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259

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261

A MISSIONARY'S MEDITATION

The Century dies in tears,
The Century dies in fears—
In tears! Our best-beloved are at the front;
On Natal's hills of storm
Heroic blood is warm,
And white lips breathe at home, ‘Beati mortui sunt.
In fears! There are who trace
Some far world's fateful race
Down to a moment on our death-doomed shores;
Watching that awful tryst
Their thoughts turn atheist,
And hear no Father's steps adown Time's corridors.

262

When a new age again
Dawns on the sons of men,
Earth shall have ampler crowns for Christ to wear;
In many another tongue
Anthems to Him be sung,
A more exceeding weight of glory load heaven's stair.
When first our earth did see
Him on the bitter Tree,
The olden languages bore witness well—
The Roman speech of force,
The subtle Greek's discourse,
The Hebrew's rhythm of thought and mystic oracle.
But ere in His own time
He comes again sublime
All in their proper tongue towards Him shall reach—
Some that are infantine,
And others half divine
With perfect cadences, the glory of all speech.

263

Lord! grant me grace to bend
Until my years I end
Over the poorest tongues beneath the suns;
Such clay may yet supply
Gems for some liturgy,
And God's thoughts clothe themselves from lowly lexicons.
Grant me no hasty spasm,
But strong enthusiasm,
Sweet passion to win souls and make them free—
I ask not pomp at all
Of power rhetorical,
But let my manifold being be lull'd to rest by Thee;
As when a full harp swept
By a master's hand hath kept
A stormy music rushing through the hall,
Sudden he lays his palm
On the strings making calm,
A hush as if he held a harp marmoreal.

264

Lord! lead my footsteps still
Wherever is Thy will,
Wherever our strong English Colonist grieves;
Hearing no sweet church-bell,
By snow waste or hot dell,
Arums of Africa, Canadian maple-leaves.
Lord! it were over bold
For me like one of old
To ask enlistment in the martyr-host—
Although life's broken cry
Thereby wins perfectly
The one consummate voice that speaks life's purpose most.
My long life-task may lie
In dust and drudgery,
But all is well if only it be Thine—
Dust of Thy sacred feet,
Drudgery not unmeet,
So dust be dust of gold and drudgery divine.

265

Grant me Thy mighty grace
That all my commonplace
By Thy great leading may be render'd high,
So through low leaves of thought
Blue sky may be inwrought,
My commonplace become Thine opportunity.
They tell me that there wait
For me at death's dark gate
The icy chill, the fever's touch of fire;
They who dare say no worse
Say the Missionary's curse
Is to die young and poor, nor go in this world higher.
Ship never fail'd that stored
Before her or on board
All whereunto true Mariners resort.
Christ unto us is given,
His book, His Church, His Heaven,
Compass and chart and stars, a Pilot and a port!
 

This stanza refers to the widespread panic occasioned by Professor Falb's calculations about the destruction of the earth on November 13, 1899.

See the difficult but striking passage in Ignatius, Epist. ad Rom. 2. His martyrdom alone would make an intelligible divine utterance (λογος Θεου), not a broken cry as of one of the lower creatures (φωνη). See Bishop Lightfoot, in loc.


266

IS WAR THE ONLY THING THAT HAS NO GOOD IN IT?

They say that ‘war is hell,’ the ‘great accursed,’
The sin impossible to be forgiven;
Yet I can look beyond it at its worst,
And still find blue in Heaven.
And as I note how nobly natures form
Under the war's red rain, I deem it true
That He who made the earthquake and the storm
Perchance makes battles too!
The life He loves is not the life of span
Abbreviated by each passing breath,
It is the true humanity of Man
Victorious over death,
The long expectance of the upward gaze,
Sense ineradicable of things afar,
Fair hope of finding after many days
The bright and morning Star.

267

Methinks I see how spirits may be tried,
Transfigured into beauty on war's verge,
Like flowers, whose tremulous grace is learnt beside
The trampling of the surge.
And now, not only Englishmen at need
Have won a fiery and unequal fray,—
No infantry has ever done such deed
Since Albuera's day!
Those who live on amid our homes to dwell
Have grasped the higher lessons that endure,—
The gallant Private learns to practise well
His heroism obscure.
His heart beats high as one for whom is made
A mighty music solemnly, what time
The oratorio of the cannonade
Rolls through the hills sublime.
Yet his the dangerous posts that few can mark,
The crimson death, the dread unerring aim,
The fatal ball that whizzes through the dark,
The just-recorded name—

268

The faithful following of the flag all day,
The duty done that brings no nation's thanks,
The Ama Nesciri of some grim and gray
A Kempis of the ranks.
These are the things our commonweal to guard,
The patient strength that is too proud to press,
The duty done for duty, not reward,
The lofty littleness.
And they of greater state who never turned,
Taking their path of duty high and higher,
What do we deem that they, too, may have learned
In that baptismal fire?
Not that the only end beneath the sun
Is to make every sea a trading lake,
And all our splendid English history one
Voluminous mistake.
They who marched up the bluffs last stormy week—
Some of them, ere they reached the mountain's crown,
The wind of battle breathing on their cheek
Suddenly laid them down.

269

Like sleepers—not like those whose race is run—
Fast, fast asleep amid the cannon's roar,
Them no reveille and no morning gun
Shall ever waken more.
And the boy-beauty passed from off the face
Of those who lived, and into it instead
Came proud forgetfulness of ball and race,
Sweet commune with the dead.
And thoughts beyond their thoughts the Spirit lent,
And manly tears made mist upon their eyes,
And to them came a great presentiment
Of high self-sacrifice.
Thus, as the heaven's many-coloured flames
At sunset are but dust in rich disguise,
The ascending earthquake dust of battle frames
God's pictures in the skies.
 

The heading of a remarkable chapter in the De Imitatione Christi.