“我确实相信，然而，在悲痛中，我祈求上帝帮助我摆脱不信;为要积蓄所需的力量，除掉我路上每日的重担。我厌倦了诡计和虚伪，厌倦了狂热者的咆哮，厌倦了职业的虚伪，厌倦了铁的信条，厌倦了安逸的生活。我默想圣言，我读我们主的记录;并且，软弱和烦恼，嫉妒那些触摸他无缝衣襟的人;他在拉撒路沉睡的坟墓上哭泣;在朦胧的橄榄影中，听到他的晚赞美诗。那卑下猪场的、讨饭的、蹲在门口的、长大麻疯的、令人厌恶、眼目见耶和华的、是有福的。哦，神圣的土地，他的鞋被压坏了!他中午休息的甘甜泉源! O light and air of Palestine, Impregnate with His life divine! 'Oh, bear me thither! Let me look On Siloa's pool, and Kedron's brook; Kneel at Gethsemane, and by Gennesaret walk, before I die! 'Methinks this cold and northern night Would melt before that Orient light; And, wet by Hermon's dew and rain, My childhood's faith revive again!' So spake my friend, one autumn day, Where the still river slid away Beneath us, and above the brown Red curtains of the woods shut down. Then said I,-for I could not brook The mute appealing of his look,- 'I, too, am weak, and faith is small, And blindness happeneth unto all. 'Yet, sometimes glimpses on my sight, Through present wrong, the eternal right; And, step by step, since time began, I see the steady gain of man; 'That all of good the past hath had Remains to make our own time glad, Our common daily life divine, And every land a Palestine. 'Thou weariest of thy present state; What gain to thee time's holiest date? The doubter now perchance had been As High Priest or as Pilate then! 'What thought Chorazin's scribes? What faith In Him had Nain and Nazareth? Of the few followers whom He led One sold Him,-all forsook and fled. 'O friend! we need nor rock nor sand, Nor storied stream of Morning-Land; The heavens are glassed in Merrimac,- What more could Jordan render back? 'We lack but open eye and ear To find the Orient's marvels here; The still small voice in autumn's hush, Yon maple wood the burning bush. 'For still the new transcends the old, In signs and tokens manifold; Slaves rise up men; the olive waves, With roots deep set in battle graves! 'Through the harsh noises of our day A low, sweet prelude finds its way; Through clouds of doubt, and creeds of fear, A light is breaking, calm and clear. 'That song of Love, now low and far, Erelong shall swell from star to star! That light, the breaking day, which tips The golden-spired Apocalypse!' Then, when my good friend shook his head, And, sighing, sadly smiled, I said: 'Thou mind'st me of a story told In rare Bernardin's leaves of gold.' And while the slanted sunbeams wove The shadows of the frost-stained grove, And, picturing all, the river ran O'er cloud and wood, I thus began:- . . . . . . . . . . . . . In Mount Valerien's chestnut wood The Chapel of the Hermits stood; And thither, at the close of day, Came two old pilgrims, worn and gray. One, whose impetuous youth defied The storms of Baikal's wintry side, And mused and dreamed where tropic day Flamed o'er his lost Virginia's bay. His simple tale of love and woe All hearts had melted, high or low;- A blissful pain, a sweet distress, Immortal in its tenderness. Yet, while above his charmed page Beat quick the young heart of his age, He walked amidst the crowd unknown, A sorrowing old man, strange and lone. A homeless, troubled age,-the gray Pale setting of a weary day; Too dull his ear for voice of praise, Too sadly worn his brow for bays. Pride, lust of power and glory, slept; Yet still his heart its young dream kept, And, wandering like the deluge-dove, Still sought the resting-place of love. And, mateless, childless, envied more The peasant's welcome from his door By smiling eyes at eventide, Than kingly gifts or lettered pride. Until, in place of wife and child, All-pitying Nature on him smiled, And gave to him the golden keys To all her inmost sanctities. Mild Druid of her wood-paths dim! She laid her great heart bare to him, Its loves and sweet accords;-he saw The beauty of her perfect law. The language of her signs lie knew, What notes her cloudy clarion blew; The rhythm of autumn's forest dyes, The hymn of sunset's painted skies. And thus he seemed to hear the song Which swept, of old, the stars along; A