Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems

By John Moultrie. New ed

Moultrie, John (1799-1874)

[VOLUME I]

II.

[VOLUME II]

PART I.

LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH.

II.

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II. [VOLUME II]

I. PART I.

LAYS OF THE ENGLISH CHURCH.

FIRST SUNDAY IN ADVENT.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

I

Through the dreary night of ages,
While the world's gross dreamers slept,
Wakeful eyes of saints and sages
Have their lifelong vigil kept.
While long ages wax and wane,
Still they wake and weep in vain.

II

Were thy words too boldly spoken,
Heralding salvation near,
Holy Paul?—alas! no token
Of the dawn doth yet appear.
Through thick clouds of grief and sin
Breaks no gleam of twilight in.

III

Hath the Lord his Church forsaken?
Nay!—to faith's quick ear and eye,
Signs, too clear to be mistaken,
Tell of his redemption nigh.
Though gross darkness gird us round,
We an inner light have found.

IV

As the fleshly eye grows dimmer,
And the brow besprent with grey—
Nearer we discern the glimmer
Of the soul's eternal day.
As the grave begins to yawn,
Clear and perfect grows our dawn.

V

Lo! the eastern mountains kindle
With upshooting beams afar!
Lo! already droop and dwindle
Waning moon and morning star!
Christ, the Sun of Righteousness,
Soon our weary eyes shall bless.

VI

Christ himself!—make haste to meet him!
Cast your robes of sin away;
Clothed in light, go forth to greet him,
Children of the sober day;
Not o'ercharged with foul excess,
Not in lust and wantonness;

VII

Not in wrath and fierce vexation,
Not in envying, not in strife,
Chaunt your hymns of gratulation
To the Lord of light and life.
Changed by Him, in heart and will,
Let not flesh its lusts fulfil.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

Our Lord came once in humble state,
And poor and mean array,

While crowds did on his advent wait,
And strew'd with boughs his way.
Upon a colt, an ass's foal,
He rode in lowly guise,
While shouts and songs, that mock'd control,
Peal'd round him to the skies.

II

“Hosannah to the mighty King
Of David's royal stem!
Whom, in Jehovah's name, we bring
To his Jerusalem!”
So ran the shout from tongue to tongue,
While He in peace drew near—
Those tongues which soon foul insult flung
Upon his cross and bier!

III

And many a weary age hath past
Since those dark deeds were done—
And men would fain believe at last
His reign almost begun.
That day, 'tis said, shall dawn ere long,
When He o'er Earth shall ride,
Begirt by Heaven's angelic throng,
And martyrs glorified.

IV

So dream we, and with venturous skill
Heaven's times and seasons guess—
Yet cleave to this world's follies still,
Nor love its bawbles less.
Alas! and sensual lust and hate,
And wasting strife and care,
Pollute and vex, from gate to gate,
Our Father's House of prayer!

V

With garb and gauds of harlot pride
And loveless smiles bedeck'd,
The Church, unlike a virgin bride,
Her bridegroom doth expect:
And we, who those blind hearts condemn,
Which Life's own Lord could slay,—
Should haply, had we lived with them,
Have been as blind as they!

SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

I

A world of deep and fervent thought
God's word doth to our gaze unfold—
Whate'er was done, or felt, or taught,
By saints and holy men of old;
Their faith and patience, hope and love,—
Their trials in this nether sphere—
And how they won their crown above
Through purifying sorrow here.

II

Nor is this all; for God hath given,
To bless the mind's believing eye,
And lead the loving heart to heaven,
The sunbright scroll of prophecy:—
Blest glimpses of the bliss to come
Hereafter to this world below,
When Truth and Love shall build their home
Where sin dwells now with shame and woe.

III

Six thousand years, in toil and pain,
Hath all Creation travail'd sore;—
Six thousand years, alas! in vain,
Nor yet that weary travail o'er!
And well might strongest hearts give way
Beneath the incumbent weight of ill,
Which grows and gathers day by day,
Uncheck'd, unheal'd, triumphant still!

IV

Yet this must end;—deceit and guile,
And violence, and lust, and hate
Shall not, for aye, God's world defile,
Nor lay its glories desolate.
We look for a new Earth and Heaven,
Where righteousness in peace shall dwell,
When He to penal flames hath given
This globe of ours, with death and hell.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

SONNET.

Though Heaven and Earth, like dreams, should pass away,
Christ's word remaineth stedfast:—from their base
The hills may be up-rent, and know their place
No longer,—the great light which rules the day
Be quench'd,—the seas, burnt up, no more obey
Their rayless mistress,—each created race
Of beast, bird, insect, vanish from the face
Of Nature, sunk, herself, in deep decay;—
But nought which He hath spoken e'er shall fail;—
Truth, goodness, mercy, wisdom, cannot die,
Nor aught in Earth or Heaven or Hell prevail
To mar His word, who from his throne on high
Came down and suffer'd in this tearful vale,
To save lost Man through all eternity.

THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

I

As ministers of Christ, with high commission
Entrusted, his rich bounties to dispense,
And win, (if that may be,) from lost condition
To faith and hope, the slaves of sin and sense,—
As pledged to preach, or in or out of season,
His truth to ears which hearken or reject,—
To guide, console, rebuke, and mildly reason—
Of us account, and yield us due respect.

II

By us affused, the pure baptismal water
Doth to repentant souls rich gifts convey,
Sealing, to Heaven's adopted son or daughter,
Grace which shall wash the inborn sin away.
'Tis ours to dress the board, to crown the chalice,
With rich regalement of celestial food,—
From lips profane, deep stain'd with fraud or malice,
Withholding still Christ's body and his blood.

III

Respect our office,—but insist, meanwhile,
That we should to our trust be faithful found;
Not marring truth with flatteries base and vile—
Not fearing to reprove where sins abound,—
As duty calls, the cross still meekly bearing,—
Ne'er shunning God's whole counsel to make known,—
Ourselves, our flocks, with equal zeal preparing
To meet the summons to His judgment throne.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

Fast bound in darksome prison
The saintly Baptist lay,
While on the world had risen
Redemption's vernal day:
And many a wondrous story
To cheer his spirit came,
Of Christ's increasing glory,
And ever spreading fame.

II

Then spake he in his gladness—
“Go forth, my brethren twain,
Who soothe my dungeon's sadness,
And glory in my chain—
Go ask this godlike seemer,
Of whom such things we hear,—
Art thou the true Redeemer,
Or must a third appear?”

III

Our Lord, in his deep kindness,
When they this message brought,
On sickness, pain, and blindness,
His healing mercies wrought;
And while each dark disaster
Before him seem'd to flee,
“Go tell,” he said, “your master,
The things ye hear and see.

IV

“The lame their strength recover,
The lepers lose their stain,

The blind man's night is over,
The deaf can hear again;
From Heaven hath light descended
To men of low degree;—
Whoso is not offended,
The same is blest in me.”

V

So spake our great Redeemer,—
So let our hearts reply!
For who so blind a dreamer,
So dull of heart and eye,
As not to see around him,
As not to feel within,
That Satan's chain hath bound him—
That Christ hath conquer'd sin?—

VI

We ask not signs and wonders—
We go not forth to find
Rocks split by volleying thunders,
Reeds shaken by the wind.
By peace in Earth and Heaven,
By blissful hearth and home,
By all His grace hath given—
We know that Christ hath come.

FOURTH SUNDAY IN ADVENT.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

I

Rejoice in Christ alway—
When Earth looks heavenly bright,
When joy makes glad the livelong day,
And peace shuts in the night.

Rejoice, when care and woe
The fainting soul oppress,—
When tears at wakeful midnight flow,
And morn brings heaviness.

II

Rejoice, when festal boughs
Our winter walls adorn,
And Christians greet, with hymns and vows,
The Saviour's natal morn.
Rejoice, when mourning weeds
The widow'd Church doth wear
In memory of her Lord who bleeds,
While Christians fast to prayer.

III

Rejoice in hope and fear,—
Rejoice in life and death,—
Rejoice, when threatening storms are near,
And comfort languisheth.
When should not they rejoice,
Whom Christ his brethren calls—
Who hear and know his guiding voice
When on their hearts it falls?

IV

Yet not to rash excess
Let joy like ours prevail;—
Feast not on Earth's deliciousness,
Till faith begin to fail.
Our temperate use of bliss—
Let it to all appear;
And be our constant watchword this—
“The Lord himself is near!”

V

Take anxious care for nought,—
To God your wants make known,

And soar, on wings of heavenly thought,
Tow'rd His eternal throne.
So, though our path is steep,
And many a tempest lours,
Shall His own peace our spirits keep,
And Christ's dear love be ours.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

“Wanderer in the desert bare,—
Man of pale and thoughtful brow,
With thy robe of camel's hair—
Tell us who and what art thou?
Art thou He for whom we wait—
He who, as we fondly deem,
From their low and lost estate
Shall our weary tribes redeem?”

II

“Not Messiah's self am I,”
(Straight the Baptist did confess,)
“But a voice that loud doth cry
In the echoing wilderness—
Haste, prepare Jehovah's way—
Such the message which I bear;—
Disobedient hearts obey!
Stubborn knees be bent in prayer!”

III

“Thou art not Elias then,
Nor the prophet yet to be;
Wherefore should the sons of men
Come to be baptized of thee?”

Thus, in proud and taunting ire,
Did the Pharisees reply;—
Straightway gleams of heavenly fire
Kindled in the Baptist's eye.

IV

“Yea,” he cried, “right well ye say,
I with water now baptize;
But among you stands to-day
One, yet hidden from your eyes—
One who doth all worlds control,
Heavenly Son of heavenly Sire;
He shall wash the sinful soul
With the Holy Ghost and fire.”

V

Jesu!—the baptismal rite,
Ere we knew thee, made us thine;
With thy Spirit's gentle might
Come, our carnal hearts refine!
Purify and light and heat
All the darksome depths within;
Heal, in nature's last retreat,
All her sickness—all her sin!

CHRISTMAS DAY.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

I

By vision clear and truthlike dream—
By awful voices heard from Heaven,—
By many a brief, but glorious gleam
Of his own brightness faintly given,—

By type and emblem, rite and law,—
By prophets' voices stern and bold,—
By all they felt, by all they saw,—
God to our fathers spake of old.

II

But dreams are vague, and visions dim,
And e'en the heavenly sounds, that flow
From holiest lips of Seraphim,
To sinful hearts seem faint and low;
And types—we scarce know what they mean,
And little heed we sage or seer,
Compared with what our eyes have seen,—
Compared with what our ears may hear.

III

For God's own Son, to whom is given
Dominion o'er all worlds that are,—
Whose power upholds both Earth and Heaven,—
Who guides and governs sun and star,—
In whose refulgent person shine
His Father's lineaments express,—
Hath come on Earth, through love divine
To purge our human sinfulness.

IV

And through the deeds His love hath done,
—Though heir himself of Heaven—hath He
A throne above the angels won,
Beside the Eternal Majesty.
And they—the beautiful—the bright,
Who ride upon the lightning's flame,
And guide at will the whirlwind's might,
Fall down and worship at his Name.

V

O Lord! eternal is thy throne—
Thee Heaven's immortal myriads bless;

And men, and saints, and angels own
The sceptre of thy righteousness.
And, ere this frame was yet begun,
Of earth and ocean, sky and sea,
God's word went forth, “Thou art my Son,—
This day have I begotten thee!”

VI

They, as a garment, shall wax old—
Earth, air, and ocean, sun and sky,—
Till, like a vesture, shalt thou fold
Creation up, and cast it by.
But thou shalt still the same remain,
Triumphant over death and hell,—
Secure from grief, remote from pain,
Eternal and unchangeable.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

In the beginning there was God alone:
His immaterial glory fill'd all space,
Its ancient and illimitable throne:—
Substance was none;—no colour, form, or place;
Not one of all night's countless orbs had shone
As yet upon her still and rayless face;
No sound had pierced the silence lone and deep,
Telling of life, which still in Time's vast womb did sleep.

II

Then was the Word with God—the Word was God;
Co-equal—co-eternal—co-divine,
Myriads of ages ere Earth's soil was trod
By man or seraph,—ere a sun did shine,

Impregnating with heat her teeming sod,
And filling with rich ore the virgin mine—
Even then, in glory such as heart ne'er felt,
Tongue spake, or thought conceived, the Son and Father dwelt.

III

Earth was created:—the great fiat pass'd,
‘Let there be light:’—that fiat spake the Word—
Himself the light on each man's spirit cast;
And when into our nostrils life was pour'd,
He was that life;—yet when He came at last
To his own world—its Maker and its Lord,—
That world received him not, and he was fain
Over a few poor, faithful, scatter'd hearts to reign.

IV

Yet, to as many as received him, He
Gave power, e'en then, to be the sons of God;
Not through the pride of mortal ancestry—
Not for that they Earth's sacred places trode—
Not for that men had will'd it so to be—
But that His grace, who quickeneth stone and clod,
Made them partakers of a second birth,
And denizens of Heaven, while yet they dwelt on Earth.

V

Thus was the Word made flesh, and with us dwelt,
Here sojourning among the sons of men,—
And all our joys and all our sorrows felt,
Revealing daily to our mortal ken
The glory of his Father,—so to melt
Our stubborn hearts, and win them home again
E'en to Himself;—for us he felt such ruth—
He, God's own image, full of heavenly grace and truth!

ST. STEPHEN'S DAY.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

I

Our mortal eyes are all too dim
To see Heaven's countless seraphim
Encamp'd Christ's Church around;
Our mortal ears too dull to hear
Angelic voices, close and clear,
But in Earth's uproar drown'd.

II

We know not what bright myriads stand
Invisible, but near at hand,
To guard our narrow way;—
What banners o'er us are unfurl'd,—
How weak is he who rules the world
To Him whom we obey!

III

And so a timorous war we wage,
And plod through life's dull pilgrimage
With laggard steps and slow;
Beset by perils dark and drear,
Trouble and toil, and doubt and fear,
And ever varying woe.

IV

Yet moments, few and brief, have been
When faith's enfranchised eye hath seen
Beyond this mortal night;—
When some strong effort of the heart
Hath rent Earth's shadowy veil apart,
And brought all Heaven in sight.

V

First of the martyrs!—thus to thee
'Twas given thy Saviour's self to see
At God's right hand reveal'd;
Whom once beheld, what marvel thou
With patient cheer and stedfast brow
Thy saintly soul shouldst yield?

VI

But we!—our eyes are dark with sin,—
Mists, rising from foul depths within,
Their else keen vision blind;
And so in vain we struggle still
With sluggish heart, and slavish will,
And gross and sensual mind.

VII

Lord! on our darkling spirits shine
With those refulgent beams of thine,
Which kindle faith and love;
That we thy presence may discern,
And so, through earth's afflictions, learn
To win our crown above.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

A beauteous world is this of ours,
Though dimm'd by sin's polluting stain;
The earth looks bright with fruits and flowers,
The skies with shifting sun and rain:
The air is fresh with fragrant scent,
And many a pleasant voice and sound
Tells sweetly of deep-felt content
In homes where peace and love abound.

II

Who would not say, if this were all,
“The temple of God's love is here;
Gleams of his brightest glory fall
From Heaven upon this favour'd sphere”?
And yet—behold the lightning's path—
The blazing roof, the blasted tree—
The tokens of avenging wrath—
Plague, famine, death, and misery!

III

Alas! from this, our beauteous earth,
The cry of guilt to God hath risen;
The world, which smiled on Adam's birth,
Is now his sinful offspring's prison.
There's not a green and flowery vale,
There's not a pleasant grove or dell,
But has its own peculiar tale
Of agony and crime to tell.

IV

And yet o'er all our deeds of shame,—
Of hate and vengeance, wrath and lust,—
Of plunder'd cities wrapt in flame—
Of towers and temples ground to dust,—
Of maids' and matrons' foulest wrong—
Of ruin'd hearth and reeking sod,—
One cry arises, loud and long,—
The death-cry of the saints of God!

V

The earth has drunk their gentle blood,
And closed above their scatter'd bones;
Rock, hill, and cavern, vale, and wood,
Have echoed back their dying groans.

In dungeons dark, in tortures dire,
By axe and fagot, stone and sword,
In whelming floods, in scorching fire,
Their lives they yielded for their Lord.

VI

Through woods and wilds, o'er pathless rocks,
They roam'd to shun the rage of men;
They found a shelter with the fox,
They dared the hungry lion's den;
They sought and shared the raven's food,
They slept beside the eagle's nest;
By human hatred still pursued,
And only in the grave at rest.

VII

And years and ages wax and wane,—
But that fierce hate is quenchless still;
And martyrs toil and bleed in vain
To free mankind from grief and ill.
The thirst of Cain for Abel's blood,
The hate that slew the Lord of heaven,
Still persecute the wise and good—
Those sole offenders ne'er forgiven!

VIII

And shall not God avenge his own?
—Look up—in all the louring sky
The tokens of his wrath are shown—
He will avenge them speedily.
For ruthless deeds of days long past,
For saintly blood like water shed,
Those gathering clouds shall burst at last,
Ere many another age hath fled.

IX

The curse deferr'd at length draws nigh,
Our guilty world beneath it shakes;

It blights the earth, it blasts the sky,
All flesh before its advent quakes.
All human faces gather gloom,
Fear hideth in the hearts of kings;—
O Lord, protect thy Church from doom,
Beneath thy mercy's sheltering wings.

ST. JOHN THE EVANGELIST'S DAY.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

I

A blessed lot was yours,
Who dwelt with Christ below,
And saw him work his heavenly cures
On mortal pain and woe!
Into whose charmed ears
His human accents sank;
Whose heart, oppress'd with griefs and fears,
His looks of pity drank!

II

Those words of his we read,
And feel their countless worth;
And gladly yet our spirits feed
On all he wrought on Earth.
From Bethlehem's manger mean
To Calvary's awful hill,
We track him through each wondrous scene,
As faith discerns it still.

III

But faith's intensest gaze
Is all too weak and cold
To pierce the thick and sensual haze
Which doth our hearts enfold.

Almost God's written word
Those craving hearts despise—
It cannot give the tones ye heard,
The looks that bless'd your eyes.

IV

Unkind and selfish men!
Ye might have told us more
(For God's own Spirit warm'd your pen)
Of Him whom all adore.
His voice—his form—his glance—
His stature fair and tall,—
The glories of his countenance—
Ye might have told them all.

V

Among your tribes was none,—
Not one poor limner found,
Who might pourtray that heavenly One
With Earth's rich beauty crown'd?
Could no kind art have left
The strains of that last hymn,
Whose parting tones your bosoms cleft
Near Cedron's hallow'd brim?

VI

So might our eyes have dwelt
On that divinest brow;
So might our thrilling hearts have felt
Those heavenly accents now.
That face o'er home and hearth
Might cheering light have flung,
And Christians still enjoy'd on Earth
The strains their Saviour sung.

VII

“O! murmurs base and vain!
(Heaven's martyr'd saints reply)

And foolish tongues that thus complain!
And foolish hearts that sigh!
What lack ye now of all
That we enjoy'd of old?
What light could on our spirits fall
Which yours may not behold?”

VIII

He spake with us on Earth—
He speaks to you from Heaven;
Is with you in your grief and mirth—
Hath all your sins forgiven:
To bear his words to you
Our strength and lives we gave;
That ye might know what once we knew,
We dared the martyr's grave.

IX

Our toils are over now,
And yours will soon be done;
Keep patient heart and stedfast brow
Till faith's good fight be won.
Walk boldly in the light,
And so your prize pursue,
For God's own glory gilds the night
Which yet looks dark for you.

X

Deem not the gospel's sway
As yet hath slain your sin,
Nor wash'd its crimson stains away,
Nor cleansed the founts within.
Before God's altar kneel,
To Him your sins confess,
And He your hearts shall cleanse and heal
From all unrighteousness.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

“If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?”

I

Art thou still on Earth a rover?
Shar'st thou still some mortal home,
Though life's task hath long been over,
Tarrying till thy Lord shall come?
Still unchanged in human beauty,
Breathing still our human breath,
Stedfast still at all Earth's duty,
Only free from pain and death?

II

Thou whom once the Lord of glory
Chose his earthly friend to be—
Meekest saint of Christian story,
Gentle child of Zebedee—
Still do Earth's gross fetters bind thee?
Is thy rest not yet begun?
Where, O where, may Christians find thee?
In what land beneath the sun?

III

Art thou still, unheeded, roaming
On the Galilean shore,
Where Gennesareth's waves are foaming,
Which thy bark so often bore?
Dost thou still delight to wander
Through the paths thy Saviour trod;
Where with thee he loved to ponder
On the ways and works of God?

IV

In the city sad and saintly,—
On the Temple's blasted site,—
When the stars are burning faintly,
Dost thou oft outwatch the night?
How must Salem's ruins move thee!—
All is changed on Zion's hill;
Heaven alone is bright above thee,
And its fires unfaded still.

V

Or, in Patmos isle secluded,
View'st thou, with prophetic eye,
Things whereinto ne'er intruded
Holiest angel known on high?
Swiftly now the days are waning
Which thy mystic lips foretold;
Soon thy Lord, in glory reigning,
Shall thy weary eyes behold.

VI

Hath our own bright isle beheld thee,
Shrouded in some garb obscure?
Have we from our doors repell'd thee,
For that thou wast old and poor?
Faint, perchance, and worn and weary,
Toiling on from clime to clime—
Still thou view'st one prospect dreary,—
Waning faith and waxing crime.

VII

Sick, perchance, in heart and spirit
At the ceaseless strife and change
Which Earth's ancient realms inherit—
Westward thou hast turn'd to range.

There, where nature's smiles are kindest—
Where our race is in its youth—
Tell us if, e'en there, thou findest
Holier love or purer truth?

VIII

Doth thy bark, with gentlest motion,
Where the smooth Pacific smiles,
Bear thee o'er the breast of ocean,
Visiting its myriad isles?
There, in joy and triumph sailing,
Dost thou pass from shore to shore,
Where young faith is yet prevailing,
Where false gods are found no more?

IX

Idle dreams! though passing pleasant
To the fond and foolish heart,
Which on Earth would deem thee present,
Though in heavenly bliss thou art.
He who here vouchsafed to love thee,
He who held thee on his breast,
Breathes eternal peace above thee,
In the chambers of his rest.

X

Dreamy sounds, from earth ascending,
Tell thee of our strife below;
How the Church is still contending
With unvanquish'd sin and woe.
Heaven's remotest depths must hide thee,
Till her victory be won;—
There may we repose beside thee,
When our earthly toils are done!

THE INNOCENTS' DAY.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

I

Through Heaven's bright depths profound
Float waves of golden sound—
Voices of mingled love, and joy and wonder;
Like harps that smite the ear,
'Midst waters murmuring near,
And the deep rolling of the distant thunder.
Seraphs and saints are chaunting some new song,
Which, round Jehovah's throne, Heaven's echoing vaults prolong.

II

On Zion's topmost brow
Bright hosts are gathering now—
Twelve times twelve thousand, each a sceptred saint!
Each bears his Father's name
In lines of dazzling flame,
Writ on his forehead;—yet that blaze grows faint
Beneath the o'erpowering glory of the Lamb
Throned in the midst—the One—the infinite I AM.

III

And hark! with one accord,
To greet Heaven's sovereign Lord,
That countless host its mighty voice doth raise;
A loud and thrilling song
Peals through the immortal throng—
A song of holy love, and joy and praise:
A song which none may learn but such as be
Enroll'd among that bright and blessed company.

IV

Those blissful sounds to hear,
Heaven stoops its charmed ear,—
Angels themselves their choral songs suspending;
While blessed souls that sleep
In peace serene and deep,
Feel the wild music with their visions blending.
But even angelic voices are too dull
To imitate those strains—so wild and wonderful.

V

Ye crowned heads that wait
In calm and saintly state,
(White-vested elders) round the eternal throne;
Declare, if that ye may,
What glorious hosts are they,
From whose bright lips these wond'rous sounds have flown?
Why can none learn the words of that strange song,
Nor chaunt the heavenly notes which waft those words along?

VI

“Earth's holiest sons are these,
Who (so their Lord to please)
Refrain'd on earth from joys of earthly love;
By woman undefiled,
Each like a sinless child
Follow'd his Master to his rest above;
Nor e'er did passion's sensual paths pursue,
Nor e'er the wanton joys of amorous dalliance knew.

VII

“These calm'd, with stedfast will,
Desire's intemperate thrill,
E'en in the May of their impetuous blood;
Nor let vain Fancy's play

Their senses steal away;
Nor sank beneath the might of womanhood:
But firmly put Earth's baser love aside,
So best to live to Him for them on Earth who died.

VIII

“No feverish hopes and fears
Disturb'd their prime of years,
Nor from their heart's serene devotion drave;
Nor foul suspicion's breath,
Nor passion, strong as death,
Nor jealousy, more cruel than the grave,
Marr'd the composure of their tranquil mind,
Nor could their eagle wings of heavenly musing bind.

IX

“Nor knew they the turmoil
Of household cares or toil,
For wife and children daily bread to win;
Nor love's capricious wiles
And shifting frowns and smiles,
Once snared them into act or thought of sin,
While, with fond zeal, to please a wife they strove,
Neglecting His high cause who claim'd their hearts above.

X

“Therefore, with perfect will,
They served their Master still,
Nor e'er, on Earth, forgot their heavenly prize;
Through clouds of trouble dim,
By faith, discerning Him
Whom yet they saw not with their fleshly eyes:
For his dear sake Earth's fiercest hate defied,—
Lived but to work his will, and for his glory died.

XI

“Now all their toils are o'er,
And sense and lust no more

Disturb or sadden their serene repose;
But, with Heaven's glories crown'd,
They near the Lamb are found,
And track his footsteps wheresoe'er he goes;
Still in his wake, with rapturous flight, ascending,
Through worlds of dazzling light and bliss that knows no ending.

XII

“And that blest song, they sing,
With which Heaven's chambers ring,
As with the fabled music of the spheres,
Breathes no dull tone of earth—
No thought that e'er had birth
In the gross world of carnal hopes and fears:
But hymns the passion of a virgin love,
Which such alone conceive even in these realms above.”

XIII

Ah! woe!—must only they,—
(White-vested elders say,)
Must only they their Lord's pure joy partake?
And we, who toil below
Through mortal grief and woe,
Bearing the cross for his beloved sake—
Must we ne'er learn the wonders of that strain,
For that we wore, on earth, soft wedlock's easy chain?

XIV

And that, around our hearth,
The laugh of childhood's mirth
And matron voices of meek rule were heard;
And that the nuptial bed
Was in our chambers spread,
And that our hearts were innocently stirr'd
By woman's gentle words and cheering smile;
And that her tender love did all our cares beguile?

XV

Is it our sin, that we,
In gentlest sympathy,
Thro' life's dark paths each other cheer'd along,
And felt the bitter dearth
Of children snatch'd from Earth,
To join their voices to that choral song?
Can chastest love our path so foully mar,
As e'en Heaven's brightest courts against our souls to bar?

XVI

“O base and foolish plaints!”—
(Thus those white-vested saints
With dreamlike voice upbraidingly reply;)
“O murmurs base and vain,
Which Heaven's high will arraign!
And sinful hearts which with the sinless vie!
Low, sensual spirits, which would take your fill
Of Earth's most luscious joys, yet reign with martyrs still!

XVII

“Is't not enough that ye
Have power on earth to be
Emblems and types of Christ's eternal love;
Fond husband and chaste wife,
In pure connubial life,
The Church pourtraying and her spouse above?
Is't not enough to know that you shall share
In heaven the fullest bliss that blessed souls can bear?

XVIII

“Your own hard task fulfil,
And meekly do God's will,
Cheer'd by the comforts which his love hath given;
It may be that the hours
Here spent in wedlock's bowers,
Shall shed rich fragrance o'er your homes in heaven;

And love's bright flowers, which bloom so feebly here,
Burst into full-blown bliss in Heaven's congenial sphere.

XIX

“So let each soul possess,
In faith and holiness,
Its proper gift of God—and still let all,
With reverence due, give place
To those whom ampler grace
Doth to sublimer self-denial call;
Who, self-subdued, best purge from earthly leaven
Those founts of holy thought which fit the soul for Heaven.”

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

“Through the desert wild and dreary,
Following tracks explored by few,
Sad at heart, and worn and weary,
We our toilsome march pursue.
O'er our heads, with blaze unclouded,
Burns the fierce and fiery noon;
Pestilence, in darkness shrouded,
Near us walks beneath the moon.

II

“O'er the steep and pathless mountain
Oft with bleeding feet we climb;
Scarce to taste the desert fountain
Human hate allows us time.
Israel's homes lie far behind us,
Yet we pause not to look back,
Lest the keen pursuer find us,
Lest grim murder scent our track.

III

“Eagles o'er our heads are wheeling,
Each careering towards her nest;
E'en the wolf and fox are stealing
To the covert of their rest;
Every foul and noxious creature
Finds on earth its lair and bed;—
But the infant Lord of Nature
Hath not where to lay his head.

IV

“Yet, my babe, sweet sleep enfolds thee
On thy fainting mother's arm;
God, in his great love, beholds thee,
Angels guard thy rest from harm;
Earth and hell in vain beset thee,
Kings against thy life conspire;
But our God can ne'er forget thee,
Nor His arm, that shields thee, tire.

V

“Where is now our peaceful dwelling?
—Wrapt perchance in vengeful flame;
Ruffian voices round it yelling,
Curses on thy gentle name.
Woe to Bethlehem's matrons, keeping
Tenderest watch above their dead!
Rachel, for her children weeping,
Knows not to be comforted.

VI

“Woe to them!—and yet their anguish
Fades before what mine must be;
Doom'd to see my lov'd one languish
Through this life's long misery.
Doom'd to see Earth's hate expended
On his meek and lowly head,

Till his weary task is ended—
Till his sinless blood is shed.

VII

“Heavenly hope shall soothe their sorrow,
When the grass begins to wave,
After many a dreary morrow,
Freshly o'er each infant grave.
I alone, to rest a stranger,
Must behold, with aching eye,
O'er my child distress and danger
Gathering still incessantly.

VIII

“But forbear, my sinful spirit,
Of thy chastening to complain;
Gladly let me here inherit
Toil and sorrow, care and pain!
Welcome Earth's most dread vexations!
Welcome anguish and distress!
Since my name all generations
For a Saviour's love shall bless!”

THE SUNDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS DAY.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

I

The childhood of our race is o'er,
Its youghful prime hath faded long;
Man's ripening mind delights no more
In dream and vision, tale and song.
The dawning hope, the fond belief,
The novelty of life are fled;

And all is sober, joy and grief,
And phantasy and faith are dead.

II

The rites which pleased our Nature's youth,
While heart and mind were childish still—
The earthly types of heavenly truth,—
The altars of the grove and hill,—
The saintly pomp—the annual feast—
The sounds of sacred dance and hymn,—
The sacrifice of bird and beast—
These rites are o'er—these splendours dim.

III

Our reason, disenthrall'd at length
From youthful fancies, fond and vain,
Comes forth, released by manhood's strength,
From governor's and tutor's reign.
The shadowy types of mystic lore
Content not now our mental eye,
Whose quenchless gaze would fain explore
All wonders of all worlds on high.

IV

And must man's spirit vainly pant
For purest truth to learn and love?
Still groan beneath its earthly want
Of fellowship with things above?
—Not so!—the teeming womb of Time
Hath travail'd with a wondrous birth;
God's Son hath come, in love sublime,
His brethren to redeem on earth.

V

And for that we, through sin subdued,
Are sons of God and heirs of heaven,

Our Father, to each heart renew'd,
The spirit of a son hath given.
The soul's long servitude hath ceased,—
Not now, like slaves, we crouch and cower,
But on our Father's bounty feast,—
Enjoy His love, adore His power.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

“Thou wast to me the brightest dream
That e'er upon my spirit shone;
Alas! and is that heavenly gleam
For ever lost and gone?
And do I live?—and can it be
That thou a shameless wanton art,
Who wast the type of purity
To this fond, foolish heart?

II

“I thought, ere yet I dared to love,
That thou wast scarce an earth-born thing;
Thy mortal grace so tower'd above
Earth's best imagining.
Almost it seem'd profane to press
The ground on which thy feet had trod,—
Their path was mark'd with holiness,
As by the steps of God.

III

“And when my heart grew bold at last,
And perfect love had banish'd fear,
And gentle hope grew fair and fast
For many a pleasant year—

It was a joy I may not tell
The beauty of thy soul to see,
And, in my fondest thought, to dwell
On its pure harmony.

IV

“Ah me!—how like a glimpse of Heaven
The day of our betrothal seem'd,
When first a pledge to love was given
Of all that hope had dream'd!
And I thenceforth might think of thee
When to my daily toil I went,
As doom'd in after years to be
My star of home content!

V

“Can she, (I thought) so fair and good,
Partake a base mechanic's lot,
The light of loveliest womanhood
Diffusing through his cot?
Can she, whose heart is all above,
A poor man's bride consent to be,
And rear, with meek and patient love,
His lowly progeny?

VI

“But thou didst so benignly smile,
And speak with such a gentle tone—
Ah! me—that voice might sure beguile
An angel from his throne!
And all thy words, and all thy ways,
And all thy looks so heavenly were;
'Twas heaven into thine eyes to gaze—
Thy mortal love to share!

VII

“And wast thou then a sensual thing,—
A heartless wanton, light and vain?—

Such thoughts o'erwhelm my heart, and fling
Distraction on my brain.
No, no—it must not, cannot be—
Thy looks bespeak a virgin heart,
The wanton's gestures suit not thee,
Nor yet the wanton's art.

VIII

“Thou dost not quail before my glance—
And yet thine own is modest still;
Thy calm and radiant countenance
Betrays no thought of ill.
I cannot scan thy secret soul,
Nor read the unfathom'd depths within;
But ne'er did looks like those controul
The restless pulse of sin.

IX

“And yet—those fatal proofs of guilt!—
Alas! too plain a tale they tell;—
O! that my life-blood had been spilt
Ere thus my loved one fell!
And I!—shall I that fall proclaim?
Make public all her guilty deeds?
Consigning Her to scorn and shame
For whom my spirit bleeds?

X

“No, Mary—my crush'd heart may break,
But thou shalt still uninjured be;
If vengeance e'er thy faults o'ertake,
It shall not come from me.
Thou wast my hope—my pride—my bliss,
I will not now divulge thy shame,
Nor point the common scoffer's hiss
At thy beloved name.”

XI

Such thoughts, perchance, in turbid stream
O'er Joseph's burden'd spirit crept;
But that same night a blessed dream
Came to him as he slept:—
And when he from his sleep arose,
With steadfast heart and cheerful brow,
Like one whose hopes on God repose,
He pledged his nuptial vow.

XII

In pure and reverent love he dwelt
With her his own, his chosen bride;
Nor all a bridegroom's fervour felt,
Nor slumber'd by her side.
He shared with her his peasant's cot,
He watch'd her fondly night and morn,
But still approach'd her chamber not
Until her babe was born.

THE CIRCUMCISION OF CHRIST.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

I

The world may look serene and bright,
Our path bestrewn with choicest flowers;
And days of love and home-delight,
And nights of healthful rest be ours.
From worldly strife and worldly care
The heart a safe repose may win,
And yet feel all too weak to bear
The burden of unpardon'd sin.

II

The mists of grief but rarely dim
The glorious light of childhood's skies;
Life tingles in its every limb,
Health speaks and sparkles in its eyes:
Yet, e'en among its sports and toys
A cloud is gathering on its brow;
Stern conscience soon will blast the joys
Which steep the soul in gladness now.

III

Through many a green, secluded walk,
In life and hope's delicious May,
Engross'd in love's unwearying talk,
Fond youths and happy maidens stray.
Earth hath not a diviner bliss
On gentle spirits to bestow;
Yet boast not—for alas! e'en this
Unpardon'd sin converts to woe.

IV

The pleasant noise of children's mirth
Makes glad our sober middle age;
Bright faces, round the evening hearth,
The day's heart-wasting cares assuage.
But wife and children's sweetest smile—
The light that on our hearts doth fall—
The love that doth our griefs beguile—
Unpardon'd sin can poison all.

V

With steadfast thought and cheerful toil
The mines of learning we explore,
And waste our patient midnight oil
O'er many a page of ancient lore.
We seek and earn the sage's name,
We feel the sage's pride within;

But all our wisdom, all our fame,
Lie crush'd beneath unpardon'd sin.

VI

We give our hearts to humankind,
With liberal bounty we dispense
To fainting flesh and weary mind
The streams of our benevolence.
And poor men's tongues our kindness bless,
And earth and air our praises fill;
But, in the spirit's loneliness,
Unpardon'd sin consumes it still.

VII

He—he alone is truly blest
Whom God hath from this burden freed;
Whose doubts and fears are lull'd to rest,
Whose peace of heart is peace indeed:
Who, strong in faith, can lift to heaven
A tranquil and undaunted brow;
Who knows and feels his sin forgiven,
His soul's dark warfare ended now.

VIII

And who are they on whom alone
Descends this blessing from above?
To whom their Father hath made known
These tokens of especial love?
The Jew by circumcision's rite?—
The Christian by baptismal sign?—
On these doth more celestial light
Than on less favour'd spirits shine?

IX

Nor outward sign, nor mystic rite,
Alone such blessings can confer;—

To walk by faith, and not by sight—
Like Abraham's self a worshipper,—
To count all earthly gain but loss,—
To look and long to be forgiven
Through Him who died upon the cross—
This—this unlocks the gates of heaven.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

The angels' song was ended,
Sweet stillness fill'd the air,
Through which to Heaven ascended
The shepherds' silent prayer.
They gazed on one another,—
Strange thoughts were rife in them;
Then each cried, “Up, my brother!
Away to Bethlehem!

II

“Our sheep, in safety feeding
Upon the mountain side,
Beneath the watch-dog's leading
May wander far and wide.
From heat, and frost, and thunder,
God shelter flock and fold!
While we this work of wonder
Are journeying to behold.”

III

Forthwith each sturdy ranger
To Bethlehem took his way;
And soon they found the manger
Wherein the Saviour lay.
They bow'd the knee before him,
Those simple men and true;

They bless'd the womb that bore him,
The breast whose milk he drew.

IV

No sign of kingly splendour
Did that poor hovel grace;
But love, devout and tender,
Had sanctified the place:
For there the saintly mother,
The virgin undefiled,
In bliss she could not smother,
Was gazing on her child.

V

And, keeping watch above her,
In rapt and heavenly mood,
Her husband, friend, and lover,
Stout-hearted Joseph stood.
Such bliss no mortal father
E'er felt for his first-born,
As faith began to gather
In his pure soul that morn.

VI

And, as in smiling slumber
That blessed infant lay,
Bright visions without number
About him seem'd to play.
And in that lowly dwelling
A stillness, hush'd and dim,
Seem'd of the presence telling
Of viewless seraphim.

VII

They came and they departed,
Those simple, holy men;

And each felt joyful-hearted
As home he fared again:
But oft in thought they wander'd
To all they left behind;
While Mary kept and ponder'd
Their visit in her mind.

THE EPIPHANY.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

I

Angelic tongues would be too weak,
Angelic hearts too cold,
The wonders of God's love to speak,
So deep and manifold.
Heaven's principalities and powers
Are gazing on this world of ours,
His counsel to behold,
Which, since creation's morn, hath been
Unfolding on this mortal scene.

II

The strife in which we here engage
With Hell's rebellious host,
The warfare which the Church doth wage,
Hath Heaven's whole heart engross'd:
E'en as the news of foes' descent,
In fierce invading armament,
On some far island coast,
With one intense, tumultuous thrill
May rouse an empire's heart and will.

III

We know not but each brave repulse
Which foils the Tempter here,

Forbids his legions to convulse
Full many a brighter sphere.
But this we know—that since, on Earth,
Sin's foul and monstrous womb gave birth
To grief, and pain, and fear,
The wisdom and deep love of Heaven
Against hell's noxious brood have striven.

IV

At first, in dark mysterious guise,
That wisdom lay conceal'd;
Obscurely to prophetic eyes
As in a glass reveal'd.
But now the veil of Hebrew lore
Can dim its glorious light no more;
And Abraham's race must yield
The rights, which theirs no more may be,
To all Earth's countless progeny.

V

And, day and night, o'er land and sea,
Is spreading, far and fast,
The knowledge of Christ's mystery,
Close hid in ages past.
And who are they who tell the tale?
Who, heaven-commission'd, rend the veil
O'er all the nations cast?
And cause the light of truth divine
On man's sin-darken'd soul to shine?

VI

Not seraphs, as ye well might deem,
With souls and tongues of flame;
Whose utterance yet too weak would seem
That mystery to proclaim:
Not prophets from the grave arisen,
To groan once more in fleshly prison;
Not saints, who overcame,

Through Jesus' blood, the infernal powers
Which yet besiege these hearts of ours.

VII

Ah! no!—the messengers of peace
Themselves are sinners still;
Who scarce, e'en yet, have found release
For weary heart and will.
Fast bound in Satan's devilish thrall,
Christ's love aroused them, one and all,
And sent them forth to fill
His marriage-feast with guests, and tell
Of his rich love, unsearchable.

VIII

The words they speak are faint and few,
And scarce, at times, find vent;
Yet can the strongest hearts subdue,
With might omnipotent.
For from the spirit's depths they start,
And wing their way from heart to heart,
As though the speaker meant,
In that deep utterance, to reveal
A love he cannot choose but feel.

IX

And through that love, sent down from Heaven
To dwell in hearts new-born,
Shall sin at last from Earth be driven,
And Death of terror shorn.
The weapons of our warfare here
Are faith, and hope, and holy fear;
—Let these our souls adorn;
And Earth shall soon, like Heaven, confess
Christ's reign of peace and righteousness.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

Fair Star! whose orient beauty,
In patient love and duty,
Thro' many a sultry clime the pilgrim-sages led;
Whose beams, serene and tender,
First stay'd their waning splendour
Above the lowly stable where our Lord had laid his head;—

II

Bright, tranquil child of morning!
Who gav'st the earliest warning
Of that more glorious Sun, e'en then about to rise;—
From light's eternal fountains,
O'er Earth's remotest mountains,
First heralding the blaze of day, which soon should fill the skies!

III

What wast thou, wandering planet?
—Thy course,—O! whence began it?
In what dim, distant tract of unimagined space
Did thy Creator form thee?
Did first the sunbeams warm thee?
Did Nature's law project thee on thy swift and ceaseless race?

IV

Ah! sure, no glimmering meteor
Wast thou—Earth's noxious creature,
From dank, unwholesome dews and fetid vapours bred;
No comet fiercely glaring,
Men's hearts for war preparing,
And shaking, from its horrid hair, hate, pestilence, and dread.

V

Faith's eye alone could view thee—
Faith's foot alone pursue thee—
So thou didst safely guide those pilgrims on their way;
While yet thou wouldst not render
One glimpse of faintest splendour
To light stern Herod's ruffian bands to seize their infant prey.

VI

Perchance some new creation,
By sudden revelation
Wast thou, to mortal eyes, then first made manifest;
Some home of souls departed,
The holy, humble-hearted,
For ever floating blissfully,—an island of the blest!

VII

And when thy task was over,
Thy beauty thou didst cover
With azure folds of sky, and, hid from mortal eyes,
O'er ether's boundless ocean
Resume thy destined motion
Through space where other systems roll, and other suns arise.

VIII

Ah! wherefore thus forsake us?
When pain and grief o'ertake us,
Why not, from time to time, thy cheering light unveil?
On many a night of sorrow
Presaging glad to-morrow
To hearts that faint beneath their load, and eyes that, weeping, fail?

IX

Where lonely saints are kneeling,
From godless eyes concealing

The weight which this world's sin doth on their spirits lay—
Where, in prophetic study,
Until the east grows ruddy,
All night pale scholars wake and watch for Christ's long promised day—

X

Where ships, in endless motion,
Plough through the plains of ocean,
The messengers of peace to heathen lands to bear—
Where, English homes forsaking,
Brave hearts are slowly waking,
In savage haunts and gloomy wilds, the voice of Christian prayer—

XI

Where Heaven's elect assemble—
Where sinful spirits tremble—
Where first the stricken soul finds strength and voice to pray—
Where, round some widow'd father,
Half orphan'd children gather
Beside their sainted mother's grave—O why withhold thy ray?

XII

For what more blessed token
To hearts, by sorrow broken,
Of pardon seal'd in heaven and future rest could be?
What surer sign could find us,
In trouble to remind us
Of Christ's protecting light and love—than that reveal'd in thee?

XIII

Soul!—soul!—forbear such questions,—
Poor fancy's wild suggestions,—
Vain longings of the sense to feed its carnal eye;
What boots it that Man's spirit
Faith's treasures doth inherit,
If yet it cleaves so fondly to its old idolatry?

XIV

No blaze of sensual glory,
Intense but transitory,
Could the heart's craving thirst for purer light allay;
Even thine, fair star, returning,
Would but increase our yearning,
Which nought on earth could satisfy, for Heaven's unclouded day.

XV

Yet fond imagination,
By many a bright creation,
With shadowy types of Heaven can people Earth's domain;
Still shaping and combining,
From all things sweet and shining,
Memorials of immortal love to soothe our mortal pain.

XVI

The rainbow, in its splendour,
To hearts devout and tender
Still yields a glorious pledge of deepest sin forgiven;
The dawn's outbreaking whiteness,
The sunset's fading brightness,
Shed gleams of glory on the earth as from our homes in Heaven.

XVII

And when morn's star ascending,
Its pearly light is blending
With the pale, silver tints of the still sunless sky,
May fancy's eye discover
Thine orb, blest star, above her,
Bright as when first it usher'd in the day-spring from on high.

XVIII

Thus air, and earth, and ocean,
To hearts of calm devotion,

Rich founts of cheering thought and holy comfort prove;
All things are theirs for ever,
Nor life nor death shall sever
Their faith and patience here below from Christ's eternal love.

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

I

Hast thou believed, poor mortal child of sorrow,—
O! hast thou felt thy grievous plague within?
Hath thy crush'd heart e'er vainly long'd to borrow
Rest and relief from the dull weight of sin?
Hast thou retraced, with shame and consternation,
The paths thy spirit, since its birth, hath trod?
Hast thou conceived, in faint imagination,
The wrath of God?

II

Know'st thou His power—His works of fear and wonder,
Creator of all worlds, sole Lord of Heaven,
Whose glance is lightning, and whose voice is thunder;
Beneath whose breath hills quake, and rocks are riven?
Kings lick the dust before Him,—mightiest nations,
Thrones, empires, at his pleasure, wax and wane;
Man's countless tribes, through all their generations,
Confess His reign.

III

Know'st thou His holiness?—Behold! before Him
The angels veil their brows of living light;
Heaven's holiest children tremblingly adore Him;
Not Heaven itself is spotless in his sight.

No sinful thought, no wandering dream of folly,
The terrors of his presence may endure;
The King of saints is He—the Lord most holy,
And just, and pure!

IV

And what art thou, poor sinful human creature,
Inheritor of guilt, and shame, and woe?
Thy brightness soil'd, defaced each glorious feature,
Which once His image on thy soul did show?
Despiser of his laws! insane reviler
Of His great name! wild rebel to His will!
Of thine own soul the unrestrain'd defiler!
Yet scatheless still!

V

Why art thou spared?—what potent intercessor
Averts from thee His oft uplifted arm?
Why, on this earth, so reckless a transgressor,
Liv'st thou and breathest, free from mortal harm?
The sun shines on, the rains still fall to bless thee;
Heaven's brightness—Earth's affections still are thine;
Fond bosoms heave, and gentle arms caress thee
In tenderest twine.

VI

And ever and anon, amidst Earth's pleasures,
Thou hear'st a voice—a still small voice of love,
From these vain pomps and these decaying treasures
Wooing thy soul to fairer hopes above:
And, 'midst thy darkest deeds of shame and terror,
God's Spirit whispers to thy secret ear,
“This is the way—oh! quit those paths of error,
And walk thou here!”

VII

And thou art still encompass'd by His people,
And saints, perchance, weep for thee, night and day;

And Sabbath chimes ring out from tower and steeple,
In His own house inviting thee to pray.
And Christ still sends thee his appointed teachers,
Still proffers to thee his own flesh and blood;
Entreats, persuades, by pastors and by preachers,
Thy wayward mood.

VIII

O! close not thou thine ear, nor madly darken
Thy heart by reckless counsel, vain and wild;
But to those words of mercy meekly hearken,
E'en like a gentle and submissive child.
Think how all heaven hath been convulsed to save thee,
Vile as thou art, from hell's eternal death!
Think how God's Son—his sole begotten, gave thee
His dying breath!

IX

Think on the Virgin's womb!—on Bethlehem's manger!
God condescending to a peasant's birth!
Think on that life of grief, distress, and danger!—
His toils, his tears, his troubles here on Earth!
Think on that desert fast!—that lone temptation!—
Think on the anguish of Gethsemane!—
Think on the bitter cup, to win salvation,
Endured for thee!

X

For thee!—for thee!—the lost—the unconverted,—
The grief of angels—hell's close-guarded prize!—
But for his love by Heaven itself deserted!
Doom'd prey to that fierce worm which never dies!
And wilt thou still resist his deep compassion?
By new rebellions his slow wrath provoke?
Nay!—to His will thy spirit meekly fashion,
And bear his yoke.

XI

Yield up thy body, once sin's willing servant,
To Him a living sacrifice—to Him

Give heart, soul, thought, in love devout and fervent;
Join, with thy voice, His choir of seraphim.
Thy health, thy strength, the glory and the beauty
Of all thine inner man, with stedfast will,
Submit henceforth to the calm rule of duty,
And serve Him still.

XII

Be not conform'd to this world's varying humour,
Its love, its hate, its folly, or its pride;
Court not, and fear not, the foul breath of rumour;
Be to Earth's pomps and pleasures crucified.
Bow thy soul meekly to the Spirit's guiding,
Welcome his pure transforming influence;
Till Christ shall reign, in power and grace abiding,
O'er soul and sense.

XIII

Walk humbly before God, and with thy neighbour;
Be wisdom's lowliest and most docile child;
Counting it ample fruit of all thy labour
That thou to God, through Christ, art reconciled.
Be One in faith and hope, in heart and spirit,
With His true members, and in patient love
Do thine own task, that so thou may'st inherit
Their bliss above.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

The solemn joyance of the paschal feast
In Salem's thousand homes was over now;
The melody of Psalms had sunk and ceased,
And sacrifice, and prayer, and offer'd vow
Were mute on Zion's Temple-crested brow;

Through the throng'd gates was passing many a train
Of pilgrims, who had come their knees to bow,
In annual homage, at Jehovah's fane,
And now with peaceful steps were wending home again.

II

At that year's feast men's spirits had been stirr'd
Beyond their wonted fervour;—far and near,
Throughout the city, grave discourse was heard,
Breathing expectance not unmix'd with fear;
And friends, who met around their paschal cheer,
Spake each to each, in low and solemn tone,
Of Him who, all were hoping, should appear,
Ere many another passover had flown,
O'er Israel's race redeem'd to rear his promised throne.

III

And hoary rabbis, who had spent their youth
And the calm fervour of their middle age
In learned study of prophetic truth,
Met and conversed, in conference deep and sage,
On what God's oracles did now presage;
Computing how the years were nigh fulfill'd,
Foreshown long since in Daniel's mystic page,
Whereon high hopes did men securely build,
That soon Messiah's star should now the horizon gild.

IV

And hearts which long had for deliverance sigh'd
From the stern pressure of Rome's iron sway,
Felt as if soon they should not need to hide
The swelling hope, which deep within them lay,
That Israel's bondage now should pass away,
And brighter glory than her morn had seen
Gladden the progress of her later day,
When she of all the nations should be Queen,
And to Earth's utmost bounds extend her sway serene.

V

And among those of the unlearned sort,
The wild fore-shadowing of their hearts' desire
Found copious vent in many a strange report
Of signs in Heaven,—of blood and smoke, and fire,
Betokening to the Earth convulsion dire;
Of meteors kindling all the Eastern sky;
Of yawning graves, and ghosts in bright attire,
Who through the city walk'd nocturnally,
And spake of change to come, and freedom drawing nigh.

VI

And thus, on all the city's mighty heart,
A breathless hush of expectation dwelt;
And tears, unbidden, to men's eyes would start
As they, in fervent supplication, knelt
Before God's altar; and what each man felt
His neighbour in his eyes full well might read,
Till into words fond hope began to melt—
“Is Christ then born?—hath he been seen indeed?
Doth God vouchsafe at last to heal his people's need?”

VII

But the feast ended, and Christ had not come;
So, by degrees, hope's fever was allay'd,
And all dispersed—each rustic to his home,
Each townsman to his craft or to his trade.
Such termination life's dull labours made
To anxious speculation;—they meanwhile,
The dwellers afar off, began to lade
Their beasts, and homeward fared for many a mile,
In cheerful, pleasant talk, which did the way beguile.

VIII

And thus tow'rd East and West, and South and North,
Thro' Salem's every gate, from morn to night,
Youth, manhood, and old age were issuing forth;
In sooth a solemn and affecting sight!

Beneath those myriads hill and dale were white
As unto harvest, while each several breast
With its own treasure of glad thoughts felt light;
For each had done Jehovah's high behest,
So winning for itself abiding peace and rest.

IX

Amidst the humbler wayfarers were two,
Husband and wife—a noticeable pair,
Who northward their long journey did pursue;
Calm and devout their aspect and their air;
She, amidst Judah's daughters, passing fair,
And now in the full bloom of matron prime;
Yet, on her saintly forehead, did she bear
Traces of thought more holy and sublime
Than our dull hearts can reach in all their mortal time.

X

Upon an ass sedately did she ride,
Which for their travel scant provision bore;
While, staff in hand, her husband by her side
Cheer'd her with loving solace evermore.
—Thus pleasantly away the daylight wore,
And now, for weary beast and wearier man,
Until the morrow, must their toil be o'er;
And, halting for the night, the caravan
To pitch its lowly tents right joyfully began.

XI

Then suddenly, amidst that motley crowd,
A strange yet pleasant turmoil might be seen;
And busy voices, clamouring long and loud,
Lent their shrill discord to a wilder scene
Than e'er our quiet clime beheld, I ween;
As each small group its own encampment chose,
By bubbling fount or palm-tree broad and green,
Where each, or ere the gathering shades should close,
Prepared its evening meal and night's secure repose.

XII

To each his separate province was assign'd;
Some spread the viands forth in neat array;
Some for their beasts the freshest pasture find;
Some kindle watchfires, so to scare away
From the small camp each prowling beast of prey;
Some for the outposts choose their turns by lot,
That so the rest may sleep secure till day:
No separate charge or caution was forgot,
To guard from foes' assault that lone, sequester'd spot.

XIII

Meanwhile that grave-eyed couple, each for each,
Their coarse and scanty supper did prepare,
With gentle interchange of loving speech,—
Sweet condiment, I ween, to sorriest fare!
Then spake the matron, “Much I marvel where
Tarrieth our child, who never, till to-night,
Hath fail'd our labour, or our meal, to share;
Why comes he not to bless our longing sight?
Strange he should leave us now in this wayfaring plight!

XIV

“Fair as he is beyond the sons of Earth,
In form and feature, as in heart and will,—
Divine in wisdom, as divine by birth;
Yet hath he been, in love and duty, still
The meekest child that ever did fulfil
A parent's bidding; nor hath either heart
(Thine, Joseph, or mine own) been fain to thrill,
Since he was born, with one such grievous smart
As oft, for children's sins, makes parents' tears to start.

XV

“Why comes he not?—why now, at last, neglect
His parents' needs?—why leave us thus to bring
(As if through heedless sloth or disrespect)
Leaves for our couch, and water from the spring

To quench our thirst?—why suffer us to fling
Our weary limbs upon their earthy bed
Without a blessing?—sure, he would not wring
Our hearts with wilful wrong or causeless dread;—
O! lives he yet on earth, or rests among the dead?”

XVI

Thus the pale mother, in her anguish, spake,
With trembling voice and tear-suffused eye;
To whom her husband: “O! forbear to make
Thy fond heart sad with causeless agony.
His time, thou know'st, is not yet come to die;
His earthly trials scarcely are begun:—
Somewhere he loiters in our company;
For few there be who joy not to have won,
By most enticing arts, the presence of thy son.

XVII

“Haply with gracious and persuasive speech,
And wisdom riper than his tender age,
Tho' all unlearn'd, some neighbour doth he teach
The import deep of some prophetic page;—
Or, it may be, less serious tasks engage
His gentle spirit;—on the beaten track
He may have wander'd from our pilgrimage,
To feed his thought, which food doth never lack,
On Nature's wondrous works—and soon will he come back.”

XVIII

Thus he his anxious consort mildly cheer'd:
But the sun set, and moon and stars arose,
While yet their missing child had not appear'd;
And now the caravan in deep repose
At length was hush'd;—they only could not close
Their aching eyelids;—the fond mother's breast
Then first experienced all a mother's woes,
And, as each lay in comfortless unrest,
Did many a wild surmise their anxious minds molest.

XIX

Scarce did the dawn above the mountains peep
Ere these sad mourners from their couch had sprung,
When scarce an eye, save theirs, had banish'd sleep—
And, with imploring looks and anxious tongue,
Wander'd from tent to tent their friends among.
—“O! tarrieth not our gentle child with you?”
Thus still they ask'd, and still their hearts were wrung
With bitterest disappointment, and anew
Did they their restless search, with faltering steps, pursue.

XX

In vain!—no eye had seen that glorious boy
Since from the city gates the train had past,
And other cares did now all thoughts employ;
—Each to his own loved home was hastening fast.
The weary parents stay'd their search at last,
And toward Jerusalem retraced their way,
While many an anxious glance to Heaven they cast,
And ever and anon did humbly pray
That from their feverish lips this cup might pass away.

XXI

So to the Holy City back they went,
Fearless, though unprotected; for what dread
E'er touch'd a parent's spirit while intent
On a child's loss, perchance untimely dead?
And they moreover on their journey sped,
Trusting, with all their hearts, to Heaven's high love,
Which still had saved them, when of old they fled
Before fierce Herod's wrath, and from above
Warn'd them, in dreams, which way and when their steps should move.

XXII

But vain was all their toil:—in crowded street,
In lonely grove and garden, mount and hill,

In mart where buyers and where sellers meet,
On Cedron's marge, by clear Siloam's rill,—
They search'd and search'd with fruitless labour still;
Their truant child could nowhere yet be found,
And deeper awe began their hearts to fill:—
“Hath God removed him beyond this world's bound?—
Was he too pure and good to tread our mortal ground?

XXIII

“Is he withdrawn to some less sinful sphere,—
There to be train'd and nurtured for the strife
Which he with Satan must encounter here,
So to redeem our race from death to life?”
Thus wildly ask'd the husband and the wife,
While hope within their hearts was fading fast,
And dark imaginations there were rife,
And faith half sank beneath the bitter blast
Which o'er their sky of peace such clouds of darkness cast.

XXIV

Yet fail'd not, in that dark and trying hour,
Their gentle patience or confiding love;
And e'en 'midst pangs which did their souls devour,
Their thoughts rose freely to God's throne above.
So, ere their weary steps had ceased to rove
Thro' the wide city, they would spread their grief
Before His altar, thus perchance to move
His pity, and by prayer devout, though brief,
From this exceeding woe obtain divine relief.

XXV

So toward the Temple, up the sacred brow
Of Zion, pass'd they on their weary way,
And stay'd their steps beside the portal now
Through which men pass to sacrifice or pray:
Throng'd was the gate with busy feet that day,
For thither, at the feast, did crowds resort

To hear the rabbis, who, in learn'd array,
Were wont to fill the Temple's outer court,
Expounding Moses' law to those of simpler sort.

XXVI

Onward they pass'd to where a circle stood
Around a knot of doctors, then intent
On some deep question, learnedly pursued
With reason sound and specious argument,
Whereto a curious ear the hearers lent,
Silent and moveless, while on every brow
Sat thought perplex'd and deepest wonderment;
—But ah! what voice disturbs that silence now?
Wake, Mary, from thy grief!—ah, well indeed mayst thou!

XXVII

The centre of that circle, close begirt
With grave-eyed rabbis, erudite and sage,
A stripling stood, whose high and strange desert
All ears, all hearts, all voices did engage;
Scarce twelve years old, (so tender was his age!)
Yet with profoundest questions did he ply
Those reverend men, and from the scripture page
Cull close and cogent arguments, whereby
He foil'd the subtlest skill of all their casuistry.

XXVIII

Never, till then, had disputant so keen
Opposed and baffled those divines profound;
Full sorely were their wits perplex'd, I ween,
Against such wisdom to maintain their ground
As in his fervent pleadings did abound;
Yet was there nought of youth's presumption rude,
Or flippant scorn in his demeanour found;
Modest he was, and meek of eye and mood,
With more than mortal grace and gentleness endued.

XXIX

In simplest phrase, and yet like one who bore
Commission from on high, did he refute
Those grave professors of rabbinic lore—
Doctor, and scribe, and learned priest to boot;
—Not one was found who could with Him dispute;
The Pharisaic bigot stood aghast,—
The flippant Sadducee for once was mute,
Seeing and feeling all his triumphs past,
And almost deeming now Messias come at last.

XXX

And, on some faces, rising scorn and hate,
On others fervent interest you might read;
While many a listener to the keen debate
Did on that stripling's words, like manna, feed,
Feeling them full of grace and truth indeed;
So well he reason'd upon things divine,
So warm'd with life the letter of their creed,
Bringing rich gems from truth's exhaustless mine,
Whose brightness on all hearts, with quenchless light, did shine.

XXXI

His voice once heard, those wanderers forward rush'd—
—The listening crowd divided as they came,
And, for a space, the strife of words was hush'd—
Ah! can it be?—it is,—it is the same!—
Their own dear son!—his mother shriek'd his name,
As sudden joy took place of grief and fear;
Ah me!—my child, whom yet I dare not blame,—
Why deal'st thou with us thus?—what dost thou here,
While we, with sorrowing hearts, have sought thee far and near?

XXXII

To whom our Lord, with look serene and mild,—
“Wherefore thus seek me?—know ye not that I,
E'en like a duteous and obedient child,
Must do my Father's business?” From his eye

A smile broke forth like sunshine from the sky,
And his whole face with love celestial glow'd,
—Then straightway turn'd he, and submissively
Follow'd his joyful parents on their road,
And home with them return'd, and shared their mean abode.

XXXIII

There, in a poor man's cot, the Lord of Heaven
In meekness and in love vouchsafed to dwell,
To lowly tasks of rule parental given,—
Nor once against it did in thought rebel,
E'en when his heavenly heart began to swell
With holiest aspirations;—thus he grew
In wisdom and in stature, loved full well
By God in Heaven,—on Earth by all the few
Who of his gentle life the grace and goodness knew.

SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

I

With patient toil and thought profound,
There are, who can all depths explore,
And, in didactic phrase, expound
The wondrous things of sacred lore.
High privilege is theirs—to hold
The torch which lights our narrow way,
And to unlearned hearts unfold
The hidden life, the word, the way.

II

But woe to such! if learned pride,
Or fancy, with her restless eye,
Still searching, still unsatisfied,
Where holiest angels fear to pry—

If bigot's hate, or zealot's ire,
Corrupt the faith which God hath given
To kindle in their hearts the fire
That leads and lights mankind to Heaven!

III

And others are there, set apart
Through gifts which heavenly grace confers,
To heal the bruised and sunken heart,
Of peace and love blest ministers.
The soothing tone—the cheering smile—
The heart with kindness brimming o'er—
The speech which doth all griefs beguile—
The looks which banish'd peace restore—

IV

The liberal hand—the patient zeal—
The sympathy in darkest cares—
The pleasant ways to help and heal—
The death-bed solace—all are theirs!
Through this world's haunts of shame and sin
With love unwearied, let them roam,
Men's hearts, by gentlest lures, to win,
And lead them, to their Father, home.

V

Each hath his proper gift of God—
His own peculiar taste assign'd—
His path of duty to be trod—
His debt of service to mankind.
Do thou, in simple trust, thy part—
Teach, toil, give, suffer, hope and pray,
And He, who sees thy secret heart,
Thy work shall bless—thy pains repay.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

Wondrous was thy path on Earth,
'Midst our human grief and mirth;
All our good, and all our ill,
Feeling, Lord, yet sinless still!

II

Though thy hand upholds the spheres,
Thou could'st pity children's tears:
Though to thee Death yields his prey,
Thou could'st gaze on children's play.

III

At our feasts of sober glee
Thou would'st oft vouchsafe to be:
When thou cam'st thy friend to save,
Thou could'st weep beside his grave.

IV

At thy bidding, social mirth
And heart-gladdening cheer had birth,
When thou bad'st the goblets shine
With pure water turn'd to wine.

V

Then, in humble love's abode,
Livelier pleasure gleam'd and glow'd;
Then, from rustic lips devout,
Songs of joyous praise brake out:

VI

And thy glistening eyes might see,
In their blithe festivity,
What our earthly feasts had been
But for death and but for sin.

VII

Fie on unrestrain'd excess!
Fie on hateful drunkenness!
Fie on each unhallow'd feast
Whence thy love and name have ceased!

VIII

For thou still dost condescend
To our hearths and homes to send
Blessings on the social cheer
Of the hearts that love thee here.

IX

Thy transforming influence still
Into good turns all our ill;
Or, from weak and worthless things,
Holy joy and comfort brings.

X

Sensual passion, lust obscene,
Wrath and hatred fierce and keen,
Thy poor presence doth transmute
To the Spirit's choicest fruit.

XI

When the sacred nuptial rite
Doth pure heart to heart unite,
Thou canst make permitted love
Pure as that of saints above.

XII

What to our gross sense doth seem
Water of the fontal stream,
Thou canst change, by power divine,
To celestial milk and wine.

XIII

But for thee, sin's hateful gloom
Soon would make this Earth a tomb;
But where thy bright face hath shone,
Grief and fear at once are gone.

XIV

In thy path all things look bright,
Mortal darkness turns to light,
And, e'en here, our mental eye
Heavenly glories may descry.

XV

O be with us, gracious Lord,
Near our bed and at our board,—
By our fireside's pleasant cheer,
When the winter nights are drear.

XVI

Through the livelong summer day,
When our hearts are blithe and gay,
From all taint of fleshly ill
Purify our gladness still.

XVII

All that doth our hearts estrange,
From thy service—come and change
Into fervent love of thee,
By thy potent alchymy.

XVIII

So that when new Heavens and Earth
At thy bidding shall have birth,
Purged from all our dross of sin,
We may dwell with thee therein.

THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

SONNET.

Vengeance is mine! saith God; I will repay;
Yet would we madly arrogate His power,
Worms as we are!—poor reptiles of an hour!
And so, with many a fierce, vindictive fray,
Shake and o'erthrow our fragile homes of clay,
And each his foe, with bitter rage, devour,
When on his head rich blessings we should shower,
And with our kindness melt his wrath away!
Thou, if thine enemy hunger, give him food,
And to his thirst refreshing streams supply;
Still overcome his evil with thy good;
So, if his stubborn hate refuse to die,
God shall chastise his unrelenting mood
By sharp affliction's penal ministry.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

SONNET I.

“Lord! if thou wilt, thy power can make me clean!”
So spake the leper, and our Lord straightway
Put forth his hand, and “be thou clean,” did say;
—Immediately he rose with alter'd mien,

For on his body might no more be seen
A vestige of the plague, which, many a day,
From Man's abodes had driven him far astray,
To dwell with dark despair and anguish keen.
Thus by thy swift, mysterious grace, O Lord,
Cleanse thou our fouler leprosies within,
That so, from exile hateful and abhorr'd,
We may at length our full deliverance win,
And (to thy presence in thy Church restored)
Bring daily gifts of love for pardon'd sin.

SONNET II.

With cheerful self-surrender, to rely
On the sure rock of thy omnipotence;—
To rest our free, undoubting confidence,
On thy deep love;—to deem thee ever nigh;—
To know that Hell's dark hosts retreat and fly
Even at thy beck;—to feel thee our defence
When most we groan beneath the whelming sense
Of our own sin—our deep iniquity;—
Is not this faith?—the faith thou dost approve;
Such faith as dwelt in that centurion's breast,
The burden of whose grief thou didst remove,
Healing his servant at his meek request?—
Such faith, O Lord, as still draws down thy love
On homes which dare not claim thee for a guest?

SONNET III.

From East and West, and North and South, shall come
Unnumber'd myriads to Christ's marriage feast;—
Souls, by his gospel, from their sins released,
And call'd, to His and their great Father, home!
From torrid Ind, from frigid Greenland some—
A motley crowd, but in whose hearts hath ceased
The empire of the demon or the beast,
And peace and love have built their temple dome.
But we—the children of the kingdom—we
From earliest childhood train'd to truth and right,

Where, at that day, if faithless, shall we be?—
Alas! excluded from our Father's sight,
For foul neglect of grace so rich and free,
Gnashing our teeth in darkness day and night.

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

SONNET I.

The powers that be are God's—from Him derive
Their functions and their rights;—so we maintain,
O'er whom Christ doth, as willing subjects, reign;
Whence, whosoever with such powers shall strive,
Striveth with God, and doth himself contrive
His own damnation. Meekly wear thy chain,
Servant of Christ, nor e'er, in heart or brain,
At the fierce deeds of headstrong men connive.
Thine 'tis, while furious anarchs rant and rage,
Filling the air with turbulence and hate,
To shame the license of this latter age,
Still faithful found to God and to the State;
And rendering still, with spirit meek and sage,
Love to the good and honour to the great.

SONNET II.

Not in the foul and pestilential den
Of plotting treason;—not where brawlers meet
In fierce assemblies, with seditious heat
To rail at monarchs;—not where evil men
Slander the great and good with tongue and pen;
Not where, in crowded mart and public street,
Vile demagogues their ribald slang repeat—
Spirit of Christ! thy presence meets our ken.

Better thou lov'st the tranquil home and hearth
Of those whom such mean-spirited esteem;—
The gentle and submissive of the earth,
Who glide securely down life's quiet stream,
Safe, in their meek and unobtrusive worth
From fears which haunt the evil-doer's dream.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

With sails full spread and bending mast,
Like one who bounds with glee,
A fisher's bark was sailing fast
Across Gennesareth's sea.
Freshly and keenly blew the blast
From the shore of Galilee.

II

A precious freight it was, I trow,
Which that frail galley bore;
But angry waves, from stern to prow,
Her deck were sweeping o'er;
And loud and louder bellow'd now
The tempest's gathering roar.

III

But still, as on the vessel swept
Through waters foaming wild,
One toil-worn man lay still and slept
As calmly as a child,
Whose eyes for sin have never wept,
Whose heart is undefiled.

IV

Full soundly slept he,—for in sooth
A weary man was he;

A wanderer since his noon of youth,
By land and lake and sea,
To spread the rays of light and truth,
Where darkness wont to be.

V

Awhile that vessel's thoughtful crew
Stood gazing on his rest,
With awe profound and reverence due
In all their looks exprest;
Till fiercer yet the tempest blew
From the dark and cloudy west.

VI

Then straight a fearful toil began
The vessel's course to keep;
So wildly with the wind she ran
O'er the black and boiling deep;
—Yet still he slept (that weary man)
A calm, unstartled sleep.

VII

But fiercer still the surges roar'd,
And fiercer blew the blast;
And now, in each bold heart on board,
Dark fears were gathering fast,
As the winds and waves their fury pour'd
On shatter'd sail and mast.

VIII

Then came they, in their utmost need,
To where that sleeper lay;—
“Lord, sleep'st thou still and tak'st no heed—
Betide our lives what may?”
They spake—and at their words, with speed,
The sleeper rose straightway.

IX

“Oh! ye of little faith!”—he stood,
And calmly waved his hand;
At once the tempest's wrathful mood
Was hush'd at his command.
And the waters, in a waveless flood,
Roll'd smoothly to the strand.

X

No cloud obscured the deep blue sky,
No ripple curl'd the sea;
Earth, air, and water, far and nigh,
Were calm as calm could be.
The vessel's track you scarce might spy,
She rode so peacefully.

XI

The vessel's track you scarce might spy,—
And yet she wins her way,
With sails untorn and cordage dry,
Through the smooth and smiling bay;
“Now, who is this,” the shipmen cry,
“Whom the sea and the wind obey?”

XII

Dear Lord! a lowly life was thine,
While thou with Man didst dwell;
Yet winds and waves obey'd thy sign,
And knew their Maker well.
Thy voice could tame, with a charm divine,
All powers of Earth and Hell.

XIII

Incarnate fiends, beneath thine eye,
From human dwellings fled,
With a terrified and wailing cry,
To the fields where swine were fed;

And the sick were heal'd at the point to die,
And the graves gave up their dead.

XIV

And is thy power less wondrous now?
Or is thy love less kind
Than when they made Hell's demons bow,
And still'd the waves and wind?
May prayer no more, and whisper'd vow,
From thee such mercy find?

XV

Nay, still, though oft thou seem'st to sleep,
Thy love directs the helm,
And guides thy Church from deep to deep,
O'er this world's billowy realm;
And a tender watch doth o'er it keep,
Lest storms should overwhelm.

XVI

And still do Hell's dark legions flee
From the heart where thou dost reign,
And the sinner is cleansed from his leprosy,
And the prisoner breaks his chain,
And the soul, which was dead as dead could be,
Is raised to life again.

FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

SONNET I.

Servants of Christ! in men's misjudging eyes
Ye seem of little price, and proud men scorn
Your lowliness of heart; but ye are born
Of God, and made partakers of a prize

Unknown, undream'd of by the worldly-wise,
—A crown which none but saintly brows have worn,—
A robe which doth Christ's wedding guests adorn,—
Laid up, till His great day, beyond the skies.
This shall be yours in Heaven,—but now, on Earth,
Think it not strange if men account you vile;
Nor seek their plaudits, vain and nothing worth,
Nor quail at this world's frown, nor court its smile,
Clouding the glories of your own new birth
With such gross aims as sensual hearts defile.

SONNET II.

Soldiers and patriots! votaries of the vine!
And brain-sick lovers! ye have each your lay,
Martial or melting, wanton, grave, or gay,
As best befits each several idol's shrine;
The drunkard shouts wild catches o'er his wine;
The lover sighs his passionate soul away
In tenderest ditties; and, while trumpets bray,
Fierce war-songs animate the charging line.
Each mood and humour of the sensual mind
Hath its appropriate music;—and can we,
Chosen of Christ, and by his love design'd
To join hereafter heaven's high minstrelsy,
Fail, here on earth, for our great theme to find
Numbers, or words, or fitting melody?

SONNET III.
[_]

(CONTINUED).

Nay!—to the organ wed the voice of song,
And let the potent master of sweet sound,
Majestic Handel, till the sense be drown'd
In dream-like rapture, heavenliest strains prolong!
While the full chorus of the white-robed throng
Doth from the dim cathedral's roof rebound!
Nor yet, with censure harsh, the less profound
And tuneful skill of village minstrels wrong:

The heart alone makes melody to Heaven
Such as it loves; and angels oft are mute,
While simplest words of praise for sin forgiven,
Sung to rude notes of viol, pipe, and flute,
From parish choir, at Sabbath morn and even,
With grateful hymns the Omnipotent salute.

SONNET IV.

There are, whose faith is as a thing remote
From the world's common use; who, day by day,
Must from their narrow rule of duty stray,
For that, as worldly and misspent, they note
All hours which men to this world's cares devote,—
All labours and all pleasures—work and play—
Save what may speed the spirit on its way
O'er the calm waves of prayer and praise afloat.
Not such, O Lord, the lessons thou hast taught—
Not such thy law of worship undefiled;
For that pervades all action and all thought—
The man's grave toils, the pastimes of the child,
Bids us eat, drink, work, sport, as Christians ought,
Whom thy dear blood to God hath reconciled.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

SONNET.

'Twere pleasant to true Christians, when they meet
At their dear Master's board, to know that there
All hearts, with one accord, combine in prayer
Deep, pure, sincere, before Heaven's mercy-seat,
Aright discerning what they drink and eat.
Nor some to taunt our English Church forbear,
For that she guards, say they, with slender care,
Her altars from approach of reckless feet.
Such laxity to error is akin;
Yet error—all, like this, on mercy's side,
Methinks, can scarce deserve the brand of sin;
For who, without dire mischief, shall divide

From the pure wheat, till it be gather'd in,
The tares, their roots extending deep and wide?

SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

SONNET I.

Diverse in clime and country, wealth and birth,
Lowly and lofty, rich and poor are we,
Brethren, in Christ, of one great family—
Heirs to a treasure of uncounted worth
In Heaven, yet oft dishonour'd here on Earth,
For that men know us not—too blind to see
That inner light's serene effulgency
Which cheers the humblest Christian's home and hearth.
Yet fear we not their scorn, nor shun their hate,
Knowing that love, eternal and divine,
Even here hath raised us to a higher state
Than this world to its noblest can assign;
If to be sons of God is to be great
Beyond the greatness of Earth's princeliest line.

SONNET II.
[_]

(CONTINUED.)

Yes!—we are sons of God, though still beset
By sorrow and infirmity and sin,
Fightings without, and grievous fears within;
And oft with bitter tears our cheeks are wet.
Such are we now; nor may we guess as yet
What we shall be, when (this world's stormy din
Once ended) we our final rest shall win,
Where souls redeem'd all earthly griefs forget:
But this we know, that when He shall appear
Who is our life—whatever change shall be

In these frail bodies we inhabit here—
In these weak souls not yet from bondage free—
We shall be like Him—since, unveil'd and near,
Even as He is, our Master we shall see.

SONNET III.
[_]

(CONTINUED.)

Such is our hope, which maketh not ashamed,
Our souls sustaining with that daily bread
Whereon the cold dull world hath never fed;
By all but saints, unseen, unknown, unnamed;
Then let not such for carnal sloth be blamed
In their high calling, but, till lust be dead,
Their master's path of self-denial tread;
To his high model let their lives be framed.
So, strength from Him deriving, let them wage
Unceasing war with still unvanquish'd sin,
Quelling the lusts that in their members rage,
Till by degrees they cleanse the world within,
And, in the Book of Life's eternal page,
Triumphantly their high enrolment win.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

In patient faith, till Christ shall come
To call his duteous servants home,
Our hearts and minds we keep;
Still looking for that glorious day
When Heaven and Earth shall melt away
And saints awake from sleep.

II

And still—as years roll swiftly by,
And signs fulfill'd of prophecy

Declare Christ's coming near—
O'er Heaven and Earth our spirits range.
Noting if signs of coming change,
And brighter days appear.

III

And signs there be, in this late time,
Once more of hope's reviving prime,
As in redemption's morn;
The feverous earth doth shake again,
Groaning and travailing in pain,
Till some new change be born.

IV

And still, as empires reel and quake,
Doth longing expectation wake
In questions deep engross'd;
Seeking the place, the day, the hour,
Of Christ's approach in all his power,
With heaven's abundant host.

V

Vain search!—yet vainer and less blest
Is theirs who would our faith molest
With fancies strange and new;
False prophets who men's hearts deceive,
For dark and slippery paths to leave
The ancient and the true.

VI

We will not heed them, though they preach
False Christs with most persuasive speech,
And godless gospels frame,
Well skill'd the unstable to beguile,
In freedom's name, themselves the while
Sworn slaves of sin and shame

VII

“Lo! here”—the sensual zealots cry—
“Is man's supreme felicity;—
Leave dreaming and be wise;
Pleasure and love's free laws obey,
Nor cast Earth's solid joys away
For hopes beyond the skies.

VIII

“Man's full-grown mind hath burst its prison—
On superstition's night hath risen
The wish'd-for dawn of truth;
Nations and empires break the sleep
Of centuries, and from darkness leap
To life and hope and youth.

IX

“Indulge the fond conceits no more
Which fed the heart, ere yet was o'er
The childhood of our race;
Unheard let priests and poets tell
Fantastic tales of Heaven and Hell!—
Be Earth our resting-place!

X

“Let reason's sober light dispel
The dreams that nature loved so well—
Whate'er young fancy drew:
Her shadowy world at once destroy,
Nor barter for ideal joy
The tangible and true.”

XI

So let them prate!—we will not heed
The dogmas of their loveless creed,

Nor cast our hope away;
But calmly still in patience rest,
Till, lightning-like, from east to west
Breaks in the promised day.

XII

With no unheedful hearts we hear
The mutterings of convulsion near,
And terror soon to be;
Hosts gathering for the final strife
Of light and darkness, death and life,
With breathless awe we see.

XIII

We know that fearful darkness soon
Shall veil the face of sun and moon,
The stars forsake their spheres:—
The powers of heaven, with fear aghast,
Tremble and quake, until at last
Christ's sign in heaven appears.

XIV

Then Earth's rebellious tribes shall wail,
And sinful hearts with terror fail;
While saints despised so long,
From east and west, and south and north,
By angel trumpets summon'd forth—
Raise one triumphant song.

SEPTUAGESIMA SUNDAY.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

Ceaseless is the race we run—
All who live beneath the sun,

For some tinsel prize of earth,
Hardly won and little worth,
Brother striving still with brother—
Fain within his breast to smother
Rage and hate, and jealous fear;—
So we toil from year to year;
Some for wealth in gold and gems,
Some for gorgeous diadems;
Some, a rival to beguile
Of capricious beauty's smile;
Some to win the warrior's name;
Some to share the poet's fame;
Some, perchance, to guide the helm
Of the toss'd and foundering realm:
But amidst the toil and din,
Few, I guess, there be that win;
Thousands still, who faint and fall,
Ere the wish'd-for coronal
Round their fever'd brows they twine;
—Thus doth manhood waste and pine,
While the sweets which life imparts
To discerning minds and hearts,
Unperceived around us lie,
Waste their sweetness, droop and die;
And our haste no pause allows
With Heaven's gale to fan our brows,
Of the wayside brook to drink,
Or, beside the fountain's brink
Stretch'd awhile, the breath inhale
Of the fresh and flower-sweet gale;
Or to bless our aching eyes
With the beauty of the skies,
And the glories which have birth
In the fresh and fragrant earth;
Or, reclined beneath the shade
By thick-clustering branches made,
To life's joyous sounds to listen,
Till our eyes with pleasure glisten,
And a voice within replies

To those outward harmonies,
With a silent song of love—
Silent here—but heard above!
Few there be who loiter so
In this restless race below;
Few who gladden soul and sense
With this world's magnificence;
Fewer who such freedom win
From the bonds of lust and sin,
That, with an untroubled ear,
They the distant music hear,
Which the spirits of the blest
Make in their eternal rest.

So it is in this strange earth—
Outward wealth makes inward dearth.
Labour drains the spirit dry,
Fades the cheek, and dims the eye—
Labour and fierce strife to win
Food for lust and food for sin;—
So we waste our actual store,
While we vainly brawl for more;
Envying still, and still contending,
In turmoil that knows no ending;
Restless, though our cup we fill,
While Earth holds a fuller still:
Sad, though we an empire gain,
While more potent monarchs reign.
Yet was ever earthly crown
Which grim death could not beat down?—
Gold which we could hoard and save
In the chambers of the grave?—
Beauty by no change invaded,
Which nor time nor sickness faded?—
Is not all we love so well,
Like ourselves, corruptible?—
Do we not, for worthless things,
Barter the delight that springs

From the soul's eternal health?—
Still exchanging peace for wealth,—
Wearing out the life and strength—
Only to possess at length,
Through our endless toil and care,
Raiment for the flesh to wear
When the flesh itself is wasted—
Food, then only to be tasted
When no more the exhausted sense
Can discern its excellence?

Brethren! meet it is that we
Wiser far and happier be;—
Wiser than to waste, on earth,
All its bliss and all its mirth,
That, for life-long pains and cost
Heaven and it may both be lost.
Yet have we a race to run,—
Glory—to be lost or won,
Brighter than, since earth began,
Cheer'd the waking sense of man,
Or, in nightly visions, stole
On the slumbers of his soul.
Sharp that race to sensual flesh,
Though the spirit may be fresh;
And, until its toil hath ceased,
Still our vigour is increased;
While—as nearer still we come
To our goal and to our home—
Lovelier landscapes round us glow,
Sweeter breezes breathe and blow,
Brighter sunshine cheers our eyes,
And the choral symphonies
Of the heavenly legions ring
Audibly our welcoming.

Wouldst thou win yon heavenly crown?—
Christian, tame thy spirit down;

Loiter not in sensual bowers,
Flush'd with wine and crown'd with flowers;
Nor of Comus and his train
Join the revels wild and vain.
Let not love's delicious play
Steal thy soul and sense away,
Till thou canst no longer learn
Wisdom's lessons pure and stern.
Pleasure's cup may luscious be,
But it is not mix'd for thee.
If thou wouldst thy spirit train
For its heavenly race, refrain
From whate'er regalements bring
Foul excess and surfeiting.
Keep each power of heart and will
Clear, and free, and vigorous still.
Though thy toil be sharp and sore,
Soon, full soon, it will be o'er,
And thy weary brain and breast
Taste of Heaven's eternal rest.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

Through the world's frequented places—
Busy street and broad high-way—
'Midst the throng of human faces,
Year by year and day by day—
Wisdom's earnest voice is calling
To the slaves whom sloth and sin
Hold, in sensual chains enthralling,
“Come ye, to my vineyard, in!”

II

Happy, in life's cloudless morning,
Yea, of all men happiest they

Who receive that heavenly warning,
Hear it and at once obey!
They, ere lust hath dimm'd the splendour
Of the opening world within—
Ere the heart hath grown less tender,—
Break the bonds of sense and sin.

III

Them no sore avulsion rendeth
From this world's vain hopes and fears;
No unheal'd remembrance blendeth
Anguish with their after years.
Time by them hath ne'er been wasted;—
Ere life's tempting paths they trod,—
Ere life's poison'd cup they tasted,—
They became the sons of God.

IV

Them no storm of woe compelleth
To their Father's arms to flee;
In their hearts His Spirit dwelleth
Richly e'en from infancy.
Christ to love's unceasing duty
Them with silken cords constrains,
And with gleams of heavenly beauty
Soothes their sorrows, charms their pains.

V

Happy they! but few in number!—
Till mid age the millions lie
Wrapt in dreams of sensual slumber,
While life's brightest hours go by.
Them, amidst their cares or pleasures,
Wisdom's voice again invites;
“Come—secure your heavenly treasures,
Flee from Earth's impure delights!”

VI

Some there be who heed and hearken,
Cast their worthless gauds away,
Ere life's noon begins to darken,
Shade by shade, to twilight grey.
Wealth to them becomes a bubble,
Honour but an empty name;
—Farewell now life's toil and trouble,
Fraud and folly, sin and shame!

VII

Nobler hopes have stirr'd within them,
Loftier aims engage the breast;
Heaven and heavenly labours win them
From this feverish world's unrest.
They the better part have chosen,
Late, but not too late to toil;
Years not yet the heart have frozen,
Though rank weeds o'erspread its soil.

VIII

Noon hath past;—life's fervour waneth;
O'er the temperate heart and will
Sensual lust less blindly reigneth,
Yet the spirit slumbereth still.
Wisdom's voice again upbraideth—
“Haste—life's sun will soon go down;
Ere its light for ever fadeth,
Wake and win your heavenly crown.”

IX

Fainter now that voice appeareth,
Yet it will not cease to plead,
Till the awaken'd sleeper heareth,
Till his heart is touch'd indeed.
From life's evening rest he starteth,
Eager some few hours to save

(Ere the time for work departeth)
From the darkness of the grave.

X

Eve is gone;—grey twilight's glimmer
Veileth life's cold cloudy sky;—
Soul and sense are now grown dimmer,—
Fadeth ear and heart and eye.
In the wreck of thought and feeling
Earthly love is waxing cold;
Yet are Wisdom's accents stealing
To the soul in sin grown old.

XI

Lo!—the hoary sinner turneth
Feebly to the awakening sound;
In his heart strange fervour burneth,
Love hath sin's strong chain unwound.
Little hath he now to proffer,—
Time and strength and health are gone;—
What remains behold him offer—
“Lord! in me thy will be done!”

XII

Yea! even so:—thy ways, O Father!
Are not as our mortal ways;
Thou canst life's whole harvest gather
From its worst and weakest days.
To thy just decision bending,
At thy feet our works we cast;
Though, in bliss all thought transcending,
Last be first, and first be last!

SONNET.

FROM THE SAME.

Our lot hath fallen upon the latter time—
The cloudless evening of the Church's day;

Whose burden and fierce heat have past away,
That scarce we need that faith and zeal sublime,
Which, in her pure and persecuted prime,
Taught tender maids and matrons old and grey,
Smiling defiance in death's grim array,
To the proud heights of martyrdom to climb.
Beneath our fig-trees and our vines we dwell
At ease.—What claim then to their bliss have we
Who with the fiercest powers of Earth and Hell
Warr'd, and so won their immortality?
Ask not:—but wage thine own poor warfare well—
E'en as thy striving thy reward shall be.

SEXAGESIMA SUNDAY.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

SONNET.

Thou wouldst have been, had all thy hopes died here,
Of mortal men most wretched, Holy Paul!
For thou didst cast away thine earthly all—
Wealth, comfort, reputation bright and clear,
Yea, whatsoever carnal men hold dear,
To be what, in their blindness, they miscall
A low fanatic,—superstition's thrall,
Then most contemptible when most sincere.
The Gentle sophist mock'd thy simple creed,
The bigot Jew pursued thee with fierce hate;
E'en faithless brethren, in thine utmost need,
Forsook thee;—thou, meanwhile, didst calmly wait
God's time, content on Earth to toil and bleed,
Till martyrdom should ope Heaven's narrow gate.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

God! who dost the increase grant
To thy labourers here below,
When they water, when they plant,
When the Heavenly seed they sow;
Bless, O Father, bless our toil,
With the sunshine of thy face;—
Fertilize this barren soil
With the dews of love and grace.

II

Thine the harvest, thine the praise,
When the crops are gather'd in,
Which, with life-long pains we raise
In this world of shame and sin.
Where we sow 'tis thine to reap—
All our days are seed-time here;—
Ceaselessly at work we keep,
Month by month and year by year.

III

Spring and autumn toil we still—
Through the long midsummer light;
Through the winter, dark and chill,
Scattering seed from morn till night.
Now, with zeal's persuasive power,
Life-infusing truth we preach;
Now, for many a patient hour,
In the village schoolroom teach.

IV

Oft beside the social hearth
Stealthily the seed we sow,—

Oft when hearts are light with mirth—
Oftener when oppress'd with woe.
Times and seasons watch we still—
Still the best occasions seek,
When to bend the stubborn will,
When the awakening word to speak.

V

So we toil, but toil in vain
When the dews of grace are dry;
When the fertilizing rain
Lingers in the drouthy sky.
Now in rocky soils we sow—
Hearts from Heaven so far astray,
That, or ere the blade can grow,
Satan steals the seed away.

VI

Some in light and shallow mould
Doth, with fairer promise, fall,—
Ardent minds and uncontroll'd—
Sensitive—but weak withal.
Such, anon, with joy embrace,
Hear and ponder, weep and pray,
Till—when trouble shews its face—
Straight their flimsy faith gives way.

VII

Other seed in deeper soil
Sinks, and takes abiding root;
But rank thorns the produce spoil,
Choke and mar the genuine fruit.
Worldly care and lust and pride,
Wealth and luxury creep in,
Till the life of life hath died,
Stifled by insidious sin.

VIII

Thou, the harvest's sovereign Lord!
For the seed the soil prepare,
Sun and rain and dews afford,
Till the wish'd-for crop it bear.
Good and honest hearts create,
Swift to hear and firm to hold;
Make our tillage, soon or late,
Bring forth fruit an hundred-fold.

QUINQUAGESIMA SUNDAY.

FROM THE GOSPEL.

I

'Twas when our Lord was journeying tow'rd stately Jericho,
And multitudes around his path did gather still and grow
For wondrous were the words he spake—pure words of truth and grace,
And all the love of Earth and Heaven was beaming from his face;
And miracles of healing might his blessed hand had done,
Proclaiming Him, to faithful eyes, the Lord's anointed Son.

II

Now as he to the city gate, in earnest speech, drew nigh,
A blind man sat beside the road, and begg'd of passers by;
He heard the hum of multitudes—the myriad-footed tread—
And in his darkness, anxiously, “What meaneth this?” he said;—
“What mean these sounds of thronging crowds?”—and thus men made reply—
“Jesus, the blessed Nazarene—'tis He who passeth by.”

III

Then suddenly a gleam of light shot through the beggar's mind,
His inward eye was lighten'd, and his heart no longer blind;
Faith brought him back the world without, in blissful vision shown,
And said it might, by Heaven's rich grace, become once more his own.
So straight he raised his eager voice, and piteously cried he—
“Jesus! thou Son of David! have mercy upon me!”

IV

His cry disturb'd the listening groups, the foremost in the way—
“Now hold thy peace, bold beggar—trouble not our Lord,” said they.
But little heeded he their words, for in his mental eye
Familiar faces—youthful scenes, long lost, were passing by;
And still he raised his earnest voice, and piteously cried he—
“Jesus! thou Son of David! have mercy upon me!”

V

Our Lord stood still, and fix'd on him a mild, approving glance,
Till the blind man felt the sunshine of his beaming countenance;—
“Forbid him not, but rather guide his steps to me,” he said,—
And the beggar to his presence straight by pitying hands was led;
And as he knelt before Him, with raised hands and bended knee—
“Tell me,” he said, “what wilt thou that I should do for thee?”

VI

That voice of heavenly mercy through the blind man's bosom thrill'd
As sweetly as the dew of Heaven on Hermon's brow distill'd.

He felt the pressure of the grief that on his spirit lay,
But felt that soon, at His dear word, that grief would pass away;
Nor paused he for a moment's space, but cried, in deep delight,
“Lord! this I would—that, from thy hand, I might receive my sight!”

VII

“Receive thy sight,” our Lord replied,—“thy faith hath made thee whole”—
And the blind man rose, with sight restored to body and to soul;
And blithely in his Saviour's track, with eager steps, he trod,
And bless'd him for his healing grace, and glorified his God.—
And all the crowds, that throng'd around, with echoing hearts replied—
“Our God, and Jesus Christ, his Son, for this be glorified!”

ASH WEDNESDAY.

FROM THE EPISTLE.

I

When our hearts with grief are sore,
When our path looks dark and sad,
When Hope's star appears no more,
When our foes are proud and glad—
When our steps have gone astray,
Till we feel the chastening rod,
Wherefore should the godless say—
“Where is now their God?”

II

In our grief of heart is He—
In the darkness of our path—

Him in Hope's eclipse we see,
Robed in mercy, not in wrath.
Thus he warns us from the way—
Sin's wild way, which we have trod;—
Why should then the godless say—
“Where is now their God?”

III

While in this dark world we roam,
Out of sight His judgments lie;
Stay till we have reach'd our home—
That bright home beyond the sky.
When, in Time's last awful day,
We of Earth throw off the sod—
How shall then the godless say—
“Where is now their God?”

HYMN FOR EASTER EVE.

I

All is o'er;—the pain, the sorrow,—
Human taunts, and fiendish spite;
Death shall be despoil'd to-morrow
Of the prey he grasps to-night;
Yet once more, to seal his doom,
Christ must sleep within the tomb.

II

Close and still the cell that holds him,
While in brief repose he lies;
Deep the slumber that enfolds him
Veil'd awhile from mortal eyes:—
Slumber such as needs must be
After hard-won victory.

III

Fierce and deadly was the anguish
Which on yonder cross he bore;
How did soul and body languish,
Till the toil of death was o'er!
But that toil, so fierce and dread,
Bruised and crush'd the serpent's head.

IV

Whither hath his soul departed?—
Roams it on some blissful shore,

100

Where the meek and faithful-hearted,
Vext by this world's hate no more,
Wait, until the trump of doom
Call their bodies from the tomb?

V

Or, on some benignant mission,
To the imprison'd spirits sent,
Hath he to their dark condition
Gleams of hope and mercy lent?—
Souls not wholly lost of old,
When o'er earth the deluge roll'd!

VI

Ask no more;—the abyss is deeper
E'en than angels' thoughts may scan;
Come and watch the heavenly sleeper;
Come and do what mortals can,
Reverence meet toward Him to prove,
Faith, and trust, and humble love.

VII

Far away, amidst the regions
Of the bright and balmy east,
Guarded by angelic legions
Till Death's slumber shall have ceased,
(How should we its stillness stir?)
Lies the Saviour's sepulchre.

VIII

Far away;—yet thought would wander
(Thought by Faith's sure guidance led),
Farther yet to weep and ponder
Over that sepulchral bed.
Thither let us haste and flee
On the wings of phantasy.

101

IX

Haste, from every clime and nation,
Fervent youth, and reverend age;
Peasant, prince,—each rank and station,
Haste, and join this pilgrimage.
East and west, and south and north,
Send your saintliest spirits forth.

X

Mothers, ere the curtain closes
Round your children's sleep to-night,
Tell them how their Lord reposes,
Waiting for to-morrow's light;
Teach their dreams to Him to rove,
Him who loved them, Him they love.

XI

Matron grave and blooming maiden,
Hoary sage and beardless boy,
Hearts with grief and care o'erladen,
Hearts brimful of hope and joy,
Come and greet, in death's dark hall,
Him who felt with, felt for all.

XII

Men of God, devoutly toiling
This world's fetters to unbind;
Satan of his prey despoiling
In the hearts of human kind;
Let to-night your labours cease,
Give your care-worn spirits peace.

XIII

Ye who roam o'er seas and mountains,
Messengers of love and light;
Ye who guard Truth's sacred fountains
Weary day and wakeful night;

102

Men of labour, men of lore,
Give your toils and studies o'er.

XIV

Dwellers in the woods and valleys,
Ye of meek and lowly breast;
Ye who, pent in crowded alleys,
Labour early, late take rest;
Leave the plough, and leave the loom,
Meet us at our Saviour's tomb.

XV

From your halls of stately beauty,
Sculptured roof and marble floor,
In this work of Christian duty
Haste, ye rich, and join the poor,
Mean and noble, bond and free,
Meet in frank equality.

XVI

Lo, His grave! the grey rock closes
O'er that virgin burial-ground;
Near it breathe the garden roses,
Trees funereal droop around;
In whose boughs the small birds rest,
And the stock-dove builds her nest.

XVII

And the moon with floods of splendour
Fills the spicy midnight air;
Tranquil sounds and voices tender
Speak of life and gladness there,
Ne'er was living thing, I wot,
Which our Lord regarded not.

XVIII

Bird, and beast, and insect rover,—
E'en the lilies of the field,

103

Till His gentle life was over,
Heavenly thought to Him could yield:
All that is to Him did prove
Food for wisdom, food for love.

XIX

But the hearts that bow'd before Him
Most of all to Him were dear;
Let such hearts to-night watch o'er Him,
Till the day-spring shall appear;
Then a brighter sun shall rise
Than e'er kindled up the skies.

XX

All night long, with plaintive voicing,
Chaunt his requiem, soft and low;
Loftier strains of loud rejoicing
From to-morrow's harps shall flow.
“Death and hell at length are slain,
Christ hath triumph'd, Christ doth reign.”

April 2nd, 1836.

I Peter, iii. 19, 20.

107

PROTESTANT HYMN TO THE VIRGIN.

I

With no forbidden vow
To thy blest name we bow,
Holiest of women, nor, with suppliant knee,
And fondly whisper'd prayer,
The votive gift prepare,
Which yet, with reverent heart, we bring to Thee,
As to the highly favour'd, from whose womb
Into this groaning world did its Redeemer come.

II

Not as enthroned on high
Near Heaven's dread Majesty;
Not as endued with Mediatorial power,
With Christ to intercede
For human hearts that bleed
When sin assails, or care and grief devour;
Not as the Queen of Heaven, by right divine,
Do we bemock thy praise, or idolize thy shrine.

III

We know not on what shore,
Since life's brief toil was o'er,
Thy soul hath sojourn'd; whether dreamless sleep,
Diffused o'er brain and breast,

108

Lulls sense and thought to rest,
While angels their calm watch beside thee keep,
Till their great Captain's trump shall rend the tomb,
Proclaiming the dread day of Nature's final doom.

IV

Or whether, near the side
Of Him, the Crucified,
Thy Saviour and thy Son, already tasting
Rich antepasts of Heaven,
(Thy mortal sins forgiven
For his dear sake) thou calmly view'st the wasting
Of Time's dull ages, which must fade and flee,
Ere body, soul, and sense, in perfect bliss can be;

V

Or whether, from on high,
Thou lead'st the company
Of spirits sent to minister below
To all salvation's heirs,
Soothing their human cares,
And o'er their darkest hours of earthly woe
Breathing the balm of Heaven's eternal peace,
And smoothing danger's waves, and causing fear to cease.

VI

Such hosts as once of old
Did mortal eye behold,
Unseen till then, nor ever since display'd;
When, in the illumined mount,
In numbers passing count,
Chariot on chariot, horse with horse array'd
In fiery legions, with empyreal blaze,
At the great Prophet's prayer burst on his servant's gaze.

VII

Such forms as oft seem nigh
To Christian dreamer's eye,

109

At lonely twilight, or the tearful hour
When friends, long parted, meet
In converse sad but sweet,
Of friends fast bound in Death's still grasping power;
The loved, the long'd for, who, from their repose,
Look down, they fondly deem, on all their joys and woes.

VIII

No thought of man can guess
In what obscure recess
Of Heaven or Earth those blessed souls may be
Who, purged from fleshly stain,
Are from the galling chain
Of fleshly bondage, by the grave, set free;
We know not of their haunts, but know that thou
Art e'en as one of them, and with them mingled now.

IX

Of all that saintly host
With whom consort'st thou most?
To whom (if disembodied spirits frame
Intelligible speech,
Imparting, each to each,
Thought for which we, the earthly, have no name)—
To whom, O Holiest, dost thou now disclose
The pure and peaceful thoughts which gladden thy repose?

X

Haply they all to thee
Yield meet precedency,—
To thee, the saintliest of all saints confest;
Encircling some bright throne
Whereon thou reign'st alone,
The virgin queen of all the realm of rest;
Dispensing smiles, like light, from side to side,
On ranks of radiant saints, and martyrs glorified.

110

XI

Yet one, perchance, there is,
Joint heiress of thy bliss,
And scarce less honour'd; before whom e'en thou,
With reverence due, lay'st down
Thine amaranthine crown,
And veil'st the blaze of thy effulgent brow;
She, our great Mother, Mary, ours and thine,
And saved, like us and thee, by love and grace divine.

XII

On her majestic face
The blest still haply trace
The lingering look of scarce forgotten sadness;
E'en while, in rapture mild,
On thee her favourite child
She gazeth through bright smiles and tears of gladness,
For earth's four thousand years of grief and gloom
Ended by Him who lay within thy Virgin womb.

XIII

Two forms are at her side,
Serene and thoughtful-eyed;
Abel and Enoch;—Death's first victim this;
For whom that bitterest pain
First pierced the heart and brain
Of Parents mourning for Earth's dearest bliss;
The other, deathless raised from Earth to Heaven,
Type of the grave subdued, and sin, through faith, forgiven.

XIV

And, haply, some there be,
Erewhile endued, like thee,
With woman's holiest heart; who trod on earth
The ways of Heavenly truth,—
Meek Hannah, constant Ruth,
And that fair Persian Queen of Hebrew birth:

111

Some, haply, who with thee on Earth were seen,
Martha, and Mary, and repentant Magdalene.

XV

And others whom even we
(If fondest Phantasy
May image that which Love would fain believe)
Have walk'd with here below,—
Now freed from all Earth's woe—
Souls whom thou may'st, with tenderest love, receive;
Mothers, and wives, and maidens undefiled,
And infants who, even here, might on thy lap have smiled.

XVI

But wherefore thus prolong,
In vain, presumptuous song,
Poor shadowy fancies of a world unseen!
Why strive to picture thee,
As what thou now may'st be—
Rather than that which thou indeed hast been;
A mortal dweller in this world of death,
A thing of flesh and blood, instinct with human breath?

XVII

As such, men yielded thee
Their fond idolatry,
(For which thou weep'st, if souls in glory can;)
For thee impassion'd thought
Such fleshly beauty wrought,
As thrills the enamour'd soul of sensual man.
So the meek mother, with her babe divine,
Was hymn'd with many a vow at many an erring shrine.

XVIII

Nor e'er with subtler wile
The old Tempter did beguile

112

His victim Man from worship pure and true;
Assembling whatsoe'er
Of holy, bright and fair
Creation yieldeth to our human view;
When to thy name he bade us bend the knee,
Fall down before thy shrine, and fondly worship Thee.

XIX

For in thy heart did meet
Such feelings pure and sweet
As never met in woman save in thee;
The maid's, the mother's heart,
Complete in every part,
Woman's meek faith, and angel's purity;
So Heaven and Earth in thee commingled seem;—
Whate'er on Earth we love,—whate'er of Heaven we dream.

XX

No wanton fancies wild
Thy maiden prime beguiled;
Nor hopes, nor fears of Earth's tumultuous love;
But Faith to visions high
Unseal'd thy mental eye,
And fix'd thy earnest heart on things above.
Meet wast thou, and most worthy to behold
That glorious angel's face, who thy great doom foretold.

XXI

Nor at thy nuptial hour,
Nor in thy bridal bower,
Might earthly passion and light dalliance be;
But o'er thy saintly soul
An awful rapture stole,
When Heaven's creative power o'ershadow'd thee,
Impregnating thy chaste and virgin womb
With Him who died to rise triumphant o'er the tomb.

113

XXII

And when that hour was come,
Consign'd, by Eve's dread doom,
To bitterest anguish, with no mortal throes
Of travail dire, but free
From nature's agony,
Didst thou the treasure of thy womb disclose;
And, at the fountains of thy virgin breast,
First feed Heaven's newborn heir, then cradle him to rest.

XXIII

Nor did thy bosom know
A mother's anxious woe;
Her painful pressure of continual care;
Her wakeful hopes and fears;
Her secret sighs and tears;
When o'er her child, of sin and death the heir,
She watcheth with a heart of wild unrest,
Lest sickness seize his frame, or sin corrupt his breast.

XXIV

For he, the immortal, grew,
With tender heart and true,
In wisdom, as in stature, at thy feet;
His bosom free within
From speck or taint of sin;
Each act in outward rectitude complete;
And in thy lowly home, with reverence mild,
Did all thy gentle will, a grave and godly child.

XXV

Communion calm and pure
Was that which did endure
Through childhood's years between his soul and thine;
O'er many a treasured word
From his dear accents heard,
And breathing wisdom high and love divine,

114

Brooded thy heart until the hour was come,
When He for God's great work must leave his tranquil home.

XXVI

Never on earth, till then,
In all the haunts of men,
Did such a mother watch o'er such a child;
'Twas thine alone to see,
From tenderest infancy
To perfect manhood, nature undefiled
By act or thought of sin, each day revealing
New depths of guileless love, and pure and heavenly feeling.

XXVII

Say, swell'd thy heart with pride,
When thou beheld'st him ride
In meekest glory, in the after years;
While, strewn o'er all his way,
Branches and garments lay,
And loud Hosannahs, pealing in his ears,
Hail'd him the promised king from David's stem,
Coming in triumph to his own Jerusalem?

XXVIII

And when the traitor's art
Had done its hateful part,
And speechless he, and uncomplaining stood;
By cruel scourges torn,
While many a piercing thorn
Bedew'd his godlike brow with streams of blood;
And the coarse rabble, with insulting cry,
Taunted his patient grief, and mock'd his agony;—

XXIX

When on the cross he hung
With parch'd and feverish tongue,

115

By torture dire and dreadful anguish spent;
Till Earth's convulsive groan
Proclaim'd his spirit flown,
While the hills trembled, and the rocks were rent,
And heaven itself lay wrapt in distant gloom,
And many a buried saint rose from his bursting tomb;—

XXX

What feeling then was thine?
Did thy pure heart repine
At thy child's anguish? or, in him beholding
All sorrow slain at last,
And Death's dread empire past,
Couldst thou rejoice, e'en while, (thy arms enfolding
His gentle corpse in their most pure embrace,)
Thou gazed'st thro' thy tears on that pale, lifeless face?

XXXI

And when, (his conflicts o'er,)
From Hades' shadowy shore
Return'd, he rose triumphant o'er the tomb;
Oh! shared he not with thee,
In tenderest sympathy,
His joy and triumph for man's alter'd doom?
Wast thou alone, of all he loved, forgot,
The only friend on earth whom he remember'd not?

XXXII

Where wast thou in that hour
When he, by Death's dark power
Enthrall'd erewhile in his sepulchral prison,
Once more on earth was seen
By faithful Magdalene?
Why heardst not thou the greeting, “He hath risen!
Come, see the place in which the Saviour lay;
The seal is broken now, the stone is roll'd away?”

116

XXXIII

For many a day appear'd
That form and face revered
Where brethren met, and many a word was spoken
By that divinest voice,
Which made their hearts rejoice
In pain and peril; yet he left no token,
By man recorded, of especial love,
No word or thought of thee ere yet he went above.

XXXIV

We know not, nor may gess
Why slept his tenderness
(Or seem'd to sleep) once deeply felt tow'rd thee;
Or if indeed he came,
In heart and soul the same
E'en as in childhood he was wont to be,
To lay his deathless trophies at thy feet,
And all his pangs to thee and all his joys repeat.

XXXV

Such things may well have been—
Too sacred to be seen
By human eye, or told by human pen;
Yea; till thy aged breast
Sank to its final rest,
And thy form faded from the eyes of men,
Such parting words may in its depths have dwelt
As gave thee peace and joy which none but thou have felt.

XXXVI

But vain all efforts be
Of venturous phantasy
To such dim heights of shadowy thought to climb:
Almost unmeet it seems
To suffer her wild dreams
Round thee to float, and in fantastic rhyme,

117

Depict thee, to the mind's believing eye,
In false and fading tints of airy imagery.

XXXVII

We deem thee bright and fair,
Almost as angels are;
And haply such thou wast; but few endure
To picture thee grown old
'Midst sorrows manifold,
Widow'd and childless, feeble, frail and poor;
With wrinkled brow, and locks of hoary gray,
And eye grown dim and dull by years of slow decay.

XXXVIII

Nor love our hearts the gloom
Diffused around the tomb
Which hides thy form, to hungry worms a prey;
Nor bear, in thought, to trace
Corruption's foul embrace
Wasting thy sweet mortality away.
Thou art too fair, too heavenly-bright a thing
To bear the loathly breath of such imagining.

XXXIX

But thee, with features mild,
On thy celestial child
Down-looking, in bright youth's resplendent bloom,
We cherish with fond heart;
As many a limner's art
Shadows thee forth, unsullied by the gloom
Of years or mortal pain; thy gentle eyes
Beaming forth Heaven's own love, like gleams from Paradise.

XI

And yet, methinks, 'twere well
Our foolish hearts should dwell

118

On thy fair image e'en in its decay;
Remembering that of old,
Beneath the wormy mould,
As we must lie, the Saviour's mother lay;
Like us the grave, like us corruption saw,
Subject, like us and ours, to Death's unbending law.

XLI

'Twas thine on earth to share
Whatever griefs we bear,
Christ's parent, yet our sister; and to thee
Our reverent hearts look back
O'er Time's mysterious track,
As to the first by Heaven ordain'd to be
A Christian matron—that most holy thing
Which human thought can frame in all its wandering.

XLII

And Woman, who began
Then first to rank with Man,
His subject, but thenceforth no more his slave;
Derives, in part, from thee
Her righteous victory
O'er injury and wrong; and o'er thy grave
In thought laments, meet reverence to express
To thee, in Christian rights, her first great ancestress.

XLIII

Such honours still be thine;
Such wreaths for ever twine
Around thy sepulchre as now we bring;
Such greetings thither come
From many a Christian home,
Where wife, and husband, and glad children sing,
At morn and eve, their hymn of peace and love,
For comfort here below, to him who reigns above.

119

XLIV

Let Christian maids from thee,
Type of virginity,
Borrow their blameless thoughts, their calm desires;
And Christian matrons seek
Thy spirit mild and meek;
Thy holy wisdom; sons and reverend sires,
By love like thine in Christian nurture rear'd,
Still bless the mother's looks, the mother's tones revered.

XLV

But hark! the trump of doom
Peals through, and bursts the tomb!
The living and the dead together throng
Before the eternal throne,
Whereon He sits alone,
Who died upon the cross for human wrong.
Mary, the child to whom thy womb gave birth,
Unveil'd in glory stands; sole judge of heaven and earth.

XLVI

And thee, and us, and all,
That dreadful trump must call,
To hear our several dooms by Him decreed:
In terror of that day
Vain fancy melts away;
E'en Christian faith doth tremble like a reed
Sway'd by the wind:—we think of Thee no more;
Our song is silent now; its music past and o'er.

123

SUNDAY IN THE MOUNTAINS.

CANTO I.

I

'Tis Sunday morn!—a summer Sunday morn!—
And should be full of sunshine, for July,
Queen of the circling months, to-day is born;
Yet o'er yon mountain peaks, which pierce the sky,
Dark louring clouds in densest masses lie,
Which though, all night, the rain in torrents pour'd,
Seem yet unspent, and to the inquiring eye
A dark presage of coming storms afford—
Signs to wayfaring wight most hateful and abhorr'd!

II

But not, though skies should lour or tempests rage,
To-day must Brodick's sturdy mountaineer
Grudge through the grimmest moors stout pilgrimage;
For 'tis that single Sunday in the year,
When crowds together flock, from far and near,
Around the holy board to take their seat;
And 'twere a shameless thing to loiter here,
While friends and brethren, flocks and pastors meet
In Kirk of far Lamlash, to bless that bread and eat.

III

Unhappy he whom sickness now detains
Close pent in bed, or crouching o'er his fire,

124

Safe from the gathering war of winds and rains;
And he whose aged limbs no more aspire
To thrid the mountain moors and never tire;
And she, whom nursery or domestic cares
Forbid to satisfy her heart's desire,
By mingling, with the Kirk's, her vows and prayers.—
Ah!—well-a-day for them!—a dismal lot is theirs!

IV

No more for them, till full twelve months are o'er,
With heavenly food that table shall be spread;
For them the cup divine be fill'd no more,
Nor blest, nor broken the mysterious bread,
E'en though they lay upon their dying bed.
So Calvinistic rigour hath decreed;
Withholding that by which the soul is fed
From saintly sufferers in their utmost need;—
Ah! better far her sons doth our dear Mother feed!

V

Solemn and sweet thy monthly feasts, I ween,
Church of our fathers; yet even they too few;
Better, by far, and wiser had it been,
Thy children's faith each Sunday to renew,
And with fresh strength their fainting souls endue;
So best the ancient Apostolic rites
Maintaining still in form and order due;
Yet dear thy call which to that board invites,
Which all pure hearts with all, and all in One, unites!

VI

Yea, sweet thy monthly feasts!—yet scarce than these
Less sweet the board in sick man's chamber spread,
Where weeping friends and children on their knees
Are meekly gather'd round the dying bed;
And tears, almost into the chalice shed,

125

The o'er-burden'd hearts full agony relieve,
While each and all the mystic wine and bread
From pastoral hands, in pious faith, receive,
Nor now, like hopeless men, for death's new victim grieve.

VII

No comforts, such as these, O Scotland, cheer
Thy saints in life's last moments;—yet not this
Speak we in scorn;—the dying mountaineer
By custom school'd, and strong in hope of bliss,
May ne'er, perchance, the last dear ritual miss,
Whereby the expiring Southron well sustains
His parting soul;—nor thou account amiss
The rites which soften death in English plains,
As though they proved us bound even now in Popish chains.

VIII

Such thoughts yon stout pedestrian's breast have cross'd,
Who climbs, with steady pace and steadfast will,
That mountain path, and tow'rd the peaks, half lost
In eddying clouds, looks back, admiring still;
For vaster far seems each majestic hill
Through the dense veil of mist which sweeps away
Distinctness from its outline, and each rill,
Swoln to a foaming cataract to-day,
Makes music, loud and wild, to cheer him on his way.

IX

A wanderer he from England's midland vales,
Wooing sweet health in this fair wilderness,
Where, shunning the soft breath of southern gales,
Which him with suffocation sore oppress,
He finds secure relief from long distress;
And now a glad and mirthful man is he,
And doth the waves and breezy mountains bless
That they from that dire plague have set him free,
'Neath which, since early youth, he groan'd perpetually.

126

X

O thou unhappy wight, whoe'er thou art,
Whom the bright skies and balmy gales torment
With toil of lungs and weariness of heart,
Till thou, almost with lack of breath o'erspent
To barter life for ease wouldst be content—
Throw physic to the dogs;—not opium's power,
Nor the inhaled stramonium's reeky scent,
Nor subtlest ether will, for one brief hour,
Soothe the convulsive gasps which strength and life devour.

XI

Nor to the lancet bare thy passive arm,
Nor to the blister ope thy labouring breast;
Vain all their spells the dire disease to charm,
Or scare the incumbent vampyre from thy chest;
Nor yet will pill, persuasive to digest,
Nor snuff prepared by skill of Lundy Foot,
Nor ipecacuanha give thee rest,
(Expectorative drug)—nor rhubarb's root
Provoking nausea dire, and cholic pangs to boot.

XII

Long were the labour, in melodious verse,
The nostrums strange prescribed by quack and crone,
(Nauseous alike, and poisonous) to rehearse!
Abominable things—untried—unknown!
One remedy there is, and one alone;—
Come, breathe the mountain breezes pure and free,
Climb once a week old Goatfell's craggy cone,
Bathe once a day in Brodick's crystal sea,—
Full soon, from spells like these, the baffled fiend will flee.

XIII

Haply some grim Hippocrates hath starved
Thy craving stomach with prescription drear,

127

All pleasant meats forbidding to be carved
For thee, nor e'en permitting thee to cheer
Thy drooping spirits with the smallest beer—
(Thee, little to abstemious rules inclined;)
Come then—spare diet may be spared thee here,
Nor need'st thou dread on dainties to have dined,
If dainties thou shalt chance in this lean isle to find.

XIV

But where is he, our lone wayfaring wight,
Whom late we left upon the mountain side?
Through the wild moors he plods from height to height,
Surveying still the landscape far and wide;
Though little there, to-day, can be descried,
So thick and dark the clouds around him lour;
Yet will he dare, all cloakless, to abide
The utmost rage of driving wind and shower,
So strong and proud he feels in health's recover'd power.

XV

And sorely would his soul be grieved, I ween,
To miss that solemn spectacle to-day;
To him a new, though not unheard of scene;
Used as he is in English forms to pray,
And England's rule episcopal obey;—
A presbyter himself, as from the dress
Clerkly and grave, which doth his limbs array,
And eke from his demeanour you may guess,
Albeit, in this strict land, convict of carelessness.

XVI

For he, untaught in puritanic school,
And little heedful of the forms that bind
The subjects grave of presbyterian rule,
Walks, as his fancy leads him, unconfined
By pedant laws in body as in mind;
Nor deems it unbecoming pastoral state

128

His pleasure by the lone sea-side to find,
Or e'en with timely mirth to recreate
His spirits, sunk sometimes by care's oppressive weight.

XVII

Ah! reckless man, and all unfit to bear
The scrutiny of keen domestic eyes!
Now whistling, as he walks, with absent air,
Now singing (if perchance an infant cries)
Wild nursery rhymes and heathenish lullabies;
Unconscious all the while what scandal thence
Among the simple mountaineers shall rise;—
Scandal most foul, and unforeseen offence,
Branding his Church and him with righteous vehemence!

XVIII

But worst of all—provoking direst wrath—
His Southron scorn of Scottish Sabbath-day!
For, kirk-ward as he climbs the mountain path;
He, with his cane, full oft doth prostrate lay
The thistle-heads that grow beside the way;
And eke, descending once the gallery stair,
Was heard (as all the congregation say)
To hum aloud a Psalm's remeber'd air;—
Such crime, in Scottish kirk, could shameless Southron dare!

XIX

But now, midway on yonder steep ascent
Halting awhile, he views with curious eyes
Groups from each quarter of the firmament
Converging, numberless as summer flies—
In cart, in car, of every shape and size,
Afoot—on horseback;—grandames old and grey,
In sober mutch and cloak of tartan dyes,
By sons or grandsons in their best array,
In vehicles close-pack'd, help'd forward on their way.

129

XX

And there are sturdy swains on bony jades,
In low grave converse journeying side by side;
And there are comely youths and comelier maids,
The future bridegroom with his plighted bride;
Bare-headed she and bare-foot—the close plaid
Shielding her gentle bosom from the rain;
Her braided locks confined, in decent pride,
With virgin snood, which must unloosed remain
Till she, in wedlock's bonds, a holier name shall gain.

XXI

Graceful her garb, and passing well doth suit
Her native mountains; yet, to Southron eye,
Unpleasing is the soil'd and shoeless foot,
Which through the mire its daily toil doth ply,
Heedless alike if it be wet or dry—
And haply swathed in rag's unseemly fold,
Telling dark tales that underneath doth lie
Afflictive corn, or blain produced by cold—
Most hateful to conceive—most hideous to behold!

XXII

Dear to the youthful poet's phantasy
Is female foot, in dream or vision seen;
The well-turn'd ankle's shapely symmetry—
The skin's soft texture and its snowy sheen;
But adverse all to phantasy, I ween,
The sun-burnt limb by highland lassie shown—
Not plump, soft, white, but muscular and lean,
A ponderous mass of sinew, skin, and bone—
Broad—bulky—to rude shape, thro' long exposure, grown.

XXIII

O maidens, richly with all else endow'd,
Healthy in mind and body, pure and free

130

As the clear stream, or as the wandering cloud,
Which swathes the mountains where ye love to be,—
Hide but in shoes, what few unshod would see,
And ye by many a poet shall be sung
In worthier lays than e'er were penn'd by me,
A wedded bard, and now no longer young,
Who roam, with heart unscathed, your pastoral glens among.

XXIV

Strange, of a truth, that o'er these rocky ways
Women alone with naked feet should fare!
While the rough Gael his nether man arrays
In fleecy garb, nor ventures now to bare
His hardier skin to cutting mountain air;
Ah! why should he alone such luxury know,
When gentle maids, the fearless and the fair,
Barelegg'd o'er rugged peaks securely go,
Nor heed what hurts assail the unprotected toe?

XXV

But they perchance, in bareness of attire,
With their own treeless mountains aptly vie,
And 'twere, in us, as idle to desire
In northern clime the cloudless southern sky,
As to expect, in Gaelic damselry,
The trimness of an English maiden's dress;
The hose of cotton woof and snowy dye—
The polish'd shoe, which closely doth compress
The small and delicate foot's minuter shapeliness.

XXVI

And who the pure simplicity shall blame
Of Highland maiden, when in mountain stream
Knee-deep immersed, she bareth without shame
Her dainty limbs to the meridian beam,
Faultless in shape, and white as whitest cream,—
—First glancing round lest stranger eyes be near,

131

(Though curst were he who any ill should dream
Gazing on her)—then swift as mountain deer
Plungeth into the burn, and crosseth without fear?

XXVII

Or who, with frown censorious, would impeach
The mysteries grave and deep of laundress skill,
When the white linen with bare feet they bleach,
In tub which they with purest water fill
From the clear depths of neighbouring tarn or rill,
Trampling the soaking mass with maiden mirth,
And thus their daily task performing still;
Fashion most strange to maids of English birth—
The daintiest race and eke the proudest upon Earth!

XXVIII

Blessings on both, the Saxon and the Gael!
The maid of highland hut and English cot!
The glory of the glen and of the vale!
To each her separate charms let Truth allot;
For praise is blame when it exalteth not,
Save by disparagement of others good;
And let the poet's lay be soon forgot,
Who, in sarcastic or contemptuous mood,
Shall mar the equal fame of British womanhood.

XXIX

But we, methinks, have wander'd all too long
From the grave tenour of our purposed theme;
Back from thy flights discursive, O my song,
To where our wanderer, lost in thoughtful dream,
Through the bleak moor, across the mountain stream,
Up to the topmost point hath wound his way,
Which to retreat before him long did seem;
And now discerns, far off, Lamlash's bay,
And hears its breakers roar, and sees their glittering spray.

132

XXX

Not loth is he to mark his journey's end,
Bedew'd with Scottish mist for many a mile;
And soon, with quicken'd footstep, doth descend
The downward slope, contemplating meanwhile
The pyramid abrupt of Holy Isle
Cresting the narrow strait which girds the shore,
And now, thro' flooded creek, and cove, and kyle,
Doth, in full tide, its swelling surges pour,
And sweep the ribb'd sea sand with thundering rush and roar.

XXXI

Not tame the view to eyes long used to gaze
On England's level meads and hedgerows green,
And streams meandering through their sluggish maze,
And waving woods, whose foliage dark between
Tall spires up-pointing to the skies are seen,
And stately mansions their proud summits rear
O'er sunny slopes;—yet doth this sea-girt scene
Meagre and mean and spiritless appear
To favour'd swains who dwell in Brodick's mountain sphere.

XXXII

For there, begirt by Nature's noblest forms,
Doth Caledonia's genius proudly dwell
In the mid region of the winds and storms,
Enthroned on cloudy peak and pinnacle;
While, far below, the ocean-surges swell,
Laving a shore with spreading woods o'ergrown;
For Art hath there bestow'd her labour well,
And o'er the glens a leafy verdure thrown,
While here, in barren state, doth Nature reign alone.—

XXXIII

—In barren state, nor that with grandeur graced
Of form or outline;—upward from the sea
Slopes the bare coast, bleak, featureless, and waste,
A mountain tract—yet void of majesty;

133

Such as, from time to time, sore vex'd, we see
In Scottish region, with unpleasant change
Succeeding to the beauty, bold and free,
Of lake, and rocky glen, and mountain range,
Of aspect ever new, and form abrupt and strange.

XXXIV

Nor yet more cheerful, to an English eye,
The long, straight village, which no rustic taste
Hath toil'd, with patient skill, to beautify;
Where never yet the cot's outside was graced
By woodbine, with dark ivy interlaced,
Nor rose nor lily did the air perfume;
Nor e'er was porch by clematis embraced,
Nor e'er did jasmine round the windows bloom,
And from its silver cups shed fragrance thro' the room.

XXXV

Strange seems it that, in region far renown'd
For horticultural skill, such lack should be
Of decoration, rife on English ground,
E'en in the mean abodes of penury;
Where little else, save cleanliness, we see
That tells of comfort;—and not small amends
Yields it for lack of mountain majesty,
That neatness there on poverty attends,
And industry and taste together dwell like friends.

XXXVI

But lovelier yet than ivy-mantled cot,
Or garden musical with hum of bees,
The grey Church tower on green sequester'd spot,
Half hidden by its dark embowering trees,
With merry bells that fill the evening breeze
With music best befitting English vales;—
O! might such temples grace such glens as these!
O! might such music on these mountain gales
Repeat to Highland hearts their sweet and solemn tales!

134

XXXVII

But vain the wish! for here, on hill, in glen,
Religion wears her simplest, rudest dress,
Spurning each fond device of carnal men
To clothe her in external gracefulness:
And well doth Scottish architect impress
On stone and morter the severest guise
Of the old Orthodox unloveliness,
Offending vain Episcoplian eyes
With kirks of hideous shape, proportion, hue, and size.

XXXVIII

Scarce more perversely doth Wesleyan pile,
Such as in English village we behold,
With ostentatious ugliness defile
The beauty of the land, in contrast bold
Rearing its front near church of Gothic mould,
As though in scorn of what fond hearts revere—
The grace and grandeur of the days of old—
The shrines by ancient piety held dear,
Where saintliest knees have knelt in faith and love sincere.

XXXIX

And, for the music of the belfry chime,
One sullen bell in Scottish kirk doth hang,
The call to prayer, at stated service time,
Reverberating hoarse with iron clang:
But never here the mountain echoes rang
With wedding peal, whose merry silver sound,
In sweeter notes than ever Syren sang,
Told its fond tale of bliss and love profound,
Which cavern, rock and hill repeated round and round.

XL

Nor ever here on ear expectant broke
The knell which told a neighbour's soul had fled,

135

Conveying, with its sad and solemn stroke,
Brief message to the living from the dead;
Bidding them think how swift life's current sped,
How near the summons to the judgment throne,
How short the passage to the wormy bed,
How none could know when that might be their own—
How death's sharp sting is heal'd by Christian faith alone.

XLI

Such customs, long with Popish rites combined,
Doth Scotland's rigorous kirk hold Popish still,—
Abominations once, even here, enshrined,
As, of old time, in heathen grove and hill,
The principalities and powers of Ill;
And, tho' they speak to nature's heart of heart,
And oft, with holiest glow, men's spirits fill,
She from her children keeps them far apart,
As hellish snares devised by Rome's malignant art.

XLII

Even be it so !—from Scotland's simple shrines
Still let her simpler psalms to Heaven ascend,
While the wind, whistling thro' the mountain pines,
Doth to the strain accordant music lend,
With which their thundering voices cataracts blend;
But where, on English plains, cathedral spire
Lifts its tall height, let organ-peal attend
With notes symphonious the full chaunting choir,
Whose anthems breathe to heaven the heavenly soul's desire.

XLIII

And be the graceful garniture retain'd
Of cunning workmanship in stone and wood,
And fair large window, gothic-shaped and stain'd
With richest dyes, thro' which, in glareless flood,
Streams the dim light;—and still let scarf and hood,
And surplice white, and academic gown

136

Enrobe her priests, the gracious and the good,
Well-train'd and arm'd to beat proud error down,
And spread religion's reign and learning's fair renown.

XLIV

Time was when Church with Kirk,—Geneva cloak
With robe and mitre, in fierce wrath have striven,
And love's pure law, with mutual rancour, broke,
Till, in the name and for the sake of Heaven,
The holiest bonds of Earth were rent and riven;
But time and wiser thoughts have quell'd that fray;
Let each by turns forgiving and forgiven,
And each forbearing each, await the day,
When truth, more clearly seen, shall drive debate away.

XLV

Each needs her strength, in this distemper'd age,
For other conflicts:—around either wait
The sceptic's scoff, the atheist's impious rage,
The hot sectarian's indissembled hate,
The cold half-friendship of the wavering State,
The brawling demagogue's coarse, ribald yell,
The lust of plunder with fierce hope elate;
Sad is their doom, in Kedar's tents to dwell,
'Midst enemies to peace who 'gainst all good rebel!

XLVI

Here pause we,—for the swiftly gathering crowd
Thro' the church doors are thronging, and the rain,
From the dark bosom of yon thunder-cloud,
In big round drops falls audibly amain;
Safe shelter found, our wayfarer is fain,
As best he may, his garments drench'd to dry;
There let him rest, observing, till again
Our song begin, with grave, attentive eye,
Whate'er, to him, new sights to-day he may espy.

137

CANTO II.

I

Sweet! to the wanderer's heart, in foreign land,
Whate'er reminds him of that spot of earth
Where the tall trees which shade his dwelling stand—
The evening light which glimmers round his hearth—
The chamber which beheld his children's birth—
The Church, within whose walls he first became
Acknowledged heir of Heaven's uncourted worth—
The altar where his bride, with maiden shame,
Pledged herself his till death, in body, soul, and name.

II

Sweet, and yet sorrowful, each sight and sound
Telling his heart of home's far distant bliss,
E'en as the ranz des vaches, on foreign ground,
O'erwhelms the martial spirit of the Swiss,
In thought restoring his wife's farewell kiss,
His children's voices, and his mountain cot;
Till waking from his dream, he starts to miss
Those cherish'd joys, and loathes his soldier lot,
Fame—honour—fortune—hope—in that fond grief forgot!

III

Not alien thou, O Scotland, to the heart
Of England, but long since, by many a tie
Of law, religion, language, custom, art
And mutual service done in days gone by,
—Yea, by remembrance of past enmity,
Each link'd to each;—for still the noblest foe
Becomes the truest friend and best ally
When discord's bitter blasts have ceased to blow,
And each the other's worth doth, thro' long conflict, know.

138

IV

A noble pair are ye, allied no less
By contrast than resemblance;—each doth wear
A diverse garb of outward loveliness;—
Thou, with thy giant lakes and mountains bare,
Where the storms bellow and the lightnings glare,
Art robed in grandeur,—while her softer grace
Of vale, and verdant wood, and pasture fair,
Smiles on thy rude sublimity of face,
E'en like a gentle bride in a brave man's embrace.

V

And yet, though dear to wandering Southron's breast,
And, e'en when most unlike, resembling still
The pleasant land which he must needs love best,
That land thou art not, nor its place canst fill
So, in his heart, that it shall cease to thrill
With fond home-thoughts;—but oft as he hath found
In the wild region of the lake and hill,
Aught which appears the growth of English ground,
How doth its every pulse with new-born pleasure bound!

VI

Sweet 'twas to him, amidst Edina's fanes,
That Gothic pile episcopal to find,
Where the pure form of English worship reigns,
In graceful pomp and circumstance enshrined;
And there, once more, the willing heart unbind,
To alien rites, for many a recent week,
Amidst the mountains and wild glens confined,—
And hear the English pastor's accent meek,
The music, long unheard, of forms liturgic speak!

VII

Sweet 'twas to note the reverential air
Of each new worshipper who bent the knee,

139

Shading his brow meanwhile in silent prayer—
While the deep organ, in accordant key,
Sent forth a low, melodious symphony,
Prelusive to the swell of choral hymn,—
And o'er the soul a hush'd solemnity,
Stealing from pillar'd arch and window dim,
Raised it to Heaven, as seem'd, on wings of seraphim.

VIII

O say not this is superstition all—
This solemn awe from solemn places caught—
This reverence grave which doth man's heart enthrall—
This tuning of the soul to pious thought;—
Albeit, perchance, by shrewd contrivance wrought
Through architectural grace and music's power.
Deem not that lesson all unwisely taught,
Which lifts the enfranchised spirit, for an hour,
Above those cares of earth, which its best life devour.

IX

Is it a guilty weakness to have felt
A present spirit in the house of God?
To love the shrine where saintly knees have knelt—
The marble floor which saintly feet have trod?—
To press, with softer tread, the churchyard sod,
Beneath whose grassy verdure saints repose
Till the last trump shall wake the kneaded clod,
And once again the shrouded eyes unclose,
To crown with heavenly bliss life's long-forgotten woes?

X

Would not the soul which felt no reverent awe
In Earth's most holy places, still be cold,
E'en if reveal'd, Heaven's blissful depths it saw,
Throng'd with the spirits of just men of old;
And still unmoved, and confidently bold,
Gaze with composure on the dreadful throne

140

Whereon his final judgment Christ shall hold,
And the dread secrets of all hearts make known,
And all his foes condemn, and his redeem'd ones own?

XI

And yet not so,—for many a pious heart
Hath come to worship in yon kirk to-day,
And of that holy feast receive its part,
And bear rich blessing to its home away,
Which yet no decent reverence deigns to pay
To aught which here the mental eye may trace
Sacred or solemn;—as they will or may,
The groups drop in—no outward sign of grace—
But each, with hat undoff'd, squats down upon his place.

XII

Ah! well-a-day!—but this seems wondrous strange!
Is this a mart where gossips sell and buy?—
A room for lectures, or a stock exchange?—
Is that, which seems a pulpit to the eye,
A desk where auctioneers their labour ply?
Nay—ill the day such rash conjectures suit;—
Ask not, O Southron gazer, whence or why
The Northern vine bears such unshapely fruit;—
'Tis wholesome food, though coarse;—the tree is sound at root.

XIII

Now cast thine eyes attentively around;—
The Temple and its worshippers survey;—
Rude is the first as may on Earth be found;
No vain adornments its white walls array,
—Carving of oak, or stonework old and gray,—
Nor monumental slab, nor sculptured tomb,
Where their huge length recumbent warriors lay,—
Nor painted glass sheds round cathedral gloom,
Nor aught of outward pomp may find permitted room.

141

XIV

Oblong the shape;—an area cramm'd with pews,
Close, narrow, low, which, at a glance, you see
Are such as sturdy Presbyterians use,
Who never, e'en in worship, bend the knee.
Back'd by the western wall, which fronts the sea,
Frowns the grim pulpit, cushionless and bare
Of all vain gauds of Popish frippery,—
Unlined the sides, uncarpeted the stair,—
Wore never hermit's cell a less luxurious air.

XV

So 'tis most fitting:—so shall issue thence,
In strains accordant both to place and theme,
The deep-toned flood of Gaelic eloquence,
Clear, strong, and rapid, like a mountain stream;
Dispersing, in its rush, sin's sensual dream.
Ah how unlike the soft luxurious shrine,
Which fashion's sickly brood sublimest deem!
Where, throned in velvet state, the smug divine
Doth his thin, filmy woof of polish'd periods twine.

XVI

Fronting the pulpit, with capacious span,
Yawns a broad arch, through which the wandering eye
A separate portion of the kirk may scan;
The floor close-pew'd, o'er which extends on high,
From side to side, a spacious gallery
Assign'd to worshippers of higher class,
Where fluttering scarf and gorgeous shawl you spy,
Mix'd with such male attire as doth surpass
Aught that below appears in all that motley mass.

XVII

Vacant as yet the seats, for scarce the chime
Of neighbouring clock the hour of twelve hath told;

142

Nor oft the rich anticipate the time
Of worship; but below you may behold,
Assembling slowly, forms of coarser mould;
The lowly dwellers in the moor and glen;—
Shepherds and hinds, and cottars young and old,
And sailors rough, and simple fishermen,
Whom fitly to describe o'ertasks poetic pen.

XVIII

Silent they sit, expectant all and each,
When he who leads their worship shall appear;
No time for idle thought or idler speech,
Or nod of mutual recognition here:
No sound, save that of slamming doors, you hear,
As the new comers, one by one, stalk in,
And take their seats with grave and sturdy cheer—
None breathing, till the service shall begin,
A whisper which could drown the dropping of a pin.

XIX

And some, the lingering moments to beguile,
On Scripture page with gaze abstracted pore,
Or Psalter turn'd to rhyme in homeliest style,
Conning each well-known metre o'er and o'er.
Ah! well I wot would David's heart be sore,
Could he, return'd to Earth, the wrong behold
Done to the strains divine he sung of yore,
By British bards, in version new and old,
So marr'd with phrase uncouth, and rhyme of rugged mould.

XX

But neither those twin jinglers of harsh wire,
Sternhold and Hopkins, nor that daintier pair,
Brady and Tate, have stripp'd the Hebrew lyre
Of poesy and music quite so bare
(If doggrel we with doggrel may compare)
As Scottish bards, whom yet the kirks decree,

143

Expelling hymns profane with pious care,
Hath throned in David's seat, that they may be
Sole lords throughout the land of song and psalmody.

XXI

Ah! why forbid the tuneful soul to soar
Heavenward, unless on inspiration's wings?
Why cramp its flight with chains of Jewish lore?
Why blame the music of those later strings,
To which the Church her song majestic sings,
Attuned to themes of yet diviner strain
Than bless'd the ear of prophets or of kings,
Before the Son of Man, with toil and pain,
Had freed our ransom'd race from Hell's oppressive chain?

XXII

By seer and psalmist, darkly at the best,
Messiah's face, as in a glass, was seen;
Dimly, by them, in shadowy lines exprest—
The incarnate glory of its god-like mien
Veil'd from our gaze by clouds that float between;
Yet not unrecognized by saintly eye,
Whether of hind unletter'd, poor and mean,
Or studious scholar, skilful to descry
Whate'er of old was taught in type and prophecy.

XXIII

But who shall thus discern, of modern men,
The form reveal'd to Hebrew seer sublime,
When marr'd and mangled by the reckless pen
Of versifier rude, with measured chime
Twisting the strain prophetic into rhyme,
In parish churches to be shriek'd, not sung,
By untaught throats that murder tune and time,
In nasal drone and broad provincial tongue,
With twang of viols harsh to perfect discord strung?

144

XXIV

But Scotland's kirk this last foul murder yet
Hath ne'er committed her strict walls within;
But loathes the sound of flute and clarionet,
Hautboy, and hoarse bassoon and violin,
And gruff bass viol with commingled din
Deafening the ear;—their own harmonious notes
Her children raise to heaven, and deem it sin
To mar the natural music of their throats
With instrumental clang, on which Hell's monarch dotes.

XXV

And deep and sweet and solemn is the swell
Of congregated voices, when they raise
The simple strains which Scotland loves so well,
Attuned to words, tho' rude, of prayer and praise;
Upborne by which the soaring spirit strays
Through worlds beyond the bounds of space and time;—
Oh! could some bard but lend accordant lays
To notes so sweet and utterance so sublime,
Methinks e'en Knox's shade might pardon such a crime.

XXVI

Bolder herein have Wesley's flocks been found,
Though far unlike, in all things else, they be
The Calvinistic growth of Scottish ground,—
Weak, stunted off-shoots of a goodly tree:
Yet they, with venturous daring, have set free
Both verse and music from those irksome chains
Which cramp the wing of statelier psalmody;
Recalling banish'd song from sin's domains
To praise redeeming love in blithe trochaic strains.

XXVII

But worthier far to greet angelic ears
The hymns in Rome's apostate temples sung

145

To music like the music of the spheres—
Hymns of past ages, when the church was young!
Ah! why still shrouded in a foreign tongue?
Or why, since purer faith's reviving day,
Hath none been found, Britannia's sons among,
To cheer her churches with an equal lay?—
Arise some bard, and wipe the foul reproach away!

XXVIII

And yet, (so quickly is the gentle heart
By simplest things to keen emotion stirr'd)
E'en this rude mockery of poetic art
May be to loftiest minstrelsy preferred
By those who first, from lips maternal, heard
Its rugged rhymes, in tenderest accents, sung;—
Lo! where intently scanning line and word,
Yon matron sits, a radiant group among
Of children, all her own—yet she both fair and young.

XXIX

Silent she sits, and yet her lips are moving,
In measured cadence, to the psalm she sings
To her own heart, whose thoughts meanwhile are roving
Through worlds unseen on faith's ethereal wings;
Nought marks she now of sublunary things,—
The congregating crowd—the rustic fane—
The infant group around her knees that clings;
No sense hath she of mortal joy or pain;—
O! might she thus dream on, nor ever wake again!

XXX

Yet is she rich in this world's purest joy;
Heaven hath, with liberal bounty, blest her lot;
Witness each bright-eyed girl and blooming boy—
Witness their sire, whose neat sequester'd cot
Her smile makes glad;—in truth she needeth not
Aught more of earthly bliss than God hath given;

146

Yet never, amidst all, hath she forgot
To lay up treasure, costlier far, in Heaven,
And prize o'er Earth's best joys the peace of sin forgiven.

XXXI

But see! the pastor of the flock appears,—
A man of rosy cheek and cheerful eye,
His age now verging close on fifty years,
Which, you may deem, have smoothly glided by;
For not a vestige on his brow you spy
Of over-anxious care, or thought too deep:
Sound doctrine doth he preach, but passing dry,—
Which as he drones, o'er hearers' sense doth creep
Such calm that some 'gin nod, and some have fallen asleep.

XXXII

His hour, and with the hour his sermon done,
From dreamy doze at once the slumberers start,
And loudly all the final psalm intone,
Which and the service closed, the larger part
Forsake the church, while those of contrite heart
Or strict profession, still their seats retain.
—Our wanderer with the former shall depart,
Deeming it now intrusion rash and vain,
Amidst the bidden guests, unbidden, to remain.

XXXIII

Meanwhile, without the walls, a countless crowd
Yon shelter'd pulpit, misnamed tent, surround,
Where with alternate rhetoric, long and loud,
Saxon and Gael successive texts expound;
And ever and anon the solemn sound
Of psalms, in Gaelic and in Saxon tongue,
Doth from the mountains and huge rocks rebound,
As, by a sea of voices old and young,
A chorus like the roar of ocean-waves is sung.

147

XXXIV

A solemn sound!—a sweet and solemn sight!—
The psalm—the choir—the temple vast and fair
In which all voices with all hearts unite,—
Its floor the turf—its roof the boundless air—
Its altar Man's deep heart—its offering prayer,
Attuned to melody of sacred song;—
In truth, devotion lacks not utterance there,
But breathes to Heaven, in accents clear and strong.
Strains scarce unfit to sound angelic choirs among.

XXXV

Thus, between mingled acts of prayer and praise,
The day wears on, till lengthen'd shadows fall,
And still fresh crowds their solemn chorus raise,
And still fresh preachers, with repeated call,
Reprove, rebuke, exhort them, one and all;
And still new hearers, as the old retire,
Fill up of space each vacant interval;
Sooner, it seems, the daylight shall expire
Than psalm and sermon cease—than flesh or spirit tire.

XXXVI

'Tis good for Southron wight to have been here,—
Good to have felt the spirit of the place,
And witness'd the devotion, deep, sincere,
Which fires this sturdy Presbyterian race;
Nor deems he that henceforth shall aught efface
Remembrance of their worship from his mind:
Yet, as he turns, his footsteps to retrace,
Is this, thinks he, the holy rite design'd,
True Christian hearts in one with heavenly love to bind?

XXXVII

This countless crowd—this myriad-throated roar
Of voices, echoed back from rock and hill,—

148

Comport they with a spirit sad and sore?—
A heart self judged—a meek and chasten'd will?
A conscience troubled by its load of ill?
This festival of feeling, wild and high,
Ah!—how unlike that upper chamber still!—
That hush of hearts, which felt the hour draw nigh,
When on the atoning cross the Son of Man must die!

XXXVIII

Far better with that hallow'd feast agree
The church embosom'd deep in peaceful vale,—
The silent groups which humbly bow the knee,
In suppliant guise, before the altar rail,—
The lowly voice of pastor meek and pale,
Who to his hungering flock doth there impart
The living bread from heaven which cannot fail—
The deep-drawn sighs, which ease the contrite heart,
The penitential tears, which there unbidden start.

XXXIX

So deems our wanderer, and with thoughtful brow
Wends homeward through the wind and pelting rain,
Which, (through brief rest its strength recover'd now)
From masses of black cloud descends again;
Gladly shall he his mountain cot regain,
Where wife and children his return desire;
Nor let him deem this Sunday spent in vain,
When, cheer'd by food and clothed in dry attire,
He tells what he has seen by summer evening fire.

Pronounced, in Scotland, plide.

149

OCCASIONAL POEMS.

151

STANZAS. WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF ARRAN.

1838.

I

There was a time when scenes like these
Which from our cottage door we see—
Those peaks which seem the clouds to kiss—
The sunlight on that crystal sea—
The solemn gloom of yon pine wood—
This burn which glides, in music, by,
Had charm'd me to that wish'd-for mood
Which oft gives birth to poesy.

II

'Tis not so now;—I gaze and gaze,
And feed my pleased corporeal sense,
As gladly as in earlier days,
On Nature's rude magnificence.
Each feature of this glorious scene
Looks glorious as it look'd of yore,
But I am not as I have been,—
The spells, which charm'd me, charm no more.

152

III

'Tis not that now, in manhood's prime,
My powers have sunk in swift decay;—
I rather deem the scythe of Time
Hath lopp'd their rank misgrowths away.
'Tis not that now, with soberer will,
I shun the visions loved so long;—
Full oft my heart is yearning still
To mingle with the sons of song.

IV

It is that life hath lost, for me,
The shadowy veil of doubt and fear;
That depths, once hid in mystery,
Now lie before me close and clear.
It is that I can use no more
The workings of young Hope within,
To gild each outward object o'er
With glory to herself akin.

V

Long since when, in the spring of youth,
My spirit wrought on airy themes,
Investing with the hues of truth
The substance of its wildest dreams,—
Then wood and hill and mountain-head,
And murmuring stream and billowy sea,
With draughts of pure enjoyment fed
The inner life of Phantasy.

VI

Each form of earthly beauty seem'd
With its own substance to endue
The emptiest joys that Fancy dream'd,
Or Hope's delusive pencil drew.
And thus, while Earth look'd heavenly-bright,
And Hope and Fancy still were strong,

153

Well might I soar, with venturous flight,
Through many a dizzy path of song.

VII

But now—on life's sunshiny noon
There rests a clear, unclouded ray;
The lights and shades of star and moon
Have faded from the sober day.
My heart no more delights to dwell
In treacherous dreams of bliss to come;—
My present joys—I love them well,
But they are, with myself, at home.

VIII

And Nature's face is now to me
No prophecy of times more fair;
It speaks no more of things to be,
But tells of lovelier things that were.
Yon mountain-peaks—those sea-girt isles—
This sky, too oft with clouds o'ercast,
Remind me of life's varying smiles,
Its hopes, its fears, its interest past.

IX

Therefore, albeit I love to muse,
In dreamy mood, on days gone by,
And still, well-pleased, the face peruse
Of stream and mountain, sea and sky,—
Not these, nor sights like these awake,
In me, the slumbering soul of song,
Nor those benumbing fetters break
Which Fancy's wing hath felt so long.

X

My days of tuneful thought are o'er,
Nor need I at their loss repine;
Since home-content and letter'd lore,
And love and friendship still are mine:

154

And pastoral duties, not unblest,
With tranquil toil my powers employ;
And heavenly hope yields peace and rest
Sweeter than Earth's unquiet joy.

INSCRIPTION FOR A BUST

OF THE LATE WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

Not that in him, whom these poor praises wrong,
Gifts, rare themselves, in rarest union dwelt;
Not that, reveal'd through eloquence and song,
In him the Bard and Statesman breathed and felt;—

Not that his nature, graciously endued
With feelings and affections pure and high,
Was purged from worldly taint, and self-subdued,
Till soul o'er sense gain'd perfect mastery;—

Not for this only we lament his loss,—
Not for this chiefly we account him blest;
But that all this he cast beneath the Cross,
Content for Christ to live, in Christ to rest.

HYMN

FOR THE OPENING OF A CHURCH ORGAN.

I

Throughout all earth, and air, and sea,
Sweet sounds our Father bless,
In hymns of natural harmony
From voices numberless.

155

II

The carol shrill of joyous bird,—
The hum of honey-bee,—
The leaves, by summer breezes stirr'd,
Which whisper on the tree—

III

The cataract's rush,—the ocean's roar
Unite with one accord,
In ceaseless chorus to adore
Their own—all Nature's Lord.

IV

The Church, with pipes and keys combined
By Man's profounder art,
Appropriate utterance strives to find
For music in her heart.

V

Father! to-day accept our gift,
And by thy presence bless
The hymns thy children here uplift
To praise thy bounteousness.

SONNET I. NEW YEAR'S DAY.

Not with solemnities of festal mirth,—
The well-spread board, the wine-cup sparkling clear,
The laugh of neighbours o'er their Christmas cheer,
The gibe and gambol round the blazing hearth,—
Not with such rites we celebrate thy birth,
And bid thee blithe God-speed! O infant year:
Nor yet, in thoughtful mood, with brow severe,
Mourning thine elder sisters lost on earth;

156

But with leave-takings, and the bustling care
Of packing and of parting:—sad employ!
Yet not unmingled with a sober joy;
For we, who part, to separate homes repair,
So greeting well thy birth; since none may share
Life's pleasures undebased by pain's alloy.

1838.

SONNET II.

Once more the tardy progress of the spring
Brings round, beloved, our betrothal day,
Rich heretofore in all the sweets which May
Did from her teeming lap, prolific, fling;
But now the lingering Zephyr's crippled wing
Thro' boughs all bare and blossomless doth stray,
And scarce have winter's hoar-frosts pass'd away,
Or vernal birds begun as yet to sing.
But let the laggard and distemper'd year
Frown as it lists;—we two have sunshine still,
Warming with love sweet wedlock's atmosphere;
And many a bubbling fount and sparkling rill
Of joy and peace makes music sweet and clear
For us, scarce yet descending life's steep hill.

1838.

SONNET III.

Cousin, the phantom voice of other years
Spake to me, as I sat by thee once more,
And saw thee what thou wast in days of yore,
Unfaded yet by life's thick-gushing tears—
While thy loved voice made music in my ears,
Such as it did ere boyhood's dream was o'er,
Or manhood yet had found its present store
Of household joys and sorrows, hopes and fears.

157

Now in two worlds we dwell, by different cares
And sympathies begirt;—yet each, I trust,
Employ'd in tasks through which high Heaven prepares
For its own bliss the faithful and the just.
There may our spirits meet, as now our prayers,
When our dust, cousin, hath return'd to dust.

1837.

SONNET IV. WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS.

Through islet-sprinkled lakes, embosom'd deep
In mountains crown'd with yet unmelted snow,
While o'er their heathery sides bright wild-flowers grow,—
Through rocky glens, in which, from steep to steep,
With rush and roar, the mountain torrents leap,—
O'er Inverara's heights,—through wild Glencroe—
(Delight and wonder kindling as we go)
From Arran's distant isle our course we keep.
But ask me not to paint what here we see,
With graphic pen, though all be passing dear
To memory;—for this outward world, to me,
Hath never been of tuneful thought the sphere;
My realm of song is human hope and fear,
Joy, grief, domestic peace and fireside glee.

1839.

SONNET V. LOCH RANZA.

From Brodick's matchless bay, along the shore
Of Arran northward, past the Sannox glen,
Her freight of sketching dames and wondering men
Our crowded steamboat to Loch Ranza bore

158

Which when we enter'd—all my hopes were o'er;
Nought found I there to task poetic pen:
But one there was, who with an artist's ken
Gazed at the scene, and straight began to pour
Artistic raptures about light and shade—
And how effectively these thints would lie,
And how much of those outlines might be made;
Yet he, with slender notice, had pass'd by
Glen-Sannox gorge.—How unlike mine his trade!
How far the painter's from the poet's eye!

1839.

SONNET VI. TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER.

My daughter!—in that name appear fulfill'd
The cherish'd dreams of many wedded years;
Child of as many wishes, hopes and fears,
As e'er through poet's restless bosom thrill'd,
How doth thy rising star serenely gild,
For me, the horizon of this vale of tears!
Which, in its tender light, almost appears
A place where Hope her final home might build.
But with a deeper joy I greet thy birth,
For that hereafter, as I fondly trust,
Thou shalt make glad thy mother's home and hearth,
When she shall mourn (as soon or late she must)
Her lack-land sons dispers'd throughout the earth,—
Her husband, and his follies, in the dust.

1837.

SONNET VII. TO MY YOUNGEST CHILD.

I would not have it said that thou alone,
My latest-born, hast been unsung by me,

159

Of six whom I have dandled on my knee,
Some among whom have, many a year, outgrown
Parental dandling:—therefore, for thine own,
Take now this sonnet,—though perchance to thee,
But little versed in lore of A, B, C,
'Twill seem a mystery better left unknown.
Right glad am I that thou art thus devoid
Of erudition;—that thy tender age
Hath been in healthier toil, till now, employ'd
Than poring o'er some spelling-book's dull page;—
That thou, a poet's daughter, hast enjoy'd
Life's early dawn unpent in schoolroom cage.

1843.

SONNET VIII.

With fond parental pride did I devote
This pair of sister Sonnets to the press;—
Short-sighted dreamer!—little did I guess
That, at the moment when the words I wrote,
Did Azrael's dusky wing already float
O'er both those gentle heads!—That sore distress—
Those long, long weeks of death's own bitterness
Are past—the Arm, thrice lifted, never smote.
For this deep mercy be the Chastener blest!
And ye, my children, from the grave's embrace
Deliver'd—our lost treasure repossest—
May ye, henceforth, by yet diviner grace
Made doubly His, so run your earthly race
That ye in Heaven with holiest saints may rest!

1843.

SONNET IX.

Six weeks of anxious watching and suspense,
With ceaseless ebbs and flows of hope and dread,

160

A tinge of silver o'er thy locks hath shed,
Dimming, in part, their dark magnificence,
Which else perchance had, many a summer hence,
As in time past, still graced thy matron head;
Grey hast thou grown beside our children's bed,
Raised, through thy care, from stroke of pestilence:
Therefore, O best-belov'd, more deeply now
Those streaks of summer snow do I hold dear
Than the pure jet which shaded thy young brow
When, at the altar's rail, with hearts sincere
We plighted, each to each, our nuptial vow;
—Mother and wife on Earth without a peer!

1843.

SONNET X. TO THE AUTHORESS OF “I WATCH'D THE HEAVENS.”

Within two miles of glorious dale and hill,
Lady, we two from infancy were bred;
And bravely (doubt not) were our spirits fed
On forms and hues which there with beauty fill
Meadow and valley, rock, and wood, and rill;
Each, by a guidance which we knew not, led
Through discipline, which train'd both heart and head
The Bard's mysterious mission to fulfil.
Nor grudge I, but rejoice, that Heaven to thee
Allots the loftier task, the nobler powers,
Teaching thy wing to soar, thine eye to see
Beyond the bounds of this gross world of ours;
While I, confined to Earth's green banks and bowers,
Pipe my wild notes of human grief and glee.

1843.

161

STANZAS.

TO THE SAME.

I

Some five and twenty years have past—
(It may be more—it may be less—)
Since first we met—and parted last,—
A poet and a poetess.

II

That first and last and only time
Did we (whose hearts e'en then were swelling
With thoughts, ere long to bloom in rhyme)
Converse within one earthly dwelling.

III

A dark-hair'd girl—a stripling tall—
(For then no lath than I was thinner)
We sat within thy Father's Hall,
Among sedater guests, at dinner.

IV

We talk'd, as youthful poets use,
Of high imaginative matters;
Of Scott's and Moore's and Byron's Muse,—
Of Odes and Epics—Songs and Satires;—

V

Of Music and the sister arts,
Save one—alas! denied to thee,
Though mostly dear to female hearts—
The art of gay Terpsichore.

162

VI

To Her, in that same festive Hall,
Had I, in strange, fantastic motion,
Obedient to the fiddle's call,
Paid, oft ere then, my young devotion.

VII

And graceful forms and eyes of light,
Before my raptured vision glancing,
Had held me through the livelong night,
In love's wild dreams my soul entrancing.

VIII

Each form—each face—each thrilling tone,
Which charm'd me then, is now forgot;
One face remains,—one voice alone
From Memory's ear departeth not.

IX

A Presence of mysterious power
(But dimly then discern'd by me)
Had through my spirit, in that hour,
Diffused itself insensibly.

X

And hence that hour of converse still,
While years have faded, seemeth near;
Like some sun-gilded, distant hill
Seen through a rain-fraught atmosphere.

XI

And if no more we meet on Earth,
'Twill be a pleasant thought to me,
That the same haunts which gave thee birth
Were mine from tenderest infancy.

163

XII

The bold Clee Hill—the winding Teme—
The glorious woods of Mawley Hall—
The banks of Rea's romantic stream—
We both have known and loved them all.

XIII

Yes!—both have loved them;—thou no less
Than I (though thine no earthly strain)
Dost, from that region's loveliness,
Pure springs of inspiration drain.

XIV

Heaven speed thee, lady, in thy flight
Through worlds of song beyond my ken!
Heaven guide that wing of female might
Where few can soar of mightiest men!

XV

And though thou fall'st on evil days
For daughters, as for sons, of Song,
Doubt not the echo of thy lays
In many a heart shall linger long.

XVI

Nor now this cordial praise repel
From one who glories that, in thee,
Amidst the scenes he loves so well
Was born a nobler Bard than he.

1843.

LAMENT FOR THE DOON.

[_]

Air.—The Rhine! the Rhine!

I

The Doon!—the Doon!—our own romantic river!
We tread thy banks no more—we tread thy banks no more;

164

Thy stream's bright gush is lost to us for ever,
Its home-sweet music o'er—its home-sweet music o'er.

CHORUS.

The Doon!—the Doon!—mourn, sires grown old befor us,
Your birthright lost too soon—your birthright lost too soon;
Youths, maidens, wives, take up our wailing chorus!
Weep, children, for the Doon!—weep, children, for the Doon!

II

The Doon!—the Doon!—thine own great Bard hath made thee
Of Earth's famed rivers one—of Earth's famed rivers one;
Thy banks, thy braes, each tree that droops to shade thee,
Immortal praise hath won—immortal praise hath won.

The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

III

But Doon, fair Doon—why doth my memory hover
O'er thee in tearful thought—o'er thee in tearful thought?
Boyhood had past, and youth's best days were over,
Ere thou to me wast aught—ere thou to me wast aught.

The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

IV

But Doon, bright Doon, thy waters leapt to greet me,
When wedded love was young—when wedded love was young;
And on thy banks new friends came forth to meet me,—
Warm heart and cordial tongue—warm heart and cordial tongue.

The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

V

The Doon!—the Doon!—remembrance yet rejoices
O'er bliss beside thee felt—o'er bliss beside thee felt;—
The old plain home—the cheerful looks and voices
Which round its hearthstone dwelt—which round its hearthstone dwelt.

The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

165

VI

The Doon!—the Doon!—those looks no more shall cheer me
On thy deserted shore—on thy deserted shore;
Those tones which told what friendly hearts beat near me,
Shall bless mine own no more—shall bless mine own no more.

The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

VII

But Doon, sweet Doon! untouch'd some hearts behold thee,
For whom thy bright waves ran—for whom thy bright waves ran;
One, long thy lord, to alien hands hath sold thee—
That calm, grey-headed man—that calm, grey-headed man.

The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

VIII

Yet, Doon, lost Doon—the love of thy clear waters
Must still his spirit sway—must still his spirit sway;
Woe!—woe for him!—his sons!—his blooming daughters!—
Their birthright cast away?—their birthright cast away!

The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

IX

But Doon, sweet Doon!—thy murmurs will not reach them,
Where Fashion rules their lot—where Fashion rules their lot;
Strange are their hearts to lore which thou wouldst teach them;—
Sweet Doon, they love thee not—sweet Doon, they love thee not.

The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

X

But woe for Her whose home hath been beside thee
For many an anxious year—for many an anxious year!
From whose deep love no change shall e'er divide thee,
Nor make thy banks less dear—nor make thy banks less dear.

The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

166

XI

And woe for those, whose weary footsteps wander
Far in the burning East—far in the burning East!
Whose hearts e'en now, perchance, still vainly ponder
O'er hopes which here have ceased—o'er hopes which here have ceased.

The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

XII

And woe for Her o'er whom, as lost, we sorrow,—
Our once loved meetings o'er—our once loved meetings o'er!
'Midst alien cares, her grief, perchance, shall borrow
A voice from mine once more—a voice from mine once more.

The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

XIII

Yes, woe for her!—sound sleeps her virgin sister
Beneath our Southern sod—beneath our Southern sod;
Joy to her now!—long, long our homes have miss'd her;—
But hers hath been with God—but hers hath been with God.

The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

XIV

The Doon!—the Doon!—along thy banks, sweet river,
My first-born's steps have stray'd—my first-born's steps have stray'd;
Thy voice, I trust, shall haunt his thought for ever,
Till Memory's self shall fade—till Memory's self shall fade.

The Doon!—the Doon! &c.

XV

The Doon!—the Doon!—still, still to sons and daughters
Fond tales of thee we'll tell—fond tales of thee we'll tell;
Though we no more must gaze upon thy waters;—
Our own sweet Doon, farewell!—our own sweet Doon, farewell!

167

CHORUS.

The Doon!—the Doon!—mourn, sires grown old before us,
Your birthright lost too soon—your birthright lost too soon.
Youths, maidens, wives, take up our wailing chorus!
Weep, children, for the Doon!—weep, children, for the Doon!

1837.

169

LAYS OF THE PARISH.

171

EUTHANASIA.

I

The world is full of lovely things;
We need not borrow Fancy's wings
To waft us through the sky
In quest of change, through any dearth
Of glorious objects here on Earth
To feed our inward eye.

II

Nor deem I that all-bounteous Heaven
Hath, to the poet only, given
A power which doth reveal,
In Nature's every sound and sight,
Deeper and more intense delight
Than common souls can feel.

III

'Tis holy Love—'tis Faith and Hope,
Which Beauty's secret chambers ope
To minds of humblest mould;
And paths of heavenly light are trod
On Earth by every child of God,
Which no gross eyes behold.

172

IV

And he—there's not a spot so sad
But he can make it bright and glad;
No scene so dark and drear,
But he therein doth well discern
Celestial lights, which blaze and burn
Through its thick atmosphere.

V

In towns or woods, on towers or trees,
The impress of God's hand he sees,
And hears his well-known voice;
In hope and fear, in woe and weal,
His presence doth he ever feel,
And in His smile rejoice.

VI

With searching glance 'tis his to scan
The deep, mysterious heart of man—
Its secret movements trace;
The spirit's silent growth to mark,
And track, through windings dim and dark,
The wondrous stream of grace.

VII

The griefs and joys which others feel
More closely to his heart appeal
Than godless minds can guess;
'Tis his with all to smile and weep,
And share, with fevour kind and deep,
Their joy and their distress.

VIII

And thus,—whate'er his walk may be,—
Full of sweet sympathies is he
With pleasure and with pain;
Wherever human hearts are found,

173

Feeling and thought for him abound;—
The world is his domain.

IX

In court or camp, in hall or cot,
Rich contemplations fail him not;—
A peasant at the plough—
A soldier—or a merchant grave—
A monarch—or a menial slave—
His heart hath range enow.

X

And yet, methinks, one task there is
More sweetly and more truly his
Than other tasks can be;—
The gospel message to convey
To souls from Heaven still far astray;—
The task assign'd to me.

XI

To us, and to our pastoral care,
Is many a human heart laid bare
In many a varying mood;
All human sorrows, doubts and fears,
All cares and troubles, smiles and tears,
Supply our mental food.

XII

To us the wounded spirit flees
For words of comfort to appease
Its own afflictive smart;
The penitent, by fears opprest,
Comes to us, and asks ease and rest
For his o'er-burden'd heart.

XIII

Our aid is lent, our prayers are said
By saint and sinner's dying bed

174

To us, in life's last hour,
Confidingly both young and old
The soul's mysterious depths unfold—
Its weakness and its power.

XIV

Then, if I may revive once more
The powers, which, ere life's spring was o'er,
Were mine, or seem'd to be,—
What need to urge, beyond the sphere
Of vision which surrounds me here,
My light-wing'd phantasy?

XV

Nought care I for heroic strains;—
I leave to bolder hearts and brains
The lofty epic style;
Enough for me what I can win
Of calm and tender thought, within
The space of one square mile!

XVI

Here, in this quiet shelter'd spot,
Where Providence hath cast my lot,
In love and peace, so long,—
This spot, which saw my children's birth—
Here, by my own still blissful hearth,
Shall be my world of song.

XVII

From things which gladden or which grieve
Familiar hearts, my Muse shall weave
Such garlands as she can;
Noting, in this her narrow sphere,
All storms which shake, all gleams which cheer
The troublous soul of Man.

175

XVIII

So now to hearts of gentle mould
A simple tale will I unfold—
A tale of humble love,
Of suffering long and faith intense,
In one who late departed hence
To dwell with Christ above.

XIX

Of humble parentage was she,
And yet not born in poverty,
No child of want or shame;
Her parents still in comfort dwell,
And earn a decent living well,
And bear an honest name.

XX

Herself—in sooth I would not speak
Of beaming eye or blooming cheek,
Fine form, or noble mien,
Had such been hers:—'twould suit as well
The unromantic tale I tell,
Had she an Ethiop been.

XXI

There are, whose chance-caught looks express
An intellectual loveliness,
Which makes us turn and start,
Even when no outward sign we trace
Of beauty in the form and face—
Looks kindled from the heart.

XXII

But such were not her looks or mien—
No token in her face was seen

176

Of genius rich and rare;
Even though you sought, you scarce would find
A symptom of superior mind,
Or high-wrought feeling there.

XXIII

She was a meek and simple maid
As ever roam'd in greenwood shade,
Or sat in summer bower;
Though little of green shades or woods,
Lone dells or silent solitudes,
Knew she, or felt the power.

XXIV

Scant store of sentiment refined
Had she—her pure but humble mind
Small culture e'er had known;
Few were her books, nor much she sought,
Through knowledge gain'd of others' thought,
To elevate her own.

XXV

So fares it oft with those design'd
The loftiest place 'midst human kind
In other worlds to hold;
Though here they seem, to human eye,
Compass'd with much infirmity—
The feeblest of the fold.

XXVI

We see not how their spirits grow,
We know not whence the breezes blow
Which life to them convey;
Through what dim workings of the thought
The silent work of grace is wrought,
And error purged away.

177

XXVII

But mark them well—in lowliest hut,
Or, poorest among paupers, shut
Within a workhouse walls;
And you will own that heavenly light,
In streams of glory pure and bright,
On their weak spirits falls.

XXVIII

No doubts have they through learned pride;
They hear God's promise and confide,—
Their faith is faith indeed;
And thus from height to height they go
Of hope and love, while we, below,
Plod on with laggard speed.

XXIX

Yet was not she, of whom I speak,
Left all her little lore to seek,
Or rear her own poor thought;
But placed beneath the Christian rule
Of one who kept a daily school,
And Christ's pure lessons taught.

XXX

Nor may we deem the years mis-spent,
In which, from day to day, she went
To that instructress kind;
Though then no goodly growth was rear'd,
No promise of rich grace appear'd
To blossom in her mind.

XXXI

Her teacher plough'd the virgin ground,
And scatter'd in its soil profound
The seed of truth divine;
Which there unseen, unnoticed lay,

178

Till on her heart, with quickening ray,
Religion's sun should shine.

XXXII

And thus her tender years were past—
Until the time arrived at last
When she, a woman grown,
Should, as the Church's laws allow,
Renewing the baptismal vow,
Confirm it as her own.

XXXIII

A blessed time is that to me,—
Of all my pastoral ministry,
To toil most pleasant given;
When, face to face, in conference sweet,
The younglings of my flock I meet,
To speak of Christ and Heaven.

XXXIV

A blessed time, when heavenly truth
Press'd firmly on the mind of youth
In many a close appeal,
Lays bare undreamt-of depths within,
And the whole mystery of sin
Doth startlingly reveal.

XXXV

A time of fresh and fervent thought,
When Heaven and Hell at once are brought
Before the young mind's eye;
And the thick veil is rent in twain
Which on the wondrous world had lain
Of immortality.

XXXVI

So fell it in that maiden's case;
The deep, mysterious work of grace

179

Seem'd then, in her, begun;
The seeds, in childhood sown, then first
To life and sudden vigour burst,
Beneath religion's sun.

XXXVII

With thoughtful brow and tearful eye
She heard, and in her heart laid by
The lessons then instill'd;
Truths known, but never felt before,
Which now she ponder'd o'er and o'er,
Through soul and spirit thrill'd.

XXXVIII

And when the holy rite was done,
And from the altar, one by one,
Her young companions pass'd,
Whatever thoughts in them might stir—
Some had, that day, been waked in her,
Which would for ever last.

XXXIX

The emptiness she now had learn'd
Of things below—had well discern'd
The worth of things not seen,
And, in the Everlasting arms,
From Earth's temptations, Hell's alarms,
Received and shelter'd been.

XL

Strange passage! from youth's dreams of bliss
Investing such a world as this
With glory most untrue,
To calmest faith and sober love,
Which almost bring the world above
Within the Christian's view.

180

XIL

Strange passage!—and to her most blest!—
For so she found a place of rest
And comfort all her own,
When on her gentle head did rain
A storm of such fierce grief and pain
As few on Earth have known.

XLII

When summer leaves were on the boughs,
She ratified her Christian vows,
Began her Christian race;
But long ere winter's icy chain
Was broke, disease and bitterest pain
Had paled her patient face.

XLIII

She came to church on Christmas Day,
The homage of her love to pay,
And celebrate His birth,
Who, eighteen hundred years ago,
Exchanged Heaven's bliss for human woe,
And dwelt with Man on Earth.

XLIV

That morn what peaceful joy was hers,
As with his chosen worshippers
She at his altar knelt!
But ere another Sabbath day,
Ah me! how like a corpse she lay!
And yet what anguish felt!

XLV

Hard lot, ye think, my readers young,
While every heart and every tongue
Save hers was full of glee,
And friends and neighbours vied in mirth

181

By well-spread board and blazing hearth,
To groan with agony.

XLVI

Hard lot, ye think, was that for her;
And yet was she (I dare aver)
Far happier where she lay,
Than could the loudest laugher be
Of any joyous company
Which then kept holiday.

XLVII

Far happier—for her Saviour stood
Beside her in her solitude,—
Beside her stood and smiled;
And sounds were to her soul convey'd,
Which seem'd to say “Be not afraid,
Mine own adopted child.”

XLVIII

A peace seraphic, night and day,
Upon her gentle spirit lay,—
Peace, sent her from above,
Which told that nought which might betide
Thence-forward should her soul divide
From Heaven's eternal love.

XLIX

And think ye, while she felt this peace,
Nor fear'd lest it should ever cease—
That she could wish to be
Once more with a light-hearted crowd,
Midst roars of laughter long and loud,
And boisterous revelry?

L

Would she one glimpse of Heaven forego
For all Earth's merriment?—ah, no!

182

Her ties to Earth are burst;
She listens to the angels' song,
In draughts of rapture, deep and long,
She slakes her spirit's thirst.

LI

Whoso had look'd on that sick bed
With thoughtful eye, must needs have said
A contrast strange was there;
Disease and racking pain without—
Within—a soul from fear and doubt
Made free as summer air.

LII

And yet 'twas pitiful to see
With what extreme severity
Heaven chasten'd its dear child;
What pangs did that weak frame devour,
From day to day, from hour to hour,
Made fiercer and more wild.

LIII

In sooth but slender skill have I
In phrase of learn'd anatomy;
Nor know I how to name
Whatever tortures urge the pulse
To wildest throbbings, or convulse
Our sinful human frame.

LIV

Yet I may say no limb was free
From its peculiar agony,
But, downward from the face,
Through all her frame convulsions went,
Which every separate fibre rent
In swift and ceaseless race.

183

LV

From year to year did she sustain
A dread diversity of pain,
Still gathering more and more;
And this physicians did declare—
That all which flesh and blood can bear
Their gentle patient bore.

LVI

So three years pass'd;—the fourth begun—
We deem'd that now her race was run,
Her conflict nearly o'er;
For then a storm of pain did pierce
Each part, more fiery and more fierce
Than she had felt before.

LVII

Nor was this all;—the light of day
Was now for ever swept away,
And ceaseless night began;
Her eyelids closed, nor might she trace
Thenceforward any friendly face
Or form beloved of Man.

LVIII

You deem perhaps that then she found
Some compensation from the sound
Of living voices near;
That friends would from a distance walk,
With pleasant and familiar talk
Her loneliness to cheer.

LIX

And that beside her dying bed
From morn to night her sisters read
Sweet words of truth divine;
And prayers were said, and hymns were sung,

184

And comfort dropp'd from many a tongue
More eloquent than mine.

LX

Ah, no!—so fierce her tortures were
That she could now no longer bear
The softest human tone;
A footstep, though it trod on down,—
The rustle of a silken gown
Thrill'd through her to the bone.

LXI

And thus they lay (her pain and she)
In sorrowful society,
While twelve months more roll'd by;
She wasting silently away
With imperceptible decay,
And yet too strong to die.

LXII

'Twas the meek patience of her heart
Which, through such fierce and fiery smart,
Her life did long sustain;
And had her faith and love been less,
She had escaped the bitterness
Of many a month of pain.

LXIII

Throughout that time full oft did I
For entrance to her room apply,
Which mostly was denied;
Such were her pangs, she could not bear
A soothing word, a whisper'd prayer
Put up at her bedside.

LXIV

At last the final conflict came,
Each part of her exhausted frame

185

Had borne its share of woe;
The lungs with inflammation dire
Were last attack'd, and raging fire
In every vein did glow.

LXV

Then 'twas that me they came to call
In her last tranquil interval
Of partial rest from pain;
Such rest as lulls the wintry deep,
When the spent storms at evening sleep,
Ere morn to wake again.

LXVI

I came;—her quick and struggling breath
Told of the near approach of death,
As by her side I stood;
Her painful toil was nearly done,
The conflict o'er, the victory won,
The sinful soul renew'd.

LXVII

A glorious sight it is to see
A dying saint's felicity,
When death draws gently nigh,
And no sharp pangs disturb the peace
Preceding the glad soul's release,
Or clog the parting sigh.

LXVIII

A glorious sight!—for then Heaven's field
Seems to be visibly reveal'd
To faith's expiring gaze;
And we almost can hear the hymn
Which cherubim and seraphim
For its new inmate raise.

186

LXIX

But deaths like this, I deem, are rare,
For mortal weakness, pain and care,
Cleave to us to the last;
And few of saintliest souls there be
From all life's galling bonds set free
Till life itself is past.

LXX

O! shame! eternal shame to them
Who would the penitent condemn
In his expiring hour,
Because his fainting soul is toss'd
By waves of doubt, nor yet hath lost
All sense of hellish power.

LXXI

O! shame to such! they little know
The warfare to be waged below,—
The mystery, dark and strange,
Of inextinguishable sin,
Subjecting the whole world within
To doubt and fear and change.

LXXII

By many a death-bed have I stood
Both of the wicked and the good,
And this will I maintain,—
That while the former smile on death,
The latter oft yield up their breath
In trouble, fear, and pain.

LXXIII

But such was not our sister's doom:—
Strong pains she had, but care and gloom
And fear had fled for aye;
One toilsome fight was still to win,

187

And then—farewell to grief and sin!
And welcome endless day!

LXXIV

And yet no rapturous flights had she
Of feeling or of phantasy,
No visions heavenly-bright;
'Twas patience all, and faith and love,
Which with her giant sufferings strove,
And triumph'd through God's might.

LXXV

Once, as I bent above her bed—
“Now, Mary, you approach,” I said,
“Death's dark and shadowy vale;”—
“It is not dark”—was her reply,
And a faint smile pass'd radiantly
Across her features pale.

LXXVI

No more she spoke;—her anguish grew
Fiercer and fiercer, till we knew
The final strife was come;
At length the web of life was rent,
And, with a sigh, her spirit went
To its eternal home.

LXXVII

But was this all?—to mortal eye
No more 'twas granted to descry;
And yet the soul within
Had felt a more stupendous strife,—
The struggle between death and life,
Heaven's grace and human sin.

LXXVIII

By prayer intense and fervent thought,
Strange transformation had been wrought

188

In all the inner man;
And ever, as the flesh decay'd,
The spirit was more heavenly made,
A steadier race she ran.

LXXIX

Yet think not that her sainted soul
Of peace and joy attain'd the goal
By easy steps and few;
Or that from height to height she went
With swift and regular ascent,
As happy angels do.

LXXX

Ah, no!—though now, for many a year,
She to her Saviour had been dear,
And in his flock received,—
The Tempter's power was not yet past,
But still assai'd her to the last,
As ere she first believed.

LXXXI

Full surely, all the time, he knew
That all his legions were too few,
His subtlest efforts vain,
The ranks of that bright host to stir,
Invisibly encamp'd round her,
As on a battle plain.

LXXXII

Yet though he could not overcome,
Nor lure her from her heavenly home,
Dread power he wielded still;
Power to disturb, to haunt, to vex,
Confuse and fearfully perplex
With dreams obscure of ill.

189

LXXXIII

The sin which still was unsubdued,
In many a dark and dreary mood,
He show'd to her mind's eye
In frightful forms and hues intense,
O'erwhelming her bewilder'd sense
With fear and agony.

LXXXIV

Doubts and dark thoughts did he suggest,
Robbing her soul of peace and rest;—
“O am I christ's indeed,—
So weak of faith, so cold in love?—
Could he who lives and reigns above
For such a sinner bleed?—

LXXXV

“Hath all this sharp and bitter pain,
Borne for long years, been borne in vain?—
Is all this woe for nought?—
Is this vile heart e'en now unchanged?
From Him—from hope—from Heaven estranged?”
—Thus darkly fancy wrought.

LXXXVI

But soon such terrors pass'd away,
And then in bliss untold she lay,
Though still in grievous pain;
Heaven's gates once more were open thrown,
And Faith and Hope and Love came down
To dwell with her again.

LXXXVII

Nor lack'd she, ere her anguish grew
Too deadly, friends, nor cold nor few,
Who daily to her came,
Spake with her of Christ's dying love,

190

And soar'd with her, in thought, above
This world of sin and shame.

LXXXVIII

And blest, to her, those seasons were,
When to her chamber did repair
Souls touch'd by grace divine;
And the Lord's table there we spread,
And bless'd and brake the living bread,
And shared the mystic wine.

LXXXIX

Thus joy and grief together wrought
To purify her springs of thought,
Her heart for Heaven to train;
Thus was her spirit cleansed from guilt,
And God therein a temple built
Where He might ever reign.

XC

Nor did her faith and patience (shown
Thus sweetly) to herself alone
Most rich in blessing prove;
For few to her sick chamber came
In whom she kindled not the flame
Of her celestial love.

XCI

The careless, when her pangs they view'd
So meekly borne, with hearts subdued
And sadden'd went away;
The weak grew strong, the timid bold,
Her patient warfare to behold
With suffering and decay.

XCII

She was a silent preacher, sent
(Silent, but O! most eloquent!)

191

To teach us how to die;
Showing o'er what fierce depths of pain
A tender maiden's soul can gain,
Through faith, the victory.

XCIII

But little now remains to say;
She died ere dawn upon the day
Of last St. Valentine;
And on the following Monday morn,
With reverence, to her grave was borne;—
The last sad office mine.

XCIV

Few mourners at her burial were,
In truth, the day was far from fair;
And while along the street
The scant and slow procession pass'd,
The thickening clouds pour'd down full fast
A storm of rain and sleet.

XCV

Yet One there was whom all respect,—
A man of noblest intellect,
Great heart, and station high,
Who, that day, all his toils forsook,
And on her funeral came to look
With sad and reverent eye.

XCVI

For service high perform'd to truth,
For Christian lessons taught to youth,
Deep thanks to him are due;
And I, for one, may truly say
How happy I esteem the day
When first his worth I knew.

192

XCVII

Yet ne'er, methinks, for him I felt
Respect so deep as when we knelt
Together by her bier,
And I beheld him not too proud,
Amidst the meanest of the crowd,
To drop a parting tear.

XCVIII

To him, with cordial heart, to-day,
I dedicate this humble lay,
Which he will not despise,
But treasure as a record true
Of one whose faith on earth he knew,
Now throned above the skies.

Written in 1834.

THE SONG OF THE KETTLE.

I

What decks our sober parsonage to-day
With this unusual pomp of festal show?
What mean these tents, bedight with streamers gay?
These tables, spread in long continuous row?—
This throng of busy peasants to and fro?
Yon maypole wreathed with yet unfaded flowers,
Braving the blasts that all too wintry blow,
And ever and anon, with sleety showers,
Bemock the cold mid-May of this wild clime of ours?

II

Not without previous care and tasteful toil
Hath all this rural pageantry been wrought;
But yesternight the meadows' flowery spoil,
By children's hands with childish ardour sought,

193

Was to our pastor's busy parlour brought,
And then and there did gentle ladies twine
Those flowery wreaths, and with fantastic thought,
Primrose and cowslip and blue bell combine
In forms and hues so rich as mock this verse of mine.

III

And here, all day, since earliest peep of dawn,
Hath rustic labour preparation made
For feats gymnastic on the wanton lawn,
With stroke and thrust of hammer, saw, and spade;
Here tilters deft shall dexterously evade
The quintain's swift and ignominious blow;—
Here shall the wrestler at his length be laid,
Lock'd in the gripe of his victorious foe;
Here youths and maids shall point the light fantastic toe.

IV

But wherefore here? where solemn thought should dwell,
And heavenly contemplation oft be found,
And silence house, as in a hermit's cell,
And pious cares and studies aye abound,
Untroubled by the world's intrusive sound?—
Why all this coil of boisterous frolic here?
Startling the tenants of the graves around,
And ever bursting on the living ear
With uproar meeter sure for some less sober sphere?

V

'Tis not our pastor's wont, nor e'er hath been,
Since first in Christian fold a flock he fed,
To mingle with gay crowds in festal scene;—
Full surely to the world we deem'd him dead,
A life so grave and sober hath he led,
Shunning whate'er to puritanic eye
Might cause offence;—so much he seem'd to dread,
Lest keen schismatics should in him espy
Occasion to impeach and mar his ministry.

194

VI

No feaster he, nor sportsman, nor alert
At feats athletic—save that, in his day,
At England's game of games he was expert,
And loved with jovial cricketers to play,
So wasting many a summer holiday;
But now that pastime too he doth forego,
Nor e'er in flannel garb his loins array,
Nor arm his foot with iron spikes below,
Nor wield the ponderous bat with skilful block and blow.

VII

A graver interest warms his heart to-day,
Grave meaning lurks beneath his mirthful mood,
Some graver purpose owns this trim array
Of tents and tables piled with daintiest food—
These garlands wreath'd by tasteful womanhood—
This preparation for athletic sport;—
Mock not, ye graceless—marvel not, ye good;—
Here Temperance holds to-day her solemn court,
Whereto her liegemen true, in festive pomp, resort.

VIII

A Power benignant she, and once on Earth
Well known and honour'd;—health's secure ally,
Sworn friend of household peace and social mirth,
And happiness, and love, and liberty;
Sedate her mien and modest is her eye,
From meretricious wiles exempt and pure;
No care hath she, the casual passer by
With smiles of harlot blandishment to lure,
But wins by quiet worth, and knows her triumph sure.

IX

Small store of season'd viands loads her board,
No sparkling wine-cup at her feasts is seen;
Yet she the choicest dainties doth afford
To healthful tastes, and reigns in state serene,

195

Of true convivial joys the sovereign queen;
Hers is the cheerful home, the fire-side glee,
The rustic game, the dance upon the green;—
And eke the kettle's song, the toast, the tea,
The gleam of household smiles, from guilt and sorrow free.

X

Ah me! that ever nymph so fair and good
Men should have banish'd from our luckless isle
Through lust of tempting drink and luscious food,
Duped and enslaved by that enchanter vile,
Accursed Comus, who doth yet defile
Our homes and hearths with riotous excess,
Stealing the heart and brain with treacherous guile,
And breeding deadlier woe than thought can guess
Through brutish sensual waste and filthy drunkenness.

XI

O shun his proffer'd draught, unthinking swains,
In whom not yet is appetite subdued
To Reason's temperate rule;—that cup contains
Circeian juice with poisonous drugs imbued
Whereof who freely drinks, albeit endued
With natural graces manifold, casts off
His better self, grows sensual, wild and lewd,
And doth at life's true pleasures rail and scoff,
Herding with human swine, and wallowing in their trough.

XII

Yet sweet, at first, the luscious beverage seems,
Which, like an adder, stingeth at the last,—
The wine that sparkles in rich ruby gleams,
The ale by amber's clearness unsurpass'd;—
And pleasures throng around it thick and fast—
Gay spirits—generous feelings—social glee,
And blithe good humour by no cloud o'ercast,—
Frolic and song and laughter loud and free—
Yea, all the joys that wait on jocund jollity.

196

XIII

Right pleasant 'twere to quaff that charmed cup,
And feel its inspiration rich and fine,
Were no sharp bitters with the dregs mix'd up,
Were social gladness all that flows from wine;
Then Bacchus were indeed a god divine,
And Circe's son a welcome guest on Earth;
But soon alas! those giddy joys decline,
And furious folly takes the place of mirth,
And fever'd brain and blood to lust and rage give birth.

XIV

Strange sight it is, I ween, at lordly feast,
Or alehouse revel, (as the case may be)
To mark the gradual change of man to beast,
The quick transition from convivial glee
To tipsy fun and senseless ribaldry;
Thence to mad riot and unseemly brawl,
Or brutish, base insensibility,
As, in their strength or weakness, one and all,
Beneath the enchanter's spell, in swift succession fall.

XV

Gentle at first his stealthy influence seems;
He opens the shut heart, and frees the tongue
Of shy reserve, and lights the eye with gleams
Of kindling humour round the table flung,
And cheers the drooping soul which seem'd unstrung
For boisterous joys, and tunes the timid voice
To jovial ditties in full chorus sung,
And charms the ear with talk so quaint and choice
As makes the dull applaud—the sorrowful rejoice.

XVI

Anon a change doth o'er this spirit pass,
Discourse more freely, but less clearly, flows;
This grows a pert, and that a solemn ass,
And maudlin fervour makes sworn friends of foes,

197

Till from embraces straight they come to blows,
(Extremes so nearly meet,) and you may see
Black eye, and broken head, and bloody nose,
Marring the mirth of this fair company;—
Sure Circe's swine themselves could scarce more swinish be.

XVII

And one, with solemn air and swimming eyes,
Draws saws of tipsy morals to deaf ears;
One, at full length, beneath the table lies
In most unsavoury plight, nor sees nor hears
The brawls or babble of his drunk compeers,
So well the wine hath done its work on him;
There let him lie till sober morn appears,
Then wake with throbbing brow and aching limb;—
Woke never mortal wight in more unseemly trim.

XVIII

Time was when scenes like these you might behold
E'en in the Palace-Halls of Albion's isle;
So closely did the curst Enchanter hold
Peasant and Prince in bondage base and vile,
And all the virtues of all ranks defile;
Nor Learning's cloister'd shades withstood his power,
Nor shrank he back abash'd from Beauty's smile,
But durst, with steps profane, invade her bower,
Reeling from revels gross, prolong'd for many an hour.

XIX

Then without shame on drawing-rooms' retreat,
Whereto, ere wine grows wanton, dames retire,
Would sots intrude, who scarce could keep their feet,—
The drunken lord and doubly drunken squire,
Their brains bewilder'd, and their blood on fire.
Then felt the enamour'd youth, thro' hot excess,
His bashful love transform'd to bold desire,
And gazed upon his fair one's loveliness
With looks from which she shrank as from a fiend's caress.

198

XX

Those days are past;—but tho' at length expell'd
From courtly halls, or there with chains fast bound,
And wand reversed,—the miscreant, yet unquell'd,
In lowlier homes and meaner haunts is found,
Still too triumphant upon British ground;
Him taverns worship, him the alehouse owns
Lord of each loathsome sight and bestial sound;
Him the gin-palace in full state enthrones—
That charnel, fair without, but fill'd with dead men's bones.

XXI

And in the streets, at midnight, you may hear
His votaries from their orgies staggering out,
Flush'd high with brandy or ignoble beer,
And roaming, like enfranchised fiends, about,
With many a wanton song and deafening shout,
Startling the sober citizen from sleep,
Who haply opes his casement, and thereout
At those mad revels doth affrighted peep,
Which they, in frantic sport, right mischievously keep.

XXII

Then from obnoxious doors are knockers wrung,
And pannels with incongruous paint o'erspread,
And signs torn down, till watchmen's rattles sprung
Sound to the charge, and soon some senseless head,
Split by the official staff's congenial lead,
Discloses to men's eyes its lack of brains;
And one, self-rescued, staggers home to bed,
And one, all night, in durance vile remains,
Consign'd to watch-house base—fit guerdon for his pains.

XXIII

These, Comus, are thy triumphs—but alas!
Not these alone—ah would that these were all!
For thou all fiends in mischief dost surpass,
Plague most accurst of this terrestrial ball!

199

Health, fortune, reputation, conscience fall
Beneath thy blasting spell;—alas for those
Whom thou, with fatal witcheries, dost enthrall!
No more shall they in peaceful homes repose,
But waste in swift decay, pierced through with many woes.

XXIV

Theirs is the trembling hand, the pimpled cheek,
The purple nose, the lean and shrunken limb,
The bloated trunk, the gait infirm and weak,
The palsied head, the eyeball blear'd and dim.
Woe to the sot! yet not alone to him;
Woe, woe to those whom once he held most dear!—
His little ones a prey to famine grim,
His wife left weeping in her chamber drear,
Yet waiting his return with less of hope than fear.

XXV

Ah wretched she! more wretched for the peace
Which once was hers, and which, when life was young,
She fondly hoped with life alone should cease,
When he upon her neck, enamour'd, hung,
And vowed with winning and persuasive tongue,
His life, himself, his body, soul and sense
Hers until death;—nor were such pleasures flung
At random from his lips in base pretence,
But breathed in honest truth and frankest confidence.

XXVI

Nor lack'd their early years of wedded love
The choicest pleasures which that state can yield,
Until strong drink seduced his steps to rove
From duty's path, and soon his bosom steel'd
Against all power which Love and Hymen yield;
For he of pious parents born and bred,
His vows devoutly at the altar seal'd,
And long the tenderest husband's life had led;
Seem'd never mortal pair with brighter hopes to wed.

200

XXVII

And blessed was their basket and their store,
For industry and honest thrift were theirs;
And still they loved each other more and more,
For that joint burden of parental cares
Which grew and gather'd round them unawares
As sons and daughters, year by year, were born,—
Dear subjects of new hopes, and fears, and prayers;
Alas that e'er such home should be forlorn,
Or heart so fond as hers by such fierce anguish torn!

XXVIII

Sly was the fiend's approach;—in friendship's guise,
And hand in hand with “Auld lang syne” he came;
And if the victim's heart, more warm than wise,
Too freely open'd, few would harshly blame,—
Few, in his place, but would have done the same.
Yet there the first and fatal fault crept in,
And at its heels came sorrow, guilt, and shame,
Remorse in liquor quench'd, and deepening sin,
So steep is Hell's descent when we to err begin!

XXIX

First tyrant Custom fill'd the dangerous cup
In Friendship's name, and thus the alehouse dire
Was, in his thoughts, with holier things mix'd up;
Then, by degrees, insatiable desire
Of that fell poison set his throat on fire,
Weaning his heart from his pure peaceful home,
Till, day by day, would he from work retire
To that foul den, nor near his cottage come,
Its pleasures now appear'd so tame and wearisome.

XXX

His home-spent hours—ah! wherefore flag they now?
They flagg'd not when a life of toil he led,
By daily sweat of his industrious brow
Earning his wife's, his children's daily bread;

201

And now by whom shall they be clothed and fed?
What shelter shall they find from winter's cold?
Alas for them!—far better were they dead!—
Their food withheld—their raiment pawn'd or sold,—
Their mother sick and weak, for very grief grown old.

XXXI

No hope for her!—with hard and ceaseless toil
Early she labours, and but late takes rest;
In vilest drudgery doth her beauty soil,—
No murmur utter'd, no complaint express'd,
Though wasting anguish is her daily guest;
And still her needful food doth she forego,
To calm their hunger whom she loveth best;
And still, thro' wintry frost and driving snow,
Ill shod and scantly clothed, to daily labour go.

XXXII

No hope for her!—scarce all her toil can win
A scanty pittance of the coarsest bread;
And when, sore spent, at evening, she comes in,
Cowering she sits, and trembles, pale with dread,
If she but hear her husband's coming tread,
Lest he that pittance from her children tear,
And barter it for drink;—their marriage-bed
Long since was sold;—of table, stool, and chair,
Yea all, save mouldering walls, her wretched hut is bare.

XXXIII

Cowering she sits beside her fireside hearth,
Her children shivering in their straw with cold,—
Till, with a sudden shout of brutal mirth,
The crazy door is shatter'd, and behold!
Him whom her youthful arms were wont to fold
In tenderest transport, now, in drunken ire,
Showering fierce blows and curses uncontroll'd
On her—on her so long his heart's desire,—
For whose dear sake he toil'd, with zeal which nought could tire.

202

XXXIV

No hope for her!—the subtle fiend in him
Hath done its perfect work, and he hath grown
A reckless tyrant, sensual, sullen, grim;
His heart, once flesh, is now transform'd to stone.
Deaf is he to his famish'd children's moan,
And if benigner death should set them free
From life-long woes, would mock their dying groan
With drunken shouts of most unnatural glee;—
So lost to human love—to human shame is he.

XXXV

No hope for her!—yes, one, she thinks, is left—
O! if perchance in some long wished-for hour,
When, not of sense and feeling quite bereft
By dire intoxication's deadly power,
He yet might ope his bosom to a shower
Of loving words, kind looks, and gentle smiles,
Still might she lead her lost one to a tower
Of sure defence against temptation's wiles,
And quell the enchanter curst who now his soul beguiles.

XXXVI

Oh! could she tempt him, by persuasion bland,
To join this sober festival to-day,
And see convivial pleasure hand in hand
With peace domestic, chasing grief away,
With sport, and dance, and jocund roundelay—
Or could she ope his sluggish ears to hear
What that good man will in his lecture say—
His better mind might yet unquench'd appear,
And he, from guilt reclaim'd be more than ever dear.

XXXVII

But hark!—the near church clock with sudden stroke
Proclaims the long expected hour of one,
And straight the tents are throng'd with hungry folk,
And (grace first said) the banquet hath begun:

203

Joints roast and boil'd, to nice perfection done,
With multifarious garden-stuff combined—
Plum-puddings which no epicure would shun,
With thin potations of the choicest kind—
Furnish a feast at which Apicius might have dined.

XXXVIII

Nor lack we music to regale the ear,
And keener relish to our meat impart,
For brethren skill'd in minstrelsy are here,
Each well-prepared, with willing hand and heart,
In instrumental clang to bear his part;—
Clarion and fife and double drum have we,
And hautboy blown with no ignoble art;
Hark! how attuned to blithe triumphant key,
They breathe (what could they less?) the soul of social glee!

XXXIX

Brief is the meal, as Earth's best pleasures are;
Few condiments the flagging taste provoke,
No Bacchanalian toasts the banquet mar,
For our unfetterr'd banqueters have broke
The tyrant Custom's arbitrary yoke,
And eat as hunger, drink as thirst impels;
But hark! once more with swift, repeated stroke,
The solemn music of the vesper bells
The hour of public prayer, now fast approaching, tells.

XL

And at the signal, in procession long,
Our men in office marshal their array,
With trump and timbrel and low-murmur'd song,
And parti-colour'd streamers bright and gay;
—Brief compass fetch'd—they crowd the queen's highway,—
Aloft the Temperance banners are unroll'd,
And emblems meet and mottoes quaint display,

204

Emblazon'd with devices manifold,
Which well, with quaking hearts, may publicans behold.

XLI

And now, defiling through the churchyard gate.
The music hush'd at once, in order due,
Within the church they crowd and congregate;
Well fill'd ere long, I ween, is every pew—
With gazers all, with sneerers not a few:
Meanwhile, the organ's deep, harmonious swell
With notes prelusive gives the choir their cue,
And they the Psalm intone which sings so well
How sweet for brethren 'tis in unity to dwell.

XLII

And soon each heart is wrapt, or seems to be,
In solemn worship by our pastor led;—
Well with the occasion by strange chance agree
The lessons in the daily service read;—
“Destroy not him for whom Christ's blood was shed
By meat and drink;—all things indeed are pure;
Yet is it good e'en lawful meat to dread,
Which makes a brother's walking insecure;”
Thus saith St. Paul to day and what he saith is sure.

XLIII

—The prayer concluded and the priest retired
To doff the surplice and to don the gown,—
Once more the choir, by tuneful zeal inspired,
With choral hymn the solemn service crown;
While rustic voices the full organ drown,
Swelling from aisle and gallery, loud and clear.
That hymn let us, who hearken, here set down,
Albeit, uncouth and rugged it appear,
And all unfit to please a critic's dainty ear.

205

HYMN.

1

God of this fair creation!
In whom we live and move;
With hymns of adoration
We own that Thou art love;
Before thine altar kneeling
Thy gracious name we bless
For life, for health, for feeling,
For all Earth's plenteousness.

2

For all that soothes our sorrows,
And gives our sickness ease,—
For corn that fills our furrows,
For fruit that bends our trees,—
For wine, its balm diffusing
Through souls by pain opprest,
Which use as not abusing,—
O Lord, thy name be blest!

3

May food which nature needeth
To us be daily given,
While still the spirit feedeth
On bread sent down from heaven!
From streams by drought unwasted
May we these draughts obtain,
Which he who once hath tasted
Shall never thirst again!

XLIV

And now, full arm'd for controversial fight,
Yet more by mild persuasion bent to win,
Our pastor climbs the pulpit's well-known height,
And (prayer first duly utter'd,) doth begin

206

With scripture phrase, well cull'd, to usher in
His theme, repulsive to the public maw;
Nor heeds the sneerer's ill-dissembled grin,
Nor much of fair objectors stands in awe,
So he may fence his cause with Heaven's expounded law.

XLV

Calmly he shows how Christian men should look
Each to his neighbour's welfare as his own;
How Paul himself permitted meat forsook,
Lest brethren's souls thereby might be o'erthrown;
Yet all harsh judgment strictly does disown
Of those who use what God for use hath given;
Deeming, in sooth, small sense or wisdom shown
By those grim zealots of fanatic leaven,
Who fain to all who taste would bar the gates of Heaven.

XLVI

—The sermon ended—from the Church once more
In proud procession moves the long array;
Some haply not displeased that (service o'er)
They as they list may now keep holiday;
Again drums thunder, and loud trumpets bray,
And now the tented lawn is throng'd apace
With squire and peasant, lord and lady gay,
Plebeian beauty and patrician grace;
Was ne'er such motley crowd beheld in such a place.

XLVII

Within the tents again the festive board,
But now with daintier fare, hath been supplied;
Soul-cheering Tea, by fairest fingers pour'd,
And piles of bread and butter, side by side
With cakes which friends with liberal zeal provide;
Around, domestic, happy groups appear,—
Husband and wife, each now the other's pride,
With children to both parents grown more dear;
All former wrongs effaced, all grief forgotten here.

207

XLVIII

Elsewhere athletic youths, with strength adroit,
In sports gymnastic sturdily contend;
Some strike the quintain, and some hurl the quoit,
Some, with firm grasp, the slippery rope ascend
'Midst favouring shout and laughter without end;
And round the maypole, with bright garlands hung,
Age, rank and sex, in circling dances blend—
Scholar and clown—the aged and the young;
Meanwhile, in lusty notes, is this blithe chorus sung.

SONG.

1

Come brothers, be hearty! our Teetotal party
Should surely the mirth of the alehouse outvie,
Where sots o'er their liquor grow duller and sicker,
And fools mimick fun with a drop in their eye.
Better pleasures are ours—blue skies and green bowers,
And merry tea-tables set out on the grass;
With sunshine above us, and faces that love us,
The wife with her husband—the lad with his lass.

2

Let blockheads too stupid for Hymen or Cupid
To charm with a sweetheart or bless with a spouse,
Their addle-brains muddle with publican's puddle,
And drink themselves dumb in a sulky carouse.
We've daughters and spouses, the joy of our houses,
To share all our pleasures as blithely as we;
In bumpers o'er-brimming, come—health to the women!
And thanks for their company!—drink it in tea!

3

'Tis they who best cheer us, when sorrow comes near us,
And would not their absence our revels condemn?

208

Let's banquet like brothers, with sisters, wives, mothers,—
Shame, shame on the churl who would feast without them!
The brawls and brute quarrels which flow from beer barrels
We leave to the slave of the bottle and bowl;
No strife shall divide us, while they sit beside us,
To smile on our frolics and yet to control.

4

Let sots in deep swilling who spend their last shilling,
Lose food for the belly and clothes for the back;
With coats all in tatters and puddingless platters,
And health gone to ruin and home gone to rack.
So end their carouses;—we've peace in our houses,
Glad smiles to receive us, and family glee;
So a fig for ale-bottles!—let tee-total throttles
Shout Glory for ever to Temperance Tea!

XLIX

But daylight waneth, and our sports must end,
For moderation best befits the wise;
Nor would our brethren by excess offend
Foes who malign or friends who patronize;
Anon, at signal sounded, all arise;
Tent, maypole, quintain are deserted straight,
And soon upon the ear the music dies,
Even the last straggler follows through the gate,
And all is silence now, where all was mirth so late.

L

Is all then o'er?—and shall our revel fade
E'en like a dream, and leave no trace behind?
Nay, yet one final effort must be made
To shake the stubborn, fix the wavering mind,
And weak resolve by strengthening pledge to bind.
Lo! where to yonder schoolroom crowds repair
Each on the alert to gain the foremost place,
For one well-known to-night will lecture there;
And now the room is full;—our pastor takes the chair.

209

LI

At first some meaner orators, with speech
Simple and rude, the attentive crowd address;
Themselves reclaim'd, would fain their brethren teach
How small indulgence leads to sure excess;
And many a homely tale, as you may guess,
They tell, and many a pungent jest essay,
Mocking each phase of filthy drunkenness,
The alehouse gabble and the tipsy fray,
The pains and sickness dire which topers feel next day.

LII

“Somewhat too much of this—but now 'tis past;”
A murmur of impatience, quickly heard,
Dies into silence;—lo! he comes at last,
The speaker to all speakers far preferr'd:—
He rises, but, or ere he speaks a word,
The echoing walls with loud applause are rent;
One cheer has sunk,—a second—then a third
Rise, roar, and fall—till all their breath have spent,
And hang upon his words with eager looks intent.

LIII

A noticeable man is he, with brow
High and projecting, and of broad expanse,
Plough'd, by long thought, in deepening furrows now,
As past life's middle stage his years advance;
From his benign and manly countenance
Intelligence and mild good-humour beam;
Around the room he casts one kindling glance,
And straight, when hush'd and still the hearers seem,
Lets loose his deep-toned voice in full, continuous stream.

LIV

At first, in gentlest phrase, with utterance low,
And half, it seems, in earnest, half in jest,
He courts attention both from friend and foe,
And lays unwilling prejudice to rest,

210

Which else with rude disturbance might molest
His after speech; and now some tale he tells,
Now on some caustic apologue, express'd
With dry, grave humour, for a moment dwells,
Till, roused by its own rush, the soul within him swells.

LV

Anon, in fearful colours, he portrays
The drunkard's headlong course of sin and shame,—
His short and bitter term of evil days,—
His frantic joys unworthy of the name,—
His children beggar'd, or of ruin'd fame—
To guilty deeds by grinding hunger driven,—
Yet he in heart and conduct still the same,—
His every hope long lost in Earth and Heaven,
For how should slave so curst repent and be forgiven?

LVI

In vigorous contrast he exhibits next
The abstainer's blameless life and blissful lot;
His days of peaceful industry, unvex'd
By guilt or fear,—his clean, well-furnish'd cot,—
The plenteous meal, well dress'd and smoking hot,—
The jocund circle round his evening fire,—
His marriage-vow unstain'd by speck or blot,
But bless'd by mutual love and chaste desire,
And sweet domestic joys too pure to fade or tire.

LVII

Nor ends the contrast with expiring Time;—
Eternity's dark veil is rent in twain,
And lo! the direful fruit of sensual crime!
The deep damnation—the immortal pain
In which the drunkard must for aye remain!
The fire unquench'd!—the worm which never dies!
And Heaven discern'd far off distinct and plain,
Throng'd with the spirits of the just, who rise
From death's sepulchral sleep to reign above the skies!

211

LVIII

“Now look on these twin pictures, ye who doubt,
And choose,” quoth he, “the better while ye may;
Beware lest appetite drive reason out,
Or rash indulgence Heaven's whole bliss betray;
Now, in the sunshine of your mortal day,
By strong resolve the insidious Tempter shun,
Cast from your lips the dangerous cup away,
And half life's battle is already won,
And half its direst troubles ended ere begun.

LIX

“Strong is the magic of our Temperance pledge,
The pledge of brethren against evil bound,
Fencing, with an impenetrable hedge,
Each weak and wavering brother round and round;
Sole aid against the spells of Bacchus found,—
Religion's handmaid, Virtue's friend secure,—
Extirpator of vice from British ground,—
Firm aid of all things lovely, good, and pure,—
Heaven's instrument it seems, all social ills to cure.

LX

“Once bound and circled in its mystic chain,
The timid become bold, the feeble strong,
The self-indulgent can, thenceforth, refrain
From sinful pleasure, loved and cherish'd long:
Man's tyranny and woman's bitter wrong
Its potent influence quickly doth allay;
And, where 'tis kept, domestic pleasures throng,
And social joyance makes all faces gay;—
Witness the mirthful crowds assembled here to-day!”

LXI

Our festival is o'er;—the crowds disperse,
And silence dwells in the deserted room;
A few remain, who from the avenging curse,
And all the dreadful depths of guilt and gloom,

212

To which intemperance doth her victims doom,
Would, in that vaunted pledge, safe shelter find.
For such let Earth's least fading garlands bloom,—
Love, joy, and peace, from sensual dross refined;—
And theirs be vigorous health of body and of mind!

LXII

Nor need our pastor grieve with vain regret,
Tho' he no more the inspiring glass should drain,
His throat no more with port or sherry wet,—
No more his lips, at costlier tables, stain
With ruddy claret or the pink champagne:
In sooth, such draughts were never sweet to him;
Better he loves the juice of British grain—
The porter, foaming o'er the tankard's brim—
The ale, whose dazzling gleam makes e'en the topaz dim.

LXIII

Nor thankless he, of old, for cyder press'd
From the rich growth of Worcester's fruitful shire;
Nor scorn'd on Sunday evenings, when at rest
From pulpit toils (for pulpit toils will tire)
With wine and egg, commingled o'er the fire,
His drooping strength and spirits to restore,—
Well pleased to think the body might require
Such aid;—these thoughts are, for the present, o'er,
And he, on thinnest drinks, grows lustier than before.

LXIV

And if, ere long, by sore experience taught,
That which he now upholds he must oppose,
'Twill yet to him be no unpleasant thought,
That vice and he were here, as ever, foes.
But, for the present, thus our song we close,—
For hark! the urn is hissing, and the tea
In fragrant streams for our regalement flows,—
While Fanny's voice, in clear, melodious key,
Warbles prelusive strains of choicest minstrelsy.

Written in 1839.

213

II. PART II.

215

ALTARS, HEARTHS, AND GRAVES.

ALICE GAY'S BRIDAL.

With loud, tumultuous clash and clang,
As though with sudden rapture mad,
Twelve bells congratulation rang,
From that stout belfry of St. Chad:
The rite was o'er, the love-knot tied,
And down the aisle, in trim array,
The bridemaids follow'd, thoughtful-eyed,
Their wedded sister, Alice Gay.

The vestry walls had ears within
For many an old-establish'd jest;
By many a lip of friends and kin
The bride's consenting lips were press'd:
And (all things done in order meet)
Again the fair procession pass'd
Through gazing crowds which lined the street,
And gain'd the festive home at last.

But there flock'd in a gathering host
Of neighbours—some esteem'd through life;
The friend since youth beloved the most,
The college crony with his wife,

216

The school companion of the bride,
The bridegroom's chum of yesterday,
All came to grace in pomp and pride
The nuptial feast of Alice Gay.

Yet mirth came not;—o'er old and young,
Kinsfolk and friends assembled there,
A smile-o'er casting shadow hung,—
A cloudy consciousness of care;
And though the board was richly spread,
And wine its cheering influence lent,
It might on every brow be read
That 'twas no time for merriment.

The bride had still that anxious mien
Which all the previous day she wore;
At wedding feast was seldom seen
A sadder, sweeter face before:
Her father strove with laugh and jest
The deep heart-trouble to disguise
Which yet his faltering tones express'd,
Which glimmer'd in his misty eyes.

I rose (the chaplain of the day)
Obedient to maternal sign,
“A few appropriate words” to say,
And pledge the parting pair in wine;
And half in earnest, half in joke,
In bantering, serio-comic style,
Essay'd a speech which should provoke,
If not a laugh, at least a smile.

But when the laugh was fairly laugh'd,
And other friends had said their say,

217

And toasts been cheer'd and bumpers quaff'd,
And changes rung on ‘grave and gay,’
And, after many a last embrace,
And parting words said o'er and o'er,
The bride had turn'd her tearful face
From that dear home—her home no more;—

While bridemaids doff'd their raiment gay,
And bridemen donn'd their boating gear,
To wile the lagging hours away
On Severn's current brisk and clear,—
We elders in the house alone
Were left, o'er teeming thoughts to brood,
And I held converse with my own
In somewhat of despondent mood.

I saw, as in a wizard's glass,
The generations of our kin
Arise and flourish, fade and pass,
Old interests end and new begin;
I saw the frequent silver streak
Now turning ebon ringlets grey,
Which shaded once the blooming cheek
Of bride as fair as Alice Gay.

I thought how much of life was past,
How little of its duty done;
How friends had dropp'd around us fast,
And still were dropping one by one;
How we ourselves seem'd scarcely more
Than laggards of a troop gone by,
Whose hopes and fears on earth were o'er,—
Whose proper task was now to die.

218

I thought—ah! sisters, ye can think,
How homes and haunts which serv'd for years,
The present with the past to link,
In love which fill'd the eyes with tears,—
The halls in which our kinsmen dwelt,—
The old town house,—the vicarage small,—
Hard by the church in which we knelt
As children,—are deserted all.

And how of ten who used to play,
Long since, around our parents' knees,
Four only are alive to-day,
And one a wanderer even of these.
With fortune and the world at strife,
He roams the wild Australian shore,
An alien now from English life,
An heir of English hope no more.

Or e'er upon our native soil,
We three lay down our load of years,
And cast aside this mortal coil,
With earth's last troubles, hopes, and fears,
'Tis meet we closer draw the chain
Which Nature round our spirits wove,
And cheer the days which yet remain
With fuller intercourse of love.

Our children (God hath blest us all,—
Best blessing in the stores of time,—
With sons and daughters great and small,
From infancy to manhood's prime,)—
Our children sure should not be strange,
Or unfamiliar each with each,
But give and take in free exchange
What heart to kindred heart can teach.

219

Thanks to the world-embracing rail!
No distance of terrestrial span,
Can now, as heretofore avail,
To bar congenial man from man.
O'er Britain hand to hand can reach,
All eyes all faces may behold,
And tongues exchange familiar speech,
Where only spirits could of old.

Those twain abodes by Severn's side,
To us have household thoughts become;
So few the hours which now divide
Your western from our midland home.
For what remains of mortal life,
Nought hinders that henceforth we be,
Child, father, sister, husband, wife,
All fused in one great family.

Meanwhile behold a homely gift,
A sample of the thoughts which flow,
The fancies quaint which change and shift,
As whim directs them, to and fro,—
The graver musings sometimes bred,
Amidst the controversial strife,
And pastoral toil of heart and head,
Which fill my later half of life:

In sooth such trifles suit but ill
The work which hath been mine since youth;
The rhymer's light, fantastic skill
But mars the solid ore of truth;
And we who strive with death and sin,
In ceaseless, never-ending fight,
But rarely time or taste can win
For fancy's dreams of vain delight.

220

Yet like the fitful breeze which sweeps
In gusts across Æolian strings,
And wakes the soul that in them sleeps,
Too deep for Art's solicitings—
From time to time an impulse caught,
I know not whence, I know not how,
Awakes the slumbering soul of thought,
And breathes it into verse, as now.

Nor few the springs of song which well
Beside the pastor's path in life;
No dweller he in monkish cell,
But rich in children, home, and wife.
Now praying in the poor man's cot,
Now wrestling with the Romish lie,
Now solacing the mourner's lot,
Now teaching timid hearts to die.

He lives with men, himself a man,
A husband and a parent, knows,
As none but those who learn it can,
The lore of household joys and woes:
His soul, a human soul, is fed
On food which kindred natures crave;
On him their threefold influence shed
The hearth, the altar, and the grave.

What marvel, if in leisure hours,
When failing health solicits ease,
He feel the stir of dormant powers,
Awaking to such themes as these?
What blame, if out of these he twine
A rainbow-tinted wreath of lays,
Exhaling faintly, line by line,
The fragrance of his fading days?

221

What crime, if he would thus bequeathe,
To flock and fold, to friends and kin,
Some record of the thoughts that seethe
A pastor-poet's breast within;
And when his place is void on earth,
To children's children still declare
What tomb and temple, home and hearth,
To those who went before them were?

Again we met beside the sea,
And bride and bridegroom join'd us there;
In all the world could scarcely be
A calmer, yet a happier pair.
A month its due effect had wrought
On either heart, and hope and fear,
And joy and grief, and anxious thought,
Were merged in love profoundly dear.

A cheerful party were we now,—
The bridegroom had grown sober-eyed,
And whoso look'd upon her brow
Might read contentment in the bride:
We wander'd on the wild sea shore,
We breathed the breezes pure and free,—
The breezes which so oft restore
Departed health and strength to me.

They came—they went—that youthful pair,—
The husband to his flock—the wife
With woman's love to soothe and share
The labours of a pastor's life;
And I—what less could poet give
Than this to speed them on their way,
And bring to mind, while both shall live,
The Honey Moon of Alice Gay?

222

THE SONG OF THE CHURCH-BUILDERS.

I

Where, with sounds of toil and wonder,
Engines roar and axles roll;
Where convergent railways thunder
Hourly to their central goal;
Where, from distant vale and highland,
To and fro are sent and brought,
O'er this broad imperial Island,
Trade and travel, wealth and thought;

II

Where our English youth inherit,
From remote ancestral days,
Nurture meet for mind and spirit,
Guidance sure in wisdom's ways;
Where, in strife with sore temptations,
Wrong'd, mis-judged, reviled, belied,
(Name beloved, revered by nations!)
Arnold battled, taught, and died;

III

Where the giant sons of labour
Gathering, swarming, work, and wive,
Neighbour pressing close on neighbour,
In their huge, still widening hive;
Where, in haste which never endeth,
Mammon on his path doth plod;
There a cry to Heaven ascendeth—
“Build, oh build, the House of God.”

223

IV

Who shall help to bear the burden?
Who shall help the strife to win,—
(Strife—its own abundant guerdon,)
With the powers of Death and Sin?
Parents, children, wives and mothers,
Rich and poor, and young and old,—
Spend, be spent for friends and brothers,—
For the flock prepare the fold.

V

Men of wealth, whose gold proceedeth
From the hordes which labour here,
Grant, to every soul that needeth,
Bread to strengthen, wine to cheer:
Give the toil-worn heart, which yearneth
For its hour of sabbath rest,
Leave to greet the light which burneth
Brightly for the weary breast.

VI

Christian servants—Christian masters,
Tradesman and apprentice, come;
Heal the stricken soul's disasters,
Give the wandering heart a home:
Let none faint, draw back, or falter,
Now the struggle hath begun;
Till, from God's completed Altar,
Sounds a voice, “Your work is done.”

VII

Well! O brothers! well already,—
Well! O sisters! ye have wrought;
Still be patient, firm and steady,
One in heart, and will, and thought
Still, with keen unwavering vision,
Keep the nearing goal in view

224

Still, with prompt resolved decision,
Each the general prize pursue.

VIII

Urge, enforce your proud petition,—
East and west, and south and north,
Speed your couriers on their mission,
Send your rousing summons forth:
Hearts there be in every quarter,
Which our Town's dear name shall stir;
Sons alert earth's wealth to barter,
For the lore they learn'd of Her.

IX

Ye whose youthful footsteps wander'd
By our wizard Avon's side;
Ye whose hearts first mused and ponder'd
Here, on thoughts whose fruits abide;
Ye to whom each slope and valley,
Lane and meadow far around—
Ye to whom each nook and alley
Of our streets is holy ground!—

X

Ye to whom old days returning,
In your sons, almost restore
Hopes with which your hearts were burning
Ere sad manhood's yoke ye bore;
For the priceless lore imparted,
For the nurture which doth train
Here your young and guileless-hearted—
Pay us now in kind again.

XI

Ye who still are fondly ranging
Through your embryo world of thought,

225

Bright with hues each moment changing,
Teeming still with joys unsought;
Ye whom learning, art and science,
Tempt, encourage, urge, invite,
Here with manifold appliance,
To true wisdom's pure delight;

XII

Ye whose barks, not yet in motion,—
Ye whose sails, not yet unfurl'd,—
Float at rest upon the ocean
Of this wide tempestuous world;
Ye whose sports are still your labours,—
Ye who know not care nor woe,—
O'er the souls of thirsting neighbours
Help the stream of life to flow.

XIII

Ye whom deeper draughts of knowledge
Strengthen in your May of youth,
Still in cloister'd court and college
Seeking self-revealing Truth;
Think what Her pursuit hath made you,
Think in Her what others lack;
As your school-day tasks still aid you,
Aid, as Christians, send us back.

XIV

Dwellers in old haunts of learning,—
Ye who once from Arnold heard
Thoughts for which your hearts were yearning,—
Thoughts for which their depths were stirr'd;
Where great Alfred's shade reposeth,—
Where meek Henry's name is blest,—
Where sepulchral darkness closeth
O'er the Bard's and Statesman's rest;—

226

XV

Ye who near Sabrina's waters,—
On her steeple-crested shore,
(—Loveliest she of Learning's daughters!—)
Train young hearts in healthiest lore;—
Hear a sister's voice appealing,—
Hear her children, how they plead;
Send her gracious help and healing
In her straitness and her need.

XVI

By the thoughts which haunt and trouble,
In your courts, the good and wise;
By the tears they cause to bubble
Oft and oft to aged eyes;
By the strong enchantment breathing
From your old ancestral towers;
By the magic folds enwreathing
Gentle hearts, both yours and ours;—

XVII

Now, while murkiest clouds combining
Brood o'er Learning's midland home;—
While, her deep foundations mining,
Creep the pioneers of Rome;—
While the shots begin to rattle,—
While on our unwavering van
Bursts the onset of the battle—
Hear us, help us, ye who can!

XVIII

Here, where Thought's fresh fountains glisten
In the ingenuous eye of Youth;
Where pure spirits love to listen
To the voice of ancient Truth;
Here, where Travel's paths are centred,—
Here, where Trade hath fixed her throne,—

227

Rome's insidious hosts have enter'd,
Rome's pernicious seed is sown.

XIX

Here the wily Jesuit lurketh,—
Here the Monk hath built his cell;
Here the meek-eyed Sister worketh
For the Church she loves so well;
Here (O thought of shame and sorrow!)
Foes, once friends, our peace invade;
Tenfold strength false Rome doth borrow
From the enthusiast renegade.

XX

Garbs uncouth, ill-boding faces,
Through our streets like spectres steal;
Men who ne'er a child's embraces
Ne'er a father's love must feel;
Gaunt of form and grim of feature,
Barr'd from all that God hath given
Here to bless his noblest creature—
Phantoms not of Earth—nor Heaven.

XXI

These!—are these thy foes, O Britain?
This the host thy sons must dread?
Must thy life of life be smitten
In such combat with the dead?
Joy were thine, O queenly nation,
Lurk'd no deadlier peril near;
Had thy coming generation
No more desperate strife to fear!

XXII

These, at least, are half our brothers,—
Brothers, tho' of creed outworn;
Now of mischief's myriad mothers
Creedless foes are hourly born:

228

Hosts in darkness grow and gather,
Foes to altar, hearth, and throne;
Foes who know no Heavenly Father,
No Divine Redeemer own.

XXIII

Sounds of dread begin to mutter
Harshly to the initiate ear;
Tongues obscene find strength to utter
Boding sounds of rage and fear:
On the thin and narrowing border
Of debate and peace we stand;
Waiting till full-grown disorder
Burst in fury on the land.

XXIV

Still, thou proud and palmy nation,
Undisturb'd thy state appears;
Still thy gaze of expectation
Beameth on the coming years:
Still thou cleav'st, of change abhorrent,
To establish'd rule and form;—
Smoothest stream!—to swell the torrent!
Breathless hush!—to break in storm!

XXV

Deep within thy breast is seething
Many a form of social ill;
Many a soul, in secret breathing
Rage and hate, lies close and still;
Through thy frame with strange sensation
Shiverings chill begin to creep;
Dreams of feverish agitation
Vex thee in thy troubled sleep.

XXVI

Godless hordes, untaught, neglected,
Writhing in their want and pain,—

229

Unappeased and unprotected,—
Fierce of heart and wild of brain,—
Scarce even now their rage can smother,—
Blind with hate, with suffering grim,
Curse their unacknowledged mother,—
Burn to rend her limb from limb.

XXVII

From the fields, by toil which grovels
Abject, hopeless, reaped and sown;
From the tottering huts and hovels
Thronged by forms of skin and bone;
From the vast o'er-peopled city,
Whence tall chimnies pierce the skies,—
Where pale crowds, unknown to pity,
Late take rest and early rise;—

XXVIII

From the subteranean cavern,
Where weak infants toil and pine;
From the tap-room and the tavern,
Where their wrathful sires combine,—
Swells the cry of hearts that languish,—
Hearts that shall ere long rebel;
Smokes the fire of human anguish
Kindled by the breath of hell.

XXIX

Still, thy face is bland and smiling,
Still thy words with grace abound;
Nought defiled, and nought defiling,
May in thy saloons be found:
Guides thou hast, whom all must follow,—
Doubt, near them, must hide its head;
Yet are half thy seemings hollow,—
Yet is half thy spirit dead.

230

XXX

Foul eruptive superstitions,
Flushing o'er thy tainted skin,
Mock, elude thy vain physicians,—
Shew disease uncheck'd within:
Not, O Britain, not for ever,
Can thy specious mockeries last;
Soon must blaze the latent fever,
Soon thy seeming health be past.

XXXI

Soon, in earthquake, flame and thunder,
Shall the fire, which smouldering lies,
Burst the hollow crust asunder
Of thy prim hypocrisies:
Then, when friends and foes are parted,
Shall the day of trial tell
Who are true, and who false-hearted,
Who for Heaven, and who for Hell.

XXXII

Pent till now in earth's recesses
Forms Titanic stir and rise,
Cursing all the Saviour blesses,
Spurning all His people prize:
Face to face stand Good and Evil,
For their last great conflict ranged;
Earth with Hell, and Man with Devil,
Man from God too long estranged!

XXXIII

Lo! the creeds of ages crumble!
Lo! on earth's upheaving crust,
Tower and temple reel and tumble,
Throne and empire turn to dust!
Hollow is the ground we tread on,
Prince and people, Church and priest;

231

Lo! the day of Armageddon
Dawneth in the louring east.

XXXIV

Ere, for this world's last dominion,
Host with host in combat close;
Ere the vulture flap her pinion
O'er expiring heaps of foes;
Once again, O brothers, rally,—
'Midst desertion, treachery, loss,
Undismay'd—o'er hill and valley
Wave the banner of the Cross.

XXXV

Faithful bands shall yet assemble,
When your gathering note is heard;
Yet the host of Hell shall tremble
At the thunders of the Word:
Yet—while dire convulsion rages
Ceaselessly from land to land,—
Founded on the Rock of Ages
Shall the Church unshaken stand.

XXXVI

Yet—while madly through the nations
Sweeps the flood of hate and fear;
She, with gentlest ministrations,
Shall her children's spirits cheer;
From the strife of vain opinions,
From the rush of error's blast,
Shield them with her sheltering pinions,
Till the storm be overpast.

XXXVII

Still, where'er her honour'd steeple
Points to Heaven from holy ground,
Shall a brave and righteous people
Faithful to its God be found:

232

Still shall bow before His Altar
Vigorous knee and hoary head;
Still by lips which lisp and falter
Shall his Holy Book be read.

XXXVIII

Still from hearths of humble gladness,
Still from homes by wealth despised,
Where, alike in joy and sadness,
Wisdom's word is known and prized,—
From the plough, the loom, the spindle,
Prayer and praise shall oft ascend;
Hearts with grateful love shall kindle
Towards their Heavenly King and Friend.

XXXIX

Still shall flames of pure devotion,
Kindled first at English hearth,
Spread their blaze o'er sea and ocean,
To the extremest verge of earth:
Still, where wife, and child, and father
Seek new homes on heathen ground,
There shall Christian Churches gather,
There shall Christian faith be found.

XL

Haste then, lay the strong foundation—
Haste, the choicer work prepare;
Friends of every rank and station,
Each the toil—the blessing share:
Each his separate service render,
Each his willing aid afford;
Till in grave majestic splendour
Stands the Temple of the Lord.

XLI

Spacious aisle, and chancel solemn,
Window stain'd with rare device,

233

Graceful arch and shapely column,
Fretwork quaint of costliest price;—
All that doth God's worship honour—
All that doth Man's heart impress—
All that doth the liberal donor
In his late remembrance bless,—

XLII

Make the Mansion rich and beauteous,
Which for God on earth we build;
There may hearts devout and duteous
With His present grace be fill'd!
Haste, hew timber, stone and marble,
Grasp the trowel, pile the hod;
While with heart and voice we warble
“Build! O Build! the House of God.”

Fabulosus Amnis.—Shakspere's Avon.

234

PENTECOSTAL ODE. 1852.

I

No sign, in earth or sky,
Proclaim'd that Spring was night,—
Nor genial warmth, nor mild, refreshing showers;
But winter's hoar-frost lay,
At break and close of day,
On fields which should have blazed with vernal flowers;
And stars of frosty splendour, clear and bright,
Kept watch in April skies as through December's night.

II

Through bare and leafless trees
The keen, cold Eastern breeze
Shrill'd as it swept;—no aromatic gale,
Wafting to Western sense
Luxurious bliss intense
Of perfume which Arabian blooms exhale;
But chill and wintry as the gust which raves
O'er Scythia's ice-bound rocks, through bleak Siberian caves.

III

Beneath that withering blast
As o'er our land it pass'd,
Nature lay bound, as by an hideous spell;
Her deep maternal womb
Inclosed, as in a tomb,
The life which vainly strove to burst its shell;

235

The sun his procreative power forgot, [not.
And kiss'd the earth with rays which cheer'd but quicken'd

IV

Then seem'd some strange divorce
Launch'd with dissevering force,
To break the nuptial bond of Earth and Heaven;
And, like some wife abhorr'd
Of her offended lord,
Who leads her life alone and unforgiven,
Earth, with an evil and unnatural eye,
Scowl'd on her born, and curs'd her unborn progeny.

V

Verdure had left the grass,—
The skies above were brass,
The soil in dust arose beneath the tread;
Below his reedy bank
The streamless river shrank,
As when late summer droughts lay bare his bed.
Nor human life, nor bestial might endure,
Unharm'd the laggard year's so long distemperature.

VI

But from the juiceless mead
The lean and hungry steed
Cropp'd his scant meal;—the melancholy kine,
In dull and languid mood,
For their expected food
Withheld, in silent suffering seem'd to pine;
The mated birds cower'd close within the nest,
No insect of the Spring display'd his broider'd vest.

VII

And still, as weeks wore past,
The Farmer stood aghast

236

To mark his wasting stock;—around a fire
As of the Christmas hearth—
Not now in Christmas mirth—
Crowded at evening, mother, child, and sire;
Thence watched the sunset of the vernal skies,
And saw the long day close, the clear, cold stars arise.

VIII

Stricken was human life,
And strange diseases rife;—
O! when, long-look'd-for Spring, wilt thou appear?
When shall thy fresh rains fall—
Thy sunshine disenthrall
From frost and fog this tainted atmosphere?
When from this trance, wherein spell-bound it lies,
Shall Nature's dormant life, by thee regenerate, rise?

IX

Thus, from its depths profound,
With inarticulate sound
Of murmur'd prayer, or mute, impatient sigh,
Man's spirit made its moan,—
All creatures seem'd to groan
And travail for release which none felt nigh;
But each in dumb, expectant anguish lay,
Till heaven's mild face restored should smile its pangs away.

X

At length—a welcome guest—
From out the sweet South-west,
Breathing faint perfume, and from dewy wing
Dispensing balmy showers
On grass and trees and flowers,
A breeze came forth,—the Spirit of the Spring;
Whereby all Nature, to her centre stirr'd,
The well-known influence felt, the well-known music heard.

237

XI

A deep, heart-lightening throb—
A stifled sigh—a sob
Of pleasure, too profound to be repress'd,
Thrill'd through the soul of earth,—
The heavens, in tearful mirth
Of trickling rains, their sympathy confess'd;
A spell was broken, whose incumbent weight
Had press'd all living things and things inanimate.

XII

And though not yet the skies
Discharge their full supplies,
Nor empty quite their half-inverted urn,—
And oft, at morn and night,
Chill frosts untimely bite,
And bleak, inclement winds by day return,—
Nature no longer droops, but lifts to Heaven
A calm, expectant eye, like one who feels forgiven.

XIII

Now hearts expand with joy,—
Maid, matron, man and boy
With smiles and songs pursue their work or play;
Insect, and bird, and brute,
Plant, flower, and blossom'd fruit
Inhale at last the genuine breath of May;
And every hour do water, air and earth
To countless shoals and swarms of blissful life give birth.

XIV

Here let the spirit pause;—
Hence to the Great First Cause
Of all created good—all life—all bliss—
Uplift adoring thought,—
By things external taught
The mysteries of a mightier world than this;—

238

That unseen world within us, yet beyond,
Whereto doth Nature's course obscurely correspond.

XV

Hath not the heart of man,
Within its separate span,
Seed-time and harvest—cold or genial spring,—
Summer and autumn heat,
And winter frost and sleet,—
All good and ill which varying seasons bring?
Yearneth it not for heavenly warmth and light,
When streams of grace run dry, and mists of error blight?

XVI

And when, from realms above,
Warm rays of truth and love
The frost of Nature's wintry season melt,
And Heaven's resistless breath
Hath burst that trance of death
In which the spell-bound soul nor moved nor felt,—
And fertilizing rains of grace descend,
And light and genial heat commingled influence blend,—

XVII

Then doth the new-born soul,
Set free from sin's controul,
Blossom and bourgeon in celestial spring;
Then from the teeming heart
Divine affections start, [wing:
And heavenward thoughts, like new-fledged birds, take
Light to the spirit's inmost depths hath shone,—
Its summer is at hand, its winter past and gone.

XVIII

Such fruit of wish'd-for May
The Church doth now display,

239

Who late, a mourner lone, afflictive Lent
Kept with despondent cheer,
And frequent sigh and tear,
Wailing her absent Lord in low lament;
And when the bars of his sepulchral prison
He brake, could scarce believe that He indeed was risen.

XIX

And still, while He on earth
Consoled her spirit's dearth,
Or e'er the promised Comforter was given,—
Uncheer'd her bitter cup
She drain'd, till He went up
To claim his throne at God's right hand in Heaven:
Nor yet had dawn'd her Pentecostal morn,
But still she wail'd and wept in widow'd state forlorn.

XX

But hark! her ear at last
Hath caught the rising blast
As of a rushing mighty whirlwind's sound;—
Around her brows a tiar,
Begemm'd with tongues of fire,
Circles and shines:—The King his Bride hath crown'd.
Conduct her, virgins, to her throne of state;
The Queen her realm hath won,—the widow'd found her Mate.

XXI

Now spread the nuptial board,
And be rich offerings pour'd,
In liberal joy, at Bride and Bridegroom's feet
All loyal hearts dispense
Ambrosial frankincense
Of prayer and praise, while, in profusion meet,
Silver and gold are to the Temple given,
To grace the marriage feast of Earth redeem'd and Heaven.

240

XXII

Father! to thee we pray,
Inspire our hearts to-day
With faith unfeign'd and heavenly love sincere;
And seal this fane thine own,
Whose first foundation-stone
We lay with solemn pomp of ritual here:
First step of one tall ladder which shall rise,
For men's and angels' tread, between the earth and skies.

XXIII

O! if this sacred spot
Thy presence hallow not,—
If on this work thy Spirit be not shed,—
Around it and beside
Will circle far, and wide,
A populous waste,—a city of the dead,—
A realm of souls shut out from heavenly light,
Born but at Mammon's beck to toil from morn till night.

XXIV

Lo! from the vale beneath
Floats up a sulphurous wreath
Of vapour from the furnace and the flood,
Whose gnomes their strength combine
With genii of the mine,
To compass feats too vast for flesh and blood:—
Swart giants, whose joint ministry alone
Can work the will of wealth which hath all bounds outgrown.

XXV

And from that point expand,
As by Enchanter's wand
From the deep bowels of the earth call'd forth,
Vast piles, in many a range,
Of form uncouth and strange,
Far stretching East and West, and South and North;

241

Within whose spacious courts the Titan, Steam,
O'er hordes of human vassals holds his state supreme.

XXVI

There their colossal might
Conflicting powers unite;
Water and flame;—there iron, wing'd with gold,
In swift, impetuous race,
Contends with time and space;
There human nerve and bone are bought and sold;
And human souls their high ethereal birth
Forget in drudgery vile, all earthy and of earth.

XXVII

Not vain the lesson taught
To calm discerning thought
By that grim region, in its might display'd;
A type of science throned,
And nobler lore disown'd,—
Of thought laid prostrate at the feet of trade;—
Of low and sensual aims pursued with zeal,
Which none, in this late age, for mind's true glories feel.

XXVIII

There sits the Ocean Queen,
As in a mirror seen,
In pride full blown of her commercial state;
Potent to wield at will,
Alike for good and ill,
All powers that on the beck of Mammon wait;
With luxuries rich and costly compass'd round,
Deck'd with all gorgeous gems in earth's wide circle found.

XXIX

Beneath the cope of Heaven,
To Her all power is given

242

O'er brute mechanic forces;—wind and wave,
Tamed by her strong controul,
Transport from pole to pole
Her priceless freights:—the lightning is her slave,
And bears her queenly mandates to and fro,
And at her high behest doth meekly come and go.

XXX

To swell her peerless might
Shrewdness and force unite;
Counsel to plan, and energy to will;
Calm forethought, prudence cool,
Strength train'd in freedom's school,
And valour, by experience lesson'd still:
All worlds might she subdue in easy strife,
Were meat and raiment more than body and than life.

XXXI

But Truth Supreme says—No!
Earth was not moulded so,—
Not so of old were Heaven's foundations laid,
That skill and strength of men,
As from a Cyclop's den,
Should bind in fetters, which their toil hath made,
The everlasting course of things create,
And reign, with iron will, o'er all the realm of Fate.

XXXII

The powers that chain the wind,
The lightning's pinions bind,
Yoke fire and flood to their triumphal car,—
Are but the servile thrall
Of Mind enthroned o'er all,
And Mind, in turn, a weak and wavering star,
Itself opaque, dispensing but a beam
Reflected from the sun of heavenly truth supreme.

243

XXXIII

And where that beam is veil'd,
Or its pure light hath fail'd,
In vain the forge-fires glow—the anvils ring;
In vain the Cyclop's crew
With stroke and shout renew
The task exacted by their grisly king:
Nought will their strength produce, by all its toil,
But anarchy and wrong and mischief's mad turmoil.

XXXIV

Meanwhile unheard, above,
Wisdom and Truth and Love
Discourse celestial music, clear and sweet;
Apollo strikes the lyre,
The Muses' answering choir
Their high accordant harmonies repeat;
Which hush'd Olympus holds its breath to hear,
While dull is Britain's heart, and deaf is Britain's ear.

XXXV

Yet till that heavenly strain
Can touch the heart and brain
Swoln with Earth's pride, and drunk with carnal power,
No might can disenthral
Slaves, doom'd to crouch and crawl,
From sensual bonds which the soul's life devour:
O'er their crush'd strength incumbent Ætna lies,—
Blindly they heave and turn, and strive in vain to rise.

XXXVI

Awake! ye faithful few,
Whose souls, devout and true,
Still hold serene communion with the skies;
Who still, with aim sublime,
Above this grovelling time,
Above these numbing bonds of custom rise;

244

Whom neither lust enslaves, nor avarice blinds,
Nor Duty's trumpet-call unnerved for action finds.

XXXVII

To you, in still retreat,
Or high Devotion's seat,—
To you, amidst your toils of Christian love,—
Far from the din and strife
Of this world's restless life,
Came the strong cry of kindred hearts which strove
In one high cause with you;—that cry ye heard,
And to your spirit's depths were by its summons stirr'd.

XXXVIII

And lo! with one accord,
To Heaven's eternal Lord
Our joint fraternal gift we bring to-day;
And hopefully combine,
Of His intended shrine
The strong and sure foundation-stone to lay;
Whereto shall streams of Christian pilgrims flow,
While Mammon's shapeless pile attracts its crowds below.

XXXIX

That shapeless pile to rear,
Pours in from far and near,
Exhaustless gold;—well loves the world its own,
And grudges not to gild
The fane its children build
To their blind god, or deck his gaudy throne.
Meanwhile, with slow laborious toil, we wring,
From few but Christian hearts, what here to Heaven we bring.

XL

Yet with no niggard thrift
Dishonour we the gift,

245

But, strong in faith, our costly work begin;
Though circling years should flee,
And still our children see
The maim'd, imperfect pile rebuke their sin;
And still, below, the trains should thunder by,
Nor spire, discern'd from far, delight the traveller's eye.

XLI

Deep buried in the tomb
Of the veil'd Future's womb
Leave we such thoughts;—the present time is ours;
And, ere its sand be run,
Must we the work have done
Allotted to its few and fleeting hours.
Let zeal complete what faith and hope have plann'd,
For lo! the night when no man worketh is at hand.

XLII

Stake out the appointed ground,
And closely fence it round;
Dig the foundation deep; securely lay,
Within the green earth's breast,
The stones whereon must rest
The ponderous pile which we commence to-day;—
That work may prophets and apostles own,
And Jesus Christ Himself be the chief Corner Stone!

XLIII

Here shall, in after days,
The chaunt of prayer and praise
To Heaven's high throne in choral anthems mount;
Here on the good and true
Descend celestial dew
From the pure depths of Love's exhaustless fount;
Here shall the bread of life the hungry feed,—
Here in the faithful heart be sown the heavenly seed.

246

XLIV

Here, where of late the flowers,
Refresh'd by vernal showers,
Spread their gay petals to the fostering sun,
Ere long more heavenly rain
Shall wash ancestral stain
From that unconscious life scarce yet begun;
While Christian parents their full hearts uplift
To Him who, then and there, confirms his promis'd gift.

XLV

And where the hawthorn hedge
Now skirts the Eastern edge
Of the allotted ground, the altar rail
That mystic space shall fence
Whence holy hands dispense
The heavenly manna which shall never fail.
There shall pure hearts their present Lord adore,
And with His flesh and blood their fainting strength restore.

XLVI

And there their plighted troth
Shall bride and bridegroom both
With God's own sanction ratify and seal;
There learn that earthly love
Hath its deep springs above,
As, side by side, before their Lord they kneel;
A holier love, profounder and more true
Than e'er ascetic monk or cloister'd abbess knew.

XLVII

Nor pass we lightly by,
With heedless heart and eye,
The spot whereon hereafter shall be read
The pure and living word,
By saint or sinner heard,
With joy or grief, with hope or anxious dread;

247

Nor that, wherefrom the preacher's voice shall fall
On light or serious hearts, with stern or gentle call.

XLVIII

No vague, uncertain sound
Within these walls confound
The wandering mind, nor cheat the listening ear!
No thoughts, which wildly range
Thro' ways perplex'd and strange,
Bewilder him who speaks and those who hear!
No brain infect with pestilential lies,
Here weave its flimsy web of tangled sophistries!

XLIX

No fancies quaint and vain,
Engender'd in the brain
Of weak, fantastic, ceremonial priest
The simple rites disguise,
By hearts devout and wise
Bequeath'd of men, whose martyr faith releas'd
The captive Church from Rome's corroding chain,
And gave to human thought its liberty again!

L

Nor ever trace be found,
On this devoted ground,
Of priestcraft upon mental thraldom built;
Nor impious pride invade
His office who hath made
Atonement, once for all, for human guilt;
Nor dare dissever, with usurp'd controul,
From His immediate grace the bruised and bleeding soul.

LI

Better such arts become
Yon genuine brood of Rome,
Who prowl and prey with secret, stealthy tread;
In life's last hour molest

248

The heart in Christ at rest,
And swoop, like vultures, on the dying bed;
Perplex the parting soul with bigot lies,
And mock the failing sense with antic juggleries.

LII

Far other task be theirs,
Whom, with consenting prayers,
Hereafter on this spot the Church shall hear
Unfold the Scripture sense,
And faithfully dispense
The bread of life to hungry heart and ear;—
No priestly caste, a priestly rule who bear,
But stewards of Christ's grace, dispensing all they share.

LIII

No grim ascetic here,
With monkish rule austere,
Its social nature from man's heart expel!
No votaress, sad and pale,
Assume the shroud-like veil,
Nor pine unpitied in her prison cell!
No false, exclusive sanctity the grace
Blaspheme, by Christ bestow'd on all our human race!

LIV

But household virtues sweet,
And chaste affections meet
Within this House, and build their homes around!
Here pairs their love refresh,
Whom God hath made one flesh!
Here child and parent, side by side, be found!
Till each domestic hearth a type display
Of that last glorious Church to crown Earth's latter day.

LV

But ere that dawn appear,
Dark times of grief and fear

249

And dire convulsion in the world must be;
Plagues, famines, earthquakes, wars,
In sun and moon and stars
Signs of Heaven's wrath, and earth in anarchy;
While Christian hearts, expectant, to the sky
Look up, and know that their redemption draweth nigh.

LVI

Perchance even now a sound,
As from Hell's depths profound,
The ear may catch, like thunder heard from far;
Even now a lurid cloud
The horizon doth enshroud,
Big with pent storm and elemental war;
And earth hath signs of fear and blind distress,—
But we in patience still, forewarn'd, our souls possess.

LVII

Whatever Time may breed,
In faith we sow our seed,—
In faith upon the waters cast our bread;
In faith this fortress raise,
To guard, in after days,
Our children's souls when we are with the dead,
And o'er this turf, to-day so fresh and green,
Shall many a scatter'd tomb which hides our dust be seen.

LVIII

Ours be the toil and cost!
Nor shall their aim be lost;
The end and issue, doubt not, He will bless,
Who through the course of time
Evolves, in growth sublime,
New Heavens and Earth,—the Realm of Righteousness.
Brothers, our task is done—our offering made;—
Wend home with thankful hearts,—the corner stone is laid.

On Laying the First Stone of the Church of the Holy Trinity, Rugby.

250

ENGLAND'S MISSION.

SONNETS. 1851.

I

Art thou content to be the modern Tyre—
Half pedlar and half pirate of the world?
To count the sails of merchant navies furl'd
In thy full ports?—to know that some admire
And many fear, and almost all desire
To see thee from thy throne of empire hurl'd,
And o'er thy palace-halls the smoke-wreaths curl'd,
Which speak the presence of avenging fire?
Thine, England, is the sceptre of the sea,
That thou mayst bear God's message thro' the earth,
And spread the truth which makes man's spirit free,
Kindling on many a bright colonial hearth
A flame from that pure altar, rear'd for thee
Long since—an heir-loom of uncounted worth.

II

But hast thou to thy destiny been true,
And bravely play'd the part to thee assign'd,
Dispensing to the tribes of human-kind
Of heavenly truth the fertilizing dew,

251

And labouring hard the heathen and the Jew
In one great bond of Christian love to bind?
What are thy boons to man's benighted mind?
How much, for service done him, is thy due?
From thine imperial throne, proud Queen, look forth,
Survey thy boundless empire, and declare
In farthest East and West, and South and North,
What trace is found of thy maternal care?
What generous zeal, that subject lands may share
The Gospel-pearl's inestimable worth?

III

Mistress thou art of matter—not of mind;
The elements obey thee;—on the foam
Of the sea-waves thou dwell'st as in a home;
Canst bind and loose the pinions of the wind;—
Control the lightning—pathways force or find
Through earth's dark entrails, where thou will'st to roam;
And like a restless and resistless gnome,
The granite mountains into powder grind.
'Tis thus the heathen know thee; thus behold,
With shuddering awe, the paths thy steps have trod,
As of a demon who hath power to mould
Earth to his will; and while they fear thy rod,
Deem thy sons curst—predestined from of old
To vengeance, as a race without a God.

IV

Can a clean thing come out of an unclean,
Life-giving waters from a tainted spring?
Can sensual hearts the songs of Zion sing,
High faith be born of abject thoughts and mean?
The Gospel-torch, if lit at hearths obscene,
O'er new-found worlds celestial radiance fling?
Can fiend-like hate speed angels on the wing,
And Hell's worst discord breed Heaven's peace serene?
O England, wouldst thou do thine office well,
Evangelizing earth's remotest ends,

252

First cleanse the homes in which thy children dwell
From social wrong, which God and man offends;
From fraud that robs, from factions that rebel,
From greed and avarice, making foes of friends.

V

A stately ship is scudding o'er the main,
Her sails full set, with favouring wind and tide;
To speed like hers the ocean seems not wide;
Her masts beneath their canvass bend and strain,
Proudly her keel ploughs through the watery plain;
But evil faces scowl across her side—
Grim felon aspects, fierce and murderous-eyed—
Rogues, whom their country will no more retain.
So forth they fare, by her august commands
To people a new empire, to become
Progenitors of rogues in other lands,
To make a hell of their appointed home;
To spread with pregnant hearts and dexterous hands
Crime and pollution, wheresoe'er they roam.

VI

Prolong the scene;—a statelier vessel sails
In the same track, and bears a worthier freight;
Propitious omens on her voyage wait!
Smooth be the waves, and prosperous the gales
From which the settlers in Australian vales
Expect the fathers of their Church and State—
The men whose deeds, Heaven grant, not yet too late,
Shall live hereafter in heroic tales.
Speed, modern Argo, speed upon thy track,
Those who shall feed the flock—not shear the fleece;
From error's path bring many a wanderer back;
From sin's strong bonds imprison'd souls release,
And win a world, which else had gone to wrack,
To the mild empire of the Prince of Peace.

253

VII

Who are the Heroes of the latter day?
The lords of earth—the champions of mankind?
Think not, O Christian, those great hearts to find
Amidst the carnage of the battle fray,
Nor where fierce conquerors gory sceptres sway,
And on men's necks oppressive burdens bind,
Well-pleased the faces of their race to grind,
And see obsequious multitudes obey.
But seek them in the vast colonial wild—
The mitre, not the helmet, on their brow—
Wrestling with wrong, in love and patience mild,—
Through good and ill still faithful to their vow,—
Training the savage, like a docile child,
Before their Lord's victorious cross to bow.

Written for the Centenarian Jubilee of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel.

254

THE BLACK FENCE.

'Twas at the point of sunrise, on a clear October day,
That through the neighbouring village-fields I took my lonely way;
The fields, well known in former days, which lie around the Grange;
But years had past since I saw them last, and brought a doleful change.

For where the ancient footpath lay, by briery hedge and stile,
And hill and valley stretch'd away for many a beauteous mile,—
Where grass grew green, and wild flowers bloom'd, refreshing soul and sense,
Now lour'd along the whole domain, a black and frowning fence.

A dismal sight to a poet's eye it was, as you may think,
That black and frowning fence, without a break, without a chink;
Hiding all the glorious landscape, and girding it about
With impenetrable palings, grim within and grim without.

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Then my spirit's eyes were open'd, and I saw, as poets see,
The visible and the viewless world how closely they agree;
And the black and frowning fence became, to this poor thought of mine,
Of changes in these latter days a symbol and a sign.—

—Of changes dark and troublous—for the air is full of change,
Perplexing English hearts and minds with doubt obscure and strange;
And a sword hath come on each English home, and a time of mortal strife,
For the truths on which Man's soul must feed, and the breath of his inner life.

And 'tis not the good and the wicked now who for right and wrong contend,
But brother with kind brother—loving friend with loving friend;
And the true are ranged against the true, and the good against the good,
And my spirit wrought with uneasy thought as I looked on that fence of wood.

I thought—Had it a voice to speak, like this its speech might be:—
“Here I stand a black partition-line between the bond and free;
“Between the sons of England's Church, their altar and their home,
“And those who bend the captive neck and bow the knee to Rome.

“I stand, a sign of discord, to divide and keep apart
“The warm and generous sympathies of English heart and heart;

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“A black and baleful monitor of hate and strife, to last,
“Till the cup of Rome's enchantments fail, and her cruel reign be past.

“I close encircle those within and compass them around,
“As the spell of priestcraft cramps the soul in its dark and narrow bound;
“On those without I sternly frown, a sore to heart and eye,
“While I cast my shadow o'er their land, and half shut out their sky.”

Even so, thought I,—thy words are sooth, ill-favour'd thing of oak,
And in thy last the voice itself of the old enchantress spoke!
And sorely doth she labour now, like thee, to stretch her pale
Round English hearts and English homes and English hill and dale.

Ah! woe for them, the simple ones, entangled in her spell,
The souls that in the twilight of her dreary prison dwell!
In the blessed air of freedom they no longer claim a part,
They have lost their English birthright and the true old English heart.

To them, nor truth, nor falsehood can be what either seems,
For their spirits grope and stumble in a shadow-land of dreams:
Mesmeric sleep hath seized them, and they reel as they were drunk,
With the spiritual witchcrafts of the priest and of the monk.

They must give their souls to triple crowns and copes and scarlet hats;—
Themselves—and not their idols—to the moles and to the bats:

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Themselves, their homes and substance, their bodies and their souls,
To the blind who lead the blinder—to the bats and to the moles.

For liberty of mind and will,—for bold unfetter'd thought,—
They must think as they are bidden, and believe what they are taught:
They must shut their eyes and ope their ears, fast bound by slavish laws,
Rome's hook within their nostrils, and her bridle on their jaws.

Alas! and must this curse prevail, these deep delusions spread,
Till the pulse of England beats no more, till her noble life hath fled?
Must her spirit's light be quench'd in night? must she barter faith and hope
For a mumbled Ave-Mary!—for the blessing of the Pope?

Must she see her choicest offspring—every graced and gifted son—
Taste—relish—drain the poison'd cup, and madden one by one?
Must her learned and her pious,—must her gentle and her brave
Be lost in witchery strong as death, and cruel as the grave?

Must She, the Imperial Nation, give place, and cease to be
The Lady of the Kingdoms, the one birthplace of the free?
The land where Thought and Wisdom dwelt in fresh unfading youth?
The land where God is worshipp'd still in spirit and in truth?

Must She, whose voice was Truth and Might, submit to fawn and whine—
To creep, and crawl, and cringe, and cant, at a Popish idol's shrine?

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Must Popish candles be her light for altar, home, and hearth,
And a crazy old Italian monk her God and Christ on earth?

Or shall the indignant spirit of her brave old Saxon mind
Burst forth and rend the welkin, like a rushing mighty wind?
Shall the fountains of her lowest deep break up and overflow,
Till in one whelming flood of wrath are Church and State laid low?

Shall a day of tribulation come for people and for priest,
Till a sea of blood wash out at length the image of the Beast;
And the land spew forth her teachers like a cursed viper-brood,
Which have coiled around her heart-strings, which are tainting her life's blood?

Such thoughts waxed hot within me as I paced beside the pale;
But soon did better hopes arise, and a brighter mood prevail;
For now the dark domain was past, and right before mine eye
The grey Church-tower distinctly rose between the earth and sky.

It stood in peace and silence—for the hush of dawn was spread
O'er the temple of the living, o'er the chambers of the dead;
And the spirit of my Mother soothed the spirit of her son,
And I felt a flow of happier thought and livelier faith begun.

And nestling close beside the church, like a sweet and docile child,
The little graceful village-school in its simple beauty smiled;
And above its clear white gable, at a distance, I descried
The symbol of the blessed cross on which our Saviour died.

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And third in that sweet company—some paces to the right—
The dwelling of the pastor on a sudden came in sight:
Its chimneys all were smokeless, its repose was calm and deep,
For the household still were sleeping sound, as pious Christians sleep.

And stretching to the left afar, the lovely landscape lay,
O'er which the morn was melting now the twilight cold and grey;
And open lea, and hedgerow-tree, and distant mead and lawn
Were touch'd with light serene and white from the eyelids of the dawn.

And while the prospect filled my soul with its silent, deep repose,
Above the far horizon's verge the cloudless sun arose;
And the eastern hills were tipp'd and tinged with many a gorgeous hue,
And the sky grew bright with sunshine, and the grass was fresh with dew.

And the stir of life was felt around, in earth and air and sky,
And a thousand carols smote my ear from all sweet birds that fly;
And I knew that things which creep on earth, and in the waters swim,
Sent up, in silence or in sound, their heartfelt morning hymn.

No thought of fear or dark distrust could live in such an hour,
And my spirit burst its heavy bonds, and the spells had lost their power;
And, imaged forth in that fair scene, I saw, or seemed to see,
A blessed type of England's Church, and of what her fate shall be.

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I saw the hour of darkness pass, and the sun once more arise—
The glorious Sun of Righteousness—in her late tempestuous skies;
And the dreams and visions of the night had faded quite away,
And she woke from sleep, oppress'd but deep, to the light and life of day.

She rose and stood like yon grey tower, as then I saw it stand,
Begirt by smiling English homes—the watch-tower of the land;
And bending still her steadfast gaze, from earliest morn to even,
O'er sunnier hills and vales than those;—the hills and vales of Heaven.

She rose and stood with dauntless brow, for her heart was now at ease,—
Brave spirits throng'd around her—children clomb about her knees;
And there burst, to greet her waking ear, a myriad-throated hymn,
From village chapel lone and grey, and cathedral vast and dim.

She rose and brake her magic bonds, and cast her cords away,
And strode to her appointed strife, where the Camp of darkness lay:
Fair as the sun, clear as the moon, when her beams delight us most,
And dreadful in her anger as an arm'd and banner'd host.

For the hour of woe had sifted her, and now were purged away
The false and traitor-hearted from the ranks of her array;

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And her legions marched in serried files, compact, with one accord,
To do or die, like valiant men, in the Battle of the Lord.

And the iron heart of Rome grew faint, and her brazen brow turn'd pale,
And she shrank aghast from the trumpet-blast and the clang of her foemen's mail;
And a throb of trembling hope was felt in the depth of her darkest hells,
Through dungeons red with martyrs' blood, and the Inquisition's cells.

No peace, but deadly warfare still, between those twain must be,
While the one would bind both heart and mind, and the other set them free:
No peace for Rome and England, but a stern, relentless strife;
Till Light shall vanquish Darkness, Death be swallow'd up of Life.

For the tyrant and the despot hate the noble and the brave,
Who loose the captive's yoke and break the fetters of the slave:
And 'tis England's glorious mission—far as ocean's billows roll,
To kindle freedom's gospel-light in Man's benighted soul.

Our Church, where English steeples rise, where English navies roam,
Sends bold evangelists abroad, gives pastors true at home;
And the open Book is in her hand, and to her alone 'tis given
To brighten earth around our path, while she guides our souls to Heaven.

You may trace her spirit in the looks of each English passer-by—
In the manly step, and the hearty voice, and the calm and dauntless eye;

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In the speech of man and maiden, in the face of age and youth,
You may read a people trained by Her in the light and love of Truth.

She bids her wedded pastors' homes in every village rise,
Gladden'd by children's guileless mirth and bright maternal eyes;
That so the rudest peasant in her farthest vale may see
How beautiful and blest a thing a Christian home may be.

She hath wash'd us from ancestral sin in the spirit-cleansing flood,
She hath fed the life which then she gave with the Saviour's flesh and blood;
She blesses still our marriage morn, she soothes our dying bed,—
She gives our bodies back to earth when the deathless soul hath fled.

God send her swift deliverance from the plagues which vex her now!
God heal the discord in her heart, and chase the trouble from her brow!
And when her penal hour hath past, and purged her from her sin,
Restore her prosperous state without, and her peace and joy within.

God give her wavering clergy back that honest heart and true,
Which once was theirs, ere Popish fraud its spells around them threw;
Nor let them barter wife and child, bright hearth and happy home,
For the drunken bliss of the strumpet-kiss of the Jezebel of Rome.

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And God console all holy hearts, now yearning for the day,
When this black cloud shall pass at length from England's skies away!
God help us all to struggle still, with patience and with might,
Against darkness, lies, and bondage, for Freedom, Truth, and Light!

And God forgive the fallen ones by their own weak hearts betray'd,
And convert the misbeliever, and reclaim the renegade!
And God unite the good and pure, the faithful and the wise,
Till the Dayspring come on the night of Rome, and the Sun of Truth arise!

“The Black Fence” extends along the grounds of a gentleman recently converted to the Romish Church, and distinguished by his active zeal in her cause, The scenery of the poem is entirely real.

Isaiah ii. 20.

Canticles vi. io.

264

SAINT MARY, THE VIRGIN AND THE WIFE.

A COTTAGE ECLOGUE.

SISTER OF CHARITY.

O Woman, heavy-laden with a weight of care and woe,
Whose cheek is pale with watching, and whose eyes with tears o'erflow,—
Poor child of want and penury,—sad mother,—widow'd wife,—
So worn that thou canst hardly bear the burden of thy life;
Listen gladly, while I tell thee of a comfort and a cure
From the blessed Virgin Mother—Ever Virgin—ever pure.

She sits beside the throne of God,—she is the Queen of Heaven,
And power and might to her of right are by our Saviour given:
He yields her meek submission,—for a duteous son is He,
And to ask whate'er he hath to give, who else so meet as she?
O'er Him, o'er us, o'er heaven and earth, her sway must still endure,—
She's the blessed Virgin Mother—Ever Virgin—ever pure.

A soft and tender heart is her's, as virgins' hearts should be,
And she loveth well all things that dwell in earth and air and

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But Holy Church she loveth best—the Holy Church of Rome,—
And those who make that Church on earth their harbour and their home:
And gladly to that Holy Church would she all hearts allure,—
Would the blessed Virgin Mother—Ever Virgin—ever pure.

The heretic she favoureth not, who walks in erring ways,
Nor blesseth much the wedded lot, nor giveth it her praise:
For the wedded life she never knew, nor all its earthly bliss,
Nor a husband's fond embraces, nor a daughter's loving kiss;
But still a chaste and spotless bride did all her life endure,—
Did the blessed Virgin Mother—Ever Virgin—ever pure.

She was not born as mortals are, in taint of mortal sin,
But all unsoil'd—immaculate—divinely pure within;
More pure than from her Maker's hands was our first mother Eve,—
For so the Holy Father saith, and so we must believe;
For the Holy Father's word is still infallible and sure
As the blessed Virgin Mother's—Ever Virgin—ever pure.

Then come, afflicted woman, lay thy weary burden down
At the blessed Virgin Mother's feet, who wears the heavenly crown;
Forsake the ways of error—be our Holy Church obey'd,
And give thy sickly girl to Her, to live and die a maid:
So shalt thou joy and comfort at the gracious hands secure
Of the blessed Virgin Mother—Ever Virgin—ever pure.

And she shall intercede for thee before the throne of grace,
Where she beholds, as angels do, our Heavenly Father's face;
And thy daughter shall recover, and thy husband return home,
And thou and he shall bow the knee to the Holy Church of Rome;

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And purgatorial pains for both shall no long time endure,
Through our Lady's intercession—Ever Virgin—ever pure.

FEMALE COTTAGER.

O Lady, thou art mild and good—thy voice is soft and kind,
And in thy gentle eyes I read a pure and heavenly mind;
And like an angel from above hast thou been with me here
In the day of my affliction, when my heart was dark and drear;
In the absence of my husband—in the sickness of my child,
Thou hast been a light from heaven itself, so merciful and mild.

Thou hast sat beside my daughter's bed—thou hast brought her dainty food,
And medicine to assuage her pain, and looks which did her good;
Thou hast still'd her when she murmur'd—thou hast soothed her when she wept,—
Thou hast watched and waked when I, o'er-wrought with toil and sorrow, slept;
I would give my life a thousand times to please of profit thee,—
But, lady—lady—ask not that which must not, cannot be.

I know that thou art holier far than I can e'er become,
Though thou indeed dost love the creed of thy mother Church of Rome;
And, lady, for thy gentle sake, I'll speak with reverence mild
Of that which seems, to thy pure heart, religion undefiled;
But never, lady, here on earth, can we in faith agree,
For there lies a gulf between us, which I cannot cross to thee.

I love the Virgin Mother, and I cherish her dear name
As an holy thought to soothe the soul in this world of sin and shame;

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I bless her gentle memory, which hath triumph'd o'er the tomb,
For the blessing which she brought to Man by the travail of her womb;
But I cannot bow the knee to her, as though she reigned in heaven,
Nor hope through her—but through her Son—to have my sins forgiven.

For her body saw corruption, and her soul was left in hell,
Where the souls of the departed till the resurrection dwell;
She never brake the bonds of death, nor burst her charnel-prison,
Nor, like her blessed Son, the Lord, to God's right hand hath risen;
But her spirit dwells in Paradise—her body sleeps in dust,
With the spirits of the righteous—with the bodies of the just.

Thou say'st the Roman Bishop saith she was not born in sin,
But from the womb immaculate—divinely pure within;
But nought of this, O lady dear, is written in God's Word,
And nought of this, our parson saith, the ancient Fathers heard;
And I feel, within my heart of hearts, that true it cannot be,
But that she indeed was born in sin—in sin like thee and me.

'Tis little that the Scripture tells,—but e'en that little shows
That she, like us, was weak and frail in her trials and her woes;
That she sometimes deserved rebuke, as thou or I may do,—
That she was still, in thought and will, fallen Woman through and through:
O joy! for us that she was thus, and shall be, without end,
No Goddess—but a sister;—not an angel—but a friend.

For surely if her birth had been, like that of her blest Son,
Unstained by sin ancestral—our redemption were undone;

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He scarce had been our Brother here—His spirit scarce had known
How holiest hearts, assail'd and stung by sharp temptations, groan;
Unless through Woman, as she is, his human life began,
To me it seems the Son of God was scarce the Son of Man.

Thou say'st she died a virgin still,—'tis what we cannot know,
But I should grieve could I believe that it indeed was so:
For holier, as it seems to me, than one of single life
Is the gracious Christian mother, and the godly Christian wife;
And more to wife and mother than to maid unwed is given
Of the griefs and cares which sift the soul, and make it fit for heaven.

There are fountains, in a woman's heart, of holiest joy and bliss,
Which a husband's love alone unseals, and an infant's blessed kiss;
There are fountains, in a woman's heart, of holiest grief and pain,
Which in the saintliest virgin life must shut and sealed remain:
Thou, lady, in thy lonely path, may'st walk like angels here,—
But souls like mine must God refine by the trouble and the tear.

My child lies on her fever'd bed,—her father is at sea,—
And I've need to pray, both night and day, for her and him and me:
And warmer, holier is the prayer for husband and for child
Than aught that e'er unclosed the lips of virgin undefiled:
And it solaces my aching heart, and it soothes my throbbing brow,
To think that blessed Mary may have felt what I feel now.

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I have thought of her in happier days—in days of home delight,—
When I pillow'd on my husband's breast my weary head at night;
I have seen her, with my fancy's eye, in the glory which she shed
O'er Joseph's peaceful home and hearth—o'er Joseph's marriage bed:
In her joys and in her sorrows—in her late and early life,—
O how holy was the Virgin !—O how holy was the Wife!

I ask sometimes,—when this dark earth has closed at last o'er me,
And my disembodied spirit to the spirit-world may flee—
Shall I meet the blessed Mary, and behold her face to face?
Will she greet me like a daughter in her goodness and her grace?
Shall her spirit then respond to mine, and each the other know,
By the household joys which both have felt—by the wife's and mother's woe?

I cannot tell—'tis vain to ask—but, lady, rob me not
Of thoughts and hopes which sweeten now the sorrows of my lot;
Let me cleave to that dear image of the mother of my Lord,—
The sinful, but the sanctified—the loved, but not adored,—
As one with me in heart and hope, though purer, holier far,—
Yea holier than the holiest souls of maid or mother are.

And, dearest lady, tempt me not my daughter's life to save,
By burying her, restored to health, in a dreary living grave.
On her God's blessed will be done;—if He shall spare her life,
Let her live as seemeth best to her—a virgin or a wife;
But rather than devote her now to that unnatural doom,
Let me kneel beside her death-bed—let me weep upon her tomb.

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And press me not to join thy Church;—I dare not leave my own—
For in that I've found an access sure to my heavenly Father's throne;
And His Spirit witnesseth with mine that there his grace abides,
And he loveth yet our Zion more than all the world besides.
Take then the path thou deem'st the right—and, lady, so must I,
For in the blessed English Church I mean to live and die.

Your Pope may be a learned priest, and a prince of high degree,
But God and Jesus Christ are more infallible than he;
And I in God, through Jesus Christ, rest all my faith and hope,
And indeed I cannot part with these for Prelate or for Pope:
I still must keep my simple creed, and tread the path I've trod,
By the help of my Redeemer,—by the guidance of my God.

I must bend my knee to Him alone, whom all the worlds obey,
To Him who breathed the breath of life into this mortal clay;
To Him through whose atoning blood is all our guilt forgiven,
To Him through whom the sinful soul is born anew for heaven;
To Him who reigneth and shall reign o'er heaven and all its host;
To the Everlasting Father—the Son—the Holy Ghost.

I know that I must struggle hard the Christian crown to win,—
Sore fightings must be mine without, and frequent fears within:
But frail and feeble though I be—poor daughter of the dust,
There's ONE will intercede for me, and him alone I'll trust:
'Twould shake my perfect faith in Him on weaker names to call,
And though there were a million such, He's more than worth them all.

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Then, gracious lady, blame me not, nor deem thy boons unfelt,
Because I pray not as thou pray'st, nor kneel where thou hast knelt:
Between us hangs a veil, which we as yet may not remove,
Till faith and hope, their office done, are swallowed up in love;
And Protestant and Papist meet before the Eternal throne,
To see as they have still been seen, and to know as they are known.

272

SUNSET IN ARRAN.

The Sun had vanish'd to his rest
Behind the mountains yesterday,
Whose towering ridge shuts out the west
With all its dyes from Brodick bay:
Eastward the light was dim and grey,—
On wood and slope, on land and sea,
Already partial twilight lay,
Though sails as white as white can be
Gleam'd on the horizon's verge, far off as eye could see.

But westward, o'er the mountain's height,
The sunset skies were all aglow
With one rich blaze of crimson light
Shot up from unseen depths below;
White clouds were floating to and fro
Around and over Goatfel's cone;
Ben-Noosh did o'er his shoulders throw
A misty mantle, which was blown
Aside from time to time, and all his outline shown.

You might have deem'd that crimson blaze
Effulgence of volcanic flame,
Such as in old primeval days
From out those granite craters came,
And almost put the sun to shame:

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Those mists into thin wreaths of smoke
Imagination well might frame,
From which sulphureous flashes broke,
While subterranean shocks redoubled stroke on stroke.

But now 'twas silence all around,
Save for the torrent's distant roar,
And that continuous solemn sound
Of breakers on the shingled shore:
The ear no kindred witness bore
To those wild shapings of the eye,
No tokens of the pangs which tore
Earth's womb, when, with parturient cry,
She yean'd those giant rocks and cast them forth on high.

That echoed long millennia past,—
Its like will once repeated be,
When that Arch-angel trumpet-blast
Shall peal through earth and air and sea,
And set the tomb-imprison'd free,
While flashes of electric fire
Fulfil their penal ministry,
And kindle earth's funereal pyre,
Foredoom'd to that dread day of Heaven's avenging ire.

High lesson, which the outward sense
Conveys to faith's awakened eye,
Through signs which God's omnipotence
Hath traced upon the earth and sky:
They must not pass unheeded by,—
Such lights as those of yester-eve,
And all at once dissolve and die,
And not a trace behind them leave
On human hearts which hope, on human hearts which grieve.

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Yet all too soon the glow was o'er,
The crimson light had died away,
And wood and mountain, sea and shore,
Were veil'd in one continuous grey;
Save that a streak of sunshine lay
On green Dun Fiume's north-western slope;
Bright promise of the coming day,
Type of the dying Christian's hope
Of resurrection, seen through faith's clear telescope.

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FAREWELL TO ARRAN.

Once more, romantic isle, once more,
To all thy charms of sea and shore,
To peaks where eagles dwell,
To heathery brae and wimpling burn,
And beds of foxglove, mix'd with fern,
A sad, a fond farewell!

To me and mine, for many a year,
Hast thou with ample cause been dear,
As thou to all art fair:
My wife, with childhood's rapturous gaze,
Above thee watch'd the sunset blaze
From yon dim coast of Ayr;

And when thy jagged ridge shone clear
Through summer evening's atmosphere,
Unveil'd by cloud or mist,
Beneath that glorifying light
It seem'd, to her undoubting sight,
One mass of amethyst.

Even I, when first, across the Clyde,
Thy towering summits I descried,

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Though then a man full-grown,
Scarce deem'd thee a terrestrial strand,
On which a vulgar foot might land,
Which vulgar lords might own.

Around thee a mysterious haze
Then floated in the wondering gaze
Of eyes that love to dream;
To such, thou wast a fairy land,
Not yet made earthly by the hand
Of disenchanting steam.

To dwellers on the Carrick coast,
Ere Watt arose, was thine almost
As yet a virgin shore;
Columbus or Magellan might
Have envied the adventurous wight,
Who durst its crags explore.

Time was, within the narrow span
Since I became a married man,
When here, in Brodick bay,
My wife and I, untimely left
Of locomotive aid bereft,
For days imprison'd lay.

In sight appear'd no friendly sail,—
The very boat which brought the mail
Not yet for days was due;
At last—but in a fisher's boat,—
On Sunday morn we got afloat,
Two sturdy Gaels our crew.

At day-break summon'd from our bed,
That morn we had not broken bread,

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Nor bread on board had we;
And bound for Rothsay's distant bay,
Enjoy'd, as hungry people may,
A perfect calm at sea.

Our boatmen pull'd with right good will,
Yet hours and hours the mountains still
Their shadows o'er us cast;
Until sprang up a rippling gale,
And cheer'd our hearts, and fill'd our sail,
And bore us home at last.

The quay—the house—the meal appear'd,—
We veer'd and tack'd, and tack'd and veer'd,—
The wind was much to blame;
Till just upon the stroke of one,
As crowds flock'd out from service done,
To shore at last we came.

A most disreputable plight,
In sober Presbyterian sight,
Just then was ours, no doubt;
Yet on our breakfast straight we fell,
With hunger which no shame could quell,
And food could scarce drive out.

Since then, through life's meridian prime,
Sore needing rest, from time to time,
From sickness and from care,
Fair isle, within thee and around,
Our children and ourselves have found
Clear waves and genial air.

Nor less our thanks are due to thee,
That through thy glens we wander free

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From dull decorum's rules,
And, unassail'd by jeer or scoff,
Conventional restraints throw off,
Which hamper fashion's fools.

However it to some may seem,
No unimportant boon I deem
The license, thus bestow'd,
With Nature on her mountain throne
To commune by ourselves alone,
Her wilds our brief abode.

From dull parochial feuds and strife,
From all the jars of social life,
From stir of things and men
Escaped, to cleave the briny surf,
To tread the unfrequented turf
Of mountain-side and glen.

So haply shall our children find
An unsophisticated mind
From slavish laws exempt,
And artificial forms of thought,
A blessing to be cheaply bought
By half the world's contempt.

And yet must I perforce confess
That in this rocky wilderness,
Beside this lonely sea,
To breathe for ever mountain air
And simplè mountain pleasures share,
Is not the life for me.

Good are the mountains; good the shore,
Yet, sooth to say, I covet more

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The converse of my kind;
The beaten, broad high road of life
With social stir and tumult rife,
The clash of mind with mind.

For ten months' work give two months' play,
And let me to the hills away,
To rest at will or rove,
Then, well refresh'd in heart and brain,
For England ho !—to work again,—
That's just the life I love.

There are—and who but counts them wise?—
Whom lonely nature satisfies,—
Whose spirits self-possest,
In wilds can find, almost unsought,
Exhaustless lore—for loftiest thought
Abundant food and rest.

All praise to such !—a nobler task
Than common minds can share or ask
Hath Heaven to them assign'd;
They drink at truth's unsullied fount,
On eagles' wings 'tis theirs to mount
And grasp where few can find.

A less ambitious lot is ours,
Who exercise our feebler powers
In paths which men frequent;
The daily task, by Him above
Mark'd out, in humble faith and love,
Te execute content.

Nor long, I deem, can we withdraw,
From scenes which His disposing law

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Hath made our proper sphere,
Nor long, without some hurt, disown
The ties which with our growth have grown
And strengthen'd, year by year.

To me, a bard of English birth,
And heart-bound to that spot of earth
On which my life began,
Pure though he be of thought and will,
A Scotchman is a Scotchman still,
But half my countryman.

Of all that doth his soul inspire
I reverence much, and much admire,
Nor grudge him love that's due;
But find, when near him I abide,
That still a gulf both deep and wide
Extends between us two.

He reasons by a different rule,—
Was nurtured in an alien school,—
His notions jar with mine;
Much he contemns which I revere,
Much which I love not, holds most dear
Of human and divine.

Within his tents I love full well
Awhile, from time to time, to dwell,
For change of thought and scene;
But homeward soon my spirit turns,
And, with instinctive ardour, burns
To be where it hath been;

With minds of kindred growth to think,
To walk and talk, to eat and drink,

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To dwell, in truth and deed,
Amongst the men with whom I share
One sphere of thought, one form of prayer,
One altar and one creed.

So be it now—though loth to part,
Fair isle, with an unwavering heart
I quit thee for my home;
Thanks! for thy boons, in years long past
Enjoy'd with him whose lot is cast
Beyond the ocean foam;—

With those who still in peace remain,
Who wear not yet a heavier chain
Than that of filial fear;
And those whom all-indulgent Heaven
To our parental charge hath given
Since first we sojourn'd here.

Farewell!—and if henceforth no more
We tread thy loved and lovely shore,
This we at least can say—
That in our deepest springs of thought
Thy influence hath a blessing wrought
Which will not pass away.

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PERSICOS ODI.

Lady, if the project please thee,
And the time convenient be,
I propose to-night to tease thee
With my company at tea.

No luxurious preparation
For my entertainment make;
Viand rare, or choice potation,—
Crumpet—muffin—butter'd cake.

Household smiles and friendly greeting,
Conversation frank and free,—
These will make a pleasant meeting—
These are what I ask of thee.

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THREE TIMES NINE.

It is an old and hackney'd strain,—
The burthen of a worn-out song,
Again repeated and again,
As life's swift current rolls along,
And death draws nearer, year by year,
And eyes grow dim and locks turn grey,—
But still 'tis sweet to married ear,
The verse which greets the wedding-day.

This year, once more, we spend it, sweet,
Beneath the mountains, by the sea,
Near which so loved thy childish feet
To wander unrestrain'd and free;
And thou consorting with a tribe
Of Scottish cousins, fond and dear,
Did'st thus, though London-born, imbibe
The spirit of a mountaineer.

Far from the crowded haunts of men,
If fate permitted, thou would'st make
Thy dwelling in the loneliest glen,
Beside the least frequented lake;
Would'st choose the dashing mountain-stream,
The winds o'er snowy peaks that sweep,
To mingle with thy midnight dream,
To wake thee from thy morning sleep;—

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Would'st breed and rear a savage race
Of supple joint and sinewy limb,
Expert the eagles' haunts to trace,
And seize the salmon where they swim;
Whose souls no reverential awe
For social customs should have felt,
Nor lost that rude contempt for law
Which marks the nature of the Celt.

So be it!—in thy spirits' flow
Of freedom, nought have I to blame;
Its wildest outbursts well I know
That wedlock hath a spell to tame:
And thou, albeit thy heart may roam
Full oft to highland flood and fell,
Canst cheer a quiet English home,
And charm an English circle well.

'Twas no blind chance which call'd thee forth,
But Heaven's benign and bounteous will,
From thy beloved paternal North,
Thy proper mission to fulfil.
Look out!—thy own ancestral land,
Seen dim and distant o'er the sea,
Hath past into a stranger's hand,—
A home no more for thine and thee.

But fast by England's central spot
Is now thy place of love and rest;
The accepted, not the chosen lot,
Is that which ever proves the best.
Heaven gives thee, on thy native soil,
Meet interchange of work and play;—
Thy southern home for months of toil,
Thy weeks of highland holiday.

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This year, in our connubial life,
Is but the last of twenty-seven,
Whose summers thou hast spent, sweet wife,—
Eighteen on earth, and nine in heaven:
So oft the magic power of steam
Hath freed thee from thy prison chain,
And help'd thee to renew the dream
Of childhood's happiest days again.

The mingled cup of grief and joy,
Which others drain, we two have drain'd;
Our gold hath had its due alloy,
Much have we lost, and something gain'd:
And now upon the downward slope,
As on we speed, of life's decline,
Not yet exempt from fear and hope
Is this brief view of thine and mine.

Almost without a cloud of grief,
Our first nine years in sunshine pass'd,—
Our summer boughs were green in leaf,
When one was shiver'd by the blast:
Nine more roll'd on,—beside this shore,
With sons and daughters richly blest,
We found, as we had found before,
The needful boon of health and rest.

Nine more are gone,—again we meet,
Our number undiminish'd still,—
But one beneath the tropic heat
Doth his appointed task fulfil;
And one, a scholar not ungraced,
Is gone to earn a scholar's bread,
And two have on our knees been placed,
While life's declining summer fled.

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For all that hath been ours so long,—
For all that still continues ours,—
For life in both still sound and strong,—
For mind untouch'd in all its powers,—
For whatsoe'er of budding good
In sons or daughters we can see,—
For faith and hope's appointed food,—
Kind heaven be blest by thee and me!

On what remains of mortal years
We will not think, nor blindly guess
What store reserv'd of smiles or tears
Life's coming page may blot or bless;
To-day at least we hope to spend
Together,—with to-morrow's sun
My sojourn in this isle must end,—
This last should be our happiest one.

Come forth, and by the lone sea-shore,
And through the woods we two will stray,
And many a shady nook explore,
And many a sunny creek and bay;
And, if thou wilt, when thou art laid
Beneath the boughs, or by the sea,
I'll read the rhymes I lately made,
When thou wast far away from me.

A trivial tale do they unfold,—
A string of facts from first to last,
Connecting feelings new and old,—
The present with the dreamy past;
The days when thou and I were young,
Bridegroom and bride, with later life,
In which approaching age hath flung
Its shadows upon man and wife.

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So, when to-morrow I am gone,
My last few idle days to spend
Beside his native lake with one,
Ere we had met, my bosom friend,—
Shalt thou, on loving thoughts intent,
Read o'er that strange, uxorious lay,
And think how pleasantly we spent
Our twenty-seventh wedding-day.

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MUCH ADO ABOUT LITTLE.

I.—THE WHEREABOUT.

There is a quiet Western town,—
In Worcester's fruitful shire it stands,
'Midst orchards of world-wide renown,
And fragrant growth of garden lands.

Beside it winds the Avon stream,
Above it slopes the Breadon height;
And Malvern, in the sunset gleam,
Seems all ablaze with crimson light.

And ere the railway's iron age
Expell'd Mac-Adam's age of stone,
Or steam was harness'd to the stage
Then whirl'd by four-horse nerve and bone,

Oft, seated on the Worcester mail,
Descending by the London road,
I mark'd, beneath me in the vale,
The river, how it flash'd and flow'd;

The river banks, how green they grew,
The fields, how bright with fruit and flower;
The stately shape, the sober hue
Of that majestic old Church tower.

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It was a sight to touch with joy
The heart of middle-aged or old,
And I was then a beardless boy,
A scholar of Etonian mould.

But on my spirit's inward eye
That scene a deeper rapture pour'd;
It spoke of home and kindred nigh,
Of holiday delights restored.

Almost, from that high point of road,
The Wrekin's summit I might see;
Almost, above my sire's abode,
The loftier ridges of the Clee.

The breezes there seem'd fraught with bliss
From haunts in which I lov'd to roam,
And stirr'd my spirit like the kiss
Which welcom'd son and brother home.

And thus that tower and town became
A sacred land-mark to my view,
And round my heart their cherish'd name
Entwined with pleasant memories grew.

II.—THE WHEREABOUT UNVISITED.

The banks of Thames are fresh and green,
The towers which crown them passing fair,
And churlish souls forget their spleen,
And homesick hearts grow happy there:

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But slow and slimy is thy stream,
Flat are thy flowerless banks, O Cam,
And dimly does the daylight gleam
Through miles of smoke round Birmingham:

And he who travels through that smoke,
To rest beside that sluggish slime,—
Is not among the happiest folk
Within the bounds of space and time.

In one brief month I bade farewell
To school and to my boyhood's home,
In new, less pleasant haunts to dwell,
Through new, less pleasant roads to roam.

And years roll'd by, and still I pass'd
Through that delicious vale no more;
It seem'd that I had look'd my last
On tower and town, on stream and shore.

And now, as time fled swiftly on,
Its beauty, and almost its name,
With boyish pleasures past and gone,
A memory and a dream became.

It sank into the phantom land
Of vanish'd scenes beloved of yore,—
When joy was felt, and schemes were plann'd,
In manhood felt and plann'd no more.

In memory's deepest cell it lay,
With those romantic banks of Rea,—
With that old mansion far away,
So long the home of mine and me;

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With that ancestral mansion dear,
Long lost, still loved with vain regret,
In which, at Christmas, year by year,
Aunts, uncles, cousins, kinsfolk met;—

With oriel windows richly stain'd,
With passage long and creaking stair,
With treasur'd records which remain'd
Of the first Charles's sojourn there;

With oratory small and lone
Where saintly knees in prayer had bent,
Or e'er the altar with the throne
Went down before the parliament;

With spacious lawns and shrubberies green,
With urns and statues choicely placed,
With gravel walks that wound between,
In somewhat of artistic taste;

With flights of steps which from the door
Led down to that old-fashion'd pond,
With fir-tree clumps that grew before,
With hills and churches seen beyond;

With these, with scenes like these beloved,—
With that small town by Kennet's side,
Where first a school-boy's cares I proved,
When first I felt a school-boy's pride;

With that eternal Roman road,
Without a break, without a bend,
Which homeward when we started, show'd
Where twelve miles off the stage should end;

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With Eton's shade, with Windsor's height,
With sport and study, grief and joy,
Which train for deeds of future might
The spirit of the English boy;—

With these, like half-forgotten things,
That tower and town neglected lay,
While hope and fancy plum'd their wings,
And boyhood's dreams to youth's gave way.

Then love was born;—within my veins
The burning blood like wildfire ran;
I felt the pleasures and the pains,
The cares and triumphs of the man;

But still, in hours of calmer thought,
When, from the present's strife and din,
The mind repose and refuge sought
In that sweet past which slept within,—

Among the dreams of old delight,
Evok'd from memory's spectral cell,
Return'd that scene, so fresh, so bright,
Belov'd so long, retain'd so well.

III.—THE WHEREABOUT VISITED.

“Come list to me, my bonny bride,
(For such this ring will make thee soon),—
And judge if I aright provide
Employment for our honey-moon.

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“My parents ne'er have seen thy face,
And they must learn to love it well;
And so with them, a little space,
We two, ere we return, will dwell.

“But first, as fitting 'tis and right,
Like the first couple, all alone,
For some few weeks of pure delight,
We'll make an Eden of our own;—

“An Eden of congenial thought,
Where heart to heart, and mind to mind,
Shall teach in turn, in turn be taught
Its proper paradise to find.

“And with the present and the past
The unknown future shall combine
The rainbow tints of hope to cast
O'er this twin life of thine and mine.

“And first 'twill be a joy sublime
To trace with thee the self-same track
Which brought me, in my schoolboy-time,
To home and friends and freedom back.

“So, having seal'd these vows of ours
In yonder Church, our course we'll bend
Tow'rd Oxford's stately domes and towers,
And there our first day's travel end.

“And when through college-court and hall
We've paced with reverential tread,
And view'd the relics, each and all,
Bequeath'd us by the saintly dead,—

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“By Worcester's old cathedral tower,
'Midst orchard-slopes and hop-grounds wide,
We'll twine once more our nuptial bower
For brief repose on Severn's side.

“The third day's travel shall reveal
My childhood's home,—my home no more;
And thou shalt share what I shall feel
In haunts belov'd from days of yore.

“Next night on Ludlow's castled steep,
Beside the banks of winding Teme,—
Where Milton slept, we two will sleep,
Where Milton dream'd, we two will dream.

“Thence through a smiling border land
Of tufted hills and verdant vales,
We'll journey on, until we stand
Beneath the mountain peaks of Wales.

“We'll view Llangollen's pastoral hills,
We'll climb the Cader's giant side,
We'll quaff Dolgelly's crystal rills,
And then on Barmouth's sands abide.

“The western breeze thy strength shall brace,
The western sea-breeze cool thy brow,
And then once more we'll shift our place,—
Still onward, onward, I and thou.

“We'll garnish Gelert's grave with flowers,
Thence passing through sweet Gwynant's vale,
Where o'er Llanberis Snowdon towers
We'll hoist on that small lake our sail.

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“The Menai bridge, not yet complete,
Caernarvon Castle famed in song,
And Capel Cürig's lone retreat,
Will scarce arrest our progress long.

“But once again by Severn's side,
Beneath the Wrekin's slope, will we
With loving hearts at rest abide,
With hearts that long for thee and me.”

Thus to my willing bride I sang,
And thus while, on our wedding-day,
With peal on peal the belfry rang,—
We started on our westward way:

But now the second sun had set
(So long in Oxford linger'd we)
And night closed darkly in, ere yet
The towers of Worcester we could see.

So nine miles off our course we stay'd
In that small town on Avon's shore,
And there our second halt we made,
And talk'd our two days' travel o'er.

Beneath the old grey tower we slept,—
The river flow'd in silence nigh,
And nightingales beside it kept
Sweet vigils for our lullaby.

And when together we had past
That landmark of my earlier life,
Bridegroom and bride seem'd changing fast
To soberer, happier man and wife.

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Forward in full career we sped
To good or ill, to joy or pain,
And thrice nine years almost had fled
Ere I beheld that town again.

IV.—THE WHEREABOUT REVISITED.

A younger sister had my bride,
A creature form'd in daintiest mould,—
Sweet-voiced, sweet-thoughted, loving-eyed,
And when we wedded, six years old.

To woman's ripe estate she grew
Unpluck'd,—a stately virgin flower;
Then first a genuine passion knew,
And bow'd her neck to Hymen's power.

And now full two connubial years
Had left behind her wedding-morn,
And wedlock's weight of hopes and fears,
Of joys and sorrows she had borne;

When to our home her spouse and she,—
A grave divine,—a glorious dame,—
In wedlock's awful pomp, to see
Their elderly relations came.

“Now, master bard,” (in wedded pride
Thus spoke to me that matron fair)
“You and my consort must divide
Your next week's duty, share for share.

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“He from your pulpit here shall teach
Your willing flock, and you shall hie
Some sixty railway miles, and preach
Where else his Sunday work would lie.

“Thus with my sister two days yet
We two unparted may abide,
And you for your reward shall get,
At our expense—a railway ride.”

Obedient to the word I went,
For mine had been a heart of stone
To see Joan's heart for Darby rent,
And Darby's heart distraught for Joan.

So when the week drew near its close,
The wings of steam had borne me nigh
The spot where once, in brief repose,
Slumber'd and dream'd my bride and I.

And thus once more I came to view
Those banks so bright with fruit and flower,
The stately shape, the sober hue
Of that majestic old Church tower.

V.—THE VICARAGE.

The Vicar's wall is on the right
As from the station home you fare,
Facing a street by day and night
So still, life seems extinguish'd there.

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Around and in it silence dwells
As of a place long past its prime;
Best broken by the sound of bells
Which from the grand old abbey chime.

Across the winding ancient street
The trees, which fence the churchyard round,
Almost with outstretch'd branches meet
Their sisters in the vicarage ground.

And, shelter'd by the latters' shade,
The modest mansion stands retired;
By tenants of its master's trade
A mansion to be much desired.

There, on a bracing eve of May,
Did I from one-horse chaise alight,
Just as the skies were robed in grey,
And twilight deep'ning into night.

The vicar and the vicar's wife
Were absent both, as you may guess;
No sound of childhood's sport or strife
Disturb'd or cheer'd the loneliness.

But on the threshold, frank and bland,
The curate to receive me stood;
The curate's wife was near at hand,
In ripe maternal womanhood.

And one beside,—a spinster dame,
Whose native spring of cheerful mirth
Not fourscore years and six could tame,
Nor rob her of her joy on earth.

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Soon at a well replenish'd board
I sat with those congenial three;
Fresh were the eggs, and freely pour'd
The long libations of the tea;

And still, as wit and mirth increas'd,
Clear'd was the board and drain'd the bowl;
And we, that night, enjoy'd “the feast
Of reason and the flow of soul:”

And ere to welcome sleep I sank,
I felt that town had charms more rare
Than tower or tree or river-bank,
Or orchard bloom or pasture fair.

VI.—THE ABBEY CHURCH.

Bound by no laws of time or place
Are Christian hearts for praise and prayer,
Their temple—universal space,
Their service—always—everywhere.

Ill fares it with the man who needs
A stated hour, a certain shrine,
A fixed routine of form and creed
Recited duly line by line;

Whose whole devotion ebbs and flows
At intervals of night and day,
And sinks and rises, comes and goes,—
This moment here, the next away.

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And yet, while man continues man,
And govern'd by his nature's law,—
Resist it as we may or can,
Will holy places soothe and awe.

Where saintly knees have often knelt
A calmer peace the spirit fills,
And reverence more devout is felt
In churches than in cotton-mills.

I would not slight the influence shed
By pillar'd aisle, by choir and nave,
Or by the memory of the dead
Beneath reposing in the grave.

The spirit undevout and cold
Elsewhere, its nature will retain
Where bones of holy men of old
For centuries at rest have lain;

And those who climb to mountain peaks
Unmoved, or lightly pace the shore
When deep to deep in fury speaks,
And lightnings flash and thunders roar,

May well unmoved continue still
In temples built by mortal hand,
Where choicest architectural skill
Combines the graceful with the grand;

But they who, wheresoe'er hath been
Their path, have that in reverence trod,
And in and on it felt and seen
The impress of the hand of God,

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Will with profounder awe subdued
Within time-hallow'd temples tread,
And feel with loftier faith imbued
By that dim presence of the dead.

So thought I, when that Churchyard's bound
Approaching,—with a chilling shock
Of baffled hope the gate I found
Close fasten'd with a ponderous lock.

Immur'd like cloister'd maidenhood,—
A spring shut up, a fountain seal'd,—
The beauteous Church forbidden stood,—
Its loveliness but half reveal'd.

No foot of man, no reverent glance
Might penetrate the shrine within,—
Beneath its shadow to advance
Seem'd counted as a deadly sin.

Six days a week the churchyard lay,
And half the seventh, by human tread
Untouch'd—no living foot might stray
Beside the mansions of the dead.

Ah! why?—this stormy, earthly life
Of fear and hope, of toil and care,
Might find from all its fret and strife
Sometimes a moment's refuge there;

Amidst the graves awhile be taught
Remembrance that the flesh must die;
Within the Church awake the thought
Of the soul's immortality.

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This surely were no mortal crime,
No taint of Babylonish leaven,
No bondage dark to place or time,
No wrong ascent from earth to heaven.

Why needless barriers interpose
Eternity and time between?
Why thus the gate of entrance close
To intercourse with things unseen?

Such questions soon fit answer found;—
Time was, by some scarce yet forgot,
When, even within this holy ground,
The world's worst spirit rested not.

Strange custom!—even amidst the graves
Which most irreverent feet would spare,—
Where now at will the spear-grass waves,
Was held—an annual cattle-fair.

Almost beneath the sacred roof
Was heard the bleat of herds and flocks;
The tombs by the regardless hoof
Were trampled of the horse and ox;

And recklessly into the ground
Their stakes and poles the rustics drave,
And coffins oft unearth'd were found,
And scatter'd relics of the grave.

Strange legacy from days of old,
When monks of Benedictine rule
Within the Church-enclosure sold
Their calves and lambs, their corn and wool.

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Strange legacy for years to keep,
When friar and monk, black, white and grey,
Before the Reformation's sweep
Had pass'd like feverish dreams away;

When even the Abbey Church itself,
The nave destroy'd, scarce saved its choir,
And rent and tithe became the pelf
Of courtier-lord and country squire.

What marvel, if at last the wrath
Of outraged feeling, fierce though late,
Closed up the desecrated path
And lock'd the too commodious gate?

Between extremes our human mind
Will vacillate and waver long,
And late at last, if ever, find
The path of right 'twixt wrong and wrong.

But hush!—'tis now no part of mine
To meditate a moral lay,—
To search for clouds, when sunbeams shine,—
To preach—when first 'tis time to pray.

The Sunday skies were bright and blue,
The Sunday chimes rang blithely near,—
To poet's eye how dear that view!—
How sweet that music to his ear!

And gaily dress'd in all their best,
The children of the Sunday-school
By looks and words and ways express'd
Experience of their pastor's rule.

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And at the stated service-time
A congregation full and grave,
Beneath that abbey roof sublime,
Intoned the chaunt and droned the stave.

And from the altar, loud and clear,
My trumpet-tones roll'd out and rang,
And serious hearts were touch'd to hear,
And choral voices swell'd and sang.

And from the pulpit slowly down
Returning, when my text was spun,
I felt 'twixt me and that old town
A new relationship begun.

VII.—THE CURATE AT HOME.

There's something in a cloister's bound,
And something in a convent cell;
If not in sense, at least in sound,
The words ring clear and jingle well;

But nought exists so pure, so sweet,
Within the wide expanse of earth,
As love and learning's joint retreat—
The English pastor's home and hearth.

The dear constraint of household ties,
The daily kiss of wife and child,
The love which gushes to the eyes
From springs of feeling undefiled;—

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The round of duties blithely run,
Where each and all their parts fulfil,
Like stars revolving round the sun
In their appointed orbits still;—

The frugal, yet convivial meal,
At which familiar faces throng,—
The health which looks and limbs reveal,—
The morning task, the evening song;—

The prayer and praise at morn and night,
For blessings shared, for sins forgiven—
These make the pastor's dwelling bright
With gleams as of approaching Heaven.

Thus in the curate's home I felt,
When, from the shrine where Christians pray
Return'd, with him and his I dwelt,
And shared their meals that pleasant day.

The kindness of the home-bred heart,
The natural manners, frank and free,
The simple tastes unspoilt by art,
The true old English courtesy,—

The evening walk with sire and child,
By river bank, o'er hill and dale,
Through which her song, abrupt and wild,
Trill'd out the unwearied nightingale,—

The after melody more high,
And scarce less sweet, of household hymn,
And anthems soaring to the sky
As on the wings of seraphim;—

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Such pleasures that sweet Sunday crown'd,—
A Sunday such as Christians love
Whose hearts on earth by faith have found
The key-note of the songs above.

VIII.—THE BOUDOIR.

Small praise from me shall e'er be won
For virtues of conventual life;
I rank the most seraphic nun
Below the least seraphic wife.

Nor doth my fancy much incline
(For all that hath been sung or said
Of celibacy's life divine)
To ancient bachelor or maid:

But this I will at least maintain—
That of the last two kinds there be,
Each unlike each, in growth and grain,
As crab to golden-pippin tree.

The former is a virgin still,
Against her once decided voice;
The latter, of her free good will,
Unmated by deliberate choice.

The former's prospects have been marr'd
By fortune's trick or lover's slight;
She sees and feels herself debarr'd
From what she deems her sex's right.

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By disappointment thus devour'd,
What marvel, if her heart be sear'd,
Her judgment warp'd, her temper sour'd
Tow'rd all without or with a beard?

The latter hath, at duty's call,
Or haply by peculiar taste,
Surrender'd freely woman's all,
And let her beauty run to waste:

She cheers a widow'd parent's life,
She dries a widow'd brother's tears;
Denied the gentle name of wife,
She feels the mother's griefs and fears;—

She dwells on earth as angels might,
To self-denying labours given;
Walking by faith and not by sight,—
Her treasure and her heart in Heaven.

And such—if things are what they seem,
And I my judgment rightly frame
From signs external—such I deem
Mine hostess was—that ancient dame.

At eighty-six to be alive,
Nor yet exempt from earthly care,—
With those who fail and those who thrive,
Their sorrows and their joys to share,—

For social converse to retain
A ready wit, a cheerful tongue—
To feel, in pleasure and in pain,
Alike for middle-aged and young;—

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This speaks at least a genial heart,—
A heart which nature soothes and stirs;
Which still in this world bears its part,—
And such a heart, I deem, was hers.

My morning walk had made me late,
And she the household prayers had read,
Before at breakfast, tête-a-tête,
We brake the absent Vicar's bread.

Nor, though infirm and bent of frame,
Would she from courteous pains forbear:
That breakfast might have put to shame
Full many a younger matron's care.

But when 'twas done—“'tis time,” quoth she,
“That on your kindness I presume,
To ask if you will come and see
My own peculiar, private room.”

And, slow of step, she led the way
With all the stately pride of age,
To where her prized dominions lay,—
A grave, majestic pilgrimage.

The passages which thither led
Were lined with books on either side,
Which if she read not or she read,
'Tis not my province to decide;

But this I may with truth aver—
That she possess'd a mine of lore
Which scholar or philosopher
Possessing need demand no more.

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And shelf on shelf, and case by case,
Her chamber walls were furnish'd round,
Where each its own appointed place,
Octavo, quarto, folio, found.

Nor there was wanting sofa soft,
Nor ottoman, nor trim settee;
Floor—windows—walls-beneath—aloft,—
The room was snug as snug could be.

And jars of china costly-quaint
Fill'd up each vacant space and span,
'Midst portraits grim of sage and saint,
And cabinets of rich japan.

And many a tale of times gone by,
And many a gentle boast had she,
Of relics saved from ruin nigh,—
The glories of her ancestry,—

Of heirlooms still preserv'd with care
From countless generations back;
Poor gauds, which avarice deign'd to spare,
When house and land had gone to wrack.

And then, with graceful pride she told
How, still herself unwedded, she
Had nursed, from youth until grown old,
The hopes of half her family;—

And how, to her protecting arm,
Entrusted from their very birth,
Had infants been preserv'd from harm,
To fill a prosperous place on earth.

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Strange mixture did her speech betray
Of strength and weakness,—but to me
Celestial light appear'd to play
From out that fond garrulity.

Bright flashes fell upon the page
Of future life, whereby 'twas shown
How even the feeblest days of age
Have joy and comfort of their own.

I seem'd admonish'd not to fear,
As fear'd I have, my own decay,
When health and strength shall disappear,
And mind's last vigour fade away.

But still, the heart-springs to refresh
By exercise of faith and love,
Secure that fainting soul and flesh
Shall be supported from above.

IX.—THE CURATE ABROAD.

A train, not due till half-past one,
Defined the limit of my stay;
So, that grave conference past and done,
Four vacant hours before me lay;

And though my host was hardly press'd
By work among the sick and old,
And much himself had need of rest
From Sunday labours manifold,—

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For no remonstrance I could urge
Would he his courteous task forego,
But from his study must emerge
The wonders of the land to show.

So, staff in hand, we sallied forth,
And o'er the uplands clomb our way,
Where East and West, and South and North,
A world of gorgeous beauty lay.

The Breadon's green and grassy steep
On the left hand the prospect closed,
And like a Titaness asleep
Huge Malvern on the right reposed.

And far around, and in between,
Lay wood and water, rock and lea,
And blossoms hid the orchard green
With promise rich of fruit to be.

So fair a scene,—so calm, so bright,
Might well entrance the outward eye,
And with contemplative delight
The inward vision satisfy.

But on that pleasant morning walk
Were other charms than Nature's shed;
Grave thought was ours and earnest talk,—
Full intercourse of heart and head.

312

A traveller had the curate been
On many a foreign sea and shore,
Much had he read, much had he seen,—
A man of multifarious lore.

With keen, attentive eye had view'd
The characters and minds of men,
And trains of sober thought pursued,
Beyond a superficial ken.

But still, whate'er he did or said,
One settled purpose you might see
In every act and word betray'd,—
To spread the truth which makes us free.

Through praise and blame, through gain and loss,
Through every form of good and ill,
He seem'd a soldier of the cross,
Undaunted and unwearied still:

With steadfast persevering toil,
Wrought in his own peculiar sphere,
And till'd a poor, ungrateful soil,
From month to month, from year to year;

Yet still, with comprehensive glance,
Survey'd all fields of Christian war,—
Watch'd truth's embattled host advance,
And cheer'd its onset from afar:

In speech ablaze with heavenly fire,
The cause of missions loved to plead,
And urged, with zeal which nought could tire,
The claims of our colonial need.

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A man of thought and action too,
Even to grey hairs from earliest youth,—
A pastor, such as earth hath few,
In word and tongue, in deed and truth.

So, side by side, in earnest talk,
We two o'er hill and valley strode,
Till, with our words and with our walk,
Together soul and body glow'd.

But feeble all, beside that heart
Of energy and zeal sublime
Appear'd the bard's inventive art,—
The skill to weave fantastic rhyme.

Rebuked before a manlier thought
The poet's gaudy fancy bow'd;
The teacher must himself be taught,
The preacher less than ever proud.

We finish'd our pedestrian round,—
Such walks must needs take long to tire,
And stood once more on holy ground,
Within the grand old Abbey choir.

Each crypt and cloister, arch and wall,
Did we with curious eyes explore;
The tombs and tablets, one and all,
The brasses on the transept floor.

Then, having snatch'd a swift repast,
(For now the time was waxing late,
And railway trains run far and fast,)
The one-horse chaise was at the gate.

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And after words of brief adieu
To matron and to maiden-kind,
The tower receded fast from view,—
Town, river, hills, were left behind.

We parted at the station-door,
(That stalwart-hearted priest and I,)
Perchance on earth to meet no more,—
And cordial was our last good-bye.

And homeward as I fleetly sped,
I marvell'd in the train, alone,
How noblest hearts are born and bred
To live and die in spheres unknown.

And then I thought how tower and stream
Had suddenly become to me
No more a dim romantic dream,
A freak of youthful phantasy;

But a staid home for sober thought,
O'er which remembrance still might brood,—
A new-found joy, which came unsought
In life's declining lustihood.

And well I knew, when (home return'd,)
I ponder'd my excursion o'er,
That in and through it I had earn'd
A treasure not possess'd before.

The ridge of Malvern, as seen from some points of view, bears a considerable resemblance to a gigantic female figure recumbent sidelong, the head reposing on the extended arm.

315

THE KING'S QUARTERS.

Forty years were gone and past
With their pleasures and their pains,
Since (a boy) I look'd my last
On those verdant hills and plains,
On that old manorial hall,
On that clump of fir-trees tall;

On that stately avenue,
With its broad umbrageous trees,
Huge in girth and dark of hue,
Haunted by the evening breeze;
On those smooth and spacious lawns
Glistening in the dewy dawns;

On those ancient ponds without,
On those pictur'd walls within,
Where, in merry Christmas rout,
Congregated kith and kin;
Uncles, aunts, and madcap cousins,
Mix'd with neighbouring folk by dozens;

On those garden-walls, where oft
Itch'd my childish palm to reach,
As they blush'd and bloom'd aloft,
Ripening nectarine, plum and peach;

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On that hothouse, filled with grapes,
Cluster'd in such luscious shapes;

On the tiny church hard by,
Scarce beyond the shrubbery bound;
On the spring which sparkled nigh,
Bubbling up from under-ground;
Clear alike in sun and rain,
Though of red chalybeate stain.

“Forty years are gone and past,—
Few perchance may yet remain,—
Shall I see that house at last?
Shall I tread those courts again?”
Like a weak distrustful elf
Thus I reason'd with myself.

“Shall I break the life-long charm
Which hath held it in my heart,
Far from all alloy or harm
Of the daylight world apart:
Treasur'd with each holiest thought
From the depths of memory brought?

“Age hath its own fairy land
Of remember'd hope and joy;
Shall the man reverse the wand
Which enchanted once the boy?
Is it meet that fleshly eye
Into those domains should pry?

“Haply I may find them changed,—
Every feature maim'd and marr'd,

317

All their order disarranged,
From saloon to stable yard;
Scarce a vestige haply trace
Of the old heart-cherish'd place.

“Or, if all should yet remain
Undismantled, undefiled,
As the image on my brain
Stamp'd while I was yet a child,—
Its new tenants may not be
Souls that care for mine or me.

“Ill could I endure to pace
That enchanted ground, and feel
That an unfamiliar face
Followed frowning at my heel;
That o'er all the loved domain
Uncongenial spirits reign.

“Grant I come a welcome guest,
Free at will to rove and range,—
Yet I know my brain and breast
Both have undergone a change:
Scenes to me can be no more
What they were in days of yore.

“Most of those beneath the mould
Sleep whom here my childhood knew;
I myself am grown too old
Earliest feelings to renew:
Why should I to life recall
Thoughts so long grown painful all?

“Why with rash advance confound
Worlds which cannot coalesce?

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Why obtrude on tenderest ground
Waning life's impassiveness?
While the present fades so fast,
Let the past remain the past.

“Better dream my ancient dream
Than dissolve, with sudden glare
Of the sun's meridian beam,
Aught so fragile yet so fair;
Childhood's visions are to me
Now the best reality.”

With my heart I held debate,
Thus o'er-mastering pro with con;
Tow'rds the well-remember'd gate
While my steps moved on and on;
Unconvinced by argument
Thither soul and body went.

Up the avenue I pass'd—
Trees well known were yet alive,—
Reach'd the gabel'd front at last,—
Cross'd the trimly-gravell'd drive;
Paused a moment—pull'd the bell,—
That at once dissolved the spell.

That old mansion is no more,
Nor again can ever be
Flush'd and flooded o'er and o'er
With the tints of phantasy;
Auld Lang Syne hath past away,
'Tis a treasure of to-day.

In my mind's retentive eye,
Long 'twas fill'd with faces, hid

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Where no fleshly gaze may pry,—
Underneath the coffin-lid;—
Spectral forms which in my brain
Rose and sank and rose again.

Let the dead embrace the dead,
They with us their work have done;
Lightly near the graves we tread
Which received them one by one:
Time will come when they and we
Shall once more companions be.

But the dwellers where they dwelt,
Though of distant, alien birth,
Feel as once our kindred felt,—
Let them fill their place on earth;
Better is the cordial host
Than the gaunt ancestral ghost.

Better friendly looks and tones,
Mirth and song and social glee,
Than a mouldering heap of bones,—
Though revered as bones can be;
Better woman's living grace
Than the relics of a race.

Pleasant was the image wrought
By remembrance on my brain,
But a brighter than I brought
Bear I from that house again;—
Image pure of household love,
Peace on earth and hope above.

Yet the older vision still
All unfaded doth abide,—

320

House and garden, grove and hill,
Not transform'd, but glorified;
Hall and chambers, gallery, stair,
Still precisely what they were.

But in me, since childish years,
Hath a sense develop'd been,
Seized by which the place appears
Bright with more celestial sheen:
What felt I of beauty then?—
'Tis not caught by childish ken.

Now I know what glory floods
Sun-illumined slope and hill;
What the grandeur of the woods,
What the music of the rill;
See how fair is many a spot,
Even to eyes which love it not.

But the master-charm of all
Flows not from the beauty seen
In the old romantic hall,
In its gardens trim and green,
In the pastoral hills which bound
All its fair horizon round,—

Nor from rooms wherein of yore
Princes play'd their boyish games,
Nor from wainscots scribbled o'er
By the second Charles and James,
While their sire in arm'd array
Did his siege to Gloucester lay;

Nor from monumental brass,
Still recording on the wall

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How King George the Third did pass
Once a morning in the hall,
With princesses young and fair,
Racing up and down the stair;—

Not from these, but from the thought
Of the worth which lives there yet,—
Of a pleasure found unsought,
When my sun began to set;
Not, I trust, to pass away
While the spirit warms the clay.

322

STANZAS AT THE STATION.

Long time in the refreshment-room I stay'd
Resign'd, expecting the North-Western train,
By some mischance beyond its time delay'd;
The day was drizzly, and continuous rain
By turns abated and increased again;
Throng'd was the platform with impatient folk
Fretting like souls in purgatorial pain,
As sinners will, at what might saints provoke,—
For sure to wait so long was something past a joke.

But among all, one party fix'd my eye,—
Three of one household, as a babe might guess;—
A grey-hair'd man, whose summer had gone by,
A lady middle-aged, whose air and dress
Became her ripe and mellow loveliness;
Both these by turns a sprightly girl of three
From time to time did playfully caress,
Or, wild with spirits, bound from knee to knee,—
A fine and healthful child as you on earth might see.

The father and the husband (such I ween
That stranger was, although indeed the pair
Might, from the ripeness of their age, have been
The parents' parents of that fairy fair)

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Seem'd one who communed with some secret care,
So absent and abstracted was his look,—
And ever and anon he left his chair,
Closing the unread pages of his book,
And through or round the room some restless paces took.

And then, as though awaking from a dream,
He stopp'd, and, seated by the lady's side,
Gazed on her—ne'er did eyes more fondly beam
Of youthful bridegroom upon youthful bride,
While she look'd up serenely, languid-eyed,
Yet smiling, even like one who would conceal
Some anxious thought, suppress'd with matron pride,
Or which to him she dreaded to reveal,
Lest he, her trouble known, a deeper still might feel.

Meanwhile her fingers wrought, with busy haste,
A curious web of network light and fine;—
Some masterpiece of female skill and taste,
Which with correct precision to define—
Is not for muse so ignorant as mine;
But she there-through her glowing needle drove
In many a labyrinthine twist and twine,
As though in woman's earnest speed she strove
To finish some choice gift of woman's dearest love.

Her looks, her work, the paleness of her cheek,
Her husband's restless step and eye of gloom
Suffused with love, to me appeared to speak
Of some unknown, inexorable doom
Threatening the parent's age, the daughter's bloom;
'Tis plain, thought I,—some emigrant is he,
Who goes, his life's poor remnant to consume
In distant climes, no more for years to see
His wife's heart-thrilling glance, his child's heart-cheering glee.

324

And that choice handiwork of hers, no doubt,
Is for a keepsake of connubial love,
Which he shall cherish while his life wears out,
Or till, in this world or the world above,
He may rejoin his lost domestic dove.—
Thus did I muse in speculative vein,—
But, while her flimsy mesh-work fancy wove,
The railway-bell announced the coming train,
And straight the lady rose, like one who moved with pain.

She walk'd, supported on her husband's arm,
And then by chance the cloak was drawn aside,
Which had before enwrapt her close and warm,—
Whereat I noted, too observant-eyed,
What did the question of my thought decide;—
At once I saw the cause of all the fears
By which the husband's restless heart was torn,
Which filled the mother's eyes with natural tears,
Not, haply, wont to flow in life's more vigorous years.

So, in Wordsworthian humour, I began
Straightway to frame and fancy in my mind
The thoughts which might have stirr'd that grey-hair'd man,
As one of common passions with his kind;—
Thoughts which the curious here set down may find
In phrase whereby I deem'd he might express,
To her whose life was with his own entwined,
What 'twas that wrought his spirit that distress,
And fill'd his gazing eyes with such sad tenderness.

“Once again hath sickness bound thee
With its sharp, corroding chain,
Anxious fears once more surround thee,
Wakeful nights and days of pain:

325

And the months roll onward slowly,
While thy burden heavier grows;
What shall charm thy melancholy?
What shall give thy heart repose?

“He who else were bound to render—
What to render were delight—
Ministrations kind and tender
To thy weakness day and night,
When the East with sunrise burneth
To his labour must be gone,—
Seldom to thy side returneth
Till the evening star hath shone.

“Many a task of household duty
Wearily must thou pursue,
Chiefly cheer'd by childhood's beauty,
And its spirit fond and true:
Firm of heart and much enduring,
Though in weakness and unrest,
Still thy courage re-assuring
With the thoughts which nerve it best.

“Think how oft in years departed
Thou the self-same chain hast worn,
Feeble, fainting, anxious-hearted,
Till to earth a child was born:
Think what high protection nerved thee
Through thy peril and thy pain;
Think how strong an arm preserved thee,—
Will it not preserve again?

“Think how rich the compensation
For thy anguish still hath been;

326

How, for months of sore vexation,
Years of gladness thou hast seen:
Think how precious is the treasure
Which beneath thy bosom lies;
How profound the after pleasure
Which thy present suffering buys.

“Note yon tricksy prattler's gambols,—
All her mischief,—all her play,
As from room to room she rambles,
Ever restless, ever gay.
Swift as thought her antics vary,
Stout is she of heart and limb,
Frolicsome as forest fairy,
Loving as the seraphim.

“Strange and startling are her questions,
Apt and quaint her quick replies;
With instinctive, prompt suggestions
Nature makes her passing wise.
Still you trace, in voice and feature,
Dawning thought and fancy wild,—
Yet the gay and graceful creature
Is a simple-hearted child.

“Calculate the price which bought her,—
All the sickness, anguish, fear;
Wilt thou say so sweet a daughter
Cost a single pang too dear?
Wilt thou not for such another—
—Son or daughter, as may be—
Bear the burden of a mother,
With a mother's constancy?

327

“Let confiding expectation
Chase the shades of grief and gloom;
Bid prophetic speculation
Guess what treasure fills thy womb.
Could'st thou know what store of gladness,
Day by day, is gathering there,
Haply 'twould convert thy sadness
Into bliss too great to bear.

“Haply now thou bear'st within thee
Comfort for thy widow'd years;
Joy which shall hereafter win thee
From thy troubles and thy tears;
Firm support to help and hold thee
Down the slope of life's decline;
Love—whose fond embrace shall fold thee
When by death divorced from mine.

“Precious gifts, and rich in blessing,
Are the children of our age;
Joys which mock not the possessing
E'en of life's concluding stage.
Though divergent paths bereave us,
Of our elder, earlier born,
These, we trust, will never leave us,
Since our evening is their morn.”

328

ANTICIPATION AND EXPERIENCE.

When hope was young and fancy bright,
And fond anticipation
Embraced long years of pure delight,
Unmarr'd by one vexation;

When all the coming joys of life
In vision lay before me—
The cheerful home, the charming wife,
The children that she bore me;

The whole domain of hopes and fears
On which my dreams were founded,
Within a certain term of years
Was circled in and bounded.

I saw myself at twenty-five
A fond and fervent lover,
And then my matrimonial hive
With honey running over.

I saw, when five more years had sped
O'er smooth, untroubled waters,
Round, dimpled cheeks of white and red—
The cheeks of sons and daughters.

329

I saw the winter eve set in,
The hearth burn bright and ruddy,
The wind shut out, the warmth shut in,—
How cozy look'd my study!

The children all were warm in bed,
Beside me sat their mother;
We play'd, we sang, we wrote, we read,
We laugh'd with one another.

And years on years roll'd gaily on,
(So seem'd it in my vision,)
Until life's early prime was gone,—
Yet still 'twas all—Elysian.

The world with joys remain'd alive,
With which few griefs were blended,
Until I came to thirty-five—
And there the vision ended.

No spring of fancy could avail
That barrier to leap over;
What lay beyond it,—hill or dale,—
No guess-work could discover.

'Twas like the tracts which maps contain'd,
Ere geographic science
Such knowledge of our globe had gain'd
As might command reliance.

“Here deserts spread, where snakes abound
So huge, they scare beholders;
Here anthropophagi are found
With heads below their shoulders.”

330

Thus strangely, wildly, fancy wrought,
Life's distant page confusing,
Until it barr'd prospective thought
And baffled hope's perusing.

So, pent within her narrow bound,
Still dwelt anticipation,
And built on safe and solid ground
Her home and habitation.

Experience came,—the dreams of youth,
So daintily ideal,
Were found less bright than sober truth,—
The fancied than the real.

Young manhood pass'd,—grave middle age
Approach'd, arrived, departed;
Life happier seem'd, at every stage,
Than when the last was started.

The joys, which fancy's glass had shown,
Proved sweeter when I found them,
And others, which she ne'er had known,
With tenfold glory crown'd them.

And though with joys came griefs and fears,
Awhile their light obscuring,
That light dissolved the mist of tears,
And proved the more enduring.

And now, long past the utmost bound
Of life's foreseen fruition,
I find more bright the realm around,
More blest my own condition.

331

The slanting lights more softly shine
Than day's meridian splendour,
And grief is soothed by life's decline,
And joy becomes more tender.

And dearer far is wedlock's bond
Than when we learnt to bear it,
And household love is thrice as fond,
Though many more must share it.

There's scarce a joy of life's young prime
But still retains its station,
While yearly from the womb of Time
Comes forth a new creation.

Ah me! could this for ever last!—
This truce with mortal sorrow!—
I listen for the rising blast
Of storms to burst to-morrow.

I miss the scourge which smites me not,
Albeit too sorely needed,
As though I were a child forgot,
Unnoticed and unheeded.

Nay, doubt not, fear not—bless thy God,
Whose love forbears to pain thee;
Whose arm withholds the chastening rod,
Whose silken cords constrain thee.

Believe that since experience, still
Outstripping expectation,
Doth more than all the dream fulfil
Of young anticipation,

332

The mercy which hath been thy guide
Through paths so smooth and pleasant,
A future also shall provide
Still brighter than thy present.

Old age thou deem'st both grim and grey,
Beset with pain and sorrow;—
His face, which seems to frown to-day,
Shall beam with smiles to-morrow.

And death, if thou wilt bravely wait
On the behests of duty,
Approaching, shall unbar the gate
To realms of endless beauty.

333

LOVERS AT LOGGERHEADS.

What have I to do with thee—
Thee, Caprice's wilful daughter,
That to mate thee I must be
Steering thus through stormy water?
What need I, an elder, care
Whether fools be foes or spouses,
Meddling, marring here and there—
Plague say I o' both your houses.

Vestry brawls are rude and rough,—
Who but Vestry chairman pities?
Workhouse boards torment enough,
Worse torment one school committees;
But to me the toil of toils,
Hardest—ay! full ten times over—
Is to soothe the raging broils
Of a loved one with a lover.

Lo! upon my study shelves,
When on such affairs I ponder,
Sage and scholar bless themselves,
Theologians watch and wonder.
Hooker, Hammond, Taylor, Mede,
Basil, Ambrose, Athanasius—
All pronounce the life I lead
Inconceivably vexatious.

334

Whence the spell which thus enchains
Me, a grave and prudent rector?
Has Queen Mab bewitched my brains?
Have I quaff'd Olympian nectar?
Nay—to speak prosaic sense—
All the charm is purely human;—
'Tis the generous confidence
Of a noble-hearted woman.

335

THE WORLD WELL LOST.

So it is done, and thou hast chosen
The good, the wise, the prudent part,
Ere Fancy's wild unrest had frozen
The well-springs of thy woman's heart.

And thou canst bid farewell for ever
To joys which were thy life of life;
Exchange the artist's high endeavour
For the calm duties of the wife;

In self-denying strength of heart
Canst turn from plaudits long and loud,—
The triumphs of thy much-loved art,—
The homage of the admiring crowd,—

From what thou didst more dearly prize,
The silence of the thoughtful few,—
The tears which from discerning eyes
The magic of thy genius drew,—

Yea, even from Fancy's bright domain,
(That realm which thou didst range at will;—
Thy refuge long from care and pain,
Thy harbour in all storms of ill,)—

336

From this—from all which years had made
Thy own especial home to thee—
Thou turn'st—to dwell beneath the shade
Of Love's profound reality.

Even in thy pride and prime of power
(The rightful power of mind o'er mind)
Forgo'st thy nature's queenly dower
And leav'st lamenting realms behind.

Well hast thou done; ay! wisely well,
Nor unrewarded shalt thou be,
That thou didst not, through pride, rebel
Against thy better destiny.

For all which to thy wondrous art
Its charm of moral grandeur lent—
Thy true nobility of heart,—
Thy fervour of sublime intent,—

Thy sense of duty, strong and clear
As in thy great Taskmaster's eye,—
All this with tenfold light shall cheer
The stillness of thy privacy.

And thou wilt tame thy spirit down
(That spirit of ethereal mould)
From graspings at world-wide renown,
To household duties manifold:

And thine shall be no eagle's nest,
But a calm dwelling, like the dove's,—
A home which “that sweet summer guest
The temple-haunting martlet” loves.

337

And there shalt thou, with book and pen,
And studious thought, and letter'd ease,
And converse high of gifted men,
And bright-eyed children round thy knees,—

And more—O! how much more than all,—
A husband's deep, devoted love,
A happiness too pure to pall,—
The fulness of contentment, prove.

Will this suffice thee?—hath thy heart
No loftier cravings to allay?
Wilt thou be satisfied a part
All earthy and of earth to play?

Is this domestic, social range
Of sympathies and hopes and fears,
For all past joys a full exchange,—
A portion for all future years?

Ah! no:—though earth around look bright,
Thy soul must yearn and struggle still
For calmer peace, for purer light,
For perfect rest of thought and will.

And many a dream must still be thine
Of better, brighter worlds to come;—
Of some fair land where love divine
Gladdens the soul's eternal home.

And one thou hast—himself, like thee,
A pilgrim towards that peaceful land,—
Who shall thy true companion be,
And with thee seek it hand in hand;

338

With thee the hidden depths explore
Of Heaven's unfathom'd love and light;
With thee from Time's receding shore
Launch forth into the infinite;

With thee, in lowliness of heart,
Fix a devout, enquiring eye
On mysteries which we know in part,
And which in part we prophesy;

Till what was but in part be past,
And what is perfect, fully known,
And faith transformed to sight at last,
And Heaven's deep secrets all our own.

339

A WORD TO THE WEDDED.

O deem not that is love unfeign'd,
Which no minute offence can brook,
But tries, with rigour overstrain'd,
Each hasty word, each passing look;

Which counts as nothing half a life
Of past attachment, deep and strong,
When weigh'd against a moment's strife,
A moment's unintended wrong.

And deem not that to quench the flame
Of wedded love's impassion'd glow,
By words of harsh rebuke and blame
For some rash act done long ago,—

To ransack memory's secret store
For deeds and words, and looks and tones,
And moods and humours, past and o'er—
Poor frailties, which the heart disowns;—

O! deem not that to taunt with these
The aching heart, which loves thee still,
Can give thy own vex'd spirit ease,
Or work the offender's aught but ill.

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The passing word of spite or spleen,—
The temper all too quickly moved,—
The tart reply,—the sarcasm keen
Between the loving and the loved;—

These at the spirit's surface lie,—
Its secret depths sleep calm below,
Where love hears not the gusts pass by
Which o'er the ruffled surface blow.

But when offended memory brings,
With close, tenacious grasp, to light
All hateful, all unhappy things,
Best buried in sepulchral night,—

When faults in human frailty wrought
Are dealt with as of hate prepense,
Conceiv'd in cool, deliberate thought,
And acted but to give offence,—

Then, then indeed, o'er Hymen's bower
Love flutters his departing wings,
And old enchantments lose their power,
And scorn and anger ply their stings.

O trifle not with holiest ties,
Nor rouse the slumbering fiend of ill;
Be patient, generous, timely wise,—
And rule him, soul and body, still.

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HESPEROTHEN.

You ask me for a gift in rhyme,—
Some faint memorial of the power
Which graced your father's golden prime,
When hope and life were both in flower:
And fain would I, my son, indite
A strain, as sweet, as kind and true
As Poet-father e'er could write
To son as dearly loved as you.

Fain would I breathe into my lay
The deep regret, the fond desire
Of that bright face so far away
Which sets our yearning hearts on fire,
And make you feel, if that might be,
How father, mother, sister true,
Brother and youthful friend agree
In longing and in love for you.

Vain longing—and as vain regret!—
Between us ocean rolls and raves,
And many a year must vanish yet,
Or ere upon its dancing waves
The ship that bears our lost one home
Her white and welcome wings unfold,—
Ah!—long before that day shall come
Must many a loving heart be cold.

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And you, my son, are weak and faint,
And from that fierce and fiery clime
Perchance even now imbibe a taint
Still deadlier than the touch of Time:
And he, with swift, insidious flight,
Already steals our strength away,—
Already dims your father's sight,
And turns your mother's tresses grey.

God knows if in this world below
We shall again behold our son;
God help us, if our tears must flow,—
To say indeed—His will be done!—
God cherish, in our hearts and yours,
Feeling and thought which will not die,—
The love which strengthens and endures,
When faith and hope are both gone by.

Meanwhile do thoughts “too deep for tears”
Full oft oppress your father's mind,
Of angry words in earlier years,
Of hasty words and looks unkind,
Of passion feebly held in check,
Of sharp rebuke and sudden blow,—
Till he would fall upon your neck
And let his swelling heart o'erflow.

And, more than this, remembrance tells
Of that which is my nature's bane,—
The shy reserve which shuts the cells
Of feeling in my heart and brain;
The fetters which lock up my tongue
When it should speak on things divine
To craving hearts of old and young,—
The hearts which are most dearly mine.

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For this—for all of past offence—
For wrong committed, right not done,
Through rashness or through negligence,
Forgive your father, O my son:
Both he and you, for many a debt,
Have too much need to be forgiven
By Him whose mercy spares us yet,—
Our Father—yours and mine—in Heaven.

No more!—yet take the printed tomes
With this imperfect utterance sent;—
They breathe of English hearths and homes,
Of wedded peace—of heart-content;
Of all which, in the morn of life,
My fond imagination prized;
All which, in children, home and wife,
My riper years have realized.

And some few loftier notes there be
Those earthly melodies among,—
Half feeling, and half phantasy,—
Weak yearnings for diviner song:
O! to your father's lyric art
May power and might through these be given
To wake in your responsive heart
The music and the mind of Heaven!

And may your inward ear discern
The ground-tone of my varying strain,
And still from mine your spirit learn
To prize the pleasure and the pain
Of wedded life, of wedded love,
Of faith in higher bliss to be,—
Of peace on earth—of hope above
For Time and for Eternity!

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VIOLETS.

“Under the green hedges, after the snow,
There do the dear little violets grow;
Hiding their modest and beautiful heads
Under the hawthorn in soft mossy beds.”

“Sweet as the roses, and blue as the sky,
Down there do the dear little violets lie;
Hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen,
By the leaves you may know where the violet hath been.”

Such thy first notes, as of music from heaven,
Child of my heart, when thy years were eleven;
Still, at thirteen, my delight and my pride,
Violet-hearted, forget-me-not-eyed.

Blest be thy birth-day!—more bountiful none
Hath in our family calendar shone;
Never was born to us child who hath proved
Sweetlier-gifted, more dearly beloved.

Pale is thy forehead, and paler thy cheek,
Weak was thy infancy, still thou art weak;
Fragile of body and feeble of limb,—
But thine eyes in the spring-dew of phantasy swim.

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Deep in the cells of thy spirit are wrought
Exquisite textures of feeling and thought;
Forth from the depths of thy sensitive heart,
Tears to thine eyelids will bubble and start.

Oft, as thy fingers sweep over the keys,
Melody stirs in thy soul like a breeze;
Till the strong impulse evoke from the chords
Fairy-like music, to fairy-like words.

Oft, as thou walkest in meadow or wood,
Over its treasure thy spirit will brood;
Yearnings of nature, which nought can controul,
Blossom and bud in thine innocent soul.

Then, as thou fixest thine eyes on the ground,
Heedless of all that is passing around,
Deaf to their greetings, though cordial and kind,—
Country-folk ask—“Is she right in her mind?”

Right in thy mind?—ay! and right in thy heart,
Loving, and gentle, and pious thou art;
Never hath dearer, more dutiful child,
Grief from the heart of a parent beguiled.

Tenderness, faithfulness, sweetness profound,
Compass and clasp thee about and around;
Others by magic of intellect move,
Thine is the genius of goodness and love.

Use, but abuse not, the blessing of song,
Which from thy tuneful heart dances along;
Force it not—curb it not—free let it flow
Whither the breezes of Nature shall blow.

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Seek not, and shun not, the garland of fame,
Keep thyself scatheless from praise and from blame;
Care not what outwardly fancy may win,
Fully content with her blessing within.

Only be innocent, artless and good,
Loving of spirit, and gentle of mood;
Fear and serve God with devotion of heart,
So shall He glorify all that thou art.

So, whether vocal or silent thou be,
Song shall be living in, welling from thee;
If not the meed of the poetess thine,
Thou shalt thyself be a poem. divine.

347

SONNET.

[Behold, my son, thy father's portraiture]

Behold, my son, thy father's portraiture
Traced by the fiery pencil of the sun,
Even in our Northern clime through science won
To rival art's fine touch, in hues obscure
But truthful, and from that smooth flattery pure
Through which the painter's work is oft misdone,—
To thee, whose manhood scarce hath yet begun,
A record of thy parent true and sure.—
Alas! on thy bright cheek and fair white brow
A sadder work will India's sun have wrought
Ere we behold the vessel's home-bound prow
That brings thee back, the darling of our thought.
Changed will thy form be;—better changed art thou
Through lore which faith hath learnt and God hath taught.

SONNET.

[Accept, dear wife, this new sixteenth of May]

Accept, dear wife, this new sixteenth of May,
My likeness, traced by photographic art,
Of that the close and twin-born counterpart
Sent to our son, who still elate and gay
Beneath the scorching equatorial ray
Keepeth, unchanged by counting-house or mart,
The pure, fresh feelings of his English heart,
While we, at home, grow trouble-worn and grey.
Perchance hereafter, when the timely grave
Hath closed o'er me, the husband and the sire,
Shall ye, still parted by the ocean wave,
Gaze on these features, and with vain desire
Think at one hour of his past love who gave,
And mourn his death-chill'd heart, his silent lyre.

348

SONNET.

[Sweet is the blossom'd promise of the spring]

Sweet is the blossom'd promise of the spring,
Its pleasant interchange of sun and showers,
Its verdant herbage prank'd with star-like flowers,
The cuckoo's note, the song which thrushes sing;
Sweet too is summer, when the Zephyr's wing
Fans the meridian heat (which else o'erpowers
The fainting soul) and green umbrageous bowers
Of thick-leaved boughs refreshing coolness bring;
But sweeter, to discerning heart and eye,
Is autumn with its fruitage ripe and red,
Its foliage steep'd in many a gorgeous dye,
Its waving cornfields rich in promised bread.—
Such, dearest, is thine autumn;—why should I
Grieve if thy summer, like thy spring, hath fled.

SONNET.

[Jeannie! I deem that this thy nuptial day]

Jeannie! I deem that this thy nuptial day
Should scarcely pass unhonour'd on my part
By some small tribute of poetic art,
Sonnet, or song, or hymeneal lay;
Such as long since, while youth's luxuriant May
Was blossoming and budding in my heart,
Would from my pen, almost unbidden, start,
As joy or sorrow prompted, grave or gay.
But now 'tis life's October;—flower and leaf,
Blossom and bud and fruit are dropp'd or dead;—
Long garner'd hath been autumn's ripest sheaf,
Nor should I wreathe to-day around thy head
A faded garland, redolent of grief,
Nor with dry stubble strew thy bridal bed.

349

SONNET.

1839.

[With no impatient or rebellious mind]

With no impatient or rebellious mind
Bear thy great sorrow, Lady, for in thee
Is now fulfill'd the immutable decree,
Whereby Eternal Wisdom hath assign'd,
To those whom it selects of human-kind
For special service, suffering, from which we,
Less honour'd, are exempt. 'Twas thine to see
A glorious spirit through thy love refined
And purified for Heaven: O therefore bow,
High-hearted woman, to His righteous will
Who proves thy spirit with this anguish now,
And patiently thy widow's task fulfil,
Cheer'd, even on earth, by faith revealing still
The amaranth crown upon thy husband's brow.

SONNET.

[Heaven bless thee, Lady! for two happy days]

TO THE SAME. 1850.

Heaven bless thee, Lady! for two happy days
Of pure though sad, of deep though quiet feeling,
A buried world within my heart revealing,
Distinct, though dim, in memory's tender haze;
Which when the introverted eye surveys,
Blossoms burst forth from winter's dark concealing,
Streams gush to life, which Time had been congealing,
Light, long obscured, on soul and spirit plays.
Heaven bless thee, Lady!—bless thy widow'd hearth!—
Widow'd, not desolate, but gladden'd still
By household smiles and girlhood's heartfelt mirth,
Temper'd with grief which tames the chasten'd will,
And disciplines the spirit, here on earth,
Its work of lifelong duty to fulfil.

350

THE THREE MINSTRELS.

PROLOGUE.

Small hope—perchance small wish have I
To leave a poet's name behind,
Inscribed upon my country's mind
In characters too deep to die.

My genius is not of the brood
Which spreads its wings and soars sublime
Beyond the bounds of space and time,
Nor have I well the Muses woo'd,

Nor served them with a perfect heart,
Still with such melody content
As nature to my fingering lent,
With scant appliances of art.

Nor have I lack'd my full reward—
The pleasure given to gentle minds,—
The genuine sympathy which binds
The souls of listener and of bard.

If some half-conscious thirst for fame
With simpler wishes hath been blent,
Such have I won;—I am content
Alive to bear the poet's name.

351

What profit would be mine when dead
From laurels planted round my grave?
What injury, though fool or knave
Should spurn it with contemptuous tread?

If some chance words escape decay—
A thought—an image here and there,
By gentle hearts preserved with care,
When I from earth have past away—

So be it; more is gain'd than sought;
Meanwhile let me enjoy the good
Which since my life's young lustihood
Until its wane, the Muse hath brought;

High friendships—sympathies benign
From some who o'er the hearts of men
Reign deathless—minds of ampler ken
And insight more profound than mine.

Content with what I have and am,
Nor envying them what they may be,
This verse I consecrate to three
Great spirits—“in memoriam.”

THE FIRST MINSTREL.

My freshman's year was past and done,
I bore no undistinguish'd name,
Nor all unknown to college fame,
Through laurels in my boyhood won.

352

With minds, the noblest of my day,
My undergraduate lot was cast,
In whose high friendship swiftly pass'd
The seed-time of my life away.

My mind, spell-bound beneath the strength
Of Byron's genius in its prime,
Was now, as wisdom came with time,
Awaking from that dream at length.

The growth of my expanding thought
Assumed a manlier, healthier tone;
Old idols had been overthrown,
New shrines of adoration sought.

And in my heart a voice was heard
Fresh from the mountain and the lake,
Which to its inmost spirit spake,
And all its noblest pulses stirr'd.

Then 'twas that to his brother's home,
Who did our college sceptre sway,—
'Twas known that Rydal's bard, to pay
A brother's debt of love, was come.

And they who then revered his name,
(As yet a small but zealous band)
To welcome him with heart and hand
Back to his Alma mater, came.

One evening—(one to life's decline
Since youth remember'd)—'twas my pride
To sit, a listener, at his side
Whom I had deem'd almost divine.

353

He then had turn'd his fiftieth year,—
Older in aspect than in age;
And less of poet than of sage
Methought did in his looks appear.

His voice sonorous, clear and deep,
With somewhat of a pompous tone;
His locks, already silvery grown,
Did scantly round his temples creep.

His face and form were thin and spare
As of ascetic anchorite,
Yet with us boys in converse light
He join'd, with free and genial air.

And I remember that he told
How once upon the Righi's height
He stood, in clear, celestial light,
While thunder-clouds beneath him roll'd,

And thunder-peals roar'd long and loud,
And lightnings, with their lurid glare,
Lit up the crags abrupt and bare
Which pierced the sable veil of cloud.

And then did he discuss again
A point, in verse discuss'd before—
Whether the nightingale doth pour
A stormy or a tender strain.

Themes both, which might have wakened then
The poet soul,—yet nought he said
Which much beyond the thought betrayed
Of unimaginative men.

354

Yet did his nervous words express
Wisdom combined with vigorous sense,
Nor lack'd that natural eloquence
Which is the voice of earnestness.

Utter'd by lips of common men,
Not common had they seem'd to be,—
Only they gave no sign that he
Was lord of an immortal pen.

And when that wish'd-for hour had flown,
Almost my fancy might lament
That now her glittering veil was rent,
And all it had enshrouded, known.

Beneath my roof again we met,—
My years had then attained their prime;
And he, though somewhat touch'd by time,
Was hale and energetic yet.

And he had left his mountain home
To gladden and refresh his age,
(So said he) by a pilgrimage
To those eternal hills of Rome.

His daughter, who her maiden name
Not yet had merged in that of wife,
The staff of his declining life,
The partner of his travel came.

With fervent, earnest words he spoke
Of public morals, of the laws
Which give the English labourer cause
To fret beneath the social yoke;

355

Of principles, both good and pure,
Made false by legislative haste,
For female virtue, sore debased,
Attempting an empiric cure.

And then, as with the sudden growth
Of indignation, from his lip
Some hasty words were heard to slip,
Which sounded very like an oath.

Thence to his own peculiar sphere
He turn'd—the wide domain of song,
Pronouncing judgment clear and strong
By laws fastidiously severe.

No weak indulgence would he shew
To fancies marr'd by careless haste,—
Rank shoots of genius run to waste,
Whose healthier growths are sure and slow;

But urged that with elaborate toil
All shapings of poetic thought
Must be to ripe perfection brought,
Or wither in the richest soil.

In critic phrase I pleaded then
For noble thoughts and words sublime,
From verse of his in later time
Expunged with a remorseless pen;—

Marring, methought—as poets use,
Whose evening star of fancy wanes
While judgment domineers,—the strains
Which glorified his youthful muse.

356

Thereto, in grave deliberate tone,
But bland withal, he made reply,
And spake of art severe and high,
And duties which he deem'd his own:

Of gifts not rashly to be marr'd,
Of work not lightly to be done,
Of power o'er human hearts, to none
Vouchsafed but the laborious bard.

Of what was to his country due,
Of what he had received from Heaven,
The task inspired, the talents given,
The meed which he must needs pursue.

He spake like one who feels the weight
Of genius to his lot assign'd,—
The burden of a mighty mind,—
The debt incurred by being great;

And while his voice sonorous roll'd,
We felt as though a prophet spake,
In words which drowsiest hearts might wake
And render feeblest spirits bold.

Once more we met—when years had fled,—
Beside the banks of Windermere;
He then was nigh his eightieth year,
But vigorous still of voice and tread.

Sorrow her perfect work had done
Less on his body than his mind;
On earth he now was left behind
When those who made it bright were gone.

357

And (last and most lamented) she—
His dearest hope—his age's stay,—
His daughter too had past away
Ere death had set her father free;

For months had he despondent lain,
Stun'd by that overwhelming stroke,
Then lately from his trance awoke
To master and subdue his pain.

Yet with a courteous, cordial air
The aged poet met me still,
And welcomed me, with free good will,
To his sweet mountain dwelling there.

His life was then the life of one
Who after battle's long turmoil,
(The victory won, secured the spoil,)
Reposes when his work is done.

No longer vext by hopes or fears,
Or sense of duty unfulfill'd,
While fame, well won, began to gild
The sunset of his later years,

Serenely the old man survey'd,
As from a troubled ocean's shore,
The tempests which for him were o'er,
The tumult which the breakers made.

In calm and philosophic mood
He spake of past and present days,
And now with censure, now with praise,
The living and the dead review'd:

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But chiefly he his thoughts address'd
To themes of high religious strain;
Like one who from the care and pain
Of earthly life would be at rest.

Ere two years more o'er that grey head
Had flown, both care and pain were past,
And by his daughter's side at last
The poet slumber'd with the dead.

THE SECOND MINSTREL.

This very month 'tis thirty years,
(Ah why will years so swiftly flee,—
I scarce believe them more than three,
So short the by-gone time appears,)—

Since we toward Highgate bent our way,—
Three poets—loving friends and true
The skies had on their brightest blue,
The air was fresh with fragrant hay.

Scarce out of London's smoke and din
We heard the mower whet his scythe,
The summer birds were singing blithe,
Like creatures without care or sin.

And we, almost as blithe as they,
(For life in us was fresh and strong,)
With talk and jest and snatch of song
Beguiled the progress of our way.

359

One was a youth who clomb to fame
By paths than song more swift and sure,—
No soul less selfish or more pure
Hath graced the senatorial name.

The second hath, since ripening age,
Been from the Muses haunts estranged,
Through which in youth his genius ranged—
Its patrimonial heritage.

A teacher such as earth hath few,
Though, ill repaid and underprized,
His greatness all unrecognised,
His lifelong toil doth he pursue:—

A fetter'd eagle, link on link
He drags a soul-corroding chain,
Too constant-hearted to complain,
Too brave beneath his load to sink.

Him, on that well-remember'd day,
We others followed to the shrine
Of wisdom and of song divine,
The homage of young hearts to pay,

And hear those wondrous lips unfold,
In tones of inspiration high,
Such truths as to prophetic eye
In trance ecstatic are unroll'd.

Blandly, our triple league to greet,
The sage of tongue heaven-kindled came,
Already of decrepit frame,
Ill balanced on unsteady feet.

360

He, by his clerkly, grave attire,
A Christian pastor might have seem'd,
But in his eye seraphic gleam'd
Effulgence of celestial fire.

We mark'd the broad expanse of brow,
The prematurely silver hair,
The streams of music rich and rare
Which through those parted lips did flow.

Awed by that mighty presence, I
Was silent like a bashful child;
But he, with condescension mild,
And frank, ingenuous courtesy,

His sovereignty awhile resign'd,
And with a kind, familiar air,
Subdued, to light which we could bear,
The lustre of his inner mind.

The hand of Retzsch had newly then
On Goethe's art its own essay'd,
And “Faust” was on the table laid,
The pencil vying with the pen.

But touch'd with all pervading light,
Which from that mystic mind did stream,
The painter's and the poet's dream
Were straight transfigured in our sight.

On every page, on every line,
Intense illumination play'd,—
A glory not its own, which made
What else seem'd devilish, half divine.

361

And though 'twas mine, in later days,
The inspiration of the seer
In fuller, deeper flow to hear,
And bask in more unclouded rays

Emitted from that glorious orb,—
Yet that one hour on Highgate hill
Doth, o'er the rest remember'd, still
My spirit's retrospect absorb.

And still to me, by Goethe's pen
Spell-bound, or Retzsch's living page,
Comes back the memory of the sage
Who steep'd them both in sunlight then.

My youthful years had past away,—
Again I stood beside his door,—
The poet-soul was there no more,—
Its empty frame unburied lay.

In me it woke mysterious awe,
To think that he, that lord of song,
Had yielded, like the vulgar throng,
To death's inexorable law:

That light, not oft in ages sent,—
Which yet had in the darkness shone
Uncomprehended,—now was gone
For ever from our firmament.

But ere that awe had lost its spell,
'Twas merged in sorrow more profound;—
Beneath a distant churchyard mound
Was laid a child beloved too well.

362

Almost they parted side by side,—
The babe whose days were scarce a span,
And he, the hoary-headed man,—
The sinless and the sanctified;—

The sage profound in thought and lore,
The child whose thought had scarce begun,—
Both battles fought, both races run,
Both landed on the eternal shore.

Together at the Judgment throne
Perchance they stood; and who shall say
What difference then between them lay,—
Which spirit had the riper grown:

What, if at one triumphant bound
The child in death may overleap
The toilsome progress, long and steep,
By which the man hath wisdom found?

What, if the saint's long war with sin,—
If all the study of the sage,
From earliest youth to latest age,
Renew not so the world within,—

Nor so the spirit's range expand,
Nor so illume its inward eye
To view, in vision clear and nigh,
The wonders of that unknown land,—

As his whom pure baptismal grace,
Still all unsoil'd as when 'twas given,
Hath made unconscious heir of Heaven
And fit to see his Father's face?

363

THE THIRD MINSTREL.

Not poor, nor profitless, I deem
The homage paid, in deed and truth,
By poet, in his morn of youth,
To elders o'er the craft supreme.

But that, methinks, becomes him more,
Which, in his own declining day,
He doth to those, his juniors, pay
Who, coming after, rank before;

Who still must wax as he must wane,
Whose light shall burn and shine afar,
When his, a pale and glimmering star,
Hath faded into night again.

A matron is my neighbour now,
In childhood introduced to fame,
By one who bears a deathless name
And wreathes the laurel round his brow.

And he beneath her roof sometimes
Still tarries, as a kinsman ought;
Refreshes there his weary thought,
Or meditates harmonious rhymes.

And thither, one fine winter day
On premonition duly sent,
As brother of the guild, I went
My homage to our chief to pay.

364

The snow lay thick on field and tree,
The pools with ice were crusted o'er;
Such snow as fell in days of yore,
Such ice as now we seldom see.

But veil'd in an ambrosial cloud,
Secure from weather, as from fate,
The poet in Olympian state
Did his immortal presence shroud.

Ah! Lillian! was't an act of grace
In thee, retreating through the door,
Two bards, who ne'er had met before,
To leave alone and face to face?

Perchance thou didst a hope sublime
Indulge—yea in thy soul believe—
That each the other's skull would cleave,
And so the world be spared some rhyme.

Thou deem'st the true Pierian swan
Is but a bantam spur-bedight,
More prompt with kindred fowl to fight
Than unpoetic man with man.

Not so,—thy guest, whose face I sought,
Assumed a frank, familiar air,
And with a volume of Moliére
Our brains to mild encounter brought.

We spake of England and of France,
And how the individual man
In England doth to ampler span,
In well-developed growth, advance:

365

And how to Shakespere's genius thus
Did larger fields of thought abound
Than could in all the world be found
Elsewhere than only among us.

That point decided once with care,
To others as our talk diverged,
Together rising, we emerged
Into the fresh and frosty air:

And he, a skater old and proved,
Did o'er the ice, on trenchant heel,
In labyrinthine mazes wheel,
Like one who vigorous motion loved.

Then, homeward as we shaped our way,
Again we spake of books and men,—
The ancient and the modern pen,—
The Grecian, Roman, English lay;

Of Him—the Teacher true and bold,
Till death, assail'd with bigot hate;
Now throned among the good and great
Of all earth's ages, new and old;

And Him—as true and bold—who still
Through the same storm of earthly life,
Malign'd, reviled, maintains his strife
With error and with social ill.

Racy and fresh was all he said,
Not cramp'd by bonds of sect or school;
He seem'd not one who thought by rule,
Nor one of any truth afraid;

366

But, bold of heart and clear of head,
The course of human thought review'd,
And dauntlessly his path pursued,
To whatsoever goal it led.

A man indeed of manly thought,
Inhabiting a manly frame,—
A man resolved, through praise or blame,
To speak and do the thing he ought.

Sometimes in phrase direct and plain,
At which fastidious ears might start,
He clothed the promptings of his heart,
The strong conceptions of his brain;

But in and o'er whate'er he said
Ingenuous truth and candour shone;
In every word and look and tone
Was nobleness of soul display'd.

And if perchance for form and creed
Pugnacious less than some may be,
Yet Christian eyes at once might see
In him, a Christian bard indeed,

And well may English hearts rejoice
That queenly hands around the brow
Of one so graced the laurel bough
Have wreathed, as by a nation's choice.

367

EPILOGUE.

A fiddle is a paltry thing,—
A thing of catgut and of wood;
It does one's temper little good
To hear a bungler scrape the string:

But let a Paganini's hand
Thereon its wondrous power essay,
And lo! beneath that magic sway
What worlds of melody expand!

A master-touch but lately swept
Some chords of elegiac tone,
And woke to music all its own
The spirit which within them slept.

A feeble medium 'twas he chose,—
An instrument of compass small;
And yet from hut to palace hall
The wondrous descant rang and rose.

In plaintive murmurs, low and grave,
It moan'd and murmur'd like the sea;—
A solemn, deep monotony,
Renew'd, repeated, wave on wave.

Through England's utmost breadth and length
It pass'd—that melancholy strain,
As of a noble soul in pain,
Its sadness temper'd by its strength.

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The peasant heard it at his plough,—
It smote the student in his cell,—
Like balm on mourning hearts it fell,—
The blithe were touched, they knew not how.

What marvel if in some it found
An echo which would fain prolong
The rapture of so sweet a song,—
The bliss of such unearthly sound?

But strings which, touch'd by minstrel skill,
Enchant the hearer's soul and sense,
Twang'd by a clown's impertinence
Are unmelodious catgut still.

And yet perchance 'tis well to learn
The limits of our proper skill,—
The difference between power and will
By sad experience to discern.

And those methinks are less to blame
Who mar a measure weak and mean
Than those who put what might have been
A noble harmony to shame.

I knew not, when my song I plann'd,
That this inverted stave required
The music of a soul inspired,
The magic of a master's hand;

Nor dream'd that so minute a change—
The transposition of a rhyme—
Could thus bewilder tune and time,
Thus make expression harsh and strange.

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Howe'er it be—my story told,
This ill-strung fiddle I resign
To fingers more expert than mine,—
To souls of more melodious mould.

And if my song discordant seem,
Even let it perish, lost and drown'd
In the full stream of golden sound
Diffused by those harmonious Three.

370

MUSÆ ETONENSES.

Seed-time and harvest, summer's genial heat,
And winter's nipping cold, and night and day
Their stated changes, as of old, repeat,
And must, until this world shall pass away;
While nations rise, and flourish, and decay,
And mighty revolutions shake the earth,
Filling men's hearts with trouble and dismay;
And war and rapine, pestilence and dearth,
To many a monstrous shape of pain and woe give birth.

But still, while states and empires wax and wane,
And busy generations fret and die,
The face of Nature doth unchanged remain;
Small token is there in the earth or sky
Of dissolution or mortality;
But streams are bright, and meadows flowery still,
And woods retain their ancient greenery,
And shade and sunshine chequer dale and hill,
Though all the abodes of men be rife with wrong and ill.

There is no feature in thy fair domain
Which of decay or change displays a trace,
No charm of thine but doth undimm'd remain,
O Thou my boyhood's blest abiding-place,
While five-and-twenty years with stealthy pace

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Have cool'd thy son's rash blood, and thinn'd his hair;—
The old expression lingers on thy face,
The spirit of past days unquench'd is there,
While all things else are changed, and changing everywhere.

And through thy spacious courts, and o'er thy green
Irriguous meadows, swarming as of old,
A youthful generation still is seen,
Of birth, of mind, of humour manifold:
The grave, the gay, the timid, and the bold,—
The noble nursling of the palace-hall,—
The merchant's offspring, heir to wealth untold,—
The pale-eyed youth, whom learning's spells enthral,—
Within thy cloisters meet, and love thee, one and all.

Young art thou still, and young shalt ever be
In spirit, as thou wast in years gone by;
The present, past and future blend in thee,
Rich as thou art in names which cannot die,
And youthful hearts already beating high
To emulate the glories won of yore;
That days to come may still the past outvie,
And thy bright roll be lengthen'd more and more
Of statesman, bard, and sage well versed in noblest lore.

Ah! well, I ween, knew He what worth is thine,
How deep a debt to thee his genius owed,—
The Statesman, who of late, in life's decline,
Of public care threw off the oppressive load,
While yet his unquench'd spirit gleam'd and glow'd
With the pure light of Greek and Roman song,—
That gift, in boyish years by thee bestow'd,
And cherish'd, loved, and unforgotten long,
While cares of state press'd round in close, continuous throng.

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Not unprepared was that majestic mind,
By food and nurture once derived from thee,
To shape and sway the fortunes of mankind,
And by sagacious counsel and decree
Direct and guide Britannia's destiny—
Her mightiest ruler o'er the subject East:
Yet in his heart of hearts no joy had he
So pure, as when, from empire's yoke released,
To thee once more he turned with love that never ceased.

Fain would he cast life's fleshly burden down
Where its best hours were spent, and sink to rest,—
Weary of greatness, sated with renown,—
Like a tired child upon his mother's breast:
Proud may'st thou be of that his fond bequest,
Proud that, within thy consecrated ground,
He sleeps amidst the haunts he loved the best;
Where many a well-known, once-familiar sound
Of water, earth, and air for ever breathes around.

Such is thine empire over mightiest souls
Of men who wield earth's sceptres; such thy spell
Which until death, and after death, controuls
Hearts which no fear could daunt, no force could quell:
What marvel then, if softer spirits dwell
With fondest love on thy remember'd sway?
What marvel, if the hearts of poets swell,
Recording at life's noon, with grateful lay,
How sweetly in thy shades its morning slipped away?

Such tribute paid thee once, in pensive strains,
One mighty in the realm of lyric song,—
A ceaseless wanderer through the wide domains
Of thought which to the studious soul belong;—
One far withdrawn from this world's busy throng,

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And seeking still, in academic bowers,
A safe retreat from tumult, strife, and wrong;
Where, solacing with verse his lonely hours,
He wove ambrosial wreaths of amaranthine flowers.

To him, from boyhood to life's latest hour,
The passion, kindled first beside the shore
Of thine own Thames, retained its early power;
'Twas his with restless footsteps to explore
All depths of ancient and of modern lore;
With unabated love to feed the eye
Of silent thought on the exhaustless store
Of beauty, which the gifted may descry
In all the teeming land of fruitful phantasy.

To him the Grecian muse, devoutly woo'd,
Unveil'd her beauty, and entranced his ear,
In many a rapt, imaginative mood,
With harmony which only Poets hear
Even in that old, enchanted atmosphere:
To him the painter's and the sculptor's art
Disclosed those hidden glories, which appear
To the clear vision of the initiate heart
In contemplation calm, from worldly care apart.

Nor lack'd he the profounder, purer sense
Of beauty, in the face of Nature seen;
But loved the mountain's rude magnificence,
The valley's glittering brooks and pastures green,
Moonlight, and morn, and sunset's golden sheen,
The stillness and the storm of lake and sea,
The hedgerow elms, with grass-grown lanes between,
The winding footpath, the broad, bowery tree,
The deep, clear river's course, majestically free.

374

Such were his haunts in recreative hours,—
To such he fondly turn'd, from time to time,
From Granta's cloister'd courts, and gloomy towers,
And stagnant Camus' circumambient slime;
Well pleas'd o'er Cambria's mountain-peaks to climb,
Or, with a larger, more adventurous range,
Plant his bold steps on Alpine heights sublime,
And gaze on Nature's wonders vast and strange;
Then roam through the rich South with swift and ceaseless change.

Yet with his settled and habitual mood
Accorded better the green English vale,
The pastoral mead, the cool, sequestered wood,
The spacious park fenced in with rustic pale,
The pleasant interchange of hill and dale,
The churchyard darken'd by the yew-tree's shade,
And rich with many a rudely-sculptured tale
Of those beneath its turf sepulchral laid,
Of human tears that flow, of earthly hopes that fade.

Such were the daily scenes with which he fed
The pensive spirit first awoke by Thee;
And blest and blameless was the life he led,
Sooth'd by the gentle spells of poesy.
Nor yet averse to stricter thought was he,
Nor uninstructed in abstruser lore;
But now with draughts of pure philosophy
Quench'd his soul's thirst,—now ventured to explore
The fields by science own'd, and taste the fruits they bore.

With many a graceful fold of learned thought
He wrapp'd himself around, well pleased to shroud
His spirit, in the web itself had wrought,
From the rude pressure of the boisterous crowd;
Nor loftier purpose cherish'd or avow'd,

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Nor claim'd the prophet's or the teacher's praise;
Content in studious ease to be allow'd
With nice, artistic craft to weave his lays,
And lose himself at will in song's melodious maze.

Slow to create, fastidious to refine,
He wrought and wrought with labour long and sore,
Adjusting word by word, and line by line,
Each thought, each phrase remoulding o'er and o'er,
Till art could polish and adorn no more,
And stifled fancy sank beneath the load
Of gorgeous words and decorative lore
In rich profusion on each verse bestow'd,
To grace the shrine wherein the poet's soul abode.

And was his mission thus fulfill'd on earth?
For no sublimer use the powers design'd
Which liberal Nature gave him at his birth,
And life-long culture ripen'd and refined?
Owed he no more to Heaven or to mankind
Than these few notes of desultory song?—
Nay, slight we not Heaven's boon, nor strive to find
Occasion to impeach the bard of wrong,
Whose strains, a deathless gift, to us and ours belong!

If rather for himself, a pilgrim lone
Through this cold world, he sang to cheer his way
And soothe his soul with music all its own,
Than in didactic numbers to convey
Wisdom and truth to minds from both astray,—
If little reck'd he of his task divine,
Man's subject spirit to instruct and sway,—
'Twas, that as yet from Poesy's bright shrine
The light which warms our day had scarce begun to shine.

376

Thought hath its changeful periods, like the deep,
Of calm and tempest, tumult and repose;
And 'twas on times of intellectual sleep
That the faint day-spring of his genius rose:
Man's mind lay sunk awhile in slumb'rous doze,
Its surface yet unruffled by the breeze
Which should ere long its hidden depths disclose,
And wake to feverish life of fell disease
New swarms of embryo creeds and crude philosophies.

Years came and went;—beside the Poet's tomb
The flowers of many a spring had bloom'd and died,
When times of fierce convulsion, rage, and gloom
Arose, and shook the nations far and wide.
O then, my Mother, by the verdant side
Of thy bright river, lost in dreamy mood,
Was seen a stripling, pale and lustrous-eyed,
Who far apart his lonely path pursued,
And seem'd in sullen guise o'er troublous thoughts to brood.

Small sympathy he own'd or felt, I ween,
With sports and pastimes of his young compeers,
Nor mingling in their studies oft was seen,
Nor shared their joys or sorrows, hopes or fears:
Pensive he was, and grave beyond his years,
And happiest seem'd when in some shady nook
(His wild, sad eyes suffused with silent tears)
O'er some mysterious and forbidden book
He pored, until his frame with strong emotion shook.

Strange were his studies, and his sports no less;
Full oft, beneath the blazing summer noon,
The sun's convergent rays, with dire address,
He turned on some old tree, and burnt it soon
To ashes; oft at eve the fire-balloon,

377

Inflated by his skill, would mount on high;
And when tempestuous clouds had veil'd the moon,
And lightning rent, and thunder shook the sky,
He left his bed, to gaze on Nature's revelry.

A great, a gifted, but a turbid soul
Struggled and chafed within that stripling's breast,—
Passion which none might conquer or controul,
And feeling too intense to be repress'd:
His spirit was on fire, and could not rest
Through that fierce thirst for perfect truth and love
By which, as by a spell, it seem'd possess'd;
And long, and oft, and vainly still he strove
To realize on earth what only dwells above.

To him ideal beauty had unveil'd
In blissful vision her immortal face:
Alas! what marvel if on earth he fail'd
The footsteps of that glorious form to trace?
What marvel that to him all things seem'd base,
Disorder'd, and corrupt? and when he sought
Hope for himself, and healing for his race,
Even in the creeds by Christian doctors taught,
How cold to him appear'd the comfort which they brought!

The thing which is, and that which ought to be!—
The Gospel and the Church !—the precept given,
And act performed !—alas ! he seem'd to see
Things unlike each to each, as earth to Heaven!
And thus from depth to depth of error driven,
Through truth blasphemed, a devious course he ran,
His brain o'erwrought, his proud heart rent and riven
By bootless strife,—a rash, misguided man,
Farther from peace at last, than when his quest began.

378

Yet in a world of beauty dwelt he still,
Entranced in visions wonderful and bright,
Which by strong magic he evoked at will
From his soul's teeming depths;—no mortal wight
E'er ruled with such supreme, resistless might
The wizard realm of fancy; mortal words
Did ne'er such music with such thought unite
As flow'd beneath his touch from mystic chords,
Whose harmony none wake but song's most gifted lords.

Thus with a prophet's heart, a prophet's tone,
Uttering his fitful oracles he stood
'Midst scorn and hatred, dauntless, though alone;
A marvel to the wicked,—by the good
Pitied and shunn'd,—and where least understood
Most strongly censured.—Peace be with his dust!
Nor be his faults relentlessly pursued
By reprobation of the wise and just,
Who feel themselves but men, and their own hearts distrust.

But thou, O nurse and guide of youthful thought,
Wast thou all guiltless of thy son's decline
From wisdom's ways?—was no dark mischief wrought
In that wild heart through any fault of thine?
Didst thou so well perform thy task divine
To him and his compeers,—so well instil
By precept upon precept, line on line,
Eternal truth, that Nature's inborn ill
Might not uncheck'd, unchanged, its wayward course fulfil?

Nay, mother, veil thy face, and meekly own
Thy much unfaithfulness in years gone by;—
Thy altar cold—Heaven's light but faintly shown—
Truth, in thy charge, itself becomes a lie,
Which, ev'n to boyhood's unsuspicious eye,

379

At once lay bare and flagrant.—Well indeed
Might faith and hope beneath thy nurture die,
So rudely oft it crush'd the expanding seed,
And quench'd the smoking flax, and broke the bruised reed.

Those days, we trust, are ended; and do thou
Take heed lest they return, and thy last state
Be worse than was thy first.—With reverence bow
Before God's throne, and on His bidding wait:
So be thy sons for ever good and great,
The glory and the strength of this our isle;
And thou still fresh at Time's remotest date,
While Thames shall flow and thy green meadows smile,
And youthful sports, as now, the youthful heart beguile.

380

A HERTFORDSHIRE LEGEND.

There is a quiet churchyard, green and lone,
Within the bounds of Hertford's pleasant shire,
Bedeck'd with many a quaintly sculptured stone,
Marking the grave of yeoman, lord or squire;
But more than all one tomb arrests the eye,—
A mouldering tomb, engraved on which you trace
The name of one whose rank on earth was high,—
A dame of noble race.

And yet the tomb shews scanty marks of care
To guard it from the grasp of swift decay,
Not such as tombs of nobles mostly bear,
Preserved while generations pass away.
The crumbling stone has never been repair'd,
The worn inscription ne'er rechisell'd o'er;
It seems a place accurst, which none have dared
To reverence or restore.

But what doth most amaze the passer-by
Is that from out the space which doth imprison
The mortal dust,—their branches broad and high
Each mixt with each,—ten leafy trees have risen;
Seven ash-stems their projecting arms shoot forth
Across the southern wall of that strange tomb,
Three broad-leaf'd planes, umbrageous, o'er the north
Diffuse funereal gloom.

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In these embosom'd and by these embraced
The tomb almost is from the soil upborne,
While the stout branches, stoutly interlaced,
Between and through the stones their path have torn,
Disjointing part from part;—where once hath stood,
To guard the spot, an iron palisade,
Rent bars, imbedded in the tough ash wood,
Attest the havock made.

You might suppose that Nature, for some sin
Wrought in the flesh by her now buried there,
Refused her that last resting-place, within
Her mother-bosom, which the meanest share;
Whence from the soil, at one prolific birth,
Those trees, joint offspring of her womb's unrest,
Emerged, to thrust and jostle out of earth
That loath'd, intrusive guest.

The story runs (a story which hath found
Belief through nigh two centuries of time,)
That she whose bones now moulder in that ground
Was one whose soul was all infect with crime;
The godless daughter of her house, she held
Through life a wilful and rebellious way,
By no coercion to be tamed or quell'd,
Of laws which men obey.

A bold, bad woman,—one who scorn'd to shroud
Her wickedness, beneath a thin disguise
Of outward seemings, from the observant crowd,
Or cheat with specious shows the good and wise.
No creed her lips profess'd; she never knelt
Before the altar of the Christian's God,
Nor feign'd a fear her soul had never felt
Of His rebuke or rod.

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But unbelieving, scoff'd at things unseen,
Content all bliss hereafter to forego,
So she might rule and revel like a Queen
In the brief fulness of this world below;
To all her passions gave full range and scope,
Oppress'd and plunder'd, unrestrain'd in lust,
Swoln with ambition, reckless of all hope
When dust should turn to dust.

So pass'd her threescore years of life away,
And now the end of all was plainly near;
Stretch'd on her dying bed at last she lay,
Contemptuous still of hope, devoid of fear;
Relations, friends, the pastor of the fold
Vainly of all persuasion tried the force,
To wake, within that nature fierce and bold,
One pang of true remorse.

“Nay,” she made answer, “I have lived my life
Like one above all bonds which bind the weak;
With priestcraft's vile impostures still at strife,
Nor will I now a late acceptance seek
From powers (if such there be) so long defied;
Let those who will, a final judgment dread,—
Be it mine to sleep for ever side by side
With the unreturning dead.

“To me, be death an everlasting sleep;
Of soul and sense annihilation blank;
Whate'er I am let earth for ever keep,
O'ergrown by weeds and mosses green and rank.
Or if (which I believe not) there should be
A resurrection, let my grave a sign
Bring forth—a cluster'd growth of tree with tree,
Around my tomb to twine.”

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She died,—they bore her body to the grave,
And o'er it raised the tomb which still is there;
But lo! the sign! green leaves above it wave,
And whisper sadly to the summer air;
(For heaven and earth her wild defiance heard)—
Ten twisted stems, forth darting from the soil,
Embrace the tomb wherein she lies interr'd,
As with a serpent's coil.

'Twere no irreverent fancy to suppose
(What fond poetic fables feign'd of yore)
That those strong trunks and clustering boughs enclose
The spirit housed in fleshly frame no more;
That in those sighs, which seem to load the gale,
When through the leaves the midnight winds complain,
Is heard the bitter and despairing wail
Of that lost soul in pain.

Meanwhile the rustics hold the place accurst,
Still o'er all hearts it breathes a spectral gloom,
Scarce soften'd by the buds which o'er it burst,—
Bright types of life emerging from the tomb;
Not reverence claim'd for old patrician race,
Not all the tenderness to woman due
Can bless the grave of one to Heaven's high grace
And nature's voice untrue.

Alas! but what, if God-dethroning thought
(That charter'd troubler of this latter day)
From court to cot should silently have wrought,
By slow approaches, its insidious way?
What, if the hope, religiously enshrined
As yet within the soul of almost all,
Like some strong fortress sapp'd and undermined,
Should topple o'er and fall?

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What if the creed, bequeath'd to son from sire,
Like some unholy thing, aside be thrown?
What if yon church, from chancel floor to spire,
Be shatter'd and disjointed, stone from stone?
And men no more before Christ's altar pray,
But seek that tomb, which now in fear they shun,
Their godless homage of applause to pay
To that audacious one?

“She was, in sooth, a herald of the light
Which now enlightens every soul of man;
She fought and conquer'd, in her single might,
Time-rooted error, ere our strife began.
Blest be the boughs which cluster o'er her grave,
Fresh emblems of the vigorous faith which lay
Deep in that heart so noble, free and brave,”—
Thus haply men may say.

But then o'er England, in its breadth and length,
The plague of social sickness will have spread;
The Queen of nations will be shorn of strength,
The life of life in her great heart be dead;
And through the trembling cities of the land
Her guardian angel's voice, in loud lament,
Proclaim that now from her sin-palsied hand
The sceptre shall be rent.

Must this be so—or may the plague be stay'd?
O ye who guard the sacred shrines of truth;
O ye who train, in academic shade,
The mind and spirit of our English youth;
And ye who, bound by ministerial vows,
Dispense, in plenteous streams, the living word,—
Arrest—avert—while yet the time allows—
The curse which brings the sword!

385

THE KNELL OF THE NAMELESS.

There is a voice which never sleeps,—
From day to day, from year to year,
Monotonous accord it keeps
With hearts which throb its tones to hear;
No moment passes, but on earth
It tells of sadden'd home and hearth,
Of widow'd spouse, of childless sire,
Of orphans in their misery left,
Of brothers, sisters, friends, bereft
Of all their heart's desire.

Strange fancies doth its solemn sound
To meditative ear suggest,
Of joy and grief alike profound,
Of earthly tears, of heavenly rest,
Of living hearts with anguish riven,
Of souls which part redeem'd, forgiven;
Of others whom surviving love
Pursues with mingled doubt and fear,
Uncertain if disseverance here
Will terminate above.

To-day I heard that solemn sound;
Expected on my ear it broke,
To tell me that repose was found
By one of whose release it spoke

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From long, long years of mortal pain,—
Of loving hearts which still remain—
Their anxious watchings done and past,—
The wakeful night, the weary day
With her who in her anguish lay,
Exchanged for rest at last;—

The room of sickness throng'd no more,—
The breathless hush, the silent tread
Of sister footsteps on the floor
Around the dying sister's bed;—
At the domestic meal to-day
One seat is void—one face away,—
The rest assembled mutely feel
That now no task of patient love
Demands that one remain above
To help, where none can heal.

At night strange footsteps over-head
Give note of preparation drear,
To bear the unresisting dead
Away from all she loved so dear.
To-morrow, when they seek the room
Where still she lies, a deeper gloom
Its solemn stillness will o'er-cloud;—
The ghastly trappings of the grave
On her restored to Him who gave;—
The coffin and the shroud.

Another morn—and through the door
That lifeless form, beloved so long,
Shall vanish to return no more,
Borne by a sad funereal throng
Of mourners, headed by their chief,
And robed in sable garb of grief;—

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Anon, within the churchyard walls,
The vault re-open'd for the dead,—
The mould upon the coffin spread,
Which rattles as it falls.

Dread symbols, which oppress the heart
With mortal sadness all their own,
And speak but of our baser part—
This mouldering mass of flesh and bone:
A darker grief, a deeper gloom
Should herald sinners to their doom,
Whom unrepented sin drags down;
While marriage peals and bridal white
Should celebrate the sunward flight
Of saints who claim their crown.

That crown the enfranchised sufferer wears,
(Doubt not, ye mourners, nor distrust,)
Of whom to-day, with parting prayers,
We render back the dust to dust.
Through tribulation long and sore,
Which she with faith and patience bore,
Her spirit cleans'd—her sin forgiven—
Victorious over mortal pain,
She broke the last strong links which chain
Earth's holiest back from Heaven.

No common mind was hers, I wot,
Albeit on earth ordain'd to share
A common, undistinguish'd lot,
A meek and modest part to bear:
Calm, cheerful, self-possess'd, sedate,
She kept her life-long celibate,
Attendant still on duty's call;
Consoled the grief, enjoy'd the mirth
Of those who shared her home and hearth,
Beloved, revered by all.

388

To her, by no unkind decree,
One door was shut of outward sense,
And thus her soul preserved more free
From taint of moral pestilence:
Through entrance of the fleshly ear
No sound, which she disdain'd to hear,
Could her unwilling sense enthral;
She shunn'd the false, received the true,
The good without the evil knew,
Like Eve before her fall.

And more than all she might have gain'd
Of knowledge through that sense denied,
With stedfast purpose she obtain'd,
And patient, self-improving pride;
Self-disciplin'd, almost self-taught,
And strengthen'd by habitual thought
And study both of books and men,
Well stored with wisdom's wealth she grew,
Could teach, direct, advise, as few
Can do with tongue or pen.

An earnest, energetic soul
Was hers, on active labours bent,—
Fit to command and to controul,
And still on generous aims intent:
But when with Christian zeal her breast,
As life wore on, was now possest,
And she to work her Master's will
Her whole concentred being gave,
A spirit more resolved and brave
Did ne'er such task fulfil.

On peaceful days her lot was cast,
And though a peaceful life she led,
A spirit as of times long past
Was in her heart and in her head.

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The name was hers, in days of yore
Which that Bethulian Matron bore,
Who saved by one undaunted blow
Her country and her spotless fame,—
And she, I deem, had done the same,
If Heav'n had will'd it so.

But born in less ungentle days,
And nurtur'd in a milder creed,
'Twas her's, to walk in happier ways,
A Christian both in word and deed.
Her joy with fervent words to win
The sinner from his path of sin,
To utter, as with tongue of flame,
The truth which in her bosom glow'd,
And to the straight and narrow road
The wandering soul reclaim.

And thus abroad, and thus at home,
Did she her path of love pursue,
Until the wane of life was come,
And longer now the shadows grew.
Then 'twas,—as though with suffering long
To tame that spirit bold and strong,
And make it as resign'd to bear,
As firm to work, the will of God,—
That sickness came with chastening rod
To smite, and not to spare.

Twelve years with racking pain she strove,
Still deepening on from worse to worse,
While still, with unabated love,
Each sister play'd the patient nurse;
And on her face, and in her mien,
A premature old age was seen;

390

And in her agony of breath,
And in her worn and wasted form
Appear'd, how fearful was the storm
Which swept her on to death.

But then, from out the inner soul,
A glory, not discerned before,
With most serene effulgence stole,
And burn'd and brighten'd more and more;
A glory, kindled from above,
Of firmest faith and hope and love,
Transfiguring the outward man
Into its own celestial light,—
A raiment so resplendent white
No fuller whiten can.

The earthly was unearthly made,
The mortal had immortal grown,
All things which fail, all things which fade,
Assumed a nature not their own:
And still, as droop'd the outward flesh,
The soul within grew strong and fresh,
And while the frame was rent and riven
With deadliest pain, all eyes might see
That with internal rapture she
Already tasted heaven.

But though, as you might well infer,
Partaker of a heavenly birth,
Her bliss abated nought in her
Of her old sympathies of earth.
She loved, as in her youthful prime,
The household jest, the poet's rhyme;
Still than of old enjoy'd no less
The company of friends who came
To cheer her with a friendly game
(The tea removed) at chess.

391

But most of all she loved the sport
Of children and their artless ways,
And made her chamber the resort
Of gamesome elves and sprightly fays,
While strength for that sufficed her yet;
My own, I ween, will ne'er forget
Those liberal gifts, that sumptuous fare,
And how her pain she would beguile
By watching, with a silent smile,
Their gambols from her chair.

Why dwell on nature's dread decay,—
The agony of mortal strife,—
The soul that longed to flee away
And be at rest in death from life?
Such struggles all must share and see,
Or e'er the spirit can be free
From mortal sickness, grief, and pain;
But ill doth such stern anguish suit
The tinkling of the minstrel's lute,
The bard's fantastic strain.

She died:—what marvel?—all must die,
The strong, the weak, the young, the old:
'Tis time that we our tears should dry
For one whose funeral knell hath toll'd.
Our race, like hers, will soon be run,
Our crown for ever lost or won:
On! Christians! where, with beckoning hand,
The loved, the lost, the pure, the brave,
Their cross-emblazon'd banner wave
Above the promised land.

392

THE POET'S DAUGHTER.

A vision crossed my path in youth,—
A brighter none have seen;
I deem'd not upon earth in sooth
That aught so fair had been.
Whate'er this world had shown to me,
Or Fancy dream'd, as what might be,
Was spiritless and mean,
Contrasted with the rich excess
Of that transcendent loveliness;

And yet full well I knew the form
Which then before me stood,
With human life and love was warm,—
A thing of flesh and blood;
The sister of my bosom friend
She came, awhile the charm to blend
Of loveliest maidenhood,
Beneath her mother's sheltering care,
With college walls so grim and bare.

My poet-pencil may not trace,
With touches weak and faint,
The glory of that angel face
Too fair for words to paint:

393

An emanation she might seem
Of some intense, seraphic dream
By bard or prophet saint
Conceived: and such an one I ween
The author of her birth had been.

And fresh from mountain-rock and rill,
Broad lake and heathery glen,
And free discourse with thoughts that fill
The master minds of men,
Among our cloister'd courts she came,—
In mind, in person and in name,
A light to cheer the den
Of murky, scientific thought,
With rays from God and Nature caught.

Through many a verdant garden walk
And pillar'd, dim arcade,
I led, in free, permitted talk,
That glorious mountain maid;
And, looking back, it seems to me,
That, had I then been fancy-free,
I scarce had been afraid
To cast before her feet my whole
Of mind and heart, of sense and soul.

But now, when thirty years are o'er,
With full assent I see
That Heaven had better things in store
Alike for her and me.
Apart our several journeys lay,
And when five years had passed away
The thing which was to be
Had been;—we met within that span,—
The bride betrothed, the married man.

394

The full effulgence of her bloom
Was then indeed gone by,
And days of anxious care and gloom
Had dimm'd her cheek and eye;
Yet still my reverent gaze could trace
The perfect outline of her face,
The feeling deep and high,
The beaming thought, the brow's expanse,
The pure angelic countenance.

They met, conversed (my wife and she)
With frank and cordial speech,
And I, methought, began to see
That each grew dear to each:
But brief the intercourse allowed,
And soon alas! life's crush and crowd
Had borne, beyond our reach,
Her who perchance had, nothing loth,
Been else the cherish'd friend of both.

Nine years roll'd by,—we met again,
Almost at noon of life;
Well wore she then her wedlock's chain,
A mother and a wife:
Her husband, one, for many a year,
My school and college friend sincere,
In keen forensic strife
By this engaged,—yet leaning more
To letter'd than to legal lore.

She had not changed her maiden name
By sharing his;—beneath
Their friendly roof I went and came,
On Hampstead's breezy heath.
With them the aunt and mother dwelt,
Between their knees two children knelt,
And twice from out its sheath
The sword of Death, in fell despite,
Had leapt, their outward bliss to smite.

395

Years swiftly came,—as swiftly fled,—
Beneath the churchyard stone
The husband slumber'd with the dead,
The wife lived on alone:
A patient servant of the cross
She meekly bore and felt her loss,
Till grief had older grown;
And then to studious toil resign'd
Her energies of heart and mind.

No mine of new or ancient thought
From her withheld its ore;
By Grecian wisdom she was taught,
And skill'd in German lore.
Of every clime, of every age,
Of theologian, saint and sage
All depths did she explore;
While o'er all other minds was thrown
The native lustre of her own.

Almost with every various power
Her genius seem'd endued;
On fancy's wing from flower to flower
Now flutter'd, light of mood,—
Now, to sublime exertion wrought,
In agony of wrestling thought
Its painful way pursued
Through metaphysic mazes dim,—
Now track'd the flight of seraphim.

But most to one absorbing aim
She bent her steadfast will,—
To vindicate her Father's name
Through good report and ill;
From stigma cast by slanderous foe,
From open or insidious blow,
Renew'd, repeated still,
To place his mighty memory clear
Was what on earth she held most dear.

396

Thus pass'd her period of decline
In pious toil away,
While still her beauty more divine
Appear'd in its decay;
Though cheek and eye less lust'rous grew,
And those rich locks of loveliest hue
Were slightly tinged with grey,
In eyes that on her aspect gazed
Like mine, celestial glory blazed.

Such looks seraphic as the art
Of Guido loved to trace,—
Such as his pencil could impart
To Cenci's angel face,—
Seem'd to proclaim to heart and eye
That her transition now was nigh
To that congenial place,
To which, as to their proper home,
Earth's purest make such haste to come.

Yet not without some natural pain
Can souls of heavenly birth
Break the last link of that strong chain
Which binds them down to earth:
And we, of less ethereal mould,
Feel not the fibres manifold
Which knit, in grief or mirth,
The mind of more exalted powers
To this entangling world of ours.

The flush of philosophic thought—
The joy of knowledge won—
The freights by wandering fancy brought
From worlds beyond the sun—
The inward eye no longer blind—
The converse high of mind with mind—
The race so bravely run
By kindred soul with kindred soul—
Yet unattain'd the glorious goal;—

397

A startling and a fearful change,—
Ere life hath reach'd its eve,
For worlds unknown, obscure and strange,
Such living work to leave.
Repose mysterious, dark and dread,
To sleep among the unconscious dead:—
And well may we believe
That ghastly must have seem'd to her
The darkness of the sepulchre.

Yet, gazing on that prospect drear,
No jot did she abate
Of labour which she held so dear,
But early still and late
Her task of filial love pursued,
And oft cast down, but ne'er subdued,
Did patiently await
The summons, which she knew must come
Full soon, to her eternal home.

And when at last her parting hour
She surely felt was nigh,
Alone she met the grisly power,
And veil'd her face to die.
No sympathizing voice or look
Of friends or kindred would she brook,
But hid from human eye
The agony of that last strife
Through which she wrestled into life.

No vestige, when the breath had fled,
Of all that beauty rare,
They say remain'd upon the dead
Once more than earthly fair.
The traits, so potent to express
The spirit's inward loveliness,
Of that despoil'd and bare,
Were left in deepen'd lines at length,
Stern types of intellectual strength.

398

So best decreed;—had all been spared
Of feature and of form,
It seems as if we scarce had dared
To give it to the worm.
But now her soul's deserted shell
Served by its utter wreck to tell
How fierce had been the storm
Of pain and grief, through which she pass'd
Victorious into life at last.

Of her, now sleeping in the grave,
The gifted and the graced,—
Some relics still—the books she gave—
The words her fingers traced—
Her letters, long preserved with care—
A ringlet of her youthful hair—
And, ne'er to be effaced,—
Her image in my memory's shrine—
Must still, while life remains, be mine.

Her resting-place is green and fair
On Highgate's gentle steep;
Her father, mother, husband there
In peace beside her sleep:
In Grasmere is her brother's grave,
Where o'er the chords of wood and wave
The mountain breezes sweep;
Fit requiem for the poets twain
There, side by side, at rest from pain.

High privilege, to one like me,
Such mortals to have known;
'Tis easier, when their graves I see,
To think upon my own.
O! when beyond life's middle stage
Extends our earthly pilgrimage,—
Like grass untimely mown,
The great, the good, who made it sweet,
Lie stretch'd in heaps beneath our feet.

399

One yet remains—a brother mind
In genius as in birth,
By those beloved ones left behind,
To mourn their loss on earth:—
Yet scarce to mourn:—why squander tears
On those, to whom a few short years,
Soon spent, and little worth,
Shall bring us, like themselves set free
From all that dimm'd humanity?

400

AN EMIGRANT'S DIRGE.

Sleep, though the broad Atlantic water
Divides thee with its billowy foam—
Thee, Britain's own true-hearted daughter,—
From this thy first, thy native home.

Sleep, where our Shakespere's tongue resoundeth,—
Where hearts are by his magic moved;
Sleep, where a nation's young heart boundeth
To watchwords which our Milton loved.

Sleep, where in long unrest, forsaking
The haunts and homes of English life,
A lonely Mourner's heart is aching
For thee—the matron, friend, and wife.

Sleep, where a sister's voice of wailing—
A still small voice, o'er ocean sent,—
Above all alien sounds prevailing,
Shall lull thee with its low lament.

Sleep, from the wizard banks of Avon
A nameless poet bids thee sleep,
Where thy toss'd bark hath found a haven
From life's still vext, tempestuous deep.

401

Sleep, till the trump of doom awake thee,
A Christian's crown, we trust, to win,
When pure the atoning blood shall make thee
From earth's last lingering taint of sin.

402

EASTER DIRGE FOR THE DYING.

Wasting, waning, on the bed
Of thy patient anguish dying,
Christian sister, thou wast lying,
While the church, o'er him who bled
For the living and the dead,
In funereal anthems sighing
Bow'd her reverential head.

'Midst that plaintive threnody
For the Death of Expiation,
Mixt with prayer and supplication,
Came the frequent thought of thee,
Christian sister, unto me;—
Might thy pangs but find cessation
With the pangs of Calvary!

But the day of dread and doom
Pass'd, and stars of orient splendour
Shot their light serene and tender
Through the circumambient gloom
Of that awful garden-tomb,
Where ambrosial balm engender
Flowers of amaranthine bloom.

403

Fainting, fading, in the thrall
Of thine unabated anguish,
Christian sister, thou didst languish,
Longing, listening for the call
Of the Lord and Life of all,
Preaching to the souls in prison,
Till two other morns have risen,
Till one other night shall fall.

Waned the light of Easter-eve;—
Still thy warfare was unfinish'd,
Still thy patience undiminish'd;
Not a thought of thine shall grieve
Him in whom thou dost believe:
When he quits the grave tomorrow,
Will he in these bonds of sorrow
Still thy chasten'd spirit leave?

So I ask'd,—and hope arose—
Trembling hope,—that Christ would banish
Pain with life, and cause to vanish
All thy weakness, all thy woes,
In the deepest, last repose,
On that day of joy immortal
When the grave's reluctant portal
Did for him its jaws unclose.

But it dawn'd,—and its decline
Soon was come;—beside thee kneeling,
Spake I words of peace and healing
To that suffering soul of thine;
While the mystic bread and wine
On the little bed-side table
Stood, and thou once more wast able
Still to taste that food divine.

404

And the solemn time was o'er,
And the sacrifice was ended;—
Christ had to the grave descended,
Died, and risen to die no more:
Still thy bark was toward the shore
Through tempestuous waves proceeding,
Still for thee our hearts were bleeding,
Christian sister, sad and sore.

Yet 'twas well thou should'st endure
Through that high, mysterious season,
To thy faith and to thy reason
Bringing confirmation sure:
With a spirit true and pure
Thou hast borne the tribulation,
Thou hast shared the expiation;
Rise with Christ!—of full salvation
Through His blessed cross secure.

Meekly yet thy burden bear,
Christian sister, while he willeth;
While for thee his spirit stilleth
Pangs himself hath deign'd to share:
Let him smite, or let him spare,
While these mortal hours yet linger;—
Thou therein discern'st the finger
Of his guidance and his care.

Thou art near thy trouble's end;—
Ours 'twill be, impatient-hearted,
Soon to mourn for thee departed,—
Thee, the Mother, Wife, and Friend;
O! that thou might'st then descend
From the mansions of thy glory,
To disclose the wondrous story,
How thy grief, so transitory,
Doth Eternal Love commend!

405

SONNET.

[Dost thou still live, or is thy trial o'er]

Dost thou still live, or is thy trial o'er,
Thou saintly sufferer, whom, at duty's call,
Reluctantly I left in mortal thrall,
At strife with death in conflict dread and sore?—
Hath pain dominion over thee no more,
From earthly bonds deliver'd once for all?
Dost thou, secure within Christ's presence-hall,
Him whom thou lovedst face to face adore?
In Paradise—on earth—where'er thou art,
Still in the flesh imprison'd, or set free,—
O may'st thou yet retain thy human heart,
And still sometimes, beloved, think of me,
And of the grace vouchsafed me to impart
Celestial comfort to thine agony.

SONNET.

[I would not think that I have look'd my last]

I would not think that I have look'd my last
On that seraphic face, those heavenly eyes;
Nor that, when thou shalt from the grave arise,
Thy mortal beauty will be gone and past;
Fain would I cleave to the fond vision fast—
That in our final home beyond the skies
Soul shall meet soul in its corporeal guise,
Changed, not destroyed, by that dread trumpet-blast.
Such hope doth Scripture warrant; such may we
In humble trust hold firmly, though as yet
We know not what hereafter we shall be,
But in our dim half-knowledge guess and fret,
Till nature shall have paid her final debt
And death be swallow'd up in victory.

406

SONNET.

[Mysterious, sure, as mighty, is the spell]

Mysterious, sure, as mighty, is the spell
In which doth Beauty man's proud spirit bind,
Disguising the false heart, the abject mind,
The soul which doth against all good rebel,
Like some foul grub encased in gorgeous shell;
Such contrast in conjunction still we find
Between the souls and bodies of our kind,
Since Adam from his primal glory fell:
But when the saintly soul, enshrined within,
Doth the fair body grace and glorify,
And that most complex fascination win
At once the outward and the inward eye,—
We feel that Beauty, here usurp'd by sin,
Is one with Good by final destiny.

SONNET.

[O come not back, O come not back, dear Saint]

O come not back, O come not back, dear Saint,
Even from the threshold of the court of Heaven,—
Thy race so nearly run, thy sin forgiven,
Thy spirit cleansed from all polluting taint;
O come not back, to feel the dread constraint
Of those sharp bonds which Death almost had riven,
And to and fro 'twixt him and life be driven,
Till even thy patience scarce forbears complaint.
Far rather be our loss thine endless gain,
Our tears attest the fulness of thy bliss,
Than that thou still should'st drag life's galling chain
And still thy well-won crown of glory miss;
Ripe for the next world, yet fast bound to this
In fiery fetters of tormenting pain.

407

SONNET.

[The hand of Death lay heavy on her eyes,—]

The hand of Death lay heavy on her eyes,—
For weeks and weeks her vision had not borne
To meet the tenderest light of eve or morn,
To see the crescent moonbeam set or rise,
Or palest twilight creep across the skies:
She lay in darkness, seemingly forlorn,
With sharp and ceaseless anguish rack'd and torn,
Yet calm with that one peace which never dies.
Closed was, for her, the gate of visual sense,
This world and all its beauty lost in night;
But the pure soul was all ablaze with light,
And through that gloom she saw, with gaze intense,
Celestial glories, hid from fleshly sight,
And heard angelic voices call her hence.

SONNET.

[They drew the thick green curtain-folds aside]

They drew the thick green curtain-folds aside,
That so the ritual words mine eye might trace
Which give the Christian, even in Death's embrace,
His flesh and blood, who once for sinners died;
But when once more her features I descried,
She said—“I shrank from shewing thee my face,
Lest its sad image Time might not erase
From thy remembrance, friend beloved and tried.”
Ah! fond!—to deem that on my heart and brain
That saintly look of patient, meek distress,
Which spake of faith triumphant over pain,
No holier, dearer image could impress
Than even the cherish'd visions which remain
Of her once rare and perfect loveliness!

408

THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

We had not met, nor each with each
Exchanged a word of human speech;—
I scarce had heard her name, or known
How near her dwelling to my own;
When first, in anxious grief and fear,
With faltering voice and rising tear,
Her husband came to ask my prayer,
And some few words of pastoral care,
To soothe the soul which seem'd to be
Fast hurrying to Eternity.

I knelt beside her in the gloom
Of the dim, closely curtain'd room:
So dark it was, I could not trace
The outline of her pillow'd face,
Nor guess if she, reclining there,
Was old or young, was dark or fair;
Feeble and faint her accents came
From out that worn and wasted frame;
She spake of sin which grieved her still,—
Of wayward heart and selfish will,—
Of doubts which oft, when near life's goal,
Oppress the saintliest Christian soul;—
Misgivings, such as still will vex
Our mortal frailty, and perplex
The heart intent on heavenly things
With anxious, deep self-questionings.

409

Few words I utter'd in reply,—
Such words as oft to those who die
Had, in my past experience, brought
The comfort which their weakness sought;—
Few words, but utter'd in a tone
Which shew'd I made her griefs my own,—
Discern'd her burden, and would fain
Remove the weight, relieve the pain;—
Few words, but when they ceased, I knew
That she had felt them sweet and true;
Yea that to them had power been given
To rend the veil 'twixt her and Heaven;
And when together we had pray'd,
And each to each farewell had said,
Parting I felt I left behind
A peace my coming did not find.

Again—again—from day to day,
I knelt beside her where she lay;
Again we held communion high,
Again in mutual sympathy,
With unrestrain'd and fervent speech,
Each spirit was reveal'd to each;
And we, who never yet had seen
Each other's features, form or mien,
Could yet discern, by converse taught,
The mysteries of each other's thought.
Such light could pierce the spectral gloom
Of that dim, closely curtain'd room.

At length was past the storm of pain,
And partial health returned again:
The curtains which shut out the light
Were now withdrawn, and on my sight
There burst—no language can express
What rare and perfect loveliness;—
A temple worthy of the mind
Saintly and sweet therein enshrined;

410

A beauty, blemishless and bright
As the pure soul it veil'd from sight.

Thanks! to the providential love
Which fix'd my portion from above,
Ordaining by benign decree
That I of English birth should be;
An alien from the rites of Rome,
A pastor with a happy home.
Thanks! for those dearest boons of life,
The love of children and of wife;
The heart-repose, the healthful play
Of feelings which the spirit sway;
To none so precious or so blest
As him who seeks a needful rest
For weary heart and weary brain
From pastoral labour, oft in vain,—
From cares which still the spirit vex,
From questions which the mind perplex;—
His daily lot whose neck must bear
The yoke of ministerial care.
Thanks! for these boons,—for what they yield
To hearts against all peril steel'd
By their strong magic, in the hour
When else temptation most had power.
Thanks! for a joy too pure to tell,
Which they alone make possible
For man commission'd to impart
Counsel and help to woman's heart,
In woman's loveliest charms array'd
And in its weakness self-display'd.
Thanks! for these boons, which give him power
To solace woman's darkest hour,—
To share, unscathed in soul or sense,
The treasure of her confidence;
Which make his spirit clear and free,
Through wedlock's lawful liberty,—
To teach, direct, support, console
A weak and trusting sister's soul.

411

Thanks! for these boons, to Him who gave,
To them, the faithful and the brave,
Who bled and burn'd to wrest from Rome
The freedom of the pastor's home.
Thanks! for the stalwart arms which broke
The celibate's detested yoke;
Thanks! for deliverance from the thrall
Of the obscene confessional;
Thanks! that the priest no more may pry
With busy, keen, intrusive eye,
And craft, by vile experience taught,
Into those secret cells of thought
Which nature teaches to conceal;
Which conscience shudders to reveal;
Which, once disclosed, the heart no more
Can, to itself, itself restore.
Thanks! that, instead, 'tis ours to know
The free, spontaneous, natural flow
Of thought reveal'd from soul to soul,
Without constraint, without controul;
The counsel freely given as sought,—
The teacher learning from the taught,
The mutual faith, by each to each
Imparted in untrammell'd speech;
The healthful play of heart, which springs
From free and genial questionings
On subjects of allow'd debate
Affecting our eternal state.
Thanks! for the moral freedom wrought
By womanly and manly thought;—
Thanks! for the moral health sustain'd
By Christian courage unrestrain'd;—
Thanks! for the full communion given,
Through priestcraft's fall, 'twixt earth and heaven;—
Thanks! for the deep and quiet bliss,—
The faith, the strength, which flow from this.
God grant that it through time may last!
God give us grace to hold it fast!

412

In Church and State, in hearth and home,
God shield us from the guile of Rome!
And help us to stand firm and free
In this our Christian liberty!

Such thoughts within me would arise,
As in the light of those sweet eyes
I sat, and saw their soul-lit ray
Grow brighter still from day to day.
From that fair cheek and marble brow
Death's shadow had departed now;
And she, though oft with pain at strife,
Once more resign'd herself to life;
Content deliverance to forego
From its dull weight of care and woe;
Still of her crown to feel the loss,
And bear the burden of the cross,
Till she by patience might fulfil
Her Father's and her Saviour's will.

So weeks and months flew swiftly by,
And still, from time to time, did I—
My daily round of duty o'er,—
Return at evening to her door;
Too happy if I then might share,
Beside her couch or easy chair,
Some brief exchange of thought for thought;
Where each from each received unsought
Some mutual gift, and some bestow'd;
Each somewhat to the other owed
Of doubt resolved, of knowledge gain'd,
Of care beguiled, of faith sustain'd,
Of speculation high and keen
Set wandering through the world unseen.
Nor lack'd we moods of talk more gay,
And cheerful intellectual play;
In genial flow of temperate mirth,
Discoursing oft of things on earth,

413

Till heart to heart itself had shown
In weakness, as in strength, made known;
Array'd in nature's week-day dress
Of plain, unvarnish'd homeliness;
And confidence between us grew
From all that each both felt and knew.

But this was not to last;—again
Burst on her the fierce storm of pain;
So fierce, so fell, that to her side
All access was perforce denied,
And weeks and weeks wore darkly past,
And her sweet life was waning fast,
Ere I again approach'd the gloom
Of that dim, closely-curtain'd room;
Then, when the strife seem'd nearly o'er,
They came to ask my prayers once more;—
Once more beside her couch I knelt,
Once more, in high communion, dwelt,
With her pure spirit, upon themes
Transcending the sublimest dreams
Of sage or prophet, but which she
With the soul's eye began to see,
Touch'd with such hues as angels paint
To vision of expiring saint.
For she had now approach'd the bar
'Twixt things which seem and things which are;
And through the mists of fleshly sense
Almost discern'd, with gaze intense,
Glories unknown to mortal eye,
And heard faint snatches floating by
Of music which no fleshly ear
Amidst the din of life can hear.
O! those brief moments daily given
Of peace which seem'd the peace of Heaven!
When through the darkness I could trace
The outline of that angel face,
And with intent, habituate eye
Its hidden loveliness descry,

414

Unchanged by all that anguish sore
Which still from day to day she bore
In faith and patience, while the strife
Was raging between death and life.
O! those high thoughts between us bred!
The rapture of that dying-bed!
That intercourse serene and free,
Of full, congenial sympathy,
Which o'er our spirits breathed the balm
Of Paradise, sublimely calm!—
An antepast of their high lot
Who like the angels marry not.

But now arrived a darker hour,
When she, beneath the o'erwhelming power
Of agony, no more could bear
The bedside tread, the whisper'd prayer.
So weary weeks again wore by,—
She waned and waned, but could not die;
For the pure spirit's swift release
From fleshly bonds to rest and peace,
We pray'd and hoped—to hope and pray
Again—again—from day to day.

At last the blest deliverance came,
And from that worn and wasted frame
Reclaim'd, restored, renew'd, forgiven,
Her saintly spirit pass'd to Heaven.
'Twas mine, “in sure and certain” trust
To render back her dust to dust;
And from the grave, wherein inurn'd
The body lay, when I return'd
To my known round of duties back,
I felt that o'er my daily track
A seraph watch'd, thenceforth to be
For ever in my company.
I felt that to that heavenly cloud
Of witnesses, which in the crowd

415

And coil of earth I once have known,—
Now compassing the eternal throne,—
And chiefly those to whom through me
The grace was sent which made them free
From fear and doubt—one witness more
Was added, whom, when death is o'er,
I trust that I again shall meet,
Sweet as on earth—and scarce more sweet.
And now when I to thought recall
My heart's best treasures, one and all,
I count, upon that list of love,
One less below, one more above;
And know that to my charge was sent,
With gracious and benign intent,
A saintly soul, to whom 'twas given
To draw me in her wake toward Heaven.

EPITAPH.

A saintlier spirit, in a lovelier frame,
Ne'er foil'd Death's sharpest sting, than thine in thee;
Now sleep secure in Christ's victorious Name,
And where thou art may all who love thee be!

416

THE RESTING-PLACES.

Nine years have come and gone, the tenth begun,
Since here, amidst these haunts of my young life—
These well-known hills and valleys,—in the shade
Of these rich natural woods,—along the banks
Of yonder stream, my boyhood's Helicon,
Wandering in pensive leisure, I awoke
My slumbering muse, and sang, as she inspired,
My soul's meridian song:—not then had life
Lost its full summer fervour,—no decline
Of body or of mind had yet been felt;
Each organ of corporeal sense remain'd
Uninjured, undecay'd;—not one grey hair
Streak'd the original brown;—on cheek or brow
No wrinkle had appear'd;—and if the blood
No longer now ran riot in the veins,
As in the petulant lustihood of youth,
Yet still with unabated force it flow'd,—
No more a brawling torrent, but a stream
Calm, full, continuous,—fit to bear the frieght
Of thought's maturer fruitage:—'twas the noon
Of life's advancing day,—a cloudless noon;
For sorrow, which had come, seven years before,
And cast upon our startled home and hearth
The darkness of death's shadow, pass'd away
And had not re-appear'd:—long time unscathed
Three generations of our race still lived,
And still enjoy'd their life;—the parent stems
Flourish'd in green decline, scarce yet decay;

417

And of their ten primæval branches, seven
Wore their full lustihood of leaf, while three
Were rich in bud and blossom:—still yon house
(The general birth-place) trimm'd its Christmas hearth,
And spread its Christmas board to mirthful groups
Of children and of grandchildren;—'twas sweet
To think that each familiar haunt beloved
By our own childhood was scarce less beloved
By hearts which should inherit when we died,
Among their best remembrances, the thought
Of those domestic gatherings. Since the last,
And haply the most joyous, six swift years
Have vanish'd, and again my footsteps tread—
Not now the time-worn floors, the garden walks
Of that paternal dwelling,—but the streets—
The broad, still, noiseless, melancholy streets
Of the old unchanging town;—unchanging?—yes
In visible form, but changed and changing fast
In all that was to me the life, the soul,
The substance of its being:—scarce a face
Of all the old familiar ones—the friends
And playmates of my childhood—meets me now;
Even those which still remain are scarce the same;
Where are the well-remembered many?—where?
The grass grows rankly o'er their mouldering bones,
Their names are traced in many an epitaph
On churchyard grave-stone, on the chancel floor,
On mural tablet, on rich tinted pane
Of ornamental window;—or dispersed
Through the four quarters of the globe, they toil,
Prosper or perish, feed deceitful hope,
Or pine despondent on colonial soils,
'Midst savage tribes, in drear, unhealthy climes,
Whiten the desert with their bones, or feed
The swarming shoals of Ocean:—for myself
Sad is my mission hither:—in our house
Another light is quench'd,—another heart
Hath ceased to beat,—another voice is dumb;
The mystic harmony, of late impair'd

418

And waxing feebler in the dwindling choir
Of brothers and of sisters, hath been marr'd
More than in all the years already gone;
For those more early summon'd, since the days
Of infancy and childhood, were in age
Unequal, or by destiny diverse
From us who yet survive;—their lives were spent
In regions far remote,—amidst the din
Of oriental war,—in barbarous strife
With Afric's Southern tribes,—or 'midst the roar
Of billows in the vast, tempestuous deep.
And though we grieved for them, as friends must grieve
For friends untimely lost, our household joys,—
The family group,—the fireside circle,—felt
Small diminution;—home-sweet sympathies,—
Fraternal interchange of thought for thought,—
The brief, rare visit, sweeter because both,—
The keen solicitude of each for each
Amidst the daily pressure of the world,—
All these were undisturb'd, or scarce disturb'd,
By mournful news which told, from time to time,
That we had lost a brother:—but not such
The loss we now lament:—a nearer life
Hath been struck down;—a widow'd wife bemoans
The husband of her youth,—while round her knees
Her children, all unconscious of their loss
(Alas! how great!) observe with wondering eyes
The funeral preparations,—marvel much
To find themselves array'd in sable weeds,
And probe with questions keen and quaint remarks
Their mother's recent wound, who, while she mourns
The father, still must think, with anxious heart
And doubtful questionings of Providence,
Whence bread shall be supplied that these may eat,—
Where raiment shall be found which these may wear,—
That they with cold and hunger perish not.

Peace to my brother's spirit! peace and rest,
Such as the troubled and world-weary need!

419

Rest from heart-crushing care and anxious thought,—
From those solicitudes of daily life
Which torture with such fierce and fiery pangs
The man who wrings, by toil of head and heart,
From the dry wilderness of English law
The daily bread which wife and children eat,
Which, if he wring not, wife and children starve.
Such rest he needed long,—condemn'd through life
To drag the chain of uncongenial toil,
To fret and fritter his reluctant soul
(Which craved a nobler destiny) away
In the dull, dry, mechanical routine
Of vile forensic drudgery,—to grow grey,
Immured in murky courts, o'erwhelm'd with piles
Of musty parchment,—to repeat the slang
And jargon of the special pleader's craft,—
To thrid the long and complicated maze
Of legal net-work,—lie inwoven with lie,—
Trick within trick,—evasion infinite,—
Mystification trebly mystified,
For darkening counsel and perplexing sore
The eye which would distinguish right from wrong.
Such occupation,—through long years pursued,—
Was, to a spirit finely strung as his,
Perpetual death in life, compared to which
Welcome appear'd the stroke which set him free.
For his were apprehensions keen and strong,
And most intense susceptibility
Of all that to the sense and soul of man
Doth from without administer delight;
His nature was the nature of one born
To high aristocratic destinies,—
The duties of the noble and the rich,—
And free enjoyment of æsthetic art,
Albeit by fortune's wanton spite deprived
Of that which should supply its innate wants
And satisfy its instincts;—but withal
His heart awake to loftiest impulses,
And full of deep affections,—generous, frank,

420

And prompt to sympathize with worth oppress'd,
And glow with indignation at the wrongs
Dared by the strong oppressor,—sensitive
To insult and discourtesy, which oft
The noble must encounter from the base,—
The gifted from the dunce of large estates,—
Could therefore ill constrain itself to brook
The meanness it encounter'd in the path
Of daily duty:—grievously the yoke
Galls the fleet racer harness'd to a dray;
Heavy the fetter on the eagle's foot,
Whose nest is on the loftiest mountain-peak,
Whose flight above the clouds, a captive now,
And tether'd to his perch, to wear out life
In the dull court-yard of a Highland inn;
But heavier is the chain—more galling far
The yoke which binds the struggling soul of man
To tasks which it contemns.—Now all is o'er;
The long life-bondage ended:—Christian faith
And hope, from no uncertain source derived,
Shed parting gleams of comfort on that bed
Of mortal sickness:—to the dust his dust
Hath been given back;—his wife and children weep
The husband and the father, whom his place
On earth shall know no more;—nor they alone,—
Brothers and sisters, aged mother, friends
By many a close-knit sympathy fast bound
To him, the genial-hearted, by his grave
Linger lamenting:—other ties more dear,
Affections yet more closely intertwined,
Even with their heart of hearts than those which bind
Brother to brother, and absorb a part
Of that especial tenderness, which else
Had struck the mourning spirit down to earth
With anguish for his loss, disarm in part
Grief of its sharpest sting:—in earlier years,
Or ever we had known the holier name
Of husband, wife, and parent, he had been
More bitterly lamented even by us

421

Who yet with sorrow fervent, true, profound,
Exclaim above his grave—Farewell! Farewell!
Our brother! O! our brother!

But while thus
His loss is mourn'd on earth,—beyond the veil
Which curtains world from world, methinks arise
Fraternal forms to welcome him:—one bears
On his projecting forehead the clear stamp
Of Nature's true nobility, though dimm'd
And tarnish'd by the deep unmaster'd flush
Of mortal passions;—seldom hath a soul
Braver or nobler to the soldier's trade
Brought more of those high qualities which shed
A glory o'er the ugliness of war;
And had it been but tamed and self-subdued
Through firmer discipline—had he but learnt
To bring into subjection to the rule
Of Christian duty that unbridled will,—
A nobler human being had not trod
The earth which bore him;—but his nature, rash,
Impatient of controul, untaught to yield
Submission to a higher purer law
Than that of its own promptings, broke all bonds
Of social and conventional restraint,
And ran mad riot amidst headstrong deeds
And too gigantic darings:—English life,
With all its dull formalities and rules
Of civilized decorum, was to him
Intolerable bondage:—he desired
The freedom of the savage, and forsook
Home, country, kindred—even the glowing hopes
And high excitements of a soldier's life,
To dwell with hunters in the bush,—to war
With beasts but little wilder than himself,—
To strip the lion of his hide,—to dare
The rage of the rhinoceros:—his life
Was one long act of venturous enterprise
And rash, Titanic effort, and his death—

422

Such as became his life;—the southern gales
Of Afric breathe o'er his untimely grave
A fitting requiem;—there let his dust
Repose, while in our hearts remembrance holds
His graces still in honour nor retains
The blots which dimm'd their brightness.

But a voice,
Borne on the breezes from the burning East,
Murmurs low welcome to the brother soul
Rejoining the departed:—lo! a grave,
Surmounted by a stone, which bears inscribed
A soldier's epitaph beneath the name
Of one to whom his comrades raised such pledge
Of kindness still surviving in their hearts,
And recognition of the worth which dwelt
In him who fought beside them, and now sleeps
Where no réveillée shall awake him more;
No night-surprise, no murderous ambuscade
Of lurking foemen mingle with the dreams
Of that last bivouac;—no worse assault
Of passions which invade the peace of man
And vex the soul still clothed in flesh and blood,
Can shake poor nature's frailty, nor disturb
The rest which now enfolds it.

From the depths
Of Ocean, where it parts West-Indian isles,
Rises the pale and spectral form of one
Even on the verge of manhood doom'd to sink
Into a sailor's grave; who else perchance,
Had long ere now fulfill'd, in all its parts,
A sailor's gallant destiny;—and he
Greets smilingly his brother come to share
His long repose.

But here, within the walls
Enclosing his own grave, is company
Such as his soul desires—one elder-born,

423

And call'd in early boyhood to his rest,—
Richest in promise (for the good die first)
Of all our blood—another, while a babe,
Emancipated—spirits such as claim
By right the heavenly kingdom as their own,
And now await its coming.

Last appears
The Father of our house, as of his flock
The pastor,—he who in a ripe old age
Ended his five-and-forty years of toil
In one rude fold, and went to his reward,
A good and faithful servant. Not to us
Belongs it to define in outline clear
His mental lineaments, or to proclaim
His nature's strength or weakness;—not to us
To tell how well he lived, how calmly died,
How peacefully now rests with those for whom
His spirit toil'd till death,—how many mourn,
How bitterly, his loss;—that tale was told
Even at his funeral, when the silent streets
Deserted though at noon-day, and the shops,
Their shutters closed, albeit the annual fair
Was at its height, proclaimed the pastor dead
And gathered to his children:—we had come
The previous evening (for he died far off)
A long day's journey, by his sable hearse
Preceded, who had left, few days before,
His home in health and hope;—the moonlight shone,
How strangely! on the well-remember'd rows
Of houses in the broad and echoing street;
And when we halted at the door, where he
Had welcomed us of old, 'twas sad to think
That in a lone and lock'd apartment lay
That which was lately he:—kind voices spake,
Strangely, as seem'd, to unresponsive hearts,
And meals had been prepared, whereat to meet
Seem'd now unnatural:—the morrow dawn'd,
And none could say ‘good morrow;’—before noon

424

The vault which, thirty years before, had closed
O'er the last comer, and which still retains
One vacant place for her who slept so long,
And yet shall sleep once more by him she loved,—
Received him in its bosom; and when we
Return'd, that ancient house had lost its lord,
And we had look'd our last upon the graves
Of him and of our brothers.

Strange it seems,
And not less strange than graciously ordain'd,
That while the scatter'd graves of sons and sire
Spot the four quarters of the globe,—while four
Within the precincts of one churchyard lie—
As yet that household hath not yielded up
One female life:—mother and sisters still
Survive unstricken;—they to whom pertains
The ministry of comfort,—the blest work
Of smoothing the sick pillow—who best know
How to console and cheer the slow decay
Of natural strength, and nerve the fainting soul
With never-failing tendances of love,—
Are left—perchance till two more graves shall close
O'er two more sons and brothers, and their task
On earth with these be ended.

Peace and rest
Dwell in that Churchyard!—in the daily walk
Of life, amidst the fever and the fret
Of this world's tumult,—it will rise sometimes
A soothing vision on our weary souls,—
A mute remembrancer of rest to come
On earth,—of hope which maketh not ashamed,
For those whose conversation is in Heaven!

425

LAST VERSES.

427

TO A LADY.

Thy Birthday! yes! the flight of time
Once more hath brought it round,
And something in the shape of rhyme
To greet it must be found—
Meagre that something needs must be,
Yet not, I trust, despised by thee.

If fancy's stream flowed briskly still
As erst in youthful days,
And I with ease could roam at will
Through all her flowery ways,
Small pain 'twould cost a wreath to cull
Which thou would'st deem most beautiful.

But fancy's prime with me is o'er,
My Pegasus grows idle,
And needs the spur, who used to soar,
Despising bit and bridle:
Verse hath indeed become to me
Sore toil and grievous drudgery.

The Muse's service long hath ceased
Its own reward to be,

428

And thou art from the tax released
Which seemed so hard to thee,
Albeit it had, if freely paid,
The surest inspiration made.

I blame thee not, nor love thee less,—
Nay, more each passing year;
And if true love our portion bless,
What need of fancy here?
Let song, once prized, become at last
A faded dream of days long past.

Yet take this lay, a gift of love,
Nor rate it by its worth,
But by the pains with which it strove
And struggled to the birth;
So thou its poverty shall prize
Above youth's richest fantasies.

October 19th, 1858.

429

SONNET.

[O! not in youthful love-notes light and vain]

TO F. H. For February 14th, 1868.

O! not in youthful love-notes light and vain,
Nor ditty of fantastical desire—
(Weak, worthless spells a greybeard's heart to fire,
And thaw to foolish thought his frozen brain):
O! not in such but more befitting strain
Today, dear maiden, doth my song aspire
From thee, whom many love and all admire,
A moment's patient audience to obtain.
In me the lover's and the husband's heart
Are dead and buried: yet past words of thine
(Filial tho' few) parental joy impart
To this poor widow'd, wither'd age of mine,
To which for all that thou hast been and art,
Bless thee!—God bless thee!—gentle Valentine.

TO AUGUSTUS M. SWIFT: NEW YORK.

Nay,—ask not one whose life hath left behind
Our mortal age of threescore years and ten,
To grasp with tremulous clutch the poet's pen,
Taxing his brain reluctant rhyme to find;
Better a barrel-organ's mournful grind,
Discordant, dismal to the ears of men,
Than croak false notes immured in darksome den
Of Eld,—to music deaf, to beauty blind.
Seek rather in thy fair and fervent West,
Where mind and minstrel-art are fresh and young,
Such thought as bubbles up through brain and breast,
In verse attuned aright to pen and tongue;
Leave here the worn-out rhymer to his rest,
His hurdy-gurdy cracked, his dirge unsung.

July 10th, 1870.

430

SONNET.

[Patiently, fond and faithful, many a year]

TO S.A. AND D.R.

Patiently, fond and faithful, many a year
Ye kept your filial watch, O sisters twain,
O'er her for whom, we trust, to die was gain;
As for yourselves, 'tis Christ to linger here,
While she, beyond the reach of grief and fear,
Heart-crushing trouble and life-wasting pain,
Knows that for her, He hath not died in vain,
Nor ye, for her sake, grown to Him less dear.
Grieve (for ye must) while Nature's wound is sore,
But grieve as those who know they sow in tears
To reap in joy.—Your ministries, now o'er,
Of holiest duty have heap'd up a store
Of strength angelic for celestial spheres,
Where both shall watch and work, but weep no more.

August 14th, 1872.