The Baptistery, or the way of eternal life :: :: University of Virginia Library

Come, then, Aspasio, to the house of Prayer,
There shalt thou dry thy self-accusing tears,
And flee the haunts of all-pursuing Care;
Nay, thou art here more welcome for thy fears;—
High as the lark, which at Heaven-gate appears,
Singing still soars, and soaring still she sings,
Till all unseen to highest Heaven she nears,
Scattering sweet peace from her melodious wings,
And all the welkin round th' o'erflowing music rings.

Prayer, key of Wisdom, Sorrow's antidote,—
Air breath'd on earth by children of the skies,—
The well of hope,—of living life the note,—
What strange omnipotence within thee lies,
Mighty to move eternal destinies!
An atmosphere of Heaven the soul to lave;
When seas tumultuous in the bosom rise,
O magic breath to still the stormy wave,
And fix the anchor sure in calm beyond the grave!

Yet think not all her house can enter in,
As worldlings deem, God must thine heart incline;
Her dwelling opes to all who flee from sin;
Hall within hall, and shrine beyond each shrine,
Still nearer Heaven, still more and more divine
Her mansions, as they near the eternal throne;
Thou step by step must leave whate'er is thine,
Gird up thy loins, and wrap around thy zone,
E'en till thy very self shall be no more thine own.

Think what it is, more near than man below
Holds converse with his friend, with eyes to eyes,
And ears to ears, each other's heart to know;
Think what 'tis thus in strange mysterious guise
To be admitted to the awful skies,
Thy soul to find an entrance to the place
Where Angels tremble; there thy spirit's cries
Do come distinct before God's dreadful Face,
Whose word is endless death, Whose favour endless grace.

More sure than stands this blue o'er-hanging arch,
More sure than pillars of the firm-set earth,
More sure than is the rainbow's glowing march,
Which amid tears unveils its glorious birth,
The Covenant of God, which hath gone forth,
That none shall ask of Him and ask in vain!
From Heaven's own palace to the meanest hearth,
Forg'd in celestial places, hangs the chain,
To lift men up to Heaven, from care, and want, and pain.

The only panacea for all ill,—
The fabled stone transmuting all to gold,
Yet needs no alchemy, but our own will,—
Turning our clouds to lustre,—earthly mould
To crystal gems,—making us to behold
Our promis'd skies in the Baptismal well,—
A charm to ope the ear, and to unfold
A secret which no alchemist can tell,
And holiness of life the all-constraining spell.

Oh, what mysterious power doth lead astray,
And give us palsied hands before the door,
Ready to be unclos'd whene'er we pray,
But soon to be shut up for evermore?
Which steals the key that opes to boundless store,—
That gift which turns earth's thorns into a crown
Which shall be worn in glory, lifts the floor
Of earth to Heaven, and brings good Angels down;
And makes in daily life a Heavenly Father known!

It is the Prince of Evil,—for he knows
That Prayer the fountain is of strength divine;
The channel whence to earth all blessing flows,—
To this one end he doth his arts combine;
If Prayer within thee wakes, then will he twine
His toils around, and shoot the poison'd dart,
Bring worldly schemes before thee, or incline
Thy thoughts to fancied good, with covert art,
E'en like an Angel fair to steal into thine heart.

Hast thou not noted oft when on thy knees,
He shoots like lightning all forgotten things,
And stirs thy thoughts to instant charities?
At night Lethean dews about thee brings,
And on thy prayer hangs with oblivious wings;
But most, to antedate the rising morn,
Strange earthly projects in thy bosom flings,
Planting within thee any flower or thorn,
Lest thy first thoughts to Heaven, like incense, should be borne?

It is for this the busy world he stirs,
Glassing before thy mind through all the day
Wealth, honour, power,—whate'er thy heart prefers,—
That by degrees he may thy being sway:
It is for this he throws before thy way
Some fancied gain, to hold thee thus intent
As on a game of chance, and with thee play,
That so thine earnest spirit, downward bent,
May heed not warning signs which God hath round thee sent.

Still God would to Himself thy soul recall,
And to th' employs of earth His blessing give;
He 'mid these growing chains and passion's thrall
Can set thee free, and bid thy spirit live,
But when soul-mastering projects in thee strive,
They are the net of evil; morn and eve,
And eve and morn, thy soul will be a hive
Of buzzing thoughts, which give thee no reprieve,
But when thou kneelest down thy memory shall not leave.

Therefore before thy God in stillness stand,
In stillness kneel; thou art as one of old
Before thy Saviour brought at His command,
Who every thought within thee doth behold
And knoweth thy desire while yet untold,
Who ne'er from those who sought Him turn'd aside.
Think that e'en now, in seasons manifold,
In all thy wants thy spirit He hath tried,
That o'er thee, with thee, still His Presence stands thy guide.

Mark them who in His Kingdom came to dwell,
Each had his welcome as in lowliness
To deeper depths he in His presence fell:
Behold the suppliants which around Him press,
When less they ask'd then did He give the less,
When more they ask'd then did He give the more;
Infinite as the Sea His power to bless,
But Faith unlock'd the ever-growing store,
And measur'd pardoning grace as they their sins deplore.

Then like the Leper stand and pray aloof,—
Like the Centurion deem thyself unmeet,—
Like her of Canaan bow'd to His reproof,
Unworthy of the children's bread to eat,—
Choose like the accepted guest the lowest seat,—
Like the sad Publican cast down thine eyes,
And on thy guilty breast in sorrow beat,—
Come as one glad a servant's place to prize,
And as His long-lost son He will to meet thee rise

Still urge thy quest like that meek Canaanite,
As Bartimæus blind cease not to plead;
Knock at the door throughout the livelong night,
Till He within shall answer all thy need;
Cry as the Widow till the Judge gives heed.
He hears thy prayer though seeming not to hear,
Counts all the words which from thy heart proceed,
To give thee more according to thy fear,
And when He seems afar 'tis then He is most near.

Without the falling shower and tearful gloom
The bow of Mercy shines not, and most bright
It glows when darkest is the tempest's plume;
The heavens come forth when sinks day's glaring light;
The stars shine brightest on the moonless night:
Death is the mighty teacher, schooling man
In one short hour to know himself aright—
His glory—beauty—power—his life's brief span,
And Death will teach to pray as nothing earthly can.

But most of all, in stern and calm repose,
Before thy conscience set the Crucified,
And number one by one thy Saviour's woes;
There in that mirror let thy life be tried,
And set the image of thyself beside;
There meditate, and tread thy feet beneath
Thy lust, thy malice, avarice, and pride;
Think of each sin which taints thy vital breath,
Of life that never lives, of never-dying death.

Thus think thou of thyself, and think of God,
And then what word can speak thy vanity,
Fleeing before the shadow of His rod?
When Judgment pours its flood of light from high,
Swift as the lightning bathes the earth and sky
Soon to be follow'd by the dreadful sound,
Our life shall on a sudden open lie,
His knowledge all our being shall surround,
In twinkle of His eye is our whole compass found.

Thus mayst thou learn to know thy littleness,
And from thy fancied greatness to descend
To penitential thoughts which God will bless.
If still thy earth-weigh'd spirits downward tend
Fasting is Angels' diet, and a friend
Which to the soul Heaven-soaring fervour bring
And good desires which shall in Prayer ascend;
Till in that incense a pure spirit springs,—
Calm Love within thy breast breeding Angelie wings.

That Angel then shall take thine hand, and lead
Thy steps to find thy Saviour in His poor;
Yea, thou shalt find Him in the cry of need;
And Lazarus, who lieth at thy door,
Hath friends above who walk the Heavenly floor,
And he shall sue for thee, and thou shalt find
That thine own Prayers gain wings and readier soar,
No more blown frustrate by the wandering wind,
And light unknown before shall touch thine eyelids blind.

Then shalt thou see good Angels, hid from sense,
Gradual reveal'd to Love's discerning eyes,
And all the ways of guardian Providence.
Silence with Solitude shall make thee wise,
And bring thee nearer to the tranquil skies,—
Silence with Solitude where God doth dwell.
She far retir'd from worldly vanities,
Within the wilderness hath made her cell,
Peopling it with the thoughts of things invisible.

Sweet nymph, conversing with th' o'er-arching Heaven,
When Twilight lets her dewy mantle fall,
Thou goest forth in hallow'd time of Even,
While in the glowing West, all dark and tall,
The trees stand motionless, and on the wall
Of the blue East, the Moon climbs up the hill;
And all is hush'd, save haply the sweet call
Of some chance nestling bird, or falling rill,
With mountains listening near, majestic, dark, and still.

All things now call thee forth;—with solemn tread
And finger on thy lip, O solemn maid,
I see thee stealing onward! Thither lead,
And take me to thy converse, through the shade
Of yon deep avenue, and in the glade
Stand listening, while the solemn nightingale
Cheers the lone heavens with darkness overlaid,
To speak to pensive ears her touching tale;
And Wisdom's bird comes nigh, flapping his drowsy sail.

Then lead me with thee to yon neighbouring wood
Where far retir'd in some embow'ring nook,
Dwells in his cave the hermit Solitude.
Where the intruding world comes not to look
On his calm shed and bright-embossed Book.
Where he, on eve of some great holiday,
Sits at his door beside the murmuring brook,
While sober Ev'ning, like a pilgrim grey,
Looks from his Western cell, and gently dies away.

All hail! dread Silence, Solitude, and Shade,
Children of Peace! ye witnesses have been
When on the mountain-top the Saviour pray'd,
Or in the nightly desert; there unseen,
Save by good Angels, in the dread Serene
Where He approach'd His Father! nought was heard
To break the hallow'd stillness of the scene,
Save haply from its midnight covert stirr'd,
Hovering around its Lord, some solitary bird.

Blest Desolation! thine is Heavenly balm,
Soft as night's dew or penitential tears,
Partaker of th' unutterable calm
Which God inhabits; noise of rolling spheres,
And all the passionate stir that fills our ears,
Reaches not there, nor sound of hurrying feet,
With fretful circumstance of passing years,
Of days and months and seasons as they fleet;
Such is th' unearthly calm where man his God must meet.

Such is the stillness of the silent bier,
When first the disembodied eyelids ope
On everlasting things and God is near.
In houses of our clay while here we grope,
Who thus with Prayer and Vigil learn to cope,
Shall see reveal'd o'er things so passing frail,
Walking upon the clouds, bright-vision'd Hope,
Having her silver anchor in the veil,
While streaming rays light up her soaring vision pale.

Spiritual armour and immortal aid
Be with us! for around us and within
Agents of evil hide in viewless shade;
The garb they wear are thoughts and deeds of sin;
Some in the soul their entrance now begin;
Others in desert places walk abroad,
Cast out, and watch till they may access win,
And enter; then they gain more sure abode,
And pass from soul to soul, on ruin's widening road.

'Tis Prayer that moves the silver bowers afar,
Gains wings, and through the ever-open'd door,
Swift as the image of the twinkling star
Shews its reflection in the Ocean's floor,
It moves the inmates of that Heavenly shore.
As gently rippling o'er the leafy shade
Comes the soft sighing gale, and passes o'er,
E'en so in Heaven each Prayer, in secret made,
Ruffles a thousand wings prepar'd for instant aid.

Soft o'er that Sea of glass the signal given
Runs, as the gentlest breath on lakes of spring,
Such love for wretched man there is in Heaven!
Virtue stands there in bright apparelling,
And at that signal moves her ready wing:
Sent down to guide the wandering child of care,
She bidden hastes her instant aid to bring;
The rainbow springs, and forms a glorious stair,
Where pursuivants of Heaven pass at a mortal's Prayer.

Virtue, disclosing ever-growing Love,
Shall lead her suppliants to the Throne of grace:
They in the blessed courts that are above,
Within the living centre of all space,
'Mid those blest companies shall find a place,
Far from the noise of earth and earthly wrong,
Where God Himself reveals His blissful Face,
Seraphs and cherub hosts and Saints among;—
There in the secret shrine His suppliants find a tongue.

There at the footstool is the Heavenly Bride,
In whom—for whom—the Intercessor pleads;
Touch'd by whose plea, through realms responding wide,
Worlds are refresh'd; and as she pleads His deeds,
The flush of joy through all the Heaven proceeds.
There in the pause of the Seraphic chime
Unutterable groanings tell her needs;
Burning with love, compass'd with awe sublime,
She prays her Lord to haste the blissful dreadful time.

There by her side the Poor in spirit kneels,
Driven by despair, yet hoping through despair,
Till fear new hope, and hope new love reveals:
He as he knows himself of graces bare,
The more is cloth'd thereby, and bow'd in prayer,
More lowly still on right-hand of the Bride,
The Penitent is kneeling on that stair;
Unmeet to be admitted to her side,
Bow'd down in sense of sin, and as a captive tied.

These suppliants, while they seem to walk on earth,
Are thus in Heavenly places when they kneel,
'Mid bands Angelic which in Heaven have birth,
Which haply hear their prayers, and with them feel,
So vast th' electric chain, such the appeal!
Start we to hear the overwhelming claim?
Yea, more than words the covenanted seal,
For there are Three in Heaven, One dreadful Name,
Which come to dwell on earth in spirits free from blame.