New Cyclopaedia of Poetical Illustrations: Adapted to Christian Teaching ...

Explained, illustrated, and searched so well The tender theme on which they chose to dwell,

That reaching home, The night, they said, is near,

We must not now be parted, sojourn here— The new acquaintance soon became a guest, And, made so welcome at their simple feast, He blessed the bread, but vanished at the word,

And left them both exclaiming, ""Twas the Lord!

Did not our hearts feel all He deigned to say! Did they not burn within us by the way?" Now theirs was converse, such as it behoves Man to maintain, and such as God approves; Their views, indeed, were indistinct and dim, But yet successful, being aimed at Him, Christ and His character their only scope, Their object, and their subject, and their hope,

They felt what it became them much to feel, And, wanting Him to loose the sacred seal, Found Him as prompt as their desire was true, To spread the new-born glories in their view. William Couper.

459. COMMUNION, Key to.

With what clear guile of gracious love enticed, I follow forward, as from room to room, Through doors that open into light or gloom,

To find and lose, and find again in Christ!

He stands and knocks, and bids me ope the door,

Without He stands, and asks to enter in : Why should He seek a shelter sad with sin? Will He but knock and ask, and nothing

more?

He knows what ways I take to shut my heart, And if He will He can Himself undo

My foolish fastenings, or by force break

through, Nor wait till I fulfil my needless part. But nay, He will not choose to enter so,He will not be my guest without consent, Nor though I say "Come in," is He content; I must arise and ope, or He will go.

He shall not go; I do arise and ope,"Come in, dear Lord, come in and sup with me,

Oh, blessed Guest, and let me sup with Thee,"

Where is the door? for in this dark I grope, And cannot find it soon enough; my hand, Shut hard, holds fast the one sure key I need,

And trembles, shaken with its eager heed; No other key will answer my demand.

The door between is some command undone, Obedience is the key that slides the bar, And lets Him in, who stands so near, so far; The doors are many, but the key is one.

Which_door, dear Lord? knock, speak, that I may know;

Hark, heart, He answers with His hand and voice-

O still small sign, I tremble and rejoice, Nor longer doubt which way my feet must go. Full lief and soon this door would open ton, If once my key might find the narrow slit Which, being so narrow, is so hard to hit— But lo! one little ray that glimmers through, Not spreading light, but lighting to the light

Now steady, hand, for good speed's sake be slow,

One straight right aim, a pulse of pressure,

How small, how great, the change from dark to bright!

Now He is here I seem no longer here!

This place of light is not my chamber dim, It is not He with me, but I with Him, And Host, not Guest, He breaks the bread of cheer.

I was borne onward at His greeting,-He Earthward had come, but heavenward I had gone;

Drawing Him hither, I was thither drawn, Scarce welcoming Him to hear Him welcome me!

I lie upon the bosom of my Lord,

And feel His heart, and time my heart

thereby ;

The tune so sweet I have no need to try, But rest and trust, and beat the perfect chord. A little while I lie upon His heart,

Feasting on love, and loving there to feast,
And then, once more, the shadows are in-
creased

Around me, and I feel my Lord depart.
Again alone, but in a farther place,

I sit with darkness, waiting for a sign;
Again I hear the same sweet plea divine,
And suit, outside, of hospitable grace.
This is His guile,-He makes me act the host
To shelter Hin, and lo! He shelters me;
Asking for alms, He summons me to be
A guest at banquets of the Holy Ghost.
So, on and on, through many an opening door
That gladly opens to the key I bring,
From brightening court to court of Christ,
my King,

Hope led, love fed, I journey evermore.
At last I trust these changing scenes will cease;
There is a court I hear where He abides;
No door beyond, that further glory hides.-
My Host at home, all change is changed to
William C. Wilkinson.

peace.

460. COMMUNION, Kinds of.

The wild woods are my chosen haunt, and there

I read a fairer tome, a richer page,

And floated as a spirit floats away,

Than pen of man has traced with characters | And free and rapid motion, it had life,
Of reason or of fancy. I become,
In the society of untaught things,
Drawn from my duller and my grosser sense,
And lifted in my longings, and I learn
How little there is great in the pursuit
Of riches, or of honor, how the mind,
Let in the channel of heroic thought
To flow in freedom onward, and pervade
The purer regions of philosophy,
And tasteful and impassioned poesy-
How mind alone is the true worth of man,
And that which raises him above the sense
Of meaner creatures, and permits a hope
Of unembodied being, in a high
And holy dwelling, lifted far above
The reach of tempest, with essential light
Encircled, and with fairest wings of love
O'ershadowed, the reward and resting-place
Of such as hold their journey patiently,
Nor pause nor faint upon their weary way.

And wandered gayly on from flower to
flower,

And was so light and so ethereal, man
Selected it the symbol of the soul,

And its free flight through ether, on a wing
That, moving through eternity, will ever
Be active and unwearied, and as bright
In its unruffled plumage, after years
Have gathered into ages, and have gone
Beyond the eldest memory of time.

The recollection of one upward hour
Hath more in it to tranquillize and cheer
The darkness of despondency, than years
Of gayety and pleasure. Then, alone
We wander not in solitude, but find
Friends in all things around us, for the heart
Sinks not, and in its sinking bends the mind
From its true lofty region, where it lives
Rejoicing in bright energy; and so
All things are open to the searching eye
Of an unclouded intellect, and bring
Their several treasures to it, and unfold
Their fabric to its scrutiny. All life,
And all inferior orders, in the waste
Of being spread before us, are to him
Who lives in meditation, and the search
Of wisdom and of beauty, open books,
Wherein he reads the Godhead, and the ways
He works through His creation, and the links
That fasten us to all things, with a sense
Of fellowship and a feeling, so that we
Look not upon a cloud, or falling leaf,
Or flower new blown, or human face divine,
But we have caught new life, and wider
thrown

The door of reason open, and have stored
In memory's secret chamber, for dark years
Of age and weariness, the food of thought,
And thus extended mind, and made it young,
When the thin hair turns gray, and feeling

dies.

But this communion with inferior things
Shall leave a void behind it, and we seek
The kindred thoughts of other men, and
bend

Attentive o'er their written souls, wherein
We see their better moments, when they cast
The slough of earth aside, and tried a flight
On an ascending pinion, and renewed
Their purer being, as the insect bursts
The walls that bound it in its second state,-
It might be a gilded prison-house,
But yet it was a prison: when its wings
Unfolded, and it knew the bliss of air,

But yet the pen of Genius cannot cheer
And heighten, like the spirit-speaking eye;
And so we seek the living, and we find
That there are spirits that commune with ours,
As if they were our kindred, and were formed
In the same mould; and when we meet with

them,

We cling with childlike fondness, as if life
Had not a charm without them, and the sky
With its ethereal beauty, and the earth
Flowering or fading, and the fairest flow
Of pure and tranquil waters, and the words
Of the departed with their might of thought,
Could be to us no solace, and have power
To lend no high conception, nor subdue
The spirit unto meekness; so we lean
On an accordant bosom, and we love
The beating of a heart that beats as ours,
The speaking of an eye that tells us thoughts
Which harmonize with what we feel, and all
The light of beauty, passion, tenderness,
And purity, and love of great, and fair,
And fitly fashioned things, until we deem
A sole existence is a wilderness,
That yieldeth only terror, and a curse.
James Gates Percival.

461. COMPANIONS, Choice of.
Not with the light and vain,

The man of idle feet and wanton eyes;
Not with the world's gay, ever-smiling train;
My lot be with the grave and wise.

Not with the trifler gay,

To whom life seems but sunshine on the
wave;

Not with the empty idler of the day;
My lot be with the wise and grave.

Not with the jesting fool,

Who knows not what to sober truth is due,
Whose words fly out without or aim or rule!
My lot be with the wise and true.
Not with the man of dreams,
In whose bright words no truth nor wisdom
Dazzling the fervent youth with mystic
gleams;

My lot be with the simply wise.
With them I'd walk each day,

[lics,

[learn

From them time's solemn lessons would I That false from true, and true from false I

462. COMPANIONS Gone.

'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming alone:
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud, is nigh
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh!

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!

To pine on the stem;

Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them!
Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o'er the bed

Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown.
O, who would inhabit

This bleak world alone!
Thomas Moore.

463. COMPANY, Choice of.

Some love the glow of outward show, Some love mere wealth and try to win it; The house to me may lowly be,

If I but like the people in it. What's all the gold that glitters cold, When linked to hard or haughty feeling? Whate'er we're told, the nobler gold

Is truth of heart and manly dealing! Then let them seek whose minds are weak, Mere fashion's smile, and try to win it; The house to me may lowly be,

If I but like the people in it!
Charles Swain.

464. COMPANY, Vicious.

Avoid a villain as you would a brand,
Which, lighted, burns, extinguished, smuts

the hand.

Oriental.

465. COMPENSATION, Law of The poor man counteth not the cost at which such wealth hath been purchased; He would be on the mountain's top without the toil and travail of the climbing. But equity demandeth recompense; for highplace, calumny and care;

For state, comfortless splendor eating out the heart of home;

For warrior fame, dangers and death; for a name among the learned, a spirit overstrained,

For honor of all kinds, the goad of ambition; on every acquirement the tax of anxiety.

He that would change with another, must take the cup as it is mixed. Poverty, with largeness of heart; or a full purse, with a sordid spirit:

Wisdom, in an ailing body; or a common mind, with health:

Godliness, with man's scorn; or the welcome of the mighty, with guilt;

Beauty, with a fickle heart; or plainness of face, with affection.

For so hath Providence determined, that a man shall not easily discover Unmingled good or evil, to quicken his envy or abhorrence.

A bold man or a fool must he be, who would change his lot with another.

It were a fearful bargain, and mercy hath lovingly refused it. M. F. Tupper.

466. COMPENSATION, Moral.

Just, and strong, and opportune is the moral rule of God;

Ripe in its times, firm in its judgments, equal in the measure of its gifts. Yet men, scanning the surface, count the wicked happy,

Nor heed the compensating peace, which gladdeneth the good in his afflictions. They see not the frightful dreams that crowd a bad man's pillow,

Like wreathed adders crawling round his midnight conscience;

They hear not the terrible suggestions that knock at the portal of his will, Provoking to wipe away from life the one weak witness of the deed;

They know not the torturing suspicions that sting his panting breast,

When the clear eye of penetration quietly Likewise of the good what know they? the readeth off the truth.

memories bringing pleasure, Shrined in the heart of the benevolent and glistening from his eye.

The calm, self-justifying reason that estab lisheth the upright in his purpose; The warm and gushing bliss that floodeth all the thoughts of the religious. M. F. Tupper.

467. COMPENSATION Required. Nothing comes free-cost here. Jove will not

let

Sad that the summer
Of life should be spent
In blighting the roses
For happiness sent; .
Sad that affection

So often should grieve
Over natures that seem
Only born to deceive!
Charles Swain.

469. COMPLAINT, Groundless.

I think we are too ready with complaint
In this fair world of God's. Had we no
hope

Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope
Of yon gray bank of sky, we might be faint
To muse upon eternity's constraint
Round our aspirant souls. But if the scope
Must widen early, is it well to droop
For a few days consumed in loss and taint?
O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted,
And, like a cheerful traveller, take the road,
Singing beside the hedge. What if the
bread

Be bitter in the inn, and thou unshod
To meet the flints?-At least it may be said,
'Because the way is short, I thank Thee,
God!"
E. B. Browning.

470. COMPLAINT, Lesson of.

A pilgrim, bound to Mecca, quite away his sandals wore,

And on the desert's blistering sand his feet grew very sore.

"To let me suffer thus, great Allah, is not kind nor just,

While in his service I confront the painful heat and dust,"

He murmured in complaining tone; and in this temper came

To where, around the Caaba, pilgrims knelt of every name:

And there he saw, while pity and remorse his bosom beat,

A pilgrim who not only wanted shoes, but feet. Oriental, tr. by W. R. Alger.

471. COMPLAINT, Loss by.

To tell thy mis'ries will no comfort breed; Men help thee most that think thou hast no need;

But if the world once thy misfortunes know, Thou soon shalt lose a friend and find a foe. Thomas Randolph.

472. COMPLIMENTS, True.
Throughout the world if it were sought,
Fair words enough a man shall find;
They be good cheap, they cost right nought,
Their substance is but only wind;

But well to say and so to mean,
That sweet accord is seldom seen.
Sir Thomas Wyatt.

473. CONCEIT, Appearance of.

There are a sort of men, whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond;
And do a wilful stillness entertain,

With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, "I am Sir Oracle,
And, when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!"
I do know of these,

That therefore only are reputed wise,
For saying nothing; who, I am very sure,
If they should speak, would almost damn
those ears,

Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. Shakespeare.

474. CONCENTRATION, Final.

Many things having full reference
To one consent, may work contrariously;
As many arrows, loosed several ways,
Fly to one mark;

As many several ways meet in one town;
As many fresh streams run in one self sea;
As many lines close in the dial's centre;
So many a thousand actions, once afoot,
End in one purpose, and be all well borne
Without defeat.
Shakespeare.

475. CONDEMNATION, Record of.
And since in God's recording book
Our sins are written, every one,
The crime, the wrath, the wandering look,
The good we knew and left undone,-
Lord, ere the last dread trump be heard,
And ere before Thy face we stand,
Look Thou on each accusing word,
And blot it with Thy bleeding hand.
C. F. Alexander.

476. CONFESSION, Humble.
God of mercy, God of grace,
Hear our sad repentant songs;
O restore Thy suppliant race,
Thou to whom our praise belongs.

Deep regret for follies past,

Talents wasted, time misspent,
Hearts debased by worldly cares,
Thankless for the blessings lent.
These and every secret fault,
Filled with grief and shame, we own,
Humbled at Thy feet we lie,

Seeking pardon from Thy throne.
J. Taylor.

477. CONFESSION, Romish.

A parent ask'd a Priest his boy to bless, Who forthwith charged him-he must first confess.

"Well," said the boy, "suppose, sir, I am

willing,

What is your charge?" "To you 'tis but a shilling!"

"Must all men pay, and all men make confession?"

"Yes, every man of Catholic profession." "And who do you confess to?" "Why,

the Dean."

"And do the Deans confess?" "Yes, boy they do,

Confess to Bishops, and pay smartly too!"

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best;

God is able to forgive, and always willing: To Him I shall confess, and save my shilling."

478. CONFIDENCE, Christian.

I know not if the dark or bright
Shall be my lot;

If that wherein my soul delight
Be best or not.

It may be mine to drag for years
Toil's heavy chain;

Or day and night my meat be tears
On bed of pain.

Dear faces may surround my hearth
With smiles and glee;

Or I may dwell alone, and mirth
Be strange to me.

My bark is wafted to the strand
By breath divine,

And on the helm there rests a hand
Other than mine.

One who has known in storms to sail
I have on board;

Above the raging of the gale
I hear my Lord.

He holds me with the billow's might-
I shall not fall;

If sharp, 'tis short; if long, 'tis light;
He tempers all.

Safe to the land-safe to the land,
The end is this:

And then with Him go hand in hand
Far into bliss.

Dean of Canterbury.
479. CONFIDENCE, Comforting.
I know that my Redeemer lives;
What comfort this sweet sentence gives!
He lives, He lives, who once was dead,
He lives, my ever-living Head!

He lives triumphant from the grave;
He lives eternally to save;
He lives all glorious in the sky;
He lives exalted there on high.

He lives to bless me with His love;
He lives to plead for me above;
He lives my hungry soul to feed;
He lives to help in time of need.
He lives to grant me rich supply;
He lives to guide me with His eye;

He lives to comfort me when faint;
He lives to hear my soul's complaint.

He lives to silence all my fears;
He lives to stoop and wipe my tears;
He lives to calm my troubled heart;
He lives all blessings to impart.

He lives, my kind, wise, heavenly Friend;
He lives and loves me to the end;
He lives, and while He lives I'll sing,
He lives, my Prophet, Priest, and King.

He lives, and grants me daily breath;
He lives, and I shall conquer death;
He lives my mansion to prepare ;
He lives to bring me safely there.

He lives, all glory to His Name;
He lives, my Jesus, still the same;
Oh, the sweet joy this sentence gives,
I know that my Redeemer lives.

Samuel Medley.

480. CONSCIENCE, Accusations of.

It is a dang'rous thing; It makes a man a coward; a man Cannot steal but it accuseth him; a man Cannot swear, but it checks him. 'Tis a blushing shame-fac'd spirit, that Mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills One full of obstacles. It made me once Restore a purse of gold, that by chance I Found. It beggars any man that keeps it. It is turned out of towns and cities for A dang'rous thing; and every man that means To live well, endeavors to trust himself, And live without it. Shakespeare.

481. CONSCIENCE, Angry.

No; 'tis the tale which angry conscience tells,
When she with more than tragic horror swells
Each circumstance of guilt; when stern, but
true,

She brings bad actions forth into review,
And, like the dread handwriting on the wall,
Bids late remorse awake at reason's call;
Armed at all points, bids scorpion vengeance

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