Sacra Poesis :: :: University of Virginia Library

O Thou, that breathest in archangel's songs;
And from the golden harps of Seraphim
Boundest in welling tides of perfect praise!
Thou that art beaming from the dimpled cheek
Of the young cherub, as new-born he tries
His downy wings, and lisps in infant tones
Of harmony and love, praise to his God!
Thou that didst joy when young creation first

Beauteous and fresh reflected back the smile
Of her approving Maker,—shouting then
From world to world throughout infinity
That echoed back the triumph of thy song,
“Hail, smiling birth-day of a sister orb;”—
Thou, that hast swept, in holy minstrelsy
Of rapture and devotion, David's lyre,
And breath'd upon Isaiah's harp,—and still
Hoverest with chief delight o'er hymns of praise
And sacred melodies of joy to Him
Who blesses man with persevering love,
—Thus would I woo thee, gentle poesy!

How is thy name abus'd!—how have they torn
From thee thy fairest robe, in which thou lovest
To win the else unheeding soul to truth
In strains of piety and melody:
O how has enmity with spiteful haste
Striven hard to prove religion knew not joy,

But was too sullen to be sweet in song,
Since scarce a Poet ever tun'd her praise;
And has exulted o'er the lusty strains
Of bards, who prostitute the heavenly gift
To paint the miry robe of vice with hues
That fain would glitter as the seraph's wing!
Aye, gentle, much enduring Poesy,
Sister to holy love, that weavest in
Thy raven tresses with her golden hair,
As on the gale of inspiration flowing
They meet unconsciously;—thou, hand in hand
Bearest with her the bitter frown of Hate,
(For, aiming nobly at Jehovah's praise,
Hate bears his thunder-riven brow against thee,—)
Thou smilest when she smiles,—weep'st when she weeps,
And as the store-cells of the honey-bee
Pour to the noon-day sun their liquid sweets,
So thou thy nectar'd eloquence dost pour,
Most copious of expression and idea
When warmest in the glow of charity.

THE DAY-SPRING.
[_]

(Vignette.)

Lo, the tempests clear away
To the glorious break of day,
Hatreds, wars, and evils cease
At the golden reign of peace,
For in beauty from afar
See—the cross,—the morning-star,
Smiles on this benighted shore
And attracts to “sin no more.”

THE DISCONSOLATE CONSOLED.

And is thy young heart broken,
Thy bright eye veil'd in sadness,
Thy sweet lips—have they spoken
Their last farewell to gladness?

Art thou that child of sorrow
Whose dark To-day is flying
As must be still to-morrow
In loneliness and sighing?

Thou weeping one, come hither,
For I will tell thee truly
Of hopes that cannot wither,
But bloom for ever newly!
Then cheer thee, child of sorrow,
And look from earth to heav'n,—
For bright shall be thy morrow,
And bliss to thee be given.

AN ANGEL.

Calm as the clear blue heav'n, that smiles above,
Sweet child, thou hoverest in the crystal sky,
Silent, and deep in contemplative love,
Joy in thine heart, and rapture in thine eye.

Thus when the Christian's spirit cannot dart,
On wings of Hope, and Faith's ecstatic flight,
A calmer transport often fills his heart,
A peaceful tide of silent deep delight.

THEMES FOR SONG.
[_]

(A Lyre.)

The Christian's harp has many tuneful strings,
Ten thousand chords of wondrous melody,
Varied,—as God with all His attributes!
It sings of Nature,—from the blazing orbs
That roll stupendous through the fields of space
In mighty cycles,—to the flowering moss
That lines an agate, or the mail-clad ant,
Or tiny gnat, that spreads its gossamer sails,
And floats upon the sunbeam;—infinite
From man to God the fair variety,
And from God's image to the breathing atom.
It sings of Providence, and all its ways,
The depths of wise and good unsearchable,
Of long-enduring mercy, and the curse
That tardy judgment on the wicked pours.

It sings of Grace,—with all its mysteries,
Love, Justice, Pardon, and Omnipotence!
And in the key of grace strikes the full chord
Of every note, in perfect harmony,
To the glad theme,—Salvation: angels hear,
And catch the dying sounds, and waft them on
From world to world in symphony sublime.

VIEW OF TINTERN ABBEY BY MOONLIGHT.

There is a beauty for the cheek,
Which nought can give but sorrow:
Where lingering on the joyless face,
The burning tear has worn a trace,
And Patience, eloquently meek,
In sweet submission can but speak
That “hapless as to To-day has been,
“And hapless yesterday's sad scene,
“'Twill dawn as dark To-morrow.”

And sadly smiles the moon's cold ray
On Tintern's arched stories;
As when upon a broken heart
The saddening beams of memory dart,
Yet cannot warm it,—cannot say,
“We'll give thee back to bliss to-day;”—
So beam'd the pale moon on the pile,
And bathed in light each vaulted aisle,
To show—its ruin'd glories!

But oft at noon the gladd'ning sun
His genial ray sheds o'er them;
And thus upon that same sad heart
The beams of heavenly love may dart,
And shew it that its grief is done!
And, when the gaol of life is won,
The Sun of righteousness may rise
To bathe in bliss those tearful eyes,
And set all heav'n before them.

A crumbling ruin,—and a broken heart,
The poetry of nature and of art!
Both are sublime,—both beautiful,—and seem
Like the dim outline of a dreadful dream.

BABYLON IS FALLEN.
[_]

(Pl. J. Martin.)

Lo,—the rocky mass is hurl'd!
Hark, the air with thunder riven,—
Lo,—the judgment of the world,—
Lo, the majesty of heaven!

Babylon is fall'n! and earth
Trembles at her coming doom,
Waits creation's second birth,
Waits, and prays her King to come.

Babylon is fall'n! and Thou,
Daughter of Jerusalem,
Shalt be glad and glorious now,
And shalt wear earth's diadem!

MARRIAGE.
[_]

(Pl. Stothard.)

Deep was the joy which their young hearts felt,
Pure joy that they needed not smother,
When hand in hand at the altar they knelt,
And own'd that they lov'd each other!

He look'd on the choice of his early youth,
Whom manhood now approved;
And knew not why,
But the tear from his eye
Bedew'd his cheek,
As he scarce could speak
With what intense and eternal truth
He would love,—as he loved.

And when she saw him in youthful pride,
Trembling with rapture near her,
Her eye was dim,
For she saw but him;

And dull was her ear,
For she could but hear
That lov'd voice call her his ‘own dear bride:’
She knew—she felt him dearer!

Is there on earth a lovelier scene than this,
Where mild Religion sheds her tranquil bliss,
To sanctify to God what God ordains—
Where young Love triumphs, and Affection reigns?

DEVOTION.
[_]

(Head of Christ.—Lawrence. A Muse.—Bartolozzi.)

If melody of numbers and idea,
If sweet expression of a beautiful thought,
Be poetry,—why should the minstrel's harp
Be silent only in a Saviour's praise?

Why should not thoughts of Him be beautiful?
And when the mind expands to lovely themes,
Like a pure snowdrop to the smile of day,
How can it clothe the immaterial soul
Of poetry, the swift idea, in words
Of aught but melody?—Awake, my harp,
Awake! and pour the gushing flood of song,
The flood of praise: in sympathy with thee,
The strings that bind my thrilling heart to earth
Shall tremble with respondent extasy!
Methinks myself could be a living harp,
And only live in a Redeemer's praise;
Methinks this soul could overflow with song,
And in deep anthems hymn itself away,—
But, ah! touch Thou the chords, Almighty One—
Wake the full concert of my tense affections,
That I may love, and live, and die for Thee!

EXCELLENCY OF CHRIST.

What is strength?—in might of limb
The tawny lion stalks the plain;
Who can stop or conquer him?—
Yet he turns to dust again.

What is glory?—are ye glorious,
Kings, that rend the bleeding world?
Soon shall ye, though all-victorious,
To the narrow grave be hurl'd.

What is beauty?—doth it glow
In the fairest mortal form?
Where's the bud of promise now?—
Blighted by the canker-worm!

What is love?—O look around;
Who the pow'r of love has prov'd?
Where, where is it to be found?
Has man ever truly lov'd?

Love is not what Time can quell,
Or base Ingratitude can sever;
On earth the pure love cannot dwell,
Which, spurn'd and hated, shines for ever!

Nay, but there is One above,
One, in whom alone we see
Forgotten, unrequited love,
Free—to every creature free!

The forest falls beneath his breath,
The tempest rages at his nod;
He hath triumph'd over Death!
Who is strong?—the Mighty God.

Creation sprang from nothingness
By the power of his word,
And Heaven expanded measureless!
Who is glorious—who?—the Lord.

Who has painted every flower,
Who has moulded beauty's face?
The God of glory and of power,
Lord of life, and love, and grace

Rejoice, O universe, rejoice!
Ye worlds, his endless praises sing!
Leap, each heart, and sound, each voice,
With “praises, praises to our King!”

A DEATH'S-HEAD MOTH.

Emblem of myself, I see
Hopes and fears pourtray'd in thee;
For, as Nature's plastic touch
Hath made and mark'd thee, I am such.
“Crush'd before the moth,” and weak,
Thy form and name the mortal speak;
Wing'd, and fluttering through the sky,
I trace my own bright destiny!
Hath Death stamp'd his image there?
In myself his seal I bear:
Yet I see Death wing'd away
Through the clear expanse of day;

Thus too, while on earth I tarry,
In this wondrous frame I carry
Death and life,—O mystic moth,
Mortal and immortal both!

CONFESSION.
[_]

(Frontispiece to Southey's Roderick.)

O Lord, that art dwelling,
The Ancient of days,
'Mid seraphs excelling
To herald thy praise,—
Alas! I have broken
Thy mandates of love:
Yet shew me some token
Of peace from above!

With the bright robe of gladness,
O, gird me around!
I wander in sadness,
Chained and bound.

Yet, Lord, thou hast spoken;
The captive shall prove
His fetters are broken
By mercy and love.

Saviour! hear a sinner pray;
Turn me, turn me not away!

NATHAN AND DAVID.
[_]

(Pl.)

Doth thy pride, or doubts prevail?
Listen to a simple tale.

A tender father, wise and mild,
Lov'd and rear'd a precious child;
Every day his fostering arm
Sav'd the wayward babe from harm;
Ignorant, his father taught him—
Gone astray, his father sought him:
Thus he nurs'd him every day,
And his childhood pass'd away.

Wisdom, favour, love, and truth,
Offer'd now to guide the youth;
But, in self-adoring pride,
He spurn'd his father's care aside,
Mock'd his tears and anxious pain,
When he bade him ‘turn again,’
And, with studied insult, strove
To blight his everlasting love.

Reader, stop! the picture scan—
Reader, art not thou the man?

EMBLEMS.
[_]

(Descriptive of a Vignette.)

Behold, in Art and Nature, how we find
Continual emblems of the human mind!
Watchful, as chanticleer, that wakes the day,
Bright, as the well-trimm'd lamp's unsullied ray;

Ardent and fervid, as yon blazing brand,
Fertile and vigorous, as the cultur'd land;
Wise, as the solemn bird that shuns the glare,
Busy, as bees that haunt the perfum'd air.

THE HOLY CHILD ASLEEP.
[_]

(Murillo.)

O break not the slumbers that sweetly posess him,
Dispel not the visions of glory that bless him!
His pure soul with seraphs is pouring its praises;
His young heart the anthem of gratitude raises.

He knows 'tis himself that the Father has given,
That man may be rais'd to the portals of Heaven;

He feels that the might of the Spirit is o'er him;
He sees the reward of the blessed before him!

Yet, ah! 'tis a journey of darkness and sadness
Must lead the young child to his kingdom of gladness:
Then, hush! his short slumber of happiness break not,—
O hush thee, my babe—unto sorrows awake not.

THE LORD'S PRAYER.
[_]

(Pl. Infant Samuel.)

Father,—my Father, through thine only Son,
Thy name be hallow'd, and thy will be done:
May earth lift high to thee her grateful voice,
And in thy kingdom Nature's realm rejoice!

Give me, my God, this day the bread I want,—
And to my penitence thy pardon grant:
O save me from temptation's flowery ways,
Save me from sin and evil all my days,
For thine is all the power, and thine be all the praise.

CONSOLATION.
[_]

(Pl. “Blachavas.”)

Child of grief,—whose heart is lonely,
Man,—whose lot is sorrow only,
Thou to whom the world is dreary,
Pilgrim, desolate and weary,
Though no bliss be thine below,
Calm thine agony of woe.
Art thou guilty?—weep no more,—
All thy sin thy Saviour bore:
Art thou sad?—O look to heav'n,
Claim with joy the promise given;
Blest are they that weep below,
Blest whose tears repentant flow.

CALDICOT CASTLE.

“Walls have ears”—'tis said or sung,
Why then can't they have a tongue?
Common sense indeed may tell me—
What?—the very thing befel me.
I stood before old Caldicot,
And gaz'd there, till my senses got
Film'd with dreaming phantasy,
Days of old, and times gone by.
'Twas a thousand years ago,
(Some one came, and told me so,)
Clad in mail, alive again,
There were Harold, and his men;
And where now dark ivy went
O'er the crumbling battlement,
Many an archer, staunch and true,
His yew bow to the shafthead drew,
Many a spear and buckler shone
Burnish'd in the summer sun:

Many a baron bold was there,—
Many a trumpet rent the air,—
Steeds neigh'd shrill, and heard afar
Rav'd the brazen voice of war;
Caldicot rejoic'd to see
The gathering of chivalry,
Yet saw soon the youngest fall,—
Caldicot surviv'd them all.

That dream is o'er,—and chang'd the scene,
I gaz'd on others that had been;
Days of joyous revelry,
Songs and jests, and mirth, and glee.
What a goodly sight was there,
Gentle knights and ladyes faire;
Pleasure reign'd the livelong day,
Yet—Caldicot, O where are they?
Thou hast seen them faint and fall,—
Caldicot surviv'd them all.

Swift before my wondering eyes
Other scenes of old arise:
Many a knight, and blooming bride,
Flitted by in youthful pride:

Many a victim saw I bleed
By midnight's foul and bloody deed:
Oft I heard the harper's song
Mid the revel loud and long,—
Oft I heard the captive's moan,
Rotting in his dungeon lone.
Generations liv'd their day,
Scarcely liv'd—and pass'd away;
Ages ever came and fled,
They liv'd and laugh'd, and—and are dead!
Hark! a voice upon mine ear
Pours the moral deep and clear:

“All are dead”—the solemn sound
Linger'd still, and echoed round—
“All are dead,—and thou must die,
“The careless clod must on thee lie:
“Think, be wise, repent—to-day:
“Mortals may not dare delay.
“Ruin as I am, thou must
“Die before me,—dust to dust:
“Look then, mortal, upon me,
“Caldicot shall outlive thee.”

“Nay,” said I, “ye crumbling towers;
“Fading are yon summer flowers,
“E'en thy firmly buttress'd wall,
“Undermin'd by time,—must fall;—
“All things mortal live and die,
“But immortal still am I!
“Caldicots a thousand may
“Brave old time for many a day,
“Yet I shall outlive them all,
“See them spring, and stand, and fall,
“For undying, still am I,
“Still to be,—eternally!”

CONTEMPLATION.

Nature speaks in every thing
Of her everlasting King.
Dreadful,—as the thundercrash,
Present,—as the light'ning flash,
Glorious,—as the worlds on high,
Tranquil,—as the summer sky,
Pow'rful,—as the stormy wind,
Inconceivable,—as mind,
Tender,—as the turtle dove,
Loving,—nay, “His name is Love.”

TIME AND ETERNITY.
[_]

(A View.)

Look at the firmament, azure and bright,
When the sun has shed o'er it his crystal light,
When his chariot is high on its course, and his ray
The pearls of the morning has melted away;
When the dewdrop no more on the lily is seen,
Like a gem on the hand of a fairy queen,
And the pure breath of morn, from each roseblushing bower
Has borrow'd the fragrance of every flower.

Measureless in its expanse of blue
The firmament catches the rising dew:
The vapour is vanishing quickly away,
For around it the Zephyrs in wantonness play,

And snatch, to adorn their grottoes on high,
A dewdrop each, as it passes by.

But lighter, and lighter that thin white veil,
And bolder and blither each sportive gale,
As a bright beaming eye, you may now see through
In its delicate beauty the firmament blue.
'Tis now but a speck,—ah—where has it flown?
The veil has been rent, the vapour is gone
So man's little day swift vanishes by,
So Time shall be lost in Eternity.

ST. JOHN THE EVANGELIST.
[_]

(Raph. Morghen Sc.)

Belov'd disciple, tender bosom-friend,
That, like thy Master, “lovedst to the end,”

Evangelist of blessings to the meek,
Peace to the guilty, vigour to the weak,—
I see thine eye with holy visions bright,
I see thy fair brow kindling with delight,
And glory round thy head, and mantling nigh
The full, free cup of immortality!

Thine emblematic eagle soars above,
Stript of the thunderbolts of fabled Jove,
And figuring thyself, whose zealous breast
Yearns o'er the Church, as eagles o'er their nest,—
Whose heart of pity beats for others' good,
As the fond mother flutters o'er her brood.
Thou too, with outspread wings of faith and love,
Speedest thy flight to splendour's fount above,
Bearest thy tender nestlings thro' the air,
And shew'st their dazzled sight the glories there.

DESOLATE OLD AGE.
[_]

(Worledge Sc.)

An explanation of Eccles. xii. 1-8, wherein the circulation of the blood is alluded to.

Remember thy Creator in thy youth,
Now, while the days of evil come not nigh,
Now, while the years of sorrow draw not near,
When thou shalt say, “I find no joy in them.”
While yet the early dayspring cheers thine eye,
The silver moon and bright stars gladden thee,
Nor woe treads ever on the steps of woe
As clouds that canopy a stormy scene.
Before thy well knit arms have lost their strength,

And yet are nerv'd “the keepers of the house;”
Before the failing step,—the trembling knee,
The toothless gums, the darken'd eyeball's glare,
Before the pucker'd mouth, or the dull ear
Echoing deceitful to the seabird's shriek,
Untaught to love sweet music's melody.
When fears and dark anxieties prevail,
And e'en the cricket's chirp shakes the tent nerves,
And appetite, and all desire shall die.
When the scant hoary locks whiten the head,
As almond blossom flowering on the tree,
And man is near the grave, his last long home,
And in his dwelling sounds the voice of woe.
Or e'er the silver spinal chord be loos'd,
Or e'er the golden scalp be broke, or e'er
The burden'd arteries stagnate at the heart,
And the clogg'd veins cannot send up again
The languid lifeblood from the dying frame.
For then the dust to dust it must return,
Then to its God the glad soul flee away.

THE USE OF TEARS.
[_]

(Pl. Bonnington. Rolls Sc.)

Tears will ease the spirit's pain,
Falling as a gentle rain;
Tears will cool the throbbing heart,
Feverish with inward smart;
Tears will make thee kind and soft—
So they do not flow too oft;—
Tears are sweet,—yet oft 'tis fitter,
As for sin, that they be bitter.

But, my love, an ocean spilt
Never can atone for guilt;
Tears can never pay the debt
All men owe,—but most forget:
Nay; forgiveness God doth give,—
'Tis for thee,—believe and live;
'Tis for thee,—then weep not so,
Desolate in hopeless woe,
Though thy tears God loves to see,—
For He hath forgiven thee.

HOPE.
[_]

(Sir J. Reynolds Pl.)

HOPE! in the winning sweetness of thy smile
All-conquering, that tread'st the sturdy neck
Of tyrant care, enthron'd thyself in all
Thy soft-subduing gentleness, which smooths
The gathering wrinkles of anxiety;
Thou, that with ivory finger beckonest on,
And with angelic countenance invitest
To immortality's unsating bliss,
Thou anchor of the soul, firm 'mid the dash
Of waters,—I will claim thee, bright-ey'd Hope.

But hence, Delusion, with thy harlot smile,
Charming deceitful as the viper's eye,
Thou earth-born progeny of Idleness,
That wear'st the azure livery of Hope.
Lo, thou hast revell'd in the blood of millions,
Yet ever thirstest greedily for more:

Thou art that star to which the pilgrim trusts
In fond anticipation of repose
On the warm breast of hospitality,
But, trusting, sinks into the deep morass,
And sees thee, as he struggles hard with Death,
Still beaming on him, faithful in deceit.

— Mine be the hope,—that fears to lean upon
Aught but the arm of Faith, by him alone
Supported, and supporting equally!
That lightly treads the roses, as they spring
Beneath her feet, the blushing flow'rs of Love;
Which, as she stops a moment to anoint
With their soft balm the bleeding feet of Faith,
Shoot up in wild luxuriance above
Her flaxen tresses, weaving in with them.
Mine be the hope, that 'mid the night of life
Shines as a cheering beacon thro' the gloom,
'Till merg'd in full Fruition's blaze of glory!

HUMILITY.

Humility, thou art as lovely a gem
As smiles in the Christian's diadem;
All purity, gentleness, meekness, and love,
With the heart of the lamb, and the eye of the dove.

What is pride's vain pomp, or the boasted bliss
Independence can offer?—Alas—it is this,—
When man, fallen man, stands forth in his pride,
He spurns at the love of the crucified!

Why stand in thy weakness?—Oh suffer, proud man,
That goodness should finish what goodness began,
Let the strength of the Saviour establish thy feet,
For his love never fails, and his work is complete.

Come hither, Humility,—O nestle here,
Dove of peace!—yes, I feel thy soft influence near:
Then fly not away, for the blessed one died
To raise lowliness high, but to trample on pride.

When forth from the clouds the fierce tempest has broke,
It rends with its light'ning the knarl'd stubborn oak,
But the reed in its lowliness bows to the blast,
And humility bends, but is rais'd at the last.

FAITH.
[_]

(Sir J. Reynolds Pl.)

Faith,—I see thy mantle gory
In the martyr's blessed fight,—
Faith,—thou art the Christian's glory
Thou the buckler of his might—
Nerv'd, upheld, and sav'd by faith,
The Christian does not dread the death.

Though the waves are roaring round him,
The tempestuous waves of life,
The stormy seas shall not confound him,
Raging in their sullen strife:
Faith shall be his rudder still
To guide him safe thro' every ill.

Not the tainted gales of pleasure,
Like the calm deceitful sea,
Not the golden smiles of treasure
Shall allure his heart from thee.

Though the whirlpool foams around,
His anchor still shall bite the ground.

Many a hidden rock of danger
Lurks beneath the tranquil wave,
Pleasure smiling tempts “the stranger,”
Beckoning onwards to his grave:
Pilgrims, strangers, still they roam,
Christians longing for their home.

But the compass yet directs him,
Pointing to “the narrow way,”
Where a heaven of bliss expects him
Thro' an everlasting day!
Faith is still the Christian's strength,
Guiding him to joy at length.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG CHRISTIAN.

In truth he was as sweet a child,
In eye and heart and temper mild,
As ever on a mother smil'd,
Who could but weep upon him;
While yet she saw that marble cheek,
In resignation softly meek,
Till sweeter far than words could speak,
That Death's calm sleep was on him.

Dear little soul,—thy work is done,
Thy sand is out, thy goal is won,
And thou art to thy glory gone,
To “babes in Jesus” given;
Who feel no earthborn wish to roam
A long life's journey from their home,
But sweetly pray “Thy kingdom come,”
Then soar unstain'd to heaven.

Unknowing all that man was vile,
That woman could to sin beguile,
On all he lovingly would smile
With heart and eye sincerely;
While yet his little serious brow,
To those who mark'd him, seem'd to show
His heart and thoughts were not below
Too deeply fixt,—too dearly.

No: when God call'd him, he could say,
“My Father, take thy child away;
“Thou callest, and I would not stay,—
“Here am I, Lord, remove me!
“Early thy sun of grace has shed
“A beam of hope around my head,
“And here, upon my dying bed,
“I feel that thou dost love me!”

LIGHT AND THE PRISM.
[_]

(A Rain-bow Scene.)

Brightness of heav'n,—how can I gaze on thee?
Exceeding weight of glory, light of light,
Essential name and character of God,
Effulgence inconceivable, with which
Compar'd the lightning's momentary flash
Is but a stream of darkness! lo, I close
Imagination's red and fever'd eye,
My soaring fancy droops her languid wing,
My thought recoils upon itself, afraid
To dive into the fathomless abyss
Of light unbearable, lest reason's taper
Should in the vision of its God be quenched.
What mortal eye can gaze on Him and live?
He dwells in glory unapproachable,
Glory supreme, that nothing can increase,
Nor aught diminish, though a million suns

Drink seas of splendour from that gushing source!
But let the veil of manhood interpose;
Let God incarnate be the central prism
To illustrate the Deity to man,—
Then in what glorious hues of love and grace,
Wisdom, and Beauty, and Omnipotence,
The rain-bow of the covenant shines forth!
And though the Christian's mind may chiefly dwell
On darling attributes he chiefly loves,
Yet each fair ray, and every varied shade
May to the same bright focus still be drawn,
Glory supreme, unsullied, infinite!
Thus in prismatic dyes creation glows
In all her loveliness, and nature's face
Is but a chart of God; a fair expanse
In which are mirror'd all His attributes.

A MOTHER TEACHING HER CHILD TO PRAY.

Kneel, my child, thy God is here!
Kneel in love and filial fear;
Love Him,—for his grace he shews thee,
Fear Him,—for he made, and knows thee.
Thou art his, through Christ his Son,
Sav'd by grace, by mercy won:
Thou wast lost, thy precious boy,
Lost to everlasting joy;
But my Saviour sought and found thee,
And his blessings now surround thee:
Praise Him for his constant care,
Pray to him,—He heedeth pray'r.

THE INFANT BAPTIST.
[_]

(Pl. Sir J. Reynolds.)

Bright star of morn,—last in the train of night,
“If better thou belong not to the day,”

Herald and earnest of that stronger light
Which chas'd the darkness of the world away,
And drown'd in glorious blaze thy gentle ray;
We hail thee as the harbinger of peace,
The voice that crieth in the wilderness:
The voice that spake of Him,—in whose blest name
Mercy and grace, and heav'n, and all we claim;
We hail thee as the friend of Him we love,
The friend of Zion's bridegroom from above.
Last of the prophet train, thy coming prov'd
That God could not forget the world He lov'd,
First messenger of Christ, thy beauty shone
'Till quench'd in brightest noon by Judah's rising sun!

THE TEMPTATION ON THE MOUNT.
[_]

(J. Martin.)

Behold me then, the Potentate of earth!
Behold how all creation trembling bends
And does me homage! kingdoms, nations, tongues,
With all the pomp and glory of this world,
All thrones, and princes; Asia's despot lord,
The vilest slave that kneels and licks the dust,
Thine Eden land of Holy Palestine,
Those emerald isles that gem the troubled main,
Yon desert sands, and Afric's swarthy sons
With the fair daughters of Europa's line
All kneel before me, Satan! king of kings,
God of the kingdoms of this world am I!
Bow then before me, helpless son of man,
Bend, and the vast dominion all is thine,

Without a pang,—without the cross,—thine own.
“Back, prince of darkness! back, nor tempt thy God;
“The Lord thy God, Him only shalt thou serve.
“This beauteous world shall never more be thine,
“But by my pow'r, and by my blood redeem'd
“The time shall come, when all shall own my sway;
“The kingdoms of this earth shall ever be
“God's and his Christ's.” Howling the baffled fiend
Fell at the word of promise; his proud mien,
And borrow'd garb of glory fell, and left
The serpent tempter grovelling in the dust,
While angels, glorying in their Master's pow'r,
Leap from high heav'n, and minister to Him.

TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH OF CESAR MALAN.

[_]

In the same metre.

O beautiful upon the mountains,
The feet of messengers of peace!
Lead them by the living fountains,
Blessed Spirit in Thy grace.
May I love to hear them, Lord,
A new heart to me afford.

In the wilderness, unguided,
Far from Christ I wander'd long,
While my enemy derided
All my woes, and led me wrong.
Had not Thy love me preserv'd,
I had gain'd what I deserv'd!

My restless soul, though full of sadness,
Dared sometimes to think of God,

And could find none other gladness
In this earth, her drear abode:
But my blessed Saviour spake,
And my chain of sorrow brake.

Since that day of heavenly splendour
Bursting on me from above,
I have known my Father tender,
I have found Him full of love:
And from Christ I have receiv'd
The gracious Spirit I had griev'd.

DOMESTIC HAPPINESS.

Servant of God, how blest art thou,
Of every good possest,
Lo, happiness thy portion now,
And heav'n thy future rest!

As flow'rs, the labours of thy love,
Shall wreathe thy starry crown,
When Christ in glory from above
Shall bring redemption down.

Thy wife shall be a fruitful vine,
The treasure of thy youth,
And to a good old age be thine
In love, and peace, and truth.

As branches from the olive-tree
Adorn the parent stem,
Thy children shall be blest in thee,
And thou be blest in them.

Yes,—happy he that righteous is,
Thrice happy! for his eyes
Shall see Jerusalem in bliss,
When sin and evil dies.

Triumphant in the glorious day
When Christ the King shall come,
And wipe sad Zion's tears away,
His everlasting home.

ST. MARTHA'S, NEAR GUILDFORD, SURREY.

Shall I tell thee why thou art
An image of the Christian's heart,
St. Martha's?

Thy ruin'd nave and crumbling porch
End in a modest little church;
Devotion often bends the knee
And pray'r and praise ascend from thee;
Though oft in mists thy brow is clouded,
And oft with storms thy summit shrouded,
Still mid the tempests round thee hurl'd
Thou risest high above the world,
And seemest still to kiss the skies,
And longing on the wing to rise,
St. Martha's.

I trace thee emblematic still,
A landmark, “built upon a hill,”
As on thy watch-tower posted high
Thou hast communion with the sky,
And often bringest blessings down,
The vapours that thy summit crown.
Then may I but be more like thee
For all thy worth I clearly see,
St. Martha's.

CHRIST CLEANSING THE TEMPLE.
[_]

(Kilian sc.)

Then, in the fervour of His zeal outshone
Offended Deity; the knotted cords
Became as dreadful in that mighty hand,
As erst the sword that blaz'd round Eden's gates,
Or the red bolts of heathen Jupiter.

There, to the ground is dash'd th' accursed gold!
There, from the presence of their God incens'd
The bleating flocks, and lowing cattle fly
And throng the Temple porch; and panicstruck
The merchant-crowd is scattered, as they hear
Th' unearthly thunder of Messiah's voice,
“Make not my Father's house a den of thieves!”

THE CHILD'S PRAYER.

Father! thy child is crying unto Thee;
Thou wilt incline Thine ear,
For Thou, though griev'd so oft, so much by me,
Art ready still to hear.

Teach me in Jesus' name my voice to raise
Unto thy mercy throne;
Teach me to feel thy love, to tell thy praise,
And draw thy blessings down.

O may I seek Thine all-benignant face
While yet Thou may'st be found;
And in the boundless riches of thy grace,
O let thy child abound!

My Saviour, Jesus, humbly at thy feet
Thy mercies I implore;
Grant that I here may take my willing seat
In faith for evermore.

My Father! look upon thy loving child,
And let me love thee still;
And since my heart to thee is reconcil'd,
O shelter me from ill!

THE CRUCIFIXION.
[_]

(R. Graves, sc.)

There hung, suspended o'er the wide abyss
Of dark annihilation,—this lost world!
There hung the guilt of all, the penal curse,
With all our hopes, and heavenly solaces.
And there our fears, our woes, our sorrows died;
They met in Him, who took the dreadful load
Which scarce Omnipotence could bear away!
But, lo! the serpent crush'd: that corner stone
On which all hope is built, shall once become
The new and heavenly Jerusalem,
And as the waters fill old ocean's bed
The glory of the Lord shall fill the earth!

PORTRAITS OF JOHN BUNYAN, ARCHBISHOP FENELON, BISHOP KEN.

Pilgrim, like thee, along the world I roam,
With the celestial city for my home;
Priest, I would seek to imitate and feel
Thy unaffected piety and zeal;
Pastor, thy care and guidance I would choose,
And with thy motives court the willing muse,
Catch from thy strains a sympathetic fire,
And strike, as thou hast done, a hallow'd lyre.

THE BIRTH OF HOPE.

'Twas the first eve since God had roll'd away
The flood of Chaos from this gladsome earth,

When all creation kept its natal day,
And sister planets gloried in its birth.
O 'twas a beauteous night! in silver car
The crescent moon lit up the dark blue sky,
While lingering on ocean's brink from far
The youthful sun look'd on her lovingly.

For he was loth to leave the placid scene,
And knew not then what time has taught him now;
That he must aye pursue night's gentle queen,
And ever vainly seek, and vainly woo.

He thought too, if he sank, that gloomy night
Must ever canopy the crystal sky;
And if thick darkness quench'd his genial light,
That life, and happiness, and all—must die!

He wept: when springing from the crescent moon
A sylphlike form illum'd the sapphire cope!
She smil'd, and promised him another noon:
Her name was Hope.

HOPE'S ANCHOR.
[_]

(With a Vignette.)

Laurels for Glory, roses for Love,
Peace has her olive, and Pureness her dove;
Holiness likens the violet sweet,
And modesty's snowdrop blooms at her feet.

All these fair emblems fitting I see,
Yet how is thine anchor an emblem of thee,
Bright one, that heavenward winnest us up,
Sweet one, that blessest earth, soft-smiling Hope?

Yes, I have seen it, what beauty is there!
The birthday of Hope is the death of Despair:
Lo, the cross stands on the crush'd writhing snake,
And the sign of salvation an anchor doth make.

PROPHETIC VISION.

The hoary prophet stands on Anathoth,
Or sedgy banks of Chebar's hated stream,
Or Babel's idol-temple, or the throne
Of long-forgotten glory, Nineveh;
And rapt in holy trance, the Spirit of God
Unseals his eye, unstops his ear, unveils
Ages and deeds to come, unfolds the book
Of Providence, and destiny foreseen,
And brings all time before him in review.
As when the schoolboy marks the speckled trout

Lie basking in the sunny shallow brook,
And quick with beating heart, and trembling hand
Flings the smooth pebble,—swiftly glides away
The shadowy fish, and round and round the spot
Concentric circles curve in fainter sweep;
Or, as when from the perfum'd lap of earth
Rise the soft dews to meet the morning sun,
Loving they curl around his blushing face,
And leave him as a brilliant central gem
Set in an onyx; thus before the gaze
Of Daniel or Ezekiel, ages throng'd
In circling haloes, in concentric rings.
They saw at once, and in one phrase express'd,
(One phrase, the seed of volumes,) Judah's crimes,
And Babel's tyranny, and Christ denied
By lost Jerusalem, whom Roman bands
Left as a shed in a dismantled vineyard:
They saw sad Zion's dreary widowhood

And final glory; and at one bright glance
Centuries, millenaries met their view,
'Till gulph'd in fathomless eternity.

Thus let blind godless men perversely talk
Of Scripture's mystic and ambiguous terms,
And liken them to heathen oracles
Of Python, or Dodona, or the seat
Of torrid Ammon; let their ignorance
Judge wisdom foolishness; the Christian's mind
Can see God's providence, wheel within wheel,
Working in beautiful analogy.

A HAPPY SPIRIT ESCORTED BY ANGELS TO GLORY.

There is joy in heaven! hark, loud and long
Through the sapphire halls echoes the choral song:

Saints, and seraphs, and cherubim,
Pour the full tide of their praises to Him,
To him that sits on the burning throne,
The holy, the righteous, the merciful one!
For in triumph they lead to the mansions of peace
One more of the glorified children of grace.
“One more is thine, O blessed,” they cry,
“One more for the years of eternity!”
Come in, thou favour'd of God, to thy rest,
Who hast kept my faith and my name confest,
The tempest is calm'd, the dangers are o'er,
Thou shalt be tempted and troubled no more;—
Well hast thou battled with Satan and sin,
Thou hast fought the good fight, come in, come in!
'Twas the Saviour that spake, and solemnly then,
Through the wide realm of bliss echoed, Lord, Amen!

Welcome, sister, the glad saints sing,
Welcome, sister, the glad heav'ns ring;
There's not a being those myriads among,
Not a bounding heart, not a tuneful tongue,
Not a cherub, that flutter'd on infant wings,
Not a seraph, that struck the harp's trembling strings,
Not a white-rob'd saint, with the conqueror's palm,
But swell'd the loud peal of that beautiful psalm!
“Hail, hail, child of happiness, daughter of heav'n,
“For glory to thee through the Saviour is given;
“Welcome, for he that hath burst the tomb
“Hath bid thee come in, and yet there is room:
“We hail thee then, sister, in songs such as this,
“To the halls of salvation, the mansions of bliss.

THE OMNIPRESENT GOD.

God is where other beings may not be,—
Space bounds not Him, nor dread infinity!
Deeper than thought has ever dar'd to stray,
Higher than fancy wing'd her airy way,
Beyond the beaming of the furthest star,
Beyond the fiery comet's blazing car,
Beyond the glorious worlds, and suns unseen,
God is, and will be, and has ever been!
Where the tall iceberg lifts its rugged head,
And ocean slumbers in his Polar bed,
Where under softer climes creation glows,
And Paphas blushes with her banks of rose,
Where torrid suns the panting desert sear,
God is, and was, and ever will be Here!

A CARMEN SÆCULARE FOR CHRISTIAN ENGLAND,

On the pattern and in the metre of that for heathen Rome by Horace.

O God of Gods, and ruler of the kingdoms,
Glory of highest heaven, the Almighty,
Thou to be prais'd and worshipp'd never-ceasing,
Hear us, Jehovah!

While as in days of innocence aforetime
We in the choral voice of supplication
Cry to the one great Spirit who beholds us,
Save, we beseech Thee!

May thy bright sun, that bathes the noon in glory,
And at whose setting Even blushes sweetly,
Still as he beams successive o'er the nations,
Smile upon England.

Kindly may nature, providence approving,
Bless our homes with increase, and the matrons
Gently relieving, give us noble sons and
Virtuous daughters.

Rivet the golden links of holy wedlock,—
And be the social interest unbroken,
While on her lord the wedded wife depending,
Smiles for him only.

Still against sect and heresy protesting,
Nursing her babes with motherly affection,
Loving to all, and tender, may the Church be
Faithful and holy.

And if Omniscience, never to be alter'd
In its decrees, be destiny presiding,
May Britain, by that destiny protected,
Prosper in greatness.

O send us kindly seasons, that abundant
Be the rich fruits of mother earth, and healthy

Still be the gales that waft us o'er the ocean
Conquerors ever!

Hear us, Redeemer, hear us, Ever-blessed!
Hear, thou that dwellest Infinite in splendour,
Hear, thou that always lovest to be gracious,
Rise and be with us!

If yet thou smilest favouring on England,
If yet the rose, the thistle, and the shamrock,
Form a sweet garland offer'd on thine altar,
Keep us united.

Let not the midnight murderer infest us,
Let not the base incendiary be near us,
Let not the foul adulterer pollute us,—
Spare us from evil.

Bring up the youth in modesty and virtue,
Grant to old age tranquillity and wisdom,
Grant to the sons of Britain health and honour,
Greatness and plenty.

May British mercy more than British valour
Gain from the world the laurel and the olive,
Till over all her enemies triumphant
Glories Britannia!

Now the red plain of Waterloo, the Baltic,
And the swart bands of rebel Spain obey us,
Now East and West extend the wings of England,
Circling the nations.

Let open faith, integrity, uprightness,
Let patriarchal piety, and pureness
Quickly return,—and plenty with her bounties,
Pouring upon us.

Let not the bane of indolence infect us;
But may all arts, and sciences, and commerce,
All that can bless and beautify a nation,
Ever be Britain's!

Long as the world rejoices in thy mercy,
Holding it up, Omnipotent,—let England,
Let Caledonia, with her sister Erin,
Queen of the kingdoms,

Reign, and be strong, acknowledging thy mercies;
Hear us in choral voice of supplication,
Who now invoke thy succour and thy blessing,
Father Almighty!

Yes, we accept the promise of thine answer,
Yes, we believe the Holy One has heard us,
And with united voice and heart we thank thee,
Through the Redeemer.

THE CHRISTIAN WARRIOR.

Arouse thee, arouse thee, thou fainting soul,
Press forward, look upward, and on to the goal!
Arouse thee, arouse thee—the tempter is near;
But shrink not, a greater than Satan is here!
Wrestle, and struggle, and strive to be free;
He scoffs, but he knows that thy God is with thee;
Hell, with the fiercest and best of its band,
Cannot o'ercome thee!—it dare not withstand
That arm of Omnipotence raised to protect thee,
That beacon of glory which beams to direct thee.

Arouse thee, arouse thee, and grasp thy sword,
The Gospel of promise, the Word of the Lord:
Helm thee with hope of the glory to come;
Look to thy Saviour, and think on thy home.
Resolute courage be firm in thy breast,
'Tis only in death that the Christian may rest.
Satan must sicken, and quail at the light
That leaps from thy buckler, all burnish'd and bright,
Faith be the gorgon that frowns on thy shield,
Gird thee with vigour and—on to the field!

Ho! what is the watchword my zeal to inspire?
Ho! where is the banner my ardour to fire?
On the foe rushes, in fearful array,
One lone one I, but a myriad they!
See—they come—foaming, host upon host!
How can I stand?—I am lost—I am lost.

Whom shall I “look to” for succour and might?
Who shall uphold lest I fall in the fight?
I see no arm of “Omnipotence” o'er me:
No “beacon of glory” is blazing before me!

Faithless,—O why dost thou tremble and fear?
Jesus, the Lord over Satan, is here,—
What is thy watchword to cheer to the field?
“Emmanuel loves thee, thy glory, thy shield.”
Where is thy banner!—O seest it not,
Or hast thou his agoniz'd body forgot?
Look on him, look on him, as he bleeds on the tree,
He is bearing thy sins, he is dying for thee!
And hath he not said that the ‘Lord will provide,’
Be faithful and trust: he is at thy side!

I see him, I see him, I am not alone,
I am leagued with the High One that sits on the throne;
Tremble, ye tempters: the Lord is my strength,
Tremble, in him I shall vanquish at length.
Ye shall quail at the flash of my conquering sword,
Ye shall howl, ye shall yield, at the sight of my Lord.
The “beacon of glory” all blazing I see,
The cross shall be ever a banner to me!
I see the great God that is smiling above me,
Ever the same, he will not cease to love me!

A LONGING AFTER IMMORTALITY.

O, I would stand on that dizzy height,
To which towering eagles wing their flight,
Yon beetling cliff, that rises steep
From out of the dashing, roaring deep;

And into the welkin vast would I leap,
And far on the hurricane's breath would sweep
Through the buoyant air, at a bound,
The reeling world around!

And when the dark storm rages high,
And the mad waves dash at the frowning sky,
T'were joy to me to ride on the blast!
And feel my strong wings cleaving fast
The thick and palpable thundercloud
Which wrappeth me round, as a sable shroud:
'Twere bliss to feel the spirit free,
No fetter—no fetter—for me!

And whence, my soul, this pleasing hope,
Of mingling with the sky,
And basking in the sunny cope
Of dread infinity?
Doth it not proclaim a birth
Nobler than the things of earth,

Doth not every feeling tense,
Every passion deep and free,
Find the sluggish joys of sense
Weariness and slavery?

Yes—all consciousness, all thought,
And fancy with her brightness fraught,
Affection's torrent, calm and clear,
Reason bright, and quailing fear,
Each hope, each wish, each fond desire,
That the swelling soul inspire,
Demonstrate the man to be
An heir of immortality!

A FEARFUL THOUGHT.

Oh, 'tis not in the sob, nor the deep bitter sigh,
Nor the pale wet cheek, nor the tearful eye,

When the darkness of sorrow the lone heart has shrouded,
When dejection the thoughts of the bosom has clouded:

It is not when the thunders awfully crash,
And the wild waves roar, and lightnings flash,
And Jehovah of Hosts, in the might of his wrath,
On the wings of the storm, rushes terribly forth!

But it is when amid the festive throng,
Where the mirthful dance, and the thrilling song
Flush the young cheek with the rose's ray,
And the soft lips smile, and hearts are gay,—

Then see I death frown fearfully near!
The groans of his victims sound shrill in mine ear;
While clinging around the beautiful form
Revels the clogged and loathsome worm!

It is then that amid sweet music's voice
My heart cannot sing, nor my lips rejoice,
For death shouts near! but faith replies,
“The trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall arise!”

THE MOUNT OF OLIVES.

Thou hast seen many wonders, Olivet!
Since first at God's creative word, awoke
Thy pristine granite from its lethargy
In slumbering chaos, and was heav'd above
The plain, a mighty monument of power!
For oft beneath thy green and tufted oaks
Th' idolatrous Canaanite has bow'd the knee,
Or pour'd libations on the polish'd rock;
And oft the sword has reap'd upon thy brow
A bloody harvest;—oft have lightnings scathed,

And tempests wither'd thee,—and northern snows
Blanch'd thy tall summit. In thy central caves
Has lurk'd the robber, and the hermit pray'd—
Prophets been sepulchred, and sainted men
Hid them from tyranny;—those central caves
Cleft by the terrible earthquake, that laid bare
Thy giant roots, when erst Uzziah reign'd;
Fit retribution for the idol's house
That in his folly wisdom's child had rear'd.

And thou hast echoed to the listening skies,
The prayers and sorrows of the Righteous One,
And seen him agonizing at thy feet
In sad Gethsemane, near Kidron's dark
And melancholy stream; and when his death,
His innocent death, won sympathy from thee,
Thy stony sides did split, and render up

The holy men entomb'd within their caves:
Earnest and type of that astounding scene
When earth and Hades, casting out their dead,
All flesh shall stand before Messiah's throne!

On thee too, as he blest them, Jesus left
His weeping followers, and clouds of glory,
Upborne by cherub hands, receiv'd on high
Jehovah's fellow: and on thee again
His feet shall stand, and tread in vengeance dire
The winepress of his wrath, Jehosaphat!
Then shall be seen on thee glad Zion's King,
Her diadem of glory,—the desire
Of all creation,—joy of every land.

THE SCOURGING.

Stop, stop, ye murderers!—lo, the pitiless lash
Has struck yon man of sorrows to the earth;
He gasps in speechless agony,—and yet
With fiercer joy ye ply the wiry scourge!
Nay, look upon him. Is it nought to you
That ye so gaze upon his misery,
And, unrelenting still, with horrid laugh
Mock at his bitter—bitter agonies?
Can ye, who look upon him, turn away
Unheeding of his sorrows?—Nay, behold
How from his mangled side the living flesh
Convulsive starts!—he shrinks beneath your scorn,
And yet how meek, how gentle, how resign'd,
How mildly, looks he on his murderers!
What art thou?—for that eye is beaming forth,

Though film'd with agony, the light of love.
What art thou?—for that lip, convulsed with pain,
Is muttering—blessings on thine enemies!
What art thou? wherefore art thou drunk with sorrows?
Methought the judge proclaim'd thee innocent,
“I find no evil in that Righteous One;”
Yet art thou treated as a guilty wretch
Too vile for aught but scourges and the cross!

THE CROSS.

Thickly the clustering darkness gather'd round,
The sun withheld his light;
The rocks were rent—with terror quak'd the ground,
Earth trembled at the sight!

When the lone man of sorrows, crucified—
On that dark bitter morn,
At Calvary, the great Messiah died,
Pale, writhing, mock'd, and torn!
Forth started from their sepulchres the dead,
With shouts of joy—yet grieving;
Joyous that he the Sacrifice had bled,
Their woes and fears relieving;
But sorrowing to see the gloomy day
When the blest Saviour died,
And that Jerusalem had spurn'd away
Her King, the Crucified!
O, who can tell the madness of that hour
In dread Gethsemane?
Tortur'd by Hell's all-concentrated pow'r,
He gasp'd in agony!
Who can conceive the patience that could yield
To insult, shame, and blows—
And yet, all-merciful, forbore to wield
His thunders 'gainst his foes!

THE THREE MARYS AT THE TOMB OF CHRIST.

They came to the sepulchre, joyless and weeping,
For they thought that in death their lov'd Master was sleeping;
They came, ere the dawn of the morning was breaking,
And knew not the Christ had a brilliant waking.
But whence is the splendour that circles the tomb,
And whence is the glory that pierces the gloom?
What seraph is this, clad in garments of day,
That has roll'd the huge stone in his power away?

“Mourners, who seek him, O fear not and weep not!
“Henceforth in the grave Messiah shall sleep not!
“Your God has accepted the sacrifice paid,
“He is risen to glory—alive from the dead!”
They heard, they believ'd, and in rapturous praise,
Their gratitude pour'd to the Ancient of Days.

THE RESURRECTION.

Christ is risen! shout and sing
“Glory to our victor King!”
Christ is risen! O rejoice,
Universe, with one glad voice!
Tell his glory, praise ye him,
Cherubim and Seraphim!

Sing his mercies, for ye can
Truly, sons of fallen man!
Pain and anguish hath he felt,
That at your griefs he might melt;
Sympathy can touch his breast,—
“Come to me, ye shall have rest,
“Wearied pilgrims—O believe
“I will gladden them that grieve.”
The Lord is risen, strong to save;
Mighty, he has burst the grave;
Death is crush'd—the Conqueror
Chain'd to his triumphal car.
Join the glad procession—sing,
“Death, where is thy poison'd sting?
“All thy terrors are no more,
“Though thou wadest still in gore—
“Though thy shafts with steel are tipt,
“In healing balm have they been dipt.”
Swell the chorus, pealing high,
“Grave, where is thy victory?
“Canst thou stop the Spirit's flight,
“Bursting from the realms of night!

“See, it soars in bliss above,
“Heir of everlasting love!”
Shout, O shout, in fuller peal,
Throb, each heart, with panting zeal;
Strike the harp with joyous notes;
The burden of the exulting song,
“Praise and power to him belong!”
Through the listening Heaven floats.

Hush, there is a softer voice—
“Comfort ye my flock—rejoice!”
Balm it breathes in every sound,
Healing balm it sheds around:
For us, for us, the day was won;
Jesus pleads at Mercy's throne;
The Father smiles upon the Son,
And happiness is all our own!

THE ASCENSION.

(Chorus of Angels.)

Hail to thee, Conqueror! hail to thee, King!
In the clouds of thy glory all triumphing;
He has trampled on Death, he has conquer'd the grave,
The Holy, thrice Holy One, mighty to save!

(Chorus of Saints.)

Around him, ye angels, his ministers, throng,
Cherubim, Seraphim, burst into song!
Let joyful Infinity echo the cry,
Welcome, thrice Holy One, back to the sky!

(Both.)

All hail to the Saviour! his brow has been bound
With thorns, be it now with omnipotence crown'd;

Let the robe of his glory encircle the Lamb;
Let the universe worship the mighty I AM.

(Saints.)

Gentle and merciful, Jesus was led
As a Lamb to the slaughter,—the Sacrifice bled.

(Angels.)

Mighty and glorious, welcome we on
To the love of the Father, the Victor, the Son!

(Saints.)

Patiently bore he the pitiless thong,
Meekly he smil'd on the murderous throng;
He was bruis'd, and he shrunk not, but kissed the rod,
He bore our sorrows—the merciful God.

(Both.)

Then glory, full glory, to Jesus be given;
Ye worlds, sound his praises—re-echo them, Heaven!

O shout with the shawm, and the trump's royal voice,
The hymn of thanksgiving: rejoice ye, rejoice!

A HYMN.

Upheld by thy powerful arm,
My Saviour, I lean upon thee;
Thou shielding me, nothing can harm;
E'en death has no terrors for me!
Lord, grant I may ever remain
Thus simply dependent on thee;
Thus trust to thy might to sustain,
To thy favour to sanctify me.

Give me grace to rejoice in my Lord,
On thy love and thy truth to rely;
Give me light to depend on thy word,—
God spake it, and He cannot lie.

Why do I not—can I not feel
The love which could give thee to die?
Why have I no love and no zeal?
Alas, how ungrateful am I!

Lord, breathe on this adamant heart—
I pray for thy conquering grace:
How good and how loving thou art!
O let me burst forth into praise!
Lord, make me whatever thou wilt;
May I bask in the smile of thy face!
O snatch me from doubt and from guilt,
And make me sincere in thy ways.

“SUFFER LITTLE CHILDREN TO COME UNTO ME.”

'Tis not pride, nor wealth, nor beauty,
That can win a Saviour's love;
'Tis not care, nor formal duty,
That the heart's affection prove.

Wisdom cannot stoop so lowly;
Hot ambition seeks not rest;
Man desires not to be holy:
Bring, then, little ones to Christ.

On their happy rosy faces
There are no deep lines of sin,
None of passion's dreary traces
That betray the storms within.

But their's is the sunny dimple,
Lit with love and cherub smiles—
Their's the heart, sincere and simple,
Innocent of selfish wiles.

'Tis not that they're guileless wholly,
But they do not love deceit;
'Tis not that they're free from folly,
But that love sincere is sweet.

Bring, then, to their gracious Saviour,
Bring the little ones to Him:
On such children of his favour,
Glory's sun is never dim.

THE INDESCRIBABLE.

Might I, poor mortal as I am, presume
To paint one spark of Heaven—might I describe
What unassisted mind hath ne'er conceiv'd
In bold Imagination's farthest flight—
The glories eye hath never gaz'd upon,
The songs that ne'er have ravish'd mortal ear;
Might I declare what only angels know,
The bliss reserv'd for pure, undying spirits,
My picture should be this:—Behold the Man,
The God, the Light of light, the Paschal Lamb,
The Sacrifice for sin, for sinners slain!
The Sun of highest Heaven, the Source of all
Beauteous and holy through Infinity!

I stand as do the holy Cherubim,
And veil myself in lowliness before
The Sun of Righteousness—his dimmest ray
Will melt thy waxen wing, my feeble thought.
'Tis bliss, deep bliss, to magnify that name,
And ever to discover new perfections—
Perfections which Eternity itself,
Endless Eternity of boundless praise,
Declareth not, nor e'en Omniscience knows!
But, oh! how sluggish flows my wintry strain—
Would I could sing! would that this heart could feel
The love Thou hast for me—this frozen heart!
Melt it, thou Sun of Glory! soften it—
Strike the hard rock, and bid the river flow!
Thus shall I catch a glimpse of heavenly day;
Thus shall my soul one note of heavenly song
Re-echo on the thrilling chords of love;

Thus shall my charm'd, but aching sense, in vain
Strive to be sated with the golden streams,
Rivers of pleasantness at God's right hand;
And bathe, my Saviour, in thy glorious rays,
Thou full, deep tide, of ever-flowing bliss!

THE HEART OF MAN.

Madly roars the foaming ocean,
High the billows boil within;
Passions there in fierce commotion
Tear the heart of man with sin;
Darkly, deeply, still they roar,
Without a bed, without a shore.

Beetling high above the waves
Stands a solitary rock,
Firm, the rushing storm it braves,
Firm, it waits the billow's shock:
Faith alone, 'mid passion's pow'r,
Braves unmov'd sin's darkest hour.

On that rock a dove has nestled,
Sitting on her infant brood;
With the wild waves has she wrestled,
And has conquer'd ill with good:
Calm she sits upon her nest,
And whispers to the bosom, rest.

Though the billows o'er her foam,
Yet they cannot drown her love;
That firm rock is still her home,
Though the tempests grieve the dove:
Still the Spirit glows within,
Till he triumphs over sin.

MESSIAH PROMISED TO THE JEWS ON THEIR RETURN FROM BABYLON.

They wept, but not unheard: a voice on high
Proclaims the presence of the Deity?
From shore to shore the herald thunder rolls,
From fierce Arabia to the wintry poles;

Wide yawns the teeming sky—a glorious ray
Bursts from the realms of everlasting day;
Near a white throne ten thousand saints appear,
And the great God of Sabaoth is here!
Veil'd in a cloud, whose pure effulgent ray
Dimm'd the bright splendours of meridian day,
Breathing forth comfort to the sons of man,
Past, and to come, the Omnipotent began:
“Why do ye weep, my people? hear my voice,
“Hear and believe, receive it and rejoice.
“The vine of David shall sprout forth again,
“And hang its tendrill'd branches o'er the plain;
“Beneath its shadow shall the world repose,
“Its purple clusters soothe all mortal woes;
“And though a scion, tender first and slim,
“All lands, all nations, shall be blest in Him!”

God spake, and the acclaiming hosts around
Fill'd the clear concave with triumphant sound.
In joyous hallelujahs now they raise
Their thousand voices in their Maker's praise:
Earth fear'd, and Sion bow'd her hallow'd head,
And Ocean trembled in his ancient bed;
The universe was blest—all heav'n, all earth,
Rang with the promise of Messiah's birth;
And the glad shouts were heard from shore to shore,
Till wearied Echo could resound no more.

ST. ARVAN'S.
[_]

(View.)

St. Arvan's,—in that happy spot
I spent a happy time,—
So since I would forget thee not,
I'll think of thee in rhyme.

Each greenwood walk, each distant scene,
My memory loves to trace—
The sweet views from Defauden Green,
The bold and rocky Chase.

And gratefully remember I
The Wyndcliff's dizzy steep,
Which, far beneath the wandering Wye,
Curv'd round in ample sweep.

The pastor with his silver hair,
The truths he lov'd to tell;
The kind, good host—the friend, were there,
That friend, remember'd well.

100

'Tis past, 'tis past, and all now seems
A recollected fable:
O earth, earth, earth, thy joys are dreams,
Unsating, and unstable.

What need then mortal has to know,
Yet, ah! 'tis hard to learn,
From all his hopes of bliss below,
To heav'nward hopes to turn.

O may we set our choicest love
(For earth will have its share)
On everlasting joys above,
And have our treasure there.

BIRTH-DAY WISHES.—TO MY FATHER.

Time with swift and steady wing
Speeds through life's enchanting spring,

101

Yet a few revolving years,
And summer's day of bloom appears;
Soon it dawns, too soon it fades,
And Autumn casts its mellow shades,
Till with feeble step and slow
Winter bares his hoary brow.
The strife is o'er, the gaol is won,
The chequer'd tale of life is done!

And fifty winters now have shed
Their snows, my father, on thy head;
I'd wish thee, be it God's good will,
Another fifty summers still.
But, dearest father, O whene'er
It pleases him to strike or spare,
May Faith enraptur'd pierce the gloom,
And guide thee conqueror thro' the tomb;
May Hope lift up her eyes and see
The bliss of brightest hue for thee:
And in thy heart may holy love
Anticipate the joys above!

Here too may that serene repose,
Which none, but he that feels it, knows,

102

And happiness, the precious gem
Which few possess, but all men claim;
With calm contentment in thy breast,
Hush every troubled thought to rest.

Long may'st thou live, and ever see
Thy early hopes and prayers for me
Answer'd, fulfill'd, exceeded, here,
In filial love, and filial fear.

TO MY COUSIN.

I'd wish for thee all that fancy could paint,
With hope's fairy pencil of bliss;
Ere stubborn reality renders it faint,
And proves how deceitful it is.

I'd wish for thee riches, but care, bitter care,
Claim still their companion to be;

103

I'd wish for thee beauty, unfading and fair,
As now I behold it in thee.

But, ah, not the charms of beauty's form
Can preserve it from fading away,
'Tis the loan of the grave, 'tis a debt to the worm,
And now, even now, in its short-liv'd term,
'Tis the rainbow's fickle ray.

Then what shall I wish thee? alas! 'tis in vain
To wish all that the world can bestow;
For trouble, and sorrow, vexation, and pain,
Will cloud each bright prospect below.

I'll wish thee, my cousin, what earth cannot give,
What earth cannot take away;
In the smiles of thy God and thy Saviour to live
'Mid the cares of thy mortal day.

And when thou in blessing hast ever been blest,
And hast liv'd to the praise of thy God,

104

With the faith of a martyr to enter thy rest,
With the love of a child to repose on the breast
Of him who prepares thy abode!

DEATH DISARMED.

From dark antiquity's chaotic page,
From the blind theories of a classic age,
From the stern dogmas of Philosophy,
Go, call a balm that makes it sweet to die.
Ask the calm stoic in that solemn hour,
When death with iron grasp asserts his power,
Ask the brute Ethiop, when that icy chill
Congeals his fluttering heart with “Peace, be still!”
If purblind reason then can pierce the gloom,
Or savage fortitude can storm the tomb,

105

Without a strange vague feeling of distress,
A pang of something more than bitterness?
No. Passion's deep intoxicating sway,
And reason's darkness cannot quench the ray
That feebly beams upon the trembling soul,
When it beholds the fear'd, the wish'd-for goal.

Nearer and nearer dread eternity
Is speeding on the wings of time. To die!
To die, what is it? 'Tis to plunge below
A flood of ceaseless bliss, or boundless woe!
True, the blind savage and the blinder sage
Knew not the beams of Revelation's page,
But nature's light, though with a feebler ray
Had taught the doctrine of eternal day.
They saw the grovelling worm burst from its tomb,
And, newborn, all the rainbow's hues assume;

106

They saw the acorn branching forth again,
And knew that earth could bind the soul in vain.
Now, Revelation blazes on the sight
In midday glory, in unsullied light,
So clear, so strong, the sceptic dare not doubt
But when he scorns it, and would see without.

Must then immortal man indeed despond,
Knowing that dark eternity beyond
The shadow of the grave awaits him? must he fear,
And in his fate unchangeable despair?
What were the transient joys of life below,
Expecting deep inevitable woe?
What were its pleasures, bitter at the best,
If man despair'd of his eternal rest?
But 'tis a crime to doubt, a crime to fear,
Hear, all ye worlds, earth, shadowy shades, hear!

107

This is a theme that swells archangel's songs,
That everlasting bliss to man belongs!
Yet had we earn'd undying death,—but one
Holy and just was found, who bow'd alone
His meek-torn brow beneath a Father's wrath,
And snatch'd his very murderers from death!
Over his cross stern Justice smil'd on Love,
The bloody eagle sported with the dove.
This is the balm that soothes the Christian's mind,
He to his Saviour gives his soul resign'd,
And in death's faintest moment still can sing,
“Where is thy victory, grave? O death, where is thy sting?”

108

A PRAYER OF THE AFFLICTED, WHEN HIS SOUL IS OVERWHELMED.

O save me, save me from myself, for I am prone to sin,
The fiercest of mine enemies is foaming here within;
O save me, for the waters overwhelm my panting soul,
Mine eyes have lost the beacon bright that blazes at the goal,
Mine heart is dead, and cannot rise, o'erburden'd with its load,
My soul is dull, and will not lift her eyes unto her God!
Clouds and darkness thicken round, and I have lost the star,
That smiling eye of hope that beam'd around me from afar:
The wing of sorrow, hiding still the sun of glory's light

109

Is shrouded o'er me densely, as a pall of thickest night;
My raging foes, in fierce array, are mocking at my fears,
But, Saviour, bid me joy in thee, and wipe away my tears!

Yes, though I cannot see thee, Lord, thine arm is stretch'd around,
To save me from the storm, and all mine enemies confound;
Thine eye is watching o'er me, and is smiling on me still,
To comfort me in sadness, and to shelter me from ill;
It ever beams the same in love, through many a dreary cloud,
And veils of sin and sorrow oft its light of pity shroud.
He ever watches o'er me, as a mother o'er her boy,
For Jesus died to raise me to a paradise of joy,

110

And cannot, in the greatness of his mercy and his love,
Now let me perish while he lives in majesty above.
Nay, I will trust him, for the Lord is everlasting strength,
His mighty arm shall work for me, and rescue me at length.

THE FLOWER.

O holy Truth, celestial birth,
I feel thee budding here within;
Wean me from the joys of earth,
And leave me not a slave to sin.

Thou springest in the wilderness,
Thine odours wafting through the gloom;
Thy first young bud is happiness,
And heav'n's own bliss thy fullest bloom!

111

Nurs'd in the genial soil of love,
And cherish'd by the beams of grace;
On holiness and things above
My kindliest affections place.

Not that in man one kindly spark
Of pure affection glows within;
Towards God, his thoughts are drear and dark,
Towards man, the venom'd fruits of sin.

It must be thou, my glorious God!
This bounteous grace must come from thee;
Lo, I approach thee through his blood
Who gave himself away for me!

Then grant it, Lord, and hear my prayer,
To manifest thyself in love:
O take my heart, and fix it there,
From things below on things above.

112

THE INDIAN CHILD.

Cradled by grief, and sorrow's sable wing,
In joyless gloom pass'd childhood's early spring,
And still as buddeth fair thy youthful mind,
None bids thee seek, none guides thee, truth to find:
Poor child, that never rais'd the suppliant's pray'r,
Nor look'd on high and saw a Father there,
Untutor'd by religion's gentle sway
To love, believe, be happy, and obey.

HARVEST HOME.

Shorn of its golden crop the grateful land
Has well repaid the farmer's early toil;
Has pour'd its riches in the reaper's hand,
And lent the cheek of poverty a smile.

113

The barns are full, and with rich plenty stor'd,
And yet the gleaner has her humble share,
For the good God has still his blessings pour'd
On all, tho' not alike, who claim his care.

And “harvest home” is now the joyous cry,
'Tis “harvest home,” the promise of the year;
The poor man's daily smile or daily sigh,
His worldly hopes and fears are centred here.

And there shall be a greater harvest home,
When Satan from his earthly kingdom hurl'd,
Our Shepherd King, our Husbandman shall come,
And love or vengeance due shall reap the world!

114

THE SECOND ADVENT.

A day of fear and wonder
Has burst upon thee—earth;
The heavens are cleft asunder,
And pour their armies forth!
He comes in storm and thunder,
His lightnings flash in wrath;
A day of fear, and wonder,
Has burst upon thee,—earth!

Lo, Jesus comes, descending,
He comes, the mighty God!
Ten thousand saints attending
Are flying all abroad;
And all creation bending
Now trembles at his nod:
He comes, he comes, descending,
Our own Redeeming God!

115

A blaze of glory streaming
The Judge of all surrounds;
That eye of brightest beaming
His enemies confounds;
“No, no, we are not dreaming,
“These are not empty sounds;
“But that dread glory streaming
“Our angry God surrounds!”

Why should I fear to meet thee,
That didst for me atone?
O give me grace to greet thee,
Lord, leave me not alone.
“Come, child of glory, seat thee
“With me upon my throne;”—
Say thus, and I will greet thee
My righteousness, my own!

116

JERUSALEM RESTORED.

Wake, Israel, wake!—review thy former fame,
The ancient splendour of thy sacred name:
Awake!—too long above thy scorned head
Its whelming billows hath oblivion spread.
Thou shalt not shrink beneath the Gentiles' scorn,
No longer a polluted temple mourn,
No longer groan beneath oppression's rod,
But joyous reign, acknowledg'd by thy God!
Dread then no more the wide world's haughty frown,
Thyself shall wield the sceptre,—wear the crown.
Zion shall soon deride her vanquish'd foes,
Her desert land shall blossom as the rose,—
And to her King, her everlasting Lord,
All earth shall see Jerusalem restor'd!

117

AN ACCEPTED SPIRIT.

He stood before the throne, and gaz'd upon
The Lord he lov'd on earth!—unspeakable,
Unfelt, and unimaginable here
The rising transport of his blessedness!
He knew the love of Christ,—he felt himself
Fill'd with the fulness of his God!—the tide
Of tranquil, deep, and exquisite delight,
(Which for a mortal to have caught below
One drop of its unutterable bliss
Had burst his heart, and smote him to the tomb,
Incapable to bear that lightning flash,)
Roll'd through his form angelic; he became
Instant, all soul, a living breathing heart
Expanded to the limits of his frame,
Expanded through the universal realm
Of heav'nly being, and he knew he was
Immortal, and he felt himself secure,
An heir of God's own everlasting bliss!

118

O, with what yearning love of brotherhood
He look'd upon the glorious sons of light!
For he was one with them: one with the saints,
Who thro' the jarring storms of mortal life
Had wrestled onward to the heavenly prize,
And sought for immortality and God!
One with the multitudes on multitudes
Of brightwing'd Sabaoth, that here below
Had minister'd incessant to the saints,
And praise on living harps, that thrill with bliss
To their own melody, the sinner's friend;
“Behold, he was their Saviour,—he for them
“With their afflictions was afflicted too;
“He felt with them, and ever from all ill
“The angel of his presence saved them:
“In his compassion and unbounded love
“He hath redeem'd them!—lo, they are redeem'd
“And stand before his throne, and wave on high
“The palm of triumph, and at Jesu's feet

119

“Cast their bright crowns of glory, shouting still
“Worthy the Lamb, for he was slain for us!”
“And lo, here is another; happy one
“We love thee, for that Jesus lov'd thee first,
“And that thou lovest him! come then with us,
“Join the full chorus, swell the peal of praise,
“That thus the travail of his soul on earth
“May by thy bliss be satisfied in heaven!

ANTEPAST.

Who hath not felt in some celestial hour,
When fear's dark thundercloud has ceas'd to low'r,
When angels beckon on the fluttering soul
To realms of bliss beyond her mortal goal,

120

When promis'd glories bursting on the sight,
The raptur'd spirit bathes in seas of light,
And soars aloft upon the seraph's wing,—
How fearless she can brave death's tyrant sting?
How, 'mid the elements around her hurl'd,
She still can dare the ruin of the world?

THE PERSONAL COMING OF CHRIST.

Hark, hark! 'tis the trumpet that startles the air,
The herald of joy, or the voice of despair!
See, see, 'tis the banner of glory unfurl'd,
That scatters dismay o'er a guilt-stricken world!

121

Who is it that blazes the centre of light
In the midst of his legions of cherubim bright;
Who is it that comes in such dreadful array
With the sword of his vengeance bar'd ready to slay?

It is he, whom ye scorn'd in the day of his love,
But ye shall not escape the fierce wrath from above;
Your harden'd ingratitude deep shall ye rue,
The blackness of darkness is yawning for you!

Ye trusted him not, when he hung on the tree,
When his body was broken, and wounded, for—thee:
Now glorious he comes, whom ye would not receive,
And vainly with pangs of remorse do ye grieve.

122

With a desolate shriek, and a wailing cry,
They are led to their doom that are 'pointed to die;
O the torture, the torture that ever shall burn!
The horror, from which there is never return!

But joyous the bosoms of them that are his,
Triumphantly shout they the glad song of bliss;
For ever to bask in the smile of his face,
For ever to live in the light of his grace!

Look on him, O ye saints, whom unseen ye ador'd,
He is come, he is come, your beloved, your Lord!
Ye blessed for ever, your Saviour is come
To lead you in joy to your glorious home!

Triumph, triumph, shout and sing
Praises to your gracious king!

123

All your trials now are o'er,
Heav'n expands its starry door,
Enter in, ye ever blest,
Your's is everlasting rest!

[Reader, whosoe'er thou art]

Reader, whosoe'er thou art,
Just a word before we part.
Pr'ythee censure not, and praise not,
Anger or vain-glory raise not;
Is there ought to blame?—be still,—
Aught to praise?—to praise were ill.

Next let conscience tell thy name,
Pardon, all are not the same:
Christian, tell me, dost thou find
This little volume to thy mind;
If its strains are sweet to thee,
May I say—remember me?

124

Scorner,—there are some things here
That should make thee think and fear,
Friends, continue ever such,
Foes, I do not fear you much,
Critics, to the motive look,
Flatterers, lay down the book.

ΔΟΞΑ ΤΩ ΘΕΩ

University of Virginia Library

Sacred Poetry. [_] (St. Cecilia.)

THE DAY-SPRING. [_] (Vignette.)