These temples grew as grows the grass;
  Art might obey, but not surpass. 
  The passive Master lent his hand
  To the vast Soul that o’er him planned;
  And the same power that reared the shrine
  Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. 
  Ever the fiery Pentecost
  Girds with one flame the countless host,
  Trances the heart through chanting choirs,
  And through the priest the mind inspires. 
  The word unto the prophet spoken
  Was writ on tables yet unbroken;
  The word by seers or sibyls told,
  In groves of oak, or fanes of gold,
  Still floats upon the morning wind,
  Still whispers to the willing mind. 
  One accent of the Holy Ghost
  The heedless world hath never lost. 
  I know what say the fathers wise,—­
  The Book itself before me lies,—­
  Old Chrysostom, best Augustine,
  And he who blent both in his line,
  The younger Golden Lips or mines,
  Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. 
  His words are music in my ear,
  I see his cowled portrait dear;
  And yet, for all his faith could see,
  I would not the good bishop be.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

* * * * *

ON AN INFANT

    WHICH DIED BEFORE BAPTISM.

  “Be, rather than be called, a child of God,”
  Death whispered!—­with assenting nod,
  Its head upon its mother’s breast,
      The baby bowed, without demur—­
  Of the kingdom of the Blest
      Possessor, not inheritor.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

* * * * *

WHAT WAS HIS CREED?

    “Religion relates to life, and the life of religion is to do
    good.”—­SWEDENBORG.

  He left a load of anthracite
    In front of a poor woman’s door. 
  When the deep snow, frozen and white,
    Wrapped street and square, mountain and moor. 
        That was his deed. 
          He did it well. 
        “What was his creed?”
          I cannot tell.

  Blessed “in his basket and his store,”
    In sitting down and rising up;
  When more he got, he gave the more,
    Withholding not the crust and cup. 
        He took the lead
          In each good task. 
        “What was his creed?”
          I did not ask.

  His charity was like the snow,
    Soft, white, and silent in its fall;
  Not like the noisy winds that blow
    From shivering trees the leaves,—­a pall
        For flowers and weed,
          Drooping below. 
        “What was his creed?”
          The poor may know.

  He had great faith in loaves of bread
    For hungry people, young and old,
  Hope he inspired; kind words he said
    To those he sheltered from the cold. 
        For we should feed
          As well as pray. 
        “What was his creed?”
          I cannot say.