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375

V
OCCASIONAL AND MISCELLANEOUS

“THE WORK OF WOMAN'S HAND.”

[_]

Written for the Royal British Exhibition, Chicago, 1893.

As waves that smile at morn are weak
To show wild ocean tempest stirred,
So, feebly does expression speak,
So far the theme transcends the word.
For words from depths of fancy brought
Faint echoes are, though sweet or strong,
And he who singeth all his thought
Will never rouse the world with song.
Theme beyond thought! in mystery steeped,
The living Love that walked of yore,
Where Hermon stood, and Jordan leaped
Against his vine-empurpled shore;
376

That thrilled a slumbering world, and broke
The chain that fettered woman's life,
And to a nobler purpose woke
Her,—toy of ease, or cause of strife.
The beauty and the strength He gave,
The love refined that shed the nard,
The courage that could watch His grave
Regardless of the Roman guard.
And still she holds her precious gifts,
Hath smiles to cheer, and charm to win,
The heart that feels, the hand that lifts,
The foot that seeks the haunts of sin.
Not alms profuse at random thrown,
Not class 'gainst class her lip would teach,
But brave self-help, sweet mercy shown,
And free dependence each on each;
And honest toil that need supplies,
God's first best gift to man's right hand,
When forfeit of his Paradise
He wandered forth to till the land.
Now to that World's Show o'er the sea
She saith, “O man, I send my share—
The needle's delicate tracery,
The fresh design, the fabric fair.
377

“I bring my best of hand, and loom,
From teeming cities thronged of men,
From Highland hills enwrapt in gloom,
From English glade and Irish glen.”
Load the good ship, and speed her well,
Beyond old England's furthest rock,
And those grey cliffs that sentinel
Ierne 'gainst the billow's shock!
Across the wide uncultured plain,
The brown Atlantic lone, and vast,
That swells, and sinks, and swells again
And whitens as she hurries past.
Our sisters hear, and answering pour
Their part; from spice-embalmèd isle,
Canadian coast, and Indian shore,
And where Australian pastures smile.
So bring them forth, and proudly lay
In that fair place, a whole world's mart,
Where flow'rs shall bloom, and waters play,
And powers inventive blend with art.
Till our great kindred race abroad,
And wandering men from many a land,
Shall see them lie 'mid gem and gaud,
And praise the work of woman's hand.
378

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

EUTHANASIA.

I. The Parting.

I go—the night-lamp flickers
In crystal socket deep,
As throbbing to the murmurs
Of thy short, restless sleep.
On thy pale brow the shadows
Of the closed curtains fall,
I watch the long dark figures
They cast on the cold wall.
And I can see thee heaving
The long white counterpane,—
When shall I keep the night-watch
By thy sick couch again?
I go—the cold bright morning
Breaks up in the grey sky,
On wood, and stream, and valley,
And those green hills that lie
All to the blue sea looking;
And through the breaking dark
I hear the pigeon cooing,
The first song of the lark.
379

O time, O youth, O gladness,
How swiftly have ye sped
Since we have watched the sunsets
From yon green mountain head!
Where is the step that bounded
So lightly from the ground,
The ring of that sweet laughter
That hath no fellow sound;
The large dark eye, all radiant
With glad and glorious thought?
O suffering, O sorrow,
How surely have ye wrought!
Now wasted form, and languor,
And lowly-breathed word,
And pain, and unrest weary,
And pale lips roughly stirr'd.
Hush, false and vain repining,
Nor drop hot tears of mine!
Doth man not cut the diamond
That it may brighter shine?
Do we not cast the fine gold
Into the cleansing fire?
Is not the child most cherish'd
Still chasten'd of its sire?
380

And saints wear crowns of glory
Through Heaven's eternal years,
With brightest rays around them—
All framed from earthly tears.
Hush! there are unseen watchers
Round the blest sufferer now,
And angel-hands, all gently,
Smooth down her pale high brow!
Hush! He is here in presence
Who knew all pain and care,
Nor ever layeth on His own
A cross they cannot bear!
Hush! for a dear hand beckons
Her soul to the bright shore,
Like Summer hasting after
The young Spring gone before!
I go—O parting sorrow,
O anguish of vain tears,
Why will ye mock me—bringing
The shades of our past years?
Twin spirit to my spirit,
When thou hast left my side
What other love shall comfort?
What other voice shall guide?
381

Hush! in our high communion
There is no broken link,
And lights gleam through the shadows
On the dark river's brink!
One hope, one faith, one heaven;
These years how fast they speed;
There is no endless parting,
No, never, in our creed.

II. The Last Communion.

I may not chafe thy weary temple,
I may not kiss thy dear pale face;
But spirit answereth to spirit,
And loving thought o'erleapeth space.
And thus within thy far sick-chamber
Mine heart communion holds with thine,
I see the kneeling kindred gather,
The broken bread, the hallow'd wine.
Hush, heaving sigh! Hush, murmur'd whisper!
Swell forth, ye words of love and dread!
“Take, eat, His life for you was given;
Drink ye; His blood for you was shed!”
382

Dim grows thy dark eye, kneeling mother,
There's anguish on thy bended brow;
Ay, weep, there come no second flowers
When Autumn strips the laden bough.
O broken spirit, meek-eyed creature,
Well may thy brimming eyes run o'er,
Since yet a darker drop may mingle
Within the cup so full before!
And thou, too, honour'd one and cherish'd,
Most happy wife and mother blest,
There comes a cloud o'er thy pure heaven
Which not the brightness of the rest,
Which not even his dear love who kneeleth
Close at thy side can banish quite;
For stars that have an equal lustre
Yet shine not with each other's light.
Come, gentle nurse, come, fair young sisters,
Draw closer still the narrowing chain,
Another golden link must sever,
Ye cannot commune thus again.
Once more, once more—death's deepening shadow
Broods o'er our little field of light,
Ere yet the heavy cloud is scatter'd
That wrapp'd our fairest from our sight,
383

Whom, as we linger by thy pillow,
Dear saint, in look, in smile, in tone,
We trace again, like skies reflecting
The sunlight when the sun is gone.
Still swells the Eucharistic measure,
The feast of love and life is o'er,
The angels joining, and archangels,
And saints who rest and sin no more.
Ah! not at Christ's own altar kneeling,
Our hearts should thrill, our eyes grow dim,
As though we had not known His presence,
And were not ever one in Him.
The dead—they are the truly living,
They live to God, to love, to us;
Why should the prescience of brief parting
Sadden the Christian spirit thus?
Nay, gently lay her on His bosom,—
Nay, gladly give her to His care,
Lest we forget in our own sorrow
How bright the crown His ransom'd wear.
384

III The Child in the Sick Room.

The glorious sun sinks slowly o'er
The purple ocean broad and even,
While, pale and pure, one little star
Rides up the eastern heaven.
The sunset hues of coming death
Have touch'd her cheek, and lit her eye;
The mother hath borne in her babe
To greet her ere she die.
With solemn look, and passive arms,
That stretch not now for love's embrace,
He looketh long and earnestly
On that sweet, holy face,
As if the soul, untainted yet,
And fresh from the Redeemer's touch,
New-washed in His own blood, who loves
His little ones so much,
With that bright spirit purified,
In suffering faithful to the end,
Held some mysterious communing
We could not comprehend.
385

As if to him unveil'd had been
Angelic forms and mysteries,
And awfully the parting soul
Look'd through her bright dark eyes.
Gaze on, the sunlight lingers yet—
The brow is there, with genius fraught,
The parted lips that pour'd so well
The music of her thought.
The brow all calm, the face all fair,
The eye all brilliant as of yore,
Each line by beauty so refined,
It could refine no more.
Gaze on—and Oh, as Eastern skies
Glow when the western heaven is bright,
Perchance thy soul may catch a gleam
From yonder fading light!
Because her lips for thee have vow'd,
Have pray'd for thee in hours of pain,
It cannot be, thou precious child,
Those prayers shall prove in vain.
But they will bring a blessing back,
As ofttimes 'neath the summer moon
The dewy mists that heavenward rise
Fall down in showers at noon.
386

And thou wilt be a holy saint,
Christ's soldier true in fights to come,
Wilt bear His cross as patiently,
And go as gladly home.
Gaze on, gaze on, some scenes there are
Too fair to ruffle with a sigh,
So let us learn of childish awe,
And wait in silence by!

IV. The Anniversary.—To E. G. H.

I know thou art awake to-night—
Thy tears are flowing fast,
Keeping our Saint's nativity
And dreaming of the past.
Thou weepest for the calm sweet smile
That ne'er again can charm,
For the dear head that, hour by hour,
Droop'd meekly on thine arm;
For the young lip where wisdom hung—
The honey on the rose;
For the high spirit calm'd and bow'd—
Faith's beautiful repose.
387

Ah! which of us that watch'd that tide
Of ebbing life depart,
Can hear its echoing surge to-night,
Nor tears unbidden start?
But tears so blended as they rise,
Of mingled joy and woe;
Like sourceless streams, we cannot tell
What fountain bids them flow.
That gush of sorrow—could she rest
Again upon thy side,
Uplooking with those patient eyes,
Perchance she would not chide.
But couldst thou see her whom thy care
So tended, worn and faint,
Clothed with the beauty of the blest,
The glory of the Saint—
That beauty of the spirit-land
Beyond our brightest dream—
Sure in thy soul the tide of joy
Would drown that darker stream.
And varying thought in gentle strife
Would all thy soul employ,
Of holy human tenderness
With earnest Christian joy.
388

So keep we watch to-night, my love,
And ever, at His feet
Who bade His angel at this hour
Steal on her slumber sweet;
And suffer'd not his ruffling wing
To break upon her ear,
But will'd that she should never know
Death's agony and fear.
O Christ, our stay, our strength, as hers,
Make, too, our dying bed,
'Tis but in presence of Thy love
We dare recall the dead!

V. The Place of Remembrance.

Where wouldst thou think of her? Where the young flowers
Spring through the turf where so often she lay,
Wearily watching the long summer hours,
Last of her lifetime, fleet slowly away?
There by the garden-wall, cover'd with roses,
Where, in the shelter, she linger'd so late,
Under the tree where the shadow reposes,
Over the spot where at noontime she sate?
389

Down the green walk where you drew her so slowly,
Patient and sweet in her helpless decay,
In her own chamber, the haunted and holy,
There wouldst thou dream of thy darling to-day?
Where wouldst thou think of her, darkling and dreary?
In the lone room where her spirit took flight,
Passing away, as a child that is weary
Turns to its cradle, nor wishes Good-night?
Where, like a wild dream, thy heart still remembers
The lingering smile on the motionless clay—
A flame that lives on in the light of its embers—
There wouldst thou dream of thy darling to-day?
Not in the greenwood glade—hearts need not borrow
Helps from dead nature to teach them to weep,
Not in that lonely room;—why should thy sorrow
Brood o'er her, silent and shrouded in sleep?
Go to the altar, where, morning and even,
The low voice has mingled, the bright head bow'd down,
Pouring her heart out in commune with Heaven,
Taking His cross up who gave her the crown.
Everywhere, everywhere holdeth communion,
Loving and cheering, her spirit with thine,
But in a holier, happier union,
Meet you with praises to-night at the shrine.
390

Then in the vale, when the waters are swelling,
Go where the desolate bird finds a nest,
Go to His holy and beautiful dwelling,
The courts of the Lord, where she dwelt and was blest.
Where the Church mingles her happy departed,
Victors gone home with the strugglers who stay,
Bringing forth balm for the desolate-hearted,—
There shouldst thou dream of thy darling to-day!

VI. Recollections.—To F. L.

I have been dwelling on enchanted ground,
Looking on thee, and dreaming of the past;
A spell of shrouded faces and lost sound
Thou hast around me cast.
Sorrow and joy, thought within thought enshrined,
Childhood and youth I have lived o'er again,
As one chance note unlinketh to the mind
The whole of a sweet strain.
Thus, with the truest love my heart has known,
Thy kindred form so dearly blended seems,
Thine accents have an echo of the tone
That haunts me in my dreams.
391

A thousand thrilling thoughts thou bring'st to me
Of our old days of happiness on earth;
I tremble at thy smile, thy laughter free,
Thy little words of mirth.
And I have mused until I seem'd to stray,
With thee and others, down a twilight glade,
Where sweet pale faces gleam'd upon our way,
And silver voices pray'd.
Shadows, and smiles, and gifted words were there,
It was the dream-land of our by-gone hours,
Just on the verge methought grew fresh and fair,
Two rathe and sunny flowers.
Pure balmy germs they grew within their shells,
Two cherish'd things, love-tended night and day,
With blue eyes peeping from their silver bells,
And breath as sweet as May.
There was a spirit with us in the grove—
I saw her linger where the first flower grew,
Breathe o'er it gently words of hope and love,
And leave it bathed in dew.
Now from thy presence, and its soothing power,
From voice, and look, and day-dream of the heart,
From balmy breath of childhood's opening flower,
Dear one, I must depart.
392

Go thou unto thy gleeful nursery,
Where voices mingle soft, and bright eyes gleam,
And when thy fair-hair'd children climb thy knee,
Read thou my parting dream.

ADDED FOR C. L.

He said he was forgotten in the strain,
When we roam'd through that love-enchanted spot,
As if there could be, of thy joy or pain,
A dream where he was not.
As if her sainted lips had ever pray'd,
Or her eyes fill'd for thee in thankfulness,
Nor blest his love true-hearted who had made
Her darling's happiness.
In every swelling chord are many notes
So closely blended, they seem all the same,
As, high and far, the glorious measure floats,—
We do not ask their name.

VII. Lines.

The stars sink one by one from sight,
No trace of them we find;
They vanish from the brow of night,
And none is left behind
Alone,
And none is left behind.
393

The sun goes to his ocean-bed,
In all his rays enshrined,
He wraps them round his crimson head,
And leaveth none behind
To mourn,
And leaveth none behind.
The beautiful and gifted dead,
The noblest of our kind,
Have cast their work aside and fled,
And we are left behind
Alone,
And we are left behind.
The dear old friends of early time,
Hearts round our hearts entwined,
Have faded from us in their prime,
And we are left behind
To mourn,
And we are left behind.
Pale stars, red sun, ye come again,
For whom no heart has pined,
We call our darlings back in vain,
Still are we left behind
Alone,
Still are we left behind.
394

Oh, dear ones, teach us so to run
Our race, in sun and wind,
That we may win where ye have won,
Though we be left behind
Awhile,
Though we be left behind!

VIII. The Last Evening.

Linger a moment ere 'tis o'er—
This last of our sweet evening hours.
As wanderers, leaving some fair shore,
Might pause to snatch a few bright flowers,
Which on their beating hearts they lay,
Memorials of that sunny clime;
Dear friends, shall we not bear away
Thoughts of this happy time?
Have we no flowers of memory
Close at our hearts to treasure fair,
Perchance to wither as they lie,
But sometimes still to scent our air?
Bright thoughts of love and joy to come,
In hours of toil and weariness,
And bring us, in each distant home,
Gleams of this happiness.
395

Shall we not dream when twilight shades,
Drop o'er the dark earth's quiet face,
How soft they touch'd the greenwood glade
Around our happy trysting place,
How blithely heart with heart did blend,
How gentle was our sportive strife,
Sisters and kin, each chosen friend,
Dear brother, and young wife?
Will there not come, when vespers chime,
And one of all the band shall hear
An echo from our service-time,
Deep thrilling to each heart and ear?
The spirits, by one impulse stirr'd,
Swelling the church's even-song,
The voice that falter'd o'er her word
So solemn, deep, and strong.
Ah! were we then in truth alone?
Had not each loving heart a dream,—
A glorious vision of its own,
That all too bright for words did seem,—
Whereat the tear unbidden springs;
And yet it has no shade of gloom;
As if two angels waved their wings
Across the quiet room?
Friends, gentle friends, the world is wide,
And few the scatter'd sweets we find,
396

We would not cast such flowers aside,
Though we must leave the root behind.
Then pause awhile on this last night,
And linger o'er our parting strain,
This commune sweet, this converse light,
When will they come again?

IX. The Chapel.
[_]

To E. C. L. on occasion of a Chapel being pulled down to build a Church on the site.

Let none rebuke our sorrow, vainly swelling,
Nor say we sin to taste, dishonour art,
Because the bareness of this poor low dwelling
Had grown entwined about our heart.
Because no show of cluster'd arches bending,
Nor slender shaft, nor storied window clear,
Nor fretted roof, on pillars proud ascending,
Can give the charm that linger'd here.
For what is taste, but the heart's earnest striving
After the beautiful in form and thought,
From the pure past a nicer sense deriving,
And ever by fair Nature taught;
397

A strong creative instinct, making real
Dreams framed from earth, or drawn down from above?
These barren walls could give one bright ideal,
And the heart's beautiful is love.
Here, where no thrill of rapturous emotion,
From impulse wrought by outward cause, might stir;
Only His shrine, who claim'd our first devotion,
And that calm, peaceful thought of her.
This was the casket where our hearts embalm'd her,
A reliquary fitting for a saint,
Here, where His love had met, His mercy calm'd her
When her poor human heart did faint.
True, we have other records; there are places
Rich with the fragrance of her hours most bright,
When, full of gladness, look'd into our faces
Those dark eyes, dancing in soft light.
There is the room where her sick presence lingers,
The couch whereon she lay, the book she read,
The last words traced by her weak, weary fingers;
But these are relics of the dead.
398

These tell us of the ear that could not hear us
In our worst anguish, of the close-seal'd eyes;
Here was the spiritual presence near us
Of the saved soul that never dies.
Still on her place, when a dim ray fell slanting,
There was a sound, known to our hearts alone,
Of angels' wings; still with the choir's low chanting
Mingled her gentle undertone.
So shall it be no more,—a crimson splendour
Shall break that wandering sunbeam's silver line,
And bid it fall in tinted radiance tender
On the pure pavement by the shrine.
Down the long nave, the deep, full organ pealing,
A hundred echoes, lingering, shall draw
From roof, and niche, and sculptured angel kneeling
In the fair she never saw.
Why are our hearts fill'd with so many yearnings
And adverse claims—that each to other call—
Admiring thought, and zeal, and inward burnings,
And this deep, mournful love through all?
We would not check the work of your adoring;
We love when art, and wealth, and fervour meet,
Their gifts most bright, most beautiful outpouring,
Sweet ointment for our Master's feet.
399

Still let us grieve—even as a mother weepeth
For some poor sickly child, in mercy ta'en;
Deep in her heart his little spot she keepeth,
But wishes him not back again.
And if there be who meet us with upbraiding,
Call back the lost loves of your early years,
The deep, sad thoughts that ask no outward aiding,
And leave us our few silent tears.

THE ROYAL BRIDAL.

Round wild Dunree's unshelter'd rock,
That hears the broad Atlantic beat,
The salt waves of the great sea lough
Wash'd to the poet's feet.
Like jewel in a frosted setting
Was that sweet day in winter time,
And all day long those blue waves fretting
Had mingled with his rhyme.
No harsher sound the distance broke,
Where Inch, a giant fast asleep,
Lay folded in his purple cloak,
Upon a purple deep.
400

The round sun sinking slowly down
Behind Rathmullan far away,
Saw other hills eternal crown
Mulroy's romantic bay.
All round his burning amber bed,
Were rosy clouds, and crimson fringed,
And lines of golden light that led
Through dark doors, silver-hinged.
Burn, burn, O sun! along the west;
Ye fringed cloudlets shift and gleam,
Fill with bright shapes the poet's breast,
Give colour to his dream.
For, like a relic in a shroud
Of crimson silk, within its shrine,
His heart lies in a chapel proud,
Wrapt in a vision fine.
A glorious trance of bridal pomp,
Of tossing plume and jewell'd hair,
Of pawing steed and swelling trump,
Brave men and women fair.
No need of light clouds set on fire
To paint the royal pageant's pride,
When passes to the blazing choir
That graceful child-like bride.
401

When, proud of heart, but calm and grave,
The matron queen of all the land,
Comes pacing up the banner'd nave,
Her children in her hand.
Hush, weltering wave, and streams that dash
Down mountain clefts—ye charm no more,
He hears the organ's mighty crash,
He hears the anthem pour.
They pass,—they pause—prince, princess, queen,
And now the herald's task is done,
Dies slowly down the gorgeous scene
The word that makes them one.
Ah me! there's many a peasant's eye
That looks on purple Inch to-day,
And only sees a headland high,
A shadow in the bay.
There's many a curious, careless face
Has look'd along that glittering line,
Seen but the beauty and the grace,
And mark'd the jewels shine.
They saw the fairest court on earth,
They saw the monarch most beloved,
Nor dream'd beneath that mask of mirth
What holier feelings moved.
402

They praised the regal mantle's flow,
They praised the diamonds richly piled,
While all the time the heart below
Was yearning for her child.
On the bride's brow, so young, so pale,
They watch'd the whiter myrtles set,
But not the glances through her veil,
Half love and half regret.
Ah, what dear household memories press'd
Through all their hearts!—what prayers were pour'd
To Him whose hallowing presence bless'd,
Of old, the bridal board.
What broken links of joy there fell,
While still smiled on that face serene!
What tears were those—beseeming well
The mother and the queen!
Go, Bride, fair home afar be thine,
And happy even as her own;
We grudge thee to that grand old Rhine,
And to thy German throne.
Old England gives thee from her arms,
She gives thee with all blessings crown'd,
All surest vows, all holiest charms
Wherewith true hearts are bound.
403

One general thrill of love and hope
Has stirr'd in all our island hearts—
From wooded plain, and pasture slope,
And crowded city marts,
To where, from rude cliffs beetling high,
The great sea-eagle northward shrieks,
And the long rolling billows lie
In mountain guarded creeks.

THE SEAMAN'S HOME.

Wide let the venturous sea-bird roam,
A speck on ocean's bosom cast,
Touch with white breast the whiter foam,
And shriek before the rising blast.
But give her, when her wing is weary,
A home beyond the cliff's bare verge,
That, resting in her rocky eyry,
Her eye may scan the rolling surge.
Beyond, where bravest sea-bird dares,
The seaman's eager prow has driven;
And far beyond the line that bears
The mingled blue of sea and heaven:
404

His ship has drifted to the gale,
Where, many a night, the full round moon
Saw but herself and that white sail
O'er all the central ocean strewn;
Where, many a night, each cold, pale star
Look'd kindly on his lonely watch,
Telling of cottage homes afar,
And lattice lights beneath the thatch.
He brought the gold of other lands,
He braved the battle's stormy rage;
Give him a home, where kindly hands
Shall rock the cradle of his age.
No grey-hair'd wife may soothe his grief,
No child may guide his tottering limb,
The honey on the wither'd leaf,
The charms of life are not for him.
But give him on his own loved shore,
A quiet haven, where the brawl
Of the chafed sea shall vex no more,
Or only come at memory's call;
And let some gentle pastoral tone
Speak to his soul of pardon'd sin,
Till mercy melt the heart of stone,
And hope, with sorrow, enter in;
405

Till, as of old, when out at sea
His country far behind him faded,
Some brighter isle before would be,
With golden vales by palm-trees shaded.
So, as his life fades slow and calm,
And all of earth in distance dies,
The land that bears the heavenly palm
Shall break on faith's fast-closing eyes.
407

LENT LILIES.

Fair children of unwilling spring,
They grow beside our leafless bowers,
And gentle hopes and perfumes bring,
To cheer our cold and dreary hours.
To sunless skies and scentless gale
They lift their leaves of golden hue,
Sweet Friend, they tell a cheering tale,
Our Lent has lilies, too.
For through this penitential time
Together have we watch'd and pray'd,
Together heard the matin chime,
And seen the tender evening fade;
We trod the steep appointed way,
We wash'd with tear-drops penitent,
In meek obedience, day by day,
The lilies of our Lent.
And not in vain these hours of woe
For haughty sons of sinful clay,
More rugged path He trod below
Who wash'd our heavy guilt away.
Yet cheerly tread—He rose who died,
Bright hope with all our grief is blent,
And we may wear, at Easter-tide,
The lilies of our Lent.
408

And when the toilsome strife is past,
All fasts, and fears, and vigils done,
How brightly then shall dawn, at last,
The everlasting Easter sun:
On eyes that tears shall never wet,
On hearts for ever pure and true;
Oh, dearly loved and rarely met,
Our Lent has lilies, too!

THE DEAF AND DUMB CHILD.

I.

No voice nor sound for me had power,
I walk'd as in a sunlit night,
The stillness of the midnight hour
Was round me all the noonday bright.
I saw the dark blue streamlet glide
The wild wind bow'd the forest trees,
I heard no murmur in the tide,
No music in the rushing breeze.
I saw bright eyes on bright eyes bent,
The speaking glance I knew full well,
But the lips moved—and what they sent
To other lips I could not tell.
409

And, like to water cold and lone
Hid down in some deep sunless cave,
The current of my thoughts flow'd on;
No light was on the gloomy wave.
I walk'd the dew-bespangled sod,
I look'd into the broad blue sky,
I wist not of the good great God,
I never dream'd of things on high.

II.

My soul is not untutor'd now,
Even words and tongues for me have might,
My thought has learn'd a calmer flow,
And the dark waters leap in light;
They tell me hill, and stream, and tree,
Can breathe to God no grateful lays,
Yet all day long they seem to me
In loveliness to speak His praise.
And I have learn'd a dearer lore,
Of blood-bought mercy freely won,
And my freed lip above shall pour
The praise in silence here begun.
410

Oh, happiest, who, running o'er
With God's good gifts in mercy given,
Turn from their own abundant store
To teach the dumb the songs of Heaven.
And tenfold more unblest than mine
His hopeless, heartless, thankless lot,
Who hears on earth no voice Divine,
Whose lip can speak, and praises not.

ON THE LAYING OF THE FIRST STONE OF THE MEMORIAL CHURCH AT CONSTANTINOPLE

[_]

BY LORD STRATFORD DE REDCLIFFE, OCT. 19, 1858.

Now no more fair Stamboul hears the rattle
Of the warriors' harness at her gates;
Sees no more the tide of Europe's battle
Hotly pressing through her azure straits.
Queen-like, from her terraces and gardens,
She looks down, along those waters blue,
On those turrets twain, her ancient wardens,
Guardians of the old world and the new.
From her throne the languid European
Sees the old camp on the Asian shore,
Sees the foam-wreaths on the far Ægean,
And the white sails flitting slowly o'er.
411

Sees no more the gathering host that wander'd
To that wild peninsula afar,
To the desolate fort where England squander'd
So much life in one brief winter's war.
When the full ship, with her living burden,
Pass'd so near, she heard the canvas strain,
As she rush'd in haste, for glory's guerdon,
Toward the rock-reefs of that stormy main.
When the waifs of that great strife and anguish,
Like spars borne on a receding tide,
Came back wounded, came back sick to languish
In her shadow, on the Asian side;
To those walls, where sick men, breathing faintly,
Heard an angel rustling in the gloom,
And a woman's presence, calm and stately,
Lighted up the melancholy room.
Look down, Stamboul, from thy fair dome swelling,
Where Sophia's broken crosses lie,
And thine Imaums, night and day, are telling,
In God's face, that everlasting lie.
Not in anger come we to upbraid thee,
Not with war-ships floating on thy bay,
Not with brand and banner come to aid thee,
Stand we by thy Golden Horn to-day.
412

Lay the stone, O statesman tried and hoary,
'Tis no marble monument of war,
But a trophy to thine England's glory,
Unto distant ages, nobler far.
But a tribute, meeter and more solemn,
To our lost ones by that rough Black Sea,
Than triumphal arch or granite column,
Graven all with names of victory.
They have had their dirges in our sorrows
When the chill'd blood left the cheek and brow,
In that voiceless agony that borrows
An expression out of silent woe.
And their names writ down in Britain's story,
The best page she shows to future years,
And their cold brows twined with wreaths of glory;
Ah, those laurels wet with woman's tears!
Not yet time, with surely-healing fingers,
To our beggar'd love has brought relief,
Still a vain thought of requital lingers,
And an aching memory of grief.
This, our vengeance for the gallant bosoms,
In those cruel trenches, night by night,
Chill'd to death, as snow-encumber'd blossoms
Fall down, and are trampled out of sight.
413

This, our vengeance for the young life wasted
In the hot charge and the vain attack,
The assault to which so many hasted,
And the charge from which so few came back.
This, our memory of the true and fearless,
Spotless honour, uncomplaining toil,
And the Christian zeal, the valour peerless,
And the tenderness war could not spoil.
Here we raise their monument for ever,
Singing for them, till the world shall end,
“In Memoriam,” such as poet never
Set to Heaven's own music for his friend.
Here we rear the white cross and the altar,
Day by day the page of truth unfold,
Chant their dirges from dear England's Psalter,
Read their requiem from her Bible old.
Blend their memory with these aisles of beauty,
Grave them on the window's storied line;
Meet it is that men who died for duty
Be embalm'd in such a noble shrine;
Where the voice of praise and prayer habitual,
In due order, rises day and night,
Where the calm voice of that grand old ritual
Calls the soldier to a better fight.
414

Sleep, O warriors! cold your place of burial
In that rough Crimean valley lies,
While our church-spire cleaves the blue ethereal,
And all Nature smiles beneath our eyes.
Sleep, O warriors! all your toil and striving,
In one glorious mission end at last;
Here to speak salvation for the living,
Hope in death, and pardon for the past.
All your strength and valour now are blending
In one note of love, that swells and thrills
Like a strain of martial music, ending
In long echoes drawn from sylvan hills;
For all acts that make our hearts to quiver
With a strong emotion as we read,
Are divine, and go back to the Giver.
High endurance, courage, generous deed,
Come from Christ, and, unto Christ returning,
Find their full acceptance only there,
In that centre of all noble yearning,
In that type of all perfection fair.
Here we leave you in His Church, embalming
Your dear names with thoughts of love and peace
Till He come to reign, all discord calming,
And the warfare of the world shall cease.
415

THE SUN OF RIGHTEOUSNESS.

The sick man in his chamber,
Through the long weary night
Toss'd on his restless pillow,
How longs he for the light!
He counts the hours that linger,
Heavy with clouds and rain,
And a great weight of darkness
Lies on his fever'd brain.
He hears the loud clock ticking,
And the owl hoot afar,
While glimmers the pale night-light,
And fades the midnight star.
Till eastward in the heaven
He sees, at last, the sign,
O'er the far purple mountains;
A single silver line;
It broadens, and it deepens
To a sea of red and gold,
With clouds of rosy amber
Around its glory roll'd:
416

Till each pane of his window
Is silver'd o'er and o'er,
And lines of golden arrows
Lie on the dusky floor.
The sick soul lieth weary
In the world's soft unrest,
With clouds of care and sorrow,
And weight of sins opprest.
Out of the night she crieth,
Out of the narrow room:—
“O Saviour, gentle Saviour,
Wilt Thou not pierce the gloom?
“Break on this night of longing,
Where hand in hand we grope
Through wastes of vain endeavours,
'Neath stars of fruitless hope,
“O'er the great hills of sadness
That hem us darkly in,
Rough with our tears and losses,
And black with many a sin.
“Rise, rise above the mountains,
With healing on Thy wings,
Break into the dark chambers
Where pain in secret stings.
417

“Come, while the morning tarries
Our waiting eyes to bless,
Look through the lowly lattice,
Bright Sun of Righteousness!
“Set, for the hearts that love Thee,
Thy token up above,
The white rays of redemption,
And the red fire of love.
“Out of our gloom we call Thee,
Out of our helpless night:
Sun of the world, sweet Saviour,
Show us Thy perfect light!”

PRIVILEGES WITHDRAWN.

To J.
Thou hast been dwelling in a gleam
Of glorious light sent straight from heaven,
It mingled with thy morning beam,
It broke the twilight of thine even.
It came with concord of sweet sound,
With herald strain of church bells ringing,
With words of mercy breathing round,
And chanted prayer, and choral singing.
418

Along thy daily path it lay,
For inward peace, for added grace,
And thou didst linger in the ray,
The world shut out a little space.
'Tis past, or if it lingers yet,
Poor weary heart, 'tis not for thee—
Still morn and eve those sweet bells set,
Chime to the murmurs of the sea.
Still by the fair shrine, never cease,
The cry of penitence and prayer,
The answering voice of hope and peace,
And pardon—but thou art not there.
In vain the distant measure thrills
Thine heart, and vibrates in thine ear,
'Tis but an echo from the hills
That cheats the home-sick mountaineer.
'Tis but the wild wave's murmuring tone,
In ocean shell far inland heard—
Yet say not—dream not thus alone,
Is heavenward thought to rapture stirred.
Sweet are the strains that upward float,
When Christian hearts in rapture meet,
And passing sweet the priestly note,
That leads them to a Saviour's feet.
419

But these denied, let no quick word,
Nor thought o'er fond, nor hopeless sigh,
O, living temple of the Lord!
Sin to thine inward commune high.
Thou hast a shrine no hand can close,
No duty leave its courts untrod;
Where the true heart in secret knows
The Presence of the Spirit's God.
There grief may all her woes reveal,
There penitence may bring her shame,
Submission by the altar kneel,
And self-devotion feed the flame.
There patience wearing duty's chain,
And meek-faced love and pure desire,
May breathe within as sweet a strain
As ever thrilled from yonder choir.
There, though thine heart in vain should yearn
For other voice estranged or dumb,
If thine own incense duly burn,
The great High Priest Himself shall come.
Ah! dream in sorrowing mood no more,
Of vows unpaid, unpardoned sin,
Thou art not shut from Eden's door,
Thy truest Heaven is found within.
420

Deep in that wounded heart of thine
The temple of thy refuge lies,
Thyself the odour and the shrine,
And thine own will the sacrifice.

THE BISHOP OF BRECHIN AND I.—

“My child, God will let us meet again.”

She stands upon the verge of maidenhood,
The world of woman's life before her lies;
Forms of the great and beautiful and good
Loom through the mist, that shrouds it from her eyes.
She stands and trembles, like a dove forsaking
For the first time, her native forest glade,
And startled hears life's heavy surges breaking
Along the shore where childhood's roses fade.
And as she gazes, on her innocent face
There falls a shadow, solemn, deep, but fair,
A form of love and earnestness and grace
Bends o'er her path, and broods a moment there.
Type of that love and strength (her earthly dower)
Christ gave His Church to comfort and to chide,
The bearer of a great transmitted power,
The key to open, and the staff to guide.
Close in his shadow yet awhile she lingers,
As birds shrink into shelter at hot noon,
And tears drop slowly thro' her close prest fingers,
For he must pass and leave her lonely soon.
421

His gifted hand is on her golden hair,
His mellow voice is whispering calm and mild
The priestly benediction and the prayer,
And “God will let us meet again, my child.”
Then smile across thy tears, our drooping dove,
There's not a pang, a feeling, vainly given,
No form of trust, or reverence, or love,
But hath its perfecting in earth or heaven.
Yea, even childhood's chaplet of pure flowers,
That wither at thy feet so mournfully,
Shall crown thy brow again, in after hours
Of childlike faith, and meek humility.
And he, though nevermore, if heaven decree,
His hand shall press thy locks of drooping gold,
Though ne'er again thine eye his face should see,
And far apart each wave of life be rolled,
Yet, when he poureth out with fervid glance
To the great Shepherd, all a shepherd's cares,
Sure, for the little lamb he met by chance
His soul will plead, and meet thee in his prayers.
Sure, when ye kneel in commune with your Lord,
Ye two shall meet—nor haply thus alone,
I know thy spirit drank each low breathed word,
Nor doubted once of its prophetic tone.
422

Still if thou wilt, of benedictial greeting,
Dream on, with kindling eye and glowing cheek,
Why should thy God deny an earthly meeting?
Those hands to bless thee and those lips to speak?
And ever to thine heart that word be nigh,
To soothe each fond regret, each parting pain,
When bright things only rise to pass thee by,
Soft whispering—“God will let us meet again.”
Ah! was he making tryste in Paradise?
Had he too heard the tones that seem to stray
Around thee, bringing tears into our eyes
As angels whispered: “Sister, come away”?
Had he too marked in that sweet face of thine
The awful nameless charm we shrink to see?
And traced therein each barely sharpened line,
The tender tint, the moulded symmetry?
The light behind the eyes so richly bright,
As if the struggling spirit nearer drew
Unto its prison gates, and prone for flight
Looked forth impatient from their bars of blue?
Ah! if these signs betoken that we fear,
How shall we teach our hearts that soothing strain?
How shall we learn awhile to miss thee here,
And murmur—“God will let us meet again”?
423

THE PROJECTED TAYLOR CATHEDRAL AT BELFAST.

Faithful to his origin immortal,
To the image wherein he was made,
Man looks down through Time's mysterious portal,
Makes himself a trophy in the shade;
Draws from out his heart's impassioned fountains
Words that linger on with deathless tone;
Or, as envious of the eternal mountains,
Carves an immortality in stone.
Still the poet felt that inward longing,
Struggled still to speak his inward want,
Sound some words to catch the high thoughts thronging,
Some world-music for his heavenly chant.
The boy painter brooding in the meadows,
Or in peasant cot at evening's fall,
Traced in sand his soul's fast-coming shadows,
Dashed them out in charcoal on the wall.
Art, her dreams from touch to touch unfolded
By that marvellous power that man calls taste,
Laid the chisel on the mass unmoulded,
Reared her fairy fabrics in the waste.
424

All of genius, pity, true devotion,
Finds an utterance beautiful or strong,
High Heaven itself has no untold emotion,
Seraph's love hath still the seraph's song.
So, to-day, there comes a noble yearning
To our hearts, a vision to our eyes,
Fair as when we see red sunsets burning
Golden fanes into the western skies,
And that worthier thought that whispers proudly,
“Leave our sons some token of our life;
Leave them something that shall speak more loudly
Than the voices of our sin and strife.”
Finest forms that in her hours most gifted
Fancy weaves, or taste delighted piles,
And that strange thrill of the heart uplifted
That comes to us in Cathedral aisles.
Every rich and beautiful ideal,
Love that gives, and faith that scorns to doubt,
Ah! we go to-day to make them real,
Ah! we go to work our impulse out.
Too long taste has wept, and love grown weary,
Looking for a sign along the land:
Let the hammers ringing in the quarry
Bring forth something beautiful and grand,
425

Worthy of her mountains everlasting,
Purple-tinted, sleeping on the lakes:
Worthy of her bold sea headlands, casting
Broken shadows where the white surge breaks.
Long ago she made her rude endeavour—
Scattered churches with no grudging hand,
Flung them down by fertile field and river,
In green valleys and by sea-washed strand.
Witness olden oaks and silver birches,
That have trembled over Glendalough
To the seven bells of her seven churches—
Shannon's waves and Cashel's guardian rock.
Witness Muckross mid her woodlands shady,
Cast in ruins round her haunted tree,
And that shrine where sleep the knight and lady
Evermore at Howth beside the sea.
Knight and dame, and old Cistercian friar,
In your marble sleep by lough and glen:
Purer faith shall win to impulse higher
Us gain-loving and world-weary men.
Now no more by lonely vale and forest
Rear we carven arch or oriel fair,
But where the great toil of life is sorest,
And the strife of voices fills the air.
426

This no time for wounded hearts eschewing
Care and pain, a vain world left behind,
But an age of earnest, busy doing,
Hand with hand, and eager mind to mind.
And, beyond the sense of natural beauty,
Than fair contemplation Heaven-inclined
Higher far is calm courageous duty,
Working in God's sight for human kind.
For our age goes onward; ever goaded,
Man by man they strive in earnest sort;
Commerce stirs, and the good ship comes loaded
With fresh riches to the teeming port.
Let our token in the populous city,
Where the workman wearies at his craft,
Where the wheels are turning without pity,
And the black smoke rolls from the tall shaft.
For a great cathedral is the people's,
Speaking to them of the better part;
And the music out of heaven-set steeples,
Blesses trade and sanctifies the heart.
Never will the marble arch grow duller
For the tread of feet beneath its span,
Never the rich window lose its colour
For the wondering eyes of gazing man.
427

Where the dense crowd presses in our alleys,
And the palace of the merchant stands,
And the bay is leaden with the galleys,
And the streets with men of other lands—
Here, where breezes, from the channel blowing,
Lift the smoke-veil on our city laid,
Stately rows of marble arches, showing,
Soon shall mock the forest's green arcade.
Soon the gorgeous oriel shall glisten,
Tingeing all things, from the chancel floor
To the angel heads that seem to listen
From the corbels at the western door.
Soon, like voice of wind and wave sonorous,
Keeping time upon our northern shore,
From the white-robed choir, in sweetest chorus,
Alleluias down the nave shall pour.
And since, like a child for ever turning
Where it saw its absent mother last,
With a tender retrospective yearning
Human hearts go back into the past,
And we love from out its shades to gather
Spirits sympathetic with our own,
Saying fondly of the friend or father,
“He had loved it well if he had known”—
428

So to-day there is a memory mingled
With our labours, and an honoured name,
Not chosen causeless, or unduly singled,
Worthy winner of a world-wide fame:
Who, like some vast treasure-coffer holden
Of the waves, and cast up on our strand,
Opened all his gems and fancies golden
In this lovely corner of the land:
Whose great genius, prodigally given
To each theme that tasked its wondrous powers,
Like a lark sang at the gate of Heaven,
Like a wild bee wandered in the flowers.
For each fine conception he found issue
And embroidered with some rare conceit,
Every corner of the silken tissue
That he laid down at his Saviour's feet.
Speaks the silver pen for time no longer,
Loosed the chord, and snapped the golden string;
But we claim his memory till a stronger
Or a sweeter make our Minster sing.
Here embalmed, until that future ask it,
Lay it, steeped in colours rich and rare.
Keep the relic in a noble casket,
Carven marble arch and symbol fair.
429

Nothing is too precious for our Master,
Nothing rich enough our zeal to prove.
With the ointment break the alabaster,
Golden tresses wet with tears of love.
Surely, when low penitential voices
With the loud laudates mingle free,
Up above, the heavenly host rejoices,
Standing round about the crystal sea.
Surely Christ in heaven, our love possessing,
Will look down upon this holy place;
Bless us with the good Centurion's blessing,
Fill us with the fulness of His grace.

A CONSECRATION HYMN.

That good saint who first, 'mid rock and heather
Reared a rude church here for prayer and praise,
Where the wild kern and his chief together
Came to worship in the olden days,
From the old cathedral where he moulders,
Could he rise, with his pale face, and stand
Here with us, the cope upon his shoulders,
And the cross he preached in his right hand;
430

He, the dead man, passionless and quiet,
Who has slept out all our restless years,
Our long ages of neglect and riot,
Fierce endeavours, fond regretful tears;
From beneath his shrine of carven granite
Could he come again to hear men say,
In their jargon of the mart and senate,
“'Tis the many that make truth to-day”;
Of earth's cares and angers disencumbered,
All her pitiful strifes and Christless lore,
Would he tell us, “Go, ye are outnumbered,
Rear no churches, preach no gospel more”?
Haply rather, standing where the tender
Autumn light has touched this mass of stone,
And the shadow of the tall spire slender
Lies along the land he calls his own;
Where the light shows in the windows painted
Sapphire blue, or green as emerald sod,
In dear memory of the loved and sainted,
And unto the glory of our God;
Where, in the pure chancel set in order,
Duly wait for all the Bread and Wine,
And fair texts in their illumined border
From the dead walls speak a truth divine;
431

And the arches echo Hymn and Psalter,
Nor the living stones are wanting there;
Priest and Prelate, robed beside the altar,
And the crowd that swell the alternate prayer;—
Rather would the old man's eye be filling,
From his lip thanksgiving loud be wrung,
As he heard that grander ritual thrilling
Round him in the noble Saxon tongue.
We, with deeper, more intense thanksgiving,
Make our finished offering to the Lord;
Not from dead men's lips, but from the living,
Should the loud laudates here be poured.
Still some tokens to our hearts are given,
Types of better days around us stand,
As the sailor, by the wild waves driven,
Sees a green leaf, prophesying land.
So stand earnest of our Church's story—
Still, fair steeple, lift the Cross on high;
Tinge, O sunlight! tinge it with thy glory,
On low roof and leaded chancel lie.
So stand speaking unto distant ages,
With the eloquent silence of thy stone,
That faith works out all that love engages,
That Christ's strength in weakness is made known.
 

Written upon the occasion of the opening of the Church of S. Colmanell, Ahogill, diocese of Connor.

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