A dictionary of poetical illustrations

Speak gently, kindly, to the poor,
Let no harsh tones be heard;
They have enough they must endure
Without an unkind word.
Speak gently to the erring; know
They may have toil'd in vain ;
Perchance unkindness made them so;
Oh! win them back again.

Speak gently! He who gave His life
To bend man's stubborn will,
When elements were in fierce strife

Said to them, 'Peace, be still!'
Speak gently! 'tis a little thing

Dropp'd in the heart's deep well;
The good, the joy, which it may bring,
Eternity shall tell.-D. Bates.

And the deep silence which subdues the breath
Like a strong feeling, hung upon the world

As sleep upon the pulses of a child.

'Twas the last watch of night. Gethsemane,
With its bathed leaves of silver, seem'd dissolved
In visible stillness; and as Jesus' voice,
With its bewildering sweetness, met the ear
Of His disciples, it vibrated on
Like the first whisper in a silent world.
They came on slowly. Heaviness oppress'd
The Saviour's heart, and when the kindness
Of His deep love was pour'd, He felt the need
Of near communion, for His gift of strength
Was wasted by the spirit's weariness.
He left them there, and went a little on,
And in the depth of that hush'd silentness,
Alone with God, He fell upon His face,
And as His heart was broken with the rush
Of His surpassing agony, and death,
Wrung to Him from a dying universe,
Was mightier than the Son of man could bear,
He gave His sorrows way, and in the deep
Prostration of His soul, breathed out the prayer,
'Father, if it be possible with Thee,

Let this cup pass from Me.' Oh, how a word,
Like the forced drop before the fountain breaks,
Stilleth the press of human agony !

The Saviour felt its quiet in His soul;
And though His strength was weakness, and the
light

Which led Him on till now was sorely dim,

He breathed a new submission-'Not my will,

His hands are clasp'd, His eyes are raised in prayer- But Thine, be done, O Father!' As He spoke,
Alas, and is there strife He cannot bear,

Who calm'd the tempest, and who raised the dead?
There is! there is! for now the powers of hell
Are struggling for the mastery—'tis the hour
When death exerts his last permitted power,
When the dead weight of sin, since Adam fell,
Is visited on Him who deign'd to dwell
A man with men, that He might bear the stroke
Of wrath Divine, and break the captives' yoke-
But oh, of that dread strife what words can tell?
Those, only those which broke, with many a groan,
From His full heart-'O Father, take away
The cup of vengeance I must drink to-day ;
Yet, Father, not My will, but Thine, be done!'

It could not pass away-for He alone
Was mighty to endure and strong to save;
Nor would Jehovah leave Him in the grave,
Nor could corruption taint His Holy One.-Dale.

Voices were heard in heaven, and music stole
Out from the chambers of the vaulted sky,
As if the stars were swept like instruments.
No cloud was visible, but radiant wings
Were coming with a silvery rush to earth,
And as the Saviour rose, a glorious one,
With an illumined forehead, and the light,
Whose fountain is the mystery of God,
Encalm'd within His eye, bow'd down to Him,
And nerved Him with a ministry of strength.
It was enough-and with His god-like brow
Re-written of His Father's messenger,
With meekness whose divinity is more
Than power and glory, He return'd again
To His disciples, and awaked their sleep,
For 'he that should betray Him was at hand.
Willis.

1468. GETHSEMANE. Lesson of

WOULDST thou learn the depth of sin,
All its bitterness and pain?
What it cost thy God to win
Sinners to Himself again?

Come, poor sinner, come with me; Visit sad Gethsemane.

Wouldst thou know God's wondrous love?

Seek it not beside the throne; List not angels' praise above,

But come and hear the heavy groan By the Godhead heaved for thee, Sinner, in Gethsemane.

When His tears and bloody sweat,

When His passion and His prayer, When His pangs on Olivet,

Wake within thee thoughts of careRemember, sinner, 'twas for thee He suffer'd in Gethsemane !

Hate the sin that cost so dear;

Love the God that loved thee so; Weep if thou wilt, but likewise fear To bid that fountain freshly flow, That gush'd so freely once for thee In sorrowful Gethsemane.-Monsell.

1469. GETHSEMANE. View of

BRING the thrilling scene

Home to my inmost soul:-the sufferer's cry,
'Father, if it be possible, this cup

Take Thou away. Yet not My will, but Thine:'
The sleeping friends who could not watch one hour,
The torch, the flashing sword, the traitor's kiss,
The astonish'd angel, with the tear of heaven
Upon His cheek, still striving to assuage
Those fearful pangs that bow'd the Son of God
Like a bruised reed. Thou who hast power to look
Thus at Gethsemane, be still! be still!
What are thine insect-woes compared to His
Who agonizeth there? Count thy brief pains
As the dust atom on life's chariot-wheels,
And in a Saviour's grief forget them all.

1470. GIFTS. Influence of

Mrs Sigourney.

POLICY Counselleth a gift, given wisely and in season, And policy afterwards approveth it, for great is the influence of gifts.

The lover unsmiled before, is welcomed for his jewell'd bauble:

The righteous cause without a fee must yield to bounteous guilt.

How fair is a man in thine esteem whose just dis

crimination seeketh thee,

And so, discerning merit, honoureth it with gifts! Yea, let the cause appear sufficient, and the motive clear and unsuspicious,

As given unto one who cannot help, or proving honest thanks.

There liveth not one among a million who is proof against the charm of liberality,

And flattery, that boon of praise, hath power with the wisest.-Tupper.

1471. GIFTS: may be rendered valueless.

Hamlet. I never gave you aught.

Ophelia. My honour'd lord, you know right well, you did;

And with them, words of so sweet breath composed
As made the things more rich: their perfume lost,
Take these again; for to the noble mind
Rich gifts wax poor, when givers prove unkind.
Shakespeare.

1472. GIFTS. Spiritual

COULD I command with voice or pen
The tongues of angels and of men,

A tinkling cymbal, sounding brass,
My speech and preaching would surpass:
Vain were such eloquence to me
Without the grace of charity.

Could I the martyr's flame endure,

Give all my goods to feed the poor;

Had I the faith from Alpine steep
To hurl the mountain to the deep,
What were such zeal, such power to me,
Without the grace of charity?

Could I behold with prescient eye
Things future as the things gone by;
Could I all earthly knowledge scan,
And mete out heaven with a span,
Poor were the chief of gifts to me
Without the chiefest—charity.

Charity suffers long, is kind,
Charity bears a humble mind,
Rejoices not when ills befall,
But glories in the weal of all,

She hopes, believes, and envies not,
Nor vaunts, nor murmurs o'er her lot.

The tongues of teachers shall be dumb,
Prophets discern not things to come,
Knowledge shall vanish out of thought,
And miracles no more be wrought,
But charity shall never fail,
Her anchor is within the veil.

James Montgomery.

1473. GIVING. Analogies of GIVE! as the morning that flows out of heaven; Give! as the waves when their channel is riven;

Give! as the free air and sunshine are given; Lavishly, utterly, joyfully give :

Not the waste drops of thy cup overflowing, Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever glowing, Not a pale bud from the June roses blowing;

Give, as He gave thee, who gave thee to live.

Pour out thy love, like the rush of a river,
Wasting its waters, for ever and ever,
Through the burnt sands that reward not the giver;
Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea,
Scatter thy life, as the summer showers pouring!
What if no bird through the pearl-rain is soaring?
What if no blossom looks upward adoring?
Look to the life that was lavish'd for thee!

1474. GIVING. Grounds for

BUT what or who are we, alas!

That we in giving are so free? Thine own before our offering was,

And all we have we have from Thee. For we are guests and strangers here, As were our fathers in Thy sight;

Our days but shadow-like appear,

And suddenly they take their flight.
George Wither.

1475. GIVING: must be performed discreetly.

YET once more, heed thou this: give to the poor discreetly,

Nor suffer idle sloth to lean upon thy charitable arm: To diligence give, as to an equal, on just and fit occasion;

Or he bartereth his hard-earned self-reliance for the casual lottery of gifts.

The timely loan hath added nerve, where easy liber

ality would palsy ;

Work and wages make a light heart; but the mendicant asketh with a heavy spirit.

A man's own self-respect is worth unto him more than money,

And evil is the charity that humbleth, and maketh man less happy.-Tupper.

1476. GIVING. Reward of

SEE the rivers flowing
Downward to the sea,
Pouring all their treasures
Bountiful and free;
Yet to help their giving
Hidden springs arise ;

Or, if need be, showers

Feed them from the skies.

Watch the princely flowers Their rich fragrance spread, Load the air with perfumes From their beauty shed; Yet their lavish spending

Leaves them not in dearth, With fresh life replenish'd

By their mother earth.

Give thy heart's best treasures!
From fair nature learn ;
Give thy love-and ask not,

Wait not a return.

And the more thou spendest
From thy little store,

With a double bounty,

God will give thee more.

Adelaide Anne Procter.

1477. GIVING: the condition of getting.

A BEGGAR ask'd an alms

One day at an abbey-door,

Said Luther; but seized with qualms,
The abbot replied, 'We're poor!

'Poor, who had plenty once

When gifts fell thick as rain:

But they give us nought for nonce,

And how should we give again?'

Then the beggar, 'See your sins!
Of old, unless I err,

Ye had brothers for inmates, twins,
Date and Dabitur.

'While Date was in good case
Dabitur flourish'd too:
For Dabitur's lenten face,

No wonder if Date rue.

'Would ye retrieve the one?

Try and make plump the other! When Date's penance is done,

Dabitur helps his brother.

'Only, beware relapse!'

The Abbot hung his head. 'This beggar might be, perhaps, An angel,' Luther said.-Browning.

1478. GLORY: brings little happiness.
GLORIES, like glow-worms, afar off shine bright,
But, look'd too near, have neither heat nor light.
Webster.

Who pants for glory finds but short repose,
A breath revives him, and a breath o'erthrows.
Pope.

Think ye the notes of holy song

On Milton's tuneful ear have died? Think ye that Raphael's angel throng Has vanish'd from his side?

Oh, no! we live our life again;

Or warmly touch'd, or coldly dim, The pictures of the past remain

Man's works shall follow him!- Whittier.

1440. FUTURE. The: hidden from us. WHAT though before me it is dark, Too dark for me to see?

I ask but light for one step more ;
'Tis quite enough for me.

Each little, humble step I take,
The gloom clears from the next;
So, though 'tis very dark beyond,
I never am perplex'd.

And if sometimes the mist hangs close,

So close I fear to stray,

Patient I wait a little while,

And soon it clears away.

I would not see my further path,
For mercy veils it so ;

My present steps might harder be
Did I the future know.

It may be that my path is rough,

Thorny, and hard, and steep;

And knowing this, my strength might fail Through fear and terror deep.

It may be that it winds along

A smooth and flowery way; But seeing this I might despise The journey of to-day.

Perhaps my path is very short,

My journey nearly done,
And I might tremble at the thought

Of ending it so soon.

Or, if I saw a weary length

Of road that I must wend, Fainting, I'd think, 'My feeble powers Will fail me ere the end.'

And so I do not wish to see

My journey or its length;
Assured that, through my Father's love,

Each step will bring its strength.
Thus step by step I onward go,
Not looking far before;
Trusting that I shall always have

Wretched were life if he foreknew his doom ; Even joys foreseen give pleasing hope no room, And griefs assured are felt before they come.

Dryden.

1443. FUTURE. The what it has in store for

us.

WHAT then? Why, then another pilgrim song;
And then a hush to rest, divinely granted;
And then a thirsty stage (ah me, so long!)

And then a brook, just where it most is wanted.

What then? The pitching of the evening tent;

And then, perchance, a pillow rough and thorny ; And then some sweet and tender message, sent To cheer the faint one for to-morrow's journey. What then? The wailing of the midnight wind, A feverish sleep, a heart oppress'd and aching; And then a little water-cruse to find

Close by my pillow, ready for my waking.

What then? I am not careful to inquire;

I know there will be tears, and fears, and sorrow;

And then, a loving Saviour drawing nigher,
And saying, 'I will answer for the morrow.'

What then? For all my sins His pardoning grace;
For all my wants and woes, His lovingkindness;
For darkest shades, the shining of God's face,

And Christ's own hand to lead me in my blindness.

What then? A shadowy valley, lone and dim;
And then, a deep and darkly rolling river;
And then a flood of light, a seraph's hymn,
And God's own smile for ever and for ever!

Jane Crewdson.

1444. FUTURE. The Christian's

AFTER the Christian's tears,
After his fights and fears,

After his weary cross,
All things below but loss-
What then?

Oh! then-a holy calm,
Resting on Jesus' arm,
Oh! then a deeper love
For the holy home above.

After this holy calm,
This rest on Jesus' arm,
After this deepen'd love
For the pure home above-
What then?

Oh! then-work for Him,
Perishing souls to win,

Then Jesus' presence near,
Death's darkest hour will cheer.

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