Whatever be the meaning of that creed
Of the poke-bonnet and the ample brim,
Still in the shoes of truth the Quakers tread,
When they denounce our wars: forget the prim
Staid aspect of these worthy gentlemen,
While purely, honestly, for peace they plead;
Nor think it shame to propagate the seed
Sown by the sober hands of William Penn;
Perchance—when to that Northern court they went,
They left some saddening thoughts of death and war;
And can we think their words were idly spent,
If that sweet message of the younger Czar

Lovely kind, and kindly loving,
Such a mind were worth the moving;
Truly fair, and fairly true—
Where are all these, but in you?

Wisely kind, and kindly wise;
Blessëd life, where such love lies!
Wise, and kind, and fair, and true—
Lovely live all these in you.

Sweetly dear, and dearly sweet;
Blessëd, where these blessings meet!
Sweet, fair, wise, kind, blessëd, true—
Blessëd be all these in you!

PART I.

Nadab and Abihu.

“A WAY , or e'er the Lord break forth!
 The pure ethereal air
Cannot abide the spark of earth,
 'Twill lighten and not spare.”

“Nay, but we know our call divine,
 We feel our hearts sincere;
What boots it where we light our shrine,
 If bright it blaze and clear?”

God of the unconsuming fire,
 On Horeb seen of old,
Stay, Jealous One, Thy burning ire . . . .
 It may not be controlled!

The Lord breaks out, the unworthy die;
 Lo! on the cedar floor

Thou lowest scoundrel of the scoundrel kind,
Extract of all the dregs of all mankind. . . .
I'll make thy dunghill reputation s—k,
Write thee to death with thy own pens and ink.

I

Clear me with this master music
when the coryphee skips on the oak floor
and the clouds depress me like the lower keys.
This drama sets the clocks of epigram.

The grave salons with lines of peridot
in the grave interior and cairngorm pomp
attest refinements of the clavichord.

The pieces are the will of shadows
and the person in the polished doorway
feels the dark mask of his chamber sentiments.

These are the privacies behind the mask
but they are not the manners of a boy

I love to tell the story Of unseen things above,
Of Jesus and his glory, Of Jesus and his love.
I love to tell the story, Because I know 'tis true;
It satisfies my longings As nothing else can do.
I love to tell the story,
'Twill be my theme in glory
To tell the old, old story
Of Jesus and his love.

I love to tell the story; More wonderful it seems
Than all the golden fancies Of all our golden dreams.
I love to tell the story, It did so much for me;
And that is just the reason I tell it now to thee.

Boy, lead a cow to the northern village,
let's taste new wine.
My face is rosy with drink,
I'll return on cow-back in the moonlight.
Hurrah, I am a Fu Hsi tonight,
ancient glories at my fingertips.

Boy, bring my morning porridge,
much work to be done in the southern field.
Who will help me to work
my clumsy plowing?
Let it be, we can plow in peace
because of royal favor.

Boy, bring my sedge cape and bamboo hat,
it rains at the eastern torrent.
With a long fishing rod
and barbless hook I go.
Fishes, don't be startled!
I came here in high spirits.

Boy, gather your straw basket,
the sun sets on the western hills.
The fern that grew last night
may be already withered.
What should I eat in morning and evening
if there are no fiddleheads?