The Baptistery, or the way of eternal life By the author of "The Cathedral." [i.e. Isaac Williams] A new edition |
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| 24. | IMAGE THE TWENTY-FOURTH. The Music of the City of God.
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 | The Baptistery, or the way of eternal life |  |
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IMAGE THE TWENTY-FOURTH. The Music of the City of God.
When listening still at midnight deep
Thought doth her vigil keep,
Lo, suddenly, in some old holy town
The sacred chime is sounding:
As modulating sweet its tuneful changes
The solemn minstrelsy runs down,
What memories old are all the soul surrounding!
What echoing thoughts responsive beat
Prolonging now its cadence sweet,
On chains of sadness wild it ranges;
And still, at each descending fall,
Awakes through memory's pictur'd hall
Her long-forgotten treasures;
Visions most sad, most musical,
Old shapes that haunt the hallow'd wall,
And worlds that live in holy measures.
Thought doth her vigil keep,
Lo, suddenly, in some old holy town
The sacred chime is sounding:
As modulating sweet its tuneful changes
The solemn minstrelsy runs down,
What memories old are all the soul surrounding!
What echoing thoughts responsive beat
Prolonging now its cadence sweet,
On chains of sadness wild it ranges;
And still, at each descending fall,
Awakes through memory's pictur'd hall
Her long-forgotten treasures;
Visions most sad, most musical,
Old shapes that haunt the hallow'd wall,
And worlds that live in holy measures.
They steal around us, calm and deep,—
Awakening from their sleep,
Where waters of oblivion creep,—
Meek Saintly forms that walk'd the cloister dim,
And heard of old the vesper hymn,
Come round us, and the deep-wrapt vision fill.
Ring on, ring on, ye solemn chimes,
And let me wander still,
Still wander in the blissful dream of happy olden times!
Awakening from their sleep,
Where waters of oblivion creep,—
Meek Saintly forms that walk'd the cloister dim,
And heard of old the vesper hymn,
262
Ring on, ring on, ye solemn chimes,
And let me wander still,
Still wander in the blissful dream of happy olden times!
Hail, hallow'd visions on my way attending,
With dews of morn again, and singing voices blending,
Where yearly in that vernal hour
The sacred City is in shades reclining,
With gilded turrets in the sunrise shining:—
From sainted Magdalene's aërial tower
Sounds far aloof that ancient chaunt are singing,
And round the heart again those solemn memories bringing.
With dews of morn again, and singing voices blending,
Where yearly in that vernal hour
The sacred City is in shades reclining,
With gilded turrets in the sunrise shining:—
From sainted Magdalene's aërial tower
Sounds far aloof that ancient chaunt are singing,
And round the heart again those solemn memories bringing.
What wonder if that matin hymn
Sounds like the song of Seraphim?
The present all unreal seems, from Heaven
Such power is to the past and awful future given.
Things long gone by come floating back again,
With all their cloud-borne airy train;
From those bright clouds an Angel seems to lean,
And thence to speak of the Unseen,
Of better things that once have been,
Better than all that doth remain;
As if to bring protection round
On that fair Town with holy turrets crown'd,
Their bright assemblage far disclosing,
In morning's mantle green all freshly now reposing.
Harp of the heart, sweet poesy,
In secret spirit lying,
Something within, whate'er thou art,
Which hopes and memories bringest nigh,
And in our inmost being hast a part;—
Still to some unseen hand, or gales of Heaven replying!
Whether by tuneful sounds afar that seem to grieve,
On some Autumnal quiet eve,
Or touch'd by some electric chain within,
Your magic chords awaken and begin;
But not with them to end,
Till with wild harmonies our being blend.
Well might they fable those Aonian daughters,
As if some Heaven-sent vision from above
Descended all unseen, and stirr'd your healing waters.
Hail, sounds which the deep spirit move,
Until the present seems as nought
In the realities of sterner thought;
Around us come the dead and dying,
And all the silent heart with pensive scenes is sighing.
Sounds like the song of Seraphim?
The present all unreal seems, from Heaven
Such power is to the past and awful future given.
Things long gone by come floating back again,
With all their cloud-borne airy train;
From those bright clouds an Angel seems to lean,
And thence to speak of the Unseen,
Of better things that once have been,
Better than all that doth remain;
As if to bring protection round
On that fair Town with holy turrets crown'd,
Their bright assemblage far disclosing,
In morning's mantle green all freshly now reposing.
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In secret spirit lying,
Something within, whate'er thou art,
Which hopes and memories bringest nigh,
And in our inmost being hast a part;—
Still to some unseen hand, or gales of Heaven replying!
Whether by tuneful sounds afar that seem to grieve,
On some Autumnal quiet eve,
Or touch'd by some electric chain within,
Your magic chords awaken and begin;
But not with them to end,
Till with wild harmonies our being blend.
Well might they fable those Aonian daughters,
As if some Heaven-sent vision from above
Descended all unseen, and stirr'd your healing waters.
Hail, sounds which the deep spirit move,
Until the present seems as nought
In the realities of sterner thought;
Around us come the dead and dying,
And all the silent heart with pensive scenes is sighing.
Ye distant strains that fill the thoughtless street
Upon a summer evening, sad and sweet,
Where some wild songstress chaunts her descant lone,
Or wilder music wakes the tuneful bell,
While loitering groups are gathering, or pass on!
How little do ye know with what a gale it falls
Upon some Solitary's cell,
And all the past recalls:
While dearest friends that now are gone
Do seem to live again,
Hid in deep worlds that are in your sad strain;
Then all within in sadness swells,
And Memory there unseen her story tells;
Till he who seem'd an unblench'd eye to bear
On the sad tokens of life's waning year,
And all things passing by,—
His heart is heaving with a sigh,
His eye-lid hath a tear.
Upon a summer evening, sad and sweet,
Where some wild songstress chaunts her descant lone,
Or wilder music wakes the tuneful bell,
While loitering groups are gathering, or pass on!
How little do ye know with what a gale it falls
Upon some Solitary's cell,
And all the past recalls:
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Do seem to live again,
Hid in deep worlds that are in your sad strain;
Then all within in sadness swells,
And Memory there unseen her story tells;
Till he who seem'd an unblench'd eye to bear
On the sad tokens of life's waning year,
And all things passing by,—
His heart is heaving with a sigh,
His eye-lid hath a tear.
Lo, all around your vision now is stealing,
Where'er we turn their dim-veil'd forms revealing:
With thoughts of those once lov'd and near,
Whose early years with ours were blended,
Whose memories have with all things dear
Deep in the heart descended;—
A mother's love, which o'er our Childhood bended,
And all our youthful steps attended;
Or brother lost, whose early hours,
Whose thoughts and hopes and fears were ours;
While we saw all things with his eyes,
Knit in still growing sympathies;—
Now they are gone, but we remain,
Our love for them is mix'd with pain;
Our wonted haunts know them no more;
But they are on the unseen shore,
And draw us after them, as with a silent chain;
Thus all we lov'd make wings, and leave us to deplore.
Where'er we turn their dim-veil'd forms revealing:
With thoughts of those once lov'd and near,
Whose early years with ours were blended,
Whose memories have with all things dear
Deep in the heart descended;—
A mother's love, which o'er our Childhood bended,
And all our youthful steps attended;
Or brother lost, whose early hours,
Whose thoughts and hopes and fears were ours;
While we saw all things with his eyes,
Knit in still growing sympathies;—
Now they are gone, but we remain,
Our love for them is mix'd with pain;
Our wonted haunts know them no more;
But they are on the unseen shore,
And draw us after them, as with a silent chain;
Thus all we lov'd make wings, and leave us to deplore.
They make them wings and fly away,
And fairer still they seem as we behold them flying;
Like that bright bird that, glancing on the stream,
His fairest plumes in parting doth display:
Or when on woodland hills the Autumnal gleam
Is calmly lying;
And while in golden stillness it reposes,
The Autumnal gale is sighing,
And 'tween the withering boughs some ancient tower discloses.
While on ourselves we feel that, year by year,
The Autumnal hand is stealing,
And through the alter'd brow, turn'd pale and sere,
The Autumn of our age its aspect stern revealing,
When evening shades their solemn gloom are flinging
O'er valleys once so bright and fair,
And stilly seen upon the silent air
Some bird his homeward way to woodland heights is winging.
And fairer still they seem as we behold them flying;
265
His fairest plumes in parting doth display:
Or when on woodland hills the Autumnal gleam
Is calmly lying;
And while in golden stillness it reposes,
The Autumnal gale is sighing,
And 'tween the withering boughs some ancient tower discloses.
While on ourselves we feel that, year by year,
The Autumnal hand is stealing,
And through the alter'd brow, turn'd pale and sere,
The Autumn of our age its aspect stern revealing,
When evening shades their solemn gloom are flinging
O'er valleys once so bright and fair,
And stilly seen upon the silent air
Some bird his homeward way to woodland heights is winging.
Through cloistral glades what shadows round us steal
Of them that are with God!
We on the path they trod
Live in their thoughts, and with them feel,
And learn the blest communion
Of Saints that are in wisdom one!
Our heart-pulse is to theirs replying,
In books which all their souls reveal,
And all the breath we breathe is 'mid the dead and dying.
While peace and calm to them belong,
Our life unquiet is, and fades;
Shadows we are and wandering amid shades,
As they who walk'd the realms below,
With that fam'd Florentine,
Substances amid spirits seen,
Known only by the sabler shade they throw ;
Thus 'mid the dead, where'er we go,
Our life is known by sure companionship of woe.
Of them that are with God!
We on the path they trod
Live in their thoughts, and with them feel,
And learn the blest communion
Of Saints that are in wisdom one!
Our heart-pulse is to theirs replying,
In books which all their souls reveal,
And all the breath we breathe is 'mid the dead and dying.
While peace and calm to them belong,
266
Shadows we are and wandering amid shades,
As they who walk'd the realms below,
With that fam'd Florentine,
Substances amid spirits seen,
Known only by the sabler shade they throw ;
Thus 'mid the dead, where'er we go,
Our life is known by sure companionship of woe.
And fast as we ourselves thus fade,
So our desires are from us stealing;
What once seem'd beck'ning in the shade,
And still before a beauteous form revealing,
Now left behind its worthlessness we rue;
But something else we now pursue;
Which fairer still each day now comes to view;
But that soon passes, and is gone,
And we are left alone.
What yesterday had seem'd so fair,
Seems now not worth pursuing;
With changing life our longings still we change,
Through all the weary range,
And what is done and past we are undoing:
The things of Heaven alone are still the same,
And as we nearer draw more eager love they claim.
So our desires are from us stealing;
What once seem'd beck'ning in the shade,
And still before a beauteous form revealing,
Now left behind its worthlessness we rue;
But something else we now pursue;
Which fairer still each day now comes to view;
But that soon passes, and is gone,
And we are left alone.
What yesterday had seem'd so fair,
Seems now not worth pursuing;
With changing life our longings still we change,
Through all the weary range,
And what is done and past we are undoing:
The things of Heaven alone are still the same,
And as we nearer draw more eager love they claim.
Father of spirits, far from Thee we roam,
Thou art the Unchangeable, the spirit's home,
And in all things, but those that come from Thee,
The never-resting spirit finds a tomb.
Thine aspirations, e'en while here we flee,
Are drinking of the hidden springs,
That still flow on, and are for ever flowing,
That love alone which no repentance brings,
But to the last is growing;
While, all that's earthly to the grave is going;
But they o'er grave of earthly things are happier thoughts bestowing.
Thou art the Unchangeable, the spirit's home,
And in all things, but those that come from Thee,
The never-resting spirit finds a tomb.
Thine aspirations, e'en while here we flee,
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That still flow on, and are for ever flowing,
That love alone which no repentance brings,
But to the last is growing;
While, all that's earthly to the grave is going;
But they o'er grave of earthly things are happier thoughts bestowing.
Spirits departed, ye are still,
And thoughts of you our lonely hours will fill,—
As gales wake from the harp a language not their own,
Or airs Autumnal raise a momentary moan;—
Till all the soul to thoughts of you is sighing,
And every chord that slept in sadness stern replying.
Where are ye now in regions blest,
On shores of land unknown,
In silence and at rest,
While still your shadows by our eyes are passing,
And all the lost again in sable colours glassing?
And thoughts of you our lonely hours will fill,—
As gales wake from the harp a language not their own,
Or airs Autumnal raise a momentary moan;—
Till all the soul to thoughts of you is sighing,
And every chord that slept in sadness stern replying.
Where are ye now in regions blest,
On shores of land unknown,
In silence and at rest,
While still your shadows by our eyes are passing,
And all the lost again in sable colours glassing?
O let me with you converse keep
On the Autumnal eve,
Or in the quiet midnight deep:
There is a solemn sweetness when we grieve,
And holier wisdom on our hearts ye leave;
Better than all the talk of living men,
Which in their frustrate longings still again
The weary round of earthly things pursue!
For ye full well the value know
Of all things here below;
And while our contemplations dwell with you,
We learn to look with your unscalèd eyes
On all things here we prize.
On the Autumnal eve,
Or in the quiet midnight deep:
There is a solemn sweetness when we grieve,
And holier wisdom on our hearts ye leave;
Better than all the talk of living men,
Which in their frustrate longings still again
The weary round of earthly things pursue!
For ye full well the value know
Of all things here below;
And while our contemplations dwell with you,
268
On all things here we prize.
O Thou great God unsearchable,
Still something with us doth abide of Thee,
E'en of Thy life and immortality:
Whate'er desires the panting bosom swell,
It is that blind and dark for Thee we seek.
And e'en though lost in sin
There something is within
Which of a better birthright seems to speak,
While nought but phantoms vain upon it gleam.
Still thoughts of Thee within us breed,
As in a feverish dream,
As in a dream all powerless, blind, and weak.
O unto Thee our spirits lead,
For all things here deceive,
Allure us but to leave,
And leave with empty hands and aching heart to grieve.
Still something with us doth abide of Thee,
E'en of Thy life and immortality:
Whate'er desires the panting bosom swell,
It is that blind and dark for Thee we seek.
And e'en though lost in sin
There something is within
Which of a better birthright seems to speak,
While nought but phantoms vain upon it gleam.
Still thoughts of Thee within us breed,
As in a feverish dream,
As in a dream all powerless, blind, and weak.
O unto Thee our spirits lead,
For all things here deceive,
Allure us but to leave,
And leave with empty hands and aching heart to grieve.
O lead us unto Thee, the hidden Well,
Who art alone immutable;
With Thee alone there hidden are on high
The joys that satisfy:
And they who drink of joys Thy hand supplies,
They shall be satisfied;
For here below, whate'er awhile may please,
Nothing there is that satisfies;
Th' immortal spirit still can find no ease,
Unsatisfied, unsatisfied,
For nothing can abide.
Of vanity, of vanity, each age to age is crying,
And each anew the self-same strain replying,
And all repeats the strain before us flying:
To this sad thought their notes return,
And at the touching theme their dying spirits burn,
And all their notes of sweetness
Are singing of our fleetness,—
Are of our fleetness sighing,
And singing of our dying.
And every gale that passes
Is tunèd to a sigh,
And every wave but glasses
The lesson, we must die;
And waves and gales together sing
Of this our daily perishing.
Who art alone immutable;
With Thee alone there hidden are on high
The joys that satisfy:
And they who drink of joys Thy hand supplies,
They shall be satisfied;
For here below, whate'er awhile may please,
Nothing there is that satisfies;
Th' immortal spirit still can find no ease,
Unsatisfied, unsatisfied,
For nothing can abide.
269
And each anew the self-same strain replying,
And all repeats the strain before us flying:
To this sad thought their notes return,
And at the touching theme their dying spirits burn,
And all their notes of sweetness
Are singing of our fleetness,—
Are of our fleetness sighing,
And singing of our dying.
And every gale that passes
Is tunèd to a sigh,
And every wave but glasses
The lesson, we must die;
And waves and gales together sing
Of this our daily perishing.
What is this flood of sweetest sound,
That bathed me all around,
Till with new being I abound?
O sweet as Evening, beautiful and calm,
As blue skies seen 'tween the dark waving palm;
As fragrant scents around me breathing balm;
As thoughts that speak of God and Heaven,
Where strife and war afar are driven!
O sweetest tide,
Which speaks the good beyond the clouds of time,
Who walk in your angelic chime;
While all their souls at length in you abide.
O tide of sweet and solemn sounds, flow on,
Till discord finds no place, and all is union!
As they who fabled
shapes of poet's dream,
Deep hid in sylvan halls,
Dryads and Naiads, such as lov'd to tend,
And with the being blend
Of woods or flowing stream,
And answer'd to their calls.
Where shepherd oft, at solemn eve returning,
Heard sounds melodious, and a solemn theme,
Perchance afar some glancing form discerning;
While woods and valleys listen'd to the song,
And Evening seem'd to linger sweet and long,
Caught by the enchanting sound.
When sober Reason look'd upon the scene,
All was but empty air,
And nothing to be found;
Some yearning of the immortal spirit came between,
And dress'd up sounds and sights so fair,
To body forth her longings of the Unseen.
So all the things which here on earth have been,
Unreal shadows of the eye and ear,
Stripp'd of their soft enchantment disappear,
And there is nothing there.
But in the woods they seem afar,
Holding sweet converse with the Evening star;
The heart is listening still,
And echoes of the past the deepest spirit fill.
That bathed me all around,
Till with new being I abound?
O sweet as Evening, beautiful and calm,
As blue skies seen 'tween the dark waving palm;
As fragrant scents around me breathing balm;
As thoughts that speak of God and Heaven,
Where strife and war afar are driven!
O sweetest tide,
Which speaks the good beyond the clouds of time,
Who walk in your angelic chime;
While all their souls at length in you abide.
O tide of sweet and solemn sounds, flow on,
Till discord finds no place, and all is union!
270
Deep hid in sylvan halls,
Dryads and Naiads, such as lov'd to tend,
And with the being blend
Of woods or flowing stream,
And answer'd to their calls.
Where shepherd oft, at solemn eve returning,
Heard sounds melodious, and a solemn theme,
Perchance afar some glancing form discerning;
While woods and valleys listen'd to the song,
And Evening seem'd to linger sweet and long,
Caught by the enchanting sound.
When sober Reason look'd upon the scene,
All was but empty air,
And nothing to be found;
Some yearning of the immortal spirit came between,
And dress'd up sounds and sights so fair,
To body forth her longings of the Unseen.
So all the things which here on earth have been,
Unreal shadows of the eye and ear,
Stripp'd of their soft enchantment disappear,
And there is nothing there.
But in the woods they seem afar,
Holding sweet converse with the Evening star;
271
And echoes of the past the deepest spirit fill.
The music now hath ceas'd and gone,
Faint and more faint the visions come,
And leave us to the weary world alone;
Whene'er amid the earth we roam,
There something is in Music's tone,
That to the exile seems to bring
The thoughts of his lost Paradise,
Like words and things from distant home.
Unconsciously they touch a spring
Which in the secret spirit lies,
As wandering from their parent skies.
Faint and more faint the visions come,
And leave us to the weary world alone;
Whene'er amid the earth we roam,
There something is in Music's tone,
That to the exile seems to bring
The thoughts of his lost Paradise,
Like words and things from distant home.
Unconsciously they touch a spring
Which in the secret spirit lies,
As wandering from their parent skies.
What worlds with you are come and flown!
Musical sounds, say, what are ye?
Whence do ye come? what can ye be,
That ye should thus our inmost being move,
Speaking with such strange language all your own?
Are ye wild spirits, wandering from above,
That unto you such power is given?
Or are ye gales which here have stray'd from Heaven,
Come from the place where all the past is stor'd,
Waiting the awful coming of the Lord?
And therefore when o'er us your spirit steals
It all the past reveals,
Finds access to the secret place of fears,
And lifts the shadows of long buried years,
For human tongue too deep, and human tears.
Musical sounds, say, what are ye?
Whence do ye come? what can ye be,
That ye should thus our inmost being move,
Speaking with such strange language all your own?
Are ye wild spirits, wandering from above,
That unto you such power is given?
Or are ye gales which here have stray'd from Heaven,
Come from the place where all the past is stor'd,
Waiting the awful coming of the Lord?
And therefore when o'er us your spirit steals
It all the past reveals,
Finds access to the secret place of fears,
And lifts the shadows of long buried years,
For human tongue too deep, and human tears.
But not alone within the tuneful wall,
And music-loving cells:—
All far aloof from spiral summit tall,
Eddying around in circuits musical,
The aërial sweetness floats and swells
Down to the woodland dells.
And wise I deem the Church of olden times
That hallowed your sweet bells, which from their towers
Flung out such spirit-moving powers,
In flood of their melodious chimes.
Well might she consecrate those fountain wells,
Such strength of sympathy within them dwells,
And keep from use profane and vile.
While now, alas! pour'd forth from sacred pile,
State-strifes, home-jealousies, take up the hallow'd strain,
And blended with the airs from hell upon the heart remain.
And music-loving cells:—
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Eddying around in circuits musical,
The aërial sweetness floats and swells
Down to the woodland dells.
And wise I deem the Church of olden times
That hallowed your sweet bells, which from their towers
Flung out such spirit-moving powers,
In flood of their melodious chimes.
Well might she consecrate those fountain wells,
Such strength of sympathy within them dwells,
And keep from use profane and vile.
While now, alas! pour'd forth from sacred pile,
State-strifes, home-jealousies, take up the hallow'd strain,
And blended with the airs from hell upon the heart remain.
Ye golden streams from purer worlds o'erflowing,
Musical sounds, in you a language lies,
Which speaks of God's eternal harmonies,
In secret Providence around us going.
Ye speak as by a hidden spell
That union strange, unspeakable,
Of the eternal City in the skies.
Therefore in Salem's earthly courts were found,
Cymbal, lute, trumpet, harp, and vocal sound,
And steps with music shod.
With harps Angelic, songs, and hallow'd lips,
Heaven is reveal'd in dread Apocalypse,
Wherein the blessed spirits dwell with God.
Whate'er ye be, ye speak so much of Heaven,
That at your sound the evil spirit flies;
As erst we read in holy histories,
He from the stern remorseful King was driven,
When David touch'd the soothing minstrelsies;
The fiend then heard, and caught the preludes deep
Of sounds and thoughts harmonious, which begin
In Jesse's son,—signals precursive given
Of that sweet music which his Psalteries keep,
Cleansing and liberating souls from sin,
And to the everlasting refuge win.
Thus through our sensual avenues ye pour
Treasures of wisdom, Truth's mysterious store,
All bath'd and blended with melodious air,
Into the unwilling soul; to harbour there,
Breeding serener thoughts, in you to soar
Above the reach of grovelling earthly care.
Therefore ye find meet place in hallow'd shrine;
Blending sweet grace with austere discipline;
Since that dear time when erst the shepherd throng
Upon that hallowed even,
Heard strains which to Angelic hosts belong,
As if a door were open'd into Heaven,
And pour'd a gleam of light and song,
Of glory, joy, and love eternal realms among.
Such are the melodies of new-born Peace,
Which then began, and will not cease,
Till men to Angels shall respond, and all to praise be given.
Flow on, flow on, to Heaven from whence ye rise,
Ye blessed harmonies,
And waft us on your breast unto your parent skies;
Attune to Heaven our laggard feet,
Attune our spirits here below
To order and obedience meet,
Such as there is in that blest seat
From whence ye flow.
Musical sounds, in you a language lies,
Which speaks of God's eternal harmonies,
In secret Providence around us going.
Ye speak as by a hidden spell
That union strange, unspeakable,
Of the eternal City in the skies.
Therefore in Salem's earthly courts were found,
Cymbal, lute, trumpet, harp, and vocal sound,
And steps with music shod.
With harps Angelic, songs, and hallow'd lips,
Heaven is reveal'd in dread Apocalypse,
Wherein the blessed spirits dwell with God.
273
That at your sound the evil spirit flies;
As erst we read in holy histories,
He from the stern remorseful King was driven,
When David touch'd the soothing minstrelsies;
The fiend then heard, and caught the preludes deep
Of sounds and thoughts harmonious, which begin
In Jesse's son,—signals precursive given
Of that sweet music which his Psalteries keep,
Cleansing and liberating souls from sin,
And to the everlasting refuge win.
Thus through our sensual avenues ye pour
Treasures of wisdom, Truth's mysterious store,
All bath'd and blended with melodious air,
Into the unwilling soul; to harbour there,
Breeding serener thoughts, in you to soar
Above the reach of grovelling earthly care.
Therefore ye find meet place in hallow'd shrine;
Blending sweet grace with austere discipline;
Since that dear time when erst the shepherd throng
Upon that hallowed even,
Heard strains which to Angelic hosts belong,
As if a door were open'd into Heaven,
And pour'd a gleam of light and song,
Of glory, joy, and love eternal realms among.
Such are the melodies of new-born Peace,
Which then began, and will not cease,
Till men to Angels shall respond, and all to praise be given.
274
Ye blessed harmonies,
And waft us on your breast unto your parent skies;
Attune to Heaven our laggard feet,
Attune our spirits here below
To order and obedience meet,
Such as there is in that blest seat
From whence ye flow.
Obedience—it is love,
And where love is is harmony;
Therefore the stars that range above
Throughout the infinite in order roving,
As through the shoreless space they fly,
We deem to thread their maze to music high,
In some melodious measure moving;
And all we know of Angels blest
Is that they love and they obey,
And sing alway,
Ever singing, ever loving,
In the mansions of their rest,
Around the throne where God is manifest.
And what we music call below
Is something thence that doth o'erflow,
Like a golden stream of light
From the infinite;
Here in matter dull unfolding
And our earth-sick hearts upholding;
And therefore like electric chain
It hath a power in souls to reign,
And rivet with a sadness sweet,
Like voices come to exiles lone from their abiding seat.
And where love is is harmony;
Therefore the stars that range above
Throughout the infinite in order roving,
As through the shoreless space they fly,
We deem to thread their maze to music high,
In some melodious measure moving;
And all we know of Angels blest
Is that they love and they obey,
And sing alway,
Ever singing, ever loving,
In the mansions of their rest,
Around the throne where God is manifest.
And what we music call below
Is something thence that doth o'erflow,
Like a golden stream of light
From the infinite;
Here in matter dull unfolding
And our earth-sick hearts upholding;
And therefore like electric chain
It hath a power in souls to reign,
275
Like voices come to exiles lone from their abiding seat.
Hence it hath power to give us wings,—
Wings and a tongue of pure desire;—
Harmonious wings, like plumes of fire,
Whereon the exil'd spirit sings,
In her sunrise soaring higher;
Happy, happy, happy singing,
Highest heights of ether winging,
All her birthright round her bringing;
Happy heights where she may go,
And look down on all below,
Only voice that can express
Her o'erflowing thankfulness.
Flow on, flow on, ye hallow'd solemn measures,
Mysterious language of Angelic peace,
Still singing of high pleasures,
And long the lonely soul your dying accent treasures.
Flow on, flow on, and never cease,
Till all is peace and love on earth,
And man be tun'd to virtue strong;
And mindful of your awful song
Foregoes his low-bred cares and mirth,
In thoughts that unto you belong.
Flow on, flow on, ye tones of sweetness,
Till all the discords of our clime
Be swallow'd in your march sublime,
Whereon th' eternal Bride advances;
Wherein the sorrows of our fleetness,
Widow'd hopes, and evil chances,
Are lost in the eternal chime.
Lift the Ambrosian hymn sublime,
Or deep Gregorian chaunt of plaintive underchime
For solemn, deep, and awful-ton'd
Must be the sounds that speak of God,
Of Heaven and Hell, of Christ in Judgment thron'd,
And of the path the Saints have trod.
Sounds worthy of the words the Psalmist sung,
And which in Christ have found a tongue,
And all His Saints among;
The words on which the Martyrs' prayers ascended,
Like cars of fiery steeds, when Angels bended
To take them to their rest.
Wings and a tongue of pure desire;—
Harmonious wings, like plumes of fire,
Whereon the exil'd spirit sings,
In her sunrise soaring higher;
Happy, happy, happy singing,
Highest heights of ether winging,
All her birthright round her bringing;
Happy heights where she may go,
And look down on all below,
Only voice that can express
Her o'erflowing thankfulness.
Flow on, flow on, ye hallow'd solemn measures,
Mysterious language of Angelic peace,
Still singing of high pleasures,
And long the lonely soul your dying accent treasures.
Flow on, flow on, and never cease,
Till all is peace and love on earth,
And man be tun'd to virtue strong;
And mindful of your awful song
Foregoes his low-bred cares and mirth,
In thoughts that unto you belong.
Flow on, flow on, ye tones of sweetness,
Till all the discords of our clime
Be swallow'd in your march sublime,
Whereon th' eternal Bride advances;
Wherein the sorrows of our fleetness,
Widow'd hopes, and evil chances,
Are lost in the eternal chime.
276
Or deep Gregorian chaunt of plaintive underchime
For solemn, deep, and awful-ton'd
Must be the sounds that speak of God,
Of Heaven and Hell, of Christ in Judgment thron'd,
And of the path the Saints have trod.
Sounds worthy of the words the Psalmist sung,
And which in Christ have found a tongue,
And all His Saints among;
The words on which the Martyrs' prayers ascended,
Like cars of fiery steeds, when Angels bended
To take them to their rest.
Flow on, flow on, ye tones of sadness,
Until the heart hath wept her stains away,
She waketh now from all the madness
Which o'er her spirit hath had sway,
And seeks a place to weep.
But there are sounds more grave and deep,
Which Conscience shall awaken from her sleep;
She looks around,
Rous'd from the spell which long hath bound,
And hears the Judgment-wheels in thunder falling,
While nearer as they draw, like lightning now,
The Judge's eye the heart appalling,
Brings memory forth upon the brow.
Until the heart hath wept her stains away,
She waketh now from all the madness
Which o'er her spirit hath had sway,
And seeks a place to weep.
But there are sounds more grave and deep,
Which Conscience shall awaken from her sleep;
She looks around,
Rous'd from the spell which long hath bound,
And hears the Judgment-wheels in thunder falling,
While nearer as they draw, like lightning now,
The Judge's eye the heart appalling,
Brings memory forth upon the brow.
Ring out, ye tones, so sad and long,
With that deep solemn undersong,
That wakes stern grief and penitential fear.
Flow on, flow on, ye tears and sighs;
Such are the strains most meet
For them who in their exile long and drear,
Sit by the waves of Babylon's proud seat,
While Penitence therein her alter'd brow descries,
Where flood of light upon her steals,
And all the unclean heart reveals.
O wake your accents sad, and solemn closes,
Until the soul to Angel songs may rise,
And in their quiet haven it reposes.
With that deep solemn undersong,
That wakes stern grief and penitential fear.
Flow on, flow on, ye tears and sighs;
277
For them who in their exile long and drear,
Sit by the waves of Babylon's proud seat,
While Penitence therein her alter'd brow descries,
Where flood of light upon her steals,
And all the unclean heart reveals.
O wake your accents sad, and solemn closes,
Until the soul to Angel songs may rise,
And in their quiet haven it reposes.
Immortal harmonies! thence Satan stole
Sweet sounds to bathe therein the captive soul,
Framing bad thoughts to imitate your strains,
And bind his prisoner in melodious chains;
So to forget his miseries within,
And deeper and more deep to plunge in sin.
For such the sweetness of your gentle spell,
That e'en the influences that come from hell,
In your disguise seem fair, and cheat the sight,
Rob'd in the many colours of your light.
Stop up all avenues, and close my ears,
O Spirit pure, redouble all my fears!
Thus takes the soul her hue for the eternal years.
Sweet sounds to bathe therein the captive soul,
Framing bad thoughts to imitate your strains,
And bind his prisoner in melodious chains;
So to forget his miseries within,
And deeper and more deep to plunge in sin.
For such the sweetness of your gentle spell,
That e'en the influences that come from hell,
In your disguise seem fair, and cheat the sight,
Rob'd in the many colours of your light.
Stop up all avenues, and close my ears,
O Spirit pure, redouble all my fears!
Thus takes the soul her hue for the eternal years.
Strains which belong to City of the skies,
Ye are such notes as Plato deem'd
Might calm and cleanse the soul, and render meet
To be the seat of virtuous harmonies,
In that fam'd City as he fondly dream'd.
Strains fitly fram'd to measur'd tone Divine,
That mould to high celestial discipline,
And tune fit tempers to their cadence sweet.
Such as 'neath trees of life at Wisdom's feet
Sit at the living well, which from above
Flows in a golden shower of endless love.
Thus Ambrose with the hallow'd song
Built up the citadel,
Where Truth her sacred treasures guarded well.
Strange are the walls to you belong,
Melodious songs that sink and swell;
Angelic hands do build your spiritual towers,
In men's own hearts are laid your powers,
And your foundations deep and strong.
Ye are such notes as Plato deem'd
Might calm and cleanse the soul, and render meet
To be the seat of virtuous harmonies,
In that fam'd City as he fondly dream'd.
Strains fitly fram'd to measur'd tone Divine,
That mould to high celestial discipline,
278
Such as 'neath trees of life at Wisdom's feet
Sit at the living well, which from above
Flows in a golden shower of endless love.
Thus Ambrose with the hallow'd song
Built up the citadel,
Where Truth her sacred treasures guarded well.
Strange are the walls to you belong,
Melodious songs that sink and swell;
Angelic hands do build your spiritual towers,
In men's own hearts are laid your powers,
And your foundations deep and strong.
| The Baptistery, or the way of eternal life | |