From Horeb's bush the Presence spoke To earlier faiths and simpler folk; But now each bush that sweeps our fence Flames with the Awful Immanence! To old Zacchaeus in his tree What mattered leaves and botany? His sycamore was but a seat Whence he could watch that hallowed street. But now to us each elm and pine Is vibrant with the Voice divine, Not only from but in the bough Our larger creed beholds him now. To the true faith, bark, sap, and stem Are wonderful as Bethlehem; No hill nor brook nor field nor herd But mangers the Incarnate Word! Far be it from our lips to cast Contempt upon the holy past-- Whate'er the Finger writes we scan In manger, prophecy, or man. Again we touch the healing hem In Nazareth or Jerusalem; We trace again those faultless years; The cross commands our wondering tears. Yet if to us the Spirit writes On Morning's manuscript and Night's, In gospels of the growing grain, Epistles of the pond and plain, In stars, in atoms, as they roll, Each tireless round its occult pole, In wing and worm and fin and fleece, In the wise soil's surpassing peace-- Thrice ingrate he whose only look Is backward focussed on the Book, Neglectful what the Presence saith, Though he be near as blood and breath! The only atheist is one Who hears no Voice in wind or sun, Believer in some primal curse, Deaf in God's loving universe! --Frederic Lawrence Knowles. STILL WITH THEE Still, still with thee, when purple morning breaketh, When the bird waketh, and the shadows flee; Fairer than morning, lovelier than daylight, Dawns the sweet consciousness, I am with thee. Alone with thee amid the mystic shadows, The solemn hush of nature newly born; Alone with thee in breathless adoration, In the calm dew and freshness of the morn. As in the dawning o'er the waveless ocean The image of the morning-star doth rest, So in this stillness thou beholdest only Thine image in the waters of my breast. Still, still with thee! as to each new born morning A fresh and solemn splendor still is given, So does this blessed consciousness awaking Breathe each day nearness unto thee and heaven. When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber, Its closing eyes look up to thee in prayer; Sweet the repose beneath thy wings o'ershading, But sweeter still, to wake and find thee there. So shall it be at last, in that bright morning, When the soul waketh, and life's shadows flee; O in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning, Shall rise the glorious thought--I am with thee. --Harriet Beecher Stowe. There lives and works a soul in all things, And that soul is God. --William Cowper. THE ELIXIR