Lyra Pastoralis :: :: University of Virginia Library

I traced a little brook to its well-head,
Where, amid quivering weeds, its waters leap
From the earth, and, hurrying into shadow, creep
Unseen but vocal in their deep-worn bed.
Hawthorns and hazels interlacing wed
With roses sweet, and overhang the steep
Moss'd banks, while through the leaves stray sunbeams peep,
And on the whispering stream faint glimmerings shed.
Thus let my life flow on, through green fields gliding,
Unnoticed not unuseful in its course,
Still fresh and fragrant, though in shadow hiding,
Holding its destined way with quiet force,
Cheered with the music of a peace abiding,
Drawn daily from its ever-springing source.

Undersongs

Not to the thunder of the mighty sea
Which on some rocky shore majestic breaks,
But to the whisper of the stream that takes
Its quiet course along the grassy lea;
Not to the gusty wind which from the tree
Its wealth of golden tresses rudely shakes,
But to the gentle-pinioned breeze that wakes
The Summer flowers, my harp-strings answer free.
And there are listening ears in these loud days,
And hearts sequestered from the rushing throng,
To catch and welcome Nature's softest lays;
God made the sweet things as He made the strong;
Not storm and wind alone proclaim His praise,
But breath of breeze and streamlet's undersong.

Nature; or, The Minstrel
[_]

[2 Kings III. 15]

“Bring me a minstrel,” was the prophet's cry;
And when with soothing strains “the minstrel played,”
The prophet's spirit like a harp was swayed,
And God's own will swept o'er him from on high.

Nature, be thou my minstrel, ever nigh
To minister thy tranquillizing aid:
At sultry noontide or in evening shade,
Lend me thy solace when I droop or sigh.
Play to me, minstrel, in the whispering wind,
The rippling water, and the rustling tree,
And smooth and harmonize the ruffled mind:
Then speak, Lord, by Thy Spirit sweet and free,
And a receptive listener Thou shalt find,
Maker and God of Nature and of me!

The Springs

LONDESBOROUGH PARK

“Ille terrarum mihi præter omnes Angulus ridet.”
Horace (Od. ii. 6)

A grassy hill with beeches crowned
Throws its encircling arms around
My own peculiar nook of ground.

No chilly breath of wandering air
From North or East can touch me there
E'en when the sheltering trees are bare.

There the first violets washed in dew
Come shyly faltering forth to view
And half disclose their glances blue.

And there in turn the spotless May
Puts on her fresh and fair array
And sweetly challenges the day.

Till soon the wild-rose shows his face,
And crown'd with an all-conquering grace
Shines the brief monarch of the place.

And in that sylvan combe are heard
The dulcet notes of many a bird
To vernal mirth and music stirred.

While from deep hidden springs below
Fountains of living water flow
And make soft murmurings as they go;

Then to a peaceful mere expand,
Where patient herons take their stand,
And teal disport, a timid band.

And the swift kingfisher is seen
Flashing its blue and orange sheen
Upon the glassy wave serene.

The silent swan its arch of snow
And mantling pride steers to and fro,
Repeated with a wavering glow;

While coots and moorhens round it play,
And wild ducks light with splash and spray,
And swallows glide and dip all day.

Hither Spring's early birds are blown:
Here through the Summer doves make moan:
And Autumn robin mourns alone.

The fading elms which cluster round
To guard the water's azure bound
Mirror their gold in depths profound.

Each yellow leaf in sunshine sweet
Floats down a phantom-leaf to meet
Through the blue wave upspringing fleet.

And when the beech and elms are bare
The banded spruce stand watching there,
Their changeless verdure imaged fair.

So many charms are here displayed
As if this pleasant place were made
For “a green thought in a green shade.”

The seasons here on circling wing
Reflections bright perforce must bring,
Like flowers that bloom and birds that sing.

On Nature's face who loves to look
In such a calm sequestered nook
Must gather lore from God's fair book.

Andrew Marvell.

Nature the Healer

Once more this solitary place I seek
To soothe a heart disturbed by care and sorrow;
From Nature's face and voice once more to borrow
The comfort which the Master bids her speak.
No trouble taints the white and red which streak
Her blossoms, all oblivious of to-morrow:
Her careless birds rebuke the frequent furrow
Stampt on man's anxious brow and altering cheek.
What healing thoughts they whisper, these wild roses,
With their sweet breath and calm contented look;
These birds, with their fine trills and falls and closes,
Spread their own gladness through this sunny nook;
And once again my solaced heart reposes
On Heavenly lessons culled from Nature's book.

Warp and Woof

I mark the insects as in mazy dance
With twinkling motion up and down they glide;
While, through the heedless throng, from side to side,
The busy swallows on swift pinions glance.

From right to left the purple foe advance,
And, true as tilting knights, make havoc wide:
But still the dancing column is supplied
With eager wings undaunted by mischance.
The air is fragrant with white hawthorn-bloom,
As here on Nature's warp and woof I gaze
Of mingled life and death, brightness and gloom;
And when I muse on Earth's perplexing ways,
One thought can sweeten, cheer them, and illume,
That Love's hand weaves the mystery of our days.

October

I wandered by a lonely woodland pool
In the still light of an October day:
The trees stood robed in colours of decay,
Which tinged that glassy mirror, calm and cool.
Mild Autumn called me to her tranquil school,
That I might learn a seasonable lay—
The soothing message of her softer ray,
The tender meaning of her gentle rule.
“Life's Autumn duly prize,” she seemed to say,
“Nor mourn the fading years which breathe of rest;

What though the green tree borders not thy way,
The red may yet be mirrored in thy breast;
A milder sunshine round thy footsteps play,
And with a deeper calm thy days be blest!”

The Summer of Saint Luke

[October 18]

When slowly sinks the fading year,
And early falls the shortening day,
There comes a season crisp and clear,
And decked in beautiful array:
The redbreast sings from the red spray
A song contented and serene;
And smiling to its artless lay
The Summer of Saint Luke is seen

A painter was Saint Luke, I hear,
And I believe 'tis as they say;
Such colours gleam from tree and mere,
Such rainbow hues around us play:
They flash on us by wood and way,
Crimson and orange, brown and green;
O'er hill and dale, where'er we stray,
The Summer of Saint Luke is seen.

Physician, too, devout and dear,
So holy books our saint portray:
And such he doth e'en now appear,
Touching our hearts with healing ray:

He drives depressing thoughts away,
And where dull mists and rains have been,
Lo brightness comes and sunbeams stay—
The Summer of Saint Luke is seen.

Friend, art thou withered, old and grey?
Not always shalt thou droop, I ween:
Heaven respite sends thee, if thou pray—
The Summer of Saint Luke is seen!

The Sparrow

A sparrow lighted chirping on a spray
Close to my window, as I knelt in prayer,
Bowed by a heavy load of anxious care.
The morn was bitter, but the bird was gay,
And seemed by cheery look and chirp to say—
What though the snow conceals my wonted fare,
Nor have I barn or storehouse anywhere,
Yet I trust Heaven e'en on a winter's day.
That little bird came like a wingèd text,
Fluttering from out God's Word to soothe my breast:
What though my life with wintry cares be vext,
On a kind Father's watchful love I rest;
He meets this moment's need, I leave the next,
And, always trusting, shall be always blest!

Set to music by the Rev. Sir F. Gore Ouseley, Bart., late Professor of Music in the University of Oxford (Novello).

The Swallows

Peaceful across the level lawn they glide,
O'er latticed shadows of the Summer trees,
Weaving short flights all day with careless ease,
As if for ever destined to abide
In this green nook. No thought of regions wide
Which they must traverse soon, of boisterous breeze,
Or league on league of far-resounding seas,
'Neath purple wing and snowy breast they hide.
Enough for them that now the skies are blue,
And food sufficient fills the humming air;
Of darker days they take no forward view:
Oh that their happy wisdom we could share,
And leave to-morrow to His faithful Word,
Who tells the flittings both of man and bird!

Butterflies

ON SEEING THE COLLECTION OF BRITISH BUTTERFLIES IN THE CABINETS OF MY FRIEND THE REV. F. O. MORRIS

In ordered sequence and of rainbow dyes,
Rank after rank, they passed before my view,
Our British Butterflies—bright with each hue
Of autumn leaf, fair flower, or sunset skies.

Prismatic tints they flash upon our eyes
From yonder Light of lights, Divine and true,
Who lends an insect's wing its gold or blue
Or purple, which all art of man outvies.
Thus yearly have these wingèd blooms unfurled
Their streaks and stains, each after its own kind,
Since first they fluttered o'er the new-made world—
Tiny reflections of the Eternal Mind,
Tokens that boundless Beauty reigns above,
Unchanging Order and exhaustless Love.

The Church-Tower and the Beech-Tree

Behind a leafy Summer screen—
A bright expanse of living green,
A glimpse of our church-tower is seen:

Only a glimpse can reach the eye
Through beechen branches broad and high—
A pinnacle against the sky.

Window and pier and all beside
The boughs of that huge beech-tree hide,
To left and right outstretching wide.

And in that green, umbrageous bower,
Which circles and conceals the tower,
Murmurs the dove in Summer hour:

And happy birds of various wing
Amongst the branches sit and sing
And make the holy echoes ring:

While Summer breezes whisper by,
And Summer sunshine floods the sky,
And all the leaves dance merrily.

We feel the touch of sylvan glee,
And gazing on the full-leaved tree
Forget the tower we do not see.

And thus in that huge beech-tree green
A symbol of the World is seen
Obscuring Heaven as with a screen—

As with a veil across the sky—
So thick that we can scarce descry
A glimmer of God's House on high;

While Pleasure's soothing voice is heard,
And sunny hours are lightly stirred
With music—as of Summer bird.

Alas! our very comforts hide
The glories of the further side—
Too soon our hearts are satisfied.

But Summer birds will cross the sea,
And Summer music silent be,
And winds will strip the great beech-tree.

Then through the branches brown and sere
Window and buttress will appear,
And day by day will show more clear;

Until the perfect tower is seen
Behind the rent, transparent screen—
No muffling leaves to intervene.

So when Earth's wingèd joys take flight,
And blessings wither from our sight,
And days are shorn of their delight:

When all Life's shelt'ring boughs are bare,
May we behold yon Temple fair
In strength and beauty standing there.

Welcome the storms which strip our bowers,
If we but see those golden towers,
And know, through Christ, that they are ours:

Let blasts of earthly care prevail,
Let earthly comforts fade and fail,
If Heav'n shines through the shattered veil!

The Mislethrush

CALLED ALSO THE STORM-COCK

O mislethrush, when winds sweep by,
And driving clouds obscure the sky—
Though not a leaf is seen around,
And not a flower bedecks the ground,
Thy voice is raised with storms to vie.

On some tall oak thou perchest high,
As if the tempest to defy;
Bravely thou sitt'st, with music crown'd,
O Mislethrush.

When thickening troubles round me sigh,
And not a flower of joy is nigh,
Let echoes of that song resound
Within me, till my heart be found
Fraught with thy hopeful minstrelsy,
O Mislethrush.

The Skylark

OR, A WELCOME TO SPRING

A truce at last to biting cold,
And cumbering wreaths of drifted snow;
The leaden clouds, asunder rolled,
Allow sweet Heaven its face to show:

The happy earth is all aglow
With sunbeams showered on hill and plain;
The lambs are in the fields below,
The lark is in the sky again!

On the tree tops, the chiff-chaff bold,
With cheery note flits to and fro,
Herald of melodies untold
Which April airs o'er ocean blow;
From faithful merle and mavis flow
The long-pent raptures of their strain,
And I too sing, as on I go,
“The lark is in the sky again.”

I dream no more that I am old,
No more I move with footstep slow;
The furrows on my brow unfold,
Am I not younger than I know?
Upon the cloud I see the bow
Which glorifies life's day of rain;
Amid the grass the violets grow;
The lark is in the sky again!

Oh, thank the Love to which we owe
The buoyant throb of heart and brain
Shall we be sad in Spring-time? No—
The lark is in the sky again!

The Chiff-Chaff's Message, heard in March

“Cheer up, cheer up!” it seems to say,
As lighting on some leafless spray,
It shakes its dissyllabic song,
And with small beak, but courage strong,
Charges the East-wind all the day.

“Soon will the Swallow round you play,
The Nightingale be on its way,
Blue skies and gladness come ere long,
Cheer up, cheer up!”

Such happy voice be mine, I pray,
Bleak hours to bless with sunny ray,
A comfort life's rough paths among;
Be mine to lighten pain and wrong,
Still letting fall a hopeful lay—
Cheer up, cheer up!

The Willow Warbler

Sweet, soft, and low, in wood and lane
The Willow Warbler weaves its chain
Of melody—a plaintive song
That seems to breathe of ancient wrong
And dimly-recollected pain.

Its melting cadences retain
Your ear again and yet again,
Through notes more clear and blithe and strong—
Sweet, soft, and low.

Thus after Life's most happy strain
A minor music will remain,
Recurring oft and lingering long,
And heard the gayest scenes among;
Of lost joys hinting not in vain—
Sweet, soft, and low.

The Kingfisher

OR, A HAPPY WEDDING OMEN

As from God's Book, at matin hour, she sought
Words strong to soothe a tremulous heart and true,
A sudden gleam of beauty met her view,
With sweetest promise, like the rainbow, fraught.
A flash of gold, to burnished brightness wrought,
Shone at her window, and then lightly flew
A living sapphire of resplendent hue,
As if its colour from the sky were caught.
And lo! a voice which whispered in her ear
Of seas unruffled and of halcyon days,
Serene the future, as the past was dear:
For “God is Love,” and “His are all our ways,”
The golden dawning and the noonday clear,
And morn to eventide shall utter praise.

The Turtle Dove

RECENTLY HEARD FOR THE FIRST TIME AT LONDESBOROUGH AMONG THE NEW PLANTATIONS

Green were the hills with freshly growing firs—
Each tree a pyramid or tapering spire—
Where birds might rest or nest at their desire—
When a new voice, brooding and crooning, stirs
The silence. Wondering I exclaim, 'Tis hers—
The Turtle Dove's—last comer of the choir
That charms our wolds. Oh, never shall I tire
Of thee, most soothing of our choristers.
Welcome, sweet symbol of the Heavenly Dove,
Whose voice made glad the fields of Palestine,
Whose form descended on the Lord of love:
Fain would we draw Thee, Visitor Divine,
To rest with us, by lives that point above,
And like green fir-trees in Thy presence shine.

Blue Wings and Brown

Blue wings delight in azure skies,
Not yellow leaves, and landscape drear;
A Summer friend, the swallow flies
The falling fortunes of the year.

No more that arrowy form we greet,
Crossing our path with sunny gleam,
Skimming along the village street,
Kissing its shadow in the stream.

Blue wings have traversed the blue deep,
Inconstant favourites changed their sky;
And now o'er fairer fields they sweep,
Which under lovelier azure lie.

Brown wings are true to the brown trees,
And 'mid the branches red and sere
Sit crimson breasts, and sing at ease,
Contented with the fading year.

A Winter friend, in snow and rain,
Flits Robin Redbreast to and fro,
He eyes us through the window-pane,
And brings a comfortable glow;

Blending with chastened fireside mirth,
And Christmas holly-berries red—
Dear token which the ransomed earth
Twines round her infant Saviour's head!

A Plea for the Sea-Birds

Stay now thine hand!
Proclaim not man's dominion
Over God's works by strewing rocks and sand
With sea-birds' blood-stain'd plume and broken pinion.

Oh, stay thine hand!
Spend not thy days of leisure
In scattering death along the peaceful strand,
For very wantonness, or pride, or pleasure.

For bird's sake, spare!
Leave it in happy motion
To wheel its easy circles through the air,
Or rest and rock upon the shining ocean.

For man's sake, spare!
Leave him this “thing of beauty”
To glance and glide before him everywhere,
And throw a gleam on after-days of duty.

For God's sake, spare!
He notes each sea-bird falling,
And in Creation's groans marks its sad share—
Its dying cry—for retribution calling.

Oh, stay thine hand!
Cease from this useless slaughter—
For though kind Nature from the rocks and sand
Washes the stains each day with briny water;—

Yet on thine hand,
Raised against God's fair creature,
Beware lest there be found a crimson brand
Indelible by any force of Nature.

Published in The Times, Oct. 15, 1868.

The Hawthorn and the Wild Rose

I learnt a lesson from the flowers today:—
As o'er the fading hawthorn-blooms I sighed,
Whose petals fair lay scattered far and wide,
Lo, suddenly upon a dancing spray
I saw the first wild-roses clustered gay.
What though the smile I loved, so soon had died
From one sweet flower—there, shining at its side,
The blushing Rose surpassed the snowy May.
So, if as life glides on, we miss some flowers
Which once shed light and fragrance on our way,
Yet still the kindly-compensating hours
Weave us fresh wreaths in beautiful array;
And long as in the paths of peace we stray,
Successive benedictions shall be ours!

The Herb Benedict

[_]

(Herba Benedicta—Geum urbanum, Herb Benet or Benedict)

When wayside favourites pink and blue
Attract the eye with mingling hue,
A modest flower comes forth to view,
Scant notice winning;

Few pause a moment to enquire
Its name, and fewer to admire
The texture plain of its attire
And homely spinning.

As one by one the flowers we greet
Which in our children's garlands meet,
It is not seen amid the sweet
Familiar faces;
Such honour now it never gains—
All disregarded it remains
In hedgerows, and in dusty lanes,
Woods and waste places.

Not always so; in days of yore
A crown of holiness it wore
And high symbolic meaning bore
And name of blessing;
And then its dignity was such
Men could not honour it too much
Or pluck it with too soft a touch
Of kind caressing.

For gifted with a higher dower
Than fairest bloom of fading flower,
To thoughts beyond the passing hour
Its form invited;
And like a wayside homily,
Its trefoil leaves taught men to see
The wonder of the Sacred Three
In One united.

Thus blest with a peculiar grace
The Benedict held up its face
Amongst the flowers, and found a place
In garlands vernal;
Nor in such transient wreaths alone—
For sculptors copied it in stone,
And in our Minsters it has grown
In wreaths eternal.

Where organ-music rolls along
To anthem high and holy song,
It clusters round the pillars strong
Their crown adorning;
And while it seems to join the praise
And “Holy, holy, holy” raise,
What recks it of these evil days
And the world's scorning!

Apple Blossoms

I

Apple blossoms, full of gladness,
Smiling o'er my orchard walk,
Tell of Winter's vanished sadness,
And of songs and sunshine talk;
Pink and white, all rarely painted,
Like the rosy dawn of life,
Bright with hope and unacquainted
With the shadow and the strife.

II

Apple blossoms, full of sadness,
Raining on my orchard walk,
Tell of Spring's departed gladness,
And of care and sorrow talk:
All the painted petals shattered,
Soiled and crushed beneath my feet,
All the rosy sunbeams scattered
Which made youth and love so sweet.

III

But those blossoms, reft of beauty,
Strewn along my orchard walk,
Sweetly having done their duty,
As they die, of Autumn talk:
What though now the branches o'er me
Wear a sad and sober green,
Still there shines a hope before me,
Life's fair fruit shall yet be seen!

Set to music by Sir F. Gore Ouseley (Novello).

The Crosswort

[_]

(Galium Cruciatum)

In sunny hours of gracious May,
When birds are singing all the day,
And flowers unfold their fair array
As Nature orders;

By woodside and by hedgerow green,
Amid the pink and blue is seen
A lavish growth of yellow sheen
In beds and borders.

Its crowded blooms viewed from afar,
Each shining like a tiny star
Up the tall stem, so numerous are,
It seems all golden:
Its leaves make crosses tier on tier,
Cross-like its blossoms all appear:
To faithful eyes its drift was clear
In centuries olden.

For one design alone it grew,
To lift the Cross before men's view,
And every leaf and bloom was true
To this one duty;
Lily and rose the crown might claim:
The Cross should give one flower its name,
One flower should ask no other fame,
No other beauty.

It clusters round the traveller's feet,
The while its fragrance honey-sweet
Climbs up, the grateful sense to greet
With sudden pleasure:
And as its colour you behold,
You own the Cross is finest gold,
A gift unmeasured and untold—
A countless treasure.

To flowers that by the wayside grow
Full many a happy thought I owe;
But the sweet crosswort's golden glow
I hail with wonder.
Heaven's dearest, richest sign I see;
What better “sermon” can there be
In any “stone” or flower or tree,
The blue sky under?

Snowdrops

I

White thoughts we bring
Of waking Spring,
And happy bird
To music stirred.

II

Sweet thoughts we raise
Of those white days
When Mary mild
Presents her Child.

III

High thoughts we tell
With trembling bell—
Earth's Easter day,
Saints' white array.

IV

Glad thoughts are ours
Of angel-bowers,
Where sons of light
Shall walk in white.

2nd February.

An Incident at the Holy Table

At the Lord's Table waiting, robed and stoled,
Till all had knelt around, I saw a sign!
In the full chalice sudden splendours shine,
Azure and crimson, emerald and gold.
I stooped to see the wonder, when, behold!
Within the cup a countenance Divine
Looked upwards at me through the trembling wine,
Suffused with tenderest love and grief untold.
The comfort of that sacramental token
From Memory's page Time never can erase;
The glass of that rich window may be broken,
But not the mirrored image of His grace,
Through which my dying Lord to me has spoken,
At His own Holy Table, face to face!

The east window of Kirkby Wharfe or Grimston Church is filled with stained glass by Capronnier, of Brussels, in memory of Albert, Lord Londesborough, the subject being the Crucifixion.

Eucharists

“Extensions of the Incarnation” —this,
Yea, nothing less in Eucharists we see:
Before Thy Table, Lord, we bow the knee,
To wait Thy coming, and to feel Thy kiss.
We mourn for sin, and straight its burden miss:
Thy spotless Body sets us sweetly free:
Thy Blood is wine of immortality;
We take the cup and taste angelic bliss.
Lord, give us grace Thy Body to discern,
And through the lattice of the broken Bread
To see the loving Face for which we yearn:
And on our hearts Thy precious Blood be shed,
Like drops of fiery dew to make them burn
With loyal love to Thee, our glorious Head.

Irenæus.

The Garden

Nigh to the place where He was crucified
A sheltered garden lay,
Where roses hung their heads, with crimson dyed,
And blushed their lives away,
And lilies of the valley, blanched with fear,
Shook from their silver bells the trembling tear.

And there on terraced rock the vine was seen
Wandering with quaint festoon,
Or trained with care into an arbour green
To cool the rays of noon:
Not yet its clusters woo'd the ripening sun,
Though the sharp pruning knife its work had done.

And many a fragrant plant and freckled flower
Bordered the paths below,
And proffered to the gardener's hand the dower
Of scent or vernal glow;
While in the shady corners mint and rue
And bitter herbs for humbler uses grew.

Here, where he sat or walked, the rich man made
A flower-encircled tomb;
And here by loving hands the Lord was laid
To rest in the green gloom;
And here He woke and threw a charm around
The dewy stillness of that garden-ground.

I have a garden, Lord, to share with Thee—
Nay, let it all be Thine;
And very near to it is seen the Tree
Of Sacrifice Divine,
In whose fair shadow Thou canst show Thy face,
And turn to holy ground the lowliest place.

Let my Belovèd to His garden come
And eat His pleasant fruits,

The ripest clusters with the richest bloom
From off the goodliest shoots;
If any such can grow in this poor soil,
On which my Lord has spent such tears and toil.

But if the fruits of holiness are scant,
And few its blossoms sweet,
Yet would I find some herb or creeping plant
To lay at Thy pierced feet—
The hyssop small or penitential rue,
Wet with the tear-drops of the early dew.

Only, O Lord, as in that garden-ground
Beside the Cross of shame,
May Thy dear presence in my heart be found
And its glad homage claim;
Nor ever break the seal which Love would place
Upon the secret home of dying Grace!

Cathedral Service

Here let me worship God where pillars rise
In towering loftiness, and arching meet,
Centring on God above our wandering eyes;
Where Art and Nature blend in union sweet,
And leaves and flowers in many a quaint conceit
Garland the roof with sylvan traceries;
Hither would I resort with willing feet,
To render God a worthy sacrifice:—

Hither, where cunning hands in glass have striven
To shadow forth with pencil-beams of light,
And colours deep and rich the Gospel-story;
Where music thrills us with a strange delight,
Lifting with harmony our souls to Heaven,
And waking echoes from the hills of glory!

York Minster

THE LIGHTNING AND THE FIRE

Twas eve, the thunder rolled, and anthems pealed
Within God's House, made dark by sudden storm;
But in the pane the frequent flash revealed
To anxious eyes the Saviour's dying Form:
'Twas night, the conflagration roared and glowed
Amidst the pillars of the stately shrine;
But to the weeping crowd outside, it showed
Imaged in glass the self-same Form Divine:
Against the fear without, and fire within,
An interposing Saviour lifts His Face,

And o'er the crackling blaze and thunder's din,
Consoles the trembling heart with heavenly grace:
Let come what will come, only, Lord, between
The terror and my soul Thy Face be seen!

During the last great fire in York Minster, which raged in the nave and western towers, the crowd which had gathered in the dark round the west front were soothed by observing the picture of the Crucifixion in the south-west window illumined from within by the conflagration.—Canon Raine.

The East Window in York Minster

COMPOSED AFTER SEVERAL HOURS' EXAMINATION OF IT WITH CANON LORD FORESTER

With wondering eyes we sit and gaze
Upon the many-jewelled blaze,
Where Art has flung her mingled dyes,
Outrivalling the Orient skies,
Bird, rainbow, flower, and sunset-rays.

This gorgeous mist, this tangled haze
Clears, and unravels, and God's ways
We see evolve, and purpose wise,
With wondering eyes.

Sermons in glass the seer portrays:
Seals, trumpets, vials he displays;
The scroll of Time wide open lies,
Things present, past, and future rise;
God's Book our guide we thrid the maze,
With wondering eyes.

At York Railway Station

Imprisoned at the noisy station, fain
Would I have fled to spend a tranquil hour,
Where clustered pier and springing arch embower
The Minster's silence, but the wish was vain:
Instead I marked the rush of many a train
Coming and going, and the thund'rous power
Of the huge engines, and man's mightier dower,
Able such strength to summon and restrain.

Then came the thought, what fiery forces strange
May clothe our spirits in the life above,
Where not to worship only is our meed;
But still to work, as to and fro we range,
Running glad errands of Almighty Love,
With angel wisdom and with lightning speed!

On the Visit of Their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of York to York Minster

[October 5, 1893]

Welcome to this historic reverend pile
Where Edward paused amid his warlike pride;
And his brave grandson knelt beside his bride
Philippa; where was seen the soldier-smile

Of Towton's Victor; and whose long-drawn aisle,
And choir with gorgeous colours glorified,
Allured our Martyr-Monarch to abide,
And in high service lose his cares awhile.
Here now, with love encompassed, ye are seen
Praying where, centuries since, your fathers prayed,
By God's good grace our destined king and queen;
Oh, may His Heavenly favour be your aid,
And make your days harmonious and serene
As holy worship in our Minster's shade!

Now or When

BEING THE LEGEND OF A SUNDIAL ON BEVERLEY MINSTER

On the tall buttress of a Minster grey,
The glorious work of long-forgotten men,
I read this Dial-legend,—“Now or When.”
Well had these builders used their little day
Of service—witness this sublime display
Of blossomed stone, dazzling the gazer's ken.
These towers attest they knew 'twas there and then,
Not some vague morrow they must work and pray.

Oh, let us seize this transitory now
From which to build a life-work that will last:
In humble prayer and worship let us bow
Ere fleeting opportunity is past.
When once Life's sun forsakes the Dial-plate,
For work and for repentance 'tis too late!

Christmas Day

In vesture white the Eternal Child
Lay on His Mother's lap and smiled:
What joy to see that longed-for sight—
Her spotless lily of delight,
Her love, her dove, her undefiled!

She recked not of the anguish wild,
The sorrow upon sorrow piled,
His dead Form swathed, one awful night,
In vesture white.

Oh! let our hearts, this Birthday bright,
The sorrow and the joy unite;
While, by the twofold grace beguiled
Of suffering Man and Infant mild,
We walk with Him on Faith's calm height
In vesture white.

The Presentation of Jesus in the Temple

Whiter than snow her Infant lay
In Mary's arms that happy day;
Fairer than all the flowers that blow,
Brighter than all the stars that glow,
Sky-blossoms in the Milky Way.

Thus I present Him, when I pray,
As in the arms of faith, and say,
“Father, there was One Life below
Whiter than snow!”

That whiteness pleads my cause, I know,
And wins for me the grace to show
Some reflex rays while here I stray—
Pledge I shall wear the pure array
In which the Heavenly armies go
Whiter than snow!

Mary Magdalen at the Cross

With her clasped hands upraised against the wood
Stained by His blood,
Beneath the Saviour's piercèd feet she knelt
And weeping felt
The sprinkled drops from that ensanguined Tree
Where Jesus hung to set the sinner free.

'Mid darkness deep the glory from His face
Illumed the place,
And showed her anguished eyes uplifted there,
And golden hair,
Which once had wiped the drenching tears away
From His dear feet upon a happier day.

Unutterable love and sorrow now
Sat on her brow,
As for her sins He gave His precious blood,
A cleansing flood:
Down from His outstretched hands and thorncrowned head
The mighty ransom, drop by drop was shed.

Lord, be it mine beneath Thy Cross to kneel,
And daily feel
The tenderness of gratitude and grief;
And find relief
From haunting fears that on the conscience rise
In presence of the Glorious Sacrifice.

And when the changing winds of Error blow
Men to and fro;
As ivy clings to the sustaining tree
May I to Thee
Cling evermore, O Lord, and safe abide,
Clasping in life and death the Crucified!

“The Shadow of Death”

SUGGESTED BY MR. HOLMAN HUNT'S FAMOUS PICTURE

The “twelve hours” of Thy “day” of toil are fled,
O glorious Workman; and the gorgeous West
And level shadows bid to evening rest:
Thy weary arms to right and left are spread,
As heavenwards Thou dost lift Thy holy head
In praise. But lo! a sword has pierced the breast
Of Mary. Orient gems no more arrest
Her eyes now fixed upon that Omen dread.
She sees the shadow, but He fronts the sun;
Sufficient is the evil to the day;
Not yet His silent years of work are done,
Nor yields the toilsome to the “dolorous way.”
O sunlit Life, teach me Thy lesson high:
Then, trusting in no shadow, let me die!

On the Picture by Delaroche

OF THE VIRGIN MARY LOOKING THROUGH A WINDOW AT THE CROSS—WHICH IS UNDEPICTED

Awe-struck she gazes through an open space
Or lattice, at that mystery of woe,
Which Art abashed attempts not here to show:
But every tragic circumstance we trace

Reflected in the anguish of her face.
The sight, unseen by us, we darkly know
From those affrighted eyes, that form bent low,
On which the last rays fall of sinking Grace.
Thus through Faith's lattice as I daily gaze
On that sad Vision veiled from worldly eyes,
May the Great Sight control my words and ways,
And all my life transform and solemnize;
That eyes which see not Him may see in me
Some reflex of the saving Tragedy!

Lent

OR, THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS

On a low hill, methought, a Cross I saw
Lift its dark form athwart the orient sky,
Where day was breaking in calm majesty—
Azure and gold without one stain or flaw.
From that stern Sign of vindicated Law,
Which in the sunrise loomed upon mine eye,
Right o'er the land a shadow seemed to lie,
On which I moved along in silent awe.
Ah, would we bask in Easter's glorious ray,
Our feet must track the shadow of the Cross,
Our hearts must count all earthly treasure loss,
And earthly pleasure reckon but as dross;
So shall our Lenten dimness melt away
In the clear light of Resurrection-day!

Resurrection Types

OR, NATURE'S HINTS OF IMMORTALITY

An emerald beechen-leaf,
Bursting the sheath which fenced from frost and snow,
Dances through Summer days, untouched by grief,
The sapphire skies below.

A dewy violet-flower,
Drawn sunwards from its root in the dank earth,
Scatters sweet odours on the shining hour
Of the Spring's bounteous birth.

A painted butterfly,
Which lately from its cell of darkness came,
Now sips the nectared cups, and soars on high,
A wingèd flower, or flame.

A fair, melodious bird,
Which slumbered once within its silent shell,
Poised in the blue is seen, or sweetly heard
Its ceaseless praise to tell.

An ear of drooping gold,
Sprung from a grain that fell to earth and died,
Now lifts to light its increase manifold—
Existence multiplied.

The purple-clustered fruit
Luxuriant hangs on the low-creeping vine;
And from rough, withered stalks are seen to shoot
Streams of heart-cheering wine.

A mighty-branchèd tree,
That wrapt within a buried acorn lay,
Adds century to rolling century,
And dreams not of decay.

Thus in green leaf and flower,
In insect and in bird, in corn, grape, tree,
I see foreshadowed my own glorious dower
Of immortality.

If from its Winter sheath
The leaf escapes in vernal airs to wave,
God will not overlook His child beneath
The cerements of the grave.

If flowers burst forth in bloom
And fragrance; and if earth-bound insects soar
In life and happiness, for me the tomb
Shall open wide its door.

If from its dusky shell
The bird emerges into life and bliss
And music, in dim silence shall I dwell
And Heaven's glad anthems miss?

Though like a corn I die,
Like the green blade I shall revive again;
And God's new life my powers shall multiply—
Death turned to golden gain.

Made one with the True Vine,
My fruit shall be abundant, gladdening, sure;
And married to eternal Strength Divine,
In bliss I shall endure.

Let me but now be found
Trusting the Love which this sad earth has trod,
Then shall my deathless germ spring from the ground,
And claim its home with God!

Hymn to the Holy Spirit

Come, Holy Dove,
Descend on silent pinion,
Brood o'er my sinful soul with patient love,
Till all my being owns Thy mild dominion.

Round yon sad Tree
With frequent circles hover,
That in my glorious Surety I may see
Grace to redeem and righteousness to cover.

On wings of peace
Bring from that precious Altar
The Blood which bids the storms of conscience cease,
And blots out all the debt of the defaulter.

Spirit of Grace,
Reveal in me my Saviour,
That I may gaze upon His mirrored Face
Till I reflect it in my whole behaviour.

Oh, let me hear
Thy soft, low voice controlling
My devious steps with intimations clear,
With comforts manifold my heart consoling.

Let that sweet sound
To holy deeds allure me,
With heavenly echoes make my spirit bound,
And of my Home in Paradise assure me.

Come, Holy Dove,
Guide me to yon bright portal,
Where I shall see the Saviour whom I love,
And enter on the joys which are immortal!

Set to music by Sir John Stainer, of St. Paul's Cathedral.

Driffield Church Tower

Upward it springs as with one mighty bound
To commune with the stars; and stands four-square
To battle with the spirits of the air,
That in their windy chariots bluster round.

Its stately height with majesty is crowned:
While clustered pinnacles of beauty rare
Lift up to Heaven united hands of prayer,
For ever pleading without voice or sound.
'Tis said that he who built this lofty tower
Had vowed a pilgrimage to Palestine,
But, falling sick, left this sky-piercing dower:
O'er smoke and noise it smiles, a silent sign,
And points men age by age and hour by hour
To yonder azure Holy Land divine!

The Priest's Door

LITTLE DRIFFIELD CHURCH

In that grey Church where Alfred's bones were laid
Twelve centuries since, we opened the Priest's door,
Walled up for many a year, and from the floor
We cleared the dust and stones with brush and spade;
When lo, the ancient doorstep was displayed,
Worn by the feet that traversed it of yore,
Leaving this trace of service, and no more,
As age by age they vanished into shade.
Priest after priest, unnamed, unknown, they came
Treading this stone, and at the altar stood,
And lifted up the everlasting Name:
Void be our lives, like theirs, of earthly fame,
If we but leave some footsteps true and good
Of lowly service and of lofty aim!

Aldfrid, the Wise King of Northumbria.

On a City Week-Day Evening Service

Close to the tumult of the busy street
Rises the House of God with aspect calm,
Whence floats the voice of prayer and holy psalm,
And strangely blends with tramp of passing feet.
There week by week a little company meet
To soothe their souls with Gilead's healing balm,
And as by Elim's wells and grove of palm
Find in their desert-march refreshment sweet.
Thus from the city's thronged and noisy centre,
By one short step, and in a moment's space,
Upon a scene of holy peace you enter:
So suddenly the dying Christian's spirit
Steps out of earth into that glorious place,
That Heavenly Temple, which the saints inherit.

On my Parish-Register Chest

In the scant compass of this iron chest
Lie the brief records of three hundred years,
The mute memorials of their smiles and tears;
Here side by side ten generations rest,
As with Time's iron hand together prest;
A catalogue of names all that appears—
Faded their joys, forgotten are their fears,
And all the eager hopes they once possessed.

With mournful mind I turn the yellow pages,
Read the dim notice of a long-past wedding,
How one was born, and overleaf was buried;
Thus swift and silent pass successive ages,
Like autumn trees their leaves for ever shedding,
Which into vast Eternity are hurried.

The Sentinel

OR, CHURCHYARD YEW

The Sentinel—it fills our eyes,
That stately yew, in solemn guise,
Beside the porch, beneath the bell,
Throbbing alike to chime or knell,
With whispered song, or muffled sighs.

It lifts a finger to the skies,
And breathes of hope to dust that lies
Under its shade, and guards it well—
The Sentinel.

Perchance some words have made it wise,
Which on the wings of anthems rise
Through its dark boughs, and bid it tell
The secret to each narrow cell,
O'er which it broods for centuries—
The Sentinel.

The Saxon Sundial and Cross

ABOVE THE DOOR OF LONDESBOROUGH CHURCH

Beneath the arch which crowns the door
Of our grey Church upon the wold
An antique Dial, quaint and hoar,
Tells of the silent days of old.

A thousand circling years have flown,
With all their chronicle of care,
Since the rude Saxon carved this stone
To mark the hours of work and prayer.

Sunbeams a thousand years ago
Threw shadows on this Dial's face,
And busy men passed to and fro,
And, like those shadows, left no trace.

Day after day the punctual shade
Around the Dial softly crept,
And at its call men knelt and prayed,
Rose, laboured, rested, ate, and slept.

But right above the Dial stands,
And has stood, while the centuries rolled,
A carven Cross, from Saxon hands,
With interlacings manifold.

O'er shifting Time the Cross presides,
And speaks of hope to sinful dust;
Unchanged the blessèd Sign abides
As is the Love in which men trust.

Whoe'er has scanned this Dial-stone
Beheld the wreathèd Cross above,
And with the fleeting hour was shown
The symbol of God's steadfast love.

Lord, ever let that Sign be seen
Above me, while I work and pray;
And my swift hours will glide serene,
And waft me to Eternal day!

Mabel and Dora

ON THEIR BRINGING ME SOME PRIMROSES AFTER EVENSONG

Sweet gifts they bring—that darling pair,
As side by side to Evening Prayer
They carry golden tufts of Spring,
Young Love's unprompted offering
To him who leads the worship there.

With Nature's charm of dark or fair,
And varied glow of streaming hair,
And eyes that harmless lightnings fling,
Sweet gifts they bring.

But Grace can show a charm more rare,
When those dear innocents prepare
Their simple words to pray or sing,
Which, as to Heaven their way they wing,
An angel whispers through the air,
“Sweet gifts they bring!”

Homeward

The curtains close not, let the light
Be poured upon the deepening night;
Let fire and lamp with ruddy glow
Across the dusk a welcome throw;
That homeward eyes may all the way
Rejoice in the alluring ray,
And homeward footsteps from afar
May hasten tow'rds that evening star!

The curtains close, and let the gloom
Be banished from our happy room,
While soothing touch of child and wife
Removes the dust of toil and strife;
And infantile caress and kiss
Make the full heart o'erflow with bliss;
And pleasant talk and sunny smile
Those evening hours with love beguile.

In toilsome ways of earth we roam
With faces tow'rds our far-off Home,
Drawn onward by the cheering gleams
Of light which from its glory streams:
Our faithful footsteps shall not miss
Those mansions of repose and bliss,
That Home secure in heaven above,
Those greetings of eternal Love!

Set to music by Sir F. Gore Ouseley, Bart. (Novello).

To my Wife

On Sunset hill my path I trace,
Or wander down to Iris bay;
With upward step the Pass I face
To greet the Atlantic far away:
I watch the waterfalls at play,
Or Sunart's fair expanse of blue,
But ever to myself I say,
O near and dear, O fond and true!

I mark the slowly yellowing grace
Upon the twinkling birchen spray,
Or swallows making haste to chase
Southward the Summer's transient ray;
Or on the misty mountain grey
The dying bracken's golden hue,
But still I whisper all the day,
O near and dear, O fond and true!

What though we walk with lagging pace,
And airs autumnal round us stray;
Or, parted for a little space,
Pensive pursue our sunset way;
One thought life's trouble can allay—
Our Father's House is full in view,
Where we shall live and love for aye,
O near and dear, O fond and true!

Thy love, for forty years my stay,
God grant me all my journey through,
While oft I sing for solace gay—
O near and dear, O fond and true!

Our Children

We watched our children at their happy play
Amongst old gnarlèd orchard-trunks low bent
By gales, that years ago their force had spent
On stems then young and weak, now stiff and grey:
Traces are borne by those bowed trees to-day
Of winds, long Summers since, that singing went
Through leaf and blossom, or the ripe fruit sent
Rolling in dewy grass—and passed away.
Thus causes vanish, their results remaining—
To winds long lulled those orchard-trees still bend;
Those children from our words and ways are gaining
That which will stir and sway them to life's end—
Traces they still will show of childhood's training,
When with the fading Past our memories blend.

On an Infant's Death

A little life,
Five summer months of gladness,
Without one cloud of sorrow, sin, or strife—
Cut short by sudden gloom and wintry sadness.

A little mound,
By buttress grey defended,
Watered with tears and garlanded all round,
By gentle hands affectionately tended.

A little cot,
Empty, forlorn, forsaken,
Silent remembrancer that he is not—
Gone—past our voice to lull or kiss to waken.

A little frock
He wore, or hat that shaded
His innocent brow—seen with a sudden shock
Of grief for that dear form so quickly faded.

A little flower,
Because he touched it, cherished—
Fragile memorial of one happy hour
Before the beauty of our blossom perished.

A little hair,
Secured with trembling fingers—
All that is left us of our infant fair,
All we shall see of him while this life lingers.

A little name,
In parish records written,
A passing sigh of sympathy to claim
From other fathers for a father smitten.

But a great trust
Irradiates our sorrow,
That though to-day his name is writ in dust,
We shall behold it writ in heaven to-morrow.

And a great peace
Our troubled soul possesses,
That though to embrace him these poor arms must cease,
Our lamb lies folded in the Lord's caresses.

A little pain
To point his life's brief story—
A few hours' mortal weariness, to gain
Unutterable rest, unending glory.

A little prayer,
By lips Divine once spoken,
“Thy will be done!”—is breathed into the air
From hearts submissive though with accents broken.

A little while
And Time no more shall sever—
But we shall see him with his own sweet smile,
And clasp our darling in our arms for ever!

Under the Snow

Our darling of the Summer hours,
Our sunbeam in the Summer glow,
Our blossom 'mid the dancing bowers,
Alas! he lieth low
Under the snow.

We mourn him through the Winter gloom,
We miss him in the fireside glow,
Which dances round the curtained room,
The while he lieth low
Under the snow.

Oh, no! 'tis but our darling's dust;
He basks in Heaven's eternal glow,
Folded in arms that we can trust:
He lies not low
Under the snow.

Set to music by Sir F. Gore Ouseley, Bart., Professor of Music in the University of Oxford (Novello).

“He stays at Home”

“He stays at home!” the sheltering buttress under;
No wish for change disturbs his grassy bed,
Where petals of the rose are softly shed,
And wild bees murmuring cull ambrosial plunder.

His eyes will never open wide with wonder,
As by some shining lake his feet are led,
Or agile climb some mountain's cloud-capt head;
Nor for his ears will falling waters thunder.
While we are wanderers, “he stays at home!”
He cannot share the joy of merry brothers,
Or happy sisters, as afar they roam;
He sees not, hears not, feels not like the others:
But who can tell what glories meet his eyes
Where his soul rests at home in Paradise?

My Study

My Study! gratefully I gaze around,
Rejoicing in its quaint and quiet look,
Each favourite picture and each well-loved book,
And the calm feeling of its sacred ground.
A garden view closed by the narrow bound
Of buttress'd orchard wall—green, sheltered nook,
With glimpse of woodland haunted by the rook,
While seen far off the incessant Trains resound.
Amidst my books I sit, tranquil, alone,
And hear afar the great world rushing by,
My silent work by busy men unnoted:
“Some day,” Faith whispers, “'twill be better known,
Seed sown in secret will bear fruit on high,
Immortal are the hours to God devoted.”

Father and Child

As up and down a shady place
I walked with melancholy pace,
A cloud upon my heart and face
Of sin and sadness;
Suddenly flashing on the view
My little boy in white and blue
Ran tow'rds me up the avenue
With look of gladness.

And all a father's love leapt out
Instinctively, and clung about
The child, subduing fear and doubt
With tender yearning:
As if he had been sent to prove
By living sign that higher Love
Which waits and watches from above
Each son's returning.

Who made the eye, shall He not see?
The ear, shall He not hear? And He
Who, in creating, gave to me
A father's feeling,
Shall He not feel?—and kindly greet
A son that weeps before His feet—
With kiss of reconcilement sweet
His pardon sealing.

For one constraining cause alone
That child was dear—he was my own—
Spontaneously my love had grown—
And how much rather

Shall I, “the work of His own hand,”
The yearning love of God command—
Can He my prayers and tears withstand
Who is my Father!

To my Son

R. Cecil Wilton, B.A., Lightfoot Scholar, Cambridge, 1887, Rector of Burnby.

When fresh from God, at that old Hall,
I first beheld thy infant face,
And praised the gracious Lord of all
For joy no sorrow can erase;
I clasped thee with the warm embrace
Of love that with all time shall blend,
And in eternity find place,
My son, my pupil, and my friend.

Full soon the years began to call
Thy willing feet in ways of grace,
And thy young fancy to enthral
With stirring records of our race:
'Twas thine the poet's page to trace,
The stream of History to ascend,
And Truth's still-changing forms to chase,
My son, my pupil, and my friend.

Now manhood's work, as with a wall,
Divides us for a little space,
But, till the evening shadows fall,
We move along with equal pace:
On the same Faith our hopes we base,
At the same Altar humbly bend,
And prayers and praises interlace,
My son, my pupil, and my friend.

Son, for high service let us brace
Our spirits, and our powers expend;
Happy the souls in such a case,
My son, my pupil, and my friend!

Dorothy

The yellow leaf was here and there,
And swallows twittered in the air
Before their long, mysterious flight,
When lo, there fluttered into sight
Sweet Dorothy, our birdie fair.

With brightest flowers of earth prepare
Our nestling's welcome to declare:
But why with thoughts of her unite
The yellow leaf?

In Autumn broods serener light;
More gently do the sunbeams smite;
A patient smile doth Nature wear:
Such calmness may our darling share,
And the soft breathings that invite
The yellow leaf.

My Grandchildren at Church

Bright Dorothy, with eyes of blue,
And serious Dickie, brave as fair,
Crossing to Church you oft may view
When no one but myself is there:

First to the belfry they repair,
And while to the long ropes they cling,
And make believe to call to prayer,
For angels' ears the bells they ring.

Next, seated gravely in a pew,
A pulpit homily they share,
Meet for my little flock of two,
Pointed and plain, as they can bear:
Then venture up the pulpit stair,
Pray at the desk, or gaily sing:
O sweet child-life without a care—
For angels' ears the bells they ring!

Dear little ones, the early dew
Of holy infancy they wear,
And lift to Heaven a face as true
As flowers that breathe the morning air:
Whate'er they do, where'er they fare,
They can command an angel's wing,
Their voices have a music rare,—
For angels' ears the bells they ring.

O parents, of your charge beware;
Their angels stand before the King:
In work, play, sleep, and everywhere
For angels' ears the bells they ring.

Molly

To you who cannot trust your feet
To start on life's uneasy way,
Although you boast one year complete,
I offer this first birthday lay:
May gracious beams around you play,
And Love look down from tender skies,
When once you totter forth, I pray,
My darling of the wistful eyes.

As you are wheeled along the street,
Kind strangers, passing, sometimes stay
Your fair, unconscious face to greet—
“How like a flower she is,” they say.
Oh, may you bloom, 'neath sunny ray!
May no unpitying storm arise
To dash your brightly opening day,
My darling of the wistful eyes.

And when the town is faint with heat,
And fields are fragrant with the hay,
Welcome to our embowered retreat
Of latticed shade and dancing spray;
And let your untried footsteps stray
Where, on the daisies, sunshine lies,
And learn from them a lesson gay,
My darling of the wistful eyes.

In life's fresh dawn or noontide grey,
As you are sweet, may you be wise,
And win the joys that last for aye,
My darling of the wistful eyes!

Lorna

(Aged two and a half years)

A GRANDFATHER'S RHAPSODY

Her winning ways are more to me
Than all the glories of the sea,
Than rock or river, mountain, sky,
Or flowers, however bright their dye,
Or songbirds' sweetest minstrelsy.

My Lorna, sitting on my knee
In dainty dimpled coquetry—
What charm of earth can then outvie
Her winning ways?

What painter, whosoe'er he be,
Could catch that laughing look of glee?
What poet tell the reason why
She gives that little tender sigh?
I love—she loves—but not for thee
Her winning ways!

Children and Flowers

Chil dren and flowers! Ye always drew
A smile from Jesus. Though He knew
The myriad splendours of the sky—
His Father's many mansions high—
He bent a look of love on you!

As sad He walked, ye met His view
With upturned faces sweet and true:
A sinful earth could yet supply
Children and flowers.

Still, still they greet us ever new,
With winning glance and radiant hue,
Our hearts to soothe and satisfy—
While light reflected from His eye
Illumines, as with morning dew,
Children and flowers!

On a Photograph

Since through the open window of the eye
The unconscious secret of the soul we trace,
And character is written on the face,
In this sun-picture what do we descry?
An artless innocence, and purpose high
To tread the pleasant paths of truth and grace,
To tend each flower of Duty in its place,
Smile with the gay and comfort those who sigh.
Dear maiden, let a poet breathe the prayer
That God may keep thee still, in all thy ways,
Spotless in heart as thou in face art fair;
And may the gentle current of thy days
Make music even from the stones of care,
And murmur with an undersong of praise.

Evening Rest

The sun sinks slowly in the crimson West,
And waves the welcome signal of repose;
His ploughshare left i' the furrow, the hind goes
With his tired horses to accustomed rest.
To yon tall trees, tufted with many a nest,
The rooks sail o'er the sky: the ringdove knows
His firry roosting-place at daylight's close:
Each creature with some sheltered nook is blest.
And as I too turn to my peaceful home,
Where gentle greetings solace toil and care,
I think of One content awhile to roam
An Exile from high Heav'n; who “had not where
To lay His head”—He, and He only, found
Whose busy days no restful evening crowned.

An Incident on the Stage Coach to Cambridge, 1847

The shadow of a bird upon the blind,
Perched in the pleasant lamplight, drew my eye,
As a dim, unknown village I passed by,
The day I left my boyhood's home behind.

Darkness had fallen, and the evening wind
Murmured a pensive echo to my sigh,
When from my dreary vantage I descry
The happy bird, against the light defined.
Of sweet domestic joy the type it seemed,
Which from my life, alas! had taken wing—
But with long years returned; and I have deemed
That bird prophetic, and have heard it sing
Of dearer home-delights which now are mine
And through my window on the stranger shine!

On the Death of Morven

MY SKYE TERRIER

No more, no more that cheery strain,
From throat that never felt a chain,—
Thy gladsome bark and bound will greet
The echo of my homeward feet,
In that dear kingdom where I reign.

No more my shadow in the lane
Wilt thou be seen, on hill or plain,
Or in the wonted village street—
No more, no more!

But still thy memory will remain,
Bright ways, soft eyes, affection fain,
As when my knee was thy retreat,
And I would stroke and pet thee, sweet,—
My fond caress to feel again
No more, no more!

Holy Scripture

I have a garden fair,
With Heavenly breezes fanned,
And every morning finds me there—
It is the Lord's command—
To gather fruits and blossoms sweet
Before the dusty world I meet.

I have a faithful Friend,
Accustomed to advise,
With Whom each morn some time I spend—
That I may be made wise
To find and keep the only way
Which issues in eternal day.

I have an armoury bright,
With shield and helm hung round,
Where, duly as the morning light,
The Spirit's sword is found,
With which to overcome the foe
Who harasses the way I go.

I have a mirror keen
Which shows me all I am;
But lo! behind me there is seen
One like a dying Lamb;
And, as I view His imaged Face,
My sins are lost in shining grace.

Oh, send Thy Spirit, Lord,
To make me wholly Thine,
That I may love Thy blessèd Word,
And feel its power divine;
And walk on calmly in its light
Till faith is turned to glorious sight!

Marah

When Israel sat by Marah's wells and sighed,
A mystic tree to Moses was revealed,
Whereby the bitter-tasting streams were healed,
And all the murmuring camp was satisfied.
Alas! from age to age, and far and wide,
Earth's weary plains their frequent Marahs yield;
For all some fount of sorrow is unsealed,
While in these pilgrim-tents our souls abide.
If on my march to-day, or if to-morrow,
Some painful Marah is prepared for me,
Let me not murmur, Lord, but seek to borrow
Sure leaves of healing from the wondrous Tree;
There is a sweetness in the bitterest sorrow,
If shadowed in its depths Thy Cross we see!

Elim

At Elim with its whispering grove of palm,
And clustered wells in cool abundance springing,
Israel encamped—their sighs exchanged for singing,
And Marah's murmurs for a gladsome psalm.
Earth has its Elims still of shadowy calm—
Sweet homes, with gentle vines about them clinging,
And olive branches green—young voices ringing,
And tried affection breathing grateful balm.
Lord, if such love makes glad, such beauty graces,
The desert tracts thy people tread below—
Such wells of comfort cheer earth's resting-places,
Such pleasant shades relieve the way we go,—
That heavenly land itself, how passing fair,
How passing sweet the home that waits us there!

Moses' Death

On Pisgah's top he stood,—“his eye not dim”
Through length of years, “nor natural force abated,”—
Gazing on that good land, with look unsated,
From the near palm-trees to the horizon's rim;

Till when the fading landscape seemed to swim
Mistily as to traveller's eyes belated,
He sank into the arms of God, who waited
With everlasting love to comfort him.
So sometimes still the saint beholds when dying
Heaven's white-robed multitude with waving palm,—
In pauses of his pain and weary sighing
He hears the echo of their full-voiced psalm,—
Then sweetly on his Saviour's love relying,
He falls asleep in an ineffable calm.

David and Goliath

He lays his mantle by, and shepherd's crook,
And dons the cumbrous armour of the king—
One moment—then resumes his well-proved sling,
And simple pebbles rounded by the brook:
On wings of faith and prayer the “smooth stone” took
Its fatal flight urged by the circling string,
And the prone giant's shield and helmet ring
Hollow, and earth at his loud downfall shook.
So with one promise from the Sacred Pages
The streams whereof make glad the Church below—
One text worn smooth by use of rolling ages,
Our soul's strong enemy we overthrow;
Faith in God's Word the help of God engages,
And “It is written” puts to flight the foe.

“Open the Window Eastward”
[_]

[2 Kings xiii. 17]

Open the window Eastward: let the glow
Of morning strike on thy expectant face:
Invite by prayer His early rays of grace
Which from the flushing Orient duly flow.
Then to thy daily calling. Take the bow
And arrows of thy warfare. Let Him place
His loving hands on thine: now shoot apace;
His blessing with thy strenuous work shall go.
No feeble slackness in thy hand be found,
And no unworthy sparing of the foe;
Each weak besetment, smite it to the ground,
Not once or twice, but with repeated blow.
So shall the eventide with light be crowned,
And thou the secret of the Lord shalt know.

Daniel

Imperial Persia bowed to his wise sway—
A hundred provinces his daily care;
A queenly city with its gardens fair
Smiled round him—but his heart was far away.
Forsaking pomp and power “three times a day”
For chamber lone, he seeks his solace there;
Through windows opening westward floats his prayer
Tow'rds the dear distance where Jerusalem lay.

So let me morn, noon, evening, steal aside,
And shutting my heart's door to Earth's vain pleasure
And manifold solicitudes, find leisure
The windows of my soul to open wide
Tow'rds that blest city and that heavenly treasure,
Which past these visible horizons hide.

Bethlehem Offerings

The star-led Sages to the Babe draw nigh:
Before Him all their treasures are unrolled;
As to a King they offer costly gold—
As to a God they wave sweet incense high—
As to “a Man of sorrows,” born to die,
Tear-dropping myrrh, prophetic, they unfold;
The while the Babe with rapture they behold,
Or at His feet, in worship, prostrate lie.
Lord, I would bring Thee “precious faith” for treasure,
“Gold tried with fire,” and purer for the heat;
With praises I would fill my happy leisure,
Like fragrant incense swung beneath Thy feet;
And meekly take the cup which Thou dost measure,
“Wine mixed with myrrh,” the bitter with the sweet.

Nazareth

Here dwelt—His glory veiled—the Son of God
For thirty years; in this enclosure green
Of Galilean hills the Power serene
Who framed the universe, and with a nod
Sent planets on their courses, meekly trod
The village street and lanes; and might be seen
Over His humble handicraft to lean,
Or pace in prayer the dewy mountain sod.
O mystery of godliness how great!
Obedience of a lifetime how complete!
Who now can murmur at his low estate,
Or who but feel the humblest duty sweet;
When “Is not this the Carpenter?” was heard
Of Him who had “built all things” with a word!

“Himself alone”

Himself alone, the Lord withdrew
Once and again from mortal view;
And, high on the dim mountain side,
He loved with Nature to abide
Under the awful starlit blue.

His footsteps tracked the evening dew
In upland dells He wandered through,
Seeking some nook in which to hide
Himself alone.

Beneath Him sleeps the landscape wide;
In silent peace the night-hours glide;
For Nature, if not man, was true,
And through the veil her Maker knew;
And listened as He prayed or sighed,
Himself alone.

Capernaum

How blest the “city” which was called “His own,”
The home of Jesus Christ; happy the street
Which knew the echo of His sandalled feet,
The light of His familiar face, the tone
Of His most gentle voice: happy each stone
And timber of that dwelling, which His sweet
“Peace to this house” was daily wont to greet,
When His dear shadow on the door was thrown.
Jesu, who standest knocking at my door,
Seeking a home in this poor heart of mine,
Oh, lift the latch—enter for evermore;
Here let Thy voice be heard, make Thy face shine,
And breathe Thy peace, while gratefully I sing
The love and condescension of my King.

Order; or, The Sepulchre
[_]

[S. John xx. 6, 7]

When the Lord rose before the lagging day
Blushed in the East, and that huge stone was rolled
From the grave's entrance, sign of Death controlled,
And Sin's immense confusion cleared away;
Peace smiled, Law reigned—and lo! the graveclothes lay
Arranged by careful fingers fold on fold;
And of that calm, unfailing order told,
Which all God's works in heaven and earth display.
Lord, roll away my sin, and let Thy peace
Rule in my heart, and conscientious Order;
Let strife with Law from all my being cease,
And daily duty show no ravelled border:
Christ's law-fulfilling work my robe divine,
And that robe's fringe well-ordered work of mine.

The Avenue of Yews

In a dim avenue of ancient yews
I love to muse,
Their interlacing branches o'er my head
Roof-like outspread,

As in the sylvan cloister to and fro
Wander at early morn my footsteps slow.

Between the massy columns of the trees
A constant breeze
Wavers, and rubies twinkle, as I pass,
Upon the grass,
Dropt from the agèd boughs, on which are seen
Myriads of berries blushing through the green.

Month after month the fruit grows red and sweet,
From Summer heat
To Winter frost—and strewn upon the ground
Each morn is found;
While birds with fluttering wing and twittering voice
Make all the solemn avenue rejoice.

For centuries have stood those yew-trees grand,
And still may stand
For centuries, and in their pillared shade
A path be made
By feet of generations yet unborn,
For whom will fall fresh rubies morn by morn.

Thus in that group of yew-trees evergreen
A type is seen
Of holy men, the pillars of God's Word,
By heaven's breath stirred,
Who wrote of old the healing leaves divine,
Where promises more bright than rubies shine.

And daily in this whispering colonnade,
This vocal shade,
Of Holy Scripture I delight to walk,
And hear God talk,
And meditate on many a promise sweet,
Like precious rubies scattered at my feet.

And as these trees of life a blessing bore
For saints of yore,
So when long years from each familiar place
Our steps efface,
To these “old paths” our children shall repair,
God's voice to hear and find fresh rubies there!

“My Father worketh hitherto”

“My Father works,” when the fair flower
With pure lips woos the morning hour;
Or when the stately wind-kissed tree
Shakes out her crispèd tresses free;
And the lark climbs his airy tower.

When Night unveils her jewelled dower,
And dazzles with the sense of power
That circles through infinity,
“My Father works.”

When, ere the storm has ceased to lower,
The painted bow illumes the shower;
Or marching armies of the sea
Halt at the sand by God's decree;
In wave, or sky, or woodland bower,
“My Father works.”

Auburn

(BRIDLINGTON BAY)

A SEASIDE ELEGY

“Here Auburn stood which was washed away by the Sea.”—Map of East Yorkshire.

I

Here Auburn stood
By pleasant fields surrounded,
Where now for centuries the ocean-flood
With melancholy murmur has resounded.

II

Here Auburn stood
Where now the sea-bird hovers—
Here stretched the shady lane and sheltering wood,
The twilight haunt of long-forgotten lovers.

III

The village spire
Here raised its “silent finger,”
Sweet bells were heard and voice of rustic choir,
Where now the pensive chimes of ocean linger.

IV

Dear, white-faced homes
Stood round in happy cluster,
Warm and secure, where the rude breaker foams,
And Winter winds with angry billows bluster.

V

Here, in still graves,
Reposed the dead of ages:
When lo! with rush of desecrating waves,
Through the green churchyard the loud tempest rages.

VI

Here Auburn stood
Till washed away by ocean,
Whose waters smile to-day in careless mood
O'er its 'whelmed site, and dance with merry motion.

The Tides

Up the long slope of this low sandy shore
Are rolled the tidal waters day by day;
Traces of wandering feet are washed away,
Relics of busy hands are seen no more.

The soiled and trampled surface is smoothed o'er
By punctual waves that high behests obey;
Once and again the tides assert their sway,
And o'er the sands their cleansing waters pour.
Even so, Lord, daily, hourly, o'er my soul
Sin-stained and care-worn, let Thy heavenly Grace—
A blest, atoning flood—divinely roll,
And all the footsteps of the world efface,
That like the wave-washed sand this soul of mine,
Spotless and fair, smooth and serene, may shine!

Flamborough Lighthouse

FROM BRIDLINGTON BAY

As on the beach, moist with an ebbing tide,
Pensive I wandered at the close of day,
I saw a crimson beacon, miles away,
Beam suddenly above the waters wide.
Then chancing to look downwards, I espied,
Burning across the sands, a level ray,
Which, moving as I moved, before me lay,
And the low shore with a red glory dyed.
Thus, o'er the rolling ages, lifted high,
The beacon of the Cross afar I see,
And through the misty centuries strain my eye;
But bright reflections from that Crimson Tree
Across the sands of Time stretch sweetly nigh,
Right to my feet, as if for none but me!

Wastdale Church and Mountains

Beside a Chapel quaint and small I knelt,
By yews and laurels screened, a circling pale,
Right in the heart of silent, lone Wastdale:
The towering mountains with a mighty belt
Of shadow rose all round me, and I felt
Beneath their awfulness my heart to quail;
For His own House God claimed this solemn vale,
And throned amid the eternal hills He dwelt.
Gable, Great-End, Yewbarrow, and Lingmell,
Climbed with their scarr'd and giant forms on high,
By hugest Scawfell led; but green Kirkfell,
With his near vastness, mostly drew my eye
And cheered my spirit; for he seemed to tell
Here for long ages prayer had sought the sky!

On an Unfrequented Tarn

O solitary Tarn, uplifted high,
Seen only once, and left, alas! too soon:
For ever silvered with the rising moon,
For ever crimsoned with the sunset sky,

Thine image will abide in Memory's eye;
(A moment's vision, but a lifetime's boon):
While Memory's ear retains the soft low tune
Which to the breeze thy circling rushes sigh.
Have other eyes beheld thine evening glory?
Have other ears caught thy sweet undersong?
Or art thou lost amid these summits hoary,
Unheeded as the ages roll along?
What then? 'Twas God ordained thy humble story;
To be content and smile to thee belong!

Opposite Seatoller, on High Knot, Borrowdale, 2000 feet high.

Iona

I landed on Iona's holy isle,
And wandered through its ancient ruins bare,
And felt the great Columba's self was there.
Thirteen long centuries seemed “a little while”
Before the unchanging sea and sky, whose smile
He knew. He trod these paths; he breathed this air;
These waves once rolled responsive to his prayer,
Whose murmuring ripples now mine ear beguile.
Nor to the saint alone closer I stand,
Nearer the Lord I seem, upon this shore;
The solid rock of this historic strand
Helps me to bridge Time's waste of waters o'er,
And grasp His feet, and feel His loving hand
In Whom all saints are one for evermore!

The Highland Shepherd

Belated on a rough and lonely shore,
Where trees and heathery crags obscured my way,
I met a shepherd in the gloaming grey,
And rocks and thickets troubled me no more.
His beckoning form, that moves along before,
My trusting feet implicitly obey,
O'er bank and burn; until, through birchen spray,
The friendly lights gleam by the sheltering door.
So, as with faltering steps, through pathways dim,
This twilight of mortality I trod,
A Shepherd found me, and I clave to Him;
I wholly trust His love and guiding rod,
And follow, where He leads, with gladsome hymn,
Until He brings me home to Heaven and God!

A Highland Pass

(GLENCRIPISDALE)

Not to enjoy the mountain's crest alone
I climb this rugged Pass—nor only gain
The mighty circle of the azure main;
But every upward step to make my own:

To list the burn fetch music from the stone,
To pluck a flower and mark each coloured vein,
To sit upon a rock and note each stain,
Or view the clustered heather newly blown.
Up Life's steep path as thoughtfully I wend,
I hail the Heaven-sent joys which cheer the way
And blossom round my feet as I ascend:
Resting awhile I breathe a grateful lay,
And catch, before I reach my journey's end,
Full many a gleam of everlasting day.

Kinloch Waterfall, in Morven

The changeful years have fled, and lo! I stand
Awed by this glorious waterfall once more;
And Nature's God with heart and lip adore
In this fair shrine bedecked by Nature's hand.
Unaltered are its circling ramparts grand,
Unchanged the music of its deep-toned roar:
By the same flowers and ferns 'tis spangled o'er,
By the same roof of azure it is spanned.
And thus for centuries when I am gone
This temple will its hallelujahs raise,
These falling waters thunder ceaseless on:
But what though few and fleeting are my days,
Eternal is the Rock I rest upon,
And here or yonder I shall sing His praise!

A Vanished Village

(GLENCRIPISDALE)

Is this the ground where generations lie
Mourned by the drooping birch and dewy fern,
And by the faithful, alder-shaded burn,
Which seems to breathe an everlasting sigh?
No sign of habitation meets the eye;
Only some ancient furrows I discern,
And verdant mounds, and from them sadly learn
That hereabout men used to live and die.
Once the blue vapour of the smouldering peat
From half a hundred homes would curl on high,
While round the doors rang children's voices sweet;
Where now the timid deer goes wandering by,
Or a lost lamb sends forth a plaintive bleat,
And the lone glen looks up to the lone sky.

The Rose of Glencripisdale

I

The cloud that drifts across the glen,
The sun that glints upon the burn,
Looks on a vale left void of men,
And mounds of ruin crowned with fern.

II

The white mist climbs the mountain brow,
But no blue smoke curls to the sky:
No happy noise of children now,
No shout of glee ascends on high.

III

Within the compass of the hills
A solitary sadness reigns;
The voice that all the valley fills
Is of a river that complains—

IV

Complains of busy life long stilled—
A village into darkness gone—
The joy and care its homes that filled
All fled—and yet the stream runs on.

V

But as by barren rocks it flows,
And sings the pensive song we know,
Behold, there blooms a garden rose,
Planted by Love, ah! long ago.

VI

The hand that tended it is dust,
The heart that loved it far away,
But Nature keeps it as a trust,
And bids it bless the passing day.

VII

Ah, when our place knows us no more,
And Time's unceasing stream glides on,
May some fair blossom on the shore
Still speak of us, when we are gone!

The Cross and the Aspen Tree

ASPEN GLEN, LOCH SUNART

I carved a Cross upon an Aspen tree
In a lone rocky glen, where nought is heard
Save tinkling burn or cry of mountain bird,
And where the timorous roe-deer wanders free.
And in the leaves which shivered over me
The whisper of an ancient legend stirred—
How on an Aspen hung the dying Word;
And always since it shudders consciously.
Well might a tremor seize the favoured wood
Fibre and leaf for ever, which once bore
That sacred Form, thorn-crowned, and red with blood:
With such sweet sylvan sympathetic lore
My being, heart and action, be imbued,
And thrill with trembling love for evermore.

The Lifting of the Mist

A mist is on the mountain-top, and hides
The flushing heather with a weeping trail;
From crag to crag it hangs a cloudy veil,
Which hour by hour immovable abides.
But lo! the curtain suddenly divides
To unseen fingers of a gentle gale;
And purple heather once again we hail,
Decking with beauty the grey mountain-sides.
A mist is on things Heavenly, and the mind
Labours to see what still eludes its eye,
And fondly feels for what it cannot find:
Oh, for a gale celestial is our cry
To rend the clouds which baffle us and blind,
And flash upon us purple Calvary!

Mount Glamaig, Isle of Skye

The smoke as of a sacrifice all day
Crowned green Glamaig, which, like an altar vast,
Lifts its huge tapering front to meet the blast,
For ever circled with a cloud-wreath grey.
But from the West was flung one parting ray,
Ere the dim evening into darkness past:
The altar-smoke burst into flame at last,
And in a blaze of glory died away.

Thus, round Heaven-pointing lives, which altar-wise
Send up pure incense, gathering mists may rest,
And clouds of various trouble veil their skies:
But lo! at evening-time they shall be blest;
For them a sunset-glory shall arise,
And shafts of splendour smite them from the West.

The Ochil Hills

AS SEEN FROM DUNMORE

I

Those soft green hills, how they allure the eye
To linger hour by hour on their smooth breast,
Where tender lights and chequered shadows rest,
For ever varied with the changing sky.
Daily I gaze upon those summits high,
And grow familiar with each sunny crest,
Or track the windings of some valley blest,
That melts in dim recesses mistily.
No thought have I to win a nearer view,
Or tread those mountains with exploring feet,
Rending the airy veil of azure hue:
I leave them like imaginations sweet
And cherished, of the Beautiful and True,
Which from afar with wistful love I greet.

II

Ye emerald hills that to the sapphire skies
Lift your smooth foreheads silent and serene,
Calmly unconscious of the noisy scene
Which lost in rolling smoke beneath you lies;
Like you above earth's discords I would rise
Superior to the sordid and the mean,
And find in lofty thoughts those summits green
All unfamiliar to the worldly wise.
And as your heavenly tops ye ofttimes screen
With veiling mists impervious to my eyes,
And yet unmoved I know ye, though unseen;
So when love's faltering vision vainly tries
To seize her Object for the clouds between,
Faith grasps invisible realities!

Dunmore Woods

They heard of it, they found it, in the wood,
The Ark, the Presence of the Lord of all;
Before His glory on their face they fall,
And worship Him, the Holy and the Good.
And we—have we not found Him, as we stood
Amid these pines which rise like pillars tall;
And in this leafy temple heard His call,
Thrilling the silence of the solitude?

When grateful shadows dim the noontide ray,
Lo, God is here, and sheds a secret balm;
Here still He walketh at the cool of day:
The lofty fir-trees sing a quiet psalm,
The beeches lisp a soft melodious lay,
And on the spirit falls a heavenly calm.

Psalm cxxxii. 6, Pr. Bk. version.

The Sylvan Shrine, Dunmore

“They spake therefore one with another, as they stood in the Temple, What think ye, that He will not come?”—S. John xi. 56.

My temple green, whose mossy floor
I love to traverse o'er and o'er:—
Here beeches like tall columns rise,
Smooth boles with arching canopies:
A mighty boulder guards the door.

The pillared vista I explore,
And “Will He come, whom I adore,”
I ask, “Whose Presence glorifies
My temple green?”

He comes, He comes!—O sweet surprise:
A sudden splendour fills my eyes!
From the rich West, as from Heaven's shore,
The sunbeams golden radiance pour,
And flood with lustre of the skies
My temple green!

Nature and Duty

The sylvan floor was paved with flowers,
The pillared trees were arched with blue,
The bright-robed choir, amid the bowers,
Carolled sweet snatches as they flew.

Vernal delights were in their prime,
And birds and blossoms joined to say,
“Come, give to us this sunny time,
In Nature's beauteous temple stay.

See how we flit from tree to tree,
See how we bloom without a care!
Come, taste our glorious liberty,
Our happy leisure stay and share.”

Thus pleads each bird of dulcet tongue,
Thus spreads her wiles each painted flower,
Till from my heart they almost wrung
Compliance in that tempting hour.

But Duty called my steps away,
And bade me close my ears and eyes,
And give to her the unbroken day
Far from birds' songs and beaming skies.

And I obeyed her stern behest,
And turned from Nature's smiling bowers,
And to my arduous task addrest
The patient undistracted hours.

Then Duty wove a bower for me,
And hovered round on lightsome wing,
And scattered blossoms fair to see,
And, like a bird, began to sing.

And there I sat awhile with joy
In Duty's inmost, radiant shrine,
Tasting God's peace without alloy,
And hearing melodies divine.

Yarrow and Saint Mary's Loch

I stood by Yarrow in a favoured hour,
And joyed to catch the consecrating gleam
Of poesy, which haunts that classic stream,
And makes it rich with a pathetic dower.
The mighty bards were with me in their power;
But chiefly Wordsworth and the cherished dream
He feared to realize, lest he might deem
The bud of fancy fairer than the flower.
But when I turned to “still Saint Mary's Lake,”
With twinkling sunlight sweetly silvered o'er,
I felt another beauty round me break,
Another glory touch the winding shore;
I thought of Names which higher memories wake—
The Blessèd Virgin and the Child she bore!

The Driffield Streams

Without a name they roll along—
Translucent streams of current strong;
Through leagues of level green they slide,
Washing the meads in circles wide,
Waking the mill-wheel's undersong.

Their depths the glancing fishes throng,
Or hide the waving weeds among;
By anglers loved, they yet abide
Without a name.

Happy the lives whose sunny tide
With no self-seeking is allied;
Pleasure and use to them belong,
Well-doers in a world of wrong—
Content through lowly ways to glide
Without a name!

Izaak Walton's Oak Cabinet

INSCRIBED WITH HIS NAME, 1672

O dainty cabinet, with carvings rare,
Well might thy antique grace my wonder claim,
But 'mid the scroll-work I descry the Name
Which on thy forefront thou dost proudly bear.

While rivers ripple in fresh morning air,
And happy anglers follow, void of blame,
The art they love, dear Izaak Walton's fame
With Shakespeare's self will heart-felt homage share.
Full many a coloured fly and cunning hook
In this old chest perchance were stored away,
To tempt his finny spoil from shadowy nook:
Or here those precious manuscripts once lay,
Those saintly lives he wrought into a book,
Wherewith to lure dim souls to realms of day.

Cambridge Days

The precious years we spent at Catharine Hall,
How dear their distant memory!—when the dew
Of youth was on us, and the unclouded blue
Above us, and Hope waved her wings o'er all.

The ancient elms, green Court, and tinkling call
Of Chapel-bell; gowns flitting o'er the view
To Hall or Lecture, even the dingy hue
Of College-front—how fondly we recall.
Our strolls in gardens or by winding river,
The famous men we heard, the books we read,
The dreams we dreamt—will make us one for ever;
Nor time nor place nor circumstance can render
Our hearts indifferent to those years long fled,
With their rich store of recollections tender.

Addressed to my friend, the Rev. Henry Sandwith, M.A.

While Shirley (a friend of Laud) was at Catharine Hall, Cambridge, he formed a close attachment with Bancroft, the Epigrammatist, who has recorded their friendship in the following lines (A.D. 1635):—

“James! thou and I did spend some precious yeares
At Katherine Hall, since when we sometimes feele
In our poetick braines (as plaine appeares)
A whirling tricke, there caught from Katherine's wheele”

To a Friend at Tunis

NEAR TO THE ANCIENT CARTHAGE, AND TO HIPPO, WHERE S. AUGUSTINE WAS BISHOP AND WROTE “THE CITY OF GOD”

At Catharine Hall, where first we met,
In life's fresh morning, you and I,
The stream of men, set after set,
Like Cam's own flood, still glideth by:
The elms still lift their boughs on high,
Beneath them gowns flit to and fro,
As once, before our youthful eye,
My friend of forty years ago!

Those studious days you can't forget,
Wandering alone, where ruined lie
The stones of Carthage, 'mid the fret
Of Time's far waves that sadly sigh:

But of “God's City” in the sky
Augustine bids sweet thoughts to flow
And cheer you, as you homeward hie,
My friend of forty years ago!

I, closed within the narrow net
Of circumstance until I die,
Do duties that bring no regret,
But, while they weary, satisfy:
My Church tower 'mid the trees you spy;
God's praises daily sound below;
Our glory is our ministry,
My friend of forty years ago!

Truth stands unchanged, though centuries fly;
Augustine's Gospel we too know,
And clasp it for eternity,
My friend of forty years ago!

The View from Christ Church Parsonage, West Walls, Carlisle

What contrasts strange diversify this view!
In front an ever-moving, noisy scene
Of trains and traffic—rows of houses mean,
Shadowed by factories huge of dusky hue—
Churches and chimneys tall; with glimpses through
Of quiet fields—a cemetery green
And still—while in the distance stand serene
The mountains veiled in soft aerial blue.

Even so the Pastor toils 'mid busy men,
Bearing Heaven's balm to soothe Earth's weary sighs—
Cheered by the smile of Nature now and then—
By sight of man's mortality made wise—
And through life's struggle keeping in his ken
The eternal hills which in the distance rise.

Grasmere

We thought of Wordsworth—how his memory fills
The peaceful vale, and haunts its leafy shades,
And never from its circling summits fades—
A lingering glory on the silent hills;—
When all at once a silvery music thrills
The bosom of the waters, and pervades
Each nook and corner of the woods and glades,
And everywhere a holy grace distils.
Morning and evening from that grey Churchtower,
Which through the centuries unchanged abides,
Comes the sweet call to prayer with soothing power;
While, like a brook from his loved mountainsides,
The Bard's pure strains are murmured hour by hour,
As by his quiet grave the Rothay glides.

The Church Spire at Grasby

IN CONNECTION WITH THE POETRY OF MY FRIEND, CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER

Graceful it rises on the green hill-side,
That fair white spire, and points men to the sky,
A silent preacher to the casual eye
O'er field and wold and woodland far and wide.
Though but of yesterday, it will abide
While centuries, like the summer clouds, flit by:
A landmark, it will lift its head on high,
From age to age the hamlet's crown and pride.
Meanwhile another structure not of stone,
A life-work built of pure and lofty rhyme,
Beneath the shadow of that spire has grown
To lend its beauty to the aftertime,
When Grasby shall assert its kindred claim
With cherished Grasmere to poetic fame.

Charles Tennyson Turner, elder brother of the Laureate, and Vicar of Grasby, Lincolnshire, rebuilt the church there. His Collected Sonnets, Old and New, were brought out after his death by the present Lord Tennyson, with an introductory essay by James Spedding (Kegan Paul & Co.).

On the View of Farringford

(THE POET LAUREATE'S HOME)

FROM THE DOWN ABOVE FRESHWATER, ISLE OF WIGHT

The Author had the happiness of spending a day with Lord and Lady Tennyson at Aldworth the year after the publication of this sonnet.

From that high down I gained the goodly view
So long desired—those sheltering groves of pine
Which round a Poet's home their shades entwine,
Intrusive eyes forbidding to peer through.
Only the curling smoke ascended blue
Against the dark green umbrage, to define
The local source of melodies divine,
As ever bard from classic fountains drew.
Much longed I to behold the favoured place,
O'er which that azure banner beckoning hung;
Those sylvan bowers and garden walks to trace,
Where many a year our Nightingale had sung;
But then, methought, that Songster claims the right
To warble forth his music out of sight!

To a Friend starting for Palestine

(THE REV. DR. GROSART)

As birds of passage in a cage confined,
When all their mates with one accord agree
To quit their shattered haunts in bush or tree,
As by a magnet to the South inclined;
Those captives, urged by the same impulse blind,
Though calm before, now struggle to be free,
And strain tow'rds sunnier lands beyond the sea,
Unvexed by gathering storm and chilling wind:
Such earnest flutterings of desire are mine,
With thee, dear friend, to wing my southward course,
And range o'er holy fields of Palestine:
But Duty bars me round with gentle force,
And bids me the instinctive hope resign
Of tracking Truth's fair stream to its sweet source.

Shells from Gennesaret

A few curved, fragile shells,
Fresh from the marge of Galilee's blue lake—
Ah, what sweet echoes haunt their tiny cells,
And gracious thoughts awake;

100

What sacred memories crowd
Round the deserted beach from whence they came;
The lonely hills and tideless waves wax loud,
Murmuring One mighty Name.

Shells such as these once lay
Where footsteps more than mortal paced the shore;
Deemed worthy to be scattered in His way
Who strewed with stars Heaven's floor.

Shells such as these once met
The pressure of His rare Humanity,
When on dry land those glorious feet He set
Which trode the heaving sea.

'Twas theirs again to hail
Those blessèd steps ere now they soared above—
To kiss the dear marks of each piercing nail
Which rent the feet of Love.

I look on them and know
That as these orient shells now fill my hand,
Their Maker nineteen hundred years ago
Stood on that hallowed strand.

And, like Gennesaret's shells,
I too would grow familiar with His feet,
Would haunt the regions where His Presence dwells
And see His tokens sweet:

101

Till, through His grace divine,
I gain some humble nook on Heaen's high shore,
Where His feet wander, and His glories shine,
And His redeemed adore!

Song—“Oh, Where?”

I

Sweet violets, we joy to hail
Your lovely blooms once more,
Cærulean purple, snowy pale,
And fragrant as of yore;
Oh, where
Hide ye your petals fair,
Before
Mysterious winds of March
Come wandering down the sheltered vale
And tuft with rose the larch?

II

Sweet nightingales, we joy to hear
Your happy wild-wood song,
Thrilling once more the moonlight clear
With music soft and strong;

102

Oh, where
Hide ye through Winter bare
And long,
Before the voice of Spring
Bids you return to charm our ear,
On ocean-wandering wing?

III

Dear saints in heaven, arrayed in light,
Singing to harps of gold,
Your glory ravishes my sight;
Where wandered ye of old?
Oh, where
Found ye that beauty rare—
Untold?
“'Neath a dim Tree on earth,
We washed our robes and made them white,
And tuned our harps to mirth!”

Set to music by Sir F. Gore Ouseley, Bart. (Novello).

“When rosy plumelets tuft the larch” (In Memoriam).

Starlight

At midnight, when yon azure fields on high
Sparkle and glow without one cloudy bar,
The radiance of some “bright particular star”
Attracts, perchance, and holds my watching eye.
That star may long have vanished from the sky;
Yet still its unspent rays, borne from afar,
Come darting downwards in their golden car—
Proof it once glittered in the galaxy.
So in my heart I feel a healing ray
Sweetly transmitted from a Star divine,
Which once illumed the coasts of Palestine:

103

And though its beauty beams not there to-day,
I know that Star of old did truly shine,
Because its cheering radiance now is mine.

Heavenly Silence

Above this air we breathe, a mantling bound,
No hint ascends of thunder's awful roar,
Shrill wind, or ocean breaking on the shore,
Or the loud battle; but, without a sound,
The balanced orbs fulfil their glorious round
Through silent depths of space for evermore;
Like angels prostrate on Heaven's shining floor,
Where for our discords harsh no place is found.
Lord, even here such stillness let me gain,
And o'er the world's disturbing voices rise;
Now let the peace of God within me reign,
Reflecting the calm order of the skies:
And while beneath my feet earth's noises roll,
Mine be the heavenly silence of the soul

“Every one sees his own Rainbow”

When painted on a sullen, showery sky
Appears the glory of the triple bow,
Red, orange, blue, with intermingling glow,
That beauteous arch is built for my sole eye.

104

For me alone the listed colours lie
Where I behold them—for none else below;
To me, as to their centre, softly flow
The rays converging from that pageant high.
Others their bow may see, but I see mine;
To meet my eye springs the celestial arc,
To glad my heart the braided splendours shine:
So in God's covenant-love my place I mark,
I form one centre of the scheme divine
Which lights with hope for me life's mystery dark.

The Pyramid of Life

Our lives are like a pyramid, and rise
By sure gradations, year succeeding year;
The steps we have ascended stand out clear,
And form a stage beneath us, altar-wise.
The steps which yet remain elude our eyes,
But soon with the swift seasons will appear;
And while the summit silently draws near,
The stage on which we work contracts its size.
Without a pause our pyramid we rear,
Which tapers upward as our lifetime flies,
Compact of many a smile and many a tear:
Oh, as our foothold narrows, let us prize
The lessening hours, and walk in holy fear,
By faith and love aspiring to the skies!

105

Honey-Gatherers

While here we work, and pray, and humbly strive
To do the duty of the passing hour,
We cull experience from each thorn and flower,
And gather honey for the Eternal hive.
Oh, 'tis a blessèd thing to be alive
On this green earth, and gifted with the power
Daily to add to Faith's immortal dower
Fresh storèd sweets, of which none can deprive
The happy gatherers. Soon as morning glows
Let us salute, with the impartial sun,
The pricking thistle, or the silky rose:
In grief or joy, pains borne, or duties done,
Seek we new spoil from every flower that blows,
To feast upon while endless ages run!

Borderland

I move along the solemn borderland
Where earth's familiar scenes begin to wear
An autumn sadness, a pathetic air
Of coming change, which old men understand.
The trees put off their green, on either hand,
And frost-touched flowers let fall their petals fair;
While the last swallows, flitting south, declare
That life, like summer, seeks another strand.

106

But Nature looks around without dismay,
And breathes o'er field and wood a peace sublime,
And decks with softest hues the autumn day;
Bidding me tread this borderland of Time
With soul that answers to her tranquil ray,
And smooths its pinions for a happier clime!

The Pruning of the Vine

“My Father is the Husbandman”

I

A midst the clusters of a Vine
I saw a glorious Hand Divine
Backward and forward, glance and shine.

II

With gleaming knife, now here, now there,
Stroke after stroke—it did not spare
Green leaf, or fruit, or tendril fair.

III

Wondering at that strange sight, I cried,
Lord, turn the fatal steel aside,
Spoil not that bough's luxuriant pride.

IV

See how its swelling grapes hang low,
Its leaves in mantling beauty grow,
While spicy odours from it flow.

107

V

Ah, Lord, Thy chastening hand restrain,
Strike not that fruitful bough again,
Give it sweet sunshine, dew, and rain.

VI

Are there not other branches, bare
Of clustering fruit, which need Thy care?
Expend Thy sharp correction there!

VII

The Heavenly Pruner made reply—
The barren branches I pass by,
Unworthy of My culture high.

VIII

Clothed with redundant leaves they grow,
And make an empty, Summer show—
Soon to be sundered with a blow.

IX

On fruitful boughs My care I spend,
And sharpness with My love I blend:
When most severe, then most their Friend.

X

The thick green leaves I cut away
To let the sunshine have full play
And touch the grapes with ripening ray.

108

XI

I crop each useless, tendrilled shoot
Lest it should rob the swelling fruit
Of moisture rising from the root.

XII

Nay, under My keen knife will fall
E'en fruit itself when rank or small,
Lest, sparing some, I forfeit all.

XIII

Fruit I come seeking evermore—
Branches weighed down and clustered o'er
With Eshcol grapes, a purple store.

XIV

Fruit is My glory, and I smite
The boughs in which I most delight,
To make them glorious in My sight!

“Seventy”

O god, I thank Thee for the gift complete,
The rounded sum of threescore years and ten—
A life not useless to my fellow-men,
And yet sequestered from their hurrying feet;

109

Where Nature smiled on me with glances sweet
In many a leafy nook and secret glen,
And deigned at times to touch my heart and pen
With thoughts the Muses deemed not all unmeet.
Perchance in after days some word of mine
Will lead a kindred soul to haunts of peace,
Where mirrored woods in tranquil waters shine;
Or lift a drooping heart to hopes divine:
Thus with the allotted years I shall not cease,
Nor with my breath my work on earth resign.

Burnby Church

(NUNBURNHOLME STATION)

FROM THE RECTOR'S STUDY WINDOW

R. Cecil Wilton, B.A., Lightfoot Scholar, Cambridge, 1887, Rector of Burnby.

A triple light, surmounted by the Cross,
Faces the East; while to the West is seen
Above the porch, which raven-beaks emboss,
An open bell-cot, muffled up in green.
I see the naked bells against the sky,
Whose iron tongue for daily prayer is stirred:
Beneath—the silent generations lie
That centuries since the call to worship heard.
But there is life, warm, eager life for me,
Who let the world rush by me day by day;
While round my door the little flock I see
For whom to watch, to labour, and to pray—
Between the living and the dead to stand
Waving the fragrant incense in my hand!

110

The New Church of S. John, Bilsdale

Bernard Wilton, B.A., Vicar. The church was erected by the Earl of Feversham from designs by Mr. Temple Moore.

The river, age by age, and year by year,
Went singing down the green sequestered dale;
The cuckoo flung his name across the vale;
The blackbird answered with a challenge clear:
When lo, another music takes the ear,
A higher note the listening people hail—
Unknown before, but nevermore to fail—
Cadence divine and invitation dear.
With solemn sound rings out the sweet Church bell;
With silvery stroke the fleeting hour is heard;
Sunday and weekday own the gracious spell:
Oh, may each heart in this fair vale be stirred
To seek the Master and to serve Him well,
Drawn by His loving call and living Word!

Easterside, Bilsdale

(THE MOUNTAIN WHICH BOUNDS AND DOMINATES THE DALE)

I lift my brow to meet the morning light
And catch the earliest blush of breaking day;
And to the slumbering dale below, I say,
Up and put on the Christian's armour bright,

111

And live your life beneath your Maker's sight,
As I live mine: then, as at evening grey,
My summit warms with a soft parting ray,
Ye shall have comfort at the approach of night.
To me was given the Eastern sky to face,
And bear the old-world name of Easterside,
A silent prophecy of coming Grace:
'Tis yours to look to Him, your joy and pride—
To serve the Risen One, each in your place—
And steadfast as the hills in Him abide!

On the Moor

On this high moor, with roseate heather bells
Around my feet, the heavenly blue above,
And God's breath fanning me, my spirit swells
To Thee, my Maker, with adoring love—
Content to know Thou art, and that to me
Is granted the felicity to be!

Wood-Music

(REDDITCH)

In the green heart of a wood
Peaceful and alone I stood,
Drinking in each liquid note
Of the blackbird's loosened throat,
With the mingled minstrelsy
Of the songs from over sea:

112

Marking every shade of green
In the unfurling foliage seen—
For each bird a fresh hue sent
In a leafy blandishment.
Or with happy downward eye
Counting all the stars that lie—
Stars of earth, with varied rays,
In the hazel-shaded ways—
Violets on a mossy floor,
Primrose with its golden ore,
Hyacinths in sheets of blue
Rivalling the heaven's own hue.

Thoughtful as I moved along
Lo, I heard the sovereign song
Of the laureate of the wood
Thrilling every leaf and bud,
Flower below and branch on high,
With a sudden ecstasy.
Then thanks blossomed out of thought,
All my heart to music wrought;
Soul and tongue to praise awoke,
Into song my glory broke;
And I blessed the God who made
Bird and flower and leafy shade,
Till I felt my voice prevail
O'er the crownèd nightingale!

113

Milton's Portrait

ON RECEIVING FROM MY FRIEND, DR. GROSART, HIS ENGRAVING OF MILTON IN OLD AGE BY ALAIS, AFTER FAITHORNE, 1670

Grosart, we thank thee, and the cunning hand
Of the engraver, called by thee to limn
A face which saw beyond the narrow rim
Of earth's horizon—tranquil, solemn, grand.
What wondrous airs of Paradise have fanned
That furrowed brow, what glorious sights made dim
Those eyes upraised to catch the skirts of Him
Around whose throne the shining seraphs stand.
And as we gaze upon that countenance marr'd
E'en as the Master's was, with mortal care,
Affliction and neglect,—O mighty Bard,
We learn from thee, if not to sing, to bear—
To work and pray and patiently abide
Till earthly toils and tears are glorified!

Henry Vaughan, Silurist

Henry Vaughan's desecrated grave was restored by the lovers of his poetry in answer to an appeal from the American poetess, Louise Imogen Guiney.

O lifelong wanderer by the murmuring Usk,
Saintly Silurist, thy belovèd stream
Still breathes thy name and fame at evening dusk
Or when its flowery banks with sunrise gleam:

114

The while the vocal current of thy rhyme
With subtle, sweet, and penetrative force
Awakes the echoes of this far-off time,
Adown the ages singing in its course.
Where strayed thy feet, reposes now thy dust
Under the yew tree; but thy measured words,
Moving the heart to love and hope and trust,
Fly over land and sea like summer birds:
Such wings of immortality are given
To spirits “finely touched,” and taught of Heaven!

To the Sacred Poets of America

(THE PROLOGUE TO MY FRIEND MR. HORDER'S TREASURY OF AMERICAN SACRED SONG)

As from the East unto the utmost West
God bids the banner of His lightning shine,
The flashing signal of the Face Divine
With whose fair radiance earth may soon be blest:
So speeds the Heavenly Muse at His behest,
Across the waters; so the spreading vine
Of sacred poesy, with clusters fine,
By Western airs is welcomed and caressed.
O ye whose sires our English fields have trod,
By holy Herbert's feet made hallowed ground,
His dower of truth and beauty ye have found:
With you still buds and blossoms Aaron's rod,
Proclaiming you the poet-priests of God,
To wave the incense of His praise around.

115

Verses placed on Washington's Tomb

This poem was read aloud at the tomb of Washington, in the presence of President McKinley, and a large assembly, including many leading Freemasons, by Mr. Charles Woodberry of Beverly, Massachusetts, as representative of the Earl of Londesborough, and the Constitutional Lodge, Beverley, Yorkshire, and was widely circulated throughout the United States.

ON THE OCCASION OF THE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF HIS DEATH, 14TH DECEMBER 1899, ALONG WITH THE EARL OF LONDESBOROUGH'S WREATH OF OAK, LAUREL, IVY, AND YEW

I

An English Wreath we fain would lay
Upon this mighty tomb to-day—
Of laurel, ivy, oak, and yew,
Which drank the English sun and dew
On far-off Yorkshire's grassy sod;
Where once—we boast—his fathers trod,
Whom East and West unite to praise
And crown with never-fading bays.

II

O Washington, thy symbol be
The oak for strength and constancy:
For grandeur and for grace of form,
For calmness in the stress and storm,
The monarch of the forest thou!
To thee the generations bow;
And under thy great shadow rest,
For ever free, for ever blest.

116

III

And thine the laurel, for the fame
Illustrious of a Conqueror's name—
Patient to wait and prompt to strike,
Intrepid, fiery, mild alike:
Great, for the greatness of the foe
Which fell by thy repeated blow:
Great, for thy country's greatness, won
By thee, her most belovèd Son.

IV

And as the ivy twines around
Cottage and tower, thy heart was found
Clinging to home, and church, and wife,
The sweeter for the finished strife:
And so thy memory, like the yew,
Will still be green to mortal view—
“The greatest of good men” confest
By all “and of great men the best!”

John Washington, the founder of the American family of Washington, and great-grandfather of the President, lived at South Cave, not far from Londesborough and Beverley, England.

The Springs, Skell Bank

LONDESBOROUGH PARK, WHERE A SEAT WAS MADE FOR ME BY ORDER OF MY LIFE-FRIEND, THE LATE EARL OF LONDESBOROUGH

This haunt of rest, where tinkling waters flow,
And hawthorns clothe the bank from sky to base,
And the still lake spreads out its tranquil face
The mirrored beauty of the trees to show,

117

And the blue depths of Heaven—all this I owe
To Him, my Friend, whose kindness was a grace
Encircling and ennobling rank and place,
And shedding all around a genial glow.
To Him I owe this sheltered sylvan nest
Dear to the Muse; to Him my home of peace,
My happy leisure and my labour blest:
And so I pray, God grant Him sweet release
From sorrow, in the Paradise of rest,
Where the “fresh springs” of gladness never cease!

Doing Good

Let me do good and never know
To whom my life a blessing brings;
E'en as a lighthouse freely flings
O'er the dark waves a steady glow,
Guiding the ships, which to and fro
Flit by unseen with their white wings:
Let me do good and never know
To whom my life a blessing brings.

As thïrsty travellers come and go
Where some fresh mossy fountain springs;
It cools their lips, and sweetly sings,
And glides away with heedless flow:
Let me do good and never know
To whom my life a blessing brings.

118

Giving Thanks

“Say alway, the Lord be praised.”
—Ps. xl. 19.

“The Lord be praised,” I love to say
At blush of morn and evening's rose:
When first the conscious Orient grows
Red with the thought of coming day;
And when mild evening's mantle grey
With streaks of crimson richly glows—
“The Lord be praised,” I love to say,
At blush of morn and evening's rose.

As birds pour forth a roundelay
When morn its breezy signal shows,
And when with pensive footstep goes
Calm eve, they join in chorus gay—
“The Lord be praised,” I love to say,
At blush of morn and evening's rose!

When I am gone

When I am gone from mortal view
The skies will wear their wonted blue;
The clouds distil the summer rain
On leafy wood and grassy plain;
And flowers will smile through morning dew.

The birds I loved will still be true
To their old haunts, and flutter through
The boughs, nor alter one sweet strain
When I am gone.

119

The silent moon will wax and wane
Heedless that I ne'er come again;
Cold stars roll round in order due;
But hearts—warm hearts—perchance a few
With loving tears some cheeks will stain
When I am gone.

The Resting Place

In serious or in cheerful hours
My frequent footsteps wander by
The Churchyard nook of grass and flowers,
Where I shall lie.

Near it the chancel rises grey,
And drooping branches gently sigh,
And throw their shadows all the day
Where I shall lie.

There long has slumbered precious dust,
O'er which our eyes were wont to weep,
Till sorrow merged in perfect trust—
Where I shall sleep.

And there on quiet Sabbath days
Is heard a murmur soft and deep,
The voice of common prayer and praise,
Where I shall sleep.

While overhead on happy wing
The birds flit by and build their nest,
And smooth their plumes and sweetly sing,
Where I shall rest.

120

And there sounds forth the Word divine,
And there are seen the Symbols blest,
That I am His and He is mine—
Where I shall rest.

So humbly trusting faithful Grace,
I pass with unaverted eyes
The peaceful, consecrated place
Whence I shall rise!

Set to music by Sir F. Gore Ouseley, Bart. (Novello).

“Till my Change come”

“If a man die, shall he live again? All the days of my appointed time I will wait, till my change come.”—Job xiv. 14.

“Till my change come”—with folded wing
My soul will wait its Lord and King,
While my dust rests in hope below;
Nor will it heed the sun or snow,
The falling leaf, or flower of Spring.

Above me holy bells will ring,
And birds their roundelays will sing,
Through the set days of gloom or glow,
“Till my change come.”

The ivy its festoons will bring,
And waving boughs their shadows fling;
The rain will beat, the wind will blow,
But ah, in Whom I trust I know,
And my calm soul to Him will cling,
“Till my change come.”

121

Benedicite

The “Benedicite” is a hymn or canticle used interchangeably with the “Te Deum” in the Morning Prayer of the Church of England. It is taken from the Apocrypha, where it appears as an addition to the Book of Daniel, and is there called “The Song of the Three Holy Children.”

There is no Hebrew version of the Song. It is only found in the Greek, and in that language was circulated everywhere with the Septuagint translation of the Old Testament. The Benedicite was used as a hymn by the Jews for a century or two before the birth of Christ, and is therefore some five hundred years older than the Te Deum; and it was adopted by the Christians in their public worship at a very early period.

The frequent repetition of the refrain, “Bless ye the Lord, praise Him and magnify Him for ever,” gives great dignity to this call upon the creatures to join with man in the praises of his Maker.

It may be mentioned that the thirty-two Rondels on the successive verses of the Benedicite, each with a different refrain, were composed (not consecutively) in various places in England and Scotland, during the years 1883 and 1884.

The Author desires to add that twenty of the poems in Lyra Pastoralis have not appeared in his former volumes.

O all ye Works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

O all ye Works of God most High,
Bless ye the Lord and praise His Name;
Whose hand has built this goodly frame
Of emerald earth and sapphire sky;
And fashioned man to magnify
His love, and spread abroad His fame:
O all ye Works of God most High,
Bless ye the Lord and praise His Name.

Ye mighty suns through space that fly,
Ye glow-worms with your tiny flame,
From the same source of light ye came
To shine before your Maker's eye:
O all ye Works of God most High,
Bless ye the Lord and praise His Name.

O ye Angels of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Ye Angels, praise Him evermore,
Your Lord and Master glorify;
And “Holy, Holy, Holy” cry,
As veiled ye stand His face before;
Or spread your willing wings to soar
And flash His mandates through the sky:
Ye Angels, praise Him evermore,
Your Lord and Master glorify.

122

Wondering ye marked Him when He wore
The garb of our mortality;
Ye saw Him weep, ye heard Him sigh,
And succour to His sorrow bore:
Ye Angels, praise Him evermore,
Your Lord and Master glorify.

O ye Heavens, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Ye Heavens, with your encircling blue,
Prepare a temple for His praise;
An azure dome of song upraise,
Distilling music like the dew;
Let angels warble out of view,
And men reply with gladsome lays:
Ye Heavens, with your encircling blue,
Prepare a temple for His praise.

Ye larks, to rosy dawn be true,
Ascending your melodious ways;
Ye linnets, charm the listening days,
And nightingales, the strain renew:
Ye Heavens, with your encircling blue,
Prepare a temple for His praise.

O ye Waters that be above the firmament, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Ye watery Clouds, His praises bear,
Where'er ye float o'er sea and land;
Pile up your fleecy masses grand—
Your snowy castles in the air:

123

And God's artillery prepare
To thunder forth at His command:
Ye watery Clouds, His praises bear,
Where'er ye float o'er sea and land.

Rain down your largess everywhere
O'er field and wood with lavish hand;
Till touched, as with a magic wand,
All earth a radiant garland wear:
Ye watery Clouds, His praises bear,
Where'er ye float o'er sea and land.

O all ye Powers of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Bless ye the Lord, O all ye Powers,
Who sing above or serve below;
O seraphs, with devotion glow
Amid your everlasting bowers;
In praise of Him, both yours and ours,
Let music unimagined flow:
Bless ye the Lord, O all ye Powers,
Who sing above or serve below.

O men, uprear your stately towers,
And bid your labouring organs blow
High praise to Him, to whom ye owe
The hope which soothes your fleeting hours:
Bless ye the Lord, O all ye Powers,
Who sing above or serve below.

124

O ye Sun and Moon, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

O Sun and Moon, dispense His praise,
Shine to His glory day and night:
Sun, bless Him when thy chariot bright
Ascends the high cerulean ways—
Bless Him with evening's crimson rays,
Bless Him with morning's golden light:
O Sun and Moon, dispense His praise,
Shine to His glory day and night.

O Moon, amid the starry maze
That dances round thee, sing His might;
Or, curtained in pavilion white
Of fleecy cloud, or circling haze:
O Sun and Moon, dispense His praise,
Sing to His glory day and night.

O ye Stars of Heaven, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

O all ye Stars, that sweep through space,
Your Maker's praises bear along;
Flood Heaven's high dome with ceaseless song,
And shout for joy before God's face:
His power in shining letters trace,
Who keeps you bright and swift and strong:
O all ye Stars, that sweep through space,
Your Maker's praises bear along.

O show me in what favoured place
He sits serene your hosts among,
Upholding all the countless throng,

125

Your Lord and ours—the Man of grace:
O all ye Stars, that sweep through space,
Your Maker's praises bear along.

O ye Showers and Dew, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

O bless the Lord, ye Dews and Showers,
O'er all the earth His praise distil;
Increase the music of the rill,
Enrich the greenness of the bowers;
Freshen the faces of the flowers,
The laughing plains with plenty fill:
O bless the Lord, ye Dews and Showers,
O'er all the earth His praise distil.

Ye Dews that cool the sultry hours,
Ye rains that work His secret will
In field and garden, vale and hill—
The love is His, the boon is ours:
O bless the Lord, ye Dews and Showers,
O'er all the earth His praise distil.

O ye Winds of God, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

O Winds of God, now loud, now low,
Round all the earth His praises bear;
Now softly scatter odours rare
Where'er your dewy footsteps go;
Now in the roaring pinewoods blow
A long-drawn thunder through the air:
O Winds of God, now loud, now low,
Round all the earth His praises bear.

126

For oh, the gracious Power we know
Who deigns your viewless form to wear,
A sweet, strong Influence everywhere,
To Whom our life of life we owe:
O Winds of God, now loud, now low,
Round all the earth His praises bear.

O ye Fire and Heat, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Bless ye the Lord, O Fire and Heat,
And spread your Maker's fame on high;
From yon vast furnace in the sky
His praise with throbbing pulses beat;
And borne on unseen pinions fleet
To each remotest planet fly:
Bless ye the Lord, O Fire and Heat,
And spread your Maker's praise on high.

Life flushes forth beneath your feet,
And verdure to delight the eye:
All Nature, wanting you, must die;
All worlds your vital presence greet:
Bless ye the Lord, O Fire and Heat,
And spread your Maker's fame on high.

O ye Winter and Summer, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

O Summer, Winter, blend your strain,
And bless the Lord in gloom or glow:
O Summer, let your praises flow
As freely as the gentle rain,

127

Which feeds the grass and ripening grain,
And bids the rose and lily blow:
O Summer, Winter, blend your strain,
And bless the Lord in gloom or glow.

O Winter, your loud tempests chain,
And make a silence with your snow,
Softly to welcome Peace below,
And Righteousness without a stain:
O Summer, Winter, blend your strain,
And bless the Lord in gloom or glow.

O ye Dews and Frosts, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Ye gemmy Dews and sparkling Rime,
Bless ye the Lord from morn to morn:
Ye Dews, hang jewels on the corn,
Which lifts its spears in Summer-time;
Give freshness to the gracious prime,
And every blade of grass adorn:
Ye gemmy Dews and Sparkling Rime,
Bless ye the Lord from morn to morn.

Hoar Frosts that deck our wintry clime
With beauty of the coldness born,
Impearling every twig and thorn,
Silvering the beech and leafless lime—
Ye gemmy Dews and sparkling Rime,
Bless ye the Lord from morn to morn

128

O ye Frost and Cold, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

O Frost and Cold, His Word fulfil,
And breathe from silent lips His praise;
On tree and pane a fretwork raise
Whose beauty baffles human skill;
And in the field and garden kill
The weedy growth of Summer days:
O Frost and Cold, His Word fulfil,
And breathe from silent lips His praise.

Pity in happy hearts instil
For wanderers on the homeless ways;
And payment urge, for bygone lays
To flutterers at the window-sill:
O Frost and Cold, His Word fulfil,
And breathe from silent lips His praise.

O ye Ice and Snow, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Bless ye the Lord, O Ice and Snow,
And shine and sparkle in His sight;
Give to the earth a mantle white,
Which like Christ's seamless coat shall glow,
The righteousness of saints to show,
Spotless, and fair, and pure as light:
Bless ye the Lord, O Ice and Snow,
And shine and sparkle in His sight.

Though frozen rills may cease to flow,
Let Love's free stream be at its height;
And let Peace sit by firesides bright

129

And cheerly sing, while tempests blow,
“Bless ye the Lord, O Ice and Snow,
And shine and sparkle in His sight.”

O ye Nights and Days, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Bless ye the Lord, O Nights and Days,
A dark-bright wreath for Him entwine:
“The days are Thine, the nights are Thine,”
And ring the changes of Thy praise.
Days weave for Thee their gladsome rays,
And nights with solemn lustre shine:
Bless ye the Lord, O Nights and Days,
A dark-bright wreath for Him entwine.

O may my days an anthem raise,
And songs resound from nights of mine—
Fair joys and gloomy griefs combine
To praise Him, Whose are all my ways:
Bless ye the Lord, O Nights and Days,
A dark-bright wreath for Him entwine.

O ye Light and Darkness, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

O Light and Darkness, come and go,
And waft His praise on balanced wing:
O Light, your morning glories bring,
For Him spread out your evening glow;
O'er all this beauteous world below
Your joy-inspiring radiance fling:
O Light and Darkness, come and go,
And waft His praise on balanced wing.

130

O Darkness, bring your wondrous show
Of worlds above that shine and sing;
Make all your boundless spaces ring
With measured strains that ceaseless flow:
O Light and Darkness, come and go,
And waft His praise on balanced wing.

O ye Lightnings and Clouds, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Lightnings and Clouds, in praise of Him
Unfurl your banners in the sky:
Ye Lightnings, let your pennons fly,
Illumining the midnight dim,
Till all the landscape seems to swim
In fire, before the dazzled eye:
Lightnings and Clouds, in praise of Him,
Unfurl your banners in the sky.

Ye Clouds, upon the ocean's brim,
In sunset-hues your streamers dye;
Your gold and crimson wave on high
And beautify the horizon's rim:
Lightnings and Clouds, in praise of Him,
Unfurl your banners in the sky.

O let the Earth bless the Lord; yea, let it praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

O let the Earth in fair array
Breathe to the Lord a gladsome strain;
Weave round her brow a radiant chain
Of apple-bloom or fragrant may,

131

And dance along her sunny way
Through waving grass and springing grain:
O let the Earth in fair array
Breathe to the Lord a gladsome strain:

In sylvan aisles her worship pay,
Or praise Him by the azure main:
When morning smiles without a stain
Or evening dons her mantle grey—
O let the Earth in fair array
Breathe to the Lord a gladsome strain.

O ye Mountains and Hills, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Ye Hills and Mountains, lift His praise,
To your high calling be ye true:
Let your pure summits pierce the blue,
And catch His earliest morning rays;
And with a lingering glory blaze
When earth puts on her twilight hue:
Ye Hills and Mountains, lift His praise,
To your high calling be ye true.

Along your silent upland ways
His holy feet have brushed the dew,
When hiding out of human view
He sought lone nights for busy days:
Ye Hills and Mountains, lift His praise,
To your high calling be ye true.

132

O all ye Green Things upon the earth, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

O all ye Green Things on the earth,
Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade;
To whisper praises ye were made,
Or wave to Him in solemn mirth:
For this the towering pine had birth,
For this sprang forth each grassy blade:
O all ye Green Things on the earth,
Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade.

Ye wayside weeds of little worth,
Ye ferns that fringe the woodland glade,
Ye dainty flowers that quickly fade,
Ye stedfast yews of mighty girth:
O all ye Green Things on the earth,
Bless ye the Lord in sun and shade.

O ye Wells, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

O Wells and Springs, where'er ye flow,
Bless God with your sweet undersong;
His ceaseless praises bear along,
Rippling and tinkling as ye go:
What though your voice is soft and low,
'Tis musical your flowers among:
O Wells and Springs, where'er ye flow,
Bless God with your sweet undersong.

When fainting with the noonday glow,
Some traveller quaffs you, and is strong;
When under midnight's shining throng

133

A mirror to some star ye show:
O Wells and Springs, where'er ye flow,
Bless God with your sweet undersong.

O ye Seas and Floods, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Ye Seas and Floods, with voice of might
Resound His Name for evermore:
Ye rushing falls that thunder o'er
The rifted rocks, and daze the sight:
Ye waves, that with your crests of white
Incessant dash upon the shore:
Ye Seas and Floods, with voice of might
Resound His Name for ever.

Ye torrents from the mountain height,
Round your grey boulders dance and roar;
Ye billows on the ocean floor,
Your hands in jubilation smite:
Ye Seas and Floods, with voice of might
Resound His Name for evermore.

O ye Whales, and all that move in the waters, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Ye silent Tenants of the deep,
From your dim haunts His praise uplift;
Whether ye glance with motion swift,
Or through the weedy tangle creep;
Whether through restless waves ye sweep,
Or with the lazy currents drift:
Ye silent Tenants of the deep,
From your dim haunts His praise uplift

134

Your ordered paths He bids you keep,
Your watery pleasures are His gift;
He shows you, through a cloudy rift,
The oozy fields which ye may reap:
Ye silent Tenants of the deep,
From your dim haunts His praise uplift.

O all ye Fowls of the air, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

O all ye Birds of various wing,
Bless ye the Lord in joyful lays;
Whether in some dim forest-maze,
Unseen yourselves, your voices ring:
Or up through azure heights ye spring,
Bearing aloft melodious praise:
O all ye Birds of various wing,
Bless ye the Lord in joyful lays.

Whether in garden nooks ye sing,
Or warble by the public ways;
If but a simple trill ye raise,
Or but a cheery chirp ye bring:
O all ye Birds of various wing,
Bless ye the Lord in joyful lays.

O all ye Beasts and Cattle, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Ye Beasts and Cattle, magnify
Your Lord and Master evermore;
Lions, that in the desert roar,
Proclaim His awful majesty—

135

And creatures fierce that ambushed lie
In woods, or haunt the reedy shore:
Ye Beasts and Cattle, magnify
Your Lord and Master evermore.

Ye flocks that range the mountains high,
Ye peaceful herds that wander o'er
A thousand hills, His Name adore—
Lowing and bleating to the sky:
Ye Beasts and Cattle, magnify
Your Lord and Master evermore.

O ye Children of Men, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Ye Sons of Men, your glory wake,
To God your jubilate raise:
He calls on you to lead the lays
Which from His happy creatures break;
Their varied notes and cries to take
And blend into articulate praise:
Ye Sons of Men, your glory wake,
To God your jubilate raise.

Wake heart and voice for His dear sake,
The Son of Man, Who walked earth's ways;
With praise of Him crown all your days,
Of Him your sweetest music make:
Ye Sons of Men, your glory wake,
To God your jubilate raise.

136

O let Israel bless the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Let Israel praise Him with a song,
And laud His love and lift His fame;
For them He came in cloud and flame
To teach the bounds of right and wrong;
Bore them on eagles' wings along,
And made a people for His Name:
Let Israel praise Him with a song,
And laud His love and lift His fame.

He deigned to dwell His saints among;
For them a Virgin's Child He came;
Blameless He took away their blame,
Becoming weak to make them strong:
Let Israel praise Him with a song,
And laud His love and lift His fame.

O ye Priests of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Ye Priests of God, your incense bring,
The fragrant offering of your praise;
Give thanks with morning's cheerful rays,
At tranquil eve your censers swing;
Let grateful thoughts, like blossoms, spring
To beautify life's common ways:
Ye Priests of God, your incense bring
The fragrant offering of your praise.

And, as ye move, sweet bells shall ring,
Spontaneous as the wild birds' lays;
And yours shall be harmonious days

137

In happy service of the King:
Ye Priests of God, your incense bring,
The fragrant offering of your praise.

O ye Servants of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Ye faithful Servants of the Lord,
Be works of love your harp of praise;
Let arduous toils of loyal days
The music which He asks, afford;
Let every hour its fitting chord
Of action high conspire to raise:
Ye faithful Servants of the Lord,
Be works of love your harp of praise.

Let Him with duty be adored,
Who toiled along earth's painful ways—
With labours not with empty lays,
Who His sweet Life for us outpoured:
Ye faithful Servants of the Lord,
Be works of love your harp of praise.

O ye Spirits and Souls of the Righteous, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Ye Righteous Souls in Paradise,
Be ceaseless praise your blissful dower;
No sorrows cloud your tranquil hour,
No sins entangle or surprise;
No ruffling fears or doubts arise,
No pain disturbs, no dangers lower:
Ye Righteous Souls in Paradise,
Be ceaseless praise your blissful dower.

138

What speechless glories meet your eyes,
What joys surround you, and embower;
How ye expand, like some fair flower,
Beneath those soft celestial skies:
Ye Righteous Souls in Paradise,
Be ceaseless praise your blissful dower.

O ye holy and humble Men of heart, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

Ye holy, humble Men of heart,
Praise God for your peculiar joys;—
Faith, which no dust of doubt alloys,
And hopes, that singing, upward dart;
A sweet content that dwells apart,
And perfect peace which never cloys:
Ye holy, humble Men of heart,
Praise God for your peculiar joys.

Your lives are void of guile or art;
Your ears are stopped to the vain noise
Of Siren-songs and tinkling toys;
No fears can make you swerve or start:
Ye holy, humble Men of heart,
Praise God for your peculiar joys.

O Ananias, Azarias, and Misael, bless ye the Lord; praise Him and magnify Him for ever.

“The Lord be praised,” be thine to sing,
O Muse of mine, with Nature's choir;
To thee He gave the tuneful lyre,
For Him be struck each trembling string:

139

From morn to morn, as on lark's wing,
Ascend thy music, high and higher:
“The Lord be praised,” be thine to sing,
O Muse of mine, with Nature's choir.

Nay, to a cherub's pinion cling,
And worship with a seraph's fire;
And, with the blessèd saints, aspire
To smite thy harp before the King:
“The Lord be praised,” be thine to sing,
O Muse of mine, with Nature's choir!

University of Virginia Library

The Well-Head

Undersongs

Nature; or, The Minstrel [_] [2 Kings III. 15]

The Springs

LONDESBOROUGH PARK

Nature the Healer

Warp and Woof

October

The Summer of Saint Luke

The Sparrow

The Swallows

Butterflies

ON SEEING THE COLLECTION OF BRITISH BUTTERFLIES IN THE CABINETS OF MY FRIEND THE REV. F. O. MORRIS

The Church-Tower and the Beech-Tree

The Mislethrush

CALLED ALSO THE STORM-COCK

The Skylark

OR, A WELCOME TO SPRING

The Chiff-Chaff's Message, heard in March

The Willow Warbler

The Kingfisher

OR, A HAPPY WEDDING OMEN

The Turtle Dove

RECENTLY HEARD FOR THE FIRST TIME AT LONDESBOROUGH AMONG THE NEW PLANTATIONS

Blue Wings and Brown

A Plea for the Sea-Birds

The Hawthorn and the Wild Rose

The Herb Benedict

Apple Blossoms

I

II

III

The Crosswort

Snowdrops

I

II

III

IV

An Incident at the Holy Table

Eucharists

The Garden

Cathedral Service

York Minster

THE LIGHTNING AND THE FIRE

The East Window in York Minster

COMPOSED AFTER SEVERAL HOURS' EXAMINATION OF IT WITH CANON LORD FORESTER

At York Railway Station

On the Visit of Their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of York to York Minster

Now or When

BEING THE LEGEND OF A SUNDIAL ON BEVERLEY MINSTER

Christmas Day

The Presentation of Jesus in the Temple

Mary Magdalen at the Cross

“The Shadow of Death”

SUGGESTED BY MR. HOLMAN HUNT'S FAMOUS PICTURE

On the Picture by Delaroche

OF THE VIRGIN MARY LOOKING THROUGH A WINDOW AT THE CROSS—WHICH IS UNDEPICTED

Lent

OR, THE SHADOW OF THE CROSS

Resurrection Types

OR, NATURE'S HINTS OF IMMORTALITY

Hymn to the Holy Spirit

Driffield Church Tower

The Priest's Door

LITTLE DRIFFIELD CHURCH

On a City Week-Day Evening Service

On my Parish-Register Chest

The Sentinel

OR, CHURCHYARD YEW

The Saxon Sundial and Cross

ABOVE THE DOOR OF LONDESBOROUGH CHURCH

Mabel and Dora

ON THEIR BRINGING ME SOME PRIMROSES AFTER EVENSONG

Homeward

To my Wife

Our Children

On an Infant's Death

Under the Snow

“He stays at Home”

Nature; or, The Minstrel
[_]

[2 Kings III. 15]

To my Son

R. Cecil Wilton, B.A., Lightfoot Scholar, Cambridge, 1887, Rector of Burnby.

“Open the Window Eastward”
[_]

[2 Kings xiii. 17]

Order; or, The Sepulchre
[_]

[S. John xx. 6, 7]