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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416978" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The World In The Heart</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">--BUT if the foe no more without presides,<br>There is an inner chamber where it hides ;<br>In that strong hold prepares its last defence ;<br>And none but heavenly arms can drive it thence.<br>This is the Christian's conflict,--he alone<br>Pursues its flight to that interior throne.<br>This is the test that makes his title clear ;<br>For only they approve their aim sincere,<br>Who seek the flattering world to dispossess<br>Where none but God and conscience have access.<br>All modes by man devised to purchase bliss,<br>Full well he knows are cheaper far than this :<br>Hence the attempt, with penance, pain, and loss,<br>And prayers, and alms, to frame a lighter cross.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To travel barefoot to some hallowed shrine,<br>If this would do, how soon should Heaven be mine !<br>--To walk with God ; resigning every weight,<br>To run with patience up to Zion's gate ;<br>To hold affections fixt on things above ;<br>To value heavenly more than earthly love ;<br>To dread the frown of God's discerning eye<br>More than the world's opprobrious calumny ;<br>To keep faith's prospects prominent and clear ;<br>To seek not rest, nor wish to find it here ;<br>Is harder work--too hard for arms like ours,<br>Opposed by principalities and powers,<br>Had He not covenanted to supply<br>Helmet and shield from Heaven's armory.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">A ceaseless round of mummery to fulfil,<br>Leaves the world's empire unmolested still :<br>Nor more effective every outward way,<br>By which we seek to disavow its sway.<br>The downcast look, grave habit, slow address,<br>Are vain attempts to make the labour less ;<br>There is an inward army to pursue ;<br>A mere external conflict will not do.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They who sincerely bid the world depart<br>Not only from the house, but from the heart,<br>Retreating wisely, where its torrent roars,<br>And anxious still to shut it out of doors,<br>Contract their wishes to the sober size<br>Of fire-side comfort, and domestic ties ;<br>Yet they should deem the battle but begun,<br>Nor think at such light cost the victory won.<br>Whatever passes as a cloud, between<br>The mental eye of faith and things unseen,<br>Causing that better world to disappear,<br>Or seem unlovely, and the present dear,<br>That is our world, our idol, though it bear<br>Affection's impress, or devotion's air.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">They who the quiet walks of life may choose,<br>Partly for Heaven's sake, partly for the muse ; <br>Whose taste had led them from the giddy train,<br>Even if conscience did not say 'refrain ;'<br>Though wise and good the choice, had need beware,<br>They shun an obvious, for a hidden snare ; <br>The fair, bright paths of wit and learning may<br>Lead off directly from the narrow way.<br>The pride of intellect, the conscious height<br>The soul attains to in her mental flight,<br>At length may cause a less exalted seat<br>To seem too lowly at the Saviour's feet.<br>Music, the pencil, nature, books, the muse,<br>Have charms, and Heaven designed them for our use ;<br>Yet who that knows and loves them, but could tell<br>The world disguised in all, in each may dwell,<br>With charm as fatal, with a spell as strong,<br>As that which circles pleasure's vacant throng.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'Tis true : and therefore some pronounce in haste,<br>(Urged less by conscience than by want of taste)<br>A sweeping censure on the cultured mind ;<br>And safety hope in ignorance to find.<br>Alas ! they know not how the world can cheat ;<br>Or rather, know not their own heart's deceit :<br>The ground that lies uncultured and unsown,<br>With rampant weeds is quickly overgrown.<br>And they who leave the mental field undrest,<br>Deeming all knowledge useless but the best,<br>And give those hours that duty freely spares,<br>Not to superior, but to vulgar cares,<br>Will find these lead from heavenly converse back,<br>Not less than those, and by a meaner track.<br>'Twas by no mental feast, no studious thought,<br>Her soul was cumbered, and her Lord forgot,<br>Who lost the unction of His gracious word,<br>Which, waiting at His feet, another heard.<br>Those toils engrossed her that may hold the heart<br>In closest bondage from the better part :<br>And though that board was spread for such a guest,<br>As none may now bid welcome to a feast,<br>Her guest, her Lord reproved her, as He will<br>The busy Marthas, serving, cumbered still.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ask the good housewife, mid her bustling maids,<br>If ne'er the world her humbler sphere invades.<br>But if (unconscious of its secret sway)<br>She own it not, her eager looks betray.<br>Yes, there you find it, spite of locks and bars,<br>Hid in the store-room with her jams and jars ;<br>It gilds her china, in her cupboard shines,<br>Works at the vent-peg of her home-made wines,<br>Each varied dainty to her board supplies,<br>And comes up smoking in her Christmas pies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The charms of mental converse some may fear,<br>Who scruple not to lend a ready ear<br>To kitchen tales, of scandal, strife, and love,<br>Which make the maid and mistress hand and glove ; <br>And ever deem the sin and danger less,<br>Merely for being in a vulgar dress.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Thus the world haunts, in forms of varied kind,<br>The intellectual and the groveling mind ;<br>Now, sparkling in the muse's fair attire,<br>Now, red and greasy at the kitchen fire.<br>And were you called to give a casting voice,<br>One to select, from such a meagre choice,<br>Deciding which life's purpose most mistook--<br>Would you not say,--the worldly-minded cook ? <br>Not intellectual vanity to flatter ;<br>--Simply, that mind precedence claims of matter.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And she, whose nobler course is seen to shine,<br>At once, with human knowledge and divine ;<br>Who mental culture and domestic rites<br>In close and graceful amity unites ;<br>Striving to hold them in their proper place,<br>Not interfering with her heavenly race ;<br>Whose constant aim it is, and fervent prayer,<br>On earthly ground to breathe celestial air ;--<br>Still, she could witness how the world betrays,<br>Steals softly in by unsuspected ways,<br>Her yielding soul from heavenly converse bears,<br>And holds her captive in its silken snares.<br>Could she not tell the trifles that are brought<br>To rival Heaven, and drive it from her thought ?<br>--Her heart (unconscious of the flowery trap)<br>Caught in the sprigs upon a baby's cap ;<br>Thence disengaged, its freedom boasts awhile,<br>Till taken captive by the baby's smile.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But oh, how mournful when resistance fails,<br>The conflict slackens, and the foe prevails !<br>For instance--yonder matron, who appears<br>Softly descending in the vale of years ; <br>And yet, with health, and constant care bestowed,<br>Still comely, embonpoint, and à la mode. <br>Once in her youthful days, her heart was warm ;<br>At least, her feelings wore devotion's form ;<br>And ever since, to quell the rising doubt,<br>She makes that grain of godliness eke out.<br>With comfort still, the distant day she sees,<br>When grief or terror brought her to her knees ;<br>When Christian friends rejoiced at what she told,<br>And bade her welcome to the church's fold.<br>There still she rests, her words, her forms the same ;<br>There holds profession's lamp without the flame :<br>Her Sabbaths come and go, with even pace ;<br>Year after year you find her in her place,<br>And still no change apparent, saving that<br>Of time and fashion, in her face and hat.<br>She stands or kneels as usual, hears and sings ;<br>Goes home and dines, and talks of other things ;<br>Enjoys her comforts with as strong a goût <br>As if they were not fading from her view<br>And still is telling what she means to do :<br>Talks of events that happen to befall,<br>Not like a stranger, passing from it all,<br>But eager, anxious in their issue still,<br>Hoping this will not be, or that it will ;<br>Getting, enjoying, all that can be had ;<br>Amused with trifles, and at trifles sad :<br>While hope still whispers in her willing ears,<br>'Soul, thou hast goods laid up for many years.'<br>A few brief words her character portray--<br>--This world contents her, if she might but stay.<br>When true and fervent pilgrims round her press,<br>She inly wishes that their zeal were less.<br>Their works of love, their spirit, faith, and prayers,<br>Their calm indifference to the world's affairs,<br>Reproach her deadhess, and she fain, for one,<br>Would call their zeal and ardour overdone. </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But what her thought is--what her hope and stay<br>In moments of reflection, who shall say ?<br>--Time does not slacken, nay, he speeds his pace,<br>Bearing her onward to her finished race :<br>The common doom awaits her--'dust to dust ;'<br>The young may soon receive it, but she must. <br>What is the Christian's course ?--the Scriptures say,<br>'Brighter and brighter to the perfect day !'<br>Oh ! does her earthly mind, her anxious heart,<br>Clinging to life, not longing to depart,<br>Her languid prayer, her graces dim and faint,<br>Meet that description of the growing saint ?<br>Let her inquire (for far is spent the night)<br>If she be meetened for that world of light :<br>Where are her fondest, best affections placed ?--<br>Death may improve but not reverse the taste :<br>Does she indeed the things of time prefer ?<br>Then surely Heaven could not be Heaven to her.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Are there not portions of the sacred word,<br>So often preached and quoted, read and heard,<br>That, though of deepest import, and designed<br>With joy or fear to penetrate the mind,<br>They pass away with notice cold and brief,<br>Like drops of rain upon a glossy leaf ?<br>--Such as the final sentence, on that day,<br>When all distinctions shall be done away,<br>But that the righteous Judge shall bring to light,<br>Between the left-hand millions, and the right ?<br>Here, in His word, in beams of light, it stands,<br>What will be then demanded at our hands ;<br>Clear and unclouded now the page appears,<br>As even then, illumed by blazing spheres.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">--The question is not, if our earthly race<br>Was once enlightened by a flash of grace ;<br>If we sustained a place on Zion's hill,<br>And called Him Lord--but if we did His will.<br>What, if the stranger, sick and captive, lie<br>Naked and hungry, and we pass them by !<br>Or do but some extorted pittance throw,<br>To save our credit, not to ease their woe !<br>Or, strangers to the charity whence springs<br>The liberal heart, devising liberal things,<br>We, cumbered ever with our own pursuits,<br>To others leave the labour and its fruits ;<br>Pleading excuses for the crum we save,<br>For want of faith to cast it on the wave !<br>--Shall we go forth with joy to meet our Lord<br>Enter His kingdom, reap the full reward ?<br>--Can such His good, His faithful servants be,<br>Blest of the Father ?--Read His word and see !</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What, if in strange defiance of that rule,<br>Made not in Moses', but the Gospel school,<br>Shining as clearly as the light of Heaven,<br>'They who forgive not, shall not be forgiven,'<br>We live in anger, hatred, envy, strife,<br>Still firmly hoping for eternal life ;<br>And where the streams of Christian love should flow,<br>The root of bitterness is left to grow ;<br>Resisting evil, indisposed to brook<br>A word of insult, or a scornful look ;<br>And speak the language of the world in all,<br>Except the challenge and the leaden ball !</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What if, mistrustful of its latent worth,<br>We hide our single talent in the earth !<br>And what if self is pampered, not denied !<br>What if the flesh is never crucified !<br>What if the world be hidden in the heart,--<br>Will it be, 'Come, ye blessed !'--or, 'Depart ?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Who then shall conquer ?--who maintain the fight ?<br>E'en they that walk by faith and not by sight :<br>Who having 'washed their robes and made them white,'<br>Press towards the mark, and see the promised land,<br>Not dim and distantly, but near at hand.<br>--We are but marching down a sloping hill,<br>Without a moment's time for standing still ;<br>Where every step accelerates the pace,<br>More and more rapid till we reach the base ;<br>And then, no clinging to the yielding dust !<br>An ocean rolls below, and plunge we must.<br>What plainer language labours to express,<br>Thus, metaphoric is employed to dress :<br>And this but serves on naked truth to throw<br>That hazy, indistinct, and distant glow,<br>Through which we wish the future to appear,--<br>Not as indeed it is,--true, awful, near.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And yet, amid the hurry, toil, and strife,<br>The claims, the urgencies, the whirl of life,--<br>The soul--perhaps in silence of the night--<br>Has flashes, transient intervals of light ;<br>When things to come, without a shade of doubt,<br>In terrible reality stand out.<br>Those lucid moments suddenly present<br>A glance of truth, as though the Heavens were rent ;<br>And through that chasm of pure celestial light,<br>The future breaks upon the startled sight :<br>Life's vain pursuits, and Time's advancing pace,<br>Appear with death-bed clearness, face to face ;<br>And Immortality's expanse sublime,<br>In just proportion to the speck of time :<br>While Death, uprising from the silent shades,<br>Shows his dark outline ere the vision fades ;<br>In strong relief against the blazing sky,<br>Appears the shadow as it passes by.<br>And though o'erwhelming to the dazzled brain,<br>These are the moments when the mind is sane.<br>For then, a hope of Heaven--the Savior's cross,<br>Seem what they are, and all things else but loss.<br>Oh ! to be ready--ready for that day,<br>Would we not give earth's fairest toys away<br>Alas ! how soon its interests cloud the view,<br>Rush in, and plunge us in the world anew !</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Once Paul beheld, with more than mortal eye,<br>The unveiled glories of the upper sky :<br>And when descending from that vision's height,<br>(His faith and hope thenceforward turned to sight)<br>When he awoke and cast his eye anew,<br>Still aching, dazzled, wondering at the view,<br>On this dark world, how looked it ? mean and dim ;<br>And such it is, as then it seemed to him.<br>As when the eye a moment turns to gaze,<br>Adventurous, on the sun's meridian blaze,<br>The shining orb pursues whete'er it roves,<br>And hides in gloom the fields, the hills, the groves :<br>'Twas thus he saw the things that sense entice,<br>Fade in the glorious beam of Paradise ;<br>And felt how far eternal joys outweigh<br>The light afflictions of our fleeting day.<br>Well might he then press forward to the prize,<br>And every weight, and every woe despise !</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, with what pity would his bosom glow,<br>For this poor world, and those who walk below,<br>When fresh from glory--fraught with Heaven, he viewed<br>The busy, eager, earth-bound multitude !<br>Each groping where his loudest treasure lies ;<br>One at his farm, one at his merchandize :<br>--To see the cumbered Christian faintly strive<br>To keep his doubtful spark of grace alive,<br>By formal service, paid one day in seven,<br>And brief, reluctant, misty thoughts of Heaven.<br>How he would weep, expostulate, and pray !<br>For he had seen--but there the verse must stay :<br>Paul could not utter--nor his pencil draw,<br>Yet, there it is--that glory that he saw :<br>Now, even now --whatever vain designs<br>Engross our worldly spirits--there it shines !<br>Oh ! place it not at time's remotest bounds<br>In doubtful distance, when the trump shall sound ;<br>Since what we hope for,--yes, and what we fear,<br>Is even near as death,--and death is near !<br>The quiet chamber where the Christian sleeps,<br>And where, from year to year, he prays and weeps ;<br>Whence, in the midnight watch, his thoughts arise<br>To those bright mansions where his treasure lies,--<br>How near it is to all his faith can see !<br>How short and peaceful may the passage be !<br>One beating pulse--one feeble struggle o'er,<br>May open wide the everlasting door.<br>Yes, for that bliss unspeakable, unseen,<br>Is ready--and the veil of flesh between<br>A gentle sigh may rend--and then display<br>The broad, full splendour of an endless day.<br>--This bright conviction elevates his mind ;<br>He presses forward, leaving all behind.--<br>Thus from his throne the tyrant foe is hurled,<br>--This is the faith that overcomes the world.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Jane+Taylor">Jane Taylor</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416978" data-title="The World In The Heart de Jane Taylor" data-description="--BUT if the foe no more without presides,
There is an inner chamber where it hides ;
In that strong hold prepares its last defence ;
And none but heavenly arms can drive it thence.
This is the Christian's conflict,--he alone
Pursues its flight to..."></div>
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