Sermons and songs of the Christian life :: :: University of Virginia Library

TO THE THREE CHRISTIAN SOCIETIES IN LANCASTER, WAYLAND, AND WESTON, IN WHOSE SERVICE THESE SERMONS WERE FIRST PREPARED, AND WITH WHOM I HAVE HELD PASTORAL RELATIONS, FRAUGHT WITH THE MEMORIES OF HAPPY YEARS, This volume IS MOST GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED.

CHRISTMAS CAROLS.

It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold;
“Peace on the earth, good will to men
From heaven's all-gracious King”—
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.

Still through the cloven skies they come
With peaceful wings unfurled,
And still their heavenly music floats
O'er all the weary world;
Above its sad and lowly plains
They bend on hovering wing,
And ever o'er its Babel-sounds
The blessed angels sing.

But with the woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered long;
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong;
And man, at war with man, hears not
The love-song which they bring;—
Oh hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing!

And ye, beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow,
Look now! for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing;—
Oh, rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing!

For lo! the days are hastening on
By prophet bards foretold,
When with the ever circling years
Comes round the age of gold;
When Peace shall over all the earth
Its ancient splendors fling,
And the whole world give back the song
Which now the angels sing.

CHRISTMAS SONG.

Calm on the listening ear of night
Come heaven's melodious strains,
Where wild Judæa stretches forth
Her silver mantled plains;
Celestial choirs from courts above
Shed sacred glories there,
And angels, with their sparkling lyres,
Make music on the air.

The answering hills of Palestine
Send back the glad reply,
And greet from all their holy heights
The Day-Spring from on high;
O'er the blue depths of Galilee,
There comes a holier calm,
And Sharon waves, in solemn praise,
Her silent groves of palm.

“Glory to God!” The lofty strain
The realm of ether fills,
How sweeps the song of solemn joy
O'er Judah's sacred hills!
“Glory to God!” The sounding skies
Loud with their anthems ring,
“Peace on the earth; good will to men
From heaven's Eternal King.”

Light on thy hills, Jerusalem!
The Saviour now is born,
And bright on Bethlehem's joyous plains
Breaks the first Christmas morn,
And brightly on Moriah's brow
Crowned with her temple spires,
Which first proclaim the new-born light,
Clothed with its orient fires.

This day shall Christian tongues be mute,
And Christian hearts be cold?
Oh, catch the anthem that from heaven
O'er Judah's mountains rolled,
When burst upon that listening night
The high and solemn lay:
“Glory to God, on earth be peace,”
Salvation comes to-day!

PEACE, BE STILL.

'T is not, my God, thy chastening hand,
'T is not the pain I bear,
That hangs upon my drooping heart
This heavy load of care.

But myriads move on wingèd feet
Made swift to do thy will,
While thy dread silence on me falls,
Thy mandate—Peace, be still.

All Nature's harps, in endless ranks,
By thy sweet breath are stirred;
And through my prison windows float
The sounds of breeze and bird.

Then up and up through golden air,
Beyond Time's ebb and flow,
I see the throngs, who cast their crowns,
In white robes bending low.

They come and go on flashing wings,
For all thine errands fleet;
While here, thy hand is on my lips,
Thy chains are on my feet.

Thus from my bed of chronic pain
I prayed—“O Lord, how long!”

Pining to reap the harvest fields
And sing the harvest song.

And in the hush of silence falls
This answer to my prayer,—
“What gave those throngs their flashing wings,
Whence come the robes they wear?

“Ere yet by word or deed or song
Made swift to do my will,
They learned it in the trial-hour
Beneath my—Peace, be still!

“And He who walked the garden shades
The best beloved Son,
Prayed, ere the strengthening angel came—
‘Thy will, not mine, be done!’”

THE TWISTED THORN.

Night hath shut the prisoner in,
Night of terror, night of sin;
Vain for light my eyeballs roll,
Darkly here I dwell in dole;
On my couch I plain and mourn,
Bleeding with the twisted thorn.

What arises dark and still?
Oh, 't is Calvary's awful hill!
Lo, the drooping sufferer there!
Lo, the unprevailing prayer!
Lo, the temples pierced and torn,
Bleeding with the twisted thorn!

What arises clear and still?
'T is Ascension's sacred hill!
See the rifted clouds retire,
Flaming with the fleecy fire,
Through them see a form upborne—
He who wore the twisted thorn!

What is that I see afar?
'T is the blinking of a star;
'T is Orion! 'tis the Sun!
'T is the Conqueror coming on,
Riding through the gates of Morn,
He who wore the twisted thorn.

Look ye up to Calvary's hill,
Ye who bear the pains of ill;
Look ye towards Ascension Mount,
Ye who drink the bitter fount;
Look ye towards the gates of Morn,
Ye who wear the twisted thorn!

A SONG OF VICTORY.

Sing we now a song of triumph;
Leave betimes the shadowy vales
Where the winds across our lute-strings
Sink to low and sorrowing wails.
Stand we now upon the mountains
Where the glory shines complete;
Where the thunders roll beneath us
Making music at our feet.

Lo, the pathway lies behind us,
Where we marched o'er heaps of slain:
And our vanquished foes lie bleeding
All along the battle-plain;—
All the sordid troop of Mammon;
Coward Fear and lust of Praise;
Death that cast his baleful shadow
Over all our darkling ways;

Unbelief that feeds on ashes;
Fear of man that brings a snare;
Selfish Grief and selfish Pleasure;
Carnal Pride and haggard Care;
Satan in fair form transfigured
Strewing garlands on the road
To install our vaunting Reason
On the eternal throne of God.

See his rabble host retreating!
Shattered spear and broken shield;
See his waning camp-fires flicker
All along the conquered field;
And o'er all like flashing sunbeams
Waves the mighty Conqueror's sword—
Louder than your Io Pæans
Allelujahs to the Lord!

Then beyond the Silent River
See the mystic mountains rise!
Range on range away ascending
Till they kiss the vaulted skies;
And along their sun-smit summits
Thousands walk with sparkling feet,
And give back our song of triumph
In the distance soft and sweet.

From the myriad gleaming turrets
Whence the billowy music swells,
Clear across the Silent River,
Float the chimes of morning bells:
They have conquered—we have conquered—
And one note of triumph raise,
Heaven and earth here join together
In their grandest song of praise.

Ah! adown the valley yonder,
Bending earthward, draped with woe,
Keeping step to funeral dirges,
Who are they that creep so slow?
Haste ye swiftly with the tidings
Wafted from the peaks of day;
Lead them up to Mount Ascension,
Fling their scrannel pipes away.

Give them beauty now for ashes;
Out of weakness make them strong;
And in place of churchyard music,
Give the resurrection song,
Which the beauteous lips of loved ones
That they kissed with sad farewells,
Sing to them from o'er the River
Mid the chimes of morning bells.

Now the noontide floods the waters,
Still beneath the silent oar,
And their mocky depths of crystal
Copy down the immortal shore.
Sing we then upon the mountains
Where the glory shines complete,
To the conquering Christ hosannas—
Fling your garlands at his feet!

THE THREE ADVENTS.

The Eternal Word came down from heaven
Wrapped in our human clay;
Beneath his voice the tombs were riven
And searched with blaze of day.

He comes again—the Spirit's power,
On soft and dove-like wing;
I breathe in this thy advent hour
The balmiest gales of Spring!

And when thy voice, like thunders loud,
Brings on the judgment day,
And through this intervening cloud
Doth cleave thy shining way,

Let thy white robe of righteousness
Our trusting souls adorn,
And be the shinings of thy face
The eternal Christmas Morn!

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A SONG IN THE MINOR KEY.

I stand on Time's mysterious brink,
And send an onward gaze
Where throngs of spirits rise or sink
At parting of the ways.

Upward, towards the sun-lit rooms,
They climb the shining stairs;
Or, downward through the swirling glooms,
Sink to their long despairs.

And happy thrills of song and lyre
Come from the angel-train,
And upward through the crater-fire
The muffled groans of pain.

And as I heard, my song uprose
To catch that heavenly air,
When straightway on my lips it froze
To agonizing prayer.

O ye who climb the stairs above,
And crowd up nigh the throne,
How can ye sing redeeming Love
And see its work half done?

O thou great Mercy! folding all
Beneath thy brooding wing,—
Those who to thee for pity call
Or their redemption sing,—

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I ask not through the highest room
Of heavenly state to go,
But downward through the thickest gloom
Of any child of woe.

Did not thy Christ go down to hell
And cut its brazen bars,
Before he sought his coronal—
His golden crown of stars?

Are they not all my kith and kin,
And children, Lord, of thine,
Alike who beg in rags of sin,—
In jeweled robes who shine?

We all are beggars; poor and bare
We stand before thy face,
Save when in borrowed robes we flare,
Or shinings of thy grace.

Here I will raise no song of glee,
And hold no waving palm;
I breathe upon the minor key
My penitential psalm.

I share my brother's grief—I list
The undertones of pain,
And pray to see thy conquering Christ
Go up with all his train.

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THE SILENT PRAYER.

Storms were lowering in the welkin, and the gray clouds thicker grew,
And the pine-trees stood as mourners which the winds were sobbing through;

And that night we gathered closer when we heard the east wind blow,
“Oh, how cold it must be yonder, sleeping out beneath the snow!”

Friends came in, and close around us stood between us and the storm,
And we wept and leaned against them, with their great hearts beating warm.

Words, how vain! but words they spake not, while their thoughts rose warm and clear
On their silent prayer-wings upward to the heavenly Father near.

Oh, what tones there are in silence, solemn as the toll of bells!
Tolling through the heart forever, tolling through its empty cells;

Silence over all the playground, hushing childhood's merry glee;
Silence in the curtained chamber, where the music warbled free;

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Silence on the graves out yonder, silence round the empty chair;
But the silence speaketh never like the silence of the prayer.

When some truce from care and sorrow in the arms of sleep we found,
Dreaming dreams of little coffins, and a pale face underground,

Came a glory down the welkin, cleaving darkness like a wedge;
As the sculptor cleaves the marble, cutting clean along the edge,

So it cut the solid darkness till it touched the ground below,
Where our little May lay sleeping underneath the winter snow;

And the glory tipped the pine-trees, and I heard the southern breeze
Touch them soft as any fingers ever touched the organ keys;

And a low and rhythmic murmur through the heart this music made:
“There is spring without the winter, where the May-flowers never fade.”

Thrice and four times came the music like a distant travelled song,
Coming nearer, nearer, nearer, growing clear and growing strong;

First in sweetly plaintive whispers, like a breeze o'er asphodels,
Breaking thence in broad effulgence, like the music blown from shells.

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Then it waked me. Was it only some chance vision of the night?
Or the angel softly muffled lest his garments shine too bright?

Do not all the highest tokens sent in answer to our prayers,
Come along some curtained passage down the bright and heavenly stairs?

I know nothing. Years have vanished since that night of wintry storm,
When the silent prayer went upward from those great hearts beating warm;

But the answer soundeth ever o'er the graves beneath the snow,—
THERE IS SPRING WITHOUT THE WINTER, WHERE THE MAY-FLOWERS ALWAYS BLOW.

147

THE NEW MORNING.

Long had the tears of penitence
From sleepless eyes been falling,
Long had I heard the still small voice
That through the soul kept calling;
One night I watched the shapeless clouds
That o'er my mind were rolling,
Till the clock's slow and solemn tongue
The hour of twelve was tolling.

Then o'er the loved disciples' page
Was I my vigils keeping;
I read and prayed, and read again,
While all the rest were sleeping;
And as I prayed there came a fire,
Within me gently glowing,—
A calm as when the drooping gales
At hush of eve stop blowing.

The clouds that o'er my spirit hung
Then gave a bright forewarning;
They changed to white and purpling flakes
As at the break of morning.
And then looked through the countenance,
Clothed in its sun-bright splendor,
Of Him who o'er his Church of old
Kept holy watch and tender,

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His robe was white as flakes of snow
When through the air descending—
I saw the clouds before him melt,
And rainbows o'er Him bending;
And then a voice—no, not a voice—
An inward calm revealing,
Came softly as the steps of Dawn
O'er tranquil waters stealing.

And ever since, that countenance
Is on my pathway shining,—
A Sun from out a higher sky
Whose Light knows no declining:
All day it falls upon my road
And keeps my feet from straying,
And when at night I lay me down,
I fall asleep while praying.

163

LITTLE WILLIE WAKING UP.

Some have thought that in the dawning,
In our being's freshest glow,
God is nearer little children
Than their parents ever know,
And that if you listen sharply,
Better things than you can teach,
And a sort of mystic wisdom
Trickles through their careless speech.

How it is, I cannot answer,
But I knew a little child
Who among the thyme and clover
And the bees was running wild;
And he came one summer evening,
With his ringlets o'er his eyes,
And his hat was torn in pieces
Chasing bees and butterflies.

“Now I'll go to bed, dear mother,
For I'm very tired of play!”
And he said his “Now I lay me”
In a kind of careless way;
And he drank the cooling water
From his little silver cup,
And said gayly, “When it's morning,
May the angels take me up!”

Down he sank with roguish laughter
In his little trundle bed,

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And the kindly god of slumber
Showered poppies o'er his head.
“What could mean his speaking strangely?”
Asked his musing mother then,
“Oh 't was nothing but his prattle,—
What could he of angels ken?

“There he lies, how sweet and placid!
And his breathing comes and goes
Like a zephyr moving softly,
And his cheek is like a rose;
But his mother leaned to listen
If his breathing could be heard;
“Oh,” she murmured, “if the angels
Took my darling at his word!”

Night within its folding mantle
Has the sleepers both beguiled,
And within its soft embracings
Rest the mother and the child;
Up she starteth from her dreaming,
For a sound has struck her ear,
And it comes from little Willie
Lying on his trundle near.

Up she springeth, for it striketh
On her troubled ear again,
And his breath in louder fetches
Travels from his lungs in pain;
And his eyes are fixing upward
On some face beyond the room,
And the blackness of the spoiler,
From his cheek has chased the bloom.

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Never more his “Now I lay me”
Will be said from mother's knee;
Never more among the clover
Will he chase the humble-bee;
Through the night she watched her darling,
Now despairing, now in hope,
And about the break of morning
Did the angels take him up.

181

THE YOUNG HUNTER.

“Come, my boy, and in the meadows
Tend the little lambs to-day;
Play with them beside the brooklets
Where they pluck the flowers so gay.
“Mother, mother, with my bow
To the mountains I must go.”

“Why not with the horn's brisk music
Lead the cattle through the dells?
Lovely in the Alpine pastures
Is the tinkling of the bells.”
“On the mountains with my bow,
Mother, mother, let me go.”

“Go and tend the flowerets, blooming
In their garden beds, my child;
In the garden all is pleasant,—
But the mountain-tops, how wild!”
“Let the flowerets bloom and grow,
Mother, mother, let me go!”

Through the mountain's wildest regions
The young hunter rushed away,
Where the steep and winding pathway
Scarcely sees the light of day,
And before the hunter near
Flies the swift gazelle in fear.

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Climbing with a breezy motion,
On the ribs of rock she clings;
O'er the deeply yawning fissures
With a lightsome bound she springs;
And the hunter from below,
Follows with his deadly bow.

Now she gains a rocky splinter,
Hanging from its highest steep;
There she sees the pathway vanish,
And before the dreadful deep,—
Sees the fatal steep below,
And behind, her cruel foe.

With a look of deepest sorrow
And beseeching agony,
Turns she toward her cruel hunter,
Dumbly pleading with her eye;
But regardless of her woe
He levels straight the deadly bow.

Sudden from a rocky fissure
Rose a form of awful grace;
'T was the Spirit of the Mountain,
'T was the Genius of the place;
And the quivering gazelle
With his hands he shielded well.

Then he turned upon the hunter
While his eyes with anger glowed
“Must you carry death and sorrow
Clear up here to mine abode?
Earth has room for all her own,
Let my beauteous flock alone!”

A translation from Schiller.

197

IDEALS.

O bright Ideals! how ye shine,
Aloft in realms of air!
Ye pour your streams of light divine
Above our low despair.

I've climbed and climbed these weary years
To come your glories nigh;
I'm tired of climbing, and in tears
Here on the earth I lie.

As a weak child all vainly tries
To pluck the evening star,
So vain have been my life-long cries
To reach up where ye are.

Shine on, shine on through earth's dark night,
Nor let your glories pale!
Some stronger soul may win the height
Where weaker ones must fail.

And this one thought of hope and trust
Comes with its soothing balm,
As here I lay my brow in dust,
And breathe my lowly psalm,—

That not for heights of victory won,
But those I tried to gain,

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Will come my gracious Lord's “Well done,”
And sweet effacing rain.

Then on your awful heights of blue,
Shine on, forever shine;—
I come! I'll climb, I'll fly to you,
For endless years are mine.

215

PARTED.

A. M. M.

How dread the silence!—on the shore
We stand and shout in vain!
The voice that cheered us once, no more
Will answer back again.

If sainted ones their memories keep,
And love's most sacred vow,
Why yawns the gulf so wide and deep
That parts them from us now?

Methinks the silence speaks, “My share
Of griefs and conflicts o'er,
Why should the waves of mortal care
Break on the heavenly shore?

“In all the works that I have done,
My spirit pleads with thee;
Go finish what my hand begun,
Then come and reign with me.

“Another Hand with touch divine,
Knocks softly at thy door;
A voice of deeper tone than mine
Pleads with thee evermore.

“And in its sure prophetic tone
It tells of things to be,
When to the heart bereft and lone,
There shall be no more sea.”

216

NOT LOST BUT RISEN.

M. L. P.

“We would not call thee back”—so let them say,—
What the lips speak the bleeding heart denies;
My voice, dear friend, should call thee back to-day,
Could it but reach thy dwelling in the skies.

For we have need of thee: thy radiant smile
Lay like a sunbeam on this scene of care,
And weary burdens at thy touch erewhile
Were changed to burdens light as summer air.

Thy pupils need thee: for thy careful hand
Removed the thorns and scattered fragrant flowers,
And their young minds beneath thy clear command
Woke into conscious life their noblest powers.

Thou needest us, dear friend: through pathways bright
Far, far away from us thy feet have roved;
But thy new friends among the sons of Light
Can never love thee more than we have loved.

Soul to its place, dust to its kindred dust!
Such is the law and we will not complain,
But ever clear of Time's corroding rust,
Thy love we cherish till we meet again.

For through the parting veil we see thee now,
In thy fair clime, with faith's unclouded eye,

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See thee with every “charm of mind and brow
Baptized anew in immortality.”

And thou art risen, another, yet the same,
Nor have we lost thee in thy heavenly birth;
The woman there who takes an angel's name
Is still the friend that we have loved on earth.

235

SONG FOR THE COMING CRISIS.

(1858.)

O Church of Christ, to prayer, to prayer! lean on thy sacred shrine,
And there while lowly bowing down, receive the strength divine:
Then rise and let thy faithful word be healing for our woes,
And let the Spirit's flaming sword be lightning on thy foes!

Hark! in the horologue of Time, God strikes the awful hour!
Zion must now stand face to face with Moloch's threat'ning power;
The subtle snare of compromise her hand and tongue that bound,
Breaks clean away, and now her feet take hold on solid ground.

And there she stands—aye, on the Rock where stood God's Church of old,
When seas of blood dashed at her feet, and waves of trouble rolled,
There let her speak in that great name which faithless men profane,
And they who scoff at Freedom's Word shall wag their tongue in vain.

236

By the blest throngs of pilgrim ghosts that haunt New England's air;
By pilgrim graves o'er all her hills and down her valleys fair;
By all the pilgrim's faith in God that burns within our souls;
By every drop of pilgrim blood that through her bosom rolls,

No hunters here for human prey to snuff their trail of blood;
No laws to grind the helpless poor and break the laws of God;
No tyrant's troops to line our streets or tramp our valleys green,
While Bunker's shaft looks from the sky down on the shameful scene!

Ring with thy bells a swift alarm from every crashing spire,
And speak with lips which God's right hand has touched with coals of fire;
Let Christ's whole Gospel be proclaimed, let God's whole truth be shown,
And let the East and West respond and echo tone for tone.

Then rise, O Church of Christ, arise! shake off thy slumbers now,
God's conquering strength within thy heart, his calmness on thy brow;
In Christ's dear name who died for man, put all thy glories on;
No bondsman's blood upon thy robes, no stain upon thy lawn!

237

HYMN.

(FOR THE ANNIVERSARY AT PLYMOUTH IN 1853.)

Beneath the hallowed ground where now ye tread,
New England's first and holiest martyrs sleep,
And ocean waves to celebrate the dead
Lift the eternal anthems of the deep.

And here their mighty spirits linger long,
They walk abroad through all the hallowed air,
And where a pulse for Freedom beats more strong,
Know ye that pilgrim blood is coursing there.

O ye whose sacred dust on Burial Hill
Kind mother Earth in holy trust contains!
Above the cause ye loved keep watching still,
And roll your fire through all our languid veins.

Then from New England's hills, afar and near,
A light shall stream in columns to the skies,
And like a new Aurora, shall appear
Where'er a race in chains and darkness lies.

255

GIRLHOOD AND WOMANHOOD.

I.

What strange magic brings before me that old school-house on the green,
While the dusk of time is gathering over all that lies between?

Seats adorned with rustic carvings, shaky clapboards old and gray,
Smoky walls and broken windows and the pig-weeds by the way,

Little griefs of little children felt beneath the tyrant's rule,
Or the big boys', who were hazers of the ancient country school.

All the squalor and the sorrow of that earliest fairy-land,
Change within the magic sunshine; all the dirt is golden sand.

What were pedagogues and hazers! faces bright were always there,
And the morning came new risen from the face of Ellen Clare;

She the tall and beaming maiden, whom we always ran to meet,
Just escaping from our cradles on our little twinkling feet.

256

They may sing of gentle ladies holding court at castle hall,
But our country-girl was peerless, and more gentle than they all:

For she brought the bloom of orchards in the glow upon her cheek,
And we thought of golden robins every time we heard her speak;

As she smoothed the tear-wrought channels where our sorrow had its flow,
And brought sunshine o'er the faces which the imps had scoured with snow.

Dancing-schools, and dancing-masters!—pastures with the lambs at play,
Or the breezy heights and ridges, where we climbed the summer's day.

Singing-schools!—among the orchards, with the birds at matin-time,
Or the morning stars together singing to their march sublime.

So she danced with breezy motion, breezy as the light gazelle's,
And her singing soared the sweetest over all the village belles.

O, the memories of our childhood coming thick and manifold,
Drifting westward down the valleys fleecy clouds that turn to gold!

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II.

They wandered east, they wandered west,
On prairie, shore, and sea;
One sleeps beneath the ocean's breast,
And some have found the last long rest
Beneath the willow-tree.

Beside yon hill that cuts the air
With its blue curving line,
There lives a maid; she once was fair,—
She 's fairer now; her silver hair
Has caught the heavenly shine.

Her song of cheer still rises clear,
In hymns of softer strain;
Where sorrow sheds the bitter tear,
Or where the spoiler's step draws near
The couch of mortal pain.

Where anguish needs the cooling palm,
Or worn and fevered care;
Where sin pines sore for mercy's balm
There will you find, through storm and calm,
The paths of Ellen Clare;

With heart to weep with him that weeps,
And love with him that loves:—
Why one deep chord its silence keeps
Ask not of me; ask him who sleeps
In ocean's coral groves.

O'er Ellen's cot, on yonder height
The evening star stands still,

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And flames in larger lustre bright,
Before it looks a last good-night
And drops behind the hill.

Even so thy life, O lady blest,
Pours its last beauteous ray;
Its evening glories are its best,
As sinking to thy heavenly rest.
They melt from earth away.

275

ABOVE THE STORMS.

Above the storms and thunder-jars
That shake the eddying air,
Away beneath the naked stars,
Rises the Mount of Prayer.

The cumbering bars of mortal life
Here break and fall away,
And the harsh noise of human strife
Comes never: Let us pray!

Father, may thy serener light
Reveal my nature true,
And all its pages, dark and bright,
Lie open to my view.

I've mingled in the battle-din,
That shakes the plains below,
And passions born of earth and sin
Have left their stains, I know.

How silent move thy chariot wheels
Along our camping ground,
Whose thickly folding smoke conceals
Thy camp of fire around!

We tremble in the battle's roar,
Are brave amid its calm;
And when the fearful fight is o'er
We snatch thy victor-palm.

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On surface knowledge we have fed,
And missed the golden grain;
And now I come to Thee for bread
To sate this hunger-pain.

No gift I bring, nor knowledge fine,
Nor trophies of my own;
I come to lay my heart in thine,
O Lamb amid the throne!

All that the Father hath is thine,—
Thus does thy word declare,—
So the full stream of life divine
Flows from the Godhead there.

The tree of Life, in mystic rows,
Stands in eternal green;
Out from the throne the River flows
In crystal waves between.

Ambrosial fruits hang o'er the waves
That pour their cleansing flood;
Thy Fount of Love the heart that laves,
And fills with royal good.

That good I seek, yet not alone
The hungered heart to fill,
But as the angel nigh the throne
Made swift to do thy will;

Thy will, unmingled, Lord, with mine,
That makes all service sweet,
And charged with messages divine,
Puts wings upon my feet.

277

No need to trim my taper's blaze,
No need of sun or moon!
The glories falling from thy face
Make my unchanging noon.

293

“FEED MY LAMBS.”

Ho! ye that rest beneath the Rock
On pastures greenly growing,
Or roam at will, Christ's favored flock,
By waters gently flowing:

Hear ye upon the desert air
A voice of woe come crying!
While cold upon the barren moor
Christ's little lambs are dying.

“Go feed my lambs!”—the Shepherd's call
Comes down from realms of glory.
“Go feed my lambs! and bring them all
From moor and mountain hoary.”

Fast falls the night, the bleak winds blow
Across the desert dreary!
Great Shepherd!—at thy call we 'll go
And bring the wanderers weary.

294

GLAD WORSHIP.

O God of Love! we bless thy word that hallows
This day of rest to our o'erwearied powers:
As comes thy calm down on the foaming billows,
Come to our souls thy sweet Sabbatic hours.

Here may the aged ones, their griefs forgetting,
Breathe in the quiet which thy temple fills;
And may their sun when near its tranquil setting,
Clothe in its farewell smile the western hills!

May childhood learn the words by Jesus spoken,
And give to Him the fresh and morning hours
Ere sin the earliest charm of life has broken,
And while the dews lie sparkling on the flowers.

And here may all—strong man and blooming maiden,
When with the load of care or sin opprest,
Hear Jesus' voice, “O come ye heavy laden,
Come unto me and I will give you rest.”

And passing on through Earth's brief joys and trials,
May these thy people join the immortal throng
Who sweeter incense waft from golden vials,
And worship thee in their unending song!

295

I WANT NO FLOWERS.

I want no flowers thy stone to wreathe,
Nor on thy grave to blow,
And mind me of my withered rose
That turns to dust below.

I need no picture on my walls,
Thine image to renew,
And mock thy dear angelic smile,
And eyes of tender dew.

I want no spectre-form to come
In glimpses of the moon,
Nor message breathed from lips of air
That melt and vanish soon.

If these be all that Mercy leaves
To soothe our great despair,
I'll only clasp thee in my dreams,
And carve thine image there.

But O these shadows that we grasp
Tell with prophetic powers,
That this dim world must be our dream,
And death our waking hour.

313

CHAMBERS OF IMAGERY.

Clear was the sky and hushed the gale,
That Sabbath day in Grasmere vale,
As if where now her Poet sleeps,
Nature a holier Sabbath keeps:
He lies upon her loving breast,
The hills all watching o'er his rest,
Beside the shore of Grasmere Lake,
In whose still depths, the noonbeams make
Sweet copies of the quiet scene,
Along her banks of summer green.

I found the place of “Green-head Ghyll,”
And conned old Michael's tale awhile;
And when the day was waning late
I passed the famous “Wishing Gate,”
Where Rydal Water softly flows,
Afraid to break its own repose,
And came where thy tall cliff, Nabscar,
Flings greetings to the Morning Star;
Or Evening round thy hoary head
Weaves thy soft cowl of sable red.

Blue ether's arms around us flung,
We climbed thy highest crags among,
And pictures there before us lay
Whose charm will never fade away:

314

The brook from Rydal's silent tide
Went dreaming down to Ambleside,
And in its summer verdure sweet
Lay Rydal Mount beneath our feet,
Its garden-walks and blooming crest
O'erhanging from our eagle's nest.

The Grasmere Lake beneath our gaze
Put on a modest veil of haze;
The Helter-water's silver sheen
Seemed like a gem embossed in green;
Far southward, like a mirror clear,
Spread thy broad sheet, Winandermere;
Coniston Lake beyond, burned through
The misty robe of mountain-blue
Away toward the fringes, where
The mountains melt in purple air.

The setting sun turned Alchemist,
And streams and lakes and lakelets kissed,
And a vast ground afar unrolled
Of green bespangled o'er with gold:
The hills as monarchs stand confest,
A flashing shield on every breast,
While at their feet their treasure shines;
As earth had emptied all her mines
Of precious ores and gems most rare,
And poured in molten rivers there.

These golden treasures fade—and then
Comes on the solemn twilight scene.
Bright cherub forms in endless crowds
Build stairs to heaven of amber clouds,
And hushed beneath the orange skies

315

The earth in meek enchantment lies;
While through the gilded haze afar
Comes bravely on the Evening Star,
And tricks his silver beams to be
Ablaze in Grasmere's mimic sea.

But not less lovely or sublime
Are mountains that I used to climb:
No skyey tint of softer hue
Adorns Helvellyn's wall of blue,
Nor does the Day drop sweeter smiles
On Grasmere or Winander's isles
Than those beneath Taghanic's eye,
Where Berkshire's vales and landscapes lie;
And yet thy heights must peerless stand,
Thy glorious mountains, Westmoreland!

For holier charms are on thee shed
Than glories of the evening red.
An “Evening Ode” thy vales along
Breathes as an everlasting song;
An alchemy of higher skill
Moulds all thy scenery at its will,
And hill and vale and lake and stream,
Fused in the Poet's matchless dream.
Come forth anew beneath the skies
That span the hills of Paradise.

And from thy hills I bore away
Chambers of fadeless imagery,
Which clearer rise and warmer burn
When Wordsworth's quiet page I turn,
Who in these typic glories found

316

“To what fair countries we are bound” —
As if, in mansions of the Blest,
Our heaven might have its golden West,
And all of earth's resplendent show
In still diviner beauty glow.

And He who came—the Incarnate Word—
When conscious Nature knew her Lord,
Clothed the pure heaven his gospel brings
In earth's most rare and beauteous things;
The harvest fields of precious dower,
The cleansing stream, the lowly flower,
The River rolling ever on
From living springs beneath the Throne,
The trees that fringe the sunlit shore
With rainbow glories bending o'er.

And ever, to his prophet's view,
The Word createth all things new.
At his anointing touch, our sight
Beholds the Uncreated Light;
Sees Nature's dower of splendors, won
From worlds beyond earth's paler sun;
Sees the Apostle's creed writ fine
On penciled flower and eglantine,
And “hues from the celestial urn”
On all our Horeb mountains burn.

O Thou, the all-creative Word!
Beneath whom Nature owns her Lord,

317

Give me the mind and heart most fit
To read thine elder Holy Writ,
That when from earth I bear away
The chambers of its imagery,
The hills beneath thy higher skies
As old familiar friends shall rise,
And all of earth most pure and fair
Bloom with immortal beauty there.

“Blue ether's arms flung round thee
Stilled the pantings of dismay.”
Wordsworth's Ascent of Helvellyn.

See the “Ode written on an Evening of extraordinary Splendor and Beauty.”

“From worlds not travelled by the sun
A portion of the gift is won.”—
Id.