WILLIAM CROSWELL.
CONFIRMATION.
The white-stoled Bishop stood amid a crowd—
Noviciates all—who, tutor'd to revere
The mitre's holy offices, drew near,
And, after sins renounced, and pledges vow'd,
Pale with emotion and religious fear,
In meek subjection, round the chancel, bow'd,
To hallow'd hands, that o'er them, one by one,
Fell, with a Prelate's thrilling benison.
Thou who canst make the loadstone's touch impart
An active virtue to the temper'd steel,
Oh let thy hand rest on them till they feel
A new-born impulse stirring in the heart,
And, swinging from surrounding objects, free,
Point, with a tremulous confidence to Thee!
DRINK AND AWAY.
There is a beautiful rill in Barbary received into a large basin, which bears a
name signifying “Drink and Away,” from the great danger of meeting with
rogues and assassins.—
Dr
Shaw.
Up! pilgrim and rover,
Redouble thy haste!
Nor rest thee till over
Life's wearisome waste.
Ere the wild forest ranger
Thy footsteps betray
To trouble and danger,—
Oh drink and away!
Here lurks the dark savage,
By night and by day,
To rob and to ravage,
Nor scruples to slay.
He waits for the slaughter:
The blood of his prey
Shall stain the still water,—
Then drink and away!
With toil though thou languish,
The mandate obey,
Spur on, though in anguish,
There 's death in delay!
No blood-hound, want-wasted,
Is fiercer than they:—
Pass by it untasted—
Or drink and away!
Though sore be the trial,
Thy God is thy stay,
Though deep the denial,
Yield not in dismay,
But wrapt in high vision,
Look on to the day
When the fountains elysian
Thy thirst shall allay.
There shalt thou for ever
Enjoy thy repose
Where life's gentle river
Eternally flows,
Yea, there shalt thou rest thee
For ever and aye,
With none to molest thee—
Then, drink and away.
HOME.
I knew my father's chimney top,
Though nearer to my heart than eye,
And watch'd the blue smoke reeking up
Between me and the winter sky.
Wayworn I traced the homeward track,
My wayward youth had left with joy;
Unchanged in soul I wander'd back,
A man, in years—in heart, a boy.
I thought upon its cheerful hearth,
And cheerful hearts' untainted glee,
And felt of all I'd seen on earth,
This was the dearest spot to me.
SONNET VINDICATORY.
Nuns fret not at their Convent's narrow room;
And Hermits are contented with their cells;
And Students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the Weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; Bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest peak of Furness Fells,
Will murmur by the hour in fox-glove bells.
In truth the prison unto which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is; and hence to me,
In sundry moods, 't was pastime to be bound
Within the sonnet's scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some souls (for such there needs must be)
Who 've felt the weight of too much liberty,
Should find short solace there, as I have found.
SOUTH SEA MISSIONARIES.
With pleasure not unmix'd with pain,
They find their passage o'er,
As with the Sabbath's dawn they gain
That islet's rocky shore.
Behind them is the sweltry main,
The torrid land before.
No sound was in the silence heard
To break the air of balm,
Save when the screaming tropic bird
Wheel'd seaward in the calm:
The faint and heated breeze scarce stirr'd
The streamers of the palm.
The shipman in the distance sees
Across the glowing bay,
The crowded, strawbuilt cottages,
Like sunburnt ricks of hay,
Beneath the tall banana trees,
Bask in the morning ray.
And as that self-devoted band
Of christian hearts drew near,
No cool and bracing current fann'd
The lifeless atmosphere;—
Why should they seek that savage land
So desolate and drear?
In faith, those far-off shores they trod,
This humble six or seven,
And through those huts of matted sod
Shall spread the gospel leaven,
Till each becomes a house of God,
A mercy gate of Heaven.
CHRISTMAS.
The thickly woven boughs they wreathe
Through every hallow'd fane,
A soft reviving odor breathe
Of Summer's gentle reign;
And rich the ray of mild green light
Which like an emerald's glow,
Comes struggling through the latticed height,
Upon the crowds below.
O let the streams of solemn thought
Which in those temples rise
From deeper sources spring than aught
Dependant on the skies.
Then though the summer's glow departs,
And winter's withering chill
Rests on the cheerless woods, our hearts
Shall be unchanging still.
