CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY FROM Mr. and Mrs.VJj .E.^urley Cornell University Library PR1191.W11 Sacred song, a volume of religious verse; 3 1924 013 292 184 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31 92401 32921 84 Sacred Song a IDoIume of IReligious Derse SELECTED AND ARRANGED WITH NOTES SAMUEL WADDINGTON NEW YORK AND LONDON WHITE AND ALLEN Do ©0 THE MEMORY OF SDERIC 6PENCEH, PREFACE. A QUARTER of a century has now elapsed since Lord Selborne (then Sir Roundell Palmer) published his selection of hymns and sacred song, entitled, " The Book of Praise." During the intervening^ years many and great changes have occurred, and especially noticeable are the alterations which have taken place in the spiritual utterances and religious tone of the age, tempered by the growing intelligence, and wider knowledge and sympathies, of all classes. A new eirenikon has breathed a holier influence over diverse worshippers, and has sanctified whatever is purifying and ennobling, whatever opens to us the gates of righteousness. In accord with this change in our religious atmosphere and moral environment, an endeavour has been made in the present selection to render it as catholic and comprehensive as possible, so that the holy singers of all sects might be represented therein. Not Paul, nor Apollos, nor Cephas, has been chosen as the master, but rather has the example of David been followed, who set over the service of song in the house of the Eternal those who ministered before the dwelling-place of the tabernacle. "There is somewhat of Heaven," writes Richard Baxter, " in Holy Poetry : it charmeth souls into loving harmony vi PREFACE. and concord : " and there is little reason to doubt that this is true, with but few exceptions, of the sacred lyrics of all ages, whatever may have been the special religious tenets of the poets who composed them. We say, "with but few exceptions," because, much as it is to be regretted, there are always to be found those who (to use Dr. George Mac Donald's words) " creep from the sunshine into every ruined archway, attracted by the brilliance with which the light from its loophole glows in its caverned gloom, and the hope of discovering within it the first steps of a stair winding up into the blue heaven." Yet what, as Baxter himself pro- ceeds to observe, " what is Heaven to us, if there be no love and joy ? " As in music and painting, so also in poetry, it is to the portrayal, or expression, of religious thought and emotion that we are indebted for many of our highest works of art. Neither Raffaelle nor Leonardo, neither Handel nor Beet- hoven, can exclusively claim our, gratitude and reverence, but Dante and Milton, Heber, Keble, and George Herbert must also share our admiration, our love and thanksgiving. And with these follow the innumerable throng of bards who have ministered, and who still minister, with their service of song among the devout worshippers and holy choristers, in the conventicle or in the cathedral. Nor is it in the con- venticle, nor in the cathedral, alone that we hear their voices ; but in the green meadows, and among the mountain solitudes, singers such as Wordsworth and Spenser, Coleridge and Vaughan, have mingled their chant of praise with that of poets of the temple, such as were Wither and Isaac Watts, Sandys, Crashaw, Faber, and Wesley. In his paper on " Sacred Poetry," which appeared in the Quarterly Review for June, 1825, Keble observes that " it is to Spenser that the English reader must revert as being pre-eminently the PREFACE. vii sacred poet of his country : " — but we suspect that there are many readers who, in search of divine sustenance on their way through the world, have found a greater spiritual power, and a closer intercourse with the solemn verities of religion, in the poems of Wordsworth than in those of Spenser, or, indeed, of any other English poet. And, for our own part, we would willingly concur with those who affirm that they know of no bard who more truly deserves to be classed with the great sacred writers of all ages, than the transatlantic poet, William CuUen Bryant, who might well be designated the Wordsworth of America. His poems are full of holiness and spiritual sublimity. Listen for a moment to his words : " So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death. Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, — but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trvist, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies' down to pleasant dreams." Lines such as these are inspired by the quickening spirit of truth and sanctity, of that holy peace that fills the air of the calm solitudes the poet loved so well. If it is poetry of the highest order that we seek, lines such as these should not be disregarded. " The best poetry,'' writes Mr. Matthew Arnold in his introduction to Mr. Humphry Ward's English Poets, " is what we want ; the best poetry will be found to have a power of forming, sustaining, and delighting us, as nothing else can : a clearer, deeper sense of the best in poetry, and of the strength and joy to be drawn from it, is viii PREFACE. the most precious benefit which we can gather from a poetical collection such as the present." And what is the best of poetry, we would ask, but that which, deriving its inspira- tion from heaven, most fully illuminates with its "sweetness and light " the dark shadowy regions of the earth ? It will be noticed that many well-known sacred lyrics of great beauty have been omitted from the present selection, and it is for the reason that they are so well known that they have been omitted. Thus the editor has deemed it un- necessary to include such popular hymns as the Rev. H. F. Lyte's "Abide with Me!" Cardinal Newman's "Lead, kindly Light," Mrs. S. F. Adams's, " Nearer, my God, to Thee," Bishop Heber's " Trinity Hymn," and many other similarly well-known compositions. For this reason, too, he has omitted the Rev. Augustus Toplady's " Rock of Ages," of which the following is a Latin translation by Mr. Glad- stone, written some years ago : — Jesus, pro me perforatus, Condar intra Tuum latus, Tu, per lympham proflueiitem, Tu, per sanguinera tepentem, In peccata mi redunda, ToUe culpam, sordes iminda. Coram Te, nee Justus forem, Quamvis tola vi laborem ; Nee si fide nunquam cesso, Fletu stillans, indefesso : Tibi soli tantum munus, Salva Tu, Salvator unus. Nil in manu mecum fero, ,Sedme versus cvucem giro ; PREFACE. ix Vestimenta nudus oro, Opem debilis imploro ; Fontem Christi quaero immundus Nisi laves, moribundus. Dum hos artus Vita regit, Quando nox -sepulchro tegit Mortuos cum stare jubes, Sedens Judex inter nubes, Jesus, pro me perforatus, Condar intra Tuum latus. The above is an interesting translation, and the editor has to thank Mr. Gladstone for kindly forwarding him an autograph copy of it. With a view to secure freshness and variety, any chrono- logical, or alphabetical, arrangement of the authors has been avoided, nor have poems by the same author been printed together. This is a matter respecting which tastes and judgments will differ, but if it be admitted that monotony in a selection of poems is to be deprecated, it would appear to be manifest that that arrangement is the best of which the method is not apparent. It is, however, desirable that the reader should know the respective dates at which the poems quoted were written, and a list of the authors showing the period during which they lived will be found at the end of the volume. In the case of poets who are still living the dates have, of course, been omitted. It only remains for the editor to express his thanks to those authors who have given him permission to include various copyright poems of which the number is consider- able, and especially to thank Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench, & Co., for allowing him to print the poems by Mr. Lewis Morris and the late Archbishop Trench ; and Messrs. Macmillan & Co., those by Charles Kingsley. He also begs X PREFACE. to thank Messrs. Smith, Elder,&Co., for permission to include the poem by George Eliot entitled " O may I join the Choir Invisible ; " and Messrs. Nisbet & Co., those by Dr. Horatius Bonar. He trusts that if in any case he has inadvertently omitted to obtain permission to include a poem of which the copyright has not expired, the proprietor will pardon the oversight. SAMUEL WADDINGTON. 47, connaught street, Hyde Park, AV. April, 1 888. CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE ... . . . .V HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW — Proem ...... . xxiv WILLL^M BLAKE — I. " Hear the Voice of the Bard " . . i HENRY ALFORD — II. Not War, nor hurrying Troops from Plain to Plain . 2 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH — III. Ode to Duty ...... 3 REGINALD HEBER — IV. " Forth from the dark and stormy sky " , .6 JEREMY TAYLOR— V. The Prayer ...... 7 SIR WALTER RALEIGH — VI. Hymn 8 FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER VII. The Eternity of God .... 9 CONTENTS. JOHN HENRY NEWMAN — VIII. From " The Dream of Gerontius ■' . • • '2 ISAAC WATTS — • IX. Psalm XC "3 GEORGE HERBERT — X. " Sweet Day, so cool, so calm, so bright " . ■ 'S EDMUND SPENSER — XI. Easter Morning . . • ■ . \i WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT XII. Mary Magdalen . . . • • '7 JOHN DONNE XIII. A Hymn to God the Father . • -19 ROBERT HERRICK — XIV. Eternity . . . . ' .20 CHARLES KINGSLEY — XV. The Day of the Lord . . . .21 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH XVI. The Holy Eucharist .... 23 HENRY FRANCIS LYTE XVII. " Far from my Heavenly Home " . . . 24 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY XVin. " O Master, it is good to be " . ■ 25 FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE — XIX. The Daystar ..... 27 CONTENTS. xiii I'AGE CHRISTINA ROSSETTI XX. Weary in Well-doing . . . .29 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH XXI. Qui Laborat, Orat ..... 30 JOSEPH ADDISON — XXII. A Pastoral Ode ..... 32 GEORGE HERBERT XXIII. The Quip ...... 33 BEN JONSON — XXIV. Hymn to God the Father . . . -35 FREDERICK WILLIAM FARRAR XXV. Hymn ...... 37 JOHN KEBLE — XXVI. Mountain Scenery ..... 38 JOHN MILTON — XXVII. At a Solemn Music ... 40 MATTHEW ARNOLD — ■ XXVIII. Monica's Last Prayer . . . -41 HENRY VAUGHAN — XXIX. " They are all gone into the world of light " . 42 EDWARD DOWDEN — XXX. Communion ...... 44 RICHARD CRASHAW XXXI. Christ's Victory ..... 45 xiv CONTENTS. PAGE ALEXANDER POPE — XXXII. The Dying Christian to his Soul . .47. RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH — XXXIII. Rejoice Evermore . . • .48 SIR WALTER SCOTT — XXXIV. In Exitu Israel SO ROBERT HERRICK — XXXV. His Litany to the Holy Spirit ... 52 FREDERICK W. H. MYERS — XXXVI. From " Saint Paul" .... 54 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW — XXXVII. " My Redeemer and my Lord " . . 57 THOMAS TOKE LYNCH — XXXVIIL " Spirit ! whose Various Energies " . . 58 MATTHEW ARNOLD — XXXIX. The Divinity 60 HENRY ALFORD — XL. "Little Children, dwell in Love" . . . Ci JOHN BYROM XLI. " My spirit longeth for thee " . . .62 HORATIUS BONAR — XLII. " He liveth long who liveth well " . . -63 WILLIAM COWPER — XLin. " Lovest Thou Me ' 65 CONTENTS. XV PAGE SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE — XLIV. My Baptismal Birthday . . . .67 RICHARD WILTON XLV. The Garden of the Soul .... 68 GEORGE HERBERT — XLVI. The Search. ..... 70 SIR THOMAS BROWNE — XLVII. From " Religio Medici " . . . '73 WILLIAM HABINGTON — XLVIII. Nox Nocti Indicat Scientiam . . -75 GEORGE MACDONALD XLIX. Marriage Song ... -77 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI L. After Communion . . . . 79 JOSEPH GRIGG — LI. " Behold ! a Stranger's at the Door '' . . So WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT LII. Hymn to the North Star .... 82 CHARLES KINGSLEY LIII. Linger no more, my beloved . 84 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI LIV. Dost thou not Care ... -85 JOHN EMMET — • LV. A Litany xvi CONTENTS. PAGE JOHN HENRY NEWMAN — LVI. From " The Dream of Gerontius " . . .89 REGINALD HEBER — LVI I. Funeral Hymn . . . . .90 PATRICK CAREY LVIII. A Triolet . . ... 91 ROBERT SOUTHWELL — LIX. A Child my Choice . . . . 92 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING — LX. Comfort ... . . 94 JOHN DRYDEN — LXI. "Veni Creator Spiritus'' . . . -95 JOHN MILTON LXII. On the Morning of Christ's Nativity . . 97 HENRY HART MILMAN — LXIII. Hymn from " Belshazzar "... io5 EDWARD DOWDEN — LXIV. New Hymns for Solitude . . . . loS CHARLES WESLEY LXV. Wrestling Jacob . . . . .113 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON LXVI. The Celestial Surgeon . . . .117 E.MILY BRONTE — LXVn. "No Coward Soul is Mine" . . .118 CONTENTS. .xvii PAGE THOMAS MOORE LXVIII. " The Bird let loose in Eastern skies " . . 120 GEORGE ELIOT LXIX. " O may I join the Choir Invisible " . . 121 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH LXX. " Through a Glass Darkly " . . . 123 SAMUEL WADDINGTON LXXI. What Gospel? . . . .125 HARTLEY COLERIDGE LXXI I. The Word of God . . .126 WILLIAM BLAKE LXXIII. The Divine Image . . . .127 ^LVTTHEW ARNOLD — LXXIV. Morahty 12S CHRISTINA ROSSETTI — LXXV. Despised and Rejected .... 130 ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER LXXVI. The Signals of Levi . . . .133 JEREMV TAYLOR — LXXVII. Christ's Coming to Jerusalem in Triumph . 13S FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE — LXXVIII. Faith and Sight . . . -139 ROBERT HERRICK — LXXIX. A Thanksgiving to God for his House . . 141 xviii CONTENTS. PAGE RICHARD W. GILDER — LXXX. A Madonna of Fra Lippo Lippi . . .143 LEWIS MORRIS — LXXXI. Behind the Veil I44 FREDERICK W. H. MYERS — LXXXII. Saint John the Baptist . . . .146 JOHN KEBLE — LXXXIII. Christ in the Garden . . . -151 WILLIAM COWPER LXXXIV. The Waiting Soul . . . -154 EDMUND GOSSE — LXXXV. The Heavenward Pilgrimage . . -155 SAMUEL WADDINGTON LXXXVI. " Christ is not Dead " . . . -157 RICHARD W. GILDER — LXXX VI I. Morning and Night . . . .158 JOHN AUSTIN — LXXXVIII. Blest be thy love, dear Lord . . . 159 ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER LXXXIX. The Silent Tower of Bottreau . . .160 ISAAC WILLIAMS— XC. The Child leans on its Parent's Breast . -163 THOMAS TOKE LYNCH — XCI. Gracious Spirit, dwell with me . 164 CONTENTS. xix PAGE WILLIAM DRUMMOND — XCII. The Nativity of our Lord . . . . l66 ISAAC WILLIAMS — XCIII. St. Wenceslaus i68 HENRY HART MILMAN — XCIV. The Love of God . . . . .170 JOSEPH ADDISON — XCV. An Ode on the Creation . . . .172 SABINE BARING-GOULD — XCVI. Cedron'sWell . . . . -173 HENRY ALFORD XCVIL " I have found Peace " . . . -175 EDWARD DOWDEN XCVIII. Emmausward . . . . .176 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH — XCIX. " O thou whose Image in the Shrine " . . 177 HORATIUS BONAR — C. " Calm me, my God, and keep me calm " . -179 ANDREW MARVELL — CL The Coronet ...... 181 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING CII. Chorus of Eden Spirits . . . .182 HENRY VAUGHAN — T^Cin. The Night . . -: . . . 184 XX CONTENTS. PAGE GEORGE WITHER — CIV. A Rocking Hymn . . . . .187 SIR JOHN BEAUMONT — CV. The Epiphany. ... .190 JOHN KEBLE — CVI. St. Matthew 192 HARTLEY COLERIDGE — CVII. Elijah 194 JAMES MONTGOMERY — CVIII. For ever with the Lord .... 195 FRANCIS QUARLES — CIX. " Whom have I in Heaven but Thee ? " . . 197 RICHARD MANT — ex. Te Deum Laudamus ..... 199 WILLIAM BLAKE CXI. On Another's Sorrow .... 200 JOHN MASON NEALE — CXII. The Guide, from " St. Stephen the Sabaite " . 202 CHARLES KINGSLEY — CXIII. A Farewell 204 HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW — CXIV. Vesper Song ..... 205 ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER — CXV. "The Night Cometh" . . . .206 CONTENTS, xxi PAGE LEWIS MORRIS — CXVI. A Hymn in Time of Idols . . . .207 SIR HENRY WOTTON — CXVII. The Character of a Happy Life . . .210 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER — CXVIII. The Two Angels . . . .212 JOHN AUSTIN — CXIX. A Hymn 214 WILLIAM DRUMMOND — CXX. From " Flowers of Sion " . . . .216 JOHN KEBLE — CXXI. Forest Leaves in Autumn .... 218 GEORGE HERBERT — CXXn. Aaron ...... 221 LORD BYRON — CXXIII. " A Spirit passed before me " . . . 223 ISAAC WILLIAMS — CXXIV. Basil 224 SAMUEL WADDINGTON — CXXV. S. Francis, of Assisi .... 225 REGINALD HEBER — CXXVI. Hymn 226 RICHARD WILTON — CXXVII. The Shepherd's Reed . . . .228 xxii CONTENTS. PAGE HARTLEY COLERIDGE — CXXVIII. Sunday 230 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER — CXXIX. Per Pacem ad Lucem . . ■ .232 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING — CXXX. The Two Sayings . • • -233 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH — CXXXI. The Prodigal 234 ALEXANDER POPE — CXXXII. The Universal Prayer . . . -235 HENRY VAUGHAN CXXXIII. The Retreat 238 CHARLES KINGSLEY — CXXXIV. Hymn 240 REGINALD HEBER CXXXV. " By cool Siloam's shady rill " . . .242 W. R. NEALE — CXXXVI. The Widow of Nain . . . .244 FREDERICK W. H. MYERS — CXXXVII. From " Saint Paul " . . . .247 RICHARD BAXTER — CXXXVIII. The Exit 253 THOMAS TOKE LYNCH — CXXXIX. The Heart of Christ . . .260 CONTENTS. xxiii PAGE- THOMAS MOORE — CXL. Angel of Charity . . . . .262 HORATIUS BONAR — CXLI. Marah and Elim ..... 263. FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER CXLII. The Thought of God .... 265. FRANCIS QUARLES — CXLIII. " My Beloved is Mine " . . . 268- ROBERT HERRICK CXLIV. To keep a True Lent .... 270 LEIGH HUNT CXLV, Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel . . .271 SABINE BARING-GOULD CXLVI. The Sultan's Daughter .... 272- RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH — CXLVII. Retribution ..... 275 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT CXLVIII. Hymn ofthe Waldenses . . . 276- ROBERT OF FRANCE — CXLIX. " Come, Holy One, in Love " . . . 277 RICHARD WILTON CL. At His Feet ...... 2791 HARTLEY COLERIDGE — CLI. A Grace ...... 281 XXIV CONTENTS. PAGE LORD BYRON — CLII. The Destruction of Sennacherib . . • 282 HENRY HART MILMAN — CLIII. " When our heads are bowed with woe " . . 284 JOHN KEBLE — CLIV. The Visitation and Communion of the Sick . 286 •GEORGE MORINE — CLV. Dirge (In mem. C. D. F.) • . • • 289 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE — CLVI. Hymn before Sunrise, in the Vale of Chamouni . 291 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER — CLVII. The River Path . . . . -295 THOMAS DEKKER — CLVIII. A Song of Labour . . -297 SIR WALTER SCOTT — CLIX. Hymn to the Virgin . . . .298 FREDERICK WILLIAM FARRAR — CLX. In the Field with their Flocks Abiding . . 299 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI — CLXI. Advent ...... 301 THOMAS CAMPBELL — CLXII. The Nativity . . . . .304 THOMAS CARLYLE — CLXIII. To-day ...... 306 CONTENTS. xxY PAGE JOHN WESLEY — CLXIV. The Presence of God . . . . 307 GEORGE HERBERT — CLXV. Easter Day . . . . -309 GEORGE SANDYS — CLXVI. From the " Paraphrase upon Luke i." . . 310 JOSEPH ADDISON CLXVII. How are thy servants blest, O Lord . . 312 JAMES MONTGOMERY — CLXVIII. "A Poor Wayfaring-Man of'Srief" . . 314 SIR WALTER SCOTT — CLXIX. " Dies irse, dies ilia " . . . .317 ISAAC WATTS — CLXX. The Character of Christ . . . .318 WILLIAM COWPER CLXXI. Retirement . . . . -322 JOHN MILTON CLXXII. Morning Hymn ..... :334. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING — CLXXin. " He giveth His beloved, sleep" . . 326 Notes ........ 329 List of Authors ...... 339 Index of First Lines ..... 342 Oft have I seen at some cathedral door A labourer, pausing in the dust and heat. Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er; Far off the noises of the world retreat ; The loud vociferations of the street Become an undistinguishable roar. So, as I enter herefrom day to day, And leave my burden at this minster gate. Kneeling in prayer, and not ashamed to pray. The tumult of the time disconsolate To inarticulate murmurs dies away. While the eternal ages watch and wait. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. SACRED SONG. WILLIAM BLAKE. "HEAR THE VOICE OF THE BARD. Hear the voice of the bard, Who present, past, and future sees ; Whose ears have heard The Holy Word That walked among the ancient trees. Calling the lapsed soul, And weeping in the evening dew — That might control The starry pole, And fallen, fallen light renew ! O Earth, O Earth, return ! Arise from out the dewy grass ; Night is worn ; And the morn Rises from the slumbrous mass. Turn away no more : Why wilt thou turn away ? The starry floor. The watery shore, Are given thee till the break of d-^y. HENR Y ALFORD 11. NOT WAR, NOR HURRYING TROOPS FROM PLAIN TO PLAIN. Not war, nor hurrying troops from plain to plain, Nor deed of high resolve, nor stern command, Sing I ; the brow that carries trace of pain Long and enough the sons of song have scanned ; Nor lady's love in honeysuckle bower. With helmet hanging by, in stolen ease : Poets enough I deemed of heavenly power Ere now had lavished upon themes like these. My harp and I have sought a holier meed ; The fragments of God's image to restore. The earnest longings of the soul to feed. And balm into the spirit's wounds to pour. One gentle voice hath bid our task God-speed, And now we search the world to hear of more. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. III. ODE TO DUTY. "Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantiim rccte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim." Stern Daughter of the Voice of God ! O Duty ! if that name thou love AVho art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove ; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe ; From vain temptations dost set free ; And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity ! There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them ; who, in love and truth. Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth : Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot, Who do thy work and know it not ; May joy be theirs while life shall last ! ■And thou, if they should totter, teach them to stand fast ! ■Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be> When love is an unerring light. And joy its own security. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. And blest are they who in the main This faith, even now, do entertain : Live in the spirit of this creed ; Yet find that other strength, according to their need. I, loving freedom, and untried ; No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust ; Full oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task imposed, from day to day ; But thee I now would serve more strictl)-, if I reay. Through no disturbance of my soul. Or strong compunction in me wroujht, I supplicate for thy control ; But in the quietness of thought, Me this unchartered freedom tires ; I feel the weight of chance-desires.: INIy hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose which ever is the same. Stern Lawgiver I yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace ; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face ; Flowers laugh before thee on their beds. And fragrance in thy footing treads ; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong, And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. To humbler functions, awful Power, I call thee : I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour ; Oh ! let my weakness have an end ! Give unto me, made lowly wise. The spirit of self-sacrifice ; The confidence of reason give ; And, in the light of truth, thy bondman let me live ! REGINALD HEBER. IV. TORTH FROM THE DARK AXD STORMY SKY." Forth from the dark and stormy sky, Lord, to thine altar's shade we fly ; Forth from the world, its hope and fear. Saviour, we seek thy shelter here ; Weary and weak thy grace we pray : Turn not, O Lord, thy guests away ! Long have we roamed in want and pain. Long have we sought thy rest in vain ; Wildered in doubt, in darkness lost. Long have our souls been tempest-tossed : Low at thy feet our sins we lay ; Turn not, O Lord, thy guests away ! JEREMY J A YLOR. V. THE PRAYER. My soul doth pant towards thee, !Nry God, source of eternal life ; Flesh fights with me : Oh, end the strife, And part us that in peace I may Unclay !My wearied spirit, and take ]My flight to thy eternal spring. Where, for his sake Who is my king, I may wash all my tears awa)'. That day. Thou conqueror of death. Glorious triumpher o'er the grave, Whose holy breath Was spent to save Lost mankind, make me to be styled Thy child, And take me when I die. And go unto my dust ; my soul Above the sky "With saints enroll. That in thine aims for ever I May lie. SIR WALTER RALEIGH. VI. HYMN. Rise, O my soul, with thy desires to heaven ; And with divinest contemplation use Thy time, where time's eternity is given, And let vain thoughts no more thy thoughts abuse, But down in darkness let them lie ; So live thy better, let thy worse thoughts die ! And thou, my soul, inspired with holy flame, View and review, with most regardful eye, That holy cross, whence thy salvation came, On which thy Saviour and thy sin did die ! For in that sacred object is much pleasure, And in that Saviour is my life, my treasure. To thee, O Jesu ! I direct mine eyes,; To thee my hands, to thee my humble knees, To thee my heart shall offer sacrifice ; To thee my thoughts, who my thoughts only sees : To thee myself, — myself and all I give ; To thee I die ; to thee I only live I FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER. VII. THE ETERNITY OF GOD, O Lord ! my heart is sick, Sick of this everlasting change ; And life runs tediously quick Through its unresting race and varied range : Change finds no likeness to itself in thee, And wakes no echo in thy mute eternity. Dear Lord ! my heart is sick Of this perpetual lapsing time, So slow in grief, in joy so quick. Yet ever casting shadows so sublime : Time of all creatures is least like to thee. And yet it is our share of thine eternity. Oh, change and time are storms For lives so thin and frail as ours ; For change the work of grace deforms With love that soils, and help that overpowers ; And time is strong, and, like some chafing sea, It seems to fret the shores of thine eternity. Weak, weak, for ever weak ! We cannot hold what we possess ; Youth cannot find, age will not seek — Oh, weakness is the heart's worst weariness : FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER. But weakest hearts can lift their thoughts to thee It makes us strong to think of thine eternity. Thou hadst no )'outh, great God ! An Unbeginning End thou art ; Thy glory in itself abode, And still abides in its own tranquil heart : No age can heap its outward years on thee ; Dear God ! Thou art thyself thine own eternity. Without an end or bound Thy life lies all outspread in light ; Our lives feel thy life all around, Making our weakness strong, our darkness bright ; Yet it is neither wilderness nor sea, But the calm gladness of a full eternity. Oh, thou art very great To set thyself so far above ! But we partake of thine estate. Established in thy strength and in thy love ; That love hath made eternal room for me In the sweet vastness of its own eternity. Oh, thou art very meek To overshade thy creatures thus I Thy grandeur is the shade we seek ; To be eternal is thy use to us : Ah, blessed God ! what joy it is to me To lose all thought of self in thine eternity. FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER. Self-wearied, Lord ! I come ; For I have lived my life too fast ; Now that years bring me nearer home, Grace must be slowly used to make it last ; When my heart beats too quick I think of thee, And of the leisure of thy long eternity. Farewell, vain joys of earth ! Farewell, all love that is not His ! Dear God ! be thou my only mirth. Thy majesty my single timid bliss ! Oh, in the bosom of eternity Thou dost not weary of thyself, nor we of thee ! 12 CARDINAL NEWMAN. VIII. FROM "THE DREAM OF GER0NTIU3." (choir of angelicals.) Praise to the Holiest in the height, And in the depth be praise ; — In all his words most wonderful ; Most sure in all his ways ! To us, his elder race, he gave To battle and to win, Without the chastisement of pain. Without the soil of sin. The younger son he willed to be A marvel in his birth : Spirit and flesh his parents were ; His home was heaven and earth. The Eternal blessed his child, and armed. And sent him hence afar, To serve as champion in the field Of elemental war. To be his Viceroy in the world Of matter and of sense ; Upon the frontier, towards the foe, A resolute defence. ISAAC WATTS. IX. PSALM XC. Our God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come ; Our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home : Under the shadow of thy throne Thy saints have d\yelt secure ; Sufficient is thine arm alone, And our defence is sure. Before the hills in order stood, Or earth received her frame ; From everlasting thou art God, To endless years the same. Thy word commands our flesh to dust, " Return, ye sons of men : " All nations rose from earth at first. And turn to earth again. A thousand ages in thy sight. Are like an evening gone ; Short as the watch that ends the night Before the rising sun. 14 ISAAC WATTS. The busy tribes of flesh and blood, With all their lives and cares, Are carried downwards by thy flood, And lost in following years. Time, like an ever-rolling stream, Bears all its sons away ; They fly, forgotten, as a dream Dies at the opening day. Like flowery fields the nations stand, Pleased with the morning light : The flowers beneath the mower's hand, Lie withering ere 'tis night. Our God, our help in ages past, Our hope for years to come. Be thou our guard while troubles last, And our eternal home. GEORGE HERBERT. X. "SWEET DAY, SO COOL, SO CALM, SO BRIGHT. Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright, The bridal of the earth and sky. Sweet dews shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye. Thy root is ever in its grave ; And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows you have your closes ; And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul. Like seasoned timber, never gives ; But, though the whole world turn to coal. Then chiefly lives. 1 6 EDMUND SPENSER. XL EASTER MORNING. Most glorious Lord of life ! that, on this day, Didst make thy triumph over death and sin, And having harrowed hell, didst bring away Captivity thence captive, us to win : This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin ; And grant that we, for whom thou diddest die. Being with thy dear blood clean washed from sin, May live for ever in felicity ! And that thy love we weighing worthil)'. May likewise love thee for the same again ; And for thy sake, that all like dear didst buy. With love may one another entertain ! So let us love, dear love, like as we ought : Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught. WILLIAM CULLEX BRYAXT. XII. MARY MAGDALEX. (From the Spanish of Leonardo de Argensola). Ble.?.?ed, yet sinful one, and broken hearted ! The crowd are pointing at the thing forlorn, In wonder and in scorn ! Thou weepest da}s of innocence departed; Thou weepest, and thy tears have power to move The Lord to pity and love. The greatest of thy follies is forgiven, Even for the least of all the tears that shine On that pale cheek of thine. Thou didst kneel do^n to Him who came from heaven. Evil and ignorant, and thou shalt rise, Holy, and pure, and wise. It is not much that to the fragrant blossom The rag'-'ed brier should change ; the bitter fir Distil Arabian myrrh ! Nor that, upon the winlry desert's bosom. The harvest should rise plenteous, and the swain Bear home the abundant grain ; 3 i8 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. But come and see the bleak and barren mountains Thick to their tops with roses ; come and see Leaves on the dry dead tree ; The perished plant, set out by living fountains, Grows fruitful, and its beauteous branches rise, For ever, towards the skies. JOHN DONNE. 19 XIII. A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER. Wilt thou forgive that sin when I begun, Which was my sin, though it was done before ? Wilt thou forgive that sin, through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore ? — When thou hast done, thou hast not done ; For I have more. Wilt thou forgive that sin which I have won Others to sin, and made my sins their door ? Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two, but wallowed in a score ? — When thou hast done, thou hast not done ;■ For I have more. I have a sin of fear, that when IVe spun My last thread, I shall perish on the shore ; But swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son Shall shine, as he shines now and heretofore ; And having done that, thou hast done : I fear no more. ROBERT HERRICK. XIV. ETERNITY. O YEARS and age, farewell ! Behold I go Where I do know Infinity to dwell. And these mine eyes shall see All times, how they Are lost i' th' sea Of vast eternity. Where never moon shall sway The stars ; but she And night shall be Drowned in one endle^^s day. CHARLES KtNG'SLE Y. XV. THE DAY OF THE LORD. The day of the Lord is at hand, at hand : Its storms roll up the sky : The nations sleep starving on heaps of gold ; All dreamers toss and sigh ; The night is darkest before the morn ; When the pain is sorest the child is born, And the day of the Lord at hand. Gather you, gather you, angels of God — Freedom, and Mercy, and Truth ; Come ! for the earth is grown coward and old. Come down, and renew us her youth, Wisdom, Self-sacrifice, Daring, and Love, Haste to the battle-field", stoop from above, To the day of the Lord at hand. Gather you, gather you, hounds of hell — Famine, and Plague, and War ; Idleness, Bigotry, Cant, and Misrule, Gather, and fall in the snare ! Hireling and Mammonite, Bigot and Knave, Crawl to the battle-field, sneak to your grave. In the day of the Lord at hand. 22 CHARLES KINGSLEY. Who would sit down and sigh for a lost age of gold, While the Lord of all ages is here ? True hearts will leap up at the trumpet of God, And those who can suffer, can dare. Each old age of gold was an iron age too, And the meekest of saints may find stern work to do In the day of the Lord at hand, RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 23 XVI. THE HOLY EUCHARIST. (From the Spanish of CaHeron.) Honey in the lion's mouth, Emblem mystical, divine. How the sweet and strong combine ; Cloven rock from Israel's drouth ; Treasure-house of golden grain, By our Joseph laid in store. In his brethren's famine sore. Freely to dispense again ; Dew on Gideon's snowy fleece ; Well from bitter changed to sweet ; Shew-bread laid in order meet, Bread whose cost doth not increase, Though no rain in April fall ; Horeb's manna, freely given, Showered in white dew from heaven, Marvellous, angelical ; Weightiest bunch of Canaan's vine ; Cake to strengthen and sustain Through long days of desert pain ; Salem's monarch's bread and wine — Thou the antidote shalt be Of my sickness and my sin. Consolation, medicine. Life and Sacrament to me. 24 HENRY FRANCIS L YTE. XVII. 'FAR FROM MY HEAVENLY HOME." Far from my heavenly home, Far from niy Father's breast, Fainting I cry, "Blest Spirit! come And speed me to my rest ! " Upon the willows long My harp has silent hung : How should I sing a cheerful song Till thou inspire my tongue ? My spirit homeward turns, And fain would thiiher flee ; My heart, O Zion, droops and yearns, When I remember thee. To thee, to thee I press, A dark and toilsome road ; When shall I pass the wilderness, And reach the saints' abode ? God of my life, be near ! On thee my hopes I cast j O guide me through the desert here, And bring me home at last. ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLEY. XVIII. "O MASTER, IT IS GOOD TO CE." O Master, it is good to be High on the mountain here with thee ; Where stand revealed to mortal gaze, Those glorious saints of other days ; Who once received on Horeb's height, The eternal laws of truth and right ; Or caught the still small whisper, higher Than storm, than earthquake, or than fire. O Master, it is good to be With thee, and with thy faithful three ; Here where the apostle's heart of rock, Is nerved against temptation's shock ; Here, where the son of thunder learns The thought that breathes, and word that burns ; Here, where on eagles' wings we move. With Him whose last best creed is love. O Master, it is good to be. Entranced, enwrapt, alone with thee ; And watch thy glistening raiment glow, AVhiter than Hermon's whitest snow ; The human lineaments that shine, Irradiant with a light divine ; Till we too change from grace to grace Gazing on that transfigured face. 26 ARTHUR PENRHYN STANLE Y. O Master, it is good to be, Here on the Holy Mount with thee ; When darkling in the depth of night. When dazzled with excess of light, We bow before the heavenly voice, That bids bewildered souls rejoice, Though love wax cold, and faith be dim — "This is my Son — O hear ye Him." FHANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE. 27 XIX. THE DAYSTAR. 'Aarepa fisivafiev 'AeXi'ou X^vKOTTTepvya Trpodpofiov. Star of morn and even, Sun of Heaven's heaven, Saviour high and dear. Toward us turn thine ear ; Through whate'er may come. Thou canst lead us home. Though the gloom be grievous, Those we leant on leave us, Though the coward heart Quit its proper part. Though the tempter come, Thou wilt lead us home. Saviour pure and holy, Lover of the lowly, Sign us with thy sign. Take our hands in thine, Take our hands and come, Lead thy children home. 28 FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE. Star of morn and even, Shine on us from Heaven ; From thy glory-throne Hear thy very own ! Lord and Saviour, come. Lead us to our home ! CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 29 XX. WEARY IN WELL-DOING. I WOULD have gone ; God bade me stay : I would have worked ; God bade me rest. He broke my will from day to day, He read my yearnings unexpressed And said them nay. Now I would stay ; God bids me go : Now I would rest ; God bids me work. He breaks my heart, tossed to and fro. My soul is wrung with doubts that lurk And vex it so. I go, Lord, where thou sendest me ; Day after day I plod and moil : But, Christ my God, when will it be That I may let alone my toil And rest with thee. 30 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. XXL QUI LABORAT, ORAT. O ONLY Source of all our light and life, Whom as our truth, our strength, we see and feel. But whom the hours of mortal moral strife Alone aright reveal ! Mine inmost soul, before thee inly brought, Thy presence owns ineffable, divine ; Chastised each rebel self-encentered thought. My will adoreth thine. With eye down-dropt, if then this earthly mind. Speechless remain, or speechless e'en depart ; Nor seek to see — for what of earthly kind, Can see thee as thou art ? If well-assured 'tis but profanely bold In thought's abstractest forms to seem to see. It dare not dare the dread communion hold In ways unworthy thee. O not unowned thou shalt unnamed forgive. In worldly walks the prayerless heart prepare : And if in work its life it seem to live, Shalt make that work be prayer. ARTHUR HUGH ClOUGH. 31 Nor times shall lack, when while the work it plies, Unsummoned powers the blinding film shall part, x\nd scarce by happy tears made dim, the eyes In recognition start. But, as thou wiliest, give or e'en forbear The beatific supersensual sight, So with thy blessing blest, that humble prayer Approach thee morn and night. JOSEPH ADDISON. XXII. A PASTORAL ODE. The Lord my pasture shall prepare, And feed me with a shepherd's care ; His presence shall my wants supply,. And guard me with a watchful eye ; My noon-day walks he shall attend, And all my midnight hours defend. When in the sultry glebe I faint, Or on the thirsty mountain pant ; To fertile vales and dewy meads, My weary, wandering steps he leads ; Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow. Amid the verdant landscape flow. Though in the paths of death I tread. With gloomy horrors overspread. My steadfast heart shall fear no ill. For thou, O Lord, art with me still ; Thy friendly crook shall give me aid. And guide me through the dreadful shade Though in a bare and rugged way. Through devious lonely wilds I stray, Thy bounty shall my pains beguile ; The barren wilderness shall smile. With sudden greens and herbage crowned. And streams shall murmur all around. GEORGE HERBERT. 33 XXIII. THE QUIP. The merry world did on a day With his train-bands and mates agree To meet together where I lay, And all in sport to jeer at me. First Beauty crept into a rose ; Which when I plucked not — "Sir," said she, "Tell me, I pray, whose hands are those ? " But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. Then Money came, and, chinking still — " What tune is this, poor man ? " said he : " I heard in music you had skill." But thou shalt answer, Lord, for me. Then came brave Glory puffing by In silks that whistled — who but he ? He scarce allowed me half an eye ; But thou shalt answer. Lord, for me. Then came quick Wit-and-Conversation, And he would needs a comfort be, And, to be short, make an oration : But thou shalt answer,, Lord, for me. 4 GEORGE HERBERT. Yet when the hour of thy design To answer these fine things shall come, Speak not at large — say I am thine ; And then they have their answer home. BEN fOmON. 35 XXIV. HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER. Hear niej O God ! A broken heart Is my best part : Use still thy rod, That I may prove Therein thy love. If thou hadst not Been stern to mc, But left me free, I had forgot Myself and thee. For sin's so sweet. As minds ill bent Rarely repent, Until they meet Their punishment. Who more can crave Than thou hast done ? Thou gavest a Son To free a slave ; First made of nought, ■\\'ith all since bought. 3(5 BEN JO If SO t^. Sin, death, and hell His glorious name Quite overcame ; Yet I rebel, And slight the same. But I'll come in Before my loss Me further toss, As sure to win Under his Cross. FREDERICK WILLIAM FARRAR. 37 XXV. HYMN. God and Father, great and holy, Fearing nought we come to thee ; Fearing nought, though weak and lowly, For thy love has made us free ; By the blue sky bending o'er us, By the green earth's flowery zone, Teach us. Lord, the angel-chorus, Thou art Love and Love alone. Father, Lord of bright creation, Holy, blest, eternal Son, Spirit, source of inspiration, Glorious Godhead, three in one, With the notes that, high-ascending. Breathe around the sapphire throne. May thy sons the song be blending, Thou art Love and Love alone. Though the world in flames should perish Suns and stars in ruin fall. Love of thee our heart should cherish ; Thou to us be all in all : And though heavens thy name are praising, Seraphs hymn no sweeter tone Than the strain our hearts are raising, Thou art Love and Love alone> JOHN KEBLE. XXVI. MOUNTAIN SCENERY. Where is thy favoured haunt, eternal Voice, The region of thy choice, ■Where, undisturbed by sin and earth, the soul Owns thine entire control ? — ■ 'Tis on the mountain's summit dark and high, When storms are hurrying by : 'Tis 'mid the strong foundations of the earth, Where torrents have their birth. No sounds of worldly toil ascending there. Mar the full burst of prayer ; Lone Nature feels that she may freely breathe, And round us and beneath Are heard her sacred tones ; the fitful sweep Of winds across the steep, Through withered bents — romantic note and clear. Meet for a hermit's ear ; The wheeling kite's wild solitary cry, And, scarcely heard so high. The dashing waters when the air is still, From many a torrent rill That winds unseen beneath the shaggy fell, Tracked by the blue mist well : Such sounds as make deep silence in the heart For Thought to do her part. JOHN KEBLE. 39 'Ti's then we hear the voice of God within, Pleading with care and sin : "Child of my love ! how have I wearied thee? 'Why wilt thou err from me ? Have I not brought thee from the house of slaves, Parted the drowning waves, And set my saints before thee in the way. Lest thou shouldst faint or stray ? " What ! was the promise made to thee alone ? Art thou the excepted one ? An heir of glory without grief or pain ? O vision false and vain ! There lies thy cross ; beneath it meekly bow, It fits thy stature now : Who scornful pass it with averted eye, 'Twill crush them by and by. " Raise thy repining eyes, and take true measure Of thine eternal treasure ; The Father of thy Lord can grudge thee nought. The world for thee was bought, And as this landscape broad— earth, sea, and sky, All centres in thine eye ; So all God does, if rightly understood, Shall work thy final good." 40 yOHN MILTON. XXVII. AT A SOLEMN MUSIC. Blest pair of sirens, pledges of heaven's joy, Sphere-bom harmonious sisters, voice and verse, Wed your divine sounds, and mixed power employ. Dead things with inbreathed sense able to pierce ; And to our high-raised phantasy present That undisturbed song of pure concent, Aye sung before the sapphire-coloured throne To him that sits thereon, AViih saintly shout and solemn jubilee ; Where the bright seraphim in burning row Their loud, uplifted angel-trumpets blow ; And the cherubic host, in thousand choirs. Touch their immortal harps of golden wires, AVith those just spirits that wear victorious palms. Hymns devout and holy psalms Singing everlastingly : That we on earth, with undiscording voice. May lightly answer that melodious noise ; As once we did, tiU disproportioned sin Jarred against Nature's chime, and with harsh din Broke the fair music that all creatures made To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed In perfect diapason, whilst they stood In first obedience, and their state of good. O ! may we soon again renew that song. And keep in tune with heaven, tiU God ere long To his celestial consort us unite To live with him, and sing in endless morn of light, MATTHE W ARNOLD. 41 XXVIII. MONICA'S LAST PRAYER. " Oh, could thy grave at home, at Carthage, be ! "— Care not for that, and lay me where I fall ! Everywhere heard will be the judgment- call. But at Gods altar, oh I remember me. Thus Monica, and died in Italy. Yet fervent had her longing been, through all Her course, for home at last, and burial With her own husband, by the Libyan sea. Had been ! but at the end, to her pure soul All tie with all beside seemed vain and cheap, And union before God the only care. Creeds pass, rites change, no altar standeth whole ! Yet we her memory, as she prayed, will keep, Keep by this : Life in God, and union there ! HENRY VAUGHAN. XXIX. 'THEY ARE ALL GONE INTO THE WORLD OF LIGHT." They are all gone into the world of light ! And I alone sit lingering here ; Their very memory is fair and bright, And my sad thoughts doth clear. It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove. Or those faint beams in which this hill is dressed. After the sun's remove. I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days — My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays, holy Hope ! and high Humility ! High as the heavens above ! These are your walks, and you have showed them mc, To kindle my cold love. Dear beauteous death ! the jewel of the just, Shining nowhere but in the dark ; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust ! Gould men outlook that mark ! HENRY VAUGHAN. 43 He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know At first sight if the bird be flown ; But what fair well or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown. And yet as angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul when man doth sleep, So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep. If a star were confined into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs burn there ; But when the hand that locked her up gives room. She'll shine through all the sphere. O 1 Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under thee, Resume thy Spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty. Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective, still, as they pass ; Or else remove me hence unto that hill AVhere I shall need no glass. 44 ED WARD DO WDEN. XXX. COMMUNION. Lord, I have knelt and tried to pray to n'glit, But thy love came upon me like a sleep, And all desire died out ; upon the deep Of thy mere love I lay, each thought in light Dissolving like the sunset clouds, at rest Each tremulous wish, and my strength weakness, sweet As a sick boy with soon o'ervvearied feet Finds, yielding him unto his mother's breast To weep for weakness there. I could not pray. But with closed eyes I felt thy bosom's love Beating toward mine, and then I would not move Till of itself the joy should pass away ; At last my heart found voice — " Take me, O Lord, And dowith me according to thy word." RICHARD CRASHAW. 45 XXXI. CHRIST'S VICTORY. (From "The Office of the Holy Cross.") I. Now is the noon of sorrow's night High in his patience as their spite ; Lo, the faint Lamb, with weary hmb, Bears that huge tree which must bear him ! That fatal plant, so great of fame For fruit of sorrow and of shame, Shall swell with both for him, and mix All woes into one crucifix. II. Christ, when he died. Deceived the cross, And on death's side Threw all the loss ; The captive world awoke and found The prisoner loose, the jailor bound. III. O dear and sweet dispute Twixt death's and love's far different fruit Different as far As antidotes and poisons are ; 46 RICHARD CRASHAW. By that first fatal tree Both life and liberty Were sold and slain ; By this they both look up and live again. IV. O strange, mysterious strife Of open death and hidden life ! When on the cross my King did bleed, Life seemed to die, Death died indeed. ALEXANDER POPE. 47 XXXII. THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL. Vital spark of heavenly flame, Quit, O quit this mortal frame ; Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, O the pain, the bliss of dying. Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife. And let me languish into life. Hark ! they whisper ; angels say. Sister spirit, come away. What is this absorbs me quite ? Steals my senses, shuts my sight, Drowns my spirits, draws my breath ? Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? The world recedes ; it disappears 1 Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears With sounds seraphic ring : Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! O grave ! where is thy victory ? O death ! where is thy sting ? 48 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. XXXIII. REJOICE EVERMORE. But how shall we be glad ? We that are journeying through a vale of tears, Encompassed with a thousand woes and fears, How should we not be sad ? Angels, that ever stand Within the presence-chamber, and there raise The never-interrupted hymn of praise. May welcome this command : Or they whose strife is o'er, Who all their weary length of life have trod, As pillars now within the temple of God, That shall go out no more. But we who wander here, We who are exiled in this gloomy place, Still doomed to water earth's unthankful face With many a bitter tear — Bid us lament and mourn. Bid us that we go mourning all the day, And we will find it easy to obey. Of our best things forlorn ; RICHARD CHEXEVIX TREXCH. 49 But not that we be glad ; If it be true the mourners are the blest. Oh leave us in a world of sin, unrest, And trouble, to be sad, I spake, and thought to weep, — For sin and sorrow, suffering and crime, That fill the world, all mine appointed time A settled grief to keep. When, lo ! as day from night. As day from out the womb of night forlorn, So from that sorrow was that gladness bom, Even in mine own despite. Yet was not that by this Excluded ; at the coming of that joy Fled not that grief, nor did that grief destroy The newly-risen bliss : But side by side they flow, Two fountains flowing from one smitten heart And ofttimes scarcely to be known apart — That gladness and that woe ; Two fountains from one source. Or which from two such neighbouring sources run. That aye for him who shall unseal the one, The other flows perforce. And both are sweet and calm, Fair flowers upon the banks of either blow. Both fertilize the soil, and where they flow Shed round them holy balm. 5 so SIR WALTER SCOTT. XXXIV. IN EXITU ISRAEL. When Israel, of the Lord beloved, Out from the land of bondage came, Her fathers' God before her moved, An awful guide in smoke and flame : By day, along the astonished lands The cloudy pillar glided slow ; By night, Arabia's crimsoned sands Returned the fiery column's glow. Then rose the choral hymn of praise. And trump and timbrel answered keen ; And Zion's daughters poured their la)'s, With priest's and warrior's voice between ; No portents now our foes amaze ; Forsaken Israel wanders lone ; Our fathers would not know thy ways, And thou hast left them to their own. But present still, though now unseen ! When brightly shines the prosperous da)', Be thoughts of thee a cloudy screen To temper the deceitful ray. And O I when stoops on Judah's path. In shade and storm the frequent night. Be thou, longsuffering, slow to wrath, A burning and shining light. SIJi WALTER SCOTT. 51 Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; No censer round our altar beams. And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. But thou hast said, The blood of goat, The flesh of rams I will not prize ; A contrite heart, a humble thought. Are mine accepted sacrifice. S 2 ^ OBERT HERRICK. XXXV. HIS LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT. In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When I lie within my bed, Siclc in heart and sick in head, And with doubts discomforted, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When the house doth sigh and weep, And the world is drowned in sleep. Yet mine eyes the watch do keep. Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When the artless doctor sees No one hope, but of his fees, And his skill runs on the lees. Sweet Spirit, comfort me, When his potion and his pillj Has, or none, or little skill, Meet for nothing, but to kill, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. ROBERT HERRICK. 53 When the passing-bell doth toll, And the furies in a shoal Come to fright a parting soul, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. \Mien the tapers now burn blue, And the comforters are few, And that number more than true. Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When the priest his last hath prayed. And I nod to what is said, 'Cause my speech is now decayed, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. ^Vhen God knows I'm tossed about, Either with despair or doubt. Yet, before the glass be out, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. AVhen the Tempter me pursueth With the sins of all my youth, And half damns me with untruth. Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When the flames and hellish cries Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes. And all terrors me surprise, Sweet Spirit, comfort me. When the Judgment is revealed. And that opened which was sealed. When to thee I have appealed : Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 54 FREDERICK W. H. MYERS. XXXVI. FROM "SAINT PAUL." " There is neilher Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female ; for ye are all one in Christ Jesus." I. Christ ! I am Christ's ! and let the name suffice you, Ay, for me loo he greatly hath sufficed ; Lo ! with no winning words I would entice you, Paul has no honour and no friend but Christ Yes, without cheer of sister or of daughter, Yes, without stay of father or of son, Lone on the land and homeless on the water, Pass I in patience till the work be done. Yet not in solitude if Christ anear me, Waketh him workers for the great employ j Oh, not in solitude if souls that hear me Catch from my joyaunce the surprise of joy. Hearts I have won of sister or of brother, Quick on the earth or hidden in the sod ; Lo ! every heart awaiteth me, another Friend in the blameless family of God. What was their sweet desire and subtle yearning, Lovers, and ladies whom their song enrols ? Faint to the flame which in my breast is burning, Less than the love with which I ache for souls. FREDERICK W. 11. MYERS. 55 Oh, ye are kind, I shall abide and teach you. Ye will not fail as men have failed before, Seek me and leave, ashamed when I beseech you, Ever less loving as I love the more. II. Yet it was well, and thou hast said in season, "As is the master shall the servant be; " Let me not subtly slide into the treason. Seeking an honour which they gave not thee ; Never at even, pillowed on a pleasure, Sleep with the wings of aspiration furled, Hide the last mite of the forbidden treasure. Keep for my joys a world within the world. Nay ! but much rather let me late returning. Bruised of my brethren, wounded from within, Stoop with sad countenance and blushes burning. Bitter with weariness and sick with sin : — So to thy presence get me and reveal it. Nothing ashamed of tears upon thy feet. Show the sore wound and beg thine hand to heal it. Pour thee the bitter, pray thee for the sweet. Then with a ripple and a radiance thro' me, Rise and be manifest, O Morning Star ! Flow on my soul, thou Spirit, and renew me, Fill with thyself, and let the rest be far. S6 FREDERICK W. H. MYERS. Safe to the hidden house of thine abiding, Carry the weak knees and the heart that faints ; Shield from the scorn and cover from the chiding, Give the world joy, but patience to the saints, III. Saint, did I say ? with your remembered faces, Dear men and women, whom I sought and slew ! Ah, when we mingle in the heavenly places, How will I weep to Stephen and to you ! Oh for the strain that rang to our reviling Still, when the bruised limbs sank upon the sod. Oh for the eyes that looked their last in smiling, Last on the world here, but their first on God ! JIENJi Y WADS TJVJ? TH LONGFELL OW. 57 XXXVII. 'MY REDEEIMER AND MY LORD." My Redeemer and my Lord, I beseech thee, I entreat thee. Guide me in each act and word, That hereafter I may meet thee. Watching, waiting, hoping, yearning, With my lamp well-trimmed and burning ! Interceding With those bleeding Wounds upon thy hands and side, For all who have lived and errfed Thou hast suffered, thou hast died, Scourged, and mocked, and crucified, And in the grave hast thou been buried ! If my feeble prayer can reach thee, O my Saviour, I beseech thee, Even as thou hast died for me. More sincerely Let me follow where thou leadest ; Let me, bleeding as thou bleedest, Die, if dying I may give Life to one who asks to live, And more nearly. Dying thus, resemble thee ! 58 THOMAS TOKE LYNCH. XXXVIII. "SPIRIT! WHOSE VARIOUS ENERGIES." Spirit ! whose various energies By dew and flame denoted are, By rain from the world-covering skies, By rushing and by whispering air j Be thou to us, O gentlest one. The brimful river of sweet peace. Sunshine of the celestial sun, Restoring air of sacred ease. Life of our life, since life of him By whom we live eternally, Our heart is faint, our eye is dim, Till thou our spirit purify. The purest airs are strongest too, Strong to enliven and to heal : O Spirit, purer than the dew, Thine holiness in strength reveal. Felt art thou, and the heavy heart Grows cheerful and makes bright the eyes : Up from the dust the enfeebled start. Armed and re-nerved for victories : THOMAS TOKE LYNCH. 59 Felt art thou, and relieving tears Fall, nourishing our young resolves : Felt art thou, and our icy fears The sunny smile of love dissolves. O Spirit, when thy mighty wind The entombing rocks of sin hath rent, Lead shuddering forth the awakened mind. In still voice whispering thine intent. As to the sacred light of day The stranger soul shall trembling come, Say, "These thy friends," and "This thy way," And " Yonder thy celestial home." 6o MA TTIIE W ARNOLD. XXXIX. THE DIVINITY. " Yes, write it in the rock," Saint Bernard said, " Grave it on brass with adamantine pen ! 'Tis God himself becomes apparent, when God's wisdom and God's goodness are displayed. For God of these his attributes is made " — Well spake the impetuous Saint, and bore of men The suffrage captive ; now, not one in ten Recalls the obscure opposer he outweigh'd. Go^s wisdom and God's goodness ! — Ay, but fools Mis-define these till God knows them no more. Wisdom and goodness, they are God ! — what schools Have yet so much as heard this simpler lore ? This no Saint preaches, and this no Church rules ; 'Tis in the desert, now and heretofore. HENRY ALFORD. Gi XL. "LITTLE CHILDREN, DWELL IN LOVE." Little children, dwell in love ; — New begotten from above, Ye by this your birth may know That ye dwell in love below. God your Father reigns on high, Unbeheld by mortal eye ; Him ye see not ; love him, then. In his types, your fellow-men. Not in semblance nor in word, But in holy thoughts unheard. But in very truth and deed Share their joy, and help their need. Thus the saint whom Jesus loved Spoke in word, in action proved ; Lord, may thy disciples be Like to him and like to thee. 62 JOHN BYROM. XLI. "MY SPIRIT LONGETH FOR THEE." My spirit longeth for thee A\'ithin my troubled breast, Although I be unworthy Of so Divine a Guest. Of so Divine a Guest Unworthy though I be, Yet hath my heart no rest Unless it come from thee. Unless it come from thee, In vain I look around ; In all that I can see No rest is to be found. No rest is to be found But in thy blessed love : O let my wish be crowned, And send it from above. no RATI us BONAR. 63 XLII. " HE LIVETH LOXf> WHO LIVETH WELL." He liveth long who liveth well ! All other life is short and vain ; He liveth longest who can tell Of living most for heavenly gain. He liveth long who liveth well ! All else is being flung away ; He liveth longest who can tell Of true things truly done each day. Waste not thy being^; back to him, Who freely gave it, freely give, Else is that being but a dream, 'Tis but to be, and not to live. Ee wise, and use thy wisdom well ; Who wisdom speaks must live it too ; He is the wisest who can tell How first he lived, then spoke, the True. I!c what thou seemest ; live thy creed ; Hold up to earth the torch Divine ; Be what thou prayest to be made'; Let the great Master's steps be thine. 64 HORATIUS BONAR. Fill up each hour with what will last ; Buy up the moments as they go ; The life above, when this is past, Is the ripe fruit of life below. Sow Truth if thou the True wouldst reap; Who sows the false shall reap the vain ; Erect and sound thy conscience keep ; From hollow words and deeds refrain. Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure ; Sow peace, and reap its harvest bright ; Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor, And find a harvest-home of Ught. WILLIAM COWPER. 65 XLIII. OLNEY HYMNS. XVIII. " Lovest Thou Me ? " Hark, my soul ! it is the Lord ; 'Tis thy Saviour, hear his word ; Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee, " Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me? " I delivered thee when bound. And, when bleeding, healed thy wound ; Sought thee wandering, set thee right ; Turned thy darkness into light. " Can a woman's tender care Cease towards the child she bare ? Yes, she may forgetful be, Yet will I remember thee. " Mine is an unchanging love. Higher than the heights above. Deeper than the depths beneath. Free and faithful, strong as death. 66 WILLIAM CO WPER. " Thou shall see my glory soon, WTien the work of grace is done ; Partner of my throne shall be ; — Say, poor sinner, lovest thou me ? ' Lord, it is my chief complaint, That my love is weak and faint Yet I love thee, and adore ; O for srace to love thee more ! SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERLDGE. 67 XLIV. MY BAPTISMAL BIRTHDAY. God's child in Christ adopted, — Christ my all, — What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, rather Than forfeit that blest name, by which I call The Holy One, the Almighty God, my Father ?^ Father ! in Christ we live, and Christ in thee — Eternal thou, and everlasting we. The heir of heaven, henceforth I fear not death : In Christ I live ! in Christ I draw the breath Of the true life ! — Let, then, earth, sea, and sky Make war against me ! On my front I show Their mighty Master's seal. In vain they try To end my life, that can but end its woe, — Is that a death-bed where a Christian lies ? — Yes ! but not his — 'tis Death itself there dies. 68 RICHARD WILTON. XLV. THE GARDEN OF THE SOUL. Nigh to the place where he was crucified A sheltered garden lay, Where roses hung their heads, with crimson dyed, And blushed their lives away. And lilies of the valley, blanched with fear, Shook from their silver bells the trembling tear. And there on terraced rock the vine was seen Wandering with quaint festoon. Or trained with care into an arbour green To cool the rays of noon : Not yet its clusters wooed the ripening sun. Though the sharp pruning-knife its work had done. And many a fragrant plant and freckled flower Bordered the paths below, And proffered to the gardener's hand the dower Of scent or vernal glow ; While in the shady corners mint and rue And bitter herbs for humbler uses grew. Here, where he sat or walked, the rich man made A flower-encircled tomb ; And here by loving hands the Lord was laid To rest in the green gloom ; And here he woke and threw a charm around The dewy stillness of that garden-ground. RICHARD WILTON. r.g I have a garden, Lord, to share with thee — Nay, let it all be thine ; And very near to it is seen the Tree Of Sacrifice Divine, In whose fair shadow thou canst show thy face, And turn to holy ground the lowliest place. Let my Beloved to his garden come And eat his pleasant fruits, The ripest clusters with the richest bloom From off the goodliest shoots ; If any such can grow in this poor soil. On which my Lord has spent such tears and toil. But if the fruits of holiness are scant. And few its blossoms sweet, Yet would I find some herb or creeping plant To lay at thy pierced feet — The hyssop small, or penitential rue. Wet with the tear-drops of the early dew. Only, O Lord, as in that garden-ground Beside the Cross of shame. May thy dear presence in my heart be found, And its glad homage claim ; Nor ever break the soul which Love would place Upon the secret home of dying Grace ! GEORGE BERBER I. XLVI. THE SEARCH. Whither, O whither art thou fled, My Lord, my Love ? My searches are niy daily bread, Yet never prove. My knees pierce earth, mine eyes the sky ; And yet the sphere And centre both to me deny That thou art there. Yet can I mark how herbs below Grow green and gay, -As if to meet thee they did know, AVhile I decay. Yet can I mark how stars above Simper and shine, As having keys unto thy love, While poor I pine. I sent a sigh to seek thee out, Deep drawn in pain, Winged like an arrow, but my scout Returns in vain. GEORGE HERBERT. I tuned another, — having store, — • Into a groan, Because the search was dumb before ; But all was one. Lord, dost thou some new fabric mould Which favour wins, And keeps the present ; leaving the old Unto their sins. Where is my God ? What hidden place Conceals thee still ? What covert dare eclipse thy face? Is it thy will? O let not that of anything ; Let rather brass, Or steel, or mountains be thy ring. And I will pass. Thy will such an intrenching is As passeth thought ; To it all strength, all subtleties Are things of nought. Thy will such a strange distance is As that to it East and West touch, the poles do kiss, And parallels meet. Since then my grief must be as large As is thy space. Thy distance from me ; see my charge, Lord, see my case. GEORGE HERBERT. O take these bars, these lengths away ; Turn, and restore me, " Be not Ahuighty," let me say, " Against, but for me." When thou dost turn, and wilt be near. What edge so keen, What point so piercing can appear To come between ? For as thine absence doth excel All distance known, So doth thy nearness bear the bell. Making two one. SIR THOMAS BROWNE. 73 XLVII. FROM "RELIGIO MEDICI." The night is come. Like to the day Depart not thou, great God, away : Let not my sins, black as the night, Eclipse the lustre of thy light : Keep still in my horizon, for to me The sun makes not the day, but thee. Thou, whose nature cannot sleep, On my temples sentry keep ; Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes Whose eyes are open while mine close Let no dreams my head infest But such as Jacob's temples blest : While I do rest, my soul advance ; Make my sleep a holy trance. That I may, my rest being wrought. Awake into some holy thought, ' And with as active vigour run My course as doth the nimble sun. Sleep is a death ; O make me try By sleeping what it is to die ; And as gently lay my head On my grave, as now my bed. Howe'er I rest, great God, let me Awake again at last with thee ; And thus assured, behold I lie Securely, or to wake or die. 74 SIR THOMAS BROWNE. These are my drowsy days ; in vain I do now wake to sleep again ; O come that hour, when I shall never Sleep again, but wake for ever. WILLIAM HABINGTON. XLVIII. NOX NOCTI IXDICAT SCIENTIAM. When I survey the bright Celestial sphere So rich with jewels Lung, tliat night Doth like an ^thiop bride appear ; My soul her wings doth spread, And heavenward files, The Almighty's mysteries to read In the large volumes of the skies. For the bright firmament Shoots forth no flame So silent but is eloquent In speaking the Creator's name. No unregarded star Contracts its light Into so small a character, Removed far from our human sight, But if we steadfast look, We shall discern In it, as in some holy book, How man may heavenly knowledge learn. 76 WILLIAM HABINGTO.N. It tells the conqueror That far stretched power Which his proud dangers traffic for Is but the triumph of an hour : That from the furthest north Some nation may Yet undiscovered issue forth And o'er his new-got conquest sway ; Some nation yet shut in With hills of ice May be let out to scourge his sin, Till they shall equal him in vice. And then they likewise shall Their ruin have, For as yourselves your empires fall, And every kingdom hath a grave. Thus those celestial fires. Though seeming mute, The fallacy of our desires And all the pride of life confute. For they have watched since first The world had birth ; And found sin in itself accursed. And nothing permanent on earth. GEORGE MACDONALD. 77 XLIX. MARRIAGE SONG. "They have no more wine," she said. But they had enough of bread ; And ihe well beside the door Held for thirst a plenteous store ; Yes, enough ; but Love divine Made the water into wine. When should wine in plenty flow But when wanderers homeward go ? And when soul in soul hath found Rest, in bonds of freedom bound. He hath said, by act divine, ^^'ater well may turn to wine. Good is all the feasting then ; Good the merry words of men ; Good the laughter and the smiles ; Good the wine that grief beguiles — Crowning good, the Word divine : Jesus made the water wine. 78 GEORGE MACDONALD. He beside you, all the years, Into laughter turn your tears ; In the earthly tones around Make you hear the heavenly sound - At your table Love divine Often make the water wine. Earth is heaven in homelier dress ; Hope is unseen joyfulness : Walking in the heavenly light, Soon, with eyes of heavenly sight. You shall know, by vision fine, Earthly water — heavenly wine ! CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. 79 AFTER COMMUNION. Why should I call thee Lord, who art my God ? Why should I call thee Friend, who art my Love ? Or King, who art my very Spouse above ? Or call thy sceptre on my heart thy rod ? Lo, now thy banner over me is love. All heaven flies open to me at thy nod ; For thou hast lit thy flame in me a clod. Made me a nest for dwelling of thy Dove. What wilt thou call me in our home above, . Who now hast called me friend ? how will it be When thou for good wine settest forth the best ? Now thou dost bid me come and sup with thee, Now thou dost make me lean upon thy breast : HowVill it be with me in time of love ? 8o JOSEPH GRIGG. LI. "BEHOLD! A STRANGER'S AT THE DOOR!" Behold ! a Stranger's at the door ! He gently knocks, has knocked before ; Has waited long, is waiting still ; You treat no other friend so ill. But will he prove a friend indeed ? He will ; the very friend you need. The Man of Nazareth, 'tis he ! With garments dyed at Calvary. Oh, lovely attitude ! He stands With melting heart and laden hands : Oh, matchless kindness ! and he shows This matchless kindness to his foes. Rise ! touched with gratitude divine, Turn out his enemy and thine — That hateful, hell-born monster, sin, And let the heavenly Stranger in. If thou art poor, and poor thou art, Lo ! he has riches to impart ; Not wealth, in which mean avarice rolls : Oh, better far, the wealth of souls ! JO^Rpn GRIGG. 8 1 Thoii'rt hiinr], he'll take the scales away, And let in everlasting day : Naked thou art, but he shall dress 'I'hy Mushing soul in righteousness. Art thou a weeper? Grief shall fly, J''or who r.an weep with Jesus by i No terrfjr shall thy hopes annoy, No tear — exce[)t the tear of joy. Admit him ; for the human hreast Ne'er entertained so kind a gues.i. Admit him ; frjr you cin't exfjel; Where'er he coiDes, lie comes to dwell. Admit hini, ere his anger burn. His feet dep.irt, ne'er to return ; Admit him, or the hour's at hand, When at his door denied you'll stand. Yet know, nor fA the terms complain, if Jesui; f:omeK, he comes to reign- ■ To reign, and with nn partial sway; 'J'houghts miLst be slain that disobey. Sovereign of souls 1 Thou I'ririce of iieace I C)h, may thy gentle reign increase 1 'j'hrow wide the door, each willing mind. And be his empire all mankind. 8 z WILLIAM C ULLEN BR YANT. LII. HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. The sad and solemn night Has yet her multitude of cheerful fires ; The glorious host of light Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires ; All through her silent watchings, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go. Day, too, hath many a star To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they : Through the blue fields afar, Unseen, they follow in his flaming way : Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim, Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him. And thou dost see them rise. Star of the Pole ! and thou dost see them set. Alone in thy cold skies Thou keepest thy old unmoving station yet. Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train. Nor dip'st thy virgin orb in the blue western main. There, at morn's rosy birth. Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air j And eve, that round the earth Chases the day, beholds thee watching there ; There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 83 Alike, beneath thine eye, The deeds of darkness and of light are done : High towards the star-lit sky Towns blaze — the smoke of battle blots the sun — The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud — And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud. On thy unaltering blaze The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost, Fixes his steady gaze. And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast ; And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night, Are glad when thou dost shine, to guide their footsteps right. And, therefore, bards of old. Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood. Did in thy beams behold A beauteous type of that unchanging good, That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray The voyager of time should shape his heedful way. 84 CHARLES KING SLEY. LIII. LINGER NO MORE, MY BELOVED. Linger no more, my beloved, by Abbey, and cell, and Cathedral, Mourn not for holy ones mourning of old them who knew not the Father, Weeping with fast and scourge, when the Bridegroom was taken from them. Drop back awhile through the years, to the warm rich youth of the nations, Child-like in virtue and faith, though child-like in passion and pleasure. Child-like still, and still near to their God, while the day- spring of Eden Lingered in rose-red rays on the peaks of Ionian mountains. Down to the Mothers, as Faust went, I go to the roots of our manhood, Mothers of us in our cradles ; of us once more in our glory. New-born body and soul, in the great pure world which shall be. In the renewing of all things, when man shall return to his Eden. Down to the Mothers I go — yet with thee still ! be with me thou purest. Lead me, thy hand in my hand ; and the day-spring of God go before us. CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 85 LIV. DOST THOU NOT CARE? I LOVE and love not : Lord, it breaks my henrt To love and not to love. Thou veiled within thy glory, gone apart Into thy shrine, which is above, Dost thou not love me. Lord, or care For this mine ill ? — / love thee here or there, I will accept thy broken heart, lie stilL Lord, it was well with me in time gone by That Cometh not again. When I was fresh and cheerful, who but I ? I fresh, I cheerful : worn with pain Now, out of sight and out of heart ; Lord, how long ? — I watch thee as thou art, 1 will accept thy fainting heart, be strong, " Lie still, be strong,'' to-day ; but, Lord, to-morrow. What of to-morrow. Lord ? Shall there be rest from toil, be truce from sorrow. Be living green upon the sward, Now but a barren grave to me. Be joy for sorrow ? Did I not die for thee 2 Do I not live for thee 1 leave Me to-morrow. 86 JOHN EMMET. LV. A LITANY. Lord, leave us not to wander lonely Through this dark world unloved by thee : All other friends are helpless only, Though full of love as friends may be. Drear are the fondest homes around us, Sad like our hearts when thou art far ; When thou hast sought us, heard us, found us. How sweet thy consolations are ! Hear us, cheer us. Lord, and leave us not ! Leave us not when pride and anger In the heart would dare rebel ; Claim us in our utmost danger. Calm us at the mouth of hell, Leave us not till we inherit Charity that works no ill, And we hear thy gentle spirit Inly whisper, " Peace, be still ! " Hear us, cheer us, Lord, and leave us not ! JOHN EMMET. 8j Leave us not in days of trial, Let us act at duty's call, Though it lead to self-denial, Though we have to give up all. Raised on high, or humbled lowly, Praised or scorned from land to land, Bear us up, our Father holy, Bear our burdens in thy hand. Hear us, cheer us. Lord, and leave us not ! Leave us not when all have left us. Health and vision, strength and voice ; When of friends death hath bereft us, Let us still in thee rejoice : N£ar us when in doubt, to guide us ; Near us when we faint, to cheer ; Near in battle's hour, to hide us ; Nearer ever, and more dear. Hear us, cheer us. Lord, and leave us not ! Leave us not when foes come nigher. Cheer us when the grave looks cold, Lead us onward, upward, higher. Forward to the gates of gold. Leave us not when ailing, failing, Sore depressed, and bending low ; Be thy love then most avaihng. Then to aid us be not slow. Hear us, cheer us. Lord, and leave us not ! S8 JOHN EMMET. Leave us not till thou hast brought us To the holy, wealthy place, There to see thee who ha^t bought us, P" ought our fight, and won our race : There to hear no more the shouting And the thunder of our foes ; Dangers past, and past all doubting. And the grave's austere repose. Hear us, cheer us, Lord, anil leave us not ! JOHX HEXR \ ■ XL WMAX. 89 IVI. FROM '-'THE DREA:yi OF GEROXTIUS." ScrriY and gently, dear!v-i;r,;omed sov.l. In my most loving arms I now enfold thee. And, o'cT the penal wrters, as they roli, I poise thee, and I loirer thee, and hold thee. And carefu'-Iv I dip thee in the lake. And thou, without a sob or a resistance. Dost through the flood thy rapid passage take. Sinking deep, deeper, into the dim distance. Angehs, to whom the willing task is given, .Shjall tend, and nurse, and luU thee, as thou liest : And Masses on the earth, and pr:tyers in heaven, irhiil aid thee at the Throne of the Most Highest. Farewell, but not f jr ever ! brother dear. Be brave and patient on thy bed of sorrow ; Swiftly shall pass the night of trial here. And I will come and wake thee on the morrow. 90 REGINALD HEBER. LVII. FUNERAL HYMN. Thou art gone to the grave ! but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb ; Thy Saviour has passed through its portal before thee, And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom ! Thou art gone to the grave ! we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side ; But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee. And sinners may die, for the Sinless has died ! Thou art gone to the grave ! and, its mansion forsaking. Perchance thy weak spirit in fear lingered long ; But the mild rays of Paradise beam'd on thy waking, And the sound which thou heardst was the Seraphim's song ! Thou art gone to the grave ! but we will not deplore thee. Whose God was thy ransom, tliy guardian and guide ; He gave thee, he took thee, and he will restore thee. And Death has no sting, for the Saviour has died ! PATRICK CAREY. 91 LVIII. A TRIOLET. Worldly designs, fears, hopes, farewell ! Farewell all earthly joys and cares ! On nobler thoughts my soul shall dwell. Worldly designs, fears, hopes, farewell ! At quiet, in my peaceful cell, I'll think on God, free from your snares ; Worldly designs, fears, hopes, farewell ; Farewell all earthly joys and cares. I'll seek my God's law to fulfil, Riches and power I'll set at nought ; Let others strive for them that will, I'll seek my God's law to fulfil : Lest sinful pleasures my soul kill, By lolly's vain delights first caught, I'll seek my God's law to fulfil. Riches and power I'll set at nought. Yes, my dear Lord ! I've found it so ; No joys but thine are purely sweet ; Other delights come mixed with woe. Yes, my dear Lord ! I've found it so. Pleasure at courts is but in show. With true content in cells we meet ; Yes, my dear Lord ! I've found it so, No joys but thine are purely sweet. 92 ROBERT SOUTHWELL. LIX. A CHILD MY CHOICE. Let folly praise that fancy loves, I praise and love that Child Whose heart no thought, whose tongue no word, whose hand no deed defiled. I praise him most, I love him best, all praise and love is his ; While him I love, in him I live, and cannot live amiss. Love's sweetest mark, laud's highest theme, man's most desired light. To love him life, to leave him death, to live in him delight. He mine by gift, I his by debt, thus each to other due, First friend he was, best friend he is, all times will try him true. Tliough young, yet wise ; though small, yet strong ; though man, yet God he is ; ■ As wise he knows, as strong he can, as God he loves to bless. His knowledge rules, his strength defends, his love doth cherish all ; His birth our joy, his life our light, his death our end of thrall. ROBERT SOUTHWELL. 93 Alas ! he weeps, he sighs, he pants, yet do his angels sing ; Out of his tears, his sighs and throbs, doth bud a joyful spring. Almighty Babe, whose tender arms can force all foes to fly, Correct my faults, protect my life, direct me when I die ! 94 ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING LX. COMFORT. Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low, Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee so Who art not missed by any that entreat. Speak to me as to Mary at thy feet ! And if no precious gums my hands bestow, Let my tears drop like amber while I go In reach of thy divinest voice complete In humanest affection — thus, in sooth, To lose the sense of losing. As a child, Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore, Is sung to in its stead by mother's mouth. Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled. He sleeps the faster that he wept before. JOHN DR YDEN. 95 LXI. "VEXI CREATOR SPIRITUS." Creator Spirit ! by whose aid The world's foundations first were laid, Come visit ever)- pious mind ; Come pour thy joys on human kind ; From sin and sorrow set us free And make thy temples v.orthy thee. O source of uncreated Hght, The Father's promised Paraclete ! Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire. Our hearts with heavenly love inspire : Come, and thy sacred unction bring To sanctify us. while we sing. Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in thy sevenfold energy ! Thou strength of his almighty hand, 'Whose power does heaven and earth command. Proceeding Spirit, our defence, 'Who dost the gift of tongues dispense. And crown'st thy gift with eloquence ! 96 JOHN DR YDEN. Refine and purge our earthly parts ; But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts ! Our frailties help, our vice control, Submit the senses to the soul ; And when rebellious they are grown. Then lay thy hand, and hold them down. Chase from our minds the infernal foe, And peace, the fruit of Love, bestow ; And, lest our feet should step astray. Protect, and guide us in the way. .Make us eternal truths receive. And practise all that we believe ; Give us thyself, that we may see The Father and the Son by thee. Immortal honour, endless fame. Attend the almighty Father's name : The Saviour Son be glorified. Who for lost man's redemption died : And equal adoration be, Eternal Paraclete, to thee. JOHN MILTON. 97 LXII. ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY. This is the month, and this the happy morn, Wherein the Son of heaven's eternal King, Of wedded maid and virgin mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring ; For so the holy sages once did sing, That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. That glorious form, that light insufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of majesty, Wherewith he wont at heaven's high council-table To sit the midst of trinal unity. He laid aside ; and here with us to be. Forsook the courts of everlasting day, And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay. Say, heavenly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein Afford a present to the infant God ? Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain To welcome him to this his new abode, Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod, Hath took no print of the approaching light, And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright ? 98 JOHN MILTON. See how, from far upon the eastern road, The star-led wizards haste with odours sweet O run, prevent them with thy humble ode. And lay it lowly at his blessed feet ; Have thou the honour first thy Lord to greet ; And join thy voice unto the angel choir. From out his secret altar touched with hallowed fire. HYMN. It was the winter wild, While the heaven-born child All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies ; Nature, in awe to him, Had doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize : It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. Only with speeches fair She woos the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow ; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw ; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities. But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace ; JOHN MILTON. 99 She, crowned with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger. With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing ; And waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. No war, or battle's sound, Was heard the world around : The idle spear and shield were high up-hung ; The hooked chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood ; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by. But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began ; The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the water kissed, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave. While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. The stars with deep amaze Stand fixed in stedfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence ; And will not take their flight For all the morning light, Or Lucifer, that often warned them thence ; But in their glimmering orbs did glow Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. 1 00 JOHN MIL TON. And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new enlightened world no more should need : He saw a greater sun appear Than his bright throne or burning axletree could bear. The shepherds on the lawn, Or e'er the point of dawn. Sat simply chatting in a rustic row : Full little thought they then That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below ; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet. As never was by mortal finger strook — Divinely warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took : The air, such pleasure loth to lose. With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. Nature, that heard such sound, Beneath the hollow round JOHN MILTON. i o i Of Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shame-faced night arrayed ; The helmed cherubim And sworded seraphim Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed, Harping in loud and solemn choir. With unexpressive notes to heaven's new-born heir. Such music, as 'tis said, Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung. While the Creator great His constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep. And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. Ring out, ye crystal spheres ; Once bless our human ears — If ye have power to touch our senses so ; And let your silver chime Move in melodious time ; And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow ; And, with your ninefold harmony, Make up full consort to the angelic symphony. 102 JOHN MILTON. For if such holy song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back and fetch the age of gold ; And speckled vanity Will sicken soon and die ; And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould, And hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. Yea, truth and justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow ; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between. Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering ; And heaven, as at some festival, Will open wide the gates of her high palace-hall. But wisest Fate says. No ; This must not yet be so, — The babe lies yet in smiling infancy. That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss, So both himself and us to glorify : Yet first, to those enchained in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, With such a horrid clang As on Mount Sinai rang. JOHN MILTON. ic While the red fire and smouldering clouds outbrake : The aged earth aghast With terror of that blast, Shall from the surface to the centre shake ; When, at the world's last session. The dreadful Judge in middle air shall spread his throne. And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is : But now begins : for from this happy day The old dragon under ground In straiter limits bound. Not half so far casts his usurped sway ; And, wroth to see his kingdom fail. Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. The oracles are dumb ; No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving ; Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine. With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving ; No nightly trance, or breathed spell. Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. The lonely mountains o'er. And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard and loud lament ; From haunted spring and dale, Edged with poplar pale. The parting genius is with sighing sent ; With flower-inwoven tresses torn, The nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. 104 JOHN MILTON. In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint ; In urns and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint ; And the chill marble seems to sweat. While each peculiar power foregoes his wonted seat. Peor and Baalim Forsake their temples dim, ^^''ith that twice-battered god of Palestine ; And mooned Ashtaroth, Heaven's queen and mother both. Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine ; The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn ; In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn. And sullen Moloch, fied. Hath left in shadows dread His burning idol, all of blackest hue ; In vain with cymbals' ring They call the grisly king, In dismal dance about the furnace blue. The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian grove or green, JOHN MILTON. 105 Trampling the unshovvered grass with lowings loud ; Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest ; Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud ; In vain, with timbrelled anthems dark, The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark. He feels, from Judah's land, The dreaded infant's hand ; The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne : Nor all the gods beside Longer dare abide — Nor Typhon huge, ending in snaky twine ; Our babe, to show his Godhead true. Can in his swaddling bands control the damned crew. So, when the sun in bed, Curtained with cloudy red. Pillows his chin upon an orient wave. The flocking shadows pale Troop to the infernal jail — Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave ; And the yellow-skirted fays Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze. But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her babe to rest : Time is our tedious song should here have ending ; Heaven's youngest-teemed star Hath fixed her pohshed car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending ; And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit, in order serviceable. io6 HENRY HART MILMAN. LXIir. HYMN, FROM "BELSHAZZAR." God of the thunder ! from whose cloudy seat The fury winds of desolation flow : Father of vengeance ! that with purple feet, Like a full wine-press, tread'st the world below ; The embattled armies wait thy sign to slay. Nor springs the beast of havoc on his prey. Nor withering Famine walks his blasted way, Till thou the guilty land hast sealed (or woe. God of the rainbow ! at whose gracious sign The billows of the proud their rage suppress : Father of mercies ! at one word of thine An Eden blooms in the waste wilderness ! And fountains sparkle in the arid sands, And timbrels ring in maidens' glancing hands, And marble cities crown the laughing lands. And pillared temples rise thy name to bless. O'er Judah's land thy thunders broke — oh, Lord ! The chariots rattled o'er her sunken gate, Her sons were wasted by the Assyrian sword, Even her foes wept to see her fallen state ; And heaps her ivory palaces became, Her princes wore the captive's garb of shame. Her temple sank amid the smouldering flame, For thou didst ride the tempest-cloud of fate. HENR V HART MILMAN. 107 O'er Judah's land thy rainbow, Lord, shall beam, And the sad city lift her crownless head ; And songs shall wake, and dancing footsteps gleam, Where broods o'er fallen streets the silence of the dead : The sun shall shine on Salem's gilded towers, On Carmel's side our maidens cull the flowers, To deck, at blushing eve, their bridal bowers ; And angel feet the glittering Sion tread. Thy vengeance gave us to the stranger's hand. And Abraham's children were led forth for slaves ; With fettered steps we left our pleasant land, Envying our fathers in their peaceful graves : The stranger's bread with bitter tears we steep. And when our weary eyes should sink to sleep, 'Neath the mute midnight we steal forth to weep, Where the pale, willows shade Euphrates' waves. The born in sorrow shall bring forth in joy ; Thy mercy. Lord, shall lead thy children home ; He that went forth a tender yearling boy, ' Yet, ere he die, to Salem's streets shall come : And Canaan's vines for us their fruits shall bear, And Hermon's bees their honied stores prepare ; And we shall kneel again in thankful prayer. Where, o'er the cherub-seated God, full blazed the irradiate dome. io8 EDWARD DO WDEN. LXIV. NEW HYMNS FOR SOLITUDE. I. I COME to thee not asking aught ; I crave No gift of thine, no grace ; Yet where the suppliants enter let me have Within thy courts a place. My hands, my heart contain no offering ; Thy name I would not bless With lips untouched by altar-fire ; I bring Only my weariness. These are the children, frequent in thy home ; Grant, Lord, to each his share ; Then turn, and merely gaze on me, who come To lay my spirit bare. Yet one more step — no flight The weary soul can bear — Into a whiter liglit. Into a hush more rare. EDWARD DO WDEN. 109 Take me, I am all thine, Thine now, not seeking thee, — Hid in the secret shrine. Lost in the shoreless sea. Grant to the prostrate soul Prostration new and sweet, Make weak the weak, control Thy creature at thy feet. Passive I lie : shine down, Pierce through the will with straight Swift beams, one after one. Divide, disintegrate, Free me from self, — resume My place, and be thou there ; Yet also keep me. Come Thou Saviour and thou Slaj er ! Nothing remains to say to thee, Lord, I am confessed, All my lips' empty crying thou hast heard. My unrest, my rest. Why wait I any longer ? Thou dost sta}'. And therefore. Lord, I would not go away. EDWARD DOWDEN. Let me be at thy feet a little space, Forget me here ; I will not touch thy hand, nor seek thy face. Only be near, And this hour let thy nearness feed the heart. And when thou goest I also will depart. Then when thou seekest thy way, and I mine. Let the World be Not wide and cold after this cherishing shrine Illum'd by thee, Nay, but worth worship, fair, a radiant star. Tender and strong as thy chief angels are. Yet bid me not go forth : I cannot now Take hold on joy. Nor sing the swift, glad song, nor bind my brow ; Her wise employ Be mine, the silent woman at thy knee In the low room in little Bethany. IV. Ah, that sharp thrill through all my frame ! And yet once more ! • Withstand I can no longer ; in thy name I yield me to thy hand. Such pangs were in the soul unborn, The fear, the joy were such, When first it felt in that keen morn A dread, creating touch. ED WARD DO WDEN. Maker of man, thy pressure sure This grosser stuff must quell ; The spirit faints, yet will endure. Subdue, control, compel. The Potter's finger shaping me. . . . Praise, praise ! the clay curves up Not for dishonour, though it be God's least adorn bd cup. Sins grew a heavy load and cold. And pressed me to the dust ; " Whither," I cried, " can this be rolled Ere I behold the Just ? " But now I claim them for my own ; Thy face I needs must find ; Lo ! thus I wrought, yea, I alone. Not weak, beguiled, or blind. See my full arms, my heaped-up shame. An evil load I bring : Thou, God, art a consuming flame, Accept the hateful thing. Pronounce the dread condemning word, I stand in blessed fear ; Dear is thy cleansing wrath, O Lord, The fire that burns is dear. 112 EDWARD DOWDEN. VI. I found thee in my heart, O Lord, As in some secret shrine ; I knelt, I waited for thy word, I joyed to name thee mine. I feared to give myself away To that or this ; beside Thy altar on my face I lay, And in strong need 1 cried. Those hours are past. Thou art not mine. And therefore I rejoice, I wait within no holy shrine, I faint not for the voice. In thee we live ; and every wind Of heaven is thine ; blown free To west, to east, the God enshrined Is still discovering me. CHARLES WESLEY. 113 LXV. WRESTLING JACOB. Come, O thou Traveller unknown, Whom still I hold, but cannot see ! My company before is gone. And I am left alone with thee ; With thee all night I mean to stay. And wrestle till the break of day. I need not tell thee who I am, My misery or sin declare ; Thyself hast called me by my name ; Look on thy hands, and read it there. But who, I ask thee, who art thou? Tell me thy name, and tell me now. In vain thou struggles! to get free j I never will unloose my hold. Art thou the Man that died for me ? The secret of thy love unfold : Wrestling, I will not let thee go Till I thy name, thy nature know. Wilt thou not yet to me reveal Thy new, unutterable name ? Tell me, I still beseech thee, tell ; 9 114 CHARLES WESLEY. To know it now resolved I am : Wrestling, I will not let thee go Till I thy name, thy nature know. 'Tis all in vain to hold thy tongue, Or touch the hollow of my thigh ; Though every sinew be unstrung, Out of my arms thou shalt not fly ; Wresthng, I will not let thee go Till I thy name, thy nature know. What though my shrinking flesh complain. And murmur to contend so long ! I rise superior to my pain ; When I am weak, then I am strong ; And when my all of strength shall fail, I shall with the God-man prevail. My strength is gone, my nature dies ; I sink beneath thy weighty hand : Faint to revive, and fall to rise ; I fall, and yet by faith I stand : I stand, and will not let thee go Till I thy name, thy nature know. Yield to me now, for I am weak, But confident in self-despair ; Speak to my heart, in blessings speak ; Be conquered by my instant prayer : Speak, or thou never hence shalt move. And tell me if thy name is Love. CHARLES WESLEY. 115 'Tis Love ! 'tis Love ! Thou diedst for me ! I hear thy whisper in my heart : The morning breaks, the shadows ilee ; Pure, universal Love thou art ! To me, to all, thy bowels move ; Thy nature, and thy name is Love. My prayer hath power with God ; the grace Unspeakable I now receive ; Through faith I see thee face to face — I see thee face to face, and live : In vain I have not wept and strove ; Thy nature and thy name is Love. I know thee, Saviour — who thou art — Jesus, the feeble sinner's friend ; Nor wilt thou with the night depart. But stay and love me to the end : Thy mercies never shall remove ; Thy nature and thy name is Love. The Sun of Righteousness on me Hath rose, with healing in his wings ; Withered my nature's strength ; from thte My soul its hfe and succour brings. My help is all laid up above : Thy nature and thy name is Love. Contented now, upon my thigh, I halt till life's short journey end : All helplessness, all weakness, I ii6 CHARLES WESLEY. On thee alone for strength depend. Nor have I power from thee to move : Thy nature and thy name is Love. Lame as I am, I take the prey ; Hell, earth, and sin, with ease o'ercomc ; I leap for joy, pursue my way. And as a bounding hart fly home ; Through all eternity to prove Thy nature and thy name is Love. ROBERT LOUIS STE VENSON. 1 17 LXVI. THE CELESTIAL SURGEON. If I have faltered more or less In my great task of happiness ; If I have moved among my race And shown no glorious morning face ; If beams from happy human eyes Have moved me not ; if morning skies, Books, and my food, and summer rain Knocked on my sullen heart in vain :— Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take, And stab my spirit broad awake ; Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, Choose thou, before that spirit die, A piercing pain, a killing sin, And to my dead heart run them in ! I T 8 EMIL V BRONTE. LXVII. "NO COWARD SOUL IS MINE." No coward soul is mine, No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere I see heaven's glories shine, And faith shines equal, arming me from fear. O God, within my breast, Almighty, ever-present Deity ! Life — that in me has rest, As I — undying Life — have power in thee ! Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts : unutterably vain ; Worthless as withered weeds. Or idlest froth amid the boundless main, To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by thine infinity ; So surely anchored on The stedfast rock of immortality. With wide-embracing love Thy Spirit animates eternal years, Pervades and broods above. Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears. EMIL V BRONTE. 1 1 9 Though earth and man were gone, And suns and universes ceased to be, And thou wert left alone. Every existence would exist in thee. There is not room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void : Thou — thou art Being and Breath, And what thou art may never be destroyed.. 120 THOMAS MOORE LXVIII. 'THE BIRD LET LOOSE IN EASTERN SKIES." The bird let loose in eastern skies, When hastening fondly home, Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies Where idle warblers roam ; But high she shoots thro' air and light, Above all low delay. Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, Nor shadow dims her way. So grant me, God, from every care And stain of passion free. Aloft, thro' virtue's purer air, To hold my course to thee ! No sin to cloud, no lure to stay My soul, as home she springs ; — Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom in her wings ! GEORGE ELIOT. i2i LXIX. "O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE." ' Longum illud tempus, quura non ero, magis me movet, quam hoc exiguum." — Cicero, ad Ait., xii. l8. O MAY I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence ; live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge man's search To vaster issues. So to live is heaven : To make undying music in the world, Breathing as beauteous order that controls With growing sway the growing life of man. So we inherit that sweet purity For which we struggled, failed, and agonized With widening retrospect that bred despair. Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, A vicious parent shaming still its child, Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved ; Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies. Die in the large and charitable air. And all our rarer, better, truer self. 122 GEORGE ELIOT. That sobbed religiously in yearning song, That watched to ease the burthen of the world, Laboriously tracing what must be, And what may yet be better — saw within A worthier image for the sanctuary, And shaped it forth before the multitude Divinely human, raising worship so To higher reverence more mixed with love — That better self shall live till human Time Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb Unread for ever. This is life to come, Which martyred men have made more glorious For us who strive to follow. May I reach That purest heaven, be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardour, feed pure love. Beget the smiles that have no cruelty — Be the sweet presence of a good diffused. And in diffusion ever more intense. So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world. ARTHUR HUGH C LOUGH. 12- LXX. ^THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY." ^A'hat we, when face to face we see The Father of our souls, shall be, John tells us, doth not yet appear ; Ah ! did he tell what we are here ! A mind for thoughts to pass into, A heart for loves to travel through, Five senses to detect things near. Is this the whole that we are here ? Rules baffle instincts — instincts rules, 'Wise men are bad — and good are fools, Facts evil — wishes vain appear. We cannot go, why are we here ? O may we for assurance sake, Some arbitrary judgment take. And wilfully pronounce it clear, For this or that 'tis we are here. Or is it right, and will it do, To pace the sad confusion through, And say : It doth not yet appear, What we shall be, what we are here ? 124 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH Ah yet, when all is thought and said, The heart still overrules the head ; Still what we hope we must believe, And what is given us receive ; Must still believe, for still we hope That in a world of larger scope, What here is faithfully begun Will be completed, not undone. My child, we still must think, when we That ampler life together see. Some true result will yet appear Of what we are, together, here. SAMUEL WADDINGTON. 125 LXXI. WHAT GOSPEL? What gospel, still, what gospel ? Christ, yea, Christ ! Back to the shores of Galilee once more, To the old lesson of love, the simple lore Of peace and wisdom that the world sufficed. Christ ! for he spake with pity, nor enticed The broken-hearted to an empty store ; — Christ ! for his words true balm and healing pour In the world's wounds, the holy words of Christ ! AVhat gospel, still, what gospel ? Love, yea, Love ! There is no heaven, and no hope but this, — No heritage of joy, no hallowed bliss To wing the spirit to the realm above ; Oh, vain glad tidings, and oh, little worth, — Unless our charity make glad the earth. 126 HARTLE Y COLERIDGE. LXXII. THE WORD OF GOD. In holy books we read how God hath spoken To holy men in many different ways ; But hath the Present worked no sign or token, — Is God quite silent in these latter days ? And hath our heavenly Sire departed quite, And left his poor babes in this world alone, And only left for blind belief — not sight — Some quaint old riddles in a tongue unknown ? Oh ! think it not, sweet maid ! God comes to us With every day, with every star that rises ; In every moment dwells the Righteous, And starts upon the soul with sweet surprises. The word were but a blank, a hollow sound, If he that spoke it were not speaking still, — If all the light and all the shade around Were aught but issues of Almighty will. Sweet girl, believe that every bird that sings. And every flower that stars the elastic sod. And every thought the happy summer brings To thy pure spirit, is a word of God. WILLIAM BLAKE. 127 LXXIII. THE DIVINE IMAGE. To mercy, pity, peace, and love, All pray in their distress ; And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness. For mercy, pity, peace, and love, Is God, our Father dear ; And mercy, pity, peace, and love Is man, his child and care. For mercy has a human heart, Pity, a human face ; And love, the human form divine, And peace, the human dress. Then every man of every clime, That prays in his distress. Prays to the human form divine, Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. And all must love the human form In heathen, Turk, or Jew; Where mercy, love, and pity dwell, There God is dwelling too. 128 MA TTHE W ARNOLD. LXXIV. MORALITY. We cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides, The spirit bloweth and is still, In mystery our soul abides ; But tasks in hours of insight will'd Can be through hours of gloom fulfill'd. With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone ; We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. Not till the hours of light return All we have built do we discern. Then, when the clouds are off the soul, When thou dost bask in Nature's eye. Ask, how she viewed thy self-control. Thy struggling, tasked morality — Nature, whose free, light, cheerful air, Oft made thee, in thy gloom, despair. And she, whose censure thou dost dread, Whose eye thou wast afraid to seek, MATTHEW ARXOLD. i: See, on her face a glow is spread, A strong emotion on her cheek I " Ah, child ! " she cries, '• that strife divine, AMience was it, for it is not mine ? " There is no effort on my brow — I do not strive, I do not weep ; I rush with the swift spheres and glow In joy, and, when I wiU, I sleep ! Yet that severe, that earnest air, I saw, I felt it once — ^but where ? " I knew not yet the gauge of time. Nor wore the manacles of space ; I felt it in some other clime ! I saw it in some other place ! 'Twas when the heavenly house I trod. And lay upon the breast of God." 10 130 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. LXXV. DESPISED AND REJECTED. My sun has set, I dwell In darkness as a dead man out of sight ; And none remains, not one, that I should tell To him mine evil plight This bitter night. I will make fast my door That hollow friends may trouble me no more. " Friend, open to Me." — Who is this that calls ? Nay, I am deaf as are my walls : Cease crying, for I will not hear Thy cry of hope or fear. Others were dear, Others forsook me : what art thou indeed That I should heed Thy lamentable need ? Hungry should feed. Or stranger lodge thee here ? " Friend, my Feet bleed : Open thy door to Me and comfort Me." I will not open, trouble me no more. Go on thy way footsore, I will not rise and open unto thee. CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 131 " Then is it nothing to thee ? Open, see Who stands to plead with thee. Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thou One day entreat ]My Face And howl for grace, And I be deaf as thou art now. Open to ISIe." Then I cried out upon him : Cease, Leave me in peace : Fear not that I should crave Aught thou mayst have. Leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more, Lest I arise and chase thee from my door. What, shall I not be let Alone, that thou dost vex me yet ? But all night long that voice spake urgently : " Open to Me." Still harping in mine ears : " Rise, let Me in." Pleading with tears : " Open to Me that I may come to thee." While the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold : " My Feet bleed, see My Face, See My Hands bleed that bring thee grace, My Heart doth bleed for thee, Open to Me." So till the break of day : Then died away That voice, in silence as of sorrow ; 132 CHRISTINA ROSSETTL Then footsteps echoing like a sigh Passed me by, Lingering footsteps slow to pass. On the morrow I saw upon the grass Each footprint marked in blood, and on my door The mark of blood for evermore. ROBERT STEPHEN HA WKER. 133 LXXVI. THE SIGNALS OF LEVI. he Rabbins ruled that the daily oblation was never to begin until the Signal of Levi was heard ; and a Levite, placed on the roof of the Temple to watch the sky, blew with his trumpet when the day had so far dawned that he could see Hebron, a city on the heights where John the Baptist was afterwards born. SIGNAL THE FIRST. There is light on Hebron now : Hark to the trumpet din ! Day dawns on Hebron's brow, Let the sacrifice begin. Hear ye the gathering sound ? How the lute and harp rejoice, 'Mid the roar of oxen bound, And the lamb's beseeching voice. This day both prince and priest Will hold at Salem's shrine A high and haughty feast Of flesh and the ruddy wine. r34 ROBERT STEPHEN HA WKER. For a perilous hour is fled, And the fear is vain at last, Though foretold by sages dead. And sworn by the Prophets past. They said that a mortal birth E'en now would a name unfold That should rule the wide, wide earth, And quench the thrones of old. But no sound, nor voice, nor word, The tale of travail brings ; Not an infant cry is heard In the palaces of kings. Blossom and branch are bare On Jesse's stately stem : So they bid swart Edom wear Fallen Israel's diadem. How Ihey throng the cloistered ground 'Mid Judah's shame and sin : Hark to the trumpet sound Let the sacrifice begin. SIGNAL THK SECOND. There is light on Hebron's towers. Day dawns o'er Jordan's stream, And it floats where Bethlehem's bowers Of the blessed morning dream. ROBERT STEPHEN HA WKER. 135 Yet it wakes no kingly halls, It cleaves no purple room ; The soft calm, radiance falls On a cavern's vaulted gloom. But there, where the oxen rest When the weary day is done, How the maiden-mother's breast Thrills with her awful Son ! A cave where the fallings roam. By the ruddy heifer trod, Yea ! the mountain's rifted home Is the birthplace of a God ! This is he ! the mystic birth By the sign and voice foretold ; He shall rule the wide, wide earth. And quench the thrones of old. The child of Judah's line. The son of Abraham's fame : Arise, ye lands ! and shine With the blessfed Jesu's name. This is the promised dawn : So fades the night of sin ; Lo ! the gloom of death is gone, Let the sacriiice begin. 136 ROBERT STEPHEN HA WKER. SIGNAL THE THIRD. " Ho ! watchman ! what of the night ? Tell, Christian soldier, tell ; Are Hebron's towers in sight ? Hast thou watched and warded well ? " " Yea ; we have paced the wall Till the day-star's glimmering birth ; And we breathed our trumpet-call When the sunlight walked the earth." "What sawest thou with the dawn ? Say, Christian warder, say ; When the mists of night were gone. And the hills grew soft with day ? " " We beheld the morning swell Bright o'er the eastern sea; Till the rushing sunbeams fell Where the westward waters be. " City and bulwark lay Rich with the orient blaze. And rocks, at the touch of day, Gave out a sound of praise. " No hill remained in cloud. There lurked no darkling glen ; And the voice of God was loud Upon every tongue of men. ROBERT STEPHEN HA WKER. 137 There shall never more be night With this eternal sun ; There be Hebrons many in sight, And the sacrifice is done." 1 38 JEREMY TA YL OR. LXXVII. CHRIST'S COMING TO JERUSALEM IN TRIUMPH. Lord, come away ; Why dost thou stay ? Thy road is ready ; and thy paths, made straight, With longing expectation wait The consecration of thy beauteous feet. Ride on triumphantly : behold we lay Our lusts and proud wills in thy way. Hosanna ! welcome to our hearts ! Lord, here Thou hast a temple too, and full as dear As that of Sion, and as full of sin : Nothing but thieves and robbers dwell therein. Enter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor ; Crucify them, that they may never more Profane that holy place Where thou hast chose to set thy face ; And then if our stiff tongues shall be Mute in the praises of thy deity. The stones out of the temple-wall Shall cry aloud and call Hosanna ! and thy glorious footsteps greet. FJiAN'CIS TURNER PALGRAVE. 139 LXXVIII. FAITH AND SIGHT, IN THE LATTER DAYS. " I prac : sequar." Thou say'st, " Take up thy cross, O Man, and follow me : " The night is black, the feet are slack, Yet we would follow thee. ISut 0, dear Lord, we cry. That we thy face could see ! Thy blessed face one moment's space — Then might we follow thee ! Dim tracts of time divide Those golden days from me ; Thy voice comes strange o'er years of change ; How can I follow thee ? Comes faint and far thy voice From vales of Galilee ; Thy vision fades in ancierit shades ; How should we follow thee ? 140 FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE. Unchanging law binds all, And Nature all we see : Thou art a star, far off, too far, Too far to follow thee ! — Ah, sense-bound heart and blind ! Is nought but what we see ? Can time undo what once was true ; Can we not follow thee ? Is what we trace of law The whole of God's decree ? Does our brief span grasp Nature's plan. And bid not follow thee ? O heavy cross — of faith In what we cannot see ! As once of yore, thyself restore And help to follow thee ! If not as once thou cam'st In true humanity. Come yet as guest within the breast That burns to follow thee. Within our heart of hearts In nearest nearness be : Set up thy throne within thine own Go, Lord : we follow thee. H OBER T HERRICK. i ^ i LXXIX. A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE. Lord, Thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell ; A little house, whose humble roof Is weather-proof, Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry ; Where Thou, my chamber for to ward, Hast set a guard Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me while I sleep. Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state : And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by th' poor. Who thither come and freely get Good words or meat. Like as my parlour, so my hall And kitchen's small : A little buttery, and therein A little bin. Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipped, unflead ; Some little sticks of thorn or brier Make me a fire. Close by whose living coal I sit. And glow like it. 142 ROBERT HERRI CK. Lord, I confess too, when I dine, The pulse is thine, And all those other bits that be There placed by thee ; The worts, the purslane, and the mess Of water-cress. Which of thy kindness Thou has sent ; And my content Makes those, and my beloved beet, To be more sweet. 'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth, And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Spiced to the brink. Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land, And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one : Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day ; Besides my healthful ewes to bear Me twins each year ; The while the conduits of my kine Run cream, for wine. All these, and better Thou dost send Me, to this end, That I should render, for my part, A thankful heart, Which, fired with incense, I resign As wholly thine ; But the acceptance, that must be. My Christ, by thee. RICHARD WATSON GILDER. 1^3 LXXX. A MADONNA OF FRA LIPPO LIPPI. No heavenly maid we here behold, Though round her brow a ring of gold ; This Baby, solemn-eyed and sweet, Is human all from head to feet. Together close her palms are prest In worship of that Godly Guest : But glad her heart and unafraid While on her neck His hand is laid. Two children, happy, laughing, gay, Uphold the little Child in play : Not flying angels these, what though Four wings from their four shoulders grow. Fra Lippo, we have learned from thee A lesson of Humanity : To every mother's heart forlorn. In every house the Christ is born. 144 LEWIS MORRIS. LXXXI. BEHIND THE VEIL. I PACED along The dim cathedral wrapped in reverend gloom ; I heard the sweet child's song Spring upwards like a fountain ; and the boom Of the tempestuous organ-music swell ; The hushed low voices, and the silvery bell ; The incense-laden air ; the kneeling throng : I knew them all, and seemed to hear the cry Of countless myriads, rising deep and strong, — Help us ! we faint, we die. Our knees are weak, our eyes are blind ; We seek what we shall never find. Show but Thy face, and we are thine, Unknown, Ineffable, Divine I I heard the loud Muezzin from the slender minaret call To prayer, to prayer ; and lo ! the busy crowd. Merchant and prince and water-carrier, all Turned from the world, and, rapt in worship, knelt. Facing the holy city ; and I felt That from those myriads kneeling, prostrate, bowed, A low moan rises to the throne on high, — Not shut out quite by error's thickest cloud,— Help us ! we faint, we die. LEWIS MORRIS, 145 Our knees are weak, our eyes are blind ; We seek what we shall never find. Show but Thy face, and we are thine, Unknown, Ineffable, Divine. I stood before The glaring temples on the burning plain ; I heard the hideous roar Rise to the stars to drown the shrieks of pain. What time the murderous idol swept along. I listened to the innocent, mystic song. Breathed to the jewelled Lotus evermore. In the elder lands, through the ages, like a sigh. And heard in low, sweet chant, and hateful roar, — Help us ! we faint, we die. Our knees are weak, our eyes are blind , We seek what we shall never find. Show but Thy face, and we are thine, Unknown, Ineffable, Divine ! Ay; everywhere Echoes the same exceeding bitter cry. Yet can the Father bear To hide his presence from the children's eye ; Lets loose on good and bad the plague and sword ; And though wrong triumph answers not a word ? Only deep down in the heart doth he declare His constant presence; there, though the outward sky Be darkened, shines a little speck of fair, — A light which cannot die. Though knees be weak, and eyes be blind ; Though we may seek, and never find ; Here doth his hidden glory shine, Unknown, Ineffable, Divine. 146 FREDERICK W. H. MYERS. LXXXir. SAINT JOHN THE BAPTIST. " And blessed is he, whosoever shall not be offended in me.'' Jesus, if one minute, if one hour Thou wouldst come hitherward and speak with John ! Nay, but be present only, nay, but come : And I shall look, and as I look on Thee Find in thine eyes the answer and the end. And I am he who once in Nazareth, A child, nor knowing yet the prophet's woe. In childly fashion sought- thee, and even then Perceived a mute withdrawal, open eyes That drooped not for caressing, brows that knew Dominion, and the babe already king. Ah, Mary, but thou also, thou as I, With eager tremulous humilities, With dumb appeal and tears that dared not flow, Hast laid thy loving arms about the boy. And clasped him wistfully and felt him far. And ever as I grew his loveliness Grew with me, and the yearning turned to pain. Then said I, — "Nay, my friends, no need is now For John to tarry with you ; I have seen, 1 have known him ; I go hence, and all alon,; I carry Jesus with me till I die." And that same day, being past the Passover, I gat me to the desert, and stayed to see FREDERICK W. EI. MYERS. 147 Joseph and Mary holding each a hand Of one that followed meekly ; and I was gone, And with strange beasts in the great wilderness I laid me, fearing nothing, and hardly knew On what rough meat in what unwonted ways I throve, or how endured the frost and fire ; But moaned and carried in my heart for him A first and holy passion, boy for boy. And loved the hills that looked on Nazareth, And every fount that pours upon the plain. Then once with trembling knees and heart afire I ran, I sought him : but my Lord at home Bright in the full face of the dawning day. Stood at his carpentry, and azure air Inarched him, scattered with the glittering green : I saw him standing, I saw his face, I saw His even eyebrows over eyes grey-blue. From whence with smiling there looked out on me A welcome and a wonder, — " Mine so soon ? " — Ah me, how sweet and unendurable Was that confronting beauty of the boy ! Jesus, thou knowest I had no answer then. But leapt without a word, and flung away. And dared not think thereof, and looked no more. And after that with wonder rose in me Strange speech of early prophets, and a tale First learnt and last forgotten, song that fell With worship from the lonely Israelites, Simeon and Anna, for these twain as one Fast by the altar and in the courts of God Led a long age in fair expectancy. 148 FREDERICK W. H. MYERS. For all about tliem swept the heedless folk, Unholy folk and market merchandise, They each from each took courage, and with prayer Made ready for the coming of a King. So, when the waves of Noe on forest and hill Ran ruinous, and all herbs had lost the life Of greenness and the memory of air. The cedar-trees alone on Lebanon Spread steadfastly invulnerable arms. That was no sleep when clear the vision came. Bright in the night and truer than the day : — For there with brows newborn and locks that flcv 'Was Adam, and his eyes remembered God ; And Eve, already fallen, already in woe, Knowing a lovelier promise for the pain ; And after these, unknown, unknowable. The grave gigantic visage of dead men, AVith looks that are not ours, with speech lo fay That no man dares interpret ; then I saw A maiden such as countrymen afield Greet reverently, and love her as they see ; And after that a boy with face so fair, With such a glory and a wonder in it, I grieved to find him born upon the earth To man's Hfe and the heritage of sin ; And last of all that Mary whom I knew Stood with such parted lips and face aglow, As long-since when the angel came to her ; And all these pointed forward, and I knew That each was prophet and singer and sire and seer, That each was priest arid mother and maid and king, t^REDERICK W. H. MYERS. 149 With longing for the babe of Nazareth, For that man-child who should be born and reign. And once again I saw him, in latter days, Fraught with a deeper meaning, for he came To my baptizing, and the infinite air Blushed on his coming, and all the earth was still ; Gently he spake ; I answered ; God from heaven Called, and I hardly heard him, such a love Streamed in that orison from man to man. Then shining from his shoulders either-way Fell the ilood Jordan, and his kingly eyes Looked in the east, and star-like met the sun. Once in no manner of similitude, And twice in thunderings and thrice in flame, The Highest ere now hath shown him secretly ; But when from heaven the visible Spirit in air Came verily, lighted on him, was alone, Then knew I, then I said it, then I saw God in the voice and glory of a man. And one will say, " And wilt thou not forget The unkindly king that hath forgotten thee ? " Nay, I remember ; like my sires who sat Faithful and stubborn by Euphrates' stream, Nor in their age forgot Jerusalem, Nor reared their children for another joy. O Jesus, if thou knewest, if thou couldst know, How in my heart through sleep and pain and prayer Thy royalty remaineth ; how thy name Falls from my lips unbidden, and the dark Is thick with lying shades that are not thou, — Couldst thou imagine it, O tender soul ! ISO FREDERICK IF. H. MYERS. At least in vision thou wouldst come to me; I should not only hear of dumb that sing And lame that leap around thee, and all thy ways Joyful, and on thy breast another John. How should I not remember ? Is dusk of day Forgetful, or the winter of the sun ? Have these another glory ? or whom have I In all the world but Jesus few: my love ? Whereinsoever breath may rise and die Their generations follow on, and earth Each in their kind replenisheth ane-vv, Only like him she bears not nor hath borne One in her endless multitude of men. JOHN KEBLE. 151 LXXXIII. CHRIST IN THE GARDEN. Lord my God, do thou thy holy will — • I will lie still— 1 will not stir, lest I forsake thine arm. And break the charm "Which lulls me, clinging to my Father's breast, In perfect rest. Wild Fancy, peace ! thou must not me beguile With thy false smile : I know thy flatteries and thy cheating ways ; Be silent. Praise, Blind guide with siren voice, and blinding all That hear thy call. Come, Self-devotion, high and pure, Thoughts that in thankfulness endure, Though dearest hopes are faithless found. And dearest hearts are bursting round. Come, Resignation, spirit meek. And let me kiss thy placid cheek, And read in thy pale eye serene Their blessing, who by faith can wean Their hearts from sense, and learn to love God only, and the joys above. 152 JOHN KEBLE. They say, who know the life divine, And upward gaze with eagle eyne, That by each golden crown on high, Rich with celestial jewelry. Which for our Lord's redeemed is set, There hangs a radiant coronet. All gemmed with pure and hving light. Too dazzling for a sinner's sight, Prepared for virgin souls, and them Who seek the martyr's diadem. Nor deem, who to that bliss aspire. Must win their way through blood and fire. The writhings of a wounded heart Are fiercer than a foeman's dart. Oft in Life's stillest shade reclining. In desolation unrepining. Without a hope on earth to find A mirror in an answering mind. Meek souls there are, who little dream Their daily strife an Angel's theme. Or that the rod they take so calm Shall prove in heaven a martyr's palm. And there are souls that seem to dwell Above this earth — so rich a spell Floats round their steps, where'er they move. From hopes fulfilled and mutual love. Such, if on high their thoughts are set, Nor in the stream the source forget. If prompt to quit the bliss they know. Following the Lamb where'er he go, JOHN KEBLE. i; By purest pleasures unbeguiled To idolize or wife or child ; Such wedded souls our God shall own For fauliless virgins round his throne. Thus everywhere we find our suffering God, And where he trod ^May set our steps : the Cross on Calvary Uplifted high Beams on the martyr host, a beacon light In open fight To the still wrestlings of the lonely heart He doth impart The virtue of his midnight agony, When none was nigh, Save God and one good angel, to assuage The tempest's rage. Mortal ! if life smile on thee, and thou find All to thy mind. Think, who did once from heaven to hell descend, Thee to befriend : So shalt thou dare forego, at his dear call. Thy best, thine alL " O Father 1 not my will, but thine be done '' — So spake the Son. Be this our charm, mellowing Earth's ruder no'se Of griefs and joys ; That we may cling for ever to thy breast In perfect rest ! 154 WILLIAM COWPER. LXXXIV. THE WAITING SOUL. Breathe from the gentle south, O Lord, And cheer me from the north ; Blow on the treasures of thy word, And call the spices forth ! I wish, thou knowest, to be resigned. And wait with patient hope ; But hope delayed fatigues the mind, And drinks the spirits up. Help me to reach the distant goal ; Confirm my feeble knee ; Pity the sickness of a soul That faints for love of thee ! I seem forsaken and alone, I hear the lion roar ; And every door is shut but one. And that is Mercy's door. There, till the dear Deliverer come, 111 wait with humble prayer ; And when he calls his exile home, The Lord shall find him there. EDMUND GOSSE. 155 LXXXV. THE HEAVENWARD PILGRIMAGE. Not with a choir of Angels without number. And noise of lutes and lyres, But gently, with the woven veil of slumber Across thine awful fires. We long to see thy face serene and tender. Smile on us, fair and sweet. Where round the print of thorns, in thornlike splendour, Transcendent glories meet ! We have no hopes if Thou art near beside us, And no profane despairs. For all we need is thy great hand to guide us, And lightly take our cares ; For us is no to-day, to-night, to-morrow. No past time nor to be. We have no joy but thee, than sin no sorrow. No hfe to live but thee ! The Cross, like pilgrim-warriors, we follow. Led by the Eastern star ; The wild crane knows us, and the wandering swallow, Fled southward to Shinar ; All night the single star is bright above us, We go with weary feet ; For in the end we know are they who love us, And their embrace is sweet. 156 EDMUND GOSSE. Most sweet of all, when dark the way and moonless, To feel a touch, a breath. And know our fainting spirits are not tuncles", Our unseen goal not Death j To know that Thou, in all the old, sweet fashion, Art near us to sustain ! We thank thee. Lord, by all thy tears and passion. By all thy cross and pain ! And when the night, with all its pain, is over, Across the hills of spice Thyself, will meet us, glowing like a lover, Before love's Paradise ; There are the Saints, witli palms, and songs, and roses. And better still than all, The long, long day of Love that never closes, Thy marriage festival ! SAMUEL WADDINGTON. iS7 LXXXVI. " CHRIST IS NOT DEAD." " Christ is not dead," — So spake, in accents low, He whom we loved, the master, aged and sere : He spake not loud, yet firm his voice and clear, To speak whate'er he would that we should know. "Christ is not dead," — He spake, then paused as though His words were mightier than such words appear To him that hears them with a casual ear. Nor stays to heed, but hastes where he would go. " Christ is not dead," — and yet he paused once more, While on his face a holy rapture shone, As shines the sunlight on the peaceful shore: When all the storm of life is past and gone ; " Christ is not dead, while in your hearts," he cried, " The lesson of his love doth still abide." iS8 RICHARD WATSON GILDER. LXXXVII. MORNING AND NIGHT. The mountain that the morn doth kiss Glad greets its shining neighbour : Lord 1 heed the homage of our bliss, — The incense of our labour. Now the long shadows eastward creep, The golden sun is setting : Take, Lord ! the worship of our sleep,— The praise of our forgetting. jOHi: AUSTi::. 159 LXXX\'III. BLEST BE THY LOnT:, DEAR LORD. Blest be thy love, dear Lord, That tz'zzr.i us this rs-eer vr^y. Only to love thee for thyself. And for that love obey. O thou, o -r souls" chief hope '. We to thy mercy fly ; Where'er we are, thou car.5t protect. ■Wnate'er we need, s'tp^^ly. "SATiether we sleep or wake, To thee vre both resign ; By night vre see. as v.ell as day. If thy h'ght on us shine. vrnether — e live or die. Both we submit to thee : In death we '.ive, as well a:- life, If thine ir. death vre be. 1 60 ROBERT STEPHEN HA WKER, LXXXIX. THE SILENT TOWER OF BOTTREAU.' (The rugged heights that line the seashore in the neighbourhood of Tintagel Castle and church are crested with towers. Among these that of Bottreau is without bells, and the silence of this wild and lonely churchyard on festive or solemn occasions is not a little striking. The bells were once shipped for this church, but when the vessel was within sight of the tower the blasphemy of her cap- tain was punished in the manner recited.) Tintagel bells ring o'er the tide ; The boy leans on his vessel's side, He hears that sound, and dreams of home Soothe the wild orphan of the foam. " Come to thy God in time ! '' Thus saith their pealing chime : Youth, manhood, old age past, " Come to thy God at last ! " But why are Bottreau's echoes still ? Her tower stands proudly on the hill ; Yet the strange chough that home hath found. The lamb lies sleeping on the ground. " Come to thy God in time ! " Should be her answering chime : " Come to thy God at last ! " Should echo on the blast. ' Boscastle. ROBERT STEPHEN HA WKER. The ship rode down with courses free, The daughter of a distant sea : Her sheet was loose, her anchor stored. The merry Bottreau bells on board. " Come to thy God in time ! " Rang out Tintagel chime ; Youth, manhood, old age past, "Come to thy God at last ! " The pilot heard his native bells Hang on the breeze in fitful swells ; " Thank God," with reverent brow he cried, "We make the shore with evening's tide." " Come to thy God in time ! " It was his marriage chime : Youth, manhood, old age past. His bell must ring at last. " Thank God, thou whining knave, on land, But thank, at sea, the steersman's hand," The captain's voice above the gale — ■ " Thank the good ship and ready sail." " Come to thy God in time ! " Sad grew the boding chime : " Come to thy God at last ! " Boomed heavy on the blast. Uprose that sea ! as if it heard The mighty Master's signal-word : What thrills the captain's whitening lip ? The death-groans of his sinking ship. 1 62 ROBERT STEPHEN HA WKER. " Come to thy God in time ! " Swung deep tlie funeral chime : Grace, mercy, kindness past, " Come to thy God at last ! " Long did the rescued pilot tell — When grey hairs o'er his forehead fell. While those around would hear and weep- That fearful judgment of the deep. " Come to thy God in time ! " He read his native chime : Youth, manhood, old age past, His bell rang out at last. Still when the storm of Bottreau's waves Is wakening in his weedy caves : Those bells, that sullen surges hide. Peal their deep notes beneath the tide : " Come to thy God in time ! " Thus saith the ocean chime : Storm, billow, whirlwind past, " Come to thy God at last ! " ISAAC WILLIAMS. 163 XC. THE CHILD LEANS ON ITS PARENT'S BREAST The child leans on its parent's breast, Leaves there its cares, and is at rest ; The bird sits singing by his nest, And tells aloud His trust in God, and so is blest 'Neath every cloud. He has no store, he sows no seed ; Yet sings aloud, and doth not heed ; By flowing stream or grassy mead He sings to shame Men who forget in fear of need A Father's name. The heart that trusts for ever sings, And feels as light as it had wings ; A well of peace within it springs : Come good or ill, Whate'er to-day, to-morrow brings. It is His will ! 1 64 THOMAS TOKE LYNCH. XCI. GRACIOUS SPIRIT, DWELL WITH ME. Gracious Spirit, dwell with me ; I myself would gracious be, And with words that help and heal Would thy life in mine reveal. And with actions bold and meek AVould for Christ my Saviour speak. Truthful Spirit, dwell with me, I myself would truthful be. And with wisdom kind and clear Let thy life in mine appear. And with actions brotherly Speak my Lord's sincerity. Tender Spirit, dwell with me ; I myself would tender be. Shut my heart up like a flower At temptation's darksome hour. Open it when shines the sun, And His love by fragrance own. Silent Spirit, dwell with me ; I myself would quiet be. THOMAS TORE LYNCH. 165 Quiet as the growing blade Which through earth its way has made, Silently, like morning light, Putting mists and chills to flight. Mighty Spirit, dwell with me ; I myself would mighty be, Mighty so as to prevail Where unaided man must fai', Ever by a mighty hope Pressing on and bearing up. Holy Spirit, dwell with me ; I myself would holy be ; Separate from sin, I would Choose and cherish all things gODd, And whatever I can be Give to Him who gave me thee. 'i66 WILLIAM DRUMMOND. XCII. THE NATIVITY OF OUR LORD. I. THE ANGELS. Run, shepherds, run where Bethlehem blest appears. We bring the best of news ; be not dismayed : A Saviour there is born more old than years, Amidst heaven's rolling heights this earth who stayed. In a poor cottage inn'd, a virgin maid A weakling did him bear, who all upbears j There is he poorly swaddled, in manger laid, To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres : Run, shepherds, run, and solemnize his birth ; This is that night — no, day, grown great with bliss. In which the power of Satan broken is : In heaven be glory, peace unto the earth ! Thus singing, through the air the angels swam. And cope of stars re-echoed the same. WILLIAM DR UMMOND. 1 6 7 THE SHEPHERDS. O than the fairest day, thrice fairer night ! Night to best days, in which a sun doth rise. Of which that golden eye which clears the skies Is but a sparkling ray, a shadow-light ! And blessed ye, in silly pastors' sight, ^^slild creatures, in whose \yarm crib now lies That heaven-sent youngling, holy maid-born wight. Midst, end, beginning of our prophecies : Blest cottage that hath flowers in winter spread. Though withered ! blessed grass, that hath the grace To deck and be a carpet to that place ! Thus sang, unto the sounds of oaten reed, Before the babe, the shepherds bowed on knees ; And springs ran nectar, honey dropped from trees. ISAAC WILLIAMS. XCIII. ST. WENCESLAUS. The snow lies deep throughout the night O'er hill, and grove, and town, And on its silvery mantle bright The cold clear moon looks down. Heap up the ivooi, the rich man cries — The fire burns bright and warm ; Inward to Heaven the poor man sighs. And trembles at the storm. There gently steals a form of good. Like one from Bethlehem's shed. His shoulders bear a pile of wood, A kingly crown his head. King Wenceslaus, monarch mild — He seeks a cottage-door ; " Friend of the friendless " is he styled, And " father of the poor.'' Help me, my honoured king and lord, Then cried his servant old ; Unless thou timely aid afford, I sink benwnPed with cold. ISAAC WILLIAMS. i6; Dear faithful servant, said the Saint, Come on, and follow me; Lift up thy heart without complaint. And 1 7vill pray for thee. Then in his master's footsteps bold, He followed 'mid the snow, — His master's footsteps 'mid the cold Seemed with a fire to glow. His heart so chilled then waxed warm, The ice and snow among. And all throughout his aged form A kindly warmth hath sprung. So burned within that kingly heart With holy love of God, That there was found a fire to start From footsteps where he trod. And to that heart such power was given In winter's cold and storm. Thereat, as by a fire from Heaven, The sick and poor were warm. 1 70 HENR V HART MILMAN. XCIV. THE LOVE OF GOD. Love thee ! — oh, Thou, the world's eternal sire ! Whose palace is the vast infinity, Time, space, height, depth, oh God ! are full of thee, And sun-eyed seraphs tremble and admire. Love thee ; — but Thou art girt with vengeful fire, And mountains quake, and banded nations flee. And terror shakes the wide unfathomed sea. When the heavens rock with thy tempestuous ire. Oh, Thou ! too vast for thought to comprehend, That wast ere time, — shall be when time is o'er ; Ages and worlds begin — grow old— and end. Systems and suns thy changeless throne before. Commence and close their cycles : lost, I bend To earth my prostrate soul, and shudder, and adore ! HENR Y HART MILMAN. 1 7 1 II. Love thee ! — oh, clad in human lowliness, In whom each heart its mortal kindred knows — Our flesh, our form, our tears, our pains, our woes, — A fellow-wanderer o'er earth's wilderness ! Love thee ! — whose every word but breathes to bless ! Through thee, from long-sealed lips glad language flows ; The blind their eyes, that laugh with light, unclose ; And babes, unchid, thy garment's hem caress : I see thee, doomed by bitterest pangs to die, Up the sad hill, with willing footsteps, move, With scourge, and taunt, and wanton agony, While the cross nods, in hideous gloom, above, Though all — even there — be radiant Deity ! Speechless I gaze, and my whole soul is Love ! 1 7 3 JOSEPH ADDISON, XCV. AN ODE ON THE CREATION. The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. The unwearied sun from day to day, Does his Creator's power display ; And publishes, to every land, The work of an Almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail. The moon takes up the wondrous tale ; And nightly, to the listening earth, Repeats the story of her birth ; Whilst all the stars that round her burn. And all the planets, in their turn. Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though, in solemn silence, all Move round the dark terrestrial ball ; What though no real voice, nor sound Amidst their radiant orbs be found. In reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice ; For ever singing as they shine — " The hand that made us is divine ! " SABINE BARING-GOULD. 173 XCVI. CEDRON'S WELL. The moon was bright, that Paschal night, O'er Cedron's dark and rocky dell ; And Cedron's torrent glancing bright. As silver flashed and fell. The Saviour stood, and prayed, " I would That those whom thou hast given me Should ever stand, a constant band, In steadfast Unity. " That from the fold wherein I hold The sheep I love, should wander none ; As thou in me, and I in thee. They all may be as one." As Cedron flows from whence it rose One stream throughout from source to sea. The Church in time and every clime Is one, and one will be. Though many a rill falls in to fill The shining river as it glides. Yet none will think to o'erleap the brink, Each in the bed abides. 174 SABINE BARING-GOULD. And all, the same, with common aim And common impulse onward flow ; And none rebel, but join to swell, One stream as on they go. O keep us. Lord, the sole Adored, In unity assured with thee. All one in Faith, all one in Hope, And one in Charity. HEa'R Y ALFORD. 1 7 5 XCVII. " I HAVE FOUND PEACE." I HAVE found Peace in the bright earih, And in the sunny sky : — By the low voice of summer seas, And where streams murmur by. I find it in the quiet tone Of voices that I love : By the flickering of a twilight fire, And in a leafless grove ! I find it in the silent flow Of solitary thought : In calm half-meditated dreams, And reasonings self-taught ; But seldom have I found such peace, As in the soul's deep joy Of passing onward free from harm Through every day's employ. If gems we seek, we only tire. And lift our hopes too high ; The constant flowers that line our way Alone can satisfy. 176 ELlWARD DOIVDEK xcviir. EMMAUSWARD. Lord Christ, if thou art with us and these eyes Are holden, while we go sadly and say, " We hoped it had been he, and now to-day Is the third day, and hope within us dies." Bear with us, oh, our Master, thou art wise And knowest our foolishness ; we do not pray, " Declare thyself, since weary grows the way. And faith's new burden hard upon us hes." Nay, choose thy time ; but ah ! whoe'er thou art. Leave us not ; where have we heard any voice Like thine ? Our hearts burn in us as we go ; Stay with us ; break our bread j so, for our part. Ere darkness falls haply we may rejoice, Haply when day has been far spent may know. ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. 177 XCIX. "O THOU WHOSE IMAGE IN THE SHRINE. O Thou whose image in the shrine Of human spirits dwells divine ; Which from that precinct once conveyed, To be to outer day displayed, Doth vanish, part, and leave behind Mere blank and void of empty mind, ■Which wilful fancy seeks in vain '\^'ith casual shapes to fill again ! Thou that in our bosom's shrine Dost dwell, unknown because divine ! 1 thought to speak, I thought to say, " The light is here," " behold the way," " The voice was thus," and " thus the word," And " thus I saw," and " that I heard," — But from the lips that half essayed The imperfect utterance fell unmade. Thou, in that mysterious shrine Enthroned, as I must say, divine I 1 will not frame one thought of what Thou mayest either be or not. I will not prate of " thus " and " so," And be profane with " yes " and " no," Enough that in our soul and heart Thou, whatsoe'er Thou may'st be, art. 13 178 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. Unseen, secure in that high shrine, Acknowledged present and divine, I will not ask some upper air, Some future day to place Thee there ; Nor say, nor yet deny, such men And women saw Thee thus and then : Thy name was such, and there or here To him or her Thou didst appear. Do only Thou in that dim shrine, Unknown or known, remain, divine ; There, or if not, at least in eyes That scan the fact that round them lies. The hand to sway, the judgment guide, In sight and sense Thyself divide : Be Thou but there, ^ — in soul and heart, I will not ask to feel Thou art. HORATIVS BONAR. 179 "CALM ME, MY GOD, AND KEEP ME CALM." Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, AVhile these hot breezes blow ; Be like the night-dew's cooling balm Upon earth's fevered brow ! Calm me, my God, and keep me calm. Soft resting on thy breast ; Soothe me with holy hymn and psalm, And bid my spirit rest. Calm me, my God, and keep me calm. Let thine outstretched wing Be like the shade of Elim's palm Beside her desert-spring. Yes ; keep me calm, though loud and rude The sounds my ear that greet ; Calm in the closet's solitude, Calm in the bustling street ; Calm in the hour of buoyant health. Calm in my hour of pain ; Calm in my poverty or wealth. Calm in my loss or gain ; i8o HORATIUS BONAR. Calm in the sufferance of wrong, Like him who bore my shame ; Calm 'mid the threatening, taunting throng, Who hate thy holy name ; Calm when the great world's news with power My listening spirit stir : Let not the tidings of the hour E'er find too fond an ear : Calm as the ray of sun or star Which storms assail in vain, Moving unruffled through earth's war Th' eternal calm to gain. ANDRE W MAR VEIL. i S i CI. THE CORONET. When for the thorns with which I long, too long, With many a piercing wound. My Saviour's head have crowned, I seek with garlands to redress that wrong : Through every garden, every mead, I gather flowers, my fruits are only flowers, Dismantling all the fragrant towers That once adorned my shepherdess's head : And now, when I have summed up all my store, Thinking — so I myself deceive — So rich a chaplet thence to weave As never yet the King of Glory wore ; Alas ! I find the Serpent old, That, twining in his speckled breast, About the flowers disguised, does fold AVith wreaths of fame and interest. Ah, foolish man, that wouldst debase with them, And mortal glory, heaven's diadem ! But Thou who only couldst the Serpent tame, Either his slippery knots at once untie, And disentangle all his winding snare, Or shatter, too, with him my curious frame. And let these wither so that he may die — Though set with skill, and chosen out with care ; That they, while thou on both their spoils dost tread, May crown thy feet that could not crown thy head. i82 ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. CII. CHORUS OF EDEN SPIRITS. (From " A Drama of Exile.") Hearken, oh hearken ! let your souls behind you Turn, gently moved ! Our voices feel along the Dread to find you, O lost, beloved ! Through the thick-shielded and strong-marshalled angels. They press and pierce : Our requiems follow fast on our evangels, — Voice throbs in verse. We are but orphaned spirits left in Eden A time ago : God gave us golden cups, and we were bidden To feed you so. But now our right hand hath no cup remaining, No work to do, The mystic hydromel is spilt, and staining The whole earth through. Most ineradicable stains, for showing (Not interfused !) That brighter colours were the world's foregoing, Than shall be used. Hearken, oh hearken 1 ye shall hearken surely For years and years. The noise beside you, dripping coldly, purely. Of spirits' tears. ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. 183 The yearning to a beautiful denied you, Shall strain your powers : Ideal sweetness shall over-glide you, Resumed from ours. In all your music, our pathetic minor Your ears shall cross ; And all good gifts shall mind you of diviner, With sense of loss. AVe shall be near you in your poet-languors And wild extremes, AVhat time ye vex the desert with vain angers. Or mock with dreams. And when upon you, weary after roaming. Death's seal is put, By the foregone ye shall discern the coming. Through eyelids shut. 1 84 HENRY VAUGIIAN. cm. THE NIGHT. (John iii. 2.) Through that pure virgin-shrine, That sacred veil drawn o'er thy glorious noori, That men might look and live, as glow-vs'orms shine And face the moon, Wise Nicodemus saw such light As made him know his God by night. Most blest believer he. Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes, Thy long-expected healing wings could see When thou didst rise ! And, what can never more be done, Did at midnight speak with the sun 1 O who will tell me where He found thee at that dead and silent hour ? What hallowed solitary ground did bear So rare a flower, Within whose sacred leaves did lie The fulness of the Deity ? HENRY VAUGHAN. 185 No mercy-seat of gold, No dead and dusty cherub, nor carved stone, But his own living works did my Lord hold And lodge alone, Where trees and herbs did watch and peep And wonder, while the Jews did sleep. Dear night ! this world's defeat ; The stop to busy fools ; care's check and curb The day of spirits ; my soul's calm retreat Which none disturb ; Christ's progress, and his prayer-time, — The hours to which high heaven doth chime; God's silent, searching flight ; When my Lord's head is filled with dew, and all His locks are wet with the clear drops of night ; His still, soft call ; His knocking time ; the soul's dumb watch. When spirits their fair kindred catch ; Were my loud, evil days Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent, Whose peace but by some angel's wing or voice Is seldom rent, Then I in heaven all the long year Would keep, and never wander here. But living where the sun Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire Themselves and others, I consent and run To every mire ; And by this world's ill-guiding light. Err more than I can do by night. 1 86 HENRY VAUGHAN. There is in God, some say, A deep but dazzling darkness ; as men here Say it is late and dusky, because they See not all clear : O for that night ! where I in him Might live invisible and dim ! GEORGE WITHER. 187 CIV. A ROCKING HYMN. Sweet baby, sleep \ what ails my dear ? What ails my darling thus to cry ? Be still, my child, and lend thine ear. To hear me sing thy lullaby. My pretty lamb, forbear to weep, Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear ? What thing to thee can mischief do ? Thy God is now thy father dear ; His holy spouse thy mother too. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. Though thy conception was in sin, A sacred bathing thou hast had ; And though thy birth unclean hath been, A blameless babe thou now art made. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep. While thus thy lullaby I sing. For thee great blessings ripening be ; Thine eldest brother is a king, And hath a kingdom bought for thee. iS3 GEORGE WITHER. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear ; For, whosoever thee offends. By thy protector threatened are. And God and angels are thy friends Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe j sweet baby, sleep. When God with us was dwelling here. In litde babes he took delight ; Such innocents as thou, my dear. Are ever precious in his sight. Siveet baby, then, forbear to weep; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. A little infant once was he. And strength in weakness then was laid Upon his virgin mother's knee That power to thee might be conveyed. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep j Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. The King of kings, when he was born, Had not so much for outward ease ; By him such dressings were not worn, Nor such like swaddling clothes as these. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. GEORGE WITHER. 189 Within a manger lodged thy Lord, Where oxen lay, and asses fed ; Warm rooms we do to thee afford, An easy cradle or a bed. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. The wants that he did then sustain Have purchased wealth, my babe, for thee ; And by his torments, and his pain. Thy rest and ease secured be. My baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. Thou hast yet more to perfect this, A promise and an earnest got Of gaining everlasting bliss, Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not. Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; Be still, my babe ; sweet bab)', sleep. 1 90 Slli JOHN BE A UMONT. CV. THE EPIPHANY. Fair eastern star, that art ordained to run Before the sages, to the rising sun. Here cease thy course, and wonder that the cloud Of this poor stable can thy Maker shroud : Ye, heavenly bodies, glory to be bright. And are esteemed as ye are rich in light ; But here on~earth is taught a different way. Since under this low roof the highest lay. Jerusalem erects her stately towers. Displays her windows, and adorns her bowers ; Yet there thou must not cast a trembling spark ; Let Herod's palace still continue dark ; Each school and synagogue thy force repels. There Pride, enthroned in misty error, dwells ; The temple, where the priests maintain their choir. Shall taste no beam of thy celestial fire, While this weak cottage all thy splendour takes : A joyful gate of every chink it makes. Here shines no golden roof, no ivory stair, No king exalted in a stately chair. Girt with attendants, or by heralds styled, But straw and hay enwrap a speechless child ; Yet Sabae's lords before this babe unfold Their treasures, offering incense, myrrh, and gold. SIJ? JOHN BE A UMONT. 1 9 1 The crib becomes an altar : therefore dies No ox nor sheep ; for in their fodder lies The Prince of Peace, who, thankful for his bed. Destroys those rites in which their blood was shed : The quintessence of earth he takes and fees. And precious gums distilled from weeping trees ; Rich metals and sweet odours now declare The glorious blessings which his laws prepare, To clear us from the base and loathsome flood Of sense, and make us fit for angels' food. Who lift to God for us the holy smoke Of fervent prayers with which we him invoke, And try our actions in that searching fire. By which the seraphim our lips inspire : No muddy dross pure minerals shall infect. We shall exhale our vapours up direct : No storms shall cross, nor glittering lights deface Perpetual sighs which seek a happy place. 193 JOHN KEBLE, CVI. ST. MATTHEW. Ye hermits blest, ye holy maids, The nearest heaven on earth, ^^'ho talk with God in shadowy glades. Free from rude care and mirth ; To whom some viewless teacher brings The secret lore of rural things. The moral of each fleeting cloud and gale. The whispers from above, that haunt the twilight vale ; Say, when in pity ye have gazed On the wreath'd smoke afar, That o'er some town, like mist upraised. Hung hiding sun and star ; Then, as ye turned your weary eye To the green earth and open sky, Were ye not fain to doubt how Faith could dwell Amid that dreary glare, in this world's citadel ? But Love's a flower that will not die For lack of leafy screen, And Christian Hope can cheer the eye That ne'er saw vernal green : Then be ye sure that Love can bless Even in this crowded loneliness, Where ever-moving myriads seem to say, Go — thou art nought to us, nor we to thee — away ! JOHN KEBLE. 193 There are in this loud stunning tide Of human care and crime, AVith whom the melodies abide Of the everlasting chime ; Who carry music in their heart, Through dusky lane and wrangling mart. Plying their daily task with busier feet, Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat. 14 1 94 HARTLE Y COLERIDGE. CVII. ELIJAH. A LITTLE cake he asked for, that was all ; And that she gave — 'twas all she had to give To the poor hungry Prophet fugitive ; Not knowing quite, she yet believed the call, And she was blest. Within her cottage wall By day the Prophet prays, at night he lies, Whose prayer and presence daily multiplies The meat and cruse that, let what will befall. Shall still suffice for each successive day. She gave a little, and she gave enough, And taught us how to use the passive stuff That earth affords, — to give and still to pray. Hope be the Prophet, and the cruse Content ! Where Hope abides the cruse shall ne'er be spent. JAMES MONTGOMERY. 195 CVIII. FOR EVER WITH THE LORD. For ever with the Lord ! Amen ! so let it be ! Life from the dead is in that word, And immortality ! Here in the body pent, Absent from him I roam. Yet nightly pitch my moving tent A day's march nearer home. My Father's house on high. Home of my soul ! how near. At times, to faith's foreseeing eye. Thy golden gates appear ! Ah ! then my spirit faints To reach the land I love. The bright inheritance of saints, Jerusalem above ! Yet clouds will intervene, And all my prospect flies ; Like Noah's dove, I flit between Rough seas and stormy skies. 1 96 JAMES MONTGOMER V. Anon the clouds depart, The winds and waters cease ; While sweetly o'er my gladden'd heart Expands the bow of peace ! Beneath its glowing arch, Along the hallowed ground I see cherubic armies march, A camp of fire around. I hear at morn and even. At noon and midnight hour, The choral harmonies of heaven Earth's Babel tongues o'erpower. Then, then I feel that he, Remembered or forgot. The Lord is never far from me, Though I perceive him not. FRANCIS QUARLES. 197 CIX. "WHOM HAVE I IN HEAVEN BUT THEE? AND WHAT DESIRE I ON EARTH IN RESPECT OF THEE?" I LOVE, and have some cause to love, the earth : She is my Maker's creature, therefore good : She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; She is my tender nurse ; she gives me food : But what's a creature. Lord, compared with thee ? Or what's my mother, or my nurse to me ? I love the air ; her dainty sweets refresh My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me ; Her shrill-mouthed choir sustain me with their flesh. And with their Polyphonian notes delight me : But what's the air or all the sweets that she Can bless my soul withal, compared to thee ? I love the sea ; she is my fellow creature ; My careful purveyor ; she provides me store : She walls me round ; she makes my diet greater ; She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore ; But Lord of oceans, when compared with thee, What is the ocean, or her wealth to me ? icjS FRANCIS QUARLES. To heaven's high city I direct my journey, 'W'hose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye ; Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky : But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee ? Without thy presence heaven's no heaven to me. Without thy presence earth gives no refection ; Without thy presence sea affords no treasure ; ^Vithout thy presence air's a rank infection ; Without thy presence heaven itself 's no pleasure : If not possest, if not enjoyed in thee, What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me ? The highest honours that the w^orld can boast Are subjects far too low for my desire ; The brightest beams of glory are, at most. But dying sparkles of thy living fire ; The proudest flames that earth can kindle, be But nightly glow-worms, if compared to thee. Without thy presence wealth are bags of cares ; Wisdom, but folly ; joy, disquiet sadness ; Friendship is treason, and delights are snares ; Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness : AVithout thee. Lord, things be not what they be. Nor have they being, when compared with thee. In having all things, and not thee, what have I ? Not having thee, what have my labours got ? Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I ? And having thee alone, what have I not ? I wish nor sea, nor land, nor would I be Possest of heaven, heaven unpossest of thee. RICHARD MANX. 199 ex. TE DEUM LAUDAMUS. Round the Lord in glory seated Cherubim and Seraphim Filled his temple, and repeated Each to each th' alternate hymn. "Lord, thy glory fills the heaven, Earth is with its fulness stored ; Unto thee be glory given, Holy, holy, holy Lord ! " Heaven is still with glory ringing. Earth takes up the angel's cry, " Holy, holy, holy," — singing, " Lord of hosts, the Lord most high," With his seraph train before him, With his holy Church below, Thus conspire we to adore him, Bid we thus our anthem flow : — - " Lord, thy glory fills the heaven, Earth is with thy fulness stored. Unto thee be glory given, Holy, holy, holy Lord ! " 200 WILLIAM BLAKE. CXI. ON ANOTHER'S SORROW. Can I see another's woe, And not be in sorrow too ? Can I see another's grief, And not seek for kind relief? Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share ? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow fiU'd ? Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear ? No, no, never can it be. Never, never can it be. And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small bird's grief and care. Hear the woes that infants bear. And not sit beside the nest, Pouring pity in their breast ; And not sit the cradle near, Weeping tear on infant's tear; WILLIAM BLAKE. And not sit, both night and day, Wiping all our tears away ? O ! no, never can it be, Never, never can it be. He doth give His joy to all ; He becomes an infant small ; He becomes a man of woe ; He doth feel the sorrow too. Think not thou canst sigh a sigh And thy Maker is not by ; Think not thou canst weep a tear And thy Maker is not near. O ! He gives to us His joy That our grief He may destroy : Till our grief is fled and gone He doth sit by us and moan. JOHN MASON NEALE. CXII. THE GUIDE. (From " St. Stephen the Sabaite.") Art thou weary, art thou languid, Art thou sore distrest ? " Come to me," saith One, " and coming Be at rest ! " Hath he marks to lead me to him, If he be my guide ? " In his feet and hands are wound-prints, And his side." Hath he diadem as monarch That his brow adorns ? " Yea, a crown, in very surety, But of thorns ! " If I find him, if I follow,' What his guerdon here ? " Many a sorrow, many a labour. Many a tear." If I still hold closely to him, AVhat hath he at last ? " Sorrow vanquished, labour ended, Jordan past ! " JOHN MASON NEALE. 203 If I ask hira to receive me, Will he say me nay ? " Not till earth, and not till heaven Pass" away ! " Finding, following, keeping, struggling. Is he sure to bless ? " Angels, martyrs, prophets, virgins, Answer, Yes ! " 204 CHARLES KINGSLEY. CXIII. A FAREWELL. My fairest child, I have no song to give you ; No lark could pipe to skies so dull and grey : Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you For every day. Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; Do noble things, nor dream them all day long ; And so make life, death, and that vast forever One grand, sweet song. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 205 CXIV. VESPER SONG. (From "The Golden Legend." O GLADSOME light Of the Father Immortal And of the celestial Sacred and blessed Jesus, our Saviour ! Now to the sunset Again hast thou brought us ; And, seeing the evening Twilight, we bless thee, Praise thee, adore thee ! Father Omnipotent ! Son, the Life-giver ! Spirit, the Comforter ! Worthy at all times Of worship and wonder ! 2o6 ROBERT STEPHEN HA WKER. CXV. "THE NIGHT COMETH." When darkness fills the western sky, And sleep, the twin of death, is nigh, What soothes the soul at set of sun ? The pleasant thought of duty done. Yet must the pastoral slumbers be The shepherd's — by the eastern tree — Broken and brief, with dreams that tell Of ravaged flock and poisoned well ! Be still, my soul ! fast wears the night. Soon shall day dawn in holier light : Old faces — ancient hearts — be there. And well-known voices thrill the air ! LEWIS MORRIS. 207 CXVI, A PTYMN IN TIME OF IDOLS. Though they may crowd Rite upon rite, and mystic song on song ; Though the deep organ loud Through the long nave reverberate full and strong ; Though the weird priest, Whom rolling clouds of incense half conceal, By gilded robes increased, Mutter and sign, and proudly prostrate kneel ; Not pomp, nor song, nor bended knee Shall bring them any nearer Thee. I would not hold Therefore that those who worship still where they, In dear dead days of old, Their distant sires knelt once and passed away, May not from carven stone. High arching nave and reeded column fine. And the thin soaring tone Of the keen organ catch a breath divine, Or that the immemorial sense Of worship adds not reverence. But by some bare Hillside or plain, or crowded city street, AVherever purer spirits are, 2o8 LEWIS MORRIS. Or hearts with love inflamed together meet, Rude bench or naked wall, Humble and sordid to the world-dimmed sight. On these shall come to fall A golden ray of consecrating light, And thou within the midst shalt there Invisible receive the prayer. In every home, Wherever there are loving hearts and mild, Thou still dost deign to come. Clothed with the likeness of a little child. Upon the earth thou still Dwellest with them at meat, or work, or play. Thou who all space dost fill Art with the pure and humble day by day ; Thou treasurest the tears they weep. And watchest o'er them while they sleep. Spirit and Word That still art hid in every faithful heart. Indwelling Thought and Lord — How should they doubt who know thee as thou art ? How think to bring thee near By magic words, or signs, or any spell. Who art among us here. Who always in the loving soul dost dwell, Who art the staff and stay indeed Of the weak knees and hands that bleed ? LEWIS MORRIS. 209 Then let them take Their pagan trappings, and their hfeless lore ; Let us arise and make A worthy temple where was none before. Each soul is its own shrine, Its priesthood, its sufficient sacrifice. Its cleansing fount divine, Its hidden store of precious sanctities. Those only fit for priestcraft are From whom their Lord and King is far. 15 210 SIR HENRY WOTTON. CXVII. THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE. How happy is he bprn and taught That serveth not another's will ; Whose armour is his honest thought, And silly truth his highest skill ; Whose passions not his master are ; Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied to the world with care Of prince's grace or vulgar breath ; Who hath his life from humours free ; Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make accusers great : ^Vho envieth none whom chance doth raise, Or vice ; who never understood How swords give slighter wounds than praise, Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend ; And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend. Sm itENRY WOTTON. This man is free from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall ; Lord of himself, though not of lands, And having nothing, yet hath all. 213 JOHN GREENLEAF WIIITTIER. CXVIII. THE TWO ANGELS. God called the nearest angels who dwell with him above : The tenderest one was Pity, the dearest one was Love. " Arise," he said, " my angels ! a wail of woe and sin Steals through the gates of heaven, and saddens all within. " My harps take up the mournful strain that from a lost world swells. The smoke of torment clouds the light and blights the asr phodels. " Fly downward to that under world, and on its souls of pain Let Love drop smiles like sunshine, and Pity tears like rain ! " Two faces bowed before the Throne, veiled in their golden hair; Four white wings lessened swiftly down the dark abyss of air. The way was strange, the flight was long ; at last the angels came Where swung the lost and nether world, red-wrapped in ray- less flame. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 213 Then Pity, shuddering, wept ; but Love, with faith too strong for fear, Took heart from God's almightiness, and smiled a smile of cheer. And lo ! that tear of Pity quenched the flame whereon it fell. And, with the sunshine of that smile, hope entered into hell! Two unveiled faces full of joy looked upward to the Throne, Four white wings folded at the feet of him who sat thereon ! And deeper than the sound of seas, more soft than falling flake, Amidst the hush of wing and song the Voice Eternal spake — " Welcome, my angels ! ye have brought a holier joy to heaven ; Henceforth its sweetest song shall be the song of sin for- given ! " a 14 JOHN AUSTIN. CXIX. A HYMN. Dear Jesu ! when, when will it be That I no more shall break with thee ? When will this war of passion cease, And let my soul enjoy thy peace ? Here I repent and sin again : Now I revive and now am slain ; Slain with the same unhappy dart Which, O ! too often wounds my heart. When, dearest Lord ! when shall I be A garden sealed to all but thee ? No more exposed, no more undone ; But live and grow to thee alone. 'Tis not, alas ! on this low earth That such pure flowers can find a birth ; Only they spring above the skies. Where none can live till here he dies. Then let me die, that I may go And dwell where those bright lilies grow ; AVhere those best plants of glory rise, And make a safer paradise. JOHN A USTIN. 2 1 5 No dangerous fruit, no tempting Eve, No crafty serpent to deceive ; But we like gods indeed shall be ; O let me die that Hfe to see ! Thus says my song ; but does my heart Join with the words, and sing its part ? Am I so thorough wise to choose The other world and this refuse ? AVhy should I not ? what do I find That fully here contents my mind ? What is this meat, and drink, and sleep. That such poor things from heaven should keep ? What is this honour, or great place, Or bag of money, or fair face, What's all the world that thus we should Still long to dwell with flesh and blood ? Fear not, my soul ; stand to the word Which thou hast sung to thy dear Lord : Let but thy love be firm and true, And with more heat thy wish renew. O may this dying life make haste To die into true hfe at last : No hope have I to live before ; But there to live and die no more. 2 1 6 WILLIAM DR UMMOND. CXX. FROM " FLOWERS OF SION." I. THE BAPTIST. The last and greatest herald of heaven's king, Girt with rough skins, hies to the deserts wild, Among that savage brood the woods forth bring, Which he than man more harmless found and mild ; His food was locusts, and what young doth spring. With honey that from virgin hives distilled ; Parched body, hollow eyes, some uncouth thing Made him appear long since from earth exiled. Then burst he forth : " All ye, whose hopes rely On God, with me amid these deserts mourn ; Repent, repent, and from old errors turn." Who listened to his voice, obeyed his cry ? Only the echoes, which he made relent. Rung from their marble caves, " Repent, repent !" WILLIAM DR VMMOND. 2 1 7 II. THE MAGDALEN. These eyes, dear Lord, once Brandons of desire, Frail scouts betraying what they had to keep, Which their own heart, then others .set on fire, Their traitorous black before thee here out-weep ; These locks, of blushing deeds the fair attire, Smooth-frizzled waves, sad shelves which shadow deep, Soul-stinging serpents in gilt curls which creep, To touch thy sacred feet do now aspire. In seas of Care behold a sinking bark, By winds of sharp remorse unto thee driven, O ! let me not exposed be Ruin's mark ; My faults confest, — Lord, say they are forgiven. Thus sighed to Jesus the Bethanian fair, His tear-wet feet still drying with her hair. 2i8 JOHN KEBLE. CXXI. FOREST LEAVES IN AUTUMN. Red o'er the forest peers the setting sun, The line of yellow light dies fast away That crowned the eastern copse : and chill and dun Falls on the moor the brief November day. Now the tired hunter winds a parting note, And Echo bids good-night from every glade ; Yet wait awhile, and see the calm leaves float Each to his rest beneath their parent shade. How like decaying life they seem to glide ! And yet no second spring have they in store. But where they fall forgotten to abide Is all their portion, and they ask no more. Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing, A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold. The green buds glisten in the dews of Spring, And all be vernal rapture as of old. Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie, In all the world of busy life around No thought of them ; in all the bounteous sky No drop, for them, of kindly influence found. JOHN KEBLE. 219 Man's portion is to die and rise again — Yet he complains, wliile these unmurmuring part With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain. As his when Eden held his virgin heart. And haply half unblamed his murmuring voice Might sound in Heaven, were all his second life Only the first renewed — the heathen's choice, A round of listless joy and weary strife. For dreary were this earth, if earth were all, Though brightened oft by dear affection's kiss ;- Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall ? But catch a gleam beyond it, and 'tis bliss. Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart, Whether slow creeping on cold earth, or borne On lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dart O'er wave or field : yet breezes laugh to scorn Our puny speed, and birds, and clouds in heaven, And fish, like living shafts that pierce the main, And stars that shoot through freezing air at even Who but would follow, might he break his chain ? And thou shalt break it soon ; the grovelling worm Shall find his wings, and soar as fast and free As his transfigured Lord with lightning form And snowy vest — such grace he won for thee. 2 20 JOHN KEBLE. When from the grave he sprung at dawn of morn, And led through boundless air thy conquering road, Leaving a glorious track, where saints new-born Might fearless follow to their blest abode. But first by many a stern and fiery blast The world's rude furnace must thy blood refine. And many a gale of keenest woe be passed, Till every pulse beat true to airs divine ; Till every limb obey the mounting soul, The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given. He who the stormy heart can so control, The laggard body soon will waft to heaven. GEORGE HERBERT. 221 CXXII. AARON. Holiness on the head ; Light and perfections on the breast ; Harmonious bells below, raising the dead, To lead them unto life and rest — Thus are true Aarons drest. Profaneness in my head ; Defects and darkness in my breast ; A noise of passions ringing me for dead Unto a place where is no rest — Poor priest, thus am I drest ! Only another head I have, another heart and breast. Another music, making live, not dead. Without whom I could have no rest- In him I am well drest. Christ is my only head, My alone only heart and breast. My only music, striking me even dead. That to the old man I may rest. And be in him new drest. GEORGE HERBERT. So holy in my head, Perfect and light in my dear breast, My doctrine turned by Christ, who is not dead, But lives in me while I do rest — ■ Come, people : Aaron's drest. LORD BYRON. 223 CXXIII. "A SPIRIT PASSED BEFORE ME." (From Job.) A SPIRIT passed before me : I beheld The face of immortality unveiled — Deep sleep came down on every eye save mine — And there it stood, — all formless — but divine : Along my bones the creeping flesh did quake : And as my damp air stiffened, thus it spake : " Is man more just than God ? Is man more pure Than He who deems even Seraphs insecure ? Creatures of clay — vain dwellers in the dust ! The moth survives you, and are ye more just? Things of a day ! you wither ere the night. Heedless and blind to Wisdom's wasted light ! " 224 ISAAC WILLIAMS. CXXIV. BASIL. Beautiful flowers round wisdom's secret well, Deep holy thoughts of penitential lore, But dressed with images from Nature's store, Handmaid of Piety ! like thine own cell By Pontic mountain-wilds and shaggy fell. Great Basil ! there, within thy lonely door, Watching, and fast, and prayer, and penance dwell. And sternly nursed affections heavenward soar. AVithout are setting suns and summer skies. Ravine, rock, wood, and fountain melodies ; And earth and heaven, holding communion sweet Teem with wild beauty. Such thy calm retreat, Blest Saint ! and of thyself an emblem meet. All fair without, within all stern and wise. SAMUEL WADDINGTON. 2.25 CXXV. ST. FRANCIS, OF ASSIST. On earth he walked, yet did in heaven dwell ; With upturned gaze the upland paths he trod ; He worshipped Nature, but he knelt to God, Nor to the Angelic hosts bade long farewell : His life was blameless as the lily's bell ; The wrongful deed he smote with chastening rod ; Around his feet, with mystic splendour shod. The glory brightened ere the darkness fell ! Beloved of mortals ! thine immortal soul Hearkened and heard above life's thunder-roll The Spirit's quickening voice, " Be good, be kind ! " Oh, blessed ye that hear, and ye that hearken. Oh, blessed ye, if when death-shadows darken, These words graved on your hearts we yet shall find. 16 226 RLGINALD IIEBER. CXXVI. HYMN. Oh, Captain of God's host, whose dreadful might Led forth to war the armed seraphim. And from the starry height, Subdued in burning fight, Cast down that ancient dragon, dark and grim ! Thine angels^ Christ ! we laud in solemn lays, Our elder brethren of the crystal sky. Who, 'mid thy glory's blaze. The ceaseless anthem raise, And gird thy throne in faithful ministry ! We celebrate their love, whose viewless wing Hath left for us so oft their mansion high, The mercies of their King To mortal saints to bring, Or guard the couch of slumbering infancy. But thee, the first and last, we glorify, AVho when thy world was sunk in death and sin. Not with thine hierarchy, The armies of the sky. But didst with thine own arm the battle win. REGINALD HEBER. 227 Alone didst pass the dark and dismal shore, Alone didst tread the wine-press, and alone. All glorious in thy gore, Didst light and life restore, To us who lay in darkness and undone ! Therefore, with angels and archangels, we To thy dear love our thankful chorus raise, And tune our songs to thee Who art, and art to be, And, endless as thy mercies, sound thy praise ! 228 RICHARD WI'LTON. CXXVII. THE SHEPHERD'S REED. ' They are like unto children sitting in the market-place, and calling one to another ; and saying, We have piped unto you, and ye have not danced ; we have mourned unto you, and ye have not wept." — S. Luke vii. O Son of Man, great Shepherd of the sheep, Thou pipest to us, shall thy children weep ? Sheep of thy pasture, shall we not rejoice And dance to thy soft notes and gentle voice ? No strain so sweet e'er flowed from Grecian lute, Or pipe of Arcady, or Dorian flute ; Of Roman lyre no mention shall be made, And David's harp before this reed must fade. A simple reed by Syrian waters found From human lips took a celestial sound-: Through it strange melodies our Shepherd blew, And wondering, wistful ones around him drew. Of heavenly love with cadence deep it told, Of labours long to win them to the fold. Of bleeding feet upon the mountains steep. And life laid down to save his erring sheep. RICHARD WILTON. 229 O loving Shepherd, to that gracious strain We listen and we listen once again, And while its music sinks into our hearty Our fears grow fainter and our doubts depart. Lord, pipe to me, and I will weep no more. But joyful follow to yon happy shore, AVhere my glad soul shall sing and dance to thee In the " green pastures " of Eternity ! 23° HARTLEY COLERIDGE. CXXVIII. SUNDAY. Thou blessed day ! I will not call thee last, Nor Sabbath — last nor first of all the seven, But a calm slip of intervening heaven. Between the uncertain future and the past ; As in a stormy night, amid the blast. Comes ever and anon a truce on high. And a calm lake of pure and starry sky Peers thro' the mountainous depth of clouds amass'd. Sweet day of prayer ! e'en they whose scrupulous dread Will call no other day, as others do. Might call thee Sunday without fear or blame ; For thy bright morn delivered from the dead Our Sun of Life, and will for aye renew To faithful souls the import of thy name. The ancient Sabbath was an end, — a pause, — A stillness of the world ; the work was done ! But ours commemorates a work begun. Why, then subject the new to antique laws ? The ancient Sabbath closed the week, because The world was finished. Ours proclaims the sun. Its glorious saint, alert its course to run. Vanguard of days ! escaped the baffled jaws HARTLEY COLERIDGE. 231 Of slumbrous dark and death — so fitly first Is Sunday placed before the secular days ; Unmeetly clad in weeds, with arms reversed, To trail in sullen thought by silent ways. Like the fresh dawn, or rose-bud newly burst. So let our Sabbath wear the face of praise ! 232 ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. CXXIX. PER PACEM AD LUCEM. I DO not ask, O Lord, that life may be A pleasant road ; I do not ask that thou wouldst take from me Aught of its load ; I do not ask that flowers should always spring Beneath my feet ; I know too well the poison and the sting Of things too sweet. For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead ; Lead me aright — Though strength should falter, and though heart should bleed — Through peace to light. I do not ask, O Lord, that thou shouldst shed Full radiance here ; Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread Without a fear. I do not ask my cross to understand. My way to see — ■ Better in darkness just to feel thy hand. And follow thee. Joy is like restless day ; but peace divine Like quiet night : Lead me, O I/Ord — till perfect day shall shine. Through peace to light. ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. 233 CXXX. THE TWO SAYINGS. Two sayings of the Holy Scriptures beat Like pulses in the Church's brow and breast ; And by them we find rest in our unrest, And, heart-deep in salt tears, do yet entreat, God's fellowship as if on heavenly seat. The first is ^esus wept — whereon is prest Full many a sobbing face that drops its best And sweetest waters on the record sweet : And one is where the Christ, denied and scorned, Looked upon Peter. Oh, to render plain. By help of having loved a little and mourned, That look of sovran love and sovran pain Which he, who could not sin yet suffered, turned On him who could reject but not sustain ! 234 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. CXXXI. THE PRODIGAL. Why feedest thou on husks so coarse and rude ? I could not be content with angels' food. How earnest thou companion to the swine ? I loathed the courts of heaven, the choir divine. ■Who bade thee crouch in hovel dark and drear ? I left a palace wide to hide me here. Harsh tyrant's slave who made thee, once so free ? A father's rule too heavy seemed to me. AVhat sordid rags float round thee on the breeze ? I laid immortal robes aside for these. An exile through the world who bade thee roam ? None, but I wearied of a happy home. Why must thou dweller in a desert be ? A garden seemed not fair enough to me. ■\Vhy sue a beggar at the mean world's door ? To live on God's large bounty seemed so poor. What has thy forehead so to earthward brought ? To lift it higher than the stars I thought. ALEXANDER POPE. 235 CXXXII. THE UNIVERSAL PRAYER. Father of all ! in every age, In every clime adored, By saint, by savage, and by sage, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord ! Thou Great First Cause, least understood ! Who all my sense confined. To know but this, that thou art good, And that myself am blind ; Yet gave me, in this dark estate, To see the good from ill ; And binding Nature fast in fate. Left free the human will. What conscience dictates to be done. Or warns rae not to do — This, teach me more than hell to shun. That, more than heaven pursue. What blessings thy free bounty gives. Let me not cast away ; For God is paid when man receives ; To enjoy is to obey. 236 ALEXANDER POPE. Yet not to earth's contracted span Thy goodness let me bound, Or think thee Lord alone of man, When thousand worlds are round ; Let not this weak, unknowing hand Presume thy bolts to throw, And deal damnation round the land. On each I judge thy foe. If I am right, thy grace impart. Still in the right to stay ; If I am wrong, O ! teach my heart To find that better way. Save me alike from foolish pride, Or impious discontent, At aught thy wisdom has denied, Or aught thy goodness lent. Teach me to feel another's woe. To hide the fault I see ; That mercy I to others shew, That mercy shew to me. Mean though I am — not wholly so, Since quickened by thy breath ; — O lead me wheresoe'er I go, Through this day's life or death. ALEXANDER POPE. This day, be bread and peace my lot : All else beneath the sun Thou know'st if best bestowed or not, And let thy will be done. To thee, whose temple is all space, Whose altar, earth, sea, skies, One chorus let all beings raise ! All Nature's incense rise ! 238 HENRY VAUGHAN. CXXXIII. THE RETREAT. Happy those early days when I Shined in my angel-infancy ! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy ought But a white, celestial thought ; AVhen yet I had not walked above A mile or two from my first love, And looking back, at that short space, Could see a glimpse of his bright face ; When on some gilded cloud or flower My gazing soul would dwell an hour. And, in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity ; Before I taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A several sin to every sense ; But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness. O how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track ! That I might once more reach that plain Where first I left my glorious train, HENRY VAUGHAN. 239 From whence the enlightened spirit sees That shady city of palm-trees. But ah ! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way ! Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move; And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came return. 240 CHARLES KINGSLEY. CXXXIV. HYMN. (On laying the Foundation-stone of part of Queen's Hospital, Birmingham.) Accept this building, gracious Lord, No temple though it be ; We raised it for our sufifering kin, And so, good Lord, for thee. Accept our little gift, and give To all who here may dwell. The will and power to do their work. Or bear their sorrows well. From thee all skill and science flow; All pity, care, and love. All calm and courage, faith and hope,- Oh ! pour them from above. And part them, Lord, to each and all, As each and all shall need. To rise like incense, each to thee. In noble thought and deed. CHARLES KINGSLEY. 241 And hasten, Lord, that perfect day, When pain and death shall cease ; And thy just rule shall fill the earth AVith health, and light, and peace. When ever blue the sky shall gleam. And ever green the sod ; And man's rude work deface no more The Paradise of God. »7 REGINALD HEBER. cxxxv. BY COOL SILOAM'S SHADY RILL." By cool Siloam's shady rill How sweet the lily grows ! How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon's dewy rose ! Lo ! such the child whose early feet The paths of peace have trod ; Whose secret heart, with influence sweet, Is upward drawn to God ! By cool Siloam's shady rill The lily must decay ; The rose that blooms beneath the hill Must shortly fade away. And sopn, too soon, the wintry hour Of man's maturer age Will shake the soul with sorrow's power, And stormy passion's rage ! O Thou, whose infant feet were found Within thy Father's shrine ! Whose years, with changeless virtue crowned, Were all ahke divine ; REGINALD HEBER. 243 Dependent on thy bounteous breath, We seek thy grace alone, In childhood, manhood, age, and death, To keep us still thine own ! 244 W. JR. NEALE. CXXXVI. THE WIDOW OF NAIN. " And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not."— S. Luke vii. 13. Forth from the city gate, As evening shadows lengthen o'er the plain, And the hushed crowd in reverent silence wait, Passed out a funeral train. Only one mourner there. Slowly, with feeble steps, following the dead, In the sad travail of the soul's despair Bowed down her stricken head. For him she wept forlorn. Of care the solace, and of age the stay, ■\Vhose silver cord was broken ere the morn Had brightened into day. Thus hath it ever been, — • Time the destroyer sweeps relentless by. When hopes are strong and leaves of promise green. And manhood's heart beats high. IV. R. NEALE. 245 Who comes of stately mien, As one with travel weary, seeking rest, — Whose aspect gentle, and whose brow serene, Speak of a mission blest ? 'Tis he, with power to save. Who where desponding grief his vigil kept. Knowing all human sufferings, at the grave Of Lazarus wept. Thus spake he, — " Weep no more ! Be still, sad heart ! be dry, ye moistened eyes ! Thus to the living I the dead restore : Sleeper, awake, arise ! " Then at his bidding came To those cold lips the warm, returning breath ; Then did he kindle life's extinguished flame, Victor o'er Sin and Death. And thus he ever stands, — Friend of the fallen, wiping all tears away, Whenever sorrow lifts her suppliant hands, And Faith remains to pray. Where'er the wretched flee, From the rude conflict of this world distress'd, Consoling words lie whispers, — " Come to me. And I will give you rest ! " 246 JF. R. NEALE. Till at the second birth, He bids the woes and wrongs of ages cease, And brings to an emancipated earth. Judgment, and truth, and peace ; And gathers all his own From the four winds to that eternal shore, ^^'here Mercy sits upon the great white throne, And Death shall be no more. FREDERICK W. H. MYERS. 247 cxxxvir. FROM "SAINT PAUL." God, who at sundry times, in manners many Spake to the fathers and is speaking still, Eager to find if ever or if any Souls will obey and hearken to his will, — Who that one moment has the least descried him, Dimly and faintly, hidden and afar, Doth not despise all excellence beside him. Pleasures and powers that are not and that are,- Ay amid all men bear himself thereafter, Smit with a solemn and a sweet surprise. Dumb to their scorn and turning on their laughter Only the dominance of earnest eyes ? — God, who whatever frenzy of our fretting Vexes sad life to spoil and to destroy, Lendeth an hour for peace and for forgetting, Setteth in pain the jewel of his joy : — Gentle and faithful, tyrannous and tender. Ye that have known him, is he sweet to know ? Softly he touches, for the reed is slender. Wisely enkindles, for the flame is low. 248 FREDERICK W. H. MYERS. God, who when Enoch on the earth was holy, Saved him from death and Noe from the sea, Planned him a purpose that should ripen slowly, Found in Chaldjea the elect Chaldee, — • God, who for sowing of the seed thereafter Called him from Charran, summoned him from Ur, Gave to his wife a weeping and a laughter, Light to the nations and a son for her, — God, who in Israel's bondage and bewailing Heard them and granted them their heart's desire, Clave them the deep with power and with prevailing. Gloomed in the cloud and glowed into the fire. Fed them with manna, furnished with a fountain. Followed with waves the raising of the rod, Drew them and drave, till Moses on the mountain Died of the kisses of the lips of God, — ■ God, who was not in earth when it was shaken. Could not be found in fury of the flame, Then to his seer, the faithful and forsaken. Softly was manifest and spake by name. Showed him a remnant barred from the betrayal. Close in his Carmel, where the caves are dim, So many knees that had not bent to Baal, So many mouths that had not kissed him, — FREDERICK W. H. MYERS. 249 God, who to glean the vineyard of his choosing Sent them evangelists till the day was done, Bore with the churls, their wrath and their refusing, • Gave at the last the glory of his Son : — Lo as in Eden when the days were seven, PIson thro' Havilah that softly ran Bare on his breast the changes of the heaven, Felt on his shores the silence of a man : Silence, for Adam when the day departed Left him in twilight with his charge to keep. Careless and confident and single-hearted, Trusted in God and turned himself to sleep ; Then in the midnight, stirring in his slumber. Opened his vision on the heights and saw New without name or ordinance or number. Set for a marvel, silent for an awe. Stars in the firmament above him beaming, Stars in the firmament, alive and free. Stars, and of stars the innumerable streaming. Deep in the deeps, a river in the sea ; — These as he watched thro' march of their arising, Many in multitudes and one by one, Somewhat from God with a superb surprising Breathed in his eyes the promise of the sun. 250 FREDERICK W. H. MYERS. So tho' our Day star from our sight be taken, Gone from his brethren, hidden from his own. Yet in his setting are we not forsaken, Suffer not shadows of the dark alone. Not in the west is thine appearance ended. Neither from night shall thy renewal be, Lo, for the firmament in spaces splendid Lishteth her beacon-fires ablaze for thee : Holds them and hides and drowns them and discovers. Throngs them together, kindles them afar, Showeth, O Love, thy multitudes of lovers. Souls that shall know thee and the saints that are. Look what a company of constellations ! Say can the sky so many lights contain ? Hath the great earth these endless generations ? Are there so many purified thro' pain? These thro' all glow and eminence of glory Cry for a brighter, who delayeth long : Star unto star the everlasting story Peals in a mystic sanctity of song. Witness the hour when many saints assembled Waited the Spirit, and the Spirit came ; Ay with hearts tremulous and bones that trembled, Ay with cleft tongues, and the Holy Ghost, and flame. FREDERICK W. H. MYERS. 251 Witness the men whom with a word He gaineth, Bold who were base and voiceful who were dumb : — Battle, I know, so long as life remaineth, Battle for all, but these have overcome. V\'itness the women, of his children sweetest, — Scarcely earth seeth them but earth shall see,- Thou in their woe thine agony completest, Christ, and their solitude is nigh to thee. AVhat is this psalm from pitiable places Glad where the messengers of peace have trod ? ^ATiose are these beautiful and holy faces Lit with their loving and aflame with God ? Eager and faint, empassionate and lonely, These in their hour shall prophesy again : This is his will who hath endured, and only Sendeth the promise where He sends the pain. Ay unto these distributeth the Giver Sorrow and sanctit)', and loves them well, Grants them a power and passion to deliver Hearts from the prison-house and souls from hell. Thinking hereof I wot not if the portal Opeth already to my Lord above : Lo there is no more mortal and immortal, Naught is on earth or in the heavens but love. 2S2 FREDERICK W. H. MYERS. Hark what a sound, and too divine for hearing, Stirs on the earth and trembles in the air ! Is it the thunder of the Lord's appearing ? Is it the music of his people's prayer ? Surely he cometh, and a thousand voices Shout to the saints and to the deaf are dumb ; Surely he cometh, and the earth rejoices. Glad in his coming who hath sworn, I come. This hath he done, and shall we not adore him ? This shall he do, and can we still despair ? Come let us quickly fling ourselves before him, Cast at his feet the burthen of our care, Flash from our eyes the glow of our thanksgiving. Glad and regretful, confident and calm, Then thro' all life and what is after living Thrill to the tireless music of a psalm. Yea thro' life, death, thro' sorrow and thro' sinning He shall suffice me, for he hath sufficed : Christ is the end, for Christ was the beginning, Christ the beginning, for the end is Christ. RICHARD BAXTER, 253 CXXXVIII. THE EXIT. My soul go boldly forth, Forsake this sinful earth, What hath it been to thee But pain and sorrow. And think'st thou it will be Better to-morrow ? Love not this darksome womb^ Nor yet a gilded tomb. Though on it written be Mortal men's story, Look up by faith and see Sure, joyful glory. Why art thou for delay ? Thou cam'st not here to stay : What tak'st thou for thy part But heavenly pleasure ? Where then should be thy heart. But Where's thy treasure ? Thy God, thy head's above ; There is the world of love ; 254 RICHARD BAXTER. Mansions there purchased are, By Christ's own merit, For these he doth prepare Thee by his Spirit. Look up towards heaven, and see How vast those regions be. Where blessed spirits dwell, How pure and lightful ! But earth is near to Hell, How dark and frightful ! Here life doth strive with death, To lengthen mortals' breath ; Till our short race be run. Which would be ended, When it is but begun. If not defended. Here life is but a spark Scarce shining in the dark ; Life is the element there, Which souls reside in ; Much like as air is here. Which we abide in. Hither thou cam'st from thence : The divine influence In flesh my soul did place Among the living : To be of human race Was his free giving. RICHARD BAXTER. 255 There I shall know God more, There is the blessed choir ; No wickedness comes there, All there is holy : There is no grief or fear, No sin or folly. Jerusalem above, Glorious in light and love. Is mother of us all, Who shall enjoy them. The wicked Hell-ward fall Sin will destroy them. O blessed company, , Where all in harmony, Jehovah's praises sing Still without ceasing : And all obey their King, With perfect pleasing. God there is the saints' rest, God is their constant feast ; He doth them feed and bless With love and favour, Of which they still possess The pleasant savour. God is essential love. And all the saints above 2s6 RICHARD BAXTER. Are like unto him made, Each in his measure : Love is their life and trade, Their constant pleasure. Love flames in every breast, The greatest and the least ; Strangers to this sweet life There are not any. Love leaves no place for strife ; Makes one of many. Each is to other dear. No malice enters there ; No siding difference ; No hurt, no evil ; Because no ignorance. No sin, no devil. What joy must there needs be. Where all God's glory see ; FeeUng God's vital love. Which still is burning : And flaming God- ward move. Full love returning. Self makes contention here, Love makes all common there, There's no propriety. Mine is my brother's. Perfect community Makes one's another's. HI CHARD BAXTER. 257 Go out then, lingering soul, From this vile serpent's hole ; Where bred as in a sink, They hiss and sting us : Will not Christ, dost thou think. To better bring us ? Think not that heaven wants store, Think not that hell hath more. If all on earth were lost : Earth's scarce one tittle To the vast heavens : at most, Exceeding little. All those blest myriads be, Lovers of Christ and thee j Angels thy presence wish, Christ will receive thee j Then let not brutish flesh Fright and deceive thee. Gladly, my soul, go forth ; Is heaven of no more worth Than this cUrst desert is, This world of trouble ? Prefer eternal bliss Before this bubble. Wish not still for delay, Why wouldst thou longer stay 258 RICHARD BAXTER. From Christ, from hope so far In self-denial : And live in longer war, A life of trial ? Souls live when flesh lies dead : Thy sin is pardoned, When Christ doth death disarm, Why art thou fearful ? And souls that fear no harm Should pass forth cheerful. Cherish not causeless doubt, That God will shut thee out : What if he thee assured From Heaven by letter ? His Son, his Spirit, and Word Have done it better. Hath mercy made life sweet ? And is it kind and meet Thus to draw back from God, AVho doth protect thee ? Look then for his sharp rod, Next to correct thee. What if foes should make haste ? Thou wilt the sooner taste AVhat all blest souls enjoy With Christ for ever ; Where those that thee annoj'. Shall hurt thee never. RICHARD BAXTER. 259 Fear not the world of light, Though out of mortal's sight, As if it doubtful were, For want of seeing : Gross bodies vilest are. And the least being. Vain, sinful world, farewell ! I go where angels dwell ; Whose life, light, love, and joy. Are the saint's glory : God's praises there employ The Consistory. Christ, who knows all his sheep. Will all in safety keep ; He will not lose his blood. Nor intercession : Nor we the purchased good Of his dear passion. I know my God is just. To him I wholly trust ; All that I have, and am, All that I hope for : All's sure and seen to him. Which I here grope for. Lord Jesus, take my spirit, I trust thy life and merit ; Take home this wandering sheep, For thou hast sought it : This soul in safety keep. For thou hast bought it. Tito MAS TOkE LYNCti. CXXXIX. THE HEART OF CHRIST. Heart of Christ, O cup most golden, Brimming with salvation's wine, Million souls have been beholden Unto thee for life divine ; Thou art full of blood the purest, Love the tenderest and surest : Blood is hfe, and life is love ; O ! what wine is there like love ? Heart of Christ, cup most golden, Out of thee the martyrs drank, Who for truth in cities olden Spake, nor from the torture shrank ; Saved they were from traitor's meanness. Filled with joys of holy keenness : Strong are those that drink of love ; O ! what wine is there hke love ? Heart of Christ, O cup most golden, To remotest place and time Thou for labours wilt embolden Unpresuming, but sublime : Hearts are firm, though nerves be shaken, When from thee new life is taken : Truth recruits itself by love ; O ! what wine is there like love ? THOMAS TORE LYNCH. 261 Heart of Christ, cup most golden, Taking of thy cordial blest. Soon the sorrowful are folden In a gentle healthful rest : Thou anxieties art easing, Pains implacable appeasing : Grief is comforted by love ; O ! what wine is there like love ? Heart of Christ, O cup most golden, Liberty from thee we win \ We who drink, no more are holden By the shameful cords of sin ; Pledge of mercy's sure forgiving, Powers for a holy living, — These, thou cup of love, art thine ; Love, thou art the mightiest wine. :r,2 THOMAS MOORE. CXL. ANGEL OF CHARITY. Angel of Charity, who, from above, Comest to dwell a pilgrim here, Thy voice is music, thy smile is love, And Pity's soul is in thy tear. When on the shrine of God were laid First-fruits of all most good and fair. That ever bloomed in Eden's shade, Thine was the holiest offering there. Hope and her sister, Faith, were given But as our guides to yonder sky ; Soon as they reach the verge of heaven. There, lost in perfect bliss, they die ; But, long as Love, Almighty Love, Shall on his throne of thrones abide, Thou, Charity, shalt dwell above. Smiling for ever by his side ! HORATIUS BONAR. 263 CXLI. MARAH AND ELIM. Exodus xv. 23-27. To-day 'tis Elim, witli its palms and wells, And happy shade for desert weariness ; 'Twas Marah yesterday, all rock and sand. Unshaded solitude and bitterness. Yet the same desert holds them both ; the same Soft breezes wander o'er the lonely ground ; The same low stretch of valley shelters both, And the same mountains compass them around. So is it here with us on earth ; and so I do remember it has ever been ; The bitter and the sweet, the grief and joy. Lie near together, but a day between. Sometimes God turns our bitter into sweet ; Sometimes he gives us pleasant water-springs ; Sometimes he shades us with his pillar-cloud. And sometimes to a blessed palm-shade brings. 264 HORATIUS BONAR. What matters it ? The time will not be long ;- Marah and Elitn will alike be past ; Our desert-wells and palms will soon be done j We reach the city of our God at last. O happy land ! beyond these lonely hills, Where gush in joy the everlasting springs ; O holy Paradise ! above these heavens, Where we shall end our desert-wanderings. FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER. 265 CXLII. THE THOUGHT OF GOD. The thought of God, the thought of thee. Who liest in my ^eart, And yet beyond imagined space Outstretched and present art,— The thought of thee, above, below, Around me and within, Is more to me than health and wealth, Or love of kith and kin. The thought of God is like the tree Beneath whose shade I lie, And watch the fleets of snowy clouds Sail o'er the silent sky. 'Tis like that soft invading light. Which in all darkness shines, — The thread that through life's sombre web In golden pattern twines. It is a thought which ever makes Life's sweetest smiles from tears, And is a daybreak to our hopes, A sunset to our fears. 2 66 FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER. One while it bids the tears to flow, Then wipes them from the eyes ; Most often fills our souls with joy, And always sanctifies. Within a thought so great, our souls Little and modest grow. And, by its vastness awed, we learn The art of walking slow. The wild flower on the mossy ground Scarce bends its pliant form, When overhead the autumnal wood Is thundering like a storm. So is it with our humbled souls Down in the thought of God, Scarce conscious in their sober peace Of the wild storms abroad. To think of this is almost prayer, And is outspoken praise ; And pain can even passive thoughts To actual worship raise. O Lord ! I live always ip pain,- My life's sad undersong, — Pain in itself not hard to bear, But hard to bear so long. FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER. 267 Little sometimes weighs more thaft much, When it has no rehef \ A joyless life is worse to bear Than one of active grief. And yet, O Lord ! a suffering life One grand ascent may dare ; Penance, not self-imposed, can make The whole of life a prayer. All murmurs lie inside thy will AVhich are to thee addressed ; To suffer for thee is our Avork, To think of thee our rest. 268 FRANCIS QUARLES, CXLIII. "MY BELOVED IS MINE, AND I AM HIS; \\\ FEEDETH AMONG THE LILIES." Canticles ii. i6. Even like two little bank-dividing brooks, That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams, And having ranged and searched a thousand nooks, Meet both at length, in silver-breasted Thames, Where in a greater current they conjoin, — So I my Best-Beloved's am ; so He is mine. Even so we met ; and after long pursuit \ Even so we joined, and so became entire ; No need for either to renew a suit. For I was flax, and He was flames of iire : Our firm united souls did more than twine ; So I my Best-Beloved's am ; so He is mine. If all those glittering monarchs that command The servile quarters of this earthly ball, Should tender in exchange their shares of land, I would not change my fortunes for them all : Their wealth is but a counter to my coin ; The world's but theirs ; but my Beloved's mine. FRANCIS QUARLES. 269 Nay more, — if the fair Thespian ladies all Should heap together their diviner treasure, That treasure should be deemed a price too small To buy a minute's lease of half my pleasure : 'Tis not the sacred wealth of all the nine Can buy my heart from Him ; or His, from being mine. Xor time, nor place, nor chance, nor death can bow IMy least desires unto the least remove ; He's firmly mine by oath ; I His by vow ; He's mine by faith, and I am His by love \ He's mine by water ; I am His by wine ; Thus I my Best-Beloved's am j thus He is mine. He is my altar, — I His holy place ; I am His guest, and He my living food ; I'm His by penitence ; He mine by grace ; I'm His by purchase ; He is mine by blood ; He's my supporting elm, and I His vine : Thus I my Best-Beloved's am ; thus He is mine. He gives me wealth ; I give Him all my vows ; I give Him songs ; He gives me length of days : With wreaths of grace he crowns my conquering bro^YS ; And I His temples with a crown of Praise, Which He accepts as an e'erlasting sign That I my Best-Beloved's am ; that He is mine. 270 ROBERT HERRICK. CXLIV, TO KEEP A TRUE LENT. Is this a fast to keep The larder lean, And clean From fat of veals and sheep ? Is it to quit the dish Of flesh, yet still To fill The platter high with fish ? Is it to fast an hour, Or ragged to go. Or show A downcast look, and sour ? No ; 'tis a fast to dole Thy sheaf of wheat And meat Unto the hungry soul. It is to fast from strife, From old debate And hate ; To circumcise thy life. To show a heart grief-rent ; To starve thy sin. Not bin ; And that's to keep thy Lent. LEIGH HUNT. 271 CXLV. ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. Abou Ben Adhem, — may his tribe increase, — Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonh'ght in his room, Making it rich, and hke a lily-in-bloom, An angel, writing in a book of gold : Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold. And to the presence in the room he said, What writest thou 1 — The vision raised its head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord. Answered, The names of those who love the Lord ! — And is mine one ? said Abou. — Nay, not so, Replied the Angel.- — Abou spake more low, But cheerly still, and said, I pray thee, then^ Write me as one that loves his fellow -men. The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, . And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And lo ! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest, 272 SABINE BARING-GOVLD. CXLVI. THE SULTAN'S DAUGHTER. AN OLD FLEMISH BALLAD. A Sultan had a daughter sweet, And walking in the bowers, At early dawn the maiden went Gathering garden flowers. " 0, who is he ? " the damsel asked, " The flowers on earth who shed — The roses pink, the lilies white, Hyacinths blue and red ? " O, who is he ? I love him well ; Ah ! wondrous is his power. Who made the blossom, seed, and leaf, Fashioning all the flower. " 0, who is he, that gardener good ? To him my heart I yield ; For worthy he to be beloved, Painting the summer field." Then Jesus there at cockcrow came, And at the window stood ; " I come to take the maiden's heart, I am the gardener good." Sabine baring-gould. 2^3 The Sultan's daughter rose and said, " Thy like I have not seen, O gentle Lord, with locks all wet. Knee-deep in herbage green." " O maiden, I have loved thee well, All in my Father's home ; My locks are wet with drops of night. As in the dew I roam. " I come for thee, to bear thy soul To see my Father's bowers ; To realms of light, where angels white Sing in the land of flowers." " With thee I'll go," the maiden said, " For thee I love so well ; But what are these red flowers thou hast ? What are these roses, tell ? " He showed the roses in his palms, The roses on his feet ; A blood-red rose was on his side. There where the heart doth beat. " these are wounds 1 show to thee, To prove I love thee true : I bore for thee the nails, the spear, Piercing my body through." 19 274 SABINE BARING-GOULD. The Sultan to his garden came, There lay his daughter dead : A smile upon her face, her arms Were as a cross outspread. RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH. 275 CXLVII. RETRIBUTION". Oh, righteous doom, that they who make Pleasure their only end, Ordering the whole life for its sake, Miss that whereto they tend. While they who bid stern duty lead. Content to follow, they. Of duty only taking heed, Find pleasure by the way. 2 76 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. CXLVIII. HYMN OF THE WALDENSES. Hear, Father, hear thy faint afflicted flock Cry to thee from the desert and the rock ; While those who seek to slay thy children hold Blasphemous worship under roofs of gold ; And the broad, goodly lands, with pleasant airs. That nurse the grape and wave the grain, are theirs. Yet better were this mountain wilderness, And this wild life of danger and distress — Watchings by night, and perilous flight by day. And meetings in the depths of earth to pray — Better, far better, than to kneel with them. And pay the impious rite thy laws condemn. Thou, Lord, dost hold the thunder ; the firm land Tosses in billows when it feels thy hand : Thou dashest nation against nation, then Stillest the angry world to peace again. Oh ! touch their stony hearts who hunt thy sons — The murderers of our lives and little ones. Yet, mighty God, yet shall thy frown look forth Unveiled, and terribly shall shake the earth. Then the foul power of priestly sin, and all Its long-upheld idolatries, shall fall. Thou shalt raise up the trampled and oppressed, And thy delivered saints shall dwell in rest. ROBERT OF FRANCE. 277 CXLIX. "COME, HOLY ONE, IN LOVE." Come, Holy One, in love ; Shed on us from above Thine own bright ray : Divinely good thou art ; Thy sacred gifts impart To gladden each sad heart, 0, come to-day ! Come, truest friend and best, Our loving, holy guest, With soothing power ; Rest which the weary know, Shade 'mid the noontide glow,^ Peace when deep griefs o'erflow, Cheer us this hour ! Come, Light serene and still. Our inmost bosoms fill ; Dwell in each breast : We know no dawn but thine. Send forth thy beams divine On our dark souls to shine, And make us blest. 278 ROBERT OF FRANCE. Exalt our low desires ; Quench all unholy fires ; Heal every wound : Our stubborn spirits bend ; Our sinful coldness end ; Our wandering steps attend, While heavenward bound. RICHARD WILTON. 279 CL. AT HIS FEET. Mary " sat at Jesus' feet " Rapt in contemplation sweet, Gazing up into his face, Drinking in his words of grace. By no earthly murmur moved From the posture that she loved ; Lord, be this my daily choice, At thy feet to hear thy voice. Mary " fell at Jesus' feet " When her brother, through the street By the mourners borne away. Folded in death's darkness lay ; All her sorrow forth she sighed, Christ with answering groans replied. Lord, in trouble let me fall At thy feet, and tell thee all. Mary stood at Jesus' feet Offering, as he sat at meat. Costly gift of spikenard rare. Glistening tears, and flowing hair ; Speechless love and thanks she gave To the Master, strong to save : Lord, when gladness lights my days. At thy feet I'll give thee praise. 2 So RICHARD WILTON. At thy feet, once pierced for me, Always shall my station be ; By thy Spirit and thy Word, To thy servant speak, O Lord : In my sorrow succour bring ; Hear me when thy praise I sing ; Till, 'mid Heaven's high joys, at last At thy feet my crown I cast ! ff ARTIE V COLERIDGE. 281 CLI. A GRACE. Sweetest Lord ! that wert so blest On thy sweetest mother's breast, Give to every new-born baby Food that needs — as good as may be. Jesus ! Lord, who long obey'd The sainted sire, the Mother Maid, Teach my young heart to submit, — • Deign thyself to govern it. Babe and boy, and youth and man, All make up the mighty plan ; And these the Saviour sanctified, For he was all — and then he died. Whate'er he gives us we may take, But still receive it for his sake. But might the prayer within my breast Make others blest, as I am blest ; And might my joy in thanking thee Make for all hungry souls a plea ; Then would I praise and thee adore, And ever thank thee, more and more Rejoicing, if thou wouldst but bless Thy creatures for my thankfulness. 282 LORD BYRON. CLII. THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB. The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green. That host with their banners at sunset w-ere seen ; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown. That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast. And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed ; And the eyes of the. sleepers waxed deadly and chill. And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride : And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. And there lay the rider distorted and pale, With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail ; And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown. LORD BYRON. 2S3 And the widows of Asliur are loud in their wail, And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword. Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 2 84 HENR Y HART MILMAN. CLIII. "WHEN OUR HEADS ARE BOWED WITH WOE." When our heads are bowed with woe, When our bitter tears o'erflow ; When we mourn the lost, the dear. Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! Thou our throbbing flesh hast worn, Thou our mortal griefs hast borne. Thou hast shed the human tear : Gracious son of Mary, he^r ! When the sullen death-bell tolls For our own departed souls ; When our final doom is near. Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! Thou hast bowed the dying head ; Thou the blood of life hast shed ; Thou hast filled a mortal bier ; Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! When the heart is sad within AVith the thought of all its sin ; When the spirit shrinks with fear. Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! HENR V HART MILMAN. 285 Thou the shame, the grief hast known, Though the sins were not thine own ; Thou hast deigned their load to bear ; Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 286 JOHN KEBLE. CLIV. THE VISITATION AND COMMUNION OF THE SICK. Youth and Joy, your airy tread Too lightly springs by Sorrow's bed, Your keen eye-glances are too bright, Too restless for a sick man's sight. Farewell : for one short life we part ; 1 rather woo the soothing art, Which only souls in sufferings tried Bear to their suffering brethren's side. AVhere may we learn that gentle spell ? Mother of martyrs, thou canst tell ! Thou who didst watch thy dying Spouse With pierced hands and bleeding brows, Whose tears from age to age are shed O'er sainted sons untimely dead, If e'er we charm a soul in pain, Thine is the key-note of our strain. How sweet with thee to lift the latch, Where Faith has kept her midnight watch, Smiling on woe : with thee to kneel, Where fixed, as if one prayer could heal, JO HA KEBLE. 2 87 She listens, till her pale eye glow With joy wild health can never knov>', And each calm feature, ere we read, Speaks, silently, thy glorious Creed. Such have I seen ; and while they poured Their hearts in every contrite word, How have I rather longed to kneel And ask of them sweet pardon's seal ! How blessed the heavenly music brought' By thee to aid my faltering thought ! " Peace ! " ere we kneel, and when we cease To pray, the farewell word is, " Peace ! " I came again ; the place was bright " With something of celestial light " — A simple altar by the bed For high communion meetly spread. Chalice and plate and snowy vest. We ate and drank ; then calmly blest, All mourners, one with dying breath. We sat and talked of Jesus' death. Once more I came ; the silent room Was veiled in sadly- soothing gloom, And ready for her last abode The pale form like a lily shewed, By virgin fingers duly spread. And prized for love of summer fled. The light from those soft-smiling eyes Had fleeted to its parent skies. 588 JOHN KEBLE. O soothe us, haunt us, night and day, Ye gentle spirits far away. With whom we shared the cup of grace. Then parted — ye to Christ's embrace, We to the lonesome world again, Yet mindful of the unearthly strain Practised with you at Eden's door, To be sung on, where angels soar, With blended voices evermore. GEORGE MORINE. 289 CLV. DIRGE. (In Memoriam C. D. F.) " Earth to earth, and dust to dust : Let them mingle, for they must." I. Raise the pillow ; smooth the bed ; Gently turn that reverend head ; Shade the lamp, nor let its glimmer Vex those eyes that still grow dimmer - Dim, and dark, and dead. Softly speak, and lightly tread. Move like shadows round the bed : Let stillness fill the chambers wholly, Brooding like a Spirit holy — Waiting for the dead. III. Under breath let prayer be said ; Children kneeling round the bed : Stifle tears, and stifle sorrow. They will find their place to-morrow- Weeping for the dead. 290 GEORGE MORINE. IV. Life is fleeting ; life has fled ! Drop the curtain round the bed : Through its clay- encumbered portal Wanders forth a Soul immortal — Dust retains the dead. V. Bend the knee, and bow the head ; Let the last farewell be said : So leave the chamber of the dead. SAMUEL JAYLOR COLERIDGE. 291 CLVI. HYMN. (Before Sunrise in the Vale of Chamouni.) Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star In his steep course — so long he seems to pause On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc ? The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, 'most awful Form ! Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently ! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass ; methinks thou piercest it As with a wedge ! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal- shrine, Thy ha!bitation from eternity ! dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 1 worshipped the Invisible alone. Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought. Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy ; Till the dilatfng soul, enwrapt, transfused, 292 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. Into the mighty vision passing — there As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven ! Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears. Mute thanks and secret ecstacy 1 Awake, Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale ! O struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink ! Companion of the morning-star at dawn. Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald ! wake, O wake, and utter praise 1 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth ? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? ^Vho made thee parent of perpetual streams ? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! Who called you forth from night and utter death. From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, For ever shattered, and the same for ever ? Who gave you your invulnerable life. Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam ? And who commanded — and the silence came — Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain — SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. zr Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! ^Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! AMio made you glorious as the gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows ? AVno, with living flowers Of loveliest blue/ spread garlands at your feet? — God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations. Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! God ! sing, ye meado-r-streams, with gladsome voice ! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds I And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow. And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! Ye hghtnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! Ye signs and wonders of the element ! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! Thou, too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. Shoots .downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast— Thou too, again, stupendous Mountain ! thou That, as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow-travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, ' The Gentians Ma'or, 294 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. To rise before me ! rise, O ever rise ; Rise like a cloud of incense from the earth ! Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven. Great hierarch .! tell thou.the silent sky, And tell the-stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. 295 CLVII. THE RIVER PATH. No bird-song floated down the hill, The tangled bank below was still; No rustle from the birchen stem, No ripple from the water's hem. The dusk of twilight round us grew, We felt the falling of the dew ; For from us, ere the day was done. The wooded hills shut out the sun. But on the river's farther side We saw the hill-tops glorified, — A tender glow, exceeding fair, A dream of day without its glare. With us the damp, the chill, the gloom : With them the sunset's rosy bloom ; While dark, through willowy vistas seen, The river rolled in shade between. From out the darkness where we trod We gazed upon those hills of God, 296 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. Whose light seemed not of moon or sun. We spake not, but our thought was one. We paused, as if from that bright shore Beckoned our dear ones gone before ; And stilled our beating hearts to hear The voices lost to mortal ear ! Sudden our pathway turned from night ; The hills swung open to the light ; Through their green gates the sunshine showed, A long slant splendour downward flowed. Down glade, and glen, and bank it rolled ; It bridged the shaded stream with gold ; And, borne on piers of mist, allied The shadowy with the sunlit side ! " So," prayed we, " when our feet draw near The river, dark with mortal fear, " And the night cometh chill with dew, Oh, Father ! let thy light break through ! " So let the hills of doubt divide. So bridge v/ith Faith the sunless tide 1 " So let the eyes that fail on earth On thy eternal hills look forth ; " And in thy beckoning angels know The dear ones whom we loved below ! " THOMAS DlLKKER. 257 CLYIII. A SONG OF LABOUR. Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers ? Oh, sweet content ! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed ? Oh, punishment ! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers, golden numbers ? Oh, sweet content ! Chorus. — Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; Honest labour bears a lovely face. Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring ? Oh, sweet content ! Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? Oh, punishment I Then he that patiently want's burden bears, No burden bears, but is a king, a king ! Oh, sweet content ! Chorus. — Work apace, apace, apace, apace ; Honest labour bears a lovely face. 298 S/Ji WALTER SCOTT CLIX. HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. Ave Maria I Maiden mild ! Listen to a maiden's prayer : Thou canst hear though from the wild, Thou canst save amid despair. Safe may we sleep beneath thy care, Though banished, outcast, and reviled — Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer ; Mother, hear a suppliant child ! Ave Maria t Ave Maria ! undefiled ! The flinty couch we now must share. Shall seem with down of eider piled. If thy protection hover there. The murky cavern's heavy air Shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled ; Then, Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer, Mother, list a suppliant child ! Ave Maria ! Ave Maria I stainless child ! Foul demons of the earth and air, From this their wonted haunt exiled, Shall flee before thy presence fair. We bow us to our lot of care, Beneath thy guidance reconciled : Hear for a maid a maiden's prayer, And for a father hear a child ! Ave Maria 1 FREDERICK l^ILLIAM FARRAR. 299 CLX. IN THE FIELD AVITH THEIR FLOCKS ABIDING. In the field with their flocks abiding, They lay on the dewy ground ; And glimmering under the starlight The sheep lay white around ; When the light of the Lord streamed o'er them, And lo ! from the heaven above An angel leaned from the glory, And sang his song of love :— He sang that first sweet Christmas, The song that shall never cease — " Glory to God in the highest. On earth good-will and peace." " To you in the city of David A Saviour is born to-day ! " And sudden a host of the heavenly ones Flashed forth to join the lay ! O never hath sweeter message Thrilled home to the souls of men, And the heavens themselves had never heard A gladder choir till then, — For they sang that Christmas carol That never on earth shall cease — " Glory to God in the highest, On earth good-will and peace.'' 360 FREDERICK WILLIAM FARRAR. And the shepherds came to the manger, And gazed on the Holy Child, And calmly o'er that rude cradle The Virgin Mother smiled ; And the sky, in the starlit silence. Seemed full of the angel lay : " To you in the city of David A Saviour is born to-day ; " Oh, they sang — and I ween that never The carol on earth shall cease — " Glory to God in the highest. On earth good-will and peace." CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. 301 CLXI. ADVENT, This Advent moon shines cold and clear, These Advent nights are long ; Our lamps have burned year after year, And still their flame is strong. "Watchman, what of the night? " we cry, Heart-sick with hope deferred. " No speaking signs are in the sky," Is still the watchman's word. The porter watches at the gate, The servants watch within ; The watch is long betimes, and late ; The prize is slow to win. "Watchman, what of the night?" but still His answer sounds the same ; " The daybreak tops the utmost hill. Nor pale our lamps of flame." One to another hear them speak. The patient virgins wise : Surely He is not far to seek ; All night we watch and rise. 303 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. The days are evil, looking back, The coming days are dim ; Yet count we not his promise slack, •But watch and wait for him. One with another, soul with soul, They kindle fire from fire ; " Friends watch us who have touched the goal ; They urge us, come up higher." " With them shall rest our waysore feet ; With them is built our home — ■\Vith Christ ! " " They sweet, but He most sweet, Sweeter than honeycomb." There no more parting, no more pain ; The distant ones brought near The lost so long are found again — Long lost, but longer dear. Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard, Nor heart conceived that Rest : \Vith them our good things long deferred — With Jesus Christ, our Best. AVe weep, because the night is long ; We laugh, for day shall rise ; AVe sing a slow, contented song. And knock at Paradise. Weeping, we hold him fast who wept For us, we hold him fast ; And will not let him go, except He bless us first or last. CHRISTINA ROSSETTL 303 Weeping, we hold him fast to-night : AVe will not let him go Till daybreak smite our wearied sight, And summer smite the snow. Then figs shall bud, and dove with dove Shall coo the live-long day ; Then He shall say, " Arise, my Love, My fair One — come away.'' 304 THOMAS CAMPBELL. CLXII. THE NATIVITY. When Jordan hushed his waters still, And silence slept on Zion hill ; When Salem's shepherds through the night Watched o'er their flocks by starry light : Hark ! from the midnight hills around, A voice, of more than mortal sound, In distant hallelujahs stole. Wild murmuring o'er the raptured soul. Then swift to every startled eye, New streams of glory gild the sky ; Heaven bursts her azure gates, to pour Her spirits to the midnight hour. On wheels of light, on wings of flame. The glorious hosts to Zion came ; High heaven with songs of triumph rung, While thus they smote their harps and sung O Zion ! lift thy raptured eye, The long-expected hour is nigh ; The joys of nature rise again. The Prince of Salem comes to reign I THOMAS CAMPBELL. 305 See Mercy, from her golden urn, Pours a rich stream to them that mourn ; Behold, she binds with tender care, The bleeding bosom of despair. He comes to cheer the trembling heart, Bids Satan and his host depart ; Again the day-star gilds the gloom. Again the bowers of Eden bloom ! O Zion ! lift thy raptured eye, The long-expected hour is nigh ; The joys of nature rise again, The Prince of Salem comes to reign. 3o6 THOMAS CARLYLE. CLXIII. TO-DAY. So here hath been dawning Another blue Day : Think wilt thou let it Slip useless away ? Out of Eternity This new Day is born ; Into Eternity, At night, will return. Behold it aforetime No eye ever did : So soon it for ever From all eyes is hid. Here hath been dawning Another blue Day : Think wilt thou let it Slip useless away ? JOHN WESLEY. j"/ CLXIV. THE PRESENCE OF GOD. Lo ! God is here ! Let us adore, And own how dreadful is this place ! Let all within us feel his power, And silent bow before his face ! ■\Vho know his power, his grace who prove, Serve him with awe, with reverence love. Lo ! God is here ! Him day and night The vmited choirs of angels sing : To him, enthroned above all height. Heaven's hosts their noblest praises brings : Disdain not, Lord, our meaner song. Who praise thee with a stammering tongue. Gladly the toys of earth we leave, Wealth, pleasure, fame, for thee alone : To thee our will, soul, flesh, we give ; O take, O seal them for thine own : Thou art the God ! Thou art the Lord ! Be thou by all thy works adored. 3o8 JOHN WESLEY. Being of beings, may our praise Thy courts with grateful fragrance fill ; Still may we stand before thy face, Still hear and do thy sovereign will : To thee may all our thoughts arise, Ceaseless, accepted sacrifice ! In thee we move : all things of thee Are full, thou Source and Life of all — Thou vast, unfathomable Sea ! Fall prostrate, lost in wonder fall. Ye sons of men ; for God is Man : All may we lose, so thee we gain ! As flowers their opening leaves display, And glad drink in the solar fire, So may we catch thy every ray, So may thy influence us inspire : Thou Beam of the eternal Beam ! Thou purging Fire ! Thou quickening Flame ! GEORGE HERBERT. 309 CLXV. EASTER DAY. I GOT me flowers to strew thy way, I got me boughs off many a tree ; But thou wast up by break of day, And brought'st thy sweets along with thee. The sun arising in the East, Though he give hght, and the East perfume, If they should offer to contest With thy arising, they presume. Can there be any day but this, Though many suns to shine endeavour ? We count three hundred, but we miss : There is but one, and that one ever. 310 GEORGE SANDYS. CLXVI. FROM THE "PARAPHRASE UPON LUKE I. (Verses 68-79.) O PRAISE the Lord, his wonders tell, Whose mercy shines in Israel, At length redeemed from sin and hell. The crown of our salvation. Derived from David's royal throne, He now hath to his people shown. This to his prophets did unfold, By all successively foretold. Until the infant world grew old. That .He x)ur wrongs would vindicate, Save from our foes' inveterate hate, And raise our long depressed estate. To ratify his ancient deed. His promised grace, by oath decreed, To Abraham and his faithful seed. That we might our Preserver praise. Walk purely in his perfect ways, And fearless serve him all our days. GEORGE SANDYS. 3" His path thou shalt prepare, sweet Child, And ran before the Undefiled, And Prophet of the Almightj' staled. Our knowledge to inform, from whence Salvation springs : from penitence, And pardon of each foul offence. Through mercy, O how infinite ! Of our Great God, who clears our sight. And from the Orient sheds his hght A leading Star to enlighten those Whom nigbt and shades of death inclose, A\1iich that high track to glor)' shows. JOSEPH ADDISON, CLXVII. HOW ARE THY SERVANTS BLEST, O LORD. How are thy servants blest, Lord, How sure is their defence ! Eternal wisdom is their guide, Their help Omnipotence. In foreign realms and lands remote, Supported by thy care. Through burning climes I passed unhurt, And breathed the tainted air. Thy mercy sweetened every toil. Made every region please ; The hoary Alpine hills it warmed, And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. Think, oh, my soul, devoutly think. How, with affrighted eyes, Thou saw'st the wide extended deep In all its horrors rise. Confusion dwelt in every face, And fear in every heart ; When wave on wave, and gulf on gulf, O'ercame the pilot's art. JOSEPH ADDISON, m Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord, Thy mercy set me free. Whilst in the confidence of prayer. My faith took hold on thee. For though in dreadful whirls we hung, High on the broken wave, I knew thou wert not slow to hear, Nor impotent to save. The siorm was laid, the winds retired Obedient to thy will ; The sea, that roared at thy command, At thy command was still. In midst of dangers, fears, and death. Thy goodness I'll adore, And praise thee for thy mercies past, And humbly hope for more. My life, if thou preserv'st my life. Thy sacrifice shall be ; And death, if death must be my doom, Shall join my soul to thee. 314 JAMES MONTGOMERY. CLXVIII. A POOR WAYFARING MAN OF GRIEF. A POOR wayfaring man of grief Hath often crossed me on my way, Who sued so humbly for relief, That I could never answer, Nay ; I had not power to ask his name. Whither he went, or whence he came, Yet there was something in his eye That won my love, I knew not why. Once, when my scanty meal was spread. He entered ; not a word he spake ; Just perishing for want of bread ; I gave him all ; he blessed it, brake, And ate ; but gave me part again : Mine was an angel's portion then ; For, while I fed with eager haste, That crust was manna to my taste. I spied him, where a fountain burst Clear from the rock ; his strength was gone ; The heedless water mocked his thirst. He heard it, saw it hurrying on ; JAMES MONTGOMER V. 315 I ran to raise the sufferer up ; Thrice from the stream he drained my cup, Dipt, and returned it running o'er ; I drank, and never thirsted more. 'Tvvas night ; the floods were out ; it blew A winter hurricane aloof; I heard his voice abroad, and flew To bid him welcome to my roof; I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest, Laid him on my own couch to rest ; Then made the hearth my bed, and seemed In Eden's garden while I dreamed. Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death, I found him by the highway-side : I roused his pulse, brought back his breath. Revived his spirit, and supplied Wine, oil, refreshment ; he was healed : I had myself a wound concealed ; But from that hour forgot the smart. And peace bound up my broken heart. In prison I saw him next, condemned To meet a traitor's death at morn : The tide of lying tongues I stemmed. And honoured him 'mid shame and scorn ; My friendship's utmost zeal to try. He asked, if I for him would die ? The flesh was weak, my blood ran chill ; But the free spirit cried, "I will." 3 1 6 JAMES MONTGOMER Y. Then in a moment to my view The Stranger darted from disguise ; The tokens in Iiis hands I knew, My Saviour stood before mine eyes ! He spake ; and my poor name he named, " Of me thou hast not been ashamed ; These deeds shall thy memorial be ; Fear not ; thou didst them unto Me." SIR WALTER SCOTT. 317 CLXIX. "DIES IR-'E, DIES ILEA." That day of wrath, that dreadful day, When heaven and earth shall pass away. What power shall be the sinner's stay, — • How shall he meet that dreadful day ? When, shrivelling like a parched scroll, The flaming heavens together roll ; When louder yet, and yet more dread, Swells the high trump that wakes the dead : O ! on that day, that wrathful day, When man to judgment wakes from clay, Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay. Though heaven and earth shall pass away ! ISAAC WATTS. CLXX. THE CHARACTER OF CHRIST. Go, worship at Immanuel's feet ; See, in his face what wonders meet ; Earth is too narrow to express His worth, his glory, or his grace ! The whole creation can afford But some faint shadows of my Lord ; Nature, to make his beauties known. Must mingle colours not her own. Is he compared to wine or bread ? Dear Lord, our souls would thus be fed : That flesh, that dying blood of thine. Is bread of life, is heavenly wine. Is he a tree ? The world receives Salvation from his healing leaves : That righteous Branch, that fruitful bough, Is David's root and offspring too. Is he a rose ? Not Sharon yields Such fragrancy in all her fields : Or if the lily he assume, The valleys bless the rich peirfume. ISAAC WATTS. 319 Is he a vine ? His h eavenly root Supplies the boughs with life and fruit ; Oh, may a lasting union join My soul to Christ, the living vine ! Is he the head ? Each member lives, And owns the vital power he gives ; The saints below, and saints above, Joined by his Spirit and his Love. Is he a fountain ? There I bathe, And heal the plague of sin and death ; These waters all my soul renew, And cleanse my spotted garments too. Is he a fire ? He'll purge my dross ; But the true gold sustains no loss : Like a refiner shall he sit. And tread the refuse with his feet. Is he a rock ? How firm he proves ! The Rock of Ages never moves. Yet the sweet streams that from him flow, Attend us all the desert through. Is he a way ? He leads to God ; The path is drawn in lines of blood ; There would I walk with hope and zeal. Till I arrive at Sion's hill. 320 ISAAC WATTS. Is he a door ? I'll enter in ; Behold the pastures large and green ! A paradise divinely fair ; None but the sheep have freedom there. Is he designed a corner-stone, For men to build their heaven upon ? I'll make him my foundation too, Nor fear the plots of hell below. Is he a temple ? I adore The in-dwelling majesty and power ; And still to this most holy place AMiene'er I pray, I turn my face. Is he a star ? He breaks the night, Piercing the shades with dawning light ; I know his glories from afar, I know the bright, the morning star. Is he a sun ? His beams are grace, His course is joy and righteousness : Nations rejoice when he appears To chase their clouds, and dry their tears. O let me climb those higher skies Where storms and darkness never rise ! There he displays his powers abroad, And shines and reigns the incarnate God. ISAAC WATTS. 321 Nor earth, nor seas, nor sun, nor star, Nor heaven his full resemblance bears : His beauties we can never trace, Till we behold him face to face. 3 2 2 WILLIAM CO V/PER. CLXXI. RETIREMENT. Far from the world, O Lord, I flee, From strife and tumult far ; From scenes where Satan wages still His most successful war. The calm retreat, the silent shade, With prayer and praise agree. And seem by thy sweet bounty made For those who follow thee. There if thy spirit touch the soul. And grace her mean abode. Oh, with what peace, and joy, and love, She communes with her God ! There, like the nightingale, she pours Her solitary lays, Nor asks a witness of her song. Nor thirsts for human praise. Author and guardian of my life. Sweet source of light divine, And — all harmonious names in one — My Saviour ! thou art mine ! WILLIAM CO U'PER. ^Vliat thants I owe thee, and what love- A boundless, endless store — Shall echo through the realms above When time shall be no more. 3 2 4 JOT-IN MIL TON. CLXXII. MORNING HYMN. These are thy glorious works, Parent of good, Almighty, thine this universal frame, Thus wondrous fair, — thyself how wondrous then ! Unspeakable, who sit'st above these heavens To us invisible, or dimly seen In these thy lowest works ; yet these declare Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. Speak ye who best can tell, ye sons of light. Angels, for ye behold him, and with songs And choral symphonies, day without night. Circle his throne rejoicing ; ye in heaven. On earth join all ye creatures to extol Him first, him last, him midst, and without end. Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn, Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere. While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul, Acknowledge him thy greater, sound his praise In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall'st. Moon, that now meet'st the orient sun, now fly'st With the fixed stars, fixed in their orb that flies. And ye five other wandering fires that move JOHN MILTON. 325 In mystic dance not without song, resound His praise, who out of darkness called up light. Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth Of Nature's womb, that in quaternion run Perpetual circle, multiform ; and mix And nourish all things ; let your ceaseless change Vary to our great Maker still new praise. Ye mists and exhalations that now rise, From hill or steaming lake, dusky or grey, Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, In honour to the world's great author rise Whether to deck with clouds the uncoloured sky. Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, Rising or falling still advance his praise. His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow. Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, With every plant, in sign of worship wave. Fountains and ye, that warble, as ye flow. Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. Join voices, all ye living souls ; ye birds. That singing up to heaven-gate ascend. Bear on your wings and in your notes his praise. Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep ; AA'itness if I be silent, morn or even, To hill, or valley, fountain, or fresh shade Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise. Hail, universal Lord, be bounteous still To give us only good ; and if the night Have gathered ought of evil or concealed. Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. ELIZABETH BARRET! BRO WNJNG. CLXXIII. HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED, SLEEP, Ok all the thoughts of God that are Borne inward into souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell rae if that any is, For gift or grace, surpassing this — " He giveth his beloved, sleep " ? What would we give to our beloved ? The hero's heart to be unraoved. The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, 'J"he patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, Tiie monarch's crown, to light the brows ?— He giveth his beloved, sleep. What do we give to our beloved ? A little faith all undisproved, A little dust to overweep, And bitter memories to make The whole earth blasted for our sake. He giveth his beloved, sleep. " Sleep soft, beloved ! " we sometimes sn}-, But have no tunc to charm away ELIZABETH BARRE TT BRO WNING. 3 2 7 Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep. But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when He giveth his beloved, sleep. O earth, so full of dreary noises ! O men, with wailing in your voices ! O delved gold, the waller's heap I strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! God strikes a silence through you all. And giveth his beloved, sleep. His dews drop mutely on the hill ; His cloud above it saileth still. Though on its slope men sow and reap. More softly than the dew is shed, Or cloud is floated overhead, He giveth his beloved, sleep. Ay, men may wonder while they scan A living, thinking, feeling man Confirmed in such a rest to keep ; But angels say, and through the word 1 think their happy smile is heard — " He giveth his beloved, sleep." For me, my heart that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show, That sees through tears the mummers leap. Would now its wearied vision close. Would childlike on his love repose. Who giveth his beloved, sleep. 328 ELIZABETH BARRETT BRO WNING. And friends, dear friends, — when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And round my bier ye come to weep, Let One, most loving of you all. Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall ; He giveth his beloved, sleep." NOTES. Page I. These stanzas form the "Introduction" to Blake's Songs of Experience. "That strange interfusion of sweetness and strength," writes Mr. Pater, " is not to be found in those who claimed to be his (Michelangelo's) followers ; but it is found in many of those who worked before him, and in many others down to our own time — in William Blake, for instance, and Victor Hugo, who, though not of his school, and unaware, are his true sons, and help us to understand him, as he in turn interprets and justifies them" {J^he Renaissance, p. 104). Page 3. Wordsworth's Ode To Duty has not been so popular, or so much praised, as his Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Childhood, yet many competent judges consider it the finer poem. Mr. Swinburne, for instance, in an article in the Nine- teenth Century, observes, ' ' I should place on the one hand the Ode to Duty, on the other hand the Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, as instances of decisive and perfect success, high — upon the whole — above the Ode on Intimations of Immortality ." Not so Rossetti, however : — " I remember, " writes Mr. Hall Caine in his Recollections of Rossetti, " that some time in March of the year in which he (Rossetti) died, Mr. Theodore Watts, who was paying one of his many visits to see him in his last illness at the seaside, touched, in conversation, upon the power of Wordsworth's style in its higher vein, and instanced a noble passage in the Ode to Duty, Mr. Watts spoke with enthusiasm of the strength and simplicity, the sonorousness and stately march of these lines ; and numbered them, I think, among the noblest verses yet written, for every highest quality of style. But Rossetti was unyielding, and though he admitted the beauty of the passage, and was ungrudging in his tribute to another passage which I had instanced, he would not allow that Wordsworth ever pos- sessed a grasp of the great style." 330 NOTES. Tage 9. It is somewhat surprising to find that none of Fabcr's hymns arc included in Lord Selborne's Book of Praise, nor are any of them to be found in the excellent collection of Eni^lish Sacred Lyrics published by Messrs. Kegan Paul, Trench, and Co., in their Parchment Library series. But although this poem, The Eternity of God, is un- questionably a fine composition, and many of his hymns are deservedly popular, Faber's work, as a whole, is somewhat disappointing, and wc cannot but regret that many of his poems were ever written. Page 12. The first and fourth stanzas of these lines by Cardinal Newman appear to be a rhythmical echo of Cowper's — " Far from the world, O Lord, I flee. From strife and tumult far. From scenes where Satan wages still His most successful war." Page 16. Our greatest sacred poets are usually held to be Milton, George Herbert, Cowper, Heber, and Keble, yet the last of these — Keble — writes in the year 1825: "To Spenser, upon the whole, the English reader must revert as being pre-eminently the sacred poet of his country ; as most likely, in every way, to answer the purposes of his art ; especially in an age of excitation and refinement, in which the gentler and more homely beauties, both of character and of scenery, are too apt to be despised : with passion and interest enough to attract the most ardent, and grace enough to win the most polished ; yet by a silent preference everywhere inculcating the love of better and more enduring things." Page 19. "This poem," writes Dr. George Mac Donald, " is artistic throughout. Perhaps the fact, of which we are informed by Izaak Walton, that Donne caused it to be set to a grave and solemn tune, and to be often sung to the organ by the choristers at St. Paul's in his own hearing, especially at the evening service, may have something to do with its degree of perfection. There is no sign of his usual haste about it. It is even elaborately rhymed, after Norman fashion, the rhymes in each stanza being consonant with the rhymes in every stanza." This is so, and it is especially interesting and noteworthy at the present lime when French forms of verse, like the ballade and the chant royal, arc so much in fashion. George Herbert's Aaron (see p. 221) may be NOTES. 331 referred to as another poem of this description in which the rhymes are the same in all the stanzas. Page 29. Miss Christina Rossetti's poems have not, we think, re- ceived as yet the high praise which they deserve. Her brother, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, appears to have been aware of the excellence of her work, especially as regards her sonnets, which are little, if at all, infe- rior to those by Mrs. Browning. Mr. Swinburne, who holds her poems in very high esteem, especially admires her Advent, which will be found at p. 207, and her brother thought her sonnet entitled After Commu- nion (p. 79) one of her noblest. Page 35. Some slight surprise is naturally stirred within us when we find a playwright composing devotional poetry, yet Ben Jonson has left us, in addition to this Hymn to God the Father, several other sacred poems of great excellence. His Hymn on the Nativity and his lines To Heaven may be mentioned amongst others, P^ge 37- This graceful hymn I find in the Savoy hymn-book (as also that by the late Dean Stanley). I have to thank Archdeacon Farrar for kindly permitting me to include it and the Christinas Carol given at p. SOS- Page 38. The poetry of Keble — we refer more especially to his " Christian Year " — has undoubtedly had an extraordinary circulation. In less than twenty years the " Christian Year " passed through some thirty editions, and each edition consisted of 3,000 copies. Professor Wilson (Christopher North) eulogized it in Blackwood's Magazine, and a writer in the Quarterly Review, referring to it, observed, " In this volume old Herbert would have recognized a kindred spirit, and Walton would have gone on a pilgrimage to make acquaintance with the author." In recent years, however, an opposite tide has set in, and we hear more often words of disparagement used respecting it than that it is worthy of our admiration. I must confess that, while the whole of Keble's poetry does not greatly delight me, there are some of his poems that seem to be of a high order. Especially is this the case as regards his lines, " O Youth and Joy, your airy tread," given at p. 286, which are worthy of Wordsworth. 332 NOTES. Page 42. Henry Vaughan must share with Arthur Hugh Clough his title to the foremost place among the poets of Wales. Vaughan was the forerunner of Wordsworth, while Clough's most intimate friend, Mr. Matthew Arnold, is now Wordsworth's most illustrious disciple. The reader will do well to compare Vaughan's poem, Tlie Retreat (p. 238), with Wordsworth's Ode on Intimations of Immortality, .is the latter is manifestly the echo of the former, although unquestionably the finer poem. The main thought is the same in both compositions, namely, that our life on earth is not our first existence ; and with this is coupled in both poems the supposition that in our childhood, in our "angel-infancy," we have some "intimations of immortality, "and behold some "shadows of eternity. " The similarity of the two poems is well defined by Dr. MacDonald inhis "England's Antiphon." "Wordsworth's poem,"he adds, "is the profounder in its philosophy, as well as far the grander and lovelier in its poetry ; but in the moral relation Vaughan's poem is the more definite of the two, and gives us in its close, poor as that is compared with the rest of it, just what we feel is wanting in Words- worth's — the hope of return to the bliss of childhood." Several of his other poems also resemble those of Wordsworth, as for instance the lines beginning — ' ' I walked the other day, to spend my hour, Into a field, Where I sometimes had seen the soil to yield A gallant flower." Page 47. "This ode," writes Bishop Warburton, "was written in imitation of the famous sonnet of Hadrian to his departing soul ; but as much superior to his original in sense and sublimity as the Christian religion is to the Pagan " (Warburton's edition of Pope's Works, vol. i. P- 133)- The following lines are the so-called sonnet of Hadrian : " Animula vagula, blandula, Hospes comesque corporis, Quae nunc abibis in loca Pallidula, rigida, nudula ; Nee, ut soles, dabis jocos." I must confess that I see little similarity between the two poems, but AZOTES. 333 Hadrian's lines have been the source, of inspiration of a large number of poems, imitations, and paraphrases, Mrs. JJarbauld's well-known lines on "Life" being amongst the number. The following is Matthew Prior's translation : " Poor, little, pretty, fluttering Thing ! Must we no longer live together ? And dost thou prune thy trembling wing, To take thy flight thou know'st not whither ? Thy humorous Vein, thy-pleasing Folly, Lies all neglected, all forgot ; And pensive, wavering, melancholy. Thou dread'st and hop'st thou know'st not what. As regards Pope's poem, however, the fact seems to be that when asked by Steele to write an Ode on Hadrian's lines he imitated not Hadrian, but Thomas Flatman, a barrister, poet, and painter, who died the year Pope was born, and whose poem, A Thought of Death, contains the following lines : " Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying. Panting, groaning, speechless, dying. * * * * Methinks I hear some gentle spirit say. Be not fearful, come away." Page 65. An Italian translation, by Mr. Gladstone, of this beautiful hymn will be found in the Nineteenth Century for September, 1883, of which the following is the first verse : " Senti, senti, anima mia, (Fu il signore che sentia) Gesu parla, e parla a te : ' Di, Figliuolo, ami Me ? ' " Page 70. George Herbert was a descendant of the Earls of Pembroke and a younger brother of Lord Herbert of Cherbury. He was educated at Westminster School and Trinity College, Cambridge, and was pre- sented to the living of Bemerton by King Charles L in the year 1630. Richard Baxter pays the following tribute to the excellence of his 334 NOTES. poems: "Cut I must confess, after all, that, next the Scripture poems, there are none so savoury to me as Mr. George Herbert's and Mr. George Sandys'. I know that Cowley and others far exceed Herbert in wit and accurate composure ; but as Seneca takes with me above all his contem- poraries, because he speaketh things by words, feelingly and seriously, like a man that is past jest ; so Herbert speaks to God, like one that really believeth a God, and whose business in the world is most with God. Heart-work and Heaven-work make up his books " (^Prefatory Address to Baxter's Poetical Fragments). For details of his life the reader should refer to Izaak Walton's Life of Herbert. The following lines, entitled Employment, are exceedingly quaint and typical of Herbert's style : " He that is weary, let him sit. My soul would stir .\nd trade in courtesies and wit ; Quitting the fur To cold complexions needing it. Man is no star, but a quick coal Of mort.il fire : Who blows it not, nor doth control A faint desire. Lets his own ashes choke his soul." * * * ♦ Page 73- These lines by Sir Thomas lirowne should be compared with Bishop Ken's Jl/orning and Ei'tning Hymns. It will be seen that the Bishop, who was only five years of age when the Reli^o Medici was published, has borrowed somewhat extensively from Sir Thomas Browne's poem. The Bishop begins : " Awake, my said, and with the sun thy daily stage of duty run," which appears to be copied from Browne's " Awake, . . . and with as active vigour run thy course as doth the nimble sun." Again the Bishop writes : " Teach me to live (hat I may dread the grave as little as my bed," — which also appears to be copied from Browne's lines :— " O make me try By sleeping what it is to die, And as gently lay my head On my grave as now my bed." NOTES. 335 Sir Thomas Browne writes : " These are my drowsy clays," which the Bishop reproduces : " Dull sleep, of sense me to deprive, I am but half my time alive ! " And Browne's lines : " O come that hour when I shall never Sleep again, but wake for ever," are manifestly copied in the Bishop's couplet : " O when shall I, in endless day, For ever chase dark sleep away." Page S6. This poem (as also Dr. G. MacDonald's "Marriage Song ") was published in Lays of the Sanctuary [I'&yf]. I have to thank Mr. Emmet for kindly permitting me to include it in this selection. Page 113. Isaac Watts is said to have remarked that he would sooner have written this poem by Charles Wesley than all his own poems. It is a composition full of that spiritual force which springs from conviction, but the same may be said of many of Watts's own poems, and especially of that on " The Character of Christ " (p. 318). Page Ii7- These characteristic lines are taken from Mr. Stevenson's Undeni'ooils. I have to thank Messrs, Chatto and Windus for allowing me to include them in this selection. ■■ Page 133. A writer in the Athenaum (1S79) observes that "there are not many things in our Lyra Sacra which surpass " The Signals of Levi ;" and "The Silent Tower of Bottreau " (p. 160) is equally re- markable. Were I asked to name a poet whose writings especially deserve to be better known, I should mention the author of these poems. Born at Plymouth in 1803, Hawker married, when he was only nineteen years of age, Charlotte, daughter of Colonel Wrey I'Ans, of Whitstone House, near Bude Haven, Cornwall. Four years later he gained the Newdigate Prize at Oxford,' and in the following year (1828) took his degree of B.A. For more than forty years he was Vicar of Morwenstow, Cornwall, and he wrote and published the following " Among other authors represented in this selection who also gained the Newdigate Prize may be mentioned Heber, Faber, Milman, the late Dean Stanley, and Mr. Matthew Arnold. 336 NOTES. volumes of verse: "Tendrils by Reuben" (1821), "Records of the Western Shore" (1832), second series of "Records," &c. (1836), "Ecclesia, a Volume of Poems" (1840), "Reeds shaken with the Wind " (1843), Second Series do. {1844), " Echoes from Old Cornwall " (1846), "The Quest of the Sangraal" (1863), and "Cornish Ballads and other Poems " (1869). He died at Plymouth in the year 1875, and the evening before his death was received into the Roman Catholic Church. The following lines are full of a peaceful grace indicative of the life of their author : THE TAMAR SPRING. Fount of a rushing river ! wild flowers wreathe The home where thy first waters sunlight claim ; The lark sits hushed beside thee, while I breathe, Sweet Tamar spring ! the music of thy name. On ! through the goodly channel, on ! to the sea ! Pass amid heathery vale, tall rock, fair bough : But never more vdth footsteps pure and free. Or face so meek with happiness as now. Fair is the future scenery of thy days. Thy course domestic, and thy paths of pride : Depths that give back the soft-eyed violet's gaze, Shores where tall navies march to meet the tide. Thine, leafy Tetcott, and those neighbouring walls, Noble Northumberland's embowered domain ; Thine, Cartha Martha, Morwell's rocky falls, Storied Cotehele, and Ocean's loveliest plain. * » * * * * Thou heedest not ! thy dream is of the shore. Thy heart is quick with life ; on ! to the sea ! How will the voice of thy far streams implore Again amid these peaceful weeds to be ! My Soul ! my Soul ! a happier choice be thine — Thine the hushed valley, and the lonely sod ; P'alse dreams, far vision, hollow hope resign. Fast by our Tamar spring, alone with God ! NOTES. 337 Page 172. Dr. Johnson was exceedingly fond of this hymn, and used to repeat it with a face beaming with enthusiasm. Hartley Coleridge liked it the least of Addison's hymns. " I cannot away, " he said, " with the 'spangles' and the 'shining frame.' They remind me of tambour work. Perhaps, if I had never read the psalm, I might think the verses fine " (Abbey and Overton's English Chunk in the Eighteenth Century). Page 224. Isaac Williams was one of the authors who wrote the Lyra Apostolica, the two other principal contributors being Keble and Cardinal Newman. "There is a fine sonnet by Isaac Williams," writes Dante Gabriel Rossetti, " evidently on the death of a worldly man, and he wrote other good ones " (Mr. Hall Caine's Recollections of Rossetti, p. 249). Page 228. This poem, as also The Garden of the Soul and At His Feet, are taken from the Rev. Richard Wilton's Lyrics Sylvan and Sacred, in which volume will be found some interesting translations from the Latin sacred poetry of George Herbert. Page 253. Richard Baxter was born in the year 1615 at Rowton, in Hampshire. He is said to have written more than one hundred books, and Boswell, probably embarrassed by so large a choice, records that on one occasion he inquired of Dr. Johnson which of Baxter's works he should read: — "Read any of them," replied the Doctor, " they are all good ! " More definite and serviceable, however, is the advice of Coleridge, who writes: — "Pray, read with great attention Baxter's Life of him- self; it is an inestimable work. ... I could almost as soon doubt the Gospel verity as Baxter's veracity." There are writers whose works charm by reason of their lucidity, good sense, and practical intelligence, rather than of any special gift of erudition or grandeur of diction. Isaac Barrow may be given as one illustrious example of such writers, and Richard Baxter is another. Baxter was, it is needless to state, a prose-writer and theologian rather than a poet, yet the poem we have included in this selection is one of a great merit. Page 310. Mr. G. A. Simcox, referring to the four poets, Herbert, Ctashaw, Vaughan, and Sandys, observes: " Sandys was the only one 23 338 NOTES. who could write smooth, clear, and vigorous verse — an accomplishment which requires perfect self-possession, or overmastering inspiration, or good models. Sandys wrote before Waller and Denham as well as the average versifiers who came after Dryden. His classical transla- tions are not equal to his scriptural paraphrases, and if he had finished the ^neid, Dryden would have left it alone." He was the son of Sandys, Archbishop of York, and was born at Bishopthorpe in the year 1577. After spending the greater part of his life in Eastern travel he returned to his native country and employed the remainder of his years in composing sacred poetry. Richard Baxter writes : "... It did me good when Mrs. Wyat invited me to see Boxley Abbey in Kent, to behold upon the old stone wall in the garden, a summer-house with this inscription in great golden letters, that in that place Mr. George Sandys, after his travels over the world, retired himself for his poetry and contemplations." LIST OF AUTHORS. Addison, Joseph (1672-1719), xxn., xcv., clxvii. Alford, Henry (1810-1871), n., xl., xcvii. Arnold, Matthew, xxviii., xxxix., lxxiv. Austin, John (1613-1669), lxxxviii., cxix. Baring-Gould, Sabine, xcvi., cxlvi. Baxter, Richard (1615-1691), cxxxviii. Beaumont, Sir John (1582-1628), cv. Blake, William (1757-1828), i., lxxiii., cxi. BONAR, HORATIUS, XLII., C, CXLI. Browne, Sir Thomas (1605-1682), xlvii. Bronte, Emily (1818-1849), lxvii. Browning, Elizabeth Barrett (1809-1861), lx., cii., cxxx., CLXXIII. Bryant, William Cullen {6. 1797), xii., lii., cxlviii. Byrom, John (1691-1763), xli. BVron, Lord {1788-1824), cxxiii., clii. Campbell, Thomas (1777-1844), clxii. Carey, Patrick {&. 1622), lviii. Carlyle, Thomas (1795-1881), clxiii. Clough, Arthur Hugh.(i8i9-i86i), xxi., lxx., xcix. Coleridge, Hartley (1796-1849), lxxii., cvii., cxxviii., cli. Coleridge, Samuel Taylor (1772-1834), xliv., clvi. Cowper, William (1731-1S00), xliii., lxxxiv., clxxi. Crashaw, Richard (1612-1650), xxxi. Dekker, Thomas {