Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/489

Rh Who dares to curse the hands that bless
 * Shall know of sin the deadliest cost;
 * The patience of the heavens is lost

Beholding man’s unthankfulness.

For he who breaks all laws may still
 * In Sivam’s mercy be forgiven;
 * But none cane save, in earth or heaven,

The wretch who answers good with ill.

Benedictine Echard
 * Sat by the wayside well,

Where Marsberg sees the bridal
 * Of the Sarre and the Moselle.

Fair with its sloping vineyards
 * And tawny chestnut bloom,

The happy vale Ausonius sung
 * For holy Treves made room.

On the shrine Helena builded
 * To keep the Christ coat well,

On minster tower and kloster cross,
 * The westering sunshine fell.

There, where the rock-hewn circles
 * O’erlooked the Roman’s game,

The veil of sleep fell on him,
 * And his thought a dream became.

He felt the heart of silence
 * Throb with a soundless word,

And by the inward ear alone
 * A spirit’s voice he heard.

And the spoken word seemed written
 * On air and wave and sod,

And the bending walls of sapphire
 * Blazed with the thought of God:

What lack I, O my children?
 * All things are in my hand;

The vast earth and the awful stars
 * I hold as grains of sand.

Need I your alms? The silver
 * And gold are mine alone;

The gifts ye bring before me
 * Were evermore my own.

Heed I the noise of viols,
 * Your pomp of masque and show?

Have I not dawns and sunsets?
 * Have I not winds that blow?

Do I smell your gums of incense?
 * Is my ear with chantings fed?

Taste I your wine of worship,
 * Or eat your holy bread?

Of rank and name and honors
 * Am I vain as ye are vain?

What can Eternal Fulness
 * From your lip-service gain?

Ye make me not your debtor
 * Who serve yourselves alone;

Ye boast to me of homage
 * Whose gain is all your own.

For you I gave the prophets,
 * For you the Psalmist’s lay:

For you the law’s stone tables,
 * And holy book and day.

Ye change to weary burdens
 * The helps that should uplift;

Ye lose in form the spirit,
 * The Giver in the gift.

Who called ye to self-torment,
 * To fast and penance vain?

Dream ye Eternal Goodness
 * Has joy in mortal pain?

For the death in life of Nitria,
 * For your Chartreuse ever dumb,

What better is the neighbor,
 * Or happier the home?

Who counts his brother’s welfare
 * As sacred as his own,

And loves, forgives and pities,
 * He serveth me alone.

I note each gracious purpose,
 * Each kindly word and deed;

Are ye not all my children?
 * Shall not the Father heed?

No prayer for light and guidance
 * Is lost upon mine ear:

The child’s cry in the darkness
 * Shall not the Father hear?

I loathe your wrangling councils,
 * I tread upon your creeds;