 | The Christian Seasons |  |
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DEDICATION.
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UNICÆ SORORI MEÆ REQUIESCENTI IN SINU DEI.
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So this must go without thy guiding hand
And thine approving eye into the world
Which thou hast left; and not one page of this
Is mark'd with thine own hand, as always wont,
Alas! with me, nor thy dear voice hath told
What to retain, and what to cast aside.
And thine approving eye into the world
Which thou hast left; and not one page of this
Is mark'd with thine own hand, as always wont,
Alas! with me, nor thy dear voice hath told
What to retain, and what to cast aside.
Light of mine eyes, and art thou gone indeed?
How many thousand days in our brief life,
Morn after morn, thy well or ill hath been
The well or ill to me, as if one life
Upon one stem sustain'd us both in one;
That, sever'd from thee thus by sudden stroke,
I needs must droop awhile. Yet, O most dear!
Spirit most dear! sure it is well with thee,
And therefore now should needs be well with me;
And so it would be if my earthly self
Could but be buried with thee in the grave,
And so my better soul with thee bear part.
And henceforth it shall be so, if in me
This passionate resolve, fed with the dew
And rain of many tears, and with the breath
Of many prayers sustain'd, may, by God's grace,
Grow into something of enduring strength
And purpose, while the pains of like disease
As with the self-same nails hold to the Cross,
Sorrow's true home, whereby the Blessed One
Would bring us to Himself, and keep us there.
How many thousand days in our brief life,
Morn after morn, thy well or ill hath been
The well or ill to me, as if one life
Upon one stem sustain'd us both in one;
That, sever'd from thee thus by sudden stroke,
I needs must droop awhile. Yet, O most dear!
Spirit most dear! sure it is well with thee,
And therefore now should needs be well with me;
And so it would be if my earthly self
Could but be buried with thee in the grave,
And so my better soul with thee bear part.
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This passionate resolve, fed with the dew
And rain of many tears, and with the breath
Of many prayers sustain'd, may, by God's grace,
Grow into something of enduring strength
And purpose, while the pains of like disease
As with the self-same nails hold to the Cross,
Sorrow's true home, whereby the Blessed One
Would bring us to Himself, and keep us there.
Dear partner of my every joy and care,
E'er since I knew what joy and care might be,
From earliest childhood, henceforth to the end
Such thoughts must travel, in the bosom pent,
Unshared by thy sweet converse, and the glow
Of souls by nature set in unison,
With mutual sympathies, that seem'd all one
In two, as veins that fed one twofold heart,
Doubling those joys by making them thine own,
And taking half the burden of those cares.
E'er since I knew what joy and care might be,
From earliest childhood, henceforth to the end
Such thoughts must travel, in the bosom pent,
Unshared by thy sweet converse, and the glow
Of souls by nature set in unison,
With mutual sympathies, that seem'd all one
In two, as veins that fed one twofold heart,
Doubling those joys by making them thine own,
And taking half the burden of those cares.
O part of my own soul, so long endear'd
That I remember not, from life's first dawn,
When I have loved thee not, with such a love
That ne'er knew less or more by change of time,
With such entire affection, yet withal
That on it Heaven approving seem'd to smile;
For never spot or cloud hath intervened
To dim that mirror where thine image lies,
That thou alone of all whom I have loved
Hast left no sting behind of self-reproach,
For lack of earnest love or fitful change.
That I remember not, from life's first dawn,
When I have loved thee not, with such a love
That ne'er knew less or more by change of time,
With such entire affection, yet withal
That on it Heaven approving seem'd to smile;
For never spot or cloud hath intervened
To dim that mirror where thine image lies,
That thou alone of all whom I have loved
Hast left no sting behind of self-reproach,
For lack of earnest love or fitful change.
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Were I to think of thee as gone indeed,
As gone for ever, then my heart would break;
But when I deem of thee as gone before,
A little while before, then hope revives,
And earnest longing to prepare and be
More like thyself, and reverential fear
Of Him in whose near Presence dwell the dead,
And that abiding-place which changes not.
Then oft it seems as thou wert with me still,
Behind the thinly interposing veil
Unseen awhile, yea near and nearer still
Thou art to me, and seemest, as by prayer
I hold communion with our mutual Lord,
Who heareth prayer; in that assurance blest
With thee I am, and then am comforted;
And haply from thy prayers are those sweet drops
That lighten my sad heart, for sure I am
Thy love hath not grown cold, thy love for me,
But rather doth intenser burn more near
The countenance of Him whose name is Love.
As gone for ever, then my heart would break;
But when I deem of thee as gone before,
A little while before, then hope revives,
And earnest longing to prepare and be
More like thyself, and reverential fear
Of Him in whose near Presence dwell the dead,
And that abiding-place which changes not.
Then oft it seems as thou wert with me still,
Behind the thinly interposing veil
Unseen awhile, yea near and nearer still
Thou art to me, and seemest, as by prayer
I hold communion with our mutual Lord,
Who heareth prayer; in that assurance blest
With thee I am, and then am comforted;
And haply from thy prayers are those sweet drops
That lighten my sad heart, for sure I am
Thy love hath not grown cold, thy love for me,
But rather doth intenser burn more near
The countenance of Him whose name is Love.
And now my thoughts which ever turn'd to thee
To bear each passing good or bosom grief,
Oh! not cut off from thee shall be those thoughts,
But purified and hallow'd, while to Him
They turn the more, within whose bosom now
Thou findest full thy long-accustom'd rest;
There would I turn the more, and finding Him
Find thee in Him restored—no longer lost—
Not lost, but more than found. Yet here awhile
I look for thee in vain, and see thee not;
I know not what thou art, nor where thou art,
But that thou art with Him, in whom on earth
Thy life was hidden. This forbids to mourn
But for myself, that am so far away
From what I would and should be, yet am not.
Then what if Time shall measure to the end
The void he cannot lessen, yet that void
May yet be fill'd, be more than fill'd, with thee;
If those sweet daily hours to thee I lent
Be henceforth given unto my God alone,
So might thy death be more than life to me.
For thou didst ever choose the better part,
Which is not ta'en away.
To bear each passing good or bosom grief,
Oh! not cut off from thee shall be those thoughts,
But purified and hallow'd, while to Him
They turn the more, within whose bosom now
Thou findest full thy long-accustom'd rest;
There would I turn the more, and finding Him
Find thee in Him restored—no longer lost—
Not lost, but more than found. Yet here awhile
I look for thee in vain, and see thee not;
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But that thou art with Him, in whom on earth
Thy life was hidden. This forbids to mourn
But for myself, that am so far away
From what I would and should be, yet am not.
Then what if Time shall measure to the end
The void he cannot lessen, yet that void
May yet be fill'd, be more than fill'd, with thee;
If those sweet daily hours to thee I lent
Be henceforth given unto my God alone,
So might thy death be more than life to me.
For thou didst ever choose the better part,
Which is not ta'en away.
At midnight came
The Bridegroom's voice, whom none beheld so near;
Sudden He came, nor found thee unprepared.
For thou wert ever wont to be as one
In readiness to hear thy Master's call,
While I was more like him in the cold grave,
And so came on my ear those sacred words,
“Mary sat still, till she the summons heard,
‘The Master calleth thee!’—then rose and went:—
The Master, He is come, is come to raise
Thy brother from the dead.” Oh, be it so!
And so may I again to thee be given,
Thy more than brother, ne'er again to part.
The Bridegroom's voice, whom none beheld so near;
Sudden He came, nor found thee unprepared.
For thou wert ever wont to be as one
In readiness to hear thy Master's call,
While I was more like him in the cold grave,
And so came on my ear those sacred words,
“Mary sat still, till she the summons heard,
‘The Master calleth thee!’—then rose and went:—
The Master, He is come, is come to raise
Thy brother from the dead.” Oh, be it so!
And so may I again to thee be given,
Thy more than brother, ne'er again to part.
It was one wintry night, that night I pray'd
Some fiery trial, whatsoe'er it be,
Might burn out all the fibres of my sin.
I fear'd and pray'd, and fearing pray'd again,
Doubtful if I could bear the fiery test,
Knowing not whence perchance it might come home.
Thy cheerful words were with me on that eve,
Sent to me, as was wont, in thy sweet love;
But when I woke at morn I found thee gone;
The day—the dark, dark day that I had fear'd
From infancy, had come—and thou wert not.
Some fiery trial, whatsoe'er it be,
Might burn out all the fibres of my sin.
I fear'd and pray'd, and fearing pray'd again,
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Knowing not whence perchance it might come home.
Thy cheerful words were with me on that eve,
Sent to me, as was wont, in thy sweet love;
But when I woke at morn I found thee gone;
The day—the dark, dark day that I had fear'd
From infancy, had come—and thou wert not.
Oh, that my prayer might rise, and rising blend
With the strong, tearful cry by Cedron's brook,
Heard in that garden in the dead of night!
Oh, that the drops of sad Gethsemane
Might be on this my sorrow, that it be
Not all in vain, but I may wake to hear
That voice Divine, which calls to watch and pray
In fellowship of suffering, and which hears
That cry, “Father, Thy will, not Mine, be done!”
With the strong, tearful cry by Cedron's brook,
Heard in that garden in the dead of night!
Oh, that the drops of sad Gethsemane
Might be on this my sorrow, that it be
Not all in vain, but I may wake to hear
That voice Divine, which calls to watch and pray
In fellowship of suffering, and which hears
That cry, “Father, Thy will, not Mine, be done!”
Sweet, tender flower that we had housed so long,
And watchèd o'er thee with so many fears,—
So long, that I remember not the time
When I have watch'd thee not, and fearful oft
Have look'd for thy sake to each passing cloud,
And trembled, lest it should lay low thy head,
And all my life with thee, upon the ground.
And watchèd o'er thee with so many fears,—
So long, that I remember not the time
When I have watch'd thee not, and fearful oft
Have look'd for thy sake to each passing cloud,
And trembled, lest it should lay low thy head,
And all my life with thee, upon the ground.
Sweet, tender flower which we have watch'd so long,
For forty summers—nay, I rather say
For forty winters, for the summer-time
Had always more of hope, and the warm bloom
Would then return and kindle thy soft cheek—
For forty years have I thus o'er thee watch'd,
With such unvaried trembling, that to me
My days of gladness have been those that brought
Tidings of thee; and 'mid the joys of life,
With all its changes, chief hath been to me
The sunshine and the light which seem'd to fall
Between the clouds too wont to hang on thee,
And thy dear, tender life;—so frail and weak,
As ever ready on the ground to fall
At each rude blast, but for our sakes awhile
Sustain'd, while Mercy set aside the blow.
For forty summers—nay, I rather say
For forty winters, for the summer-time
Had always more of hope, and the warm bloom
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For forty years have I thus o'er thee watch'd,
With such unvaried trembling, that to me
My days of gladness have been those that brought
Tidings of thee; and 'mid the joys of life,
With all its changes, chief hath been to me
The sunshine and the light which seem'd to fall
Between the clouds too wont to hang on thee,
And thy dear, tender life;—so frail and weak,
As ever ready on the ground to fall
At each rude blast, but for our sakes awhile
Sustain'd, while Mercy set aside the blow.
Delicate flower, that I have loved so long
And watch'd, until my very life hath seem'd
A watching o'er thee! yet upon one stem
We grew together, that the dew which fell
On one upon the other trickled down—
The ray that fell on one the other cheer'd;
Or rather might I say, so hast thou been
Always one heart to me—one soul—one life—
That it hath rather been as when perchance
Nature two rising flowers or hanging fruit
Moulds into one—together, as by change
Of purpose she had made and form'd in one
What she design'd for two. So am I left
Half of myself, as one that long had lean'd
A feeble frame, and finds his stay withdrawn.
And watch'd, until my very life hath seem'd
A watching o'er thee! yet upon one stem
We grew together, that the dew which fell
On one upon the other trickled down—
The ray that fell on one the other cheer'd;
Or rather might I say, so hast thou been
Always one heart to me—one soul—one life—
That it hath rather been as when perchance
Nature two rising flowers or hanging fruit
Moulds into one—together, as by change
Of purpose she had made and form'd in one
What she design'd for two. So am I left
Half of myself, as one that long had lean'd
A feeble frame, and finds his stay withdrawn.
What though associate souls, new tender ties,
And children branch around me, not as thou
Link'd and inwreath'd with early memories,
For I have lived without them—never yet
Lived without thee till now, ne'er yet in aught
Of my remember'd life, though born before
A few short summers, and it may be yet
A few short summers to remain behind.
And children branch around me, not as thou
Link'd and inwreath'd with early memories,
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Lived without thee till now, ne'er yet in aught
Of my remember'd life, though born before
A few short summers, and it may be yet
A few short summers to remain behind.
But all thy life to me, as back I trace,
Is gentle, sad reproof; for as a child
Thou wert as one that knew no other wish
But to sit meekly at thy Saviour's feet,
While I was dazzled by the opening world,
And would have drawn thee thence, though even then,
Soothed by thy love, so great and wonderful,
That gave whate'er it had, nor aught retain'd,
In self-denying meekness; by thy love
Cheer'd as a healing spell and charm'd awhile
Of that self-hatred which should have been mine;
For if thou lovest me, then God might love,
I fondly deem'd—yet sinful—in my sin.
Thus by the love and friendship of the good
We cheat ourselves of goodness—yet the while
That love was but the kindling light of truth
Which still reproved me,—for such meekness spoke
The Fount from which it flow'd; yet such reproof
Was gentle as the morning wind that shakes
The sleep-pent flower, and bids his bosom ope
To kindly-falling dews; and haply then
Thy prayers might have obtain'd that aid Divine
Which interposed and cross'd my path of sin.
Is gentle, sad reproof; for as a child
Thou wert as one that knew no other wish
But to sit meekly at thy Saviour's feet,
While I was dazzled by the opening world,
And would have drawn thee thence, though even then,
Soothed by thy love, so great and wonderful,
That gave whate'er it had, nor aught retain'd,
In self-denying meekness; by thy love
Cheer'd as a healing spell and charm'd awhile
Of that self-hatred which should have been mine;
For if thou lovest me, then God might love,
I fondly deem'd—yet sinful—in my sin.
Thus by the love and friendship of the good
We cheat ourselves of goodness—yet the while
That love was but the kindling light of truth
Which still reproved me,—for such meekness spoke
The Fount from which it flow'd; yet such reproof
Was gentle as the morning wind that shakes
The sleep-pent flower, and bids his bosom ope
To kindly-falling dews; and haply then
Thy prayers might have obtain'd that aid Divine
Which interposed and cross'd my path of sin.
Dearest, still ever didst thou seem at rest
In ceaseless suffering, as a vessel toss'd
That lay at anchor, while a hidden strength
Kept thee 'mid winds and waters at repose.
From very childhood thou wert always one
Sway'd not by the outer world; array'd within
With that meek spirit which is prized of God;
Serene in thoughtful kindness to the last,
For as we live we die; that treasure hid
Which was thine early choice, was not despoil'd
By changing years nor by the hand of death.
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That lay at anchor, while a hidden strength
Kept thee 'mid winds and waters at repose.
From very childhood thou wert always one
Sway'd not by the outer world; array'd within
With that meek spirit which is prized of God;
Serene in thoughtful kindness to the last,
For as we live we die; that treasure hid
Which was thine early choice, was not despoil'd
By changing years nor by the hand of death.
And oh! that He that made thy life to be
My light, may make thy death to be my health!
But Nature for awhile will come between
And cannot yet recall thee without tears,
And retrospective memories that wake
A thousand tender images, and fill
All things with grief, as filling all with thee.
Thy picture o'er me stood and look'd on me,—
I knew it, yet my eyes I dared not raise,
But hasten'd thence heart-stricken, nor e'en now
Can venture to behold the canvas cold
Which is, and yet which is not, thy dear self.
My light, may make thy death to be my health!
But Nature for awhile will come between
And cannot yet recall thee without tears,
And retrospective memories that wake
A thousand tender images, and fill
All things with grief, as filling all with thee.
Thy picture o'er me stood and look'd on me,—
I knew it, yet my eyes I dared not raise,
But hasten'd thence heart-stricken, nor e'en now
Can venture to behold the canvas cold
Which is, and yet which is not, thy dear self.
So wither'd was my heart, and dry, and cold,
That soon the frame that cased it would, methought,
Have laid itself beside thee in the grave;
But when at length I saw thy wonted haunts,
The seat where thou should'st be, but thou wert not,
Then did the smitten Rock flow forth within,
Refresh my heart with tears, and wash with dew
Thy recollections, that the past might be
No more a wilderness of barren grief.
That soon the frame that cased it would, methought,
Have laid itself beside thee in the grave;
But when at length I saw thy wonted haunts,
The seat where thou should'st be, but thou wert not,
Then did the smitten Rock flow forth within,
Refresh my heart with tears, and wash with dew
Thy recollections, that the past might be
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And now I start to find myself the same;
I fear'd—and what I fear'd hath come to pass,
And yet I live—and am as I was wont,
Go in and out, and sleep, and rise from sleep.
I fear'd—and what I fear'd hath come to pass,
And yet I live—and am as I was wont,
Go in and out, and sleep, and rise from sleep.
No longer shall thy friends around thee share
In thy dear welcome, which made glad thy house,
And that meek calm of spirit which was thine.
No longer shalt thou hear the matin song
Of early birds, or well-remember'd tune
Of choral chant so sweet, and thoughts of Heaven
It brought around us; but partaker made
Of that which is “far better,”—not to walk
With marble feet on pavement lit with stars,
Thresholds of heavenly palaces, but rest
Upon thy Saviour's bosom with thy God.
No longer labour with thy painful breath,
No longer tremble at the sounds of war
For those that unto thee were dearest held,
But rest in Sabbath of eternal peace.
In thy dear welcome, which made glad thy house,
And that meek calm of spirit which was thine.
No longer shalt thou hear the matin song
Of early birds, or well-remember'd tune
Of choral chant so sweet, and thoughts of Heaven
It brought around us; but partaker made
Of that which is “far better,”—not to walk
With marble feet on pavement lit with stars,
Thresholds of heavenly palaces, but rest
Upon thy Saviour's bosom with thy God.
No longer labour with thy painful breath,
No longer tremble at the sounds of war
For those that unto thee were dearest held,
But rest in Sabbath of eternal peace.
Oh! never to have loved or ne'er to part,
This were an earthly wish; such love hath not
Its price on earth; it is of heavenly growth;
By pain made doubly dear, with closest ties
Inwreath'd with all our being round the heart:
And now by death, oh! broken not in twain,
But sanctified by death, and cherish'd still,
And ever to be cherish'd and kept safe;
Guarded from death, and all things else that harm,
By love that “never faileth,” for such love
In love of God is raised, is purified;
And therefore made enduring yet in Heaven,
And to partake of His eternity.
This were an earthly wish; such love hath not
Its price on earth; it is of heavenly growth;
By pain made doubly dear, with closest ties
Inwreath'd with all our being round the heart:
And now by death, oh! broken not in twain,
But sanctified by death, and cherish'd still,
And ever to be cherish'd and kept safe;
Guarded from death, and all things else that harm,
By love that “never faileth,” for such love
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And therefore made enduring yet in Heaven,
And to partake of His eternity.
Thus still I feel thee near, although so far,
Like the soft star that glimmers in my room:
So far, that I can never see thee more;
So near, I in an hour may be with thee.
Like the soft star that glimmers in my room:
So far, that I can never see thee more;
So near, I in an hour may be with thee.
And changes o'er thee pass'd while still with us;
Such changes as time brings upon us all:
From infancy to childhood, and each stage
Through summer and through autumn of our life;
From blade to plant, from plant to bud and flower—
Changes on thy dear countenance and form,
And gradual changes on the mind within.
Yet through those changes was thy love unchanged,
And thou wert still the same; and therefore still,
Through whatsoe'er of change thy spirit knows,
Doubtless the same art thou and thy dear love.
Such changes as time brings upon us all:
From infancy to childhood, and each stage
Through summer and through autumn of our life;
From blade to plant, from plant to bud and flower—
Changes on thy dear countenance and form,
And gradual changes on the mind within.
Yet through those changes was thy love unchanged,
And thou wert still the same; and therefore still,
Through whatsoe'er of change thy spirit knows,
Doubtless the same art thou and thy dear love.
We know not what we are, nor what thou art,
But thou dost know thyself, and know thy God.
We know not what we are, nor can we judge
Of any thing around us in our sin;
Cheated by false, unreal semblances,
Things are beyond us, and we therefore mourn.
The stars to us appear to rise and set,
The sun to sink upon his Western bed,
As if he were not; and to us he leaves
Nothing but night and darkness for awhile.
But 'tis not so with him; he travels on
To other shining lands, knows nought of night
And darkness, which to us his dying leaves;
For these terrestrial clogs impede our thoughts
His glorious flight to follow;—what to us
Is West and gloomy darkness is to him
The Eastern morn which on his steps attends.
But thou dost know thyself, and know thy God.
We know not what we are, nor can we judge
Of any thing around us in our sin;
Cheated by false, unreal semblances,
Things are beyond us, and we therefore mourn.
The stars to us appear to rise and set,
The sun to sink upon his Western bed,
As if he were not; and to us he leaves
Nothing but night and darkness for awhile.
But 'tis not so with him; he travels on
To other shining lands, knows nought of night
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For these terrestrial clogs impede our thoughts
His glorious flight to follow;—what to us
Is West and gloomy darkness is to him
The Eastern morn which on his steps attends.
The changing seasons bring to thee no change,
For thou art safely housed by God Himself
From wintry winds and summer heats. Henceforth
Our Sacred Seasons know thee now no more,
As they still lead us on from stage to stage
Unto that City which shall know no change,
Lit by the Lamb whose Light is endless Love,—
Love, that doth “cast out fear”—fear, oft below
Companion of the seasons in their change,
Depressing thy meek spirit with the weight
Of its own lowliness, which often droop'd
Its head to earth, in very meekness bent;
As if it loved the ground, nor heard the chant
Of heaven-inspirèd birds; now lifted up
To gaze upon the face of endless Love,
With no obstructing cloud, it droops no more,
But lifts its voice in the eternal song.
For thou art safely housed by God Himself
From wintry winds and summer heats. Henceforth
Our Sacred Seasons know thee now no more,
As they still lead us on from stage to stage
Unto that City which shall know no change,
Lit by the Lamb whose Light is endless Love,—
Love, that doth “cast out fear”—fear, oft below
Companion of the seasons in their change,
Depressing thy meek spirit with the weight
Of its own lowliness, which often droop'd
Its head to earth, in very meekness bent;
As if it loved the ground, nor heard the chant
Of heaven-inspirèd birds; now lifted up
To gaze upon the face of endless Love,
With no obstructing cloud, it droops no more,
But lifts its voice in the eternal song.
The changing seasons bring to thee no change;
Would that to me their changes, one by one,
Might ope new plants of healing at my feet,
New stars above my head, which light and fill
The stable firmament that knows no change,
Whereby yet Mercy may restore my soul.
Would that to me their changes, one by one,
Might ope new plants of healing at my feet,
New stars above my head, which light and fill
The stable firmament that knows no change,
Whereby yet Mercy may restore my soul.
And oh! it is surpassing sweet to know,
In changes which mark all we love on earth,
That there is One on whom, yet more and more,
Our love may live, and feed on; to whom we
May daily, hourly, and each minute turn;
Who changes not. Oh! these affections strong,
Which cling to those around us, make to be
As hands and feet that seek and feel for that
Which may sustain and never fail our love,
And be the immortal spirit's home and rest!
For Thou wilt be to us,—they are Thy words,—
For Thou wilt be to us as Mother, Thou
Sister and Brother. O most blessed words,
How do they sound in this my grief! And thou,
Meek spirit, whose remembrance is so dear,
To Him, whose love alone can fail us not,
Upon the bosom of His boundless love
I leave thee and myself; new every morn
His mercies, and in them I will rejoice.
In changes which mark all we love on earth,
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Our love may live, and feed on; to whom we
May daily, hourly, and each minute turn;
Who changes not. Oh! these affections strong,
Which cling to those around us, make to be
As hands and feet that seek and feel for that
Which may sustain and never fail our love,
And be the immortal spirit's home and rest!
For Thou wilt be to us,—they are Thy words,—
For Thou wilt be to us as Mother, Thou
Sister and Brother. O most blessed words,
How do they sound in this my grief! And thou,
Meek spirit, whose remembrance is so dear,
To Him, whose love alone can fail us not,
Upon the bosom of His boundless love
I leave thee and myself; new every morn
His mercies, and in them I will rejoice.
Easter, M.D.CCC.LIV.
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