FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 REV LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D. 
 
 BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 
 
 Sc75 
 / V57/ 
 

 
. 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 Calvin College 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/christianballadsOOcoxe 
 
CHRISTIAN BA 
 
 <fi/ &6&L (j?CtA 4*^6ts£-4l' <z^ri^*s^ ^£^^z^^ 
 
 And he appointed singers before the Lord, that should praise the 
 beauty of holiness. — xx. 21. Second Chronicles. 
 
 NEWYORK: 
 
 WILEY AND PUTNAM 
 
 161 Broadway. 
 
 1840. 
 
Entered according to the act of Congress, in the year 1840, 
 
 BY WILEY & PUTNAM, 
 
 Tn the Clerk's office of the District Court of the Southern District of 
 New-York. 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM OSEORN, 88 WIILIAM-STREET. 
 
TO 
 
 JOHN HENRY HOBART 
 
 OF THE 
 THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY, CHELSEA. 
 
 My Dear Hobart, 
 
 I dedicate these Ballads to you, as a duty, 
 and as a pleasure : as a duty, because, but for you, 
 they would never have been written ; and as a plea- 
 sure, because I rejoice to associate my name with 
 yours, in any thing, however humble, which 1 am 
 permitted to do for the Church of C4od. I need 
 not add, that I consider it in happy harmony with 
 the design of the poems, that I am privileged to 
 inscribe them to the inheritor of a name, whose 
 praise is in all the Churches. 
 
 I know, that, at least, to you, my little book will 
 not be unacceptable. It will be the remembrancer 
 to both of us, of hours, of which the world knows 
 nothing, and cares less : of a common boyhood that 
 
IV DEDICATION. 
 
 is fresh in vision, but of which the glistening dews 
 are fast drying up ; and of rides, and rambles, and 
 holiday diversions, and long hours of pleasant con- 
 verse, which will be green in the heart of the sur- 
 vivor, as the turf on the grave of the other, when 
 death shall, for a little season, stay our intercourse, 
 but leave unparalyzed our communion. 
 
 Yours, my dear Hobart, 
 
 C. 
 Chelsea Newyork, June 28th, 1840. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Page. 
 
 St. Sacrament, ...... 9 
 
 The First Dear Thing, ..... 92 
 
 Antioch, - - * - . - , -27 
 
 Chronicles, ...... 32 
 
 Old Churches, - - - - . - 40 
 
 Church-yards, ---._. 42 
 
 Old Trinity, --.-... 47 
 
 England, - - - - • . . 51 
 
 Chelsea, ----... 53 
 
 Vigils, ---.I.. 62 
 
 Matin Bells, -----.. 66 
 
 The Chimes of England, 69 
 
 Go where the Mossy Rock, - - - - - 72 
 
 Dreamland, --.... 75 
 
 Carol, - 81 
 
 Lament, .......95 
 
 St. Silvan' s Bell, - 89 
 
 I Love the Church, ..... 92 
 
 Notes, ....... 97 
 
 Poems, - - - . . . - 110 
 
*** As most of these Ballads have heretofore been given to tlxe 
 public, it may be proper to say, that they are here preserved essen- 
 tially the same as they appeared in the Churchman-, with the 
 exception of the ballad entitled Antioch. The alterations in this 
 instance were prompted by a desire to render the volume in no 
 sense polemical: and to exchange controversy for calm expostu- 
 lation. The ballad, I Love the Church, was originally con- 
 tributed to the Churchman, in the summer of 1S39; a fact which 
 it becomes necessary to mention, as it was copied into a British 
 periodical without credit, and was thence circulated in America, 
 as written in England. 
 
BALLADS 
 
BALLADS. 
 
 ST. SACRAMENT: 
 
 A LEGEND OF LAKE GEORGE. 
 1. 
 
 When summer showers had made the woods 
 
 Like Erin's island green, 
 And rolled away the thunder-floods 
 
 Above the sunset-sheen ; 
 I came where my postillion raised 
 
 His horsewhip for a wand, 
 And said, there 's Horicon, good sir* 
 
 And here 's the Bloody Pond ! 
 
 2. 
 
 And don't you see yon low gray wall, 
 
 "With grass and bushes grown ] 
 Well, that 's Fort George's palisade, 
 
 That many a storm has known : 
 But here 's the Bloody Pond, I say, 
 
 Where many a soldier tall, 
 Has stained the spring — that ne'er was pure 
 
 Since that red burial. 
 2 
 
10 ST. SACRAMENT. 
 
 'T was rare to see ! That vale beneath ; 
 
 That lake so calm and cool ! 
 But mournful was each lily-wreath, 
 
 Upon the turbid pool; 
 And — on, postillion, on, I cried, 
 
 I seek a purer flood ; 
 O, stay me not where man has dyed 
 
 The fount with brother's blood ! 
 
 4. 
 
 An hour — and though the Even-star 
 
 Was chasing down the sun, 
 My boat was on thine azure wave, 
 
 Sweet, Holy Horicon ! 
 And woman's voice cheered on our bark. 
 
 With soft, bewildering song, 
 While fireflies darting through the dark, 
 
 Went lighting us along. 
 
 Anon, that bark was on the beach, 
 
 And soon, I stood alone 
 Upon thy mouldering walls, Fort George, 
 
 So old, and ivy-grown. 
 At once, old tales of massacre 
 
 Were crowding on my soul, 
 And ghosts of ancient sentinels 
 
 Paced up the rocky knoll. 
 
ST. SACRAMENT. 11 
 
 The shadowy hour was dark enow 
 
 For fancy's wild campaign, 
 And moments were impassioned hours 
 
 Of' battle and of pain : 
 Each brake and thistle seemed alive 
 
 With fearful shapes of fight, 
 And up the feathered scalp-locks rose 
 
 Of many a tawny sprite. 
 
 7. 
 
 The Mohawk war-whoop howled agen 
 
 I heard St. Denis' charge, 
 And then the volleyed musketry 
 
 Of England and St. George. 
 The vale, the rocks, the cradling hills, 
 
 From echoing rank to rank, 
 Rung back the warlike rhetoric 
 
 Of Huron and of Frank. 
 
 So, keep thy name, Lake George, said I, 
 
 And bear to latest day, 
 The memory of our primal age, 
 
 And England's early sway; 
 And when Columbia's flag shall here 
 
 Her starry glories toss, 
 Be witness how our fathers fought 
 
 Beneath St. George's cross. 
 
12 ST. SACRAMENT. 
 
 9. 
 
 An hour again-^-and shone the moon 
 
 Above the mountain gray, 
 And there the pearly Horicon 
 
 Leap'd up like fountain spray; 
 The rippled wavelets seemed to dance, 
 
 And starlight seemed to sing ; 
 I never saw, in all my life, 
 
 So gay and bright a thing. 
 
 10. 
 
 And naught, save lulling catydid, 
 
 Presumed the hush to mar; 
 And then it was, I longed to hear 
 
 Some light canoe afar; 
 I listened for the paddle's dip, 
 
 And in the moon-path clear, 
 I wished some Indian bark might glide, 
 
 "With all its shapes of fear. 
 
 11. 
 
 The Indian tales of Horicon, 
 
 Were in my spirit now, 
 And Indian warriors of old, 
 
 With more than Roman brow; 
 And all the forest histories 
 
 That make our young romance, 
 As in a wizard's glass, they moved 
 
 O'er that blue lake's expanse. 
 
ST. SACRAMENT. 13 
 
 12. 
 
 And keep thy name, clear Horicon, 
 
 Thine Indian name, said I; 
 'Tis meet, if thine old lords are dead, 
 
 Their fame should never die : 
 So keep thy name, sweet Horicon, 
 
 And be, to latest days, 
 Thine old free-dwellers' monument, 
 
 Their glory and their praise. 
 
 13. 
 
 But morn was up, the beamy morn, 
 
 That sapphire lake above, 
 O'er waters blue as amethyst, 
 
 And innocent as love ; 
 And there 'twas glorious to cool 
 
 The glowing breast and limb, 
 For never did a river-nymph 
 
 In sweeter ripples swim. 
 
 14. 
 
 All day my boat was on the lake, 
 
 My thoughts upon its shore ; 
 And emerald islets, one by one, 
 
 My joyous footsteps bore: 
 And where, from green and mossy nests, 
 
 The sparks of quartz outshine, 
 I pulled young flowerets from the rocks, 
 
 And oped the crystal mine : 
 2* 
 
14 ST. SACRAMENT. 
 
 15. 
 
 But when the breezy even came, 
 
 Again, outstretched I lay, 
 Upon the weedy battlements 
 
 Of that old ruin gray. 
 And all alone, 'twas beautiful 
 
 To muse, reclining there, 
 And feel the chill, so desolate, 
 
 Of half autumnal air. 
 
 16. 
 
 Afar, afar, I cast mine eye 
 
 Adown the winding view : 
 The lake, the distance, and the sky 
 
 Were all a heavenly blue : 
 And distant Thung rose glorious 
 
 With colours for his crown, 
 And girt with clouds all rainbow-like, 
 
 And robes of green and brown. 
 
 17. 
 
 A holy stillness, and a calm, 
 
 O'er me and nature stole, 
 And, like a babe, the waters slept, 
 
 Within their pebbled bowl : 
 The gales that tossed my tangled hair, 
 
 And stirred the fragrant fern, 
 They only kissed the water's breast, 
 
 And smoothed its brimming urn. 
 
ST. SACRAMENT. 15 
 
 18. 
 
 And I was dreaming, though awake, 
 
 Such thoughts as made me sigh, 
 When, hark ! the alder-bushes break, 
 
 And falls a footstep nigh ! 
 A man of olden years came up ; 
 
 A brown old yeoman he ! 
 And on through thorn, and reedy bank, 
 
 He pushed his way to me. 
 
 19. 
 
 He climbed the rough old demilune, 
 
 With iron-studded shoe, 
 Upturning, at his every stride, 
 
 Old flints and bullets too. 
 And arrow-heads that told a tale, 
 
 Were in each earthy clod, 
 That rumbled down the ravelin, 
 
 And crumbled as he trod. 
 
 20. 
 
 Now tell me, tell me, yeoman good, 
 
 One tale to bear away, 
 With relics for the well-beloved, 
 
 Of this old ruin gray ; 
 With flowers, I've gathered round the mole, 
 
 One legend would I twine ; 
 And you may chance remember one, 
 
 That was some kin of mine ! 
 
1G ST. SACRAMENT. 
 
 21. 
 
 Canst tell of Cleveland, or Monroe, 
 
 That fought for George's sake : 
 Or know you of the young Montcalm, 
 
 Or Uncas on the lake 1 
 He called it Lake St. Sacrament, 
 
 That yeoman brown and brave, 
 And thus, half-soldier and half clown, 
 
 His simple story gave. 
 
 22. 
 
 My father was a Frenchman bold, 
 
 Came o'er the bitter sea, 
 And here he poured his red-red blood, 
 
 For Louis' fleur-de-lys : 
 And yonder did he bid me swear, 
 
 To say when he was gone, 
 He drinks the Holy Sacrament, 
 
 Who drinks of Horicon. 
 
 And then a lake-drop on his lip, 
 
 A tear-drop in his eye, 
 He blest his boy, his king, his God, 
 
 And turned away to die : 
 A moment — and St. George's flag, 
 
 And England's musket roar, 
 They rapt me from my soldier-sire, 
 
 And I beheld no more. 
 
8T. SACRAMENT. 17 
 
 24. 
 
 He drinks the Holy Sacrament, 
 
 Who drinks this crystal wave, 
 That Sacrament baptized his death, 
 
 And was, I ween, his grave ; 
 Adieu, adieu, thou stranger youth, 
 
 But say when I am gone, 
 This lake is Lake St. Sacrament, 
 
 And not Lake Horicon. 
 
 25. 
 
 And down the quarry stumbled he, 
 
 Ere I could hold him back ; 
 But sounds of crackling alderbush, 
 
 Betrayed his sturdy track : 
 I saw the cottage-smoke upwreathe, 
 
 Beneath the mountain shade, 
 And there I knew that old yeoman, 
 
 No doubt his shelter made. 
 
 26. 
 
 And there, when I had followed him, 
 
 He told me, more and more, 
 The magic and the witchery 
 
 Of that romantic shore : 
 'Tis many a year, he said, since here 
 
 There was no Christian soul ; 
 The Indian only and the deer, 
 
 To taste these waters stole. 
 
18 ST. SACRAMENT. 
 
 27. 
 
 The savage, in the heat of noon, 
 
 Came panting through the wood, 
 To stain the silver-pebbled beach, 
 
 And wash away his blood ; 
 And there, where those white poplars stand, 
 
 They fought a horrid fray ; 
 The very leaves that shaded them, 
 
 Are trembling to this day. 
 
 2S. 
 
 But then, another moon beheld 
 
 Those savage chiefs agen, 
 All gathered as at council-fires, 
 
 Or leagued with peaceful men : 
 They listened, in their multitudes, 
 
 To one, that midst them stood, 
 And reared the cross — as painters draw 
 
 John Baptist in the Wood. 
 
 29. 
 
 They listened to his silver words 
 
 Upon the pebbled strand : 
 And soon they welcomed in their hearts, 
 
 The reign of God at hand. 
 With laud and anthem rung the grove ; 
 
 And here, where howled their yell, 
 I've heard their Christian litanies, 
 
 And old Te Deum swell. 
 
ST. SACRAMENT. 19 
 
 30. 
 
 And when the golden Easter came, 
 
 Again they gathered there, 
 All eager for the Christian name, 
 
 And Christ's dear cross to bear. 
 Oh forest-aisles, ye trembled then, 
 
 Like fanes where organs roll, 
 To hear those savage-featured men 
 
 Outpour the Christian soul ! 
 
 31. 
 
 And in the wildwood's walks they knelt 
 
 To own their sins and pray ; 
 And in those holy water-floods, 
 
 They washed their sins away : 
 By Horicon, the Trinal God 
 
 Confessed them for his sons, 
 And there the Holy Spirit sealed 
 
 His own begotten ones. 
 
 32. 
 
 O Abbana and Pharpar old 
 
 Must yield to Jordan's flow ; 
 But never this clear Horicon ; 
 
 The Prophet said not so ! 
 For sins more dire than leprosy 
 
 These waves have washed away, 
 And so they named clear Horicon, 
 
 St. Sacrament for aye* 
 
20 ST. SACRAMENT, 
 
 33. 
 
 Then onward sped the missionaire 
 
 The wilderness to wake : 
 A voice was on the desert air, 
 
 For God a highway make ! 
 The lifted cross, from hill to hill, 
 
 Proclaimed the Gospel word, 
 But sweet St. Sacrament was still 
 
 The laver of the Lord ! 
 
 34. 
 
 And years on years went rolling by ; 
 
 The Indian boy grew old ; 
 But longed once more, ere he should die ; 
 
 That laver to behold : 
 And panting from his pilgrimage 
 
 He came at heat of day ; 
 The lake was calm as in his youth, 
 
 St. Sacrament for aye. 
 
 35. 
 
 Then fell the white-man's tracks around 
 
 Upon this virgin sand : 
 And bowed thy glories, Horicon, 
 
 Before his faithless hand ! 
 He sent these waters o'er the sea 
 
 In marble urns to shine, 
 And christened babes of Royalty 
 
 In streams that christened minei 
 
ST. SACRAMENT. 21 
 
 36. 
 
 Adieu, adieu ! my stranger boy ; 
 
 But say, when I am gone, 
 This lake is Lake St. Sacrament, 
 
 And not Lake Horicon : 
 And when some lip that charmeth thee, 
 
 Shall ask of thee a lay, 
 
 bid her call Lake Horicon, 
 
 St. Sacrament for aye. 
 
 37. 
 
 Then keep thy name, sweet Lake, said I, 
 Thine holy name alone ! 
 
 1 love St. George's memory, 
 
 And Indian honour flown; 
 But never heard I history 
 
 Like thine, old man, this day : 
 The lake is Christ's for evermore, 
 
 St. Sacrament for aye. 
 
BALLAD. 
 
 One thing have I desired of the Lord, which I will require, ever 
 that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life, t 
 behold the fair beauty of the Lord, and to visit his temple. — Psalter. 
 
 1. 
 
 The first dear thing that ever I loved 
 
 Was a mother's gentle eye, 
 That smiled as I woke on the dreamy couch 
 
 That cradled my infancy : 
 I never forget the joyous thrill 
 
 That smile in my spirit stirred, 
 Nor how it could charm me against my will, 
 
 Till I laughed like a joyous bird. 
 
 And the next fair thing that ever I loved 
 
 Was a bunch of summer flowers, 
 With odours, and hues, and loveliness, 
 
 Fresh as from Eden's bowers. 
 I never can find such hues agen, 
 
 Nor smell such a sweet perfume : 
 And if there be odours as sweet as then, 
 
 'Tis I that have lost my bloom. 
 
 
BALLAD. 23 
 
 And the next dear thing that ever I loved 
 
 Was a fawn-like little maid, 
 Half-pleased, half-awed by the frolic boy 
 
 That tortured her doll, and played : 
 I never can see the gossamere 
 
 Which rude rough zephyrs tease, 
 But I think how I tossed her flossy locks, 
 
 With ray whirling bonnet's breeze. 
 
 And the next good thing that ever I loved, 
 
 Was a bow-kite in the sky : 
 And a little boat on the brooklet's surf, 
 
 And a dog for my company : 
 And a jingling hoop, with many a bound 
 
 To my measured strike and true, 
 And a rocket sent up to the firmament, 
 
 When Even was out so blue. 
 
 5. 
 
 And the next fair thing I was fond to love 
 
 Was a field of wavy grain, 
 Where the reapers mowed : or a ship in sail 
 
 On the billowy, billowy main : 
 And the next was a fiery prancing horse 
 
 That I felt like a man to stride ; 
 And the next was a beautiful sailing boat 
 
 With a helm it was hard to guide. 
 
24 BALLAD. 
 
 And the next dear thing I was fond to love, 
 
 Is tenderer far to tell : 
 'Twas a voice, and a hand, and a gentle eye 
 
 That dazzled me with its spell ; 
 And the loveliest things I had loved before 
 
 Were only the landscape now, 
 On the canvass bright where I pictured her, 
 
 In the glow of my early vow. 
 
 And the next good thing I was fain to love 
 
 Was to sit in my cell alone, 
 Musing o'er all these lovely things, 
 
 Forever, forever flown. 
 Then out I walked in the forest free, 
 
 Where wantoned the Autumn wind, 
 And the coloured boughs swung shiveringly, 
 
 In harmony with my mind. 
 
 8. 
 
 And a Spirit was on me that next I loved, 
 
 That ruleth my spirit still, 
 And maketh me murmur these sing-song words, 
 
 Albeit against my will. 
 And I walked the woods till the winter came, 
 
 And then did I love the snow, 
 And I heard the gales through the wild wood aisles 
 
 Like the Lord's own organ blow. 
 
BALLAD. 25 
 
 9. 
 
 And the bush I had loved in my greenwood walk, 
 
 I saw it afar away, 
 Surpliced with snows, like the bending priest 
 
 That kneels in the church to pray : 
 And I thought of the vaulted fane and high, 
 
 Where I stood when a little child, 
 Awed by the lauds sung thrillingly, 
 
 And the anthems undefiled. 
 
 10. 
 
 And again to the vaulted church I went, 
 
 And I heard the same sweet prayers, 
 And the same full organ-peals upsent, 
 
 And the same soft soothing airs ; 
 And I felt in my spirit so drear and strange, 
 
 To think of the race I ran, 
 That I loved the sole thing that knew no change 
 
 In the soul of the boy and man. 
 
 11. 
 
 And the tears I wept in the wilderness, 
 
 And that froze on my lids, did fall, 
 And melted to pearls for my sinfulness, 
 
 Like scales from the eyes of Paul : 
 And the last dear thing I was fond to love,. 
 
 Was that holy service high, 
 That lifted my soul to joys above, 
 
 And pleasures that do not die. 
 3* 
 
26 BALLAD. 
 
 12. 
 
 And then, said I, one thing there is 
 
 That I of the Lord desire, 
 That ever, while I on earth shall live, 
 
 I will of the Lord require, 
 That I may dwell in his temple blest 
 
 As long as my life shall be, 
 And the beauty fair of the Lord of Hosts, 
 
 In the home of his glory see. 
 
 
ANTIOCH. 
 
 And the disciples were called Christians first in Antioch. 
 
 Acts 11:26. 
 
 Old Antioch shall answer ye 
 
 What title I would claim ! 
 Old Antioch — whence Christian men 
 
 Confess their Christian name. 
 I wear no other name but Christ's, 
 
 And His is name enow, 
 "Writ by our mother's spousal hand 
 
 On all her children's brow. 
 
 Yet something doth that mother give, 
 
 A token to her sons, 
 And Catholic doth she surname 
 
 Her Lord's begotten ones : 
 And these the children of her love, 
 
 Are children all of Heaven j 
 Lo I — she answereth to God, 
 
 And these that thou hast given. 
 
28 ANTIOCH. 
 
 3. 
 
 I know that many martyrs died 
 
 At rack and cruel stake, 
 And Cranmer laid his prelate hand 
 
 On Fiie, for Jesus' sake : 
 And many a bishop's burning heart, 
 
 Like flame was lost in flame : 
 But Christ — not Cranmer — died for me y 
 
 I'll wear no other name. 
 
 4. 
 
 I wear the name of Christ my God, 
 
 So name me not from man ! 
 And my broad country Catholic, 
 
 Hath neither tribe nor clan : 
 Its rulers are an endless line 
 
 Through all the world that went, 
 Commissioned from the Holy Hill 
 
 Of Christ's sublime ascent. 
 
 5. 
 
 For there, the Lord immaculate 
 
 (Himself ordained that came 
 And not himself did glorify 
 
 To wear his priestly name :) 
 His mantle — as he went on high, 
 
 To chosen sons bequeathed, 
 And bade his Shepherds feed his lambs, 
 
 As o'er them all he breathed. 
 
 
ANTIOCH. 29 
 
 6. 
 
 'Twas there, as God had sent the Son, 
 
 The Son his own did send, 
 And with them promised to abide 
 
 For ever — to the end : 
 And faithful to his plighted love 
 
 The Lord is with us yet, 
 Where our apostles bear the keys 
 
 He left on Olivet. 
 
 7. 
 
 Then call me not to other folds ; 
 
 No greener fields I see ; 
 The shepherds of my Lord alone 
 
 Can feed a lamb like me : 
 I cannot wander, if I will, 
 
 And whensoever wooed, 
 Outflames a burning chronicle 
 
 In Peter and in Jude. 
 
 8. 
 
 I read how Korah boldly swung 
 
 The censer God abhorred, 
 And spurned old Aaron's litanies, 
 
 Commanded of the Lord. 
 Those bold apostles echo it, 
 
 And while their voice I hear, 
 If your new folds were Paradise, 
 
 That waving sword I fear. 
 
30 ANTIOCH. 
 
 9. 
 
 I hear my Saviour's earnest prayer, 
 
 That one we all may be, 
 And — oh, how can I go with them, 
 
 Who tear him bodily ; 
 I see the heralds at my side 
 
 Whom Jesus sent of yore ; 
 And can I spurn such holy hands ! 
 
 I love my Saviour more. 
 
 10. 
 
 Dear Lamb of God ! I know full well 
 
 All power to Thee was given, 
 And O there is none other name, 
 
 To name us, under Heaven ! 
 I know when thou didst send a line 
 
 Through all the world to run, 
 No arm of flesh, if that hath failed, 
 
 Can weave a surer one ! 
 
 XL 
 
 Thou, Priest and Prophet both for us, 
 
 Art priest above in heaven ; 
 But to apostles still on earth, 
 
 Thy prophet power is given ; 
 Thank God, it never failed, nor shall ! 
 
 That long unbroken chain, 
 Begun in Thee — in Thee shall end, 
 
 When thou shalt come again. 
 
ANTIOCH. 31 
 
 12. 
 
 So Christ forbid that I should boast, 
 
 Save in his blood-red cross, 
 And let me, for the Crucified, 
 
 Count other gain but loss ; 
 And ye that scorn his follower, 
 
 And deem my glory shame, 
 Forget not in upbraiding me, 
 
 To name me, by His name. 
 
CHRONICLES 
 
 I. 
 
 THE STORY OF SOME RUINS. 
 1. 
 
 The abbeys and the arches, 
 
 The old cathedral piles, 
 Oh, weep to see the ivy 
 
 And the grass in all their aisles ; 
 The vaulted roof is fallen, 
 
 And the bat and owl repose, 
 Where once the people knelt them, 
 
 And the high Te Deum rose. 
 
 2. 
 
 Oh, were they not Jehovah's ! 
 
 Was not his honour there ! 
 Or hath the Lord deserted 
 
 His holy house of prayer 1 
 Time was, when they were holy 
 
 As the place of Jacob's rest, 
 And their altars all unspotted 
 
 As the Virgin mother's breast* 
 
CHRONICLES. 33 
 
 3. 
 
 Oh, wo the hour that brought him ! 
 
 The Roman and his reign, 
 To shed o'er all our temples, 
 
 The scarlet hue and stain ! 
 Till the mitre and the crosier 
 
 Were dizzen'd o'er with gems, 
 And sullied with the tinsel 
 
 Of the Caesars' diadems. 
 
 4. 
 
 But still our Father loved us, 
 
 And the holy place had still 
 Its beauty, and its glory, 
 
 On its old eternal hill ! 
 His heritage they trampled — 
 
 Those men of iron rod ! 
 But still it tower' d in honour^ 
 
 The temple of our God. 
 
 II. 
 
 MARTYRS REFORxM THE CHURCH, 
 1. 
 
 Ye abbeys and ye arches, 
 
 Ye old cathedral piles, 
 The martyrs' noble army 
 
 Are in your hallowed aisles. 
 4 
 
34 CHRONICLES. 
 
 And the bishop and the baron 
 Have knelt together there, 
 
 And breathed a vow to heaven 
 In agony of prayer. 
 
 2. 
 
 And to chase away the tyrant 
 
 From England's happy home, 
 They have risen like their fathers, 
 
 'Gainst the cruel hordes of Rome ; 
 And martyr-fires are lighted 
 
 To purify the sod, 
 "Where the Man of Sin was seated. 
 
 And showed himself as God. 
 
 Ye abbeys and ye arches, 
 
 Ye old cathedral piles, 
 Again a holy incense 
 
 Is in your vaulted aisles ! 
 Again in noble English 
 
 The Christian anthems swell, 
 And out the organ pealeth, 
 
 Over stream and stilly dell. 
 
 4. 
 
 And the bishop, and the deacon. 
 And the presbyter are there, 
 
 In pure and stainless raiment, 
 At eucharist and prayer ; 
 
CHRONICLES. 
 
 35 
 
 And the bells swing free and merry, 
 And a nation shouteth round, 
 
 For the Lord himself hath triumphed, 
 And his voice is in the sound. 
 
 ■III. 
 
 BUT REGICIDES FOUND DISSENT. 
 1. 
 
 Ye abbeys and ye arches, 
 
 Ye old cathedrals blest 
 Be strong against the earthquake, 
 
 And the days of your unrest; 
 For not the haughty Roman 
 
 Could make old England bow, 
 But the children of her bosom 
 
 Are the foes that trouble now. 
 
 A gleam is in the abbey, 
 
 And a sound ariseth there ! 
 'Tis not the light of worship, 
 
 'Tis not the voice of prayer ; 
 Their hands are red with murder, 
 
 And a prince's fall they sing ! 
 They would kill the Lord of glory 
 
 Should he come again as King. 
 
 t 
 
36 CHRONICLES. 
 
 3. 
 
 And a lawless soldier tramples 
 
 Where the holy loved to kneel, 
 And he spurns a bishop's ashes 
 
 With his ruffian hoof of steel ! 
 Ay, horses have they stabled 
 
 Where the blessed martyrs knelt. 
 That neigh where rose the anthem, 
 
 And the psalm that made us melt. 
 
 4. 
 
 There, once a glorious window, 
 
 Shed down a flood of rays, 
 With rainbow hues and holy, 
 
 And colours all ablaze ! 
 Its pictured panes are broken, 
 
 Our fathers' tombs profaned, 
 And the font where we were christen 'd, 
 
 With the blood of brothers stained. 
 
 IV. 
 
 AND FULFIL THE SEVENTY-FOURTH PSALM. 
 1. 
 
 Ye abbeys and ye arches, 
 
 Ye old cathedrals dear, 
 The hearts that love you tremble, 
 
 And your enemies have cheer ; 
 
CHRONICLES. 37 
 
 But the prayers ye heard are breathing, 
 
 And your litanies they sing ; 
 There are holy men in England 
 
 That are praying for their king. 
 
 The noble in the cottage, 
 
 While the hind is in the hall, 
 Still kneels, as if he heard them, 
 
 When your chimes were wont to call 
 And at morning, and at evening, 
 
 There are high-born hearts and true, 
 In the lowliest huts of England, 
 
 That will bless the king, and you. 
 
 3. 
 
 And bishops in their prison 
 
 Will still the lessons read, 
 How the good are often troubled, 
 
 While the vilest men succeed; 
 How God's own heart may honour 
 
 Whom the people oft disown, 
 And how the royal David 
 
 Was driven from his throne. 
 
 4. 
 
 And their Psalter mourneth with them, 
 O'er the carvings and the grace, 
 
 Which axe and hammer ruin, 
 In the fair and holy place ; 
 
 4* 
 
38 CHRONICLES. 
 
 O'er the havoc they are making 
 
 In all the land abroad, 
 And the banners of the cruel 
 
 In the dwelling house of God. 
 
 V. 
 
 BUT GOD IS WITH US TO THE END. 
 1. 
 
 Ye abbeys and ye arches, 
 
 How few and far between — 
 The remnants of your glory 
 
 In all their pride are seen ; 
 A thousand fanes are fallen, 
 
 And the bat and owl repose 
 Where once the people knelt them, 
 
 And the high Te Deum rose. 
 
 2. 
 
 But their dust and stones are precious 
 
 In the eyes of pious men, 
 And the baron hath his manor, 
 
 And the king his own again ! 
 And again the bells are ringing 
 
 With a free and happy sound, 
 And again Te Deum riseth. 
 
 In all the churches round. 
 
CHRONICLES. 30 
 
 3. 
 
 Now pray ye for our mother, 
 
 That England long may be, 
 The holy, and the happy, 
 
 And the gloriously free ! 
 Who blesseth her, is blessed ! 
 
 So peace be in her walls ; 
 And joy in all her palaces, 
 
 Her cottages and halls ! 
 
 All ye, who pray in English, 
 
 Pray God for England, pray ! 
 And chiefly, thou, my country, 
 
 In thy young glory's day ! 
 Pray God those times return not, 
 
 'Tis England's hour of need ! 
 Pray for thy mother — daughter, 
 
 Plead God, for England — plead. 
 
OLD CHURCHES 
 
 Look down from heaven, behold and visit this vine, and the 
 place of the vineyard that thy right hand hath planted. — Psalter. 
 
 1. 
 
 Hast been where the full-blossomed bay-tree is 
 blowing, 
 
 With odours like Eden's around % 
 Hast seen where the broad-leaved palmetto is 
 growing, 
 
 And wild-vines are fringing the ground % 
 Hast sat in the shade of catalpas, at noon, 
 
 And eat the cool gourds of their clime ; 
 Or slept where magnolias were screening the moon, 
 
 And the mocking-bird sung her sweet rhyme % 
 
 2. 
 
 And didst mark, in thy journey, at dew-dropping eve, 
 
 Some ruin peer high o'er thy way, 
 "With rooks wheeling round it, and bushes to weave 
 
 A mantle for turrets so gray 1 
 Did ye ask if some lord of the cavalier kind, 
 
 Lived there, when the country was young ? 
 And burned not the blood of a Christian, to find 
 
 How there, the old prayer-bell had rung ! 
 
 
OLD CHURCHES. 41 
 
 3. 
 
 And did ye not glow, when they told ye — the Lord 
 
 Had dwelt in that thistle-grown pile ; 
 And that bones of old Christians were under its sward, 
 
 That once had knelt down in its aisle ] 
 And had ye no tear-drops your blushes to steep 
 
 When ye thought — o'er your country so broad, 
 The bard seeks in vain for a mouldering heap, 
 
 Save only these churches of God ! 
 
 4. 
 
 Oh ye that shall pass by those ruins agen, 
 
 Go kneel in their alleys and pray, 
 And not till their arches have echoed amen, 
 
 Rise up, and fare on, in your way. 
 Pray God that those aisles may be crowded once more, 
 
 Those altars surrounded and spread, 
 While anthems and prayers are upsent as of yore, 
 
 As they take of the wine-cup and bread. 
 
 5. 
 
 Ay, pray on thy knees, that each old rural fane 
 
 They have left to the bat and the mole, 
 May sound with the loud-pealing organ again, 
 
 And the full-swelling voice of the soul. 
 Peradventure, when next thou shalt journey thereby, 
 
 Even-bells shall ring out on the air, 
 And the dim-lighted windows reveal to thine eye, 
 
 The snowy-robed pastor at prayer. 
 
CHURCHYARDS 
 
 ST. GEORGE S HEMPSTEAD. 
 
 1. 
 
 I never can see a churchyard old, 
 
 With its mossy stones and mounds, 
 And green-trees weeping the unforgot 
 
 That rest in its hallowed bounds ; 
 I never can see the old churchyard, 
 
 But I breathe to God a prayer, 
 That, however I sleep in this fevered life, 
 
 J may rest when I slumber there. 
 
 2. 
 
 Our mother, the Earth, hath a cradle-bed 
 
 Where she gathereth sire and son, 
 And the old-world's fathers are pillowed there, 
 
 Her children every one ! 
 And her cradle it hath a dismal name, 
 
 In mirth or music's din, 
 And pale is the cheek at dance or wine, k 
 
 If a song of its sleep break in. 
 
 J 
 
CHTRCHYARDS. 43 
 
 But our mother the Church, hath a gentle nest, 
 
 Where the Lord's dear children lie, 
 And its name is sweet to a Christian ear 
 
 As a motherly lullaby ; 
 Oh the green churchyard, the green churchyard. 
 
 Is the couch she spreads for all, 
 And she layeth the cottager's baby there, 
 
 With the lord of the tap'stry hall ! 
 
 Our mother the Church hath never a child, 
 
 To honour before the rest, 
 And she singeth the same for mighty kings, 
 
 And the veriest babe on her breast ; 
 And the bishop goes down to his narrow bed, 
 
 As the ploughman's child is laid, 
 And alike she blesseth the dark-brow'd serf, 
 
 And the chief in his robe arrayed. 
 
 She sprinkles the drops of the bright new-birth, 
 
 The same, on the low and high, 
 And christens their bodies with dust to dust, 
 
 When earth with its earth must lie ; 
 Oh the poor man's friend, is the Church of Christ 
 
 From birth, to his funeral day ; 
 She makes him the Lord's, in her surpliced arms, 
 
 And singeth his burial lay. 
 
u 
 
 CHURCHYARDS. 
 
 And ever the bells in the green churchyard 
 
 Are tolling, to tell ye this ; 
 Go pray in the church, while pray ye can, 
 
 That so ye may sleep in bliss. 
 And wise is he in the glow of life, 
 
 Who weaveth his shroud of rest, 
 And graveth it plain on his coffin-plate, 
 
 That the dead in Christ are blest. 
 
 7. 
 
 I never can see a green churchyard, 
 
 But I think I may slumber there ; 
 And I wonder within me, what strange disease, 
 
 Shall bring me to homes so fair, 
 And whether in breast, in brain, or blood, 
 
 There lurketh a secret sore, 
 Or whether this heart, so warm and full, 
 
 Hath a worm at its inmost core. 
 
 8. 
 
 For I know, ere long, some limb of mine, 
 
 To the rest, may traitor prove, 
 And steal from the strong young frame I wear, 
 
 The generous flush, I love : 
 I know I may burn into ashes soon, 
 
 With this feverish flame of life, 
 Or the flickering lamp may soon blaze out, 
 
 With its dying self at strife : 
 
CHURCHYARDS. 45 
 
 9. 
 
 And here — I think — when they lay me down 
 
 How strange will my slumber be, 
 The cold, cold clay for my dreamless head, 
 
 And the turf for my canopy ; 
 How stilly will creep the long, long years 
 
 O'er my quiet sleep away, 
 And oh what a waking that sleep shall know, 
 
 At the peal of the Judgment-day ! 
 
 10. 
 
 Up — up from the graves and the clods around 
 
 The quickened bones will stare ; 
 I know that within this green churchyard 
 
 A host shall be born to air : 
 A thousand shall struggle to birth agen, 
 
 From under the sods I tread : 
 Oh, strange — thrice strange, shall the story "be 
 
 Of the field where they lay the dead ! 
 
 11. 
 
 Oh bury me then, in the green churchyard, 
 
 As my old fore-fathers rest, 
 Nor lay me in cold Necropolis, 
 
 Mid many a grave unblest : 
 I would sleep where the church-bells aye ring out : 
 
 I would rise by the house of prayer, 
 And feel me a moment at home, on earth, 
 
 For the Christian's home is there. 
 5 
 
46 CHURCHYARDS. 
 
 12. 
 
 I never loved cities of living men, 
 
 And towns of the dead, I hate; 
 Oh let me rest in the churchyard then, 
 
 And hard by the church's gate : 
 'Tis there I pray to my Saviour Christ, 
 
 And I will till mine eye is dim, 
 That, sleep as I may in this fevered life, 
 
 I may rest, at last, in Him. 
 
OLD TRINITY. 
 
 EASTER EVEN, 1840. 
 
 Thy servants think upon her stones, and it pitieth them to see hei 
 in the dust. — Psalter. 
 
 The Paschal moon is ripe to-night 
 
 On fair Manhada's bay, 
 And soft it falls on Hoboken, 
 
 As where the Saviour lay : 
 And beams beneath whose paly shine 
 
 Nile's troubling angel flew, 
 Show many a blood-besprinkled door 
 
 Of our passover too. 
 
 But here, where many an holy year 
 
 It shone on arch and aisle, 
 What means its cold and silver ray 
 
 On dust and ruined pile 1 
 Oh where 's the consecrated porch, 
 
 The sacred lintel where, 
 And where 's that antique steeple's height 
 
 To bless the moonlight air ] 
 
48 
 
 OLD TRINITV. 
 
 I seem to miss a mother's face. 
 
 In this her wonted home ; 
 And linger in the green churchyard 
 
 As round that mother's tomb. 
 Old Trinity ! thou too art gone ! 
 
 And in thine own blest bound, 
 They've laid thee low, dear mother church. 
 
 To rest in holy ground ! 
 
 4. 
 
 The vaulted roof that trembled oft 
 
 Above the chaunted psalm ; 
 The quaint old altar where we owned 
 
 Our very Paschal Lamb ; 
 The chimes that ever in the tower 
 
 Like seraph-music sung, 
 And held me spell-bound in the way 
 
 When I was very young ; — 
 
 5. 
 
 The marble monuments within ; 
 
 The 'scutcheons, old and rich ; 
 And one bold bishop's effigy 
 
 Above the chancel-niche ; 
 The mitre and the legend there 
 
 Beneath the colored pane ; 
 All these — thou knewest, Paschal moon, 
 
 But ne'er shalt know again ! 
 
OLD TRINITY. 49 
 
 And thou wast shining on this spot 
 
 That hour the Saviour rose ! 
 But oh, its look that Easter morn, 
 
 The Saviour only knows. 
 A thousand years — and 'twas the same, 
 
 And half a thousand more ; 
 Old moon, what mystic chronicles, 
 
 Thou keepest, of this shore ! 
 
 And so, till good Queen Anna reigned, 
 
 It was a heathen sward : 
 But then they made its virgin turf, 
 
 An altar to the Lord. 
 With holy roof they covered it ; 
 
 And when Apostles came, 
 They claimed, for Christ, its battlements, 
 
 And took it in God's name. 
 
 8. 
 
 Then, Paschal moon, this sacred spot 
 
 No more thy magic felt, 
 Till flames brought down the holy place, 
 
 Where our forefathers knelt : 
 Again, 'tis down — the grave old pile ; 
 
 That mother church sublime ! 
 Look on its roofless floor, old moon, 
 
 For 'tis thy last — last time ! 
 5* 
 
50 
 
 OLD TRINITY. 
 
 Ay, look with smiles, for never there 
 
 Shines Paschal moon agen, 
 Till breaks the Earth's great Easter-day 
 
 O'er all the graves of men ! 
 So wane away, old Paschal moon, 
 
 And come next year as bright ; 
 Eternal rock shall welcome thee, 
 
 Our faith's devoutest light ! 
 
 10. 
 
 They rear old Trinity once more : 
 
 And, if ye weep to see, 
 The glory of this latter house, 
 
 Thrice glorious shall be ! 
 Oh lay its deep foundations strong, 
 
 And, yet a little while, 
 Our Paschal Lamb himself shall come 
 
 To light its hallowed aisle. 
 
 
ENGLAND 
 
 1. 
 
 Land of the rare old chronicle, 
 
 The legend and the lay, 
 Where deeds of Fancy's dream, are truths 
 
 Of all thine ancient day ; 
 Land where the holly-bough is green 
 
 Around the druid's pile, 
 And greener yet the histories 
 
 That wreathe his rugged isle ; 
 
 Land of old story — like thine oak 
 
 The aged, but the strong, 
 And wound with antique mistletoe 
 
 And ivy-wreaths of song ; 
 Old isle and glorious — I have heard 
 
 Thy fame across the sea, 
 And know my fathers' homes are thine ; 
 
 My fathers rest with thee ! 
 
52 ENGLAND. 
 
 I know they sleep in hallow'd ground 
 
 Beneath the Church's shade, 
 Where ring old bells eternally 
 
 For prayer incessant made ; 
 Nor dull their ear to living prayers, 
 
 Nor vain the anthem's swell ! 
 Where Christian sounds are lulling him. 
 
 The Christian slumbers well. 
 
 And I could yet my dust lay down 
 
 Beneath old England's sward, 
 For lulled by her, 'twere sweet to wait 
 
 The coming of the Lord : 
 Oh England, let thy child desire 
 
 Upon thy breast to be, 
 And bless thee in the mother-words 
 
 My mother taught to me ! 
 
 5. 
 
 For I have learned them in the tales 
 
 Thy sagest sons have tuld, 
 And loved their music in romance 
 
 And roundelays of old : 
 And I have heard thy poet tide 
 
 From fountain-head along, 
 From warbled gush, to torrent roar 
 
 And cataract of song. 
 
ENGLAND. 53 
 
 And thou art no strange land to me 
 
 From Cumberland to Kent, 
 With hills and vales of household name 
 
 And woods of wild event : 
 For tales of Guy and Robinhood 
 
 My childhood ne'er could tire, 
 And Alfred's poet story roused 
 
 My boyhood to the lyre. 
 
 All thanks to pencil and the page 
 
 Of graver's mimic art, 
 That England's panorama gave 
 
 To picture up my heart ; 
 That round my spirit's eye have built 
 
 Thine old cathedral piles, 
 And flung the chequered window-light 
 
 Adown their trophied aisles. 
 
 8. 
 
 I know thine abbey, Westminster, 
 
 As sea-birds know their nest : 
 And flies my home-sick soul to thee 
 
 When it would find a rest ; 
 Where princes and old bishops sleep, 
 
 With sceptre and with crook, 
 And mighty spirits haunt around 
 
 Each gothic shrine and nook. 
 
54 ENGLAND. 
 
 9. 
 
 I feel the sacramental hue 
 
 Of choir and chancel there, 
 And pictured panes that chasten down 
 
 The day's unholy glare : 
 And dear it is, on cold gray stone 
 
 To see the sunbeams crawl, 
 In long drawn lines of colored light, 
 
 That streak the fretted wall. 
 
 10. 
 
 I hear the choir's low mutter'd chant, 
 
 The organ's thunder roll, 
 I kneel me on the chilly floor, 
 
 And pray with all my soul; 
 I feel that God himself is there, 
 
 And saints are sleeping round ; 
 Oh, save the holy sepulchre, 
 
 'Tis earth's most holy ground! 
 
 11. 
 
 And I have lived my student years 
 
 On Isis' wizard side, 
 In sooth, no candidate, I ween, 
 
 For Alma-Mater's pride ; 
 For Fancy that could awe my soul 
 
 To surplice, cope, and gown, 
 Hath mingled me in college-freaks, 
 
 And quarrels with the Town. 
 
ENGLAND. 55 
 
 12. 
 
 But song and organ sober me 
 
 With priest and choir to pray, 
 Or let my lamp in cloisters burn 
 
 The midnight into day : 
 Chameleon-like my soul could take 
 
 Its every hue from thine, 
 From Eastcheap's epidemic laugh, 
 
 To Avon's gloom divine. 
 
 13. 
 
 Oh England, I have lived in thee, 
 
 Though I am far away! 
 With thee I spend each holy-eve, 
 
 And every festal day : 
 My Sunday morn is musical 
 
 With England's steeple-tone, 
 And when thy Christmas hearths are bright, 
 
 A blaze is on mine own. 
 
 14. 
 
 What though upon thy dear green hills, 
 
 My footsteps never trod ; 
 Thine empire is as far and wide 
 
 As all the world of God ! 
 And by the sea-side glorious, 
 
 Have I been wont to stand, 
 For ocean is old England's own 
 
 Where'er it beats the land. 
 
56 ENGLAND. 
 
 15. 
 
 I've seen thy beacon banners blaze 
 
 Our mountain coast along, 
 And swelled my soul with memories 
 
 Of old romaunt and song : 
 Of Chevy-chase, of Agincourt, 
 
 Of many a field they told ; 
 Of Norman and Plantaganet, 
 
 And all their fame of old ! 
 
 16. 
 
 What though the red-cross blazonry 
 
 Waved fast and far away; 
 Not so the flourish'd vaunt it flung 
 
 Of Cceur-de-Lion's day : 
 Not so the golden tales it told 
 
 Of crown and kingdom won, 
 And how my own forefathers fought 
 
 For Christ, at Ascalon. 
 
 17. 
 
 And well thy banner-folds may bear 
 
 In red, the Holy Rod, 
 Thy priests have princes been to men, 
 
 Thy princes, priests to God ! 
 And bold to win a crown in heaven 
 
 The royal martyr bled ; 
 The martyrs' noble host is full 
 
 Of England's noblest dead ! 
 
ENGLAND. 57 
 
 IS. 
 
 Thy holy Church !— the Church of God 
 
 That hath grown old in thee, 
 Since there the ocean-roving Dove 
 
 Came bleeding from the sea ; 
 When pierced afar, her weary feet 
 
 Could find no home but thine, 
 Until thine altars were her nest, 
 
 Thy fanes her glory's shrine ; 
 
 19. 
 
 At least that Holy Church is mine ! 
 
 And every hallow'd day, 
 I bend where England's anthems swell 
 
 And hear old England pray : 
 And England's old adoring rites, 
 
 And old liturgic words, 
 Are mine ! — but not for England's sake ; 
 
 I love them as the Lord's ! 
 
 20. 
 
 And I have sung. By Babel's stream 
 
 The Hebrew's harp was still, 
 For there, there was no God for him, 
 
 No shrine and holy hill : 
 But here, by Hudson's glorious wave, 
 
 A song of thee I'll sound, 
 For England's sons and spires are here, 
 
 And England's God around. 
 6 
 
CHELSEA 
 
 1. 
 
 When old Canute the Dane 
 
 Was merry England's king ; 
 A thousand years agone, and more, 
 
 As ancient rymours sing ! 
 His boat was rowing down the Cam 
 
 At eve, one summer day, 
 Where Ely's tall cathedral peered 
 
 Above the glassy way. 
 
 2. 
 
 Anon, sweet music on his ear, 
 
 Comes floating from the fane, 
 And listening, as with all his soul, 
 
 Sat old Canute the Dane ; 
 And reverent did he doff his crown, 
 
 To join the clerkly prayer, 
 While swelled old lauds and litanies 
 
 Upon the stilly air. 
 
CHELSEA. 59 
 
 Now, who shall glide on Hudson's breast, 
 
 At eve of summer day, 
 And cometh where St. Peter's tower 
 
 Peers o'er his coasting way : 
 A moment, let him slack his oar, 
 
 And speed more still along, 
 His ears shall catch those very notes 
 
 Of litany and song. 
 
 4. 
 
 The Church that sung those anthem prayers 
 
 A thousand years ago, 
 Is singing yet by silver Cam, 
 
 And here by Hudson's flow : 
 And Glorias that thrilled the heart 
 
 Of old Canute the Dane, 
 Are rising yet, at morn and eve, 
 
 From Chelsea's student train. 
 
 5. 
 
 Venite Exultemus, there 
 
 Those ancient scholars sung, 
 And Jubilate Domino 
 
 The vaulted alleys rung : 
 And our gray pile will tremble oft 
 
 Beneath the organ's roar, 
 When here those very matin-songs, 
 
 And old Te Deum pour ! 
 
60 CHELSEA. 
 
 6. 
 
 And where are kings and empires now, 
 
 Since then, that went and came 1 
 But holy Church is praying yet, 
 
 A thousand years the same ! 
 Apd these that sing shall pass away : 
 
 New choirs their room shall fill ! 
 Be sure thy children's children here, 
 
 Shall hear those anthems still. 
 
 7. 
 
 For not like kingdoms of the world, 
 
 The holy Church of God ! 
 Though earthquake-shocks be rocking it, 
 
 And tempest is abroad ; 
 Unshaken as eternal hills, 
 
 Unmoveable it stands, 
 A mountain that shall fill the earth, 
 
 A fane unbuilt by hands ! 
 
 8. 
 
 Though years fling ivy over it, 
 
 Its cross peers high in air ; 
 And reverend with majestic age* 
 
 Eternal youth is there ! 
 O mark her holy battlements, 
 
 And her foundations strong ; 
 And hear within her ceaseless voice, 
 
 And her unending song ! 
 
CHELSEA. 61 
 
 9. 
 
 O ye, that in these latter days 
 
 The citadel defend, 
 Perchance for you, the Saviour said, 
 
 I'm with you to the end : 
 Stand therefore girt about, and hold 
 
 Your burning lamps in hand, 
 And standing, listen for your Lord, 
 
 And till he cometh — stand ! 
 
 10. 
 
 The gates of hell shall ne'er prevail 
 
 Against our holy home, 
 But O be wakeful sentinels, 
 
 Until the Master come ! 
 The night is spent — but listen ye ; 
 
 For on its deepest calm, 
 What marvel if the cry be heard, 
 
 The marriage of the Lamb ! 
 
 6* 
 
VIGILS. 
 
 Let your loins be girded about, and your lights burning. 
 
 And ye yourselves like unto men that wait for tbeir lord, when he 
 will return from the wedding ; 
 
 Blessed are those servants whom the lord, when he cometh, shall 
 find watching : 
 
 And if he shall come in the second watch, or come in the third 
 watch, and find them so, blessed are those servants. Luke 12 : 35, 37, 
 being the Holy Gospeliu the Ordering of Deacons. 
 
 It is the fall of eve ; 
 And the long tapers, now, we light 
 
 And watch : for we believe 
 Our Lord may come at night. 
 Adeste Fideles. 
 
 2. 
 
 An hour — and it is Seven, 
 And fast away the evening rolls : 
 
 O, it is dark in heaven, 
 But light within our souls. 
 
 Veni Creator Spiritual 
 
 3. 
 
 Hark ! the old bell strikes Eight ! 
 And still we watch with heart and ear, 
 
 For as the hour grows late, 
 The Day-star may be near. 
 Jubilate Deo ! 
 
VIGILS. 63 
 
 Hark ! it is knelling Nine ! 
 But faithful eyes grow never dim ; 
 
 And still our tapers shine, 
 And still ascends our hymn. 
 Cum Angelis ! 
 
 5. 
 
 The watchman crieth Ten ! 
 My soul, be watching for the Light, 
 
 For when he comes agen, 
 'Tis as the thief at night. 
 Nisi Dominus ! 
 
 By the old bell — Eleven ! 
 Now trim thy lamps, and ready stand ; 
 
 The world to sleep is given, 
 But Jesus is at hand. 
 
 De profundis ! 
 
 At Midnight — is a cry ! 
 Is it the bridegroom draweth near % 
 
 Come quickly, Lord, for I 
 Have long'd thy voice to hear ! 
 Kyrie Eleeson ! 
 
64 VIGILS. 
 
 8. 
 
 Could ye not watch One hour 1 
 Be ready : or the bridal train 
 
 And bridegroom, with his dower, 
 May sweep along in vain. 
 Miserere mei ! 
 
 9. 
 
 By the old steeple — Two ! 
 And now I know the day is near ! 
 
 Watch — for his word is true, 
 And Jesus may appear ! 
 Dies Irae ! 
 
 10. 
 
 Three — by the drowsy chime ! 
 And joy is nearer than at first. 
 
 O, let us watch the time 
 When the first light shall burst ! 
 Sursum corda. 
 
 11. 
 
 Four — and a streak of day ! 
 At the cock-crowing he may come ; 
 
 And still to all I say, 
 Watch — and with awe be dumb. 
 Fili David ! 
 
VIGILS. 65 
 
 12. 
 
 Five ! — and the tapers now 
 In rosy morning dimly burn ! 
 
 Stand, and be girded thou, 
 Thy Lord will yet return ! 
 Veni Jesu ! 
 
 13. 
 
 Hark ! 'tis the Matin-call ! 
 Oh, when our Lord shall come agen 
 
 At prime or even-fall, 
 Blest are the wakeful men ! 
 Nunc dimittis. 
 
MATIN BELLS. 
 
 Awake up my glory: awake lute and harp: I myself will awake 
 right early. — Psalter. 
 
 1. 
 
 The Sun is up betimes, 
 
 And the dappled East is blushing, 
 And the bonny matin-chimes, 
 
 They are gushing — Christian — gushing ! 
 They are tolling in the tower, 
 
 For another day begun ; 
 And to hail the rising hour 
 
 Of a brighter, brighter Sun ! 
 Rise — Christian — rise ! 
 
 For a sunshine brighter far 
 Is breaking o'er thine eyes, 
 
 Than the bonny morning-star ! 
 
 2. 
 
 The lark is in the sky, 
 
 And his morning-note is pouring : 
 He hath a wing to fly, 
 
 So he's soaring — Christian — soaring ! 
 
MATIN BELLS. t>7 
 
 His nest is on the ground, 
 
 But only in the night ; 
 For he loves the matin-sound, 
 
 And the highest heaven's height ! 
 Hark — Christian — hark, 
 
 At heaven-door he sings ! 
 And be thou like the lark, 
 
 With thy soaring spirit- wings ! 
 
 3. 
 
 The bonny matin-bells, 
 
 In their watch-tower they are swinging; 
 For the day is o'er the dells, 
 
 And they're singing — Christian — singing! 
 They have caught the morning beam 
 
 Through their ivied turret's wreath, 
 And they know the window's gleam, 
 
 And the chancel-rails beneath : 
 Go — Christian — go, 
 
 For the altar hath a glare, 
 And the snowy vestments glow, 
 
 Of the presbyter at prayer ! 
 
 4. 
 
 There is morning-incense flung 
 From the child-like lily flowers j 
 
 And their fragrant censer swung, 
 Make it ours — Christian — ours \ 
 
U8 MATIN BELLS. 
 
 And hark, our Mother's hymn, 
 
 And the organ-peals we love ! 
 They sound like cherubim 
 
 At their early lauds above ! 
 Pray — Christian — pray, 
 
 At the bonny peep of dawn, 
 Ere the dew-drop and the spray 
 
 That christen it, are gone ! 
 
THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND, 
 
 Upon the bells. Zechariah, 14 : 20. 
 
 The chimes, the chimes of Motherland, 
 
 Of England green and old, 
 That out from fane and ivied tower 
 
 A thousand years have toll'd; 
 How glorious must their music be 
 
 As breaks the hallow'd day, 
 And calleth with a seraph's voice 
 
 A nation up to pray ! 
 
 2. 
 
 Those chimes that tell a thousand tales, 
 
 Sweet tales of olden time ! 
 And ring a thousand memories 
 
 At vesper, and at prime; 
 At bridal and at burial, 
 
 For cottager and king — 
 Those chimes — those glorious Christian chimes, 
 
 How blessedly they ring ! 
 7 
 
70 THE CHIMES OF ENGLAND. 
 
 3. 
 
 Those chimes, those chimes of Motherland, 
 
 Upon a Christmas morn, 
 Outbreaking, as the angels did, 
 
 For a Redeemer born ; 
 How merrily they call afar, 
 
 To cot and baron's hall, 
 "With holly deck'd and mistletoe, 
 
 To keep the festival ! 
 
 4. 
 
 The chimes of England, how they peal 
 
 From tower and gothic pile, 
 Where hymn and swelling anthem fill 
 
 The dim cathedral aisle ; 
 Where windows bathe the holy light 
 
 On priestly heads that falls, 
 And stain the florid tracery 
 
 And banner-dighted walls ! 
 
 And then, those Easter bells, in Spring ! 
 
 Those glorious Easter chimes ! 
 How loyally they hail thee round, 
 
 Old Queen of holy times ! 
 From hill to hill, like sentinels, 
 
 Responsively they cry, 
 And sing the rising of the Lord, 
 
 From vale to mountain highs, 
 
THE ClIIMES OF ENGLAND. 71 
 
 6. 
 
 I love ye — chimes of Motherland, 
 
 With all this soul of mine, 
 And bless the Loud that I am sprung 
 
 Of good old English line ! 
 And like a son 1 sing the lay 
 
 That England's glory tells; 
 For she is lovely to the Lord, 
 
 For you, ye Christian bells ! 
 
 7. 
 
 And heir of her ancestral fame, 
 
 And happy in my birth, 
 Thee too I love, my Forest-land, 
 
 The joy of all the earth ; 
 For thine thy mother's voice shall be, 
 
 And here — where God is king, 
 With English chimes, from Christian spires 
 
 The wilderness shall ring. 
 
GO WHERE THE MOSSY ROCK. 
 
 An altar of earth thou shalt make unto me. Exodus, 20 : 27. 
 
 1. 
 
 Go where the mossy rock shall be, 
 
 Thy nature-hallow'd shrine, 
 The leafy copse thy canopy, 
 
 Its fringe, the gadding vine ! 
 There let the clusters round that blush, 
 
 Be sacramental blood, 
 And fountains by thy feet that gush 
 
 Thy pure baptizing flood. 
 
 2. 
 
 There let the snowy lawn be spread 
 
 Upon the turfy mound : 
 There break the life-bestowing bread, 
 
 And bless the people round. 
 There, the green bush thy chancel rail, 
 
 Its cushion'd floor the sod, 
 Bid boldly to the sylvan pale, 
 
 The kneeling host of God. 
 
GO WHERE THE MOSSY ROCK. 73 
 
 3. 
 
 Look up, and fretted vaults are there, 
 
 And heaven itself shines through, 
 Or evening is depictured fair, 
 
 The starlight, and the blue ! 
 A temple never built by hands, 
 
 And many a shadowed aisle, 
 There — where the column'd forest stands, 
 
 Be thy cathedral pile ! 
 
 4. 
 
 There, are full choir and antiphon 
 
 At lauds and vesper-time, 
 And every niche rings unison 
 
 With priestly voice, at prime : 
 There, shall thy solitary soul 
 
 Find out its cloister dim, 
 With not the laboring organ's roll, 
 
 But nature's gushing hymn. 
 
 5. 
 
 There, the full flowers their odours fling 
 
 To bid thee pour thy prayer, 
 And vines their fragrant censers swing 
 
 O'er all the hallowed air; 
 And sweet as old idolatries 
 
 With eastern rites that blend, 
 Yet harmless shall their incense rise, 
 
 And thine to God ascend. 
 
 7 * 
 
74 GO WHERE THE MOSSY ROCK. 
 
 Go to the harvest-whiten'd west, 
 
 Ye surpliced priests of God, 
 In all the Christian armour drest, 
 
 And with the Gospel shod : 
 Go, for their feet are beautiful, 
 
 That on the mountain stand, 
 And more than music, musical, 
 
 The watchman's voice at hand. 
 
 Go, for the midnight wanes apace ; 
 
 The Sun himself is nigh ! 
 Go to the wild and lonely place, 
 
 And in the desert cry. 
 G- 0) — a nd the greenwoods are thy fanes, 
 
 Thine altars — every sod ! 
 Say to the wilderness, he reigns 
 
 Thy Saviour, and thy God ! 
 
 8. 
 
 Lo ! where the unsent heralds run, 
 
 Why wait thy priests, oh Lord ! 
 These, that were bid from sun to sun 
 
 To preach the Gospel word 1 
 Oh, to thine harvest, Saviour, send 
 
 The hosts of thine employ, 
 To reap the ripened sheaves that bend, 
 
 And shout them home with joy ! 
 
DREAMLAND. 
 
 1. 
 
 A lay, a lay, good Christians ! 
 
 I have a tale to tell, 
 Though I have ne'er a palmer's staff, 
 
 Nor hat with scallop-shell : 
 And though I never went astray 
 
 From this mine own countree, 
 I'll tell what never pilgrim told 
 
 That ever rode the sea. 
 
 2. 
 
 A lay, a lay, good Christians ! 
 
 My boyish harp is fain 
 To chaunt our mother's loveliness, 
 
 In an eternal strain : 
 And true it is I never strayed 
 
 Beyond her careful hand, 
 And yet my lay, good Christians, 
 
 Is of a Holy-Land. 
 
76 DREAMLAND. 
 
 In Dreamland once I saw a Church ; 
 
 Amid the trees it stood ; 
 And reared its little steeple-cross 
 
 Above the sweet greenwood : 
 And then I heard a Dreamland chime, 
 
 Peal out from Dreamland tower, 
 And saw how Dreamland Christian-folk 
 
 Can keep the matin-hour. 
 
 4. 
 
 And Dreamland Church was decent all, 
 
 And green the churchyard round ; 
 The Dreamland sextons never keep 
 
 Their kine in holy ground : 
 And not the tinkling cow-bell there 
 
 The poet's walk becalms ; 
 But where the dead in Christ repose, 
 
 The bells ring holy psalms. 
 
 5. 
 
 And Dreamland folk do love their dead, 
 
 For every mound I saw, 
 Had flowers, and wreaths, and garlands such 
 
 As painters love to draw ! 
 I asked what seeds made such fair buds, 
 
 And — scarce I trust my ears, 
 The Dreamland folk averred such things 
 
 Do only grow from — tears. 
 
DREAMLAND. 77 
 
 6. 
 
 And while I hung the graves around, 
 
 I heard the organ pour : 
 I was the only Christian man 
 
 "Without that sacred door ! 
 A week-day morn — but Church was full ; 
 
 And full the chaunting choir, 
 For Dreamland music is for God, 
 
 And not for man and — hire. 
 
 I saw the Dreamland minister 
 
 In snowy vestments pray : 
 He seemed to think 'twas natural 
 
 That prayer should ope the day : 
 And Dreamland folk responded loud 
 
 To blessings in God's name, 
 And in the praises of the Lord, 
 
 They had no sense of shame ! 
 
 8. 
 
 And Dreamland folk, they kneel them down 
 
 Right on the stony floor ; 
 I saw they were uncivilized, 
 
 Nor knew how we adore : 
 And yet I taught them not, I own, 
 
 Our native curve refined, 
 For well I knew the picturesque 
 
 Scarce suits the savage mind. 
 
78 DREAMLAND. 
 
 9. 
 
 And Dreamland folks do lowly bow 
 
 To own that Christ is God : 
 And I confess I taught them not 
 
 The fashionable nod : 
 And Dreamland folks sing Gloria 
 
 At every anthem's close, 
 But have not learn'd its value yet 
 
 To stir them from a doze. 
 
 10. 
 
 I saw a Dreamland babe baptized 
 
 With all the church to see, 
 And strange as 'twas — the blessed sight. 
 
 'Twas beautiful to me ! 
 For many a voice cried loud Amen, 
 
 When o'er its streaming brow, 
 The pearly cross was charactered, 
 
 To seal its Christian vow. 
 
 11. 
 
 1 learned that Dreamland children all, 
 
 As bowing sponsors swear, 
 To bishop's hands are duly brought, 
 
 To Eucharist and prayer : 
 And Dreamland maids wear snow-white veils 
 
 At confirmation hour : 
 For such — an old apostle wrote, 
 
 Should clothe their heads, with power. 
 
DREAMLAND. 79 
 
 12. 
 
 The Dreamland folk they wed in Church ; 
 
 They deem the Lord is there, 
 And, as of old, in Galilee, 
 
 May bless a bridal pair : 
 And strange enough, the simple ones, 
 
 They see in wedded love, 
 Sweet emblems of their Mother Church, 
 
 And Christ her Lord above. 
 
 13. 
 
 I saw a Dreamland funeral 
 
 Come up the shadow'd way : 
 The Dreamland priest was surplice-clad 
 
 To meet the sad array, 
 And when his little flock drew nigh, 
 
 To give the dust their dead, 
 His voice went soothingly before, 
 
 As if a shepherd led. 
 
 14. 
 
 In earth they laid the Dreamland man ; 
 
 And then a chaunt was given, 
 So sweet, that I could well believe, 
 
 I heard a voice from heaven : 
 And singing children o'er the grave 
 
 Like cherub chaunters stood, 
 Pouring their angel lullabies, 
 
 To make its slumber good. 
 
80 DREAMLAND. 
 
 15. 
 
 The Dreamland folk count seasons four. 
 
 All woven into one ! 
 'Tis Advent, Lent, or Easter-time, 
 
 Or Trinity begnn : 
 The first is green as emerolde, 
 
 The next of cypress-hue, 
 The third is glorious all as gold, 
 
 The fourth is sapphire-blue. 
 
 16. 
 
 The Dreamland folk are simple ones ! 
 
 Who knows but these are they, 
 Described in ancient chronicle, 
 
 As Children of the Day ! 
 They seemed no denizens of earth, 
 
 But more- — a pilgrim-band, 
 With no abiding city here, 
 
 Who seek a better land. 
 
 17. 
 
 So ends my lay, good Christians ; 
 
 And ye that gave me ear, 
 Confess that 'twas of Holy-Land, 
 
 I beckoned ye to hear : 
 Christ bring us all, who bear his cross, 
 
 Unto his own countree ! 
 And so no more, good Christians, 
 
 Of Dreamland, or of me. 
 
CAROL. 
 
 Am— The Brave Old Oak, 
 
 1. 
 
 I know — I know 
 
 Where the green leaves grow, 
 
 When the woods without are bare ; 
 Where a sweet perfume 
 Of the woodland's bloom, 
 
 Is afloat on the winter air ! 
 When Tempest strong 
 Hath howled along, 
 
 With his war-whoop wild and loud, 
 Till the broad ribs broke 
 Of the forest oak, 
 
 And his crown of glory bowed-; 
 I know — I know 
 Where the green leaves grow, 
 
 Though the groves without are bare, 
 Where the branches nod 
 Of the trees of God, 
 
 And the wild-vines flourish fair. 
 8 
 
82 CAROL. 
 
 For a fragrant crown 
 
 When the Lord comes down, 
 
 Of the deathless green we braid, 
 O'er the altar bright, 
 Where the tissue white 
 
 Like winter snow is laid. 
 And we think 'tis meet 
 The Lord to greet 
 
 As wise-men did of old, 
 With the spiceries 
 Of incense-trees 
 
 And hearts like the hoarded gold. 
 And so we shake 
 The snowy Hake 
 
 From cedar and myrtle fair ; 
 And the boughs that nod 
 On the hills of God, 
 
 We raise to his glory there. 
 
 3. 
 
 I know — I know 
 Where the waters flow 
 
 In a marble font and nook, 
 When the frosty sprite 
 In his strange delight 
 
 Hath fettered the brawling brook. 
 When the dancing stream 
 With its broken gleam, 
 
CAROL. 
 
 Is locked in its rocky bed ; 
 And the sing-song fret 
 Of the rivulet 
 
 Is hush as the melted lead ; 
 Oh then I know- 
 Where the waters flow 
 
 As fresh as the springtime flood, 
 When the spongy sod 
 Of the fields of God 
 
 And the hedges are all in bud. 
 
 4. 
 
 For the flowing Font 
 Bids Frost avaunt, 
 
 And the Winter's troop so wild ; 
 And still 'twill gush 
 In a free full flush 
 
 At the cry of a little child. 
 Oh rare the gleam, 
 Of the blessed stream 
 
 In the noon of a winter day, 
 When the ruby stain 
 Of the colour'd pane, 
 
 Falls in with holy ray ! 
 For then I think 
 Of the brimming brink, 
 
 And the urns, at the voice divine, 
 Like Moses' rod 
 And the rocks of God, 
 
 That flushed into ruddy wine. 
 
84 CAROL. 
 
 5. 
 
 I know — I know- 
 No place below, 
 
 Like the home I fear and love ;. 
 Like the stilly spot 
 Where the world is not, 
 
 But the nest of the Holy Dove. 
 For there broods He 
 Mid every tree 
 
 That grows at the Christmas-tide.. 
 And there, all year, 
 O'er the font so clear, 
 
 His hovering wings abide ! 
 And so, I know 
 No place below 
 
 So meet for the bard's true lay, 
 As the alleys broad 
 Of the Church of God, 
 
 Where Nature is green for aye. 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
LAMENT 
 
 IN THE LENTEN SEASON. 
 
 And of some, have compassion. Jude, 22. 
 
 1. 
 
 O weep for them who never knew 
 
 The mother of our love, 
 And shed thy tears for orphan-ones, 
 
 "Whom angels mourn above ; 
 The wandering sheep — the straying lambs, 
 
 When wolves were on the wold, 
 That left our Shepherd's little flock, 
 
 And ventured from his fold. 
 
 2. 
 
 Nay, blame them not ! for them, the Lord 
 
 Hath loved as well as you : 
 But O, like Jesus, pray for them 
 
 Who know not what they do : 
 O plead as once the Saviour did, 
 
 That we may all be One, 
 That so the cruel world may know 
 
 The Father sent the Son. 
 8* 
 
86 LAMENT. 
 
 3. 
 
 O let thy Lenten litanies 
 
 Be full of prayer for them ! 
 O go ye to the scattered sheep 
 
 Of Israel's parent stem ! 
 OTkeep thy fast for Christendom ! 
 
 For Christ's dear body mourn 
 And weave again the seamless robe, 
 
 That faithless friends have torn. 
 
 Ye love your dear home-festivals, 
 
 With every month entwined ; 
 O weep for them whose sullen hearths 
 
 No Christmas garlands bind ! 
 Those Iceland regions of the faith 
 
 No changing seasons cheer, 
 While our sweet paths drop fruitfulness, 
 
 Through all the joyous year. 
 
 What though some borealis-beams 
 
 On even them may flare ; 
 Pray God the sunlight of his love 
 
 May rise serenely there ! 
 For flashy-gleams, O plead the Lord 
 
 To give his Daily ray ! 
 With heavenly light at mora and eve, 
 
 To thaw their wintry way. 
 
LAMENT. 87 
 
 6. 
 
 O weep for those, on whom the Lord 
 
 While here below did weep, 
 Lest grievous wolves should enter in, 
 
 Not sparing of his sheep ; 
 And eat thy bitter herbs awhile, 
 
 That when our Feast is spread, 
 These too — that gather up the crumbs, 
 
 May eat the children's bread. 
 
ST. SIL VAN'S BELL. 
 
 And the common people heard him gladly. Mark, 12 ; 37. 
 
 1. 
 
 A fortnight it was from Whitsuntide, 
 
 And a service was said that day, 
 In a little church, that a good man built 
 
 In the wilderness far away. 
 A twelve month before, and there was not there, 
 
 Or temple or holy bell, 
 But the place — it was free from holiness, 
 
 As the soul of the Infidel. 
 
 2. 
 
 Five thousand years this world is old, 
 
 And twice four hundred more, 
 And that green spot had forest been, 
 
 From the eldest days of yore : 
 And there had the red-man made his hut, 
 
 And the savage beast his lair, 
 But never since this old earth was young, 
 
 Was it hallowed with Christian prayer. 
 
ST. silvan's bell. 89 
 
 3. 
 
 But now, for the first, a bell rung out, 
 
 Through the aisles of the wild greenwood, 
 And echo came back from the far, far trees, 
 
 Like the hallo of Robin Hood : 
 And the red deer woke in his bosky nook, 
 
 That strange, strange sound to hear, 
 And the jassamine-buds from his side he shook, 
 
 And he listened awhile in fear. 
 
 4. 
 
 But the bell that rings for the Prince of Peace, 
 
 Is never a beast's alarm, 
 And down went his antler'd head agen, 
 
 Like an infant asleep on its arm : 
 And the woodman went by, and stirred him not, 
 
 "With his wife, and children round, 
 And the baby leaped up on its mother's breast, 
 
 And laughed at the church-bell's sound . 
 
 5. 
 
 For the babe, he was all unchristened yet, 
 
 And well might he leap for joy ; 
 A fountain was gushing, where rung that bell, 
 
 That should make him a Christian boy ! 
 And his mother — ^she thought of the Catechist, 
 
 And she blessed the Lord above, 
 That her child should be baptized for Christ, 
 
 And taught in his fear and love. 
 
90 ST. silvan's bell. 
 
 And she prayed in her heart, as Hannah prayed, 
 
 He might kneel at the chancel fair, 
 Like children they brought to the Lord of old, 
 
 To be blest with the bishop's prayer : 
 And she saw far off, the surpliced priest, 
 
 The ring, and the marriage-ban, 
 Making some maiden a happy wife, 
 
 And her boy a happier man. 
 
 7. 
 
 And the bell rung on ; and the wood sent forth, 
 
 From their log-built homes around, 
 The yeomanry all with their families, 
 
 A-wondering at the sound ; 
 And tears, I saw, in an old man's eye, 
 
 That came from a far countree ; 
 It minded his inmost soul, he said, 
 
 Of the church-bells over the sea. 
 
 8. 
 
 For a boy was he, in England once, 
 
 And he loved the merry chimes ; 
 Had heard them ring out of a Whitsuntide, 
 
 And waken the holiday-times ! 
 And a boy was he, when hither he came 
 
 But now he was old and gray ; 
 He had not thought that a Christian bell, 
 
 Should toll on his burial day. 
 
 / 
 
ST. silvan's bell. 91 
 
 9. 
 
 A boy was he, when he first swung axe 
 
 Against the strong oak limb ; 
 He was gray-haired now, when he heard the bell 
 
 And threw it away from him ; 
 And he followed the sound — for he thought of home, 
 
 And the motherly hand so fair, 
 That led him along through the churchyard mounds, 
 
 And made him kneel down to prayer. 
 
 10. 
 
 And now did an organ's peal break out, 
 
 And the bell-notes died away : 
 And a holy bishop, in robes, was there, 
 
 And priests in their white array. 
 And I heard a voice go up the aisle, 
 
 And the priests responding plain ; 
 Lift up your heads, ye gates — they said, 
 
 For the King of Glory's train ! 
 
 11. 
 
 And I could not but weep, for I knew, on high, 
 
 The Saviour had asked of God, 
 That the utmost lands might all be his, 
 
 And the ground whereon I trod : 
 And I blessed the Lord, that here at length 
 
 His own true heralds came, 
 To claim for Christ his heritage, 
 
 And hallow it with his name. 
 
92 st. silvan's bell. 
 
 12. 
 
 Now pray with me, that ever there, 
 
 St. Silvan's bell may ring, 
 And the yeomen brave, with their children all, 
 
 The praise of the Saviour sing : 
 And pray ye still, that further west, 
 
 The song of the bell may sound, 
 Till the land from sea to sea is blest, 
 
 And the World is holy ground. 
 
I LOVE THE CHURCH. 
 
 1. 
 
 I love the Church — the holy Church, 
 
 The Saviour's spotless bride ; 
 And oh, I love her palaces 
 
 Through all the land so wide ! 
 The cross-topp'd spire amid the trees, 
 
 The Holy bell of prayer; 
 The music of our mother's voice, 
 
 Our mother's home is there. 
 
 2. 
 
 The village tower — 'tis joy to me, 
 
 I cry the Lord is here ! 
 The village bells — they fill my soul : 
 
 They more than fill mine ear ! 
 O'er kingdoms to the Saviour won, 
 
 Their triumph-peal is hurled. ; 
 Their sound is now in all the earth, 
 
 Their words throughout the world. 
 
94 I LOVE THE CHURCH. 
 
 And here — eternal ocean cross'd, 
 
 And long, long ages past ; 
 In climes beyond the setting sun, 
 
 They preach the Loud at last ; 
 And here, Redeemer, are thy priests 
 
 Unbroken in array, 
 Far from thine Holy Sepulchre, 
 
 And thine Ascension-day ! 
 
 4. 
 
 Unbroken in their lineage ; 
 
 Their warrants clear as when 
 Thou, Saviour, didst go up on high, 
 
 And give good gifts to men ; 
 Here, clothed in innocence they stand, 
 
 To shed thy mercy wide, 
 Baptizing in thy holy name, 
 
 "With waters from thy side. 
 
 5. 
 
 And here, confessors of thy cross, 
 
 Thine holy Orders three, 
 The bishop, and the elders too, 
 
 And lowly deacons be ; 
 To rule and feed the Hock of Christ, 
 
 To wage a noble strife, 
 And to the host of God's elect, 
 
 To break the bread of Life, 
 
I LOVE THE CHURCH. 95 
 
 G. 
 
 Here rises, every Sabbath morn 
 
 Their incense unto Thee, 
 With bold confession Catholic, 
 
 And high Doxology : 
 Soul-melting litany, is here, 
 
 And Holy Gospel's sound ; 
 And Glory, Lord, they cry to thee, 
 
 In all thy temples round. 
 
 7. 
 
 Then comes the message of our King, 
 
 Delivered from on high ; 
 How beautiful the feet of them 
 
 That on the mountain cry ! 
 And then the faithful sons of Christ, 
 
 With Christ are left alone : 
 And gather to the sacred feast, 
 
 Which Jesus' love hath strewn. 
 
 8. 
 
 And kneeling by the chancel's side, 
 
 With blessings all divine, 
 As from the Saviour's hand, they take 
 
 The broken bread, and wine ; 
 In one communion with the saints, 
 
 With angels and the blest, 
 And looking for the blessed hope 
 
 Of an eternal rest. 
 
96 I LOVE THE CHURCH. 
 
 9. 
 
 The peace of God is on their heads, 
 
 Arid so they wend away, 
 To homes all cheerful with the light, 
 
 Of love's inspiring ray ! 
 And through the churchyard and the graves, 
 
 "With kindly tears they fare, 
 Where every turf was decent laid, 
 
 And hallowed by a prayer. 
 
 10. 
 
 The dead in Christ — they rest in hope ; 
 
 And o'er their sleep sublime, 
 The shadow of the steeple moves, 
 
 From morn to vesper-chime : 
 On every mound, in solemn shade, 
 
 Its imaged cross doth lie, 
 As goes the sunlight to the west, 
 
 Or rides the moon on high. 
 
 11. 
 
 I love the Church — the holy Church, 
 
 That o'er our life presides, 
 The birth, the bridal, and the grave, 
 
 And many an hour besides ! 
 Be mine, through life, to live in her, 
 
 And when the Lord shall call, 
 To die in her — the spouse of Christ, 
 
 The Mother of us all. 
 
 i 
 
NOTES 
 
 9* 
 
NOTES. 
 
 i. 
 
 ST. SACRAMENT. 
 
 This beautiful sheet of water — the most beautiful lake in the 
 State of New-York — was called Horicon, by the Indians, Lake 
 George, by the Royal American army, in compliment to the reign- 
 ing house of Hanover, and St. Sacrement, by the French mission- 
 aries, who used its waters in the holy sacrament of baptism. The 
 Bloody Pond, is a little pool near its southern extremity, which is 
 so called, from its having been the depot of the bodies of the Eng- 
 lish who were massacred by the Indians, after the capitulation of 
 Fort George, during the old French war. For a beautiful account 
 of the Lake, and adjoining scenery, see Dr. Dwight's Travels; and, 
 of course, I need not refer the reader to Cooper's Last of the 
 Mohicans, with which every Amei-ican is supposed to be acquainted. 
 In stanza twenty-first, I have alluded, in passing, to Colonel 
 Cleveland, an officer in the Royal American army, who for his 
 services in the French war, received a grant of land in Ohio, on 
 which has sprung up the flourishing city called by his name. 
 
 I visited Lake George in the summer of 1839 : a more interest- 
 ing spot, for scenery and association, I have never seen. The 
 soldier, the historian and tbe romancer, have done much for it, 
 but Nature more. The sail up the lake, to Ticonderoga, abounds 
 with interest; and fancy suggests a tale for every one of the islets 
 
100 NOTES. 
 
 that arc passed, and which I learn, are in number just equal to 
 the days in a year. The waters of the lake overflow into Lake 
 Champlain, by a succession of beautiful chutes ", a fact alluded 
 to in stanza seventeenth, where the lake is called a brimming urn. 
 At Ticonderoga new interest awaits you, in the ruins of the old fort 
 overhanging L ake Champlain ; and if you are so happy as to secure 
 the services of the genius loci, you will have from the veteran 
 Enoch Gould, cicerone, &c, more tales of Ethan Allen, and " Bur- 
 gwine," than I could write out in a week. 
 
 II. 
 
 ANTIOCH 
 
 .Stanzaj^/ta. So also Christ glorified not himself, to be made 
 an high priest. Hcbrezcs, 5:5. As my Father hath sent me, 
 even so send I you — and when he had said this, he breathed on 
 them, and saith unto them, Receive ye the Holy Ghost — whosoever 
 sins, &c. St. John's Gospel, 20 :21. 
 
 Stanza sixth. All power is given unto me, in heaven and in 
 earth — Go ye therefore. St. Matthew's Gospel, 28 : 20. 
 
 Stanza seventh. See the Epistle of Jude, and the second chapter 
 of the second Epistle of St. Peter, and compare the story of Korah, 
 to which Jude refers us, in the sixteenth chapter of the book of 
 Numbers. 
 
 Stanza ninth. That they all may be one — as thou, Father, art 
 in me; and I in thee ; that they also may be one in us; that the 
 world may believe that thou hast sent me. St. John's Gospel, 
 17:21. Compare II Peter, 2 ; where the Apostle speaks of those 
 who shall bring in dissensions — "by reason of whom the way of 
 Truth, shall be evil spoken of." These false teachers, says the Apos- 
 
 I 
 
NOTES. 101 
 
 all privily bring in damnable heresies — even denying the 
 Lord that bought them:' Thus the Genevan schism privily 
 brought in the Neology of the Continent of Europe, which " denies 
 d that bought them:" the Presbyterian congregations of 
 England, the relics of the Puritan schism, with only two or three 
 exceptions, "deny the Lord that bought them :" and the Congre- 
 gationalist schism of New-England, is the father of American So- 
 cinianism, and the modern Pantheism of Harvard University; a col- 
 lege which, though founded with Puritan money, in common with hun- 
 dreds of congregations throughout New-England, " denies the Lord 
 that bought them." Is there nothing fearful in this? 
 
 Stanza eleventh. And lo, I am with you always, even unto the 
 end of the world. Matthew, 28 : 20. Christ's authority must exist 
 somewhere, even now; therefore, of course, with them who have 
 received it in succession, as is taught by the Lord himself — "all pow- 
 er is given unto me :" "As the Father hath sent me, even so send I 
 you." It is evident, therefore, that to the Apostles was committed 
 the power of organizing the Church. How it was to be continued 
 to the end of the world, is shown in the letters of St. Paul to Timo- 
 thy, apostle, or bishop of Ephesus : wherefore I put thee in remem- 
 brance, that thou stir up the gift of God, which is in thee, by the 
 putting on of my hands. II Timothy, 1 : 6. That good 
 thing which was committed unto thee, keep, by the Holy Ghost. 
 Ibid, 14. And the things that thou hast heard of me, the 
 same commit thou to faithful men who shall be able to teach 
 others also. Ibid, chap. 2 : 2. Lay hands suddenly on no man. 
 I Tim. 5 : 22. 
 
 I refer the honest and ingenuous reader who would fain see the 
 truth, amid the distracting notions of the day, to Percival on the 
 Apostolic Succession, and the discussion between Mr. Barnes and 
 the Rt. Rev. Bishop of Pennsylvania, on this subject. The latter is 
 a beautiful specimen of controversy, being sustained by Mr. Barnes on 
 the dissenting side, with distinguished amiableness ; and by Bishop 
 Onderdonk, with the dignity and charity due to his holy station. It 
 would be hard for any one to do better for his argument than the wit and 
 
102 NOTES. 
 
 genius of Mr. Barnes have accomplished; and the truly pious spirit in 
 which he writes, has seldom heen imitated or equalled by the opponents 
 of Apostolic authority. Lkslie, the celebrated author of " A Short 
 Method with a Deist," has an equally short method with all Dissent, 
 in his tract on " The qalifications for administering the Sacraments." 
 And Law, the famous author of the Serious Call, has beautifully 
 treated the matter, for candid men, in his Letters to Hoadley, Bishop 
 of Bangor. 
 
 III. 
 
 CHRONICLES. 
 
 This ballad was suggested by hearing the 74th Psalm read, in or- 
 der of worship, at St. Marks, in the Bowery. Could any thing be 
 more descriptive of the state of things in England, during the Puri- 
 tan ascendancy, than that inspired narrative of just such times of 
 old ? or could King David cry with more emphasis than the martyr 
 Charles, " Oh deliver not the soul of thy turtle-dove unto the multi- 
 tude of the wicked!" 
 
 The ballad is a history of the Apostolic commission in England. 
 
 Stanza 1. — II. Martyrs reform the Church. The reformers of 
 the English branch of the church Catholic of Christ, were Cranmer, 
 Latimer, Ridley, and — time would fail me to tell of the holy bishops, 
 doctors and pastors who were noble martyrs and confessors of the 
 Truth, against the tyranny of the grasping bishop of Rome! 
 
 Stanza 1. — III. But the founders of English Dissent, were the tur- 
 bulent followers of Cromwell ; and the murderers of King Charles 
 and Bishop Laud. These things are too little known ; and this age 
 is too careless in " allowing the deeds of its fathers." If, in those 
 trying times, the court was corrupt — so was it in the days of Nero, 
 
NOTES. 103 
 
 when Paul wrote by the Spirit of God, " Honour the king." If the 
 clergy were sometimes depraved — so were they in the days of 
 Christ, when he said, "The Scribes and Pharisees sit in Moses 1 
 scat; all, therefore, whatsoever they bid you observe, that observe 
 and do ; but do not yc after their works ; for they say and do not." 
 
 If King Charles had some faults; so had King David — yet withal 
 David was "a man after God's own heart:" and King Charles died 
 8 blessed martyr. If Laud had some superstitions, so had Cotton 
 Mather: and if Laud had Prynne's ears cropped, Cotton Mather 
 burnt witches. Prynne lived to confess that he should have had his 
 head cut otf, instead of his ears, however! And there was a time 
 when even St. Peter did the same thing to Malchus, as Laud is said 
 to have done to Prynne. Laud kept vigils and fasts, and was called 
 a Papist: Cotton Mather did the same, and called himself a Puritan. 
 Laud died a martyr on the scaffold, gloriously " Looking unto 
 Jesus :" Calvin, after burning Servetus, died in his bed ! Cease we 
 from men ! The reader is referred to Dr. Southey's book of the 
 Church — one of the most eloquent pieces of history in the language. 
 
 Stanza 4. — IV. Pray for thy mother — daughter. The Ameri- 
 can bishops are lineally descended, in spiritual succession, from the 
 apostles, through the English line, Bishops White, Madison, and 
 Provoost having received consecration from the British bishops, more 
 than half a century since. The first American bishops landed in 
 America, by happy coincidence, on Easter day — which has always 
 been the great festival of the Church of God. The British succes- 
 sion comes through the Greek Church ; Augustine, first bishop of 
 Canterbury, having received consecration at Aries, from a Bishop of 
 the Greek succession, derived from the apostle John himself. 
 Through Bishop Seabury, however, the American Church unites in 
 itself the Scottish and British successions, as well as the many lines 
 which, in Christ's tender care of his divine commission, are blended 
 in them. 
 
104 NOTES. 
 
 IV. 
 OLD CHURCHES. 
 
 It is scarcely known at the north, that Delaware, Maryland, Vir- 
 ginia and the Carolinas, almost abound with the ruins of old churches, 
 many of them situated in the midst of most picturesque scenery, and 
 very often occurring in the time-honored shape of the cross. What 
 good Christian would not do all in his power, to restore these relics 
 of our fathers to the Church ? Yet, we are told that they are fre- 
 quently abandoned, even by the sons of the cavaliers, for some 
 modern building of red brick, which they build along side the old 
 sanctuary, cutting down brave oaks and green laurels, to make a 
 clearing. 
 
 This ballad is inserted next, as a link in the chain of history. 
 These " old churches" are the relics of our old colonial state ; 
 when, for lack of bishops of our own, all things tended to ruin and 
 downfall. 
 
 V. 
 CHURC H Y AR DS. 
 
 I insert this ballad next, in compliment to the parish of St. 
 George's, Hempstead, which, I understand from its estimable rec- 
 tor, is the oldest in the diocese of New-York, and as such, has his- 
 torical precedence, of even " Old Trinity." 
 
 The ballad was suggested by a moonlight visit to the churchyard, 
 and to the fresh grave of the author's kinsman and dear friend, the 
 late Edward Henry Hyde, some time member of the New-York 
 University ; and, at the time of his death, intended for Holy Orders. 
 
NOTES. 105 
 
 VI. 
 
 OLD TRINITY. 
 
 Easter Even, 1340. At this time, the old edifice having been 
 completely pulled down, the churchyard of Trinity was indeed a 
 Strange and desolate sight for Newyorkers, by whom old Trinity 
 was usually regarded as a sort of Tutelar. The intended church 
 will be the most magnificent Christian temple in America ; and the 
 Daily Service will, probably, arise there, till Christ comes; a per- 
 petual witness to Wall-street, and the whole metropolis, that they 
 cannot serve God and Mammon. 
 
 Stanza 5. And one bold bishop's effigy, The statue of Bishop 
 Hobart, was a prominent object in the old church. It represented 
 that noble and devoted prelate, dying in the arms of Faith, and 
 " looking unto Jesus." He fell in his armour, at St. Peter's, 
 Auburn — where he died suddenly, during his visitation, after a life 
 of indefatigable industry and holy zeal for the blessed Gospel and 
 Church of Jesus Christ. The parish of St. Peter's have erected a 
 monument and bust to his memory, in the chancel of their beautiful 
 church. 
 
 VII. 
 ENGLAND; 
 
 In this ballad, I have endeavored to express the love and grati- 
 tude which, I believe, is cherished by all enlightened and liberal 
 minds in America towards the dear land of our Fathers — and of 
 our mother-tongue. 
 
 10 
 
106 NOTES. 
 
 VIII. 
 CHELSEA. 
 
 The General Theological Seminary, of the American Church, is 
 at Newyork — in a quarter of the city known as Chelsea. Chelsea 
 is, therefore, the name by which her grateful pupils love to celebrate 
 their sacra mater. 
 
 The anecdote of Canute, comes from the beautiful sonnet of the 
 trrcat Wordsworth. 
 
 IX. 
 VIGILS. 
 
 The Latin lines, at the end of every stanza, are the titles of chaunts 
 appropriate to the several hours. I. Adestc — or Hither ye faith- 
 fid. II. Veni Creator, or Come Holy Ghost — as in the Ordina- 
 tion office. III. Jubilate Deo — the 100th Psalm. IV. CumAngelis 
 — the anthem in the Communion Service : Therefore with angels 
 and archangels, SpC. Of this Communion anthem, St. Chrysostom 
 speaks ; and from its universal and immemorial use in his day, we 
 cannot give its origin a date, later than the apostolic age. V. Nisi 
 Dominus — Unless the Lord keep the city, the watchman waketh but 
 in vain, Ps. 127. VI. De profundis — Out of the depths. Psalm 130. 
 VII. Kyrie Eleeson — Lord have mercy upon us. VIII. The 
 Miserere. Psalm 57. IX. Dies Ira: — The day of wrath. The 
 words of Mozart's Requiem : sec an imitation in Scott's Lay. X. 
 Sursum Corda — Lift up your hearts. XL Fili David — or, Son 
 of David, have mercy upon us. XII. Veni Jcsu — Come Lord 
 Jesus — come quickly. XIII. Nunc Dimittis — Now Lord lettest 
 t hou thy servant depart in peace, Luke 2 : 20 — being the song of 
 Simeon. 
 
N0TK8. 107 
 
 XIII. 
 DREAMLAND. 
 
 Stanza ninth. To bow at the name of Jesus, where it occurs in 
 the Creed, is a custom of the Church, in token that we " believe in 
 Jesus Christ." Not as a Socinian might say so ; but as very God. 
 
 Stanza eleventh. Why the veil is discontinued by females, at 
 confirmation, we can scarcely imagine. For some reason or other 
 the apostle evidently commands women to be covered in church. 
 (I Corinthians, 1 1 : G— 10.) Nor can we see why the rule should be 
 transgressed in this most solemn rite. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 ST. SIL VAN'S BE LL. 
 
 There is, in general, very little taste displayed in the naming of 
 churches. The usual round of Trinity, Paul, and George, is very 
 little varied, in any American diocese. By the way, who was St. 
 George, to be commemorated by Christian edifices ? St. Silvan 
 would be a pretty name for a church in a sylvan scene ; and surely 
 no one of the apostles, except the original eleven, and St. Paul, de- 
 serves more notice than Silvanus—cv Silas. Not only was he a 
 companion and fellow confessor of the Apostle Paul; but was also 
 associated with him, and Timotheus, in the epistles to the Thessa- 
 lonians. St. John Baptist's in the Wood— and St. John's in the 
 Wilderness, are also fine names for forest churches. 
 
 Stanza tenth. Lift up your heads, &c— is recited in procession 
 up the aisle, at the consecration of churches— the bishop reading one 
 verse, and the rest responding. The psalms, which are called 
 
108 NOTES. 
 
 So7igs of Degrees in the Bible, were written for similar liturgic 
 use. 
 
 This ballad is purely imaginative, though it is believed that histo- 
 ries kindred to it, must necessarily be found every year, where new 
 dioceses are forming, and where the uttermost parts of the earth are 
 submitting to the glad empire of our Saviour, Christ. 
 
 XV. 
 LAMENT. 
 
 If an humble member of the Church may make a suggestion : 
 ought not our Lenten Season to be kept with some reference to the 
 divided state of Christendom ? In our own land, we find the holiest 
 and loveliest characters, often, arrayed against what tee know is the 
 Church — the body of our blessed Lord and Saviour, Christ. The 
 circumstances of this country's original settlement were such, as to 
 favour and strengthen a growth of ignorance on this subject, hereto- 
 fore unparalleled in the Christian world ; and through influences of 
 education and accidental prejudice, there are hundreds of pious and 
 gentle spirits wandering from their true mother, and knowing 
 nothing of her. For such, we have only one resource, but that is 
 the best — even prayer. The most cogent and convincing argument 
 fails when directed against their seven-fold armour of pre-judgment 
 or indifference. But prayer may enlist Him in their behalf, who 
 pierceth the joints of the harness. At least, it will help ourselves : 
 for, to be true Catholic Christians in our land and day, we need not 
 only the boldness of Taul, and the ardour of Fetor, but more than all, 
 the meekness and long-suffering of our blessed Lord himself. If 
 we were partisans, we might be angry at unwarrantable opposition : 
 if we were striving for earthly things, we might abandon to the chilly 
 arms of their desolate systems, those who answer us with railing ac- 
 
NOTES. 109 
 
 cusation. But we are their servants and strive for their benefit — 
 nut for our own. We would fain see all Christians blest with us, in 
 the Catholic fold of Christ; and when was there ever advice so ap- 
 propriate as that of an old apostle, to a primitive bishop! — ''And the 
 servant of" God must not strive ; but be gentle unto all men; apt to 
 teach; patient; in meekness instructing those that oppose them- 
 selves ; if God peradventure will give them repentance, to the ac- 
 knowledging of the Truth." 
 
 I confess that, for myself, I have a passion for the Beauty of 
 Holiness, as exemplified in the Liturgy and Offices of the Church ; 
 and if this book of ballads shall serve to impress the humblest 
 Christian with a deeper love of his high and glorious privileges in 
 this life, and with a more ardent longing for his hopes in the life of 
 the world to come — I shall feel that I have neither written, nor 
 lived in vain, 
 
 10* 
 
POEMS. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 With a hope to afford variety, and employing 
 some pages which the printer desires to fill, I annex 
 a selection from a volume which has, since a year or 
 two, been waiting for publication : entitled Sacred 
 Melodies. They are so called, not as being exclu- 
 sively of a devotional cast ; but because, in all of 
 them, whether liturgic, contemplative, or fanciful, 
 there has been an endeavour to regard every thing 
 with a Christian eye, and to speak the natural emo- 
 tion, with the voice of one that hopes to sing in 
 Heaven. 
 

M ARCH 
 
 Man g'octh to his long home. Eccles. 12 : 5. 
 
 WORDS TO STRANGE MUSIC. 
 
 March — march — march ! 
 
 Making sounds as they tread, 
 Ho-ho ! how they step, 
 
 Going down to the dead ! 
 Every stride, every tramp, 
 
 Every footfall is nearer ; 
 And dimmer each lamp, 
 
 As darkness grows drearer ; 
 But ho ! how they march, 
 
 Making sounds as they tread 
 Ho-ho ! how they step, 
 
 Going down to the dead ! 
 
116 MARCH. 
 
 2. 
 
 March — march — march ! 
 
 Making sounds as they tread, 
 Ho-ho, how they laugh, 
 
 Going down to the dead ! 
 How they whirl — how they trip, 
 
 How they smile, how they dally, 
 How blithsome they skip, 
 
 Going down to the valley ; 
 Oh ho, how they march, 
 
 Making sounds as they tread; 
 Ho-ho, how they skip, 
 
 Going down to the dead ! 
 
 March — march — march ! 
 
 Earth groans as they tread ! 
 Each carries a skull ; 
 
 Going down to the dead ! 
 Every stride — every stamp, 
 
 Every footfall is bolder ; 
 'Tis a skeleton's tramp, 
 
 With a skull on his shoulder ! 
 But ho, how he steps 
 
 With a high tossing head, 
 That clay-covered bone, 
 
 Going down to the dead ! 
 
CANZONET. 
 
 1. 
 
 Love like theirs was never lighted, 
 With a season to be blighted ; 
 It was deeper than emotion, 
 Deep as their deep souls' devotion, 
 Fixed in their fond hearts forever, 
 Like the soul — to perish never. 
 
 2. 
 
 They were friends in that sweet season, 
 
 When the heart is foe to Reason : 
 
 Loving fondly, loving kindly, 
 
 Blind to fate — yet loving blindly ; 
 
 Happy in the passing minute ; 
 
 Naught the next, though Death were in it. 
 
 3. 
 
 They were friends whom fortune parted, 
 Severing sad and broken hearted : 
 God's own law their trothal hind'red, 
 For their souls were near a-kindred ; 
 Lovers not— twin-children rather 
 Of the same all-glorious Father. 
 11 
 
118 CANZONET. 
 
 4. 
 
 Worlds there are, above all sorrow, 
 And that world is theirs to-morrow : 
 There where love is brighter, purer, 
 Shall their friendship be the surer; 
 And when dreary life is over, 
 Each shall be the happier lover. 
 
THE ZENAIDA DOVE. 
 
 Audubon tells that the cooings of this sweet Southeron are so 
 plaintively Weet, and withal so innocent, that they have been known 
 to melt the heart of a corsair, and sicken him with his way of life. 
 On vending the anecdote, the following lines were addressed to a 
 lady. 
 
 1. 
 
 When the wounded bucanier 
 
 Moors alone, his pirate prore, 
 Seeking, in his flight of fear, - 
 
 Alabama's woody shore, 
 Oft reclined at heat of day, 
 
 In the green palmetto grove, 
 Sad, he lists the roundelay 
 
 Of the sweet Zenaida Dove. 
 
 2. 
 
 He is far from kin and kind, 
 
 He has seen his comrades die ; 
 Now the bold and dark of mind, 
 
 Is as dim and dark of eye. 
 She is singing, in her home, 
 
 Innocent and soft as love ; 
 Ne'er a wish or wing to roam 
 
 Hath the sweet Zenaida Dove. 
 
120 THE ZENAIDA DOVE, 
 
 Then, as soft the carol pours, 
 
 Will he turn his languid eye 
 Round the cypress-shaded shores. 
 
 Feeling it is hard to die. 
 Tears, as gentle as a child, 
 
 Pay the minstrelsy above, 
 And the pirate's heart grows mild 
 
 Listening the Zenaida Dove. 
 
 4. 
 
 Lady, when mine erring heart 
 
 Made my dark and gloomy brow, 
 We had been for years apart, 
 
 Guilty I — but holy thou. 
 But — by chance ! — we met agen, 
 
 Thou all innocence and love ! 
 I beheld abash'd — and then 
 
 Thou wast my Zenaida Dove. 
 
 Youth was fever in my blood, 
 
 And a frenzy in mine eye : 
 Thou hadst bloomed to maidenhood, 
 
 Guileless all as infancy : 
 Dear thy voice, as childhood seemed, 
 
 And thine eye was mild as love, 
 With a soft rebuke it beamed : 
 
 Thou waat my Zenaida Dove. 
 
CANZONET. 
 
 TO THE MUSIC OF VON WEBER'S LAST WALTZ. 
 1. 
 
 I'd die mid soft music, 
 
 And whispering the lay, 
 I'd breathe in sweet singing 
 
 My spirit away. 
 Bend o'er me, though weeping, 
 
 Thou beautiful one, 
 With thy long flowing tresses 
 
 Till sinks my life's sun : 
 Then round me, ye lovely, 
 
 Sigh sad to the lute, 
 And warble your sorrow 
 
 While breathes the soft flute. 
 I'd die, &c. 
 
 2. 
 
 I've lived mid the lovely, 
 
 And dying, I'd hear 
 The voice of the lovely 
 
 Sound last on mine ear. 
 11* 
 
122 CANZONET. 
 
 In life, and in blooming 
 
 I've loved the soft lyre, 
 And music shall soothe me 
 
 Till faint I expire. 
 Till Earth's music failing 
 
 I join, as I rise, 
 The far fading echoes 
 
 That float from the skies. 
 I'd die, &c, 
 
LAMENT. 
 
 FROM THE LATIN OF MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS. 
 1. 
 
 Oh blessed Redeemer, I've trusted in thee, 
 Oh Saviour, my Jesu, now liberate me ! 
 
 In horrible prison, 
 
 And gloom, have arisen 
 My sighs, oh my Jesu, incessant to thee; 
 
 But oh, on my sorrow, 
 
 Has brightened no morrow, 
 Yet hear me, my Jesu, and liberate me ! 
 
 Oh blessed Redeemer, I've trusted in thee, 
 And still will I trust thee, to liberate me ! 
 
 And so, while I languish, 
 
 I cry in my anguish, 
 Adoring, imploring, and bending the knee ; 
 
 In sorrow and tremor, 
 
 Oh blessed Redeemer, 
 Smile on me from Heaven, and liberate me ! 
 
LAKE BYROM, 
 
 IN THE COUNTY OF WESTCHESTER, N. Y. 
 
 1; 
 
 By thy still waters, lonely Lake, 
 
 The wild-dove builds her hermit home, 
 And there her matin-song doth make, 
 
 Where mornings all like Sabbaths come : 
 O'er thee she flits with silent wing, 
 
 Or lulls thee with its silken sound, 
 Thee — sleeping like a holy thing, 
 
 And hid from all the world around. 
 
 2. 
 
 No voice along thy leafy shore, 
 
 But nature's hymns are rising there, 
 Nor oft the echo-waking oar 
 
 Disturbs thy breast, and haunted air ! 
 A fane upon thy water side 
 
 With lights ablaze in every cell, 
 How bright 'twould seem at eventide, 
 
 How soft be heard its Vesper Bell ' 
 
LAKE BYROME. 12- 
 
 By thy still waters, lonely Lake, 
 
 I too could build a hermit home, 
 Where mornings all like Sabbaths break, 
 
 And Earth's alarm can never come ; 
 And there, this bosom, Heavenly Dove, 
 
 A cell for thy repose might be, 
 Forsaking all for worlds above, 
 
 And all the world forsaking me. 
 
HYMN FOR EPIPHANY. 
 
 WESTERN MISSIONS 
 
 Lord, when thou didst come from Heaven, 
 
 Edom sought thee, from afar, 
 With her gold and incense given, 
 
 By the leading of a star ; 
 Westward then, from Eden guiding, 
 
 Was the light of Bethlehem shed ; 
 Like the pillar' d blaze abiding 
 
 O'er the wandering Hebrew's head. 
 
 2. 
 
 Westward still, the world alluring, 
 
 Hath the risen Day-Star beamed. 
 And, the sinking soul assuring, 
 
 O'er the world's wide ocean streamed. 
 Westward still, the midnight breaking, 
 
 Westward still, its light be poured ! 
 Heathen thy possession making, 
 
 Utmost lands thy dwelling, Lord ! 
 
 
HYMN FOR EPIPHANY. 127 
 
 3. 
 
 Westward, where from giant fountains, 
 
 Oregon comes down in flood, 
 Westward to Missouri's mountains, 
 
 Or to wild Iowa's wood : 
 Where the broad Arkansas goeth, 
 
 Winding o'er savannahs wide ; 
 Where, beyond old Huron, floweth 
 
 Many a strong eternal tide. 
 
 Westward, where the wavy prairie 
 
 Dark as slumbering ocean lies, 
 Let thy starlight, Son of Mary, 
 
 O'er the shadow'd billows rise ! 
 There, be heard ye herald voices 
 
 Till the Lord his glory shows, 
 And the lonely place rejoices, 
 
 With the bloom of Sharon's rose. 
 
 5. 
 
 Where the wilderness is lying, 
 
 And the trees of ages nod, 
 Westward, in the desert crying, 
 
 Make a highway for our God : 
 Westward — till the Church be kneeling 
 
 In the forest aisles so dim, 
 And the wild woods arches pealing, 
 
 With the people's holy hymn ! 
 
128 HYMN FOR EPIPHANY. 
 
 6. 
 
 Westward, still, oh Lord, in glory 
 
 Ec thy bannered cross unfurled, 
 Till from vale to mountain hoary, 
 
 Rolls the anthem round the world ; 
 Reign, oh reign o'er every nation, 
 
 Reign, Redeemer, Father, King, 
 And with songs of thy salvation, 
 
 Let the wide creation ring ! 
 
IN RADIANCE HE CAME. 
 
 I. 
 
 In radiance he came from the mount where he 
 
 bowed, 
 To talk with the Lord in the veil of the cloud ; 
 And light flashed before him, as trembling he trod, 
 From the mountain that quaked at the coming of 
 
 God. 
 
 2. 
 
 'Twas Israel's Prophet — oh breathe not his name, 
 Who talked with the Lord till his visage was flame ; 
 Whose brow with the smile of Jehovah did glow, 
 And shone with the blaze of his glory below ! 
 
 3. 
 
 Oh, bright as the mercy-seat, dazzling afar, 
 He rose on the night of the vale like a star, 
 And dread was the sight to the recreant's mirth, 
 Who praised his grim idol, while God was on earth. 
 12 
 
130 IN RADIANCE HE CAME. 
 
 4. 
 
 Then flew the swift shudder electric of fear, 
 And stole the breath-whisper of guilt on the ear, 
 And the dancer was dumb at his orgies abhorr'd, 
 And the renegade priest knew the friend of the Lord. 
 
 5. 
 And the virgins of Judah are lightsome of limb 
 As they whirl round the Calf to alove-breathinghymn; 
 And the damsel's swift heel hath a language that 
 
 speaks, 
 And the hue of her heart flushes warm on her cheeks. 
 
 6. 
 A moment — and mute as the startled gazelle, 
 All wild is her eye — the dark eye of her spell ! 
 And breaks the frail ring o'er the dance-beaten sod, 
 Like flowers dropping pale from their garlanded god. 
 
 7. 
 So dazzling the beauty of holiness bright ! 
 The glory of goodness — the wonderful light ! 
 So, Lord, would I shine from my converse above, 
 So shed on the nations the light of thy love. 
 
 8. 
 And so from the mountains the height of my prayer, 
 Where dwelling with thee, it was good to be there, 
 Grant, Lord, I may stoop to the valleys below, 
 With visage all radiant, and features that glow. 
 
HYMN IN HOLY WEEK. 
 
 1. 
 
 Who is this, with garments gory, 
 
 Triumphing from Bozrah's way; 
 This, that weareth robes of glory, 
 
 Bright, with more than vict'ry's ray ; 
 Who is this unwearied comer 
 
 From the journey's sultry length, 
 Travelling through Idume's summer, 
 
 In the greatness of his strength ! 
 
 2. 
 
 Wherefore red in thine apparel, 
 
 Like the conquerors of Earth, 
 And arrayed like those who carol 
 
 O'er the reeking vineyard's mirth ; 
 Who art thou, the valleys seeking, 
 
 Where our peaceful harvests wave ! 
 I — in righteous anger speaking, 
 
 I — the mighty one to save. 
 
132 HYMN IN HOLY WEEK. 
 
 3. 
 
 I, that of the raging heathen 
 
 Trod the wine-press all alone, 
 Now in victor-garlands wreathen, 
 
 Coming to redeem mine own : 
 lam He with sprinkled raiment 
 
 Glorious from my vengeance hour, 
 Ransoming with priceless payment, 
 
 And delivering with power. 
 
 4. 
 
 Hail, all hail thou Lord of Glory ! 
 
 Thee our Father, thee we own ! 
 Abram heard not of our story, 
 
 Israel ne'er our name hath known ; 
 But, Redeemer, thou hast sought us, 
 
 Thou hast heard thy children's wail, 
 Thou with thy dear blood, hast bought us, 
 
 Hail, thou mighty Victor, hail ! 
 
THE LAST PLAGUE OF EGYPT. 
 
 1. 
 Deep night o'er thy waters, thou dark-rolling Nile, 
 And the Hebrew sleeps trembling, his lord with a 
 
 smile, 
 For a voice comes in dreams to the children of God : 
 But the proud have no whisper that Death is abroad ! 
 
 So, nestled in rocks, when the whirlwind is nigh, 
 They hear its far coming— the birds of the sky ! 
 While trees it must shiver in leaf and in form, 
 Are hush as the stillness that heralds the storm. 
 
 And the Memphian, at midnight, lay smiling and 
 
 pleased, 
 His sin all unshriven, his God unappeas'd, 
 Till o'er his dark slumbers chill shadows were curl'd, 
 And the soul of the dreamer was far from the world. 
 12* 
 
134 THE LAST PLAGUE OF EGYPT. 
 
 4. 
 
 And he lay in the coils of the death-spirit, mute, 
 With a seal on his lips, like the blast in the fruit : 
 And he seem'd as when hoar-frost hath stiffen'd the 
 
 flower j 
 'Twas the blight of the Lord, 'twas the touch of his 
 
 power. 
 
 But still was the starlight — while, shrouded and 
 
 hid, 
 Death brooded o'er palace, and cold pyramid ; 
 No voice on the midnight; no larum of wrath; 
 No sound of the whirlwind — but only its path. 
 
 6. 
 
 And a cry was in Egypt, when rose the red morn, 
 For a thousand pale mothers bewail'd their first 
 
 born; 
 And Memnon's sweet music that greeted the Sun 
 Was lost in the moan of a nation undone. 
 
 And shriek 1 d the young wife o'er the child of her 
 
 pain, 
 That never should breathe on her bosom again, 
 And breasts that were warm with their nursling 
 
 before, 
 But heaved, in her grief, for the boy that she bore- 
 
THE LAST PLAGUE OF EGYrT. 13- r » 
 
 8. 
 
 And the bride shrunk aghast, like the death-stricken 
 
 dove, 
 When she woke in the cold frozen lock of her love : 
 And a groan for the noble, the Lovely outpour'd, 
 A wail for the battle they waged with the Lord. 
 
 9. 
 
 And they seem'd like the willows, that, left on the 
 
 steep, 
 Are bent o'er the wreck of the forest to weep, 
 Or lilies that dripping, and drooping of form, 
 Shed tears o'er the broken, the spoil of the storm. 
 
 10. 
 
 Ye join not the wailing, ye dwellers of Zan ! 
 Hath the death-angel spared ye, that smote as he ran? 
 Oh, the blood-sprinkled lintel hath stayed his proud 
 
 reign, 
 And watch'd at yourthreshhold the Lamb that was 
 
 slain. 
 
HYMN TO THE REDEEMER. 
 
 1. 
 
 When o'er Judea's vales and hills, 
 Or by her olive-shaded rills, 
 Thy weary footsteps went of old, 
 Or walked the lulling waters bold, 
 How beauteous were the marks divine, 
 That in thy meekness used to shine. 
 That lit thy lonely pathway, trod 
 In wondrous love, O Lamb of God ! 
 
 Oh ! who like thee, so calm, so bright, 
 So pure, so made to live in light, 
 Oh ! who like thee, did ever go 
 So patient, through a world of wo, 
 Oh ! who like thee, so humbly bore 
 The scorn, the scoffs of men before, 
 So meek, forgiving, god-like, high, 
 So glorious in humility ! 
 
HYMN TO THE REDEEMER. 137 
 
 The morning saw thee, like the day, 
 Forth on thy light-bestowing way ; 
 And evening in her holy hues, 
 Shed down her sweet baptismal dews, 
 Where bending angels stoop'd to see 
 The lisping infant clasp thy knee, 
 And smile, as in a father's eye, 
 Upon thy mild divinity ! 
 
 4. 
 
 The hours when princes sought their rest 
 Beheld thee, still, no chamber's guest ; 
 But when the chilly night hung round, 
 And man from thee, sweet slumber found, 
 Thy wearied footsteps sought, alone, 
 The mountain to thy sorrows known, 
 And darkness heard thy patient prayer, 
 Or hid thee, in the prowler's lair, 
 
 5. 
 
 And all thy life's unchanging years, 
 A man of sorrows, and of tears, 
 The cross, where all our sins were laid, 
 Upon thy bending shoulders weigh'd; 
 And death, that sets the pris'ner free, 
 Was pang, and scoff, and scorn to thee ; 
 Yet love through all thy torture glow'd, 
 And mercy with thy life-blood flow'd. 
 
13S HYMN TO THE REDEEMER. 
 
 O wondrous Lord ! my soul would-be 
 Still more and more conform'd to thee, 
 Would lose the pride, the taint of sin, 
 That burns these fever'd veins within, 
 And learn of Thee, the lowly one, 
 And like thee, all my journey run, 
 Above the world, and all its mirth, 
 Yet weeping still with weeping earth. 
 
 7. 
 
 Oh ! in thy light, be mine to go, 
 Illuming all my way of wo; 
 And give me ever, on the road, 
 To trace thy footsteps, O my God ! 
 My passions lull, my spirit calm, 
 And make this lion-heart a lamb ; 
 And give me all my life to be 
 A sacrifice to love and thee !