Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.