Francesca Alexander, whose pen and pencil have so reverently transcribed the simple faith and life of the Italian peasantry, wrote the narrative published with John Ruskin's introduction under the title, _The Story of Ida_.
Weary of jangling noises never stilled, The skeptic's sneer, the bigot's hate, the din Of clashing texts, the webs of creed men spin Round simple truth, the children grown who build With gilded cards their new Jerusalem, Busy, with sacerdotal tailorings And tinsel gauds, bedizening holy things, I turn, with glad and grateful heart, from them To the sweet story of the Florentine Immortal in her blameless maidenhood, Beautiful as God's angels and as good; Feeling that life, even now, may be divine With love no wrong can ever change to hate, No sin make less than all-compassionate!
1884.
THE LIGHT THAT IS FELT.
A tender child of summers three, Seeking her little bed at night, Paused on the dark stair timidly.
"Oh, mother! Take my hand," said she, "And then the dark will all be light."
We older children grope our way From dark behind to dark before; And only when our hands we lay, Dear Lord, in Thine, the night is day, And there is darkness nevermore.
Reach downward to the sunless days Wherein our guides are blind as we, And faith is small and hope delays; Take Thou the hands of prayer we raise, And let us feel the light of Thee!
1884.
THE TWO LOVES
Smoothing soft the nestling head Of a maiden fancy-led, Thus a grave-eyed woman said:
"Richest gifts are those we make, Dearer than the love we take That we give for love's own sake.
"Well I know the heart's unrest; Mine has been the common quest, To be loved and therefore blest.
"Favors undeserved were mine; At my feet as on a shrine Love has laid its gifts divine.
"Sweet the offerings seemed, and yet With their sweetness came regret, And a sense of unpaid debt.
"Heart of mine unsatisfied, Was it vanity or pride That a deeper joy denied?
"Hands that ope but to receive Empty close; they only live Richly who can richly give.
"Still," she sighed, with moistening eyes, "Love is sweet in any guise; But its best is sacrifice!
"He who, giving, does not crave Likest is to Him who gave Life itself the loved to save.
"Love, that self-forgetful gives, Sows surprise of ripened sheaves, Late or soon its own receives."
1884.
ADJUSTMENT.
The tree of Faith its bare, dry boughs must shed That nearer heaven the living ones may climb; The false must fail, though from our shores of time The old lament be heard, "Great Pan is dead!"
That wail is Error's, from his high place hurled; This sharp recoil is Evil undertrod; Our time's unrest, an angel sent of God Troubling with life the waters of the world.
Even as they list the winds of the Spirit blow To turn or break our century-rusted vanes; Sands shift and waste; the rock alone remains Where, led of Heaven, the strong tides come and go, And storm-clouds, rent by thunderbolt and wind, Leave, free of mist, the permanent stars behind.
Therefore I trust, although to outward sense Both true and false seem shaken; I will hold With newer light my reverence for the old, And calmly wait the births of Providence.
No gain is lost; the clear-eyed saints look down Untroubled on the wreck of schemes and creeds; Love yet remains, its rosary of good deeds Counting in task-field and o'erpeopled town; Truth has charmed life; the Inward Word survives, And, day by day, its revelation brings; Faith, hope, and charity, whatsoever things Which cannot be shaken, stand. Still holy lives Reveal the Christ of whom the letter told, And the new gospel verifies the old.
1885.
HYMNS OF THE BRAHMO SOMAJ.
I have attempted this paraphrase of the Hymns of the Brahmo Somaj of India, as I find them in Mozoomdar's account of the devotional exercises of that remarkable religious development which has attracted far less attention and sympathy from the Christian world than it deserves, as a fresh revelation of the direct action of the Divine Spirit upon the human heart.
I.
The mercy, O Eternal One!
By man unmeasured yet, In joy or grief, in shade or sun, I never will forget.
I give the whole, and not a part, Of all Thou gayest me; My goods, my life, my soul and heart, I yield them all to Thee!
II.
We fast and plead, we weep and pray, From morning until even; We feel to find the holy way, We knock at the gate of heaven And when in silent awe we wait, And word and sign forbear, The hinges of the golden gate Move, soundless, to our prayer!
Who hears the eternal harmonies Can heed no outward word; Blind to all else is he who sees The vision of the Lord!
III.
O soul, be patient, restrain thy tears, Have hope, and not despair; As a tender mother heareth her child God hears the penitent prayer.
And not forever shall grief be thine; On the Heavenly Mother's breast, Washed clean and white in the waters of joy Shall His seeking child find rest.
Console thyself with His word of grace, And cease thy wail of woe, For His mercy never an equal hath, And His love no bounds can know.
Lean close unto Him in faith and hope; How many like thee have found In Him a shelter and home of peace, By His mercy compassed round!
There, safe from sin and the sorrow it brings, They sing their grateful psalms, And rest, at noon, by the wells of God, In the shade of His holy palms!
1885.
REVELATION.
"And I went into the Vale of Beavor, and as I went I preached repentance to the people. And one morning, sitting by the fire, a great cloud came over me, and a temptation beset me. And it was said: All things come by Nature; and the Elements and the Stars came over me. And as I sat still and let it alone, a living hope arose in me, and a true Voice which said: There is a living God who made all things. And immediately the cloud and the temptation vanished, and Life rose over all, and my heart was glad and I praised the Living God."--Journal of George Fox, 1690.
Still, as of old, in Beavor's Vale, O man of God! our hope and faith The Elements and Stars assail, And the awed spirit holds its breath, Blown over by a wind of death.
Takes Nature thought for such as we, What place her human atom fills, The weed-drift of her careless sea, The mist on her unheeding hills?