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412

POEMS.

I. THE EASTER SHIP, A LEGEND.

Dies venit, dies tua,
In qua reflorent omnia.
Lætemur et nos in viam
Tua reducti dextera.

All ye who lament o'er England's fall
From the Holy Catholic Faith!
Hear what the Hermit of Finisterre
From his rocky eyry saith:
Last of that ancient brotherhood,
Who forth from Tintern's Choir,
Were forced across the roaring seas
By wicked Henry's ire!
He saith, that early one Easter morn,
In false Elizabeth's reign,
Musing sadly o'er England's fall,
He was looking out on the main;
From his narrow ledge of beetling rock,
Athwart the basaltic steep,
That foremost stands confronting the swell
Of the broad Atlantic deep;
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When he saw a Ship in the misty dawn
Becalm'd on the silent sea;
Her sails all drooping—her helm unwatch'd—
As though no crew had she!
From stem to stern so quaintly shaped,
A ship of Eld it seem'd;
Anon some birthling of the dawn,
So goldenly it gleam'd.
Then as he gazed, there suddenly burst
A storm right overhead,
So deadly black, at once he knew
From Satan's breath it sped.
And, lo! before his very eyes
That Ship went sinking down;
Till nought at last of hull or mast
Was left but a spar alone;—
The topmost spar!—whence gallantly still,
In the face of the storm unfurl'd,
Old England's Catholic ensign waved,
The Cross that rules the world!
Ah, then I thought that all was o'er;
And I breathed aloft a prayer,
For all who, with the sinking Ship,
Were cruelly sinking there.
When, lo! a wonder most strange to tell!
But stranger far to see!
A wonder I scarce could have believed,
Had it been told to me!
For scarce had the Cross the waters kiss'd,
When, ere they could o'er it close,
Slowly—slowly—it mounted again,
And again the spar uprose;—
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And after the spar the three tall masts
With sails of glistering white;
And after the masts the Ship herself,
With all her armoury bright.
While softly and softly over the sea
I heard a music pass,
Soothing the winds and soothing the waves,
Till they lay as molten glass;
And in the East a vista began
To open, fold in fold,
Streaking all the ocean flood
With veins of purple and gold.
For now had risen the blessed Sun
Of the Resurrection Morn;
And his broad beam in one full stream
Upon the Ship was borne:
Whose deck one living topaz seem'd;
Each mast, a sapphire bright;
Each cord, of rainbow tissue wrought,
Each sail, of sheeted light;
The whole so wondrously appearing
Transfigured before mine eyes,
That the sight it fill'd my heart with tears,
My soul with Paradise.
Thus as I gazed, there stole along
A softly fanning breeze,
Breathing a solemn incense fresh
From Isles of the Southern seas.
The sails, they fill'd—the Ship she began
To walk the waters o'er;—
Full straight she steer'd;—full well I mark'd
She steer'd for England's shore:
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While on her deck in the sun's bright ray
There knelt, in place of a crew,
A goodly company all in prayer,
Whom for England's Saints I knew:
Save Her who stood at the helm apart,
With a calm majestic mien;
And Her I knew, by her robe of blue,
To be Heaven's immortal Queen!
That Virgin Mother, who loves the Isle
Where she was beloved of yore;
That Virgin Mother, who loves it still,
Though it loves Her now no more.
O Vision of bliss!—She turn'd her head;
She smiled benignly on me;
Pointing her hand to my native land,
Far Northward over the sea.
Then faster and faster the vessel sped,
O'er the breadth of the bounding surge;
Till into a speck I beheld it fade,
On the dim horizon's verge.
Such was the Vision, divinely fair,
That on Easter Sunday morn,
I, the Hermit of Finisterre,
Beheld at break of dawn.
And twice again, in the next two years,
Believe it as ye may,
The selfsame thing at the selfsame hour
I saw on the selfsame day.
Now, therefore, ye who for England weep,
As lost for ever to God,
Down in the black and dismal deep
Of heresy's awful flood,
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Give ear, give ear to this prophecy,
Which, with his parting breath,
The last of Tintern's exiled sons
For your consolation saith.
Three centuries shall England lie
Beneath the storm of Hell;
Three centuries her Church shall fade,
And all but seem to fail;
Three centuries her Saints shall mourn
To see the Faith expire;
Ivy shall climb and birds shall sing
In many a ruin'd choir.
But in the fourth, on Peter's chair
A Pope shall sit and reign,
Who in the Virgin's glorious might
Shall turn the tide again.
He first to all the world shall give
The long-desired Decree
Proclaiming our sweet Lady's gift
Of peerless Purity.
Shall name Her the Immaculate,
Without a stain conceived;
And stamp the doctrine as of Faith
Immutably believed.
She, in return, to Peter's crown
Shall gratefully restore
Its long-lost gem, the Isle of Saints,
Far brighter than before;
Cleansed with the blood of martyr'd priests,
And virgins' holy tears,
That must for guilty England flow
Through many doleful years.
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Then shall the children think again
Of their dear Fathers' home;
And fly, as doves upon the wing,
To long-forgotten Rome.
Then shall the Abbey rear its head,
And open wide its door,
And lift its sacrificial chant,
As in the days of yore.
Then shall the glorious Cross of Christ
No more dishonour'd lie;
Then shall the throne of Britain mourn
Its long apostasy;
Then shall the sons of Scotia hide
The wreck their fathers made;
Then Celt and Saxon shall unite
Beneath St. Peter's shade.
Then rank in rank, and file on file,
The armies of the Lord
Shall march, to spread through England's breadth
The Faith so long abhorr'd;
Which, once received, shall forth again
As from a centre sweep,
Borne on the wings of England's fleets
Across the trackless deep,
To earth's remotest empires
Now sunk in night forlorn;
To Isles, and shoreless Continents
Of nations yet unborn:
Till such a harvest shall be reap'd,
Beyond the world's belief,
As shall console the Church of God
For centuries of grief.
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E'en now, O England, I behold,
With solemn pace and slow,
Through thy long desecrated shrines
The glad Procession go.
I see the mitred Pontiff tread
Their festal aisles along;
I see the Crucifix o'erhead;
I hear their olden song.
The fragrant incense high aloft
Its waving circlet weaves;
And Heaven again into its fold
Its erring child receives.
O day, O blissful day, for thee
How many saints have sigh'd!
And only to behold thy face
Most gladly would have died.
O prayer of longing Christendom!
O balm for sorrows past!
What joy 'twill be when thou shalt come!
As come thou shalt at last.
Such is the hope that evermore
My lonely spirit cheers.
O Jesu! speed the time;—O speed
The intervening years!
And grant of Thy dear mercy, Lord,
That when these things shall be,
I, safe from my long pilgrimage
In living light with Thee,
May from the crystal battlements
That day of days behold;
And in the sight, for present grief,
Rejoice a thousandfold.
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II. ST. KENELM'S WELL.

Come, all of you, and sit around,
And listen while I tell
A tale from ancient chronicles
About St. Kenelm's well:
But first, good Christians, one and all,
Upon the Saint in glory call.
Chorus
O sweet St. Kenelm,
O sweet St. Kenelm,
Pray for us! Pray for us,
O sweet St. Kenelm.
St. Kenelm's well, St. Kenelm's well,
How calm and clear it flows!
As when a thousand years ago
By miracle it rose:
So flows the stream of Faith sublime,
For ever clear in every time.
This land was ancient Mercia,
Which far and wide you see;
And Kenelm he became its king
When seven years old was he:
A fairer little prince, I ween,
A holier child, was never seen.
But oh! what will not envy do?
This good and gracious boy
A cruel sister had, who sigh'd
His kingdom to enjoy;
And so, to gain her wicked will,
She plotted this sweet lamb to kill.
St. Kenelm rose at early dawn,
And prayed his little prayer;
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But from his tender infant cheek
Had fled the roses fair;
Then signing with the Cross his breast,
He thus his aged nurse address'd:
‘O Ella, dear, this morn I dreamt
I stood upon a tree,
All in a flush of blossoms bright,
When down it fell with me;
And like a bird I soar'd away:—
Now read to me the dream, I pray.’
‘Ah, sweetest child, the dream I read,’—
Thus made the nurse reply;
‘Cut off in virtue's early bloom,
I fear me thou must die;
But like a bird thy soul shall mount,
To sip and sing at glory's fount.’
St. Kenelm clapp'd his little hands,
‘God speed the time,’ quoth he;
‘I've often pray'd that I might go
With holy Mary to be.
One sight of Christ in glory clear
Is better than a kingdom here.’
That eve they led him sporting forth
Across the woodland wild,
And there, beneath a hawthorn tree,
They slew the royal child;
And buried him, with witness none,
Except the eye of God alone.
O long and long was search around
For Mercia's monarch made;
But the cowslips they had mantled thick
Above where he was laid;
And nought remain'd to lend a trace
Of little Kenelm's resting-place.
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But not in vain the blood of Saints
Upon the earth is sown;
And though their grave be hid from men,
It is to Angels known;
For holy Angels love the just,
And keep a watch above their dust.
Far off, a thousand miles away,
Across the land and main,
The Pope was chanting solemn mass
In Peter's holy fane;
When Heav'n to him the spot reveal'd,
So long from British eye conceal'd.
Lo! down beside the altar floats
A dove on azure wings,
Who in her beak a golden scroll
Of mystic import brings:
‘Of his fair head St. Kenelm shorn
Is sleeping low beneath a thorn.’
To England straight the tidings fly,
The hawthorn soon is found;
And crowds on crowds, to see their king,
Flock in from all around;
As incorrupt in death he lay,
Like one who scarce was dead a day.
See now the Peers and Bishops wend
In long funereal line,
With incense, cross, and silken pall,
To Winchcomb's royal shrine,
And there in consecrated shade
The son is with his father laid.
But on his sister justice came,
Pursuing close behind;
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And all amidst her queenly state
She pined, and pined, and pined;
Till in their sockets, day by day,
Her eyes had wasted both away.
Meanwhile, to show to all below
His glory in the skies,
Up from the spot where he had lain
Did this fair spring arise;—
Memorial of the sacred sod
Where rested once a Saint of God.
Here miracles of might are wrought
On deaf, and lame, and blind;
Here all who only come in faith
A benediction find.—
St. Kenelm! for the pilgrims pray,
Who in thy praise are met to-day.

III. ON HEARING THE NIGHTINGALE SING IN THE DAY-TIME.

Sweet bird, enchantress of the earth!
Born in the world's young prime,
The only bird of Eden birth
Left to this latter time!
Why on the sunny laughing day
Thy golden voice expend?
To lonely night belongs thy lay;
Save thee she has no friend.
The day, it has a thousand songs,
Of leaflet, bird, and bee;
The merry bell to the day belongs;
The night—it has but thee!
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Then for sad solitary night
Reserve thy liquid lay;
And she to thee for this delight,
Full many thanks will pay;
Listening all still, o'er vale and hill,
While from some copsewood tree,
Thou with charm'd trill the air dost fill,
Blending all things in thee!

IV. EVENING.

Now eve descends in meek array,
More welcome than the gaudy day;
The clouds forsake the upper sky
To settle on some mountain high;
Or round the Sunset's crimson close
In variegated piles repose.
Faint, more faint, and fainter still,
Stealing on o'er vale and hill,
The chimes from distant turret gray
Into silence fade away.
The hamlet swarms with rustic poor,
At gossip by the cottage-door;
Guided by little urchin strong,
Homeward creeps the team along;
The children, heedless to be seen,
Bathe in the pond upon the green;
Whence along their beaten track
March the geese in order back.
From the cot beside the oak
Mounts a slender thread of smoke,
Telling with what thrifty care
Its two old dames their meal prepare;
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While from open lattice nigh
Notes of village harmony
Floating in a cadence clear
Catch the idly listening ear.
Now then the pensive task be mine,
As into dusk the tints decline,
In meditative mood to stray
Along some brier-scented way:
Where, perch'd beside her leafy nest,
The linnet trills her young to rest.
There let me muse, all else forgot,
On the strange tide of human lot;
How brief the measure of our day;
On death's approach, on life's decay;
On former times, on future things;
On all our vain imaginings;—
Till over fading lawn and mead
Their beaded net the dews have spread;
And the pale glow-worm shows her light,
To guide me home at fall of night.

V. SPRING.

Come, Spring, O come;
And loiter not so long
In distant Southern isles,
Or in the glens of Araby the Blest.
Come, Spring, O come;
For I am sick at heart
Of the dull winter's length,
And yearn to see thy winsome face again.
On the fresh blade
Glistens the rime of morn,
Waiting for thee to come,
And with thy breath exhale it to the skies.
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For thee the bud
Its fragile form unfolds;
And opening film by film
Spreads to the tempting air its leaf of gauze.
The lamb for thee,
Thrilling with young delight,
Skips through the fleecy fold
On the warm slope of many a sunny vale;
While near at hand,
From hedge-rows faintly green,
To frequent bleatings shrill
The newly-mating birds in songs reply.
Then from afar
Once more appear, O Spring,
Breathing most odorous sweets,
With robe of violet and lily crown.
Once more appear,
Enchantress of the world!
Who with sweet siren voice
Lullest the harsh notes of the wintry gale!
So to thy call
All nature shall respond,
And grateful, o'er thy head
Strew the white blossoms of the early year.

VI. AUTUMN.

As late I stood a sluggish brook beside,
Wherein from rustling alders dropping fast,
Floated the leaves that were poor Summer's pride,
But now to reckless winds aside were cast;
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A hoary-headed Hermit I espied,
Sitting where o'er the stream an aspen hung:
His robe with divers gaudy tints was dyed,
And his glazed eye upon the brook was flung,
As musing deep he seem'd the fading woods among.
Anon he steps him forth with solemn tread,
While round his feet strange mournful music rose;
And from the groves a dirge, as of the dead,
Came fitfully, lamenting Summer's close.
Meanwhile the gossamers began o'erhead
From branch to branch their airy woof to ply;
And from the ground a sickly vapour spread,
That slowly floating up shut out the sky,
Drawing o'er nature's bier a funeral canopy!

VII. ASSOCIATIONS WITH PLACES.

'Tis strange to think on this green earth
How many spots there be,
Mementos dear of grief or mirth,
Unknown to you or me!
The grot, the glen, the old grey tower
Gaily we saunter by,
Where ofttimes in a pensive hour
Another stops to sigh.
Each object speaks, if all were known,
Heard by none else beside,
To some one heart in solemn tone,
Recalling what has died.
Thus wide and far, o'er isle and main,
A thousand memories dwell
Of tears, of guilt, of love, of pain,
Far more than we can tell.
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O, let us tread with thoughts profound
Where'er our path may be;
All earth is consecrated ground,
To him who thinks with me!

VIII. ON AN ANCIENT STONE-QUARRY.

Know, visitor, that from this spot obscure,
So shut from human gaze,
Whither scarce once a year across the moor
A lonely shepherd strays,
In olden time, far off beyond the seas,
A vast Cathedral rose,
Whose fame extends to earth's extremities,
And still with ages grows.
The stones, that here in darkness would have lain,
There piled in glorious state,
Up to the skies the fretted roof sustain,
Majestically great;
Or carved in many a mystical device,
And forms of Saints on high,
In glory ever new bring Paradise
Before th' entrancèd eye.
Such power hath God for His eternal ends
To human genius given;
Genius sublime! upon whose wings ascends
The mind from earth to heaven!
So, at His will and bountiful decree,
From low obscurest things,
In everlasting truth and harmony,
Celestial beauty springs.
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E'en as at first, from the rude formless mass
Of earth's chaotic frame,
This fair creation, at His word of grace,
In perfect order came!

IX. NATURE'S MYSTERIES.

Nature! deign to drop thy veil,
For a little moment's space;
Well I know, its folds conceal
Many a miracle of grace.
Well I know that deep within
Move in a mysterious scheme
Things immortal, things divine,
Fairer than the heart can dream.
Oh, might I but look behind,
What a blaze of glory bright,
In thy hidden depth enshrined,
Would confound my dazzled sight!
Substances of beauty rare,
Unconceived by human thought,
Whence, as in a tissue fair,
All that we behold is wrought!
Living light in ebb and flow;
Paradisal imagery!
Angels glancing to and fro
In the clear transparency!
Ah, if thy exterior dress
Is so beauteous, as we see;
What must not the beauteousness
Of thine inner splendours be!
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X. A DREAM OF CHILDHOOD.

I had a dream when I was young,—
It was a mystery to me,
And ever to my heart has clung
Its most enchanting memory.
I stood a little lake beside,
With roses fringed, as silver bright;
Above me Angels seem'd to glide,
All in a strangely liquid light.
When suddenly there thrill'd me through
A sound more sweet than I can name,
Unheard before, but well I knew
That from those angel forms it came.
They caught me up, they bore me high,
Softly their wings enwrapp'd me o'er;
Strange things they show'd me in the sky,—
Things I had never guess'd before.
Then first I saw how little earth
Can with eternal worlds compare;
Then first I felt my higher birth
Than beasts on land or birds in air.
O joy of joys! I seem'd to fly;
I seem'd at Heav'n's own gate to be;
The Seraphs chanting through the sky
Amidst their songs enseraph'd me.
I woke;—the bells were chiming clear,
Waking I strove to dream again;
But then, and since from year to year,
I've sought for that sweet dream in vain.
O sunny hours of life's young light!
O season blest of man's brief day!
When in the dreams of morning bright
Angels can steal the soul away!
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Would that again by grace divine
My soul were fit such things to see!
Gladly for this would I resign
All that the world has brought to me.

XI. ON PASSING BY A FORMER HOME ON A RAILWAY.

All on a road of iron strong,
Behind our iron steed,
Old England's Westward length along
We swept with fiery speed.
Oh, drear to me was that long day,
And weary was the din;
No village scenes to cheer the way!
My heart fell dead within.
When suddenly there burst on me;
A spot well known of yore;
A spot I had not dreamt to see,—
A moment seen and o'er!
Within a little nook it lay,—
Garden and house and lawn,
Beeches and brook and steeple gray
That saw my boyhood's dawn.
O blest abode! to your sweet shade
How did my spirit spring;
Counting the gulf that time had made
A momentary thing!
And ringing back life's changes all,
Till far away I heard
The chimes of early childhood call,
Like to a mocking-bird.
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O blest abode! like some deep thought
A moment felt and o'er,
As though Eternity it brought,
Then left us as before!
Farewell, farewell! the world sweeps by,
And I with it must go;
But I'll return before I die,
If God shall grant it so.

XII. SUMMER'S DEPARTURE.

The glory of Summer
Is faded and fled;
The wreaths that adorn'd her
Are dying or dead;
The Autumn is coming,
And strong in his blast
Will open to Winter
A passage at last.
O, how to my spirit
It seemeth to say,—
‘Thus, too, is thy Summer
Fast fleeting away;
And the things which thou lovest,
Though pleasant they be,
And the friends thou hast chosen
Are fading with thee.
Dost thou covet a Summer
More certain of bliss?—
Go seek thee a country
Far brighter than this;
Where the joys thou hast lost
Thou shalt never deplore,
And the friends thou hast chosen
Shall quit thee no more.’
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XIII. ON A SELFISH RETIREMENT.

How many souls of strongest powers
To selfish solitude consign'd
Have whiled in idleness their hours,
Nor nobly sought to serve mankind!
Them, nor a widow'd nation's cries,
Nor blood of freedom largely shed,
Nor saintly martyr's dying sighs,
From their false dream of quiet led.
Listless beneath o'er-arching trees,
They watch'd the birds attune their song,
Or gather'd incense from the breeze,
Or mark'd the streamlet glide along.
But not to such the Muse may give
Her sacred wreath, the Patriot's pride;
Since for themselves content to live
So for themselves alone they died.
Happy the man who for his God
Has left the world and all its ways,
To tread the path that Saints have trod,
And spend his life in prayer and praise:
Unhappy, who himself to please
Forsakes the path where duty lies,
Either in love of selfish ease,
Or in contempt of human ties.
In vain have they the world resign'd
Who only seek an earthly rest;
Nor to the soul that spurns mankind
Can even solitude be blest.
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XIV. TO ONE COMPLAINING OF LIFE'S MONOTONY.

Dear Friend, you make no new complaint,
But one, I think, we've heard before,
Made by a certain royal scribe
Dissatisfied in days of yore.
He too of life's unchanging round
Grew weary as the years went by;
He wearied of the feast and song,
And all his royalty could buy:
He wearied of his gardens fair,
And palaces of curious art!
Of still unsated eye and ear,
Of still unsated mind and heart.
He wearied of the ways of men,
So like in virtue as in sin;
He wearied of the seas unfill'd
By all the rivers flowing in;
He wearied of the rivers all
Returning back from whence they came;
Of nothing new beneath the sun;
Of all things ever still the same.
Yet there's a thought, which might outweigh,
Could we but duly feel its force,
This sense of sameness which our life
Brings with it in its daily course;
So I at least have seem'd to find,
Myself a fellow-victim too;
And as an antidote I now
Commend it, dearest Friend, to you;—
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The thought of that momentous change
So quickly, quickly, drawing near,
Surpassing all we can conceive
Of all excess of changes here!
O Change intense!—from life to death!
O state to which it leads the way!
A state of which no human words
The proper image can convey!
Because no images subsist
Save what the senses first supply
But all the senses fail to reach
Beyond the limit where we die!
Great God! no more in listless ease,
Or dreariness of dull routine,
Be mine to doze upon the verge
Of everlasting worlds unseen.
But mindful of my coming doom
To endless weal or endless woe,
So let me use thy solemn trust
Of this diurnal life below;
That at the last, O Love divine,
I be not all unworthy found
Of what Thy bounty may design
In that eternal life beyond!

XV. A VILLAGE INCIDENT.

I know a man of many years,
Full ninety years and more,
On Summer-noons he oft appears
Outside his cottage-door.
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And there with palsied hand will he
Sit knitting in the shade;
O, 'tis a curious sight to see
That old man at his trade.
In winter by his chimney-hole
He spends the livelong day,
And often gets a passing dole
From those who go that way.
For he is known the parish round,
And all the neighbourhood o'er;
And there has lived on that same ground
For ninety years and more.
No child has he, they are all gone,
And rest them in a row;
Last week he buried a younger son
With hair as white as snow.
In his old prayer-book at the end,
Their ages you may see;
That book it is his oldest friend,
And twice as old as he.
But yesterday I pass'd that way,
And miss'd him from his chair;
I saw that in distress he lay,
And gave what I could spare.
Then lifting up his clear blue eye,
With trembling voice he cried,
‘May you be bless'd by God on high,
And Christ the crucified!’
O words of comfort, how did they
My heart with rapture fill!
And ever since, do what I may,
I seem to hear them still.
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And ever to myself I sing
With a deep inward glee,
‘Old man, it was a pleasant thing
To be thus bless'd by thee.’

XVI. THE UNSHED TEAR.

Oh bitter is the tear that is not shed!
Back to the heart they say it wends unseen;
There nestles as a fountain in its bed,
And ever and anon wells up, all fresh and keen;
And tainting living joys with sorrows dead,
Floods present sweet with bitter that hath been:
Nor aught can heal this Mara of the soul,
But the sweet Cross of Him who died to make us whole.

XVII. WATER.

O Water, element sublime,
Alone unchanged since Eden time!
For earth and air no more
Are what they were before;
And all Creation moans its hapless fate,
Fallen with fallen man from its primeval state.
But thou still pure dost rise,
As when the guilty world thou didst baptise;
As when first welling from th' untainted sod,
Where Adam sinless trod,
Fourfold thou flowedst through the Paradise of God!

XVIII. TO ECHO.

Genius most coy!
Who in deep hermit-glen,
Where through o'er-foliaged cleft the brooklet steals,
A sylvan life dost lead!
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Or in high dome,
To solemn-sounding choir,
From thy calm realm wide-arching overhead,
Returnest strain for strain!
Thee in some grot,
Far down primeval time,
From noise of heaving chaos deep retired,
Did Silence bring to birth;
There nursed thee up
Beneath a radiant roof,
Where sparkled thick innumerable gems,
The storehouse of a world!
Whence still thy voice,
Most heard in lonely scenes,
Flies from the common haunt, from business rude,
And the coarse hum of men.
O, that with thee
I, too, apart might dwell;
Nor to the traffic of the world consign'd,
Invert the ends of life!

XIX. A SICK PERSON'S COMPLAINT.

Like him who by Bethsaida's pool of old
Long time in suffering expectation lay,
So this tenth year I lie in pains untold;
And seeing oft the funerals go this way,
And hearing oft the knell float on the morning gray,
I envy young and old who me before
Into the grave go down from day to day.
Jesu, forgive the sin, or me restore;
Or help me thither soon, that I may sin no more!
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XX. A DREAM IN SPRING.

One morn in Spring
I did me fling
Beneath our churchyard yew;
Then sleep it stole
Across my soul,
Soft as the silver dew.
The graves amid,
Far down deep hid,
Methought one dead I lay;
Waiting all still,
For good or ill,
The Resurrection-day.
It seem'd as though,
Through weal, through woe,
Thus I apart had lain,
For years untold,
In heat, in cold,
In drought and drizzling rain.
But now the sun had fill'd the air
With summer warmth and glee;
And like the soft breath of a prayer
Was that warm sun to me.
The buds had burst their winter shroud,
The lark was in the skies;
High up I heard him singing aloud,
And long'd with him to rise.
‘Ah, why,’ thought I,
‘Must I thus lie,
While in the Springtide gay,
Waking from sleep,
These earthlings keep
Their Resurrection-day?
439

‘Oh, when at last
Shall the trumpet-blast
Be peal'd o'er earth and sea?
By Prophets old
Long since foretold,
Sole hope of life to me!’
Then smote mine ear,
From some grave near,
Low whispering on the air,
‘That time is known
In Heaven alone,
Nor to the Angels there.
‘Suffice for thee
That hour shall be,
Then keep thee to thy rest,
Thrice happy if the lot be thine,
Waking at last, by grace divine
To waken with the blest.’

XXI. THE SOUL. A COMPARISON.

A narrow brooklet ill befits
The ship in gallant trim,
Destined across the ocean waves
With precious freight to swim.
So, too, the heart confined to earth
A stranded object lies;
Meant by its Maker to maintain
Communion with the skies.
O my poor bark, so long aground,
Expand thy drooping sail;
Forsake the limitary coast,
And catch the open gale.
440

It ill becomes thine origin,
Thy destiny sublime,
To lie immersed in vanities
Upon the shoal of time.
Let not a petty earthly pool
That noble keel detain,
Bound with immortal freight to cross
Th' illimitable main!

XXII. TO THE PLUMES ON A HEARSE.

Ye sable plumes,
That soft and tremulous,
Like foliage of Norwegia's sombre pine,
Wave in the listless breeze!
Within your depth
Of dim funereal shades,
That to my brooding thought gigantic grow,
What grisly spectres dwell!
E'en as I gaze,
I seem their forms to see,
Through your recesses of umbrageous gloom
In silence gliding by;—
Sickness and Pain!
And unrepented Guilt!
Pale Disappointment, haggard Misery!
Despair with wringing hands!
Terror, Remorse!
Bereavement dumb with woe!
And agonising Grief that vainly wails
And will not be consoled!
Avaunt, avaunt!
Ye phantoms of the grave!
I sign me with the Cross! Your power is nought!
In vain, in vain, ye try
441

To fright the soul,
To whom her Lord is nigh;
Who, fix'd in Him, resolved for Him to live,
In Him exults to die!

XXIII. HOPE AND MEMORY.

There are two Beings, rich in wondrous powers,
Twin-sisters, kindly wont to dwell with man:
One owns the treasures of all future hours;
The other grasps the past within her span;
Hope ever smiling, bright with thousand dyes
From the gay hues distill'd of golden morn;
And Memory breathing softly-soothing sighs,
Sweet as the rose, yet not without its thorn.
These two together, through life's weary way
Trip hand in hand, and scatter fairy flowers;
Together pour around inspiring day,
And water desert earth with genial showers.
Apart—so speaks a voice from yonder grave—
The power of each to bless no more may last;
Without a future, who the past would crave?
And who a future, if denied the past?

XXIV. ON VISITING THE ROOM WHERE I WAS BORN.

Oh, for an hour of quiet thought,
On this fair summer morn!
When I behold what long I've sought,
The room where I was born.
And is it true, and can it be,
That at no distant day,
In this same room which now I see,
A newborn babe I lay?
442

And here, mysterious soul of mine,
Did thy young life begin,
Cast breathless by decree divine
Into a world of sin?
Mortality's immortal dawn!
O truth sublimely strange!
The more revolved, the more withdrawn
Beyond my reason's range!
Thou, Lord, alone, who didst create,
Canst tell, and none but Thee,
The marvels of my present state,
Of what I yet shall be.
I see the laurell'd garden gay,
Whose flower-inwoven maze
Greeted so oft at peep of day
My youthful mother's gaze.
I see the lattice, whence the light
First smote my quivering eye,
And flooding o'er me came the sight
Of earth and azure sky;
When frighted at the world so new,
Wailing I hid my head;
And to my mother's bosom drew,
And there was comforted.
O, mix'd vicissitudes of life!
O, many mingled scene,
Through which since then, in peace or strife,
My being's course has been!
Thoughts incommunicably strange
Contract my aching brow,
As musing on from change to change
I trace my life till now.
443

Jesu, all praise! Alas, in ways
Of darkness I have trod!
Yet still at least my early days
Were sanctified to God;
When at Thy Font of life divine
Thine arms enfolded me,
By nature born a child of sin,
By grace new born to Thee.
Since then I've sinn'd, since then I've stray'd,
Till all but lost I seem;
Yet still to Thee be glory paid,
Who solely canst redeem!

XXV. LESSON FROM A CLOUD.

Dark and dismal as the tomb
To the wretch condemn'd to die,
So yon cloud with sickly gloom
Overspreads the cheerful sky.
While the shadows which it traces
Thus obscure this lower scene;
On the side that heavenward faces,
All is sunny and serene.
So in troubles small or great,
Let us take the comfort given;
Even to the darkest fate,
There's a side that looks to Heaven!

XXVI. THE SEASIDE.

When in the sweet childhood that's gone
I stood by the side of the main,
At every new wave that roll'd on,
I wonder'd again and again.
444

As I gather'd the shells on its shore,
As I gazed on the vessels at sea,
The mystery grew more and more,
And would not interpreted be.
O dream which my childhood beguiled,
How truthful an emblem wert thou!—
As I thought of the sea when a child,
So I think of eternity now.
I stand by the side of its sea:
I gather the shells on its shore;
But its depths are mysterious to me
As the depths of the ocean of yore.
Every hour that rolls on its way
Brings enigmas which reason transcend;
And the best of all homage to pay,
Is to wonder on still to the end.
Then from the sea its depths shall go fleeing;
All bare shall eternity be;
And they who now wonder, not seeing,
Shall wonder the more when they see!

XXVII. ON SEEING SNOW UPON GOOD FRIDAY.

Snow, what art thou doing here,
At this season of the year,
Just when earth begins to sing,
Bringing Winter into Spring?
Christmas is thy fitter day,
Christmas long has pass'd away;
Say, then, what has brought thee here,
At this season of the year?
445

Is it, upon this sad day,
When upon the Cross He lay,
To recall that happier morn
When the Prince of Peace was born?
Or, appearing to our sight,
All in robes of virgin white,
Wouldst thou rather us remind
In a moral undesign'd,
What great purity of heart
Is required on our part,
If we hope a life to spend
Worthy of the Saviour's end?
Thus in thee, if well inclined,
We a useful lesson find;
Thou wilt quickly melt away;
May the lesson longer stay!

XXVIII. TO THE HOURS.

Ye solemn Hours,
That swift and stealthily,
Laden with stores untold,
From past eternity to future glide!
Methinks at night
I see your phantom-forms,
Down the dim vault of time
Trailing in silent majesty along.
Then to my mind,
As amid leafless boughs
The bleak wind whistles shrill,
Throng buried hopes,—throngs the sad waste of years;
Till half I wish
I might my days recall;
And tracing back my course,
Find me some new and better path to Heaven
446

XXIX. LINES WRITTEN ON LEAVING OXFORD.

How well I remember the hour,
When first from the brow of this hill,
I gazed upon spire and tower,
Becalm'd in the valley so still!
The birds sweetly sang in mine ear,
Still sweeter sang hope at my heart;
How bright did the prospect appear,
What thrilling emotions impart!
Since then seven years have expired,
Seven years which I sigh but to name;
Yet I have more than all I desired
Of knowledge, of friendship, of fame.
How strange are the feelings of man!
How changefully link'd with each other!
One feeling is strong when we plan,
We succeed,—it is turn'd to another.
Oh teach me, great Teacher of all,
Such wisdom to learn and to love,
So to feel, that whatever befall,
It may lead me to better above.
There only are destined to bloom
The hopes that we cherish below;
There the past is divested of gloom;
No pain can the future bestow.

XXX. ON WEEPING WHILE ASLEEP.

Waking one morn, in sickness, I was told
By those who o'er my sleep their watch had kept,
That they had mark'd a crowd of busy tears
Trickling from my closed eyes the while I slept.
447

But I, of any sorrow unaware,
Had pass'd that night in freedom from all pain,
Nor in my dreams the vision of a care
Had visited the mansions of my brain.
Ah, was it then that nature of herself
Pour'd for her guilt th' involuntary tear?
Smit inwardly like that hard rock of old
By rod of secret Angel standing near?
Or was it thou, my soul, in thine own depth
Stirr'd with unfathom'd thoughts too sad to last,
Anticipating death and judgment dread,
Or pining o'er th' irrevocable past?
Thou knowest, Lord, who dost my misery see;
And Thou alone:—this only will I say,
Thrice grateful I for tears to weep to Thee,
Or choose Thou me the night, or choose the day.

XXXI. LINES WRITTEN IN MOMENTARY DISGUST WITH METAPHYSICS.

O, vain attempt!
For us, poor offspring of primeval sin,
To trace within our soul,
Of its ideas the fontal origin!
What! know ye not,
O ye all-wise philosophers of earth,
How radical a wound
Of ignorance infests us from our birth?
How shorn of grace
This human nature lost in darkness lies!
With scarce a memory left
Of what it was in earlier Paradise!
448

Whence to itself
It must for ever an enigma be;
A dim chaotic thing
Degraded from its first integrity.
O Lord, to thee
I lift aloft my supplicating cry;
Teach me my true estate,
To feel how frail, how null, how nought am I!
Teach me by grace
Duly my nature's misery to scan;
To look in all to Thee
Who art my All, and know myself a man.

XXXII. THE TEMPLE OF THE HOLY GOSPELS.

Know, weary Pilgrim, that not far remote
From this o'er-peopled tract of modern time
So humming with the ever-restless wheels
Of commerce and material industry,
A sacred spot there is, from the rude throng
Of vulgar recollections far retired,
(O'er the green plain approach'd where Peter sits
Tending his happy sheepfold evermore);
A sacred spot—the cynosure of earth,
And central in the labyrinth of years,
Midway betwixt the solemn boundaries
Of Past and Future. There upon a sward
Of aromatic and most emerald grass,
A temple stands, well worthy of thy gaze.
Shaped circular, in pure chalcedony,
And with a circling row of golden pillars
Encoronall'd—four porticoes it hath,
To earth's four quarters open; which at first
Of poor appearance seem—but presently
449

To Faith's clear vision'd and unfaltering eye
Expanding, as she gazes, soar aloft
From height to height, and in the clouds are lost.
Archangels guard the gates with flaming swords,
The same, 'tis said, who at an earlier day
Did man unparadise; but now to man
For His dear sake who died on Calvary,
Propitious grown, his entrance they invite
With most benignant smiles; excluding only
Spirits of power malign, who formerly,
Under old Paganism's doleful shade,
Infested all the plain. Once enter'd in,
You find yourself beneath a spacious dome,
Within a Sanctuary most august,
Abode of absolute tranquillity,
Where not a footfall echoes. Round the sides
A circuit fair of jewell'd chapelries,
Each with its mystic altar, greets the eye,
Each with its mystic window, upon which
In blended tints of vivid imagery
Glows the blest history of the Son of Man
Ineffably portrayed. And evermore
Myriads of worshippers, in spirit borne
From earth's far ends, with mute enravishment
Those courts perambulate, and wholly lost
In musing ectasy, upon the scenes
Of that dread Life of lives adoring gaze.
Central beneath the dome, a palmlike fount
Of purest living light, in thousand jets
Incessant plays, and with its overflow
A sapphire basin fills, in whose clear depth
All Heaven reflected shines. Around it stand
The four divine Historians; and from thence
For all who come, in golden chalices
The sparkling water draw, which whoso drink
450

Drink endless life. Ah, then, without delay,
Haste, Pilgrim, to that Temple, passing by
Whatever else invites thee; there obtain
Rest from thy weariness; and there enjoy
Celestial consolations! Vain is all
The world can show, with those delights compared.

XXXIII. THE SOUL'S ABYSS.

Far down within the castle of the soul
Exists from ancient days a postern door,
Opening upon th' abyss where ceaseless roll
Time's silent surges on th' eternal shore,—
A secret portal, which to-day self-closed
Perchance to-morrow morn is open found;
According as the thoughts have been disposed,
Or momentary sight, or scent, or sound,
Or breath divine may have its magic bars unbound.
Thither one night by spiral stair descending,
Within the central keep of my own mind,
Flight below flight—so far, it seem'd unending—
I went, absorb'd in thoughts of solemn kind;
As through some ancient mine one all alone
With his pale fitful light exploring goes;
And starts to hear or weirdly whispering tone,
Or rush of water as unseen it flows,
Or other wandering sound for which no cause he knows.
At length I came upon a lonely cell,
That like a timeworn hermitage appear'd,
Scoop'd midway in a cliff impregnable
Of basalt rock.—A heap of leaflets, sear'd
By Autumn's touch, the vagrant winds had piled
Upon the floor; and in the wall was seen
A niche, where meekly folding her dread Child
Stood the blest Mother, of Archangels Queen,
Carved in the living rock, with a most loving mien.
451

Half open stood the door; I push'd it wide.—
Ah, me, what sight was there! the dense profound
Of sheer infinity's abysmal void
Broke sudden from the threshold. Not a sound
Stirr'd the strange blank; nor dark it seem'd, nor light;
But a great nameless all-absorbing deep,
Upon whose verge I shiver'd with affright,
As the fledged eaglet, balancing to sweep
Downward on his first plunge from the stern dizzy steep.
Ah, then had I extinct in darkness been,
Lost in the depths of that abyss unknown,
But that a hand behind me came unseen,
And pluck'd me back when I was all but gone.
Breathless before the Mother and the Child
A moment and I seem'd to kneel and pray;
A moment and methought their faces smiled,
As if they had some gracious thing to say:
Then sudden from my dream I woke,—and it was day!
I woke; but still the thought of that abyss
Haunted my spirit with a fearful power;
And long in vain I struggled to dismiss
Its memory through many a waking hour.
O bountiful compassion of the Lord!
Thus warning us by day and night in turn;
Forcing by fear, enticing by reward;
That man may his mortality discern,
And from his nothingness his true dependence learn
O Nothingness, from whence my being sprang;
O Nothingness, to which again I tend;
If Thou, who didst the globe on nothing hang,
Refuse Thine ever-present aid to lend!
Essential Being, whence all beings flow,
Teach me my native misery to see;
Teach me my perfect nullity to know;
452

Teach me to feel how I depend on Thee
For all I was, or am, or may hereafter be.
And thou, pure Virgin Daughter of the sky,
Who, fashion'd like myself in mortal mould,
Wast raised by thy deep lowliness so high
As in thine arms Creation's Lord to hold,
Entreat for me that I aside may cast
All things that might my heavenward course impede;
That I may humbly walk, and gain at last,
From all temptation, sin, and suffering freed,
The bosom of my God, whence endless joys proceed.

XXXIV. BELIEF OF ANGLICANS IN THE REAL PRESENCE TESTED.

My friends, ye use a solemn-seeming tone,
And teach a truth sublime;
Christ present in His Eucharist ye own,
And count denial a crime.
Be honest; if Him truly there ye hold,
When next the Feast ye share,
Bow down before the Mystery untold,—
Bow down, and worship there!
What, ye refuse! O men unreal, I see
Ye have your words belied!
Farewell, such teaching will not serve for me;
I seek a surer guide.

XXXV. A REMONSTRANCE.

Dear friends, I know you mean your best,
Thinking to serve your Lord and mine,
When thus you pluck me from your breast
For having join'd His Church divine.
453

O if ye knew!—but words are vain;
Ye cannot learn what ye despise:
And it is idle to explain
The truth to those who shut their eyes;
Yet I will say, If but ye knew
The things which blindly ye condemn;
Could ye but feel as children do,
And deign for once to learn of them;
Before that Church which now you hate,
That Church which you refuse to hear,
Which in your hearts you execrate,
And which, while you revile, you fear,
O, with what love and joy and trust
Would you not all with one accord
Exult to bow yourselves in dust,
As the pure image of her Lord!
Bethink ye, friends, a day is near—
How near to each, O who can say?—
When falsities will disappear,
And all be seen as clear as day.
Unhappy those who now their eyes
To close against the Truth agree,
But then with sorrow and surprise
Shall be compell'd that Truth to see!
Pause and reflect; your time is short;
Soon will this hurried life be o'er:
Too late perchance ye may be taught
What might have saved if learnt before!

XXVI. THE ROCK OF PETER.

Yes, there are times
When through my being's depth,
Shoots an ecstatic thrill
454

Of bounding gratitude for mercies past;—
To think that now,
From sophistry's black web,
From deadly subtle snare
Of Heresy, I am escaped at last!
O, happy I!
Who, spent by baffling surge,
Have now at length my foot
Upon the Rock of Peter firmly set;
Round which the waves
Tumultuous rage in vain;
Vainly have raged of old,
And still in vain shall rage through ages yet.
Now let the hills
Be swept into the sea;
Let the floods lift their voice;
And mountains shake before the roaring deep;—
I on the Rock
Of ages safe from harm,
Will lay me down in peace,
And all amid the wrack securely sleep.
Thou o'er my head
Lulling the fretful sea,
Star of the deep! shine down,
Still evermore the same in storms or calms!
And send sweet dreams
Of Paradise to me,
Taking my happy rest
Safe in my everlasting Father's arms!

XXXVII. ST. CLEMENT'S TOMB.

Of all the mausoleums, old or new,
High-famed in Italy or other lands,
Thine, Clement, I admire, by Angel-hands
Constructed underneath the billows blue,
455

On the broad Euxine's amber-paven floor,
Near where Chersona stood in days of yore.
Long dwelt thy memory there among the race
Of simple quarrymen, whose toil supplied
Imperial Rome with porphyry to grace
Her palaces; and long they certified,
Father to child, the story of thy tomb,
And well-remember'd glorious martyrdom.
How exiled thither by the stern decree
Of Trajan, thou through all the country round
Didst spread the Christian faith; and being found
Guilty of death wast carried out to sea,
And toss'd into the dull oblivious deep,
Yoked to an anchor for thy surer sleep.
How then, as all the Faithful, on the shore
Lamenting thy lost relics, knelt and pray'd,
Lo, of itself the sea three miles and more
Receding, a broad open pathway made;
And they in search of thee, abreast the tide
Exploring on, a wondrous structure spied!
A lonely sepulchre, far out at sea,
Of purest alabaster, by no tool
Of mortal hand proportion'd,—beautiful
With curious work of mystic imagery,
O'er which on opal stalactites uprear'd
A pearly-tinted canopy appear'd.
And lo, within the tomb serenely lying,
The Saint himself in tranquil death composed;
Fragrant with Paradise; a bloom undying
Upon his roseate cheek; his eyelids closed;
His arms devoutly cross'd upon his breast;
Picture sublime of everlasting rest!
456

And not far off the anchor they espied,
So late his instrument of martyrdom,
But emblem now of better things to come;
When at the Resurrection glorified,
He, who for Jesus did his body give,
In that same body shall with Jesus live.
So runs Crimea's legendary lore,
Clement, of thee; but our great Mother Rome,
O Fourth of those whom Peter's lineage bore,
In time thy relics claim'd, as thy true home;
And she, who cast thee to a doom unjust,
Now worships every remnant of thy dust!

XXXVIII. THE TEMPLE OF NATURE.

O thou, dread Nature, whose material frame
In elemental strength compactly stands,
In beauty ever varying, yet the same,
Blending in unity all times and lands!
What art Thou but a Temple to His name
Who thee uprear'd upon th' abyss profound;
The uncreated Word, who flesh became
For us poor wormlings creeping on the ground,
Unworthy that such grace should unto us abound?
Who, lifting up thy mountain-pillar'd heights,
Thy spacious floor with land and sea inlaid;
Fill'd thy long aisles with mystic sounds and sights;
Of starry sky thy roof cerulean made:
That man in thee of ever-fresh delights,
Through dying Autumn and reviving Spring,
Through the long Summer-days and Winter-nights,
Might find a store from whence His praise to sing
Who is above all praise, of all creation King!
Then, too, lest outward nature should enthrall
Our souls oblivious of the things unseen,
Deep in Creation's adamantine wall
Windows He placed of rainbow-tints serene;
457

Through which His holy Heaven on those might shine
Who purely sought their God in all to see:
O glorious work of mercy most divine,
That nature thus might Thine Apostle be,
Great Lord, and to our hearts preach not herself but Thee!
Wherefore, all praise be Thine, who so hast wrought
Each mind responsive to Creation's scheme,
That outward sight should lead to inward thought,
Through inward thought Thine inner glory beam!
And teach us, gracious Lord, whene'er we go
The wonders of this Temple to explore,
Thyself, of all its life the life to know;
Thyself in all its wonders to adore,
Lord of all wisdom, might, and glory evermore!

XXXIX. NATURE'S ORATORIES.

Thou, too, O Nature, Temple most divine!
Besides thy public transept wide display'd,
Hast thine own private cells within thy shrine,
For secret prayer and meditation made:
Blest Oratories! on calm mountain-height,
Or in the forest's dim recesses found;
Or in the natural cave far hid from sight,
Down by the shore where ceaseless billows sound,
And the black beetling rocks reverberate around.
To these thy cloistral haunts, in olden time,
Often, 'tis said, the world's great sages came,
To meditate apart on truths sublime,
By glimpses caught through nature's outward frame;
And here—while, listening to Creation's groan,
They yearn'd for that Redemption yet to be—
Thou, Lord, didst hear their heart's responsive moan,
And pitying their dense mortality
Liftedst in part the veil that hid their gaze from Thee.
458

Hither came Orpheus, with his golden lyre,
Anticipating Thine own David's strains;
Here Homer sipp'd the fount of living fire,
And pious Hesiod sang, not all in vain;
Here Numa sat, from busy courts retired,
And Socrates with Plato, side by side;
Here Solon and Confucius were inspired;
Here Virgil knelt; and many more beside,
Whose names for ever live,—true souls unspoilt by pride!
And evermore came wisdom all unsought
On those who stole in silence here to muse:
But evermore the proud return'd untaught;
For Thou to them, O Lord, didst light refuse,
And in its place Egyptian darkness came;
Wherein, whoso Thy glorious works abuse,
They for their pride shall perish in the same.
O, teach us, then, a lowly path to choose,
And in our hearts Thine own humility infuse.

XL. THE CATHOLIC CHURCH THE BOND OF THE WORLD.

Like Isles that on the lap of ocean sleep,
Each a lone speck upon the watery maze,
So to the English superficial eye
Appear the Churches of our modern days,
That multifold in central unity
With Apostolic Rome communion keep:
But peering downward into Time's still deep,
Search thou the blue abyss with curious gaze,
And lo, these separate seeming Isles are found
To be the tops of mountains deluged o'er,
By whose enduring bars the world is bound;
Whose roots extend and meet from shore to shore,
Keeping all earth in place till time shall be no more!
459

XLI. FLOWERS IN THE SACRISTY.

Sweet flowers! that here
In bright disorder lie,
Soon to be ranged
Upon the Altar of the Lord most High;
Gather'd for this
By the fond hand of love:
How blest your lot
Above your other sisters of the grove!
How blest to give
To Heav'n your beauty's prime,
While yet unmarr'd
By sudden blight or slow-consuming time!
Dear emblems ye
Of such as early die,
From life's fair mead
Cull'd in their fresh baptismal purity!
They from this earth
By Angels quickly borne
To God's own shrine,
His ever-blooming altar to adorn;
There in His sight
Their graces fair display,
And yield new tints
In the pure light of beatific day;
There set before
The golden branches seven,
Live evermore,
And breathe a fragrance through the courts of Heaven.
460

XLII. FLOWERS ON THE ALTAR OF THE BLESSED SACRAMENT.

As on some ocean cliff
Oft I have seen
A patch of flowers along the perilous brink
Basking serene
In blooming heedlessness,
For all as though
No dread profundity of heaving main
Upsurged below;
So by yon altar-flowers
Glistening so fair
In their most delicate vases, each as in
Its own parterre,
Opens a dread abyss,
A sea immense,
Confounding in its dread reality
All thought, all sense!
For there in hidden might
Of glory dwells,
He who creation's whole infinitude
So far excels,
That countless worlds might blaze
To nought before
The fires of His magnificence, and all
Would be no more,
If with His Majesty
We them compare,
Than th' incense-wreath that round the altar rolls,
Then melts in air!
461

XLIII. ON THE USE OF ARTIFICIAL FLOWERS FOR THE ALTAR.

Time was when I abhorr'd,
Too much a partisan of nature's bowers,
To see upon the Altar of the Lord
Fictitious flowers.
But now, more fully taught
Thy hidden spirit, Church of ancient days
I find in this another proof unsought
Of wisdom's ways.
O Mother thou of men!
Who with all Heav'n unfolded in thy sight,
Dost yet no work of human hand contemn,
However slight!
But sanctifying all
That into thy full lap thy children bring,
Offerest their gifts with grace majestical
To Heaven's high King!
Offerest for them whate'er
Of beauty, Art, or Nature may afford,
To Him who high o'er art or nature's sphere
Of both alike is Lord!

XLIV. LINES ON A CEREMONIAL SANDAL OF HIS HOLINESS.

‘How beauteous on the hills the feet of him,
('Tis thus Isaias sings)
‘Who preaches heavenly peace, and brings to man
Glad tidings of good things!’
Christ first, his Vicar now, to us fulfils
This gracious work of God;
No land by seas or mountains so conceal'd,
But Peter there hath trod.
462

Hail, dearly-prized memorial, in late days
By our loved Pius worn!
Hail, emblem of the foot that walk'd the waves
In our redemption's morn!
Before this little cross embroider'd here
Princes have bended low;
And own'd the presence of a greater power
Than their proud world can show.
Here love hath left a kiss; here guilt hath been,
Nor dropp'd a tear in vain
At his dear feet who holds the potent Keys
That pardon or retain!
Here learning to the truthful Roman See
Hath grateful homage paid;
Here to religion's beauteous majesty
Beauty hath bow'd her head.
Oh by this sacred relic here I swear,
As all my life shall prove,
To him who sits in Peter's holy chair
True loyalty and love!

XLV. LINES ON A CEREMONIAL CAPELLA OF HIS HOLINESS.

O high exalted instinct of the soul!
That evermore doth find
A grace and splendour not their own, in things
Of customary kind!
Casket, or signet-ring, or coat of mail,
Or ornament of state,
That once belong'd to History's Champions,
The good, the wise, the great!
463

This relic fair, which love most Catholic
Devoutly treasures here,
To me, beholding it, than rubied crown
More glorious doth appear.
For cinctured round with spiry wheaten ears
And clustering grapes of gold,
Types of the pure Oblation offer'd now
For bloody rites of old,
Here, (by no fancy-freak) beneath its rim
Of emblematic red,
It shaded from a Roman summer's sun
The sacred snow-white head
Of our dear Pius; as from Church to Church,
Amidst the kneeling throng,
Serene he pass'd;—a Vision of delight,
The ancient ways along!
Angels of Rome! O shield that head beloved
From danger and all fears;
Watch o'er the Pontiff brave, the Sovereign good,
The Priest of fifty years!
And when his hour arrives, so long postponed
By Christendom's fond prayer,
May he in Heaven's own Hierarchy throned
Be still our glory there!

XLVI. A SOUL'S LAMENT IN PURGATORY.

Poor Letitia dead and gone,
All her sprightly pleasures o'er,
Thus to her Creator cries,
Who His loving face denies
Not enough desired before.
464

‘O Thou Trinity most true,
In thy Unity confess'd,
Whom in Purgatorial pain
Now I seek, and seek in vain,
Beatific Vision blest!
‘How for Thee, my God, I yearn
Through a night that knows no day,
Pining on without relief,
In excess of purest grief,
Till my debt be done away.
‘Nothing here to soothe my pangs!
Nothing to distract my care!
Gone away my joys to waste!
Gone away my very taste
For joy, if any joy there were!
‘Yet, oh yet, my comfort this,
Through my penance-tide unknown,
Never more at least can I
Sin against thy sanctity,
O adored, beloved, alone!
‘Whom despite of all the past,
Through the Blood of Calvary
With a hope that holdeth fast,
Still I look to see at last
In a glad eternity!’
Thus Letitia makes her moan:—
Hades hears her, and replies,
From th' impalpable profound
Of the viewless regions round,
With a thousand thousand sighs!
465

XLVII. THE GRACIOUSNESS OF PURGATORY.

So great the preciousness of merits earn'd
With Christ's dear-purchased grace;
Once ratified by death, no after change
May aught of them efface.
Therefore,—for those in grace deceased,—when still.
Some penance must be paid,
'Tis not by compromise of merits past
Against demerits weigh'd;
Which would for ever leave behind in Heaven
A certain trace occult
Of evil, not itself, but as involved
In th' ultimate result.
But no!—Demerit on its own account
Shall satisfaction pay,
Till in a penal interim its stain
Is wholly purged away;
Then Merit, saved in full integrity,
And from her thrall unbound,
Shall enter Heav'n's dread holiness, and there
Eternally be crown'd.
O bounteous God! not only suffering us
To count and call our own,
By pure excess of gracious charity,
What He in us hath done;—
Not only through our life, when we repent
Reviving merits past;—
But after death securing us in full
Their guerdon at the last!
Then, welcome Purgatory with its pains,
Whatever, Lord, they be;
So only saving me from Hell, Thou save
Thy works, as mine, for me!
466

XLVIII. IN GOD'S SIGHT.

Why should we vex our foolish minds
So much from day to day,
With what an idle world concerning us
May think or say?
Do we not know there sits a Judge,
Before whose searching eyes
Our inmost hidden being cleft in twain
And open lies?
O my omniscient Lord and God!
Enough, enough for me,
That Thou the evil in me and the good
Dost wholly see.
Let others in their fancies think of me
Or say whate'er they will;
Such as I am before thy judgement-seat
So am I still.
Praise they my good beyond desert,
And all my bad ignore;—
That am I which in Thy pure sight I am,
No less, no more!
Decry they all my good, and blame
My evil in excess;—
That am I which in Thy pure sight I am,
No more—no less!

XLIX. FAITH.

Faith is no weakly flower,
By sudden heat, or chill, or stormy shower,
To perish in an hour.
467

But rich in hidden worth,
A plant of grace, though striking root in earth,
It boasts a hardy birth;
Still from its native skies
Draws energy which common shocks defies,
And lives where nature dies!

L. THE TWO MOTHERS.

‘My husband's second wife am I,—
The first had early died;
Two little ones she left behind;
And I her place supplied.
‘But they, when first they saw my face,
By strange ideas misled,
Me for their own dear mother took,
And thus the elder said:—
“O mother, mother, up in Heaven,
How long you've been away!
But now that you've come back at last,
We hope you've come to stay.”
‘Then with a tear, I thus replied,
Kissing the little brow,
“My child, I am not her—you have
Another mother now.
“O happy things! to whom the Lord
Has two fond mothers given;
One to be theirs on earth, and one
To pray for them in Heaven!”’
Such was the tale that once we heard
Beneath Helvetia's sky;—
A lady of Geneva's sect,
Geneva's creed bely!
468

O Nature, Nature! thou art strong;
False creeds their work may do;
But Truth and thou, I think, ere long
Will break an entrance through.

LI. LOVE.

Love is like a little rose;
First it buds and then it blows,
Breathing over lane and bower
Sweeter scent than any flower.
If a canker eat the core
All its bloom will soon be o'er.
Dost thou wish it long to live?
Nursing plenty thou must give,
Feeding it on sighs and tears
Trembling hopes and busy fears.
So in time of winter bare
Shall for thee be blossom fair;
E'en the leaves, I've heard it said,
Sweetly smell when they are dead!

LII. CHASTISEMENT.

I stood beside her early grave,
Grave of my joy to me;
To Him who punishes to save
Lowly I bent my knee.
‘Father supreme! thy ways are best,
Thy footsteps are not known;
To her sweet head Thou gavest rest
Beneath this quiet stone;
469

‘To me long grief of many years
Still lengthening to the last,
Remembrances that steep in tears
The present and the past.
‘Her doubtless quick did Angels bear
Into a home divine,
For ever there thy love to share,
Oh, better far than mine!
‘Me too thy chastening hand has brought
Thy will in all to see,
And from henceforth to welcome aught
If only sent by Thee;
‘Learning, the longer that I live,
In patience to be strong;—
Oh, for thy dearest Son forgive
If I have mourn'd too long.’

LIII. SUNDAY.

Hence! avaunt! all follies vain!
Idle pomp, and sordid gain!
Frolic mirth, forget to play!
Labour, throw thy spade away!
Hark! from yonder spire-tipp'd trees,
On the bosom of the breeze,
Peals in pleasant fall and swell,
Sunday's early matin-bell.
Holy, holy, holy Day!
Welcome thrice to thee, I say;
Thee whom suits uplifted eye,
Heart commercing with the sky;
470

Bosom calm, and step sedate;
Simple garb, and sober gait;
But, though grave thy temper be,
Yet, when thou dost come to me,
I beseech thee, holy Day!
Put not on a sad array;
(As amongst our people here
Thou too often dost appear,
Like a widow all in weeds,
Weeping o'er our wicked deeds);
But, oh come, as suits thee best,
Cheerful day of genial rest!
Come, with happy winning smile
Full of hope and free from guile!
Come, attired in raiment bright,
Roseate with celestial light!
Come, encoronall'd with flowers
Cull'd in Paradisal bowers!
Come, with looks of radiant grace,
Such as beam'd upon thy face,
When on bright Italia's shore
Thee I met in days of yore.
So together, hand in hand,
We within the aisle will stand,
Listening to the solemn sound
Now above, and now around;—
Listening to the Sanctus clear
Softly melting in the ear,
As with incense to the skies
Soars th' almighty Sacrifice;
There shall rapt devotion kneel
Breathing fire of holy zeal!
There shall penitence sincere
Plead the silent falling tear;
471

There shall Charity attend
Changing enemy to friend;
Stedfast Hope that looks on high,
And pure Faith that dares to die,
Seeking out her sole reward
In the bosom of her Lord.
Or together down some glen,
Far from busy scenes of men,
Through the hawthorns we will go,
Slowly wending to and fro;
While the soul, all else forgot
In her future final lot,
Mounting high on vivid wings,
Meditates immortal things,
Till in excess of glory clear,
Present worlds obscure appear,
Heaven's own veil is lifted high,
Death seems life, and life to die!
Such the joys I ask of thee,
Day of joy and Jubilee!
Sweet delight of earth and Heaven!
Sweetest day of all the seven!
These if but thou wilt bestow,
Here in turn to thee I vow,
In the name of young and old,
Faithful children of the fold,
Never shall the joyous chime
Fail to greet at rosy prime
Thee, upon the hills of light
Reappearing to our sight;
Never through the livelong year,
Summer gay or Winter sere,
Early Spring or Autumn hale,
Shall thy own High Altar fail
472

Of the brighest flowers that bloom,
Through the seasons as they come;
Or of all that Art supplies
Oft as fading Nature dies.

LIV. THE ORDER OF PURE INTUITION.

Hail sacred Order of eternal Truth!
That deep within the soul,
In axiomatic majesty sublime,
One undivided whole,
Up from the underdepth unsearchable
Of primal Being springs,
An inner world of thought, co-ordinate
With that of outward things!
Hail, Intuition pure! whose essences
The central core supply
Of conscience, language, science, certitude,
Art, beauty, harmony!
Great God! I thank Thy majesty supreme,
Whose all-creative grace
Not in the sentient faculties alone
Has laid my reason's base;
Not in abstractions thin by slow degrees
From grosser forms refined;
Not in tradition, nor the broad consent
Of conscious humankind;
But in th' essential Presence of Thyself,
Within the soul's abyss;
Thyself, alike of her intelligence
The fount, as of her bliss:
473

Thyself, by nurture, meditation, grace,
Reflexively reveal'd;
Yet ever acting on the springs of thought,
E'en when from thought conceal'd!

LV. THE CAPTIVE LINNET.

This morn upon the may-tree tall
That shelters our suburban wall
A curious sight I spied,
A linnet young, of plumage gay,
Fast to the trembling topmost spray
By strange misfortune tied.
There helpless dangling, all in vain
From his enthralling viewless chain
To loose himself he strove;
Till, spent at last, he hung as dead,
No more by brook and flowery mead
On happy wing to rove.
Then, pitying a fate so sad,
I call'd a little singing lad,
And bade him climb the tree;
With orders, at whatever cost,
Though e'en a blooming branch were lost,
To set the captive free;
With steady eye aloft he goes;
I trace him through the rustling boughs;
A joyous shout is heard;
Then, snowy white with tufts of may,
Down to my feet descends a spray,
And with the spray the bird.
I loosed his bonds; away he flew;
And grateful, from a neighbouring yew
Repaid me with a song;
474

But what, think you, I found to be
The chain that in captivity
Had held him fast so long?
A single thread of silken hair,
That borne by zephyrs here and there,
Had settled on the spray;
Then, as he sported there, had wound
His soft and glossy neck around,
And bound him fast a prey!

MORAL.

Ye children of the world, beware!
Too oft a lock of silken hair
Has made the soul a prize;
And held it riveted to earth,
When, by the instinct of its birth,
It should have sought the skies.
And ye who have for God resign'd
The sympathies of womankind,
With me give thanks and sing!
Safe from the ties of earthly love,
Let all your thoughts be fix'd above,
On your eternal King!
Thrice happy! who, for once and all
Released from fond affection's thrall,
No other wish retain,
Except to serve your Lord aright,
And his neglected love requite
Who once for you was slain
Erewhile enslaved to vanity,
Rejoice that ye are wholly free
To seek the joys to come!
475

And bent on your immortal prize,
On wings of contemplation rise
To God's exalted Paradise,
Your everlasting home!

LVI. CATHOLIC RUINS.

Where once our fathers offer'd praise and prayer,
And sacrifice sublime;
Where rose upon the incense-breathing air
The chant of olden time;
Now, amid arches mouldering to the earth,
The boding night-owl raves;
Or pleasure-parties dance in idle mirth
O'er the forgotten graves;
Or worse; the heretic of modern days
Has made those walls his prize;
And in the pile our Faith alone could raise,
That very Faith denies!
God of our fathers, look upon our woe!
How long wilt Thou not hear?
How long shall Thy true vine be trodden low,
Nor help from Thee appear?
Oh, by our glory in the days gone by;
Oh, by Thine ancient love;
Oh, by our thousand Saints, who ceaseless cry
Before Thy throne above;
Lord, for this Isle, compassionate though just,
Cherish Thy wrath no more;
But build again her Temple from the dust,
And our lost joy restore!
476

LVII. ENGLAND'S FUTURE CONVERSION.

I thought upon the noble souls,
That have from age to age,
O England! shone upon the rolls
Of thy historic page:
I thought upon the nobleness
That yet in thee appears,
After the wasting heresies
Of thrice a hundred years.
And musing on thine earlier day,
‘Dear native land,’ I said,
‘It cannot be, for all they say,
That thou art wholly dead.’
Ah no! I feel, and here declare
With presage half divine,
That in the days which coming are,
If not at least in mine,
Thy desecrated shrines once more
Shall their true Lord receive;
And kneeling Englishmen adore
Where now they disbelieve.
O joyous thought! how from these eyes
The tears ecstatic start,
Whene'er, as now, I feel thee rise
Unbidden in my heart!
O Day of days, so oft foretold!
So surely drawing nigh!
Which Saints have thirsted to behold,
For which the Angels sigh!
477

Methinks, although in Paradise
My spirit then should be,
'Twould feel an increase of its joys
In looking down on thee!
Methinks these very bones of mine
Will thrill beneath the grave,
When thou shalt come, O Day divine!
My native land to save!

LVIII. TO THE HAND OF A LIVING CATHOLIC AUTHOR.

Hail, sacred Force!
Hail, energy sublime!
Fountain of present deeds,
And manifold effects in future time!
Through thee have sped
Forth on their blazing way
Conceptions fiery-wing'd,
That shall the destinies of ages sway!
Through thee this Isle,
Long bound in Satan's chain,
To her original faith
Inclines beyond all hope an ear again;
And eyes askant,
With a half wistful gaze,
Passing in beauty by,
The Vision of the Church of ancient days!
Symbol august!
Here on my bended knee,
I venerate the truth
And multitudinous grace that speaks in thee.
478

Thou, drawing back
The curtains of the night,
First on this guilty soul,
Shut up in heresy, didst open light.
Through thee on her
Eternal morning rose;
O, how with all her powers
Can she enough repay the debt she owes!

LIX. ST. PHILIP NERI AND THE ROMAN NOBLE.

‘Unhappy youth! so strangely vice
Has dull'd thy spirit's finer sense,
That when I threaten endless Hell,
My words appear a vain pretence.
‘We must to facts. Come hither then;
And kneeling here beside my knee,
Bend down thy face upon my lap,
And for thyself behold and see!’
With easy grace, at Philip's feet
The youthful noble knelt and gazed;
But, oh, another man was he
When up again his face he raised!
‘O Saint and Father, I repent,
And here confess my guilt,’ he cries;
‘For what my heart refused to own
Has been before my very eyes!
‘I saw the hidden depth of Hell
Disclosed in all its raging might;
I saw th' intolerable flames,
And faint with horror at the sight!’
479

With tender strain St. Philip drew
The frighted worldling to his breast,
And on his terror-stricken soul
The truths of life eternal press'd.
Then all his saintly art he plied,
Till fear in love had died away;
And so absolving sent him back
Converted to his dying day!

LX. A PROPHECY.

When this half-century its course has sped,
And, like the vision of an earlier time,
The Church of God again uplifts her head
In this proud Isle; confronting social crime;
Confronting Death and Hell—all stately, bright, sublime!
Then, gazing back upon the years that now
Beneath us glide, and tracing how uprose
The fair-proportion'd citadel, and how
Grew in its strength of terrible repose,
Accessible to friends, impervious to foes:—
History will tell, and men amazed will see,
Amid what vast amount of tears and pain,
Amid what martyrdoms of misery,
Of torn affections, friendship's ruptured chain,
Homes wasted, life upturn'd, and hopes indulged in vain,
Were its foundations laid. Ah, Jesu, say,
What mystery is this! that evermore
Pure Faith should scatter thorns upon her way
Instead of roses? now as heretofore!—
No wonder that the world should her approach deplore.
480

But we, of all things taught an estimate,
Suspect in this some great necessity;
Lest the soul faint hereafter with the weight
Of that immeasurable felicity
Predestinated theirs who witness here for thee!
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