The Baptistery, or the way of eternal life :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sabbath of Sabbaths, never-waning rest,
Which God upon His chosen shall bestow,—
Art thou no dream where Hope hath built her nest
To cradle fond illusions; no vain show,
But the great dwelling of the eternal Now;
Veriest of truths, and sure reality,
To which all things are shadows here below?
Yea, some e'en now this portal pass, to see
Thy mansion 'mid the clouds, immortal, stable, free.

And art thou mine own birthright, glorious place
Which eye hath not beheld, nor fancy knows?
When we would paint thy thought-transcending face,
The purest height to which our wisdom goes,
Is but the mere negation of our woes;—
'Mid our contentions thou art gracious peace,
Thou to the weary soul art calm repose,
To prisoners gall'd with chains thou art release,
And to the mourner thou a place where sorrows cease.

To wanderers toss'd on the tempestuous main,
Thou art beyond the storm a quiet shore;
To heart-sick hopes a stay that shall sustain;—
To needy men thou art celestial store;—
To hearts bereav'd where friends shall part no more,
And love shall need no more the chast'ning rod;—
To penitents the land where sin is o'er;—
To virgin souls a floor by Angels trod;—
To saintly men a place where they shall see their God.

There are no evening shades,—no setting sun,—
There is no fall of the autumnal leaf,—
No age o'ertaking life but just begun,—
No gloom, and no decay, no parting grief;—
For joy below is nought but pain's relief,
Words that would speak it do but syllable
How poor it is, how shadowy, and brief.
O blessed place beside that living Well,
Thou only knowest not that sad sweet word Farewell.

Isle of the evening skies, cloud-vision'd land,
Wherein the good meet in the Heavenly fold,
And drink of endless joy at God's right hand;
There kings and subjects meet, and young and old,
Pure virgins, matrons chaste, and martyrs bold,
Prophets, Apostles, Patriarchs, great and good,
Many yet one, in union manifold,
All who victorious in life's conflict stood,
And there that Holy One Who shed for me His blood.

Prayer shall e'en unlock the azure door,
And there admit us to that company;
There Meekness worships as a suppliant poor,
There sin-bound Penitence doth bend the knee,
And there the holy Church doth sue to Thee.
All hast Thou given to us, all we desire,
Given Thine own self on the accursed tree,
And wash'd us with Thy blood:—we would aspire
To give ourselves to Thee, O kindle Thou the fire.

That fire shall in my breast burn all beside,
All that is earthly,—all of selfish love,
Projects of low-brow'd indolence and pride,
Until I feel in Thee I live and move,
And breathe regenerate life of them above:
For we are born of that celestial well,
And bear a charmèd life,—that we might prove
Meet inmates for that peopled citadel,
Where Angels pure from sin, or sin-wash'd spirits dwell.

How hast Thou set around me every good,
That it might lead me to Thee! yea, in all
It is Thyself that hast around me stood,
In all I hear Thee speak, I hear Thy call
Bidding me seek again a Father's hall;—
To walk the waves to Thee amid the gloom:—
O hold me by Thy hand, for if I fall
I fall for ever—unto Thee I come,
Thou art Thyself alone our everlasting home.

Thou art Thyself alone the living Way,
Which in our darkness grows more manifest,
And brightens into Thee the perfect Day;
O lead a wandering exile to Thy breast!
O let a troubled heart in Thee find rest!
Thou didst behold me ere I yet was born;
My infant cries were unto Thee addrest,
And taught by Thee: Thy rays did then adorn
A dewdrop in the light of never-ending morn.—

A trembling mote upborne in boundless space,—
An atom in the shoreless infinite,—
A grain that in the whirlwind finds its place,—
A drop within a sea of endless might,—
A point in the great void of depth and height,—
Here in the womb of time Thou schoolest me,
By seasons, and returns of day and night,
To bear the vision of eternity,
To be for ever one, or exiled aye from Thee.

I wake as Adam from the formless dust,
And ask—Why am I born? Thou bidd'st me rise,
Demanding only that in Thee I trust.
Placed in Thy Church, Thy better Paradise,
Thou pointest out my home in happy skies:
Telling me all things here that please the sight
Are but the semblance given to feeble eyes,
Shadows of Heavenly rest and pure delight,
And fast they fade away, to warn us by their flight.

When Spring breaks forth, when Summer days decline,
All that is fair speaks of Thine inner reign;—
The gate of Eve, the youthful face divine,—
The starry night, the Moons that fill and wane,
Like Thine own Church, that wanes and fills again
The stars like Abraham's seed set round in Heaven
The birds like Angels in their blue domain;
And prowling beasts before the twilight driven,
Which tell of unseen foes that love the gloom of Even.

All things speak from Thee,—every sun that shines
Sets forth Thine image, and each day's return
Is herald of the Morn that ne'er declines;
The bright recovering year, at every turn
Speaks of that great New Year, where all things burn
In glorious beauty round the Source of Light;
All are Thy teachers,—grant us to discern
Their Heavenly lessons,—cleanse our mortal sight,—
We have enough to preach, did we but hear aright.

Shew me the way that leadeth unto Thee:
Though it be difficult Thou art all might,
Though low Thou art of love a boundless sea,
Though dark Thou art Thyself the living Light,
Though toilsome Thou art goodness infinite,
And wilt refresh the heavy-laden soul
That comes to Thee;—guide me to Thee aright:
I cannot come unless Thou dost control;
Lead Thou, enlighten, draw, and fill my being whole.

May I be lost in Thy great Majesty,
Myself no more,—to have no cherish'd thing,
No choice, no hope, no sorrow, but in Thee,
My Shepherd, and my Father, and my King!
Nothing is good but what in Thee doth spring,
Nothing is good but what in Thee doth end;
O let me hear Thy voice, let all things bring
Thy voice to me; whatever Thou dost send,
Shall be my welcome guest, shall be my honour'd friend.

Whate'er I have is Thine; my hour of death,
And all the days of life, are in Thine hand;
My endless portion hangs upon Thy breath;
My hairs by Thee are numbered, and the sand
That forms beneath my feet the eternal strand:
Whate'er I know, whate'er I have is Thine,
Save sins, which hold me like a living band,
Which Thou alone canst make not to be mine;—
Number may count my sins, but not Thy loves divine.

Vain Worldly Hope, on waters without home
Toss'd and not comforted, and still at fits
Borne up and down upon the sparkling foam,
No haven knows, no anchor-hold admits;
From rock to rock the bird of evil flits,
Brightly extending her ill-omen'd wings;
And at the helm unnoted Ruin sits
Urging her onward, while the Syren sings;
O keep me where on shore the Rock her shadow flings

Thrice happy they, who as they draw more near
More clearly can discern their being's end,
Who gird their loins with hope, and year by year
Unto their stable home still steadier wend!
They from the sinuous road will still ascend
Unto the straighter path, while the calm ray
Lightens them step by step; nor e'er shall bend
Their firm resolve from that their steadfast way,
Until they are absorb'd in the Eternal Day.

Thrice happy they, who earthly stores have sold,
Dearer sublunar joys, domestic ties,
And form themselves into one holy fold
To imitate on earth the happy skies,
With vigil, prayer, and sacred litanies,
Their souls to Heavenly contemplation given,
While earthly hope within them buried lies,
Their sole employ to purge the evil leaven,
And render their cleans'd souls a fit abode for Heaven.

And happy they, though more of earth's alloy
Creeps in the scenes of their terrestrial state,
Who dwell 'mid social hearths and home employ,
Yet 'mid the world do at God's altar wait!
They too may live beside the Heavenly gate,
And give their fleeting hours to ceaseless prayer,
Beside the sad, the sick, the desolate;
Christ's poor their friends, His little ones their care,—
Their self-rewarding toil their brethren's toils to share.

Yea, Love may give thee wings by social hearth
Which shall outstrip the Heaven-girt anchorite,
And virgin choirs removed from scenes of earth;
Train thee 'mid crowded towns to pray aright,
To labour and withdraw from things of sight;
Till vanities around thy pathway prove
Spurs on thy road to Heaven, thy weakness might,
While step by step thy ways from earth remove,
To that straight path lit up by Everlasting Love.

Light are their steps, who in life's earliest dawn
The mountain-tops of Heavenly life ascend,
Brushing the dewdrops from the spangled lawn;
Nor ever from the straighter path descend,
Fixing their eyes upon their journey's end;
Sweetest best thoughts are theirs, such as have striven
With childhood, and with dawning conscience blend,
To flee all other love but that of Heaven,
Ere weigh'd to earth with sin and much to be forgiven.