University of Virginia Library

The Cloisters.

ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS.

I. The Liturgy.

A path of peace amid the tangled grove,
A moon-lit way of sweet security—
Bright holy days that form a galaxy
To make a road to Heav'n—strains from above
Whereon the spheres of duty kindlier move,
Drinking pure light and heav'n-born harmony—
Such is the path of thy calm Liturgy,
Ancient of mothers, in parental love
Daily unwinding from thine annual maze
Treasures that wax not old, whence still may grow
Fresh adoration. On thy face (of thee
Praying to be more worthy) as we gaze
Thy soul comes forth in beauty, and thy brow
So calm, is full of holiest Deity.

II. Forms.

Love, from whatever earthly cave he springs,
(That spell of something heavenly dwelling round
Home, friend, or grave endear'd,) when he hath found
Meet entrance, he will shake his odorous wings,
And throw a charm o'er thousand meaner things,
O'er whatsoe'er at first he entrance found
Into the soul; in ties associate bound
He lives, and o'er them his own radiance flings.
Then why should not a holier Peace and Mirth
Love those mute forms, which cherished first their birth,
And brac'd them for the withering blasts of earth?
The gladsome soul that her devotion plies,
Bound in the wreath of ancient Liturgies,
Why should she not her chain beyond all freedom prize?

III. The Collect for the Day.

And let me, loving still of thee to learn,
Thy weekly Collect on my spirit wear,
That so my steps may turn to practice clear,
And 'scape those ways where feverish fancies burn;
So may thy Sunday thoughts at every turn
Meet us, like healthful founts in Elim green,
Casting a freshness o'er the week. This scene
Of outward things, as still the wheels return,
Leads sternly to decay: thou ever true,
As on the grave and withering age we gain,
Thy tale of better things dost still renew,
Like tune that pleas'd our childhood's pensive ear,
Still as we older grow 'tis doubly dear,
Aye wakening echoes new, and deep and deeper strain.

IV. Prayer.

Hidden, exhaustless treasury, heav'n-taught Prayer,
Armoury of unseen aids—watchword and spell
At which blest Angels pitch their tent and dwell
About us—glass to bring the bright Heav'ns near—
Sea of eternal beauty—wondrous stair
By patriarch seen—key leading to a cell
Where better worlds are hidden—secret well
Where Love with golden chalice may repair,
And slake his thirst, nursing with fragrant dews
Heav'n's lilies fair, and rose on wild-wood spray,
Calm thought and high resolve! strange instrument,
Wherewith from spheres serene Music is sent
Into the mind, throwing o'er all fresh hues,
And mystic colourings—yet we cannot pray!

V. The Complaint.

We cannot pray, strange mystery! here is known
No wearying—no deceivings of sick Hope,
No aching limb, or brow, wherewith to cope—
No pallid after-thoughts—and of the boon
No half-surmis'd upbraiding—no cold frown
Bidding us come again—no lengthening slope
Tiring the eye from far. These portals ope
To dwellings lucid as th'autumnal moon,
But we along the world's slow sluggish strand
Are fostering vanity, which joint by joint
Climbs, like Nile's reed, into a tufted crown,
And woos each wind that waves its golden down,
All hollow, soon a barbed shaft 'twill point,
Or staff, to pierce light heart or trusting hand.

VI. Sunday.

Sweet day, let not the clouds of earthly Care
Come over thy calm brightness, let Reproof
And pale Remorse and Sadness stand aloof,
Let nought of worldly strife, or ruder air,
Ruffle, or rend the mantle thou dost wear!
The robe thou wear'st is all celestial woof,
Come from the grave with Jesus. Heav'n's blue roof
Seems nearer earth, and all earth hath of fair
Is fairer. On thy calm and glassy floor
We sit in commune sweet, thy riches blest
Recounting, and forget that we are poor.
Let us be bright to meet thee, Angel guest,
With contemplations of enduring rest,
And with thee listen at the heavenly door.

VII. Village Psalmody.

And is it not thy praise, Church of our love,
That thou unto each little rural nook
Of quiet hast soft golden plumage shook
From off the wing of thine own David's dove,
And turn'd the melodies, that nearest prove
To the heart of man, into a sacred book,—
Key to the soul's best avenues,—a brook
That steals into Religion's secret grove?
If those straw roofs and ivied cots among
There play a gleam of song, 'tis no wild fire,
But sparks, tho' scatter'd, from a heav'n-strung lyre.
Thus, when the cloud of music roll'd along
Fills the melodious dome, blest sounds inspire
Each cloistral nook, vocal with sacred song.

VIII. The Ancient Village.

Let me still love thee in thy quietude,
Sweet sylvan village! and thou, aged rook,
Who sitt'st sole sentinel in ivied nook,
Survivor of thy noisy brotherhood!
And I with thee, in thine own pensive mood,
Could linger, till the lights of ages fall
Around us, like moonbeams on tap'stried hall,
And saintly forms come forth, and virgins good,
Who gave their days to Heav'n. From that lone pile
Avaunt, rude change, thy disenchanting wand,
And let the holy Cross linger awhile!
Ah, feather'd Chronicler, would that from thee
Thou could'st forefend Art's all-transforming hand,
And guard thy hoary haunts of sweet Antiquity.

IX. The modern Cathedral.

Without—the world's unceasing noises rise,
Turmoil, disquietude, and busy fears.
Within—there are the sounds of other years,
Thoughts full of Prayer, and solemn harmonies,
Which imitate on earth the peaceful skies,
And canonized Regret, which backward bears
Her longing aspect, moving thoughtful tears.
Such blest abodes, in Heav'n's all-pitying eyes,
Might yet be eloquent for a nation's good;
But where is now the kneeling multitude?
The silver-tongued spruce verger passes by
Hurrying his group, the proud and curious eye
Of connoisseur—the loiterer's sauntering mood:
Sad picture of lost Faith and evil nigh!

X. The Daily Service.

And are we then alone on holy ground,
Most gracious Father? Are we then alone,
Because the world regards not, and is gone?
Where are the solemn dead which lie around,
Are they not with us? Are thy courts not crown'd
With spiritual hosts about, while the sweet tone
Still lingers round thine altars? Are they flown,
Bearing no more to see their God disowned?
Has the great Michael left us, mighty arm,
Gabriel, our fortitude, and the blest charm
Of Raphael's healing name? In my heart's fear
I heard a voice, “Be still, and lowly bend;
While two or three remain, thy Lord is here,
And where His presence is, His Hosts attend.”

XI. Foreign Breviaries.

Dear Church, our island's sacred sojourner,
A richer dress thy Southern sisters own,
And some would deem too bright their flowing zone
For sacred walls. I love thee, nor would stir
Thy simple note, severe in character,
By use made lovelier, for the lofty tone
Or hymn, response, and touching antiphone,
Lest we lose homelier truth. The chorister
That sings the summer nights, so soft and strong,
To music modulating his sweet throat,
Labours with richness of his varied note,
Yet lifts not unto Heaven a holier song,
Than our home bird that, on some leafless thorn,
Hymns his plain chaunt each wintry eve and morn.

XII. The Church in Scotland.

More pure the gale where the wild thistle rears
His mountain banner on his stony tower,
Than odorous breath of cultivated bower;
More true to nature o'er its armed spears
The mountain rose its lonely chalice bears,
Than many-folding cups of cherish'd flower;
And, traversing those wilds with silvery shower,
E'en Winter's moon more clear and free appears!
Such is thy sister of the northern hills,
Less honour'd, not less holy; bow'd with ills,
But not destroy'd; pure branch of the true vine,
Drinking her nurture from the barren rock,
Of pitiless elements she braves the shock,
And hath less earthly beauty—more divine.

XIII. The Church in Wales.

Alas, Menevia! what of thee remains,
Primeval saintly Church? from Towy's flood
To Conway springs an ever-teeming brood
Of novelty, to claim thy true domains;
Religious Freedom, worse than Romish chains!
As in the stool where some huge oak once stood,
Some mountain bird now hides his sylvan food;
And lo! the ancient stock with wonder gains
A doubtful, new, and motley progeny,
Springing in mockery from her aged root,
With coral berries wild and show of fruit.
And here and there between th'ancestral shoot
Is seen, to emulate their pliancy,
Bowing to each wind as it passes by.

XIV. The Church in Wales.

Ancient Menevia, I must still love thee,
Nor yet is silent thy Cathedral song,
Though nought to echo back her solemn tongue,
Save the true emblems of Heav'n's constancy,
Th'unchanging mountains and unchanging Sea,
Which to each other thy deep tones prolong,
And both bear on to Heav'n. What though, among
Thine innocent nuptial feasts and household glee,
Thy harp is silenc'd in Religion's name,
And discipline become a word of blame,
Mother of love and nurse of cheerful thought,
While holiest liturgies are set at nought,
To enshrine the feverish dreams of human will,
Ancient Menevia, I must love thee still.

XV. The Church in Wales.

For thou didst take me up unto thy breast,
Pitying my lost and helpless infancy,
And didst engraft me in the living tree.
Still breathe fresh thoughts from thy Plinlimmon's crest,
Hedg'd by thy language, (in thy mountain-nest,
Indented oft with blue o'er-arching sea,)
That so the airs of foul disloyalty
Reach thee but faintly from our sad unrest,
Which, like Avernian steams, to Heav'n's deep roof
Daily ascend, and gathering there aloof,
Hang in tempestuous clouds. If thou would'st still
Have thy good Angel guard thee free from blame,
Rend not Christ's robe at thine irreverent will,
But wrap it round thee, lest they see thy shame!

XVI. Political changes.

Strange—the o'erwhelming tide that beareth on
The soul of Nations—mighty, though unseen,
And wielding mighty destinies; not e'en
Huge Ocean, on his bed with thunders strewn,
Rocking from pole to pole to the pale Moon,
More constant in mutation; 'mid the scene
We stretch our sounding canvass, nor ought ween
Our whereabouts, save where the past hath gone!
It was the Everlasting that pass'd by,
We saw not, but in cloud o'er cloud arrayed,
Ocean o'er Ocean roll'd ineffably,
Onward, like tide-born billows, He doth heave
Men's spirits, each upon his own bark staid.
We to behold His Glory's skirts had leave.

XVII. The sure Covenant.

Let the storms ply their deep and threat'ning bass,
The Bow of Promise shall the shades illume,
Brightly descried in Faith's eternal glass,
E'en like an Angel's many-coloured plume
Waving in tempest—pledge that in her bloom
Nature, emerging from the stormy mass,
Will keep her time and order.—Let them pass
The wicked and their plottings: 'mid the gloom,
The Church surveys her Covenant sign, and smiles.
And 'neath her solemn rainbow's dripping arch,
A mystic wing spread o'er her daring march,
She goes forth, on her heavenly work the whiles,
Though weeping, sure that one in joy shall bring,
Her and her sheaves at harvest-moon to sing.

XVIII. Prayer for the Parliament.

Yet Peace be in these walls! Upon them rest
The Royal Martyr's mantle from the skies,
Though little they Heav'n's sweet protection prize!
And haply so our prayers to our own breast
Unanswer'd may return, yet not unblest,
If thus our soul learn patience, and arise,
Good Charles, to thy diviner charities!
Albeit oft, with heavy thoughts opprest,
We see in them but clouds from our sick land,
And the dread sword unsheath'd in God's right hand.
Thus set we the soul's anchor, if it be
Right in th'All-seeing eyes, then be it so,
May the vex'd Church learn her true panoply,
And lift above the clouds her tranquil brow.

XIX. Prayer for the King.

If the meek-hearted to the earth is heir,
Refresh'd in multitude of peace divine,
And length of days, by what blest discipline,
Shall we best drink of that celestial air?—
By what calm ways of holy Wisdom share,
Th'eternal sweetness of her Angel eyne,
Who leans on high from the meek Saviour's shrine?
The path of Life will shew—the path of Pray'r.
There filial duty first shall lead thee by
The house of Pride, then manhood's Loyalty
Take thee in hand, her spirit to infuse.
Pray thou with them, imbibe their heav'nly hues,
And they will lead thee to that Palace Hall,
Where God is King and Father, all in all.

XX. Consolations of Baptism.

Brightly the morn of our New Birth arose
From the Baptismal Fount, in awful trance
Unveiling half her glorious countenance;—
We turn'd to our own dreams, wooing Earth's woes,
And slumber'd. Haply now ere Ev'ning's close
We wake, and o'er us see a pitying glance,
The heavenly morn gone by, day in advance,
And far away the towers of our repose.
We doubt the title soil'd by sinful stain,
And of our birthright ask some sign again,
Such is distrust, of Sin the penalty!
Oh! rather, when thy knees sink on the plain,
Rise, and look back on that Egyptian sea,
And doubt no more the arm that set thee free.

XXI. The City of God.

Throughout the older word, story and rite—
Throughout the new, skirting all clouds with gold—
Through rise and fall and destinies manifold
Of pagan empires—through the dreams and night
Of nature, and the darkness and the light,
Still young in hope, in disappointment old—
Through mists which fall'n humanity enfold,
Into the vast and viewless infinite
Rises th'Eternal City of our God.
Her towers the morn with disenchanting rod
Dimly and darkly labours to disclose,
Lifting the outskirts of th'o'er-mantling gloom;
Bright shapes come forth, arch, pinnacle, and dome,
In Heav'n is hid its height and deep repose.

XXII. New Ways.

Now each new Creed will ready welcome move,
That bids not in the secret soul to bear
The Cross with Thee, in silence and in fear,
And Duty's silvery trappings yoked with Love.
O sternly kind Severity, to prove
The children of the promise, year by year,
And that unearthly bosom calm and clear,
Meet mirror to enshrine th'Eternal Dove.
Yet this is hard—this holy: turn thine eyes
Inward, and thou shalt find the broad new way,
Like the foul Stygian deep, where hideous things
Stable in darkness, and but fold their wings
Deeming it light—be thine to fear and pray,
And feed on that life-giving Sacrifice!

XXIII. The Crucifix.

Though by such thorns as on Thy brow abide,
Thine would Thy servant be—thorns from the weed
Of sorrow, whereof Adam sowed the seed;
Thine by the spear that pierced Thy tender side,
Compunctuous throes, which drink the heart's deep tide;
Thine by the nails, which made Thy pure hands bleed,—
Nails of stern discipline, rough arts that breed
Keen penitential yearnings, or the pride
Of the rude scoffing world; by whate'er chain
May quell rebellion, or of soul or eye,
Whatever penance schools of shame, or pain,
Whatever scourge may strike, and not in vain,
So bind me to Thy Cross, that I may die
Daily, the fleeting years that I remain.

XXIV. The Holy Altar.

Unto the East we turn, to which belong
More than the heart divines, or eye descries;
There is the Altar which our life supplies.
The voice is silent, lest it should do wrong
To things which are too high for mortal tongue.
The Heav'ns are looking on with wondering eyes.
And Angel faces crowd the o'erhanging skies.
Shall men unheeding to the temple throng
Where God is present? Watchful evermore,
Let calm Obeisance at thine Altar wait,
And lowly-bowing Reverence keep the door
Of our dull hearts; that there we may be brought
To the society of holy thought,
Revering God, to man compassionate.

XXV. The Ancient Church.

Unto the East we turn—from the cold bourn
Of our dull western cave Faith's pensive mood
Sets there her tranced eyelid, gathering food
Of solemn thoughts which make her less forlorn,
And back to Apostolic men is borne.
There, from her evening and dim solitude,
She joins the companies of the wise and good,
Who walk upon the Gospel's glorious morn,
Their dwarf dimensions of mortality
Seeming to grow upon the golden sky,
Beyond the cold shade of imperious Rome.
Ambrose and Basil, either Gregory,
Clement and Cyril, Cyprian's earthly home,
And the free lips of glowing Chrysostom.

XXVI. The Holy Land.

Unto the East we turn—like some bright stair
Let down from Heav'n, the land where Angels still
Linger at Chinnereth's lake or Tabor's hill.
Here Jesus sat, there stood, here kneel'd in prayer;
Here was His cradle, there His sepulchre.
E'en now appears the bleeding spectacle
Upheld to the wide world: the cup of ill
Is drain'd, with hands outstretch'd, bleeding and bare,
He doth in death His innocent head recline,
Turn'd to the West. Descending from his height,
The sun beheld, and veil'd him from the sight.
Thither, while from the serpent's wound we pine,
To Thee, remembering that baptismal sign,
We turn, and drink anew thy healing might.

XXVII. Lost Eden.

Unto the East we turn, in thoughtful gaze,
Like longing exiles to their ancient home,
Mindful of our lost Eden. Thence may come
Genial ambrosial airs around the ways
Of daily life, and fragrant thoughts that raise
Home-sympathies: so may we cease to roam,
Seeking some resting-place before the tomb,
To which on wandering wings devotion strays.
But true to our high birthright, and to Him
Who leads us by the flaming Cherubim,
Death's gate, our pilgrim spirits may arise
O'er earth's affections; and mid worldlings rude,
Walk loosely in their holier solitude,
And breathe the air of their lost Paradise.

XXVIII. The Coming of Christ.

Unto the East we turn, with watchful eyes,
Where opens the white haze of silvery lawn,
And the still trees stand in the streak of dawn,
Until the Sun of Righteousness shall rise,
And far behind shall open all the skies,
And golden clouds of Angels be withdrawn
Around His presence. Then there shall be gone,
Fleeing before his face in dread surprise,
The Heav'n and Earth and the affrighted Sea,
And the tribunal shall be set on high,
And we the fiery trial must abide.
Like nightly travellers to the kindling sky,
Awake or sleeping to yon eastern side
We turn, and know not when the time shall be.