The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

From Thee our thoughts their grace derive,
Chaste hearts receive celestial glow;
And vainly would the sceptic strive
Without Thee, e'en to think below.

The mind which cannot God discern
Grows day by day more weak, and vile,
Must soon its very self unlearn,—
Absorb'd in sin, and sunk in guile.

Eternal Light! and Law of mind!
If in Thy beams calm angels see
A lustre that would strike them blind
Were they to think they fathom'd Thee;

Let insects like ourselves beware
What majesties to Heaven belong!—
Our science is believing prayer,
And flesh is weak, when faith is strong.

Most glorious God! while thus we scan
Earth, air, and ocean through their bounds,
And yearn to trace the measured plan
Of Wisdom in her mystic rounds;

Be ours the humbling thought, that all
Of form and function, life or sense,
Which men sublime and wondrous call,—
Is nothing to Omnipotence!

It was not once; it would not be,
If Thy dread fiat said, Depart!
For then, the universe would flee,
And leave Thee, Godhead as Thou art.

GOD CREATES.

“God created.”—Gen. i. 1.

There is religion in the common earth,
A creed of beauty in the open sky;
And shower and sunbeam prove a sacred birth,
When fancy views them with a feeling eye.

What men call Nature, is a Thought divine,
The Infinite in forms of finite grace,
Where all conditions, seen in God, combine
To make this earth a consecrated place.

Th' unwritten bible of the woods and fields
By love perused, and ponder'd o'er by prayer,
A second gospel to the poet yields,
Who walks creation, knowing Christ is there.

Nothing is mean, by Power celestial made,
And nought is worthless, by His wisdom plann'd,
Who fashion'd all, that Faith may find display'd
The holy impress of God's master-hand.

Oh, could we hail the Element divine
That circles round whatever lives, or moves,
A mystic radiance would o'er all things shine,
And teach the coldest how the Godhead loves!

One vast cathedral, with its roof of sky,
The earth becomes to reverential souls,
When deepen'd by such felt divinity,
Our heart-breathed hymn of ceaseless worship rolls.

But like a cloud doth sensual dimness hide
The heaven-born glories that around us gleam,
While min'string angels to and fro may glide,
And yet not wake us from our worldly dream.

Alas! for men, when thus creation grows
An orphan'd scene, where God moves undiscern'd;
While for the bliss His gracious hand bestows,
Our thankless hearts, how seldom have they burn'd!

This canker-worm of atheistic sin,
Thrice Holy One! do Thou by grace destroy;
Breathe o'er the deadness of the mind within,
And brighten nature with religious joy.

May the hush'd feeling, Thou art ever nigh,
God in the creatures, Life and Law of all,
Unveil pure Edens to our purgèd eye,
And free the spirit from degrading thrall.

Then will a spell of solemn beauty grace
The humblest object which the senses scan,
A temple rise in every cloister'd place,
And all cry, “Worship!” to believing man.

Mountain or forest, wood, or wild, or shore,
Roam where we choose, whatever scene be trod,
The reign of mindless solitude is o'er,
For now, like Enoch, conscience walks with God.

And, thus companion'd by His love and word,
Each man as brother, faith delights to own;
Peasant and prince, from each alike is heard
“Our Father!” warbled to creation's Throne.

Were but this creed by loving hearts enjoy'd,
And God paternal by the soul embraced,
How much of dark'ning self would be destroy'd,
And beauty live, where now breathes moral waste!

Our common life would seem a holy thing,
The lone creation be with God allied,
And not an hour but would some anthem sing,
To praise the Fountain which our stream supplied.

Around, above, beneath, 'tis all divine,
When faith the grand Original can see,
And, while Sense worships in the outer-shrine,
Know the vast world was once a thought in Thee.

Lord! may Thy Spirit to our spirit lend
A princely heart of innocence and prayer,
Whose unction shall the sacred feeling send,
That proves, at every pulse, our God is there.

Radiant his soul, though dark the sense-bound doom
Terrestrial changes for its home supply,
Who feels, before his dust descend the tomb,
That all is christian to the christian eye.

OUR DUTY IS OUR GLORY.

“Whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.” 1 Cor. x. 31.

Beauteous words! with glory burning,
Guide and guardian of our days,
Let us be for ever learning
Wisdom from their wealth to raise:
In them hides a heavenly power
Which may hallow scene and hour,
Touching all we hear, or see,
With soft rays of Deity!

He who call'd us into being,
Each created for some plan;
And, by prescience all foreseeing,
So equipp'd the soul of man,
That unless the sleepless Mind
Love itself in all mankind,
Whatsoe'er bright scenes present,—
Dark life grows a discontent.

Yet, apart from Revelation,
Wisdom no true motive found,
That with perfect inspiration
Could for all alike abound:
Pleasure, gain, or mental force,
Palms which crown Ambition's course,—
Sages found some lofty name,
Thus to fix the final aim.

But, where exists in heathen story
Bard, or sage, who could descry
Such a path for peaceful glory
While we live, or when we die,
As this text of heaven-breathed truth
Here unfolds for age and youth,—
“Whatsoe'er ye think, or do,
Be your God the goal in view!”

'Twas Thine own celestial motive,
Lord, when Thou on earth didst live;
So, with spirit pure and votive
Let us vow ourselves to give
Back to Thee!—in woe or weal,
Let our lives be one long zeal
Never from Thy Church to roam,
Faith's delight, and Feeling's home!

None can reach a blissful centre
Where the reas'ning mind can rest,
Save by fellowship they enter
On the pathway God hath blest:
Great and glorious as may seem
All which gilds an earth-born dream,
Self can frame no heaven for sin,
But it works a hell within!

Blest is he who thus resigneth
Soul and body unto Him,
From Whose words whoe'er declineth,
Martyr, saint, or seraphim,
Must in darkness, death, and woe,
Downward to perdition go,
Reaping from self-will a curse,
That would fire the universe.

Sons of Heaven! be this your glory,
Christ as motive so to feel,
That life nor death shall set before ye
What can daunt, or dim your zeal:
Rich, or poor, or small, or great,
Nought to you is outward state:
God and grace within you dwell,
And your mercies who can tell?

Happy, happy is the feeling,
Life belongs to Him who died,
By atonement thus revealing
Love incarnate, crucified.
Duty, danger, toil, and time,
Now are touch'd by truth sublime;
All we have to faith appears,
Sacred to His blood and tears.

With such motive deeply glowing,
Sin and self we learn to shun,
So on heaven our hearts bestowing,
That the angel seems begun;
While more purely we can pray,
And our creed of glory say,
“Thou art worthy! Thou alone!
Be our hearts Thy hallow'd throne!”

Needs no rank, nor wealth, nor learning,
When our sainted wills incline
With a passion ever burning
To pursue the path divine:
Humble care and cottage-scene
To the Lord's elect have been
Little Edens, where they found
Angels camping all around!

Though thy station be but lowly,
Christ is there, the soul to bless;
Though thou seem'st forgotten wholly,
Left to toil in loneliness,
Eyes through heaven are peering down,
In thy cross to see thy crown:—
Let thy task in prayer be done,
And thy glories are begun!

Tell me not, in gloom and anguish,
Lone and needy thou art left;
Faith can ne'er for duty languish,
Love and Hope are not bereft,

If thy soul can truly say,
At the close of each calm day,
“Father! do Thy gracious will,
Let my life Thy law fulfil!”

Hast thou cheer'd the broken-hearted
With a look of genial love?
As the dying breath departed
Didst thou point to worlds above?
Hast thou sought the peasant's door,
Soothed the sick, or cheer'd the poor,
Lighted up the widow's eye,
Or relieved an orphan's sigh?

Fameless, then, though Earth deny thee
Wealth and grandeur, power and place,
More than worlds could e'er supply thee
'Tis to love the human race!
Like some instrument of sound
Changing with all airs around,
Hearts of heaven can sympathise
With whate'er a spirit tries.

Read we then in hallow'd story
With a swell of wordless joy,
Duty forms divinest glory,
When our lives for God employ
Feeling, faculty, and power,
Home and heart, and scene and hour,
As one sacrifice of soul,
Due to Him who gave the whole!

THE FIRST MAN.

“Let us make man.”—Gen. i. 26.

Now, Heaven and Earth in finish'd beauty rise,
And Ocean peals her new-born harmonies;
And lo! awaking into life
With stainless glory rich and rife,
Under the breath of God's creative word,
The realms of Being into bliss are stirr'd.

Oh! to have gazed on glorious earth and sea,
When, like the Infant of eternity,
Our breathing World began to smile;
Or, like some list'ning heart awhile,
In mute suspension waited for a Soul
To greet her glories, and command the whole.

For, how could dumb magnificence display,
Or this blank world as reasonless, portray
The higher attributes of God,
Till earth by human feet was trod;
And young creation gain'd some priestly Mind
To offer incense, pure as God design'd?

But, hark! within the deeps of that Recess
Where God enshrines His awful consciousness,
Three Persons speak, Three Minds commune,
A Council holds the dread Triune;
And “Let Us make” him, symbols forth to man
The outward meaning of Their inward Plan.

And thus, obedient to that forming call,
Emerges Man, the blissful lord of all;
Soft lustres o'er his features play,
And brow and bearing both display
That regal air, God's image ought to show
As priest and monarch of His world below.

Hosannah! now ye choral planets sing;
Poetic winds and waters, hail your king!
Wake Sympathies! through earth and air
Your genial motion everywhere;
God's labours now their sabbath-haven reach,
And silence echoes with the charm of speech.

O happy vision! O celestial scene!
What Heaven beheld, what sinless Earth hath been,
When Paradise and perfect bliss
Hallow'd a world sublime as this;
Wing'd angels quiver'd over Eden's bowers,
And Eve look'd fairer than the vestal flowers.

Departed glory!—back to earth it seems
At times recall'd, in those seraphic dreams
When round us steals the witching sense
Of man's unblotted innocence,
And o'er the harp-strings of entrancèd soul
Fragments of forfeit Eden's music roll.

But, never let our joyless gloom repine,
Blest Lord! as though there breathed not hopes divine,
That earth may boast a nobler doom
Than Paradise in perfect bloom;
For Thou hast purchased, by atoning blood,
A world transcending what was once the “good.”

And may the Spirit of Thy grace descend,
Our feelings hallow, and our hearts amend;
Inspire us, O Creative Three,
To image forth the Trinity,
Till man shall witness more than Eden saw,
His heart Thy temple, and Thy truth his law.

MIND OF LITTLE CHILDREN.

“Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven? And Jesus called a little child.”—Matt. xviii. 1, 2.

Men call it wisdom, when they grow
Less and less like a child;
But let the harsh and haughty know
Such wisdom is defiled;
The cold perfection of a cautious man,
Who gains by cunning,—what the Serpent can!

He, whose all-meas'ring Soul perceived
The heights and depths of mind,
A nobler creed would have believed
When present with mankind,
Who said, with Infancy beside His knee,
“He that is greatest, like a child must be.”

Heaven to a child comes nearer far
Than in maturer age,
When passion's brunt and blighting war
Their ceaseless battle wage
Against those young simplicities which dwell
Deep in the bosom, like a guardian-spell.

Oh! for a reverential eye
To Childhood which pertains,
That sees religion in the sky,
And poetry in plains;
To whom a rainbow like a rapture glows,
And all is marvel which th' Almighty shows.

Blest age of Wonder! when a flower,
A blossom, fruit, or tree,
Gives a new zest to each new hour
Which gladdens home with glee:
When like a lisping stream life rolls along
In happy murmurs of unconscious song.

It smiles on that, and speaks to this,
As if each object knew
A child exulted in the bliss
Of all that charms its view:
Personified the whole creation seems
Into a heart that mirrors back its dreams.

Life looks a fairy landscape spread
Before the untaught gaze,
As on the infant Soul is led
To meet its vernal days,
Where pure-eyed Innocence may well discern
A deeper beauty than the wise can learn.

Fresh from the hands of God they come
These infants of His grace,
And something of celestial home
Yet lingers in their face;
Strange to the world, no worldliness defiles
The little history of their tears and smiles.

Candid and curious, how they seek
All truth to know and scan;
And, ere the budding mind can speak,
Begin to study Man!
Confiding sweetness colours all they say,
And Angels listen, when they try to pray.

More playful than the birds of spring,
Ingenuous, warm, sincere,
Like meadow-bees upon the wing
They roam without a fear;
And breathe their thoughts on all who round them live,
As Light sheds beams, or flowers their perfume give.

And how the Church o'erawes their sense,
With rite and ritual graced!
Whose creed is loving innocence,
Which time hath not effaced;
And would that those, who Manhood's paths have trod,
Like infants trembled at the name of God!

Mysterious age! the type of heaven,
By Jesu's blessing crown'd,
To thee a purity is given
Grey hairs have never found;
The arms of Christ do yet encircle thee
Like a soft halo which the Heart can see.

Mere knowledge makes us keen and cold,
And cunning dwarfs the mind,
As more and more the heart grows old
With feelings base and blind;
Our light is clearer, but our love is less,
And few the bosoms which our own can bless!

Spirit of Grace! we learn from Thee
This noble truth, at length,—
That wisdom is simplicity,
Simplicity is strength;
A Child-man, could the world a model find,
Would be a living type for human-kind.

SOOTHING CHARM OF TIME.

“No chastening for the present seemeth to be joyous, but grievous: nevertheless afterward it yieldeth the peaceable fruit of righteousness.”—Heb. xii. 11.

When Time shall lay his lenient hand
On this large grief of ours,
The burden'd Heart will understand
The mystery of past hours;
But now, so thick a tear bedims the moisten'd eye
That earth looks sever'd off from yonder loving sky.

Mere fragment of a mighty Whole,
How little man can see,
While sin contracts the clouded soul,
Of plans becoming Thee,
Who didst by wisdom deep, from Thine all-boundless mind,
In heaven forecast the lot for human souls design'd.

To two eternities relate
The pangs endured on earth;
And all which marks our mortal fate
In sickness, death, or birth,
In awful depths of God before all time was plann'd,
And carries with it more than sin can understand.

Yet, when the cloud of woe hath burst
Upon our hearts and homes,
And Guilt appears by God accursed,
The wistful Spirit roams
From earth to heaven, in hope that some dear light will dart
A ray of guiding truth, to cheer the chasten'd heart!

Then, crowded o'er with sumless graves
This blighted world appears;
O'er each young joy the cypress waves,
The eye seems made for tears;
Calm mercies which remain in darkness now recede,
And boding Fancy dreams, that Life was born to bleed!

Unwise, unholy, and unjust
We mourners then are found,
Who, in bereavement, cannot trust
Those Arms encircled round
All sorrow, time, and change, whate'er the trial be,
To girdle man with strength, if Faith those Arms would see.

Afflictions should be sacred things;
Some drops that overflow
From that great Cup the Saviour brings
Of anguish, grief, or woe,
To each disciple here, who bears his Master's cross,
And, when he calls him, “Lord!” doth count the gainful loss.

How can the sainted child of God
Resemble Christ, unless
His upward path of life be trod
Through shades of stern distress?
The Lord of bleeding love, oh, lived He not alone,
Unecho'd by a heart that understood his groan?

And think, bereaved one! in that hour
When ruin'd hopes lie cold,
While death and darkness overpower
Whate'er thine eyes behold,
Of Him, who had not where to rest His gracious head,
Weeping with stricken heart, when Love “forsook and fled!”

Dejection now may cast
A dimming veil round all
Which brighten'd o'er thy youthful past;
While underneath the pall
That seems to overshroud whate'er we love below,
Thy creedless heart detects no sight but death and woe.—

Still, when the Dove of Peace divine
Shall o'er thy spirit brood,
And with His calm thy love combine,
The soul will say, 'Twas “good;—
Affliction with its flame hath purified the dross,
And deeper in my soul enstamp'd a Saviour's cross.”

And thus, the nerveless Mind will gain
New force, and faith to meet
Each rising swell of future pain,
And lay it at His feet;
As sunk the billows down along their placid sea,
When Christ in calmness walk'd the waves of Galilee.

Eternal Soother of the soul!
True Paraclete for all
Who yield to Thy serene control,
On Thee for aid we call;
Anguish, and gloom, and grave, can make the mourner sigh,
But, ah, we shall not sink,—The Comforter is nigh!

Perfect through suffering!—'tis the plan
Mysterious Love decrees;
And Christ, who was The sinless Man,
From this found no release:
His life was living prayer, with every pang combined,
Where men and angels see a perfect Will resign'd.

We seek not, Lord, a pangless life
In homes and haunts of bliss;
But, only that our mental strife
May ne'er Thy presence miss:—
Not starless is the night, when radiant truths arise,
And point each promise forth that beacons to the skies!

CHRIST THE GRAND REFUGE.

“Lord, to whom shall we go? Thou hast the words of eternal life.”—John vi. 68.

“There is none other name under heaven given among men whereby we must be saved.”—Acts iv. 12.

Lord, and whither shall we go?
Thou alone hast words of life:
In our stormful griefs below
Who, but Thou, can heal the strife
Sin and sorrow round us bring,
In life's vale, while wandering?

What can mortal Wisdom teach
If o'er graves it cannot soar?
How can rest the conscience reach
If it leaves us as before?
Guilty shades will haunt us yet,
Making life one long regret!

Poet! shall we come to thee,
Harping forth some noble strain,—
Songs of fire, which tell the free
Never to be slaves again,
Till they echo back thy word
As by trumpet-music stirr'd?

Son of Science! shall we soar
Through yon starry worlds, to find
Burning secrets which before
Never glanced on human mind,—
Orbs of myst'ry, as they roll
Preaching God to sense and soul?

Man of Learning! may we dare
From thine oracle to draw
Truths which tell us what we are,
Or, that hush the dreadful Law,
Thund'ring forth from earth and sea,
“Render what thou ow'st to me?”

Can you ease a burden'd soul
From the crushing weight of sin,
When it feels some fierce control
Like a throbbing hell within?
Can you cry to wearied Breast,
“Hither! here is holy rest?”

Have your words a healing skill,
If applied with perfect art,
To renew the rebel Will
Till it take the better part,
Bidding ev'ry wing'd desire
Upward to the heavens aspire?

God and man can ye unite
In such bonds of sacred peace,
That the blood-wash'd heart is white
By Atonement's blest release?
Can ye show a radiant Heaven
Smiling o'er the soul forgiven?

Foolish all false wisdom is,
If to such attempts it rise;
Would we claim a power like this?—
Seek it, then, beyond the skies:
Man at most can human be;
What we want, is Deity!

Blessed Christ! embodied Word!
Thou alone art Life and Light;
Saints who have Thy truth preferr'd
Walk in peace, and worship right;
Thou alone to sin canst say,
“I am Love, the Living Way.”

Sun of Grace! oh, ever shine
Round our paths, where'er they lead;
Midnight feels a ray divine
Breaking through the darkest need,
If we hear, when most dismay'd,
“It is I! be not afraid!”

Pardon, peace, and purity,
Gifts without, and grace within,
Love and light, which set us free
From the curse and chain of sin,—
These, Emanuel! Thou canst give,
While upon Thy words we live.

Not a want, Thou canst not fill;
Not a fear, Thou wilt not tame;
If, indeed, repentance will
Rest upon Thy glorious name,
High o'er every guilt and grave
Shall Redemption's banner wave!

Lord, then whither shall we go,
Save to Thee, our Refuge sure?
Balm to each bereaving woe,—
Who alone the heart canst cure,
Turning sickness into health,
And, to want, becoming wealth.

Well of Comfort! Vital Spring!
Other source we dare not seek;
Broken cisterns only bring
Mocking draughts which make us weak:
If our souls would slake their thirst,
They must die, or seek Thee first!

Saviour! be our Polar Star
Shaded by no sinful night;
Shed upon us from afar
Living beams of holy light:—
When we reach our radiant home,
We shall know the way we come.

POWER OF THE DEAD.

“I praised the dead which are already dead, more than the living which are yet alive.”—Eccles. iv. 2.

“Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord, from thenceforth ------ They rest from their labours.” —Rev. xiv. 13.

My thoughts are with the dear and dead,
Who wake the inward sigh,
And here an atmosphere have spread
Breathed from the days gone by.

Then do not mock the mental gloom
That o'er my brow is stealing;
For, could I walk this well-known room
Without an ancient feeling?

What genial hours of mirth and glee
Have here those bright friends known,
Who since to hush'd eternity
Like living Dreams have flown!

And think not that a stoic chill
Is o'er my present cast;
But, something more than mem'ry will
Untomb the buried past.

What, though these walls no longer now
Present that houschold grace,—
A pictured father's pensive brow,
A mother's beaming face,

Yet, I can almost hear them speak,
And wake each cheerful tone,
And catch the gladness of her cheek
That lighted up my own.

Oh, here has swell'd the choral song,
And music's charm hath been,
While mellow'd feelings moved along
Like waves in moonlight seen.

And kindly words of love and truth
From lips now cold in death,
Come wafted from the days of youth,
Like resurrection-breath!

So full the present fills the past
With tenderness and tears,
Time seems by some fond Angel cast
Back into buried years.

I think of her whose azure eyes
Were motherly and mild,
Clear as the morn's cerulean skies,
In sweetness when they smiled:

Gentle in tone, and graceful, too,
In motion, mind, and mien,
How warm the social ray she threw
O'er each domestic scene!

As mother, wife, and peerless friend,
In all her ways appear'd
A beauteous Soul, in whom did blend
The graces love revered.

And he whose world-wide fame is wed
To History and to Man,
Though number'd with th' immortal dead,
How high a course he ran!

I see him now, his fervid gaze
Illumined keen with thought,
And glow beneath the flashing rays
From his bright wisdom caught.

With heavenly truth historic lore
His works have nobly blent,
And Time, who keeps our mental store,
Shall make his monument.

Can I forget that hoary sage,
The generous, pure, and good,
Who counsell'd oft my unripe age
As only Virtue could?

And, when I dared to strike the lyre
In loneliness and fear,
Who bade me as the Bard aspire,
And woke my grateful tear!

But, like a vision all are gone
To join the world unseen,
And when these walls I gaze upon,
I ask,—if such have been?

Mysterious Charm! Oh, solemn Past,
How deeply felt art thou!
Beyond the scenes around us cast,
The world exciting now.

The touching thought—no more! no more!
Doth sanctify the room,
Where blending Hearts embraced of yore,
Now pulseless in the tomb.

But, why and whence, we cannot tell,
A living moment fails
To rule us with that inward spell
Which from the past prevails.

The perish'd bloom of boyhood's prime
How beautiful it seems,
When, tinged with melancholy time,
It dawns upon our dreams!

Forth from the heart there went a hue
Which made the world romance;
But ah, how changed and chill the view
As riper years advance!

Rank, wealth, and reputation, all
Must leave the breast a void,
Whene'er our yearning hearts recall
What vanish'd youth enjoy'd.

Eternity familiar reads
To Faith's perusing eye,
As spirit after spirit speeds
To populate the sky.

Each added year that Home commends
Where Souls unbodied dwell,
To all, who feel how parted friends
Retain their living spell:

For while we tread the room they trod
And haunt the scene they chose,
We love to think they dwell in God,
All rapture, and repose!

BODILY SUFFERING.

“Always bearing about in the body, the dying of the Lord Jesus.”—2 Cor. iv. 10.

“I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus.”—Gal. vi. 17.

“Christ shall be magnified in my body.”— Phil. i. 20.

“This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God.”—John xi. 4.

Who can explain the living dust we bear?
That breathing miracle of pain or bliss,
Incarnate Soul, what science can declare?—
Yet, did we ponder on a truth like this,
Each pulse of being would proclaim our God,
And preach His wisdom wheresoe'er we trod.

But health with such pure harmony of ease
The inward play of wonted life preserves,
That not till flesh be pierced with sharp disease,
Or pang convulsive all the frame unnerves,
Are men awaken'd from their godless dream.
To mark what mercies in the body teem.

Tis now, while throbbing fires of fever burn,
Or the vexed life-blood mantles brow and brain,
And on his couch, with many a wearied turn,
Moans the pale martyr of mysterious pain,—
Oft is the soul by lingering sickness taught,
A deeper love than health-days ever brought.

Oh! how we pine for Nature's freshness now,
For wood and wild, and many-voicèd stream,
And long to feel upon the wasted brow
The quivering gladness of her sun-warm beam,
When pining Languor, with dejected eye,
Through half-veil'd window sees the orient sky.

And blessings, which in hours of heedless calm
Were lightly view'd, or out of God partaken,
Now they have vanish'd, with remember'd balm
Rebuke some thankless Heart they have forsaken;
While forms and faces, which indifferent were,
Throng round the soul, and thrill it into prayer.

The stern seem mild, the harsh attemper'd down
To childhood's softness, or to woman's tear,
And the false gildings of ambition's crown
Grow dimly pale before one righteous fear:
Life drops the mask, and all Earth's painted show
Melts into gloom, and looks one shaded woe.

Soon, conscience wakes; and sin and guilt are seen
In the deep blackness of their dismal truth;
Clear on the soul, though flesh-veils intervene,
Remembrance visions both our age and youth;
And faith sees God's detective eyebeams dart
Their piercing brightness through the naked heart!

O, Thou incarnate Sympathy for all!
On earth a Saviour, and in heaven the same,
Now to the sick those precious truths recal,
Which crown the wonders of Emanuel's name;
Calm the wild conscience with a word of peace,
And in Thy Merit show the soul's release.

For though no malady by Thee was felt,
Nor sickness by Thy sacred flesh endured,
Ne'er did the music of compassion melt
With softer tones, than when some pang was cured;
Anguish and grief in Thy pure breast were known,
And suffering raised Thee to yon glory-Throne!

Then, doubt not, Child of sickness and of woe,
When through sad vigils of the wakeful night
Thy cup of trial seems to overflow,
Till earth be tomb-like to thy weaken'd sight,
That Jesu numbers all dark moments bring
To harrow Flesh with untold suffering.

Heavy, and lone, and long the night-hours wear,
And minutes seem with leaden pace to move,
But o'er thy couch, when riseth low-breathed prayer,
Throbs the pure heart of that almighty Love
In Christ embodied, when for man He died,
By friends deserted, and by foes denied.

Pains are dread mysteries! not from God they came
By pure creation, when man's perfect mould
Of outward beauty to the inward frame
Of innocence did fine proportion hold:—
From sin and self, all pangs and pains begun,
That since the Fall their withering course have run.

But mercies hover o'er a sick man's bed,
Wing'd for descent, on lenient plumes of love,
And virtues oft from frail disease are bred,
Which ripen souls for sainted bliss above:
Health needs a cross, whose Christ-like touch shall thrill
The fainting treason of our palsied will.

And but for sickness, health would rarely be
What by dread contrast Trial lives to know,—
From God direct, a pure gratuity
Sent from His heart and hand, to Whom we owe
Not grace alone our forfeit souls to save,
But all pure mercies which precede the grave.

And, ah! what purity from pain hath sprung,
That in the turbid rush of healthful joys
Seems lost, and leaves wild passion warm and young,
To Earth's delirium, and her base alloys;
For sufferings oft etherealize the heart,
Till false emotions into faith depart.

Silence and solitude a lull beget,
Or tame Life's pulses into hallow'd rest,
Chasten the mind, and calm that secret fret
Man's harsher world-life chafes within the breast,
As rivers, tranced by some Canadian frost,
Have turn'd to lakes, and all defilement lost.

Thus may pale sickness prove a blessed Thing,
And pain achieve, what pleasure never can,—
Teach the gay heart, beneath th' Almighty wing,
To learn the mystery of redemption's plan,—
How faith by suffering must to glory soar,
And drink the cup her Master drank before.

GOD'S IMAGE.

“God created man in His Own image, in the image of God created He him.”—Gen. i. 27.

As Lord of this terrestrial sphere,
Semblance divine did Man appear;
Just moulded by the hand of God,
The soil of virgin earth he trod,
And when through his mysterious frame
In gushes of pure rapture came
Bright feelings born of innocence,
And sanction'd by Omnipotence,
O God! Thine Image was enshrined
In the clear depths of his calm mind.

“Man in Our Image,”—mighty thought!
With more than human meaning fraught;
For, how can sinner's filmèd eye
The glories of that Speech descry?
How can the soil'd and earth-bound soul
Itself release from blind control,
And thus, from passion nobly free,
Hail the crown'd work of Deity,—

Perfection in the dust began,
God's “image” in the soul of man?

Alas! the words beyond us soar;
Dead Paradise revives no more;
For in the soil where thorns abound
God's curse still preaches from the ground,
And Labour, with its sunken brow
Of weariness, fulfils it now;
And in the soul, lo! all is sin;
Darkness and death prevail within,
Where Self is like a Satan throned,
A hell preferr'd, and God disown'd!

God's “image,” is it seen below
In this sad world of blight and woe?
Where can we view its peerless grace,
And look upon that perfect face
Which lightens up with Deity,
Till Angels their own likeness see,
And transcripts of such glory shine,
That they reflect the looks Divine?
In priest, or poet, saint, or sage,
In parted years, or present age?

Go! search mankind from pole to pole,
The archives of the past unroll,
Consult the chart of history,
As read in hoar antiquity,
Select, combine, and concentrate
The models of our good and great,
The paramounts of man and mind,
The lords and lights of human Kind,—
And, then we challenge each and all,
To make God's “image,” since the fall!

In human light a darkness lies;
All human love a hate supplies;
Our human wisdom folly stains;
O'er human strength a weakness reigns;
To human virtue baseness clings;
And Glory mounts on sullied wings;
Love, Truth, and Wisdom, Virtue, all
Our wav'ring creeds perfection call,
What are they, in God's balance weigh'd,
But sin, by gilded self array'd?

Thus, imperfection mars and maims
What Nature for her noblest claims;
The upas-blight, the poisoning breath
Of inward guilt and moral death,
Lurks in the soul of whatsoe'er
Men laurel as the bright and fair.—
“God's image,” then, oh! where on earth
Can Faith behold its beauteous worth?
Where can we sun our hearts awhile
In virtues which no stains defile?

Thou Third in Godhead! Holy Ghost,
The Christian's life, the Church's boast,
Pure Helper of the heart's distress,
And Cheerer of lone weariness,
The inward Sun of heaven-born souls,
Who all their prayer and praise controls,
To Thee, true Paraclete! we owe
The all of God that lives below,—
What broken fragments yet may shine
Of that whole “Image” once Divine.

There is a sacramental birth,
A promise of baptismal worth,
A life from heaven to earth sent down,
A jewel dropt from Jesu's crown,
A power that with celestial art
Can renovate the ruin'd heart;
Unheard, unseen, unscann'd, unknown,
This wonder-work is all Thine own;
The power is felt, 'tis born of Thee,
Yet who, dread Spirit! grace can see?

But, let God's image be restored,
Let guilt be wash'd, and sin deplored,
And saintly virtues, meek and mild,
Will shadow forth God's chosen child;
Without, within, by faith and prayer
Will breathe that reverential air,
That shows the world what Christ hath done,
The trophies which the Cross hath won
In winning back what Adam lost,—
A forfeit Soul, at such a cost!

But oh, blest Lord! if men would see
The perfect type of Deity,
Then, from the Church's child of grace
We turn, to look on Thy sad face,
O Man of Sorrows! Son of God!
As o'er the world Thy way was trod,
Each living impress of Thy love
To man below shows God above,
While in Thy doctrine, death, and tears,
Jehovah in our flesh appears.

THE DYING GIRL.

[INSCRIBED TO PHILIP ROSE, ESQ., THE FOUNDER OF THE HOSPITAL FOR CONSUMPTION.]

“Her sun is gone down while it was yet day.” Jer. xv. 9.

CONSUMPTION.

A beauty clothes the hectic cheek,
A radiance fills the sunken eye,
But when her mellow'd accents speak,
They make the sadden'd hearer sigh;

For, softer sink they in their cadence far
Than Autumn's dying tone, beneath some mournful star.

They bore her to that healthful Isle
Whose rocks of terraced verdure rise
And catch the Morn's celestial smile,
Responsive to the greeting skies;
And vainly prophesied, the island-breeze
Would freshen her white cheek, and waft away disease.

But there she sicken'd, day by day,
In shrinking paleness, like a flower,
Yet from her glance there flash'd a ray
Of almost supernat'ral power;—
So bright the lustre of her eye-beam fell,
It touch'd the tender mind with more than woman's spell.

For mother too, and far-off home,
Her plaintive heart in secret cried;
And backward long'd her soul to roam,—
Since in the churchyard, side by side
Under the green turf, where loved sisters lay,
She hoped her dust might wait the awful Judgment-day.

And, there behold her once again
In her own room with placid brow,—
So pale, you see each azure vein
Meander through her beauty now;
Yet, like a pulse of rosy light at even,
Oft to her faded cheek a crimson flush is given.

Seldom she sighs, but veils within
Much that would grieve fond Love to know,
And when some pensive tears begin,
She tries to check their overflow;
Safe in the arms of Jesu rests her soul,
Nor does the early grave with gloom the mind control.

Not for herself, but for the heart
Of Love maternal, she could weep;
And often in young dreams will start,
As girlish days through mem'ry sweep,
While faintly through her lips there steals a word,—
And, “Oh! my mother dear!” is like low music heard.

She dies,—as Beauty ever dies
When sad consumption finds a tomb;
With brilliance in her deep-set eyes,
And on her face a healthless bloom;
No harsh transition, but a soft decay,
Like dream-born tones of night, which melt by dawn away.

They wheel her round each garden-walk
Where oft her lisping childhood play'd,
And loved to hear the old nurse talk
And soothe her when she seem'd afraid,
While danced her ringlets as she prattled on,
More playful than the birds she loved to gaze upon.

She looks, as they alone, who feel
The last of earth before them lies,
While o'er them soften'd mem'ries steal
Which melt the heart into the eyes,—
For, tree and turret, woods and uplands, all
Back to the dying girl her childish past recall!

Dream-like the hush of twilight floats,
Veiling the lilac-bowers around;
While in the air melodious notes
Of soft dejection sweetly sound:
The Landscape, like a conscious mourner, seems
To lie in brooding shade, and sadden as it dreams.

Now, to her chamber home return'd,
Before the casement there reclined,
Just as the broad horizon burn'd
With the last blush Day left behind,
Her eye reposed upon the dying sun,
Fading like feeble youth, before life's course is run.

Hush'd is the breezeless air, and deep
The awe around each mourner stealing;
Bend o'er her form, but do not weep,—
Death is too grand for outward feeling!
As sinks the sun beneath yon golden sea,
So ebbs her spirit back to God's eternity.

THE HOSPITAL.

She dies, as countless martyrs die
Beneath the blast of that Disease,
Which summons to th' immortal sky
All ages for their blest release:—
Not for the dead, but for the living mourn,
And childless mothers' hearts, and homes bereaved and lorn!

But oh, unlike that beauteous maid
Who died in mercy, truth, and prayer,
Millions expire on damp stones laid
With none to watch them wither there;
Creedless and hopeless, fever'd, sad, and lone,
Their life an anguish seems, their death a muffled groan!

Compassion! 'tis for such we plead;
Open thine hand, protect the poor,
And Christ, who soothed Creation's need,
Shall bless thy basket and thy store;
Counting all mercies to the orphan shown,
As done unto Himself, when Earth beholds His Throne.

And Thou, on Whom disease and health
Alike for stay and hope depend,
A godlike heart bestow on Wealth,
And let the strong the weak defend;
Till charity in perfect type appear,
And leave the glow of heaven on this benighted sphere.

Guard then, O Lord! that sacred pile
Whose walls o'ershade the sick and poor,
For there, Thine own benignant smile
Descends to gild each opening door;
And where the pale ones in consumption lie,
Some gracious beams bestow of Thine o'er-watching eye!

The Saviour in the poor man lives
Reflected through his pain and grief;
And he who to the wretched gives,
To Christ himself imparts relief.
And therefore, Shrine of Hope! we hail thy walls,
Where true compassion works what God on earth recalls.

And faith from out this calm disease
May waft to heaven its holy breath,
Ere the last sigh hath brought release,
And smile away the gloom of death;
For wan consumption lets the spirit pray,
And leaves the mind to act amid serene decay.

When fever-throbs of fiery pain
Beat through the blood with burning start,
How can sublime religion gain
A sainted hold upon the heart?
To human sense, a ruin man appears,
All blacken'd with despair, and blind with hideous fears.

But, Mercy! thou canst cheer the bed
Where gradual weakness gently dies,
As o'er the life past sin hath led
Repentance heaves accepted sighs;
And that which careless Health had never taught,
Some hallow'd Sickness oft to erring souls has brought.

And, Lord, this blissful hope we nurse,
That many a wild and wand'ring Soul
Who reap'd in crime Thy dooming curse,
And heard its coming thunders roll,
Here, in this guardian home of peace and love,
May shed the precious tears glad Angels greet above.

SOCIAL, AND YET ALONE.

“It is not good that man should be alone; I will make him an help meet for him.”—Gen. ii. 18.

“It is not good for man to be alone,”
Thus spake the Godhead from his viewless Throne;
And yet, if ever Soul might be
In solitude divinely free,
'Twas when emotion through the young earth ran,
As the first sunbeam fell on perfect man.

Though all without was beautiful and bright,
And grace within made intellectual light,
While sinless heart and loyal will
Harmoniously did each fulfil
The law of love, by wisdom round them thrown,—
It seem'd not good that man should be alone.

It is not “good!” for That most awful Three
Whose name is Love, whose shrine, Eternity,
In plural bliss for aye commune;
Their Godhead is a blest Triune,
Eternal One in Three, and Three in One,
Unfathom'd, Infinite, and Unbegun!

But erring, sinful, branded as we are,
How little each another's heart can share!
How much within us, none can know;
What feelings Words might blush to show,
Hid from the fondest eye which ever gazed
Under the shroud confiding friendship raised!

And tones are felt of individual heart
We cannot, if we would, by breath impart,—
So deep, so delicate they glide
Under the soul's mysterious tide;
Blent with those shifting thoughts that form and die,
Too faint for words, too subtle for a sigh.

And who has not, in those ideal hours
When Nature marshals her majestic powers
Which mountain, sky and ocean yield,
Tempests awake, or torrents wield,—
Within him felt, what speech has not convey'd,
And soft tears only to the sense display'd?

Or, when a sun-burst of entrancing good
Gladdens our being into gratitude,
And thoughts emotionally bright
Leap in the heart like waves of light,
How have our quiv'ring lips refused to speak
What flush'd its meaning through our raptured cheek!

And often too, when sorrow's milder gloom
Shades the still bosom into memory's tomb,
When buried friends of boyish days
Deep yearnings in our spirit raise,
How vain the effort to unwind the zone
Which girds the heart, and keeps it all alone!

And thou, Religion!—who can half unfold
The spells divine thy deeper graces hold?
Before mute conscience lies a screen
That hides from human words, I ween,
Those loving secrets and those solemn fears
Which God interprets through our spirits' tears.

And thus, a sense there is, in which alone
We must be,—for the soul cannot be shown;
And hence, all life is loneliness;
Our highest moods are echoless;
Single we live, in solitude we die,
For each heart only can itself descry.

But still, what self-born dangers e'er infest
The man, who cloisters in monastic breast
Feelings and hopes, which God intends
As living cords, to fasten friends
In that sweet bond of amity and love
Form'd by the angels, when they sing above!

Sternly alone, forbid us, Lord! to be;
Warm our chill minds, and centre them on Thee;
Bought by one price, Thy precious Blood!
And in Thy church, a brotherhood,
With God's elected may we ever meet
In mystic oneness at Thy mercy-seat.

For what, though morbid Sentiment may dream
That nought so like a bosom'd heaven can seem,
That man himself from man should hide,
And soul by soul be undescried,—
The heart collapses into coldness, when
We nurse no feeling for our fellow-men.

Social in essence is the christian's God;
Social in life, the scene our Saviour trod;
And selfish chains contract the mind,
That should encircle human kind,
Reflecting Him, who veils His awful throne,
And dwells in Glory that is not alone.

GREAT UNTRUTH.

“Ye shall not surely die.”—Gen. iii. 4.

“Ye shall not surely die,”
Dark speech! that dared defy
The God of Glory, Who created man,
And, save yon mystic tree,
Heaven's garden left him free,
Where rich the streams of primal music ran.

A love was in that law
Beyond what Reason saw,
Whereby obedience would have hallow'd bliss:
It typed a truth divine,—
That man, oh God! was Thine,
And should have learnt it by a law like this.

A ruin'd Angel came;
Yet not on wings of flame,
With lustres wreath'd around his kingly brow;
But, in a serpent-form
Conceal'd his venom'd charm,
And poison'd Man to what we see him now!

Oh! deep as dread the spell
The Arch-fiend wove so well,
Who whisper'd treason unto creatures fair,
Which, pure from guilt and guile,
Beneath God's holy smile
Bright Priest and Priestess of creation were.

Tremendous was their fall!
And dark the fiendish thrall
Which so encompass'd with corrupting power
Both soul and body then,
That on the race of men
Came death,—the penance of that dooming hour!

And doth the Tempter cease?
Hath Earth obtain'd release
From all the blighted Seraph can employ,—
That stains our yielded soul,
And, by undreamt control,
Heaven's inward light may darken or destroy?

The wide world answers, No!
For, still he reigns below,
And syllables in spirit o'er again
The magic of that word
Primeval woman heard;
“Ye shall not die,”—yet sounds that impious strain!

“Ye shall not surely die!”
Men listen to the Lie
That so enchains them to the serpent's doom,
For passion, pride, and will
To God act treason still,
Nor heed what thunders roll beyond the tomb.

O! Virtue, Love, and Truth,
Array'd in vernal youth
With life before ye, like a long romance,
Why not to Grace retreat,
Who from the Mercy-seat
Lifts o'er your perill'd ways her watching glance?

Believe that sin is death,
That poison taints its breath,
Nor ever by the grave-stone thoughtless be;
For sepulchres can preach,
And pallid conscience reach
With sermons on sin-hating Deity.

Unweave that serpent-lie
“Ye shall not surely die,”
Spirit of grace! within these hearts of ours;
And by Truth's cheering ray
Disperse sad doubts away,
And seal with holiness men's ransom'd powers.

And thus, though tombs remain,
And still the loathèd chain
Of sin and sorrow bind us to the earth,
When once the fight is o'er,
Emanuel! we shall soar
To share Thy kingdom of the second birth.

THE WEEPING CHRIST.

“Jesus wept.”—John xi. 35.

There is a mute but mighty voice in tears,—
Words of the eyes, that passionately weep
A liquid eloquence, which Pity hears
Gush from the heart's unfathomable deep.

Whether soft teardrops, like a starry dew,
Bedim the eyeballs of some beauteous child,
Till the soul glistens through their heaven of blue
Mournfully bright, or exquisitely wild;

Or, drawn from depths where burning silence glows,
From passion-fountains, or, from feeling's soul
When like a heart-rain, inward grief o'erflows,
And down pale woman's cheek the rich tears roll;

Or, if in shaded walk, or crowded street,
Some iron visage where cold harshness dwells,
Melted and mild, in tears we chance to meet,—
How are we moved by all sad contrast tells!

Yet Painting, Poetry, nor Pathos can
Touch the pure mind with such majestic pain,
As when from eyelids of the Son of Man
Roll'd human tears, untinged by human stain!

But, with that pain a blissful feeling blends,
Born of this thought,—our Lord beside the grave,
True to our nature, was sublime of Friends,
And sympathized with those He came to save.

Awfully veil'd a God in Flesh appears!
But, Faith is challenged to a deeper awe
When she beholds Him with subduing tears
Hallow the scene delighted Angels saw.

And to that grave-scene, turn thee, mortal, now;
Where Jesu wept, true hearts will often be,—
And while we gaze upon His awful brow
Come, Holy Ghost! and let us learn from Thee

How no immunities divine remove
Incarnate Mercy from our common doom;
Down to our tears descends His mortal love
With eyes which moisten'd to behold a tomb!

And may Suggestion, with a sacred awe,
Dream that He wept the cited dead should come
Forth from those glories which the spirit saw
In the bright region of its boundless home?

If to this lovely creed the heart may cling,
Then, O pale weeper! for the loved and gone,
Ne'er wilt thou yearn once more on earth to bring
Back to life's gloom, some dead, but glorious one.

Emanuel wept!—enough this truth to know;
Lord of our spirit, let Thy tear-drops fall
Full on sad hearts, till faith's responsive glow
Warm the cold breast to cry, “My All in All!”

Religion, Friendship, Feeling, Love, and Truth,
All in Thy tears a consecration find,
To soothe worn age, or sanctify wild youth,
And haunt the temple of each tender mind.

And when bereaved ones o'er the coffin bend
To hear the earth-clod with an echoing heart,
Saviour, who wept for Thine unrisen friend,
Breathe o'er the soul the sympathy Thou art!

VANITY OF ALL CREATED GOOD.

“Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, vanity of vanities, all is vanity.”—Eccles. i. 2.

“The creature was made subject to vanity.”—Rom. viii. 20.

“Arise and depart, for this is not your rest.” —Micah ii. 10.

There is no rest for man below,
Soil'd earth is not our home;
The sigh must heave, the tear must flow,
Howe'er for bliss we roam.

The hollowness of human things,
The wear of fev'rish thought,
Each to the heart a shadow brings
From tombs of mem'ry brought.

A broken cistern ev'rywhere
Proves nature's purest joy;
Though fresh the draught imagined there,
How soon we taste alloy!

Yet still, prophetic youth believes
Bright Edens must abound;
And fairy Hope fond visions weaves,
As o'er enchanted ground.

But soon dark years instruction bring,
And teach the lesson grave,
That over earth's most radiant thing
The cypress-banners wave.

The burden and the mystery
Of Life will soon be felt,
As truths beyond cold Sense to see,
Will through our being melt:

Upon thee, like an inward weight
Eternity will lie,
And conscience bow beneath the freight
Of thoughts which never die.

The poet's wreath, the warrior's plume,
And hero's envied bays,—
They cannot hide the haunting tomb,
Nor lengthen out thy days.

The cankerworm of coming death
Begnaws the core of all
Blithe youth, with its impassion'd breath,
Would fain perfection call.

And yet 'tis hard, when vernal health
Glows brightly on the cheek,
When Learning, Beauty, Wit, and Wealth
Their wonted homage seek;

When life a lovely Poem seems,
Whose ev'ry line appears
Descriptive of those sunny dreams
That dazzle future years,

'Tis hard to think of grave and gloom,
In such glad hour as this,
And pile, in thought, the distant tomb
That shall contain our bliss!

But oh, believer young and bright,
With heart and hope awake,
Come hither! and with soul aright
Truth's sober lesson take.

Were this vast world, with all its joy,
Its glories, crowns, and charms,
Secured from change and sad alloy,
At once within thine arms,

E'en then, thy heart would hunger still,
And oft in secret pine;
The universe would fail to fill
A spirit vast as thine!

Christ, or despair! — behold thy fate
To that sole choice is bound;
And blest are they, who not too late
Their heaven in God have found.

For, such will learn to look on all
Bewilder'd passions love,
As Sin and Satan's blinding thrall
To keep us from above.

And yet, that Book which thus reveals
Life's baseless dream below,
And on the heaven false worldlings feel,
Writes words of death and woe,

Say, is it not the page profound
Which opens realms divine,
And, where no pangs nor pains abound,
Cries, “Christian! they are thine?”

Then, bids thee, eagle-like, to soar
Right upward for the sun,
And not this gilded world deplore
Where peace is never won?

Thy home is yonder pangless clime
Where saints and martyrs meet,
And with this choral-burst sublime
Anthem the mercy-seat,

“Worthy the Lamb! for sinners slain,
Who once the wine-press trod,
Eternity shall be His reign,
Who ransom'd men for God!”

VOICE OF GOD IN THE COOL OF THE DAY.

“They heard the Voice of the Lord God walking in the garden in the cool of the day.”—Gen. iii. 8.

How soothing, when the noise of day is o'er
And fever'd heart-cares sink, becalm'd and cool,
To wind the bay of some receding shore,
And bathe our spirit in the beautiful!

Creation is no mute unconscious mass
Of pregnant matter, into being plann'd,
For, when behind the outer-veil we pass,
Faith hears it speaking of Emanuel's hand.

The blood-priced earth's a Sacrament of Him
Whose regal glories make man's All in All,
Under Whose throne both saints and seraphim,
Inflamed with burning adoration, fall.

There was a time when Eve and Adam heard
His voice almighty through soft twilight roll,
And, like glad waters by deep music stirr'd,
They felt it echo'd by responsive soul.

But, when dark Treason like a hell-cloud rose
And guilt between them and His glory came,
The full warm current of affection froze,
And Conscience shudder'd at Jehovah's name!

“I heard Thy voice, and hid myself, afraid,
For naked horrors scared the inward eye,
And while my ruin'd soul was thus display'd,
The ground beneath me mutter'd, ‘Thou shalt die!’”

Oh! dread confession of our fallen doom,
That men are exiles from their God, afar,
That souls are pall'd with atheistic gloom,
And, but for grace, would perish as they are.

For like as Adam shrunk behind a tree,
And paled with cowardice to look on God,
Revolting hearts the Holy Presence flee,
And tread the path that first transgressor trod.

But, Lord of heaven! when Thy relenting hand
The ruin'd soul hath reconciled with Blood,
And Thy blest will, by holiness preferr'd,
Becomes at once our glory and our good,

Then, unlike Adam, by dark guilt appall'd,
We shrink no longer from the Voice Divine,
But love to hear it in our hearts recall'd,
And see creation with redemption shine.

The challenge dread, “Where art thou?” booms no more,
But, “Here are we,” anticipates the cry;
For Sinai's thunders hush their penal roar,
And sound as gently as Emanuel's sigh.

Where shall we hie to hear that mystic tone?
To halls of Splendour, or to homes of Sin?
Not there, my brother! can The Voice be known
Whose breath is music heard from God within!

But if thine ear be tender, clear, and true,
And sensual clay no longer clog the mind,
Then may thy soul His hidden glory view,
And hear Christ vocal in the wave and wind.

Whether, if cherub Morn her wings unfold,
And drops of balm each glade and glen array,
Thou lov'st to mark the orient mists uproll'd,
While ope the eyelids of commencing Day.

Or, on the marble sea, at noon entranced,
In breezeless glory rock'd to living rest,
From some lone cliff thy pensive eye has glanced,
Till ocean's calm lay mirror'd on thy breast;

Or, thou hast mused at sunset, sad and pale,
By pebbled shore where plaintive waters meet,
Till gradual Twilight dropt her dewy veil,
And dark the seaweed slumber'd at thy feet,—

Alike in all a saintly mind can hear
Some tone celestial, like a spirit glide,
And breathe to Nature that her God is near,
And all her spell-work by His hand supplied.

And thus, dear Lord! in what we do, or dare,
Be Thy meek virtues our most glorious choice;
From sea and mountain may we lift our prayer,
And hear creation echo'd with Thy Voice.

In the cool evening of life's calm decay
Soft o'er the soul may lulling whispers fall,
And Wisdom teach our filial hearts to pray
“Father in Heaven! for home prepare us all.”

GOD'S CURSE UPON THE GROUND.

“Cursed is the ground for thy sake ------ Thorns, also, and thistles, shall it bring forth to thee.”— Gen. iii. 17, 18.

Though sumless mercies teem around
In ocean, earth, and air,
Mysterious vengeance haunts the ground,—
A curse is cleaving there!
The thorn which mars our blighted fields,
The thistle that appears,
Each to our soul a lesson yields
Becoming thoughtful fears.

And, add to this the weariness
On Manhood's sunken brow,
The burden and the bitterness
Which darken Labour now,
Together with the barren soil
That gives a stern reply,
To hearts that tend and hands which toil
Beneath a threatful sky,—

These unrelenting symbols tell,
O'er this sad World of ours
The frownings of Jehovah fell,
And blighted all her bowers!
Unbeautified and bare they seem
Her landscapes, scenes, and all
Which once surpass'd the Muse's dream,
And men Elysium call.

The curse of sin's avenging God
Hath sear'd the blasted earth,
And glooms of His judicial rod
Hang o'er us from our birth:—
Yet, with the curse Compassion weaved
A mystery of love,
And Angels o'er the past who grieved,
Sang wonder-hymns above

To see while Godhead in His wrath
The gates of Eden closed,
Calm o'er the exiled sinner's path
A ray of Christ reposed!—
Light in our darkness yet remains,
Flowers bloom among our weeds;
And Grace unbinds the loathèd chains
With which tried Nature bleeds.

And Thou art branded, fiendish One!
Who tempted man to sin,
A hell in hell thy crime hath won,
To blast despair within.
And ye! the guilty heirs of dust
Who fain from earth would fly,
Stand, and be doom'd by heaven ye must,—
Can God Himself deny?

But good shall out of evil spring,
And love with judgment blend,
For, round the curse God's ransom'd sing,
“Our Father! and our Friend!”
And though pale mothers here may read
Of birth-pangs, and their woes,
Yet is not Christ the woman's seed,
Whom earth to mother owes?

And if round spousal love there winds
A thorny wreath of care,
Myriads of married Hearts and Minds
Prove wedlock pure and fair:
Men are not tyrants, though they rule,
If christian lords they be;
And women by subjection school
Their love for liberty.

And never be this truth forgot,
That Wedlock is a sign,
The Church endures no widow'd lot,
Her Husband is divine!
And though cold Earth reluctant now
Brings forth her fruits and flowers,
While sweating anguish damps the brow
By work, and wearied hours,

Yet in that toil emotions lurk
To keep the heart awake;—
Where is our wisdom, if no work
Our laggard dreams can break?
And from the soil we plough and turn
With labour's ceaseless hand,
Religion may her Bible learn,
And think of God's command!

Thus, though the sentence, “Dust thou art,”
And low in dust shalt be,
Booms like a knell within the heart
When wrung by memory,
Yet may the trump of Easter sound
O'er each sepulchral sod,
“Awake! thou sleeper, from the ground,
And gaze upon thy God!”

WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD.

“Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan him.” Jer. xxii. 10.

Oh, weep not for the holy dead
Embosom'd in their God,
But rather that high pathway tread
Their sainted virtues trod:

Their home is now the tearless clime
Where sins nor sorrows reign,
And all the pure they lost in time
True Hearts embrace again.

The Lord who came our souls to save
Dead Laz'rus did not mourn,
But His sublime compassion gave
To sisters left forlorn.

It must be so; for ponder well,
When God's award is given,
Love cannot rescue vice from hell,
Nor pity saints in heaven.

'Tis true, as thoughtful years advance
We muse with sadden'd mind,
When mem'ry throws a tearful glance
On scenes long left behind!

Where have they fled, the brave and dear.
The brightest of the throng,
Who gladden'd home's delighted sphere
With sunshine and with song?

'Twere vain to tell us not to weep,
When Mem'ry opes that tomb
Where buried Joys in darkness sleep,
That fill'd young life with bloom.

For often in some bleak distress
The dead upon us rise,
As though they knew our loneliness,
And echo'd back our sighs.

'Tis then the heart-dew riseth fast,
And moisten'd eye-beams tell
Our Souls are with the solemn past,
And feel its mighty spell!

And will not gentle Bosoms weep,
To think what pangs we gave
To friends above whose dreamless sleep
Funereal banners wave?—

How often might some healing word,
Or tone of kindness spoken,
With love's divinest thrill have stirr'd
A heart that seem'd half broken!

GLORY OF DEPARTED SAINTS.

“Absent from the body—present with the Lord.” 2 Cor. v. 8.

Hail to the bright and blissful Choir
Who wreathe the Saviour's throne!
Eternity hath strung their lyre,
And Glory gives the tone:

We mourn them not, we mourn them not,
Who crowd the halls of Heaven,
For theirs is now the pangless lot,
The smile of saints forgiven.

Through shades of wintry loneliness
While here our pathways wind
As orphans in the soul's distress
We seek some answ'ring mind,

Yet, proves it like some balmy dream
From heaven just floating down,
When round our yearning fancies beam
The lustres of their crown!

On this bad earth, like us, they knew
The with'ring curse of sin;
Or shudder'd o'er some hideous view
Of dawning hell within:

The wingèd thoughts which bravely soar'd
Beyond the realms of time,
Those deepest prayers that once ador'd
The King of Kings sublime,

What were they, in their rapt delight
Outsoaring all we feel,—
But bird-wings broken in their flight,
When storm-blasts round them wheel?

Upward and upward did they rise
From earth's pollution free,
Those Eagles of the Lord, whose eyes
Glow'd with eternity!

But oh, at best, they did but scan
Far off that living Sun,
By whose rich glory rescued Man
From darkness hath been won.

But now, the coil of earth removed,
No sins their conscience stain;
We call them dead,—but Their Beloved
Becomes a deathless gain.

They sun their souls in living rays,
His Form of glory darts,
While swells of superhuman praise
Heave from their burning hearts.

Then, who would call them back to earth
These holy Dead, on high?
No! rather let their peerless worth
Attract us to the sky:

Their task is o'er, their toil is done,
Embower'd in bliss they dwell,
And would we wear the crown they won?—
Then, let us fight as well!

Far better this, than mourn the dead
By selfish grief inspired;
Their path to glory may we tread,
By pure example fired:

So shall we reach our home at last,
Whate'er the wilds we trod,
And find the dead from earth who pass'd
Were still our friends in God.

THE RELIGION OF SOLITUDE.

“Surely the Lord is in this place, and I knew it not ------ this is none other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven.”—Gen. xxviii. 16, 17.

Lone nature is no loneliness to me,
Her solitude makes my society,
For there I listen to a Voice that seems
Like heaven-tones heard by prophets in their dreams.

Serenely awful o'er my trancèd soul
I hear the music of th' Almighty roll,
And each deep cadence oft appears to tell,—
“My Hand o'ershades thee, though invisible!”

Thus have I felt, in regions wild and lone
Where Nature loves to rear her rocky throne,
Where nought intrudes to mar the tranquil mind,
And nothing murmurs but the mountain-wind,

Or, happy brooks which down the hillocks play
And sing, like birds in sunbeams far away,
Or, glancing bees that o'er the wood-born flowers
Whirl their gay dance, and hum away the hours.

Yet, perfect solitude there cannot be,
Since all around us acts Divinity;
Like space to body, so is God to soul,
Who all created, and contains the whole.

The hush of Nature may be holy calm
Breathed by blest Angels, when they spread the balm
Of beauteous quiet o'er the heart of things,
And veil the landscape with their viewless wings.

When wearied Jacob, pillow'd on the stone,
Slumber'd at dewy night, he seem'd alone;
What Sense beheld, no sacred token found
That Haran's desert was a haunted ground:

But, when a dream-power purified his glance,
His eye unseal'd, survey'd in wondrous trance
Angels ascending and descending there,
And when he woke—he trembled into prayer!

And so, round us may guardian Spirits move
To ply unseen soft ministries of love,
While we walk careless o'er the greenwood sod,
Nor rev'rence nature as instinct with God.

Then read creation with religious eye,
If God and angels thou wouldst there descry,
To which alone the Patriarch's dream is given,—
A mystic ladder linking earth with heaven.

FIRST EXILES.

“The Lord God sent him forth from the garden of Eden.”—Gen. iii. 23.

Though earth abounds with choral streams,
And sunny gladness smiles and gleams
O'er forest glade and woodland-flower,
Yet man has lost his fairest bower!

With arching glory bright and blue
Though heaven attract the minstrel's view,
And bird and breeze, upon the wing,
Their lyric strain in concert sing,

Yet may each pure poetic spot
Where grief and guilt are most forgot,
Faint shadows of our exile feel
Around it, like dark memory, steal.

For, there intrudes an aching thought,
A feeling with dejection fraught,
An under-tone of discontent
With our serenest rapture blent.

The whence, and why, we cannot tell,—
But girt we are with such a spell;
A zone mysterious which can bind
And oft enclose the calmest mind.

Who hath not felt such worldless mood
When cloister'd in green solitude,
With nothing near, but earth and sky,
And none to read him, but God's eye!

And oft, too, when we cease to roam
Amid the heaven of virtuous home,
With leisure, books, and wedded love,
And peace and pureness from above,

E'en then, a craving thirst will rise
For more than present bliss supplies;
Soft yearnings through the spirit melt,
And seek what soul hath never felt.

Whence come these moods? we vainly ask:—
“Oh! why is life a wearied task,
Where unreposing trials speak,
The world is sad, and nature weak?”

Is it, because no being can
The inward deeps of deathless man
With such a rich contentment fill,
As leaves the conscience lull'd, and still?

Or, shall we find the felt unrest
That haunts the hour most deeply blest,
In man's indwelling plague of sin,—
The venom'd fire that burns within?

Yea, these, and more than we divine,
May round these perill'd hearts combine,
To darken with unearthly hues
Our radiant hours, and richest views.

And when we know, that Adam's fall
O'er bright creation drew a pall,
And over man and nature cast
The shadow of a ruin'd past,

Behold! the myst'ry half unwinds,
Why sadness dims some holy minds,
And mild dejection inly sighs
For brighter scenes, and bluer skies.

It is because, like exiles we,
When roaming on a foreign sea,
While pilgrim waves approach the strand,
Are dreaming of our own far land;

And thus to realms of gracious thought
Are mystic recollections brought
Of vanish'd Eden, and the bowers,
Where God and innocence were ours.

As exiled ones, a branded race
Whom sin and self alike disgrace,
Say, ought we not, where'er we roam,
By faith to see our forfeit home?

And never, oh! Thou Source of Light,
Let this cold earth become too bright;
Lest, world-enamour'd we may grow,
And root our hearts in bliss below.

Rather on high, ascended Lord!
Lift we our souls on Thy loved word,
And through God's Eden yearn to rove
That blooms and brightens with Thy Love.

MODERATION.

“Give me neither poverty nor riches.”—Prov. xxx. 8.

I will not sigh for vast domains,
For festive halls and homes of pleasure,
Nor do I seek redundant gains
To heap my huge and hoarded treasure;
But this I dare to ask,—a placid mind
In every pulse of thought to heaven resign'd.

There is a wealth in calm desires,
In chaste content and holy feeling,
Beyond their reach whom gold inspires,
But madly from themselves are stealing
That more than jewel'd mines those hearts possess,
Which beat secure in God's almightiness.

Extremes are not what man endures
Unless by heavenly wisdom guided;
And Gain the heart to guilt allures,
When once a soul becomes divided
Between what God and duty only claim
From all baptised into Emanuel's name.

Thus, riches prove a deadly gift
Which oft corrupt each calmer blessing,
And to such height the mind uplift,
That soon it shrinks from e'er confessing
How all we have, and are, or hope to be,
Flows from the fountain-grace of Deity.

'Tis sad to think how gilded clay
Hath tempted man from God, and glory!
And lured him on the broad bad way
Which Christ reveals in warning story;
That path whose breadth doth equal Passion's will,
And widens ever to increase the ill.

But there is wealth for all whose eyes
Can hail true charms around them glowing,
And more than mines in those supplies
Creation's scenes are e'er bestowing,
Would men but love them with congenial mind
And seek pure riches, such as God design'd.

Here is an heritage for all,
A patrimonial bliss unbounded,
The ruin'd orphans of the world may call
Their own, howe'er by want surrounded:—
Of Nature's glories none but Hearts complain
Whose coldness feels their inspiration vain.

Then, bless we God for this bright world,
Its majesty of form and motion,
For all the beams by Light unfurl'd
Which grace the earth, or gild the ocean;
For the mild lisp of each melodious breeze
And word-like whisper of those conscious trees!

Nor be forgot the seasons' change
In rounds of restless life recurring,
Through which the poet's eye can range,
And feel his lyric bosom stirring,
When oft he views in vestal skies afar
The dream-like radiance of some throbbing star.

And are there not, apart from gold
And haughty Grandeur's sumptuous dwelling,
True mercies, which the pure behold
With silent hymns of gladness swelling,—
Health, food, and raiment, and the countless store
Of blessings, that enwreath some cottage door?

Bright homes of bliss, and hearths of joy
With Love's glad face upon us beaming,
And genial friends, whose smiles destroy
Autumnal shades, when doubt lies dreaming;
The infant's prattle, and the mother's tone
Whose wedded heart seems throbbing through our own!

Yes, these are more than gold can gain,
And often fly the haunts of splendour,
Whose pomp excites ambitious pain
And leaves the selfish heart untender,—
Dead to its God, and cold to all who plead,
When doom'd to lie like Lazarus in his need.

And add to this, that Book Divine!—
The God in language manifested,
Where glory streams from each true line
By earth and heaven for aye attested;
Ah! none are poor who call such volume theirs,
And of its promises are heaven-born heirs.

And we have sacraments and rites
The holy Church to all presenteth,
With peaceful hopes and pure delights
To each whose tearful soul repenteth,—
Prayers, hymns, and chants, and hallelujahs deep
Whose choral thunders round the dim aisles sweep.

Nor let us, with unloving mind,
Forget what art and science granteth,
What music yields to ears refined
When harps resound, or Woman chanteth;
True are such pleasures, innocently loved,
By reason sanction'd and by heaven approved.

Then seek we not for vast domains,
For sumptuous halls and homes of pleasure;
He more than royal Crœsus gains
Who finds in God his gold and treasure:—
With Him the destitute have boundless store,
But, oh, without Him, Wealth itself is poor!

Our noblest wealth is heaven-born grace
From out the Spirit's heart descending,
Which leaves in men a living trace
Of holy truth, their hearts amending:
Here are deep riches, fit for realms divine,
Gems of pure gold from God's eternal mine.

INFANCY IN HEAVEN.

“Of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.”—Matt. xix. 14.

Thou beauteous Morn of sainted rest!
Breathing like balm along the troubled breast,
Now while the sacred chimes are pealing
Floats o'er my soul a soften'd feeling,
That springeth not from earth alone;—
My heaven-gone babe! I think of thee,
Who in thy young eternity
A sabbath first wilt call thine own.

But one week since, and thou wert here
Tender as Morning's crystal tear,
A little flutt'ring shape of life
Too frail to bear the breath of strife,—
We almost fear'd on thee to gaze!
While something like prophetic sighs
Did from parental hearts arise,
When dreaming o'er thine unborn days.

Calm innocent! whose helpless charms
Lay nestled in thy nurse's arms,
We loved to watch each dawning gleam
That from thy soul began to beam,
And half believed it long'd to smile;
And though unlisp'd thy thought expired
Within mysterious depths retired,—
Thy lip seem'd eloquent the while!

'Twas beautiful in sleep to view
The radiance of a rose-like hue
Bloom softly o'er thy rounded cheek,—
As though some Angel did bespeak
Thy spirit with an unvoiced spell;
Since more than beauty then array'd
Thy features, while their flush betray'd
What earth-breathed tones can never tell.

How often, when no eye could see,
I breathed a father's prayer o'er thee!
And where thy little cradle stood
Besought the Source of heavenly good
Thy life to overshade with love;
How did I mark with doating gaze
Thy baby wiles and winsome ways,
And blest for thee my God above!

Such wert thou, ere the Voice Divine,
“The first-born, ere it sin, 'tis mine,”
Roll'd through our hearts its awful cry!
And, softer than aërial sigh,
To heaven return'd thine infant-breath;
Like a dead lily wert thou laid
Ere sin had cast its poison-shade
Around thee, white in lovely death.

We wept, as they can weep alone
Who first a parent's grief have known;
And felt as though a life-chord broke
At spectral dawn, when Day awoke,
And all was breathless in thy room!
Oh, there the hush of graves did brood,
And awful seem'd the solitude
That was to wrap thine early tomb.

One last, and long, and clinging look
Of thy dead face and form I took,
And into memory did receive
An image, that shall never leave
My soul, while time and truth remain!—
Seldom has Death more beauty hid
Under a coffin's tiny lid,
Than thine, within the churchyard lain.

All this thou wast; but what, and where
Thy spirit now, can none declare:
For, born in sin, baptised and seal'd
With grace divine, God bid thee yield
Thine innocence to Him on high;
Back, like a heaven-bird to its home,
Borne by blest Angels, didst thou roam,
And vanish'd to thy genial sky.

Oh, wond'rous change!—the purest word
By mental wisdom breathed, or heard,
The brightest dream that can entrance
A raptured saint, or martyr's glance,
Are all too weak and worthless things
E'er to unfold what thou must feel,
To whom Heaven's glories now reveal
More than the harp of David sings!

A nursling wert thou, wan and weak;
A sigh was all thy soul could speak;

Frailer than new-born lambs which feed
When dropp'd upon the sunny mead,—
We only trembled, while we gazed,
To think that such a cradled form
Could weather out life's wasting storm,
That must around thy lot be raised.

A watch-tick would have been to thee
The height of human mystery;
A tone, a sunbeam, or a flower
Have all surpass'd thy mental power,
And rapt thee in amazement deep;
But now,—beyond what Saints believe
Thy faculties in heaven receive,
And neither sin, nor weep!

Yes, in a moment, vast the change
That must around thy spirit's range
Have circled its divine excess
Of all which can the glorious bless!
While o'er thy manumitted soul,
Transcending all the Church hath known
Since Christ ascended to His throne,—
Voices and visions grandly stole.

Baptismal grace and purity,
Far more than time, befitted thee
For scenes of splendour, which await
Bright Spirits in their perfect state,—
The sacramental Host in heaven:
What lofty minds but half presage,
To thee is now an open page
Beyond the glance in scripture given.

And oh, what bliss, which baffles thought!
To think that upward thou art caught
To some chaste realm of cloudless joy,
Before the touch of earth's alloy
Had stain'd the virgin soul with sin;
Ere passion, or polluted deed
Had caused the harrow'd mind to bleed,—
Heaven oped its doors, and let thee in!

Thus while yon pensive chimes are pealing
Floats o'er my soul a sacred feeling,
Mournful, but mild, and full of prayer,—
A thought beyond what creeds declare,
That thou, sweet babe! art shrined in glory,
'Mid saints and prophets, priests and kings,
A Spirit graced with star-bright wings,
With innocents who died before thee.

Here, in this vale of time and tears
While we fulfil our fated years,
'Twill oft refresh my heart to dream
What living splendours round thee beam,
That issue from The Lamb who died;
While lisping cherubs, like to thee,
Warble before the Deity
Soft anthems to The Crucified.

DIVINE WALK.

“Enoch walked with God.”—Gen. v. 24.

And didst thou choose the narrow path
Which sainted feet have ever trod,
And know the peace high Virtue hath
When pillow'd on the breast of God?

Though all around thee crime and sin
Their moral desert made and threw,
Was thy religion felt within,
And outwardly embodied, too?

Primeval saint! seraphic man!
By ardent grace so fill'd and fired,
Thy blest eternity began
Before the common age expired.

No spectral glooms, no pangs of death,
No hollow cheek, no sunken eye,
Nor pallid swoon, nor panting breath
Betray'd the King of Terrors nigh:

Bright trophy of atoning Blood!
Thy doom escaped them, one and all;
As if thou wert for earth too good
Thy native heaven did thee recall.

At once to glory upward soar'd
Thy being, with unwav'ring flight;
No kindred heart thy death deplored,
No grave inhumed thee out of sight.

Thou wert not!—this seems all we know
Of thine unview'd ascent to bliss;
What more relates to thee below,
Belongs not to a state like this.

In flaming cars with steeds of fire
Rapt in a whirlwind, didst thou rise,
To mingle with that harping Choir
Who worship God with wing-veil'd eyes?

Or, did some mission'd angel-bands
Speed from the bowers of blissful love,
To waft thee with encircling hands
To thy pure home prepared above?

In vain of this and more we dream,
Nor how can sainted fancy tell
Thy soar outwing'd the solar beam,
And vanish'd through the visible!

Yet, could we, like an Enoch walk
And closely with our God commune,
With more than angels men might talk,
And earth itself to heaven attune.

We should not seek for temple-roof
To overarch our heads in prayer,
But find in ev'ry scene a proof
Jehovah was enshrouded there.

The poet's walk through pensive scenes
Companion'd with God's love would be,
When doubt, nor darkness, intervenes
To hide his heart from Deity.

All beauty would more beauteous grow,
All music more melodious sound,
Did moral hues of heaven below
More freshly in our ways abound.

It is because the Cain-like heart
To selfish pride retreats alone,
That God and glory dwell apart
From that cold bliss we call our own.

But when, like Enoch, men can muse,
And with our Maker's smile array
The path of life they rightly choose,
What gleams from heaven adorn their way!

Jehovah's will, Jehovah's word,
Within, without, rules everywhere;
And conscience is obey'd and heard
Till man becomes incarnate prayer.

Abroad, at home, in sun, or shade,
By rocky shore, or mountain-stream,
Divinest thoughts the soul invade,
And nowhere can we orphans seem;

Since Faith applies vast providence
To each peculiar grief and groan,
And grasps believed omnipotence
As though it ruled for Her alone.

Awake, and sing then, christian soul!
If, like yon saint before the flood,
Under the Spirit's true control
A frowning world thou hast withstood.

Enoch was not;—to God he soar'd,
Left a low earth defiled like this,
Sought the bright Parent he adored
And melted in almighty bliss!

Thus, more and more to yonder fount
Of perfect glory thou may'st glide;
And nearer still like Enoch mount
To regions ne'er by sin descried.

As He was not, thou shalt not be
Discern'd by what the world calls sense—
Thy dwelling-place is Deity,
And simple Faith thy sure defence.

STRIVE NOT WITH THE SPIRIT.

“My Spirit shall not always strive with man.” Gen. vi. 3.

Most awful booms that word
Rolling its cadence deep,
Till the roused heart is inly stirr'd
From out its iron sleep,
When God “repents” He e'er created man,
Since like one giant sin, the earth to ruin ran!

Can mortal accent tell
How heaves th' Eternal Mind,
When these divine emotions swell,
Commoved by human kind,—
“With man My Spirit shall not always strive,
For it repents Me now, that such I made alive?”

In this the harvest see
By Adam's sin first sown!
All vices reign, all virtues flee,
And from His watching Throne
When scans the Godhead our apostate race,
No hallow'd feature there can His omniscience trace.

For not one thrill of thought
Which plays within the soul
That is not with rebellion fraught,
Now sin hath seized the whole
Our flesh and spirit, heart and will include,
With utter hate of God, and dread ingratitude!

Evil, and nothing more,
Behold, man's nature now:—
Blest Angels! did ye not deplore,
When Earth her wither'd brow
Lifted beneath you, in yon spheres of light,
And show'd her branded front, of old so pure and bright?

But, lo! the hour of wrath,
Commission'd from above,
Stern vengeance o'er the sinners' path,
With whom the Spirit strove,
Shall roll in ruin; and the godless world
See thunderbolts of death from His fierce anger hurl'd!

Insect, and man, and beast,
Whatever lives and moves,
The lofty sinner, and the least
Who madly crime approves,—
The broken fountains of the deep shall burst,
And sweep them into gloom, like things by God accurst!

And is the record dead,
Which here unveils to man
The ruin early vice had bred,
When lawless will began
Reason and Conscience both at once to sway,
Till, like embosom'd fiends, bad passions had their play?

No! judgment never dies,
But lives as long as sin
The law of love and truth defies,
And renders Man within
A jarring discord, out of tune with heaven,
A wreck of sinful woe, by darkest vices driven.

Go, Rebel! take thy stand
On some steep rock, which frown'd
In fearful gloom above the land
By God's vast deluge drown'd,—
As if thou heard'st the desolating roar
Of billows when they lash'd th' uncoffin'd dead they bore,

And there, let Conscience learn
A lesson for all time,—
That God must aye with anger burn
O'er unrepenting crime:
He cannot, will not, on the sinner look,
Until the weeping Heart hath guilt for grace forsook.

Come, then, celestial Grace!
Like dew of Hermon steal
O'er the dry souls of our sad race,
Until they pray and feel;
That so Thy Spirit, when He plies His love,
May not, by us aggrieved, return to Thee above.

For His deep coming, watch
With list'ning heart of prayer!
And ever lift the inward latch
That yields him entrance there;
So less and less His strivings will be known,
And God's bright Spirit seem commingled with our own.

Then, like a temple built
By some celestial Hand,
No more shall gloom and dreadless guilt
Benignant grace withstand,
But each pure Soul a living shrine will be,
Where Angels view enthroned the awful Trinity.

A BELIEVER'S WISH.

“To depart and to be with Christ—is far better.” Phil. i. 23.

I wish I lived where Jesu reigns
In yonder sinless world above,
Where not a pang the bosom pains
And all is light, for all is love.

There, with rapt Seraphims, how sweet
Anthems of choral bliss to blend,
And thus with white-robed myriads greet,
In Glory's form, the sinner's Friend.

No self will there the soul defile,
No shadows o'er remembrance steal,
But conscience, purged from guilt and guile,
Shall all the heaven of virtue feel.

Those fever-dreams of sense and time
Which now profane our purest bliss,
Shall not infest that hallow'd Clime
With stains which mar a world like this.

Oh! bright excess, beyond all thought,
When saints have reach'd that radiant goal
Where Man, to full perfection brought,
In God shall ark his wearied soul!

For, what can sense-born pleasure give
When most the world itself imparts,
But bribes to let base passions live
Like serpents in our selfish hearts?

The chastest scene, the calmest home
By poet hymn'd, or reason blest,—
Who has not felt his fancy roam,
And image forth a finer rest?

Our dream for some diviner world
Can never pause in realms of time,
When hope's fair wings, by faith unfurl'd,
Would waft us to that pangless clime.

Safe in the shadow of Thy throne,
Reveal'd Almighty! let us dwell,
And in yon circling rainbow own
The hues which our redemption tell.

Thou art, O Christ! the sinner's heaven;
Without Thee, man is death and gloom,
And only with that word, “forgiven,”
Can hearts approach the dismal tomb.

Be Thou the vital sun and shield
To light our path, and guide our souls;
Nor let our tempted bosoms yield
Except to what Thy will controls.

Life of our life! be all our bliss;
Torn from Thy truth, since none are blest;
Without Thee, men and angels miss
That centre where the creatures rest.

And can we doubt, if Godhead find
Complacency in Christ the Lord,
That He excels whate'er the mind
Creates in thought, or calls by word?

Ye heavens! though bright your splendour be,
Emanuel forms your living fount,
And none can rise to Deity
Who do not through His merit mount.

Then, hail the hour! that summons Man
Beyond our sullied earth to soar
To Him, Whose finite heaven began
When first for sin the cross he bore.

HERE WE HAVE NO ABIDING HOME.

“Here we have no continuing city, but we seek one to come.”—Heb. xiii. 14.

“They that say such things declare plainly that they seek a country.”—Heb. xi. 14.

Since all we love on earth must die,
And swift as hues of morning fly
The hopes young bosoms store,
Oh, softly let thy feelings twine
Round the rich heart thou callest thine,—
For soon 'twill beat no more!

When first our virgin senses wake
And of fair Earth a prospect take,
Her treasures, homes, and smiles,—
A false eternity arrays
The scene that mocks our dazzled gaze
With its ambitious wiles.

And yet, might reason's colder truth
Unveil dark facts to wayward youth,
Creation doth not hold
A perfect semblance to her past;
But everywhere dim shades are cast
On what she was of old.

The clouds of heaven for ever change;
The tints of earth and ocean range
Through colour's varied gleam;
And all which eyes enamour'd view,
Reflect on man that restless hue
Which hints our life a dream!

The sweetest notes bland music brings
To vibrate o'er those moral strings
Which make the heart a lyre,—
E'en while we listen, lo! they die
In lulls of languish, like the sigh
Some Angel might respire.

And, look upon the face we love!
More eloquent than skies above
When clothed with chastest light,—
Its spell of beauty is the change
Expressions leave, as there they range
And fascinate our sight.

Thus, all we view of scene or sound
With sad instruction doth abound,
And preach,—“Prepare to part!”
For souls can have no resting-place
Where sin hath left a with'ring trace,
And shadow on the heart.

Too many tears our eyelids wet,
Too many graves are open'd yet,
To leave the mind at peace;
And, where the soul, without a thorn
To probe it, till it bleeds forlorn,
And yearns for heaven's release?

And blest are they whom Grace hath brought
To bow content before the thought,—
Earth's dearest ties are frail;
These will not, in the rending hour
When Death unveils his darksome power,
Like unbelievers, quail!

But woe! to wistful hearts that cling
To whatsoe'er wild passions bring
Of fulness, fire, and force,
Till idols mount the bosom-throne,
Where God and grace should rule alone
The soul's most secret course.

And, woe! to young Affection's eye
Which half adores what soon must die,
And melt in mortal clay;
Eternal beauty dwells not here,
And ill becomes that tainted sphere
Where Death demands his prey.

But did we, like the saints of old,
Hereafter through this Now behold,

What pangs our hearts would save!
Eternity our home would seem,
And life become a brilliant dream
Dissolving o'er the grave.

Wild heart of wasteful Youth! begin
At once to cool the thirst of sin
For ever here to bide;
Life, love, and earth can flatter thee,
But cannot thy salvation be,
Nor death, nor judgment hide.

Ah! wert thou touch'd with heavenly love,
Did Christ, thy magnet, far above
Attract thy veering eyes,
How would the wing'd affections mount
And flutter near that blissful Fount
Who all our heaven supplies!

Unwav'ring Souls which pant for bliss,
Will feel their perfect treasure is
Where nothing false is found;
And since in heaven Messiah dwells,
They will not dread those bleak farewells
With which dark years abound.

“Gone to prepare a place for you,”—
Hosannah to that promise true!
It opens heaven for prayer;
If in our souls one pulse there beat
Of Godhead, at the mercy-seat,
They long to worship there!

For heaven is not a desert cold
Which cannot human feelings hold,
Where Christ as Man is seen;
Since they adorn that region bright
From earth redeem'd, array'd in white,
Who once like us have been.

OUR TRUE COMPANION.

“Abide with us, for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent.”—Luke xxiv. 29.

Abide with us! sustaining Lord, abide;
Without Thee, vain is all the world beside:
When Thou art vanish'd, nought true Souls can see
But the sad loneliness that sighs for Thee.

The life we bear is oft a burden'd thing
Fill'd with a load of varied suffering,
Though, mask'd with smiles, the forehead seems to say
“My heart is sunshine in its golden play.”

A thousand shadows from the soul arise
Casting a tinge o'er all young natures prize;
E'en from the centre of consummate bliss
We inly murmur, “breathes there truth in this?”

Without, works mystery; within, the same;
And truths, profounder than mere words can name,
Float through the mind, like seraph-whispers sent
From the far glories of God's firmament.

Lofty but low, abased and yet sublime,
With hearts eternal in a home of time,
Sinful, but sainted, doom'd on earth to walk,
And yet with Seraphim in spirit talk,—

Extremes of contrast! such our being rule;
And fever'd Life, with contradiction full,
Can echo the beseeching twain who cried,
“Lord of our souls, for ever with us bide!”

The beautiful and bright, creation yields
From rock and dale, from forest and from fields,
Lacking Thy presence, want that master-grace
Which decks the earth with each diviner trace.

Oft o'er yon heav'ns when strays the poet's eye
While soundless evening steals along the sky,
That Afterward, to which no after comes,
Seems to salute him from ideal homes,

Which pale and pensive, from each pilgrim star
Gleam through the air, and glisten from afar:
And then, dear Lord! amid the vast and lone
Faith can discern Thee on creation's throne.

Thy solemn grandeurs, Thy nocturnal scenes,—
How oft 'tween us and them there intervenes
A troubled shadow, which our guilt must throw
On all which manifests dread power below!

But oh, amid the struggle, toil, and tears,
And blighting anguish of our baffled years,
The hush'd religion of a grief-worn heart
How does it love Thee, Healer as Thou art!

But when life's wearied days are spent and gone,
And calm eternity is coming on,
Ere the wing'd soul shall take its awful flight,
Abide with us! and death will be delight.

OUR MORROWS BELONG TO GOD.

“Take therefore no thought for the morrow; for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”— Matt. vi. 34.

Our morrows unto God belong;
This day can be our own,
If on the Stronger than the strong
We lean our hearts alone,
Casting on Christ our grief and care,
By constant power of heaven-breathed prayer.

But, Gentiles with a Christian name
We gravitate to earth,
And by our heathen darkness shame
The glories of our birth;
If sons who God their Father call,—
To Him why trust not all in all?

Oh, could we like the Saviour be,
Whose “meat and drink” it made
Heaven's will alone in life to see
In all He did, or said!
No longer would base Mammon find
A temple in our care-worn mind.

Behold! creation's world of sense
Rebukes the carking race,
Whose creedless hearts of Providence
Discern no living trace,
Though earth and sky and choral sea
Are throbbing with divinity.

The fowls which populate the air,
The lilies of the field,
Fed and adorn'd without a care,
Divine instruction yield;
They teach us what wise Nature can,—
The arms of God environ man.

And vain, too, each prophetic thought
Whereby the fretted soul,
With fever-visions overwrought,
Man's future would control;
Our being's age and body's growth,—
The Lord alone predestines both.

Why, for mere raiment, meat and drink,
Our future so forecast,
As though, like Pagans, we could think
This life were first and last?
Forgetful, that one thought sublime
Outweighs a world of sense and time!

Our little faith,—alas! 'tis less
Than what the least should prove,
Making our scene a wilderness
Which might be one of love:
Like orphan'd souls in solitude,
Denying Him we call The Good.

Gaze upward, soul! on God the true;
Each burden cast on Him,
Believe Jehovah cares for you
Not less than seraphim:
The very hairs of men are number'd,
Why then with woes be overcumber'd?

But still these boding hearts, like Seers
On whom the future lowers,
Project themselves o'er unborn years,
And crowd the coming hours
With destinies that haunt the mind,
Till weaken'd faith grow wan and blind.

Condemn'd be such unhallow'd care,
Which lets to-morrow's weight
O'erburden with a gaunt despair
What cheers our present state;
As if each day on life's dull road
Were harness'd with too light a load!

Sufficient for the Day when born
Is each new pang that sighs;
Let those who will not sink forlorn,
In Jesu's name arise:
Since ye belong to Heaven's control,
Foreseen to-morrows! quit the soul.

Simplicity is wisdom when
Our yielding minds obey
The law which God ordains for men,—
Our duty is to-day!
Our burden too, that cross to bear,
And not forecast imagined care.

And let thy teaching grace, oh Lord,
Such perfect sway impart,
That faith may hear this haunting word
Like music in the heart,—
Sufficient is the moment given,
And thy to-morrow safe in heaven.

SILENT PRAYER.

“Now Hannah, she spake in her heart; only her lips moved, but her voice was not heard.”—1 Sam. i. 13.

We do not pray, because we move
Our lips in oral speech,
For depths abound of deeper love
Than words can ever reach.

Nor is it prayer, when utter'd thought
With ardent feeling glows,
As though th' excited breast were fraught
With flame that overflows:

For words may flow from fluent powers,
And prove a dubious sign;
'Tis only when the truth is ours,
The heart, oh Lord, is Thine!

The raptured tongue whose tones arise
Like sparks of mental fire,
Not ever breathes those contrite sighs
Deep thoughts of sin inspire.

And oft when o'er moved fancy rolls
Soft melody of speech,
No inward awe the mind controls
With truths words cannot reach.

True prayer is that mysterious breath
The Spirit from above
Breathes through the heart in life, and death,
And is the pulse of Love!

'Tis God within, imparting grace,
'Tis heaven come down to earth,
That man may look in Mercy's face,
And feel his second birth;

A sense of want, of woe, and sin,
A creed that Christ is all,
A faith whose filial voice within
Can God “My Father!” call;

Reliance on atoning Blood,
Convictions true and deep,
Attesting that the Lord is good
Who bids us smile, or weep;

With aspirations pure and high
That souls, like saints, may be
Both while we live, and when we die,
From guilt and Satan free,—

Behold a Prayer! a breath divine,
Whose sacred throb and thrill,
Believer, can that heart of thine
With unvoiced worship fill.

In such high mood of heavenliness,
Upon thy spirit's chords
Devotion feels a magic stress
Beyond translating words:

But He, benign Interpreter!
Who hears an inward groan,
In heaven perceives the voiceless stir
Of souls He calls His own.

Unbreathed, unspoke a prayer may be,
Nor vocal lips proclaim
What God alone can hear and see,
When Love adores His name.

Then, cheer thee! sad but sainted Heart
That pines for spoken prayer;
Be sure, if child of God thou art,
More love than lips declare

Dwells in thy depths of being still,—
Howe'er some baffled word
Break down beneath those thoughts which fill
The soul where God is heard.

And thus when dying voice decays,
And pulse and motion cease,
Heaven marks the speaking eye that prays
For mercy's last release.

True Christians live beyond their speech,
And faith is more sublime
Than syllables of breath can reach,
Framed out of sense and time.

MUSIC AND THE EVIL SPIRIT.

“Seek out a man who is a cunning player on a harp: and it shall come to pass, when the Evil Spirit from God is upon thee, that he shall play with his hand, and thou shalt be well.”—1 Sam. xvi. 16.

Two worlds around us act and move,
Though one alone we hear, or see;
And they whose souls are born above,
Will not repulse that Mystery
Which binds them both by one harmonious law,
Deeper than earth-framed science ever saw.

The world of sense is fair to sight,
Though touch'd all o'er with taints of sin;
Gay morn, and noon, and magic night
Accost the charmèd soul within,
And, like faint beams on Memnon's fabled stone,
Draw from our spirit some responsive tone.

Mountain, and field, and forest wide
With their green coronal of trees,
And Ocean, with his billowy tide
Rolling in wave-born ecstasies,
Cities, and hamlets, and the high-wall'd town,
And sculptured marbles, breathing dead renown,—

In each and all there reigns and lives
Far more than sensual eye beholds;
A Presence which no token gives
Of what the heart of things enfolds,—

Save to deep Souls whose inward eye can see
Symbols that charm the faithful, and the free.

Another and a holier sphere,
A viewless world, unheard, unknown,
More awful than religion's fear,
Around embodied minds is thrown;
And while the earth-bound walk by sense and sight,
That orb engirdles them by day and night!

Angels, and Spirits of the blest,
Stern Attributes, and sacred Powers
Nature and Providence invest,
And circle this vex'd life of ours;—
While voiceless mysteries, whence we cannot tell,
Throb through the flesh, did we but mark them well.

And thou, deep charm of sevenfold grace,
Sweet Music! Thou art more than sound;
For melodies from God's bright place
Within thy blissful spell abound,
Like broken echoes, that have thus o'erran
Angelic lyres, and trembled down to man!

Oh! call not music by a word
Terrestrial minds alone approve,
For in it more than tone is heard,—
A something deep as Spirits love;
Painting, and poetry of sound are there,
Blent with the lulling pause of secret prayer.

Such was the minstrel's art divine
When David struck his chorded lyre,
Where earth and heaven in one combine,
And by commingled sway inspire
Soft airs, before whose superhuman spell
The Fiend shrunk wither'd to his native hell!

And He, the dread and dauntless seer,
Whose word could seal and open skies,
The awe of music did revere,
And bow'd beneath those harmonies
That gush'd around him, soft, serene, or grand,
Like air-chords thrill'd by some celestial hand.

MAKE THEE AN ARK.

“Make thee an Ark ------ Behold! I, even I, do bring a flood of waters upon the earth ------ Come thou and all thy house into the Ark.”—Gen. vi. 14, 17; vii. 1.

Though youth's bright world looks fresh and fair,
And proud the pulse of feeling there,
While syren hope sings everywhere
Of promised bliss to come,
Yet signs exist of sternest woe
Which tell young Hearts that all below
May yet the primal ruin show,
And prove earth not our home!

Deep, dark, and cold the cruel grave,
When big and burning tear-drops lave
The cheeks of Love, which mourns the brave
And beautiful who fly!
The bloom and breath of dawning Life
Are each with slow consumption rife,
And mark how soon the parting strife
May close the sunken eye!

Scarce dies a day, but rings the knell
O'er something which we love too well,
Or cherish with so close a spell
That when it droops, we bleed;
While pride and passion round us throng,
And pleasures with voluptuous song
Entice warm souls the way along
Which ends in wrath decreed.

Hence, life is peril; and how blest
The minds that in some ark can rest,
Secured and safe, howe'er distrest,
From final wreck and woe!
The storm may rise, the surges roll,
Rude whirlwinds seem to rend the soul
No mortal wisdom can control,
Yet none that ark o'erthrow!

“Make thee an Ark,” of old was heard;
And, true as echo to the word,
His heart with pure allegiance stirr'd
The hand which Heaven obey'd:
To Noah, God believed was law,
O'erruling all he felt, or saw,
With that serene and soothing awe
Which keeps man undismay'd.

And thus, when sea and sky were blent,
While raged the roaring element
Until each Vial's wrath was spent,
Safe o'er the storm he rode;
Around him cries and corpses were,
And oft was yell'd man's howling praver,
Mix'd with the wild beast's in his lair,
When furious waves o'erflow'd.

And so with saints of Light 'twill be,
When taught, oh God! by grace and Thee,
At once to that retreat they flee
Where shelt'ring mercies bide;
No ark they need to frame, or form,
To shield them from each rushing storm
Round life and death that spreads alarm,—
For that Thy truth supplied.

And dost thou seek, where stands the Ark,
That, when wild tempests, stern and dark,
Engulph and wreck each human bark,
May waft thee safely on?
Behold it, in the Church of grace,
Prepared for each believing race
Who there may find, with contrite face,
The shelter Jesu won.

Here babes, besprent with sacred dew
Ere sin and sorrow yet they rue,
Baptismally a nature new
From God's own Spirit gain;
On their white brows a mystic sign,
Behold it tell this truth divine,—
Yon infant, Christ! is sealed for Thine,
Blood-wash'd from guilty stain.

And onward as progressive life
Encircles man with clashing strife,
Howe'er the world with sin be rife,
And dangers round us roll,
Ark'd in Thy founded Church, O Lord!
Thy promised Grace, Thy precious Word,
If by our prostrate will preferr'd,
Shall keep unwreck'd the soul.

Safe in the Ark by Jesus built,
Beyond the flooding waves of guilt
We float, and, through the blood He spilt
On Calvary's deathful tree,—
Victoriously our spirits ride
Over the sad and surging tide
That welters o'er the world beside,
Unanchor'd, God, in thee.

And blest are they, with minds unskill'd
By rebel pride to plan, or build
An ark no present Christ hath fill'd
With sacramental love;
Who in the Church can sweetly rest,
Till peace divine becalm their breast,
And, howsoe'er by storms distress'd,
A haven reach above.

OH THAT I HAD WINGS!

“I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove! for then would I fly away, and be at rest.”—Ps. lv. 6.

Bird of beauty! upward soaring
On thy plumes of lustre white,
Far beyond the tempest roaring
And the gloom of gath'ring night,
While they watch thee speed away
Where no awful lightnings play,
Many an earth-chain'd Heart will sigh,
“Lend me wings, and let me fly!”

“Dove-like let me, proudly rising
Out of sin, and woe, and crime,
Feel my wingèd soul despising
Fetters wove from earth and time;
And by faith ascend to see
Shrines that glow with Deity,
And in bowers of glory find
Bliss of heart, and calm of mind.”

Men, whose hearts by grace enlighten'd
Once for heaven in concord beat,
Have their taste by truth so heighten'd
That no more in earth's retreat
They contentment can perceive,
But for ever pine to leave
Scenes where passion's fires abound,
And, like fiends, our faith surround.

Not by creedless foe and stranger
Are disciples wrong'd alone,
But apostate friends endanger
Those they once have loved, and known,—
Who amid the morn of youth
Both pursued and pray'd for truth,
And along Time's ancient road,
Calmly sought the house of God.

Keen beyond all pangs distressing
Is the piercing one that finds
Friends of old in faith caressing,
Chill'd in heart, and changed in mind;
Each to each an alien grown,
All fond smiles of welcome flown,—
Heart-breathed wish and household word,
Never more in union heard!

Not again behold them taking
Counsel sweet and sacred talk,
But their holy Church forsaking
For some wild sectarian walk:—
Who can mark such sever'd friends
When their love in loathing ends,
Nor, like David, long to soar
Where the saved are gone before?

He whose heart true light discerneth
In Thy beams, Incarnate Love:
At Thy footstool deeply learneth
Lessons that will last above;
Nor amid such bleak distress,
Sighs he for lone wilderness,
But in prayer true solace finds,
Opening heaven to sainted minds.

Wearied, worn, and oft benighted,
Want and weakness round us reign,
Yet the Dove on Christ who lighted
Thus prolongs that healing strain,—
“Cast thy burden on My breast,
Where the weary drop to rest;
Harass'd pilgrim, hope and pray,
Learn of Me, and love the way!”

THE ARKLESS DOVE.

“The dove found no rest for the sole of her foot, and she returned unto him into the ark.”—Gen. viii. 9.

The ghastliness and gloom of death
Cover creation like a pall,
Without a pulse, without a breath,—
Sepulchral waters bury all;
Like a huge corse the dead Earth lies
A floating mass beneath the skies!

It must have been a wild'ring sight
Which roll'd his palsied heart-tide back,
When Noah for the raven's flight
Open'd the ark, and in yon track
Where the wild deluge spread its wave
Beheld but one stupendous grave!

But, hark! a mild and gracious breeze
Like a wing'd mercy floats along;
The music of poetic trees
Has never shed so sweet a song;
For where its fresh enchantments play
The floods decrease, and die away.

The fountains of the Deep are closed,
The windows shut of wrathful heaven,
And, safe on Ararat reposed,
The ark of life to Noah given;
Judgment is o'er, and grace seems nigh,
And green earth soon shall hail the sky.

He sends the raven, and on wings
Of fierce delight it hurries forth,
Yet, ah! no olive-branch it brings,
But east, and west, and south, and north,
Flutters about by night and day,
And banquets on vile carrion-prey.

True emblem of those Belial hearts
And canker'd minds, debased and dead,
Who feed on what foul Earth imparts
Of loathsome passion born, and bred;
For, raven-like, they haunt the scene
And revel most where vice hath been.

But thou, sweet dove of radiant white!
Methinks I watch thee in the beam
Wave thy fair wings with free delight,
And glisten in that snowy gleam
Which round about thee glances mild,
Decking thy plumage undefiled.

Hither and thither wing'd the dove,
And sought in vain some verdant tree;
The waves beneath, the sky above
Were all its vestal eyes could see;
So, backward to the ark it flew
And nestled in that shelter true.

And, trace we not a symbol here
Of that unrest the holy feel,
When doom'd to haunt some alien sphere
Where nothing reigns but carnal zeal;
Where all looks selfish, low, and base,
And time and sense our God displace?

Oh! how they yearn for lone retreat,
Some temple where religion dwells,
While, sitting low at Jesu's feet,
Their bosom with his doctrine swells;
For Christ is their celestial Ark
Which lifts them o'er life's ocean dark.

Dovelike, amid the haunts of sin
Howe'er the Saints are forced to roam,
There is a pure unrest within
That pants for some more perfect home;
And that the Saviour's Church hath proved
To God's elect, by angels loved.

And e'en as once the dove brought back
To Noah's hand, at twilight-hour,
The branch of peace, that on its track
Was pluck'd from some diluvian bower,—
The soul of saints on earth may see
Tokens of tender Deity:

And as that bird, when once again
The flooded soil began to rise,
Till green apparel robed the plain
And crystal sunlight clad the skies,
No ark required, but in wide air
Found a pure freedom ev'rywhere,—

So, when this ruin'd earth recedes,
Our perfect spirits will not ask
A local church, where sorrow pleads
For shelter from life's whelming task;
Since heaven will prove one church of praise,
And each true soul a temple raise.

But ye unblest! of men deceived,
Who think this world a good imparts
Beyond what martyr'd saints believed,
And welcomed in their wounded hearts,

Of this be sure,—ye cannot find,
From heaven apart, the peaceful mind!

Go, child of Sin! pursue each path
That opens on thy restless view;
Prove all which gain, or glory, hath,
Admire, enjoy, exhaust them too,
But, still unreach'd is that repose
That sainted virtue only knows!

Ambition, pleasure, pride, or pelf,
What gilded fame, or fortune gives,
Feeds but the gnawing worm of Self
Which on contentment preys and lives;
Remote is that ideal rest
Whose home becomes a hallow'd breast.

Man was not made for finite good,
The Infinite to Him pertains;
Heaven's manna forms his genial food,
Though unbelief from such refrains:
O, that in Mercy's ark of peace
The erring mind would seek release!

Return unto thy rest, return
Thou arkless soul of sinful man!
For, until chaste affections burn
With ardour pure as spirits can,
Thy life will be a discontent,
In fitful dreams of folly spent.

Deep Spirit of divinest calm!
Descend, and soothe unquiet hearts;
Breathe o'er each ruffled mind the balm
Thy perfect nobleness imparts,
And then, oh Lord! Thy saints will be
Sublimely ark'd in heaven and Thee.

THE BOW OF PROMISE.

“The bow shall be in the cloud; I will look upon it that I may remember the everlasting Covenant.” Gen. ix. 16.

Thou liquid bow of beauty and of grace
Arching the rain-cloud with a bended way,
Religion cannot mark thy gleaming trace
And muse not, how the mighty God did say

That when yon sacramental arch should span
The hills beneath, or paint the heavens above,
He would recall His covenant with Man,
And feel the vastness of forgiving love.

Summer, and seed-time, harvest, winter, spring,
Whate'er the seasons in their mercy bear,
Each unto ransom'd Earth should ever bring
Tokens of peace and God's paternal care.

And thus, a symbol art thou, and a sign
Of what no wisdom in the schools could teach;
A sacred emblem, preaching truths divine
More eloquent of Christ than angel-speech.

'Tis not alone that Childhood's greeting eyes
When first thine arching loveliness they see,
Gladden beneath it with entranced surprise
And hail the miracle of hues in thee!

Nor is it, that our Priests of earth and heaven
Who at the altar of the Muses stand,
To whom the glorious privilege is given
To summon beauty when they wave their wand,

The gem-like radiance of thy form admire,
And liquid blending of thy rain-born hues,
Or, oft to hymn thee, strike the hallow'd lyre
And into words thine opal gleams transfuse.

Still less can Science, with her colder gaze,
Suggest what thy prismatic splendours mean,
When dim and delicate with tearful rays
She marks thee outlined in the storm-veil'd scene.

'Tis Faith alone thy full enchantment feels
Mild grace and glory of the firmament!
When o'er the heart remember'd judgment steals,
And grateful love with tender awe is blent.

Since, not a pulse of life in earth, or sea,
That should not in thy graceful symbol find
A token which our God express'd by thee,—
His curse has roll'd away from wreck'd mankind!

Pure arch of triumph! wove through Nature's tears
In fairy gems reflected as they fall,
Bright may thy bow, beyond our mortal fears,
Preach the vast mercy which encloseth all!

And, deeply touching to the soul made wise
Is the great truth primeval words declare,—
That when a rainbow consecrates the skies
Both God and man commingle glances there.

Mercy The One in that soft omen sees,
View'd in the promise which of old He swore,
That earth should witness what His will decrees,
And not be deluged as she was of yore.

And man, the monument of matchless love,
When he beholds yon bow of beauty form,
Saint if he be, recalls the Christ above
Who rescued Nature from her ruin-storm.

But, high o'er heaven's purpureal ether mount
To that sunn'd region where no storms prevail,
And even there, at mercy's crystal fount
The rainbow of our human past we hail!

Round the white Throne where sits the Prince of Light,—
Glory beyond all glories to express!
Lo, the same rainbow gleams like emerald bright,
And girdles Him with awful loveliness.

And oh, believer! does not this declare
That covenants divine abide the same?
How saints of old, as living Christians are,
Were rescued by the one redeeming Name?

Lord of our souls! Thou Saviour ever dear,
Be still our rainbow in the clouds of life;
In Thy chaste sunlight melt each rising tear,
And arch with triumph scenes of darkest strife.

Radiant with mercy, calm the sinking heart,
And beam through sorrow's night and suff'ring's gloom,
A deathless Iris, that will ne'er depart,
But shine immortal o'er our destined tomb!

CHRIST IN COMMUNION WITH THE SOUL.

“Abide with us.”—Luke xxiv. 29.

Abide with us, dear Lord! abide;
No hearts can beat, and be untried
By pangful woe or care;
But, if Thy shielding arm o'ershade
The creature which Thy love hath made
Hell cannot harm a hair.

Around us Powers of evil throng
Who fain would hurry souls along
The wilds of sin and gloom;
And principles within us rage
In vernal youth, or wintry age,
Which haunt us to the tomb.

But Thou, abiding Lord of peace!
Art light, and liberty's release
To all meek sons of faith,
Thy word divine who e'er attend,
And listen to the sinner's Friend
Though dark the truth He saith.

The sinful Earth looks sad and lone,
And guilty hearts around us moan,
And graves, how fast they rise!
As added years their record bring
Of havoc, change, and suffering,—
What sadness loads our sighs!

But should Thy presence be supplied,
What calming powers of truth abide!
Our cross is meekly borne;
Though spent the noon, and night appears
To darken through our spirit's tears,
Life will not be forlorn.

When sickness shades the soul with dread,
And Fever moans with throbbing head
Till wild the pulses play,
Abide with us! blest Lord, and be
A balm beyond all sympathy
To awe the Fiend away.

Or, should it be our lot to keep
Night-watch beside the guarded sleep
Of parent, child, or friend,
There, as we note each ebbing breath
And scan the chill of coming death,
Thy dews of mercy send.

Or, when the churchyard-gloom we pace,
And oft with tearful silence trace
The tombs of friends no more,
Abide with us! that Hope and Prayer
May warble words of glory there,
Which back the dead restore.

But oh, blest Lord! of all the wounds
With which man's wearied life abounds,
Not death, nor sickness, they
Which most disease the mind with pain,
Or bid us view the world as vain,
Where grief and anguish sway;

But, hollow tongues and heartless smiles,
And glozing friends who were but wiles
Of falsehood lightly drest,—
These melt us into more than tears,
And make us feel our martyr'd years
A burden on the breast.

O then, abide with us! and calm
Our spirit with that sacred balm
Pure grace alone imparts;
Thy Presence like a heaven will be,
When all the false ones fade and flee,
And soothe our sunken hearts.

Abide with us!—why pray we so,
As if disciples did not glow
With Thine own promise sure?
“Lo! I am with you, till the chime
Of Ages sounds the last of time,
While earth and man endure.”

Yes, Thou art “with us” in Thy word;
Thy Voice in sacraments is heard,
And prayer and praise reveal
How through the soul Thy blessings glide,
As o'er the heart's most gloomy tide
Thy radiant comforts steal.

Dejection oft, but not despair,
In this tried world of woe and care
It may be ours to face;
Only, be Thou the sleepless guide,
Morn, noon, and night with us abide
Till we complete our race.

We ask not blissful calms to dwell
Around us with unbroken spell,
Nor seek a pangless lot;
But, by the breathing of Thy word
Be our faint bosoms freshly stirr'd,
Nor sigh, as if forgot!

DEPARTED, NOT DEAD.

[C. H. E. M., BORN MAY 4, 1848: DIED JUNE 8, 1848.]

“As one in bitterness for his first-born.”—Zech. xii. 10.

“Redeemed from among men, being the first-fruits unto God and to the Lamb.”—Rev. xiv. 4.

Thou art not dead, my vanish'd one!
But living in the light
Of some pure world, beyond the sun,
Where death creates no night,
And sumless babes are smiling now
As bright and beautiful as thou.

When first I saw thy baby-form
With eyes of tearful love,
I little thought a hidden storm
Was looming from above,
So soon to blast my May-born flower
Beneath the blight of deathful power.

The Lord who gives, hath ta'en away,
And blest be His high name!
Oh, that with calm I this could say
And feel God's hallow'd claim:—
Cease, rebel heart! be calm and still,
And bow beneath a Father's will.

Pale relic! now enrobed for death,
Nurseling of hopes and fears,
How did I watch each ebbing breath
And kiss thine infant tears,
When throbs of suff'ring o'er thee came
Thy wordless tongue could never name.

Departed babe! how many a dream
Brighten'd thy father's heart,
When like a vision thou didst seem
In life to take such part,
That o'er his hours there breathed a spell
More exquisite than tones can tell.

With thy soft features round me glowing
Amid the world I went,
And with a heart to heaven o'erflowing
Bless'd thee, bright innocent!
And felt, howe'er my path should roam,
My little star-beam reign'd at home.

Already Hope's prophetic eye
Beheld some future spot,
And underneath life's vernal sky,
Pictured thy maiden lot,
Where truth and grace would be thy guide,
And all thy wants by heaven supplied.

I dream'd, if God thy life should spare,
How blessèd it would be
To hear thy budding lips declare
Young words of Deity;
To watch thy spirit, day by day,
Rise into speech, and learn to pray.

I fancied how my hand would lead
Thy tiny feet along,
By placid shore, or sunny mead
Where brooklets sing their song,
While gay-wing'd breezes round thee flew
And clad thy cheeks with vermeil hue.

And oh! I dared, through Him, to hope,
To Whose baptismal arms
I gave thee,—that thy mind would ope
Each year, with sacred charms;
As more and more The Spirit taught
Thy gentle soul what Jesu wrought.

But thou art pale, a perish'd flower,
A blossom on Life's tree,
Nipp'd in the bud, before the power
Of sin corrupted thee:—
Wash'd in the blood of Jesu white,
Babe, art not thou in glory bright?

Cold, cold, my child! I view thee now
Like Sleep in marble lying,
With paleness on thy placid brow
Which sets my heart a-sighing;
And round thy lips there linger still
Dead smiles that shall remembrance fill.

My first-born! God has call'd thee back,
His gift He doth resume,
But o'er thy father's blighted track
Darkens thine early tomb,—
A haunting shade of more than grief
To which man's world brings no relief.

From room to room I wander on
Where thou hast been of yore,
And all mine eyes can gaze upon
Recalls a child no more;
As though each object would declare
Thy darling glances rested there.

Beloved and beauteous wreck of all
That warm'd this aching breast
With hopes, that when the funeral pall
Should o'er thy parent rest,
There still might be a loving one
To think of him, whose course was run,—

Farewell! farewell! departed child,
Sweet darling of the soul,
Gone to the grave, ere sin defiled
Thy conscience with control;
I mourn, my babe! but not for thee
Becalm'd in Christ's eternity.

Before me lies a perill'd way
Of trial, change, and tears;
If short or long, life's future day,
Rests with the God of years,
Who measures our appointed span,
And deals the thread of time to man.

Yet I shall smile, and act, and speak,
As though thou ne'er hadst been;
And they who scan the brow and cheek
And judge by outward mien,
Can little dream how much we hide
Under the heart's unwitness'd tide!

The purest thoughts lone spirits bear
Are marr'd by being spoken,
And more than deepest words declare
Lives in some heart half-broken;
A transient grief light tongues may tell,
But cloister'd Anguish keeps her cell.

A thousand things must wake the sigh
That shall remember thee,
And raise before the mental eye
Those tombs of memory,
Which o'er the churchyard of the heart
Cast inward shades, which ne'er depart.

The beam, the bud, the blooming grace
Of some infantile flower
Which smiles into a poet's face
In Nature's conscious hour,
Oh! each and all will oft restore,
A mental gleam of her no more.

But melody, beyond all charms,
The buried past regains;
And oft the spoiling tomb disarms
By resurrection-strains,
In whose rapt tones the dead revive,
And untomb'd years appear alive.

Thus will thy sylph-like features float
Before mine inward gaze,
Call'd into life by some sweet note
The harp of feeling plays;
Across my soul thy shape will beam,
And smile like some incarnate dream.

Farewell, my child! but not farewell
For ever;—we shall meet
When sounds creation's dooming knell
Before the judgment-seat;
And I shall know thy little face
Amid the world's assembled race.

Thrice happy babe! thou beauteous Soul
To some bright world ascended,
How glorious that celestial goal
Where thy brief course is ended!—
And most divine that hour will be
That bids me mount, and follow thee.

June 8th, 1848.

PREVAILING INTERCESSION.

“I will speak, yet but this once: Peradventure ten shall be found there. And He said, I will not destroy it for ten's sake,”(Gen. xviii. 32,)

compared with,

“Ye shall go and pray unto me, and I will hearken unto you.”—Jer. xxix. 12.

Thou dost, O God! transcend the All
Creative thought can into vision call,
When most enrapt and raisèd Mind
Darts through the regions of the undefined,

Conceiving there the beautiful and bright
In the deep centre of Ideal light;
Eternal! Thou art perfect good,—
Such glory, who but Thou, hast understood?

And yet, may soul-breathed prayer ascend
And with those anthems of Thy worship blend,
Which round that secret Glory dwell
Where Thou art shrined in shades invisible:
Not dearer to Thine ear of love
The hymns and hallelujahs heard above,
Than is the contrite sinner's cry,
The broken cadence of his burden'd sigh.

O mystery! fathomless to thought,
With truths august how infinitely fraught!
That He, The Essence Uncreate
Throned in the blaze of His almighty state,
Should bend to hear the falt'ring praise
We sinful earth-worms to the Godhead raise,
And so in Christ should condescend
To call the Dust of woman born, His “Friend!”

Hence, prayer becomes a pious wing
By which we soar to where crown'd Angels sing,
Ensphered in realms surmounting time.—
Through the dread vastness of the heavens sublime
Souls cleave their flight, until they see
The mercy-shrine of prayer-moved Deity;
There, entering in behind the veil,
Our suppliant hearts may breathe their sorrowing tale.

And, what a privilege for those
Foundlings of grace, o'erwhelm'd by frequent woes,
Whose faith-wing'd souls with seraph-zeal
Rise to That Heart in heaven, which learn'd to feel
In this rude world where sorrows reign,
The direst throbbing of terrestrial pain!—
Who, though on high He weeps no more,
In bliss remembers what on earth He bore.

Yes! Sympathy beyond the skies
Reigns, feels and acts for souls renew'd, which rise
And with adoring boldness ask
Due strength to aid them in life's weary task:
There Christ, our elder Brother, lives,
And echoes back whate'er the suppliant gives
Of low-breathed sigh, or sorrow's tone,
As though the Church's trial were His own.

Hence meekly wise, the heaven-taught Mind
By prayerless reason grows not base and blind;
For God is honour'd when we pray:
In the rich glories of their guardian sway
His Attributes we then confess,
Alone can blast us, or supremely bless;
A sigh, or look, or breath of prayer
Brings Heaven to earth, and proves God ev'ry where.

Arm'd with the strength true prayer bestows,
How fearless martyrs triumph'd o'er their woes!
The sworded despot, fire and chain,
The dungeon-midnight, and the exile's pain,
With all tyrannic horrors press'd
Through the deep gloom of some o'ertortured breast,—
Melted, like shades, before the sense
That prayer on earth was man's omnipotence.

Devotion guides the soul to God
By the same pathway blest Emmanuel trod;
Its power may range all nature through,
And in the dark of providence can view
Soft tokens of celestial light,
Calm spots of glory, which allay the night;
And grasp, while griefs around them stand,
The feeling guidance of their Father's hand.

Who lives on this lone earth of graves,
Will find bare wisdom nought from ruin saves:
Sorrow and sin encompass all
Which men of flesh their finest rapture call,
Without,—delusive spells abound,
And Fiends unview'd our holiest shrines surround;
Within,—behold the traitor's will!
With some dark lust that dares besiege us still.

In vain will unanointed eyes
Seek for a halcyon bower below the skies:
Gay inexperience soon will find
The ruin'd conscience, and the restless mind,
And marvel, as swift years advance,
How many a tombstone hails its tearful glance;
While busy Homes, once bright with glee,
Th' eclipsing shadow of their dead will see!

More blest are they, whom Christ hath taught
To seek that Home true saints have ever sought,
E'en that pure orb of perfect rest
Where sin nor sorrow clouds the aching breast:—
And, who are these, but men of prayer
Who unto God committed grief and care,
And on the heart of Jesu laid
Each burden down, which lighten'd as they pray'd?

They knew, that saints alone are strong,
Who mourn what weakness must to saints belong,
And to the last corruption feel
Like a slow plague-spot o'er sick nature steal:
Their wisdom was themselves to know,
Whose guiding law was God revered below;
Their lives were liturgies of love,
And Christ the loadstar they obey'd above.

And so with us 'twill ever be,
If true to heaven our hearts beat loyally.
What souls to living bodies are,
To faith heaven-born becomes the pulse of Prayer,—
The spirit's life that throbs within,
And gently masters each embosom'd sin,
Reigning victorious over all
Which back to earth the mounting soul would call.

True prayer is thus Religion's breath,
That hallows life, and haunts her until death;
Without it, holiness expires,
Dark grow our hopes, and sensual our desires;—
Since, not a grace the Gospel gives
But in the power of prayer it moves, and lives,
And Christ His perfect image sees,
When He beholds him on adoring knees.

LIFE IS A FADING LEAF.

“We all do fade as a leaf.”—Isa. lxiv. 6.

Chill o'er yon heath autumnal shadows fall,
The dusky twilight reigns with deeper sway,
While soft dejection seems to mantle all,
Like nature mourning for the death of day.

As hectic hues on pale consumption's form,
Red tints of ruin deck the flower and tree,
And low winds murmur like a wailing storm,
Or dirges o'er the dead entomb'd at sea.

Where is the flush, by vernal radiance clad,
That late o'er all the glowing landscape smiled,
Making the heart of hoary age as glad
As though 'twere backward into youth beguiled?

'Tis gone, that bright and beauteous glow,
Which o'er the teeming breast of nature threw
A charm that bad the bleakest mind o'erflow
With feelings exquisite, and fancies new.

There is a deadness, clothed by wintry awe,
Encircling now what then with bloom was bright;
And where the freshness of young spring we saw,
Floats the chill moisture of the coming blight.

Here as we roam adown yon woodland-dell,
The stricken leaves in yellow showers descend,
And each one seems to sigh a sad farewell,
Like love-tones murmur'd o'er a dying friend.

Meet emblem this of transient life's decay,
How all things perish which we prize below;
Where, like sear'd foliage, youth soon fades away,
And wither'd hopes bestrew the path of woe.

We learn mortality where'er we look,
The dust we tread subserves a moral plan,
And when aright we read creation's book,
Lo! all its pages are address'd to man.

Summer and winter, autumn and mild spring,
May each instruct us by their beauteous lore;
Each to our soul a sacred lesson bring,
And buried warnings into life restore.

In some high mood of melancholy thought
Nature herself doth almost human grow,
And mirror back what Mind to her hath brought,
And leave men wiser than mere sages know.

And well it tempers with a sober hue
The gayest scenes that youthful passions find,
To cast o'er coming death a pensive view,
And breathe the quiet of a prayerful mind.

Dejection makes the autumn of the soul,—
But let autumnal feelings have their sway,
And, shrink not, Christian! from their just control,
But grasp their blessing, ere they glide away.

Yet may not wintry skies, nor leafless bower
Oppress the spirit with too damp a gloom;
For in man's being lurks a vital power,
By Christ obtain'd, victorious o'er the tomb.

Thus, though man wither like an orphan leaf
Which lies forgotten in the lonely dust,
His dead corruption is a moment brief,—
For, hark the trumpet! and arise he must.

'Tis here the parable of nature's death
Fails to adumbrate what our doom shall be;
Life does not perish with corporeal breath,
But live once more to look on Deity!

Earth, air, and ocean, wood and wildest shore,—
Sleep in the dust where mortal embers may,
When rings the trumpet, each shall back restore
The deathless atoms of departed clay.

Creation finds an everlasting grave;
Where fall the dead leaves, they for ever lie,
No resurrection-winds shall o'er them wave,
And show their beauty to a new-born sky:

But, Man shall triumph o'er an endless tomb;
When God's loud clarion wakes his sleeping frame,
A dread eternity must be his doom,
In heaven immortal, or in hell, the same!

A FOUNTAIN IN THE DESERT.

“God opened her eyes, and she saw a well of water.” Gen. xxii. 19.

Under the burning eye of heaven
Breathless and bright as noon can be,
Mother and child,—behold them driven
O'er the hot wild in agony;
While each heart throbs that fearful prayer,
“Relieve me, Death! from black despair.”

Beersheba's desert, lone and dun,
Around them both lies grimly spread;
No veiling cloud-shade hides the sun,
And underneath, as on they tread,
The fierceness of its flaming heat
Doth blister their unsandall'd feet.

O, for the music of one breeze
To warble through the windless air!
Or, cooling breath from some chance trees
To mitigate the savage glare,
Which reddens like a furnace-glow
O'er sky and herbless soil below.

But still untamed, the eastern noon
Burns round them in a breezeless trance;
And, yellower than the harvest-moon
Yon wither'd heath which meets their glance;
Above, below, where'er they gaze,
'Tis cruel heat, and cloudless blaze!

No bird-wings break the hush intense,
No murmurs fall from leafy bough;
The very insects in suspense
Refrain their tiny descant now:
So dead the stillness reigning round
A man might hear his heart-beat sound.

Yon haggard mother lifts her eyes,
Around the scene they wildly roll,
And who can list the choking sighs
Which heave from out her riven soul,
And not believe, intenser pain
Could never cleave a heart in twain!

Foodless and fainting lags her child,
Its bleeding feet can hardly stand;
Yet, fired with thirst, along the wild
She guides it with a fev'rish hand:—
The water spent, along her frame
The shudderings deep of horror came!

In vain her sunken eyes survey'd
The arid heath and desert bare,
To see if one lone streamlet stray'd
In flow of mercy lingering there;
For neither gushing well, nor brook
Replied to her despairing look.

Oh, sad Egyptian! outcast one,
By Sarah hurl'd from all thy bliss,
Ten thousand deaths have now begun
To mingle in a death like this;
Methinks I mark thee, Hagar wild,
Shudder to view thy sobbing child!

Fainter and fainter moves each limb,
The parchèd mouth no more can speak;
And when thy tears descend on him,
They burn upon his hollow cheek;
The swoon of death is coming fast,—
The child beneath yon shrub is cast.

Parental Love! 'tis now the hour
To testify how deep thou art;
Replete with superhuman power,
Thy fountain is a mother's heart:
Though fathom'd seas their depths unfold,
The deeps of love what tongue hath told?

From God a mother's feelings rise,
A fount divine is their high source,
And, purer than our thoughts surmise,
They stream through life their endless course;
Outlasting all we love to see,—
They blend with soul's eternity!

And this was hers, who could not dare
Behold her gasping child depart,
But laid him down in mute despair,
Then turn'd her eyes, but not her heart
From that dread sight:—behind a tree
She shrunk, and wept, how bitterly!

And as she wail'd, what sobs and sighs
Along her quivering heart-strings came!
While closed her boy his fainting eyes,
And scorching thirst subdued his frame:
She dared not see, but how she felt
His throbs of anguish through her melt!

But God is nigh, oh, mother wild!
Behold a mission'd angel's wings
Arch their rich glory o'er the child,
And, hark! the mercy that he brings,—
“Hagar arise, God hears thy prayer,
Go, drink yon well which warbles there.”

Her eyes were open'd; from the ground
She saw the crystal water rise,
And then, as though from death unbound,
Outburst a mother's ecstasies!—
She gave her child that cooling stream,
And stood entranced, as in a dream.

And God be thank'd! for this deep tale
Where grief and grace so finely blend;
And ne'er may such high story fail
Our own chill'd hearts to warm, and mend;
For much it holds, if right we read,
To soothe us in dejection's need.

Not from the bond-maid are we born,
But children of the Church, and free;
Yet, oft vex'd life appears forlorn
As though forgot by Deity;
Cains of the heart, we rove accurst
Till life becomes one aching thirst.

But in the gloom of this rack'd hour
When all around looks bleak and bare,
Betake thee to yon gracious Power
Who listen'd to the weeping prayer
Lone Hagar lifted in the wild,
And brought down Godhead to her child.

For, have we not a Living Well
Of consolations deep as pure?
Nor are its waves invisible
If love and faith our hearts assure;
Since Christ is our celestial Spring,
Whom prayer to earth can ever bring.

And minor wells from Him may flow
Of comfort, joy, and heaven-like peace,
Which calm the fever'd heart of woe,
And grant the mind a fresh release;
And such are found in His blest Word
When God by faith is seen, and heard.

There crystal wells of grace abound,—
The promises, which man console,
And cool life's arid desert round
With streams that freshen as they roll;
And seraph heart and saintly mind
Can ever such refreshment find.

Thou Light of reason! Lord of grace,
Heaven's Paraclete, by Christ obtain'd,
Descend, and from our souls displace
Whatever throne the world hath gain'd;
Dark eyes unscale, and let them see
Our everlasting Well in Thee!

MEDITATION AT EVENTIDE.

“Isaac went out to meditate in the field at eventide.” Gen. xxiv. 63.

I love the still romance of lonely fields,
When shading twilight like a Spirit-wing
Broods o'er the landscape, and the air-tone yields
To the charm'd mind a pensive murmuring.

There, unbeheld by man's intrusive eye,
Let the lone pilgrim wind some willow'd path,
And in the silence of the years gone by,
Feel the soft bliss a sacred memory hath.

When the rude passion of the roaring winds
Louder and louder swells along the sea,
Their voice is echo'd by tempestuous Minds
Who love reflections of themselves to see:

Or, climb some rock where cloud-born anthems peal
And hymning thunders all around thee roll,
And, throned in darkness, thou may'st learn to feel
The dread foundations of the human soul.

But, wisdom most with tenderness doth dwell;
And silent eve, and solitary spot,
Will clothe remembrance with a lasting spell
When stern magnificence is all forgot.

So have they felt, who roam'd thy realm sublime,
Heroic fatherland of Tell the free!—
Helvetia, while they trod that haunted clime,
And drank the magic which inspireth thee.

There the huge mountains lift their billowy forms,
And glaciers whiten by the gorge's steep,
O'er rocks of icy gloom resound the storms,
And pine-trees rend, as on the whirlwind sweep:

And I have heard the Alpine thunder groan
Blent with the avalanche's crushing roar,
As though the Lord of nature left His throne
For chaos to resume its reign once more.

Darkness, and thunder, crag, ravine, and rock,
And precipice that strikes the pilgrim chill,
Send to the o'erawed mind a secret shock
And with terrific glories mem'ry fill.

But, oh! how often when the stern and wild
Die into sadness, like a tragic dream,
The loved impressions of some landscape mild
In fresh reality still glow, and gleam.

The lyric cadence of each choral breeze
Mix'd with the tinkling cow-bells' pensive tone,
The grazing herd, the chalets bower'd in trees,
And mellow calm upon the mountains thrown,

With deep-valed haunts, whose matchless beauty made
The heart o'erflow with loveliness profound,
While pine-woods round the curving shores display'd
Their forest-grace with leafy grandeur crown'd,—

Say, have not these beyond dread storms impress'd
On pure remembrance what the past hath been,
And left a magic that serenes the breast
Like thy hush'd vale, thou unforgot Orsine?

'Tis thus, the calm of beauty most appeals
To finer moods when sainted feeling reigns,
Which downward to the root of mem'ry steals,
And all the softness of our spirit gains.

And oft when ruder life with stormful grief
Rocks the torn heart, till inward tempests rise,
Ideal landscapes lend a soft relief
And smile upon us, like subduing eyes!

So felt the patriarch, when he wisely chose
The lulling hour of loneliness and shade,
To drink the freshness of that pure repose
A quiet evening round the meadows made.

He went to meditate, to muse, and dream,
Where nought broke stillness but the vesper song
Of some gay insect, bird, or babbling stream
Which feels half conscious as it flows along.

Perchance, he mused on nature, man, and God,
Creation's wreck, and ruin'd innocence,
On fortune's sunshine, or affliction's rod,
And all which Grace and Goodness here dispense.

Floated the hymns of angels on his ear,
As once they warbled over Eden's bower?
Or, did he vision, through a rising tear,
The star maternal of his childish hour?

Time has not told: but yet, like him, we may
Wander at eve to meditate and muse,
Far from the hum of crowds and cities stray,
And nature's quiet o'er the heart suffuse.

They cannot nurse nobility within
Who ne'er the solitudes of nature thread,
And, far removed from man's tumultuous din,
Recall the vanish'd, and revive the dead.

There is a wisdom in the wood and field,
A sacred meaning in the silent flower,
And shrines of loneliness instruction yield,
Did we but haunt them in a genial hour.

Cities of men and mortal baseness preach;
But sylvan dales, like holy things, impart
A healing quiet, which may conscience reach,
And bring God closer to an alien heart.

The open vastness of yon vaulted sky
When o'er our heads we view its arching sweep,—
There should we learn to lift a thoughtful eye,
And muse on mercy, till remembrance weep.

And thus, disciple of that Lonely One!
Who through the night-watch often wept, and pray'd,
Do thou, like Isaac, when the day is done,
With God converse, and seek Him in the shade.

There will Emmanuel to thy soul draw near
And bid thee more for saving glories yearn,
As on “the way” He soothed disciples' fear,
And reason'd with them, till their hearts did burn!

One pensive hour with nature, God, and prayer,
While the dusk Evening wraps her dewy veil,
Cools the hot fever on each brow of care,
And cheers the soul when brighter prospects fail.

There, in that hush of meditation lone,
The still small accents of the Spirit speak
Truths, in the whirl of life how rarely known,
And by dead conscience heard, as dull and weak!

Believer, thus to silence yield the soul,
Be thy calm mind to musing loneness given,
Till secret earth-clouds from thy vision roll
And show thee glimpses of a Saviour's heaven.

MORAL POWER OF HARMONY.

“The rest were chosen to give thanks unto the Lord ------ with musical instruments of God.”—1 Chron. xvi. 41, 42.

I love to hear the wizard tones
Of thunder, storm, and booming sea,
The wave-voiced winds, and tragic groans
Which make creation's minstrelsy,—
When Art and Genius such a triumph gain
That all seem blended in some master-strain.

And Harmony can also bring
What mental visions love to view,
Pictures, beyond what poets sing,
When most they make the world untrue,—
Landscapes of beauty, isles of bloom and balm,
Elysian verdure, and ambrosial calm.

But, Music wields a nobler spell
Than nature can alone impart;
And with far more than tones can tell
She oft inspires the echoing heart:
To her belongs Association's power,
Which haunts remembrance in its purest hour.

Melodious counterparts of mind
How often do some chords impress,
When Genius, with a hand refined,
Creates the sounds we inly bless!—
All passions, hopes, all principles and fears
Melt into music, and entrance our ears.

Thus, harmony to man may seem
A soul in sound, express'd and heard,
Or like an Angel in our dream
Who whispers some celestial word,
Till minds o'erfraught with feeling's warmest glow
Thrill into tears, and softly overflow.

And oh, ye dead! who never die,—
For though removed from outward gaze,
Your resurrection is the sigh
Pure memory unto virtue pays,—
Though unbeheld, how oft in music's strain
Your deep eyes look into our hearts again!

Yes, chords are touch'd, whose tones awake
And strike the soul's electric string,
Which vibrates till it seems to break
With those intense appeals that bring
Youth, home and childhood, fields, and faces dear
Back to the Heart, which bathes them with a tear.

Thus music, like religion, oft
May elevate the heaven-wing'd mind,
By wafting it to worlds aloft
For peace and purity design'd:
'Tis inspiration, though mere sound it seems,
Prompting the good to more than Glory dreams.

We praise Thee, God! for this fine spell
Pervading harmony can wield:
But, teach us to employ it well,
That it may grace and grandeur yield,
Whether by organ-chant, or choral hymn
Which rolls and deepens down cathedrals dim.

And when congenial hearts delight
In homes of quiet bliss to hear
Soft household-strains, which make the night
To memory as to music dear,
Like silver drops of some melodious shower
Heard in the dewy hush of twilight hour,—

Music seems more than common air
Through chorded instrument awaking,
And oft resembles dying prayer,
Or sighs from lonely hearts half-breaking:
Thus none can dream whence harmonies descend,
Or how their spirit with our own can blend.

Hence music proves a sacred thing,
A power no mortal words can tell;
A heaven of sound it seems to bring
On earth awhile to float and dwell,—
A breaking forth of melodies above,
A speech of seraphim, on lips of Love!

And oft, methinks, the tones which die
And soundless grow to mortal ear,
May re-ascend their mystic Sky,
From whence they sank to our low sphere,—
Like that bright Choir who soar'd from Judah's plain,
To chant in heaven what earth ne'er heard again.

THE REDEEMER'S SIGH.

“And looking up to Heaven, He sighed.” Mark vii. 34.

And did The gentle Saviour sigh,
As once He wept a tear,
When sorrow dimm'd His mournful eye
Drawn from a mortal sphere?

Then let the Church this breathing sign
Of Christ's unutter'd thought,
With all that spoken love combine
With which each word was fraught.

For, oh, it proves a symbol deep
Beyond what language tells
When most true Pathos bids us weep
Beneath her moving spells—

How Christ in sorrow, pangs, and tears,
Though social, stood alone,
Since while He wept for others' fears,
He chiefly sigh'd His own.

And in that hour, when doing good,
While making dumbness speak,
Dark meanings fill'd His solitude,
And shaded brow and cheek.

When sinful men a boon bestow,
Bright gladness marks the hour;
They do not sigh, but only glow
To feel their gracious power;

But such the cup of anguish quaff'd
Emmanuel in His gloom,—
He wept and sigh'd, but never laugh'd,
From manger to the tomb!

His life was one celestial pain,
A martyrdom of care;
Denial had its perfect reign
In each perfection there.

Through all some crucifixion ran,
The Cross became His will,
Where God beheld a faultless man,
And cries, “Behold him!” still.

MAN'S HEART, DECEITFUL ABOVE ALL THINGS.

“The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it? I the Lord search the heart.”—Jer. xvii. 9, 10.

As Christ was God in flesh array'd,
So God in language is that Word
Where man is inwardly portray'd,
As though his copied heart were heard.

For not a single throb of thought
Vibrates within his viewless mind,
That is not to conviction brought
By heaven's dread Book, which reads mankind!

And is not this a crushing tone,
An avalanche of stern rebuke,
A thunder-peal from His high throne
Before whose glance Creation shook,—

That Man becomes incarnate lie,
A living mass of low deceit,
Baffling the search of mortal eye
To scan the guiles which in him meet?

Beyond all creatures, and above
What sin and Satan can unfold,
The venom'd coil around him wove,—
The serpent-depths no tongue has told!

And desperate too, if finite cure
Be all our hopes pretend to find,
Those fell deceits which men allure
And leave the conscience dead and blind.

We grant there are distinctions true
Between degrees of social worth;
For, some are tender, warm, and true,
And others, iced as frozen earth:

And some we hail, whose hearts expand
Like bounding waves beneath the sun;
While these, with shut and selfish hand
A vile career of passion run.

Gradations thus 'tween man and man
When measured by our moral test,
Are undenied; and reason can
Perceive them in the human breast.

But still, if heavenward we ascend,
And by the law of love divine
Discern how far our natures tend,
Apart from Thee, oh God! and Thine,

Then, hear a thunder-peal like this
From out the clouds of Scripture roll,—
“Deceitful and most desperate is
The life of unconverted soul!”

And can we dare this truth deny,
How nature marks her hate with smiles,
And loves the most enamell'd lie
Which polishes her venal wiles?

And if, alas! ourselves we scan,
Deceitful prove we, to the core!
The child doth prophesy the man,
The man repeats the child before:

All, all, in youth, and age alike,
Abroad, at home, for word or thought
The bosom may with anguish strike,
And be with full contrition fraught,

If but an hour we search, and see
What broken vows condemn our ways,
How fairest resolutions flee,
And we are charm'd by cheating praise!

The very sins men weep at morn
And at the mercy-seat confess,
Again before the night, are born,
And stain them with new loathsomeness!

Well may we hang the head, and mourn,
Nor doubt that piercing Word is true
Which saith, no Hearts to heaven return
Except by mercy, born anew.

Faith heeds not how false worldlings smile;
God's truth can ne'er be sneer'd away;
The heart is one abyss of guile
Whose throbs, like Judas, Christ betray.

And in us all by nature lurk
The germs of unimagined crime,
Which often dares the Demon's work
And crimsons o'er the cheek of Time.

Yes, Adam, Cain, and Peter's lie,
Herod and David in their sin,—
Let candour search, and so descry
Their secret prototypes within.

Come, Holy Spirit! mystic Dove,
Thine innocence from heaven impart;
Our hate transform to heavenly love,
And build Thy temple in our heart.

The purest soul pleased Earth admires,
Who to the centre scans it all?
The highest Angel back retires,
And prostrate worlds in silence fall.

Who knows it? Echo answers, “Who?”
Created minds are bow'd and dumb:—
“Jehovah, I can search it through,
And enter where no creatures come.”

Tremendous thought! that God and man
By contrast both should searchless be;
The last too vile for thought to scan,
The First, unfathom'd Deity!

EXPRESSIVE NIGHT.

“Night unto night showeth knowledge.”—Ps. xix. 2.

“Even the night shall be light about me.”—Ps. cxxxix. 11.

Shades of the soft and stealing night!
More eloquent than joyous light
Is your dark magic, deep and still
Descending over bower and hill.

There is a hush, a holy spell
Breathed o'er dim earth by day's farewell;
A calm more chaste than words define,
A feeling that is half divine.

I love to watch the quiv'ring gleams
Of twilight, when they braid the streams,
Or with slant radiance hue the flowers,
Which close their lids in garden-bowers.

Now, cold and mute Creation grows,
As drops her curtain of repose;
The birds are songless, and the air
Seems hallow'd into silent prayer.

Like Music's death, serene and slow,
Pale twilight yields a pensive glow,
And soon will turret, tree, and spire,
All viewless into gloom retire.

Now is the witching time for thought,
Th' elect of heaven have ever sought;
By patriarch, saint, and poet found
With high-breathed instincts to abound.

Angelic choirs may now descend
And with our souls serenely blend,
Hover around where'er we stray,
And thrill, when Thought begins to pray.

Thus, when the fev'rish day was o'er,
Rapt Jesu sought the quiet shore;
Or, on loved Hermon, lone and still,
Breathed, “Oh, my Father! do Thy will.”

So, Christian, while the prayerless throng
Whirl time away in feast and song,
Be thine the pure and placid spell
Which night and nature weave so well.

Creation, providence, and grace,
Let each assume its hallow'd place
In thought serene,—by Heaven bestow'd
On all who trace the narrow road.

Night is the time when buried days
Rise from their tomb, and dim our gaze
With tearful shades, from scenes of yore,
And loving hearts which throb no more.

So rules the Past, that faint and far
As fancy eyes each vestal star,
Young poets dream how there abide
The deathless ones, on earth who died.

Night for the present, too, creates
A charm which oft the mind elates,—
A lone, but still a lofty dream
That men are more than yet they seem.

And on thy future let such hour
Look like a prophet in his power,
Predicting much that God and grace
Reveal to guide our erring race.

Nor be forgot, in heaven Thou art
A Priest, oh Christ! whose boundless heart
Thrills to each cry, which all may dare
To utter forth in fervid prayer.

Now in the hush of holy night
Claim we, blest Lord! the glorious right
Before Thy Throne of grace to bring
All forms of human suffering:—

A Husband to the widow be;
A Sire may orphans find in Thee;
And to Thy sad and stricken poor
Let heaven unfold its waiting door;

And where dejected hearts incline
To question, Lord, the Will divine,
The Blood of sprinkling let it fall,
And while it cleanses, calm them all.

For church, for country, and for child,
A mother dear, or sister mild,
For all true souls and social ties
Now let entreating prayer arise.

And, cradled on maternal breast,
May each sweet babe in slumber rest,
And round pale captives in their cells
Hover dear homes, and native dells.

Morn, noon, and night, O God! are Thine,
In whom their blended charms combine;
Nor is there scene, or spot, or hour
Untouch'd by Thy mysterious power.

Yet, faith and feeling both declare
That hour belongs to Thee and prayer,
When stillness to the soul is given,—
For night, not day, seems nearest heaven.

THE PRAYERLESS.

“Thou restrainest prayer before God.”—Job xv. 4.

“If thou knewest the gift of God ------ thou wouldest have asked of Him, and He would have given thee living water.”—John iv. 10.

“My heart is cold, I cannot pray,”
Methinks I hear the worldling say;—
But is not this blind nature's sin?
Thou graceless outcast! lift thine eyes
To where man's home of glory lies,
And thou may'st hear the God within.

Did we but fathom more and more
Our inward deeps, we should deplore
Those unborn sins which there abide:
With truthful anguish might we plead
For God to help our sinful need,
And cast us on The Crucified!

Who does not pray, our God unthrones,
His word rejects, His will disowns,
Till life becomes one guilty sigh;
Pure Reason from her shrine is hurl'd,
And earth appears an orphan'd world,
Whose Maker is no more on high.

O, creed of death! and cold despair,
Which thus repels the power of prayer,
By peerless saints and martyrs loved;
Since faith and reason both unite
To vindicate God's awful right,
By prayer to have His throne approved.

The very Power to whom we pray
Is He who prompteth what to say,—
'Tis spirit, more than spoken word;
For thought is speech, and heard on high
The sadness of some low-breathed sigh,
When penitence by love is stirr'd.

Alas! for thee, thou prayerless one,
Thy living hell is now begun
In passion blind, and base desire;
The torment of apostate will
Must ever make thy chosen ill,
And fill thee with perdition's fire.

Could vain men see how vile they are,
Sublime would beat the pulse of prayer
In temple, home, or twilight-field;
Believing thus with loving thought
What strength to Christ Himself it brought,—
Pure bliss would high devotion yield.

But, dost thou mourn thy heart is cold,
And rev'rence truth divinely bold?
Then, undevout one, here it lies,—
Th' unfeeling soul, and faithless mind,
Oh, these are they which render blind
When upward gaze thy restless eyes.

This world is far too closely coil'd
Around a heart by pleasure soil'd,
Where sin, desire, and Satan dwell;
Ambition's guilt and lust of gain
Within thee hold infernal reign,
And triumph with a wizard spell.

But wouldst thou taste the bliss of prayer,
Breathing on earth celestial air?
Then, burst thy Belial chains away!
Each wand'ring thought to God call home,
And ponder on the world to-come
Till conscience prompt thee how to pray.

Go, learn it of that martyr'd host
Who bled for Christ, and pray'd the most
Because they loved Him unto death;
Hark! how their wingèd raptures rise,
And catch the lustre of their eyes
Who praised Him with departing breath.

Or, rather That pure Spirit seek,
Whose love can so uplift the weak
When dull they seem, and dead they grow,
Till oft with mental groans unheard
Their souls by unbreathed prayer are stirr'd,
And with devotion overflow.

Incarnate God! while here we live,
Be this our prayer, “Forgive! forgive!”—
But, who can fathom all we mean?
Eternity itself will prove
A paraphrase of pardoning love,
And teach Heaven what the Cross hath been!

DREAD SACRIFICE.

“Take now thy son, thine only son, Isaac, whom thou lovest, and offer him for a burnt-offering.”— Gen. xxii. 2.

And must a father slay his only child?
Dark thought in which ten thousand deaths abide!
Was ever parent with such blood defiled,
Or such a victim to a God supplied?

And Isaac too! the promised heir of age,
The child of covenant, by heaven bestow'd
To cheer the sire in his sad pilgrimage,
At whose glad birth his full heart overflow'd.—

'Tis thus, whate'er in living depths of love
Haunts the pure heart, parental as profound,
Might well have shudder'd at the Voice above,
“Let Isaac for my human lamb be bound!”

If dies the son, then how shall Abram's seed
Inherit Canaan's heaven-distinguish'd land?
Or, if the child must by the parent bleed,
How can the covenant in Isaac stand?

Reason and conscience, shall they both arise,
And shrinking heart-blood grow with terror pale
When looks the patriarch in loved Sara's eyes,
And on his lip expires the awful tale?

The savage heathen, will they not abhor
A God of blood, and call the deed profane
Beyond the fury of the fiercest war,
That strews a battle-field with tombless slain?

And thus, if nature be the only guide
Of what a patriarch in such hour should be,
Rebellion had the tempting God denied,
And back recoiled from vocal Deity.

But faith the hoary friend of God inspired,
And mortal Will before a Voice divine
Fell like a sacrifice, by love attired
And offer'd freely on Religion's shrine.

Obedience absolute, submission's law,
On this alone the patriarch's eye was bent,
And God was greater than the grief he saw,
Whose Hand recall'd the mercy He had lent.

Perchance, 'twas in the hush of holy night
The dread command to offer Isaac came,
E'en while the father, lull'd with fond delight,
In dreams parental murmur'd Isaac's name.

For, soon as Morning o'er the orient hills
Shook the bright dewdrops from her beaming hair,
Behold, the sire his sacred work fulfils,
Strong with resolve, and sanctified by prayer.

But ah! forgive him, if from Sara's eye
His shrinking heart refused to take farewell;
He could not trust the cadence of a sigh
Which might have hinted, what he dared not tell.

Three days they travell'd on, that son and sire,
And sought together Christ's prophetic hill,
Where this must bleed in sacrificial fire,
And that His own devoted offspring kill.

It was indeed a spectacle profound
And touch'd with majesty, and truth how meek!
When the hoar'd Patriarch on bland Isaac bound
The wood for sacrifice,—and did not speak.

Part II. THE MORAL.

But when at length a signal cloud reposed
On the lone hill, where God would have the deed,
Did not the hand which then a knife enclosed
Tremble, and all the father in him bleed?

And, hark, how piercing, like a thrill of death,
Clave through his soul one simple cry of love,
“My father!”—in the fondness of that breath
How did the patriarch seek for strength above!

“My father!” and he answer'd, “Here I am;”
“The wood behold, and here the needed fire,
But where is found the sacrificial lamb
Which God ordain'd should in the flame expire?”

“God will provide!”—'twas all he dared to speak;
So went the pilgrims to their awful task,
The blood grew paler on the patriarch's cheek,
But no deliv'rance did cold reason ask.

The Lord had spoken! He who cannot err,
His fiat issued, “Slay thy son for Me;”
True to his God,—rebellion shall not stir.
But Faith adore Him on submissive knee.

And ne'er did infant with its clinging form
And tiny limbs of tenderness, embrace
The fondling circle of a mother's arms,
When she enclasps it,—with a blander grace,

Than did calm Isaac to the cordage yield
His frame for havoc on the burning pile;
Not once outcried he at the coming death,
But gazed on Slaughter with religious smile.

His limbs are bound, and on the altar laid
Behold the parent sees an only son!
And now, both hand and heart display'd
A faith unparagon'd, since time begun.

But God is mercy: hark! like thunder mild
From clouds of golden beauty rolls the cry,
“Friend of Jehovah! spare thine offer'd child,
And mark yon victim, in the thicket nigh.”

Believer! Christ was in that angel-voice,
And His atonement typed in all the scene,—
Child of Jehovah's everlasting choice
Who hath the Isaac of salvation been.

But would we in some lower range of truth
Search for the holy spells our hearts require?
Then may we trace them on that sainted youth,
And see them mirror'd in his matchless sire.

By large devotion of our loving will,
Like the meek Isaac's let our spirit bend,
And with unreas'ning faith at once fulfil
Whate'er the fiat of our God may send:

To live, or die, be healthy, sick, or sad,
In wealth to bask, or poverty to bleed,
In gloom to perish, or in peace be glad,—
Let God decide, who understands our need.

And ye, who clasp with such intense desire
Of fond retention in life's vale below,
The breathing Idols whom your souls admire,
Think of the patriarch in some night of woe!

The fondest heart, round which affection twines,
Is most obtain'd when most in God enjoy'd,
And happiness with sacred lustre shines,
When not by shades of selfish will alloy'd.

Disciples must not, like the godless, cleave
To aught created in this world of sense;
Nor round the ruins of the present grieve,
As though the future had no Providence!

The cherish'd Isaacs of our heart and creed
Like a pure holocaust of grace must fall,
And on Love's altar, while we inly bleed,
To heaven and duty Faith must offer all.

The dearest sacrifice is aye the best,
And let us yield it, though severe the rod;
For on this truth may bleeding Anguish rest,—
We lose an idol, but we gain a God.

PERFECT PEACE.

“Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee.”—Isa. xxvi. 3.

Humility doth mark
The child of heaven within salvation's ark:
Through all his hallow'd ways
He harps the hymn of ever-deep'ning praise,
For mercies which surpass
The power of numbers to recount, or class;—
Yet, sins as sumless claim a constant tear,
That God, by prayer invoked, may hush all guilty fear!

But humble though the hearts
Of God's own children, this their creed imparts,—
A boldness to believe
That Christ is near them, when His chosen grieve:
Though each an atom seem
Lost in vast glories which around Him stream,
Each individual heart and lonely mind
In Christ a Brother clasps, and bears its doom resign'd.

No mere Abstractions dead,
By science out of arid reason bred,
And call'd creation's laws,
Which Sense adoreth as presiding Cause,—
A faith divine can own;
But o'er all life perceives the Saviour's throne:
A God tripersonal believers love,
And in Emmanuel's name seek all they find above.

Though moral earthquakes shock
The Systems round us, till they reel and rock;
While mad Opinion rules,
And Satan out of pride begets dark schools
Of sentiment, or sin,
Which scorn without, and stifle Truth within.—
A more than halcyon in his bosom reigns,
Who hath a Heart in heaven which echoes all his pains.

Unstable is weak earth;
And nothing which in space, or time, has birth,
A resting-place can give
To Souls who on this tearful world must live;
Since wayward passions will
Haunt the vex'd world, and never leave it still;—
The gnawing fever of some inward pain
Is all unchristian hearts from their false life obtain.

But, there is peace divine,
A calm unrippled, which, O God! is Thine;
A rest of saintly thought
From out the deeps of heaven by mercy brought;
It droppeth like a dew
The Hermon of the heart distilling through,
And, 'mid the restless change time undergoes,
That peace remains unmarr'd, above convulsive woes.

Salvation rears the walls
Of that truth-keeping race whom Jesu calls;
Under His shielding arms
The burden'd mind escapes from sinful harms;
And while transgressors roam
Abroad unrestful, and the same at home,
No dread concussion in the realms of Time
Can rob believing souls of this their calm sublime.

Descend then, Prince of Peace!
And with thy Spirit bring worn minds release;
When skies and seas depart
Serene eternity of truth Thou art,

Lord of celestial life!
Beyond our sorrows, and above our strife;—
Yet so benignant, that Thine eye can see
Each pulse of loving prayer which throbs the heart to Thee.

STARRY DREAMS.

“Tell the stars if thou be able to number them.”—Gen. xv. 5.

“He telleth the number of the stars: he calleth them all by their names.”—Ps. cxlvii. 4.

“We have seen his Star in the East.”—Matt. ii. 2.

Their names and numbers who can tell,
Yon quiv'ring gems of mystic light!
That throb with such irradiant spell
And fascinate our dreaming sight;

So countless looks their burning throng
No finite thought their sum can hold;
For, like a secret, they belong
To One by numbers uncontroll'd.

How beautiful their lustres are!
Whether on infant-eyes they gleam,
Which often, like some pensive star,
Glance moisten'd with a mournful beam:

Or, when in elder life we gaze
On each faint pulse of throbbing fire,
Till feeling hearts reflect the rays
And mirror back what they inspire.

So fair to each and all they shine,
Stars often seem responsive Eyes
That greet us from their calm divine,
And answer our ascending sighs.

Attracted out of earth and time
The starry vault of air we roam,
And dream the poetry sublime,
Which makes each orb a spirit's home:

A home, perchance, where, bright and blest,
The loved, but not the lost, remain,
Whom there embower'd in blissful rest
Our souls may clasp in heaven again.

Ye dead! whose tombs are loving hearts,
Whose epitaphs, memorial tears,
Whose image from no scene departs,
But shades the colour of our years,

Not seldom, when the noise of day
Beneath the trance of dewy night
Is hush'd, and meekly dies away
The last wan smile of waning light,

Lone martyrs of dejection steal
From the harsh scene of crowd and care,
Religion in the stars to feel
As though enshrined in glory there.

How eloquent that voiceless hour!
Holy, as if creation knelt,—
Or mute before her Maker's power
Thrill'd Earth some adoration felt.

Yet, would that in primeval days
These orbs of speaking light had known
No worship which mere wonder pays,
And orient verse hath often shown;

For oh! their beauty, radiance, power,
Which seem'd oracularly bright,
Such myst'ry wove at midnight hour
That gods they grew to heathen sight.

Yet not by us, in Christ renew'd,
Pure members of His Body made,
Are heaven's bright miracles so view'd,
Though dazzling be their spell display'd.

We love them! for indeed they look
So placid, mournful, pale and mild,
That when we read Night's starry book,
We spell it, like a lisping child.

Like gleaming Apparitions sent,
They beckon man on high, to see
His home enspheres yon firmament,
That shines in starr'd eternity.

And tears will often through the eyes
Distill the heart, and make us seem
As though we sail'd cerulean skies,
Unbodied in some astral dream!

But more than sentiment and song
The host of heaven from hearts excite,
Who feel that to such orbs belong
Deep lustres which excel the light.

For, can we not pure incense bring
To Him, the bright and Morning Star?
Some anthems round His cradle sing,
Surpassing eastern magi far?

Though jewell'd mines we cannot give,
Not ours, but us, Emmanuel claims;
And if on Him by love we live,
His breastplate bears our chosen names.

Be ours the incense of a soul,
Through faith and fellowship divine
Rising beyond where planets roll,—
And richer than Arabia's mine.

True sacrifice is love alone:
And worship from unwav'ring Hearts,
To Him Who wields creation's throne
A throb of finite bliss imparts.

Without it, vile are myrrh and gold,
And vain the swell of soaring word,—
For He who can our thought behold,
A loveless prayer has never heard.

So may the church to Christ present
Our body, spirit, soul, and all,
That truth and grace omnipotent
May us elected children call.

Such worship will be hail'd on high
Where uncreated glories shine,
When heavenward soars the wafted sigh
Which meekly warbles, “Christ is mine.

“In life and death, my Lord, Thou art,
Celestial Prophet, Priest, and King!
True incense is a grateful heart,
And this makes all my love can bring.”

CHRIST OUR PORTION.

“There is none on earth I desire besides thee.”—Ps. lxxiii. 25.

“The Lord is the portion of mine inheritance.”—Ps. xvi. 5.

“Your life is hid with Christ in God.”—Colos. iii. 3.

Whom have I in the heavens but Thee
Adoring faith desires to see,
Divinely pure and perfect fair
Whom all Thy works and words declare?

The heavenliness of heaven art Thou,
Who bor'st the curse upon Thy brow;
And round the Throne no glories shine
Which issue not from Thee, or Thine.

Imbruted Minds, that think, nor pray,
Basking in pleasure's sensual ray,—
No cloud appears to shade their sky,
And nothing tells them Sin must die!

Yet, soon the lying spell recedes,
The worm awakes, and conscience bleeds
When sickness chokes the ebbing breath,
And life is darken'd into death.

Oh, in that hour of shudd'ring prayer
Eternity from God may glare,
And luridly emerge from hell
Secrets, and Shapes, no tongue can tell!

Lord of true bliss, in joy and health
Be Thou our wisdom, hope, and wealth;
Without Thee, vain are creatures all!—
A universe we nothing call

If center'd not in this high creed,
That God alone can help our need;
Christ in the creature is the goal
Of all which should attract the soul.

The Lord our true perfection is,
Both law of Being, and the bliss;
Dark, dead, and cold, creation seems,
If not enrobed with sacred gleams

Caught from the Presence, and the power
Of Christ, who hallows scene and hour,
Matter and mind, and makes them good,
By showing each with heaven imbued.

Friendship and love, though pure and deep,
Can echo not lone cares which sleep
Unsyllabled within the mind,
And shun the gaze of mortal kind.

And shifting hues there play of thought,
And feelings with devotion fraught,
Dejected hours, and voiceless moods
When souls are thinking solitudes,—

Sigh, tear, nor language then reveals
The awful gloom pale conscience feels,
When man's o'erburden'd heart within
Bows with eternity, and sin.

Alone we live, alone we die,
Unfathom'd by no human eye,
But search'd by Him, whose wisdom can
Peruse the depths of inward man.

Thus, orphan'd Souls who cannot see
On earth one source of sympathy,
Whose hearts unecho'd pray and beat,
Are answer'd at the Mercy-Seat,

Where Heaven's incarnate Love replies
To each mysterious heart that sighs,
And while unwitness'd tear-drops fall,
In grace descends, and dries them all.

God in the mind makes glory there,
The spring of thought, the source of prayer;
From Whom adoring saints derive
Stern grace against themselves to strive.

Let God then thy religion be,
And not religion, God to thee:
Without Him, worlds would leave us poor,
And with Him, who can want for more?

ANGELS.

“Of the Angels he saith, Who maketh his Angels spirits, and his ministers a flame of fire.”—Heb. i. 7.

“Some have entertained Angels unawares.”—Heb. xiii. 2.

Ye bright-wing'd Choir! who in the rays
Which beautify yon realm of glory,
Delight to read in rich amaze,
The archives of redemption's story,—
More magical your lustres seem
Than ever crowded poet's dream.

Before the countless stars began
To glisten through the dewy air,
Or Heaven perceived adoring man
Ascend her crystal height with prayer,
Your beaming Shapes, around the Throne,
Ages of wordless joy had known.

Serene, and passionless, and pure,
Unshaded by the hue of sin,
No discord can the will allure
To mar each moral tone within,—
That melody of sainted love,
The pulse of bliss which beats above.

Dread Angels! who excel in strength,
And sung creation's birthday song,
Or, through the world's unmeasured length
In viewless splendour wing'd along,—
When God commands them, glide and go,
With speed that proves the lightning slow!

Stern ministers of sacred wrath,
How often their avenging hands
Emptied God's vials o'er the path
Of guilt, and atheistic lands,
When blood and blasphemy began
To render earth a hell for man.

Yon cities, cinder'd by the burst
Of red destruction's rolling flame;
The myriads by the plague accurst,
Whose ruin darken'd David's name;
And banner'd hosts, which in one night
Were blasted by resistless blight,—

Oh! these reveal how dread and vast
In bodiless and bright array
Such Angels are, who have not cast
Their crowns of innocence away;
But ranged before the Godhead, still,
Brighten as each obeys His will.

And when we turn to that high Word
Where Christ, and church, and christian meet,
Are not emotions deeply stirr'd,
To mark above the Mercy-Seat
How studious Angels bend and strain,
To see what truths its depths contain?

Confirm'd, tho' not redeem'd by Him,
Lord of the radiant hosts above,
Legions of loyal seraphim
In Christ concenter all their love;
Thus saints and angels both combine
To chant the praise of Blood Divine.

And bless'd as beautiful the thought,
That when man's rebel-heart they see
Repent for sin the soul hath wrought,
They arch their wings in ecstasy;
While louder, louder swells the tone
These harpers chant around the Throne!

And is not earth the haunt and home
Of mysteries more than sense descries,
Where viewless Spirits round us roam,
Unvisioned by embodied eyes?—
Hence that which science never saw,
Seems more an angel than a law.

The motions of material things
So wonderful, involved, and vast,
Each hue and harmony that brings
Expression, where our looks are cast,
Serene, or exquisite, or grand,—
Some working angel may have plann'd.

And, when amid the flushing noon
Faith wanders forth in woods, or fields,
Or hearkens to the breezy tune
A choral landscape round her yields,
And thus with calm contentful eye
Drinks the deep spell of earth and sky,—

Then, dream not that impassive laws
Can e'er achieve what mind must do;
If each effect presumes a cause,
Let Nature have her master too;
Till all her work, beneath the sun
Seems duty, by an Angel done.

The meanest object man can view,
A herb, a pebble, or a ray
Which tints the grass with golden hue,
Might prompt poetic mind to pray;
And Faith can nothing coldly see,
If there angelic spell-work be.

And, oh! how solemn grows the scene
When not beheld as dumb and dead,
But one where spirits intervene,
And such a consecration shed,
That, like a temple, common air
Inspires religion every-where!

As features in some lovely face
Express the soul, eye cannot see,
And shadow forth with speaking grace
Each line of sorrow, hope, or glee,—
Moved elements may oft reveal
What angels from cold sense conceal.

Thus, sun and air, and cloud-graced heaven,
The lisping wave, or laughing wind,
With whatsoe'er to earth is given
Attuned to man's accordant mind,
Should make us dream, where'er we stray,
Unvision'd angels throng the way.

The sunbeam in its happy toil,
The breeze that fans an infant flower,
Those dew-falls which refresh the soil
Or beautify a sylvan bower,—
Pure Minds with peaceful wonder fill,
Who trace them to angelic skill.

The motion of mysterious storms
That glance and play with hectic gleam,
May be the flutter of their forms,
The glory which their garments beam,
When, summon'd by their vast control,
The fiery tempests flash and roll!

RELIGION AND THE SEA.

“Fear God, and worship him that made the sea.”—Rev. xiv. 7.

“Jesus went unto them, walking on the sea.”—Matt. xiv. 25.

Eternity of waters! there Thou art,
Dear to the eye, and glorious to the heart;
Bounding in brightness as they plunge on shore,
I greet thy waves, and gladden in their roar.

Alone in grandeur, ever-living Sea!
Thou swelling anthem sung to Deity,
When thy deep thunders with a dying fall
Roll like Hosannahs to the Lord of All.

Religion only to thy power replies
And echoes back the solemn harmonies,
Which seem to tell with supernatural tone,—
Here God is reigning on His ocean-throne!

And ever, O thou Element of might!
Hast thou administer'd a dread delight
To all who heard thy loud pulsations beat,
Till shores embay'd seem'd throbbing at their feet.

Before the birth of billow, or of wind,
Thou rolledst through the Everlasting Mind
In waves hereafter destined to expand,
And bathe the shores of many a famous land.

Man rules the earth, but God upon the sea
By vast distinction doth appear to be,
Whose swelling glories baffle change and time,
And awe the conscience, like a creed sublime.

Kindred with man, deep Ocean! movest thou,
Baring to heaven thine ever-dauntless brow;
In all the murmurs of thy mighty heart
A mystic echo of his mind thou art.

Passion intense, and sentiment profound
In thee some answer to such moods resound;
While haunted Sadness, tender, deep, and lone,
Thrills to the pathos of thy pensive tone.

Genius and Glory, both in thee delight,
Heard in gay morn, or through the hush of night,
When, like a psalm, thy billowy tongues proclaim
How nature murmurs with her Maker's name.

And has not Painting from thy myriad views
Of liquid grace, and oceanic hues,
An inspiration for her colours caught,
Making immortal what thy spell has wrought?

The Poet, too, in ev'ry age hath been
A solemn haunter of thy wizard scene;
In breeze, or blast, rich noon, or balmy eve,
To him thy waves cathedral-anthems weave.

He can interpret thine impassion'd mood,
And sympathise with sea-made solitude;
By rock and bay, or sanded beach can roam
And feel immensity his proper home.

Nor need we tell how Commerce hath supplied
An empire's storehouse from the wafting tide,
Since on thy waters, far as winds can flee,
Her boundless treasures are attain'd by Thee.

Still less doth Valour need victorious lyres
To sing how Britain's heart the sea inspires:—
The Isle of Freedom is the friend of waves,
That field of battle where the world she braves!

And will not heroes of the Cross who roam,
Far from the spells which bind the heart to home,
To tell the heathen how the Lord is King,
Chants of true glory to old Ocean bring?—

Majestic, lone, and melancholy Sea!
Sprung from thy God in dread immensity,
For aye art thou to reverential mind
A floating wonder by no words defined.

A vast eternity in endless flow
Thine image wears; and in thy depths below
How sleep the young, the beautiful, and brave,
Till the last trumpet shall unclose their grave!

Farewell! thou symbol of almighty grace,
Whose deeps adumbrate what for our lost race
Mercy provides, when pardon's hush'd abyss
Engulphs the guilt which loads a world like this.

Eternal seem'st thou till th' Archangel rings
A blast that summons all created things;
Then rise the dead from out thy dismal roar,
And Time shall gaze upon the sea no more!

IDOLS IN THE HEART.

“These men set up their idols in their heart.”—Ezek. xiv. 3.

“Little children, keep yourselves from idols.”—1 John v. 21.

There was a time, in ages dead,
When temples huge and vile
Their lowering fronts of darkness spread
O'er Albion's sea-wall'd isle.

But Christ by His apostles came
To preach the word divine,
And, lo! before truth's living flame
Dissolved each idol-shrine.

And now, a Church maternal opes
Her arms of christian love,
Embracing with their new-born hopes
Bright children for above.

And by her sacraments and rites,
Her discipline and care,
Calm vigil, fast, and chaste delights,
And pure diurnal prayer,

With whatsoe'er of secret grace
The Lord to her commits,
She strives to rear a heavenly race,
And each for glory fits.

But oh, these hearts we poorly scan
If idols none are seen;
Their temple is that inner man
Where God's own gaze hath been!

Eye cannot pierce, nor ear perceive
What buried thoughts avow;
Yet souls, who dare the Spirit grieve,
Must to some idol bow.

We shudder when Christ's heroes find
Myriads in pagan gloom,
With poison'd heart, and palsied mind,
And conscience like a tomb:

Such tale when holy Mission tells,
Demands the Church's tear;
And who can hear of demon-spells
Nor throb with sacred fear?

But, are not souls baptised a home
For God enshrined within?
Father and Spirit, do they come
To reign o'er self and sin?

Yet, what if our base idol be
Desire, instead of God?
Proud will,—a strong divinity
That rules us with a rod?

Say, are we not, before the eye
Of Him who fathoms thought,
Idolators, whose hearts deny
The God our fathers sought?

We need not by the stumbling-block
Of wood, or stone, or gold,
Discerning reason madly shock
With shapes which men behold;

Idolatry depraves the Will,
Our idols are desires,
When once our breast some passion fills
Which aught, save God, inspires.

It may be, that the crown of praise,
The wreath proud genius wears,
A warrior's plume, or poet's bays
Excite ambition's prayers;

Or, forms of love, whose grace becomes
The bloom and breath of all
We value in these earthly homes,—
May weave our inward thrall;

A husband in the wife may see
A heaven of human charms;
Or, he to her, life's angel be,
A shield from daily harms;

Or infant beauty, like a ray
From her own being sent,
To mother's love, may night and day
Impart too deep content:

Whate'er the guise, or winning name
Our bosom-idols take,
Strange incense with our altar-flame
Is blent, when we forsake

That God who claims the heart alone
For His peculiar shrine:—
A creature must not mount the Throne
Where rules a Love divine.

Heirs of the Spirit, are we not
Anointed sons of grace?
Alas! if our celestial lot
By treason we efface.

To some base darling of desire,
Some earth-made god of sin,
Shall censers hold unhallow'd fire,
By passion breathed within?

Oh, better far that love and life,
With hope, and peace, and joy,
Howe'er with seeming mercy rife,
Some blast from heaven destroy;

Better be friendless, aidless, lone,
With none to weep our woes,
Than let some idol seize that throne
Sworn faith to Jesu owes.

For what is there, on this side hell,
Which so like hell appears?—
A doom of dooms! no tongue can tell,
Thus rolling on our ears,

“Ephraim to idols hath his heart
From God and glory turn'd,—
Let him alone, and be his part
The solitude he earn'd!”

INFANTS AND INFANCY.

“Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings thou hast perfected praise.”—Matt. xxi. 16.

The dew-drop, in whose mirror lies
A miniature of morning skies;
The violet-bud which blooms in spring,
The flower-bee on its fairy wing,
The broken lisp of some shy brook
That babbles in a shady nook,

All that is fragile, coy, and fair,
As types of beauty, may declare
The cherub-loveliness that seems
To mantle those embodied dreams,
Sweet infants! when their baby forms
Come forth to face life's gloomy storms.

Oh! I can watch, and almost weep
To view some angel-child asleep;
To mark the alabaster brow
Where sinless calm is brooding now,
Or see the silken fringe that lies
And covers its innocuous eyes.

So have I stood, and heard each breath
Like music in melodious death,
And soft and slow it swells and heaves,
And at each fall such cadence leaves,
As may to pious fancy seem
A sigh for Glory in its dream.

There is a purity which plays
In the quick gleam of infant's gaze,
That innocence of heaven-born light
Which beams for vulgar sense too bright,—
A lustrous depth whose dazzling spells
Are richer than the blue gazelle's.

'Tis now the budding dawn of mind,
Ere the worn heart grows weak and blind;
The orient blush of radiant thought
Ere life is with those shadows fraught
Experience unto manhood brings,
Or sorrow round cold memory flings!

To see them in glad sunbeams play
As bounding and as bright as they,
Or, like young wavelets laugh and sing,
Or romp like breezes wild of wing
Exulting over fields and flowers,
When May-time leads the lovely hours,—

Oh, this can melt the heart, and make
Maturer life new colours take,
A sentiment of vernal hue,
Which softens down each sterner view

Till Age becomes a child again,
Encircled by some infant train!

But yet, a holier chain there is,
The glory of maternal bliss,
When first the blossom'd mind is heard,
In pretty lisp and prattled word,
While, peering through a curious eye,
It longs to measure earth and sky.

And, beautiful beyond compare
An infant kneeling down to prayer!
When, lifting up its little hands,
The soul beyond the age expands,
And, touch'd by God's baptismal grace,
Adores bright Merey face to face.

And Infancy hath inward speech,
A mental life, man cannot reach;
For, intercourse of grace may be
Between a babe and Deity,
Too rapt and raised for oral sign,
And deeper than our thoughts divine.

There's something holy in a child,
Ere yet by darken'd years defiled,
When lip, and brow, and cheek declare
'Tis fit for Jesu's arms in prayer;
And when to God and glory given,
Though born on earth, it breathes of heaven.

PARADISE OF THE DEAD.

“He is not a God of the dead, but of the living; for all live unto him.”—Luke xx. 38.

“Absent from the body, present with the Lord.”—2 Cor. v. 8.

“This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.”—Luke xxiii. 43.

“The general assembly of the first-born—the spirits of just men made perfect.”—Heb. xii. 23.

The dead in body are in soul alive;
Distinct locality to them belongs:
No more, like us, with sin and woe they strive,
But in those bowers, where rest the white-robed throng
With garments by atoning Blood made clean,—
Behold! pure Spirits who on earth have been.

In years departed, Superstition dared
That veil to ruffle with irrev'rent hand,
Behind whose folds lie undeclared
Secrets no bodied nature understands;
For there in awful shades, our God alone
Wields His dread sceptre, and holds back His throne!

But we are sense-blind, and too much adore
The painted dreams which time and space befall;
Full seldom do our hearts the dead restore,
Or back their features into life recall;
Their tombs like portals to oblivion were,
That closed upon us, when we laid them there.

Material life the sad horizon makes
Of half a worldling's creed pronounces true;
In soul a Sadducee, his reason takes
No holier vision and no higher view,
Than poor realities, which Flesh discerns,
And earth-sprung feeling into glory turns.

But Minds exist to whom the dead are dear;
Still in warm memory lives th' unburied past:
Their grief is something nobler than the tear
Impassion'd Feeling on their coffin cast;—
The disembodied to the heart and home,
Oft in pale dreams of resurrection come.

Shame on our souls! if narrow earth enclose
Spirits which have eternity to range;
If ne'er beyond the tomb a Christian throws
A thought which images their blest exchange,
Who neither bound, nor barr'd by blinding sense,
Reap in rapt bliss what Light and Love dispense.

A conscious portion of the Church are they
Who speed before us to the realm unknown;
Although no longer in the beams of day
They lift their brow, and call this life their own,
Yet do they all to that One Christ pertain,
Who out of dust shall rear their forms again.

Nor, let the worshipper of sense, who binds
To this base world an eagle-spirit down,
And only in the realm of Epicurus finds
His grandest sceptre and his brightest crown,—
Reflect on Hades, where the dead repose,
As whelm'd with darkness in a land of woes:

'Tis worse than pitiful, when men presume
Our God to limit to this world of crime;
Who call it vacancy beyond the tomb,
And make eternity succumb to time!
Whereas the Spirit, when unearth'd and free,
Is far diviner than this life can be.

Think on the numbers who to Christ have fled,
From babes too beautiful on earth to stay,
To those departing with a hoary head,
Beside whose couch 'twas heaven to watch and pray;—
Myriads which no created mind can count,
Complete the glory of that great amount.

And could we gaze beyond an earth-bound screen,
No barren solitude our eyes would view;
But, all empeopled with a host serene
The world of spirits would emerge as true,
And far more vital, glowing quick with mind,
Than this dull orb the Dead have left behind.

And oh! bethink thee, pilgrim, sad and lone,
Musing through capitals, where Ages dead
Lie sepulchred, and riven arch and stone
Reveal what desolation's curse hath bred,—
That all who throng'd some immemorial street,
Are mingled souls which now in Hades meet.

So, when thou linger'st on some battle-plain
Dyed by red carnage once, where Nations fell,
While banner'd thousands heard the iron rain
Of death-shot round about them roar, and swell,—
The spirits who that crimson light did face,
Are yet alive, and fill their destined place,

And in the churchyard, where some grassy mound
In trampled ruin all unweeded stands,
Or sculptured aisles, where marble tombs abound
And memory ponders while the mind expands,
Till saints and warriors, heroes, martyrs, all
Speak out of stone, and to the living call,—

Forget not, while the vaulted nave is trod,
That each unbodied is a thinking Soul
Under the blessing or the ban of God,
Replete with life, as when their felt control
By sceptred majesty, or moving speech,
The heart of empires and of men did reach.

Thus should we speculate on parted Mind,
And speak with tones of reverential truth,
Whene'er the screening veil of sense behind
Religion enters, and on age and youth
Dreams with pale awe, and hails the sumless host
Who still are loved, and not to faith the lost.

Yes, be our epitaphs of brighter cast,
And take our elegies a purer tone,
Nor speak, as if corporeal life surpass'd
The consciousness a spirit calls its own:—
Mere flesh can moulder, yet the Soul survives,
And in that thought there breathe immortal lives!

SUBLIME OF PRAYER.

“I beseech thee, show me thy glory.” Exod. xxxiii. 18.

Heroic guide of Judah's race
Who saw Jehovah face to face,
Sublime of men!—behold him now,
As there enshrined, within the cloud
Which wraps him like a burning shroud,
He boldly breathes the prayer, “O God, unveil Thy brow.

“Eternal! in the flaming sign
What though I saw dread beams combine,
When Sinai's bush was clothed with fire,
Or on Thy cloudy pillar gazed,—
Yet when the riven mountain blazed
With Thy descending pomp, I dared for more aspire!

And I have fasted, pray'd, and felt
For forty days my being melt
With wand'ring awe, as Thou didst trace
That ‘Pattern’ whose mysterious plan
O'erveil'd the future Christ for man,
And prophesied in types, the hidden truths of grace.

“And I have heard that thunder-tone
Which thrills high angels round the throne,—

The rollings of celestial Voice;
And seen unearthly lightnings play,
Which lit me up that rocky way
When Thy dread law decreed for life, or death, the choice.

“And now, I would no symbol see,
But gaze on full-orb'd Deity;
Thy glory let me witness now:
God of my soul! before I die,
Centre on Thee my thirsting eye,
And let Thy lustres bright through all my being flow!”

So prayed the meek, but yet the bold
Giant of grace, who would behold
The Self Eternal!—God reveal'd
Not in the shadow, nor the sign,
But in deep radiance all-divine,
Where dwells the viewless God, all gloriously conceal'd.

It was, indeed, a prayer sublime
Surpassing all conceived in time,
Or nature,—scaling that dread height
Where Attributes are searchless things,
And Seraphim reverse their wings,
And shrink, and shudder back, before Essential Light.

Yet, God is moved by mighty prayer;
And Moses found his answer there,
When ark'd within the cloven side
Of Horeb's sacramental rock,—
Jehovah “passed” him, while the shock
Of glory shook the soul, till awed Convulsion cried.

But we, who with reverted gaze
Can rend the veil of typic days,
May in the Church a glory view
Outshining far what Moses saw,
When God in thunder gave the law,
And lightnings red and fierce around Mount Tabor flew.

And is not this the prayer intense
Of all, who soar above what sense
And self and sin combine to claim,—
That more and more meek hearts may rise
To vision with prophetic eyes
What hidden splendours haunt Jchovah's hallowed name?

Divine ambition must be ours;
And faith so form the mental powers
Under Emmanuel's teaching grace,
That love in earth, and sea, and air,
May find reflected ev'ry-where
The glories which effulged before great Moses' face.

And how seraphic proves the spell
In those deep hearts, which love to dwell
Within the inner shrine of things!—
Who can all scenes in Christ behold,
And see, as in bright trance unroll'd,
The charms He there unveils, beyond what poet sings.

Standard and type for all who pray,
Be this the liturgy we say
To Him who hears the spirit cry,
“Thy deeper glories, God! unshroud;
Break, I beseech Thee, break the cloud,
And on Thyself unveil'd, oh, let me rest mine eye.”

The highest saint who heavenward soar'd,
Prophet, or priest, who God adored,
In this vast prayer their motto find:
Such Hearts will hunger, Lord of grace!
To look upon Thy perfect face,
And in that light supreme to love all human kind.

REPENTANCE.

“Repent ye, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.” Matt. iii. 2.

Wake, power divine, awake!
Arm of the Lord! arise,
And from our spirit take
The mist which round it lies;
Each blinding shade of self dispel
That veils the sin we love so well.

Stern Preacher of the wild!
Enrobed with camel-hair,
Convince cold hearts defiled,
And melt them into prayer;
Through conscience be thy thunder sent,—
“Arise! cold sleeper, and repent.”

Bold lightnings of reproof
Through each dead conscience dart,
Till we no more aloof
From heaven shall hide the heart:
E'en as of old, Judéa heard,
Be all our souls with anguish stirr'd.

Lift, brave Elijah, now
That voice of dauntless truth!
Till shame upon each brow
Of weeping age and youth
Shall print the scarlet blush that tells
What pang in deep repentance dwells.

Thine axe, Conviction, lay
Down to the roots of thought,
Until Remorse shall pray
O'er all vile sin hath wrought:
For that which love doth not inspire
Must perish in God's penal fire.

And let repentance prove
Its vigour by the fruit;
That cannot spring from love
Which doth not bud, and shoot,
And by a life of tears and prayers
Attest the change God's will declares.

Thy fan, O Spirit! wield,
And purge the chaff-strewn floor,
Until the garner yield
Of wheat a precious store;
Baptised with fire, so let us be,
And bid our hearts resemble Thee.

“Repent ye!”—'tis the cry
By conscience echoed back;
From earth and vaulted sky
Along our sin-worn track,
We hear its awful cadence roll
Like thunder through our warnèd soul.

Nor let religious pride
On fruitless names repose;
For heaven hath aye denied
A faith of forms and shows,
And, rather than rank falsehood own,
Will raise a seed from out the stone.

“Repent!”—again we hear
That cry of just alarm;
And let it shake the soul with fear,
To rouse the opiate charm
Which lulls the hypocrite to death,
And cheats him to his latest breath.

Repentance!—what is life
But matter fit for tears?
Since, all we are is rife
With worse than what appears:
If tried without, men are but sin;
Yet God discerns the heart within!

Our virtues oft are self
In bland disguise conceal'd;
Our charities to pelf
Some wretched incense yield,
And holy graces are at best
But weakness by religion dress'd.

Repent we then!—yet, where?
Not as Iscariot did;
But by the Cross in prayer
Be our deep anguish hid:
On Jesus gaze we, till the sight
Shall melt our hearts, and make them white.

Repentance stern and true
Exceeds all common woe:
Despair for crime may rue
And scalding tear-drops flow,
But Self in this alone abounds,—
Repentance rests on nobler grounds.

What is it but a change
By Godhead work'd within?
A principle whose range
Subdues the love of sin?
'Tis man renew'd, and heaven resought,
With hate for what our guilt has wrought.

And what can this create?
Not all the powers of earth;
The perfect forms of good and great
In wisdom, truth, or worth;—
Not heaven with glory, hell with pain
Could sinful man for God regain!

The faintest sin defies
A universe to crush
The strength which in it lies;
And so, 'twill madly rush
Downward to face th' infernal deep
Where blasted spirits burn and weep.

But, oh, there is a Power
This granite of the heart
To soften, in that hour
Ere conscience may depart,—
Atoning Love, through guilt forgiven,
The rescued heart can raise to heaven!

Such pure contrition springs
From Mercy's bleeding charm,
Whose soft compulsion wrings
The soul with safe alarm;
And thus, when wrought by Christ above
Repentance works by weeping love.

HEARTS WHICH HAVE NO ECHOES.

“The heart knoweth his own bitterness; and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy.”— Prov. xiv. 10.

Some hearts lie wither'd in their transient spring
Long ere the yellow leaf of change began;
Seldom to them may human summer bring
A beaming welcome from the soul of man.

Cinctured as by a preternatural spell,
Languid their pulse of low dejection beats;
Yet none who mark their smile-clad face, could tell
How dark the mood which back from man retreats!

And what, though circumstance may seem
To gladden life with fortune's envied glow,
Or on their brow some bright delusion beam,
Hiding the haunted gloom that reigns below,—

They bear a burden language could not speak,
They feel depression too profound for tears,
And blush to fancy a betrayful cheek
Should wear the paleness of their inward fears.

Yet, say not such sad martyrs of the mind
Are fever'd by ambition's vulgar fret;
Nor think they loathe the love of human kind,
Or hate warm hours when echoing souls are met.

But in them dwells the hush'd and voiceless thought,
How all which reigns without, or rules within,
With grave-like hollowness is ever fraught,
Or, canker'd through with selfishness and sin.

And oft the bitterness of secret pride
Rankles beneath the play of baffled will,
While Feeling, wounded by some fate denied,
Bleeds at the root, though all without look still.

And moods they cherish, passionate as deep,
And wing'd desires that eagle-like would soar,
Which never waken from their wordless sleep,
But prey upon the spirit more and more.

And when quick minds, electrically strung
As though each chord of feeling moved on fire,
Some pang would tell,—how oft the fearful tongue
Has felt each accent on the lip expire!

And thus there is a loneliness of heart,
In all deep souls a never-enter'd shrine,
Where neither love nor friendship takes a part,
Which no eyes witness, but, Jehovah! Thine.

But shall we mourn, that each is circled round
With veiling mystery from the ken of man?
That waters deep within the soul abound
No word has fathom'd, and no wisdom can?

No, rather let such merciful disguise
Move the just thinker unto grateful prayer;
For who could live beneath terrestrial eyes,
If such could witness all secreted there!

And if no mantle by our God were thrown
Round fallen souls, to hide man's world within,
How should we hate, what now we love to own,
And cry for darkness to conceal our sin!

None are so chaste, unselfish, and sincere,
As not to feel the taint of Adam's fall;
So, heaven in mercy hides that inmost sphere
Where each dreads each, and all would censure all.

Yet beats One Heart all other hearts above,
Whose sympathy no human errors tire,
E'en Thine, pure Lord of uncreated love,
Incarnate Semblance of The heavenly Sire!

There, may we prove deep tenderness divine,
And yet, so human that it wept and sigh'd;
And when to coldness burden'd hearts incline,
Haste we to Him, who loved us till He died.

There is no self in that almighty Heart,
No changing motion in the casual will,
For Thou, Lord Christ! celestial mercy art,
And though we shun Thee, Thou art gracious still.

O balmy thought! which, like nocturnal dews
Whose silver freshness stars the herbless plain,
When worse than midnight shades our mental views
Recalls Emmanuel to the mind again.

Others may gaze with half-averted eyes,
Coldly may spurn, or scan the woe we feel,
But o'er His heart are breathed our inward sighs,
And through His breast our veil'd emotions steal.

Nor can one shade of sorrow clothe the cheek,
Nor tear-drop from the spirit-fountain roll,
But He interprets what no tongue can speak,
And reads the thinking volume of our soul.

Here boast the saints, what no bright seraph can,—
That they have sympathy upon the Throne;
Christ loves the Angel, but he feels for man,
Whose very nature hath become his Own.

No hearts beat echoless, if they believe
A more than Brother in yon heavens is theirs,
Who loves them most when all alone they grieve,
And with His incense can perfume their prayers.

His love is greater than our heart, and knows
What secret burden loads the inward sigh;
And wordless pangs to Him are open woes,
Clear as the glories which emblaze the sky.

Dear Lord! be ever thus our Friend divine,
Our Anchor sure while rocking tempests roli,
And when departing into hands like Thine,
Relume Thy promise, and receive the Soul.

INSPIRATION OF THE PAST.

“Your fathers, where are they? And the prophets, do they live for ever?”—Zech. i. 5.

“God ------ in time past, spake unto the fathers.”—Heb. i. 1.

Our fathers, where are they,
The prophets of the past?—
Like solemn dreams, long flown away,
And with th' eternal class'd!

Those patriarchs of the soul
Of lion heart and mien,
Scorning the world's depraved control,
They hallow'd history's scene;

Heroes of faith and prayer,
They fought salvation's fight,
Ready to do, and boldly dare,
When God reveal'd the right.

Such were those mental sires
Who made our English mind,
Whose page the saintly heart inspires,
Whose words entrance mankind.

Yes! they, indeed, were men
Of loftiness divine;
And not till such shall breathe again,
Will British glory shine.

We want majestic hearts
Like those which burn'd and bled,
When Rome, with her resistless arts,
Denied the Church's Head.

The dungeon, steel, and stake,
A bloody doom, or block,
Not one of these their vow could break,
When summon'd to the shock.

Peaceful as lambs, as lions brave,
The saints of hoary time,—
Still may we hear them from the grave
Preach with a voice sublime.

Their tongues are tipp'd with fire,
Their accent sounds the free,
And into us such men inspire
Their own eternity.

RELIGION OF THE YOUNG.

“Remember now thy Creator, in the days of thy youth, while the evil days come not.”—Eccles. xii. 1.

And wilt thou bring a virgin heart,
And lay it on the shrine
Of holy Love, that so the part
Of Mary may be thine?—
Retreat beneath the Saviour's eye,
And to His tones of heaven reply,
While outward breath, or inward sigh
Adores Him as divine.

Then may thy youth securely rest
On more than earth bestows;
Eternity within thy breast
Already throbs, and glows;
Thou hast, ere sin the breast alloy,
That colour of celestial joy
Which brighten'd o'er the sainted boy,
Whose cry, “Speak, Lord!” arose.

He, to the Temple when a child
By his dear mother brought,
Ere manhood's guilt the heart defiled
With years of sinful thought,
Like a young priest his ephod wore;
And on his girdled form he bore
The truth of all meek Hannah swore,
When she the Lord besought.

Thus, in the vernal prime of youth
How blest are they who bring
Their souls a sacrifice for truth,
And round Christ's altar sing!
Ere shades of evil darkness fall,
Like folds of that primeval pall
Which, soon or late, envelops all
On earth now wandering.

Age has not loosed the silver cord,
Nor at the fountain-head
Doth Weariness pronounce the word,
“My pleasant things are fled!”
For still around, hope's morning dews
Fall freshly on thy fairy views,
And Nature wears those lust'rous hues
O'er life by feeling spread.

In youth there breathes a vital bloom,
A buoyancy and glow
Which seem to triumph o'er the tomb
And gladden off dull woe;
Elate as lofty, swells the hope
That longs with dangers firm to cope,
And ever round some daring scope
An eager glance to throw.

When years have cast their blighting frown
And wither'd prospects pine,
While on the head Time's hoary crown
Betrays old age is thine,
Then, sinner! 'tis a rueful sight,
To view thee through thy heart's deep night
In horror seek that saving light
Which flows from truth divine.

It is not, that a dread “too late!”
By mortal dare be sigh'd;
For never to a brother's fate
Be hope of heaven denied:
But, oh! methinks when harrowing fears
Haunt the dark mind, and bitter tears
Like drops of anguish damp the years
Of those who God defied;

When memory's weak, and conscience quails,
And life's gay tone is dead,
While hideous doubts the heart assail
By base experience bred,
'Tis awful on Death's couch to find
Some ruin'd Shape of woe reclined,
Sick of the world, but unresign'd
In dust to lay his head.

Divinest Spirit! truthful Lord,
May youth remember Thee,
And gladly in Thy glorious word
A bright hereafter see:—
There, bloom the Canaans of the young,
There, fields with hallow'd fruitage hung,
Richer than God's own poets sung
Should wave in Galilee.

Thy grace bestow, that vestal hearts
May more and more be given
To Thee and Thine, ere youth departs
From God,—by passion driven
Along that dark and dismal way
Where virtues into vices stray,
Which tempt polluted souls to say
“Earth makes my only heaven!”

SYMPATHY OF CHRIST.

“Cast thy burden upon the Lord, and he shall sustain thee.”—Ps. lv. 22.

Go, cast thy burden on the Lord,
Thou laden Bosom! dark and lone;
Nor deem thyself by Him unheard
Whose heart beats human on the Throne.

A Man of sorrows and of tears
The Saviour once was like to thee,
And learn'd to face those mortal fears
Which pierced His soul with sympathy.

'Tis thus we mark Him, homeless, sad,
A Pilgrim whose mysterious lot
Was shunn'd by all the gay and glad,
Unfelt, unpitied, and forgot.

Yet learnt He thus from finite woe
What heaven's calm glories could not teach,—
For there, no tides of anguish flow,
And no dark cares that kingdom reach.

And is it not a whelming thought,
That Christ should leave His heavenly throne
To be on earth affliction taught,
And suffer more than flesh hath shown!

Oh, had He in yon realm of bliss
But simply fathom'd what we feel,
Could mortals from their sad abyss
To Him as brother now appeal?

But when we read His matchless life
That wept, and sigh'd, and sorrow'd o'er
The heavy pangs of human strife,
And all which burning conscience bore,

Such life becomes a lovely proof
That into His deep bosom pass'd
Experience, which can ne'er aloof
From pilgrims now on earth be class'd.

Nor deem, that when on high He soar'd
And o'er the radiant heavens retired,
By chanting hosts to be adored
Whose hymns are by His Blood inspired,

What here below as Man He felt,
Is now engulph'd in bliss eterne;—
Still through His heart emotions melt,
And in Him pure affections burn.

His regal crown is all divine,
And glory-flames engird Him now,
But Faith beholds Him still the same,
For human feelings line His brow.

And thus, O weary, wand'ring soul,
By tempest worn, and toss'd, and tried,
Though surging waves around thee roll,
Thine anchor is The Crucified!

Thy sin confess, each sorrow tell,
Bold on His love thy burden cast,
In heaven Who yet remembers well
The storms through which on earth He pass'd.

A mother may her babe forget,
An exile ne'er his home recall,
Nor orphan'd child the hour regret
Which reft him of parental all:

But, oh, whate'er the scene or clime,
Devotion may Emmanuel see,
Whose heart expands o'er man, and time,
Who bled for our eternity!

Yes, sympathies intense and deep
Surpassing all our souls contain,
Still through His breast in glory sweep,
And shall for ever glow and reign.

A sinless Lord, yet touch'd in heart
With all which blighted moments bear,
In heaven, O Priest divine! Thou art
A man-God, with our feelings, there!

By gentleness, by grief, and grace,
By depth of sigh, and tears profound,
Faith views Thee to our fallen race
In links of loving union bound.

Both heaven and earth in Thee combine
In Whom that mystic wound appears,
Which gash'd in death Thy Form divine,
And crimson'd it with gory tears.

Then, lay thy burden on the Lord
Child of dejection! pale and lone;
Thou canst not sigh by Him unheard,
Whose heart throbs human on His throne.

NO PEACE FOR THE WICKED.

“There is no peace, saith my God, to the wicked.” Isa. lvii. 21.

How like a spirit shrieks the startled Wind,
As though the air to agony were torn,
When conscience hears it with a haunted mind,
Waking at midnight, fearful and forlorn!

No peace apart from purity abides,
Deep in the heart some dark unrest will be;
Though calmest azure gild the ocean-tides,
Stern are the currents which no eye can see.

What, if the world, that sees by sense alone,
Seldom below the surface of our smiles
Surveys the secrets which to God are shown,
Believes mock gladness which the truth beguiles;

Resounding bursts of Bacchanalian joy
Oft though they ring from out the Belial mind,—
Be sure there lurks some unbetray'd alloy
Of sad rebuke, yon gilded face behind!

The peace of sinners is the trance of death,
The putrid stillness of a stagnant tomb;
Or like the pause before some parting breath
Which shakes and shudders o'er eternal doom.

But oft this lulling opiate of the heart,
By passion drunk while principle expires,
Fails in some hour to do its deadly part,
When Vengeance lights her agonising fires.

And thus the wicked have no vital peace,
Nothing which reason, truth, or knowledge makes;
The “Blood of Sprinkling” hath not brought release,
Nor calm'd the tempest which dark conscience shakes.

In vain may riches, rank, and power, and pride,
Fawn round the creedless heart and lawless will,
There is no heaven but in bad self denied,
And less than Godhead can no bosom fill.

Man's peace is grounded on majestic truth,
Enlightened conscience, hope, and faith-breathed prayer,
And they who seek it in hoar'd age, or youth,
Yearn for God's Holy One to guide them there.

Cold gnaws the worm which on pale conscience feeds,—
A darksome pang of dreariness within;
And oft in silence sad remembrance bleeds
O'er bosom'd stores of unrepented sin.

The grave! the grave! its horrent gloom appals
The craven souls which no atonement seek,
And from hereafter comes the hell that calls
The blood of gladness from a blooming cheek.

To guilt eternity a dread appears,
And God Himself is vision'd as a foe;
And how the Throne dark retribution rears,
Shades a bright present with prophetic woe!

Martyr in soul! with all thy painted smiles,
Hie thee at once to free salvation's ark,
And shun the snare of those satanic wiles
Which dazzle myriads into regions dark.

Lo, where The Church with mild maternal tone
Thy soul invites to share mysterious peace,
Pure as Emmanuel once proclaim'd His own,—
Born of The Blood which purchased man's release.

Such is the rest, divinely rich and deep,
Beyond tempestuous waves of woe to break;
Soft as the trances of that blissful sleep
Which lull'd the Saviour on the storm-rent lake.

Let but the Spirit of the Lord descend
And o'er our bosom brood with dovelike sway,
Then shall Jehovah be our guardian friend,
Point to glad Zion, and protect the way.

So will that hollow rest poor worldlings love,
No longer o'er the cheated bosom reign;
But Peace, descending from her Prince above,
Becalm our conscience like His breath again.

INFANT DEATH.

“Rachel, weeping for her children.”—Matt. ii. 18.

“Thus saith the Lord, Refrain thy voice from weeping, and thine eyes from tears ------ they shall come again from the land of the enemy.”— Jer. xxxi. 16.

Pale mother! art thou weeping
Beside yon cradled form,
Which now reclines unsleeping
In fever's raging storm?
Fair mourner, let me feel for thee,
Engulph'd in such an agony.

Thine eyes are red with sorrow,
And sunken back with woe;
Or ever dawns to-morrow,
Thy heart will overflow,
While tears of burning anguish lave
The victim of an early grave.

Such death seems like the rushing
All sudden, fierce, and strong,
Of chainless whirlwind, crushing
The forest-boughs along;
As onward sweeps that rending blast,
Wild ruins tell its wings have pass'd.

Yet, mother! when caressing
Thy darling in thine arms,
While brooding o'er the blessing
So treasured in its charms,
Did not this dream thy soul appal,—
“Perchance my living flower must fall?”

And often, when surveying
Its mournful depth of eye,
A something seem'd arraying
Those features for the sky,—
A pensive meaning, sad and mild,
Too earthless for an earth-doom'd child.

But since the Soul hath parted,
Above that baby face
Thou bendest, broken-hearted;
For, cold as sculptured grace,
The whiteness of that cherub brow
Maternal tear-drops moisten now!

Yet be not thou repining,
And nurse the pang unmeet,
Because, no longer shining
Thy glow of love to greet,
Infantile charms and elfin ways
Are welcomed by thy doting gaze.

Like cherubim surrounding
The Throne where Jesu reigns,
With more than bliss abounding,
And touch'd by no earth-stains,—
Unbodied infants, in the blaze
Of Godhead, lisp their perfect lays.

Nor dream, because unspoken
In flesh, the word of grace,
Thy darling had no token
Of God's paternal face;
Baptismal wonders oft infold
A germ of Christ no creeds have told.

Think not, that when translated
To realms of hallow'd bliss,
An infant can be rated
By such base world as this:
In heaven transform'd, its mind expands,
And more than scripture understands.

Then, cheer thee! stricken mother,
Let praise ennoble tears;
Thy babe has found a Brother
In yonder heaven-bright spheres;
For God's Elect, the Undefiled,
Was once on earth a cradled Child.

Though now enshrined in glory,
What here below He felt
As read in awful story,
Doth still remembrance melt;
As if the babe His bosom press'd,
For ever thrill'd That gracious Breast.

Though viewless, yet not banish'd,
Thine infant, conscious now,
From this cold world hath vanish'd
In heaven to lift its brow,
Where babes redeem'd, in radiant white
Girdle the Throne, with angels bright.

A PERFECT WILL.

“Then cometh Jesus ------ to be baptized ------ Thus it becometh us to fulfil all righteousness.”— Matt. iii. 13, 15.

Thou, who didst rend the heavens to be
The Man, in whom God's eye should see
A human Archetype of all
His wisdom could perfection call,
From Thy sad manger to the tomb
Through shades of grief, and storms of gloom,
Implicitly Thy passive will
Each dictate of the law did lovingly fulfil.

When Peter's rude and reinless zeal
Would fain have bade Thee scorn to feel
The pangs a felon's death must bear,
What did the Prince of Peace declare?—
“Get thee behind me, Satan! thou
Of man, not God, dost savour now;
Disciple if thou dar'st to be,
Martyr thy human will, and meekly follow me!”

The dauntless Eremite who saw
His Lord obey baptismal law,
And meekly as a lamb descend
Beneath a sacrament to bend,
And in God's mystic waters lave
A Form which came the world to save,—
At once recoil'd with holy dread,
And, gazing on the Lord, aloud in wonder said:

“Wilt Thou, by God and angels prized,
Prince of all peace! be thus baptized
By one like me, whose atom worth
Is but a speck of sinful earth?
Rather baptize me with that fire
Of holiness Thou dost respire;
Too abject am I here to stand,
Or on Thy sandall'd feet to lay my soilèd hand.”

So spake th' Elijah of the wild;
But He, of woman born, and mild
As moon-lit water, when a breeze
Tones the soft accent of the seas,

Bent o'er the Baptist His meek brow,
And answer'd, “It becomes us now;”
And lo! at once the laving stream
Shed o'er His awful face its sacramental gleam.

And as He rose from that green bank,
Yon heavens the scene of wonder drank
Into their depths, which saw their King
To God such ritual glory bring!
Obedience then received a crown
Surpassing all sublime renown,
The Law obtains from perfect will
Bodied by angels forth, who all His work fulfil.

But while by yon enraptured Heaven
Peals of divine applause are given,
And downward on His wings of love
Descends the everlasting Dove,
And ere that thunder-voice hath ceased
Proclaiming how The Father's “pleased,”
Let the saved Church a truth discern,
And man's o'er-reas'ning heart a lofty science learn.

Subjection is our love divine;
Believer! let its law be thine:
“All righteousness,” however small
Cold reason may its canons call,
Compliant Faith will yearn to do,
Finding in Christ her model true;
Nor dare to dream men suffer loss
When duty points the way, and God provides the Cross.

And, wouldst thou like thy Master be?
Go, find him near that ancient sea,
Where the awed Baptist on His head
The sacramental water spread;
There, as thou wander'st, seek a will
Which can all rectitude fulfil,
And consecrate thine inmost soul
To that unfathom'd Law no reason can control.

And then may He, whose glory came
On mystic plumes of dovelike flame,
That Spirit, who on Christ did pour
The sevenfold grace His priesthood bore,—
Some drops of saving unction give
By which believing martyrs live;
Till thou, in all thy works and ways,
Shall unto God devote the priesthood of thy days.

CHIEF OF SINNERS.

“Jesus came to save sinners, of whom I am chief.” 1 Tim. i. 15.

Low in the dust, oh! let me lie,
And heavenward lift my asking eye,
Till Christ becalm with lenient gaze
The pang which on my conscience preys.

The more I think, the more I feel
This heart hath proved in woe and weal
A Cain-like rebel to my God,
Whate'er the path experience trod.

My past appears one blended crime,
Extending through all scene and time,
And well may conscience quail to see
How Self dethroned the Deity!

Ay, Self has proved the spring of all
Enamour'd eyes perfection call;
Thought, will and motive, deed and word,
In each vile Self has been preferr'd.

Here is the Upas-blast of sin!
The poison-blight which burns within,
The venom'd source of vicious life,
With treason to the Godhead rife.

'Tis Self by whose defiling breath
The soul deserves eternal death;
A taint whose omnipresent power
Contaminates man's purest hour.

It matters not, what form it takes,
When human will our God forsakes:—
The essence of all sin we find,
Not in the flesh, but in the mind.

When passions nurse their lava-fires,
Or Belial lust the blood inspires,
Or vice, and vulgar riot reign,
There Self reveals its coarser stain.

But may not sin defile that soul
Where bland refinement wields control,
While art, and taste, and beauty dwell,
And Culture charms with graceful spell?

Yes, there while nature's glories rise
To fascinate our partial eyes,
And painting, poetry, and speech,
A throne of regal magic reach,

While private zeal, or public worth
Adorns the land which gives them birth,
Believe not, in this bright display,
That Sin and Self have died away!

Yea, rather may refinement shroud
A godless will beneath a cloud,
And lull the conscience, till it fail
To know if God, or man, prevail.

Thus, “chief of sinners!” forms the cry
Of all who see with inward eye
That self is sin, howe'er disguised,
And by approving falsehood prized.

On these Heaven's perfect law will dart
Those searching beams which bare the heart,
Till each fine chord of feeling there
Thrills into dread, and throbs with prayer.

DIVINE THIRST.

“My soul thirsteth for God.”—Ps. xlii. 20.

As pants the hart for living brooks
So pines my soul for Thee;
Away from this lone earth it looks,
And longs Thy face to see.

Thrice Holy One! athirst I am
From man's false world to fly,
And on the glories of the Lamb
To feast my fasting eye.

'Tis here a bleak and barren land
Where hearts and hopes are vain;
But Faith perceives at Thy right hand,
Supernal wonders reign.

There pleasures bloom which cannot lead
Compliant souls to sin;
And all celestial Love decreed
Victorious martyrs win.

No shades of guilt or sorrow now
Athwart remembrance roll;
Eternity unveils its brow,
And God enshrines the soul.

Those pulses of ethereal bliss
Which here so feebly play,
Shall throb within a realm like this,
Divine beyond decay!

At length we find our purest dreams
Of finite rapture flown,
When saints are basking in the beams
Which glorify Thy Throne.

The Past will not return in sighs,
The Future ne'er appal,
The present charm celestial eyes
With Christ, the All in All.

And dared men like rapt David feel,
Our frigid hearts would be
On fire with archangelic zeal,
That heaven of Heavens to see!

THE HEART'S TREASURE.

“Lay up for yourselves treasures in heaven ------ for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.”—Matt. vi. 19, 21.

Men of faith's heroic mould!
Who your birthright have not sold,
But the heirship of God's truth
Have preserved to age from youth,
Let the freedom of your soul
No debasement draw from earth,
But the Law of heaven control
What you deem of peerless worth.

“Let not earth your treasure be,
Ne'er from rust and robber free;
But in heaven behold a mine
Where the gold is all divine;
That which mortal love doth measure
As of time the truest spell,
Aye becomes a witching treasure
Where false hearts delight to dwell.”

Miser! with thy golden heap
Glaring through perturbèd sleep,
In thy wealth no wisdom lies;
Yet thy soul doth sacrifice
Heaven and hope, with all the bliss
Which on high the pure await;
Gilded clay thy treasure is,
And how cursed thine envied state!

Worldling! who for earth-prized gain
Creed and conscience both wilt strain;
Fill'd, and fever'd o'er with cares,
Doom'd to be but Sorrow's heirs,
Dwarf'd and mean thy nature grows,
Day by day intensely vile;
Deeper far than virtue knows,
Coils the serpent in thy smile!

Patriot! in whose haughty plan
Looks reveal'd a heaven for man,
Madly dreaming time and sense
All in all for man dispense,

Brain may work, and genius build
Schemes of most colossal name,
But o'er visions unfulfill'd
Thou shalt sing the dirge of shame.

Student! cloister'd in the cell
Haunted with some hoary spell
Books of sages and of seers
Breathe from immemorial years,—
Rich and radiant are the hopes
Round thy soul that beam and play,
But ambition with thee copes,
And of this thou art the prey.

Poet! thou art priest of song;
Heaven and earth to thee belong;
Beauty, grandeur, love and grace
Circle round the bardic race;
Seize thy harp, and sweep the chords
Till they glow with mental fire,
And like oracles, rich words
Roll from thy melodious lyre;

But if gold, or gain intrude
On thy soul in solitude,
If mere passion for renown
Should assail thy minstrel-crown,
Should thy chant, debauch'd and base,
E'er for sordid end be sung,
Angels blush for thy disgrace,—
Would thy harp were never strung!

Lord! and will affections be
Fill'd with dust, and dead to Thee,
If around one heart they twine,
With a passion half divine?
Teach us, then, no creature can
Saint, or seraph-heart enchain,
But it mars the mighty plan,—
God alone as God must reign!

Mother! 'tis a beauteous sight
When thou watchest day and night
Fondly round some elfin creature
Budding with maternal feature,
Oft in cradled slumber rock'd,
Flush'd with fascination's dreams,
While each baby hand enlock'd
Clasp'd in adoration seems;

But if love should Christ betray,
And devotion steal away
From the God of babes, and men,
Wilt thou not be chasten'd then?
Or perchance, when fever'd breath
From thy little one is heaving,
Thou wilt learn by infant's death
That thy soul has God been leaving!

If upon thy sailor-boy,
Star of home and social joy,
Far amid the wild sea-waves
Where his head the tempest braves,
Thou art dreaming, when thy prayer
Heavenward should in faith be swelling,
Canst thou hope thy God is there,
If no grace be in thee dwelling?

Wife, and parent, husband, child,
Let not feeling be defiled
By a worship that withdraws
Love from those celestial Laws
Which in creatures claim the heart;—
There the Lord erects a throne
In whose glories none have part,
Where He reigns, and reigns alone!

Hide our treasure, Lord, in Thee!
And regenerate hearts will be,
Like the ransom'd, more and more
When they scan their radiant store,
Bliss seraphic taught to feel
While around the Lamb they bend,
Chanting with impassion'd zeal,—
“Glory's fount! and sinner's Friend!”

WISDOM OF PRAYER.

“O Thou that hearest prayer, unto Thee shall all flesh come.”—Ps. lxv. 2.

Why should the reas'ning sceptic dare
To stand between the Godhead and our prayer?
A mental antichrist, too oft
Madly presuming mind will soar aloft,
And from Jehovah's nature draw
A reason why we should reject his law,—
That all who would Heaven's pardon claim
Must clasp that mercy in Emmanuel's name.

God is not changed by hearing prayer,
But would be changed, if our petitions were
By Him unheard; Whose page inspired
Hath said, “For this My Throne shall be enquired.”
Thus, end and means together meet
When bows the sinner at Heaven's mercy-seat:
To this God's changeless purpose tends,
And with His glory our salvation blends.

Avaunt! ye hell-breathed doubts, away!
Morn, noon, and night, let true adorers pray;
Precept, and promise, doctrine,—all
To this vast privilege our being call.
No saint in earth, or heaven is found,
Who did not in such glorious work abound;
His prayer, whatever path he trod,
Drew God to man, and lifted man to God.

Prayer conquers scene, and space, and time,
Entreats no temple, and demands no clime,
But, like an omnipresent charm
Can shield the saints from all corrupting harm;
Howe'er remote from genial home
The surging waves of life may bid them roam.
Oft riven Friendships pray afar,
Each thrilling each, beneath some alien star.

Elijah, Moses, Jonah, pray'd;
And how those heroes of The Spirit sway'd
Nature, and Providence, and Man!—
As though the movements of almighty plan,
However fathomless they were,
Hung on the breathings of a human prayer;
Or else, that He whose will is law,
Were sway'd in heaven, by what on earth he saw.

And mark, thou prayerless Thing of dust!
If doubt thy God, and reason be thy trust,
How Abram, that Elect of heaven
To whom the Church's promises were given,
With sixfold intercession bent
Before His wrath, Th' enthroned Omnipotent!
And, when the bolt was almost hurl'd,
By prayer held back His thunders from the world.

But oh! if pure example can
Melt the cold mind of antichristian man,
Behold it, in the Saviour mild,
The God in flesh, the manhood undefiled:
For He, by whom the worlds were made,
In the hush'd midnight on the mountains pray'd,
And wintry stars from their high spheres
Blent their cold radiance with His awful tears!

Here let us pause: His finite will
Before the Infinite of heaven did fall;
Though spotless, Christ was human still,
And ceased not on His Father-God to call.
And what but heartless sin will dare
To doubt that He is moved by mighty prayer?—
My Saviour wept, and watch'd, and pray'd;
Be each unhallow'd thought by that o'ersway'd.

And this, when worlds shall disappear,
Will rock to slumber each tempestuous fear;
All pangs without, all pains within
Yield to its spell; and each tyrannic sin
Is vanquish'd by believing prayer,
Which proves God greater than our greatest care:
And deep will be his hallow'd rest
Who drops his burden on Emmanuel's breast.

CONVICTION, AND CONFESSION.

“He will reprove the world of sin ------ because they believe not on me.”—John xvi. 8, 9.

“O wretched man that I am, who shall deliver me?”—Rom. vii. 24.

“Wretched, and miserable, and poor, and blind, and naked.”—Rev. iii. 17.

There was a time, when earth appear'd
From each cold mist of sorrow clear'd,
A landscape clothed with calm and grace,
Whose flowers conceal'd the serpent's trace.

Then Nature seem'd a fairy world
Where beauty all its wings unfurl'd,
Till soil, and sea, and sun, and sky
Entranced me with their poetry.

Brightness and bloom o'er objects threw
The witchery of that wond'rous hue,
Which makes the very ground to glow
With gladness beaming hearts bestow.

And as with Nature, so with life,—
It seem'd with radiant magic rife,
Where hearts, and homes, and friends, and smiles,
Around me group'd their dearest wiles.

I did not hear the booming knell,
Nor let the tomb its wisdom tell;
Sickness and sorrow, change and grief,
Appear'd too dark for my belief.

And when from Heaven's most awful book
My blinded heart some utt'rance took,
The God I worshipp'd was my own,
Without a sceptre, law, or throne!

And thus, Religion's peerless claim
A sentimental lie became:
It touch'd the fancy—but the heart
From ruling grace beat all apart.

Till He, who bowed the heavens in love,
Beheld me from His shrine above,
And so my sensual trance awoke,
With legal Sinai's lightning-stroke.

Then, dread conviction through me burst,
And I sank down, accurst! accurst!
No more I lived, but seem'd to die
Like those who dare their God defy.

Both heart and brain with horror felt
Vengeance divine my being melt:
The pleasure loved, grew loathsome now,
And stamp'd, like Cain's, my branded brow.

Creation's glories ceased to shine
Upon a heart depress'd as mine;
And round her fairest landscape stole
The blight and blackness of my soul.

Where'er I went, whate'er I saw,
The haunting curse of holy law
Came like my shadow;—dread and deep
It quiver'd o'er my harrow'd sleep.

Matter and mind, and time and space,
Sun, air, and sea, with heaven's bright face,
Whate'er I saw, or felt, or heard,
Echoed The Law's condemning word.

“Oh wretched man!” (thus breathed my groan)
“The body of this death to own;
As though the corpse from out its grave
Were fasten'd to some living slave,

I bear without, and drag within
The clinging weight of woful sin!—
Who can deliver, and my soul
Rescue from this abhorr'd control?”

My virtues, now, to vices turn'd,
As more enlighten'd reason learn'd
The pureness of that perfect Law,
Which sees what Conscience never saw.

Eager with light from God's own eye
It can the shades of sin descry:
Nor could one pulse of feeling play
That throbs not in its searching ray.

And thus, gay sinner! down to dust
Be all thy tow'ring virtues thrust;
The law of God is legal death
By guilt inhaled at every breath.

Go, cultivate a grief divine;
A noble wretchedness be thine;
A heaven-born pang, like Paul's profound,—
The bleeding of the spirit's wound.

Nor fancy, as we Godward rise
And grace soars nearer to the skies,
Our sainted calm will deeper grow,
As if we found true heaven below.

Insatiate conscience, strong and stern
Will evermore this wisdom learn,
That our perfection is to prove
Imperfect reigns man's purest love.

Oh! bless we God, for gracious tears,
For sunken hopes, and shadowy fears;
Those Hearts are not for glory meant
Who feel no glorious discontent:

Enough for souls this truth to gain,—
In Christ alone we live and reign;
And all who would perfection find
Must seek it in the Saviour's mind.

BELIEVER'S DESTINED WORK.

“Ye are the salt of the earth ------ ye are the light of the world ------ let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven.”—Matt. v. 13, 14, 16.

The World exults to crucify
The truth it loathes to feel;
And thus, all time repeats the Cross,
And Christians must through shame and loss
Maintain a martyr-zeal.

They cannot on this impious earth
Expect a brighter doom
Than that the Prince of Glory bore,
When He rebuked the world of yore,
And gain'd a borrow'd tomb.

But not for this, with craven hearts
And love of selfish ease
Shrink they from conflict, or the crowd,
And in dull cloister bent and bow'd
Enjoy a bad release.

Alas! for their religious mock
Whose creed is Self disguised;
Our sacrament of second birth
Anoints us to contend with earth;—
Have we our unction prized?

The heavenliness of blissful calm
In some poetic shade,
Where nature is the nurse of thought,
And all seems with religion fraught
And for devotion made;

For this indeed, mild spirits yearn,
And long for dove-like wings
Away to flee, and be at rest
With God and angels purely blest
Above terrestrial things.

Hence, most divine to musing hearts
When sick of toil and strife,
Monastic bowers of peace and prayer
Where time intrudes no fev'rish care
To fret the saintly life.

But, where is then the martyr's will?—
That oath by which we vow'd
Under Christ's banner, in His name,
To battle for His crown and claim
Amid earth's warring crowd?

Mistaken victims of themselves!
Who violate their creed
And fly with recreant heart and will,
Instead of facing stern and still
The front of battle's need;

'Tis not by flight or fear we gain
The jewell'd crown of bliss;
But by enduring unto death,
And battling to our latest breath,
We claim reward like this.

The world is dark, the world is dead,
Corruption broods in all;
Those painted splendours which appear
Glitter like spangles on a bier,
And worse than gloom appal.

Hero for heaven, baptised and brave,
The vow is on thee,—fight!
Full at the Fiend, the flesh, and world
Be all thy weapon'd graces hurl'd,
And God shall guard the right.

Or, if thou wilt the mystic words
Of “light” and “salt” translate,—
Then, shine by contrast in the dark,
And by correction probe and mark
The evils of our state.

We live in evil times; and tongues
Against the truth contend;
When Motive, Principle, and Power,
Around us in rebellion tower
And loud their challenge send.

Then, soldier, put thine armour on
And wield thy weapons bright;
With spear and breastplate, sword and shield,
Thus panoplied,—go, take the field
And foremost fall, or fight!

How can we “shine,” unless we face
A world of guilt and gloom?
Or, be like salt's corrective force,
By hallow'd deed, or high discourse,
If life itself entomb?

Earth needs the grace, and wants the beams
Embodied grace imparts,
When worldlings view a valiant band
Maintain with hope and heart and hand
The creed of sainted hearts.

A cloister's gloom, a cowl, and cell
May oft a mind conceal,
Where rancour, pride, and envy reign,
While Passion gnaws a viler chain
Than fettered world-slaves feel.

Lord of the Church! of creeds, and souls,
Thy wisdom make our own,
Not of, but in, this world to be,
And hear the summons, “Follow me,”
From manger to the throne.

Contention with a godless world,—
Here is our law of life:
The salt must spread, the light must shine,
Unless we cross the will divine
And sink from duteous strife.

'Tis easy when the flesh-born will
In solitude retires,
To choose the calm of constant prayer,
And thus avoid the fretting care
A public fate inspires.

But, social is the cause of God;
And Christ demands a creed
That shall not seek monastic shade
Of all but righteous self afraid,—
But front the dreadest need.

True salt and sunlight make us, Lord!
Thy Spirit forms them both;
So may we best Thy word obey,
And rev'rence thus by night and day
Our sacramental oath.

The crowded world Thy Sceptre rules;
And Thou not less art there,
Than in the lull of lone retreat;
And saints may thy pure guidance meet
In duties ev'ry-where.

But while we seek to shine and act,
In all our words and ways
Thy veil, Humility! bestow,
And over us protection throw,
Lest we aspire for praise.

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The work, but not the worker, seen,—
Behold! a heaven-drawn plan
For saints to lead their life in God;
Such path a Saviour's virtue trod
And made it bright for man.

SACREDNESS OF FLOWERS.

“Consider the lilies.”—Matt. vi. 28.

“Glorious beauty is a fading flower.”—Isa. xxviii. 1.

“All flesh is as grass, and all the glory of man as the flower of grass.”—1 Pet. i. 24.

Ye silent poems! which from nature's book
Warble of Eden to our inward ear,
Filling the thoughtful eyes that on ye look
With the soft mystery of a sacred tear,

Not the chaste stars, whose placid eyes salute
The musing gaze of man's poetic mind,
Throned in their skyey radiance,—dare dispute
The spell ye wield o'er every heart refined.

Since God, from Whose ideal wealth of thought
All that is bright, or beautiful, or fair,
By shaping wisdom into form was wrought
And thus committed unto sun and air,

Made the wild flowers like earth-sprung stars to shine
With gleams of almost sacramental power,—
Dull is the heart which hails no tone divine
When these accost him from their vernal bower!

Nor dream, that He who marks a sparrow's flight
Forgets the dew-fed darlings of the Spring;
Angels are not more surely in His sight
Than the soft flowers which breeze and brightness bring.

For such adjustment doth His hand ordain
Amid all forms and faculties to be,
That 'tween the snow-drop and vast earth must reign
Proportions pure as Science loves to see.

Were the huge world one atom more or less
In majesty, from centre to the pole,
The flowers might lose their bending loveliness,
Like living sympathies with nature's Whole.

And in man's world, where sin and woe prevail,
Harshness, and heat, and hurry so abound,
How sweet the hush of some sequester'd dale
Where slaves grow freemen upon nature's ground!

There can we hold communion meek and mild
With flowers, which deck some grove, or vernal wood,
And guard their innocence as undefiled
As when their greeting Maker call'd them “good.”

Orphans of Eden, their parental soil
Has long been wither'd, and by weeds o'errun;
While burden'd Manhood, with a brow of toil,
Endures the desert, and outworks the sun;

But these, like babes whose mother we deplore,
Still do their budding features love to keep
A soft sad trace of paradise no more,
And waken memories that well may weep.

Of old, before the God Incarnate came,
Oft did high song, and sentiment, and art
Borrow from flowers an ever-beauteous fame
Which feeds the mind, and purifies the heart.

But since the hour a lily blush'd, and bow'd
Its head of grace beneath Emmanuel's smile,
Divine and deep associations crowd
The dreaming soul which o'er them bends awhile.

“Behold the lilies of the field, and learn
From their sweet lives, who neither toil, nor spin,”—
Well may such consecrating words return,
And waken truths whose echoes sleep within!

And might we shape one hallow'd dream of Him
Whose life was pure, mysterious, deep, and lone,
Whose glory to the wing-veil'd Seraphim
Beamed from the Cross, more wondrous than His Throne,—

Thought may imagine hours of worldless calm,
When all unwatch'd, Messiah's human soul
Found in far meads a meditative balm,
And in bright flowers some beautiful control.

As God, He made them, and as Man, admired
The blooming product of His lovely power;
And oft may genius, by their grace inspired,
Read silent poems in a sacred flower.

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INGRATITUDE TO ANGELS.

“He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.”—Ps. xci. 11.

And must we, now the God-man reigns
In regions where no senses roam,
Refuse to hear angelic strains
Float through the heart, and fill our home?
Have Seraphim quite ceased to walk
Man's world, and with man's spirit talk?

'Tis true indeed, nor eye nor ear
Their shapes discern, nor know their voice;
But still they haunt a human sphere,
To make elected souls their choice;
And round them may bright Angels be,
Though nothing but blind earth they see.

Oh! never till the clouds of time
Are rent by awful death from man,
And he from yonder heaven sublime
Shall look back where dark life began,
Will gather'd saints in glory know
What blessings men to angels owe.

This earth is but a thorny wild,
A tangled maze where griefs abound,
By sorrow vex'd, by sin defiled,
Where foes and fiends our walks surround;
But does not dread Jehovah say,
Angelic guardians line the way?

It is not when gigantic woe,
Or crisis unforeseen assails
Our earthly doom, that most we glow
To feel heroic faith prevails,
When perill'd by the bitter shower
Temptation pours in sorrow's hour.

The precipice men rarely find;
On us no avalanche may fall;
But petty woes distract the mind
And take sweet temper from us all;
As some by thickets are o'erthrown,
Whose feet escaped the crushing stone.

Mean trifles our true dangers make,
Weak'ning the spirit unawares;
And tiny griefs would often break
The heart unbow'd by pond'rous cares,
Did not our guardian angels glide,
And watch, unseen, the naked side.

Some pebble in our daily path,
The little stone we scarce behold
A world of secret ruin hath,
O'er which might trip the brave and bold,—
Should not blest angels' saving arms
Upbear the soul from sudden harms.

And moods are felt no words define,
When earth and heaven appear to meet,
While faith half hears a tone divine
From out yon orbs of Glory greet
Each praying heart, and placid soul
Which echoes to such sweet control.

When gracious beams of holy light
From spheres of radiance seem to play,
And from lone hours of suff'ring night
Melt half their haunted gloom away,—
Our perill'd souls prompt Angels see
And hover by the bended knee.

Sickness and sorrow, too, may have
Ethereal Hosts whom none perceive,
Whose golden wings around us wave
When all alone men seem to grieve;
And while we sigh, or shed the tear,
Their sympathies may flutter near.

Or, by some law to man unknown,
Their spells may o'er us act and steal,
And strengthen Faith upon her throne,
When fury-passions make us feel
How Self and Sin would monarchs be,
And give the law to Deity!

Thus, human Life from them may take
Some moral tinge, or mental hue,
Which not till dust the soul forsake
Elected saints will value true:—
Before God's throne, and only then
These guardians will be thank'd by men.

FOLLOW CHRIST.

“Jesus saith unto them, Follow me; and ------ they followed Him.”—Matt. iv. 18—20.

The sheep who know the shepherd's tone
Delight to hear his voice;
His guiding way becomes their own,
His wish their willing choice:
So is it with regenerate Souls,
Whose love the law of grace controls;
Let but the Shepherd of the Spirit call,—
Like echoes they reply, and leave their noblest all!

So was it in the Church of old
When, walking by the sea,
The Lord of Mercy did behold
The twin elect of Galilee,

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Two fishers there, who cast the net
The produce of the lake to get;
But when that “Follow Me!” from Christ was heard,
The laden ships they left, responsive to His word.

So is it now; if Hearts be true
To Him whose shepherd-cry
Will never cause that soul to rue
Which dares itself deny,
And lives for Christ, where'er it roam;—
Serene abroad, resign'd at home,
By crowded mart, or in resounding street
Where all the mingled tides of sin and struggle meet.

Life need not seek monastic cell,
Nor yearn for cloister'd shades;
Nor sigh for some Arcadian dell,
And green poetic glades
Where blissful Quiet can enjoy
The bower of peace without alloy;
But rather rest where Providence doth say,
“Move in thine orbit here, for Wisdom chose the way.”

They are not meek who fretful ask,
Or pine for distant spheres;
Let heaven be view'd in ev'ry task
And that will soothe our fears!
We should not e'en by thought rebel;
For God works all things wise and well,
And for each being doth unroll the plan
Eternity decreed, before the hills began.

To sigh for some romantic spot
Of solitude and peace,
And clasp in dreams a perfect lot
Where care and sorrow cease,—
To God must breathe of discontent,
Howe'er with sainted feeling blent;
Our proper sphere in providence must be
Where Christ in spirit comes, and utters, “Follow Me!”

Localities alone confine
The gilded mocks of earth;
But they who bear a charm divine
Which seals our second birth,
High o'er the world's bewilder'd sphere
The still small voice of Christ can hear:
And so, when Mammon tempts, or Belial reigns,
Bound at the Master's voice, and burst their venal chains.

Thus to the publican there came
A “Follow Me,” which drew
His heart to hear That holy Name
Which heaven proclaim'd the true;
All circumstance, and scene, and lot,
The den, the dungeon, or the cot,—
Let but the voice of duty call us there,
And Faith may hallow each by watchfulness and prayer.

And hence may those who dwell
Far from the hurried mart,
Where sylvan homes with quiet spell
Attune some thinking heart,
When haply through harsh cities loud
They wind amid the toiling crowd,
Or through damp courts and dusky lanes of woe
See haggard Want and Age, with shrunken features go,—

Oh! let them not presume to say
That there, 'mid vexing strife,
No saintly Minds can muse or pray,
Or consecrate a life
To heaven-born cares, and hopes of bliss
Which lift them o'er a doom like this:—
For though the heart in rustic dreams will roam,
It glories in the truth, that Faith can find a home

Wherever love and prayer abide:
And hence, dear Lord, may we
Remember that calm Voice which cried,
To Levi,—“Follow Me!”
Whate'er the pathway life must tread,
Around us be Thy graces spread,
And thus no time, nor toil, nor space, nor scene
To hide Thy Word from us will ever intervene.

If such Thy will, by wooded streams,
Or vales of blissful calm,
Where the deep hush of holy dreams
Inspires unearthly balm,
Where from green hills the gladden'd eyes
Look speechless hymns beyond the skies,—
If there embower'd, Thou doom'st our lot to be,
Lord of the landscape fair! we glow to “follow” Thee.

Or, if Thy regal Word decide,
That cities throng'd and loud
Which billow with the restless tide
Of life's tumultuous crowd,
Should be our peopled deserts, where
Unechoed hearts conceal each care,—
Still may our souls by meek compliance find,
The ever-present Christ an anchor for the mind.

Love need not quit the humblest call,
But calmly work and wait;
For safety dwells where duties all
Attend our mortal state;—

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Messiah did not die to give
Each heart the choice where faith would live;
But this He grants to all who seek for grace,—
The guidance of His truth, and glory of His face.

Yes, “Follow Me!” be this the word,
The motto of our lives;
Morn, noon, and night, let such be heard,
When Sin or Satan strives;
Should Passion rage, or Pride begin,
Or treason-banners rise within,
In all we feel, or fancy, do or dare,
Let Thy mild “Follow Me,” pursue us every where,

Great Captain of the meek and good!
Whose crimson guilt and stain
Shall never, through Thine awful blood,
Assail their souls again,
In self-denial, grief, or loss,
In all we have of care and cross,
Thy hand of mercy out of heaven bestow,
And let us feel its grasp, where'er our footsteps go.

Thy path was one of pain and grief,
A sacrifice of love;
Nor God, nor angel brought relief
From bowers of bliss above;
We ask not then poetic fields
Where life all bloom and brightness yields;
But this we seek,—a soul from murmurs free,
Whose heaven on earth it proves, in all to follow Thee.

NAME WITHOUT NATURE.

“Thou hast a name that thou livest, and art dead.”—Rev. iii. 1.

“Many will say unto me, in that day, Lord! Lord! have we not prophesied in Thy name? ------ Then will I profess unto them, I never knew you.”—Matt. vii. 22, 23.

When plaintive knells peal sadness o'er the wind,
And echoes haunt the mind
With thoughts, whose voiceless depths of awe infold
Meanings which are not told,
Dark fears from hush'd eternity arise
Too deep, except for sighs:
Men dare not speak it, but they ponder this,
Where wings the parted Soul?—to agony, or bliss?

And solemn terrors, blent with truths profound,
In these vast words abound,
Which tell what imitation's power achieves,
When formal man believes
That he in Christ by nature, as by name,
His own can truly claim,—
While far as earth from heaven his spirit lives
On that base food alone, the power of pleasure gives.

And marvel we, such midnight error can
So darken over man,
That he a hollow lie for truth mistakes,
And life for death forsakes?
And thus, while dead in selfishness and sin,
Doth never gaze within
The deeper fountains of his soul to prove,
Whether from earth they rise, or stream from grace above?

The mystery may here its web unwind,—
Self-love deludes the blind;
And in the blindness of bad hearts they see
A shade of miscall'd deity;
And, like their god, a false religion seems
Reflecting back their dreams;
And so, from year to year they live, and die,
Feeling their souls secure as angels in the sky!

Void of all grace, perceptive reason can
So educate the man,
And unto plastic mind and morals give
Those forms, by which men live
In seeming concord with what Heaven requires:
Yet God alone inspires
Life from The Spirit, and that sacred love
Whereby all saints on earth, are yet in soul, above.

Thus can the outworks of religious grace
Impress their lovely trace
On creed and conduct, character, and all
The world-slaves “nature” call;
Reason and Sentiment may both forbear
To doubt what texts declare;
And ritual zeal so mechanise the soul
That much the Church decrees, may wield a due control.

The beauty of unblemish'd morals, too,
May guard its vestal hue,
Nor vulgar passions by their vicious reign
Cast o'er the law a stain;
And thus complete in all mere sense admires,
Who doubts, that faith inspires
So fair a specimen of social truth
Beheld in wintry age, or seen in vernal youth?

104

Love will not criticise a brother-soul;
And when the death-knells roll
Their dirge-like cadence, while the living sigh
To think, how soon we die!
Oh, marvel not, blind Charity conceives
That he who this world leaves
With such a sanctity around him spread,
Hath up to Glory's throne by angel-bands been led.

Still, dare we not Truth's warning tone forget,
For, ah! 'tis needed yet:
“Lord,” on our lips most orthodox may be,
And none our danger see;
And yet not Christ, but our own will preside
O'er passion's inward tide,
O'er thought and feeling, motive and desire
Which from the outer-sense to secret life retire.

Yes, we may prophesy and preach,
And high distinction reach;
O'er our mute dust pale monuments arise,
Or throne us in the skies,
While the loud trumpet of a world-wide fame
Rings through all hearts our name;
And when rapt eyes our sculptured praises read,
They glisten with the thought,—here lies a saint indeed!

And yet our soul's eternity, the while,
Unlit by glory's smile,
Though canonising Praise adorns our tomb,
May be immersed in gloom;
And realms of horror round that darkness burn,
Where hypocrites must learn
How vast a gulf between profession lies
And that celestial life which moulds us for the skies!

But, Lord, while we in self-abasement lie
Beneath Thy searching eye,
Home to the centre bare the soul within
Where hides a bosom-sin,
Which oft amid pure seemliness of life
With secret lust is rife:
Yea, some, professing to uphold Thy throne,
Have cast all devils out, except their spirit's own!

From such delusion, God! our conscience save,
Which to the very grave
And e'en beyond it,—to the Judge on high
Extends the cheating lie!—
That spell of Satan, whence a worldling dreams
He is the all he seems,
And dares not search his own deluded heart,
Till Christ shall rend the veil, by that dread word, “Depart!”

THE HOMELESS ONE.

“The Son of Man hath not where to lay his head.” Matt. viii. 20.

Could Fancy, in some dream sublime,
With circumstance have clothed the time
When God incarnate should appear,
To roll the curse from earth's dark sphere,

With what a pomp of heaven-bright rays
Would she have circled round His ways!—
Angel, and harp, and seraphim
Would all have been foretold for Him.

Sun, moon, and star, and sky and sea,
Would each have felt a sympathy:
Some impulse, like a throbbing awe,
Through Earth had thrill'd, when Christ she saw.

But, not in Glory's pall He came;
Nor did an earthquake's throb proclaim
The world's Creator was a child,
Born in our flesh, but undefiled.

No fameless offspring of the poor
On mountain bleak, or barren moor,
Was ever rock'd on mother's breast,
To outward sense, so little blest

As yonder Babe Divine appears,
Baptised by Mary's virgin tears,—
Those pearl-drops of the heart which flow
While mothers o'er a first-born glow.

And as the inns no room afford
To cradle earth's infantine Lord,
But in the manger's welcome cold
The Virgin must her Child enfold,—

In this, prophetic shades we find
Of that dark lot, by heaven design'd
Hereafter to o'ershade The Man,
In working out redemption's plan.

105

Grandeurs, indeed, to Christ belong;
But shine they not in bardic song,
Such as the lyric choirs of earth
Are wont to chant for Hero's worth.

Ne'er did our world such meekness view,
Such self-oblivion, vast and true;
His very majesty was mild,—
The Man of Sorrows never smiled.

The fox his cave, the bird his nest,
But where His glorious head to rest
My Saviour had not!—doom'd to roam
From earth to heaven without a home.

Oh, miracle! which dazzles thought,—
With all the wealth of Godhead fraught
That He, who died the world to save,
Was buried in a borrow'd grave!

And yet, beneath that bland disguise
What glory in suspension lies!—
Jehovah, in our manhood shrined,
Is mock'd by unappall'd mankind.

But He, by whom yon worlds were made,
Whose will their huge foundations laid,
Though matter, motion, time, and sense
Were slaves to His omnipotence,

Repress'd His Godhead; nor allow'd
Full beams to flash from out the cloud;
For at the glance of one dread ray
The Universe had shrunk away!

For Him no monuments arise;
No motto'd pillars seek the skies;
Unlike the earth-gods fame admires,
His awful life no World inspires.

Alone, beyond all loneliness,
Which e'er a burden'd soul could press,
Emmanuel's heart through toil and tears
Went beating on its destined years.

Martyrs are found, whose bosoms bleed,
When by mysterious Heaven decreed
In the hush'd depths of their lone heart
To bear untold some venom'd dart;

But neither saint, nor angel could
Uncurtain that veil'd solitude
Where Christ alone, unstain'd by sin,
Baffled the powers of Hell, within.

And thus, eternity nor time,
Nor sorrowing earth, nor heaven sublime,
Except in Christ,—did ever see
A Soul without a sympathy,

And wilt thou, ere thy course be run,
Betake thee to the Homeless one?
Then, sinner, count the mighty cost!—
To thee the world is blind and lost;

Not rashly bear His awful name;
Nor dream that fortune, bliss, or fame,
Or aught that hero-worship loves,
The Lord of meekness e'er approves.

In fasting, solitude, and fears,
Through buried pangs, and hidden tears,
Unecho'd, and by most, unknown,
Prepare, like Christ, to live alone.

Yet oh, within thee, dark and deep
When thy crush'd thought retires to weep,
And harshly cold, its iron heart
The world presents to all thou art,

Then, think of Him! and back recall
The Homeless, Who was Lord of all;
A God with angels round the throne,
Too poor to call the grave His own.

Pillow in prayer thine aching breast
On Him, who had not where to rest
His head on earth; but Who in heaven
Can feel thy heart, and cry—forgiven!

FIRST SOUL IN HEAVEN.

“By faith Abel ------ obtained witness that he was righteous, God testifying of his gifts: he being dead, yet speaketh.”—Heb. xi. 4.

“No man could learn that song but ------ the redeemed.”—Rev. xiv. 3.

In hush'd eternity alone
Before all creatures were,
Jehovah held His awful throne
Unworshipp'd by a prayer.

There was no space, nor scene, nor time,
Nor aught by names we call;
But, center'd in Himself sublime
Was God, the All in All!

106

But through eternity there ran
A thrill of coming change,
And lustrous Shapes of life began
Around His Throne to range.

Radiant with rapture, pure as bright,
Angelic myriads rise,
And glow and glisten in the light
Of God's approving eyes.

In volumed waves of golden sound
Roll from celestial lyres
Those swelling chants, which peal around
From new-created choirs.

But, hark! amid the shining throng
Of Shapes who arch their wings,
A single Voice another song
With mortal cadence sings:

Alone he seems, and chants apart
In unexpected notes
A music, where the grateful heart
In strains of feeling floats:

A beauteous Soul! whose seraph brow
Is bright with glory's hue,—
Lo, Angels pause to hear him now
Their harping praise outdo.

Their choral rapture swell'd as deep
As purity could pour;
But they, who have not learn'd to weep,
May never God adore

With such a burst of whelming love
As Earth's first martyr sang,
When, glory to the Lord above!
The voice of Abel rang.

Angelic harps their key-note found
In God, as great and good:
But Abel's life-pulse beat and bound
As only sinner's could.

“Worthy the Lamb! who shall be slain;
Redemption crowns my song:
Ye seraphim! your notes retain,
But these to me belong.”

Thus might the primal Soul who came
Forth from its bleeding clay,
Kindle the heavens with His bright name,
Who is our Truth, and Way.

And with that blissful song he blent
A humbling depth of tone,
Which to the ransom'd harper lent
A music all its own.

Angels for bliss and being sang
Their ecstasies on high;
But how the heavens with wonder rang
When Man awoke the sky

With that new song, Redemption gave
To Abel's pardon'd soul!
Till angels ceased their wings to wave,
Nor let their chorus roll,

But listen'd with entrancèd ears
To that bright martyr's strain,
Whose notes were born of banish'd fears
And breathed of ended pain.

But from the hour when rescued man
Enter'd within the veil,
And heaven's delighted host began
To list Redemption's tale,

Myriads of blood-wash'd souls have flown
Where the first spirit went
Till he, who once hymn'd Christ alone,
Is now with numbers blent.

Each nation, kindred, home, and clime
Helps to increase the throng,
Making the heavens grow more sublime
With Earth's redemption-song.

Each minute, guardian angels mount
With some new soul on high,
And hear it, close to Glory's fount,
Deepen that endless cry,—

“Salvation! through the bleeding grace
Of God's incarnate Son,
Whose merit for a banded race
A more than Eden won.”

And louder, louder, yet will grow
That song before the Throne,
As added saints set free from woe
Shall make the strain their own.

Lord! grant that we on earth begin
To tune the heart's deep lyre,
And by prophetic notes within
Anticipate the choir,

Who ever round Thee chant, and sing
The song no angels can,—
“Hail! Prophet, Priest, and destined King
Before the world began,

“Prostrate beneath Thy face to fall
And cast our crowns before Thee,
Oh Thou, The Everlasting All,
Be this our brightest glory!”

107

GUILTY FEARS.

“O thou of little faith! wherefore didst thou doubt.” Matt. xiv. 31.

Around us moves this magic world
With all appeals of blended power;
And o'er our heads unfurl'd
The heavens, which change each hour.

Above, beneath, where'er we gaze
On sky, or soil, or living sea,
Some chord is touch'd, which plays
And thrills, O God! from Thee.

Divine as deep the eloquence
Through form and fact creation wields,
When through the veil of sense
A solemn vision yields

Stern truths,—which teach the soul to pray,
And ponder them with deepest awe;
Till conscience own the sway
Of heaven's interior law.

For though in calm, the poet sees
Rich Beauty reigning like a queen,
And grace from flowers and trees
Bedecks some fairy scene;

Yet Nature hath her moods of ire,
Deep thunders of prophetic tone,
Lightnings of ghastly fire,
And winds with conscious moan.

Darkness and thunder, wave and wind,—
Amid them let the godless think,
And soon the awe-struck mind
Will in dejection sink.

For, oh, that echo faint and broken
Of God, the holy and the just,
Within us like a token
Awaken will,—and must!

And then, judicial conscience yearns
To know where God and man can meet?
And with this question burns,
“Is there a mercy seat?”

But what can mere creation preach?
Is mercy mirror'd on the sky?
Can all earth's glories reach
The source of one deep sigh?

Is there a grace to heal our sin,
Atonement for the guilt-stain'd hearts?—
Around, above, within,
No answer earth imparts.

In health, and hours of reckless glee,
We mould a god from mortal smiles,
And thus, from judgment free,
Enjoy our transient wiles.

Still conscience is not murder'd quite;
But in some gloom of anguish rolls
Its challenge for God's right
Athwart our echoing souls.

Then, to the root of moral life
Our being rocks with more than fear;
And in that harrowing strife
The Judge seems drawing near!

Hence, like disciples on the deep
When yawning billows o'er them swept,
While lapp'd in lovely sleep
The Lord calm slumber kept,

Our souls are in tempestuous fright,
Our bark of hope is sinking fast,
And death's eternal night
Seems all around us cast.

Then, fear we, Lord! and learn at length
What saints must feel before they die,—
A sinner has no strength
Except to grace he fly.

“Oh, little faith,”—alas, how true!
Our pagan fears in calm and storm
Darken from love's own view
Thy Mercy's present form.

And thus, 'mid promises divine,
And with the wealth of Godhead stored,
Like orphans, Christians pine,
As if they had no Lord!

Shame on our sunken hearts, and base,
That men like creedless orphans live,
Though God redeem'd our race
With all a God could give.

Oh, had we faith, though earth and sky
To second chaos were confounded,
Christ would not hear the cry,—
“By death are we surrounded!”

But, calm, as was the Saviour's brow
Who slept amid the thund'ring wave,
Each soul would prove him now
Mighty to shield and save.

108

Rebuke then, Lord! not waves and winds,
But rather raise our blush of shame,
That men with heathen minds
Can bear Thy blessed Name.

Anchor of Souls! in life and death
Though loud the storms of anguish be,
May Love, with latest breath,
Her haven seek in Thee.

JESUS TEMPTED.

“Then was Jesus led up of the spirit into the wilderness, to be tempted of the devil.”—Matt. iv. 1.

And wert Thou by the prompting Spirit led
Through desert lone, to face Satanic power,
Oh second Adam! our anointed Head,—
To balk the demon in his blackest hour?

One moment, by baptismal waves we hear
From opening skies deep melody descend,
And drink that Voice with reverential fear
Which hail'd Thee, Son of God, whom Grace did send:

The next,—and Thou art in yon homeless wild
Fasting and foodless, with no eye to see
How the lost angel tempts Thine undefiled
Manhood, to break the bond of Deity.

'Twas even so: and if when Satan threw
A fiendish shade of subtlety and hate,
By tempting wickedness of words untrue
Into the heart of man's primeval state,

A mystery darkens round the deepest mind
Which ponders o'er that scene with prayerful thought,
How can we dream (unless by sin struck blind)
A tempted Christ, with. less of mystery fraught?

Thus doth our Athanasian symbol teach
A truth sublime which deep in Godhead dwells,
Something beyond a soaring thought to reach,
Surmounting all that wingèd reason tells,—

How in Emmanuel God and Man unite
Both natures true, in properties and powers;
The first retain'd its uncreated light,
The second, sin except, was weak as ours.

In act quiescent, though by Godhead there,
Divinity did not the man withdraw;
And thus obedient down to weeping prayer
The Infinite became, by finite law.

So may we read, with simple hearts and pure,
How thus between the Darkness and the Light
A conflict reign'd; nor let cold science lure
Our souls from faith in that mysterious fight.

No dream it was; no parable, no trance;
Nor mental ecstasy, which rapt the soul
Beyond the bounds where time and space advance
Their true conditions, or their just control:

Close to the record simply may we cleave;
Then, each temptation will to man impart
Wonders that whelm no reason to believe,
And awing wisdom which improves the heart.

Tempted by Satan, lo, the Adam first
Yielded, and fell beneath a boundless lie;
And by his fall condemn'd mankind were curst,
In whose one death all generations die!

But when again the Prince of Evil would
A second Adam likewise have assail'd,—
Based on eternity, our Rock withstood
And humanly o'er sin and hell prevail'd.

Vainly to crush Him thrice the Tempter brought
The magic fulness of infernal skill;
Nothing which sense or inward feeling wrought,
Assail'd the Holy One with shade of ill.

Far o'er the fiercest hunger faith arose;
No pride of life His meekness could o'erwhelm;
And Kingdoms of the world, as painted shows,
His heart rejected from its holy realm.

He came to suffer, long before He reign'd,
And home to God our human will to bring;
Thus, no temptation from the demon stain'd
That perfect Virtue, saints and angels sing.

Hail, Son of Mary! Arch-Elect of heaven,
Victim Divine, whose blood redeem'd our fall,
Conquer'd by grace, to Thee the world is given,—
Wield Thy love-sceptre, and subdue it all!

109

VOICE OF THOSE NO MORE.

“He being dead, yet speaketh.”—Heb. xi. 4.

Our Fathers, where be they,
The guides of vernal youth,
Who taught our infant lips to pray,
And vow'd the heart to truth?

The Prophets, who foretold
What life's worn scene would be,
And bade us in our God behold
The hopes which make us free?

All fleeted by, and fled
To orbs of bliss unknown;
Their dust is with the countless dead,
And we,—must walk alone.

But in time's weary track
Of sorrow, change, and care,
How oft their words come rolling back,
And breathe us into prayer!

Oh, little did we think
When their hoar'd wisdom spake,
How soon our lofty hopes would sink,
And life's gay bubble break!

We call'd them gloomy seers,
Too boding, dull, and sad;
And when their eyes were dimm'd with tears,
Our own smiled ever glad.

They warn'd us of the world,
Gave to each rose its thorn,
And when false hopes their wings unfurl'd,
Spake words which seem'd forlorn.

They bade us walk with God,
And, Christ-like, bear the cross,
Learning true wisdom in the rod,
And love from earthly loss.

And have our lives gainsay'd
The warning truth and word
Which once, ere Time these hearts betray'd,
Approving conscience stirr'd?

Ah, no!—in grief and gloom,
Their counsels and their cares
Accost us from their distant tomb,
And show the truth was theirs.

Though mortal was their breath,
Immortal breathes the mind;
For how can That be sunk in death,
Whose wisdom rules mankind?

Dead prophets, then, seem nigh,
And round us dwell and reign;
And all who in the Saviour die,
Shall hear those seers again.

SINFULNESS OF SIN.

“Sin, that it might appear sin, working death in me by that which is good; that sin by the commandment might become exceeding sinful.” Rom. vii. 13.

Sin colours all we do and prize,
And, like our shadow, ne'er departs;
E'en when we sleep, its blackness lies
In spirit brooding o'er our hearts.

The cleansing grace of Blood Divine
Alone can wash the stain away,
“So let it bathe this heart of mine!”—
Believers thus for ever pray.

Sin struck the moral root of Man
And poison'd there the branches too;
From Adam down to us it ran,
And venoms all we think and do.

Still, not in earth, but heaven above
Rebellion first its flag unfurl'd,
When God's bright Angel left his love,
A fiend became, and sought our world.

O mystery! too deep for all
Except for Truth's omniscient eye,
That one in heaven from faith might fall,
Whom nothing from without could try.

Yet refuge in this thought we find,
That sin no perfect substance is;
But mere negation, bad and blind,
Which cankers man and mortal bliss.

Dark paradox of will perverse,
Self-worship forms the secret ground
Where Sin begets that boundless curse,
Hearts without God have ever found.

Self-pref'rence frames a hell within,
Eternity in seed is there;
And death and darkness thence begin
The torment souls undone must share.

110

How sin commenced, vain reason tries
To speculate, till thought grows wild;
But modest faith this truth can prize,—
That God is pure, though man defiled.

Sole Teacher of all saving truth!
Divine Convincer of our need,
Guardian of age, and Guide of youth,
Under the Cross we learn our creed:

Sin blasted with primeval blight
Our first estate in Eden's bowers,
Cover'd creation o'er with night,
And crush'd her prospects, and her powers.

And since that most stupendous fall,
Matter and mind, with secret groan
Have ceased not for their God to call,
Like orphans left to sigh alone.

All pangs, and penalties, and pains,
Sickness and sorrow, grief and care,
Where ruin frowns, or anguish reigns,—
The sinfulness of sin is there.

The babe who dies; the tomb which opes
For buried joys, or broken hearts;
Each leaf that falls from wither'd hopes
As friend on friend from earth departs,—

What prove they all, but seal and sign,
How sin hath havock'd earth and man,
And, as the foe of law divine,
Merits an everlasting ban?

But seek we this sad truth to know
How sin by virtual root can be
A deicide, who strikes a blow
Which aims at awful Deity?

Then, look we to supernal Grace,
Almighty Love in flesh unveil'd,
Whose worth restored our sunken race
To heights beyond what thought hath scaled.

Did grateful awe His form attend?
Or, round Him adorations fall,
And with encrowning anthem blend
In one loud burst,—“Hail! Lord of all!”

Alas! the world an atheist proved;
His life became embodied woe,
And He whom God supremely loved
Was hated, worse than fiends below.

Sin nail'd Him to the felon's tree,
Marr'd His meek face, and spear'd His side;
Nor was one sigh of sympathy
Breathed o'er Him, when the Man-God died!

Well might Creation feel affright,
And her dread anguish seem to say
The sun could not endure that sight,
But veil'd its brow, and look'd away.

Yet man, the sinner, does not shake,
Recoil nor shudder, groan nor weep;
And while the very dead awake,
His heart retains its iron sleep!

Lord of the soul! while thus we find
Ourselves in all the Past hath done,
Teach the bad conscience of the blind,
Of spirits all Thou art the Sun.

In Thy pure lustre, sin appears
A contrast fell to man and God;
And makes us tremble at the tears
Which gush'd where bleeding Mercy trod.

Religion thus atonement brings
When faith and fear in one combine;
While purity from pardon springs,
And proves them both indeed divine.

WORLD OF SPIRITS.

“Give place: the maid is not dead, but sleepeth.”—Matt. ix. 24.

“God is not the God of the dead, but of the living.”—Matt. xxii. 32.

“To-day shalt thou be with me in paradise.”—Luke xxiii. 43.

Men are not dead because they die,
From outward sense receding,
But where extends no mortal eye
A spirit-life are leading:
In some vast orb, whose unveil'd glories shine,
They wait the pealing of the trump divine.

What, though the slaves of tyrant sense,
Wild Hearts, with sorrow blind,
Dare catechise Omnipotence
As though it mock'd mankind,
And tempt some daring Sadducee to say
“On life unseen can Reason dart her ray?”

Yet, just as reason sense can lift
Into some higher sphere,
So can pure faith, heaven's peerless gift,
O'er reason's known career

111

Soar on wing'd thoughts,—and bid rapt feelings roam
In dreams immortal round the Spirit's home.

That spirit-home! that clime of Souls,
The palace of the Blest,
Where neither storm nor shadow rolls
Athwart the halcyon breast,
Oh, there embower'd, unbodied saints repose,
And each pure heart with placid virtue glows.

They are not dead, whose bodies die,
Commingling with cold earth;
For soul is man's eternity
And hath such godlike worth,
That no corruption makes its pulse to pause;
Nor can mere death arrest its mighty laws.

Created once, it lives, and lives
For ever, and for ever!
The God of souls a fiat gives
That flesh from it may sever,
But round itself no trance sepulchral steals,
And when unearth'd, diviner impulse feels.

The life men touch, and see, and taste,
Is but organic show;
And onward as wing'd moments fleet
Our organs weaker grow;
But character enfolds eternal doom,
Bearing a life which breathes beyond the tomb.

And might some parted soul return
Back from the viewless state,
Our yearning minds would meekly learn
What voiceless wonders wait
The flesh-deliver'd, who, from bondage free,
Fly to that Hades God proclaims to be.

Secrets of glory might disclose
Their rich contents to man;
And truths beyond what Learning knows
Or Science ever can,—
Might then illuminate with earthless gleams
Darkness which makes us tremble in our dreams!

But He, who is of life and death
Puissant Lord and King,
And portions out all human breath,
Forbids the Dead to bring
Intelligence from that far world unknown,
To whose veil'd wonders countless souls have flown.

Six thousand years have almost roll'd
Their human waves along,
Since Death, the uncontroll'd,
Hath triumph'd o'er the strong,
The weak and bad, the beautiful and brave,
And made the earth-scene one enormous grave.

And yet, of all our sumless dead
Not one hath back return'd
To soothe some heart which inly bled,
And for this secret burn'd,—
To understand, how Spirits think and act,
And what the glories which the dead attract?

In vain may restless minds intreat,
Or for such knowledge groan;
Silence before the Mercy-seat
Befits the faith we own,
When Hearts bereaved a parted soul pursue,
And seek to learn what martyrs never knew:

Oft in the hush of holy night,
In shades of solemn grief
When bow'd beneath some awful blight,
With none to bring relief,
How have we sigh'd to see that viewless State
Where dead Immortals for their glory wait!

But, ah, the Universe is dumb
To each high-breathèd prayer;
From earth and heaven no answers come,
But echo murmurs “Where?”
When lonesome Thinkers in the churchyard cry,
“Where rest the souls whose bodies round us lie?”

But, calm thee, riven Heart! lie still;
Nor wise beyond The Word
Attempt to prove, lest haughty will
To Christ should be preferr'd;
Enough to know, that all in heaven who trust
God shall awaken from sepulchral dust.

They “are not dead, but sleeping,”—
Bright words of balm and grace!
To Anguish worn, and weeping
Above some marble face,
When placid death has closed the silken lid
And from our hearts the soulless glances hid.

But in that hour of deepest trance
While bend we o'er the dead,
And into realms of thought advance
Where Scripture hath not led,
The calm seraphic each white feature wears
Seems to embody what The Lord declares

When death a transient “sleep” He calls;
And thus from hearts half-breaking
Rolls back the cloud which flesh appals,
And prophesies the waking
Soon to begin!—when Time's last trumpet rolls
The blast that summons bodies back to souls.

112

Meanwhile, though “earth to earth”
Be o'er their temples cried,
The souls who shared a second birth
No dust and darkness hide:
Wafted by angels to immertal bowers,
They muse in Paradise, with conscious powers.

Beyond such creed faith dares not go,
Nor speculate on more;
True wisdom loves her sphere to know,
Nor lets the heart run o'er.
In aimless dreams, which cannot love inspire,
But mock the fancy with a lurid fire.

When Laz'rus back to life was brought,
He breathed not what he saw;
As though oblivion's spell had wrought,
Or some celestial law
The lip restrain'd, and lock'd in silence all
The shrouded wonders which the dead befall.

And that young maid of Judah's race
Whom Christ to earth restored,
When life's glad bloom inspired her face,
And she whom Love deplored,
Clasp'd in a mother's arms, again was prest
Heart close to heart, and breast to echoing breast,—

No whisper gave she of the scene
To which her spirit fled;
Nor conscious look'd her soul had been
Communing with the dead,—
Glory and Music might have seen and heard,
For which on earth we find no sign, or word.

O Thou! Whose sceptre life and death
By equal law obey,
The grace to consecrate each breath
To Thee, our Truth and Way,
Be ours to prize; and then, both dooms will be
Soothed with the thought, that each is sway'd by Thee.

GLORY OF THE MOUNTAINS.

“The Lord called to him out of the mountain.”—Exod. xix. 3.

“The glory of the Lord stood on the mountain,”—Ezek. xi. 23.

How glorious are the mountain-Kings! who overawe the soul,
And lift us into fellowship with their sublime control.
An era forms it in the hearts which first beneath them bow'd,
When haughtily some Alpine-peak out-soar'd the highest cloud.

They are not what the dull believe, a mass of speechless earth,
But with embodied eloquence proclaim their regal birth;
Like anthems mute but magical, to inward thought they praise
That Infinite of Architects, Who their foundation lays.

Be glory to the mountains! then,—what poetry they make
When canopied by lucid air, or mirror'd on the lake;
Or when the ravish'd pilgrim cries, from off some wooded brow,
“Three hundred cloven summits lift their ice-bound foreheads now!”

The throned Archangels who in bliss on seats of glory rest,
And through eternity behold the landscapes of the blest,
Can scarce, to our imperfect dream, sublimer views enjoy,
Than what these Alpine monarchs form,—the mountains of Savoy.

The magic of their whiteness seems miraculously pure,
And upward their ascending snows our lifted hearts allure;
And radiant are the icy spells their soaring masses wield,
When seventy leagues cannot o'ershade the dazzling sight they yield.

All glory to the ancient hills! which to the godless preach
Sermons of more stupendous power, than erring man can reach;
Dumb orators to sense they look, but how divinely grand
The deep significance they bear, to hearts that understand!

The stillness of their frozen trance is more than thunder's tone,
Resembling that celestial hush which deepen'd round the Throne
When silence through the heaven of heavens for half an hour there reign'd,
And seraphim before their God eternity sustain'd!

It is not that the clouds array with myriad-tinted hues
Those peaks of alabaster ice which pinnacle our views;

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Nor is it, that our sateless eyes are spell-bound by the scene
Of rocky scalps ten thousand feet above some black ravine:

Nor is it, that the glaciers lift their crags of gleaming snow
And move down in a noiseless march to meet the vale below;
Nor all the dreadful joy that chills the soul of him who braves
Montánvert! from thy summit vast, the ever-frozen waves:

Far more than this do mountain-spells to echoing minds impart
When through the veil of outer sense, they reach the central heart,—
There enter with mysterious power, like purities to reign,
And over all its hidden springs a moral influence gain.

Thus oft amid the crowded street, or some contracted room,
Or in that hour of mystic sway when all things wear a gloom,
The Alpine monarchs lift their peaks, and in remembrance rise,
And elevate our sunken hearts through their bewitching skies!

They cause our very souls to blush, to think how base and weak
Are half the fancied woes we feel, or morbidly would speak;
Until their awful summits seem to lift the rallied mind,
And bid it soar to peerless heights above depress'd mankind.

But what a sacred loftiness do regal mountains claim,
When we connect their giant forms with that undying fame
Which clings and cleaves to each and all celestial archives bring,—
The truths, that martyr'd seers foretell, or sainted harpers sing!

Then, glory to the sacred Hills! which rose in childhood's years,
And by their ever-awing names inspired our faith and fears,—
Moriah's mount, and Amalek, Gilboa and the scene
Of Hermon and of Horeb too, where God of old has been.

How Gilead and Gerizim's forms, with Lebanon, appeal,
And Ebal's, whence the curse roll'd down, to man's religious zeal,
And make us through believing awe invest a mountain's brow
With magic and with deathless might, beyond what lips avow.

And, who but recreant hearts forget, how much sublime event
Hath to the hills of Palestine a solemn beauty lent?
Behold the peaks of Ararat! for there the Ark did ride
And floated o'er a deluged world, which then our God denied.

And were not earth's primeval shrines upon lone mountains built?
Upon them rose the altars green, where offer'd blood was spilt;
There sacrifice from votive hearts, with incense-prayer was given,
And who forgets Moriah's hill, and Abram's crown from heaven!

And did not in deep thunder-tones the Decalogue descend
From Sinai's brow of burning gloom, and with dark conscience blend
Such horrors of unearthly sound, that pallid hosts must cry,
“Oh, let not God directly speak, or we the death must die!”

But neither what dread Moses saw, nor hoary Tishbite heard,
Hath ever man's responsive mind with such emotion stirr'd
As have those hills and heights divine, where Jesu pray'd and trod,
Who by the priesthood of His grace brings pardon'd man to God.

'Twas on some mountain where He met the Demon in that hour
When all the gather'd crafts of Hell combined their gloomy power;
And thus on hills of loneliness, in lofty hush afar
Emmanuel kept His midnight-watch, and pray'd beneath the star.

And when His form transfigured grew, with glory more than bright,
Which dazzled into dim eclipse the powers of mortal sight,

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'Twas Horeb in its soaring grace that witness'd what appear'd,
When God Himself unclosed the Heavens, and pale disciples fear'd.

But ah! of mountains all which speak to ears of list'ning Time
With tones of superhuman truth and eloquence sublime,
Dread mountain of The Crucified! in faith we turn to Thee,
And echo, with revering hearts, the name of “Calvary!”

And next to this eternal Mount, be that where Jesus taught
His sermon on Beatitude, with grace and glory fraught,—
Those lessons which divinely tell how pure that Heart must be,
Which hopes to hymn the Lamb above, and gaze on Deity!

So, when the Lord of light arose from out this world of gloom,
And re-ascended back to God, His splendour to assume,
Thy mountain, Olives! was the spot from whence He upward soar'd,
While underneath a cloudy shrine the prostrate band adored.

Then, glory to the mountain-Kings! they charm the brave and free,
Like monuments to God uprear'd, proclaiming liberty;
Religion, Law, and Grace combine, around their form to cast
A lofty spell of more than earth, while time and being last.

Lord of the Everlasting Hills! Thou life of nature's scene,
Whene'er upon some mountain-brow our musing steps have been,
Not seldom have such heights become, for mental sacrifice,
Like altars which from earth to heaven in lonely grandeur rise:

There in the hush of twilight-hour, oh, teach us how to pray,
And 'mid their sainted calm of scene adore the Truth and Way;
Till what begins in poesy, shall end in deepest prayer,
The Mountains into temples turn, and God be hallow'd there.

OUR PATTERN IN TEMPTATION.

“We have not a high priest which cannot be touched with the feeling of our infirmities; but was in all points tempted like as we are.”—Heb. iv. 15.

Come to the desert where sad Jesu went
Lone sinner!—there, as in God's mirror, see
Reflected truths, by gracious wisdom meant
To balk the arch-Fiend when he tempteth thee.

Prophetic actions, typically deep,
Forecasting all the future Church should feel
When blasting trials round her bulwarks sweep,
And fiend and foe combine against her weal

Were those dark trials, when by grace upheld
The fasting Saviour with a Demon fought,
And by His word the powers of darkness fell'd
And back to perfect heaven our Nature brought.

Unknown, the virtue which is never tried;
And principle by keen temptation proves
How much for God and glory is denied
The earth-born will our ruin'd manhood loves.

The triple force of this perverted world
Aims at our heart a threefold blow of sin:
And souls that would not from their faith be hurl'd,
By providence without and prayer within

Defence must find;—from these apart, they fail
The world, the devil, and the flesh to fight;
Darkness and doubt will o'er their creed prevail
And, Cain-like, plunge them in disastrous night.

How did Emmanuel each infernal dart
Repulse, unwounded, from His perfect soul?—
By words divine! those bucklers of the heart,
Temper'd by Heaven against the Fiend's control.

Alas! for souls, if in their perill'd hour
When sin and self, those Satans of the mind,
Besiege our graces with commingled power,
Staid reason prove the only shield we find.

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Nor let the righteous who to Love belong,
Dream that temptation will not dog their path;
When saints are weak, alone they seem the strong,
And self-mistrust a true foundation hath.

E'en in pure ecstasies of prayer and praise
When nearest round the Throne of bliss they move,
Visions from hell may float before their gaze,
And hide the glories of the heaven they love.

Here is our wisdom,—with a wakeful mind
The sense to watch, and pray down each desire
Which tempts the conscience to be base, or blind,
By fanning embers of unhallow'd fire.

And oh, what deeps of consolation ope,
Like heavens of comfort, in this creed divine,—
That not alone with Darkness thou wilt cope,
For in temptation Christ believed is thine.

He left His Throne, The stricken Man to be,
Tempted and tried, by anguish spent and worn,
And drew from earth that boundless sympathy
By which He lives, to succour the forlorn.

Then cheer thee! O thou troubled, toss'd, and tried;
Orphan'd in spirit, dream not of despair,
Open yon heavens, and lo! The Crucified
Echoes thy heart in beating concord, there.

Thy Lord beseech, by all on earth He knew,
Facing the Demon in his dreadest hours;
Whose soul remains as tender and as true
As when it wept o'er Judah's fated towers.

A mother may her new-born child forget,
And exiled hearts their fatherland forego,
But Christ in heaven eternalizes yet
Each tone of Manhood He obtain'd below.

E'en there, behold our sympathising Priest
In feeling human as in form divine;
And seraphs listen, when of saints the least
May boldly cry,—“Incarnate Love is mine!”

REASON AND DEATH.

“The righteous perisheth, and no man layeth it to heart ------ none considering that the righteous is taken away from the evil to come.”—Isa. lvii. 1.

The noblest wealth our world contains
Is holiness of heart;
All other gold it gets, or gains,
But proves the meanest part.

Most regal is that glorious will
Enslaved to God alone,
Which finds it freedom to fulfil
Each mandate of His throne:

Blest Angels by a law like this
Partake their perfect heaven,
And could not feel consummate bliss
If other law were given.

Obedience is adoring joy,
Rebellion brings despair,
And would the heaven of heavens destroy
If Self-will triumph'd there!

Yet holiness may not avoid
The doom corruption brought;
Since Adam fell, by sin destroy'd,
Hath death his carnage wrought.

The sting, but not the stroke, of death
The Lord from man removed;
And they who draw the briefest breath
Are oft the most beloved,—

Beloved by God, and angels too,
And thus from grief and pain
Rapt far above our sense-bound view,
With Christ in heaven to reign.

But oh! how cold the world becomes
As saint on saint departs,
To brighten in elysian homes
With pure and perfect hearts.

As if from out yon starry choir
Which chant around the sun,
Some choral planet quench'd his fire
Which we were gazing on,

Impov'rish'd seems our orphan'd earth
When good men pass away;
Time cannot spare their solemn worth,
But needs it, day by day.

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But still, for them we dare not grieve
The christian path who trod,
If early call'd this life to leave
For glory, and for God.

To them the gain, to us the loss
High providence assigns;
And so appoints a deeper cross
Than mortal thought divines.

Genius, and worth, and wisdom, all
From God alone arise;
And when He wills the same recall,
They seek their natal skies.

Then hush thee, murm'ring Heart! and let
Profound bereavements teach
Lessons more pure than pale regret
By discontent can reach.

The righteous die, but still they live
A life of soul in bliss;
And what Eternity can give,
Outweighs a world like this!

Men would not marvel, could they see
The lustres round The Throne,
Why saints and martyrs yearn'd to be
Where all the Just have flown.

Sorrow, and sin, and change no more
In heaven their love alloy;
The fever of harsh time is o'er,
And Christ their perfect joy.

We talk and think, as if our world
Were all Jehovah made,
And when from some false mountain hurl'd,
Tremble, as tho' betray'd:

Yet, earth is but a point in space,
Our being, scarce a breath;
And he who will not life disgrace
Must die before his death.

The booming knell, the opening grave,
The vacant room and chair
Should summon us to hopes which save
The mind from meaner care.

Hereafter is the home of soul,
The paradise of thought,
And with its unsubdued control,
Lord! be our bosom fraught.

As friend on friend, revered and wise,
Leave wither'd hearts alone,
Lift our low dreams beyond the skies
Around Thine argent throne!

Weaker and weaker grows the spell
Which binds the soul below,
When more than burning numbers tell
By grace begins to glow

Deep in those hearts, which death has fill'd
With placid grief profound;
Where every pang is lull'd and still'd
By Him who gave the wound.

Thus with the dead the living hold
Communion grave and high;
Their bodies are but pulseless mould,
But spirits claim the sky.

Thy church, O Christ! is unconfined
By what men hear, or see,
Since all who own a saintly mind
Are in eternity

By hope and faith,—from whence they draw
Breathings of praise and prayer;
While He, Whom martyr'd Stephen saw,
Becomes their Magnet, there.

THE POETRY OF SPRING.

“Lo the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come.”—Cant. ii. 11, 12.

“Bless the Lord, O my soul ------ He sendeth the springs into the valleys—watereth the hills from his chambers—causeth the grass to grow—appointeth the moon for seasons ------ O Lord, how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast thou made them all: the earth is full of thy riches.”—Ps. civ. passim.

Hark! breezy anthems from the new-born spring,
Like hymning air-birds on exultant wing;
Wide o'er the fields a flushing radiance glows,
And vernal gladness through each woodland flows.

A seeming consciousness inspires the earth
As though the soil were blooming into mirth,
And, like rich blood in some glad creature's veins,
New tides of life are mantling through her plains.

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Music and motion haunt each choral bough,
Like living spirits fill'd with joyance now;
Here, lyric tones, there, wave-like murmurs rise,
And there, the cadence of contented sighs.

Swift o'er the pebbles haste the hill-born streams,
And lisp and laugh, like infants in their dreams;
Or else, make liquid music as they run,
In fairy stanzas warbled to the sun.

The stainless magic of each new-born flower
Mirrors the charm of Heaven's creative power;
Beauty comes forth, like melody from lyres
Swept by some hand which Poesy inspires.

Look where you may, expressive gleams of youth
Dart through the conscience this celestial truth,—
That Christ is working resurrection-life,
Till earth grows radiant and with fulness rife.

The silken azure of yon ruffled sea,
The wing'd emotions of each bird, and bee,
Blent with a chorus of yon festal streams,—
All sway the sense, and beautify our dreams.

And when Morn reddens, until soft and soon,
The golden brightness of unbreathing noon
O'erveils the landscape with a slumb'rous light,
Still shall creation yield intense delight.

Let but the heart be spiritually clear,
Let but our soul this God-made earth revere,
Then will poetic eyes religion greet,
From stars on high, to insects at our feet.

For what is Nature, but a Book divine
Where Godhead dictates each material line,
Where each pure object proves almighty Thought
Forth from its viewless depths to vision brought?

Alas! for Souls, if men baptized can find
Nothing in nature to accost the mind,
Since all around them, did they read it well,
Bears the high meaning of some holy spell.

Sense cannot see them, but bright Angels may
Direct the sunbeams which adorn the Day,
Entone the breeze, and oft at vesper-hour,
Close the bent eyelid of each baby flower.

Cold Science worships philosophic Cause,
And for its God reveres vicarious laws,
Orphans creation of Jehovah's care,
And longs to silence what her scenes declare;

But Thou! by Whom all seasons reign and rule,
Fount of the fresh, the fair, and beautiful!
For ever may Thine angel-spring impart
This glorious symbol to each saintly heart,—

As wintry Earth Her floral garb assumes,
So will the dead, when summon'd from their tombs,
Rise at Thy voice, in resurrection-dress,
And beam with everlasting loveliness.

Beatitudes.

POOR IN SPIRIT.

FIRST BEATITUDE.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”—Matt. v. 3.

With awful gloom when Moses brought
The law of fire and flame,
Eternal Duty then was taught
In dread Jehovah's name.

But radiantly descendeth now
Deep wisdom from above;
For mildness clothes His gracious brow
Whose ev'ry line is love.

It was not thus the Type of old
Imperial Law declared,
When round Him pealing thunders roll'd
And red-wing'd lightnings glared.

The people shudder'd, like a leaf,
Amid their black'ning gloom;
And Conscience saw no just relief
Beyond, or in, the tomb.

But bright the contrast now appears,
When the mild Lord of grace
From you green Mount dispels all fears,
By His benignant face.

The breeze, soft lyrist of the spring,
Was harping o'er the flowers;
And humming bees upon the wing
Enjoy'd their golden hours;

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A vernal radiance threw its gleam
Of gladness o'er the hills;
While, rich as love-tones in a dream,
The gushing of the rills.

And like the season, so the Word
Was mild as mercy's breath;
No curse was in His counsel heard,
Nor doom of legal death.

That Christ, who came the lost to save,
With blessing did begin;
And thus from guilt, and death, and grave
Redeem'd the heart within.

Humility and meekness were
The groundwork Jesu laid;
And He, whose life was living prayer,
Their perfect types display'd.

All mental grace, all moral gift,
Whate'er men seek, or find,
Is blasted,—if it proudly lift
Or bloat the conscious mind.

Contingent, finite, from the dust,
What Nothings are we all!
For in the tomb the proudest must
A worm his brother call.

All pride becomes a fiendish spark
Of hell, within the soul;
And He who dreads that region dark,
Abhors its least control.

The poor in spirit, blest are they
Above the world who live;
Their wisdom is to watch and pray,
And, like their Lord, forgive.

Nor seek they for ambition's wealth,
Or sigh for world-applause;
But, calm in sickness as in health,
To Heaven commit their cause.

True meekness is that master-grace
Which saints and martyrs wore;—
Behold, who led proud Judah's race,
How mild a mien He bore!

We cannot back to God return
From the base depths of sin,
Until bencath the Cross we learn
To form the Christ within.

And was He not, of worlds the Lord,
In meckness all divine,
Who with each high and heavenly word
A lowly grace did twine?

A passion for imperfect good,—
Behold, what fosters pride;
While God Himself is thus withstood
No idols are denied.

But mortal, wouldst thou blessèd be?
From finite good retire;
And in the depths of Deity
Thy soaring thoughts inspire.

In humbleness of mind believe
A true contentment reigns,—
Desires which no compunction leave,
And joys that bring no pains.

Then turn thee, O earth-fever'd Soul!
From broken cisterns fly;
For couldst thou drink their blissful whole
They still would leave thee dry.

The utmost in all creatures fails
An inward lull to bring,
Since, when our purest dream prevails,
Unrest keeps murmuring.

Low as some weanèd child to lie
Before Emmanuel's feet,
And in the guidance of His eye
To find a safe retreat,

Like Him to crucify the will,
As mereiful and meek,
And each just orb of duty fill
Whene'er we act, or speak,—

Be this, disciple of the Cross!
The glory of thine aim;
And though on earth thou reap the loss,
In heaven perceive thy gain.

But, saith He not, that here below
Beatitudes begin,
For all whose hearts by meekness grow
Above the self of sin?

A kingdom of the mind is theirs
While yet on earth they bide;
And heaven seems dawning through the prayers
God's Spirit hath supplied.

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Celestial Dove of grace! descend,
Thy gentleness impart;
Till Faith shall build the “Sinner's friend”
A temple in her heart.

THEY THAT MOURN.

SECOND BEATITUDE.

“Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.”—Matt. v. 4.

Oh, paradox divine, as deep!—
The blest are those who wail and weep,
And bear that burden which no hearts allay:
With rose-buds though the World be crown'd
While rubied wine-cups circle round,
In fev'rish gloom her false dreams melt away.

The Man of Sorrows, in Whose tear
The Church can type her own career,
The God-man, whose profound extremes combined
Whate'er of glory and of gloom
His awful Person could assume,—
On Mourners stamp'd the name of blest mankind.

But not o'er all sad minds, which mourn
Like orphans in a world forlorn,
Have lips Almighty thus pronounced the “bless'd;”
For grief is oft a selfish chord,
Whose earth-tones can no proof afford
That God and grace have e'er the will imprest.

The mourners who “about the streets”
Of thronging life a stranger meets,
Full often are they but proud Sin in tears;
'Tis worldly sorrow working death
Which now intones their anguish'd breath,
And fetters them with darkness, and with fears.

Spent Minds, like these, none dare believe
Are purely blest, because they grieve,
Or pine that earth no more their heaven supplies;
But blest are they who mourn within
The rankling wound of venom'd sin,
Waking, beyond all woe, their soul-heaved sighs.

For, sin is that stupendous grief
Which out of God finds no relief,—
A tainting curse which cleaves to flesh and soul;
And so abhorr'd around The Throne,
The very heavens appear to groan
And bow dejected at its dread control!

'Tis true, bland Nature's tear-drops flow
To mark cold earth a churchyard grow,
While tombs rise countless as the waves at sea;
Sickness and sorrow, change and care,
And pale-worn features ev'ry where
Reveal the hollowness vain life must be.

But Zion's mourners grieve and pine,
To think that law and love divine
O'er caitiff man can wield such transient sway,—
How all the Trinity of grace
One bosom-sin will oft displace,
And give to passion's dream its boundless play!

Such weepers mourn before The Lamb,
And cry, “Oh! wretched that I am!
Who shall deliver me, and burst my chain?”
Their hearts are crush'd, and inly rent
To find what base alloy is blent
With that “fine gold” where virtue feels no stain.

For this they blush, and burden'd lie,
In self-abhorrence shrink, and sigh;
And when they muse on Jesu's awful groans,
And how the garden soil was wet
And crimson'd with His bloody sweat,—
Their hearts beat prayer, which Godhead hears alone!

'Tis here a grief sublime appears:
And rays of glory light the tears
Of Souls, which mourn for heaven's almighty wrong:
Oh! then descends the Paraclete
And calms them with mild comfort meet,
And turns their sadness to victorious song.

Dejected Minds, who thus are blest
By sealing grace, are more impress'd,
And bland and meek as charity become:
Reflective awe and deep'ning prayer
The growing work of God declare,
And bid them pant for heaven's unclouded Home.

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So, when these days of darkness cease,
And holy death shall bring release
From sorrow's gloom, and sin's intense alloy,
How will they glory in that God
Who said, while earth's bleak wilds they trod,
That they who sow in tears, shall reap in joy!

MEEKNESS.

THIRD BEATITUDE.

“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”—Matt. v. 5.

Thy ways, O Lord, are unlike ours,
Thy Thoughts surpass our own;
And angels, when they scan their powers,
Fall wing-veil'd round the Throne.

Eternity Thine eyes peruse,
Omniscient is Thy mind;
And whatsoe'er Thy wisdom choose
Is perfect in its kind.

But we, by pride and passion stain'd,
Our good no longer know,
And when we dream the goal is gain'd,
Have reach'd intenser woe.

Ay, Good and Evil, Pain and Bliss
In vain blind heathens thought
To image in a world like this
Those models which they sought.

Our Centre true they could not see
In aught the creatures bring;
But Christ, who show'd us Deity,
Unveils that holy Thing.

But yet a paradox this wears
To men who walk by sense,
Which deep humility declares
The heart's sublime defence.

Resistance seems a noble gift
To reason's haughty view;
And passions that proud self uplift
Re-echo it as true.

But He whose will was crucified
Throughout His sad career;
Whom earth abhorr'd, and man denied
One sympathetic tear,

By bearing outrage, wrong, and hate,
This heaven-born lesson taught,—
That souls are not divinely great
Except with meekness fraught.

Submission tender, mild, and deep,
Not sullen, stern, or sad,
But gentle as when Angels weep
While they o'erwatch the bad,

Such the chaste virtue Christ commends,
Believer! as divine;
And if thy heart its Master bends,
That lovely grace is thine.

And who with such a just appeal
To injured souls could cry,
“Like Me must true disciples feel
If doom'd to live or die?”

In Christ the Lamb and Lion met,
Their graces were combined;
And blest are those who follow yet
The path He left behind.

Whether before the Council placed,
Or girt with savage yell,
Or else, by fiendish mock disgraced
Whose accent came from hell;

Or, nail'd upon the wrenching Cross
In one incarnate pang,
While foes beneath Him rage and toss,
And impious gibings rang,—

However tried, 'tis patience all!
From Him no wrath-tones roll;
To God ascends each dying call
Which rent His yielded soul.

And who can keep a Christlike heart,
Except his moral tone,
When call'd to bear life's bitter part,
Recall the Saviour's own?

Yet deem not that in stoic frost
Warm feelings must be chill'd;
Or that impassion'd minds are lost
When thus by patience still'd.

Perturb'd emotions, strong and keen,
When pure Religion's cause
Demands a Hero for her scene,
Infringe no hallow'd laws:

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But, guard thee well! lest temper stain
And poison glorious zeal,
Till selfish anger's secret reign
Proves all the god we feel.

Meek charity, that master-grace
The peerless type of heaven,
Oh, let it from thy creed displace
What cannot say, “forgiven!”

Nor ever let the sun go down
Upon our inward ire;
They cannot wear a Saviour's crown
Whom love doth not inspire.

Pure Lord of lowliness, and love!
Thus make Thy model dear
To all who live for thrones above,
By bearing crosses here.

Thy meekness hath its own reward,
Calm blessings line its path;
Without, it keeps celestial guard,
Within, true peace it hath!

The proud are poor, 'mid all the gold
Ambition's pride obtains;
The meek are rich, though none behold
The beauty of their gains.

No acres may to them belong,
No scenes of garish pleasure;
But yet they chant a mental song
O'er Truth's divinest treasure.

Then, Lord of Gentleness! be Thou
For ever at our side;
And when we mark Thy wounded brow,
Abhorr'd be human pride!

We are not Thine, unless we bear
Thy yoke upon our souls,
And welcome in each cross and care
The Hand which All controls.

Disciples true the Christ reflect,
And must His shadows be;
And none but craven souls reject
The watchword,—“Follow Me!”

Yes, “follow Thee;” Lord, grant the will,
And Love at once agrees
Their heaven to taste, whose hearts fulfil
What Thy calm word decrees.

In life and death such spirits burn
To hear Thy Voice divine,
And glorify each grace they learn
By using it as Thine.

RIGHTEOUSNESS.

FOURTH BEATITUDE.

“Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled.”—Matt. v. 6.

The hand of Him who framed the earth
Hath fill'd it with harmonious grace,
That men, who boast immortal birth,
In each created thing may trace
How wondrously celestial Art,
From all without which meets the eye,
Appeals to our most inward heart,
And proves two worlds in harmony.

The world we see, and what we are,
Illustrates that accordance due
Which reigns from insect up to star,
And hallows all we feel, or do,—
If thus our hearts delight to prove
How faculties their objects find,
And render Life a hymn of love
To Him who hath both worlds combined.

But still there is a craving force
In appetites to sense allied,
Which nature in its noblest course
Hath never to the brim supplied;
Though charm'd and fed, they are not fill'd,
But fever'd oft with discontent;
The cry for “more!” no joy hath still'd,—
Unrest is with fruition blent.

Though sumless orbs of beauty roll
In burning magic through the sky,
When mortal gaze commands the whole,
For brighter longs the asking eye!
And when we hear the tones which make
The sweetest heaven that sound can bring,
Melodious thirst they do not slake
For some diviner murmuring.

But while both eye and ear demand
What no imperfect Sense enjoys,
Spirits who under grace expand
A bliss partake which never cloys,—
The bliss of hung'ring more and more
That “righteousness” may still dispense
To sainted hearts an added store
Of purer calm, and innocence:

Behold! a hunger, and a thirst
Which God Himself will soothe and slake,—
Ambition by no fever cursed,
A hope no blighting sorrows break;

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For all those wingèd dreams that rise
And flutter round a World divine,
When heaven unveils its hidden prize,
Will find far more than dreams combine.

Perennial glories there surpass
All which seraphic Minds desire,
Whom angels with themselves may class,
With fervid hearts for God on fire;
Of finite good who only drinks,
Such water will be found in vain;
A deeper want than passion thinks,
Will soon enkindle thirst again.

The man who lives by sensual dross,
May banquet on some hollow bliss,
But yet this truth his mind will cross,—
I was not made for food like this!
Hunger and thirst, they make the all
Which carnal wisdom can create,
Whate'er encrowning words may call
The glories which enwreathe the great.

From joy to joy the jaded Sense
Pursues each worn and wearied path;
Though big may be this world's pretence,
The mind eternal hunger hath;
Within, what flaming thirst there burns
Which all polluting draughts excite,
As passion and supply by turns
Fever the day, and fret the night!

But Grace forms those, to whom is given
A glorious passion fix'd on God,
Who breathe on earth the air of heaven,
And tread the ground Emmanuel trod;
Their creed and conduct are combined
In unity of peace and power,
And mirror forth a saintly mind
When darkness clouds the drearest hour.

They must be tranquil, who are made
By God, the guardian of the blest,
Of neither Hell nor Earth afraid,
While panting for elysian rest:
Their hunger is a holy thing,
Their bosom-thirst a painful bliss;
And lauding Seraphs shake their wing
Of rapture o'er unrest like this!

What is it?—but to nobly pine
More Christlike in true love to be,
Or body forth the will divine,
And heaven in all things ever see:
Till rectitude a nature grow,
And holiness the spirit's breath,
And faith alike in weal or woe
Adorn our life, and vanquish death.

But if indeed the hunger'd mind
And thirsting heart for Jesu long,
Then will they not meet nurture find
To nurse and make religion strong?
Incarnate God! such mystic food
Thine own ordaining words supplied,
Which in Thy Body and Thy Blood
A Banquet for the soul provide.

Thy sacred Flesh, oh! let us eat,
And drink the awful Wine-blood there,
Where faith Thy bleeding Form can greet
'Mid swells of sacrificial prayer:
The blasting spells of unbelief
Must sure those famish'd Hearts infect,
Who feel no pang of boundless grief
When they such angel-food neglect.

Soul of our souls! almighty Grace,
A sacramental life impart,
And by some inward power erase
Whatever dulls the deaden'd heart:
For holiness a hunger give,
And yearnings of intenser love
That we on Christ may learn to live,
Like daily Manna from above.

In heaven we need no sacrament;
Nor signs nor symbols there are found,
When glory with its full content
Shall each elected Saint have crown'd;
Adorn'd in robes of radiant white
They neither thirst, nor hunger more,
But bask in beams of pure delight
With all their toils and trials o'er.

Around the Throne in rich array
Perfect and sinless are they now,
And in God's temple night and day
Before the shrine of Glory bow;
The Lamb Himself their food supplies,
And on His fulness they can feed,
Who follow Him with tearless eyes
Where paths to living fountains lead.

BE MERCIFUL.

FIFTH BEATITUDE.

“Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.”—Matt. v. 7.

When God to man His awful Image gave
In pure creation's primal bliss,
The Wisdom, Who hereafter came to save
A sinful world so vile as this,

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The brightest feature of the Godhead drew
By deep impression on his soul,
And bade compassion most divinely true
Reign o'er his breast with unsubdued control.

Our mix'd emotions may be good, or vile,
They govern by ambiguous laws;
But mercy is of nobler cast and style,
And rooted in no selfish cause;—
How godlike, let Emmanuel's life declare!
Whose heart with such compassion beat,
That His pure soul to each sad tone and prayer
On earth became an echoing mercy-seat.

Let stoic Schools from other creeds erect
An iron system, cold and dead,
That would from God-created souls reject
Emotions out of pity bred;
Men are half-monsters, if no heart be left
To throb with pathos, and to feel
Like Jesus, when He saw a home bereft,
And down His cheek compassion's tear did steal.

Thus mercy forms the Saviour's darling grace,
And in Him took a shape divine;
In word and deed, behold its beaming trace
Throughout th' Incarnate Myst'ry shine!
His heart replied to each pale Woe that wept,
Or echo'd back man's deeper sigh;
And by the grave, no icy grandeur kept
The tear of Manhood from His sacred eye.

The haughty coldness of inhuman creeds
May scorn Compassion shedding tears,
And blandly pouring over Sorrow's needs
Those genial tones which soften fears;
And Science may to selfishness ascribe
What soft-eyed Pity for the wretched feels;
But, heaven-born Virtue bears the heathen gibe,
Nor checks the tear which from compassion steals.

Of Men the wisest, bravest, and the best,
The lofty-hearted, firm, and free,
On whose proud name an empire's glories rest,
Who guide the land and guard our sea,—
No leaden calm of unimpassion'd mind
Their boast has been, or proved them brave;
But all pure links, connecting kind with kind,
They deem'd them holy, as beyond the grave!

Men are not wise because they cannot weep,
Nor basely soft because they sigh;
For there are fountains in the heart that sleep
Which moisten oft the sternest eye;
The sainted heroes, canonised by time,
And martyr'd hosts, who burn'd or bled,—
The wide earth doth not deem them less sublime
Because they soothed the sad, or mourn'd the dead!

The perfect God, though passionless as pure,
Hath symbolised His awful Name
By deep emotions, which the heart allure,
And bend the will before His claim:
He speaks not only in the whirlwind's tone,
But with the calm of cooling eve:
And oft holds back the thunders of His Throne,
That dreadless Minds may love Him, and believe.

But Thou, blest Archetype of love divine!
In whom the Trinity express
Whate'er by union God and man combine
Of moral grace, and loveliness,
Thy Soul was tender as thy Flesh was true,
And throbb'd with thrills of deepest power;
Unmoved in Godhead, yet a living hue
Of warm emotion tinged Thy farewell-hour.

And art Thou now, embodied Lord of love!
In such deep calm of bliss enthroned
That to the Priesthood of Thy grace above,
Though deep the sigh by anguish groan'd,—
It cannot ripple into feeling there
Thy heart of tenderness, and truth?
Oh, is it echoless to high-breathed prayer,
Utter'd by sin and woe, from age, or youth?

That creed reject! 'tis infidel and wrong;
The Church adores a Priest in heaven
To Whom compassions most intense belong,
By which He feels for man forgiven;
And He is touch'd with sympathies that thrill
Through the rich glories round His Throne;
Since all those splendours leave Messiah still
The weeper's refuge, and the widow's own.

Fountain of mercy! whose melodious word
Peals in the soul like pity's voice,
Be each chaste heart by such compassion stirr'd
As makes Thy love its peerless choice;
For if with mercy for their fallen clay
Men are not melted, nor commoved,
How will they shrink from that awarding Day
When barren creeds by Christ are unapproved!

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Souls cannot love, unless like Him they feel
For human sorrows, hopes, and fears;
And learn to soften with benignant zeal
The bitter gush of orphan tears:
For God is Love; compassions wreathe His name;
And children of pure Grace are we
When, like His echoes, we become the same,
And Love on earth reflects her Deity.

PURE IN HEART.

SIXTH BEATITUDE.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”—Matt. v. 8.

How blessèd are the pure in heart!
And none are blest beside;
For nought of heaven can grace impart
If pureness be denied.

Can sightless eyeballs see the Sun,
Though Earth lie bathed in beams,
And o'er each hill he shines upon
A ray of rapture gleams?

No more can tainted spirits gaze
On glories round the Throne:
Mere darkness would become That blaze
Pure hearts can bear alone.

The Moon cannot her image glass
On restless waves which rise,
For when the storm-winds o'er them pass,
Her broken semblance dies;

And so, where passion's lurid fires
The love of truth erase,
No sight of God the soul inspires,
But all grows blind and base.

By heavenly likeness Hearts discern
The secrets most divine;
Just as we live, so much we learn
Of Thee, O God! and Thine.

Those inward eyes of purity
By which the mind beholds
Ideal truths Sin cannot see,
That God Himself unfolds,—

Unless we have them, vain is all
The science stored within;
Our creed the world may holy call,
But such proud wealth is sin.

And here, behold that peerless Law
Proving the Gospel's worth,
Beyond what sage or poet saw,
When most he soar'd from earth:

That law is purity intense,
A chastity divine,
A sacred glow of innocence,
Which keeps the heart a shrine,—

A shrine of holiness and power
Whence praise and prayer ascend,
To seek what soothes the sternest hour
Which can the Christian bend.

Then, weigh thy heart! disciple, keep
That ceaseless pulse of life;
Which even through innocuous sleep
Can throb with sin, and strife.

Mysterious, ever-active spring
Of central thought, and will!
To which time, sense, and motion bring
Perpetual good, or ill.

By thee we live, and love, and hate,
The inward Man art thou;
Thy nature dooms our final state,
And that is forming now!

Oh! watch we then, with jealous eyes,
That world where God alone
Searches the secret thoughts which rise
Like shades before His Throne.

As local space the body holds,
So God the mind contains;
And who can dare what He enfolds
To mar with sinful stains?

He dwells in us, and we in Him,
The Temple of all souls!
And pure as prostrate seraphim
Be all which He controls.

For if the ground by Moses trod
With sanctity was fill'd,
When erst the flaming bush of God
An o'erawed patriarch still'd,

Sublimer far than thought can trace
Is He, the all-divine,
Who is in Christ our dwelling-place
And Soul-embracing Shrine.

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Eternal Spring of purity!
Descend, propitious Dove;
From heart-corruption make us free,
By turning law to love.

The blessèd are the pure, indeed,
And wretched, the defiled;
In whose dark bosom dwell and breed
Lone passions, fierce and wild.

By likeness only, souls can see
The glories Heaven contains;
But minds which nurse impurity
Would feel them worse than pains.

For purity is heaven below,
And sin the hell of man,
And all eternity will show,
Will be,—what time began.

PEACEMAKERS.

SEVENTH BEATITUDE.

“Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.”—Matt. v. 9.

When first rebellion in the Will began
And faith in God to faith in Self was changed,
Wild discord woke within the soul of man,
And headlong impulse o'er his being ranged.

For peace expires where purity is lost,
And purity by love to God begins;
Who calls him “Father!”—let him count the cost
And pluck the right eye from his bosom-sins.

And who, with such a God-beseeming grace,
Could weave heaven's garland round the tranquil mind,
As Christ, who purchased for our forfeit-race
The peace divine which lulls heart-torn mankind?

Lord of our lineage, and of saving calm,
When first from veil'd eternity He came,
A natal anthem o'er night's dewy balm
Sang the rich notes of His melodious name;

And they breath'd, “Peace on earth! to man Goodwill!”
And, ere He soar'd to His primeval splendour,
“Peace” was the word that hung soft music still
Round farewell doctrine, so benignly tender.

The first of blessings, like the last, is found
Thus by our Lord, as deepest and divine;
And ne'er may calm and confidence abound
Till faith and feeling round this truth combine.

Where low'ring envy, wrath, or secret pride,
Ambition, avarice, and revenge are nursed,
Here can no halcyon from the heavens abide,
But all is chaos, with convulsion cursed.

Base passions are the serpents of our soul,
Which bite, and sting to bitterness the heart,
And where they wield their unsubdued control,
Angels and grace from that foul den depart.

But when these hearts atoning Blood makes white,
Soft o'er our spirit broods the mystic Dove;
Like the hush'd band who watch'd their sheep by night,
A “peace on earth,” replies to peace above.

Then like our Lord, magnanimous and meek,
Move where we may, our end is still the same;
Firm to our vow, in all we do or speak
We dare embody our baptismal name.

No longer as the Lord of Hosts, and War,
Doth God the glories of His will unfold;
But radiant as the lull of evening star
As Lord of Peace His pard'ning smile behold.

And saints on earth resemble Him in heaven,
Who help to circulate the calm of love,
And by imparting what to each is given
Prove their high lineage from the Lord above.

Makers of Peace! your task divine complete,
Two sever'd hearts in unity restore;
And bid mild harmonies of friendship meet
To rule in homes where they have reign'd before.

For ah! how mournful, when two friends depart
Wider and wider into distance stern,
While each one holds the arrow at his heart,
And, but for pride, would lovingly return.

And more than beauteous is a god-like word
Breathing soft balm o'er that tempestuous hour,
When some vile Satan of the soul hath stirr'd,
Or maddens nature with demoniac power.

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To stand between like mediating Grace
And make two alienated minds agree,
Sublimes our being, and reveals the trace
Of true adoption into Deity.

And, blest are they who private love promote
In bow'rs domestic, where meek Virtue dwells;
While feelings motherly their aim devote
To people home with tranquillizing spells.

And not unblest are those, who nobly guard
The lofty sacredness of public Weal;
Theirs the rich peace that brings its own reward,
When Empires at the throne of Godhead kneel.

And He, in whom all unities reside,
Celestial Fount from whence communions flow,
Husband of Souls, who took His chosen Bride
And call'd it by the name of Church, below,—

How can we love Him, if we dare to rend
By the rude harshness of sectarian will
That Mystic Body, where all members blend
And by their harmony due office fill?

How can we love Him, if our “Church” we choose
As pride, or reason, and presumption sway?—
Defend us, Grace! from Babylonian views,
And teach us, not to argue, but obey.

Be ours submission, Mary-like and meek,
Who love the path anointed martyrs trod;
Learning to crucify what most we seek
When Self would image a sectarian God.

So shall we have that sabbath peace of mind,
A wealth beyond the golden worlds to buy,—
A boundless heart which beats for all mankind,
As though it throbb'd beneath the Saviour's eye.

True source of harmony, and sacred peace,
Spirit Divine! without Thee all is vain;
Descend, and with Thy lulling power release
The souls which suffer from a selfish chain.

A loving will that leaps at duty's call
Do Thou bestow, whate'er the trial be,
Bearing the cross which heaven provides for all
Whose faith, O Lord, exults to follow Thee.

Unfathom'd peace! my Saviour's final prayer,
Deep in pure Godhead doth thy basis lie;
Reign like a boundless glory everywhere,
And guard us while we live, and when we die.

THE REVILED.

EIGHTH BEATITUDE.

“Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake ------ when men shall revile you ------ and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely for my sake: great is your reward in heaven.”—Matt. v. 10—12.

“My years are in the yellow leaf,
Though few their number found,”—
But, God is greater than thy grief
And knows the deepest wound;
Be this thy balm, in some distemper'd mood
When sad Thoughts sing their dirge in mental solitude.

This world becomes a barren scene
To eyes of sunny Youth,
When vices have victorious been,
And falsehood vanquish'd truth,
Where good men weep, and Virtue droops in shade,
And minds of most heroic mould are blighted and betray'd.

Thus to pale martyrs of the Cross,
Distracted earth appears
An orphan'd realm, where pain and loss
Demand perpetual tears;
And were it all that God for man decreed,
Who would not in despair for widow'd Nature bleed?

But soon will dawn a radiant clime
Where sin nor sorrows reign,
Beyond the clouds of changing time
To shadow, or to stain;
A bright eternity of balm and bliss
Where pangless hearts forget a life so false as this.

And let the full-toned anthem rise
In swells of grateful joy,
That Faith beholds with prescient eyes
What time nor tears destroy,—
A perfect life, compensative of all
Impetuous thoughts presume unworthy heaven to call.

It was not thus ere christian light
Arose on heathen gloom,
For then the soul immersed in night
Found life a living tomb;
Confusion reign'd o'er providence denied,
And when of death it thought, the craven bosom sigh'd.

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But now, a beam celestial plays
From out the Page divine;
And round the gloom of grief-worn days
What dawning glories shine!
O'er ruin'd hopes descending to the grave
The banners of the Cross, sublimely do they wave.

And thus what Sense injustice deems,
That saints can suffer wrong,—
No more a fearful problem seems
To souls by faith made strong;
For o'er them, hark! the “blessed” mildly breathed
From Him who round His head the crown of anguish wreathed.

Yea, “blessed” are the souls which bear
For Christ, and His pure laws,
The moral pang and mental wear
Which friend, or foe can cause;
Since all we suffer, if the will be sound,
Hereafter in the Heavens shall to our bliss redound.

And thus when God incarnate taught
Upon the Mount enthroned,
That they should be to glory brought
Whom scorning earth disown'd,
And so enjoy, by His great mercy given,
A crown which shall outshine what seraphs wear in heaven,

A vision then before Him rose
Of all His Church would be,
As doom'd to battle with her woes,
Till death and darkness flee;
And not one heart that since has broke, or sigh'd,
A soothing balm for which He did not then provide.

Hosannah! cry celestial Hearts
Whom persecution brands,
And bear unmoved infernal darts
When hurl'd by godless hands;
'Tis thus the Soldiers of the truth are train'd,—
Those Heroes of the Lord, who heaven's own laurels gain'd.

By love, and patient suffering led,
More Christlike men become;
And meekly while the path we tread
Which leads our spirit home,
Our graces brighten while they vanquish woe,
And saintly virtue springs from soils where trials grow.

And, do we not corruption feel
Our purest dreams assail,
While wounds which grace alone can heal
Make harrow'd conscience pale?
But these are cleansed by consecrated fire,
As persecuted saints more soaringly aspire.

When clothed with age, or clad with youth,
Whate'er life's era be,
Men glorify the force of truth
Who God in anguish see;
And prove what strength His promises impart
Who, high upon His Throne, can hear the fainting heart.

In all things should the Church reflect
Her regal Lord divine;
And ne'er with sin, or change, or sect,
Her vestal charms combine:
To suffer, is the privilege of love,
In which the saints outsoar what angels do above.

Then wonder not, if sighs or tears,
Or contumelious shame,
Inweave the web of perill'd years,
Nor God's deep wisdom blame;
But rather, in earth's malediction see
A shadow of the Cross endured, O Lord, by Thee.

Those peerless graces hearts require
To fit the Saints for heaven,
Are burnish'd by that sacred fire
To martyr'd anguish given;
Love, faith, and valour, are the three which make
The stature of the Soul her full perfection take.

And, thus conform'd to Thee and Thine,
Seraphic Minds ascend,
Till with Thine image, Lord, they shine
And with Thy glories blend;
So proud a bliss heroic saints procure
Who with undaunted hearts their giant pangs endure.

SILENCE OF THE SOUL.

“Joseph could not refrain himself ------ Cause every man to go out from me. And there stood no man with him, while Joseph made himself known unto his brethren.”—Gen. xlv. 1.

The depths of ocean rest unseen
However loud the storm-blasts ride,
Though where some whirlwind's rage hath been
Foam whitens o'er the flashing tide:

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For underneath in waveless trance
The spirit of stern Water sleeps,
And thunderbolt and lightning-glance
Disturb not its unechoing deeps.

But not like this, majestic Souls
The tempest of the heart betray,
Whom wisdom chastens, or controls
By principles of regal sway:
Unlike the sea, their surface lies
Becalm'd without; all pale and proud,
Where not a ripple meets the eyes
Of those who make the vulgar crowd.

And thus the heaven-born Spartan bears
With mien and manner undisturb'd
Whatever doom his God declares:—
He by divine restraint hath curb'd
Those passion-bursts, which wildly break
From mere excitement's maddening hour,
When stormy pangs the bosom shake
And palsy Reason's noble power.

Who that has heard the gush of woe
From some wild mourner by the grave,
And mark'd the scalding tear-drop's flow
A sunken cheek of sorrow lave,
Or thrill'd beneath those harrowing sighs
Which burst from out a breaking heart,
And felt not, with o'erflooding eyes,
What giant pangs death-scenes impart?

But grief there is far more sublime,
Enacted in this world of gloom,
Which haunts us through memorial time
With shadow deeper than the tomb;—
'Tis when we hear an earth-clod fall
Upon the coffin's lid of death
With clay-cold accents, which appal
And half suspend our choking breath,

With stealthy eye we dare to scan
The face of some bereaved one there.—
And lo! he seems a tearless man,
Whose pang no outward signs declare?
No shudders through his bosom heave,
His features with no anguish move;
And worldlings guess he does not grieve,
And think him all too stern to love!

But, look again! and thou wilt see
That iron Soul which sheds no tear,
A mass of buried agony
Though none to outward sense appear:
His very calm is woe congeal'd,
A pulseless depth of chill despair;
And what no stormful pang reveal'd,
Felt like a frozen tempest there.

Hush'd are high feelings, when their course
Springs from the soul's pure fountain-head;
Though language cannot speak their force,
Yet, far beyond what lips have said,
Down the deep spirit's veil'd recess
They nurse their harrow'd nature true;
And those mankind for stoics guess
Bear hidden wounds, which none can view!

The storm-voice of some open grief
Too often proves a shallow heart;
And there are pangs from earth's relief
Which proud and pure stand all apart;
Like the stern patriarch's, when he felt
Fond yearnings of the brother rise,—
The voiceless heart they inly melt,
And shun the gaze of common eyes.

So dwells there in each virgin mind
Some bashful Grace, that will not bare
Its beauty unto coarse mankind,
But comes to God in secret prayer:
The tumult of religious talk,
Impassion'd tones of Self unveil'd,
With all which crowds life's vulgar walk,—
Heaven has not for her children hail'd.

Thus Nature hides her “secret things;”
Her wonder-works,—what eye can see
The plan whereby Perfection brings
Their essence out of Deity?
All matter, motion, growth, and life
Are myst'ries here, which man defy,
And work with deeper wisdom rife,
Than Science reads below the sky.

And He of hearts the saving Light,
Our living Sun, within Whose rays
A soul can bear the blackest night
That deepens round misfortune's days,
Alone He was; unseen, unheard,
In vigil, fast, and awful fears;
Few pangs He breathed through mortal word,
But spake them by His blood-shed tears!

At midnight, on calm mountains cold
Awed angels might have heard Him pray;
But not disciples could behold
What suff'ring in His silence lay!
And He who seeks a sacred heart,
In solitude must learn to feel;
Nor to the blushless world impart
Those deeper thoughts the wise conceal.

In lofty silence, sad and meek
Thy cross confront, and bear it well;
And if thy soul an echo seek,
To Christ the hidden anguish tell:

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In thy lone chamber kneel, and pray
Where none but God, and thou art nigh;
And He who said,—“Our Father say,”
Shall echo back thy deepest sigh.

SENTIMENT OF FLOWERS.

“As a flower of the field, so he flourisheth.” Ps. ciii. 15.

The Lord, who once celestial radiance threw
Round the gay lilies in their regal dress,
Hath long receded from the church's view,
And Earth seems flow'ring in her loneliness:

But still the Saviour's cry, “Behold!” remains
Deep in the ear, and haunts the spring-toned breeze,
Where pilgrim Thought along secluded plains
Roams by the flowers, beneath romantic trees.

Seems it, as though a consecration hung
On the rich bloom of each innocuous flower,
And grace beyond what minstrel Lyres have sung,
Since Christ arrayed them with a teaching power.

And they are beautiful as infant-eyes,
Sparkling, or pale, when pensive, blue, or mild;
Now, softly vocal, while the air-tone sighs,
And then, in breezy motion dancing wild.

And, like fair visions haunting Memory's dream,
So to the serious mind may flowers impart
In pale seclusion by some lisping stream,
A graceful moral to the feeling heart.

For oft like infants nursed on nature's breast
The dawning buds come forth in sun and dew,
Rosy as Childhood in rich beauty drest,
When life enchants it with a fairy hue:

And beaming Girlhood, in its beauteous grace,
Seems like a new-blown flower in bloom to be,
While fancy muses on that vernal face,
And thinks, how soon that spring of heart will flee!

And have not sentiment and soul-breathed song
From flowers a classic inspiration caught?—
Their spells of beauty to the bard belong,
And grace his lines with many a lovely thought.

In hoar'd cathedrals, solemn, huge, and grand,
Where tombs have tongues, and eloquently preach,
Who has not felt the wingèd mind expand
Soaring to realms beyond mere earth to reach?

There has Devotion traced those marble flowers
Which still to fancy wear a stony bloom
That triumphs o'er decay's funereal powers,
On hero's cenotaph, and martyr's tomb.

And since all matter should to mind attest
Deep truths, significant of sacred worth,
Are not the lilies, by their Maker drest,
Types of the pure, unstain'd by sordid earth?

Emblems of those, the gentle and the good,
Plants of the Spirit, who delight to grow,
And in the hush of thinking solitude
Nurse the meek grace His will and word bestow?

There is an air of chastity and calm
Breathed from the pureness of a vestal flower,
Soft as a breath from Eden's bloom and balm
That shames coarse passion in its rudest hour.

And when on couch of languishment there lies
Some pale-worn victim of disease and pain,
Oft can a flower relume the sunken eyes,
As though they gazed on garden-walks again.

Or, when the boy by Circumstance is led
From the green hamlet where young life began,
And 'mid the large loud city round him spread,
For fields and groves, views artificial man,

If some chance-flow'ret near his path should lie,
How does it thrill association's law,
Making the heart for home and country sigh,
And tread the landscape rosy Childhood saw!

So have I mark'd, amid some fever'd court
Crowded with dens where degradations hide,
Where passions vile with poverty resort,
And orphan'd babes have hunger'd, wept, and died,

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Some lonely window, with a sickly flower
Pining as pale, still struggling to endure,
And thrill'd to think how Nature's lovely power
Could thus the heart of wretchedness allure!

Contemn not this: for in bleak haunts of woe
Undying thoughts of sylvan life remain;
And many a poor man, while his tear-drops flow,
Hails a sad violet through a broken pane.

We bless Thee, then, Thou Lord of flowers and trees!
Bought by Whose Blood, the whole creation lives;
Glowing with health, or martyr'd by disease,
Hail, to each beauty Thine atonement gives!

And when affection seeks the solemn grave
To sprinkle flowers upon the guarded mould,
Where in chill darkness sleep the perish'd brave
Whose memories beautify the days of old,

O Thou! the Resurrection and the Life,
Thy viewless presence grant at this deep hour,
And to sad mourners, with dejection rife,
Reverse the emblem of that votive flower.

“Behold the lilies!”—Lord, we would obey;
But still they wither, while their charms delight;
And in the lustre of their rich array
Lurks the cold shadow of a coming blight:

But thou, believer! not, like flowers, wilt fall
Ne'er from the dust in blooming grace to rise;
But when for thee, Earth's citing trump shall call,
Eternal spring shall fascinate thine eyes.

Celestial beauty, undecaying bloom
Clothes the pure flesh with more than lilies wear;
And thou, transplanted from the wintry tomb,
Wilt bud in heaven, and flower with glory there.

RECONCILIATION.

“First be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.”—Matt. v. 24.

Pure glory of forgiving Love!
Whose archetype exists above
In God the reconciled;
By nine degrees of soaring worth
May our wing'd souls ascend from earth
To Thee, the undefiled.

Bootless are sacramental Forms,
If in our hearts the hectic storms
Of sullen anger dwell;
Angels in mien, but Cains in mind,
Men dare to dream their God too blind
To see their bosom-hell!

No mortal hate with love divine
Can ever in one soul combine,—
Deceit must both deprave;
For love is that seraphic glow
Which cannot chill before a foe,
But tracks him to the grave.

Proud thoughts create a mental war
Nor let us see the truth we are,
But hide from Self our sin;
Aloud men cry o'er wrongs they feel,
But all the wrongs they do, conceal
Like pharisees within.

Could we ourselves as clearly scan
As we unshroud our brother man,
How humbly might we walk!
And never in the maddest hour
When vile self-worship wields its power,
Of our meek virtues talk.

Let Conscience learn, the sharpest word
Our ulcerated pride has heard
Is tender, more than true;
Since all that envious eyes can see,
Is pure to what Divinity
In man's vain heart can view.

Thy temper soothe, thou ireful one!
Nor ever may the west'ring sun
Go down upon thy wrath;
Thy brother seek, each fault confess,
And with sad tones of mild distress
Win all the love he hath.

If by cold word, or thought, or deed
Thy heart has caused his own to bleed,
Promptly that ill repair;
Nor dream that thus to condescend,
Will one dark hue of meanness blend
With aught thou feelest there.

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But if in soul, a sullen thought
With scowling pride of anger fraught
Toward friend or foe remain,
Presume not, where Christ's altar stands
To offer with polluted hands
What Heaven must so disdain.

First to a brother give thy heart;
Let bitterness of soul depart,
And then, that meal partake
Where Love Incarnate bleeds and dies
In His memorial sacrifice,
Presented for thy sake.

Fathom thy deeps of sinful mind,
Keen to thyself, to others blind,—
Be this thy noble plan!
Beneath enamell'd smiles and ways
Let Conscience dart her searching rays,
And thou wilt pity man.

Self-ignorance makes the spirit proud,
And o'er clear error casts a cloud
Of flatt'ry's genial power;
But Self-illumed by heaven's own ray
Can melt that painted mist away,
And humble ev'ry hour.

Vain hypocrites, and worse than vile
If passions dark our soul defile
And fiendish thoughts are nursed,
While outwardly in church and creed
We call ourselves a “holy seed,”
By God we are accursed!

Heaven's lineage must heaven's likeness wear,
And not alone by praise and prayer
Authentic worship prove;
When Faith beholds her God of grace,
The brightest Feature she can trace
Is that which glows with love.

Then, grant us, Lord, a heart like Thine
As deep in mercy, as divine,
Celestial, mild, and true;
And learn we all, the more we live,
The godlike must like God forgive
All daring Wrong can do.

Creation seems instinct with love,
A parable of His above,
Father, and Friend of all;
And not a rain-drop Earth renews
And not a sunbeam lights her hues
Which does not grace recall.

O'er just and unjust, what a shower
Of raining mercies falls each hour,
Bought by atoning Blood!
From Whose vast merit all that is,
Derives each energizing bliss
Which makes our common good.

Two Bibles thus our hearts may teach
A pure sublime of man to reach,
In love for friend and foe,
Since Nature, like the Gospel, pours
O'er “good and evil” all her stores,
That each may Godhead know.

ANGELIC MINISTRY.

“Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation?” —Heb. i. 14.

“He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways.”—Ps. xci. 11.

“The angel of the Lord encampeth round about them that fear him, and delivereth them.” —Ps. xxxiv. 7.

Say, why do sceptic hearts decline
In nature more than earth to view?
We cannot trace the word divine,
But angel-forms attend us through:
Salvation's heirs they watch and keep
Both when they wake, and while they sleep.

And how could perill'd infants rove
Light as elastic breezes play,
Secure as if in heaven above
They tripp'd along some crystal way,
Unless beloved by angel-powers
Who hover round their fleeting hours?

All Nature feels a lovely awe
Environing the aidless child;
And fancy dreams her iron law
Before it grows relax'd and mild;
E'en the stern brute a babe will spare;
And why?—some angel watches there.

When shepherds on the midnight-plain
Of Judah kept their flocks at night,
Who hymn'd that heaven-reecho'd strain
At which applauding Worlds grow bright,
But angels, whose ethereal tongue
The glorious Incarnation sung?

And when the Fiend of darkness tried
To wrestle down that perfect will,
By which the Prince of Peace defied
His threefold power of lying ill,

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Behold! yon Seraph leaves his throne
To soothe Him when the fiend had flown.

But, turn to dread Gethsemane;
That garden pall'd with spectral gloom
Where, bow'd with wordless agony
Messiah bled, before his doom,
That bloody sweat,—that crimson dew
Which strain'd His tortured spirit through!

E'en then, from yon bright Host above
A sympathetic angel came,
And o'er him warbled tones of love
Which dropt like balm upon His frame;
For, dread to think!—imputed sin
Convulsed His finite soul within.

But when before the radiant morn
The Lord of Resurrection rose,
Winding the grave-clothes Death had worn,
As though just risen from repose,
Two angels watch'd, as guardians meet,
Where lay His awful head and feet.

And like a sunburst from the south
On wings of archangelic sheen,
To roll from that sepulchral mouth
The rocky stone where Christ had been,—
Two Creatures of celestial might
Came speeding down from worlds of light.

So when at length Emmanuel soar'd
And left His loved disciples' view,
While their ascending glance adored
The Lord, who back to heaven withdrew,
What bounding hopes within them burn
When angels say, “He shall return!”

INFANT FELLOWSHIP WITH GOD.

“Hid from the wise and prudent ------ revealed unto babes.”—Matt. xi. 25.

Mysterious infant! on thy fairy brow
A far-off glory seems reflected now,
A pensive, mild, and melancholy ray
Like the last hue of heaven's most lovely day;

Thou living harebell! 'mong the human flowers
Which bud and blossom in domestic bowers,
The liquid azure of thy placid eye
Gleams like the softness of a vernal sky:

Feeble to sense and sight indeed thou art,
But oh! within thee dwells a mighty Heart,
Capacious of eternity, and God,
E'en now, before the travell'd earth is trod.

Fragile the organs that connect thy soul
With those blent world-scenes, which our own control;
But let not creedless Science this declare,—
That God and angels are unvision'd there.

Souls in pure essence are, like grace, unknown;
For all we hear is but the outward tone,
A broken echo of a voice within
Muffled by earth, and jarr'd by jangling sin:

But if The Spirit must a soul renew
Ere glory open on its blissful view,
Then must the babe unbreathed communion hold
And have with Heaven some intercourse untold.

Sinless in fact, untempted babes depart
To where, O Christ, ensphered in bliss Thou art;
And ere time's language to their lips is known,
They learn The Cross before salvation's throne.

And who remembers not some deep-eyed child,
Unearthly, pale, and exquisitely mild,
Purer than chisell'd alabaster shines
Where sculptured poesy hath traced its lines?

But 'tis not beauty, delicate and bright,
Nor limbs elastic as incarnate light,
Nor that seraphic grace of brow and cheek
More eloquent of mind, than words can speak:

'Tis something finer than all beauty far,
Tender as dreams beneath a twilight-star;
A heaven-like stamp of saintliness which glows
O'er each calm feature in its chaste repose.

And who denies, prophetic babes may see
Secrets and Shapes which throng eternity,
Visions of glory, such as elder man
Has never imaged in the course he ran?

A wordless infant in some mystic hour
May have The Spirit in His deeper power,
Converse with angels, and in God behold
Truths which heroic Saints have never told.

The tearful radiance of a baby's eye,
The pleading music of its pensive sigh,
The looks that seem so spiritually deep
Turn'd on beholders, till they almost weep,

May be the symbols of a faded heaven
To infants in angelic slumber given,
Which leaves them, when they face the world again,
In dim remembrance and in dawning pain.

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And none can tell, but hov'ring babes above
To babes on earth may whisper tones of love,
Melodious fragments of cherubic song
On Glory's breeze for ever borne along.

And, childless mother! let a thought like this
Becalm thy bosom with sustaining bliss,—
When thy pale infant heaved the parting sigh
Some Angel bore it to the peopled sky.

Bright from the waters of baptismal life,
Stain'd by no sin, nor touch'd by earth-born strife,
Straight to its God thy sinless babe hath flown
And join'd the myriads which enwreathe His Throne.

THE SINGLE EYE.

“If thine eye be single, thy whole body shall be full of light.”—Matt. vi. 22.

Though ruin'd, deathless man is noble still,
In whom fair lines and lineaments remain
Of all he was,—ere sin by lawless will
Cast on the glorious Soul a guilty stain;
And not with harsh irreverence should we dare
One trace despise, which Heaven has treasured there.

As round a gloomy shrine, in grand decay
Where crumbling arch and ruin'd pillar fall,
Remnants of beauty yet the pile array
And the dead sculpture into life recall,
When sacred fancy with religious eye
Dreams in the ages of a World gone by,—

So, 'mid the sinful waste of man perverse
Faint hues and harmonies of Eden dwell,
Not all remanded by the righteous curse
Which on the forfeit-state of Adam fell:
Round the sad ruin of his fallen soul
Shadows divine of vanish'd Glory roll.

But if by earth-fed passion, lust, or pride,
Greedy of gain, or gorged with self-esteem,
Majestic reason is just power denied,
The central life becomes a ghastly dream,
Where all our faculties and functions blend
In dread confusion, which can never end.

For then, Incarnate Wisdom so declares,
That which by nature should our light become,
And starlike, lead us through the night of cares
Which deepens round us till we reach our home,
Itself is darkness! and the beam that glows
Is that which Falsehood to blind feeling shows:

How great the “darkness,” not e'en Christ hath said!
As though such midnight of the mind surpass'd
Whate'er rebellion of the heart or head
By finite language can be call'd, or class'd:—
“Darkness” that e'en from Him a wonder drew,
To Whom no sight in earth, or hell, was new!

Single the Eye, when jealous conscience guards
Its vestal chastity by prayer and truth,
And not to Reason, but to Grace awards
Those inward laws which hallow age and youth,—
Those godlike principles by which men live,
And the dread Soul to its own Author give.

Resist we, then, the sorceries of sin;
The lust of income and the love of power
Cloud the clear Eye, whose vision acts within
And ought to rule and rectify each hour:
So will our reason, with no jaundiced gaze,
Interpret duty through a blinding haze.

Religious principle and moral code
Diseased by passion, most perversely act;
And Vice, recoiling from heaven's narrow road,
Dares its own decalogue of Self enact:
Our way is hell-ward, though we heed it not,
Sinai renounced, and Calvary forgot.

Oh! better far be reasonless and mad,
Than thus transform the rectifying Guide
Which God ordain'd to govern good and bad,
And legislate on virtue's lovely side;
For, when distorted, conscience proves a curse
Whose cruel wisdom makes condition worse.

As though the needle in its compass were
Reversely guiding o'er a sea of gloom
The storm-heaved ship, while lurid tempests glare,
And ocean blackens like a billowy tomb;—
Her wreck is fated though she proudly rides
In foaming triumph o'er the furious tides!

Nor dream that when by damning vice depraved,
The central light of reas'ning conscience fails
To warn the victim of desires enslaved,
Corrective Wisdom o'er such doom prevails:—
An Archimedes in the world of mind
Who fix'd his lever and hath raised mankind,

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If not with him the single eye and pure
For sacred guardianship of soul remain,—
His teachings prove but spell-words to allure
The hearts which hear them, into vice and pain:
The rays of Genius, when to darkness turn'd,
What fiendish laurels have they found, and earn'd!

Spirit of wisdom! pure and perfect Light,
Come from Thy region of celestial grace,
Through the bad gloom of unbelieving night
Dart the mild beams of Thy majestic face:
By loving Thee, saints learn to grow divine,
And as they live, resemble Thee, and Thine.

That single Eye, which God and glory views,
Whose seeing power by holiness is keen,
And doth o'er all things Christ supremely choose,—
Be this our wisdom in life's perill'd scene;
So shall we vanquish, by enduring, ill,
And find it heaven to do our Father's will.

MY FIRST-BORN.

[C. H. E. M. BORN MAY 4TH, 1848.]

“The Lord spake, Sanctify unto me all the first-born; it is mine.”—Exod. xiii. 2.

My first-born! when I heard thy faint low cry,
Home to the heart was echoing nature stirr'd
With more than man can tell by tear, or sigh,
Or Fondness image through a shaping word;
For Life is deeper than our language far,
And dimly mirrors but the half we are.

The fountains in the inward deep of soul
Seem'd broken up with preternat'ral start,
And onward gush'd with sweetest uncontrol
The new-born raptures of a parent's heart:
Each chord of feeling trembled like a tone
Which haunts the harpstring, when the hand is flown.

How shall I doat upon thy dawning smile
When conscious reason first begins to play!
And watch the beauty of each dimpling wile
Clothing thy cheek with what the lip would say,
Were but the gladness of thy spirit heard
In the lisp'd cadence of some little word.

Holy is childhood! through that lovely age
Incarnate Mercy did not shun to live,
And thereby circled life's commencing stage
With halo pure as innocence could give,—
A charm which consecrates an infant now,
When the first Sacrament bedews its brow.

Nor doubt, the infant Christ at mother's knee
The priceless volume of celestial Love
Conn'd day by day,—that parents hence might see
How lisping babes ascend to truth above;
Nurtur'd for heaven as their young spirits grow,
By wisdom strengthen'd in this world of woe.

Nor let some Cain-like reason coldly ask
How with the mind of some unspeaking child
Regenerate Love can ply its living task,
And to the heart teach lessons undefiled?—
Baptismal grace exceeds what eyes discern,
And more than Science dreams, a babe may learn.

Think how Emmanuel, when man's world He walk'd,
Stoop'd to those little ones, who round Him came;
And when of more than angels knew He talk'd,
Anthem'd with high-toned joy God's mystic name,
Because what hoary Sages oft refuse,
That for some nursling God's free-will doth choose.

So with a sacredness from heaven decreed
My first-born! by the Church environ'd round,
May the blest Spirit help thy dawning need
From hallow'd stores, which in His breast abound,
Who e'en in glory can remember still
How on sad earth He felt each infant thrill.

Lamb of the flock! within thy Saviour's fold
Calm may'st thou roam, by living pastures green
'Mid waters bright,—with footstep never bold,
Follow The Shepherd through life's destined scene;
Thou wilt not want, if He become thy guide.
With rod of love and staff of grace supplied.

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Coil'd in the secret of His purpose vast
Firstling of Hope! thine unread future lies,
But should thy doom for ripening years be cast
And thou be spared to light enamour'd eyes,
How will maternal Fondness round thee twine,
And my heart gladden when it dreams of thine!

To aid thy lip Christ's glorious name to speak,
And hear thy sweet mouth lisp its little prayer;
To watch emotions mirror'd on thy cheek
When first religion is reflected there,
While with lock'd hands of reverential love
Thou kneel'st to ask a blessing from above,—

By soft degrees to view thee conscious grow
Of God and nature, mind, and scene, and man,
Gently to chide each fault, and calm each woe
As only echoing hearts of parents can,—
Delights like these will anxious toil repay,
And sun my spirit with perpetual ray.

And should my darling add to loveliness
A frame responsive to those fine appeals,
Which earth's dumb eloquence doth aye impress
On each who nature's living poem feels,
With sacred rapture shall I watch thee try
To read God's epic, in the glorious sky!

But oh, of joys the brightest, purest, best
Will that be found,—when first thy budding mind
Words of redeeming grace and truth arrest
And glorify thy love for human kind;
Or when thy broken accents would explain
What Childhood feels for God's incarnate pain.

But these are dreams:—and voiceless omens creep
Round my chill'd Spirit, when it looks on thee,
Making the moist eye almost bend and weep
O'er the veil'd depths of hush'd futurity;
For soft dejection in thine infant-gaze,
Like dim prediction, seems to tell thy days.

God shield thee, darling!—like a dewdrop now,
In radiant freshness on the tree of Life
Trembles thy being; but with prescient brow
I darkly ponder, lest disease and strife
Crush thy soft nature, now so fair and frail,
And bid thee into death at once exhale.

Mysterious God! should this deep trial come
And thou, my first-born, find the infant's grave,
Long ere thy sire, shouldst thou be summon'd home
And heaven remand the treasure that it gave,
Oh! teach me, Lord, this awful prayer to say,—
“Blest be His name, who gives, and takes away!”

JUDGE NOT.

“Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged; and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again.”—Matt. vii. 1.

Eye of the Lord! in whose omniscient ray
Our motives play,
Like motes in sunbeams, each distinctly bare,
Can sinners dare
Rash judgment o'er that secret heart to strain,
Where Thou dost reign

Alone,—from Whom no buried thoughts are hid?
Men are forbid
To scan a brother with censorious eye;
Or sternly cry,
“Let me the mote from out thy vision draw,”
As though they saw

With holy clearness of unclouded view
The pure and true:
While in their eye-glance dwells one sinful beam
Men little deem,
How all who virtue love, will strive to be
From sin set free.

A flagging will, a feeble mind
To Glory dead and Wisdom blind;
A neutral cowardice of heart
That shrinks from taking noble part,
When Christ, and Church and Creed demand
The prowess true of heart and hand,—
Lord! not for these Thy words assign
The guerdon Faith believes divine,
When Thou dost bid each duteous mind
Abstain from judging mortal kind.

The truth must e'er the falsehood fight,
While wrong pursues the hated right;
And they are craven to the Cross
Who quail for dread of earthly loss;
Or else, because the coward Will
Recoils from rude oppressive ill,

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Refrain from branding sin and crime;
And so caress the vassal time
That vice and virtue, false and true
Become the heart's chameleon hue!

Avaunt! such antinomian Ease,
Whose gospel is self-will to please.
But, come ye Inspirations given
Fresh from the heart of Christ in heaven!
Mild Charity, and modest Thought,
And Meekness with Devotion fraught;
With radiant Candour, rich in love,
And motherly, as born above,
Which, mindful of Redemption's plan,
Embraces universal man.

The perfect Judge is God alone;
And he usurps His legal Throne
Who rashly dares to pierce and scan
Those spirit-fibres of the man—
Motives! which are of acts the soul,
And subject to Divine Control:
By man unprobed, in all their change
They move within His mental range,
By Whom is mark'd the embryo sin,
Ere yet 'tis born the soul within.

But e'en when action, motive, thought
Are into clear exposure brought,
And all which meets our human gaze
Harrows the soul with stern amaze,
Man must not wield the judge's rod,
Or make himself the bar of God.
Love in that light, oh! let there be
By which our hearts a brother see;
Since, blind and partial are we, when
Hurt feelings try our fellow-men.

Be merciful! for sinners all
Are they, who Christ their glory call;
Such Minds can weep where others frown,
To see how soon we wander down
Those sad descents of worldly sin
Which tempt without, and try within.—
The holy are the humble, too;
Rather in silence will they rue
The faults and failings brethren show,
Nor be the first a stone to throw.

Their sin we view; but not the strife
Or writhings of that inward-life
Where passion, conscience, and desire
In some convulsive mood conspire:
Nor can we measure with just mind
How circumstance with choice combined;
Or mad temptation, swift and wild,
Tore like a fiend the heart defiled;
Or, how resistance unto prayer
Fought with the Crime which conquer'd there.

O God! before Whose perfect eye
Are cloud-stains on the crystal sky,
Were we but judged by those degrees
By which malign Suspicion sees
A brother in his conduct fail,—
E'en martyrs would the Judgment wail.
Rather, through love's kind error, be
Victim of fond credulity,
Than like some cold and cutting blast
Which near the frozen Sea hath past,
Breathe o'er thy brother words that wring
The soul with unvoiced suffering.

Come then, celestial Archetype for all,
To Thee we call;
And ere the bolt of Censure can descend
On foe, or friend,
Oh, introvert the spirit's eye, to scan
Our inward man.

For thus, what boundless error should we see
In us to be!
The arm reversed would then no censure throw
On friend, or foe;
But, as dark evils which deserve a stone,
Would brand our own.

AWFULNESS OF SPEECH.

“By thy words shalt thou be justified.”—Matt. xii. 37.

We ought to dread what Speech can do,
And mortal words have done,
As vain or vile, or false or true,
Since Language first begun:

For speech the soul can so empower,
For fiends', or angels' work,
That Death, or Life, each dawning hour,
Within some tone may lurk.

A speechless thought innocuous seems
To all except the Mind,
Through whose vague depths it acts, or dreams
For self, or for mankind;

But when abroad, by speech, or press,
Our Thoughts their course begin,
Conception cannot dare to guess
What conquest they may win.

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Through regions, empires, heart and home,
A trackless Thing it hies,
And through eternity will roam,—
For Influence never dies.

To counsel, flatter, charm, or cheer,
How potent human speech!
To summon smiles, or mould a tear,
To pray, rebuke, or preach,—

Thus life and death within the spell
Of living words reside,
And blest are they, who wield them well,
Rememb'ring Him who “sighed!”

And why? Because the Saviour knew
That since our primal Fall
No tongues are to their glory true,
Except on God they call.

Eye, Ear, and Speech, each organ may
A ban or blessing prove,
According as we learn to lay
Their service out in love.

Thus did Emmanuel sigh to know,
That when Compassion gave
To dumbness power the mind to show,
From sin it would not save,

But might hereafter frequent tempt
His tongue to many a crime,
That, but for speech, had proved exempt
In silence half sublime.

He mark'd the victim, mute and sad
Who thus before Him stood,
And cried “Be open,” not “Be glad,”
Though speech itself were good.

And so with us: 'twere better far
As dumb and deaf to be,
Unless in spoken life we are
From worded vileness free.

And never may we speak, or write
A word which others know,
Unless 'twill bear His searching light,
From whom all speech doth flow.

Let that deep sigh the God-man drew,
Around us swell and heave,
And when we utter words untrue
That sigh will make us grieve.

LET US PRAY.

“If ye, then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?”—Matt. vii. 11.

All that of Eden now remains
Lives in the lovely page of God,
Where o'er green earth a beauty reigns
As when by Christ at evening trod;
Oh! were it not for this pure story,
Our hearts might scarce conceive the glory
Which still that paradise of words arrays
With all those hues of heaven, which spellbound Adam's gaze.

The weed, the thistle, and the thorn,
And stooping Labour's moisten'd brow,
Are types and tokens men are born
Under the primal ruin now;
The kingly mind of innocence
Seems crush'd by sin's omnipotence;
And riper passions round our virtues prey,
And with envenom'd tooth begnaw their strength away.

But still beneath man's ruin lives
One feeling, which survived the Fall,—
That which parental fondness gives
To those who hear their children call:
Men are not fiends, but still reply
Like echoes, to each filial cry
A son puts forth in some beseeching hour,
When lisping Childhood yearns for parent's guardian power.

Divine emotion! deep as pure;
Without thee, Scripture breathes a tone
Which could not alien hearts allure
To bend before the Mercy-throne:
But when “Our Father!” thence is heard,
Dead feelings in their tomb are stirr'd;
And like the ladder joining earth and skies,
They form attractive steps, by which to heaven we rise.

And thus hath Christ affections used
When pleading oft with prayerless mind,
And shown that, though by sin abused,
There is a law that wields mankind,
By which parental natures prove
The throbbings of eternal Love,
When Hunger seeks them with dejected cry,—
“Food for thy famish'd child! or he must die.”

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And, Lord, if thus the sin-worn heart
So much of paradise retain,
Why dare we doubt in heaven Thou art
Responsive to each prayer-breathed strain?
Did Faith but ask, and knock, and scek,
What giants would become the weak!
And Conscience realise Thy love as true
As when its death-gasp groan'd, “Forgive them what they do.”

Could men but feel, how constant prayer
Sustains the most heroic Mind,
Their life would be one holy care
A Father-God in heaven to find;
Not as a Judge, with iron brow,
Before Him would they bend and vow;
But from the deeps of man's parental heart
Gather some loving gleams of what, O God! Thou art.

Saviour of souls! our Truth and Way,
Bread for the famish'd hearts which pine,
Instruct us like Thyself to pray
“Father! Thy will be done, not mine.”—
Tender has been the tearful thought
A babe-cry to some mother brought;
But far more tender is The Heart above
Whose echoing depths repeat the name of holy “Love.”

DIVINE FAITHFULNESS.

“The mountains shall depart, and the hills be removed; but my kindness shall not depart from thee.”—Isa. liv. 10.

The mountains shall from earth depart,
The hills may be removed,
But thou of God elected art
And as a “bride” beloved;
Our God as soon might cease to be,
As break His covenant with thee.

Election flows from no high worth
In fallen souls foreseen;
For where is good on this bad earth
Which free grace hath not been?
Did God demand prevenient love,
Heaven would not shrine one soul above.

Thou barren Heart! which hast not borne
The hopes that make thee sing,
Oh, dream not thou art left forlorn
In widow'd suffering:
For like a wife in youth forsaken,
Back to thy Lord shalt thou be taken.

Though toss'd on life's tempestuous sea
Affliction's waves run high,
For one small moment Heaven from thee
Averts its loving eye,—
Yet, soon will mercy's overflow
Around thine anguish brightly glow.

No crisis can our God subdue,
No change His will surprise;
Close to His ancient counsel true
His grace for ever lies;
The “Lord of Hosts” reveals His name
In love eternal, and the same.

He does not find a lovely thing
And love what He discerns;
But His pure love becomes the spring
Of what in martyrs burns
Of holy passion, zeal, and prayer
By God's own Spirit kindled there.

Then, courage! torn and troubled Mind,
The Glorious One appears;
Nor let Dejection leave thee blind
With her impassion'd tears:
Soon shall thy blest Redeemer come
And guide thee safe to Glory's home.

No weapon'd hand its deadly wound
Shall in thy spirit make;
Nor all the raging tongues around
That bond of goodness break
Which God in Christ for thee doth hold,
And His deep heart of grace enfold.

With sapphires thy foundations fair
Shall soon by Him be laid;
Nor shall oppressive Wrong be there,
As though thou wert betray'd:
Terrors themselves shall learn to fear
A kingly saint to Godhead dear.

The Spirit's love, a love divine
Though earth and heaven decay,
Is true, O Lord! to Thee and Thine
Though worlds dissolve away;
Had Souls true faith, they could not dread
The deepest midnight round them spread.

A dying world for dying men
For saints hath Heaven decreed,
And wisely plans the where, and when,
Each burden'd heart must bleed;

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But, Love this truth can understand,—
Each blow is from a Father's hand.

And thus, if fortune, home, and friend,
And social bliss, no more
Around us their rich magic blend
As they were wont of yore,—
Reflected on our falling tears
The iris of God's love appears.

Timeless and changeless is the plan
Before all worlds begun,
From whence that mercy reacheth man
Incarnate Merit won:—
Though toss'd, and by the tempest shaken,
Believer, thou art unforsaken!

REVERE THE DEAD.

“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.” Rev. xiv. 13.

Pity the dead!—nay, rather mourn for those
Who battle on through Life's harsh scene of care,
In whose grieved breast the thorn of trial grows,
While in the crowd all echoless they are:
Bearing some poison'd shaft within the heart
They feel, bad World! the hollowness thou art.

Pity the dead!—no, rather weep for them
Who on vex'd earth must suffer, toil, and sin,
And pray, their passion's burning tide to stem
And keep close watch o'er waywardness within;
Who hour by hour repentance must renew,
And mourn how little for their Lord they do.

But oh! the dead, the justified and saved,
Children of glory, wrapt in Jesu's arms,
The darkness of the sepulchre they braved
And there are shielded safe from Earth's alarms;
Pure in the brightness of ethereal bliss,
They would not change it for a scene like this!

The spirits of the Just, made perfect now,
Have each in heaven their beatific calm;
Serenity arrays each kingly Brow,
And through each Heart distils celestial balm;
Their hope as cloudless as the peace divine,—
Seraphic visions round them reign, and shine.

And He is there! the kingdom's Light and Lord,
Who out of time and toil has call'd them home,
And now fulfils each wise and glorious word
True faith believed, when doom'd on earth to roam,—
E'en Christ, who beautifies the Spirit-throngs,
'Mid their deep worship of adoring songs.

But, ah! fond Nature, in thy bosom yearn
Feelings which oft our passive faith o'erflow;
And with such flame intense affections burn
That time, nor truth, can quench their secret glow;
Down the deep heart some unvoiced thoughts remain,
And bid us sigh to see our Dead again.

“My beautiful, my bright, my darling child!
Her smile was eloquent with soul to me;”
Thus the wan mother in her anguish wild
Echoes the regions of eternity,
When round the heart-strings thrills the seeming breath
Of some loved daughter, tomb'd in early death.

“And thou, my dead, my unforgotten boy!
Prop of our home, and pillar of our race,
Genius was thine, and brow of princely joy,
And more than beauty clothed thy classic face;
How did I dote, and for thy future build
Schemes which parental hearts alone have fill'd.”—

So grieves a sire, when Love's ideal hours
Roll their sad cadence o'er his dreaming brain,
When the dead Past resumes a living power
And with such resurrection smiles again,
That hand in hand his child he seems to hold,
And hear the Voice that lull'd him so of old.

And thou, lone sister! who pale watch didst keep
Night after night, around some fairy child,
Marking each dimple which in rosy sleep
Sunn'd the pure face, as though an angel smiled,
When Death withdrew it to th' unseen abode,
Thy heart to madness almost overflow'd.

But, peace! fond mourners: calm your souls to rest,
The Dead you weep are still alive to Him,
Lord of those mansions, where the bright and blest
Are pure and peaceful as the seraphim;

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No sin infects, nor sorrow clouds that scene
Where the saved dead since Adam's death have been.

Here, while we travel through the dust of time
Dark imperfections oft the soul defile;
Whate'er the circumstance, or change, or clime,
Creation's noblest is but vain and vile:
What are our woods and fields, our mountains, glens, and streams,
To God's bright landscape, which in glory beams?

Then, hush thy moan, Affection! curb thy will;
Think of the dead as to perfection brought,
In heart all holy, as the conscience still
Feels the rich calm the “Blood of Sprinkling” wrought:—
No cloud to tinge the colour of their days,
They harp the anthem of redemption's praise.

Dead though their forms in dust sepulchral lie,
Ecstatic faith the spirit loves to view,
And longs to vision with prophetic eye
What awful raptures must pervade it through,
As more and more eternity unfolds
Secrets of Glory, vast as heaven beholds.

POWER OF THE REDEEMER'S EYE.

“The Lord looked ------ and Peter went out and wept bitterly!”—Luke xxii. 61, 62.

Not poet's lyre, nor painter's line
Could e'er express that look of Thine,
Saviour of men! on craven Peter cast:—
Eternity was in Thy gaze,
And through dark conscience darted rays
Which lighten'd into truth his present, and his past.

Deep eloquence was there,
Beyond the lightning-glare
Red with the fierceness of the flaming storm;
Nor might loud hurricanes which sweep
In thund'ring air-tones o'er the deep
Till the rent ocean heaves like agonizing forms,

So terribly the soul appal
As that one gaze in Pilate's hall
Shook to his moral root a recreant man!
Apostate as he there denied
That Lord, to Whom his worship cried,
“Though all desert Thee, Christ! my spirit never can.”

Dungeon, nor death, nor chains,
Nor all which persecution gains,
Should tempt him from The Truth to fly;
Though all betray'd Him, he would stand
Faithful among a faithless band,
And boldly for His Lord exult to bleed, or die!

Resolve then reign'd in ardent power;
And feeling hued that full-toned hour
With the rich colour hearts delight to show,
In some rapt mood when men appear
Sublimed above unhallow'd fear,
And with celestial warmth reflect an angel's glow.

In such high noon of seraph-zeal,
Our breasts an inspiration feel
Lifting us far beyond each low-born aim;
Wing'd thoughts surmount the walls of time,
And waft us to that world sublime
Where Heaven's clear arches ring with Christ's resounded name.

But He, to Whom all hearts lie bared,
In that flush'd moment then declared
How thrice, e'er yet the wakeful bird would crow,
The saint who seem'd so nobly fired
As if by heaven's own warmth inspired,
Vanquish'd by shameful dread,—would all his vows forego!

And more or less than Man were he
Unmoved who in this hour could see
A brave Apostle from His banner fly:
Assaulted by Satanic power
And sifted in that searching hour,
Thrice did his caitiff mouth the Lord of Love deny!

If mortal pain could mar the rest
Which broods within an angel's breast,
Sure might St. Peter's crime have drawn his tear,—
Who swore with ireful oath untrue
He ne'er the blest Redeemer knew,
And sacrificed his vow upon the shrine of fear.

But, while a third denial hung
With impious accent on his tongue,
Behold! the crowing of the cock began;
And back with its reverted gaze
Bedimm'd with more than tearful haze,
Look'd the calm Eye of Christ on that apostate man!

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He “look'd,”—oh, what a look was there
Of pity, love, rebuke, and prayer!
Angelic, human, and divine the spell
Wielded by Christ in that dread gaze
Which then on Peter poured its rays,
Till down his weeping heart before it writhed, and fell!

'Twas but a glance, and yet it cleaved
The veil asunder, which had weaved
A hiding darkness round that trait'rous heart:
It open'd each vile gulf within
Where lurk the powers of latent sin,
And made him from himself to shudder back, and start.

By day, by night, where'er he went,
As o'er his head the firmament,
Thus o'er his heart with holiness and light
That piercing glance of Jesu cast
Celestial power, where'er he pass'd,
And overarch'd his soul with meaning, and with might.

'Twas with him, when he watch'd or wept,
Or fasted, toil'd, or woke, or slept;
Hunger'd and roofless, wearied, rack'd and worn,—
By shore, or sea, abroad, at home,
Where'er his pilgrim zeal could roam,
Here was the guiding Star, that watch'd him, though forlorn.

In prison, and o'er chains, it threw
A glory which that angel knew,
Who saw his features radiant in repose,
When calm as cradled infant's breath
He slept upon the brink of death,
In some fond dream of Christ, forgetful of his woes.

And will not fond Devotion say,
That when his form inverted lay
In bleeding anguish on the cross oppress'd,
That still the gaze from Jesu's eye
Beam'd on his soul, till life's last sigh
Wafted the spirit home to its loved Saviour's breast?

But in this page of man may we,
As in some truthful mirror see
Reflected warnings, which may well o'erawe
The boldest, who believe they stand
Like rocks of faith, in self-command,
As did Saint Peter once, before his heart he saw.

There while he weeps a bitter shower
Of anguish in this rueful hour,
Lord of our spirits! may his teardrops fall
In healthful virtue o'er each heart,
That little dreams how Satan's art
To more than Peter's crime may soon betray us all.

Yea, doth not our baptismal vow
Bend o'er us like a burden now,
And crush pale conscience into sacred tears?
For, leagued with flesh, and fiend, and world,
Oh, have we not to nothing hurl'd
The awful promise made,—that God should have our years?

For gold, or pride, or pomp, and pleasure
As though they form'd divinest treasure,
How basely have we barter'd mind and will!
Betraying our predestined cross,
That we should count our life a loss,
Except for Christ we lived, self-crucified and still.

Sole Healer of the wounded heart!
Who now ensphered in glory art,
When Peter-like, our prostrate vows we break,
Let no red lightnings of Thy wrath
Flash their dread fury o'er our path,
Nor regal thunder-tones Thy terrors o'er us wake,—

But turn Thee with subduing eye,
And from Thy bliss beyond the sky
Look, as Thou didst on Thine apostle's fears:
So melt us into anguish true,
Till Penitence our treason rue
And bathe Thy mercy-seat with love's remorseful tears.

THE GATES OF LIFE.

“Wide is the gate and broad is the way that leadeth to destruction ------ strait is the gate and narrow is the way that leadeth unto life.”—Matt. vii. 13, 14.

Grief, more than revelation tells,
Shaded The Lord of Glory's heart,
Where slept within its aching cells
Deep woes no earth-breathed words impart;
Pure is the Bible, and a perfect book,—
But Christ had depths where Language could not look!

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All echoless by worded sign
Some buried pangs there must have been;
And saint, nor angel can divine
What pass'd behind that mental screen
Where in dread myst'ry, voiceless, lone, and deep,
Pale thoughts of Christ did o'er man's future weep.

Tongue cannot speak, nor soul conceive
The gloom which blacken'd o'er His mind,
When thoughts prophetic bade him grieve
O'er sinful wrecks of sad mankind;
Sorrow like this might soften hearts of stone,
But, ah! how infinite His pangs unknown!

For each lost soul the bloody sweat
And crimson tide of anguish flow'd,
And in His righteous spirit met
All penal claims to justice owed,
For sins beyond what mortal numbers count,—
So vast the myriads of their vile amount!

But more He felt, who bled for man,
When from His cross uprear'd on earth
His Prescience saw that sacred plan
By angels deem'd of priceless worth,
Attract but “few,” for whom His Mercy died,
To bear the cross, and love the Crucified.

Of all dark burdens which oppress
And crush warm spirits into woe,
Ingratitude from those we bless
Outweighs the direst hearts can know;
Fiends may abhor, but never can betray
The Souls which trust, and for them toil and pray.

But how did uncreated Love
A sacrifice divine achieve!
When God emerged from light above,
Around His awful head to weave
A thorny crown, this forfeit-world to save,
And roll'd thick darkness from the hideous grave.

Yet, when the unborn Ages rose
Before Him, in His parting breath,
And He beheld what creedless foes
Would still deny His priestly death,
A deeper sadness must have pierced His heart,
Than all which sacrificial pangs impart.

Two paths He saw, two gates appear'd,
Contracted one, the other wide;
Along the last, unfelt, unfear'd,
What myriads rush'd, for whom He died!—
Broad as their wills, and wild as Passion's law
The way of ruin which for them He saw.

But o'er that strict and narrow way
So wisely hemm'd by holy Truth,
He mark'd a sainted number stray,
Faithful as few, to age from youth;
Such are the souls, who count this World no loss
When they have nail'd it to th' atoning cross.

So is it now, to saints who read
The moral scenes of tempted man,
By that pure light blest angels need
Before they learn the mystic plan,
Whereby the wisdom of God's secret Will
Winds its clear way through vice, and virtue still,

Ambition's fretting pride of thought,
The Hero's falsely-worshipp'd fame,
With all that mock Renown hath wrought
To gild the nothing of a name,—
Are baseless dreams, unsanctified and vile,
And only blast the victims they beguile.

Learning, and Art, and lofty Mind,
Unless beneath the Cross they grow,
Prove but mere forms of Self refined,
Whose “broad way” leads to final woe;
Sin changes not, howe'er by spells array'd,
And out of Christ, what are we, but betray'd?

“Broad is the way,”—oh, crushing thought!
Which must have made Emmanuel sigh,
To see the Soul His anguish bought
But live to sin, and love to die,—
Enter the “wide gate” with a maniac glee,
And quench bad mirth in glooms of agony!

“Narrow the path,”—but, yet it leads
To Life's consummate goal of bliss;
And though their self-denial bleeds,
Children of light will enter this;
Though few in number, round their heavenward ways
Hover the glorious Dead of elder days.

O'er such high path decreed by God,
Led by The Spirit, let me roam;
For where my Saviour's feet have trod
Bright footprints point me to His home,—
That City clothed with more than crystal rays,
Her gates salvation, and whose walls are praise.

Patriarch and prophet, priest and saint,
Denial's road to heaven preferr'd;
And when their sunken hearts grew faint,
They listen'd for that living Word
Which warbled round them in the deepest night,
“My yoke is easy, and my burden light!”

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SPIRITUAL DECLINE.

“Oh that I were as in months past, as in the days when God preserved me; when his candle shined upon my head ------ when the secret of God was upon my tabernacle.”—Job xxix. ii. 2–4.

“Oh! that with me, as in the months of yore,
My heart were basking in the smile of God,
When all I saw the sweet impression bore
His eye o'erwatch'd me through the way I trod.

“Then did the candle of Jehovah beam
With loving radiance o'er my rising hours,
And life roll'd onward like a happy stream
Which carols music to the list'ning flowers.

“Bright with the dews of pure devotion, lay
My spirit open to each breath from heaven;
And all who saw me, in their hearts might say,—
Dead paradise re-blooms in sin forgiven!

“Precious was Christ! beyond angelic speech
In might or melody to e'er reveal;
Nor could the songs of sainted rapture reach
All His incarnate glories made me feel.

“Dear was the temple, and the hour of prayer,
And dear the spirit of that ritual Whole
When all my faculties were hallow'd there,
And heaven seem'd dawning on my inmost soul.

“And when the emblems of embodied Love
Bleeding for man, to my awed sense were brought,
Like Stephen, view'd I in the world above
The Christ, by whom a sacrament is wrought.”—

Thus moans in secret many a voiceless heart
Heavy with gloom, and harrow'd by distress;
Dull, cold, or dead, as grace and gift depart
And leave the sad One to his loneliness.

Yet, dark believer! may such woeful strain
Issue from shades of cowardice and sin;
And what thou dreamest a majestic pain,
May prove the sign of hollowness within!

There is a trinity in mortal time
By past, by present, and by future made;
And, Conscience wields a potency sublime
When each before her stands, in truth array'd.

Then must we feel how time's divisions mould
One character, in which our fate will rest;
Eternity in seed we thus behold
As heaven, or hell, now ripens in the breast!

Oh, then, not idly, with a weak lament
Sigh o'er some privilege, which breathes no more;
Religion scorns a laggard discontent
That feebly sickens in pale dreams of yore.

Not grace from thee, but thou from God hast gone,
By cold illapse declining day by day;
Or from the paths which lead true virtue on
Turn'd into tracks which tempt the soul away.

Cold in thy prayer, in praise reluctant grown,
Seldom at church, the Eucharist forgot,
Thy creed, self-will, no master but thine own,—
Behold! the secret which explains thy lot.

Obedience is religion's breath of life;
Constant and pure denials must we bear;
Each day should be with crucifixion rife,
Each hour be hallowed with the soul of prayer.

Saints learn by loving, and by love they live;
Who walk with God, must from themselves depart;
And Peace descends not from her Prince above,
Except for God faith purify the heart.

Mourners in Zion oft are minds which fail
To hold their Master's cross supreme in view;
Or let some lust o'er discipline prevail
That renders them to church, and creed untrue.

Thus, like a secret rust the world begins
Eating its way, until our hearts corrode;
Pleasure and profit veil their inward sins,
And wide as passion seems the “narrow” road.

From virgin youthfulness the Soul declines
When from both God and grace it dares to roam,
And can no longer through the Word Divine
Shelter the heart, in true affection's home.

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“Oh! that with me as in pure moments past
My God were present,”—vain such cry, indeed,
Unless Repentance thy worn spirit cast
Low at the mercy-seat to lie, and bleed.

Leave sigh and sentiment for Duty's cross,
Haste thee to works of sacrifice and prayer;
Count a gain'd world to be a gloomy loss
And prize hereafter as thy holy care:

So may the smile of Godhead back return
Effulging o'er thee, as in days of old;
Dead in thyself, to live in Jesu learn,
And round His throne God's covenant behold.

Earth, sense, and time will more and more recede,
Conscience be cleansed, and childlike prayer arise;
Eternity will grow thy grandest need,
God be thy goal, and heaven thy genial prize.

GUIDING TENDERNESS OF GOD.

“I will instruct thee ------ I will guide thee with mine eye.”—Ps. xxxii. 8.

By gentleness, O God,
Thou wouldst Thy children lead
O'er perill'd ways, by martyrs trod,
Or through life's verdant mead:
Not the stern rod of discipline to wield
Does Thy pure Grace, apart from sin, incline;
But when reluctant hearts refuse to yield
Some iron law instructs the spirit that is Thine.

Yet were we like a child
Loving, and pliant too,
Thy perfect guidance pure as mild
Would guard Life's opening view;
E'en as a glance by some fond parent turn'd
On her frail little one, who waits to see
Those looks where young affection's lore is learn'd,—
So would one gleam of grace attract our souls to Thee.

Oh, for a watchful heart!
A waiting mind of prayer,
To view Thee, gracious as Thou art,
“Our Father!” everywhere.
Orphan'd in soul, nor friendless, should we seem,
Did but the mind a sacred vigil keep;
For ever would Thy guardian eye-glance beam,—
Star of our troubled life, both when we smile, or weep!

Unless we watch that “Eye,”
Thy Will we cannot read;
For, softer than a vernal sky
It dawns on human need
In gleam and glance, no prayerless hearts discern,
And Love's unwatchful gaze may oft forego:—
Only by looking upward, can we learn
Wisdom divinely bland, to chasten weal and woe.

Bend, pride of Reason! bend,
Become a little child;
And heaven to thee will condescend
In wisdom undefiled;
Oft where the haughty Scribes of learning fail
God to discern in truth's unerring page,
Infants of grace by simple love prevail,
Wing'd by the Spirit's power to heights beyond their age.

Then grant us, gracious Lord!
In Thy blest page to see
The faintest beam a heaven-bright word
Imparts from truth, and Thee;
Mild as the radiance of celestial love,
So will each promise, threat, and precept dart
Glances of truth,—as if God's eye above
Were gazing through them, to inspire the heart.

POETRY OF CLOUDS AND SKIES.

“Number the clouds in wisdom.”—Job. xxxviii. 37.

“God rideth in his excellency on the sky.”—Deut. xxxiii. 26.

“The firmament showeth his handy-work.”—Ps. xix. 1.

A speaking magic in poetic skies
Affects the soul, and fascinates the eyes;
Look where we may, some cloud-born grace we find
To shade the mirror of responsive mind.

And why did God thus beauteously array
Calm noon, chaste eve, and re-commencing day,
But that our echoing minds should inly feel
How heaven and poetry to man appeal?

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Lord of the woods, and waves, and living air!
All lead to Thee when purified by prayer;
Connecting thus with beauty, colour, grace,
The dying mercy which redeem'd our race.

Let but Thy merit through creation shine,
And what was common, now becomes divine;
The beautiful on earth, the bright above,
Are open sacraments which preach Thy love.

How rich the consecrated dome of heaven,
When to some priest at Nature's shrine is given
The power, in all ethereal forms to see
Symbols and signs of present Deity!

The skies have meanings; and emotion seems
Oft to array them with impassion'd gleams,—
Colours intense, as if a conscious hue
Blush'd o'er its birth, and brighten'd at our view.

Painters and poets from the skies have brought
Fancies and feelings, to inspire their thought:
Beauty is there; and sentiment can rise
To noble pathos in the naked skies.

Home of the seasons! and the haunt of storms,
Now fierce with gloom, now fair with opal forms,
Dark in thy strength, or smiling in thy play,
I love thy magic, and revere its sway.

But most I hail thee, golden, calm, and deep,
When isles of radiance on thy bosom sleep;
Or robe-like clouds in rich confusion lie,
As though veil'd angels floated up the sky

Garb'd in the vesture of thy woven sheen,
And left an outline where their veils had been:—
So exquisitely touch'd the tinted air,
Seraphic creatures might be mansion'd there.

And who can tell, since first the heavens have spann'd
Their arching glories over sea and land,
What vast impressions from yon varied skies
Have soothed man's spirit, while it charm'd his eyes?

When to the captive, through his dungeon-bar
Gleams of blue heaven come glancing from afar,
Through fields of childhood Fancy seems to roam
And wind the pathway freedom wound at home.

And think how Sickness, when the pulse renews
Its beat of vigour, hails yon skyey views,
While with new gush of health each glance of love
Seems to be answer'd, when it looks above.

There memory, too, and meditation find
Symbolic hues to mirror forth the mind;
Sky and the soul like sympathies can meet,
Till what our hearts express, the clouds repeat.

And when, pure Lord of loneliness and woe!
We dream Thy pilgrimage of pain below,
Faith may conceive, full oft Thine harass'd eye
Drank the deep quiet of congenial sky.

And as ascending to Thy throne of light
A cloud receiv'd Thee from the spell-bound sight
Of those sad watchers, who beheld Thee soar
Back to the bliss where Thou wert throned before,

So when our hearts the sweep of heaven survey
And solemn fancies o'er its surface play,
Let not religion this true thought disdain,—
A cloud shall waft Thee to our world again.

TWILIGHT OF OUR BEING.

“One day, known to the Lord, not day, nor night.”—Zech. xiv. 7.

“Jesus said, What I do thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter.”—John xiii. 7.

“Though what I do ye know not now
Hereafter sainted hearts shall see,”
Saviour! before that will we bow
And learn our cross by loving Thee:
Grant to our souls the grace on God to live,
And clasp the counsel which Thy precepts give.

Such partial light and shade become
The vexèd life our bosoms feel;
For, could we clearly view the home
Which yonder shrines in heaven conceal,
How should we turn with loathing sense away
From those stern duties, which demand each day!

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All light would make our hearts presume,
All darkness end in black despair;
But God has so arranged the gloom
As best becomes the cross we bear:—
An ampler vision might elate the mind,
And deeper shadows would eclipse mankind.

“We know in part,” and part of this
How weakly can the wisest know!
Our purest heavens of hallow'd bliss
Are tinged with soiling earth below:
Put into language, oft doth wisdom seem
The broken semblance of a baseless dream.

Such clouds and darkness round the path
Of God to man encircled lie,
That he who heavenly science hath
This awful truth will scarce deny,—
That earth seems moist with melancholy tears
Dropt from the eyelids of some thousand Years.

Yet sorrow is the penal bane
Attemper'd to a world of sin;
For where our God hath ceased to reign
Darkness and death must enter in;
And saintly eyes should learn to see by prayer
Truths which transcend what mortal lips declare.

THE BLESSED VIRGIN.

“Hail, thou that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women.”—Luke i. 28.

Ave Maria! blest o'er women all
Who e'er on earth embodiment have found,
Maiden and mother, both in thee we call
With peerless favour by Jehovah crown'd.

Ave Maria! virgin meek and mild,
Unstain'd by passion's soul-polluting fires,
Faith cannot view thee with thine awful Child,
Nor thrill with more than sentiment inspires.

Ave Maria! since thy sex began,
Woman presents no type to rival thee;
Nor can the feelings of a fallen man
Echo thy thoughts of inward purity.

Ave Maria! o'er the Babe Divine
Bending with awe, maternally entranced,
How must have throbb'd that vestal heart of thine,
On Jesu's forehead when thy fond eyes glanced!

Pure are the fountains of parental love
Whose depths of bliss ineffable remain;
Not the deep ravishment of lyres above
Could e'er attune it with too sweet a strain:

But thou, o'ershadow'd with The Spirit's power,
By heaven's bright herald hail'd supremely blest,
What hallowing mystery clothed that sacred hour
When hung the Child-God on thy virgin breast!

Boundless cternity and breathing time
Blend in communion at thine awful bliss,
And bid us wonder, in a trance sublime,
That earth was hallow'd by a scene like this.

The purest image saintly Thought can see
Of maiden calm, with motherhood combined,
Becomes too earth-born when compared with thee,
Nursing The Babe whose Blood redeem'd mankind.

Well may the poet's harp, and painter's hue,
With all that Sculpture's marble-dreams express,
Become ethcreal, when they bring to view
Outlines which hint thy solemn loveliness.

Yet can chaste minds, beyond all visual show,
By thought create what reverence demands,
Ave Maria! when our hearts o'erflow
To see the God-Babe in thy vestal hands.

Feeling and Faith, with poesy and prayer,
Mingle their charms to make one beauteous spell,
And what no melodies, nor hues declare,
Our hush'd emotions unto Godhead tell.

MARIOLATRY.

“Jesus saith unto her, Woman! what have I to do with thee? Mine hour is not yet come.”—John ii. 4.

“I fell at his feet to worship him: and he said unto me, See thou do it not! I am thy fellow-servant:—worship God.”—Rev. xix. 10.

And yet, forbid it, reason, faith, and love,
Both mortal powers, and Attributes divine,
Ave Maria! that as Queen above,
The worship due to God should ere be thine.

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Honour'd and holy, blest indeed wert thou,—
To be the mother of His mortal frame
Before Whose face the universe shall bow
While rapt eternity resounds His name!

The stain, that tempted Eve on woman brought,
Ave Maria! is by thee reversed,—
Mother of Him whose dying merit wrought
A ransom for the race by Sin accursed.

So to the Church's heart be ever dear,
Anointed Virgin! 'mong all women blest;
High o'er thy sex, we none like thee revere
Within whose womb incarnate God could rest.

But ah! we dare not, from the Lord of Lords
Rob the due glory which to God pertains;
Nor crown a creature with adoring words,
And echo “Queen of Heaven!” with impious strains.

Not sinless wert thou, in the sight of Him
From whose dread gaze the blushing heavens retire,
While round His Throne the o'erawed seraphim
Prostrate their crowns, and cast their quiv'ring lyre.

They tell us, how all deeps of tender grace
Fresh in thy heart abide for evermore;
And when the contrite seek thy pitying face,
Those wells are open'd, and the faint restore;

But, blest Redeemer! what is finite love
Though most ideal in sublime excess,
With that compared, which drew God from above
To agonise for our dark guiltiness?—

Less than a raindrop to the boundless sea,
The vastest love created souls can feel
When rank'd by His, who clothed Divinity
With flesh, and suffer'd all that man could feel!

Ave Maria! were thy vestal glow
Of pity purer than blind error dreams,
Yet unto Christ dost thou thy nature owe,
And all thy goodness from His spirit streams.

But when they dare this awful dream propound,—
That e'en as mother o'er a son prevails,
So at thy plea all grace and gifts abound
And at thy prayer His goodness never fails!

They say the sunbeam can enrich the sun
From whose bright essence its fair beauty flows!—
By such false creed from blinding fancy won,
Which gives to Mary what to Christ she owes.

Ye pious martyrs of a faith untrue,
Who from the fount of God's unfathom'd heart
Turn to broke cisterns, whence dark Ages drew
Deluding errors that will not depart,

Mercy and Grace in Christ embodied live;
Straight from His love let each repenting Soul
Draw the true pardon He alone can give,
Nor dream that woman can a God control!

That creed is sacrilege which dares deny
The sympathies His bleeding Manhood learn'd,
When Christ from glory came to weep and die,
And back to heaven with human heart return'd.

Away with doubt! men want no Virgin's plea,
No angel, saint, nor martyr's prayer to bring,
To gain the mercy which endures in Thee
Thou of all grace the unexhausted Spring!

Ave Maria! maid and mother blest,
High above woman soar'd thy peerless lot;
And with due rev'rence on thy name we rest,
But shrink to credit what thy truth is not.

And oh, in yonder beatific light
Could thy deep calm be ruffled into care,
As creature, thou might'st shudder at the sight
Of sinners, prostrate at thy throne, in prayer!

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Ave Maria! this dread thought o'erpowers
And awes the suppliant, who might worship thee,—
That Jesus is thy Saviour too, and ours,
The same in time, as in eternity.

OUR TRUE CENTRE.

“Return unto me, for I have redeemed thee.” Isa. xliv. 22.

“And ye shall find rest for your souls.” Jer. vi. 16.

Our centre true is God alone,
In whom man's aching breast
Beneath the shadow of His Throne
Can find a perfect rest;
For less than God enjoy'd, would leave within us still
A fev'rish want of soul, the Finite cannot fill.

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Yet ruin'd years must haply roll
In anguish, gloom, or woe
Along the worn and wearied soul,
Before the heart can know
What broken cisterns prove the hollow joys we love,
While hearts forsake The Fount of living bliss above.

This world is wound with fatal spells
Attracting youthful Sense;
And each gay scene some falsehood tells
To mar life's innocence:
Nothing but grace divine can disenchant the Earth
And bid the soul aspire for what becomes its birth.

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A fascinating mist o'erveils
Bewilder'd time, and space,
When passion's demon power prevails,
And lures a sensual race
To dream polluted earth a paradise can be,
And mould imagined heavens apart from Deity.

The bloom of hope, the bliss of health,
The bounding thoughts of joy,
With all that springs from tyrant wealth,
What myriads they decoy!
Till glory, truth, and grace, and bliss by promise given,
From souls recede away, and let this world seem heaven!

But worst of all base spells that blind
The conscience with deceit,
Is that which makes our God mankind,
And bows us at their feet,
Awaiting till they crown by some awarded praise,
The nothing Fashion gilds with her inglorious rays.

Alas! for those who madly think
Immortal Nature can
From lips of transient homage drink
What truly freshens man,
While deep within the soul a thirsting sense abides
For something nobler far than fame's uncertain tides.

Since what is fame, but second-life
In other spirits led?
A feeling with this impulse rife,—
That our creations spread
Ideal worlds of thought, through which we love to roam,
And find in kindled hearts a false, but fancied home?

But thou, believer, think on this,—
God is our only rest;
And he who worships finite bliss
Will live and die unblest:
The infinitely good man's true proportion makes,
And every gift but Christ the trusting heart forsakes.

'Tis true, the subject World is ours;
But only when we wave
Heaven's banner o'er its hostile powers,
And for the Truth are brave;
Thus panoplied by grace, and girt by secret prayer,
We face embattled Fiends, and fight them everywhere.

But never be this creed forgot,
That men are exiles here;
And they who seek a heavenly lot
Must love a heav'nly sphere;
And oft in soaring dreams of purity ascend
To yon celestial Home, where saints and martyrs tend.

The Spirit's love breathes now, or never,
When souls for God are train'd
Till mortal vice and evil sever
From bosoms, where they reign'd:
For by this truth intense all mighty Hearts must live,—
Eternity will rue what time doth not forgive.

Hail, vast Relief of souls who love,
Lord of regenerate hearts!
Faith can discern in Thee above
A glory which imparts
Far more than angel-life, to all who seek for rest
And their hereafter lay, like John, upon Thy breast.

As roll the waters to the wind
A moment lifted high,
So, swelling passion heaves the mind
Upward to meet the sky;
But when the storm declines and waters cease to roar,
The folded waves lie down as level as the shore:

So is it with delirious joy
Where mad excitements reign,
Or, blind emotions man decoy
Some glitt'ring lie to gain;
Raised and enrapt awhile, his heaven seems half begun,
But when the dream resolves, unrest alone is won.

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MOTHER'S GRIEF.

“Weeping for her children because they are not.”— Jer. xxxi. 15.

The placid azure of thy pensive eyes
Oh childless mother! like dejected skies,
With such dim tearfulness is overspread,
It softly tells thou dreamest of the dead.

Bereaved thou art of that unfathom'd bliss,
A first-born infant; and a pang like this
Home to the centre hath thy spirit stirr'd,
Too deep for sighs, too sacred for a word.

Cold the wan beauty of thy sunken cheek;
And tones of pathos, when I hear thee speak,
Ring like a knell which haunts sad Memory's ear,
And melts warm feeling into woman's tear.

Alone I view thee o'er the Bible bend,
Till solitude becomes thy sainted friend;
While, rapt in stillness, oft the dreaming soul
Wings its lone flight to where no earth-clouds roll.

But wilt thou, mother, in this trance of gloom
Hover and dream around thine infant's tomb?
Dark Fancy! dars't thou lift the coffin-lid,
And view in anguish what the grave hath hid?

Those dawning gleams of consciousness and grace,
The chisell'd beauty, and the cherub-face,
How oft doth speculation these recall,
And tell thee thy sweet babe possess'd them all!

And when some cry of infancy is heard,
Like sleeping water by wild music stirr'd,
Thy heart-strings vibrate to each plaintive tone
As if that weeper were indeed thine own.

But, lady, there is balm and blessing left,
And healing words for hearts like thine bereft;
No childless orphan can the Church become,
Though Christ hath vanished to His viewless home!

Yet shall the Comforter on thee descend,
And heaven-breathed solace with thy spirit blend;
The Lord surrounds thee, when thou seest Him not,
And God must change, ere grief can be forgot.

Be Grace thy refuge: calmer thoughts will rise
And rays from heaven illume thine inward eyes;
Till in their brightness loss becomes a gain,
While God is thank'd for this mysterious pain.

And now, bethink thee, to thy babe in heaven
How much of glory hath Redemption given!
Worn by no race, at once it reach'd the goal,
Sinless on earth, and now—a perfect Soul.

Think, what a dignity to thee belongs
Thus to have deepen'd the angelic songs,
Thus to enrich with thy departed Gem
The lustre of Emmanuel's diadem!

And feel'st thou not, when God and glory seem
To awe thy Spirit with a solemn dream,
An Infant makes the skies familiar be,
And helps to humanise the heavens for thee?

Nor let harsh murmurs o'er thy doom arise
As though God wrong'd the Saint His wisdom tries;
Sorrow befits a world where Jesu bled,
And dust was borrow'd to receive Him dead.

In Christ, bereaved one! for profoundest grief
Dwells the pure source of all divine relief;
To minds which echo thee, most dear thou art,
But oh! far dearer to thy Saviour's heart.

That living Flow'ret which thy God hath given
His love transplanted to a bower in heaven;
There, shall each grace to perfect beauty rise,
And bud with glory when it breathes the skies.

DIVINE SECRETS.

“Secret things belong unto God.”—Deut. xxix. 29.

Above, below, mysterious all
The moral facts our souls would scan;
And when some pageant lifts the pall
Which covers vast Creation's plan,
A thinking Titan with his godless mind
To shudd'ring Angels seems a monster blind.

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When David read man's glorious frame
Ecstatic awe o'erpower'd his view;
And, hymning forth Jehovah's name,
He trembled into words, how true!—
“How fearful am I, when by Love survey'd,
Moulded by heaven, and wonderfully made.”

Awake, what mysteries we enclose,
And when we dream, more wondrous far!
'Tween life and death our limbs repose,
And none can tell the truth we are;
Time and eternity then blend and meet,
As they will mingle at the judgment-seat.

But when from earth to Heaven we turn,
Pure faith is taught this truth to know,—
Proud wisdom must itself unlearn
By lisping childlike prayer below;
Content in darkness to adore His ways
With Whom 'tis glory to conceal their rays.

All Eye, all Ear, all Presence, Power,
In contact with creation's whole,
Closing the eyelids of each little flower,
Or bidding worlds around Thee roll,—
Essential Deity, Thou dread Unknown,
Angels would shudder to unveil Thy Throne!

And yet, deep mystery proves the light
From whence our reas'ning darkness gains
A lustre, which restores the sight
When blinded by some mental pains:
God is a Fact, from whose unfathom'd All
Eternity will not remove the pall.

And as our God alone discerns
Himself in Essence, truth, and will,
So faith from revelation learns
To bow before a mystery still;
For God Incarnate is an awful shade
Within whose depths the Church has mused, and pray'd.

And what Thou doest, Lord, in life,
Is dark indeed to those who roam
Anguish'd, and worn by wasting strife,
Creedless in heart, without a home;—
Each grave that opens, and the friend who dies
Some pang of mystery to the soul supplies.

Why virtue droops, and Vice unveils
A blushless front of gain and glee,
Involves a problem which prevails
O'er sceptic Minds, who cannot see
That mortal life our education is,
And builds up final woe, or future bliss.

THE TWO BOOKS.

“You here have an order for prayer, and for the reading of Holy Scripture, much agreeable to the mind and purpose of the old Fathers; nothing is ordained to be read but the very pure Word of God, the Holy Scriptures, or that which is agreeable to the same.”—Preface to the Book of Common Prayer.

Two Books we have, all other books above,
Which breathe the wonders of Incarnate love;
Each to Jehovah points the living Way,
And both inspire us to repent, and pray.

Perfect as peerless, pure and most divine,
Where God in language moves through every line,
Where each calm word enrobes celestial Grace
And man and Deity meet face to face,

Is that Shechinah of almighty speech
Where dwells The Spirit, time and souls to teach,
Beneath whatever name 'tis known, or heard,
Scripture, or Bible, or the Sacred Word.

With this, comparison must be profane:
Yet, laud we not in too heroic strain
Britannia's liturgy, for matchless power
To guide the conscience through its perill'd hour.

Calm deep and solemn, chaste, and most sublime,
Breathing eternity, yet full of time,
Pure as seraphic lips in heaven desire,
And fervid as the souls of saints on fire

With rapture,—is the Litany we love:
Sickness and sorrow both its blessing prove;
And oft have mourners in the heart's despair
Found a deep refuge for dejection, there.

A healing softness, and a holy balm
That book pervade, like inspiration's calm,—
Subdued intensity and sacred rest,
Which never fail the lonely and distrest.

For, oh, we need not morbid passion's force,
Nor hurried feeling, in its reinless course,
Nor problems dark, for reasoning pride to scan;
But what we need is,—mercy-tones for man.

The sun-bright Angel, who adores and sings,
Covers his brow with reverential wings;
And perfect Saints, who most their God adore,
Sink low in feeling, ere by faith they soar.

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The past breathes here the poetry of time,
And thrills the present with a tone sublime,
Till buried ages of the Church's youth
Rise, and re-charm the world with ancient truth.

Thou glorious masterpiece of olden Prayer!
Deeper thy wisdom than cold words declare;
Ever opposing some recurrent sin
States act without, or Churches feel within.

Not light men want, but love,—exceeding all
An Age of idols dares devotion call;
A childlike frame of purity and peace,
Where Christ in conscience works divine release.

And who the archives of thy past can see,
Nor recognise the eye of God o'er thee,
Presiding there with providential gaze
To fit thy teaching for these fallen days?

Creedless and proud, high-cultured, full of self,
Greedy of gain, and worshippers of pelf,—
Our wealth grows pagan as the world gets old,
And none seem heroes, but the bad and bold!

Then, bless we God for prayers where men are taught
Low at the Truth to bow rebellious thought;
Each lawless working of the will to chain,
And yield to God the bosom's throne again.

Repentance, bitter, stern, profound, and true,
Obedient hearts, which yearn to dare and do,
Whate'er the doctrines of the Cross command,—
God send the Church, for this apostate land!

Rather as servants, than as sons we bow
Down at the shrine of awful Godhead now;
Though heirs of grace, in Christ our own we claim,—
How have we barter'd our baptismal name!

Hence sad humility and fear become
The sinful Race who leave their Father's home;
Cries of dejection, more than chants of joy,
Returning prodigals may best employ.

Nor be forgot, that England's Prayer Book gives
Pure, full, and plain, The Word by which she lives!
Not dungeon'd in some dead and alien tone,
But where the peasant-boy perceives his own.

There, lisping Childhood, when it longs to learn
Truths for which prophets bled, and martyrs burn,
In such pure liturgy of grace may find
All which can feed the heart, and form the mind.

For common prayer, if catholic and true,
Must not be tinged with individual hue,
But be proportioned to the soul of Man,
In deep accordance with redemption's plan.

Lord of the Church! of sacrament and rite,
In this may all adoring hearts delight,—
“How apostolic is the root of all
Our Church maternal would devotion call!”

The heart of Ages still within them lives,
Takes from the past, and to the present gives
That hoary spell which hallows thought and word,
And wakens feeling in its finest chord,

Since, not from Rome, but ancient Gaul we bring
The choral hymns our Altars chant and sing;
And many a word devotion dwells upon,
Hung on thy lips, thou loved and lone St. John!

Source of the Church! true Paraclete for all,
Long may such prayers on Christ for mercy call;
No deeper grace can Thy pure wisdom give,—
Than what our lips repeat, our hearts may live.

BAPTISM.

“The washing of regeneration.”—Tit. iii. 5.

“Born of water and of the Spirit.”—John iii. 5.

Thou little trembler, robed in white,
Nursling of Heaven! sweet neophyte
Before the font arriving,
The birth-dawn of thy spirit-life
With holy fulness be it rife,
While hearts for thee are striving
With God in prayer; that soon thy shielded charms
May rest secure in Christ's baptismal arms.

A silence breathed from God above,
A halcyon of celestial love

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Now broods with blest control,
Under the Throne of Him who came
In form as weak as thy young frame,—
Thrilling the inmost soul
Of all, whose unfilm'd eye of faith perceives
More than mere water on the forehead leaves.

Bright students of the ways of God!
Who, since Incarnate Mercy trod
The forfeit earth of man,
Bend your adoring eyes to learn
Truths deeper than your thoughts discern,
Shrined in redemption's plan,—
Ye viewless Seraphim! this rite attend,
And your calm watch with Christian worship blend.

Thou innocent! with man compared,
Thee hath eternal Truth declared
A child of wrath and sin;
But here, adopted, seal'd, and sign'd
By Him who hath redeem'd mankind,
For thee will now begin
That second Birth renewing grace imparts
Through this deep sacrament to infant hearts.

Oh, if Emmanuel ne'er had said
“Let children to Mine arms be led,”
Parents might shrink aghast
A creature into life to bring,
Whose soul the curse of God might wring
When time and earth are past!—
But for the promise of baptismal grace,
What sight so fearful as an infant's face?

All that a birth of Flesh can give
What is it,—but a doom to live,
A heritage of woe,
A destiny of guilt and death,
A curse inhaled at every breath
Life breathes from sin below?
By grace uncharm'd, destruction seems to lower
On the sad babe, ere Time can count an hour.

But at the Font where Jesu stands
With greeting heart and gracious hands,
Ready to clasp the child,
Pale infant! there, a breath from heaven
May to thy dawning soul be given
Through Him, the Saviour mild,
Who, while He thunders from His regal Throne,
Loves the sweet age on earth He call'd His Own.

The Root of sacramental grace
Is the new Adam of our race,
The Man Divine who bled;
Hence cometh our celestial birth,
Beyond the parentage of earth,
From our generic Head,—
The Lord from heaven, whose vital Spirit gives
All force by which the mystic Body lives.

More than our first-born parents knew
Before they proved to God untrue,
Works that celestial gift;
Angels, who on their trial stood,
Exceed not this majestic good
Which may thy soul uplift:
A child of God!—can seraphim aspire
To aught sublimer in their sinless choir?

From thee the curse is roll'd away;
Thy soul's new birth begins to-day;
A cov'nant right to all
Immunities and blessings high,
The heart of Jesus can supply
To those who heed His call:
Now to the stillness of thy soul is given,
Like breezeless water, to reflect a heaven.

A City and a Crown are thine
If thou be true to grace divine,
Bearing thy destined Cross;
Lo! on thy forehead lies the seal
Where symbol both and sign reveal
That Life must gain by loss:
Firm to thy vow, beneath God's banner fight,
And keep thy panoply of graces bright.

Christ guard thee now, thou little one!
His glory be thy shield and sun
Whate'er thy lot may be;
Incorp'rate with the Church thou art,
To thee may life and love impart
The truth which maketh free;
New prospects ope, new principles and powers
Rise into play, and rule thine unborn hours.

And, if in secret darkness lie
The seeds of heaven which none descry,
Dormant and cold within,
May God's reviving Breath awake,
Till such dark bond of slumber break,
And grace o'ermaster sin:—

155

That latent germ baptismal life bestows
Doth oft in elder hearts its buried power disclose.

How water, word, and grace combine
To work creative spells divine,
In vain let Reason ask;
Children are awful mysteries,
Within whose depth no spirit sees
But His,—who owns the task
Of overcoming, through celestial birth,
That born corruption, which is bred from earth.

Hence! reas'ning sceptic, harsh and cold;
For never will thine eyes behold
Tokens which sense defy:
Nature in secret works her plan,
Her growth escapes the sight of man;
Then, hush thy heartless cry,—
As if the weakness of the water could
Deprive the soul of sacramental good.

True wisdom loves the word “obey,”
And loving hearts but live to pray,
Believing Christ as true;
Safe in His arms, thou mother mild,
With hope baptismal place thy child,
And doubt not He will do
A work mysterious for that infant soul,—
Baptising nature with divine control.

Henceforward, as a Priest and King,
Thy babe becomes a sacred thing,
An heir of grace and glory;
Mother! to whom such charge is given,
Now rear it for that throne in heaven
Scripture unveils before thee;
So discipline the dawning mind and will,
That each some priesthood unto God may fill.

“Our Father!” now thy babe may cry,
Whose Elder Brother rules the sky,—
The Man Divine, who came
By bleeding Merit to atone
For all the guilt sad Earth must own,
And give the child a name,
New as the sacramental Birth, which then
Through water and by Spirit dawns in men.

Blest Privilege! both deep and pure,
Which might our trembling hearts assure
That we are Christ's indeed:
Our Robe baptismal,—keep it white,
And never wilt thou lose the right
Which marks the heavenly Seed
Of all who, grafted into Christ by grace,
Born in the Church, are God's adopted race.

Oh, that on Man's expressive brow
Baptismal pureness beaming now
Maturer life might see!—
How should we bless that rite of heaven
Where grace is felt, and sin forgiven
By mercy, full as free;
And find God's Spirit ne'er that man forsook,
Who kept in age, the vow his childhood took.

But soil'd and stain'd by sin and crime,
Corruption deepens with our time,
And thus our hearts o'erlay
That seed of Heaven, the Spirit granted
When the new Birth was first implanted
On our baptismal day:
Yet not for this, let Souls profanely try
From faith to hide what holy means supply.

Rather, repent we! till the soul
Shall yield to that sublime control
Which heals the broken-hearted,
Who in atoning Blood begin
To bathe the soul, and wash their sin;
Mourning they e'er departed
From that blest Lord, whose interceding love
Reigns on the glory-throne He rules above.

CATECHISM.

“Who gave you this name? My Godfathers and Godmothers in my Baptism.”—The Catechism.

If they who stand beside the source
Of some famed river's mountain-flow,
And ponder on its trackless course
To meet the far-off waves below,
Can feel a pensive influence born,—
Then how, on each Sabbatic morn,
The men of God must inly feel
A musing depth of voiceless zeal,

When at the fountain-head they stand
Of youthful Life's untraced career,
As round them groups an order'd band
Of earnest children, shy and dear,—
Encircled thus, to hear and speak,
With glist'ning eye, and glowing cheek,
Those Truths baptismal, pure and high,
Which link our being with the sky.

“Go, feed My Lambs,” The Saviour cried
To Peter's large and loving heart;
And ever have those words supplied
What cannot from the Church depart,—

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A pastoral right to form and feed
God's nurslings, by His grace decreed
To taste the food of heaven, and live
By all His word and wisdom give.

What, though the catechiser teach
Unfathom'd truths, which far outsoar
All raptured saints and seraphs reach
When most their minds a God adore,
Love brings a light that truth explains
Beyond what science ere attains,
As Heaven by intuitions mild
Gleams on the conscience of a child.

If faltering tongues of bashful youth
The careful Priest by welcome bland
Attune to some almighty truth,
Beyond a child to understand,
Is not the most gigantic Soul
Which awes the world by deep control,
A mental babe with lisping mind,
Compared with angels in its kind?

The Gospel o'er the cradle bends,
And gently leads each growing child,
Nor at the Font its mission ends,
But follows it with accent mild;
And so, by her maternal voice
The Church directs the infant choice,
And loves to dream on each white brow
The mystic Cross is mirror'd now.

God shield each lamb, and little one!
For soon the world before it lies;
And cold were he who looked upon
Those cherub lips, and chasten'd eyes,
Nor felt his heart-pulse throb with prayer
That all the Sponsors did declare,
When first the white-robed babe was given
To Jesu's arms for life and heaven,

Hereafter each in faith may keep.—
Alas, the infant-grace departs;
Enough to make mild angels weep
Already stains some youthful hearts!
Wilder'd by many a temper wild
Wilful and vain becomes the child,
Till robes baptismal wear no more
The whiteness at the Font they wore.

Yet, Shepherd of Thy blood-priced fold!
Since Thou didst stand at mother's knee,
And as a spotless Babe behold
The virgin brow, which bent o'er Thee,—
Thy spirit hung on each high word
An echoing conscience loved and heard,
While patriarch, saint, and prophet brought
Lessons to rear Thy human thought.

Lover divine of children dear!
In Whose fond arms an infant lay,
E'en now the Church believes Thee near
To hear their budding accents pray;
And oh! if child-born mem'ries still
Thy depths of sacred Manhood fill,
Look from Thy Mercy-Throne on high,
Hear children lisp, and mothers sigh.

Nor let the stern and sceptic Mind
'Tween Christ and childhood take its stand,
And, reas'ning here with falsehood blind,
Presume to hold His secret Hand
Who works by love's mysterious law
A grace cold reason never saw;
And by His Spirit, present now,
Recalls the child's baptismal vow

Back to the soul, perchance with fear;—
And opes the spring of thought within,
Until religion's vestal tear
Is dropt o'er some remember'd sin:
New hopes awake, and conscience burns
With hallow'd blush, as more it learns,
Who at the font His welcome gave,
Still longs in heaven the child to save.

Lord of simplicity and truth!
A scene like this the oldest need,
To summon back regretted youth
And bid them with compunction bleed:
A babe-like spirit, born of love,—
What purer gift can Grace above
Grant to the Saint, who lives below,
More childlike for the heavens to grow?

CONFIRMATION.

“Do ye here, in the presence of God, and of this congregation, renew the solemn promise and vow that was made in your name at baptism, ratifying and confirming the same?”—Order of Confirmation.

Lord of the blissful worlds above,
Incarnate Light, celestial Love!
Send from Thy prayer-moved mercy-seat
The grace of grace, Thy Paraclete.—
A touching sight for solemn tears,
Like prophecies of future years,
Under the aisles of hoary fane
Is now enacted: Faith, and Prayer,
O'er each young conscience come and reign,
And, with The Spirit, bless them there!

Round the rail'd altar humbly kneeling,
On each bow'd form, o'erfraught with feeling,
Anointed Hands will soon be laid;
And righteous prayers be duly pray'd;

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Nor doubt we that a Gift divine
Shall with the mitred priest's combine.—
An ancient Rite, replete with glory,
By meek apostles used and loved,
Church of the Lord! is now before thee,
By martyrs blest, and saints approved.

But oh, ere yet that sealing grace
God's death-pang won to bless our race,
In answer to this prayer descend,
“Arise, O Lord! this child defend,
Daily increase that store divine
Of love and light which make him Thine,”—
Member of Christ! thou child of God!
Thy central heart examine now;
The narrow way if thou hast trod
Enquire, and ratify thy vow.

To you baptismal life was given
By virtue of its Source in heaven;
And vow'd ye were, for Christ and Cross
To count the world as painted dross:
The burden now 'tis yours to bear!
And can ye unto Christ declare
That awful vow your spirits bore,
When ye, as helpless babes were brought,
Baptised, and made for evermore
God's own to be, in will and thought?

Thou, of thy feeble Self afraid!
Trembling with truth, a pensive maid,
Through thy fringed lid the tearful gaze
The secret of thy soul betrays;
And through that veil of virgin white
Soft tremors reach thy mother's sight.
Pale candidate! though pure and young,
Thy heart is trepid unto tears,
And with a saintly horror wrung,
Lest sin betray thine unborn years.

“Your promise, can ye here renew?”
That deep reply, “O Lord, we do!”
Oh, is it not an awful word
By God and list'ning Angels heard?
Heaven echoes back the binding vow,
And Fiends abash'd, before it bow;
And writhe in darkness, thus to see
A virgin heart which grace inspires,
So consecrate to Deity
Its faith, its feeling, and its fires.

Yet, at the altar kneel in prayer;
Tremble, but hope, for Christ is there!
He will not fail this burden'd hour
To strengthen thee with loving power;
And when confirming hands are spread
In faith upon thine awe-bow'd head,
Thrill'd into speechless thought, whilst thou
Wilt feel Eternity draw nigh,
The heart of Him who hears thy vow
In heaven responds to every sigh.

He knows thee, loves thee, reads thy soul,
Can circle thee with blest control;
And in return for thy vow'd heart
Himself by gift and grace impart.
But, ah, mistake not; hectic zeal
Is but the flush warm fancies feel:
Of these beware, impassion'd Youth!
Nor heed what thrill'd emotions say;
They only love, who live the truth,
And walk in peace the perfect way.

Poetic thrills may soon depart,
And barren oft, some burning heart;
Emotions in themselves are nought
Except to Christian action brought;
Nor is one glorious promise given
To souls which only sigh for heaven.
High feelings to the sense appear
A creed the world may beauteous call,
But Christ hath made this doctrine clear,—
One daily cross transcends them all!

MARRIAGE.

“An honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and his Church.”— Form of Solemnization of Matrimony.

Although the birthday of this God-made earth
Seraphic harpers rose to sing,
Whose choral ecstasies proclaim'd its worth
And caused Heaven's crystal arch to ring,
All was imperfect, till a Priest was there
Creation's mouth to be, and mind, and prayer.

Vain seem'd the splendour which no eye could see,
The melody that none could hear;
But when God utter'd, “Let Mine Image be,”
Creation thrill'd, as Man drew near;
And what was meaningless, and mute, and dead,
Warm'd into life, and glow'd beneath his tread.

As man for earth, so Woman was required
The crowning grace of man to form;
Alone, not even Adam was inspired
To feel creation's godlike charm:

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And thus, faith hears this fiat from The Throne,
“It is not good for man to be alone.”

So ere the fall, a Priest almighty brought
A bridal Eve to Adam's heart;
A living Echo to the love he sought,
A help-meet never to depart,
A true companion for the soul to be,
Fresh from her God, in faultless purity.

Marriage is holy. May no heathen-fire
Around the Christian altar flame;
Impassion'd souls let saintliness inspire
And hallow hymeneal claim:
Belials in sense are minds by flesh o'erruled,
And love is vice, unless by virtue school'd.

How hush'd and holy is yon bridal scene
Before God's altar!—view'd by one
Who e'er in faith to Cana's home hath been,
That marriage-group to gaze upon,
Where the pale water blush'd itself to wine,
Moved by a miracle of grace divine.

Stainless in vesture, as the lilies white,
With flower-buds in her wreathèd hair,
Fearful and trepid, with o'erawed delight
Lo, the young bride is kneeling there,
Her dropping lids in mild dejection bent,
And young heart with a holy conflict rent.

In that pure breast what garner'd feelings play
Like pulses with mysterious beat!
To think sweet Girlhood now hath wing'd away
And Love must quit a calm retreat,
Sacred to thought, by friends and forms no more,
And truths, which made the reeling heart run o'er!

It is not, that a voiceless dread awakes
Suspicion, lest her choice be wrong;
No blighting vision o'er the future breaks
To which both guilt and grave belong:
Yet, sadness looms around her like a spell,
As oft in marriage-chime there seems a knell!

Our life is mystery; and the brightest joy
That flushes round a feeling heart,
Seems coldly shaded by some dim alloy
Doom'd never from man's world to part:
True mirth with mournfulness is oft allied,
As living babes suggest the babes who died.

And she, yon bridal Star of beauty now,
Oh, marvel not, as there she kneels,
That ere the wife can dawn upon her brow
Back to bright girlhood fancy steals;
Dead joys revive in tombs to fancy dear,
Melt through the heart, and mingle with a tear.

Last eve, at halcyon twilight's dreamful hour
When none but God the soul could see,
She pray'd and ponder'd in her girlish bower,
And sigh'd, young Past! her thoughts o'er thee;
Flower, fruit, and pathways, all instinct with truth,
Seem'd to accost her like the spells of youth.

She mused on what her spousal Life might fold
Within its undevelop'd scene;
On wings of love recall'd the times of old,
And wept o'er all bright hearts had been;
And scarce perceived the pensive moonlight throw
Its calm cold lustre on the lake below.

But, maiden! ere thy sacred ring be worn,
Beyond a mother's purest gift
The Church hath up to Heaven's high portals borne
A prayer, which shall thy soul uplift
To heights of bliss, serene as brides attain,
Whose wedded hearts are thrones where Christ will reign.

Souls are espoused by every hallow'd claim,
If wedlock far diviner prove
Than mere clay-throbs, which boast the common name
Of what Flesh means by mortal “love:”—
Christ and the Church are shadow'd out by this,
And cast heaven's radiance round an earthly bliss.

VISITATION OF THE SICK.

“Bear our heavenly Father's correction; there should be no greater comfort to Christian persons, than to be made like unto Christ, by suffering patiently adversities, troubles, and sicknesses.”—Order for Visitation of the Sick.

Sermons in sickness heaven can preach,
When pangs and penalties may teach
What custom rarely sees,—
That health is mercy next to grace,
And should inspire a sinful race
The God of health to please.

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Strange! if our hearts be so accursed
That nothing, save a gift reversed,
Can make men prize their good:
Blessings look dim which seem to stay,
But brighten, when they wing away
From souls who Christ withstood.

So is it with the fields of youth,
The shrines of tenderness and truth
And all fresh Boyhood proved,—
When we survey the scene no more,
Or dream to life the dead of yore
Whom once we fondly loved,

Oft does the inward blush arise
To think, how calmly we could prize
Redundant mercies, then!
We marvel, why our love was cold,
And boyishly our past behold
Now we are wither'd men!

Parental bowers of peace and home,
And lanes our truant steps did roam,
Make landscapes in our soul;
While votive tear-drops Truth can shed
O'er imaged graves, where sleep the Dead
Whose eyes our hearts control.

Thus longs atoning love in vain
The past should o'er the present reign,
That what was once, might be;
But youth, and all young hours possess'd,
In thine abysmal darkness rest
Thou pall'd eternity!

And thus, in sickness when we lie
With languid pulse, and fever'd eye,
Pining, and pale, and lone;
While throes of secret anguish burn,—
Love through each throb would have us learn
The truths we ought to own.

Remember'd blessings round us throng
We valued not, when health bloom'd strong,
Which challenge holy tears;
And if chance-gleams of skyey blue
Some half-unblinded window through
Confront our pallid fears,—

How does the distant landscape seem
Apparell'd by poetic dream!
Till fancy yearns for fields,
Brooklet and forest, bank and wood,
And each green shrine where solitude
Religious silence yields.

But what transcends the all of this,—
On the sad couch of pain we miss
Christ's hallow'd courts of grace;
Where Litanies divinely call
From blending souls, which prostrate fall,
For God's uplifted Face.

Not seldom hath the sainted chime
Of sabbath-bells become sublime,
Yet mild, and melancholy,
When pensive Languor, far away
Has heard their ebbing dream-tones play,
In sickness, sad and lowly.

Like Zion's harping saint it cries
“To thee, oh Lord! my spirit flies,
And fain before the Shrine
My kneeling heart wonld humbly pour
The chanted praise I hymn'd before,
In courts of grace divine.”

But, sacred Mother, bring release;
Come, lift the latch, and with soft “Peace!”
Enter the sick man's room;
O'er that pale brow Thy cross did seal
Shed the soft dews of balm that heal,
And light each haunted gloom.

Far better thus with Thee to hie
And hear a saintly mourner sigh,
Than run where feastings reign;
Wisdom, beyond the schools to reach,
Thy heaven-breathed words of solace preach
To Hearts subdued by pain.

Counsels divine, in tone serene,
Varied with grave rebukes between,
Thine Office now imparts;
And there beside yon dying bed
The Body and the Blood are spread,
Which feed our famish'd hearts.

Lord Jesus! Thou art present there
Entempled in each awful prayer;
The room our altar is;
Angel and saint we realise,
And vision with prophetic eyes
Scenes of seraphic bliss.

Go, man of pleasure, sensual Thing!
Whose life-boast is to laugh and sing;
Be ours the chamber lone
Where prayer and musing sickness meet,
And find before the Mercy-Seat,
What health has never known.

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Here may authentic priests, O Lord,
Thy grace dispense, and soothing word,
Like almoners for heaven;
And teach oblivious hearts a lore
Thy peerless martyrs taught of yore,
When conscience heard, “forgiven.”

If health have joy, the sick partake
This boon divine,—for Thy dear sake
To suffer, not complain;
And, ere the sun of life go down,
Beyond their cross to see the crown
Of kings, with thee who reign.

BURIAL OF THE DEAD.

(VILLAGE FUNERAL.)

“Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ.”—Order for the Burial of the Dead.

The bells are tolling with a dreamy chime
Which melts and mingles with the air around,
Mourning for her who died in vernal prime,
Queen of the village by her virtues crown'd.

Last week she bounded, full of girlish life,
Fleet o'er the turf, elastic as the breeze,
Radiant as morn, with bloom and beauty rife,
Fresh as the wave which gambols on the seas;

But Christ recall'd her for His home on high
To harp in glory God's Incarnate love,
Ere guilt had waken'd one remorseful sigh,
Or earth untuned her for a heaven above.

Oh! gently lay her where the yew-trees wave
Their verdant darkness o'er some grassy tomb,
Where sunbeams learn the language of the grave,
Tinging their brightness with a temper'd gloom.

There shall the daisy rear its infant head,
And fairy wild-flowers drink the dew of spring,
While o'er the turf that greenly wraps the dead,
Autumnal Winds their plaintive descant sing.

'Tis the same spot her rosy girlhood sought
Where fresh from school, with bright companions gay,
In maiden fancy, free from troubling thought,
She work'd her sampler, or retired to play.—

Dear is the quiet village church to me,
Saxon, and simple, touch'd with tender glooms;
Lifting its widow'd form so gracefully
As though 'twere conscious of encircling tombs.

Whatever shade expressive clouds can throw,
Or hills wood-crested may around it cast,
I love to view it in the vale below
Connect the present with our storied past.

Oft have I paused, when lull'd by pensive bliss,
To hear the curfew mellow'd on the wind,
Waft the farewell of Day to scene like this,
Soft to the ear, as soothing to the mind.

But far excelling all chaste morn bestows,
The hush of twilight, or the harvest-moon,
Or what mere landscape to the minstrel shows
When silent thoughts their sanctity attune

Is felt,—when village-funeral winds its train
Slowly and sadly to some churchyard-gate,
And our deep Service tones its heaven-born strain,
To scatter darkness from bereavement's fate.

Hark! from the woodland floats the forward breeze
A low sweet dirge, yon village-maidens sing,
Whose white robes glisten through the waving trees
As on the dead to her last home they bring.

Nay, sob not, mother! for thy beauteous child,
Though like a tendril from thy heart it grew;
Eternity she felt, ere Time defiled,
Or made her soul untender and untrue.

And thou, hoar'd grandsire! with thy grief-worn face,
Oft did the prattler on thy knee recline,
And hold up features Fancy loved to trace,
Which matrons told thee, in thy youth, were thine;

I see thee now, with tott'ring step advance,
Wan are thy cheeks, and drops of aged woe
Bedew thy visage, and bedim thy glance
As onward to the grave the mourners go.

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But One is present, whom no eye can see,
Except by faith, and that is Christ the Lord!
And “Weep not,” childless mother, comes to thee,
If thy heart open to His gracious word.

Thou blessed Ritual! throbs of Jesu's heart
Still in thy tones of thrilling mercy live;
When yawns the tomb, most wonderful thou art,
By echoing all God's inspirations give.

The “Resurrection and the Life” is near,
By Spirit present, and in love as deep
As when He touch'd the young man's open bier,
And gently bid wild Anguish not to “weep.”

As o'er that grave the “dust to dust” awakes
A dismal echo in the bleeding soul,
How the damp earth-clod on the coffin breaks,
Till the deep tides of inward anguish roll!

Yet o'er the tomb heaven's canopy unfolds,
And hark! these words of soothing magic sound,
While Grief looks upward, and by faith beholds
The Lord of life and resurrection crown'd,—

“Blest are the dead, who in the Lord depart:
Yea, saith the Spirit, for their pangs are o'er;
Serene as heaven Christ keeps the sainted Heart,
Whose works are ended, and who weeps no more.”

CHURCHING OF WOMEN.

“We give thee humble thanks, for that thou hast vouchsafed to deliver this woman thy servant, from the great pain and peril of childbirth.”— English Prayer Book.

In mother's love there hides a spell
Maternal hearts alone can see;
Transcending all that tears may tell,
Or man could be.

Far down within the spirit's deep
Her fountains of affection lie,
Like currents which in darkness sweep,
Nor face the sky.

Tender abyss of peerless love!
To heaven's omniscient eye-glance known,
The Woman-born, Who reigns above,
Thy claims doth own.

A pillow'd Babe on mother's breast,
Beneath Him throbb'd the Virgin's heart,
And, Woman! thou on Him canst rest,
Whoe'er thou art.

Oh! magic force of nature, felt
Far as the sun and sea extend;
Beneath whose law all beings melt,
All spirits bend.

The Indian mother, stern and strong,
Cradles her infant on the tree,
And wildly chants her loud wood-song
For lullaby.

And the stern negress, seeking food,
Fastens the babe upon her back,
To roam each rocky solitude
Or lion's track.

Nor scene, nor change, nor earth nor sky
Enfeeble Love's maternal force;
Distance and time before it die,
Whate'er their course.

A passion this, so pure, so deep,
That while bereavèd fathers moan,
Oft wordless mothers only weep
In heart alone.

But why did God such love create
Unquenchably supreme, and pure?—
Because from mothers Spirits date
Their curse, or cure.

Thus saints and martyrs, heroes, all
Whom wond'ring Time delights to praise,
In heaven itself may still recall
Their infant-days,

When learn'd they from maternal lips
Lessons of holy love and prayer,
No clouds hereafter could eclipse,
Nor soul's despair.

Then, pallid mother! draw thee nigh,
Perill'd by pangs, but saved in birth;
And gently lift thy downcast eye,
To heaven from earth.

The virgin whiteness of that veil
Becomes thine inward purity,
And hides upon thy forehead pale
What angels see

Of blissful worship,—deep and mild,
Which mothers for their first-born pay,
And Love, with conscience undefiled,
Offers to-day.

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Thou art the parent of a Soul,
The mother of a deathless Mind!
And Christ to thee imparts control
For this design'd.

Self-discipline, and prayer-born love,
And persevering wisdom calm
Breathe, Holy Spirit! from above
With soothing balm;

That from Thine altar she may part
In saintly mood, screne and high,
And worship Christ with yearning heart,
Until she die.

Mothers are more than mines of wealth
If God-devoted Souls they be;
And what makes Empires' moral health
And purity

They guard, For, when do Nations sink
Into dark graves of sin and woe?—
When Church and State no longer think
What debt they owe

To christian mothers; unto whom
Both God and nature have consign'd
Existence, from whose dawning bloom
They nurse mankind.

COMMINATION.

“Is much to be wished ------ to the intent that being admonished of the great indignation of God against sinners, ye may the rather be moved to earnest and true repentance.”—Prayer Book.

As Time grows old, the earth from heaven recedes
More distant far;
No Conscience bleeds
To feel the burnings of that inward scar,
Which so discolours o'er with sin
Th' apostate soul we bear within.

A period was, when God and angels came
So near to thought,
The Church's name
With the fine strength of holiness was fraught;
Her frown east midnight where it fell,—
Her blessing wove a guardian spell.

But now, we boast an intellectual blaze
That scatters all,
Cold Reason says
Before the majesty of Mind should fall!
Dazzled with light, but dark in love,
Sin loathes the truth which looks above.

Sensual and proud, a Belial age is ours
Drunken with pride,
And grasping powers
By which the godless will is gratified;
Greedy of gold, athirst for pelf,
And seeking heaven in worshipp'd Self.

Thou fond admirer of a holy time
When earth touch'd heaven!
And thrills sublime
Were to heroic saints and martyrs given
Of something purer than blind Sense
Can to a coarse rude age dispense,—

Marvel no more that Discipline lies dead;
Self-will reigns now;
Laurels, not ashes, crown the creedless head
And wreathe man's brow:
For sackcloth, singing-robes are worn,
And none but saints now seem forlorn!

When God was fear'd, due fasting calm'd the blood;
With naked feet
Then Penance stood
Low at the porch, the pastoral Band to meet,
Sackclothed by shame, with downcast eyes,
Sprinkled with ashes, heaving sighs:

Severely gracious, thus the Church's rod
Wielded o'er sin
The claim of God,
And o'erawed penitents, to weep within,
Driving them forth with scalding tears
To feel the pangs of righteous fears.

So with mount Ebal's menace Zion's song
Was well combined;
And true as strong
The healing power with which it calm'd the mind:
Indulgence then was not in vogue,
Nor framed its pleasing decalogue!

But with Her holiness, the power departs
A Church can wield
O'er chasten'd hearts,
Led by subduing love themselves to yield
To mild Correction's lawful charm,
Which keeps the soul from sinful harm.

Too oft our “church” is self-election now—
Our creed the will;
And few avow
That Christ is throned in christian temples still,
A Presence and a Glory there
Receiving praise, and hearing prayer.

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Awake! awake! thou Arm of God, awake!
Put on thy strength,
Thy fear forsake
Church of our fathers! be Thyself at length;
Bride of The Lord, a Mother kind,
Watchful, but not to error blind.

Spirit divine! in this her trial-hour
Of sinful dread,
Inbreathe a power
That shall to glorious Duty lift her head
Whose panoply is ardent prayer
Which more and more each gift should bear.

And we, as children of our Mother dear,
In evil days
Oh, let us fear;
And in our lentine gloom on Ebal gaze,
And as the tenfold curses roll,
Let each, O God! subdue the soul:

For, art Thou not a sin-consuming Fire,
Awful as pure
In Thy dread ire?
Never may sense our godless mind allure,
To think that hell alone can burn
In fictions, which dark fancies learn.

Mercy, Lord Christ! most infinite Thou art:
But judgment true
Will cleave each Heart
That will not dread Thee in some darker hue,
Before Whom prostrate worlds must fall,
And worship Him who sways them all.

So, when the priestly Comminations roll
In thunders deep,
Till each awed Soul
In the hush'd centre of pale conscience weep,
Our sackcloth let repentance be,
Remorse—the ashes God can see.

So will lost Penance in such hour revive;
Sorrow for sin
In prayer will strive;
Till, wash'd and whiten'd by the Lamb within,
The heart-renew'd God's Word descries
Piercing, and pure as angel-eyes.

Back to the world, in penitence and prayer
Then may we speed:
If wounded there,—
Then look we upward, while our spirits bleed;
For, on The Throne there beats a Heart
In all true grief that takes its part.

PRAYERS AT SEA.

“Glorious Lord God! at whose command the winds blow and lift up the waves of the sea, and who stillest the rage thereof.”—English Prayer Book.

Fond mother, with thy wakeful ear,
Hark, how the storm-blasts through the welkin roll!
Thunder alarms the breast of guilty Fear,
And arrowy lightnings glance from pole to pole.

Louder and louder sweeps the gale!
Fierce, full, and large, the hissing rain-drops fall;
And midnight Terror, with emotion pale,
Begins in secret on her God to call.

Calm as a flower yon nursling lies,
Rock'd into silence on thy cradling breast;
Yet doth thy bosom heave with unheard sighs
Which move the spirit into sad unrest.

But not for thy domestic bower,
Or those who sleep within its guardian-shade,
Art thou awake at this convulsive hour
To hear the crash wild Elements have made.

Yet rides thy heart the rolling deep,
Toss'd on huge billows in tumultuous swell,
And voiceless tremors through thy bosom creep
For thy lone sea-boy, loved at home so well!

But lately, on thy breast he lay
His head in fondness, parting for the sea,
And would not brush the manly tear away
Which flow'd from boyhood, and which fell on thee.

And now, amid the shrouds aloft,
Perchance he grapples with the creaking mast;
Yet can Remembrance hear a blessing soft,
And feel thine arms maternal round him cast.

Mother! The Church confronts the waves;
Her litanies can lull their angry roar;
And He who watcheth o'er the ocean-graves
Can make the sea as tranquil as the shore.

Christ on the waters, forms a Home
For all who trust Him in the tempest wild,
Far as the pilgrims of the deep can roam,
Or billows lullaby a sea-born child.

Safe is thy darling in this hour,
Dearer to Heaven, than mother's heart can know;
Calmly entrust him to that sleepless Power,
Deepen thy prayers, but let not doubts o'erflow.

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Mirthful and bright, thy sea-boy ran
Around thee once, though garden, grove, and field;
But now, emerging into ripen'd man,
Conscience and creed their sainted influence wield.

Precious, yon Bible!—'twas thy boon;
And, mother, where thy parting tear-gush fell,
Oft on the deck, beneath the sacred moon
He reads the warnings thou hast scored so well.

And that high book of hallow'd Prayer
A treasured sister gave, with farewell-kiss,
Oft will he clasp it on the ocean there,
And hail the sabbath as a holy bliss.

God of the winds, and waves, and seas!
Whom all the vassal Elements obey,
Whether by palmy shores the placid breeze
Soft as a seraph-wing, descends to play,

Or tempests heave the mountain-surge,
Flashing with foam beneath some lurid glare
While the drench'd mariners the vessel urge,
We thank Thee for our oceanic prayer!

Or, when the booming death-guns pour
Peal after peal, redoubling as they roll,
Or Victory shouts her patriotic roar
Of loud huzzahs from seaman's gallant soul,

Lord of the Deep! by Thee inspired,
Our Church for each some high-breathed prayer imparts;
That they whom Valour hath for conquest fired,
Should have the Prince of Peace to hush their hearts.

Seldom can inland-worship prove
Toned with such tenderness, divine as deep,
Like God's own halcyon calming from above
The wailing Hearts which o'er some lost one weep,

As when beneath the trancèd air
While moonbeams like a shroud enrobe the wave,
Soft fall the tones of that funereal Prayer
When parts the billow for a seaman's grave.

Tearful the watching comrades stand,
For round a dead One how intense the spell!—
Brushing large tear-drops with a rough-worn hand,
They look, but cannot speak, the word, “farewell.”

Peace to the Dead! he waits his hour
When the last trumpet shall untomb yon sea,
And with such life-blast all the waves o'erpower,
That risen dust shall soar to Deity.

GUNPOWDER TREASON.

“We adore the wisdom and justice of thy Providence, who so timely interposed in our extreme danger, and disappointed all the designs of our enemies.” Prayer Book.

Two Wills alone may cause our world to move,
Finite below, or Infinite above;
And all which reason and religion say
Points to the question,—“which should lead the way?”
Science the first, but Faith her God will call
Alpha of each, and Omega of all.

God is in history! an almighty Soul,
A secret Energy, divine Control,
Will of all wills, yet leaving manhood free,
Binding our time with His eternity:
No chance can reign, till His dread promise dies,
And orphan'd Earth for vanish'd mercy cries.

God rules in history! read by this deep plan
Gone ages harmonise their truths for Man;
While he, unconscious of those secret laws
Which link the second with a Primal Cause,
Obeys each bias, acts his perfect will,
And yet leaves God supreme in purpose still.

So grant us, Lord, a providence to trace
Directing all things for Thy chosen race;
Kingdoms and kings, the palace and the cot,
Insect, or seraph,—none can be forgot;
For in the hollow of Thy hand repose
Atoms, and worlds; o'er each Thy goodness flows.

And well, on this day, doth our Church decree
Anthems of love, which heave our hearts to Thee,
Celestial Watcher! Whose soul-reading eye
Did from yon heavens the miscreant-plot descry,
And, by that wisdom saints exult to own,
Forewarn'd the Empire, and preserved a throne.

Ripe was the plan; each purpose deeply laid,
And Treason gloated o'er a Church betray'd;
A helpless Victim, soon to be destroy'd
Look'd Freedom then, to faction overjoy'd;
Sworn was the oath, the sacrament was taken,—
But England was not by her God forsaken!

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Praise to the Lord! let choral harpers sound;
Praise to the Lord! yet saints repeat around,
The Angel of Whose presence then was nigh
And bared foul Treason to the open sky,
Blasted her guile, and by protective charms
Shielded our Throne, and saved the Church from harms.

And mix'd with praise, let some remorseful prayer
The darksome burden of our guilt declare;
For what but mercies can outnumber sin?—
Whiten our hearts, atoning Blood! within;
Till, hallow'd by celestial truth, we raise
That living hymn where Life becomes a praise.

THE MARTYR-KING.

“Blessed Lord, we magnify thy name for thine abundant grace, bestowed upon our martyred Sovereign.”—Service for King Charles the Martyr.

Oh, burning plague-spot on the brow of Time,
The withering curse of regicidal crime!—
Mock'd and betray'd by treason-bands
And massacred by murd'rous hands,
On this day soar'd to endless fame
Ascending in Emmanuel's name
True to his creed, above man's impious charter,
Charles the revered,—the Church's royal martyr!

Who has not read, till heart and brain were fired
With holy wrath against Self-will inspired,
When Loyalty, inert and cold,
Parley'd before the bad and bold;
When faction, treason, falsehood, all
In one combined on heaven to call,
Baptised religion into Murder's cause,
And sanction'd regicide with sacred laws!

Alas! for country, church, and crown, and creed,
When martyr'd Principle must burn and bleed;
Or else, a regal Conscience die
Into a mean and miscreant lie,
Forswearing all the truths that shine
With radiance drawn from truths Divine,
Because Democracy would dare to sing
Her psalm of blood o'er England's sainted king!

Oh! Thou, from Whom both king and kingdom draw
Their source, their wisdom, and undying law,
Now let our Church's sighs and tears
Soften the Empire into hallow'd fears;
For on her rests the curse of crime,
A sacrilege which burden'd time
And tinged our soil with that horrific stain,—
The blood of Monarchs, when by God they reign!

Who sign'd his warrant with an impious glee
Proved how satanic blinded souls can be:
As christian, monarch, husband, friend,
Can time to us a nobler send?
His failings rose from junctures bad
Which might have turn'd an angel mad:
Passion ran high; and lust for lawless power
Raged like a fiend in that chaotic hour.

Ruler Divine! Whom heaven-born souls obey,
At least Thy Church on this remorseful day
That murder'd Prince may well recall,
Who prized her glories more than all;
For whom his royal spirit strove
With anguish of exceeding love:
True to her martyr-king, this day be kept,
And weep for him, who oft for Her had wept.

Nor be forgot, that Crimes historic teach
Warnings profound which may the wisest reach.
Dead Sins are living preachers now;
And weeping hearts of prayer avow
That, God! except Thy grace prevent,
Men still are on some madness bent:
Wisdom they want, and meekness more, to own
The sceptred lordship of Thy boundless Throne.

RESTORATION OF THE ROYAL FAMILY.

“The Great Rebellion, and all the miseries and oppressions consequent thereupon.”—Prayer Book.

Friend of the friendless! Thou art there
When throbs a soul with silent prayer
In hours of sadness holy;
And viewless Angels hover nigh
With placid brow and pensive eye,
To watch our melancholy.

“Stand still! and your salvation see,”—
Duty and blessing both from Thee,
Lord, here may faith discern;
Submission is that saving power
Which glorifies Earth's darkest hour,
Could Love the secret learn.

The Cup that Jesus bow'd to drink,
Though feeling start, and flesh may shrink,
Disciple! thou must drain;
A suff'ring Head each member thrills;
We conquer, by enduring ills,
And bleed before we reign!

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Thus, when dead Ages we untomb
And wander down their peopled gloom
Beholding what hath been,—
A patient mind and quiet heart
Have ever filled the Hero's part
In history's troubled scene.

Submission, passive, deep, and pure,
Alone has proved a matchless cure
For all the Church has borne;
Her watchword was, “Stand still! and see
The unbared arm of Deity,
Since thou art unforlorn.”

Thus when apostate Creeds began
To blight the erring mind of man,
How meekly bore his wrong
That five-times banish'd Saint, who kept
The truth unstain'd, while ruin swept
In Arian blasts along.

Still breathes a theocratic air
In church and creed, if God be there,
As Faith will ne'er deny;
Unweapon'd, save by inward grace,
Believers move with martyr-pace
Beneath the fiercest sky.

The worst of kings seems nobler far
Than mad Rebellion's impious war,
In havoc, blood, and fire;
The sin of witchcraft,—brand it well,
Its birth-seed is the pride of hell,
By which dark Fiends aspire!

A Nemesis for injured kings
Or soon, or late, atonement brings,—
Dead Empires this declare;
Some thunder-blast of whelming wrath
Will burst upon that Nation's path,
Who robs a kingdom's heirs.

And ever, as this day returns
Oh, Saviour-god! our spirit learns
Where safety true resides;
That not our merit, but Thine arm,
Not foresight, but Thy prescient charm
Our refuge still provides.

In orphanhood the Church may roam,
And crownless monarchs need a home
To exiled anguish lent;
Base faction with Iscariot-breath
May shout for dungeon, rack and death,—
But Faith can be content.

Content to watch, and weep, and wait,
And bear the ban of iron Fate
With uncomplaining heart;
Her patience is a holy strength
Subduing crime with prayer at length,
Which Christ and Grace impart.

Sun of the Church! Thou Saviour bright,
A glory gilds the darkest night
Affliction can endure,
When Thy pure Spirit sheds a ray
On saints who keep the narrow way,
Like angel-paths secure.

THE ACCESSION.

“Our Sovereign Lady Queen Victoria as on this day set over us by thy grace and providence, to be our Queen.”—Prayer Book.

This world is like that Creature vast
The royal dreamer had to face;
Whose head from burnish'd gold was cast,
But when you reach'd the talon'd base
Vile metal there commenced its lower sway,
And slowly crumbled into worthless clay.

And who like monarchs this can know,
At whose accession all things wear
The richness of a regal glow,
And triumphs of that festive glare
A coronation and a crown present,
With all the pomps of shouting Welcome blent?

The spangles on the mourning-dress
Worn for some princely head, which lies
Cold in sepulchral nothingness,
Are scarce removed from courtly eyes,—
Ere happy mourners to another king
Their venal chant of vaunted homage sing.

Alas! for Kings, if state and throne,
If splendour and monarchal pride
Were all that royal minds could own,
Or crowns and fawning courts provide:
A fate like this the soul would overpower,
And harrow princes in their calmest hour.

The kingdom of the mind exceeds
Whatever realms and rank impart,
And oft a monarch inly bleeds
To find himself a friendless Heart,—
In crowded loneliness to speak and smile,
And be unechoed in his thoughts the while.

167

And hollow dreams must oft surround
The pageantries of royal state;
Deceits and dangers there abound
While secret anguish gnaws the great:
Peasants can weep, but Princes dare not show
The aching centre of their voiceless woe!

Flatter'd by many, loved by few,
Before them group and gather all
Who seek to veil each covert-view,
Their serpent tongues the “country” call;
Too oft fair loyalty is glozing speech
Gilding the cause cold Self desires to reach.

Hence, Thou for whom a realm is kept
O'er which the sunbeams ne'er go down,
Wider than that the eagles swept,
When Rome became a huge renown,—
The Church anoints thee with her unction now,
And drops the crown upon Thy jewell'd brow.

While thrones descend, and empires shake
'Mid loud convulsion fierce and far,
And strife and civil discord make
Pale Europe rock with coming war,
God of our glories! 'tis in Thee we own
The deep foundations of a christian throne.

Lift we our heart-breathed hymn on high
To That incarnate King of kings!
Under Whose providential eye
A coronation-anthem sings
Each patriot soul, who Church and Crown can see
Reposing grandly, when they rest on Thee.

The life-blood of a loyal heart
Flows bravely through our British veins;
Nor shall this hero-truth depart
From cot and palace, shore and plains,—
That Kings on earth a regal shadow throw
Of Him, to Whom all worlds subjection owe.

ORDINATION.

“The congregation shall be desired, secretly in their prayers, to make their humble supplications to God.”—Rubric for the Ordering of Priests.

Saviour of spirits! if the burden'd life
Our ransom'd being into action bears,
Be ever with some wordless mystery rife
Which mocks what Adoration's lip declares,

Oh, is it not, when Truth's devoted hour
To Thine Own altar some young Levite leads,
And the high gift of Thine absolving power
Endows the Priesthood for celestial needs?

Yes, long as awed remembrance can remain
Shall I that everlasting moment feel,
When in the silence of St. Asaph-fane
Heart, soul, and conscience did these words o'ersteal,

“Receive Thou, for Thy priestly work divine,
A promised unction from the Holy One;
Anointed be thou at this hallow'd shrine,
Watchman of Zion! lo, thy work begun!

“Absolve for Christ the sin pure grace forgives,
For Him reserve what He himself retains;
Dispense the Food by which the spirit lives,
The ruling Sacrament wherein He reigns.”

And when a stillness, thrilling, rapt, profound,
Breathed from the depths of each adoring Soul,
Eternity seem'd closing all around
And shaded conscience with divine control.

With seven-fold gifts a Grace did here descend
Hearts to illumine with celestial Love,
And to each priest below some unction send
Perfumed with incense from The Priest above.

Let Faith believe, and ever hope and pray
Lord of the Temple! Thou wert nigh, to bless
Each Shepherd, vow'd to feed thy flock that day,
And fold them safe in life's vast wilderness.

To guard, premonish, and with truth provide
The Saviour's Body here on earth which roams;
Pure unto death, to preach The Crucified,
And beckon pilgrims to their sainted homes,—

Such was the Charge we messengers received,
Such the high call our stewardship obey'd;
Woe be to us! if truths were unbelieved,
Our bosom prayerless and the Church betray'd.

Thus, living Shepherd of immortal Sheep!
If to our pastoral work the soul was given,
Though for sad errors all must wail and weep,
Still, let us hope there breathed a gift from Heaven.

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Years since have roll'd, of trial, change and grief,
But still that Ordination-vow is heard;
And what can soothe us with sublime relief,
“But, “I am with you!” oh, Incarnate Word?

And, blent with awfulness of faith and fear,
For each young watchman then for Christ ordain'd
Prophetic Fancy sketch'd some quiet sphere,
Where souls for Jesu might be sought, and gain'd.

Visions, perchance, of rural cots retired
Hover'd around the priested hearts of those
Who, ne'er by sad ambition inly fired,
Haunt the lone hamlet where the poor repose.

Such was the scene our peerless Herbert loved,
Pictured in quaint and quiet Walton's lines;
Which Hooker sought, and Hammond's taste approved,
In whom the image of a Pastor shines.

Yet, little boots it, what our destined place
In the large vineyard of the Lord may be,
Weave but the spells of Thine ordaining grace,
And Time and Scene are lost, O Lord! in Thee.

Whether in haunts of fever, homes of gloom
Where squalid Woe retreats, and yearns to die,
The toil-worn pastor cheers some tatter'd room,
And calms the anguish of a mourner's sigh;

Or, haply down where greenwood-dales retire
Through hawthorn-lanes he wends his thoughtful way,
What time pale sunset gilds the village-spire,
And seeks the cottage where he comes to pray,

Wherever duty, discipline and care,
Faith, hope, and meekness grace his onward path,
A Shepherd finds his flock, and feeds them there,
And the rich promise of his Master hath.

Spirit of Light, of pastoral love and peace,
Divine Sustainer! send Thine unction now;
And teach the watchman, time gives no release
To light the burden of a priestly vow.

But bear thou up, and bear thou nobly on!
To warn the wicked and the saints to guide,
Till thou be summon'd where the dead have gone,
Who lived for Duty, and for Jesus died.

EUCHARIST.

“The most precious Body and Blood of thy Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ.”—Communion Office of the Church of England.

Banquet of bleeding Love, by Christ prepared,
Feast of all feasts! we turn to thee,
Which dying Grace alone declared
Manna of immortality;
For, when the tomb-call must at length arrive,
The Dead shall feel thee in their dust alive.

There, sacrifice and zeal in one combine,
With brotherhood of blissful love;
And faith-born feelings, most divine,
Alighting from their Source above:
Creeds and commands, and penitence and prayer,
With purity and pardon,—mingle there.

And who can celebrate the mystic Rite,
Perfect and pure, predestined Lamb!
Nor feel their glory of delight
Who realise the dread I AM,
And worship Him with tender awe intense
In the deep shade the words “Do this,” dispense?

List, now the pealing organ-swell is o'er
And hymnèd chants dissolve away,
And through yon temple's archèd door
Cold worldlings seek the din of day,
Sublime the hush! as though the Dead drew near
On balanced wing, our beating hearts to bear.

Let the stoled Priests their order'd station take;
The Shrine of sacrifice and prayer
Lord Jesus! Thou wilt not forsake,
But be our felt Atonement there;
Renew'd by faith, and realised in love,
While o'er Thine altar broods the Mystic Dove.

Oh! rapt Communion, which can raise the soul
To the clear heights of sin forgiven,
Scatter the spirit-clouds that roll,
And feed us with the food of heaven,—
Thine is the hour, when dead and living meet
In blended homage at one Mercy-seat!

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Who comes with cold or criticising heart
The outward elements to scan,
In this high Feast can have no part,
Where God comes down to sup with man;
Seeds of Eternity within it lie,
Which bud on earth, to blossom in the sky.

Though bread look bread, and water water seem
To carnal vision dull and cold,
Yet sacraments outsoar the dream
Of those who nought but sense behold:
Faith is the eye by which believers view
Christ in the tokens of His Presence true.

Thou Nourishment for all baptismal souls,
A food high Angels cannot share,
The vastness of thy charm controls
The hearts which palpitate with prayer
Into an awe profound,—but full of grace,
For God incarnate, bleeding for our race.

Incorporate with Emmanuel's Body all
By sacramental union grow,
Who Christ their Resurrection call;
Though sinful dust they seem below,
Faith more than dying Flesh in Man can see,
And in The Lord's our true eternity.

Soul of all Rites! mysteriously sublime,
By whom the fainting Church is fed,
Though veil'd in garbs of sense and time
We know Him, as he breaks the bread!
When Christ dispenses that almighty food,
“Receive my Body and partake my Blood.”

Refreshment, pardon, and renewing grace
God's eucharist to each imparts,
That prints a reverential trace
Of Jesus on their sainted hearts:
And who are they who need no heavenly gift
High o'er the world their sinking hearts to lift?

Humility and hope this Feast inspires,
Chastens the mind, and calms our fear;
And cools the uncontrollèd fires
Of those who fancy heaven is near,
Dreaming they stand on Zion's topmost place
Long ere they learn to wind around the base!

A green oàsis in this herbless life,
This desert lone of dreary hours,
Where Time foregoes each warring strife
And Love renews her languid powers,—
Proves the blest Eucharist, to all who know
The weight of this mysterious life below.

Thy strength'ning Presence, Lord! we pilgrims need,
Sinful, and oft with sadness worn;
For here our bosom'd sorrows bleed
Till even pleasures grow forlorn,
And hues sepulchral robe the world around,
Which looks like Lazarus in his grave-clothes wound.

And what a bulwark for The Church hath been
This feast of sacrificial Love!
For time has no dark error seen,
The Bread and Wine could not remove;
Christ and the creatures, matter, grace, and mind,
In these pure symbols meet, to bless Mankind.

Dove of the Church! Thou Paraclete, descend,
And such anointing grace impart,
That round Thine altar each may bend
With chasten'd will, and contrite heart;
Not with a conscience, such as earth-slaves feel,
But touch'd like Peter, with impassion'd zeal.

Thus we adore Thee, Thou almighty Priest!
Prophet of hope, salvation's King;
Here where the lowest and the least
May learn the song of heaven to sing,
“Worthy The Lamb o'er men and worlds to reign,
Who back to God redeem'd lost souls again!”

GOD SAVE THE CHURCH.

“I speak concerning Christ and the Church.” Eph. v. 32.

God save the Church! and guard Her free,
Whom Christ ordain'd on earth to be
A sacramental guide and friend,
Our creed to mould, and heart amend.

God save the Church! from Christ She came,
And proved Her apostolic name
When Rome's Augustine vainly tried
To get her free-born faith denied.

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For long before the Danish clan,
Or Saxon, o'er rent England ran,
The monks of Bangor move in glory
Through the stern page of British story.

God save the Church! sectarian Mind
In prayerless reason bound and blind,
From Her serene repulse hath met,
Whose crown remains unsullied yet.

Science and learning, art and song,
Around Her name and nature throng;
Hero and sage, and saint and martyr
Have gloried in Her heaven-seal'd charter.

So, when I read th' historic past,
And see how persecution's blast
By rack and dungeon, fire and hate,
In vain besieged her queenly state,

Present and future both appear
Enlink'd with her sublime career;
In whom unchanged by friends or foes
The apostolic life-blood glows.

God save the Church! we challenge all
Who English archives dare recall,
To match her sainted roll of men
Whose lives recall'd St. John again.

Parochial Watchmen, pure and high
Whose worth and wisdom near'd the sky,—
Eternity enshrines their name
Who won their crowns through fire and flame!

Howe'er ungrateful Time forget
On earth to pay the lauding debt,
Delighted Angels watch'd below
Their counterparts in pureness glow.

God save the Church! whose rites control,
Chasten, subdue, and calm the soul;
Something of earth, but more of heaven
To all Her prayer and praise is given.

Time and eternity appear
To melt the sigh, and move the tear,
As oft her liturgy of love
Lifts man below to God above.

Majestic, too, her haunted shrines,
Where sentiment with stone combines:
Chantry and choir, and arch, and nave
Where lie the buried pure and brave,

Breathe mute, but magic eloquence,
And through the eye to soul dispense
A wordless power of inward prayer,
Born of the creed,—that God is there.

Nor be forgot our ivied fanes
Which crest the hills, and dot the plains;
Where gothic roof and graceful tower
Wield o'er the heart a witching power:

So hush'd and heavenlike seems the spot
That time and turmoil are forgot;
And Nature her lone sabbath keeps
Where child, or village patriarch, sleeps.

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God save the Church! for rich and poor
Alike expands Her gracious door,
Who from the cradle to the grave
Watches the Souls Christ died to save.

The peerage of the Church are those
In whom the Saviour's image glows;
And in the poorest, grant, that we
God's noblemen by saintship, see.

There, prince and peasant, man and child,
Learn saving wisdom undefiled;
And nought is hid by Godhead spoken
To conscience bruised, or spirit broken.

But, most because the Word of Heaven
Is purely to the people given
In British language, broad and free,
Church of my Fathers! love I thee.

God save the Church, and save the Queen!
Mitre and Throne have ever been
To weal and woe alike related,
By Truth revered, and Treason hated.

God save the Church! be this our cry
Both while we live, and when we die;
For, rail Her foemen as they will,
The Church is England's glory still!