Sequences, Hymns, and Other Ecclesiastical Verses By the Rev. J. M. Neale |
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The Consecration of S. Augustine's, Canterbury.
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 | Sequences, Hymns, and Other Ecclesiastical Verses |  |
110
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:
111
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.
112
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:
113
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!
114
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;
115
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!
116
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!
117
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;
118
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!
| Sequences, Hymns, and Other Ecclesiastical Verses | |