 | The Legend of the Golden Prayers and other poems |  |
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Missionary and Colonial.
TO C. H. A.
Who married a Clergyman, and went out with him to join the Bishop of New Zealand. Sent with a cross of Irish bog-oak.
Out of the bosom desolate and deep
Of her that was the “Isle of Saints” of old,
Where, far below, her buried forests sleep,
They cut this little cross of ancient mould.
Of her that was the “Isle of Saints” of old,
Where, far below, her buried forests sleep,
They cut this little cross of ancient mould.
Type of her beautiful and glorious days,
Her first pure days of faith, and lore, and love,
When wanted not sweet Nature's note of praise;
Her deep winds whispering down the leafy grove.
Her first pure days of faith, and lore, and love,
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Her deep winds whispering down the leafy grove.
I bid thee lay it on thy pilgrim breast—
I would some thought of us should go with thee,
Some message from the melancholy west,
To that bright isle beyond the southern sea.
I would some thought of us should go with thee,
Some message from the melancholy west,
To that bright isle beyond the southern sea.
And oh, of all our thoughts most sweet, most vast,
What better sign between our hearts than this?
What fitter form to carve out of the past?
What brighter presage of the future's bliss?
What better sign between our hearts than this?
What fitter form to carve out of the past?
What brighter presage of the future's bliss?
Most meet for you, who not with thoughts of ease
Gild your calm dreams of holy wedded life,
Who bear your Master's cross beyond the seas,
For earnest labour, and for weary strife.
Gild your calm dreams of holy wedded life,
Who bear your Master's cross beyond the seas,
For earnest labour, and for weary strife.
Meet symbol, too, from this fair isle forlorn,
To her who hears the wide Pacific roar,
Who sitteth in the twilight of her morn,
Watching the lights that break along the shore;
To her who hears the wide Pacific roar,
Who sitteth in the twilight of her morn,
Watching the lights that break along the shore;
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Hearkening a strain more sweet than rapt'rous burst
Of wild bird's song when dawn is in the sky;
An echo of the angels' song that erst
Spake peace on earth, and told salvation night.
Of wild bird's song when dawn is in the sky;
An echo of the angels' song that erst
Spake peace on earth, and told salvation night.
And he who leads and modulates that strain,
Wandering by pathless waste and lonely rock,
Whose restless bark is ever on the main,
Patiently gathering in his little flock.
Wandering by pathless waste and lonely rock,
Whose restless bark is ever on the main,
Patiently gathering in his little flock.
How will he look along the heaving tide,
And bless the breeze that brings from the old land
One brother more to labour at his side,
Another sister to his exiled band.
And bless the breeze that brings from the old land
One brother more to labour at his side,
Another sister to his exiled band.
And ye will catch the burden of his song,
Will swell the measure when perchance it faints,
Bid gulf and cliff the glorious strain prolong,
And make that isle another Isle of Saints.
Will swell the measure when perchance it faints,
Bid gulf and cliff the glorious strain prolong,
And make that isle another Isle of Saints.
Pray for us, brother, sister,—love doth make
No count of space, devotion hath no bound—
And chief for them, the faithful few, who wake,
Watching our island fold with foes around;
No count of space, devotion hath no bound—
And chief for them, the faithful few, who wake,
Watching our island fold with foes around;
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And so farewell!—already the winds greet
Your out-bound sail, and lift the crested wave;
How oft in thought, in hope, in heart, we meet
By the dear sign of Him who died to save!
Your out-bound sail, and lift the crested wave;
How oft in thought, in hope, in heart, we meet
By the dear sign of Him who died to save!
The Irish oak is cut out of the bogs which contain vast buried forests. It was probably in the days when these forests stood, that Ireland was celebrated for her schools of Christian learning.
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PRAISE AND INTERCESSION.
Wake, wanderer, wake! a solemn voice
Chants softly to the chill night air,
In old familiar melody,
Sweet strains of praise and prayer;
Chants softly to the chill night air,
In old familiar melody,
Sweet strains of praise and prayer;
Such strains as in thine own dear land
Unnumber'd voices love to sing,
When, morn and eve, the Bride of Heaven
Brings homage to her King.
Unnumber'd voices love to sing,
When, morn and eve, the Bride of Heaven
Brings homage to her King.
Here are no old collegiate walls,
No mighty minster fair and strong;—
Whence caught this wild north-western waste
The Church's evensong?
No mighty minster fair and strong;—
Whence caught this wild north-western waste
The Church's evensong?
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Sleep, wanderer, sleep! thy mother's hand
Is stretch'd to guard each wandering child,
Her shepherd waketh for the flock
Far scatter'd in the wild.
Is stretch'd to guard each wandering child,
Her shepherd waketh for the flock
Far scatter'd in the wild.
'Tis meet his deep, unwearied voice,
Still, night and day, her songs renew,
Like strain thrice echoed from the hills,
Whose every note is true.
Still, night and day, her songs renew,
Like strain thrice echoed from the hills,
Whose every note is true.
Head of the Church, for ever near,
Hear Thou Thy servant's evening hymn,
Give that lone voice a power to raise
From sleep more dark and dim:
Hear Thou Thy servant's evening hymn,
Give that lone voice a power to raise
From sleep more dark and dim:
Be it a witness to Thy name,
For truth, for love, for order dear,
Charming the sinner from his path,
Soothing the exile's ear.
For truth, for love, for order dear,
Charming the sinner from his path,
Soothing the exile's ear.
It dies beneath the wide grey Heaven,
It dies along the silent plain,
No answering flock, no deep-voiced choir
Take up the solemn strain.
It dies along the silent plain,
No answering flock, no deep-voiced choir
Take up the solemn strain.
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Yet patience, strong and holy heart,
Nor fear the full response shall come;
Still waken with thy lonely note
The desert dark and dumb.
Nor fear the full response shall come;
Still waken with thy lonely note
The desert dark and dumb.
Deep down the course of coming years
The chord shall vibrate yet again,
And ages yet unborn shall hear
That slumbering Amen.
The chord shall vibrate yet again,
And ages yet unborn shall hear
That slumbering Amen.
A traveller in North America, while resting at a lonely Inn, was roused at night by a voice chanting the Psalms; on inquiry, he found that it was the Bishop of Newfoundland chanting, alone, the Evening Service.
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THE LOST CHILD.
As when in sleep the mother deems
She holds her dead child in her bosom,
And feels a waxen hand, and dreams
She sees again her perish'd blossom,
She holds her dead child in her bosom,
And feels a waxen hand, and dreams
She sees again her perish'd blossom,
And dearer, sweeter seems to her
That image wan than any other;
So should the thought within thee stir,
Of thy lost children, island mother!
That image wan than any other;
So should the thought within thee stir,
Of thy lost children, island mother!
No voice of dreams, it haunts thy soul
Across the blue Pacific water,
Above the wild Atlantic's roll,
From many an exiled son and daughter:
Across the blue Pacific water,
Above the wild Atlantic's roll,
From many an exiled son and daughter:
No vision'd forms, they wander there
Beneath old woods' primeval shadows;
Through coral-girded islands fair,
By frozen rocks and sun-burnt meadows:
Beneath old woods' primeval shadows;
Through coral-girded islands fair,
By frozen rocks and sun-burnt meadows:
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Thy living dead, for whom the spring
Is dried of spiritual being,
And every sacramental thing
That leads to the unseen All-seeing:
Is dried of spiritual being,
And every sacramental thing
That leads to the unseen All-seeing:
They hear no more, when Sundays come,
The old bells swing in village towers,
A message from the angels' home
Unto this work-day world of ours;
The old bells swing in village towers,
A message from the angels' home
Unto this work-day world of ours;
No more they seek, in reverent haste,
Christ's wedding-feast within His palace,
Nor eat the precious bread, nor taste
The wine-drop in the sacred chalice;
Christ's wedding-feast within His palace,
Nor eat the precious bread, nor taste
The wine-drop in the sacred chalice;
For them no calm chance words are said
By pastoral lips in love and meetness,
Like breathings from a violet-bed,
That touch the common air with sweetness;
By pastoral lips in love and meetness,
Like breathings from a violet-bed,
That touch the common air with sweetness;
Therefore, lift up thine arm this day,
Bid the Church meet them, island mother;
Lest they forget her as they stray,
Or falsely deem they find another.
Bid the Church meet them, island mother;
Lest they forget her as they stray,
Or falsely deem they find another.
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COME OVER AND HELP US.
Souls in heathen darkness lying
Where no light has broken through,
Souls that Jesus bought by dying,
Whom His soul in travail knew;
Thousand voices
Call us o'er the waters blue.
Where no light has broken through,
Souls that Jesus bought by dying,
Whom His soul in travail knew;
Thousand voices
Call us o'er the waters blue.
Christians, say they, none has taught us
Of His love so deep and dear,
Of the precious price that bought us,
Of the nail, the thorn, the spear;
Ye who know Him
Guide us from our darkness drear.
Of His love so deep and dear,
Of the precious price that bought us,
Of the nail, the thorn, the spear;
Ye who know Him
Guide us from our darkness drear.
Still, Mohammed's hosts adoring,
Call untired their prophet's name,
Morn and eve his aid imploring;—
Tell the greater Chief who came,
The true Prophet,
Winning glory out of shame.
Call untired their prophet's name,
Morn and eve his aid imploring;—
Tell the greater Chief who came,
The true Prophet,
Winning glory out of shame.
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Still, the Jew, in dreams unholy,
Hails a conqueror's crimson reign,
Scorns the Son of Mary, lowly:—
Read him right the Prophet's strain,
Christ can give him
Israel's glories back again.
Hails a conqueror's crimson reign,
Scorns the Son of Mary, lowly:—
Read him right the Prophet's strain,
Christ can give him
Israel's glories back again.
Still old Asia's sages yearning,
Grope for truth with darken'd eye,
By the lamp within them burning,
While the sun is in the sky—
Nothing dreaming
Of the glorious light on high.
Grope for truth with darken'd eye,
By the lamp within them burning,
While the sun is in the sky—
Nothing dreaming
Of the glorious light on high.
Still the earth hath cruel places,
Wrath, and hate, and vengeance grim,—
Still God looks on human faces
Heavenward turn'd, but not to Him;
Slaves who know not
Comfort in their anguish dim.
Wrath, and hate, and vengeance grim,—
Still God looks on human faces
Heavenward turn'd, but not to Him;
Slaves who know not
Comfort in their anguish dim.
Eastward far the bright sun breaking
Treads the dark clouds into light,
East and west the lands are waking,
Other feet are on the height,
More beautiful,
Bearing words of love and might.
Treads the dark clouds into light,
East and west the lands are waking,
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More beautiful,
Bearing words of love and might.
Haste, O haste to spread the tidings,
Let no shore be left untrod,
No lost brother's bitter chidings
Haunt us from the furthest sod:
Tell the heathen
All the precious truth of God!
Let no shore be left untrod,
No lost brother's bitter chidings
Haunt us from the furthest sod:
Tell the heathen
All the precious truth of God!
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LOOKING UP TO HEAVEN.
The sun sinks o'er the western sea
And o'er the trackless plain,
Where the good Bishop wearily
Leads on his scanty train;
And o'er the trackless plain,
Where the good Bishop wearily
Leads on his scanty train;
The moon fades from the brow of night,
Dark broods the lonely hour,
No passing gleam of social light
Shines out from hall and bower;
Dark broods the lonely hour,
No passing gleam of social light
Shines out from hall and bower;
Such gleam as dear old England sees
From the closed casement far
At even, through her tall dark trees;
The peasant's polar star;
From the closed casement far
At even, through her tall dark trees;
The peasant's polar star;
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Which, wearied with his long day's toil,
He greeteth far away;
Christ's labourer tills a harder soil—
Hath he no cheering ray?
He greeteth far away;
Christ's labourer tills a harder soil—
Hath he no cheering ray?
Yes, wanderer, look, to heaven's blue height
The Southern Cross ascends,
And, bathing all thy path in light,
Thine “own Triangle” bends.
The Southern Cross ascends,
And, bathing all thy path in light,
Thine “own Triangle” bends.
Sweet stars, there lies a gentle lore
In Nature's shadowings,
And we may find in her full store
The types of holier things.
In Nature's shadowings,
And we may find in her full store
The types of holier things.
God's holy Church, mysterious still,
Wends on, from age to age,
Through this dark world of strife and ill,
Her lonely pilgrimage;
Wends on, from age to age,
Through this dark world of strife and ill,
Her lonely pilgrimage;
And darkness meets her on the wold,
And frowns the gathering foe,
And hearts are false, and love is cold,
And even faith burns low:
And frowns the gathering foe,
And hearts are false, and love is cold,
And even faith burns low:
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Because we look not up on high
Where waves the red cross wide,
Nor think how He who died to save,
Still guards His mystic Bride;
Where waves the red cross wide,
Nor think how He who died to save,
Still guards His mystic Bride;
Because we have no hearts to see
Bright, as in days of old,
The presence of the Eternal Three
Within her sacred fold.
Bright, as in days of old,
The presence of the Eternal Three
Within her sacred fold.
And thou to whom thy Lord has given
The crozier and the key,
And bade thee tend the Bride of Heaven,
Girt by that southern sea,
The crozier and the key,
And bade thee tend the Bride of Heaven,
Girt by that southern sea,
What though cold-hearted Christians fear,
What though the heathen frown,
Though all the waste be wild and drear,
And sun and moon go down,
What though the heathen frown,
Though all the waste be wild and drear,
And sun and moon go down,
Yet shalt thou lay Redemption's sign
On many a savage brow,
And many a rudely sacred shrine
Shalt to the Triune vow;
On many a savage brow,
And many a rudely sacred shrine
Shalt to the Triune vow;
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And hope on them and peace be pour'd,
Who see thy face no more,—
The exile labouring for his Lord
Upon that heathen shore!
Who see thy face no more,—
The exile labouring for his Lord
Upon that heathen shore!
| The Legend of the Golden Prayers and other poems | |