Lo, then a soft-voiced stranger said: "Come ye with me a little space. I know where torches gold and red Gleam down a peaceful, ample place; Where song and perfume fill the restful air, And men speak scarce at all. The King is there." They passed; they sat a grass-set hill-- What king hath carpets like to this? What king hath music like the thrill Of crickets 'mid these silences-- These perfumed silences, that rest upon The soul like sunlight on a hill at dawn? Behold what blessings in the air! What benedictions in the dew! These olives lift their arms in prayer; They turn their leaves, God reads them through; Yon lilies where the falling water sings Are fairer-robed than choristers of kings. Lift now your heads! yon golden bars That build the porch of heaven, seas Of silver-sailing golden stars-- Yea, these are yours, and all of these! For yonder king hath never yet been told Of silver seas that sail these ships of gold. They turned, they raised their heads on high; They saw, the first time saw and knew, The awful glories of the sky, The benedictions of the dew; And from that day His poor were richer far Than all such kings as keep where follies are. Have you experienced these blessings in the air? Have you felt these benedictions in the dew? Have you seen the exquisite robes of the lilies? Have you seen the ships of gold sailing through the silver seas? And the bars of gold that build the porch of heaven? You have rushed to see the pomp of kings. You have rushed to see the glitter and tinsel of the circus procession. You have struggled with desperation that you and your wife might mingle with the gayly dressed throng at some fanciful revel. Why be so eager for these vain shows and yet not see the true beauty, real gorgeousness, undying splendor of these other outward manifestations of the thoughts of God? Eager desire for the vain pomp and circumstance of things reveals the abnormal and depraved appetite just the same as the glutton's and drunkard's cravings do. The more they are fed the more fiercely their fires rage and the less satisfied one becomes. It is only real things that will satisfy the hunger of the immortal soul, and then one of the remarkable things is how the trivial and small things will produce satisfaction. As George Macdonald says in his fascinating story, _Sir Gibbie_: It is wonderful upon how little those rare natures capable of making the most of things will live and thrive. There is a great deal more to be got out of things than is generally got out of them, whether the thing be a chapter of the Bible or a yellow turnip, and the marvel is that those who use the most material should so often be those that show the least result in strength or character. CHAPTER XXIII RADIANCIES OF DEATH