Dutton's "Woodstock" and Bradbury's "Brown," which often replaces it, are worthy rivals of each other, and both continue in favor as fit choral interpretations of the much-loved hymn.

Deodatus Dutton was born Dec. 22, 1808, and educated at Brown University and Washington College (now Trinity) Hartford Ct. While there he was a student of music and played the organ at Dr. Matthews' church. He studied theology in New York city, and had recently entered the ministry when he suddenly died, Dec. 16, 1832, a moment before rising to preach a sermon. During his brief life he had written several hymn-tunes, and published a book of psalmody. Mrs. Sigourney wrote a poem on his death.

"THERE'S A WIDENESS IN G.o.d'S MERCY."

Frederick William Faber, author of this favorite hymn-poem, had a peculiar genius for putting golden thoughts into common words, and making them sing. Probably no other sample of his work shows better than this his art of combining literary cleverness with the most reverent piety. Cant was a quality Faber never could put into his religious verse.

He was born in Yorkshire, Eng., June 28, 1814, and received his education at Oxford. Settled as Rector of Elton, in Huntingdonshire, in 1843, he came into sympathy with the "Oxford Movement," and followed Newman into the Romish Church. He continued his ministry as founder and priest for the London branch of the Catholic congregation of St. Philip Neri for fourteen years, dying Sept. 26, 1863, at the age of forty-nine.

His G.o.dly hymns betray no credal shibboleth or doctrinal bias, but are songs for the whole earthly church of G.o.d.

There's a wideness in G.o.d's mercy Like the wideness of the sea; There's a kindness in His justice Which is more than liberty.

There is welcome for the sinner And more graces for the good; There is mercy with the Saviour, There is healing in His blood.

There's no place where earthly sorrows Are more felt than up in heaven; There's no place where earthly failings Have such kindly judgment given.

There is plentiful redemption In the blood that has been shed, There is joy for all the members In the sorrows of the Head.

For the love of G.o.d is broader Than the measure of man's mind, And the heart of the Eternal Is most wonderfully kind.

If our love were but more simple We should take Him at His word, And our lives would be all sunshine In the sweetness of the Lord.

No tone of comfort has breathed itself more surely and tenderly into grieved hearts than these tuneful and singularly expressive sentences of Frederick Faber.

_THE TUNE._

The music of S.J. Vail sung to Faber's hymn is one of that composer's best hymn-tunes, and its melody and natural movement impress the meaning as well as the simple beauty of the words.

Silas Jones Vail, an American music-writer, was born Oct., 1818, and died May 20, 1883. Another charming tune is "Wellesley," by Lizzie S.

Tourjee, daughter of the late Dr. Eben Tourjee.

"HE LEADETH ME! OH, BLESSED THOUGHT."

Professor Gilmore, of Rochester University, N.Y., when a young Baptist minister (1861) supplying a pulpit in Philadelphia "jotted down this hymn in Deacon Watson's parlor" (as he says) and pa.s.sed it to his wife, one evening after he had made "a conference-room talk" on the 23d Psalm.

Mrs. Gilmore, without his knowledge, sent it to the _Watchman and Reflector_ (now the _Watchman_).

Years after its publication in that paper, when a candidate for the pastorate of the Second Baptist Church in Rochester, he was turning the leaves of the vestry hymnal in use there, and saw his hymn in it. Since that first publication in the _Devotional Hymn and Tune Book_ (1865) it has been copied in the hymnals of various denominations, and steadily holds its place in public favor. The refrain added by the tunemaker emphasizes the sentiment of the lines, and undoubtedly enhances the effect of the hymn.

"He leadeth me" has the true hymn quality, combining all the simplicity of spontaneous thought and feeling with perfect accent and liquid rhythm.

He leadeth me! Oh, blessed thought, Oh, words with heavenly comfort fraught; Whate'er I do, where'er I be, Still 'tis G.o.d's hand that leadeth me!

Lord, I would clasp Thy hand in mine, Nor ever murmur nor repine-- Content, whatever lot I see, Since 'tis my G.o.d that leadeth me.

Professor Joseph Henry Gilmore was born in Boston, April 29, 1834. He was graduated at Phillips Academy, Andover, at Brown University, and at the Newton Theological Inst.i.tution, where he was afterwards Hebrew instructor.

After four years of pastoral service he was elected (1867) professor of the English Language and Literature in Rochester University. He has published _Familiar Chats on Books and Reading_, also several college text-books on rhetoric, logic and oratory.

_THE TUNE._

The little hymn of four stanzas was peculiarly fortunate in meeting the eye of Mr. William B. Bradbury, (1863) and winning his musical sympathy and alliance. Few composers have so exactly caught the tone and spirit of their text as Bradbury did when he vocalized the gliding measures of "He leadeth me."

CHAPTER VI.

CHRISTIAN BALLADS.

Echoes of Hebrew thought, if not Hebrew psalmody, may have made their way into the more serious pagan literature. At least in the more enlightened pagans there has ever revealed itself more or less the instinct of the human soul that "feels after" G.o.d. St. Paul in his address to the Athenians made a tactful as well as scholarly point to preface a missionary sermon when he cited a line from a poem of Aratus (B.C. 272) familiar, doubtless, to the majority of his hearers.

Dr. Lyman Abbot has thus translated the pa.s.sage in which the line occurs:

Let us begin from G.o.d. Let every mortal raise The grateful voice to tune G.o.d's endless praise, G.o.d fills the heaven, the earth, the sea, the air; We feel His spirit moving everywhere, And we His offspring are.[17] He, ever good, Daily provides for man his daily food.

To Him, the First, the Last, all homage yield,-- Our Father wonderful, our help, our shield.

[Footnote 17: [Greek: Tou gar kai genos esmen.]]

"RISE, CROWNED WITH LIGHT."

Alexander Pope, a Roman Catholic poet, born in London 1688, died at Twickenham 1744, was not a hymnist, but pa.s.sages in his most serious and exalted flights deserve a tuneful accompaniment. His translations of Homer made him famous, but his ethical poems, especially his "Essay on Man," are inexhaustible mines of quotation, many of the lines and couplets being common as proverbs. His "Messiah," written about 1711, is a religious anthem in which the prophecies of Holy Writ kindle all the splendor of his verse.

_THE TUNE._

The closing strain, indicated by the above line, has been divided into stanzas of four lines suitable to a church hymn-tune. The melody selected by the compilers of the _Plymouth Hymnal_, and of the _Unitarian Hymn and Tune Book_ is "Savannah," an American sounding name for what is really one of Pleyel's chorals. The music is worthy of Pope's triumphal song.

The seas shall waste, the skies to smoke decay, Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away, But fixed His Word; His saving power remains: Thy realm shall last; thy own Messiah reigns.

"OH, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT?"

This is a sombre poem, but its virile strength and its literary merit have given it currency, and commended it to the taste of many people, both weak and strong, who have the pensive temperament. Abraham Lincoln loved it and committed it to memory in his boyhood. Philip Phillips set it to music, and sang it--or a part of it--one day during the Civil war at the anniversary of the Christian Sanitary Commission, when President Lincoln, who was present, called for its repet.i.tion.[18] It was written by William Knox, born 1789, son of a Scottish farmer.

[Footnote 18: This account so nearly resembles the story of Mrs. Gates'

"Your Mission," sung to a similar audience, on a similar occasion, by the same man, that a possible confusion by the narrators of the incident has been suggested. But that Mr. Phillips sang twice before the President during the war does not appear to be contradicted. To what air he sang the above verses is uncertain.]

The poem has fourteen stanzas, the following being the first and two last--

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, He pa.s.seth from life to rest in the grave.