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diff --git a/4272-0.txt b/4272-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..fef7200 --- /dev/null +++ b/4272-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9296 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Christian Year, by John Keble, Edited by +Henry Morley + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: The Christian Year + + +Author: John Keble + +Editor: Henry Morley + +Release Date: April 23, 2013 [eBook #4272] +[This file was first posted on December 25, 2001] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHRISTIAN YEAR*** + + +Transcribed from the 1887 Cassell & Company edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.org + + [Picture: Book cover] + + CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY. + + * * * * * + + + + + + THE + CHRISTIAN YEAR + + + * * * * * + + BY + THE REV. JOHN KEBLE. + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED: + + _LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_. + + 1887. + + + + +INTRODUCTION. + + +JOHN KEBLE, two years older than his friend Dr. Arnold of Rugby, three +years older than Thomas Carlyle, and nine years older than John Henry +Newman, was born in 1792, at Fairford in Gloucestershire. He was born in +his father’s parsonage, and educated at home by his father till he went +to college. His father then entered him at his own college at Oxford, +Corpus Christi. Thoroughly trained, Keble obtained high reputation at +his University for character and scholarship, and became a Fellow of +Oriel. After some years he gave up work in the University, though he +could not divest himself of a large influence there for good, returned +home to his old father, who required help in his ministry, and undertook +for his the duty of two little curacies. The father lived on to the age +of ninety. John Keble’s love for God and his devotion to the Church had +often been expressed in verse. On days which the Church specially +celebrated, he had from time to time written short poems to utter from +the heart his own devout sense of their spiritual use and meaning. As +the number of these poems increased, the desire rose to follow in like +manner the while course of the Christian Year as it was marked for the +people by the sequence of church services, which had been arranged to +bring in due order before the minds of Christian worshippers all the +foundations of their faith, and all the elements of a religious life. A +book of poems, breathing faith and worship at all points, and in all +attitudes of heavenward contemplation, within the circle of the Christian +Year, would, he hoped, restore in many minds to many a benumbed form life +and energy. + +In 1825, while the poems of the Christian Year were gradually being +shaped into a single work, a brother became able to relieve John Keble in +that pious care for which his father had drawn him away from a great +University career, and he then went to a curacy at Hursley, four or five +miles from Winchester. + +In 1827—when its author’s age was thirty-five—“The Christian Year” was +published. Like George Herbert, whose equal he was in piety though not +in power, Keble was joined to the Church in fullest sympathy with all its +ordinances, and desired to quicken worship by putting into each part of +the ritual a life that might pass into and raise the life of man. The +spirit of true religion, with a power beyond that of any earthly feuds +and controversies, binds together those in whom it really lives. Setting +aside all smaller questions of the relative value of different earthly +means to the attainment of a life hidden with Christ in God, Christians +of all forms who are one in spirit have found help from “John Keble’s +Christian Year,” and think of its guileless author with kindly affection. +Within five-and-twenty years of its publication, a hundred thousand +copies had been sold. The book is still diffused so widely, in editions +of all forms, that it may yet go on, until the circle of the years shall +be no more, living and making live. + +Four years after “The Christian Year” appeared, Keble was appointed (in +1831) to the usual five years’ tenure of the Poetry Professorship at +Oxford. Two years after he had been appointed Poetry Professor, he +preached the Assize Sermon, and took for his theme “National Apostasy.” +John Henry Newman, who had obtained his Fellowship at Oriel some years +before the publication of “The Christian Year,” and was twenty-six years +old when it appeared, received from it a strong impulse towards the +endeavour to revive the spirit of the Church by restoring life and soul +to all her ordinances, and even to the minutest detail of her ritual. +The deep respect felt for the author of “The Christian Year” gave power +to the sermon of 1833 upon National Apostasy, and made it the +starting-point of the Oxford movement known as Tractarian, from the issue +of tracts through which its promoters sought to stir life in the clergy +and the people; known also as Puseyite because it received help at the +end of the year 1833 from Dr. Pusey, who was of like age with J. H. +Newman, and then Regius Professor of Hebrew. There was a danger, which +some then foresaw, in the nature of this endeavour to put life into the +Church; but we all now recognise the purity of Christian zeal that +prompted the attempt to make dead forms of ceremonial glow again with +spiritual fire, and serve as aids to the recovery of light and warmth in +our devotions. + +It was in 1833 that Keble, by one earnest sermon, with a pure life at the +back of it, and this book that had prepared the way, gave the direct +impulse to an Oxford movement for the reformation of the Church. The +movement then began. But Keble went back to his curacy at Hursley. Two +years afterwards the curate became vicar, and then Keble married. His +after-life continued innocent and happy. He and his wife died within two +months of each other, in the came year, 1866. He had taken part with his +friends at Oxford by writing five of their Tracts, publishing a few +sermons that laboured towards the same end, and editing a “Library of the +Fathers.” In 1847 he produced another volume of poems, “Lyra +Innocentium,” which associated doctrines of the Church with the lives of +children, whom he loved, though his own marriage was childless. + +The power of Keble’s verse lies in its truth. A faithful and pure +nature, strong in home affections, full of love and reverence for all +that is of heaven in our earthly lot, strives for the full consecration +of man’s life with love and faith. There is no rare gift of genius. +Keble is not in subtlety of thought or of expression another George +Herbert, or another Henry Vaughan. But his voice is not the less in +unison with theirs, for every note is true, and wins us by its purity. +His also are melodies of the everlasting chime. + + “And be ye sure that Love can bless + E’en in this crowded loneliness, + Where ever moving myriads seem to say, + Go—thou art nought to us, nor we to thee—away!” + + “There are in this loud stunning tide + Of human care and crime, + With whom the melodies abide + Of the everlasting chime; + Who carry music in their heart + Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, + Plying their daily task with busier feet, + Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.” + +With a peal, then, of such music let us ring in the New Year for our +Library; and for our lives. + +_January_ 1, 1887. + + H. M. + + + + +DEDICATION. + + + WHEN in my silent solitary walk, + I sought a strain not all unworthy Thee, + My heart, still ringing with wild worldly talk, + Gave forth no note of holier minstrelsy. + + Prayer is the secret, to myself I said, + Strong supplication must call down the charm, + And thus with untuned heart I feebly prayed, + Knocking at Heaven’s gate with earth-palsied arm. + + Fountain of Harmony! Thou Spirit blest, + By whom the troubled waves of earthly sound + Are gathered into order, such as best + Some high-souled bard in his enchanted round + + May compass, Power divine! Oh, spread Thy wing, + Thy dovelike wing that makes confusion fly, + Over my dark, void spirit, summoning + New worlds of music, strains that may not die. + + Oh, happiest who before thine altar wait, + With pure hands ever holding up on high + The guiding Star of all who seek Thy gate, + The undying lamp of heavenly Poesy. + + Too weak, too wavering, for such holy task + Is my frail arm, O Lord; but I would fain + Track to its source the brightness, I would bask + In the clear ray that makes Thy pathway plain. + + I dare not hope with David’s harp to chase + The evil spirit from the troubled breast; + Enough for me if I can find such grace + To listen to the strain, and be at rest. + + + + +THE CHRISTIAN YEAR. + + + + + + +Morning. + + + His compassions fail not. They are new every morning. + + _Lament_. iii. 22, 23. + + HUES of the rich unfolding morn, + That, ere the glorious sun be born, + By some soft touch invisible + Around his path are taught to swell;— + + Thou rustling breeze so fresh and gay, + That dancest forth at opening day, + And brushing by with joyous wing, + Wakenest each little leaf to sing;— + + Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam, + By which deep grove and tangled stream + Pay, for soft rains in season given, + Their tribute to the genial heaven;— + + Why waste your treasures of delight + Upon our thankless, joyless sight; + Who day by day to sin awake, + Seldom of Heaven and you partake? + + Oh, timely happy, timely wise, + Hearts that with rising morn arise! + Eyes that the beam celestial view, + Which evermore makes all things new! + + New every morning is the love + Our wakening and uprising prove; + Through sleep and darkness safely brought, + Restored to life, and power, and thought. + + New mercies, each returning day, + Hover around us while we pray; + New perils past, new sins forgiven, + New thoughts of God, new hopes of Heaven. + + If on our daily course our mind + Be set to hallow all we find, + New treasures still, of countless price, + God will provide for sacrifice. + + Old friends, old scenes will lovelier be, + As more of Heaven in each we see: + Some softening gleam of love and prayer + Shall dawn on every cross and care. + + As for some dear familiar strain + Untired we ask, and ask again, + Ever, in its melodious store, + Finding a spell unheard before; + + Such is the bliss of souls serene, + When they have sworn, and stedfast mean, + Counting the cost, in all t’ espy + Their God, in all themselves deny. + + Oh, could we learn that sacrifice, + What lights would all around us rise! + How would our hearts with wisdom talk + Along Life’s dullest, dreariest walk! + + We need not bid, for cloistered cell, + Our neighbour and our work farewell, + Nor strive to wind ourselves too high + For sinful man beneath the sky: + + The trivial round, the common task, + Would furnish all we ought to ask; + Room to deny ourselves; a road + To bring us daily nearer God. + + Seek we no more; content with these, + Let present Rapture, Comfort, Ease, + As Heaven shall bid them, come and go:— + The secret this of Rest below. + + Only, O Lord, in Thy dear love + Fit us for perfect Rest above; + And help us, this and every day, + To live more nearly as we pray. + + + +Evening. + + + Abide with us: for it is toward evening, and the day is far + spent.—_St. Luke_ xxiv. 29. + + ’TIS gone, that bright and orbèd blaze, + Fast fading from our wistful gaze; + You mantling cloud has hid from sight + The last faint pulse of quivering light. + + In darkness and in weariness + The traveller on his way must press, + No gleam to watch on tree or tower, + Whiling away the lonesome hour. + + Sun of my soul! Thou Saviour dear, + It is not night if Thou be near: + Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise + To hide Thee from Thy servant’s eyes! + + When round Thy wondrous works below + My searching rapturous glance I throw, + Tracing out Wisdom, Power and Love, + In earth or sky, in stream or grove;— + + Or by the light Thy words disclose + Watch Time’s full river as it flows, + Scanning Thy gracious Providence, + Where not too deep for mortal sense:— + + When with dear friends sweet talk I hold, + And all the flowers of life unfold; + Let not my heart within me burn, + Except in all I Thee discern. + + When the soft dews of kindly sleep + My wearied eyelids gently steep, + Be my last thought, how sweet to rest + For ever on my Saviour’s breast. + + Abide with me from morn till eve, + For without Thee I cannot live: + Abide with me when night is nigh, + For without Thee I dare not die. + + Thou Framer of the light and dark, + Steer through the tempest Thine own ark: + Amid the howling wintry sea + We are in port if we have Thee. + + The Rulers of this Christian land, + ’Twixt Thee and us ordained to stand,— + Guide Thou their course, O Lord, aright, + Let all do all as in Thy sight. + + Oh! by Thine own sad burthen, borne + So meekly up the hill of scorn, + Teach Thou Thy Priests their daily cross + To bear as Thine, nor count it loss! + + If some poor wandering child of Thine + Have spurned to-day the voice divine, + Now, Lord, the gracious work begin; + Let him no more lie down in sin. + + Watch by the sick: enrich the poor + With blessings from Thy boundless store: + Be every mourner’s sleep to-night, + Like infants’ slumbers, pure and light. + + Come near and bless us when we wake, + Ere through the world our way we take; + Till in the ocean of Thy love + We lose ourselves, in Heaven above. + + + +Advent Sunday. + + + Now it is high time to awake out of sleep: for now is our salvation + nearer than when we believed.—_Romans_ xiii 11. + + AWAKE—again the Gospel-trump is blown— + From year to year it swells with louder tone, + From year to year the signs of wrath + Are gathering round the Judge’s path, + Strange words fulfilled, and mighty works achieved, + And truth in all the world both hated and believed. + + Awake! why linger in the gorgeous town, + Sworn liegemen of the Cross and thorny crown? + Up from your beds of sloth for shame, + Speed to the eastern mount like flame, + Nor wonder, should ye find your King in tears, + E’en with the loud Hosanna ringing in His ears. + + Alas! no need to rouse them: long ago + They are gone forth to swell Messiah’s show: + With glittering robes and garlands sweet + They strew the ground beneath His feet: + All but your hearts are there—O doomed to prove + The arrows winged in Heaven for Faith that will not love! + + Meanwhile He passes through th’ adoring crowd, + Calm as the march of some majestic cloud, + That o’er wild scenes of ocean-war + Holds its still course in Heaven afar: + E’en so, heart-searching Lord, as years roll on, + Thou keepest silent watch from Thy triumphal throne: + + E’en so, the world is thronging round to gaze + On the dread vision of the latter days, + Constrained to own Thee, but in heart + Prepared to take Barabbas’ part: + “Hosanna” now, to-morrow “Crucify,” + The changeful burden still of their rude lawless cry. + + Yet in that throng of selfish hearts untrue + Thy sad eye rests upon Thy faithful few, + Children and childlike souls are there, + Blind Bartimeus’ humble prayer, + And Lazarus wakened from his four days’ sleep, + Enduring life again, that Passover to keep. + + And fast beside the olive-bordered way + Stands the blessed home where Jesus deigned to stay, + The peaceful home, to Zeal sincere + And heavenly Contemplation dear, + Where Martha loved to wait with reverence meet, + And wiser Mary lingered at Thy sacred feet. + + Still through decaying ages as they glide, + Thou lov’st Thy chosen remnant to divide; + Sprinkled along the waste of years + Full many a soft green isle appears: + Pause where we may upon the desert road, + Some shelter is in sight, some sacred safe abode. + + When withering blasts of error swept the sky, + And Love’s last flower seemed fain to droop and die, + How sweet, how lone the ray benign + On sheltered nooks of Palestine! + Then to his early home did Love repair, + And cheered his sickening heart with his own native air. + + Years roll away: again the tide of crime + Has swept Thy footsteps from the favoured clime + Where shall the holy Cross find rest? + On a crowned monarch’s mailèd breast: + Like some bright angel o’er the darkling scene, + Through court and camp he holds his heavenward course serene. + + A fouler vision yet; an age of light, + Light without love, glares on the aching sight: + Oh, who can tell how calm and sweet, + Meek Walton, shows thy green retreat, + When wearied with the tale thy times disclose, + The eye first finds thee out in thy secure repose? + + Thus bad and good their several warnings give + Of His approach, whom none may see and live: + Faith’s ear, with awful still delight, + Counts them like minute-bells at night. + Keeping the heart awake till dawn of morn, + While to her funeral pile this aged world is borne. + + But what are Heaven’s alarms to hearts that cower + In wilful slumber, deepening every hour, + That draw their curtains closer round, + The nearer swells the trumpet’s sound? + Lord, ere our trembling lamps sink down and die, + Touch us with chastening hand, and make us feel Thee nigh. + + + +Second Sunday in Advent. + + + And when these things begin to pass, then look up, and lift up your + heads; for your redemption draweth night. _St. Luke_ xxi. 28. + + NOT till the freezing blast is still, + Till freely leaps the sparkling rill, + And gales sweep soft from summer skies, + As o’er a sleeping infant’s eyes + A mother’s kiss; ere calls like these, + No sunny gleam awakes the trees, + Nor dare the tender flowerets show + Their bosoms to th’ uncertain glow. + + Why then, in sad and wintry time, + Her heavens all dark with doubt and crime, + Why lifts the Church her drooping head, + As though her evil hour were fled? + Is she less wise than leaves of spring, + Or birds that cower with folded wing? + What sees she in this lowering sky + To tempt her meditative eye? + + She has a charm, a word of fire, + A pledge of love that cannot tire; + By tempests, earthquakes, and by wars, + By rushing waves and falling stars, + By every sign her Lord foretold, + She sees the world is waxing old, + And through that last and direst storm + Descries by faith her Saviour’s form. + + Not surer does each tender gem, + Set in the fig-tree’s polish’d stem, + Foreshow the summer season bland, + Than these dread signs Thy mighty hand: + But, oh, frail hearts, and spirits dark! + The season’s flight unwarn’d we mark, + But miss the Judge behind the door, + For all the light of sacred lore: + + Yet is He there; beneath our eaves + Each sound His wakeful ear receives: + Hush, idle words, and thoughts of ill, + Your Lord is listening: peace, be still. + Christ watches by a Christian’s hearth, + Be silent, “vain deluding mirth,” + Till in thine alter’d voice be known + Somewhat of Resignation’s tone. + + But chiefly ye should lift your gaze + Above the world’s uncertain haze, + And look with calm unwavering eye + On the bright fields beyond the sky, + Ye, who your Lord’s commission bear + His way of mercy to prepare: + Angels He calls ye: be your strife + To lead on earth an Angel’s life. + + Think not of rest; though dreams be sweet, + Start up, and ply your heavenward feet. + Is not God’s oath upon your head, + Ne’er to sink back on slothful bed, + Never again your loans untie, + Nor let your torches waste and die, + Till, when the shadows thickest fall, + Ye hear your Master’s midnight call? + + + +Third Sunday in Advent. + + + What went ye out into the wilderness to see? A reed shaken with the + wind? . . . But what went ye out for to see? A prophet? yea, I say + unto you, and more than a prophet. _St. Matthew_ xi. 7, 9. + + WHAT went ye out to see + O’er the rude sandy lea, + Where stately Jordan flows by many a palm, + Or where Gennesaret’s wave + Delights the flowers to lave, + That o’er her western slope breathe airs of balm. + + All through the summer night, + Those blossoms red and bright + Spread their soft breasts, unheeding, to the breeze, + Like hermits watching still + Around the sacred hill, + Where erst our Saviour watched upon His knees. + + The Paschal moon above + Seems like a saint to rove, + Left shining in the world with Christ alone; + Below, the lake’s still face + Sleeps sweetly in th’ embrace + Of mountains terrac’d high with mossy stone. + + Here may we sit, and dream + Over the heavenly theme, + Till to our soul the former days return; + Till on the grassy bed, + Where thousands once He fed, + The world’s incarnate Maker we discern. + + O cross no more the main, + Wandering so will and vain, + To count the reeds that tremble in the wind, + On listless dalliance bound, + Like children gazing round, + Who on God’s works no seal of Godhead find. + + Bask not in courtly bower, + Or sun-bright hall of power, + Pass Babel quick, and seek the holy land— + From robes of Tyrian dye + Turn with undazzled eye + To Bethlehem’s glade, or Carmel’s haunted strand. + + Or choose thee out a cell + In Kedron’s storied dell, + Beside the springs of Love, that never die; + Among the olives kneel + The chill night-blast to feel, + And watch the Moon that saw thy Master’s agony. + + Then rise at dawn of day, + And wind thy thoughtful way, + Where rested once the Temple’s stately shade, + With due feet tracing round + The city’s northern bound, + To th’ other holy garden, where the Lord was laid. + + Who thus alternate see + His death and victory, + Rising and falling as on angel wings, + They, while they seem to roam, + Draw daily nearer home, + Their heart untravell’d still adores the King of kings. + + Or, if at home they stay, + Yet are they, day by day, + In spirit journeying through the glorious land, + Not for light Fancy’s reed, + Nor Honour’s purple meed, + Nor gifted Prophet’s lore, nor Science’ wondrous wand. + + But more than Prophet, more + Than Angels can adore + With face unveiled, is He they go to seek: + Blessèd be God, Whose grace + Shows Him in every place + To homeliest hearts of pilgrims pure and meek. + + + +Fourth Sunday in Advent. + + + The eyes of them that see shall not be dim, and the ears of them that + hear shall hearken. _Isaiah_ xxxii. 3 + + OF the bright things in earth and air + How little can the heart embrace! + Soft shades and gleaming lights are there— + I know it well, but cannot trace. + + Mine eye unworthy seems to read + One page of Nature’s beauteous book; + It lies before me, fair outspread— + I only cast a wishful look. + + I cannot paint to Memory’s eye + The scene, the glance, I dearest love— + Unchanged themselves, in me they die, + Or faint or false their shadows prove. + + In vain, with dull and tuneless ear, + I linger by soft Music’s cell, + And in my heart of hearts would hear + What to her own she deigns to tell. + + ’Tis misty all, both sight and sound— + I only know ’tis fair and sweet— + ’Tis wandering on enchanted ground + With dizzy brow and tottering feet. + + But patience! there may come a time + When these dull ears shall scan aright + Strains that outring Earth’s drowsy chime, + As Heaven outshines the taper’s light. + + These eyes, that dazzled now and weak, + At glancing motes in sunshine wink. + Shall see the Kings full glory break, + Nor from the blissful vision shrink: + + In fearless love and hope uncloyed + For ever on that ocean bright + Empowered to gaze; and undestroyed, + Deeper and deeper plunge in light. + + Though scarcely now their laggard glance + Reach to an arrow’s flight, that day + They shall behold, and not in trance, + The region “very far away.” + + If Memory sometimes at our spell + Refuse to speak, or speak amiss, + We shall not need her where we dwell + Ever in sight of all our bliss. + + Meanwhile, if over sea or sky + Some tender lights unnoticed fleet, + Or on loved features dawn and die, + Unread, to us, their lesson sweet; + + Yet are there saddening sights around, + Which Heaven, in mercy, spares us too, + And we see far in holy ground, + If duly purged our mental view. + + The distant landscape draws not nigh + For all our gazing; but the soul, + That upward looks, may still descry + Nearer, each day, the brightening goal. + + And thou, too curious ear, that fain + Wouldst thread the maze of Harmony, + Content thee with one simple strain, + The lowlier, sure, the worthier thee; + + Till thou art duly trained, and taught + The concord sweet of Love divine: + Then, with that inward Music fraught, + For ever rise, and sing, and shine. + + + +Christmas Day. + + + And suddenly there was with the Angel a multitude of the heavenly + host, praising God. _St. Luke_ ii. 13. + + WHAT sudden blaze of song + Spreads o’er th’ expanse of Heaven? + In waves of light it thrills along, + Th’ angelic signal given— + “Glory to God!” from yonder central fire + Flows out the echoing lay beyond the starry choir; + + Like circles widening round + Upon a clear blue river, + Orb after orb, the wondrous sound + Is echoed on for ever: + “Glory to God on high, on earth be peace, + And love towards men of love—salvation and release.” + + Yet stay, before thou dare + To join that festal throng; + Listen and mark what gentle air + First stirred the tide of song; + ’Tis not, “the Saviour born in David’s home, + To Whom for power and health obedient worlds should come:”— + + ’Tis not, “the Christ the Lord:” + With fixed adoring look + The choir of Angels caught the word, + Nor yet their silence broke: + But when they heard the sign where Christ should be, + In sudden light they shone and heavenly harmony. + + Wrapped in His swaddling bands, + And in His manger laid, + The Hope and Glory of all lands + Is come to the world’s aid: + No peaceful home upon his cradle smiled, + Guests rudely went and came, where slept the royal Child. + + But where Thou dwellest, Lord, + No other thought should be, + Once duly welcomed and adored, + How should I part with Thee? + Bethlehem must lose Thee soon, but Thou wilt grace + The single heart to be Thy sure abiding-place. + + Thee, on the bosom laid + Of a pure virgin mind, + In quiet ever, and in shade, + Shepherd and sage may find; + They, who have bowed untaught to Nature’s sway, + And they, who follow Truth along her star-paved way. + + The pastoral spirits first + Approach Thee, Babe divine, + For they in lowly thoughts are nursed, + Meet for Thy lowly shrine: + Sooner than they should miss where Thou dost dwell, + Angela from Heaven will stoop to guide them to Thy cell. + + Still, as the day comes round + For Thee to be revealed, + By wakeful shepherds Thou art found, + Abiding in the field. + All through the wintry heaven and chill night air, + In music and in light Thou dawnest on their prayer. + + O faint not ye for fear— + What though your wandering sheep, + Reckless of what they see and hear, + Lie lost in wilful sleep? + High Heaven in mercy to your sad annoy + Still greets you with glad tidings of immortal joy. + + Think on th’ eternal home, + The Saviour left for you; + Think on the Lord most holy, come + To dwell with hearts untrue: + So shall ye tread untired His pastoral ways, + And in the darkness sing your carol of high praise. + + + +St. Stephen’s Day. + + + He, being full of the Holy Ghost, looked up steadfastly into heaven, + and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing on the right hand of + God. _Acts_ vii. 55 + + AS rays around the source of light + Stream upward ere he glow in sight, + And watching by his future flight + Set the clear heavens on fire; + So on the King of Martyrs wait + Three chosen bands, in royal state, + And all earth owns, of good and great, + Is gather’d in that choir. + + One presses on, and welcomes death: + One calmly yields his willing breath, + Nor slow, nor hurrying, but in faith + Content to die or live: + And some, the darlings of their Lord, + Play smiling with the flame and sword, + And, ere they speak, to His sure word + Unconscious witness give. + + Foremost and nearest to His throne, + By perfect robes of triumph known, + And likest Him in look and tone, + The holy Stephen kneels, + With stedfast gaze, as when the sky + Flew open to his fainting eye, + Which, like a fading lamp, flash’d high, + Seeing what death conceals. + + Well might you guess what vision bright + Was present to his raptured sight, + E’en as reflected streams of light + Their solar source betray— + The glory which our God surrounds, + The Son of Man, the atoning wounds— + He sees them all; and earth’s dull bounds + Are melting fast away. + + He sees them all—no other view + Could stamp the Saviour’s likeness true, + Or with His love so deep embrue + Man’s sullen heart and gross— + “Jesus, do Thou my soul receive: + Jesu, do Thou my foes forgive;” + He who would learn that prayer must live + Under the holy Cross. + + He, though he seem on earth to move, + Must glide in air like gentle dove, + From yon unclouded depths above + Must draw his purer breath; + Till men behold his angel face + All radiant with celestial grace, + Martyr all o’er, and meet to trace + The lines of Jesus’ death. + + + +St. John’s Day. + + + Peter seeing him, saith to Jesus, Lord, and what shall this man do? + Jesus saith unto him, If I will that he tarry till I come, what is + that to thee? follow thou Me. _St. John_ xxi. 21, 22. + + “LORD, and what shall this man do?” + Ask’st thou, Christian, for thy friend? + If his love for Christ be true, + Christ hath told thee of his end: + This is he whom God approves, + This is he whom Jesus loves. + + Ask not of him more than this, + Leave it in his Saviour’s breast, + Whether, early called to bliss, + He in youth shall find his rest, + Or armèd in his station wait + Till his Lord be at the gate: + + Whether in his lonely course + (Lonely, not forlorn) he stay, + Or with Love’s supporting force + Cheat the toil, and cheer the way: + Leave it all in His high hand, + Who doth hearts as streams command. + + Gales from Heaven, if so He will, + Sweeter melodies can wake + On the lonely mountain rill + Than the meeting waters make. + Who hath the Father and the Son, + May be left, but not alone. + + Sick or healthful, slave or free, + Wealthy, or despised and poor— + What is that to him or thee, + So his love to Christ endure? + When the shore is won at last, + Who will count the billows past? + + Only, since our souls will shrink + At the touch of natural grief, + When our earthly loved ones sink, + Lend us, Lord, Thy sure relief; + Patient hearts, their pain to see, + And Thy grace, to follow Thee. + + + +The Holy Innocents. + + + These were redeemed from among men, being the firstfruits unto God + and to the Lamb. _Rev._ xiv. 4. + + SAY, ye celestial guards, who wait + In Bethlehem, round the Saviour’s palace gate, + Say, who are these on golden wings, + That hover o’er the new-born King of kings, + Their palms and garlands telling plain + That they are of the glorious martyr-train, + Next to yourselves ordained to praise + His Name, and brighten as on Him they gaze? + + But where their spoils and trophies? where + The glorious dint a martyr’s shield should bear? + How chance no cheek among them wears + The deep-worn trace of penitential tears, + But all is bright and smiling love, + As if, fresh-borne from Eden’s happy grove, + They had flown here, their King to see, + Nor ever had been heirs of dark mortality? + + Ask, and some angel will reply, + “These, like yourselves, were born to sin and die, + But ere the poison root was grown, + God set His seal, and marked them for His own. + Baptised its blood for Jesus’ sake, + Now underneath the Cross their bed they make, + Not to be scared from that sure rest + By frightened mother’s shriek, or warrior’s waving crest.” + + Mindful of these, the firstfruits sweet + Borne by this suffering Church her Lord to greet; + Blessed Jesus ever loved to trace + The “innocent brightness” of an infant’s face. + He raised them in His holy arms, + He blessed them from the world and all its harms: + Heirs though they were of sin and shame, + He blessed them in his own and in his Father’s Name. + + Then, as each fond unconscious child + On the everlasting Parent sweetly smiled + (Like infants sporting on the shore, + That tremble not at Ocean’s boundless roar), + Were they not present to Thy thought, + All souls, that in their cradles Thou hast bought? + But chiefly these, who died for Thee, + That Thou might’st live for them a sadder death to see. + + And next to these, Thy gracious word + Was as a pledge of benediction stored + For Christian mothers, while they moan + Their treasured hopes, just born, baptised, and gone. + Oh, joy for Rachel’s broken heart! + She and her babes shall meet no more to part; + So dear to Christ her pious haste + To trust them in His arms for ever safe embraced. + + She dares not grudge to leave them there, + Where to behold them was her heart’s first prayer; + She dares not grieve—but she must weep, + As her pale placid martyr sinks to sleep, + Teaching so well and silently + How at the shepherd’s call the lamb should die: + How happier far than life the end + Of souls that infant-like beneath their burthen bend. + + + +First Sunday after Christmas. + + + So the sun returned ten degrees, by which degrees it was gone down. + _Isaiah_ xxxviii. 8; compare _Josh._ x. 13. + + ’TIS true, of old the unchanging sun + His daily course refused to run, + The pale moon hurrying to the west + Paused at a mortal’s call, to aid + The avenging storm of war, that laid + Seven guilty realms at once on earth’s defiled breast. + + But can it be, one suppliant tear + Should stay the ever-moving sphere? + A sick man’s lowly-breathèd sigh, + When from the world he turns away, + And hides his weary eyes to pray, + Should change your mystic dance, ye wanderers of the sky? + + We too, O Lord, would fain command, + As then, Thy wonder-working hand, + And backward force the waves of Time, + That now so swift and silent bear + Our restless bark from year to year; + Help us to pause and mourn to Thee our tale of crime. + + Bright hopes, that erst the bosom warmed, + And vows, too pure to be performed, + And prayers blown wide by gales of care;— + These, and such faint half-waking dreams, + Like stormy lights on mountain streams, + Wavering and broken all, athwart the conscience glare. + + How shall we ’scape the o’erwhelming Past? + Can spirits broken, joys o’ercast, + And eyes that never more may smile:— + Can these th’ avenging bolt delay, + Or win us back one little day + The bitterness of death to soften and beguile? + + Father and Lover of our souls! + Though darkly round Thine anger rolls, + Thy sunshine smiles beneath the gloom, + Thou seek’st to warn us, not confound, + Thy showers would pierce the hardened ground + And win it to give out its brightness and perfume. + + Thou smil’st on us in wrath, and we, + E’en in remorse, would smile on Thee, + The tears that bathe our offered hearts, + We would not have them stained and dim, + But dropped from wings of seraphim, + All glowing with the light accepted love imparts. + + Time’s waters will not ebb, nor stay; + Power cannot change them, but Love may; + What cannot be, Love counts it done. + Deep in the heart, her searching view + Can read where Faith is fixed and true, + Through shades of setting life can see Heaven’s work begun. + + O Thou, who keep’st the Key of Love, + Open Thy fount, eternal Dove, + And overflow this heart of mine, + Enlarging as it fills with Thee, + Till in one blaze of charity + Care and remorse are lost, like motes in light divine; + + Till as each moment wafts us higher, + By every gush of pure desire, + And high-breathed hope of joys above, + By every secret sigh we heave, + Whole years of folly we outlive, + In His unerring sight, who measures Life by Love. + + + +The Circumcision of Christ. + + + In whom also ye are circumcised with the circumcision made without + hands. _Coloss._ ii. 11. + + THE year begins with Thee, + And Thou beginn’st with woe, + To let the world of sinners see + That blood for sin must flow. + + Thine infant cries, O Lord, + Thy tears upon the breast, + Are not enough—the legal sword + Must do its stern behest. + + Like sacrificial wine + Poured on a victim’s head + Are those few precious drops of Thine, + Now first to offering led. + + They are the pledge and seal + Of Christ’s unswerving faith + Given to His Sire, our souls to heal, + Although it cost His death. + + They to His Church of old, + To each true Jewish heart, + In Gospel graces manifold + Communion blest impart. + + Now of Thy love we deem + As of an ocean vast, + Mounting in tides against the stream + Of ages gone and past. + + Both theirs and ours Thou art, + As we and they are Thine; + Kings, Prophets, Patriarchs—all have part + Along the sacred line. + + By blood and water too + God’s mark is set on Thee, + That in Thee every faithful view + Both covenants might see. + + O bond of union, dear + And strong as is Thy grace! + Saints, parted by a thousand year, + May thus in heart embrace. + + Is there a mourner true, + Who fallen on faithless days, + Sighs for the heart-consoling view + Of those Heaven deigned to praise? + + In spirit may’st thou meet + With faithful Abraham here, + Whom soon in Eden thou shalt greet + A nursing Father dear. + + Would’st thou a poet be? + And would thy dull heart fain + Borrow of Israel’s minstrelsy + One high enraptured strain? + + Come here thy soul to tune, + Here set thy feeble chant, + Here, if at all beneath the moon, + Is holy David’s haunt. + + Art thou a child of tears, + Cradled in care and woe? + And seems it hard, thy vernal years + Few vernal joys can show? + + And fall the sounds of mirth + Sad on thy lonely heart, + From all the hopes and charms of earth + Untimely called to part? + + Look here, and hold thy peace: + The Giver of all good + E’en from the womb takes no release + From suffering, tears, and blood. + + If thou would’st reap in love, + First sow in holy fear: + So life a winter’s morn may prove + To a bright endless year. + + + +Second Sunday after Christmas. + + + When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their + tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of + Israel will not forsake them. _Isaiah_, xli. 17. + + AND wilt thou hear the fevered heart + To Thee in silence cry? + And as th’ inconstant wildfires dart + Out of the restless eye, + Wilt thou forgive the wayward though + By kindly woes yet half untaught + A Saviours right, so dearly bought, + That Hope should never die? + + Thou wilt: for many a languid prayer + Has reached Thee from the wild, + Since the lorn mother, wandering there, + Cast down her fainting child, + Then stole apart to weep and die, + Nor knew an angel form was nigh, + To show soft waters gushing by, + And dewy shadows mild. + + Thou wilt—for Thou art Israel’s God, + And Thine unwearied arm + Is ready yet with Moses’ rod, + The hidden rill to charm + Out of the dry unfathomed deep + Of sands, that lie in lifeless sleep, + Save when the scorching whirlwinds heap + Their waves in rude alarm. + + These moments of wild wrath are Thine— + Thine, too, the drearier hour + When o’er th’ horizon’s silent line + Fond hopeless fancies cower, + And on the traveller’s listless way + Rises and sets th’ unchanging day, + No cloud in heaven to slake its ray, + On earth no sheltering bower. + + Thou wilt be there, and not forsake, + To turn the bitter pool + Into a bright and breezy lake, + This throbbing brow to cool: + Till loft awhile with Thee alone + The wilful heart be fain to own + That He, by whom our bright hours shone, + Our darkness best may rule. + + The scent of water far away + Upon the breeze is flung; + The desert pelican to-day + Securely leaves her young, + Reproving thankless man, who fears + To journey on a few lone years, + Where on the sand Thy step appears, + Thy crown in sight is hung. + + Thou, who did sit on Jacob’s well + The weary hour of noon, + The languid pulses Thou canst tell, + The nerveless spirit tune. + Thou from Whose cross in anguish burst + The cry that owned Thy dying thirst, + To Thee we turn, our Last and First, + Our Sun and soothing Moon. + + From darkness, here, and dreariness + We ask not full repose, + Only be Thou at hand, to bless + Our trial hour of woes. + Is not the pilgrim’s toil o’erpaid + By the clear rill and palmy shade? + And see we not, up Earth’s dark glade, + The gate of Heaven unclose? + + + +The Epiphany. + + + And lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till + it came and stood over where the young Child was. When they saw the + star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy. _St. Matthew_ ii. 9, + 10. + + STAR of the East, how sweet art Thou, + Seen in life’s early morning sky, + Ere yet a cloud has dimmed the brow, + While yet we gaze with childish eye; + + When father, mother, nursing friend, + Most dearly loved, and loving best, + First bid us from their arms ascend, + Pointing to Thee, in Thy sure rest. + + Too soon the glare of earthly day + Buries, to us, Thy brightness keen, + And we are left to find our way + By faith and hope in Thee unseen. + + What matter? if the waymarks sure + On every side are round us set, + Soon overleaped, but not obscure? + ’Tis ours to mark them or forget. + + What matter? if in calm old age + Our childhood’s star again arise, + Crowning our lonely pilgrimage + With all that cheers a wanderer’s eyes? + + Ne’er may we lose it from our sight, + Till all our hopes and thoughts are led + To where it stays its lucid flight + Over our Saviour’s lowly bed. + + There, swathed in humblest poverty, + On Chastity’s meek lap enshrined, + With breathless Reverence waiting by, + When we our Sovereign Master find, + + Will not the long-forgotten glow + Of mingled joy and awe return, + When stars above or flowers below + First made our infant spirits burn? + + Look on us, Lord, and take our parts + E’en on Thy throne of purity! + From these our proud yet grovelling hearts + Hide not Thy mild forgiving eye. + + Did not the Gentile Church find grace, + Our mother dear, this favoured day? + With gold and myrrh she sought Thy face; + Nor didst Thou turn Thy face away. + + She too, in earlier, purer days, + Had watched thee gleaming faint and far— + But wandering in self-chosen ways + She lost Thee quite, Thou lovely star. + + Yet had her Father’s finger turned + To Thee her first inquiring glance: + The deeper shame within her burned, + When wakened from her wilful trance. + + Behold, her wisest throng Thy gate, + Their richest, sweetest, purest store, + (Yet owned too worthless and too late,) + They lavish on Thy cottage-floor. + + They give their best—O tenfold shame + On us their fallen progeny, + Who sacrifice the blind and lame— + Who will not wake or fast with Thee! + + + +First Sunday after Epiphany. + + + They shall spring up as among the grass, as willows by the water + courses. _Isaiah_ xliv. 4. + + LESSONS sweet of spring returning, + Welcome to the thoughtful heart! + May I call ye sense or learning, + Instinct pure, or Heaven-taught art? + Be your title what it may, + Sweet this lengthening April day, + While with you the soul is free, + Ranging wild o’er hill and lea. + + Soft as Memnon’s harp at morning, + To the inward ear devout, + Touched by light, with heavenly warning + Your transporting chords ring out. + Every leaf in every nook, + Every wave in every brook, + Chanting with a solemn voice, + Minds us of our better choice. + + Needs no show of mountain hoary, + Winding shore or deepening glen, + Where the landscape in its glory + Teaches truth to wandering men: + Give true hearts but earth and sky, + And some flowers to bloom and die, + Homely scenes and simple views + Lowly thoughts may best infuse. + + See the soft green willow springing + Where the waters gently pass, + Every way her free arms flinging + O’er the moist and reedy grass. + Long ere winter blasts are fled, + See her tipped with vernal red, + And her kindly flower displayed + Ere her leaf can cast a shade. + + Though the rudest hand assail her, + Patiently she droops awhile, + But when showers and breezes hail her, + Wears again her willing smile. + Thus I learn Contentment’s power + From the slighted willow bower, + Ready to give thanks and live + On the least that Heaven may give. + + If, the quiet brooklet leaving, + Up the stony vale I wind, + Haply half in fancy grieving + For the shades I leave behind, + By the dusty wayside drear, + Nightingales with joyous cheer + Sing, my sadness to reprove, + Gladlier than in cultured grove. + + Where the thickest boughs are twining + Of the greenest darkest tree, + There they plunge, the light declining— + All may hear, but none may see. + Fearless of the passing hoof, + Hardly will they fleet aloof; + So they live in modest ways, + Trust entire, and ceaseless praise. + + + +Second Sunday after Epiphany. + + + Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine: and when men + have well drunk, then that which is worse; but thou hast kept the + good wine until now. _St. John_ ii. 10. + + THE heart of childhood is all mirth: + We frolic to and fro + As free and blithe, as if on earth + Were no such thing as woe. + + But if indeed with reckless faith + We trust the flattering voice, + Which whispers, “Take thy fill ere death, + Indulge thee and rejoice;” + + Too surely, every setting day, + Some lost delight we mourn; + The flowers all die along our way + Till we, too, die forlorn. + + Such is the world’s gay garish feast, + In her first charming bowl + Infusing all that fires the breast, + And cheats the unstable soul. + + And still, as loud the revel swells, + The fevered pulse beats higher, + Till the seared taste from foulest wells + Is fain to slake its fire. + + Unlike the feast of heavenly love + Spread at the Saviour’s word + For souls that hear His call, and prove + Meet for His bridal board. + + Why should we fear, youth’s draught of joy + If pure would sparkle less? + Why should the cup the sooner cloy, + Which God hath deigned to bless? + + For, is it Hope, that thrills so keen + Along each bounding vein, + Still whispering glorious things unseen?— + Faith makes the vision plain. + + The world would kill her soon: but Faith + Her daring dreams will cherish, + Speeding her gaze o’er time and death + To realms where nought can perish. + + Or is it Love, the dear delight + Of hearts that know no guile, + That all around see all things bright + With their own magic smile? + + The silent joy that sinks so deep, + Of confidence and rest, + Lulled in a father’s arms to sleep, + Clasped to a mother’s breast? + + Who, but a Christian, through all life + That blessing may prolong? + Who, through the world’s sad day of strife, + Still chant his morning song? + + Fathers may hate us or forsake, + God’s foundlings then are we: + Mother on child no pity take, + But we shall still have Thee. + + We may look home, and seek in vain + A fond fraternal heart, + But Christ hath given His promise plain + To do a Brother’s part. + + Nor shall dull age, as worldlings say, + The heavenward flame annoy: + The Saviour cannot pass away, + And with Him lives our joy. + + Ever the richest, tenderest glow + Sets round the autumnal sun— + But there sight fails: no heart may know + The bliss when life is done. + + Such is Thy banquet, dearest Lord; + O give us grace, to cast + Our lot with Thine, to trust Thy word, + And keep our best till last. + + + +Third Sunday after Epiphany. + + + When Jesus heard it, He marvelled, and said to them that followed, + Verily I say unto you, I have not found so great faith, no, not in + Israel. _St. Matthew_ viii. 10. + + I MARKED a rainbow in the north, + What time the wild autumnal sun + From his dark veil at noon looked forth, + As glorying in his course half done, + Flinging soft radiance far and wide + Over the dusky heaven and bleak hill-side. + + It was a gleam to Memory dear, + And as I walk and muse apart, + When all seems faithless round and drear, + I would revive it in my heart, + And watch how light can find its way + To regions farthest from the fount of day. + + Light flashes in the gloomiest sky, + And Music in the dullest plain, + For there the lark is soaring high + Over her flat and leafless reign, + And chanting in so blithe a tone, + It shames the weary heart to feel itself alone. + + Brighter than rainbow in the north, + More cheery than the matin lark, + Is the soft gleam of Christian worth, + Which on some holy house we mark; + Dear to the pastor’s aching heart + To think, where’er he looks, such gleam may have a part; + + May dwell, unseen by all but Heaven, + Like diamond blazing in the mine; + For ever, where such grace is given, + It fears in open day to shine, + Lest the deep stain it owns within + Break out, and Faith be shamed by the believer’s sin. + + In silence and afar they wait, + To find a prayer their Lord may hear: + Voice of the poor and desolate, + You best may bring it to His ear; + Your grateful intercessions rise + With more than royal pomp, and pierce the skies. + + Happy the soul whose precious cause + You in the Sovereign Presence plead— + “This is the lover of Thy laws, + The friend of Thine in fear and need,” + For to the poor Thy mercy lends + That solemn style, “Thy nation and Thy friends.” + + He too is blest whose outward eye + The graceful lines of art may trace, + While his free spirit, soaring high, + Discerns the glorious from the base; + Till out of dust his magic raise + A home for prayer and love, and full harmonious praise, + + Where far away and high above, + In maze on maze the trancèd sight + Strays, mindful of that heavenly love + Which knows no end in depth or height, + While the strong breath of Music seems + To waft us ever on, soaring in blissful dreams. + + What though in poor and humble guise + Thou here didst sojourn, cottage-born? + Yet from Thy glory in the skies + Our earthly gold Thou dost not scorn. + For Love delights to bring her best, + And where Love is, that offering evermore is blest. + + Love on the Saviour’s dying head + Her spikenard drops unblamed may pour, + May mount His cross, and wrap Him dead + In spices from the golden shore; + Risen, may embalm His sacred name + With all a Painter’s art, and all a Minstrel’s flame. + + Worthless and lost our offerings seem, + Drops in the ocean of His praise; + But Mercy with her genial beam + Is ripening them to pearly blaze, + To sparkle in His crown above, + Who welcomes here a child’s as there an angel’s love. + + + +Fourth Sunday after Epiphany. + + + When they saw Him, they besought Him that He would depart out of + their coasts. _St. Matthew_ viii. 34. + + THEY know the Almighty’s power, + Who, wakened by the rushing midnight shower, + Watch for the fitful breeze + To howl and chafe amid the bending trees, + Watch for the still white gleam + To bathe the landscape in a fiery stream, + Touching the tremulous eye with sense of light + Too rapid and too pure for all but angel sight. + + They know the Almighty’s love, + Who, when the whirlwinds rock the topmost grove, + Stand in the shade, and hear + The tumult with a deep exulting fear, + How, in their fiercest sway, + Curbed by some power unseen, they die away, + Like a bold steed that owns his rider’s arm, + Proud to be checked and soothed by that o’er-mastering chains. + + But there are storms within + That heave the struggling heart with wilder din, + And there is power and love + The maniac’s rushing frenzy to reprove, + And when he takes his seat, + Clothed and in calmness, at his Savour’s feet, + Is not the power as strange, the love as blest, + As when He said, “Be still,” and ocean sank to rest? + + Woe to the wayward heart, + That gladlier turns to eye the shuddering start + Of Passion in her might, + Than marks the silent growth of grace and light;— + Pleased in the cheerless tomb + To linger, while the morning rays illume + Green lake, and cedar tuft, and spicy glade, + Shaking their dewy tresses now the storm is laid. + + The storm is laid—and now + In His meek power He climbs the mountain’s brow, + Who bade the waves go sleep, + And lashed the vexed fiends to their yawning deep. + How on a rock they stand, + Who watch His eye, and hold His guiding hand! + Not half so fixed, amid her vassal hills, + Rises the holy pile that Kedron’s valley fills. + + And wilt thou seek again + Thy howling waste, thy charnel-house and chain, + And with the demons be, + Rather than clasp thine own Deliverer’s knee? + Sure ’tis no Heaven-bred awe + That bids thee from His healing touch withdraw; + The world and He are struggling in thine heart, + And in thy reckless mood thou bidd’st thy Lord depart. + + He, merciful and mild, + As erst, beholding, loves His wayward child; + When souls of highest birth + Waste their impassioned might on dreams of earth, + He opens Nature’s book, + And on His glorious Gospel bids them look, + Till, by such chords as rule the choirs above, + Their lawless cries are tuned to hymns of perfect love. + + + +Fifth Sunday after Epiphany. + + + Behold, the Lord’s hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; + neither His ear heavy, that it cannot hear; but your iniquities have + separated between you and your God. _Isaiah_ lix. 1, 2. + + “WAKE, arm Divine! awake, + Eye of the only Wise! + Now for Thy glory’s sake, + Saviour and God, arise, + And may Thine ear, that sealèd seems, + In pity mark our mournful themes!” + + Thus in her lonely hour + Thy Church is fain to cry, + As if Thy love and power + Were vanished from her sky; + Yet God is there, and at His side + He triumphs, who for sinners died. + + Ah! ’tis the world enthralls + The Heaven-betrothèd breast: + The traitor Sense recalls + The soaring soul from rest. + That bitter sigh was all for earth, + For glories gone and vanished mirth. + + Age would to youth return, + Farther from Heaven would be, + To feel the wildfire burn, + On idolising knee + Again to fall, and rob Thy shrine + Of hearts, the right of Love Divine. + + Lord of this erring flock! + Thou whose soft showers distil + On ocean waste or rock, + Free as on Hermon hill, + Do Thou our craven spirits cheer, + And shame away the selfish tear. + + ’Twas silent all and dead + Beside the barren sea, + Where Philip’s steps were led, + Led by a voice from Thee— + He rose and went, nor asked Thee why, + Nor stayed to heave one faithless sigh: + + Upon his lonely way + The high-born traveller came, + Reading a mournful lay + Of “One who bore our shame, + Silent Himself, His name untold, + And yet His glories were of old.” + + To muse what Heaven might mean + His wondering brow he raised, + And met an eye serene + That on him watchful gazed. + No Hermit e’er so welcome crossed + A child’s lone path in woodland lost. + + Now wonder turns to love; + The scrolls of sacred lore + No darksome mazes prove; + The desert tires no more + They bathe where holy waters flow, + Then on their way rejoicing go. + + They part to meet in Heaven; + But of the joy they share, + Absolving and forgiven, + The sweet remembrance bear. + Yes—mark him well, ye cold and proud. + Bewildered in a heartless crowd, + + Starting and turning pale + At Rumour’s angry din— + No storm can now assail + The charm he wears within, + Rejoicing still, and doing good, + And with the thought of God imbued. + + No glare of high estate, + No gloom of woe or want, + The radiance can abate + Where Heaven delights to haunt: + Sin only bides the genial ray, + And, round the Cross, makes night of day. + + Then weep it from thy heart; + So mayst thou duly learn + The intercessor’s part; + Thy prayers and tears may earn + For fallen souls some healing breath, + Era they have died the Apostate’s death. + + + +Sixth Sunday after Epiphany. + + + Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what + we shall be: but we know that, when He shall appear, we shall be like + Him; for we shall see Him as he is. _St. John_ iii. 2. + + THERE are, who darkling and alone, + Would wish the weary night were gone, + Though dawning morn should only show + The secret of their unknown woe: + Who pray for sharpest throbs of pain + To ease them of doubt’s galling chain: + “Only disperse the cloud,” they cry, + “And if our fate be death, give light and let us die.” + + Unwise I deem them, Lord, unmeet + To profit by Thy chastenings sweet, + For Thou wouldst have us linger still + Upon the verge of good or ill. + That on Thy guiding hand unseen + Our undivided hearts may lean, + And this our frail and foundering bark + Glide in the narrow wake of Thy belovèd ark. + + ’Tis so in war—the champion true + Loves victory more when dim in view + He sees her glories gild afar + The dusky edge of stubborn war, + Than if the untrodden bloodless field + The harvest of her laurels yield; + Let not my bark in calm abide, + But win her fearless way against the chafing tide. + + ’Tis so in love—the faithful heart + From her dim vision would not part, + When first to her fond gaze is given + That purest spot in Fancy’s heaven, + For all the gorgeous sky beside, + Though pledged her own and sure to abide: + Dearer than every past noon-day + That twilight gleam to her, though faint and far away. + + So have I seen some tender flower + Prized above all the vernal bower, + Sheltered beneath the coolest shade, + Embosomed in the greenest glade, + So frail a gem, it scarce may bear + The playful touch of evening air; + When hardier grown we love it less, + And trust it from our sight, not needing our caress. + + And wherefore is the sweet spring-tide + Worth all the changeful year beside? + The last-born babe, why lies its part + Deep in the mother’s inmost heart? + But that the Lord and Source of love + Would have His weakest ever prove + Our tenderest care—and most of all + Our frail immortal souls, His work and Satan’s thrall. + + So be it, Lord; I know it best, + Though not as yet this wayward breast + Beat quite in answer to Thy voice, + Yet surely I have made my choice; + I know not yet the promised bliss, + Know not if I shall win or miss; + So doubting, rather let me die, + Than close with aught beside, to last eternally. + + What is the Heaven we idly dream? + The self-deceiver’s dreary theme, + A cloudless sun that softly shines, + Bright maidens and unfailing vines, + The warrior’s pride, the hunter’s mirth, + Poor fragments all of this low earth: + Such as in sleep would hardly soothe + A soul that once had tasted of immortal Truth. + + What is the Heaven our God bestows? + No Prophet yet, no Angel knows; + Was never yet created eye + Could see across Eternity; + Not seraph’s wing for ever soaring + Can pass the flight of souls adoring, + That nearer still and nearer grow + To the unapproachèd Lord, once made for them so low. + + Unseen, unfelt their earthly growth, + And self-accused of sin and sloth, + They live and die; their names decay, + Their fragrance passes quite away; + Like violets in the freezing blast + No vernal steam around they cast.— + But they shall flourish from the tomb, + The breath of God shall wake them into odorous bloom. + + Then on the incarnate Saviour’s breast, + The fount of sweetness, they shall rest, + Their spirits every hour imbued + More deeply with His precious blood. + But peace—still voice and closèd eye + Suit best with hearts beyond the sky, + Hearts training in their low abode, + Daily to lose themselves in hope to find their God. + + + +Septuagesima Sunday. + + + The invisible things of Him from the creation of the world are + clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made. _Romans_ + i. 20. + + THERE is a book, who runs may read, + Which heavenly truth imparts, + And all the lore its scholars need, + Pure eyes and Christian hearts. + + The works of God above, below, + Within us and around, + Are pages in that book, to show + How God Himself is found. + + The glorious sky embracing all + Is like the Maker’s love, + Wherewith encompassed, great and small + In peace and order move. + + The Moon above, the Church below, + A wondrous race they run, + But all their radiance, all their glow, + Each borrows of its Sun. + + The Savour lends the light and heat + That crowns His holy hill; + The saints, like stars, around His seat + Perform their courses still. + + The saints above are stars in heaven— + What are the saints on earth? + Like tress they stand whom God has given, + Our Eden’s happy birth. + + Faith is their fixed unswerving root, + Hope their unfading flower, + Fair deeds of charity their fruit, + The glory of their bower. + + The dew of heaven is like Thy grace, + It steals in silence down; + But where it lights, this favoured place + By richest fruits is known. + + One Name above all glorious names + With its ten thousand tongues + The everlasting sea proclaims. + Echoing angelic songs. + + The raging Fire, the roaring Wind, + Thy boundless power display; + But in the gentler breeze we find + Thy Spirit’s viewless way. + + Two worlds are ours: ’tis only Sin + Forbids us to descry + The mystic heaven and earth within, + Plain as the sea and sky. + + Thou, who hast given me eyes to see + And love this sight so fair, + Give me a heart to find out Thee, + And read Thee everywhere. + + + +Sexagesima Sunday. + + + So He drove out the man; and He placed at the east of the garden of + Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep + the way of the tree of life. _Genesis_ iii. 24; compare chap. vi. + + FOE of mankind! too bold thy race: + Thou runn’st at such a reckless pace, + Thine own dire work thou surely wilt confound: + ’Twas but one little drop of sin + We saw this morning enter in, + And lo! at eventide the world is drowned. + + See here the fruit of wandering eyes, + Of worldly longings to be wise, + Of Passion dwelling on forbidden sweets: + Ye lawless glances, freely rove; + Ruin below and wrath above + Are all that now the wildering fancy meets. + + Lord, when in some deep garden glade, + Of Thee and of myself afraid. + From thoughts like these among the bowers I hide, + Nearest and loudest then of all + I seem to hear the Judge’s call:— + “Where art thou, fallen man? come forth, and be thou tried.” + + Trembling before Thee as I stand, + Where’er I gaze on either hand + The sentence is gone forth, the ground is cursed: + Yet mingled with the penal shower + Some drops of balm in every bower + Steal down like April dews, that softest fall and first. + + If filial and maternal love + Memorial of our guilt must prove, + If sinful babes in sorrow must be born, + Yet, to assuage her sharpest throes, + The faithful mother surely knows, + This was the way Thou cam’st to save the world forlorn. + + If blessèd wedlock may not bless + Without some tinge of bitterness + To dash her cup of joy, since Eden lost, + Chaining to earth with strong desire + Hearts that would highest else aspire, + And o’er the tenderer sex usurping ever most; + + Yet by the light of Christian lore + ’Tis blind Idolatry no more, + But a sweet help and pattern of true love, + Showing how best the soul may cling + To her immortal Spouse and King, + How He should rule, and she with full desire approve. + + If niggard Earth her treasures hide, + To all but labouring hands denied, + Lavish of thorns and worthless weeds alone, + The doom is half in mercy given, + To train us in our way to Heaven, + And show our lagging souls how glory must be won. + + If on the sinner’s outward frame + God hath impressed His mark of blame, + And e’en our bodies shrink at touch of light, + Yet mercy hath not left us bare: + The very weeds we daily wear + Are to Faith’s eye a pledge of God’s forgiving might. + + And oh! if yet one arrow more, + The sharpest of the Almighty’s store, + Tremble upon the string—a sinner’s death— + Art Thou not by to soothe and save, + To lay us gently in the grave, + To close the weary eye and hush the parting breath? + + Therefore in sight of man bereft + The happy garden still was left; + The fiery sword that guarded, showed it too; + Turning all ways, the world to teach, + That though as yet beyond our reach, + Still in its place the tree of life and glory grew. + + + +Quinquagesima Sunday. + + + I do set My bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a + covenant between Me and the earth. _Genesis_ ix. 13. + + SWEET Dove! the softest, steadiest plume, + In all the sunbright sky, + Brightening in ever-changeful bloom + As breezes change on high;— + + Sweet Leaf! the pledge of peace and mirth, + “Long sought, and lately won,” + Blessed increase of reviving Earth, + When first it felt the Sun;— + + Sweet Rainbow! pride of summer days, + High set at Heaven’s command, + Though into drear and dusky haze + Thou melt on either hand;— + + Dear tokens of a pardoning God, + We hail ye, one and all, + As when our fathers walked abroad, + Freed from their twelvemonth’s thrall. + + How joyful from the imprisoning ark + On the green earth they spring! + Not blither, after showers, the lark + Mounts up with glistening wing. + + So home-bound sailors spring to shore, + Two oceans safely past; + So happy souls, when life is o’er, + Plunge in this empyreal vast. + + What wins their first and fondest gaze + In all the blissful field, + And keeps it through a thousand days? + Love face to face revealed: + + Love imaged in that cordial look + Our Lord in Eden bends + On souls that sin and earth forsook + In time to die His friends. + + And what most welcome and serene + Dawns on the Patriarch’s eye, + In all the emerging hills so green, + In all the brightening sky? + + What but the gentle rainbow’s gleam, + Soothing the wearied sight, + That cannot bear the solar beam, + With soft undazzling light? + + Lord, if our fathers turned to Thee + With such adoring gaze, + Wondering frail man Thy light should see + Without Thy scorching blaze; + + Where is our love, and where our hearts, + We who have seen Thy Son, + Have tried Thy Spirit’s winning arts, + And yet we are not won? + + The Son of God in radiance beamed + Too bright for us to scan, + But we may face the rays that streamed + From the mild Son of Man. + + There, parted into rainbow hues, + In sweet harmonious strife + We see celestial love diffuse + Its light o’er Jesus’ life. + + God, by His bow, vouchsafes to write + This truth in Heaven above: + As every lovely hue is Light, + So every grace is Love. + + + +Ash Wednesday. + + + When thou fastest, anoint thine head, and wash thy face; that thou + appear not unto men to fast, but unto thy Father which is in secret. + _St. Matthew_ vi. 17, 18. + + “YES—deep within and deeper yet + The rankling shaft of conscience hide, + Quick let the swelling eye forget + The tears that in the heart abide. + Calm be the voice, the aspect bold, + No shuddering pass o’er lip or brow, + For why should Innocence be told + The pangs that guilty spirits bow? + + “The loving eye that watches thine + Close as the air that wraps thee round— + Why in thy sorrow should it pine, + Since never of thy sin it found? + And wherefore should the heathen see + What chains of darkness thee enslave, + And mocking say, ‘Lo, this is he + Who owned a God that could not save’?” + + Thus oft the mourner’s wayward heart + Tempts him to hide his grief and die, + Too feeble for Confession’s smart, + Too proud to bear a pitying eye; + How sweet, in that dark hour, to fall + On bosoms waiting to receive + Our sighs, and gently whisper all! + They love us—will not God forgive? + + Else let us keep our fast within, + Till Heaven and we are quite alone, + Then let the grief, the shame, the sin, + Before the mercy-seat be thrown. + Between the porch and altar weep, + Unworthy of the holiest place, + Yet hoping near the shrine to keep + One lowly cell in sight of grace. + + Nor fear lest sympathy should fail— + Hast thou not seen, in night hours drear, + When racking thoughts the heart assail, + The glimmering stars by turns appear, + And from the eternal house above + With silent news of mercy steal? + So Angels pause on tasks of love, + To look where sorrowing sinners kneel. + + Or if no Angel pass that way, + He who in secret sees, perchance + May bid His own heart-warming ray + Toward thee stream with kindlier glance, + As when upon His drooping head + His Father’s light was poured from Heaven, + What time, unsheltered and unfed, + Far in the wild His steps were driven. + + High thoughts were with Him in that hour, + Untold, unspeakable on earth— + And who can stay the soaring power + Of spirits weaned from worldly mirth, + While far beyond the sound of praise + With upward eye they float serene, + And learn to bear their Saviour’s blaze + When Judgment shall undraw the screen? + + + +First Sunday in Lent. + + + Haste thee, escape thither: for I cannot do any thing till thou be + come thither. Therefore the name of the city was called Zoar. + _Genesis_ xix. 22. + + “ANGEL of wrath! why linger in mid-air, + While the devoted city’s cry + Louder and louder swells? and canst thou spare, + Thy full-charged vial standing by?” + Thus, with stern voice, unsparing Justice pleads: + He hears her not—with softened gaze + His eye is following where sweet Mercy leads, + And till she give the sign, his fury stays. + + Guided by her, along the mountain road, + Far through the twilight of the morn, + With hurried footsteps from the accursed abode + He sees the holy household borne; + Angels, or more, on either hand are nigh, + To speed them o’er the tempting plain, + Lingering in heart, and with frail sidelong eye + Seeking how near they may unharmed remain. + + “Ah! wherefore gleam those upland slopes so fair? + And why, through every woodland arch, + Swells yon bright vale, as Eden rich and rare, + Where Jordan winds his stately march; + If all must be forsaken, ruined all, + If God have planted but to burn?— + Surely not yet the avenging shower will fall, + Though to my home for one last look I turn.” + + Thus while they waver, surely long ago + They had provoked the withering blast, + But that the merciful Avengers know + Their frailty well, and hold them fast. + “Haste, for thy life escape, nor look behind”— + Ever in thrilling sounds like these + They check the wandering eye, severely kind, + Nor let the sinner lose his soul at ease. + + And when, o’erwearied with the steep ascent, + We for a nearer refuge crave, + One little spot of ground in mercy lent, + One hour of home before the grave, + Oft in His pity o’er His children weak, + His hand withdraws the penal fire, + And where we fondly cling, forbears to wreak + Full vengeance, till our hearts are weaned entire. + + Thus, by the merits of one righteous man, + The Church, our Zoar, shall abide, + Till she abuse, so sore, her lengthened span, + E’en Mercy’s self her face must hide. + Then, onward yet a step, thou hard-won soul; + Though in the Church thou know thy place, + The mountain farther lies—there seek thy goal, + There breathe at large, o’erpast thy dangerous race. + + Sweet is the smile of home; the mutual look + When hearts are of each other sure; + Sweet all the joys that crowd the household nook, + The haunt of all affections pure; + Yet in the world e’en these abide, and we + Above the world our calling boast; + Once gain the mountain-top, and thou art free: + Till then, who rest, presume; who turn to look, are lost. + + + +Second Sunday in Lent. + + + And when Esau heard the words of his father, he cried with a great + and exceeding bitter cry, and said unto his father, Bless me, even me + also, O my father. _Genesis_ xxvii. 34. (Compare _Hebrews_ xii. 17. + He found no place of repentance, though he sought it carefully with + tears.) + + “AND is there in God’s world so drear a place + Where the loud bitter cry is raised in vain? + Where tears of penance come too late for grace, + As on the uprooted flower the genial rain?” + + ’Tis even so: the sovereign Lord of souls + Stores in the dungeon of His boundless realm + Each bolt that o’er the sinner vainly rolls, + With gathered wrath the reprobate to whelm. + + Will the storm hear the sailor’s piteous cry, + Taught so mistrust, too late, the tempting wave, + When all around he sees but sea and sky, + A God in anger, a self-chosen grave? + + Or will the thorns, that strew intemperance’ bed, + Turn with a wish to down? will late remorse + Recall the shaft the murderer’s hand has sped, + Or from the guiltless bosom turn its course? + + Then may the unbodied soul in safety fleet + Through the dark curtains of the world above, + Fresh from the stain of crime; nor fear to meet + The God whom here she would not learn to love; + + Then is there hope for such as die unblest, + That angel wings may waft them to the shore, + Nor need the unready virgin strike her breast, + Nor wait desponding round the bridegroom’s door. + + But where is then the stay of contrite hearts? + Of old they leaned on Thy eternal word, + But with the sinner’s fear their hope departs, + Fast linked as Thy great Name to Thee, O Lord: + + That Name, by which Thy faithful oath is past, + That we should endless be, for joy or woe:— + And if the treasures of Thy wrath could waste, + Thy lovers must their promised Heaven forego. + + But ask of elder days, earth’s vernal hour, + When in familiar talk God’s voice was heard, + When at the Patriarch’s call the fiery shower + Propitious o’er the turf-built shrine appeared. + + Watch by our father Isaac’s pastoral door— + The birthright sold, the blessing lost and won; + Tell, Heaven has wrath that can relent no more; + The Grave, dark deeds that cannot be undone. + + We barter life for pottage; sell true bliss + For wealth or power, for pleasure or renown; + Thus, Esau-like, our Father’s blessing miss, + Then wash with fruitless tears our faded crown. + + Our faded crown, despised and flung aside, + Shall on some brother’s brow immortal bloom; + No partial hand the blessing may misguide, + No flattering fancy change our Monarch’s doom: + + His righteous doom, that meek true-hearted Love + The everlasting birthright should receive, + The softest dews drop on her from above, + The richest green her mountain garland weave: + + Her brethren, mightiest, wisest, eldest-born, + Bow to her sway, and move at her behest; + Isaac’s fond blessing may not fall on scorn, + Nor Balaam’s curse on Love, which God hath blest. + + + +Third Sunday in Lent. + + + When a strong man armed keepeth his place, his goods are in peace; + but when a stronger than he shall come upon him, and overcome him, he + taketh from him all his armour wherein he trusted, and divideth his + spoils. _St. Luke_ xi. 21, 22. + + SEE Lucifer like lightning fall, + Dashed from his throne of pride; + While, answering Thy victorious call, + The Saints his spoils divide; + This world of Thine, by him usurped too long, + Now opening all her stores to heal Thy servants’ wrong. + + So when the first-born of Thy foes + Dead in the darkness lay, + When Thy redeemed at midnight rose + And cast their bonds away, + The orphaned realm threw wide her gates, and told + Into freed Israel’s lap her jewels and her gold. + + And when their wondrous march was o’er, + And they had won their homes, + Where Abraham fed his flock of yore, + Among their fathers’ tombs;— + A land that drinks the rain of Heaven at will, + Whose waters kiss the feet of many a vine-clad hill;— + + Oft as they watched, at thoughtful eve, + A gale from bowers of balm + Sweep o’er the billowy corn, and heave + The tresses of the palm, + Just as the lingering Sun had touched with gold, + Far o’er the cedar shade, some tower of giants old; + + It was a fearful joy, I ween, + To trace the Heathen’s toil, + The limpid wells, the orchards green, + Left ready for the spoil, + The household stores untouched, the roses bright + Wreathed o’er the cottage walls in garlands of delight. + + And now another Canaan yields + To Thine all-conquering ark:— + Fly from the “old poetic” fields, + Ye Paynim shadows dark! + Immortal Greece, dear land of glorious lays, + Lo! here the “unknown God” of thy unconscious praise. + + The olive-wreath, the ivied wand, + “The sword in myrtles drest,” + Each legend of the shadowy strand + Now wakes a vision blest; + As little children lisp, and tell of Heaven, + So thoughts beyond their thought to those high Bards were given. + + And these are ours: Thy partial grace + The tempting treasure lends: + These relies of a guilty race + Are forfeit to Thy friends; + What seemed an idol hymn, now breathes of Thee, + Tuned by Faith’s ear to some celestial melody. + + There’s not a strain to Memory dear, + Nor flower in classic grove, + There’s not a sweet note warbled here, + But minds us of Thy Love. + O Lord, our Lord, and spoiler of our foes, + There is no light but Thine: with Thee all beauty glows. + + + +Fourth Sunday in Lent. + + + Joseph made haste; for his bowels did yearn upon his brother; and he + sought where to weep, and he entered into his chamber and wept there. + _Genesis_ xliii. 30. + + There stood no man with him, while Joseph made himself known unto his + brethren. _Genesis_ xlv. 1. + + WHEN Nature tries her finest touch, + Weaving her vernal wreath, + Mark ye, how close she veils her round, + Not to be traced by sight or sound, + Nor soiled by ruder breath? + + Who ever saw the earliest rose + First open her sweet breast? + Or, when the summer sun goes down, + The first soft star in evening’s crown + Light up her gleaming crest? + + Fondly we seek the dawning bloom + On features wan and fair, + The gazing eye no change can trace, + But look away a little space, + Then turn, and lo! ’tis there. + + But there’s a sweeter flower than e’er + Blushed on the rosy spray— + A brighter star, a richer bloom + Than e’er did western heaven illume + At close of summer day. + + ’Tis Love, the last best gift of Heaven; + Love gentle, holy, pure; + But tenderer than a dove’s soft eye, + The searching sun, the open sky, + She never could endure. + + E’en human Love will shrink from sight + Here in the coarse rude earth: + How then should rash intruding glance + Break in upon _her_ sacred trance + Who boasts a heavenly birth? + + So still and secret is her growth, + Ever the truest heart, + Where deepest strikes her kindly root + For hope or joy, for flower or fruit, + Least knows its happy part. + + God only, and good angels, look + Behind the blissful screen— + As when, triumphant o’er His woes, + The Son of God by moonlight rose, + By all but Heaven unseen: + + As when the holy Maid beheld + Her risen Son and Lord: + Thought has not colours half so fair + That she to paint that hour may dare, + In silence best adored. + + The gracious Dove, that brought from Heaven + The earnest of our bliss, + Of many a chosen witness telling, + On many a happy vision dwelling, + Sings not a note of this. + + So, truest image of the Christ, + Old Israel’s long-lost son, + What time, with sweet forgiving cheer, + He called his conscious brethren near, + Would weep with them alone. + + He could not trust his melting soul + But in his Maker’s sight— + Then why should gentle hearts and true + Bare to the rude world’s withering view + Their treasure of delight! + + No—let the dainty rose awhile + Her bashful fragrance hide— + Rend not her silken veil too soon, + But leave her, in her own soft noon, + To flourish and abide. + + + +Fifth Sunday in Lent. + + + And Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why + the bush is not burnt. _Exodus_ iii. 3. + + THE historic Muse, from age to age, + Through many a waste heart-sickening page + Hath traced the works of Man: + But a celestial call to-day + Stays her, like Moses, on her way, + The works of God to scan. + + Far seen across the sandy wild, + Where, like a solitary child, + He thoughtless roamed and free, + One towering thorn was wrapt in flame— + Bright without blaze it went and came: + Who would not turn and see? + + Along the mountain ledges green + The scattered sheep at will may glean + The Desert’s spicy stores: + The while, with undivided heart, + The shepherd talks with God apart, + And, as he talks, adores. + + Ye too, who tend Christ’s wildering flock, + Well may ye gather round the rock + That once was Sion’s hill: + To watch the fire upon the mount + Still blazing, like the solar fount, + Yet unconsuming still. + + Caught from that blaze by wrath Divine, + Lost branches of the once-loved vine, + Now withered, spent, and sere, + See Israel’s sons, like glowing brands, + Tossed wildly o’er a thousand lands + For twice a thousand year. + + God will not quench nor slay them quite, + But lifts them like a beacon-light + The apostate Church to scare; + Or like pale ghosts that darkling roam, + Hovering around their ancient home, + But find no refuge there. + + Ye blessèd Angels! if of you + There be, who love the ways to view + Of Kings and Kingdoms here; + (And sure, ’tis worth an Angel’s gaze, + To see, throughout that dreary maze, + God teaching love and fear:) + + Oh say, in all the bleak expanse + Is there a spot to win your glance, + So bright, so dark as this? + A hopeless faith, a homeless race, + Yet seeking the most holy place, + And owning the true bliss! + + Salted with fire they seem, to show + How spirits lost in endless woe + May undecaying live. + Oh, sickening thought! yet hold it fast + Long as this glittering world shall last, + Or sin at heart survive. + + And hark! amid the flashing fire, + Mingling with tones of fear and ire, + Soft Mercy’s undersong— + ’Tis Abraham’s God who speaks so loud, + His people’s cries have pierced the cloud, + He sees, He sees their wrong; + + He is come down to break their chain; + Though nevermore on Sion’s fane + His visible ensign wave; + ’Tis Sion, wheresoe’er they dwell, + Who, with His own true Israel, + Shall own Him strong to save. + + He shall redeem them one by one, + Where’er the world-encircling sun + Shall see them meekly kneel: + All that He asks on Israel’s part, + Is only that the captive heart + Its woe and burthen feel. + + Gentiles! with fixed yet awful eye + Turn ye this page of mystery, + Nor slight the warning sound: + “Put off thy shoes from off thy feet— + The place where man his God shall meet, + Be sure, is holy ground.” + + + +Palm Sunday. + + + And He answered and said unto them, I tell you that, if these should + hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out. _St. Luke_ + xix. 40. + + YE whose hearts are beating high + With the pulse of Poesy, + Heirs of more than royal race, + Framed by Heaven’s peculiar grace, + God’s own work to do on earth, + (If the word be not too bold,) + Giving virtue a new birth, + And a life that ne’er grows old— + + Sovereign masters of all hearts! + Know ye, who hath set your parts? + He who gave you breath to sing, + By whose strength ye sweep the string, + He hath chosen you, to lead + His Hosannas here below;— + Mount, and claim your glorious meed; + Linger not with sin and woe. + + But if ye should hold your peace, + Deem not that the song would cease— + Angels round His glory-throne, + Stars, His guiding hand that own, + Flowers, that grow beneath our feet, + Stones in earth’s dark womb that rest, + High and low in choir shall meet, + Ere His Name shall be unblest. + + Lord, by every minstrel tongue + Be Thy praise so duly sung, + That Thine angels’ harps may ne’er + Fail to find fit echoing here: + We the while, of meaner birth, + Who in that divinest spell + Dare not hope to join on earth, + Give us grace to listen well. + + But should thankless silence seal + Lips that might half Heaven reveal, + Should bards in idol-hymns profane + The sacred soul-enthralling strain, + (As in this bad world below + Noblest things find vilest using,) + Then, Thy power and mercy show, + In vile things noble breath infusing; + + Then waken into sound divine + The very pavement of Thy shrine, + Till we, like Heaven’s star-sprinkled floor, + Faintly give back what we adore: + Childlike though the voices be, + And untunable the parts, + Thou wilt own the minstrelsy + If it flow from childlike hearts. + + + +Monday before Easter. + + + Doubtless Thou art our Father, though Abraham be ignorant of us, and + Israel acknowledge us not. _Isaiah_ lxiii. 16. + + “FATHER to me thou art and mother dear, + And brother too, kind husband of my heart”— + So speaks Andromache in boding fear, + Ere from her last embrace her hero part— + So evermore, by Faith’s undying glow, + We own the Crucified in weal or woe. + + Strange to our ears the church-bells of our home, + This fragrance of our old paternal fields + May be forgotten; and the time may come + When the babe’s kiss no sense of pleasure yields + E’en to the doting mother: but Thine own + Thou never canst forget, nor leave alone. + + There are who sigh that no fond heart is theirs, + None loves them best—O vain and selfish sigh! + Out of the bosom of His love He spares— + The Father spares the Son, for thee to die: + For thee He died—for thee He lives again: + O’er thee He watches in His boundless reign. + + Thou art as much His care, as if beside + Nor man nor angel lived in Heaven or earth: + Thus sunbeams pour alike their glorious tide + To light up worlds, or wake an insect’s mirth: + They shine and shine with unexhausted store— + Thou art thy Saviour’s darling—seek no more. + + On thee and thine, thy warfare and thine end, + E’en in His hour of agony He thought, + When, ere the final pang His soul should rend, + The ransomed spirits one by one were brought + To His mind’s eye—two silent nights and days + In calmness for His far-seen hour He stays. + + Ye vaulted cells, where martyred seers of old + Far in the rocky walls of Sion sleep, + Green terraces and archèd fountains cold, + Where lies the cypress shade so still and deep, + Dear sacred haunts of glory and of woe, + Help us, one hour, to trace His musings high and low: + + One heart-ennobling hour! It may not be: + The unearthly thoughts have passed from earth away, + And fast as evening sunbeams from the sea + Thy footsteps all in Sion’s deep decay + Were blotted from the holy ground: yet dear + Is every stone of hers; for Thou want surely here. + + There is a spot within this sacred dale + That felt Thee kneeling—touched Thy prostrate brow: + One Angel knows it. O might prayer avail + To win that knowledge! sure each holy vow + Less quickly from the unstable soul would fade, + Offered where Christ in agony was laid. + + Might tear of ours once mingle with the blood + That from His aching brow by moonlight fell, + Over the mournful joy our thoughts would brood, + Till they had framed within a guardian spell + To chase repining fancies, as they rise, + Like birds of evil wing, to mar our sacrifice. + + So dreams the heart self-flattering, fondly dreams;— + Else wherefore, when the bitter waves o’erflow, + Miss we the light, Gethsemane, that streams + From thy dear name, where in His page of woe + It shines, a pale kind star in winter’s sky? + Who vainly reads it there, in vain had seen Him die. + + + +Tuesday before Easter. + + + They gave Him to drink wine mingled with myrrh: but He received in + not. _St. Mark_ xv. 23. + + “FILL high the bowl, and spice it well, and pour + The dews oblivious: for the Cross is sharp, + The Cross is sharp, and He + Is tenderer than a lamb. + + “He wept by Lazarus’ grave—how will He bear + This bed of anguish? and His pale weak form + Is worn with many a watch + Of sorrow and unrest. + + “His sweat last night was as great drops of blood, + And the sad burthen pressed Him so to earth, + The very torturers paused + To help Him on His way. + + “Fill high the bowl, benumb His aching sense + With medicined sleep.”—O awful in Thy woe! + The parching thirst of death + Is on Thee, and Thou triest + + The slumb’rous potion bland, and wilt not drink: + Not sullen, nor in scorn, like haughty man + With suicidal hand + Putting his solace by: + + But as at first Thine all-pervading look + Saw from Thy Father’s bosom to the abyss + Measuring in calm presage + The infinite descent; + + So to the end, though now of mortal pangs + Made heir, and emptied of Thy glory, awhile, + With unaverted eye + Thou meetest all the storm. + + Thou wilt feel all, that Thou mayst pity all; + And rather wouldst Thou wreathe with strong pain, + Than overcloud Thy soul, + So clear in agony, + + Or lose one glimpse of Heaven before the time + O most entire and perfect sacrifice, + Renewed in every pulse + That on the tedious Cross + + Told the long hours of death, as, one by one, + The life-strings of that tender heart gave way; + E’en sinners, taught by Thee, + Look Sorrow in the face, + + And bid her freely welcome, unbeguiled + By false kind solaces, and spells of earth:— + And yet not all unsoothed; + For when was Joy so dear, + + As the deep calm that breathed, “_Father_, _forgive_,” + Or, “_Be with Me in Paradise to-day_?” + And, though the strife be sore, + Yet in His parting breath + + Love masters Agony; the soul that seemed + Forsaken, feels her present God again, + And in her Father’s arms + Contented dies away. + + + +Wednesday before Easter. + + + Saying, Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from Me; + nevertheless not My will, but Thine, be done. _St. Luke_ xxii. 42. + + O LORD my God, do thou Thy holy will— + I will lie still— + I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm, + And break the charm + Which lulls me, clinging to my Father’s breast, + In perfect rest. + + Wild fancy, peace! thou must not me beguile + With thy false smile: + I know thy flatteries and thy cheating ways; + Be silent, Praise, + Blind guide with siren voice, and blinding all + That hear thy call. + + Come, Self-devotion, high and pure, + Thoughts that in thankfulness endure, + Though dearest hopes are faithless found, + And dearest hearts are bursting round. + Come, Resignation, spirit meek, + And let me kiss thy placid cheek, + And read in thy pale eye serene + Their blessing, who by faith can wean + Their hearts from sense, and learn to love + God only, and the joys above. + + They say, who know the life divine, + And upward gaze with eagle eyne, + That by each golden crown on high, + Rich with celestial jewelry, + Which for our Lord’s redeemed is set, + There hangs a radiant coronet, + All gemmed with pure and living light, + Too dazzling for a sinner’s sight, + Prepared for virgin souls, and them + Who seek the martyr’s diadem. + + Nor deem, who to that bliss aspire, + Must win their way through blood and fire. + The writhings of a wounded heart + Are fiercer than a foeman’s dart. + Oft in Life’s stillest shade reclining, + In Desolation unrepining, + Without a hope on earth to find + A mirror in an answering mind, + Meek souls there are, who little dream + Their daily strife an Angel’s theme, + Or that the rod they take so calm + Shall prove in Heaven a martyr’s palm. + + And there are souls that seem to dwell + Above this earth—so rich a spell + Floats round their steps, where’er they move, + From hopes fulfilled and mutual love. + Such, if on high their thoughts are set, + Nor in the stream the source forget, + If prompt to quit the bliss they know, + Following the Lamb where’er He go, + By purest pleasures unbeguiled + To idolise or wife or child; + Such wedded souls our God shall own + For faultless virgins round His throne. + + Thus everywhere we find our suffering God, + And where He trod + May set our steps: the Cross on Calvary + Uplifted high + Beams on the martyr host, a beacon light + In open fight. + + To the still wrestlings of the lonely heart + He doth impart + The virtue of his midnight agony, + When none was nigh, + Save God and one good angel, to assuage + The tempest’s rage. + + Mortal! if life smile on thee, and thou find + All to thy mind, + Think, who did once from Heaven to Hell descend, + Thee to befriend: + So shalt thou dare forego, at His dear call, + Thy best, thine all. + + “O Father! not My will, but Thine be done”— + So spake the Son. + Be this our charm, mellowing Earth’s ruder noise + Of griefs and joys: + That we may cling for ever to Thy breast + In perfect rest! + + + +Thursday before Easter. + + + As the beginning of thy supplications the commandment came forth, and + I am come to shew thee; for thou art greatly beloved: therefore + understand the matter, and consider the vision. _Daniel_ ix. 23. + + “O HOLY mountain of my God, + How do thy towers in ruin lie, + How art thou riven and strewn abroad, + Under the rude and wasteful sky!” + ’Twas thus upon his fasting-day + The “Man of Loves” was fain to pray, + His lattice open toward his darling west, + Mourning the ruined home he still must love the best. + + Oh! for a love like Daniel’s now, + To wing to Heaven but one strong prayer + For GOD’S new Israel, sunk as low, + Yet flourishing to sight as fair, + As Sion in her height of pride, + With queens for handmaids at her side, + With kings her nursing-fathers, thronèd high, + And compassed with the world’s too tempting blazonry. + + ’Tis true, nor winter stays thy growth, + Nor torrid summer’s sickly smile; + The flashing billows of the south + Break not upon so lone an isle, + But thou, rich vine, art grafted there, + The fruit of death or life to bear, + Yielding a surer witness every day, + To thine Almighty Author and His steadfast sway. + + Oh! grief to think, that grapes of gall + Should cluster round thine healthiest shoot! + God’s herald prove a heartless thrall, + Who, if he dared, would fain be mute! + E’en such is this bad world we see, + Which self-condemned in owning Thee, + Yet dares not open farewell of Thee take, + For very pride, and her high-boasted Reason’s sake. + + What do we then? if far and wide + Men kneel to CHRIST, the pure and meek, + Yet rage with passion, swell with pride, + Have we not still our faith to seek? + Nay—but in steadfast humbleness + Kneel on to Him, who loves to bless + The prayer that waits for him; and trembling strive + To keep the lingering flame in thine own breast alive. + + Dark frowned the future e’en on him, + The loving and belovèd Seer, + What time he saw, through shadows dim, + The boundary of th’ eternal year; + He only of the sons of men + Named to be heir of glory then. + Else had it bruised too sore his tender heart + To see GOD’S ransomed world in wrath and flame depart + + Then look no more: or closer watch + Thy course in Earth’s bewildering ways, + For every glimpse thine eye can catch + Of what shall be in those dread days: + So when th’ Archangel’s word is spoken, + And Death’s deep trance for ever broken, + In mercy thou mayst feel the heavenly hand, + And in thy lot unharmed before thy Savour stand. + + + +Good Friday. + + + He is despised and rejected of men. _Isaiah_ liii. 3. + + IS it not strange, the darkest hour + That ever dawned on sinful earth + Should touch the heart with softer power + For comfort than an angel’s mirth? + That to the Cross the mourner’s eye should turn + Sooner than where the stars of Christmas burn? + + Sooner than where the Easter sun + Shines glorious on yon open grave, + And to and fro the tidings run, + “Who died to heal, is risen to save?” + Sooner than where upon the Saviour’s friends + The very Comforter in light and love descends? + + Yet so it is: for duly there + The bitter herbs of earth are set, + Till tempered by the Saviour’s prayer, + And with the Saviour’s life-blood wet, + They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm, + Soft as imprisoned martyr’s deathbed calm. + + All turn to sweet—but most of all + That bitterest to the lip of pride, + When hopes presumptuous fade and fall, + Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried, + Or Love, the flower that closes up for fear + When rude and selfish spirits breathe too near. + + Then like a long-forgotten strain + Comes sweeping o’er the heart forlorn + What sunshine hours had taught in vain + Of JESUS suffering shame and scorn, + As in all lowly hearts he suffers still, + While we triumphant ride and have the world at will. + + His piercèd hands in vain would hide + His face from rude reproachful gaze, + His ears are open to abide + The wildest storm the tongue can raise, + He who with one rough word, some early day, + Their idol world and them shall sweep for aye away. + + But we by Fancy may assuage + The festering sore by Fancy made, + Down in some lonely hermitage + Like wounded pilgrims safely laid, + Where gentlest breezes whisper souls distressed, + That Love yet lives, and Patience shall find rest. + + O! shame beyond the bitterest thought + That evil spirit ever framed, + That sinners know what Jesus wrought, + Yet feel their haughty hearts untamed— + That souls in refuge, holding by the Cross, + Should wince and fret at this world’s little loss. + + Lord of my heart, by Thy last cry, + Let not Thy blood on earth be spent— + Lo, at Thy feet I fainting lie, + Mine eyes upon Thy wounds are bent, + Upon Thy streaming wounds my weary eyes + Wait like the parchèd earth on April skies. + + Wash me, and dry these bitter tears, + O let my heart no further roam, + ’Tis Thine by vows, and hopes, and fears. + Long since—O call Thy wanderer home; + To that dear home, safe in Thy wounded side, + Where only broken hearts their sin and shame may hide. + + + +Easter Eve. + + + As for thee also, by the blood of thy covenant I have sent forth thy + prisoners out of the pit wherein is no water. _Zechariah_ ix. 11. + + AT length the worst is o’er, and Thou art laid + Deep in Thy darksome bed; + All still and cold beneath yon dreary stone + Thy sacred form is gone; + Around those lips where power and mercy hung, + The dews of deaths have clung; + The dull earth o’er Thee, and Thy foes around, + Thou sleep’st a silent corse, in funeral fetters wound. + + Sleep’st Thou indeed? or is Thy spirit fled, + At large among the dead? + Whether in Eden bowers Thy welcome voice + Wake Abraham to rejoice, + Or in some drearier scene Thine eye controls + The thronging band of souls; + That, as Thy blood won earth, Thine agony + Might set the shadowy realm from sin and sorrow free. + + Where’er Thou roam’st, one happy soul, we know, + Seen at Thy side in woe, + Waits on Thy triumphs—even as all the blest + With him and Thee shall rest. + Each on his cross; by Thee we hang a while, + Watching Thy patient smile, + Till we have learned to say, “’Tis justly done, + Only in glory, LORD, Thy sinful servant own.” + + Soon wilt Thou take us to Thy tranquil bower + To rest one little hour, + Till Thine elect are numbered, and the grave + Call Thee to come and save: + Then on Thy bosom borne shall we descend + Again with earth to blend, + Earth all refined with bright supernal fires, + Tinctured with holy blood, and winged with pure desires. + + Meanwhile with every son and saint of Thine + Along the glorious line, + Sitting by turns beneath Thy sacred feet + We’ll hold communion sweet, + Know them by look and voice, and thank them all + For helping us in thrall, + For words of hope, and bright examples given + To show through moonless skies that there is light in Heaven. + + O come that day, when in this restless heart + Earth shall resign her part, + When in the grave with Thee my limbs shall rest, + My soul with Thee be blest! + But stay, presumptuous—CHRIST with Thee abides + In the rock’s dreary sides: + He from this stone will wring Celestial dew + If but this prisoner’s heart he faithful found and true. + + When tears are spent, and then art left alone + With ghosts of blessings gone, + Think thou art taken from the cross, and laid + In JESUS’ burial shade; + Take Moses’ rod, the rod of prayer, and call + Out of the rocky wall + The fount of holy blood; and lift on high + Thy grovelling soul that feels so desolate and dry. + + Prisoner of Hope thou art—look up and sing + In hope of promised spring. + As in the pit his father’s darling lay + Beside the desert way, + And knew not how, but knew his GOD would save + E’en from that living grave, + So, buried with our LORD, we’ll chose our eyes + To the decaying world, till Angels bid us rise. + + + +Easter Day. + + + And as they were afraid, and bowed down their faces to the earth, + they said unto them, Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is + not here, but is risen. _St. Luke_ xxiv. 5, 6. + + OH! day of days! shall hearts set free + No “minstrel rapture” find for thee? + Thou art this Sun of other days, + They shine by giving back thy rays: + + Enthronèd in thy sovereign sphere, + Thou shedd’st thy light on all the year; + Sundays by thee more glorious break, + An Easter Day in every week: + + And week days, following in their train, + The fulness of thy blessing gain, + Till all, both resting soil employ, + Be one Lord’s day of holy joy. + + Then wake, my soul, to high desires, + And earlier light thine altar fires: + The World some hours is on her way, + Nor thinks on thee, thou blessèd day: + + Or, if she think, it is in scorn: + The vernal light of Easter morn + To her dark gaze no brighter seems + Than Reason’s or the Law’s pale beams. + + “Where is your Lord?” she scornful asks: + “Where is His hire? we know his tasks; + Sons of a King ye boast to be: + Let us your crowns and treasures see.” + + We in the words of Truth reply, + (An angel brought them from this sky,) + “Our crown, our treasure is not here, + ’Tis stored above the highest sphere: + + “Methinks your wisdom guides amiss, + To seek on earth a Christian’s bliss; + We watch not now the lifeless stone; + Our only Lord is risen and gone.” + + Yet e’en the lifeless stone is dear + For thoughts of Him who late lay here; + And the base world, now Christ hath died, + Ennobled is and glorified. + + No more a charnel-house, to fence + The relics of lost innocence, + A vault of ruin and decay; + Th’ imprisoning stone is rolled away: + + ’Tis now a cell, where angels use + To come and go with heavenly news, + And in the ears of mourners say, + “Come, see the place where Jesus lay:” + + ’Tis now a fane, where Love can find + Christ everywhere embalmed and shined: + Aye gathering up memorials sweet, + Where’er she sets her duteous feet. + + Oh! joy to Mary first allowed, + When roused from weeping o’er His shroud, + By His own calm, soul-soothing tone, + Breathing her name, as still His own! + + Joy to the faithful Three renewed, + As their glad errand they pursued! + Happy, who so Christ’s word convey, + That he may meet them on their way! + + So is it still: to holy tears, + In lonely hours, Christ risen appears: + In social hours, who Christ would see + Must turn all tasks to Charity. + + + +Monday in Easter Week. + + + Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter of persons: but in + every nation he that feareth Him, and worketh righteousness, is + accepted with Him. _Acts_ x. 34, 35. + + GO up and watch the new-born rill + Just trickling from its mossy bed, + Streaking the heath-clad hill + With a bright emerald thread. + + Canst thou her bold career foretell, + What rocks she shall o’erleap or rend, + How far in Ocean’s swell + Her freshening billows send? + + Perchance that little brook shall flow + The bulwark of some mighty realm, + Bear navies to and fro + With monarchs at their helm. + + Or canst thou guess, how far away + Some sister nymph, beside her urn + Reclining night and day, + ’Mid reeds and mountain fern, + + Nurses her store, with thine to blend + When many a moor and glen are past, + Then in the wide sea end + Their spotless lives at last? + + E’en so, the course of prayer who knows? + It springs in silence where it will, + Springs out of sight, and flows + At first a lonely rill: + + But streams shall meet it by and by + From thousand sympathetic hearts, + Together swelling high + Their chant of many parts. + + Unheard by all but angel ears + The good Cornelius knelt alone, + Nor dreamed his prayers and tears + Would help a world undone. + + The while upon his terraced roof + The loved Apostle to his Lord + In silent thought aloof + For heavenly vision soared. + + Far o’er the glowing western main + His wistful brow was upward raised, + Where, like an angel’s train, + The burnished water blazed. + + The saint beside the ocean prayed, + This soldier in his chosen bower, + Where all his eye surveyed + Seemed sacred in that hour. + + To each unknown his brother’s prayer, + Yet brethren true in dearest love + Were they—and now they share + Fraternal joys above. + + There daily through Christ’s open gate + They see the Gentile spirits press, + Brightening their high estate + With dearer happiness. + + What civic wreath for comrades saved + Shone ever with such deathless gleam, + Or when did perils braved + So sweet to veterans seem? + + + +Tuesday in Easter Week. + + + And they departed quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy, + and did run to bring His disciples word. _St. Matthew_ xxviii. 8. + + TO THE SNOWDROP. + + THOU first-born of the year’s delight, + Pride of the dewy glade, + In vernal green and virgin white, + Thy vestal robes, arrayed: + + ’Tis not because thy drooping form + Sinks graceful on its nest, + When chilly shades from gathering storm + Affright thy tender breast; + + Nor for yon river islet wild + Beneath the willow spray, + Where, like the ringlets of a child, + Thou weav’st thy circle gay; + + ’Tis not for these I love thee dear— + Thy shy averted smiles + To Fancy bode a joyous year, + One of Life’s fairy isles. + + They twinkle to the wintry moon, + And cheer th’ ungenial day, + And tell us, all will glisten soon + As green and bright as they. + + Is there a heart that loves the spring, + Their witness can refuse? + Yet mortals doubt, when angels bring + From Heaven their Easter news: + + When holy maids and matrons speak + Of Christ’s forsaken bed, + And voices, that forbid to seek + The hiving ’mid the dead, + + And when they say, “Turn, wandering heart, + Thy Lord is ris’n indeed, + Let Pleasure go, put Care apart, + And to His presence speed;” + + We smile in scorn: and yet we know + They early sought the tomb, + Their hearts, that now so freshly glow, + Lost in desponding gloom. + + They who have sought, nor hope to find, + Wear not so bright a glance: + They, who have won their earthly mind, + Lees reverently advance. + + But where in gentle spirits, fear + And joy so duly meet, + These sure have seen the angels near, + And kissed the Saviour’s feet. + + Nor let the Pastor’s thankful eye + Their faltering tale disdain, + As on their lowly couch they lie, + Prisoners of want and pain. + + O guide us, when our faithless hearts + From Thee would start aloof, + Where Patience her sweet skill imparts + Beneath some cottage roof: + + Revive our dying fires, to burn + High as her anthems soar, + And of our scholars let us learn + Our own forgotten lore. + + + +First Sunday after Easter. + + + Seemeth it but a small thing unto you, that the God of Israel hath + separated you from the congregation of Israel, to bring you near to + Himself? _Numbers_ xvi. 9. + + FIRST Father of the holy seed, + If yet, invoked in hour of need, + Thou count me for Thine own + Not quite an outcast if I prove, + (Thou joy’st in miracles of love), + Hear, from Thy mercy-throne! + + Upon Thine altar’s horn of gold + Help me to lay my trembling hold, + Though stained with Christian gore;— + The blood of souls by Thee redeemed, + But, while I roved or idly dreamed, + Lost to be found no more. + + For oft, when summer leaves were bright, + And every flower was bathed in light, + In sunshine moments past, + My wilful heart would burst away + From where the holy shadow lay, + Where heaven my lot had cast. + + I thought it scorn with Thee to dwell, + A Hermit in a silent cell, + While, gaily sweeping by, + Wild Fancy blew his bugle strain, + And marshalled all his gallant train + In the world’s wondering eye. + + I would have joined him—but as oft + Thy whispered warnings, kind and soft, + My better soul confessed. + “My servant, let the world alone— + Safe on the steps of Jesus’ throne + Be tranquil and be blest.” + + “Seems it to thee a niggard hand + That nearest Heaven has bade thee stand, + The ark to touch and bear, + With incense of pure heart’s desire + To heap the censer’s sacred fire, + The snow-white Ephod wear?” + + Why should we crave the worldling’s wreath, + On whom the Savour deigned to breathe, + To whom His keys were given, + Who lead the choir where angels meet, + With angels’ food our brethren greet, + And pour the drink of Heaven? + + When sorrow all our heart would ask, + We need not shun our daily task, + And hide ourselves for calm; + The herbs we seek to heal our woe + Familiar by our pathway grow, + Our common air is balm. + + Around each pure domestic shrine + Bright flowers of Eden bloom and twine, + Our hearths are altars all; + The prayers of hungry souls and poor, + Like armèd angels at the door, + Our unseen foes appal. + + Alms all around and hymns within— + What evil eye can entrance win + Where guards like these abound? + If chance some heedless heart should roam, + Sure, thought of these will lure it home + Ere lost in Folly’s round. + + O joys, that sweetest in decay, + Fall not, like withered leaves, away, + But with the silent breath + Of violets drooping one by one, + Soon as their fragrant task is done, + Are wafted high in death! + + + +Second Sunday after Easter. + + + He hath said, which heard the words of God, and knew the knowledge of + the Most High, which saw the vision of the Almighty, falling into a + trance, but having his eyes open: I shall see Him, but not now; I + shall behold Him, but not nigh; there shall come a Star out at Jacob, + and a Sceptre shall rise out of Israel, and shall smite the corners + of Moab, and destroy all the children at Sheth. _Numbers_ xxiv. 16, + 17. + + O FOR a sculptor’s hand, + That thou might’st take thy stand, + Thy wild hair floating on the eastern breeze, + Thy tranced yet open gaze + Fixed on the desert haze, + As one who deep in heaven some airy pageant sees. + + In outline dim and vast + Their fearful shadows cast + This giant forms of empires on their way + To ruin: one by one + They tower and they are gone, + Yet in the Prophet’s soul the dreams of avarice stay. + + No sun or star so bright + In all the world of light + That they should draw to Heaven his downward eye: + He hears th’ Almighty’s word, + He sees the angel’s sword, + Yet low upon the earth his heart and treasure lie. + + Lo! from you argent field, + To him and us revealed, + One gentle Star glides down, on earth to dwell. + Chained as they are below + Our eyes may see it glow, + And as it mounts again, may track its brightness well. + + To him it glared afar, + A token of wild war, + The banner of his Lord’s victorious wrath: + But close to us it gleams, + Its soothing lustre streams + Around our home’s green walls, and on our church-way path. + + We in the tents abide + Which he at distance eyed + Like goodly cedars by the waters spread, + While seven red altar-fires + Rose up in wavy spires, + Where on the mount he watched his sorceries dark and dread. + + He watched till morning’s ray + On lake and meadow lay, + And willow-shaded streams that silent sweep + Around the bannered lines, + Where by their several signs + The desert-wearied tribes in sight of Canaan sleep. + + He watched till knowledge came + Upon his soul like flame, + Not of those magic fires at random caught: + But true Prophetic light + Flashed o’er him, high and bright, + Flashed once, and died away, and left his darkened thought. + + And can he choose but fear, + Who feels his GOD so near, + That when he fain would curse, his powerless tongue + In blessing only moves?— + Alas! the world he loves + Too close around his heart her tangling veil hath flung. + + Sceptre and Star divine, + Who in Thine inmost shrine + Hash made us worshippers, O claim Thine own; + More than Thy seers we know— + O teach our love to grow + Up to Thy heavenly light, and reap what Thou hast sown. + + + +Third Sunday after Easter. + + + A woman when she is in travail hath sorrow, because her hour is come; + but as soon as she is delivered of the child, she remembereth no more + the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world. _St. John_ + xvi. 21. + + WELL may I guess and feel + Why Autumn should be sad; + But vernal airs should sorrow heal, + Spring should be gay and glad: + Yet as along this violet bank I rove, + The languid sweetness seems to choke my breath, + I sit me down beside the hazel grove, + And sigh, and half could wish my weariness were death. + + Like a bright veering cloud + Grey blossoms twinkle there, + Warbles around a busy crowd + Of larks in purest air. + Shame on the heart that dreams of blessings gone, + Or wakes the spectral forms of woe and crime, + When nature sings of joy and hope alone, + Reading her cheerful lesson in her own sweet time. + + Nor let the proud heart say, + In her self-torturing hour, + The travail pangs must have their way, + The aching brow must lower. + To us long since the glorious Child is born + Our throes should be forgot, or only seem + Like a sad vision told for joy at morn, + For joy that we have waked and found it but a dream. + + Mysterious to all thought + A mother’s prime of bliss, + When to her eager lips is brought + Her infant’s thrilling kiss. + O never shall it set, the sacred light + Which dawns that moment on her tender gaze, + In the eternal distance blending bright + Her darling’s hope and hers, for love and joy and praise. + + No need for her to weep + Like Thracian wives of yore, + Save when in rapture still and deep + Her thankful heart runs o’er. + They mourned to trust their treasure on the main, + Sure of the storm, unknowing of their guide: + Welcome to her the peril and the pain, + For well she knows the bonus where they may safely hide. + + She joys that one is born + Into a world forgiven, + Her Father’s household to adorn, + And dwell with her in Heaven. + So have I seen, in Spring’s bewitching hour, + When the glad Earth is offering all her best, + Some gentle maid bend o’er a cherished flower, + And wish it worthier on a Parent’s heart to rest. + + + +Fourth Sunday after Easter. + + + Nevertheless I tell you the truth; It is expedient for you that I go + away: for if I go not away, the Comforter will not come unto you; but + if I depart, I will send Him unto you. _St. John_ xvi 7. + + MY Saviour, can it ever be + That I should gain by losing Thee? + The watchful mother tarries nigh, + Though sleep have closed her infant’s eye; + For should he wake, and find her gone. + She knows she could not bear his moan. + But I am weaker than a child, + And Thou art more than mother dear; + Without Thee Heaven were but a wild; + How can I live without Thee here! + + “’Tis good for you, that I should go, + “You lingering yet awhile below;”— + ’Tis Thine own gracious promise, Lord! + Thy saints have proved the faithful word, + When heaven’s bright boundless avenue + Far opened on their eager view, + And homeward to Thy Father’s throne, + Still lessening, brightening on their sight, + Thy shadowy car went soaring on; + They tracked Thee up th’ abyss of light. + + Thou bidd’st rejoice; they dare not mourn, + But to their home in gladness turn, + Their home and God’s, that favoured place, + Where still He shines on Abraham’s race, + In prayers and blessings there to wait + Like suppliants at their Monarch’s gate, + Who bent with bounty rare to aid + The splendours of His crowning day, + Keeps back awhile His largess, made + More welcome for that brief delay: + + In doubt they wait, but not unblest; + They doubt not of their Master’s rest, + Nor of the gracious will of Heaven— + Who gave His Son, sure all has given— + But in ecstatic awe they muse + What course the genial stream may choose, + And far and wide their fancies rove, + And to their height of wonder strain, + What secret miracle of love + Should make their Saviour’s going gain. + + The days of hope and prayer are past, + The day of comfort dawns at last, + The everlasting gates again + Roll back, and, lo! a royal train— + From the far depth of light once more + The floods of glory earthward pour: + They part like shower-drops in mid air, + But ne’er so soft fell noon-tide shower, + Nor evening rainbow gleamed so fair + To weary swains in parchèd bower. + + Swiftly and straight each tongue of flame + Through cloud and breeze unwavering came, + And darted to its place of rest + On some meek brow of Jesus blest. + Nor fades it yet, that living gleam, + And still those lambent lightnings stream; + Where’er the Lord is, there are they; + In every heart that gives them room, + They light His altar every day, + Zeal to inflame, and vice consume. + + Soft as the plumes of Jesus’ Dove + They nurse the soul to heavenly love; + The struggling spark of good within, + Just smothered in the strife of sin, + They quicken to a timely glow, + The pure flame spreading high and low. + Said I, that prayer and hope were o’er? + Nay, blessèd Spirit! but by Thee + The Church’s prayer finds wings to soar, + The Church’s hope finds eyes to see. + + Then, fainting soul, arise and sing; + Mount, but be sober on the wing; + Mount up, for Heaven is won by prayer, + Be sober, for thou art not there; + Till Death the weary spirit free, + Thy God hath said, ’Tis good for thee + To walk by faith and not by sight: + Take it on trust a little while; + Soon shalt thou read the mystery right + In the full sunshine of His smile. + + Or if thou yet more knowledge crave, + Ask thine own heart, that willing slave + To all that works thee woe or harm + Shouldst thou not need some mighty charm + To win thee to thy Saviour’s side, + Though He had deigned with thee to bide? + The Spirit must stir the darkling deep, + The Dove must settle on the Cross, + Else we should all sin on or sleep + With Christ in sight, turning our gain to loss. + + + +Fifth Sunday After Easter. +ROGATION SUNDAY. + + + And the Lord was very angry with Aaron to have destroyed him: and I + prayed for Aaron also the same time. _Deuteronomy_ ix. 20. + + NOW is there solemn pause in earth and heaven; + The Conqueror now + His bonds hath riven, + And Angels wonder why He stays below: + Yet hath not man his lesson learned, + How endless love should be returned. + + Deep is the silence as of summer noon, + When a soft shower + Will trickle soon, + A gracious rain, freshening the weary bower— + O sweetly then far off is heard + The clear note of some lonely bird. + + So let Thy turtle-dove’s sad call arise + In doubt and fear + Through darkening skies, + And pierce, O Lord, Thy justly-sealèd ear, + Where on the house-top, all night long + She trills her widowed, faltering song. + + Teach her to know and love her hour of prayer, + And evermore, + As faith grows rare, + Unlock her heart, and offer all its store + In holier love and humbler vows, + As suits a lost returning spouse. + + Not as at first, but with intenser cry, + Upon the mount + She now must lie, + Till Thy dear love to blot the sad account + Of her rebellious race be won, + Pitying the mother in the son. + + But chiefly (for she knows Thee angered worst + By holiest things + Profaned and curst), + Chiefly for Aaron’s seed she spreads her wings, + If but one leaf she may from Thee + Win of the reconciling tree. + + For what shall heal, when holy water banes! + Or who may guide + O’er desert plains + Thy loved yet sinful people wandering wide, + If Aaron’s hand unshrinking mould + An idol form of earthly gold? + + Therefore her tears are bitter, and as deep + Her boding sigh, + As, while men sleep, + Sad-hearted mothers heave, that wakeful lie, + To muse upon some darling child + Roaming in youth’s uncertain wild. + + Therefore on fearful dreams her inward sight + Is fain to dwell— + What lurid light + Shall the last darkness of the world dispel, + The Mediator in His wrath + Descending down the lightning’s path. + + Yet, yet awhile, offended Saviour, pause, + In act to break + Thine outraged laws, + O spare Thy rebels for Thine own dear sake; + Withdraw Thine hand, nor dash to earth + The covenant of our second birth. + + ’Tis forfeit like the first—we own it all— + Yet for love’s sake + Let it not fall; + But at Thy touch let veilèd hearts awake, + That nearest to Thine altar lie, + Yet least of holy things descry. + + Teacher of teachers! Priest of priests! from Thee + The sweet strong prayer + Must rise, to free + First Levi, then all Israel, from the snare. + Thou art our Moses out of sight— + Speak for us, or we perish quite. + + + +Ascension Day. + + + Why stand ye gazing up into Heaven? this same Jesus, which is taken + up from you into Heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen + Him go into Heaven. _Acts_ i. 11 + + SOFT cloud, that while the breeze of May + Chants her glad matins in the leafy arch, + Draw’st thy bright veil across the heavenly way + Meet pavement for an angel’s glorious march: + + My soul is envious of mine eye, + That it should soar and glide with thee so fast, + The while my grovelling thoughts half buried lie, + Or lawless roam around this earthly waste. + + Chains of my heart, avaunt I say— + I will arise, and in the strength of love + Pursue the bright track ere it fade away, + My Saviour’s pathway to His home above. + + Sure, when I reach the point where earth + Melts into nothing from th’ uncumbered sight, + Heaven will o’ercome th’ attraction of my birth. + And I shall sink in yonder sea of light: + + Till resting by th’ incarnate LORD, + Once bleeding, now triumphant for my sake, + I mark Him, how by seraph hosts adored, + He to earth’s lowest cares is still awake. + + The sun and every vassal star, + All space, beyond the soar of angel wings, + Wait on His word: and yet He stays His car + For every sigh a contrite suppliant brings. + + He listens to the silent tear + For all the anthems of the boundless sky— + And shall our dreams of music bar our ear + To His soul-piercing voice for ever nigh? + + Nay, gracious Saviour—but as now + Our thoughts have traced Thee to Thy glory-throne + So help us evermore with thee to bow + Where human sorrow breathes her lowly moan. + + We must not stand to gaze too long, + Though on unfolding Heaven our gaze we bend + Where lost behind the bright angelic throng + We see CHRIST’S entering triumph slow ascend. + + No fear but we shall soon behold, + Faster than now it fades, that gleam revive, + When issuing from his cloud of fiery gold + Our wasted frames feel the true sun, and live. + + Then shall we see Thee as Thou art, + For ever fixed in no unfruitful gaze, + But such as lifts the new-created heart, + Age after age, in worthier love and praise. + + + +Sunday after Ascension. + + + As every man hath received the gift, even so minister the same one to + another, as good stewards of the manifold grace of God. 1 _St. + Peter_ iv. 10. + + THE Earth that in her genial breast + Makes for the down a kindly nest, + Where wafted by the warm south-west + It floats at pleasure, + Yields, thankful, of her very best, + To nurse her treasure: + + True to her trust, tree, herb, or reed, + She renders for each scattered seed, + And to her Lord with duteous heed + Gives large increase: + Thus year by year she works unfeed, + And will not cease. + + Woe worth these barren hearts of ours, + Where Thou hast set celestial flowers, + And watered with more balmy showers + Than e’er distilled + In Eden, on th’ ambrosial bowers— + Yet nought we yield. + + Largely Thou givest, gracious Lord, + Largely Thy gifts should be restored; + Freely Thou givest, and Thy word + Is, “Freely give.” + He only, who forgets to hoard, + Has learned to live. + + Wisely Thou givest—all around + Thine equal rays are resting found, + Yet varying so on various ground + They pierce and strike, + That not two roseate cups are crowned + With drew alike: + + E’en so, in silence, likest Thee, + Steals on soft-handed Charity, + Tempering her gifts, that seem so free, + By time and place, + Till not a woe the bleak world see, + But finds her grace: + + Eyes to the blind, and to the lame + Feet, and to sinners wholesome blame, + To starving bodies food and flame, + By turns she brings; + To humbled souls, that sink for shame, + Lends heaven-ward wings: + + Leads them the way our Saviour went, + And shows Love’s treasure yet unspent; + As when th’ unclouded heavens were rent. + Opening His road, + Nor yet His Holy Spirit sent + To our abode. + + Ten days th’ eternal doors displayed + Were wondering (so th’ Almighty bade) + Whom Love enthroned would send, in aid + Of souls that mourn, + Left orphans in Earth’s dreary shade + As noon as born. + + Open they stand, that prayers in throngs + May rise on high, and holy songs, + Such incense as of right belongs + To the true shrine, + Where stands the Healer of all wrongs + In light divine; + + The golden censer in His hand, + He offers hearts from every land, + Tied to His own by gentlest band + Of silent Love: + About Him wingèd blessings stand + In act to move. + + A little while, and they shall fleet + From Heaven to Earth, attendants meet + On the life-giving Paraclete + Speeding His flight, + With all that sacred is and sweet, + On saints to light. + + Apostles, Prophets, Pastors, all + Shall feel the shower of Mercy fall, + And startling at th’ Almighty’s call, + Give what He gave, + Till their high deeds the world appal, + And sinners save. + + + +Whitsunday. + + + And suddenly there came a sound from Heaven as of a rushing mighty + wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting. And there + appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon + each of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost. _Acts_ + ii. 2–4 + + WHEN God of old came down from Heaven, + In power and wrath He came; + Before His feet the clouds were riven, + Half darkness and half flame: + + Around the trembling mountain’s base + The prostrate people lay; + A day of wrath and not of grace; + A dim and dreadful day. + + But when he came the second time, + He came in power and love, + Softer than gale at morning prime + Hovered His holy Dove. + + The fires that rushed on Sinai down + In sudden torrents dread, + Now gently light, a glorious crown, + On every sainted head. + + Like arrows went those lightnings forth + Winged with the sinner’s doom, + But these, like tongues, o’er all the earth + Proclaiming life to come: + + And as on Israel’s awe-struck ear + The voice exceeding loud, + The trump, that angels quake to hear, + Thrilled from the deep, dark cloud; + + So, when the Spirit of our God + Came down His flock to find, + A voice from Heaven was heard abroad, + A rushing, mighty wind. + + Nor doth the outward ear alone + At that high warning start; + Conscience gives back th’ appalling tone; + ’Tis echoed in the heart. + + It fills the Church of God; it fills + The sinful world around; + Only in stubborn hearts and wills + No place for it is found. + + To other strains our souls are set: + A giddy whirl of sin + Fills ear and brain, and will not let + Heaven’s harmonies come in. + + Come Lord, Come Wisdom, Love, and Power, + Open our ears to hear; + Let us not miss th’ accepted hour; + Save, Lord, by Love or Fear. + + + +Monday in Whitsun-week. + + + So the Lord scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all + the earth; and they left off to build the city. _Genesis_ xi. 8 + + SINCE all that is not Heaven must fade, + Light be the hand of Ruin laid + Upon the home I love: + With lulling spell let soft Decay + Steal on, and spare the giant sway, + The crash of tower and grove. + + Far opening down some woodland deep + In their own quiet glade should sleep + The relics dear to thought, + And wild-flower wreaths from side to side + Their waving tracery hang, to hide + What ruthless Time has wrought. + + Such are the visions green and sweet + That o’er the wistful fancy fleet + In Asia’s sea-like plain, + Where slowly, round his isles of sand, + Euphrates through the lonely land + Winds toward the pearly main. + + Slumber is there, but not of rest; + There her forlorn and weary nest + The famished hawk has found, + The wild dog howls at fall of night, + The serpent’s rustling coils affright + The traveller on his round. + + What shapeless form, half lost on high, + Half seen against the evening sky, + Seems like a ghost to glide, + And watch, from Babel’s crumbling heap, + Where in her shadow, fast asleep, + Lies fallen imperial Pride? + + With half-closed eye a lion there + Is basking in his noontide lair, + Or prowls in twilight gloom. + The golden city’s king he seems, + Such as in old prophetic dreams + Sprang from rough ocean’s womb. + + But where are now his eagle wings, + That sheltered erst a thousand kings, + Hiding the glorious sky + From half the nations, till they own + No holier name, no mightier throne? + That vision is gone by. + + Quenched is the golden statue’s ray, + The breath of heaven has blown away + What toiling earth had piled, + Scattering wise heart and crafty hand, + As breezes strew on ocean’s sand + The fabrics of a child. + + Divided thence through every age + Thy rebels, Lord, their warfare wage, + And hoarse and jarring all + Mount up their heaven-assailing cries + To Thy bright watchmen in the skies + From Babel’s shattered wall. + + Thrice only since, with blended might + The nations on that haughty height + Have met to scale the Heaven: + Thrice only might a Seraph’s look + A moment’s shade of sadness brook— + Such power to guilt was given. + + Now the fierce bear and leopard keen + Are perished as they ne’er had been, + Oblivion is their home: + Ambition’s boldest dream and last + Must melt before the clarion blast + That sounds the dirge of Rome. + + Heroes and kings, obey the charm, + Withdraw the proud high-reaching arm, + There is an oath on high: + That ne’er on brow of mortal birth + Shall blend again the crowns of earth, + Nor in according cry + + Her many voices mingling own + One tyrant Lord, one idol throne: + But to His triumphs soon + _He_ shall descend, who rules above, + And the pure language of His love, + All tongues of men shall tune. + + Nor let Ambition heartless mourn; + When Babel’s very ruins burn, + Her high desires may breathe;— + O’ercome thyself, and thou mayst share + With Christ His Father’s throne, and wear + The world’s imperial wreath. + + + +Tuesday in Whitsun-week. + + + When He putteth forth His own sheep, He goeth before them. + + _St. John_ x. 4. + + (_Addressed to Candidates for Ordination_.) + + “LORD, in Thy field I work all day, + I read, I teach, I warn, I pray, + And yet these wilful wandering sheep + Within Thy fold I cannot keep. + + “I journey, yet no step is won— + Alas! the weary course I run! + Like sailors shipwrecked in their dreams, + All powerless and benighted seems.” + + What? wearied out with half a life? + Scared with this smooth unbloody strife? + Think where thy coward hopes had flown + Had Heaven held out the martyr’s crown. + + How couldst thou hang upon the cross, + To whom a weary hour is loss? + Or how the thorns and scourging brook + Who shrinkest from a scornful look? + + Yet ere thy craven spirit faints, + Hear thine own King, the King of Saints; + Though thou wert toiling in the grave, + ’Tis He can cheer thee, He can save. + + He is th’ eternal mirror bright, + Where Angels view the FATHER’S light, + And yet in Him the simplest swain + May read his homely lesson plain. + + Early to quit His home on earth, + And claim His high celestial birth, + Alone with His true Father found + Within the temple’s solemn round:— + + Yet in meek duty to abide + For many a year at Mary’s side, + Nor heed, though restless spirits ask, + “What, hath the Christ forgot His task?” + + Conscious of Deity within, + To bow before an heir of sin, + With folded arms on humble breast, + By His own servant washed and blest:— + + Then full of Heaven, the mystic Dove + Hovering His gracious brow above, + To shun the voice and eye of praise, + And in the wild His trophies raise:— + + With hymns of angels in His ears, + Back to His task of woe and tears, + Unmurmuring through the world to roam + With not a wish or thought at home:— + + All but Himself to heal and save, + Till ripened for the cross and grave, + He to His Father gently yield + The breath that our redemption sealed:— + + Then to unearthly life arise, + Yet not at once to seek the skies, + But glide awhile from saint to saint, + Lest on our lonely way we faint; + + And through the cloud by glimpses show + How bright, in Heaven, the marks will glow + Of the true cross, imprinted deep + Both on the Shepherd and the sheep:— + + When out of sight, in heart and prayer, + Thy chosen people still to bear, + And from behind Thy glorious veil, + Shed light that cannot change or fail:— + + This is Thy pastoral course, O LORD, + Till we be saved, and Thou adored;— + Thy course and ours—but who are they + Who follow on the narrow way? + + And yet of Thee from year to year + The Church’s solemn chant we hear, + As from Thy cradle to Thy throne + She swells her high heart-cheering tone. + + Listen, ye pure white-robèd souls, + Whom in her list she now enrolls, + And gird ye for your high emprize + By these her thrilling minstrelsies. + + And wheresoe’er in earth’s wide field, + Ye lift, for Him, the red-cross shield, + Be this your song, your joy and pride— + “Our Champion went before and died.” + + + +Trinity Sunday. + + + If I have told you earthly things, and ye believe not, how shall ye + believe if I tell you of heavenly things? _St. John_ iii. 12 + + CREATOR, Saviour, strengthening Guide, + Now on Thy mercy’s ocean wide + Far out of sight we seem to glide. + + Help us, each hour, with steadier eye + To search the deepening mystery, + The wonders of Thy sea and sky. + + The blessèd Angels look and long + To praise Thee with a worthier song, + And yet our silence does Thee wrong.— + + Along the Church’s central space + The sacred weeks, with unfelt pace, + Hath borne us on from grace to grace. + + As travellers on some woodland height, + When wintry suns are gleaming bright, + Lose in arched glades their tangled sight;— + + By glimpses such as dreamers love + Through her grey veil the leafless grove + Shows where the distant shadows rove;— + + Such trembling joy the soul o’er-awes + As nearer to Thy shrine she draws:— + And now before the choir we pause. + + The door is closed—but soft and deep + Around the awful arches sweep, + Such airs as soothe a hermit’s sleep. + + From each carved nook and fretted bend + Cornice and gallery seem to send + Tones that with seraphs hymns might blend. + + Three solemn parts together twine + In harmony’s mysterious line; + Three solemn aisles approach the shrine: + + Yet all are One—together all, + In thoughts that awe but not appal, + Teach the adoring heart to fall. + + Within these walls each fluttering guest + Is gently lured to one safe nest— + Without, ’tis moaning and unrest. + + The busy world a thousand ways + Is hurrying by, nor ever stays + To catch a note of Thy dear praise. + + Why tarries not her chariot wheel, + That o’er her with no vain appeal + One gust of heavenly song might steal? + + Alas! for her Thy opening flowers + Unheeded breathe to summer showers, + Unheard the music of Thy bowers. + + What echoes from the sacred dome + The selfish spirit may o’ercome + That will not hear of love or home! + + The heart that scorned a father’s care, + How can it rise in filial prayer? + How an all-seeing Guardian bear? + + Or how shall envious brethren own + A Brother on the eternal throne, + Their Father’s joy, their hops alone? + + How shall Thy Spirit’s gracious wile + The sullen brow of gloom beguile, + That frowns on sweet Affection’s smile? + + Eternal One, Almighty Trine! + (Since Thou art ours, and we are Thine,) + By all Thy love did once resign, + + By all the grace Thy heavens still hide, + We pray Thee, keep us at Thy side, + Creator, Saviour, strengthening Guide! + + + +First Sunday after Trinity. + + + So Joshua smote all the country, . . . and all their kings; he left + none remaining. _Joshua_ x. 40. + + WHERE is the land with milk and honey flowing, + The promise of our God, our fancy’s theme? + Here over shattered walls dank weeds are growing, + And blood and fire have run in mingled stream; + Like oaks and cedars all around + The giant corses strew the ground, + And haughty Jericho’s cloud-piercing wall + Lies where it sank at Joshua’s trumpet call. + + These are not scenes for pastoral dance at even, + For moonlight rovings in the fragrant glades, + Soft slumbers in the open eye of Heaven, + And all the listless joy of summer shades. + We in the midst of ruins live, + Which every hour dread warning give, + Nor may our household vine or fig-tree hide + The broken arches of old Canaan’s pride. + + Where is the sweet repose of hearts repenting, + The deep calm sky, the sunshine of the soul, + Now Heaven and earth are to our bliss consenting, + And all the Godhead joins to make us whole. + The triple crown of mercy now + Is ready for the suppliant’s brow, + By the Almighty Three for ever planned, + And from behind the cloud held out by Jesus’ hand. + + “Now, Christians, hold your own—the land before ye + Is open—win your way, and take your rest.” + So sounds our war-note; but our path of glory + By many a cloud is darkened and unblest: + And daily as we downward glide, + Life’s ebbing stream on either side + Shows at each turn some mouldering hope or joy, + The Man seems following still the funeral of the Boy. + + Open our eyes, Thou Sun of life and gladness, + That we may see that glorious world of Thine! + It shines for us in vain, while drooping sadness + Enfolds us here like mist: come Power benign, + Touch our chilled hearts with vernal smile, + Our wintry course do Thou beguile, + Nor by the wayside ruins let us mourn, + Who have th’ eternal towers for our appointed bourne. + + + +Second Sunday after Trinity. + + + Marvel not, my brethren, if the world hate you. We know that we have + passed from death unto life, because we love the brethren. 1 _St. + John_ iii. 13, 14. + + THE clouds that wrap the setting sun + When Autumn’s softest gleams are ending, + Where all bright hues together run + In sweet confusion blending:— + Why, as we watch their floating wreath + Seem they the breath of life to breathe? + To Fancy’s eye their motions prove + They mantle round the Sun for love. + + When up some woodland dale we catch + The many-twinkling smile of ocean, + Or with pleased ear bewildered watch + His chime of restless motion; + Still as the surging waves retire + They seem to gasp with strong desire, + Such signs of love old Ocean gives, + We cannot choose but think he lives. + + Wouldst thou the life of souls discern? + Nor human wisdom nor divine + Helps thee by aught beside to learn; + Love is life’s only sign. + The spring of the regenerate heart, + The pulse, the glow of every part, + Is the true love of Christ our Lord, + As man embraced, as God adored. + + But he, whose heart will bound to mark + The full bright burst of summer morn, + Loves too each little dewy spark, + By leaf or flow’ret worn: + Cheap forms, and common hues, ’tis true, + Through the bright shower-drop’ meet his view; + The colouring may be of this earth; + The lustre comes of heavenly birth. + + E’en so, who loves the Lord aright, + No soul of man can worthless find; + All will be precious in his sight, + Since Christ on all hath shined: + But chiefly Christian souls; for they, + Though worn and soiled with sinful clay, + Are yet, to eyes that see them true, + All glistening with baptismal dew. + + Then marvel not, if such as bask + In purest light of innocence, + Hope against mope, in love’s dear task, + Spite of all dark offence. + If they who hate the trespass most, + Yet, when all other love is lost, + Love the poor sinner, marvel not; + Christ’s mark outwears the rankest blot. + + No distance breaks this tie of blood; + Brothers are brothers evermore; + Nor wrong, nor wrath of deadliest mood, + That magic may o’erpower; + Oft, ere the common source be known, + The kindred drops will claim their own, + And throbbing pulses silently + Move heart towards heart by sympathy. + + So it is with true Christian hearts; + Their mutual share in Jesus’ blood + An everlasting bond imparts + Of holiest brotherhood: + Oh! might we all our lineage prove, + Give and forgive, do good and love, + By soft endearments in kind strife + Lightening the load of daily life. + + There is much need; for not as yet + Are we in shelter or repose, + The holy house is still beset + With leaguer of stern foes; + Wild thoughts within, bad men without, + All evil spirits round about, + Are banded in unblest device, + To spoil Love’s earthly paradise. + + Then draw we nearer day by day, + Each to his brethren, all to God; + Let the world take us as she may, + We must not change our road; + Not wondering, though in grief, to find + The martyr’s foe still keep her mind; + But fixed to hold Love’s banner fast, + And by submission win at last. + + + +Third Sunday after Trinity. + + + There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner + that repenteth. _St. Luke_ xv. 10. + + O HATEFUL spell of Sin! when friends are nigh, + To make stern Memory tell her tale unsought, + And raise accusing shades of hours gone by, + To come between us and all kindly thought! + + Chilled at her touch, the self-reproaching soul + Flies from the heart and home she dearest loves, + To where lone mountains tower, or billows roll, + Or to your endless depth, ye solemn groves. + + In vain: the averted cheek in loneliest dell + Is conscious of a gaze it cannot bear, + The leaves that rustle near us seem to tell + Our heart’s sad secret to the silent air. + + Nor is the dream untrue; for all around + The heavens are watching with their thousand eyes, + We cannot pass our guardian angel’s bound, + Resigned or sullen, he will hear our sighs. + + He in the mazes of the budding wood + Is near, and mourns to see our thankless glance + Dwell coldly, where the fresh green earth is strewed + With the first flowers that lead the vernal dance. + + In wasteful bounty showered, they smile unseen, + Unseen by man—but what if purer sprights + By moonlight o’er their dewy bosoms lean + To adore the Father of all gentle lights? + + If such there be, O grief and shame to think + That sight of thee should overcloud their joy, + A new-born soul, just waiting on the brink + Of endless life, yet wrapt in earth’s annoy! + + O turn, and be thou turned! the selfish tear, + In bitter thoughts of low-born care begun, + Let it flow on, but flow refined and clear, + The turbid waters brightening as they run. + + Let it flow on, till all thine earthly heart + In penitential drops have ebbed away, + Then fearless turn where Heaven hath set thy part, + Nor shudder at the Eye that saw thee stray. + + O lost and found! all gentle souls below + Their dearest welcome shall prepare, and prove + Such joy o’er thee, as raptured seraphs know, + Who learn their lesson at the Throne of Love. + + + +Fourth Sunday after Trinity. + + + For the earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the + manifestation of the sons of God. For the creature was made subject + to vanity, not willingly, but by the reason of Him who hath subjected + the same in hope, because the creature itself also shall be delivered + from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the + children of God. For we know that the whole creation groaneth and + travaileth in pain together until now. _Romans_ viii 19–22. + + IT was not then a poet’s dream, + An idle vaunt of song, + Such as beneath the moon’s soft gleam + On vacant fancies throng; + + Which bids us see in heaven and earth, + In all fair things around, + Strong yearnings for a blest new birth + With sinless glories crowned; + + Which bids us hear, at each sweet pause + From care and want and toil, + When dewy eve her curtain draws + Over the day’s turmoil, + + In the low chant of wakeful birds, + In the deep weltering flood, + In whispering leaves, these solemn words— + “God made us all for good.” + + All true, all faultless, all in tune + Creation’s wondrous choir, + Opened in mystic unison + To last till time expire. + + And still it lasts; by day and night, + With one consenting voice, + All hymn Thy glory, Lord, aright, + All worship and rejoice. + + Man only mars the sweet accord + O’erpowering with “harsh din” + The music of Thy works and word, + Ill matched with grief and sin. + + Sin is with man at morning break, + And through the livelong day + Deafens the ear that fain would wake + To Nature’s simple lay. + + But when eve’s silent footfall steals + Along the eastern sky, + And one by one to earth reveals + Those purer fires on high, + + When one by one each human sound + Dies on the awful ear, + Then Nature’s voice no more is drowned, + She speaks, and we must hear. + + Then pours she on the Christian heart + That warning still and deep, + At which high spirits of old would start + E’en from their Pagan sleep. + + Just guessing, through their murky blind + Few, faint, and baffling sight, + Streaks of a brighter heaven behind, + A cloudless depth of light. + + Such thoughts, the wreck of Paradise, + Through many a dreary age, + Upbore whate’er of good and wise + Yet lived in bard or sage: + + They marked what agonizing throes + Shook the great mother’s womb: + But Reason’s spells might not disclose + The gracious birth to come: + + Nor could the enchantress Hope forecast + God’s secret love and power; + The travail pangs of Earth must last + Till her appointed hour. + + The hour that saw from opening heaven + Redeeming glory stream, + Beyond the summer hues of even, + Beyond the mid-day beam. + + Thenceforth, to eyes of high desire, + The meanest thing below, + As with a seraph’s robe of fire + Invested, burn and glow: + + The rod of Heaven has touched them all, + The word from Heaven is spoken: + “Rise, shine, and sing, thou captive thrall; + Are not thy fetters broken? + + “The God Who hallowed thee and blest, + Pronouncing thee all good— + Hath He not all thy wrongs redrest, + And all thy bliss renewed? + + “Why mourn’st thou still as one bereft, + Now that th’ eternal Son + His blessèd home in Heaven hath left + To make thee all His own?” + + Thou mourn’st because sin lingers still + In Christ’s new heaven and earth; + Because our rebel works and will + Stain our immortal birth: + + Because, as Love and Prayer grow cold, + The Saviour hides His face, + And worldlings blot the temple’s gold + With uses vile and base. + + Hence all thy groans and travail pains, + Hence, till thy God return, + In Wisdom’s ear thy blithest strains, + Oh Nature, seem to mourn. + + + +Fifth Sunday after Trinity. + + + And Simon answering said unto Him, Master, we have toiled all the + night, and have taken nothing; nevertheless at Thy word I will let + down the net. And when they had this done, they inclosed a great + multitude of fishes: and their net brake. _St. Luke_ v. 5, 6. + + “The livelong night we’ve toiled in vain, + But at Thy gracious word + I will let down the net again:— + Do Thou Thy will, O Lord!” + + So spake the weary fisher, spent + With bootless darkling toil, + Yet on his Master’s bidding bent + For love and not for spoil. + + So day by day and week by week, + In sad and weary thought, + They muse, whom God hath set to seek + The souls His Christ hath bought. + + For not upon a tranquil lake + Our pleasant task we ply, + Where all along our glistening wake + The softest moonbeams lie; + + Where rippling wave and dashing oar + Our midnight chant attend, + Or whispering palm-leaves from the shore + With midnight silence blend. + + Sweet thoughts of peace, ye may not last: + Too soon some ruder sound + Calls us from where ye soar so fast + Back to our earthly round. + + For wildest storms our ocean sweep:— + No anchor but the Cross + Might hold: and oft the thankless deep + Turns all our toil to loss. + + Full many a dreary anxious hour + We watch our nets alone + In drenching spray, and driving shower, + And hear the night-bird’s moan: + + At morn we look, and nought is there; + Sad dawn of cheerless day! + Who then from pining and despair + The sickening heart can stay? + + There is a stay—and we are strong; + Our Master is at hand, + To cheer our solitary song, + And guide us to the strand. + + In His own time; but yet a while + Our bark at sea must ride; + Cast after cast, by force or guile + All waters must be tried: + + By blameless guile or gentle force, + As when He deigned to teach + (The lode-star of our Christian course) + Upon this sacred beach. + + Should e’er thy wonder-working grace + Triumph by our weak arm, + Let not our sinful fancy trace + Aught human in the charm: + + To our own nets ne’er bow we down, + Lest on the eternal shore + The angels, while oar draught they own, + Reject us evermore: + + Or, if for our unworthiness + Toil, prayer, and watching fail, + In disappointment Thou canst bless, + So love at heart prevail. + + + +Sixth Sunday after Trinity. + + + David said unto Nathan, I have sinned against the Lord. And Nathan + said unto David, The Lord also hath put away thy sin; thou shalt not + die. 2 _Samuel_ xii. 13. + + WHEN bitter thoughts, of conscience born, + With sinners wake at morn, + When from our restless couch we start, + With fevered lips and withered heart, + Where is the spell to charm those mists away, + And make new morning in that darksome day? + One draught of spring’s delicious air, + One steadfast thought, that GOD is there. + + These are Thy wonders, hourly wrought, + Thou Lord of time and thought, + Lifting and lowering souls at will, + Crowding a world of good or ill + Into a moment’s vision; e’en as light + Mounts o’er a cloudy ridge, and all is bright, + From west to east one thrilling ray + Turning a wintry world to May. + + Would’st thou the pangs of guilt assuage? + Lo! here an open page, + Where heavenly mercy shines as free + Written in balm, sad heart, for thee. + Never so fast, in silent April shower, + Flushed into green the dry and leafless bower, + As Israel’s crownèd mourner felt + The dull hard stone within him melt. + + The absolver saw the mighty grief, + And hastened with relief;— + “The Lord forgives; thou shalt not die:” + ’Twas gently spoke, yet heard on high, + And all the band of angels, used to sing + In heaven, accordant to his raptured string, + Who many a month had turned away + With veilèd eyes, nor owned his lay, + + Now spread their wings, and throng around + To the glad mournful sound, + And welcome, with bright open face, + The broken heart to love’s embrace. + The rock is smitten, and to future years + Springs ever fresh the tide of holy tears + And holy music, whispering peace + Till time and sin together cease. + + There drink: and when ye are at rest, + With that free Spirit blest, + Who to the contrite can dispense, + The princely heart of innocence, + If ever, floating from faint earthly lyre, + Was wafted to your soul one high desire, + By all the trembling hope ye feel, + Think on the minstrel as ye kneel: + + Think on the shame, that dreadful hour + When tears shall have no power, + Should his own lay th’ accuser prove, + Cold while he kindled others’ love: + And let your prayer for charity arise, + That his own heart may hear his melodies, + And a true voice to him may cry, + “Thy GOD forgives—thou shalt not die.” + + + +Seventh Sunday after Trinity. + + + From whence can a man satisfy these men with bread here in the + wilderness? _St. Mark_ viii. 4. + + GO not away, thou weary soul: + Heaven has in store a precious dole + Here on Bethsaida’s cold and darksome height, + Where over rocks and sands arise + Proud Sirion in the northern skies, + And Tabor’s lonely peak, ’twixt thee and noonday light. + + And far below, Gennesaret’s main + Spreads many a mile of liquid plain, + (Though all seem gathered in one eager bound,) + Then narrowing cleaves you palmy lea, + Towards that deep sulphureous sea, + Where five proud cities lie, by one dire sentence drowned. + + Landscape of fear! yet, weary heart, + Thou need’st not in thy gloom depart, + Nor fainting turn to seek thy distant home: + Sweetly thy sickening throbs are eyed + By the kind Saviour at thy side; + For healing and for balm e’en now thine hour is come. + + No fiery wing is seen to glide, + No cates ambrosial are supplied, + But one poor fisher’s rude and scanty store + Is all He asks (and more than needs) + Who men and angels daily feeds, + And stills the wailing sea-bird on the hungry shore. + + The feast is o’er, the guests are gone, + And over all that upland lone + The breeze of eve sweeps wildly as of old— + But far unlike the former dreams, + The heart’s sweet moonlight softly gleams + Upon life’s varied view, so joyless erst and cold. + + As mountain travellers in the night, + When heaven by fits is dark and bright, + Pause listening on the silent heath, and hear + Nor trampling hoof nor tinkling bell, + Then bolder scale the rugged fell, + Conscious the more of One, ne’er seen, yet ever near: + + So when the tones of rapture gay + On the lorn ear, die quite away, + The lonely world seems lifted nearer heaven; + Seen daily, yet unmarked before, + Earth’s common paths are strewn all o’er + With flowers of pensive hope, the wreath of man forgiven. + + The low sweet tones of Nature’s lyre + No more on listless ears expire, + Nor vainly smiles along the shady way + The primrose in her vernal nest, + Nor unlamented sink to rest + Sweet roses one by one, nor autumn leaves decay. + + There’s not a star the heaven can show, + There’s not a cottage-hearth below, + But feeds with solace kind the willing soul— + Men love us, or they need our love; + Freely they own, or heedless prove + The curse of lawless hearts, the joy of self-control. + + Then rouse thee from desponding sleep, + Nor by the wayside lingering weep, + Nor fear to seek Him farther in the wild, + Whose love can turn earth’s worst and least + Into a conqueror’s royal feast: + Thou wilt not be untrue, thou shalt not be beguiled. + + + +Eight Sunday after Trinity. + + + It is the man of God, who was disobedient unto the word of the Lord. + 1 _King_ xiii. 26. + + PROPHET of God, arise and take + With thee the words of wrath divine, + The scourge of Heaven, to shake + O’er yon apostate shrine. + + Where Angels down the lucid stair + Came hovering to our sainted sires + Now, in the twilight, glare + The heathen’s wizard fires. + + Go, with thy voice the altar rend, + Scatter the ashes, be the arm, + That idols would befriend, + Shrunk at thy withering charm. + + Then turn thee, for thy time is short, + But trace not o’er the former way, + Lest idol pleasures court + Thy heedless soul astray. + + Thou know’st how hard to hurry by, + Where on the lonely woodland road + Beneath the moonlight sky + The festal warblings flowed; + + Where maidens to the Queen of Heaven + Wove the gay dance round oak or palm, + Or breathed their vows at even + In hymns as soft as balm. + + Or thee, perchance, a darker spell + Enthralls: the smooth stones of the flood, + By mountain grot or fell, + Pollute with infant’s blood; + + The giant altar on the rock, + The cavern whence the timbrel’s call + Affrights the wandering flock:— + Thou long’st to search them all. + + Trust not the dangerous path again— + O forward step and lingering will! + O loved and warned in vain! + And wilt thou perish still? + + Thy message given, thine home in sight, + To the forbidden feast return? + Yield to the false delight + Thy better soul could spurn? + + Alas, my brother! round thy tomb + In sorrow kneeling, and in fear, + We read the Pastor’s doom + Who speaks and will not hear. + + The grey-haired saint may fail at last, + The surest guide a wanderer prove; + Death only binds us fast + To the bright shore of love. + + + +Ninth Sunday after Trinity. + + + And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: + and after the fire a still small voice. 1 _Kings_ xix. 12. + + IN troublous days of anguish and rebuke, + While sadly round them Israel’s children look, + And their eyes fail for waiting on their Lord: + While underneath each awful arch of green, + On every mountain-top, God’s chosen scene, + Of pure heart-worship, Baal is adored: + + ’Tis well, true hearts should for a time retire + To holy ground, in quiet to aspire + Towards promised regions of serener grace; + On Horeb, with Elijah, let us lie, + Where all around on mountain, sand, and sky, + God’s chariot wheels have left distinctest trace; + + There, if in jealousy and strong disdain + We to the sinner’s God of sin complain, + Untimely seeking here the peace of Heaven— + “It is enough. O Lord! now let me die + E’en as my fathers did: for what am I + That I should stand where they have vainly striven?”— + + Perhaps our God may of our conscience ask, + “What doest thou here frail wanderer from thy task? + Where hast thou left those few sheep in the wild?” + Then should we plead our heart’s consuming pain, + At sight of ruined altars, prophets slain, + And God’s own ark with blood of souls defiled; + + He on the rock may bid us stand, and see + The outskirts of His march of mystery, + His endless warfare with man’s wilful heart; + First, His great Power He to the sinner shows + Lo! at His angry blast the rocks unclose, + And to their base the trembling mountains part + + Yet the Lord is not here: ’Tis not by Power + He will be known—but darker tempests lower; + Still, sullen heavings vex the labouring ground: + Perhaps His Presence thro’ all depth and height, + Best of all gems that deck His crown of light, + The haughty eye may dazzle and confound. + + God is not in the earthquake; but behold + From Sinai’s caves are bursting, as of old, + The flames of His consuming jealous ire. + Woe to the sinner should stern Justice prove + His chosen attribute;—but He in love + Hastes to proclaim, “God is not in the fire.” + + The storm is o’er—and hark! a still small voice + Steals on the ear, to say, Jehovah’s choice + Is ever with the soft, meek, tender soul; + By soft, meek, tender ways He loves to draw + The sinner, startled by His ways of awe: + Here is our Lord, and not where thunders roll. + + Back, then, complainer; loath thy life no more, + Nor deem thyself upon a desert shore, + Because the rocks the nearer prospect close. + Yet in fallen Israel are there hearts and eyes + That day by day in prayer like thine arise; + Thou know’st them not, but their Creator knows. + + Go, to the world return, nor fear to cast + Thy bread upon the waters, sure at last + In joy to find it after many days. + The work be thine, the fruit thy children’s part: + Choose to believe, not see: sight tempts the heart + From sober walking in true Gospel ways. + + + +Tenth Sunday after Trinity. + + + And when He was come near, He beheld the city, and wept over it. + _St. Luke_ xix. 41. + + WHY doth my Saviour weep + At sight of Sion’s bowers? + Shows it not fair from yonder steep, + Her gorgeous crown of towers? + Mark well His holy pains: + ’Tis not in pride or scorn, + That Israel’s King with sorrow stains + His own triumphal morn. + + It is not that His soul + Is wandering sadly on, + In thought how soon at death’s dark goal + Their course will all be run, + Who now are shouting round + Hosanna to their chief; + No thought like this in Him is found, + This were a Conquerer’s grief. + + Or doth He feel the Cross + Already in His heart, + The pain, the shame, the scorn, the loss? + Feel e’en His God depart? + No: though He knew full well + The grief that then shall be— + The grief that angels cannot tell— + Our God in agony. + + It is not thus He mourns; + Such might be martyr’s tears, + When his last lingering look he turns + On human hopes and fears; + But hero ne’er or saint + The secret load might know, + With which His spirit waxeth faint; + His is a Saviour’s woe. + + “If thou had’st known, e’en thou, + At least in this thy day, + The message of thy peace! but now + ’Tis passed for aye away: + Now foes shall trench thee round, + And lay thee even with earth, + And dash thy children to the ground, + Thy glory and thy mirth.” + + And doth the Saviour weep + Over His people’s sin, + Because we will not let Him keep + The souls He died to win? + Ye hearts, that love the Lord, + If at this, sight ye burn, + See that in thought, in deed, in word, + Ye hate what made Him mourn. + + + +Eleventh Sunday after Trinity. + + + Is it a time to receive money, and to receive garments, and + oliveyards, and vineyards, and sheep, and oxen, and menservants, and + maidservants? 2 _Kings_ v. 26. + + IS this a time to plant and build, + Add house to house, and field to field, + When round our walls the battle lowers, + When mines are hid beneath our towers, + And watchful foes are stealing round + To search and spoil the holy ground? + + Is this a time for moonlight dreams + Of love and home by mazy streams, + For Fancy with her shadowy toys, + Aërial hopes and pensive joys, + While souls are wandering far and wide, + And curses swarm on every side? + + No—rather steel thy melting heart + To act the martyr’s sternest part, + To watch, with firm unshrinking eye, + Thy darling visions as thy die, + Till all bright hopes, and hues of day, + Have faded into twilight gray. + + Yes—let them pass without a sigh, + And if the world seem dull and dry, + If long and sad thy lonely hours, + And winds have rent thy sheltering bowers, + Bethink thee what thou art and where, + A sinner in a life of care. + + The fire of God is soon to fall + (Thou know’st it) on this earthly ball; + Full many a soul, the price of blood, + Marked by th’ Almighty’s hand for good, + To utter death that hour shall sweep— + And will the saints in Heaven dare weep? + + Then in His wrath shall GOD uproot + The trees He set, for lack of fruit, + And drown in rude tempestuous blaze + The towers His hand had deigned to raise; + In silence, ere that storm begin, + Count o’er His mercies and thy sin. + + Pray only that thine aching heart, + From visions vain content to part, + Strong for Love’s sake its woe to hide + May cheerful wait the Cross beside, + Too happy if, that dreadful day, + Thy life be given thee for a prey. + + Snatched sudden from th’ avenging rod, + Safe in the bosom of thy GOD, + How wilt thou then look back, and smile + On thoughts that bitterest seemed erewhile, + And bless the pangs that made thee see + This was no world of rest for thee! + + + +Twelfth Sunday after Trinity. + + + And looking up to heaven, He sighed, and saith unto him, Ephphatha, + that is, Be opened. _St. Mark_ vii. 34. + + THE Son of God in doing good + Was fain to look to Heaven and sigh: + And shall the heirs of sinful blood + Seek joy unmixed in charity? + God will not let Love’s work impart + Full solace, lest it steal the heart; + Be thou content in tears to sow, + Blessing, like Jesus, in thy woe: + + He looked to Heaven, and sadly sighed— + What saw my gracious Saviour there, + “With fear and anguish to divide + The joy of Heaven-accepted prayer? + So o’er the bed where Lazarus slept + He to His Father groaned and wept: + What saw He mournful in that grave, + Knowing Himself so strong to save?” + + O’erwhelming thoughts of pain and grief + Over His sinking spirit sweep;— + What boots it gathering one lost leaf + Out of yon sere and withered heap, + Where souls and bodies, hopes and joys, + All that earth owns or sin destroys, + Under the spurning hoof are cast, + Or tossing in th’ autumnal blast? + + The deaf may hear the Saviour’s voice, + The fettered tongue its chain may break; + But the deaf heart, the dumb by choice, + The laggard soul, that will not wake, + The guilt that scorns to be forgiven;— + These baffle e’en the spells of Heaven; + In thought of these, His brows benign + Not e’en in healing cloudless shine. + + No eye but His might ever bear + To gaze all down that drear abyss, + Because none ever saw so clear + The shore beyond of endless bliss: + The giddy waves so restless hurled, + The vexed pulse of this feverish world, + He views and counts with steady sight, + Used to behold the Infinite. + + But that in such communion high + He hath a fount of strength within, + Sure His meek heart would break and die, + O’erburthened by His brethren’s sin; + Weak eyes on darkness dare not gaze, + It dazzles like the noonday blaze; + But He who sees God’s face may brook + On the true face of Sin to look. + + What then shall wretched sinners do, + When in their last, their hopeless day, + Sin, as it is, shall meet their view, + God turn His face for aye away? + Lord, by Thy sad and earnest eye, + When Thou didst look to Heaven and sigh: + Thy voice, that with a word could chase + The dumb, deaf spirit from his place; + + As Thou hast touched our ears, and taught + Our tongues to speak Thy praises plain, + Quell Thou each thankless godless thought + That would make fast our bonds again. + From worldly strife, from mirth unblest, + Drowning Thy music in the breast, + From foul reproach, from thrilling fears, + Preserve, good Lord, Thy servants’ ears. + + From idle words, that restless throng + And haunt our hearts when we would pray, + From Pride’s false chime, and jarring wrong, + Seal Thou my lips, and guard the way: + For Thou hast sworn, that every ear, + Willing or loth, Thy trump shall hear, + And every tongue unchainèd be + To own no hope, no God, but Thee. + + + +Thirteenth Sunday after Trinity. + + + And He turned Him onto His disciples, and said privately, Blessed are + the eyes which see the things that ye see: for I tell you, that many + prophets and kings have desired to see those things which ye see, and + have not seen them: and to hear those things which ye hear, and have + not heard them. _St. Luke_ x. 23, 24. + + ON Sinai’s top, in prayer and trance, + Full forty nights and forty days + The Prophet watched for one dear glance + Of thee and of Thy ways: + + Fasting he watched and all alone, + Wrapt in a still, dark, solid cloud, + The curtain of the Holy One + Drawn round him like a shroud: + + So, separate from the world, his breast + Might duly take and strongly keep + The print of Heaven, to be expressed + Ere long on Sion’s steep. + + There one by one his spirit saw + Of things divine the shadows bright, + The pageant of God’s perfect law; + Yet felt not full delight. + + Through gold and gems, a dazzling maze, + From veil to veil the vision led, + And ended, where unearthly rays + From o’er the ark were shed. + + Yet not that gorgeous place, nor aught + Of human or angelic frame, + Could half appease his craving thought; + The void was still the same. + + “Show me Thy glory, gracious Lord! + ’Tis Thee,” he cries, “not Thine, I seek.” + Na, start not at so bold a word + From man, frail worm and weak: + + The spark of his first deathless fire + Yet buoys him up, and high above + The holiest creature, dares aspire + To the Creator’s love. + + The eye in smiles may wander round, + Caught by earth’s shadows as they fleet; + But for the soul no help is found, + Save Him who made it, meet. + + Spite of yourselves, ye witness this, + Who blindly self or sense adore; + Else wherefore leaving your own bliss + Still restless ask ye more? + + This witness bore the saints of old + When highest rapt and favoured most, + Still seeking precious things untold, + Not in fruition lost. + + Canaan was theirs; and in it all + The proudest hope of kings dare claim: + Sion was theirs; and at their call + Fire from Jehovah came. + + Yet monarchs walked as pilgrims still + In their own land, earth’s pride and grace: + And seers would mourn on Sion’s hill + Their Lord’s averted face. + + Vainly they tried the deeps to sound + E’en of their own prophetic thought, + When of Christ crucified and crowned + His Spirit in them taught: + + But He their aching gaze repressed, + Which sought behind the veil to see, + For not without us fully blest + Or perfect might they be. + + The rays of the Almighty’s face + No sinner’s eye might then receive; + Only the meekest man found grace + To see His skirts and live. + + But we as in a glass espy + The glory of His countenance, + Not in a whirlwind hurrying by + The too presumptuous glance, + + But with mild radiance every hour, + From our dear Saviour’s face benign + Bent on us with transforming power, + Till we, too, faintly shine. + + Sprinkled with His atoning blood + Safely before our God we stand, + As on the rock the Prophet stood, + Beneath His shadowing hand.— + + Blessed eyes, which see the things we see! + And yet this tree of life hath proved + To many a soul a poison tree, + Beheld, and not beloved. + + So like an angel’s is our bliss + (Oh! thought to comfort and appal) + It needs must bring, if used amiss, + An angel’s hopeless fall. + + + +Fourteenth Sunday after Trinity. + + + And Jesus answering said, Were there not ten cleansed? but where are + the nine? There are not found that returned to give glory to God, + save this stranger. _St. Luke_ xvii. 17, 18. + + TEN cleansed, and only one remain! + Who would have thought our nature’s stain + Was dyed so foul, so deep in grain? + E’en He who reads the heart— + Knows what He gave and what we lost, + Sin’s forfeit, and redemption’s cost,— + By a short pang of wonder crossed + Seems at the sight to start: + + Yet ’twas not wonder, but His love + Our wavering spirits would reprove, + That heavenward seem so free to move + When earth can yield no more + Then from afar on God we cry, + But should the mist of woe roll by, + Not showers across an April sky + Drift, when the storm is o’er, + + Faster than those false drops and few + Fleet from the heart, a worthless dew. + What sadder scene can angels view + Than self-deceiving tears, + Poured idly over some dark page + Of earlier life, though pride or rage, + The record of to-day engage, + A woe for future years? + + Spirits, that round the sick man’s bed + Watched, noting down each prayer he made, + Were your unerring roll displayed, + His pride of health to abase; + Or, when, soft showers in season fall + Answering a famished nation’s call, + Should unseen fingers on the wall + Our vows forgotten trace: + + How should we gaze in trance of fear! + Yet shines the light as thrilling clear + From Heaven upon that scroll severe, + “Ten cleansed and one remain!” + Nor surer would the blessing prove + Of humbled hearts, that own Thy love, + Should choral welcome from above + Visit our senses plain: + + Than by Thy placid voice and brow, + With healing first, with comfort now, + Turned upon him, who hastes to bow + Before Thee, heart and knee; + “Oh! thou, who only wouldst be blest, + On thee alone My blessing rest! + Rise, go thy way in peace, possessed + For evermore of Me.” + + + +Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity. + + + Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow. _St. Matthew_, vi. + 28. + + SWEET nurslings of the vernal skies, + Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew, + What more than magic in you lies, + To fill the heart’s fond view? + In childhood’s sports, companions gay, + In sorrow, on Life’s downward way, + How soothing! in our last decay + Memorials prompt and true. + + Relics ye are of Eden’s bowers, + As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, + As when ye crowned the sunshine hours + Of happy wanderers there. + Fall’n all beside—the world of life, + How is it stained with fear and strife! + In Reason’s world what storms are rife, + What passions range and glare! + + But cheerful and unchanged the while + Your first and perfect form ye show, + The same that won Eve’s matron smile + In the world’s opening glow. + The stars of heaven a course are taught + Too high above our human thought: + Ye may be found if ye are sought, + And as we gaze, we know. + + Ye dwell beside our paths and homes, + Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow, + And guilty man where’er he roams, + Your innocent mirth may borrow. + The birds of air before us fleet, + They cannot brook our shame to meet— + But we may taste your solace sweet + And come again to-morrow. + + Ye fearless in your nests abide— + Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise, + Your silent lessons, undescried + By all but lowly eyes: + For ye could draw th’ admiring gaze + Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys: + Your order wild, your fragrant maze, + He taught us how to prize. + + Ye felt your Maker’s smile that hour, + As when He paused and owned you good; + His blessing on earth’s primal bower, + Ye felt it all renewed. + What care ye now, if winter’s storm + Sweep ruthless o’er each silken form? + Christ’s blessing at your heart is warm, + Ye fear no vexing mood. + + Alas! of thousand bosoms kind, + That daily court you and caress, + How few the happy secret find + Of your calm loveliness! + “Live for to-day! to-morrow’s light + To-morrow’s cares shall bring to sight, + Go sleep like closing flowers at night, + And Heaven thy morn will bless.” + + + +Sixteenth Sunday after Trinity. + + + I desire that ye faint not at my tribulations for you, which is your + glory. + + _Ephesians_ iii. 13. + + WISH not, dear friends, my pain away— + Wish me a wise and thankful heart, + With GOD, in all my griefs, to stay, + Nor from His loved correction start. + + The dearest offering He can crave + His portion in our souls to prove, + What is it to the gift He gave, + The only Son of His dear love? + + But we, like vexed unquiet sprights, + Will still be hovering o’er the tomb, + Where buried lie our vain delights, + Nor sweetly take a sinner’s doom. + + In Life’s long sickness evermore + Our thoughts are tossing to and fro: + We change our posture o’er and o’er, + But cannot rest, nor cheat our woe. + + Were it not better to lie still, + Let Him strike home and bless the rod, + Never so safe as when our will + Yields undiscerned by all but God? + + Thy precious things, whate’er they be, + That haunt and vex thee, heart and brain, + Look to the Cross and thou shalt see + How thou mayst turn them all to gain. + + Lovest thou praise? the Cross is shame: + Or ease? the Cross is bitter grief: + More pangs than tongue or heart can frame + Were suffered there without relief. + + We of that Altar would partake, + But cannot quit the cost—no throne + Is ours, to leave for Thy dear sake— + We cannot do as Thou hast done. + + We cannot part with Heaven for Thee— + Yet guide us in Thy track of love: + Let us gaze on where light should be, + Though not a beam the clouds remove. + + So wanderers ever fond and true + Look homeward through the evening sky, + Without a streak of heaven’s soft blue + To aid Affection’s dreaming eye. + + The wanderer seeks his native bower, + And we will look and long for Thee, + And thank Thee for each trying hour, + Wishing, not struggling, to be free. + + + +Seventeenth Sunday after Trinity. + + + Every man of the house of Israel that setteth up his idols in his + heart, and putteth the stumbling-block of his iniquity before his + face, and cometh to the prophet; I the Lord will answer him that + cometh according to the multitude of his idols. _Ezekiel_ xiv. 4. + + STATELY thy walls, and holy are the prayers + Which day and night before thine altars rise: + Not statelier, towering o’er her marble stairs, + Flashed Sion’s gilded dome to summer skies, + Not holier, while around him angels bowed, + From Aaron’s censer steamed the spicy cloud, + + Before the mercy-seat. O Mother dear, + Wilt thou forgive thy son one boding sigh? + Forgive, if round thy towers he walk in fear, + And tell thy jewels o’er with jealous eye? + Mindful of that sad vision, which in thought + From Chebar’s plains the captive prophet brought. + + To see lost Sion’s shame. ’Twas morning prime, + And like a Queen new seated on her throne, + GOD’S crownèd mountain, as in happier time, + Seemed to rejoice in sunshine all her own: + So bright, while all in shade around her lay, + Her northern pinnacles had caught th’ emerging ray. + + The dazzling lines of her majestic roof + Crossed with as free a span the vault of heaven, + As when twelve tribes knelt silently aloof + Ere GOD His answer to their king had given, + Ere yet upon the new-built altar fell + The glory of the LORD, the Lord of Israel. + + All seems the same: but enter in and see + What idol shapes are on the wall portrayed: + And watch their shameless and unholy glee, + Who worship there in Aaron’s robes arrayed: + Hear Judah’s maids the dirge to Thammuz pour, + And mark her chiefs yon orient sun adore. + + Yet turn thee, son of man—for worse than these + Thou must behold: thy loathing were but lost + On dead men’s crimes, and Jews’ idolatries— + Come, learn to tell aright thine own sins’ cost,— + And sure their sin as far from equals thine, + As earthly hopes abused are less than hopes divine. + + What if within His world, His Church, our LORD + Have entered thee, as in some temple gate, + Where, looking round, each glance might thee afford + Some glorious earnest of thine high estate, + And thou, false heart and frail, hast turned from all + To worship pleasure’s shadow on the wall? + + If, when the LORD of Glory was in sight, + Thou turn thy back upon that fountain clear, + To bow before the “little drop of light,” + Which dim-eyed men call praise and glory here; + What dost thou, but adore the sun, and scorn + Him at whose only word both sun and stars were born? + + If, while around thee gales from Eden breathe, + Thou hide thine eyes, to make thy peevish moan + Over some broken reed of earth beneath, + Some darling of blind fancy dead and gone, + As wisely might’st thou in JEHOVAH’S fane + Offer thy love and tears to Thammuz slain. + + Turn thee from these, or dare not to inquire + Of Him whose name is Jealous, lest in wrath + He hear and answer thine unblest desire: + Far better we should cross His lightning’s path + Than be according to our idols beard, + And God should take us at our own vain word. + + Thou who hast deigned the Christian’s heart to call + Thy Church and Shrine; whene’er our rebel will + Would in that chosen home of Thine instal + Belial or Mammon, grant us not the ill + We blindly ask; in very love refuse + Whate’er Thou knowest our weakness would abuse. + + Or rather help us, LORD, to choose the good, + To pray for nought, to seek to none, but Thee, + Nor by “our daily bread” mean common food, + Nor say, “From this world’s evil set us free;” + Teach us to love, with CHRIST, our sole true bliss, + Else, though in CHRIST’S own words, we surely pray amiss. + + + +Eighteenth Sunday after Trinity. + + + I will bring you into the wilderness of the people, and there will I + plead with you face to face. Like as pleaded with your fathers in + the wilderness of the land of Egypt, so will I plead with you, saith + the Lord God. _Ezekiel_ xx. 35, 36. + + IT is so—ope thine eyes, and see— + What viewest thou all around? + A desert, where iniquity + And knowledge both abound. + + In the waste howling wilderness + The Church is wandering still, + Because we would not onward press + When close to Sion’s hill. + + Back to the world we faithless turned, + And far along the wild, + With labour lost and sorrow earned, + Our steps have been beguiled. + + Yet full before us, all the while, + The shadowing pillar stays, + The living waters brightly smile, + The eternal turrets blaze, + + Yet Heaven is raining angels’ bread + To be our daily food, + And fresh, as when it first was shed, + Springs forth the SAVIOUR’S blood. + + From every region, race, and speech, + Believing myriads throng, + Till, far as sin and sorrow reach, + Thy grace is spread along; + + Till sweetest nature, brightest art, + Their votive incense bring, + And every voice and every heart + Own Thee their God and King. + + All own; but few, alas! will love; + Too like the recreant band + That with Thy patient spirit strove + Upon the Red-sea strand. + + O Father of long-suffering grace, + Thou who hast sworn to stay + Pleading with sinners face to face + Through all their devious way: + + How shall we speak to Thee, O LORD, + Or how in silence lie? + Look on us, and we are abhorred, + Turn from us, and we die. + + Thy guardian fire, Thy guiding cloud, + Still let them gild our wall, + Nor be our foes and Thine allowed + To see us faint and fall. + + Too oft, within this camp of Thine, + Rebellions murmurs rise; + Sin cannot bear to see Thee shine + So awful to her eyes. + + Fain would our lawless hearts escape, + And with the heathen be, + To worship every monstrous shape + In fancied darkness free. + + Vain thought, that shall not be at all! + Refuse we or obey, + Our ears have heard the Almighty’s call, + We cannot be as they. + + We cannot hope the heathen’s doom + To whom GOD’S Son is given, + Whose eyes have seen beyond the tomb, + Who have the key of Heaven. + + Weak tremblers on the edge of woe, + Yet shrinking from true bliss, + Our rest must be “no rest below,” + And let our prayer be this: + + “LORD, wave again Thy chastening rod, + Till every idol throne + Crumble to dust, and Thou, O GOD, + Reign in our hearts alone. + + “Bring all our wandering fancies home, + For Thou hast every spell, + And ’mid the heathen where they roam, + Thou knowest, LORD, too well. + + “Thou know’st our service sad and hard, + Thou know’st us fond and frail; + Win us to be loved and spared + When all the world shall fail. + + “So when at last our weary days + Are well-nigh wasted here, + And we can trace Thy wondrous ways + In distance calm and clear, + + “When in Thy love and Israel’s sin + We read our story true, + We may not, all too late, begin + To wish our hopes were new. + + “Long loved, long tried, long spared as they, + Unlike in this alone, + That, by Thy grace, our hearts shall stay + For evermore Thine own.” + + + +Nineteenth Sunday after Trinity. + + + Then Nebuchadnezzar the king was astonished, and rose up in haste, + and spake, and said unto his counsellors, Did not we cast three men + bound into the midst of the fire? They answered and said unto the + king, True, O king. He answered and said, Lo, I see four men loose, + walking in the midst of the fire, and they have no hurt; and the form + of the fourth is like the Son of God. _Daniel_ iii. 24, 25. + + WHEN Persecution’s torrent blaze + Wraps the unshrinking Martyr’s head; + When fade all earthly flowers and bays, + When summer friends are gone and fled, + Is he alone in that dark hour + Who owns the Lord of love and power? + + Or waves there not around his brow + A wand no human arm may wield, + Fraught with a spell no angels know, + His steps to guide, his soul to shield? + Thou, Saviour, art his Charmèd Bower, + His Magic Ring, his Rock, his Tower. + + And when the wicked ones behold + Thy favourites walking in Thy light, + Just as, in fancy triumph bold, + They deemed them lost in deadly night, + Amazed they cry, “What spell is this, + Which turns their sufferings all to bliss? + + “How are they free whom we had bound? + Upright, whom in the gulf we cast? + What wondrous helper have they found + To screen them from the scorching blast? + Three were they—who hath made them four? + And sure a form divine he wore, + + “E’en like the Son of God.” So cried + The Tyrant, when in one fierce flame + The Martyrs lived, the murderers died: + Yet knew he not what angel came + To make the rushing fire-flood seem + Like summer breeze by woodland stream. + + He knew not, but there are who know: + The Matron, who alone hath stood, + When not a prop seemed left below, + The first lorn hour of widowhood, + Yet cheered and cheering all, the while, + With sad but unaffected smile;— + + The Father, who his vigil keeps + By the sad couch whence hope hath flown, + Watching the eye where reason sleeps, + Yet in his heart can mercy own, + Still sweetly yielding to the rod, + Still loving man, still thanking GOD;— + + The Christian Pastor, bowed to earth + With thankless toil, and vile esteemed, + Still travailing in second birth + Of souls that will not be redeemed: + Yet stedfast set to do his part, + And fearing most his own vain heart;— + + These know: on these look long and well, + Cleansing thy sight by prayer and faith, + And thou shalt know what secret spell + Preserves them in their living death: + Through sevenfold flames thine eye shall see + The Saviour walking with His faithful Three. + + + +Twentieth Sunday after Trinity. + + + Hear ye, O mountains, the Lord’s controversy, and ye strong + foundations of the earth. _Micah_ vi. 2. + + WHERE is Thy favoured haunt, eternal Voice, + The region of Thy choice, + Where, undisturbed by sin and earth, the soul + Owns Thy entire control?— + ’Tis on the mountain’s summit dark and high, + When storms are hurrying by: + ’Tis ’mid the strong foundations of the earth, + Where torrents have their birth. + + No sounds of worldly toil ascending there, + Mar the full burst of prayer; + Lone Nature feels that she may freely breathe, + And round us and beneath + Are heard her sacred tones: the fitful sweep + Of winds across the steep + Through withered bents—romantic note and clear, + Meet for a hermit’s ear,— + + The wheeling kite’s wild solitary cry, + And, scarcely heard so high, + The dashing waters when the air is still + From many a torrent rill + That winds unseen beneath the shaggy fell, + Tracked by the blue mist well: + Such sounds as make deep silence in the heart + For Thought to do her part. + + ’Tis then we hear the voice of GOD within, + Pleading with care and sin: + “Child of My love! how have I wearied thee? + Why wilt thou err from Me? + Have I not brought thee from the house of slaves, + Parted the drowning waves, + And set My saints before thee in the way, + Lest thou shouldst faint or stray? + + “What! was the promise made to thee alone? + Art thou the excepted one? + An heir of glory without grief or pain? + O vision false and vain! + There lies thy cross; beneath it meekly bow; + It fits thy stature now: + Who scornful pass it with averted eye, + ’Twill crush them by-and-by. + + “Raise thy repining eyes, and take true measure + Of thine eternal treasure; + The Father of thy Lord can grudge thee nought, + The world for thee was bought; + And as this landscape broad—earth, sea, and sky,— + All centres in thine eye, + So all God does, if rightly understood, + Shall work thy final good.” + + + +Twenty-first Sunday after Trinity. + + + The vision is yet for an appointed time, but at the end it shall + speak, and not lie: though it tarry, wait for it, because it will + surely come, it will not tarry. _Habakkuk_ ii. 3. + + THE morning mist is cleared away, + Yet still the face of Heaven is grey, + Nor yet this autumnal breeze has stirred the grove, + Faded yet full, a paler green + Skirts soberly the tranquil scene, + The red-breast warbles round this leafy cove. + + Sweet messenger of “calm decay,” + Saluting sorrow as you may, + As one still bent to find or make the best, + In thee, and in this quiet mead, + The lesson of sweet peace I read, + Rather in all to be resigned than blest. + + ’Tis a low chant, according well + With the soft solitary knell, + As homeward from some grave beloved we turn, + Or by some holy death-bed dear, + Most welcome to the chastened ear + Of her whom Heaven is teaching how to mourn. + + O cheerful tender strain! the heart + That duly bears with you its part, + Singing so thankful to the dreary blast, + Though gone and spent its joyous prime, + And on the world’s autumnal time, + ’Mid withered hues and sere, its lot be cast: + + That is the heart for thoughtful seer, + Watching, in trance nor dark nor clear, + Th’ appalling Future as it nearer draws: + His spirit calmed the storm to meet, + Feeling the rock beneath his feet, + And tracing through the cloud th’ eternal Cause. + + That is the heart for watchman true + Waiting to see what GOD will do, + As o’er the Church the gathering twilight falls + No more he strains his wistful eye, + If chance the golden hours be nigh, + By youthful Hope seen beaming round her walls. + + Forced from his shadowy paradise, + His thoughts to Heaven the steadier rise: + There seek his answer when the world reproves: + Contented in his darkling round, + If only he be faithful found, + When from the east the eternal morning moves. + +_Note_: The expression, “calm delay,” is borrowed from a friend, by whose +kind permission the following stanzas are here inserted. + + +TO THE RED-BREAST. + + + Unheard in summer’s flaring ray, + Pour forth thy notes, sweet singer, + Wooing the stillness of the autumn day: + Bid it a moment linger, + Nor fly + Too soon from winter’s scowling eye. + + The blackbird’s song at even-tide, + And hers, who gay ascends, + Filling the heavens far and wide, + Are sweet. But none so blends, + As thine, + With calm decay, and peace divine. + + + +Twenty-Second Sunday after Trinity. + + + Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? + _Matthew_ xviii. 21. + + WHAT liberty so glad and gay, + As where the mountain boy, + Reckless of regions far away, + A prisoner lives in joy? + + The dreary sounds of crowded earth, + The cries of camp or town, + Never untuned his lonely mirth, + Nor drew his visions down. + + The snow-clad peaks of rosy light + That meet his morning view, + The thwarting cliffs that bound his sight, + They bound his fancy too. + + Two ways alone his roving eye + For aye may onward go, + Or in the azure deep on high, + Or darksome mere below. + + O blest restraint! more blessèd range! + Too soon the happy child + His nook of homely thought will change + For life’s seducing wild: + + Too soon his altered day-dreams show + This earth a boundless space, + With sun-bright pleasures to and fro + Sporting in joyous race: + + While of his narrowing heart each year, + Heaven less and less will fill, + Less keenly, thorough his grosser ear, + The tones of mercy thrill. + + It must be so: else wherefore falls + The Saviour’s voice unheard, + While from His pard’ning Cross He calls, + “O spare as I have spared?” + + By our own niggard rule we try + The hope to suppliants given! + We mete out love, as if our eye + Saw to the end of Heaven. + + Yes, ransomed sinner! wouldst thou know + How often to forgive, + How dearly to embrace thy foe, + Look where thou hop’st to live;— + + When thou hast told those isles of light, + And fancied all beyond, + Whatever owns, in depth or height, + Creation’s wondrous bond; + + Then in their solemn pageant learn + Sweet mercy’s praise to see: + Their Lord resigned them all, to earn + The bliss of pardoning thee. + + + +Twenty-third Sunday after Trinity. + + + Who shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like unto + His glorious body, according to the working whereby He is able even + to subdue all things onto Himself. _Philippians_ iii. 21. + + RED o’er the forest peers the setting sun, + The line of yellow light dies fast away + That crowned the eastern copse: and chill and dun + Falls on the moor the brief November day. + + Now the tired hunter winds a parting note, + And Echo hide good-night from every glade; + Yet wait awhile, and see the calm heaves float + Each to his rest beneath their parent shade. + + How like decaying life they seem to glide! + And yet no second spring have they in store, + But where they fall, forgotten to abide + Is all their portion, and they ask no more. + + Soon o’er their heads blithe April airs shall sing, + A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold, + The green buds glisten in the dews of Spring, + And all be vernal rapture as of old. + + Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie, + In all the world of busy life around + No thought of them; in all the bounteous sky, + No drop, for them, of kindly influence found. + + Man’s portion is to die and rise again— + Yet he complains, while these unmurmuring part + With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain, + As his when Eden held his virgin heart. + + And haply half unblamed his murmuring voice + Might sound in Heaven, were all his second life + Only the first renewed—the heathen’s choice, + A round of listless joy and weary strife. + + For dreary were this earth, if earth were all, + Tho’ brightened oft by dear Affection’s kiss;— + Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall? + But catch a gleam beyond it, and ’tis bliss. + + Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart, + Whether slow creeping on cold earth, or borne + On lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dart + O’er wave or field: yet breezes laugh to scorn + + Our puny speed, and birds, and clouds in heaven, + And fish, living shafts that pierce the main, + And stars that shoot through freezing air at even— + Who but would follow, might he break his chain? + + And thou shalt break it soon; the grovelling worm + Shall find his wings, and soar as fast and free + As his transfigured Lord with lightning form + And snowy vest—such grace He won for thee, + + When from the grave He sprang at dawn of morn, + And led through boundless air thy conquering road, + Leaving a glorious track, where saints, new-born, + Might fearless follow to their blest abode. + + But first, by many a stern and fiery blast + The world’s rude furnace must thy blood refine, + And many a gale of keenest woe be passed, + Till every pulse beat true to airs divine, + + Till every limb obey the mounting soul, + The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given. + He who the stormy heart can so control, + The laggard body soon will waft to Heaven. + + + +Twenty-fourth Sunday after Trinity. + + + The heart knoweth his own bitterness: and a stranger doth not + intermeddle with his joy. _Proverbs_ xiv. 10. + + WHY should we faint and fear to live alone, + Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die, + Nor e’en the tenderest heart, and next our own, + Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh? + + Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe + Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart, + Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow— + Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart. + + And well it is for us our GOD should feel + Alone our secret throbbings: so our prayer + May readier spring to Heaven, nor spend its zeal + On cloud-born idols of this lower air. + + For if one heart in perfect sympathy + Beat with another, answering love for love, + Weak mortals, all entranced, on earth would lie, + Nor listen for those purer strains above. + + Or what if Heaven for once its searching light + Lent to some partial eye, disclosing all + The rude bad thoughts, that in our bosom’s night + Wander at large, nor heed Love’s gentle thrall? + + Who would not shun the dreary uncouth place? + As if, fond leaning where her infant slept, + A mother’s arm a serpent should embrace: + So might we friendless live, and die unwept. + + Then keep the softening veil in mercy drawn, + Thou who canst love us, thro’ Thou read us true; + As on the bosom of th’ aërial lawn + Melts in dim haze each coarse ungentle hue. + + So too may soothing Hope Thy heave enjoy + Sweet visions of long-severed hearts to frame: + Though absence may impair, or cares annoy, + Some constant mind may draw us still the same. + + We in dark dreams are tossing to and fro, + Pine with regret, or sicken with despair, + The while she bathes us in her own chaste glow, + And with our memory wings her own fond prayer. + + O bliss of child-like innocence, and love + Tried to old age! creative power to win, + And raise new worlds, where happy fancies rove, + Forgetting quite this grosser world of sin. + + Bright are their dreams, because their thoughts are clear, + Their memory cheering: but th’ earth-stained spright, + Whose wakeful musings are of guilt and fear, + Must hover nearer earth, and less in light. + + Farewell, for her, th’ ideal scenes so fair— + Yet not farewell her hope, since thou hast deigned, + Creator of all hearts! to own and share + The woe of what Thou mad’st, and we have stained. + + Thou knowst our bitterness—our joys are Thine— + No stranger Thou to all our wanderings wild: + Nor could we bear to think, how every line + Of us, Thy darkened likeness and defiled, + + Stands in full sunshine of Thy piercing eye, + But that Thou call’st us Brethren: sweet repose + Is in that word—the LORD who dwells on high + Knows all, yet loves us better than He knows. + + + +Twenty-fifth Sunday after Trinity. + + + The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of + righteousness. _Proverbs_ xvi. 31. + + THE bright-haired morn is glowing + O’er emerald meadows gay, + With many a clear gem strewing + The early shepherd’s way. + Ye gentle elves, by Fancy seen + Stealing away with night + To slumber in your leafy screen, + Tread more than airy light. + + And see what joyous greeting + The sun through heaven has shed, + Though fast yon shower be fleeting, + His beams have faster sped. + For lo! above the western haze + High towers the rainbow arch + In solid span of purest rays: + How stately is its march! + + Pride of the dewy morning! + The swain’s experienced eye + From thee takes timely warning, + Nor trusts the gorgeous sky. + For well he knows, such dawnings gay + Bring noons of storm and shower, + And travellers linger on the way + Beside the sheltering bower. + + E’en so, in hope and trembling + Should watchful shepherd view + His little lambs assembling, + With glance both kind and true; + ’Tis not the eye of keenest blaze, + Nor the quick-swelling breast, + That soonest thrills at touch of praise— + These do not please him best. + + But voices low and gentle, + And timid glances shy, + That seem for aid parental + To sue all wistfully, + Still pressing, longing to be right, + Yet fearing to be wrong,— + In these the Pastor dares delight, + A lamb-like, Christ-like throng. + + These in Life’s distant even + Shall shine serenely bright, + As in th’ autumnal heaven + Mild rainbow tints at night, + When the last shower is stealing down, + And ere they sink to rest, + The sun-beams weave a parting crown + For some sweet woodland nest. + + The promise of the morrow + Is glorious on that eve, + Dear as the holy sorrow + When good men cease to live. + When brightening ere it die away + Mounts up their altar flame, + Still tending with intenser ray + To Heaven whence first it came. + + Say not it dies, that glory, + ’Tis caught unquenched on high, + Those saintlike brows so hoary + Shall wear it in the sky. + No smile is like the smile of death, + When all good musings past + Rise wafted with the parting breath, + The sweetest thought the last. + + + +Sunday next before Advent. + + + Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost. _St. + John_ vi. 12. + + WILL God indeed with fragments bear, + Snatched late from the decaying year? + Or can the Saviour’s blood endear + The dregs of a polluted life? + When down th’ o’erwhelming current tossed + Just ere he sink for ever lost, + The sailor’s untried arms are crossed + In agonizing prayer, will Ocean cease her strife? + + Sighs that exhaust but not relieve + Heart-rending sighs, O spare to heave + A bosom freshly taught to grieve + For lavished hours and love misspent! + Now through her round of holy thought + The Church our annual steps has brought, + But we no holy fire have caught— + Back on the gaudy world our wilful eyes were bent. + + Too soon th’ ennobling carols, poured + To hymn the birth-night of the LORD, + Which duteous Memory should have stored + For thankful echoing all the year— + Too soon those airs have passed away; + Nor long within the heart would stay + The silence of CHRIST’S dying day, + Profaned by worldly mirth, or scared by worldly fear. + + Some strain of hope and victory + On Easter wings might lift us high + A little while we sought the sky: + And when the SPIRIT’S beacon fires + On every hill began to blare, + Lightening the world with glad amaze, + Who but must kindle while they gaze? + But faster than she soars, our earth-bound Fancy tires. + + Nor yet for these, nor all the rites, + By which our Mother’s voice invites + Our GOD to bless our home delights, + And sweeten every secret tear:— + The funeral dirge, the marriage vow, + The hollowed font where parents bow, + And now elate and trembling now + To the Redeemer’s feet their new-found treasures bear:— + + Not for this Pastor’s gracious arm + Stretched out to bless—a Christian charm + To dull the shafts of worldly harm:— + Nor, sweetest, holiest, best of all + For the dear feast of JESUS dying, + Upon that altar ever lying, + Where souls with sacred hunger sighing + Are called to sit and eat, while angels prostrate fall:— + + No, not for each and all of these, + Have our frail spirits found their ease. + The gale that stirs the autumnal trees + Seems tuned as truly to our hearts + As when, twelve weary months ago, + ’Twas moaning bleak, so high and low, + You would have thought Remorse and Woe + Had taught the innocent air their sadly thrilling parts. + + Is it, CHRIST’S light is too divine, + We dare not hope like Him to shine? + But see, around His dazzling shrine + Earths gems the fire of Heaven have caught; + Martyrs and saints—each glorious day + Dawning in order on our way— + Remind us, how our darksome clay + May keep th’ ethereal warmth our new Creator brought. + + These we have scorned, O false and frail! + And now once more th’ appalling tale, + How love divine may woo and fail, + Of our lost year in Heaven is told— + What if as far our life were past, + Our weeks all numbered to the last, + With time and hope behind us cast, + And all our work to do with palsied hands and cold? + + O watch and pray ere Advent dawn! + For thinner than the subtlest lawn + ’Twixt thee and death the veil is drawn. + But Love too late can never glow: + The scattered fragments Love can glean + Refine the dregs, and yield us clean + To regions where one thought serene + Breathes sweeter than whole years of sacrifice below. + + + +St. Andrew’s Day + + + He first findeth his own brother Simon, and saith unto him, We have + found the Messias . . . And he brought him to Jesus. _St. John_ i. + 41, 42. + + WHEN brothers part for manhood’s race, + What gift may most endearing prove + To keep fond memory its her place, + And certify a brother’s love? + + ’Tis true, bright hours together told, + And blissful dreams in secret shared, + Serene or solemn, gay or bold, + Shall last in fancy unimpaired. + + E’en round the death-bed of the good + Such dear remembrances will hover, + And haunt us with no vexing mood + When all the cares of earth are over. + + But yet our craving spirits feel, + We shall live on, though Fancy die, + And seek a surer pledge—a seal + Of love to last eternally. + + Who art thou, that wouldst grave thy name + Thus deeply in a brother’s heart? + Look on this saint, and learn to frame + Thy love-charm with true Christian art. + + First seek thy Saviour out, and dwell + Beneath this shadow of His roof, + Till thou have scanned His features well, + And known Him for the Christ by proof; + + Such proof as they are sure to find + Who spend with Him their happy days, + Clean hands, and a self-ruling mind + Ever in tune for love and praise. + + Then, potent with the spell of Heaven, + Go, and thine erring brother gain, + Entice him home to be forgiven, + Till he, too, see his Saviour plain. + + Or, if before thee in the race, + Urge him with thine advancing tread, + Till, like twin stars, with even pace, + Each lucid course be duly aped. + + No fading frail memorial give + To soothe his soul when thou art gone, + But wreaths of hope for aye to live, + And thoughts of good together done. + + That so, before the judgment-seat, + Though changed and glorified each face, + Not unremembered ye may meet + For endless ages to embrace. + + + +St. Thomas’ Day. + + + Thomas, because thou hast seen Me, thou hast believed; blessed are + they that have not seen, and yet have believed. _St. John_ xx. 29. + + WE were not by when Jesus came, + But round us, far and near, + We see His trophies, and His name + In choral echoes hear. + In a fair ground our lot is cast, + As in the solemn week that past, + While some might doubt, but all adored, + Ere the whole widowed Church had seen her risen Lord. + + Slowly, as then, His bounteous hand + The golden chain unwinds, + Drawing to Heaven with gentlest band + Wise hearts and loving minds. + Love sought Him first—at dawn of morn + From her sad couch she sprang forlorn, + She sought to weep with Thee alone, + And saw Thine open grave, and knew that thou wert gone. + + Reason and Faith at once set out + To search the SAVIOUR’S tomb; + Faith faster runs, but waits without, + As fearing to presume, + Till Reason enter in, and trace + Christ’s relics round the holy place— + “Here lay His limbs, and here His sacred head, + And who was by, to make His new-forsaken bed?” + + Both wonder, one believes—but while + They muse on all at home, + No thought can tender Love beguile + From Jesus’ grave to roam. + Weeping she stays till He appear— + Her witness first the Church must hear— + All joy to souls that can rejoice + With her at earliest call of His dear gracious voice. + + Joy too to those, who love to talk + In secret how He died, + Though with sealed eyes awhile they walk, + Nor see him at their side: + Most like the faithful pair are they, + Who once to Emmaus took their way, + Half darkling, till their Master shied + His glory on their souls, made known in breaking bread. + + Thus, ever brighter and more bright, + On those He came to save + The Lord of new-created light + Dawned gradual from the grave; + Till passed th’ enquiring day-light hour, + And with closed door in silent bower + The Church in anxious musing sate, + As one who for redemption still had long to wait. + + Then, gliding through th’ unopening door, + Smooth without step or sound, + “Peace to your souls,” He said—no more— + They own Him, kneeling round. + Eye, ear, and hand, and loving heart, + Body and soul in every part, + Successive made His witnesses that hour, + Cease not in all the world to show His saving power. + + Is there, on earth, a spirit frail, + Who fears to take their word, + Scarce daring, through the twilight pale, + To think he sees the Lord? + With eyes too tremblingly awake + To bear with dimness for His sake? + Read and confess the Hand Divine + That drew thy likeness here so true in every line. + + For all thy rankling doubts so sore, + Love thou thy Saviour still, + Him for thy Lord and God adore, + And ever do His will. + Though vexing thoughts may seem to last, + Let not thy soul be quite o’ercast;— + Soon will He show thee all His wounds, and say, + “Long have I known Thy name—know thou My face alway.” + + + +The Conversion of St. Paul. + + + And he fell to the earth, and heard a voice saying unto him, Saul, + Saul, why persecutest thou Me? And he said, Who art Thou, Lord? And + the Lord said, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest. _Acts_ ix. 4, 5. + + THE mid-day sun, with fiercest glare, + Broods o’er the hazy twinkling air: + Along the level sand + The palm-tree’s shade unwavering lies, + Just as thy towers, Damascus, rise + To greet you wearied band. + + The leader of that martial crew + Seems bent some mighty deed to do, + So steadily he speeds, + With lips firm closed and fixèd eye, + Like warrior when the fight is night, + Nor talk nor landscape heeds. + + What sudden blaze is round him poured, + As though all Heaven’s refulgent hoard + In one rich glory shone? + One moment—and to earth he falls: + What voice his inmost heart appalls?— + Voice heard by him alone. + + For to the rest both words and form + Seem lost in lightning and in storm, + While Saul, in wakeful trance, + Sees deep within that dazzling field + His persecuted Lord revealed, + With keen yet pitying glance: + + And hears time meek upbraiding call + As gently on his spirit fall, + As if th’ Almighty Son + Were prisoner yet in this dark earth, + Nor had proclaimed His royal birth, + Nor His great power begun. + + “Ah! wherefore persecut’st thou Me?” + He heard and saw, and sought to free + His strained eyes from the sight: + But Heaven’s high magic bound it there, + Still gazing, though untaught to bear + Th’ insufferable light. + + “Who art Thou, Lord?” he falters forth:— + So shall Sin ask of heaven and earth + At the last awful day. + “When did we see Thee suffering nigh, + And passed Thee with unheeding eye? + Great God of judgment, say!” + + Ah! little dream our listless eyes + What glorious presence they despise, + While, in our noon of life, + To power or fame we rudely press.— + Christ is at hand, to scorn or bless, + Christ suffers in our strife. + + And though heaven’s gate long since have closed, + And our dear Lord in bliss reposed, + High above mortal ken, + To every ear in every land + (Thought meek ears only understand) + He speaks as he did then. + + “Ah! wherefore persecute ye Me? + ’Tis hard, ye so in love should be + With your own endless woe. + Know, though at God’s right hand I live, + I feel each wound ye reckless give + To the least saint below. + + “I in your care My brethren left, + Not willing ye should be bereft + Of waiting on your Lord. + The meanest offering ye can make— + A drop of water—for love’s sake, + In Heaven, be sure, is stored.” + + O by those gentle tones and dear, + When thou hast stayed our wild career, + Thou only hope of souls, + Ne’er let us cast one look behind, + But in the thought of Jesus find + What every thought controls. + + As to Thy last Apostle’s heart + Thy lightning glance did then impart + Zeal’s never-dying fire, + So teach us on Thy shrine to lay + Our hearts, and let them day by day + Intenser blaze and higher. + + And as each mild and winning note + (Like pulses that round harp-strings float + When the full strain is o’er) + Left lingering on his inward ear + Music, that taught, as death drew near, + Love’s lesson more and more: + + So, as we walk our earthly round, + Still may the echo of that sound + Be in our memory stored + “Christians! behold your happy state: + Christ is in these, who round you wait; + Make much of your dear Lord!” + + + +The Purification. + + + Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God. _St. Matthew_ + v. 8. + + BLESS’D are the pure in heart, + For they shall see our God, + The secret of the Lord is theirs, + Their soul is Christ’s abode. + + Might mortal thought presume + To guess an angel’s lay, + Such are the notes that echo through + The courts of Heaven to-day. + + Such the triumphal hymns + On Sion’s Prince that wait, + In high procession passing on + Towards His temple-gate. + + Give ear, ye kings—bow down, + Ye rulers of the earth— + This, this is He: your Priest by grace, + Your God and King by birth. + + No pomp of earthly guards + Attends with sword and spear, + And all-defying, dauntless look, + Their monarch’s way to clear; + + Yet are there more with Him + Than all that are with you— + The armies of the highest Heaven, + All righteous, good, and true. + + Spotless their robes and pure, + Dipped in the sea of light, + That hides the unapproachèd shrine + From men’s and angels’ sight. + + His throne, thy bosom blest, + O mother undefiled— + That throne, if aught beneath the skies, + Beseems the sinless child. + + Lost in high thoughts, “whose son + The wondrous Babe might prove,” + Her guileless husband walks beside, + Bearing the hallowed dove; + + Meet emblem of His vow, + Who, on this happy day, + His dove-like soul—best sacrifice— + Did on God’s altar lay. + + But who is he, by years + Bowed, but erect in heart, + Whose prayers are struggling with his tears? + “Lord, let me now depart. + + “Now hath Thy servant seen + Thy saving health, O Lord; + ’Tis time that I depart in peace, + According to Thy word.” + + Yet swells this pomp: one more + Comes forth to bless her God; + Full fourscore years, meek widow, she + Her heaven-ward way hath troth. + + She who to earthly joys + So long had given farewell, + Now sees, unlooked for, Heaven on earth, + Christ in His Israel. + + Wide open from that hour + The temple-gates are set, + And still the saints rejoicing there + The holy Child have met. + + Now count His train to-day, + Auth who may meet Him, learn: + Him child-like sires, meek maidens find, + Where pride can nought discern. + + Still to the lowly soul + He doth Himself impart, + And for His cradle and His throne + Chooseth the pure in heart. + + + +St. Matthias’ Day. + + + Wherefore of these men which have companied with us all the time that + the Lord Jesus went in and out among us, beginning from the baptism + of John, unto the same day that He was taken up from us, must one be + ordained to be a witness with us of His resurrection. _Acts_ i. 21, + 22. + + WHO is God’s chosen priest? + He, who on Christ stands waiting day and night, + Who traceth His holy steps, nor ever ceased, + From Jordan banks to Bethphage height: + + Who hath learned lowliness + From his Lord’s cradle, patience from His Cross; + Whom poor men’s eyes and hearts consent to bless; + To whom, for Christ, the world is loss; + + Who both in agony + Hath seen Him and in glory; and in both + Owned Him divine, and yielded, nothing loth, + Body and soul, to live and die, + + In witness of his Lord, + In humble following of his Saviour dear: + This is the man to wield th’ unearthly sword, + Warring unharmed with sin and fear. + + But who can o’er suffice— + What mortal—for this more than angels’ task, + Winning or losing souls, Thy life-blood’s price? + The gift were too divine to ask. + + But Thou hast made it sure + By Thy dear promise to thy Church and Bride, + That Thou, on earth, wouldst aye with her endure, + Till earth to Heaven be purified. + + Thou art her only spouse, + Whose arm supports her, on Whose faithful breast + Her persecuted head she meekly bows, + Sure pledge of her eternal rest. + + Thou, her unerring guide, + Stayest her fainting steps along the wild; + Thy merit is on the bowers of lust and pride, + That she may pass them undefiled. + + Who then, uncalled by Thee, + Dare touch Thy spouse, Thy very self below? + Or who dare count him summoned worthily, + Except Thine hand and seal he show? + + Where can Thy seal be found, + But on thou chosen seed, from age to age + By thine anointed heralds duly crowned, + As kings and priests Thy war to wage? + + Then fearless walk we forth, + Yet full of trembling, Messengers of God: + Our warrant sure, but doubting of our worth, + By our own shame alike and glory awed. + + Dread Searcher of the hearts, + Thou who didst seal by Thy descending Dove + Thy servant’s choice, O help us in our parts, + Else helpless found, to learn and teach Thy love. + + + +The Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary. + + + And the Angel came in unto her, and said, Hail, thou that art highly + favoured, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women. + + _St. Luke_ i. 28. + + OH! Thou who deign’st to sympathise + With all our frail and fleshly ties, + Maker yet Brother dear, + Forgive the too presumptuous thought, + If, calming wayward grief, I sought + To gaze on Thee too near. + + Yet sure ’twas not presumption, Lord, + ’Twas Thine own comfortable word + That made the lesson known: + Of all the dearest bonds we prove, + Thou countest sons and mothers’ love + Most sacred, most Thine own. + + When wandering here a little span, + Thou took’st on Thee to rescue man, + Thou had’st no earthly sire: + That wedded love we prize so dear, + As if our heaven and home were here, + It lit in Thee no fire. + + On no sweet sister’s faithful breast + Wouldst Thou Thine aching forehead rest, + On no kind brother lean: + But who, O perfect filial heart, + E’er did like Thee a true son’s part, + Endearing, firm, serene? + + Thou wept’st, meek maiden, mother mild, + Thou wept’st upon thy sinless Child, + Thy very heart was riven: + And yet, what mourning matron here + Would deem thy sorrows bought too dear + By all on this side Heaven? + + A Son that never did amiss, + That never shamed His Mother’s kiss, + Nor crossed her fondest prayer: + E’en from the tree He deigned to bow, + For her His agonised brow, + Her, His sole earthly care. + + Ave Maria! blessèd Maid! + Lily of Eden’s fragrant shade, + Who can express the love + That nurtured thee so pure and sweet, + Making thy heart a shelter meet + For Jesus’ holy dove? + + Ave Maria! Mother blest, + To whom, caressing and caressed, + Clings the eternal Child; + Favoured beyond Archangels’ dream, + When first on Thee with tenderest gleam + Thy new-born Saviour smiled:— + + Ave Maria! thou whose name + All but adoring love may claim, + Yet may we reach thy shrine; + For He, thy Son and Saviour, vows + To crown all lowly lofty brows + With love and joy like thine. + + Blessed is the womb that bare Him—blessed + The bosom where His lips were pressed, + But rather blessed are they + Who hear His word and keep it well, + The living homes where Christ shall dwell, + And never pass away. + + + +St. Mark’s Day. + + + And the contention was so sharp between them, that they departed + asunder one from the other. _Acts_ xv. 30. + + Compare 2 _Tim._ iv. 11. Take Mark, and bring him with thee: for he + is profitable to me for the ministry. + + OH! who shall dare in this frail scene + On holiest happiest thoughts to lean, + On Friendship, Kindred, or on Love? + Since not Apostles’ hands can clasp + Each other in so firm a grasp + But they shall change and variance prove. + + Yet deem not, on such parting sad + Shall dawn no welcome dear and glad: + Divided in their earthly race, + Together at the glorious goal, + Each leading many a rescued soul, + The faithful champions shall embrace. + + For e’en as those mysterious Four, + Who the bright whirling wheels upbore + By Chebar in the fiery blast. + So, on their tasks of love and praise + This saints of God their several ways + Right onward speed, yet join at last. + + And sometimes e’en beneath the moon + The Saviour gives a gracious boon, + When reconcilèd Christians meet, + And face to face, and heart to heart, + High thoughts of holy love impart + In silence meek, or converse sweet. + + Companion of the Saints! ’twas thine + To taste that drop of peace divine, + When the great soldier of thy Lord + Called thee to take his last farewell, + Teaching the Church with joy to tell + The story of your love restored. + + O then the glory and the bliss, + When all that pained or seemed amiss + Shall melt with earth and sin away! + When saints beneath their Saviour’s eye, + Filled with each other’s company, + Shall spend in love th’ eternal day! + + + +St. Philip and St. James. + + + Let the brother of low degree rejoice in that he is exalted: but the + rich in that he is made low. _St. James_ i. 9. 10. + + DEAR is the morning gale of spring, + And dear th’ autumnal eve; + But few delights can summer bring + A Poet’s crown to weave. + + Her bowers are mute, her fountains dry, + And ever Fancy’s wing + Speed’s 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. + + Still in the world’s hot restless gleam + She plies her weary task, + While vainly for some pleasant dream + Her wandering glances ask.— + + O shame upon thee, listless heart, + So sad a sigh to heave, + As if thy SAVIOUR had no part + In thoughts, that make thee grieve. + + As if along His lonesome way + He had not borne for thee + Sad languors through the summer day, + Storms on the wintry sea. + + Youth’s lightning flash of joy secure + Passed seldom o’er His spright,— + A well of serious thought and pure. + Too deep for earthly light. + + No spring was His—no fairy gleam— + For He by trial knew + How cold and bare what mortals dream, + To worlds where all is true. + + Then grudge not thou the anguish keen + Which makes thee like thy LORD, + And learn to quit with eye serene + Thy youth’s ideal hoard. + + Thy treasured hopes and raptures high— + Unmurmuring let them go, + Nor grieve the bliss should quickly fly + Which CHRIST disdained to know. + + Thou shalt have joy in sadness soon; + The pure, calm hope be thine, + Which brightens, like the eastern moon, + As day’s wild lights decline. + + Thus souls, by nature pitched too high, + By sufferings plunged too low, + Meet in the Church’s middle sky, + Half way ’twixt joy and woe, + + To practise there the soothing lay + That sorrow best relieves; + Thankful for all God takes away, + Humbled by all He glass. + + + +St. Barnabas. + + + The sea of consolation, a Levite. _Acts_ iv. 36. + + THE world’s a room of sickness, where each heart + Knows its own anguish and unrest; + The truest wisdom there, and noblest art, + Is his, who skills of comfort best; + Whom by the softest step and gentlest tone + Enfeebled spirits own, + And love to raise the languid eye, + When, like an angel’s wing, they feel him fleeting by:— + + _Feel_ only—for in silence gently gliding + Fain would he shun both ear and sight, + ’Twixt Prayer and watchful Love his heart dividing, + A nursing-father day and night. + Such were the tender arms, where cradled lay, + In her sweet natal day, + The Church of JESUS; such the love + He to His chosen taught for His dear widowed Dove. + + Warmed underneath the Comforter’s safe wing + They spread th’ endearing warmth around: + Mourners, speed here your broken hearts to bring, + Here healing dews and balms abound: + Here are soft hands that cannot bless in vain, + By trial taught your pain: + Here loving hearts, that daily know + The heavenly consolations they on you bestow. + + Sweet thoughts are theirs, that breathe serenest calms, + Of holy offerings timely paid, + Of fire from heaven to bless their votive alms + And passions on GOD’S altar laid. + The world to them is closed, and now they shine + With rays of love divine, + Through darkest nooks of this dull earth + Pouring, in showery times, their glow of “quiet mirth.” + + New hearts before their Saviour’s feet to lay, + This is their first, their dearest joy: + Their next from heart to heart to clear the way + For mutual love without alloy: + Never so blest as when in JESUS’ roll + They write some hero-soul, + More pleased upon his brightening road + To wait, than if their own with all his radiance glowed. + + O happy spirits, marked by God and man + Their messages of love to bear, + What though long since in Heaven your brows began, + The genial amarant wreath to wear, + And in th’ eternal leisure of calm love + Ye banquet there above; + Yet in your sympathetic heart + We and our earthly griefs may ask and hope a part. + + Comfort’s true sons! amid the thoughts of down + That strew your pillow of repose, + Sure ’tis one joy to muse, how ye unknown + By sweet remembrance soothe our woes; + And how the spark ye lit, of heavenly cheer, + Lives in our embers here, + Where’er the cross is borne with smiles, + Or lightened secretly by Love’s endearing wiles: + + Where’er one Levite in the temple keeps + The watch-fire of his midnight prayer, + Or issuing thence, the eyes of mourners steeps + In heavenly balm, fresh gathered there; + Thus saints, that seem to die in earth’s rude strife, + Only win double life: + They have but left our weary ways + To live in memory here, in Heaven by love and praise. + + + +St. John Baptist’s Day. + + + Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the + great and dreadful day of the Lord: and he shall turn the heart of + the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their + fathers. _Malachi_ iv. 5, 6. + + TWICE in her season of decay + The fallen Church hath felt Elijah’s eye + Dart from the wild its piercing ray: + Not keener burns, in the chill morning sky, + The herald star, + Whose torch afar + Shadows and boding night-birds fly. + + Methinks we need him once again, + That favoured seer—but where shall he be found? + By Cherith’s side we seek in vain, + In vain on Carmel’s green and lonely mound: + Angels no more + From Sinai soar, + On his celestial errands bound. + + But wafted to her glorious place + By harmless fire, among the ethereal thrones, + His spirit with a dear embrace + Thee the loved harbinger of Jesus owns, + Well-pleased to view + Her likeness true, + And trace, in thine, her own deep tones. + + Deathless himself, he joys with thee + To commune how a faithful martyr dies, + And in the blest could envy be, + He would behold thy wounds with envious eyes, + Star of our morn, + Who yet unborn + Didst guide our hope, where Christ should rise. + + Now resting from your jealous care + For sinners, such as Eden cannot know, + Ye pour for us your mingled prayer, + No anxious fear to damp Affection’s glow, + Love draws a cloud + From you to shroud + Rebellion’s mystery here below. + + And since we see, and not afar, + The twilight of the great and dreadful day, + Why linger, till Elijah’s car + Stoop from the clouds? Why sheep ye? Rise and pray, + Ye heralds sealed + In camp or field + Your Saviour’s banner to display. + + Where is the lore the Baptist taught, + The soul unswerving and the fearless tongue? + The much-enduring wisdom, sought + By lonely prayer the haunted rocks among? + Who counts it gain + His light should wane, + So the whole world to Jesus throng? + + Thou Spirit, who the Church didst lend + Her eagle wings, to shelter in the wild, + We pray Thee, ere the Judge descend, + With flames like these, all bright and undefiled, + Her watch-fires light, + To guide aright + Our weary souls by earth beguiled. + + So glorious let thy Pastors shine, + That by their speaking lives the world may learn + First filial duty, then divine, + That sons to parents, all to Thee may turn; + And ready prove + In fires of love, + At sight of Thee, for aye to burn. + + + +St. Peter’s Day. + + + When Herod would have brought him forth, the same night Peter was + sleeping. _Acts_ xii. 26. + + THOU thrice denied, yet thrice beloved, + Watch by Thine own forgiven friend; + In sharpest perils faithful proved, + Let his soul love Thee to the end. + + The prayer is heard—else why so deep + His slumber on the eve of death? + And wherefore smiles he in his sleep + As one who drew celestial breath? + + He loves and is beloved again— + Can his soul choose but be at rest? + Sorrow hath fled away, and Pain + Dares not invade the guarded nest. + + He dearly loves, and not alone: + For his winged thoughts are soaring high + Where never yet frail heart was known + To breathe its vain Affection’s sigh. + + He loves and weeps—but more than tears + Have sealed Thy welcome and his love— + One look lives in him, and endears + Crosses and wrongs where’er he rove: + + That gracious chiding look, Thy call + To win him to himself and Thee, + Sweetening the sorrow of his fall + Which else were rued too bitterly. + + E’en through the veil of sheep it shines, + The memory of that kindly glance;— + The Angel watching by, divines + And spares awhile his blissful trance. + + Or haply to his native lake + His vision wafts him back, to talk + With JESUS, ere His flight He take, + As in that solemn evening walk, + + When to the bosom of His friend, + The Shepherd, He whose name is Good. + Did His dear lambs and sheep commend, + Both bought and nourished with His blood: + + Then laid on him th’ inverted tree, + Which firm embraced with heart and arm, + Might cast o’er hope and memory, + O’er life and death, its awful charm. + + With brightening heart he bears it on, + His passport through this eternal gates, + To his sweet home—so nearly won, + He seems, as by the door he waits, + + The unexpressive notes to hear + Of angel song and angel motion, + Rising and falling on the ear + Like waves in Joy’s unbounded ocean.— + + His dream is changed—the Tyrant’s voice + Calls to that last of glorious deeds— + But as he rises to rejoice, + Not Herod but an Angel leads. + + He dreams he sees a lamp flash bright, + Glancing around his prison room— + But ’tis a gleam of heavenly light + That fills up all the ample gloom. + + The flame, that in a few short years + Deep through the chambers of the dead + Shall pierce, and dry the fount of tears, + Is waving o’er his dungeon-bed. + + Touched he upstarts—his chains unbind— + Through darksome vault, up massy stair, + His dizzy, doubting footsteps wind + To freedom and cool moonlight air. + + Then all himself, all joy and calm, + Though for a while his hand forego, + Just as it touched, the martyr’s palm, + He turns him to his task below; + + The pastoral staff, the keys of Heaven, + To wield a while in grey-haired might, + Then from his cross to spring forgiven, + And follow JESUS out of sight. + + + +St. James’s Day. + + + Ye shall drink indeed of My cup, and be baptised with the baptism + that I am baptised with: but to sit on My right hand, and on My left, + is not Mine to give, but it shall be given to them for whom it is + prepared of My Father. _St. Matthew_ xx. 23. + + SIT down and take thy fill of joy + At God’s right hand, a bidden guest, + Drink of the cup that cannot cloy, + Eat of the bread that cannot waste. + O great Apostle! rightly now + Thou readest all thy Saviour meant, + What time His grave yet gentle brow + In sweet reproof on thee was bent. + + “Seek ye to sit enthroned by me? + Alas! ye know not what ye ask, + The first in shame and agony, + The lowest in the meanest task— + This can ye be? and came ye drink + The cup that I in tears must steep, + Nor from the ’whelming waters shrink + That o’er Me roll so dark and deep?” + + “We can—Thine are we, dearest Lord, + In glory and in agony, + To do and suffer all Thy word; + Only be Thou for ever nigh.”— + “Then be it so—My cup receive, + And of My woes baptismal taste: + But for the crown, that angels weave + For those next Me in glory placed, + + “I give it not by partial love; + But in My Father’s book are writ + What names on earth shall lowliest prove, + That they in Heaven may highest sit.” + Take up the lesson, O my heart; + Thou Lord of meekness, write it there, + Thine own meek self to me impart, + Thy lofty hope, thy lowly prayer. + + If ever on the mount with Thee + I seem to soar in vision bright, + With thoughts of coming agony, + Stay Thou the too presumptuous flight: + Gently along the vale of tears + Lead me from Tabor’s sunbright steep, + Let me not grudge a few short years + With thee t’ward Heaven to walk and weep: + + Too happy, on my silent path, + If now and then allowed, with Thee + Watching some placid holy death, + Thy secret work of love to see; + But, oh! most happy, should Thy call, + Thy welcome call, at last be given— + “Come where thou long hast storeth thy all + Come see thy place prepared in Heaven.” + + + +St. Bartholomew. + + + Jesus answered and said unto him, Because I said unto thee, I saw the + under the fig-tree, believest thou? Thou shalt see greater things + than these. _St. John_ i. 50. + + HOLD up thy mirror to the sun, + And thou shalt need an eagle’s gaze, + So perfectly the polished stone + Gives back the glory of his rays: + + Turn it, and it shall paint as true + The soft green of the vernal earth, + And each small flower of bashful hue, + That closest hides its lowly birth. + + Our mirror is a blessèd book, + Where out from each illumined page + We see one glorious Image look + All eyes to dazzle and engage, + + The Son of God: and that indeed + We see Him as He is, we know, + Since in the same bright glass we read + The very life of things below.— + + Eye of God’s word! where’er we turn + Ever upon us! thy keen gaze + Can all the depths of sin discern, + Unravel every bosom’s maze: + + Who that has felt thy glance of dread + Thrill through his heart’s remotest cells, + About his path, about his bed, + Can doubt what spirit in thee dwells? + + “What word is this? Whence know’st thou me?” + All wondering cries the humbled heart, + To hear thee that deep mystery, + The knowledge of itself, impart. + + The veil is raised; who runs may read, + By its own light the truth is seen, + And soon the Israelite indeed + Bows down t’ adore the Nazarene. + + So did Nathanael, guileless man, + At once, not shame-faced or afraid, + Owning Him God, who so could scan + His musings in the lonely shade; + + In his own pleasant fig-tree’s shade, + Which by his household fountain grew, + Where at noon-day his prayer he made + To know God better than he knew. + + Oh! happy hours of heavenward thought! + How richly crowned! how well improved! + In musing o’er the Law he taught, + In waiting for the Lord he loved. + + We must not mar with earthly praise + What God’s approving word hath sealed: + Enough, if might our feeble lays + Take up the promise He revealed; + + “The child-like faith, that asks not sight, + Waits not for wonder or for sign, + Believes, because it loves, aright— + Shall see things greater, things divine. + + “Heaven to that gaze shall open wide, + And brightest angels to and fro + On messages of love shall glide + ’Twixt God above and Christ below.” + + So still the guileless man is blest, + To him all crooked paths are straight, + Him on his way to endless rest + Fresh, ever-growing strengths await. + + God’s witnesses, a glorious host, + Compass him daily like a cloud; + Martyrs and seers, the saved and lost, + Mercies and judgments cry aloud. + + Yet shall to him the still small voice, + That first into his bosom found + A way, and fixed his wavering choice, + Nearest and dearest ever sound. + + + +St. Matthew. + + + And after these things He went forth, and saw a publican, named Levi, + sitting at the receipt of custom: and He said unto him, Follow Me. + And he left all, rose up, and followed Him. _St. Luke_ v. 27, 28. + + YE hermits blest, ye holy maids, + The nearest Heaven on earth, + Who talk with God in shadowy glades, + Free from rude care and mirth; + To whom some viewless teacher brings + The secret lore of rural things, + The moral of each fleeting cloud and gale, + The whispers from above, that haunt the twilight vale: + + Say, when in pity ye have gazed + On the wreathed smoke afar, + That o’er some town, like mist upraised, + Hung hiding sun and star, + Then as ye turned your weary eye + To the green earth and open sky, + Were ye not fain to doubt how Faith could dwell + Amid that dreary glare, in this world’s citadel? + + But Love’s a flower that will not die + For lack of leafy screen, + And Christian Hope can cheer the eye + That ne’er saw vernal green; + Then be ye sure that Love can bless + E’en in this crowded loneliness, + Where ever-moving myriads seem to say, + Go—thou art naught to us, nor we to thee—away! + + There are in this loud stunning tide + Of human care and crime, + With whom the melodies abide + Of th’ everlasting chime; + Who carry music in their heart + Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, + Plying their daily task with busier feet, + Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat. + + How sweet to them, in such brief rest + As thronging cares afford, + In thought to wander, fancy-blest, + To where their gracious Lord, + In vain, to win proud Pharisees, + Spake, and was heard by fell disease— + But not in vain, beside yon breezy lake, + Bade the meek Publican his gainful seat forsake: + + At once he rose, and left his gold; + His treasure and his heart + Transferred, where he shall safe behold + Earth and her idols part; + While he beside his endless store + Shall sit, and floods unceasing pour + Of Christ’s true riches o’er all time and space, + First angel of His Church, first steward of His Grace. + + Nor can ye not delight to think + Where He vouchsafed to eat, + How the Most Holy did not shrink + From touch of sinner’s meat; + What worldly hearts and hearts impure + Went with Him through the rich man’s door, + That we might learn of Him lost souls to love, + And view His least and worst with hope to meet above. + + These gracious lines shed Gospel light + On Mammon’s gloomiest cells, + As on some city’s cheerless night + The tide of sunrise swells, + Till tower, and dome, and bridge-way proud + Are mantled with a golden cloud, + And to wise hearts this certain hope us given; + “No mist that man may raise, shall hide the eye of Heaven.” + + And oh! if e’en on Babel shine + Such gleams of Paradise, + Should not their peace be peace divine, + Who day by day arise + To look on clearer heavens, and scan + The work of God untouch’d by man? + Shame on us, who about us Babel bear, + And live in Paradise, as if God was not there! + + + +St. Michael and All Angels. + + + Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them + who shall be heirs of salvation? _Hebrews_ i. 14. + + YE stars that round the Sun of righteousness + In glorious order roll, + With harps for ever strung, ready to bless + God for each rescued soul, + Ye eagle spirits, that build in light divine, + Oh! think of us to-day, + Faint warblers of this earth, that would combine + Our trembling notes with your accepted lay. + + Your amarant wreaths were earned; and homeward all, + Flush’d with victorious might, + Ye might have sped to keep high festival, + And revel in the light; + But meeting us, weak worldlings, on our way, + Tired ere the fight begun, + Ye turned to help us in th’ unequal fray, + Remembering Whose we were, how dearly won: + + Remembering Bethlehem, and that glorious night + When ye, who used to soar + Diverse along all space in fiery flight, + Came thronging to adore + Your God new-born, and made a sinner’s child; + As if the stars should leave + Their stations in the far ethereal wild, + And round the sun a radiant circle weave. + + Nor less your lay of triumph greeted fair + Our Champion and your King, + In that first strife, whence Satan in despair + Sunk down on scathèd wing: + Abuse He fasted, and alone He fought; + But when His toils were o’er, + Ye to the sacred Hermit duteous brought + Banquet and hymn, your Eden’s festal store. + + Ye too, when lowest in th’ abyss of woe + He plunged to save His sheep, + Were leaning from your golden thrones to know + The secrets of that deep: + But clouds were on His sorrow: one alone + His agonising call + Summoned from Heaven, to still that bitterest groan, + And comfort Him, the Comforter of all. + + Oh! highest favoured of all Spirits create + (If right of thee we deem), + How didst thou glide on brightening wing elate + To meet th’ unclouded beam + Of Jesus from the couch of darkness rising! + How swelled thine anthem’s sound, + With fear and mightier joy weak hearts surprising, + “Your God is risen, and may not here be found!” + + Pass a few days, and this dull darkling globe + Must yield Him from her sight;— + Brighter and brighter streams His glory-robe, + And He is lost in light. + Then, when through yonder everlasting arch, + Ye in innumerous choir + Poured, heralding Messiah’s conquering march, + Lingered around His skirts two forms of fire: + + With us they stayed, high warning to impart; + “The Christ shall come again + E’en as He goes; with the same human heart, + With the same godlike train.”— + Oh! jealous God! how could a sinner dare + Think on that dreadful day, + But that with all Thy wounds Thou wilt be there, + And all our angel friends to bring Thee on Thy way? + + Since to Thy little ones is given such grace, + That they who nearest stand + Alway to God in Heaven, and see His face, + Go forth at His command, + To wait around our path in weal or woe, + As erst upon our King, + Set Thy baptismal seal upon our brow, + And waft us heavenward with enfolding wing: + + Grant. Lord, that when around th’ expiring world + Our seraph guardians wait, + While on her death-bed, ere to ruin hurled, + She owns Thee, all too late, + They to their charge may turn, and thankful see + Thy mark upon us still; + Then all together rise, and reign with Thee, + And all their holy joy o’er contrite hearts fulfil! + + + +St. Luke. + + + Luke, the beloved physician, and Demas, greet you. _Colossians_ iv. + 14. + + Demas hath forsaken me, having loved this present world . . . Only + Luke is with me. 2 _Timothy_ iv. 10, 11. + + TWO clouds before the summer gale + In equal race fleet o’er the sky: + Two flowers, when wintry blasts assail, + Together pins, together die. + + But two capricious human hearts— + No sage’s rod may track their ways. + No eye pursue their lawless starts + Along their wild self-chosen maze. + + He only, by whose sovereign hand + E’en sinners for the evil day + Were made—who rules the world He planned, + Turning our worst His own good way; + + He only can the cause reveal, + Why, at the same fond bosom fed, + Taught in the self-same lap to kneel + Till the same prayer were duly said, + + Brothers in blood and nurture too, + Aliens in heart so oft should prove; + One lose, the other keep, Heaven’s clue; + One dwell in wrath, and one in love. + + He only knows—for He can read + The mystery of the wicked heart— + Why vainly oft our arrows speed + When aimed with most unerring art; + + While from some rude and powerless arm + A random shaft in season sent + Shall light upon some lurking harm, + And work some wonder little meant. + + Doubt we, how souls so wanton change, + Leaving their own experienced rest? + Need not around the world to range; + One narrow cell may teach us best. + + Look in, and see Christ’s chosen saint + In triumph wear his Christ-like chain; + No fear lest he should swerve or faint; + “His life is Christ, his death is gain.” + + Two converts, watching by his side, + Alike his love and greetings share; + Luke the beloved, the sick soul’s guide, + And Demas, named in faltering prayer. + + Pass a few years—look in once more— + The saint is in his bonds again; + Save that his hopes more boldly soar, + He and his lot unchanged remain. + + But only Luke is with him now: + Alas! that e’en the martyr’s cell, + Heaven’s very gate, should scope allow + For the false world’s seducing spell. + + ’Tis sad—but yet ’tis well, be sure, + We on the sight should muse awhile, + Nor deem our shelter all secure + E’en in the Church’s holiest aisle. + + Vainly before the shrine he bends, + Who knows not the true pilgrim’s part: + The martyr’s cell no safety lends + To him who wants the martyr’s heart. + + But if there be, who follows Paul + As Paul his Lord, in life and death, + Where’er an aching heart may call, + Ready to speed and take no breath; + + Whose joy is, to the wandering sheep + To tell of the great Shepherd’s love; + To learn of mourners while they weep + The music that makes mirth above; + + Who makes the Saviour all his theme, + The Gospel all his pride and praise— + Approach: for thou canst feel the gleam + That round the martyr’s death-bed plays: + + Thou hast an ear for angels’ songs, + A breath the gospel trump to fill, + And taught by thee the Church prolongs + Her hymns of high thanksgiving still. + + Ah! dearest mother, since too oft + The world yet wins some Demas frail + E’en from thine arms, so kind and soft, + May thy tried comforts never fail! + + When faithless ones forsake thy wing, + Be it vouchsafed thee still to see + Thy true, fond nurslings closer cling, + Cling closer to their Lord and thee. + + + +St. Simon and St. Jude. + + + That ye should earnestly contend for the faith which was once + delivered unto the saints. _St. Jude_ 3. + + SEEST thou, how tearful and alone, + And drooping like a wounded dove, + The Cross in sight, but Jesus gone, + The widowed Church is fain to rove? + + Who is at hand that loves the Lord? + Make haste, and take her home, and bring + Thine household choir, in true accord + Their soothing hymns for her to sing. + + Soft on her fluttering heart shall breathe + The fragrance of that genial isle, + There she may weave her funeral wreath, + And to her own sad music smile. + + The Spirit of the dying Son + Is there, and fills the holy place + With records sweet of duties done, + Of pardoned foes, and cherished grace. + + And as of old by two and two + His herald saints the Saviour sent + To soften hearts like morning dew, + Where he to shine in mercy meant; + + So evermore He deems His name + Best honoured and his way prepared, + When watching by his altar-flame + He sees His servants duly paired. + + He loves when age and youth are met, + Fervent old age and youth serene, + Their high and low in concord set + For sacred song, Joy’s golden mean. + + He loves when some clear soaring mind + Is drawn by mutual piety + To simple souls and unrefined, + Who in life’s shadiest covert lie. + + Or if perchance a saddened heart + That once was gay and felt the spring, + Cons slowly o’er its altered part, + In sorrow and remorse to sing, + + Thy gracious care will send that way + Some spirit full of glee, yet taught + To bear the sight of dull decay, + And nurse it with all-pitying thought; + + Cheerful as soaring lark, and mild + As evening blackbird’s full-toned lay, + When the relenting sun has smiled + Bright through a whole December day. + + These are the tones to brace and cheer + The lonely watcher of the fold, + When nights are dark, and foeman near, + When visions fade and hearts grow cold. + + How timely then a comrade’s song + Comes floating on the mountain air, + And bids thee yet be bold and strong— + Fancy may die, but Faith is there. + + + +All Saints’ Day. + + + Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees, till we have + sealed the servants of our God in their foreheads. _Revelation_ vii. + 3. + + WHY blow’st thou not, thou wintry wind, + Now every leaf is brown and sere, + And idly droops, to thee resigned, + The fading chaplet of the year? + Yet wears the pure aërial sky + Her summer veil, half drawn on high, + Of silvery haze, and dark and still + The shadows sleep on every slanting hill. + + How quiet shows the woodland scene! + Each flower and tree, its duty done, + Reposing in decay serene, + Like weary men when age is won, + Such calm old age as conscience pure + And self-commanding hearts ensure, + Waiting their summons to the sky, + Content to live, but not afraid to die. + + Sure if our eyes were purged to trace + God’s unseen armies hovering round, + We should behold by angels’ grace + The four strong winds of Heaven fast bound, + Their downward sweep a moment stayed + On ocean cove and forest glade, + Till the last flower of autumn shed + Her funeral odours on her dying bed. + + So in Thine awful armoury, Lord, + The lightnings of the judgment-day + Pause yet awhile, in mercy stored, + Till willing hearts wear quite away + Their earthly stains; and spotless shine + On every brow in light divine + The Cross by angel hands impressed, + The seal of glory won and pledge of promised + + Little they dream, those haughty souls + Whom empires own with bended knee, + What lowly fate their own controls, + Together linked by Heaven’s decree;— + As bloodhounds hush their baying wild + To wanton with some fearless child, + So Famine waits, and War with greedy eyes, + Till some repenting heart be ready for the skies. + + Think ye the spires that glow so bright + In front of yonder setting sun, + Stand by their own unshaken might? + No—where th’ upholding grace is won, + We dare not ask, nor Heaven would tell, + But sure from many a hidden dell, + From many a rural nook unthought of there, + Rises for that proud world the saints’ prevailing prayer. + + On, Champions blest, in Jesus’ name, + Short be your strife, your triumph full, + Till every heart have caught your flame, + And, lightened of the world’s misrule, + Ye soar those elder saints to meet + Gathered long since at Jesus’ feet, + No world of passions to destroy, + Your prayers and struggles o’er, your task all praise and joy. + + + +Holy Communion. + + + O GOD of Mercy, God of Might, + How should pale sinners bear the sight, + If, as Thy power in surely here, + Thine open glory should appear? + + For now Thy people are allowed + To scale the mount and pierce the cloud, + And Faith may feed her eager view + With wonders Sinai never knew. + + Fresh from th’ atoning sacrifice + The world’s Creator bleeding lies. + That man, His foe, by whom He bled, + May take Him for his daily bread. + + O agony of wavering thought + When sinners first so near are brought! + “It is my Maker—dare I stay? + My Saviour—dare I turn away?” + + Thus while the storm is high within + ’Twixt love of Christ and fear of sin, + Who can express the soothing charm, + To feel Thy kind upholding arm, + + My mother Church? and hear thee tell + Of a world lost, yet loved so well, + That He, by whom the angels live, + His only Son for her would give? + + And doubt we yet? Thou call’st again; + A lower still, a sweeter strain; + A voice from Mercy’s inmost shrine, + This very breath of Love divine. + + Whispering it says to each apart, + “Come unto Me, thou trembling heart;” + And we must hope, so sweet the tone, + The precious words are all our own. + + Hear them, kind Saviour—hear Thy Spouse + Low at Thy feet renew her vows; + Thine own dear promise she would plead + For us her true though fallen seed. + + She pleads by all Thy mercies, told + Thy chosen witnesses of old, + Love’s heralds sent to man forgiven, + One from the Cross, and one from Heaven. + + This, of true penitents the chief, + To the lost spirit brings relief, + Lifting on high th’ adorèd Name:— + “Sinners to save, Christ, Jesus came.” + + That, dearest of Thy bosom Friends, + Into the wavering heart descends:— + “What? fallen again? yet cheerful rise. + Thine Intercessor never dies.” + + The eye of Faith, that waxes bright + Each moment by thine altar’s light, + Sees them e’en now: they still abide + In mystery kneeling at our side: + + And with them every spirit blest, + From realms of triumph or of rest, + From Him who saw creation’s morn, + Of all Thine angels eldest born, + + To the poor babe, who died to-day, + Take part in our thanksgiving lay, + Watching the tearful joy and calm, + While sinners taste Thine heavenly balm. + + Sweet awful hour! the only sound + One gentle footstep gliding round, + Offering by turns on Jesus’ part + The Cross to every hand and heart. + + Refresh us, Lord, to hold it fast; + And when Thy veil is drawn at last, + Let us depart where shadows cease, + With words of blessing and of peace. + + + +Holy Baptism. + + + WHERE is it mothers learn their love?— + In every Church a fountain springs + O’er which th’ Eternal Dove + Hovers out softest wings. + + What sparkles in that lucid flood + Is water, by gross mortals eyed: + But seen by Faith, ’tis blood + Out of a dear Friend’s side. + + A few calm words of faith and prayer, + A few bright drops of holy dew, + Shall work a wonder there + Earth’s charmers never knew. + + O happy arms, where cradled lies, + And ready for the Lord’s embrace, + That precious sacrifice, + The darling of His grace! + + Blest eyes, that see the smiling gleam + Upon the slumbering features glow, + When the life-giving stream + Touches the tender brow! + + Or when the holy cross is signed, + And the young soldier duly sworn, + With true and fearless mind + To serve the Virgin-born. + + But happiest ye, who sealed and blest + Back to your arms your treasure take, + With Jesus’ mark impressed + To nurse for Jesus’ sake: + + To whom—as if in hallowed air + Ye knelt before some awful shrine— + His innocent gestures wear + A meaning half divine: + + By whom Love’s daily touch is seen + In strengthening form and freshening hue, + In the fixed brow serene, + The deep yet eager view.— + + Who taught thy pure and even breath + To come and go with such sweet grace? + Whence thy reposing Faith, + Though in our frail embrace? + + O tender gem, and full of Heaven! + Not in the twilight stars on high, + Not in moist flowers at even + See we our God so nigh. + + Sweet one, make haste and know Him too, + Thine own adopting Father love, + That like thine earliest dew + Thy dying sweets may prove. + + + +Catechism. + + + OH! say not, dream not, heavenly notes + To childish ears are vain, + That the young mind at random floats, + And cannot reach the strain. + + Dim or unheard, the words may fall, + And yet the heaven-taught mind + May learn the sacred air, and all + The harmony unwind. + + Was not our Lord a little child, + Taught by degrees to pray, + By father dear and mother mild + Instructed day by day? + + And loved He not of Heaven to talk + With children in His sight, + To meet them in His daily walk, + And to His arms invite? + + What though around His throne of fire + The everlasting chant + Be wafted from the seraph choir + In glory jubilant? + + Yet stoops He, ever pleased to mark + Our rude essays of love, + Faint as the pipe of wakening lark, + Heard by some twilight grove: + + Yet is He near us, to survey + These bright and ordered files, + Like spring-flowers in their best array, + All silence and all smiles. + + Save that each little voice in turn + Some glorious truth proclaims, + What sages would have died to learn, + Now taught by cottage dames. + + And if some tones be false or low, + What are all prayers beneath + But cries of babes, that cannot know + Half the deep thought they breathe? + + In His own words we Christ adore, + But angels, as we speak, + Higher above our meaning soar + Than we o’er children weak: + + And yet His words mean more than they, + And yet He owns their praise: + Why should we think, He turns away + From infants’ simple lays? + + + +Confirmation. + + + THE shadow of th’ Almighty’s cloud + Calm on this tents of Israel lay, + While drooping paused twelve banners proud, + Till He arise and lead this way. + + Then to the desert breeze unrolled, + Cheerly the waving pennons fly, + Lion or eagle—each bright fold + A lodestar to a warrior’s eye. + + So should Thy champions, ere this strife + By holy hands o’ershadowed kneel, + So, fearless for their charmèd life, + Bear, to this end, Thy Spirit’s seal. + + Steady and pure as stars that beam + In middle heaven, all mist above, + Seen deepest in this frozen stream:— + Such is their high courageous love. + + And soft as pure, and warm as bright, + They brood upon life’s peaceful hour, + As if the Dove that guides their flight + Shook from her plumes a downy shower. + + Spirit of might and sweetness too! + Now leading on the wars of God, + Now to green isles of shade and dew + Turning the waste Thy people trod; + + Draw, Holy Ghost, Thy seven-fold veil + Between us and the fires of youth; + Breathe, Holy Ghost, Thy freshening gale, + Our fevered brow in age to soothe. + + And oft as sin and sorrow tire, + This hallowed hour do Thou renew, + When beckoned up the awful choir + By pastoral hands, toward Thee we drew; + + When trembling at this sacred rail + We hid our eyes and held our breath, + Felt Thee how strong, our hearts how frail, + And longed to own Thee to the death. + + For ever on our souls be traced + That blessing dear, that dove-like hand, + A sheltering rock in Memory’s waste, + O’er-shadowing all the weary land. + + + +Matrimony. + + + THERE is an awe in mortals’ joy, + A deep mysterious fear + Half of the heart will still employ, + As if we drew too near + To Eden’s portal, and those fires + That bicker round in wavy spires, + Forbidding, to our frail desires, + What cost us once so dear. + + We cower before th’ heart-searching eye + In rapture as its pain; + E’en wedded Love, till Thou be nigh, + Dares not believe her gain: + Then in the air she fearless springs, + The breath of Heaven beneath her wings, + And leaves her woodnote wild, and sings + A tuned and measured strain. + + Ill fare the lay, though soft as dew + And free as air it fall, + That, with Thine altar full in view, + Thy votaries would enthrall + To a foul dream, of heathen night, + Lifting her torch in Love’s despite, + And scaring with base wild-fire light + The sacred nuptial hall. + + Far other strains, far other fires, + Our marriage-offering grace; + Welcome, all chaste and kind desires, + With even matron pace + Approaching down this hallowed aisle! + Where should ye seek Love’s perfect smile, + But where your prayers were learned erewhile, + In her own native place? + + Where, but on His benignest brow, + Who waits to bless you here? + Living, he owned no nuptial vow, + No bower to Fancy dear: + Love’s very self—for Him no need + To nurse, on earth, the heavenly seed: + Yet comfort in His eye we read + For bridal joy and fear. + + ’Tis He who clasps the marriage band, + And fits the spousal ring, + Then leaves ye kneeling, hand in hand, + Out of His stores to bring + His Father’s dearest blessing, shed + Of old on Isaac’s nuptial bed, + Now on the board before ye spread + Of our all-bounteous King. + + All blessings of the breast and womb, + Of Heaven and earth beneath, + Of converse high, and sacred home, + Are yours, in life and death. + Only kneel on, nor turn away + From the pure shrine, where Christ to-day + Will store each flower, ye duteous lay, + For an eternal wreath. + + + +Visitation and Communion of the Sick. + + + O YOUTH and Joy, your airy tread + Too lightly springs by Sorrow’s bed, + Your keen eye-glances are too bright, + Too restless for a sick man’s sight. + Farewell; for one short life we part: + I rather woo the soothing art, + Which only souls in sufferings tried + Bear to their suffering brethren’s side. + + Where may we learn that gentle spell? + Mother of Martyrs, thou canst tell! + Thou, who didst watch thy dying Spouse + With piercèd hands and bleeding brows, + Whose tears from age to age are shed + O’er sainted sons untimely dead, + If e’er we charm a soul in pain, + Thine is the key-note of our strain. + + How sweet with thee to lift the latch, + Where Faith has kept her midnight watch, + Smiling on woe: with thee to kneel, + Where fixed, as if one prayer could heal, + She listens, till her pale eye glow + With joy, wild health can never know, + And each calm feature, ere we read, + Speaks, silently, thy glorious Creed. + + Such have I seen: and while they poured + Their hearts in every contrite word, + How have I rather longed to kneel + And ask of them sweet pardon’s seal; + How blessed the heavenly music brought + By thee to aid my faltering thought! + “Peace” ere we kneel, and when we cease + To pray, the farewell word is, “Peace.” + + I came again: the place was bright + “With something of celestial light”— + A simple Altar by the bed + For high Communion meetly spread, + Chalice, and plate, and snowy vest.— + We ate and drank: then calmly blest, + All mourners, one with dying breath, + We sate and talked of Jesus’ death. + + Once more I came: the silent room + Was veiled in sadly-soothing gloom, + And ready for her last abode + The pale form like a lily showed, + By Virgin fingers duly spread, + And prized for love of summer fled. + The light from those soft-smiling eyes + Had fleeted to its parent skies. + + O soothe us, haunt us, night and day, + Ye gentle Spirits far away, + With whom we shared the cup of grace, + Then parted; ye to Christ’s embrace, + We to this lonesome world again, + Yet mindful of th’ unearthly strain + Practised with you at Eden’s door, + To be sung on, where Angels soar, + With blended voices evermore. + + + +Burial of the Dead. + + + And when the Lord saw her, He had compassion on her, and said unto + her, Weep not. And He came and touched the bier; and they that bare + him stood still. And He said, Young man, I say unto thee, + Arise.—_St. Luke_ vii. 13, 14. + + WHO says, the wan autumnal soon + Beams with too faint a smile + To light up nature’s face again, + And, though the year be on this wane, + With thoughts of spring the heart beguile? + + Waft him, thou soft September breeze, + And gently lay him down + Within some circling woodland wall, + Where bright leaves, reddening ere they fall, + Wave gaily o’er the waters brown. + + And let some graceful arch be there + With wreathèd mullions proud, + With burnished ivy for its screen, + And moss, that glows as fresh and green + As thought beneath an April cloud.— + + Who says the widow’s heart must break, + The childless mother sink?— + A kinder truer voice I hear, + Which e’en beside that mournful bier + Whence parents’ eyes would hopeless shrink, + + Bids weep no more—O heart bereft, + How strange, to thee, that sound! + A widow o’er her only son, + Feeling more bitterly alone + For friends that press officious round. + + Yet is the voice of comfort heard, + For Christ hath touched the bier— + The bearers wait with wondering eye, + The swelling bosom dares not sigh, + But all is still, ’twixt hope and fear. + + E’en such an awful soothing calm + We sometimes see alight + On Christian mourners, while they wait + In silence, by some churchyard gate, + Their summons to this holy rite. + + And such the tones of love, which break + The stillness of that hour, + Quelling th’ embittered spirit’s strife— + “The Resurrection and the Life + Am I: believe, and die no more.” + + Unchanged that voice—and though not yet + The dead sit up and speak, + Answering its call; we gladlier rest + Our darlings on earth’s quiet breast, + And our hearts feel they must not break. + + Far better they should sleep awhile + Within the Church’s shade, + Nor wake, until new heaven, new earth, + Meet for their new immortal birth + For their abiding-place be made, + + Than wander back to life, and lean + On our frail love once more. + ’Tis sweet, as year by year we lose + Friends out of sight, in faith to muse + How grows in Paradise our store. + + Then pass, ye mourners, cheerly on, + Through prayer unto the tomb, + Still, as ye watch life’s falling leaf, + Gathering from every loss and grief + Hope of new spring and endless home. + + Then cheerly to your work again + With hearts new-braced and set + To run, untired, love’s blessèd race. + As meet for those, who face to face + Over the grave their Lord have met. + + + +Churching of Women. + + + IS there, in bowers of endless spring, + One known from all the seraph band + By softer voice, by smile and wing + More exquisitely bland! + Here let him speed: to-day this hallowed air + Is fragrant with a mother’s first and fondest prayer. + + Only let Heaven her fire impart, + No richer incense breathes on earth: + “A spouse with all a daughter’s heart,” + Fresh from the perilous birth, + To the great Father lifts her pale glad eye, + Like a reviving flower when storms are hushed on high. + + Oh, what a treasure of sweet thought + Is here! what hope and joy and love + All in one tender bosom brought, + For the all-gracious Dove + To brood o’er silently, and form for Heaven + Each passionate wish and dream to dear affection given. + + Her fluttering heart, too keenly blest, + Would sicken, but she leans on Thee, + Sees Thee by faith on Mary’s breast, + And breathes serene and free. + Slight tremblings only of her veil declare + Soft answers duly whispered to each soothing prayer. + + We are too weak, when Thou dost bless, + To bear the joy—help, Virgin-born! + By Thine own mother’s first caress, + That waked Thy natal morn! + Help, by the unexpressive smile, that made + A Heaven on earth around this couch where Thou wast laid. + + + +Commination. + + + The prayers are o’er: why slumberest thou so long, + Thou voice of sacred song? + Why swell’st thou not, like breeze from mountain cave, + High o’er the echoing nave, + This white-robed priest, as otherwhile, to guide, + Up to the Altar’s northern side?— + A mourner’s tale of shame and sad decay + Keeps back our glorious sacrifice to-day: + + The widow’d Spouse of Christ: with ashes crown’d, + Her Christmas robes unbound, + She lingers in the porch for grief and fear, + Keeping her penance drear,— + Oh, is it nought to you? that idly gay, + Or coldly proud, ye turn away? + But if her warning tears in vain be spent, + Lo, to her altered eye this Law’s stern fires are lent. + + Each awful curse, that on Mount Ebal rang, + Peals with a direr clang + Out of that silver trump, whose tones of old + Forgiveness only told. + And who can blame the mother’s fond affright, + Who sporting on some giddy height + Her infant sees, and springs with hurried hand + To snatch the rover from the dangerous strand? + + But surer than all words the silent spell + (So Grecian legends tell) + When to her bird, too early ’scaped the nest, + She bares her tender breast, + Smiling he turns and spreads his little wing, + There to glide home, there safely cling. + So yearns our mother o’er each truant son, + So softly falls the lay in fear and wrath begun. + + Wayward and spoiled she knows ye: the keen blast, + That braced her youth, is past: + The rod of discipline, the robe of shame— + She bears them in your name: + Only return and love. But ye perchance + Are deeper plunged in sorrow’s trance: + Your God forgives, but ye no comfort take + Till ye have scourged the sins that in your conscience ache. + + Oh, heavy laden soul! kneel down and hear + Thy penance in calm fear: + With thine own lips to sentence all thy sin; + Then, by the judge within + Absolved, in thankful sacrifice to part + For ever with thy sullen heart, + Nor on remorseful thoughts to brood, and stain + This glory of the Cross, forgiven and cheereth in vain. + + + +Forms of Prayer to be used at Sea. + + + When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee. _Isaiah_ + xliii. 2. + + THE shower of moonlight falls as still and clear + Upon this desert main + As where sweet flowers some pastoral garden cheer + With fragrance after rain: + The wild winds rustle in piping shrouds, + As in the quivering trees: + Like summer fields, beneath the shadowy clouds + The yielding waters darken in the breeze. + + Thou too art here with thy soft inland tones, + Mother of our new birth; + The lonely ocean learns thy orisons, + And loves thy sacred mirth: + When storms are high, or when the fires of war + Come lightening round our course, + Thou breath’st a note like music from afar, + Tempering rude hearts with calm angelic force. + + Far, far away, the homesick seaman’s hoard, + Thy fragrant tokens live, + Like flower-leaves in a previous volume stored, + To solace and relieve + Some heart too weary of the restless world; + Or like thy Sabbath Cross, + That o’er this brightening billow streams unfurled, + Whatever gale the labouring vessel toss. + + Oh, kindly soothing in high Victory’s hour, + Or when a comrade dies, + In whose sweet presence Sorrow dares not lower, + Nor Expectation rise + Too high for earth; what mother’s heart could spare + To the cold cheerless deep + Her flower and hope? but Thou art with him there, + Pledge of the untired arm and eye that cannot sleep: + + The eye that watches o’er wild Ocean’s dead, + Each in his coral cave, + Fondly as if the green turf wrapt his head + Fast by his father’s grave,— + One moment, and the seeds of life shall spring + Out of the waste abyss, + And happy warriors triumph with their King + In worlds without a sea, unchanging orbs of bliss. + + + +Gunpowder Treason. + + + A thou hast testified of Me in Jerusalem, so must thou bear witness + also at Rome. _Acts_ xxiii. 11. + + BENEATH the burning eastern sky + The Cross was raised at morn: + The widowed Church to weep stood by, + The world, to hate and scorn. + + Now, journeying westward, evermore + We know the lonely Spouse + By the dear mark her Saviour bore + Traced on her patient brows. + + At Rome she wears it, as of old + Upon th’ accursèd hill: + By monarchs clad in gems and gold, + She goes a mourner still. + + She mourns that tender hearts should bend + Before a meaner shrine, + And upon Saint or Angel spend + The love that should be thine. + + By day and night her sorrows fall + Where miscreant hands and rude + Have stained her pure ethereal pall + With many a martyr’s blood. + + And yearns not her parental heart, + To hear _their_ secret sighs, + Upon whose doubting way apart + Bewildering shadows rise? + + Who to her side in peace would cling, + But fear to wake, and find + What they had deemed her genial wing + Was Error’s soothing blind. + + She treasures up each throbbing prayer: + Come, trembler, come and pour + Into her bosom all thy care, + For she has balm in store. + + Her gentle teaching sweetly blends + With this clear light of Truth + The aërial gleam that Fancy lends + To solemn thoughts in youth.— + + If thou hast loved, in hours of gloom, + To dream the dead are near, + And people all the lonely room + With guardian spirits dear, + + Dream on the soothing dream at will: + The lurid mist is o’er, + That showed the righteous suffering still + Upon th’ eternal shore. + + If with thy heart the strains accord, + That on His altar-throne + Highest exalt thy glorious Lord, + Yet leave Him most thine own; + + Oh, come to our Communion Feast: + There present, in the heart + As in the hands, th’ eternal Priest + Will His true self impart.— + + Thus, should thy soul misgiving turn + Back to the enchanted air, + Solace and warning thou mayst learn + From all that tempts thee there. + + And, oh! by all the pangs and fears + Fraternal spirits know, + When for an elder’s shame the tears + Of wakeful anguish flow, + + Speak gently of our sister’s fall: + Who knows but gentle love + May win her at our patient call + The surer way to prove? + + + +King Charles the Martyr. + + + This is thankworthy, if a man for conscience toward God endure grief, + suffering wrongfully. 1 _St. Peter_ ii. 19. + + PRAISE to our pardoning God! though silent now + The thunders of the deep prophetic sky, + Though in our sight no powers of darkness bow + Before th’ Apostles’ glorious company; + + The Martyrs’ noble army still is ours, + Far in the North our fallen days have seen + How in her woe this tenderest spirit towers + For Jesus’ sake in agony serene. + + Praise to our God! not cottage hearths alone, + And shades impervious to the proud world’s glare, + Such witness yield; a monarch from his throne + Springs to his Cross and finds his glory there. + + Yes: whereso’er one trace of thee is found, + As in the Sacred Land, the shadows fall: + With beating hearts we roam the haunted ground, + Lone battle-field, or crumbling prison hall. + + And there are aching solitary breasts, + Whose widowed walk with thought of thee is cheered + Our own, our royal Saint: thy memory rests + On many a prayer, the more for thee endeared. + + True son of our dear Mother, early taught + With her to worship and for her to die, + Nursed in her aisles to more than kingly thought, + Oft in her solemn hours we dream thee nigh. + + For thou didst love to trace her daily lore, + And where we look for comfort or for calm, + Over the self-same lines to bend, and pour + Thy heart with hers in some victorious psalm. + + And well did she thy loyal love repay; + When all forsook, her Angels still were nigh, + Chained and bereft, and on thy funeral way, + Straight to the Cross she turned thy dying eye + + And yearly now, before the Martyrs’ King, + For thee she offers her maternal tears, + Calls us, like thee, to His dear feet to cling, + And bury in His wounds our earthly fears. + + The Angels hear, and there is mirth in Heaven, + Fit prelude of the joy, when spirits won + Like those to patient Faith, shall rise forgiven, + And at their Saviour’s knees thy bright example own. + + + +The Restoration of the Royal Family. + + + And Barzillai said unto the King, How long have I to live, that I + should go up with the King unto Jerusalem? 2 _Samuel_ xix. 34. + + AS when the Paschal week is o’er, + Sleeps in the silent aisles no more + The breath of sacred song, + But by the rising Saviour’s light + Awakened soars in airy flight, + Or deepening rolls along; + + The while round altar, niche, and shrine, + The funeral evergreens entwine, + And a dark brilliance cast, + The brighter for their hues of gloom, + Tokens of Him, who through the tomb + Into high glory passed: + + Such were the lights and such the strains. + When proudly streamed o’er ocean plains + Our own returning Cross; + For with that triumph seemed to float + Far on the breeze one dirge-like note + Of orphanhood and loss. + + Father and King, oh where art thou? + A greener wreath adorns thy brow, + And clearer rays surround; + O, for one hour of prayer like thine, + To plead before th’ all-ruling shrine + For Britain lost and found! + + And he, whose mild persuasive voice + Taught us in trials to rejoice, + Most like a faithful dove, + That by some ruined homestead builds, + And pours to the forsaken fields + His wonted lay of love: + + Why comes he not to bear his part, + To lift and guide th’ exulting heart?— + A hand that cannot spars + Lies heavy on his gentle breast: + We wish him health; he sighs for rest, + And Heaven accepts the prayer. + + Yes, go in peace, dear placid spright, + Ill spared; but would we store aright + Thy serious sweet farewell, + We need not grudge thee to the skies, + Sure after thee in time to rise, + With thee for ever dwell. + + Till then, whene’er with duteous hand, + Year after year, my native Land + Her royal offering brings, + Upon the Altar lays the Crown, + And spreads her robes of old renown + Before the King of kings. + + Be some kind spirit, likest thine, + Ever at hand, with airs divine + The wandering heart to seize; + Whispering, “How long hast thou to live, + That thou should’st Hope or Fancy gave + To flowers or crowns like these?” + + + +The Accession. + + + As I was with Moses, so I will be with thee; I will not fail thee, + nor forsake thee. _Joshua_ i. 5. + + THE voice that from the glory came + To tell how Moses died unseen, + And waken Joshua’s spear of flame + To victory on the mountains green, + Its trumpet tones are sounding still, + When Kings or Parents pass away, + They greet us with a cheering thrill + Of power and comfort in decay. + + Behind thus soft bright summer cloud + That makes such haste to melt and die, + Our wistful gaze is oft allowed + A glimpse of the unchanging sky: + Let storm and darkness do their worst; + For the lost dream the heart may ache, + The heart may ache, but may not burst; + Heaven will not leave thee nor forsake. + + One rock amid the weltering floods, + One torch in a tempestuous night, + One changeless pine in fading woods:— + Such is the thought of Love and Might, + True Might and ever-present Love, + When death is busy near the throne, + Auth Sorrow her keen sting would prove + On Monarchs orphaned and alone. + + In that lorn hour and desolate, + Who could endure a crown? but He, + Who singly bore the world’s sad weight, + Is near, to whisper, “Lean on Me: + Thy days of toil, thy nights of care, + Sad lonely dreams in crowded hall, + Darkness within, while pageants glare + Around—the Cross supports them all.” + + Oh, Promise of undying Love! + While Monarchs seek thee for repose, + Far in the nameless mountain cove + Each pastoral heart thy bounty knows. + Ye, who in place of shepherds true + Come trembling to their awful trust, + Lo here the fountain to imbue + With strength and hope your feeble dust. + + Not upon Kings or Priests alone + The power of that dear word is spent; + It chants to all in softest tone + The lowly lesson of Content: + Heaven’s light is poured on high and low; + To high and low Heaven’s Angel spake; + “Resign thee to thy weal or woe, + I ne’er will leave thee nor forsake.” + + + +Ordination. + + + After this, the congregation shall be desired, secretly in their + prayers, to make their humble supplications to God for all these + things: for the which prayers there shall be silence kept for a + space. + + After which shall be sung or said by the Bishop (the persons to be + ordained Priests all kneeling), “Veni, Creator Spiritus.” _Rubric in + the Office for Ordering of Priests_. + + ’TWAS silence in Thy temple, Lord, + When slowly through the hallowed air + The spreading cloud of incense soared, + Charged with the breath of Israel’s prayer. + + ’Twas silence round Thy throne on high, + When the last wondrous seal unclosed, + And in this portals of the sky + Thine armies awfully reposed. + + And this deep pause, that o’er us now + Is hovering—comes it not of Thee? + Is it not like a mother’s vow + When, with her darling on her knee, + + She weighs and numbers o’er and o’er + Love’s treasure hid in her fond breast, + To cull from that exhaustless store + The dearest blessing and the best? + + And where shall mother’s bosom find, + With all its deep love-learnèd skill, + A prayer so sweetly to her mind, + As, in this sacred hour and still, + + Is wafted from the white-robed choir, + Ere yet the pure high-breathèd lay, + “Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire,” + Rise floating on its dove-like way. + + And when it comes, so deep and clear + The strain, so soft the melting fall, + It seems not to th’ entrancèd ear + Less than Thine own heart-cheering call. + + Spirit of Christ—Thine earnest given + That these our prayers are heard, and they, + Who grasp, this hour, the sword of Heaven, + Shall feel Thee on their weary way. + + Oft as at morn or soothing eve + Over the Holy Fount they lean, + Their fading garland freshly weave, + Or fan them with Thine airs serene. + + Spirit of Light and Truth! to Thee + We trust them in that musing hour, + Till they, with open heart and free. + Teach all Thy word in all its power. + + When foemen watch their tents by night, + And mists hang wide o’er moor and fell, + Spirit of Counsel and of Might, + Their pastoral warfare guide Thou well. + + And, oh! when worn and tired they sigh + With that more fearful war within, + When Passion’s storms are loud and high, + And brooding o’er remembered sin + + The heart dies down—oh, mightiest then, + Come ever true, come ever near, + And wake their slumbering love again, + Spirit of God’s most holy Fear! + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CHRISTIAN YEAR*** + + +******* This file should be named 4272-0.txt or 4272-0.zip ******* + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/4/2/7/4272 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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