Bitter-Sweet | Page 7

abide His means.
If, in the law that spans the universe

(The law its maker may not disobey),
Virtue may only grow from
innocence
Through a great struggle with opposing ill;
If I must win
my way to perfectness
In the sad path of suffering, like Him
The
over-flowing river of whose life
Touches the flood-mark of humanity

On the white pillars of the heavenly throne,
Then welcome evil!
Welcome sickness, toil,
Sorrow and pain, the fear and fact of death.
Israel
And welcome sin?
Ruth.
Ah, David! welcome sin?
David.
The fact of sin--so much;--it must needs be
Offenses come; if woe to
him by whom,
Then with good reason; but the fact of sin
Unlocked
the door to highest destiny,
That Christ might enter in and lead the
way.
God loves not sin, nor I; but in the throng
Of evils that assail
us, there are none
That yield their strength to Virtue's struggling arm

With such munificent reward of power
As great temptations. We
may win by toil
Endurance; saintly fortitude by pain;
By sickness,
patience; faith and trust by fear;
But the great stimulus that spurs to

life,
And crowds to generous development
Each chastened power
and passion of the soul,
Is the temptation of the soul to sin,
Resisted,
and re-conquered, evermore.
Ruth.
I am content; and now that I have caught
Bright glimpses of the
outlines of your scheme,
As of a landscape, graded to the sky,
And
seen through trees while passing, I desire
No vision further till I make
survey
In some good time when I may come alone,
And drink its
beauty and its blessedness.
I've been forgetful in my earnestness,

And wearied everyone with talk. These boys
Are restive grown, or
nodding in their chairs,
And older heads are set, as if for sleep.
I
beg their pardon for my theft of time,
And will offend no more.
David.
Ruth, is it right
To leave a brother in such a plight as this--
Either to
imitate your courtesy,
Or by your act to be adjudged a boor?
Ruth.
Heaven grant you never note a sin of mine
Save of your own
construction!
Israel.
Let it pass!
I see the spell of thoughtfulness is gone,
Or going
swiftly. I will not complain;
But ere these lads are fastened to their
games,
And thoughts arise discordant with our theme,
Let us with
gratitude approach the throne
And worship God. I wish once more to
lead
Your hearts in prayer, and follow with my own
The leading of
your song of thankfulness.
Then will I lease and leave you for the
night
To such divertisement as suits the time,
And meets your
humor.

[They all arise and the old man prays.]
Ruth.
[After a pause.]
David, let us see
Whether your memory prove as true as mine.
Do
you recall the promise made by you
This night one year ago,--to write
a hymn
For this occasion?
David.
I recall, and keep.
Here are the copies, written fairly out.

Here,--father, Mary, Ruth, and all the rest;
There's one for each. Now
what shall be the tune?
Israel.
The old One Hundredth--noblest tune of tunes!
Old tunes are precious
to me as old paths
In which I wandered when a happy boy.
In truth,
they are the old paths of my soul,
Oft trod, well worn, familiar, up to
God.
THE HYMN.
[In which all unite to sing.]
For Summer's bloom and Autumn's blight,
For bending wheat and
blasted maize,
For health and sickness, Lord of light,
And Lord of
darkness, hear our praise!
We trace to Thee our joys and woes--
To Thee of causes still the
cause,--
We thank Thee that Thy hand bestows;
We bless Thee that
Thy love withdraws.
We bring no sorrows to Thy throne;
We come to Thee with no
complaint;
In Providence Thy will is done,
And that is sacred to the

saint
Here on this blest Thanksgiving Night;
We raise to Thee our grateful
voice;
For what Thou doest, Lord, is right;
And thus believing, we
rejoice.
Grace.
A good old tune, indeed, and strongly sung;
But, in my mind, the man
who wrote the hymn
Had seemed more modest, had he paused a
while.
Ere by a trick he furnished other tongues
With words he only
has the heart to sing.
David.
Oh, Grace! Dear Grace!
Ruth.
You may well cry for grace,
If that's the company you have to keep.
Grace.
I thought you convert to his sophistry.
It makes no difference to him,
you know,
Whether I plague or please.
Ruth.
It does to you.
Israel.
There, children! No more bitter words like those!
I do not understand
them; they awake
A sad uneasiness within my heart.
I found but
Christian meaning in the hymn;
Aye, I could say amen to every line,

As to the breathings of my own poor prayer.
But let us talk no
more. I'll to my bed.
Good-night, my children! Happy thoughts be

yours
Till sleep arrive--then happy dreams till dawn!
All.
Father, good-night!
[ISRAEL retires.]
Ruth.
There, little boys and girls--
Off to the kitchen! Now there's fun for
you.
Play blind-man's-buff until you break your heads;
And then sit
down beside the roaring fire,
And with wild stories scare yourselves
to death.
We'll all be out there, by and by. Meanwhile,
I'll try the
cellar; and if David, here,
Will