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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
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POEMS 
 
 of 
 
 JOHN HENRY 
 
 NEWMAN* 
 
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 £i&i?uJarclcf 
 
 W 
 
 CARDINAL 
 
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WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LTD., LONDON AND BECCLES. 
 
IN HOMAGE 
 
 TO THE COMPOSER WHO 
 HAS WEDDED NEWMAN^ NOBLEST POEM 
 TO EQUALLY NOBLE MUSIC 
 THIS EDITION OF NEWMAn’s POEMS 
 IS DEDICATED TO 
 
 SIR EDWARD ELGAR 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 AM not a poet,” wrote Newman 
 in 1879. The passage occurs in 
 his reply to a letter asking him to 
 explain exactly what he meant in 
 his poem “ Lead, kindly Light ” by the expres- 
 sion “ angel faces,” and, in full, it runs, “ I 
 think it was Keble who when asked [a similar 
 question] answered that poets were not bound 
 to be critics, or to give a sense to what they 
 had written ; and although I am not like him, 
 a poet, at least I may plead that I am not 
 bound to remember my own meaning, whatever 
 it was, at the end of almost fifty years.” What 
 exactly Newman meant by his disclaimer, it is 
 somewhat difficult to decide. The implication 
 may have been that he had long since aban- 
 doned claims which he at one time was inclined 
 to prefer. Or it may have been that he felt 
 his work as a poet had been merged in work 
 of such infinitely greater moment to himself, 
 that his experiments in verse might be rele- 
 gated to a position so subordinate, in compari- 
 son with his work in other directions, as to be 
 properly esteemed merely a recreation. Yet 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 viii 
 
 that he was a poet, and a poet of no mean 
 order, few students of nineteenth-century lite- 
 rature would deny. Although his productive 
 period in the strict sense was of short duration, 
 and many of the volumes in which his verse 
 was contained were merely compilations from 
 and rearrangements of earlier writings, he was 
 responsible from 1821 to 1868 for eight sepa- 
 rate volumes of verse, and the retouching and 
 repolishing to which he subjected his poems 
 can perhaps only be paralleled in the case of 
 Tennyson. 
 
 A guess may be hazarded as to how far 
 Newman deliberately resisted his natural im- 
 pulse to express himself in verse, for his was 
 not a case of — 
 
 “ Rafael made a century of sonnets. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 Dante once prepared to paint an angel.” 
 
 The popular imagination has in later years 
 come to think almost exclusively of Newman as 
 a prince of the Church. His name instantly 
 evokes a mental picture of a scholarly recluse, 
 whose native dignity can yet support undaunted 
 the purple splendours of the Sacred College, so 
 that to turn afresh to his verses is to experience 
 something of the amazement of a child who 
 suddenly discovers hitherto unsuspected powers 
 in a senior whose abilities he has long supposed 
 incapable of yielding a fresh surprise. But with 
 
INTRODUCTION ix 
 
 Newman verse-writing was never a tour de 
 force. 
 
 To speculate about the probable achievement 
 of a man great in one walk of life had he pur- 
 sued another, which at one time seems to have 
 allured him very persistently, is perhaps idle, if 
 fascinating. In Newman’s case it is at any rate 
 pardonable, for the evidences he has left us of 
 his poetical equipment are such as would have 
 justified his contemporaries in anticipating his 
 eventual arrival at the highest rank. Poetry 
 has, however, always been an exacting mistress, 
 and the work done by a poet in other direc- 
 tions usually eclipses, or is eclipsed by, his 
 poetry. Of the thousands who know “ L’Alle- 
 gro,” “ II Penseroso,” and “ Lycidas,” how many 
 know “ Areopagitica ” ? What proportion of the 
 readers of “ Alastor ” and “The Sensitive Plant ” 
 is acquainted with Shelley, the pamphleteer ? 
 Of the innumerable aspirants to culture who 
 hang their walls with photographs of “The 
 Girlhood of Mary Virgin ” or “ Dante’s 
 Dream,” how many know even the names of 
 “ The House of Life ” and “ The White 
 Ship ” ? And is not Mr. Swinburne the critic 
 altogether overlooked in Mr. Swinburne the 
 poet ? 
 
 The first of Newman’s poetical works that 
 has been preserved to us dates from 1 8 1 8 , and 
 consists of a poem in two cantos, entitled 
 “ St. Bartholomew’s Eve,” written at Oxford 
 
X INTRODUCTION 
 
 in collaboration with his friend, J. W. Bowden. 
 This poem in its completed state was published 
 in 1821, and is of the utmost rarity. When 
 in 1868 Newman published his “ Verses on 
 Various Occasions,” he preserved from it the 
 twenty-two lines beginning “ There is in still- 
 ness oft a magic power,” but except for a small 
 edition issued by his brother, Francis William 
 Newman, through Mr. Gill, of Weston-super- 
 Mare, in 1899, the complete poem has been 
 hitherto inaccessible. Professor Newman’s re- 
 print differs in innumerable minute points from 
 the original edition which has been followed 
 here, a copy in the British Museum, formerly 
 the property of the Rev. Dr. Bloxam, having 
 been consulted, in which Newman himself had 
 pencilled in the margins the initials of himself 
 and Bowden against those portions assignable 
 to each contributor. The poem is much of the 
 kind that the average undergraduate produces 
 for the Newdigate, and its interest is mainly 
 confined to its authorship. One can imagine 
 Newman’s amusement in after years when he 
 recalled such expressions as the u dark-stoled 
 fathers,” or the u crosiered priest,” or the de- 
 scription of the monks as “ piously false or 
 credulously good.” The fragment which he 
 preserved was not allowed to remain unpolished. 
 Many slight modifications were made, not all 
 felicitous. For instance, in the line “ No mor- 
 tal measure swells that silent sound,” the word 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 XI 
 
 “ silent ” was changed to “ mystic,” as though 
 his feeling had been against the retention of the 
 paradox. Of course his original inspiration 
 was the better, and, curiously enough, it was 
 a thought which we find recurring at intervals 
 in other passages of his verse. One thinks 
 instantly of “ Heard melodies are sweet, but 
 those unheard are sweeter.” One little point 
 is worthy of note. The general knowledge 
 of America was in those days so slight that 
 Niagara was written for Niagara, just as Heber 
 wrote Ceylon for Ceylon. To distinguish the 
 work of the two contributors, Bowden’s por- 
 tions have here been printed in italics. 
 
 Eleven years passed before Newman again 
 adventured on the publication of poetry, and 
 then appeared a little volume to which, despite 
 the personal character of the larger part of the 
 contents and the comparative youth of the 
 author, the suggestive title “ Memorials of the 
 Past ” was given. From one of the poems in 
 this volume, addressed to a sister, the meaning 
 of the title may probably be deduced. In so 
 entitling it the author was definitely putting 
 behind him the temptation to expend, in the 
 making of verse, time which he considered 
 might be more profitably devoted to other 
 employments. The passage runs — 
 
 “111 ’seems it the devoted hand 
 That has touched the plough, to trifle now 
 With the toys of verse again.” 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 xii 
 
 Already it would seem that the “ stern 
 daughter of the voice of God ” had arrested 
 the feet from a path that appeared to the young 
 poet to be merely a path of dalliance. Toys 
 should no more distract. So the harp was 
 hung up, and not again tuned until, during 
 the memorable Mediterranean trip, in the com- 
 pany of Hurrell Froude, the idea of the “ Lyra 
 Apostolica ” was conceived. For the service of 
 his great cause he could sing anew, and the 
 songs themselves are evidence that while he had 
 been musing the fire had kindled. 
 
 In the “ Apologia ” we find the account of 
 the inception in the following words : “ It 
 was at Rome that we began the ‘ Lyra Apos- 
 tolical The motto shows the feeling of both 
 Froude and myself at the time. We borrowed 
 from M. Bunsen a Homer, and Froude chose 
 the words in which Achilles, on returning to 
 the battle, says, ‘ You shall know the difference 
 now that I am back again.’ ” Why it was de- 
 cided that the sword of the Lord should take 
 the form of verse, after Newman’s recent sum- 
 marizing of it as a “ toy,” is not easily accounted 
 for. Probably it was Hurrell Froude’s doing. 
 He does not seem himself to have been gifted 
 with particular facility as a verse-writer, but 
 his must have been a singularly discriminating 
 intellect, and he no doubt discerned that for 
 Newman’s hands no keener weapon could be 
 forged. The sections of the “ Lyra Apostolica ” 
 
INTRODUCTION xiii 
 
 began to appear in the British Magazine , under 
 the editorship of Hugh James Rose, in June, 
 1833, and of the grand total Newman pro- 
 vided almost three times as many poems as the 
 next considerable contributor, John Keble. 
 Isaac Williams, Hurrell Froude, and J. W. 
 Bowden wrote barely more than half a dozen 
 each, and Robert Isaac Wilberforce but one. 
 When the poems came to be reprinted Froude 
 was dead, and it was decided, in order that his 
 poems might be designated his beyond possi- 
 bility of future doubt, to mark the authorship 
 of each poem by a letter of the Greek alpha- 
 bet. The letter allotted to Newman was 
 Delta, a circumstance which was recalled thirty 
 years later, when, republishing two of his early 
 poems from the 1832 volume in The Month , in 
 1865, he adopted the signature “ Daleth.” In 
 the poems of Newman, at least, as reprinted 
 in the volume, changes were in places made 
 from the British Magazine versions, but the 
 text followed in the present reprint is that of 
 the book and not of the magazine, the only 
 instance in which it has been deemed advisable 
 to depart from the rule of using the earliest 
 printed version. 
 
 After the appearance of “ Lyra Apostolica ” 
 seventeen years passed before Newman again 
 published a volume of poems, and it almost 
 seemed as though he had completely abandoned 
 his muse. A possible explanation of this long 
 
XIV 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 silence is to be found in the autobiography of 
 Isaac Williams. He says — 
 
 “ When Newman published the 1 Lyra Apos- 
 tolica,’ he got Samuel Wilberforce — now the 
 Bishop of Oxford — to review it, as one who 
 would do it in a popular manner. Newman 
 was then much annoyed with the reflections of 
 the review on himself, and this was the cause, 
 I consider, of his never writing a verse after- 
 wards. [Williams, though his autobiography 
 was not published until many years later, wrote 
 in 1851.] Indeed, I have heard Miss Keble 
 observe that it appeared to have stopped in 
 Newman what Providence seemed to have 
 designed as a natural vent to ardent and strong 
 feelings ; whereas, had it not met with that 
 untimely discouragement, he would probably 
 have continued to write poetry, as he had then 
 begun, to the profit of himself and us all. For, 
 she said, her brother would never have written 
 verses were it not for the encouragement he 
 met with in his own family.” Wilberforce’s 
 strictness amounted to a charge of involved 
 construction, and obscurity of language, a 
 charge which a man of Newman’s critical 
 powers would acknowledge as in a measure 
 just, and it is more than doubtful whether the 
 conjectures of Williams and Miss Keble had 
 any foundation beyond the momentary pique 
 to which Newman had given expression when 
 the review first appeared. Far more probable 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 xv 
 
 is it that the weapon, having served its purpose, 
 was again laid aside, not to be unsheathed until 
 need arose ; that Newman’s aim was to be a 
 serviceable soldier rather than to display his 
 skill as a swordsman. 
 
 The translations from the Roman breviary, 
 and from St. Gregory Nazianzen, which 
 appeared respectively in Tract 75 and in 
 “ The Church of the Fathers,” were of 
 course made about the same time as the 
 “ Lyra Apostolica.” 
 
 In 1853, at Dublin, eight years after his 
 submission to the Holy See, Newman issued 
 his “ Verses on Religious Subjects,” in the 
 prefatory note to which he says, “ The following 
 compositions are selected from a larger number, 
 and have, nearly all of them, already been put 
 into print. They are brought together by the 
 writer in the present form, in the hope that 
 they may be acceptable and useful to his imme- 
 diate friends, penitents, and people.” The 
 volume contains a number of the poems from 
 u Lyra Apostolica,” the breviary translations 
 with considerable additions, and, most note- 
 worthy of all, a group of poems which he 
 entitles “ Songs,” mainly in honour of the 
 Blessed Virgin, and of the founder of the ora- 
 torians, St. Philip Neri, these being his principal 
 output in verse subsequent to the transfer of 
 his allegiance to Rome. It is impossible to 
 allow to the majority of these poems anything 
 
XVI 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 like the magic of those of his more youthful 
 days, though they have a lightness of touch, 
 and what one might almost call a sparkle, 
 foreign to his verse after the early domestic 
 poems. To display their merits, however, it 
 is only necessary to compare the poems on 
 St. Philip with those on the same subject by 
 F. W. Faber, when it will be at once observed 
 that if they do not move with the stateliness of 
 the older poems, they are at least far removed 
 from the over-sentimentality of the Catholic 
 hymns then most popular, and unburdened 
 by the saccharine vocabulary then too freely 
 indulged in. 
 
 The copy of this 1853 volume, which has 
 been employed for the purposes of the present 
 edition, has exceptional interest from its having 
 formerly been the property of John Keble, 
 whose autograph it contains. 
 
 In i860 a small volume, entitled “ Verses 
 for Penitents,” was privately printed. It has 
 proved impossible to obtain a sight of this 
 opusculum, but, according to Mr. W. S. Lilly, 
 it contained nothing which did not reappear 
 in “ Verses on Various Occasions.” 
 
 In 1866 Newman’s last and greatest poem 
 appeared. In “The Dream of Gerontius ” it 
 would seem as though there had been gathered 
 up all the forces that had for so many years 
 been restrained, and the poet, when he is 
 already approaching rapidly his three score and 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 XVII 
 
 ten years, shows us, in a sudden blaze of almost 
 intolerable light, the high and awful thoughts 
 that devout meditation and self-suppression have 
 stored up in a mind compounded of reverence 
 and imagination, for which poetic expression 
 was the only natural outlet. The copyright 
 of “ The Dream of Gerontius ” being still 
 unexpired, it is not possible to include it 
 in the present edition, although, apart from 
 that poem, the present is a more complete 
 edition of Newman’s verse than any hitherto 
 published, including, as it does, over thirty 
 poems not contained elsewhere. Amongst 
 these are the three long Eclogues, experiments 
 in a form little exploited in England, and not 
 again employed by any writer of distinction 
 until during the last few years Mr. Davidson 
 produced his “ Fleet St. Eclogues.” 
 
 In 1868 Newman published his “ Verses on 
 Various Occasions,” for which on December 2 1 , 
 1 867, he wrote a dedicatory letter to his friend, 
 Edward Badeley. In this letter he states that 
 it would never have occurred to him to bring 
 together effusions which he has ever considered 
 ephemeral had he not found from publications 
 of the day, what he never suspected before, that 
 there were critics, strangers to him, who think 
 well both of some of his compositions and of 
 his power of composing. He goes on to say 
 that, being in despair of discovering any standard 
 by which to discriminate between one poetical 
 
xviii INTRODUCTION 
 
 attempt and another, he is thrown upon his 
 own judgment, which is disposed either to 
 preserve all or to put all aside. Yet in the end 
 his 1868 volume was a selection merely, and so 
 anxiously did its author watch its reception 
 that within a brief space after its appearance 
 a privately printed addendum appeared, of 
 twenty pages, which later on was incorporated 
 in the published volume. Slight modifications 
 and additions occurred in succeeding editions 
 up to the last issued in the lifetime of the 
 author. 
 
 It is worthy of notice here that although 
 the 1832 volume had its dedication signed 
 with initials, like that of 1868, and none 
 of the intervening volumes was, in the 
 generally accepted sense, anonymous, not one 
 of them bore Newman’s name upon its title- 
 
 P age * 
 
 No attempt at serious criticism of Newman’s 
 poems is here made. It has been thought that 
 a cheap reprint of them would place them in 
 the hands of many to whom they are unknown, 
 and, in the course of compilation, so little pre- 
 sented itself that seemed inappropriate to the 
 series for which the volume was designed that 
 it was decided to make it as complete as possible, 
 and, by the chronological arrangement, repre- 
 sentative also of Newman’s poetic development. 
 All changes indicating developments of opinion 
 have been regarded as unimportant on the 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 xix 
 
 strength of a note of the poet’s own, in which 
 he expresses his determination finally, after 
 some vacillation, not to attempt to reconcile 
 opinions which he no longer held with opinions 
 adopted later, by the modification, from a 
 doctrinal standpoint, of poems already given to 
 the public. As remarked on the half-title of 
 the poems from “ Callista,” the song of Juba is 
 here printed as indicative of a possible develop- 
 ment of Newman’s muse in a secular direction 
 had he permitted it free play. 
 
 The poem on page 257, from Tract 75, is 
 included, despite the fact that Newman never 
 himself acknowledged it, for this reason. The 
 whole of the poems in the tract, with two 
 exceptions, are translations of ancient office 
 hymns, the one in question being a translation 
 of Invicte Martyr unlcuni . The two exceptions 
 are two excerpts from poems in “ The Christian 
 Year.” But as Newman acknowledged the 
 authorship of all the other translations, and this 
 particular poem was followed by one for the 
 same feast, which he afterwards reprinted, it 
 was concluded that he merely rejected it through 
 some personal fastidiousness. Is is a much finer 
 poem than Caswall’s translation of the same 
 Latin original, in “ Lyra Catholica.” 
 
 The portrait which forms the frontispiece is 
 reproduced by kind permission of H. E. Wil- 
 berforce, Esq., from the original drawing made 
 by George Richmond, R.A., in 1844. 
 
XX 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 nearly all previous reproductions the details 
 of the costume, which was what Newman 
 wore as an Anglican, have been modified by 
 the engraver. So far as is known the only 
 reproduction of the portrait as Richmond 
 drew it, previous to the one here presented, 
 appeared in Miss Anne Mozley’s “ Letters and 
 Correspondence of Cardinal Newman.” 
 
 FREDERIC CHAPMAN. 
 
ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S EVE 
 
 [1821] 
 
 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 AND 
 
 JOHN WILLIAM BOWDEN 
 
St. Bartholomew’s Eve ; / A Tale / of / 
 the Sixteenth Century. / In 
 Two Cantos./ 
 
 Oxford : / Printed and Published by Munday and Slatter, 
 Herald Office, / High-Street : sold by G. and 
 W. B. Whittaker, / Ave-Maria-Lane, 
 
 London./ 1821./ 
 
 The two cantos appear to have been issued 
 separately 5 and Professor F. W. Newman assigned 
 the first canto to 1818, and the second to 1820. 
 Probably in 1821 what stock remained of the 
 separate issues was published with a new title-page, 
 worded as above. 
 
 In the copy from which this reprint is made 
 Newman has initialled in the margins the portions 
 contributed by himself and Bowden respectively. 
 For the sake of clearness, Bowden’s parts are here 
 printed in italics. 
 
ST. BARTHOLOMEW’S EVE 
 
 CANTO I 
 
 sun has risen o'er Belleville's lengthen'd 
 height ; 
 
 hy spires , fair Paris , catch his early 
 light — 
 
 Mid Seine's blue waves his beams reflected play, 
 And Earth reviving greets the new-born day . — 
 
 Fast by the northern shore of that fair stream. 
 Deck'd with new glories by the orient beam, 
 
 Their height reliev' d against the brightening shies. 
 The princely Louvre's palace piles arise ; 
 
 Seat of the royal Charles ■,* whose powerful sway 
 Extended Gallia's vine-clad hills obey. 
 
 From Britain's seas and Belgium' s fruitful plain. 
 
 To Rhone's broad current, and the inland main. 
 
 Lo ! where the river parts his silver tides 
 And round yon isle in circling eddies glides. 
 
 In solemn grandeur soaring from the plain. 
 
 Stand the vast turrets of the Virgin's fane ; 
 
 Majestic work, which ages toit d to raise, 
 
 The matchless monument of elder days. 
 
 * Charles the Ninth. 
 
 B 2 
 
4 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 — Hark ! the slow summons from its echoing tozve? 
 With sullen peal proclaims the matin hour ; 
 
 Now through each massive aisle and long arcade 
 The dark-stoTd fathers move in dull parade ; 
 
 Count the slow bead ; or kiss the sacred wood \ 
 
 Piously false , or credulously good. 
 
 Its sacred notes the full-ton' d organ pours , 
 
 Till the rapt soul on bolder pinions soars ; — 
 
 Soft strains ascending from the swelling choir 
 Float on the gale , and breathe seraphic fire ; 
 
 While clouds of incense curling toward the sky 
 Roll over head, a fragrant canopy, 
 
 — High in the midst before yon taper'd shrine 
 The crosier' d priest displays the mystic sign ; 
 
 With reverent awe adoring myriads see , 
 
 Bow the meek head, and drop the humbled knee. 
 Amid that group, with heart full fraught zvith 
 woe. 
 
 Where some for worship bow'd and some for show. 
 Fair Florence knelt ; Oh J little might he guess 
 Who view'd that sylph-like form of loveliness. 
 
 Who mark'd that blue eye fix'd as tho ' in prayer. 
 That thought of earth had dimm' d the lustre there ! 
 For such she was, as fancy loves to paint 
 Some cloister'd vct'ress, or sequester'd saint. 
 
 Gating on night's pale queen, with raptur'd eye. 
 And thoughts that mount toward their native sky. 
 
 No purer form th ' enamour'd artist chose 
 When Grecian V enus from his chisel rose ; 
 
 No purer form, in angel robes of light. 
 
 Seems to descend to suffering martyr's sight. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 5 
 
 With Heav'n's own joys , to chase his pains away 
 And greet his entrance to the realms of day. 
 
 Now all is husK d — no more the organ's sound 
 Thro 9 the arcli d nave re-echoing rolls around. 
 
 The crowds disperse — hut still that fair one knelt , 
 As tho 9 she still on things celestial dwelt . 
 
 Alike unheeded by her vacant eye 
 
 The incense fail'd ; the pageant flitted by ; 
 
 Still as some form of monumental stone , 
 
 She saw not , mark'd not, there she knelt alone. 
 
 Then as awaken'd from a wildering dream 
 She seem'd to muse o'er some uncertain theme, 
 
 Gaz'd for a moment round, while short surprise 
 With beauteous wildness lit her azure eyes ; 
 
 Then slowly sought her ag'd instructor's cell. 
 
 The secret sorrows of her heart to tell. 
 
 ’Mid the recesses of that pillar’d wall 
 Stood reverent Clement’s dark confessional. 
 Here Rapine’s son with superstition pale 
 Oft thro’ the grated lattice told his tale ; 
 
 Here blood-stain’d Murder faulter’d, tho’ secure 
 Of absolution from a faith impure. — 
 
 Mistaken worship ! can the outward tear 
 Make clean the breast devoid of godly fear ? 
 Shall pomp and splendour holy love supply, 
 The grateful heart, the meek submissive eye ? 
 Mistaken worship ! where the priestly plan 
 In servile bondage rules degraded man, 
 
6 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Proclaims on high in proud, imperious tone 
 Devotion springs from ignorance alone ; 
 
 And dares prefer to sorrow for the past 
 The scourge of penance or the groans of fast ! 
 — Where every crime a price appointed brings 
 To sooth the churchman’s pride, the sinner’s 
 stings, 
 
 Where righteous grief and penitence are made 
 An holy market and a pious trade ! 
 
 The Father view'd Count Alberts child advance , 
 And sc ami d her mien with scrutinizing glance; 
 
 “ Daughter” he said — and as he spoke he tried 
 7 ” unbend the stiffness of his cloister' d pride — 
 
 “ Daughter , all hail l The grief those sighs disclose , 
 “ Say, from what cause unknown its torrent flows ; 
 
 “ Whatever it be, declare at once thy grief 
 “ When thine to ask, ’ tis mine to grant relief ?' — 
 
 The maid was speechless — for his tone represt 
 The dawning hope that warm’d her fluttering 
 breast ; 
 
 In seeming mockery of her birth and name 
 The coldness of his condescension came. 
 
 There was a time, she thought, no voice austere 
 Fell chill and comfortless on Florence’ ear ; 
 When kind prevention spar’d the suppliant’s 
 part, 
 
 And bound with kind surprise the grateful heart. 
 — Slowly she sunk and, prostrate at his feet, 
 Seem’d his compassion breathless to entreat : 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 7 
 
 41 Sure to a heart like thine,” the Sire rejoined, 
 64 Corroding guilt can never entrance find — 
 
 44 Sin stains the cheek with red — some latent 
 woe 
 
 44 That paler hue and wilder aspect show. 
 
 44 And who so well can claim a right to share 
 44 Joy in thy joy and sorrow in thy care ? 
 
 44 But speak, my child ” — The maid with frantic 
 eye 
 
 Gaz’d on his furrow’d face imploringly — 
 
 Tears chok’d her voice — she clung with wild 
 affright, 
 
 And feebly breath’d the words — 44 To-night, 
 to-night ! ” 
 
 The Monk was verdd his feelings to controul 
 And hide the subtle workings of his soul ; 
 
 But when those words with fever d accents came , 
 Dark deadly fury fill'd his eye with fiame ; 
 
 His pale and quivering lips refus'd to speak , 
 
 And ebbing life-blood left his wither'd cheek . 
 
 At length with vain endeavour to conceal 
 The consciousness he seen? d asham'd to feel — 
 
 44 To-night ? What mean thy words ? ” 
 
 44 Oh ! Father , well, 
 
 44 Too well, thou knGw'st the secret 1 would tell ; 
 
 44 But yesternight a strange and fearful chance 
 44 Disclos'd the woes that wait on fated France — 
 
 44 Told how to-night the good, the great, the brave 
 44 Are doomed by royal mandate to the grave ; 
 
8 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “How streams of blood thro ' Paris ' streets must 
 flow, 
 
 “ And civil discord wave her torch of woe . — 
 
 “ Priests should have softer breasts — how many a 
 sire 
 
 “ Must see his offspring, pierc'd with wounds, expire l 
 “ How many a wife in solitude must mourn 
 “ And hope in vain a husband’s glad return ! 
 
 “ How many an orphan miss a father's care, 
 
 “ In life’s first entrance sentenc’d to despair l " 
 
 “ To aid the virtuous and sustain the weak, 
 u Is what high Heaven inspires our souls to seek ; ” — 
 Replied the priest — “ The laws of God demand 
 “ The pitying heart, the charitable hand 
 “ Our foes may injure us and be forgiven, 
 
 “ Vengeance awaits the enemies of Heaven. 
 
 “ What l when apostates, glorying in the name, 
 
 “ Trample each law that God or man can frame , 
 
 “ With impious mirth our mystic rites deride, 
 
 “ And scorn the image of the crucified ! 
 
 “ When o'er their heads the hand of wrath impends, 
 “ When the red thunderbolt in air descends, 
 
 “ Wilt thou for these with tears of pity sue, 
 
 “ Defrauding Justice of the vengeance due ? 
 
 “ Unworthy daughter of a noble race, 
 
 “ Shame to thy faith, thy name's, thy Sire's disgrace l 
 “ Hence to thy chamber l For each pitying thought 
 “ By fervent prayer forgiveness must be sought, 
 
 “ Sighs, heartfelt sighs, and penitence must pay, 
 
 “ And tears must wash each sinful word away ! " 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 9 
 
 44 Yet one — e'en tho ' the deed of blood be done — 
 u Is it too much to spare the life of one ? 
 
 44 Oh ! let him live — but live — and he shall fly 
 44 To barbarous climes ' neath some remoter sky — 
 
 44 What tho ' he bless these tearful eyes no more , 
 
 44 Yet shall he ever shun his native shore 
 
 44 But must he fly ? — Oh ! Father , did' st thou ne'er 
 
 44 Feel the keen pangs that hearts united tear ? — 
 
 44 Oh l he was once to better prospects born , 
 
 4 4 His King to serve , his country to adorn — 
 
 44 Sage in the senate , dreaded in the field , 
 
 44 In peace her ornament , in war her shield ! — 
 
 44 Yes, Julian"— 
 
 44 Julian l " stern the Monk exclaim'd 
 44 Whom have those lips , rash girl in madness nam'd! 
 44 Julian , Montauban' s son ? Is this thy plea ? 
 
 44 Thy faith's ,* thy country's direst enemy ? 
 
 44 No more ! — in silence wait th ' approaching deed , 
 
 44 Thy hopes are vain — the renegade must bleed ! — 
 44 'Mid the dark morn , when from St. Germain's 
 tower 
 
 44 The thrice repeated bell declares the hour , 
 
 44 Each Christian champion knows th' appointed sign , 
 44 And owns the summons to the work divine. 
 
 44 No mercy then our impious foes may know. 
 u 'Tis Justice calls , Religion strikes the blow. 
 
 44 For , as of old, in Egypt's palmy clime, 
 
 44 In just atonement of a monarch's crime, 
 
 * “Faith” in original edition ; corrected to 
 “ faith's ” by F. W. N. 
 
IO 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “ Unseen and shrouded in the darkening blast, 
 
 “ Thro* Memphis' streets thy angel. Vengeance, past; 
 “Yet once again, a suffering Church to aid, 
 
 “And heal the wounds by proud apostates made, 
 
 “ All-righteous Heaven inspires our daring plan ; 
 
 “ But delegates the work of wrath to man ! 
 
 “ Woke from their dream of fancied joy and ease, 
 
 “ Their minds what horror, what despair will seize, 
 “ When the deep tolling of the midnight bell 
 “ Sounds to their ears, their last, their funeral knell, 
 “ When flickering torches scare the lowering shade, 
 
 “ And Christ's true soldiers wave the glittering 
 blade! 
 
 — “ Hence l if to mortal man thou dar'st reveal 
 “ The deed my words have warn'd thee to conceal , 
 
 “ No more expect in earthly ills to share 
 “ The fostering grace of Heaven's paternal care ; 
 
 “ For as the Saint on Malta's rugged strand 
 “ Shook the loatK d reptile from his sacred hand, 
 
 “ The church forsakes thee, casts thee off with shame, 
 “ And lasting infamy attends thy name . 
 
 “ Sever'd from all by virtuous spirits priz'd, 
 
 “ Barr'd from all rites, unpitied and despis'd, 
 
 “ Long may' st thou live, to wait in fear thy doom, 
 
 “ No hope on earth, no prospect in the tomb l ” — 
 
 He ceas’d, and rose — the maid with quiver- 
 ing thrill 
 
 Before his fancied presence trembled still, — 
 And breathless knelt, as if in dread to hear 
 That fearful curse return upon her ear — 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN n 
 
 In silent agony she shrunk to feel 
 How fierce his soul, how bigotted his zeal — 
 For he had been to her from early youth 
 From vice her guardian and her guide to truth ; 
 Her memory told her that he once was kind, 
 Ere the Monk’s cowl had chang’d his gentler 
 mind ; 
 
 But now of late his holy call had thrown 
 A haughty coldness o’er him not his own. 
 
 Yet still she paid him reverence, tho’ no more 
 She told her bosom secrets as before. 
 
 True he was stern, but they who knew him 
 best, 
 
 Said fast and penance steel’d that holy breast ; 
 She knew him harsh t’ avenge Heaven’s injur’d 
 laws, 
 
 But deem’d superior sanctity the cause ; 
 
 She knew him oft mysterious, wild, and strange, 
 But hop’d that heav’nly converse wrought the 
 change. — 
 
 With brow of gloom that half his mind pour- 
 trafd — ■ 
 
 The musing Clement sought his convent's shade ; 
 Cursing the chance which told — what none should 
 hear — 
 
 The dark, dread secret to a woman's ear . 
 
 What should he do ? — Say, did some fiend inspire 
 The thought which thro' his bosom shot like fire ? — 
 'Twas but a moment — no, it could not be — 
 
 She who had smil'd on him from infancy. 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 
 I 2 
 
 She who had found , when friendless and alone , 
 
 In him a father, in his faith her own . — 
 
 — It could not he — but Julian — he might bleed — 
 And Heaven itself would sanctify the deed ! 
 
 “ Yes ! he shall fall ! ere from his noon-tide height 
 “ The Sun declining seeks the shades of night, 
 
 “ Fit act of prologue to tti impending blow ; 
 
 “ This day, this hour, Montauban s blood must 
 flow !" 
 
 Fill'd with these thoughts, amid the cloister's gloom. 
 He sought tK assembled votaries of Rome — * 
 
 ’Midst the pale towers in which his years 
 were spent, 
 
 Which once receiv’d him young and innocent, 
 When first the venerable paths he trod, 
 Shunning the world for converse with his God, 
 — Ere zeal misguided and ambition blind 
 Had marr’d the youthful promise of his mind, — 
 A lonely chapel rose ; the voice of prayer, 
 
 Or anthem-peal no longer sounded there ; 
 
 Yet, tho’ forsaken, still might stranger deem 
 That place well suited to celestial theme. 
 
 5 Twixt tapering mullions there the noon- tide ray 
 Thro ' darken'd panes diffus'd a softer day ; 
 
 From time-worn walls each pillar seem'd to start. 
 
 In rich luxuriance of Gothic art ; 
 
 While crumbling shafts with flowery chaplets crown'd 
 In mournful grandeur strew' d the hallow'd ground . 
 
*3 
 
 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 In this lone spot secure , to mortal ear 
 Save Rome's true sons their dire debates might hear , 
 The leaguers met , to chide the tardy Sun 
 And wish the work of massacre begun . — 
 
 Different in temper, bigotry had join’d 
 The haughty spirit and the crafty mind ; 
 
 There were who wish’d to sanctify the sword 
 By the proud title, “ Champions of the Lord ” ; 
 And those whom hopes of plunder urg’d to 
 rear 
 
 The gainful fury of the sacred spear. 
 
 — But now the portal's opening sound was heard. 
 And Clement's form beneath its arch appeared; 
 
 All rose with one accord ; the saintly man 
 Cast one keen glance around and thus began : 
 
 “ Warriors of God ; foredoom'd by Heaven's decree 
 “ To right its violated majesty ; 
 
 “ Well pleas'd I see your martial spirits pine 
 “ For full completion of the wrath divine ; 
 
 “ Nor pine in vain ; the white-rob'd queen of night 
 “ O'er the dread scene shall shed her fav'ring light ; 
 “ Yet but few hours , the wisJid-for signal tolls — 
 
 “ A peal of terror to apostate souls — 
 
 “ Yet but few hours, the long, long gathering cloud, 
 “ With wrath o' er char fd, in thunder speaks aloud . 
 u Then on, true servants of your Saviour's zuill, 
 u His cause to aid, his mandates to fulfil ; 
 a To drown in blood their faith, their pow'r, their 
 name, 
 
 “ To whelm Heaven's outcasts in eternal flame ; 
 

 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “ And gain for ever , by one glorious deed, 
 
 “ The praise of those in God's own cause who 
 bleed . 
 
 “ No tears this night your fury must assuage ; 
 
 44 The cries of youth, the impotence of age 
 44 Alike in vain must sue ; the hoary brow , 
 
 44 The smile of infancy avails not now . 
 
 44 One sweeping vengeance, deaf to every plea 
 44 That sways the children of mortality, 
 
 44 Our cause demands ; one great, one final blow, 
 
 44 Approv'd by powers above , and fear'd by fiends 
 below 1 
 
 “ Yet, ere the Sun shall gild the western skies, 
 
 44 Must our primitial offering arise ; — 
 
 44 Some luckless chance, I know not what, betray'd 
 44 Last night our secret to a babbling maid ; 
 
 44 And, lest some fate unseen discover all, 
 
 44 This hour must Julian of Montauban fall !" — 
 
 He ceas'd ; when swift, by maddening zeal in- 
 spir'd. 
 
 With hope of blood and hasten'd vengeance fir'd, 
 'Bertrand, a soul to every ill inclin'd. 
 
 Of all that murderous crew the fiercest mind, 
 
 With transport cried — 44 To me alone be given 
 44 The envied task to aid the will of Heaven — 
 
 44 Be mine the deed, by one avenging blow, 
 
 44 To lay this hour our first, great victim low . 
 
 44 Farewell ! — yet ere 1 part attend my vow ; 
 
 44 If Heaven shall crown its votary's project now. 
 
i5 
 
 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 “ My sword, yet reeking with the clotted gore 
 u Of him who soon shall injure us no more, 
 
 “ With pious awe before yon hallow'd shrine , 
 
 “ A grateful record of the aid divine, 
 
 “ This hand shall consecrate ; there long to rest 
 “ And Bertrand's zeal to latest times attest — 
 
 “ farewell ! ” he said, and sheath! d the gleaming 
 brand. 
 
 And clencT d with fierce resolve his iron hand ; 
 
 Then strode in haste, as tho' one moment's stay 
 Were Heaven's imperious call to disobey ; 
 
 As though each breath the fated Julian drew 
 With sevenfold fury fir'd his hate anew . 
 
 With looks of wonder, not unmix'd with awe. 
 
 The silent band his steps departing saw . 
 
 'Now they behold them thro' the por tails gloom. 
 
 His visage shaded by the sable plume ; 
 
 Now thro ' the fretted cloisters, deep and dread. 
 
 The vaulted roof returns his heavy tread. 
 
 Faint and more faint the lessening echoes thrill. 
 Then, lost in distance, cease — and all is still . — 
 
 44 Now sainted brethren, till the fated hour," 
 Exclaimed the priest, 66 we meet again no more. 
 “Yet ere we part, with hearts from passion free, 
 
 “ Before yon altar meekly bow the knee. 
 u To him who ever makes his Church his care, 
 u To him whose cause ye serve address your pray'r ; 
 u His saving grace implore, your deeds to bless, 
 
 “ And shield the vent'rous sons of righteousness." 
 
1 6 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Then low before the shrine in concert bow’d 
 The fierce, the wild, the crafty and the proud. 
 Infatuate men ! shall He who reigns above, 
 Father of all, the God of peace and love, 
 
 Shall he be honour’d by the murderer’s blade ? 
 Shall he accept the prayers in vengeance made ? 
 And thou, misguided Ruler of the land, 
 
 Weak to comply, or cruel to command, 
 
 Hop’st thou in peace to pass a length of days, 
 Happy in virtue’s love, and wisdom’s praise ? — 
 Lo ! tho’ success thy scheme of blood may 
 gain, 
 
 Remorse and suffering follow in its train, 
 
 The sleepless couch, the day of wfild affright, 
 And spectres flitting thro’ the shades of night. 
 
 Meanwhile exhausted, feeble, trembling, 
 slow, 
 
 With terror pallid, stupefied with woe, 
 
 The maid in secret mourn’d her hapless fate, 
 Her Julian’s peril and the churchman’s hate. 
 Her shrinking spirit knew not how to bear 
 The rankling dart of slow-consuming care ; 
 
 On her, a father’s hope and only child, 
 Prosperity’s warm beams had ever smil’d ; 
 
 Prop of his age, his solace, and his pride, 
 
 For her he liv’d, nor reck’d the world beside ; 
 But he alas ! was dead ; the burning tear 
 Was scarcely dried she dropp’d upon his bier, 
 And Albert’s dying accents had consign’d 
 To Clement’s care the maid he left behind. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 17 
 
 — She kneels in pray’r, and views with glist’n- 
 ing eyes 
 
 The emblem of th’ atoning sacrifice, 
 
 Her fluttering bosom holy soothings calm, 
 
 And o’er her wounds distil celestial balm. 
 
 44 Angelic guardians, natives of the sky, 
 
 44 Who, seeming distant, hover ever nigh, 
 
 44 To aid the virtuous, cheer the sad, delight, — 
 44 Too blest to feel our woes, too good to slight, 
 44 With holy anger for what crime of France 
 44 Relax ye thus your wonted vigilance ? 
 
 44 And thou, blest Saint and Martyr to the 
 faith, 
 
 44 Scorn’d in thy life, victorious in thy death, 
 
 44 Let not the carping world in mockery say 
 44 This deed of massacre disgrac’d thy day. 
 
 44 Forbid it, Heav’n ! — Oh God ! my heart is 
 faint — 
 
 44 Shall true religion mourn so foul a taint ? — 
 
 44 Shall persecution doom her foes to bleed ? 
 
 44 In God’s own vineyard, Oh ! how rank a 
 weed ! ” 
 
 Thus while the powers of prayer her tears 
 controul 
 
 To send for Julian struck her calmer soul — 
 She knew not why — or how she might 
 prevent 
 
 The sad conclusion, if for him she sent ; 
 
 It was a wild and desperate hope, which though 
 It promis’d nothing cheer’d her depth of woe — 
 
 c 
 
i8 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Perhaps she wish’d to take one last farewell, 
 One last sad parting ere that fire-bolt fell — 
 Perhaps she hop’d her arms might guard his 
 breast, 
 
 Or she, at least, might sink with him to rest. 
 
 Swift went the bearer of the maid’s desires, 
 And now fear chills, now hope her bosom fires ; 
 In vain he speeds, in vain attempts to earn 
 His lady’s favour by his quick return ; 
 
 His swiftest course is slowness to her eye, 
 
 He seems to loiter when he hopes to fly. 
 
 Once more his foot resounds — she hears his tread 
 With beating heart and cheek of livelier red ; 
 She starts ! no Julian’s eye, with passion bright, 
 In silence eloquent, transports her sight. 
 
 Fear chains her tongue — the cause she dreads 
 to hear 
 
 When these glad words surprise her anxious 
 ear : — 
 
 “ Few hours have past since Julian rais’d his 
 shield, 
 
 a And pois’d his lance, and hurried to the field ; 
 “ A sudden mandate came, which ill could spare 
 “Time for adieus or any softer care. 
 
 “ Exploits of valour now his thoughts employ, 
 “ He glows with chivalry and martial joy, 
 
 “ Clasps thy white scarf across his ardent breast, 
 “ And wears thy colour in his towering crest ! ” 
 
 End of the First Canto . 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 CANTO II 
 
 \LL-FATED France 1 still reckless of 
 repose , 
 
 Say, must again thy festering wounds 
 unclose ? 
 
 When white-rob'd Peace descending hastes to shed 
 Her choicest blessings on thy war-worn head ; 
 
 Shall all those blessings be bestow'd in vain , 
 
 And must the Seraph seek her skies again ? 
 
 Yes l all in vain through many a ling ring year 
 Thy childrens fall hath claim'd thy pitying tear ; 
 
 In vain thy bravest strew' d Moncontour's shore , 
 
 And Jarnac's plain was dyed with Conde's gore : 
 Again by interest led, or fir'd by %eal, 
 
 Lo ! fell Ambition grasps his crimson'd steel. 
 Insatiate Murder mounts his bloodstain' d car. 
 
 To crown with perfidy the woes of war / — 
 
 Land of the chivalrous and mighty dead ! 
 
 Was it for this thy crested warriors bled? 
 
 Was it for this, when Yemen's locust horde 
 O'er thy rich plains and winding valleys pour'd. 
 Triumphant victor o'er unnumber'd foes. 
 
 To avenge thy wrongs Austrasian Charles arose ? 
 Was it for this, on Gihon's sedgy side. 
 
 Thy sainted Louis dar'd the Moslem's pride ? 
 
 O'er Barca's deserts spread thy sceptre's fame. 
 
 And wav'd ' neath Afric's skies thy oriflamme ? 
 
20 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 — In vain victorious o'er invading power. 
 
 Mid thy clear sky no foreign tempests lower ; 
 
 In vain the fav'ring heav'ns their frowns assuage. 
 
 If thine own sons will hid the whirlwind rage ! 
 
 But are there none, ere yet the blow descend. 
 
 In mercy's cause their generous aid to lend ? 
 
 Can superstitious awe the valiant hind. 
 
 And %eal attune to blood the gentle mind? 
 
 Alas ! in vain is bleeding pity's prayer — 
 
 All, all are steel' d — e'en Florence bids despair — 
 Silence her faith, and tears her feelings show. 
 
 She mourns, but thinks not to avert the blow ; 
 
 And, as in Eastern tales, the enchanter's skill 
 Bows the bright spirit to his tyrant will. 
 
 So fancied crimes her timorous bosom fright. 
 
 And each kind thought ideal duties blight . — 
 
 Sweet is the hour, when o'er th ' ethereal plain 
 The star of eve extends her tranquil reign — 
 
 When all the sweets the rival blossoms lend. 
 
 In one soft mellow'd soothing fragrance blend ; 
 
 When now no more the rudeness of the breeze 
 Shakes their green honours from the quiv'ring trees. 
 But ' twixt the leaves in whispers loves to play. 
 
 And sighs in sorrow for the close of day . — 
 
 There is in stillness oft a magic power 
 To calm the breast when struggling passions 
 lower ; 
 
 Touch’d by its influence, in the soul arise 
 Diviner feelings, kindred with the skies. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 21 
 
 Through this the Arab’s kindling thoughts 
 expand, 
 
 When circling skies on all sides kiss the 
 sand ; 
 
 For this the hermit seeks the silent grove 
 To court th’ inspiring glow of heavenly love. 
 — It is not solely in the freedom given, 
 
 T’ abstract our thoughts and fix the soul on 
 heaven ; 
 
 There is a spirit singing aye in air, 
 
 That lifts us high above each mortal care ; 
 
 No mortal measure swells that silent sound, 
 
 No mortal minstrel breathes such tones 
 around ; — 
 
 — The angels’ hymn — the melting harmony 
 That guides the rolling bodies through the sky — 
 And hence perchance the tales of saints who 
 view’d 
 
 And heard angelic choirs in solitude. 
 
 By most unheard, because the busy din, 
 
 Of Pleasure’s courts the heedless many win ; 
 Alas ! for man ; he knows not of the bliss, 
 
 The heav’n, attending such a life as this ! 
 
 And Florence gazes on that heavenly sights 
 The silent beauty of approaching night ; 
 
 Amid her garden' s shade her form reclin'd. 
 
 Her tresses curling to the wanton wind — 
 
 Where she in happier time, had smear'd each flow'r 
 That glows in spring or scents th ' autumnal hour ; 
 Train'd up the sides the thickening branches grew , 
 Shade after shade, scarce pervious to the view ; 
 
22 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Above , the lattice clustering roses bound 
 And clematis had wreath'd its circlets round . 
 
 Pensive she sits — and views the orb of day 
 Mid clouds of radiance bend his western way — 
 
 On spire and turret rests his golden beam , 
 
 And glows in ripples on the redden'd stream ; 
 
 Alas l when next that lord of light shall rise , 
 
 In glory bursting from the orient skies , 
 
 Par different cause that lucid flood shall stain 
 Chok'd with the ghastly corpses of the slain ; 
 
 One sheet of blood those sanguin'd waves shall glide. 
 And roll pollution to the ocearts tide ! 
 
 There as she rests , her wand' ring thoughts employ 
 The wild vicissitudes of grief and joy ; 
 
 The thankful meaning of that heavenward eye 
 Betrays the thought — Montauban shall not die — 
 That quiv' ring lip and deep-drawn sigh disclose 
 How numerous still how resolute his foes ! 
 
 “ All-pitying heaven , and is it thy decree , 
 
 “ Canst thou this scene of blood approving see ? 
 
 “ Shall man in arms against his brother rise 
 “ And dare to plead commission from the skies ? 
 
 “It cannot be ! " — “ Who then," she heard exclaim 
 A low deep voice , whose accents shook her frame — 
 
 “ Who then disputes in sacrilegious tone 
 “ The right of heaven to vindicate its own ? " — 
 With dark' ning brow , that told of deeds of blood. 
 
 His fix'd eye glaring on her Clement stood — 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 23 
 
 So in the land where Niagara's roar 
 Wakes the lone echoes of Ontario's shore , 
 
 The venom' d monarch of the forest eyes 
 The trembling prey, his helpless sacrifice, 
 
 “ Lost, hapless girl" — he cried, “ thy tender youth 
 “ In vain I nurtur'd in the paths of truth — 
 
 “ Too long, in rev'rence to thy father's shade, 
 
 “ My pitying soul thy rightful doom delay'd — 
 
 “ But it must be — ere yet yon planet pale, 
 
 “ Now rising beauteous from her cloudy veil, 
 
 “ Her beam renews, in dark sequester'd cell 
 “ A solitary vestal shalt thou dwell, 
 
 “ Or mid the choir the chant united raise 
 “ And tune thy wayward Ups to notes of praise l 91 
 
 She spoke not, for she read in that fix'd eye 
 No ling ring love, no beaming clemency — 
 
 Prone at his feet she fell, his knees she press'd. 
 
 And bade her silent anguish speak the rest — 
 
 “ And for thy Julian'' fury in his eyes 
 
 The sire rejoin'd, “ despair ! this night he dies ! 
 
 “ No thought of him shall e'er again controul, 
 
 “ Or wean from virtue's purer joys thy soul; 
 
 “ Despis'd, unfriended, hopeless, unforgiven, 
 
 “ He dies — so perish all the foes of heaven ! " — 
 
 — “ Hold / all good pow'rs will shield my husband's 
 life; 
 
 u Tes ! start not , tyrant! Florence is — his wife ! — 
 “ Our fates are join'd, and let not priestly pride 
 “ Annul the bonds which God hath ratified ! 
 
24 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “ My plighted vow is register'd on high, 
 
 “ With him to prosper, or with him to die ! ” — 
 
 Mark ye the glimm’rings yonder chamber’s 
 light 
 
 Flings o’er the bosom of the silent night ? 
 
 Doth sleep no more the eyes of Florence seal, 
 Shed balm around and ev’ry suff’ring heal ? 
 
 Oh ! while the span of one short day flits by, 
 How many cares may cloud life’s sun-bright 
 sky ! — 
 
 Or is it hope, in airy falsehoods dress’d, 
 
 Plays o’er her bosom and dissuades from rest ? 
 The soothing hope, that treachery points her 
 dart 
 
 With vain despatch against Montauban’s heart ? 
 That soft glad thought her sinking bosom 
 cheers, 
 
 And calms the ling’ring conflict of her fears. — 
 Whose voice is that, so low, the breezes bear 
 Through the still midnight of the startled air ? 
 Whose form is that the taper’s rays illume, 
 
 So dimly shadow’d from encircling gloom ? 
 
 The glitt’ring morion and the sheathed blade, 
 Signs of the warrior, gleam amid the shade. — 
 He mounts — and now, as if by custom taught, 
 The winding corridor his steps have sought — 
 And Florence knows — see ! see ! the quick- 
 drawn breath, 
 
 The cold cheek sick’ning with the hues of 
 death — 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 25 
 
 The starting eye — the feeble tott’ring frame — 
 The faint wild shriek with which she sounds 
 his name — 
 
 “ Julian ! ” — “ My wife, my dearest, then again 
 “ I see thee, love ! and have not pray’d in vain ! 
 “ Oh ! kind, blest mandate ! cares of diff’rent 
 kind 
 
 “ I thought must wean all softness from my 
 mind — 
 
 “ The tented field, the ranks with armour 
 bright, 
 
 “ The distant skirmish, and the closing fight — 
 “ Kind mandate ! yes, my Florence ! didst 
 thou mourn 
 
 “ My hasty flight, and sigh for my return ? 
 
 “ The army’s sudden call allow’d no stay — 
 u The need was urgent, fatal were delay ; 
 
 “ But now, beyond all hope, the royal word 
 “ Allows short respite to my thirsty sword. 
 
 “ Florence ! that eye so wild ? ” — 
 
 “ Fly, Julian, fly ! 
 
 “ Delay not, ask not — for a foe is nigh ! — 
 
 “ Hark ! heardst thou not that sound, that 
 moaning sound, 
 
 “ Which fell so heavily and deadly round ? 
 u He comes ! alas, that blade in murder dyed ! 
 “ Craft veils his steps, and power hath arm’d 
 his side ! 
 
 “ Fir’d with abhorrence, yet enslaved with awe, 
 “ I shrink from dwelling on the scenes I saw : 
 
2 6 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “ I dare not tell ! — but fly — ’tis I entreat — 
 "Thy wife, thy lov’d one, prostrate at thy 
 feet ! ” 
 
 “ Florence ! ” — he could not more — the 
 eventful whole 
 
 In that short moment flash’d upon his soul — 
 The army’s call — the leader’s urgent need — 
 His flight o’ertaken by the warrior’s steed — 
 The signet to return — the pretext fair — 
 
 The wily kindness of the stranger’s air — 
 
 The brook — the beetling rocks — the torrent’s 
 roar — 
 
 The narrow plank that cross’d from shore to 
 shore — 
 
 Th’ uplifted dagger, threat’ning treacherous 
 death — 
 
 The mortal struggle o’er the gulf beneath — 
 The bandit’s corpse, which, hurrying down the 
 flood, 
 
 Ting’d the blue curling of the waves with 
 blood — 
 
 His fears for Florence, which the traitor, 
 fir’d 
 
 With mad incautious fury, had inspir’d — 
 
 And then his transport, when he saw her 
 here, 
 
 Burst on his sight and chas’d away each tear — 
 Sad wither’d hopes ! and dreams of fancied 
 rest ! 
 
 And false assurance of a flattering breast ! 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 27 
 
 But Florence, she the while, with trembling 
 eye, 
 
 Survey’d the keenness of his agony. 
 
 The phrensy of her soul was o’er, the flow 
 
 Of tears had lull’d th’ intenseness of her 
 woe — 
 
 “ Oh ! knew’st thou, Julian, half this bosom’s 
 strife, 
 
 “ Clement hath conquer’d, and . . . thy life 
 . . . thy life . . . 
 
 “ ’Twas no kind mandate — ’twas thy death 
 decreed — 
 
 “ Nor thou alone, but all thy sect must bleed — 
 
 “Too much I’ve said — each moment on its 
 wings 
 
 “ More certain death and nearer ruin brings ! 
 
 “ While yet escape is granted — fly, oh, fly ! 
 
 “ The very air doth breathe of treachery ! 
 
 — “ Thou wilt not — and thy Florence sues in 
 vain — 
 
 “ Too weak to act — too sensitive of pain ! ” — 
 
 “ Daughter of Albert,” said the youth, “ for 
 thee 
 
 “ Have heav’n and man for ever destin’d 
 me — 
 
 “ And must I fly ? and leave thee here alone, 
 
 “ No friends to aid — midst enemies unknown — 
 
 “To crouch before a bigot’s despot sway, 
 
 “To waste in tears the long, slow, burden’d 
 day, 
 
28 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “Thy free soul chain’d, compell’d to frame 
 each thought, 
 
 “ By the drear rules a Monk’s stern tongue 
 hath taught ; 
 
 “ To shrink from sinful mem’ry’s busy powers, 
 “ And find a prison in thine own proud 
 towers ? — 
 
 “ Think on that hour, when to his fate resign’d, 
 “ Our trembling hands thy dying father join’d — 
 “’Twas twilight — we alone — ‘My friend,’ he 
 said, 
 
 “ ‘ To thee I leave this helpless orphan maid ’ — 
 “ And shall a priest, whom holy vestments 
 shield, 4 
 
 “ Cancel the bond a father’s lips have seal’d ? 
 
 “ No ! fly with me, mid fav’ring shades — the 
 while 
 
 — “ Thy father’s ghost upon our flight will 
 smile ! ” 
 
 Swift thro ' the garden's shade , with fait' ring 
 tread. 
 
 His trembling bride the anxious Julian led ; 
 
 ' Mid fleeting clouds the vestal lamp of night. 
 
 Shed o'er their pallid forms a fitful light ; 
 
 Now , wrapt in darkest shades, their flight conceaF d. 
 Then in her fullest blaze their forms reveaF d. 
 
 He might have thought , who gaz'd on Florence then , 
 No feeble daughter of the sons of men. 
 
 But wand' ring spirit of the night was there — 
 
 If wand' ring spirit own a form so fair l — 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 29 
 
 'Tis silence all — no undulating sound 
 Disturbs the deep repose which reigns around, 
 
 Save where , with graceful bend, those aspen trees 
 Sigh to the murmurs of the southern breeze ; 
 
 Save where , reflecting yon pure planed s rays. 
 
 In silver showers the rippling fountain plays. 
 
 No thought of scenes like these, alas l had power 
 O'er the sad victims of that trying hour ! 
 
 In vain for them yon lucid orb on high 
 Pour'd her full tide of glory from the sky ; 
 
 In vain for them shone heav'n's high vault serene. 
 And mildest zephyrs fann' d the silver scene — 
 
 — They marked them not — but shrank at ev'ry 
 sound 
 
 Of their light footsteps on the echoing ground . 
 
 There is a calm which fav'ring skies dispense , 
 Hush'd as the sleep of infant innocence — 
 
 When nought disturbs that wild , that nameless 
 thrill. 
 
 The heart's mute language, when all else is still — 
 When not a night-breath mars creation's rest. 
 
 And nature's peace reflected warms the breast . — 
 Far other stillness o'er that tranquil plain 
 In treach'rous beauty held her midnight reign — 
 
 Soon low' ring tempests shall those skies deform, 
 
 — ' Tis but the calm that heralds in the storm ! — 
 And the storm comes — what awful sound of fear 
 Peals its deep thunders on the startled ear ! 
 
 — The hour — the fated hour — yon echoing bell 
 In notes discordant strikes a people's knell l 
 
30 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 The die is cast — no hope of mercy now 
 
 Tti assembled murderers' eager swords allow — 
 
 No chance hath flight — and what can force avail ? 
 Shall one the banded multitudes assail ? — 
 
 Soon as she heard the dreaded signal made 
 Her onward step the breathless Florence stayed — 
 
 No feature mov' d—fix* d grew that ampler eye , 
 
 As if it strained to gaze on vacancy — 
 
 No fluttering tremor told her heart opprest — 
 
 No half-heav'd sigh reliev'd her suflfring breast — 
 Pale, cold, and tearless , stood the conscious fair , 
 
 The pow'rless , nerveless , statue of despair ! 
 
 But hark ! the volleys, thundering from afar. 
 And nearer horrors of a midnight war ; 
 
 The clash of arms, tli uplifted threat' ning hand ; 
 The victim shrinking from the murderer's brand ; — 
 The lurid waving of the torch' s glow 
 Denotes the acting of that scene of woe . — 
 
 “ Florence the youth exclaim'd, u for thee 1 fear. 
 Oh my vain folly which has led thee here l " — 
 
 He said — when issuing from the tangled shade 
 The sudden glare a murd'rous hand bewray'd . 
 
 But who their leader? o'er whose locks of white 
 The varying torches cast a deeper light — 
 
 'Tis he — 'tis Clement — dripping now with gore, 
 'Mid their bright blades the cross profan'd he bore — 
 Ill-minded man l too well thy wiles succeed. 
 
 Thy toils are laid — the helpless prey must bleed — 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 31 
 
 Feast with thy victim! s blood thy longing eyes , 
 
 And glut thee with the murd’rous sacrifice l 
 
 Fir’d at the sight, upon his ready blade 
 Th ’ impetuous youth his hand in vengeance laid ; 
 Deign’d not to wait until the nearer foe 
 In clos’d attack anticipate his blow — 
 
 But with one glance towards her he lov’d in vain, 
 Sprung like the lion on the hunter train . 
 
 — Now sword meets sword with equal fury driven. 
 The targe is broke — the crested helm is riv’n — 
 
 The willing dagger leaves its idle sheath — 
 
 The whizzing carbine wings the bolt of death. 
 
 But though alone against a host the might 
 Of Julian’s arm maintains th ’ unequal fight. 
 
 Now prone on earth his first opponent lies. 
 
 In death a second seals his swimming eyes — 
 
 The right prevails — and now the ruffian band 
 Shun the rous’d fury of his vengeful hand; 
 
 No more to trust the chance of fight presume. 
 
 But seek the friendly covert of the gloom — 
 
 Heedless what course they took, the victor’s eye 
 Turn’d towards his Florence’ form instinctively — 
 He saw her not — perchance the flitting light 
 Mock’d the imperfect wand’ ring of his sight — 
 
 “ Florence l” he call’d — perchance the clamour round. 
 With louder din his whisper’d accents drozvn’ d 
 
 There, zvhere a ball had pierc’d her, Florence lay 
 On earth’s chill lap — her soul had past away l — 
 
32 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 O'er her pale cheek the moonbeam sought to dwell ; 
 From her cold temple trickling life- dr ops fell ; 
 
 A lily blighted by the tempests' power. 
 
 She lay, a drooping melancholy flower . 
 
 But where is Julian ? — groan, nor tear, nor sigh , 
 Told the full pressure of his agony — 
 
 That fix'd, but mute despair — that more than grief— 
 That burden'd heart, too full to seek relief. 
 
 Denied him utt' ranee — Lo ! once more around 
 The rallying murctrers press the nearer ground. 
 
 And Clement leads them — more than mortal ire 
 Lit in that glance the warrior's eye of fire. 
 
 For one last blow he pois'd his thirsty sword. 
 
 In one last effort all his fury pour'd — 
 
 The steel descends : the miscreant shrinks in vain, 
 His heaving limbs bestrew the gory plain — 
 
 One phrensied look of rage and hate he cast. 
 
 His lips essay'd to speak — and all was past . — 
 
 In closer combat round their sinking foe. 
 
 With ceaseless rage the thick' ning bandits glow ; 
 Hemm'd in by numbers, vain the practis'd might. 
 Which oft had turn'd the current of the fight — 
 
 Each ready poignard drinks the victim's gore. 
 
 The crimson torrent streams from ev'ry pore ; 
 
 His blade drops useless from his palsied hand. 
 
 He reels — he falls extended on the sand — 
 
 Toward his dead Florence turns his wand' ring eyes. 
 Half rears his feeble hand to heaven — and dies ! 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 NOTES 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST 
 Note i, page 3, line 1 
 “ The sun has risen ” 
 
 I take this opportunity of introducing a short 
 sketch of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. It 
 may be thought by many an unnecessary task, and 
 some will not fail to deem it as presuming, to 
 suppose that our learned University is unacquainted 
 with the full particulars. This I thought myself, 
 when I published the First Canto 5 but an earnest 
 and attentive canvassing of the opinions of those 
 who have done me the honour to peruse my publi- 
 cation has convinced me of my mistake 5 and since 
 I have done my best to please, I hope I shall be 
 pardoned if I be in error. — The year of our Lord 
 1572 will ever be branded with infamy and recol- 
 lected with horror, as the date of this most bar- 
 barous and cold-blooded massacre. The Queen 
 mother, Catherine de’ Medici, actuated by zeal or 
 ambition, conceived this design, so pleasing to the 
 Court of Rome ; and her weak and ill-fated son, 
 Charles the Ninth, was made the tool of her blood- 
 thirsty intentions. The hour of twelve, according 
 to Voltaire, of three, according to Sully, was the 
 time appointed for the commencement of the 
 assassination, and the clock of the church of St. 
 
 D 
 
34 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Germain TAuxerrois awakened the pious Catholics 
 of Paris to deeds of treachery and murder. Coligny, 
 Lord High Admiral of France, was one of the first 
 that were * martyred, 30,000 Huguenots shared 
 his fate throughout the Empire, and it was only a 
 motive of policy that spared the Protestant King 
 of Navarre, afterwards the famous Henry the 
 Fourth, who had lately married the King’s sister. 
 Charles died, not long after, a victim to a most 
 miserable disease 5 his dying moments were haunted 
 with the visions of a distempered imagination or a 
 guilty conscience, and he seemed to wish to atone 
 for his conduct towards the Protestants by appointing 
 his brother-in-law of Navarre his successor. The 
 poetry of Voltaire, and the prose of Sully, exhibit 
 two Frenchmen speaking in abhorrence of the deeds 
 of their countrymen 5 and this single circumstance 
 is perhaps more convincing, in respect to the atrocity 
 of the massacre, than the most laboured declamation 
 of the historian. 
 
 [J. H. N.] 
 
 Note 2, page 3, line 1. 
 
 “ Belleville’s lengthen’d height.” 
 
 The heights of Belleville are situated on the 
 east of Paris. It was from this place that Sir 
 Charles Stewart dated the despatches which an- 
 nounced the surrender of Paris to the allied forces. 
 
 [J. w. B.] 
 
 * Corrected in pencil to “ was ” in Dr. Bloxam’s 
 copy in British Museum. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 35 
 
 CANTO THE SECOND 
 Note 1 , page 19, line 9. 
 
 iC In vain thy bravest strew’d Moncontour’s shore, 
 And Jarnac’s plain was dyed with Condi’s gore : ” 
 
 In the long civil wars which preceded the 
 massacre, Moncontour and jarnac were the scenes 
 of two most bloody battles between the Catholics 
 and Protestants . — Vide Notes to “ Henri ad e.” 
 
 [j. w. B.] 
 
 Note 2, page 19, line 20. 
 
 “ Austrasian Charles arose ” 
 
 Charles, surnamed Martel, or “ the hammer,” also 
 defeated the Arabian army near Jours, and drove 
 them beyond the Pyrenees. — Vide Gibbon, vol. x* 
 p. 23. 
 
 / [J. H. N.] 
 
 Note 3, page 19, line 22. 
 
 “ Thy sainted Louis dar’d the Moslem’s pride ? 
 O’er Barca’s deserts spread thy sceptre’s fame, 
 And wav’d ’neath Afric’s skies thy oriflamme ? ” 
 
 “ In complete armour, the oriflamme waving 
 before him, Louis leaped foremost on the beach ” 
 (Gibbon). For a fuller account of this hero, vide 
 that historian. The oriflamme was the sacred 
 standard of the French monarchy. 
 
 [J. H. N.] 
 
36 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 Note 4, page 21, line 1. 
 
 “Through this the Arab’s kindling thoughts 
 expand, 
 
 When circling skies on all sides kiss the sand.” 
 
 “The wandering life of the Arabs, Tartars, and 
 Turkomans will be found detailed in any book 
 of Eastern travels. That it possesses a charm 
 peculiar to itself, cannot be denied. A young 
 French renegado confessed to Chateaubriand, 
 that he never found himself alone, galloping in 
 the desert, without a sensation approaching to 
 rapture, which was indescribable” (Notes to the 
 “ Bride of Abydos ”). It may be said that, in the 
 above instance, it was the sublimity of the waste, 
 rather than the stillness of the solitude, that pro- 
 duced the rapturous feelings $ perhaps it will be 
 more just to pronounce them as proceeding from 
 both together. Paley, in his “ Moral Philosophy,” 
 supposes that the happiness of the lower and 
 sedentary orders of animals, as of oysters, peri- 
 winkles, etc., consists in perfect health ; I should 
 prefer to say, it consists in the silence they enjoy. 
 And I am in part borne out by that author him- 
 self, who seems to be of opinion that happiness is 
 independent of any particular outward gratification 
 whatever, and a feeling of which we can give no 
 account. 
 
 [J. H. N.] 
 
MEMORIALS OF THE 
 PAST 
 
 [i g 32] 
 
The Title-page of this ‘volume reads as follows — 
 
 Memorials / of / the Past. / 
 
 Procul O procul este profani ! / The voices of the 
 dead, and songs of other years. / Oxford / 
 MDCCCXXXII. / 
 
 And on the back of the title are these lines — 
 
 Strains, framed in youth, in our life’s history 
 Stand as Antiquities 5 and so we love them. — 
 Each has its legend, and bespeaks its times. 
 
 J. H. N. 
 
MEMORIALS OF THE 
 PAST 
 
 SUMMER 
 
 AN ECLOGUE 
 Damon. 
 
 Y breath is spent ; — Menalcas, check 
 your pace ! 
 
 Must I incessant urge this noon-tide 
 chase ? 
 
 From yonder hill I saw you cross the mead, 
 And mount the stile ; — hence all this toilsome 
 speed. 
 
 Menalcas. 
 
 ’Tis well : — the face of nature blooms so fair, 
 
 I sought a friendly mind, my thoughts to share. 
 See richest green yon hanging wood adorn, 
 And the ripe fields stand thick with golden 
 corn. 
 
 The clear blue skies to bright Italia given 
 We envy not, so radiant smiles our heaven. 
 
4° 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Damon. 
 
 How hot the day ! a lassitude invades 
 My sinking limbs, e’en mid these sylvan 
 shades. 
 
 Menalcas. 
 
 ’Tis meet your voice should fail, your step 
 should lag ; 
 
 A chase at noon is wont the limbs to fag ! 
 There, where the hill a steeper fall displays, 
 And its sweet scent the latent thyme betrays, 
 Where beeches ranged in clumps to grace the 
 scene 
 
 Cherish the freshness of the grass’s green, 
 There sit we down. 
 
 Damon. 
 
 Agreed. How swift has past 
 The time since I this calm view greeted last ! 
 Yet nine whole weeks their lengthened course 
 have run, 
 
 In which fair Athens held her duteous son. 
 
 Menalcas. 
 
 Athens your theme ! in dull and tiresome 
 sound 
 
 Her eager praises from your mouth resound. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 41 
 
 Damon. 
 
 City of Attic fame and Attic grace, 
 
 Fit seat for sages of Cecropian race, 
 
 Nurse of the brave, the wise, the good, the 
 great, 
 
 A fairer Athens in a happier state ! — 
 
 He who can view thy awe-inspiring towers, 
 Thy solemn halls, thy academic bowers, 
 
 Nor feels his breast with secret ardour glow, 
 
 — A thrill how sweet, who feel alone can 
 know — 
 
 Is kindred to the surge that sweeps the shore, 
 Or the hard rock which stems that surge’s roar. 
 
 Menalcas. 
 
 Yet while you praise the art-ennobled plain, 
 Where bright Athena holds her learned reign, 
 The candid verse let green Arcadia share ; 
 Clear are her streams, her dells for ever fair. 
 What, tho’ no tasselled cap and formal gown 
 Roam o’er our fields, or loiter in our town ? 
 We have not, safe from academic strife, 
 
 The cares, the contests of a lettered life ; 
 
 The brilliant prize, the effort to be great, 
 
 Envy from rival, from the vanquished hate. 
 
 No pallid student walks the unvaried round, 
 No footstep falls with big proctorial sound ; 
 The ruddy ploughboy whistles as he goes, 
 
 He knows no Don, no despot Proctor knows. 
 
42 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Damon. 
 
 True : — choicest gifts a country life adorn ; 
 
 Do any scorn them ? idiots ! let them scorn. 
 Not great Olympia’s self, tho’ famed she be, 
 Shall be preferred, dear rural cot, to thee ! 
 Truer the joys that lowly Scyllus crown 
 Than all the splendours of the neighbouring 
 town. 
 
 Menalcas. 
 
 O blest retreat ! where, bursting on the eye, 
 
 The vine-clad cot detained the passer-by. 
 
 By groves embellished, sheltered in the dale, 
 
 Scenting with endless sweets the sportive gale, 
 
 It was a place that might have soothed the 
 breast, 
 
 By gloomy thought and feverish cares opprest. 
 
 How oft have we upon the lawn displayed 
 
 Our frolicks, changed as changing humour 
 bade ! 
 
 Or thro’ the fields prolonged the breathless 
 race, 
 
 Or thro’ the shrubberies wound the joyous 
 chase, 
 
 Now hid and hushed, now hallooing from our 
 lair, 
 
 Now starting sudden into open air ! 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 43 
 
 Damon. 
 
 Fresh in my mind that last sad morn I view, 
 When to its lowly walks 1 bade adieu. — 
 
 “ No more,” thought I, “ shall Damon see 
 these bowers, 
 
 “ And say, with beating heart, ‘ that cot is 
 . ours.’ 
 
 “ Ne’er, as thro’ Scyllus’ dear retreats I stroll, 
 
 “ Behold our smoke from yonder chimnies 
 roll ; 
 
 “ Nor see the sheep, that range yon hills’ green 
 side, 
 
 “ Bear N upon their fleecy honors dyed ! ” 
 Well, ’tis all o’er ! yet will not I repine, 
 
 Tho’ Scyllus’ lawns for me no longer shine. 
 Her scenes were fair — but fairer far the mead, 
 Where vagrant Ophis feeds her waving reed ; 
 And grander views and richer copses rise, 
 
 And hills of bolder swell, and clearer skies. 
 
 O ! what could Scyllus boast, that might 
 compare 
 
 With this cool wood, so large, so lone, so fair ! 
 So prodigal of hill and silent dale, 
 
 Of clumps of trees that court the balmy gale, 
 Of sloping stair, straight terrace, winding 
 walk, 
 
 And hazel shades for philosophic talk, 
 
 That in gay fancy’s vision may be seen 
 
 Shy Fauns and Dryads peeping thro’ the green, 
 
44 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Or merry Comus and his jovial crew 
 Starting upon the unwary stranger’s view. 
 
 Menalcas. 
 
 Enough ! let’s rise, and wind our homeward 
 course, 
 
 Where reedy Ophis finds its humble source. 
 
 Alton, July , 1818. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 45 
 
 AUTUMN 
 
 AN ECLOGUE 
 
 HILL blows the wind ; — the Sun’s 
 enfeebled power 
 
 Warms with its radiance but the 
 noon-tide hour. 
 
 Autumn has tanned the flaunting summer-hues ; 
 Spent is the nightly store of drenching dews ; 
 The early sportsman summons me to yield 
 Words to his music of the wood and field. — 
 Such suits me not ; — and, though to such con- 
 signed, 
 
 On calmer themes falls back my lagging mind. 
 
 Not far from lowly Maera’s rural nest, 
 
 There swells a mount, conspicuous o’er the rest. 
 Climb to the top, and on the stroller’s eyes, 
 Hills, clustering woods, and sacred spires will 
 rise. 
 
 With oaks its brow is crowmed ; and O ! how 
 
 m t 
 
 Their foliage glitters in the autumnal ray ! 
 When all the colours of the varying bow 
 Upon the leaves in quick succession glow. 
 Here mid the shrubs the squirrel loves to spring, 
 And here the pheasant plumes his golden wing, 
 
4 6 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 And here the furtive noose, with wiry snare, 
 Cuts short the boundings of the heedless hare. 
 
 Along the path, which up the slanting plain 
 Long lingers onward, ere the height it gain ; 
 What time the red sun shot his western ray, 
 Two youths I spied drag on their weary way. 
 The first’s keen eye, and vest in rustic sort, 
 And murderous tube, bespoke the man of sport. 
 His friend, in studious garb, strange sight, 
 arrayed, 
 
 Boasted no weapons of the deadly trade. 
 
 A bag, with strap across his shoulders braced, 
 Laden with spoils, depended from his waist. 
 E’en his right hand with sylvan deaths was 
 stored, — 
 
 A future banquet for the festive board. 
 
 True to the scent, in many a mazy round, 
 
 Two dogs in front surprise the tainted ground. 
 Lone was the spot, the winds in frolic mood 
 Conveyed their converse through the echoing 
 wood ; 
 
 And, as they paced along the hill’s steep side, 
 Thus Damon spoke, and Thyrsis thus replied : 
 
 Damon. 
 
 Yes — so it is — inconstant as this wind, 
 
 Light as these feathers, is the human mind. 
 Each, his own good, as Horace sings, forgot, 
 Sighs for the blessings of his neighour’s lot ; 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 47 
 
 From what he is, in fancy loves to roam, 
 Regrets the past, or sighs for the to-come. 
 Around the past fond memory’s soft tints play, 
 And hope’s gay falsehoods gild the future day. 
 So to our minds in lovelier garb appears 
 The faded landscape of departed years ; 
 
 On happy hours at school we pensive dwell 
 On those we fought so brave, or loved so well. 
 
 Thyrsis. 
 
 Then, while we muse on pleasures now gone by, 
 No vain regret shall dim the clouded eye ; 
 We’ll hope to be, in life’s succeeding scene, 
 
 As happy as we are, and we have been. 
 
 — Sad thoughts, away ! rather let memory smile, 
 Painting that hospitable hall the while, 
 
 Where Greeks, Scots, Romans, and the tuneful 
 Nine, 
 
 Spoke the same tongue, and shared the same 
 design ; 
 
 Where laughing Swaran uttered his last joke, 
 And dark Ulysses vanished into smoke, 
 
 And Clio marked the royal eagle’s flight, 
 
 And Oscar mounted in his car of light. 
 
 Damon. 
 
 Or let us celebrate the real debate, 
 
 The chair of office and the throne of state ; 
 The siege, the tussle, and our remnant hope 
 Snapped in the snapping of the treacherous rope. 
 
+8 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Thyrsis. 
 
 There is a fragment fame to you assigns, 
 
 My shallow head but ill retains the lines. 
 
 It sang, “ how hostile tumult dared prophane 
 “ Awful St. Laurence mid his client train ; 
 
 “ Aimed at the sacred tools, the treasured store, 
 “ The purple cushion with its tassels four ; 
 
 “ The mace, the tomes in which recorded lay 
 “ The strange events of many a well-fought day ; 
 a E’en the saint’s gridiron, and the ribbons blue, 
 “ Meet furniture of that mysterious crew.” 
 
 Damon. 
 
 I know one portion of those fragment strains, 
 My tongue shall utter what my mind retains. 
 
 “ First he, the Treasurer, rears his awful form, 
 “ And moves the mighty semblance of a storm ; 
 u Frowns angrily upon the snarling foe, 
 
 “ And feels his bosom for the conflict glow. 
 
 “ And next, more noted in the wordy war, 
 u Marches the chief, conspicuous by the star ; 
 
 “ The downcast look, dissembling proud disdain, 
 “ Bespeaks the leader of the undaunted train. 
 u Then comes the hero of the yellow hair, 
 
 “ The glossy curl his solitary care. 
 
 “ And then, far blazing in the lists of fame, 
 
 “ He who from 6 Mild ’ derives his peaceful 
 name ; 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 49 
 “ With prudent skill he calms the Treasurer’s 
 r *g e , 
 
 “ A man in wisdom, while a youth in age. 
 
 M Next from Ierne’s meads, their birthplace dear, 
 “ The brothers haste, and raise the associate spear. 
 “ His dark hair notes the first, our constant 
 < grief ; 
 
 “ His floating gold proclaims the younger chief, 
 a And last their gallant warriors march behind ; 
 “ Various in lineage they, but one in mind, 
 w With steady gaze the hostile bands they view, 
 “ True to their secret, to their party true ! ” 
 
 Thyrsis. 
 
 Enough ! yon cloud with gold and purple 
 bright 
 
 Heralds the near approach of dusky night. 
 
 Yon peeping star disturbs this idle talk, 
 
 And chides the slowness of our homeward 
 walk. 
 
 Between yon trees the pale moon casts her ray, 
 And seems to warn us, “ Loiterers, haste away.” 
 
 Alton, September , 1818. 
 
 E 
 
5o 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 SPRING 
 
 AN ECLOGUE 
 Damon. 
 
 OW that the dreary cold of winter 
 flies, 
 
 And Taurus reigns the monarch of 
 the skies, 
 
 And earth, inviting song, in fairest vest, 
 
 And richest gems, as Maro tells, is drest, 
 
 Come let us play the rhymster’s part, and sing 
 The opening beauties of the verdant spring. 
 That look pleads inability ; — such plea 
 May weigh with others, but is lost on me. 
 
 For erst you tuned your lyre, nor tuned in vain ; 
 And larks and robins have adorned your strain. 
 A brother’s wish what sister can refuse ? 
 
 The plaintive mastered, dare the pastoral muse. 
 
 Amaryllis. 
 
 Hard task ! for who but sings the spring by 
 rule ? 
 
 Its “ verdant views” — its “ fountains clear and 
 cool ” — 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN gi 
 
 “ The lark’s brisk carol ” — “ Philomela’s 
 trill”— 
 
 “ The painted mead ” — “ the gently-purling 
 rill”— 
 
 “ The industrious bee ” — “ the silken butter- 
 
 fly 
 
 “ The frisking lambkins ” — and “ the smiling 
 sky.” — 
 
 Hail ! commonplaces of the pastoral strain ! 
 Which, once endured, we ne’er endure again ; 
 Where down the stanza tuneful dulness flows, 
 Or ponderous truisms stalk in measured prose. 
 Leave them ! the flippant toil let others take, 
 Feel without heart, and talk for talking’s sake. 
 
 Damon. 
 
 True ; — blame the folly, but the purpose spare ; 
 Praise we or not, the Spring Is passing fair. 
 
 ’Tis we, who feebly read, or ill express, 
 
 Her chastened mirth, her thoughtful tenderness. 
 From sober truth your tasteless rhymster flies 
 To read romance and soft monstrosities. 
 Strange fearful feats in every verse are done, 
 And earth is dazzled with an Eden’s sun. 
 
 The crocus flames while jasmine scents the air, 
 Tulips and lilies grace the same parterre ; 
 
 Mid ripening ears the heedless rustic ploughs, 
 And bulbuls sigh on grape-enclustered boughs. 
 For us, albeit we own our colours faint, 
 
 The scenes before us we may try to paint ; 
 
52 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Be unambitious truth alone our pride, 
 
 Nature our pattern, common-sense our guide. 
 
 Amaryllis. 
 
 You then begin ; — while I attempt to frame 
 The verse responsive, such my humbler aim. 
 
 Damon. 
 
 Spring ! fairest season of the sunborn four, 
 Gifts of the year, dispensers of its store : — 
 
 The young prefer thee, for the smiles they see 
 Give back the image of their own light glee. 
 The old prefer thee, for thy bloom displays, 
 
 To memory dear, the scenes of former days ; 
 When hope poured brightest visions on their 
 view, 
 
 And all things pleased, for all things then were 
 new. 
 
 Amaryllis. 
 
 The sportive Zephyr, rousing with the spring, 
 In viewless frolics fans his odorous wing ; 
 
 Sighs o’er the modest violet’s mild perfume, 
 And drinks the teardrops from the rose’s bloom ; 
 See how those soft thin limes, with golden hair, 
 Shrink from the rudeness of the busy air ; 
 While yon slight ash and willow-flowrets white 
 Sleep in the hollow, in the wind’s despite. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 53 
 
 Damon. 
 
 Mark the gay varying of the cloud, as chance 
 Curls its bright form, or smooths its dark 
 expanse ; 
 
 First calm and soft, when soberest colours tinge, 
 Then waving fleecy with translucent fringe, 
 Now a bright robe flung o’er the orb of day, 
 And last impassive to the searching ray. 
 
 So change, — unless comparisons may seem 
 To mar the line and dim the glorious theme, 
 And critics frown and shake the head, and 
 name 
 
 The great Martinus and his sinking fame, — 
 
 So change, as some astonished peasant views, 
 The gay calidoscope’s transparent hues ; 
 
 In endless dance the melting colours glide, 
 
 Till fancy’s every whim is gratified. 
 
 Amaryllis. 
 
 Nor shall the tale be hid, these columns tell, 
 
 If Amaryllis may interpret well ; 
 
 Whether true scenes in the blue distance rise, 
 Or brain-born splendours deck the unconscious 
 skies. 
 
 There wondrous castles frown with shadowy 
 towers, 
 
 And magic domes the toil of fairy powers ; 
 
 The skiff winds up the visionary rill, 
 
 And nodding forests glitter on the hill ; 
 
54 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Or long processions wind their airy train, 
 
 And coursers prance, impatient of the rein ; 
 
 Or warring armies, fearful sight, advance, 
 
 Shake the thin shield and hurl a phantom 
 lance. 
 
 Damon. 
 
 Calm mid the vale reclines our lowly town, 
 
 Safe from the thousand perils of renown. 
 
 No solemn mace, the portent of the Mayor, 
 
 No awe-inspiring Aldermen are there ; 
 
 Not e’en that first big requisite of state, 
 
 The well-lined stomach of a magistrate. 
 
 Smile not, ye strangers, nor with listless eyes 
 Our gabled roof and ill-paved streets despise. 
 What though your city boasts in massive stone 
 Wonders of art and greatness all her own ? 
 Tho’ proud Olympia glitter from afar, 
 
 The mart of nations and the queen of war, 
 With ceaseless anger bid her thunders roll, 
 
 And spread dismay at will from pole to pole ? 
 Think of your lives, to care and strife a prey ; 
 Prove, ere from joys like ours you turn away. 
 
 Amaryllis. 
 
 Yes, here the boor contented runs his race, 
 Too proud to wander from his native place. 
 Peace to their honest souls ! tho’ at four score 
 They scarce have passed two furlongs from 
 their door ; 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 55 
 
 Some barbarous shape and voice to strangers give, 
 — If men in truth in foreign countries live — 
 And deem a hero in his small abode, 
 
 Whoso has roughed it on the King’s high-road, 
 With bosom steeled * left Maera’s green retreats, 
 Nor stopped till lost in vast Olympia’s streets. 
 
 Damon. 
 
 But see how Corydon, with many a bound, 
 Darts thro’ the shrubs and mounts the crum- 
 bling ground. 
 
 The slender plants, his rapid passage shakes, 
 Startling and trembling track the path he takes. 
 — Poor honest Argus ! thou with greater speed 
 Hast climbed the ascent and gained the level 
 mead ; 
 
 And has[t] thou, faithful servant, hastened here, 
 To tell the news thar Corydon is near ? 
 
 That panting side, those limbs with toil opprest, 
 Bespeak thy age, and thou shouldest give it rest. 
 
 Corydon. 
 
 What winning theme enchains you grave and 
 still, 
 
 Like two stiff statues stuck upon the hill ? 
 
 With rude forgetfulness the hour you slight, 
 When hunger and the fragrant board invite ; 
 Not without cause this unaccustomed stay, 
 Some secrets have beguiled the time away. 
 Alton, April , 1819. 
 
 * Illi robur et aes triplex, etc. 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 
 56 
 
 ON MY BIRTHDAY 
 
 ET the sun summon all his beams to 
 hold 
 
 Bright pageant in his court, the 
 cloud-paved sky ; 
 
 Earth trim her fields and leaf her copses cold ; 
 Till the dull month with summer-splendour 
 vie. 
 
 It is my birthday ; — and I fain would try, 
 Albeit in rude, in heartfelt strains to praise 
 My God, for He hath shielded wondrously 
 From harm and envious error all my ways, 
 
 And purged my misty sight, and fixed on heaven 
 my gaze. 
 
 11. 
 
 Far be that mood, in which the insensate crowd 
 Of wealthy folly hail their natal day, — 
 
 With riot throng, and feast, and greetings loud, 
 Chasing all thoughts of God and heaven away. 
 Poor insect ! feebly daring, madly gay, 
 What, joy because the fulness of the year 
 Marks thee for greedy death a riper prey ? 
 
 Is not the silence of the grave too near ? 
 Viewest thou the end with glee, meet scene for 
 harrowing fear ? 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 hi. 
 
 Go then, infatuate ! where the festive hall, 
 
 The curious board, the oblivious wine invite ; 
 Speed with obsequious haste at pleasure’s call, 
 And with thy revels scare the far-spent night. 
 Joy thee, that clearer dawn upon thy sight 
 The gates of death ; — and pride thee in thy 
 sum 
 
 Of guilty years, and thy increasing white 
 Of locks ; — in age untimely frolicksome, 
 
 Make much of thy brief span, few years are yet 
 to come ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet wiser such, than he whom blank despair 
 And fostered grief’s ungainful toil enslave ; 
 
 Lodged in whose furrowed brow thrives fretful 
 care, 
 
 Sour graft of blighted hope ; who, when the 
 wave 
 
 Of evil rushes, yields, — yet claims to rave 
 
 At his own deed, as the stern will of heaven. 
 
 In sooth against his Maker idly brave, 
 
 Whom e’en this creature-world has tossed and 
 driven, 
 
 Cursing the life he mars, “ a boon so kindly 
 given.” • 
 
 * “ Is life a boon so kindly given ? ” etc., *vidt 
 “ Childe Harold,” Can. ii. 
 
58 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 V. 
 
 He dreams of mischief ; and that brainborn ill 
 Man’s open face bears in his jealous view. 
 Fain would he fly his doom ; that doom is still 
 His own black thoughts, and they must aye 
 pursue. 
 
 Too proud for merriment, or the pure dew 
 Soft glistening on the sympathising cheek ; 
 
 As some dark, lonely, evil-natured yew, 
 Whose poisonous fruit — so fabling poets speak — 
 Beneath the moon’s pale gleam the midnight 
 hag doth seek. 
 
 VI. 
 
 No ! give to me, Great Lord, the constant soul 
 Nor fooled by pleasure nor enslaved by 
 care ; 
 
 Each rebel-passion (for Thou can’st) control, 
 And make me know the tempter’s every 
 snare. 
 
 What, tho’ alone my sober hours I wear, 
 
 No friend in view, and sadness o’er my mind 
 Throws her dark veil ? — Thou but accord 
 this prayer, 
 
 And I will bless Thee for my birth, and find 
 
 That stillness breathes sweet tones, and loneli- 
 ness is kind. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 VII. 
 
 Each coming year, O grant it to refine 
 All purer motions of this anxious breast ; 
 Kindle the steadfast flame of love divine, 
 
 And comfort me with holier thoughts possest ; 
 Till this worn body slowly sink to rest, 
 
 This feeble spirit to the skies aspire, — 
 
 As some long -prisoned dove toward her 
 nest — 
 
 There to receive the gracious full-toned lyre, 
 Bowed low before the throne mid the bright 
 seraph choir. 
 
 Oxford, February 21, 1819. 
 
6o 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 To the Masque of Amyntor 
 
 N times of old, ere Learning’s dawning 
 beam 
 
 Roused slumbering Genius from her 
 Gothic dream, 
 
 Magic, of Ignorance and Fancy born, 
 
 With wonders peopled every waste forlorn, 
 And told how soft the sprightly fairy trod 
 The dewy verdure of the midnight sod. 
 
 Taught in her love, the traveller-knight 
 descried 
 
 The unearthly castle vaunt its portal wide, 
 While the gay flood of hospitable light 
 Blazed high and low, and scared the gazing 
 wight, 
 
 And festive voices floating on the gale 
 In full accordance bade the stranger hail ! 
 
 To those, who thus, in measure rich and full, 
 Feasted on wonders till the truth was dull, 
 
 The smiling word of Chawton might appear 
 A haunted grove of Magic’s orgies drear. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 6 1 
 
 This home a fort, fenced round with cautious 
 ditch, 
 
 Yon dames enchanted, and myself a witch. 
 
 Ah ! were it true ! so might I earn the power 
 
 To fix you mine one fa[s]cinating hour ! 
 
 So might the scene yon curtain furled will 
 show 
 
 Spellbind each care and charm to sleep each 
 woe, 
 
 Win the dull spirits with sweet-mannered art, 
 
 And be a mightier magic o’er the heart ! 
 
 Alton, July, 1819. 
 
62 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 PARAPHRASE 
 
 Of Ecclesiastes, Ch. xii. vv. 1-7 
 
 HILE life’s young dawnings o’er the 
 meads diffuse 
 
 Hope’s radiant mist and pleasure’s 
 fragrant dews, 
 
 Ere angry frowns the sunbright sky deform, 
 
 And cloud on cloud prolongs the unyielding 
 storm, 
 
 Remember God. — There comes an awful hour, 
 
 When bows each guardian of the ancient 
 tower, 
 
 The strong ones faint, the vassals lose their 
 might,. 
 
 And each dim window yields a fading light, 
 
 The unsocial door sends forth no festive train, 
 
 And music’s daughters hush their wonted 
 strain. 
 
 Poor helpless being ! his straggling locks 
 assume 
 
 The chilling whiteness of the almond’s bloom. 
 
 Mark how he dreads, his frame with sickness 
 bent, 
 
 The tedious effort of the steep ascent. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 63 
 
 Unstrung each nerve, he starts ! he has but 
 heard 
 
 The whizzing locust, or the warbling bird. 
 
 Desire has failed ; the world’s choice pleasures 
 seem 
 
 As some dull jest, or scarce-remembered dream. 
 
 He sinks — he fails — he quits this mortal state — 
 
 The home of ages opes her silent gate, 
 
 And marshalled mourners, while the bier moves 
 slow, 
 
 Display the tearless pomp of studied woe. 
 
 Weep ! for the silver chord has loosed its hold, 
 
 For ever broken lies that bowl of gold, 
 
 No more the urn will search the deep-lodged 
 rill, 
 
 The fount is dried, the busy wheel is still. 
 
 The body crumbles to its ancient clay, 
 
 The soul to God, who gave it, wings its way. 
 
 Oxford, May , 1821. 
 
64 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 PARAPHRASE 
 
 Of Isaiah, Ch. lxiv. 
 
 THAT Thou wouldest rend the 
 breadth of sky, 
 
 That veils Thy presence from the 
 sons of men ! 
 
 O that, as erst Thou earnest from on high 
 Sudden in strength, Thou so wouldest come 
 again ! 
 
 Tracked out by judgments was Thy fiery path, 
 
 Ocean and mountain withering in Thy wrath ! 
 
 Then would Thy name — the Just, the Merci- 
 ful- 
 
 Strange dubious attributes to human mind, 
 
 Appal Thy foes ; and kings who spurn Thy rule 
 Then, then would quake to hopeless doom 
 consigned. 
 
 See, the stout bow, and totter the secure, 
 
 While pleasure’s bondsman hides his head 
 impure ! 
 
 Come down ! for then shall from its seven 
 bright springs 
 
 To him who thirsts the draught of life be 
 given ; 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 65 
 
 Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard the 
 things 
 
 Which He hath purposed for the heirs of 
 heaven ; — 
 
 A God of love, guiding with gracious ray 
 Each meek rejoicing pilgrim on his way. 
 
 Yea, tho’ we err, and Thine averted face 
 Rebukes the folly in Thine Israel done, 
 
 Will not that hour of chastisement give place 
 To beams, the pledge of an eternal sun ? 
 
 Yes ! for His counsels to the end endure ; 
 
 We shall be saved, our rest abideth sure. 
 
 Lord, Lord ! our sins . . . our sins . . . un- 
 clean are we, 
 
 Gross and corrupt ; our seeming-virtuous 
 deeds 
 
 Are but abominate ; all, dead to Thee, 
 
 Shrivel, like leaves when summer’s green 
 recedes ; 
 
 While, like the autumn blast, our lusts arise, 
 And sweep their prey w r here the fell serpent lies. 
 
 None, there is none to plead with God in 
 prayer, 
 
 Bracing his laggart spirit to the work 
 Of intercession ; conscience-sprung despair. 
 Sin-loving still, doth in each bosom lurk. 
 Guilt calls Thee to avenge ; — Thy risen ire 
 Sears like a brand, we gave and we expire. 
 
 F 
 
66 THE POEMS OF 
 
 But now, O Lord, our Father ! we are Thine — 
 Design and fashion ; senseless while we lay, 
 Thou, as the potter, with a hand divine, 
 Mouldest Thy vessels of the sluggish clay. 
 See not our guilt, Thy word of wrath recal, 
 Lo, we are Thine by price, Thy people all ! 
 
 Alas for Zion ! ’tis a waste ; — the fair, 
 
 The holy place in flames ; — where once our 
 sires 
 
 Kindled the sacrifice of praise and prayer, 
 
 Far other brightness gleams from Gentile 
 fires. 
 
 Low lies our pride ; — and wilt Thou self-deny 
 Thy rescuing arm unvexed amid Thine Israel’s 
 cry ? 
 
 Brighton, September , 1821. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 67 
 
 TO M. S. N. 
 
 On her Birthday 
 
 sister, on a day so dear, 
 
 That ushers in the thirteenth year 
 Of life to one I love, 
 
 3 ermit a brother’s heart to pay 
 The tribute of a humble lay, 
 
 Thinking of thee, tho’ far away, 
 
 In learning’s classic grove. 
 
 “ Pay ” was my word ; — it is a debt ; 
 
 For I have not forgotten yet, 
 
 When last thy birthday came. 
 
 My purpose was to write to Strand, 
 
 But other cares were then on hand 
 — Philosophers, a crabbed band. 
 
 Grave annalists from ancient land, 
 
 Bards, waving high the spell-fraught wand, 
 All joined that purpose to withstand, 
 Jorbad the letter I had planned 
 And urged a sovereign claim. 
 
 That time is past ; I groan no more 
 Chained to the literary oar. 
 
 In midnight dreams before my eyes 
 No ghosts of mangled metres rise, 
 
68 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 No limping anapaests advance, 
 
 No dochmees trail the doleful dance ; 
 
 E’en critics lose their power to scare, 
 
 Schneider, Bos, Erfurdt, Wesseling, Valckenaer, 
 Brunck, Schutz, Schweighaeuser, — no for none 
 I care ! 
 
 Young Isis timorously pours 
 
 Her slender stream thro’ Oxford’s bowers ; 
 
 Yet soon her waters broader grow, 
 
 Deepen and swell, and proudly flow ; 
 
 I see them now their course pursue 
 To Richmond’s heights and royal Kew, — 
 Passing the well-known windows, as they gleam 
 A watch-tower on the Strand, high-jutting o’er 
 the stream. 
 
 See, I have whispered, as they flow, 
 
 A message for my sister’s ear, 
 
 And their bright ripple laughs, as though 
 In token they that message hear ; 
 
 So when the light wave lifts its head 
 Impatient from the river’s bed, 
 
 Or close at hand is seen to leap, 
 
 And chafe the bank’s opposing steep, 
 
 Deem it a tongueless messenger to be, 
 
 That longs to wish thee joy from me. 
 
 How shall we keep this glad birthday ? 
 
 Shall mirth unveil her sparkling eye ? 
 
 Shall pomp her waving plumes display ; 
 
 And pleasure weave a crown of flowers, 
 which die, 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 69 
 
 Leaving no fruit to grace their memory ? 
 
 — No ! to affection’s hallowed shrine I bear 
 A purer offering than the world can boast, 
 Kind serious thoughts of love, the full heart’s 
 prayer, 
 
 Which speaks the least whene’er it means 
 the most. 
 
 All grace, all blessing on thy head 
 
 May He rain down, the Mighty One ; 
 
 By His good Spirit onward led, 
 
 Until the holy prize be won. 
 
 0 ! may faith fix thy brightening eye 
 On blissful scenes beyond the sky ; 
 
 May sacred love be seen to speak 
 
 In the warm transport of thy cheek ; 
 
 And hope so sweet a smile inspire, 
 
 That e’en the angels might admire. 
 
 May gentle peace, and joy divine, 
 
 Content, and charity, be thine, 
 
 And each fair grace, whose mounting flame 
 Points to the heaven from whence it came. 
 
 Bold heart forbear ! — a strain so high 
 
 Needs angel’s voice, or prophet’s tongue of 
 fire ; 
 
 Think o’er its music silently, 
 
 Lest thou prophane it by a tuneless lyre. 
 
 1 cease. Adieu till next I see 
 Thy face, dear Mary, smile on me. 
 
7 o 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Time speeds ; the post will soon demand 
 This letter from my hurrying hand ; 
 
 And all my labours would be lost, 
 
 Were I to miss this evening’s post. 
 
 Oxford, November 9, 1821. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 71 
 
 TO C. R. N. 
 
 On his Birthday 
 
 YEAR and more has fled, 
 
 Since first, dear Charles, I read 
 Your lines set forth to grace my 
 natal day ; 
 
 from me no answer came, 
 own it to my shame, — 
 
 To thank the kindness and applaud the lay. 
 
 Yet deem it not neglect, 
 
 The ready pen that checked, 
 
 Nor dull reluctance, nor unkind disdain ; 
 
 Free tho’ my heart, my mind 
 In studious cell confined 
 Felt the long rigor of a tightened chain. 
 
 But now my thoughts are free, 
 
 Farewell, constraint, to thee ! 
 
 Seize on the lyre, and tune each jarring string ; 
 And, sure, that slighted lyre 
 Much tuning will require, 
 
 So long a while debarred its vibrating. 
 
 Yet 
 
 —I 
 
7 2 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 And, say, what happier time 
 To fit the pliant rhyme, 
 
 With merry fingers searching the sweet wires, 
 Than when your star of birth, 
 
 The beacon of our mirth, 
 
 Darts the sly twinkling of its annual fires ? 
 
 “ Annual ” is not the word ; 
 
 Our tongue does not afford 
 Some compound adjective of twenty-one ; 
 Which neatly may express, 
 
 What I mean should have the stress, 
 u O’er Charles’s head, years three times seven 
 have run ! ” 
 
 Why not in bathos strive 
 Of Helicon to dive ? 
 
 Come, let us revel — no cold-hearted slave 
 To crouch before the chaste 
 And peevish rules of taste — • 
 
 In its dark depth, the vast poetic wave ! 
 
 March winds have moaned away, 
 
 Wet April had his day, 
 
 Now the young year, in gaily plaited bower, 
 Her greenest garment weareth, 
 
 While every slim bough beareth 
 The juicy fruit or sweetly breathing flower. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 73 
 
 What month along the year 
 More kindly might appear 
 To hold remembrance of our day of birth, 
 Than when the summer-sun, 
 
 Fresh armed his course to run, 
 
 Unsheaths his beams and strikes the new- 
 fledged earth ? 
 
 Snow-bleached is December’s morn, 
 
 When H. E. N. was born ; 
 
 Chill fog and drizzle is November’s best ; 
 
 And the sun amid the Fishes 
 Unquestionably wishes 
 To leave the sea and dry his dripping vest. 
 
 But this dainty month of June 
 All nature puts in tune, 
 
 Winning true concord from the sounding 
 spheres ; 
 
 No ill-tempered minor third 
 Is in hail or thunder heard, 
 
 No blast’s diminished seventh wails on our 
 shrinking ears. 
 
 O ! may the lark this morn, 
 
 On heaven’s own pinion borne, 
 
 Chant gratulation mid the aerial plain ! 
 
 O ! may the rose bloom sweetest, 
 
 When thou, Philomela, greetest 
 Dim Hesper’s presence with thy melting 
 strain ! 
 
74 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 O ! may the stars dispense 
 Their holiest influence, 
 
 Their silent-sinking dews of soothing balm ! 
 
 O ! may to-day’s sun bring 
 A blessing on its wing, 
 
 The pledge of good in store, the gift of present 
 calm ! 
 
 Oxford, June 1 6, 1823. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 75 
 
 TO H. E. N. 
 
 On her Birthday 
 
 HE Muse has sway in the truant mind, 
 And the heart from care set free, 
 In the thoughts that wanton un- 
 confined, 
 
 That range o’er the earth, and float on the wind, 
 And dive in the boundless sea. 
 
 To the Muse alone Nature’s stores are known, 
 And she compounds them well ; 
 
 For she can draw from the scenes around 
 
 That nameless charm, which is never found 
 
 Out of the range of the magic ground 
 In which she loves to dwell. 
 
 The Muse is Nature’s Alchemist, 
 
 And she fashions it at her will, 
 
 And ’tis hers to mould the sunset gold, 
 
 And the draught of life distil. 
 
 — Why then resume her fairy wand, 
 
 And why renew the strain ? 
 
 Ill ’seems it the devoted hand, 
 
 That has touched the plough, to trifle now 
 With the toys of verse again. 
 
76 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Yet be there a time may claim a rhyme, 
 
 Tho’ weightier thoughts engage, 
 
 It is, dear Harriet, when away 
 
 From home and thee upon the day 
 
 When thou art . . . hold ! I must not say 
 Aloud a lady’s age. 
 
 Some there are born to ample lands, 
 
 And mansions tall and fair, 
 
 And fortune stands with laden hands 
 To greet the eager heir. 
 
 Thro’ youth’s long grove and the vista green 
 Of summers twenty-one, 
 
 Is dimly seen the bounteous queen 
 Beckoning her favourite son. 
 
 Wealth’s golden key displayeth she, 
 
 And robes of state she weareth, 
 
 And the jewelled star of high degree 
 Fixed at her bosom flareth. 
 
 But others find a nobler lot 
 Than earthly heirs obtain ; 
 
 The sons of pleasure court them not, 
 
 Nor fashion’s painted train. 
 
 Their food is sent them from above, 
 
 And they drink of the morning dew ; 
 
 No mortal loom their raiment wove, 
 
 Nor fading is its hue. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 77 
 
 For them the earth to sights gave birth 
 The many cannot know ; 
 
 All things combine on them to shine, 
 
 And rude forms melt into groups divine. 
 Where’er their footsteps go. 
 
 Tales from the East of cities tell. 
 
 Which start to view at the potent spell 
 Gained from the wizard’s teaching. 
 
 Where the dull hind discerns alone 
 The silent pool, and the desert stone, 
 
 And the dusky heath far-reaching. 
 
 And the Muse, I said, had learned to shed 
 (As poets oft have shown) 
 
 O’er Nature’s face a nameless grace 
 And a radiance all her own. 
 
 But vain is Magic’s fabled power, 
 
 And vain the Muse’s skill, 
 
 To charm the heart in its gloomy hour, 
 
 Or to fix the vagrant will. 
 
 But souls, from off whose grosser sight 
 The film is cleared away, 
 
 Thrive on the pure and strange delight 
 Of that bright inward day. 
 
 Before their eyes high domes arise, 
 
 With spacious halls within, 
 
 To skreen the heat of summer skies, 
 
 Or the storm’s tumultuous din. 
 
78 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 And there they rove in the balmy grove 
 And to fountains clear repair ; 
 
 Or pace the flower-entwined alcove, 
 
 While the plaintive note of the lonely dove 
 Floats on the listening air* 
 
 So high a call, so rich a prize, 
 
 So blest a lot is thine ; 
 
 Mayest thou the birthright ne’er despise, 
 And ne’er thy hope resign ! 
 
 So when the great day comes at last, 
 
 And life’s long infancy is past, 
 
 Thou mayest securely go, 
 
 Thine own inheritance to claim, 
 
 Pleading the all-prevailing Name 
 Thou servedst here below. 
 
 Oxford, Dece?nber 30, 1S24. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 79 
 
 TO J. C. N. 
 
 On her Birthday 
 
 
 AM a tree, whose spring is o’er, 
 Whose summer is not come ; 
 My viol must be struck no more, 
 My voice of song is dumb. 
 Flowers deck the spring ; and fruits instead 
 Summer’s rich hand supplies ; 
 
 But fancy’s blossoms, they are shed 
 Ere years proclaim me wise. — 
 
 Green fruit and faded flower. 
 
 Shrub unfit for lady’s bower ! 
 
 And thou, sweet May, art young and gay, 
 Thy life is in its bloom ; 
 
 Bright are the hues thy gown display, 
 Sense-piercing their perfume, 
 
 Taste, genius, fancy, all are thine 
 Which nature can bestow ; 
 
 Meekness and goodness, plants divine, 
 Deep in thy garden grow. — 
 
 Hail, dearest, for to-day 
 Is thine own, my merry May ! 
 
8o 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Thy sisters, they will join with me 
 In this my deed of courtesy, 
 
 For they have been on former days 
 Meet subjects of a brother’s praise ; 
 
 And verse has told, by truth inspired, 
 
 How much I loved, how much admired. 
 
 But thou hast had, my sister fair, 
 
 No wreath of song to deck thy hair ; 
 
 ’Tis tardy justice now to bring 
 This poor but honest offering. 
 
 Yet have I chosen happier time 
 To send to thee, dear May, my rhyme. 
 Clouds there have been and storms, but 
 they 
 
 Had April course, and past away. 
 
 Bright Harriet’s, gentle Mary’s, strain 
 Was saddened by a recent pain ; 
 
 But now it moves in different mood, 
 
 My verse, the harbinger of good. 
 
 Its wings they play, as it skims its way 
 From the groves of Rhedycine ; 
 
 And glancing bright in the clear sun-light, 
 Its glorious feathers shine. 
 
 A name it knows ; but it must wait 
 E’er it has leave to intimate 
 The secret it would tell ; 
 
 Yet sign and gesture may supply 
 Some silent hint at victory 
 And trial answered well. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 81 
 
 “ Well done ! the prize is won ! 
 
 “ A budding wreath behold ! 
 
 “ Some flowers full grown, some partly blown — 
 “ Last but this fair and favoring sun, 
 
 “ And all will soon unfold.” 
 
 *• * * 0 
 
 . . . Ah ! whence is this ? . . . Why fails 
 my hand, 
 
 Why falters on the ready string ? . . . 
 
 My time of song is past. ... I stand 
 ’Twixt summer’s fruit and flowers of spring. 
 Rest thou, my lyre, thy day is o’er ; 
 
 Not often shall I task thy skill ; 
 
 And yet thy tones, tho’ heard no more, 
 
 On memory’s ear will linger still. — 
 Fleeting pleasures ! place give 
 To works that last and joys that live ! 
 
 . . . What, Muse, impatient ? nay, but why 
 That burning cheek, that flashing eye ? 
 
 For shame ! compose with modest care 
 Thy tresses of disordered hair. 
 
 Thy decent vest will start aside ; 
 
 Its curious flounces, erst thy pride, 
 
 Now mark thy perturbation. 
 
 Enough ! resume thy task begun ; 
 
 — Thy sister, May, is looking on — 
 
 Come, end thy gratulation. 
 
 G 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 
 All hail, all hail, my light of May, 
 
 Queen of the early spring ! 
 
 The wide world’s store, I will run it o’er 
 For a birthday offering. 
 
 Rich to thy soul as the fruitful earth ; 
 
 And as the wild wind free ; 
 
 As the sun’s ray bright, in the noontide height ; 
 
 And pure as the summer sea. 
 
 Keen as the lightning on its way, 
 
 When the red tempest lours ; 
 
 Yet mild as is the morn of day, 
 
 Fresh banquetted on flowers. 
 
 Thy birthday dress be the soft rainbow, 
 
 If mercy pledged the sign ; 
 
 And the gracious stars upon thy brow 
 As a diadem shall shine. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, my merry May, 
 
 Light of the young spring be ! 
 
 The world’s choice store, from its quarters four, 
 In blessing I pour, — on thee. 
 
 Oxford, May 19, 1826. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 83 
 
 TO F. W. N. 
 
 On his Birthday 
 
 |EAR Frank, this morn has ushered in 
 The manhood of thy days ; 
 
 A boy no more, thou must begin 
 To choose thy future ways ; 
 
 To brace thy arm, and nerve thy heart, 
 
 For maintenance of a noble part. 
 
 And thou a voucher fair has[t] given, 
 Of what thou wilt atchieve, 
 
 Ere age has dimmed thy sun-lit heaven, 
 In weary life’s chill eve ; 
 
 Should Sovereign Wisdom in its grace 
 Vouchsafe to thee so long a race. 
 
 My brother, we are link’d with chain 
 No time shall e’er destroy ; 
 Together we have been in pain, 
 Together now in joy ; 
 
 For duly I to share may claim 
 The present brightness of thy name. 
 
8 4 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 My brother, ’tis no recent tie 
 
 Which binds our fates in one ; 
 E’en from our tender infancy 
 
 The twisted thread was spun ; — 
 Her deed, who stored in her fond mind 
 Our forms, by sacred love enshrined. 
 
 In her affection all had share, 
 
 All six, she loved them all ; 
 
 Yet on her early-chosen Pair 
 Did her full favour fall ; 
 
 And we became her dearest theme, 
 
 Her waking thought, her nightly dream. 
 
 Ah ! brother, shall we e’er forget 
 Her love, her care, her zeal ? 
 
 We cannot pay the countless debt, 
 
 But we must ever feel ; 
 
 For thro’ her earnestness were shed 
 Prayer-purchased blessings on our head. 
 
 Tho’ in the end of days she stood, 
 
 And pain and weakness came, 
 
 Her force of thought was unsubdued, 
 Her fire of love the same ; 
 
 And e’en, when memory fail’d its part, 
 We still kept lodgment in her heart. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 85 
 
 And when her Maker from the thrall 
 Of flesh her spirit freed, 
 
 No suffering companied the call. 
 
 — In mercy ’twas decreed, — 
 
 One moment here, the next she trod 
 The viewless mansion of her God. 
 
 Now then at length she is at rest, 
 And, after many a woe, 
 
 Rejoices in that Saviour blest. 
 
 Who was her hope below ; 
 
 Kept till the day when He shall own 
 His saints before His Father’s throne. 
 
 So it is left for us to prove 
 
 Her prayers were not in vain ; 
 
 And that God’s grace-according love 
 Has fallen as gentle rain, 
 
 Which, sent in the due vernal hour, 
 
 Tints the young leaf, perfumes the flower. 
 
 Dear Frank, we both are summon’d now 
 As champions of the Lord ; — 
 Enrolled am I, and shortly thou 
 Must buckle on thy sword ; 
 
 A high employ, nor lightly given, 
 
 To serve as messengers of heaven ! 
 
86 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Deep in my heart that gift I hide ; 
 
 I change it not away, 
 
 For patriot- warrior’s hour of pride, 
 Or statesman’s tranquil sway ; 
 For poet’s lire, or pleader’s skill 
 To pierce the soul and tame the will. 
 
 O ! may we follow undismayed 
 Where’er our God shall call ! 
 And may His Spirit’s present aid 
 Uphold us lest we fall ! 
 
 Till in the end of days we stand, 
 As victors in a deathless land. 
 
 Strand-on-the-Green, June 27, 1826. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 87 
 
 NATURE AND ART 
 
 For a Lady’s Album 
 
 goeth forth ” with reckless trust 
 Upon his wealth of mind, 
 if in self a thing of dust 
 Creative skill might find ; 
 
 He schemes and toils ; stone, wood, and ore 
 Subject or weapon of his poAver. 
 
 By arch and spire, by tower-girt heights, 
 He would his boast fulfil ; 
 
 By marble births, and mimic lights, — 
 Yet lacks one secret still ; 
 
 Where is the master-hand shall give 
 To breathe, to move, to speak, to live ? 
 
 0 take away this shade of might, 
 
 The puny toil of man, 
 
 And let great Nature in my sight 
 Unfold her varied plan ; 
 
 1 cannot bear those sullen walls, 
 
 Those eyeless towers, those tongueless halls. 
 
88 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Art’s labour’d toys of highest name 
 Are nerveless, cold, and dumb ; 
 
 And man is fitted but to frame 
 A coffin or a tomb ; 
 
 Well suit, when sense is past away, 
 
 Such lifeless works the lifeless clay. 
 
 Here let me sit where wooded hills 
 Skirt yon far-reaching plain ; 
 
 While cattle bank its winding rills. 
 
 And suns embrown its grain ; 
 
 Such prospect is to me right dear, 
 
 For freedom, health, and joy are here. 
 
 There is a spirit ranging through 
 The earth, the stream, the air ; 
 
 Ten thousand shapes, garbs ever new, 
 That restless One doth wear ; 
 
 In colour, scent, and taste, and sound 
 
 The energy of life is found. 
 
 The leaves are rustling in the breeze, 
 
 The bird chants forth her song ; 
 
 From field to brook, o’er heath, o’er trees, 
 The sunbeam glides along ; 
 
 The insect, happy in its hour, 
 
 Floats softly by, or sips the flower. 
 
 Now dewy rain descends, and now 
 
 Brisk showers the welkin shroud ; 
 
 I care not, tho’ with angry brow 
 
 Frowns the red thunder-cloud ; 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 89 
 
 Let hail-storm pelt, and lightning harm, 
 
 ’Tis Nature’s work, and has its charm. 
 
 Ah ! lovely Nature ! others dwell 
 Full favoured in thy court ; 
 
 I of thy smiles but hear them tell, 
 
 And feed on their report, 
 
 Catching what glimpse an Ulcombe yields 
 To strangers loitering in her fields. 
 
 I go where form has ne’er unbent 
 The sameness of its sway ; 
 
 Where iron rule, stern precedent, 
 
 Mistreat the graceful day ; 
 
 To pine as prisoner in his cell, 
 
 And yet be thought to love it well. 
 
 Yet so His high dispose has set, 
 
 Who binds on each his part ; 
 
 Though absent, I may cherish yet 
 An Ulcombe of the heart ; 
 
 Calm verdant hope divinely given. 
 
 And suns of peace, and scenes of heaven ; — 
 
 — A soul prepared His will to meet. 
 
 Full fix’d His work to do ; 
 
 Not laboured into sudden heat. 
 
 But inly born anew. — 
 
 So living Nature, not dull Art, 
 
 Shall plan my ways and rule my heart. 
 
 Ulcombe , September, 1826. 
 
9° 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 INTRODUCTION 
 
 To my Sisters’ Album 
 
 AM a harp of many chords, and each 
 Strung by a separate hand ; — most 
 musical 
 
 My notes, discoursing with the mental 
 sense. 
 
 Not the outward ear. Try them, for they 
 bespeak 
 
 Mild wisdom, graceful wit, and high-wrought 
 taste, 
 
 Fancy, and hope, and decent gaiety. 
 
 Come, add a string to my assort of sounds ; 
 Widen the compass of my harmony ; 
 
 And join thyself in fellowship of name 
 With those whose courteous labour and fair 
 
 gifts 
 
 Have given me voice, and made me what I am. 
 
 Brighton, April , 1827. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 91 
 
 SNAPDRAGON 
 
 A Riddle for a Lady’s Flower Book 
 
 AM rooted in the wall 
 Of buttressed tower or ancient hall ; 
 Mortared in an art-wrought bed, 
 Cased in cement, cramped with lead ; 
 Of a living stock alone 
 Brother of the lifeless stone. 
 
 Else unprized, I have my worth 
 On the spot that gives me birth ; 
 Nature’s vast and varied field 
 Braver flowers than me will yield, 
 
 Bold in form and rich in hue, 
 
 Children of a purer dew ; 
 
 Smiling lips and winning eyes 
 Meet for earthly paradise. 
 
 Choice are such, — and yet thou knowest 
 Highest he whose lot is lowest. 
 
 They, proud hearts, a home reject 
 Framed by human architect ; 
 
 Humble I — can bear to dwell 
 Near the pale recluse’s cell, 
 
92 THE POEMS OF 
 
 And I spread my crimson bloom, 
 
 Mingled with the cloister’s gloom. * 
 
 Life’s gay gifts and honors rare. 
 
 Flowers of favor win and wear ! 
 
 Rose of beauty, be the queen 
 In pleasure’s ring and festive scene. 
 
 Ivy, venturous plant, ascend 
 Where lordly oaks a bold stair lend. 
 Vaunt, fair lily, stately dame, 
 
 Pride of birth and pomp of name. 
 
 Miser crocus, starved with cold. 
 
 Hide in earth thy timid gold. 
 
 Travell’d dahlia, thine the boast 
 Of knowledge brought from foreign coast. 
 Pleasure, wealth, birth, knowledge, power, 
 These have each an emblem flower ; 
 
 So for me alone remains 
 
 Lowly thought and cheerful pains. 
 
 Be it mine to set restraint 
 On roving wish and selfish plaint ; 
 
 And for man’s drear haunts to leave 
 Dewy morn and balmy eve. 
 
 Be it mine the barren stone 
 To deck with green life not its own, 
 
 * Snapdragon fringed the wall opposite the rooms 
 in which I spent my first solitary three weeks at 
 College in June, 1817. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 93 
 
 So to soften and to grace 
 Of human works the rugged face. 
 
 Mine, the Unseen to display 
 Where crowds choke up truth’s languid ray, 
 Where life’s busy arts combine 
 To shut out the Hand Divine. 
 
 Ah ! no more a scentless flower, 
 
 By approving heaven’s high power, 
 
 Suddenly my leaves exhale 
 Fragrance of the Syrian gale. 
 
 Ah ! ’tis timely comfort given 
 By the answering breath of Heaven ! 
 
 May it be ! then well might I 
 In College cloister live and die. 
 
 (Jlcombe, October 2, 1827. 
 
94 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 TIME ENTRANCED 
 
 For my Sisters’ Album 
 
 “ Felix, qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas, 
 
 Atque metus omnes, et inexorabile fatum 
 Subjecit pedibus, strepitumque Acherontis avari ! ” 
 
 N childhood, when with eager eyes 
 The season-measured year I viewed, 
 All, garbed in fairy guise, 
 
 Pledged constancy of good. 
 
 Spring sang of heaven ; the summer flowers 
 Let me gaze on, and did not fade ; 
 
 Even suns o’er autumn’s bowers 
 Heard my strong wish, and stayed. 
 
 They came and went, the short-lived four, 
 
 Y et, as their varying dance they wove, 
 
 To my young heart each bore 
 Its own sure claim of love. 
 
 Far different now ; — the whirling year 
 Vainly my dizzy eyes pursue ; 
 
 And its fair tints appear 
 All blent in one dusk hue. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 95 
 
 Why dwell on rich autumnal lights, 
 Spring-time, or winter’s social ring ? 
 
 Long days are fire-side nights, 
 
 Brown autumn is fresh spring. 
 
 Then what this world to thee, my heart ? 
 
 Its gifts nor feed thee nor can bless. 
 
 Thou hast no owner’s part 
 In all its fleetingness. 
 
 The flame, the storm, the quaking ground, 
 Earth’s joy, earth’s terror, nought is thine, 
 Thou must but hear the sound 
 Of the still voice divine. 
 
 O princely lot ! O blissful art ! 
 
 E’en while by sense of change opprest, 
 Thus to forecast in heart 
 Heaven’s age of fearless rest. 
 
 High wood, October , 1827. 
 
 [This poem, to which no title was assigned in the 
 “Lyra Apostolica,” bore, in the 1853 volume, the 
 title “ Changes,” and was eventually styled “The 
 Trance of Time.” The quotation at the head, from 
 the Georgies, gave place in 1853 to the text “ cum 
 essem parvulus, sapiebam ut parvulus 5 quando fac- 
 tus sum vir, evacuavi quae erant parvuli,” but the 
 author eventually reverted to the Virgilian quotation.] 
 
9 6 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 COMFORT IN BEREAVEMENT 
 
 EATH was full urgent with thee, 
 Sister dear, 
 
 And startling in his speed ; 
 
 — Brief pain, then languor till thy 
 end came near — 
 
 Such was the path decreed, 
 
 The hurried road 
 
 To lead thy soul from earth to thy own God’s 
 abode. 
 
 Death wrought with thee, sweet girl, im- 
 patiently : — 
 
 Yet merciful the haste 
 
 That baffles sickness ; — dearest, thou didst die, 
 Thou wast not made to taste 
 Death’s bitterness, 
 
 Decline’s slow-wasting charm, or fever’s fierce 
 distress. 
 
 Death came unheralded : — but it was well ; 
 
 For so thy Savior bore 
 
 Kind witness, thou wast meet at once to dwell 
 On His eternal shore ; 
 
 All warning spared, 
 
 For none He gives where hearts are for prompt 
 change prepared. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 97 
 
 Death wrought in mystery ; both complaint 
 and cure 
 
 To human skill unknown : — 
 
 God put aside all means, to make us sure 
 
 It was His deed alone ; 
 
 Lest we should lay 
 
 Reproach on our poor selves, that thou wast 
 caught away. 
 
 Death urged as scant of time : — lest, Sister 
 dear, 
 
 We many a lingering day 
 
 Had sicken’d with alternate hope and fear, 
 
 The ague of delay ; 
 
 Watching each spark 
 
 Of promise quenched in turn, till all our sky 
 was dark. 
 
 Death came and went : — that so thy image 
 might 
 
 Within our fond hearts glow, 
 
 Associate with such pleasant thoughts and 
 bright, 
 
 As health and peace bestow ; 
 
 No theme of sorrow 
 
 From thy soft comforting name ought like 
 itself can borrow. 
 
 Joy of sad hearts, and light of downcast eyes ! 
 
 Dearest thou art enshrined 
 
 H 
 
98 THE POEMS OF 
 
 In all thy fragrance in our memories ; 
 
 For we must ever find 
 
 Bare thought of thee 
 
 Kindle our sluggish souls, from care and gloom 
 set free. 
 
 Oxford, April , iSzS. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 99 
 
 A PICTURE 
 
 “ The maiden is not dead, but sleepeth.’* 
 
 HE is not lost ; — still in our sight 
 That dearest saint shall live, 
 
 In form as true, in tints as bright, 
 As breath and health could give, 
 
 Still, still is ours the modest eye ; 
 
 The smile unwrought by art ; 
 The glance that shot so piercingly 
 Affection’s keenest dart ; 
 
 The thrilling voice, I ne’er could hear 
 But felt a joy and pain ; — 
 
 A pride that she was ours, a fear 
 Ours she might not remain ; 
 
 Whether the page divine called forth 
 Its clear, sweet, tranquil tone, 
 
 Or cheerful hymn, or seemly mirth 
 In sprightlier measure shown ; 
 
 The meek inquiry on that face. 
 Musing on wonders found, 
 
 As ’mid dim paths she sought to trace 
 The truth on sacred ground ; 
 
ioo THE POEMS OF 
 
 The thankful sigh we witnessed rise, 
 When ought her doubts removed, 
 Full set the explaining voice to prize 
 Admiring while she loved ; 
 
 The pensive brow, the world might see 
 When she in crowds was found ; 
 
 The burst of heart, the o’erflowing glee 
 When only friends were round ; 
 
 Hope’s warmth of promise, prompt to fill 
 The thoughts with good in store, 
 
 Matched with content’s deep stream, which still 
 Flowed on, when hope was o’er ; 
 
 That peace, which with its own bright day 
 Made cheapest sights shine fair ; 
 
 That purest grace, which track’d its way 
 Safe from ought earthly there. — 
 
 Such was she in the sudden hour 
 That brought her Maker’s call, — 
 
 Proving her heart’s self-mastering power 
 Blithely to part with all, 
 
 Her eye e’er loved, her hands e’er pressed 
 With true affection’s glow, 
 
 The voice of friends, all pleasures best 
 All dearest thoughts below. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN ioi 
 
 From friend-lit hearth, from social board, 
 All duteously she rose ; 
 
 For weal or suffering, on His word 
 Faith found assured repose. 
 
 Gay dress, bright trinkets, braided hair, 
 
 She put them all aside, — 
 
 E’en nature’s garb of beauty rare 
 
 ’Seemed not heaven’s chosen bride, — 
 
 Then waited for the solemn spell, 
 
 Her tranced soul to steep 
 
 In blissful dreams of breaking well 
 That brief-enduring sleep. 
 
 Such was she then ; and such she is 
 Shrined in each mourner’s breast ; 
 
 Such shall she be, and more than this 
 In promised glory blest ; 
 
 When in due lines her Savior dear 
 His scattered saints shall range, 
 
 And knit in love souls parted here. 
 
 Where cloud is none, nor change. 
 
 Oxford, August , 1828 . 
 
102 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 REVERIE ON A JOURNEY 
 
 To my Mother 
 
 HE coachman was seated, with ribbons 
 in hand, 
 
 And they cried me to haste in a 
 tone of command ; 
 
 The porter I paid ; and plunged thro’ the 
 coach door 
 
 In a cold bath of faces I ne’er saw before. 
 
 A dip in the morning will brace, if you please ; 
 
 But to dawdle six hours, is to stay till you 
 freeze. 
 
 And the sluggard’s down bed has its charms 
 for another, 
 
 But these huge living bolsters press close till 
 they smother. 
 
 Well, in bath or in bed, nestled up, or plunged 
 deep, 
 
 I will dive from myself, or I’ll dream as I sleep. 
 
 From all notice of sight my mind’s tablet I’ll 
 clear, 
 
 The then shall be nozu, and the there shall be 
 here . 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 103 
 
 When once a man gains philosophical views, 
 
 Between coach and coach there is little to 
 choose ; 
 
 And oft have I proved, seen in truth’s purest 
 beam, 
 
 That space is a name, and that time is a dream. 
 
 This dark stifling closet expands on my eyes ! 
 
 Its sides they recede, and its windows they rise ! 
 
 Its seats become chairs ; and a table is made 
 
 Of the shawls and great coats, on our knees 
 that are laid ! 
 
 That gentleman opposite melts into you, 
 
 The fat dame rolls into Jemirfia and Lou ; 
 
 Two Harriets arise where there nobody sat, — 
 
 I am brother to this, and I’m cousin to that. 
 
 We travel with speed ! ’tis the sun as it goes ; 
 
 — ’Twas breakfast, — ’tis noon, — now ’tis lunch, 
 I suppose. 
 
 (That child is Tinpot,) — who’s for walking 
 to-day ? 
 
 The large woman snores ! so time passes away. 
 
 ’Tis dinner, — ’tis tea, — hear the coach’s dull 
 drone ! 
 
 ’Tis the reading that humdrums its equable tone. 
 
 The wheels, how they rumble ! that rumbling 
 must be 
 
 Beethoven’s Quintette, or Mynheer’s Zuyderzee. 
 
io4 THE POEMS OF 
 
 We speed it ! we speed it ! the town-fogs are 
 rising ! 
 
 Our love-lighted converse the night is sur- 
 prising ; 
 
 The stones, how they clatter ! the crowds, how 
 they hum ! 
 
 Our journey is o’er, chamber-candles are come. 
 
 Brighton Coach, January 23, 1829. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 105 
 
 MY LADY NATURE AND 
 HER DAUGHTERS 
 
 Given to my Sisters 
 
 ADIES, well I deem, delight 
 In comely tire to move ; 
 Soft, and delicate, and bright, 
 Are the robes they love. 
 Silks, where hues alternate play, 
 
 Shawls, and scarfs, and mantles gay, 
 
 Gold, and gems, and crisped hair, 
 
 Fling their light o’er lady fair. 
 
 ’Tis not waste, or sinful pride, 
 
 — Name them not, nor fault beside, — 
 
 But her very cheerfulness 
 Prompts and weaves the curious dress ; 
 While her holy * thoughts still roam 
 Mid birth-friends and scenes of home. 
 Pleased to please whose praise is dear, 
 Glitters she ? she glitters there ; — 
 
 And she has a pattern found her 
 In Nature’s glowing world around her. 
 
 Vide 1 Pet. iii. 5 ; and cf. Gen. xxiv. 22, 28-30. 
 
io6 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Nature loves, as lady bright, 
 
 In gayest guise to shine, 
 
 All forms of grace, all tints of light, 
 Fringe her robe divine. 
 
 Sun-lit heaven, and rain-bow cloud, 
 Changeful main, and mountain proud. 
 Branching tree, and meadow green, 
 All are deck’d in broidered sheen. 
 
 Not a bird on bough-propp’d tower, . 
 Insect slim, nor tiny flower. 
 
 Stone, nor spar, nor shell of sea, 
 
 But is fair in its degree. 
 
 ’Tis not pride, this vaunt of beauty ; 
 Well she ’quits her trust of duty ; 
 And, amid her gorgeous state, 
 
 Bright, and bland, and delicate, 
 
 Ever beaming from her face 
 Praise of a Father’s love we trace. 
 
 Ladies, shrinking from the view 
 Of the prying day, 
 
 In tranquil diligence pursue 
 
 Their heaven-appointed way. 
 Noiseless duties, silent cares, 
 
 Mercies lighting unawares, 
 
 Modest influence working good, 
 
 Gifts, by the keen heart understood, 
 Such as viewless spirits might give, 
 These they love, in these they live. — 
 Mighty Nature speeds her through 
 Her daily toils in silence too. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 107 
 
 Calmly rolls her giant spheres, 
 
 Sheds by stealth her dew’s kind tears ; 
 Cheating sage’s vexed pursuit, 
 
 Churns the sap, matures the fruit, 
 
 And, her deft hand still concealing, 
 Kindles motion, life, and feeling. 
 
 Ladies love to laugh and sing, 
 
 To rouse the chord’s full sound, 
 
 Or to join the festive ring 
 
 Where dancers gather round. 
 
 Not a sight so fair on earth, 
 
 As a lady’s graceful mirth ; 
 
 Not a sound so chasing pain, 
 
 As a lady’s thrilling strain. — 
 
 Nor is Nature left behind 
 In her lighter moods of mind ; 
 
 Calm her duties to fulfil, 
 
 In her glee a prattler still. 
 
 Bird and beast of every sort 
 Hath its antic and its sport ; 
 
 Chattering brook, and dancing gnat, 
 Subtle cry of evening bat, 
 
 Moss uncouth, and twigs grotesque, 
 
 These are Nature’s picturesque. 
 
 Where the birth of Poesy ? 
 
 Its fancy and its fire ? 
 
 Nature’s earth, and sea, and sky, 
 
 Fervid thoughts inspire. 
 
io8 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Where do wealth and power find rest, 
 When hopes have failed, and toil opprest ? 
 Parks, and lawns, and deer, and trees, 
 Nature’s work, restore them ease. — 
 
 Few are gifted, few are great ! 
 
 Where shall guileless souls retreat, 
 Unennobled, unrefined, 
 
 From the rude world and unkind ? 
 
 Who shall friend their lowly lot ? 
 High-born Nature answers not. 
 
 Leave her in her star-gemmed dome, 
 
 Seek we lady-lighted home. 
 
 Nature mid the spheres has sway, 
 
 Ladies rule where hearts obey. 
 
 Oxford, February , 1829 . 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 109 
 
 OPUSCULUM 
 
 To H. F. 
 
 For a very Small Album 
 
 [N.B. — These lines are jointed in five, according to 
 a new patent, and folded up for easy packing.] 
 
 "AIR Cousin, thy page 
 is small to encage 
 the vast thoughts which 
 engage 
 
 the mind of a sage, 
 
 such as I am ; 
 
 2. ’Twere in teaspoon to take 
 the whole Genevese lake, 
 or a lap-dog to make 
 the white Elephant sac- 
 ked in Siam. 
 
 3. Yet inadequate tho’ 
 
 to the terms strange and so- 
 -lemn that figure in po- 
 -lysyllabical row 
 
 in a treatise ; 
 
 4. Still, true words and plain, 
 of the heart, not the brain, 
 in affectionate strain, 
 
 this book to contain 
 very meet is. 
 
I 10 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 5. So I promise to be 
 
 a good Cousin to thee, 
 and to keep safe the se- 
 cret I heard, although e- 
 -v’r y one know it ; 
 
 6. With a lyrical air 
 
 my kind thoughts I would dare, 
 my joy, and whate’er 
 beseems the news, were 
 I a poet. 
 
 Brighton, April , 1829. 
 
 4 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN in 
 
 A VOICE FROM AFAR 
 
 EEP not for me : — 
 
 Be blithe as wont, nor tinge with 
 gloom 
 
 The stream of love that circles home, 
 Light hearts and free ! 
 
 Joy in the gifts heaven’s bounty lends ; 
 
 Nor miss my face, dear friends ! 
 
 I still am near ; — 
 
 Watching the smiles I prized on earth, 
 
 Your converse mild, your blameless mirth ; 
 Now too I hear 
 
 Of whispered sounds the tale complete, 
 
 Low prayers, and musings sweet. 
 
 A sea before 
 
 The Throne is spread : — its pure still glass 
 Pictures all earth-scenes as they pass. 
 
 We, on its shore, 
 
 Share, in the bosom of our rest, 
 
 God’s knowledge, and are blest. 
 
 Horsepath, September 29 , 1829 . 
 
1 12 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 THE HIDDEN ONES 
 
 For a Lady 
 
 “Your life is hid with Christ in God.’' 
 
 ID are the saints of God ; — 
 Uncertified by high angelic sign ; 
 Nor raiment soft, nor empire’s golden 
 rod 
 
 Marks them divine. 
 
 Theirs but the unbought air, earth’s parent sod 
 And the sun’s smile benign ; — 
 
 Christ rears His throne within the secret heart, 
 From the haughty world apart. 
 
 They gleam amid the night, 
 
 Chill sluggish mists stifling the heavenly ray ; 
 Fame chants the while, — old history trims his 
 light, 
 
 Aping the day ; 
 
 In vain ! staid look, loud voice, and reason’s 
 might 
 
 Forcing its learned way, 
 
 Blind characters ! these aid us not to trace 
 Christ and His princely race. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 113 
 
 Yet not all-hid from those 
 Who watch to see ; — ’neath their dull guise of 
 earth, 
 
 Bright bursting gleams unwittingly disclose 
 Their heaven-wrought birth. 
 Meekness, love, patience, faith’s serene repose ; 
 
 And the soul’s tutor’d mirth. 
 
 Bidding the slow heart dance, to prove her 
 power 
 
 O’er self in its proud hour. 
 
 These are the chosen few, 
 
 The remnant fruit of largely scatter’d grace, 
 God sows in waste, to reap whom He foreknew 
 Of man’s cold race ; 
 
 Counting on wills perverse, in His clear view 
 Of boundless time and space, 
 
 He waits, by scant return for treasures given, 
 To fill the thrones of heaven. 
 
 Lord ! who can trace but Thou 
 The strife obscure, ’twixt sin’s soul-thralling spell 
 And Thy sharp Spirit, now quench’d, reviving 
 now ? 
 
 Or who can tell, 
 
 Why pardon’s seal stands sure on David’s brow, 
 Why Saul and Demas fell ? 
 
 Oh ! lest our frail hearts in the annealing break, 
 Help, for Thy mercy’s sake ! 
 
 Horsepath, September , 1829. 
 
 I 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 
 1 14 
 
 A THANKSGIVING 
 
 “Thou in faithfulness hast afflicted me.” 
 
 ORD, in this dust Thy sovereign voice 
 First quicken’d love divine ; 
 
 I am all Thine, — Thy care and 
 choice, 
 
 My very praise is Thine. 
 
 I praise Thee, while Thy providence 
 In childhood frail I trace, 
 
 For blessings given, ere dawning sense 
 Could seek or scan Thy grace ; 
 
 Blessings in boyhood’s marvelling hour, 
 
 Bright dreams, and fancyings strange ; 
 Blessings, when reason’s awful power 
 Gave thought a bolder range ; 
 
 Blessings of friends, which to my door 
 Unask’d, unhoped, have come ; 
 
 And, choicer still, a countless store 
 Of eager smiles at home. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 1 1 5 
 
 Yet, Lord, in memory’s fondest place 
 I shrine those seasons sad, 
 
 When, looking up, I saw Thy face 
 In kind austereness clad. 
 
 I would not miss one sigh or tear, 
 Heart-pang, or throbbing brow ; 
 
 Sweet was the chastisement severe, 
 
 And sweet its memory now. 
 
 Yes ! let the fragrant scars abide, 
 Grace-tokens in Thy stead, 
 
 Faint shadows of the spear-pierced side 
 And thorn-encompass’d head. 
 
 And such Thy loving force be still, 
 
 Mid life’s fierce shifting fray, 
 
 Shaping to truth seifs froward will 
 Along Thy narrow way. 
 
 Deny me wealth ; far, far remove 
 The lure of power or name ; 
 
 Hope thrives in straits, in weakness love, 
 And faith in this world’s shame. 
 
 Oxford, October , 1829. 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 
 1 1 6 
 
 MONKS 
 
 To L. E. F. 
 
 For a very Small Album 
 
 [N.B. — These lines are put on hinges on a rival 
 patent to the former, so as to fold up and pack 
 closely, if required.] 
 
 EAR Louisa, . . why 
 Ask for verses, . . when a poet’s . . 
 
 Harsh and chill, it . . ill may bathe the . . 
 hand of lady . . fair. 
 
 Who can . . perfumed waters . . bring 
 From a convent . . spring ? 
 
 “ Monks in the olden . . time, 
 
 “ They were rhymsters ? ” — . . I will own 
 
 Monks in the days of . . old 
 Lived in secret, . . in the church’s . . kindly 
 sheltering . . fold ; 
 
 No bland . . meditators . . they 
 Of a courtly . . lay. 
 
 fount of song is . . dry ? 
 Or, if ought be . . there, 
 
 it, . . but in latin . . rhyme. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 117 
 
 “ They had visions . . bright ? ” — 
 Well I wot it, . . yet not sent in . . slumbers 
 soft and . . light. 
 
 No ! a lesson . . stern 
 
 First by vigils, . . fast, and penance, . . *twas 
 their choice to . . learn. 
 
 This their . . soul-ennobling . . gain, 
 
 Joys wrought out by . . pain. 
 
 “ When from home they . . stirred 
 “ Sweet their voices ? ” — . . still, a blessing 
 . . closed their merriest . . word ; 
 
 And their gayest . . smile 
 Told of musings . . solitary, . . and the 
 hallowed . . aisle. 
 
 “ Songsters ? ” — . . hark ! they answer ! 
 . . round 
 
 Plaintive chantings . . sound ! ” 
 
 Grey his cowled . . vest, 
 
 Whose strong heart has . . pledged his service 
 . . to the cloister . . blest. 
 
 Duly garbed is . . he, 
 
 As the frost-work . . decks the branches . . 
 of yon stately . . tree. 
 
 ? Tis a . . danger-thwarting . . spell, 
 
 And it fits me . . well 1 
 
 Oxford, December , 1829 . 
 
1 18 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 EPIPHANY-EVE 
 
 A Birthday Offering 
 
 “ God said, Let there be light : and there was 
 light.” 
 
 “ Awake thou that sleepest, and arise from the 
 dead $ and Christ shall give thee light 1 ** 
 
 EMORY gifts, with the early year, 
 Lo ! we bring thee, Mary dear ! 
 First to thee kind words I sent, 
 
 As a birthday ornament ; 
 
 First to thee my verse is given 
 Hymning thy second birth in heaven. 
 Christmas snow, for maiden’s bloom 
 Blenched in winter’s sudden tomb ; 
 Christmas berries, His red token 
 Who that grave’s stern seal hath broken ; 
 These to thee the thoughtful heart, 
 Symbol-offerings, set apart. 
 
 ’Twas a fast, that Eve of sorrow, 
 
 Herald veiled of glorious morrow. 
 Speechless we sat ; and watched, to know 
 How it would be ; — but time moved slow 
 Along that day of sacred woe. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 1 19 
 
 ... A pause . . . then faith in mystery 
 viewed 
 
 Christ’s Epiphany renewed. 
 
 Dearest, gentlest, purest, fairest ! 
 
 Strange half-being now thou sharest ; 
 
 Wrapt around in peaceful bed 
 Conscience-whispered hope hath spread, 
 
 Mid those other gems, that shine 
 Paradised in the inmost shrine. 
 
 There thou liest, and in thy slumber 
 Times and changes thou dost number ; 
 
 Deeds and joys of earth o’er summing 
 Visioning forth the glories coming 
 When thy soul shall re-awaken 
 Those soft looks and form forsaken. 
 
 Thinkest of us, dearest, ever ? 
 
 Ah ! so be it nought can sever 
 Spirit and life, the past and present, 
 
 Still we yield thee musings pleasant. 
 
 — God above, and we below ; — 
 
 So thought ranges, to and fro. 
 
 We at times ; but He always 
 Prompts the full chant of thy praise, 
 
 He, in sooth, by tutorings mild, 
 
 From the rude clay shaped His child, 
 
 Fiery trial, anguish chill, 
 
 Served not here His secret will ; 
 
 But His love in whispers drew, 
 
 And thy vigorous soul so grew, 
 
120 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 That the work in haste was done, 
 
 Grace and nature blent in one. — 
 Harmless this, and not unmeet. 
 
 To kiss the dear prints of thy feet, 
 Tracing thus the narrow road 
 Saints must tread, and Christ has trod. 
 
 Loveliest, meekest, blithest, kindest ! 
 Lead ! we seek the home thou findest ! 
 Though thy name to us most dear, 
 
 Go ! we would not have thee here. 
 
 Lead, a guiding beacon bright 
 To travellers on the Eve of Light. 
 Welcome aye thy Star before us, 
 
 Bring it grief or gladness o’er us ; — 
 Keen regret and tearful yearning, 
 
 Whiles unfelt, and whiles returning ; — 
 Or more gracious thoughts abiding, 
 Fever-quelling, sorrow-chiding ; — 
 
 Or, when day-light blessings fail, 
 Transport fresh as spice-fraught gale, 
 Sparks from thee, which oft have lighted 
 Weary heart and hope benighted. 
 
 I this monument would raise, 
 
 Sacred from the public gaze. 
 
 Few will see it ; — few e’er knew thee ; 
 But their beating hearts pursue thee, — 
 And their eyes fond thoughts betoken, 
 Tho’ thy name be seldom spoken. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 121 
 
 Pass on, stranger, and despise it ! 
 
 These will read, and these will prize it. 
 
 Oxford, January 5, 1829. 
 
 Manibus date lilia plenis ; 
 Purpureos spargam flores, animamque nepotis 
 His saltern accumulem donis, et fungar inani 
 Munere. 
 
 I7au€T€ OpT]v cov, 7 ra 78 es* eV oTs yap 
 X&P 1 * V X® ovia v ^ v anoKeiTai, 
 irevdriv ov xpb’ vixens yap. 
 
122 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 THE WINTER FLOWER 
 
 ( For Music ) 
 
 LOOM, beloved Flower ! — 
 Unknown ; — ’tis no matter. 
 Courts glitter brief hour, 
 Crowds can but flatter. 
 
 Plants in the garden 
 
 See best the Sun’s glory ; 
 
 They lose the green sward in 
 A conservatory. 
 
 PRIZED where’er KNOWN. 
 
 Sure this is a blessing, 
 
 Outrings the loud tone 
 
 Of the dull world’s caressing. 
 
 Oxford, December 30 , 1830 . 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 123 
 
 KIND REMEMBRANCES 
 
 To A. M. F. 
 
 (From an Unknown Friend) 
 
 S long, dear Annie, since we met, 
 Yet deem not that my heart, 
 For all that absence, can forget 
 A kinsman’s pious part. 
 
 How oft on thee, a sufferer mild, 
 My kindly thoughts I turn, 
 
 He knows, upon whose altar piled 
 The prayers of suppliants burn. 
 
 I love thy name, admiring all 
 Thy sacred heaven-sent pain ; 
 
 I love it, for it seems to call 
 The Lost to earth again. 
 
 Can I forget, She to thy need 
 Her ministry supplied, 
 
 Who now, from mortal duty freed, 
 Serves at the Virgin’s side ? 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 
 124 
 
 What wouldest thou more ? Upon thy head 
 A two-fold grace is pour’d ; — 
 
 Both in thyself, and for the dead, 
 
 A witness of thy Lord ! 
 
 Oxford, March , 1831 . 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 125 
 
 STRAY SEEDS OF POESY 
 
 For a Lady’s Album 
 
 Igneus est ollis vigor, et coelestis origo 
 Seminibus. 
 
 m 
 
 9 
 
 
 
 
 m 
 
 
 -ism 
 
 10 ULD I hit on a theme 
 To fashion my verse on, 
 Not long would I seem 
 A lack-courtesy person. 
 But I have not the skill, 
 
 Nor talisman strong, 
 
 To summon at will 
 The Spirit of song.— 
 
 Bright thoughts are roaming 
 Unseen in the air ; 
 
 Like comets, their coming 
 Is sudden and rare. 
 
 They strike, and they enter, 
 
 And light up the brain, 
 
 Which thrills to its centre 
 With rapturous pain. 
 
 Where the chance-seed 
 Is piously nursed, 
 
 Brighter succeed 
 
 In the path of the first. — 
 
126 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 One sighs to the Muse, 
 
 One speaks to his heart, 
 One sips the night-dews 
 Which moon-beams impart. 
 All this is a fiction ; 
 
 I never could find 
 A suitable friction 
 To frenzy my mind. 
 
 What use are empirics ? 
 
 No gas on their shelf 
 Can make one spout lyrics 
 In spite of oneself! 
 
 Dartington, July 1 8, 1831. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 127 
 
 THE PILGRIM 
 
 ERE strayed awhile, amid the woods 
 of Dart, 
 
 One who could love them, but who 
 durst not love. 
 
 A vow had bound him, ne’er to give his heart 
 To streamlet bright, or soft secluded grove. 
 ’Twas a hard humbling task, onwards to 
 move 
 
 His easy-captured eyes from each fair spot, 
 With unattached and lonely step to rove 
 O’er happy meads, which soon its print forgot; — 
 Yet kept he safe his pledge, prizing his pilgrim- 
 lot. 
 
 Dartington, July 21, 1831. 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 
 1 28 
 
 The following dedication , printed in capitals , appears 
 at the end of “ Memorials of the Fast ” ,• — 
 
 TO MY DEAREST MOTHER, 
 
 TO MY SWEET SISTERS, 
 
 HARRIET AND JEMIMA, 
 
 WHO REMAIN, 
 
 THESE ; 
 
 THE SHADOWS OF PAST BLESSINGS, 
 WHICH SHALL ONE DAY RETURN 
 MORE GLORIOUS 
 TO ABIDE WITH US FOR EVER. 
 
 J. H. N. 
 
 Jan . 25, 1832, 
 
From LYRA APOSTOLICA 
 [ x 836] 
 
Lyra / Apostolica. / 
 
 rVotcv S’, a)? 8 rj Sr/pov eyo) TroXepiOio 7re7rai)/xcu. 
 
 Derby : / Henry Mozley and Sons, / and J. G. and 
 F. Rivington, / St. Paul’s Church Yard, and 
 Waterloo Place, London. / 1836./ 
 
 The “Lyra Apostolica was largely the work 
 of Newman, but contained also contributions from 
 John Keble, Isaac Williams, Richard Hurrell 
 Froude, J. W. Bowden, and Robert Isaac Wilber- 
 force. Naturally, only the contributions of New- 
 man appear in the present volume. 
 
From LYRA APOSTOLICA 
 
 HOME 
 
 JHERE’ER I roam in this fair English 
 land, 
 
 The vision of a temple meets my 
 eyes : 
 
 Modest without ; within, all glorious rise 
 Its love-enclustered columns, and expand 
 Their slender arms. Like olive-plants they 
 stand, 
 
 Each answering each, in home’s soft sym- 
 pathies, 
 
 Sisters and brothers. At the Altar sighs 
 Parental fondness, and with anxious hand 
 Tenders its offering of young vows and prayers. 
 The same and not the same, go where I will, 
 The vision beams ! ten thousand shrines, all one. 
 Dear fertile soil ! what foreign culture bears 
 Such fruit ? And I through distant climes 
 may run 
 
 My weary round, yet miss thy likeness still. 
 
132 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 RE yet I left home’s youthful shrine, 
 My heart and hope were stored 
 Where first I caught the rays divine, 
 And drank the Eternal Word. 
 
 I w T ent afar ; the world unrolled 
 Her many-pictured page ; 
 
 I stored the marvels which she told, 
 And trusted to her gage. 
 
 Her pleasures quaff’d, I sought awhile 
 The scenes I priz’d before : 
 
 But parent’s praise and sisters’ smile 
 Stirred my cold heart no more. 
 
 So ever sear, so ever cloy, 
 
 Earth’s favours as they fade, 
 
 Since Adam lost for one fierce joy 
 His Eden’s sacred shade. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 133 
 
 home is now a thousand mile 
 away ; 
 
 Yet in my thoughts its every im?-ge 
 fair 
 
 Rises as keen, as I still lingered there, 
 
 And, turning me, could all I loved survey. 
 
 And so upon Death’s unaverted day, 
 
 As I speed upward, I shall on me bear, 
 
 And in no breathless whirl, the things that 
 were, 
 
 And duties given, and ends I did obey. 
 
 And, when at length I reach the Throne of 
 Power, 
 
 Ah ! still unscared, I shall in fulness see 
 The vision of my past innumerous deeds, 
 
 My deep heart-courses, and their motive-seeds, 
 So to gaze on till the red dooming hour. 
 
 Lord ! in that strait, the Judge ! remember me ! 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 
 ii£ 
 
 OW can I keep my Christmas feast 
 In its due festive show, 
 
 Reft of the sight of the High Priest 
 From whom its glories flow ? 
 
 I hear the tuneful bells around, 
 The blessed towers I see ; 
 
 A stranger on a foreign ground, 
 They peal a fast for me. 
 
 O Britons ! now so brave and high, 
 How will ye weep the day 
 When Christ in judgment passes by, 
 And calls the Bride away ! 
 
 Your Christmas then will lose its mirth, 
 Your Easter lose its bloom : — 
 Abroad, a scene of strife and dearth ; 
 Within, a cheerless home ! 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 135 
 
 ANISHED the House of sacred rest, 
 Amid a thoughtless throng, 
 
 At length I heard its creed confessed, 
 And knelt the Saints among. 
 
 Artless his strain and unadorned, 
 
 Who spoke Christ’s message there ; 
 But what at home I might have scorned, 
 Now charmed my famished ear. 
 
 Lord, grant me this abiding grace, 
 Thy Word and Sons to know, 
 To pierce the veil on Moses’ face, 
 Although his speech be slow ! 
 
136 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 SHAME 
 
 BEAR upon my brow the 
 Of sorrow and of pain : 
 Alas ! no hopeful cross is 
 It is the mark of Cain. 
 
 sign 
 
 mine, 
 
 The course of passion, and the fret 
 Of godless hope and fear — 
 
 Toil, care, and guilt — their hues have set, 
 And fixed that sternness there. 
 
 Saviour ! wash out the imprinted shame ; 
 
 That I no more may pine, 
 
 Sin’s martyr, though not meet to claim 
 Thy cross, a Saint of Thine. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 137 
 
 BONDAGE 
 
 d, prophet, tell me not of peace, 
 Or Christ’s all-loving deeds ; 
 Death only can from sin release, 
 And death to judgment leads. 
 
 Thou from thy birth hast set thy face 
 Towards thy Redeemer Lord, 
 
 To tend and deck His holy place, 
 
 And note His secret word. 
 
 I ne’er shall reach Heaven’s glorious path ; 
 
 Yet haply tears may stay 
 The purpose of His instant wrath. 
 
 And slake the fiery day. 
 
 Then plead for me, thou blessed saint, 
 While I in haste begin, 
 
 All man e’er guessed of work or plaint 
 To wash away my sin. 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 
 138 
 
 TERROR 
 
 WmZv 
 
 >> ■mSt, v. 
 
 FATHER, list a sinner’s call ! 
 Fain would I hide from man 
 fall — 
 
 But I must speak, or faint — 
 
 I cannot wear guilt’s silent thrall : 
 
 Cleanse me, kind Saint ! 
 
 
 my 
 
 “ Sinner ne’er blunted yet sin’s goad ; 
 
 Speed thee, my son, a safer road, 
 
 And sue His pardoning smile 
 Who walked woe’s depths, bearing man’s load 
 Of guilt the while.” 
 
 Yet raise a mitigating hand, 
 
 And minister some potion bland, 
 
 Some present fever-stay ! 
 
 Lest one for whom His work was planned 
 Die of dismay. 
 
 “ Peace cannot be, hope must be thine ; 
 
 I can but lift the Mercy-sign. 
 
 This wouldst thou ? It shall be ! 
 
 Kneel down, and take the word divine, 
 Absolvo te.” 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 139 
 
 RESTLESSNESS 
 
 NCE,as I brooded o’er my guilty state, 
 A fever seized me, duties to devise 
 To buy me interest in my Saviour’s 
 eyes : 
 
 Not that His love I would extenuate, 
 
 But scourge and penance, and perverse self-hate, 
 Or gift of cost, served by an artifice 
 T o quell my restless thoughts and envious sighs 
 And doubts, which fain heaven’s peace would 
 antedate. 
 
 Thus, as I tossed, He said : — “ Even holiest 
 deeds 
 
 Shroud not the soul from God, nor soothe its 
 needs ; 
 
 Deny thee thine own fears, and wait the end ; ” 
 Stern lesson ! Let me con it day by day. 
 
 And learn to kneel before the Omniscient Ray, 
 Nor shrink, while Truth’s avenging shafts 
 descend ! 
 
140 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 THE PAINS OF MEMORY 
 
 HAT time my heart unfolded its fresh 
 leaves, 
 
 In spring-time gay, and scatter’d 
 flowers around, 
 
 A whisper warned of earth’s unhealthy 
 ground, 
 
 And all that there faith’s light and pureness 
 grieves ; 
 
 Sun’s ray and canker-worm, 
 
 And sudden-whelming storm : — 
 But, ah ! my self-will smiled, nor recked the 
 gracious sound. 
 
 So now defilement dims life’s morning springs ; 
 I cannot hear an early-cherished strain, 
 
 But first a joy, and then it brings a pain — 
 Fear, and self-hate, and vain remorseful stings : 
 Tears lull my grief to rest, 
 
 Not without hope, this breast 
 May one day lose its load, and youth yet bloom 
 again. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 141 
 
 DREAMS 
 
 0H ! miserable power 
 To dreams allowed, to raise the 
 guilty past, 
 
 And back awhile the illumined spirit 
 to cast 
 
 On its youth's twilight hour : — 
 
 In mockery guiling it to act again 
 
 The revel or the scoff in Satan's frantic train ! 
 
 
 Nay, hush thee, angry heart ! 
 
 An Angel's grief ill fits a penitent ; 
 
 Welcome the thorn — it is divinely sent, 
 
 And with its wholesome smart 
 Shall pierce thee in thy virtue’s home serene, 
 And warn thee what thou art, and whence thy 
 wealth has been. 
 
H 2 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 CONFESSION 
 
 smile is bright, my glance is free, 
 My voice is calm and clear ; 
 )ear friend, I seem a type to thee 
 Of holy love and fear. 
 
 But I am scanned by eyes unseen, 
 
 And these no saint surround ; 
 
 They mete what is by what has been, 
 
 And joy the lost is found. 
 
 Erst my good Angel shrank to see 
 My thoughts and ways of ill ; 
 
 And now he scarce dare gaze on me. 
 Scar-seamed and crippled still. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 143 
 
 AWE 
 
 BOW at Jesus’ Name, for ’tis the Sign 
 Of awful mercy towards a guilty 
 line. — 
 
 Of shameful ancestry, in birth defiled, 
 And upwards from a child 
 Full of unlovely thoughts and rebel aims, 
 
 As hastening judgment flames, 
 
 How can I lightly view my Means of life ? — 
 The Just assailing sin, and death-strained in 
 the strife ! 
 
 And so, albeit His woe is our release, 
 
 Thought of that woe aye dims our earthly 
 peace ; 
 
 The Life is hidden in a Fount of Blood ! — 
 And this is tidings good, 
 
 But in the Angel’s reckoning, and to those 
 Who Angel-wise have chose 
 And kept, like Paul, a virgin course, content 
 To go where Jesus went ; 
 
 But for the many laden with the spot 
 And earthly taint of sin, ’tis written, “ Touch 
 Me not.” 
 
H4 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 THE CROSS OF CHRIST 
 
 “Ad omnem progressum atque promotum, ad 
 omnem aditum et exitum, ad vestitum ad calciatum, 
 ad lavacra, ad mensas, ad lumina, ad cubilia, ad 
 sedilia, quacunque nos conversatio exercet, frontem 
 Crucis signaculo terimus." — Tertull. de Corona, § 3. 
 
 NE’ER across this sinful flesh of 
 mine 
 
 I draw the Holy Sign, 
 
 1 good thoughts stir within me, 
 and collect 
 Their slumbering strength divine : 
 
 Till there springs up that hope of God’s elect, 
 My faith shall ne’er be wrecked. 
 
 And who shall say, but hateful spirits around, 
 For their brief hour unbound, 
 
 Shudder to see, and wail their overthrow ? 
 
 While on far heathen ground 
 Some lonely Saint hails the fresh odour, though 
 Its source we cannot know. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 145 
 
 DAVID AND JONATHAN 
 
 “ Thy love to me was wonderful, passing the love 
 of women.” 
 
 HEART of fire ! misjudged by wilful 
 man, 
 
 Thou flower of Jesse’s race ! 
 
 What woe was thine, when thou and 
 Jonathan 
 Last greeted face to face ! 
 
 He doomed to die, thou on us to impress 
 The portent of a blood-stained holiness. 
 
 Yet it was well : — for so, mid cares of rule 
 And crime’s encircling tide, 
 
 A spell was o’er thee, zealous one, to cool 
 Earth-joy and kingly pride ; 
 
 With battle scene and pageant, prompt to blend 
 The pale calm spectre of a blameless friend. 
 
 Ah ! had he lived, before thy throne to stand, 
 Thy spirit keen and high, 
 
 Sure it had snapped in twain love’s slender band, 
 So dear in memory ; 
 
 Paul’s strife unblest * its serious lesson gives, 
 He bides with us who dies, he is but lost who 
 lives. 
 
 * Acts xv. 39. 
 
 L 
 
146 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “ Blessed be ye poor.” 
 
 HAVE been honoured and obeyed, 
 
 I have met scorn and slight ; 
 
 And my heart loves earth’s sober shade 
 More than her laughing light. 
 
 For what is rule but a sad weight 
 Of duty and a snare ? 
 
 What meanness, but with happier fate 
 The Saviour’s Cross to share ? 
 
 This my hid choice, though not from heaven, 
 Moves on the heavenward line ; 
 
 Cleanse it, good Lord, from sinful leaven, 
 
 And make it simply Thine. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 147 
 
 MOSES 
 
 ES, the patriot fierce, became 
 The meekest man on earth, 
 
 0 show us how love’s quicken- 
 ing flame 
 
 Can give our souls new birth. 
 
 Moses, the man of meekest heart, 
 
 Lost Canaan by self-will, 
 
 To show where grace has done its part, 
 How sin defiles us still. 
 
 Thou who hast taught me in Thy fear, 
 Yet seest me frail at best, 
 
 O grant me loss with Moses here, 
 
 To gain his future rest ! 
 
148 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “ And we indeed justly ; for we receive the due 
 reward of our deeds.” 
 
 .TAL ! if e’er thy spirits faint, 
 
 By grief or pain opprest, 
 
 :ek not vain hope, or sour com- 
 plaint, 
 
 To cheer or ease thy breast ; 
 
 But view thy bitterest pangs as sent 
 A shadow of that doom, 
 
 Which is thy soul’s just punishment 
 In its own guilt’s true home. 
 
 Be thine own judge : hate thy proud heart ; 
 
 And while the sad drops flow, 
 
 E’en let thy will attend the smart, 
 
 And sanctify thy woe. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 149 
 
 DAVID NUMBERING THE 
 PEOPLE 
 
 “ I am in a great strait : let me fall now into the 
 hand of the Lord.” 
 
 F e’er I fall beneath Thy rod, 
 
 As through life’s snares I go, 
 Save me from David’s lot, O God 1 
 And choose Thyself the woe. 
 
 How should I face Thy plagues ? — which scare, 
 And haunt, and stun, until 
 The heart or sinks in mute despair, 
 
 Or names a random ill. 
 
 If else . . . then guide in David’s path, 
 
 Who chose the holier pain ; 
 
 Satan and man and tools of wrath, 
 
 An Angel’s scourge is gain. 
 
150 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 ABRAHAM 
 
 HE better portion didst thou choose, 
 Great Heart, 
 
 Thy God’s first choice, and pledge 
 of Gentile-grace ! 
 
 Faith’s truest type, he with unruffled face 
 Bore the world’s smile, and bade her slaves 
 depart ; 
 
 Whether, a trader, with no trader’s art, 
 
 He buys in Canaan his first resting-place, — 
 Or freely yields rich Siddim’s ample space, — 
 Or braves the rescue and the battle’s smart, 
 
 Yet scorns the heathen gifts of those he saved. 
 O happy in their soul’s high solitude, 
 
 Who commune thus with God and not with 
 earth ! 
 
 Amid the scoffings of the wealth-enslaved, 
 
 A ready prey, as though m absent mood 
 They calmly move, nor hear the unmannered 
 mirth. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN i;i 
 
 “ Unto the godly there ariseth up light in the 
 darkness.'” 
 
 EAD, kindly Light, amid the en- 
 circling gloom, 
 
 Lead Thou me on ! 
 
 The night is dark, and I am far from 
 home — 
 
 Lead Thou me on ! 
 
 Keep Thou my feet ; I do not ask to see 
 The distant scene, — one step enough for me. 
 
 I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou 
 Shouldst lead me on. 
 
 I loved to choose and see my path ; but now, 
 Lead Thou me on ! 
 
 I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
 
 Pride ruled my will : remember not past years. 
 
 So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still 
 Will lead me on, 
 
 O’er moor and fen, o’er crag and torrent, till 
 The night is gone ; 
 
 And with the morn those Angel faces smile 
 Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 
 
152 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “It is I : be not afraid/'* 
 
 HEN I sink down in gloom or fear, 
 Hope blighted or delayed, 
 
 Thy whisper, Lord, my heart shall 
 cheer, 
 
 “ ’Tis I : be not afraid ! ” 
 
 Or, startled at some sudden blow, 
 
 If fretful thoughts I feel, 
 
 “ Fear not, it is but I ! ” shall flow. 
 
 As balm my wound to heal. 
 
 Nor will I quit Thy way, though foes 
 Some onward pass defend ; 
 
 From each rough voice the watchword goes, 
 u Be not afraid ! . . . a friend ! ” 
 
 And O ! when judgment’s trumpet clear 
 Awakes me from the grave, 
 
 Still in its echo may I hear, 
 
 “ ’Tis Christ ! He comes to save.” 
 
 * Vide Bishop Wilson’s “Sacra Privata ” for 
 Friday. The above lines were written before the 
 appearance of Mr. Lyte’s elegant Poem on the same 
 text. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 153 
 
 “ The Lord stood with me, and strengthened me.” 
 
 SAY not thou art left of God, 
 Because His tokens in the sky 
 Thou canst not read ; this earth He 
 trod 
 
 To teach thee He was ever nigh. 
 
 He sees, beneath the fig-tree green, 
 
 Nathaniel con His sacred lore ; 
 
 Shouldst thou the closet seek, unseen 
 He enters through the unopened door. 
 
 And, when thou liest, by slumber bound, 
 Outwearied in the Christian fight, 
 
 In glory, girt with Saints around, 
 
 He stands above thee through the night. 
 
 When friends to Emmaus bend their course, 
 He joins, although He holds their eyes ; 
 
 Or, shouldst thou feel some fever’s force, 
 
 He takes thy hand, He bids thee rise. 
 
 Or, on a voyage, when calms prevail, 
 
 And prison thee upon the sea, 
 
 He walks the wave, He wings the sail, 
 
 The shore is gained, and thou art free. 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 
 1 54 
 
 JAMES AND JOHN 
 
 ) brothers freely cast their lot, 
 With David’s royal Son ; 
 tie cost of conquest counting not, 
 They deem the battle won. 
 
 Brothers in heart, they hope to gain 
 An undivided joy, 
 
 That man may one with man remain, 
 
 As boy was one with boy. 
 
 Christ heard ; and willed that James should fall 
 First prey of Satan’s rage ; 
 
 John linger out his fellows all, 
 
 And die in bloodless age. 
 
 Now they join hands once more above, 
 
 Before the Conqueror’s throne ; 
 
 Thus God grants prayer ; but in His love 
 Makes times and ways His own. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 155 
 
 “ Whither I go, thou canst not follow Me now, 
 but thou shalt follow Me afterwards.” 
 
 ID we but see, 
 
 When life first opened, how our 
 journey lay 
 
 Between its earliest and its closing 
 day ; 
 
 Or view ourselves, as we one time shall be, 
 Who strive for the high prize, such sight would 
 break 
 
 The youthful spirit, though bold for Jesus’ sake. 
 But Thou, dear Lord ! 
 
 Whilst I traced out bright scenes which were 
 to come, 
 
 Isaac’s pure blessings, and a verdant home, 
 Didst spare me, and withhold Thy fearful 
 word ; 
 
 Wiling me year by year, till I am found 
 A pilgrim pale, with Paul’s sad girdle bound. 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 
 156 
 
 GUARDIAN ANGELS 
 
 
 c|p0p®RE these the tracks of some unearthly 
 Friend, 
 
 His footprints, and his vesture- 
 
 skirts of light, 
 
 Who, as I talk with men, conforms aright 
 Their sympathetic words, or deeds that blend 
 With my hid thought ; — or stoops him to 
 attend 
 
 My doubtful-pleading grief ; — or blunts the 
 might 
 
 Of ill I see not ; — or in dreams of night 
 Figures the scope in which what is will end ? 
 Were I Christ’s own, then fitly might I call 
 That vision real ; for to the thoughtful mind 
 That walks with Him, He half unveils His 
 face ; 
 
 But when on common men such shadows fall, 
 These dare not make their own the gifts they 
 find, 
 
 Yet, not all hopeless, eye His boundless grace. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 157 
 
 WARNINGS 
 
 (For Music ) 
 
 HEN Heaven sends sorrow, 
 Warnings go first, 
 
 Lest it should burst 
 With stunning might 
 On souls too bright 
 
 To fear the morrow. 
 
 Can science bear us 
 
 To the hid springs 
 Of human things ? 
 
 Why may not dream, 
 
 Or thought’s day gleam, 
 
 Startle, yet cheer us ? 
 
 Are such thoughts fetters, 
 
 While faith disowns 
 Dread of earth’s tones, 
 
 Recks but Heaven’s call, 
 
 And on the wall 
 
 Reads but Heaven’s letters r 
 
i 5 8 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 DISCIPLINE 
 
 ,N I look back upon my former 
 race. 
 
 Seasons I see, at which the Inward 
 Ray 
 
 More brightly burned, or guided some new 
 
 _ way ; # 
 
 Truth, in its wealthier scene and nobler space, 
 Given for my eye to range, and feet to trace, 
 And next I mark, ’twas trial did convey, 
 
 Or grief, or pain, or strange eventful day, 
 
 To my tormented soul such larger grace. 
 
 So now, whene’er, in journeying on, I feel 
 The shadow of the Providential Hand, 
 
 Deep breathless stirrings shoot across my breast, 
 Searching to know what He will now reveal, 
 What sin uncloak, what stricter rule command, 
 And girding me to work His full behest. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 159 
 
 HENE’ER I seek the Holy Altar’s 
 rail, 
 
 a And kneel to take the grace there 
 JUUil. offered me, 
 
 It is no time to task my reason frail, 
 
 To try Christ’s words, and search how they 
 may be ; 
 
 Enough, I eat His Flesh and drink His Blood, 
 More is not told — to ask it is not good. 
 
 I will not say with these, that bread and wine 
 Have vanish’d at the consecration prayer ; 
 Far less with those deny that aught divine 
 And of immortal seed is hidden there. 
 Hence, disputants ! The din, which ye admire, 
 Keeps but ill measure with the Church’s choir. 
 
i6o 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “He is not the God of the dead, but of the living $ 
 for all live unto Him.” 
 
 E Fathers are in dust, yet live to 
 God : ” 
 
 So says the Truth ; as if the 
 motionless clay 
 
 Still held the seeds of life beneath the sod, 
 Smouldering and struggling till the judg- 
 ment-day. 
 
 And hence we learn with reverence to esteem 
 Of these frail houses, though the grave con- 
 fines ; 
 
 Sophist may urge his cunning tests, and deem 
 That they are earth ; — but they are heavenly 
 shrines. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 161 
 
 “The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man 
 availeth much.” 
 
 ERE is not on the earth a soul so 
 base 
 
 But may obtain a place 
 In covenanted grace ; 
 
 So that forthwith his prayer of faith obtains 
 Release of his guilt-stains, 
 
 And first-fruits of the second birth, which rise 
 From gift to gift, and reach at length the 
 eternal prize. 
 
 All may save self ; — but minds that heavenward 
 tower 
 
 Aim at a wider power, 
 
 Gifts on the world to shower. — 
 
 And this is not at once ; — by fastings gained, 
 And trials well sustained, 
 
 By pureness, righteous deeds, and toils of love, 
 Abidance in the Truth, and zeal for God above. 
 
 M 
 
162 THE POEMS OF 
 
 JOSEPH 
 
 ; :.mtm s 
 
 
 PUREST semblance of the Eternal 
 Son ! 
 
 Who dwelt in thee as in some 
 blessed shrine, 
 
 To draw hearts after thee and make them 
 thine ; 
 
 Not parent only by that light was won, 
 
 And brethren crouched who had in wrath 
 begun, 
 
 E’en heathen pomp abased her at the sign 
 Of a hid God, and drank the sound divine, 
 Till a king heard, and all thou bad’st was done. 
 Then was fulfill’d Nature’s dim augury, 
 
 That, “ Wisdom, clad in visible form, would be 
 So fair, that all must love and bow the knee * 
 Lest it might seem, what time the Substance 
 came, 
 
 Truth lacked a sceptre, when It but laid by 
 Its beaming front, and bore a willing shame. 
 
 * H (J)p6vrj(ris ovx Sparai' deiyovs yap hv Trapeix*v 
 epooras, et roiovrov eavrrjs ivapyes eftouA ov rapfix^ro 
 eis i6v. 
 
 Plat. Phaed, 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 163 
 
 THE HAVEN 
 
 HENCE is this awe, by stillness 
 spread 
 
 O’er the world-fretted soul ? 
 
 Wave reared on wave its boastful head, 
 While my keen bark, by breezes sped, 
 
 Dash’d fiercely through the ocean bed, 
 
 And chafed towards its goal. 
 
 But now there reigns so deep a rest, 
 That I could almost weep. 
 Sinner ! thou hast in this rare guest 
 Of Adam’s peace a figure blest ; 
 
 ’Tis Eden seen, but not possessed, 
 Which cherub flames still keep. 
 
164 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 THE DESERT 
 
 ) sinners have been grace-endued, 
 Unwearied to sustain 
 >r forty days a solitude 
 
 On mount and desert plain. 
 
 But feverish thoughts the breasts have swayed, 
 And gloom or pride is shown, 
 
 If e’er we seek the garden’s shade, 
 
 Or walk the world, alone. 
 
 For Adam e’en, before his sin, 
 
 His God a help-meet found ; 
 
 Blest with an Angel’s heart within, 
 
 Paul wrought with friends around. 
 
 Lone saints of old, of purpose high ! 
 
 On Syria’s sands ye claim, 
 
 Mid heathen rage, our sympathy, 
 
 In peace ye force our blame. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 165 
 
 DEATH 
 
 HENE’ER goes forth Thy dread 
 command, 
 
 And my last hour is nigh, 
 Lord, grant me in a Christian land, 
 As I was born, to die. 
 
 I pray not, Lord, that frends may be 
 Or kindred standing by ; 
 
 Choice blessing ! which I leave to Thee, 
 
 To give me, or deny. 
 
 But let my failing limbs beneath 
 My mother’s smile recline ; 
 
 My name in sickness and in death 
 Heard in her sacred shrine. 
 
 And may the Cross beside my bed 
 In its meet emblems rest ; 
 
 And may the absolving words be said, 
 
 To ease a laden breast. 
 
 Thou, Lord ! where’er we lie, canst aid ; 
 But He, who taught His own 
 
 To live as one, will not upbraid 
 The dread to die alone. 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 
 1 66 
 
 “Man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth 
 himself in vain. 1 ’ 
 
 EY do but grope in learning’s 
 pedant round, 
 
 Who on the fantasies of sense bestow 
 An idol substance, bidding us bow 
 low 
 
 Before those shades of being which are found 
 Stirring or still on man’s brief trial ground ; 
 
 As if such shapes and moods, which come 
 and go, 
 
 Had aught of Truth or Life in their poor 
 show, 
 
 To sway or judge, and skill to sain or wound. 
 Son of immortal Seed, high destined Man ! 
 Know thy dread gift, — a creature, yet a cause ; 
 Each mind is its own centre, and it draws 
 Home to itself, and moulds in its thought’s span 
 All outward things, the vassals of its will, 
 
 Aided by Heaven, by earth unthwarted still. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 167 
 
 MELCHIZEDEK 
 
 “ Without father, without mother, without de- 
 scent, having neither beginning of days, nor end 
 of life.'” 
 
 HRICE blest are they who feel their 
 loneliness ; 
 
 To whom nor voice of friend nor 
 pleasant scene 
 Brings that on which the saddened heart 
 can lean ; 
 
 Yea, the rich earth, garbed in its daintiest dress 
 Of light and joy, doth but the more oppress, 
 Claiming responsive smiles and rapture high : 
 Till, sick at heart, beyond the vail they fly, 
 Seeking His presence, who alone can bless. 
 Such, in strange days, the weapons of Heaven’s 
 grace 
 
 When, passing o’er the high-born Hebrew line, 
 He forms the vessel of his vast design ; 
 Fatherless, homeless, reft of age and place, 
 Severed from earth, and careless of its wreck, 
 Born through long woe His rare Melchizedek. 
 
1 68 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 SIREN ISLES 
 
 EASE, Stranger, cease those piercing 
 notes, 
 
 The craft of Siren choirs ; 
 
 Hush the seductive voice, that floats 
 Upon the languid wires. 
 
 Music’s ethereal fire was given, 
 
 Not to dissolve our clay, 
 
 But draw Promethean beams from Heaven, 
 And purge the dross away. 
 
 Weak self! with thee the mischief lies, 
 Those throbs a tale disclose ; 
 
 Nor age nor trial have made wise 
 The Man of many woes. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 169 
 
 MESSENA 
 
 HY, wedded to the Lord, still yearns 
 my heart 
 
 Upon these scenes of ancient 
 heathen fame ? 
 
 Yet legend hoar, and voice of bard that came 
 Fixing my restless youth with its sweet art, 
 And shades of power, and those who bore their 
 part 
 
 In the mad deeds that set the world in flame, 
 So fret my memory here, — ah ! is it blame — 
 That from my eyes the tear is fain to start ? 
 Nay, from no fount impure these drops arise ; 
 ’Tis but the sympathy with Adam’s race, 
 Which in each brother’s history reads its own. 
 So, let the cliffs and seas of this fair place 
 Be named man’s tomb and splendid record- 
 stone, 
 
 High hope pride-stained, the course without 
 the prize. 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 
 170 
 
 TAUROMINIUM 
 
 “And Jacob went on his way, and the Angels of 
 God met him.” 
 
 AY, hast thou tracked a traveller’s round 
 Nor visions met thee there, 
 
 Thou couldstbut marvel to have found 
 This blighted world so fair ? 
 
 And feel an awe within thee rise, 
 
 That sinful man should see 
 Glories far worthier Seraph’s eyes 
 Than to be shared by thee ? 
 
 Store them in heart ! thou shalt not faint 
 ’Mid coming pains and fears, 
 
 As the third heaven once nerved a Saint 
 For fourteen trial years. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 171 
 
 CORCYRA 
 
 SAT beneath an olive’s branches grey 
 And gazed upon the site of a lost 
 town, 
 
 By sage and poet chosen for renown ; 
 Where dwelt a Race that on the sea held sway, 
 And, restless as its waters, forced a way 
 For civil strife a thousand states to drown. 
 That multitudinous stream we now note down, 
 As though one life, in birth and in decay. 
 
 Yet, is their being’s history spent and run, 
 Whose spirits live in awful singleness, 
 
 Each in his self-formed sphere of light or 
 gloom ? 
 
 Henceforth, while pondering the fierce deeds 
 then done, 
 
 Such reverence on me shall its seal impress, 
 
 As though I corpses saw, and walked the tomb. 
 
172 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 REMOVAL 
 
 EAR sainted Friends, I call not you 
 To share the joy serene 
 Which flows upon me from the view 
 Of crag and steep ravine. 
 
 Ye, on that loftier mountain old, 
 
 Safe lodged in Eden’s cell, 
 
 Whence run the rivers four, behold 
 This earth, as ere it fell. 
 
 Or, when ye think of those who stay. 
 
 Still tried by the world’s fight, 
 
 ’Tis but in looking for the day| 
 
 Which shall the lost unite. 
 
 Ye rather, elder Spirits strong ! 
 
 Who from the first have trod 
 This nether scene, man’s race among, 
 
 The while ye live to God. 
 
 Ye hear, and ye can sympathize — 
 
 Vain thought ! those eyes of fire 
 Pierce thro’ God’s works, and duly prize ; 
 
 Ye smile when we admire. 
 
 Ah, Saviour Lord ! with Thee my heart 
 Angel nor Saint shall share ; 
 
 To Thee ’tis known, for man Thou art, 
 
 To soothe each tumult there. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 173 
 
 REST 
 
 IY are at rest : 
 
 r e may not stir the heaven of their 
 repose 
 
 7 rude invoking voice, or prayer 
 addrest 
 In waywardness to those 
 Who in the mountain grots of Eden lie, 
 
 And hear the fourfold river as it murmurs by. 
 
 They hear it sweep 
 
 In distance down the dark and savage vale ; 
 
 But they at rocky bed, or current deep, 
 
 Shall never more grow pale ; 
 
 They hear, and meekly muse, as fain to know 
 How long untired, unspent, that giant stream 
 shall flow. 
 
 And soothing sounds, 
 
 Blend with the neighbouring waters as they 
 glide ; 
 
 Posted along the haunted garden’s bounds, 
 Angelic forms abide, 
 
 Echoing, as words of watch, o’er lawn and 
 grove 
 
 The verses of that hymn which Seraphs chant 
 above. 
 
1 74 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 PRAYER 
 
 HILE Moses on the Mountain lay, 
 Night after night, and day by day, 
 Till forty suns were gone, 
 Unconscious, in the Presence bright, 
 Of lustrous day and starry night, 
 
 As though his soul had flitted quite 
 From earth, and Eden won ; 
 
 The pageant of a kingdom vast, 
 
 And things unutterable, past 
 Before the Prophet’s eye ; 
 
 Dread shadows of the Eternal Throne, 
 
 The fount of Life, and Altar-stone, 
 
 Pavement, and them that tread thereon, 
 
 And those who worship nigh. 
 
 But lest he should his own forget, 
 
 Who in the vale were struggling yet, 
 
 A sadder vision came, 
 
 Announcing all that guilty deed 
 Of idol rite, that in her need 
 He for the Church might intercede, 
 
 And stay Heaven’s rising flame. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 175 
 
 ISAAC 
 
 the guileless years the Patriarch 
 spent, 
 
 essed in the wife a father’s fore- 
 sight chose ; 
 
 Many the prayers and gracious deeds which 
 rose, 
 
 Daily thank-offerings from his pilgrim tent. 
 
 Yet these, though written in the heavens, are 
 rent 
 
 From out truth’s lower roll, which sternly 
 shows 
 
 But one sad trespass at his history’s close, 
 Father’s, son’s, mother’s, and its punishment. 
 Not in their brightness, but their earthly stains 
 Are the true seed vouchsafed to earthly eyes. 
 Sin can read sin, but dimly scans high grace ; 
 
 So we move heavenward with averted face, 
 Scared into faith by warning of sin’s pains ; 
 
 And Saints are lowered, that the world may rise. 
 
1 76 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 THE CALL OF DAVID 
 
 “ And the Lord said, Arise, anoint him : for this 
 is he.’ J 
 
 B ATEST born of Jesse’s race, 
 
 Wonder lights thy bashful face, 
 While the prophet’s gifted oil 
 Seals thee for a path of toil. 
 
 We, thy Angels, circling round thee, 
 
 Ne’er shall find thee as we found thee, 
 When thy faith first brought us near 
 In thy lion-fight severe. 
 
 Go ! and mid thy flocks awhile, 
 
 At thy doom of greatness smile ; 
 
 Bold to bear God’s heaviest load, 
 
 Dimly guessing of the road, — 
 
 Rocky road, and scarce ascended, 
 
 Though thy foot be angel-tended ; 
 
 Double praise thou shalt attain, 
 
 In royal court and battle plain ; 
 
 Then comes heart-ache, care, distress, 
 Blighted hope, and loneliness ; 
 
 Wounds from friend and gifts from foe, 
 Dizzied faith, and guilt, and woe, 
 
 Loftiest aims by earth defiled, 
 
 Gleams of wisdom sin-beguiled, 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 177 
 
 Sated power’s tyrannic mood, 
 
 Counsels shared with men of blood, 
 
 Sad success, parental tears, 
 
 And a dreary gift of years. 
 
 Strange, that guileless face and form 
 To lavish on the scarring storm ! 
 
 Yet we take thee in thy blindness, 
 
 And we harass thee in kindness ; 
 
 Little chary of thy fame, — 
 
 Dust unborn may bless or blame. — 
 
 But we mould thee for the root 
 Of man’s promised healing fruit, 
 
 And we mould thee hence to rise 
 As our brother to the skies. 
 
 N 
 
178 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “ They glorified God In me/’ 
 
 SAW thee once, and nought discerned 
 For stranger to admire ; 
 
 A serious aspect, but it burned 
 With no unearthly fire. 
 
 Again I saw, and I confessed 
 
 Thy speech was rare and high ; 
 And yet it vexed my burdened breast, 
 And scared, I knew not why. 
 
 I saw once more, and awe-struck gazed 
 On face, and form, and air ; 
 
 God’s living glory round thee blazed — 
 A Saint — a Saint was there ! 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 179 
 
 “ I fear, lest, when I come, I shall not find you 
 such as I would, and that I shall be found unto you 
 such as ye would not.” 
 
 DREAMED that, with a passionate 
 complaint, 
 
 I wished me born amid God’s deeds 
 of might ; 
 
 And envied those who saw the presence 
 bright 
 
 Of gifted Prophet and strong-hearted Saint, 
 Whom my heart loves, and fancy strives to 
 paint. 
 
 I turned, when straight a stranger met my 
 sight, 
 
 Came as my guest, and did awhile unite 
 His lot with mine, and lived without restraint. 
 Courteous he was, and grave, — so meek in mien, 
 It seemed untrue, or told a purpose weak ; 
 
 Yet in the mood, he could with aptness speak, 
 Or with stern force, or show of feelings keen, 
 Marking deep craft, methought, or hidden 
 pride : 
 
 Then came a voice — “ St. Paul is at thy side ! ” 
 
i8o 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “ Him that escapeth from the sword of Jehu shall 
 Elisha slay.” 
 
 HlRIST bade His followers take the 
 sword, 
 
 And yet He chid the deed, 
 
 When Peter seized upon His word, 
 And made a foe to bleed. 
 
 The Gospel Creed, a sword of strife, 
 Meek hands alone may rear ; 
 
 And ever Zeal begin its life 
 In silent thought and fear. 
 
 Ye, who would weed the Vineyard’s soil, 
 Treasure the lesson given ; 
 
 Lest in the judgment-books ye toil 
 For Satan, not for heaven. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 181 
 
 “ Come with me, and see my zeal for the Lord.” 
 
 iOU to wax fierce 
 
 In the cause of the Lord, 
 To threat and to pierce 
 With the heavenly sword ; 
 Anger and Zeal, 
 
 And the Joy of the brave, 
 
 Who bade thee to feel, 
 
 Sin’s slave. 
 
 The Altar’s pure flame 
 Consumes as it soars ; 
 
 Faith meetly may blame, 
 
 For it serves and adores. 
 
 Thou warnest and smitest ! 
 
 Yet Christ must atone 
 For a soul that thou slightest — 
 
 Thine own. 
 
182 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 HY words are good and freely given, 
 As though thou felt them true ; 
 Friend, think thee well, to hell or 
 heaven 
 
 A serious heart is due. 
 
 It pains thee sore man’s will should swerve 
 In his true path divine ; 
 
 And yet thou venturest not to serve 
 Thy neighbour’s weal nor thine. 
 
 Beware ! such words may once be said, 
 Where shame and fear unite ; 
 
 But, spoken twice, they mark instead 
 A sin against the light. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 183 
 
 DEEDS NOT WORDS 
 
 RUNE thou thy words, the thoughts 
 control 
 
 That o’er thee swell and throng ; 
 They will condense within thy soul, 
 And change io purpose strong. 
 
 But he, who lets his feelings run 
 In soft luxurious flow, 
 
 Shrinks when hard service must be done, 
 
 And faints at every woe. 
 
 Faith’s meanest deed more favour bears, 
 
 Where hearts and wills are weighed, 
 
 Than brightest transports, choicest prayers, 
 Which bloom their hour and fade. 
 
184 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “ I have need to be baptized of Thee, and comest 
 Thou to me ? ” 
 
 OW didst thou start, Thou Holy 
 Baptist, bid 
 
 To pour repentance on the Sinless 
 Brow ! 
 
 Then all thy meekness, from thy hearers hid 
 Beneath the Ascetic’s port and Preacher’s fire, 
 Flowed forth, and with a pang thou didst 
 desire 
 
 He might be chief, not thou. 
 
 And so on us, at whiles, it falls to claim 
 
 Powers that we fear, or dare some forward 
 part ; 
 
 Nor must we shrink as cravens from the blame 
 Of pride, in common eyes, or purpose deep ; 
 But with pure thoughts look up to God, and 
 keep 
 
 Our secret in our heart. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 185 
 
 SLEEP 
 
 N WEARIED God! before whose face 
 The night is clear as day, 
 
 Whilst we, poor worms, o’er life’s 
 brief race 
 Now creep, and now delay ; 
 
 We with death’s foretaste alternate 
 Our labour’s dint and sorrow’s weight, 
 
 Save in that fever-troubled state 
 When pain and care hold sway. 
 
 Dread Lord ! Thy glory, watchfulness, 
 
 Is but disease in man : 
 
 Oh ! hence upon our hearts impress 
 Our place in the world’s plan ! 
 
 Pride grasps the powers by Heaven displayed ; 
 But ne’er the rebel effort made 
 But fell beneath the sudden shade 
 Of nature’s withering ban. 
 
1 86 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 THE ELEMENTS 
 
 7roAAa Ta 5e*Va, kuvSo' 
 aj/OpuTTOu deii'6r€pov irsAei. 
 
 JAN is permitted much 
 To scan and learn 
 In Nature’s frame ; 
 
 Till he well-nigh can tame 
 Brute mischiefs, and can touch 
 Invisible things, and turn 
 All warring ills to purposes of good. 
 Thus as a God below, 
 
 He can control, 
 
 And harmonize what seems amiss to flow 
 As severed from the whole 
 And dimly understood. 
 
 But o’er the elements 
 One Hand alone, 
 
 One Hand has sway. 
 
 What influence day by day 
 In straiter belts prevents 
 The impious Ocean, thrown 
 Alternate o’er the ever-sounding shore ? 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 187 
 
 Or who has eye to trace 
 How the Plague came ? 
 
 Forerun the doublings of the Tempest’s race ? 
 Or the Air’s weight and flame 
 On a set scale explore ! 
 
 Thus God has willed 
 That man, when fully skilled, 
 
 Still gropes in twilight dim ; 
 
 Encompassed all his hours 
 By fearfullest powers 
 Inflexible to him ; 
 
 That so he may discern 
 His feebleness, 
 
 And e’en for earth’s success 
 To Him in wisdom turn, 
 
 Who holds for us the Keys of either home, 
 Earth and the world to come. 
 
1 88 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “Freely ye have received : freely give." 
 
 any boon for peace ! 
 ty should our fair-eyed Mother 
 :’er engage 
 
 the world’s course and on a 
 troubled stage, 
 
 From which her very call is a release ? 
 
 No ! in thy garden stand, 
 
 And tend with pious hand 
 The flowers thou findest there, 
 
 Which are thy proper care, 
 
 O man of God ! in meekness and in love, 
 
 And waiting for the blissful realms above.” 
 
 Alas ! for thou must learn, 
 
 Thou guileless one ! rough is the holy hand ; 
 Runs not the Word of Truth through every land, 
 A sword to sever, and a fire to burn ? 
 
 If blessed Paul had stayed 
 In cot or learned shade, 
 
 With the priest’s white attire, 
 
 And the saints’ tuneful choir, 
 
 Men had not gnashed their teeth, nor risen to 
 slay, 
 
 But thou hadst been a heathen in thy day. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 189 
 
 E was, I shrank from what was 
 right, 
 
 From fear of what was wrong ; 
 would not brave the sacred fight, 
 Because the foe was strong. 
 
 But now I cast that finer sense 
 And sorer shame aside ; 
 
 Such dread of sin was indolence, 
 
 Such aim at heaven was pride. 
 
 So, when my Saviour calls, I rise, 
 
 And calmly do my best ; 
 
 Leaving to Him, with silent eyes 
 Of hope and fear, the rest, 
 
 I step, I mount where He has led ; 
 
 Men count my haltings o’er ; — 
 
 I know them ; yet, though self I dread, 
 
 I love His precept more. 
 
190 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 ITATAOT MIMHTH2 
 
 LORD ! when sin’s close marshalled 
 line 
 
 Urges Thy witness on his way, 
 How should he raise Thy glorious 
 Sign, 
 
 And how Thy will display ? 
 
 Thy holy Paul, with soul of flame, 
 
 Rose on Mars’-hill a soldier lone ; 
 
 Shall I thus speak the Atoning Name 
 Though with a heart of stone ? 
 
 “ Not so,” He said : — “ hush thee, and seek, 
 With thoughts in prayer and watchful eyes, 
 My seasons sent for thee to speak, 
 
 And use them as they rise.” 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 19 1 
 
 THE SAINT AND THE 
 HERO 
 
 AGED Saint ! far off I heard 
 The praises of thy name ; 
 
 Thy deed of power, thy skilful word, 
 Thy zeal’s triumphant flame. 
 
 I came and saw ; and, having seen, 
 
 Weak heart, I drew offence 
 From thy prompt smile, thy simple mien, 
 
 Thy lowly diligence. 
 
 The Saint’s is not the Hero’s praise ; — 
 
 This have I found, and learn 
 Nor to profane Heaven’s humblest ways, 
 
 Nor its least boon to spurn. 
 
192 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 JONAH 
 
 “But Jonah rose up to flee unto Tarshish, from the 
 presence of the Lord/’ 
 
 EEP in his meditative bower, 
 
 The tranquil seer reclined ; 
 Numbering the creepers of an hour, 
 The gourds which o’er him twined. 
 
 To note each plant, to rear each fruit 
 Which soothes the languid sense, 
 
 He deemed a safe refined pursuit, — 
 
 His Lord, an indolence. 
 
 The sudden voice was heard at length, 
 
 “ Lift thou the prophet’s rod ! ” 
 
 But sloth had sapped the prophet’s strength, 
 He feared, and fled from God. 
 
 Next, by a fearful judgment tamed, 
 
 He threats the offending race ; 
 
 God spares ; — he murmurs, pride-inflamed, 
 
 His threat made void by grace. 
 
 What ? — pride and sloth ! man’s worst of foes ! 
 
 And can such guests invade 
 Our choicest bliss, the green repose 
 Of the sweet garden shade ? 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 193 
 
 JEREMIAH 
 
 “ Oh that I had in the wilderness a lodging-place 
 of wayfaring men ; that I might leave my people, 
 and go from them.” 
 
 ,’S me ! ” the peaceful prophet 
 cried, 
 
 “ Spare me this troubled life ; 
 o stem man’s wrath, to school his 
 pride, 
 
 To head the sacred strife ! 
 
 “ O place me in some silent vale, 
 
 Where groves and flowers abound ; 
 
 Nor eyes that grudge, nor tongues that rail, 
 Vex the truth-haunted ground ! ” 
 
 If his meek spirit erred, opprest 
 That God denied repose, 
 
 What sin is ours, to whom Heaven’s rest 
 Is pledged to heal earth’s woes ? 
 
 o 
 
194 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 ST. PAUL AT MELITA 
 
 “ And when Paul had gathered a bundle of sticks, 
 and laid them on the fire, there came a viper out of 
 the heat.” 
 
 ECURE in his prophetic strength, 
 The water peril o’er, 
 
 The many-gifted man at length 
 Stept on the promised shore. 
 
 He trod the shore ; but not to rest, 
 Nor wait till Angels came ; 
 
 Lo ! humblest pains the Saint attest, 
 The firebrands and the flame. 
 
 But when he felt the viper’s smart, 
 Then instant aid was given : 
 Christian ! hence learn to do thy part, 
 And leave the rest to Heaven. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 195 
 
 “ Am I my brother's keeper ? *' 
 
 ME time has been, it seemed a precept 
 plain 
 
 Of the true faith, Christ’s tokens 
 to display ; 
 
 And in life’s commerce still the thought 
 retain, 
 
 That men have souls, and wait a judg- 
 ment-day ; 
 
 Kings used their gifts as ministers of heaven, 
 Nor stripped their zeal for God of means which 
 God had given. 
 
 ’Tis altered now ; — for Adam’s eldest born 
 Has trained our practice in a selfish rule ; 
 
 Each stands alone, Christ’s bonds asunder 
 torn, 
 
 Each has his private thought, selects his 
 school, 
 
 Conceals his creed, and lives in closest tie 
 Of fellowship with those who count it blas- 
 phemy. 
 
1 96 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Brothers ! spare reasoning ; — men have settled 
 long 
 
 That ye are out of date, and they are wise ; 
 
 Use their own weapons ; let your words be 
 strong, 
 
 Your cry be loud, till each scared boaster 
 Hies ; 
 
 Thus the Apostles tamed the pagan breast, 
 They argued not, but preached ; and conscience 
 did the rest. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 197 
 
 ZEAL BEFORE LOVE 
 
 ND wouldst thou reach, rash scholar 
 mine, 
 
 Love’s high unruffled state ? 
 
 Awake ! thy easy dreams resign : 
 First learn thee how to hate. 
 
 Hatred of sin, and Zeal, and Fear, 
 
 Lead up the Holy Hill ; 
 
 Track them, till Charity appear 
 A self-denial still. 
 
 Feeble and false the brightest flame 
 By thoughts severe unfed ; 
 
 Book-lore ne’er served, when trial came, 
 Nor gifts, where Faith was dead. 
 
198 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 THE WRATH TO COME 
 
 IN first God stirred me, and the 
 Church’s word 
 
 Came as a theme of reverent search 
 and fear, 
 
 It little cost to own the lustre clear 
 O’er rule she taught, and rite, and doctrine 
 poured ; 
 
 For conscience craved, and reason did accord. 
 Yet one there was that wore a mien austere, 
 And I did doubt, and, troubled, asked to 
 hear 
 
 Whose mouth had force to edge so sharp a 
 sword. 
 
 My Mother oped her trust, the Holy Book, 
 And healed my pang. She pointed, and I found 
 Christ on Himself, considerate Master, took 
 The utterance of that doctrine’s fearful sound. 
 The fount of Love His servants sends to tell 
 Love’s deeds ; Himself reveals the sinner’s hell. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 199 
 
 THE COURSE OF TRUTH 
 
 “ Him God raised up the third day, and showed 
 Him openly, not to all the people, but unto wit- 
 nesses chosen before of God.” 
 
 HEN royal Truth, released from 
 mortal throes, 
 
 Burst His brief slumber, and tri- 
 umphant rose, 
 
 111 had the Holiest sued 
 A patron multitude, 
 
 Or courted Tetrarch’s eye, or claimed to rule 
 By the world’s winning grace, or proofs from 
 learned school. 
 
 But, robing Him in viewless air, He told 
 His secret to a few of meanest mould ; 
 
 They in their turn imparted 
 The gift to men pure-hearted. 
 
 While the brute many heard His mysteries 
 high, 
 
 As some strange fearful tongue, they crouched 
 they knew not why. 
 
200 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Still is the might of Truth, as it has been : 
 Lodged in the few, obeyed, and yet unseen. 
 Reared on lone heights, and rare, 
 
 His Saints their watch-flame bear, 
 And the mad world sees the wide-circling 
 blaze, 
 
 Vain-searching whence it streams, and how to 
 quench its rays. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 201 
 
 THE WATCHMAN 
 
 “Quit you like men, be strong.” 
 
 AINT not, and fret not, for threatened 
 woe, 
 
 Watchman on Truth’s grey 
 height ! 
 
 Few though the faithful, and fierce though the 
 foe. 
 
 Weakness is aye Heaven’s might. 
 
 Infidel Ammon and niggard Tyre, 
 
 Ill-attuned pair, unite ; 
 
 Some work for love, and some work for hire, 
 But weakness shall be Heaven’s might ! 
 
 Eli’s feebleness, Saul’s black wrath, 
 
 May aid Ahitophel’s spite : 
 
 And prayers from Gerizim, and curses from 
 Gath . . . 
 
 Our weakness shall be Heaven’s might. 
 
 Quail not, and quake not, thou Warder bold. 
 Be there no friend in sight ; 
 
 Turn thee to question the days of old. 
 
 When weakness was aye Heaven’s might. 
 
202 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Moses was one, yet he stayed the sin 
 
 Of the host, in the Presence bright ; 
 
 And Elias scorned the Carmel-din, 
 
 When Baal would scan Heaven’s might. 
 
 Time’s years are many, Eternity one, 
 
 And one is the Infinite ; 
 
 The chosen are few, few the deeds well done, 
 For scantness is still Heaven’s might. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 203 
 
 VEXATIONS 
 
 ACH trial has its weight ; which 
 whoso bears, 
 
 Knows his own woe, and need of 
 succouring grace ; 
 
 The martyr’s hope half wipes away the trace 
 
 Of flowing blood ; the while life’s humblest 
 cares 
 
 Smart more, because they hold in Holy Writ 
 no place. 
 
 This be my comfort, in these days of grief 
 
 Which is not Christ’s, nor forms heroic tale. 
 
 Apart from Him if not a sparrow fail, 
 
 May not He pitying view, and send relief 
 When foes or friends perplex, and peevish 
 thoughts prevail ? 
 
 Then keep good heart ; nor take the self- 
 wise course 
 
 Of Thomas, who must see ere he would 
 trust. 
 
 Faith will fill up God’s word, not poorly 
 just 
 
 To the bare letter, heedless of its force, 
 
 But walking by its light amid earth’s sun and 
 dust. 
 
204 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 THE GREEK FATHERS 
 
 JET others sing thy heathen praise, 
 Fallen Greece ! the thought of holier 
 days 
 
 In my sad heart abides ; 
 
 For sons of thine in Truth’s first hour 
 Were tongues and weapons of his power, 
 
 Born of the Spirit’s fiery shower, 
 
 Our fathers and our guides. 
 
 All thine is Clement’s varied page ; 
 And Dionysius, ruler sage 
 In days of doubt and pain ; 
 
 And Origen, with eagle eye ; 
 
 And saintly Basil’s purpose high 
 To smite imperial heresy, 
 
 And cleanse the Altar’s stain. 
 
 From thee the glorious preacher came 
 With soul of zeal and lips of flame, 
 
 A court’s stern martyr-guest ; 
 
 And thine, O inexhaustive race ; 
 
 Was Nazianzen’s heaven-taught grace ; 
 And royal-hearted Athanase, 
 
 With Paul’s own mantle blest. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 205 
 
 ATHANASIUS 
 
 HEN shall our northern Church her 
 champion see, 
 
 Raised by divine decree, 
 
 To shield the Ancient Truth at his 
 own harm ? . . . 
 
 Like him who stayed the arm 
 Of tyrannous power, and learning’s sophist-tone, 
 Keen-visioned Seer, alone. 
 
 The many crouched before an idol-priest, 
 
 Lord of the world’s rank feast. 
 
 In the dark night, mid the saints’ trial sore, 
 
 He stood, then bowed before 
 The Holy Mysteries, — he their meetest sign, 
 Weak vessel, yet divine.* 
 
 Cyprian is ours, since the high-souled primate laid 
 Under the traitorous blade 
 His silvered head. And Chrysostom we claim 
 In that clear eloquent flame 
 And deep-taught zeal in the same woe, which 
 shone 
 
 Bright round a Martyr’s throne. 
 
 * Fide the account of Syrianus breaking into his 
 Church, Theodoret Hist., ii. 13. 
 
20 6 THE POEMS OF 
 
 And Ambrose reared his crosier as of old, 
 
 Less honoured, but as bold, 
 
 When in dark times our champion crossed a 
 king 
 
 But good in everything 
 
 Comes as ill’s cure. Dim Future ! shall we 
 need 
 
 A prophet for Truth’s Creed ? 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 207 
 
 GREGORIUS THEOLOGUS 
 
 EACE-LOVING man, of humble 
 heart and true ! 
 
 What dost thou hear ? 
 
 Fierce is the city’s crowd ; the lordly 
 few 
 
 Are dull of ear ! 
 
 Sore pain it was to thee, till thou didst quit 
 Thy patriarch-throne at length, as though for 
 power unlit. 
 
 So works the All-wise ! our services dividing 
 Not as we ask : 
 
 For the world’s profit, by our gifts deciding 
 Our duty-task. 
 
 See in king’s courts loth Jeremiah plead ; 
 
 And slow-tongued Moses rule by eloquence of 
 deed ! 
 
 Yes ! thou, bright Angel of the East, didst rear 
 The Cross divine, 
 
 Borne high upon thy clear-voiced accents, where 
 Men mocked the Sign ; 
 
 Till that cold city heard thy battle-cry, 
 
 And hearts were stirred, and deemed a Pentecost 
 was nigh. 
 
208 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Thou couldst a people raise, but couldst not 
 rule : — 
 
 So, gentle one, 
 
 Heaven broke at last the consecrated tool 
 Whose work w^as done ; 
 
 According thee the lot thou lovedst best, — 
 
 To muse upon times past, to serve, yet be at 
 rest. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 209 
 
 HEN I would search the truths that 
 in me burn, 
 
 And mould them into rule and 
 argument, 
 
 A hundred reasoners cried : — “ Hast thou to 
 learn 
 
 “ Those dreams are scattered now, those fires 
 are spent ? ” 
 
 And, did I mount to simpler thoughts and 
 try 
 
 Some theme of peace, ’twas still the same 
 reply. 
 
 Perplexed, I hoped my heart was pure of 
 guile, 
 
 But judged me weak in wit, to disagree ; 
 
 But now I see, that men were mad awhile, 
 
 And joy the age to come will think with 
 me ; 
 
 ’Tis the old history ; — Truth without a home, 
 
 Despised and slain — then, rising from the 
 tomb. 
 
 P 
 
210 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 *‘I saw all Israel scattered upon the hills as sheep 
 that have not a shepherd. 1 ’ 
 
 R wanderers, ye are sore distrest 
 ) find that path which Christ has 
 blest, 
 
 Tracked by His saintly throng ; 
 Each claims to trust his own weak will, 
 
 Blind idol ! — so ye languish still, 
 
 All wranglers, and all wrong. 
 
 He saw of old, and met your need, 
 
 Granting you prophets of His creed, 
 
 The throes of fear to suage ; 
 
 They fenced the rich bequest He made, 
 
 And sacred hands have safe conveyed 
 Their charge from age to age. 
 
 Wanderers ! come home ! when erring most 
 Christ’s Church aye kept the faith, nor lost 
 One grain of Holy Truth : 
 
 She ne’er has erred as those ye trust, 
 
 And now shall lift her from the dust, 
 
 And reign as in her youth ! 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 211 
 
 PATRIARCHAL FAITH 
 
 E are not children of a guilty sire, 
 Since Noe stepped from out his 
 wave-tossed home, 
 
 And a stern baptism flushed earth’s 
 faded bloom. 
 
 Not that the heavens then cleared, or cherub’s 
 fire 
 
 From Eden’s portal did at once retire ; 
 
 But thoughts were stirred of Him who was 
 to come, 
 
 Whose rainbow hues so streaked the o’er- 
 shadowing gloom, 
 
 That faith could e’en that desolate scene 
 admire. 
 
 The Lord has come and gone ; and now we 
 wait 
 
 The second substance of the deluge type, 
 
 When our slight ark shall cross a molten 
 surge ; 
 
 So, while the gross earth melts, for judgment 
 ripe, 
 
 Ne’er with its haughty turrets to emerge, 
 
 We shall mount up to Eden’s long lost gate. 
 
2 I 2 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 HEATHENISM 
 
 D Balak’s magic fires 
 The Spirit spake clear as in Israel ; 
 With prayers untrue and covetous 
 desires 
 
 Did God vouchsafe to dwell ; 
 
 Who summoned dreams, His earlier word to 
 bring 
 
 To holy Job’s vexed friends and Gerar’s 
 guileless king. 
 
 If such o’erflowing grace 
 From Aaron’s vest e’en on the Sibyl ran, 
 Why should we fear the Son now lacks His 
 place, 
 
 Where roams unchristened man ? 
 
 As tho’, when faith is keen, He cannot make 
 Bread of the very stones, or thirst with ashes 
 slake. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 213 
 
 JUDAISM 
 
 mm 
 
 PITEOUS race ! 
 
 Fearful to look upon ; 
 
 Once standing in high place, 
 Heaven’s eldest son. 
 
 O aged blind 
 
 Unvenerable ! as thou flittest by, 
 
 I liken thee to him in pagan song, 
 
 In thy gaunt majesty, 
 
 The vagrant King, of haughty-purposed mind, 
 Whom prayer nor plague could bend ; * 
 Wronged, at the cost of him who did the wrong, 
 Accursed himself, but in his cursing strong, 
 And honoured in his end. 
 
 O Abraham ! sire 
 Shamed in thy progeny ; 
 
 Who to thy faith aspire, 
 
 Thy hope deny. 
 
 Well wast thou given 
 From out the heathen an adopted heir, 
 Raised strangely from the dead, when sin 
 had slain 
 
 Thy former-cherished care. 
 
 Vide the “ CEdipus Coloneus ” of Sophocles 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 
 214 
 
 O hoiy men, ye first-wrought gems of heaven ! 
 Polluted in your kin, 
 
 Come to our fonts, your lustre to regain ! 
 
 O Holiest Lord ! . . . but thou canst take no 
 stain 
 
 Of blood, or taint of sin. 
 
 Twice in their day 
 Proffer of precious cost 
 Was made, Heaven’s hand to stay 
 Ere all was lost. 
 
 The first prevailed ; 
 
 Moses was outcast from the promised home 
 For his own sin, yet taken at his prayer 
 To change his people’s doom. 
 
 Close on their eve, one other asked and failed, 
 When fervent Paul was fain 
 The accursed tree, as Christ had borne, to bear ; 
 No hopeful answer came — a Price more rare 
 Already shed in vain. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 215 
 
 SUPERSTITION 
 
 LORD, and Christ, Thy Churches 
 of the South 
 
 So shudder, when they see 
 The two-edged sword sharp-issuing 
 from Thy mouth, 
 
 As to fall back from Thee, 
 
 And seek to charms of man, or saints above, 
 To aid them against Thee, Thou Fount of 
 grace and love ! 
 
 Rut I before Thine awful eyes will go, 
 
 And firmly fix me there 
 In my full shame ; not bent my doom to know, 
 Not fainting with despair ; 
 
 Not fearing less then they, but deeming 
 sure, 
 
 If e’en Thy Name shall fail, nought my base 
 heart can cure. 
 
21 6 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 SCHISM 
 
 , rail not at our brethren of the 
 North, 
 
 Albeit Samaria finds her likeness 
 there ; 
 
 A self-formed Priesthood, and the Church cast 
 forth 
 
 To the chill mountain air. 
 
 What though their fathers sinned, and lost the 
 grace 
 
 Which seals the Holy Apostolic Line ? 
 
 Christ’s love o’erflows the bounds His Prophets 
 trace 
 
 In His revealed design. 
 
 Israel had Seers ; to them the Word is nigh ; 
 
 Shall not that Word run forth, and gladness 
 give 
 
 To many a Shunamite, till in His eye 
 
 The full Seven thousand live ? 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 217 
 
 LIBERALISM 
 
 “Jehu destroyed Baal out of Israel. Howbeit 
 from the sins of Jeroboam Jehu departed not from 
 after them, to wit, the golden calves that were in 
 Bethel, and that were in Dan." 
 
 E cannot halve the gospel of God’s 
 grace ; 
 
 Men of presumptuous heart ! I 
 know you well. 
 
 Ye are of those who plan that we should 
 dwell, 
 
 Each in his tranquil home and holy place : 
 Seeing the Word refines all natures rude, 
 
 And tames the stirrings of the multitude. 
 
 And ye have caught some echoes of its lore, 
 
 As heralded amid the joyous choirs ; 
 
 Ye heard it speak of peace, chastised desires, 
 Good-will and mercy, — and ye heard no more ; 
 But, as for zeal and quick-eyed sanctity, 
 
 And the dread depths of grace, ye pass them by. 
 
 And so ye halve the Truth ; for ye in heart, 
 
 At best, are doubters whether it be true, 
 The theme discarding, as unmeet for you, 
 Statesmen or sages. O new-ventured art 
 Of the ancient Foe ! — but what if it extends 
 O’er our own camp, and rules amid our friends ? 
 
218 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 APOSTACY 
 
 RANCE ! I will think of thee, as what 
 thou wast, 
 
 When Poictiers showed her zeal 
 for the true creed ; 
 
 Or in that age, when holy truth, tho’ cast 
 On a rank soil, yet was a thriving seed 
 Thy schools within, from neighbour countries 
 chased ; 
 
 E’en of thy pagan day I bear to read, 
 
 Thy Martyrs sanctified the guilty host, 
 
 The sons of blessed John, reared on a western 
 coast. 
 
 I dare not think of thee, as what thou art, 
 
 Lest thoughts too deep for man should trouble 
 me. 
 
 It is not safe to place the mind and heart 
 On brink of evil, or its flame to see ; 
 
 Lest they should dizzy, or some taint impart, 
 Or to our sin a fascination be. 
 
 And so by silence I will now proclaim 
 Hate of thy present self, and scarce will sound 
 thy name. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 219 
 
 CONVERSION 
 
 IE cast with men of language strange 
 And foreign-moulded creed, 
 marked their random converse 
 change, 
 
 And sacred themes succeed. 
 
 O how I coveted the gift 
 
 To thread their mingled throng 
 Of sounds, then high my witness lift ! 
 
 But weakness chained my tongue. 
 
 Lord ! has our earth of faith and prayer 
 Lost us this power once given ; 
 
 Or is it sent at seasons rare, 
 
 And then flits back to Heaven ? 
 
220 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “ Many shall run to and fro, and knowledge shall 
 be increased. 1 ’ 
 
 IRE is one only Bond in the wide 
 earth 
 
 Of lawful use to join the earth in 
 one ; 
 
 But in these weary times, the restless run 
 E’en to its distant verge, and so give birth 
 To other friendships, and joint-works to bind 
 Their hearts to the unclean whom there they 
 find. 
 
 And so is cast upon the face of things 
 A many webs to fetter down the Truth ; 
 While the vexed Church, which gave in her 
 fair youth 
 
 Prime pattern of the might which order brings, 
 But dimly signals to her distant seed, 
 
 There strongest found, where darkest in her 
 creed. 
 
 O shame ! that Christian joins with Infidel 
 In learned search and curious-seeming art ! 
 Burn we our book, if Christ’s we be in heart, 
 Sooner than heaven should court the praise of 
 hell! 
 
 Self-flattering age ! to whom shall I not seem 
 Pained with hot thoughts, the preacher of a 
 dream : 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 221 
 
 “ I have a few things against thee, because thou 
 sufferest that woman Jezebel, which calleth herself 
 a prophetess, to teach and to seduce My servants 
 to commit fornication, and to eat things sacrificed 
 unto idols." 
 
 EEP, Mother mine, and veil thine 
 eyes with shame ! 
 
 What was thy sin of old, 
 
 That men now give thy awful-sound- 
 ing name 
 To the false prophet’s fold? 
 
 Whose flock thy crosier claim. 
 
 Sure thou hast practised in the tongues unclean 
 Which Babel-masters teach ; 
 
 Slighting the Paraclete’s true flame serene, 
 
 The inimitative speech, 
 
 Which throned thee the world’s queen. 
 
 But, should earth-dust, from court or school of 
 men, 
 
 Have dimmed thy bridal gear, 
 
 When Wrath next walks his rounds, and in 
 Heaven’s ken 
 
 Thy charge and works appear . . . 
 
 Ah ! thou must suffer then ! 
 
222 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 THE BEASTS OF EPHESUS 
 
 “ My soul is among lions ; and I lie even among 
 the children of men that are set on fire, whose 
 teeth are spears and arrows, and their tongue a 
 sharp sword.*’ 
 
 I long, O Lord of grace, 
 
 Must languish Thy true race, 
 a forced friendship linked with 
 Belial here ; 
 
 With Mammon’s brand of care, 
 
 And Baal pleading fair, 
 
 And the dog-breed who at thy Temple jeer ? 
 
 How long, O Lord, how long 
 Shall Caesar do us wrong, 
 
 Laid but as steps to throne his mortal power ? 
 While e’en our Angels stand 
 With helpless voice and hand, 
 
 Scorned by proud Hainan, in his triumph-hour. 
 
 ’Tis said our seers discern 
 The destined bickerings stern, 
 
 In the dim distance, of Thy fiery train. 
 
 O nerve us in that woe ! 
 
 For, where Thy wheels shall go, 
 
 We must be tried, the while Thy foes are slain. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 223 
 
 I will give power unto My two witnesses, and 
 they shall prophesy.” 
 
 $OW shall a child of God fulfil 
 
 His vow to cleanse his soul from ill, 
 And raise on high his baptism-light, 
 Like Aaron’s seed in ritual white, 
 And holy tempered Nazarite ? 
 
 
 First let him shun the haunts of vice, 
 Sin-feast, or heathen sacrifice ; 
 
 Fearing the board of wealthy pride, 
 
 Or heretic, self-trusting guide, 
 
 Or where the adulterer’s smiles preside. 
 
 Next, as he threads the maze of men, 
 Aye must he lift his witness, when 
 A sin is spoke in Heaven’s dread face, 
 And none at hand of higher grace 
 The Cross to carry in his place. 
 
 But if he hears and sits him still, 
 
 First he will lose his hate of ill ; 
 Next, fear of sinning ; after, hate ; 
 Small sins his heart then desecrate, 
 And last, despair persuades to great. 
 
224 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 AUTUMN 
 
 OW is the Autumn of the Tree of 
 Life ; 
 
 Its leaves are shed upon the unthank- 
 ful earth, 
 
 Which lets them whirl, a prey to the winds’ 
 strife, 
 
 Heartless to store them for the months of 
 dearth 
 
 Men close the door, and dress the cheerful 
 hearth, 
 
 Self-trusting still ; and in his comely gear, 
 
 Of precept and of rite, a household Baal rear. 
 
 But I will out amid the sleet, and view 
 
 Each shrivelling stalk and silent-falling leaf ; 
 Truth after truth, of choicest scent and hue, 
 Fades, and in fading stirs the Angels’ grief, 
 Unanswered here ; for she, once pattern chief 
 Of faith, my country, now gross-hearted grown, 
 Waits but to burn the stem before her idol’s 
 throne. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 225 
 
 “ Quiescere faciamus omnes dies festos Dei a terra/’ 
 
 HEN first earth’s rulers welcomed home 
 The Church, their zeal impressed 
 Upon the seasons, as they come, 
 
 The image of their guest. 
 
 Men’s words and works, their hopes and fears, 
 Henceforth forbid to rove, 
 
 Paused, when a Martyr claimed her tears, 
 
 Or Saint inspired her love. 
 
 But craving wealth, and feverish power, 
 
 Such service now discard ; 
 
 The loss of one excited hour 
 A sacrifice too hard ! 
 
 And e’en about the holiest day, 
 
 God’s own in every time, 
 
 They doubt and search, lest aught should stay 
 The cataract of crime. 
 
 Where shall this cease ; must Crosiers fall, 
 Shrines suffer touch profane, 
 
 Till, cast without His vineyard wall, 
 
 The Heaven-sent Heir is slain ? 
 
 
226 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 ST’S Church was holiest in her 
 youthful days 
 
 Ere the world on her smiled ; 
 now, an outcast, she would pour 
 her rays 
 More keen and undefiled ; 
 
 Yet would I not that hand of force were mine, 
 Which thrusts her from her awful ancient 
 shrine. 
 
 ’Twas duty bound each convert-king to rear 
 His Mother from the dust, 
 
 And pious was it to enrich, nor fear 
 Christ for the rest to trust ; 
 
 But who shall dare make common or unclean 
 What once has on the Holy Altar been ? 
 
 Dear Brothers ! — hence, while ye for ill prepare, 
 Triumph is still your own ; 
 
 Blest is a pilgrim Church ! — yet shrink to share 
 The curse of breaking down. 
 
 So will we toil in our old place to stand, 
 
 Still calmly looking for the spoiler’s hand. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 227 
 
 UZZAH AND OBED-EDOM 
 
 Mt} klu€l Kafxapivav' clklvtjtos yap djueivoov. 
 
 ark of God has hidden strength, 
 Who reverence or profane, 
 ey, or their seed, shall find at length 
 The penalty or gain. 
 
 While as a sojourner it sought 
 Of old its destined place, 
 
 A blessing on the home it brought 
 Of one who did it grace. 
 
 But there was one, outstripping all 
 The holy-vestured band, 
 
 Who laid on it, to save its fall, 
 
 A rude corrective hand. 
 
 Read, who the Church would cleanse, and mark 
 How stern the warning runs : 
 
 There are two ways to aid her ark, 
 
 As patrons and as sons. 
 
228 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 PROSPERITY 
 
 “ When they shall say, Peace and safety, then sudden 
 destmction cometh upon them.’ 1 
 
 j]HEN mirth is full and free, 
 
 Some sudden gloom shall be ; 
 
 When haughty power mounts high, 
 The watcher’s axe is nigh : 
 
 All growth has bound : when greatest found, 
 It hastes to die. 
 
 When the rich town, that long 
 Has lain its huts among, 
 
 Builds court and palace vast, 
 And vaunts, — it shall not last ! 
 Bright tints that shine are but a sign 
 Of summer past. 
 
 And when thine eye surveys, 
 With fond adoring gaze, 
 
 And yearning heart, thy friend, — 
 Love to its grave doth tend. 
 
 All gifts below, save Truth, but grow 
 Towards an end. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 229 
 
 FAITH AGAINST SIGHT 
 
 “ As it was in the days of Lot, so shall it be also in 
 the days of the Son of man.” 
 
 HE world has cycles in its course, 
 when all 
 
 That once has been, is acted o’er 
 again : 
 
 Not by some fated law, which need appal 
 
 Our faith, or binds our deeds as with a 
 chain ; 
 
 But by men’s separate sins, which blended still 
 The same bad round fulfil. 
 
 Then fear ye not, though Gallio’s scorn ye see, 
 And soft-clad nobles count you mad, true 
 hearts ! 
 
 These are the fig-tree’s signs ; rough deeds must 
 be, 
 
 Trials and crimes ; so learn ye well your 
 parts : 
 
 Once more to plough the earth it is decreed, 
 And scatter wide the seed. 
 
230 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 ENGLAND 
 
 l of the West, and glorying in the 
 name 
 
 More than in Faith’s pure fame ! 
 trust not crafty fort nor rock 
 renowned 
 Earned upon hostile ground ; 
 
 Wielding Trade’s master-keys, at thy proud will 
 To lock or loose its waters, England ! trust 
 not still. 
 
 Dread thine own power ! since haughty Babel’s 
 prime 
 
 High towers have been man’s crime. 
 
 Since her hoar age, when the huge moat lay 
 bare, 
 
 Strongholds have been man’s snare. 
 
 Thy nest is in the crags ; ah ! refuge frail ! 
 Mad council in its hour, or traitors will prevail. 
 
 He who scanned Sodom for His righteous men, 
 Still spares thee for thy ten ; 
 
 But should vain hands defile the temple wall, 
 More than His Church will fall : 
 
 For, as Earth’s kings welcome their spotless 
 guest, 
 
 So gives He them by turn, to suffer or be blest. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 231 
 
 '‘Instead of thy fathers thou shalt have children, 
 whom thou mayest make princes in all lands.” 
 
 JAY, who is he in deserts seen, 
 
 Or at the twilight hour ; 
 
 Of garb austere, and dauntless mien, 
 Measuredin speech, in purpose keen, 
 Calm as in heaven he had been, 
 
 Yet blithe when perils lower? 
 
 My holy Mother made reply, 
 
 “ Dear Child, it is my priest. 
 
 The world has cast me forth, and I 
 Dwell with wild earth and gusty sky ; 
 He bears to men my mandates high, 
 And works my sage behest. 
 
 Another day, dear Child, and thou 
 Shalt join his sacred band. 
 
 Ah ! well I deem, thou shrinkest now 
 From urgent rule and severing vow ; 
 
 Gay hopes hit round, and light thy brow ; — 
 Time hath a taming hand ! ” 
 
232 THE POEMS OF 
 
 THE AFFLICTED CHURCH 
 
 tA rjOi, AeW, &r\7jra iraOuv, rerXrjSTi QvfxQ. 
 
 ‘IDE thou thy time ! 
 
 Watch with meek eyes the race of 
 pride and crime 
 
 Sit in the gate, and be the heathen’s 
 
 . J est? 
 
 Smiling and self-possest. 
 
 O thou, to whom is pledg’d a victor’s sway, 
 Bide thou the victor’s day ! 
 
 Think on the sin 
 
 That reaped the unripe seed, and toiled to win 
 
 Foul history-marks at Bethel and at Dan, 
 
 No blessing, but a ban ; 
 
 Whilst the wise Shepherd * hid his heaven-told 
 fate, 
 
 Nor recked a tyrant’s hate. 
 
 Such need is gain ; 
 
 Wait the bright Advent that shall loose thy 
 chain ! 
 
 E’en now the shadows break, and gleams divine 
 
 Edge the dim distant line. 
 
 When thrones are trembling, and earth’s fat 
 ones quail, 
 
 True Seed ! thou shalt prevail ! 
 
 * David. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 233 
 
 THE BACKWARD CHURCH 
 
 u Can a woman forget her sucking child, that 
 she should not have compassion on the son of her 
 womb ? Yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget 
 thee.” 
 
 E, Mother dear, the foes are near, 
 A spoiler claims thy child ; 
 lis the sole refuge of my fear, 
 
 Thy bosom undefiled. 
 
 What spells of power, in this strange hour, 
 
 My Mother’s heart enslave ? 
 
 Where is thy early bridal dower, 
 
 To suffer and to save ? 
 
 Thee then I sue, Sleepless and True, 
 
 Dread Maker reconciled ! 
 
 Help ere they smite, Thy shrine in view, 
 
 The Mother with the child. 
 
2 34 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 THE CHURCH IN PRAYER 
 
 “ Thou meetest him that rejoiceth and worketh 
 righteousness, those that remember Thee in Thy 
 ways.” 
 
 HY loiterest within Simon’s walls, 
 Hard by the barren sea, 
 
 Thou Saint ! when many a sinner calls 
 To preach and set him free ? 
 
 Can this be he, who erst confessed 
 For Christ affection keen, 
 
 Now truant in untimely rest, 
 
 The mood of an Essene ? 
 
 Yet He who at the sixth hour sought 
 The lone house-top to pray, 
 
 There gained a sight beyond his thought — 
 The dawn of Gentile day. 
 
 Then reckon not, when perils lower, 
 
 The time of prayer mis-spent ; 
 
 Nor meanest chance, nor place, nor hour, 
 Without its heavenward bent. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 23; 
 
 THE CHURCH IN BONDAGE 
 
 “ Remember my bonds.” 
 
 COMRADE bold of toil and pain ! 
 
 Thy trial how severe. 
 
 When severed first by prisoner’s chain 
 From thy loved labour-sphere. 
 
 Say, did impatience first impel 
 The heaven-sent bond to break ? 
 
 Or couldst thou bear its hindrance well, 
 Loitering for Jesu’s sake ? 
 
 O might we know ! for sore we feel 
 The languor of delay, 
 
 When sickness lets our fainter zeal 
 Or foes block up our way. 
 
 Lord ! who Thy thousand years dost wait, 
 
 To work the thousandth part 
 
 Of Thy vast plan, for us create 
 With zeal a patient heart ! 
 
236 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 THE PROSPECTS OF THE 
 CHURCH 
 
 “ And He said, It is finished.’* 
 
 T only, of God’s messengers to 
 man, 
 
 >hed the work of grace which 
 He began ; 
 
 E’en Moses wearied upon Nebo’s height, 
 Though loth to leave the fight 
 With the doomed foe, and yield the sun-bright 
 land 
 
 To Joshua’s armed hand. 
 
 And David wrought in turn a strenuous part, 
 Zeal for God’s house consuming him in heart ; 
 And yet he might not build, but only bring 
 Gifts for the heavenly King ; 
 
 And these another reared, his peaceful son, 
 
 Till the full work was done. 
 
 List, Christian warrior ! thou, whose soul is fain 
 To rid thy Mother of her present chain ; — 
 Christ will unloose His Church ; yea, even now 
 Begins the work, and thou 
 Shalt spend in it thy strength ; but, ere He save, 
 Thy lot shall be the grave. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 237 
 
 ROME 
 
 IAR sadder musing on the traveller falls 
 jjPgj At sight of thee, O Rome ! 
 
 Than when he views the rough sea- 
 Jsmr beaten walls 
 
 Of Greece, thought’s early home ; 
 
 For thou wast of the hateful Four, whose doom 
 Burdens the Prophet’s scroll ; 
 
 But Greece was clean, till in her history’s gloom 
 Her name and sword a Macedonian stole. 
 
 And next a mingled throng besets the breast 
 Of bitter thoughts and sweet ; 
 
 How shall I name thee, Light of the wide West, 
 Or heinous error-seat ? 
 
 O Mother erst, close tracing Jesus’ feet ! 
 
 Do not thy titles glow 
 
 In those stern judgment-fires, which shall com- 
 plete 
 
 Earth’s strife with Heaven, and ope the 
 eternal woe ? 
 
238 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 THE CRUEL CHURCH 
 
 MOTHER Church of Rome ! why 
 has thy heart 
 
 Beat so untruly towards thy 
 northern child ? 
 
 Why give a gift, nor give it undefiled, 
 Drugging the blessing with a step-dame’s art ? 
 Why bare thy sword ? beneath thy censure’s smart 
 Long days we writhed, who would not be 
 beguiled ; 
 
 While thy keen breath, like blast of winter 
 wild, 
 
 Froze, till it crumbled, each sublimer part 
 Of rite or work, devotion’s flower and prime. 
 Thus have we lain, thy charge, a dreary time, 
 Christ’s little ones, torn from faith’s ancient 
 home, 
 
 To dogs a prey. And now thou sendest foes, 
 Bred from thy womb, lost Church ! to mock 
 the throes 
 
 Of thy free child, thou cruel-natured Rome ! 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 239 
 
 THE GOOD SAMARITAN 
 
 THAT thy creed were sound ! 
 
 For thou dost soothe the heart, Thou 
 Church of Rome, 
 
 By thy unwearied watch and varied 
 round 
 
 Of service, in thy Saviour’s holy home. 
 
 I cannot walk the city’s sultry streets, 
 
 But the wide porch invites to still retreats, 
 Where passion’s thirst is calmed, and care’s 
 unthankful gloom. 
 
 There, on a foreign shore, 
 
 The homesick solitary finds a friend : 
 
 Thoughts, prisoned long for lack of speech, 
 outpour 
 
 Their tears ; and doubts in resignation end. 
 
 I almost fainted from the long delay, 
 
 That tangles me within this languid bay, 
 When comes a foe, my wounds with oil and 
 wine to tend. 
 
240 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 HEN I am sad, I say, 
 
 “ What boots it me to strive, 
 And vex my spirit day by day 
 Dead memories to revive ? 
 
 Alas ! what good will come, 
 
 Though we our prayer obtain, 
 
 To bring old times triumphant home, 
 
 And Heaven’s lost sword regain ? 
 
 Would not our history run 
 In the same weary round, 
 
 And service, in meek faith begun, 
 
 One time in forms be bound ? 
 
 Union would give us strength, — 
 
 That strength the earth subdue ; 
 
 And then comes wealth, and pride at length, 
 And sloth, and prayers untrue.” 
 
 Nay, this is worldly wise ; 
 
 To reason is a crime, 
 
 Since the Lord bade His Church arise, 
 
 In the dark ancient time. 
 
 He wills that she should shine ; 
 
 So we her flame must trim 
 Around His soul-converting Sign, 
 
 And leave the rest to Him. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 241 
 
 MOSES SEEING THE LAND 
 
 Y Father’s hope ! my childhood’s dream 
 The promise from on high ! 
 
 Long waited for ! its glories beam 
 Now when my death is nigh. 
 
 My death is come, but not decay ; 
 
 Not eye nor mind is dim ; 
 
 The keenness of youth’s vigorous day 
 Thrills in each nerve and limb. 
 
 Blest scene ! thrice welcome after toil — 
 
 If no deceit I view ; 
 
 O might my lips but press the soil 
 And prove the vision true ! 
 
 Its glorious heights, its wealthy plains, 
 
 Its many-tinted groves, 
 
 They call ! but He my steps restrains 
 Who chastens whom He loves. 
 
 Ah ! now they melt . . . they are but 
 
 shades . . . 
 
 I die ! — yet is no rest, 
 
 O Lord ! in store, since Canaan fades 
 But seen, and not possest ! 
 
 R 
 
2\2 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 SPECIOUS sin, and Satan’s subtle 
 
 snare, 
 
 That urges sore each gentlest, 
 meekest heart, 
 
 When its kind thoughts are crushed and its 
 wounds smart, 
 
 World-sick to turn within and image there 
 Some idol dream, to lull the throbbing care ! 
 
 So felt reft Israel, when he fain would part 
 With living friends ; and called on memory’s 
 
 To raise the dead and soothe him by despair. 
 Nor err they not, although that image be 
 God’s own, nor to the dead their thoughts be 
 given — 
 
 Earth-hating sure, but yet of earth enthralled ; 
 For who dare sit at home, and wait to see 
 High Heaven descend, when man from self is 
 
 Up through this thwarting outward world to 
 Heaven ? 
 
 art 
 
 called 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 243 
 
 O not their souls, who ’neath the 
 Altar wait 
 
 Until their second-birth, 
 
 The gift of patience need, as separate 
 From their first friends of earth ? 
 
 Not that earth’s blessings are not all outshone 
 By Eden’s Angel flame, 
 
 But that earth knows not yet, the Dead has won 
 That crown, which was his aim. 
 
 For when he left it, ’twas a twilight scene 
 About his silent bier, 
 
 A breathless struggle, faith and sight between, 
 And Hope and sacred Fear. 
 
 Fear startled at his pains and dreary end, 
 
 Hope raised her chalice high, 
 
 And the twin-sisters still his shade attend, 
 Viewed in the mourner’s eye. 
 
 So day by day for him from earth ascends, 
 
 As dew in summer-even, 
 
 The speechless intercession of his friends, 
 Toward the azure heaven. 
 
 Ah ! dearest, with a word he could dispel 
 All questioning, and raise 
 Our hearts to rapture, whispering all was well, 
 And turning prayer to praise. 
 
244 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 And other secrets too he could declare, 
 
 By patterns all divine, 
 
 His earthly creed retouching here and there, 
 And deepening every line. 
 
 Dearest ! he longs to speak, as I to know, 
 And yet we both refrain : 
 
 It were not good ; a little doubt below, 
 
 And all will soon be plain. 
 
From 
 
 TRACTS FOR THE TIMES 
 
 [1836] 
 
Tracts for the Times. / 
 
 By / Members of the University of Oxford. / Vol. III. / 
 for / 1835-6./ “If the trumpet give an uncertain sound, 
 who shall prepare himself to the /battle ? ” / London : / 
 Printed for J. G. & F. Rivington,/St. Paul’s Church Yard, 
 and Waterloo Place, Pall Mall ;/& J. H. Parker, Oxford./ 
 1836./ 
 
 No. 75, from which the following poems are ex- 
 tracted, was by Newman, and was entitled “ On the 
 Roman Breviary as embodying the Substance of 
 the Devotional Services of the Church Catholic.” 
 
From 
 
 TRACTS FOR THE TIMES 
 
 MATINS— SUNDAY 
 
 Nocte surgentes. 
 
 ET us arise, and watch by night 
 And meditate always ; 
 
 And chant, as in our Maker’s sight, 
 United hymns of praise. 
 
 So singing with the Saints in bliss, 
 
 With them we may attain 
 Life everlasting after this, 
 
 And heaven for earthly pain. 
 
 Grant it to us, O Father, Son, 
 
 And Spirit, God of grace, 
 
 To whom all worship shall be done 
 In every time and place. 
 
248 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 LAUDS— SUNDAY 
 
 Ecce jam noctis. 
 
 ALER have grown the shades of night, 
 And nearer draws the day, 
 Checkering the sky with streaks of 
 light, 
 
 Since we began to pray : 
 
 To pray for mercy when we sin, 
 
 For cleansing and release, 
 
 For ghostly safety, and within 
 For everlasting peace. 
 
 Grant this to us, O Father, Son, 
 
 And Spirit, God of grace, 
 
 To whom all worship shall be done 
 In every time and place. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 249 
 
 PRIME— SUNDAY 
 
 HE star cf morn to night succeeds, 
 We therefore meekly pray, 
 
 May God in all our words and deeds 
 Keep us from harm this day. 
 
 May He in love restrain us still 
 From tones of strife and words of ill, 
 
 And wrap around and close our eyes 
 To earth’s absorbing vanities. 
 
 May wrath and thoughts that gender shame 
 Ne’er in our breasts abide, 
 
 And painful abstinences tame 
 Of wanton flesh the pride ; 
 
 So when the weary day is o’er 
 
 And night and stillness come once more, 
 
 Blameless and clean from spot of earth, 
 
 We may repeat, with reverent mirth, 
 
 Praise to the Father as is meet, 
 
 Praise to the only Son, 
 
 Praise to the Holy Paraclete 
 While endless ages run. 
 
 [The last two lines of the second stanza were 
 altered in the 1853 volume to — 
 
 Strong in self-conquering purity, 
 
 We may proclaim with choirs on high,] 
 
250 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 TERCE— SUNDAY 
 
 Nunc sancte nobis Spiritus. 
 
 1 Holy Ghost, who ever One 
 
 Art with the Father and the Son, 
 Come, Holy Ghost, our souls possess 
 With Thy full flood of holiness. 
 
 Let mouth, and heart, and flesh combine 
 To herald forth our creed divine ; 
 
 And love so wrap our mortal frame, 
 
 Others may catch the living flame. 
 
 This grace on Thy redeemed confer, 
 
 Father, Co-equal Son, 
 
 And Holy Ghost, the Comforter, 
 
 Eternal Three in One. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 251 
 
 SEXT— SUNDAY 
 
 Rector potens, verax Deus. 
 
 GOD, the Lord of place and time, 
 Who orderest all things prudently, 
 Brightening with beams the opening 
 prime, 
 
 And burning in the mid-day sky, 
 
 Quench Thou the fires of hate and strife, 
 
 The wasting fever of the heart : 
 
 From perils guard our feeble life, 
 
 And to our souls Thy peace impart. 
 
 This grace on Thy redeemed confer, 
 
 Father, Co-equal Son, 
 
 And Holy Ghost, the Comforter, 
 
 Eternal Three in One. 
 
252 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 NONE— SUNDAY 
 
 Rerum Deus tenax vigor. 
 
 GOD, unchangeable and true, 
 
 Of all the Life and Fower, 
 Dispensing light in silence through 
 Every successive hour, 
 
 Lord, brighten our declining day, 
 
 That it may never wane, 
 
 Till death, when all things round decay, 
 Brings back the morn again. 
 
 This grace on Thy redeemed confer, 
 
 Father, Co-equal Son, 
 
 And Holy Ghost, the Comforter, 
 
 Eternal Three in One. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 253 
 
 VESPERS— SUNDAY 
 
 Lucis Creator optime. 
 
 TIMS ATHER of Lights, by whom each day 
 Is kindled out of night, 
 
 Who, when the heavens were made. 
 
 Their rudiments in light ; 
 
 Thou, who didst bind and blend in one 
 The glistening morn and evening pale, 
 
 Hear Thou our plaint, when light is gone. 
 
 And lawlessness and strife prevail. 
 
 Hear, lest the whelming weight of crime 
 Wreck us with life in view ; 
 
 Lest thoughts and schemes of sense and time 
 Earn us a sinner’s due. 
 
 So may we knock at Heaven’s door, 
 
 And strive the prize of life to win, 
 
 Continually and evermore 
 
 Guarded without and pure within. 
 
 This grace on Thy redeemed confer, 
 
 Father, Co-equal Son, 
 
 And Holy Ghost, the Comforter, 
 
 Eternal Three in One. 
 
25 + 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 COMPLINE— SUNDAY 
 
 Te lucis ante terminum. 
 
 OW that the daylight dies away. 
 
 Ere we lie down and sleep. 
 
 Thee, Maker of the world, we pray 
 To own us and to keep. 
 
 Let dreams depart and visions fly, 
 
 The offspring of the night, 
 
 Keep us, like shrines, beneath Thine eye, 
 Pure in our foe’s despite. 
 
 This grace on Thy redeemed confer, 
 Father, Co-equal Son, 
 
 And Holy Ghost, the Comforter, 
 
 Eternal Three in One. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 2$$ 
 
 THE TRANSFIGURATION- 
 MATINS 
 
 Quicunque Christum qnaeritis. 
 
 YE who seek the Lord, 
 
 Lift up your eyes on high, 
 
 For there He doth the Sign accord 
 Of His bright majesty. 
 
 We see a wondrous sight 
 That shall outlive all time, 
 
 Older than depth and starry height, 
 Limitless and sublime. 
 
 ’Tis He for Israel’s fold 
 
 And heathen tribes decreed, 
 
 The King to Abraham pledged of old 
 And his unfailing seed. 
 
 Prophets foretold His birth, 
 
 And witnessed when He came, 
 The Father speaks to all the earth 
 To hear, and fear His name. 
 
 To Jesus, who displays 
 
 To babes His beaming face, 
 
 Be, with the Father, endless praise, 
 And with the Spirit of grace. 
 
z>6 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 THE TRANSFIGURATION- 
 LAUDS 
 
 Lux alma Jesu. 
 
 IGHT of the anxious heart, 
 
 Jesu, Thy suppliants hear, 
 
 Bid Thou the gloom of guilt depart, 
 And shed Thy sweetness here. 
 
 Happy the man, whose breast 
 Thou makest thy residence ; 
 
 From God’s right hand a radiant guest ; 
 Unseen by fleshly sense. 
 
 Brightness of God above ! 
 
 Unfathomable grace ! 
 
 Vouchsafe a present fount of love 
 To cleanse Thy chosen place. 
 
 To Thee whom children see, 
 
 The Father ever blest, 
 
 The Holy Spirit, One and Three, 
 
 Be endless praise addrest. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 257 
 
 FIRST VESPERS — FEAST OF 
 ST. LAURENCE 
 
 mmi 
 
 ARTYR of Christ, thy fight is won, 
 Following the Father’s only Son ; 
 O’er thy fall’n foes thou triumphest 
 In heavenly courts a risen guest. 
 Use thou for us thy gift of prayer 
 To cleanse thy brethren’s sin, 
 
 To sweeten earth’s infectious air, 
 
 And gain us peace within. 
 
 For ever broken is the chain 
 That bound thy body’s hallowed fane ; 
 As God hath given thee, break the tie 
 Which links our hearts to vanity. 
 
 To God the Father, God the Son, 
 
 And God the Paraclete, 
 
 Be praise, while circling ages run 
 Beneath the Eternal’s feet. 
 
258 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 MATINS— FEAST OF ST. 
 LAURENCE 
 
 GOD, of Thy soldiers 
 
 Earth’s bitter joys, 
 
 its lures and its frown, 
 
 He scann’d them and scorn’d, 
 and so is at rest. 
 
 The Martyr he ran 
 
 all valiantly o’er 
 A highway of blood 
 
 for the prize Thou hast given. 
 We kneel at Thy feet, 
 
 and meekly implore, 
 
 That our pardon may wait 
 
 on his triumph in heaven. 
 
 Honour and praise 
 
 To the Father and Son, 
 
 And the Spirit be done 
 Now and always. 
 
 Deus tuorum militum. 
 
 Spare sinners who hymn 
 
 the praise of the Blest ; 
 
 the Portion and Crown, 
 
 
From 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE 
 FATHERS 
 
 [1840] 
 
The Church / of / the Fathers. / 
 
 Who is she that looketh forth as the morning, / fair as the 
 morn, clear as the sun, and terrible as an / army with 
 banners ? / London : / Printed for J. G. F. & J. Riving- 
 ton, / St. Paul’s Church Yard, /and Waterloo Place, Pall 
 Mall./ 1840./ 
 
 The translations, all from St. Gregory Nazianzen, 
 occur in the sections entitled respectively “ Basil 
 and Gregory ' 1 and “Rise and Fall of Gregory.” 
 
From THE CHURCH OF 
 THE FATHERS 
 
 [Gregory thus describes, in after life, his early 
 intimacy with Basil.] 
 
 
 ]^^j^^]THENS and letters followed on my 
 stage ; 
 
 Others may tell how I encountered 
 them ; — 
 
 How in the fear of God, and foremost found 
 Of those who knew a more than mortal lore ; — 
 And how, amid the venture and the risk 
 Of maddened youth with youth in rivalry, 
 
 My tranquil course ran like some fabled spring, 
 Which bubbles fresh beneath the turbid brine ; 
 Not drawn away by those who lure to ill, 
 
 But drawing dear ones to the better part. 
 There, too, I gained a further gift of God, 
 Who made me friends with one of wisdom high, 
 Without compeer in learning and in life. 
 
 Ask ye his name ? — in sooth, ’twas Basil, since 
 My life’s great gain, — and then my fellow dear 
 
262 THE POEMS OF 
 
 In home, and studious search, and knowledge 
 earned. 
 
 May I not boast how in our day we moved 
 A truest pair, not without name in Greece ; 
 Had all things common, and one only soul 
 In lodgement of a double outward frame ? 
 
 Our special bond, the thought of God above, 
 And the high longing after holy things. 
 
 And each of us was bold to trust in each, 
 
 Unto the emptying of our deepest hearts, 
 
 And then we loved the more, for sympathy 
 Pleaded in each, and knit the twain in one. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 263 
 
 [Gregory describes the life which was the common 
 choice of Basil and himself.] 
 
 IERCE was the whirlwind of my 
 storm-toss’d mind, 
 
 Searching, ’mid holiest ways, a holier 
 still. 
 
 Long had I nerved me, in the depths to sink 
 Thoughts of the flesh, and then more strenu- 
 ously. 
 
 Yet, while I gazed upon diviner aims, 
 
 I had not wit to single out the best : 
 
 For, as is aye the wont in things of earth, 
 
 Each had its evil, each its nobleness. 
 
 I was the pilgrim of a toilsome course, 
 
 Who had o’erpast the waves, and now look’d 
 round, 
 
 With anxious eye, to track his road by land. 
 Then did the awful Tishbite’s image rise, 
 
 His highest Carmel, and his food uncouth ; 
 The Baptist wealthy in his solitude ; 
 
 And the unencumbered sons of Jonadab. 
 
 But soon I felt the love of holy books, 
 
 The spirit beaming bright in learned lore ; 
 Which deserts could not hear, nor silence tell. 
 Long was the inward strife, till ended thus : — 
 I saw, when men lived in the fretful world, 
 They vantaged other men, but wrong’d the 
 while 
 
264 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Their own calm hearts, which straight by 
 storms were tried. 
 
 They who retired held an uprighter port, 
 
 And raised their eyes with quiet strength 
 towards God ; 
 
 Yet served self only on moroser plan. 
 
 And so, ’twixt these and those, I struck my 
 path, 
 
 To meditate with the free solitary, 
 
 Yet to live secular, and serve mankind. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 265 
 
 [Gregory passed the whole of one Lent without 
 speaking, with a view of gaining command over 
 his tongue, in which he felt his deficiency. The 
 following passages allude to this or to similar 
 infirmities.] 
 
 LOST, O Lord, the use of yesterday ; 
 Anger came on, and stole my heart 
 away. 
 
 O may I find this morn some inward- 
 piercing ray ! 
 
 # * # * # 
 
 The serpent comes anew ! I hold thy feet. 
 
 O David ! list, and strike thy harp-strings 
 sweet ! 
 
 Hence ! choking spirit, hence ! for saintly minds 
 unmeet. 
 
2 66 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 MORNING 
 
 RISE and yield my clasped hands to 
 Thee! 
 
 Henceforth, no deed of dark shall 
 trouble me, 
 
 Thy sacrifice this day ; 
 
 Calm, stationed at my post, and with free soul 
 Stemming the waves of passion as they roll. 
 
 Ah ! should I from thee stray, 
 
 My hoary head, Thy table where I bow, 
 
 Will be my shame, which are mine honour now. 
 Thus I set out ; — Lord ! lead me on my way ! 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 267 
 
 EVENING 
 
 HOLIEST Truth ! how have I lied 
 to Thee ! 
 
 This day I vowed Thy festival should 
 be ; 
 
 Yet I am dim ere night. 
 
 Surely I made my prayer, and I did deem 
 That I could keep me in Thy morning beam, 
 Immaculate and bright. 
 
 But my foot slipped, and, as I lay, he came, 
 My gloomy foe, and robbed me of heaven’s flame. 
 Help Thou my darkness, Lord, till I am light. 
 
268 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 [Gregory refers to his priesthood.] 
 
 service o’er the mystic feast I stand, 
 cleanse Thy victim-flock, and bring 
 them near 
 
 n holiest wise, and by a bloodless rite. 
 O bounteous blaze ! O gushing Fount of Light ! 
 (As best I know, who need Thy cleansing hand,) 
 Dread office this, bemired souls to clear 
 Of their defilement, and again make bright. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 269 
 
 [Gregory contrasts the spirit and the letter.] 
 
 viewing sin, e’en in its faintest trace, 
 Murder in wrath, and in the wanton 
 oath 
 
 The perjured tongue, and therefore 
 shunning them, 
 
 So deem’d I safe a strict virginity. 
 
 And hence our ample choir of holiest souls 
 Are followers of the unfleshly seraphim, 
 
 And Him who ’mid them reigns in lonely light. 
 These, one and all, rush towards the thought of 
 death, 
 
 And hope of second life, with single heart, 
 Loosed from the law and chain of marriage-vow. 
 For I was but a captive at my birth, 
 
 Sin my first being, till its base discipline 
 Revolted me towards a nobler path, 
 
 Then Christ drew near me, and the Virgin-born 
 Spoke the new call to join His virgin-train. 
 
 So now towards highest heaven my innocent 
 brow 
 
 I raise exultingly, sans let or bond, 
 
 Leaving no heir of this poor tabernacle 
 To ape me when my proper frame is broke ; 
 But solitary with my only God, 
 
 And truest souls to bear me company. 
 
2JO 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 [Gregory contrasts the married and the single 
 estates.] 
 
 S when the hand some mimic form 
 would paint, 
 
 It marks its purpose first in shadows 
 faint, 
 
 And next its store of varied hues applies, 
 
 Till outlines fade, and the full limbs arise ; 
 
 So the Lord’s holy choice, the virgin heart, 
 Once held in duty but a lesser part, 
 
 When the Law swayed us in Religion’s youth, 
 Tracing, with lustre pale, the angelic truth, 
 But, when the Christ came by a Virgin-birth, — 
 His radiant chariot-course from heaven to 
 earth, — 
 
 And, spurning father for His mortal state, 
 
 Did Eve and all her daughters consecrate ; 
 Solved fleshly laws, and in the letter’s place 
 Gave us the Spirit and the Word of Grace, 
 Then shone the glorious Celibate at length, 
 Robed in the dazzling lightnings of its strength, 
 Surpassing spells of earth and marriage vow, 
 
 As soul the body, heaven this world below. 
 
 The eternal peace of saints life’s troubled span, 
 And the high throne of God the haunts of 
 man. 
 
 So now there circles round the King of Light 
 A heaven on earth, a blameless court and bright, 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 271 
 
 Aiming as emblems of their God to shine, 
 Christ in their heart, and on their brow His 
 
 si g n —_ 
 
 Soft funeral lights in the world’s twilight dim, 
 Seeing their God, and ever one with Him. 
 
 Ye countless brethren of the marriage-band, 
 Slaves of the enfeebled heart and plighted hand, 
 I see you bear aloft your haughty gaze, 
 
 Gems deck your hair, and silk your limbs arrays ; 
 Come, tell the gain which wedlock has conferred 
 On man ; and then the single shall be heard. 
 
 The married many thus might plead, I ween ; 
 Full glib their tongue, full confident their 
 mien : — 
 
 “ Hear, all who live ! to whom the nuptial rite 
 Has brought the privilege of life and light. 
 
 We who are wedded, but the law obey 
 Stamped at creation on our blood and clay, 
 What time the Demiurge our line began, 
 
 Oped Adam’s side, and out of man drew man. 
 Thenceforth let children of a mortal sod 
 Honour the law of earth, the primal law of God. 
 
 “ List, you shall hear the gifts of price that lie 
 Gathered and bound within the marriage-tie. 
 Who taught the arts of life, the truths that sleep 
 In earth, or highest heaven, or vasty deep ? 
 Who raised the town ? who gave the type and 
 germ 
 
272 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Of social union, and of sceptre firm ? 
 
 Who filled the mart, and urged the vessel brave 
 To link in one far countries o’er the wave ? 
 Who the first husbandman the glebe to plough, 
 And rear the garden, but the marriage vow ? 
 
 “ Nay, list again ! Who seek its kindly chain, 
 A second self, a double presence gain ; 
 
 Hands, eyes, and ears, to act or suffer here, 
 
 Till e’en the weak inspire both love and fear, — 
 A comrade’s sigh, to soothe when ears annoy, 
 
 A comrade’s smile, to elevate his joy. 
 
 “ Nor say it binds to an ungodly life, 
 
 When want is urgent, prayers and vows are rife. 
 Light heart he bears, who has no yoke at home, 
 Scant need of blessings, as the seasons come ; 
 But wife, and offspring, and the treasured hoard, 
 Raise us in dread and faith towards the Lord. 
 Take love away, and life would be defaced, 
 
 A ghastly vision on the mountain-waste, 
 Heartless and stern, bereft of the soft charm 
 Which steals from age its woes, from passion’s 
 sting its harm. 
 
 No child’s sweet pranks, once more to make 
 us young ; 
 
 No ties of place about our heart-strings flung ; 
 No public haunts to cheer ; no festive tide 
 Where harmless mirth and smiling wit preside ; 
 A life which scorns the gifts by heaven assign’d, 
 Nor knows the sympathy of human kind. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 273 
 
 “ Prophets and teachers, priests and victor 
 kings, 
 
 Decked with each grace which heaven-taught 
 nature brings, 
 
 These were no giant offspring of the earth, 
 
 But to the marriage-promise owe their birth : — 
 Moses and Samuel, David, David’s Son, 
 
 The blessed Tishbite, and more blessed John, 
 The sacred Twelve in apostolic choir, 
 Strong-hearted Paul, instinct with seraph fire, 
 And others, now or erst, who to high heaven 
 aspire 
 
 Bethink ye ; should the single state be best, 
 Yet who the single, but my offspring blest ? 
 My sons, be still, nor with your parents 
 strive : 
 
 They coupled in their day, and so ye live.” 
 
 Thus marriage pleads. Now let her rival 
 speak — 
 
 Dim is her downcast eye, and pale her 
 cheek ; 
 
 Untrimm’d her gear ; no sandals on her feet ; 
 A sparest form for austere tenant meet. 
 
 She drops her veil her modest face around, 
 
 And her lips open, but we hear no sound. 
 
 I will address her : — “ Hail, O child of Heaven, 
 Glorious within ! to whom a post is given 
 Hard by the Throne where angels bow and 
 fear, 
 
 E’en while thou hast a name and mission here, 
 
 T 
 
274 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 0 deign thy voice, unveil thy brow and see 
 Thy ready guard and minister in me. 
 
 Oft hast thou come heaven-wafted to my breast, 
 Bright Spirit ! so come again, and give me rest.” 
 
 . . . “ Ah, who has hither drawn my back- 
 ward feet, 
 
 Changing for worldly strife my lone retreat ? 
 Where, in the silent chant of holy deeds, 
 
 1 praise my God, and tend the sick soul’s needs ; 
 By toils of day, and vigils of the night, 
 
 By gushing tears, and blessed lustral rite. 
 
 I have no sway amid the crowd, no art 
 In speech, no place in council or in mart. 
 
 Nor human law, nor judges throned on high, 
 Smile on my face, and grant my words reply. 
 Let others seek earth’s honours ; be it mine 
 One law to cherish, and to track one line ; 
 Straight on towards heaven to press with single 
 bent, 
 
 To know and love my God, and then to die 
 content.” 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 275 
 
 [These stanzas give an account of the place and 
 circumstances of Gregory’s retirement.] 
 
 OME one whispered yesterday 
 Of the rich and fashionable, 
 
 “ Gregory, in his own small way. 
 Easy was, and comfortable. 
 
 “ Had he not of wealth his fill, 
 
 Whom a garden gay did bless. 
 
 And a gently trickling rill, 
 
 And the sweets of idleness ? ” 
 
 I made answer, u Is it ease, 
 
 Fasts to keep, and tears to shed ? 
 
 Vigil hours and wounded knees, 
 
 Call you such a pleasant bed ? 
 
 “Thus a veritable monk 
 
 Does to death his fleshly frame ; 
 
 Be there who in sloth are sunk, 
 
 They have forfeited the name.” 
 
VERSES 
 
 From 
 
 ON RELIGIOUS 
 SUBJECTS 
 
 [ i 8 53 ] 
 
 I 
 
V erses / on / Religious Subjects. / 
 
 Dublin : / James Duffy, 7, Wellington Quay. / 
 
 MDCCCLIII. 
 
 The dedication is as follows ; — 
 
 FAMIL1ARIBUS SUIS 
 NUGARUM SERIARUM SCRIPTOR. 
 
From VERSES ON 
 RELIGIOUS SUBJECTS 
 
 GUARDIAN ANGEL 
 
 oldest friend, mine From the hour 
 When first I drew my breath ; 
 
 VI y faithful friend, that shall be 
 mine, 
 
 Unfailing till my death ; 
 
 Thou hast been ever at my side ; 
 
 My Maker to thy trust 
 Consigned my soul, what time He framed 
 The infant child of dust. 
 
 No beating heart in holy prayer, 
 
 No faith, informed aright, 
 
 Gave me to Joseph’s tutelage, 
 
 Or Michael’s conquering might. 
 
 Nor patron Saint, nor Mary’s love, 
 
 The dearest and the best, 
 
 Has known my being, as thou hast known, 
 And blest as thou hast blest. 
 
28 o 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Thou wast my sponsor at the font ; 
 
 And thou, each budding year, 
 
 Didst whisper elements of truth 
 Into my childish ear. 
 
 And when, ere boyhood yet was gone, 
 
 My rebel spirit fell, 
 
 Oh ! thou didst see, and shudder too, 
 
 Yet bear each deed of Hell. 
 
 And then in turn, when judgments came, 
 And scared me back again, 
 
 Thy quick soft breath was near to soothe 
 And hallow every pain. 
 
 Oh ! who of all thy toils and cares 
 Can tell the tale complete, 
 
 To place me under Mary’s smile, 
 
 And Peter’s royal feet ! 
 
 And thou wilt hang about my bed, 
 
 When life is ebbing low ; 
 
 Of doubt, impatience, and of gloom, 
 
 The jealous sleepless foe. 
 
 Mine, when I stand before the Judge ; 
 And mine, if spared to stay 
 
 Within the golden furnace, till 
 My sin is burned away. 
 
 And mine, O Brother of my soul, 
 
 When my release shall come ; 
 
 Thy gentle arms shall lift me then, 
 
 Thy wings shall waft me home. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 281 
 
 TEMPTATION 
 
 HOLY Lord, who with the Children 
 Three 
 
 Didst walk the piercing flame, 
 Help, in those trial-hours, which, 
 save to Thee, 
 
 I dare not name ; 
 
 Nor let these quivering eyes and sickening heart 
 Crumble to dust beneath the Tempter’s dart. 
 
 Thou, who didst once Thy life from Mary’s 
 breast 
 
 Renew from day to day, 
 
 O might her smile, severely sweet, but rest 
 On this frail clay ! 
 
 Till I am Thine with my whole soul ; and fear. 
 Not feel a secret joy, that Hell is near. 
 
282 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 MODESTY 
 
 Sacramentum regis abscondere bonum est ; opera 
 autem Dei revelare honorificum. 
 
 [These verses are paraphrased from St. Bede. 
 St. Ethelwald was the successor of St. Cuthbert at 
 Fame.] 
 
 ETWEEN two comrades dear, 
 Zealous and true as they, 
 
 Thou, prudent Ethelwald, didst bear 
 In that high home the sway. 
 
 A man, who ne’er, ’tis said, 
 Would of his graces tell, 
 
 Or with what arms he triumphed 
 Over the Dragon fell. 
 
 So down to us hath come 
 A memorable word, 
 
 Which in unguarded season from 
 His blessed lips was heard. 
 
 It chanced, that, as the Saint 
 Drank in with faithful ear 
 Of Angel tones the whispers faint, 
 Thus spoke a brother dear : 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 283 
 
 “ Oh, why so many a pause, 
 
 Thwarting thy words’ full stream, 
 Till her dark line Oblivion draws 
 Across the broken theme ? ” 
 
 He answered : “ Till thou seal 
 To sounds of Earth thine ear, 
 
 Sweet friend, be sure thou ne’er shalt feel 
 Angelic voices near.” 
 
 But then the hermit blest 
 A sudden change came o’er ; 
 
 He shudders, sobs, and smites his breast, 
 
 Is mute, then speaks once more : 
 
 “ Oh, by the Name Most High, 
 
 What I have now let fall, 
 
 Hush till I lay me down to die, 
 
 And go the way of all ! ” 
 
 Thus did a Saint in fear 
 His gifts celestial hide ; 
 
 Thus did an Angel standing near 
 Proclaim them far and wide. 
 
284 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 PURGATORY 
 
 Nec possum in monte salvari, ne moriar ; est 
 civitas haec juxta, ad quam possum fugere, et salva- 
 bor in ea. 
 
 EEP not for me, when I am gone. 
 Nor spend thy faithful breath 
 In murmurs at the spot or hour 
 Of all-enfolding death ; 
 
 Nor waste in idle praise thy love 
 On deeds of head or hand, 
 
 Which live within the living Book, 
 
 Or else are writ in sand ; 
 
 But let it be thy best of prayers, 
 
 That I may find the grace 
 To reach the holy house of toll, 
 
 The frontier penance-place, — 
 
 To reach that golden palace bright, 
 
 Where souls elect abide, 
 
 Waiting their certain call to Heaven, 
 
 With angels at their side ; 
 
 Where hate, nor pride, nor fear torments 
 The transitory guest, 
 
 But in the willing agony 
 He plunges, and is blest. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 285 
 
 And as the fainting patriarch gained 
 His needful halt mid-way, 
 
 And then refreshed pursued his path, 
 Where up the mount it lay, 
 
 So pray, that, rescued from the storm 
 Of Heaven’s eternal ire, 
 
 I may lie down, then rise again, 
 
 Safe, and yet saved by fire. 
 
286 THE POEMS OF 
 
 HYMNS 
 
 MATINS— SUNDAY * 
 
 Primo die, quo Trinitas. 
 
 DAY the Blessed Three in One 
 Began the earth and skies ; 
 o-day Death’s Conqueror, God 
 the Son, 
 
 Did from the grave arise ; 
 
 We too will wake, and, in despite 
 Of sloth and languor, all unite, 
 
 As Psalmists bid, through the dim night, 
 Waiting with wistful eyes. 
 
 So may He hear, and heed each vow 
 And prayer to Him addrest ; 
 
 And grant an instant cleansing now, 
 
 A future glorious rest. 
 
 So may He plentifully shower, 
 
 On all who hymn His love and power, 
 
 In this most still and sacred hour, 
 
 His sweetest gifts and best. 
 
 * These Hymns are all translations from the 
 Roman Breviary, except the last, which is a Com- 
 mune Episcoporum. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 287 
 
 Father of purity and light ! 
 
 Thy presence if we win, 
 
 ’Twill shield us from the deeds of night, 
 The burning darts of sin ; 
 
 Lest aught defied or dissolute 
 Relax our bodies or imbrute, 
 
 And fires eternal be the fruit 
 Of fire now lit within. 
 
 Fix in our hearts, Redeemer dear, 
 
 The ever-gushing spring 
 Of grace to cleanse, of life to cheer 
 Souls sick and sorrowing. 
 
 Thee, bounteous Father, we entreat, 
 
 And Only Son, awful and sweet, 
 
 And life-creating Paraclete, 
 
 The everlasting King. 
 
288 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 MATINS— MONDAY 
 
 Somno refectis artubus. 
 
 LEEP has refreshed our limbs, we 
 spring 
 
 From off our bed, and rise ; 
 Lord, on Thy suppliants, while they 
 sing, 
 
 Look with a Father’s eyes. 
 
 Be Thou the first on every tongue, 
 
 The first in every heart ; 
 
 That all our doings all day long, 
 
 Holiest ! from Thee may start. 
 
 Cleanse Thou the gloom, and bid the light 
 Its healing beams renew ; 
 
 The sins, which have crept in with night, 
 With night shall vanish too. 
 
 Our bosoms, Lord, unburthen Thou, 
 
 Let nothing there offend ; 
 
 That those who hymn Thy praises now 
 May hymn them to the end. 
 
 Grant this, O Father, Only Son, 
 
 And Spirit, God of grace, 
 
 To whom all worship shall be done 
 In every time and place. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 289 
 
 MATINS— TUESDAY 
 
 Consors Paterni luminis. 
 
 GOD from God, and Light from 
 Light, 
 
 Who art Thyself the day, 
 
 Our chants shall break the clouds of 
 night ; 
 
 Be with us while we pray. 
 
 Chase Thou the gloom that haunts the mind, 
 The thronging shades of hell, 
 
 The sloth and drowsiness that bind 
 The senses with a spell. 
 
 Lord, to their sins indulgent be, 
 
 Who, in this hour forlorn, 
 
 By faith in what they do not see, 
 
 With songs prevent the morn. 
 
 Grant this, O Father, etc. 
 
 u 
 
290 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 MATINS— WEDNESDAY 
 
 Rerum Creator optime. 
 
 HO madest all and dost control, 
 Lord, with Thy touch divine, 
 Cast out the slumbers of the soul, 
 The rest that is not Thine. 
 
 Look down, Eternal Holiness, 
 
 And wash the sins away, 
 
 Of those, who, rising to confess, 
 
 Outstrip the lingering day. 
 
 Our hearts and hands by night, O Lord, 
 We lift them in our need ; 
 
 As holy Psalmists give the word, 
 
 And holy Paul the deed. 
 
 Each sin to Thee of years gone by, 
 
 Each hidden stain lies bare ; 
 
 We shrink not from Thine awful eye, 
 But pray that Thou wouldst spare. 
 
 Grant this, O Father, etc. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 291 
 
 MATINS— THURSDAY 
 
 Nox atra rerum contegit. 
 
 LL tender lights, all hues divine 
 The night has swept away ; 
 Shine on us, Lord, and we shall 
 shine 
 
 Bright in an inward day. 
 
 The spots of guilt, sin’s wages base, 
 Searcher of hearts, we own ; 
 
 Wash us and robe us in Thy grace, 
 
 Who didst for sins atone. 
 
 The sluggard soul, that bears their mark, 
 Shrinks in its silent lair, 
 
 Or gropes amid its chambers dark 
 For Thee, who art not there. 
 
 Redeemer ! send Thy piercing rays, 
 
 That we may bear to be 
 
 Set in the light of Thy pure gaze, 
 
 And yet rejoice in Thee. 
 
 Grant this, O Father, etc. 
 
292 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 MATINS— FRIDAY 
 
 Tu Trinitatis Unitas. 
 
 the dread Three in One, who sways 
 All with His sovereign might, 
 :cept us for this hymn of praise, 
 His watchers in the night. 
 
 For in the night, when all is still 
 We spurn our bed and rise, 
 
 To find the balm for ghostly ill 
 His bounteous hand supplies. 
 
 If e’er by night our envious foe 
 With guilt our souls would stain, 
 
 May the deep streams of mercy flow, 
 
 And make us white again ; 
 
 That so with bodies braced and bright, 
 
 And hearts awake within, 
 
 All fresh and keen may burn our light, 
 Undimm’d, unsoiled by sin. 
 
 Shine on Thine own, Redeemer sweet ! 
 
 Thy radiance increate 
 
 Through the long day shall keep our feet 
 In their pure morning state. 
 
 Grant this, O Father, etc. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 293 
 
 MATINS- SATURDAY 
 
 Summae Parens clementiae. 
 
 M ATHER of mercies infinite, 
 
 Ruling all things that be, 
 
 Who, shrouded in the depth or height, 
 Art One, and yet art Three ; 
 
 Accept our chants, accept our tears, 
 
 A mingled stream we pour ; 
 
 Such stream the laden bosom cheers, 
 
 To taste Thy sweetness more. 
 
 Purge Thou with fire the o’ercharged mind, 
 
 Its sores and wounds profound ; 
 
 And with the watcher’s girdle bind 
 The limbs which sloth has bound. 
 
 That they who with their chants by night 
 Before Thy presence come, 
 
 All may be filled with strength and light 
 From their eternal home. 
 
 Grant this, O Father, etc. 
 
294 THE POEMS OF 
 
 LAUDS— SUNDAY 
 
 JEterne rerum conditor. 
 
 tAMER of the earth and sky, 
 Ruler of the day and night, 
 With a glad variety, 
 
 Tempering all, and making light ; 
 
 Gleams upon our dark path flinging, 
 
 Cutting short each night begun, 
 
 Hark ! Thy herald-cock is singing, 
 
 Hark ! he chides the lingering sun. 
 
 And the morning star replies, 
 
 And unlocks the imprisoned day ; 
 
 And the godless bandit flies 
 
 From his haunt and from his prey. 
 
 Shrill it sounds, the storm relenting 
 Soothes the weary seaman’s ears ; 
 
 Once it wrought a great repenting, 
 
 In that flood of Peter’s tears. 
 
 Rouse we ; let the blithesome cry 
 Of that bird our hearts awaken ; 
 
 Chide the slumberers as they lie, 
 
 And convince the sin-o’ertaken. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 295 
 
 Hope and health are in his train, 
 
 To the fearful and the ailing ; 
 
 Murder sheathes his blade profane, 
 
 Faith revives when faith was failing. 
 
 Jesu, Master ! when we sin, 
 
 Turn on us Thy healing face ; 
 
 It will melt the offence within 
 Into penitential grace : 
 
 Beam on our bewildered mind, 
 
 Till its dreamy shadows flee ; 
 
 Stones cry out where Thou hast shined, 
 Jesu ! musical with Thee. 
 
 To the Father and the Son, 
 
 And the Spirit, who in Heaven 
 
 Ever witness, Three and One, 
 
 Praise on Earth be ever given. 
 
296 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 LAUDS— MONDAY 
 
 Splendor Paternae gloriae. 
 
 F the Father Effluence bright, 
 
 Out of Light evolving light, 
 Light from Light, unfailing Ray, 
 Day creative of the day : 
 
 Truest Sun, upon us stream 
 With Thy calm perpetual beam, 
 In the Spirit’s still sunshine 
 Making sense and thought divine. 
 
 Seek we too the Father’s face 
 Father of almighty grace, 
 
 And of majesty excelling, 
 
 Who can purge our tainted dwelling ; 
 
 Who can aid us, who can break 
 Teeth of envious foes, and make 
 Hours of loss and pain succeed, 
 Guiding safe each duteous deed, 
 
 And infusing self-control, 
 
 Fragrant chastity of soul, 
 
 Faith’s keen flame to soar on high, 
 Incorrupt simplicity. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 297 
 
 Christ Himself for food be given, 
 
 Faith become the cup of Heaven, 
 
 Out of which the joy is quaff’d 
 Of the Spirit’s sobering draught. 
 
 With that joy replenished. 
 
 Morn shall glow with modest red, 
 
 Noon with beaming faith be bright, 
 
 Eve be soft without twilight. 
 
 It has dawned ; — upon our way, 
 
 Father in Thy Word, this day, 
 
 In Thy Father Word Divine, 
 
 From Thy cloudy pillar shine. 
 
 To the Father, and the Son, 
 
 And the Spirit, Three and One, 
 
 As of old, and as in Heaven, 
 
 Now and here be glory given. 
 
298 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 LAUDS— TUESDAY 
 
 Ales diei nuntius. 
 
 AY’S herald bird 
 
 At length is heard, 
 
 Telling its morning torch is lit, 
 And small and still 
 Christ’s accents thrill, 
 
 Within the heart rekindling it. 
 
 Away, He cries, 
 
 With languid eyes, 
 
 And sickly slumbers profitless ! 
 
 I am at hand, 
 
 As watchers stand, 
 
 In awe, and truth, and holiness. 
 
 He will appear 
 The hearts to cheer 
 Of suppliants pale and abstinent ; 
 Who cannot sleep 
 Because they weep 
 With holy grief and violent. 
 
 Keep us awake, 
 
 The fetters break, 
 
 Jesu ! which night has forged for us ; 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 299 
 
 Yea, melt the night 
 To sinless light, 
 
 Till all is bright and glorious. 
 
 To Father, Son, 
 
 And Spirit, One, 
 
 To the Most Holy Trinity, 
 
 All praise be given, 
 
 In Earth and Heaven, 
 
 Now, as of old, and endlessly. 
 
300 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 LAUDS— WEDNESDAY 
 
 Nox et tenebrae et nubila. 
 
 AUNTING gloom and flitting shades, 
 Ghastly shapes, away ! 
 
 Christ is rising, and pervades 
 Highest Heaven with day. 
 
 His bright spear the dazzled night 
 Chases and pursues ; 
 
 Earth wakes up, and glows with light 
 Of a thousand hues. 
 
 Thee, O Christ, and Thee alone, 
 
 With a single mind, 
 
 We with chant and plaint would own : 
 To Thy flock be kind. 
 
 Much it needs Thy light divine, 
 
 Spot and stain to clean ; 
 
 Light of Angels, on us shine 
 With Thy face serene. 
 
 To the Father, and the Son, 
 
 And the Holy Ghost, 
 
 Here be glory, as is done 
 By the angelic host. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 301 
 
 LAUDS— THURSDAY 
 
 Lux ecce surgit aurea. 
 
 EE, the golden dawn is glowing 
 While the paly shades are going, 
 Which have led us far and long, 
 In a labyrinth of wrong. 
 
 May it bring us peace serene ; 
 
 May it cleanse, as it is clean ; 
 
 Plain and clear our words be spoke, 
 
 And our thoughts without a cloak ; 
 
 So the day’s account, shall stand, 
 
 Guileless tongue and holy land, 
 
 Stedfast eyes and unbeguiled, 
 
 Flesh as of a little child. 
 
 There is One who from above 
 Watches how the still hours move 
 Of our day of service done, 
 
 From the dawn to setting sun. 
 
 To the Father, and the Son, 
 
 And the Spirit, Three and One, 
 
 As of old, and as in Heaven, 
 
 Now and here be glory given. 
 
302 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 LAUDS— FRIDAY 
 
 Sterna coeli gloria. 
 
 TLORY of the eternal Heaven, 
 Blessed Hope to mortals given, 
 Of the Almighty Only Son, 
 And the Virgin’s Holy One ; 
 Raise us, Lord, and we shall rise 
 In a sober mood, 
 
 And a zeal, which glorifies 
 Thee from gratitude. 
 
 Now the day-star, keenly glancing, 
 Tells us of the Sun’s advancing ; 
 
 While the unhealthy shades decline, 
 Rise within us, Light Divine ! 
 
 Rise, and, risen, go not hence, 
 
 Stay, and make us bright, 
 Streaming through each cleansed sense, 
 On the outward night. 
 
 Then the root of faith shall spread 
 In the heart new fashioned ; 
 
 Gladsome hope shall spring above, 
 
 And shall bear the fruit of love. 
 
 To the Father, and the Son, 
 
 And the Holy Ghost, 
 
 Here be glory, as is done 
 By th’ Angelic host. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 303 
 
 LAUDS— SATURDAY 
 
 Aurora jam spargit poium. 
 
 dawn is sprinkled o’er the sky, 
 The day steals softly on ; 
 darts are scattered far and nigh, 
 d all that fraudful is, shall fly 
 Before the brightening sun ; 
 
 Spectres of ill, that stalk at will, 
 
 And forms of guilt that fright, 
 
 And hideous sin, that ventures in 
 Under the cloak of night. 
 
 And of our crimes the tale complete, 
 
 Which bows us in Thy sight, 
 
 Up to the latest, they shall fleet, 
 
 Out-told by our full numbers sweet, 
 
 And melted by the light. 
 
 To Father, Son, and Spirit, One, 
 
 Whom we adore and love, 
 
 Be given all praise now and always, 
 
 Here as in Heaven above. 
 
3°4 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 VESPERS— MONDAY 
 
 Immense coeli conditor. 
 
 ORD of unbounded space, 
 
 Who, lest the sky and main 
 Should mix, and heaven should lose 
 its place, 
 
 Didst the rude waters chain ; 
 
 Parting the moist and rare, 
 
 That rills on earth might flow 
 To soothe the angry flame, whene’er 
 It ravens from below ; 
 
 Pour on us of Thy grace 
 The everlasting spring ; 
 
 Lest our frail steps renew the trace 
 Of the ancient wandering. 
 
 May faith in lustre grow, 
 
 And rear her star in heaven, 
 
 Paling all sparks of earth below, 
 
 Unquenched by damps of even. 
 
 Grant it, O Father, Son, 
 
 And Holy Spirit of grace, 
 
 To whom be glory, Three in One, 
 
 In every time and place. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 305 
 
 VESPERS— TUESDAY 
 
 Telluris alme conditor. 
 
 , -BOUNTIFUL Creator, who, 
 When Thou didst mould the 
 world, didst drain 
 'he waters from the mass, that so 
 Earth might immovable remain ; 
 
 That its dull clods it might transmute 
 To golden flowers in vale or wood, 
 
 To juice of thirst-allaying fruit, 
 
 And grateful herbage spread for food ; 
 
 Wash Thou our smarting wounds and hot, 
 
 In the cool freshness of Thy grace ; 
 
 Till tears start forth the past to blot, 
 
 And cleanse and calm Thy holy place ; 
 
 Till we obey Thy full behest, 
 
 Shun the world’s tainted touch and breath, 
 
 Joy in what highest is and best, 
 
 And gain a spell to baffle death. 
 
 Grant it, O Father, Only Son, 
 
 And Holy Spirit, God of Grace ; 
 
 To whom all glory, Three in One, 
 
 Be given in every time and place. 
 
 x 
 
3 o6 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 VESPERS— WEDNESDAY 
 
 Coeli Deus sanctissime. 
 
 LORD, who, throned in the holy 
 height, 
 
 Through plains of ether didst 
 diffuse 
 
 The dazzling beams of light, 
 In soft transparent hues ; 
 
 Who didst, on the fourth day, in heaven 
 Light the fierce cresset of the sun, 
 
 And the meek moon at even, 
 
 And stars that wildly run ; 
 
 That they might mark and arbitrate 
 ’Twixt alternating night and day, 
 
 And tend the train sedate 
 Of months upon their way ; 
 
 Clear, Lord, the brooding night within, 
 And clean these hearts for Thy abode, 
 Unlock the spell of sin, 
 
 Crumble its giant load. 
 
 Grant it, O Father, Only Son, 
 
 And Holy Spirit, God of Grace, 
 
 To whom all praise be done 
 In every time and place. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 307 
 
 VESPERS— THURSDAY 
 
 Magnae Dens potentiae. 
 
 GOD, who hast given 
 
 the sea and the sky 
 To fish and to bird 
 
 for a dwelling to keep, 
 Both sons of the waters, 
 
 one low and one high, 
 Ambitious of heaven, 
 
 yet sunk in the deep ; 
 
 Save, Lord, Thy servants, 
 
 whom Thou hast new made 
 In a laver of blood, 
 
 lest they trespass and die ; 
 Lest pride should elate, 
 
 or sin should degrade, 
 
 And they stumble on earth, 
 
 or be dizzied on high. 
 
 To the Father and Son 
 And the Spirit be done, 
 Now and always, 
 
 Glory and praise. 
 
3°8 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 VESPERS— FRIDAY 
 
 Hominis superne conditor. 
 
 HOM all obey, — 
 
 Maker of man ! who from Thy height 
 Badest the dull earth bring to light 
 All creeping things, and the fierce 
 might 
 Of beasts of prey. 
 
 And the huge make 
 Of wild or gentler animal, 
 
 Springing from nothing at Thy call, 
 
 To serve in their due time, and all 
 For sinners’ sake ; 
 
 Shield us from ill ! 
 
 Come it by passion’s sudden stress, 
 
 Lurk in our mind’s habitual dress, 
 
 Or through our actions seek to press 
 Upon our will. 
 
 Vouchsafe the prize 
 Of sacred joy’s perpetual mood, 
 
 And service-seeking gratitude, 
 
 And love to quell each strife or feud, 
 
 If it arise. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 309 
 
 Grant it, O Lord ! 
 
 To whom, the Father, Only Son, 
 
 And Holy Spirit, Three in One, 
 
 In heaven and earth all praise be done, 
 
 With one accord. 
 
3io 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 VESPERS— SATURDAY 
 
 Jam sol recedit igneus. 
 
 E red sun is gone, 
 
 Thou Light of the heart, 
 blessed Three, Holy One, 
 
 Vo Thy servants a sun 
 Everlasting impart. 
 
 There were Lauds in the morn ; 
 
 Here are Vespers at even. 
 
 Oh, may we adorn 
 Thy Temple new born 
 
 With our voices in Heaven. 
 
 To the Father be praise, 
 
 And praise to the Son 
 And the Spirit always, 
 
 While the infinite days 
 Of eternity run. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 31 1 
 
 ADVENT— VESPERS 
 
 Creator alme siderum. 
 
 REATOR of the starry pole, 
 Saviour of all who live, 
 
 And light of every faithful soul, 
 Jesu, these prayers receive. 
 
 Who sooner than our foe malign 
 Should triumph, from above 
 Didst come, to be the medicine 
 Of a sick world, in love ; 
 
 And the deep wounds to cleanse and cure 
 Of a whole race, didst go, 
 
 Pure Victim, from a Virgin pure, 
 
 The bitter Cross unto. 
 
 Who hast a Name, and hast a Power, 
 
 The height and depth to sway, 
 
 And angels bow, and devils cower, 
 
 In transport or dismay ; 
 
 Thou too shalt be our Judge at length ; 
 
 Lord, in Thy grace bestow 
 Thy weapons of celestial strength, 
 
 And snatch us from the foe. 
 
^12 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Honour and glory, power and praise, 
 To Father, and to Son, 
 
 And Holy Ghost, be paid always, 
 The Eternal Three in One. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 313 
 
 ADVENT— MATINS 
 
 Verbum supernum prodiens. 
 
 UPERNAL Word, proceeding from 
 The Eternal Father’s breast, 
 And in the end of ages come, 
 
 To aid a world distrest ; 
 
 Enlighten, Lord, and set on fire 
 Our spirits with Thy love, 
 
 That, dead to earth, they may aspire 
 And live to joys above. 
 
 That, when the judgment-seat on high 
 Shall fix the sinner’s doom, 
 
 And to the just a glad voice cry, 
 
 Come to your destined home ; 
 
 Safe from the black and yawning lake 
 Of restless, endless pain, 
 
 We may the face of God partake, 
 The bliss of heaven attain. 
 
 To God the Father, God the Son, 
 And Holy Ghost, to Thee, 
 
 As heretofore, when time is done, 
 Unending glory be. 
 
3 H 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 ADVENT— LAUDS 
 
 En clara vox redarguit. 
 
 ARK, a joyful voice is thrilling, 
 And each dim and winding way 
 Of the ancient Temple filling ; 
 Dreams, depart ! for it is day. 
 
 Christ is coming ! — from thy bed, 
 
 Earth-bound soul, awake and spring, — 
 
 With the sun new-risen to shed 
 Health on human suffering. 
 
 Lo ! to grant a pardon free, 
 
 Comes a willing Lamb from Heaven ; 
 
 Sad and tearful, hasten we, 
 
 One and all, to be forgiven. 
 
 Once again He comes in light, 
 
 Girding earth with fear and woe ; 
 
 Lord ! be Thou our loving Might, 
 
 From our guilt and ghostly foe. 
 
 To the Father, and the Son, 
 
 And the Spirit, who in Heaven 
 
 Ever witness, Three and One, 
 
 Praise on earth be ever given. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 315 
 
 ON THE FEAST OF A 
 CONFESSOR BISHOP 
 
 THOU, of shepherds Prince and Head 
 Now on a Bishop’s festal-day 
 Thy flock to many a shrine have sped 
 Their vows to pay. 
 
 He to the high and dreadful throne 
 Urged by no false inspirings, prest, 
 
 Nor on hot daring of his own, 
 
 But Thy behest. 
 
 And so, that soldier good and tried, 
 
 From the full horn of heavenly grace, 
 
 Thy Spirit did anoint, to guide 
 
 Thy ransomed race. 
 
 And he becomes a father true, 
 
 Spending and spent, when troubles fall, 
 
 A pattern and a servant too, 
 
 All things to all. 
 
 His pleading sets the sinner free, 
 
 He soothes the sick, he lifts the low, 
 Powerful in word, deep teacher, he 
 To quell the foe. 
 
3 1 6 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Grant us, O Christ, his prayers above, 
 And grace below, to sing Thy praise, 
 The Father’s power, the Spirit’s love, 
 Here and always. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 317 
 
 SONGS 
 
 CANDLEMAS 
 
 HE angel-lights of Christmas morn, 
 Which shot across the sky, 
 Away they pass at Candlemas, 
 They sparkle and they die. 
 
 Comfort of earth is brief at best, 
 
 Although it be divine ; 
 
 Like funeral lights for Christmas gone 
 Old Simeon’s tapers shine. 
 
 And then for eight long weeks and more, 
 We wait in twilight grey, 
 
 Till the tall candle sheds a beam 
 On Holy Saturday. 
 
 We wait along the penance-tide 
 Of solemn fast and prayer ; 
 
 While song is hushed, and lights grow dim 
 In the sin-laden air. 
 
 And while the sword in Mary’s soul 
 Is driven home, we hide 
 
 In our own hearts, and count the wounds 
 Of passion and of pride. 
 
318 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 And still, though Candlemas be spent 
 And Alleluias o’er, 
 
 Mary is music in our need, 
 
 And Jesus light in store. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 319 
 
 THE PILGRIM QUEEN 
 
 IE sat a Lady 
 
 all on the ground, 
 r s of the morning 
 
 circled her round, 
 Save thee, and hail to thee, 
 
 Gracious and Fair, 
 
 In the chill twilight 
 
 what wouldst thou there ? 
 
 “ Here I sit desolate,” 
 
 sweetly said she, 
 
 “ Though I’m a Queen, 
 
 and my name is Marie : 
 Robbers have rifled 
 
 my garden and store, 
 
 Foes they have stolen 
 
 my heir from my bower. 
 
 u They said they could keep Him 
 far better than I, 
 
 In a palace all His, 
 
 planted deep and rais’d high. 
 ’Twas a palace of ice, 
 
 hard and cold as were they, 
 And when summer came, 
 
 it all melted away. 
 
3 2 ° 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 “ Next would they barter Him, 
 
 Him the Supreme, 
 
 For the spice of the desert, 
 
 and gold of the stream ; 
 
 And me they bid wander 
 
 in weeds and alone, 
 
 In this green merry land 
 
 which once was my own.” 
 
 I looked on that Lady, 
 
 and out from her eyes 
 Came the deep glowing blue 
 of Italy’s skies ; 
 
 And she raised up her head 
 
 And she smiled, as a Queen 
 On the day of her crowning, 
 so bland and serene. 
 
 “ A moment/’ she said, 
 
 “ and the dead shall revive ; 
 The giants are failing, 
 
 the saints are alive ; 
 
 I am coming to rescue 
 
 my home and my reign. 
 And Peter and Philip 
 
 are close in my train.” 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 321 
 
 THE MONTH OF MARY 
 
 EN are the leaves, and sweet the 
 flowers, 
 
 And rich the hues of May ; 
 esee them in the gardens round, 
 And market-paniers gay : 
 
 And e’en among our streets, and lanes, 
 
 And alleys, we descry, 
 
 By fitful gleams, the fair sunshine, 
 
 The blue transparent sky. 
 
 Chorus . 
 
 O Mother maid, be thou our aid, 
 
 Now in the opening year ; 
 
 Lest sights of earth to sin give birth, 
 
 And bring the tempter near. 
 
 Green is the grass, but wait awhile, 
 
 ’Twill grow, and then will wither ; 
 
 The flowrets, brightly as they smile, 
 
 Shall perish altogether : 
 
 The merry sun, you sure would say, 
 
 It ne’er could set in gloom ; 
 
 But earth’s best joys have all an end, 
 
 And sin, a heavy doom. 
 
 Y 
 
322 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Chorus . 
 
 But Mother maid, thou dost not fade ; 
 
 With stars above thy brow, 
 
 And the pale moon beneath thy feet, 
 
 For ever throned art thou. 
 
 The green green grass, the glittering grove, 
 The Heaven’s majestic dome, 
 
 They image forth a tenderer bower, 
 
 A more refulgent home ; 
 
 They tell us of that Paradise 
 Of everlasting rest, 
 
 And that high Tree, all flowers and fruit, 
 The sweetest, yet the best. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 O Mary, pure and beautiful, 
 
 Thou art the Queen of May ; 
 
 Our garlands wear about thy hair. 
 
 And they will ne’er decay. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 323 
 
 MARY, THE QUEEN OF THE 
 SEASONS 
 
 ( For an inclement May ) 
 
 LL is divine 
 
 which the Highest has made, 
 Thro’ the days that He wrought, 
 
 till the day when He stayed ; 
 Above and below, 
 
 within and around, 
 
 From the centre of space, 
 
 to its uttermost bound. 
 
 In beauty surpassing 
 
 the Universe smiled, 
 
 On the morn of its birth, 
 
 like an innocent child. 
 
 Or like the rich bloom 
 
 of some gorgeous flower ; 
 
 And the Father rejoiced 
 
 in the work of His power. 
 
 Yet worlds brighter still, 
 
 and a brighter than those, 
 
 And a brighter again, 
 
 He had made, had He chose ; 
 
3M 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 And you never could name 
 
 that conceivable best, 
 
 To exhaust the resources 
 
 the Maker possessed. 
 
 But I know of one work 
 
 of His Infinite Hand, 
 Which special and singular 
 ever must stand ; 
 
 So perfect, so pure, 
 
 and of gifts such a store, 
 That even Omnipotence 
 cannot do more. 
 
 The freshness of May, 
 
 and the sweetness of June, 
 And the fire of July 
 
 in its passionate noon, 
 Munificent August, 
 
 September serene, 
 
 Are together no match 
 
 for my glorious Oueen. 
 
 O Mary, all months 
 
 and all days are thine own, 
 In thee lasts their joyousness, 
 when they are gone ; 
 
 And we give to thee May, 
 
 not because it is best, 
 
 But because it comes first, 
 
 and is pledge of the rest. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 325 
 
 PETER AND PHILIP 
 
 the far north our lot is cast, 
 Where faithful hearts are few ; 
 till are we Philip’s children dear, 
 And Peter’s soldiers true. 
 
 Founder and Sire ! to mighty Rome, 
 Beneath St. Peter’s shade, 
 
 Early thy vow of loyal love 
 And ministry was paid. 
 
 The ample porch, and threshold high, 
 
 Of Peter was thy home ; 
 
 The world’s apostle he, and thou 
 Apostle of his Rome. 
 
 And first in the old catacombs, 
 
 In galleries long and deep, 
 
 Where martyr Popes had ruled the flock, 
 And slept their glorious sleep, 
 
 Through the still night in silent prayer, 
 Thou tarriedst, till there came, 
 
 Down on thy breast, new lit for thee, 
 
 The Pentecostal flame. 
 
326 THE POEMS OF 
 
 Then in that heart-consuming love, 
 Thou, through the city wide, 
 
 Didst wile the noble and the young 
 From Babel’s pomp and pride ; 
 
 And, gathering them within thy cell, 
 Unveil the lustre bright, 
 
 And beauty of thy inner soul, 
 
 And gain them by the sight. 
 
 And thus to Rome, for Peter’s faith 
 Far known, thou didst impart 
 A rule of life, and works of love, 
 
 And discipline of heart. 
 
 And the apostle, on the hill 
 Facing the imperial town, 
 
 First gazed upon his fair domain, 
 
 Then on the cross lay down, 
 
 So thou, from out the streets of Rome, 
 Didst turn thy failing eye 
 Unto that mount of martyrdom,* 
 
 Take leave of it, and die. 
 
 * On the day of his death, Philip, “at the begin- 
 ning of his Mass, remained for some time looking 
 fixedly at the hill of St. Onofrio, which was visible 
 from the chapel, just as if he saw some great vision. 
 On coming to the Gloria in Excelsis, he began to 
 sing, which was a very unusual thing for him, and 
 he sang the whole of it with the greatest joy and 
 devotion.” etc. — “ Bacci’s Life/* 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 327 
 
 THE REGULAR SAINTS AND 
 PHILIP 
 
 HE holy Monks, conceal’d from men, 
 In midnight choir, or studious cell, 
 In sultry field, or wintry glen, 
 
 The holy Monks, I love them well. 
 
 The Friars too, the zealous band 
 Of Francis and of Dominic, 
 
 They gather, and they take their stand 
 Where foes are fierce, or souls are sick. 
 
 And then the unwearied Company, 
 
 Which bears the name and sacred might, 
 The Knights of Jesus, they defy 
 The fiend, full eager for the fight. 
 
 Yet there is one I more affect 
 
 Than Jesuit, Hermit, Monk, or Friar, 
 ’Tis an old man of sweet aspect, 
 
 I love him more, I more admire. 
 
 I know him by his head of snow, 
 
 His ready smile, his keen full eye, 
 
 His words which kindle as they flow ; 
 
 Save he be rapt in ecstasy. 
 
328 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 He lifts his hands, there issues forth 
 A fragrance virginal and rare, 
 
 And now he ventures to our North, 
 Where hearts are frozen as the air. 
 
 He comes, by grace of his address, 
 
 By the sweet music of his face, 
 And his low tones of tenderness, 
 
 To melt a noble, stubborn race. 
 
 O sainted Philip, Father dear, 
 
 Look on thy little ones, that we 
 Thy loveliness may copy here, 
 
 And in the eternal Kingdom see. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 329 
 
 MARY AND PHILIP 
 
 HIS is the Saint of sweetness and 
 compassion, 
 
 Cheerful in penance, and in precept 
 winning, 
 
 Beckoning and luring in a holy fashion 
 
 Souls that are sinning. 
 
 This is the Saint, who, when the bad world 
 vaunteth 
 
 Her many coloured wares and magic treasures, 
 Outbids her, and her victim disenchanteth 
 
 With heavenly pleasures. 
 
 This is the Saint, with whom our hearts, like 
 Moses, 
 
 Find o’er the waste that Tree, so bright and 
 beaming, 
 
 Till ’neath her shade the sobered soul reposes, 
 After its dreaming. 
 
 And then he shakes the boughs where it is 
 lying, ^ 
 
 Nor of their fruit are those sweet branches chary, 
 Mary the tree, Jesus the fruit undying — 
 
 Jesus and Mary ; 
 
330 
 
 THE? POEMS OF 
 
 Jesu and Mary, Philip, and high Heaven, 
 Angels, of God the glorious reflexion, 
 
 To you be praise, to us from you be given 
 Peace and protection. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 331 
 
 JESUS AND PHILIP 
 
 HILIP, on thee the glowing ray 
 
 Of heaven came down upon thy 
 prayer, 
 
 To melt thy heart and burn away 
 All that of earthly dross was there. 
 
 Thy soul became as purest glass 
 
 Through which the Brightness Increate 
 In undimmed majesty might pass, 
 Transparent and illuminate. 
 
 And so, on Philip when we gaze, 
 
 We see the image of his Lord ; 
 
 The Saint dissolves amid the blaze 
 
 Which circles round the Living Word. 
 
 The Meek, the Wise, none else is here, 
 Dispensing light to men below ; 
 
 His awful accents fill the ear, 
 
 Now keen as fire, now soft as snow. 
 
 As snow, those inward pleadings fall, 
 As soft, as bright, as pure, as cool, 
 With gentle weight and gradual, 
 And sink into the feverish soul. 
 
332 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 The Sinless One, He comes to seek, 
 The dreary heart, the spirit lone, 
 Tender of natures proud or weak, 
 
 Not less than if they were His own. 
 
 He takes and scans the sinner o’er, 
 Handling His scholars one by one, 
 Weighing what they can bear, before 
 He gives the penance to be done. 
 
 Jesu, to Philip’s sons reveal 
 
 That gentlest wisdom from above, 
 To spread compassion o’er their zeal, 
 And mingle patience with their love. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 333 
 
 THE HOLY TRINITY 
 
 ^|HE one true Faith, the ancient Creed, 
 Martyrs for it were fain to fight and 
 bleed ; 
 
 The holy Sign, our awful spell, 
 
 It is the Cross, triumphant over Hell ; 
 
 The Cross, the Creed, the Faith, O triply blest, 
 They sanctify our brow, and lips, and breast ; 
 The Cross, the Creed, the Faith, O triply blest, 
 Are on our brow, and lips, and breast. 
 
 The Church of God, the world-wide name, 
 Found in all lands, yet everywhere the same ; 
 Love with its thrilling unison 
 Knows how to knit ten thousand hearts in one. 
 Behold a triple bond where’er we rove, 
 
 ’Tis one, ’tis Catholic, ’tis strong in love ; 
 
 O triply blest, ’tis ours, where’er we rove, 
 
 One, Catholic, and strong in love. 
 
 God’s Mother dear, sweet lily flower, 
 
 And Saints on high, creations of His power ; 
 While to and fro the Church is driven, 
 
 Angels descend and rivet her to heaven ; 
 
 The warring Church below, the Church on high, 
 A golden chain unites the earth and sky ; 
 Angels, the Church below, the Church on high, 
 O triply blest, to us are nigh. 
 
334 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 The eternal Sire, the gracious Son, 
 
 And the dread Spirit, the Heavenly Three in 
 One ; 
 
 On earth, the fair, the wondrous Child, 
 
 Joseph the meek, the Mother undefiled ; 
 Three are in heaven above, on earth are three, 
 Bright images of heaven in their degree ; 
 
 Three are in heaven above, on earth are Three, 
 O blest, and triply blest are we ! 
 
From 
 
 CALLISTA 
 
 [.8j6] 
 
Callista, /a Sketch of the Third 
 Century. / 
 
 Love thy God and love Him only, 
 
 And thy breast will ne’er be lonely. 
 
 In that one great spirit meet 
 
 All things mighty, grave, and sweet. 
 
 Vainly strives the soul to mingle 
 With a being of our kind ; 
 
 Vainly hearts with hearts are twined 5 
 For the deepest still is single. 
 
 An impalpable resistance 
 
 Holds like natures still at distance. 
 
 Mortal ! love that Holy One, 
 
 Or dwell for aye alone. 
 
 De Vere. 
 
 London : / Burns and Lambert, 17, Portman Street./ 
 Cologne : J. P. Bachem. / 1856./ 
 
 The two earlier songs, “Where are the Islands 
 of the Blest ? " and “ I wander by that river's 
 brink,” only the former of which Newman re- 
 printed in his “Verses on Various Occasions,” have 
 little in common with the remaining contents of 
 this volume. Still less has the fragmentary “Juba’s 
 Song.” But the last, in especial, is here printed as 
 representative of Newman's appreciation of and 
 power of employing the old ballad form, where 
 additional emphasis was gained by repetitions in 
 which minute changes occurred. This song of 
 Juba is the one thing preserved to us which gives a 
 clue to what the development of Newman’s muse 
 might have been had he employed it upon secular 
 subjects. 
 
From CALLISTA 
 
 SONG 
 
 ,RE are the Islands of the Blest ? 
 
 They stud the JEgean Sea ; 
 ad where the deep Elysian rest ? 
 It haunts the vale where Peneus 
 strong 
 
 Pours his incessant stream along, 
 
 While craggy ridge and mountain bare 
 Cut keenly through the liquid air, 
 
 And in their own pure tints arrayed, 
 
 Scorn earth’s green robes which change and 
 fade, 
 
 And stand in beauty undecayed, 
 
 Guards of the bold and free. 
 
 For what is Afric, but the home 
 Of burning Phlegethon ? 
 
 What the low beach and silent gloom, 
 
 And chilling mists of that dull river, 
 Along whose bank the thin ghosts shiver, — 
 
338 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 The thin wan ghosts that once were men, — 
 But Tauris, isle of moor and fen, 
 
 Or dimly traced by seamen’s ken, 
 
 The pale-cliff’ d Albion. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 339 
 
 SONG 
 
 WANDER by that river’s brink 
 Which circles Pluto’s drear domain ; 
 I feel the chill night-breeze, and think 
 Of joys which ne’er shall be again. 
 
 I count the weeds that fringe the shore, 
 Each sluggish wave that rolls and rolls ; 
 I hear the ever-splashing oar 
 Of Charon, ferryman of souls. 
 
34° 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 HYMN 
 
 HE number of Thine own complete, 
 Sum up and make an end ; 
 
 Sift clean the chaff, and house the 
 wheat, — 
 
 And then, O Lord, descend. 
 
 Descend, and solve by that descent, 
 
 This mystery of life ; 
 
 Where good and ill, together blent, 
 
 Wage an undying strife. 
 
 For rivers twain are gushing still, 
 
 And pour a mingled flood ; 
 
 Good in the very depths of ill, 
 
 111 in the heart of good. 
 
 The last are first, — the first are last, — 
 
 As angel eyes behold : 
 
 These from the sheep-cote sternly cast, — - 
 Those welcomed to the fold. 
 
 No Christian home, no pastor’s eye. 
 
 No preacher’s vocal zeal, 
 
 Moved Thy dear Martyr to defy 
 The prison and the wheel. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 341 
 
 Forth from the heathen ranks she stept, 
 
 The forfeit throne to claim 
 
 Of Christian souls who had not kept 
 Their birthright and their name. 
 
 Grace formed her out of sinful dust ; 
 
 She knelt, a soul defiled ; 
 
 She rose in all the faith, and trust, 
 
 And sweetness of a child. 
 
 And in the freshness of that love 
 She preached, by word and deed, — 
 
 The mysteries of the world above, — 
 
 Her new-found, glorious creed. 
 
 And running, in a little hour, 
 
 Of life the course complete, 
 
 She reached the Throne of endless power, 
 And sits at Jesu’s feet. 
 
 Her spirit there, her body here, 
 
 Make one the earth and sky ; 
 
 We use her name, — we touch her bier : — 
 We know her God is nigh. 
 
34-2 
 
 THE POEMS OF 
 
 JUBA'S SONG 
 
 little black moor is the chap for me, 
 When the night is dark, and the earth 
 is free, 
 
 Under the limbs of the broad yew-tree. 
 
 ’Twas Father Cham that planted that yew, 
 And he fed it fat with the bloody dew 
 Of a score of brats, as his lineage grew. 
 
 Footing and flaunting it all the night, 
 
 Each lock flings fire, each heel strikes light ; 
 No lamps need they whose breath is bright. 
 
 *• * * * * 
 
 Gurta the witch would have part in the jest ; 
 *Tho’ lame as a gull, by his highness possessed, 
 She shouldered her crutch, and danced with 
 the rest. 
 
 Sporting and snorting, deep in the night, 
 
 Their beards flashing fire, and their hoofs 
 striking light, 
 
 And their tails whisking round in the heat of 
 their flight. 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 343 
 
 Sporting and snorting in shades of the night, 
 His ears pricking up, and his hoofs striking 
 
 light, ... 
 
 And his tail whisking round in the speed of 
 his flight. 
 
 ***** 
 
 Gurta the witch was out with the rest ; 
 
 ’Tho’ lame as a gull, by his highness possessed, 
 She shouldered her crutch, and danced with 
 the best. 
 
 She stamped and she twirled in the shade of 
 the yew, 
 
 Till her gossips and chums of the city danced 
 too ; 
 
 They never are slack when there’s mischief to 
 do. 
 
 She danced and she coaxed, but he was no 
 fool ; 
 
 He’d be his own master, he’d not be her 
 tool ; 
 
 Not the little black moor should send him to 
 school. 
 
 ***** 
 
 She wheedled and coaxed, but he was no fool ; 
 
 He’d be his own master, he’d not be her tool ; 
 
 Not the little black moor should send him to 
 school. 
 
344 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 She foamed and she cursed — ’twas the same 
 thing to him ; 
 
 She laid well her trap ; but he carried his 
 whim : — 
 
 The priest scuffled off, safe in life and in limb. 
 * * * * * 
 
 She beckoned the moon, and the moon came 
 down ; 
 
 The green earth shrivelled beneath her frown ; 
 
 But a man’s strong will can keep his own. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 
From 
 
 HYMNS FOR THE USE OF 
 THE BIRMINGHAM 
 ORATORY 
 
 [■857] 
 
Hymns / for the Use of / the / Bir- 
 mingham Oratory./ 
 
 Dublin : / Printed by John F. Fowler, / 3, Crow Street, 
 Dame Street./ 1857./ 
 
From 
 
 HYMNS FOR THE USE OF 
 THE BIRMINGHAM 
 ORATORY 
 
 ST. PHILIP NERI 
 
 JHIS is the Saint of gentleness and 
 kindness, 
 
 Cheerful in penance, and in precept 
 winning ; 
 
 Patiently healing of their pride and blindness. 
 Souls that are sinning. 
 
 This is the Saint, who, when the world allures us, 
 Cries her false wares, and opes her magic 
 coffers, 
 
 Points to a better city, and secures us 
 
 With richer offers. 
 
 Love is his bond, he knows no other fetter, 
 Asks not our all, but takes whate’er we spare 
 him, 
 
 Willing to draw us on from good to better, 
 
 As we can bear him. 
 
THE POEMS OF 
 
 34 8 
 
 When he comes near to teach us and to bless us, 
 Prayer is so sweet, that hours are but a 
 minute ; 
 
 Mirth is so pure, though freely it possess us, 
 
 Sin is not in it. 
 
 Thus he conducts by holy paths and pleasant, 
 Innocent souls, and sinful souls forgiven, 
 Towards the bright palace where our God is 
 present, 
 
 Throned in high heaven. 
 
 [This poem, although apparently a revised version 
 of the “Mary and Philip 11 in “Verses on Religious 
 Subjects,” diverges so widely from it as to be 
 essentially a different poem, and contains phrases 
 so exquisite that it has been decided to reprint both 
 in the present volume.] 
 
 I 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 349 
 
 PURGATORY 
 
 ELP, Lord, the souls which Thou hast 
 made, 
 
 The souls to Thee so dear, 
 
 In prison, for the debt unpaid 
 Of sins committed here. 
 
 Those holy souls, they suffer on, 
 
 Resigned in heart and will, 
 
 Until Thy high behest is done, 
 
 And justice has its fill. 
 
 For daily falls, for pardoned crime, 
 
 They joy to undergo 
 The shadow of Thy Cross sublime, 
 
 The remnant of Thy woe. 
 
 Help, Lord, the souls which Thou hast made, 
 The souls to Thee so dear, 
 
 In prison, for the debt unpaid 
 Of sins committed here. 
 
 O by their patience of delay, 
 
 Their hope amid their pain, 
 
 Their sacred zeal to burn away 
 Disfigurement and stain, 
 
350 JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 O by their fire of love, not less 
 In keenness than the flame, 
 
 O by their very helplessness, 
 
 O by Thy own great Name, 
 
 Sweet Jesu, help, sweet Jesu, aid, 
 The souls to Thee so dear, 
 
 In prison, for the debt unpaid 
 Of sins committed here. 
 
INDEX 
 
 All-bountiful Creator, who . 
 
 All is divine ....... 
 
 All tender lights, all hues divine 
 
 And would’st thou reach, rash scholar mine. 
 
 Are these the tracks of some unearthly Friend . 
 
 As viewing sin, e’en in its faintest trace 
 
 As, when the hand some mimic form would paint 
 
 Athens and letters followed on my stage 
 
 A year and more has fled ..... 
 
 Banish’d the House of sacred rest 
 Between two comrades dear .... 
 Bide thou thy time ..... 
 
 Bloom, beloved Flower ..... 
 
 Cease, Stranger, cease those piercing notes . , 
 
 Chill blows the wind 5 the sun’s enfeebled power . 
 Christ bade His followers take the sword . 
 Christ’s Church was holiest in her youthful days . 
 Christ only, of God’s messengers to man . 
 
 Come, Holy Ghost, who ever One 
 
 Could I hit on a theme ..... 
 
 Creator of the starry pole .... 
 
 Day’s herald bird ...... 
 
 Dear Frank, this morn has ushered in 
 
 Dear Louisa, why ...... 
 
 PAGE 
 
 305 
 
 323 
 
 291 
 
 197 
 
 156 
 
 269 
 
 270 
 
 261 
 
 7 1 
 
 *35 
 
 282 
 
 232 
 
 122 
 
 168 
 
 45 
 
 1 80 
 
 226 
 
 236 
 
 250 
 
 I2 5 
 
 311 
 
 298 
 
 83 
 
 116 
 
35 2 
 
 INDEX 
 
 page 
 
 Dear sainted Friends, I call not you . . .172 
 
 Death was full urgent with thee, Sister dear . 96 
 
 Deep in his meditative bower . . . .192 
 
 Did we but see . . . . . .155 
 
 Do not their souls, who ’neath the Altar wait . 243 
 
 Each trial has its weight 5 which, whoso bears . 203 
 
 Ere yet I left home’s youthful shrine . . .132 
 
 Faint not, and fret not, for threatened woe . .201 
 
 Fair Cousin, thy page ..... 109 
 
 Far sadder musing on the traveller falls . . 237 
 
 Father of Lights, by whom each day . . 253 
 
 Father of mercies infinite . . . *293 
 
 Fierce was the whirlwind of my storm-tossed mind 263 
 Framer of the earth and sky .... 294 
 
 France ! I will think of thee as what thou wast . 218 
 
 u Give any boon for peace ” . . . .188 
 
 Glory of the eternal Heaven .... 302 
 
 Green are the leaves, and sweet the flowers , 321 
 
 Hark, a joyful voice is thrilling. . . .314 
 
 Haunting gloom and flitting shades . . . 300 
 
 Help, Lord, the souls which Thou hast made . 349 
 
 Hid are the saints of God . . . .112 
 
 How can I keep my Christmas feast . . .134 
 
 How didst thou start, Thou Holy Baptist, bid . 184 
 
 How long, O Lord of grace .... 222 
 
 How shall a child of God fulfil . . . 223 
 
 I am a harp of many chords, and each . . 90 
 
 I am a tree, whose spring is o’er ... 79 
 
 I am rooted in the wall . . . . .91 
 
 I bear upon my brow the sign , . . .136 
 
INDEX 
 
 353 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I bow at Jesu’s name ..... 143 
 
 I dreamed that, with a passionate complaint . 179 
 
 I have been honoured and obeyed . . .146 
 
 I lost, O Lord, the use of yesterday . . 265 
 
 I rise and yield my clasped hands to Thee . . 266 
 
 I sat beneath an olive’s branches grey , . 171 
 
 I saw thee once, and nought discerned . .178 
 
 I wander by that river’s brink . . . *339 
 
 If e’er I fall beneath Thy rod . . . .149 
 
 In childhood, when with eager eyes . .94 
 
 In service o’er the Mystic Feast I stand . . 268 
 
 In the far North our lot is cast . . 325 
 
 In times of old, ere Learning’s dawning beam . 3 60 
 
 Ladies, well I deem, delight . . . • . 105 
 
 Latest born of Jesse’s race . . . .176 
 
 Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom . 15 1 
 
 Let others sing thy heathen praise . . . 204 
 
 Let the sun summon all his beams to hold . . 56 
 
 Let us arise, and watch by night . . . 247 
 
 Light of the anxious heart . . . . ; 256 
 
 Lord, in this dust Thy sovereign voice . . 114 
 
 Lord, of unbounded space ..... 304 
 
 “Man goeth forth” with reckless trust . . 87 
 
 Man is permitted much . . . . .186 
 
 Many the guileless years the Patriarch spent . 175 
 
 Martyr of Christ, thy fight is won . . . 257 
 
 May the dread Three in One, who sways’ . . 292 
 
 Memory gifts, with the early year . . .118 
 
 Mid Balak’s magic fires . . . . .212 
 
 Mortal ! if e’er thy spirits faint . . . 148 
 
 Moses, the patriot fierce, became . . . 147 
 
 My breath is spent ; Menalcas, check your pace ! . 39 
 
 My Father’s hope ! my childhood’s dream . . 241 
 
 My home is now a thousand mile away * 133 
 
 2 A 
 
354 
 
 INDEX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 My oldest friend, mine from the hour . . 279 
 
 My sister, on a day so dear . ... 67 
 
 My smile is bright, my glance is free . .142 
 
 Now is the Autumn of the Tree of Life . .224 
 
 Now that the daylight dies away . . .254 
 
 Now that the dreary cold of winter flies . . 50 
 
 O aged Saint ! far off I heard . . . .191 
 
 O comrade bold of toil and pain . . .235 
 
 O Father, list a sinner’s call . . . .138 
 
 O God from God, and Light from Light . . 289 
 
 O <God, of Thy soldiers ..... 258 
 
 O God, unchangeable and true . . . .252 
 
 O God, the Lord of place and time , . .251 
 
 O God, who hast given ..... 307 
 
 O heart of fire ! misjudged by wilful man . .145 
 
 O Holiest Truth ! how have I lied to Thee. . 267 
 
 O Holy Lord, who with the Children Three . 281 
 
 O Lord and Christ . . . . .215 
 
 O Lord ! when sin’s close-marshalled line . .190 
 
 O Lord, who thron’d in the holy height , . 306 
 
 Oh ! miserable power . . . , .141 
 
 O Mother Church of Rome . . . .238 
 
 O piteous race . . . . . .213 
 
 Oh, prophet, tell me not of peace . . .137 
 
 O purest semblance of the Eternal Son . .162 
 
 Oh rail not at our brethren of the North . . 216 
 
 O say not thou art left of God . . 153 
 
 O specious sin ..... 242 
 
 O that Thou wouldest rend the breadth of sky . 64 
 
 O that thy creed were sound . . , . 239 
 
 O Thou, of shepherds Prince and Head . . 315 
 
 O ye who seek the Lord . . . . .255 
 
 Of the Father Effluence bright .... 296 
 
 Once, as I brooded o’er my guilty state . . 139 
 
 Once cast with men of language strange , . 219 
 
INDEX 
 
 355 
 
 Paler have grown the shades of night . 
 
 Peace-loving man, of humble heart and true 
 Philip, on thee the glowing ray 
 
 Poor wanderers, ye are sore distrest . , . 
 
 Prune thou thy words, the thoughts control 
 
 Say, hast thou track’d a traveller’s round . , 
 
 Say, who is he in deserts seen .... 
 
 Secure in his prophetic strength 
 
 See the golden dawn is glowing 
 
 She is not lost ; — still in our sight 
 
 Sleep has refresh’d our limbs, we spring 
 
 Some one whisper’d yesterday .... 
 
 Supernal Word, proceeding from 
 
 The Angel-lights of Christmas morn . 
 
 The ark of God has hidden strength . 
 
 The better portion didst thou choose, Great Heart 
 The coachman was seated, the ribbons in hand 
 The dawn is sprinkled o’er the sky 
 “ The Fathers are in dust, yet live to God ” 
 
 The holy Monks, conceal’d from men 
 
 The little black Moor ..... 
 
 The Muse has sway in the truant mind 
 The number of Thine own complete . 
 
 The one true Faith, the ancient Creed 
 
 The red sun is gone ..... 
 
 The star of morn to night succeeds . 
 
 The Sun has risen o’er Belleville’s lengthen’d 
 height ....... 
 
 The time has been, it seemed a precept plain 
 The world has cycles in its course, when all 
 There is not on the earth a soul so base 
 There is one only bond ..... 
 
 There sat a Lady ....... 
 
 There strayed awhile, amid the woods of Dart , 
 
 PAGE 
 
 248 
 
 207 
 
 33 1 
 
 210 
 
 183 
 
 170 
 
 231 
 
 194 
 
 301 
 
 99 
 
 288 
 
 275 
 
 3*3 
 
 3*7 
 
 227 
 
 150 
 
 102 
 
 3°3 
 
 160 
 
 327 
 
 342 
 
 75 
 
 34o 
 
 333 
 
 310 
 
 249 
 
 3 
 
 195 
 
 229 
 
 161 
 
 220 
 
 319 
 
 127 
 
3y6 INDEX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 They are at rest . . . . . . 173 
 
 They do but grope in learning’s pedant round . 166 
 
 This the Saint of gentleness and kindness . . 347 
 
 This is the Saint of sweetness and compassion . 329 
 
 Thou to wax fierce . . . . .181 
 
 Thrice bless’d are they, who feel their loneliness . 167 
 
 Thy words are good, and freely given . . 182 
 
 Time was, I shrank from what was right . . 189 
 
 ’Tis long, dear Annie, since we met . . .123 
 
 To-day the Blessed Three in One . . . 286 
 
 Two brothers freely cast their lot . . .154 
 
 Two sinners have been grace-endued . . .164 
 
 Tyrr of the West, and glorying in the name . 230 
 
 Unwearied God, before whose face . . .185 
 
 Wake, Mother dear . . , . *233 
 
 We are not children of a guilty sire . . .211 
 
 Weep, Mother mine . . . . .221 
 
 Weep not for me . . . . .111 
 
 Weep not for me, when I am gone . . . 284 
 
 What time my heart unfolded its fresh leaves . 140 
 
 When first earth’s rulers welcomed home . . 225 
 
 When first God stirred me, and the Church’s word 198 
 When Heaven sends sorrow . . . .157 
 
 When I am sad, I say ..... 240 
 
 When I look back upon my former race . . 158 
 
 When I sink down in gloom or fear . . .152 
 
 When I would search the truths that in me burn , 209 
 
 When mirth is full and free .... 228 
 
 When royal Truth, released from mortal throes . 199 
 
 Whence is this awe, by stillness spread . . 163 
 
 Whene’er across this sinful flesh of mine . .144 
 
 Whene’er goes forth Thy dread command . .165 
 
 Whene’er I seek the Holy Altar’s rail . .159 
 
 When shall our northern church . . . 205 
 
 Where are the Islands of the Blest ? . . . 337 
 
INDEX 
 
 357 
 
 Where’er I roam in this fair English land 
 While life’s young dawnings o’er the meads diff 
 While Moses on the mountain lay 
 Who madest all and dost control 
 Whom all obey ..... 
 Why loiterbst within Simon’s walls . 
 
 Why, wedded to the Lord, still yearn3 my heart 
 “Woe’s me ! ” the peaceful prophet cried 
 
 Ye cannot halve the Gospel of God’s grace . 
 
 PAGE 
 
 * 3 * 
 
 62 
 
 174 
 
 290 
 
 308 
 
 234 
 
 169 
 
 *93 
 
 217 
 
 THE END 
 
Under the same Editorship . 
 
 THE CHURCH OF THE FATHERS. 
 By John Henry Newman (afterwards Car- 
 dinal). A reprint of the first edition. Crown 
 8 vo. 3 s. 6d. net. 
 
THE SACRED TREASURY 
 
 Edited by FREDERIC CHAPMAN 
 Pott 8vo. (6 X 3f inches). 
 
 Bound in Cloth . . Price 2/- net. 
 
 Bound in Leather . Price 2/6 net. 
 
 THE POEMS OF JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 (afterwards Cardinal). With Portrait 
 Known the world over by his exquisitely beautiful “ Lead , 
 kindly light," Newman's standing as ' a poet is not at alt 
 
 generally recognised. Yet his verse had as much to do with the 
 
 success of the Oxford movement as had “ The Christian Year " 
 of his friend Keble. He first collected it in 1868 , and but few 
 additions were subsequently made . The present volume con- 
 tains , besides a number of early poems now first brought 
 together , of the utmost interest as throwing light on Newmans 
 family life and early influences , a long poem in two cantos , 
 entitled ( 0 St. Bartholomew' s Eve'' written during his first 
 years at Oxford , in collaboration with his friend, J. W. 
 Bowden, and of such extreme rarity that only two or three 
 copies are known to exist . With one or two unimportant excep- 
 tions, the contents of the 1868 volume are also here included. 
 
 DIVINE CONSIDERATIONS. By John Valdesso. 
 The English Translation of Nicholas Ferrar. With 
 George Herbert’s Prefatory Epistle and a Portrait 
 Juan de Valdes , the author of the “ Hundred and Ten 
 Divine Considerations was one of the most notable of the 
 Spanish Reformers of the sixteenth century. The corre- 
 spondent of Erasmus, the twin brother of the sec 7 -etary of the 
 Emperor Charles V., and for a time the chamberlain of a Pope, 
 his exalted connections alone probably saved him from perse- 
 cution on account of his opinions , and, as it was, he had to 
 leave his native land to ensure his safety. His writings were 
 condemned, and the greater part of them so effectually 
 suppressed that some of them remain to this day introuvable , 
 whilst others have only come to light during the Past fifty 
 years. The present volume attracted the attention of the 
 famous Nicholas Ferrar during his travels in Italy , and from 
 an Italian version he made an English translation, which he 
 submitted for the approval of his friend George Herbert, just 
 as Herbert handed to Ferrar the manuscript of ‘ ‘ The Temple," 
 to suppress or print as he thought fit. FerraYs translation 
 was published at Oxford in 1638 , and a distorted version of it 
 appeared at Cambridge in 1646 , but this is the first time 
 that an edition of it, as Ferrar left it, has been prepared 
 since the original publication at Oxford. Ferrar is perhaps 
 best known to the modern reader jrom the prominence given 
 to the description of his community at Little Gidding in the 
 romance “ John Inglesant." 
 
THE HUNDRED BEST POEMS OF JOHN 
 AND CHARLES WESLEY. With Portraits 
 
 If John and Charles Wesley had not been the sons of a poet 
 and poets themselves, it is hardly too much to say that the 
 spread of Wesleyan Methodism could never have been as 
 world-wide as it has. Their hymns were even more influential 
 than their sermons, and in them the dead evangelists yet speak 
 wherever the English language prevails . Such universal 
 
 favourites as “ Jesu, Lover of my soul," and “ Hark ! how all 
 the welkin rings " (, generally perverted into “Hark l the 
 herald angels sing"), however, though they may have kindled 
 a love of verse in households where poetry was quite unknown, 
 do not prepare one to learn that the complete poetical works of 
 the brothers extend to thirteen volumes of about five hundred 
 pages each. From this immense mass of verse it has been the 
 editor s endeavour to select one hundred poems, which, judged 
 purely by poetical standards, may legitimately be described 
 as “ The Hundred Best Poems of John and Charles Wesley 
 
 THE SPIRIT OF LOVE. By William Law, Author 
 of the “ Serious Call.” With Portrait 
 
 William Lazv had the misfortune through the extraordinary 
 popularity of one of his works, the famous “ Serious Call 
 to a Devout and Holy Life," to find all his other writings 
 thrown into comparative obscurity. Yet from time to time 
 there have been editors to call attention to one or other of his 
 beautiful religious treatises. The temper of his mind, which 
 trended towards mysticism, was probably further urged in 
 that direction from the circumstance that conscience forced him 
 into the ranks of the non-jurors . He was for long a kind of 
 private chaplain to the aunt of Gibbon the historian, who in 
 some sort was probably himself indebted to him. The treatise 
 here reprinted is amongst the most interesting and beneficent 
 of his writings , filled with a p ety that does not pall , and 
 free from rancour, as its title, “ The Spirit of Love," befits. 
 But Law could on occasion show himself a fighting parson , 
 as his controversy with Hoadly ( the celebrated Bangor con- 
 troversy) shows ; and his reply to Mandeville’ s “ Fable of the 
 Bees " proved to his opponents that they had a skilled con- 
 troversialist to defend themselves against. Law, however, 
 is of most value to us nowadays in his capacity of gentle 
 teacher and soother “ when sleep comes to close each difficult 
 day," and it is certain that many will gladly place this 
 edition of “ The Spirit of Love" beside their “ De Imita- 
 tione," and their k ‘ Holy Living and Holy Dying." 
 

 
 
 
 
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