The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith ... Revised by the Author: Coll. ed. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith |  |
238
THE ABBEY
“God at sundry times and in divers
manners spake in time past unto the
fathers.”—Heb. i. I.
Near by the river the Abbey stands,
Among old fruit trees, and on fat green lands,
With a weir on the river to drive the mill,
And cunning cruives at the salmon-leap;
And the beeves on the clover are fetlock-deep,
And the sheep are nibbling the grassy hill.
Among old fruit trees, and on fat green lands,
With a weir on the river to drive the mill,
And cunning cruives at the salmon-leap;
And the beeves on the clover are fetlock-deep,
And the sheep are nibbling the grassy hill.
'Tis now but a ruin, spreading wide
Broken gable and cloistered side
'Mong lichened pear-trees and Spanish nuts,
Here a pillar, and there a shrine,
Or niche where its sculptured lords recline:—
Long a quarry for walls and huts.
Broken gable and cloistered side
'Mong lichened pear-trees and Spanish nuts,
Here a pillar, and there a shrine,
Or niche where its sculptured lords recline:—
Long a quarry for walls and huts.
Oh, stately the Lady-Chapel there
Once reared its cross in the upper air
Near by the river among the trees,
And sweet bells rung, and censers swung,
And matins and vespers and lauds were sung,
With solemn-chaunted litanies.
Once reared its cross in the upper air
Near by the river among the trees,
And sweet bells rung, and censers swung,
And matins and vespers and lauds were sung,
With solemn-chaunted litanies.
O'er the high Altar a meek face shone,
A Virgin-Mother and Baby-Son,
Fashioned by art beyond the sea;
And there, in linen or purple dressed,
A priest gave thanks, or a soul confessed,
With a psalm of praise, or a bended knee.
A Virgin-Mother and Baby-Son,
Fashioned by art beyond the sea;
And there, in linen or purple dressed,
A priest gave thanks, or a soul confessed,
With a psalm of praise, or a bended knee.
And some would pore over vellum books,
And some would feather the sharp fish-hooks,
And some would see to the sheep and kine;
Some went hunting the red-deer stag,
Some would travel with beggar's bag,
And some sat long by the old red wine;
And some would feather the sharp fish-hooks,
And some would see to the sheep and kine;
Some went hunting the red-deer stag,
Some would travel with beggar's bag,
And some sat long by the old red wine;
Some would go pleading a cause in Rome,
And still found cause to be far from home,
And near to St. Peter's costly door:
They were not all bad, and they were not all good
Who wore the Monk's girdle and sandal and hood,
But some of them padded the Cross they bore.
And still found cause to be far from home,
And near to St. Peter's costly door:
They were not all bad, and they were not all good
Who wore the Monk's girdle and sandal and hood,
But some of them padded the Cross they bore.
Yet was the Abbey a fruitful stage
In the slow growth, and the ripening age
Of the long history of man:
For beaming Virgin and Holy Child
Made many a fierce heart meek and mild,
And the mastery there of mind began.
In the slow growth, and the ripening age
Of the long history of man:
For beaming Virgin and Holy Child
Made many a fierce heart meek and mild,
And the mastery there of mind began.
The footsore pilgrim there found rest,
The heartsore too was a welcome guest,
And who loved books, got helpful store.
It is God who guides the world's affairs,
And ever life rises by winding stairs,
Screwing its way from the less to more.
The heartsore too was a welcome guest,
And who loved books, got helpful store.
It is God who guides the world's affairs,
And ever life rises by winding stairs,
Screwing its way from the less to more.
He reads the story best, who reads
Ever to find some germing seeds
Sprouting up to a nobler end,
And God's long patience working still
Through all the good, and through all the ill,
And always something in us to mend.
Ever to find some germing seeds
Sprouting up to a nobler end,
And God's long patience working still
Through all the good, and through all the ill,
And always something in us to mend.
From bud to bell the wild bee strays,
Seeking the sweets of the sunny days,
Probing deep for the honey-cell;
Yet well for his theft he pays the flower,
For he brings to the blossom a quickening power,
And a richer life to bud and bell.
Seeking the sweets of the sunny days,
Probing deep for the honey-cell;
Yet well for his theft he pays the flower,
For he brings to the blossom a quickening power,
And a richer life to bud and bell.
239
Narrow and poor was the old Church-life
As it prayed in its cell, amid storm and strife,
With scourgings many, and fastings new;
It knew no letters, it spurned at Art,
It had no pleasures, and lived apart—
Doomed to die as the world's life grew.
As it prayed in its cell, amid storm and strife,
With scourgings many, and fastings new;
It knew no letters, it spurned at Art,
It had no pleasures, and lived apart—
Doomed to die as the world's life grew.
But something of wisdom the Monk would know,
Something of gladness here below,
Something of beauty, and what it can;
He was not sinless, and yet he brought
A larger heart, and a freer thought,
And a fuller life to the sons of man.
Something of gladness here below,
Something of beauty, and what it can;
He was not sinless, and yet he brought
A larger heart, and a freer thought,
And a fuller life to the sons of man.
And we are a stage too—not the end;
Others will come yet our work to mend,
And they too will wonder at our poor ways.
Ah! Life is more than our sermons, prayers,
Bourses, machineries, multiplied wares—
Still the heart sighs for the better days.
Others will come yet our work to mend,
And they too will wonder at our poor ways.
Ah! Life is more than our sermons, prayers,
Bourses, machineries, multiplied wares—
Still the heart sighs for the better days.
Still is a feeling of something in me
Which yet I am not, and I ought to be,
Vaguely reaching for more and more;
And the gain is loss, when I do not win
A larger life for the soul within,
And hopes of an ever-opening door.
Which yet I am not, and I ought to be,
Vaguely reaching for more and more;
And the gain is loss, when I do not win
A larger life for the soul within,
And hopes of an ever-opening door.
| The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith | |