Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/477

Rh Thou well canst spare a love of Thee
 * Which ends in hate of man.

Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord,
 * What may Thy service be?—

Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word,
 * But simply following Thee.

We bring no ghastly holocaust,
 * We pile no graven stone;

He serves thee best who loveth most
 * His brothers and Thy own.

Thy litanies, sweet offices
 * Of love and gratitude;

Thy sacramental liturgies
 * The joy of doing good.

In vain shall waves of incense drift
 * The vaulted nave around,

In vain the minster turret lift
 * Its brazen weights of sound.

The heart must ring Thy Christmas bells,
 * Thy inward altars raise;

Its faith and hope Thy canticles,
 * And its obedience praise!

elder folks shook hands at last, Down seat by seat the signal passed. To simple ways like ours unused, Half solemnized and half amused, With long-drawn breath and shrug, my guest His sense of glad relief expressed. Outside, the hills lay warm in sun; The cattle in the meadow-run Stood half-leg deep; a single bird The green repose above us stirred. “What part or lot have you,” he said, “In these dull rites of drowsy-head? Is silence worship? Seek it where It soothes with dreams the summer air, Not in this close and rude-benched hall, But where soft lights and shadows fall, And all the slow, sleep-walking hours Glide soundless over grass and flowers! From time and place and form apart, Its holy ground the human heart, Nor ritual-bound nor templeward Walks the free spirit of the Lord! Our common Master did not pen His followers up from other men; His service liberty indeed, He built no church, He framed no creed; But while the saintly Pharisee Made broader his phylactery, As from the synagogue was seen The dusty-sandalled Nazarene Through ripening cornfields lead the way Upon the awful Sabbath day, His sermons were the healthful talk That shorter made the mountain-walk, His wayside texts were flowers and birds, Where mingled with His gracious words The rustle of the tamarisk-tree And ripple-wash of Galilee.”

“Thy words are well, O friend,” I said; “Unmeasured and unlimited, With noiseless slide of stone to stone, The mystic Church of God has grown. Invisible arid silent stands The temple never made with hands, Unheard the voices still and small Of its unseen confessional. He needs no special place of prayer Whose hearing ear is everywhere; He brings not back the childish days That ringed the earth with stones of praise, Roofed Karnak’s hall of gods, and laid The plinths of Philæ’s colonnade. Still less He owns the selfish good And sickly growth of solitude,— The worthless grace that, out of sight, Flowers in the desert anchorite; Dissevered from the suffering whole, Love hath no power to save a soul. Not out of Self, the origin And native air and soil of sin, The living waters spring and flow, The trees with leaves of healing grow.

“Dream not, O friend, because I seek This quiet shelter twice a week, I better deem its pine-laid floor