“Consider the work of God.”

We have passed, from late Spring into Summer. Let us go out into the balmy air and mark what changes have passed over the land since we had our Spring scamper among the fields. It will befit these graver months of the year soberly to walk now. And a quiet sauntering walk over the fields is in truth a delightful thing upon a Summer’s day.

How delicious to thread the narrow parting through the deep hay, just ready to be cut, meadow after meadow full of tall, silky, waving grass; here a patch feathery, and of silvery lilac hue; here the rough crowfoot; here the drooping oat-grass; here trembling, delicate pyramids; here miniature bulrushes; and, choice and rare, the graceful quaking grass, with its thin filaments, and its fruit shot with faint purple, and pale green, and light brown. Numberless flowers,—gold, and rose, and crimson, and lilac, and amethyst,—these smile up at you close to the path, and give104 a sweet hint of stronger colour, far away throughout the hues and many unpronounced tints of the grass.

You spring over a stile, and, sweet surprise! come upon a field half-mown. It is the first you have seen this year,—the first deep ranks of close tall growth falling before the scythe,—the first scent of hay; and the first waft of this is to the scent what the first note of the cuckoo is to the ear. There the deep swathes lie in long rows, the innocent sweet flowers looking up at first with something of sad wonder, but soon drooping in a death which shall not be called untimely, because it is useful, and following on completed work. Of it we may say with the wise king, that “being made perfect in a short time, it fulfilled a long time.” And, like a loved memory after a holy death, the scent of the dying grass and flowers lingers sweetly in the soft air.

Well, we surmount another stile, and enter a wheat-field. How beautiful the myriad stalks and the broad drooping leaves, of a more sober bluer green than that of grass! I always notice that as soon as the hay is made, or making, the full bulging sheaths of the wheat begin to open, and to divulge the secret wealth of the green ear. The pointed flag falls over it; but very soon it bursts the swaddling bands, and rises proudly above the now obsequious deposed leaves, like an heir above his nurses. And then the whole wheat-field stands in blossom, the little trembling stamens escaping all over the husks, and the great width of tall ears begins its solemn stately waving and bending, and its undying whisper in the faint warm Summer airs.

And through the long colonnades there are here also sweet107 and fair flowers: the bright pimpernel, the dull-grey cud-weed, the glad speedwell, the small blue forget-me-not, the white feverfew,—these are the low carpet growth. Then higher, and like illuminations hung through the columns, there is the rich blue corn-flower, and the purple corn-cockle in its green star-shaped cup; and last in order, but almost first in beauty, the glorious scarlet poppy, with its satin-black eye,—a flower of dazzling splendour, but calumniated and ill-used beyond my endurance. “Flaunting poppies,” indeed! Why, they are the drooping banners of God’s army of the corn! Here they are waving out in all their glory; here they are folded up (somewhat crumpled) within that green case, out of which they are gleaming, just ready to be unfurled for the march. I love the violet—none better; but I protest against the folly, and, in a minor degree, injustice, of instituting an inane comparison between it and the poppy, to the discredit of my favourite of the corn-fields. A better lesson might be taught by pointing out how each fulfils the duties of that state to which it has pleased God to call it: the sweet violet among its leaves, like the modest wife at home; the brave poppy among the open and wealthy corn-fields, like the husband called out into the business of the thronged world.

This is a digression, however. Let us get back to Summer days, and the fallen grass, and the wide wheat-fields in flower.

Many days have not passed before that flower falls, and the delicate paleness of the new-born ear passes away, and the corn-fields settle down to the grave work of the year.

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“Long grass swaying in the playing of the almost wearied breeze; Flowers bowed beneath a crowd of the tawny-armoured bees; Sumptuous forests, filled with twilight, like a dreamy old romance; Rivers falling, rivers calling, in their indolent advance.”

That was all very well in the year’s early manhood, scarcely distinguishable from youth. But a more prosaic gravity has toned down those romantic feelings, and it has discovered that there is work, grave work—work sometimes a little wearisome and dull—to be done. The fairy lightness and greenness, the delicacy and exquisite freshness, of the year, have passed away. It is not Dream-land any longer—not a scene of faint rose-flushed or dazzling white blossom, but of hushed, sober colour, and of somewhat of monotony and sameness. The fair Bride fruit-trees are clad in dark garments now, and busy with their families of little unripe things, that have to be educated into ripeness and usefulness. The oaks are no more clad in “glad light green” or very red leaves, and the elms have toned down even the little brightening up of Summer growth at the end of their branches, all into that quiet, dust-dulled, dark hue. And so with all the trees; and under the tall growth of the copses there is not the play and dance of myriad butterflies of sunlight in soft meadows of shade; but the shadow is almost gloomy, and the stillness is quite solemn. Thin tall grass or broad grave ferns have taken the place of the sheets of glad primroses, and bright wood anemones, and azure hyacinths, and rich orchis.

There is no disguising it: the freshness and first energy of things has spent itself and gone, the landscape is dulled and dustied. A little while ago every day was different; now every109 day seems much the same. There is not the constant progression, the still developing beauty, the ever new delights of every new day. New birds to greet, new clothing for the meadows, new carpets for the woods, new glories for the trees: all these
“Faded in the distance, where the thickening leaves were piled.”

And the year has done with its extravagantly profuse promises, its eager pressing on to some ideal and impossible beauty not yet attained, never to be attained, though it would not believe this, in those old inexperienced days, when it cast away blossom and freshness of leaf as things that did but impede it, in the impatience of its hurry after that Perfection which is a dream on earth, though it be true in Heaven. True also in Him, in whom earth and Heaven have met; this stooping to the tangible, and that raised to the sublime.

Yes, the year seems at a standstill now, and sobered down, and sedate, and hushed. Above all, it is silent. Those ecstatic melodies, those “p?ans clear,” that rang out through the groves—the song of the willow-wren, the thrush, the blackbird, the blackcap, the nightingale—all are silent. Even the little robin has no voice for Summer days; only the yellow-hammer reiterates its short, plaintive, monotonous note on the dusty wayside hedge.
“Dear is the morning gale of Spring, And dear th’ autumnal eve; But few delights can Summer bring A poet’s crown to weave. 110
“Her bowers are mute, her fountains dry, And ever Fancy’s wing Speeds from beneath her cloudless sky To Autumn or to Spring.
“Sweet is the infant’s waking smile, And sweet the old man’s rest; But middle age by no fond wile, No soothing calm is blest.”

Sweet Summer days! I am far from meaning to depreciate you, or to deny to you the need of much beauty and calm delight; but it is true, nevertheless, and must be conceded, that the poet’s complaint has some ground of reason. We miss something in Summer days: it must ever be so in this world. Attainment must ever disappoint: reality is another thing from the image of our dreams. The finished painting is not all that the first rough sketch hinted and shadowed out. Spring may be high-spirited and eager—Summer must ever be grave, and hushed, and sedate.

And what then? Something is missed: but is nothing found? What is the year doing in the gravity, and monotony, and silence of Summer days? Our life is much like that of the year. It has its Spring and its Summer, its Autumn and its Winter. We, too, pass out of youth, and excitement, and impetuosity, and hope, into manhood, and gravity, and calmness—and disappointment. What, then, is the year doing in this stage of its life? If we look aside from our own experience to its example, what does that example teach us?

The question, “What is the year doing?” suggests the answer to our inquiries. The year is doing. It is gravely, quietly, perseveringly at work. And earnest, hearty, steady111 work at that which God has given us to do—work hearty, if a little dull and monotonous—this is the lesson taught by Summer days.

Work, steady work, dry, monotonous work, aye, this is the lesson of Life’s Summer; this succeeds its dream-time, this precedes its rest. Yes, in truth, the Spring anticipation and eager energy have gone. The Autumn repose has not yet come. The year is gravely, and steadily, and prosaically at work now; its ardour and ecstasies calmed, its wild impossible hopes toned down, its grace of blossom vanished. All vegetation is busy, maturing seed and fruit, sober grain and useful hay. The earth, like her child, the ant,
“Provideth her meat in the summer, And gathereth her food in the harvest.”

Toiling in the dust and heat; toiling without rest, wearily often, uncheered by songs. For the little choristers of the trees are themselves grave and sedate now, and busied with their nests, and with the care of rearing their family. There is little change, save a deepening of colour; the morning finds the earth still ceaselessly at work, and in the tender evenings and grey nights, the glimpsing lightnings and the intent stars disclose or behold the same scene:
“Rapid, rosy-tinted lightnings, where the rocky clouds are riven, Like the lifting of a veil before the inner courts of heaven: Silver stars in azure evenings, slowly climbing up the steep”:

What do these still discover? What but
“Corn-fields ripening to the harvest, and the wide seas smooth with sleep.”

112 Let Summer days then teach us, as, one after one, they greet us and depart, their wise, but unobtruded lesson. The Summer time being the time of grave steady work, and there being also such a time in our lives, a time of dust, and heat, and toil, when our spirits sometimes seem to flag, and the very sameness of labour brings over us a depression, and a lingering longing after the time of blossom, and of clear new verdure; there being this resemblance between us, let us examine the year’s work, if perhaps we may gather some hints for ours. How does the year work? and how should we work, when that first zest that made work easy has gone, and the time of rest is on the other side of our labour.

The year works thoroughly, more implicitly obedient than man to this teaching of its Maker,
“Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.”

God seems to have made, in all the wonderful animal and vegetable growth which surrounds us, some to honour, and some to dishonour. Even as with nations, there were the chosen people, and there were those left yet degraded—and as with individuals, there are those whose work is to evangelise a world, and there are those whose work is to follow the plough, or to order the household—so it is with plants, and flowers, and trees.

And from this point of view we shall find that they have much to teach us in our work. How thoroughly it is all done, and with the might; the noble as well as the homely work! There are some plants busy maturing groundsel-seed and beech-mast, some maturing strawberries, and peaches, and113 pines. But each does its utmost, and the work of the inferior degree is equal in quality with that of the higher. The shepherd’s-purse and the thistledown are as perfectly and exquisitely finished, as are the apricot and the grape.

And this strikes me as leading up to a cheering and beautiful thought—to a thought which has often occurred to me in reading the parable of the Talents. There is, let me remark, this difference between this parable and that of the Pounds: that in the one case the work was equal in quality, bearing exactly the same proportion to the advantages, which were dissimilar; in the other case the advantages and opportunities were the same for each, but the work was unequal and greatly differing in quality. Thus each has its separate teaching.

And in this parable of the Talents, the same heartening thought came to me as that wafted from fields, and trees, and gardens, on the breath of Summer days. It was cheering, and a matter of much thankfulness, to recollect that it was possible, in a low condition, and with less advantages, to serve God in the same proportion with the greatest of God’s saints: to fight as well and as nobly in the ranks as any officer could do who waved his soldiers to the charge. It was, I say, very comforting to read, after

    “Lord, thou deliveredst unto me five talents: behold, I have gained beside them five talents more”;

and the “Well done” that followed—it was exceedingly sweet to read, farther on,

    “He also that had received two talents came and said, Lord, thou deliveredst unto me two talents: behold, I have gained two other talents beside them.”

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And then to hear just the same ringing glorious words, “Well done!” words that come like a burst of joy-bells across the heart. For I said to myself, “Cheer up, and be bold,—humble, insignificant, lowly though thou be, and sorrowfully, impotently longing to do great things, to fight a good fight, for Him who died for thee and rose again. Yea, be of good courage, and do even thy best with that thou hast. The one had ten talents to bring, the other but four, yet cheerily, bravely, modestly, did he bring them; the amount was different, the work was the same. Each had wrought in the same proportion. He with five talents had indeed doubled them. But he with two talents had likewise doubled these.”

Therefore, men, my brothers, women, my sisters, let us thank God and take courage. Let us not repine if our sphere be narrow, and our work seemingly insignificant; let us not look enviously at those with great talents, and grand opportunities, and wide work. Let us take heart, as we look at the tiny wayside plant, and at the laden fruit-tree, all at work, under the sun, in the quiet Summer days. There is no caprice, but there is much to surprise us in the allotment of work in God’s world. So, art thou an oak, capable, as it seems to thee, of great deeds and noble fruit? Scorn not, however, to spend thy life making and maturing acorns, if thus it please God to employ thee. Art thou a lowly strawberry plant, weak, and easily trampled, and (thou deemest) capable of nothing worthy? Shrink not, at God’s bidding, to endeavour to fashion rich and precious fruit, which, if thou art patient and faithful, God’s rain shall nourish, and His sun shall ripen. Such an oak might St. Paul have seemed, chained to the Roman soldiers, yet I wot he then115 fashioned acorns, whose branches have since overspread the world. Such a lowly plant was Moses, deprecating God’s behests at the burning bush. Yet I trow that was noble fruit that he was enabled to mature.

For the comfortable thought is, that we work not in our own strength, nor from our own resources. God supplies strength and material, and then undoubtedly it is for us to116 use them. Yet the principle of growth is His gift; and so also are the sun, and the wind, and the rain. Without Him, we can do nothing. But with Him, everything.
“I can do all things,—through Christ which strengtheneth me.”

Let us then be brave-hearted and true-hearted, and learn this lesson from the earth’s work under the sun. Never to envy nor to repine, nor to be amazed at life, but just to give all our heart to the maturing and perfecting the work which God has entrusted to us to do for Him—if in the garden bed, the choice fruit; if by the wayside, the small seed which He has prepared for us to tend. Let us work thoroughly, in these short Summer days.

Another hint from the year’s work. It works leisurely, bringing forth fruit with patience. Thus the poets sweetly describe its work:
“Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo’d from out the bud, With winds upon the branch, and there Grows green and broad, and takes no care, Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moon Nightly dew-fed; and, turning yellow, Falls and floats adown the air. Lo! sweetened with the Summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent Autumn night. All its allotted length of days The flower ripens in its place, Ripens, and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast rooted in the fruitful soil.”

Thus flower, and leaf, and fruit, do their part thoroughly, and expect God’s blessing patiently, and trustfully leave all to Him.117 There is no hurry, though there is no idleness or slackness. Again, as a contrast to our heat and fever, and hurry, and distrust, regard the sublime calm of nature:
“Sweet is the leisure of the bird, She craves no time for work deferred; Her wings are not to aching stirred, Providing for her helpless ones.
“Fair is the leisure of the wheat; All night the damps about it fleet, All day it basketh in the heat, And grows, and whispers orisons.
“Grand is the leisure of the earth; She gives her happy myriads birth, And after harvest fears not dearth, But goes to sleep in snow wreaths dim.”

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Yes, as the Great Teacher said (and the saying seems to me one of the most suggestive of even His sayings), the earth brings forth her fruit with patience. And now, what a contrast is this to our work! How distrustful, how impatient we are! How apt to be in a hurry! We would have the whole long Summer’s work done in the first short Spring day. We want the leaves perfect, and the blossom gone, and the fruit not only set, but ripened all at once. We cannot ourselves bring forth fruit with patience, nor be content to wait its gradual growth and ripening in others.

I give two examples of this. One is of the education of children. We want the ripe fruit, too often, before the bud has even well developed for the bloom. What unnatural precocity do some well-meaning religious parents bring out, and exult over, in the little delicate undeveloped minds that God has given to their care. It pains me to read the stories that are so prized by some people. They force upon one the sense of such utter unreality. What experience has that infant mind gathered of the deep feelings and inward struggles, the defeats and victories, the repentances and recoveries, the depressions and ecstasies, the wrestlings in prayer, the astonishments, the dismays, the failings, and the attainments, that are familiar to the veteran in the battles of the Lord? And yet we would make him talk the language of the soldier of the hundred fights, when, only very lately brought into the camp, he does but sit among the tents, hardly yet even seeing or hearing
“The distant battle flash and ring.”

Experience will come, but until he has had it, why should you119 require its tokens? The war is at hand, but is it wise to bid him ape its trophies while its grim earnest is scarcely yet to him a dream? Parents, anxious parents, heartily do I sympathise with your yearnings. You long to know certainly that your child is indeed a faithful and obedient child of God. Nevertheless, to hurry the work is often to mar it. Forced fruit, if you get it, is poor and flavourless, compared to the natural growth. And how much falls blighted from the bough! You have seen gooseberries red before full grown, and while others about them were green. But you know that this is not ripeness, but only its caricature. And I have seen such a mere painful caricature in the talk and conduct of the child. Be content,
“Learn to labour,—and to wait.”

Put in the seed watchfully, wisely, diligently, not rashly, nor over profusely; pray before, and during, and after the sowing; and then trust to God and wait. Dig not up the seed to see if it is sprouting; despair not if through long Winter months scarce any tender blade appear; suffer that the ground which ye have diligently, painfully, prayerfully sown, should bring forth fruit with patience.

My other instance is that of the desire and endeavour for holiness. How many that are but beginners in the race, chafe and fret because they cannot be at once at the goal. How many a one, but a babe in holiness, expects to be at once a man, without the gradual growth, the patient succession of day and night, and sun and shower, through this dusty toilsome Summer of our life. And depression, discouragement, sometimes120 falling away, results on this unwise hurry. The seed tries to grow with unnatural rapidity, and, therefore, having no root, it withers away. Oh wait, and work, and trust, seedling saint, and fear not but that God will send the full growth: yea, if thou wilt, even bid thee bend with fruit an hundredfold for Him. Only remember, God’s order is, first the blade, then the ear, then the full corn in the ear.

Yes, let us take comfort from the thought of the gradual growth and ripening of Summer days. Every day’s sun, every night’s dew, add a little. And at last the grain bows heavy and ripe, and the fruit reddens upon the branch, and weighs it towards the ground—that was once but a thin weak blade, or a small crude, sour, green bullet.

And—-for an ending of the discourse of Summer days—working thoroughly, and working patiently, the earth also works steadily on, and in spite of discouragement; of the loss of many dreams, and the experience of many failures. Its songs have gone; its freshness is over-gloomed; and dust has gathered upon its light and glory. Blights, and caterpillars, and frosts, have marred much; and the poetry and early fascination of Spring is over now.

But it goes on steadily, in the dry Summer glare, in the drought, and dust, and silence; patiently, uncheered by showers, and with many a leaf curling, many a fruit dropping. Though life often seems monotonous, and prosaic, and dry, it none the less steadily and persistently, and without giving up or losing heart, toils on.

Ah, thus in our Summer days, in the time of our manhood, when life’s poetry has fled, and we are not that we wished to121 be, and we do not that we wished to do; and the romance, and the glory, and the glitter of the once distant warfare, when
“Among the tents we paused and sung,”

has resolved itself into the stern realities, and prose, and smirch, and dust, of the long toilsome march, the weary watching, and the sob and sweat of the struggle and the contest; when this is so, let us gravely, solemnly settle down to the, at first sight, uncheered duties and blank programme of the work of Summer days. Yes, when the dull every-day routine of dry work is near to making us heart-sick and over-tired; when
“Still in the world’s hot, restless gleam We ply our weary task, While vainly for some pleasant dream Our restless glances ask,”

let us remember that, whatever our work be, so it be honest, God gave it us to do, and the homeliest act, or repetition of monotonous acts, is ennobled, if the motive be noble, and the labour stedfast and brave—if it be done heartily and well, as to the Lord, and not as unto men. Think of St. Paul making tents—yea, of Christ in the carpenter’s shop—and weary not—oh sick at heart, and disappointed of youth’s sweet Spring dreams and high imaginings!—of the work—however homely, however monotonous, however dull and prosaic—which yet God hath given thee to be done.

Friends, let us work in Summer days. The Spring is past; we will not, therefore, spend our golden hours in useless regrets. The Autumn has not yet come. But the Summer is with us now. Beyond it there may be a land of Beulah, even here,122 when the dust, and toil, and strain pass by a little, and something of the old-remembered brightness of colour and beauty flushes over the land. Whether or no such an Autumn-quiet be attained, the Summer will pass, and the great Winter sleep will come. And beyond that there shall be Spring without its evanescence, Summer without its toil and weariness, and Autumn without its melancholy and death. Beyond the short labour of Summer days, “There remaineth a rest for the people of God.” Let us, therefore, labour, that we may enter into that rest.