aye; We only know that their barks no more May sail with us o'er life's stormy sea; And I sit and think, when the sunset's gold BY THE SHORE OF THE RIVER. CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH, a son of the distinguished Chief Justice of the United States Circuit Court, William Cranch, LL D., was born at Alexandria, Va., March 8, 1813, and after graduation at Columbian College, Washington, studied divinity, but eventually became a poet and an He lives in Cambridge, Mass., and is a frequent contributor to the best current periodicals. artist. They cross the stream, and are gone for That hides from our vision the gates of Silently came a black boat o'er the billows; Stealthily grated the keel on the sand; Rustling footsteps were heard through the willows: There the dark boatman stood waving his hand, Whispering, "I come, from the shadowy river; She who is dearest must leave thee forever! fore, NANCY A. W. P. WAKEFIELD. I shall one day stand by the water cold, And list for the sound of the boatman's oar; I shall watch for a gleam of the flapping Suns that were brightest and skies that were sail; bluest Wife and children and friends were around me; Labor and rest were as wings to my soul; Honor and love were the laurels that crowned me: Little I recked how the dark waters roll. Darkened and paled in the message he bore. Down to the river, the cold, grim river, Yet not in visions of grief have I wandered; This hymn was written twelve years before the author became a Roman Catholic, when he was on a voyage on the Mediterranean. He had just been overtaken by illness, and his soul was passing through remarkable experiences whilst he watched with deep interest the religious movements going on in England. LEAD, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, Lead thou me on; The night is dark, and I am far from home; Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou I loved to choose and see my path; but now I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years! So long thy power has blest me, sure it still Will lead me on O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone, And with the morn those angel-faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile! JOHN HENRY NEWMAN. AT SEA, June 16, 1833. This beautiful lyric was written in 1824, and, in an abridged and somewhat altered form, commencing, "I would not live alway, I ask not to stay" (verse 2), it was adopted, without the agency of the author. by a Commission of the Protestant Episcopal Church to prepare an Appendix of Hymns to the Book of Common Prayer. From this it passed into many collections, and has justly become one of the most popular hymns in all American churches. We give it here as finally revised by the author in 1859, although the abridged form of the Book of Common Prayer will probably always retain its hold upon the Christian public. It was not written on an occasion of private grief. I WOULD not live alway - live alway below! Oh no, I'll not linger when bidden to go: The days of our pilgrimage granted us here Are enough for life's woes, full enough for its cheer: Would I shrink from the path which the prophets of God, Apostles, and martyrs, so joyfully trod? roam, While brethren and friends are all hastening home? I would not live alway- I ask not to stay Where storm after storm rises dark o'er the way; Where seeking for rest we but hover around, Like the patriarch's bird, and no resting is found; Where Hope, when she paints her gay bow in the air, Leaves its brilliance to fade in the night of despair, And Joy's fleeting angel ne'er sheds a glad ray, Save the gleam of the plumage that bears him away. I would not live alway- thus fettered by sin, Een the rapture of pardon is mingled with fears, And the cup of thanksgiving with penitent tears: The festival trump calls for jubilant songs, But my spirit her own miserere prolongs. I would not live alway-no, welcome the tomb! Since Jesus hath lain there, I dread not its gloom; Where he deigned to sleep, I'll too bow my head, All peaceful to slumber on that hallowed bed. Then the glorious daybreak, to follow that night, The orient gleam of the angels of light, Who, who would live alway-away from his Away from yon heaven, that blissful abode Where the rivers of pleasure flow o'er the bright plains, The song-enriched nightingale, The hen her tiny flock enfolds, To depths of grassy food. The brawling brook adown the plain With myrtle-shadows deep; The never-weary tribe of bees Now here, now there, in blossoming trees Find booty far and near; The sturdy juices of the vine For sweetness and for strength combine The wheat lifts rank its ears of gold And shall I, can I, dumb remain ? To God, who loves us best. Streaming from out my breast. Methinks, if here thou art so fair, To poor earth's sons be given, And golden tower of heaven! What lofty pleasure, glory bright, How shall the chorus ring, Oh, were I there! Oh that, thine own, But while I bear life's burden still, Help now, and on my spirit pour I may, through summer of thy grace, Choose me to bloom in Paradise, Let soul and body thrive; In earth and heaven, alive. PAUL GERHARDT, 1651. Translated from the German by JAMES WADDELL ALEXANDER, D. D., 1849. |