 | Poems |  |
FROM THE EPISTLE.
SONNET I.
Servants of Christ! in men's misjudging eyesYe seem of little price, and proud men scorn
Your lowliness of heart; but ye are born
Of God, and made partakers of a prize
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—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.
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:
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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 remoteFrom 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.
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