 | Voices from the Lakes, and Other Poems |  |
iii
DEDICATION.
TO MY WIFE AND CHILDREN,
in memory of our happy days at Loughrigg Brow,
which, though no longer our residence, I am grateful
to think may still be regarded as a second Home, the
following Poems, written at intervals during several
years, and now for the first time published, are
affectionately dedicated by the Author.
The Rectory,
Cheltenham, October 1876.
iv
DEDICATORY SONNET. TO MY WIFE AND CHILDREN.
My dear ones! In your hands this Book I lay,Looking for gentle judgment and no scorn,
Else had this little volume been forborne,
Nor had I sent it forth to face the day,
But rather in oblivion let it stay
Where with no critic's words I should be torn,
Nor felt their arrows rankle like a thorn,
As I passed onward on my humbled way—
But you will kindly weigh this offered Book,
And it shall call me softly back to mind,
When in its pages you shall sometimes look,
And think of all the pleasant days behind,
Whose current flowing like some hidden brook,
Thro' all your memories shall gently wind.
6
SKELWITH FORCE.
The warmth of a summer noon,
A sky, translucent and bright,
On which there is sleeping a fleecy cloud,
Suffused with an amber light.
A sky, translucent and bright,
On which there is sleeping a fleecy cloud,
Suffused with an amber light.
The beauty of valley and hill,
And a river murmuring near,
That tumbles and rolls over mosses and stones,
Limpid and cool and clear.
And a river murmuring near,
That tumbles and rolls over mosses and stones,
Limpid and cool and clear.
A meadow of emerald grass,
Sloping from up the dell,
Broidered all over with daisies white,
And gemmed with the blue harebell.
Sloping from up the dell,
Broidered all over with daisies white,
And gemmed with the blue harebell.
Stretching away to the west,
The Langdales rise on high,
Till the cloven crown of their soaring peaks
Is lost in the blue of the sky.
The Langdales rise on high,
Till the cloven crown of their soaring peaks
Is lost in the blue of the sky.
7
Curvings of hills all round,
Fit frame for the picture fair;
And rock and scar most tenderly veiled
In a haze of bright golden air.
Fit frame for the picture fair;
And rock and scar most tenderly veiled
In a haze of bright golden air.
At the foot of the meadow green,
The rush of a foaming fall,
Whose waters dash downward from rock to rock,
Melodious and musical.
The rush of a foaming fall,
Whose waters dash downward from rock to rock,
Melodious and musical.
The gentle whisper of trees,—
Alder, and poplar, and pine;
With the flush of roses in every hedge,
Where the briar and loosestrife twine.
Alder, and poplar, and pine;
With the flush of roses in every hedge,
Where the briar and loosestrife twine.
Sweet flowers on field and fell,
And plumed ferns everywhere;
The Oak, and Parsley, and Beech,
And dark-stemmed Maiden-hair.
And plumed ferns everywhere;
The Oak, and Parsley, and Beech,
And dark-stemmed Maiden-hair.
'Tis a scene of pastoral peace,
Fair as a poet's dream;
With a glamour of beauty on all that you see,—
On copse, and wood, and stream.
Fair as a poet's dream;
With a glamour of beauty on all that you see,—
On copse, and wood, and stream.
8
'Tis said that the morning stars
Sang aloud at Creation's birth;
That the sons of God shouted for joy,
As He rounded this new-born earth.
Sang aloud at Creation's birth;
That the sons of God shouted for joy,
As He rounded this new-born earth.
And well may they sing on still,
Looking down on this radiant scene,
With its hills, and meadows, and woods,
And the river that flows between.
Looking down on this radiant scene,
With its hills, and meadows, and woods,
And the river that flows between.
And the song may flow thro' the night,
When the purple shadows fall;
And mingle its notes with the rush
Of the foaming waterfall.
When the purple shadows fall;
And mingle its notes with the rush
Of the foaming waterfall.
Dear God! to lie 'neath the blue,
And muse on Thy wondrous love,
Is a pleasure, the sweetest on earth,—
A joy as of Eden above.
And muse on Thy wondrous love,
Is a pleasure, the sweetest on earth,—
A joy as of Eden above.
For the very gates of Thy heaven
Seem to open before the gaze;
And the soul is lifted out of itself
In a rapture of bliss and praise.
Seem to open before the gaze;
And the soul is lifted out of itself
In a rapture of bliss and praise.
9
In a rapture of praise and bliss,
Which stirs the pulses like wine,
To a passion of keenest delight,
That borders upon the divine.
Which stirs the pulses like wine,
To a passion of keenest delight,
That borders upon the divine.
Ah! 'tis well to come hither and muse,
For the world intrudeth not here;
Nature herself is all in all,
And God and the angels are near.
For the world intrudeth not here;
Nature herself is all in all,
And God and the angels are near.
13
ST MARY'S CHURCH, AMBLESIDE.
Sweet village church amidst the purple hills,That rise in grandeur from the emerald plain,
Like loving guardians of thy holy fane,
Built within sound of two clear mountain rills,
Whose music all the peaceful silence fills.
Dear house of God! Till life itself shall wane,
Thy memories shall haunt both heart and brain,
Never to fade till death these pulses still.
Oft in thy walls, so simple, yet so fair,
I've felt the calm that breathed from place and hour,—
The softened light, the organ's mellow power,
Sweet hymn, and thrilling psalm, and holy prayer;
So rapt the spirit, and so deep the spell,
If this were earth or heaven I could not tell.
14
A MEADOW AT RYDAL.
The fields were like bright cloth of gold,
The buttercups so thickly grew;
The lanes were full as they could hold
Of orchis and the speedwell blue.
The buttercups so thickly grew;
The lanes were full as they could hold
Of orchis and the speedwell blue.
Hedgerows with starry flowers were gay,
Banks were with purple foxgloves lined;
On meadows lay the new mown hay,
Whose scent came on the summer wind.
Banks were with purple foxgloves lined;
On meadows lay the new mown hay,
Whose scent came on the summer wind.
Bright butterflies were on the wing,
Floating along the liquid air;
Bees into flowers themselves did fling,
And pass'd the honied hours there.
Floating along the liquid air;
Bees into flowers themselves did fling,
And pass'd the honied hours there.
The cows stood knee-deep in the stream
That rippled thro' the open glade;
Or churned their mouths in happy dream,
Couched 'neath the elm-trees' leafy shade.
That rippled thro' the open glade;
Or churned their mouths in happy dream,
Couched 'neath the elm-trees' leafy shade.
15
The hills were veiled in tender mist
Of azure and of golden air;
The vales shone like to amethyst,
The woods gleamed bright as emerald fair.
Of azure and of golden air;
The vales shone like to amethyst,
The woods gleamed bright as emerald fair.
The lark was singing in the sky,
The birds were warbling in the trees,
A happy voice came wandering by—
“Cuckoo, cuckoo,” on the breeze.
The birds were warbling in the trees,
A happy voice came wandering by—
“Cuckoo, cuckoo,” on the breeze.
We stood amidst the fragrant grass,
We looked on valley, sky, and hill;
We watched the shadows come and pass,
We drank of Nature to our fill.
We looked on valley, sky, and hill;
We watched the shadows come and pass,
We drank of Nature to our fill.
We talked of man, we talked of God,
Of friends on earth, and friends in heaven;
Of some who lay beneath the sod,
Of some who still to us were given.
Of friends on earth, and friends in heaven;
Of some who lay beneath the sod,
Of some who still to us were given.
And then we fell to silence oft,
Broken at times by happy sigh;
Or by the woodland voice, so soft,
Of “Cuckoo, cuckoo,” passing by.
Broken at times by happy sigh;
Or by the woodland voice, so soft,
Of “Cuckoo, cuckoo,” passing by.
16
A calm, that o'er all Nature stole,
And gently breathed of peace and rest,
Pass'd from the scene into the soul,
And throned itself within the breast.
And gently breathed of peace and rest,
Pass'd from the scene into the soul,
And throned itself within the breast.
Ah! happy, happy, happy day,
I hope for others like to thee!
For tho' my head since then is grey,
Nature is more, not less, to me.
I hope for others like to thee!
For tho' my head since then is grey,
Nature is more, not less, to me.
I hope to love it on till death;
Blue noons, fair nights, and gentle springs,
The cuckoo's voice, the cowslip's breath,—
All living, and all lifeless things.
Blue noons, fair nights, and gentle springs,
The cuckoo's voice, the cowslip's breath,—
All living, and all lifeless things.
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A MAY EVENING AT AMBLESIDE.
The happy hills round Windermere,
Look purple through the evening air;
The light falls soft on field and fell,
On rugged scar and wooded dell.
Look purple through the evening air;
The light falls soft on field and fell,
On rugged scar and wooded dell.
A leafy splendour crowns the scene,
The oak puts forth her tender green;
The branching pine stands dark and high,
Against the pale and solemn sky.
The oak puts forth her tender green;
The branching pine stands dark and high,
Against the pale and solemn sky.
The fragrant thorn is flowered with May,
Whose snows rest thick on every spray;
And beech and birch-tree bending make
A mirror of the placid lake.
Whose snows rest thick on every spray;
And beech and birch-tree bending make
A mirror of the placid lake.
The noise of streams is in the ear,
And rapid Rotha murmurs near;
While birds from woods and copses dim
Chant loud and clear their evening hymn.
And rapid Rotha murmurs near;
While birds from woods and copses dim
Chant loud and clear their evening hymn.
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How mellow is the throstle's note!
What music swells the robin's throat!
And hark! from far the cuckoo's cry,
Borne on the breeze, comes wandering by.
What music swells the robin's throat!
And hark! from far the cuckoo's cry,
Borne on the breeze, comes wandering by.
See how the tender opal light
Burns like a crown on Loughrigg's height;
While Fairfield's crest in shadow lies,
Veiled in empurpled mysteries!
Burns like a crown on Loughrigg's height;
While Fairfield's crest in shadow lies,
Veiled in empurpled mysteries!
O peaceful hours! O happy time!
O Spring, in all thy glorious prime!
I feel the spirit of the scene
Thrill me with pleasure pure and keen.
O Spring, in all thy glorious prime!
I feel the spirit of the scene
Thrill me with pleasure pure and keen.
O God so great! O God so good!
To spread such wealth of lake and wood,
To pile the mountains, arch the sky,
Low at Thy feet in praise I lie!
To spread such wealth of lake and wood,
To pile the mountains, arch the sky,
Low at Thy feet in praise I lie!
Father of mercies, I would see
Thy love in all, and all in Thee;
Proofs of Thy goodness and Thy grace,
Through sight and sound in every place.
Thy love in all, and all in Thee;
Proofs of Thy goodness and Thy grace,
Through sight and sound in every place.
19
And oft, when gazing o'er this land,
Decked by Thy kind and liberal hand,
I ask, in wonderment of bliss,
“Was Eden's self so fair as this?”
Decked by Thy kind and liberal hand,
I ask, in wonderment of bliss,
“Was Eden's self so fair as this?”
90
SONNET. ST MARY'S CHURCHYARD, AMBLESIDE.
Beauty still lingers on the evening air,With golden Aureole the West is crowned,
The voice of children is the only sound
That breaks upon this spot so calm and fair,
Apt place for meditation and for prayer.
Ah, as I think of many sleeping here,
Who were to me amongst the known and dear,
This Churchyard to my heart is “holy ground!”
Sweet thought, “God's Acre!” Here the eye of faith
Sees that the tomb with living seed is rife.
This is to me no place of barren death,
For here are sown the quickening germs of life;
They that are laid here only seem to die,—
The grave their gate to Immortality.
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SONNET. THE SAME.
One sings, “God giveth His beloved sleep;”And in this sleep realities, not dreams,
Are present to the soul, upon it streams
True blessedness, and rapture full and deep.
God, 'neath the shadow of His throne, doth keep
His dead; upon whose happy spirits gleams
Light from His face in bright resplendent beams,
And never more shall they or mourn or weep.
The sainted ones, each 'neath his grassy ridge,
Who found it Christ to live and gain to die,
Know that the grave is but a narrow bridge,
Which spans the space between the earth and sky,
That they who o'er it cross the darkling river,
Have fellowship with God in bliss for ever.
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Devotional Poems.
112
“NOT UNCLOTHED, BUT CLOTHED UPON.”
Oh, not unclothed, my heart recoils from this,
And turns all trembling from the loathsome grave!
But to be clothed upon, ah, this were bliss,
And this, O God, I crave!
And turns all trembling from the loathsome grave!
But to be clothed upon, ah, this were bliss,
And this, O God, I crave!
I love this happy life and all its joys,
I love the sunshine, and the warmth, and light,—
The summer woods, the river's rippling voice,
And all things fair and bright.
I love the sunshine, and the warmth, and light,—
The summer woods, the river's rippling voice,
And all things fair and bright.
I love the song of birds in leafy trees,
That sit and warble sweetly all the day;
I love to catch the whispers of the breeze
As through the boughs they play.
That sit and warble sweetly all the day;
I love to catch the whispers of the breeze
As through the boughs they play.
I love the bleat of lambs amongst the hills,
The hum upon the wind of passing bee;
To hear the lark which all the silence fills
With thrilling melody.
The hum upon the wind of passing bee;
To hear the lark which all the silence fills
With thrilling melody.
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'Tis sweet to stray through fields where flowrets blow,
Or wander thro' the meadows, cool and green,
To watch the shadows as they come and go
Across the starlight keen.
Or wander thro' the meadows, cool and green,
To watch the shadows as they come and go
Across the starlight keen.
'Tis sweet to see affection's beaming look,
The smile of ready love, unbribed, unbought;
To read as in a fair and open book,
Each pure and holy thought.
The smile of ready love, unbribed, unbought;
To read as in a fair and open book,
Each pure and holy thought.
I still would feel a wife's and child's embrace,
The clasp of friendly hand strong, staunch, and true;
And gaze into a loving, gentle face,
As now I fondly do.
The clasp of friendly hand strong, staunch, and true;
And gaze into a loving, gentle face,
As now I fondly do.
I would not be unclothed; I would not die,
Wept for a space, perhaps, with bitter tear;
Then mouldering in the lonely grave, to lie
Forgotten, tho' so near;
Wept for a space, perhaps, with bitter tear;
Then mouldering in the lonely grave, to lie
Forgotten, tho' so near;
Out in the cold, when warm fires burn and glow,
And happy faces gather round the hearth,
And peals of merry laughter come and go,
Whilst I lie deep in earth.
And happy faces gather round the hearth,
And peals of merry laughter come and go,
Whilst I lie deep in earth.
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Oh, not unclothed! my God, save me, I pray,
From the dire sting and bitterness of death!
O come Thyself, and bring the Advent day,
Whilst yet I draw my breath!
From the dire sting and bitterness of death!
O come Thyself, and bring the Advent day,
Whilst yet I draw my breath!
Oh, not unclothed, but rather clothed upon,
With that immortal house Thou hast in store,
When the frail earthly tent is taken down,
And laid by evermore!
With that immortal house Thou hast in store,
When the frail earthly tent is taken down,
And laid by evermore!
Oh, for the lot of that great Saint of old,
Who in the body went to be with Thee,
Rapt on a sudden to the heavenly fold,
From death set ever free!
Who in the body went to be with Thee,
Rapt on a sudden to the heavenly fold,
From death set ever free!
Take me like him for whom the burning car
Swept down the firmament with splendour bright,
Gliding along the sky like some fair star,
And flashing on the sight.
Swept down the firmament with splendour bright,
Gliding along the sky like some fair star,
And flashing on the sight.
But if this may not be, and die I must,—
If over me the solemn words be said,
“Ashes to ashes, dust to kindred dust,”
Then, Lord, be with Thy dead! Amen.
If over me the solemn words be said,
“Ashes to ashes, dust to kindred dust,”
Then, Lord, be with Thy dead! Amen.
118
A DIRGE.
Why sleepeth she? Are there not voices calling,
Bidding her to them as they used of yore,
In loving tones and sweetest accents falling
Along the sounding shore?
Bidding her to them as they used of yore,
In loving tones and sweetest accents falling
Along the sounding shore?
Why stayeth she? The starlight softly lieth—
The starlight which she loved on mead and hill;
While through the depths of heaven the white moon hieth,
And all is calm and still.
The starlight which she loved on mead and hill;
While through the depths of heaven the white moon hieth,
And all is calm and still.
Why lingereth she? Her step once lightly bounded,
Brushing the dew-drop from the opening flower;
Her voice amidst the gay, all gayest sounded,
Rich in its youthful power.
Brushing the dew-drop from the opening flower;
Her voice amidst the gay, all gayest sounded,
Rich in its youthful power.
Then say, why sleepeth she? She's gone for ever;
Oh, she is dead! our breaking hearts are sore;
We call her, but at our fond bidding, never
Shall she awaken more.
Oh, she is dead! our breaking hearts are sore;
We call her, but at our fond bidding, never
Shall she awaken more.
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Alas! that she, who filled our home with gladness,
And made earth blessèd, should thus early die;
Turning our life in blank and dreary sadness,
Into one long-drawn sigh.
And made earth blessèd, should thus early die;
Turning our life in blank and dreary sadness,
Into one long-drawn sigh.
And yet, why murmer we? She has been taken
Far from the evil which is yet to come;
And not a tear can from her eyes be shaken
In her Elysian home.
Far from the evil which is yet to come;
And not a tear can from her eyes be shaken
In her Elysian home.
There, with her Father in yon radiant heaven—
There, with her Saviour, pillow'd on His breast;
All gifts that God can give to her are given,
And peaceful is her rest.
There, with her Saviour, pillow'd on His breast;
All gifts that God can give to her are given,
And peaceful is her rest.
Let us not weep, then, with a hopeless sorrow,
Nor cherish thoughts of an unmingled pain;
But rather wait the dawning of that morrow,
When we shall meet again.
Nor cherish thoughts of an unmingled pain;
But rather wait the dawning of that morrow,
When we shall meet again.
The glorious morn, when clothed in radiant lustre,
The saints that sleep in Christ, to life shall rise,
And far outshine the brightest stars that cluster
Upon the sapphire skies.
The saints that sleep in Christ, to life shall rise,
And far outshine the brightest stars that cluster
Upon the sapphire skies.
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LIFE OR DEATH.
The people thro' the Churchyard go,The Living thro' the Dead—
The Dead that sleep so calm below,
Each in his narrow bed.
The Living, full of hopes and fears,
The Dead, so quiet and so still;
The Living, weeping bitter tears;
The Dead, beyond the reach of ill.
The Living, needing cure and balm,
With weariness within their eyes;
The Dead, with faces all so calm,
Not vexed with sorrow or surprise;
Their lot removed from loss and pain,
And aching thoughts and throbbing brain.
Ah, which is best—to live and weep,
Or in the grave with Christ to sleep,
No scorn or wrong to wring the breast,
Or break the tranquil spirit's rest!
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SONNET. A DYING WISH.
“That is what I should like—serving continually. Oh, I trust
there will be work for me where I am going!”—Lady Augusta
Stanley.
They gathered round her on her dying bed,
Where she was placed death-stricken, where she lay
In pain and anguish, many a weary day,
After all hope of health had ever fled.
The tide of life was ebbing fast away,
Nor had she any wish on earth to stay;
To what God pleased at once she bowed her head,—
“His will, not mine, be done,” she meekly said;
She had not lived for self and selfish gain,
But for the sick, the troubled, and the poor;
Her hands had ministered to soothe their pain,
Her lips had gently taught them to endure;
It was her joy to comfort and sustain,
And staunch the bleeding wounds she could not cure.
126
SONNET. THE SAME.
She long had yearned for perfect rest and peace;Her heart had gone before her to the skies,
To which she turned uplifted, wistful eyes,
Hoping that God would give her quick release;
For there the pangs of anguish ever cease,
Sin is no more, nor bitter tears, nor sighs,
But joys and pleasures of God's Paradise,
Which thro' the ages ever shall increase.
But most of all because her love was true,
Ardent and deep, longed she to be with Christ;
And with this strong desire another grew,
And nought but this her craving soul sufficed,
Hence her last words, “When all things are made new,
Will there be work for Him that I can do?”
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LAST WORDS.
“That is what I should like—serving continually. Oh, I trust
there will be work for me where I am going!”—Lady Augusta
Stanley.
You speak of “rest,” this will indeed be sweet,
Ease for the aching heart and throbbing brain;
No more the sickness, or the fever's heat,
The bitter anguish, or the wasting pain.
Oh, to lie ever in my Saviour's breast!
Never to weep, or feel a pang again!
Nothing to mar, nothing to break my rest!
But, to content me, “rest” itself were vain;
Nay, even streams of pleasure ever flowing,
“I trust there will be work for me where I am going.”
Ease for the aching heart and throbbing brain;
No more the sickness, or the fever's heat,
The bitter anguish, or the wasting pain.
Oh, to lie ever in my Saviour's breast!
Never to weep, or feel a pang again!
Nothing to mar, nothing to break my rest!
But, to content me, “rest” itself were vain;
Nay, even streams of pleasure ever flowing,
“I trust there will be work for me where I am going.”
You speak of “glory,” and it will be bliss
To see the City shining in God's light;
And lying here, I often think of this,—
The gates of pearl, the walls of jasper bright;
But were this all, a something I should lose;
In endless service is my true delight,
And this the blessedness that I would choose;
For what, tho' splendours flashed upon my sight,
And heaven to me was all its wonders shewing,
“Were there no work for me to do where I am going!”
To see the City shining in God's light;
And lying here, I often think of this,—
The gates of pearl, the walls of jasper bright;
But were this all, a something I should lose;
In endless service is my true delight,
128
For what, tho' splendours flashed upon my sight,
And heaven to me was all its wonders shewing,
“Were there no work for me to do where I am going!”
You speak of “joy,” and rapture it will be
To take the harp and celebrate His praise;
To stand where flames the bright and crystal sea,
And sing the new sweet song—its notes to raise
Beneath the shadow of the rainbow'd throne;
To magnify my Saviour's works and ways,
And all His mercies and His love to own;
But not with song would I fill all my days.
Burns there a wish, like flame within me glowing,
“I trust there will be work for me where I am going.”
To take the harp and celebrate His praise;
To stand where flames the bright and crystal sea,
And sing the new sweet song—its notes to raise
Beneath the shadow of the rainbow'd throne;
To magnify my Saviour's works and ways,
And all His mercies and His love to own;
But not with song would I fill all my days.
Burns there a wish, like flame within me glowing,
“I trust there will be work for me where I am going.”
It has been dear, God knows how dear to me,
The blessedness of serving Him to prove,
A lowly handmaiden of His to be,
And by thy side in service sweet to move,
So, day by day, to do His holy will.
Pleasant to us these ministries of love,
Pleasant the happy hours with work to fill,
Ah, this was joy all other joys above!
Canst wonder then this thought is in me growing,
“Will there be work for me to do where I am going?”
The blessedness of serving Him to prove,
A lowly handmaiden of His to be,
And by thy side in service sweet to move,
So, day by day, to do His holy will.
Pleasant to us these ministries of love,
Pleasant the happy hours with work to fill,
Ah, this was joy all other joys above!
129
“Will there be work for me to do where I am going?”
Sweet work we had, Beloved. To tend the poor,
To soothe the sorrowful, console the sad;
To bind up broken hearts, the sick to cure,
To dry the weeping eye, make mourners glad;
To guide the sinful and the wandering home,
Stoop to the fallen, deeming none too bad
For Him who bids the very worst to come,
And who for deepest sores a balsam had.
And as there was a reaping after sowing,
“God give me work to do for Him where I am going!’
To soothe the sorrowful, console the sad;
To bind up broken hearts, the sick to cure,
To dry the weeping eye, make mourners glad;
To guide the sinful and the wandering home,
Stoop to the fallen, deeming none too bad
For Him who bids the very worst to come,
And who for deepest sores a balsam had.
And as there was a reaping after sowing,
“God give me work to do for Him where I am going!’
What ministries are there—ah, who can say!
What possibilities of work for those
Who never weary, “rest not night or day,”
Whose labour is not toil, nor needs repose.
Ah, as they climb new heights of glory still,
And heaven upon their vision ever grows,
And fresh unveilings of the Father's will,
What forms of service shall not God disclose!
The current of my hopes to this is flowing,
“I trust there will be work to do where I am going.”
What possibilities of work for those
Who never weary, “rest not night or day,”
Whose labour is not toil, nor needs repose.
Ah, as they climb new heights of glory still,
And heaven upon their vision ever grows,
And fresh unveilings of the Father's will,
What forms of service shall not God disclose!
The current of my hopes to this is flowing,
“I trust there will be work to do where I am going.”
130
SONNET. RESIGNATION.
I ask, O Father, in this hour of woe,Not to escape the anguish and the pain,
The breaking heart, the aching wearied brain,
The wasting grief,—not this I ask, —Oh, no!
I only pray that Thou wilt mould me so
As Thou wouldst have me—fashion me again;
Yea, keep me in the furnace till each stain
Be burnt away, and till within my heart
My Saviour sees His own fair counterpart.
I pray that I may meekly kiss the rod
That cuts into the flesh with bitter smart;
And bow me humbly at Thy feet, O God!
Yea, bow till I can say with Thine own Son,
“Not mine, O Father, but Thy will be done!”
136
THE WELL OF BETHLEHEM.
I
It was the golden harvest-time,The fields stood thick with corn;
The valley blushed with clustered vines,
Purple and red as morn.
But though the vintage ripened stood,
And harvest fields were white,
No hand was placed amongst the grapes,
Nor flashed the sickle bright.
II
No song was heard from field or fold,Nor echoed from the hill;
The land was silent all as death,
As gloomy and as still.
The Philistine was in the land,
And kept it far and wide;
His armies seized fair Bethlehem,
And held it in their pride.
137
III
They roamed about in armèd bands,And pillaged far and near;
And in the homes of Israel
Was bitter dread and fear.
They drove the oxen from the stall,
The cattle from the plain;
And in the dark and deadly fray
Left many a brave man slain.
IV
The king knew well the fearful straitsIn which the people stood,
And how in terror they had fled
To den, and cave, and wood.
So David leaves his royal state
To help his trembling men;
He hopes his presence will recal
Their courage back again.
V
He marches onward to the fightWith a lion-heart and bold;
His noble eye has still the light
That it had in days of old.
138
With trumpet loud and clear,
The noble and the gallant souls
To whom the right is dear.
VI
He buckles on his sword and shield,And dons his armour bright;
And, trusting in the living God,
Comes down to head the fight.
He dares to stand against a host,
Nor turns his face away;
The Lord Jehovah is his boast,
No foe can him dismay.
VII
He fears not man, nor living thing,Nor shrinks from battle-field;
He loves to hear the clash and ring
Of broadsword and of shield.
And so against the Philistine
He mingles in the strife,
And, in the ghastly battle, strikes
For honoured death or life.
139
VIII
And now he gives the signal,Is first to hurl the dart;
And sweeping onward with his men,
Like rush of river through a glen,
Or tiger springing from his den,
Cleaves many to the heart.
The deadly conflict thus begins,
Commences thus the fray;
And the king, from break of morning,
Fights bravely through the day.
IX
Nor backs he from the battle,Nor draws he from the fight;
His arm is nerved with vigour,
And his eye is full of light.
Many champions fall before him,
Many warriors bite the ground;
The slain are piled in ghastly heaps,
And the dying lie around.
X
See how grand he looks and stately,See what courage on his brow;
140
But before his feet doth bow.
Mark you how he stands so proudly,
Firm as any towering rock;
On his shield, unmoved, receiving
All the foemen's fiercest shock.
XI
Hear ye how his voice is lifted,Clear as any trumpet's tone,—
“Strike for God, and strike for Jewry,
For your country, king, and throne.”
Loudly then his men make answer,
Quick responding to his call;
And his words wake noble echoes
In the hearts of one and all.
XII
Not for all the gold of OphirWould a man who heard him speak,
Have retreated from the battle,
Life or safety thus to seek.
No! they bravely rallied round him,
With a kindling cheek and eye,
141
This their purpose—or to die!”
XIII
For their hearts beat high within them,Theirs is valour strong as death;
Clenched their teeth and set their faces,
Firmly now they draw their breath.
Then, as some wild tempest rushes
Down the wintry mountain's side,
Dash they onward in their fury,
Nought can stem the furious tide.
XIV
Onward press these noble soldiersIn a goodly, gallant band,
Till they meet the armèd foemen
Foot to foot, and hand to hand.
Many knights and many captains
Go down in the bitter fray;
Many soldiers, stout and manly,
Close their eyes upon the day.
142
XV
But at noon the battle slackened,In the heaven the sun was high,
Pouring down his rays upon them
From a fierce and burning sky.
Then there came a pause in fighting
All along the battle-field;
And each warrior loosed his helmet,
And unlaced his buckler-shield.
XVI
Then their slain they quickly bury,Laying them in bloody grave;
And with words of bitter sorrow,
Mourn the valiant and the brave.
Soon the hurried rites are over;
And the men who fought so well
Are laid down in peace and honour
In the places where they fell.
XVII
Then the weary soldiers stretch themBy the hill, and rock, and plain,
Waiting till the trumpet shrilling
Calls them to the fight again.
143
Fainting is, and sick with thirst;
From no spring the waters trickle,
From no rock the fountains burst.
XVIII
Comes there now before his vision,Bubbling up a limpid pool,
Which, near Bethlehem's Eastern portal,
Gushes clear, and sweet, and cool.
In this weary hour of langour
Throbs his heart and burns his brain;
And he yearns with passionate yearning,
Fain would taste that well again.
XIX
Grows up in his heart a longing,As of one about to die;
And the passion of his anguish
Takes shape in a thrilling cry,—
“God! that one would give me water
From fair Bethlehem's sparkling well,
Which lieth near to the city's gate,
Where my fathers used to dwell!”
144
XX
And then he paused; in haste he spake,He knew that this fond wish was vain;
Those cooling waters might not slake
The fever of his heart and brain.
The Philistine kept all the town,
And held the Eastern gate;
He that would force this garrison,
Must meet a bloody fate.
XXI
But still there passed before his eyesFair dreams of pastures green,
Where once he kept his father's flock,
When a shepherd he had been.
And the sound of a trickling streamlet
Fell like music on his ear,
And mocked his hot and burning thirst
With dreams of water clear.
XXII
Three mighty men of David's bandWere standing at his head;
Not one of them or felt or knew
A thought of craven dread.
145
They saw his longing glance;
And each man's bosom burned with fire,
And each man grasped his lance.
XXIII
They will themselves to Bethlehem go,And from the bubbling pool
Will bring their weary master back
Some water fresh and cool.
But how can three, however great,
Break through a host of men?
How, matched against such fearful odds,
Can they return again?
XXIV
Surely they hasten to their death,These noble men and brave;
O'erpowered by numbers, they will fill
A stark and bloody grave.
But, see! like whirlwind on they dash
Across the spreading plain;
Their path is marked by stir and crash,
And hundreds of the slain.
146
XXV
The foe gives way, they speed right on,They reach the city's gate;
Before their swords the garrison,
Meets with a bloody fate.
Onward they dash, and all the way
Is marked by heaps of slain
Who fall, as to the sickle falls
The ripe and bearded grain.
XXVI
So pass they onward to the placeWhere the Well of Bethlehem lay;
Each step upon a foeman's corse,
Whose body marks the way.
Now, quickly stooping down, each takes
The helmet from his brow,
And dips the great and hollow casque
Where the cooling waters flow.
XXVII
They fill the helmet from the spring,But not a drop themselves they taste;
No time there is to lose or waste,
They hurry back in hottest haste
147
Now march they on, nor does the foe
Place hand on sword or spear;
They all fall back to let them pass,
Held fast in coward fear.
XXVIII
But they curse them by their father's gods,Cursing beneath their breath;
And on their brows sits scowling
A hate as grim as death.
And their craven souls are daunted,
And they dare not lift a hand
'Gainst the valiant three, who scorn them
In the places where they stand.
XXIX
Now all this time king DavidKnew what his warriors dared;
And anxious for their safety,
Prays God their lives be spared.
Now feels he all his rashness,
Now sees he was to blame;
And his face it glows like scarlet,
With a blush that owns his shame.
148
XXX
What if these men should perish—Fall o'erpowered by the foe?
Can he e'er forget his folly
That wrought them such a woe?
As the king is rapt in silence,
Rings a shout throughout the tent—
Thrilling shout of men who conquer,
And the air around is rent.
XXXI
'Tis the welcome of the soldiers,As the chiefs return again;
All their armour stained and gory
From the life-blood of the slain.
With joy the three draw near the king,
And at his feet themselves they fling;
While again the shouting thousands
Make the sounding welkin ring.
XXXII
They place the helmet in his hand,Filled with the waters cool,
Which at risk of life, in the deadly strife,
They bring from Bethlehem's pool.
149
Will he not quench his thirst?
No, his heart grows hot within him,
And it swells as though 'twould burst.
XXXIII
Silently he takes the helmet,Reverently looks up to God;
And the casque he turneth downward,
Pours the waters on the sod.
For though burning thirst consumes him,
And the fever fills each vein,
Yet the waters fresh and cooling,
Won at such cost and pain,
XXXIV
Look like the blood of the mighty men,The chieftains three, who bravely burst
Thro' the serried ranks of the foe accurst,
And daring all to do their worst,
Stormed the foeman in his den.
So he pours the dear-won waters
Upon the grassy sward;
And he offers them in solemn prayer
An oblation to the Lord.
150
XXXV
“Far from me, Lord, be such a thing,That I should drink so dear a draught,
'Twere all unworthy of a king;
'Twould be as tho' hot blood I quaffed—
Blood flowing from the hearts' warm spring.
This water is the very life—
The life of those who in the strife
Did jeopardise their all for me;
Did risk their life and liberty.
Forbid it, God, in Thy good grace,
That I should do a thing so base!”
XXXVI
He turned to thank the captainsWho braved so much for him;
Who, at his lightest wishes,
Had faced the battle grim.
To them he gives the station,
The nearest to his throne;
That they well deserve such guerdon,
The people freely own.
151
XXXVII
And the king himself men honour—Honour more than e'er before,
Since in his hour of trial
So well himself he bore.
And David holds for ever dear,
These warriors true and bold—
These men who, scorning craven fear,
Stormed Bethlehem's mighty hold.
XXXVIII
Their names were woven into song,Men kindle at their deeds;
And e'en the strong man grows more strong
As he the story reads.
God in His book records their name,
And ranks them with the great and brave,
To whom belongs eternal fame,
Who dead, yet speak from out their grave.
XXXIX
The world has heroes, whom it givesA niche within the house of fame;
The record of their prowess lives
From age to age the same.
152
Men strong to suffer, great to do—
Men who are able to control
All impulses of flesh and soul.
XL
Great men who live, yet daily die,Who noble conquests win;
Their worser self who mortify,
Their body's deeds who crucify,
Triumphant over sin.
No greater men, I trow, than these,
Who never seek themselves to please,
Obedient to a higher will.
XLI
Who count their gain but utter loss,Content to bear the shameful cross,
And when God speaks are still;
And they who their own spirits rein,
Who keep their selfish passions down,
Are greater far than those who gain
Battles, at cost of many slain,
Or take a fortress'd town.
153
THE LAW OF LOVE.
“Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.”—
Gal. vi. 2.
“Bear ye one another's burdens,”
And fulfil Christ's law of love,
That divinest law which brought Him
From the spheres of light above.
And fulfil Christ's law of love,
That divinest law which brought Him
From the spheres of light above.
“Bear ye one another's burdens,”
Take up something of the load;
Seek to cheer a fainting brother,
Help him kindly on the road.
Take up something of the load;
Seek to cheer a fainting brother,
Help him kindly on the road.
Soothe the weary and the troubled,
As heart-sick they toil along;
Hush the bitter cry of sorrow,
Change its wailing to a song.
As heart-sick they toil along;
Hush the bitter cry of sorrow,
Change its wailing to a song.
As ye pass yourselves to heaven,
Pause to bind some bleeding wound;
And with words of grace and mercy
Lift the fallen from the ground.
Pause to bind some bleeding wound;
And with words of grace and mercy
Lift the fallen from the ground.
154
You can speak a word in season
In some sad and hopeless ear,
And revive the failing courage,
By inspiring hope for fear.
In some sad and hopeless ear,
And revive the failing courage,
By inspiring hope for fear.
You can dry the tear of sorrow,
From the lids of weeping eyes;
You can ease the burdened spirit,
Draw forth music from its sighs.
From the lids of weeping eyes;
You can ease the burdened spirit,
Draw forth music from its sighs.
You can watch the bed of sickness,
Take the fevered hand in thine;
Smooth the pillow, cheer the suffering,
With a cordial strong as wine.
Take the fevered hand in thine;
Smooth the pillow, cheer the suffering,
With a cordial strong as wine.
You can bring a gleam of sunshine
To some poor and lonely home,
And be welcomed as an angel
When across the door you come.
To some poor and lonely home,
And be welcomed as an angel
When across the door you come.
You can check the hasty answer,
Press the word beneath your breath,
So as not to hurt a brother
With what pierces sharp as death.
Press the word beneath your breath,
So as not to hurt a brother
With what pierces sharp as death.
155
You can share another's gladness,
With the weeping you can weep;
And if thus you sow in mercy,
You in mercy too shall reap.
With the weeping you can weep;
And if thus you sow in mercy,
You in mercy too shall reap.
Think of Him who came from Heaven,
Left God's bosom for the Cross;
Came in tears and nameless anguish,
To redeem us from our loss.
Left God's bosom for the Cross;
Came in tears and nameless anguish,
To redeem us from our loss.
Not with light and glory came He,
Not with pomp, and song, and state;
Not to courtly hall or palace,
Not to mansions of the great.
Not with pomp, and song, and state;
Not to courtly hall or palace,
Not to mansions of the great.
Not a voice was raised in welcome,
No one hailed Him at His birth;
Every door was closed against Him,
When love drew Him down to earth.
No one hailed Him at His birth;
Every door was closed against Him,
When love drew Him down to earth.
Oh, what goodness! Oh, what mercy!
He our burdens came to bear;
Drank the cup of God's sore anger,
Left no drop for us to share.
He our burdens came to bear;
Drank the cup of God's sore anger,
Left no drop for us to share.
156
Love of Christ, that law so noble,
Love so tender, so divine,
Law so Godlike, love so perfect;
Let that love be yours and mine.
Love so tender, so divine,
Law so Godlike, love so perfect;
Let that love be yours and mine.
Love of all laws is the greatest;
“Love fulfils the law,” Paul saith,—
Crowns her Queen of all the graces,
Thrones her 'bove both Hope and Faith.
“Love fulfils the law,” Paul saith,—
Crowns her Queen of all the graces,
Thrones her 'bove both Hope and Faith.
Love is duty's full completeness,
Substance of all goodness, Love;
Love is true, and only meetness
For the saintly life above.
Substance of all goodness, Love;
Love is true, and only meetness
For the saintly life above.
Then fulfil this law so Christ-like;
Nought is higher; nought is more;
Love will last when time has perished;
Law of Heaven for evermore.
Nought is higher; nought is more;
Love will last when time has perished;
Law of Heaven for evermore.
157
LIFE.
The shuttle flashing quickly thro' the loom,The shadow of a cloud upon the hills,
The flowers that perish almost ere the bloom,
The sparkle and the gleam on summer rills,
The lightning, flame-like, leaping thro' the gloom,
The foaming cataract which rainbows span,
The falcon, poising in its airy flight,
The sudden darkness of a southern night,—
All these are emblems of the life of man.
158
DEATH.
The shadows lengthening on the level lea,The darkness gathering round the closing day,
The sun that setting sinks into the sea,
The workman wending homewards on his way,
The birds that sit all mute upon the tree,
Sere leaves that shrivel 'neath the wind's sharp breath,
The stillness of a world fast locked in sleep,
When not a murmur breaks the silence deep,—
All these are Nature's parables of Death.
160
SONNET. ASPIRATIONS.
“Oh, for the swift wings of the rapid dove,That, piercing thro' the depths of yonder sky,
I might at once attain the realms above,
And taste the joys of immortality!
I yearn to reach the angel-choirs—I long
To mingle with their bright and happy throng!
I thirst to gain that fair and distant home,
Where sin and sadness never more may come!
The weary heart would leave this world of night,
And cast aside the burthen of its woes,
It fain would bask within the living light,
Which from the throne of God for ever flows;
For sorrow's wave may break—O never more,
Upon the marge of heaven's eternal shore!”
161
SONNET. RIZPAH.
Oh, mother's love, how strong thou art, how true!Five weary months sat Rizpah by her dead,
The sackcloth-covered rock her only bed,
From which she rose her watching to renew,
And cared not whether fell the evening dew,
Or burning sun beat hotly on her head,
So long as her two sons, exposed to view,
Hung on the cross. With quick, unsleeping eye,
She drove the lions from their hoped for prey,
And scared the vultures, swooping in the sky;
And ever thro' the lonely night and day
She, at life's risk, chased bird and beast away,
For love's sake, willing she herself should die;
On her crushed heart such burden did she lay.
162
SONNET. A PENITENT.
“Godly sorrow worketh repentance unto salvation, not to be
repented of.”
Where but to Thee, O Jesu, can I fly!
My guilt is like a sea without a shore,
Which none can fathom and no eye explore.
I smite upon my breast, with many a sigh,
And feel like one almost at point to die.
My heart is bruised, it bleeds at every pore;
Sick unto death, wounded and aching, sore,
What can I do but weep, as here I lie?
Yet, oh, how sweet, how bitter, bitter-sweet,
If with these copious, ever-flowing tears,
I could, like Mary, wash Thy blessed feet,
And feel a hope that trembled thro' my fears!
To touch Thee, hold Thee, this were joy complete—
The joy of saints in yonder happy spheres.
163
NAOMI.
Two sad-faced women, haggard, worn, and wan,
Passed wearily thro' Bethlehem's sun-scorched street;
The city, moved to pity, round them ran,
And some with wondering cry the strangers greet,
“What! Is this Naomi?” She quickly broke
Upon them trembling, as they thus began,—
“Call me not Naomi,” she weeping spoke,
“For Naomi is numbered with the dead;
My name is Mara, for, O friends, with me
The Lord hath dealt exceeding bitterly!
Passed wearily thro' Bethlehem's sun-scorched street;
The city, moved to pity, round them ran,
And some with wondering cry the strangers greet,
“What! Is this Naomi?” She quickly broke
Upon them trembling, as they thus began,—
“Call me not Naomi,” she weeping spoke,
“For Naomi is numbered with the dead;
My name is Mara, for, O friends, with me
The Lord hath dealt exceeding bitterly!
The hand of God has touched me, and I mourn,
Has robbed me both of husband and of son,
Woe worth the bitter day that I was born!
My prop, my stay, my life of life is gone;
I went out full, empty come back to you,
A widow, childless, desolate, forlorn,
The graves in Moab hold my dead heart too,
I left it with them where they sleep in peace.
So from my years has gone the sun, the light,
I grope as one thro' some dark dreary night.”
Has robbed me both of husband and of son,
Woe worth the bitter day that I was born!
My prop, my stay, my life of life is gone;
I went out full, empty come back to you,
A widow, childless, desolate, forlorn,
164
I left it with them where they sleep in peace.
So from my years has gone the sun, the light,
I grope as one thro' some dark dreary night.”
165
HEART-STRUGGLES.
I know I must be patient, so I try
To say, His holy will, not mine, be done!
But if in mercy I might only die,
And hide away in darkness from the sun,
Which hurts me with its hot and garish light,
I should be happy; for I do but sigh
To bid the world a long and last good night
Before another morrow hath begun;
To front the sad and woeful coming years,
'Tis this unseals the fountain of my tears.
To say, His holy will, not mine, be done!
But if in mercy I might only die,
And hide away in darkness from the sun,
Which hurts me with its hot and garish light,
I should be happy; for I do but sigh
To bid the world a long and last good night
Before another morrow hath begun;
To front the sad and woeful coming years,
'Tis this unseals the fountain of my tears.
'Tis this I feel so hard—so hard to bear,
To die were easy, yea, to die were gain;
To walk the valley, with His presence near,
This were no bitterness—'twere bliss, not pain,
Smiling I'd creep into my lowly bed,
And say to all “Farewell,” without a tear.
But to live on, when dearest hopes are dead,
To gather up life's broken threads again,
When Death on Love, with cruel foot hath trod,
This, this is bitter, O my God, my God!”
To die were easy, yea, to die were gain;
To walk the valley, with His presence near,
This were no bitterness—'twere bliss, not pain,
Smiling I'd creep into my lowly bed,
And say to all “Farewell,” without a tear.
166
To gather up life's broken threads again,
When Death on Love, with cruel foot hath trod,
This, this is bitter, O my God, my God!”
177
LIGHT AT EVENTIDE.
“At evening-time there shall be light.”—Zech. xiv. 7.
O words of hope! they fall upon the ear
Like holy music floating from a Psalm,
Sweet as are far off bells that ring out clear,
Healing as was of old fair Gilead's balm.
What can the unknown future be but bright,
If thus, “At evening-time there shall be light.”
Like holy music floating from a Psalm,
Sweet as are far off bells that ring out clear,
Healing as was of old fair Gilead's balm.
What can the unknown future be but bright,
If thus, “At evening-time there shall be light.”
I feared the morrow, what the coming years,
Of trouble on my lonely life might shed,
And how the end might come, with peace or tears,
Yea, coward-like, I shrank with nameless dread
From what the day might bring, from what the night,
Oh shame! “At evening-time there shall be light.”
Of trouble on my lonely life might shed,
And how the end might come, with peace or tears,
Yea, coward-like, I shrank with nameless dread
From what the day might bring, from what the night,
Oh shame! “At evening-time there shall be light.”
For late in gloom and mist had lain my way,
Through gathering storms, and wildly driving rain,
And clouds had darkened o'er my happy day,
And I had trembled with foreboding pain.
Fearing to face what must and would be right,
Since thus, “At evening-time there shall be light.”
Through gathering storms, and wildly driving rain,
And clouds had darkened o'er my happy day,
And I had trembled with foreboding pain.
178
Since thus, “At evening-time there shall be light.”
O faithless heart! What fearest thou? Be still,
The future is with Him who guides thy way,
Whose promises with peace thy soul should fill,—
“According to thy strength shall be thy day.”
Then walk by faith, soon shalt thou walk by sight,
Fear not: “At evening-time there shall be light.”
The future is with Him who guides thy way,
Whose promises with peace thy soul should fill,—
“According to thy strength shall be thy day.”
Then walk by faith, soon shalt thou walk by sight,
Fear not: “At evening-time there shall be light.”
I do believe, O Father! Saviour! God!
Though troubled oft, I will not be distrest;
Nor will I faint, but boldly face the road,
And on Thy love my weary head shall rest,
Thy Word each fear and care shall put to flight,
I know “At evening-time there shall be light.”
Though troubled oft, I will not be distrest;
Nor will I faint, but boldly face the road,
And on Thy love my weary head shall rest,
Thy Word each fear and care shall put to flight,
I know “At evening-time there shall be light.”
The sun that often struggles all the day,
With clouds that darken o'er the dull grey sky,
At setting poureth forth a golden ray,
And floods the heavens with glory far and nigh,
So all my fears shall vanish—hope be bright,
And at my “evening-time there shall be light.”
With clouds that darken o'er the dull grey sky,
At setting poureth forth a golden ray,
And floods the heavens with glory far and nigh,
So all my fears shall vanish—hope be bright,
And at my “evening-time there shall be light.”
179
NIGHT AND MORNING.
“Watchman, what of the night? The watchman said, The morning
cometh, and also the night.”—Isa. xxi. 11, 12.
“Watchman, what of the night?” he cries,
Who, stretched on a bed of pain,
Worn, and weary, and restless lies,
With fevered heart and brain.
When will the dreary hours go past?
Oh, when will the night be gone?
Would God that the morning might come at last!
Would God the day might dawn!
The Watchman says—“No signs as yet of day are in the sky,
But morning comes; a little while, and the darkness passeth by.
Who, stretched on a bed of pain,
Worn, and weary, and restless lies,
With fevered heart and brain.
When will the dreary hours go past?
Oh, when will the night be gone?
Would God that the morning might come at last!
Would God the day might dawn!
The Watchman says—“No signs as yet of day are in the sky,
But morning comes; a little while, and the darkness passeth by.
“Watchman, what of the night?” he sighs,
Who, sick with a hope deferred,
Looks eagerly up through weeping eyes,
To catch the Watchman's word.
When will it come, the joyous day,
And bring with it peace and rest?
When will the darkness speed away,
And light return to the breast?
The Watchman says—“Night lingers still, but soon the morn shall dawn.
Be patient yet, and hope in God, for the daybreak hasteneth on.”
Who, sick with a hope deferred,
Looks eagerly up through weeping eyes,
To catch the Watchman's word.
180
And bring with it peace and rest?
When will the darkness speed away,
And light return to the breast?
The Watchman says—“Night lingers still, but soon the morn shall dawn.
Be patient yet, and hope in God, for the daybreak hasteneth on.”
“Watchman, what of the night?” he moans,
Who, pierced with a rankling dart,
Wails for his sin with weeping and groans,
And the cry of one sick at heart.
Is there no medicine to heal the soul?
No balm that will give it peace?
No charm that can charm away its dole?
And bide the sharp anguish cease?
The Watchman says—“Weep on, weep on; such sorrows healing bring.
God loves to see such holy tears; thou yet shalt laugh and sing.”
Who, pierced with a rankling dart,
Wails for his sin with weeping and groans,
And the cry of one sick at heart.
Is there no medicine to heal the soul?
No balm that will give it peace?
No charm that can charm away its dole?
And bide the sharp anguish cease?
The Watchman says—“Weep on, weep on; such sorrows healing bring.
God loves to see such holy tears; thou yet shalt laugh and sing.”
“Watchman, what of the night?” he cries,
Who, in the long ages of woe,
Sees the shadows ever gather and rise,
And knows they never shall go.
“What of the night?” is his cry of pain,
As he looks through the coming years,
Looking for comfort, but all in vain!
For nothing shall staunch his tears.
The Watchman says—“No ray of light shall ever reach thy soul,
But ever and ever shall deepen the night, and its shadows round thee roll.”
Who, in the long ages of woe,
181
And knows they never shall go.
“What of the night?” is his cry of pain,
As he looks through the coming years,
Looking for comfort, but all in vain!
For nothing shall staunch his tears.
The Watchman says—“No ray of light shall ever reach thy soul,
But ever and ever shall deepen the night, and its shadows round thee roll.”
“Watchman, what of the night?” he says,
Who longs for his Lord's return,
Waiting until the Day of Days
On the mountain tops shall burn.
Oh, say when on my yearning sight
The Day Star shall arise,
And banish away the gloom of night
With splendours of Paradise?
The Watchman says—“The morning comes, the hills are all aglow;
Prepare, prepare thy Bridal Song, for soon the darkness will go.”
Who longs for his Lord's return,
Waiting until the Day of Days
On the mountain tops shall burn.
Oh, say when on my yearning sight
The Day Star shall arise,
And banish away the gloom of night
With splendours of Paradise?
The Watchman says—“The morning comes, the hills are all aglow;
Prepare, prepare thy Bridal Song, for soon the darkness will go.”
247
Miscellaneous Poems.
286
LINES SUGGESTED BY SEEING A DEAD INFANT ON ITS MOTHER'S BREAST.
It lay upon its mother's breaking heart,Whose sobs convulsive seemed to lend it life,
For now the snow-white garments swelling rose,
Now fell, as tho' quick pulses played beneath;
But they were stilled for ever. One short month
The mother clasped her first-born to her heart,
And then came envious Death with ruthless face,
And breathing on it chilled its blood to ice,
And the pure spirit took its flight to God.
Upon its marble cheek a blush of pink,
Like that which flushes o'er the sea-shell's rim,
As if enamoured of a couch so pure,
Slept still; and thro' the parted lips you'd think
There ever stole a balmy breathing forth,
So like to sleep was death.
Its little dimpled hand a lily clasped,
287
And plucked withal untimely, ere the rose
Had time to deepen on its rounded cheek.
But lingered on its mouth a seraph smile,
For Death, repentant of the theft he made,
Had left it there, to soothe the mother's woe.
288
SONNET. NATURE.
“In Nature there is nothing melancholy.”—Coleridge.
Thus sings the poet; but does truth lie so?
Nature, indeed, in beauty rich is clad,
But yet her fairest scenes are often sad;
E'en while we gaze, the eye will overflow;
As certain troubled undertones of woe
Run thro' the very songs that make us glad.
Thus melancholy shadows all below,
We hardly hold our blessings till they go.
Do not our smiles lie very near our tears?
Our brightest joys tread closely on our pains,
Some discords linger thro' the sweetest strains,
And hope is often darkened by our fears.
And what the secret of all this? The source?
Is it not here, “The world is out of course”?
292
SONNET. OUR CATHEDRALS.
Ye vast Cathedrals of our native land,Whose arches seem designed to prop the sky,
As tho' the angels had come down from high
To do a work beyond a mortal hand,
And rear a stately home for Deity;
What beauty crowns your massive towers, your spires,
Where loves the sun to rest his glittering fires!
Your buttresses and pinnacles how grand!
Relieved by deepened shade, the softened light
Lies on your stately aisles and noble nave,
Your hallowed walls and splendid architrave,
And marble pillars, forests to the sight;
While from your choir there sweep sweet symphonies,
As erst God's voice thro' Eden's twilight trees.
293
SONNET. THE SAME.
Thro' the laced fret-work of each storied paneStreams the rich light, in many-coloured wave,
Upon the tracery of aisle and nave,
Dyeing the marble floors with splendid stain,
And falling on the tombs where rest the brave.
Your walls, “magnifical” with many a fold
Of carved and groinèd oak, and burnished gold,
Are worthy of a consecrated Fane;
And tho' in you there burns no mystic cloud,
No Ark with sacramental treasures proud,
Nor glory visible pervades your dome,
Yet at the call of prayer, He deigns to come
To meet His saints—that Holy One, who says,
“He doth inhabit still His people's praise.”
294
SONNET. STARS.
Ye Stars, that on this woeful Earth rain downThick sparkling showers of pure and radiant light,
Which make the purple glories of the night
Richer in lustre than a monarch's crown;
Ye Stars, that burn in heaven, so clear and bright,
Does the sad spectacle of human tears
Affect you not? The grief that blights and sears,
The seeds of ill that all around are sown?
Care ye not for the sin, the pain, the woe,
The wrong, all, which a canker at the core
Of happiness, opens a staunchless sore?
Oh, feel ye not for those who weep below!
Or look ye from your skies, in cold disdain,
On all this planet knows of stormy pain!
295
SONNET. THE CURSE.
The Earth is tracked by curse. On every thing,The fairest e'en, it sadly lingereth;
We all have seen thy ravages, O Death,
We know thy fatal power, have mourned thy sting.
The very flowers die, which clustering spring
Around our feet in many a fragrant wreath;
They fade and wither, tainted with thy breath,
And pine beneath the shadows thou dost fling.
And if these radiant things which are so fair,
Woven from beams and showers, bloom but to die,
So with all valued things of bright and rare,
They pass just like the breathing of a sigh,
And this dark judgment tarries on earth's brow,
“The creature travails in its pain till now.”
296
SONNET. CASAUBON.
The age was superstitious, light, and vain;The court was loose, voluptuous and base;
All men were struggling in the fight for place;
Even the priests thought “godliness was gain,”
Nor deemed it ill their hands with bribes to stain;
Their only aim to be first in the chase
For riches, and to head the eager race;
To be outstripped,—this was their greatest pain.
Casaubon only from such sin was clear,
Nor ever from the right did turn aside,
Looking to God, owning no other fear,
His own convictious caring not to hide,
No, rather would he boldly march to death,
Than, truckling for applause, betray his faith.
297
SONNET. PHILIPPA.
Conversions were the fashion of the day—All ranks, from highest even unto least,
Great ladies from the court, and meanest priest,
Contended for the sheep that went astray,
And sought to place them 'neath the Popedom's sway;
Casaubon's daughter they strove hard to bring
Under the shelter of the Church's wing,
For here they said the road to heaven lay.
Her father, fearing, tried her trust in God,
Told her that “he was penniless and poor,
Her only hope a marriage to secure,
Was the king's favour; that his grace to gain,
She must abjure her faith, and wear Rome's chain;”
And, while he spake, Philippa's eyes o'erflowed.
298
SONNET. THE SAME.
Then spake she out right boldly in his face,Casaubon thrilling as he stood and heard
Each lofty sentiment, each noble word.
She said, “Such abjuration were disgrace,
Nothing would tempt her do a thing so base,
Christ she would follow, and take up His cross,
No matter at what sacrifice and loss.
Her father might be poor, God would provide,
Beyond the reach of want His servant place.
Could she not work, and by her labour live?”
Would not her toil all that she needed give?
And God made good her trust. In His great love
He took her early to Himself above;
And in the bloom of youth Philippa died.
302
SONNET. LAKE OF GENEVA.
The mountains soar in grandeur to the skies,Sublime, majestic, beautiful, and fair;
And steeped in lustrous bath of violet air,
They take with wonder the delighted eyes,
As near this heavenly lake they towering rise.
And as they stand all drenched in glowing light,
They look as smooth as samite to the sight,
A gloss like sheen of satin on them lies,
The magic atmosphere has lent the stone
A tender beauty that is not its own;
Thus trial that is seen thro' tender haze
Of time, and thro' the light of far past years,
Is robbed of all its sharpness as we gaze,
And sorrow's self a softer aspect wears.
303
SONNET. THE AZURE GROTTO, CAPRI.
Beneath the vine-clad slopes of Capri's Isle,Which run down to the margin of that sea,
Whose waters kiss the sweet Parthenope,
There is a Grot whose rugged front the while,
Frowns only dark where all is seen to smile.
But enter, and behold! surpassing fair
The magic sight that meets your vision there—
Not heaven with all its broad expanse of blue,
Gleams coloured with a sheen so rich, so rare,
So changing in its clear translucent hue—
Glassed in the lustrous wave the walls and roof,
Shine as does silver scattered o'er the woof
Of some rich robe; or bright as stars whose light
Inlays the azure concave of the night.
304
SONNET. THE SAME.
You cannot find throughout this world, I ween,Waters so fair as those within this cave,
Colour like that which flashes from the wave;
Or which is steeped in such cerulean sheen
As here gleams forth within this Grotto's screen.
And when the oar the boatman gently takes
And dips it in the flood, a fiery glow,
Ruddy as phosphor stirs in depths below;
Each ripple into burning splendour breaks,
As tho' some hidden fires beneath did lie
Waiting a touch to kindle into flame,
And shine in radiance on the dazzled eye,
As sparkling up from wells of light they came,
To make this Grot a glory far and nigh.
305
SONNET. THE SYBYLL'S CAVE, NAPLES.
There is a Cave deep in the olive wood,O'ergrown with many a wild and shaggy tree,
Beneath whose thick and tangled canopy
Night, and her sister, awful solitude,
In sombre silence ever grimly brood.
The glorious sun, the moon so chastely fair,
Shun each what seems a haunt for grim despair,
A home for evil things—a fearful path,
Down leading to the world of endless wrath.
And when the torches on the blackness glare,
All loathsome things appear, from which the heart
Shudders, recoiling with a sudden start.
For deep, and dark, and noisome as the grave,
Is the dread horror of the Sybyll's cave.
308
THREE SONNETS. THE ORIGIN OF THE FORGET-ME-NOT.
I.
Eden all fresh, just finished by the Lord,Glowed with rich beauty, marvellously fair;
Bright flowers like jewels gemmed the dewy sward,
And filled with fragrance all the balmy air.
God looking on His world, pronounced it good,
Perfect throughout, from greatest unto least;
Adam, Creation's crown, in glory stood
His Maker's image, Nature's King and Priest.
To him each beast of field or forest came,
All lowly crouching, fawning at his feet,
To which he gave, as fitted each, a name,
An appellation to their instincts meet;
And birds of air folded their downy wings,
And waited near him, with all living things.
309
II.
Then went he round the garden's radiant bowers,That he might do the same for herb and plant,
And give to all the sweet and starry flowers
The name which now appeared their only want.
Here grew the lily white, and violet fair,
The azure gentian, oxlip, eglantine,
All buds and blooms that scent the summer air,
Some blue, some purple, some as red as wine:
Some barred with gold, or striped and pied with green,
Some drooping, slender, some erect and tall,
But lovely each, and of a glossy sheen;
And Adam named them, thought he named them all,
But as he moved away his ear was caught,—
There came a pleading voice, “Forget-me-not!”
III.
Hidden within its leaves, he had passed byThis modest little flower, so very fair,
And had not seen its gold and azure eye,
Nor knew it grew in tender beauty there,
Till there came whispering thro' its slender leaves
A voice so low, 'twas tho' a zephyr sighed,—
310
“Forget-me-not! forget-me-not!” it cried.
Hence has this flower its name; and far above
All others it is dear to friendship's heart,
Is consecrated wholly now to love,
A gift till time shall end, when dear ones part,
Who to each other, weeping their sad lot,
Thro' this sweet flower shall say, “Forget-me-not.”
311
RECOLLECTIONS OF A PICTURE.
It is an antique chamber: midnight's pallHas thrown its shadows o'er the pannell'd wall,
The frescoed ceiling and the oaken floor,
The inlaid cabinet, the massy door,
The time-worn tapestry which clothes the room,
And lends its share of black funereal gloom.
Darkness is broken by the pale moonbeams,
Which thro' the casement pour in fitful gleams,
And mingle with a lamp's dull, sickly glow,
That 'thwart the spacious chamber strives to throw
A ray that flickers feebly on the night,
And gives what is, and yet what is not, light.
Upon the dark and polished oaken floor
A dagger lies crimson'd with gouts of gore,
Near it a couch, where, 'neath the lamp's pale sheen,
A something lies which is but dimly seen:
Seems it a human form, but cover'd round
With drapery down flowing to the ground,
312
So faintly also falls on it the light.
Full in the moonlight, lonely sits there one
Whom woe and grief seem to have made their own;
Her hands are clasped convulsively, her eye
Is wild, and fixed in some strange agony,
Out-starting from the socket, and the tear
Is dried upon the pupils, hot and sear;
The face is blanch'd and scared, but here and there
A hectic burns, the symbol of despair.
While o'er her form, like some dark torrent's flow,
In raven masses parted from her brow,
Her loosened tresses wildly streaming fall,
And sweep the floor of that dim-lighted hall;
And lend her cheek the wan and ghastly white
Of snows that shiver 'neath the moon's pale light.
Her bloodless lips press tightly; some sore pain
Shoots fiercely through her heart, and sears her brain,
And wrings her soul, and gives that frightful air
Of mingled dread, defiance, and despair.
Sorrow or grief, or care, perchance, or crime,
Has lined her marble brow; it is not time;
For few her summers seem, and she is fair,
Despite the agony that struggles there,
313
But when yours meet that wild and burning eye,
A nameless chill and fear upon you seize,
That curdles up the blood, and makes it freeze:
As his would do, if loathsome worms should creep
And coldly writhe about his limbs in sleep,
And then wakes horribly, with sudden start,
To find them clust'ring coldly round his heart.
What well of anguish springs in that young breast?
Is guilt, or frenzy, that fair bosom's guest?
There is not one to tell; but it must be
A dark, no doubt a guilty history.
And oft for hours I sit and muse, and frame
Me reasons why that blight upon her came,
Which wither'd up her youth, and on it fell,
To shadow all her life with its dark spell.
They say, on earth there is not one who knows,
The tale of that fair lady's bitter woes;
And that the record is immersed in gloom,
And buried with the painter in his tomb,
For ever with him perishing.
316
A CONCEIT.
Armida 'tis that makes the flower seem fiar,Armida who the common earth makes bright,
Armida's voice with music fills the air—
Armida's eye that gives the sun his light!
Oh! the dark depth of that inspiring eye,
Whose every flash seems sent forth but to kill!
Yet who could storm against such enemy,
Or think, to die by such sweet death an ill?
Thus I, tho' looking, die, yet can't refrain,
But look and die—to look and die again!
Oh! hard it is, the fatal truth to prove
That we must die even by that we love.
317
TO A FRIEND,
WITH A BOOK.
Ah, gentle friend! if e'er, in after days,
When I, and those sweet hours I passed with thee,
Shall all forgotten be,
These few and feeble words should meet thy gaze,
And they should one, but one remembrance bring
Of me from mem'ry's spring,
My wish is gain'd,—it may be idle, yet
I would not have thee quite those days forget.
When I, and those sweet hours I passed with thee,
Shall all forgotten be,
These few and feeble words should meet thy gaze,
And they should one, but one remembrance bring
Of me from mem'ry's spring,
My wish is gain'd,—it may be idle, yet
I would not have thee quite those days forget.
It is at best a sad, sad thing to part,
From those we hold amongst our cherished friends;
But yet, alas! it sends
A deeper sorrow thro' the mourning heart,
To think that with the word “Farewell,” our lot
Is then to be forgot,
Dropt from the memory,—this makes our grief,
To think regret for us will be so brief.
From those we hold amongst our cherished friends;
But yet, alas! it sends
A deeper sorrow thro' the mourning heart,
To think that with the word “Farewell,” our lot
Is then to be forgot,
Dropt from the memory,—this makes our grief,
To think regret for us will be so brief.
318
Farewell! and when thou think'st upon the hour,
When, at a wish of thine, I did engage
To trace upon the page
These lines, I would that they may have the power,
To bring into thy breast one passing thought
Of me, with kindness fraught;
As streamlets mingle gently with the seas,
So would I with thy cherished memories.
When, at a wish of thine, I did engage
To trace upon the page
These lines, I would that they may have the power,
To bring into thy breast one passing thought
Of me, with kindness fraught;
As streamlets mingle gently with the seas,
So would I with thy cherished memories.
And when life's morn is wearing on to even,
May each remembrance carry with it joy,
Unsullied by alloy;
And as, altho' the sun be set, yet heaven
Still wears a lustre from his parting ray,
So may life's closing day,
Tho' youth be o'er, still sparkle with a light,
Reflected from a past serene and bright!
May each remembrance carry with it joy,
Unsullied by alloy;
And as, altho' the sun be set, yet heaven
Still wears a lustre from his parting ray,
So may life's closing day,
Tho' youth be o'er, still sparkle with a light,
Reflected from a past serene and bright!
354
“THE HOPE DEFERRED THAT MAKETH THE HEART SICK.”
Now trod she with a restless step the room,
A fevered light within her burning eye;
Anon she paused, and looked out thro' the gloom,
To listen for a step that might go by.
A fevered light within her burning eye;
Anon she paused, and looked out thro' the gloom,
To listen for a step that might go by.
She said,—
“The hills look sad thro' the driving rain,
The wind beats loud on the lattice pane,
I wait for his coming, but all in vain.
The wind beats loud on the lattice pane,
I wait for his coming, but all in vain.
Against the shore of the stormy lake
The restless waters in white foam break,
And falling back, a wild moaning make.
The restless waters in white foam break,
And falling back, a wild moaning make.
I shudder all o'er with a creeping chill,
A dreadful sense of a coming ill;
I pace the room, and cannot keep still.
A dreadful sense of a coming ill;
I pace the room, and cannot keep still.
355
I have watched three days that seem like years,
I have waked three nights in blinding tears;
I am sick at heart with these doubts and fears.
I have waked three nights in blinding tears;
I am sick at heart with these doubts and fears.
The shadows are gathering all around,
The night is closing. I hear no sound,
But screech of owl, and bay of hound.
The night is closing. I hear no sound,
But screech of owl, and bay of hound.
There is no one near—I am all alone,
No one to care how I weep or moan,
Oh that I lay 'neath the cold grey stone!
No one to care how I weep or moan,
Oh that I lay 'neath the cold grey stone!
Hark! thro' the rain and wind that beat,
I hear a sound as of coming feet,
Is it he, is it he that I long to greet?
I hear a sound as of coming feet,
Is it he, is it he that I long to greet?
Oh, no, no! they have passed the door,
Why should I hope when hope is o'er?
O fool, to be fooled for evermore!
Why should I hope when hope is o'er?
O fool, to be fooled for evermore!
O false heart! they told me so;
Told me of all the grief and woe,
But I scorned their words, and bade them go.
Told me of all the grief and woe,
But I scorned their words, and bade them go.
And he, what cares he for the pain,
The vanished hope, the aching brain,
The heart that breaks with the maddening strain!”
The vanished hope, the aching brain,
The heart that breaks with the maddening strain!”
356
She sank upon the floor, and grovelled low,
And in the dust she bowed, and laid her head,
And only that she shook with sobs of woe
You might have deemed she was amongst the dead.
And in the dust she bowed, and laid her head,
And only that she shook with sobs of woe
You might have deemed she was amongst the dead.
So fares it with all, and so it ever must,
Who make frail man their hope, not God their trust,
Their idols shattered lie, and crumbled into dust.
Who make frail man their hope, not God their trust,
Their idols shattered lie, and crumbled into dust.
357
A PARABLE FROM NATURE.
From out a heap of roughest stones,
Close to the highway's side,
Blossom'd a little fairy flower,
Azure and golden-eyed.
Close to the highway's side,
Blossom'd a little fairy flower,
Azure and golden-eyed.
It drew its sweet and mystic life
From that rude, rocky bed,
Hence sprang each green and slender leaf,
On dews and sunshine fed.
From that rude, rocky bed,
Hence sprang each green and slender leaf,
On dews and sunshine fed.
Emblem of faith did then appear,
That beauteous flower to me,
Faith growing stronger from the power
Of dark adversity.
That beauteous flower to me,
Faith growing stronger from the power
Of dark adversity.
Submissive still beneath the stroke,
Of trial's needful rod:
Still keeping pure its quenchless light,
And looking up to God.
Of trial's needful rod:
Still keeping pure its quenchless light,
And looking up to God.
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