I know what say the fathers wise,--
The Book itself before me lies,--
Old Chrysostom, best Augustine,
And he who blent both in his line,
The younger Golden Lips or mines,
Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines.
His words are music in my ear,
I see his cowled portrait dear;
And yet, for all his faith could see,
I would not the good bishop be.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
* * * * *
ON AN INFANT
WHICH DIED BEFORE BAPTISM.
"Be, rather than be called, a child of God,"
Death whispered!--with assenting nod,
Its head upon its mother's breast,
The baby bowed, without demur--
Of the kingdom of the Blest
Possessor, not inheritor.
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
* * * * *
WHAT WAS HIS CREED?
"Religion relates to life, and the life of religion is to do
good."--SWEDENBORG.
He left a load of anthracite
In front of a poor woman's door.
When the deep snow, frozen and white,
Wrapped street and square, mountain and moor.
That was his deed.
He did it well.
"What was his creed?"
I cannot tell.
Blessed "in his basket and his store,"
In sitting down and rising up;
When more he got, he gave the more,
Withholding not the crust and cup.
He took the lead
In each good task.
"What was his creed?"
I did not ask.
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