The poetical works of Henry Alford :: :: University of Virginia Library

I go to the region of dreams,
Where a veil is drawn o'er the bright day-beams,
And a soft and shadowy mist of light
Is spread o'er the spiritual realms of sight—
And faces are not as faces were,
But there is an indistinctness there,
And features are idly marked and dim;
For the soul hath then the sway alone,
And sitteth upon her central throne,

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And she goeth to meet but half the way
The forms of matter we see by day;
But then her passions are all her own,—
And the cup of joy is full to the brim,
And the eyes of the roaming intellect
Are busy in prospect and retrospect;—
And many a deed is acted o'er
Which seemed from the memory blotted before,
And many a course of action is spent
Which wanteth yet its accomplishment;—
And earth and heaven and realms below
Are open and free to the spirit's range,
As she bounds with bliss or sinks in woe,
In wilderment swift and wondrous change.

I go to the land of dreams:—
My soul's fast flowing streams
Sink for a time
Into a deep and shadowy cave
Silent and slumberous as the grave;
But they soon shall rise
And flow again with gurgling chime
In the light of day's fair eyes.

I go to the land of dreams,—
To the pool in the deepest and inmost grove,
Were dwell reflections of things I love,
Wavering and flickering on the lake
As the night breeze blows and the ripples break;
But cast by their fixèd forms above,
Which beam in blest tranquillity
From the firmament of Eternity.

212

I go to the land of dreams,—
I love that faery region well:
For things more lovely than I can tell
In its haunted bowers and shrubberies dwell:—
Thou busy world, Farewell.

FEBRUARY 3, 1830.

The Morning arose,
She was pillow'd on snows,
And kerchief'd in wind and storm;
And she dallied with Night
Till Hyperion's light
Had struggled abroad thro' her form.

The Noon came forth
On the breeze of the north,
All silent and bleak and chill;
And he watch'd the streak
Of the Spring's young cheek
As she peep'd o'er the western hill.

Then Evening's eye
Look'd out from the sky
On the mirror of Ocean's wave;
Like an island of light
Whose margin bright
Heaven's ripples of emerald lave.

213

1830.

Thou little flower, that on thy stem
Totterest as the breezes blow;
There is no strife with thee and them,
They kiss thee as they go.

The pretty lambs welcome their life
In the fresh morning of the year;
Taking no forethought of the knife,
They play, and do not fear.

Bow down thy head, thou little flower,
No longer show so trim and gay;
Lie still and pass thine evil hour,
Look up another day.

Thou pretty lamb, on tender sward
No more of thy quaint skippings take;
Cheat thy soft life of fate so hard,
Lie still, and do not wake.

They will not heed—for some kind Power
Long as the sun and stars remain,
Hath cast together in one hour
The lots of joy and pain.

From conflict of the stern and mild
Rises the life of gentlest things;
And out of mixtures strange and wild
Most quiet beauty springs.

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PORTSMOUTH, 1830.

When I am in my grave,
The busy clouds will wander on;
This Moon, that silver-tips each dancing wave,
Will shine as it hath shone.

When I am low in ground,
The Spring will call and wake the flowers,
And yonder little knoll will show as gay
As it hath bloomed when ours.

When I am in the sky,
Long leagues above the evening-star,
The city-hum shall sound as fitfully
As now it comes from far.

When I am spirit clear,
More pure than is this Ocean-moon,
The false world in the great Eternal's ear
Shall make no better tune.

God, lift me from the power
Of flesh-corruption: how shall I
Bear to be borne along with stainless flower
And fleecy clould on high!

God, lift up unto me
The sinning heart of human-kind;
How can I flutter down the skies and see
Their errant souls and blind?

215

Or wrap me in the light
That folds thy glory's outer zone;
Be Thou the sole horizon to my sight,
Content in Thee alone.

LAST WORDS. (1831.)

Refresh me with the bright blue violet,
And put the pale faint-scented primrose near,
For I am breathing yet:
Shed not one silly tear;
But when mine eyes are set,
Scatter the fresh flowers thick upon my bier,
And let my early grave with morning dew be wet.

I have passed swiftly o'er the pleasant earth,
My life hath been the shadow of a dream;
The joyousness of birth
Did ever with me seem:
My spirit had no dearth,
But dwelt for ever by a full swift stream,
Lapt in a golden trance of never-failing mirth.

Touch me once more, my father, ere my hand
Have not an answer for thee;—kiss my cheek
Ere the blood fix and stand
Where flits the hectic streak;
Give me thy last command,
Before I lie all undisturbed and meek,
Wrapt in the snowy folds of funeral swathing-band.

216

ANTICIPATION. (1832.)

In the bright summer weather
We twain will go together,
By the river's silver swathes,
Where the melilotus bathes
Its blooms gold-bright;
And along the distant stream
Broods the white silent steam,
Thickening onward like a dream
In the first sleep of night.

In the warm summer weather
We twain will go together,
On the west side of the hill,
While the leaves are keeping still,
As the sun goes down;
And the long straight streams
Of the mellow setting beams
Light up with rosy gleams
Mountain, moor, and town.

In the calm summer weather
We twain will go together,
When the western planet's light
Is full, and warm, and bright,
Above the western flood;
Only the impatient rill
To itself is talking still,
By the hedge-row down the hill,
On the border of the wood.

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LADY MARY. (1832.)

Thou wert fair, Lady Mary,
As the lily in the sun:
And fairer yet thou mightest be,
Thy youth was but begun:
Thine eye was soft and glancing,
Of the deep bright blue;
And on the heart thy gentle words
Fell lighter than the dew.

They found thee, Lady Mary,
With thy palms upon thy breast,
Even as thou hadst been praying,
At thine hour of rest:
The cold pale moon was shining
On thy cold pale cheek;
And the morn of the Nativity
Had just begun to break.

They carved thee, Lady Mary,
All of pure white stone,
With thy palms upon thy breast,
In the chancel all alone:
And I saw thee when the winter moon
Shone on thy marble cheek,
When the morn of the Nativity
Had just begun to break.

But thou kneelest, Lady Mary,
With thy palms upon thy breast,
Among the perfect spirits,
In the land of rest:

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Thou art even as they took thee
At thine hour of prayer,
Save the glory that is on thee
From the Sun that shineth there.

We shall see thee, Lady Mary,
On that shore unknown,
A pure and happy angel
In the presence of the throne;
We shall see thee when the light divine
Plays freshly on thy cheek,
And the resurrection morning
Hath just begun to break.

1832.

The cowslip standeth in the grass,
The primrose in the budding grove
Hath laid her pale fair breast
On the green sward to rest:
The vapours that cease not to rove
Athwart the blue sky, fleet and pass,
And ever o'er the golden sun
Their shadows run.

He is not in the glittering mead,
Stooping to fill his hands with flowers;
He is not in the wood
Plucking the primrose bud;

219

He doth not mark the bloomy hours,
The joy and May he doth not heed:
Under the church-wall in the shade
His bed is made.

TO A DROP OF DEW. (1832.)

Sun-begotten, ocean-born,
Sparkling in the summer morn
Underneath me as I pass
O'er the hill-top on the grass,
All among thy fellow-drops
On the speary herbage tops,
Round, and bright, and warm, and still,
Over all the northern hill;—
Who may be so blest as thee,
Of the sons of men that be?
Evermore thou dost behold
All the sunset bathed in gold;
Then thou listenest all night long
To the leaves' faint undersong
From two tall dark elms, that rise
Up against the silent skies:
Evermore thou drink'st the stream
Of the chaste moon's purest beam;
Evermore thou dost espy
Every star that twinkles by;
Till thou hearest the cock crow
From the barton far below;

220

Till thou seest the dawn-streak
From the eastern night-clouds break;
Till the mighty king of light
Lifts his unsoiled visage bright,
And his speckled flocks has driven
To batten in the fields of heaven;
Then thou lightest up thy breast
With the lamp thou lovest best;
Many rays of one thou makest,
Giving three for one thou takest;
Love and constancy's best blue,
Sunny warmth of golden hue,
Glowing red, to speak thereby
Thine affection's ardency:—
Thus rejoicing in his sight,
Made a creature of his light,
Thou art all content to be
Lost in his immensity;
And the best that can be said,
When they ask why thou art fled,
Is, that thou art gone to share
With him the empire of the air.

A word in use in the west of England for a farm-yard.

TO A MOUNTAIN STREAM. (1832.)

I named thee once “the silver thread,”
When, in the burning summer day,
I stept across thy stony bed
Upon my homeward way.

221

For down an old rock's mossy steep,
Thy thin bright stream, as I past by,
Into a calm pool clear and deep
Slid down most peacefully.

But now it is the autumn eve,
Dark clouds are hurrying through the sky;
Thy envious waters will not leave
One stone to cross thee by.

And all about that old steep rock
Thy foamy fall doth plash and roar,
Troubling with rude incessant shock
The pool so still before.

Thus happy childhood evermore
Beneath unclouded summer suns
On to its little lucid store
Of joy most calmly runs.

But riper age, with restless toil,
Ever for ampler pleasures frets;
And oft with infinite turmoil
Troubles the peace it gets.

ON THE AGED OAK

AT OAKLEY, SOMERSET. (1832.)

I was a young fair tree:
Each spring with quivering green
My boughs were clad; and far
Down the deep vale, a light

222

Shone from me on the eyes
Of those who past,—a light
That told of sunny days,
And blossoms and blue sky:
For I was ever first
Of all the grove to hear
The soft voice under ground
Of the warm-working spring;
And ere my brethren stirred
Their sheathed buds, the kine,
And the kine's keeper, came
Slow up the valley-path,
And laid them underneath
My cool and rustling leaves;
And I could feel them there
As in the quiet shade
They stood, with tender thoughts,
That past along their life
Like wings on a still lake,
Blessing me;—and to God,
The blessèd God, who cares
For all my little leaves,
Went up the silent praise;
And I was glad, with joy
Which life of labouring things
Ill knows,—the joy that sinks
Into a life of rest.

Ages have fled since then:
But deem not my pierced trunk
And scanty leafage serves
No high behest; my name
Is sounded far and wide:

223

And in the Providence
That guides the steps of men,
Hundreds have come to view
My grandeur in decay;
And there hath passed from me
A quiet influence
Into the minds of men:
The silver head of age,
The majesty of laws,
The very name of God,
And holiest things that are,
Have won upon the heart
Of humankind the more,
For that I stand to meet
With vast and bleaching trunk
The rudeness of the sky.

ON THE EVENING OF A VILLAGE FESTIVAL. (1832.)

While our shrub-walks darken,
And the stars get bright aloft,
Still we sit and hearken
To the music low and soft;
By the old oak yonder,
Where we watch the setting sun,
Listening to the far-off thunder
Of the multitude as one:

224

Sit, my best beloved,
In the waning light;
Yield thy spirit to the teaching
Of each sound and sight:
While those sounds are flowing
To their silent rest;
While the parting wake of sunlight
Broods along the west.

Sweeter 'tis to hearken
Than to bear a part;
Better to look on happiness
Than to carry a light heart:
Sweeter to walk on cloudy hills
With a sunny plain below,
Than to weary of the brightness
Where the floods of sunshine flow.

Souls that love each other
Join both joys in one;
Blest by other's happiness,
And nourished by their own:
So with quick reflection,
Each its opposite
Still gives back, and multiplies
To infinite delight.

[“Father, wake—the storm is loud]

“ιερον υπνον
κοιμαται.”

(1832.)

“Father, wake—the storm is loud,
The rain is falling fast:
Let me go to my mother's grave,
And screen it from the blast:

225

She cannot sleep, she will not rest,
The wind is roaring so;
We prayed that she might lie in peace:
My father, let us go.”

“Thy mother sleeps too firm a sleep
To heed the wind that blows;
There are angel-charms that hush the noise
From reaching her repose.
Her spirit in dreams of the blessed Land
Is sitting at Jesu's feet;
Child, nestle thee in mine arms, and pray
Our rest may be as sweet.”

THE ANCIENT MAN.

There is an ancient man who dwells
Without our parish-bounds,
Beyond the poplar-avenue,
Across two meadow-grounds;
And whensoe'er our two small bells
To church call merrily,
Leaning upon our churchyard gate
This old man ye may see.

He is a man of many thoughts,
That long have found their rest,
Each in its proper dwelling-place
Settled within his breast:

226

A form erect, a stately brow,
A set and measured mien:
The satisfied unroving look
Of one who much hath seen.

And once, when young in care of souls,
I watched a sick man's bed,
And willing half, and half ashamed,
Lingered, and nothing said:
That ancient man, in accents mild,
Removed my shame away:
“Listen!” he said; “the minister
Prepares to kneel and pray.”

These lines of humble thankfulness
Will never meet his eye;
Unknown that old man means to live,
And unremembered die.
The forms of life have severed us:
But when that life shall end,
Fain would I hail that reverend man
A father and a friend.

A DOUBT. (1832.)

“Wisdom is ofttimes nearer when we stoop
Than when we soar.”
—Wordsworth.

I know not how the right may be:—
But I give thanks whene'er I see
Down in the green slopes of the West
Old Glastonbury's towered crest.

227

I know not how the right may be:—
But I have oft had joy to see,
By play of chance my road beside,
The Cross on which our Saviour died.

I know not how the right may be:
But I loved once a tall elm-tree,
Because between its boughs on high
That Cross was opened on the sky.

I know not how the right may be:—
But I have shed strange tears to see,
Passing an unknown town at night,
In some warm chamber full of light,
A mother and two children fair,
Kneeling with lifted hands at prayer.

I know not how it is—my boast
Of Reason seems to dwindle down;
And my mind seems down-argued most
By forced conclusions not her own.

I know not how it is—unless
Weakness and strength are near allied;
And joys which most the spirit bless
Are furthest off from earthly pride.

228

PEACE. (1832.)

I have found Peace in the bright earth
And in the sunny sky:
By the low voice of summer seas,
And where streams murmur by;

I find it in the quiet tone
Of voices that I love:
By the flickering of a twilight fire,
And in a leafless grove;

I find it in the silent flow
Of solitary thought:
In calm half-meditated dreams,
And reasoning self-taught;

But seldom have I found such peace,
As in the soul's deep joy
Of passing onward free from harm
Through every day's employ.

If gems we seek, we only tire,
And lift our hopes too high;
The constant flowers that line our way
Alone can satisfy.

229

TO-MORROW. (1832.)

To-morrow—'tis an idle sound,
Tell me of no such dreary thing;
A new land whither I am bound
After strange wandering.

What care I if bright blossoms there
Unfold, and sunny be the field;
If laded boughs in summer air
Their pulpy fruitage yield?

While deck to-day my pleasant bower
Upon my own loved mountain-side
The azure periwinkle flower,
And violet deep-eyed?

Tell me not of to-morrow; calm
In His great hand I would abide
Who fills my present hour with balm,
And trust, whate'er betide.

AMOR MUNDANUS. (1833.)

Freed from the womb, and from the bounds
With which the stepdame infancy
Our days of pupilage surrounds,
We spring up beautiful and free;

230

Divine in form, divine in grace,
All wonderful to those who look
Upon the heavenly-printed face,
In which, as in a living book,
The characters of high descent
Are seen with air and motion blent.

Behold the curious Babe exploring
The furniture of its new earth;
And Time with ministrant hand restoring
The bloom and strength it lost in birth;
It is as though some magic power
Had shut the senses of a Bride,
And in strange air from hour to hour
She breathed away the summer-tide,
And woke and found herself alone,
And all her sweet fore-castings gone.

It is as though she should not wear
The weeds of sober widowhood,
But just to memory give a tear,
Then rise with stirring hope renewed;
And ere the period of the Sun,
In joyful garments habited,
Leaning upon another One
Should walk the flowery path to wed;
And build among new children's eyes
A home of rooted sympathies.

Child—that dost evermore desire
For something thou canst call thine own;
In summer-sun, by winter-fire,
Jealously bent to rule alone;

231

Thou gatherest round the plenteous store
Wherewith to sate thy longing sight;
Thou ever hast, and wishest more,
And so thou schoolest thy delight
To drink at every little stream,
And bask in every daily beam.

And when thy limbs are proud and strong,
Thou seekest out a home to last,
Among the dainties that belong
To the strange shore where thou art cast;
For kisses and kind words bestowed
Thou quittest hope, and all content
Thou takest up thy calm abode
In the country of thy banishment;
Careless of tidings that relate
To winning back thy lost estate.

AMOR CŒLESTIS. (1833.)

I have a longing to be free;
The soul that in me hides
Its mouldering fires, unwillingly
Its day of liberation bides.

Clouds, that above the flowery earth
Float onward in the air,
Rejoice as each day hath its birth,
They hurry on they list not where.

232

Birds, that along their gladsome way
Flutter in wavy flight,
Pipe in their arbours all the day,
And rest upon their branch at night;

Stars, like a fleet of glittering sail
On the upper ocean driven,
At the western haven never fail
To cease from earth and enter heaven;

And then forth issuing from the east,
When night-winds softly blow,
They ride in order bright and blest,
Their clustered myriads none may know:

Only this breath of life divine
May not escape away,
Nor move in the gold rays that shine
Around the blessed eye of day.

Only this bird of sweetest strain
Must hide its notes in gloom;
Only this purest flower from stain
In secret places veil its bloom.

Only this star of clearest light
Hath not its course above;
But, undistinguished from the night,
It dwells on earth, and wins no love.

233

AMPTON, SUFFOLK. (1833.)

I stand upon the margin of our level lake;
The daylight from the west is fading fast away;
The rooks above the wood their evening concert make,
And in the gleaming pool the fishes leap and play.

Eastward, appearing dimly through the golden haze,
The Moon in perfect circle lifts her solemn light;
The waters tremble ever with a restless blaze,
With ripples and wood-shadows dappled dark and bright.

Why is my deathless spirit bound to minister
To transient matter? fettered to this vision fair,
I seem to lose all breath, no thought hath power to stir:
Ye take too much upon you, sights of earth and air!

Is it some purpose high of fête or festival
For Beings never pierced by edge of mortal sight;
And are there poured around me, camping within call,
A beautiful throng of Angels triumphing in delight?

Is it for some pure Spirits torn on earth asunder,
Who long, long years have pined in solitude and woe,
To meet together here, and speak their love and wonder,
And feast on joy that none but risen souls can know?

234

Might I but reach the secret of that hidden power
That dwells in the mute children of our parent Earth,
The magic that can bind together in one hour
Contented joy, and yearnings for our mightier birth!

THE LITTLE MOURNER. (1833.)

“Child, whither goest thou
Over the snowy hill?
The frost-air nips so keen
That the very clouds are still:
From the golden folding curtains
The sun hath not looked forth,
And brown the snow-mist hangs
Round the mountains to the north.”

“Kind stranger, dost thou see
Yonder church-tower rise,
Thrusting its crown of pinnacles
Into the looming skies?—
Thither go I:—keen the morning
Bites, and deep the snow;
But, in spite of them,
Up the frosted hill I go.”

“Child, and what dost thou
When thou shalt be there?—
The chancel-door is shut—
There is no bell for prayer;

235

Yester-morn and yester-even
Met we there and prayed;
But now none is there
Save the dead lowly laid.”

“Stranger, underneath that tower,
On the western side,
A happy, happy company
In holy peace abide;
My father, and my mother,
And my sisters four:
Their beds are made in swelling turf
Fronting the western door.”

“Child, if thou speak to them,
They will not answer thee;
They are deep down in earth,—
Thy face they cannot see.
Then wherefore art thou going
Over the snowy hill?
Why seek thy low-laid family
Where they lie cold and still?”

“Stranger, when the summer heats
Would dry their turfy bed,
Duly from this loving hand
With water it is fed;
They must be cleared this morning
From the thick-laid snow;
So now along the frosted field,
Stranger, let me go.”

236

WRITTEN IN AID OF THE LEICESTER LUNATIC ASYLUM. (1836.)

Light ye the torch,—
The torch that hath expired;
The light with which was fired
Chamber and hall and porch:
But now the house is dark,
Its inmates rove in vain,
There shines but a bewildering spark:
Light ye the torch again!

Light ye the torch,—
It was a sacred flame,
From God in heaven it came:
All nature ye may search
To find a fire so bright,
And ye shall search in vain:
But quenched is all its glorious light:—
Light ye the torch again!

Light ye the torch,—
The ruthless winds have blown
Its tresses up and down,
Till it did scare and scorch,
Not bless: but one fell blast
Swept howling o'er the plain,
And left all darkness as it past;—
Light ye the torch again!

237

Light ye the torch,—
And ye shall blessed be:
Till many a bended knee
In chamber and in church
Shall serve ye: merciful,
Mercy ye shall obtain:
Your cup of glory shall be full:—
Light ye the torch again!

WRITTEN ON CHRISTMAS EVE, 1836.

The earth is clad
For her bridal glad;
Her robe is white
As the spotless light;
O'er field and hill
Its folds are still.

From her aëry throne
The moon looks down,
Clothing with glory
The tree-tops hoary,
Which glittering are
Like purest spar.

A star or two
Diamond-blue
Through the space peers
Where the vapour clears,
And in long white masses
Silently passes.

238

The wind is awake,
And his voice doth shake
The frost from the trees;
Then by degrees
Swells with a louder sound,
Till it dies on the level ground.

INSCRIPTION

FOR A BLOCK OF GRANITE ON THE SURFACE OF THE MER DE GLACE.

See me, by elemental warfare torn
From yonder peak's aerial crest,
Now on the rifted breast
Of this ice-ocean borne
By ministering ages without fail
Down to my rest
Among the shattered heaps in yonder deep-set vale.

Gray am I, for my conflict with the powers
Of air doth never cease; around
My lifted head doth sound
The voice of all the hours
Struck forth in tempest from my fretted side
The snows rebound:
The avalanche's spray-balls in my rifts abide.

239

Glory and ruin doth my course behold,
After each wild and dreadful night
The day-birth heavenly bright
Floods all this vale with gold;
And when the day sinks down, on every peak
Last shafts of light
The downward fading sky with lines of ruby streak.

All summer long the moan of many woods
Comes to me, and from far conveyed
The tumbling of the low cascade,
And rush of valley floods.
The lavish rock-rose clothes with crimson hue
Each upward glade,
And the Alp-violet strews its stars of brightest blue.

Thus slowly down long ages shall I pass,
Unnoticed, save by practised eye
Of them who use thus high
The traveller's steps to lead;
Then when the years by God apportionèd
Shall have past by,
Leap from the lofty brink, and fill the vale with dread.

We were informed by our Chamounix guide that these blocks are borne downwards by the slow motion of the whole of the vast glacier on which they are lying, and that from year to year their change of place is just perceptible.

TO A MOONBEAM BY OUR FIRESIDE.

What dost thou here?
A drop of strange cold light
After thy airy flight

240

Of many a thousand league of sky?
Like glow-worm, or the sparkling eye
Of snake, dost thou appear
By this my nightly fire, among these faces dear.

Why art thou come?
Is it that night is bleak,
And thou in vain dost seek
Some refuge from the chilly wind?
And thou no better nook couldst find
In earth or heaven's high dome,
To nestle and be warm, than this our peopled home?

Now thou art gone,
And all thy light dost shroud
In some swart-bosomed cloud,
Or waitest on thy mother dear,
Bridging her way with opal clear,
Till vapour there is none,
And silver-bright she walks her peaceful path alone.

Here and away,
Bound on no great behest,
A fleeting spark at best;
So high is heaven, or I so low,
That the least things that come and go
My wandering moods obey,
In thoughts that linger by me many a busy day.

241

AN EASTER ODE. (1838.)

The calm of blessed Night
Is on Judæa's hills;
The full-orbed moon with cloudless light
Is sparkling on their rills:
One spot above the rest
Is still and tranquil seen,
The chamber as of something blest,
Amidst its bowers of green.

Around that spot each way
The figures ye may trace
Of men-at-arms in grim array,
Guarding the solemn place:
But other bands are there—
And, glistening through the gloom,
Legions of angels bright and fair
Throng to that wondrous tomb.

“Praise be to God on high!
The triumph hour is near;
The Lord hath won the victory,
The foe is vanquished here!
Dark Grave, yield up the dead;
Give up thy prey, thou Earth;
In death He bowed His sacred head,—
He springs anew to birth!

“Sharp was the wreath of thorns
Around His suffering brow;
But glory rich His head adorns,
And Angels crown Him now.

242

Roll yonder rock away
That bars the marble gate;
And gather we in bright array
To swell the Victor's state!”

“Hail, hail, hail!
The Lord is risen indeed!
The curse is made of none avail;
The sons of men are freed!”

A WISH. (1838.)

Would it were mine amidst the changes
Through which our varied lifetime ranges,
To live on Providence's bounty
Down in some favoured Western county.

There let the daily sun be gleaming
Over rich vales with plenty teeming:
Bold hills my sheltered home surrounding,
And Ocean in the distance sounding.

Thick trees and shrubs should rise about me,
That the rude passers might not flout me:
Huge elms my lowly roof embowering,
And poplars from my shrubbery towering.

In the smooth turf choice beds of posies,
And lilies white, and crimson roses;
Climbers my trellised doorway lining,
Vines, round the eaves their tendrils twining.

243

Some village tower upon me peeping,
And churchyard, where the dead lie sleeping:
The tombs, for a “memento mori:”
The pinnacles, to point to glory.

There may I dwell with those who love me:
And when the earth shall close above me,
My memory leave a lasting savour
Of grace divine, and human favour.

THE DEAD.

The dead alone are great!
While heavenly plants abide on earth,
The soil is one of dewless dearth;
But when they die, a mourning shower
Comes down and makes their memories flower,
With odours sweet though late.

The dead alone are fair!
While they are with us, strange lines play
Before our eyes, and chase away
God's light: but let them pale and die,
And swell the stores of memory,—
There is no envy there.

The dead alone are dear!
While they are here, long shadows fall
From our own forms, and darken all:

244

But when they leave us, all the shade
Is round our own sad footsteps made,
And they are bright and clear.

The dead alone are blest!
While they are here, clouds mar the day,
And bitter snow-falls nip their May;
But when their tempest-time is done,
The light and heat of Heaven's own Sun
Broods on their land of rest.

FEBRUARY 10, 1840.

They saw thee kneel with lowly mien,
In faith a child, in state a queen;
No circlet girt thy marble brow
While at that altar thou didst bow;
And tears sprung forth from many an eye
In all that gorgeous company.

Around that brow, so high and fair,
The symbol of a kingdom's care,
They bound a royal diadem,
Flashing with many a rarest gem;
And British hearts were proud to own
Thy peaceful sway, thy virgin throne.

Again thou kneelest—on that brow
A snowy veil is trembling now;
And as the solemn words pass by,
Thy woman's heart is throbbing high;

245

Nor e'er did cottage maid rejoice
In purer love, in freer choice.

Young Queen, as through the shadowy past
For glimpses of thy lot we cast,
And the dim things to come espy
Through the stern present's gathering sky,
Our tears fall from us as we pray
For blessings on thy bridal day!

THE NATIONAL PRAYER.

October 1840.

From our aisles of places holy,
From our dwellings calm and lowly,
On the autumn breezes slowly
Swells the sound of prayer:
God! before thy footstool bending,
Anxious crowds their heart-wish blending,
To thine heaven their vows are sending,—
Make our Queen thy care!

Brighter than our pomp and pleasure,
Precious above every treasure,
Dear beyond all human measure,
Is that life we love:
Saviour, slumbering not nor sleeping,
But thy watch in danger keeping,
Hear our prayer, receive our weeping,—
Guard her from above!

246

THE DIRGE OF THE PASSING YEAR. (1840.)

Bring flowers—but not the gay,
The tender, nor the sweet;
But such as winter's chill winds lay
Faded and dank across the spray,
Or strew beneath the feet.

Bring flowers to strew the bier:
He will be ready soon;
Already are his beauties sere;
And the much-hailed, time-honoured year
To death is passing down.

He hath a warrior been;
And in the hallowed clime,
Where spiry rock and dark ravine
Guard the old cedar's solemn green,
Hath sped the march of Time.

He hath, in happy mood,
Turned priest, and charmed the spot
Where in her queenly womanhood
Our nation's hope betrothèd stood,
Blest beyond queenly lot.

And he hath bent in prayer
To the great God above,
In peril that dear life to spare,
And o'er that young and royal pair
To spread his shield of love.

He hath his voice upsent,
In minster and in aisle,

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“Ye creatures of the dust, repent!
He comes to claim what He hath lent—
'Tis yet a little while!”

His duties have been hard,
Yet hath he done them well:
He smote not where he should have spared:
But where his God the victim bared,
His sword of justice fell.

The friend, the wife, the child—
Some took he, and some left;
He hath been cursed with curses wild—
Yet with his healing influence mild
Soothed he the soul bereft.

And he is dying now:
But yet once more again
Shall we behold him, not as now,—
But a dread form with awful brow,
Judging the sons of men.

Then will he tell his tale:
All hidden shall be shown;
Then will the iron-hearted quail,
The proud fall low, the strong man fail,
When all his words are known.

Then bring sweet flowers and gay,—
Of holy thought and deed;
Deck well his bier, that so we may
Look on him at that wrathful day
From fear and anguish free.

The Capture of St Jean d'Acre.

248

INSCRIPTION.

FOR THE RUIN OF A VILLAGE CROSS, HATHERN, LEICESTERSHIRE.

The simple folk once used to throng
These mouldering steps beneath,
And every child that passed along
Its soft petitions breathe,
In pious days of yore.

The working men at dawn of day
Were here assembled kneeling,
And to their labour bore away
A calm of holy feeling,
In Christian days of yore.

Till once a stalwart company
Of men with gloomy faces,
Unlike the men ye used to see
In such-like holy places,
In quiet days of yore,

With savage hands pulled down the sign
Of our Redeemer's sorrow,
And promised in more force to join,
And break the rest to-morrow,—
Hating the days of yore.

But Providence from then till now
This remnant hath befriended,
And by this shaft and time-worn steps
The memory hath defended
Of the good days of yore.

249

And still, whene'er the good and great
On common times pass nigh me,
Though no petition they repeat,
Nor kneel in silence by me,
As in the days of yore;

Yet blessed thoughts upon their hearts
From Heaven come gently stealing;
And each from this gray ruin parts
With calmer, holier feeling,
Blessing the days of yore.

TO ALICE, MARY, AMBROSE, AND CLEMENT.

January 25, 1844.

From their Father in the flesh, and elder Brother in Christ,
—H. A.

Children of your Father's love,
Children of your God above,
See the Cross, whereon portrayed
All your duties are displayed.

Alice, eldest born and first,
Babe with love peculiar nurst,
Founded deep and builded high
On the Rock of Calvary,
Ever on that holy ground
At the Cross's foot be found;
Be in love and duty best,
As their shaft, support the rest.

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Mary, may thy thoughts aspire
Up to Heaven with holy fire;
In thy childhood mindful be
Of the Head that bowed for thee.
When He bowed His sacred Head,
Three remained, though all had fled:
Three who bore thy blessed name;
Be thy faith and love the same.

Ambrose, dear immortal boy,
Child of simple mirth and joy,
Be through life, however tried,
Ever at thy Saviour's side.
Safe in danger, pure from ill,
May His Hand support thee still;
In That Day, with glory crowned,
On His right hand be thou found.

Clement, peaceful, holy child,
As thy name is, meek and mild,
Wearing fresh for all to see
Thy Baptismal purity,—
Little one, thy Saviour's breast
Holds thee, gently, fondly prest;
Whatsoe'er He may decree,
Still His arm shall shelter thee.

Father, Mother, Children,—all,
Be we ready at His call:
His, to suffer or to do,—
Warm in love, in duty true.

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WEDNESDAY IN EASTER WEEK, 1844.

The lovely form of God's own Church
It riseth in all lands,
On mountain sides, in wooded vales,
And by the desert sands.

There is it, with its solemn aisles,
A heavenly, holy thing,
And round its walls lie Christian dead
Blessedly slumbering.

Though sects and factions rend the world,
Peace is its heritage;
Unchanged, though empires by it pass,
The same from age to age.

The hallowed form our fathers built,
That hallowed form build we;
Let not one stone from its own place
Removèd ever be.

Scoff as thou passest, if thou wilt,
Thou man that hast no faith;
Thou that no sorrows hast in life,
Nor blessedness in death.

But we will build, for all thou scoff,
And cry, “What waste is this!”
The Lord our God hath given us all,
And all is therefore His.

252

Clear voices from above sound out
Their blessing on the pile;
The dead beneath support our hands,
And succour us the while.

Yea, when we climb the rising walls
Is peace and comfort given;
Because the work is not of earth,
But hath its end in Heaven.

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EASTER, 1844.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF CLEMENT HENRY OKE ALFORD.

My blessed child! Last Sunday morn,
That Feast of all the year,
We held thee in our wearied arms,
Distraught with hope and fear.

We soothed thee with caresses fond;
With words, alas, how vain!
We strove to still thy piercing moans,
And set to sleep thy pain.

But still the thought would ever rise
In stern reality,
Ill balanced by returning hope,
That our dear child would die.

Another Sunday morn is come,
But all is altered now:
Pilgrims upon this earth are we,
A blessed saint art thou.

253

No mother now beside thy bed
Let fall her burning tears;
No father bathes thy fevered head,
Nor whispers rising fears.

That form so fair, those eyes so bright,
Are laid in hallowed ground,
And over them the churchward chimes
A peaceful requiem sound.

But thou, dear glorious child, art fled,
And on thy Saviour's breast
Dost for the resurrection-morn
In holy quiet rest.

Oh, never would we change this hour,
With blessed hope so bright,
For that sad day of fainting prayers,
For that last anxious night.

The earth and all that is therein
Are hallowed to us now:
In work, at rest, at home, abroad,
Where'er we turn, art thou.

Thou blessed child in Paradise,
Safe fled from sin and pain;
Oh, not for all thy life could give
Shouldst thou be here again.

254

FAITH. (1844.)

I thought, if I could go and stand
Beside our dear one's grave in Faith,
And lift the voice, and stretch the hand,
And call on Him who conquered Death;

And then in my reliance deep,
Bid the new-buried corpse come forth,—
The call of Faith would break that sleep,
And animate that lifeless earth.

But while I pondered thus, within
A gentle voice reminded me
That I was weak, and soiled with sin,—
That Faith must strong and holy be.

“Raise up the deadness of thy soul,
Be pure, and watch, and fast, and pray;
Then mayst thou bid the sick be whole,
Then shall the dead thy voice obey.”

Lord God the Spirit? purify
My thoughts,—bind fast my life to Thee;
So shall I meet my babe on high,
Though he may not return to me.

255

BALLAD. (1845.)

Rise, sons of merry England, from mountain and from plain;
Let each light up his spirit, let none unmoved remain;
The morning is before you, and glorious is the sun;
Rise up, and do your blessed work before the day be done.

“Come help us, come and help us,”—from the valley and the hill
To the ear of God in heaven are the cries ascending still;
The soul that wanteth knowledge, the flesh that wanteth food;—
Arise, ye sons of England,—go about doing good.

Your hundreds and your thousands at usage and in purse,
Behold a safe investment, which shall bless and never curse!
Oh, who would spend for house or land, if he might but from above
Draw down the sweet and holy dew of happiness and love?

Pour out upon the needy ones the soft and healing balm:
The storm hath not arisen yet,—ye yet may keep the calm;

256

Already mounts the darkness,—the warning wind is loud:
But ye may seek your father's God, and pray away the cloud.

Go throng our ancient churches, and on the holy floor
Kneel humbly in your penitence among the kneeling poor;
Cry out at morn and even, and amid the busy day,
“Spare, spare, O Lord, Thy people;—oh cast us not away!”

Hush down the sounds of quarrel; let party names alone;
Let brother join with brother, and England claim her own.
In battle with the Mammon-host join peasant, clerk. and lord:
Sweet charity your banner-flag, and God for all your word.

1846.

Thou child of Man, fall down
With contrite heart and low;
Inheritor by fleshly birth
Of exile, death, and woe.

Thou child of Man, rejoice!
The righteous One hath died:
Behold by faith thy seals of Love,
His hands, His feet, His side!

257

Thou child of Man, that Blood
Upon thy doors we trace:
The symbol of that mighty Cross
We stamp upon thy face.

Servant of God, go forth
Clad in thy Saviour's name;
Like Him thou must endure the Cross,
Like Him despise the shame.

Servant of God, hope on
Through tempests and through tears:
The pillar of His presence see,
Lighting the waste of years.

Servant of God, farewell!
The bed of death is made:
Go, with His glorious countenance
To cheer thee through the shade.

Servant of God, all hail!
The bright-haired army waits:
And greeting angels round thy path
Throng from the jasper gates.

“Servant of God, well done!”
The judgment is His own:—
Pass to the Inner Light, and sit
With Him upon His throne.

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THE SALZBURG CHIMES.

Composed to the Melody of the Salzburg Chimes, heard and noted down by the Author in July 1846.

Sweetly float o'er town and tower
Strains that mark the dawning hour;
Soothing, as it glides along,
Yon fair stream with tinkling song;
Over vineyard, rock, and wood,
And where ancient bastion stood,
Heralds now of peaceful times,
Sweetly float the Salzburg chimes.

Once again—from this green hill
Echo lets no leaf be still;
Once again—the Salza's breast
Gives the welling sounds no rest:
Distant in the spreading plain
Mount and tower take up the strain,
Till in yonder Alpine climes
Herdsmen catch the Salzburg chimes.

Yet once again—the merry merry child
Dances to the melody with gambols wild:
Yet once more—the sentry stern
Paces to the time at every turn:
E'en the sick on painful bed
Lifts in hope his weary head,
And hoary elders bless the times
When first they heard the Salzburg chimes.

259

Yet once more—ere noonday rise,
Part our steps for other skies:
Yet once more—in memory's ear
Still shall sound that music clear:
And in England's homes of light,
When the cheerful hearth is bright,
Will we, in far distant climes,
Wake the slumbering Salzburg chimes.

A TRUANT HOUR.

Bonn, July 8, 1847.

The golden stars keep watch aloft;
Unmarked the moments glide along,
Save that around me scatters oft
Yon nightingale his pearls of song:—

The hum of men, the roar of wheels,
That filled the streets erewhile, are gone;
The inner consciousness but feels
The lordly river rolling on.

The course of thoughts and being, pent
As waters ere they plunge below,
Reflects a downward firmament
Of life and things, in gleamy show.

260

Thus rest, so hushed with airs of balm
That reach them from their promise-land,
The righteous souls, in stillest calm
Laid up in their Redeemer's hand.

All that has been, and all that is,
Back from their thoughts in light is given,
Deep firmaments of inward bliss
Far glittering into distant Heaven.

The while, side-heard as in a dream,
The ages strike their solemn chime;
And from the ancient hills, the stream
Rolls onward of predestined Time.

On the Alte Zoll, over the Rhine. The sweet odour of the grape bloom filled the air; the heaven was tremulously reflected in the eddies of the river, as the realities of life in the dreams of the sleepers; and the clocks of the town were telling the hour of the night. Hence the imagery.

HENRY MARTYN AT SHIRAZ. (1851.)

I

A vision of the bright Shiraz, of Persian bards the theme:
The vine with bunches laden hangs o'er the crystal stream;
The nightingale all day her notes in rosy thickets trills,
And the brooding heat-mist faintly lies along the distant hills.

261

II

About the plain are scattered wide in many a crumbling heap,
The fanes of other days, and tombs where Iran's poets sleep:
And in the midst, like burnished gems, in noonday light repose
The minarets of bright Shiraz—the City of the Rose.

III

One group beside the river bank in rapt discourse are seen,
Where hangs the golden orange on its boughs of purest green;
Their words are sweet and low, and their looks are lit with joy;
Some holy blessing seems to rest on them and their employ.

IV

The pale-faced Frank among them sits: what brought him from afar?

262

Nor bears he bales of merchandise, nor teaches skill in war:
One pearl alone he brings with him,—the Book of life and death,—
One warfare only teaches he,—to fight the fight of faith.

V

And Iran's sons are round him,—and one, with solemn tone,
Tells how the Lord of Glory was rejected by His own;
Tells, from the wondrous Gospel, of the Trial and the Doom,—
The words divine of Love and Might,—the Scourge, the Cross, the Tomb.

VI

Far sweeter to the stranger's ear those Eastern accents sound,
Than music of the nightingale that fills the air around;
Lovelier than balmiest odours sent from gardens of the rose,
The fragrance, from the contrite soul and chastened lip that flows.

VII

The nightingales have ceased to sing, the roses' leaves are shed,
The Frank's pale face in Tocat's field hath mouldered with the dead:
Alone and all unfriended, midst his Master's work he fell,
With none to bathe his fevered brow,—with none his tale to tell.

263

VIII

But still those sweet and solemn tones about him sound in bliss,
And fragrance from those flowers of God for evermore is his:
For his the meed, by grace, of those who, rich in zeal and love,
Turn many unto righteousness, and shine as stars above.

“In consequence of his removal to a garden in the suburbs of the city, where his kind host had pitched a tent for him, he prosecuted the work before him uninterruptedly. Living amidst clusters of grapes by the side of a clear stream, and frequently sitting under the shade of an orange tree, which Jafier Ali Khan delighted to point out to visitors, until the day of his own departure, he passed many a tranquil hour, and enjoyed many a Sabbath of holy rest and divine refreshment.”

—Life of H. Martyn, p. 362.

May 1st to 10th.—“Passed some days at Jafier Ali Khan's garden with Mirza Seid Ali, Aga Baba, Sheikh Abul Hassan, reading, at their request the Old Testament histories. Their attention to the Word and their love and respect for me seemed to increase as the time of my departure approached.

“Aga Baba, who had been reading St Matthew, related very circumstantially to the company the particulars of the death of Christ. The bed of roses on which we sat, and the notes of the nightingales warbling around us, were not so sweet to me as this discourse from the Persian.”

—Ibid., p. 417.

The plain of Shiraz is covered with ancient ruins; and contains the tombs of the Persian poets Sadi and Hafiz.

DE PROFUNDIS. (1852.)

All day long the tear is swelling,
Drops, and then anew is swelling,
Constant, in its crystal dwelling.

All day long, each other chasing,
Over life's dank meadows chasing,
Deeper shadows are increasing.

Dim the prospect all with sorrow,
Joyless mists and clouds of sorrow:
Eve to-day, and night to-morrow.

Gone, my blest ones? both departed?
Taken leave, and long departed?
Past away, my noble-hearted?

From the midst of warm embraces,
Sports and smiles and fond embraces,
Dropt among forgotten faces?

264

Blank is home, and cold without ye,
Long and drear the days without ye,—
Nestling memories crowd about ye.

Come, then, let me tell your story,
Oft thought-o'er familiar story;
Heavy sunset, morn of glory.

Clement, peaceful, still and holy,
Pure and bright and calm and holy,
Sweetest rose-bud fading slowly.

Cloudless clear that Easter morning,
Gems hung every flower that morning,
Earth her conqueror's pomp adorning.

Watching thy pale face distracted,
We, with faith and woe distracted,
Long, the long farewell expected.

Came at last the foe and bound thee,
With his icy film fast bound thee,—
Hearts were poured in tears around thee.

Sleepless nights we lay and pondered,
O'er thy fair decay we pondered,
At thy beauty wept and wondered.

Out of sight we took and laid thee,
By that old church wall we laid thee,
Long and sad adieu we bade thee.

265

Then for years in peace remaining,
Calm beneath our woe remaining,
We pass onward uncomplaining.

One was with us upward growing,
In pure mirth and joyance growing,
Fairest flower in fragrance blowing.

Still his merry laugh rung round me,
Still his light of smiles was round me,
Still his love with blessing crowned me.

Pause, my soul, amidst thy sorrow:
Arm for toil of sterner sorrow,
Weep to-day, and write to-morrow.

The conclusion was never written; but the subject is resumed in “Lacrymæ Paternæ.”

ON A CYCLAMEN.

Brought by us from Italy, in 1837, and now (1852) still blooming in our green-house.

This fragrant plant from sunny Italy,
Plucked by our passing hand, was homeward brought:
Memorial of that favoured clime to be,
And minister sweet food to retrospective thought.

Unchecked in growth, it well repays our care,
Gladdening our cottage with its constant bloom:
By nature prompted, half the varied year;
The other,—gay in honour of its new-found home.

266

Thick on a bank, beneath a crumbled mass
Of ancient stone-work, by Piano's lake,
Thy fellows cluster yet, and they who pass
See yet their turbaned flowerets to the breezes shake.

The life of Nature's children, who can tell?
What grand old tales their history may hide,
How world-wide empires by them rose and fell,
Or Cæsars trampled o'er them in their legioned pride?

Led by thy scent, perchance, some glorious morn,
Stopped the Cisalpine shepherd as he past,
Built his low hut beneath the sheltering thorn,
And in the doorway sitting, ate his mean repast.

Then a fair garland of his home's own flowers
Culled for the peasant girl he loved the best;
Worn in the first bright day of married hours,
Lapt soft between the hillocks of her panting breast.

So years went on:—that bank his children knew,
Loved the bright rosy tints thy bloom-cups shed,
Oft bathed their limbs in summer's freshest dew
In childhood's naked gambols on thy leafy bed.

Lo, other climes and ways await thee now:
Warm wrapt and weather-fenced our forms pass by:
Safe housed with sheltering glass above thee, thou
Amidst mock summers lift'st to Heaven thy laughing eye.

267

Play on, thou little fount of blameless joy,
Freshening our souls through many a weary time;
Gladdening the stately hours of high employ,—
As blest in Britain's mists, as erst in happier clime.

HOW WE BURIED HIM. (1859.)

A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE CANON CHESSHYRE, ST MARTIN'S, CANTERBURY.

Where thickest on that eastward hill the grassy mounds are piled,
We laid him till the glorious morn beside his waiting child:
Above, that home of England's faith; around, the silent dead;
Beneath, the city in her pomp of ancient towers out-spread.

Some might have blamed the swelling tear, and chid the faltering voice,
When earth below would have us mourn, but Heaven above rejoice:
But down beneath its busy thoughts the Christian heart can weep,
Where meet the springs of joy and woe, ten thousand fathoms deep.

268

He walked the furnace tied and bound with suffering's galling band,
But One there was, the Son of God, who held him by the hand;
No smell of fire is on him now, no link of all his chains,
The wreck we mourned is passed away; the friend we loved remains.

Let Worcester tell his deeds of love,—let Canterbury tell,—
Each sacred roof his labour raised, each flock he watched so well;
The councils that no more shall hear his zealous words and wise,
The souls that miss him on their path of holy enter-prise.

We stood, his brothers, o'er him, in the sacred garb he wore;
We thought of all we owed him, and of all we hoped for more;
Our Zion's desolation on every heart fell chill,
As we left him, slowly winding down that ancient eastward hill.

And what if in the distance then some lightsome sounds were heard,
That seemed to mar the solemn thought and mock the sacred word?

269

In air that savoured yet of death 'twas life sprung up anew:
There yet is youth, there still is hope, there yet are deeds to do.

To our places in the vineyard of our God return we now,
With kindled eye, with onward step, with hand upon the plough:
Our hearts are safer anchored; our hopes have richer store;
One treasure more in Heaven is ours; one bright example more.