The Sanctuary :: :: University of Virginia Library

For grace holds God's creative spell,
And miracles within it dwell
O'er flesh-born anguish ever soaring;
And tearful Souls, whom men disown,
To priests in heaven are deeply-known
And watch'd by Angels, when adoring.

“There was a rainbow round about the throne.” —Rev. iv. 3

Compare Rev. i. 6 with Rev. vi. 11.

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Third Sunday after Trinity.

“All of you be subject one to another, and clothed with humility.” —Epistle for the Day.

No Christians have a Christ-like heart,
Except their moral tone
When call'd to bear life's bitter part,
Recall Emanuel's own.

Meek charity, that master-grace
The peerless type of heaven,
Oh, let it from thy creed displace
What cannot say,—“forgiven!”

Nor ever let the sun go down
Upon thine inward ire:
They cannot wear a Saviour's crown
Whom love doth not inspire.

Pure Lord of lowliness, and love!
Thus, make Thy model dear
To all who live for thrones above,
By bearing crosses, here.

Thy meekness hath its own reward,
Calm blessings line its path;
Without,—it keeps celestial guard,
Within,—what peace it hath!

The proud are poor, 'mid all the gold
Ambition's grasp obtains;
The meek are rich, though none behold
The beauty of their gains.

No acres may to them belong,
No scenes of garish pleasure,—
But yet they chant a mental song
O'er Truth's divinest treasure.

183

Then, Lord of gentleness, watch Thou
For ever at our side,
And, when we mark Thy wounded brow,
Abhorr'd be human pride!

Fourth Sunday after Trinity.

“The sufferings of this present time.” —Epistle for the Day.

A silent pang, a tearless woe,
A mystic sorrow none can see,
Haunts the cold depths of heart below
In many a child of Misery,
Whose face is silver'd with a radiant smile,
Making the gay world think, that all is glad, the while!

And shades of calm dejection brood
And hover round the unvoic'd mind
Of men, whose thinking solitude
Is unreveal'd to human-kind;—
Though seen by worldlings in their outer-life,
God and the Angels scan alone their mental strife.

The blood-red shadows of The Cross
Their inward visions daily view,
Who count that gain an impious loss
Which is not to their Master true:
Earth, scene, and time from Him derive a spell,
Shading existence o'er with hues no words can tell!

It is not, that some morbid dream,
Or, sickliness of selfish thought
Has made our orb of being seem
With God-concealing darkness fraught;—
All which Heaven made, their creed divine can own
And hail redeeming Love on vast creation's throne.

But sin, and grave, and guilt, and tears,
And creedless hearts of crime are found;

184

And wither'd hopes and warning fears
Darken the brightest mood around;
While, yearnings for the Infinite and Pure
Far from this fading world their wingèd thoughts allure.

The infant smile of new-born Day
And choral joy of wave and wind
May symbolise each impulse gay,
That quickens in the happy mind,—
But, souls exist, who in life's gladdest hour
Are strangely overruled by some depressing Power.

E'en in the charm of social rooms,
When rings the laugh, and loud the glee,
Oft do they feel a sense of tombs
Subdue them, oh, how mournfully!
And in the pealing mirth of marriage-bells
Can hear those under-tones which sound like fun'ral-knells.

And, they have feelings none can know,
Tremors and thrills, no words define,
Transcending all the mimic woe
In painter's hue, or poet's line:—
The Grave, the Judgment, and Eternity,
By prophesy of soul their prescient natures see!

And oft, with such depression blends
An aching sense, how all departs,
Or, in some fever-vision ends,—
Men worship with impassion'd hearts;
While, bitterly before The Cross, they rue
How much of barter'd life has been to heaven untrue!

Then, gaze not with ungentle eye,
Nor coldly speak, nor harshly think
Of those who heave the unheard sigh,
And in their bosom'd darkness sink
Down to despair,—in some benighted mood
When baffled faith endures a more than solitude!

Heroes, and Saints, and Martyrs learn
From perill'd moments, dark as these,

185

A deeper lore than men discern
Who only live, blind sense to please:—
The tears of Jesus on the Church's heart
For them have left a trace, they would not see depart!

Dejection is indeed sublime,
When thus on wings of faith we rise,
And, soaring out of space and time,
Converse with Angels in the skies;
And in yon realm, where Love incarnate reigns,
That Jubilee rehearse, which breaks all mortal chains.

Fifth Sunday after Trinity.

“Love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous.” —Epistle for the Day.

The haughty coldness of inhuman Creeds
May scorn Compassion, shedding tears,
And blandly pouring over sorrow's needs
Those genial tones which soften fears;
And, Science may to selfishness ascribe
What soft-eyed Pity for the wretched feels;
But, heaven-born Virtue bears the heathen gibe,
Nor checks the tear that from compassion steals.

Behold the wisest, bravest, and the best,
The lofty-hearted, firm, and free,
On whose proud name an empire's glories rest,
Who guide the Land, and guard our Sea,—
No leaden calm of unimpassion'd mind
Their boast has been, or proved them brave;
But all pure links, connecting kind with kind,—
They deem'd them holy, and beyond the grave!

Men are not wise, because they cannot weep,
Nor basely soft, because they sigh
When those tear-fountains in true hearts that sleep,
Awake, and dim the sternest eye.
The sainted heroes, canonised by time,
And martyr'd hosts, who burn'd or bled,—

186

The wide Earth doth not deem them less sublime
Because they soothed the sad, or mourn'd the dead!

The perfect God, though passionless as pure,
Hath symbolised His awful Name
By deep emotions, which the heart allure,
And bend the Will before His claim:—
He speaks not only in the whirlwind-tone,
But, with the calm of cooling eve;
And, oft holds back the thunders of His Throne
That dreadless minds may love Him, and believe.

Gen. iii. 8.

Sixth Sunday after Trinity.

“As dying, and, behold! we live.” —2 Cor. vi. 9.

“Dead unto sin, alive unto God.” —Epistle for the Day.

A dying body, with a deathless soul
Which is an undivided whole
Not to be tomb'd in that sepulchral clay
Where flesh abides the Judgment-day,—
Such is the burden of existence now,
More wondrous far than lips avow!
Thus, life in death, and death in life, are we,
Victims of time, yet charter'd with eternity!

Fetter'd to earth by chains of flesh, we live,
With destined organs, doom'd to give
Fruition to all faculties which bind
The outer-world to inner mind.
Creation's Laws with elemental sway
Encircle us, by night and day;
And, thus condition'd, human Bodies rise
To that due stature healthy growth supplies.

But, soon our culminating point is gain'd,
Where, full-toned Manhood once attain'd,
The gray-hair'd weakness of the flesh gives token
The bloom of life is inly broken;

187

Decays, dejections, and ten thousand signs
Reveal, how mortal flesh declines,
While creeping Age with stealthy foot comes on,
Telling the thoughtful heart, that Youth is gone!

But, in the soul, parenthesis, nor pause
Impedes those everlasting laws
Whereby accretions round the Spirit grow,
Which ripen it, for weal, or woe;
Whose pulse of consciousness for ever plays
Triumphant o'er all flesh-decays:
Change, scene, and circumstance, and Man,
Help to prolong what our first breath began—

And that is, character!—which cannot die,
But forms its own eternity;
The self-creation of our choosing will,
Preferring good, or seeking ill;
Where heaven and hell in principle begin,
According as there reigns within
The flesh-born Adam, or, that spirit-grace
Emanuel purchased to renew our race.

Behold, a contrast! Faith may call sublime:—
The body bends to laws of time;
But spirit lives an undecaying life,
With seeds of its hereafter rife;
And, more than awful seems our sleepless Mind
Which thus empowers redeem'd mankind,—
Destined to feel, with guilt or glory fraught,
And think for ever, with increasing thought!

Seventh Sunday after Trinity.

“The gift of God is eternal life.” —Epistle for the Day.

Eternity! eternity!
Though shadowless Thou art,
Thy mystic presence faith can see
Imaged within the heart,—

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Thus mirror'd by the prescient mind
Whose felt hereafter awes
The soul with influence, undefined
By reason's formal laws.

Eternity! thou haunt and home
Of worship, hope, and fear,
To Thee our inmost feelings roam
Far from this earth-bound sphere:—
Attracted by some hidden spell
That issues from thy centre,
A heaven we form, or frame the hell
Unpardon'd souls must enter.

Eternalised for weal, or woe!—
Such is the doom of Man;
Lord, teach us what to Grace we owe
In that redemption-plan,
Where guilt and sin, alike subdued,
A perfect ransom meet,
And hymns of holy gratitude
Circle the Mercy-seat.

Eternity! pale thought would dread
On Thee to dwell alone,
Apart from what th' Incarnate said
Who rules our spirit-throne,—
That where He is, the Church shall be
Incorp'rate with Her Lord:
Believing which, love welcomes thee
Unshrouded by His Word.

Thus, 'mid the aching wounds of time,
Eternity a balm
Breathes on the soul of Faith sublime,
Centred in inward calm.
Earth, space, and sense,—what seem they all
To Saints, who heaven-ward soar
And Him their worshipp'd Treasure call,
Whom Seraphim adore?

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Thou Giver of celestial good!
Our everlasting Way,
In Whom the holy Church hath stood
Secure beyond decay,
Waft from Thy viewless mercy-throne
Spells of attractive grace,
That, more and more, true saints may own
This earth no dwelling-place.

Our spirit-clime, our father-land
Blooms where Emanuel reigns,
And souls who this can understand
Surmount all time-born pains:
Angelic Watchers round them throng,
Stern death is mild release,
And Christ, the Stronger than the strong,
Their paradise, and peace.

Matt vi. 21.

Heb. xi. 13.

Luke xi. 21.

Eighth Sunday after Trinity.

“It ye live after the flesh, ye shall die; but if ye, through the spirit, do mortify the deeds of the body, ye shall live.” —Epistle for the Day.

The world we see, and what we are,
Illustrates that accordance due
Which reigns, from insect up to star,
And hallows all we feel, or do,—
If thus our hearts delight to prove
How faculties their objects find,
And render life a hymn of love
To Him, who hath both worlds combined.

But, still there is a craving force
In appetites to sense allied,
Which nature, in its noblest course,
Hath never to the brim supplied;

190

Though charm'd and fed, they are not “fill'd,”
But, fever'd oft with discontent;
The cry for “more!” no joy hath still'd,—
Unrest is with fruition blent.

Though sumless orbs of beauty roll
In burning magic through the sky,
When mortal gaze commands the whole
For brighter longs the asking eye!
And, when we hear the tones that make
The sweetest heaven that sound can bring,
Melodious thirst they do not slake
For some diviner murmuring.

But, while both eye and ear demand
What no imperfect Sense enjoys,
Spirits, who under grace expand,
A bliss partake that never cloys,—
The bliss of hung'ring more and more
That “righteousness” may aye dispense
To sainted Hearts an added store
Of purer calm and innocence:

Behold! a hunger, and a thirst
Which God Himself will soothe, and slake,—
Ambition, by no fever cursed,
And hope, no blighting sorrows break;
Since, all those wingèd dreams that rise
And flutter round the World divine,
When heaven unveils its hidden prize
Will find far more than dreams combine.

Perennial glories, there, surpass
All which seraphic Minds desire,
Whom Angels with themselves may class,
With fervid hearts, for God on fire:
Of finite good alone who drinks,—
Such water will be found in vain,
And deeper want than passion thinks,
Will soon enkindle thirst, again!

191

The man who lives by sensual dross
May banquet on some hollow bliss,
But yet, this truth his mind will cross,—
I was not made for food, like this!
Hunger and thirst, they make the all
Which carnal wisdom can create,
Whate'er encrowning words may call
The glories which enwreathe the great.

From joy to joy, the jaded sense
Pursues each worn and wearied path;
Though big may be this world's pretence,
The mind eternal hunger hath:—
Within, what flaming thirst there burns
Which all polluting draughts excite,
As passion, and supply, by turns,
Fever the day, and fret the night!

But, Grace forms those, to whom is given
A glorious passion fix'd on God,
Who breathe on earth the air of heaven,
And tread the ground Emanuel trod;
Their creed and conduct are combined
By unity of peace and power,
And mirror forth a saintly mind
When darkness clouds the drearest hour.

They must be tranquil, who are made
By God, the guardian of the blest,—
Of neither hell nor earth afraid,
While panting for elysian rest:
Their hunger is a holy thing,
Their bosom-thirst a painful bliss;
And lauding Seraphs shake the wing
Of rapture o'er unrest like this!

What is it?—but to nobly pine,
More Christlike in true love to be,
Or, body forth the Will divine,
And heaven in all things ever see:
Till rectitude a nature grow
And holiness the spirit's breath,—

192

And constant faith, in weal, or woe,
Adorn our life, and vanquish death.

John iv. 13.

Ninth Sunday after Trinity.

“All our fathers ------ were baptised unto Moses in the cloud. —Epistle for the Day.

Mid awful gloom when Moses brought,
The Law of fire and flame,
Eternal Duty then was taught
In dread Jehovah's name.

But, radiantly descendeth now
Deep wisdom from above;
For mildness clothes His gracious brow,
Whose ev'ry line is love!

It was not thus, the God of old,
Imperial Law declared,
When round Him pealing thunders roll'd
And red-wing'd lightnings glared.

The people shudder'd, like a leaf,
Amid their black'ning gloom;
And Conscience saw no just relief
Beyond, or in, the tomb.

But, bright the contrast now appears,
When the mild Lord of grace
From the green Mount dispels all fears,
By His benignant face.

The breeze, soft lyrist of the spring,
Was harping o'er the flowers;
And humming bees upon the wing
Enjoy'd their golden hours;

A vernal radiance threw its gleam
Of gladness o'er the hills;
While, rich as love-tones in a dream,—
The gushing of the rills.

193

And, like the season, so the Word
Was mild as Mercy's breath;
No curse was in His counsel heard,
Nor, doom of legal death.

Humility and meekness were
In hues of heaven array'd;
And He, whose life was living prayer,
Their perfect Type display'd.

All mental grace, all moral gift,
Whate'er men seek, or find,
Is blasted,—if it proudly lift
Or bloat, the conscious mind.

Contingent, finite, from the dust,
What Nothings are we all!—
For in the tomb, the proudest must
A worm his brother call.

All pride becomes a fiendish spark
Of hell, within the soul;
And He who dreads that region dark,
Abhors its least control.

The poor in spirit,—blest are they
Above the world who live;
Their wisdom is to watch, and pray,
And, like their Lord, forgive.

Nor seek they for Ambition's wealth,
Or sigh for world-applause;
But, calm in sickness, as in health,
To Heaven commit their cause.

194

Tenth Sunday after Trinity.

“He beheld the city and wept over it.” —Gospel for the Day.

“Jesus wept.” —John xi. 35.

Tears on the eyelids of the Son of God!—
Almighty Weeper! let such grief-drops fall
Full on meek Hearts, who, where Thy feet have trod,
In faith can wander, and by prayer recall
The hallowing spells which haunt that sacred time
When Jesu wept, and tears became sublime.

Thrice did He weep; and from such threefold-source
A soothing charm the Church delights to draw,
As on she travels her presdestined course
In suff'ring meekness, or, in sainted awe,—
Bearing His Cross; and, where The Master went,
In calmness following, and with grief content.

Whether, thine olive-shaded bowers of gloom
Gethsemanè! adoring pilgrims seek,
Where the dark preludes of His coming doom
Convulsed The Saviour, till, with anguish weak,—
He drew Love's angel from a throne of light
By dread attraction, to endure that sight

Of weeping blood-drops! and sustain his Lord:
Or, if to Salem's guilty towers we hie,
To hear the cadence of each knell-like word
And mark the pathos of His pleading eye—
Still, in fond unity of flesh we find
One with our lot,—the Brother of mankind!

But, if on earth more eloquent than all,
A spot there be, where Man's sepulchral grief,
Hush'd into prayer, may pensively recall
A Balm celestial, which can bring relief—

195

It is, when mourners in their meekness pray
Beside that vision'd tomb, where Laz'rus lay.

There, wept The God-Man! and with tears how true!
Intensely-human, from the deeps of soul
Wrung by compassion, and reveal'd to view,
For Earth to know,—that not by false control,
A christian Stoic in some iron hour
Need stifle grief, by superhuman power.

Oh, precious Tears!—significant of more
Than quiet Mary, or quick Martha thought,
Which flowed from Jesus, when His heart ran o'er
In tides of feeling, with emotion fraught,—
For ever and for ever, will dejected Awe
Bend o'er that scene my weeping Saviour saw!

Why wept He there, whose world-embracing mind
Encircled Life, and Death, and Destiny, and Man?
Far down, in sightless depths, all undivined,
Dreader than faith can search, or reason scan—
Perchance, His fountains of emotion lay
When tears said more than lenient words could say?

Was it, that forfeit-Eden's blighted doom,
The sinning Adam, and the curse divine,
Corruption, pain, the ever-yawning tomb,
With all that guilt and anguish may combine,—
Mirror'd by Christ, before His mental eye
Pass'd in array, and thrill'd His heart, thereby?

Or, did the crime of Judah's unbelief
Weigh on His soul, prophetically sad,
And summon visions, whose unworded grief
No speaking vent but tear-born utt'rance, had?
Or, some dread Future of our fallen race
Then did the inward Eye of Jesu trace?

No answer greets us!—men, nor Angels give
Reply to what our yearning bosoms feel,
When voiceless Aspirations stir and live
And shadows of Hereafter round them steal,

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Who ponder o'er the infinite To-Come,
And make eternity their spirit's home.

Yet, Lord of souls! may Thy dejection teach
Some hidden lore of heavenliness and love;
And Thy sad brow, with sympathising reach,
Bend o'er the hearts which most life's burden prove,
And need the language of almighty tears
To whisper, peace! and calm unchristian fears.

Eleventh Sunday after Trinity.

“Some are fallen asleep.” —Epistle for the Day.

“Within the veil.” —Heb. vi. 19.

A world there is, whose zone contains
Secrets and shadows none can see
Save God, whose boundless eye-glance reigns
O'er time, and through eternity,—
A Hades, where the holy Dead
Are by commission'd Angels led.

Two worlds, indeed, to us belong,—
Matter and Mind to both relate;
Each wields a charm o'er weak and strong,
Which makes, or mars, our inward state:
But that pure Orb, where spirits dwell,
Hides, for the Saints, a master-spell.

Behind this outer shell of Time,
On which the ling'ring earth-stains lie,
Wait viewless Glories, more sublime
Than ever gleam'd on mortal eye;
And, one day, they will rend the veil,
And turn the boldest sceptic pale!

197

Men talk, as if our world of sense,
Of earth and sea, of moon and sun,
Enclos'd Divine omnipotence,
And were the whole His Hands have done!—
Cities and homes, and haunts and ways
Seem to absorb their sensual gaze.

Yet, is God's inner-world, unseen,
More wondrous far than all we view;
And, though night-shadows intervene,
On faith it acts supremely true:
While from that world dread Nature draws
Her vital powers, and plastic laws.

Elect of heaven! like saints of old,
A Samson of the spirit be!
Burst from the bondage which would hold
That sightless Region back from thee;
And through those veils, which round thee fall,
Behold the secret All in All!

Thus, not alone when Death reveals
To soul unbodied, Truths and Things
A carnal mind from man conceals,—
Will come that world God's poet sings;
'Tis present, now!—to hope and fear,
Around, beneath, for ever near.

God, and His Angels, there abide,
Acting by ways we cannot know,
When fiends of Darkness may have tried
To plunge our doom in endless woe:
And thrills of awe, and throbs of dread,
How often have they round us spread!

And, to that Spirit-world have gone
Those living-dead our hearts enshrine,
Whose saintly brows to look upon,—
Dark earth itself made half-divine!
Yes, they are in that Orb of rest
Where none can sin, and all are blest.

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Ah! who can tell, how near they come,
And hover nigh, on soundless wing;
Or haunt, unseen, Love's peopled home
Where faith for Christ is suffering?—
Formless, but still, in soul complete,
The dead can with the living meet.

Hence, walk with awe the realm of sense,
For, in God's secret world we are;
And from this last doth He dispense
That grace which rules our bosom-war,
When Mind and Matter, Faith and Sight,
Contend for their contrasted right.

Around us, Principles and Powers,
In viewless action, work and wind;
And through all circumstance and hours
They touch the heart, or tone the mind;
And, oft when souls are unaware,
Commingle with their praise and prayer.

That inner-World! though hid from Man,
With what a burst of beaming life
Hereafter will unveil its plan,
And be with rays millennial rife,
While risen Saints and Martyrs throng,
And chant Creation's easter-song!

“The beggar died, and was carried by the angels into Abraham's bosom.” —Luke xvi. 22.

Vide Ps. xvi, c.

“Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust ------ The earth shall cast out the dead. —Isa. xxvi. 19.

Twelfth Sunday after Trinity.

“He hath done all things well; He maketh both the deaf to hear and the dumb to speak.” —Gospel for the Day.

Celestial Birth! almighty Child!
In human semblance undefiled,
By Prophets vision'd, born to be
The Lord of man's eternity,—

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Thou Sun of souls! embodied Light!
Within Thy beams the world is bright;
Where'er they smile, an Eden blooms,
And Earth forgets her myriad tombs.

Thy Voice is heard—and Anguish dies,
The Dead awake, and greet the skies;
Lo! Blindness melts in healing rays,
And mute lips ope in hymns of praise;
The famish'd on Thy bounty feed,
While myriads at Thy summons speed
Redeem'd from woe, and sin, and pain,
To see the lost restored again:—
“Peace on earth, to Man, good will,
Let the skies our anthem fill!”

“Awake, awake, thou ransom'd Earth!
And, blooming with a second birth,
In loveliness, awake, and shine,
Thy King is come, salvation thine!—
The winds are rock'd in holy rest,
The waves asleep on Ocean's breast,
And beautiful the boundless calm
O'er nature spread, like midnight-balm;
For lo! the manger where He lies,
A world-redeeming Sacrifice;
The Promised, since the world began,
To live, and die, for guilty Man.

“Again, again, the anthem swell!
For heaven shall burst the gates of hell!
A vision of prophetic years
Which travel on through toil and tears,
In all unroll'd, in wild extent,
Like ocean's surging element:
But, soon that darken'd scene hath past,
And rules the Lord, in light, at last!
The sunbeams of a sabbath-day
Around adoring myriads play;
From north to south, from east to west,
All pangs are hush'd, all hearts at rest:
Pacific homes, Atlantic isles,

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Far as the vast creation smiles,—
The rudest spot which man can own,
Shall hail Messiah on His throne;
And lauding souls, by land and sea,
One Altar build, O God! to Thee,
While human angels round it throng
To chant the sempiternal song,—
“Peace on earth, to Man, good will,
Let the skies our anthem fill!”

ισαγγελοι. —Luke xx. 36.

Thirteenth Sunday after Trinity.

“Blessed are the eyes which see the things, ye see!” —Gospel for the Day.

As certain also of your own poets, have said.” —Acts xvii. 28.

Living masters of the lyre!
Ye who feel celestial fire,
Priests, whose sacrifice are songs,
Poets!—unto you belongs
Privilege on earth to be,
(If your harps to heaven are true,)
Laureates of eternity,
Chanting more than Homer knew.

Magic, mystery, and might,
Such as charm our earth-bound sight,
From the ocean, sky, and air
Kindle poetry and prayer,
When, by inspiration fraught
Pure as God and genius bring,—
Bards in Nature's realm have sought
What no sensual harpers sing.

Hue, and harmony, and grace
Featured on Creation's face;

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Beauty, grandeur, love and light,
Beaming Day and dark-brow'd Night,—
To the Poets of the Lord
Sacramental ever prove,
Touch'd by that transforming Word,
Binding earth with heaven above.

Signs and symbols Nature hath
Scatter'd o'er her mystic path,
Like a wordless Bible, preaching
What no Science can be teaching
While, unread in heavenly lore,
She but scans what He has made,—
Seldom yearning to adore
God in His Own work array'd.

If in realms of heart and home
Fancy-dreams delight to roam,
Tinging all with hues of song
Which to poet-worlds belong,
Let your lyric numbers roll
With a cadence pure and high,—
Chanting His divine control
Watching man with sleepless eye.

But, how dread your boundless loss!
If beneath th' almighty Cross,
Strains of more melodious worth
Than attuned by choral Earth,—
Kindle no enraptur'd spell
To the praise of Him Who died,
Vanquishing both death and hell
On that Cross when crucified.

Priests of melody, and song,
Unto Christ your harps belong
In Whose glories faith can see
Hopes which fill eternity!—
Nature, Providence, and Grace,
Threefold while to man they prove,
Blend in One, to Whom we trace
All they hold of light and love.

202

Fourteenth Sunday after Trinity.

“Walk in the Spirit.” —Epistle for the Day.

By heavenly likeness hearts discern
The secrets most divine;
Since, as we live, so much we learn
Of Thee, O God! and Thine.

Those inward eyes of purity
By which the mind beholds
Ideal truths sin cannot see,
When God Himself unfolds,—

Unless we have them, vain is all
The science taught within;
Our creed, the World may holy call,
But, such proud wealth is sin.

And here, behold that peerless Law
Proving the Gospel's worth,
Beyond what sage or poet saw
When most he soar'd from earth;—

That Law is,—purity intense,
A chastity divine,
A sacred glow of innocence,
That keeps the heart a shrine,—

A shrine of holiness and power
Whence praise and prayer arise,
To seek what charms the dreadest hour
Demanding sacrifice.

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Then, weigh thy heart! disciple, keep
That central pulse of life,
Which even through mysterious sleep
Can throb with sin, and strife.

Unfathom'd, ever-active spring
Of deathless thought, and will!
To which time, sense, and motion bring
Perpetual good, or ill,

By Thee we live, and love, and hate,
The inward Man art thou,
Thy nature dooms our final state,—
And that, is forming, now!

Oh! watch we then, with jealous eyes
That world, where God alone
Searches the secret thoughts which rise
Like shades before His Throne.

Ps. xxv. 14.

Jer. xvii. 10.

Fifteenth Sunday after Trinity.

“Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink.” —Gospel for the Day.

A passion for imperfect good!—
Behold, what fosters pride:
While God Himself is thus withstood,
No idols are denied.

But, woulds't thou like the sainted be?—
From finite good retire;
And in the depths of Deity
Thy soaring thoughts inspire.

In humbleness of mind, believe
That true contentment reigns,—
Whose pleasures on the conscience leave
No shadows and no stains.

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Retreat then, O, earth-fever'd soul!
From broken cisterns fly;
For, couldst thou drink their blissful whole,
They still would leave thee dry.

The utmost in all creatures fails
A perfect lull to bring;
Since, when our purest dream prevails,
Unrest keeps murmuring!

Low as some weanèd child to lie
Before Emanuel's feet,
And in the guidance of His eye
To find a safe retreat,—

Like Him, to crucify the will,
As merciful and meek,
And each just orb of duty fill
Whene'er we act, or speak,—

Be this, disciple of the Cross!
The glory of thine aim;
And, though on earth thou reap the loss,
In heaven, perceive thy gain.

But, saith He not, that here below
Beatitudes begin
For all, whose hearts by meekness grow
Above the self of sin?

A kingdom of the mind is theirs
While yet on earth they bide;
And heaven seems dawning through the prayers
God's Spirit hath supplied.

Celestial Dove of grace! descend,
Thy gentleness impart,
Till faith shall build the “Sinner's Friend”
A temple in her heart.

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Sixteenth Sunday after Trinity.

“A dead man carried out ------ weep not.” —Gospel for the Day.

“He being dead, yet speaketh.” —Heb. xi. 4.

Softer than moonlight o'er dim landscape stealing,
Is the faint presence of that mystic feeling
When Voices come, like resurrection-breath,
Ton'd with the tenderness of childhood's truth,
Or, touch'd with grief, or glad with glowing youth,
Serenely wafted from the world of death.

And now, as in the sepulchre of Time,
Toll'd to his grave by midnight's fun'ral chime,
Sinks the dead Year, we lift our hearts to Thee,
Timeless and changeless, an almighty Now,
Before Whose will the universe shall bow,—
The sightless Fountain of eternity!

Let tombs have tongues; and eloquence be heard
By listening conscience, more than spoken word,
While to the Present speaks the awful Past;
The longest-dead becomes a living voice,
Whose wisdom cries,—“Make God thy glorious choice,
And with the peerage of the Saints be class'd!”

And, as with Abel, so can heaven-born Mind
Breathe through the Church, and still instruct mankind
From age to age eternal in its tone;—
Buried in flesh, but mentally alive
The battle-words of sainted Heroes strive,
And summon earth to be the Saviour's own!

Martyrs are miracles, whose voice controls
The grand episcopate of blood-priced souls,
Long as the clock of Time shall strike the hours;—
Though dead, they live, though dumb, they wield a speech,

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Whose tongueless accents unto conscience reach,
Ring through the soul, and rouse its dormant powers.

Peter and Paul,—oh, have they ever died,
Who, to the death, proclaimed The Crucified?
Preach they not still, with rhetoric sublime,
The Earth, their pulpit, and their audience, Man,
Far as God's diocess extends its plan,—
Sermons whose texts are oracles for Time?

Confessors, too, and champions for their Lord,
Eternity embalms each dying word
They uttered forth, from dungeon, stake, or fires;
Their tombs are altars, where religion prays,
And votive youth may consecrate its days
To deeds and darings, such as heaven inspires.

Baptised ambition is a god-like thing;
And wafts the soul, as on seraphic wing,
High o'er the selfish dreams of world-renown,—
For Christ to speak, when dust and darkness close
Round some dead martyr in his deep repose,
And pales the lustre of an Angel's crown.

And fameless dwellers, in some village cot,
By heaven remember'd, though on earth forgot,
With saintliness may so inspire a home,
That, greenly o'er them while the turf-grave lies,
Their pure example preaches from the skies
Truths, which o'erawe the erring when they roam.

And ah! how oft may voice maternal be
Like music, breathing Love's eternity,
Heard by the heart, in night-dreams of the dead
And so, immortalise with tender power
The vanish'd haunts of childhood's vernal hour,
That age forgets the cycles which have fled.

Nor, can the meanest Lazarus who dies,
Unwept, unknown, unwatch'd by human eyes,
An outcast-weed on earth's sepulchral wild,—
Speechless remain; because, some home, or heart

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Took from his life a portion and a part,
That made it purer, or the more defiled.

And, warning Guides, whose wisdom breathed of love,
And spake below, what Angels think above,
How from the tomb their deathless words ascend!
Alive,—we heard them oft with rude cold ear;
But now, we prize them as sublimely-dear,
Till the heart echoes with the name of “friend.”

Nor, is the Pastor sermonless, though dumb:
Still from his grave may preaching magic come
Far more resistless than his living breath;
And truths, that once were braved with impious mock,
Or, fell like sunbeams on a herbless rock,
Divinely sway him,—now they speak from death!

Hebrews xi. 4.

Seventeenth Sunday after Trinity.

“There one Body, and one Spirit, even as ye are called.” —Epistle for the Day.

Ages and empires, thrones, and throneless kings,
Science, and art, with all the Poet sings
Of grief or glory, pomp or state, depart,—
But Thou, fond Mother of the faithful, art

On earth a Miracle of during might!—
Pleading to Heaven for sacramental right;
Though rent by tyrant-wrong, and stained by sin,
True in thy centre to the Christ within.

Speak, Parent! then, to each rebellious child,
And homeward fetch the fearful, and defiled;
Cry to dread Sacrilege,—God's wealth restore!
And melt stern Faction, till it “sin no more.”

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Thine is a Voice, would man but hear it well,
With more than music in its deepest spell,
Touching the soul through all its myriad chords
With love-tones, caught from dying martyr-words.

Soul of the saints! celestial Paraclete!
Open faith's inward ear, and make it meet
To listen ever, with a child-like awe,
And hear Thy language in the Church's law.

In fast and festival, or frequent prayer,
Breathe we, O Lord! Thy temple's solemn air;
Bow the bold heart, or, bend the suppliant knee
And thrill man's time with God's eternity.

Whate'er the truth our ancient Mother speak,
To curb the sinful, or sustain the weak,
To calm or chasten, to absolve or bind,
Sooth the wild heart, or help the wearied mind,—

Be ours the listening soul, and loving will,
By faith to learn what duty must fulfil,
E'en when to Discipline pale Conscience yields,
And proves by penance what the power She wields.

For, oh! her Voice, maternally the same,
Comes to each sainted heart with hallowed claim,
Speaking, at once, of holiness and heaven,
Yet, ever warbling with that word,—“forgiven!”

Church of our God! all life to Thee pertains,
Its hopes and fears, its pleasures and its pains,—
From dawning reason, down to very death
Thy words are quicken'd by Emanuel's breath.

Believe, and do,—be this our wisdom all,
While through the Church we hear the Spirit call,
And feel, as onward years to glory run,
The accent varies, but her Voice is one.

“Fetch them home, blessed Lord.” —Collect for Good Friday.

“He breathed on them, and said, Receive ye the Holy Ghost whosoever sins ye retain,” &c. —John xx. 22.

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Eighteenth Sunday after Trinity.

Grant thy people grace ------ with pure hearts and minds to follow Thee the only God.” —Collect for the Day.

As local space the body holds,
So God the mind contains;
And who can dare, what He enfolds
To mar with impious stains?

He dwells in us, and we in Him,
The Temple of all souls!
And pure, as prostrate seraphim
Be all which Heaven controls.

For, if the ground by Moses trod
With sanctity was fill'd,
When erst the flaming bush of God
The o'erawed patriarch still'd,

Sublimer far, than thought can trace,
Is He, the all-divine,—
In Christ reveal'd, our dwelling-place
And Soul-embracing Shrine.

Eternal spring of purity!
Descend, propitious Dove;
From heart-corruption make us free,
By turning law to love.

The blessèd are the pure, indeed,
And wretched, the defiled;
In whose dark bosom dwell and breed
Lone passions, fierce and wild.

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By likeness only, souls can see
The glories heaven contains;
But minds that nurse impurity
Would feel them worse than pains.

For, purity is heaven below,
And sin, the hell of man,
While all eternity will show—
Will be—what time began!

Ps. xc. 1; Acts xvii. 28.

Rev. xxii. 11.

Nineteenth Sunday after Trinity.

“Let all bitterness, and wrath, and anger, and clamour, and evil speaking, be put from you, with all malice; and be ye kind one to another.” —Epistle for the Day.

Base passions are the serpents of our soul,
That bite, and sting to bitterness the heart,
And, where they wield their unsubdued control,
Angels and Grace from that foul den depart!

But, when these hearts atoning Blood makes white,
Soft o'er our spirit broods the mystic Dove;
Like the hush'd band who watch'd their sheep by night,
A “peace on earth,” replies to peace above.

Then, like our Lord, magnanimous and meek,
Move where we may, our end is still the same;
Firm to Their vow, in all we do, or speak,
Our lives embody the baptismal name.

No longer, as the Lord of Hosts, and War,
Doth God the glories of His will unfold;
But, radiant as the lull of evening star
As Lord of Peace His pard'ning smile behold.

And, saints on earth, resemble Him, in heaven,
Who help to circulate the calm of love,

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And, by imparting what to each is given,
Prove their high lineage from the Lord above.

Makers of Peace! your task divine complete,
Two sever'd hearts in unity restore;
And bid mild harmonies of friendship meet
In homes to rule, where they have reign'd before.

For ah! how mournful, when two friends depart
Wider and wider unto distance stern,
While each one holds the arrow at his heart
And, but for pride, would lovingly return.

And, more than beauteous is a god-like word,
Breathing soft balm o'er that tempestuous hour
When some dark madness of the soul hath stirr'd,
Or, poison'd nature with envenom'd power.—

To stand between, like mediating Grace
And make two alienated minds agree,
Sublimes our being, and reveals the trace
Of true adoption into Deity.

And He, in Whom all unities reside,
Celestial Fount from whence communions flow,
Husband of Souls, who took His chosen Bride
And call'd it by the name of, Church, below,—

How can we love Him, if we dare to rend
By the rude harshness of sectarian will
That Mystic Body, where all members blend
And, by their harmony, due office fill!

How can we love Him, if our “Church” we choose
As pride, and reason and presumption sway?—
Defend us, Grace! from Babylonian views,
And teach us, not to argue, but, obey.

Be ours submission, Mary-like and meek,
Who love the path anointed martyrs trod;
Learning to crucify, what most we seek,
When Self would image a sectarian God.

Isa. xlvii. 4; Exod. xv. 3; 2 Thess. iii. 16.

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Twentieth Sunday after Trinity.

“Filled with the Spirit; speaking to yourselves in psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs; singing and making melody in your heart, to the Lord.” —Epistle for the Day.

No Sabbath keep they in their praise
Who ring the heavens with glory-lays,—
Those lauding Seraphim, that ever cry,
“Thou holy, holy, holy, Lord on high!”

Ye Stars of Jesus! wingèd Creatures
Out-beaming all bright fancy features,
Would that our worship, like your own might be,
And time, an echo of eternity!

Oh, waft ye from love-chorded lyres
Some choral fragment, which inspires
Adoring ecstacies of song and soul,
Till, high as heaven our hallelujahs roll!

From nightless regions, where ye chant
Hosannahs loud and jubilant,
May He, Who over saint and seraph reigns,
Kindle in us some Christ-adoring strains,

Which on the harp of holy Thought
Quiver, with awed devotion fraught,
And tremble up to heaven, in tones which speak,—
The soul is willing, though the song be weak.

Praise is the purest breath of love
Worship can waft to Christ above;—
Such, Eden's bower from sinless Adam heard
When God, within him, first devotion stirr'd.

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But, litanies from man declare
Weakness, and want,—confessing there,
How guilty passions have our nature stain'd
And grasp'd the throne where once Jehovah reign'd.

And hence, to your unsilenced lays
Bright Choristers! our spirit raise,
That faith may listen, and your anthems learn,
Till echoing earth to heaven the strain return.

And, now abide, let truth declare,
Confession, praise, and contrite prayer;
But of that three, the greatest far is found,—
Praise to our God, by man and Angel crown'd!

In praise, the least, in prayer, the most
Our selfish aims can be, and boast:—
Glory divine our lauds alone confess,
But litanies, ourselves most chiefly bless.

With lives of prayer, and lips of praise,
So pass we our appointed days,
Since half the Angel but commences now,
And woe and weariness o'ershade the brow.

But, wait awhile, and we shall sing,
Melodious Angels! round our King,
And sweep that harp, no quiring Seraph can,—
Whose chords by faith are tun'd for pardon'd Man.

“There shall be no night there.” —Rev. xxi. 25.

Twenty-First Sunday after Trinity.

“Strong in the Lord ------ we wrestle against principalities, against powers, against the Rulers of the Darkness of this world.” —Epistle for the Day.

Though weaponless, to man, the Church appears,
Yet, in her weakness is she mighty, still!
And civil Tyrants have confess'd their fears,
When they approach'd Her, with consummate ill,

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Finding, she hath a mystery and might,
Or, secret glory, which escapes their sight.

Money, and men, with subtlety and sway
Adjusted and array'd,—with these blind worldlings move
Whate'er impediments obstruct the way
Bewilder'd dreams of wild ambition love;
But Christ's own Body!—there, they face a foe
Who seems to strengthen on the rock of woe!

But, whence th' enduring grandeur of this spell,
This obstinate sublime of love and law,—
Is, to mere earth-gods, more than speech can tell,
A something more than State-craft ever saw!
Hence, from collision with such magic, they
Shrink and retire, like darkness from the day.

Oh! had their conscience but a creed divine,
Church of The Lord! how soon would all be clear,
And prove what myst'ries fill that Ark of Thine,
Which daunt the tyrants, when they draw too near,
Since faith, not sight, a true perception gains
Of that high region where the heaven-King reigns.

Col. i. 18.

Exod. iii. 5.

Twenty-Second Sunday after Trinity.

“Ye are of God, little children.” —1 John iv. 4.

‘He who hath begun a good work in you, will perform it, until the day of Jesus Christ.” —Epistle for the Day.

Children, to faith, are sacred Things,
Tokens and types of purity
Under the Church's ever-brooding wings,—
When reverence their souls can see
Baptised in God's Own trinitarian Name,
And heritors of more than Angels claim.

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Yet, little can this Age of art,
Of science, culture, and proud skill,
In that deep mystery partake a part
Prophetic Conscience should fulfil,—
Watching young souls, which ripen into prayer,
Foster'd by hidden beams of heaven-light, there.

But, in our wonder-crowded earth
No marvels can so much reveal,
As infant-spirits,—when, through second birth,
They upward into glory steal,
Through sin and sorrow, weakness, toil, and strife
Ascending God-ward, with celestial life.

Sun, moon, and star, and sea and land,
The elements, and all they hold,
Have nothing in them so divinely-grand
As what infantine hearts enfold,
As, day by day, some charms of secret grace
Dawn into light, which Love alone can trace.

Precious as pure, the warbled hymn!
The first faint buds of oral praise;
And, like deep glances caught from Cherubim,
The looks devoted infants raise
When, gently lifting their entrancèd eye,
They worship Jesus, and believe Him, nigh.

Fancy and feeling, ne'er alone,
In childhood's depth and dawn can view
Those higher instincts, which the Church may own
And in them hail His presence true,
Who gives to nature, what no Flesh imparts,—
The vestal pureness of regen'rate hearts.

And, holy as parental love
To earth and time must ever be,
Unless anointed by a grace above,
And so, by faith from sin set free,—
What is it, but idolatrous delight
In mortal good, with God kept out of sight?

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Child-loving Lord! from Thee we learn
A sacredness to childhood clings,
And, in Thine incarnation can discern
What mercy unto manhood brings,—
When the dread Second of the Godhead deign'd
To suffer here, where sin and Satan reign'd.

The laver of regen'rate life
From whence baptismal waters flow,
Saviour! forbid that our unhallow'd strife
Should change it to a fount of Woe,—
By impious mocks, whose doubting tones repel
Man from his God, and make earth nearer hell.

Still do Thine arms of wreathing love
Encircle infants, as of old,
When soaring hearts survey Thy throne above,
And on that Glory-seat behold
The Virgin-born, whose sacramental Word
Round every cradle by the Church is heard.

“Suffer little children to come unto me,” &c. Matt. xix. 30.

Twenty-Third Sunday after Trinity.

“Jesus Christ ------ shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like unto his glorious body.” —Epistle for the Day.

The dimness of the holy dawn
Round earth and sky was stealing,
And silence on the shaded lawn
Lay, like a solemn feeling;
But still, her watch, much-loving Mary kept,
Gazed on the tomb, and while she gazed,—she wept!

Oh! Saviour-God, and where didst Thou
Thy viewless Person hide,
When first Thy resurrection-brow,
By mortals undescried,

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Was bared triumphant in the breeze of heaven,
While throbb'd creation like a heart forgiven?

Who saw Thee with refulgent grace
Rise from Thy rocky tomb?
Or, look'd upon Thine awing face
Clad with celestial bloom?—
Scripture is dumb: enough for Faith to read,
“The Lord is risen,” and alive, indeed!

Not when sabbatic rest began
Our new-born earth to bless,
And all was eloquent to man
Of light and loveliness
Was such a moment for mysterious thought
Like this,—with superhuman meaning fraught.

By virtue of our risen Lord
Stern Death himself shall die;
And, charter'd by His changeless Word,
Victorious saints may cry
Their “jubilate” o'er each human grave
Open'd by Love, which died the world to save.

Yet, pensive, pale, and all alone
The weeping Mary bends,
And, wond'ring o'er the vanish'd stone,
Her clouded eye-glance sends
Into the grave, with fearful hope to find
If still her Lord be there, in death enshrin'd.

But hark! angelic whispers sound,
Angelic Forms appear;
And gleam the sepulchre around
Glories,—which make her fear!
While each, with tone like music's lulling fall,
“Woman! why weepest thou?” is heard to call.

“My Lord is taken hence away,”—
Such the sad answer given;
And beams her eye with tearful ray
Beheld by God in heaven;

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Then, pensively uplifts her downcast head,
Moved by the glide of some advancing tread.

There, shrouded in serene disguise,
The Lord of spirits stands!
But sorrow dims her yearning eyes,
Nor on His nail-pierced Hands
Nor wounded Feet, that lonely weeper saw
The sacramental prints of Love and Law.

So was it then; so is it now
Redeemer of all forfeit souls!—
Our creeds Thy Presence here avow,
But blinding sense controls
That inner-vision, which can realise
A living Saviour in some holy guise.

Near, but unview'd; when seen, unknown;
His very accent strange!
O Mary, art thou faithless grown,
Does grief thy soul derange?
“Why weepest thou?”—can such true speech recall
No thrilling mem'ries of thine All-in-All?”

Alas, how often in some hour of pain
Dejected spirits fail
To see Emanuel by the tomb,
Where most His words prevail:
The earth-clods mutter with so dread a tone,
A Saviour's “weep not” seems for ever flown!

But Christ hath yet a deeper spell,
A breathing from His heart,—
A word that none could speak so well
As when Those pure lips part
And whisper “Mary!” with resistless love,
That once absolved her for the realms above.

And how her spirit's inmost chord
That well-known “Mary” thrill'd!
Since, who could breathe it, like the Lord
Whose heaven-toned accent fill'd

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Each hidden chamber of the heart within,
And smote pale conscience with remember'd sin!

O Thou, the Root of risen life,
If, Mary-like, we fail
To greet The Voice that lulls our strife
When grief and guilt prevail,—
Deepen Thy tones, till Love's melodious claim
Shall seem to vibrate with our very name.

“Her many sins are forgiven; for she loved much.”

“I, the Lord, which call thee by thy name, am the God of Israel.” —Is. xlv. 3.

Twenty-Fourth Sunday after Trinity.

“If I may but touch his garment, I shall be whole.” —Gospel for the Day.

Shrined in a sacrament, my Saviour lives
By all save heaven-eyed faith unview'd;
And there, beneath anointed symbols gives
Himself, to be our spirit-food:
Thus by that eucharist our hearts may see
Dwells in Shechinah there incarnate Deity.

Oh! that prevail'd within my spirit now
Such voiceless awe of soul profound,
As once o'ercame me, when, with shaded brow,
Kneeling the Altar-rails around,—
A love which works by supernat'ral law
Proved to adoring mind, what science never saw!

For, cloth'd by matter, comes almighty Grace
Curtain'd in secrecy of spells,
With feeding mystery to form our race
By nourishment, that inly dwells;
Till, strengthen'd thus by elements divine,—
This Manna of the Church may with our souls combine.

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Yes, 'twas a moment, tender, awful, deep,
When first a virgin faith received
Mystical Food, which made it live, and weep;
While, fill'd with prayer, the soul believed
Under the symbols which accost the sense
An omnipresent Christ Himself doth there dispense.

No cold memorials, cautiously defined,
Dead emblems for the carnal eye,
Nor mere emotions to enflame the mind,
In this dread Banquet they descry
Who learn behind the shroud on God to gaze,
And realise by faith far more than sight displays.

In things Divine simplicity is strength
When man becomes a little child;
Learning that secret, all are taught, at length,
Who keep the Symbol undefiled,—
That not to mental force but meekest love
Descend those heaven-born truths, which draw the soul above.

The aching hunger of a foodless heart
Famish'd by guilt and gnaw'd by sin,
Is never soothed by what mere husks impart
While conscience yearns for Christ within,—
Not in the shade and shadow of a Name,
But livingly bestow'd, and felt through all our frame.

O Thou, of sacraments the hidden Seed,
Incarnate Presence! working all,
Eternal Nourisher in what we need
When most for grace thy members call,—
Open our hearts for Thine illapses true,
As dawning flowers expand, to drink the vestal dew.

Thyself we want!—not less, nor more we ask:
Such is the Banquet souls require
To fit them here to face life's burden'd task,
And secretly such aids inspire
That Christ internal may be form'd, and fill
Each faculty men wield, with homage to His will.

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And, what a pang it wakes of with'ring dread
When first Communion age recalls!
Or when we realise the holy dead
While faith before the Altar falls,—
And think how chill'd these time-worn hearts can be,
With soaring youth compared and young simplicity!

Lord! grant a praying zeal, whose pureness glows
With more than what from earth proceeds,
That in Thine Eucharist, where grace o'erflows
To meet our spirit's inmost needs,—
Each hoar'd Communicant again may find
In that high feast of heaven what once o'eraw'd his mind.

We are not wise, because experience learns
What crafty worldliness imparts,
Or, mere acuteness through proud culture learns
By hollow intercourse of hearts:
For sacred wisdom is a gift divine
No spirit can produce, except, O Lord! 'tis Thine.

They learn the Saviour best, who love Him most;
Taught by simplicity and prayer
Man's true religion, which the Holy Ghost
Shrines in that Church our creeds declare,—
Whose truths enclose a sacramental plan
For bringing heaven to earth, by weaning self from man.

Twenty-Fifth Sunday after Trinity.

“Israel out of the north country.” —Epistle for the Day.

Sister of Scotland! lift thy grief-worn face,
Arise, courageous be;
Not gloom alone, but glory marks the trace
Stern archives bear of thee;
Of old, quiescence for thy strength has been,—
But now, awake! and thrill the world's great scene.

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Widow'd of pomp and shorn of stately power
Thy mitred Fathers are;
But He, who seal'd with sanctifying dower
Their consecration-prayer,
Still to the church of Caledonia's clime
Grants the true wealth of apostolic time,—

A creed of principle! that Christ-born Thing
With prowess calm and high,
Which baffles hate and all harsh tyrants bring
Fierce zeal to crucify:—
True to God's covenant, thy martyr'd soul
Faced the dread anguish, and absorb'd the whole.

Thine was a trial, worse than battle-shock
Like what Culloden saw;
E'en the slow waste of man's consuming mock,—
The bane and blight of Law,
Whose with'ring cruelty of cold disdain
Frets a fine spirit more than martyr's chain.

For oh, when Persecution's rage appears
In faggot, blood, and fire,
Religion watches through applauding tears
Faith's hero thus expire:
Such death is grandeur; and each dying tone
For truth becomes an everlasting throne.

But, Scotland's Church in silent meekness bore
Her pangs of buried grief;
Unlike false Zeal which took the field of yore
And fought for stern-relief;
Wearied and worn, in exile far away,
She wept, and worshipp'd in that awful day!

Yet, not for Her hath poet struck the lyre
Pure martyrdom to praise;
Battle and blood can pæans loud inspire,
But none could anguish raise,—
Voiceless, intense, when hearts with pangs were wrung,
By angels number'd, though by bards unsung.

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Sister of Scotland! 'twas indeed an hour
Of agony and gloom,—
Erastian hate and antichristian power
Yearn'd to contrive a tomb,
Where Church and Cross and sacramental Rite
Should bear the blast of persecuting might.

Then, was thy triumph! when thy Prelates stood,
And drank the cup of woe:—
Imprison'd, faint, in widowhood
Thou didst not faith forego,
But, bind the Cross still closer to thy breast,
And follow paths a Saviour's feet had press'd.

For this, both Time and Truth shall laurel thee
With wreaths of more than glory;
And creedless Legislation blush to see
The brand she wears in story,—
Dreaming that mortal power a Church can make,
And what Christ founded, impious Falsehood shake!

E'en now may pilgrims from their southern home
In glens of Scotland find
Symbols and signs, where'er they haply roam,
Which bring that age to mind
When fierceness, clad in Cameronian form,
Yell'd in the fray, and rous'd the bloody storm.

Altar and Temple, plunder'd, rent, defiled,
The scatter'd flock no more,—
Bann'd from their soil, went husband, wife, and child
To seek an alien-shore:
While oft beneath the cutting winds of heaven
Some infant to the Saviour's arms was given.

“Cast down, but not destroy'd,” thou still art left
Shrine of the hoary Past!
Changeless in creed, although of power bereft
By persecution's blast:
And time-worn prayer-books by their tear-marks tell,—
The hearts they solaced, learn'd to love them well.

224

When Albion in barbaric darkness lay
Cover'd with pagan-cloud,
Thy sea-girt convent sent the primal ray
Which broke Northumbria's shroud;—
O'er Dane and Saxon pour'd celestial light
And saved half Europe from sepulchral night.

That wave-rock'd nursling of the Hebrides
Whence thy first Abbot came,
Hath islanded with grace the northern seas,
And fill'd with more than fame
The sacred gloom of that monastic Shrine,
Where still some halo from the past is thine.

Like wrecks of glory, mute and mournful fade
Cathedral tower and spire;
And calm dejection haunts each cloister-glade
Where rose the pealing quire:—
Tombs of dead ages, thus thine Abbeys stand
Whose very ruins consecrate a land!

Sister of Scotland! lift thy grief-worn face,
In Christ victorious be;
Not gloom alone, but glory tracks the trace
Stern archives bear of thee:
Bid temples rise, and shrines of prayer abound
Where ancient Faith with martyr-wreaths was crown'd.