Obeying, even as a god, the royal father of Cathay: Therefore, to this our day, the Rechabite wanteth not a

man, (10)

But they stand before the Lord, forsaking not the mandate of their sire.

Therefore shall Magog among nations arise from his northern lair,

And rend, in the fury of his power, the insurgent world beneath him:

For the thunderbolt of concentrated strength can be hurled by the will of one,

While the dissipated forces of many are harmless as summer lightning.

OF REST. (11)

In the silent watches of the night, calm night that breedeth thoughts, (12)

When the task-weary mind disporteth in the careless playhours of sleep,

I dreamed; and behold, a valley, green and sunny and well watered,

And thousands moving across it, thousands and tens of thou

sands:

And though many seemed faint and toil-worn, and stumbled

often, and fell,

Yet moved they on unresting, as the ever-flowing cataract. Then I noted adders in the grass, and pitfalls under the

flowers,

And chasms yawned among the hills, and the ground was cracked and slippery :

But Hope and her brother Fear suffered not a foot to linger; Bright phantoms of false joys beckoned alluringly forward, While yelling grisly shapes of dread came hunting on be

And ceaselessly, like Lapland swarms, that miserable crowd

sped along

To the mist involved banks of a dark and sullen river.
There saw I, midway in the water, standing a giant fisher,
And he held many lines in his hand, and they called him
Iron Destiny.

So I tracked those subtle chains, and each held one among the multitude.

Then I understood what hindered, that they rested not in their path:

For the fisher had sport in his fishing, and drew in his lines continually,

And the new-born babe, and the aged man, were dragged into that dark river:

And he pulled all those myriads along, and none might rest

by the way,

Till many, for sheer weariness, were eager to plunge into the drowning stream.

So I knew that valley was Life, and it sloped to the waters of Death.

But far on the thither side spread out a calm and silent shore, Where all was tranquil as a sleep, and the crowded strand was quiet:

And I saw there many I had known, but their eyes glared chillingly upon me,

As set in deepest slumber; and they pressed their fingers to their lips.

Then I knew that shore was the dwelling of Rest, where spirits heid their Sabbath,

And it seemed they would have told me much, but they might not break that silence;

For the law of their being was mystery: they glided on, hushing as they went.

Yet further, under the sun, at the roots of purple mountains, I noted a blaze of glory, as the night-fires on northern skies.

And I heard the hum of joy, as it were a sea of melody;
And far as the eye could reach, were millions of happy crea-

tures

Basking in the golden light; and I knew that land was Heaven.

Then the hill whereon I stood split asunder, and a crater yawned at my feet,

Black and deep and dreadful, fenced round with ragged

rocks,

Dimly was the darkness lit up by spires of distant flame : And I saw below a moving mass of life, like reptiles bred in

corruption,

Where all was terrible unrest, shrieks and groans and thunder.

So I woke, and I thought upon my dream; for it seemed of wisdom's ministration.

What man is he that findeth rest, though he hunt for it year after year?

As a child he had not yet been wearied, and cared not then

to court it;

As a youth he loved not to be quiet, for excitement spurred him into strife;

As a man he tracketh rest in vain, toiling painfully to catch it, But still is he pulled from the pursuit, by the strong compulsion of his fate;

So he hopeth to have peace in old age, as he cannot rest in manhood,

But troubles thicken with his years, till Death hath dodged him to the grave.

There remaineth a rest for the spirit on the shadowy side of

life;

But unto this world's pilgrim no rest for the sole of his foot.
Ever, from stage to stage, he travelleth wearily forward,
And though he pluck flowers by the way, he may not sleep
among the flowers.

Mind is the perpetual motion; for it is a running stream From an unfathomable source, the depth of the divine Intel

ligence:

And though it be stopped in its flowing, yet hath it a current

within,

The surface may sleep unruffled, but underneath are whirlpools of contention.

Seekest thou rest, O mortal ?-seek it no more on earth,

For destiny will not cease from dragging thee through the rough wilderness of life;

Seekest thou rest, O immortal ?-hope not to find it in Hea

ven,

For sloth yieldeth not happiness: the bliss of a spirit is ac

tion.

Rest dwelleth only on an island in the midst of the ocean of

existence,

Where the world-weary soul for a while may fold its tired

wings,

Until, after short sufficient slumber, it is quickened unto deathless energy,

And speedeth in eagle-flight to the Sun of unapproachable perfection.

OF HUMILITY.

VICE is grown aweary of her gawds, and donaeth russet garments,

Loving for change to walk as a nun, beneath a modest veil: For Pride hath noted how all admire the fairness of Humility, And to clutch the praise he coveteth, is content to be drest in hair-cloth;

And wily Lust tempteth the young heart, that is proof against the bravery of harlots,

With timid tears and retiring looks of an artless seeming

maid;

And indolent Apathy, sleepily ashamed of his dull lack-lustre

face,

Is glad of the livery of meekness, that charitable cloak and

cowl;

And Hatred hideth his demon frown beneath a gentle mask; And Slander, snake-like, creepeth in the dust, thinking to escape recrimination.

But the world hath gained somewhat from its years, and is quick to penetrate disguises,

Neither in all these is it easily deceived, but rightly divideth the true from the false.

YET there is a meanness of spirit that is fair in the eyes of most men,

Yea, and seemeth fair unto itself, loving to be thought Hu

mility.

Its choler is not roused by insolence, neither do injuries dis

turb it:

Honest indignation is strange unto its breast, and just reproof

unto its lip.

It shrinketh, looking fearfully on men, fawning at the feet of

the great:

The breath of calumny is sweet unto its ear, and it courteth the rod of persecution.

But what! art thou not a man, deputed chief of the crea

tion ?

Art thou not a soldier of the right, militant for God and

good?

Shall virtue and truth be degraded, because thou art too base to uphold them?

Or Goliath be bolder in blaspheming for want of a David in the camp?

I say not, avenge injuries: for the ministry of vengeance is

not thine;

But wherefore rebuke not a liar? wherefore do dishonor to

thyself?