University of Virginia Library

1.

At times I lift mine eyes unto ‘the Hills
Whence my salvation cometh’—ay, and higher—
And, the mind kindling with the heart's desire,
Mount to that realm nor blight nor shadow chills:
With concourse of bright forms that region thrills:
I see the Lost One midmost in the choir:
From heaven to heaven, on wings that ne'er can tire,
I soar; and God Himself my spirit fills.
If that high rapture lasted need were none
For aid beside, nor any meaner light,
Nothing henceforth to seek, and nought to shun:—
But my soul staggers at its noonday height
And, stretching forth blind hands, a shape undone,
Drops back into the gulfs of mortal night.

2.

Then learn I that the Fancy's saintliest flight
Gives or a fleeting, or a false relief;
And fold my hands and say, ‘Let grief be grief,
Let winter winter be, and blight be blight!’
O Thou all-wise, all-just, and infinite!
Whate'er the good we clasped, the least, the chief,
Was Thine, not ours, and held by us in fief;
Thy Will consummate in my will's despite!
‘Blessèd the Dead:’ and they, they too, are blest
Who, dead to earth, in full submission find,
Buried in God's high Will, their Maker's rest:
Kneeling, the blood-drops from the Saviour's feet,
Their brows affusing, makes their Passion sweet;
And in His sepulchre they sleep enshrined.

3.

Alone, among thy books, once more I sit;
No sound there stirs except the flapping fire:
Strange shadows of old times about me flit
As sinks the midnight lamp or flickers higher:
I see thee pace the room: with eye thought-lit
Back, back, thou com'st once more to my desire:
Low-toned thou read'st once more the verse new-writ,
Too deep, too pure for worldlings to admire.
That brow all honour, that all-gracious hand,
That cordial smile, and clear voice musical,
That noble bearing, mien of high command,
Yet void of pride—to-night I have them all.
Ah, phantoms vain of thought! The Christmas air
Is white with flying flakes. Where art thou—where?

4.

To-night upon thy roof the snows are lying;
The Christmas snows lie heavy on thy trees:
A dying dirge that soothes the year in dying
Swells from thy woodlands on the midnight breeze.
Our loss is ancient: many a heart is sighing
This night, a late one, or by slow degrees
Healssome old wound, to God's high grace replying:—
A time there was when thou wert like to these.
Where art thou? In what unimagined sphere
Liv'st thou, sojourner, or no transient guest?
By whom companioned? Access hath she near,
In life thy nearest, and beloved the best?
What memory hast thou of thy loved ones here?
Hangs the great Vision o'er thy place of rest?

5.

‘Sweet-sounding bells, blithe summoners to prayer!’
The answer man can yield not ye bestow:
Your answer is a little Infant bare
Wafted to earth on night-winds whispering low.
Blow him to Bethlehem, airs angelic, blow!
There doth the Mother-maid his couch prepare:
His harbour is her bosom! Drop him there
Soft as a snow-flake on a bank of snow.
Sole Hope of man! Sole Hope for us, for Thee!
‘To us a Prince is given: a Child is born!’—
Thou sang'st of Bethlehem, and of Calvary,
The Maid Immaculate, and the twisted Thorn.
Where'er thou art, not far, not far is He
Whose banner whitens in yon Christmas morn!

ON REVISITING A SPOT BY THE ROTHA, NEAR AMBLESIDE.

Oct 17, 1862.

6.

I walked in dream. Alone the bright Boy stood
Half imaged in the waters round his feet:
His line had just been cast into the flood,
Then first; his glance leaped forth the spoil to meet!
The gold-brown curls about him waved, and sweet
The blithesome smile of parted lips; the blood
Flushing the fresh cheek like a rose whose hood
With night-dews glittering, airs of morning greet.
Ah me! Since there he stood full sixty years,
Snow-laden, on their wintry pinions frore
Have sailed beyond the limit of our spheres,
And like that fleeting pageant are no more—
That Boy my Father was! the autumnal day
He led me to that spot his hair was grey.