The Baptistery, or the way of eternal life :: :: University of Virginia Library

And can Faith's Prayer admit the soul to Heaven,
Where endless life is but one hymn of praise,
To happy song and adoration given?
Blessed Immortals, singing grateful lays,
What must ye deem of men's repining ways?
Lo! at the thought upbraiding visions rise,
And clothe themselves with shape, and catch the rays,
Coming like stars upon the evening skies,
And forms Angelic speak in their own Paradise.

One came by me and said, “And hast thou then
No voice of thanks? is His love nothing worth,
Who gave to thee to live 'mong living men,
And set Eternity around thy birth,
E'en as the circling sky surrounds the earth:—
Who knew thee ere yet form'd within the womb,
Knew thy first thoughts of sadness or of mirth,
And saw thy limbs their daily form assume,
Thy birth, thy life, thy grave, thy lot beyond the tomb?”

Another then drew near, and passing cried,
“Are no thanks due to that Immortal Love,
Who on the Cross to purchase thee hath died,
That so His death thy better life might prove?
Is this all nought thy thankless soul to move?
For such vast love He asketh no return,
But this—that thou wouldst live for Him above,
Who came from highest Heaven thy love to earn;
Yet in thy thankless heart no gratitude doth burn.”

Then, like a cloud that clothes the evening moon,
Another came,—“Canst thou those gifts recount,
While thou wert yet unconscious of the boon,
Which even yet thy highest thoughts surmount?
He bath'd thee erst in light's eternal Fount,
And took thee, through the gate of His own grave,
To the pure haunts of the celestial mount,
With dews of life the dying soul to lave:—
Such mighty gifts lie hid in the Baptismal wave!”

Another Voice then added, “Is it nought
That He who is thy everlasting Good,
Who thy new life by His own dying bought,
Should feed the life He gave by His own blood,—
Should e'en Himself become thy living food?
Each Sunday when with troubles thou art worn,
He from His grave-clothes, with fresh strength endued,
Comes forth anew, and like a Heavenly morn,
Again the Lord of Life within thy soul is born.”

“Nor does it need thy thanks,” another Voice
Replied, “that all the earnest heart demands
Is given to Faith's request, whate'er thy choice!—
Whene'er thou knockest, at thy lifted hands
The gate of every blessing open stands:
Each prayer is heard in Heaven, thy very sighs
There find a tongue, and sound in Heavenly lands:
Prayer opes the regal storehouse of the skies,
And shews a sign to which the Prince no boon denies.”

“And is it nothing,”—through that blissful gloom
Answer'd another,—“that whatever grace
Hath led thee onward towards thy stable home,
Is but a ray from the light-giving Face
That lights the heavens? Whate'er on thy high race
Hath Heavenward aided thee, and given thee might
The pure and steadfast purpose to embrace,—
A power to choose the good and see the right,
Is but a gleam pour'd down from Him the spirit's Light.”

And then there came to me another Form,
Whose brow was cloth'd with wreaths of earthly love,
Which never fades in Heaven; fresh beauty warm
Surrounds her with that light which glows above:
Whate'er on earth the heart doth sweetly move

Is but its semblance; then I seem'd to go
'Mid scenes of life, and with that guide to rove.
Ah, mortal blind, how little dost thou know
What care there is in Heaven for men that dwell below!

How often when the foe hath shot his dart
Of evil thoughts, from his dark shades unseen,
Yet ere the deadly barb hath reach'd the heart
Love's watchful guard from Heaven doth intervene,
And o'er thee set his sheltering shield between!
E'en as a mother o'er her sleeping child
Who comes to watch, when moonlight rays serene
Fall on his countenance with radiance mild;
He all unconscious sighs in troubled visions wild.

If these raise not thy soul to Angels' lays,
Who loving ever sing and singing love,
Are not the ills thou scapèst theme for praise
Each page of this world's hist'ry, as it flies,
Bears some new tale of human miseries;
And, as it passes by, each whispering gale
Is loaded with some cause for Pity's sighs:
How oft while Life tells her absorbing tale,
Suddenly looks on man Death's visage stern and pale!

Oh, what a wilderness about us lies
Of spirits, each wrapp'd round in fleshly cell,
Could we but look beyond each other's eyes,
An universe of souls 'mong which we dwell,

Each in himself a world to Heaven or Hell!
Creeping 'mid creeping things their souls embrace
Great worlds, and here their mighty birthright tell,
Traversing earth, and sky, and time, and space;—
Pent in earth-treading frames, and bound to earthly place.

I seem'd to pass this fleshly veil beyond,
By hand of that celestial Guide led on
To a transporting vision, which his wand
Open'd a world where thoughts of men are known,
No interposing veils between us thrown,
Which here do hang upon our eyelids blind;
I pass'd to shadowy realms which spirits own,
And learn'd the clearer ken to them assign'd,
Which through the outer shape behold the inner mind.

Oft when we pine, afar from those we love,
More close are knit the spirit's sympathies
By mutual prayer; distance itself doth prove
A greater nearness; with such stronger ties
Spirit with spirit talks, that when our eyes
Behold each other, something sinks within,
Mock'd by the touch of life's realities;
E'en so that vision seem'd new sense to win
Brought near to thoughts of men who liv'd in earthly din.

We heard the tongue of souls which rove apart,
Toss'd to and fro amid the mighty vast;

Heard the dark woes that rend the secret heart,
And outward accidents in vision cast
Before us; one in shipwreck on a mast,
In a dread struggle life and death between;
One woke in sleep 'mid flames, then all the past
Came o'er him: all the shapes of death were seen,
Robbers, fell beasts, disease, Self-slaughter's murderous mien.

If hourly these attend on dying men,
And hourly still thy guilty head is freed,
Sure this should win from thee some thankful strain,
Some little prayer for them that are in need,
Some thanks that He for thee doth intercede!
If others' ills this warning voice assume,
And for thy gratitude like Angels plead,
Much more beyond this sky-o'erarchèd room,
Within that shadowy world whose portal is the tomb.

No more the thoughts of men for good or ill,—
But sounds of this loud world in which we dwell
Rose like a sea behind, and all was still:
As shipwreck'd men 'scaped from the tempest's swell,
Rove through dark wood, strange scene, and silent cell,
Through moonlight shades my vision seem'd to soar,
To where the dead themselves were visible:

I seem'd to pass beyond this earthly door,
Which from the things of sense shuts spirits evermore.

“What are these awful sounds that fill mine ear,
And sights I see?”—then suddenly I cried,
And hurried forward; passing from the rear
I hasten'd, going by that Heavenly guide,
And seiz'd his skirt,—it was the other side
Of pallid Death, a dim and glimmering cave,
Where Day and Night alternately abide
And earthward pass,—the other side the grave,
Where Life and Death are met, prayer hath no power to save.

Then by me pass'd a melancholy Form,
And as it pass'd it cried, like the deep yell
Of the low wind that sighs before the storm,
“Ah, were it not for that all had been well,
But for that glare of gold! but now the spell
Is broken, all is now for ever gone!”
“For ever!” cried another, and a swell
Of dying echoes answer'd that deep moan,
“For ever!” then there sigh'd a waking voice, “'Tis done—

Who could have thought it were so short?” and then
Another cried, “Ah, for one little hour,
Passionate love, could I in flesh again
Behold thee, thou couldst charm my heart no more!
Come let me scan thy features as of yore:

Like a poor fly within a spider's toil,
I sung and play'd away my scanty store
Of being; what I thought rich-glittering spoil,
Was but the scales that lit the wily serpent's coil.”

“Oh, bear me upward to the realms of sight,”
I cried, “nor let me hear this sad despair;
I find no hour on earth, no evil sight,
But 'tis a theme to bless a Father's care;
And there are things beyond this earth and air
Which ne'er have reach'd a dream.” Then from that throng
I hurried, and awoke with words of prayer.
Night's stillness linger'd yet men's homes among,
But from afar was heard the bird of morning's song.

And is my gratitude but like a dream?
And like the dew my morning orison?
Let not my thankless spirit dry the stream
That floweth from Thine own true Lebanon!
Thine ever-bounteous care still floweth on;
I drink the stream yet seldom think of Thee;
And yet I breathe and live in Thee alone;
While every Care that comes to visit me,
Is but the cloud that wraps Thy burning charity.

More dark the cloud, more near art Thou, as when
From furnace-flames Thine Hallelujahs sound,—
When Daniel prais'd Thee in the lions' den,—
Jonah with bars of ocean compass'd round,—
Silas and Paul in night and prison bound,

More bound without more free the spirit sings:
The spirit, when it feels the fleshly wound,
Runs to the heart with inward communings,
Till the cloud gleams with light, and music round it flings.

Thine Elements all serve us, on us wait
The Angels of Thy bounty; one by one
They bring down blessings from the Heavenly gate,
And Thou Thyself dost bow Thy lofty throne,
And from Thy highest glory comest down
To walk with me unharm'd amidst the fires,
That Thou mayst take me hence to be Thine own,—
A worm, and one of earthly low desires;
Nothing of mine to Thee but Thine own Grace aspires.

Ye shining ones that walk on Heaven's high wall,
Look down, behold one from your heights around,
Come, see, and hear, bear witness to my call!
What miracle of mercy have ye found
Equal to mine?—with sins encompass'd round,
A lonely exile in the vale of tears—
One struggling 'mid the rocks, his comrades drown'd,
An unarm'd one trembling 'mid hostile spears,—
With such an one to walk th' Almighty God appears.

Me hath He call'd to love Him, me hath deign'd
To call His child, for me His life-blood pour'd,
And when I turn from Him then He is pain'd:
To all things else His all-constraining word

Sets bounds, and o'er them throws His holding cord,
But to our love: He asks our being whole,
And who unto the soul can bounds afford?
'Tis He who can the Infinite control,
Alone can meet her love, alone can fill the soul.

I ask not wealth, I ask not length of days,
Nor joys which home, and rural sights bestow,
Nor honour among men, nor poet's praise,
Nor friendship, nor the light of love to know,
Which with its own warm sun bathes all below;
Nor that the seed I sow should harvest prove:
I ask not health, nor spirit's gladdening flow,
Nor an assurèd pledge of rest above,
If only Thou wilt give a heart to know Thy love.

As many as the crosses which abound
On every side our road which leads to Heaven,
So many tokens of Thy care are found,
To wean our fancies unto pleasure given;
To aid Thy spirit which with ours hath striven,
And bring us to the Cross of Thy deep woes.
Here in the twilight of the silent even,
While life's short day to sable darkness goes,
My heart shall fly to Thee, and rest in Thy repose.