friendship-as it is? 'Tis going ! going ! hear the call;

Once, twice, and thrice, 'tis very low ! 'Twas once my hope, my stay, my all,

But now the broken staff must go ! Fame ! hold the brilliant meteor high,

How dazzling every gilded name! Ye millions ! now's the time to buy.

How much for Fame? how much for Fame? Hear how it thunders! Would you stand

On high Olympus, far renown'd, Now purchase, and a world command,

And be with a world's curses crown'd. Ambition, fashion, show, and pride,

I part from all for ever now; Grief, in an overwhelming tide,

Has taught my haughty heart to bow. By Death, stern sheriff! all bereft,

I weep, yet humbly kiss the rod; The best of all I still have left

My faith, my Bible, and my God!-Hoyt.

3588. WORLD: treacherous.
The world's esteem is but a bribe :

To buy their peace you sell your own;
The slave of a vainglorious tribe,

Who hate you while they make you known. The joy that vain amusements give,

Oh! sad conclusion that it brings ! The honey of a crowded hive,

Defended by a thousand stings. 'Tis thus the world rewards the fools

That live upon her treacherous smiles : She leads them blindfold by her rules,

And ruins all whom she beguiles.--Cowper. 3589. WORLD. Vanity of the

OH! the world is but a word ;
Were it all yours to give it in a breath,
How quickly were it gone. --Shakespeare.

3590. WORLD. Youth of the

Who will say the world is dying?

Who will say our prime is past ? Sparks from heaven within us lying

Flash, and will flash to the last.
Fools! who fancy Christ mistaken ;

Man a tool to buy and sell ;
Earth a failure, God-forsaken,

Ante-room of hell.
Still the race of hero spirits

Pass the lamp from hand to hand;
Age from age the words inherits, -

Wife and child and fatherland.

3587. WORLD. The enticing By day she woos me, soft, exceeding fair :

But all night as the moon so changeth she ; Loathsome and foul with hideous leprosy,

grey beneath.

Still the youthful hunter gathers

That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our Fiery joy from wold and wood;

tears, He will dare as dared his fathers,

And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the Give him cause as good.

ice appears. While a slave bewails his fetters;

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth disWhile an orphan pleads in vain;

tract the breast, While an infant lisps his letters,

Through midnight hours that yield no more their Heir of all the ages' gain ;

former hope of rest,
While a lip grows ripe for kissing ;

'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe,
While a moan from man is wrung ; All green and wildly fresh without, but wom and
Know, by every want and blessing,
That the world is young.-C. Kingsley.

O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been,

Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a 3591. WORLDLINESS. Influence of

vanish'd scene, The world is too much with us ; late and soon,

As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers ;

though they be, Little we see in nature that is ours;

So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would

flow to me !-Byron. We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This sea that bares her bosom to the moon,

3593. WORLDLINGS. Ways of The winds that will be howling at all hours,

Lo! here spread out the plains of heavenly light, And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers,

And narrow way, that ends where all is bright. For this, for everything, we're out of tune;

Behold, with globes upon the lightsome green, It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be

To different work address'd, two men are seen. A pagan suckled in a creed outworn,

With careless ease one rolls his globe along, So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,

And follows after full of mirth and song; Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ;

The other strives to move his world's vast weight Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;

Uphill, toward the brightly shining gate; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

He strives in vain ; the globe, though in the track, Wordsworth.

Still downward tending drives him farther back :

And though they seem contrary roads to go, 3592. WORLDLING. Lament of the

They meet together in the vale below. There's not a joy the world can give like that it Thus some pursue an open course of sin ;

Some Christ profess, yet hold the world within ; When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's Though these appear to play a different game, dull decay ;

Their fate is equal, and their end the same.

W. Holmes. Tis not on youth's smooth check the blush alone which fades so fast,

3594. WORLDS. Other But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth it- Other worlds. Those planets evermore self be past.

On their golden orbits swiftly glide on

From quick Hermes by the solar shore Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of

To remote Poseidon. happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or oceans of ex

Are they like this earth? The glory shed

From the ruddy dawn's unfading portalsThe magnet of their course is gone, or only points in Does it fall on regions tenanted vain

By a race of mortals ? The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never Are there merry maidens, wicked-eyed, stretch again.

Peeping slyly through the cottage lattice? Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself Have they vintage-bearing countries wide ? comes down;

Have they oyster-patties? It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its Have they silent shady forest realms, own ;

Odorous violets that in grassy nooks hide,

takes away,



Aged oaks and great ancestral elms

But in deep penitence the other turns
Growing by the brook-side?

His downcast eyes to earth, in sorrow bent :
Does a mighty ocean roar and break

He offers bleeding innocence, and yearns On dark rocks and sandy shores fantastic?

Vicarious release from punishment. Have they any Darwins there to make

The promised Christ to bruise the serpent's head, Theories elastic?

The substitute for man, is shadow'd here;

And Heaven approves the gift-accepts the deed, Have they landscapes that would set a flat alight With their beauty? Have they snow-neck'd clerici? Abel, by faith, Heaven's favour thus obtains

The principle of future trust is there. Poets who be-rhyme each whirling satellite?

For a more excellent sacrifice by far than Cain's. Dr Temple's heresy ?

Churchill. Does their weather change? November fogWeeping April - March with many a raw gust?

3596. WORSHIP: in what spirit it is to be

offered. And do thunder and demented dog Come to them in August ?

I would my gift were worthier,' sigh'd the Greek, Nineteenth-century science should unravel

As on he goaded to the temple door All these queries, but has somehow miss'd 'em.

His spotted bullock : ‘Ever of our store When will it be possible to travel

Doth Zeus require the best. And fat and sleek
Through the solar system?

The ox I vow'd to him (no brindle streak,
Mortimer Collins.

No fleck of dun), when through the breakers' roar 3595. WORSHIP. Acceptable

He bore me safe, that day, to Naxos' shore :

And now—my gratitude-how seeming weak!
No sacred lore, howe'er profound,
Nor all the long and varied round

* But here be chalk-pits: What if I should white Of sacred rites, can bliss procurc

The blotches, hiding all unfitness so ?
For worthless man, in heart impure.

The victim in the people's eyes would show
Although a man with zeal and skill

Better therefor, the sacrificial rite
Should all external rites fulfil,

Be quicklier granted at so fair a sight,
He reaps no fruit of all his toil

And the great Zeus himself might never know !'
If sin his inner man should soil.

Even he his all in alms who spends
With heart defiled, secures no meed :

We have a God who knows: And yet we dare,
The disposition, not the deed,

On His consuming altar-coals, to lay
Has value--all on it depends.

(Full loth the goad of conscience to obey)
Vayu Purana, viii. 190.

The whited sacrifice, the glossing prayer,

In place of what we vow'd-in our despair Two altars are uprear'd in yonder plain ;

Of best and holiest ; glad no mortal may Two worshippers with different gifts draw near;

Pierce through the cheat, and hoping half to stay Two sacrifices are presented there,

That eye before whose search all souls are bare. Heaven's merciful approval to obtain. One brings a bloody offering, and the slain

Nay, rather let us bring the victim-heart, Crimsons earth's beauteous carpet with its gore ;

Defiled, unworthy, blemish'd though it be, A lamb-a sinless victim—there is slain ;

And Aling it on the flame, entreating : 'See ! Such sacrifice Earth never saw before.

I blush to know how vile in every part Upon the other altar luscious fruits,

Is this, my gift, through sin's delusive art, Like incense, are in rich profusion piled,

Yet-'tis the best that I can offer Thee !' Mix'd with earth's ripen'd grain, its fruitful roots,

Margaret 7. Preston. And gorgeous flowers, all beautiful and wild. Which of these two oblations will be found

3597. WORSHIP. Places of Most worthy-tribute from the ..ock, or from the

SPIRIT! whose life-sustaining presence fills ground?

Air, ocean, central depths, by man untried, Heaven takes the former, but the latter spurns ; Thou for Thy worshippers hast sanctified

One lifts his head to heaven to thank the Giver, All place, all time! The silence of the hills

Nor thinks to mourn his lost condition ever; Breathes veneration ; founts and choral rills With Pharisaic pride his spirit burns,

Of these are murmuring : to its inmost glade


The living forest with Thy whisper thrills,

We built our church ; carved were the stones and And there is holiness on every shade.

wood, Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest

And priceless was the land on which it stood; With dearer consecration those pure fanes, Surely our golden gifts are not forgot :Which, sever'd from all sound of earth's unrest, And the stern Christ shall say, 'I know them not." Hear nought but suppliant or adoring strains

* But this I know, that at your temple gate Rise heavenward. Ne'er may rock or cave possess Their claim on human hearts to solemn tenderness.

My poor, my starving poor, in sorrow sat;

Mine were the children, ignorant and cold,
Mrs Hemans.

Mine were the mothers, in their anguish old ; 3598. WORSHIP. Prayer for acceptance of

And those young girls were sisters all of mine The glorious hosts of peerless night

That you, for “my sake," might have saved from That ever see Thy face,

crime. Thou mak'st the mirrors of Thy light,

"I never knew you ! From your splendid place The vessels of Thy grace ;

No heart with sorrow breaking sought my face; Then when their wondrous strain they weave, No poor man's soul e'er to my bosom came, Hast pleasure in the lay:

And your church kept the memory of his name; Deign thus our praises to receive,

My poor-which are my body, quite forgot,
Albeit from lips of clay!

I am dishonour'd! Go-I know you not !'
And yet Thyself they cannot know,

Lillie E. Barr. Nor pierce the veil of light

3600. WORSHIP. True That hides Thee from the thrones below,

TRUE faith nor biddeth nor abideth form.
As in profoundest night :

The bended knee, the eye uplift, is all
How then can mortal accents frame

Which man need render ; all which God can bear. Due tribute to the King ?

What to the faith are forms ? A passing speck, Thou only, while we praise Thy name,

A crow upon the sky. God's worship is
Forgive us while we sing !

That only He inspires ; and His bright words,
Metrophanes of Smyrna, tr. by J. 11. Neale. Writ in the red-leaved volume of the heart,

Return to Him in prayer, as dew to heaven. 3599. WORSHIP. Rejected

Our proper good we rarely seek or make; GLADSOME the bells so musical and loud,

Mindless of our immortal powers and their Splendid the court, splendid the glistening crowd ;

Immortal end, as is the pearl of its worth,
Luxuriously soft the cushion'd stalls

The rose its scent, the wave its purity.-Bailey.
And costly carpet, where the footstep falls ;
The air perfumed, the music soft and low,

3601. WORTH: how it is to be measured. The tinted lights upon the tinted show.

The worth of all men by their end esteem, O Christ, they come to praise Thee! Dost Thou And then due praise, or due reproach, them yield. hear?

Spenser. For Thee the psalm rings out so sweet and clear,

3602. WORTH. Joy in And silk-robed beauty bends the graceful knee, There is a joy in worth, And wealth doth suffer Thy meek company,

A high, mysterious, soul-pervading charm, Content to pray with self-approving ken,

Which, never daunted, ever bright and warm, • Thanks, Lord ! that we-are not as other men.'

Mocks at the idle, shadowy ills of earth, O vainest prayer ! unheard beyond the skies

Amid the gloom is bright, and tranquil in the For widows' wails, and orphans' bitter cries,

storm. For hunger's calls, and the sad freezing moan It asks, it needs no aid ; Of dying souls untended and alone.

It makes the proud and lofty soul its throne : Shall they have answer, then? Ah, yes ! I say There, in its self-created heaven, alone, They shall have answer-on the Judgment Day. No fear to shake, no memory to upbraid, When sore-perplex'd, with hearts that sink and

It sits a lesser God-life, life is all its own! quake,

The Stoic was not wrong: They urge the plea, “ Think, Lord, that for Thy There is no evil to the virtuous brave; sake

Or in the battle's rift, or on the wave,

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