The Seven Days, or the Old and New Creation :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Seven Days, or the Old and New Creation

By the author of "The Cathedral" [i.e. Isaac Williams]

Williams, Isaac (1802-1865)

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THE SEVEN DAYS, OR THE Old and New Creation.

Invocation.

THE FIRST DAY. The Light.

THE SECOND DAY. The Firmament and the Waters.

THE THIRD DAY. The Sea and the Earth.

THE FOURTH DAY. The Sun, Moon, and Stars.

THE FIFTH DAY. The Fishes and the Birds.

THE SIXTH DAY. Beasts, creeping things, and Man.

THE SEVENTH DAY. The Rest of God.

[epilogue]

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THE FIRST DAY. The Light.

ARGUMENT.

The creation of light on the first day emblematic of the true Light of the city of God. On the same day the Resurrection of Christ; the descent of the Holy Ghost; the Revelation of St. John. These symbolic of the final Manifestation. Light and heat before the sun suited to the development of vegetable life. Types of the New Creation the subject of these poems, rather than marvels of natural philosophy. Light before the sun representative of the true Light which lighteth every man before the Incarnation. The final separation between good and bad set forth in the dividing of the light from the darkness. Indications of sensible light without the sun in Scripture; the burning bush; the light of Goshen; the pillar of fire; the Shechinah; the light seen by St. Peter in prison; by St. Paul; by St. Stephen; by St. John. The illumination of Baptism.

The spiritual light now filling the world; its various developments; the type and antitype blending; unearthly light on Sundays flowing from the mind itself over creation. A village Sunday; the Church; the School; the Churchyard. The Sundays of past life; in childhood; at School; at College. St. Augustine conversing with his mother on the eternal light of God's presence.

MORNING.

I

Day of the light, new Day, immortal Day,
Bright harbinger of Day that knows no night,
Of days the first and last, whose golden ray
Is but the emanation of that Light,
Too glorious to be seen by mortal sight,
Which lights the unseen City of our God;
Day of all days, and light supremely bright,
Ere Morn and Eve their watch alternate trod,
And hung their lamps in Heaven with holy silence shod!

II

He spake, and thou wert nigh, with flowing robe
Unspeakable in radiance to invest
The morning of Creation, o'er the globe
Floating; ere yet the moon had lit her crest,
Or sun had left his mantle on the west;—
And thou when sun and moon shall be no more
Shalt light the glorious City of the blest;—
Light of the Lamb, that through th'eternal door
Didst burst on the dark world, and thy full day-spring pour.

III

Day of the Light, new Day, that upward springs
Bearing a new Creation from the tomb,
And Immortality upon thy wings,
Light of the Lamb; from the sepulchral gloom
Emerging, Heaven and earth dost thou illume;
Sabbath of Sabbaths; first of all the seven;
The first and last, until the day of doom,—
The Day to which the seven-fold light is given,
Last of the days of earth, first of the days of Heaven.

IV

Day of the Light, new Day, risen once again,
When seven times seven had fill'd the destin'd chime;
God's Tabernacle come to be with men,
On that due number'd Pentecostal time;—
The burning effluence of the eternal clime,
In tongues of Fire beheld, whose lambent flight
Ran to the heart, upward from thence to climb,
Divine irradiation, given to sight,
Building in man's deep heart the City of the Light.

V

Seven-fold shall be the light of that great Day,
Cloth'd with the seven-fold Spirit's burning beam,
Cloth'd with the Sun;—the uncreated Ray,
The Fountain from which flows the seven-fold stream
O'er all the week; the Day—the Day supreme
Because the first of days;—after the seven
Into itself returning; your high theme
The hallowed circuit of the days of Heaven;—
The Day known to the Lord; Light that shall be at even.

VI

“Day of the Lord,” new Day, when burning lips,
And His bright Presence Whom all shadows flee
Reveal'd to John the dread Apocalypse,
Of great realities which are to be,
Creation with the robe of prophecy
Investing, as with morning's twilight ray,
Ere barriers which now hold the eternal sea
Shall usher in the new and perfect day,
Hidden in Christ so long, Whose chariot wheels delay.

VII

O awful words that speak of this our state
Of mortal life as darkness and as night,
Wherein the good in dread expectance wait
The coming in of everlasting Light;
Which shall like lightning clothe, and bring to sight
Things of this darkness! None the power can tell
Of that Light dwelling with the Infinite;
This first of days, like some bright sentinel,
Ranges around the place where lights eternal dwell.

VIII

O awful bursting in—the endless ray—
Of that Regeneration! He Who then
The separation made 'twixt night and day,
The irrevocable word shall speak again;
Children of light and darkness amongst men
Be parted by an adamantine bar,
By Him Whose words for ever shall remain,
Like good and evil angels set afar,
While here the day and night wage their perpetual war.

IX

Now the new world, by sin yet undefil'd,
Well-pleasing found in the all-seeing eyes,
Up to its great Creator look'd and smil'd;—
As smiles an infant, while it helpless lies,
Responsive on its mother, smiling plies
Its gladden'd limbs all motion; calm and bright,
As in the breaking of the vernal skies,
Such smile hath something of celestial light,
Radiant with innocence from regions out of sight.

X

Morning of mornings, fairer than the dawn
Which ever since hath greeted mortal sight,
In all its blooming radiance thinly drawn
Along the eastern ridges, silver-white,
Then golden-tinged, then amethystine light;—
Decking the world which in her cradle lay
Emerging in vast outline from the night;—
Of morning's first and fairest, till that ray
Whose rising shall precede the everlasting day!

XI

Then Time first mounted on his silent car,
And like the cloudy pageantries of heaven
To his appointed setting from afar
Majestically moved; then first was given
To mark the entrances of morn and even,
The circuits of Time's wheels that onward roll;
Ere the starr'd heavens were on their courses driven,
And all the things of this created Whole,
Which hand in hand with Time are travelling to their goal.

XII

Those cloudy pageantries with semblance fraught
Arise from nothing, and to nothing tend,
Scatter'd by the bright sunbeams into nought;
But, as they move, still with their movements blend
And shape out things more stable without end,
In mimickries sublime, a moving mass:
So things of time as they to life ascend,
Arise from nothing and to nothing pass,
Of stabler things unseen may be themselves the glass.

XIII

But as the sea with his ten thousand streams
Spreads his broad arms the genial earth around;
Or as the sun sends forth his living beams
Which through the world with life and light abound;
So of Thy goodness, Lord, the deep profound
Doth flow through all Thy works, and still remain,
Bearing to end of time the cheering sound,
Though on them all hath pass'd the sinful stain,
And in their praises blends an undersound of pain.

XIV

Ere out of nothing rose this world so fair,
Before the ancient mountains had their birth,
Or watery seas hung floating in mid air,
The varied year, and year-encircled earth,
The chambers of the east or wintry north,
Wisdom convers'd with Thee, and from Thy rest
And secret endless sabbath issued forth
In giving life Thy love to manifest,
On all Thy works out-pour'd, e'en like a radiant vest.

XV

Straight at Thy word the lumination came,
Swift as the echo to the voice replies;
And through all space went forth the flowing flame;
Such light as in the diamond dwells, and lies
In all the jewel's fair varieties,
Or phosphor evening flames; such ample room
Finds in all stones, woods, waters; from our eyes
Hiding around; and at the Day of doom
Shall issue at that word with warrant to consume.

XVI

Like the sweet dawn—ere yet the morning sun
Opens his palace door with golden sway,
That awful Shechinah o'er all things shone
With luminous wave elastic, its own day
Creating, as it roll'd its mighty way;
For thus with all-pervading light combin'd
All objects as they drink the inflowing ray
Derive their hues and nature, and entwin'd
With seven-fold rainbow tints ethereal beauty find.

XVII

Pause of awakening life, while yet the Earth,
Like embryo in the womb ere being stir,
Gradual took form and kindled into birth;
Thus plants are nurtur'd by the genial air,
The light and heat and humid atmosphere,
Ere they can bear the sun's own glaring eye:
Slow the sweet dawn, and slow the vernal year,
Ere heaven's round fire in full intensity
Looks down from his high tower on the meridian sky.

XVIII

I speak not how this globe then launch'd in space,
And turning on its axis caught the ray;
And, as the eyelids on some morning face,
Open'd and clos'd the portals of the day;
What intervals of time began their way;
Nor of the harmonies in nature's shrine,
Their marvels, and their golden-link'd array;
But rather that philosophy divine
Whereby the hand of God hath mark'd their outward sign.

XIX

For when the worlds were out of nothing wrought;—
Like bubbles gilded with prismatic rays
Pois'd in mid air, then vanishing to nought,—
In going forth of this the first of days,
All the unravelling of the troubled maze,
And last return to Thee was in Thine eye,
When from the womb of time Thou shalt upraise
A new creation, a new earth and sky,
When all shall be one day of light and harmony.

XX

“Let there be light,” said God, and there was light;
God saw and bless'd—the first of all the seven,
And morn and evening mark'd the day and night;
Ere the bright orb was set in the mid heaven,
Or stars came thick upon the brow of even;
Such was the opening world, mysterious space,
Mirror of faith to contemplation given,
Wherein as in dark waters we may trace
Footsteps of God made Man, and awful things of Grace.

XXI

For what was this, the light which God first made,
But the faint shadow of the Holy One,
Whose uncreated beam hath all arrayed?
And what doth God call good, except thereon
He see the image of the eternal Son,—
The Lamb which washeth all things with His Blood,
Slain ere foundations of the world begun,
Whose counsels from eternity have stood?
In Him alone beheld whatever is is good.

XXII

His comings and His goings thus have trod
Ever in silence, nor can eye presume
To know or search the secret things of God;
Yet rays of light His footsteps may illume.
'Tis He that lit each traveller to the tomb,
And 'mid the heathen darkness did disclose
Life's path, dividing 'tween the light and gloom,
The Arbiter of hope and sweet repose,
Ere yet the Sun of life on Sion's hill arose.

XXIII

Ere yet the Light shone forth upon the earth
Orb'd in the Sun that rules our nether day;—
And He who is of everlasting birth
Within the Manhood cloth'd His living ray,
Hiding His Godhead in our house of clay.
But since reveal'd on Tabor's hallowed height,
Thence our Incarnate God He leads the way,
His countenance reveal'd to human sight,
Within His written Word the all-transcending Light.

XXIV

Light Uncreate that walk'd our earth below
And His Own Self upon the creature pour'd,
Till we new life in His own essence know;—
The Light that lighteth all men,—Light ador'd,
And in Himself adorable,—One Lord,
Light unapproachable, within whose seat,
Wherein the everlasting year is stor'd,
Creation, Easter, Whitsuntide all meet;
Light of the Father, Son, and holy Paraclete.

XXV

And haply, floating o'er the illumin'd globe,
Those emanations of created light
Which clad His goings forth, as with a robe,
May speak of those who after the last night
Cloth'd with His righteousness shall come to sight;
Himself shall put them on, in them shall come
With glory o'er all worlds, calm, tranquil, bright,
And in the resurrection from the tomb
Go forth in them and tread impervious on the gloom.

XXVI

And we—or they—who now without the door
Stand with our lamps, and through the even-tide
Tend on the radiant drops, which from the store
Of Pentecost in vessels frail abide,
And fall on gathering shades on every side;—
If then admitted to the Light, shall see
The King in His own beauty, and the Bride,
When sins and shadows shall for ever flee,
Crown'd with that golden crown—His own eternity.

XXVII

Thus light and shade, and day and night, awhile
Together blend in regions of our sight,
Shed or withdrawn as the Creator's smile:
For God made not the darkness, but the light,—
Set them asunder by the caves of night,
And in their goings made apart to dwell,
Diverse in their approaches and their flight,—
Alternate each in its sublunar cell,
Till the ne'er-ending Day itself is visible.

XXVIII

For God made not the darkness, made not sin,
Which is but absence of the glad Serene,
But doth its goings order, and begin
His own eternity to set between,
Divider 'tween the light and dark, and seen
As Sun of Righteousness, whose after-sway
Shall part them, bidding Judgment intervene,
On His left hand or right shall set for aye,
The wicked and the good—the darkness and the day.

XXIX

But all things to God's children gracious are;
The darkness is but season for their rest,
Sweet interchange of labour, time for prayer,
And contemplation; making manifest
The things of Heaven; the cloudy shades are blest
With dews refreshing; stern adversities,
And wickedness around them, fill the breast
With heavenward wings; experience hope supplies,
And God in mercy hides their future destinies;—

XXX

Hides in Himself that they to Him may turn;
As wakeful eyes to see the dawn arise,
If they thereon a streak of light discern;
And looking love the more, and loving prize:
As maiden turns to watch her mistress' eyes;
Our ignorance, our doubts, our inborn care;
The shade, the cloud, the dark that marks the skies;
They are but needful change to waken prayer,
For such as to the grave a sinful burden bear.

XXXI

When from his lantern dim the radiance breaks,
It opes the wanderer's pathway 'mid the gloom,
And scatter'd shadows his companions makes;
But should he reach some high o'er-arching room,
Which lights of some great festival illume,
He stands reveal'd unto himself and all:
Thus pales with man, when he hath pass'd the tomb,
The light that led the way, so faint and small,
Extinguish'd in the blaze of that celestial hall.

XXXII

By what electric circle shall the Light,
Like lightning, clothe us round; or from within
Come forth, and all our hearts reveal to sight;
Like some clear mirror, all that erst hath been
Bring forth, and every thought and deed of sin;
That wonderful epiphany, to sense
Unknown, unfelt, unthought of; but akin
To morning after night; when we go hence,
And spirit stands anew all live intelligence!

XXXIII

What eyes shall then come round? Oft fever-fir'd
The memory brings to sight things buried long;
Or the disorder'd senses are attir'd
With keener powers than human; ear and tongue
And eye that nearest may to us belong,
Lost to the power of reason and of love,
May clothe themselves with revelations strong;
Like witnesses unearthly from above,
Shewing what living lights may all around us move.

XXXIV

Light instantaneous, swifter than the wind
It travels through the regions of all space,
The sound of its own transit leaves behind,
Darts from the Heaven to earth with trackless pace.
Father of lights, Thine eyes in every place,
Thus awfully our goings forth surround;
And from the Heaven of Heavens looks down Thy Face,
Ere of Thine awful Voice we hear the sound;
Thine Eyes within our heart watching in light profound.

XXXV

They who Light's paths “as in the day” have trod,
And the all-seeing Eye around them brought,
Must tremble to awake and see their God;
Light itself speaks of Him; Light is, if aught,
The spirit's stole impalpable, like Thought
With movement so ubiquitous, where'er
The Will hath its unconscious impulse caught,
In presence simultaneous it is there;
Its whereabouts itself like one great Everywhere.

XXXVI

Without us and within us there is light,
Yea, as the sparks within the flint-stone hide
Till call'd forth thence by man, withdrawn from sight
Unharming and unharm'd within abide,
Till thence whole forests blaze on every side.
And round about us, from our sight conceal'd,
There hidden lies the inevitable tide
Of light created, which hath oft appeal'd
To human sight and sense by miracle reveal'd,—

XXXVII

Come forth from worlds that are beyond the sun,
Or lie about us deeper than his rays;—
Such Moses saw when flaming fires o'errun
The hallow'd Bush with their unharming blaze;
Such the dread light o'er mystic Israel stays,
With the Egyptian darkness compass'd round;
Such did through night the Pillar'd Guidance raise,
To lead along the wild's untrodden ground,
And in the holy Mount a dwelling-place hath found.

XXXVIII

Such into Peter's prison, like the moon,
Enter'd serene, in silence of the night;
Such by Damascus in the blazing noon,
Above the sun in his illumin'd height,
Encircled Saul, and mantled as with night
In its exceeding brightness; such from high
On saintly Stephen shed the unearthly light,
When he gaz'd up to Heaven, about to die,
And caught the beams that there shine everlastingly.

XXXIX

That Countenance on him who erst ador'd
In sea-girt Patmos, its last look bestows,
Upon the day of Light, Light's living Lord;
E'en like divinest music at its close;
Or as the Day-light sinking to repose,
Its rays still lingering on the western sky,
Caught by the moon which o'er the hill arose,
When the last words of dying prophecy
Spake of the Son of Man and of His coming nigh.

XL

Daughter of God, the earliest, eldest born,
First of created things! e'en now how sweet
Are all thy comings, like the early morn,
Before thy face Despair and Sadness fleet,
Thou tread'st the clouds, which 'neath thy radiant feet
Pass into nought; thou art Joy's emblem, nay,
Thou more than emblem, nurse, or parent meet;
Nature all gladdens 'neath thy genial ray,
And the heart freed from care in thee keeps holiday.

XLI

Noah—the Eighth—from comfort nam'd! Thou art
The eighth day's light, which to each part hath pour'd
The glowing circumcision of the heart,
And the new birth hath in the spirit stor'd.
Let there be Light, said God, and at His word
Light was; for thus again, when Earth and Sky
Shall be renew'd in glory of their Lord,—
One moment, “in the twinkling of an eye,”
Shall be the last great Light to shine eternally.

EVENING.

I

'Tis evening;—Light of lights, with us abide,
For without Thee whate'er this world afford,
'Twere “without form and void” on every side:
But Love brings down the presence of her Lord,
And all illumines with the Living Word;
As when 'mid hallow'd dews the morning sky
Itself hath on the face of nature pour'd,
And all the landscape's broad variety
Enters and imag'd lies upon the wandering eye.

II

And diverse as the drops of silver showers,
Sparkling on blades which drink the morning dew;
Or as in field, grove, hill, the varied flowers
In topaz, amber, emerald come to view.
Or as in heaven the stars diverse of hue;
So where the everlasting Light divine
In God's mysterious ways shall Saints renew,
Diversely in their order shall they shine,
Like jewels of all hues in the celestial shrine.

III

E'en now the peopled world's circumference
A Light there fills which is not of the sun,
Radiance of truth, which with the outer sense
And visual orbs hath small communion;
That emanation from the eternal Throne
More subtle than the sunbeams, whose pure ray
Through times and seasons uniform and one,
Through clime and place from east to west doth stay,
And like the lightning fills the circuit of the day.

IV

E'en now from side to side, from end to end
The dread illumination is outspread,
From east to west the lightning wings extend,
And like the resurrection from the dead,
Upon the rear of darkness seems to tread
The type of Omnipresence; from Heaven's gate
Descending all about our path and bed,
All things to bathe, all interpenetrate,
Bright as ten thousand suns the Eyes that on us wait.

V

As rippling eddies on the smooth still ocean
Their circles within circles spread around,
So from that central orb in ceaseless motion
Extend the magic circuits without bound,—
The floods of light, and move the depth profound:
Or gathering all into its own repose
Like far-extending sweet harmonious sound;
Or like if petals of a blooming rose
Infinite space within its bosom might disclose.

VI

The light without combines with light within,
Of which it is the semblance to our eyes,
Clearing the reins from darkness and from sin;
As when the fiery tongues came from the skies,
Into the heart of hearts, which hidden lies,
Entered the glowing Pentecost; the Flame
Carried the tongue within, Divinely wise;—
Fill'd with the effluence from whence it came,
The flower of living Light—God's everlasting Name.

VII

And what if interchangeably might blend
The Antitype, and as it fades and dies
Mutual and mutable unto the end,
Lead on its beautiful varieties,
In the Autumnal hues and evening skies.
As young Tobias to his sire was given
To guide his aged steps and nighted eyes;
While, as the morning star comes forth at even,
His father shewed the way and led his son to Heaven.

VIII

And even thus the Sundays of our life
A something from the eternal Light have worn,
And rise above the week-day sin and strife;
As range of distant hill-tops catch the dawn
While shadows wrap the vales and upward lawn;
As yet the sun from our close-bounded sight
Within his morning chambers is withdrawn;
E'en thus a something of unearthly Light,
Blending with Love Divine, rests on those Sundays bright.

IX

That Light unspeakable within the soul
Doth kindle its affections as they rise,
Mould, and imbue, and fashion, and controul,
Imparting life to all their qualities;
E'en as light visible, where'er it flies
O'er wide creation, doth itself diffuse
In every thing around on earth, sea, skies,
Endless diversity of living hues
Their combination blends, and with its grace endues.

X

Like flickering of the Great Day's chariot-wheels
Are these our Sundays, oft as each returns,
While more and more Light's onward course reveals,
And nearer and more near its presence burns;
Faith's practis'd eye the glimmering ray discerns;
And hears at intervals the coming roar.
Meanwhile as evening falls, Repentance learns
Walking with Him her darkness to deplore,
With Him who lived and died, and liveth evermore.

XI

Blest day of Light! your morn is risen again,
The village is all motion, son and sire,
Mother and child, through pathway, field, or lane,
Wind their slow way to where you ancient spire
Lifts o'er the autumnal trees its golden fire;—
Together wend and for a while forget
In peaceful thoughts which upward would aspire
The business of the world, the toil and fret,
In the calm House of Prayer, where rich and poor are met.

XII

It is a little emblem here below
Of that eternal City in the skies,
Which needs not sun nor moon therein to glow,
For there His light the mystic Lamb supplies;
A better light than that of morning's rise,
The light which with our darkness long hath striven;—
In Prophet's scroll, in Psalmist's melodies,
In Evangelic voice of sins forgiven;
For music, light, and love, is all we know of Heaven.

XIII

“The Lamb the Light thereof;”—O Day of Days!
Lift up your heads on high, and backward roll,
Ye everlasting doors, with songs of praise!
The Guest of sinners enters now the soul;
The Light of light, the living Altar-coal,
Heaven's kingdom shrin'd within; Refiner's fire.
Sanctify body, soul, and spirit whole,
Transmute, remould, remake us, make entire
A vessel meet for Thee from this terrestrial mire.

XIV

Now 'neath yon roof o'er-hung with sheltering trees
Wisdom reveal'd to babes stoops from above,
And gathers little children round her knees,
Whose angels see God's face; the light of love
Which unto them a sheltering charm may prove
Against the statesmen's fine-spun homilies,—
Statesmen, who thus the evil world would move;
I know no greater wisdom 'neath the skies
Than daily to unlearn the learning which they prize.

XV

As birds, which on the sky's blue vault withdrawn,
Or mount, or grove, or field, tumultuous throng
With their small harmonies, and fill the dawn,—
Unconscious imitate the matin song
Which warbled once from the angelic tongue,
When “sons of God” first hail'd the new-made skies;
Thus childish notes which to this Day belong
Are little types of those vast melodies,
When angels saw the Lord of Ressurection rise.

XVI

Why are the poor so bright in their array?
Because they are the children of the King;
This is His court and His great holiday;
Therefore their best they to His service bring.
Ye bees, put on your bright apparelling;
Ye lilies of the valley, lift your heads,
Your sun spreads o'er you his own healing wing!
Ye ladies and rich men in costly weeds,
The glaring world each day alike your lustre needs.

XVII

Nor less of wisdom now with light serene
Rests on yon solemn church-yard; where the sun
Now casts more slant his beam, perchance is seen
Some loiterer 'mid the graves, where one by one
They that pass by shall lie down, their work done
Or left undone for ever. Wisdom there
Her warning points anew from stone to stone,
Speaks to the eye in sterner character
Her lesson read in vain to the unwilling ear.

XVIII

In stillness now declines the autumnal noon,
The yellow leaves are waiting for their fall,
And from the hill looks down the rising moon;
Winter suspends his summons over all.
Now groups awhile are gather'd, great and small,
Now homeward part;—childhood, old age between,
Manhood and youth. A sweet and solemn call
Hangs o'er the stillness; hallow'd is the scene,
The awful yet-to-be blending with what hath been.

XIX

And haply then on wings of parting day
From evening bells and heavenward-climbing tower
Is heard the solemn music far away,
As if it would pursue them with its power,
And enter every home and cot and bower
With its indwelling sweetness, on the ear
Still lingering when the holy day is o'er;—
As o'er the scatter'd village standing near
Lengthens the hallow'd shade ere yet it disappear.

XX

Blest Sundays of our life, with other suns
Ye seem in memory o'er the week to shine,
With something of a glory which o'erruns
The stains of youth, unsullied as divine:
Like suns that take no stain though they have lien
'Mid things most foul and earthly, or appear
Playing on snows, when they their place resign
For purity that fled they leave a tear,
And in remembrance live most sternly, sadly dear.

XXI

Ye little ones, that shine above the seven,
The first-born children of the golden light,
And image upon earth the day of heaven;
Gathering ye lead us onward through the night,
And form the milky way that shines most bright.
Rightly may I your solemn voices own,
Ye little ones, whom it were death to slight,
For on you rests a hallow'd benizon,
Admitted to approach the nearest to the Throne.

XXII

The Sundays of our life, like stars aloof
Ye seem to disappear, and then when fled
Ye stay, and gather on Heaven's vaulted roof,
And in the dead of night with noiseless tread
Ye come, and stand around my trembling head,
Like guests from other worlds, and drawing near
Ye seem to speak with voices of the dead,
“Your lives are gather'd with us; year by year
Why were we sent? and why did we to you appear?”

XXIII

The Sundays of our life, ye pass us by,
Yet in remembrance live, and put on light,
Like witnesses which after death come nigh;
And haply oft forgotten, to our sight
Come forth again in weakness, or as night
Of age draws on, or death, neglected throng,
Of youth and childhood speaking now aright,
And pleading how we thoughtless did you wrong;
How many thrilling sights and scenes to you belong?

XXIV

What recollections in your tuneful bells
Live on, and recognise the Sunday sound?
Upon my earliest years your shadow dwells,
And where that ancient Church by mountain ground
Stands massive as the sea and hills around,
Dove-like seems hovering o'er my infancy;
The Day of Heaven came down in calm profound,
And as it lay at rest on mount and sea
Religion was alone the great reality.

XXV

Next where that Church upon the tree-girt hill
Look'd out from far on London's crown of towers;—
How deeply does their Memory linger still
And rise at interval of solemn hours;—
Or in night-dreams, may be, when sickness lowers,
O'ermantled with a stole and shroud of light,
Crown'd with a diadem of faded flowers,
Bright, yet whose brightness is like that of night,
While her head drops with dews that on her breast alight.

XXVI

The Sundays of our childhood disappear,
Yet are like tokens of a mother's love
Priz'd most when lost, and in remembrance dear
Tho' toy'd with while they lasted. O above
All mother's love, as heedlessly we rove,
With such compassionate care to set the bound
To tide of week-day thoughts;—awhile remove
Youth's buoyancies, to set on stable ground,
Our feet upon the Rock, and bid us gaze around!

XXVII

Then 'mid those haunts of Academic shade
How peaceful were your intervals of rest,
If rest ye could be call'd which gently laid
Your hand of sweet compulsion on the breast,
That fain would turn awhile from works unblest
To those which doubly bless with their repose
The giver and receiver, and impress'd
Their own more softening shadow, ere it goes,
On the still student's heart which its own sorrow knows.

XXVIII

But more than all I love your memories now
Because your week-days all, ye ancient bowers,
May be like Sundays of our life below,
Gather'd from this world's din 'mid sacred towers,
May give to prayer and praise the passing hours,
One blessed Sabbath all, one hallow'd day;—
With saints of old to talk, and make them ours,
Better to know and love—to love and pray,
And praying more to love, and so wear life away.

XXIX

On Sundays of our life so may we climb
O'er things of sight and sense, which see the sun,
Into that Light which was before all time,
Before the things of sight and sense begun,
And still to be when they their course have run;
When we shall know and we ourselves be known;
When love is lost in blissful union,
Of chaste and lowly souls the living crown,
And God Himself the Light which never goeth down.

XXX

By space and time incomprehensible,
The Light of Truth, the Light of Righteousness,
Wherein the pure in heart with God shall dwell;
That vision which is endless blessedness;
Which not a shade can sully or make less.
That Light to us were dark, and death condign
Our overwhelmed spirits would oppress,
Were it not that the Light is Love divine
Which on Christ's face doth aye, as from its centre, shine.

XXXI

But since the Light—the Vast—the Infinite—
The great Ineffable of boundless blaze,
To our weak senses were o'erwhelming night,
Lost in the astounding ocean of Thy rays,
Thou circumscribest Thine Almighty ways
To meet us—no vast Infinite afar,
But countenance of love that with us stays;—
Thou art Thyself “the bright and morning star,”
Fairest of gentle sights, Day's golden harbinger;—

XXXII

Bethlehem's own Star in the benighted soul;—
Thus e'en the Sun from his meridian tower,
Seems to come down unto his western goal,
Tempering with evening clouds his blazing power,
That we may gaze upon his parting hour,
Inviting us to converse with the sight:
And fair descending to his cloud-wrought bower
Imagination clothes with wings of light,
To sail 'mid burnish'd clouds beyond the day and night.

XXXIII

And if the passing light thus moulds at ease
Such semblances which into nothing flee,
Then what must be those blissful palaces,
Where Thy redeem'd for ever dwell with Thee?
Light opes the unmeasur'd vast of air and sea;
The mirror of eternal charities;
The golden pillar of the mystery
Which overhangs our being from the skies;—
The House that ne'er decays thereon all hidden lies.

XXXIV

On such an eve with thee at Ostia's seat,
Great Austin, gazing on the illumin'd West,
In contemplation lost and converse sweet,
And prelibation of approaching rest,
Sat saintly Monica; then doubly blest
With thee twice-born, twice usher'd from the womb,
The brand pluck'd from the burning to her breast,
To be a star that sets not o'er her tomb,
Shedding a glorious light to furthest Christendom.

XXXV

From step to step, sublime to more sublime
They pass'd, on meditation's burning wings,
Beyond the boundaries of earth and time,
From things of sight to pure imaginings,
And contemplation of the blissful things
Which are with Thee; and like a bird that flies
Catching the light—now more—now less—now brings
Its path in sight—now lost in distant skies,
They pass'd in thought beyond the reach of mortal eyes;—

XXXVI

Beyond where sun, moon, stars their path have trod,
Beyond created things and outward sign
Into the secret silence of our God,—
In blissful acquiescence, to recline
Beside the eternal Fount of Truth divine—
The pastures ever green—the living well—
Pleasures at Thy right hand—for ever Thine—
Whereby Thou feedest Thine own Israel,
In unapproached Light where Saints with Thee shall dwell.

XXXVII

Ye busy tumults of the flesh, be still,
Ye fantasies of earth, and sea, and air;—
Silent, ye heavenly Poles;—thou mortal will,
Be silent in thyself, hush'd every care;—
Ye dreams and revelations, and whate'er
Of tongue and outward sign, or sound, or strain
To speak of Him are made exceeding fair!
“Soon shall we pass,” they say, “we are but vain,
But He Who all things made for ever doth remain.”