The Cathedral, or the Catholic and Apostolic Church in England ::

Open me the gates of righteousness, that I may go into them, and give thanks unto the Lord. This is the gate of the Lord; the righteous shall enter into it. Psalm cxviii. 19, 20.

THE APPROACH.

When all the air calm Evening woos,
And earthly mists are wafted by,
And nought unholy breathing nigh,
Yon grove in deeps of its repose,
A wondrous portal doth disclose,
And far within a living way,
Lit up by an unfading day,
Thro' the long gloomy vale of woes.
And child-like Wisdom holds the key,
And Wealth, that to the world is poor,
Wide opes to them that ivory door,
Where all in other colours stand,
Touch'd by a disenchanting wand,
And things that seem'd of earth, of Heav'n are found to be.

The Western Front.

BAPTISMAL PROMISES.

It will be observed, that Faith forms the entrance to that aisle which is termed the Creed; Obedience, to Holy Scripture; and Repentance, to the Lord's Prayer.

The Left-hand Door.

Repentance.

I

Repentance is the lowly door,
That leads to yon baptismal well,
Which hath its source where Angels dwell:
Thence many an arching aisle doth soar,
Thence stretches many a sacred floor,
And many a thought-inspiring cell,
Peopling our sacred citadel:
At that blest fountain evermore,
Calm Faith, and holy Hope doth spring,
And Prayer bedews her wearied wing
There many a bright and Angel guest,
With varied plume and changeful vest,
Shall lead thee on, and thence shall bring
To God's own mount, thy place of rest.

II

But this no home for Fancy deem,
Still Morn and Evening, o'er and o'er,
Thou must stoop through the lowly door,
Still wilt thou at the threshold seem,
Still but awakening from the dream;
For what though Jordan's stream be past,
The Canaanite is gathering fast:
Still as thou travellest in the beam
Of that new morning, more and more
Thou shalt thy sinful self deplore:
Thy worldly wisdom still unlearning,
Still to a Father's house returning,
In lights of that celestial store,
Thine image lost the more discerning.

III

So daily may'st thou less become
In thine own eyes, and thus beguil'd
Into the likeness of a child,
The narrow gate shall give thee room:
As dawns the light of thy last home,
The wreaths of Eden, sin-defil'd,
Drop off, but thou art reconcil'd
To sorrow, leaving some, and some
Before thee gone, and waiting thee,

Where relics of lost Paradise
Are gathering; thus made lowly wise,
Till Life's dark porch shall set thee free,
And there shall break upon thine eyes
The temple of Eternity.

The Middle Door.

Obedience.

I

If thou art one whose cry is Liberty,
Pass not the portal of our hallow'd shrine,
We in a holier freedom would be free.
If thou in wealth or honour lov'st to shine,
To build in cedars, or at ease recline,
No holy awe thy tongue and foot shall hold
In those lov'd haunts, where ancient Discipline
Keeps watch, amid her treasures manifold,
And welcomes to stern walls and dim cathedrals old.

II

At her command the Apostolic key
Opens the solemn doors, in speaking stone
Her glories far withdraw, where none can see,
Seeking the Infinite in secret known,
And tell of wonders which surround his throne;
Her carv'd embroideries, which retire aloof,
Are ancient virtues, seen by God alone,
And his good Angels, mysteries learn'd by proof,
And prayers which hide from man o'er Heav'n's embowering roof.

III

Ye cloistral shades, and angel-haunted cells,
Chantries, and tuneful roofs, and altars old,
Where incommunicable Godhead dwells!
Let your dread spirit fill me, my hand hold,
And every thought to your obedience mould!
While through the avenue of number'd years,
As through a pillar'd vista, I behold
Where Christ for me the bleeding burden bears,
Till all my heart be love, and soul-constraining fears;

IV

And I learn your deep lesson, up that road
To Calvary's awful mount Thy Cross to bear,
After Thee and with Thee, and share thy load;—
Divine prerogative! if so brought near,
And made in that similitude more dear,
We share too thine Anointing; heart and knee
Shall so gain firmness, till in holier fear,
Clinging beneath the foot of that dread tree,
We hide ourselves, and look, dear Lord, to Thee,

V

Calm on the Rock of Ages. While below,
For ever restless, and for ever loud,
Toss the tumultuous seas of human woe,

Death and decay, like shadows of a cloud,
Pass o'er each scene, and if we be allow'd
To linger on, like waves which break on waves,
All that we loved to dim destruction crowd;
Day and Night swifter seek their silent caves,
And we are left alone, standing above our graves,

VI

Which are the mouths of that unfathom'd sea,
Whose awful secrets Thou alone canst tell!
Then where flee we for refuge, but to Thee,
And Thine obedience? heav'n-constructed cell,
Wherein, as in a temple, Love doth dwell,
While tempests war around, with suppliant eyes
To penitential prayer composed well,
Awaiting, till the Day-spring shall arise,
And with the Judgment ope the everlasting skies.

The Right-hand Door.

Faith.

I

A wanderer thro' the vale of years,
And westward bent her pilgrim feet,
Here Faith hath made her last retreat.
A wondrous key her shoulder bears,
The blue of Heav'n the stole she wears,
When Angels left sad Eden's seat,
She stay'd, fall'n man's companion meet;
Again his downcast head she rears,
And seeks the lost to bear their woes;
'Twas she at Jordan vigils kept,
And by Euphrates sat and wept:—
To them who will her secret prove
A hidden cross she doth disclose,
A word that may the mountains move.

II

Here now the Church's pillar'd shrine
She hath her habitation made,
And sanctified the solemn shade;
Bidding celestial brightness shine,

Where else were but a formless mine.
When these dead walls her heaven-born aid,
And secret spirit shall pervade,
Terrestrial things become divine:
'Tis on her breath the Collect soars,
And Psalms attain the eternal doors;
No health in the baptismal wave,
In hallowed cup no power to save
Without her—Life a cheerless noon,
And Death a night without a moon.

III

Here when her rapt eye heavenward streams
In calm and holy Litanies,
She bringeth down the pitying skies;
The dove upon the fountain gleams,
In bread mysterious blessing teems.
Thence going forth she to chaste eyes
Clothes Nature with her sympathies;
When night's dark curtains fall, she seems,
On mountain tops with silvery feet,
Holding with Heav'n communion sweet;
When clouds Heav'n's moving surface wield,
She opes beyond her bright-blue shield;
When warring tumults gather near,
She lifts the consecrated spear.

The Cloisters.

ECCLESIASTICAL SONNETS.

Thou shalt hide them privily by Thine own presence from the provoking of all men; Thou shalt keep them secretly in Thy tabernacle from the strife of tongues. Psalm xxxi. 20.

On passing from the Western Front, on one side are the Cloisters, an inclosed square with openings or windows on each side, looking into the court. Texts (which are here attached to the Sonnets) are sometimes written up in these Cloisters, as, I believe, is the case on the south side of the Cloisters at Canterbury. They are intended as an ambulatory, or place of meditation.

I. The Liturgy.

Ask for the old paths, where is the good way, and walk therein, and ye shall find rest.

A path of peace amid the tangled grove,
A moon-lit way of sweet security—
Bright holy days that form a galaxy
To make a road to Heav'n—strains from above
Whereon the spheres of duty kindlier move,
Drinking pure light and heav'n-born harmony—
Such is the path of thy calm Liturgy,
Ancient of mothers, in parental love
Daily unwinding from thine annual maze
Treasures that wax not old, whence still may grow
Fresh adoration. On thy face (of thee
Praying to be more worthy) as we gaze
Thy soul comes forth in beauty, and thy brow
So calm, is full of holiest Deity.

II. Forms.

The care of discipline is love.

Love, from whatever earthly cave he springs,
(That spell of something heavenly dwelling round
Home, friend, or grave endear'd,) when he hath found
Meet entrance, he will shake his odorous wings,
And throw a charm o'er thousand meaner things,
O'er whatsoe'er at first he entrance found
Into the soul; in ties associate bound
He lives, and o'er them his own radiance flings.
Then why should not a holier Peace and Mirth
Love those mute forms, which cherished first their birth,
And brac'd them for the withering blasts of earth?
The gladsome soul that her devotion plies,
Bound in the wreath of ancient Liturgies,
Why should she not her chain beyond all freedom prize?

III. The Collect for the Day.

They will go from strength to strength.

And let me, loving still of thee to learn,
Thy weekly Collect on my spirit wear,
That so my steps may turn to practice clear,
And 'scape those ways where feverish fancies burn;
So may thy Sunday thoughts at every turn
Meet us, like healthful founts in Elim green,
Casting a freshness o'er the week. This scene
Of outward things, as still the wheels return,
Leads sternly to decay: thou ever true,
As on the grave and withering age we gain,
Thy tale of better things dost still renew,
Like tune that pleas'd our childhood's pensive ear,
Still as we older grow 'tis doubly dear,
Aye wakening echoes new, and deep and deeper strain.

IV. Prayer.

They shall be satisfied with the pleasures of thy house, even of thy holy temple.

Hidden, exhaustless treasury, heav'n-taught Prayer,
Armoury of unseen aids—watchword and spell
At which blest Angels pitch their tent and dwell
About us—glass to bring the bright Heav'ns near—
Sea of eternal beauty—wondrous stair
By patriarch seen—key leading to a cell
Where better worlds are hidden—secret well
Where Love with golden chalice may repair,
And slake his thirst, nursing with fragrant dews
Heav'n's lilies fair, and rose on wild-wood spray,
Calm thought and high resolve! strange instrument,
Wherewith from spheres serene Music is sent
Into the mind, throwing o'er all fresh hues,
And mystic colourings—yet we cannot pray!

V. The Complaint.

Lord, who shall dwell in thy tabernacle, or who shall rest on thy holy hill?

We cannot pray, strange mystery! here is known
No wearying—no deceivings of sick Hope,
No aching limb, or brow, wherewith to cope—
No pallid after-thoughts—and of the boon
No half-surmis'd upbraiding—no cold frown
Bidding us come again—no lengthening slope
Tiring the eye from far. These portals ope
To dwellings lucid as th'autumnal moon,
But we along the world's slow sluggish strand
Are fostering vanity, which joint by joint
Climbs, like Nile's reed, into a tufted crown,
And woos each wind that waves its golden down,
All hollow, soon a barbed shaft 'twill point,
Or staff, to pierce light heart or trusting hand.

VI. Sunday.

This is the day which the Lord hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.

Sweet day, let not the clouds of earthly Care
Come over thy calm brightness, let Reproof
And pale Remorse and Sadness stand aloof,
Let nought of worldly strife, or ruder air,
Ruffle, or rend the mantle thou dost wear!
The robe thou wear'st is all celestial woof,
Come from the grave with Jesus. Heav'n's blue roof
Seems nearer earth, and all earth hath of fair
Is fairer. On thy calm and glassy floor
We sit in commune sweet, thy riches blest
Recounting, and forget that we are poor.
Let us be bright to meet thee, Angel guest,
With contemplations of enduring rest,
And with thee listen at the heavenly door.

VII. Village Psalmody.

All my fresh springs shall be in thee.

And is it not thy praise, Church of our love,
That thou unto each little rural nook
Of quiet hast soft golden plumage shook
From off the wing of thine own David's dove,
And turn'd the melodies, that nearest prove
To the heart of man, into a sacred book,—
Key to the soul's best avenues,—a brook
That steals into Religion's secret grove?
If those straw roofs and ivied cots among
There play a gleam of song, 'tis no wild fire,
But sparks, tho' scatter'd, from a heav'n-strung lyre.
Thus, when the cloud of music roll'd along
Fills the melodious dome, blest sounds inspire
Each cloistral nook, vocal with sacred song.

VIII. The Ancient Village.

And the daughter of Zion is left as a cottage in a vineyard.

Let me still love thee in thy quietude,
Sweet sylvan village! and thou, aged rook,
Who sitt'st sole sentinel in ivied nook,
Survivor of thy noisy brotherhood!
And I with thee, in thine own pensive mood,
Could linger, till the lights of ages fall
Around us, like moonbeams on tap'stried hall,
And saintly forms come forth, and virgins good,
Who gave their days to Heav'n. From that lone pile
Avaunt, rude change, thy disenchanting wand,
And let the holy Cross linger awhile!
Ah, feather'd Chronicler, would that from thee
Thou could'st forefend Art's all-transforming hand,
And guard thy hoary haunts of sweet Antiquity.

IX. The modern Cathedral.

Ye have said, it is vain to serve God: and what profit is it that we have kept his ordinance?

Without—the world's unceasing noises rise,
Turmoil, disquietude, and busy fears.
Within—there are the sounds of other years,
Thoughts full of Prayer, and solemn harmonies,
Which imitate on earth the peaceful skies,
And canonized Regret, which backward bears
Her longing aspect, moving thoughtful tears.
Such blest abodes, in Heav'n's all-pitying eyes,
Might yet be eloquent for a nation's good;
But where is now the kneeling multitude?
The silver-tongued spruce verger passes by
Hurrying his group, the proud and curious eye
Of connoisseur—the loiterer's sauntering mood:
Sad picture of lost Faith and evil nigh!

X. The Daily Service.

Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.

And are we then alone on holy ground,
Most gracious Father? Are we then alone,
Because the world regards not, and is gone?
Where are the solemn dead which lie around,
Are they not with us? Are thy courts not crown'd
With spiritual hosts about, while the sweet tone
Still lingers round thine altars? Are they flown,
Bearing no more to see their God disowned?
Has the great Michael left us, mighty arm,
Gabriel, our fortitude, and the blest charm
Of Raphael's healing name? In my heart's fear
I heard a voice, “Be still, and lowly bend;
While two or three remain, thy Lord is here,
And where His presence is, His Hosts attend.”

XI. Foreign Breviaries.

They that worship Him shall worship Him in spirit and in truth.

Dear Church, our island's sacred sojourner,
A richer dress thy Southern sisters own,
And some would deem too bright their flowing zone
For sacred walls. I love thee, nor would stir
Thy simple note, severe in character,
By use made lovelier, for the lofty tone
Or hymn, response, and touching antiphone,
Lest we lose homelier truth. The chorister
That sings the summer nights, so soft and strong,
To music modulating his sweet throat,
Labours with richness of his varied note,
Yet lifts not unto Heaven a holier song,
Than our home bird that, on some leafless thorn,
Hymns his plain chaunt each wintry eve and morn.

XII. The Church in Scotland.

Rejoice not against me, O mine enemy; when I fall, I shall arise; when I sit in darkness, the Lord shall be a light unto me.

More pure the gale where the wild thistle rears
His mountain banner on his stony tower,
Than odorous breath of cultivated bower;
More true to nature o'er its armed spears
The mountain rose its lonely chalice bears,
Than many-folding cups of cherish'd flower;
And, traversing those wilds with silvery shower,
E'en Winter's moon more clear and free appears!
Such is thy sister of the northern hills,
Less honour'd, not less holy; bow'd with ills,
But not destroy'd; pure branch of the true vine,
Drinking her nurture from the barren rock,
Of pitiless elements she braves the shock,
And hath less earthly beauty—more divine.

XIII. The Church in Wales.

Why hast Thou broken down her hedges, that all they that go by pluck off her grapes?

Alas, Menevia! what of thee remains,
Primeval saintly Church? from Towy's flood
To Conway springs an ever-teeming brood
Of novelty, to claim thy true domains;
Religious Freedom, worse than Romish chains!
As in the stool where some huge oak once stood,
Some mountain bird now hides his sylvan food;
And lo! the ancient stock with wonder gains
A doubtful, new, and motley progeny,
Springing in mockery from her aged root,
With coral berries wild and show of fruit.
And here and there between th'ancestral shoot
Is seen, to emulate their pliancy,
Bowing to each wind as it passes by.

XIV. The Church in Wales.

Wherefore, when I looked that it should bring forth grapes, brought it forth wild grapes?

Ancient Menevia, I must still love thee,
Nor yet is silent thy Cathedral song,
Though nought to echo back her solemn tongue,
Save the true emblems of Heav'n's constancy,
Th'unchanging mountains and unchanging Sea,
Which to each other thy deep tones prolong,
And both bear on to Heav'n. What though, among
Thine innocent nuptial feasts and household glee,
Thy harp is silenc'd in Religion's name,
And discipline become a word of blame,
Mother of love and nurse of cheerful thought,
While holiest liturgies are set at nought,
To enshrine the feverish dreams of human will,
Ancient Menevia, I must love thee still.

XV. The Church in Wales.

Turn thee again, thou Lord of hosts, look down from Heaven, behold, and visit this vine.

For thou didst take me up unto thy breast,
Pitying my lost and helpless infancy,
And didst engraft me in the living tree.
Still breathe fresh thoughts from thy Plinlimmon's crest,
Hedg'd by thy language, (in thy mountain-nest,
Indented oft with blue o'er-arching sea,)
That so the airs of foul disloyalty
Reach thee but faintly from our sad unrest,
Which, like Avernian steams, to Heav'n's deep roof
Daily ascend, and gathering there aloof,
Hang in tempestuous clouds. If thou would'st still
Have thy good Angel guard thee free from blame,
Rend not Christ's robe at thine irreverent will,
But wrap it round thee, lest they see thy shame!

XVI. Political changes.

I have seen an end of all perfection, but thy commandment is exceeding broad.

Strange—the o'erwhelming tide that beareth on
The soul of Nations—mighty, though unseen,
And wielding mighty destinies; not e'en
Huge Ocean, on his bed with thunders strewn,
Rocking from pole to pole to the pale Moon,
More constant in mutation; 'mid the scene
We stretch our sounding canvass, nor ought ween
Our whereabouts, save where the past hath gone!
It was the Everlasting that pass'd by,
We saw not, but in cloud o'er cloud arrayed,
Ocean o'er Ocean roll'd ineffably,
Onward, like tide-born billows, He doth heave
Men's spirits, each upon his own bark staid.
We to behold His Glory's skirts had leave.

XVII. The sure Covenant.

For this is as the waters of Noah unto me; for as I have sworn the waters shall no more go over the earth, so have I sworn that I would not be wroth with thee.

Let the storms ply their deep and threat'ning bass,
The Bow of Promise shall the shades illume,
Brightly descried in Faith's eternal glass,
E'en like an Angel's many-coloured plume
Waving in tempest—pledge that in her bloom
Nature, emerging from the stormy mass,
Will keep her time and order.—Let them pass
The wicked and their plottings: 'mid the gloom,
The Church surveys her Covenant sign, and smiles.
And 'neath her solemn rainbow's dripping arch,
A mystic wing spread o'er her daring march,
She goes forth, on her heavenly work the whiles,
Though weeping, sure that one in joy shall bring,
Her and her sheaves at harvest-moon to sing.

XVIII. Prayer for the Parliament.

God forbid that I should sin against the Lord, in ceasing to pray for you.

Yet Peace be in these walls! Upon them rest
The Royal Martyr's mantle from the skies,
Though little they Heav'n's sweet protection prize!
And haply so our prayers to our own breast
Unanswer'd may return, yet not unblest,
If thus our soul learn patience, and arise,
Good Charles, to thy diviner charities!
Albeit oft, with heavy thoughts opprest,
We see in them but clouds from our sick land,
And the dread sword unsheath'd in God's right hand.
Thus set we the soul's anchor, if it be
Right in th'All-seeing eyes, then be it so,
May the vex'd Church learn her true panoply,
And lift above the clouds her tranquil brow.

XIX. Prayer for the King.

Honour thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long.

If the meek-hearted to the earth is heir,
Refresh'd in multitude of peace divine,
And length of days, by what blest discipline,
Shall we best drink of that celestial air?—
By what calm ways of holy Wisdom share,
Th'eternal sweetness of her Angel eyne,
Who leans on high from the meek Saviour's shrine?
The path of Life will shew—the path of Pray'r.
There filial duty first shall lead thee by
The house of Pride, then manhood's Loyalty
Take thee in hand, her spirit to infuse.
Pray thou with them, imbibe their heav'nly hues,
And they will lead thee to that Palace Hall,
Where God is King and Father, all in all.

XX. Consolations of Baptism.

O Israel, thou hast destroyed thyself, but in me is thy help.

Brightly the morn of our New Birth arose
From the Baptismal Fount, in awful trance
Unveiling half her glorious countenance;—
We turn'd to our own dreams, wooing Earth's woes,
And slumber'd. Haply now ere Ev'ning's close
We wake, and o'er us see a pitying glance,
The heavenly morn gone by, day in advance,
And far away the towers of our repose.
We doubt the title soil'd by sinful stain,
And of our birthright ask some sign again,
Such is distrust, of Sin the penalty!
Oh! rather, when thy knees sink on the plain,
Rise, and look back on that Egyptian sea,
And doubt no more the arm that set thee free.

XXI. The City of God.

Glorious things are spoken of thee, thou City of God.

Throughout the older word, story and rite—
Throughout the new, skirting all clouds with gold—
Through rise and fall and destinies manifold
Of pagan empires—through the dreams and night
Of nature, and the darkness and the light,
Still young in hope, in disappointment old—
Through mists which fall'n humanity enfold,
Into the vast and viewless infinite
Rises th'Eternal City of our God.
Her towers the morn with disenchanting rod
Dimly and darkly labours to disclose,
Lifting the outskirts of th'o'er-mantling gloom;
Bright shapes come forth, arch, pinnacle, and dome,
In Heav'n is hid its height and deep repose.

XXII. New Ways.

Then is the offence of the Cross ceased.

Now each new Creed will ready welcome move,
That bids not in the secret soul to bear
The Cross with Thee, in silence and in fear,
And Duty's silvery trappings yoked with Love.
O sternly kind Severity, to prove
The children of the promise, year by year,
And that unearthly bosom calm and clear,
Meet mirror to enshrine th'Eternal Dove.
Yet this is hard—this holy: turn thine eyes
Inward, and thou shalt find the broad new way,
Like the foul Stygian deep, where hideous things
Stable in darkness, and but fold their wings
Deeming it light—be thine to fear and pray,
And feed on that life-giving Sacrifice!

XXIII. The Crucifix.

That I may know Him, and the fellowship of His sufferings, being made conformable unto His death.

Though by such thorns as on Thy brow abide,
Thine would Thy servant be—thorns from the weed
Of sorrow, whereof Adam sowed the seed;
Thine by the spear that pierced Thy tender side,
Compunctuous throes, which drink the heart's deep tide;
Thine by the nails, which made Thy pure hands bleed,—
Nails of stern discipline, rough arts that breed
Keen penitential yearnings, or the pride
Of the rude scoffing world; by whate'er chain
May quell rebellion, or of soul or eye,
Whatever penance schools of shame, or pain,
Whatever scourge may strike, and not in vain,
So bind me to Thy Cross, that I may die
Daily, the fleeting years that I remain.

XXIV. The Holy Altar.

The glory of the Lord came into the house by the way of the gate, whose prospect is toward the East.

Unto the East we turn, to which belong
More than the heart divines, or eye descries;
There is the Altar which our life supplies.
The voice is silent, lest it should do wrong
To things which are too high for mortal tongue.
The Heav'ns are looking on with wondering eyes.
And Angel faces crowd the o'erhanging skies.
Shall men unheeding to the temple throng
Where God is present? Watchful evermore,
Let calm Obeisance at thine Altar wait,
And lowly-bowing Reverence keep the door
Of our dull hearts; that there we may be brought
To the society of holy thought,
Revering God, to man compassionate.

XXV. The Ancient Church.

I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.

Unto the East we turn—from the cold bourn
Of our dull western cave Faith's pensive mood
Sets there her tranced eyelid, gathering food
Of solemn thoughts which make her less forlorn,
And back to Apostolic men is borne.
There, from her evening and dim solitude,
She joins the companies of the wise and good,
Who walk upon the Gospel's glorious morn,
Their dwarf dimensions of mortality
Seeming to grow upon the golden sky,
Beyond the cold shade of imperious Rome.
Ambrose and Basil, either Gregory,
Clement and Cyril, Cyprian's earthly home,
And the free lips of glowing Chrysostom.

XXVI. The Holy Land.

His windows being open in his chamber toward Jerusalem, he kneeled upon his knees, and prayed.

Unto the East we turn—like some bright stair
Let down from Heav'n, the land where Angels still
Linger at Chinnereth's lake or Tabor's hill.
Here Jesus sat, there stood, here kneel'd in prayer;
Here was His cradle, there His sepulchre.
E'en now appears the bleeding spectacle
Upheld to the wide world: the cup of ill
Is drain'd, with hands outstretch'd, bleeding and bare,
He doth in death His innocent head recline,
Turn'd to the West. Descending from his height,
The sun beheld, and veil'd him from the sight.
Thither, while from the serpent's wound we pine,
To Thee, remembering that baptismal sign,
We turn, and drink anew thy healing might.

XXVII. Lost Eden.

When they return unto Thee, in the land of their enemies, and pray unto Thee toward their land which Thou gavest unto their fathers, then hear Thou their supplication in Heaven.

Unto the East we turn, in thoughtful gaze,
Like longing exiles to their ancient home,
Mindful of our lost Eden. Thence may come
Genial ambrosial airs around the ways
Of daily life, and fragrant thoughts that raise
Home-sympathies: so may we cease to roam,
Seeking some resting-place before the tomb,
To which on wandering wings devotion strays.
But true to our high birthright, and to Him
Who leads us by the flaming Cherubim,
Death's gate, our pilgrim spirits may arise
O'er earth's affections; and mid worldlings rude,
Walk loosely in their holier solitude,
And breathe the air of their lost Paradise.

XXVIII. The Coming of Christ.

As the lightning cometh out of the East, and shineth even unto the West, so shall also the coming of the Son of man be.

Unto the East we turn, with watchful eyes,
Where opens the white haze of silvery lawn,
And the still trees stand in the streak of dawn,
Until the Sun of Righteousness shall rise,
And far behind shall open all the skies,
And golden clouds of Angels be withdrawn
Around His presence. Then there shall be gone,
Fleeing before his face in dread surprise,
The Heav'n and Earth and the affrighted Sea,
And the tribunal shall be set on high,
And we the fiery trial must abide.
Like nightly travellers to the kindling sky,
Awake or sleeping to yon eastern side
We turn, and know not when the time shall be.

The Way to the Chapter House.

Sacred Retirement.

I

A mountain lake, where sleeps the mid-day Moon,
When beetle booming by is heard no more—
'Twixt drowsy hills and sea a sultry noon—
A rural Church, some Ev'ning funeral o'er—
A leaf's still image in a fountain hoar—
On cloistral pane the gaze of Saint or Seer,
Suffus'd with lessons sweet of heav'nly lore,
And heav'nly-rapt affection—These all wear
Calm unalloy'd, but none as lingereth here.

II

The long green avenue, where light and shade
Chequering the floor, now play, now sleep profound;
Old pines, the lonely breeze that by them stray'd
Wooing in vain; old yews, hiding the ground,
Grey oaks, and far-off spires, seem to have found

A voice, while busier sounds are dimly spent,
As waken'd by the stillness. One around,
On pillars of blue light hath spread His tent;
And walks with us below in silence eloquent.

III

And now we hear Him: thus when Nature's wheel
Is still, we find ourselves hurrying along;
In crowds ourselves alone we mostly feel;
When turbulence of business, and the throng
Of passionate hopes, which unto Earth belong,
And mould too oft from Earth the rebel will,
Sleep;—then we hear the mighty undersong,
To which loud Niagara's voice is still,
And mute the thunders strong which air and ocean fill.

IV

O heavenly Love, that o'er us, sin-defil'd,
With thy blest arm beneath us, leaning low,
Dost watch, fond mother, o'er thy slumbering child,
That still in dreams is tossing to and fro,
And knowing knows thee not! Aye! come and go

Thy messengers of pity; from Heav'n's door
The star its silver image shoots below,
Seen instantaneous in the wat'ry floor;
So quick 'tween Earth and Heav'n thy beams of mercy pour!

V

Into my cold and leaden spirit stream,
Out of thy Star of beauty, that doth burn
Around my Saviour's brow! O grant one beam,
One faint, dim emanation from thine urn,
Which e'en in me may so responsive turn,
Like magnet to thy pole, that I may rove
No longer. I my daily path would earn,
And gather tow'rd the haven; I would move
On by thy light till lost in everlasting love.

VI

Oh! hide me in thy temple, ark serene,
Where safe upon the swell of this rude sea,
I might survey the stars, thy towers between,
And might pray always; not that I would be
Uplifted, or would fain not dwell with Thee
On the rough waters; but in soul within
I sigh for Thy pure calm, serene and free;
I too would prove Thy Temple, 'mid the din
Of earthly things, unstain'd by care or sin!

VII

Into the deeps, where Ev'ning holds her court,
A feather'd flock are winging their wild flight,
Now gradual fading far, now borne athwart,
And seen again, now lost in Infinite
And Sea of purple; we, with eager sight
Would match their soaring wings, as on the swell
Of music, ling'ring in some vaulted height,—
Then sink, and feel our chain and earthly cell;—
When shall the soul be free, and in those glories dwell?

The Chapter House.

EPISCOPACY.

I. The Key-stone of the visible Church. II. Sacred Antiquity. III. Divine Commission. IV. Enmity of the world. V. Its power spiritual. VI.Its blessings. VII.Its dress Humility. VIII. Succession from the Apostles.

He that entereth in by the door is the shepherd of the sheep Verily, verily, I say unto you, I am the door of the sheep. St. John x. 2. 7.

This is generally of an octagonal shape, whose eight equal sides are here represented in the eight subjects under the head of Episcopacy. It is often supported by a single pillar, springing up in the centre, which might be taken as an emblem of the one Bishop of the Diocese; and if it be allowable to carry on this allusion, the surrounding seats might be considered as indicative of the presence of the Presbytery; as it is here that they meet to elect their Bishop.

The Presbytery, being worthy of God, is united to the Bishop, as the strings are to an harp, thus bound together in union of heart and voice, and in that love of which Jesus Christ is the Leader and the Guardian. Ignatius' Epist. to the Ephesians, c. iv.

I

Mysterious harp of heav'n-born harmony!
Touch'd by th'all-hallowing Spirit from above,
Thou fill'st the Church, else dead, with duteous love,
Obedience, such as holds the hosts on high,
And pure heav'n-soothing order. Mortal eye
Beholds not, nor can mortal hearing prove
The musical soul which on thy chords doth move,
Tempering to holiest union; but the sky
May catch the echo of th'unearthly sound,
For Christ himself, and his appointed few,
Moulded the frame, and in the silvery bound
Set all the glowing wires. Then potent grew

(Like that pale starry lyre 'twixt sea and cloud
Seen fitfully in Heav'n when winds are loud)
The treasury of sweet sounds: deep aisle and fane
Prolong, from age to age, the harmonious strain.

II

The soul that knows not thy constraining power,
Sacred Antiquity! hath lost a spell
From Heav'n,—a delicate chain impalpable
To hold clear spirits; he hath miss'd the tower
Where Faith finds refuge, marr'd the sacred flower
Of bloom and modesty, aye wont to dwell
On Virtue's awful face. Love hath a cell
Where, watch'd and treasur'd as her choicest dower,
She keeps what bears the impress of her Lord,
Now doubly dear by age; such high control
Is Piety's life-breath. If Freedom's word
Finds in thy breast an echo, lay aside
That right-asserting attitude of soul,
Ere in the Christian's temple thou abide,
Where he who dwells must dwell on bended knee,
From his own merits praying to be free.

III

The Sovereignty of God is shed o'er Kings,
Throwing around them a mysterious fear,
Which, though it would not, cannot but revere,

When the true Line, in type of heavenly things,
The shadow of God's Kingship o'er them flings.
But in Thy Priesthood Thou Thyself art here,
And virtue goeth from Thee. Faith brings near
That heaven-descended stair, and upward springs
With world-averted face, and, more and more
Admitting to thy Godhead's secret store,
Leads up to Thee. Healing Thy garment fills,
And grace and truth th'impregnate air distills
Around Thy presence. With awe-stricken eyes
We sit with lov'd disciples round Thy feet;
Or, as the growing bread Thy love supplies,
From Apostolic hands we take and eat.

IV

The Persian king, from arm'd Abdera's rocks,
Fetter'd and lash'd free Ocean; who the while,
Not to o'erwhelm him, with a patient smile,
Forebore to shake his spray-bespangled locks:
'Tis thus when man the Almighty's goodness mocks;—
The chosen of the vineyard rose, and said,
Come, let us kill the Heir; when he is dead
All will be ours. The word is bold, and shocks
Our boasted reason; yet from age to age
Proud scorners play that descant o'er and o'er:

When the world's minions, or in mirth or rage,
Lifting the scourge o'er crown or shrine, engage,
These be my spoils, these only, and no more.
The Church, forbearing, as that sea forbore,
Moves not to crush, but careless of the chain,
Looks bright, and breathes out her untroubled strain.

V

Welcome their hate; the good which they dispense
Poisons the proud and pains the lowly soul:
Nor can the spells which this rude world control,
And worldly arts, and wit, and eloquence,
One spirit rescue from the toils of sense,
Or bring one rescued to the eternal goal.
The robe must be thy Master's humble stole,
Watching and fast, and fast and watching, thence
Long midnight meditations, grave and deep,
Rous'd from earth's palsying hand of drowsy sleep
By Persecution's wrath and Satan's hate,
And wafting prayers of saints that on thee wait,
Some Herbert hidden in his rural nook,
Or Kempis kneeling o'er a cloistral book,
And chief of spells, the halo yet unspent,
The latest Breath of Jesus ere He went.

VI

Therefore to you the choirs of Heav'n arise
In reverence. Key stones are ye, every one,
In God's sure house; fountains of benison,
Which Christ, the mighty sea of love, supplies;
Visible angels lighting lower skies;
How may we praise—how style you? call'd alone
To sit in sackcloth on Christ's earthly throne,
Channels of living waters? golden ties
From Christ's meek cradle to his throne on high?
Bright shower-drops sparkling from God's orbed light?
We hide our eyes, and ask, what vesture bright
Shall clothe you, gather'd or from earth or sky,
Ye chiefest servants of a suffering Lord,
The King of shame and sorrow? what afford
Sky-tinctur'd grain to robe you? Other dress
Faith owns not, save her Master's lowliness.

VII

So not alone Christ's mission-crown on high
Shall gird your brows with radiance, but the urn
Of Heav'n's own light in your true bosoms burn;
For the great God who fills eternity
Makes lowliest hearts His temple; such we see
When to Faith's earliest morn our eyes we turn,

And round th'all-conquering Cross of shame discern,
Kneeling in light, a suffering Hierarchy;
Thence, high and wide, 'mid Persecution's night,
The East and West are with their glory bright;
As on some festal eve in glorious Rome,
Far through the pillar'd shades of Peter's dome,
A thousand glowing lamps fling light on high,
Making their own calm day, their own pure sky
Around the holiest altar cross, whence springs
The mystic dove, shaking her golden wings.

VIII

“He that despiseth you doth me despise.”
Lo! at that call Faith her best robe prepares,
And Heav'n to Earth lets down the eternal stairs,
Through a long line of more than good or wise,
The high-born legates of the appeased skies
Come down their avenue of sacred years;
Each in his hand Messiah's olive bears.
Ye priestly brotherhood, with reverend eyes
Receive a guest from Heav'n, your ancient seat
Open ye, and Religion's deep retreat!
The dust of Time is on him, and Christ's mark,
Worldly reproach; he bears the unquench'd spark

To kindle into life earth's secret womb—
To lighten or destroy, cheer or consume;
Through chains, fire, sword, he bears thy last reprieve,
“He that receiveth you, doth me receive!”

University of Virginia Library

PART I. The Exterior of the Cathedral.