The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

“You here have an order for prayer, and for the reading of Holy Scripture, much agreeable to the mind and purpose of the old Fathers; nothing is ordained to be read but the very pure Word of God, the Holy Scriptures, or that which is agreeable to the same.”—Preface to the Book of Common Prayer.

Two Books we have, all other books above,
Which breathe the wonders of Incarnate love;
Each to Jehovah points the living Way,
And both inspire us to repent, and pray.

Perfect as peerless, pure and most divine,
Where God in language moves through every line,
Where each calm word enrobes celestial Grace
And man and Deity meet face to face,

Is that Shechinah of almighty speech
Where dwells The Spirit, time and souls to teach,
Beneath whatever name 'tis known, or heard,
Scripture, or Bible, or the Sacred Word.

With this, comparison must be profane:
Yet, laud we not in too heroic strain
Britannia's liturgy, for matchless power
To guide the conscience through its perill'd hour.

Calm deep and solemn, chaste, and most sublime,
Breathing eternity, yet full of time,
Pure as seraphic lips in heaven desire,
And fervid as the souls of saints on fire

With rapture,—is the Litany we love:
Sickness and sorrow both its blessing prove;
And oft have mourners in the heart's despair
Found a deep refuge for dejection, there.

A healing softness, and a holy balm
That book pervade, like inspiration's calm,—
Subdued intensity and sacred rest,
Which never fail the lonely and distrest.

For, oh, we need not morbid passion's force,
Nor hurried feeling, in its reinless course,
Nor problems dark, for reasoning pride to scan;
But what we need is,—mercy-tones for man.

The sun-bright Angel, who adores and sings,
Covers his brow with reverential wings;
And perfect Saints, who most their God adore,
Sink low in feeling, ere by faith they soar.

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The past breathes here the poetry of time,
And thrills the present with a tone sublime,
Till buried ages of the Church's youth
Rise, and re-charm the world with ancient truth.

Thou glorious masterpiece of olden Prayer!
Deeper thy wisdom than cold words declare;
Ever opposing some recurrent sin
States act without, or Churches feel within.

Not light men want, but love,—exceeding all
An Age of idols dares devotion call;
A childlike frame of purity and peace,
Where Christ in conscience works divine release.

And who the archives of thy past can see,
Nor recognise the eye of God o'er thee,
Presiding there with providential gaze
To fit thy teaching for these fallen days?

Creedless and proud, high-cultured, full of self,
Greedy of gain, and worshippers of pelf,—
Our wealth grows pagan as the world gets old,
And none seem heroes, but the bad and bold!

Then, bless we God for prayers where men are taught
Low at the Truth to bow rebellious thought;
Each lawless working of the will to chain,
And yield to God the bosom's throne again.

Repentance, bitter, stern, profound, and true,
Obedient hearts, which yearn to dare and do,
Whate'er the doctrines of the Cross command,—
God send the Church, for this apostate land!

Rather as servants, than as sons we bow
Down at the shrine of awful Godhead now;
Though heirs of grace, in Christ our own we claim,—
How have we barter'd our baptismal name!

Hence sad humility and fear become
The sinful Race who leave their Father's home;
Cries of dejection, more than chants of joy,
Returning prodigals may best employ.

Nor be forgot, that England's Prayer Book gives
Pure, full, and plain, The Word by which she lives!
Not dungeon'd in some dead and alien tone,
But where the peasant-boy perceives his own.

There, lisping Childhood, when it longs to learn
Truths for which prophets bled, and martyrs burn,
In such pure liturgy of grace may find
All which can feed the heart, and form the mind.

For common prayer, if catholic and true,
Must not be tinged with individual hue,
But be proportioned to the soul of Man,
In deep accordance with redemption's plan.

Lord of the Church! of sacrament and rite,
In this may all adoring hearts delight,—
“How apostolic is the root of all
Our Church maternal would devotion call!”

The heart of Ages still within them lives,
Takes from the past, and to the present gives
That hoary spell which hallows thought and word,
And wakens feeling in its finest chord,

Since, not from Rome, but ancient Gaul we bring
The choral hymns our Altars chant and sing;
And many a word devotion dwells upon,
Hung on thy lips, thou loved and lone St. John!

Source of the Church! true Paraclete for all,
Long may such prayers on Christ for mercy call;
No deeper grace can Thy pure wisdom give,—
Than what our lips repeat, our hearts may live.