University of Virginia Library

[To The Right Honourable and Most Reverend William Thomson]

If in the multitude of public cares
And lofty duties which attend thy way,
Thine hand perchance should hold a blooming spray,
Which lately fluttered in sweet morning airs;
Touched by the fragrant message that it bears
From peaceful solitudes, thou mightest say,
‘A simple flower can cheer the burdened day,
And rest the wearied spirit unawares:’
Then for a poet's privilege I pray,
To place this garland underneath thine eye,
Fresh from the fields and woods in which I stray;
Ambitious that amid thy labours high
Haply the blossom of some rural lay
Might waken soothing thoughts of earth or sky.

To the Reader.

GRACE.

THE WIND AT MIDNIGHT.

O wind, that moanest at the midnight hour
Around my chamber, what is thy desire?
Now whispering low and ready to expire,
Now waxing louder with a fitful power.
What wouldest thou? Whence thy mysterious dower
To thrill the darkness like a trembling lyre;
Or wake sweet music, now far off, now nigher,
As of some heavenly bird in secret bower?
O Wind, O Bird, I know Thee whence Thou camest,
And what soft message lurks beneath Thy wing:
When earth is hushed in silence, then Thou claimest
With plaintive tones an audience for the King:
Speak, Lord, I hear—Oh, let Thy Holy Dove
Soothe my lone heart with whispers of Thy love.

SIGNS OF SUMMER.

THE VOICE OF OUR CHURCHES.

“Abide with us, O Lord, our heart's desire,
For shadows gather round earth's evening hour.”
Such voice, methinks, goes up from Minster tower,
From village steeple and from city spire,
Loud-clashing belfry and harmonious choir.
To Heaven they speak with an appealing power,
Our myriad churches, shining with the dower
Of Art's adornments, and Devotion's fire.
“Abide with us!” unceasingly they cry,
“As through the ages past. The world grows old:
The love of many waxes faint and cold:
But still we lift our faithful hands on high,
And feeling after Thee up the dim sky,
Upon Thy cloudy skirts would fain lay hold!”

THE PLAIN OF YORK FROM THE YORKSHIRE WOLDS.

We gazed upon a mighty sunlit plain
Which swept, to right and left, the horizon's bound:
In its wide arms was many a battle-ground,
But at its heart a glorious Minster-fane.
The sky was bright, and a melodious rain
Fell from the soaring larks, with silvery sound:
No note of discord in the air was found,
Nor on the landscape's face one marring stain.
Thus, while we sojourn in this world of strife
May love to God be still the central thought
Which sweetly rules and permeates our life:
Thus, may our soul with light and peace be fraught,
And all our days with grateful music rife—
An echo from angelic voices caught!

PATRINGTON CHURCH.

“THE QUEEN OF HOLDERNESS.”

They toiled the God of Heaven to glorify
With lavish ornament of nave and choir,
And lofty tower that shoots into a spire
Of queenly grace, conspicuous far and nigh.
But lo! that slender shaft against the sky,
Rosed by the dawn or tipped with sunset fire—
Of home-bound sailors is the dear desire
And through the shoals of Humber guides their eye.
Those patient builders reared a stately shrine
For the sweet sacrifice of praise and prayer,
And earthly use grew from a work divine;
So the pure life that breathes celestial air
And points to Heaven, for man will also shine,
A star of comfort 'mid the waves of care!

THE SHEPHERD'S REED.

ON THE LARGE COPY PAINTED BY SELOUS OF LEONARDO DA VINCI'S “LAST SUPPER,”

No shadow falls upon the festive room
From that pathetic scene—that clouded Face
Bent on the board with melancholy grace.
That glorious picture sheds no touch of gloom,
But rather a soft radiance to illume
The banquet, as upon the wall we trace
The symbol of a happier time and place,
When at Heaven's feast immortal flowers shall bloom.
“Jesus and His disciples” let us “call”
To bless and beautify our brightest hours,
And breathe a chastened gladness over all:
Thus will He call us to those festal bowers,
Where no fair pictured form shall meet the view,
But His own Self—the Living, Loving, True.

BEECH-LEAVES, SNOW, AND VIOLETS.

AN AUTUMN DAY AT FOUNTAINS' ABBEY.

“A perfect day!” we cried, “A perfect day!”
As round fair Fountains' winding walks we strayed,
Where yellowing leaves and mouldering arches made
The valley rich with beautiful decay.
The world-famed jewel of those ruins grey
Was grandly set in gold and crimson shade;
The sylvan glories dazzle as they fade;
The crumbling Abbey smiles itself away.
“Alas!” I murmured, “that this earth of ours
To wasting Time should its perfection owe,
And the brief splendour of autumnal bowers:”
But down Faith's vista, then I caught the glow
Of fairer landscapes, more enduring towers,
And deeper, truer joys than mortals know.

TO MRS. CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER.

O “Lady,” art thou not “elect”—to stand
And daily minister to one so dear,
Who, with his sweet-toned Muse, has won the ear
Of many a loving listener through the land:
Whose Sonnet-lyre, touched with a cunning hand,
Has wakened dulcet echoes, soft and clear,
Destined to wander on from year to year,
Nor ever fail “fit audience” to command.
Well may it all thy pious care engage
Our fragile Songster to defend from harm,
And keep him prisoner in his mortal cage:
That still with measured music he may charm
The cultured sense, till seasonable age
Lays his tired head on an Almighty arm!

TO SOME FRIENDS ABOUT TO WINTER AT CANEA, IN CRETE.

O happy, flying to the shores of Crete,
From England to the hundred-citied isle,
Like the blest birds which follow Summer's smile.
What footprints of Old Time your eyes will meet
Where classic Ida lifts its head to greet
The clustered Cyclades. What thoughts beguile
Th' approach to “every city” mile by mile,
Once tracked by grand Evangelistic feet.
Nor blest alone, but blessing will ye go:
For on that far-off strand an English home
Shines amid alien flowers, warm with the glow
Of English hearts, to welcome those who roam:
And oh, what genial hours will o'er ye flow,
Gazing tow'rds Greece across the Ægean foam.

WINTER-BERRIES.

No blossoms now adorn this ruined bower,
Nor any leaves. The wind relentless blows
Right through the naked branches, which disclose
The mossy secret plann'd in happier hour
By some fair bird. But Winter has its dower,
And many a dainty bead and coral shows—
These clustered berries ruddier than the rose,
And gaily dancing, though the storm-clouds lower.
Thus o'er the leafless boughs bright wings still flutter,
Nor miss the blossoms mid the fruitage red;
For which sweet voices, silent now, will utter
Melodious thanks when these dark days are fled:
Oh, may the Winter of my age be found
With timely fruits of ripe experience crowned.

THE ARROW-SEED;

OR, SOWING UNAWARES.

I watched a little bird that unawares
With all its might was scattering wingèd seed,
As on a nodding flower it hung to feed.
Loosed by its beak—the breath of Summer airs
Those feathered germs across the meadow bears,
The while the busy songster takes no heed
Whither each arrowy wanderer may speed,
Or how in forest or in field it fares.
Ah, we are sowing when we little think
Wing'd seeds of good or evil all around;
We scatter them e'en when we eat or drink;
Whene'er we talk they flutter o'er the ground:
Oh, “to the Spirit” let us learn to “sow,”
And from small deeds and words fair flowers will grow!

THE VICTIM AND THE PRIEST.

THE BIRDS' FIRST HALTING-PLACE.

Escaped from Ocean's highway rough and loud,
Our travelled songsters light in this green vale,
The whitethroat, blackcap, redstart, nightingale—
Like showers of music, cloud succeeding cloud.
In this soft cradle sinks the wearied crowd,
With panting breasts, and plumes that droop and fail;
But soon, their ranks reformed, away they sail,
To sweep the land in feathered phalanx proud.
Sweet favoured nook in which to fold your wing,
Ere, like new Conquerors, ye disperse all round
To seize the groves, and songs triumphant sing:
Well have ye chosen your first camping ground,
For One dwells near, a welcome warm to bring
And with your fame bid hill and dale resound.

A TIME OF REFRESHING. GLEN CRIPESDALE, LOCH SUNART.

ON A HIGHLAND BURYING-PLACE,

IN MORVEN, BY LOCH SUNART.

On Sunart's lonely shore, after long quest
In vain, embosomed in the hills we found
An open, undistinguished plot of ground
Where Morven's children take their dreamless rest.
Headstones and cairns are scattered o'er the crest
Of a green height, with plume-like bracken crowned;
While pastured sheep repose the dead around,
Who own nor date nor name nor symbol blest.
But kindly Nature watches o'er those graves;
The mountains fold them in their strong embrace;
Fair Sunart sings to them with soothing waves;
Soft rains and sunshine bless that burial place:
The shepherd notes it as he wanders by;
And it escapes not the Redeemer's eye.

LOCH TEACHUS,

BY LOCH SUNART.

A loch, within a loch, girdled all round
With lofty mountain and with wooded hill,
Spreads out its silvery waters, lone and still,
Embosomed in tranquillity profound.
Only each day, with a soft lulling sound
The mighty tides this rocky basin fill,
And from the grassy uplands many a rill
Brings its fresh tribute with a gladsome bound.
Bright image of a consecrated soul,
Reposing in the arms of Heavenly Love;
Into its depths what tides of blessing roll,
What streams of comfort cheer it from above:
While Truth and Faithfulness on either hand,
Like the eternal hills, serenely stand.

SONNETS ON THE FATHERS.

IGNATIUS.

From Antioch to Rome with eager feet
The rugged path of martyrdom he trod:
Doomed to the lions by an emperor's nod,
The lightning of their eyes he yearned to meet,
And thunder of their throats; for death was sweet
To one who fain would look upon his God;
And so with passionate lips he kissed the rod
Lifted at last to make his joy complete.
The tyrant's threatening and the wild beast's roar
But heralded the music of a Voice,
Waiting to greet him on the peaceful shore:
His direst anguish was his dearest choice,
Since rending teeth the envious curtain tore,
And face to face allowed him to rejoice.

POLYCARP.

He looked on those who looked upon the Lord,
Holding familiar converse with St. John;
In whom the last soft glow reflected shone
From that sad Face by earth and heaven adored.
In secret cells of memory he stored
Sweet words and deeds of Christ, and passed them on
To live in other lips when he was gone,
Sealing the truths our Gospel-books record.
Christ's breath through holy John still breathed on him,
Fanning his heart's devotion high and higher,
Which not the mists of fivescore years could dim:
With ardent longings did his soul aspire
Till from a rounded century's utmost rim
He soared to Heaven on cherub-wings of fire.

JUSTIN MARTYR.

Seeking for goodly pearls from shore to shore,
A Heavenly Jewel crowned his weary toil,
And he rejoiced as one who finds great spoil—
Treasure which earth or ocean never bore.
What were the dreams of philosophic lore
To One sweet human Life without a soil?
Armed with the simple Cross he now could foil
Singly the dark mythologies of yore.
His wreath of honour nobly did he earn,
A living “witness” for his dying Lord,
Wrestling with Jew and Greek in learnèd strife:
Nor shrank he from that last encounter stern,
The fatal flashing of the Roman sword,
A dying witness for the Prince of life.

TERTULLIAN.

O fiery Roman spirit—that first bent
The conqueror's language to the Church's use,
And where the Eagle ranged the Dove let loose—
How well thy mind befits thy instrument!
In iron warfare was thy lifetime spent
For facts and doctrines and world-changing views
Of Truth; the storm, not silence of the dews,
Dear to thy heart and with thy being blent.
And what if, in the fervour of the fight,
Thy steps might err, through lack of zeal or love
In those who fought beside thee for the Right;
Still was thine eye fixed on the Lord above,
Still didst thou walk beneath the Father's light,
And catch the brooding of the mystic Dove.

IRENÆUS.

Three arches of a bridge our faith sustain
O'er two dim centuries to the solid shore,
Where floating myths are possible no more,
And History's clear, unquestioned steps remain.
By three bright links of an unbroken chain—
John, Polycarp, and the industrious lore
Of Irenæus—we are lifted o'er
The chasm, and a steadfast foothold gain.
From his far Western home in Christ-lit Gaul
Our saint could travel back a lifetime's space,
And Orient years in Ephesus recall;
And how his martyred master would retrace
Dear mem'ries which the lips of John let fall,
Sweetly descanting of Incarnate Grace.

ORIGEN.

Close-linked in youth with apostolic men,
And mighty in the Scriptures, thou didst raise
A stately fabric of immortal praise,
Based on eternal Truth, wise Origen.
And though we tremble lest thy daring pen
Venture too near the veil which hides God's ways,
We crown with evergreen thy restless days,
Thy pious insight and far-reaching ken.
For ivy-like thy busy hand hath wound
Unfading wreaths about the holy shrine
In which the Oracles of God are found;
Where Scriptures Old and New their voice combine
Through all the listening ages to resound
The full-toned thunder of the Word Divine!

EUSEBIUS.

Learnèd, devout, and liberal, he possest
The heart's love of imperial Constantine;
Who, dying, whispered of that luminous Sign,
The Cross in heaven with which his eyes were blest;
Of that repeated Vision which addrest
To his uncertain faith the words divine—
‘With this Cross conquer’—‘Let this symbol shine
A glorious standard o'er thy warrior-crest.’
Thus of the Cross above Eusebius told,
On the blue sky inscribed with golden glow;
But his laborious chronicles unfold
How that same Cross was writ in blood below,
Until, through pain and prayer and witness bold,
Earth saw the trampled Church to empire grow.

ATHANASIUS.

When Athanasius faced a frowning world—
Emperor and priest against the truth arrayed—
He grasped the precious Pearl, nor felt dismayed,
Though all earth's pride to shake him was unfurled.
What if from his high station he was hurled,
The jewel of the Faith he ne'er betrayed,
But kept it, hidden in sepulchral shade,
Or where from hermit's cell the blue smoke curled.
Then, when the storm retired, the triple bow
Was seen in perfect beauty on the cloud
Each mingling hue defined with clearer glow;
Thus through dark years of doubt and conflict loud
To one man's strenuous faithfulness we owe
The Creed to which all after time has bowed.

THE CROSS AND THE MOSS,

IN THE WEST WINDOW OF MY CHURCH.

I saw red berries and the twinkling gloss
Of pointed holly leaves, which ordered lay
On a deep lancet-window's sloping splay;
Where the stern symbol of the ensanguined Cross
Reclined on a green bed of cushioned moss.
I pondered on the sight. 'Twas Christmas day,
And the Church smiled in festival array
To welcome Him who counted all things loss
That He might win our souls. Alas! I said—
'Tis thus we pluck the thorns from the sharp crown
Which pressed upon the Saviour's drooping head:
We take our cross, and softly lay it down;
We love the Sign and honour it; and there
We leave the burden which we ought to bear.

MY PAINTED WINDOW,

BEING A WEST LANCET-LIGHT IN LONDESBOROUGH CHURCH, OVERSHADOWED BY A BEECH TREE.

No mortal hand, with cunning art, could paint
My window; for its colour comes and goes
With the revolving seasons. Now it glows
Bright as the emerald robe of pictured saint:
Now burns like gold: and now, through traceries quaint,
Sweet sunset-touches of the ruby shows:
Now the pure whiteness of the Christmas snows,
Or gemmy lustres of the starlight faint.
Like that fair window may my life be seen,
Rich with successive graces in God's sight;
Now let me serve in manhood's vigour green,
Now peaceful sink in roseate evening light;
Then upwards soar above yon starry sheen,
And through the Golden City ‘walk in white.’

CHRISTMAS FARE FOR THE BIRDS.

Thanking the God of Harvest we adorn
The pillars of His House with flowers and leaves,
And on His Table lay our votive sheaves.
The garlands wither, but we store the corn,
A bounty for the birds on Christmas morn.
Thus, when the icy hand of Winter weaves
Its wreaths of snow, and decorates our eaves
With ornaments fantastic and forlorn;
The sheaves we gave to God we give again
To feed the birds which live beneath His eye,
Raising upon a pole the mystic grain,
Round which a hundred wings hover and fly;
While to the God of Grace ascends on high
From men and birds a grateful Christmas strain.

A PRAYER FOR THE NEW YEAR.

Lord, fill my life with service or with song
To Thee my Master, through the gliding year;
For daily praises let my voice be clear.
For daily labours let my hands be strong.
Thy sovereign ownership let me not wrong,
Or that sweet love which cost my Lord so dear;
Touch Thou my heart and tongue, mine eye and ear,
Let all this breathing frame to Thee belong.
Oh! may the leaves of Life's new volume shine
With holy thoughts and deeds, like radiant flowers
Meet for the hand and eye of Love Divine:
So shall they vocal be, like vernal bowers,
With songs of hope, the earnest and the sign
Of that long Summer which will soon be ours.

THOUGHTS FOR NEW YEAR'S DAY.

THE CIRCUMCISION OF CHRIST.

PALM SUNDAY.

GOOD FRIDAY.

A COINCIDENCE.

When the Church-tower, at the “third watch” forlorn
With triple stroke had ushered in the day
On which the Saviour trod the Dolorous Way,
And meekly climbed for us the hill of scorn;
Lo! the shrill warning of the bird of morn
Startled the silence, as awake I lay,
And bade me think how in the twilight grey
Friends joined with foes to wreathe the crown of thorn.
And bird and belfry seemed to me to say,
‘Would'st thou in word or action never grieve
The Lord who died for thee, oh, “watch and pray;”
That if at midnight, cockcrow, morn, or eve,
The Master comes, robed in divine array,
His hand for thee a crown of joy may weave.’

EASTER DAY.

A PRAYER FOR WHITSUNTIDE.

MACHŒRUS.

ENGLISH TRAVELLERS AT THE CASTLE OF MACHŒRUS, THE SCENE OF JOHN THE BAPTIST'S IMPRISONMENT.

I read how that dark prison they had found
Beneath the ruins of Machœrus grey,
Where John the Baptist languished many a day,
And his bowed head with martyrdom was crowned.
To those thrill'd travellers, methought, all round
That dungeon dim a glory seemed to play;
On every stone a tender radiance lay,
In vaulted roof, or walls, or pavèd ground.
For o'er that stonework favoured eyes had pored,
And honoured feet across that floor had trod;—
Eyes which had gazed with rapture on the Lord,
Feet which had gone before the Incarnate God;
And Earth's grand Fact more solid seemed and clear,
By means of that stone-vaulted dungeon drear.

LIVINGSTONE'S LAST PRAYER.

On his bent knees, in attitude of prayer,
They found him,—those brave Africans; his head
Bowed low between his hands upon the bed.
They listened, but no voice stirred the night air;
They looked, but saw no motion anywhere;
Awe struck, they touched him—he was cold and dead;
His noble spirit up to Heaven had fled,
And left his weary body kneeling there.
And there through all the ages will he kneel,
As if for his loved Africa to plead;
And with his out-poured hero-life appeal
To Heaven and earth till God and man give heed;
And that dark continent from East to West,
With rising beams of Gospel light is blest.

ON THE DEATH UPON SNOWDON OF FREDERICK R. WILTON, B.A.,

ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, ONE OF THE MASTERS OF THE CITY OF LONDON SCHOOL.

With buoyant step he climbed the mountain side,
Alone, but not alone, for One was near
Who made that misty morning bright and clear.
What though no glorious prospect was descried
From Snowdon's brow, but veiling clouds denied
One glimpse of earthly beauty to appear;
And erring footsteps down that slope of fear
With awful suddenness began to slide:
The Master whom he loved and served was there,
To bear his spirit up, and gently show
Visions of beauty infinitely fair,
And glories unimagined here below.
O favoured youth, to whom the bliss was given
To climb a mountain and to find it—Heaven!

AT HIS FEET.

THE CHRISTIAN LIFE.

A hand to labour and a heart to love—
That is my mortal destiny and dower;
To ‘serve my generation,’ hour by hour,
And emulate the unselfish joys above;—
A hand to minister, a heart to move
The hearts of others by the gentle power
Of sympathy, which opens like a flower,
And soothes all discords like a brooding dove.
A Hand to labour, and a Heart to bleed,
In Nazareth's workshop and on Calvary's Tree:
Ah, that was God-like sympathy indeed!
There my example and my hope I see;
A mighty Hand for every human need,
And a large Heart to bless and use even me!

REVOLVING YEARS.

The years rush on with quick-revolving wheel;
Like planets round their central sun they fly—
Obedient to the will of God Most High:
Their crescent orbs to light they now reveal,
And now their face in darkness they conceal.
This new year, dawning fresh upon the eye,
Already it begins to hasten by,
And out of sunshine into shadow steal;
But though the years depart, they cannot die—
“Their works do follow them” in gloom or glow:
The planets leave no tracks upon the sky,
But the swift years will lasting footsteps show;
And little words let fall for Christ below
Will send their ripples through Eternity!

SEARCHING THE SCRIPTURES.

Wandering together in the fields Divine,
We glean among the sheaves, and daily beat
Out from our store the precious “Corn of Wheat,”
Whose grace and truth for patient seekers shine.
Working together in the sacred mine,
We trace the veins of ore beneath our feet,
Till riches unimaginable greet
Our searching eyes, concealed in every line.
Sweet is the Word that “if but two agree”
Touching some pearl of hope they fain would find,
The rich fulfilment they shall surely see;
Thus then, Thy promise and our prayer combined,
Shall lead us to the vision, Lord, of Thee,
And more and more inform us with Thy mind.

SONNETS ON THE TYPES.

THE BRAZEN ALTAR.

Fashioned of shining brass, God's Altar stood
Four-square—its pointed corners raised on high,
Like lifted hands appealing to the sky
In silence, touched with sacrificial blood.
Here, through the ages, on the typic wood
A myriad shadows of One Victim lie,
Feeding the sire which nought could satisfy
Till Calvary quenched it with a crimson flood.
“We have an Altar;” unto which we fly
Guilty for refuge. Glorious, strong to endure,
By faith we grasp it, and can never die;
For in God's ear it speaketh mightily
Of One whose sinless life and offering pure
Wrought for our souls a hope Divinely sure.

THE LAVER OR MOLTEN SEA.

A molten sea beneath the open sky,
With fruit and lilies carved around its rim,
And filled with crystal water to the brim,
On twelve symbolic oxen is raised high—
Which face the four winds with prophetic eye.
Is it from sunset clouds that o'er it swim
The water blushes, or prefiguring Him
Who came to shed His precious blood and die.
Lord, I would bathe me in that crimson sea,
And leave it, like the lilies, white and fair,
To go about and bring forth fruit for Thee,
While the dear burden of Thy Name I bear;
With patient labour lifting to the light
The Grace which passes thought in breadth, depth, height.

THE GOLDEN CANDLESTICK.

From suns that set or moons that change no light
Entered the Holy Place; but utter gloom
Pervaded that mysterious ante-room,
Till from the Candlestick there burst a bright
And sevenfold stream of glory, day and night;
And, like a lamp that burns within a tomb,
The golden branches, olive-fed, illume
The darkness with a flame that soothes the sight.
So not from light of Nature but of Grace
The lamp of Truth, with branches manifold,
Shines brightly in the Church—earth's holy place:
Oh, may it shed a lustre clear and bold,
The world to illumine and the Lord to greet,
Whene'er we hear approach His priestly feet!

THE TABLE OF SHEWBREAD,

(OR, HEBREW, BREAD OF FACES.)

May gifts of mine encounter that dread Face?
And will the holy eye of God endure
My faulty service and account it pure?
Yes, if my life and ordered works I place
Upon the golden Table of His grace:
Once laid in faith on that foundation sure,
Of God's approving smile they are secure—
The building precious for its glorious base.
Lord, I would bring Thee not the casual ears
Of faint desires, but the compacted bread
Of loving labour, godly toils and tears,
Of consecrated heart and hand and head:
Thus would I live as in Thy presence, Lord,
Thy presence my “exceeding great reward.”

THE VEIL OF THE TEMPLE.

The royal purple and the heavenly blue
With mystic crimson richly intertwine,
To weave a cunning veil before the shrine
Of glory, all too bright for mortal view.
One only—once a year—may venture through
That curtain, to behold the Light Divine.
Not without blood and incense—twofold sign—
In fear he entered and in fear withdrew.
Not yet the way to the Holiest was made plain;
Not yet on men might Heaven's full glory shine,
Till Christ's last sigh sundered the Veil in twain;
And now through His rent “flesh” the right is mine
Fearless to pass yon veil of azure hue,
And bask in bliss supreme, eternal, true.

MANNA.

Morn after morn on Paran's grassy floor
Lay Israel's pearl-like food, celestial, sweet;
The dew, exhaling, left it at their feet,
Circling their tents up to the very door;
They only stooped to gather it—no more;
No sowing, reaping, threshing of the wheat—
The corn of Heaven came down to them complete,
Without their toil or cost, a bounteous store.
Thus spiritual Manna now is shed
Around our homes, enough for all and each,
Without our labour, in abundance spread;
Only let Faith her daily hand out-reach
And gather for herself the Living Bread,
Sweet and refreshing past the power of speech.

THE BRAZEN SERPENT.

I hear a sharp, “exceeding bitter cry;”
I see a wild and horror-stricken crowd,
Strong men and children in fierce anguish bow'd—
The writhing limb, drooped head, and filming eye.
I see a symbol strange uplifted high,
A coilèd serpent, like a banner proud;
I hear a burst of gladness rising loud,
Responsive to a look of ecstasy.
I see a sinful, suffering, dying world—
Like ocean, dark with cloud and toss'd with storm;
But lo! a blood-red banner is unfurled,
Which floats around a gracious, drooping Form:
And through the dimness falls a mighty voice,
“O earth, earth, earth, behold, believe, rejoice!”

THE HYSSOP.

Not to the cedar on the mountain height,
But to the hyssop springing from the wall;
Not to a monarch-tree, broad-branched and tall,
But to a lowly herb, fragile and slight,
Is faith compared. Yet hyssop, on that night
When Death o'er Egypt settled like a pall,
Shone as the sceptre of the Lord of all,
Outstretched to guard His own with saving might.
Lord, with that sacred hyssop, which could give
A moment's solace to Thy mortal woe,
Purge me from all my sin, and bid me live,
And guard and comfort me where'er I go;
I seek not high things like the cedar tree,
The blood-stained hyssop is enough for me.

THE RED HEIFER.

What means that victim in procession led
Beyond the precincts of the camp, and slain;
Unmarked by servile yoke or any stain
Discolouring its coat of mystic red?
Soon on that holocaust the fire has fed;
But stored with care its ashes still remain,
And dipt in water once and once again,
Like healing dews on souls defiled are shed.
Lord Jesus, who “without the gate” didst make
Thyself an Offering, crimson, spotless, free,
Now let the finger of Thy Spirit take
The “water and the blood” and sprinkle me;
And daily show me, treasured in the skies,
The abiding power of the One Sacrifice!

THE SCAPEGOAT.

With solemn voice the white-robed priest confesses
O'er the devoted Scapegoat Israel's sin;
While—token of the burden felt within—
With heavy hands upon its head he presses.
The sin-bearer departing, new hope blesses
The watching, praying host. Straight they begin
The peacefulness of pardoned guilt to win;
Comfort Divine their thankful heart possesses.
The goat has passed beyond the horizon's rim;
The guilt is seen to fade away and vanish;
So when the hand of faith we place on Him,
Who came our myriad sins to blot and banish,
Laid on our Surety's head they disappear,
And all the horizon of the soul is clear.

THE PASCHAL LAMB.

Since Christ, our Passover, for us was slain,
'Tis our's to keep perpetual “holy day,”
And with a life-long gladness praise and pray:
For sin is gone, and peace and joy remain.
On the heart's lintel shines the crimson stain
Which keeps the fatal terror far away;
Secure we rest by night and work by day,
While justice sleeps, and love and mercy reign.
Oh, worthy, worthy is the Lamb who stood
A spotless Victim in the sinner's place,
And bought our safety with His innocent blood!
And precious, precious is the deathless grace
Which gives His flesh to be our daily food,
As faith's dim path o'er life's drear sands we trace.

“LET US PASS OVER TO THE OTHER SIDE.”

MANSIONS OF HEAVEN AND EARTH.

What pen can paint those “mansions” brave and fine,
Which sparkle in our Father's House above,
Where for His saints the hand of sovereign Love
Prepares a place that they may sing and shine.
What pearls and gold and garniture Divine
Shall meet our wondering gaze where'er we rove;
What strains more sweet than of earth's happiest grove
For our eternal joyance shall combine.
But when the Lord of glory seeks a place
Below the sky, what temple rich and rare
For His august abode shall man prepare?
“Give me a heart,” He says, “subdued by grace,
With faith for gold, and tears for jewels fair,
‘And we will come and make our mansion there.’”

ON THE MORNING STAR.

In the dim twilight of a Winter morn,
When the dark earth looks up to the grey sky,
One radiant Star attracts the wakeful eye,
And sheds a lustre o'er the scene forlorn.
And chiefly as the time when Christ was born
The Light of a dark world, is drawing nigh,
You see it hang its sparkling lamp on high,
And with its fairest rays the sky adorn.
I sit and gaze upon its light so cheering,
Till in the glowing dawn it hides its head,
And the thought rises that sweet sight endearing;
Whatever mortal mists my soul may sadden,
“I am the Morning Star,” my Saviour said,
Earth's dimness with Heaven's dayspring sent to gladden.

THE FIRST VIOLET.

ON THE BAPTISM OF OUR INFANT.

Arrayed in white, we give to God our child,
While a fair wreath of snowdrops set in moss
(As lilies might the Laver's rim emboss)
Circles the Font with blossoms undefiled.
From Heaven a white-winged angel is beguiled
To see his charge signed with the Saviour's Cross,
Token that he shall count the world but loss
In soldier-service for the Master mild.
Oh, may the “water and the blood” this day,
Made efficacious by the Spirit's might,
Bedeck our darling's soul in fair array;
That here a pilgrim he may “walk in white,”
Till, “Well done, faithful one,” the Master say,
“Wear the bright garland of the finished fight!”

MABEL'S HAT.

A little maiden's rustic hat I found
With hawthorn flowers and oak leaves twined all over,
Golden laburnum, bugle, and red clover.
What though her temples now with sleep were crowned,
As if the slumbrous poppy wreathed them round;
In dreams she still appears a woodland rover,
And trips along as happy as a lover,
Through leafy shade and field and pleasure ground.
Thus daily on thy simple life, dear child,
May Nature leave her fair and fragrant traces;
And daily round thy soul Religion mild
Entwine the blossoms of celestial graces;
Making thee “holy, harmless, undefiled,”
And meet to range in bliss through starry spaces.

CRAB-APPLE GATHERERS.

When happy rooks were wheeling overhead,
A noisy clan—we spent a bright half-hour,
Children and elders, where, in woodland bower,
The clustered crabs were gleaming rosy red.
'Mid shouts and laughter, soon the fruit lay spread
Upon the dewy grass, smiling but sour;
And soon we filled our baskets with the dower
Which Nature from her horn of plenty shed.
Then home we hied, with spoils of Autumn laden,
And from that fruit a golden syrup drew,
The joy of elders as of boy and maiden,
At many a merry meal the winter through:
Thrice happy who Life's bitters bravely meet,
And then through grace and patience find them sweet!

HARVEST PRAISE.

CHURCH SCULPTURE.

A sculptor I beheld with cunning hand
From shapeless stone fair leaves and flowers untwine,
Crowning the columns of a lofty shrine.
Like trees those pillars rise, a noble band,
Their tops of diverse foliage deftly plann'd:
While oak and maple, sycamore and vine,
With shamrock, lily, passion-flower combine,
To emulate some sylvan landscape grand.
The God of Nature is the God of Grace:
Then bring thy leaves, O sculptor, and thy flowers
To shed their woodland beauty o'er this place,
Fann'd by the breath Divine of holy hours;
Until we almost feel we see His face,
Whose voice at eve thrilled Eden's leafy bowers!

A CRUCIFORM CHURCH.

(ROTHERHAM.)

Where the far-stretching nave and glorious choir
With stately transepts, intersecting, blend,
And form a mighty Cross, I see ascend
As with a leap to Heaven the tapering spire.
It bids me lift my looks and longings higher
Than this world's smoke and cloud—to let them tend
To yonder azure Home and gracious Friend,
And set on things above my heart's desire.
Thus, resting on the Cross as on its base,
See the fair fabric of Religion rise,
Truth her foundation and her topstone Grace:
Thus ever upwards see her point men's eyes
Which some celestial ladder seem to trace,
Its foot on earth, its summit in the skies.

WATER TURNED TO WINE.

SOLACE IN SICKNESS.

Clouded with sickness, Lord, languid with pain,
I cannot work or meditate or pray;
The night is dreary, and forlorn the day.
From Nature or from Grace I seek in vain
Some gleam of comfort. Shall I not complain
Of precious golden sands, which slip away
Out of Time's hour-glass, touched with no sweet ray
Of service, or of spiritual gain?
“Not so!” a Voice replied. “For each dark hour
Patiently borne, for each sharp pain and ache,
An added jewel in thy crown shall shake,
And gathered ‘weight’ accrue to ‘Glory's’ dower.
Sufferings are gifts; accept them for My sake,
And from earth's sighs Heaven's music shall awake.”

A SUFFERING CHRISTIAN'S PRAYER.

“My Father, say ‘Good night’ unto Thy child!”
And let Thy blessing bring me the repose
I sorely need, and my tired eyelids close
In balmy slumber and oblivion mild.
Oh, banish evil dreams and fancies wild—
Sad shadows, it may be, of bygone woes;
And give me rest—image of peace which flows
Through Jesus from a Father reconciled.
“My Father, say ‘Good morning’ to Thy child!”
And let Thy smile bring comfort for the morrow;
Give me a conscience calm and undefiled,
A courage strong to cope with pain and sorrow;
“The day is Thine,” O Lord, “the night is Thine,”
And Thou, through grace and promises, art mine!

HOME AND HEAVEN.

His feet have wandered where loud cataracts foam
In pine-clad dells; or, through the distance clear,
White Alps and purple Apennines appear,
Grey classic tower, and air-suspended dome.
O'er earth's famed regions he has loved to roam,
By palm and pyramid—afar and near;
But nought now seems to him so fair and dear
As that old Church which marks his Childhood's Home.
Thus when our mortal pilgrimage shall cease,
And eye and ear at length are satisfied
With sights and sounds of earth; oh, what deep peace
Will rise within us, always to abide,
As that blest “House not made with hands” we see—
Our Home and Temple through eternity!

WINTER LESSONS.

A GETHSEMANE MARIGOLD.

A bee crept round my sun-like marigold
And sucked the nectar from that Eastern bloom,
Whose shining ancestry did once illume
The sacred olive-garden—where of old
Dark clouds of sorrow o'er the Saviour rolled.
How strange this honied brightness to that gloom,
That awful shadow of the Cross and tomb,
That cup of gall and bitterness untold.
O Lord of love, blest Oriental Flower,
Casting a gleam on this far western isle,
Fain would I seek Thy face from hour to hour,
To taste Thy sweetness and to feel Thy smile,—
My comfort here, and Plant of rare renown,
My glory yonder, and my golden crown.

ON A CYPRESS FROM MOUNT SINAI,

IN SANDOWN VICARAGE GARDEN, ISLE OF WIGHT.

A seedling from the rugged mountain heights
Of Sinai, where one lonely Cypress tree
Sways to the smiting blast, which wanders free
Over those rocky solitudes, and blights
The scanty verdure. Here Love's hand delights
To tend it amid blossoms, where the bee
Mingles its music with the whispering sea,
And the Church bell to prayer and praise invites.
O tapering Cypress, my aspiring soul
In thy symbolic story fain would share;
Not where the stormy blasts of Sinai roll
May I be found; but in a garden fair,
Where Calvary's Cross and Sharon's rose are seen
Pointing to Paradise and joys serene.

ON A DENARIUS OF TIBERIUS CÆSAR,

THE SILVER ‘PENNY’ OF THE GOSPELS.

The Roman “penny” in my hand to-day,
Stamped with the same imperial “image” stern
And superscription that I here discern,
Once in the open palm of Jesus lay.
I gaze—and centuries, dream-like, fade away;
The years of that mysterious life return;
I see the down-turned Face for which saints yearn,
Which dimly floats above them when they pray.
But lo! the silver in that gracious palm,
Even while I ponder, takes a darker hue;
That Face is marr'd, though still divinely calm,
That outstretched hand, iron has pierced it through;
Not silver now, or gold, but Gilead's balm
Of “precious blood” meets my adoring view!

THE TEMPLE WINDOWS.

“CHRIST IN YOU.”

Since in the temple of the Christian's heart
Dwells Jesus, surely through the Christian's eyes
As through a window, or the thin disguise
Of screen or lattice-work, He will impart
Tokens of His dear presence; and will dart
Some gentle rays to comfort or make wise
A weary world that still in darkness lies,
Weighed down by doubts and fears and sorrow's smart.
Is “Christ in us,”—be ours the glorious dower
To show the Saviour shining in our face,
And through our eyes forth-putting His sweet power
To help the weak and wayward with His grace;
Oh, let not sin in us those windows dim
Through which the world might catch some glimpse of Him.

“MEET FOR THE MASTER'S USE.”

THE CURFEW.

'Mid the sweet voices of the vernal year,
Charming and transient as the flowers of May,
The solemn Curfew wandered on its way,
And through a thousand song-birds held mine ear.
It seemed to hail me with vibrations clear
From far off ages, lost in shadows grey,
When England owned the Norman's iron sway,
Which thrills this bell with a forgotten fear.
So mid the pleasant sounds of earth and time,
Which sweetly occupy the fleeting hour,
I catch the cadence of a Heavenly chime:
Full eighteen centuries have felt its power,
As of a bell melodious and sublime,
Fraught not with fear but Love's eternal dower.

HILDA'S WOOD,

HACKNESS, NEAR SCARBOROUGH.

In green Hackness, where holy Hilda prayed
And for her gracious Lord “did what she could,”
No stone of any building has withstood
The havoc which twelve centuries have made.
Her name has left the valleys where she strayed,
Low-lying fields, and streamlet's modest flood;
But, like the setting sun, has caught yon wood,
Which clothes the girdling heights in pleasant shade.
Long as the trees with emerald Spring shall bud,
Or burn with yellow Autumn, that fair hill
Shall brighten with the memory of the good;
Her presence vanished, but a glory still
Touches the grove and hallows all the place
Blest by the footsteps of a life of Grace.

ON AN OLD ASH TREE,

NEAR THE SITE OF A FORMER VILLAGE AND DESECRATED CHAPEL IN LONDESBOROUGH PARK.

O ancient ash-tree, shattered, gnarled, contorted,
But living still, what tales thou hast to tell
Since in thy shade at call of holy bell,
Hither for prayer the villagers resorted—
Where long the deer have ranged, the lambs disported:
No cottage smoke now curls from this green dell,
No chapel lifts its cross; but by the swell
Of falling waters the lone ear is courted.
Man's home and name and memory fade away,
While still, like hoary Time, this ash survives;
But from the Cross has fallen a cheering ray
Beyond the limit of these narrow lives;
Not all of man decays before a tree—
We pass—to our immortal destiny!

AUTUMN LEAVES;

OR, “TONGUES IN TREES.”

THE BIRD-COMFORTER.

Though from his sealèd lips, alas, no word,
On this side Heaven, will ever soothe her ear,
There lives an echo of his accents dear,
Mixed with the music of a warbling bird;
Which not in vain from day to day had heard,
In happy vernal hours, his whistle clear,
But caught the cadence, and repeats it here,
In notes by which a widowed heart is stirred.
Close to the window, in his favourite beech,
It sits and sings to her, at morn and eve,
And seems, for vanished tones of human speech,
Some wingèd angel's cheering strains to weave,
Chanting of bowery rest beyond the reach
Of earth's sharp thorns which mortal bosoms grieve.

HOPE FOR OLD AGE.

SUGGESTED BY THE WORDS OF AN AGED PARISHIONER.

What though the hand of time, with deepening furrow,
Has graven on my brow full fourscore years,
And oft my path has led through toils and tears,
Old age is not to me “labour and sorrow.”
This tent of mine is shattered, but I borrow
From failing flesh a brightening hope that cheers;
And as Life's sinking sun the horizon nears,
I hail the approach of Heaven's eternal morrow.
Not down, but up, the hill with footsteps slow,
I journey; and behold, a glory rises
In the grey East, which makes my cheek to glow,
And with strange beauty my dim eye surprises;
Joy dawns; the veil rends; and I see—I see
The Face of Him who opened Heaven for me!

PARADISE.

Adam all day 'mid odorous garden bowers
Had lightly toiled—while many a tender word,
With murmur of the brook and song of bird,
Fell on Eve's ear at work amongst her flowers;
When lo! where grove of pine and cedar towers,
As with a gentle breeze the leaves are stirred,
And walking in the garden God is heard,
With voice of love charming those evening hours.
With conscious innocence, and hand in hand
That goodly pair approach their awful Friend,
Like children with belovèd father stand;
Then at his feet in adoration bend.—
O golden age! O days of heaven on earth!
When life was piety and labour mirth.

SAMSON'S RIDDLE.

Through Timnath's vineyards as alone he strayed,
Roused from its secret lair, a lion roared;
With his bare hands and help from heaven implored,
Lifeless the tawny monster soon he laid.
Passing once more he sought the same green shade,
When lo! a swarm of bees had strangely stored
In the bleached skeleton their fragrant hoard,
And there a dainty feast for him had made.
Thus in our path when threatening danger rises,
Let us trust God and it will disappear;
His Providence assumes alarming guises
To make us fly to Him, unseen, but near;
While Love prepares a thousand sweet surprises
God's ways to our weak hearts the more to endear.

ON A THRUSH SINGING AT A FUNERAL IN NOVEMBER.

What means that softly-piped, melodious strain
While yet long months of chilling frost and snow
Must intervene before the violets blow,
And April sunshine cheers us after rain?
Of hope it whispers to that mournful train
Which treads the churchyard path with footsteps slow—
Of heavenly hope assuring earthly woe
That songs and blooms and rapture yet remain.
Ah, who can tell what bower of Paradise
May shelter now that dear departed one
Whose praises, like sweet music, softly rise?
And when the days of waiting all are done
What blissful scenes shall fill our ravished eyes
While wreathed in flowers the Eternal year shall run!

A THOUGHT IN A MARCH ROOKERY.

With loud content the rook industrious weaves
The fabric of her nest, while March winds blow,
And rock the uneasy cradle to and fro,
Curtained by no warm canopy of leaves.
Fostering her callow young ones, she receives
With patient wing the pelting rain and snow:
And while her daily food lies spread below,
For future wants and woes she never grieves.
So let us pass through Life's tumultuous hour
With a light heart and ride upon the breeze,
Trusting our all to that benignant Power,
Who with a Father's loving eye foresees
Whatever fears may rise or storms may lower,
Controlling all things with Almighty ease!

PASSING AWAY.

What is the whisper of the dying year?
“Passing away,” it sighs, “Passing away:”
Nothing below continues in one stay;
All earthly glories fade and disappear.
The haunts to childhood and to memory dear—
The cherished walls where once we knelt to pray,
Our very churches crumble and decay:
The touch of Time corrodeth all things here.
But 'mid the general wreck two things endure;
Nor change shall reach them, nor decay shall wrong;
The steadfast stars may fall; God's Word stands sure;
And whoso does God's will, he shall prolong
His life for ever in those mansions pure,
Where men shall be as angels bright and strong.

THE PILLAR.

THE ROMAN CAMP.

AT CAWTHORNE, NEAR PICKERING.

We rested on a green escarpment high,
Where heather in luxuriant beauty crowned
A Roman Camp—its deep-trenched foss and mound
Left sixteen centuries since beneath the sky.
From this steep hill the conqueror's eagle eye
Swept the horizon—hourly glanced around
The subject dales, the while he paced the ground
With armèd steps where carelessly we lie.
He holds possession in a foreign soil
And needs—to keep his restless foe at bay—
A vigilant outlook and unceasing toil:
Thus Grace, in sinful hearts, through life's short day
Must watch and work the native powers to foil,
And her deep prints no time will wear away.

ON THE SIGHT OF A SEA-BIRD IN APRIL.

Wandering alone in pensive mood, I saw
A Sea-bird wing its solitary way;
The sunbeams glistened on its fair array
Of plumage, white as foam, without a flaw.
I felt an admiration mixed with awe,
Knowing where'er that gentle bird might stray,
Beneath the shield of England's care it lay,
Protected by the majesty of Law.
And from its wings there glanced a cheering thought,
For a lone child by a wise God designed:
‘Thou art a creature of a nobler kind,
Thy peace and welfare Heaven itself has sought;
A mightier shield defends thee from above,
Safe by the law of Everlasting love.’

A WHITE CHRISTMAS.

A SONNET FOR CHILDREN.

Dear English children, fresh from happy dreams,
With Christmas carols blended, what a world
Of sudden snow before you is unfurled;
How like a dream the altered outlook seems.
Peaceful it shines beneath the morning beams,
And every spray with beauty is impearled;
But wildly through the night the storm has whirled,
And sadly on some eyes the cold snow gleams.
While you slept sweetly in the curtained room,
And blithely woke to welcome Christmas morn;
Children ill-fed, ill-clad, through hours of gloom
Have sighed, to shudder in the light forlorn.
You darlings—try to soften their sad doom
For His dear love Who this white day was born!

A LITTLE GIRL AT THE SEASIDE.

THE RAINBOW, A SYMBOL.

When eyes that watched the Flood rise and decline
First saw the Bow of beauteous colours braided
Which spann'd a threatening cloud, then slowly faded,
Each heart relied on that assuring Sign.
So when in Christ the dazzling Light Divine
Spreads out its heavenly splendours, softly-shaded
In cloud of flesh, our trembling faith is aided
On God's sure truth and mercy to recline.
To see Him once to holy John was given,
“Clothed in a cloud, a rainbow round His head,”
Earth's fair memorial wearing still in heaven;
And when God looks upon that blessed token
Encircling “Him who liveth, and was dead,”
He keeps His covenant of peace unbroken.

TAKE UP AND READ.

When light and darkness in his soul contended,
And sighs and tears forced their impetuous way,
As prostrate 'neath a fig-tree's shade he lay,
A voice melodious on his ear descended.
It seemed the tongue of men and angels blended;
Commissioned, with repeated strain, to say,
‘Take up and read,’ and soon will shine Truth's day,
‘Take up and read,’ soon will Sin's night be ended.
Instant he rose, and seized the sacred scroll:
He reads the words which meet his eager eye,
And God's own finger stamps them on his soul;
Absolving peace pervades him from on high,
The chains of his besetting sin unroll,
And leave him clothed with light and liberty.

WINTER WHEAT.

As by some leafless hedge or rustic stile
Betwixt bare fields I wander, lo, the scene
Suddenly flushes with an emerald sheen,
Caught from the Winter wheat; a cheery smile
Permitted this dark season to beguile
With hope of radiant autumn-hours serene:
As if December wreathed his brow with green,
And whispered through his snows, “A little while.”
So in Earth's dreariest Winter-time was seen
The new-born lustre of our “Corn of wheat;”
An Infant smile, oh, how divinely sweet;
Blessing the fields those favoured hills between:
And that fair gleam still speaks to Faith's dim eyes
Of Harvest-treasure in the peaceful skies.

WINTER BLOSSOMS.

See how blue violets and the pale primrose
Round sleeping Winter's brow securely cluster,
Lending the dreary woods unwonted lustre
Where his recumbent form he idly throws,
While at his feet a shining rivulet flows;
But soon the Giant will awake and bluster
Among the creaking trees, and frowning, muster
His icy winds and clouds and muffling snows.
Then with his chilling fingers he will scatter
The untimely wreath that graced his tangled hair,
Though now the flowers may smile, the sunshine flatter:
Let sanguine Hope give heed to sober Reason—
Of buds that burst precociously beware—
To everything on earth there is a season.

FROM MY STUDY WINDOW.

(MILFORD HALL, KIRKBY WHARFE, 1863–1866.)

SWEET EGLANTINE.

IN TWILIGHT DIM.

IN SUNSHINE SWEET.

DOROTHEA.

BLUE HYACINTHS.

FROM DESCRIPTION OF HUMAN LIFE.

Happy the man who welcoming each day
With smiles that answer to its fleeting ray,
Pursues with steps serene his purposed way.
The alluring snares peculiar to the age
His soul enslave not, nor his mind engage;
His life with peaceful tenor glides along,
By fav'ring breezes fann'd and soothed with song;
Inspir'd by Heaven with soul-sustaining force,
Seldom he falls or falters in his course;
But ever as the eddying years roll round,
Bursting through all the perils that abound,
A wise asserter of himself is found.

JESUS CHRIST'S EXPOSTULATION WITH AN UNGRATEFUL WORLD.

I am all fair, yet no one loveth Me;
Noble, yet no one would My servant be;
Rich, yet no suppliant at My gate appears;
Almighty, yet before Me no one fears;
Eternal, I by very few am sought;
Wise am I, yet My counsel goes for nought;
I am the Way, yet by Me walks scarce one;
The Truth, why am I not relied upon?
The Life, yet seldom one My help requires;
The True Light, yet to see Me none desires;
And I am merciful, yet none is known
To place his confidence in Me alone.
Man, if thou perish, 'tis that thou dost choose it;
Salvation I have wrought for thee, O use it!

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