When I consider how my light is spent
    Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
    And that one talent, which is death to hide,
    Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
  To serve therewith my Maker, and present
    My true account, lest he returning chide;
    “Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?”
    I fondly ask.  But Patience, to prevent
  That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
    Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
    Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best:  his state
  Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
    And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
    They also serve who only stand and wait.”

MILTON.

* * * * *

THE MARTYRS’ HYMN.

  Flung to the heedless winds,
    Or on the waters cast,
  The martyrs’ ashes, watched,
    Shall gathered be at last;
  And from that scattered dust,
    Around us and abroad,
  Shall spring a plenteous seed
    Of witnesses for God.

  The Father hath received
    Their latest living breath;
  And vain is Satan’s boast
    Of victory in their death;
  Still, still, though dead, they speak,
    And, trumpet-tongued, proclaim
  To many a wakening land
    The one availing name.

From the German of MARTIN LUTHER.

Translation of W.J.  FOX.

* * * * *

THE PILGRIMAGE.

  Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
    My staff of faith to walk upon,
  My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
    My bottle of salvation,
  My gown of glory, hope’s true gauge;
    And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage!

  Blood must be my body’s balmer,
    No other balm will there be given;
  Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
    Travelleth towards the land of Heaven,
  Over the silver mountains
    Where spring the nectar fountains: 
          There will I kiss
          The bowl of bliss,
  And drink mine everlasting fill
  Upon every milken hill. 
  My soul will be a-dry before,
  But after, it will thirst no more.

  Then by that happy, blissful day,
  More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
  That have cast off their rags of clay,
  And walk apparelled fresh like me. 
          I’ll take them first
          To quench their thirst,
  And taste of nectar’s suckets
          At those clear wells
          Where sweetness dwells
  Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.

  And when our bottles and all we
  Are filled with immortality,
  Then the blest paths we’ll travel,
  Strewed with rubies thick as gravel,—­
  Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors. 
  High walls of coral, and pearly bowers. 
  From thence to Heaven’s bribeless hall,
  Where no corrupted voices brawl;
  No conscience molten into gold,