Trinity Sunday.
“ ------ Grace by the confession of a true faith, ------ keep us
steadfast in this faith evermore.”
—Collect for the Day.
Oh! Time, beneath the blast of thy dread wings
While fleetly wanes the world we see,
God has retain'd some glorious things
To image Man's eternity.
Let Hist'ry take her meditative stand
And vision, in some dream sublime,
The wreck of all the Earth calls grand
In ev'ry age, and ev'ry clime;
O'er wither'd skeletons of haughty Realms
And ghosts of wond'rous Empires gone,
And Cities, which destruction 'whelms,
As centuries come rolling on,
Palace, and forum, temple, arch, and piles
Of Babylonian make and mould,—
O'er each and all, grim Ruin smiles
And sternly cries to man, “Behold!”
Genius and science, skill, and haughty lore,
Are fluctuation's mingled prey;
And what our earth-born tastes adore
Glide, like the homeless cloud, away.
Rome called the vassal-world her slave,
And fetter'd princes hail'd as friends,—
Yet, lo! in one remorseless grave
Her crownless majesty descends;
But o'er God's Church though eighteen hundred Years
Have swept their wings of blast and blight,
The Type unchanged there still appears
Of all our Creeds deem true, and right.
Empires and Kings, Dictators, Consuls, all,—
Each, in due turn, has fill'd the scene,
And then—left mere oblivion's pall
Mantling the spot where they have been!
But still, in order'd polity and law
A Miracle of changeless truth,
That Church, which Christ's own heralds saw,
Is bright with apostolic youth.
Her Government, in essence, still the same,
By threefold Ministry inspired,—
She firmly grasps her heaven-sprung claim,
With deathless truth and grace attired.
The classic Oracles of ancient time
In broken whispers now are heard;
Yet God's own authorship sublime
Embodies, still, His perfect Word.
Those Sacraments, which vital grace enclose,
Pure as St. Paul the Churches gave
Her Priesthood unto Faith bestows,—
Sanction'd by Him, Who died to save.
Still, at yon Temple-porch, the Font divine
Is pregnant with mysterious power,
When, seal'd with Her baptismal sign,
New Births commence their dawning hour.
Lo! where the Altar stands, devoutly kneeling,
The hush'd adorers bend to share
(O'erawed by more than mortal feeling)
Incarnate God, in myst'ry there!
And thus, she breathes her old liturgic spells
Caught from the soul of Eastern prayer,
Whose tone of supplication tells,
Thy heart, St. John! is throbbing, there.
