The Anniversaries :: :: University of Virginia Library

“TO IMBREED AND CHERISH IN A GREAT PEOPLE THE SEEDS OF VIRTUE AND PUBLIC CIVILITY......TO CELEBRATE THE THRONE AND EQUIPAGE OF GOD'S ALMIGHTINESS, AND WHAT HE WORKS AND WHAT HE SUFFERS TO BE WROUGHT WITH HIGH PROVIDENCE IN HIS CHURCH; TO SING VICTORIOUS AGONIES OF MARTYRS AND SAINTS, THE DEEDS AND TRIUMPHS OF JUST AND PIOUS NATIONS.” MILTON.

New-Year's Day.

“To twit us with the present age which is to us an age of ages, wherein God is manifestly come down among us to do some remarkable good to our Church and State, is as if a man should tax the renovating and reingendering Spirit of God with innovation, and that new creature for an upstart novelty.”— Milton, Animadversions, sect. 4.

Why liftest thou, oft weeping pilgrim, up
Glad smiling eyes to greet the New-born Year?
Why, mortal trembler, doth thy glowing hope
Salute some hastening joy, some glory near?

Thou art not sure that Nature will be sweet;
Her beauty may be dim, her music dull:
Ah! frowning Sky and drooping Earth may cheat
These eyes that so desire the Beautiful.

Rude blasts may keep the vernal airs away;
The grace of April showers in scant drops fall;
A faint flush die on the sweet face of May,
And feebly sound her voice so musical.

Summer may pine and languish; joyous June
Forget her roses and her radiance leave,
Nor pour the burning glory of her noon,
Nor shed the soft divineness of her eve.

But, though the outer year should shine and smile,
On thine own year no sweetness may be shed;
Thy heart may vainly wait its golden while,
Or mourn its May so swiftly vanishëd.

Its vernal airs may scarce have leave to blow;
Its summer-bowers in sudden ruin lie;
Its shady depths no happy music know;
Its roses bloom too late, too early die.

O year where Nature may be sad and stern!
O shining hours that may not shine for me!
Why look ye still so sweet? O! why doth burn
In this glad heart such bright expectancy?

O New-born Year! may not thy humble days
Shine 'neath the great Renewer's “beamy walk?”
May not the Lord, to thy surprise and praise,
More nearly with His people deign to talk?

May not His hand have given to thy trust
Some thing of grace divine, of glorious dread?
May not thine hours roll awful and august,
With mighty births divinely burdenëd?

May not some awful Angel have in charge
Earth's blaze to darken and Earth's strength to break?

May not each prisoned soul be set at large
By some sweet visit gracious Angels make?

May not thine hours some trembling prelude snatch
Of the redeemëd World's full burst of praise,—
Yes, some faint, faint foretelling radiance catch
Of the full glory of the Latter Days?

May eyes of mine the brightening vision hail—
On ears of mine the sounds celestial break?
O! may the Lord by my weak arm prevail,
Me more than gazer on the glory make?

I humbly welcome, Lord, the New-born Year,
Wherein my glad soul looketh for thy grace;
Most bright that summer, most that season dear,
When most divinely Thou unveil'st Thy face!

“Who is there that cannot trace Thee now in Thy beamy walk through the midst of Thy sanctuary?”— Milton, Animadversions, sect. 4.

January 6.

THE EPIPHANY.

“God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things that are mighty.”—Saint Paul.

Blest watchers, on whose glad eyes first did break
The new-born lustre of the sky!
O happy hearts of awful sages meek,
That passëd not the bright star by!
O faithful feet that would not turn nor tire
While travelled the young radiance on;
That duteous rested, when the guiding fire
O'er the mean manger steadfast shone!
O happy, bounteous hands that bore

Their treasures to the helpless Babe Divine—
That oped for Him their hidden store,
Whose myrrh o'er Him flowed sweet, whose gold for Him did shine!

Ah! mourn ye hearts that for such glory yearn,
That the bright star no more appears?—
That no new fires celestial shine and burn
Above the dimness of our years?
Not now unto those eager feet are given
Rough pilgrimage, supernal guide?
No longer doth the Majesty of Heaven
In dwelling rude and base abide?
O! vainly do those true souls long
Before some veilëd glory low to bend—
For some bright weakling to be strong,
Their treasures on some Babe Divine to spend?

Yes, only once, yes, only in one clime
Our flesh the Lord of Glory wore;

But O! on every land, on every time
New Births of Grace He still doth pour.
O! still He makes in lowly souls and meek
Some blessed thought divine to spring;
Still, still He stirreth trembling hands and weak
Some mighty business forth to bring,
O! still He sheddeth down His might
On places where the world doth pour its scorn,
Yes, pointeth unto spirits bright
Where they may watch and serve some Babe Divine just born.

Still may they know of some New Birth of Grace
By signals bright He doth not spare;
Still may they enter some mean dwelling-place,
And find the Lord of Glory there.
O! still His majesty a veil He lends
The pureness of their eyes to prove:
O! still some helpless Babe Divine He sends
To try the largeness of their love.

O spirits bright! ye still may bow
The hidden radiance of your Lord before;
Upon His glorious weakness now
Your treasure ye may spend, your all of sweetness pour.

January 25.

SAINT PAUL.

“I was not disobedient to the heavenly vision.”—
St. Paul.

Lord! Thou wilt surely greet
Souls for thy service meet;
No bars of brass can keep Thine own from Thee.
O! vainly Earth and Hell
Guard their grand captives well
Against the glimpses of Thy radiancy.
Thou streamest on their startled eyes,
And makest them Thine own by some divine surprise.

Forth from the leaguer fell
Wherein thy foemen dwell,

The glorious captains of Thy host Thou takest;
The mighty souls that came
To quench the sacred flame
The bearers of the Heavenly Fire Thou makest;
And hands that vexed Thy people most
Do wave the greenest palms of all the Martyr Host.

Thy light not vainly glowed
On that Damascus road:
O not for nought that Voice Divine was heard,
The foeman was o'erthrown,
The champion made Thine own
When right against Thee in hot haste he spurred:
Then streamëd forth the world to win
The mighty burning flame of Love that hate had been.

Strange realms, wide waters o'er,
The conquering Cross he bore,
In her own isle the Love Queen he abashed:

Through Asian cities bright
He poured the sweet, strange light;
Down Dian in her Ephesus he dashed;
Greece glowed beneath his golden tongue;
Full in Athenian ears their unknown God he rung.

Each rich Corinthian shrine
Grew dim and undivine,
Philippi heard the captor-captive's song;
O! ne'er from Grecian soul
Such golden streams did roll;
No Roman hand e'er smote, e'er built so strong.
Down temples fell where'er he trod,
And on from land to land stretched the dear Church of God.

O bearer of all shame!
O Earth's most glorious name!
O weakling by whom mightiest deeds were done!
O prisoner, whose strong stroke

Ten thousand fetters broke!
O outcast, by whose word the world was won!
O bruisëd one, whose cheer ran o'er
To make divinely glad all souls for evermore!

Thy bright, victorious way
'Neath scourge and fetter lay;
The headsman met thee at imperial Rome:
Now lay thy burden down!
Now, victor, take thy crown!
Now, lover, stay with thy dear Lord at home!
Now lead that martyr-army bright!
Now wave that palm most green, now wear that robe most white!

Cyprus.

February 22.

(ON THIS DAY, 1732, GEORGE WASHINGTON WAS BORN.)

Full many a tear hath dimmed thy glorious eye,
O Freedom smitten sore: full many a crime
Hath laid its stain upon thy majesty:
Yes, fierce and foolish lovers through all time
Have vexed the pureness of thy soul sublime:
Yet hast thou smilëd on one stainless son;—
He never brought thee shame, thy calm-souled Washington!

Ah! lovers that desired thee with desire,
The strong o'ermastering passion have unlearned;
Yes, hearts that brought thee all their young, bright fire,

Against thy majesty have fiercely burned,
The fulness of thy cleaving curse have earned.
Yet in one heart a steadfast flame burned on;
He loved thee to the last, thine own true Washington.

Yes, mighty hands that hallowëd their might
To thy dear service, have thy glory shorn;
Full many a sword that leaped forth strong and bright
To smite thy foemen, hath thy bosom torn;
Yes, captains of thy host thy spoils have worn.
Yet in one hand a guardian sword still gleamed;
Thy Washington ne'er wronged the land he once redeemed.

O consecrated sword, no stain that took,
That had not misbecome an angel's hand!
O faithful sword, that ne'er its work forsook!
O lowly sword, that waited each command,
That served each need of the dear Father Land!

A servant true, to glory forth it leapt;
A servant more sublime, a sleep more glorious slept.

O Western people! back the glory win
Of that bright sword, that soul without a stain!
Reclaim the whiteness of the robes wherein
Thy nursing-father swathëd thee! disdain
The grave-clothes which thy mighty limbs restrain,
His holy lore of freedom ne'er unlearn;
In his great ways still walk—with his pure fire still burn!

March 7.

MARTYRDOM OF VIVIA PERPETUA.

[_]

On this day [A.D. 203] Vivia Perpetua, a woman of good birth and fortune, about twenty-two, recently married, and with one child, was with five companions, after having been exposed to the beasts, dispatched by gladiators in the amphitheatre of Carthage.

O glowing Youth! smileth not Earth full bright?
Looketh she not on thee her loveliest?
O tender soul, new to each dear delight!
O wearer of her silken shining vest!
O mother glad, thy one babe at thy breast!
Who findeth the soft kiss of Earth more sweet?
Heaven and the Heavenly King who yearneth less to greet?

Upriseth not for thee Earth's bower of bloom?
O! who more meetly may on roses lie?
O not for thee her grimness and her gloom!
Not thine, not thine, the earth-averted eye,
The aspiring smile, the heroic constancy,
The glorious agony, the heavenly calm,
The martyr's throngëd pangs, the martyr's fadeless palm!

O Heavenly Lover! what can match Thy might
But Thy dear love? Earth may have brought her best,
But canst Thou not outbeam her smile most bright?
O soft soul, dearly loved and richly blessed,
O mother glad, thy one babe at thy breast,
This sweetness thou didst sweetly cast away,
This bitterness didst clasp, young, fair Perpetua!

The helpless smiler on that breast that hung,
Urged its sweet suit; ah! how could she gainsay?

She felt her father's arms about her flung,
She saw him lowly kneel, she heard him pray
His child to live. Ah no—she may not stay:
The Heavenly Lover how could she deny?
O sweet to die for Him Who came for her to die!

How the dark dungeon shone! what visions bright
He sent those lowly, tender eyes to greet
With soft foreshinings of celestial light!
Lo! up the golden ladder clomb her feet,
And her glad eyes beheld that Shepherd sweet
In the Heavenly Fields, His happy flock among,
And knew her own bright place amidst the blissful throng.

Nor lonely here her path; grim death to face,
Smiling a smiling martyr-band she led;
Beamed each aspiring eye as the dread place
Before them its long line of horror spread;
And as the throng its fury murmurëd,

Broke forth a clear, triumphant song divine
From her sweet lips so soon with angel lips to join.

O blest the scourge, that gave her to enjoy
One very pang the Heavenly Lover bore!
O hornëd beast, that flungest her on high,
Thy thrust she felt not! still that smile she wore,
So strong her soul in ecstasy to soar:
Quick, lingering steel, the yearning one set free,
Give her her own bright Home, her own dear Lord to see!

Winneth she not, King of the Heavenly Land,
The fairest of Thy many mansions fair?

Lord of the Martyr Host! what mighty hand
A palm-branch of more glowing green doth bear?
What stately form a robe more rich doth wear?
O loveliest wearer of the white array,
Who may outsing thy song, sweet-souled Perpetua?

According to Tillemont (Memoires pour servir à l' Histoire Ecclesiastique, tom. iii. p. 1) one copy of her acts represents Perpetua's husband as living and dissuading her from martyrdom, while the more authentic copy does not mention him at all; whence she is generally spoken of as a widow.

Every allusion here embodies no imaginative adjunct, no possible occurrence, but a veritable fact; not what might have happened to any martyr, but what was done and suffered by Perpetua herself. The importunity of her father, the vision of the golden ladder and the Good Shepherd, the smile and the song with which she entered the amphitheatre, her enjoyment of the scourge, her ecstatic unconsciousness of having been tossed by the cow, the awkwardness and timorousness of the executioner, are all related in her acts, of which the most searching criticism has recognised the authenticity.

March 27.

A VERNAL INVOCATION.

[_]

Until 1751, when the New Style was introduced, our forefathers sensibly enough began the year on this day, about the time when the life of the year does begin.

O sweet, sweet Spring, not tremblingly walk forth,
But with imperial steps thine hour make known!
O leave not Winter lord of the sad earth
Beyond his time!—make haste to take thine own,
To hurl the trembling spoiler from his throne!
Keep not thine eager lovers waiting long—
Thou year, be early sweet! thou sun, be early strong!

No longer keep your blessed cheer away,
Ye Vernal Airs: Earth, haste to be renewed!
On with the gladness of thy green array;

Let not the meadows wait, ye flowery brood;
Make speed to deck the mazes of the wood!
Bloom punctual on thy bank, sweet violet,
Nor, daffodil, to glad thy wonted hill forget!

O lose not, blessed birds, one hour of song,
One hour of love! Sweet Spring, thyself fulfil—
Thy strain, thy flush, thy fragrancy prolong.
O bring not forth thy flowers for frosts to kill,
Nor lend thine airs for eastern blasts to chill:
Bring with thee the full glory of thy dower,
And keep each grace undimmed to Summer's burning hour!

List, earnest ears! fond, faithful eyes, look on!
Glad heart, the glory dearly entertain!
O faded flower! thy sweetness is not gone.
O silent bird! still ringeth thy glad strain.
O parted Spring, in me prolong thy reign!
Require thy glory from this heart—resume
Thy nightingale's own song, thy violet's perfume!

Palm Sunday.

“A very great multitude spread their garments in the way; others cut down branches from the trees and strewed them in the way.”— St. Matthew, xxi. 8.

“Lo a great multitude which no man could number, of all nations and kindreds and peoples and tongues, stood before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed with white robes, and palms in their hands.” — Revelation, vii. 9.

Once only would the Lord of Glory take
The majesty of conquerors and kings:
Once only would the Heavenly Lover make
A moment's stay with Earth's delightful things:
For Him once only might her beauty shine,
Who lent the Vale of Tears this smile divine.

O Monarch proudly into Salem led!
O boundless rapture of the obsequious throng!
O Spring! thy sweetness on the day was shed,
Thy music mingled with the city's song:

O stately Palms! ye lent the Lord your fairness,
And made His pathway green, all glorious in your bareness!

Lord! in thy heavenly Salem, what a flame
Of true love burneth, mighty, evermore!
O shining Host, that never leaves the Lamb!
O sweet Hosannas, that unceasing soar!
Thine own White-Robëd strew Thy pathway glorious,
And fadeless palms ne'er drop from hands victorious.

O sweet obedience of the Heavenly Beauty,
That always shines, that only beams for Thec!
O endless Spring-time with enamoured duty,
Offering her realms of bloom and fragrancy!
How sweetly those palm-bearing ranks adore!
How humbly shines each White-Robed conqueror!

Lord! when Earth's loveliness our rapture greets,
When we delight in splendour of the Spring,

Yes, gladsome gather here these “fading sweets,”
O take them for a holy offering!
Teach us this splendour 'neath Thy feet to lay,
And bring our beauty to adorn Thy way!

Lord! in our beauty we would shine for Thee;
But oh! more sweetly than false Salem shone:
Touch our poor splendour with the radiancy
Of the White-Robëd Host before Thy throne,
And grant the “fading sweets” we humbly bring
The glory of the palms unwithering.

Good Friday.

“With His stripes we are healed.”— Isaiah liii. 5.

'Twere wondrous for the Heavenly Majesty
A moment on this Vale of Tears to break:
But O! it pleased Thee, Lord, our own to be,
Our robe of flesh, our dower of want to take,
Our life Thy life, our tears Thy tears to make,
To shed Thy beauty our mean pathway o'er,
And through our darksome deeps the Heavenly glory pour.

But oh! there lay one region dark wherein
The Heavenly Lover might not set His feet.
How could the Sinless try the deeps of Sin?
How could He there His stricken brethren greet,

Yet waste the realm accursed with ruin meet?
For sinners, against sin, the Lord would die:
O Lover wondrous strong! O awful Enemy!

O dreadful Cross! could Sin such hate provoke?
O tender Cross! such grace could sinners gain?
O Father! did Thy Darling bear our stroke
And take our deadly wages? Did His bane
Our blessing make? our peace require His pain?
Thy depths of shade, dear Cross, all things reveal;
Thy streams of bitterness all wounds divinely heal.

Mercy and Majesty together shine
In thy strange brightness, all-atoning Cross!
Here Righteousness and Peace their lips do join,
And mingle their sweet breath harmonious:
O kiss divine! O meeting marvellous!
Revolted Earth to Heaven's embrace thou bringest,
And round disjoinëd worlds thy chain of love thou flingest.

O bitter Cross! lo, all the ages lie
Steeped in the sweetness that from thee doth stream:
O shameful Cross! a crown of majesty
Upon the world's bowed forehead thou dost beam,—
The glory of each humbled sould dost gleam.
Before the Cross we fall, weak, stainëd things;
We rise rich-robëd Priests! we rise victorious kings!

O sweet Incarnate, sweet Atoning Love!
Thou makëst Life's dark leaves divinely bright;
Beneath thy mighty art the clouds remove,
The glory breaks; thou settest all things right;
Thou mak'st the mystery clear, the burden light.
On, fainting soul, each awful deep explore,
The Cross still droppeth balm! the Cross still yieldeth lore.

Easter Day.

“Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.”— St. John xx. 29.

Not ours to breathe that early air,
Not ours that fragrant store to bring,
And at the open sepulchre
To find the angel's radiant wing!

Not ours sad Mary's tears to weep
O'er the stolen treasure of that grave;
Not ours that mournful watch to keep,
Not ours that vanished form to crave!

Not for our eyes the vision bright
Of that dear form beheld once more!

Those tones our ears may not delight,
Nor hands of ours those wounds explore.

Yet shineth full on our glad eyes
The lustre of that wondrous morn;
For us the Lord of Life doth rise;
Our Lord, our Lover is new born!

Yes, ours the gain without the loss,
The glory ours without the gloom;
Nought but our refuge-place that Cross,
Nought but our treasure-house that Tomb!

The grief that streamed from Mary's eyes
Our settled spirits may not move,
But with her joy our gladness vies
To greet the Master whom we love.

We meet, no fearful throng by night,
We dread no tidings dolorous;

Yet shines midst us the Saviour bright,
Yet speaketh He sweet peace to us.

No lips of ours the news gainsay,
No witness do our hands require;
O sure and sweet the hold we lay
Upon the Lord of our desire!

We envy not the eyes that saw
Since God hath given our souls to see:
O souls thrice blessëd that could draw
Thy latest blessing, Lord, from Thee!

We sweetly store these words divine,
And lowly wait, and trustful love,
Till bright on us Thy face shall shine,
And ours shall be thy smile above.

April 7.

CHATHAM.

[_]

On this day [1778] Chatham sank down in an apoplectic fit, from which he never recovered, whilst raising his voice in the House of Lords against the relinquishment of the American Colonies, whose rights he had earnestly upholden, but whose separation from the mother country he looked upon as a dismemberment of the empire. “The circumstances seemed rather to belong to the tragic stage than to real life. A great statesman, full of years and honour, led forth to the Senate House by a son of rare hopes, and stricken down in full council whilst straining his feeble voice to rouse the drooping spirit of his country, could not but be remembered with peculiar veneration and tenderness.”— Macaulay, Essays, Earl of Chatham.

Not meanly yearned those knights of yore
To make a fair, fit end—
Their blood heroic forth to pour
Amidst the battle's rush and roar,
Upon their dying hour to cast
The glory of their fiery Past,

And with the trumpet's full, fierce blast
Their parting breath to blend:
Their last to dare, their last to smite
In some well-fought, victorious fight,
And consecrate their sinking hand
To Christ's dear Cross or Father Land.

Thus greatly Chatham passed away,
His last thus nobly spoke;
Thus full upon his last great day
The lustre of his bright Past lay;
His voice its lingering glory spent
Within the accustomed Parliament,
And its last broken utterance shed
Where it so oft had thunderëd.

As aye for England's strength and cheer,
As aye on England's ravished ear
That voice imperial broke;
So its last tones for England rung,
For England strove that stammering tongue,
And forth that hand for England flung
Its last faint, faltering stroke.
He mourned her robes imperial rent,
He mourned her shining light far spent,—
He mourned her banner stained and torn,
The banner he had proudly borne,
The robes his mighty hand had wrought,
The glory his great soul had brought:
And rose the indignant cry.
The load of years oppressed in vain,
He trod upon the yoke of pain;
He came to speak for England's right,
He came to help her shrunken plight,
He came to rouse her fainting might,
He came to do and die!

O fiery heart! O voice sublime!
O stately soul and true!
O marvels of thy mighty prime!
O glory of that golden time,
When England called her darling son
To guide the conflict ill-begun,
To save the nation half undone,
And her bright Past renew!
Ah! trembling dotards held the helm;
Foul hucksters trafficked with the realm,
And in the hands of weaklings vile
Dwindled and drooped the imperial Isle.
And trouble came, and war arose,
And England fled before her foes.
Proud France her wonted victor overcame;
For stricken England everywhere was shame.
In field, on fort, her banner sank,
Her legions quailed, her empire shrank;

In the far East her glory paled,
In the far West her right hand failed;
Unhappy Byng the foe forbore;
St. George's spotless pennon bore
A moment's scathe, a moment's stain;
And her old vassal, the blue main,
A moment doubted of her reign.

Not idly England mused and mourned,
With shame, with wrath, with hope she burned;
From weaklings base to Pitt she turned,
Her hero well she knew.
In her chief soul she took delight;
She bowed before her Man of Might,
She gloried in her stainless knight;
She loved her lover true.

O yes! her ear was meetly bent
Before that voice most eloquent;
Upon her lordly darling's breast she leant.
Back, trembling dotards! to her soul most grand
Yield the shorn glory of the Father Land!
Joy, England! wear again thy smiling face:
Lo! thy best lover guides thy way,
Thy chief of men the realm doth sway;
The mighty soul is in the mighty place!

O'er the fallen land her lover bent,
His heart on hers he laid:
Right from that glowing heart there went
A quickening fire omnipotent;
Her dull, dead eye his bright glance lit;
Her nerveless frame his strong will knit,
She lived the mighty life of Pitt,
She did whate'er he bade.
The sluggard toiled, the laggard flew,
The weakling to a giant grew;

The stricken realm all victory won;
The shamëd land all glorious shone.
O ne'er of old was England pressed
So close, so long to Victory's breast!
O never from the fierce French foe
She wrung such tears of shame and woe!
O ne'er her sword so widely swept,
O ne'er so deeply smote!
From end to end of earth it leapt,
O'er all the world its keen edge kept;
On ocean wave, 'midst storm-vexed fight,
In tented field, on guarded height,
In letters large, in letters bright
Her awful name it wrote:
In the far East it gleamëd glorious,
O'er the far West it waved victorious!

O! needs must England's standards fly
From victory to victory!
Needs must her arm the world o'erbear;

The soul of Pitt was everywhere!
Hot in each seaman's heart it glowed,
Fierce through each soldier's veins it flowed;
Each chief, each hero it imbued
With more heroic hardihood.
It kindled Hawke to shew the sea
Strange proof of England's mastery,
Amidst the storm the foe to smite,
And darkness make with victory bright.
It strengthened Wolfe to dare and die,
And leave a realm for legacy.
With Clive invincible it went
Through all the amazëd Orient.
The hosts of Plassey it o'ercame,
It won the heights of Abraham.

It made the land of fire her own;
On realms of snow it built her throne;
An empire of an isle it made;
At crownëd England's feet the world it laid.

Call, England, thy illustrious throng;
Gaze, gaze thy shining Past along;
In each majestic soul rejoice,
Bow beneath each imperial voice;
Unto each pillar of thy state,
Each lover true, each monarch great,
Melodious praises consecrate!
But O! a mounting strain require
For Chatham's soaring soul of fire!
On a strong-winged, full-hearted song
Thy mighty lover bear along!
Yes, only strains more glorious spare
For Alfred and for Oliver.

This longing was common to all mediæval warriors, whether heathen Vikings or Christian knights; witness sundry Scandinavian kings, Siward of Northumberland, the vanquisher of Macbeth, and Earl Douglas, a hero of Chevy Chace, and the victor of Otterbourne, where he fell, and where his dying lips rejoiced in the gratified aspiration.

The French took Minorca, which Admiral Byng failed to relieve; he was shot for hesitating to engage the French fleet which protected the siege.

Surajah Dowlah captured Calcutta, and doomed his English captives to the Black Hole.

General Braddock was defeated and killed in his attack upon Fort Duquesne in America.

Sir Edward Hawke defeated the French fleet under Conflans in the Bay of Biscay during a stormy night, November 20, 1759.

The victory of Quebec, which cost Wolfe his life, gave Canada to England, September 13, 1759.

With 3000 men at Plassey he defeated Surajah Dowlah with 60,000, June 23, 1757.

“It was amidst the shades of Stowe that Chatham matured the policy which converted an island into an empire.”—Disraeli.

April 19.

ALPHAGE.

[_]

Alphage, Archbishop of Canterbury, taken prisoner by the Danes, when they stormed and burned Canterbury in 1011, was slain by them at Greenwich on this day 1012, because he would not tax his flock in order to pay his ransom; thus blending the glory of the Christian and the national martyr.

On Easter morning Alphage stood a multitude among,
But round the holy father pressed no prayerful reverent throng;
A mighty feast was spread, but not the blessed bread and wine;
And shout and song swelled loud and long, but ah! no strain divine.

Alas the captive holy man! the wrongëd holy day!
Huge wassail held the heathen Danes, foul riot and fierce play;
The ravagers of England thronged her mitred father round,
But still the hero unsubdued, the saint serene they found.

He had not failed the Father-Land when all besides had failed:
When princes fled and nobles shrank, meek Alphage had not quailed;
When rushed the wolves upon his flock, the shepherd would not flee—
O only steadfast Englishman! O only valiant he!

'Midst Canterbury's flame he rushed the foeman's steel to stay;
His own heart's blood he offerëd; no ransom would he pay.

Nor dungeon foul nor stripes nor chain, his steadfast soul could shake;
The shepherd for the sheep would die; their store he would not take.

And now within that pirate hold, upon that Easter Morn,
Amidst those fierce foul wassailers, was holy Alphage borne:
Each drunkard tossed his battle-axe; hot glared each deadly eye;
Each swillëd throat belched forth the yell, “Pay ransom rich, or die!”

Jarl Turkill swore; grim Haco raved; with steadfast eye and meek
Lone Alphage gazed their fury down, and calmly thus did speak—
“My country ye have wasted wide, my people spoilëd sore;

I will not rob their poverty; I will not spoil them more.

“To the Good Shepherd have I sworn to love and feed His sheep,
And Jesu do unto my soul as that dear oath I keep!
With gold, the pure gold of His truth, He fain your souls would fill;
The shepherd for the sheep can die; He cannot work them ill.”

Up sprang Jarl Turkill with a yell, and all the reeling rout
Rushed full upon the lonely saint with fierce infernal shout;
Each axe let fall a torturing stroke upon that reverend head,
And then with a fierce storm of stones his pangs they heightenëd.

O his was Stephen's agony! O his was Stephen's prayer!
O his was Stephen's cheer divine! the Lord stood by him there.
“O Shepherd tender above all! great Shepherd of the sheep,
Thee, Thee I leave my stricken flock, to love and feed and keep.”

At last from axe more merciful a mortal stroke there fell;
Thy Martyr, Lord, hath won his crown; thine, England, died full well;
What warrior for the Father Land more nobly died than he?
Yet Alphage lights a flame no more in thy dull memory.

O now thy martyr reinthrone! thy lover love again!

O spare him now a tender thought, a gladsome, glorious strain!
Sweet Saviour! 'midst Thy Shining Ones Thine Alphage bright doth shine;
Of all the martyrs' noble host, whose death was more divine?

O say not, Schoolman gross of heart, he fell not for the faith!
O grudge him not the martyr's crown who died the martyr's death!
Thou speakest well, sweet-soulëd saint; yes, ever shall it be!
Who dieth to uphold the right, he dieth, Lord, for Thee.

In a conversation between Archbishop Lanfranc and Anselm, recorded by Eadmer in his life of the latter, Lanfranc intimated a doubt concerning the right of Alphage to the dignity of a martyr, because he had not been slain as a witness of Christ (pro confessione Nominis Christi). The more deeply discerning and heavenly-minded Anselm maintained Alphage to have been a true martyr, and asserted that to die for righteousness' sake (pro justitia) was to die for the faith. — Eadmerus, Vita Sancti Anselmi. As the martyr not of Rome, but of England, Alphage may be fitly celebrated by an English Protestant.

April 23.

ST. GEORGE'S DAY. ENGLAND'S HYMN.

Lord! from Thee what grace and glory
Hath thy people England won!
Marvels make divine her story,
Marvels which the Lord hath done.
Why delay her lips so long?
Wherefore swells no mighty song?

Thou from lowly plight hast brought her
Unto sovereign sway and state;
Thou Thy holiest lore hast taught her,
Thou hast given Thy gifts most great;
Her the Lord of Hosts hath led,
Her the God of Grace hath fed.

Strong her guardian ocean swelleth,
Winds and waves for her have fought;
In their wrath deliverance dwelleth,
Thou by them hast rescue wrought.
Nought of this high grace abate!
Keep Thine Isle inviolate!

Yet not only waters guarded,
Yet not only winds repelled:
Hero hearts each danger warded,
Mighty hands each foeman quelled.
Hearts heroic still create!
Mighty hands still consecrate!

From of old Thy gifts were given;
Grace with Thee she early found.
Ages roll and Earth is riven;
Still Thine England sitteth crowned:
Those imperial robes unrent,
That far shining light unspent.

Nay! a richer robe she weareth
Than of yore about her shone;
Lo! a mightier torch she beareth,
As she lights the nations on:
Still her strength doth wax more strong;
More sublime should grow her song.

Best belovëd of the nations,
Freedom first she won from Thee;
Grows the grace with generations—
Our unending liberty:
Mean nor scant our fathers' store,
Help us, Lord, to make it more!

When Thy Word should be unsealëd,
When Thy Grace some New Birth meant,
Here the joy was first revealëd,
Here the darkness first was rent.
England first Thy Spirit moved,
Ours was still the land beloved.

In Thy servants' mighty muster
Foremost stood our fathers, Lord;
For their eyes Thine orient lustre,—
For their ears Thine earliest word!
Speak thy counsel now as then
First unto Thine Englishmen!

Still the land beloved Thou lendest
Of Thy radiancy most bright;
Thine own cause Thou still commendest
To her majesty and might:
On her lips Thy Truth still glows,
Forth from her Thy Word still goes.

Mightily she works Thy pleasure,
Great Thine England's going forth!
Lo! she beareth of her treasure

To the ends of all the earth.
Boundless realm and farthest shore
Speak her tongue and learn her lore.

There, where other flowers are gleaming,
Lo! her freedom bloometh bright;
Strange the stars that there are beaming,
Yet divinely glows her light.
Mighty nations throned afar,
Her majestic offspring are.

Were not hers the sovereign sages?
Wrought not here the peerless king?
What sweet souls have won the ages
Like the souls that here did sing?
May not England make meet boast
Of her part in Thy great host?

Were not hers the saints victorious?
Gleamed not here Thy sword divine?

Warriors mighty, statesmen glorious,
Lowly seekers, Lord, of Thine!
Gird us with the Spirit's sword!
Make of us Thy Seekers, Lord!

Lord! we lift our fathers' banner.
Lord! our fathers' might we ask.
Give us after their high manner
To pursue their glorious task!
Shalt Thou not rejoice again
In Thy valiant Englishmen?

Lord! Thy people England's story
Speaks of Thee full loud and clear;
Lift Thy people England's glory
Still unto Thine own more near!
Help her to a holier reign!
Teach her a diviner strain!

“God is decreeing to begin some new and great period in His Church, even to the reforming of Reformation itself: what does He then but reveal Himself to His servants, and as His manner is, first to His Englishmen.”— Milton, Areopagitica.

April 23.

SHAKESPEARE.

[_]

On this day, 1564, Shakespeare was born; on this day, 1616, he died.

No more this day to England brings
Her famëd champion dearly nigh;
No more with gladsome cheer she rings
Her knightly saint to glorify.
Yet, England, this great feast-day ne'er unmake!
O never leave thy festal robes to wear!
Still on this morn to mighty gladness wake,
As on thy day most famous and most fair!
Enamoured of thy peerless champion tell!
Melodious o'er thy deathless guardian swell!
St. George's fallen crown to thine own Shakespeare bear.

Thy heart's best warmth thou need'st not spend
On foreign, fabled man of might;
Thy ravished ear thou need'st not lend
To tale of feignëd marvels bright.
O! o'er this potentate without a peer
Thine own parental ecstasy prolong;
List to those oracles this sovereign Seer
Has made the eternal treasure of thy tongue:
With growth of glorious wonder entertain
The myriad marvels of that mighty brain;
Yes, learn, as ages roll, a joy, an ave more strong!

What piercing gaze may e'er explore
Those awful deeps he layeth bare?
What feet can wander weary o'er
Those golden realms he spreadeth fair?
What heart has of this sovereign Seer enquired,
And found one wondrous oracle untrue?
What soul has from this presence bright retired,
Nor borne away some splendour glad and new?

O ringing sweetness of those master-spells!
O melody of those deep oracles!
O floods of balmy air! O depths of glowing blue!

O English pilgrim! take at home
Thy journey sweet, thy joy divine!
Nor by some orient river roam,
Nor kneel before some distant shrine!
O rapturous rove by thine own Avon sweet,
And blend thine own with Shakespeare's golden hours;
In happy fields pressed by his happy feet,
Pluckwhere he gladsome plucked the April flowers.
The sweetness of thine England's vernal air
Into that travail-room imperial bear,
And bless that sovereign shrine thine England's bloom embowers!

Wait, England, wait upon thine own!
Yet room for all the nations make;

Where beats a heart, there stands his throne;
Let every heart thy joy partake!
'Tis well, young Spring, to put thy sweetness forth,
And through this pilgrimage thy lustre twine:
Yet it can spare thee, this peculiar earth;
Avon can charm without one smile of thine.
O! not these vernal airs, this April bloom
Drop glory on that chamber and that tomb,
In every season fair, through every age divine.

April 25.

CROMWELL.

[_]

On this day, 1599, Oliver Cromwell was born at Huntingdon.

England! count the monarchs over
Whom thou mayst delight to sing;
Grateful greet each crownëd lover,
Triumph in each glorious king!
On thine Alfred without measure
Lavish thy melodious breath;
Take no trembling, stinted pleasure
In thy great Elizabeth!
Yet another strain thou owest
To the glory of thy throne;
Yet another king thou knowest—
Is not Oliver thine own?

Lo! a lover strong and tender
Wielded well his England's sword;
On her seat of sovereign splendour
Knelt a Seeker of the Lord.
How the little isle dilated
To the measure of his might!
How upon his England waited
Reverent fear and glory bright!
Yet for more than England's honour
Gleamed her sword and towered her shield;
Of the Cause she bore the banner;
For the Truth she took the field.
Heavenward looked her valiant seamen,
Solemn marched her saintly host:
Christ's own crowned, anointed freemen,
Warriors of the Holy Ghost!
Glowed this northern isle all golden
Like that holy Orient clime:
Not more bright those ages olden
Than these latter days sublime!

From the splendour sudden streaming
Dazzled Antichrist drew back;
'Neath her sword divinely gleaming
Smitten Spain grew faint and slack.

Princedoms, thrones, and dominations
Bowed before the imperial Isle;
Stricken souls and mourning nations
Blessed the Lord-Protector's smile.
Wide the impression of her glory
On her fainting foes he smote,
And the sweetness of her story
In far-shining letters wrote.
Mark those noble tears that streamëd,
When the Alpine shepherds died!
How his voice like thunder seemëd,
When his stricken brethren cried!
Soon those eyes were nobly tearless;
Like a host went forth his word:
In their vales, at peace and fearless
Dwelt the people of the Lord.

Thankless England! wast thou sorry
For the height he made thee climb?
Wouldst thou cast away the glory
Of those solemn days sublime?
From Thy mighty-hearted lover,
Ingrate, wouldst Thou vainly turn?
All his trophies wouldst thou cover,
All his mighty deeds unlearn?
Will thy marble halls refuse him?
Doth thy Statute-Book reject?
From thy heart thou canst not lose him,
There his throne still stands erect.
When thy shrunken plight thou mournest,
When thy glory burneth dim,
For thine Oliver thou yearnest,
Then thy heart returns to him.
In thy startled ear there ringeth
Trumpet-voiced his awful name;
Back his mighty memory bringeth
To thy soul the undying flame.

With his solemn voice thou speakest,
With his strength thine arm doth stir—
Yes, where'er thou nobly seekest,
Leadeth still thine Oliver!

May Day.

Upsprings not now, sweet Morn, as once upsprang
An early gladsome throng to wait on thee;
Ye ring not, happy woods, as once ye rang
With mightier cheer than streameth from each tree,
With sweeter than your own sweet melody;
Not now May's young, fair lovers hasten forth
To sport with the young year, to bloom with blooming earth.

No more, sweet Morn, thy leafy, flowery spoils
Thou sweetly yieldest to the wreathëd throng;
No more, no more, each fairest maiden smiles
A crownëd queen, the Beautiful among.

No more the breath of Spring, so sweet, so strong,
Its fulness through a people's heart doth pour;
Mine England flusheth back May's flush divine no more.

Yet sigh not o'er thy vanished train, sweet May,
Nor mourn nor murmur, as quite out of grace,
A fair forlorn, a glorious castaway!
Still lovers gaze enamoured on thy face,
Glow 'neath thy kiss, and pant in thine embrace.
They bear about the glory of the Spring,
Back its bright beauty beam, back its glad music ring.

Sweet May! thou hast my heart, mine ear, mine eye!
O fields! I banquet on your boundless bloom;
O woodlands fair! your leafy depths I try,
But the thick thronging flowers deny me room,
My sweetly tangled feet enjoy their doom.
Ye breathe, glad vernal airs! I sigh no more;
Into my heart of hearts what blessedness ye pour!

O vernal sweets! I faint beneath your might,
I reel along your realms of fragrancy.
O Nightingale! thou throngëst all delight
Into this panting heart, as rocks thy tree
Beneath that storm divine of melody.
May! bid thy bird sing sweet, thy moon shine clear,
Stint not this yearning eye! stint not this ravished ear!

May 1.

WELLINGTON.

[_]

On this day, 1769, Arthur Wellesley was born.

Not idly, eldest sages of our land,
Rang forth the rapture of your prophet-lyre,
“Arthur shall come again! from Arthur's hand
Deliverance still his Britain shall require!
A stately pillar of strong, steadfast fire
Arthur upon her darkened hour shall blaze:
His awful sword shall quell her foemen's ire,
Stroke upon stroke, and her dimmed glory raise
To an imperial glow far in those latter days.”

On rolled the ages: lo! the hero woke.
Her Arthur wore his conqueror's robe unrent,
Whether with scanty band forlorn he broke
The thronging squadrons of the Orient,
Or the calm patience of his valour lent
To pluck from the fierce Gaul that Spanish prey.
Each laurelled leader down before him went;
From strength to strength he passed, a wondrous way,
Till Victory's faint, dim dawn flamed into fair, full day.

Within the impenetrable lines he stayed,
And lo! the fiery, rushing foe recoiled;
Anon of tented field he trial made,
And constant Victory on her wooer smiled.
He smote the ruthless smiters sore, he spoiled
The spoilers utterly! their feet no more
Stained the Hesperian fields so long defiled;
Back o'er the Pyrenees their rout he bore,
And on the fields of France his robe of victory wore.

But O! it gleamed most glorious on that plain
Where lay the robe of the world's victor rent;
There war's great master wrought his best in vain,
There France her furious valour vainly lent;
There with the brazen-throated roar was blent
The tramp of her on-rushing cuirassiers;
But lo! that deadly rain was idly spent;
On rode, back reeled those fiery cavaliers;
Calm round their Arthur stood the unbroken islanders!

Then on they rushed—but theirs no backward spring!
At length they smote—but theirs no broken blow!
O shivered army! O discrownëd king!
O world-bestrider shrunken and laid low!
O Time! thou canst not match this overthrow.
O crownëd Britain! with thine Arthur vie;
Confront his glory with thy heart's great glow!
Yes, raise his honours as his trophies high!
The measure of his meed make thine own majesty!

O pure-eyed Peace! let fall almost a smile
Upon this most white-handed warrior!
Wrong not his greatness with the guilty style,
The gloomy glory of a conqueror!
O wondrous sword, ne'er drawn but in just war,
Ne'er laid aside till bright with Victory's beam!
O gracious sword, that saints may least abhor!
O mighty sword, that men most glorious deem!
O drawn but to o'ercome! O drawn but to redeem!

The statutes of his England well he kept,
That faithful, glorious servant: at her word
His sword awoke; at her command it slept.
Not once the gale of his great glory stirred
The calm of his obedience; most preferred,
The splendour of his faithfulness he wore.

Still, still the hand she felt, the voice she heard
Of her true servant; still with him he bore
The humbleness that made his majesty the more.

O Fairy Land! no Arthur thus sublime
Walks through thy golden fields. O Latter Days!
How the dim glory of that Olden Time
Faints 'neath the splendour of your steadfast blaze!
Britain! outsing those old prophetic lays!
Behold thine Arthur more than come again!
Thy song, thy soul unto his stature raise;
The mighty name lift on a mighty strain,
And with thine Arthur still the ages entertain!

The predictions of Merlin and other British bards assured their countrymen of the return of King Arthur in greater might and glory than before.

“This honest steel
Was ever drawn for public weal,
And such was righteous Heaven's decree,
Ne'er sheathed unless with victory.”

Scott's Field of Waterloo.

Ascension Day.

“It is expedient for you that I go away.” — Saint John xvi. 7.

O yearning gazers! doth the shining track
Of your upsoaring Lord your eyes half dim?
O lingering lovers! would ye bring Him back
Into the Vale of Tears,—yes, sunder Him
From opening skies and waiting cherubim,—
Yes, stint each angel's smile, each seraph's cheer,
To have Him all your own, to keep your Lover here?

O let Him go! more sweetly will He stay
Within your hearts for this His Heavenward flight;
O mourn not that your Lover fades away
From those enamoured eyes! what full delight
To carry in your souls that Presence Bright!

O sigh not that those sweet lips sound no more,
Nor drop that balm divine, nor yield that heavenly lore!

Hark how the Spirit fills your inner ear
With these great tidings! with how full a flow
Streams down into your souls the Spirit's cheer!
O now your Master's mind indeed ye know,
Now with His love your hearts divinely glow,
Now, now abides the Saviour all your own,
Back to His glory borne, amidst His Father's throne.

Lord! doth each step of Thy sad, thorny way
Bring us full cheer, tell us some glorious tale?
O! gladsome do thy lovers keep the day
Whereon Thou camest to the weeping Vale?
Nor burn our hearts Thy Heavenward flight to hail?
Why should our songs be scant, our service slack
On this Thy gladsome day, the day Thou wentest back?

O sweet return! but not for Thee alone!
To us Thou camest: we to Thee shall go.
Lord! when we sing Thy cheer, we sing our own;
O! if such sweetness streameth from Thy woe,
How must Thy joy our hearts with joy o'erflow!
We may not leave, sweet-voicëd Seraphim,
The glory of this day to your triumphant hymn.

Whitsunday.

“The Spirit also helpeth our infirmities.”—Saint Paul.

Alas these pilgrims faint and worn!
Alas this Vale of Tears!
These sinners sore who sink and mourn
Through the long mortal years!

Behold this Garden of the Lord!
These guests in raiment bright!
This beauty hath the Spirit poured,
Hath made that darkness light.

Ah faithless souls that dwelt apart!
Ah lonely, loveless throng!
No fire within each joyless heart—
Dull, dull each formal tongue!

Behold these brethren dear! enquire
How hath this sweetness grown!
The Spirit sets their souls on fire,
The Spirit makes them one!

Kneel with this prayerful company!
Join, join these cheerful songs!
The Spirit makes this melody,
The Spirit tunes these tongues.

Ah weaklings vain, who faintly wrought,
Who soon the strife gave o'er,
Who no sweet gift the brethren brought,
The Lord no tribute bore!

The Spirit pours the lavish love
Of this gift-bearing throng;
These linkëd hands, that mountains move,
The Spirit makes them strong.

He leadeth forth His awful host,
He mingleth in the fight;
O army of the Holy Ghost!
What shall withstand your might?

Ah souls their veilëd Heaven that mourned!
Ah glory faint and dim!
Ah tearful eyes that vainly yearned!
Ah distant Seraphin!

Blest souls, that now Heaven's glory greet,
That here Heaven's rapture feel!
The Spirit brings this earnest sweet,
The Spirit sets His seal.

Ne'er from His dwellingplace so dear
The Spirit will remove;
O Church of God! reveal Him here!
Soar on His wings above!

June 1.

A SUMMER PRAYER.

Summer! sweet Summer! tremble not to take
Thy glory up and mount thy burning throne;
Deny not thy bright self, nor fear to make
Free, royal use of riches all thine own:
Ask not of Winter's bitterness a loan:
Spare nought that in thy treasure-house reposes,
Come beamy with thy suns! come lavish of thy roses!

Surprise our Isle, so little in thy grace,
With all thy mighty love, thy strength divine
Vouchsafe us the whole radiance of thy face—
Full, full upon thy longing lovers shine;

To the deep passion of our prayer incline!
Fond, faithful hearts, we never tire of thee,
But hoard each moment of thy golden empery.

Let linkëd golden days thy praise declare!
Let thy prolongëd smile our smiles inspire!
Yes, bid thy sky each day unweary wear
Its spotless azure robe; each day require
From thy strong sun his plenitude of fire!
Ask of thy flowers their all of joy and bloom,
And yield thine amorous air their fulness of perfume!

Fulfil thy work in us! each wooer dear
Sweetly o'erpower and blissfully oppress!
O make us faint, yet leave us full of cheer!
A glow, a glory lend to weariness!
Let dullards wish thee weak and lustreless—
Burn! beam! and give thy lovers leave to lie
Full on thy soft warm lap, full 'neath thy flaming eye!

To thy diviner, dearer self then turn;
Yes, throng all sweetness into thy sweet even!
O Beauty, grow more fair! blest odours, learn
Intenser fragrancy! Earth, smile like Heaven!
Enamoured earthling, hold thyself forgiven!
O Summer Eve, O day divinely dying,
Time brags of thee and waits Eternity's outvying.

Yes, live no less divinely, Summer hours!
Be worth our love! be worth our memory!
And O! when gone the time of smiles and flowers,
Take in our thoughts a fair eternity.
Yes, help each soul a Summer Bower to be!
Beam on, unending Summer! still bestow
Bright roses and warm suns 'midst Winter's wind and snow!

June 15.

MAGNA CHARTA.

[_]

On this day, 1215, at Runnymede, a meadow beside the Thames between Staines and Windsor, the barons of England extorted the Great Charter from King John.

Mourn, ye lands, where Freedom maketh
Fiery cheer and fleeting stay!
Forth the sudden brightness breaketh,
Sudden dieth the fierce day:
Never stays the glorious guest
Long enough to make you blest.

Not on England thus she streameth,
Here she builds no summer bower;
Sweet beside our hearths she beameth,
Riseth here her strong grey tower;

Long her reign and calm her smile
In the well-belovëd isle.

Linkëd by her chain all golden,
England! glow thy solemn years:
Where she walked in ages olden,
Still her radiant front she rears.
We her shining course may read,
Step by step, from Runnymede.

Here in that green meadow glorious,
On that long, bright summer-day,
O'er a traitor king victorious
England stood in fast array:
There streamed forth her fiery soul;
There was won the priceless scroll.

Never has that soul been tamëd,
Never has that roll been rent;
Not alone this day is famëd,

Not alone one tyrant bent;
Not alone this glorious scroll
Doth proud England's hand unroll.

England! clasp those lineal charters,
Each with grace more fully fraught!
Bless the unbroken line of martyrs
Who their sealing blood have brought!
Sing how Freedom's broadening fire
Burneth on to son from sire!

Ah! to other lands is scanted
The rich banquet spread for thee;
To thy soul alone is granted
The full feast of Memory.
On thy Past divinely feed!
Make glad cheer at Runnymede!

June 17.

JOHN WESLEY. (1703.)

[_]

On the birthday of the most potent enkindler of religious life that England has produced, it is not unmeet for Englishmen to rejoice in their Heavenly citizenship.

“Our citizenship is in Heaven.”—Saint Paul.

We triumph in the glorious grace
That set us in this English land,
And welcome the high earthly place
Wherein our God hath made us stand.

While service to our land we bring,
The Lord's own glory we would show,
And wait upon our Heavenly King
In this our commonwealth below.

But O! to us a grace more great,
A dignity more dear is given:
He links us to a nobler State;
He makes us citizens of Heaven.

O mightily our hearts are bound
This goodly Father Land to love;
But more our own Emmanuel's ground,
That better, dearer land above.

Our land's good laws we proudly praise;
Our land's great tale we gladsome tell:
But O! what majesty arrays
The people of Emmanuel!

Their glorious freedom how complete!
How absolute His holy will!
What tasks divine, what tribute sweet
Their spirits bring, their hands fulfil!

Dear fellow-citizens they greet
Of every age, of every clime:
Far dwellers in one City meet,
Strange voices raise one song sublime.

Do our fond, faithful hearts partake
The Father Land's sore wounds and woe?
Ah! mourn we for the storms that break
Upon our Commonwealth below?

Those storms,—our peace they may not whelm,
They cannot reach our true abode.
O sweetness of that upper realm!
O peaceful City of our God!

O! seemeth it so sad to leave
Our commonwealth and country dear?
Poor sojourners! we wrongly grieve;
Our Father Land—it lies not here!

O City where God's people dwell!
O home where no sweet bonds are riven!
O country of Emmanuel!
The only Father Land is Heaven.

Joy! joy! our King doth never die,
Our City shall for ever stand:
We serve the Eternal Majesty,
And hold the Heavenly Father Land.

June 21.

THE LONGEST DAY.

“Hail, holy Light! offspring of Heaven first-born.”—
Milton.

How thy glad lover runneth forth to greet
Each glory, Summer bright, thou bring'st with thee!
On mine enamoured sense ne'er falls too sweet
The fulness of thy fragrance; not for me
Thy deeps of azure glow too steadfastly:
Beneath thy noontide fire I gladsome burn,
And for the endless smile of thy sweet evening yearn.

Yet has one charm of thine with me most power;
I love thee best for thy long, lingering light.

One beamy moment in each golden hour
I would not lose; O blessed scant of night!
O Summer clad all o'er in garments bright!
Down to thy very feet they flame and flow,
And now they softly gleam, and now they strongly glow.

O Light, sweet, early guest! how the gray dawn
Glows into day and reddens! how the beam
Of thy young lord pours on the rosy morn
A golden glory! how all things do gleam
Steeped in the splendour of thy noontide stream!
How sweetly follow afternoon's clear shine
Thy purple and thy gold, O Summer-Eve divine!

What softness on thy golden glory creeps,
Sweet, lingering Light! how happy all things lie
In the soft splendour of thy rosy deeps!
On thy delicious dying how mine eye
Keeps watch enamoured! yet thou wilt not die.

O Midnight half o'ercome—half won to be
A smiling realm within Light's golden empery!

And sometimes, ere his splendour Day has spent,
While flame his steps still in the western sky,
Lo! the moon climbeth up the Orient
Her softly shining way, and lifteth high
Full in the face of Day her majesty.
The splendours twain sit thronëd side by side,
And for a wondrous while the happy sky divide.

O Longest Day! thou canst not shine too long
For mine enamoured eyes; O Golden Hours!
I never tire amidst your dazzling throng.
O Light! thy glory sweetly overpowers
Thy lover glad in Summer's noontide bowers.
I shall not faint amidst those bowers supernal,
Nor bring half-shrinking eyes to the sweet Light Eternal.

Lord! if for such high grace Thou hallow me,
How will this lover of these summer-days
Enjoy that day where night shall never be!
What eagle-eyed Archangel shall outgaze
This happy wooer of the eternal blaze?
O Heavenly Lover, Everlasting Light,
Still hallow these glad eyes! still stream on them more bright!

June 23.

ENGLAND IN THE EAST.

[_]

On this day, 1757, Clive won the battle of Plassey, and laid the foundations of our Eastern Empire.

Region Divine, whereon loved first to fall
The fire from Heaven! quick-soulëd Orient!
Whose ear all messages celestial
So swiftly, sweetly took—where, earliest sent
Each angel bright his young, best radiance spent—
All-holy with Emmanuel's very feet—
Whence won the pilgrim world all lore sublime and sweet!

Ah dull and deafened now that soul of thine!
Pale Palestine! void, voiceless Araby!

No wise men from the East of Births Divine
Bear tidings sweet; no glad Epiphany
Now bursteth, Orient forlorn, on thee.
No angels now enamoured of that shore;
No more the prophets' home! the Holy Land no more!

O elsewhere now the glory makes descent;
On Western shores now falls familiar
The fire from Heaven! in the deep Occident
Clear shineth now that blessed Morning Star,
Hesper in sweetest sooth our Lucifer!
In its new home the orient light doth smile,
Yes, spendeth its best beams on happy Northern Isle.

Bring back the lustre, shining Occident!
Thou Northern Isle, the grace divine restore!
O England, thronëd in the Orient,
No more thy glory hide! forego no more

The joy of a gift-bearing conqueror!
Shine sweetly forth from thy regainëd throne,
And make thine orient realms Emmanuel's very own!

Send from thy Indian throne the flame divine
Through all the East, right to its ancient home!
Glow into life again, pale Palestine,
Beneath the circling smile of Christendom!
From the far West back, Orient lustre, come!
Back, angels bright, unto the dear-loved shore,
Once more the Holy Land, Emmanuel's home once more!

June 27.

THE MARIAN MARTYRS.

[_]

On this day, 1556, thirteen Protestants were burned in one fire at Stratford-le-Bow, all of humble birth and occupation, (smiths, weavers, labourers, &c.), as in fact, with exceedingly few exceptions, were the 284 witnesses who died for the truth in Mary's reign.

“The Lord grant us the like grace in the like need.”— Foxe, vol. iii. p. 708, folio of 1641.

England, when thick fell thy night,
When thy glory low did lie,
From whose souls streamed forth thy light?
Where abode thy valiancy?
Who thy brow more richly wreathed?
Who thy dower divine bequeathed?

Who refused to fall before
Antichrist's rebuilded throne?
Who the Truth's rent banner bore?

Who the Truth's stern battle won?
Who with their dear Lord kept faith?
Who resisted unto death?

Did thy knightly, noble blood
Fast the high allegiance keep?
Did thy plumëd warrior brood
Into the mid battle leap?
Doth the Martyrs' glorious host
Of thy barons bold make boast?

Ah those champions forsworn!
Not one threat, one stroke they bore:
Ah those runagates forlorn!
Not one martyr's crown they wore.
Not for them the Lord drew near
To exalt His England dear.

Toil-worn hands this rescue wrought,
Weaklings in this fight o'ercame;

Craftsmen this bright marvel brought
To enrich the mouth of Fame.
Who uplifted England high?
Her unknown Nobility!

Vain all woe their faith to break,
From their Lord these hearts to move!
Close they clasped Him at the stake,
Flamed above the pile their love.
O these noble, valiant wights!
O these stainless Red-Cross Knights!

England, midst thy shining host
Set these lowly helpers high!
Of thy part divinely boast
In the martyrs' company!
Heaven, be lavish of thy thrones!
Lord, requite Thy Faithful Ones!

July 9.

THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH.

[_]

This final and decisive triumph of Swiss liberty over the hereditary hostility of the House of Hapsburg was won on this day, 1386, when 1300 Switzers overcame the Austrian host under Duke Leopold, who with a multitude of knights and nobles fell in the battle.

O! not from every field of death, sweet-soulëd Pilgrim, turn!
Not o'er each ringing battle-cry, each fiery onset mourn!
Nay, linger with enamoured feet where Freedom won the fight!
Swell, swell the cheerful trumpet-blast, when Victory went with Right!

But take thy fullest cheer amidst the Switzer's sacred clime;

Yes, gather from each glorious spot a twofold joy sublime!
O lingerer by that gleaming lake, there Freedom kept her own!
O climber of those awful heights, thou sittest on her throne!

They came from near, they came from far, those barons fierce and bold;
No belted knight, no mailëd lord abode within his hold;
Around Duke Leopold they gleamed, a fiery stream of spears,
To wreak the Hapsburg's hoarded wrath on the free mountaineers.

Thick waved the corn, fierce blazed the sun through that long Summer-day,
As 'midst the fields, beside the lake, near Sempach's wall they lay.

Scarce breathëd the soft summer air those woodlands green among,
Astir with more than leafy life, with more than wingëd song.

Forth streamëd from those woodlands fair the Switzers calm and stern;
On came the shepherds of the Alps, the burghers of Lucerne;
Nor Unterwald her bravest spared, nor Schweitz her mighty men;
On sprang the Mountain Bull; why kept the Bear within his den?

Ah, scant the heroic band! but lo! no foe against them rode,

Down sprang each mailëd knight, no steed Duke Leopold bestrode:
Lance laid by lance, shield locked to shield, stood the pround cavaliers,
A flaming wall of steel behind a bristling hedge of spears.

Those craftsmen 'neath no helmet gleamed, no mail those shepherds clad;
Yet on the mailëd host they gazed all fearless and all glad:
Their hands held fast the selfsame swords Morgarten's victors swayed,
Glowed in their hearts the selfsame fire those conquerors strong that made.

100

Then lowly knelt those shepherds down their fathers' prayer to pray,
That He the Lord of Hosts would guard the Fatherland to-day:
From white-robed priests in solemn fanes, ne'er sounded prayer more meet;
That incense rose from battle-field, yet it ascended sweet.

Scorn quivered from each Austrian lip, blazed in each Austrian eye;
“Ha! ha! for grace these peasants kneel; for life these rebels cry.”
O knights, forbear that scornful gaze, that shout disdainful spare!
They kneel for grace—ye will not speed the better for that prayer.

Uprose the Switzers from their knees, their cheerful war-cry rang,

101

As fiercely on that mailëd host the good Confederates sprang.
But ah! in vain their halberts smote, their javelins vainly flew;
What might can pierce that deadly hedge, that flaming wall break through?

Fast flowed their blood, yet scatheless stood that mailëd, bright array;
O Heaven! shall the dear Father Land become the Hapsburg's prey?
Ah deep the passion of those hearts, the soreness of that need,
When from the ranks of Unterwald strode Arnold Winkelried.

O! meetly dwelt that noble heart within that mighty frame;
O! well that deep, full ringing voice, these fateful words became:

102

“O dear Confederates, to your hearts my wife, my children take!
I go these stubborn ranks to pierce, your conquering way to make.”

Right on the foe he ran, six spears in his strong arms he grasped;
Right to his heart their deadly points as his own babes he clasped;
He fell and down those lances bore, and back those bucklers bent;
In that grim hedge there yawned a gap,—in that dread wall a rent!

O breach sublime! O fiery rush! burst the Confederates through!
No more those halberts vainly struck; O! now they smote and slew;
Each moment wider waxed the breach! rocked, reeled the rent array!

103

Woe, woe unto those cumbered knights upon that summer-day!

They fainted 'neath that armour bright, beneath that fierce, full sun;
They may not answer stroke with stroke, they may not slaughter shun.
Baron on baron, knight on knight, in gory heaps they lay;
Those Switzer brands will drink their fill of noble blood to-day!

But still above that fatal field the Austrian standard rose,
Still fiercely fought Duke Leopold amidst those thronging foes;
He waved it high, he held it fast, till Death unclasped his hand,
And through and through that princely heart had passed the shepherd's brand.

104

And round him mighty barons gasped, and noble knights lay dead;
Mail clad each piercëd breast, a crest was cloven with each head.
Woe, woe unto each lordly hall with news of Sempach came,
And o'er that day wept long and sore full many a high-born dame.

But Heavenward from that gory field glad eyes the conquerors raised,
Nor left their Winkelried unblessed, nor left their Lord unpraised.
Long ages have not hushed the song, nor worn the joy away;
Still sweet to Switzer hearts returns this gladsome, glorious day.

But not with them the gladness stays; sounds not the story sweet

105

Where'er a righteous soul abides, where'er glad freemen meet?
O English bard! through England's heart the joy of Sempach spread,
And hallow to her inmost soul the name of Winkelried!

The Canton of Uri takes its name from Urus the wild bull.

The Canton of Berne, that borrows its name from the Bear and has a bear for its arms, sent no warriors to Sempach.

November 16, 1315, 15,000 Austrians under another Leopold, the uncle of this Leopold, were overthrown in the pass of Morgarten, by 1500 warriors of Schweitz, Uri, and Unterwald.

106

August 1.

ABOLITION OF NEGRO SLAVERY.

[_]

On this day, 1834, every slave in the British empire was legally emancipated; on this day, 1838, every slave in the British Empire became practically free.

O England! only in thine olden time
Hast thou divinely soared or greatly wrought?
Hath no majestic flight, no deed sublime
Unto thy latter days divineness brought?

May sweet, melodious currents flow alone
From the green uplands of thy days gone by?
O! from no glorious summits in our own
Leap down glad streams of mighty melody?

107

Nay, English singer! thou mayst catch the gleam
Of glory gatherëd thine eyes beneath,
Mayst draw into a deep melodious stream
The heroic breath thine England still doth breathe.

Ne'er glowed her heart with a more holy heat
Than when it burned to set her bondmen free;
Ne'er dealt her arm a stroke more strong, more sweet,
Than when it pierced the heart of Slavery.

O! not the spoils from her own tyrants rent
In such sweet majesty about her hung.
O! not the joy of her own freedom lent
Such radiance to her face, such rapture to her tongue.

Once softly on the dying baron's ear
The priest the sacred suit of Freedom pressed,
And won from the pale, parting sinner's fear
The word that made his groaning bondmen blest.

108

But here that word a living nation spoke,
From England's glowing heart august it sprung;
A mighty nation o'er that broken yoke
Its treasure and its toil sublimely flung.

Imperial Isle! hold fast thy world-wide reign!
Yes, unabashed thy queenly raiment wear!
Thy sacred soil no bondman may profane,
And only freemen breathe thy holy air.

Joy to the Sun that may not turn his eye
From that unbounded empery of thine,
Nor drop upon one bondman's misery
The mocking smile of his free, gladsome shine!

O! will not Heaven enlarge the Sacred Soil
That brooketh not the tread of servile feet,
And guard the glory of the Imperial Isle
Where thronëd Freedom smiles sublime and sweet?

109

August 17.

THE DEATH OF BLAKE. (1657.)

“Foremost of all the victorious squadron the St. George rode with its precious burden into the Sound (Plymouth), and just as it came into full view of the eager thousands crowding the beach, the pier-head, the walls of the citadel, or dashing in countless boats over the smooth waters between St. Nicholas and the Docks, ready to catch the first glimpse of the hero of Santa Cruz and salute him with a true English welcome—he, in his silent cabin, in the midst of his lion-hearted comrades now sobbing like little children, yielded up his soul to God.” — Dixon's Life of Blake, p. 362.

The Sea King on his war-steed rideth home,
But rideth home to die;
From many a battle hath he come,
And each a victory.
Full fiercely hath he ridden o'er the main,
And shunned no foe and met no peer;
Full proudly borne along the ocean-plain
The banner of his England dear:

110

And now he rideth home full gloriously.
But not to reach the dear-loved isle,
But not to catch her proud, glad smile,
Unto her Blake is given;
No! end more glorious still hath he,
The mighty Sea King dieth on the sea;
His spirit hath gone home to Heaven.

O arm of might! O soul sublime!
O Seeker of the Lord!
O breather of that awful glorious time
When full on England was the Spirit poured,
When burned in England's heart a sacred flame,
When gleamed in England's hand a sacred sword,
When God's own great ones in this isle were great,
When captains of the host by faith o'ercame,
And prayer fast rooted, pillars of the state!
O heart aglow with calm, pure fires!
O simple, stainless man of might!
The Good, Old Cause thy sword requires;

111

For God and England thou canst fight:
As ancient vikings, dread and bold,
Prayerful and calm as saints of old!
O wondrous Sea King! greater far
Than any nurseling of the sea!
Thou needest not to learn the lore of war;
To conquer and command were born with thee.
Upon the waves a monarch peerless!
Upon the shore a champion fearless!
O strong against a host to keep
A little, lonely town!
O strong to sweep across the deep
And ride whole navies down!
O dreadful when the wall was rent,
When in the breach the fight waxed sore!
O terrible when Ocean blent
His awful voice with battle's roar!

112

England or Holland! which shall be
Lady and mistress of the sea?
Which champion shall his land imperial make,
Redoubted Tromp, or hero-hearted Blake?
O never on the ocean yet
Had two such peerless champions met;
But flamed more fiercely England's eye,
Her champion smote more terribly.
And the vexed ocean, that awhile
Scarce knew which land for queen to take,
His duty learned at last from Blake,
And bowed before the imperial isle.

O famëd Midland Sea!
Over whose waves sublime
The mighty of all time
Have on the pathway of their glory gone;
Around whose shores hath risen and shone
And set the sun of each great empery!
Another conqueror made love to thee.

113

An English Sea King rode thy waves upon!
Tremendous Blake! around he bore
His England's might, his England's fame.
Echoed each famous isle, each glorious shore
The Northern Island's more majestic name;
And on all men fell the fear
Of her awful Oliver.
Fierce rained those dreadful strokes of Blake
Upon the spoilers of the main!
O blessed strokes! of power to break
From Christian limbs the chain!

Trembled pale Antichrist to know so nigh
The war-steeds of the Northern Isle abhorred.
Low bent his darling Spain, when terribly
Those riders of the main against her spurred.

114

Within that strongly guarded bay
Those richly laden galleons lay:
But past those forts, but through that flame
Onward the awful Red Cross came.
In vain the Spaniard fiercely strove;
Right on his prey the Sea King drove,
And smote the ships and spread the blaze.
O deed of deeds! O day of days!
Blake! hast thou not fulfilled thy praise?
Thou canst not lift thy land more high;
Go! bear thy glory home, and die!

The stately war-ship maketh way;
The white cliffs gleam not yet:
On, war-steed! down thy mighty rider lay
Where he would fain be set!
The summer sun still shineth clear,
Still beats the heroic heart;

115

Upon the bosom of his England dear
That faithful soul would part.
They rise! the sacred white cliffs rise!
But not on those dim, dying eyes.
The Sea King lieth dead upon his throne;
To its own Father Land the spirit fair hath flown.

In 1643 Blake, with 1000 men, successfully defended the fishing town of Lyme Regis against Prince Maurice with 20,000; and in 1644-5 beat back three royalist armies from before the scarcely fortified Taunton.

For Blake's triumphant career in the Mediterranean, the terror of the Pope and other Italian Princes, his chastisement of the Bey of Tunis and deliverance of Christian slaves, and his exploits against the Spaniards, see Dixon, and the common English Histories.

Santa Cruz, in the isle of Teneriffe, where he burned the Spanish galleons, April, 1657.

116

August 25.

SAINT LOUIS.

[_]

Louis IX. King of France, was born April 25, 1215, and died August 25, 1270, the day consecrated to his memory. The misfortune of Canonisation does not the less leave him Saint Louis, Louis the Holy.

“La mesure par la quelle nous devons aimer Dieu, est l' aimer sans mesure.”— Saint Louis.

“The measure whereby we should love God, is to love Him without measure.”

O! seldom doth Heaven's sweetest smile repose
Where Earth her utmost splendour doth impress;
We look not, where the kingly purple glows,
For the white, gleaming robes of righteousness.

117

Yet once the oil upon his head was poured
Whose heart had won the unction of God's grace;
A sovereign once each humblest saint outsoared,
The heavenliest soul was in the highest place.

O lowliness of mortal majesty!
O sceptred hand, God's righteous will that wrought!
Yes, once a thronëd servant faithfully
His work to the Divine Taskmaster brought.

O! once it pleased a victor to restore
The forfeit realms of his defeated foe;
Yes, once a king held sin the only sore,
Though deeply learnëd in the lore of woe.

O! once in the rough ways of holiness
A monarch walked as in the paths of pleasure;

118

Yes, only yielded to the sweet excess
Of loving his dear Lord in over-measure!

O Shining Ones! O People of the Sky!
Ye lack not quite the company of kings:
Death clothes one monarch in new majesty;
To a more glorious throne Saint Louis springs.

Oliver Cromwell's birthday, 1599. It is somewhat note-worthy that the great French Seeker of the Lord and the great English Seeker of the Lord, the purest exemplar of mediæval Christianity, and the grandest incarnation of Protestantism, should have been born on the same day.

He restored to Henry III. of England, whom he defeated at Taillebourg in 1242, some of the provinces which that victory had given to his possession.

119

September 3.

THE LORD PROTECTOR'S DAY.

[_]

On September 3, 1650, Cromwell prevailed at Dunbar; on September 3, 1651, he triumphed at Worcester; on September 3, 1658, he passed from among men.

“Let God arise! let His enemies be scattered!” — Cromwell on Dunbar Field.

“Yet God will be with His people.”— Cromwell on his Death Bed.

O England! breathe to-day heroic breath!
Bring a dilated form, an eye more bright!
Gaze upward from those awful heights of faith,
And in diviner air thy soul delight!
Glow with thy hero through each famous fight!
Pray with thy sovereign on his dying bed!
Drink in the glory of thy Man of Might,
That through the world his flaming footsteps led,
And left on his last hours a light all hallowëd.

120

Tell how thy Strongest was by prayer made strong,
How mighty Faith thy Lordliest lifted high!
Sing how she bore her valiant son along,
Lent him her awful arm, her burning eye,
And clothëd him all o'er in victory!
Sing how around a Seeker of the Lord
More glorious gleamed thy robe of majesty;
How from his mouth more mighty went thy word,
And how in his strong hand more awful flashed thy sword!

O air divine his panting soul that fed!
O quiet home wherein he walked with God!
O smile of Heaven that sweetly lightenëd
His burdened heart! O Faith that bright abode
With his calm years, that sent his soul abroad
To rescue and uplift the Father Land!
With her the unmarked paths of life he trod:
Amidst the fight she stood at his right hand,
Girt on that awful sword, and swelled that sacred band.

121

O saintly host around him gatherëd,
Army of priests and kings! O men of might,
Whose like no land hath borne, no chief hath led,
Who ne'er waxed faint in prayer, nor weak in fight!
Yield, hireling warriors all! Priests robed in white,
Yearn for the solemn, sacred flame that burned
In those high-placëd hearts! Strange visions bright
Broke glorious on those earnest eyes upturned,
And for their Heavenly King those panting warriors yearned.

O awful camp where prayerful silence reigned,
Or of discourse divine the murmur rose!
O warrior saints who meetly entertained
Descending angels, or onrushing foes!
Brave Cavaliers, no more these souls oppose!
With their more mightily descendëd flame

122

Your high-born fire may ne'er victorious close.
Ye fled before the saints in fear and shame
While louder o'er each field rang Oliver's great name.

Tell, England! how unto thy sovereign place
Those wondrous years thy sovereign soul upbore!
Sing how he breathed his glory o'er thy face,
And set thee high the amazëd world before!
Tell how he yearnëd God's own light to pour
Upon that trembling, shrinking soul of thine,—
To sanctify the fulness of thy store,
To make the fulness of thy strength divine,
And lead thy people forth before the Lord to shine!

O England! gather up the garments bright
Wherein thy mighty lover bade thee beam!
The lamp his dying hand let fall relight,
And win from it no quivering, fleeting gleam!
Yet round thee may the Lord's own glory stream!
Yet in diviner majesty appear!

123

Yet lend thy lover's more than golden dream
Fulfilment sweet, and let the solemn cheer
Shed from his dying lips, fall full upon thine ear!

“Yet with Thy people wilt thou be.” Yea, Lord!
Nations may droop and dwindle; souls of light
May leave their glory dim, and undeplored
Sink down upon their shields Thy men of might;
Yet will Thine awful arm maintain the fight,
Yet will Thy glory make Thy people fair:
Yet shall Thine England wax divinely bright,
And bathe her spirit in the quickening air
Where soared her sovereign soul, her awful Oliver!

As a member of a sect and the leader of a party, Cromwell no longer concerns us; but as an earnest believer and a great ruler, as a transcendent Englishman and an intense Protestant, he remains for ever memorable and exemplary, worthy of imitation by wise statesmen, worthy of commemoration by all good Englishmen and Protestants—a commemoration which will especially befit Friday, September 3, 1858, the two hundredth anniversary even to the day of the week, of the Protector's death.

124

October 14.

BATTLE OF HASTINGS. (1066.)

“Eight centuries have rolled away; and where is the Norman now, or where is not the Saxon?”— Bulwer Lytton, Harold, b. 12, c. 9.

Hast thou a song, O English bard, for England's day of woe?
Why greetest thou the fatal field that brought thy people low?
They fell for their dear Fatherland, and yet they died in vain;
They fought upon their own free soil, and yet it bore the chain.

Wear not to-day thy singing robes! the song may not be sweet;

125

O wait not on the conqueror! such service is not meet.
O not for thee to lift thy strain the shaveling host among,
And tell how sharp the Norman lance, the Norman bow how strong!

Not thine to thank the dead men's bones, to hymn the awful dust,
And tell how dreadly fought the knights who made the saints their trust!
O sing not for the Bastard! fling back the Pope his curse,
And hold by thine own England dear for better and for worse!

Yet linger on that battle-field—it asks no tears of shame;

126

Weep proudly for the long-haired host upon their bed of fame;
High o'er the hapless heroes let the strain majestic ring!
Still, still the balm of melody to smitten Freedom bring!

Ah! scant and sore beset the band that fought for hearth and home!
They stood against a countless host, beneath the curse of Rome;
Against them all the strength of war, the flower of earth was led;
Against them rose the spirit-world! against them came the dead!

And yet no English cheek turned pale, no English heart waxed faint,
They quailed not for the curse of Rome, the relics of the saint;

127

Full fiercely smote each English axe, fast stood the scant array—
Back, Norman steed! down, Norman plume! ye shall not win to-day!

Ah valour vain! ah heedless host by Norman wile undone!
Yet still those broken warriors smote, that English axe hewed on:
Unyielding sank the heroes down upon their awful bed,
And meetly that true English king lay midst those English dead.

They lay among the autumn leaves, but ah! more thickly strown!
The trees shall win their glory back; for the dead land make moan!

128

O! doubly dark o'er England fell that drear October night;
When shall her heart again be warm, her eye again be bright?

It gloweth still! it beameth now! she liveth strong and fair!
Rich was the lading of that field, but England lay not there.
Look up from Senlac, English bard! why mournest thou no more?
Look round! give ear! why burn thy lips? why runs thy rapture o'er?

Behold of freeborn Englishmen this England still the home!
Where is the Norman tyrant? where the robber priest of Rome?

129

Behold the smiter smitten sore, the spoiler made a prey!
Behold the papal banner torn, the relics cast away!

Lo! robed in sovereignty serene these English freemen stand;
Hark! sweetly sounds the English speech in the free English land.
Look! look! what state thine England wears! what chains thine England breaks!
List! list! how gloriously she sings! what mighty cheer she speaks!

Look round the realm! look round the world! thine England stretches wide;
About the earth she flings her arms, across the globe doth stride:
Breaks on this eye the Orient beam, on that the Western glow;

130

This hand holds fast the realm of fire, that grasps the land of snow.

O listen far! O listen wide! thine England speaketh still;
That distant shore, those boundless realms her lordly voice will fill.
On the lips of mighty nations the tones majestic rise,
And English prayer and English praise sound sweet 'neath farthest skies!

O shrink not of her plight forlorn to tell the imperial isle!
O sweet to sing her woeful day in this her golden while!
Strike, English bard, thy saddest string! there ringeth forth delight;
Put on thy darkest robes to-day! behold them raiment bright!

The relics of the saints over which Harold had sworn allegiance to the Norman duke, were in the Norman camp.

Alexander II. excommunicated Harold, and sent William a blessing and a banner.

The 60,000 Normans assaulted the 20,000 English in vain, till they pretended flight, and thus allured the islanders to rush from their entrenchments and break their ranks in pursuit.

The old name of the battle-field.

131

October 28.

ALFRED THE GREAT.

[_]

His birthday (849) is not known. He died on this day 901.

O bring the fulness of thy heart to-day!
Thy tenderest song, enamoured England, sing!
O let no glorious passion keep away,
No strongly smitten chord refuse to ring!

132

Win from each glory of thy raiment bright
A strain for him of old who robëd thee!
Yes, pour o'er all thy beauty and thy might
A sweet strain of melodious memory!

Still gracious in thy sight abides thy throne?
Thy saint, thy sage, thy hero was thy king:
Not all the tyrants that have sate thereon
Have worn away thine Alfred's hallowing.

Forth with his holy sword unshrinking go,
The sword that gleamëd in his guardian hand;
O tremble not his trumpet-blast to blow,
That pealed the rescue of the Fatherland!

Yes, angel-hands that sacred sword might wield
Wherewith the ruthless heathen hordes he smote;
And saintly feet might press each battle-field
Whereon to England peace, glory to God he wrote!

133

Sitt'st thou still stately, while around thee gleam
The flowing robes of Liberty and Law?
No late-set spangle makes thy raiment beam;
Those garments bright thine Alfred on did draw.

O! not without thy king's strong hand was wrought
Each bar that keepeth down a tyrant's will;
O! not without the skill thine Alfred brought
Bloomëd each grace that makes thee glorious still.

Muse, as thy Souls of Light thou countest o'er,
How his own time's thick gloom thine Alfred rent!
Bless that strange radiance! marvel at that lore
So greatly gathered, so divinely spent!

Sing how thy war-worn guardian sweetly strove
With his soul's sweat thy sluggish soul to wake!
How thy great Lover in his height of love
Lent of his light thee beautiful to make!

134

Let loose thy heart! thou hast not here to grieve
O'er some grand sinner whom thou canst not hate;
Yes, with the world's and with the Saviour's leave
Doth happy England call her Alfred great.

O more than conqueror who himself o'ercame!
O man of might by whom the Lord was sought!
O Light-Bringer, whose light was Heaven's own flame,
And gladdeneth angels now, back to its birthplace brought!

O royal Saint! no Pontiff leave hath given
Thine England to account her king divine;
Thy glorious name hath stolen no prayer from Heaven,
Nor thy dear dust been wronged by idol-shrine.

Still, England, in thy heart let Alfred lie,
Where he a thousand years hath glorious lain;
And in thy treasured law and liberty
His blessed relies sweetly entertain.

It is somewhat noteworthy that Alfred and Shakspeare, the greatest Englishmen in practical life, and the greatest Englishmen in intellectual life, should have lived exactly the same number of years, each dying at the age of fifty-two.

135

November 5.

ENGLAND'S TREASURE.

[_]

England has a two-fold interest in this day, signalized in 1605 by the discovery of the Gunpowder Treason, and in 1688 by the landing of William of Orange at Torbay.

“When alle tresors are tried,
Treuthe is the beste.”
Vision of Piers Ploughman, II. 629-30.

England, count thy glories o'er!
Not thy strength, and not thy store,
Not thy sway by sea and shore
Sets thy name most high.

Triumph, Sovereign of the Sea!
Isle imperial, gladsome be!
Land of Truth and Liberty,
Yet more proudly smile!

136

Sway of Rome hast thou forsworn,
Thou her banner down hast borne;
Thou her curse hast glorious worn;
Wear the glory still!

Freedom's robes do clothe thee round;
In thy hand the Word is found;
From thy lips the Truth doth sound;
Ne'er let go the Truth!

By thy most heroic pains,
By thy most illustrious gains,
By thy most majestic strains,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

By thy years most full, most bright,
By thy mightiest Men of Might,
By thy sovereign Souls of Light,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

137

By each thought divine they woke,
By each “burning word” they spoke,
By each fetter foul they broke,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

By thy Wycliffe's piercing tones,
By thy Wycliffe's burnëd bones,
By thy lowly martyred ones,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

By the glory of that prayer
Kindled at the fierce flame where
Ridley burned with Latimer,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

By the mighty maid who broke
With one strong victorious stroke
Evermore the Roman yoke,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

138

By the foes that came in vain,
By the Heaven-upstirrëd main,
By the smitten ships of Spain,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

By each plot to work thee woe
Of the baffled Roman foe,
Bootless curse and broken blow,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

By the solemn, sacred time
When thy soul most high did climb,
By thy Puritans sublime,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

By each unmatchëd warrior
With the Lord of Hosts astir,
By the soul of Oliver,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

139

By his faith so burning bright,
By his arm so great in fight,
By his love and by his might,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

By thy Milton's lips aglow
With the fire that down doth flow
From the Seraphs' “burning row,”
Ne'er let go the Truth!

By thy martyred Russell's shade,
By the end thy Sidney made,
By the prayer divine he prayed,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

By the hero of Nassau
Strong his guardian sword to draw
For thy freedom, faith, and law,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

140

By the oath that Derry swore,
By the pangs that Derry bore,
By the wreath that Derry wore,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

By the outstretched hand of Heaven,
By thy foes before thee driven,
By the glory to thee given,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

By the queenly robes thou wearest,
By the sovereign sway thou bearest
O'er Earth's widest realms and fairest,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

By sweet Freedom's glorious smile,
Spending still her golden while
Here in the Imperial Isle,
Ne'er let go the Truth!

141

Eyes of grateful wonder cast
O'er thy Present, o'er thy Past!
Hold thy chiefest grace most fast!
Ne'er let go the Truth!

142

November 19.

THE SPANISH ARMADA.

[_]

On this day, 1588, was holden the most general of the many thanksgivings for the overthrow of the Spanish Armada in the summer of that year, followed on November 24 by Elizabeth's procession to St. Paul's.

“May we still remember in our solemn thanksgivings how for us the Northern Ocean even to the frozen Thule was scattered with the proud shipwrecks of the Spanish Armada.” — Milton, Reformation in England, Bk. 2.

“When that navy called Invincible, swelled with pride and secure of victory, had entered the narrow sea to the fear and astonishment of Europe, it neither took a cock-boat at sea nor burnt a cottage at land, nor once touched upon the coast, but was miserably scattered and put to flight, and at last dashed upon the rocks.” — Bacon on the Felicitie of Queen Elizabeth.

Uprise, uprise, imperial Spain,
To the full measure of thy might!
Gather around thee thy far-reaching train!
Convene thy subject nations to the fight!

143

Go forth the little Isle to smite,
When stretcheth round the world thy reign,
When sunlike flames thy glory bright!
Nor arm in haste, nor fitful fury breathe;
Thy longwrought, slowly sharpened sword unsheathe!
The toil of seven long years expend
This marvel of the main to raise;
Each beam of thy wide brightness blend
Into a world-confounding blaze—
No strain on thy vast strength withhold,
Nor spare each vassal realm, nor stint thy Western gold!
Call forth thy men of might
Ablaze with glory from Lepanto's fight
To dim that lustre in the mightier fame
Of England's fallen throne and quenchëd name!

144

Summon thine Alexander to the field
Against the doomëd land his unmatched sword to wield!
The ocean with thine armament surprise,
And ask its fellow of the centuries!
With more than lust of glory burn!
For more than widened empire yearn!
With more than pride the wonder greet!
Trust more than treasure to thy fleet!
Revere the marvel that shall overwhelm
The misbelieving Queen in the accursëd realm!
Stern Philip, o'er the toil of years,
O'er the ripe vengeance darkly smile!
Let loose thy hoarded wrath, and strain thine ears
For news of captive queen and conquered isle!
Glad Antichrist, the fleet with blessings freight!
The invincible Armada consecrate

145

To bruise the loathëd realm that mocks thy reign,
To smite the abhorrëd Queen that bears thy curse in vain!
Sweep on, tremendous fleet, to clutch thy prey!
Defy the storm to bar thy fated way!
Into the Narrow Seas majestic stream!
Behold the doomëd shores! note how the white cliffs gleam!

But look again! an armëd throng
From those white cliffs returns the gaze;
Defiant bands those shores along
Wave gleaming swords, bright banners raise.
O steadfast Isle! thou dost not quake
Before this marvel of the main;
O mighty Maid! thou dost not shake
For the blent bolts of Rome and Spain.
Upspringeth England strong and glad;
One heart, one hand she lifteth high,

146

In the bright threefold armour clad
Of Freedom, Faith, and Loyalty.
Burns in her eye calm, steadfast fire;
Breatheth her soul heroic breath;
More fiery glows her blood, her heart beats higher
Beneath the smile of her Elizabeth.
Break forth into full glory, mighty Maiden!
Glow with the awful hour, the armëd Isle!
Thine England bringeth thee her heart love-laden;
Thine England smileth back thy glorious smile.
Sunlike thou beamest thy glad host upon,
Rides through the glowing ranks that stately Amazon.
What greetings, what love-tokens pass between
The enamoured nation and the smiling Queen!
What gladsome cheer her lofty lips let fall!
In her full eye what light heroical!
What hand is slack? what heart is sad?
What warrior is not strong and glad?

147

O! welcome fight, O! welcome death
For God, for England, for Elizabeth!
Yes, England, more than Spain defy!
For more than freedom do or die!
Go forth in a more awful name!
Burn, burn with a diviner flame!
'Tis Antichrist that stirs the fight,
That striketh with the Spaniard's sword:
O yield not up God's blessed light!
O let not go that open Word!
Back Rome her curse disdainful fling!
Lean trustful on thy guardian God—
Scatter those sea-birds foul that darkness bring,
And leave a world by freemen to be trod!

Waits England on her ocean-wall
That wonder of the seas to greet;
On shore she burns heroical
Those conquerors of a world to meet.

148

O Winds! the foe ye may not smite;
Waves! ye may do the foe no wrong;
But England's arm is great in might;
But England's sword is keen and strong.
Set thy huge marvel, vaunting Spain,
Against these nurselings of the main;
Or bear thy war-dogs safely o'er the flood,
And try the island mastiffs' undegenerate brood!
Around her guardian ocean swelleth;
On sea, on shore her arm excelleth;
Above her Heavenly Helper dwelleth.

Behold the foemen on thy ocean-wall;
On, England, thine uplifted stroke let fall!
O English Sea-kings, keep your awful fame!
Howard, new-hallow thine illustrious name!
Make England's ear for aye in love with Effingham!
O ocean-roaming, world-engirdling Drake,
O bold the Spaniard to defy,
Beneath the strange stars of that southern sky,

149

O strong the foe to overwhelm
In his well-guarded, golden realm,
At home thy fill of glory take!
Stint not thy strokes the sacred white cliffs nigh!
Up, freemen born of fathers free,
These fetter-bearers fitly entertain!
On, fearless nurselings of the sea,
Nor softly smite this monster of the main!
The Invincible Armada sweepeth by;
Wait on the towerëd pageant duteously!
The proud procession terribly attend,
Its splendour spoil, its stately order rend!
Look, England, how thy heroes of the main
Against the foe their fiery coursers spur!
How thine unwieldy chargers, vaunting Spain,
Sink 'neath the shock, or quake amidst the stir!
Ah! smitten deep, ah! shaken sore,
The Armada sweeps along no more,
But creepeth sad those English waters o'er.

150

Awhile the rent procession stays,
Awhile the fluttered pomp delays;
On the calm waters, well-nigh spent,
Shivers the halting armament.
Why burneth bright that midnight Heaven?
Why flameth wide that midnight sea?
Why reel those ships asunder driven?
What goadeth them so horribly?
Lo! England's fire-steeds drive along;
They leap the startled foe among;
Their burning manes they toss and wreathe;
Their blasting breath around they breathe;
They hurl about the fiery doom;
They touch, they kindle, they consume!
Back, bruisëd, moaning monster of the main,
Nor wait another stroke from England's might!
Away in shameful haste and vain,
Away in weary, woeful flight!

151

Away in long, unending agony
Around that scornful Isle, o'er that dread Northern Sea!

Ha! England! would'st thou follow fast? would'st ride
After the flying foe? Forbear! stand still!
With Heaven the awful work divide!
Leave Heaven thy triumph to fulfil
Uprise in wrath, ye faithful English seas,
In sleepless wrath 'gainst England's enemies!
O stormy winds, for England rage!
O angry waves, for England roar!
More mightily her warfare wage!
More terribly her vengeance pour!
Not in one brief blast your fierce wrath expend!
The flying foe with lash unweary rend,
And on his doleful flight heap horrors to the end!

Shriek on, Armada tossed and torn,
Along that dreary way forlorn!

152

Each dreadful day glut with rich spoil
The mighty maw of that grim deep!
Bequeath a wreck to every isle—
A fragment leave on every steep!
List how those Northern floods do clap their hands,
And with glad roar thine overthrow proclaim!
Howl forth thyself thine Antichrist's huge shame
In the glad ear of all those Northern lands!
Let frozen Thule witness bear!
Let Norway's rocks thy trappings wear!
On Scotland relics of thy rout bestow—
With Mona leave a witness of thy woe!
Yes, cast thy mangled, quivering limbs beneath
Those columns on Ierne's shore sublime,
And with the ruins of thy glory wreathe
Their majesty unmovëd through all time!
To wondering, wailing Spain restore
Her stricken strength, her blasted bloom;

153

Bid Philip's sombre soul explore
A deep of more exceeding gloom!
Tell Antichrist how ill hath fared his freight,
What bane hath with his blessing been,
What glory on his foes doth wait,
How feasts the abhorrëd Isle, how smiles the accursëd Queen!

Ring forth sweet solemn mirth, redeemëd Isle!
Let the salvation its full joy impart!
O meekness of thy bright, triumphant smile!
O lowliness of thine uplifted heart!
With bowëd knees thyself confess
But glorious in the Lord's own glory;
Ring forth with gladsome humbleness
The full divineness of the story!
Sing how thy fiery rush He stayed;
Sing how thy sword aside He laid!
Sing how alone He smote for thee,
And with the strength of His stirred sea

154

Won for Himself and thee the victory!
Send forth thy soul on high
With the majestic maid's upturnëd eye,
And Heavenward offer thy melodious breath,
While glow the lips of thine Elizabeth!
Round thy dilated form more proudly press
The shining folds of Freedom's raiment bright,
Those robes that gleam with a more glorious light
For Spain's vain ruffling of their gorgeousness!
Deep in thy heart more dearly entertain
Those shinings sweet of Truth, more heavenly fair
Now Antichrist hath reached his arm in vain
Her glorious presence from thy soul to tear!
Yes, glow they not with an augmented shine,
Those blest leaves of that open Word Divine
So grandly guarded for these eyes of thine!
O rolling ages! ne'er the joy efface!
O Latter Days! ne'er, ne'er forget the grace!

155

Still, England, let the peril make
More bright, more blest, thy golden while;
Still sweet let the salvation break
From thy glad lips, high-thronëd Isle!
Yes, wear this splendour of imperial power,
Gleam glorious in these robes of liberty,
With deeper joy in thy diviner dower,
The Truth that made thee great and kept thee free!

The Marquis of Santa Cruz, whom death removed from the chief command of the Armada just before it set sail, Martin Recalde or Calde the vice-admiral and others, took part in Lepanto' fight. (See list of the Lepanto fleet in vol. ii. p. 422, cl. seq. of Shute's translation of Fongasse's History of Venice, (1612).

Alexander Farnese, Duke of Parma, the greatest captain of the age, was to transport 30,000 men from Flanders across the Channel.

Elizabeth at Tilbury Fort.

The eight fire-ships with which the Armada was assailed as it lay before Calais.

The Isle of Man.

The Giant's Causeway.

156

November 22.

SAINT CECILIA.

Of all the creature-souls whose light
Has stolen too much of mortal gazing;
Of all the Usurping Ones whose height
Has been advanced too near the Infinite,
Whom men have hallowed with too rich a raising;
Our souls do gladdest pardon find for thee,
Celestial Saint Cecily!
Sweet heed unto thy marvels may be given,
And mortal listeners dwell the more in Heaven.
In the First Fair's own radiancy,
Sweet Ministrant, thou enspherest me

157

Upborne above the fond idolatry
That felt thee all divine,
Nor stinted prayer, nor sparëd shrine,
But bowed its glowing soul, bright Cecily, 'neath thine.

O thou from whose sweet, sovereign soul
The awful organ came,
Cecilia, most melodious name,
Did not kind Heaven
On thee as in a nectar-chargëd bowl
Its sweetness all outpour?
Could ever soul hold more?
Not one bright Heaven thine own—in thee lay all the Seven!
Not dumb to thee those tuneful Spheres,
O not too high for thee the starry strain!
For once they did not sing in vain,
The immortal song streamed through the mortal ears.
Thou couldst prevail upen their harmony

158

To come and stay with thee,
Couldst send it forth divinely thus;
Thine Organ, sovereign Saint, our Spheres Harmonious!

Yes, Heaven with thee would ever stay,
Celestial Cecilia!
O! was there error in that angel's dwelling
In the clear strains from thy deep soul outwelling,
As in the harmony from all Heaven swelling,
As in the music of the sky?
Small wonder that thine awful organ won
His soul to such divine oblivion
Of the divineness there on high!
The Heavenly One could find
His Heaven with thee;
The Harmonious Angel joined
The music of mortality.
This earth of thine he felt not dim;
Thy glory was enough for him.

159

Nor mourned he from the Seraphim away,
Nor sighed he for the pure-eyed Cherubim,
But felt it more delight to stay
And take his Heaven from thee, divine Cecilia!

And he was of the Blissful Throng!
And he had helped the Eternal Song.
O! then, what wonder, Saint, that we
Poor mortal folk, in thy sweet company
Do quite forget our earth as his bright dwelling he—
That we sad ones, that we sinners
Seize the Heaven thine organ brings,—
That thou dost make us weaklings winners
Of heavenly heights and angel wings?
O! here we need not stay.
Take, take us Heavenward, kind Cecilia!
Thou openest all the realms afar,
Thy finger points, thy rapture leads;
Thou fetchest forth the fiery car,
Thou yokest the immortal steeds!

160

O those streams of solemn sound!
That sweet awfulness around!
O that deep adoring hymn!
O that hour divinely dear!
On, on, glad soul, ascend!
Of mounting make no end!
O that Earth so very dim!
O this Heaven so strangely near!

Cecilia! art thou sovereign here
Amidst mortality?
O keepest thou such glorious cheer
Where men do weep and die?
O! here, O! here, can such divineness come
Down at thy sweet command?
O! can thy strains build up our Heavenly Home
Here in the Pilgrim Land?
Can the divine confederacy
Of organ and of hymn
Uplift our earth-bound souls on high
Close to the Seraphim?

161

O then, where Seraphim do sing and shine,
There, 'neath the Heavenly Lover's smile divine,
What cheer sublime, sweet Cecily, thou makest!
On what enamoured ears at home thou breakest!
There where no song is sadder for one sigh,
There where no sins do make our music mourn,
There where each melody is gladness-born,
Where all the music is an ecstasy,—
There, there, seraphic Cecily,
No end of thy melodious empery!
There amidst all life divine,
How doth thy harmonious soul
Its sweetness all unroll,
And Heaven grow twofold Heaven at every strain of thine!

162

December 7.

THE GOOD OLD CAUSE.

[_]

On this day, 1683, Algernon Sidney, ere he laid his head upon the block, gave the sheriff a paper ending with a prayer, whereof these are the last words:

“Bless thy people and save them. Defend Thine own cause and defend those that defend it. Stir up such as are faint; direct those that are willing; confirm those that waver; give wisdom and integrity to all. Order all things so as may most redound to Thine own glory. Grant that I may die glorifying Thee for all Thy mercies; and that at the last Thou hast permitted me to be singled out as a witness of Thy truth, and even by the confession of my opposers, for that Old Cause in which I was from my youth engaged, and for which Thou hast often and wonderfully declared Thyself.”

O! ne'er on waiting souls hath ceased the Fire Divine to drop;
Still, still have mighty men stepped forth to take Heaven's burden up.

163

The Lord hath willed His work below should linger not nor pause:
O! faithful hearts, O! valiant hands ne'er failed the Good Old Cause.

O! England, sing thy glorious song! with solemn joy rejoice!
Of English hearts, of English hands, the Lord made chiefest choice:
He armed it with thy liberty, He fenced it with thy laws,
He took thee for its sword and shield, that glorious Good Old Cause.

The Good Old Cause! in English souls the thought sublime first woke;
The Good Old Cause! from English lips the glorious sound first broke:
To spend on it their valiancy upsprang thy men of might;

164

To lay their lustre at its feet beamed forth thy sons of light.

It gathered strength as fell the stroke that rent the Papal chain,
Its helpers true those wrathful blasts that smote the ships of Spain:
In vain abroad would foeman strike, at home would traitor sting;
It marched sublime o'er vanquished priest, o'er shamëd, smitten king.

It blazed in Milton's burning page, from Oliver's bright sword,
It armed those righters of the realm, those Seekers of the Lord:
God and the Cause! on Marston Moor uprose the conquering cry;
God and the Cause! o'er Naseby field it rang victoriously.

165

Full well they prayed, full well they fought, those warrior saints sublime,
And looked exulting for their Lord through the strange, awful time.
His cause was won! His work was done! come was His glorious day!
His Englishmen should greet Him first! His saints should bear the sway!

Too soon, too soon, this brightness due to latest time they asked;
Their England in too stern a guise her glorious children tasked.
Cold waxed that glowing heart of hers, that mighty hand grew slack,
And heedless of the Good Old Cause, she brought the Stuarts back.

Ah! traitors shamëd the proud land where heroes ruled of late,

166

And where the saints held solemn cheer, there harlots kept foul state:
But still in faithful English hearts the fire undying glowed,
And mighty yet, the Good Old Cause its martyr army showed.

'Midst dungeon gloom, on scaffolds grim, its solemn light beamed on:
O Vane unmoved! O Russell true! O steadfast Algernon!
Full pealed its cheerful trumpet-blast as dying Sidney prayed
That prayer divine that maketh still God's people strong and glad.

O noble blood that helpëd Earth! strong words that Heaven did hear!
For England and the Good Old Cause the Lord would still appear:

167

He stirrëd up great William's strength, the race accursed cast forth,
And glorified before the world this Island of the North.

Not vainly wrought she for the Cause, God's glory and her own;
She graved it in her Statute Book, she set it on her throne:
The land that best had served the Cause, its sacred banner bore,
And high uprose her shining front the nations all before.

O! sometimes with majestic port she bore that banner high—
Ah! sometimes in her slackened grasp it drooped ingloriously;
And others than tried Englishmen would fain that standard raise,

168

And put her glorious garments on, and take away her praise.

Ah shamëd splendour of those robes so vainly, vilely worn!
Ah banner their weak hands let fall, all stainëd and all torn!
The unwonted brightness blinded them, the unwonted burden tired;
Still English hearts, still English hands the Good Old Cause required.

They love it still! they guard it now! it smileth its best smile,
It keepeth still its ancient home, here in the imperial Isle.
O England! hold thy freedom fast, cleave close unto thy laws,
Nor stain the sword, nor drop the shield that guard the Good Old Cause!

169

December 9.

MILTON.

[_]

On this day, 1608, Milton was born.

“He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things, ought himself to be a true poem.”— Milton, Apology for Smectymnuus.

O! not to-day, mine England, with proud eye
Thy retinue of subject realms survey,
Nor set, for blazon of thy majesty,
Thy thousand years of freedom in array!
O gather round for royal robe to-day
The glory of thy sovereign spirit bright,
Yes, bathe in the full stream of thine own Milton's light!

Bright burst that golden river; on it went
Golden and glorious seaward from its spring.

170

O young, melodious soul, divinely bent
Thy myrrh and gold the Blessed Babe to bring,
Almost the harmonious angels to outsing!
Meet service for that stainless youth of thine
To greet the Holy Child, to hymn the Birth Divine!

O! dweller bright in England's happy vales,
How steeped her fragrant breath thy heart! how stole
Thy strain the sweet song of her nightingales,
The full bloom of her roses! how thy soul
Its glory o'er her woodlands would unroll,
People their green paths with heroic grace,
And build 'midst their thick glooms fair Virtue's Holy Place!

But lo! thine England blazed with sacred ire

171

And burned with Heavenward hope. The Lord stood by.
Full fell that awful flame, that holy fire
Into thine English heart; thine eagle eye
Bathed in that streaming Heavenborn radiancy!
O quick thy soul those steps divine to trace, And with a burst of praise greet each New Birth of Grace!

O burning lips for England's weal ablaze!
O stricken eyes o'erwrought for love of her!
O Prophet of those solemn, sacred days,
Whose voice rang sweetly thro' that prayerful air,
Nor shamëd those strong strokes of Oliver!
Lo! awful swayed her mightiest Man of Might,
Lo! beamy near him walked her sovereign Soul of Light.

172

And when her heart waxed faint, her fire burnëd low,
When sate the glory on her face no more,
Thy steadfast soul unlearnëd not its glow
Nor drooped its wings. O! stronger then to soar,
O then inspired its heavenliest strain to pour,
Oblivious of that shrunken England dim
'Midst angel-harpings sweet and smiles of Seraphim!

And for those sightless orbs bloomed Heaven's own flowers,
And Hell before those quenchëd eyes lay bare;
And those imprisoned feet through Eden's bowers
Rejoiced to wander free and linger there.
Anon he parted from the fallen pair
To walk with Him who laid their conqueror low,
And breathëd o'er the waste, “the happy Garden's” glow.

173

O! Bird of Heaven, whose wings sublime outsoared
Each mortal pinion most adventurous,
The ringing sweetness of whose voice o'erpowered
All mortal voices most melodious!
Nor this thy harmony most marvellous!
O rhythmic life, divinely linkëd years
That kept majestic time with the Harmonious Spheres!

And, England, thou this soul supreme didst bear;
In thy blest air this sovereign singer soared:
O crown, O purple which thou aye shall wear,
Though in thy quiver realms no more lie stored,
And Ocean murmur 'neath another lord;
Imperial still in thine own Milton's right,
Still beamy with his beams, still mighty with his might!

He wrote the Hymn to the Morning of the Nativity at twenty-one.

The Arcades, L'Allegro, Il Penseroso, written during his village life at Horton.

The Lady in Comus.

Prose Works, passim.

Impressa passim divina vestigia venerantes.— Defensio pro Populo Anglicano, Præfat.

The Defence of the English People cost him his eyes.

174

December 10.

LUTHER.

[_]

On this day, 1520, Luther burned at Wittenberg the bull which Leo X. had issued against him.

“When I recall to mind, at last, after so many dark ages, wherein the huge overshadowing train of error had almost swept all the stars out of the firmament of the Church, how the bright and blissful Reformation by divine power, struck through the black and settled night of ignorance and anti-christian tyranny, methinks a sovereign and reviving joy must needs rush into the bosom of him that reads or hears, and the sweet odour of the returning gospel imbathe his soul with the fragrancy of Heaven.”— Milton, Reformation in England, Bk. i.

O Day-Break! doth to thee belong
A glow above all splendours bright?
O bird of morning! soars thy song
With ringing fulness of delight?
O breeze of dawn! dost thou bequeath
A life more fine, more full, more free?
O flowers of morning! do ye breathe
A subtle, sovereign fragrancy?

175

But O that sweeter, that diviner dawn!
O fuller cheer of that more glorious morn,
When full on Christendom's long dullëd gaze
Broke the clear glory of her half-seen Sun;
When right into her heart the Saviour shone
And smote her deeps of darkness into day;
Nor set her mountain-tops alone ablaze,
Nor only on her towers all golden lay,
But through each lonely valley streamed,
But on each lowly cottage gleamed,
Yes, made her all aglow and glad,
All o'er again in orient lustre clad!
O sweeter, more melodious dawn, that heard
The mighty music of the unsealëd Word,
When full and clear
On Christendom's long deafened ear
The Voice Divine, divinely heeded, rang,
And to her inmost soul the Spirit sweetly sang!

O soaring soul, enjoy thy flight;

176

Bathe in the blessëd morning light;
In tender ecstasy prolong
The sweetness of thy morning song!
Again explore
With thine own wings the boundless realm of Grace!
Once more, once more
Meet thine own Heavenly Lover face to face!
Once more rejoice
To hear the very tones of His own gracious voice!
Again, again
Thyself the dear Redeemer entertain!
Back, Pontiff! His sweet smile no longer dim!
No more thy darkness thrust between His own and Him!
On, glad soul, all thy Lover's sweetness try,
Yes, full upon that tender bosom lie
In the meek rapture of thy new-won liberty!

Ah! mournfully didst thou remain

177

Long ages in the House of Bondage drear?
Bitter and idle was the pain
Of servile tasks wrought out in servile fear?
Ah! sadly were those bootless burdens borne,
Those ignominious fetters sadly worn?
Amidst the gloom did thine o'ermastered eye
Forego its strong, far-reaching radiancy,
And feebly strain through those thick prison-bars
For glimpses few and faint of Heaven's sweet stars?
Didst thou forget thy soaring, all unlearn
The glory of thy long-disusëd wings,
And to a creeping thrall inglorious turn,
Weary and weak with vain endeavourings?
Ah! baleful glared that towering throne, whereon
A sinful weakling veiled the Eternal Son?
O then, exulting Christendom, lift high
This blessed marvel of thy liberty!
O bless the hand thy Lord made strong
That hold to storm, that throne to shake,
Those bars to burst, those chains to break,

178

To lead thee smiling forth and wake
Thine everlasting song!
Glow with thine awful Luther as he blazed
Down the dull glare of princedoms and of thrones,
And rang in ears of potentates amazed
The majesty of Truth's imperial tones!
Smile on thy Luther as he dauntless smote
That brow, whereon the awe of ages sate,
And on this day in flame far-reaching wrote
Woe to the Babylonian potentate!
Smile as the doomer he disdainful doomed,
And Antichrist's loud curse in scornful fire entombed!
Repeat the full defiance of that flame!
Enjoy the dear deliverance of that fire!
The pureness of thy early faith reclaim!
The glory of thy young, bright days require!

O Apostolic Flames, burn clear again!

179

O Apostolic Splendours, glow as when
Ye drank directly from the Incarnate Light,
And make the world once more divinely bright!
O Soul supreme, transcendent Paul,
O sovereign Splendour, Flame imperial,
Leap forth again upon the long, long gloom
That grew as though thou ne'er hadst kindled Christendom!
Return into her midst, return!
Again for ruin and renewal burn!
The rottenness of dead works once more consume,
O'er heaps of mouldering forms destroying sweep,
From shrivelled rite to rite devouring leap!
From waiting soul to soul divinely flow!
Set Christendom once more with very Heaven aglow!
Bright by thy Luther's side thou beamest;
Full from those burning lips thou streamest,
With that tremendous arm thou smitest.
In that victorious fight thou fightest.

180

O sovereign soarer in the air of Grace,
O strong-winged eagle of our Jove divine,
Again His charge to thee is given,
Again thou sweepest down the Heaven,
And bearest on those mighty wings of thine
His earth-bound darlings to their Lord's embrace.

O Seers in the thick, thick dark,
On whom the glory broke e'en then,
Too early bright for angry men
In love with darkness, smile to mark
This grand, victorious Luther bright
With the very splendour of your light,
And your own dawn divine become
The golden noon of Christendom!
O souls beneath the altar, martyr throng,
Stay your keen cry “How long, O Lord, how long?”
Yes, drown it in the sweetness of your song!
Ring forth with Luther, when his voice outrung
The dwindled thunder of the Pontiff's ire—

181

Reach forth your hands with Luther's, as he flung
The shrivelled curse of Rome into that famous fire!
O smile and sing your innocent blood to know
At length requirëd of the Roman foe!
But gladlier mark, where that rich blood has poured
Its blessed rain, a garden of the Lord
With fadeless flowers abloom, with fruits eternal stored.

Win from this deep-voiced day, O Time,
A more divine, melodious flow;
In the track of Luther's steps sublime
Along thy path more glorious go!
March to a swelling strain, ye after Ages!
On your more shining fronts proclaim
The glow of that renewing flame!
Stream forth, ye stronger souls, ye more majestic Sages!
Flame forth, of fairer light ye fuller Bringers!
Ring forth, ye mightier, more melodious Singers!

182

Pour on the world a broader splendour drawn
From the divineness of this rosy dawn!
More heights, more depths pass over,
A more adventurous band!
New worlds of light discover!
New realms of gold command!
Ah drooping, dwindling generations
That thrust away this light divine!
O rich-robed, high-enthronëd nations
That drink in glad this blessed shine!
O England, highest placed, arrayed most finely,
That drankest in the splendour so divinely,
Outgleam each rich-robed nation still;
These glad-voiced nations all outsing!
Their choral hymn its swell sublimest bring,
With thine imperial voice the harmony fulfil!

Ye lowly souls, no longer kept away
By Priest and Pontiff from the Fount of Day,

183

With the one Presence Bright all golden,
By the one Mighty Arm upholden,
Bathed in the happy, odorous air of Grace,
Glowing and glorious from your Lord's embrace;
Linger melodious o'er this day divine!
Wait with enamoured breath
On this New Birth of Faith,
And to the world's glad strain your happy murmurs join!

O Ages yet to come, unfold
The exhaustless grace of this transcendent day!
O Ages yet to come, uphold
This stately strain ne'er, ne'er to die away!
Your crowning smile from this bright day require,
And fetch your holier heat from that renewing fire!
The glory of this song advance
With more melodious resonance,
Till those glad murmurs, musical even below,
Rise to the heavenly height, and win the eternal flow!

Luther appeared before the Emperor and princes of Germany at the Diet of Worms, 1521.

184

December 11.

THE PILGRIM FATHERS.

[_]

On this day, 1620, the Puritan Voyagers on board the May Flower landed on the New England coast where Plymouth now stands.

“Let Thy work appear unto Thy servants, and Thy glory unto their children.”— Psalm xc. 16.

Mid that drear winter, from that stormy sea,
The Pilgrims passëd to that barren shore:
No field, no stream remembered tenderly,
No city bright a smile of welcome wore.
Their weary ears oppressed by ocean's roar,
No sweet familiar sounds were there to bless;
Into that desert drear their all they bore:
They came their souls in freedom to possess,
To wait upon their Lord there in the wilderness.

185

They came from happy fields, from streams beloved,
From smiling homesteads for their Lord's dear sake.
Would not the Presence Bright that with them moved
Shine over them beside strange stream and lake,
Their Father-Land the unknown desert make?
O stern their toil! yet would He set at nought
The travail sore He bade them undertake?
O! would He not appear in what they wrought?
The Task-Master Divine their tears, their toil they brought.

They dreamed not of the glory that would be;
They dreamed not of the nation to be born;
They dreamed not of the noontide majesty
That would blaze forth from their beclouded morn.
Not by Hope's glowing fingers forth were drawn
The cities bright which throng that lonely shore,
The robes imperial by their children worn,
The golden gifts those deserts drear outpour,
The fulness of the strength, the fulness of the store!

186

Not by this splendour were ye gladsome made,
Ye needed not to dream this golden dream,
O Pilgrims of the Lord! ye only prayed
His awful eye full on your work to beam.
The mighty births wherewith your toil might teem
Your eyes required not: O rich overflow
Of glorious cheer your work divine to deem,
His pleasure in your travail sore to know,
At His command to toil, beneath His smile to glow!

O lowly plight whence majesty has streamed!
O awful weakness that has grown to might!
O sires in sackcloth clad, on earth misdeemed,
Whose children rule so wide and gleam so bright!
O People of the West! no mean delight
So dear a day, so high a birth requires;
Look up unto your fathers' holy height,
And purge your spirits with the sacred fires
That burnëd in the souls of the great Pilgrim Sires!

187

December 25.

CHRISTMAS DAY.

O Winter dark and bare!
Who giveth thee to wear
Rich raiment that beseemeth Summer bright?
O pale abhorrëd Guest!
What makes thy coming blest?
O charmless one! how bringest thou delight?
What maketh thy dull eye to shine,
And o'er thy face forlorn spreads a sweet smile divine?

O Winter stern and grim!
Why glows Earth's gladdest hymn

188

Amidst the keenness of thine icy blast?
Why ringeth Man's best cheer
Full on thy silence drear?
Why stream his smiles as thy snow falleth fast?
In Earth's dead hour, o'er Nature's tomb,
Why breaketh forth the heart into full Summer bloom?

O Lord of Glory bright!
From thy descending light
The gloom of Winter learneth this strange glow:
O Heavenly Lover dear!
O Bringer of all cheer!
Thou makest golden while of Nature's woe;
Pale Winter suns his face forlorn
In the full majesty of this thrice-blessed morn.

Not on sweet vernal flowers,
Not on bright Summer hours

189

More bloom, more beauty doth thy birthday shed.
Thy full-orbed brightness streameth
When the sun faintly beameth;
Thou bringest bloom when flowers are witherëd;
Thou mak'st the songless air to thrill,
Thy gladsome bells ring forth when every bird is still.

Thou who our flesh didst take,
Thou who our chains didst break,
Thou who our tears didst weep, our death didst die!
Thou who didst bear our sin,
Thou who our Heaven didst win,
Thou who dost keep those mansions fair on high!
Thou who the Vale of Tears didst bless,
Thou who wouldst robe our souls in thine own holiness;

Thou bringest Winter bare
Bright Summer's golden hair,

190

Thou teachest his grim face a smile divine;
In Thee our mirth is sweet;
Beneath Thy Mercy Seat
We build a Bower of Bliss and call it Thine;
What joy may fill our hearts, nor swell
Into a soaring song for our Emmanuel?

191

December 27.

SAINT JOHN.

“Little children, love one another.”—Saint John.

O Year, that on these trembling strains hast laid
The glorious burden of thy days sublime,
And to this listening, panting soul conveyed
Each murmur of thy many-voicëd chime!

O steep this latest strain in heavenly fire!
Yes, yield me last a murmur from the sky!
From my rapt soul's divinest deep require
For Love Divine her parting melody!

192

O Singer with the smile of Freedom bright,
With glory of the Father-Land aglow,
Clasped in their guardian arms by men of might,
And bathed in beams from Souls of Light that flow;

Burn in the fire that steeped this Soul of Love!
Lean on his bosom on the Lord's who leant;
And win from those sweet words the Heavenly Dove
Last breathëd through his lips, melodious ravishment!

O Spirit! bid their boundless sweetness flow
Into the rapture of this burning hymn!
Shed on this parting strain the lingering glow
Warm from his lips ere ranked with lips of Seraphim!

Ye whom the glory of each day has found
Not loth to render entertainment meet,
O linger those love-laden lips around!
Drink in the tender Spirit's breathing sweet!

193

O tremble not heroic air to breathe!
Not to one Holy Ground your feet confine!
But linger on the holiest—dwell beneath
The unending glory of the glow divine.

O days sublime! our slightness ye reprove;
Ye teach our hearts some strain of music high;
But every day may learn the lore of Love,
May murmur back the Spirit's melody!

Your noble music Heaven may not prolong;
In your glad strains the angels may not join;
But through the Eternal Day shall ring Love's song,
And take from heavenly lips a sweetness more divine!

The End.