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xi

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Only selected poems from the sequence are reproduced here. The remainder already appear elsewhere in English Poetry.

“Nous touchons à la plus grande des époques religieuses, où tout homme est tenu d'apporter, s'il en a la force, une pierre pour l'édifice auguste dont les plans sont visiblement arrêtés. La médiocrité des talents ne doit effrayer personne.” De Maistre.
25

IV. To an old Schoolfellow.

I

The sun looked down on fair Liege,
And it was market-day:
The bosom of the rushing Meuse
Was gleaming bright and gay.

II

The peasant girls thronged in to church.
To pray as they went by:
Alas! that such a sight should seem
So strange to an English eye.

III

The notes of a familiar air
From off the bridge were borne;
'Twas played by an Italian boy,
Who came from soft Leghorn.
26

IV

Oh, Charles! I started at the sound,—
For I learnt that tune from thee;
And the thought of what thou wert, and art,
Was bitterness to me.

V

How happily the days were spent,
And ever with each other,
When thou at school didst make of me
A sort of elder brother.

VI

But thou hast wandered, Charles, since then,
And art a wanderer still,
Where pleasure never hath been found,—
And never, never will.

VII

I've followed thee, with prayers and tears,
Through many a haunt of sin:
But all in vain; thy truant soul
Those prayers could never win.
27

VIII

Though of thy boyish feelings now
But few are left to thee,
Thy heart, thy fiery heart doth beat
As quick and fresh for me.

IX

They tell me that I should not love
Where I can not esteem:
But do not fear them; for to me
False wisdom doth it seem.

X

Nay,—rather I should love thee more
The further thou dost rove;
For what prayers are effectual,
If not the prayers of love?

XI

I did thee not the good I might
In schoolboy days of yore,
And much, I fear, of this thy guilt
Is lying at my door.
28

XII

My sins rise up before me now;
And sadly true it proves,
A loving heart too faithfully
Will copy those it loves.

XIII

And thus it is that years of vice
Are gendered in an hour:
Oh, Christ!—our very souls are put
In one another's power!
44

XIV. Deep in the Holy Church.

“Neither said any of them that ought of the things which he possessed was his own.”—Acts iv. 32.

I

Deep in the holy Church are left
Some lonely places still,
Where quiet hearts and gentle saints
This ancient love fulfil.

II

And what have we in all the world
That we would call our own?
Our brightest transports are not ours
If they are felt alone.
63

III

Brother! I never kneel to pray
But I do pray for thee;
And thou I know dost never kneel
But thou dost pray for me.

IV

These many days thine open heart
Mine eyes with joy have seen;
And often in its choicest crypts
My heart at prayer hath been.

V

By day and night there comes to me
A fresh and fragrant balm;
And well I know thine orisons
Have won for me that calm.

VI

Thy cherished image lives with me,
And makes the day more bright;
And pleasant is the thought of thee.
Upon my bed by night.
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VII

They say we seek the hills and woods
For intellectual strife;
As if thy friend would rudely mar
Thy spirit's gentle life!

VIII

Ah! little do they deem how strong
The spell is o'er us thrown,—
The spell that takes two kindred hearts
And moulds them into one.

IX

Yet still when we as humblest saints
Our feeble shinings give,
They shall take knowledge of us then
That we with Jesus live.
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XVIII. The Rogation Days .

“Despise not thy mother when she is old.”
Prov. xxiii. 22.

I

Heavy and sad the Church must go:
Full weary are her latter days,
And she must hush the voice of praise
While tears of penance flow.

II

And she must fast, though by her side
The Bridegroom yet on earth doth move;
And fear must be instead of love
For her own children's pride.
95

III

Yet, holy Mother! Lent is past:
And long ago the Easter sun
Into the middle sky hath run;—
Wherefore this second fast?

IV

Mother! with us the Lord doth bide;
Yet but a little while He stays,—
Then for three dim and lonely days
Why keep us from His side?

V

He said we should not fast when He
Came down to live with us below:
Then, holy Mother! why forego
Our ancient liberty?

VI

When thou wert in thy virgin prime,
Those forty days through all the earth
Thy heart did swell with festal mirth—
It was thy bridal time.
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VII

“Talk not, my son, of early days:
My precious stones were passing fair,
My life was Sacrament and prayer,
My unity was praise.

VIII

“These glories now are well-nigh past:
My son! the world is waxing strong;
The day is hot; the fight is long,
And therefore do I fast.

IX

“And ye are weak, and cannot bear
Full forty days of Easter mirth:
And nought is left unstained of earth,
But penance, fast, and prayer.

X

“Oh! weary is my stay below;
And thus with strong and earnest cry,
As each Ascension-day glides by,
I fain with Him would go.
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XI

“Then watch and fast, like saints of yore;
These three new days perchance may bring
The earlier advent of our King,
And we shall fast no more!
 

The observation of the three Rogation Days as fasts was not introduced till the middle of the fifth century, by Mamercus, Bishop of Ravenna, and has never obtained universally.

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XIX. Laud's Devotions.

In stillest prayers and hours of holy thought
Thy spirit, dearest of the Martyr band!
Long time hath been with gravest influence fraught:
And oft, when sin is nigh, I feel thy hand—
A touch most cold and pure, of deepest dread,
Chastising dreams by youth and pleasure bred.
Teach me (for thou didst learn the lesson well
In hardness and in suffering) to restrain
Unquiet, fretful hopes, and weak disdain
Of worldly men who will not understand
The zeal and love that in such fierceness dwell.
Oh! Master, I would fear thee still, though pain
Her saintly power with filial joy doth blend,
And, were I holier, I would love thee as a friend.
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XXVII. She is bright and young.

I

She is bright and young, and her glory comes
Of an ancient ancestry,
And I love for her beauty's sake to gaze
On the light of her full dark eye.

II

She is gentle and still, and her voice is as low
As the voice of a summer wind,
And falseness and fickleness have not left
One stain on her girlish mind.

III

I felt the wild dream creep over like sleep,
More strangely each day I stayed,
And in four short weeks my heart was bound up
In the heart of that high-born maid.
120

IV

O the stir of love and its beating thrills!—
I never had known its power;
So I shut my eyes and went down the stream,
And might have been there to this hour:

V

But she sung light songs at a solemn time,
And the spell was gone for ever;
And who shall say 'twas a trivial thing
That delicate chain to sever?
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XXXVI. The Wren.

I

There is a bay, all still and lone,
And in the shade one broad grey stone
Where at the evening hour
The sun upon the water weaves
Motions of light among the leaves
Of a low-hanging bower:

II

And one old sycamore that dips
Into the stream its dark-green tips,
And drinks all day and night:
And opposite, the mountain high
Doth intercept the deep blue sky
And shuts it out from sight.
143

III

Last year it was my haunted seat,
And every evening did I meet
A grave and solemn Wren:
He sate and never spoke a word;
A holy and religious bird
He seemed unto me then.

IV

I thought, perchance, that sin and strife
Might in a winged creature's life
Be somehow strangely blent:
So hermit-like he lived apart,
And might be in his little heart
A woodland penitent!

V

Deceitful thing! into the brook,
Hour after hour, a stedfast look
From off his perch was sent;
And yet I thought his eyes too bright,
Too happy for an anchorite
On lonely penance bent.
144

VI

Ah! yes—for long his nest hath been
Behind yon alder's leafy screen
By Rothay's chiming waters:
Two rapid years are run, and now
This monk hath peopled every bough
With little sons and daughters.

VII

I will not blame thee, Friar Wren,
Because among stout-hearted men
Some truant monks there be;
And, if you could their names collect,
I rather more than half suspect
That I should not be free.

VIII

Erewhile I dreamed of cloistered cells,
Of gloomy courts and matin bells,
And painted windows rare;
But common life's less real gleams
Shone warm on my monastic dreams,
And melted them to air.
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IX

My captive heart is altered now;
And, had I but one little bough
Of thy green alder-tree,
I would not live too long alone,
Or languish there for want of one
To share the nest with me!
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LI. The Emblems of Archbishop Laud's Week of Prayers .

SUNDAY.

It is my guardian Angel that doth rise,
His face turned from the world, for he is bent
To seek my risen Master in the skies,
Borne on the breath of prayer and Sacrament.
MONDAY.
Yet hath he left me for my Monday thought
This sadly faithful image of my Lord,
That when the weekdays toil and trouble brought,
I might take this dread sign with me abroad.
TUESDAY.
He will not leave me by myself too long,
Though fain is he in his bright home to stay;
And he hath clasped his hand in mine so strong,
Perchance God means I shall not fall to-day.
170

WEDNESDAY.
This morn he left me, and he laid a Cross
Flat on the ground, to frighten me from sin;
Lest mean ambition, lust, or worldly dross,
My traitor thoughts from my dear Lord should win.
THURSDAY.
To-day he hath ascended up on high,
Early, before I woke; that I might yearn
And gaze all wistfully into the sky,
And a cold look on this blank world might turn.
FRIDAY.
All Friday long he kneels behind a shroud
To pray, perchance, with many a tear for me;
But at the compline he doth burst the cloud,
Bright as the evening of a fast may be.
SATURDAY.
The week is gone: and wherefore dost thou keep
So long a vigil? Is it all for me?
Oh! if my sins can make an angel weep,
My Saviour! let me hide myself in Thee.
 

From the wood cuts of the Oxford edition, 1838.

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LXXVIII. First Love.

I

I have been long without a home,
And yearned too much for one;
And scanty are the deeds of faith
My lonely heart hath done:
For many a night my weary bed
Hath felt the weak tears run.

II

Cold armour of ambitious dreams
I bade my soul to wear,
And to false friendship's wildfire sweet
Have laid my spirit bare;
And some few times pure heavenly thoughts
Awhile have lighted there.
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III

But still my sickness grew, and still
The fever gained worse power;
And every star that gentlest shone
Above my dreary tower
Hath waned long since, or waneth now,
More palely every hour.

IV

But I have felt thy light low voice,
Thy soft eye's languid beam,
And light and colour have come back
Unto my purest dream,
And to my heart the old fresh blood
Hath mounted in a stream.

V

Health, power, deep gladness have come back
With shouts and songs of bliss;
Of all my loves in this bright crowd
There is not one I miss—
Oh! never mortal soul hath had
A wakening like this!
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VI

No tossing now on feverish thoughts,
No sick heart's burning swell,
No waiting day by day to bid
Each new false hope farewell,
Free, without chains, my spirit starts
And breaks the long dull spell.

VII

It is not passion's lurid light,
Nor friendship's meteor way,
False gleams that through pale summer nights
From far-off tempests play,
But one rich golden orb that shines
Steady and large all day

VIII

A full, warm, fostering light wherein
The heart's best foliage springs,
A flame to whose sweet sternness faith
Each brittle purpose brings,
An altar-fire where hope is fed,
And prayer and praise find wings.
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IX

Thou art too young for me to tell
My hidden love to thee;
And, till fit season, it must burn
In darkest privacy,
For years must pass and fortunes change
Till such fit season be.

X

Young as thou art, hadst thou but seen
This withered heart before,
And poured thy love, as o'er some plant
Thou dost fresh water pour,
And watched the fragrance and the hue
Grow into it once more—

XI

Thou wouldst, mayhap, have felt within
Thy first and sweetest strife,
And marvelled much at the new taste
And power it gave to life;
And so less like a dream had been
My first dream of a Wife
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LXXXV. Queen Mary among the Benefactors.

[_]

[Recited before Sermon at certain times in St. Mary's, Oxford.]

It is a noble ritual,—to tell
Out before God our Founders name by name;
It is a Christian rite saints will not blame,
And doth beseem this quiet city well.
Many and mighty in the bead-roll swell:
But, when I think of who we are and where,
Thy name doth vibrate strangely on the air,
Stern Benefactress! Strange, yet sweet, it falls
With Charles and Laud, as though a church were Heaven,
Where good deeds stay and evil is forgiven:
Strangely, yet sweetly, to the heart it calls,
Warning strife off from these memorial halls;
Scarcely recalling thy disastrous sway,
Yet taking thoughts of cold, rude hate away.
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CVI. Penryn Castle.

“See now, I dwell in an house of cedar, but the Ark of God dwelleth within curtains.”

Stranger! if thou hast mourned o'er wasting shrine,
And costly churches falling to decay,
Then will thy blameless anger rise like mine,
Cast for an hour 'mid this unblest display.
Damask and gold and colored timbers rare
And churchlike carvings soothe the owner's sense;
Yet hath no famous line been cradled here
With names to hallow such magnificence.
Poor England lay before that rich man's gates,
Like Lazarus; but he reared halls wherein
To shrine himself and worship modern sin,
Where modern praise the sumptuous crime awaits.
Come forth, come forth, and breathe all fresh and free
The winds that blend from mountain-height and sea!
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To my Reader.

Young Reader!—for most surely to the old
These loose, uneven thinkings can but seem
Unlifelike and unreal as a dream,—
O! judge not thou that I have been too bold
With sacred teaching, or have done it wrong
To give fair form or sweetness to my song:
Nor be thou wearied with the changeful vision,
As though with labored and unmeaning skill
I had but rifled fancy at my will,
Or held her hidden order in derision.
O far from that:—these fitful strains keep blending,
Poorly yet truly, strivings gained or lost,
By one in whom two tempers are contending,
Neither of which hath yet come uppermost.
University College, Oxford.
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