 | Poems |  |
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.
All who live beneath the sun,
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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
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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?
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
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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.
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.
Christian, tame thy spirit down;
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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
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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 rendethFrom 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 compellethTo 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!”
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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
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From the darkness of the grave.
X
Eve is gone;—grey twilight's glimmerVeileth 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 turnethFeebly 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;
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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.
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