University of Virginia Library

Wood-Notes and Church-Bells.

“Wood-Notes and Church-Bells” here unite their strain:
“Wood-Notes,” as of the birds, simple and clear,
Uttered to please the sympathetic ear,
Where sweet flowers smile in grove and leafy lane.
“Church-Bells,” which sound, and cease, and sound again;
The sad or meditative heart to cheer,
Through all the changes of the circling year,
In days of sunshine, or of cloud and rain.
“Wood-Notes and Church-Bells,” let their strains unite,
Voices of earth and heaven' to soothe our way;
Let Nature's music still the ear delight,
And gracious echoes mortal cares allay;
Till “Wood-Notes” 'mid angelic warblings cease,
And “Church-Bells” ring us to eternal peace!

THE ACACIA AND THE YEW.

THE PRUNING OF THE VINE.

ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN DECEMBER.

Sweet bird, that singest on the leafless bough,
Charming December's transitory ray
With trills and warblings of melodious May;
Thy single voice holds us enraptured now
In Winter's silence. Tell us, What art thou?
A Mourner for the brightness past away?
A Prophet of some far-off vernal day,
Which shows to thee, perched high, its radiant brow?
Not so! No touches of a useless sorrow
For vanished bliss thy happy thoughts annoy;
No restless longings for a brighter morrow;
Thy heart and tongue are filled with present joy:
Man's Teacher thou, and of persuasive power,
To praise kind Heaven for mercies of the hour!

HOME.

THE SUN-DIAL ON THE CHURCH PORCH,

LONDESBOROUGH—1764.

Though circling shadows of a hundred years
Have traced Time's reckoning on this Dial-stone,
Unless from Heaven a sunbeam now be thrown
The figured disk to me a blank appears.
But lo! a sudden ray the graveyard cheers,
And Time's own finger on the wall is shown,
By instantaneous bar of darkness known—
Telling the hour with stroke which no man hears.
So Holy Scripture precious Truth conceals
Until the Spirit darts a heavenly ray
Upon its outspread pages, and reveals,
As to the saints of old, to me to-day,
The world-encircling shadow of that Tree
Which points to life and immortality!

THE DOVE.

ON A WALL-FLOWER FROM GETHSEMANE.

TO BE PLANTED NEAR MY INFANT'S GRAVE.

Welcome, sweet wall-flower, from that holy place
To which the feet of Jesus ofttimes strayed
For calm seclusion in its olive shade:
Breathe here the sad traditions of thy race
Since that cold Paschal moon, when His bowed face
Bedewed the earth, with vernal blooms arrayed:
Here shed thy fragrance where my flower was laid,
And mix his memory with a Saviour's grace.
Thou comest from that sorrow-shaded ground
Where once Christ bore for us His grief untold;
Our blossom fair, transplanted hence, is found
Where now Christ walks yon glorious streets of gold:
We love the flower from dim Gethsemane,
And precious is our blossom, Lord, to Thee!

THE MOTTO ON THE BELL.

“JESUS BE OUR SPEED,” 1623.

GOING TO CHURCH.

We plucked fresh violets as we walked along
Through quiet lanes to Church. A genial flood
Of sunshine lured each bead-like hedgerow bud
To unfurl its green. The air was full of song
And those sweet-mingled voices that belong
To happy vernal hours in field and wood.
Subdued by that fair scene silent we stood
Mid Nature's joyous, inarticulate throng.
But suddenly we heard our Church bells ringing,
Hallowing the calm, bright morn with solemn sound,
In sweet accord with songs and sunshine, flinging
Their gracious invitations all around—
Bidding us come where psalms would soon be winging
A burst of choral praise to Heaven's high bound.

THE NIGHTINGALE;

OR, THE JOY OF PRAISE.

THE SPARROW:

ITS TEACHINGS IN PROVIDENCE AND GRACE.

MABEL AND THE FLOWERS.

As o'er my sermon silently I bent,
Lo! at my side a little maiden stood—
Nor broke the silence—wrapt in scarlet hood
Which fringed her forehead, and new beauty lent
To her fair face. Primrose with violet blent
She brought me, gathered fresh from field or wood;
And seemed herself—so sweet her look and good—
A breathing blossom from God's garden sent.
Nay, like an angel came that little maiden,
With timely help and wisdom from above:
For in the flowers with which her hands were laden
Shone thoughts of God fragrant with peace and love;
Oh, that to me—ascending and descending
Such angel oft appeared such succour lending!

THE LITTLE CHILD AND THE THUNDERSTORM.

He listened, as the thunder rolled on high,
And whispered ‘Hark,’ with infantine alarm
And finger raised—then hastened to my arm
For shelter from the tumult of the sky.
What could avail all heaven's artillery
Against the power of that encircling charm?
He felt himself incapable of harm
Beneath a father's touch and voice and eye.
Oh, ponder well this parable, my soul,
And from a little child the lesson learn,
Whither for instant succour thou may'st turn
When threatening clouds of danger o'er thee roll;
God is thy help—no evil can betide
A child that nestles at his Father's side!

ON A STATUETTE OF THE CHILD JESUS AMONG CORN AND GRAPES.

Amid the Vine's red fruit and golden corn,
See where the sweet child Jesus smiling plays;
His small right hand a wheaten sceptre sways,
While his left hand the clustered grapes adorn.
His face is pure and fresh as breath of morn,
And like a star He scatters gentle rays;
With loveliness He crowns the sinless days
To which for our salvation He was born.
Too soon I see Him like “a corn of wheat,”
Drooping and fallen to the thankless ground;
Too soon alas! like purple clusters sweet
Rude-crushed, and shedding precious drops around;
But still where Bread and Wine divinely meet,
His glorious strength and cheering grace are found!

THE WILD STRAWBERRY FLOWER.

MORNING.

GOOD FRIDAY EVENING; OR, THE SUMMIT OF CALVARY.

'Twas the calm evening of that dreadful day
When our Salvation was so dearly won:
No darkness now veils the descending sun;
Doves' silver wings turn gold in the last ray,
Circling the fatal Tree: while drawn that way
By a strange sympathy, lambs do not shun
The crimsoned precincts where the deed was done
Which rolled the cloud of human guilt away.
At that Tree's foot let me be daily found,
Washing my robes in precious drops Divine;
While in the glorious rays that stream around,
Those robes like gold or lustrous silver shine;
Till through the dying Lamb and brooding Dove
My soul is fashioned to God's perfect love!

AUTUMN LEAVES.

ON SEEING SOME LEAVES FALLING IN THE SUNSHINE.

The end of the Just in these leaves we see,
Not torn reluctant from the tree,
When the gusts of midnight rave;
But kissed by the zephyr's gentle breath
They float in sunshine to the grave
And die a radiant death.

HOME AT LAST.

BIBLE SONNETS

—MOSES.

THE EARLY LIFE OF MOSES.

Amidst long rushes on the river's brink
Rocked in his floating cradle Moses slept,
While round the helpless babe the waters crept,
Then as if awe-struck backward seemed to shrink;
Not all Nile's floods that destined child could sink:
Soon to the shore the heaven-led princess stept,
And found the ark, when lo! the sweet “babe wept,”
As though of life's rough waves wearied to think.
By care Divine thus rescued from the water,
Taught all the wisdom of that famous land,
He lived the princely son of Pharaoh's daughter:
For those whom God for some high purpose uses
He takes from earliest childhood by the hand,
And every helpful influence wisely chooses.

THE MIDDLE LIFE OF MOSES.

Ere Moses could the prison-doors unlock
Where Israel long in iron bondage lay,
On the green slopes beneath old Horeb grey
A lonely shepherd he must feed his flock;
There sitting in the shade of some great rock
Mark the swift eagle darting on its prey,
Or watch the forkèd lightnings fiercely play,
And listen to the awful thunder-shock.
Thus 'mid the peaceful scenes of pastoral life,
Or sterner sights of mountain solitude,
He spent long years in holy contemplation;
To brace his spirit for that arduous strife
With Israel's foes, and provocations rude
Of God's own ransomed but rebellious nation.

“THE SONG OF MOSES AND THE LAMB.”

A song of triumph burst from the safe shore
And o'er the hushed Red Sea went floating slow—
O'er glassy waves tinged with dawn's crimson glow.
The myriad foe had sunk to rise no more,
And the wild, whirling billows ceased to roar;
Nor had the shining waters aught to show
Of war-horse or of chariot whelmed below,
But sparkled in the sunrise as of yore.
So when on Faith's high shore my soul has stood
And viewed the radiant sea of love divine,
Its waters crimsoned with redeeming blood,
And drowning all those myriad sins of mine,
An echo of that song has tuned my tongue,
Which by the “sea of glass” in heaven is sung.

THE MANNA.

How richly in the desert Israel fared,
By God's own hand with food angelic fed,
Which with the dew around the camp was shed.
That other dew, brow-drenching, they were spared
In tilling thorn-cursed ground—sad burden shared
By all for Adam's sin; but ate their “bread,”
As from a table in the desert spread,
“Without their labour.” or their thought, “prepared.”
So God's salvation, the true bread from heaven,
In rich completeness is before us set,
Fresh with the Spirit's dew, and freely given:
But not without the labour of Another,
Toils, tears, and thorny crown, and bloody sweat,
Of Him who is God's Fellow and man's Brother.

THE SMITTEN ROCK.

Out of the smitten rock on Horeb grey
Bursts a white waterfall, glad signal waving,
Then glides a river down the valley, laving
The lips and limbs of myriads on its way.
For us a Rock was smitten, to allay
With living water our immortal craving,
And with its ceaseless current pure and saving,
To wash our sin-stained souls from day to day.
May I behold that stream beside me flowing,
As through the desert stray my pilgrim feet,
With pleasant flowers upon its borders growing,
And from its peaceful waves a whisper sweet;
While to the Rock once riven for me I raise
The faint beginnings of eternal praise.

THE BATTLE OF REPHIDIM.

Darkly the battle fluctuates to and fro,
While, on the mount, uplifted hands of prayer
Diffuse a halo of calm radiance there,
The “noise of war” resounding far below:
As when on some high peak, with lingering glow,
The sunset sits enthroned serene and fair,
While rolling mists obscure the lower air,
And darkling streams with voice of thunder flow.
Lord, I would climb each day prayer's shining height,
And draw with lifted hands Thy blessing down,
My sword to prosper in the strenuous fight,
My arm to strengthen for the victor's crown;
In life's stern warfare sword and arm may fail,
But backed by faith and prayer they must prevail.

MOSES ON MOUNT SINAI.

Even Moses with exceeding fear was bowed
When in the midst of lurid lightning-flashes,
And quick, reverberating thunder-crashes,
God gave His law from the tempestuous cloud;
Israel below witnessed, with spirits cowed,
The sight tremendous, while the whirlwind lashes
The mountain-peaks, and down the earthquake dashes
The toppling crags—'mid blasts of trumpet loud.
Oh! as we ponder on that scene appalling,
When God from Sinai spoke His holy law,
Like Moses on our faces humbling falling,
We feel and own our guilt with trembling awe,
But soon we hear a voice from Calvary, calling
Our eyes to see what Moses never saw.

MOSES' WISH.

Moses with longing heart the Lord besought
That he might cross and see that goodly land,
And cedared Lebanon's snow-capt summits grand,
And the rich vales with milk and honey fraught.
One passionate word turned all his prayers to nought:
Enough for him, by sin shut out, to stand
On Pisgah's topmost peak, by Jordan's strand,
Whence eyes undimm'd the far-off landscape caught.
Through anger fell the man most famed for meekness,
And the great Lawgiver himself was taught,
By losing Canaan, the Law's utter weakness;
That we might lean on Christ the “meek and lowly,”
And through His merits, not our works, be brought
To walk heaven's plains, and taste its pleasures holy.

THE SPEEDWELL.

OUR DARLING LITTLE ONE;

OR, THE ROSEBUD AND THE NESTLING.

THE FLAMBOROUGH PILOTS.

A PLEA FOR CAGED BIRDS.

THE SMALL BIRDS' APPEAL.

“GIVE ME A DRINK;”

OR, THE THIRSTY DOG'S PETITION.

THE NUNBURNHOLME ROBIN;

OR, THE TAME ROBIN IN THE GROUNDS OF NUNBURNHOLME RECTORY, THE RESIDENCE OF THE REV. F. O. MORRIS, AUTHOR OF “BRITISH BIRDS.”

BIRDS WAITING FOR BREAKFAST.

THE CANARY.

FOR MY CHILDREN.

The pet Canary in its gilded cage,
Hung safely in the bright and curtained room
Sings a sweet song and smooths its yellow plume,
By kind hands fed and fondled to old age.
But those poor birds outside my thoughts engage—
Nor birds alone—how different is their doom;
Through all these bitter days of wintry gloom
Exposed to cold and rain and tempest's rage.
For bird or child 'tis easy to look pretty,
In happy home well-sheltered and well-fed,
Easy to smile, or sing a pleasant ditty;
But oh! remember through this wintry weather
Children without a home or daily bread,
And pity Robin with the ruffled feather!

SAMUEL.

BIBLE SONNETS.

—DAVID.

THE ANOINTING OF DAVID.

As Jesse's sons, in manhood's pride, passed by,
Of princely stature and of martial air,
The prophet deemed the Lord's anointed there.
But not the grace that charms the outward eye,
Grace in the heart, is prized above the sky,—
Found in yon vale, contented with the care
Of “those few sheep,” and waking music rare
From lute or harp to life God's praise on high.
Called from the sheep-fold, circled by the seven,
See for the anointing that fair stripling bow,
Then rise their destined king by will of Heaven:
So to Christ's humble, happy followers now,
A secret unction from above is given,
Pledge of the crown which shall adorn their brow.

DAVID THE WANDERER.

The victim of a despot's jealous mood
From Court luxurious to drear cave he fled,
Nor had he where to lay his weary head—
A wanderer in the wilderness and wood.
'Twas Love allured him into solitude,
Ordering each flitting step, each tear he shed,
And through rough paths His chosen servant led,
With thorns and briars to teach him for his good.
For the high duties of a dazzling throne
The Lord with sufferings His elect one braces:
Thus in deep furrows of God's plough are sown
The precious germs of fair, immortal graces;
And still by arduous ways God leads His own
To sit on starry thrones in heavenly places.

DAVID IN ADULLAM.

Hid in Adullam's “dry and thirsty” cave,
Longing he cried—faint with fierce harvest heat—
“Oh for a draught from Bethlehem's fountain sweet,
Which, by the gate, wells out its cooling wave!”
Bursting through hosts of foes three warriors brave
Present the brimming cup—his wish complete—
Which, as with life-blood crimsoned, at his feet
He pours, refusing his parched lips to lave.
So, by Heaven's gate, I see pure waters streaming,
And, faint and weary, long to drink of them;
For that blest fountain, clear as crystal seeming,
Gladly earth's broken cisterns I contemn;—
I see the crimson through the crystal gleaming,
Dear “water of the well of Bethlehem!”

DAVID THE TRANSGRESSOR.

Silence had fallen on the minstrel-king,
And melancholy brooded o'er his throne;
Out of his palace gates God's peace had flown—
No heart had he to pray or tongue to sing:
In vain he longed for some air-cleaving wing
To waft him far away to desert lone;
Sadly he reaps what he had madly sown—
Sin has no Harvest-sheaves of joy to bring.
Alas! one touch of guilty hands had jarr'd
The harp that thrill'd to many a holy psalm;
The shadow of one sin had shut and barr'd
The windows whence flowed down heaven's sunshine calm,
And like a canker or a blight had marr'd
The gracious verdure of earth's stateliest palm.

DAVID THE FATHER.

“Oh my son Absalom, my son, my son!
Would I had died for thee!” Thus up the stair
Above the gate he groaned in his despair
At tidings of that fatal victory won;
All the dark deeds which Absalom had done
Merged in sweet memories of his countenance fair;
The father's heart entangled in that hair,
Whose golden sheen outvied the orient sun.
Rebel, undutiful, ingrate, unkind,
All was forgotten in that one word—Child;
The father's eyes with tears of love were blind.
So we, God's rebel children, sin-defiled,
Round our Great Father's pitiful heart entwined,
By yearning, dying Love are reconciled.

BIBLE WORKMEN;

OR, THE DIGNITY OF LABOUR.

DAVID PLAYING THE HARP BEFORE SAUL;

OR, MUSIC THE WORKING-MAN'S RESOURCE.

“STAND UP FOR YOUR SUNDAYS.”

A WORD FOR OLD AND YOUNG.

CHRISTMAS PRAISE FOR HARVEST PLENTY.

BETWEEN THE YEARS;

OR, THOUGHTS FOR THE OLD YEAR AND THE NEW.

TEARS FOR WAR'S MISERIES.

ON THE LAUNCH OF “THE BRITISH WORKMAN” LIFE-BOAT.

THE CROWN OF ENGLAND;

OR, KING JOHN RECEIVING BACK HIS CROWN AFTER PROMISING TO PAY TRIBUTE OF A THOUSAND MARKS A YEAR.

ON THE SICKNESS AND HAPPY RECOVERY OF HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCE OF WALES.

THE NATIONAL THANKSGIVING DAY.

BIBLE SONNETS.

—SOLOMON.

SOLOMON'S REQUEST.

“Ask what thou wilt and I will give it thee.”
“Lord, give me wisdom!” was the rare reply,
Rising more grateful to the silent sky
Than smoke of thousand holocausts could be.
Then fell a voice—“Since thou hast asked of me
The crown and queen of blessings, wisdom high,
Not riches, or long life, or victory,
Wisdom is thine; and thou shalt also see
Life, riches, honour following in her train.”
So still the greater comprehends the less:
Celestial wisdom is earth's truest gain:
Wisdom is grace; Lord, let thy grace be given,
And happiness my mortal days shall bless,
And light my footsteps to the gates of heaven.

SOLOMON'S WISDOM.

Not only for high uses which belong
To kings, or private solace of his mind,
Or delectation of all human kind
With thoughtful proverb and with holy song,
Was wisdom giv'n; but that the goodly throng
Of creatures might a royal scholar find—
Beasts, reptiles, fish, birds borne on wave or wind,
And plants from hyssop frail to cedar strong.
May I in God's least works high purpose see,
And with intelligent observance greet
Each careless bird that flits from tree to tree,
Each thriftless flower that sheds its incense sweet
About my path. Thus be it given to me
To find true wisdom scattered at my feet.

SOLOMON'S TEMPLE.

Bright as a vision, silent as a thought,
Slowly ascending cloud-like to the skies,
Drawn heavenwards by soft warblings faintly caught
From lips angelic, see yon temple rise—
God's glorious house of prayer and sacrifice—
Gold, marble, cedar curiously wrought,
The fair creation of that monarch wise
Whose mind capacious was divinely taught.
A grander temple now, unseen, is growing,
The bright and undecaying home of Grace,
Its living stones from every country flowing
And from all time. Oh! when that temple holy
Appears in perfect beauty, may a place
Be found for me and for my service lowly!

SOLOMON'S GLORY.

Seated upon a throne superb and high
Of ivory, with finest gold inlaid—
Crowned with a blaze of jewels, and arrayed
In robes magnificent of Tyrian dye,
The king “in all his glory” strikes the eye
With wonder—from amidst luxurious shade
Of purple canopy, and proud parade
Of couchant lions keeping watch hard by.
But all that royal pomp the palm must yield,
In texture rare and beauty of array,
To roses wild and lilies of the field,
Which bloom and perish in a single day:
Lord, if the flowers are decked in robes so fair,
What clothing shall Thy saints in glory wear?

THE GLEANER AND CHILD.

THE SHADOW ON THE WALL.

In childish joy, fresh from her mother's kiss,
She dances with the light upon her face,
Love in each look, and in each motion grace:
But something in that charmèd scene, I wis,
To eyes which fondly watch her is amiss:
Ah, on the lighted wall through tears they trace
A shadow dancing in that happy place
As the child dances—mocking at her bliss.
From burdened heart there bursts a sad “Alas!
The shadow comes with life's new-risen day,
Until night deepens nevermore to pass:
Oh, if but He as closely by her stay,
Who loves the little ones, and puts to flight
All mortal shadows with His conquering light!”

THE STAR.

THE JOURNEY TO EMMAUS.

THE CLUSTER.

THE LAMBS IN THE CHURCHYARD.

SIGNS IN THE SKY.

PRAISE THE BOND OF UNITY.

A WHITSUNTIDE HYMN.

THE PUBLICAN'S PRAYER.

A THANKSGIVING.

BENEATH HIS FEET.

THE WORDS OF JESUS ON THE CROSS.

AFTER READING “THE NEGEB,”

OR, “SOUTH COUNTRY OF SCRIPTURE.”

Patient explorer of that ancient land
Made holy by the pressure of His feet
Who came to save, and filled with echoes sweet
Of solemn music waked by David's hand:
With scholarly acuteness thou hast scanned
Each well, and brook, and path worn by the beat
Of camel's foot, ruin, and lone retreat
On hill or plain of wandering Arab band.
Thus from thy quiet study thou hast bidden,
As with the waving of a magic wand,
Cities arise which long in dust lay hidden;
And from the gloom profound of buried ages
Hast summoned them as witnesses to stand
Of Truth infallible in Scripture pages.

BETHLEHEM.

The glory which had faded from the skies,
Nor left on cloud or grassy hill one trace,
Still shone reflected on the Virgin's face
Bent o'er the manger where her Infant lies.
Wide open are those sweet, mysterious eyes—
Divine effulgence veiled with mortal grace:
Inside that stable is earth's holiest place,
And wondering angels stoop o'er a Babe's cries.
O Lord, since Thou so mean a shelter usest,
No roof too low for such a loving Guest,
And “base things of the world” even still Thou choosest;
I have a room for Thee most dim and lowly—
Oh, let my heart become Thy chosen rest,
And with Thy presence make it bright and holy!

CANA IN GALILEE.

Behold in flower of manhood the True Vine
To full perfection grown from a dry ground;
Grace in His eyes and lips, He looks around
Where bride and bridegroom at the feast recline:
He hears the whisper, “Son, they have no wine”—
When lo! as if ripe clusters had been found,
And sudden crushed, the purple streams abound,
To prove the Branch that yielded them Divine.
O happy thought for bridegroom and for bride
In after ages, 'mid their innocent mirth,
That by His presence Jesus beautified
A marriage-feast, blessing all homes of earth,
Upon whose walls the fruitful vines are seen
With hopeful clusters smiling through the green.

GENNESARET.

His footsteps press not now Gennesaret's strand,
Or noiseless glide along its crystal floor;
He sleeps not now lulled by the plashing oar,
His weary brow with dewy breezes fanned.
No more the stormy wind at His command
Drops, and the obedient billows cease to roar;
Across the sea and through the dark no more
A glory looms with loving voice and hand.
But still thy name, Gennesaret, has a charm
To stay the tumult of a troubled breast:
When rising storms of Providence alarm,
I see thy waves traversed by footsteps blest—
I see a form Divine, an outstretcht arm,
And all the tossing billows sink to rest.

BETHANY.

Happy the sisters whom the Lord held dear,
To whom o'er Olivet His way He wended;
Eager they watched till His dim form ascended
Athwart the sky, and through the dusk drew near.
Love to their Lord in both hearts burning clear,
The active and contemplative were blended,
While thoughtful Mary on His Word attended,
And Martha toiled His weary frame to cheer.
Lord, I would show the gratitude I feel
By shining with a twofold consecration;
Like Martha labour with untiring zeal,
Like Mary rest in holy contemplation;
And bear about with me the Spirit's seal
Of Jesu's love and of a sure salvation!

GETHSEMANE.

'Mid shadowy olives in that garden ground
See the cold moonlight through the branches streaming
On His bowed head: no other light—no beaming
Of love Divine or human, now is found.
The voice of His “strong cries”—no other sound—
Stirs the night-air: unwatchful friends lie dreaming;
While o'er the brook yon temple towers are gleaming
Above a careless city slumber-bound.
Under God's mighty hand behold Him languish,
Crushed by the weight of our imputed guilt,
Alone and all unaided in His anguish:
While crimson drops start to His brow, in token
Of saving blood impatient to be spilt,
And sinless body eager to be broken!

JESUS LEAVING THE PRÆTORIUM.

Meek but majestic He descends the stair
From the Prætorium—to Calvary bound:
Mid priests and people fluctuating round
He moves along with calm, pathetic air.
His spotless soul shines through His vesture fair,
In which no seam by keenest eyes was found;
While the sharp thorns that his smooth brow surround
With crimson points His matchless love declare.
O dearest Lord accept my adoration,
As here before Thy feet I cast me down;
And give me the white garment of salvation,
And bid me follow Thee—wearing the crown
Of patient sorrow; till I reach the height
Where thorns shall blossom into garlands bright!

CALVARY.

O darkest, saddest page in Gospel-story—
God's Lamb is dragged along the dolorous way,
Hustled by pitiless crowds, the innocent prey
Of wolf-like men—fainting, bound, bruisèd, gory.
Nailed to the Cross on that low summit hoary,
They lift Him up in sight of glaring day,
Thorns and a veil of blood His sole array—
O blessèd wreath, O precious robe of glory!
Lord, I would gaze upon Thy shame and sorrow,
Through mingled tears of gratitude and grief,
Till from Thy stripes and wounds new hope I borrow;
And on that weeping cloud of mortal sadness
I see God's bow displayed in bright relief,
Token of wrath assuaged and Gospel gladness.

OLIVET.

Hail, dearest, surest of earth's holy places!
From city-crowds the Saviour's loved retreat;
The lingering memory of His frequent feet
With lines of light thy surface interlaces.
Along thy winding paths what hallowed traces,
And 'mid thy olives, of His steps we meet;
Nor least of that last walk and farewell sweet,
Till His returning foot thy summit graces.
O'er thy calm brow the Lord would pass to borrow
Solace, where love with answering love was met;
In thy dark shadows He endured His sorrow
Even unto death, O mournful Olivet—
Which won for thee, for us, a bright to-morrow;
And now thy face, like ours, tow'rd the East is set!

THE VISTA.

ON VISITING MY MOTHER'S GRAVE, ON HER BIRTHDAY.

A grassy grave, beneath a green fir-tree—
Emblem of life that never fades, well-won—
On a hill-side that fronts the rising sun,
As if it watched the eternal Dawn to see;
There, near the path where oft she walked with me,
My sainted mother sleeps, her life's work done,
Waiting till Time's fast-flowing sands are run,
And she is clothed with immortality.
It was her birthday; by her grave I passed,
And pausing wished her many glad returns—
As I was wont—each happier than the last:
Nor vainly—for in Heaven, fresh thrills of gladness
Will stir her soul, as year by year she learns
Some loved one safely housed from mortal sadness.

STARS AND FLOWERS.

(ON THE DEATH OF THE HON. MRS. FORESTER.)

The stars which tremble through the depths of air,
And with their jewelled clusters deck the skies,
Night after night allured his watching eyes:
While morn by morn she sought the blossoms fair,
Which in their fragile cups the dewdrops bear,
Like stars of earth; and with resplendent dyes
Called for the cunning hand, and motto wise,
To seize, and illustrate, their beauty rare.
But now he gazes sadly on the ground,
Bright with her flowers; while she, upborne afar,
Amid the shining orbs of Heaven is found,
In the dear presence of “The Morning Star:”
Henceforth a new attraction for his eye
To scan the holy spaces of the sky!

ON “MARY SHORT,”

WIFE OF THE LATE LORD BISHOP OF ST. ASAPH.

As through St. Asaph's quiet streets I went
I saw a sculptured fountain softly flowing—
A cherished name inscribed above it, showing
What tearful memories with those streams were blent.
To the Cathedral next my steps I bent
Where in rich glass the same deep grief was glowing;
While, strewn upon a grave, flowers freshly blowing,
Showed sorrow's early tenderness unspent.
Thus by three touching symbols was recorded
A Husband's life-love to his sainted Wife—
Through lonely years like precious treasure hoarded;
A love as ceaseless as that fountain streaming,
Like flowers fresh-gathered, still with fragrance rife,
And to old age with chastened radiance gleaming.

A HUSBAND'S LOVE.

Lower and lower he beholds her sink
In mortal weakness, till life's dragging wheels
Refuse to move; and in despair he feels
Her all but lost—on danger's utmost brink.
From love's forlornest hope he does not shrink;
Out of his own warm veins the blood he steals,
Pouring it into hers, while his brain reels:
'Twixt wife and husband, oh, how dear a link!
He gave his blood and saved his darling wife;
Great was the love, the self-devotion rare;
Dim shadow of His love beyond compare,
Who not for friends poured forth the purple life,
But enemies, and made of them His Bride,
To walk in white for ever at His side!

KATIE AND MABEL.

Alas! is Katie gone from mortal view?
Has that sweet face for ever passed away,
O'er which perpetual sunshine seemed to play—
That happy life which sparkled with the dew
Of morning, and Hope's fairest rainbow hue?
Can she be gone whose voice but yesterday
Sweetly was heard to promise and to pray,
As round the Font with that dear babe we drew.
She promised for that little one—and died;
She prayed, and then her spirit upwards flew;
But Charity's kind offices abide:
What though her home is now above the blue,
An angel she may stoop to Mabel's side,
And lure her to the Beautiful and True!

THE MOTHER.

Like Christiana with her little band
Of gracious children round about her pressing—
The model of a Mother—blest and blessing—
Amidst her family I see her stand.
Onward she leads them with a gentle hand,
Wisely commanding, tenderly caressing;
Her life-long happiness in them possessing,
She gives the life-long labour they demand.
Thus as she moves about her house serenely,
Training those fresh young hearts for God and Heaven,
I hold her office to be more than queenly;
For to the glorious angels who stand nighest
The Almighty's throne such “little ones” are given
To tend on earth for service of the Highest.

OVER MY SLUMBERING INFANT.

LEARNER AND TEACHER.

PRACTISING THE EASTER HYMN.

“THE SHADOW OF PETER.”

Where'er his saintly shadow passing fell,
He scattered healing virtue unawares;
Through crowded streets a silent charm he bears
And sick folk from their couches start up well.
Earth has not wholly lost that gracious spell;
Not vainly, wheresoe'er a Christian fares,
He casts a shadow, by the deeds and prayers
And noiseless influence which about him dwell.
Would I a useful, healing shadow throw,
Let me be found still walking in the sun—
Christ shining sweetly on the way I go,
Until the restful goal of life is won;
And may the world some lingering traces show
Of my day's work e'en when the day is done!

TO THE HOLY SPIRIT.

Spirit of light and love, abide with me;
Oh! may Thy “holy comfort” like a well
Of living water in my bosom dwell,
For ever springing up to heaven and Thee.
Then, if by quiet streams my course shall be,
The landscape fair of Thy sweet peace shall tell;
And if tempestuous billows round me swell,
I shall be calm amid the raging sea.
Where'er Thou leadest, let me never leave Thee,
Or lose the sound of Thy alluring voice,
Or by distrust or disobedience grieve Thee.
Still to Thy “godly motions” let me listen,
And as I journey on I shall rejoice,
Till to my dying eyes heaven's turrets glisten!

BIBLE SONNETS.

—MISCELLANEOUS.

AARON'S DEATH ON MOUNT HOR.

In priestly robes, blue, gold, and purple, drest
Up that steep mountain-side his way he wended;
Weeping the people watched as he ascended
With fearless footsteps to his last, long rest.
At length he reached the cloud-enveloped crest,
By son and brother mournfully attended,
Whose hands removed (his priestly duties ended)
The glorious robes and splendour on his breast.
With that rich dress he saw his son invested,
Then—Israel's priest no more—lay down to die,
And in his grave sublime and lonely rested:
Not like that wondrous Priest of ours possessing
“Dyed garments” changeless as his Deity,
For ever living, loving, pleading, blessing.

JOTHAM'S PARABLE.

Once the tall trees of an aspiring wood,
Besought an Olive tree to be their king—
Which answered, On my boughs birds sit and sing,
And fragrant “fatness” fills me, berry and bud;
The Fig-tree next—which said, My fruit is good,
And grateful “sweetness” to mankind I bring;
The Vine spoke last, Leave me to creep and cling,
Content to “cheer” the world with my rich blood.
The useless Bramble only would be crowned,
But soon in flaming ruin wrapped the trees,
And flung even stately Cedars on the ground:
Then let me ne'er forsake the narrow round
Of lowly duties framed to serve and please,
In fruits of love ambitious to abound.

ELIJAH ON MOUNT CARMEL.

On Carmel's top, beneath the cloudless blue,
Behold the mighty prophet meekly kneeling,
While his strong cries and tears of earnest feeling
Moisten the ground with unaccustomed dew.
Stars falter forth, earth takes a duskier hue,
More fervent grows the voice of Faith appealing,
Till from the sea a little cloud comes stealing,
Like a man's hand, and blots the heavens from view.
Lord, I would humbly supplicate Thy face
For some sweet token of approaching showers,
Some soft low murmur of abundant grace
To cheer my thirsty fields and drooping bowers;
Nor would I cease to ask and ask again
Till Thy sure mercy melts in copious rain.

ELISHA'S CHAMBER.

“A little chamber” built “upon the wall”—
With stool and table, candlestick and bed—
Where he might sit, or kneel, or lay his head
At night or sultry noontide: this was all
A Prophet's need: but in that chamber small
What mighty prayers arose, what grace was shed,
What gifts were given—potent to wake the dead,
And from its viewless flight a soul recall.
And still what miracles of grace are wrought
In many a lowly chamber with shut door,
Where God our Father is in secret sought,
And shows Himself in mercy more and more;
Dim upper rooms with Heaven's own glory shine,
And souls are lifted to the life Divine.

GOD'S PLEA FOR NINEVEH.

Gracious and merciful, “shall not I spare
Nineveh, that great city,” vast and grand,
Where “six score thousand” babes, a helpless band,
And multitudes of “cattle” claim my care;—
Dumb creatures, which their Maker's pity share
With infants, all too young to understand
Evil or good, or know one tiny hand
From its wee fellow—innocent as fair
God cares for every beast or bird that roams
The grassy mountains or the azure skies,
Where meadows smile, or where the wild wave foams:
God counts our babes, and He will “not despise
One of these little ones” that cheer our homes,
The light, desire, and comfort of our eyes!

THE VOICE AT EVENTIDE.

Hushed was the music of the Sabbath-bell;
The twilight anthem of the birds was still,
Which late they warbled at their own sweet will;
When on mine ear a soothing murmur fell.
Borne on the evening breeze it seemed to swell
And wander fitfully from hill to hill,
And with its gracious harmony to fill
The grassy hollow of the listening dell.
That murmur was “the sound of many waters,”
Fall below fall—more sweet than note of bird,
Or Sabbath chime, or song of loving daughters,
Or any melody by mortals heard:
For it was Nature's symbol of the Voice,
Which when it speaks makes highest heaven rejoice!

THE POET'S GRAVE.

ON A POET-NATURALIST ENTERING HIS SEVENTIETH YEAR.

Are these the tokens of old age? An ear
Quick to discern each bird-note flitting by,
Or heart of music poised unseen on high
'Twixt the lark's trembling wings? A vision clear
To catch all shades of colour that appear
Mingling and fading in the sunset sky;
Or evanescent forms and tints that fly
With leaves and blossoms through the changeful year?
A soul that grasps the eternal in its ken,
And throbs to what is lovely, good, and true?
A hand that firmly holds the graphic pen
Tipped with light fancies and poetic dew?
Are these old age's symptoms? Then, in sooth,
Such age is happy as immortal youth!

ON A BURN OR BROOK WITHOUT A NAME

WHICH RUNS THROUGH NUNBURNHOLME AND BURNBY.

Sweet burn, a poet's tribute thou dost claim,
And rural neighbours will the praise endorse,
Who watch thee smiling, singing from thy source,
To bless thy native valley all thine aim.
Nameless thyself, yet thou hast given a name
To village after village in thy course,
For others' sake expending all thy force,
Intent on usefulness and not on fame.
We hear thee rippling with a pleasant lay
By bridge and garden, and the lesson own,
That song and sunshine cheer the useful way
Of those who live not for themselves alone—
That we—our duty done from day to day—
Shall live in others, though ourselves unknown.

ON A SEAGULL FLYING INLAND.

Bird of the buoyant wing and snow-white breast,
Floating serenely over hill and dale,
Far from thy billowy home, I bid thee hail!
Here in this woodland nook alight and rest.
Strange thoughts of murmuring waves with milky crest
Thou bringest from afar—of freshening gale,
And mighty sea-breadths swept by scudding sail—
Oh! how unlike this peaceful landscape blest.
So to the tranquil, meditative mind
Comes some stray fancy or some “vague emotion,”
Light as a bird and fitful as the wind;
Bringing dim hints from that mysterious ocean,
Whose billows break upon the unknown shore
Loud as the voice of God for evermore.

UNSEEN FLOWERS AND UNHEARD SONGS.

Ranging a lonely wood at dusk last night
I saw Spring-flowers spread out in dazzling sheets
Of white and gold, a galaxy of sweets,
With no one near to admire the lustrous sight.
Awake this morning when the first dim light
Of dawning day the wavering darkness meets,
A glorious burst of song my rapt ear greets,
A thousand throats in harmony unite,
While the world slept. But though unnoticed blowing
In unfrequented woods those Spring-flowers die,—
Though when men heed not music sweet is flowing,
Those songs God hears, those flowers attract His eye;
And when lone hearts with grateful love are glowing,
God sees that flower—that music mounts on high.

ON MURILLO'S “ECCE HOMO.”

Behold the Man! His sacred forehead crowned
With the accursèd thorns, His mournful eyes
Uplifted to the inexorable skies,
His hands, which hold the scornful reed, fast-bound;
His precious blood slow-dropping to the ground
In payment of that awful Sacrifice,
Which fills the universe with dumb surprise
That no less glorious Victim could be found.
What sweet and solemn feelings I may borrow
From daily converse with that Face so marr'd
And full of unimaginable sorrow;
Oh! by that look Divine, may nothing sunder
My heart from Thee, and leave it cold and hard,
But may I still behold and love and wonder!

THE CHURCH SPIRE.

(BEBINGTON, NEAR LIVERPOOL.)

Onward the tide of population flows
From the vast port, and overleaps the bar
Of green seclusion; crowding villas mar
The charm of rural bowers from which arose
Yon graceful spire of old, yet still it shows
Its sacred summit, steadfast as a star,
And still it stands conspicuous from afar,
The skyward-pointing symbol of repose.
So the fair form of evangelic Truth
Amid encroaching error shines serene,
In changeless beauty and immortal youth:
So 'mid the fretting cares of daily life
The spirit of true piety is seen
With thoughts of God calming Earth's noise and strife.

ON AN OPAL RING.

I chanced to look upon an opal ring;
I gaze with wonder as the sun's bright beams
Bring out its purple, azure, roseate gleams,
And each rich tint of mystic colouring.
But hearing who had owned the beauteous thing,
Down in the shade I place it, when it seems
Only a dull pale white—as fairest dreams
That Fancy paints at the dim dawn take wing.
I thought of her who once had worn it gaily,
Its glow reflecting in her gladsome eyes,
As with fond look she gazed upon it daily;
Alas! young Love had soon withdrawn his shining,
Now sad and pale she sits i' the shade and sighs,
Her radiant hopes meekly to God resigning.

LODORE WATERFALL.

Who tore these awful towering rocks asunder
Cleaving this ragged fissure, darkly grand?
And down the chasm precipitous, Whose hand
This torrent hurled in everlasting thunder?
It was not Nature's blind caprice or blunder—
But here the Lord for His own glory plann'd
A fane stupendous, through all time to stand,
That men might bow the head in reverent wonder.
Lord, 'mid the torrent's roar this day I raise
My voice within these walls sublime and hoary;
To Nature's ceaseless organ-peal of praise
I add my feeble words to swell Thy glory,
And viewing Thy majestic works and ways
In humblest adoration bend before Thee!

ON AN UNFREQUENTED TARN.

O solitary Tarn, uplifted high,
Seen only once, and left alas! too soon:
For ever silvered with the rising moon,
For ever crimsoned with the sunset sky,
Thine image will abide in Memory's eye;
(A moment's vision, but a lifetime's boon):
While Memory's ear retains the soft low tune
Which to the breeze thy circling rushes sigh.
Have other eyes beheld thine evening glory?
Have other ears caught thy sweet undersong?
Or art thou lost amid these summits hoary,
Unheeded as the ages roll along?
What then? 'Twas God ordained thy humble story;
To be content and smile to thee belong!

GRAY AT GRASMERE (1769) AND WORDSWORTH'S GRAVE (1869.)

A CENTENARY SONNET.

Since that still Autumn 'tis the hundredth year,
When from this eminence a Poet's eyes
Welcomed an “unsuspected Paradise”—
Green vale, grey church, and azure waters clear:
For sweetest “Elegy” that name is dear;
But not more dear than his who yonder lies,
To guard whose fame the mountains round him rise,
And to reflect it, smiles his loved Grasmere.
There, in that “country churchyard” we may hail
The “heaving turf” where a great Poet slumbers;
While lake and island, village, rock, and vale,
Resound for ever his melodious numbers,
Who o'er this Paradise shed fairer beauty
With deathless songs of Nature, Man, and Duty.

DOVER CLIFF.

SHAKSPERE'S TERCENTENARY, 1864.

Up Shakspere's Cliff I climbed, and felt the ground
Half sacred. That white bulwark of our land
Seemed Nature's monument to her Poet grand;
His name the murmuring surge seemed to resound—
His mighty genius lingered all around.
On that chalk cliff Shakspere once took his stand
And while the breeze his brow capacious fanned,
Looked down o'er that same sea to the sky's bound.
When to the grassy summit I had mounted,
A yellow cowslip crimson-dropt I found,
Marked with the same five spots Shakspere once counted:
Then thought I, as o'er Cliff and flower I linger,
All Nature for his head a garland wound,
Who touched things great or small with Truth's own finger.

ON TRAVELLING BY RAIL TO CAMBRIDGE,

THROUGH LINCOLNSHIRE, TENNYSON'S COUNTRY.

A level and monotonous expanse
Of barren moorland meets the outward eye,
Taking no beauty from the sun's bright glance,
And all the Autumn glories of the sky.
But yet that student-traveller's heart beats high,
Absorbed he sits as in a blissful trance,
And while the dreary landscape hurries by.
Gazes as on some scene of Old Romance.
A circling radiance hovers o'er the place,
To seeing eyes, that gave a poet birth,
And woke his being to Divine emotion:
Thine, Laureate, is the rare transfiguring grace
Which lifts these plains to classic heights of earth,
Where pilgrims of all time pay heart-devotion!

CAMBRIDGE MEMORIES.

REST BY THE SEA.

“Come ye yourselves apart, and rest awhile,
With labour weary, and with crowds opprest;”
Straightway they cross the sea at His behest,
Their leisure sweetened by the Master's smile.
“Come to the lonely shore, or forest-aisle,”
To us His gracious word is now addrest,
“Come to the mountain-solitude, and rest,
Where peaceful hours may careful hearts beguile.”
My Master, in Thine hand it is to measure
My times of work and weariness for Thee:
My times of rest return at Thy good pleasure,
By lake, or mountain, wood or murmuring sea:
But, to give sweetness to my hours of leisure,
Come Thou Thyself, O Lord, and rest with me!

NORTH AND SOUTH OF FLAMBOROUGH HEAD.

North of yon jutting headland wild waves beat
The frowning cliffs with multitudinous roar;
Foiled by that mighty rampart evermore,
They die in angry foam about its feet.
Here, in this sheltered bay, with whisper sweet,
The smiling ripples kiss the level shore;
White sails flit by and white wings hover o'er
The azure waves which skies of azure meet.
Those stormy breakers and this peaceful bay
Nought sunders save a narrow promontory.
My soul! as quick a step, as short a way,
Divides this life, with its dark, troubled story,
From the calm haven of eternal day,
Its bliss angelic and unruffled glory!

THE BUOY BELL.

(FILEY-BRIG.)

O'er a calm sea, beneath a heaven of blue,
Strikes on the ear the tolling of a bell,
Fitful and faint, with melancholy swell:
No hint of present danger meets the view
In sky or ocean, but the Summer through,
By day and night, is heard that plaintive knell,
Like some old voice prophetic moved to tell
The burden of the future—stern and true.
So in our seasons of serenest peace,
When life's smooth waves with scarce a breath are stirred,
The sound as of a warning bell is heard,
Which calls and calls again, and will not cease,—
God's Word of grace and truth, that soft and clear
Rings to reflection ere the storm draw near.

GOD IS LOVE.

GIFTS TO JESUS.

Take, Lord, these gifts, small offerings of our hand,
Though their own worth acceptance none command:
Take, and while taking them, Thou Saviour sweet,
E'en what Thou takest, Thou wilt render meet:
Whether Thou deem them worthy eye or touch,
Thou wilt be able, Lord, to make them such;
Kind e'en to gifts themselves, as to those giving,
Thou givest, both when giving and receiving.

On Sending My Poems to the Press.

May God be with thee, little book, I pray;
For thou hast ta'en irrevocable flight
Out of thy nest, where many a noon and night
Peaceful I brooded o'er some woodland lay.
God prosper thee upon thine unknown way:
In shady places be a gleam of light,
Bearing beneath thy wings a message bright
To help the mourner through his lonesome day:
And where the tranquil beams of Summer fall
Upon the daisied grass, or the warm glow
Dances round happy hearths, go gently call
Heavenward the thoughts which dwell too much below:
Thus be thy voice like holy Church-bells heard,
Or warble for The Master like a bird!