Whom adore the seraphim Aye with love eternal burning; To their font of honor turning, Oh how beautiful that region! Light and peace from end to end! Keep the laws of charity, Bound in firmest unity; Labor finds them not, nor care, Ignorance can ne'er perplex, Nothing tempt them, nothing vex; SIR WALTER RALEIGH'S HYMN. FEW of the hymns of the Elizabethan era survive, though the Ambrosian Midnight Hymn, "Hark, 't is the Midnight Cry," and the hymns of St. Bernard, and Bernard of Cluny, are still tones in the church, and the religious poetry of Sir Walter Raleigh comes down to us associated with the history of his brilliant, though sadly eclipsed career. The following poem has some fine lines in the quaint English style of the period, and was com posed by Sir Walter Raleigh during his first imprisonment: MY PILGRIMAGE. GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon, My gown of glory, hope's true gage— No cause deferred, no vain-spent journey, 'Gainst our souls black verdicts give, Be thou my speaker, taintless Pleader, To him who made heaven, earth and sea. Blood must be my body's balmer, While my soul, like faithful palmer, Over the silver mountains Where spring the nectar fountains, There will I kiss the bowl of bliss, Upon every milken hill; My soul will be a-dry before, But after that will thirst no more Fifteen years after the composition of this hymn, the brilliant courtier found himself again betrayed by ambition, and again within the prison walls. On the night before his death he wrote the following lines in his Bible, which he left in the little room over the gatehouse, and which were much prized in their day: "Even such is time, that takes on trust Our youth, our joy, and all we have, But from this earth, this grave, this dust, GERHARDT'S HYMN OF TRUST. AMONG the sweet strains of poetry which Schiller learned at his mother's knee, were the hymns of that much enduring Lutheran preacher, Paul Gerhardt. The young poet loved them; they filled his mind with spiritual images, and lent an harmonious religious influence to his unformed genius. The influence was never lost: it lingered like rays of distant splendor amid the speculative mysteries that darkened his declining years, and haunted his dreams, when he saw the sun going down on Weimar, beautiful Weimar, for the last time. Gerhardt was a great sufferer in the cause of reformed faith, but his sufferings were in a measure compensated by the supports of human love. He was born in Saxony. He became a Christian pastor at the close of the Thirty Years' War, first at a small village called Mittenwalde, and subsequently at Berlin. In 1666, he was deposed from his spiritual office in Berlin on account of his firm adherence to the Lutheran doctrines. He received the reverse submissively, and said with characteristic loftiness of spirit, "I am willing to seal with my blood the evangelical truth, and offer my neck to the sword." Gerhardt had a lovely and amiable wife, whom he loved with more than ordinary devotion and tenderness. He himself was willing to endure evil speaking, hardship and trial, but it caused him severe pain to think that the burdens of his lot must fall upon her. A story is told of these altered days, which, although some recent writers have sought to prove it untrustworthy, pious Germans still love to repeat. He had been ordered to quit the country on account of the difference between his religious sentiments and those of the king. He went in reduced circumstances, with his wife travelling on foot. One night they came to a village inn. His wife, weary with the journey, and disheartened at her friendless situation, sat down and began to weep. Behind her were the happy scenes of her youth; before her was a land of strangers. The poet tried to comfort her, but the tears would flow. He reminded her of the verse in the Bible: "Commit thy way unto the Lord, trust also in him, and he will bring it to pass." "God will provide," he said. "Commit all of your sorrows into his hands." There was a garden near at hand, and in the garden an arbor. The poet left his weeping wife and went to the arbor for prayer. It was a lovely night in the rosy time of the year. The air was temperate, the sky serene; the moon shimmered on the groves and was glassed on the waters. The poet's mind was in harmony with nature; he felt a holy calm within, a perfect reliance on God. He began to express his thoughts in verse: COMMIT thou all thy griefs And ways into His hands; To his sure trust and tender care Who earth and heaven commands; Thou on the Lord rely, So, safe, shalt thou go on; Fix on his work thy steadfast eye, So shall thy work be done. No profit canst thou gain By self-consuming care; To him commend thy cause-his ear Give to the winds thy fears; Hope, and be undismayed; God hears thy sighs and counts thy tears, He shall lift up thy head. Through waves and clouds and storms He gently clears thy way; Wait thou his time, so shall this night Soon end in joyous day. |