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Read Ebook: Private Letters of Edward Gibbon (1753-1794) Volume 1 (of 2) by Gibbon Edward Sheffield Henry North Holroyd Earl Of Author Of Introduction Etc Prothero Rowland E Rowland Edmund Baron Ernle Editor
Font size: Background color: Text color: Add to tbrJar First Page Next PageEbook has 57 lines and 3820 words, and 2 pagesPAGE ST. CATHERINE BORNE BY ANGELS 1 THE CHARMER 6 KNOCKING 10 THE OLD PSALM TUNE 15 THE OTHER WORLD 19 MARY AT THE CROSS 22 THE INNER VOICE 28 ABIDE IN ME, AND I IN YOU 30 THE SECRET 32 THINK NOT ALL IS OVER 34 LINES TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE" 36 THE CROCUS 39 CONSOLATION 41 "ONLY A YEAR" 44 BELOW 47 ABOVE 49 LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. STUART 53 SUMMER STUDIES 57 HOURS OF THE NIGHT. PRESSED FLOWERS FROM ITALY. A DAY IN THE PAMFILI DORIA 93 THE GARDENS OF THE VATICAN 102 ST. PETER'S CHURCH 104 THE MISERERE 106 ST. CATHERINE BORNE BY ANGELS. SLOW through the solemn air, in silence sailing, Borne by mysterious angels, strong and fair, She sleeps at last, blest dreams her eyelids veiling, Above this weary world of strife and care. Lo how she passeth!--dreamy, slow, and calm: Scarce wave those broad, white wings, so silvery bright; Those cloudy robes, in star-emblazoned folding, Sweep mistily athwart the evening light. Far, far below, the dim, forsaken earth, The foes that threaten, or the friends that weep; Past, like a dream, the torture and the pain: For so He giveth his beloved sleep. The restless bosom of the surging ocean Gives back the image as the cloud floats o'er, Hushing in glassy awe his troubled motion; For one blest moment he complains no more. Like the transparent golden floor of heaven, His charmed waters lie as in a dream, And glistening wings, and starry robes unfolding, And serious angel eyes far downward gleam. Ah, sea! to-morrow, that sweet scene forgotten, Dark tides and tempests shall thy bosom rear; And thy complaining waves, with restless motion, Shall toss their hands in their old wild despair. So o'er our hearts sometimes the sweet, sad story Of suffering saints, borne homeward crowned and blest, Shines down in stillness with a tender glory, And makes a mirror there of breathless rest. For not alone in those old Eastern regions Are Christ's beloved ones tried by cross and chain; In many a house are his elect ones hidden, His martyrs suffering in their patient pain. The rack, the cross, life's weary wrench of woe, The world sees not, as slow, from day to day, In calm, unspoken patience, sadly still, The loving spirit bleeds itself away. But there are hours when, from the heavens unfolding, Come down the angels with the glad release; And we look upward, to behold in glory Our suffering loved ones borne away to peace. Ah, brief the calm! the restless wave of feeling Rises again when the bright cloud sweeps by, And our unrestful souls reflect no longer That tender vision of the upper sky. Espoused Lord of the pure saints in glory, To whom all faithful souls affianced are, Breathe down thy peace into our restless spirits, And make a lasting, heavenly vision there. So the bright gates no more on us shall close; No more the cloud of angels fade away; And we shall walk, amid life's weary strife, In the calm light of thine eternal day. FOOTNOTE: According to this legend, Catherine was a noble maiden of Alexandria, distinguished alike by birth, riches, beauty, and the rarest gifts of genius and learning. In the flower of her life she consecrated herself to the service of her Redeemer, and cheerfully suffered for his sake the loss of wealth, friends, and the esteem of the world. Banishment, imprisonment, and torture were in vain tried to shake the constancy of her faith; and at last she was bound upon the torturing-wheel for a cruel death. But the angels descended, so says the story, rent the wheel, and bore her away, through the air, far over the sea, to Mount Sinai, where her body was left to repose, and her soul ascended with them to heaven. THE CHARMER. "Upon this Cebes said, 'Endeavor to teach us better, Socrates. Perhaps there is a childish spirit in our breast that has such a dread. Let us endeavor to persuade him not to be afraid of death, as of hobgoblins.' "'But you must charm him every day,' said Socrates, 'until you have quieted his fears.' "'But whence, O Socrates,' he said, 'can we procure a skilful charmer for such a case, now you are about to leave us.' WE need that charmer, for our hearts are sore With longings for the things that may not be, Faint for the friends that shall return no more, Dark with distrust, or wrung with agony. "What is this life? and what to us is death? Whence came we? whither go? and where are those Who, in a moment stricken from our side, Passed to that land of shadow and repose? "And are they all dust? and dust must we become? Or are they living in some unknown clime? Shall we regain them in that far-off home, And live anew beyond the waves of time? "O man divine! on thee our souls have hung; Thou wert our teacher in these questions high; But ah! this day divides thee from our side, And veils in dust thy kindly-guiding eye. "Where is that Charmer whom thou bidst us seek? On what far shores may his sweet voice be heard? When shall these questions of our yearning souls Be answered by the bright Eternal Word?" So spake the youth of Athens, weeping round, When Socrates lay calmly down to die; So spake the sage, prophetic of the hour When earth's fair morning star should rise on high. They found Him not, those youths of soul divine, Long seeking, wandering, watching on life's shore; Reasoning, aspiring, yearning for the light, Death came and found them--doubting as before. But years passed on; and lo! the Charmer came, Pure, simple, sweet, as comes the silver dew, And the world knew him not,--he walked alone, Encircled only by his trusting few. Like the Athenian sage, rejected, scorned, Betrayed, condemned, his day of doom drew nigh; He drew his faithful few more closely round, And told them that his hour was come--to die. "Let not your heart be troubled," then He said, "My Father's house hath mansions large and fair; I go before you to prepare your place, I will return to take you with me there." And since that hour the awful foe is charmed, And life and death are glorified and fair; Whither He went we know, the way we know, And with firm step press on to meet him there. KNOCKING. "Behold, I stand at the door and knock." KNOCKING, knocking, ever knocking? Who is there? 'Tis a pilgrim, strange and kingly, Never such was seen before;-- Ah, sweet soul, for such a wonder Undo the door. No,--that door is hard to open; Hinges rusty, latch is broken; Bid Him go. Wherefore, with that knocking dreary Scare the sleep from one so weary? Say Him,--no. Knocking, knocking, ever knocking? What! Still there? O, sweet soul, but once behold Him, With the glory-crown?d hair; And those eyes, so strange and tender, Waiting there; Open! Open! Once behold Him,-- Him, so fair. Ah, that door! Why wilt Thou vex me, Coming ever to perplex me? For the key is stiffly rusty, And the bolt is clogged and dusty; Many-fingered ivy-vine Seals it fast with twist and twine; Weeds of years and years before Choke the passage of that door. Knocking! knocking! What! still knocking? He still there? What's the hour? The night is waning,-- In my heart a drear complaining, And a chilly, sad unrest! Ah, this knocking! It disturbs me, Scares my sleep with dreams unblest! Give me rest, Rest,--ah, rest! Rest, dear soul, He longs to give thee; Thou hast only dreamed of pleasure, Dreamed of gifts and golden treasure, Dreamed of jewels in thy keeping, Waked to weariness of weeping;-- Open to thy soul's one Lover, And thy night of dreams is over,-- The true gifts He brings have seeming More than all thy faded dreaming! Did she open? Doth she? Will she? So, as wondering we behold, Grows the picture to a sign, Pressed upon your soul and mine; For in every breast that liveth Is that strange mysterious door;-- Though forsaken and betangled, Ivy-gnarled and weed-bejangled, Dusty, rusty, and forgotten;-- There the pierc?d hand still knocketh, And with ever-patient watching, With the sad eyes true and tender, With the glory-crown?d hair,-- Still a God is waiting there. THE OLD PSALM TUNE. YOU asked, dear friend, the other day, Why still my charm?d ear Rejoiceth in uncultured tone That old psalm tune to hear? I've heard full oft, in foreign lands, The grand orchestral strain, Where music's ancient masters live, Revealed on earth again,-- Where breathing, solemn instruments, In swaying clouds of sound, Bore up the yearning, tranc?d soul, Like silver wings around;-- I've heard in old St. Peter's dome, Where clouds of incense rise, Most ravishing the choral swell Mount upwards to the skies. And well I feel the magic power, When skilled and cultured art Its cunning webs of sweetness weaves Around the captured heart. But yet, dear friend, though rudely sung, That old psalm tune hath still A pulse of power beyond them all My inmost soul to thrill. Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page |
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