Poems By Frederick William Faber: Third edition |
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| XX. |
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| XXV. | XXV. THE BEGINNING OF TERM. |
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| XXVII. |
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| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
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| LXX. |
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| LXXV. |
| LXXVI. |
| LXXVII. |
| LXXVIII. |
| LXXIX. |
| LXXX. |
| LXXXI. |
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| LXXXV. |
| LXXXVI. |
| LXXXVII. |
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| LXXXIX. |
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| CIX. |
| CX. |
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| CXIX. |
| CXX. |
| CXXI. |
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| CXXIII. |
| CXXIV. |
| CXXV. |
| CXXVI. |
| CXXVII.. |
| CXXVIII. |
| CXXIX. |
| CXXX. |
| CXXXI. |
| CXXXII. |
| CXXXIII. |
| CXXXIV. |
| CXXXV. |
| CXXXVI. |
| CXXXVII. |
| CXXXVIII. |
| CXXXIX. |
| CXL. |
| CXLI. |
| CXLII. |
| CXLIII. |
| CXLIV. |
| CXLV. |
| CXLVI. |
| CXLVII. |
| CXLVIII. |
| CXLIX. |
| CL. |
| CLI. |
| CLII. |
| CLIII. |
| CLIV. |
| CLV. |
| CLVI. |
| CLVII. |
| CLVIII. |
| CLIX. |
| CLX. |
| CLXI. |
| CLXII. |
| CLXIII. |
| CLXIV. |
| CLXV. |
| CLXVI. |
| CLXVII. |
| CLXVIII. |
| CLXIX. |
| CLXX. |
| CLXXI. |
| CLXXII. |
| CLXXIII. |
| CLXXIV. |
| CLXXV. |
| CLXXVI. |
| CLXXVII. |
| CLXXVIII. |
 | Poems |  |
150
XXV. THE BEGINNING OF TERM.
Dear City! far in hollow hills,
And kept awake by flooded rills,
This night I hear the many feet
That pace thy steeple-shadowed street,
The tide of youth in merry going
Beneath the college windows flowing:
And strange, most strange it seems to me
At such an hour far off to be.
I miss the evening thronged with greeting,
The tumult of the autumnal meeting,
When every face is fresh of hue,
As though its life began anew.
I almost wonder not to hear
Some chosen voices speaking near.
My very hand the air doth grasp
In pressure kind or burning clasp:
While with a pleasant, solemn strain
The chapel bell wakes up again.
And still to my believing eyes
St. Mary's shadow seems to rise,
All gently cast o'er every sense
With its old wonted influence,
Wherewith it hallowed many a night
My ramblings in the cold moonlight;
And thrills of joy and thoughts of good
Were deepened by its neighborhood.
And kept awake by flooded rills,
This night I hear the many feet
That pace thy steeple-shadowed street,
The tide of youth in merry going
Beneath the college windows flowing:
And strange, most strange it seems to me
At such an hour far off to be.
I miss the evening thronged with greeting,
The tumult of the autumnal meeting,
When every face is fresh of hue,
As though its life began anew.
I almost wonder not to hear
Some chosen voices speaking near.
My very hand the air doth grasp
In pressure kind or burning clasp:
While with a pleasant, solemn strain
The chapel bell wakes up again.
And still to my believing eyes
St. Mary's shadow seems to rise,
All gently cast o'er every sense
With its old wonted influence,
Wherewith it hallowed many a night
My ramblings in the cold moonlight;
And thrills of joy and thoughts of good
Were deepened by its neighborhood.
151
And is it well that I should stand
Apart in this sweet mountain-land?
Oh! is it well that I should be
Away from cares that chasten me,
Away from men whose pattern still
Could shame me out of weak self-will,
Away from warnings which could bless
And nurture me in holiness?
And is it not a wilful loss
To be unburdened of a Cross?
And in the life which I am living
Is there no fountain of misgiving?
Yet, ere I left, the path did seem
Clear as a steady, shining beam;
And to my vision there were leadings,
And in my spirit there were pleadings,
Which were impressed upon my sense
As very seals of Providence.
Ah! in a hundred little things,
Like wavings of an Angel's wings,
Far gleamy lights, dim beckonings,
Methought it was in mercy given
To trace the guiding thread of Heaven.
Apart in this sweet mountain-land?
Oh! is it well that I should be
Away from cares that chasten me,
Away from men whose pattern still
Could shame me out of weak self-will,
Away from warnings which could bless
And nurture me in holiness?
And is it not a wilful loss
To be unburdened of a Cross?
And in the life which I am living
Is there no fountain of misgiving?
Yet, ere I left, the path did seem
Clear as a steady, shining beam;
And to my vision there were leadings,
And in my spirit there were pleadings,
Which were impressed upon my sense
As very seals of Providence.
Ah! in a hundred little things,
Like wavings of an Angel's wings,
Far gleamy lights, dim beckonings,
Methought it was in mercy given
To trace the guiding thread of Heaven.
But now my doubting spirit fails,
And from past faults a mist exhales,
Clouding the radiant track which showed,
As then I deemed, the heavenly road.
And every stone, whereon I thought
Some lustrous token had been wrought,
Some bright inscription, surely given
For faith's interpreting from Heaven,—
Though carved with broken letters still,
Appears the work of past self-will.
What did as Angel's foot-prints gleam,
Unholy imitations seem;
And signs, which have not changed, display
Their characters another way,
And every fact the mind can bring
Confirms the new interpreting.
Oh Brother! when thou fain wouldst range
From place to place, from change to change,
Take not for heavenly light the glow
Self-will can o'er the prospect throw.
Sin is a prophet, who can cast
Unerring light upon the past,
But on the future makes to shine
False sparkles which appear divine.
And from past faults a mist exhales,
Clouding the radiant track which showed,
As then I deemed, the heavenly road.
And every stone, whereon I thought
Some lustrous token had been wrought,
Some bright inscription, surely given
For faith's interpreting from Heaven,—
Though carved with broken letters still,
Appears the work of past self-will.
152
Unholy imitations seem;
And signs, which have not changed, display
Their characters another way,
And every fact the mind can bring
Confirms the new interpreting.
Oh Brother! when thou fain wouldst range
From place to place, from change to change,
Take not for heavenly light the glow
Self-will can o'er the prospect throw.
Sin is a prophet, who can cast
Unerring light upon the past,
But on the future makes to shine
False sparkles which appear divine.
| Poems | |