’T is for this, thou Silent River! 
  That my spirit leans to thee;
Thou hast been a generous giver,
  Take this idle song from me.

BLIND BARTIMEUS

Blind Bartimeus at the gates Of Jericho in darkness waits; He hears the crowd;—­he hears a breath Say, “It is Christ of Nazareth!” And calls, in tones of agony, Greek here

The thronging multitudes increase;
Blind Bartimeus, hold thy peace! 
But still, above the noisy crowd,
The beggar’s cry is shrill and loud;
Until they say, “He calleth thee!”
Greek here

Then saith the Christ, as silent stands
The crowd, “What wilt thou at my hands?”
And he replies, “O give me light! 
Rabbi, restore the blind man’s sight. 
And Jesus answers, ‘Greek here’
Greek here!

Ye that have eyes, yet cannot see,
In darkness and in misery,
Recall those mighty Voices Three,
Greek here!
Greek here!
Greek here!

THE GOBLET OF LIFE

Filled is Life’s goblet to the brim;
And though my eyes with tears are dim,
I see its sparkling bubbles swim,
And chant a melancholy hymn
   With solemn voice and slow.

No purple flowers,—­no garlands green,
Conceal the goblet’s shade or sheen,
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene,
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between
   Thick leaves of mistletoe.

This goblet, wrought with curious art,
Is filled with waters, that upstart,
When the deep fountains of the heart,
By strong convulsions rent apart,
   Are running all to waste.

And as it mantling passes round,
With fennel is it wreathed and crowned,
Whose seed and foliage sun-imbrowned
Are in its waters steeped and drowned,
   And give a bitter taste.

Above the lowly plants it towers,
The fennel, with its yellow flowers,
And in an earlier age than ours
Was gifted with the wondrous powers,
   Lost vision to restore.

It gave new strength, and fearless mood;
And gladiators, fierce and rude,
Mingled it in their daily food;
And he who battled and subdued,
   A wreath of fennel wore.

Then in Life’s goblet freely press,
The leaves that give it bitterness,
Nor prize the colored waters less,
For in thy darkness and distress
   New light and strength they give!

And he who has not learned to know
How false its sparkling bubbles show,
How bitter are the drops of woe,
With which its brim may overflow,
   He has not learned to live.

The prayer of Ajax was for light;
Through all that dark and desperate fight
The blackness of that noonday night
He asked but the return of sight,
   To see his foeman’s face.

Let our unceasing, earnest prayer
Be, too, for light,—­for strength to bear
Our portion of the weight of care,
That crushes into dumb despair
   One half the human race.