"Great grace, as saith Sir Thomas More, To him must needs be given Who heareth heresy and leaves The heretic to Heaven!
"I hear again the snuffled tones, I see in dreary vision Dyspeptic dreamers, spiritual bores, And prophets with a mission.
"Each zealot thrust before my eyes His Scripture-garbled label; All creeds were shouted in my ears As with the tongues of Babel.
"Scourged at one cart-tail, each denied The hope of every other; Each martyr shook his branded fist At the conscience of his brother!
"How cleft the dreary drone of man.
The shriller pipe of woman, As Gorton led his saints elect, Who held all things in common!
"Their gay robes trailed in ditch and swamp, And torn by thorn and thicket, The dancing-girls of Merry Mount Came dragging to my wicket.
"Shrill Anabaptists, shorn of ears; Gray witch-wives, hobbling slowly; And Antinomians, free of law, Whose very sins were holy.
"Hoarse ranters, crazed Fifth Monarchists, Of stripes and bondage braggarts, Pale Churchmen, with singed rubrics snatched From Puritanic fagots.
"And last, not least, the Quakers came, With tongues still sore from burning, The Bay State's dust from off their feet Before my threshold spurning;
"A motley host, the Lord's debris, Faith's odds and ends together; Well might I shrink from guests with lungs Tough as their breeches leather
"If, when the hangman at their heels Came, rope in hand to catch them, I took the hunted outcasts in, I never sent to fetch them.
"I fed, but spared them not a whit; I gave to all who walked in, Not clams and succotash alone, But stronger meat of doctrine.
"I proved the prophets false, I pricked The bubble of perfection, And clapped upon their inner light The snuffers of election.
"And looking backward on my times, This credit I am taking; I kept each sectary's dish apart, No spiritual chowder making.
"Where now the blending signs of sect Would puzzle their assorter, The dry-shod Quaker kept the land, The Baptist held the water.
"A common coat now serves for both, The hat's no more a fixture; And which was wet and which was dry, Who knows in such a mixture?
"Well! He who fashioned Peter's dream To bless them all is able; And bird and beast and creeping thing Make clean upon His table!
"I walked by my own light; but when The ways of faith divided, Was I to force unwilling feet To tread the path that I did?
"I touched the garment-hem of truth, Yet saw not all its splendor; I knew enough of doubt to feel For every conscience tender.
"God left men free of choice, as when His Eden-trees were planted; Because they chose amiss, should I Deny the gift He granted?
"So, with a common sense of need, Our common weakness feeling, I left them with myself to God And His all-gracious dealing!
"I kept His plan whose rain and sun To tare and wheat are given; And if the ways to hell were free, I left then free to heaven!"
Take heart with us, O man of old, Soul-freedom's brave confessor, So love of God and man wax strong, Let sect and creed be lesser.
The jarring discords of thy day In ours one hymn are swelling; The wandering feet, the severed paths, All seek our Father's dwelling.
And slowly learns the world the truth That makes us all thy debtor,-- That holy life is more than rite, And spirit more than letter;
That they who differ pole-wide serve Perchance the common Master, And other sheep He hath than they Who graze one narrow pasture!
For truth's worst foe is he who claims To act as God's avenger, And deems, beyond his sentry-beat, The crystal walls in danger!
Who sets for heresy his traps Of verbal quirk and quibble, And weeds the garden of the Lord With Satan's borrowed dibble.
To-day our hearts like organ keys One Master's touch are feeling; The branches of a common Vine Have only leaves of healing.
Co-workers, yet from varied fields, We share this restful nooning; The Quaker with the Baptist here Believes in close communing.
Forgive, dear saint, the playful tone, Too light for thy deserving; Thanks for thy generous faith in man, Thy trust in God unswerving.
Still echo in the hearts of men The words that thou hast spoken; No forge of hell can weld again The fetters thou hast broken.
The pilgrim needs a pass no more From Roman or Genevan; Thought-free, no ghostly tollman keeps Henceforth the road to Heaven!
CHICAGO
The great fire at Chicago was on 8-10 October, 1871.
Men said at vespers: "All is well!"
In one wild night the city fell; Fell shrines of prayer and marts of gain Before the fiery hurricane.
On threescore spires had sunset shone, Where ghastly sunrise looked on none.
Men clasped each other's hands, and said "The City of the West is dead!"
Brave hearts who fought, in slow retreat, The fiends of fire from street to street, Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare, The dumb defiance of despair.
A sudden impulse thrilled each wire That signalled round that sea of fire; Swift words of cheer, warm heart-throbs came; In tears of pity died the flame!
From East, from West, from South and North, The messages of hope shot forth, And, underneath the severing wave, The world, full-handed, reached to save.
Fair seemed the old; but fairer still The new, the dreary void shall fill With dearer homes than those o'erthrown, For love shall lay each corner-stone.
Rise, stricken city! from thee throw The ashen sackcloth of thy woe; And build, as to Amphion's strain, To songs of cheer thy walls again!
How shrivelled in thy hot distress The primal sin of selfishness!
How instant rose, to take thy part, The angel in the human heart!
Ah! not in vain the flames that tossed Above thy dreadful holocaust; The Christ again has preached through thee The Gospel of Humanity!
Then lift once more thy towers on high, And fret with spires the western sky, To tell that God is yet with us, And love is still miraculous!
1871.