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THE EPISTLE AND GOSPEL.

[OR JESUS CHRIST IN HISTORY.]

I

No more in mazes of the Psalmist's song
Is Christ disclos'd, as in a dim retreat;
Nor sitting the prophetic shades among;—
But lighten'd by the living Paraclete
The Church her children gathers 'neath His feet,
And shews anew upon each holier morn
Tracks of His footsteps, or some lesson meet,
Words from th'Eternal roll, to cheer or warn,
And in a bracelet weaves her Sunday to adorn.
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II

A few short Years make up our pilgrimage;
A few short Weeks make up the fleeting Year;
Each Week doth bear a heavenly embassage;
With silent steps, as on a crystal stair,
It comes and goes to Heav'n. With such sweet care
The Church hath deck'd each Week with blooming wings,
Which else were earth's stern-hearted messenger
Leading to Death; she at perennial springs
Clothes it with holy light, and like an Angel brings.

III

The Natural Year, swift shadow of the sun,
Wakes from the earth a chequer'd tapestry
To greet his footsteps as he passes on,
Carpets of snow—sweet violets—lilies high—
Then fields of waving gold—then varied dye
Of Autumn; but the snow, and violets sweet,
Lilies, and Autumn's wild variety,
And waving corn, fast as the sunbeams fleet,—
They bow their head and die beneath his hurrying feet.
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IV

Not so the path the holy Church doth tread,
The Year, that walketh in her light unseen,
Around its steps awakens from the dead
Hopes that shall never die. Through the serene
Of the calm Sunday, like an alley green,
Are seen th'eternal towers; and where lights gild
Death's twilight portal, us and them between,
She shews her suffering Lord; throughout the wild
Still shews her suffering Lord to her faint wandering child.

V

At every turn throughout Life's wilderness,
In pillar'd fire, smote rock, or healed springs,
His presence she reveals, and power to bless:
When the autumnal wind of ruin sings,
She blends her Advent chaunt of happier things,
As louder swell the sounds of stern decay,
The higher doth she lift her herald voice, till wings
And Angel forms are seen, and on our way
Springs fron dark Winter's womb the face of endless day—
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VI

The Christmas dawn. She thro' the waning night
Her leaning child hath to that cradle led,
And bids him all unlearn but the meek sight
And Heav'n's own lesson of the homely shed,
The Babe and Mother. Nature now is dead,
And darksome; but in wintry skies is set
A wreath that glitters o'er that Infant's head;
Her fairest stars are round His cradle met,
Like gems of light within His Kingly coronet,—

VII

The Innocents, the Martyrs, and the one,
For martyr's heart, and childlike innocence,
Belov'd and nearest. Thus each duteous son
She trains at His poor cradle, gaining thence
Sermons of that diviner eloquence,
And as our sorrow's winters roll along,
Brings to that childhood—in our manlier sense
Less have we ears for the angelic song,
Or heart to enter in with that meek shepherd throng.
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VIII

Sweetly by mysteries are we wrapt around,
Th'Epiphany's bright star is o'er the plain,
Mountain, and sea, where Jesus' steps are found,
Coming to sojourn with the heirs of pain,
And draw true hearts to Him with unseen chain.
Now she in sterner warnings points to where
In judgment and in glory He again,
Beyond the twilight of this silent air,
Mid th'everlasting hills His chariot doth prepare.

IX

Then vernal Lent comes on—Nature puts up
Her sweetest notes, and dons her fairest trim;
The Church is drinking of her Saviour's cup,
And far into the wild hath gone with Him;
Nature's glad tones upon her prison dim
Break not, or with calm influence on the soul
Come, like faint sounds of distant cherubim,
To cheer the chasten'd spirit, not control,
While prayer clears her dull eye to see th'eternal goal.
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X

O Thou, on whom the Angels dare not gaze,
In the deep bosom of Divinity,
But veil their faces from th'o'erpowering rays
Of Thine eternal beauty! Thee we see
With countenance sore marr'd with agony
Beyond the sons of men. O wondrous power
Of Love divine! shall man not watch with Thee
One little hour? for scarce one fleeting hour
Set 'gainst the days of Heav'n, is life's fast fading flower.

XI

A little further in the solemn grove,
Into the bosom of the silent night,—
A little further onward, let us move
From the rude world—yet further—from the sight
Of kindred and of friends, that so aright
We may discern our weakness, and apply
Our hearts to God alone, while the broad light,
The witness of His sorrows, is on high,—
The paschal moon, which o'er yon olive mount stands by.
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XII

Green Bethany, since that dread sorrow's blast,
Thine olive crown is turned all to sere;—
Where from beneath thy feet is Cedron past?
Where is the glorious temple standing near?
But still the widow'd Church is lingering here;
Mary of Christ approv'd, and meekly wise,
Teach her to bring with penitential fear
Some offering honour'd in thy Saviour's eyes,
The incense of the heart to embalm His obsequies.

XIII

Church of resign'd obedience! Rome may prize
Her costlier garniture, and flaunting air;
Geneva boast her undress'd novelties;—
Keep thou meek Mary's mien, divinely fair,
Thy Saviour to approach with reverend care,
And lowly service—not where sounds aloud
The voice that crieth in the streets, the stare
And gaze tumultuous of th'admiring crowd,
To stand beneath the cross with holy John allow'd.
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XIV

Now, as the opening year doth gradual rise
Thro' toilsome months to her meridian tower,
Then full expands into her summer skies;
Or plants that climb thro' many a wintry hour,
And are unbosom'd in some fragrant flower:
Thus Whitsuntide, reveal'd in mighty flame,
Opens from high Heav'n's full mysterious dower,
And crowns the sacred year:—if without blame
The things which are divine with earthly I may name.

XV

And now her Lord is seen no more on earth,
From the blest Three in One, withdrawn from view,
She showers down blessings of our better birth
In falls of streaming light and pearly dew,
Life-giving precepts, heavenly helps, and true
Unfading hopes; till all is eloquent
Within this house roof'd o'er with crystal blue,
The earth, and sea, and glowing firmament,
Threefold one temple form, their Maker's holy tent.
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XVI

Thus year by year the same her weekly strain,
For not on turbulent seas of human pride,
But on the moveless rock she doth remain:
Whate'er unquiet Creeds the earth divide,
Between the Cherubims He doth abide,
Whose same still warning voice, afar and near,
Is heard above the ever changeful tide:
Now as of old, unto a thousand year,
Goes forth one weekly store—each willing heart and ear

XVII

One lesson learns. Thus thro' advancing time
Building His habitation from the ends
Of Earth and Heav'n, of every tongue and clime,
The dead and quick He in one temple blends,
Wherein one prayer the Heavenly gate ascends.
Tho' Babel's curse rests on the world forlorn,
And language, clime, and heart asunder rends,
Yet in th'unfailing Church, by age unworn,
Thy blessing still is fresh, thou Pentecostal morn!
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XVIII

One soul, one tongue is there: Th'Eternal Son,
Her true Shechinah unreveal'd to sight,
Dwells in her living courts for ever One,
Tho' manifold His gifts, and infinite
The varied radiations of the light,
While in His awful countenance we read:
Withholding and imparting to our might,
And the requirements of our several need,
He quickens all the forms which from her breast proceed.

XIX

Her sacred Sundays, in their varied vest,
And Saintly days, in colours of the skies,
With precept and with Prayer and warning drest,
Were without Him but like th'enamell'd dyes
On pictur'd panes, whose beauty hidden lies
All colourless, till from the veil of night
The bright-hair'd Sun behind is seen to rise,
When lo, the holy Preachers spring to light,
Manifold shapes of life, in glowing vestures dight.
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XX

And cloistral cells retir'd have caught the gleam,
Thus each home-service hath His light enshrin'd;
See on the bridal morn His radiance stream!
Art thou a lonely one in lot and mind,
Or hast thou earthly blessings but to find
That helplessness which on Earth's good relies?
Here is th'immortal Bridegroom, who doth bind
The virgin soul with more than bridal ties,
And hallows wedded love to holier charities.

XXI

Now at the couch of sickness would she stand,
With that sweet lesson, like a lamp from high,
While Truth up-lifts her awe-inspiring hand,
Mercy with gentler accents would draw nigh,
“'Twere good with Christ to suffer and to die;”
And when the soul, by sickness all unwound,
O'er the expanse is shaken tremblingly,
She then discloses 'neath her girdle bound
A golden key, and cries, “I have a ransom found.”
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XXII

Christ hath been in the waters, and the whole
Of our baptismal being doth abound
With more of healing than Bethesda's pool,
Stirr'd by the Angel, where there lay around
The impotent, the maim'd, and sickness-bound;
Emblem of this world's sorrows, mid the show
Of portals fair, which over-arch the ground,
And seem to mock her children's varied woe.
Look on us, or we die where healing waters flow!

XXIII

From that baptismal well are onward cast
The ancient paths, and fenc'd for evermore,
To the Eternal City; on the past
We think, and sigh, and our lost time deplore:
How have I fail'd to gain thy weekly lore,
Seedtime of heavenly harvests! from a child
Deep might my heart have treasur'd thy rich store;
So transient scenes had ne'er my love beguil'd,
And left with empty hands, and soul with sin defil'd.
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XXIV

But time remains for hope each angry thought
Against myself to turn, my bosom's pride,
And passionate complainings in me wrought
Vent on myself; how have I wander'd wide!
Woe is me, for the day will not abide;
Shadows of eve are stretched out, and we
'Neath night's dark wings our guilty heads would hide,
And steal to rest; yet we can never be
As if we ne'er had been;—but there th'o'erwhelming sea

XXV

Shall burst from all its flood-gates, with the light
Ushering the Judge's presence. Mother dear,
Oft as thy courts I enter, day or night,
Thy voice is of forgiveness, full and clear,
Hast thou no daily baptism?—much I fear;
Yet something o'er thine ancient threshold flings
A dewy freshness; where the fount stands near
Of our new birth-right, Hope reviving springs,
And o'er my fever'd brow soft waves her healing wings.
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XXVI

Church of my country, unto thee is lent
More than e'en Nature hath in ways of love;
A vine, that spreads abroad a living tent
Of shelter, shade, and food,—a rocky cove,—
The eye maternal of the gentle dove,—
The swan's soft wing spread o'er her snowy throng,—
The gaze of the stern eagle fix'd above,—
The doe's retiring step, that with her young
Bounds from the gazer's eye the branching woods among.

XXVII

The archers sore have griev'd thee;—wilt thou flee,
And leave us? so hereafter, hither bent,
Some pensive traveller may return, and see
All that remains, a mantle rudely rent,
Or weep beside a mouldering monument.
I saw an aged pile, calm in decay,
Which, where the Wye his mountain windings went,
Look'd from its ivy mantle, stern and grey,
While little birds sang thro' their summer holiday:
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XXVIII

The sheep were browsing in the sacred hall,
Which once had echoed to the choral song;
And that old wandering river seem'd to call
On ancient memories; and the mountain throng
Stood by in solemn consciousness; among
Rent walls the wild flowers hung, thro' blended view
Of arches and tall piles, in ruin strong
And beautiful, shone the celestial blue,
And there with a black cloud the Sun contending through.

XXIX

Thoughts of our Church like moon-beams seem'd to peer,
And made the desolation more forlorn;
It was an hour for contemplation's tear:
But 'tis not ours o'er ruined wrecks to mourn,
For thro' the broken rents, which Time hath worn,
Shines our celestial House: our Father blest
Would teach us thus how vain each earthly bourne,
Though fairest seeming, holiest, and best;—
The more to seek for nought but His eternal rest.
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