In the silent watches of the night, calm night that breedeth thoughts, (12)
When the task-weary mind disporteth in the careless play-hours of sleep,
I dreamed; and behold, a valley, green and sunny and well watered,
And thousands moving across it, thousands and tens of thousands:
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

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 behind:
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


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 held 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 creatures 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


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


Mind is the perpetual motion ; for it is a running stream
From an unfathomable source, the depth of the divine Intelligence:
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, О immortal ?-hope not to find it in Heaven,
For sloth yieldeth not happiness: the bliss of a spirit is action.
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.


Vice is grown aweary of her gawds, and donneth 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 recrim-

ination. But the world hath gained somewhat from its years, and is quick to pene.

trate 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 Humility.
Its choler is not roused by insolence, neither do injuries disturb 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

But what! art thou not a man, deputed chief of the creation
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 dishonour to thyself? Wherciore let the evil triumph, when the just and the right are on thy side? Such Humility is abject, it lacketh the life of sensibility, And that resignation is but mock, where the burden is not selt: Suspect thyself and thy meekness: thou art mean and indifferent to sin; And the heart that should grieve and forgive, is case-hardened and forgetteth.

HUMILITY mainly becometh the converse of man with his Maker,
But oftentimes it seemeth out of place in the intercourse of man with man:
Yea, it is the cringer to his equal, that is chiefly seen bold to his God,
While a martyr, whom a world cannot browbeat, is humble as a child

before Him. Render unto all men their due, but remember thou also art a man, And cheat not thyself of the reverence which is owing to thy reasonable

being. Be courteous, and listen, and learn: but teach and answer if thou canst: Serve thee of thy neighbour's wisdom, but be not enslaved as to a master Where thou perceivest knowledge, bend the ear of attention and respect ; But yield not further to the teaching, than as thy mind is warranted by


Better is an obstinate disputant, that yieldeth inch by inch,
Than the shallow traitor to himself, who surrendereth to half an argument.

Modesty winneth good report, but scorn cometh close upon servility,
Therefore use meekness with discretion, casting not pearls before swine
For a fool will tread upon thy neck, if he seeth thee lying in the dust;
And there be companies and seasons where resolute bearing is but duty.
If a good man discloseth his secret failings unto the view of the profane,
What doeth he but harm unto his brother, confirming him in his sin:
There is a concealment that is right, and an open-mouthed humility that


There is a candour near akin to folly, and a meekness looking like shame

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