Poems By Henry Nutcombe Oxenham. Third Edition |
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| XV. |
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| XVII. |
| XVIII. | XVIII. |
| XIX. |
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| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
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| XXXVIII. |
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| XL. |
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| XLVIII. |
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 | Poems |  |
53
XVIII.
“Da semper dolere, et de dolere gaudere.”
There is no joy in all the earth
So dear as holy sorrow;
None, but from canonized Regret
Its sweetest charm doth borrow.
So dear as holy sorrow;
None, but from canonized Regret
Its sweetest charm doth borrow.
When the suffering and the sainted ones
From our embrace are riven,
There is a glory less on earth,
A glory more in heaven.
From our embrace are riven,
There is a glory less on earth,
A glory more in heaven.
And pleasant is the memory
Of happy periods gone,
When all the joys of many a year
Are gathered into one.
Of happy periods gone,
When all the joys of many a year
Are gathered into one.
The concentrated retrospect
Of love in all her gladness
Which now is in the lowly tomb,
O say not it is sadness.
Of love in all her gladness
Which now is in the lowly tomb,
O say not it is sadness.
54
For strong affection deepeneth,
Like a broad and kingly river;
The last smile is the loveliest,
When about to part for ever.
Like a broad and kingly river;
The last smile is the loveliest,
When about to part for ever.
The merriest song, the loudest laugh,
Oh what are they to this?
The joy on earth the likest heaven
Is the last remembered kiss.
Oh what are they to this?
The joy on earth the likest heaven
Is the last remembered kiss.
Are we not purest, when we dwell
On thoughts of the departed?
And are not brightest transports pledged
By God to the pure-hearted?
On thoughts of the departed?
And are not brightest transports pledged
By God to the pure-hearted?
O teach us, Lord, to bear our Cross
In meekness unrepining:
Where deepest go the nail-prints, there
The sweetest flowers are shining.
In meekness unrepining:
Where deepest go the nail-prints, there
The sweetest flowers are shining.
When deepest in our sinful souls
The five dear wounds are planted,
We have a joy all joys beyond
Through suffering disenchanted.
The five dear wounds are planted,
We have a joy all joys beyond
Through suffering disenchanted.
| Poems | |