The Sanctuary A Companion in Verse for the English Prayer Book. By Robert Montgomery |
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Monday in Easter Week.
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 | The Sanctuary |  |
Monday in Easter Week.
“Ye walk, and are sad,”
—Gospel for the Day.
“Without father, without mother.”
—Heb. vii. 3.
But one week past, and thou wert here,
A living, though a pain-worn creature;
And round thy couch, with quiet tear,
We stood, and watched each waning feature
But now, in light and bliss, to thee belong
The Saviour's presence, and the angel-song.
A living, though a pain-worn creature;
And round thy couch, with quiet tear,
We stood, and watched each waning feature
But now, in light and bliss, to thee belong
The Saviour's presence, and the angel-song.
Departed Spirit! pure as kind,
That peerless gift, a precious Mother!
Our hearts with grief are almost blind,
And pierced with pangs we cannot smother:—
Thine orphaned children see their sacred loss,
And sink beneath the burden of their Cross!
That peerless gift, a precious Mother!
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And pierced with pangs we cannot smother:—
Thine orphaned children see their sacred loss,
And sink beneath the burden of their Cross!
If mercies brighten, as they leave
The shrines of love where they were dwelling,
How must our riven bosoms grieve,
While each to each is fondly telling
Maternal virtues, which were faintly scann'd
Until they left us for the Spirit-land!
The shrines of love where they were dwelling,
How must our riven bosoms grieve,
While each to each is fondly telling
Maternal virtues, which were faintly scann'd
Until they left us for the Spirit-land!
A myriad spells of heart and home
Back to pale mem'ry seem returning,
And, when to girlhood's bower we roam,
Our souls with ancient dreams are burning;
Or, thrill beneath some love-awaking word
Oft in our maiden-prime of gladness heard.
Back to pale mem'ry seem returning,
And, when to girlhood's bower we roam,
Our souls with ancient dreams are burning;
Or, thrill beneath some love-awaking word
Oft in our maiden-prime of gladness heard.
We prayed around our father's bier
In pangs of hushed and holy sorrow,
And felt within that wordless fear
Which prophesies a sad to-morrow;
And when the sister of our souls departed,
Life fainted in us, as the broken-hearted:—
In pangs of hushed and holy sorrow,
And felt within that wordless fear
Which prophesies a sad to-morrow;
And when the sister of our souls departed,
Life fainted in us, as the broken-hearted:—
But oh! a Mother is a sacred thing,
Association's fondest centre;
Who shadows childhood with her wing,
And who alone, by love can enter
Into the deepest, purest shrines of thought,
Where infant mind the creed of heaven is taught.
Association's fondest centre;
Who shadows childhood with her wing,
And who alone, by love can enter
Into the deepest, purest shrines of thought,
Where infant mind the creed of heaven is taught.
And thus, we mourn thee, mild and meek,
In matron-softness, ever shrinking
From that proud glare bright worldlings seek,
And of thy God serenely thinking:—
Fresh joys may bloom, and radiant hopes may be,
But second mother ne'er can orphans see!
In matron-softness, ever shrinking
From that proud glare bright worldlings seek,
And of thy God serenely thinking:—
Fresh joys may bloom, and radiant hopes may be,
But second mother ne'er can orphans see!
Still, vanished Spirit, thou art blest,
Bosom'd in peace, and blissful glory;
Sin cannot mar thy sainted rest,
And, when we think who went before thee,
Dear to thy heart, as thou to us hast been,—
The soul's Hereafter grows a household-scene.
Bosom'd in peace, and blissful glory;
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And, when we think who went before thee,
Dear to thy heart, as thou to us hast been,—
The soul's Hereafter grows a household-scene.
There, is our meeting-place of Bliss!
The Home Divine, where, re-united,
Friends who have left a world like this
Mingle again their souls delighted,—
Mother, and daughter, sister, sire, and son,
In heaven renewing what on earth begun.
The Home Divine, where, re-united,
Friends who have left a world like this
Mingle again their souls delighted,—
Mother, and daughter, sister, sire, and son,
In heaven renewing what on earth begun.
A few brief years of anxious life,
Of fev'rish care, or toilsome being,—
And then will come our parting strife
When we, from time and sorrow fleeing,
Shall view the Region of the awful dead,
And children follow where a mother led.
Of fev'rish care, or toilsome being,—
And then will come our parting strife
When we, from time and sorrow fleeing,
Shall view the Region of the awful dead,
And children follow where a mother led.
The grave! the grave! our hearts roam there,
And now, with Love's internal weeping
Would pardon seek, by sorrowing prayer,
From her in Abram's bosom sleeping,—
Should girlish temper, or unduteous tone,
Have ever pained the Spirit that is flown.
And now, with Love's internal weeping
Would pardon seek, by sorrowing prayer,
From her in Abram's bosom sleeping,—
Should girlish temper, or unduteous tone,
Have ever pained the Spirit that is flown.
And, if the dead communion hold,
Or, with the living here, are blended,—
As martyr'd saints conceived of old—
Then, not for us thy love hath ended,
But round about us, though we trace it not,
May weave protection for our orphan'd lot.
Or, with the living here, are blended,—
As martyr'd saints conceived of old—
Then, not for us thy love hath ended,
But round about us, though we trace it not,
May weave protection for our orphan'd lot.
And, Mother! if thy conscious soul
Still aught of mortal power retaineth,
Waft round our path thy pure control
As long as perilled life remaineth:
And oh, accept, what we present with tears,—
Regret for all we did to shade thy years!
Still aught of mortal power retaineth,
Waft round our path thy pure control
As long as perilled life remaineth:
And oh, accept, what we present with tears,—
Regret for all we did to shade thy years!
In tender gloom and twilight-dream,
By meadow-walks, or moon-lit ocean,
Oft will thy featur'd Shadow seem
To haunt the heart's profound emotion:—
Move where we may, some instinct will restore
That form maternal, Time shall greet no more.
By meadow-walks, or moon-lit ocean,
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To haunt the heart's profound emotion:—
Move where we may, some instinct will restore
That form maternal, Time shall greet no more.
God of the motherless, and sad!
Life's bruisèd reed seems almost broken,
Since, how to them can earth look glad,
Whose brightest meanings must betoken
A blank,—which makes our orphan'd hearts to see
Like mother-love, no human love can be.
Life's bruisèd reed seems almost broken,
Since, how to them can earth look glad,
Whose brightest meanings must betoken
A blank,—which makes our orphan'd hearts to see
Like mother-love, no human love can be.
| The Sanctuary | |