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FOUR SONNETS.
I.—THE ROSE OF GOD'S BLOOD.
“Even now we know, that when we shall see Christ as He is,
we shall be like Him that His heart is infinitely more tender than
ours—that we have never loved as Jesus has loved, and yet it is He
who will pronounce the awful sentence, ‘Depart, ye cursed, into
everlasting fire.’”
“High Truth,” by the Rev. R. Aitken, p. 139.
At times I feel like Cromwell, or like those
Who laughed to mark the bitter guillotine
Make many a sudden breach abrupt and clean
In the fair slender necks of Freedom's foes.
I feel that till the Supreme Tyrant goes
Life's air will not be perfect and serene—
God's throat must first incarnadine the green
Planet, like some imperial flattened rose.
Who laughed to mark the bitter guillotine
Make many a sudden breach abrupt and clean
In the fair slender necks of Freedom's foes.
I feel that till the Supreme Tyrant goes
Life's air will not be perfect and serene—
God's throat must first incarnadine the green
Planet, like some imperial flattened rose.
Just as a great rose trodden in the mire
Must God's fair beauty and his splendour be;
Already is it fashioned in the fire,
The sword that, like some towering wave at sea,
Shall fall upon him, setting the desire
Of all the renovated nations free.
Must God's fair beauty and his splendour be;
Already is it fashioned in the fire,
The sword that, like some towering wave at sea,
Shall fall upon him, setting the desire
Of all the renovated nations free.
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II.—THE CROWN OF FLOWERS.
Suggested by a picture, at the French Gallery, of Christ's head after death.
“Never a true crown, but Thy crown of thorn.”
—Macdonald.
—Macdonald.
It is a cursed lie! that pallid head
Is not the wearer of the only crown
That the white hands of kingly God lay down;
All garlands are not streaked with bitter red.
Bring flowers for other limbs than those which bled
On Calvary near the narrow-minded town—
Bring roses meet for snowy not for brown
And toil-worn breasts—this man is amply dead!
Is not the wearer of the only crown
That the white hands of kingly God lay down;
All garlands are not streaked with bitter red.
Bring flowers for other limbs than those which bled
On Calvary near the narrow-minded town—
Bring roses meet for snowy not for brown
And toil-worn breasts—this man is amply dead!
As for the speech that heads this sonnet, I
Declare that 'tis a cursed barren lie!
The only true crown is the crown of flowers!
As for the faith that there is only one
Triumphant victor underneath the sun,
That may be England's faith—it is not ours.
Declare that 'tis a cursed barren lie!
The only true crown is the crown of flowers!
As for the faith that there is only one
Triumphant victor underneath the sun,
That may be England's faith—it is not ours.
III.—IN ENGLAND'S NAME.
In England's name, in God's name, in the nameOf wide Humanity—and by the heart
Of womanhood transfixed by Christ's keen dart;
By mine own indignation like a flame
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Branded on English love and English art
And English flowers and seas, when souls impart
To Christ dear secrets that our land should claim—
By all these bitter things, Lord Christ, I swear
That, as thy cross became a golden crown
And all thy blood-drops roses in thine hair,
So now thy garlands time shall scatter down:
England thou hast usurped! on rough oak block
Of England lay thy King's neck—wait the shock!
IV.—FACE TO FACE.
Since thus the spirit of love for mine own land
Pervades me, and I let it have its will,
I recognise the brave Christ-saviour still,
And touch with reverence his ringless hand.
Lonely, and face to face with him I stand,
Watching the cross upon the rocky hill—
The heart his priestly followers strive to fill
With their own thought, beyond them doth expand!
Pervades me, and I let it have its will,
I recognise the brave Christ-saviour still,
And touch with reverence his ringless hand.
Lonely, and face to face with him I stand,
Watching the cross upon the rocky hill—
The heart his priestly followers strive to fill
With their own thought, beyond them doth expand!
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High as the azure dome above them glows
The utter soul of Christ which now I see
For the first time, because one English rose
With sweet red bloom uplifts me more than he—
I reach him, leaving him—the God-King dies,
And lo! the Peasant, with great genius-eyes!
The utter soul of Christ which now I see
For the first time, because one English rose
With sweet red bloom uplifts me more than he—
I reach him, leaving him—the God-King dies,
And lo! the Peasant, with great genius-eyes!
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