 | Sequences, Hymns, and Other Ecclesiastical Verses |  |
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ECCLESIASTICAL VERSES.
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Carol for S. Clement's Day.
It was about November-tide,
A long, long time ago,
When good S. Clement testified
The faith that now we know.
Right boldly then he said his say
Before a furious king:
And therefore on S. Clement's day
We go a-Clementing.
A long, long time ago,
When good S. Clement testified
The faith that now we know.
Right boldly then he said his say
Before a furious king:
And therefore on S. Clement's day
We go a-Clementing.
Work in the mines they gave him then,
To try the brave old Saint;
And there two thousand Christian men
With thirst were like to faint.
He prayed a prayer, and out of clay
he made the waters spring;
And therefore on S. Clement's day
We go a-Clementing.
To try the brave old Saint;
And there two thousand Christian men
With thirst were like to faint.
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he made the waters spring;
And therefore on S. Clement's day
We go a-Clementing.
An anchor round his neck they tied,
And cast him in the sea;
And bravely as he lived, he died,
And gallantly went free.
He rests a many miles away,
Yet here his name we sing,
As all upon S. Clement's day
We go a-Clementing.
And cast him in the sea;
And bravely as he lived, he died,
And gallantly went free.
He rests a many miles away,
Yet here his name we sing,
As all upon S. Clement's day
We go a-Clementing.
Our fathers kept it long ago,
And their request we make,
Good Christians, one small mite bestow,
For sweet S. Clement's sake;
And make his feast as glad and gay
As if it came in spring,
When all upon S. Clement's day
We go a-Clementing.
And their request we make,
Good Christians, one small mite bestow,
For sweet S. Clement's sake;
And make his feast as glad and gay
As if it came in spring,
When all upon S. Clement's day
We go a-Clementing.
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Christmas Carol.
Young and old must raise the lay
That their heart engages:
For the Child is born to day
Who is King of ages:
For the God, by all adored,
Comes to His elected;
For the Babe that is the Lord,
Hastes to be rejected.
That their heart engages:
For the Child is born to day
Who is King of ages:
For the God, by all adored,
Comes to His elected;
For the Babe that is the Lord,
Hastes to be rejected.
If the purple proves the King,
Where is goodly raiment?
If man needeth ransoming,
Who shall make the payment?
For the purple here is grass:
For the throne, the manger:
For the Courtiers, ox and ass
Kneel before the Stranger.
Where is goodly raiment?
If man needeth ransoming,
Who shall make the payment?
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For the throne, the manger:
For the Courtiers, ox and ass
Kneel before the Stranger.
Joshua hastes to meet the foes,
Boastful and defiant;
David to his brethren goes,
And shall slay the giant:
Help is nigh to change our fate,
Help we may rely on:
Solomon, with royal state,
Shall be crowned in Gihon.
Boastful and defiant;
David to his brethren goes,
And shall slay the giant:
Help is nigh to change our fate,
Help we may rely on:
Solomon, with royal state,
Shall be crowned in Gihon.
Through the desert as we go,
Sorrowful and fearing,
From the Rock the waters flow,
That shall work our cheering.
Manna, wherewith all are fed,
Comes for our salvation;
Born in Bethlehem, “House of Bread,”
By interpretation.
Sorrowful and fearing,
From the Rock the waters flow,
That shall work our cheering.
Manna, wherewith all are fed,
Comes for our salvation;
Born in Bethlehem, “House of Bread,”
By interpretation.
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Young and old must raise the lay
That their heart engages:
For the Child is born to day
Who is King of ages:
Young and old their deeds so frame,
That, as He came hither,
They, when He their lives shall claim,
May to Him go thither.
That their heart engages:
For the Child is born to day
Who is King of ages:
Young and old their deeds so frame,
That, as He came hither,
They, when He their lives shall claim,
May to Him go thither.
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A Christmas Carol.
FOR HOLY INNOCENTS.
'Tis at Christmas time, when frost is out,
And the year is very old,
And icicles and snowdrifts make
This cold world seem more cold;
At Christmas time that He was born,
Who came that He might bring
All them that love Him to the Land
Of everlasting Spring.
And the year is very old,
And icicles and snowdrifts make
This cold world seem more cold;
At Christmas time that He was born,
Who came that He might bring
All them that love Him to the Land
Of everlasting Spring.
'Tis at Christmas time, when holly shines
With green and prickly leaves,
And on its boughs a coronet
Of scarlet berries weaves,—
At Christmas time we keep His feast
Who wore the robe of red,
Whereby the Martyr's blessed Crown
Alone is purchasèd.
With green and prickly leaves,
And on its boughs a coronet
Of scarlet berries weaves,—
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Who wore the robe of red,
Whereby the Martyr's blessed Crown
Alone is purchasèd.
'Tis at Christmas time, when all things seem
So very pure and bright,
And fields are sparkling with the frost,
And earth is spotless white:
At Christmas time his day comes round,
Who purity put on
As fields and trees their robe of snow,—
The Apostle, sweet S. John.
So very pure and bright,
And fields are sparkling with the frost,
And earth is spotless white:
At Christmas time his day comes round,
Who purity put on
As fields and trees their robe of snow,—
The Apostle, sweet S. John.
And at Christmas time is our own bright day,
When all those children dear
Who died for Christ went up on high
To begin a happier year;
Blest Innocents! like the flowers that now
In the ground so long have lain;
But surely, soon as April comes,
Shall wake and bloom again.
When all those children dear
Who died for Christ went up on high
To begin a happier year;
Blest Innocents! like the flowers that now
In the ground so long have lain;
But surely, soon as April comes,
Shall wake and bloom again.
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No Nightingales.
“How glorious were the nightingales last night,
'Neath the dim, April, warm, half moonlit, sky!
As from wood-choirs and temples of delight,
The dewy streamside grass, the black-thorn nigh,
They poured their melody!”
'Neath the dim, April, warm, half moonlit, sky!
As from wood-choirs and temples of delight,
The dewy streamside grass, the black-thorn nigh,
They poured their melody!”
“Indeed! I heard it not! I looked around,
And deemed that night and silence had their fill:
From forest, fallow, distant lane, no sound,
Save the dull dronings of the watermill:
The Nightingales were still.”
And deemed that night and silence had their fill:
From forest, fallow, distant lane, no sound,
Save the dull dronings of the watermill:
The Nightingales were still.”
“O dull of ear to hear! but mark thou this:
My ears were sharpened by a bed of pain;
Thus, out of sorrow, God works often bliss,
And that flits by, and this shall still remain:
—The Nightingales no strain!!”
My ears were sharpened by a bed of pain;
Thus, out of sorrow, God works often bliss,
And that flits by, and this shall still remain:
—The Nightingales no strain!!”
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But sursum corda! may it not be so,
That those sweet strains on Jordan's further side,
Unheard by souls who only this world know,
May yet to them not wholly be denied
Who drink the cup of woe?
That those sweet strains on Jordan's further side,
Unheard by souls who only this world know,
May yet to them not wholly be denied
Who drink the cup of woe?
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Home Sickness.
I come from yon hills far away,
The glades are hushed, the sea is gray;
And still I wander here and there,
And still a sigh will question—Where?
The glades are hushed, the sea is gray;
And still I wander here and there,
And still a sigh will question—Where?
Where art thou, sweetest Land of mine,
Towards whom I press, for whom I pine;
The Land with loveliness aglow,
The Land where all my roses blow?
Towards whom I press, for whom I pine;
The Land with loveliness aglow,
The Land where all my roses blow?
Dear vision, ever in my sight!
To thee my dreams fly home by night,
To thee in toil they speed for rest,
In thee, in peril, build their nest.
To thee my dreams fly home by night,
To thee in toil they speed for rest,
In thee, in peril, build their nest.
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The Land where, under brighter skies,
All my beloved dead shall rise;
The Land, all other lands among,
That only speaks my native tongue.
All my beloved dead shall rise;
The Land, all other lands among,
That only speaks my native tongue.
And still I wander here and there,
And still a sigh will question—Where?
—O pilgrim, though thou canst not see,
Thy Home yet is, and is for thee!
And still a sigh will question—Where?
—O pilgrim, though thou canst not see,
Thy Home yet is, and is for thee!
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The Battle of the Alma.
By the faint and dying watchfires,
wounded, harassed, wearied out,
If we hear the vengeful trumpets,
if we catch the foeman's shout,—
wounded, harassed, wearied out,
If we hear the vengeful trumpets,
if we catch the foeman's shout,—
What great wonder, though the Eagle
Russia crushed in height of pride,
Should to-day have better fortune
with the “Leopards” at her side?
Russia crushed in height of pride,
Should to-day have better fortune
with the “Leopards” at her side?
Think, beside the Borodino,
(ninety thousand fell that day,)
Russian peasants kept the Old Guard
twelve long dreadful hours at bay:
(ninety thousand fell that day,)
Russian peasants kept the Old Guard
twelve long dreadful hours at bay:
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When we fired our holy Moscow,
how behind their rout and rack
Hung the standards of the Ukraine,
and the vengeful Don Cossack!
how behind their rout and rack
Hung the standards of the Ukraine,
and the vengeful Don Cossack!
If this world were all,—how gallant
was that storming of the height,
With the Chasseurs in the centre,
and Saint Arnaud to the right:
was that storming of the height,
With the Chasseurs in the centre,
and Saint Arnaud to the right:
When around the dying Marshal
formed their lines and rose their cheers:
And the chief that burnt the captives
in the cavern by Algiers.
formed their lines and rose their cheers:
And the chief that burnt the captives
in the cavern by Algiers.
Though outnumbered, outmanœuvred,
something comforts us within,
Whispering: It is sometimes nobler
to be conquered than to win:
something comforts us within,
Whispering: It is sometimes nobler
to be conquered than to win:
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Nobler to be conquered, fighting
for each home and wife and pet,
Nobler to be conquered, leaving
names our land will not forget,—
for each home and wife and pet,
Nobler to be conquered, leaving
names our land will not forget,—
Than, for greed of gold or glory,
on the hardwon field to say,
God Himself approves aggression,
for to Him we owe the day.
on the hardwon field to say,
God Himself approves aggression,
for to Him we owe the day.
France and England, sing Te Deum,
that Te Deum so disgraced,
For the homes by you made homeless,
for the hearths by you laid waste:
that Te Deum so disgraced,
For the homes by you made homeless,
for the hearths by you laid waste:
And to serve both God and Mammon,
—this world's gain, but that world's loss,—
High above your very Altars
wreathe the Crescent with the Cross:
—this world's gain, but that world's loss,—
High above your very Altars
wreathe the Crescent with the Cross:
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There remains a dreader Judgment
where this wrong shall be repaid;
Juster scales than those of glory
where this battle shall be weighed.
where this wrong shall be repaid;
Juster scales than those of glory
where this battle shall be weighed.
On the Vigil of S. Matthew
Russian lips shall ever pray
For the men that died by Alma
when the Crescent won the day.
Russian lips shall ever pray
For the men that died by Alma
when the Crescent won the day.
Courage, brethren! France's tyrant,
through the good path oped by you,
May have yet his Saint Helena,
Alma yet her Waterloo!
through the good path oped by you,
May have yet his Saint Helena,
Alma yet her Waterloo!
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The Martyrdom of the Archbishop of Paris
June 25, 1848.
A day of clouds and darkness! a day of wrath and woe!
The war of elements above, the strife of men below!
Through the air rings shout and outcry—through the streets a red tide pours,—
To the booming of the cannon the ancient city roars:
For wilder than the tempest is human passion's strife,
And deadlier than the elements the waste of human life:
No breathing time for pity; 'tis the long stern tug of might:
The war of poor against the rich, and both against the right:
Each street and lane the artillery sweeps,—the rifle enfilades,—
With stone and bar, with beam and spar, they pile the barricades;
And women-fiends, with blood-specked arms, fierce eye, and frenzied mien,
Cry “Up the Red Republic!” and “Up the Guillotine!”
The war of elements above, the strife of men below!
Through the air rings shout and outcry—through the streets a red tide pours,—
To the booming of the cannon the ancient city roars:
For wilder than the tempest is human passion's strife,
And deadlier than the elements the waste of human life:
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The war of poor against the rich, and both against the right:
Each street and lane the artillery sweeps,—the rifle enfilades,—
With stone and bar, with beam and spar, they pile the barricades;
And women-fiends, with blood-specked arms, fierce eye, and frenzied mien,
Cry “Up the Red Republic!” and “Up the Guillotine!”
Now forth and on them, Garde Mobile! stout heart, firm hand, quick eye!
No mercy know, no quarter show; to pity is to die!
To the last worst fate of cities,—the murder and the rape,
'Tis yours to give one answer, the sabre and the grape:
Where'er the strife is hottest, on first and foremost, there!
On to the Quai du Palais! on to the Rue d'Enfer!
Where'er on high the blood red flag and the Marseillaise may be,
Beneath must come the tricolor, and Mourir pour la Patrie!
There is tearing up of pavements, there are shrieks of them that bleed,
There is firing from the windows, there is spurring of the steed:
There is stepping into places of the fallen in the rank,
There is breaking down the house-wall to take the foe in flank:
There is lust, and hate, and murder,—they have filled Rebellion's cup:
And to the God of Vengeance the city's cry goes up!
And more, and more, on, on, they pour;—there's the battery's thicker flame,
And the quicker ring of musketry, and the rifle's deadlier aim:
Go, hurry to the Assembly,—for the bravest chiefs are there,—
Bedeau, and Bréa, and Cavaignac, and Lamoricière.
And in and out the frequent scout goes hastening as he may:
“At the Rue d'Antoine the Garde Mobile have the better of the day”—
“Some succour to the Port au Bled—they scarce can hold their own”—
“Help, help! or all is over at the Barrière du Trône!”—
And out and forth, east, west, and north, the hurrying chiefs advance,
To combat with the combatants, and to die, if needs, for France.
Who come towards the barricade with steady steps and slow,
With prayers, and tears, and blessings to aid them as they go?
Among the armed no armour the little cohort boasts,
Their leader is their Prelate, their trust the Lord of Hosts!
And the brave Archbishop tells them in voice most sweet and deep,
How the Good Shepherd layeth down His life to save the sheep;
How some short years of grief and tears were no great price to give,
That Peace might come from discord and bid these rebels live:
Rebels so precious in His eyes, that He, Whose word is fate,
Alone could make, alone redeem, alone regenerate!
No mercy know, no quarter show; to pity is to die!
To the last worst fate of cities,—the murder and the rape,
'Tis yours to give one answer, the sabre and the grape:
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On to the Quai du Palais! on to the Rue d'Enfer!
Where'er on high the blood red flag and the Marseillaise may be,
Beneath must come the tricolor, and Mourir pour la Patrie!
There is tearing up of pavements, there are shrieks of them that bleed,
There is firing from the windows, there is spurring of the steed:
There is stepping into places of the fallen in the rank,
There is breaking down the house-wall to take the foe in flank:
There is lust, and hate, and murder,—they have filled Rebellion's cup:
And to the God of Vengeance the city's cry goes up!
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And the quicker ring of musketry, and the rifle's deadlier aim:
Go, hurry to the Assembly,—for the bravest chiefs are there,—
Bedeau, and Bréa, and Cavaignac, and Lamoricière.
And in and out the frequent scout goes hastening as he may:
“At the Rue d'Antoine the Garde Mobile have the better of the day”—
“Some succour to the Port au Bled—they scarce can hold their own”—
“Help, help! or all is over at the Barrière du Trône!”—
And out and forth, east, west, and north, the hurrying chiefs advance,
To combat with the combatants, and to die, if needs, for France.
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With prayers, and tears, and blessings to aid them as they go?
Among the armed no armour the little cohort boasts,
Their leader is their Prelate, their trust the Lord of Hosts!
And the brave Archbishop tells them in voice most sweet and deep,
How the Good Shepherd layeth down His life to save the sheep;
How some short years of grief and tears were no great price to give,
That Peace might come from discord and bid these rebels live:
Rebels so precious in His eyes, that He, Whose word is fate,
Alone could make, alone redeem, alone regenerate!
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One moment's lull of firing, and near and nearer goes
That candidate for martyrdom to the midmost of his foes:
And on he went, with love unspent, toward the rifled line,
As calm in faith, in sight of death, as in his church's shrine:
And the war closed deadlier round him, and more savage rose the cheer,
And the bullets whistled past him, but still he knew no fear:
And calmer grew his visage, and brighter grew his eye,
He could not save his people, for his people he could die:
And, following in the holy steps of Him That harrowed hell,
By death crushed death, by falling upraised the men that fell.
They bear him from his passion, for the prize of peace is won:
His warfare is accomplished, his godlike errand run:
They kneel before his litter, in the midst of hottest strife;
They ask his prayers, the uttermost, who gave for them his life.
So, offering up his sacrifice to God with free accord,
The city's Martyr-Bishop went home to see his Lord!
That candidate for martyrdom to the midmost of his foes:
And on he went, with love unspent, toward the rifled line,
As calm in faith, in sight of death, as in his church's shrine:
And the war closed deadlier round him, and more savage rose the cheer,
And the bullets whistled past him, but still he knew no fear:
And calmer grew his visage, and brighter grew his eye,
He could not save his people, for his people he could die:
And, following in the holy steps of Him That harrowed hell,
By death crushed death, by falling upraised the men that fell.
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His warfare is accomplished, his godlike errand run:
They kneel before his litter, in the midst of hottest strife;
They ask his prayers, the uttermost, who gave for them his life.
So, offering up his sacrifice to God with free accord,
The city's Martyr-Bishop went home to see his Lord!
Now God be praised that even yet His Promise doth not fail!
The gates of hell can never more against His Church prevail:
When human ties are slackened, and earthly kingdoms rock,
And thrones and sceptres crumble, like potsherds, in the shock:
There's that, unearthly, though on earth, that ne'er shall be o'erthrown:
Laud to the King of Martyrs for the Victory of His Own!
The gates of hell can never more against His Church prevail:
When human ties are slackened, and earthly kingdoms rock,
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There's that, unearthly, though on earth, that ne'er shall be o'erthrown:
Laud to the King of Martyrs for the Victory of His Own!
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The Consecration of S. Augustine's, Canterbury.
SAINT PETER'S DAY, 1848.
'Tis the vigil of Saint Peter—but the vesper bell is still;
No peasant group moves churchward through valley or o'er hill;
The priest hath left his people; the office is unsaid;
The ancient aisle resounds not beneath the entering tread.
'Tis the vigil of Saint Peter; but all the livelong day
Through England's thousand valleys her priests are on the way:
By the haycock, through the cornfield, by the hedgerow, past the tree,
They are shooting through the tunnel, they are dashing o'er the lea:
They pause not at the city whose cathedral rises fair;
They stop not at the landscape in its veil of summer air:
From the rocky glens of Cumberland, from Snowdon's mountain hoar,
From where Saint German taught the faith to Mona's sea-girt shore;
From Lincoln's holy minster their onward course is bent,
From the forest lanes of Sussex, from the sunny hills of Kent;
One heart is theirs, their goal is one, through many a various way,
In that august primatial church to keep Saint Peter's day.
Ay, 'tis a glorious gathering!—They are meeting face to face,
Who have fought the selfsame battle, who have run the selfsame race:
Glad greeting as of brethren from friends unknown till then,
Who far apart, but one in heart, for the Church had played the men:
They are flocking on together to keep that Feast of feasts,
The goodly band of bishops, the exceeding host of priests;
Men that had taught the peasant how to live and how to die,
Men that had foiled earth's wisest, and had crushed down heresy:
That alone, among the wicked, had dared to stand at bay,
That alone had borne the heat and the burden of the day:
By an evil generation for scorn and byword named,
They had set their faces like a flint, and would not be ashamed.
For once it was not warfare;—there were nought but words of love,
And some faint foretaste of the joy of them that dwell above;
Let the strife wax hotter round us—but who shall know despair,
Remembering what true hearts, firm hands, and loving souls were there?
We were strong in one another,—we were stronger far in her,
The Church that cannot be destroyed—the Church that cannot err!
Ay, thunder out our welcome, old Christchurch, from thy tower!
Give the greeting, give the gladness, give the music of the hour!
The sky itself smiles on us—the tempest flies at length,
The sun comes as a giant rejoicing in his strength;
And through the ancient city the crowd is flocking quick,
But a brighter vision o'er us is gathering fast and thick;
We might see, would angels scatter the veil that films our eyes,
Yon cathedral's saintly prelates in glorious order rise:
We might mark thee, reverend Elphege, with thy hair like driven snow,
In a martyr's blood once dabbled, now bright with heaven's own glow;
And Saint Thomas, with that visage pale, so calm and stern to see,
That trampled down the lust and rage of lawless Majesty;
And Saint Edmund, as when once on earth those stately aisles he trod;
And Warham, in a faithless age, found faithful to his God:
And him that on the traitor's hill, as calm as on a bed,
Midst mocking troops, and quenchless rage, bowed down his reverend head;
But chiefly thee, O Patron Saint!—from soft lands far away,
Whose name to hail, whose House we come to dedicate this day:
And, as we saw their glory, that no human fancy paints,
We might know, as yet we know not, the Communion of the Saints.
No peasant group moves churchward through valley or o'er hill;
The priest hath left his people; the office is unsaid;
The ancient aisle resounds not beneath the entering tread.
'Tis the vigil of Saint Peter; but all the livelong day
Through England's thousand valleys her priests are on the way:
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They are shooting through the tunnel, they are dashing o'er the lea:
They pause not at the city whose cathedral rises fair;
They stop not at the landscape in its veil of summer air:
From the rocky glens of Cumberland, from Snowdon's mountain hoar,
From where Saint German taught the faith to Mona's sea-girt shore;
From Lincoln's holy minster their onward course is bent,
From the forest lanes of Sussex, from the sunny hills of Kent;
One heart is theirs, their goal is one, through many a various way,
In that august primatial church to keep Saint Peter's day.
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Who have fought the selfsame battle, who have run the selfsame race:
Glad greeting as of brethren from friends unknown till then,
Who far apart, but one in heart, for the Church had played the men:
They are flocking on together to keep that Feast of feasts,
The goodly band of bishops, the exceeding host of priests;
Men that had taught the peasant how to live and how to die,
Men that had foiled earth's wisest, and had crushed down heresy:
That alone, among the wicked, had dared to stand at bay,
That alone had borne the heat and the burden of the day:
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They had set their faces like a flint, and would not be ashamed.
For once it was not warfare;—there were nought but words of love,
And some faint foretaste of the joy of them that dwell above;
Let the strife wax hotter round us—but who shall know despair,
Remembering what true hearts, firm hands, and loving souls were there?
We were strong in one another,—we were stronger far in her,
The Church that cannot be destroyed—the Church that cannot err!
Ay, thunder out our welcome, old Christchurch, from thy tower!
Give the greeting, give the gladness, give the music of the hour!
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The sun comes as a giant rejoicing in his strength;
And through the ancient city the crowd is flocking quick,
But a brighter vision o'er us is gathering fast and thick;
We might see, would angels scatter the veil that films our eyes,
Yon cathedral's saintly prelates in glorious order rise:
We might mark thee, reverend Elphege, with thy hair like driven snow,
In a martyr's blood once dabbled, now bright with heaven's own glow;
And Saint Thomas, with that visage pale, so calm and stern to see,
That trampled down the lust and rage of lawless Majesty;
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And Warham, in a faithless age, found faithful to his God:
And him that on the traitor's hill, as calm as on a bed,
Midst mocking troops, and quenchless rage, bowed down his reverend head;
But chiefly thee, O Patron Saint!—from soft lands far away,
Whose name to hail, whose House we come to dedicate this day:
And, as we saw their glory, that no human fancy paints,
We might know, as yet we know not, the Communion of the Saints.
Peal loud, peal louder, Christchurch!—the long procession waits:
In God's Name, on! Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates!
The King of kings, and Lord of lords, resumes His ancient right;
Here will I dwell for ever: for here is My delight!
Pass on, pass on, attending Him upon His glorious way,
O ye His chosen servants, in bishopful array;
Where the red light glows, and the grey roof towers, and the altar stands in view,
The goal to close, the shrine to bless, the holy avenue;
Then let him offer all these lands, approaching to the Throne,
Whose heart the God of hearts hath touched to rescue back His Own;
And sign the deed, and seal with speed—few words and brief suffice,
Till England's Primate offer up the Mystic Sacrifice!
But, as in fearful silence they fulfil the closing rite,
The Church's glorious future bursts full upon my sight:
I see the white-winged vessels, that, bound to realms afar,
Go, conquering and to conquer, upon their holy war;
No loud-voiced cannon bear they, those messengers divine
Of England's merchant-princes, and England's battle-line;
Yet they breast the broad Atlantic, the Polar zone they brave,
They dash the spray-drops from their bow in that Antarctic wave;
The fiend that haunts the Lion's Bay, the dagger of Japan,
The thousand wrecks they laugh to scorn of stormy Magellan;
Where earthly arms were weakness, and earthly gold were dross,
Safe go they, for they carry the unconquerable Cross;
The Cross that, planted here at first, now planted here again,
Shall bloom and flourish in the sight of angels and of men;
Another Saint Augustine this holy house shall grace,
Another English Boniface shall run the Martyr's race,
Another brave Paulinus for heathen souls shall yearn,
Another Saint Columba rise, another Kentigern!
Awake, and give the blind their sight, teach praises to the dumb,
O Mother Church! arise and shine, for lo! thy light is come!
Till all the faithful through the world, God's one elected host,
Shall welcome the outpouring of a brighter Pentecost:
And there shall be, and thou shalt see, throughout this earthly ball,
One Church, one Faith, one Baptism, one God and Lord of all!
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The King of kings, and Lord of lords, resumes His ancient right;
Here will I dwell for ever: for here is My delight!
Pass on, pass on, attending Him upon His glorious way,
O ye His chosen servants, in bishopful array;
Where the red light glows, and the grey roof towers, and the altar stands in view,
The goal to close, the shrine to bless, the holy avenue;
Then let him offer all these lands, approaching to the Throne,
Whose heart the God of hearts hath touched to rescue back His Own;
And sign the deed, and seal with speed—few words and brief suffice,
Till England's Primate offer up the Mystic Sacrifice!
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The Church's glorious future bursts full upon my sight:
I see the white-winged vessels, that, bound to realms afar,
Go, conquering and to conquer, upon their holy war;
No loud-voiced cannon bear they, those messengers divine
Of England's merchant-princes, and England's battle-line;
Yet they breast the broad Atlantic, the Polar zone they brave,
They dash the spray-drops from their bow in that Antarctic wave;
The fiend that haunts the Lion's Bay, the dagger of Japan,
The thousand wrecks they laugh to scorn of stormy Magellan;
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Safe go they, for they carry the unconquerable Cross;
The Cross that, planted here at first, now planted here again,
Shall bloom and flourish in the sight of angels and of men;
Another Saint Augustine this holy house shall grace,
Another English Boniface shall run the Martyr's race,
Another brave Paulinus for heathen souls shall yearn,
Another Saint Columba rise, another Kentigern!
Awake, and give the blind their sight, teach praises to the dumb,
O Mother Church! arise and shine, for lo! thy light is come!
119
Shall welcome the outpouring of a brighter Pentecost:
And there shall be, and thou shalt see, throughout this earthly ball,
One Church, one Faith, one Baptism, one God and Lord of all!
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In Memoriam.
There must, in every cause, be some first Martyr
To suffer and to fall:
There must be also those content to barter
Their victory for their all.
To suffer and to fall:
There must be also those content to barter
Their victory for their all.
And now it was so. He whose wisdom guarded
Their fear amidst distress;
He, whose dear succour had so oft awarded
Great help to great success:
Their fear amidst distress;
He, whose dear succour had so oft awarded
Great help to great success:
He, who, to risk himself so long forbidden
Against the rebel foe,—
Was, in the hour of victory warned, that hidden
Murderers might lay him low.
Against the rebel foe,—
Was, in the hour of victory warned, that hidden
Murderers might lay him low.
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He, fully prescient of that utter danger,
Went forth in all his state:
And she, to that same peril not a stranger,
Stood by, to share his fate:
Went forth in all his state:
And she, to that same peril not a stranger,
Stood by, to share his fate:
He fell — when could he better fall? — most glorious
After the end of strife:
He fell—when could he better fall?—victorious;
The work done of his life.
After the end of strife:
He fell—when could he better fall?—victorious;
The work done of his life.
Weep not for him; There is small cause for weeping;
He is but laid to rest
Who, after such long trouble, is but sleeping
Upon a heavenly breast.
He is but laid to rest
Who, after such long trouble, is but sleeping
Upon a heavenly breast.
Rebellion so crushed out, that they who feel it,
Are gnawing their heart's core:
It was, perchance, but meet his blood should seal it,
Whose name lives evermore.
Are gnawing their heart's core:
It was, perchance, but meet his blood should seal it,
Whose name lives evermore.
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He never can, in this world, see the vision
He hoped of peace and love;
But who can tell his more complete fruition
Of that same peace, above?
He hoped of peace and love;
But who can tell his more complete fruition
Of that same peace, above?
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The Good News from Servia.
“Peace I leave you: My peace give I to you:
Not as this world giveth give I peace:
For the Paraclete, That shall renew you,
He shall make all brethren's quarrels cease.”
Not as this world giveth give I peace:
For the Paraclete, That shall renew you,
He shall make all brethren's quarrels cease.”
O, sweet Rainbow, yearn'd for long and dearly,
That some day One Onely Church shall span,
Dim and broken, and incipient merely,
Yet not less God's covenant with man:
That some day One Onely Church shall span,
Dim and broken, and incipient merely,
Yet not less God's covenant with man:
What are we, that we should see thee faintly
Gleaming on our dark tempestuous sky?
Thee, whom Seers, Confessors, Doctors Saintly,
Did so long for, would have dared to die?
Gleaming on our dark tempestuous sky?
Thee, whom Seers, Confessors, Doctors Saintly,
Did so long for, would have dared to die?
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We shall never see thy perfect beauty;
We shall never trace thy sevenfold form:
Others' be the triumph,—ours the duty,—
Others' be the sunshine,— ours the storm.
We shall never trace thy sevenfold form:
Others' be the triumph,—ours the duty,—
Others' be the sunshine,— ours the storm.
None the less we do, we do behold thee,—
Thee, our wishes' full and perfect sum:
None the less our loving hopes enfold thee;
We can suffer so thou wilt but come.
Thee, our wishes' full and perfect sum:
None the less our loving hopes enfold thee;
We can suffer so thou wilt but come.
Shew us, Lord, Thy work; our sons Thy glory:
Yet of us, though that be all we ask,
May be said, perchance, in future story,
“These were men that then did Union's task:
Yet of us, though that be all we ask,
May be said, perchance, in future story,
“These were men that then did Union's task:
“Men, whom satire could not move, and ban not;
Men, who would work on, and would not cease;
These were men who never said—‘I cannot:’
These were men who prayed the Church to peace.”
Men, who would work on, and would not cease;
These were men who never said—‘I cannot:’
These were men who prayed the Church to peace.”
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Yes! we fl ung the dastard question from us—
“How,—speak Common Sense!—can this be done?”
For we knew the everlasting promise,
Father, My will is they shall be one!
“How,—speak Common Sense!—can this be done?”
For we knew the everlasting promise,
Father, My will is they shall be one!
So once more we hail thee, glorious vision!
Though as yet saluting thee from far:
God, He grant us all thy full fruition
On the other side the golden bar!
Though as yet saluting thee from far:
God, He grant us all thy full fruition
On the other side the golden bar!
And, perchance, as years their course shall speed on,
With those names whose memory cannot fade,
Ephesus, Nicæa and Chalcedon,
Holy Church may some day set Belgrade!
With those names whose memory cannot fade,
Ephesus, Nicæa and Chalcedon,
Holy Church may some day set Belgrade!
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The good Old Times of England.
Oh, the good old times of England! ere, in her evil day,
From their Holy Faith and their ancient rites her people fell away;
When her gentlemen had hands to give, and her yeomen hearts to feel;
And they raised full many a bede-house, but never a bastile:
And the poor they honoured, for they knew that He, Who for us bled,
Had seldom, when He came on earth, whereon to lay His Head;
And by the poor man's dying bed the Holy Pastor stood,
To fortify the parting soul with that celestial Food;
And in the mortal agony the Priest ye might behold,
Commending to his Father's hands a sheep of His own fold;
And, when the sould was fled from earth, the Church could do yet more;
For the chanting Priests came slow in front, and the Cross went on before,
And o'er the poor man's pall they bade the sacred banner wave,
To teach her sons that Holy Church hath victory o'er the grave.
From their Holy Faith and their ancient rites her people fell away;
When her gentlemen had hands to give, and her yeomen hearts to feel;
And they raised full many a bede-house, but never a bastile:
And the poor they honoured, for they knew that He, Who for us bled,
Had seldom, when He came on earth, whereon to lay His Head;
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To fortify the parting soul with that celestial Food;
And in the mortal agony the Priest ye might behold,
Commending to his Father's hands a sheep of His own fold;
And, when the sould was fled from earth, the Church could do yet more;
For the chanting Priests came slow in front, and the Cross went on before,
And o'er the poor man's pall they bade the sacred banner wave,
To teach her sons that Holy Church hath victory o'er the grave.
But times and things are altered now; and Englishmen begin
To class the beggar with the knave, and poverty with sin:
We shut them up from tree and flower, and from the blessed sun;
We tear in twain the hearts that God in wedlock had made one,
The hearts that beat so faithfully, reposing side by side
For fifty years of smiles and tears from eve till morning tide;
No gentle Nun with her comfort sweet, no Friar standeth by,
With ghostly strength and holy lore to close the poor man's eye;
But the corpse is thrown into the ground, when the prayers are hurried o'er,
To rest in peace a little while, and then make way for more!
We mourn not for our abbey-lands; e'en pass they as they may!
But we mourn because the tyrant found a richer spoil than they;
He cast away, as a thing defiled, the remembrance of the just;
And the relics of the martyrs he scattered to the dust;
Yet two at least, in their holy shrines, escaped the spoiler's hand,
And S. Cuthbert and S. Edward might alone redeem a land!
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We shut them up from tree and flower, and from the blessed sun;
We tear in twain the hearts that God in wedlock had made one,
The hearts that beat so faithfully, reposing side by side
For fifty years of smiles and tears from eve till morning tide;
No gentle Nun with her comfort sweet, no Friar standeth by,
With ghostly strength and holy lore to close the poor man's eye;
But the corpse is thrown into the ground, when the prayers are hurried o'er,
To rest in peace a little while, and then make way for more!
129
But we mourn because the tyrant found a richer spoil than they;
He cast away, as a thing defiled, the remembrance of the just;
And the relics of the martyrs he scattered to the dust;
Yet two at least, in their holy shrines, escaped the spoiler's hand,
And S. Cuthbert and S. Edward might alone redeem a land!
And still our Litanies ascend like incense, as before;
And still we hold the one full faith Nicæa taught of yore;
And still our children, duly plunged in that baptismal flood,
“Of water and the Holy Ghost, are born the sons of God;”
And still our solemn festivals from age to age endure,
And wedded troth remains as firm, and wedded love as pure;
And many an earnest prayer ascends from many a hidden spot;
And England's Church is Catholic, though England's self be not!
And still we hold the one full faith Nicæa taught of yore;
And still our children, duly plunged in that baptismal flood,
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And still our solemn festivals from age to age endure,
And wedded troth remains as firm, and wedded love as pure;
And many an earnest prayer ascends from many a hidden spot;
And England's Church is Catholic, though England's self be not!
England of Saints! The hour is nigh—far nigher may it be
Than yet I deem, albeit that day I may not live to see,—
When all thy commerce, all thy arts, and wealth, and power, and fame,
Shall melt away—at thy most need—like wax before the flame;
Then shalt thou find thy truest strength thy martyrs' prayers above,
Then shalt thou find thy truest wealth their holy deeds of love;
And thy Church, awaking from Her sleep, come glorious forth at length,
And in sight of angels and of men display Her hidden strength:
Again shall long processions sweep through Lincoln's minster pile:
Again shall banner, cross and cope gleam thro' the incensed aisle;
And the faithful dead shall claim their part in the Church's thankful prayer,
And the daily sacrifice to God be duly offered there;
And Tierce, and Nones, and Matins, shall have each their holy lay;
And the Angelus at Compline shall sweetly close the day.
England of Saints! the peace will dawn,—but not without the fight;
So, come the contest when it may,—and God defend the right!
Than yet I deem, albeit that day I may not live to see,—
When all thy commerce, all thy arts, and wealth, and power, and fame,
Shall melt away—at thy most need—like wax before the flame;
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Then shalt thou find thy truest wealth their holy deeds of love;
And thy Church, awaking from Her sleep, come glorious forth at length,
And in sight of angels and of men display Her hidden strength:
Again shall long processions sweep through Lincoln's minster pile:
Again shall banner, cross and cope gleam thro' the incensed aisle;
And the faithful dead shall claim their part in the Church's thankful prayer,
And the daily sacrifice to God be duly offered there;
And Tierce, and Nones, and Matins, shall have each their holy lay;
And the Angelus at Compline shall sweetly close the day.
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So, come the contest when it may,—and God defend the right!
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