The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker Edited from the original manuscripts and annotated copies together with a prefatory notice and bibliography by Alfred Wallis |
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A VOICE FROM THE PLACE OF ST. MORWENNA IN THE ROCKY LAND;
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 | The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker |  |
A VOICE FROM THE PLACE OF ST. MORWENNA IN THE ROCKY LAND;
UTTERED TO THE SISTERS OF MERCY AT THE TAMAR MOUTH.
Pause, Pilgrim! where our Severn sea
Rolls its stern waters, wild and free,
And mark, above yon chancel-side,
The Cross! whereon Lord Jesu died!
What memories meet—what visions blend,
On that dear Death-bed of a Friend!
Rolls its stern waters, wild and free,
And mark, above yon chancel-side,
The Cross! whereon Lord Jesu died!
What memories meet—what visions blend,
On that dear Death-bed of a Friend!
The Priest of Baldiu traced the sign
With mystic lore and rule and line—
Rodolph, the Lord of Clinton,
gave
That wall that looks along the wave,
And stately Cross to breathe in stone
Mount Calvary's deed to days unknown.
With mystic lore and rule and line—
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That wall that looks along the wave,
And stately Cross to breathe in stone
Mount Calvary's deed to days unknown.
And be there men, dull, hard, and stern,
Who from that sight can coldly turn?
And, like some loathsome shape, would hide
The last couch of the Crucified?
The latest thing His fingers held
When Heaven was won, and Satan quelled!
Who from that sight can coldly turn?
And, like some loathsome shape, would hide
The last couch of the Crucified?
The latest thing His fingers held
When Heaven was won, and Satan quelled!
Forgive them, tender Lord and true!
Alas! they heed not what they do;
Heaven's light in them is dim and cold,
They know not what Thy saints behold:
They see not as Thine angels see:
Dark Plym! I wail for them and thee!
Alas! they heed not what they do;
Heaven's light in them is dim and cold,
They know not what Thy saints behold:
They see not as Thine angels see:
Dark Plym! I wail for them and thee!
O City! where my birth-place stands,
How art thou fallen amid the lands!
Thy daughters bold—thy sons unblest—
A withered Salem of the West!
Hark! from yon hill what tones arise—
“Thy peace is hidden from thine eyes!”
How art thou fallen amid the lands!
Thy daughters bold—thy sons unblest—
A withered Salem of the West!
Hark! from yon hill what tones arise—
“Thy peace is hidden from thine eyes!”
Nay! there be forty—twenty—ten
All women true, and trusty men—
A faithful band, like angels given,
To plead the Patriarch's prayer with Heaven;
And one, a thrilling Lady, stands,
Whose voice might rescue sentenced lands!
All women true, and trusty men—
A faithful band, like angels given,
To plead the Patriarch's prayer with Heaven;
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Whose voice might rescue sentenced lands!
Daughter! my spirit turns to thee:
Here, by the lonely Severn sea,
I, too, have borne, years fierce and long,
All hatred, and rebuke, and wrong:
And now thy truth shall soothe the sigh—
The life I live—the death I die;
Here, by the lonely Severn sea,
I, too, have borne, years fierce and long,
All hatred, and rebuke, and wrong:
And now thy truth shall soothe the sigh—
The life I live—the death I die;
For, lo! the Day—the Thrones are near—
And hark! 'mid sounds of hope and fear,
They call, from countries far and wide,
The wood whereon Messias died!
They bear it forth to bless or ban—
The signal of the Son of Man!
And hark! 'mid sounds of hope and fear,
They call, from countries far and wide,
The wood whereon Messias died!
They bear it forth to bless or ban—
The signal of the Son of Man!
How shall men bear, amid their loss,
That Resurrection of the Cross!
The sign they mocked, by angels borne,
The banner of the Eternal Morn!
Once more beside its Lord to stand,
The Trophy Tree of Holy Land!
That Resurrection of the Cross!
The sign they mocked, by angels borne,
The banner of the Eternal Morn!
Once more beside its Lord to stand,
The Trophy Tree of Holy Land!
Up! Prophet-Lady, stern and calm,
Seek not a tent beneath the Palm,
Like Isha Lapidoth the wise:—
As Jael, Heber's wife—arise—
Up! spare not! wield thy noble name!
The Lord hath sold thee foes and fame!
Seek not a tent beneath the Palm,
Like Isha Lapidoth the wise:—
As Jael, Heber's wife—arise—
Up! spare not! wield thy noble name!
The Lord hath sold thee foes and fame!
| The poetical works of Robert Stephen Hawker | |