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It had never been given him to see
“ As each beholds in cloud and fire
The soul of Ambrose burned with zeal
“ As into these vessels the water I pour,
O thou, who wouldst unity make through strife,
ABOVE AND BELOW.
O DWELLERS in the valley-land,
Who in deep twilight grope and cower, Till the slow mountain's dial-hand
Shortens to noon's triumphal hour,While ye sit idle, do ye think
The Lord's great work sits idle too ? That light dare not o'erleap the brink Of morn, because 'tis dark with
? Though yet your valleys skulk in night,
In God's ripe fields the day is cried, And reapers with their sickles bright,
Troop, singing, down the mountain side : Come up, and feel what health there is
In the frank Dawn's delighted eyes, As, bending with a pitying kiss,
The night-shed tears of Earth she dries ! The Lord wants reapers : 0, mount
up, Before night comes, and says,—“ Too late!” Stay not for taking scrip or cup,
The Master hungers while ye wait ; 'Tis from these heights alone your eyes
The advancing spears of day can see, Which o'er the eastern hill-tops rise,
To break your long captivity.
Lone watcher on the mountain-height!
It is right precious to behold
The first long surf of climbing light
Flood all the thirsty east with gold; But we, who in the shadow sit,
Know also when the day is nigh,
With his inspiring prophecy.
God lacks not early service here,
He counts with us for morning cheer ; Our day, for Him, is long enough,
And when he giveth work to do, The bruised reed is amply tough
To pierce the shield of error through. But not the less do thou aspire
Light's earlier messages to preach; Keep back no syllable of fire,
Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech. Yet God deems not thine aëried sight
More worthy than our twilight dim,For meek Obedience, too, is Light,
And following that is finding Him.
It was past the hour of trysting,
But she lingered for him still ; Like a child, the eager streamlet
Leaped and laughed adown the hill, Happy to be free at twilight
From its toiling at the mill.
Then the great moon on a sudden
Ominous, and red as blood, Startling as a new creation,
O’er the eastern hill-top stood, Casting deep and deeper shadows
Through the mystery of the wood.
Dread closed huge and vague about her,
And her thoughts turned fearfully To her heart, if there some shelter
From the silence there might be, Like bare cedars leaning inland
From the blighting of the sea. Yet he came not, and the stillness
Dampened round her like a tomb; She could feel cold eyes of spirits
Looking on her through the gloom, She could hear the groping footsteps
Of some blind, gigantic doom.
Like a light mist in the wind,
Felt like sunshine by the blind,