IPS 3529 S45 M3 1921 [Copy 1 m?GiBw? go^™™. The —MASTER- FISHERMAN Class IS^y^Z^ COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. The Master Fisherman BY Ernest Earle Osgood 1921 THE STRATFORD CO., Publishers BOSTON Copyright, 1922 The STRATFORD CO., Publishers Boston, Mass. The Alpine Press, Boston, Mass., U. S. A. JAN - ( 3 192? ^C!.A653669 ©education DO YOU REMEMBER THE OLD ART CLUB OP RICHMOND AND WHAT DELIGHTFUL TIMES WE USED TO HAVE THERE TOGETHER? I WOULD LIKE TO DEDICATE THE FOLLOWING LINES IN GRATITUDE TO ITS MEMORY. Wf)t &utf)or Foreword THE bond between religion and poetry is im- memorial. Hardly had language been in- vented, anthropology tells us, before it was put to rhythmic uses; and these earliest rhythms were not only employed in, but directly born of, the celebrations and festivals of worship. "When we first catch sight of man, dimly emerging from the prehistoric mist, the adorational song is firmly established among his scanty posses- sions. To our modern sense, indeed, those primi- tive dithyrambs might suggest little of either religion or poetry; yet they were both, and they stand to prove, as I should suppose, an intuitive recognition of a relation between the two forms of ideal beauty — a relation so close in some directions as to become, in truth, a partial identity. However, lest that stretches a doubt- ful "little learning" too far, we may at least view this ancient bond as the inescapable tie between matter and manner, the instinctive ful- fillment of meaning in form. The coarsest cement does for a street to walk upon, but the FOREWORD sculptor turns naturally to marble ; and beauti- ful thought will tend to find a beautiful expres- sion, as water seeks its own level. Since reli- gious feeling is the most idealistic of the long- ings of men, and — with love, with which again it has so close a connection — the most deeply charged with emotion, it has inevitably and per- sistently flowered in poetry, the most passion- ate and beautiful of literary forms. I think the records of our own religion, like the history of poetry, fully support these simple reflections. It would not indeed do to say that no man has a great faculty for God without being in some degree a poet; yet the union of gifts is frequent. In the oldest literature that is familiar to most of our readers, the Old Testa- ment, lyrical passages of great beauty abound. The Book of Psalms, which will come first to everyone's mind, is the true forerunner of the hymn-book; and Psalms is a volume of poems in precisely the contemporary sense. There was a time, I remember, when this thought was a little disconcerting to me; having learned to think of the Psalms purely and unimaginatively as "religion," as the Bible, I was as a boy slightly disturbed to hear them spoken of as ii FOREWORD "poetry," which seemed somehow to make them at once secular and fabulous. The point of view has no merit for me now. I rejoice in the fine recurring phrase, "the beauty of holi- ness," where the pure theologian would have been concerned only with rectitude or duty; and it is clear that David's genius for adoration has only been enriched, vastly enriched for us as well as for himself, by his great power of song. And the Psalmist, of course, has but linked himself with a mighty tradition — intui- tive, literary and religious at once — which even then had long been lucidly defined and which after him was to have many holy exemplars, in- cluding one more illustrious than David. While the pure lyrical form is unsuited to the teacher, assuredly it is by no chance that the Master Fisherman, scattering his sayings freely to all who stayed to listen, left to literature many passages which are of the true essence of poetry. Having a lovely teaching, he gave it a form of surpassing loveliness. The fact seems to me sig- nificant and, for our present purposes, profound. Masses of people, I take it, are not stirred by the cold abstractions of truth, however personal to their lives and dreams, and the incalculable iii FOREWORD dominion that the Founder of our religion has exercised in the kingdom of the heart, while temporal empires have risen and fallen, has surely been due in some part to the moving beauty of his recorded sayings. Christ was himself the first Christian poet; and here, too, he has had many followers among the faithful. To this immemorial tradition, and to the great body of Christian song, the little volume before us joins itself in the simplest fashion. Embarking upon the "lyric Galilee" — to bor- row his own apt phrase — the new singer ex- hibits, first and foremost, a winning absence of all pretentiousness. His opening lines are in themselves an express disclaimer; and this modesty — not the universal characteristic of poets, perhaps — is here a continuing note, genuine and deep, and carrying its own charm. It is the same temper, too, which discloses itself in the general simplicity of design and material : though this indeed is a simplicity which is conscious of itself, which allows full scope of vigor and beauty of expression and which is, in a word, of the sort that so often marks authentic poesy. Thus, in the title poem, "The Master Fisherman, ' ' we find this natural unpretentious- iv FOREWORD ness shot through with true passion, resulting in singing lines of pure simplicity — Master, dost thou go fishing with me Out on the waters of Galilee — Or take a verse such as this, from the Epilogue, where music is wrought from the commonest and most familiar words : The cattle on a thousand hills, The gold within the mine, The pearl hid in the ocean's depth, All, all, Lord, are thine. Examples could be multiplied, for the note, as I say, is characteristic. At the same time this is no harp with but a single string; and the poet has, in fact, succeeded in covering, in a small compass, a quite considerable range. Relatively few in number as are the verses collected here, we find them running in mood and thesis from the lightness of ''Practical Advice to a Friend" to the controlled intensity of "Un Homme Qu'est II!" — from the quiet reflectiveness of "Prophet and Priest" to the narrative idealism of ' ' Gottlieb ; ' ' from the evangelical exhorta- tion of ' ■ The Seventy ' ' to the self-searching cry of ''The Soul's Catechism" — FOREWORD Have you walked with God by the seashore ? Have you walked with Him in the grove ? Have you walked with Him through the vale of tears And the transfigured mount of His love? And this welcome variety of mood, it should be said, is amply carried out and objectified in the varied metrification here exhibited. Far from clinging to the simple quatrain or couplet, the singer has touched "the stops of various quills." In the lines from the proposed drama, "Julian the Apostate," he has successfully ex- perimented with the stately and sonorous ca- dence; in "A Hymn" — one of the best poems in the book in my opinion — he has used a short- line rhymed form, involving many difficulties, with much effectiveness; in "Un Homme" again he has called upon a rapid free-verse permitting him to rise easily to a ringing climax — "These dead, these dead shall not have died in vain. They are not dead ! These, these are they that live, were dead, And now, behold, they are alive Forevermore ! Amen ! However, the reader, in making the acquaint- ance of these songs and hymns for himself, will vi FOREWORD soon discover that Mr. Osgood, whatever his subject or his lyrical form, seldom strays from the essential source of his inspiration, which lies, as I have said, firmly embedded in the great orthodox tradition. He may strike his harp to many a note, but the note of doubt, of pessimism or negation, is never among them. With the light of an unwavering faith, with a vision big enough to consider the cosmos ("that ocean of Spirit that encircles the systems about"), with a particularity which yet can draw a lesson from the morning-glory and the cornstalk, with vigor and clarity and with a genuine devotional ecstasy, the poet has voiced afresh the common longings of the mighty Christian family. Nor can it be doubted that songs so felt and sung will always have a power over the hearts of the sons of men. HENRY SYDNOR HARRISON. vn Contents Aspiration . Compensation Todes-Braut Un Homme Qu 'est II? My Heart and Thine One Rainy Day . Practical Advice to A Friend Complaint of a Would-be Poet Prophet and Priest The Church Gates A Hymn .... Lines for a Proposed Drama Maecenas .... Gottlieb — A Christmas Idyll The Soul's Catechism . Lines "Written on the Fifty-sixth Anni versary of the Consecration of Emmanuel Church 1 2 3 6 9 10 13 14 16 17 18 23 26 32 37 38 CONTENTS Prologue and Epilogue to a Religious Pageant The Seventy Strength and Beauty . Environment The Master-Fisherman 41 43 45 46 47 Illustrations The Old Art Club . . . Frontispiece The Church Gates . . . Opp. Page 17 Emmanuel Church, Brook Hill, Va. Page 38 Aspiration I LOVE the heights I cannot reach, I love the truth I cannot preach, I love the song I cannot sing, I love the joy I cannot bring. For heights some foot persistent reached, For truth some prophet-soul has preached, For notes some minstrel-heart has raised And joy revealed, O God be praised ! Heights glacial though I may not scale, Dwelling within life's shadowed vale, Drinking from low-descending brook, Yet to the heights I still will look! N THE MASTER FISHERMAN Compensation FROM early youth the poet sang Until his white-haired age. His song was but the rhythmed truth, Which breathed through every page. Full cheerily he sang at noon, At eve and brightening morn ; He sang amid the motley crowd Of joyous and forlorn. Yet no one stopped to grasp his hand Or praise his lyric lays. Men quarreled still and women wept And children plied their plays. Heart-sore with grief, the poet died And sought the heavenly throng. But when he reached the streets of gold, An angel sang his song. [2] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Todes - Brau t THE day was ending. Shone the sun's last rays On pictured tapestries and gilded walls. Amid the radiant splendor, like a flower In luxury's rich soil, a fair young woman sat Upon a throne, wearing a crown bright-jeweled. Broad were the lands o 'er which her golden wand Of royalty extended. Softly came A youth of noble brow and gracious mien And knelt before her throne. "Oh, who art thou?" The young queen asked, as out to him she stretched Her sceptre, touching which he rose and ans- wered, "Over empires vastlier great than thine I rule. Far in the Shadow-land they lie, and, lo, My subjects number more by far than all [3] THE MASTER FISHERMAN The peoples of this earthly sphere. And now, Fair child, say, Wilt thou be my queen ? ' ' His words, So magnet-like, drew her pure soul to his, And from her heart's deep depths she ans- wered, "I Am thine." ' ' To-morrow, then, at sunset hour I will return to make thee mine for aye, ' ' He said, and vanished on the wings of night. Then through her capital the queen sent forth Her heralds, to proclaim a festal for The morrow at the royal palace-halls. Half -hour ere sunset glow came nobles, knights And ladies fair unto the bridal feast. And when the queen entered her stately halls Led by young children, who encarpeted Her feet with lilies white, the throng exclaimed, "She is the fairest lily of them all!" And when she climbed her flower-decked throne, all bowed The knee and cried, "0 may thy life bloom in The garden of Eternity ! ' ' [4] THE MASTER FISHERMAN But when The sun began to gild the western gates, A muffled stillness came o'er all, and the pale Queen's soul rose trembling, waiting for its lord To come. Still as the all-haloing sunset beams, Coming no man knew whence, the king approached, Ensplendored with his royal wedding robes. And when the throng beheld his godlike form, Then saw the fair pale waiting queen, bethought Each heart, "To-day true Nobleness doth wed Fair Beauty's self!" In accents soft he said, "I claim thee, Queen, for bride. Fate shall our priest Be, and Eternity our palace-halls." Her lips, soft as the petals of the tenderest flower, Unto his own he drew. But oh ! his lips Were icy cold. He vanished from their view. The Queen fell lifeless on the floor, and then O'er all descended dark sepulchral silence. Her soul forth with its lord had gone ; for, ]o, She was the Bride of— DEATH! [5] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Un Homme Qu'est II? a i What is a man?' a common soldier asked her one day on the beach." From "You No Longer Count/' by Rene Boylesve. I WHAT is a man ? — These myriad wounded hands, These countless mangled bodies, These limbless stumps — What is a man ? What is a man? — These shock-wrecked sensitive nerves, These gas-shelled writhing forms, These desecrated human shrines — What is a man? What is a man? -- Torn from his home at country's call, Thrust to the front at Duty's stern command, And there [6] THE MASTER FISHERMAN One microscopic victim in Earth's mighty hecatomb — What is a man ? II What is a man ? Like untombed Lazarus, These limbless ones, — called back to life, — Rearmed, shall till again the war-ploughed fields of France And make hell's desert blossom as the rose. What is a man ? These shell-shocked hosts, With nerves restrung and minds revisioned, Backward again shall hurl the tyrant hordes, Again send forth Freedom's un vanquished cry, 1 ' They shall not pass!" What is a man? Enriched by sacrificial blood, Freedom's fair flower brightly shall bloom again, And in the face of Earth 's each new-born babe, Taking large breaths in Liberty's pure air, The heroic features of the martyred dead Shall gleam with resurrected and engloried life. [7] THE MASTER FISHERMAN What is a man ? The earth made new by these, Freedom world-throned, Creative Peace restored, These dead, these dead shall not have died in vain. They are not dead ! These, these are they that live, were dead, And now, behold, they are alive Forevermore ! Amen ! [8] THE MASTER FISHERMAN My Heart and Thine MY heart and thine Doth Love entwine With cords no man can break. My love for thee, Thy love for me Hell's power nor earth's can shake. Though far from me, I am with thee In angel-faith's repose. Love spans all time, And finds each clime Where the Beloved goes. Thy trust in me And mine in thee Becalms Life's stressfulness. Love heals each pain, Gives bliss again. Earth's joys! can Heaven's be less? M THE MASTER FISHERMAN One Rainy Day A RAINY day ! a useless day ! Black clouds hide heaven's blue, And whelm my heart in depthless gloom. Ah me ! what shall I do ? There is an ancient sepulchre, Removed from haunts of care ; Old books, chairs, pictures here abound. I '11 climb the attic stair ! Lo, like a battlemented wall, Tall tiers of many a tome Frown down on my unarmored heart ; From gloom to gloom I come. I seat me in a broken chair Of ancient carved grace, And from the volumes' dusty backs The names I slowly trace. Old Baxter's "Saints," Law's "Serious Call, And Edwards' thundering word, [10] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Burton's Black Bile's "Anatomy" Shafts for my heart afford. Yet one old parchment back I spy, Whose titled gilt doth part Its clouds of ancient dust, and shines Upon my rain-beat heart. Upon this solemn wall of tomes I make a sudden breach, While for Old England's Sacred Songs Ail-eagerly I reach. Here in this lyric Galilee I sink my net and strive Some strengthening food for me to find And keep my soul alive. Lo, from these depths of rhythmic praise What soulful wealth I drew — So rich I feared my net would break, Shared not my neighbor, too. Of lands where Peace smile-crowned sits, Where roses aye endure, Where One who never changes reigns — "Thy God, thy life, thy cure," [«] THE MASTER FISHERMAN I read, and then of Praise to God 'Mid fertile fields and bare, For blessings rich, and joys withheld, If God's love still was there. I read of Stoic's chainless soul "With courage to endure," How God's own purpose ripens fast, "Unfolding every hour." I found again the cosmic peace 'Neath wormwood and the gall — Heaven-centred faith, Lord, that ' ' if I slip, Thou dost not fall." Then down to earth I came again, Armed for life 's battle-fray, Thankful for Hope 's hid waiting words I found that rainy day. ["] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Practical Advice to a Friend on Lending a Book O'ER the book you lent Days and nights I spent With interest ever enhancing. And I laughed and wept, My heart stopped and leapt At episodes so entrancing. On its style and strength You discoursed at length With such extravagant rages ! But next book, my friend, Ere you recommend, Remember to cut the pages. [i3] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Complaint of a Would-be Poet {Respectfully dedicated to the Editor's Waste- basket.) O EDITOR, Editor, Cruel, steel-hearted man of affairs ! I have sent to you my duly rhymed and rhymthed outpourings, And you have sent them back with that black, funereal, crepy message, 1 ' Thanks, but untimely, unavailable. ' ' Yes, the crepe you hung upon my heart 's fervent effusions Was black, cold, hopeless, dead. When one dies to this world in these new days of earth, The thoughtful undertaker covers the bell-button with a white fair-streaming ribbon, So friends may know that, while within Lies the dead, Yet there nutters outward on heaven's breezes The white-pure hope of Immortality, — the friend, Dead here, lives yonder there. [14] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Or else, palm leaves are hung at the front door, To show that though all 's death and defeat here, Victory and Life are beyond and above ! But you, unsensitive critic, send back My murdered poetizings Without one smallest ribbon of hope Or one scant palm leaflet of potential triumph. The poetic bark, launched upon seas of literary adventure, Is hurled back upon the shores of my expectant heart — A broken, a useless, a stranded thing — And the monster storm-billows thunder their cold notes diapasononic, * ' Thanks, but untimely, unavailable ! ' ' ['5] w THE MASTER FISHERMAN Prophet and Priest HAT is a prophet, say, and what a priest ? A prophet pioneers in virgin lands Of trnth. He knows God's Promised Land Awaits his willing feet ; he enters in, Partakes its luscious fruit, a portion bears To his impatient brethren, waiting there On Jordan 's farther marge. He sees the visions, And reveals to those whose eyes see not and hearts Are gross with earth. The priest those truths receives And of them makes a holy sacrament, To feed the sinful, starving souls of men. [16] o THE MASTER FISHERMAN The Church Gates CROSSES, pointing ever to the sky, To greet the hasting, thoughtless passerby ! To those with wordly pleasures onward driven, Ye one brief moment point the path to heaven: Prepare who pass between your outstretched arms To fervent join in prayers and hymns and Psalms, With thanks and praise God's earthly courts to' tread, With reverent hearts to eat the Living Bread. And thus, like rugged prophets of the soul, Ye point men ever to the Heavenly Goal. [ J 7] THE MASTER FISHERMAN A Hymn (Supposed to be sung by Christians on Good Friday, in a proposed drama to be entitled "Julian the Apostate.") ON a tree Though He be Nailed and crucified, In three days God shall raise Jesus glorified. 2 Soldiers jibe, Priests deride, ' ' Temple-builder, Lord, Leave Thy cross, Come to us, "We '11 believe Thy word. 3 Yet there fall Over all That confused din [18] THE MASTER FISHERMAN "Words sublime All-divine, " Father, heal their sin." 4 By His side Crucified Two thieves. One said thus : "Art indeed God's own breed? Save Thyself and us ! " 5 But one cries, "This man dies Pure and innocent. Silence, thief ! We receive Our just punishment. ' ' 6 Spake that one To God's Son Words ail-pleadingly, ' ' When Thou 'rt come To Thy home, Lord, remember me. ' ' [19] THE MASTER FISHERMAN 7 Then that thief Sweet relief Heard from lips divine, ' ' Lo, I say That to-day Paradise is thine!" 8 Standeth there Mary fair, Weeping for her child. What a dart Pierced thy heart, Holy Mother mild ! 9 To her cries Christ replies Oh ! how tenderly ! ' ' In loved John See thy son ; John, thy mother see. ' ' 10 With what groans — Suffering tones — [20] THE MASTER FISHERMAN From the tree accurst, Anguishing, Languishing, Hear Him cry, ' ' I thirst ' ' ! 11 From our Lord Then they heard Sorrow's agony. ' ' God above, King of love, Why f orsakest me?" 12 Cries God's Son, "All is done! Death is dead ! My soul, Father mine, I resign To Thy blest control." 13 Darkly fall Over all Piercing clouds of gloom, Rent the veil, [ 2I ] THE MASTER FISHERMAN And the pale Dead rise from the Tomb. 14 On a tree Though He be Nailed and crucified, In three days God shall raise Jesus glorified. [22] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Lines for a Proposed Drama, to be entitled "Julian the Apostate" (The following words are supposed to be spoken by- Julian, on entering Constantinople as Emperor, at the death of his cousin, the Emperor Constantius, which oc- curred December 11th, A. D., 361.) NO longer chained am I by modern creeds, No longer forced to press the garment's hem Of that rude Galilean Carpenter, — That peasant God, who at His crimsoned cross In bloated bombast bows the nations down. "What blasphemy ! Down Galilean Christ ! And up forevermore Olympian Zeus ! Lo, Saturn's golden age once more returns, And reigns again Religion's ancient grace, "While 'mid the temple's pillared loveliness Shall perfumed incense wafted be to heaven. Once more shall altars reek with hecatombs, Oblations rich again outpoured be, Devotion lift restrengthened hands to heaven, And gods with men shall deign anew to dwell. [23] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Once more the white-robed train shall offer up Their virgin beauty to heaven 's Virgin Queen. The gentle dryads shall encastled be In groves, and fair-limbed nymphs shall seek again All- joy fully their watery palace-halls. Eleusis' mystic rites shall be renewed, And bacchanals shall dance in frenzied grace. On Zion 's hilltop shall the springs be dried, While from Parnassus' heights shall rill again The rhythmic harmonies of heavenly song. Down Galilean ! Up Olympian ! Refrain by the Imperial Train. Down with the Staff of the Shepherd ! Up with the aegis of Zeus ! Falleth the cross of the Carpenter-God, When Jove lets his thunderbolts loose ! (The following lines are supposed to be uttered by the Emperor Julian, after he received a mortal wound, in his Persian campaign, before the walls of Ctesiphon, June 26th, A. D., 363.) Who is that white-robed Figure yonder there? He beareth in His hand a shepherd's staff. Nail-pierced is that hand. Those wondrous looks Of love condemn me more than sternest judge. THE MASTER FISHERMAN I, who would proudly bring the world again To thunder- wielding Zeus, am hurled to hell By that sweet-smiling face ! Thou hast triumphed, Thou lowly Nazarene ! (Throws dust into the air and falls dead.) [*S] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Maecenas (A Poem for Class Day, Bates College, 1892.) Scene : Palace of Maecenas, Esquiline Hill, Rome, Time: 8 B. C. Maecenas : My heart is chilled with gloom to-day. I would Horatius from his Sabine Farm were here, To melt this gloom with his own heart's fiery glow. (Enter Slave) Slave : My Lord, thy poet-friend, Horatins, stands Without. And shall I bid him enter ? Maecenas : Yes! 'Tis a welcome hour that from his country villa Sent him hither ! Go, bid him enter, haste ! (Exit Slave [*] THE MASTER FISHERMAN {Enter Horace) Maecenas : Welcome, heart 's friend ! Methought that thou wast out Of Rome to-day. Horace : And so I was this morn, But business brought me hither at an early hour. Thou seemest sad, my patron-friend, to-day. I would that I might drive thy gloom away. Maecenas : Yes, Horace, I am sad. Lo, I have sought Pleasure continually, yet have found none. Long have I wandered by light-hearted brook- lets, By murmuring rivers, thundering water-falls, Looked upon the jeweled stars above me, Lingered 'mid the smiling flowers around me, Sought the arena's bloody shows, the theatre's charms, And tried to drown my gloom in floods of wine. My heart is like the heart of Psyche. Lo, From shrine to shrine I pass, a comforting THE MASTER FISHERMAN Dear Love-god to behold, yet find him not. Girt round with pleasures, still I have no joy. Is Joy some distant palace, whose golden doors Will never ope to me ? 'Tis the sad thought Grim death brings an eternal nothingness That, like a chilling glacier, stiffly flows Over my heart's fair flowers and kills them all. Horace : Despair not, friend. thou, who Atlas-like Upheld 'st the mighty Roman Empire with Thy giant mind, hast nobler fate than this ! I once, as thou, was Epicurean, Then Stoic, now am neither Stoic nor An Epicure, but Stoic-Epicure. I hate the hollow-hearted Stoic creed, Which makes of life and beauty one great pyre On which to burn the soul in agony, Thinking the dross will sink to ashes, while The pure will rise to heaven 's court. Nor yet Doth Epicurus soothe alone my soul ; For he calls life one great gay banquet-hall, Nor lets the soul be solemn for a while. Neither is good enough for man alone. I 'd take the best of both and blend in one. THE MASTER FISHERMAN Maecenas : Well dost thou say, Horace. Thou dost have Simplicity. For it I first began To love thee. But these chilling pains that through My limbs rush whisper, Death — the eagle grim — Will soon swoop down and seize upon his prey. Oh ! What is Death ? Say, is there a Beyond ? Oh that thy loving heart might go with me Over death 's briery road and lead me on To an eternal home, and I, like thee, Might hope in gods and immortality ! Horace : And oh that I might lead thee to that hope ! Trust in the gods to give thee peace. We need heaven's spirit in our hearts to make Earth's beauties luminous. Our souls, bereft Of Deity, are like the spark, which soon Doth lose its radiance when sundered from The flame. But we, when joined to the Divine, Help light the darkness of a sorrowing world. Over the billowy seas of doubt I, too, Have sailed, I heard the Sirens ' luring voice THE MASTER FISHERMAN And would have been their victim, but, praise Jove! I heard Orpheus' diviner music. Then Their power was gone, and I was henceforth safe. Maecenas, there is an Immortality ! Once when I stood on Mediterranean's shore, Doubting if there be Immortality, I saw a heron from the water rise And higher soar till lost in distant sky. Then cried my heart, "0 bird, the soul's like thee ! It, too, shall rise out of earth 's ocean blue Into heaven 's airy blue and be forever part Of Deity ! " The warlike Marius 'Mid Punic ashes longs for distant Rome. And so our souls, unsatisfied, sit 'mid Life's ruined battlements, yet ever long To rise and mingle with the joys of heaven. Thou say'st thou canst not trust in gods. Dost thou Remember at Philippi, when the force Of Brutus fled before Octavius ' band, How I fled, leaving e'en my shield behind ? So flees he shieldless from life's battle-ground [30] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Who faith reposes not in gods above. Barren were Egypt if the sacred Nile Did not o 'erflow its banks and raise its crops To life. Barren the heart unless belief In Deity flow o'er it, watering The rootlets of its flowers and raising them To beauty and to hope. To thee, my friend, The gods such blessed comfort long to send. Maecenas : Horace, I must, I will, I do believe thy words. They heal my heart, deep wounded by the spear Of doubt. Oh ! when a child I trusted heaven. Thy words that childlike faith to me have given. Horace : Praised be the gods! And though that thou must leave Me for a while my heart doth weep, yet in Its teardrops gleams the light of joy ; for I Shall soon be by thy side again, and we Shall walk together through the halls of heaven. Like children to their mother, we shall be Clasped to the bosom of Eternity ! [3i] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Gottlieb — A Christmas Idyll I IT was Saturday night. Fritz and Martha — old people — Were returning from the valley hamlet to their cottage on the mountain side. As the moon illumined the night about them, Fritz saw in the distance something brightly glistening, And heard a low sad moan. "Let us go to it," said Fritz. Hastening their steps, They found a tender babe lying amid the white snow, Alone, clad in robes right princely And wearing a chain of gleaming gold around his neck. ' ' Whose child can he be ? He will freeze lying there, poor thing ! Martha, we must take him home with us. And, if his parents be not found, He shall be our son, humble though we be. ' ' [32] THE MASTER FISHERMAN II It was Christmas Day. Fritz and Martha sat in Church, And the Child cooed softly between them. They were old people — very old. God had never blessed them with a child. But now, As the sun shone through the pictured window of the Blessed Mother and her Child, The priest read, ' ' Unto us a son is given. ' ' Fritz bowed his head, and Martha crossed her- self. Ill Daily Fritz went to the mines and labored long and hard To earn for himself and Martha and the Child, Gottlieb — Gottes Liebe — God's Love — they called Him, "Because," said Fritz, "It was God's love that gave Him to us." In the cottage Martha's rough hands spun soft garments for the Child, And as her back bent over the hoe in the garden, She would hear the Child's joyous voice in His play with other children. [33] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Yet His was always clearer, sweeter than the rest. The children loved Him — oh ! so dearly ! Yet ever were they a bit afraid of Him. One day in childish glee They twined a garland of flowers and placed it on His head And called Him "their little King." IV Fritz and Martha lived on — wondronsly old. Fritz could no longer go to the mines. Yet every morning Gottlieb shouldered His pick And went alone. Silently all day long — Away from the light and the fresh mountain breezes — He delved, down deep in the mine. But, though He toiled amid the darkness and the grime, His garments were never soiled. And when He came to the cottage at night, His face was always radiant as the sun, And His hands were white, like the snow Which cradled Him that night when Fritz and Martha first found Him. [34] THE MASTER FISHERMAN V ''Prepare ye for the King, Who comes from His distant capital on a great mission ! Let everyone be ready to receive Him/' Thus proclaimed the herald in the hamlet below And in each cottage on the mountain side. Daily at early morn Gottlieb went to the mines. But as He went, He whispered to Himself, "Would I could see the King!" VI Brightly gleamed in the morning sun The armored hosts of the King, And proudly floated the bannered royal lions on the breeze. His Majesty the King approached each cottage, Entered, eagerly looked around, Then, seemingly unsatisfied with His quest, passed on. The royal procession wound down the mountain side And halted before the mines. Each laborer was bidden to pass before the King. ' ' And are these all ? " His Majesty demanded. "All — save one," was the reply — One [35] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Who was toiling far down in the heart of the earth, Toiling alone patiently and ceaselessly For those beloved at home. "Him I must see," said the King. Gottlieb was summoned and silently stood before His Majesty. "Tis He!" exclaimed the King. "Thou art My Son!" [36] THE MASTER FISHERMAN The Soul's Catechism HAVE you walked with God by the seashore ? Have you walked with Him in the grove ? Have you walked with Him through the vale of tears And the transfigured mount of His love ? Soul of mine ! Eternity's image ! Child beloved of the Infinite Good ! Know you not that His spirit lives in you And above you His love-soul doth brood ? His spirit thrills yonder frail grass blade, He lives in the delicate fern, He haloes the brow of the Christ-Child, While for Him the soul prodigal yearns. Soul of mine ! be at one with the All-Soul. Never dare let the sandbars of doubt Cut thee off from that ocean of Spirit That encircles the systems about. [27] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Lines Written on the Fifty-Sixth Anniver- sary of the Consecration of Em- manuel Church I SIX years and fifty now have passed Since from the aisle of yon church fair The Bishop and the surpliced priests Ascended to the altar stair. Upon the listeners' eager ears, In rhythmic alternations fell The Psalmist 's words, ' ' The earth is God 's, The world and all that therein dwell. ' ' The congregation, choir and priests Joined in triumphant glad acclaim, That God had moved generous hearts To rear this temple to His name. How earth reached heaven by mystic rounds, Perchance one lesson taught that day, And one how men mount up to God Through Christ, ' ' the new and living way. ' ' [38] Emmanuel Church, Brook Hill, Va. THE MASTER FISHERMAN Through fervent prayers and hymns of praise, Christ's body's and blood's Sacrament, Near to God 's Throne the people drew, Thankful, devout and penitent. The Bishop's blessing given, the throng Unto their homes forthwith repair, Thankful this holy place was theirs For worship, praise, alms-giving, prayer . II Hid 'midst the trees from thoughtless gaze, Church of the living God, More than a cycle's half, its aisles Sinners and saints have trod. Here with the font 's baptismal vows The priest Christ's lambs has sealed, And at the chancel-rail those vows By them have been fulfilled. Before the altar youth and maid Have pledged their wedded love ; Here sorrowing hearts have looked anew In hope to heaven above. [39] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Anointed prophets here have preached God 's Holy Word and true, And children here their duties learn To God and neighbor, too. sacred shrine, Emmanuel ! God with us ever be ! That we Christ 's soldiers e 'er may prove, And serve Him faithfully. Thy graceful spire amid the trees To heaven points constantly, Teaching us, too, our hearts to raise, From sin and sorrow free. [40] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Prologue and Epilogue to a Religious Pa- geant, entitled "The Modern Magi," written by the Author's Wife Prologue. TIRED of their old philosophies, Behold the nations blindly grope. Oh ! who will show to them the way Of larger life, of ampler hope ? The nations bow with sorrow down, Greed clashes with fierce Envy's scorn. For ashes who will beauty give, The oil of joy for those who mourn ? Persistent in their quest, press on The nations hungering in the night. Who'll feed them with the Bread of Life? Who'll lead them upward to the Light ? The old Commands on Olivet, "Preach, Teach, Baptize," to us descend, The ancient Promise still is ours, "I'm with you to the world 's far end. ' ' [4i] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Then point men to the Lamb of God, And raise the all-sufficient Cross. Give light for darkness, peace for strife, And righteous gold for sinful dross. Epilogue. The cattle on a thousand hills, The gold within the mine, The pearl hid in the ocean's depths, — All, all, Lord, are Thine. Receiving freely, we would give Freely for those who plea ; For all things come of Thee, Lord ; Thine own we give to Thee. God, we think Thy thoughts with Thee, With Thee we labor, too. We give with Thee, Christ, who gav'st To make all things anew. Thy poverty has made us rich, Our wealth to Thee we give. Thou died 'st for all the world, and we For all the world would live. [42] THE MASTER FISHERMAN The Seventy (The late Bishop McVickar, of Rhode Island, once re- marked that he liked to think of the Seventy, appointed by Jesus, not as little priestlings, but as consecrated laymen sent forth to do their Master's bidding. The following lines are dedicated to the Episcopal Church laymen of Richmond, who have been actively engaged in serving pastorless congregations in the surrounding country.) OF old the Seventy at their Lord 's command In towns and hamlets went throughout the land, The sick to heal, the dead to life restore, The lepers cleanse, and preach the Heavenly Lore, Assured Christ soon would be at their right hand. Again Christ sends His Seventy two and two Through town and village where Himself would go. Say, hast thou heard His call ? What hast thou done ? Of His bold ready Seventy art thou one ? As God hath sent Him would He send thee so ! [43] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Go forth, my brother, with divine decrees, Fulfil thy mission, and ere thou shalt cease, Upon the heights of life ? s fair Galilee The beauteous feet of Him, hasting, thou 'It see That brings Good Tidings and that heralds Peace ! [44] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Strength and Beauty IN prideful strength a stalk of corn Arose to greet the brightening morn. A morning glory raised her head "Pray, let me lean on yon!" she said. "No!" said the corn, "a useless flower Shall not usurp my glorious power." Replied the flower, " If by your side I grow, your power is not denied. Lend of your strength to me a bit, My beauty shall enhalo it." And so in stable beauty grew Corn-stalk and Morning Glory, too. A poet passed that way and said, "Behold how Strength and Beauty wed!" [45] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Environment I PLUCKED a white-fair lily From a plot where rank weeds grew. A friend asked, "Why take a flower "Where ugly weeds grow, too ? ' ' I said, ' ' Though rank and ugly be The weeds the plot may fill, Not for the weeds I pluck ; The flower is God's own still." [46] M THE MASTER FISHERMAN The Master - Fisherman ASTER, dost Thou go fishing with me Out on the waters of Galilee ? Fishing to me is sport right dear, — Sweeter by far, if Thou art near. Thou who didst toil with the carpenters' crew, Dost Thou delight in fisher-folk, too ? All night long I 've toiled and sweat Without one fish for my hungry net. Nevertheless, at Thy command, Out will I launch my boat from land, And in the deep I '11 anchor my craft, And let down my net for the promised draught. Breaketh my net with this wonderful haul ! Brother-fishermen must I call. [47] THE MASTER FISHERMAN Oh ! what a foolish fisherman I, , Thinking I 'd fail when Thou wast nigh ! Master-Fisherman, sailing with me Over the waters of Galilee, Thou who dost fish with such baited ken, Give me Thy net ! I '11 fish for men ! [48] LIBRARY OF CONGRPQC ■finiiii 018 348 523 4 ^