LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
 
 ©lap ©np^rtg^i Ifu 
 
 Shelf _Jx2l 
 
 UNITED STATES OF AMEEIOA. 
 
;w #~*- 
 
 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 r^H» 
 
EVENINGS 
 
 WITH THE 
 
 SACRED POETS 
 
 A SERIES OF QUIET TALKS ABOUT THE SINGERS 
 AND THEIR SONGS. 
 
 BY 
 
 ^ 
 
 FREDERICK SAUNDERS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF "SALAD FOR THE SOLITARY AND THE SOCIAL,' 
 "PASTIME PAPERS," ETC. 
 
 REVISED AND ENLARGED. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH AND COMPANY, 
 
 900 Broadway, Cor. 2o T h Street. 
 
 \% 
 
-o^\ N 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ ^ 
 
 ^ 
 
 Copyright, /88s, 
 By Anson D. F. Randolph and Company. 
 
 SSntbemtg ^resss : 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THIS work has not only been revised throughout, 
 but enlarged by the addition of two new chap- 
 ters, continuing the work to the present time. These 
 chapters comprise many poetic gems from our modern 
 sacred anthology, including some recent fugitive poems 
 of grace and beauty. 
 
 The scope of the work is wide-spread and compre- 
 hensive, and presents in a succinct form the essence of 
 much that is most interesting, in anecdote and historic 
 illustration, referring to the sacred poetry and hymnol- 
 ogy of the Christian ages. The notes and incidents 
 relating to poet or poem are enriched and illuminated 
 with brief yet brilliant inspiration-bursts of holy song. 
 
 There are, in this loud, stunning tide 
 
 Of human care and crime, 
 With whom the melodies abide 
 
 Of th' everlasting chime ; 
 Who carry music in their heart 
 Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, 
 Plying their daily task with busier feet 
 Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat* 
 
 All, therefore, who delight in the Muse of Zion will 
 scarcely fail to be charmed with the exaltation of 
 
 *Keble. 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 feeling, religious fervor, and rare spiritual beauty that 
 characterize these choice poems. In the preparation 
 of a work like the present, extending over such wide 
 historic distances, and comprising such an accumula- 
 tion of facts and citations, occasionally from obscure 
 times and sources, it is almost too much to expect 
 that it should be wholly free from inaccuracies ; should 
 any be found, they must solicit the indulgence of the 
 reader. 
 
 In concluding these preliminary lines, acknowledg- 
 ment of obligations is made to the many eminent writers 
 whose valuable productions have been consulted, and 
 from which citations have been chosen, in the compila- 
 tion of this volume. References to these authorities are 
 noted where the extracts appear; but, should in any 
 instance this be found to be omitted, it is hoped that 
 the neglect will be kindly attributed to accident. 
 
SERIES OF EVENINGS. 
 
 -o- 
 
 Page 
 
 I. Biblical, Greek, and Early Latin n 
 
 II. Medleval Latin 43 
 
 III. German Reformation Era 81 
 
 IV. German Thirty Years' War 121 
 
 V. Swedish, French, Spanish, etc 177 
 
 VI. Early English 219 
 
 VII. Later English 271 
 
 VIII. Later English (Concluded) 333 
 
 IX. Modern English and American 395 
 
 X. Modern English and American (Concluded) . . 439 
 
 XL Recent American and English 481 
 
 XII. Recent American and English (Concluded) . . 523 
 
 Index of Names 569 
 
J ET those who will, hang rapturously o'er 
 
 The flowing eloquence of Plato's page ; 
 Repeat, with flashing eye, the sounds that pour 
 
 F?'om Homer's verse, as with a torrenfs rage: 
 
 Let those who list, ask Tully to assuage 
 Wild hearts with high-wrought pe7'iods, and restore 
 
 The reign of rhetoric; or maxims sage 
 Winnow from Seneca's sententious lore : 
 Not these, but Judah's hallowed bards, to me 
 Are dear, — Isaiah's noble energy, 
 
 The temperate grief of Job, the artless strain 
 Of Ruth and pastoral Amos, the high songs 
 Of David, and the tale of Joseph's wrongs, — 
 
 Simply pathetic, eloquently plain ! 
 
 Sir Aubrey de Vere. 
 
FIRST EVENING. 
 
 BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN. 
 
FIRST EVENING. 
 
 BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN 
 
 'THHE Divine Oracles are the fountain -source of 
 -*■ sacred song. " The golden conception of a 
 Paradise is the poet's guiding thought ; the bright 
 idea, which has left its glow among the traditions of 
 Eastern and Western nations in many mythical forms, 
 presents itself in the Mosaic books in the form of sub- 
 stantial history ; and the conception, as such, is entirely 
 biblical."* While poetry had thus its birthplace in 
 Palestine, where the aspects of nature are so emi- 
 nently sublime and suggestive, her earliest priest- 
 hood — the patriarchal seers and prophets — were also 
 endowed with a Divine inspiration. Need we wonder, 
 therefore, that the loftiest strains of poesy to which 
 the world has ever listened should be the Hebrew, or 
 that its themes and utterances should immeasurably 
 transcend in grandeur and sublimity the highest 
 achievements of the Attic muse ? An eloquent writer f 
 has remarked, that "the Bible is a mass of beautiful 
 figures : its words and thoughts are alike poetical. It 
 has gathered around its central truths all natural 
 beauty and interest : it is a temple with one altar and 
 one God, illuminated by a thousand varied lights and 
 studded ornaments. It has substantially but one dec- 
 
 * Isaac Taylor. t Gilfillan. 
 
12 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 laration to make, but it utters it in the voices of crea- 
 tion ! " Well might Mrs. Browning ask, " Has not 
 love a deeper mystery than wisdom, and a more in- 
 effable lustre than power?" It is this great burden of 
 the Bible — "God is love" — that renders it, alike, so 
 inestimable a treasure, and so unapproachably glo- 
 rious. Of the Hebrew lyrics enshrined in the sacred 
 volume, the oldest is the song of Lamech : the next — 
 most imposing, perhaps — is that by the great lawgiver, 
 "chanted on the shores of the Red Sea, with a nation 
 for its chorus ; " and that triumphant shout of victory 
 — symbolic of the Divine intervention for the spiritual 
 rescue of humanity — has ever since been reverberat- 
 ing, in sweetest echoes, athwart the ages. No less 
 noteworthy are the songs of Deborah, of Balaam, of 
 Hannah, and of Job. For grandeur of conception, 
 majesty of diction, and force of imagery, where shall 
 we find poetry to equal many passages in the four last 
 chapters of the record of the patriarch of Uz ? 
 Throughout the prophetic writings, are there not also 
 to be found marvellous bursts of poetic inspiration, of 
 rare beauty and power? The Proverbs are an illus- 
 tration of the didactic form of Hebrew poetry ; the 
 book of Ruth, of the pastoral ; and that of Esther, of 
 the dramatic. The Song of Solomon, so replete with 
 Oriental hyperbole, is amongst the most eminently 
 poetic of the Sacred Scriptures. What glowing beauty 
 and exquisite music mingle in its invocation to Spring : 
 
 Lo '. the winter is past, 
 
 The rain is over and gone ; 
 
 The flowers appear on the earth ; 
 
 The time of the singing of birds is come, 
 
 And the voice of the turtle 
 
 Is heard in our land. 
 
BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN. 1 3 
 
 David's lamentation over Jonathan is a beautiful illus- 
 tration of the rhetoric of grief. Again, what can equal 
 that wonderful description of the decline of life, in 
 Ecclesiastes? — 
 
 When the keepers of the house shall tremble, 
 And the strong men shall bow themselves, 
 And the grinders shall cease because they are few, 
 And those that look out of the windows be darkened. 
 
 Of the sublime and grand, the following burst from 
 Isaiah is a beautiful example : — 
 
 Who hath measured the waters 
 
 In the hollow of his hand, 
 
 And meted out heaven with the span, 
 
 And comprehended the dust 
 
 Of the earth in a measure, 
 
 And weighed the mountains in scales, 
 
 And the hills in a balance ! 
 
 Here is an exquisite passage from Habakkuk : — 
 
 Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, 
 Neither shall fruit be in the vines ; 
 The labor of the olive shall fail, 
 And the fields shall yield no meat ; 
 The flock shall be cut off from the fold, 
 And there shall be no herd in the stalls, — 
 Yet will I rejoice in the Lord, 
 I will joy in the God of my salvation ! 
 
 How intense, full-souled, and spiritual is the book of 
 Psalms ! The divine sentiments embalmed in these 
 deathless songs of the minstrel -monarch of Israel 
 have been ever cherished by the Christian as an in- 
 valuable repository of consolation and counsel in all 
 times of affliction, and a divine guide and auxiliary to 
 devout aspirations, in seasons of hope and rejoicing. 
 
*4 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Said worthy Dr. Donne, "The Psalms are the manna 
 of the Church. Some are imperial psalms, commanding 
 all affection, and spreading themselves over all occa- 
 sions, — catholic, universal psalms, — that apply them- 
 selves to all necessities." The gifted Edward Irving 
 thus eloquently refers to these matchless inspirations : 
 "Where are there such expressions of the varied con- 
 ditions into which human nature is cast by the acci- 
 dents of Providence, — such delineations of deep 
 affliction and inconsolable anguish ; and, anon, such 
 joy, such rapture, such revelry of emotion, in the 
 worship of the living God? — such invocations to all 
 nature, animate and inanimate ; such summonings of 
 the hidden powers of harmony, and of the breathing 
 instruments of melody ? David hath dressed out 
 Religion in such a rich and beautiful garment of 
 divine poesy, as beseemeth her majesty ; in which 
 being arrayed, she can stand up before the eyes, even 
 of her enemies, in more royal state, than any personi- 
 fication of love or glory or pleasure, to which highly 
 gifted mortals have devoted their genius." And, 
 still later, an eloquent son of the American church * 
 tells us: "David has left no sweeter psalm than the 
 short Twenty-third. It is but a moment's opening 
 of his soul ; yet in it are emitted truths of peace and 
 consolation that will never be absent from the world. 
 It is the nightingale of the Psalms : it is small, of a 
 homely feather, singing slyly out of obscurity ; but 
 oh ! it has filled the whole world with melodious joy 
 greater than the heart can conceive. It has charmed 
 more griefs to rest than all the philosophy of the 
 world; it has poured balm and consolation into the 
 
 * H. W. Beecher. 
 
BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN. 15 
 
 hearts of the dying. Nor will it fold its wing till the 
 last pilgrim is safe, and time ended ; and then it shall 
 fly back to the bosom of God, from whence it issued." 
 It was the Fifty-first Psalm that Rogers, the first 
 martyr of English Protestantism, sang, as he passed 
 from his prison to the stake at Smithfield ; and who 
 shall enumerate the multitude of Christian pilgrims 
 who have derived spiritual counsel and comfort from 
 these divine utterances? Listen to this sublime chant 
 of adoration, at the commencement of the One-hundred- 
 and-fourth Psalm : — 
 
 Bless the Lord, O my soul ! 
 
 O Lord, my God, Thou art very great : 
 
 Thou art clothed with honor and majesty, 
 
 Who coverest Thyself with light as with a garment, 
 
 Who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain, 
 
 Who layest the beams of Thy chambers in the waters. 
 
 Who makest the clouds Thy chariots, 
 
 Who walkest upon the wings of the wind ! 
 
 What strength and sublimity, too, in this invocation at 
 the close of the Twenty-fourth Psalm : — 
 
 Lift up your heads, O ye gates ; 
 
 And be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors ; 
 
 And the King of Glory shall come in ! 
 
 Who is this King of Glory ? 
 
 The Lord strong and mighty, 
 
 The Lord mighty in battle ! 
 
 Lift up your heads, O ye gates ; 
 
 Even lift them up, ye everlasting doors ; 
 
 And the King of Glory shall come in ! 
 
 Who is this King of Glory ? — 
 
 The Lord of Hosts, — He is the King of Glory ! 
 
 And how magnificent a spectacle must it have been 
 to see the glittering throng of Jewish worshippers 
 
1 6 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 as the mighty procession, with their priests and musi- 
 cians, moved, in stately measures, onward to the gor- 
 geously appointed Temple, chanting this jubilant 
 anthem of praise to Jehovah ! — 
 
 I am glad when they say to me, 
 
 Let us go into the House of Jehovah. 
 
 My feet shall stand within thy gates, 
 
 O Jerusalem ! 
 Jerusalem is built a compact city, 
 House joins to house within it. 
 Thither the Tribes go up, the Tribes of Jehovah, 
 To the memorial feast for Israel, 
 To praise the majesty of Jehovah. 
 There stand the thrones of Judgment, 
 The thrones which the King hath established. 
 Pray for the peace of Jerusalem, 
 They shall prosper that love thee. 
 Peace be within thy walls, 
 And tranquillity within thy palaces : 
 For my brethren and companions' sakes, 
 I will say, Peace be within thee ; 
 Because of the Temple of our God, 
 I will seek thy good. * 
 
 We learn, from the experience of the centuries, how 
 precious a relic the minstrel -monarch of Israel be- 
 queathed to the Church, in his Psalms. According 
 to Dean Stanley, Sir Patrick Hume beguiled the 
 weary hours of his imprisonment by repeating to him- 
 self Buchanan's version of the Psalms, which he had 
 committed to memory. Augustine was consoled, on 
 his conversion, and on his death-bed, by their sweet 
 solace ; and Chrysostom, Athanasius, Savonarola, and 
 many others like them, were cheered and sustained 
 thereby amid sore persecution. How many, like 
 Poly carp, and Jerome of Prague, or Jewel and Me- 
 
 * Herder's paraphrase. 
 
BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN. 1 7 
 
 lancthon, expired with the words of a psalm upon 
 their lips? The sixty-eighth Psalm cheered Crom- 
 well's soldiers to victory at Dunbar ; and others 
 formed the basis of the brave war-lyrics of the heroic 
 Luther. 
 
 David, it has been beautifully said, M has bequeathed 
 us so many psalms in which the waiting, contrite 
 soulo, of ages so remote, and races so diverse, as ours 
 from his, find a fuller and fitter expression of their 
 aspirations and their needs, than all the piety and 
 genius of intervening ages have been able to indite. 
 Yes, this untaught shepherd-son of Jesse, this leader 
 in many a sanguinary fight, this man of a thousand 
 faults, knew how to sweep the cords of the human 
 heart, as few or none have ever touched them before 
 or since, — to take that heart, with all its frailty, its 
 error, its sin, and lay it penitently, pleadingly, at the 
 footstool of its Maker and Judge, and teach it by what 
 utterances, in what spirit, to implore forgiveness and 
 help. Other thrones have their successions, dynas- 
 ties, their races of occupants ; but David reigns un- 
 challenged king of Psalmody till time shall be no 
 more." * 
 
 " How strange it seems, to fall upon those wonderful 
 lyrics in the Psalms of David, singing to us out of the 
 rude ages of the past, where we naturally expect 
 harshness and severity ! How wonderful that our 
 age should go back to this old warrior to learn ten- 
 derness ! — that the most exquisite views of Divine 
 compassion should spring forth from the world's 
 untrained periods; — from Moses, the shepherd and 
 legislator of the desert ; and from David, the sweet 
 
 * Horace Greeley. 
 2 
 
l8 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 singer of Israel, whose hand was mightiest among the 
 mighty, whether laid upon the strings of the bow or 
 of the harp."* 
 
 The majestic grandeur of the Mosaic record of cre- 
 ation was not unnoticed, even by that noble Greek 
 philosopher, Longinus, who thus curiously cites the 
 passage, in his treatise on the Sublime: — 
 
 And God said — What ? Let there be light ! 
 
 And there was light ! 
 
 Let the earth be ! — and the earth was ! 
 
 Kindred examples of sublimity might be quoted from 
 the New Testament: let one suffice, — the Divine in- 
 vocation, — 
 
 Lazarus, come forth ! 
 
 The three Christian songs of primitive times were 
 those of the Virgin, of Zacharias, and of Simeon. 
 These, it has been beautifully said,| formed, "The first 
 triad of Christian hymns, the three matin-songs of 
 Christianity. Ere another was added to the sacred list, 
 the great victory, which had thus been sung, had to be 
 won, — not with songs, but with f strong crying and 
 tears,' and unutterable anguish, — by one dying, hu- 
 man voice, speaking in darkness from the cross, f It is 
 finished!'" Yet are these dying-words the fountain- 
 head of every hymn of joy and triumph, which men 
 have ever sung since Eden was closed, or ever will 
 sing throughout eternity. 
 
 The sweetest melody that ever echoed from the 
 skies was the ecstatic hymn of the angel-band, on the 
 plains of Bethlehem, announcing the grace of Heaven 
 to our sin-smitten earth : — 
 
 * H. W. Beecher. t Christian Life in Song. 
 
BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN. 19 
 
 Glory to God in the highest, 
 
 On earth peace, good-will toward men ! 
 
 Jude's closing benediction is a beautiful burst of poetic 
 grandeur : — 
 
 Now unto Him that is able to keep you from falling, 
 
 And to present you faultless before the presence 
 
 Of His glory, with exceeding joy, — 
 
 To the only wise God, our Saviour, 
 
 Be glory and majesty, dominion and power, 
 
 Both now and ever, Amen. 
 
 w Its divine Author made the Bible not only an in- 
 structive book, but an attractive one : He filled it with 
 marvellous incident and engaging history, — with 
 sunny pictures from Old- Wo rid scenery, and affecting 
 anecdotes from the patriarchal times. He replenished 
 it with stately argument and thrilling verse ; He made 
 it a book of lofty thoughts and noble images, — a book 
 of heavenly doctrine, but withal of earthly adapta- 
 tion." * "As a skilful musician, called to execute 
 alone some masterpiece, puts his lips, by turns, to the 
 mournful flute, the shepherd's-reed, the mirthful pipe, 
 and the war-trumpet ; so the Almighty God, to sound 
 in our ears His eternal word, has selected, from of old, 
 the instruments best suited to receive, successively, 
 the breath of His Spirit. Thus we have, in God's 
 great anthem of Revelation, the sublime simplicity of 
 John ; the argumentative, elliptical, soul-stirring en- 
 ergy of Paul ; the fervor and solemnity of Peter ; the 
 poetic grandeur of Isaiah ; the lyric moods of David ; 
 the ingenuous and majestic narratives of Moses ; and 
 the sententious and royal wisdom of Solomon. Yes, 
 it was all this — it was Peter, Isaiah, Matthew, John, 
 or Moses ; but it was God." f 
 
 * Hamilton. \ Gaussen. 
 
20 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 In passing from the "goodly fellowship of the 
 prophets," to the "company of the apostles," we come 
 to the wondrous Apocalyptic vision of Patmos. Here 
 metaphor, symbol, and trope revel in richest exuber- 
 ance and prodigality of beauty and grandeur. In all 
 the realm of Poesy, there are no passages more truly 
 sublime than are to be found in the Apocalypse, the 
 closing book of the sacred canon. An eloquent eccle- 
 siastical historian * compares it, on this account, to the 
 grand altar- window of the great Temple of Truth, 
 or of a cathedral, through which gleams gorgeous 
 imagery of richly variegated hues, diffusing a celestial 
 glory over the earthly sanctuary. May not this beau- 
 tiful figure be applied, at least in a subordinate sense, 
 to all true sacred poetry ; since its themes are, for the 
 most part, those of supernal grandeur, — not limited 
 to the affairs of our present estate of being, but also 
 pertaining 10 our immortality? 
 
 How beautiful is genius, when combined 
 
 With holiness, — O, how divinely sweet 
 
 The tones of earthly harp, whose chords are touched 
 
 By the soft hand of Piety, and hung 
 
 Upon Religion's shrine ! t 
 
 Such noble service has been rendered by multitudes 
 of loving and gifted spirits, whose beautiful melodies, 
 thus consecrated to the sublimest of all themes, and 
 to the highest instincts of our being, are still echoing 
 through the ages, and will ever continue to find a living 
 response in all Christian hearts. Many of those sweet 
 singers belong to the noble army of martyrs and confes- 
 sors, — men of spiritual might and prowess, — victors 
 
 * Mahan. t Wilson. 
 

 BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN. 21 
 
 who have fought valiantly for truth and virtue, in times of 
 darkness and peril. To the ear rightly attuned, some 
 of those grand choral harmonies of the early centuries, 
 as well as the heroic stanzas of the lion-hearted Luther, 
 come laden to us with inexpressible sweetness and 
 power. These minstrelsies are enshrined in the bosom 
 of the Church catholic, as the precious legacy of her 
 departed saints and sages ; and all who cherish a hope 
 in. the beatitudes of Heaven, will love to linger fondly 
 over these beautiful and expressive utterances. They 
 are the experiences of patient faith in times of sad un- 
 rest, — the plaintive " songs in the night " of sorrow, 
 as well as of the alternations of ecstatic bursts of joy. 
 The type of early Christian life which they reveal, is 
 identical, in all its phases, with that of our own time. 
 How can we, then, too highly prize these sacred relics 
 of the past ? Yes : the Christian of our own time is stirred 
 by the same antagonisms of flesh and spirit, conscious 
 of the same keen conflict between sin and grace, drawn 
 onward by the same hopes, prompted to action by the 
 same aspirations, and borne aloft by the same impul- 
 sive motives. Despite the mental activity and intel- 
 lectual development of the nineteenth century, we find 
 ourselves on the same platform of faith and hope, and 
 love, with those whose spiritual condition and progress 
 were described centuries ago. The continuous stream 
 of hallowed poesy flows on ; age after age lifts up its 
 voice; voice after voice takes up the subject; and it is 
 perpetuated with but a varied rhythm, and in, perhaps, 
 a slightly varied key. The earliest known Christian 
 hymn is that ascribed to Clement, Bishop of Alexan- 
 dria, who suffered martyrdom a.d. 217. Fragments of 
 still earlier date meet us in the older liturgies ; but 
 
22 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 this Greek hymn is the one complete relic of the wor- 
 ship of the close of the second century. It is remark- 
 able for its quaintly interwoven imagery, under which 
 our Saviour is impersonated. It is also remarkable 
 for its glowing beauty and archaic simplicity. We 
 subjoin some portions of the English rendering by the 
 Rev. Mr. Plumptre : — 
 
 Shepherd of sheep that own 
 Their Master on the throne, 
 Stir up Thy children meek 
 With guileless lips to speak, 
 In hymn and song, Thy praise, 
 Guide of their infant ways. 
 O King of saints, O Lord ! 
 Mighty, all-conquering Word ; 
 Son of the highest God, 
 Wielding His Wisdom's rod ; 
 Our stay when cares annoy, 
 Giver of endless joy ; 
 Of all our mortal race 
 Saviour of boundless grace, — 
 O Jesus, hear. 
 
 Lead us, O Shepherd true, 
 Thy mystic sheep, we sue : 
 Lead us, O holy Lord, 
 Who from Thy sons dost ward, 
 With all-prevailing charm, 
 Peril and curse and harm ; 
 O Path where Christ hath trod, 
 O Way that leads to God, 
 O Word abiding aye, 
 O endless Light on high, 
 Mercy's fresh-springing flood, 
 Worker of all things good, 
 O glorious Life of all 
 That on their Maker call, — 
 Christ Jesus, hear. 
 
BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN. 23 
 
 Of Clement's personal history scarcely any thing is 
 known, except that he lived in times of terrible perse- 
 cution ; having been himself obliged at length to flee 
 for his life, from Alexandria. The few words following, 
 from one of his homilies, will serve to commend his 
 saintship to our hearty friendship and regard : " Prayer, 
 if I may speak so boldly, is intercourse with God. 
 Even if we do but lisp, even though we silently ad- 
 dress God without opening our lips, yet we cry to 
 Him in the inmost recesses of the heart ; for God al- 
 ways listens to the sincere direction of the heart to 
 Him." The "Gloria in Excelsis " is probably trace- 
 able to an earlier date than that of Clement, — its 
 exact origin not being determined ; at all events, it is 
 a precious heirloom in the household of faith ; linking, 
 like the divine oracles, the faith and worship of the 
 primitive, with the present age of the Church. 
 
 After Clement, we have no account of any other 
 Greek hymnist till Ephraem Syrus, a monk of Meso- 
 potamia, — "that land beyond the flood," in which the 
 "father of the faithful" was called to be a pilgrim. 
 Ephraem is supposed to have died about a.d. 378. The 
 songs of this Syrian saint are regarded, by critics, as 
 among the finest of the Greek Church, being charac- 
 terized by deep devotional feeling, and force and beau- 
 ty of imagery. Here are some examples from Daniel's 
 German version of the Syriac : — 
 
 The heavens in their quiet beauty 
 
 Praise Thy essential majesty ! 
 The heights rejoice, from whence Thou earnest, 
 
 The depths spring up to welcome Thee ! 
 The sea exults to feel Thy footsteps, 
 
 The land Thy tread, Lord, knoweth well ; 
 
24 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Our human nature brings thanksgivings 
 
 Because Thy Godhead there doth dwell ! 
 To-day the sun, rejoicing, shineth, 
 
 With happy radiance, tenfold bright, 
 In homage to that Sun of Glory 
 
 Who brings to all the nations light ! 
 The moon shall shed her fairest lustre, 
 
 O'er all the heavens her softest glow, 
 Thee, on her radiant heights adoring, 
 
 Who for our sakes hast stooped so low ! 
 And all the starry hosts of heaven, 
 
 In festive robes of light arrayed, 
 Shall bring their festal hymns, as offerings 
 
 To Him who all so fair hath made. 
 To-day the forests are rejoicing ; 
 
 Each tree its own sweet anthem sings, 
 Because we wave their leafy branches 
 
 As banners for the King of kings ! * 
 
 The following funeral hymn by this sweet Syrian 
 singer, formerly sung at the death of children, is re- 
 plete with touching pathos, and beautifully portrays 
 the strife of Christian faith with natural affection, and 
 the triumph of the former in resignation : — 
 
 Child, by God's sweet mercy given to thy mother and to me, — 
 Entering this world of sorrows, by His grace, — so fair to see : 
 Fair as some sweet flower in summer, till Death's hand on thee 
 
 was laid, 
 Scorched the beauty from my flower, made the tender petals fade. 
 Yet I dare not weep nor murmur, for I know the King of kings 
 Leads thee to His marriage-chamber, — to the glorious bridal brings 
 Nature fain would leave me weeping, love asserts her mournfui 
 
 right ; 
 But I answer, they have brought thee to the happy world of light ! 
 And I fear that my lamentings, as I speak thy cherished name, 
 Desecrate the Royal dwelling, — fear to meet deserved blame, 
 If I press with tears of anguish into the abode of joy ; 
 Therefore, will I, meekly bowing, offer thee to God, my boy ! 
 
 * Mrs. Charles's translation. 
 
BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN. 25 
 
 Yet thy voice, thy childish singing, soundeth ever in my ears ; 
 And I listen, and remember, till mine eyes will gather tears, 
 Thinking of thy pretty prattlings, and thy childish words of love ; 
 But when I begin to murmur, then my spirit looks above, — 
 Listens to the songs of spirits ; listens, longing, wondering, 
 To the ceaseless glad hosannas angels at thy bridal sing.* 
 
 Gregory, of Nazianzum, ascetic in heart though he 
 was, seems never to have forgotten the genial influ- 
 ences of home, or the inspiring faith of his saintly 
 mother. He lived in troublous times : " The outward 
 attacks of Julian, the apostate, were," as Gregory 
 himself says, " almost a rest, compared with the 
 bitter inward strife of sects and heresies." Through 
 all these perplexities, Gregory Nazianzen, Basil the 
 Great, and Gregory of Nyssa, the three Cappadocian 
 Fathers, had to wend their way ; and out of them all, 
 by means of Basil's brother, — Gregory of Nyssa, — 
 has been evolved for us the simple doctrine of the 
 Nicene creed. From amid the tumult of such stirring 
 scenes, such sweetly-syllabled utterances as these 
 come welling up to us from that far-off distance. It 
 is an evening hymn : — 
 
 Christ, my Lord, I come to bless Thee, now when day is veiled in 
 
 night ; 
 Thou, who knowest no beginning, Light of the Eternal Light ! 
 
 Thou hast set the radiant heavens with Thy many lamps of bright- 
 ness, 
 
 Filling all the vaults above ; 
 Day and night in turn subjecting to a brotherhood of service, 
 And a mutual law of love ! 
 
 Our last selection from Gregory shall be from his 
 lament over the weakness and desolateness of his old 
 age: — 
 
 * Christian Life in Song. 
 
26 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Where are the winged words ? Lost in the air. 
 
 Where the fresh flower of youth and glory ? Gone ! 
 
 The strength of well-knit limbs ? Brought low by care. 
 
 Wealth ? Plundered : none possess but God alone ! 
 
 Where those de tr parents, who my life first gave, — 
 
 And where tha holy twain, brother and sister ? In the grave ! 
 
 But Thou, O Christ, my King, art fatherland to me : 
 Strength, wealth, eternal rest, — yea, all, — I find in Thee! 
 
 Here is the opening of one of the hymns or odes of 
 Synesius. The translation is by the author of " The 
 Cathedral." 
 
 Come, sweet harp, resounding Teian strains of yore, 
 With soft airs abounding round the Lesbian shore, 
 Doric shell, awake thy soft themes no more. 
 Talk no more of maiden fair with beauty's wiles, 
 Youth with blessings laden, whom new life beguiles. 
 Smiling as it flies, flying as it smiles. 
 Wisdom, which ne'er wrongeth, born of God above, 
 Toils in birth, and longeth your sweet chords to prove, 
 And hath bid me flee woes of earthly love. 
 What is strength or glory, beauty, gold, or fame ? 
 What renown in story, or in kingly name, 
 To the thoughts of God, — cares which bring not blame ? 
 One o'er steeds is bending, one his bow hath strung, 
 One his gold is tending ; one by youth is sung, 
 With bright looks, and locks o'er his shoulders flung. 
 Mine be the low portal, paths in silence trod, 
 Knowing not things mortal, — knowing things of God ; 
 While still at my side Wisdom holds her rod, — 
 Wisdom youth adorning, Wisdom cheering age ; 
 Wisdom, wealth's best warning, want's best heritage, 
 Poverty herself shall with smiles engage. 
 
 Synesius of Cyrene, afterwards of Ptolemais, is con- 
 sidered, for his endowments, chief of the poets of the 
 Greek Church : he was, however, too deeply tinctured 
 
BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN. 2*] 
 
 with the Platonic philosophy to be regarded as a true 
 Christian poet. 
 
 St. Anatolius, of Constantinople, who lived in the 
 fifth century of the Christian era, wrote the follow- 
 ing terse hymn. The translation is by the lamented 
 J. Mason Neale. 
 
 Fierce was the wild billow, dark was the night, 
 Oars labored heavily, foam glimmered white ; 
 Mariners trembled, peril was nigh : 
 Then said the God of God, " Peace, it is I ! " 
 
 Jesu, Deliverer ! come Thou to me ; 
 Soothe Thou my voyaging over life's sea : 
 Thou, when the storm of death roars sweeping by, 
 Whisper, O Truth of Truth, " Peace, it is I ! " 
 
 Andrew, of Crete, who lived in the early part of the 
 seventh century, is the author of the following extracts 
 from " The Great Canon of the Mid-Lent Week." The 
 entire poem extends to over three hundred verses. 
 
 Whence shall my tears begin ? 
 
 What first-fruits shall I bear 
 Of earnest sorrow for my sin ? 
 
 Or how my woes declare ? 
 O Thou, the merciful and gracious One ! 
 Forgive the foul transgressions I have done. 
 
 If Adam's righteous doom, 
 
 Because he dared transgress 
 Thy one decree, lost Eden's bloom 
 
 And Eden's loveliness, 
 What recompense, O Lord ! must I expect, 
 Who all my life thy quickening laws neglect ? 
 
 Another eminent ecclesiastical poet of the East, Cos- 
 mas, the Hierosolymite, surnamed "the melodist," is 
 
28 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 the author of the following majestic and glowing 
 
 stanzas : — 
 
 In days of old, on Sinai the Lord Jehovah came, 
 
 In majesty of terror, in thunder-cloud and flame ! — 
 
 On Tabor, with the glory of sunniest light for rest, 
 
 The excellence of beauty in Jesus was expressed. 
 
 All hours and days inclined there, and did Thee worship meet ; 
 
 The sun himself adored Thee, and bowed him at Thy feet : 
 
 While Moses and Elias upon the Holy Mount 
 
 The coeternal glory of Christ our God recount. 
 
 O holy, wondrous vision ! but what, when this life past, 
 
 The beauty of Mount Tabor shall end in Heaven at last ? 
 
 But what, when all the glory of uncreated light 
 
 Shall be the promised guerdon of them that win the fight ? 
 
 Theophanes, who, with the exception of St. Joseph 
 of the Studium, was the most prolific of Oriental hym- 
 nographers, furnishes to us a beautiful conceit in the 
 following stanza : — 
 
 O glorious Paradise ! O lovely clime ! 
 O God-built mansions ! Joy of every saint ! 
 Happy remembrance to all coming time ! 
 Whisper, with all thy leaves, in cadence faint, 
 One prayer to Him who made them all, 
 One prayer for Adam in his fall ! — 
 That He, who formed thy gates of yore, 
 Would bid those gates unfold once more, 
 
 That I had closed by sin ; 
 
 And let me taste that holy tree 
 
 That giveth immortality 
 
 To them that dwell therein ! 
 
 Or have I fallen so far from grace, 
 
 That mercy hath for me no place ? 
 
 The following extract is from an anthem by the same : 
 
 Let our choir new anthems raise ; 
 
 Wake the morn with gladness : 
 God Himself to joy and praise 
 
 Turns the martyrs' sadness. 
 
BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN. 29 
 
 This the day that won their crown, 
 
 Opened Heaven's bright portal ; 
 As they laid the mortal down, 
 
 And put on the immortal ! 
 
 Up, and follow, Christian men ! 
 
 Press through toil and sorrow ! 
 Spurn the night of fear, and then, — 
 
 Oh, the glorious morrow ! 
 Who will venture on the strife ? 
 
 Blest who first begin it ! 
 Who will grasp the land of life ? 
 
 Warriors ! up, and win it ! 
 
 Another member of the Studium, Theoclistus, of 
 the ninth century, is the author of these grand lines, 
 translated by Dr. Neale : — 
 
 Jesu, — name all names above, — Jesu, best and dearest, — 
 Jesu, fount of perfect love, — holiest, tenderest, nearest ! 
 Jesu, source of grace completest, — Jesu, purest, Jesu, sweetest, 
 Jesu, well of power divine, — make me, keep me, seal me, — Thine ! 
 Thou didst call the prodigal, Thou didst pardon Mary : 
 Thou, whose words can never fail, love can never vary, — 
 Lord, amidst my lost condition, give — for thou canst give — con- 
 trition. 
 Thou canst pardon all mine ill, — if Thou wilt : oh, say, " I will " ! 
 Woe, that I have turned aside after fleshly pleasure ! 
 Woe, that I have never tried for the heavenly treasure ! 
 Treasure, safe in homes supernal, — incorruptible, eternal ! 
 Treasure, no less price hath won, than the passion of the Son ! 
 
 John Damascenus, contemporary with the preced- 
 ing, is the author of these spirit-stirring lines, trans- 
 lated by Mrs. Browning : — 
 
 From my lips, in their defilement, 
 From my heart, in its beguilement, 
 From my tongue, which speaks not fair, 
 From my soul, stained everywhere, 
 O my Jesus, take my prayer ! 
 
30 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Spurn me not for all it says, — 
 Not for words, and not for ways, 
 Not for shamelessness endured ; 
 Make me brave to speak my mood, 
 
 my Jesus, as I would ! 
 Or teach me, which I rather seek, 
 What to do and what to speak. 
 I have sinned more than she 
 Who, learning where to meet with thee, 
 And bringing myrrh, — the highest priced, — 
 Anointed bravely, from her knee, 
 Thy blessed feet ; accordingly, 
 My God, my Lord, my Christ ! 
 As Thou saidest not, " Depart," 
 To that suppliant from her heart, 
 Scorn me not, O Word that art 
 The gentlest one of all words said ; 
 But give Thy feet to me instead, 
 That tenderly I may them kiss, 
 And clasp them close, and never miss, 
 With over-dropping tears, as free 
 And precious as that myrrh could be, 
 T' anoint them bravely from my knee ! 
 
 Among the magnificent canons, or long hymns, 
 which are the glory of the Eastern Church, we select 
 the celebrated " Hymn of Victory," by St. John of 
 Damascus, sung immediately after midnight on Easter 
 morning, during the symbolical ceremony of lighting 
 the tapers : — 
 
 'Tis the day of Resurrection ! earth, tell it all abroad ! 
 
 The Passover of gladness ! the Passover of God ! 
 
 From death to life eternal, from earth unto the sky, 
 
 Our Christ hath brought us over, with hymns of victory ! 
 
 Our hearts be pure from evil, that we may see aright 
 
 The Lord, in rays eternal of Resurrection light ; 
 
 And, listening to His accents, may hear so calm and plain 
 
 His own " All Hail ! " and hearing, may raise the victor strain. 
 
BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN. 3 1 
 
 Now let the heavens be joyful ; let earth her song begin ; 
 Let the round world keep triumph, and all that is therein ! 
 Invisible or visible, their notes let all things blend ; 
 For Christ the Lord hath risen, our joy that hath no end ! * 
 
 One of the grandest outbursts of sacred song which 
 Dr. M. Neale has rescued from the long-buried past, 
 is the following, by Stephen, of the Monastery of 
 S. S abbas : — 
 
 Art thou weary, art thou languid, art thou sore distrest ? 
 
 " Come to me," saith One, — and " coming, be at rest ! " 
 
 Hath He marks to lead me to Him, — if He be my Guide ? 
 
 In His feet and hands are wound-prints, and His side ! 
 
 Is there diadem, as monarch, that His brow adorns ? 
 
 Yea : a crown, in very surety, — but of thorns ! 
 
 If I find Him, if I follow, what His guerdon here ? 
 
 Many a sorrow, many a labor, many a tear ! 
 
 If I still hold closely to Him, what hath He at last ? 
 
 Sorrow vanquished, labor ended, Jordan past ! 
 
 If I ask Him to receive me, will He say me nay ? 
 
 Not till earth, and not till heaven pass away ! 
 
 Tending, following, keeping, struggling, is He sure to bless ? 
 
 Angels, martyrs, prophets, pilgrims, answer, Yes ! 
 
 The last-named singer, with others, continued to 
 prolong the voice of song in the Eastern Church, 
 " whilst the terrible flood was gathering in Arabia, 
 which was so soon to sweep over Christendom, and 
 altogether to desolate and submerge its eastern half. 
 But before that sacred music was silenced, its tone had 
 long begun to ring less clear. Invocations to the f Moth- 
 er of God ' — r the All-holy ' — crowd thicker and 
 thicker on these later hymns ; and if Mohammedanism 
 had not broken all the strings at once, there seems a 
 danger that they would have fallen of themselves into 
 more and more jarring discord. Perhaps the very 
 
 * Quarterly Review. 
 
32 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 agony of that great desolation tuned many a heart to 
 music it had not known before." * The last singer 
 from the Orient we shall cite, is Phile, who, indeed, 
 is about the last of his order, living at the opening of 
 the fourteenth century. We are indebted for the Eng- 
 lish version of the following to the accomplished pen 
 of Mrs. Browning : — 
 
 O living Spirit ! O falling of God-dew, 
 
 O grace which dost console us, and renew 
 
 O vital light, O breath of angelhood, 
 
 O generous ministration of things good ! 
 
 Creator of the visible, and best 
 
 Upholder of the Great Unmanifest ! 
 
 Power infinitely wise, new boon sublime 
 
 Of science and of art, constraining might, 
 
 In whom I breathe, live, speak, rejoice, and write, — 
 
 Be with us in all places, for all time ! 
 
 In turning to the Western Church, we find the 
 sacred melodies somewhat changed in character ; the 
 Latin hymns possessing a rugged grandeur of expres- 
 sion, while they are often deficient in the elegant 
 graces of the Greek, — the language in which Chris- 
 tianity first announced its mission to the world. In 
 the words of an eminent critic, f "The fire of Revela- 
 tion, in its strong and simple energy, by which, as it 
 were, it rends the rock, and bursts the icy barriers of 
 the human heart, predominates in those oldest pieces 
 of the sacred Latin poesy which are comprised in the 
 Ambrosian hymnology, — a species of song which 
 moves in simplest tones, and seldom uses rhyme." 
 
 Of the "Tersanctus," or thrice holy, all we know is, 
 that it has been traced in the earliest known liturgies. 
 The grand anthem " Te Deum Laudamus," according 
 
 * Christian Life in Song. f Fortlage. 
 
BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN. 33 
 
 to tradition, gushed forth in sudden inspiration from 
 the lips of Ambrose, as he baptized Augustine ; or 
 other authorities, who reject the legend, believe it to 
 have sprung from an earlier Oriental hymn. If so, 
 might it not possibly have formed part of the worship 
 of the primitive Christians, who, in the time of Pliny, 
 "met before dawn, to sing hymns to Christ, as God? " * 
 That same " Te Deum " has accompanied many a mar- 
 tyr to the stake, in Flanders, Bavaria, Germany, Eng- 
 land, and elsewhere. It was the English Bishop 
 Fisher's farewell as he stood beside the block. Once 
 it was lifted up where no lesser hymn would have 
 been fitting, — when Columbus discovered the first 
 gray outline of the New World, and " the crew threw 
 themselves into each other's arms, weeping for joy ! " 
 There is an old custom still perpetuated at Magda- 
 len College, Oxford, at the dawn of May-day, when 
 the " Te Deum " is sung in the original Latin, from 
 the tower of the college. f St. Ambrose, born about 
 340, and probably at Treves, was made bishop of 
 Milan a.d. 374. He died in 397. The hymns that 
 go under his name are very numerous ; but only twelve 
 are admitted, by the Benedictine editors, to be from 
 his pen. Ambrose reflected in his poetry, not only 
 the piety, but also the troublous character, of the 
 times in which he lived, — when Christianity was es- 
 pecially militant, being arrayed in direct conflict with 
 heathenism and the Arian heresy. 
 
 * " Carmenque Christo, quasi Deo ! " — Pliny, lib. x. 
 
 t An incident in the history of the great Robert Hall serves to set forth the native maj- 
 esty of the "Te Deum," and its close conformity to the spirit and manner of inspired psalms. 
 He had composed a sermon on a text which had touched his fine sense of grandeur, and 
 had deeply moved his heart. On completing his sermon, he turned to the Concordance to 
 find the text : it was not to be found: it was not in the Bible. It was a sentence from the 
 " Te Deum," — " All the earth doth worship Thee, the Father everlasting." 
 
 3 
 
f4 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 The practice of responsive chanting, called " Anti- 
 phonal," used, it is believed, by Chrysostom, during 
 vigils, in the Eastern Church, was thence introduced 
 into the Western Church.* Contemporary with Am- 
 brose, lived some notable Christian singers, — such as 
 Augustine, Hilary of Poictiers, and Prudentius. In 
 Augustine's "Confessions," which, although written in 
 prose, are eminently poetical, he reveals to us some- 
 thing of the deep spiritual emotion with which he 
 participated in the choral service of his times, where 
 he says, "How did I weep, through the hymns and 
 canticles, touched to the quick by the voices of Thy 
 sweet-attuned church. The voices sank into mine 
 ears, and the truth distilled into mine heart; whence 
 the affections of my devotions overflowed, — tears 
 ran down, and happy was I therein." The following 
 lines are ascribed to Ambrose, by Augustine : — 
 
 Maker of all, the Lord and Ruler of the height ! 
 
 Who, robing day in light, 
 
 Hast poured soft slumbers o'er the night ; 
 
 That to our limbs the power of toil may be renewed, 
 
 And hearts be raised, that sink and cower, and sorrows be subdued. 
 
 Augustine presents a beautiful type of character, — 
 the happy union of mental power with childlike hu- 
 mility. He has not left us hymns, but he has em- 
 balmed his spirit in noble prose ; and he takes rank 
 with the illustrious, in the archives of Christianity. 
 Of the introduction into the church at Milan, of the 
 choral service, he says, — " It was a year, or not much 
 more, that Justina, mother to the emperor Valentinian, 
 then a child, persecuted Thy servant Ambrose, in favor 
 of her heresy, to which she was seduced by the Arians. 
 
 * Christopher's Hymn-writers. 
 
BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN. 35 
 
 The devout people kept watch in the church, ready 
 to die with their bishop, Thy servant. There my 
 mother, Thy handmaid, bearing a chief part in those 
 anxieties and watchings, lived for prayer. We, yet 
 unwarmed by the heat of Thy Spirit, still were stirred 
 up by the sight of the amazed and disquieted city. 
 Then it was instituted (in the church at Milan) that, 
 after the manner of the Eastern churches, hymns and 
 psalms should be sung, lest the people should wax 
 faint through the tediousness of sorrow ; and from that 
 day to this, the custom is retained." 
 
 Let us now in imagination listen to the little saintly 
 groups of early morning worshippers, chanting, in the 
 grand sonorous Latin, the following hymn of St. Hilary 
 of Aries : — 
 
 Thou bounteous Giver of the light, 
 
 All-glorious, in whose light serene, 
 Now that the night has passed away, 
 
 The day pours back her sunny sheen. 
 Thou art the world's true Morning Star ! 
 
 Not that which, on the edge of night, — 
 Faint herald of a little orb, 
 
 Shines with a dim and narrow light ; 
 Far brighter than our earthly sun, 
 
 Thyself at once the Light and Day ! 
 The inmost chambers of the heart 
 
 Illumining with heavenly ray. 
 
 Be every evil lust repelled, 
 
 By guard of inward purity, 
 That the pure body evermore 
 
 The Spirit's holy shrine may be. 
 These are our votive offerings, 
 
 This hope inspires us as we pray, 
 That this our holy matin light 
 
 May guide us through the busy day. 
 
36 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Listen to part of an Easter hymn, ascribed to Am- 
 brose : — 
 
 This is the very day of God ! — 
 
 Serene with holy light it came, — 
 In which the stream of sacred blood 
 
 Swept over the world's crime and shame. 
 Lost souls with faith once more it filled, 
 
 The darkness from blind eyes dissolved ; 
 Whose load of fear, too great to yield, 
 
 Seeing the dying thief absolved ! 
 
 O admirable Mystery ! 
 
 The sins of all are laid on Thee : 
 
 And Thou, to cleanse the world's deep stain, 
 
 As man, dost bear the sins of men. 
 
 What can be ever more sublime ! 
 
 That grace might meet the guilt of time, 
 
 Love doth the bonds of fear undo, 
 
 And death restores our life anew ! * 
 
 Here is the commencement of another Ambrosian 
 hymn on the Ascension of our Lord : — 
 
 At length, the longed-for joy is given, 
 
 The sacred day begins to shine, 
 
 When Christ, our God, our Hope divine, 
 Ascends the radiant steep of Heaven I 
 Ascending where He used to be, 
 
 The Lord resumes His ancient throne : 
 
 The heavenly realms with joys unknown, 
 Only-begotten, welcome Thee ! 
 The mighty victory is wrought, 
 
 The prince of this world lieth low ; 
 
 The Son of God presenteth now 
 The human flesh in which He fought. 
 High o'er the clouds He comes to reign, 
 
 Gives hopes to those who in Him trust : 
 
 The Paradise which Adam lost, 
 He opens wide to man again.* 
 
 * Mrs. Charles's translation. 
 
BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN. 37 
 
 " Whilst undisguised Paganism still lingered in 
 Christendom, and Bibles were scarce and readers rare, 
 there was a beautiful and practical meaning in linking 
 the passing hours with Heaven, thus making Time him- 
 self read aloud the gospel history, and converting the 
 seasons of the year into a kind of pictorial Bible for 
 the poor. For it must always be remembered that the 
 early Latin hymns were no mere recreations of mon- 
 astic literary retirement, but sacred popular songs, in 
 a language, probably, as little varying from the com- 
 mon speech of the people then, as the book-Italian 
 of to-day from the various spoken dialects of Milan, 
 Genoa, and Venice. They were not merely read by 
 priests out of missals, or chanted by elaborate choirs 
 in cathedrals ; but, as St. Ambrose and St. Augustine 
 tell us, were murmured by the people at their work, 
 and in their homes, and sung in grand choruses in the 
 great congregation." * 
 
 Let us now recite a portion of a funeral hymn by 
 Prudentius : — 
 
 Ah ! hush now your mournful complainings, 
 
 Nor mothers your sweet babes deplore ; 
 This death, we so shrink from, but cometh 
 
 The ruin of life to restore. 
 Who now would the sculptor's rich marble, 
 
 Or beautiful sepulchres crave ? 
 We lay them but here, in their slumber : 
 
 This earth is a couch, not a grave. 
 
 The seed, which we sow in its weakness, 
 
 In the spring shall rise green from the earth ; 
 
 And the dead we thus mournfully bury, 
 
 In God's spring-time again shall shine forth. 
 
 * Christian Life in Song. 
 
}8 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Mother Earth, in thy soft bosom cherish 
 
 Whom we lay to repose in thy dust ; 
 For precious these relics we yield thee ; 
 
 Be faithful, O Earth ! to thy trust. 
 The happy and just times are coming, 
 
 When God every hope shall fulfil ; 
 And visibly then must thou render 
 
 What now in thy keeping lies still. 
 
 In parting company with the Greek and early Latin 
 hymnists, we cannot, perhaps, better close our first 
 evening's talk, than by quoting a passage from a valu- 
 able work, to which we may have often to refer, and 
 which we now take the liberty to commend to the no- 
 tice of the reader.* We have thus sought to trace the 
 stream from its fountain source to the fourth Christian 
 century ; and thus far it seems to have preserved its 
 purity. These spiritual songs are fragrant with the 
 aroma of that "Name which is above every name." 
 There is in them the healthy, upward tendency of 
 early times. "They seek rather to pierce the heavens 
 to Christ, than to dive into the heart for emotion. One 
 glorious Person shines above and through them all. 
 The Arian controversy, whilst it brought forth a quan- 
 tity of vain subtleties and bitter words, rang from 
 the true metal a sound clearer than it had yielded be- 
 fore. It brought up from the old mine many a jewel 
 for the crown of Him who is 'King of kings.' It 
 struck from the heart of the true Church many an 
 adoring hymn to her Lord. And in those early Latin 
 hymns is there not a clearer utterance of the great 
 truth of the Cross, — the truth which sustains the heart 
 in life and death, — than even in the early Oriental 
 hymns? The trust in the Lamb of God, smitten for 
 
 * Christian Life in Song. 
 
BIBLICAL, GREEK, AND EARLY LATIN. 39 
 
 our transgressions, and bearing away our sins, does, 
 indeed, shine through the Oriental hymns ; but is it not 
 more pervading and glowing in the Ambrosian ? " Even 
 in the divided stream of the Christian psalmody 
 of these earliest ages of the Church, the music has 
 been very delicious to us, of the latest; and in many a 
 time of sadness and unrest, these sweet hymns of 
 faith and hope will perchance prove to our hearts as 
 heavenly balm. 
 
SECOND EVENING. 
 
 MEDIEVAL LATIN, 
 
SECOND EVENING. 
 
 MEDIEVAL LATIN. 
 
 WE now approach the border-land which divides 
 the ancient civilization from the modern, — that 
 long, dark interval of ten centuries, from the sixth 
 to the sixteenth of the Christian era, usually desig- 
 nated the mediaeval ages. Notwithstanding the almost 
 universal moral defection which then prevailed, there 
 existed, in strange contrast, an indestructible life, the 
 life of faith, in a succession of noble and heroic 
 Christian men and women, the light of whose self- 
 denying charities illuminated the surrounding dark- 
 ness with a celestial radiance. It was, indeed, 
 Christianity in the cloister ; but it was Christianity 
 based upon love to God and love to man. 
 
 It has been well said, "that this border-land had its 
 rich and wild 'border minstrelsy,' — as fertile of won- 
 ders to us, as it was barren of rest and comfort: to 
 those who lived in it. Mediaeval legend takes wing 
 from thence, as from the heroic ages of modern 
 Christendom. Its heroes are canonized saints, — an 
 army counted and memorialized by its tens of thou- 
 sands." * 
 
 * Mrs. Charles. 
 
44 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 There are three clerical magnates whose names 
 greet us on the threshold of this epoch, — Gregory the 
 Great, Venantius Fortunatus, and the venerable Bede. 
 Some faint idea of the fearful desolation and distress 
 that then prevailed throughout the civilized world 
 may be gleaned from the following extracts from a 
 sermon by Gregory the Great, then bishop of Rome 
 (a.d. 590) : — 
 
 "Those saints," he says, "on whose graves we 
 stand, had hearts exalted enough to despise the world 
 in its bloom. . . . Once the world enchained us by 
 its charms ; now, it is so full of misery, that of itself 
 it points us to God. Everywhere do we see mourn- 
 ing, everywhere do we hear sighs. The cities are 
 destroyed, the castles are ruined, the fields are laid 
 waste, the whole land is desolate." 
 
 Yes : amidst all this social and political disorder 
 and desolation, caused mainly by Goth and Saracen, 
 there yet beamed forth the light of Christian faith in 
 the heart of many a valiant soldier of the cross, — 
 Christian heroes ! men of moral might and spiritual 
 prowess, who stood for the truth unto the death. We 
 are in quest, however, not so much of the story of 
 their lives, as of those whose lyric bursts of holy song 
 mark so beautifully the tidal flow of Christian life. 
 
 Like Ambrose, Gregory was of a patrician Roman 
 family ; and although possessed of an ample fortune, 
 he abandoned all worldly ambition and retired into a 
 monastery. In becoming a monk, however, he does 
 not seem to have fled from the active to the contempla- 
 tive life, but rather to have entered into a higher 
 sphere of activity. He founded six monasteries, — one 
 in his father's palace at Rome ; and of one of these he 
 
 
MEDIAEVAL LATIN. 45 
 
 became Abbot. He earnestly commended to both 
 clergy and laity the study of the sacred Scriptures. 
 He said the sacred words should, by constant inter- 
 course, penetrate into our being. " God does not now 
 answer us by angelic ministrations," he continues, "or 
 special prophetic voices, because the holy Scriptures 
 include all that is necessary to meet individual cases, 
 and are constructed so as to mould the life of later 
 times by the example of the earlier. The answer, 
 ' My grace is sufficient for thee,' was given to Paul, 
 that it need not be particularly repeated to each one 
 of us." 
 
 Gregory was a man for the times in which he lived. 
 Shut up in Rome, with savage hordes at the gates, 
 and pestilence, famine, and flood within ; with heresy 
 in the provinces, and the care of every department 
 weighing heavily upon him at home ; he never "bated 
 jot of heart or hope," but met every demand in turn ; 
 ... in the pulpit, passionately rousing his flock to 
 spiritual life and action ; in the cloisters, keeping his 
 monks to their discipline ; or in his closet, writing 
 " morals " on the book of Job ; or keeping up a wide 
 correspondence with kings and queens, ecclesiastics 
 and scholars. Then, in the choir, reforming the 
 church service, and giving that musical impulse to 
 the Christian world which will be felt as long as the 
 <f Gregorian Chant" continues to charm a human soul.* 
 
 A fac-simile volume of the manuscript music of the 
 bishop was published at Paris in 1850, from the origi- 
 nal, discovered a few years ago at the Benedictine 
 Monastery at St. Gall, a copy of which is in the Astor 
 Library. 
 
 * Christophers' Hymn-writers. 
 
46 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 When elected to the Papal chair, Gregory selected 
 a missionary band of nearly forty monks ; and, in the 
 year 596, sent them, with many exhortations and 
 blessings, to the coast of Kent. "England still reaps 
 the fruit of his success; and, it may be, records her 
 early sense of obligation to Gregory in her national 
 legend of r St. George [or St. Gregory] and the 
 Dragon.' Paganism (the { Dragon'), in England, fell 
 before the cross ; and the ultimate result of Augus- 
 tine's mission was the establishment of a Saxon 
 church, which, for many generations, exemplified the 
 purity and power of the Christian faith. . . . Many 
 a choral chant and many a grand old Latin hymn 
 floated across the channel from the churches of Italy 
 and Gaul to the Saxon church." * 
 
 The celebrated hymn, " Veni, Creator Spiritus," — 
 the authorship of which has been hitherto ascribed to 
 Gregory the Great, or to Charlemagne, is now ascer- 
 tained to have been written by Rabanus Maurus, Bishop 
 of Mayence, A.D. 856. The advocates of the claims of 
 the Emperor to its authorship rested their plea on the 
 testimony of his secretary, to the effect that Charle- 
 magne could speak the Latin language almost as easily 
 as his own. And, further, that he addressed a letter to 
 his bishops, entitled (t De Gratia Septiformis Spiritus." 
 Whereas those who believe, with the German critic, 
 Mone, that it was the production of St. Gregory, 
 seemed to have had the burden of proof in their favor. 
 Gregory's homilies and other writings, his admitted 
 scholarship and eminent piety, were regarded as strong 
 presumptive evidences that he wrote the hymn. Char- 
 lemagne was a soldier, Gregory a monk; what the 
 
 * Christophers' Hymn-writers. 
 
MEDIAEVAL LATIN. 
 
 47 
 
 sword was to the former, the pen was to the latter. 
 Dryden's beautiful paraphrase of this hymn is familiar 
 to most readers. There is another version no less 
 fine, beginning, — 
 
 Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire, 
 And lighten with celestial fire ! 
 Thou the anointing Spirit art, 
 Who dost Thy seven-fold gifts impart. 
 
 This grand hymn has alwa} T s been invested with 
 peculiar dignity : not only is it retained in the Episco- 
 pal Prayer-book for the ordaining of priests and the 
 consecrating of bishops, but it was, also, in earlier - 
 times, habitually used — and the use in great part still 
 survives — on all other occasions of extraordinary so- 
 lemnity, as at the coronation of kings and the celebra- 
 tion of synods by the Protestant Church ; and by the 
 Romish, at the creation of popes, and other great 
 occasions. 
 
 Contemporary with Gregory the Great, was Venan- 
 tius Fortunatus, the writer of some hymns "which 
 have taken root in the heart of Christendom, and 
 have been chanted often, doubtless, with deep and 
 solemn feeling, during many centuries."* The " Vex- 
 illa regis prodeunt," " Pange, lingua, gloriosi," and 
 the w Salve, festa Dies," are pronounced by Dr. Mason 
 Neale as belonging to the first class of mediaeval 
 hymns ; yet compared with the grand old battle- songs 
 of Ambrose, they have too much of the glitter of the 
 tournament on them ; yet are they full of pathos. 
 
 Fortunatus was an Italian by birth, yet his life was, 
 for the most part, spent in Gaul. He was born in the 
 year 530, and died a.d. 609. He was appointed to 
 
 * Trench. 
 
48 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 preside over a monastic institution at Poictiers, found- 
 ed by Queen Rhadegunda. His finest poem is con- 
 sidered to be his "De Cruce Christi." 
 
 We give a part of Mrs. Charles's fine rendering of 
 the "Pange, lingua, gloriosi : " — 
 
 Spread, my tongue, the wondrous story of the glorious battle, far ! 
 What the trophies and the triumphs of the cross of Jesus are, — 
 How the Victim, immolated, vanquished in that mighty war. 
 Pitying, did the great Redeemer Adam's fall and ruin see, 
 Sentenced then to death by tasting fruit of the forbidden tree, 
 And he marked that wood the weapon of redeeming love to be. 
 Thus the scheme of our redemption was of old in order laid, 
 Thus the wily arts were baffled of the foe who man betrayed, 
 And the armor of redemption from Death's armory was made. 
 
 The following is a free rendering from the Latin, of 
 his hymn on the Resurrection, — "Salve, festa Dies." 
 "In this sweet poem," writes Professor Schaff, "all 
 nature, born anew in the spring, and arrayed in the 
 bridal garment of hope and promise, welcomes the 
 risen Saviour, the Prince of spiritual and eternal 
 life." 
 
 Hail, Day of days ! in peals of praise, 
 
 Throughout all ages owned, 
 When Christ, our God, hell's empire trod, 
 
 And high o'er heaven was throned. 
 This glorious morn the world new-born 
 
 In rising beauty shows ; 
 How, with her Lord to life restored, 
 
 Her gifts and graces rose ! 
 The spring serene, in sparkling sheen, 
 
 The flower-clad earth arrays ; 
 Heaven's portal bright, its radiant light, 
 
 In fuller flood displays ; 
 From hell's deep gloom, from earth's dark tomb, 
 
 The Lord in triumph soars ! 
 
MEDIAEVAL LATIN. 49 
 
 The forests raise their leafy praise, 
 
 The flowery field adores. 
 As, star by star, He mounts afar ; 
 
 And hell imprisoned lies. 
 Let stars and light, and depth and height, 
 
 In hallelujahs rise ! 
 Lo ! He who died, — the Crucified ! — 
 
 God over all, He reigns ! 
 On Him we call, His servants all, 
 
 Who heaven and earth sustains ! 
 
 In his famous processional hymn, "Vexilla regis pro- 
 deunt," as well as in his hymn already cited, may be 
 seen the worship of the cross, which has so long 
 characterized the Papal Church. We therefore cite 
 only the opening stanza of this processional hymn : — 
 
 The royal banners forward go, 
 The Cross shines forth in mystic glow, 
 Where He in flesh, our flesh who made, 
 Our sentence bore, our ransom paid ! 
 
 A yet more startling instance of the idolatry of the 
 cross occurs in the famous old Latin chant for Good 
 Friday, entitled " O Crux fidelis ! " It illustrates the 
 fact, that from the symbolism of the cross came the 
 grosser superstition, which descended to far lower 
 depths, till the supposed wood of the cross was wor- 
 shipped ; thus transferring the homage due to the 
 crucified One, to the cross itself! 
 
 Bede, styled the Venerable, for the sanctity of his 
 character, was born a.d. 672, and died in 735. His 
 remains lie buried near the altar of Durham Ca- 
 thedral. When only seven years old, he was taken 
 to the monastery of Yarrow. "There he read and 
 wrote and prayed, and sang hymns to his Saxon harp, 
 and recorded the history of his people." The last 
 
 4 
 
50 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 work of his busy, tranquil life, was a Saxon version 
 of St. John's Gospel ; finishing it amidst the suffer- 
 ings of his last illness, and completing the work just 
 as he closed his eyes in death. The details of his last 
 hours are replete with pathetic interest: "They all 
 wept, chiefly for that he said that in this world they 
 should see his face no more ; but they rejoiced in thai 
 he said, f I go to my Creator : I have lived long 
 enough : the time of my departure is at hand ; for I 
 long to depart and be with Christ.' Thus did he live 
 on till the evening. Then that scholar said to him, 
 ' Dearest master, there is only one thought left to 
 write.' He answered, ' Write quickly.' Soon that 
 scholar replied, 'Now this thought also is written.' 
 He answered, 'Thou hast well said, It is finished. 
 Raise my head in thy hand ; for it will do me good to 
 sit opposite my sanctuary, where I was wont to kneel 
 down to pray, that sitting I may call upon my Father ! ' 
 So he seated himself on the ground in his cell, and 
 sang the r Glory to Thee, O God, Father, Son, and 
 Holy Ghost ! ' and when he had named the ' Holy 
 Ghost,' he breathed his last breath." Such was the 
 calm of a Christian's death-bed in England, eleven 
 hundred years ago. This worthy Saxon monk re- 
 flected the brightest aspect of the ascetic life, in its 
 devout and studious retirement. It looks picturesque 
 at this distance. Here is the translation * of one of 
 his hymns on the "Ascension of our Lord" ("Hymnum 
 canamus glorise ") : — 
 
 A hymn of glory let us sing : 
 
 New hymns throughout the world shall ring ; 
 
 By a new way, none ever trod, 
 
 Christ mounteth to the throne of God, 
 
 * Mrs. Charles. 
 
MEDIAEVAL LATIN. 5 1 
 
 Calm soaring through the radiant sky, 
 Mounting its dazzling summits high ! 
 
 May our affections thither tend, 
 And thither constantly ascend, — 
 Where, seated on the Father's throne, 
 Thee reigning in the heavens we own ; 
 And, as the countless ages flee, 
 May all our glory be in Thee ! 
 
 A notable and worthy name now meets us in the 
 order of time, — that of Bernard, Abbot of Clair- 
 vaux, a monastery which he, in company with a 
 dozen other monks, founded and built. After many 
 months of laborious toil and self-denial, the new 
 Abbey at length was reared, to the sound of sacred 
 song, on a spot which had been previously the haunt 
 of banditti. Bernard was born, a.d. 1091, at Fon- 
 taines, near Dijon, of a knightly family. His early 
 training was attended by his mother, the Lady Aletta ; 
 and its influence seems to have accompanied him 
 through life, so that his monastery had much of the 
 nature of a home. After he left his father's vine- 
 yards and corn-fields in Burgundy for his monastery, 
 five of his brothers soon followed him ; and they 
 thus became a band of six brothers, again under one 
 roof, — that of their monastery. In early youth, he 
 acquired so perfect a knowledge of the Latin, that 
 he could preach extempore in that language with as 
 much ease as his native tongue. Bernard's favorite 
 oratory was a woodland bower, — a quiet vernal re- 
 treat in an adjacent valley ; and here he composed his 
 hymns, and sang them. He lived not only in great 
 harmony with the little community over which he pre- 
 sided, but his beautiful character attracted the ardent 
 
52 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 admiration and loving esteem of all who knew him : 
 among whom was "Peter the Venerable," Abbot of the 
 monastery of Clugny, who declared that he "had 
 rather pass his life with Bernard, than enjoy all the 
 kingdoms of the world." His heart seems to have 
 been full of love, and his hands full of good works. 
 His dying counsel to his monks was, "to abound more 
 and more in every good work ; " and as they stood 
 lovingly around his couch, unable to restrain their 
 grief, his own eyes filled with tears, as he murmured 
 faintly, f I am in a strait betwixt two, having a desire 
 to depart and be with Christ, which is far better ; ' 
 nevertheless, the love of my children urgeth me to 
 remain here below." These were his last words on 
 earth ; but his sweet spiritual songs still live in many 
 a Christian heart. 
 
 Let us now rehearse some of his sweet lines, trans- 
 lated into our vernacular : — 
 
 Jesus, Thou joy of loving hearts ! 
 
 Thou Fount of life ! Thou Light of men ! 
 From the best bliss that earth imparts, 
 
 We turn, unfilled, to Thee again. 
 Thy truth unchanged hath ever stood ; 
 
 Thou savest those that on Thee call ; 
 To them that seek Thee, Thou art good j 
 
 To them that find Thee, all in all ! 
 We taste Thee, O Thou Living Bread ! 
 
 And long to feast upon Thee still ; 
 We drink of Thee, the Fountain-head, 
 
 And thirst our souls from Thee to fill. 
 Our restless spirits yearn for Thee, 
 
 Where'er our changeful lot is cast ; 
 Glad, when Thy gracious smile we see ; 
 
 Blest, when our faith can hold Thee fast. 
 O Jesus, ever with us stay ! 
 
 Make all our moments calm and bright ; 
 Chase the dark night of sin away, 
 
 Shed o'er the world Thy holy light. 
 
MEDIAEVAL LATIN. 
 
 53 
 
 The above, which is a beautiful translation of parts 
 of Bernard's famous hymn, "Jesus, dulcedo cordium," 
 by Dr. Ray Palmer, of New York, has been fre- 
 quently copied, and recently it has been incorporated 
 into Sir Roundell Palmer's "Book of Praise." 
 
 The great and good Bernard was, however, an 
 ascetic of the severest order. Luther called him " the 
 best monk that ever lived." He was one of the most 
 renowned theologians of his age ; having, at the in- 
 stance of the reigning pontiff, been hailed as "the 
 champion of the orthodoxy of his day," in conse- 
 quence of his triumph over the rationalistic Abelard, 
 in a discussion at Sens, in 1140. But he is most 
 endeared to us of modern times, by his sacred lyrics, 
 which are yet held in just esteem. We can only give 
 the titles of the most renowned : "Salve Caput cruen- 
 tatum" (Hail ! Thou Head so bruised and wounded) , 
 "Jesu, dulcis memoria" (O Jesus ! Thy sweet memo- 
 ry) ; and "Jesu, Rex admirabilis " (O Jesus ! King 
 most wonderful). Mrs. Charles has made so excel- 
 lent a translation of the first-named, that we are 
 tempted to present a portion of the poem to the 
 reader : — 
 
 Hail, Thou Head ! so bruised and wounded, 
 With the crown of thorns surrounded, 
 Smitten with the mocking reed, 
 Wounds which may not cease to bleed, 
 
 Trickling faint and slow. 
 Hail ! from whose most blessed brow 
 None can wipe the blood-drops now ; 
 All the flower of life has fled, 
 Mortal paleness there instead ; 
 Thou, before whose presence dread 
 
 Angels trembling bow ! 
 
54 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Let me true communion know 
 With Thee, in Thy sacred woe, — 
 Counting all beside but dross, 
 Dying with Thee on Thy cross : 
 
 'Neath it will I die ! 
 Thanks to Thee with every breath, 
 Jesus, for Thy bitter death : 
 Grant Thy guilty one this prayer, — 
 When my dying hour is near, 
 
 Gracious God be nigh ! 
 
 Several instances are on record, of the comfort this 
 hymn has afforded Christians at the time of death. It 
 was especially such an evangel in the case of the mis- 
 sionary Schwartz, whom the native Christians in India 
 solaced, by singing it in their own Tamil, into which 
 language it had been translated. Bernard's other 
 noted " passion-hymn " is entitled " Ad faciem Christi 
 in cruce pendentis ; " which has been rendered into 
 German by Gerhardt, and into English by Alexander 
 and others. Bernard died, a.d. 1153, aged sixty-two. 
 His last words were, "For ever with the Lord." His 
 first, or some of his first converts, were his own 
 father, brothers, and personal friends. He closed his 
 father's eyes in peace, and then had to witness his 
 brother Gerard's departure to his rest. His touching 
 lamentation over him is replete with pathos and poetic 
 beauty. "Who could ever have loved me as he did? He 
 was a brother by blood, but far more by religion. . . . 
 God grant, Gerard, I may not have lost thee, but that 
 thou hast preceded me ; for of a surety thou hast 
 joined those whom in thy last night below thou didst 
 invite to praise God ; when suddenly, to the great sur- 
 prise of all, thou, with a serene countenance and a 
 cheerful voice, didst commence chanting, f Praise ye 
 
MEDIAEVAL LATIN. 
 
 55 
 
 the Lord, from the heaven ; praise Him, all ye angels ! 
 At that moment, O my brother ! the day dawned on 
 thee, though it was night to us ; the night to thee was 
 all brightness. Just as I reached his side, I heard 
 him utter aloud those words of Christ, 'Father, into 
 Thine hands I commend my spirit ! ' Then repeating 
 the verse over again, and resting on the word c Father,' 
 he turned to me, and, smiling, said, r Oh, how gracious 
 of God to be the Father of men, and what an honor 
 for men to be His children.' And then, very dis- 
 tinctly, f If children, then heirs ; ' and so he died : and 
 so dying, be well-nigh changed my grief into rejoic- 
 ing, so completely did the sight of his happiness over- 
 power the recollection of my own misery." 
 
 St. Bernard left his mark upon his age : he was its 
 governing spirit ; a man who more than once scorned 
 to be archbishop ; who dictated to kings, and wrote a 
 manual for the " infallible Head of the Church ; " who 
 projected a crusade, and "uttered prophecies," &c. 
 He was a mighty man of learning in his day, and his 
 time outlasted several centuries; for, after his death, 
 f ' he made a mark on the ages as they passed over his 
 tomb, and the Church long bore the impress of his 
 gigantic spirit." But his grim folios of polemical and 
 dogmatic theology are no longer consulted by the schol- 
 ars of our time. 
 
 Another renowned ecclesiastic of the same name 
 — Bernard, of Cluny — was contemporary with the 
 Abbot of Clairvaux. Cluny Abbey was the greatest in 
 France, and the monk was of yet greater celebrity 
 than the Abbey. His great poem, of three thousand 
 lines, is entitled " De contemptu mundi." This 
 poem, by some critics, has been ascribed to Jacobus 
 
56 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 de Benedictus ; but we leave this question with them 
 to determine. This production was written about the 
 year 1145. It is a severe satire on the vices of the 
 times ; but it also is one of the sweetest religious poems 
 of the age in which it was written, or of any age. 
 Many a cloistered monk took up the soul-stirring 
 theme, and sang anew the glory-song of the new Jeru- 
 salem. Such winged thoughts visited many a mo- 
 nastic cell; but, among their inmates, none has set 
 them to sweeter music than the saintly monk of Cluny. 
 From Dr. Neale's masterly translation of this poem, 
 we select some of its expressive lines, — lines, per- 
 haps, unparalleled for their energy, fervor, and sub- 
 limity : — 
 
 That peace, — but who may claim it ? The guileless in their way, 
 
 Who keep the ranks of battle, who mean the thing they say, — 
 
 The peace that is for heaven, and shall be for the earth ; 
 
 The palace that re-echoes with festal song and mirth ; 
 
 The garden, breathing spices, — the paradise on high ; 
 
 Grace beautified to glory, unceasing minstrelsy. 
 
 There nothing can be feeble, there none can ever mourn, 
 
 There nothing is divided, there nothing can be torn ; 
 
 'Tis fury, ill, and scandal, 'tis peaceless peace, below : 
 
 Peace endless, strifeless, ageless, the halls of Syon know ! 
 
 Strive, man, to win that glory ; toil, man, to gain that light ; 
 Send hope before to grasp it, till hope be lost in sight ! 
 
 Brief life is here our portion, brief sorrow, short-lived care : 
 The life that knows no ending, the tearless life, is there ! 
 
 Thou hast no shore, fair Ocean ! thou hast no time, bright Day ! 
 
 Dear fountain of refreshment to pilgrims far away ! 
 
 Upon the Rock of Ages they raise thy holy tower ; 
 
 Thine is the victor's laurel, and thine the golden dower ! 
 
 Jerusalem the golden, with milk and honey blest, 
 
 Beneath thy contemplation sink heart and voice oppressed I 
 
MEDIEVAL LATIN. 57 
 
 I know not, oh, I know not, what social joys are there ! 
 What radiancy of glory, what light beyond compare ! 
 
 They stand, those halls of Syon, conjubilant with song, 
 And bright with many an angel, and all the martyr-throng ; 
 
 There is the throne of David, and there, from care released, 
 The song of them that triumph, the shout of them that feast ; 
 And they who, with their Leader, have conquered in the fight, 
 For ever and for ever are clad in robes of white ! 
 
 New mansion of new people, whom God's own love and light 
 
 Promote, increase, make holy, identify, unite ! 
 
 Thou city of the angels ! thou city of the Lord ! 
 
 Whose everlasting music is the glorious decachord ! 
 
 And there the band of prophets united praise ascribes, 
 
 And there the twelvefold charms of Israel's ransomed tribes, 
 
 The lily-beds of virgins, the roses' martyr-glow, 
 
 The cohort of the Fathers, who kept the faith below. 
 
 And there the Sole-begotten is Lord in regal state, — 
 
 He, Judah's mystic Lion, — He, Lamb Immaculate ! 
 
 O fields that know no sorrow ! O state that fears no strife ! 
 
 O princely bowers ! O land of flowers ! O realm and home of life ! 
 
 A sacred charm seems to pervade these majestic, 
 soul-stirring stanzas, they bring the hallowed beatific 
 vision so vividly before us ; while the poem abounds 
 with rich imagery and glowing beauty. It was said 
 of this hymn, that it brought heaven nearer to us ; and 
 that the departing spirit has felt its uplifting power, 
 even on the threshold of its home. So it was with the 
 little sufferer mentioned by Dr. Neale in his notes 
 upon Bernard. He says, "Thankful am I that the 
 Cluniac's verses should have soothed the dying hours 
 of many of God's servants. The most striking in- 
 stance of which I know, is that of the child, who, when 
 suffering agonies which the medical attendants declared 
 to be almost unparalleled, would lie, without a mur- 
 
58 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 mur or motion, while the whole four hundred lines 
 (of the translation) were read to him." It was the 
 same pious recluse that wrote these comforting, quick- 
 ening lines, who was accustomed to walk with his 
 brother-monks in the cloisters, or in the groves, or 
 retreats of his order, who would sometimes stop, and 
 say to them, "Dear brethren, I must go: there is 
 some one waiting for me in my cell." That "some 
 one," it need hardly be stated, was the object of his 
 devout affection, — his Lord and Saviour. "The 
 name of Jesus," says Bernard, "is not only light, but 
 food; it is likewise oil, without which all the food of 
 the soul is dry ; it is salt, unseasoned by which, what- 
 ever is presented to us is insipid ; it is honey in the 
 mouth, melody in the ear, joy in the heart, medicine 
 in the soul ; and there are no charms in any discourse 
 in which His name is not heard." 
 
 Adam of St. Victor, who was a contemporary 
 of Bernard, has been regarded as the most fertile 
 of the hymnists of mediaeval times ; a native of 
 Brittany, or, as some critics think, of Britain. Yet 
 from the fact that the great seat of Latin poetry, in the 
 twelfth century, was France, it is fair to infer that 
 Adam, one of the chief of the band of clerical scribes, 
 had his birth among the French. Hildebert, the two 
 Bernards, and Peter the Venerable, were French ; and 
 the religious foundation of St. Victor, — then in the 
 suburbs, and afterwards included within the walls of 
 the city, — it was here he lived and died. The year 
 of his death is not ascertained, but is believed to have 
 been between 1173 an d 1194- His epitaph, engraven 
 on a plate of copper in the cloister of St. Victor, re- 
 mained till the general destruction during the French 
 
MEDIAEVAL LATIN. 59 
 
 Revolution. Archbishop Trench remarks, c? It is im- 
 possible to doubt that Adam of St. Victor partook to 
 the full of the theological culture of the school to 
 which he belonged; for this, indeed, is evident from 
 his hymns, which have oftentimes as great a theologi- 
 cal as poetical or even devotional interest; the first, 
 indeed, predominating, sometimes to the injury of the 
 last. . . . He may not have any single poem to vie 
 with the austere grandeur of the c Dies Iras,' nor yet 
 with the tearful passion of the f Stabat Mater ; ' al- 
 though, concerning the last point, there might well be 
 a question, — but then it must be remembered these 
 stand alone." 
 
 Adam of the " religious house " of St. Victor is be- 
 lieved to have written thirty -six hymns. Here are 
 some specimen-lines of a translation.* The subject is 
 "Affliction." 
 
 As the harp-strings only render 
 
 All their treasures of sweet sound, — 
 All their music, glad or tender, — 
 
 Firmly struck and tightly bound ; 
 So the hearts of Christians owe 
 
 Each its deepest, sweetest strain 
 To the pressure firm of woe, 
 
 And the tension tight of pain. 
 Spices crushed, their pungence yield, 
 
 Trodden scents their sweets respire ; 
 Would you have its strength revealed, 
 
 Cast the incense in the fire : 
 Thus the crushed and broken frame 
 
 Oft doth sweetest graces yield ; 
 And, through suffering, toil, and shame, 
 From the martyr's keenest flame, 
 Heavenly incense is distilled ! 
 
 Dr. Neale regards the "Sequence" for the "Exalta- 
 tion of the Cross" as his masterpiece. It commences : 
 
 * Mrs. Charles's. 
 
bO EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Be the Cross our theme and story, 
 We who in the Cross's glory 
 
 Shall exult for evermore. 
 By the Cross the warrior rises, 
 By the Cross the foe despises, 
 
 Till he gains the heavenly shore ! 
 
 His hymn on St. Stephen's Day commences, — 
 
 Yesterday, the happy earth 
 Pealed her grateful praises forth, 
 
 Keeping Christ's nativity ; 
 Yesterday, the angel- throng 
 Met the King of heaven with song 
 
 And with high festivity. 
 
 Noble wrestler ! yield to none, 
 For thy victory must be won ; 
 
 Stephen, struggle bravely through ! 
 Those false witnesses refute, 
 Satan's synagogue confute, 
 
 With thy holy speech, and true. 
 
 For that crown that cannot wither, 
 
 Press through these brief torments hither : 
 
 Triumph shall reward thy strife. 
 Death is thy nativity ; 
 And thy sufferings' close shall be 
 
 The beginning of thy life ! 
 
 The following beautiful stanzas are part of a trans- 
 lation of the celebrated hymn, "Jam lucis orto si- 
 dere." It was this hymn that was chanted by the 
 priesthood, in full choir, at the death-bed of William 
 the Conqueror, in a.d. 1087. The cathedral-bell, 
 which announced the hour of morning worship, — 
 just as the sun was rising above the horizon, — was 
 the signal for the matin-song. The monarch had 
 passed away from earth before the singers had ceased. 
 
MEDIAEVAL LATIN. 6l 
 
 This admirable hymn is still sung in the original, at 
 Whitsuntide, by the scholars of Winchester College, 
 prior to their vacation. The translation is as follows : 
 
 Now that the sun is gleaming bright, 
 
 Implore we, bending low, 
 That He, the uncreated Light, 
 
 May guide us as we go. 
 No sinful word, or deed of wrong, 
 
 Nor thoughts that idly rove, 
 But simple truth be on our tongue, 
 
 And in our hearts be love. 
 And while the hours in order flow, 
 
 O Christ ! securely fence 
 Our gates beleaguered by the foe, — 
 
 The gate of every sense. 
 And grant that to Thine honor, Lord, 
 
 Our daily toil may tend ; 
 That we begin it at Thy word, 
 
 And in Thy favor end ! 
 
 The famous hymn, " Veni, Sancte Spiritus," the author- 
 ship of which has long been attributed to King Robert 
 II. of France, has recently been discovered to have been 
 the production of a monk of lofty piety and learning, 
 named Hermannus Contractus. The Rev. S. W. Duffield, 
 D.D., of Bloomfield, N. J., is to be credited with this dis- 
 covery, as well as with that of the authorship of another 
 celebrated Latin hymn, "Veni, Creator Spiritus," the 
 authorship of which has been hitherto ascribed to the 
 Emperor Charlemagne or to Gregory the Great. After 
 laborious search among the learned authorities in the 
 Astor Library, he closes his statement in favor of Raba- 
 nus Maurus, Bishop of Mayence. Rabanus died in 856, 
 and the first mention of the hymn is in 898 A.D. " The 
 dates and the argument, internal and external, all settle 
 for us henceforth," he adds, " the true authorship of the 
 ' Veni, Creator Spiritus.' " Dumeld's rendering follows : 
 
62 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 O Holy Ghost, Creator, come ! 
 
 Thy people's minds pervade ; 
 And fill, with Thy supernal grace, 
 
 The souls which Thou hast made. 
 
 Thou who art called the Paraclete, 
 
 The gift of God most high, 
 Thou living fount, and fire, and love, 
 
 Our spirits' pure ally; 
 
 Thou seven-fold giver of all good; 
 
 Finger of God's right hand ; 
 Thou promise of the Father, rich 
 
 In words for every land, — 
 
 Kindle our senses to a flame, 
 
 And fill our hearts with love, 
 And through our bodies' weakness, still 
 
 Pass valor from above ! 
 
 Drive further off our enemy, 
 
 And straightway give us peace ; 
 That, with Thyself as such a guide, 
 
 We may from evil cease. 
 
 Through Thee may we the Father know, 
 
 And thus confess the Son; 
 For Thee, from both the Holy Ghost, 
 
 We praise while time shall run. 
 
 This splendid hymn had scarcely been sung, when 
 the accents of another notable singer burst upon the 
 ear, — Cardinal Damiani, bishop of Ostia, said to 
 have been a zealous reprover of the vices of his time : 
 he died in 1071. The great hymn on the Joys of 
 Paradise, often attributed to Augustine, is his. Here 
 it is : — 
 
 In the Fount of life perennial the parched heart its thirst would 
 
 slake, 
 And the soul, in flesh imprisoned, longs her prison-walls to break, — 
 Exile, seeking, sighing, yearning, in her fatherland to wake. 
 

 MEDIAEVAL LATIN. 63 
 
 Who can utter what the pleasures and the peace unbroken are, 
 Where arise the pearly mansions, shedding silvery light afar ; 
 Festive seats, and golden roofs, which glitter like the evening-star ! 
 
 There, the saints like suns are radiant, like the sun at dawn tney 
 
 glow ; 
 Crowned victors after conflict, all their joys together flow ; 
 And, secure, they count the battles where they fought the prostrate 
 
 foe. 
 Putting off their mortal vesture, in their Source their souls they 
 
 steep ; 
 Truth by actual vision learning, on its form their gaze they keep ; 
 Drinking from the living Fountain draughts of living waters deep. 
 Time, with all its alternations, enters not those hosts among ; 
 Glorious, wakeful, blest, no shade of chance or change o'er them is 
 
 flung ; 
 Sickness cannot touch the deathless ; nor old age, the ever young ! 
 There, their being is eternal ; things that ceased, have ceased to be ; 
 All corruption there has perished ; there they flourish, strong and 
 
 free : 
 Thus mortality is swallowed up of Life eternally ! 
 
 Ever filled, and ever seeking, what they have they still desire ; 
 Hunger, there, shall fret them never, nor satiety shall tire ; 
 Still enjoying whilst aspiring, in their joy they still aspire ! 
 There, the new song, new for ever, those melodious voices sing ; 
 Ceaseless streams of fullest music through those blessed regions 
 
 rin g> — • 
 
 Crowned victors ever bringing praises worthy of the King ! 
 
 This twelfth century was the great era of the Cru- 
 sades ; it was also most vocal with these Christian 
 melodies. From many more of the sweet minstrels 
 of the monastery we might entertain the reader's ear 
 with richest music; but our limits necessarily forbid. 
 We can only indicate by name a few of the leaders of 
 the great choir. There was a long poem on the suf- 
 ferings of our Lord, by Anselm, bishop of Lucca, 
 who died 1086. Here are the opening stanzas of the 
 English version : — 
 
64 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Rise, my soul, from slumber now, leave the bed of sleep ; 
 Languor, torpor, vanity, — all outside must keep ; 
 While the heart, lit up within, with love's torches, glows, 
 Dwelling on that wondrous work, and the Saviour's woes, 
 Reason, thought, affections true, gather all together, 
 Not by trifles led astray, hither roam and thither ; 
 Fancies wild, distracting doubts, busy cares, depart ; 
 While the sacraments of life pass before the heart. 
 
 Peter the Venerable, Abbot of Cluny (1092-1156) 
 wrote a celebrated hymn on the Resurrection of our 
 Lord, entitled " Mortis portis fractis, fortis." We 
 quote Mrs. Charles's fine translation : — 
 
 Lo ! the gates of death are broken, and the strong man armed is 
 
 spoiled 
 Of his armor, which he trusted, by the Stronger Arm despoiled ! 
 
 Vanquished is the prince of hell, 
 
 Smitten by +he Cross, he fell. 
 
 Thus God brought man back to heaven, when he rose from out the 
 
 grave, 
 The pure, primal life bestowing, which creating, first He gave. 
 By the sufferings of his Maker, to His perfect Paradise, 
 The first dweller thus returneth : wherefore these glad songs arise. 
 
 Hildebert, who in 1125 became archbishop of 
 Tours, wrote a notable hymn 'of over two hundred 
 lines, — an address to "the Trinity;" which, like 
 other productions of the cloister and the stylus, is 
 somewhat metaphysical, yet characterized by har- 
 mony, grace, and terseness. Thomas Aquinas — 
 "the angelic doctor," as he has been styled — com- 
 posed those renowned sacramental lyrics, "Pange 
 lingua gloriosi," and " Lauda Sion Salvatorem:" 
 the last named, it is said, he wrote at the instance of 
 Pope Urban IV. 
 
 That pious recluse, Thomas a Kempis (from the 
 
MEDIAEVAL LATIN. 65 
 
 name of his birthplace, — Kempin, in Holland), was 
 the author of a fine Christian lyric on " The joys of 
 Heaven." He was born in 1380, and died in 1471, 
 in his ninety-first year. He is almost universally 
 known as the author of that famous work, " The Imi- 
 tation of Christ ; " a book that is cherished alike by 
 Protestant and Catholic, — has been more frequently 
 reprinted than any other book, perhaps, except the 
 Bible. It has been translated into all Christian, and 
 some heathen languages. It is even stated that a 
 copy of it in Arabic was discovered, by a travelling 
 monk, in the library of a king of Morocco, which his 
 Moorish majesty prized beyond all his other books. 
 Strange to add, in the face of all this popularity, 
 the authorship of this work has been in dispute during 
 nearly four centuries. In France, the learned have 
 attributed the work to John Gerson, chancellor of the 
 University of Paris, who died in 1429. Thomas a 
 Kempis was an excellent copyist : his copy of the 
 Bible, the labor of fifteen years, was thought a mas- 
 terpiece of calligraphic art ; and, as there is an ancient 
 manuscript of the work extant in the library at Valen- 
 ciennes, it has been inferred that he only copied the 
 work ; but later research has discovered a copy in the 
 library at Brussels, which bears the name of Thomas 
 a Kempis, ten years older, which determines the right 
 of authorship to the pious recluse of the fifteenth cen- 
 tury, canon of Utrecht and of Mount St. Agnes. 
 
 But we digress. In speaking of this worthy ascetic, 
 who had taught us such exemplary lessons in prose, 
 we had well-nigh forgotten his hymn in which he 
 sings to us so sweetly of the glories of the heavenly 
 state : — 
 
 5 
 
66 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 High the angel choirs are raising 
 
 Heart and voice in harmony ; 
 The Creator-King still praising, 
 
 Whom, in beauty there they see. 
 Sweetest strains, from soft harps stealing ; 
 Trumpets, notes of triumph pealing ; 
 Radiant wings, and white stoles gleaming ; 
 Up the steeps of glory streaming : 
 Where the heavenly bells are ringing 
 Holy, holy, holy ! singing 
 
 To the mighty Trinity ! 
 Holy, holy, holy ! crying ; 
 For all earthly care and sighing 
 
 In that city cease to be ! 
 Every voice is there harmonious, 
 Praising God, in hymns symphonious ; 
 Love each heart with light enfolding, 
 As they stand, in peace, beholding 
 
 There the Triune Deity ! 
 Whom adore the seraphim, 
 
 Aye with love eternal burning ; 
 Venerate the cherubim, 
 
 To their Fount of honor turning; 
 Whilst angelic thrones adoring 
 Gaze upon His Majesty ! 
 
 Reverting back again, for a moment, to the subject 
 of preaching, we might remark, that these mediaeval 
 preachers were potent speakers. There are many 
 familiar enough to us by name ; but, beyond that, we 
 know but little pertaining to their character and public 
 service. Peter the Hermit must have been a persua- 
 sive and powerful speaker, to sway such multitudes by 
 his words : so must have been the Bernards ; Peter 
 the Venerable ; Adam of St. Victor ; Peter of Blois, 
 who became archdeacon of London ; Guaric of Ign- 
 iac ; Hildebert, archbishop of Tours ; Anthony of 
 Padua, — not to increase the list, — whose popularity, 
 
MEDIEVAL LATIN. 67 
 
 like that of Whitefield and the Wesley s, obliged them 
 to preach in the open field or on the hillside, some- 
 times having for their audience not less than thirty 
 thousand eager listeners ! It is also pleasant to think, 
 with Dr. Neale, who has reproduced some of these 
 mediaeval sermons, that, in many instances, they were 
 greatly in advance of the prevalent superstitions of 
 those times. It may excite surprise in some to learn, 
 that, in early and mediaeval days, homilies or sermons 
 were not unfrequently in verse ; yet such seems to 
 have been the case, as far back as the fourth century, 
 by Ephraem the Syrian. Taste has somewhat changed 
 since those days. Specimens of these curious effu- 
 sions, of the fourteenth century, were reproduced, re- 
 cently, in Edinburgh, collated from manuscripts in 
 Oxford and Cambridge. We subjoin a brief speci- 
 men of one of these literary curiosities : it is in the 
 Saxon, as pure as Chaucer. 
 
 Now see ye qui and for quas sake, 
 Crist com til us our kind * to take ; 
 His fust com was bodilye, 
 Bot an other est gastilye. f 
 That es quen Crist gifes us wille, 
 His commandment to fulfille ; 
 For son quen me haf wil to do, 
 Al that the preacheour says us to— 
 And feles our hearte in charite, 
 In sothe $ ful siker may we be. 
 That Crist is comen in til our hertes 
 Gastli, that us til goodnesse ertes, § 
 Of us self haf we noht bot sin, 
 Bot quen Crist wirkes us wit in, 
 Than at the fust beginne, we 
 God cresten men for to be. 
 
 * Nature. t Spiritual. t In truth. § Inclines. 
 
68 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 "Scarcely have the tones of one hymn died away 
 before another has been grandly swelling upon the 
 ear of Christendom. In the fourteenth century, the 
 music of the Church was becoming faint. Truth was 
 sending out its messages but in undertones. Spiritual 
 religion was keeping up its struggling existence within 
 narrow retreats. But even then, as in every crisis of 
 Christian history, there came awakening voices, such 
 as those of Francis of Assissi, and his friend and biog- 
 rapher, Thomas of Celano, — one, the great father 
 of itinerant preaching friars ; the other, that hymnist 
 whose one Judgment hymn roused the slumbering 
 choirs of Europe, and still sends forth its deep and 
 solemn music." * 
 
 Earnest and stirring as were those many-voiced 
 melodies, re-echoed back to us from the far-distant 
 past, a yet more stately and majestic chant bursts now 
 upon our ear, with its trumpet-like cadences, — in the 
 w Dies Irse." This grand outburst is the kingllest of 
 them all. A short but significant silence preceded 
 this great hymn of the Mediaeval Church, which 
 seemed to usher it in with the greater solemnity. Its 
 tone is a reflex of the theology of the time, — austere 
 and severe, rather than loving and hopeful. It is a 
 single voice, — low, trembling, and penitential ; yet 
 it breaks the stillness, and spreads itself abroad over 
 Christendom, awakening and thrilling multitudes of 
 hearts. This voice was lifted up by one solitary 
 Franciscan monk, — Thomas, of Celano, a Neapolitan 
 village, — early in the thirteenth century. This cele- 
 brated lyric forms a part of the Burial Service in the 
 Romish Missal, and is chanted in magnificent style at 
 
 * Christophers' Hymn-writers. 
 
MEDIAEVAL LATIN. 69 
 
 the great Sistine Chapel at Rome ; while portions of 
 it enter into the worship of a large proportion of those 
 who "profess and call themselves Christians." As a 
 literary composition, such is its wondrous fascination, 
 that it has elicited the admiration of many of the 
 greatest scholars ; and it has passed into upwards of 
 two hundred translations. A multitude of English 
 versions have been made ; the most approved being 
 those by Archbishop Trench, Dean Alford, Dr. W. R. 
 Williams, of New York, Professor SchafF, General Dix, 
 and Dr. Coles, of Newark, who has given us thir- 
 teen various renderings from his own pen. This 
 acknowledged masterpiece of Latin poetry has been 
 pronounced the mcst sublime of all uninspired hymns. 
 Professor Schaff remarks that the secret of " the irresist- 
 ible power of the ' Dies Irse ' lies in the awful grandeur 
 of the theme, the intense earnestness and pathos of the 
 poet, the simple majesty and solemn music of the lan- 
 guage, the stately metre, the triple rhyme, and the 
 vowel assonances chosen in striking adaptation to the 
 sense, — all combining to produce an overwhelming 
 effect, as if we heard the final crash of the universe, 
 the commotion of the opening graves, the trumpet of 
 the archangel, summoning the quick and the dead ; 
 and saw the King of f tremendous majesty,' seated on 
 the throne of justice and mercy, and ready to dispense 
 everlasting life, or everlasting woe ! Goethe describes 
 its effect upon the guilty conscience, in the cathedral 
 scene of ' Faust.' " It is no easy thing to determine the 
 choice from the many fine versions recently executed 
 by scholars ; but, as all are good, we shall feel the 
 less scrupulous in our selection, and subjoin that 
 which has already received distinguished notice. We 
 
70 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 refer to that of General Dix, - 
 forms us, "amid the tumult, and as a relief from the 
 asperities of war." We only present the first stanza 
 in the original : — 
 
 Dies Irae, dies ilia ! 
 Sol vet sasclum in favilla, 
 Teste David cum Sibylla. 
 
 Day of vengeance, without morrow ! 
 Earth shall end in flame and sorrow, 
 As from saint and seer we borrow. 
 
 Ah ! what terror is impending, 
 When the Judge is seen descending, 
 And each secret veil is rending ! 
 
 To the throne, the trumpet sounding, 
 Through the sepulchres resounding, 
 Summons all, with voice astounding. 
 
 Death and Nature, mazed, are quaking, 
 When, the grave's long slumber breaking, 
 Man to judgment is awaking. 
 
 On the written Volume's pages, 
 Life is shown in all its stages — 
 Judgment-record of past ages ! 
 
 Sits the Judge, the raised arraigning, 
 Darkest mysteries explaining, 
 Nothing unavenged remaining. 
 
 What shall I then say, unfriended, 
 
 By no advocate attended, 
 
 When the just are scarce defended. 
 
 King of Majesty tremendous, 
 By Thy saving grace defend us ; 
 Fount of pity, safety send us ! 
 
 Holy Jesus ! meek, forbearing, 
 
 For my sins the death-crown wearing, 
 
 Save me, in that day, despairing. 
 
MEDIEVAL LATIN. *] I 
 
 Worn and weary, Thou hast sought me ; 
 By Thy cross and passion bought me ; — 
 Spare the hope Thy labors brought me. 
 
 Righteous Judge of retribution, 
 Give, oh, give me absolution 
 Ere the day of dissolution. 
 
 As a guilty culprit groaning, 
 Flushed my face, my errors owning, 
 Hear, O God, my spirit's moaning ! 
 
 Thou to Mary gav'st remission, 
 Heard'st the dying thief's petition, 
 Bad'st me hope in my contrition. 
 
 In my prayers no grace discerning, 
 Yet on me Thy favor turning, 
 Save my soul from endless burning ! 
 
 Give me, when Thy sheep confiding 
 Thou art from the goats dividing, 
 On Thy right a place abiding ! 
 
 When the wicked are confounded, 
 And by bitter flames surrounded, 
 Be my joyful pardon sounded ! 
 
 Prostrate all my guilt discerning, 
 Heart as though to ashes turning ; 
 Save, oh, save me from the burning ! 
 
 Day of weeping, when from ashes 
 Man shall rise 'mid lightning flashes, 
 Guilty, trembling with contrition, 
 Save him, Father, from perdition ! 
 
 Need we wonder that even the sturdy Dr. Johnson 
 confessed, with Sir Walter Scott, that he could not 
 recite it without tears ; or that Mozart, when he made 
 it the basis of his celebrated "Requiem," became so 
 intensely excited by the theme as to hasten his death. 
 In the closing days of his earthly career, even when 
 
72 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 his great intellect became partially obscured, Sir 
 Walter was heard to murmur to himself his own 
 rendering of this memorable canticle. 
 
 As the "Dies Iras" has been pronounced the great- 
 est, so the "Stabat Mater Dolorosa," composed in the 
 thirteenth century, by Jacobus de Benedictis, is the 
 most pathetic of hymns. Of the latter, we present 
 the opening stanzas of Lord Lyndsay's excellent ver- 
 sion : — 
 
 By the cross, sad vigil keeping, 
 Stood the mournful mother weeping, 
 
 While on it the Saviour hung ; 
 In that hour of deep distress, 
 Pierced, the sword of bitterness 
 
 Through her heart with sorrow wrung. 
 
 Oh, how sad, how woe-begone 
 Was that ever-blessed one, 
 
 Mother of the Son of God ! 
 Oh, what bitter tears she shed 
 Whilst before her Jesus bled 
 
 'Neath the Father's penal rod ! 
 
 There is a beautiful sequel to the "Dies Iras," sup- 
 posed to have been written about the same time, called 
 "Dies ilia, dies vitas." We subjoin a portion of Mrs. 
 Charles's translation : — 
 
 Lo, the Day, — the Day of Life ! 
 
 Day of unimagined light, 
 Day when Death itself shall die, 
 
 And there shall be no more night 
 
 See the King desired for ages, 
 By the just expected long ; 
 
 Long implored, at length He hasteth, 
 Cometh with salvation strong. 
 
 Oh, how past all utterance happy, 
 Sweet, and joyful it will be, 
 
MEDIEVAL LATIN. 73 
 
 When they who, unseen, have loved Him, 
 Jesus, face to face, shall see ! 
 
 There shall be no sighs or weeping, 
 
 Not a shade of doubt or fear ; 
 No old age, no want or sorrow, 
 
 Nothing sick or lacking there. 
 There the peace will be unbroken, 
 
 Deep and solemn joy be shed ; 
 Youth in fadeless flower and freshness, 
 
 And salvation perfected. 
 What will be the bliss and rapture, 
 
 None can dream and none can tell, — 
 There to reign among the angels, 
 
 In that heavenly home to dwell ! 
 To those realms, just Judge, oh, call me ! 
 
 Deign to open that blest gate, — 
 Thou, whom, seeking, looking, longing, 
 
 I, with eager hope, await ! 
 
 We are again indebted to the able pen of Dr. J. M. 
 Neale for the translation of the following, one of the 
 latest of the notable Latin hymns : — 
 
 Sing victory, O ye seas and lands ! 
 Ye floods and rivers, clap your hands ! 
 Break forth in joy, angelic bands ! 
 Crown ye the King that 'midst you stands, 
 To whom the heavenly gate expands ! 
 
 Bow before His Name Eternal, 
 
 Things celestial, things terrestrial, 
 
 And infernal ! 
 Sing victory, angel-guards that wait ! 
 Lift up, lift up the eternal gate, 
 And let the King come in with state ! 
 And, as ye meet Him on the way, 
 The mighty triumph greet, and say, 
 Hail, Jesu ! glorious Prince, to-day! 
 Who is the King of Glory blest, 
 Effulgent in His purple vest ? 
 With garments dyed in Bozrah, He 
 
74 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Ascends in pomp and jubilee. 
 
 It is the King, renowned in fight, 
 
 Whose hands have shattered Satan's might ! 
 
 Bow before His Name Eternal ! 
 
 Things celestial, things terrestrial, 
 
 And infernal ! 
 
 The following beautiful lines are part of a transla- 
 tion by Professor Longfellow, of a Latin hymn, written 
 by the celebrated Francisco Xavier, the friend and 
 companion of Loyola, who, for his zeal in the Eastern 
 missions, was styled the "Apostle of the Indies : " — 
 
 O God ! my spirit loves but Thee : 
 
 Not that in Heaven its home may be, — 
 
 Not that the souls who love not Thee 
 
 Shall groan in fire eternally ; 
 
 But Thou, on the accursed tree, 
 
 In mercy hast remembered me. 
 
 For me the cruel nails, the spear, 
 
 The ignominious scoff, didst bear ; 
 
 Countless, unutterable woes, — 
 
 The bloody sweat, death's pangs and throes, — 
 
 These Thou didst bear, all these for me, 
 
 A sinner, and estranged from Thee. 
 
 And wherefore no affection show, 
 
 Jesus, to Thee, that lov'st me so ? 
 
 Not that in heaven my home may be, 
 
 Not lest I die eternally. 
 
 Not from the hopes of joys above me ; 
 
 Not even as Thou Thyself didst love me : 
 
 So love I, and ever will love Thee ; 
 
 Surely because my King art Thou, 
 
 My God for evermore as now. 
 
 There is another celebrated ode, of very ancient 
 origin, "a voice of all ages," entitled "Cselestis urbs 
 Jerusalem." It has been supposed that the earliest 
 English version of it was made by Dickson, of Edin- 
 
MEDIAEVAL LATIN. 75 
 
 burgh, in the seventeenth century ; but recently Dr. 
 Bonar has discovered another version in a manuscript 
 volume in the British Museum, which he regards as 
 of an earlier date. This fine old hymn, not only 
 possesses great poetic merit, but also a talismanic 
 charm for many a Christian pilgrim. It is richly 
 freighted with touching and beautiful memories and 
 associations. Its plaintive and melodious words have 
 been lisped by multitudes, who, amid the sorrow's of 
 earth, longed for the beatitudes of the "better coun- 
 try ; " by once breathing lips that have long since 
 ceased to make melody on earth, but whose spirits are 
 now with the choruses of the " upper sanctuary." It 
 was the favorite refrain of the Cameronian martyrs 
 and Covenanters, who sang it in the glens and on the 
 mountains of Scotland ; and it has been made the vehi- 
 cle of devout aspiration, alike by prince and peasant, 
 in the cathedral and the cottage. 
 
 This hymn was originally entitled " The New Jeru- 
 salem ; or, the Soul's Breathing after the Heavenly 
 Country." From Mr. Prime's interesting work on 
 this hymn, we extract some portion of it, the entire 
 poem extending to thirty-one stanzas : — 
 
 O mother dear, Jerusalem ! when shall I come to thee ? 
 When shall my sorrows have an end, thy joys when shall I see ? 
 O happy harbor of God's saints ! O sweet and pleasant soil ! 
 In thee no sorrows can be found, no grief, no care, no toil. 
 
 Jerusalem the City is of God our King alone ; 
 The Lamb of God, the light thereof, sits there upon His throne. 
 Thy turrets and thy pinnacles with carbuncles do shine, 
 With jasper, pearl, and chrysolite, surpassing pure and fine. 
 
j6 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Thy walls are made of precious stones, thy bulwarks diamonds 
 
 square ; 
 Thy gates are made of Orient pearl, — O God, if I were there ! 
 
 The prison-cells of that storied old " Tower," on the 
 banks of the Thames, are covered with the marks and 
 memorials of many a hapless victim of tyranny and 
 persecution. It was there, probably, towards the close 
 of the reign of Elizabeth, that the long prison-song 
 was written, which now is treasured as a sacred relic 
 in the British Museum. The winged words of this glo- 
 rious old hymn have, however, long since found their 
 way into thousands of Christian hearts, both in Europe 
 and America ; and to many it has become an angelic 
 ministrant of grace. A young Scotchman, who was 
 on his death-bed at New Orleans, says the American 
 biographer of Whitefield, was visited by a Presbyterian 
 minister, but continued for a time to shut himself up 
 against all the good man's efforts to reach his heart. 
 Somewhat discouraged, at last the visitor turned away, 
 and, scarcely knowing why, unless it were for his own 
 comfort, began to sing "Jerusalem, my happy home." 
 That was enough ; a tender chord was touched ; the 
 young patient's heart was melted ; and with tears he 
 said, " My dear mother used to sing that hymn ! " 
 He no longer refused the good offices of his clerical 
 friend, but listened to his spiritual counsel ; and his 
 consolation ensued. 
 
 In closing our second evening's studies, we may 
 remark that we have had to omit many notable and 
 beautiful pieces, on account of the erroneous doctrines 
 they teach ; and even of those we have indicated to 
 the reader, our extracts have been necessarily brief, 
 on this account. The worship of the Virgin Mary, 
 
MEDIEVAL LATIN. 77 
 
 the dogma of transubstantiation, intercession of saints, 
 and the superstitious addresses to the material cross, 
 which characterize so generally the service of song 
 in the Mediaeval Church, have deprived us of the 
 privilege of more largely quoting from those other- 
 wise masterly productions of the monastic ages. We 
 do not, of course, wish to imply that the middle-age 
 theology was wholly corrupt, and ought to be placed 
 under ban : there was a small streamlet that still was 
 preserved in its pristine purity. For the sake of this, 
 therefore, and the natural desire we all feel to know 
 something of what the Church was doing during her 
 thousand years' eclipse, we have made our citations 
 as freely as we might. "In Romanism, we have the 
 residuum of the Middle- age Church and theology, — 
 the lees, after all, or well-nigh all: the wine was 
 drained away. But, in the Mediaeval Church, we 
 have the wine and the lees together, the truth and 
 the error ; the false observance, and yet, at the same 
 time, the divine truth, which should one day be fatal 
 to it, side by side." * The ever-living Church of 
 Christ, whether in the Catacombs or among the 
 Swiss Alps, is one with ours: — 
 
 " Their song to us descendeth : 
 The Spirit, who in them did sing, to us His music lendeth. 
 
 His song, in them, in us, is one ; 
 
 We raise it high, we send it on, — 
 The song that never endeth ! " 
 
 Could we bridge over the distance of time, and 
 penetrate through the disguise of cowl and cloister, 
 we should, doubtless, discover that, despite the out- 
 ward uniformity of convent-life, there existed the same 
 
 * Trench's Sacred Latin Poetry. 
 
78 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 internal Christian experience, — of doubt and fear, 
 sorrow and exultation, — that mark the inner Chris- 
 tian life of our own day. The gems of the hymn 
 literature of those remote times we gather from many 
 a hidden mine ; and they flash frequently across a 
 chaos of ignorance and darkness. It has been well 
 said, "We need only study the sacred poetry of the 
 Middle Ages, to understand why the Reformation 
 was needed." The idolatry of the Virgin was and 
 still continues to be the great heresy of Latin Chris- 
 tianity : it was born of darkness, and gathered strength 
 from the superstitious weakness of its adherents. As 
 the Bible afforded no authority for the dogma, "tradi- 
 tion " was invoked ; and " tradition wove a gorgeous 
 robe for her," while music and painting aided to invest 
 the delusion with their spell. 
 
^^IXK 
 
 THIRD EVENING. 
 
 GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA, 
 
 f 
 
THIRD EVENING. 
 
 GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. 
 
 r I ^HUS far our rapid survey of the sacred poetry 
 •*- of the Latin Church has verified the remark of 
 a great thinker,* that "it is but feebly, and as afar 
 off, that the ancient liturgies (except so far as they 
 merely copied their originals) came up to the majesty 
 and the wide compass of the Hebrew worship, such 
 as it is indicated in Psalm clxviii. Neither Ambrose, 
 nor Gregory, nor the Greeks have reached, or ap- 
 proached this level. As to the powers of sacred 
 poetry, those powers were expanded to the full, and 
 were quite expended too, by the Hebrew bards. What 
 are modern hymns but so many laborious attempts to 
 put in a new form that which, as it was done in the 
 very best manner so many ages ago, can never be 
 well done again, otherwise than in a way of verbal 
 repetition." 
 
 As in the hardest winter the roots are still alive in 
 the frozen ground, so in the dim seclusion of monastic 
 life, during some ten centuries, there still lived and 
 germinated the hidden seeds of spiritual life ; and 
 many a soul-stirring out-gush of song, which at first 
 
 * Isaac Taylor. 
 
 6 
 
82 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 resounded amid the solemn stillness of cloistered cell, 
 or echoed along the lofty arches of many a stately ca- 
 thedral, now reverberated in the homesteads and on the 
 hill-sides of Germany. There is, however, a charac- 
 teristic freshness and purity, as well as spiritual fervor, 
 in the devotional lyrics which ushered in, and accom- 
 panied the Protestant Reformation of Germany. A 
 greater variety in the subjects of these hymns is no 
 less noticeable, as also the peculiar circumstances 
 which called them forth. No longer do these mel- 
 odies come to us from the cloister of monkish ascet- 
 icism, devoted mainly to the contemplation of the 
 cross and passion of our Lord, not to refer to the 
 idolatrous character of the majority of them, but they 
 pertain to the daily needs and experiences of active 
 Christian life. They are heart-bursts from the cham- 
 ber of domestic sorrow, glad orisons of praise from 
 the harvest-field, earnest appeals for Divine succor 
 amidst the terrors of war, — the voices of the inner life 
 of the individual Christian amid the various activities 
 of those stirring times of transition and trial. 
 
 Well has it been said by D'Aubignd, that Poetry 
 caught the living flame kindled up by the Reformation. 
 The souls of Luther, and many of his coadjutors, ele- 
 vated by faith to the loftiest flights of thought, excited 
 to enthusiasm by the conflicts and perils which con- 
 stantly threatened the infant church, — in a word, in- 
 spired by the poetic genius of the Old Testament, and 
 by their faith in the New, — soon poured out their 
 feelings in religious songs, in which poetry and music 
 mingled all the heavenly elements that belonged to 
 either. Thus the sixteenth century witnessed the re- 
 vival of the psalmody which had consoled the martyrs 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. 83 
 
 of the first Christian age. The same year that Luther 
 consecrated his powers of melody and verse to me- 
 morialize the martyrs of Brussels, Hans Sachs sang 
 "The Nightingale of Wittenberg." The doctrine, 
 which for four centuries had prevailed in the Church, 
 was as the light of the moon, gleaming upon men 
 wandering in a wilderness. Now the nightingale 
 announced the sun, and rose above the morning 
 clouds, hymning the light of day. But this mag- 
 nificent harmony, produced by the gospel in the day 
 of its revival, was soon to be disturbed. The songs 
 of the Wittenberg nightingale were interrupted by 
 the whistling of the tempest and the roaring of lions. 
 A mist gathers in a moment over all Germany ; and, 
 after a splendid day, there comes a night of the deep- 
 est darkness. The struggle between the leaders of 
 the Protestant Reformation, and the Catholicism of the 
 Middle Ages in its decay, forms the principal object 
 of interest of the sixteenth century. The one party 
 was in its decrepitude and decadence ; the other, full 
 of the energy of young life. 
 
 The invention of the printing-press was gradually 
 affecting a mighty revolution over the world. The 
 Greek and Latin classics, which were till then sealed 
 books, save to the monk, were now free to general 
 perusal. The same, to a certain extent, was being 
 done for the Sacred Scriptures. It was an epoch of 
 wondrous awakening of the nations ; it was when 
 Tasso and Ariosto were pouring forth their lays to 
 the ears of kings and princes, celebrating the deliver- 
 ance of the holy Sepulchre, or the feats of the paladins 
 of Charlemagne. While Portugal was delighted with 
 the strains of a Camoens, and while England gloried 
 
84 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 in her Shakspeare, and France boasted her Ronsard 
 and her Marot, Germany had, as yet, no poets more 
 eminent than Hans Sachs, who, next to Lope de 
 Vega, has the merit of being the most prolific poet 
 the world has ever known. Germany was mute until 
 the Reformation ; then it broke forth into song, for it 
 had something to sing about, — its rescue from spirit- 
 ual despotism, ignorance, and superstition. 
 
 It was fitting that the dawn of the Reformation 
 should be ushered in with the voice of hallowed 
 song ; and after the dark night which had brooded 
 so long over the world had receded, a rich choral 
 gush of rejoicing melody did burst forth, like the 
 light, over the liberated land. Since the apostolic 
 times, the most formidable foe the Christian Church 
 has had to oppose, was that system which claimed to 
 be the Church itself. The Council of Trent — as far 
 as worldly influence was concerned, one of the most 
 august and imposing assemblages the world had ever 
 witnessed — provoked, by its action, a cry of sur- 
 prise, indignation, and grief; but that cry was lost 
 in air. 
 
 "Rome inwardly laughed at Christendom around 
 her, while she showed her spell to be of such a nature, 
 that to break it, needed another might than that of emper- 
 ors, kings, bishops, and doctors, with all the science and 
 all the power of the age and the Church. . . . The phi- 
 losophers of Alexandria had spoken of a fire wherein 
 men ought to be purified ; and now Rome set forth this 
 as a doctrine of the Church ; adding, that indulgences 
 could deliver souls from this intermediate state, in 
 which otherwise their sins would detain them. Noth- 
 ing was omitted that could inspire fear. Man is 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. 85 
 
 prompted by his own nature to dread an unknown 
 future ; and this dread was worked upon and aug- 
 mented. Who, then, could withhold the price of a 
 ransom? So the revolting trade went on, — pope after 
 pope finding new methods of increasing it, — till, in 
 the year 1300, Boniface VIII. published a bull, an- 
 nouncing, that, every hundred years, all who pre- 
 sented themselves at Rome should receive a plenary 
 indulgence. From Italy, Sicily, Sardinia, Corsica, 
 France, Germany, Hungary, — from everywhere, 
 the tide set in. In one moath, they counted in Rome 
 two hundred thousand pilgrims. All these brought 
 rich offerings, and the Roman treasury was rapidly 
 filled. The next thing was to fix the return of the 
 jubilee at fifty, then at thirty, and lastly at twenty- 
 five years. Then, for the greater convenience of pur- 
 chasers, and the greater profit of the vendors, both 
 the jubilee and its indulgences were given to every 
 place in Christendom. Thus the clergy had dis- 
 graced both religion and themselves. Well might 
 Luther exclaim, 'The ecclesiastical state is opposed 
 to God and his glory. . . . Every man feels disgust 
 when he sees or hears of an ecclesiastic' The evil 
 had spread through all ranks : corruption of manners 
 kept pace with corruption of faith, and a mystery of 
 iniquity lay like an incubus on the enslaved Church 
 of Christ. The vital doctrines of the Scriptures had 
 nearly disappeared. The strength of the Church had 
 been wasted ; and its body lay stretched upon that part 
 of the earth which the Roman empire had occupied, 
 enfeebled, exhausted, and all but lifeless."* 
 
 As a set-off for the many knavish tricks and frauds 
 
 * D'Aubigne's Reformation. 
 
86 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 by which money was extracted, through the terror 
 and credulity of the people, by Tetzel, — a story is told 
 of a Saxon gentleman who outwitted the wily impos- 
 tor. Having bargained, for thirty crowns, for permis- 
 sion to commit an act of violence, he took out his 
 money's worth upon that functionary himself, for whom 
 he lay in wait, and, having beaten him grievously, 
 carried off the rich chest of indulgence money, which 
 he had helped to fill. On his trial for the audacious 
 act, the "indulgence," which he exhibited, secured his 
 acquittal. 
 
 Yet, all along this epoch of spiritual inertia and 
 death, a chain of living witnesses for the truth exist- 
 ed., known as the Waldenses, from the heights of 
 the Piedmont Alps : these ever protested against the 
 superstitions and errors of Rome. 
 
 The voice of Protestantism is again lifted up, in 
 England by WicklifTe, and in Bohemia by John 
 Huss, a century before Luther in Saxony. Huss, 
 "the John the Baptist of the Reformation," spread 
 a vast light through the darkness, which was not 
 soon to be extinguished. A pious bishop of Basle, 
 Christopher of Utenheim, caused his name to be 
 written on a picture painted on glass, which is still at 
 Basle,* and encircled it with this device, which he 
 desired to have always before his eyes : " My hope 
 is the cross of Christ : I seek grace, and not works." 
 A poor Carthusian brother, Martin, writes a touching 
 confession, in which he says, " O God, most chari- 
 table ! I know that I cannot be saved, and satisfy Thy 
 justice, otherwise than through the merit, the very 
 innocent passion, and the death of Thy well-beloved 
 
 * D'Aubign6. 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. 87 
 
 Son. Holy Jesus ! all my salvation is in Thy hands. 
 Thou canst not turn from me the hands of Thy love, 
 for they have created, formed, and redeemed me ! " 
 The piety of the good monk would never have been 
 known to us, had not an old dwelling, which had 
 formed part of the convent in Basle, been taken down, 
 in the year 1776, when this confession of faith was 
 discovered in a wooden box, which his own hands 
 must have placed in the wall of his cell. Let us 
 cherish the hope, that many another cloistered relic 
 of this priceless order, although as yet undiscovered, 
 may have existed, as a memorial that the spirit of 
 truth had not wholly forsaken the haunts of men dur- 
 ing these dark ages. 
 
 Scarcely had the Councils of Constance and Basle, 
 which condemned Huss and his followers, broken up, 
 when some fearless Christian men arose, like the Old- 
 Testament prophets, and, with voices of thunder, 
 uttered their denunciations against the prevailing vices 
 of the priesthood. These heroic confessors and mar- 
 tyrs went, too, like Huss, to their reward, in a mantle 
 of flame ! Savonarola preaches in Florence, in 1497 : 
 his thrilling voice and impassioned gesture captivate 
 the hearts of his hearers. "The Church must be 
 renewed ! " he exclaims. The Dominican paid the 
 usual penalty of his temerity. Then came John of 
 Wessalia, a scholar of good repute and courage, pro- 
 claiming "the Holy Scriptures to be the only source 
 of faith ; " and the brave old confessor, with tottering 
 steps, is led to the dungeons of the Inquisition to die. 
 
 But John Hilten, a Franciscan monk at Eisenach, 
 in Thuringia, and a great student of prophecy, went 
 farther. When thrown into prison on account of his 
 
88 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 writings, his advanced age and the filthiness of his 
 dungeon bringing on a dangerous illness, he sent for 
 the friar superintendent, who at once began to rebuke 
 him harshly for his doctrine, and his attacks on the 
 abuses of monastic life. Hilten, forgetting his illness, 
 and fetching a deep sigh, said, "I calmly submit to 
 your injustice, for the love of Christ : but another will 
 come, in the year of the Lord 15 16; he will destroy 
 you, and you will not be able to stand against him." 
 Luther was born not long after, a short distance from 
 Hilten's dungeon ; commenced his studies in the same 
 town in which the monk was prisoner ; and publicly 
 engaged in the Reformation, only a year later than 
 this singular prophecy had indicated. 
 
 When Luther was sent to the Franciscan school at 
 Magdeburg, he used to sing in the streets for his 
 bread, as his father was unable to support him. A 
 year after, he removed to a better school at Eisenach, 
 where he had relatives ; but they, too, neglected him. 
 And here it was that Ursula, the wife of Conrad 
 Cotta, took compassion on the singing boy, receiving 
 him into her house, where, for some years, he en- 
 joyed one of the most pleasant and profitable periods 
 of his life. In that hospitable home, young Martin 
 greatly extended his knowledge, and laid the founda- 
 tion for his love of music and song. At the age of 
 eighteen, he entered the University of Erfurt, where 
 he made great attainments ; and it was there that he, 
 for the first time, found the Bible, which he read with 
 deep thought, and great wonder and delight. This 
 incident was a controlling one in the life of Luther ; 
 he soon after entered the Augustine monastery, at 
 Erfurt, where, after passing through three years 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. 89 
 
 of spiritual conflicts, he at length emerged into evan- 
 gelical rest and peace. The Elector of Saxony, in 
 1508, invited him to the University of Wittenberg, 
 where he soon was appointed to the Chair of Divinity, 
 and was called to expound the Scriptures daily. Thus 
 gradually and unconsciously was he being prepared 
 for the great work of the Reformation. 
 
 Luther was never ashamed to speak of the deep 
 poverty of his youth ; when at the height of his great- 
 ness, he would recall the fact. Yes : the same voice 
 whose tones had shaken the empire of the world, had 
 once humbly begged a morsel of bread. Then, again, 
 note that obscure antique tome, which, perhaps, had 
 remained unnoticed for centuries, in the library of 
 Erfurt; but it was destined to become, by the Divine 
 Providence, the "Book of Life," not only to a whole 
 nation, but to the world at large ; for the seed of the 
 Reformation was contained within it. It was this 
 Latin version of the Scriptures that Luther read and 
 re-read with so much delight; it was the spiritual 
 manna, upon which his hungry soul feasted so often, 
 and which ultimately made him the stalwart champion 
 of the faith. 
 
 Light from heaven burst upon the darkened mind 
 of Luther, when the vicar-general Staupitz announced 
 to him for the first time the great foundation truth, 
 that not in works and penance, but in "love toward 
 God, and faith toward the Lord Jesus Christ," true 
 repentance consists. " Seek not conversion in emaci- 
 ation and suffering, but love Him who first loved 
 thee." Luther listened in rapt attention : his heart 
 was surprised with an unknown joy, his mind with 
 a strange and unknown light. Thus illumined him- 
 
90 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 self, he soon began to scatter abroad those rays of 
 light upon others ; while the Bible, which he found 
 chained up in a monastery, in a dead language, he 
 ultimately gave to the common people in their own 
 vernacular. Look again at Luther boldly confront- 
 ing that august assemblage at the Diet of Worms, — 
 how, noblest of them all, does he stand forth, pano- 
 plied in the "whole armor of God." 
 
 All eyes are centred upon the marvellous and 
 intrepid monk, albeit slight traces of emotion are 
 observed in his deportment, as he finds himself unsup- 
 ported in the midst of so much pomp and pageantry 
 of state ; but soon he recovers his equanimity, all agi- 
 tation subsides, and — 
 
 "There he stands in superhuman calm, 
 Concentred and sublime ! Around him pomp 
 And blaze imperial, haughty eyes, and words 
 Whose tones breathe tyranny, in vain attempt 
 The heaven-born quiet of his soul to move ; 
 Crowned with the grace of everlasting Truth, 
 A more than monarch among kings he stood ! " 
 
 While his friends thought their cause lost, and ram- 
 pant enemies were thirsting for his blood, Luther was 
 energetically and prayerfully preparing to give the 
 German nation that Word of God which the Romish 
 priesthood had for centuries hidden from their gaze. 
 "God, who had conducted John to Patmos, there to 
 write his Revelation, had confined Luther in the 
 Wartburg, there to translate His Word."* Luther 
 well knew the value of the Bible : it was the well- 
 spring of his spiritual life and consolation ; and there- 
 fore he might well exclaim, "Would that this book 
 
 * D'Aubigne. 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. 91 
 
 were in every language, in every land, before the 
 eyes and in the hearts of all men." This benevolent 
 wish came from the lip of one excommunicated and 
 outlawed by the pretended head of the Church. 
 Among the literary curiosities of the Astor Library, 
 is a copy of the Bull of Pope Leo, against Martin 
 Luther. The title is as follows : "Bulla contra errores 
 Martini Lutheri et sequacium " (Bull against the errors 
 of Martin Luther and his followers) . 
 
 But, at length, our hero "fought the good fight, 
 and the time of his departure was at hand." He had 
 accomplished the work that had been given him to 
 do ; and now he was called to his reward. His death 
 was a beautiful epitome of his life ; when speech had 
 failed him for aught beside, he responded to the name 
 of his Saviour. It was fitting, therefore, when the 
 mortal part of this truly great man was being con- 
 veyed to its final resting-place, in the Cathedral of 
 Wittenberg, that his sorrowing friends and attendants 
 should chant one of the most touching of the hymns 
 he had composed, while he was yet with them : " Out 
 of the depths I cry to Thee." Here, in the very 
 church, at the doors of which he had first affixed his 
 celebrated "theses," did they now sing those irrepres- 
 sible heart-utterances that had so stirred all Germany. 
 One of these hymns, or rather psalms, Luther's most 
 characteristic one, "Eine feste Burg ist unser Gott" 
 (God is our refuge in distress), which was often called 
 the Church's Battle-hymn, was written on the occasion 
 of the evangelical princes delivering that Protest at 
 the Second Diet of Spires, in 1529, from which we 
 Protestants derive the name ; and, in 1530, the Lu- 
 therans presented their Confession of Faith, at Augs- 
 
92 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 burg. When Melancthon was at Weimar, he heard 
 a little child sing this hymn, in the street, and con- 
 fessed how it had comforted him. The first line of 
 this hymn was inscribed upon Luther's tomb. The 
 hymn we shall refer to again. 
 
 Martin Luther, it has been said, is regarded by his 
 countrymen as the original of the German mind, — 
 the prototype of all that is most distinctive in German 
 modes of thought and speech. He was no less the 
 representative of the German Protestant Reformation. 
 Others, with Zwinglius, John Huss, and Jerome of 
 Prague, were pioneers in the great crusade ; but 
 Luther was the great focal centre of influence that 
 energized and sustained its action, and led it on to 
 a glorious consummation. Luther, therefore, is the 
 parent source, alike of German literature and Chris- 
 tian liberty and civilization for the world. 
 
 The critic Gervinus observes, "The language of 
 Luther is of such wondrous purity, and its influence 
 on his immediate contemporaries was so great, that it 
 may be regarded as the basis of our modern high 
 German." His translation of the Scriptures, although 
 not the first German version, was yet the first familiarly 
 read by all classes. It was also the best, and is still 
 regarded as such. Heine says, " He was not only 
 the greatest, but the most German of our history ; 
 he was not only the tongue, but the sword of hi? 
 time." 
 
 His biographers portray him, as to his physique, 
 sturdy and stalwart, plebeian in feature, and, to quote 
 Carlyle's words, "a wild amount of passionate energy 
 and appetite ! But in his dark eyes were floods of 
 sorrow ; and deepest melancholy, sweetness, and mys- 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. 
 
 93 
 
 tery were all there. Often did there seem to meet in 
 Luther the very opposite poles in man's character. 
 He, for example, for whom Richter had said his 
 words were half battles, — he, when he first began to 
 preach, suffered unheard-of agony. ' Oh, Dr. Stau- 
 pitz, Dr. Staupitz,' said he to the vicar-general of his 
 order, ' I cannot do it ; I shall die in three months. 
 Indeed, I cannot do it.' 
 
 "Dr. Staupitz, a wise and considerate man, said 
 upon this, 'Well, Sir Martin, if you must die, you 
 must; but remember that they need good heads up 
 yonder too. So preach, man, preach, and then live 
 or die as it happens.' So Luther preached and lived, 
 and he became, indeed, one great whirlwind of ener- 
 gy, to work without resting in this world." . . . And 
 then, citing the "Table Talk" for an example of the 
 characteristic tendencies of this true man, — amidst 
 all his denunciations and curses, — Carlyle selects the 
 following passage : — 
 
 " We see in it a little bird, having alighted at sunset 
 on the bough of a pear-tree that grew in Luther's 
 garden. Luther looked upon it, and said, 'That 
 little bird, how it covers its head with wings, and 
 will sleep there, so still and fearless, though over it 
 are the infinite starry spaces, and the great blue 
 depths of immensity. Yet it fears not : it is at home. 
 The God that made it, too, is there.' The same 
 gentle spirit of lyrical admiration is in the other pas- 
 sages of his book. Coming home from Leipsic in 
 the autumn season, he breaks forth into loving wonder 
 at the fields of corn. 'How it stands there,' he says, 
 ? erect on its beautiful taper stem, and bending its 
 beautiful golden head with bread in it, — the bread 
 
^4 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 of man sent to him another year.' Such thoughts as 
 these are as little windows through which we gaze 
 into the interior of the depths of Martin Luther's soul, 
 and see visible, across its tempests and clouds, a 
 whole heaven of light and love. He might have 
 painted, he might have sung ; could have been 
 beautiful like Raphael, great like Michael Angelo.' , 
 Thus have we seen, that, in the great drama of the 
 German Reformation, one colossal figure stands prom- 
 inently forth, — that of Luther; but the gentle and 
 loving spirit of his friend, Melancthon, did his part 
 to temper the asperity and fiery ardor of his leader ; 
 while the great work was in progress in Switzer- 
 land, under the guardianship of Zwingli, — a name 
 that ranks second only to that of Luther, and be- 
 tween the two a singular parallel seems to have pre- 
 vailed, — or rather, we should say, a remarkable 
 contrast was exhibited. Zwingli and Luther were 
 born within a few weeks of each other ; the former of 
 wealthy, the latter of poor, parents. The one had a 
 teacher remarkable for learning ; the other, one for 
 his cruel severity, — having once whipped a pupil fif- 
 teen times in one forenoon. Both these reformers 
 had excellent voices ; but one only made his available 
 for his bread. Both became acquainted with the 
 Bible about the same time, 1502 ; Zwingli at Basle, 
 and Luther at Erfurt. About the year 1505, the 
 first finds a friend, who remains faithful to him 
 through life; the second loses, in a terrible manner, 
 such a one, which makes him turn monk. Both dis- 
 cover the corruptions of the papal system ; and, in the 
 year 15 17, both obtain peace through faith in Christ. 
 Zwingli attacks fearlessly the mummeries of the 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. 95 
 
 Church ; Luther assails the traffic in indulgences, 
 and, without intending it, shakes the papacy to its 
 very foundations. 
 
 The great reformers were more strongly contrasted 
 in death than in life. The fiery Luther died peace- 
 fully in his bed, at the ripe age of sixty-three ; at forty- 
 seven, the gentle Zwingli perished on the battle-field. 
 When the war, which he had vainly tried to prevent, 
 broke out between 'the Protestant and Papal cantons 
 of Switzerland, the pastor accompanied his brethren in 
 the faith, as field-preacher, to the conflict. In the 
 midst of the action, while bending down to comfort 
 with the words of life a fallen countryman, a stone 
 struck his helmet with such force that he fell to the 
 ground. On his attempting to rise, a hostile spear 
 gave him a fatal stab. He had fallen near a tree. 
 He was leaning on it; his hands were clasped, his 
 lips moved in prayer, while his eyes were directed 
 heavenward. In this state, a party of marauding sol- 
 diers found him. " Will you confess ? Shall we 
 fetch a priest?" they cry to him. The tongue which 
 had so eloquently combated error is dumb, but a 
 motion of the head signifies a negative. "Then call 
 upon the Mother of God and the blessed saints in your 
 heart," they shout to him. Again he refuses. "Die, 
 then, obstinate heretic," said an officer from Unter- 
 walden, and gave him a deadly blow. Nor did the 
 contrast end here. The remains of Luther were borne 
 to the tomb by a funeral procession of extraordinary 
 pomp ; the body of Zwingli was quartered by the 
 common hangman, and the ashes mixed with the 
 ashes of a swine, that it might be impossible for his 
 friends and admirers to identify his remains. 
 
$6 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 It was not only among princes and in palaces, or 
 in cathedrals and cloisters, that the friends and advo- 
 cates of the Reformation were to be found ; they were 
 yet more numerously scattered among the " common 
 people." Among this worthy class, there was a nota- 
 ble shoemaker, — one Hans Sachs, of Nuremberg; 
 who, after some chequered experiences, tunes his lyre 
 to the service of the Reformed doctrine ; and, since 
 the minstrel's song had ceased in the feudal castle, no 
 music had so stirred and aroused the German people as 
 his rude Christian lyrics. Perhaps it would be difficult 
 to decide whether this plebeian poet, or the Elector of 
 Saxony, achieved the most in ushering in the glorious 
 era of the Reformation. 
 
 "The recent intellectual discoveries of the age had 
 diffused a multitude of new ideas through every coun- 
 try, with inconceivable rapidity. It seemed as if the 
 minds of men, which had slept for ages, would, by 
 their activity, redeem the time they had lost. Printed 
 speech had taken to itself wings that carried it, as the 
 wind wafts certain seeds, into the remotest regions." * 
 When Zwingli, "the hope of Switzerland and of the 
 Protestant Church," was suffering from an attack of 
 the plague, and thought to be dying, he gave utter- 
 ance in German to the following plaintive strain : — 
 
 Death's at my door, walks to my side ! 
 Hand of all power, in Thee I hide ! 
 Christ, in alarm I beg for aid ; 
 Lift Thy pierced arm, break the foe's blade. 
 But if, at noon, Thou call'st me home, 
 'Tis not too soon : Jesus, I come ! 
 
 Meanwhile, the disease seemed to be gaining upon 
 him; and, with the little power remaining to him, he 
 faintly said, — 
 
 * D'Aubigne. 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. 9^ 
 
 I'm near my goal, and want Thy cheer ! 
 
 Body and soul dissolve with fear ; 
 
 Death aims his blow, — my tongue is dumb, 
 
 My senses go, my hour is come ! 
 
 The fiend is feeling for his prey ; 
 
 He is stealing life away. 
 
 I'll fear no more his voice or eye : 
 
 Jesus, before Thy cross I lie ! 
 
 But the gentle reformer had not yet finished his work. 
 Life's smouldering spark glowed again. The plague 
 left its prey, and he poured out his heart anew. 
 
 Father, I live ! healed of my pain, 
 Myself I give to Thee again ! 
 From all things wrong, oh, keep me free, 
 And let my tongue sing only Thee ! 
 The unknown hour will come at length, 
 With darker power to crush my strength. 
 But I've no dread; for then I'll rise, 
 With lifted head, above the skies. 
 
 Zwingli could hardly hold his pen, when, to the 
 indescribable joy of his family, they received the 
 tidings of his recovery in his own handwriting. 
 
 In Luther, we see a tendency to hypochondria, in 
 his occasional fits of spiritual and physical depression, 
 which we cannot contemplate without a feeling of 
 awe ; but the domestic and social aspects of the re- 
 former complete the picture, and we see him in the 
 ruddy light of his fireside a cheerful, solid, kindly, 
 humorous man. Then, we all know how he loved 
 and valued music ; society he valued equally. He 
 was fond of children's prattle ; and his sorrow for the 
 death of his little daughter Magdalen is most affecting. 
 His mind was richly stored with classical and biblical 
 lore ; and his thoughts were like some of the works 
 of mediaeval art, superbly illuminated. He colored 
 
 7 
 
98 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 his conceptions with the brilliant hues of all objects of 
 physical beauty. 
 
 "Music," said Luther, "is one of the most beautiful 
 and noble gifts of God. It is the best solace to a man 
 in sorrow; it quiets, quickens, and refreshes the heart. 
 I give music the next place, and the highest honor, 
 after theology. We see how David, and all the 
 saints, clothed their godly thoughts in verse and 
 song." When afflicted in his conscience, he used 
 to have recourse to this recreative agency. On one 
 of these occasions, when he had shut himself up for 
 two days, some musicians breaking open his door, 
 found him on the floor in a fainting fit, — when they 
 brought him back to consciousness, not so much by 
 medicine o^ food, as by their concert of sweet sounds. 
 "Luther's Carol for Christmas, written for his own 
 child Hans, is still sung from the dome of the Kreuz- 
 kirche in Dresden, before daybreak on the morning 
 of Christmas-day. It refers to the custom then and 
 long afterwards prevalent in Germany, of making, at 
 Christmas-time, representations of the manger with 
 the infant Jesus. But the most famous of his hymns 
 is his noble version of Psalm xlvi., f God is my strong- 
 hold firm and sure,' which may be called the national 
 hymn of his Protestant countrymen. Luther's hymns 
 are wanting in harmony and correctness of metre, 
 to a degree which often makes them jarring to our 
 modern ears ; but they are always full of fire and 
 strength, of clear Christian faith, and brave, joyful 
 trust in God."* 
 
 It was the "Lion-hearted Luther" that so oft solaced 
 himself with sacred song during the stormy encoun- 
 
 * C. Winkworth. 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. 99 
 
 ters he had to pass through. Coleridge says, "He did 
 as much for the Reformation by his hymns, as by his 
 translation of the Bible," since his hymns made a bond 
 of union among men who knew little of Creeds and 
 Articles. The common people of Germany sang Lu- 
 ther's strong scriptural words to his own tunes with 
 all their hearts ; for, unlike the idle listening to a 
 Latin litany, they were able to comprehend their 
 deep meaning. " The children learned Luther's hymns 
 in the cottage, and martyrs sang them on the scaf- 
 fold." 
 
 In the year 1530, during the Diet of Augsburg, 
 Luther's mental anxiety so overcame his bodily 
 strength, that he fainted; on recovering, he said, 
 "Come, let us defy the devil, and praise God by 
 singing the hymn, r Out of the depths I cry to Thee.' 
 This hymn has often comforted the sick and dying. 
 It is said to have been the last Protestant hymn sung 
 in Strasburg Cathedral."* 
 
 The great Reformation has won from Germany 
 thousands of sacred songs; and the succession have, 
 in the general chorus of other Christian lands, had 
 their respective choirs of singers. 
 
 It has been truly said, that the hymns of Germany 
 are her national liturgy. These hymns, ranging 
 through three centuries of time, have been classified into 
 three divisions : representing, severally, the epoch of 
 the Reformation ; the great religious struggle of the 
 thirty years' war ; and the revival of religion in the 
 days of Franke and Zinzendorf, through the earlier 
 half of the eighteenth century. The ancient church 
 in Bohemia, called the "United Brethren," which 
 
 * Miller's Our Hymns, &c. 
 
lOO EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 dates back to the eighth century, was originated by 
 two Greek monks, who first introduced Christianit}' 
 into that country. In the eleventh century, it sepa- 
 rated from the Romish Church : after which, it suf- 
 fered a series of bitter persecutions, in one of which 
 John Huss was burnt. Amidst all their privations 
 and sufferings, the "Brethren" occupied themselves 
 in printing the Bible ; no fewer than three editions 
 having been published in Bohemia before the Refor- 
 mation. 
 
 That event spread great joy among them ; and, sub- 
 sequently, the}' formed a settlement on the estate of 
 Count Zinzendorf, in Saxony, whence they spread 
 into other countries. 
 
 Wetzel, in 17 18, estimated the printed German 
 hymns at fifty-five thousand, filling about three hun- 
 dred volumes. Hans Sachs, who wrote about six 
 thousand of these sacred lyrics, sent forth, from his 
 humble workshop, his brave and earnest songs, while 
 Luther commenced his attack upon the outworks of 
 papal superstition; and, as already said, he thereby 
 accomplished as much in behalf of the great event of 
 the sixteenth century, as did the Elector of Saxony, or 
 Luther by his sermons, and Melancthon by his epis- 
 tles. 
 
 John Huss translated several of the works of Wick- 
 lifFe into Bohemian. The truths he held dear he 
 caused to be written on the walls of his chapel ; and 
 he put hymns into the mouths of the people, which 
 became more terrible weapons than swords and staves. 
 The following is a translation of a martial ode by 
 Trotznou, and sung by the Hussite army: — 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. IOI 
 
 Ye champions ! who maintain God's everlasting law, 
 Call on His name again, towards His presence draw ; 
 And soon your steady march your foes shall overawe. 
 Why should you faint or fear ? He shall preserve you still ; 
 Life, love, — all, all that's dear, yield to His holy will ; 
 And He shall steel your hearts, and strengthen against ill. 
 
 It was the congregational singing of the Hussite 
 Brethren which, it is said, suggested to Luther the 
 reconstruction of German hymnology. His efforts 
 succeeded in spreading a peculiarity of worship, which 
 has reached as far as the German tongue. By means 
 of a single hymn of Luther, "Nun freut euch liebe 
 Christengemein," many hundreds were brought to the 
 faith, who otherwise would never have heard Luther's 
 name. " His hymns were sung by people of every 
 class, not only in schools and churches, but in dwell- 
 ings and shops, in markets, streets, and fields." They 
 found entrance even among adversaries. Selnecker 
 relates, that, several of the hymns having been intro- 
 duced into the chapel-service of the Duke Henry of 
 Wolfenbuttel, a priest made complaint. The duke 
 asked what hymns they were against which he pro- 
 tested. "May it please your highness, they are such 
 as, c Oh that the Lord would gracious be ! '"— " Hold ! " 
 replied the duke : "must the Devil, then, be gracious? 
 Whose grace are we to seek, if not that of God only?" 
 The hymns continued to be sung at court. In 1529, 
 a Romish priest preached at Lubeck ; and, just as he 
 ended his homily, two boys struck up the hymn of 
 Luther, " O God, from heaven now behold ! " when 
 the whole assembly joined as with one voice ; and 
 continued to do the same, as often as any preacher 
 inveighed against the evangelical doctrine. At Heidel- 
 
102 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 berg, the Reformation thus made its way by singing. 
 On one occasion, a priest was about to begin the ser- 
 vice, standing at the high altar, when a single voice 
 led off the beginning of Paul Speratus's famous 
 hymn, " Es ist das Heil uns kommen her." The vast 
 congregation immediately joined ; and the Elector, 
 taking this as a sufficient suffrage of his people, pro- 
 ceeded to introduce the communion in both kinds ; for, 
 hitherto, Frederick, from fear of the Emperor, had 
 delayed suppressing the mass. It was Luther's hymns 
 and tunes combined that did the work. 
 
 It was in 1467 that the followers of Huss formed 
 themselves into a separate and organized church, 
 known as that of the Bohemian and Moravian Breth- 
 ren ; one of the distinctive peculiarities of which was the 
 free use of hymns and prayers in their mother tongue. 
 "Many such hymns were already in existence, and 
 others were soon written ; and, in 1504, they were 
 collected and published by the archbishop, Lucas, — 
 the first example of a hymn-book, consisting of origi- 
 nal compositions in the vernacular, to be found in any 
 Western nation which had once owned the supremacy 
 of Rome."* 
 
 Goethe was the first to discover that Hans Sachs 
 possessed more* than ordinary merit. He managed to 
 make shoes and verses at the same time ; was born, in 
 1494, at Nuremberg, — one of the first cities of Ger- 
 many to welcome the new doctrine ; and soon our poet 
 became vocal in behalf of its claims. During the 
 siege of Nuremberg, in 1561, he wrote a hymn of 
 hope, which has been thus rendered : f — 
 
 * Christian Singers of Germany. f Lyra Germanica. 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. 10$ 
 
 Why art thou thus cast down, my heart ? 
 Why troubled, why dost mourn apart, 
 
 O'er naught but earthly wealth ? 
 Trust in thy God, be not afraid, 
 He is thy Friend, who all things made ! 
 
 Dost think thy prayers He doth not heed ? 
 He knows full well what thou dost need, — 
 
 And heaven and earth are His ! 
 My Father and my God, who still 
 Is with my soul in every ill. 
 
 The rich man in his wealth confides ; 
 But in my God my trust abides. 
 
 Laugh as ye will, I hold 
 This one thing fast, that He hath taught : 
 Who trusts in God shall want for naught. 
 
 Yes, Lord : Thou art as rich to-day 
 As thou hast been, and shall be aye : 
 
 I rest on Thee alone ; 
 Thy riches to my soul be given, 
 And 'tis enough for earth and heaven ! 
 
 Here are some stanzas of the celebrated German 
 funeral hymn, of Sach : — 
 
 Come forth ! come on, with solemn song ! 
 The road is short, the rest is long ; 
 The Lord brought here, He calls away ! 
 
 Make no delay, 
 This home was for a passing day. 
 
 Here in an inn a stranger dwelt ; 
 Here joy and grief by turns he felt ; 
 Poor dwelling, now we close thy door ! 
 
 The task is o'er, 
 The sojourner returns no more. 
 
 Now of a lasting home possessed, 
 He goes to seek a deeper rest ; 
 Good-night ! the day was sultry here, 
 
 In toil and fear ; 
 Good-night ! the night is cool and clear. 
 
104 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Chime on, ye bells ! Again begin, 
 And ring the Sabbath morning in ; 
 The laborer's week-day work is done, 
 
 The rest begun, 
 Which Christ has for His people won ! 
 
 Luther's " f Song of praise for the great benefits 
 which God has manifested to us in Christ,' in the 
 original," says Mrs. Charles, "seems to have pressed 
 into it the history of a lifetime, — to be the essence of 
 that ' Commentary on the Galatians,' which contained, 
 as it were, the essence of Luther's life." 
 
 Dear Christian people, all rejoice, 
 
 Each soul with joy upspringing ; 
 Pour forth one song, with heart and voice, 
 
 With love and gladness singing. 
 Give thanks to God, our Lord above, 
 Thanks for His miracle of love ! 
 
 Dearly He hath redeemed us ! 
 
 The devil's captive, bound I lay, — 
 
 Lay in death's chains forlorn ; 
 My sins distressed me night and day, 
 
 The sin within me born ; 
 I could not do the thing I would, 
 In all my life was nothing good, 
 
 Sin had possessed me wholly. 
 
 Then God saw, with deep pity moved, 
 
 My grief that knew no measure ; 
 Pitying, He saw, and freely loved, — 
 
 To save me was His pleasure. 
 The Father's heart to me was stirred, 
 He saved me with no sovereign word, — 
 
 His very best it cost Him ! 
 
 He spoke to His beloved Son, 
 With infinite compassion, — 
 " Go,, my Heart's most precious crown, 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. IO5 
 
 Be to the lost Salvation ! 
 Death, his relentless tyrant, stay ; 
 And bear him from his sins away 
 
 With Thee to live for ever ! " 
 
 Willing, the Son took that behest ; 
 
 Born of a maiden mother, 
 To His own earth He came a guest, 
 
 And made Himself my brother. 
 All secretly He went His way, 
 Veiled in my mortal flesh He lay, 
 
 And thus the foe He vanquished. 
 
 We have not given the whole of the verses. A 
 curious use was made of this hymn in the year 1557, 
 when, a number of princes belonging to the reformed 
 religion being convened at Frankfort, they wished to 
 have an evangelical * service in the Church of St. 
 Bartholomew. A large congregation assembled, but 
 the pulpit was occupied by a Roman-Catholic priest, 
 who proceeded to preach according to his own views. 
 After listening for some time in indignant silence, 
 the whole congregation rose, and began to sing this 
 hymn, till they fairly sang the priest out of Church. 
 
 Of the score or more of English versions of Luther's 
 great hymn, one of the most recent and best is by 
 Dr. Reynolds, of Chicago. He fitly designates this 
 noble hymn the imperishable pagan of the Reforma- 
 tion. In spite of their rugged, inharmonious measure, 
 Luther's lyrics are full of his characteristic fire and 
 energy. It was this hymn that was chanted over hi* 
 grave, amid sobs and tears : — 
 
 A safe stronghold our God is still, a sure defence and weapon ; 
 He will deliver all from ill that unto us may happen. 
 
 Our old and bitter foe 
 
 Is fain to work us woe ; 
 
 * i.e. Protestant. 
 
106 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 In strength and cunning, he 
 Is armed full fearfully ; 
 On earth is not his equal. 
 
 By strength of ours we naught can do, the strife full soon were ended ; 
 But for us fights the Champion true, by God Himself commended. 
 
 And dost thou ask His name ? 
 
 'Tis Jesus Christ ! The same 
 
 Whom Lord of Hosts we call, 
 
 God blessed over all, — 
 He'll hold the field triumphant. 
 
 Though Satan's hosts the earth should fill, all watching to devour us, 
 We tremble not, we fear no ill, they cannot overpower us. 
 
 This world's false prince may still 
 
 Scowl fiercely, as he will, 
 
 His threatenings are but vain, 
 
 We shall unharmed remain : 
 A word shall overthrow him. 
 
 God's Word unshaken shall remain, whatever foes invade us ! 
 Christ standeth on the battle-plain, with His own strength to aid us ! 
 
 What though they take our life, 
 
 Our goods, fame, children, wife ? 
 
 E'en when their worst is done, 
 
 They have but little won : 
 The kingdom ours abideth ! 
 
 Luther's first hymn was, it is believed, called forth 
 by the martyrdom of two young Christian monks, who 
 were burnt alive, at Brussels, by the Sophists : — 
 
 Flung to the heedless winds, or on the waters cast, 
 
 Their ashes shall be watched, and gathered at the last. 
 
 And, from that scattered dust, around us and abroad, 
 
 Shall spring a plenteous seed of witnesses for God. 
 
 Jesus hath now received their latest living breath, 
 
 Yet vain is Satan's boast of victory in their death. 
 
 Still, still, though dead, they speak, and, trumpet-tongued, proclaim, 
 
 To many a wakening land, the one availing Name ! 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. 107 
 
 Hear, now, his beautiful hymn of Faith : — 
 
 When the sky is black and lowering, when thy path in life is drear, 
 Upward lift thy steadfast glances, 'mid the maze of sorrow here. 
 From the beaming Fount of gladness shall descend a radiance 
 
 bright ; 
 And the grave shall be a garden, and the hours of darkness, light. 
 For the Lord will hear and answer when in faith His people pray ; 
 Whatsoe'er He hath appointed shall but work thee good alway. 
 E'en thy very hairs are numbered, God commands when one 
 
 shall fall ; 
 And the Lord is with His people, helping each and blessing all. 
 
 Then, there is the grand, massive chant, evident- 
 ly inspired by the " Dies Ira? ; " often erroneously 
 ascribed to Luther, which, although worthy of him, 
 was written by Ringwaldt, in 1585 : — 
 
 Great God ! what do I see and hear ! 
 
 The end of things created ! 
 The Judge of mankind doth appear, 
 
 On clouds of glory seated ! 
 The trumpet sounds, the graves restore 
 The dead which they contained before ; 
 
 Prepare my soul tc meet Him ! 
 
 The dead m Christ shall first arise 
 
 At the last trumpet's sounding, — 
 Caught up to meet Him in the skies, 
 
 With joy their Lord surrounding : 
 No gloomy fears their souls dismay, 
 His presence sheds eternal day 
 
 On those prepared to meet Him. 
 
 Here are some admirable lines, from the German, 
 on the " Name that is above every name ; " — 
 
 To the Name that brings salvation, honor, worship, laud we pay ; 
 That for many a generation hid in God's foreknowledge lay, 
 Name of gladness, Name of pleasure, by the tongue ineffable ; 
 Name of sweetness, passing measure, to the ear delectable ! 
 'Tis our safeguard and our treasure, 'tis our shield 'gainst sin and 
 hell ! 
 
108 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Nicolaus Hermann, who died in the year of our 
 Redemption, 156 1, wrote this simple and sweet melody 
 for evening-time : — 
 
 Sunk is the sun's last beam of light, 
 
 And darkness wraps the world in night : 
 
 Christ ! light us with Thy heavenly ray, 
 
 Nor let our feet in darkness stray. 
 
 Thanks, Lord, that Thou, throughout the day, 
 
 Hast kept all grief and harm away ; 
 
 That angels tarried round about 
 
 Our coming in and going out. 
 
 Whate'er of wrong we've done or said, 
 
 Let not on us the charge be laid ; 
 
 That, through Thy free forgiveness blest, 
 
 In peaceful slumber we may rest. 
 
 Thy guardian angels round us place, 
 
 All evil from our couch to chase : 
 
 Both soul and body, while we sleep, 
 
 In safety, gracious Father, keep. 
 
 Among these German minstrels we find some em- 
 inent women : one was the Princess Louisa Henrietta 
 of Brandenberg, who wrote a beautiful poem on the 
 Resurrection, "Jesus, meine Zuversicht." We quote 
 from the English version of Mrs. Charles: — 
 
 Jesus, my eternal trust and my Saviour, ever liveth ! 
 
 This I know ; and deep and just is the peace this knowledge giveth, 
 
 Though death's lingering night may start 
 
 Many a question in my heart. 
 Jesus lives eternally : I shall also live in Him ! 
 Where my Saviour is, shall be ! What can make this bright hope 
 dim ? 
 
 Will the Head one member lose, 
 
 Nor through each its life diffuse ? 
 Hope's strong chain around me bound, still shall twine my Saviour 
 
 grasping ; 
 And my hand of faith be found, as death left it, Jesus clasping ! 
 
 No assault the foe can make, 
 
 E'er that deathless clasp shall break ! 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. IO<J 
 
 I am flesh, and therefore, duly dust and ashes must become ; 
 This I know, but know as truly, He will wake me from the tomb ! 
 
 That with Him, whate'er betide, 
 
 I may evermore abide ! 
 God Himself, in that blest place, shall a glorious body give me ; 
 I shall see His blissful face ; to His heavens He will receive me ! 
 
 Then, from this rejoicing heart, 
 
 Every weakness shall depart ! 
 
 In Professor S chaff's "Christ in Song," we find a 
 translation of a remarkable poem, which Knapp pro- 
 nounces "the sweetest and most excellent of all German 
 hymns." It is by Dr. P. Nicolai, a Lutheran pastor, 
 at Una, Westphalia. It is still a favorite German 
 hymn, celebrating the spiritual union of Christ and 
 his Church. It was written during a prevailing pes- 
 tilence in 1597. We give four stanzas of this fine 
 hymn. The translation is Dr. Harbaugh's. 
 
 How lovely shines the Morning Star ! 
 The nations see and hail afar 
 
 The light in Judah shining. 
 Thou David's Son of Jacob's race, 
 My Bridegroom, and my King of grace, 
 
 For Thee my heart is pining ! 
 Lowly, holy, great, and glorious, 
 Thou victorious 
 Prince of graces, 
 Filling all the heavenly places ! 
 
 Now richly to my waiting heart, 
 O Thou, my God, deign to impart 
 
 The grace of love undying. 
 In Thy blest Body let me be, — 
 E'en as the branch is in the tree, — 
 
 Thy life, my life supplying. 
 Sighing, crying for the savor 
 Of Thy favor ; 
 Resting never 
 Till I rest in Thee for ever ! 
 
T20 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Wake, wake your harps to sweetest songs ! 
 In praise of Him to whom belongs 
 
 All praise ; join hearts and voices. 
 For evermore, O Christ ! in Thee, — 
 Thee, all in all of love to me, — 
 
 My grateful heart rejoices. 
 
 With joy, employ hymns victorious, 
 Glad and glorious ; 
 
 E'er be given 
 
 Honor to the King of Heaven ! 
 
 Oh, joy ! to know that Thou, my Friend, 
 Art Lord, Beginning without end : 
 
 The First and Last — Eternal! 
 And Thou, at length, glorious grace ! 
 Wilt take me to that holy place, 
 
 The home of joys supernal ! 
 Amen, amen ! 
 
 These charming stanzas are by one of the anony- 
 mous German hymnists : — 
 
 Smiling, a bright-eyed seraph bent over an infant's dream ; 
 
 To view his mirrored form he leant, as in the crystal stream. 
 
 " Fair infant, come," he whispered low, " and leave the earth with 
 
 me, — 
 To a bright and happy world we'll go : this is no home for thee." 
 Each sparkling pleasure knows alloy, nor cloudless skies are here ; 
 A care there is for every joy, for every smile a tear. 
 The heart that dances free and light, may soon be chained by 
 
 sorrow ; 
 The sun that sets in calm to-night, may rise in storm to-morrow ! 
 Alas ! to cloud a brow so fair, that griefs and pains should rise ! 
 Alas ! that this dark world of care should dim those laughing eyes ' 
 To seek a brighter land with me, infant, thou wilt not fear ; 
 For piteous Heaven the sad decree recalls, that sent thee here ! " 
 It seemed on him the sweet babe smiled, his wings the seraph 
 
 spread : 
 They're gone, — the angel and the child. Poor mother ! thy son is 
 
 dead ! * 
 
 * Hymns from the Land of Luther. 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. Ill 
 
 There is great power in these stanzas, from the 
 German of Langbecker : — 
 
 What shall I be, Lord, when Thy radiant glory, 
 As from the grave I rise, encircles me ? 
 When, brightly pictured in the light before me, 
 What eye hath never seen, mine eyes shall see ? 
 What shall I be ? Ah, blessed and sublime 
 Is the dim prospect of that glorious time ! 
 What shall I be, when days of grief are ended ? 
 
 These impressive lines are from the German of 
 Rosegarten : — 
 
 Through night to light ; and though to mortal eyes 
 
 Creation's face a pall of terror wear, 
 Good cheer, good cheer ! The gloom of midnight flies, 
 
 Then shall a sunrise follow, mild and fair. 
 
 Through storm to calm ; and though his thunder car 
 The rumbling tempest drive through earth and sky, 
 
 Good cheer, good cheer ! The elemental war 
 Tells that a blessed healing hour is nigh. 
 
 Through cross to crown ; and though thy spirit's life 
 
 Trials untold assail with giant strength, 
 Good cheer, good cheer ! Soon ends the bitter strife, 
 
 And thou shalt reign in peace with Christ at length. 
 
 Through death to life ; and through this vale of tears, 
 And through this thistle-field of life, ascend 
 
 To the great supper in that world, whose years 
 Of bliss unfading, cloudless, know no end ! 
 
 From the German of Johann Hofel : * — 
 
 Oh ! sweetest words that Jesus could have sought, 
 To soothe the mourning widow's heart, — " Weep not ! " 
 They fall with comfort on my ear, 
 When life is dark and trouble near. 
 
 * Hymns from the Land of Luther 
 
112 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Words that were spoken amid sorrow's strife, 
 And in the very midst of death and life ; 
 They shall refresh my soul at last, 
 And strengthen me till life is past. 
 
 Oh ! sweetest words that Jesus could have sought, 
 To cheer His weary, troubled ones, — " Weep not ! n 
 Thrice blessed words ! I, listening, stay, 
 Till grief and sorrow flee away ! 
 
 Joachim Neander, who was one of the first and the 
 best of the hymn-writers of the "Reformed Church," 
 called his effusions "Bunderslieder " (Songs of the 
 Covenant). In his youth, he was a wild and careless 
 student at Bremen. One day, he and two of his com- 
 rades went into St. Martin's Church, with the inten- 
 tion of making a jest of the service : but the sermon 
 touched his conscience so deeply, that he determined 
 to visit the preacher in private; and, from this time, 
 he began to lead a more circumspect life. His love 
 of the chase, however, still clung to him ; and, on one 
 occasion, he followed his game on foot so far, that 
 night came on, and he utterly lost his way among 
 rocky and woody hills, where the climbing was diffi- 
 cult even in daylight. He wandered about for some- 
 time, and then suddenly discovered that he was in a 
 most dangerous position, and that one step forward, 
 which he was on the point of taking, would have 
 thrown him over a precipice. A feeling of horror 
 came over him, that almost deprived him of the power 
 of motion : and, in this extremity, he prayed earnestly 
 to God for help ; vowing an entire devotion of himself 
 to His service in the future. All at once, his courage 
 returned : he felt as though a hand were leading 
 him, and, following the path thus indicated, he at 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. II3 
 
 length reached his home in safety. From this day, 
 he kept his vow ; and a complete change took place in 
 his mode of life. In 1674, he was made head-master 
 of the grammar-school at Dusseldorf, belonging to the 
 Reformed Church. It flourished exceedingly under 
 his rule : but he also set on foot private religious meet- 
 ings, which caused offence; and the elders, one day, 
 deposed him from his mastership, forbade him to 
 preach, and banished him from the town. His pupils 
 would have fought for him; but he forbade them, and 
 quietly submitted to the wrong. It was summer-time, 
 and he wandered out to a deep and beautiful glen near 
 Mettmann, on the Rhine ; where, for some months, he 
 lived in a cavern, which is still known by the name 
 of "Neander's Cave." In this retreat, he composed 
 man}' of his hymns ; and among them the following : 
 
 A deep and holy awe 
 Put Thou, my God, within my inmost soul. 
 While near Thy feet I draw ; 
 And my heart sings in me, and my voice praises Thee ; 
 Do Thou all wandering sense and thought control. 
 
 O God, the crystal light 
 Of Thy most stainless sunshine here is mine ; 
 
 It floods my outer sight ; 
 Ah, let me well discern Thyself where'er I turn, 
 And see Thy power through all Thy creatures shine. 
 
 Hark ! how the air is sweet 
 With music from a thousand warbling throats, 
 
 Which echo doth repeat ; 
 To Thee I also sing, keep me beneath Thy wing ; 
 Disdain not Thou to list my harsher notes. 
 
 Ah, Lord, the universe 
 is bright and laughing, full of pomp and mirth ; 
 Each summer doth rehearse 
 3 
 
114 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 A tale for ever new, of wonders Thou canst do 
 In sunny skies, and on the fruitful earth. 
 
 Thee all the mountains praise ; 
 The rocks and glens are full of song to Thee ! 
 
 They bid me join my lays, 
 And laud the Almighty Rock, who, safe from every shock, 
 Beneath Thy shadow here doth shelter me ! 
 
 In 1679, he was called to be pastor of the very 
 church in Bremen which he had once entered in mock- 
 ery. But he only preached there one year : he died 
 the next, aged scarcely forty. We are indebted for 
 this interesting glimpse of Neander to Miss Wink- 
 worth's " Christian Singers of Germany." 
 
 The following, of the plaintive and penitential ordei, 
 is from his pen : — 
 
 Behold we here, in grief, draw near, 
 
 Pleading at Thy throne, O King ! 
 To Thee each tear, each trembling fear, 
 
 Jesus, Son of Man, I bring. 
 Let me find Thee, let me find Thee, — 
 
 Me, a vile and worthless thing ! 
 
 Look down in love, and from above 
 
 With Thy Spirit satisfy ; 
 Thou hast sought me, Thou hast bought me, 
 
 And Thy purchase, Lord, am I ! 
 Let me find Thee, let me find Thee, 
 
 Here on earth, and then on high ! 
 
 Hear the broken, scarcely spoken 
 
 Utterance of my heart to Thee ; 
 All the crying, all the sighing 
 
 Of Thy child accepted be ; 
 Let me find Thee, let me find Thee, 
 
 Thus I pray vehemently ! 
 
 Here are two beautiful stanzas from the same source, 
 on the glory of God in creation : — 
 
GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. II5 
 
 Lo, heaven and earth, and sea and air, 
 Their Maker's glory all declare ! 
 And thou, my soul, awake and sing, — 
 To Him thy praises also bring. 
 Through Him, the glorious source of day, 
 Can break the clouds of night away ; 
 The pomp of stars, the moon's soft light, 
 Praise Him through all the silent night ! 
 
 The beautiful penitential hymn just quoted was, we 
 believe, the last he wrote, as it bears date the year 
 preceding his death. 
 
 The name of Joachim Neander very naturally re- 
 minds us of his great namesake, the church historian, 
 whose full name was Johann August Wilhelm Nean- 
 der ; who was born a century later, at a time when the 
 religious condition of Germany seemed to demand a 
 second Reformation. Although not strictly in the cate- 
 gory of German hymnists, yet this second Neander 
 was, Luther-like, a second reformer; and, as such, he 
 forms a connecting link between the Germany of Lu- 
 ther's days and of our own. A brief allusion to him 
 will not, therefore, it is believed, be deemed an unpar- 
 donable digression. 
 
 This Neander was born in the year 1789, — a year 
 memorable as introducing the fearful drama of the 
 French Revolution, when the moral atmosphere was 
 infected with deadly poisons, and black, thickening 
 clouds were spread over the political and religious 
 horizons. It was then that this remarkable man was 
 given to the world, — a man in whom, more than in 
 any other, was that power which Providence was 
 ordaining should brush away those fuliginous clouds, 
 purge the atmosphere, and throw upon it the reviving 
 rays of the great sun of Christian truth. When only 
 
Il6 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 eight years of age, he could learn no more from his 
 private teacher. Just about this time, it is related that a 
 bookseller in Hamburg was struck with the frequent 
 visits to his shop of a bashful, ungainly boy, who used 
 to steal in and seize upon some erudite volume that no 
 one else would touch, and utterly lose himself, for 
 hours together, in study. 
 
 About the year 1806, when he was seventeen years 
 old, he was baptized into the Christian Church ; and at 
 this period it was that he adopted the name, by which 
 he has since been so well known and loved, "Nean- 
 der" (literally, "the new man"). He was one of the 
 most laborious of laborious German students. Fifteen 
 lectures a week, at least, he was in the habit of deliv- 
 ering in the university ; and never has Berlin had a 
 more exemplary professor, and never perhaps was 
 one more tenderly beloved. His character is described 
 as most symmetrical and beautiful : " open-hearted, 
 and inoffensive as a child, he stood before the world, 
 separated only from every rude contact by the breath 
 of heavenliness which surrounded him." His phy- 
 sique does not seem to have been graceful : on the 
 contrary, his form was thin and bent, and his com- 
 plexion dark and sallow, indicative of intense study 
 and reflection. He was, however, great, noble, and 
 triumphant as the champion of Christian verity, in a 
 day when its adversaries made their strong attack 
 under the name of their new leader, Strauss. Nean- 
 der worked earnestly to the last ; and, when that day 
 opposed him, he calmly said, to the sorrowing friends 
 who surrounded him, " I am weary : I will now go to 
 sleep;" and, as they conducted him to his bed, the 
 place of his last repose, he whispered, with a voice of 
 

 
 GERMAN-REFORMATION ERA. 117 
 
 mellowing affection, which thrilled through the heart 
 and marrow of all present, " Good-night, good-night.'* 
 It was his last "good-night" on earth. He slumbered 
 for four hours ; and then gently, and almost impercep- 
 tibly, "breathed himself into the silent and cold sleep 
 of death." This good man was honored in his death 
 as in his life. The day of his funeral obsequies was 
 observed as a public holiday in Berlin. A vast pro- 
 cession followed the remains to the grave, stretching 
 the length of full two miles. The hearse was sur- 
 rounded by students carrying lighted candles ; in 
 front of the body, Neander's Bible and Greek Testa- 
 ment were carried. The carriages of the King and 
 Princess of Prussia followed in the procession ; and, 
 at the grave, a solemn choral was sung by a thousand 
 voices. The benefactions of Dr. Neander can be no 
 longer administered by his own hand ; but his name 
 is engraved on an establishment for the reception and 
 instruction of homeless little wanderers, who will long 
 be familiar with "Neander's Haus." 
 
 The closing years of the sixteenth, and the opening 
 of the seventeenth century, were not wanting in sacred 
 lyrics, but the singers were of a different order : they 
 were, for the most part, professional writers, rather 
 than from among the people. In the course of a few 
 years, after the peace of Passau, the Reformed religion 
 had spread over more than three-fourths of the coun- 
 try, including all the most populous centres. "The 
 great idea, that every man is personally responsible 
 for his belief and his actions to God Himself, was 
 making itself felt everywhere, breaking up old organi- 
 zations, and the orderly but rigid routine of mediaeval 
 life, prompting to new enterprises, inspiring men with 
 
Il8 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 courage to bear imprisonment, exile, or death, for 
 their faith. But it had brought its dangers and diffi- 
 culties, too, not only in the actual persecutions and 
 wars, which, though on a very limited scale, existed 
 throughout this period, until they culminated in the 
 great struggle of the thirty years' war ; but still more 
 in an excessive individualism, which rendered com- 
 mon action almost impossible. For the new mode 
 of thought gave rise to mental conflicts, and doubts 
 and scruples of conscience, for which there was no 
 longer the easy resolution of an authoritative decision 
 of church or priest, and which saddened the lives of 
 many whom we should not now call specially religious 
 persons ; and it brought endless disputes on doctrinal 
 questions among the professors of the evangelical faith 
 themselves. Over the temporary compromise between 
 the Romanist and Protestant religions, known as "the 
 Interim ; " over every shade of more or less Calvinistic 
 views of the Atonement and the Sacraments, — they 
 quarrelled, not in words only, but in deeds.* Thus 
 divided, and broken up into opposing interests, the 
 States of Protestant Germany were rife with feuds and 
 intestine strifes ; while the Jesuits and the House of 
 Hapsburg, on the Romish side of despotism, formed 
 a united and broad phalanx against them. The horo- 
 scope of the future might well, indeed, be regarded as 
 ominous of disaster and trouble ; and it came in the 
 sanguinary struggle which lasted a lifetime. 
 
 * Christian Singers of Germany. 
 
FOURTH EVENING. 
 
 GERMAN. — THIRTY YEARS' WAR. 
 
FOURTH EVENING 
 
 GERMAN. — THIRTY YEARS' WAR. 
 
 /^^REAT men have been compared to fire-pillars, 
 ^^ or beacons, to guide us in the great onward 
 progress of the race. They stand forth in colossal 
 grandeur, as the revealed embodiment of the possi- 
 bilities of even our fallen human nature. And such 
 representative men are given to the world, to do the 
 work of the world's necessity, by the providence of 
 God, at the precise and proper time. Columbus, 
 Newton, Guttenberg, and Luther belong to this cate- 
 gory. At the death of Luther, which synchronized 
 with that of Francis I., the Emperor Charles V. en- 
 tered into a solemn league with the Pontiff Paul III. 
 for the extermination of "heretics," and forthwith took 
 up arms against the Reformed States of Germany : the 
 resistance of the combined States was such, however, 
 that a treaty of peace soon followed. It was on the 
 accession, in 1619, of Ferdinand II., an intolerant 
 bigot, that the great contest of thirty years' duration 
 broke out. 
 
 "So far as the human eye can see, the Reforma- 
 tion, except for Gustavus Adolphus, would have been 
 crushed in Germany, and probably in all northern 
 
122 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Europe — with the exception of England — as well."* 
 He made his appearance at the juncture of danger, 
 when the Protestant princes and free cities of Ger- 
 many formed themselves, for mutual defence, into 
 what was called the "Protestant Union," to which 
 those on the other side replied by a " Catholic League." 
 " For a while the hidden fires smouldered beneath the 
 surface, or just darted out here and there a tongue 
 of flame to tell of their presence. Not till 1618 did 
 the flames burst openly forth, and then in a remote 
 part of Germany, in Bohemia ; but with so much 
 inflammable material everywhere prepared, it was 
 not long before the conflagration spread over all ; a 
 fire which should not be extinguished for thirty years, 
 and which, in the end, rather burnt itself out, — all the 
 fuel which could feed it being consumed, — than it can 
 be said to have been extinguished at all." 
 
 "This war — the longest, the most terrible, which 
 modern Europe has seen, — in which Germany was 
 tortured, torn to pieces, wrecked, brayed as in a 
 mortar under the iron mace of war, from which, at 
 this day, as many believe, it has only partially re- 
 covered — may be conveniently divided into three 
 periods. In the first of these, extending from 1618 to 
 1630, the arms of the Catholic League and the Em- 
 peror were everywhere triumphant, beating down the 
 feeble and half-hearted opposition of the Protestant 
 princes of Germany ; scattering the forces of some 
 military adventurers, who, in all ways unequal to the 
 task, would have stood in the gap ; and, "lastly, com- 
 pelling Christian the Fourth, King of Denmark, who 
 would fain have meddled in the matter, to withdraw 
 
 * Archbishop Trench. 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS WAR. 1 23 
 
 again, with shame and defeat, to his own land. And 
 now it seemed as though the end had come. All Ger- 
 many lay prostrate at the feet of the Emperor, and of 
 Wallenstein, his terrible commander."* It was then, 
 at this dire extremity, to which the Protestant cause 
 was reduced by the machinations and subtle artifices 
 of the Jesuits, that the King of Sweden came to its 
 rescue. Responding to the mute appeal of the suf- 
 fering members of the Reformed faith, he descended 
 upon Germany ; in little more than two short years, 
 turned the whole tide of affairs, until, on the plains of 
 Lutzen, he crowned an heroic life with an heroic 
 death. In this brief period was the turning-point of 
 the bloody drama, which for thirty years was enacted 
 on the stage of Germany. The third act of the 
 tragedy commenced with his death. " The cause which 
 he came to support staggered for a season under 
 this blow, yet never entirely lost the superiority which 
 his victories had given it; and when, sixteen years 
 after his death, in 1648, the end at length arrived, 
 then, by the treaty of Westphalia, the entirely equal 
 rights of the two Confessions were recognized ; and 
 this has remained the public law of Germany from 
 that day to the present, nor has it at any time since 
 been seriously disturbed." f Gustavus, who had 
 watched the hideous strife for twelve years, not with- 
 out a presentiment that sooner or later he would be 
 himself drawn into its vortex, might yet very well 
 pause before he committed himself irrevocably to it. 
 
 Long delayed by contrary winds, Gustavus at length 
 reached the shores north of the Oder, on midsummer- 
 day, 1630, — the centenary of the Augsburg Confes* 
 
 * Trench. t Ibid. 
 
124 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 sion. His first act was to lift up an earnest prayer for 
 the Divine aid; and then he went to work. His army- 
 was well disciplined and hardy, but ridiculously small 
 compared with that which was to oppose him ; yet it 
 took them full eighteen years to get rid of him or 
 them. He was a great general, and knew how to 
 make a small army do the work of a large one. 
 
 Unlike his antagonist in the field, Wallenstein, he 
 was not chary of himself; but, at a siege, he would, 
 in the same day, be at once generalissimo, chief en- 
 gineer, pioneer, and leader of a storming-party to 
 dislodge the foe. At length came the conflict on the 
 field of Lutzen, which proved fatal to the Christian 
 hero. A severe wound, which the king had received 
 in his Polish campaigns, made the wearing of his 
 armor very painful to him. When it was brought to 
 him this morning, he declined to put it on, saying, 
 K God is my armor," and went into the battle without 
 it. Thus unprotected, he was surprised by some Im- 
 perial cuirassiers, who were concealed by the heavy 
 mist that prevailed at the time, and shot. 
 
 When Gustavus Adolphus was found by his enemies 
 wounded on the field of battle, amid a heap of dying 
 men, it was with a pride only to be equalled in the 
 hour of victory, that he cried out, " I am the King of 
 Sweden, and seal with my blood the liberty and re- 
 ligion of the whole German nation ! " 
 
 What imperishable interest lingers around those 
 heroic war-hymns of Gustavus Adolphus and Martin 
 Luther; who can read them, and not kindle with 
 deepest sympathy in the spirit-stirring scenes? 
 
 The celebrated battle-song of Gustavus Adolphus 
 was so styled, because it was frequently sung by the 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS WAR. 1 25 
 
 great and good Swedish monarch and his army, on 
 the field of action ; and, for the last time, on the eve 
 of the battle of Lutzen. Its authorship has long been 
 attributed to Altenburg, a pastor in Thuringia ; recent 
 researches, however, seem to indicate that he only 
 composed the choral, and that the hymn itself was 
 written down roughly by Gustavus Adolphuf, after 
 his victory at Leipzig, and reduced to regular verse 
 by his chaplain, Dr. Fabricius, for the use of the 
 army ; the translation is by C. Winkworth : — 
 
 Fear not, O little flock ! the foe who madly seeks your overthrow ; 
 
 Dread not his rage and power ! 
 What though your courage sometimes faints, his seeming triumph 
 o'er God's saints 
 Lasts but a little hour. 
 Be of good cheer : your cause belongs to Him who can avenge 
 your wrongs, 
 Leave it to Him, our Lord ; 
 Though hidden yet from all our eyes, He sees the Gideon who shall 
 rise 
 To save us and His Word. 
 As true as God's own Word is true, nor earth nor hell with all their 
 crew 
 Against us shall prevail. 
 A jest and by-word are they grown : our God is with us, we His 
 own, — 
 Our victory cannot fail ! 
 Amen, Lord Jesus, grant our prayer : Great Captain, now thine arm 
 make bare, — 
 Fight for us once again ; 
 So shall Thy saints and martyrs raise a mighty chorus to Thy 
 praise, 
 World without end, — Amen. 
 
 The story of the last battle of the great and good 
 Gustavus is as follows : " The armies of the king and 
 Wallenstein were drawn up till the morning mist dis- 
 
T26 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 persed, to commence the attack, when Gustavus com- 
 manded Luther's f Eine feste Burg ist unser Gott,' to 
 be sung; and then that hymn of his own, accom- 
 panied by the drums and trumpets of the whole army. 
 Immediately afterwards, the mist broke, and the sun- 
 shine burst upon the two armies. For a moment, 
 Gustavus Adolphus knelt beside his horse, in face of 
 his soldiers, and repeated his usual battle-prayer : 
 f O Lord Jesus Christ ! bless our armies and this 
 day's battle, for the glory of Thy holy name ! ' Then 
 passing along the lines, with a few brief words of 
 encouragement, he gave the battle-cry, f God with 
 us ! ' the same with which he had conquered at 
 Leipzig. Thus began the day which laid him low 
 amidst the thickest of the fight, with those three 
 sentences on his dying lips, noble and Christian as 
 any that ever fell from the lips of dying man since the 
 days of the first martyr, 'I seal with my blood the 
 liberty and religion of the German nation.'" This 
 incident adds imperishable interest to the hymn. 
 
 What struggles of soul have some of these hymns 
 not witnessed, in what strange and stirring scenes 
 have they not mingled ! How has their melody and 
 sweet inspiration brought solace to sorrow, and lent 
 ecstasy to spiritual joy ! Like the words of the Holy 
 Book, they linger in the memory; and, in hours of 
 despondency and gloom, how often have they lifted us 
 up from the earthliness of our being, and also im- 
 parted even to the sick and dying wondrous consola- 
 tion ! 
 
 This war gave birth to great crimes as well as 
 great virtues ; but it banished from Germany the arts 
 of industry, and polite studies. Famine and pes- 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS WAR. 1 27 
 
 tilence followed the track of war, destroying even 
 more than fire and sword. All reverence for laws, 
 human or divine, was forgotten ; rapine and violence 
 reigned on every side. Schiller informs us that "the 
 soldier was ruler : the commander of an army was a 
 far more important personage in the land than the 
 rightful lord." 
 
 All Germany was full of these petty tyrants, and the 
 country suffered equally from its enemies and its de- 
 fenders. It is computed, that, during this fatal thirty 
 years, Germany lost two-thirds of her population. In 
 Saxony alone, nine hundred thousand human beings 
 perished. Augsburg, from a population of eighty 
 thousand souls, found herself reduced to eighteen 
 thousand ; and Munich, Nuremberg, and almost every 
 city of importance shared the same fate. Passing 
 such an ordeal, — so fearful and almost exterminating 
 a war, — it is remarkable that it lived through it ; and 
 that, instead of utterly perishing, it should even evince 
 signs of considerable vitality, in the very heart of the 
 crisis which desolated the land. 
 
 It was the seed-time of an illustrious band of Chris- 
 tian bards, — Paul Fleming, Paul Gerhardt, Luther, 
 Gellert, Klopstock, and numerous others, many of 
 whom sang and fought at the same time. 
 
 Rist, a clergyman in North Germany, who suf- 
 fered much in his youth from mental conflicts, and 
 in after years from rapine, pestilence, and all the 
 horrors of war, used to say, "The dear Cross hath 
 pressed many songs out of me ; " and this seems to 
 have been equally true of many of his contemporaries. 
 It certainly was true of Johann Heermann, the author 
 of some of the most touching hymns for "Passion 
 
128 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 week," who wrote his sweet songs amidst the perils of 
 war, during which he more than once escaped with his 
 life as by a miracle ; so, too, the hymns of Simon Dach 
 speak of the sufferings of the Christian, and his long- 
 ing to escape from the strife of earth to the peace of 
 heaven. Here are a few stanzas of one of Rist's 
 hymns. The translation is by Catherine Winkworth. 
 
 O living Bread from heaven, 
 
 How richly hast Thou fed Thy guests ! 
 The gifts Thou now hast given 
 
 Have filled my heart with joy and rest. 
 O wondrous food of blessing ! O cup that heals our woes ! 
 My heart, this gift possessing, in thankful song o'erflows. 
 For while the life and strength in me 
 
 Were quickened by this food, 
 My soul hath gazed awhile on Thee, 
 O highest, only Good ! 
 And Thou hast freely given, what earth could never buy, - - 
 The Bread of life from heaven, — that now I shall not die ! 
 
 O Love incomprehensible ! 
 What wrought in Thee, my Saviour, thus 
 
 That Thou shouldst have descended 
 From highest heaven to dwell with us ! 
 Creator ! that hath brought Thee to succor such as I, 
 Who else had vainly sought Thee ! Then grant me now to di& 
 To sin, and live alone to Thee, that, when this life is o'er, 
 Thy face, O Saviour ! I may see in heaven for evermore. 
 
 But I, in sinful blindness, am erring every hour, 
 Yet boundless is Thy kindness and righteous is Thy power : 
 And yet Thou earnest, dost not spurn a sinner, Lord, like me ! 
 Ah, how can I Thy love return ? what gift have I for Thee ? 
 
 Though a great number of Rist's hymns were adopt- 
 ed by many churches, even during his lifetime, he 
 would never suffer them to be sung in his own church ; 
 with the exception of a Christmas hymn, which, on 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS* WAR. I2Q. 
 
 one occasion, he allowed the children of the school to 
 practise, and to begin to sing on that festival, " Wenn 
 das Volk aus der Kirche zu gehen beginnt," as the 
 people were beginning to go out of church. 
 
 Johann Heermann (1585-1647) was a native of 
 Silesia. Being much tried during the horrors of war, 
 his mind seems to have become the more spiritual- 
 ly enlightened through his bodily sufferings, in the 
 midst of which he wrote the greater number of his 
 hymns. The following beautiful lines are a trans- 
 lation from one of his hymns, by Frances Elizabeth 
 Cox: — 
 
 Such wondrous love would baffle my endeavor 
 To find its equal, should I strive for ever : 
 How should my works, could I in all obey Thee, 
 Ever repay Thee ! 
 
 Yet this shall please Thee : if devoutly trying 
 To keep Thy laws, mine own wrong will denying, 
 I watch my heart, lest sin again ensnare it, 
 And from Thee tear it. 
 
 But since I have not strength to flee temptation, 
 To crucify each sinful inclination, 
 Oh ! let Thy Spirit, grace, and strength provide me, 
 And gently guide me. 
 
 Then shall I see Thy grace, and duly prize it, 
 For Thee renounce the world, for Thee despise it : 
 Then, of my life, Thy laws shall be the measure : 
 Thy will, my pleasure ! 
 
 And when, O Christ ! before Thy throne so glorious, 
 Upon my head is placed the crown victorious, 
 Thy praise I will, while heaven's full chime is ringing, 
 Be ever singing. 
 
 WulfFer wrote, in 1648, some impressive stanzas on 
 Eternity, which were the favorite study of Niebuhr. 
 
 9 
 
I3O EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 The greater part of the poem is believed to be of 
 ancient origin. 
 
 Eternity ! eternity ! how long art thou, eternity ! 
 And yet to thee time hastes away, 
 Like as the war-horse to the fray, 
 Or swift as couriers homeward go, 
 Or ship to port, or shaft from bow. 
 Ponder, O man, eternity ! 
 
 Eternity ! eternity ! how long art thou, eternity ! 
 For even as in a perfect sphere 
 End nor beginning can appear, 
 Even so, eternity, in thee, 
 Entrance nor exit can there be. 
 Ponder, O man, eternity ! 
 
 Eternity ! eternity ! how long art thou, eternity ! 
 A circle infinite art thou, 
 Thy centre an eternal Now : 
 Never we name thy outward bound, 
 For never end therein is found. 
 Ponder, O man, eternity ! 
 
 Eternity ! eternity ! how long art thou, eternity! 
 As long as God is God, so long 
 Endure the pains of hell and wrong, 
 So long the joys of heaven remain : 
 O lasting joy ! O lasting pain ! 
 Ponder, O man, eternity ! 
 
 The hymn of Gottfried Arnold (1667-1704), of 
 which we give two stanzas, was the favorite of Schel 
 ling : — 
 
 How blest to all Thy servants, Lord, the road 
 
 By which Thou lead'st them on, yet oft how strange ! 
 
 But Thou in all dost seek our highest good ; 
 
 For truth were true no longer, couldst Thou change. 
 
 Though crooked seem the paths, yet are they straight, 
 By which Thou drawest Thy children up to Thee, 
 And passing wonders by the way they see, 
 
 And learn, at last, to own Thee wise and great ! 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS WAR. 131 
 
 Now seems to us o'er harsh and strict Thy school, 
 
 Now dost Thou greet us mild and tenderly ; 
 Now, when our wilder passions break Thy rule, 
 
 Thy judgments fright us back again to Thee. 
 With downcast eyes we seek Thy face again ; 
 
 Thou kissest us, we promise fair amends ; 
 
 Once more Thy Spirit rest and pardon sends, 
 And curbs our passions with a stronger rein. 
 
 Another of the German singers, Baron von Canitz, 
 who lived from 1654 till 1699, wrote some fine melo- 
 dies. We subjoin his matin song : — 
 
 Come, my soul, awake : 'tis morning ; day is dawning 
 
 O'er the earth : arise, and pray ! 
 Come to Him who made this splendor : thou must render 
 
 All thy feeble powers can pay. 
 From the stars, now learn thy duty ; see their beauty 
 
 Paling in the golden air : 
 So God's light thy mists should banish, — thus should vanish 
 
 What to darkened sense seemed fair. 
 
 From God's glances shrink thou never, — meet them ever ; 
 
 Who submits him to His grace, 
 Finds that earth no sunshine knoweth, such as gloweth 
 
 O'er his pathway all his days. 
 Round the gifts He on thee showers, fiery towers 
 
 Will He set : be not afraid ; 
 Thou shalt dwell 'mid angel-legions, in the regions 
 
 Satan's self dares not invade. 
 
 Very beautiful is the hymn on the " Name of 
 Jesus" tty Heermann : — 
 
 Ah, Jesus, Lord ! whose faithfulness in heaven or in earth, 
 No human lips can celebrate enough to tell Thy worth ! 
 I render thanks to Thee, that Thou in lowly guise wast born, 
 That Thou didst stoop to pity me, a helpless one forlorn. 
 
 Whate'er the anguish of my breast, its fluttering doth cease, 
 Whene'er Thy name of comfort fills my spirit with Thy peace ! 
 No consolation is so sweet as that Thy name doth give, — 
 Thy Jesus' name ! O David's Son, and Lord by whom I live ! 
 
132 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Thy name of Jesus is a store of all that heart can need, 
 Enfolding every precious thing, •. — fruit, blossom, leaf, and seed ! 
 He spends his time most worthily, who seeks that Name to know: 
 Its ocean-fulness riseth still as ages onward flow ! 
 
 Apart from Jesus' precious name, I've nothing to desire ; 
 Of all beside, e'en were it mine, my heart would only tire. 
 Apart from Him, there's naught of worth, created things are vain : 
 He is my glory and my wealth, my honor and my gain ! 
 
 Thy precious name, Lord Jesus Christ / is better far to me, 
 Than all the wealth that can be found in earth, or air, or sea ! 
 Thou art the paradise, set forth by God's own hand of love ; 
 Thy presence is itself the heaven, where I shall dwell above. 
 
 All that I ever undertake, I would begin in Thee, — 
 
 Thee first, Thee last, Thee midst, O Christ ! and evermore to be ! 
 
 We cite also the following hymn of his, from the 
 " Lyra Germanica : " — 
 
 But, oh, the depth of love beyond comparing, 
 That brought Thee down from heaven, our burden bearing ! 
 I taste all peace and joy that life can offer, 
 Whilst Thou must suffer ! 
 
 Eternal King, in power and love excelling ! 
 Fain would my heart and mouth Thy praise be telling ; 
 But how can man's weak powers at all come nigh Thee, 
 How magnify Thee ? 
 
 Such wondrous love would baffle my endeavor, 
 To find its equal, should I strive for ever ; 
 How should my works, could I in all obey Thee, 
 Ever repay Thee ? 
 
 Yet this shall please Thee, if devoutly trying 
 To keep Thy laws, my own wrong will denying, 
 I watch my heart, lest sin again ensnare it, 
 And from Thee tear it. 
 
 John Wesley's translation of the grand " Hymn on 
 the Deity," by Breithaupt, who lived in 1653, has these 
 striking stanzas : — 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS' WAR. 1 33 
 
 Thou true and only God, lead's t forth 
 
 The immortal armies of the sky ; 
 Thou laugh'st to scorn the gods of earth ; 
 
 Thou thunderest, and amazed they fly ! 
 With downcast eye, the angelic choir 
 
 Appear before Thy awful face ; 
 Trembling, they strike the golden lyre, 
 
 And through heaven's vault resound Thy praise. 
 
 How sweet the joys, the crown how bright, 
 
 Of those who to Thy love aspire ! 
 All creatures praise the Eternal Name ! 
 
 Ye hosts that to His court belong, 
 Cherubic choirs, seraphic flames, 
 
 Awake the everlasting song ! 
 Thrice holy ! Thine the kingdom is, 
 
 The power omnipotent is Thine ; 
 And when created nature dies, 
 
 Thy never-ceasing glories shine ! 
 
 Fleming, who was born 1609, studied medicine at 
 Leipzig till 1634, when he repaired to try his fortune 
 in the little Duchy of Schleswig-Holstein. He soon 
 afterwards obtained an appointment on the embassy 
 to the Imperial Court of Russia. He was deeply im- 
 pressed with religious feeling, as is evident from the 
 following hymn, written just at the moment of his 
 departure : — 
 
 Only let nothing grieve thee, poor heart, be still ! 
 Howe'er the Lord bereave thee, bow down, my will ! 
 
 Why all this useless sorrow 
 
 For the morrow ? 
 
 Will not He 
 
 Who cares for all, 
 
 Whate'er befall, 
 
 Care, too, for thee ? 
 He rules thy fate : calmly await the Lord's behest ; 
 Who all things sees, what He decrees must be the best ! 
 
134 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 He returned from Moscow in 1635, and went sub- 
 sequently to the Court of Persia. He died at Hamburg 
 in 1640. His hymn, above cited, is still sung in some 
 of the churches of Germany. 
 
 These fine lines are from the German of Frederick 
 Arndt : — 
 
 Amid life's wild commotion, where nought the heart can cheer, 
 Who points beyond its ocean to heaven's brighter sphere ? 
 Our feeble footsteps guiding, when from the path we stray, 
 Who leads to bliss abiding ? Christ is our only Way ! 
 
 When doubts and fears distress us, and all around is gloom, 
 And shame and fear oppress us, who can our souls illume ? 
 Heaven's rays are round us gleaming, and making all things bright, 
 The Sun of Truth is beaming in glory on our sight. 
 
 Who fills our hearts with gladness that none can take away ? 
 Who shows us, 'midst our sadness, the distant realms of day ? 
 'Tis Christ ! our aid unfailing, the Truth, the Life, the Way. 
 
 Weiszel, one of the German hymnologists of the 
 seventeenth century, thus finely introduces a para- 
 phrastic psalm : — 
 
 Lift up your heads, ye mighty gates ! 
 Behold the King of Glory waits ; 
 The King of kings is drawing near, 
 The Saviour of the world is here : 
 Life and salvation doth He bring, 
 Wherefore rejoice, and gladly sing 
 
 Praise, O my God, to Thee ! 
 
 Creator, wise is Thy decree ! 
 
 Fling wide the portals of your heart, 
 Make it a temple set apart 
 From earthly use for Heaven's employ, 
 Adorned with prayer and love and joy ; 
 So shall your Sovereign enter in, 
 And new and nobler life begin. 
 Praise, O my God ! be Thine, 
 For word, and deed, and grace divine. 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS WAR. 135 
 
 Here is one of Lowenstern's brave battle-hymns, 
 written amidst the tumult and din of those terrible 
 " thirty years : " — 
 
 Christ, Thou champion of the band who own 
 Thy cross, oh, make Thy succor quickly known ! 
 The schemes of those who long our blood have sought 
 Bring Thou to nought. 
 
 Do Thou Thyself for us Thy children fight, 
 Withstand the devil, quell his rage and might : 
 Whate'er assails Thy members left below, 
 Do Thou o'erthrow. 
 
 And give us peace : peace in the church and school, 
 Peace to the powers who o'er our country rule, 
 Peace to the conscience, peace within the heart, 
 Do Thou impart. 
 
 So shall Thy goodness here be still adored, 
 Thou guardian of Thy little flock, dear Lord ; 
 And heaven and earth, through all eternity, 
 Shall worship Thee ! 
 
 • 
 
 Niebuhr, the church historian, was fond of this 
 hymn of Lowenstern ; and might be heard now and 
 then refreshing his own soul, amidst its intense labors 
 and researches, by murmuring the metrical prayer, — 
 
 " And give us peace : peace in the church and school, 
 Peace to the powers who o'er our country rule, 
 Peace to the conscience, peace within the heart, 
 Do Thou impart ! " 
 
 Gottfried Arnold, who was born in 1666, in Saxony, 
 of poor parents, published, when thirty years old, a 
 collection of poems and hymns. In 1707, he was ap- 
 pointed pastor of Perleberg, in Brandenburg ; and 
 here he spent the last seven years of his life, in un- 
 wearied activity, but in peace ; for his congregation 
 
I36 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 were of his own way of thinking, and he was pro- 
 tected by the king. In 17 13, his health began to fail ; 
 and, at Easter, 17 14, while he was celebrating the 
 Holy Communion, a Prussian recruiting-party burst 
 into the church, and dragged away a number of 
 young men from the very steps of the altar. This 
 outrage, and his unavailing efforts to save the mem- 
 bers of his flock, so affected him, that he took to 
 his bed two days afterwards, and soon after died. 
 Perhaps the best of Arnold's hymns is his deeply 
 thoughtful one, " How blest to all Thy followers, Lord, 
 the road ! " But many others are very fine : here are 
 some stanzas, entitled "The Kingdom of God : " — 
 
 Anoint us with Thy blessed love, O Wisdom ! through and through, 
 Till Thy sweei impulses remove all dread and fear undue, 
 And we behold ourselves in Thee a purified humanity, 
 
 And live Thy risen life. 
 O Perfect Manhood ! once again descend Thou in our race, 
 Be all its lower.nature slain, transform us of Thy grace, 
 Till, pure and holy as Thou art, Thine image shine from every heart, 
 
 And Thou within us live. 
 
 Ulrich, Duke of Brunswick, wrote the following 
 touching lines, in 1667: — 
 
 Leave all to God, forsaken one, and still thy fears, 
 For the Highest knows thy fears ; thou shalt not wait His help in 
 vain, 
 
 Leave all to God. 
 Be still, and trust ! for His strokes are strokes of love 
 
 Thou must for thy profit bear ; 
 He thy filial fear would move, trust thy Father's loving care, 
 
 Be still and trust ! 
 Know, God is near ! Though thou think Him far away, 
 Though His mercy long have slept, He will come, and not delay, 
 When His child enough hath wept, for God is near ! 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS WAR. 137 
 
 The following stanzas form part of a translation 
 from the German of De Wette, by Whittier : — 
 
 World Redeemer ! Lord of Glory ! as of old to zealous Paul, 
 Thou didst come in sudden splendor, and from out the clouds didst 
 
 call; 
 As to Mary in the garden, did Thy risen form appear, — 
 Come, arrayed in heavenly beauty: come, and speak, and I will 
 
 hear ! 
 
 In my heart the voice made answer, "Ask thou not a sign from 
 
 Heaven ; 
 In the Gospel of thy Saviour, Life as well as Light is given. 
 Ever looking unto Jesus, all His glory thou shalt see : 
 From thy heart the veil be taken, and the Word made clear to thee. 
 
 Love the Lord, and thou shalt see Him ; do His will, and thou shalt 
 
 know 
 How the spirit lights the letter, — how a little child may go, 
 Where the wise and prudent stumble ; how a heavenly glory shines, 
 In His acts of love and mercy, from the Gospel's simplest lines ! " 
 
 The following lines, entitled " Going Home," are 
 from the German of Lange (1650-1727) : — 
 
 Our beloved have departed, 
 While we tarry, broken-hearted, 
 
 In the dreary, empty house ; 
 They have ended life's brief story, 
 They have reached the home of glory, 
 
 Over death victorious ! 
 
 Whilst with bitter tears we're mourning, 
 Thought to buried loves returning, 
 
 Time is hasting us along ; 
 Downward to the grave's dark dwelling, 
 Upward to the fountain welling 
 
 With eternal life and song ! 
 
 On we haste, to home invited, 
 There with friends to be united 
 
I3# EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 In a surer bond than here ; 
 Meeting soon, and met for ever ! 
 Glorious hope ! forsake us never, — 
 
 Scatter every doubt and fear ! 
 
 Here are his lines on the future estate of being : — 
 
 What no human eye hath seen, what no mortal ear hath heard, 
 What on thought hath never been, in its noblest flights, conferred, — 
 
 This hath God prepared in store, 
 
 For His people evermore ! 
 
 When the shaded pilgrim-land fades before the closing eye, 
 Then, revealed on either hand, heaven's own scenery shall lie ; 
 
 Then the veil of flesh shall fall, 
 
 Now concealing, darkening all. 
 
 When this aching heart shall rest, all its busy pulses o'er, 
 From her mortal robes undrest, shall my spirit upward soar : 
 
 Then shall unimagined joy 
 
 All my thoughts and powers employ. 
 
 Johann Frank, who died at Guben, in Prussia, in 
 1677, was the author of this, — considered, in the 
 original, one of the richest German communion 
 
 hymns : — 
 
 Deck thyself, my soul, with gladness ; 
 Leave the gloomy haunts of sadness, 
 Come into the daylight's splendor ; 
 There, with joy, thy praises render 
 Unto Him whose boundless grace 
 Grants thee, at His feet, a place ; 
 He whom all the heavens obey 
 Deigns to dwell in thee to-day ! 
 
 Sun, who all my life dost brighten, 
 Light, who dost my soul enlighten, 
 Joy, the sweetest, man e'er knoweth, 
 Fount, whence all my being floweth ! 
 Here I fall before Thy feet : 
 Grant me worthily to eat 
 Of this blessed heavenly food, 
 To Thy praise, and to my good. 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS WAR. 139 
 
 These brief specimens of German hymnology afford 
 but a very imperfect conception of the rich resources 
 which exist; but these will serve, at least, to illustrate 
 the status of Christian piety during an epoch of al- 
 most unparalleled tribulation. These sacred lyrics 
 have comforted and solaced many an afflicted Chris- 
 tian, and were to them, as were also those of the 
 mediaeval times, "songs in the night;" and, as such, 
 they speak to us with a peculiar emphasis and force. 
 Listen to this sweet song to the Saviour, by Linde- 
 mann, who lived during these troublous times of per- 
 secution for the truth : — 
 
 In Thee is gladness amid all sadness, 
 
 Jesus, Thou sunshine of my heart ! 
 By Thee are given the gifts of heaven, 
 
 Thou the true Redeemer art ! 
 Our souls Thou wakest, our bonds Thou breakest ; 
 Who trusts Thee surely, hath built securely, — 
 
 He stands for ever : Hallelujah ! 
 
 If He is ours, we fear no powers 
 
 Of earth or Satan, sin or death ! 
 He sees and blesses in worst distresses, 
 
 He can change them with a breath ! 
 Wherefore the story tell of His glory, 
 With heart and voices ; all heaven rejoices 
 
 In Him for ever : Hallelujah ! 
 
 Schmolke (1731) wrote a beautiful hymn, " Him- 
 melan geht unsre Bahn," of which these stanzas form 
 the close : — 
 
 Heavenwards ! faith discerns the prize 
 
 That is waiting us afar ; 
 And my heart would swiftly rise, 
 
 High o'er sun and moon and star, 
 To that Light behind the veil, 
 Where all earthly splendors pale. 
 
I4O EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Heavenward, Death shall lead, at last, 
 
 To the home where I would be ; 
 All my sorrows overpast, 
 
 I shall triumph there with Thee ; 
 Jesus, who hast gone before, 
 That we, too, might heavenward soar ! 
 
 The sacred poetry of Germany, in the first half of 
 the eighteenth century, was, to some extent, identified 
 with the pietism of that period, — a transition from the 
 state of formalism that preceded it. Schmolke, who 
 then lived, was one who expressed in touching verse 
 much of his personal sufferings and sorrows, his con- 
 flicts and consolations. His bereavements in early 
 domestic life, and in his old age his blindness, are evi- 
 dences that his earthly life was sufficiently checkered 
 with trial ; \et he is said to have solaced himself, if 
 not others, with his meditative muse. 
 
 "There is one fact most noteworthy, as a sign of the 
 temper in which this great tribulation was met by 
 those who had to drink of its cup of pain deeper, 
 perhaps, than any other, — that very many, among 
 the most glorious compositions in the hymn-book of 
 Protestant Germany, date from the period of the 
 thirty years' war. Many men, as a poet of our own 
 time has said, — 
 
 1 Are cradled into poetry by wrong, 
 And learn in suffering what they teach in song.' 
 
 So was it here ; and as this was a time full of suffer- 
 ing, and wrath, and wrong, so was it also a time when 
 sacred song, which, since Luther, had shown compar- 
 atively little vitality, burst forth in a new luxuriance ; 
 and, most noticeable of all, is rich, not so much, as 
 one might have expected, in threnes and lamentations, 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS WAR. 14I 
 
 Misereres, and cries de -profundis (though these also 
 are not wanting), as in Te Deums and Magnificats, 
 hymns of high hope and holy joy, rising up from the 
 darkness of this world to the throne of Him r who 
 giveth songs in the night,' and enables His servants to 
 praise Him even in the fires ; some among the chief 
 sufferers, Paul Gerhardt, for instance, and Schirmer 
 (the ? German Job,' as he called himself, with allu- 
 sion to all that he had gone through) , being the chief 
 lyrists as well." * 
 
 Paul Gerhardt ranks next to Luther, whom he in 
 some respects resembles, and from whom he was sep- 
 arated in time by about a century. His hymns hap- 
 pily combine simplicity with depth and force. They 
 are the heart-utterances of one who had a simple but 
 sublime faith in God, and who recognized His fa- 
 therly presence in the affairs of life. 
 
 A certain impressiveness, a certain sorrowfulness, a 
 certain fervor, were peculiar to him : he was a guest 
 on earth ; and everywhere, in his one hundred and 
 twenty -three songs, sun-flowers are sown. This 
 flower ever turns to the sun, so does Gerhardt to a 
 blessed eternity. The love with which the contem- 
 poraries of Gerhardt, as far as the bell of an evangeli- 
 cal church was heard, turned to his song, has only 
 one precedent, — the veneration, the devotion, with 
 which Luther's songs were regarded. He was born 
 in Saxony in 1606. When he had attained his twelfth 
 year, the terrible thirty years' war broke out; and 
 his family seem to have suffered much by its ravages. 
 Forced, for a season, to forsake his native land, he 
 was recalled, in 1631, to fill the office of preacher to 
 
 * Archbishop Trench. 
 
I42 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 the Nicholai Church at Berlin ; where he remained for 
 ten years, honored and respected by all who knew 
 him. But his religious sentiments did not wholly co- 
 incide with those of the king ; and Gerhardt, too con- 
 scientious to dissemble, was ordered to resign his 
 appointment and quit the country. Utterly destitute, 
 not knowing where to lay his head or how to provide 
 for his helpless family, Gerhardt left the home where 
 he had spent so many happy years. "But no afflic- 
 tion, however terrible, could shake his confidence in 
 Divine wisdom and mercy. After some consideration, 
 he determined on directing his steps towards his native 
 land, Saxony, where he yet hoped to find friends. 
 The journey, performed on foot, was long and weary. 
 Gerhardt bore up manfully : his heart failed him 
 only when he gazed on his wife and little ones. 
 When night arrived, the travellers sought repose 
 in a little village-inn by the road-side ; where Ger- 
 hardt's wife, unable to restrain her anguish, gave 
 way to a burst of natural emotion. Her husband, 
 concealing his anxious cares, reminded her of that 
 beautiful verse of Scripture, * Trust in the Lord; 
 in all thy ways acknowledge Him, and He shall 
 direct thy paths.' The words, uttered to comfort his 
 afflicted partner, impressed his own mind so deeply, 
 that, seating himself in a little arbor in the garden, 
 he composed that hymn which has rendered his name 
 celebrated : " * — 
 
 Commit thou all thy griefs and ways into His hands, 
 To His sure truth and tender care, who earth and heaven com- 
 mands ; 
 Who points the clouds their course, whom winds and seas obey, — 
 He shall direct thy wandering feet, He shall prepare thy way. 
 
 * De Pontes. 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS WAR. I43 
 
 And then listen to the fine closing stanza : — 
 
 o 
 
 Give to the winds thy fears, hope, and be undismayed : 
 God hears thy sighs, and counts thy tears, — God shall lift up thy 
 head. 
 
 We are informed, that he composed this beautiful 
 hymn of trust, in the dark hour of his destitution, 
 without pause or effort. It was one of the many Ger- 
 man hymns born of sorrow and suffering. "Evening 
 had now deepened, and the pastor and his wife were 
 about to retire to rest, when two gentlemen entered 
 the little parlor in which they were seated. They 
 began to converse with the poet; and soon told him, 
 that they were on their way to Berlin to seek the 
 deposed clergyman, Paul Gerhardt, by order of their 
 lord, Duke Christian of Meresberg. At these words, 
 Madame Gerhardt turned pale, dreading some further 
 calamity. But her husband, calm in his trust in an 
 overruling Providence, at once declared that he was 
 the individual they were in search of, and inquired their 
 errand. Great was the astonishment and delight of 
 both wife and husband, when one of the strangers 
 presented Gerhardt with an autograph letter from the 
 duke himself, informing him that he had settled a 
 considerable pension on him, to atone for the injustice 
 of which he had been the victim. Then the pious and 
 gifted preacher turned towards his wife, and gave her 
 the hymn he had composed during his brief absence, 
 with the words, "See, how God provides ! Did I not 
 bid you confide in Him, and all would be well?"* 
 Some years after, Gerhardt was appointed Archdeacon 
 at Liibben, in which office he continued till his death, 
 
 * In Kelly's biography, this incident concerning Gerhardt's destitution is doubted: it is 
 otherwise regarded by Madame De Pontes in her "Poets and Poetry of Germany." 
 
144 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 which took place in 1676, after he had faithfully served 
 in the ministry twenty-five years. This excellent man 
 died, it is related, repeating a verse of his own hymn, 
 which, in our translation, commences, "Wherefore 
 should I grieve and pine ? " It was this stanza : — 
 
 Yea, though death seem close at hand, 
 Calm and quiet should he stand, 
 
 And his spirit tremble not ; 
 Him no death has power to kill, 
 But from many a dreaded ill 
 
 Bears his spirit safe away ; 
 Shuts the door of bitter woes, 
 Opens yon bright path that glows 
 
 With the light of perfect day ! 
 
 He stands out the central figure of the second 
 century of the singers of the Reformed Church, as 
 Luther does of the first. One of his hymns, Luther- 
 like, he composed, after a night of weary anguish on 
 the altar-steps of his church at Liibben ; and many 
 others of his compositions were born of sorrow and 
 suffering. They penetrated to all ranks of society, 
 and were sung by young and old, even in the streets. 
 Schiller learned Gerhardt's hymns from his mother, 
 his evening-hymn being an especial favorite. 
 
 Here are two stanzas from a battle-hymn of Paul 
 Gerhardt, which, we may easily believe, gushed forth 
 from his overcharged heart : — 
 
 Arise, and stem this tide of woe, of heart-ache and of pain ; 
 
 Call back Thy flock, and make them know bright days again ; 
 
 To peace and wealth the lands restore, wasted with fire, or plague, 
 
 or sword ; 
 Come to Thy ruined churches, Lord, and bid them bloom once more. 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS WAR. I45 
 
 Give strong and cheerful hearts to stand undaunted in the wars, 
 That Satan's works, and mighty band, are waging with Thy cause. 
 Help us to fight as warriors brave, 
 That we may conquer in the field, 
 And not one Christian man may yield 
 His soul to sin a slave. 
 
 Order, according to Thy mind, our life from day to day ; 
 And when this life must be resigned, and Death shall seize his prey, 
 When all our days have fleeted by, 
 Help us to die with fearless spirit ; 
 And let us, after death, inherit 
 Eternal life on high ! 
 
 Turn we now to a sweet little lyric of his, on 
 Christmas : — 
 
 All my heart this night rejoices 
 
 As I hear, far and near, sweetest angel-voices ; 
 
 " Christ is born ! " Their choirs are singing, 
 
 Till the air everywhere now with joy is ringing. 
 
 For it dawns, the promised morrow 
 
 Of His birth, who on earth rescues from her sorrow. 
 
 God, to wear our form, descendeth ; 
 
 Of His grace, to our race, here His Son He lendeth. 
 
 Come, then, let us hasten yonder ; 
 
 Let us all, great and small, kneel in awe and wonder. 
 
 Love Him who with love is yearning ; 
 
 Hail the star that from afar bright with hope is burning ! 
 
 Hither come, ye heavy-hearted, 
 
 Who, for sin, deep within, long and sore have smarted 
 
 For the poisoned wounds you're feeling 
 
 Help is near, One is here mighty for their healing ! 
 
 The following translation of another of his fine 
 hymns is from the "Lyra Germanica : " — 
 
 Go forth, my heart, and seek delight 
 
 In all the gifts of God's great mighi, 
 
 These pleasant summer hours ; 
 
 10 
 
I46 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Look, how the plains for thee and me 
 Have decked themselves most fair to see, 
 All bright and sweet with flowers. 
 
 The lark soars singing into space, 
 The dove forsakes her hiding-place, 
 
 And cooes the woods among ; 
 The richly gifted nightingale 
 Pours forth her voice o'er hill and dale, 
 
 And floods the fields with song. 
 • «..«. 
 
 I think, art Thou so good to us, 
 And scatterest joy and beauty thus, 
 
 O'er this poor earth of ours ; 
 What nobler glories shall be given 
 Hereafter in Thy shining heaven 
 
 Set round with golden towers ! 
 
 What thrilling joy, when on our sight 
 Christ's garden beams in cloudless light, 
 
 Where all the air is sweet, 
 Still laden with the unwearied hymn 
 From all the thousand seraphim, 
 
 Who God's high praise repeat ! 
 
 Gerhardt was peculiarly a " son of consolation :" his 
 hymns of chanty, hope, and faith, were full of thanks- 
 giving and cheer, just what all Christian utterances 
 ought to be. Whether he sang to the soul's secret 
 needs, or to the loud clarion of battle, the same true- 
 hearted faith inspired his song. Fighting under the 
 standard of Gustavus, no doubts ever crossed his 
 mind about the lawfulness of taking up arms ; but he 
 and his comrades felt convinced they were obeying a 
 heaven-sent leader, as truly accredited as Joshua, or 
 Gideon, or David. "Militare est orare" was the motto 
 of their banner. 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS WAR. 147 
 
 These beautiful stanzas are from the German of 
 Zehn : — 
 
 God liveth ever ! 
 Wherefore, soul, despair thou never ! 
 He who can earth and heaven control, 
 
 Who spreads the clouds o'er sea and land, 
 Whose presence fills the mighty whole, 
 In each true heart is close at hand. 
 Love Him, He will surely send 
 Help and joy that never end. 
 Soul, remember in thy pains, 
 God o'er all for ever reigns ! 
 
 God liveth ever ! 
 Wherefore, soul, despair thou never ! 
 Scarce canst thou bear thy cross ? Then fly 
 
 To Him where rest is only sweet ; 
 Thy God is great, His mercy nigh, 
 
 His strength upholds the tottering feet 
 Trust Him, for His grace is sure, 
 Ever doth His truth endure ; 
 Soul, forget not in thy pains, 
 God o'er all for ever reigns ! 
 
 God liveth ever ! 
 Wherefore, soul, despair thou never ! 
 What though thou tread with bleeding feet 
 
 A thorny path of grief and gloom, 
 Thy God will choose the way most meet 
 To lead thee heavenwards, lead thee home. 
 For this life's long night of sadness, 
 He will give thee peace and gladness ! 
 Soul, forget not in thy pains, 
 God o'er all for ever reigns ! 
 
 Count Zinzendorf was not one of the least among 
 the sacred brotherhood of song, as he was the founder 
 and champion of the United Moravian Brethren. He 
 was born at Dresden, in the year 1700, and died in 
 
I48 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 1760. His zeal and self-denying service in behalf of 
 the community he represented, were most exemplary. 
 " In all parts of the world he vindicated the claims of 
 the Moravians, and, when the community was insol- 
 vent, he undertook the burden of their debt ; and, at 
 his death, he owed more than a quarter of a million 
 of money on that account. He had been elected pres- 
 ident of Herrnhut, the estate of the community, in 
 Saxony ; and he devoted himself heartily to its spirit- 
 ual interests." * One of the means employed, according 
 to his biographer,f was singing, to which he attached 
 great importance. " His stock of hymns, which he 
 could at any time recall, was as wonderful as his 
 power of extemporaneous composition. Sometimes 
 he would sing a number of verses taken from various 
 hymns, and interspersed with others composed at the 
 moment, thus producing a kind of lyric discourse, — 
 an echo to the voice of the Hebrew prophets, — which 
 seems to have produced a profound impression." His 
 "Berlin Discourses," a series of daily addresses which 
 he delivered in his own house, passed through many 
 editions, and were translated into several languages. 
 "In 1729, Zinzendorf paid a short visit to St. Thomas ; 
 and, 1741, he made a missionary visit to America, 
 where he remained more than a year doing a good 
 work in Pennsylvania, and attempting something for 
 the North- American Indians. One of his celebrated 
 hymns, consisting of thirty-three stanzas, and made 
 familiar to us by Wesley's translation, is, "Jesus, Thy 
 blood and righteousness !" 
 
 Here is a compact stanza on Christian Unity, from 
 the German of Count Zinzendorf : — 
 
 * Miller's Our Hymns. t Felix Bovet. 
 
GERMAN. — THIRTY YEARS WAR. 1 49 
 
 Thou who didst die for all and each, and in that last, sad night, 
 Didst to Thy flock so sweetly teach Love's all-controlling might ; 
 Still on Thy little band impress, who else may disagree, 
 Thy last and dying care was this, — Thy members' unity ! 
 
 The fine hymn, from which the following lines are 
 taken, has been rendered into German, from the Latin, 
 by Count Zinzendorf ; or, rather, was poured forth 
 from St. Bernard's heart into his. Here is the English 
 version by Caswell : — 
 
 Jesus, the very thought of Thee 
 
 With sweetness fills my breast ; 
 But sweeter far Thy face to see, 
 
 And in Thy presence rest. 
 
 No voice can sing, nor heart can frame, 
 
 Nor can the memory find, 
 A sweeter sound than Thy blest name, 
 
 O Saviour of mankind ! 
 
 O hope of every contrite heart ! 
 
 O joy of all the meek ! 
 To those who fall, how kind Thou art, 
 
 How good to those who seek ! 
 
 But what to those who find ? Ah ! this 
 
 Nor tongue nor pen can show ; 
 The love of Jesus, what it is 
 
 None but His loved ones know. 
 
 Among German hymnists of eminence was Rothe, 
 who was born in Silesia, 1688, and died in 1758. 
 Count Zinzendorf was his friend and patron. He 
 was an excellent pastor, and united in himself ripe 
 scholarship and exemplary piety. The count selected 
 him to fill the office of pastor for his estate of Berthels- 
 dorf, the duties of which he discharged to the admira- 
 tion of all who knew him. He wrote some hymns, 
 which have been translated, and transferred to our 
 
I50 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 modern collections. One begins, "Lord, at Thy feet 
 we sinners lie ; " another, " O Lord, Thy work revive." 
 A. H. Francke (1691) composed a fine hymn, on 
 his journey to Gotha, after his unjust expulsion from 
 Erfurt, as we are told in the oration delivered at his 
 grave, "in the full experience of the unspeakable 
 consolations of the Holy Spirit." We cite only two 
 specimen stanzas. It is a New-Year's hymn. 
 
 Thank God that towards eternity another step is won ! 
 
 Oh, longing turns my heart to Thee, as time flows slowly on ! 
 
 Thou Fountain whence my life is born, 
 
 Whence those rich streams of grace are drawn, 
 That through my being run ! 
 
 Oh, that I soon might Thee behold ! I count the moments o'er ; 
 Ah, come, ere yet my heart grows cold, and cannot call Thee more ! 
 
 Come in Thy glory, for Thy Bride 
 
 Hath girt her for the holy-tide, 
 And waiteth at the door. 
 
 Simon Dach, a professor at Kbnigsberg, where he 
 died in 1659, was remarkable for the contemplative 
 serenity and correct structure of his hymns. The 
 sacred lyrics of Germany, during this epoch, are in- 
 terfused with the great doctrines of holy Scripture ; 
 these, indeed, constitute the warp and woof of their 
 texture ; among great diversities of literary and poetic 
 merit, this, their evangelical character, is uniformly 
 maintained. Here is his beautiful homily on self- 
 denial, compacted into two stanzas : — 
 
 Wouldst thou inherit life with Christ on high ? 
 
 Then count the cost, and know 
 
 That here on earth below 
 Thou needs must suffer with Thy Lord, and die. 
 We reach that gain, to which all else is loss, 
 But through the Cross ! 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS WAR. 151 
 
 Not e'en the sharpest sorrows we can feel, 
 
 Nor keenest pangs, we dare 
 
 With that great bliss compare, 
 When God His glory shall in us reveal, 
 That shall endure when our brief woes are o'er 
 For evermore ! 
 
 Listen to his good counsel concerning " Treasure m 
 Heaven : " — 
 
 My soul, let this thy thoughts employ : 
 
 Defer not until death to ponder 
 On what shall be the heavenly joy 
 
 Which God's redeemed are promised yonder. 
 
 Thy true wealth lies beyond the skies, 
 And there shouldst thou be ever gazing ; 
 
 Learn, then, earth's treasures to despise, 
 To heaven your aspirations raising. 
 
 There is impressive grandeur about the following 
 poem, translated from the German of Seidl, by 
 C. T. Brooks: — 
 
 " Lord, Thou art great ! " I cry, when in the east 
 
 The day is blooming like a rose of fire ; 
 When, to partake anew of life's rich feast, 
 
 Nature and man awake with fresh desire. 
 When art Thou seen more gracious, God of power ! 
 Than in the morn's great resurrection-hour ? 
 
 " Lord, Thou art great ! " I cry, when blackness shrouds 
 The noon-day heavens, and crinkling lightnings flame, 
 And on the tablet of the thunder-clouds 
 
 In fiery letters write Thy dreadful name. 
 When art Thou, Lord, more terrible in wrath, 
 Than in the mid-day tempest's lowering path ? 
 
 " Lord, Thou art great ! " I cry, when in the west 
 Day, softly-vanquished, shuts his glowing eye ; 
 When song-feasts ring from every woodland nest, 
 And all in melancholy sweetness die. 
 
152 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 When giv'st Thou, Lord, our hearts more bless'd repose 
 Than in the magic of Thy evening shows ? 
 
 " Lord, Thou art great ! " I cry, at dead of night, 
 When silence broods alike on land and deep ; 
 
 When stars go up and down the blue-arched height, 
 And on the silver clouds the moonbeams sleep. 
 
 When beckonest Thou, O Lord ! to loftier heights, 
 
 Than in the silent praise of holy nights ? 
 
 " Lord, Thou art great ! " in nature's every form ; 
 Greater in none, — simply most great in all ; 
 In tears and terrors, sunshine, smile, and storm, 
 And all that stirs the heart, is felt Thy call. 
 " Lord, Thou art great ! " Oh, let me praise Thy name, 
 And grow in greatness as I Thine proclaim ! 
 
 Gleim was born in 17 19. Through the good offices 
 of some friends, he obtained an appointment connected 
 with the Cathedral of Halberstadt, whither he re- 
 moved in 1776, and where he continued to remain 
 several years. Few lives passed away with such un- 
 interrupted tranquillity, as that of Gleim. Overflowing 
 with benevolence, he found, in the exercise of kindness 
 and hospitality, the friendship of Klopstock, and other 
 distinguished men, all the happiness his gentle nature 
 desired. During the seven years' war, when Germany 
 was divided into two hostile camps, it was a stirring 
 and momentous epoch, especially for Prussia. Gleim's 
 devotion to the heroic Prussian hero, Frederick, was 
 kindled into enthusiasm ; and he enlisted in the for 
 tunes of his cause. He wrote religious songs, which 
 the soldiers sang on the battle-field. His protracted 
 life was enriched by numerous benefactions conferred 
 upon others ; and his memory was sweet, " and blos- 
 somed in the dust." There is simple pathos and 
 melody in the following lyric of his : — 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS WAR. 153 
 
 For whom hast Thou created, O Lord ! this world so bright ? 
 For whom are bud and blossom in the glen and on the height ? 
 For whom the golden cornfield, where our glad footsteps rove ? 
 For whom do yonder sunbeams gild the meadow and the grove ? 
 
 The blessings that surround us, should be a call of love, 
 To raise, with each returning morn, our thoughts to Him above. 
 Not vainly dost Thou give us this, a heart to feel and love, — 
 A foretaste of the purer bliss which shall be ours above ! 
 
 Contemporary with Gleim, was Kleist, who was 
 born in Pomerania, 1715. His poems have procured 
 for him less celebrity" than his patriotic devotion to 
 his king and country. The following hymn has long 
 been a favorite with the Prussian soldiers ; for the 
 translation, as well as that of the preceding hymn, 
 we are indebted to the pen of Madame De Pontes. 
 
 Great is the Lord ! The heavens proclaim afar 
 
 His power : they are His seat ; 
 The raging storm is His triumphal car; 
 
 His steed, the lightning fleet. 
 
 The hues of morn are a reflection dim 
 
 Of His resplendent might ; 
 The sun itself is but a spark of Him, 
 
 The source of life and light. 
 
 Thou foaming ocean, in thy stormy bed, 
 
 Tremble before His frown ; 
 Bend, lofty cedar, bend thy stately head ; 
 
 Forests and woods, bow down. 
 
 Ye savage monsters, in your rocky den, 
 
 Adore your Maker's power ; 
 Sing Him, ye little warblers of the glen, 
 
 In grove and hill and bower. 
 
 Echo, exalt His name ! in earth and heaven 
 
 Be that Great Name adored ! 
 And thou, O man ! to whom this world is given, 
 
 Worship and bless the Lord ! 
 
154 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Kleist bore no inglorious part in several important 
 actions. On one occasion, when the Austrians, with 
 a force of eighty thousand men, surprised the Prussian 
 army, greatly inferior in strength, Kleist, at the head 
 of his battalion, defended a narrow defile, by which 
 their position was commanded, with such resolute val- 
 or, that the enemy, after repeated attacks, retired. 
 This gallant deed, in all probability, saved the whole 
 army. 
 
 During the calamitous seven years' war, might have 
 been seen in a small room, at Leipzig, a poor scholar 
 surrounded with a heap of books; and, among them, 
 on the table, was a well-used Bible, opened at the 
 second chapter of the book of Job, and the words, 
 underlined, "What! shall we receive good at the 
 hand of God, and shall we not receive evil?" This 
 Christian student was C. F. Gellert, who became one 
 of the most esteemed and honored of the sacred poets 
 of German}^. Princes, and celebrated persons, made 
 pilgrimages to visit him; even Frederic the Great had 
 an interview with him. He was contemporary with 
 Klopstock, Kleist, Schlegel, Lessing, and Goethe. 
 His Muse drew inspiration from the Bible ; and his 
 hymns were heart-utterances, and therefore appealed 
 to the heart, — took deep root, and obtained a wide- 
 spread and enduring popularity. Goethe thus speaks 
 of him as a lecturer : " The reverence and affection 
 which Gellert received from all the young men was 
 extraordinary. His lecture-room was always crowd- 
 ed to the utmost ; and Gellert's beautiful soul, purity 
 of will, his admonitions, warnings, and entreaties, de- 
 livered in a somewhat hollow and sad voice, produced 
 a deep impression." His hymn on Creation has been 
 thus rendered into our vernacular : — 
 
GERMAN. — THIRTY YEARS WAR. 155 
 
 Creator ! when I see Thy might, Thy wisdom, and Thy love, 
 For ever watching, day and night, o'er all below, above ; 
 
 Melted with gratitude and praise, 
 
 I know not how my voice to raise, 
 My Father and my God ! 
 
 Where'er I turn, my dazzled eye beholds Thy wonders still, — 
 The glorious heavens, the azure sky, adore their Maker's skill ! 
 
 Who bids the sun so brightly shine, 
 
 Clothed in his majesty divine, 
 Who calls the starry host ? 
 
 Yet more stirring are some of his stanzas, entitled 
 "The Solace of the Life to come :" — 
 
 When these brief trial-days are spent, there dawns a glad eternity ! 
 There, lost in measureless content, our tears and sorrows cease to be ; 
 
 Here virtue toils with earnest care : 
 
 Her glorious crown awaits her there ! 
 
 Here, I must seek : there, I shall find ; for there shall virtue all 
 
 unfold 
 Before my holier, purer mind, her worth so great, so manifold ; 
 
 The God of Love, whom I adore, 
 
 I there shall worship more and more. 
 
 There, in that light, shall I discern what here on earth I dimly 
 
 saw, — 
 Those deep and wondrous counsels learn, whose mystery filled me 
 here with awe ; 
 There trace, with gratitude intense, 
 The hidden links of Providence. 
 
 Perchance, — ah, would that this might be ! — will some blest soul 
 
 in that abode 
 Cry, " Hail ! for thou hast rescued me, and won my heart to heaven 
 and God ! " 
 Oh, God ! what exquisite delight, 
 To save a soul from sin and night ! 
 
 This worthy Christian singer, after a life enriched 
 by very numerous benefactions, and much occasional 
 
156 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 suffering, endured with exemplary patience and seren- 
 ity, left the world he had benefited for the "rest that 
 remaineth," in 1769, at the age of fifty-four. "I am 
 weak, and cannot understand much," he said, shortly 
 before he ceased to breathe ; "but pronounce the name 
 of my Redeemer, — when I hear that, I feel fresh 
 strength and joy." Gellert's death was regarded as 
 a national calamity. His biographer says, "Perhaps 
 no grave has ever been watered with so many and 
 such sincere tears." Let it be repeated, he was a 
 great Bible reader, and a firm believer in Provi- 
 dence. 
 
 Some time since there was a pamphlet published 
 in London, entitled "The Adventures of a Hymn," in 
 which are detailed the remarkable results which attend- 
 ed his beautiful hymn, "Ich hab in guten Stunden," 
 written by him under circumstances of great privation 
 and sickness; and, what is still more remarkable, 
 suffering from want of the necessities of life, in conse- 
 quence of his ultra-generosity to others in distress. 
 But his unfaltering trust in God's promises nerved 
 him to endure in the hour of trial ; and when his faith 
 was justified, it uttered itself in fresh songs of thanks- 
 giving. The blessing of many, "who were ready to 
 perish," came upon him like light from heaven. 
 
 Here is a beautiful lyric gem from the German of 
 Arndt. The translation is by E. F. Cox. 
 
 Therefore, now, a last good night ! 
 Sun, and moon, and stars of fire, 
 Farewell to your splendor bright ! 
 Higher now I soar, far higher. 
 Where there is such glorious day, 
 Ye will vanish quite away. 
 
i57 
 
 Weep not, that I bid farewell 
 
 To the world and all its errors ; 
 
 Far from vanity to dwell, 
 
 Far from darkness and its terrors ; 
 
 Weep not, that I take my flight 
 
 To the land of endless light ! 
 
 Weep not, my Redeemer lives, 
 
 High above dark earth ascending : 
 
 Hope, her heavenly comfort gives ; 
 
 Faith stands by, her shield extending ; 
 
 Love eternal whispers near, 
 
 " Child of God, no longer fear ! " 
 
 Schiller, the illustrious friend of Goethe, was born 
 in 1759, anc * died 1805. He lived in almost monastic 
 seclusion from the world. At sixteen, he published a 
 translation of a part of the "./Eneid." He was a great 
 student of Shakspeare ; and to this fact, doubtless, we 
 owe his splendid dramas. His Histories of the " Revolt 
 of the Netherlands " and of the w Thirty Years' War " 
 have long been standard authorities. He was by far 
 the greatest tragic poet of Germany, and one of the 
 greatest, also, in modern literature. The moral eleva- 
 tion of his writings place him above most of his Ger- 
 man predecessors and successors. His " Song of the 
 Bell" is a wonderful production, and replete with 
 poetic beauties. 
 
 The following is an Eno-lish version of Schiller's 
 "Three Words of Strength," the triple Christian 
 graces : — 
 
 There are three lessons I would write, — 
 Three words, as with a burning pen, 
 
 In tracings of eternal light, 
 Upon the hearts of men. 
 
 Have hope ! Though clouds environ round, 
 And gladness hides her face in scorn, 
 
 Put thou the shadow from thy brow, 
 No ni^ht but hath its morn. 
 
If, 8 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Have faith ! Where'er thy bark is driven, — 
 The calm's disport, the tempest's mirth, — 
 
 Know this : God rules the hosts of heaven, 
 The inhabitants of earth. 
 
 Have love ! Not love alone for one, 
 
 But man, as man, thy brother call, 
 And scatter, like the circling sun, 
 
 Thy charities on all. 
 
 Thus grave these lessons on thy soul, 
 
 Hope, faith, and love ; and thou shalt find 
 
 Strength when life's surges rudest roll, 
 Light when thou else wert blind. 
 
 This fine spiritual lyric, written in 17 13, by Mar- 
 purger, has been admirably rendered into our ver- 
 nacular by Miss Winkworth : — 
 
 Who seeks in weakness an excuse, his sins will vanish never; 
 Unless he heart and mind renews, he is deceived for ever. 
 The straight and narrow way, that shines to perfect day, 
 
 He hath not found, hath never trod ; 
 Little he knows, I ween, what prayer and conflict mean, 
 
 To one who hath the light of God. 
 
 In what the world calls weakness lurks the very strength of evil ; 
 Full mightily it helps the works of our great foe, the devil. 
 Awake, my soul, awake ! quickly thy refuge take 
 
 With Him, the Almighty, who can save ; 
 One look from Christ, thy Lord, can sever every cord 
 
 That binds thee now, a wretched slave. 
 
 Know, the first step in Christian lore is to depart from sin ; 
 True faith will leave the world no more a place thy heart within. 
 Thy Saviour's Spirit first the heavy bonds must burst, 
 
 Wherein Death bound thee in thy need ; 
 Then, the freed spirit knows what strength He gives to those 
 
 Who, with their Lord, are risen indeed ! 
 
 Bogatzky, who is not known to us so much by his 
 hymns, of which he wrote about four hundred, as by 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS WAR. 159 
 
 his "Golden Treasury," was born in 1690, in Hun- 
 gary. He was early inspired by the faith of the gos- 
 pel ; and, although a person of ample fortune, he 
 devoted himself to visiting the sick, and commending 
 the great truths of Christianity to the poor. His 
 memory is embalmed in the hearts of thousands in 
 every Protestant land, by the hymns, and the "Treas- 
 ury," he has bequeathed to us. These lines are his : 
 
 Awake, Thou Spirit, who of old 
 Didst fire the watchmen of the Church's youth, 
 
 Who faced the foe, unshrinking, bold, 
 Who witnessed day and night the eternal truth ; 
 Whose voices through the world are ringing still, 
 And bringing hosts to know and do Thy will ! 
 
 Oh, that Thy fire were kindled soon, 
 That swift from land to land its flame might leap ! 
 
 Lord, give us but this priceless boon 
 Of faithful servants, fit for Thee to reap 
 The harvest of the soul ; look down and view 
 How great the harvest, yet the laborers few. 
 
 Oh, haste to help ere we are lost ! 
 Send forth evangelists, in spirit strong, 
 
 Armed with Thy Word, a dauntless host, 
 Bold to attack the rule of ancient wrong ; 
 And let them all the earth for Thee reclaim, 
 To be Thy kingdom, and to know Thy name ! 
 
 Tersteegen's hymns (1697-1769) possess great 
 poetic beauty, and evince a tranquil and childlike 
 spirit of devotion. His history is a remarkable one. 
 From his childhood, he was delicate in health, 
 thoughtful, and of scrupulous conscience. At Miil- 
 heim, he became acquainted with a mystic, — a very 
 religious man, under whose instructions he became 
 converted. His days were busy, but he used to pass 
 
i6o 
 
 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 whole nights in prayer and fasting. He occupied 
 himself as a weaver ; his food was simple, and his 
 frugality enabled him to give to the poor. His pe- 
 culiar habits of life caused his family, who were 
 worldly, to forsake him ; and, even when sick, they 
 never came near him. Notwithstanding his singular 
 devotedness of life, he suffered, for five years, "a state 
 of darkness," having no sense of the love of God ; to 
 such an extent, indeed, that he began to doubt whether 
 there was a God at all. It was at this time he sang 
 these sad lines : — 
 
 Lost in darkness, girt with dangers, round me strangers, 
 
 Through an alien land I roam ; 
 Outward trials, bitter losses, inward crosses, 
 Lord, Thou know'st have sought me home. 
 Sin of courage hath bereft me, and hath left me 
 
 Scarce a spark of faith or hope ; 
 Bitter tears my heart oft sheddeth, as it dreadeth 
 
 I am past Thy mercy's scope. 
 Peace I cannot find ; oh, take me, Lord, and make me 
 
 From this yoke of evil free ; 
 Calm this longing never sleeping, still my weeping, 
 Give me hope once more in Thee ! 
 
 He could obtain no help from outside ; but at last, 
 one day, when he was on a journey to a neighboring 
 city, he received such an internal manifestation of the 
 goodness of God, and the sufficiency of the Saviour, 
 that all doubts and troubles vanished in a moment. 
 Henceforth, he had peace and joy, and an intense 
 power of realizing the unseen, which, combined with 
 the experience he had lately gone through, gave him 
 a wonderful faculty of touching and strengthening 
 other hearts. The thirty years of his life, from thirty 
 to sixty years of age, were spent in incessant exertion 
 for the good of others, though his own health was 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS' WAR. l6l 
 
 always delicate, and he was subject to frequent attacks 
 of neuralgia. He seems to have possessed a singu- 
 lar power of attracting others, and he used it to the 
 noblest of ends. He was instrumental of great good 
 as a preacher, and as a minister to the sick and desti- 
 tute. He was a mvstic of the purest type ; and the 
 fragrant memory of his name is still enshrined in 
 some hearts, although he died just a century ago. 
 Subjoined are two more extracts from his fine 
 hymns : — 
 
 Lord our God, in reverence lowly 
 The hosts of heaven call Thee " Holy ! " 
 From cherubim and seraphim, 
 From angel-phalanx far extending, 
 In fuller tones, is still ascending 
 The " holy, holy," of their hymn. 
 
 Lord, there are bending now before Thee 
 The elders, with their crowned glory, 
 The first-born of the blessed band ; 
 There, too, earth's ransomed and forgiven 
 Brought by the Saviour safe to heaven, 
 In glad unnumbered myriads stand. 
 Loud are the songs of praise 
 Their mingled voices raise, 
 
 Ever, ever ! 
 We, too, are Thine, and with them sing, 
 Thou, Lord, and only Thou art King ! 
 
 They sing, in sweet and sinless numbers, 
 The wondrous love that never slumbers, 
 And of the wisdom, power, and might, 
 The truth and faithfulness abiding, 
 And over all Thy works presiding. 
 But they can scarcely praise aright ; 
 For all is never sung, 
 Even by seraph's tongue, 
 Never, never ! 
 
 ii 
 
1 62 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 These are the closing stanzas of his " Pilgrim 
 Song:" — 
 
 Come, gladly let us onward ; hand in hand still go, 
 Each helping one another through all the way below. 
 
 One family of love, 
 Oh, let no voice of strife be heard, 
 No discord, by the angel-guard 
 
 Who watch us from above ! 
 
 Oh, brothers ! soon is ended the journey we've begun : 
 Endure a little longer, the race will soon be won I 
 
 And in the land of rest, 
 In yonder bright, eternal home, 
 Where all the Father's loved ones come, 
 
 We shall be safe and blest ! 
 
 The following lines are from the German of Uhland, 
 by Mrs. Follen : — 
 
 This is the Sabbath day ! 
 In the wide field I am alone. 
 Hark ! now our morning bell's sweet tone : 
 
 Now it has died away. 
 
 Kneeling, I worship Thee : 
 Sweet dread doth o'er my spirit steal 
 From whispering sounds of those who kneel 
 
 Unseen, to pray with me. 
 
 Around and far away 
 So clear and solemn is the sky, 
 It seems all opening to my eye : 
 
 This is the Sabbath day ! 
 
 Longfellow gives us the following fine poem in his 
 " Hyperion." It is a translation from the German of 
 Uhland. 
 
 Many a year is in its grave 
 
 Since I crossed this restless wave ; 
 
 And the evening, fair as ever, 
 
 Shines on ruin, rock, and river. 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS' WAR. 163 
 
 Then in this same boat, beside, 
 Sat two comrades old and tried ; 
 One with all a father's truth, 
 One with all the fire of youth. 
 One on earth in silence wrought, 
 And his grave in silence sought ; 
 But the younger, brighter form, 
 Passed in battle and in storm. 
 So, where'er I turn my eye 
 Back upon the days gone by, 
 Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me, — 
 Friends who closed their course before me. 
 Yet what binds us, friend to friend, 
 But that soul to soul can blend ? 
 / Soul-like were those hours of yore ; 
 Let us walk in soul once more ! 
 Take, O boatman ! thrice thy fee j 
 Take, — I give it willingly ; 
 For, invisible to thee, 
 Spirits twain have crossed with me. 
 
 A yet finer hymn of this distinguished German poet 
 before us. The translation reads, — 
 
 There is a land where beauty will not fade, 
 
 Nor sorrow dim the eye ; 
 Where true hearts will not sink, nor be dismayed, 
 
 And love will never die. 
 Tell me, — I fain would go, — 
 For I am burdened with a heavy woe : 
 The beautiful have left me all alone, — 
 The true, the tender, from my path have gone, 
 And I am weak, and fainting with despair ; 
 Where is it, — tell me where ? 
 Friend, thou must trust in Him who trod before 
 
 The desolate path of life ; 
 Must bear in meekness, as He meekly bore, 
 
 Sorrow and toil and strife ! 
 Think how the Son of God 
 These thorny paths has trod, 
 
 
164 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Yet tarried out for thee the appointed woe ; 
 
 Think of His loneliness in places dim, 
 
 When no man comforted, or cared for Him ; 
 
 Think how He prayed, unaided and alone, 
 
 In that dread agony, " Thy will be done ! " 
 
 Friend, do not thou despair : 
 
 Christ, in His heaven of heavens, will hear thy prayer. 
 
 Rambach (1720) is the writer of the vigorous hymn, 
 of which this is a translation : — 
 
 O Mighty Spirit, Source whence all things sprung ! 
 
 O glorious Majesty of perfect Light ! 
 Hath ever worthy praise to Thee been sung, 
 Or mortal heart endured to meet Thy sight ? 
 If they who sin have never known, 
 Must veil their faces at Thy throne, 
 Oh, how shall I, who am but sin and dust, 
 Approach untrembling to the Pure and Just ? 
 
 The voice of conscience in the soul hath shown 
 
 Some far-off glimpses of Thy holiness, 
 And yet more clearly hast Thou made it known 
 In Thy dear Word that tells us of Thy grace ; 
 But with all-glorious light divine 
 In His face we behold it shine, — 
 The Sinless One, who this dark earth has trod, 
 To win, through sorrow, sinners back to God. 
 
 Here is Korner's battle-hymn, written just before 
 he yielded up his young life for the freedom of his 
 country, at the battle of Danneberg, 1791 : — 
 
 Father, to Thee I cry ! 
 The roaring cannon's vapor shrouds me round, 
 And flashing lightnings hiss along the ground ; 
 
 Lord of the fight, I cry to Thee ! 
 
 O Father, guide Thou me ! 
 
 Father, be Thou my guide ! 
 In victory's triumph, or in death laid low, 
 O Lord, unto Thy mighty will I bow ! 
 
 Even as Thou wilt, so let it be ! 
 
 God, I acknowledge Thee ! 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS' WAR. 165 
 
 Thy holy presence, Lord, 
 In the dread thunder of the clashing steel, 
 As in the rustling autumn-leaves, I feel : 
 
 Fountain of mercies, I acknowledge Thee ! 
 
 O Father, bless Thou me ! 
 
 Thy blessing on me rest ! 
 Into Thy hands, O Father, I resign 
 The life Thou gavest, and canst take, but mine 
 
 In life or death Thy blessing be ! 
 
 Glory and praise to Thee ! 
 
 Germany's first patriot and poet, Korner, was in 
 the act of reading to a friend his last poem, "The 
 Sword Song," when the signal for the attack was 
 made. His career, although so brief, was a noble in- 
 stance of self-sacrifice. Korner was among the fore- 
 most of those who pressed forward in pursuit of the 
 enemy ; and here it was that, in the moment of vic- 
 tory, he met the death which he had so often antici- 
 pated, and celebrated with so much enthusiasm. Mrs. 
 Hemans's stirring tribute to his memory has been 
 translated into German, by Korner's father. Her dirge 
 begins : — 
 
 A song for the death-day of the brave, — 
 
 A song of pride ! 
 The youth went down to a hero's grave, 
 
 With the sword, his bride ! 
 
 • • • • 
 
 He hath left a voice in his trumpet-lays 
 
 To turn the flight ; 
 And a guiding spirit for after days, 
 
 Like a watchfire's light ! 
 
 And a name and a fame above the blight 
 
 Of earthly breath ; 
 Beautiful — beautiful and bright — 
 
 In life and death. 
 
1 66 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Klopstock, "the German Homer," was born in 1724, 
 and died in 1803. At the early age of sixteen, he 
 seems to have projected his epic ; and he wrote the 
 first canto of his "Messiah" at Jena. When the first 
 three cantos were published, they attracted much ap 
 plause. He completed the poem in 1792, at Ham 
 burg. Klopstock seems to have been a very amiable 
 and excellent character. He was twice married, and 
 happy in his unions. Menzel, the German critic, 
 justly remarks : " His poetry as well as his patriotism 
 had its root in that sublime moral and religious faith 
 which his e Messiah' celebrates ; " and he it was who, 
 along with Gellert, lent to modern German poetry that 
 dignified, earnest, and pious character, which it has 
 never lost again. 
 
 Here is Klopstock's "Morgenlied" (morning-hymn), 
 translated by Nind : — 
 
 When I rise again to life from the tranquil sleep of death, 
 And, released from earthly strife, breathe that morning's balmy 
 breath, 
 
 I shall wake to other thought : 
 
 The race is run, the fight is fought ; 
 
 All the pilgrim's cares are dreams, 
 
 When that dawn of morning gleams ! 
 
 Help, that no departed day, God of endless life and joy, 
 
 To the righteous Judge may say, 'twas profaned by my employ : 
 
 To another morn I wake, 
 
 And to Thee my offering make ; 
 
 Oh, may all my days that flee, 
 
 Joys and sorrows, lead to Thee ! 
 
 Goethe, who has been styled the "Shakspeare ot 
 Germany," has written in almost every department and 
 in many of the sciences. His works have exerted a 
 great influence over the national mind of Germany, 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS' WAR. 1 67 
 
 and indeed of the world at large. He received many 
 distinguished honors from the Emperor of Russia, the 
 great Napoleon, and other notabilities. His famous 
 life closed upon earth in 1832. 
 
 Here is a fine paraphrase of Goethe's magnificent 
 " Hymn to the Universe," which forms the prelude to 
 his "Faust :" — 
 
 Roll on, thou sun, for ever roll, 
 
 Thou giant, rushing through the heaven ! 
 Creation's wonder, nature's soul ! 
 
 Thy golden wheels, by angels driven ; 
 The planets die without thy blaze, 
 
 And cherubim, with star-dropt wing, 
 Float in thy diamond-sparkling rays, 
 
 Thou brightest emblem of their King ! 
 
 Roll, lovely earth ! and still roll on, 
 
 With ocean's azure beauty bound ; 
 While one sweet star, the pearly moon, 
 
 Pursues thee through the blue profound ; 
 And angels, with delighted eyes. 
 
 Behold thy tints of mount and stream, 
 From the high walls of paradise, 
 
 Swift-wheeling like a glorious dream. 
 
 Roll, planets ! on your dazzling road, 
 
 For ever sweeping round the sun ; 
 What eye beheld when first ye glowed ! 
 
 What eye shall see your courses done ! 
 Roll in your solemn majesty, 
 
 Ye deathless splendors of the skies ! 
 High altars, from which angels see 
 
 The incense of creation rise. 
 
 Roll, comets ! and ye million stars ! 
 
 Ye that through boundless nature roam ; 
 Ye monarchs on your flame-wing cars ; 
 
 Tell us in what more glorious dome, — 
 What orb to which your pomps are dim, 
 
 What kingdom but by angels trod, — 
 Tell us, where swells the eternal hymn 
 
 Around His throne, where dwells your God ? 
 
t68 evenings with the sacred poets. 
 
 These forceful lines are from the same distinguished 
 source : — 
 
 Rest is not quitting the busy career ; 
 
 Rest is the fitting of self to its sphere. 
 
 'Tis the brook's motion, clear without strife, 
 
 Fleeting to ocean, after its life. 
 
 'Tis loving and serving the highest and best: 
 
 'Tis onward and upward, and that is true rest. 
 
 We are indebted to Professor Porter, of Pennsyl- 
 vania, for the beautiful translation of one of the most 
 renowned sacred poems of Germany, by Mrs. Meta 
 Heusser-Schweizer, who lives at Hirzel, near Zurich. 
 Professor S chaff pronounces the first stanza truly 
 classical in thought and expression : its contrasts are 
 startling and sublime. 
 
 Lamb, the once crucified ! Lion, by triumph surrounded ! 
 Victim all bloody, and Hero, who hell hast confounded ! 
 
 Pain-riven Heart, 
 
 That from earth's deadliest smart 
 O'er all the heavens hast bounded ! 
 
 Thou in the depths wert to mortals the highest revealing, 
 God in humanity veiled, Thy full glory concealing ! 
 
 " Worthy art Thou ! " 
 
 Shouteth eternity now, 
 Praise to Thee endlessly pealing. 
 
 Heavenly Love, in the language of earth past expression ! 
 Lord of all worlds, unto whom every tongue owes confession ! 
 Didst Thou not go, 
 And, under sentence of woe, 
 Rescue the doomed by transgression ! 
 
 O'er the abyss of the grave, and its horrors infernal, 
 Victory's palm Thou art waving in triumph supernal ; 
 Who to Thee cling, 
 Circled by hope, shall now bring 
 Out of its gulf life eternal ! 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS' WAR. 1 69 
 
 Among the German poets of the eighteenth century, 
 Novalis was one of the most noted. His brief life- 
 story is remarkable, but we have not space for its 
 recital. Here are two of his hymns : — 
 
 There are dark hours of sadness, dark hours of hopeless pain, 
 When thoughts akin to madness flash wildly through the brain ; 
 When nameless anguish presses the heart beyond control, 
 And deepest gloom possesses the faint and trembling soul ; 
 When every prop seems taken from life's receding shore, 
 And the mind, tempest-shaken, obeys the will no more. 
 But who, from yonder heaven, pities each earthly woe ? 
 Who yonder cross hath given for every grief below ? 
 Thine arms around it twining, to hope and prayer give room, 
 For there a flame is shining to light thy path of gloom. 
 An angel-form advances, and leads thee to that strand 
 Whence thy delighted glances may see the promised land. 
 
 EASTER HYMN. 
 
 I say to all men, far and near, that He is risen again ; 
 That He is with us now and here, and ever shall remain. 
 And what I say, let each, this morn, go tell it to his friend, 
 That soon, in every place, shall dawn His kingdom without end. 
 Now first to souls who thus awake, seems earth a fatherland ; 
 A new and endless life they take with rapture from His hand. 
 The fear of death and of the grave are whelmed beneath the sea 5 
 And every heart, now light and brave, may face the things to be. 
 
 Spitta's Morning Prayer opens thus beautifully : — 
 
 The golden morn flames up the eastern sky, 
 And what dark night had hid from every eye 
 
 All-piercing daylight summons clear to view ; 
 And all the forests, vale or plain or hill, 
 That slept in mist enshrouded, dark and still, 
 
 In gladsome light are glittering now anew. 
 Shine in my heart, and bring me joy and light, 
 Sun of my darkened soul ; dispel its night, 
 
 And shed in it the truthful day abroad ; 
 And all the many gloomy folds lay bare 
 Within this heart, that fain would learn to wear 
 
 The pure and glorious likeness of its Lord ; 
 
I70 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Glad with Thy light, and glowing with Thy love, 
 So let me ever speak and think and move, 
 
 As fits a soul new-touched with life from heaven, 
 That seeks but so to order all her course, 
 As most to show the glory of that Source, 
 
 By whom alone her strength, her life, are given. 
 
 This also is from his pen : — 
 
 How weary and how worthless this life at times appears ! 
 What days of heavy musings, what hours of bitter tears ! 
 How dark the storm-clouds gather along the wintry skies ! 
 How desolate and cheerless the path before us lies ! 
 And yet these days of dreariness are sent us from above ; 
 They do not come in anger, but in faithfulness and love : 
 They come to teach us lessons, which bright ones could not yield; 
 And to leave us blest and thankful, when their purpose is fulfilled. 
 
 They come to break the fetters which here detain us fast, 
 And force our long-reluctant hearts to rise to heaven at last ; 
 And brighten every prospect of that eternal home, 
 Where grief and disappointment and fear can never come ! 
 Then turn not in despondence, poor, weary heart, away, 
 But meekly journey onwards, through the dark and cloudy day : 
 Even now the bow of promise is above thee, painted bright ; 
 And soon a joyful morning shall dissipate the night ! * 
 
 Spitta has portrayed a delightful domestic scene : 
 
 O happy house ! where two are one in heart, 
 
 In faith and hope are one ; 
 Whom death only for a while may part, 
 
 Not end the union here begun ; 
 Who share together one salvation, — 
 
 Who would be with Thee, Lord, always, 
 In gladness or in tribulation, 
 
 In happy or in evil days. 
 
 O happy home ! and happy servitude f 
 
 Where all alike one Master own ; 
 Where daily duty, in Thy strength pursued, 
 
 Is never hard nor toilsome known ; 
 
 * Hymns from the Land of Luther. 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS WAR 1 7 1 
 
 Where each one serves Thee, meek and lowly, 
 
 Whatever Thine appointment be, 
 Till common tasks seem great and holy, 
 
 When they are done as unto Thee ! 
 
 He has written another sweet lyric, entitled "The 
 Angel of Hope." Here are the opening stanzas: — 
 
 A gentle Angel walketh throughout a world of woe, 
 With messages of mercy to mourning hearts below ; 
 His peaceful smile invites thee to love and to confide : 
 Oh, follow in His footsteps, keep closely by His side . 
 So gently will He lead thee through all the cloudy day, 
 And whisper of glad tidings to cheer the pilgrim-way ; 
 His courage never failing, when thine is almost gone, 
 He takes thy heavy burden, and helps thee bear it on. 
 
 F. Riickert, who died in 1867, "one of the greatest 
 and purest of German poets," wrote a lyric of rare 
 beauty, — "Er ist in Bethlehem geboren." We give 
 two or three of the beautiful stanzas of Professor 
 Porter's translation : — 
 
 Where are the seven works of wonder 
 
 The ancient world beheld with pride ? 
 They all have fallen, sinking under 
 
 The splendor of the Crucified ! 
 I saw them, as I wandered spying, 
 Amid their ruins crumbled, lying : 
 
 None stand in quiet gloria, 
 
 Like Bethlehem and Golgotha. 
 
 O Thou who, in a manger lying, 
 
 Wert willing to be born a child, 
 And on the cross, in anguish dying, 
 
 The world to God hast reconciled ! 
 To pride, how mean Thy lowly manger ! 
 How infamous Thy cross ! yet stranger — 
 
 Humility became the law 
 
 At Bethlehem and Golgotha. 
 
172 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 With staff and hat, the scallop wearing, 
 
 The far-off East I journeyed through ; 
 And homeward now, a pilgrim bearing 
 
 This message, I have come to you : 
 Go not, with hat and staff, to wander 
 Beside God's grave and cradle yonder; 
 
 Look inward, and behold, with awe, 
 
 His Bethlehem and Golgotha. 
 
 heart! what profits all thy kneeling, 
 Where once He laid His infant head 
 
 To view, with an enraptured feeling, 
 His grave, long empty of its dead ? 
 
 To have Him born in thee with power, 
 
 To die to earth and sin each hour, 
 And live to Him, — this only, ah ! 
 Is Bethlehem and Golgotha! 
 
 Our last quotation shall be that grand choral, the 
 favorite of Prince Albert, which he set to music, and 
 which was sung at his funeral obsequies : — 
 
 1 shall not in the grave remain, 
 
 Since Thou death's bonds hast severed ; 
 By hope with Thee to rise again, 
 
 From fear of death delivered. 
 I'll come to Thee where'er Thou art, 
 Live with Thee, from Thee never part : 
 
 Therefore to die is rapture ! 
 
 And so to Jesus Christ I'll go, 
 
 My longing arms extending ; 
 So fall asleep in slumber deep, — 
 
 Slumber that knows no ending, - 
 Till Jesus Christ, God's only Son, 
 Open the gates of bliss, — leads on 
 
 To heaven, to life eternal ! 
 
 Our selections from German hymnology have been 
 necessarily very limited, — scarcely sufficient to afford 
 even an approximate conception of its great wealth. 
 
GERMAN. THIRTY YEARS* WAR. 1 73 
 
 In dismissing this department of sacred song, we are 
 impressed with one characteristic defect common to 
 most of these compositions; i.e., their prolixity. Yet 
 there is in them much of the true poetic element, which 
 is not to be ignored. These hymns are especially in- 
 teresting to us, not only as exhibiting pictures of heroic 
 faith under circumstances of peculiar emergency and 
 trial ; but also as illustrative of the habits of thought 
 and the mental idiosyncrasies of the people they repre- 
 sent. Germany sang the great paean of the Refor- 
 mation, and, during her great baptism of blood, the 
 songs of the conflict and triumph of Light and Lib- 
 erty over Darkness and Despotism. 
 


 FIFTH EVENING. 
 
 SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &c, 
 
FIFTH EVENING. 
 
 SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &c. 
 
 TDEFORE commencing the researches assigned for 
 ^-^ our present evening's studious entertainment, the 
 following little legend, concerning a German hymn, 
 claims our attention. 
 
 In one of the most obscure streets of Hamburg, 
 some two years after the thirty years' war, lived a 
 poor young man, who obtained a slender and preca- 
 rious subsistence by means of his violoncello. After 
 a while he fell sick, and he was unable to continue his 
 musical routine. As this was his only means of sup- 
 port, he was, in the emergency, compelled to part 
 with his violin to a Jew, who, with characteristic 
 manoeuvring, and much pretended reluctance, at 
 length loaned him a sum much below its value, for 
 two weeks ; when, if not redeemed, the instrument 
 was to be forfeited. As he surrendered his violin, 
 he gazed lovingly at it, through his tears ; and asked 
 the Jew if he might play one more tune upon it. 
 "You know not how hard it is to part from that 
 violin," he said; "for ten years, it has been my com- 
 panion and comforter. If I have nothing else, I have 
 had it; at the worst, it spoke to me, and sung back 
 
178 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 all my courage and hope. Of all the sad hearts that 
 have left your door, there has been none so sad as 
 mine." His voice grew thick ; and, pausing for a 
 moment, he seized the instrument, and commenced 
 a tune so exquisitely soft, that even the reluctant Jew 
 listened in spite of himself. A few more strains, and 
 he sang to his own melody two stanzas of his hymn, 
 "Life is weary, — Saviour, take me ! " Suddenly the 
 key changed : a few bars, and the melody poured 
 itself out anew, and his face lighted up with a smile, 
 as he sang, "Yet who knows? the Cross is precious ! " 
 He laid down the instrument, murmuring, "Ut flat 
 divina voluntas," * and rushed from the place. 
 
 Going out into the darkness, he stumbled against a 
 person, who seemed to have been listening at the 
 door. "Could you tell me where I could obtain a 
 copy of that song," said he to the musician : " I would 
 willingly give a florin for it." "My good friend, I 
 will cheerfully fulfil your wish without the florin," was 
 the response. 
 
 But it is time the parties were introduced to the 
 reader. The name of the musician was George Neu- 
 mark, and that of his interlocutor John Gutig, who 
 was valet to the Swedish ambassador, Baron von 
 Rosenkranz. Gutig told the baron the story of the 
 hapless musician : his poverty, his musical skill, his 
 beautiful hymns, and his grief at pledging his instru- 
 ment ; he showed the hymn he had given him, also. 
 As the baron was in need of a secretary, he thought 
 so highly of the poor musician, that he forthwith sent 
 for him, and he was at once installed into that office. 
 George Neumark's next step was to reclaim his loved 
 
 * As God will, I am still 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. 1 79 
 
 violoncello; and, on obtaining it, he called on his 
 landlady, who took a deep sympathy in his tribula- 
 tions. In a few minutes the room was crowded with 
 friends and neighbors, eager to hear him again play 
 upon his instrument ; and he sang to them an excel- 
 lent sermon, in this wise, his own sweet hymn : " Wer 
 nur den lieben Gott lasst walten." 
 
 Leave God to order all thy ways, 
 And hope in Him, whate'er betide ; 
 
 Thou'lt find Him, in the evil days, 
 
 Thine all-sufficient strength and guide. 
 
 Who trusts in God's unchanging love, 
 
 Builds on the rock that naught can move ! 
 
 This was his thanksgiving tribute for the good Prov- 
 idence which had rescued him from trial in his great 
 emergency. After two years, the baron procured for 
 him the post of Librarian of the Archives at Weimar, 
 which office he held, with honor, until the close of his 
 life. 
 
 This is not a mere monkish legend, but a truthful 
 and instructive incident of real life ; for this George 
 Neumark was born at Thuringen in 1621. He studied 
 law at the University of Konigsberg, when Simon 
 Dach was president; and, like him, Neumark became 
 both poet and musician. But, being poor and friend- 
 less, after enduring much privation in his native place, 
 he removed to Hamburg, in 1650, in hopes of better 
 fortune, and it was here we met with him. Need we 
 point the moral suggested? It is the beauty of a life 
 of persevering integrity, humility, and devout trust in 
 God. For, when asked if he made the hymn himself, 
 he modestly replied: "Well, yes: I am the instru- 
 ment, but God swept the strings. All I knew was 
 
l8o EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 that these words, 'Who trusts in God's unchanging 
 love,' lay like a soft burden on my heart. I went 
 over them again and again, and so they shaped them- 
 selves into this song ; how, I cannot tell. I began to 
 sing and to pray for joy, and my soul blessed the 
 Lord ; and word followed word, like water from a 
 fountain." 
 
 Christianity, in Sweden, dates its rise in the ninth 
 century. Anschar, the "Apostle of the North," who 
 waged successful war against the old Scandinavian 
 paganism, died in the year of grace, 835. 
 
 " Long after the southern regions of modern Europe 
 emerge into the sober daylight of history, the twi- 
 light of legend lingers over the north. The gigantic 
 forms of the old Sagas flit about in the gleam of the 
 northern lights, ages after the chronicles of the south 
 are peopled with a race of solid and ordinary men 
 and women. Four centuries after the times when 
 the people of Milan first sang the hymns of Am- 
 brose ; nearly three centuries after Gregory the 
 Great sent Augustine to the English ; a hundred 
 years after the Venerable Bede passed his tranquil 
 life in the monastery near Wearmouth, translating 
 the New Testament into Anglo-Saxon, and chroni- 
 cling his own times, — in Sweden, Christianity was 
 carrying on its first conflict with heathenism." * 
 
 It was not, however, until seven centuries later, that 
 its light streamed into those northern regions, and 
 warmed the hearts of that rock-bound people by the 
 recital of the story of the Cross. The Moravian mis- 
 sionaries labored with the Greenlanders in vain, until 
 they rehearsed that all-potent theme. Like the action 
 
 * Mrs. Charles. 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. l8l 
 
 of the solar rays on the frozen seas, they soon found 
 that the Cross of Calvary has power to melt the heart, 
 although as cold and hard by nature as their own ice- 
 bound coast. The Bible and the German Lutheran 
 hymn-book were translated into the Swedish language ; 
 and soon the reception of the gospel awoke the voice 
 of song among them also. 
 
 Gustavus Adolphus was a Swede, — nay, more, a 
 self-sacrificing Christian hero ; for, if ever a man 
 subordinated self to the interests of a noble cause, 
 it surely was Gustavus, and he it was who really 
 rescued Germany from the yoke of spiritual des- 
 potism. 
 
 Spegel, Archbishop of Upsala, wrote a paraphrase 
 on part of the Sermon on the Mount, of which the 
 following stanzas form part of an English version, by 
 Mrs. Charles. He was born, a.d. 1645, and died 
 1714; was contemporary with Paul Gerhardt, and, 
 like him, a great hymn-writer. He accomplished 
 much good for Sweden. 
 
 We Christians should steadfastly ponder 
 What Christ hath so graciously taught ; 
 
 For He, who would have us His freemen, 
 Would see us retain in our thought 
 
 How little things earthly are worth, 
 
 Lest those who heap treasures on earth, 
 The heavenly prize leave unsought. 
 
 All nature a sermon may preach thee ; 
 
 The birds sing thy murmurs away, — 
 The birds, which, nor sowing nor reaping, 
 
 God fails not to feed day by day ; 
 And He, who these creatures doth cherish, 
 Will He fail thee, and leave thee to perish ? 
 
 Or art thou not better than they ? 
 
l82 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 The lilies, nor toiling nor spinning, 
 Their clothing, how gorgeous and fair ! 
 
 What tints in their tiny robes woven, 
 What wondrous devices are there ! 
 
 All Solomon's stores could not render 
 
 One festival robe of such splendor 
 As the flowers have for every-day wear. 
 
 * 
 
 God gives to each flower its rich raiment, 
 
 And o'er them His treasures flings free, 
 Which to-day finds so fragrant in beauty, 
 
 And to-morrow all faded shall see. 
 Thus the lilies smile shame on thy care, 
 And the happy birds sing it to air : 
 
 Will their God be forgetful of thee ? 
 
 From the same source,* we derive another beauti- 
 ful translation from the Swedish of Bishop Franzin, 
 who died a.d. 1818. 
 
 Jesus in thy memory keep, 
 
 Wouldst thou be God's child and friend ; 
 Jesus in thy heart shrined deep, 
 Still thy gaze on Jesus bend. 
 Iii thy toiling, in thy resting, look to Him with every breath, 
 Look to Jesus' life and death. 
 
 Look to Jesus, till reviving 
 
 Faith and love thy life-springs swell ; 
 Strength for all things good deriving 
 
 From Him who did all things well ; 
 Work, as He did, in thy season, works which shall not fade away : 
 
 Work while it is called to-day. 
 
 Look to Jesus, prayerful, waking, 
 
 When thy feet on roses tread ; 
 Follow, worldly pomp forsaking, 
 
 With thy cross, where He hath led ; 
 Look to Jesus in temptation ; baffled shall the tempter flee, 
 
 And God's angels come to thee. 
 
 * Christian Life in Song. 
 

 SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. 183 
 
 Look to Jesus, when dark lowering 
 
 Perils thy horizon dim, 
 By that band in terror cowering, 
 
 Calm 'midst tempests, look on Him. 
 Trust in Him, who still rebuketh wind and billow, fire and flood ; 
 
 Forward, brave by trusting God ! 
 
 King Oscar, of Sweden, one of the most accom- 
 plished monarchs of Europe, was a poet. Mary 
 Howitt's translation of one of his striking poems, en- 
 titled the " Heart's Home," is subjoined : — 
 
 Where is thy home ? Thus to my heart appealing 
 I spake. Say thou, who hast had part 
 In all my inmost being's deepest feeling, 
 Where is thy proper home ? Tell me, my heart ! 
 Is it where peaceful groves invite to leisure, 
 And silvery brooklets lapse in easy measure ? 
 No, no, my heart responded, No ! 
 
 Where is thy home ? Perchance, where tropic splendor, 
 In golden luxury of light, calls forth 
 The purple grape ; perchance, 'midst roses tender, 
 Thou revellest in the beauty of the South. 
 Is that thy home, beneath the palm-tree shadows ? 
 And ever-verdant summer's flowery meadows, 
 Still, still my heart made answer, No ! 
 
 Where is thy home ? Is it 'mid icebergs hoary, 
 The crags and snow-fields of the Arctic strand, 
 Where the midsummer's midnight sees the glory 
 Of sunset and of sunrise, hand in hand, 
 Where 'twixt the pine-trees gleams the snow-drift's whiteness, 
 And starry night flames with auroral brightness ? 
 But still my whispering heart said, No ! 
 
 Where is thy home ? Say, if perchance it lieth 
 In that prefigured land of love and light, 
 Whither, they say, the soul enfranchised flieth, 
 When earthly bonds no longer check her flight ? 
 
184 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Is there thy home, — those unknown realms elysian, 
 Which shine beyond the stars, a heavenly vision ? 
 
 Then first my heart made answer, Yes ! 
 There is my home, it said, with quick emotion ; 
 My primal home, to which I am akin. 
 Though earthly fires may call forth my devotion, 
 Yet I forget not Heaven's pure flame within. 
 Amidst the ashes still a spark survive th 
 Which ever yearneth heavenward, ever striveth 
 
 To be with God, who is my home ! 
 
 In attempting to gather up the sounds of the never- 
 ceasing chorus, we shall perceive a common creed 
 pervading most of the songs, — heart-echoes are they 
 from one age and nation to another. Tracing to their 
 common source these lyric-bursts of Christian heroes 
 and saints of the long-forgotten past, we thus come into 
 sympathy with the music of their souls, and may 
 even offer our worship in their very words. Some 
 morbid, ascetic Christians there are, who seem to be 
 the living representatives of cloister, cowl, and con 
 vent; they prefer to remain voiceless, while the} 
 dissipate their days, which should be dedicated to 
 thanksgiving and charity, in gloom and sadness. 
 But Christianity is the patron of all that is cheerful 
 and hope-inspiring, while its native language is that 
 of psalm and song. If "light is sown for the right- 
 eous, and gladness for the upright in heart," surely the 
 Christian should gather the golden harvest. We have 
 already referred to the fact that Niebuhr s great mind 
 solaced itself, amidst its intense labors and researches, 
 by murmuring a hymn of thanksgiving, or some such 
 plaintive appeal as the following : — 
 
 So give us peace : peace in the church and school, 
 Peace to the powers who o'er our country rule, 
 Peace to the conscience, peace within the heart, 
 Do Thou impart. 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. 185 
 
 What a lesson has Luther left us, of bravery and 
 cheerful trust, and love of song ! 
 
 Holland — whose claim to the invention of printing 
 has been established, which is the home of classics, 
 painters, men of science, — such names as Erasmus, 
 Grotius, Lipsius, and Boerhaave — has also had her 
 sons of song. Here is a neat little homily in verse, 
 translated from the Dutch of L. van Welthem : — 
 
 Know that holiness keeps her throne 
 Not in cloisters or temples alone ; 
 The temple where she loves to dwell 
 Is a pure spirit's sacred cell. 
 
 Another and more noted poet of the Netherlands 
 was Dirk Rafael Kamphuyzen, who was born in 1586, 
 and died 1626. While at the University of Ley den, 
 he received instruction from the renowned Arminius, 
 whose doctrines he embraced. He wrote a "Para- 
 phrase of the Psalms," and a collection of poems. His 
 religious poetry is superior to any which preceded it : 
 there is in it a pure and earnest feeling throughout, 
 an intense conviction of truth. His "May-Morning" 
 is one of the most popular productions of the Dutch 
 poets. Here are two or three of its fifteen stanzas 
 (Sir John Bowring's translation) : — 
 
 'Tis May! whose fragrant breath and dyes so far o'er earth are 
 
 gone, 
 That memory all her charms supplies, ere she herself comes on. 
 'Tis May ! the loveliest of the year, who with fresh beauty glows ; 
 The air is sweet, the sunbeams clear, the wished-for zephyr blows. 
 The earth with varied flowers is dight, the bees with honey pass, 
 The larks chirp gaily, and alight upon the new-born grass. 
 
 Joost van den Vondel (born 1587, died 1679), as a 
 poet, has never been rivalled in Holland. His trag- 
 
l8b EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 edies, thirty -two in number, are perhaps the grandest 
 in Dutch literature. His " Lucifer " has been often 
 compared to Milton's " Paradise Lost ; " and some have 
 supposed it might have suggested the latter. Vondel's 
 character was deeply imbued with religious enthusi- 
 asm. From the Bible he took almost all the subjects 
 of his tragedies. He was, at first, eagerly in favor 
 of Arminianism, and afterwards embraced Catholi- 
 cism. Here is an extract from his " Lucifer : " — 
 
 Who sits above heaven's heights sublime, 
 
 Yet fills the grave's profoundest place, 
 Beyond eternity, or time, 
 
 Or the vast round of viewless space ? 
 Who on Himself alone depends, 
 
 Immortal, glorious, but unseen, 
 And in His mighty Being blends 
 
 What rolls around or flows within ? 
 
 The tongue Thy peerless name hath spoken, 
 
 No space can hold that awful name ; 
 The aspiring spirit's wing is broken : 
 
 Thou wilt be, wert, and art the same ! 
 Language is dumb ; imagination, 
 
 Knowledge, and science helpless fall ; 
 They are irreverent profanation, 
 
 And Thou, O God ! art all in all. 
 
 It was on a Palm Sunday, about seven hundred and 
 fifty years after the midnight song of Paul and Silas, 
 at Philippi, that the Emperor Louis, "the debonnaire? 
 and his court, were on their way to the cathedral at 
 Mentz, in full procession, when, passing a dungeon, 
 there issued from the prison-bars a hymn, which, 
 in our vernacular, began : — 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. 187 
 
 Glory and honor and praise to Thee, our Redeemer and King ! 
 To whom little children sang lays, to whom our hosannas we bring. 
 
 Fragrant to Thee was their praise : oh, smile on the offering we 
 
 bring ! 
 Thy joy is in all pleasant lays, Thou blessed and all-gracious King ; 
 
 This was the prison-song of Theodulph of Orleans, 
 afterwards canonized as a saint. His hymn touched 
 the heart of Charlemagne's imperial son, and the per- 
 secuted bishop found the joy of deliverance coming 
 after his song. The "beloved disciple," in his sea- 
 girt prison of Patmos, had his soul refreshed with the 
 ecstatic songs of the Celestial City ; and his inspired 
 record of the vision is itself the grandest of all hymns. 
 There was a Belgian poet, who died in the year of 
 grace 1300, so prolific in his gifts, that he made a 
 poetical translation of the Bible, from the Latin of 
 Comestor, into the Dutch language. The poet's name 
 is Jacob van Maerlant, and he entitled his performance 
 "Rymbybel." A copy of this Rhyme-Bible is in the 
 Astor Library. 
 
 After the great ecclesiastical Reformation had burst 
 the iron barriers of Romish superstition, the grand cho- 
 rus of sacred song resounded from many other lands 
 beside Germany and Sweden : Italy, France, and 
 Spain soon took up the burden of the refrain. Ma- 
 dame Guyon sang some of her sweetest devotional 
 lyrics, even in the Bastille; and Geneva was a citadel 
 of strength for the friends of religious liberty and 
 truth. Geneva — the beautiful city of the Swiss 
 lake, once covered with the dense darkness of the 
 papacy, and anon the "beacon of the Church, and a 
 bulwark of Christianity " — is replete with storied and 
 
1 88 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 traditional interest. Once it was the asylum for refu- 
 gees of religious persecution, the " school of the 
 prophets," and the headquarters for the printing and 
 disseminating of the proscribed Bible ; and, ere long, 
 we find it again under eclipse, its glory departed, and 
 actually arraying itself in antagonism with the very 
 truth of which it was lately the defence and deposi- 
 tory for the world. Yes : with its proud, ancestral 
 faith, its creeds and symbols inscribed by the hand of 
 Calvin himself, Geneva had, indeed, "lost all the 
 Reformation had conferred upon it, and only retained 
 the boast of its historic name in a lifeless and insolent 
 Rationalism." For apostolic, vital Christianity, it 
 had substituted the subtle poison of the modern infidel- 
 ity of Voltaire, Gibbon, and Rousseau ; and the inev- 
 itable result *vas spiritual desolation and death. It 
 was, however, at this juncture, in 1816, at the close of 
 the protracted wars which had so distracted and devas- 
 tated the continent of Europe, that Mr. Robert Hal- 
 dane, of Scotland, moved with a zeal for the mitigation 
 of this spiritual destitution, reached Geneva. "At the 
 period of Mr. Haldane's visit, both clergy and profes- 
 sors ridiculed the idea of the divinity of Jesus of Naz- 
 areth ; and countenanced, by their lives, the gayety 
 and frivolity by which people in general sought to 
 drown all thoughts of eternity. Here and there a 
 feeble voice was heard, bearing witness to the ancient 
 faith ; but it was soon stifled. A meeting of infidel 
 students, presided over by M. Merle D'Aubign^, pro- 
 tested against "the odious aggression," as they styled a 
 very moderate assertion of the cardinal doctrines of 
 Christianity. In the face of such determined opposi 
 tion, Haldane was in despair, and abandoned his pro 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. 189 
 
 ject ; but, having halted at Berne, he was persuaded to 
 return and renew the effort. A second time he was 
 on the eve of abandoning it, when, providentially, he 
 was led into conversation with a student of the theo- 
 logical seminary, on the subject of religion. This 
 young man, Mr. James, afterwards pastor at Brede, 
 was profoundly ignorant of the gospel, but displayed 
 a deep interest in Mr. Haldane's conversation. On 
 the morrow he returned, bringing with him another 
 student, Mr. C. Rieu. Both of them became evident- 
 ly awakened, and Haldane made arrangements at 
 once to prolong his stay. The sequel may best be re- 
 lated in his own words : " The two students with whom 
 I first conversed brought six others, in the same state 
 of mind with themselves, with whom I had many and 
 long conversations. Their visits became so frequent, 
 and at such different hours, that I proposed they should 
 come together ; and it was arranged that they should 
 do so three times a week, from six to eight o'clock in 
 the evening. This gave me time to converse with 
 others, who, from the report of the students, began to 
 visit me. After having proceeded in this manner about 
 a fortnight, with these eight students, I was earnestly 
 solicited, in the name of the other students, to begin 
 anew. I complied with the request ; and during the 
 whole of the winter, and until the termination of their 
 studies in the following summer, almost all the stu- 
 dents of theology regularly attended, and God was gra- 
 ciously pleased to accompany his Word with power." 
 It seems the constituted " faculty " stirred up an oppo- 
 sition to this movement on the part of Mr. Haldane, 
 and they attempted to instigate the government to 
 banish him from the canton; and, this failing, they 
 
I9O EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 sought to have him impeached, but popular sentiment 
 overruled this also. The first-fruits of this awakening 
 was Caesar Malan, one of the pastors of the city, who 
 had been first quickened by a conversation with Dr. 
 Mason, of New York, who passed through Geneva on 
 his travels at this time ; " but Mr. Haldane was hon- 
 ored to lead him as an awakened sinner to a knowl- 
 edge of the Saviour. Once himself enlightened, "his 
 eloquent words dropped on the leaden slumbers of his 
 audience like bolts of fire : pastors, professors, syndics, 
 and private citizens were cut to the heart, and almost 
 gnashed on him with their teeth, as Dr. Malan de- 
 scended from the pulpit, and passed through their own 
 ranks, unrecognized, an avoided and rejected man ! " * 
 Dejected and overwhelmed, the preacher hastened 
 homeward, and at his own door was met by Mr. 
 Haldane, who, greeting him with a cordial grasp of 
 the hand, said, "Thank God, the gospel has been 
 once more preached in Geneva." M. Gaussen also (a 
 neighboring pastor) boldly preached the truth. The 
 heresy of Geneva was now fairly unveiled, and the 
 persecuted young students at once became earnest and 
 successful preachers of the Word of Life. A new 
 church organization was soon effected by the aid of 
 Mr. Henry Drummond, a young English gentleman 
 of fortune, "whose heart the Lord had touched," and 
 who arrived at Geneva just as Mr. Haldane was leav- 
 ing. It is, of course, impossible to estimate the 
 amount of good which has resulted from the mission- 
 ary emprise of Mr. Haldane. It was the initial step 
 in a work which has spread over Europe, and which 
 has even reached to this continent, in the Swiss mis- 
 
 * Waymarks in the Wilderness. 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. 191 
 
 sions to the Lower Canadians. The mere enumeration 
 of their names, long since endeared to us for their 
 "works' sake," would evince something of the great- 
 ness of this missionary work. Among a much longer 
 list, were Merle d'Aubigne, F. Monod, C. Rieu, Csesar 
 Malan, Gouthier, Mejanel, Felix Neff, and M. Olivier. 
 Our discursive pen has, almost unconsciously, lin- 
 gered about this interesting "Home of Calvin" so long, 
 that we are fain to ask forgiveness for the digression, 
 albeit its collateral interest may well atone for the de- 
 tention. Now let us return to the singers. And, first, 
 let us listen to some of the prison-songs of the saintly 
 Madame Guy on, whose melodies, despite their mysti- 
 cism, are very charming ; for example : — 
 
 Thy love, O God ! restores me, 
 
 From sighs and tears, to praise ; 
 And deep my soul adores Thee, 
 
 Nor thinks of time or place. 
 I ask no more, in good or ill, 
 But union with Thy holy will. 
 'Tis that which makes my treasure, 
 
 'Tis that which brings my gain ; 
 Converting woe to pleasure, 
 
 And reaping joy from pain. 
 Oh ! 'tis enough, whate'er befall, 
 To know that God is all in all. 
 
 'Tis Love unites what sin divides ; 
 The centre where all bliss resides ; 
 To which the soul once brought, 
 Reclining on the First Great Cause, 
 From His abounding sweetness draws 
 Peace passing human thought. 
 Sorrow foregoes its nature there, 
 And life assumes a tranquil air, 
 
I92 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Divested of its woes. 
 There sovereign goodness soothes the breast, 
 Till then incapable of rest, 
 
 In sacred, sure repose. 
 
 She seldom refers to the outward events of her life 
 in her hymns. The following stanzas are, we believe, 
 the only exception ; and these exhibit an unreserved 
 acquiescence and resignation of spirit that is truly 
 exemplary. 
 
 Nor exile I, nor prison, fear ; love makes my courage great ; 
 
 I find a Saviour everywhere, His grace in every state. 
 
 Nor castle-walls, nor dungeons deep, exclude His quickening 
 
 beams ; 
 There I can sit, and sing, and weep, and dwell on heavenly themes ! 
 
 Her first imprisonment by the Romanists, on account 
 of her proclivity to Protestantism, was in 1688, in a 
 convent. Some seven years afterwards she was again 
 imprisoned, it was in the Castle of Vincennes ; and, 
 in 1698, she was taken to the Bastille, where she was 
 confined four years, and then banished to Blois. Bos- 
 suet was especially opposed to her doctrine, seeing in 
 it only a revival of the Gnostic heresy. Fenelon, on the 
 contrary, became a convert to it, and spoke and wrote 
 in defence of it, and of his new friend ; and thus 
 brought upon himself banishment, and upon his book 
 papal censure. To Cowper, who found some resem- 
 blance between the tried life of Madame Guyon and 
 his own, we are indebted for admirable translations of 
 some of the best of her religious poems. One of her 
 prose works, " A Short and Easy Method of Prayer," 
 contains her account of the "Prayer of Silence," in 
 which not only is there no utterance by the voice, but 
 even the mind concentrates its whole energies in one 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. 1 93 
 
 desire, "Thy will be done." This work was feared 
 by the Romanists, who collected it by hundreds, and 
 burned it. 
 
 From the French of C. Malan, we have these beau- 
 tiful lines : — 
 
 No, no, it is not dying, to go unto our God ; 
 
 The glowing earth forsaking, 
 Our journey homeward taking along the starry road. 
 
 No, no, it is not dying, heaven's citizen to be ; 
 
 The crown eternal wearing, 
 And rest unbroken sharing, from care and conflict free. 
 
 No, no, it is not dying, to hear the precious Word, 
 
 " Receive the Father's blessing, 
 For evermore possessing the favor of the Lord." 
 
 The following plaintive lines, translated from the 
 French, were found amongst the private papers of the 
 Queen of Scots, when her cabinet was plundered at 
 Chartley, shortly before her death. 
 
 Alas, what am I ? what my life become ? 
 
 A corpse existing when the pulse hath fled ! 
 
 An empty shadow, mark for conflicts dread, 
 
 Whose only hope of refuge is the tomb. 
 
 Cease to pursue, O foes ! with envious hate ; 
 
 My share of this world's glories hath been brief; 
 
 Soon will your ire on me be satiate, 
 
 For I consume and die of mortal grief. 
 
 And ye, my faithful friends, who hold me dear, 
 
 In dire adversity, and bonds, and woe, 
 
 I lack the power to guerdon love sincere ; 
 
 Wish, then, the close of all my ills below, 
 
 That, purified on earth, with sins forgiven, 
 
 My ransomed soul may share the joys of heaven.* 
 
 The name of the hapless queen reminds us of her 
 last pathetic hymn or prayer : — 
 
 * Savile's Lyra Sacra, 
 13 
 
194 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 " Domine Deus ! Speravi in Te ! 
 O care mi Jesu ! nunc libera me," etc. 
 
 O Lord God ! I've trusted in Thee ! 
 
 Jesus beloved ! now liberate me ; 
 
 In fetters so galling, in tortures appalling, I long after Thee ! 
 In moaning, in groaning, on bent knee atoning, 
 
 1 adore Thee ! I implore Thee to liberate me. 
 
 In the sixteenth century there was no evangelist, 
 among women at least, more active in the cause of 
 pure Christianity, than was the Queen of Navarre. 
 " The goodness of her heart, the purity of her life, 
 and the abundance of her works, spoke eloquently to 
 those about her of the beauty of the gospel."* She 
 wrote some religious verses and ballads, to which 
 many of the nobility of France owed their first reli- 
 gious impressions. The following is a translation of 
 one of her pieces : — 
 
 Who would be a Christian true, must his Lord's example follow ; 
 Every worldly good resign, and earthly glory count but hollow : 
 
 Honor, wealth, and friends so sweet, 
 
 He must trample under feet ; 
 
 But, alas ! to few 'tis given 
 
 Thus to tread the path to heaven ! 
 
 With a willing, joyful heart, his goods among the poor divide ; 
 Others' trespasses forgive ; revenge and anger lay aside : 
 
 Be good to those who work you ill ; 
 
 If any hate you, love them still ; 
 
 But, alas ! to few 'tis given 
 
 Thus to tread the path to heaven ! 
 
 He must hold death beautiful, and over it in triumph sing ; 
 Love it with a warmer heart than he loveth mortal thing ; 
 
 But, alas ! to few 'tis given 
 
 Thus to tread the path to heaven ! 
 
 * D'Aub:gr6's Reformation. 
 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. I95 
 
 Clement Marot, who was the friend of Calvin, and 
 attached to the court of Francis I., made a French 
 version of fifty of David's Psalms, and also wrote 
 much religious poetry, which long continued to be 
 popular in Paris and Geneva, among the Protestant 
 churches. His sacred lyrics were sung alike by 
 prince and peasant, and even children chanted them 
 in the streets of Paris, and elsewhere. Clement 
 Marot's metrical version of the Psalms was sung 
 by the persecuted Huguenots and Protestants of Hol- 
 land, as they gathered in multitudes under the shelter 
 of the woods. They became, indeed, battle-songs, 
 like those of ancient Israel by the Red Sea ; or the 
 army of Jehoshaphat, before which the enemy fled as 
 from a charge. Bayle ranks Marot among the best 
 of the French poets. It is -very remarkable that his 
 poetry should have been so completely ignored, while 
 the hymns of Germany have been so frequently trans- 
 lated. We offer a literal prose rendering of two of 
 his minor pieces, as specimens : — 
 
 A PRAYER AFTER MEALS. 
 
 Eternal Father, who commandest us not to be anxious for the 
 morrow ! we give Thee thanks for the good things which Thou 
 givest us for this day. As Thou hast now been pleased to open 
 Thy hand, and given to our bodies food and drink, be pleased 
 also to nourish our souls with the bread of heaven for the glory 
 of Thy name. 
 
 LITTLE CHRISTIAN DEVICES. 
 
 Is Christ dead ? Yes, certainly ! What caused His death ? 
 Perfect charity. What was the occasion ? Ardent love ! Foi 
 whom ? For us, sinners, who have offended Him ! For what pur- 
 pose ? To merit for us His Paradise, which, without Him, we 
 could not have acquired by austerity, fasting, watching, shame, 
 suffering, and torments. He saved poor Adam, most justly con- 
 
I96 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 demned, with his posterity, procuring for him the high heaven, of 
 which, by his sin, he was disinherited ; and he who will believe this 
 truth, which is beyond the sense and the understanding, — loving, 
 with a heart full of purity, — will, with great clearness, vitally know 
 that by God alone he has his unmerited salvation. 
 
 F^nelon (1651-1715) preached his first sermon at 
 the early age of fifteen, before a select assembly con- 
 vened at Paris, whither he had been called by his 
 uncle, the marquis. He afterwards formed an acquaint- 
 ance with the celebrated quietist, Madame Guyon, who 
 was, at first, in high favor at the court of Louis XIV. 
 But this did not last long : Bossuet instigated a series 
 of persecutions against her, which resulted in her long 
 imprisonment. Fenelon, however, befriended and 
 defended her, as already stated ; for which good ser- 
 vice he was placed under ban, and denounced as a 
 heretic. This is one of his hymns : — 
 
 Living or dying, Lord, I would be X mn e ! 
 
 Oh, what is life ? 
 
 A toil, a strife, 
 Were it not lighted by Thy love divine. 
 
 I ask not wealth, 
 
 I crave not health : 
 Living or dying, Lord, I would be Thine ! 
 
 Oh, what is death, 
 
 When the poor breath 
 In parting can the soul to Thee resign ! 
 
 While patient love 
 
 Her trust doth prove, 
 Living or dying, Lord, I would be Thine ! 
 
 Throughout my days, 
 
 Be constant praise 
 Uplift to Thee from out this heart of mine ; 
 
 So shall I be 
 
 Brought nearer Thee : 
 Living or dying, Lord, I would be Thine ! 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. I97 
 
 It is a singular and noteworthy fact, that neither 
 France, Switzerland, nor Scotland, possesses, like 
 Germany, any hymn-literature, born of the Reformed 
 Church, either Lutheran or Calvinistic. The Church 
 at Geneva used David's Psalter, and so did Scotland ; 
 and so the Scottish Church still cherishes her rugged 
 Scotch version of them, " with all the* sacred associa- 
 tions which two centuries of such a church history as 
 that of Scotland has gathered round the song of to- 
 day, mingling it with echoes from mountain gather- 
 ings, and martyrs' prisons, and scaffolds, and joyful 
 death-beds : probably no hymn-book could be ever 
 one-half so musical or poetical to Scottish ears and 
 hearts, as those strange, rough verses."* 
 
 We pass the other great poets of mediaeval Italy, 
 Tasso, and his successors, because they cannot be 
 properly classed among sacred lyric poets. Petrarch 
 did not write much that may be so characterized. We 
 find but one or two of his sonnets of this class. 
 
 Petrarch, in his later days, lived in peace and re- 
 tirement at Milan : it was in a sequestered quarter, 
 near the Church of St. Ambrose. " My life," he says, 
 in a letter to a friend, "has been uniform ever since 
 age tamed the fervor of youth, and extinguished that 
 fatal passion which so long tormented me. Like a 
 weary traveller, I quicken my steps as I proceed. I 
 read and write, day and night, one occupation re- 
 lieving another : this is all my amusement and em- 
 ployment. My eyes are worn out with reading, 
 my fingers weary with holding the pen. One thing 
 only is a source of disquietude : I am esteemed more 
 than I deserve, so that a vast concourse of people 
 
 * Mrs. Charles. 
 
I90 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 come to see me." Yes : he was honored by all men, 
 and courted by monarchs. He died in 1374, seated 
 in his library, his head resting on a book. 
 
 This sublime vision of Future Blessedness is from 
 the Italian of Petrarch : — 
 
 The time will come when every change shall cease, 
 
 This quick revolving wheel shall rest in peace ; 
 
 No summer then shall glow, nor winter freeze ; 
 
 Nothing shall be to come, and nothing past, 
 
 But an eternal now shall ever last ! 
 
 Though Time shall be no more, yet space shall give 
 
 A nobler theatre to love and live. 
 
 Then, all the lying vanities of life, — 
 
 The sordid source of envy, hate, and strife, — 
 
 Ignoble as they are, shall then appear 
 
 Beneath the searching beam of Truth severe. 
 
 Then souls, from sense refined, shall see the fraud 
 
 That led them from the living way of God. 
 
 Blest is the pile that marks the hallowed dust, 
 
 There, at the resurrection of the just, 
 
 When the last trumpet, with earth-shaking sound, 
 
 Shall wake her sleepers from their couch profound ; 
 
 How will the beatific sight display 
 
 All heavenly beauty in these climes of day ! 
 
 The following sonnet is from the same source : — 
 
 I live lamenting my departed years, 
 
 Spent in the vain love of an earthly thing ; 
 No flight essaying, though my soaring wing 
 
 Hath borne me on, perchance, to lofty spheres. 
 
 O Thou, who seest my misery and tears, 
 Invisible, eternal, heavenly King ! 
 Help for this soul, feeble and wandering, 
 
 Support her weakness and allay her fears. 
 So that, if I have lived in storm and strife, 
 Sheltered in peaceful haven I may rest ; 
 
 And my last hour, oh, be Thou near to aid ! « 
 
 On Thee, thou knowest, my only hope is staid. 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. I99 
 
 The following is from the Italian of Dante, whose 
 glowing and gloomy pen seemed to linger so spell- 
 bound over the terrors of the lost. His great poems 
 are a reflex of the purgatorial creed of the Middle 
 Ages. 
 
 The King of Icings, whose goodness knows no bounds, 
 
 In recompensing ills His servants bear, 
 
 Makes me discard all anger, care, and grief, 
 
 And to the court of heaven direct mine eyes ; 
 
 And while I muse upon the glorious choir 
 
 Of citizens, who dwell where all is pure, 
 
 In praising my Creator, I, His creature, 
 
 Am more inflamed with love, the more I praise ; 
 
 For if I contemplate the promised bliss 
 
 To which my God invites the Christian race, 
 
 For me there seems nought else to be desired. 
 
 But, friend beloved, for thee I truly grieve, 
 
 Who disregard'st the life and world to come, 
 
 And losest, for a shadow, bliss secure ! 
 
 We present part of one of the hymns of Savonarola, 
 the Romish reformer and martyr of Italy, thus angli- 
 cized by Mrs. H. Beecher Stowe : — 
 
 Alas, how oft this sordid heart hath wounded Thy pure eye ! 
 Yet for this heart, upon the cross, Thou gav'st Thyself to die. 
 
 Burn in my heart, celestial flame, with memories of Him, 
 Till, from earth's dross refined, I rise to join the seraphim. 
 Ah, vanish each unworthy trace of earthly care or pride, 
 Leave only graven on my heart the Cross, the Crucified ! 
 
 Ariosto discovers so much devotional feeling in the 
 following sonnet, that we cannot refrain from quot- 
 ing it : — 
 
 How shall my cold and lifeless prayer ascend, 
 Father of Mercies ! to Thy seat on high, 
 If, while my lips for Thy deliverance call, 
 My heart against that liberty contend ? 
 
200 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Do Thou, who knowest all, Thy rescue send, 
 
 Though every power of mine the help deny. 
 
 Eternal God ! oh, pardon that I went 
 
 Erring so long ! whence have mine eyes been smit 
 
 With darkness, nor the good from evil known. 
 
 To spare offenders, being penitent, 
 
 Is even ours ; to drag them from the pit, 
 
 Themselves resisting, — Lord, is Thine alone ! 
 
 Michel Angelo, in one of his letters to his friend 
 and biographer, Vasari, wrote the following sonnet, 
 introducing it with these words : " I know you will tell 
 me that, being old, I am unwise to attempt the making 
 of sonnets ; but since they say I am in my dotage, 
 I do but perform my proper office. " 
 
 Now in frail bark, and on the storm-tossed wave, 
 Doth this, my life, approach the common port, 
 Whither all haste to render up account 
 Of ev^ry act, — the erring and the just. 
 Wherefore I now do see, that by the love 
 Which rendered Art mine idol and my Lord, 
 I did much err. Vain are the loves of man, 
 And error lurks within his every thought. 
 Light hours of this my life, where are ye now, 
 When towards a twofold death my foot draws near ? 
 The one well-known, the other threatening loud. 
 Not the erst worshipped-art, can now give peace 
 To him whose soul turns to that love divine 
 Whose arms shall lift him from the Cross to Heaven. 
 
 Another of his fine sonnets we subjoin, translated by 
 
 Wordsworth : — 
 
 The prayers I make will then be sweet indeed, 
 
 If Thou the spirit give by which I pray ; 
 
 My unassisted heart is barren clay, 
 That of its native self can nothing feed. 
 Of good and pious works Thou art the seed 
 
 That quickens only where Thou say'st it may. 
 
 Unless Thou show to us Thine own true way, 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. 201 
 
 No man can find it : Father, Thou must lead. 
 
 Do Thou, then, breathe those thoughts into my mind 
 
 By which such virtue may in me be bred, 
 
 That in Thy holy footsteps I may tread ; 
 The fetters of my tongue do Thou unbind, 
 
 That I may have the power to sing of Thee, 
 
 And sound Thy praises everlastingly ! 
 
 Michel Angelo, one of the most extraordinary men 
 of Italy, was born in 1474. He was painter, sculp- 
 tor, architect, and poet, and in each department of 
 science alike illustrious and unsurpassed. The build- 
 ing of St. Peter's, at Rome, which he directed many 
 years, and the marvellous painting of the Sistine 
 Chapel, are works, either of which is enough for im- 
 mortality. He died at Rome, 1564. His sonnets 
 were the amusement of his leisure hours, and an ele- 
 gant pastime they were. 
 
 Like the sonnets of Michel Angelo, those of Vit- 
 toria Colonna derive a singular interest from that 
 spirit of devotion which breathes through the religious 
 section of them. Scripturally simple and ascetically 
 austere, they are so truly Protestant as to have earned 
 for her the reputation of ranking as a disciple of the 
 Reformation. 
 
 Vittoria Colonna, of the sixteenth century, was the 
 most distinguished poetess of Italy. She was pos- 
 sessed of great beauty, both of person and character. 
 Of noble lineage and endowed with great wealth, this 
 M most brilliant woman of Italy " passed a life of sin- 
 gular tranquillity, amid scenes of great political tu- 
 mult. Like Petrarch's, her numerous sonnets breathe 
 an undying affection, and are the eloquent stoty of her 
 great sorrow, for she became a widow at the early age 
 of thirty-six years. Although she remained in the 
 
202 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 communion of the Romish Church, her later poems 
 afford unequivocal evidence of her possession of a pure 
 Protestant faith. The following sonnets are a suffi- 
 cient proof of this : — 
 
 Deaf would I be to earthly sounds, to greet 
 
 With thought intent, and fixed on things above, 
 The high angelic strains, the accent sweet, 
 
 In which true peace accords with perfect love ; 
 Each living instrument, the breath that plays 
 Upon its strings, from chord to chord conveys, 
 * And to one end so perfectly they move, 
 
 That nothing jars the eternal harmony ; 
 Love melts each voice, love lifts its accents high, 
 
 Love beats the time, presides o'er every string. 
 The angelic orchestra one signal sways ; 
 The sound becomes more sweet, the more it strays 
 Through varying changes, in harmonious maze ; 
 
 He who the song inspired, prompts all who sing ! 
 
 Father of Heaven ! if by Thy mercy's grace 
 
 A living branch I am of that True Vine 
 
 Which spreads o'er all, — and would we did resign 
 
 Ourselves entire by faith to its embrace ! — 
 
 In me much drooping, Lord, Thine eye will trace, 
 
 Caused by the shade of these rank leaves of mine. 
 
 Unless in season due Thou dost refine 
 
 The humor gross, and quicken its dull pace. 
 
 So cleanse me, that, abiding e'er with Thee, 
 
 I feed me hourly with the heavenly dew, 
 
 And with my falling tears refresh the root. 
 
 Thou saidst, and Thou art truth, Thou'dst with me be 
 
 Then willing come, that I may bear much fruit, 
 
 And worthy of the stock on which it grew. 
 
 Would that mine ears were deaf to earthly sound, 
 That every thought might more intently dwell 
 On the sweet tones and notes angelical 
 
 Which love and peace upraise the world around 
 

 SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. 203 
 
 Nature is all attuned, and still is found 
 To breathe o'er every chord a living spell, 
 So that, concerted, all together swell, 
 
 And pure ethereal harmonies rebound. 
 
 But love attunes each voice : love rules the choir, 
 Beats time, and gives the burden all must bear : 
 'Tis love leads nature's choir, nor leads it wrong. 
 
 Sweet and more sweet the grateful notes aspire : 
 All nature joins in one harmonious song, 
 And tells of love ; for God has given the air. 
 
 From Bowring's Batavian poetry, we select the fol- 
 lowing stanzas, translated from Kamphuyzen, of the 
 seventeenth century : — 
 
 If there be one whose thoughts delight to wander 
 
 In pleasure's fields, where love's bright streams meander, 
 If there be one who longs to find, 
 Where all the purer blisses are enshrined, 
 
 A happy resting-place of virtuous worth, 
 
 A blessed paradise on earth, — 
 
 Let him survey the joy-conferring union 
 
 Of brothers who are bound in fond communion, 
 And not by force of blood alone, 
 But by their mutual sympathies are known ; 
 
 And every heart and every mind relies 
 
 Upon fraternal, kindred ties. 
 
 Oh, blessed abode, where love is ever vernal, 
 
 Where tranquil peace and concord are eternal, 
 Where none usurp the highest claim, 
 But each with pride asserts the other's fame, — 
 
 Oh! what are all earth's joys compared to thee, 
 
 Fraternal unanimity ! 
 
 God, in his boundless mercy, joys to meet it ; 
 
 His promises of future blessings greet it, 
 And fixed prosperity, which brings 
 Long life, and ease, beneath its shadowing wings, 
 
 And joy and fortune that remain sublime 
 
 Beyond all distance, change, and time. 
 
204 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 The following sonnet is a translation from the Span- 
 ish of Lope de Vega, by Longfellow: — 
 
 Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing care, 
 
 Thou didst seek after me ? that Thou didst wait, 
 
 Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, 
 
 And pass the gloomy nights of winter there ? 
 
 Oh, strange delusion, that I did not greet 
 
 Thy blessed approach ! and oh, to heaven how lost, 
 
 In my ingratitude's unkindly frost, 
 
 Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon Thy feet ! 
 
 How oft my guardian angel gently cried, 
 
 " Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see 
 
 How He persists to knock and wait for thee ! " 
 
 And, oh ! how often to that voice of sorrow, 
 
 " To-morrow we will open," I replied ; 
 
 And when to-morrow came, I answered still, " To-morrow.' 
 
 Lope de Vega was born at Madrid, in 1562 : he was 
 a prodigy of wit in his early days ; and he kept up 
 his reputation as a man of many words, till the end of 
 his days. It is said that he read Latin at five years 
 old ; and such was his passion for verses, that, before 
 he could use a pen, he bribed his elder schoolmates, 
 with a portion of his breakfast, to write to his dicta- 
 tion, and then exchanged his effusions with others, 
 for prints and hymns. Thus truly he lisped in num- 
 bers ; and, as he was the most prolific and voluminous 
 of poets, he kept himself diligently exercised in that 
 line, to the end of his life. 
 
 Don Jorge Manrique, of Spain, flourished in the 
 latter half of the fifteenth century. He followed the 
 profession of arms, and died on the field of battle, in 
 the year 1479. His grand funeral hymn, or ode, was 
 written in memory of his father's death. The transla- 
 tion is by Professor Longfellow. The ode extends to 
 eighty-four stanzas ; we present eight of them : — 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. 205 
 
 Oh, let the soul her slumbers break ; 
 Let thought be quickened, and awake, — 
 Awake to see 
 
 How soon this life is past and gone, 
 And death comes softly stealing on, 
 How silently ! 
 
 Let no one fondly dream again, 
 
 That Hope, and all her shadowy train, 
 
 Will not decay : 
 
 Fleeting as were the dreams of old, 
 
 Remembered like a tale that's told, 
 
 They pass away. 
 
 Our lives are rivers, gliding free 
 To that unfathomed, boundless sea, 
 The silent grave ! 
 Thither all earthly pomp and boast 
 Roll, to be swallowed up and lost 
 In one dark wave. 
 
 Thither the mighty torrents stray, 
 Thither the brook pursues its way, 
 And tinkling rill. 
 They all are equal : side by side 
 The poor man and the son of pride 
 Lie calm and still. 
 
 I will not here invoke the throng 
 
 Of orators and sons of song, 
 
 The deathless few ; 
 
 Fiction entices, and deceives, 
 
 And, sprinkled o'er her fragrant leaves, 
 
 Lies poisonous dew. 
 
 To One alone my thoughts arise, 
 
 The Eternal Truth, the Good and Wise : 
 
 To Him I cry, 
 
 Who shared on earth our common lot, 
 
 But the world comprehended not 
 
 His Deity ! 
 
206 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Yes : the glad Messenger of love, 
 To guide us to our home above, 
 The Saviour came. 
 Born amid mortal cares and fears, 
 He suffered, in this vale of tears, 
 A death of shame. 
 
 Did we but use it as we ought, 
 
 This world would school each wandering thought 
 
 To its high state ! 
 
 Faith wings the soul beyond the sky, 
 
 Up to that better world on high, 
 
 For which we wait ! 
 
 This sonnet, anglicized by the same elegant pen, 
 is from the Spanish of Francisco de Aldana : — 
 
 Clear fount of light ! my native land on high, 
 Bright with a glory that shall never fade ! 
 Mansion of Truth ! without a vale or shade ; 
 Thy holy quiet meets the spirit's eye. 
 There dwells the soul in its ethereal essence, 
 Gasping no longer for life's feeble breath ; 
 But, sentinelled in heaven, its glorious presence 
 With pitying eye beholds, yet fears not, death. 
 Beloved country ! banished from thy shore, 
 A stranger in this prison-house of clay, 
 The exiled spirit weeps and sighs for thee ! 
 
 The remarkable ode to the Divine Being, by Derz- 
 havin, who has been styled the Russian Pindar, is 
 luxuriant with ornament and imaginative power. This 
 poem has been translated into several European lan- 
 guages, and also into the Chinese and Japanese. It 
 is stated that a copy of it, printed in gold letters, on 
 white satin, is hung up in the palace of the Emperor 
 of China, and another in the Temple of Jeddo.* Here 
 follows a portion of the stanzas : — 
 
 * Golownin's Japan. 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. 20*J 
 
 O Thou Eternal One ! whose presence bright 
 
 All space doth occupy, all motion guide ; 
 Unchanged through Time's all-devastating flight, 
 
 Thou only God ! there is no God beside. 
 Being above all beings, Mighty One, 
 
 Whom none can comprehend, and none explore ; 
 Who fill'st existence with Thyself alone ; 
 
 Embracing all ; supporting, ruling o'er ; 
 
 Being whom we call God, — and know no more ! 
 In its sublime research, philosophy 
 
 May measure out the ocean deep, may count 
 The sands, or the sun's rays ; but, God ! for Thee 
 
 There is no weight nor measure : none can mount 
 Up to Thy mysteries : reason's brightest spark, 
 
 Though kindled by Thy light, in vain would try 
 To trace Thy counsels, infinite and dark ; 
 
 And thought is lost ere thought can soar so high, 
 
 Even like past moments in eternity. 
 Thou from primeval nothingness didst call 
 
 First chaos, then existence ; Lord, on Thee 
 Eternity had its foundation : all 
 
 Sprung forth from Thee, of light, joy, harmony, 
 Sole origin : all life, all beauty, Thine. 
 
 Thy word created all, and doth create ; 
 Thy splendor fills all space with rays divine ! 
 
 Thou art, and wert, and shalt be, glorious, great, 
 
 Life-giving, life-sustaining Potentate ! 
 Thy chains the unmeasured universe surround, 
 
 Upheld by Thee, by Thee inspired with breath, 
 Thou the beginning with the end hast bound. 
 
 And beautifully mingled life and death ! 
 As sparks mount upward from the fiery blaze, 
 
 So suns are born, so worlds sprung forth from Thee ! 
 And as the spangles in the sunny rays 
 
 Shine round the silver snow, the pageantry 
 Of heaven's bright army glitters in Thy praise. 
 A million torches lighted by Thy hand 
 
 Wander unwearied through the blue abyss ; 
 They own Thy power, accomplish Thy command, 
 
 All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. 
 
208 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 What shall we call them ? Piles of crystal light, 
 
 A glorious company of golden streams, 
 Lamps of celestial ether, burning bright, 
 
 Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams ? 
 But Thou to these art as the noon to night. 
 Yes : as a drop of water in the sea, 
 
 All this magnificence in Thee is lost : 
 What are ten thousand worlds compared to Thee ? 
 
 And what am / then ? Heaven's unnumbered host, 
 Though multiplied by myriads, and arrayed 
 
 In all the glory of sublirnest thought, 
 Is but an atom in the balance ; weighed 
 
 Against Thy greatness, is a cipher brought 
 
 Against infinity ! O, what am I then ? Nought ! 
 Nought ! yet the effluence of Thy light divine, 
 
 Pervading worlds, hath reached my bosom too ; 
 Yes ! in my spirit doth thy Spirit shine, 
 
 As shines the sunbeam in a drop of dew. 
 Nought ! yet I live, and on hope's pinions fly 
 
 Eager towards Thy presence ; for in Thee 
 I live, and breathe, and dwell ; aspiring high, 
 
 Even to the throne of Thy Divinity. 
 
 I am, O God, and surely Thou must be ! 
 Thou art ! — directing, guiding all, — Thou art ! 
 
 Direct my understanding then to Thee, 
 Control my spirit, guide my wandering heart ; 
 
 Though but an atom 'midst immensity, 
 Still I am something fashioned by Thy hand : 
 
 I hold a middle rank 'twixt heaven and earth ; 
 On the last verge of mortal being stand, 
 
 Close to the realms where angels have their birth, 
 Just on the boundaries of the spirit-land ! 
 
 Creator, — yes ! Thy wisdom and Thy word 
 Created me. Thou source of life and good, 
 
 Thou Spirit of my spirit, and my Lord ! 
 
 Thy light, Thy love, in their bright plenitude, 
 
 Filled me with an immortal soul, to spring 
 O'er the abyss of death, and bade it wear 
 
 The garments of eternal day, and wing 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. 20O, 
 
 Its heavenly flight beyond this little sphere, 
 Even to its source, — to Thee, its Author there. 
 
 Gabriel Romanovitch Derzhavin, the most distin- 
 guished lyric poet of Russia, was born in 1743, and 
 died in 1816. In 1791, Catherine bestowed on him 
 the office of Secretary of State. Two years later, he 
 was elected to the Senate : various other appointments 
 he successively occupied; after holding which some 
 time, he retired on full pension. His far-famed "Ad- 
 dress to the Deity," for wealth of imagery, grandeur, 
 and sublimity, is said to be unsurpassed by any known 
 ode. Its mastery of language, and splendor of con- 
 ception, are its distinguishing characteristics. 
 
 The well-known lines on the " Celestial Sabbath," 
 translated by Bowring from the Russian, are sung at 
 midnight, in the Greek churches, the week before 
 Easter : — 
 
 The golden palace of my God, 
 
 Towering above the clouds, I see ; 
 Beyond, the cherubs' bright abode, 
 
 Higher than angels' thoughts can be : 
 How can I in those courts appear, 
 
 Without a wedding-garment on ? 
 Conduct me, Thou Life-Giver, there, — 
 
 Conduct me to Thy glorious throne ! 
 And clothe me with Thy robes of light, 
 And lead me through sin's darksome night, 
 My Saviour and my God ! 
 
 From the same source, we derive the following ex» 
 tract : — - 
 
 The hollowest vessels sound the loudest, 
 
 The richest treasures deepest lie ; 
 Yet piled up wealth, and rank the proudest, 
 
 Are but tumultuous vanity. 
 H 
 
2IO EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 I am a prince, with princely spirit, 
 
 A ruler, if I rule my heart ; 
 A titled heir, if I inherit 
 
 Of virtue, wisdom, truth, a part. 
 
 The following is Bowring's translation of a " Song 
 of the Cherubim," from the Russian of Khernvimij, 
 which is chanted in the Greek churches during the 
 procession of the Cup : — 
 
 See the glorious cherubim 
 
 Thronging round the Eternal's throne ; 
 Hark ! they sing their holy hymn, 
 To the unknown Three in One, — All-supporting Deity ! 
 
 Living Spirit, praise to Thee ! 
 
 Rest, ye worldly tumults, rest ; 
 
 Here let all be peace and joy ; 
 Grief no more shall rend the breast, 
 
 Tears no more bedew the eye. 
 
 Heaven-directed spirits, rise 
 
 To the temple of the skies ! 
 Join the ranks of angels bright, 
 
 Near the Eternal's dazzling light 
 
 The following ode, or paraphrase, of a passage from 
 the book of Job, is quoted from Bowring's translation 
 from the Russian of Lomonossov : — 
 
 O Man ! whose weakness dares rebel 
 
 Against the Almighty's strength, draw nigh 
 And listen, for my tongue shall tell 
 
 His message from the unclouded sky ! 
 'Midst rain and storm and hail He spoke, 
 Around the piercing thunder broke ; 
 At His proud word the clouds disperse, 
 And thus He shakes the universe ! 
 " Come forth, then, in thy pride and power, — 
 
 Come answer me, thou son of earth : 
 Where wert thou in that distant hoi .- 
 
 When first I gave creation birth r 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. 211 
 
 When all the mountains* heights were reared, 
 When all the heavenly hosts appeared, — 
 My wisdom and my strength's display ? 
 Man ! let thy towering wisdom say : 
 " Where wert thou when the stars, new born, 
 
 Sprung into light at my command, 
 And filled the bounds of eve and morn, 
 
 And sung the Intelligence that planned 
 Their course sublime ? When first the sun 
 On wings of glory had begun 
 His race, and oceans of pure light 
 Wafted mild Luna through the night ? 
 " Who bid the ascending mountains rise ? 
 
 Who fixed the boundary of the sea ? 
 Who, when the waves attacked the skies, 
 
 Confined their fluvious revelry ? 
 
 " Say, hast thou scaled the mountains' height, 
 
 Or sounded ocean's vast abyss, — 
 Or measured all that infinite 
 
 Immensity that o'er thee is ? " 
 
 The memory of the amiable but hapless Princess 
 Elizabeth, daughter of James I., who became Queen 
 of Bohemia, is associated, as a hymnist, with the 
 names of the celebrated Dr. Donne, George Wither, 
 and others. Her history is a sad and eventful one. 
 " She went a happy bride to her husband's hereditary 
 palace at Heidelberg, became a happy mother at 
 eighteen, saw her husband placed on the throne of 
 Bohemia, and realized the dream of her youthful 
 ambition, — a crown. But scarcely had she shown 
 her queenly presence in Bohemia, before her hus- 
 band was driven from his royalty. She fled for her 
 life, and entered on the dark succession of misfortunes 
 which crowded on her the rest of her days. Widowed 
 at last, beggared, tortured by her father's crooked 
 
212 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 policy; living to hear of •her brother Charles's death 
 on the scaffold ; parting with her children, for lack of 
 means to support them ; treated with cold neglect by 
 the only son who could help her ; having her sound 
 Protestant heart smitten at the perversion of others of 
 her children to Romanism, — yet her hopeful, buoyant 
 heart kept up until, after forty sorrowful years of 
 exile, and thirty years of desolate widowhood, she 
 returned, at the age of sixty-five, to finish her check- 
 ered career in the land of her infancy." She died 
 in Leicester House, London ; leaving the relics of her 
 royal furniture to be preserved in that same Combe 
 Abbey, which had witnessed the pleasures of her 
 youth, and that piety which had solaced her to the 
 end. 
 
 This is joy, this is true pleasure, 
 
 If we best things make our treasure, 
 
 And enjoy them at full leisure, 
 
 Evermore in richest measure. 
 
 God is only excellent ; 
 
 Let up to Him our love be sent ; 
 
 Whose desires are set or bent 
 
 On aught else, shall much repent. 
 
 God most holy, high, and great, 
 Our delight doth make complete, 
 When in us He takes His seat ; 
 Only then are we replete. 
 
 Why should vain joys us transport ? 
 Earthly pleasures are but short, 
 And are mingled in such sort, 
 Griefs are greater than the sport. 
 
 When thy heart is fullest fraught 
 
 With heaven's love, it shall be caught 
 
 To the place it loved and sought, 
 
 Which Christ's precious blood hath bought. 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. 213 
 
 These lines are from a hymn of thirty-three stanzas, 
 written while under her sore tribulation. 
 
 Petofi, the " Burns of Hungary," was born on the 
 first dawn of the year 1823. In the spring of 1844, 
 he reached Pesth, where he introduced himself to 
 Vorosmarty, the then most renowned of the Magyar 
 poets. He was at first coldly received, and deemed 
 rude and intrusive ; but, after hearing him read some 
 of his verses, his host exclaimed, " Hungary never 
 had such lyrics : you must be cared for." From that 
 moment his literary fame and fortune were established, 
 his merits recognized. The popular voice also award- 
 ed him renown ; for, says a contemporar}^ " he never 
 went to bed at night, or arose in the morning, without 
 hearing his songs from the multitudinous passengers 
 in the streets." In the beginning of the year 1849, he 
 joined Bern, whose adjutant he became, in the patriot 
 army. He was present at the fearful slaughter in 
 Segesvar ; and, in the memorable retreat of the Mag- 
 yar army, he was killed. 
 
 We select three little pearls from Sir J. Bo wring's 
 translation of his poems : — 
 
 Round the dark green circle of the woods I wander, 
 Looking on the flowers the high oaks blooming under ; 
 Birds among the branches, bees among the flowers, 
 Music all around us bursting from the bowers ; 
 Flowers and trees are still, yet seem alive and wary, 
 Listening to the hymns of nature's sanctuary. 
 Is all sleeping here, — the forest, flowers, and furrows ? 
 Let me stand and muse, forgetful of my sorrows. 
 
 Why should Death an image bring, mouldering and perishing ? 
 
 Death, which is the charioteer, 
 Our freed spirits to convey, over an ascending way, 
 
 To the heavens all bright and clear. 
 
214 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 When I look upon the sky, in its blue immensity, 
 
 Fancy fashions out a road, 
 Fading in the distance far, where, from smiling star to star, 
 
 We are welcomed up to God. 
 
 And what is sorrow ? 'tis a boundless sea. 
 
 And what is joy ! 
 A little pearl in that deep ocean's bed : 
 I sought it, found it, held it o'er my head, 
 
 And, to my soul's annoy, 
 It fell into the ocean's depth again ; 
 And now I long and look for it in vain. 
 
 Queen Maria of Hungary's "Song of the Cross 
 was probably composed in 1526, when she was com- 
 pelled to flee from Buda, on account of her adherence 
 to the Reformed doctrine, after the battle of Mohacz, 
 in which her husband and the flower of the Hun- 
 garian nobility fell, in defending their country against 
 the Turks. 
 
 Can I my fate no more withstand, nor 'scape the hand 
 That for my faith would grieve me ? 
 This is my strength, that well I know, 
 
 In weal or woe, 
 God's love the world must leave me. 
 God is not far, though hidden now : 
 He soon shall rise, and make them bow, 
 
 Who of His Word bereave me. 
 
 Judge as ye will my cause this hour, yours is the power : 
 
 God bids me strive no longer ; 
 
 I know what mightiest seems to-day 
 
 Shall pass away ; 
 Time than your rule is stronger. 
 The Eternal Good I rather choose, 
 And, fearless, all for this I lose ; 
 
 God help me thus to conquer ! 
 
SWEDISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, &C. 215 
 
 We conclude our desultory ramble over these far- 
 apart countries in quest of sacred song, by citing part 
 of a poetic waif, — rather a splendid poem, culled 
 from, — where think you, gentle reader? — the Sand- 
 wich Islands ! It is from the " Honolulu Friend,' 
 April, 1868, and is entitled "The Soul's Dream- 
 ings." 
 
 Wings of beauty ! wings immortal ! hovering o'er me in death's 
 night, 
 
 Ye will bear me onward ever, through the bowers of pure delight ! 
 
 I shall pass the sable portal, only changed to form of light, 
 
 Leaving earth, to soar a spirit, boundless in its trackless flight. 
 
 Clay may feel a pang at parting, as the spirit brighter glows, 
 
 As the phoenix mounts in rapture from the ashes of its woes ; 
 
 Then, away, a pure thought fleeting where vast worlds their lore 
 disclose, 
 
 Where love's vestal lights flame brightly, hopes with folded wings 
 repose. 
 
 Through vast space, on freedom's pinions, seeking knowledge ever- 
 more ; 
 
 Its wide home, the blue empyrean, the eternal spirit shore ; 
 
 There the twinkling stars are pages, gemmed with wisdom's bound- 
 less store, 
 
 Where the records of the ages yield in light their spirit lore. 
 
 Kindred spirits there are meeting, will-winged thoughts that God- 
 like move, 
 
 In their radiant robes electric, through the starry isles they rove. 
 
 Wings of beauty ! wings immortal ! hovering o'er me in death's 
 night, 
 
 Ye will bear me onward ever, through the bowers of pure delight ! 
 
 I shall pass the sable portal, only changed to form of light, 
 
 To dust returning what is mortal, seeking God in boundless flight 
 
— W^o^&oo^ -^^^ Sy ^^°^ M ~^ 
 
 SIXTH EVENING. 
 
 EARLY ENGLISH. 
 
SIXTH EVENING. 
 
 EARLY ENGLISH. 
 
 "\T7E have hitherto been listening to the sweet 
 * stream of sacred music, as it welled up from the 
 Reformed churches of Germany, and other States of 
 Continental Europe. It now remains for us to trace 
 the meanderings of that same stream, in its fertilizing 
 course along the shores of the island-homes of Great 
 Britain, 
 
 The earliest utterances of Christian bards in Eng- 
 land were the rugged Saxons ; then came the Nor- 
 mans, and with them the "Miracle Plays," and other 
 poems of the fourteenth century. Afterwards, the 
 minstrel-monk, Chaucer, strung his lute to the high 
 themes of Holy Writ ; then followed the " divine Spen- 
 ser," whose florid allegories, like a series of richly 
 emblazoned frescoes, have not yet ceased to enchant 
 us by their exuberant imagery and surpassing beauty. 
 As one might infer from his " Faerie Queene," Spenser 
 was a pure and noble-minded Christian gentleman, 
 whose intellectual vigor and spiritual culture were 
 much in advance of his age. His rare sonnets on the 
 Seasons are unique cabinet pictures, and are among 
 the most melodious in the language. Milton was an 
 
220 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 especial admirer of his " Hymn of Heavenly Love," 
 which, like most of his poetry, has a peaceful rhyth 
 mical flow, like the ripple of a rivulet. But we are 
 anticipating : let us then return to Chaucer. He lived 
 from a.d. 1328 till 1400, was the prototype of Milton, 
 and presents to us many fine examples of sacred 
 poetry, including the lamentation of Mary Magda- 
 lene, lines on the Soul, and the beautiful story of the 
 Christian Martyr, in the "Canterbury Tales." 
 
 Chaucer is the earliest of the Anglican bards who 
 have sung to us in intelligible English. Of him 
 the courtly Sidney said, he marvelled that " he should 
 have seen so distinctly in that gray and misty morning 
 of literature." As an artist, he has portrayed to us the 
 thoughts, habits, and people of his time ; and his 
 sweet pastoral sketches are fragrant with the dews and 
 freshness of spring. Chaucer inclined to Protestant- 
 ism and to Wickliffe's Bible, which is much in his 
 favor: he was a Christian monk, and a genius. We 
 shall only recite his stanzas, believed to have been 
 written on his death-bed : — 
 
 Fly from the crowd, and be to virtue true, 
 
 Content with what thou hast, though it be small : 
 
 To hoard brings hate ; nor lofty thoughts pursue ; 
 He who climbs high, endangers many a fall. 
 
 Be thou serene, nor at thy lot repine : 
 
 He 'scapes all ill whose bosom is resigned ; 
 Nor way, nor weather, will be always fine ; 
 
 Beside, thy home's not here, a journey this ; 
 A pilgrim thou, then hie thee on thy way ; 
 
 Look up to God, intent on heavenly bliss, 
 Take what the road affords, and praises pay. 
 
 Shun brutal lusts, and seek thy soul's high sphere. 
 So truth shall shield thee or from hurt or fear. 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 221 
 
 Edmund Spenser (1553-1598), towards the close of 
 his life, wrote four beautiful hymns besides his cele- 
 brated "Faerie Queene." From one of these hymns 
 we extract the following, modernized : — 
 
 Love ! lift me up upon thy golden wings, 
 
 From this base world unto thy heaven's height, 
 
 Where I may see those admirable things 
 
 Which there Thou workest by Thy sovereign might ; 
 
 Far above feeble reach of earthly sight, 
 
 That I thereof an heavenly hymn may sing, 
 
 Unto the God of Love, high heaven's King ! 
 
 Learn Him to love, that loved thee so dear, 
 And in thy breast His blessed image bear ; 
 With all thy heart, with all thy soul and mind, 
 
 Thou must Him love, and His behests embrace ; 
 All other loves with which the world doth blind 
 
 Weak fancies, and stir up affections base, 
 Thou must renounce and utterly displace, 
 And give thyself unto Him full and free, 
 That full and freely gave Himself to thee. 
 Then thou shalt feel thy spirit so possessed, 
 
 And ravished with devouring great desire 
 Of His dear self, that shall thy feeble breast 
 
 Inflame with love, and set thee all on fire 
 With burning zeal through every part entire, 
 That in no earthly thing thou shalt delight 
 But in His sweet and amiable sight. 
 
 The claim of Spenser to be regarded as a sacred 
 poet does not rest upon his hymns alone, although 
 these would be enough to embalm and consecrate the 
 volume that contains them. Spenser may be styled 
 the representative of one class of our sacred poetry, 
 while Milton is that of the other. The former, indeed, 
 should be read, as Warton loved to read him, — 
 
 " At the root of mossy trunk reclined." 
 
222 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 "The lineaments of his Christian character will not 
 be darkened," writes Willmott, "to any thoughtful 
 eye, by those r allegorical devices ' in which the poet 
 loved cloudily to enwrap them. His pictures glow with 
 a southern sunshine ; but their richest colors are fre- 
 quently employed to heighten and embellish virtue, 
 and his most 'gorgeous descriptions often point their 
 moral to the heart." 
 
 We select two more beautiful passages : they are 
 from that rich storehouse of poetic fancy, his "Fae- 
 rie Queene," in the original orthography : — 
 
 ON THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS. 
 
 And is there care in heaven ? And is there love 
 In heavenly spirits to these creatures bace, 
 That may compassion of their evils move ? 
 There is : else much more wretched were the cace 
 Of men then beasts : but O the exceeding grace 
 Of Highest God! that loves His creatures so, 
 And all His workes with mercy doth embrace, 
 That blessed angels he sends to and fro, 
 To serve to wicked man, to serve His wicked foe ! 
 
 How oft do they their silver bowers leave 
 To come to succour us that succour want ! 
 How oft do they with golden pineons cleave 
 The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant, 
 Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant ! 
 They for us fight, they watch, and dewly ward, 
 And their bright squadrons round about us plant ; 
 And all for love, and nothing for reward ; 
 O why should hevenly God to men have such regard ! 
 
 IMPERSONATION OF FAITH. 
 
 She was arrayed all in lily white, 
 
 In her right hand she bore a cup of gold, 
 
 With wine and water filled up to the height ; 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 223 
 
 In which a serpent did himself unfold, 
 That horror made to all that did behold ; 
 But she no whit did change her constant mood : 
 And in her other hand she did fast hold 
 A book that was both signed and sealed with blood, 
 Wherein dark things were writ, hard to be understood. 
 
 The gallant but hapless Sir Walter Raleigh, who 
 was born in 1552, during his long imprisonment com- 
 posed some of his terse and trenchant hymns : here is 
 a specimen from "England's Antiphon : " — 
 
 Rise, O my soul ! with thy desires to heaven, 
 
 And, with divinest contemplation, use 
 
 Thy time, where time's eternity is given, 
 
 And let vain thoughts no more thy thoughts abuse, 
 
 But down in midnight darkness let them he ; 
 
 So live thy better, let thy worst thoughts die. 
 
 And thou, my soul, inspired with holy flame, 
 
 View, and review, with most regardful eye, 
 
 That holy cross whence thy salvation came, 
 
 On which thy Saviour, and thy sin did die ; 
 
 For in that sacred object is much pleasure, 
 
 And in that Saviour is thy life, thy treasure. 
 
 To Thee, O Jesu ! I direct mine eyes. 
 
 To Thee, my hands, to Thee, my humble knees, 
 
 To Thee, my heart shall offer sacrifice : 
 
 To Thee, my thoughts, who my thoughts only sees, 
 
 To Thee, myself, myself and all, I give ; 
 
 To Thee I die, to Thee I only live ! 
 
 The following lines were written in 1603, just after 
 his condemnation. They form only the commence- 
 ment of a much longer medley, entitled "The Pil- 
 grimage." 
 
 Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, 
 My staffe of faith to walk upon, 
 My scrip of joye (immortal diet !) 
 
 My bottle of salvation, 
 My gown of glory, hope's true gage ; 
 And thus I take my pilgrimage. 
 
224 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Some of the tender and earnest numbers of South- 
 well, the martyr-monk, now are before us. The pre- 
 vailing tone of his poetry is somewhat a reflex of his 
 life, which, though short, was full of sorrow and suffer- 
 ing. Like many other noble works of which the world 
 is justly proud, most of Southwell's productions were 
 written in prison. 
 
 In one of his letters to a friend, he thus wrote from 
 his cell : " We have sung the canticles of the Lord in 
 a strange land, and in this desert we have sucked 
 honey from the rock, and oil from the hard stone ; but 
 we now sow the seed with tears, that others may here- 
 after with joy carry in the sheaves to the heavenly 
 granaries." His expressive lines, entitled "Prepara- 
 tive to Prayer," are a homily to all thoughtful 
 minds : — 
 
 When thou dost talk with God, — by prayer, I mean, — 
 
 Lift up pure hands, lay down all lust's desires ; 
 Fix thoughts on heaven, present a conscience clean ; 
 
 Since holy blame to mercy's throne aspires, 
 Confess faults' guilt, crave pardon for thy sin, 
 Tread holy paths, call grace to guide therein. 
 
 It is the spirit with reverence must obey 
 
 Our Maker's will, to practise what He taught : 
 
 Make not the flesh thy counsel when thou pray, 
 'Tis enemy to every virtuous thought : 
 
 It is the foe we daily feed and clothe, 
 
 It is the prison that the soul doth loathe. 
 
 Wonderfully vigorous and terse are the following 
 selections : — 
 
 Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring, 
 Not endless night, nor yet eternal day ; 
 The saddest birds a season find to sing, 
 The roughest storm a calm may soon allay ; 
 Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, 
 That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall. 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 225 
 
 My conscience is my crown, contented thoughts my rest, 
 
 My heart is happy in itself, my bliss is in my breast. 
 
 Enough, I reckon wealth ; a mean, the surest lot, 
 
 That lies too high for base contempt, too low for envy's shot. 
 
 My wishes are but few, all easy to fulfil, 
 
 I make the limits of my power the bounds unto my will. 
 
 I have no hopes but one, which is of heavenly reign ; 
 
 Effects attained, or not desired, all lower hopes refrain. 
 
 I feel no care of coin, well-doing is my wealth, 
 
 My mind to me an empire is, while grace affordeth health. 
 
 Spare diet is my fare, my clothes more fit than fine ; 
 
 I know I feed and clothe a foe, that, pampered, would repine. 
 
 Here is another beautiful passage of his : — 
 
 When words are weak, and foes encountering strong, 
 Where mightier do assault than do defend, 
 
 The feebler part puts up enforced wrong, 
 
 And silent sees that speech could not amend. 
 
 Yet higher powers must think, though they repine ; 
 
 When sun is set, the little stars will shine. 
 
 Sir Philip Sidney, in company with his sister, the 
 Countess of Pembroke, made a metrical version of the 
 Psalms of David, portions of which comprise some 
 fine passages. Here is an example : — 
 
 O Lord ! in me there lieth naught but to Thy search revealed lies ; 
 For when I sit, Thou markest it, no less Thou notest when I rise : 
 Yea, closest closet of my thought hath opened windows to thine 
 eyes. 
 
 Thou walkest with me when I walk ; 
 
 When to my bed for rest I go, 
 
 I find Thee there, and everywhere ! 
 
 A decade of years, and we find another group of 
 illustrious names, — Lord Bacon and his contempora- 
 ries. The prose of the "father of modern inductive 
 
 15 
 
226 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 philosophy " is replete with poetic . beauties ; but he 
 wrote, towards the close of life, a paraphrastic version 
 of seven of the Psalms of David, which contains some 
 remarkable lines. Here are passages from his Psalm 
 civ. : — 
 
 Father and King of powers both high and low, 
 Whose sounding fame all creatures serve to blow; 
 My soul shall with the rest strike up Thy praise, 
 And carol of Thy works and wondrous ways. 
 
 I know that He my words will not despise ; 
 Thanksgiving is to Him a sacrifice ! 
 
 Giles Fletcher (1584-1650) has said much and well, 
 in a single stanza, upon a theme of surpassing in- 
 terest : — 
 
 Yet in its honey flowers our poison blew : 
 Sad Gethsemane, the bower of baleful night, 
 
 Where Christ a health of poison for us drew, 
 
 Yet all our honey in that poison grew ; 
 So we, from sweetest flower, could suck our bane, 
 And Christ, from bitter venom, could again 
 Extract life out of death, and pleasure out of pain ! 
 
 His terse lines on " The Excellency of Christ " are a 
 characteristic specimen of the antithetical style of his 
 day: — 
 
 He is a path, if any be misled ; 
 
 He is a robe, if any naked be ; 
 
 If any chance to hunger, He is bread ; 
 
 If any be a bondman, He is free ; 
 
 If any be but weak, how strong is He ! 
 To dead men, life He is ; to sick men, health ; 
 To blind men, sight ; and, to the needy, wealth ; 
 A pleasure without loss, a treasure without stealth. 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 227 
 
 There is a calm the poor in spirit know, 
 That softens sorrow and that sweetens woe ; 
 There is a peace that dwells within the breast, 
 When all without is stormy and distrest ; 
 There is a light that gilds the darkest hour, 
 When dangers thicken, and when tempests lower : 
 That calm to faith and hope and love is given, 
 That light shines down to man direct from heaven. 
 
 Towards the latter part of his life, he was rector 
 of Alderton, Suffolk, where, according to quaint old 
 Fuller, "his clownish and low-parted parishioners 
 (having nothing but their shoes high about them) 
 valued not their pastor according to his worth, which 
 disposed him to melancholy, and hastened his dissolu- 
 tion." He died about the year 1623. 
 
 These quaint and honest lines on Self-control are 
 by Phineas Fletcher : — 
 
 Ah, silly man, who dream'st thy honor stands 
 In ruling others, not thyself! Thy slaves 
 Serve thee, and thou thy slaves ; in iron bands 
 Thy servile spirit, pressed with wild passions, raves. 
 Wouldst thou live honored ? — clip ambition's wing ; 
 To reason's yoke thy furious passions bring : 
 Thrice noble is the man who of himself is king t 
 
 Giles Fletcher — who, with his b* other Phineas, 
 were the two most gifted followers of Spenser — wrote 
 some of the finest religious poems of the Elizabethan 
 age. We present this brief extract from " The Purple 
 Island," by the latter : — 
 
 The cheerful lark, mounting from early bed, 
 With sweet salutes awakes the drowsy night ; 
 
 The earth sh« left, and up to heaven is fled, — 
 There chants her Maker's praises out of sight. 
 
228 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 While at Trinity College, Cambridge, Giles com- 
 posed his principal poem, "Christ's Victorie," from 
 which we select the following : — 
 
 As when the cheerful sun, enlamping wide, 
 
 Glads all the world with his uprising ray, 
 And wooes the widowed earth afresh to pride, 
 
 And paints her bosom with the flowery May, 
 
 Her silent sister steals him quite away ; 
 Wrapped in a sable cloud from mortal eyes, 
 The hasty stars at noon begin to rise ; 
 And headlong to his early roost the sparrow flies. 
 
 But soon as he again disshadowed is, 
 
 Restoring the blind world his blemished sight, 
 
 As though another day were newly his, 
 The cozened birds busily take their flight, 
 And wonder at the shortness of the night : 
 
 So Mercy once again herself displays 
 
 Out from h«r sister's cloud, and open lays 
 Those sunshine looks whose beams would dim a thousand days. 
 
 Among the multitudinous gems that sparkle over 
 the great dramas of Shakspeare, we have but space 
 for a few. Here they are : — 
 
 Look, how the floor of heaven 
 Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold ; 
 There's not the smallest orb, which thou behold'st, 
 But in his motion like an angel sings, 
 Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins : 
 Such harmony is in immortal souls ; 
 But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay 
 Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. 
 
 The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces, 
 The solemn temples, the great globe itself, 
 Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve ; 
 And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 
 Leave not a rack behind ! 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 229 
 
 Sweet are the uses of adversity ; 
 Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, 
 Wears yet a precious jewel in his head. 
 
 'Tis the mind that makes the body rich ; 
 
 And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, 
 
 So honor peereth in the meanest habit. 
 
 What, is the jay more precious than the lark, 
 
 Because his feathers are more beautiful ? 
 
 Or is the adder better than the eel, 
 
 Because his painted skin contents the eye ? 
 
 Oh, no, good Kate ! neither art thou the worse 
 
 For this poor furniture, and mean array. 
 
 To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, 
 Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, 
 To the last syllable of recorded time ; 
 And all our yesterdays have lighted fools 
 The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle ! 
 Life's but a walking shadow ; a poor player, 
 That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, 
 And then is heard no more : it is a tale 
 Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, 
 Signifying nothing. 
 
 Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth, 
 
 Fooled by those rebel powers that thee array, 
 Why dost thou pine within, and suffer dearth, 
 
 Painting thy outward walls so costly gay ? 
 Why so large cost, having so short a lease, 
 
 Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend ? 
 Shall worms, inheritors of this excess, 
 
 Eat up thy charge ? Is this thy Body's end ? 
 Then, Soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss, 
 
 And let that pine, to aggravate thy store ; 
 Buy terms Divine in selling hours of dross ; 
 
 Within be fed, without be rich no more : 
 So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men ; 
 And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then ! 
 
23O EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Those who are familiar with Izaak Walton's charm- 
 ing biography of Dr. Donne, will remember, that, 
 after his troublous, busy life, he solaced his declining 
 age "by many divine sonnets, and other high, holy, 
 and harmonious composures." Among them, this 
 ^heavenly hymn, written on his sick-bed:" — 
 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, 
 
 Which was my sin, though it were done before ? 
 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run, 
 And do run still, though still I do deplore ? 
 
 When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done, for I have more. 
 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin, which I have won 
 
 Others to sin, and made my sin their door ? 
 Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun 
 
 A year or two, but wallowed in a score ? 
 When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done, for I have more. 
 
 I have a sin of fear, that, when I've spun 
 
 My last thread, I shall perish on the shore : 
 But swear by Thyself, that, at my death, Thy Son 
 
 Shall shine as He shines now, and heretofore ; 
 And having done that, Thou hast done : I fear no more ! 
 
 The worthy doctor caused this hymn to be set to 
 solemn music, and to be frequently sung by the chor- 
 isters of St. Paul's, at the evening service. 
 
 John Donne was born in London, in 1573. He de- 
 serves to be noted as a worthy divine, having been 
 Dean of St. Paul's, a learned man, and the leader of 
 the so-called metaphysical poets of England. His 
 life was one of vicissitude and trial. It seems that he 
 was endowed with a small salary and a large family, 
 the inconvenience of which was not relieved by his 
 imprisonment. Writing to his spouse, he once signed 
 himself, "John Donne, undone." He left this world 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 23 1 
 
 of trial, for one of rest, in 1631, when his mortal re- 
 mains were buried in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 It is of Dr. Donne that Sir Henry Wotton quaintly 
 said, "That body, which was once a temple of the 
 Holy Ghost, and is now become a small quantity of 
 Christian dust, I shall see reanimated." 
 
 The principal poem of Sir John Davies (1570-1626) 
 is that on the "Immortality of the Soul," which Will- 
 mott designates "our first and noblest didactic poem." 
 It is a series of philosophical arguments, solid in 
 thought and unanswerable in reasoning, to establish 
 the great and consoling truth of man's immortality. 
 We extract these lines : — 
 
 O ignorant, poor man ! what dost thou bear 
 Locked up within the casket of thy breast ? 
 
 What jewels and what riches hast thou there ? 
 What heavenly treasure in so weak a chest ? 
 
 Think of her worth, and think that God did mean 
 This worthy mind should worthy things embrace ; 
 
 Blot not her beauties with thy thoughts unclean, 
 Nor her dishonor with thy passion base. 
 
 Kill not her quickening power with surleitings ; 
 
 Mar not her sense with sensuality ; 
 Cast not her serious wit on idle things ; 
 
 Make not her free-will slave to vanity. 
 
 Very good counsel, in a compact form, is given us 
 in these stanzas by Thomas Randolph, of this epoch : 
 
 First worship God : he that forgets to pray, 
 Bids not himself good morrow nor good day ; 
 Let thy first labor be to purge thy sin, 
 And serve Him first, whence all things did begin. 
 
232 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 So live with men, as if God's curious eye 
 Did everywhere into thine actions spy ; 
 Strive to live well ; tread in the upright ways, 
 And rather count thy actions than thy days. 
 
 Another fragment comes to us from one Peter 
 Heylyn, on the Sacred Oracles : — 
 
 If thou art merry, here are airs ; 
 If melancholy, here are prayers ; 
 If studious, here are those things writ 
 Which may deserve thy ablest wit ; 
 If hungry, here is food divine ; 
 If thirsty, nectar, heavenly wine. 
 
 Read, then ; but, first, thyself prepare 
 To read with zeal and mark with care ; 
 And when thou read'st what here is writ, 
 Let thy best practice second it : 
 So twice each precept read shall be, — 
 First, in the book, and, next, in thee. 
 
 In strong, terse, and quaint measure, George San- 
 dys, born 1577, chants his appeal to the Saviour, 
 written at the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem: — 
 
 Saviour of mankind, Man-Immanuel ! 
 Who, sinless, died for sin ; who vanquished hell ; 
 The first-fruits of the grave ; whose life did give 
 Light to our darkness ; in whose death we live, — 
 Oh, strengthen Thou my faith, convert my will, 
 That mine may Thine obey ! protect me still, 
 So that the latter death may not devour 
 My soul, sealed with Thy seal ; so, in the hour 
 When Thou, whose body sanctified the tomb, 
 Unjustly judged, a glorious Judge shall come, 
 To judge the world with justice : by that sign 
 I may be known, and entertained for Thine. 
 
 When on his sick-bed, Sir Henry Wotton wrote 
 some remarkable lines, in which he uses the beautiful 
 metaphor of Christ's blood being the bath of sin : — 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 233 
 
 O Thou great Power ! in whom I move, 
 
 For whom I live, to whom I die, 
 Behold me through Thy beams of love, 
 
 Whilst on this couch of tears I lie ; 
 And cleanse my sordid soul within 
 By Thy Christ's blood, the Bath of Sin ! 
 
 No hallowed oils, no grains, I need ; 
 
 No rags of saints, no purging fire : 
 One rosie drop from David's seed 
 
 Was worlds of seas to quench Thine ire. 
 Oh, precious ransom, which, once paid, 
 That consummation est was said ! 
 
 And said by Him, that said no more, 
 But sealed it with His sacred breath : 
 
 Thou, then, that hast discharged my score, 
 And, dying, wast the death of Death, 
 
 Be to me now — on Thee I call — 
 
 My life, my strength, my joy, my all. 
 
 Sir Henry Wotton, born in 1588, is recorded as one 
 of England's poets. He was ambassador at Venice, 
 and afterwards Provost of Eton ; the friend of Izaak 
 Walton, and an early discoverer of Milton's transcen- 
 dent merit. 
 
 Here are two of the exquisite sonnets of Drummond, 
 of Hawthornden (1585-1649), so much admired by 
 Milton : — 
 
 Look how the flower, which lingeringly doth fade, 
 The morning's darling late, the summer's queen, 
 Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green, 
 As high as it did raise, bows low the head ; 
 Right so my life (contentments being dead, 
 Or in their contraries but only seen), 
 With swifter speed declines, than erst it spread, 
 And (blasted) scarce now shows what it hath been. 
 As doth the pilgrim, therefore, whom the night 
 By darkness would imprison on his way, 
 
234 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright 
 Of what yet rests thee of life's wasting day: 
 Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn, 
 And twice it is not given thee to be born. 
 
 Sweet bird, that sing'st away the early hours, 
 Of winters past or coming, void of care ; 
 Well pleased with delights which present are, — 
 
 Fair seasons, budding sprays, sweet-smelling flowers, — 
 
 To rocks, to springs, to rills, from leafy bowers, 
 Thou thy Creator's goodness dost declare, 
 And what dear gifts on thee He did not spare, 
 
 A stain to human sense in sin that lowers. 
 What soul can be so sick, which, by thy songs 
 
 (Attired in sweetness) sweetly is not driven 
 Quite to forget earth's turmoils, spites, and wrongs, 
 
 And lift a reverent eye and thought to heaven ? 
 Sweet artless songster, thou my mind dost raise 
 To airs of spheres, — yes, and to angels' lays. 
 
 In the year 1588 was born the Puritan poet George 
 Wither, who wrote numerous hymns and poems, not- 
 able for their quiet simplicity, rather than for impres- 
 siveness and force. These hymns, over three hun- 
 dred in number, are designed for an incredible vari- 
 ety of subjects, — every season of nature and of the 
 Church, and for all imaginable accidents of life. The 
 titles of some, indeed, border on the ludicrous: "For 
 a Widower or Widow delivered from a Troublesome 
 Yokefellow," "For a Cripple," "For a Sailor," "For 
 a Poet," "For one whose Beauty is much praised," 
 "For one upbraided with Deformity," &c. 
 
 Wither's poem for "Anniversary Marriage-Days" 
 was, doubtless, suggested by his sentiments of devoted 
 attachment to his wife : — 
 
EARLY ENGLISH » 
 
 235 
 
 Lord, living here are we, as fast united yet, 
 As when our hands and hearts by Thee together first were knit ; 
 
 And in a thankful song now sing we will Thy praise, 
 For that Thou dost as well prolong our loving, as our days. 
 
 Wither's w Rocking Hymn n has outlived its author, 
 as well as the storms that beset his latter days. But, 
 turning from the lullaby to its writer, we notice that 
 his portrait has come down to us, surrounded by the 
 quaint motto, "I grow and wither, both together." His 
 career was eventful and changeful, for he lived in 
 troublous times, — more storm-cloud than sunshine 
 seemed to have been his earthly portion ; but, amidst 
 his sorrows and sufferings, his Muse oft beguiled and 
 solaced his sorely tried spirit. His best pieces were 
 penned in prison. One more extract from this source 
 must suffice : — 
 
 THE MARIGOLD. 
 
 When with a serious musing I behold 
 
 The graceful and obsequious Marigold, — 
 
 How duly, every morning, she displays 
 
 Her open breast when Phcebus spreads his rays ; 
 
 How she observes him in his daily walk, 
 
 Still bending towards him her small slender stalk ; 
 
 How, when he down declines, she droops and mourns, 
 
 Bedewed, as 'twere, with tears, till he returns ; 
 
 And how she veils her flowers when he is gone, 
 
 As if she scorned to be looked upon 
 
 By an inferior eye, or did contemn 
 
 To wait upon a meaner light than him : 
 
 When this I meditate, methinks the flowers 
 
 Have spirits far more generous than ours, 
 
 And give us fair examples, to despise 
 
 The servile fawnings and idolatries, 
 
 Wherewith we court these earthly things below, 
 
 Which merit not the service we bestow. 
 
236 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Robert Herrick, whose anacreonic poems have given 
 him fame with the world at large, deserves, also, to be 
 placed in the category of religious poets, for his later 
 contributions to our Christian anthology, which de- 
 serve the title originally given to them, — "Noble 
 Numbers." In the year 1648, when he was fifty- 
 seven years of age, he was ejected from his living on 
 account of his adhesion to the Royalist cause. w In a 
 good many of his poems, he touches the heart of 
 truth ; in others, even those of epigrammatic form, he 
 must be allowed to fail in point as well as in meaning. 
 But his verses are brightened by a certain almost 
 childishly quaint and innocent humor." * His exquis- 
 ite Litany to the Holy Spirit commences, — 
 
 In the hour of my distress, 
 When temptations me oppress, 
 And when I my sins confess, 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 
 
 When I lie within my bed, 
 Sick at heart and sick in head, 
 And with thoughts discomforted, 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 
 
 When the house doth sigh and weep, 
 And the world is drowned in sleep, 
 Yet mine eyes the watch do keep, 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 
 
 When the tapers now burn blue, 
 And the comforters are few, 
 And that number more than true, 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 
 
 When the priest his last hath prayed, 
 And I nod to what is said, 
 Because my speech is now decayed, 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 
 
 * England's Antiphon. 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 237 
 
 Herrick's lyrics to Primroses and Daffodils are 
 known to all lovers of true poetry, as, indeed, are 
 his chastely beautiful lines to Blossoms : — 
 
 Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, why do ye fall so fast ? 
 
 Your date is not so past 
 But you may stay yet here awhile to blush and gently smile, 
 
 And go at last. 
 What, were ye born to be an hour or half's delight, 
 
 And so to bid good-night ? 
 'Tis pity nature brought ye forth, merely to show your worth, 
 
 And lose you quite. 
 But you are lovely leaves, where we may read how soon things have 
 
 Their end, though ne'er so brave ; 
 And, after they have shown their pride, like you, awhile, they glide 
 
 Into the grave. 
 
 We subjoin a few of his striking epigrams, — gems 
 without the setting : — 
 
 God's rod doth watch while men do sleep ; and then 
 The rod doth sleep while vigilant are men. 
 
 A man's transgression God does then remit, 
 When man He makes a penitent for it. 
 
 Humble we must be, if to heaven we go : 
 High is the roof there, but the gate is low. 
 
 Heaven is not given for our good works here ; 
 Yet it is given to the laborer. 
 
 Henry King, who was Bishop of Rochester in the 
 reign of Charles II., wrote a remarkable poem on 
 the death of his wife, which has often been quoted 
 as a most finished specimen of elegiac poetry : — 
 
238 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Accept, thou shrine of my dead saint, 
 
 Instead of dirges, this complaint ; 
 
 And for sweet flowers to crown thy hearse, 
 
 Receive a strew of weeping verse, 
 
 From thy grieved friend, whom thou might'st see 
 
 Quite melted into tears for thee ! 
 
 Quaint old Quarles, who lived a.d. 1592-1644, 
 is known to students by his " Emblems," and his 
 "Enchiridion," as well as his religious verse, which, 
 to our modern ear, sounds somewhat inharmonious. 
 It is, however, forceful and significant. He was a 
 devout and worthy man ; and, in his closing hours, 
 delivered some excellent counsel to his friends, wish- 
 ing them "to have a care of the expense of their time, 
 and every day to call themselves to an account." He 
 expressed great sorrow for his sins ; and, when it was 
 told him that he did himself much harm thereby, he 
 replied, "They be not my friends who deny me leave 
 to be penitent." His penitence, he well knew, was 
 the best preparative for a peaceful and happy death ; 
 and such was his. His brief but well-spent life is 
 fruitful of instruction. Such was the charm of his 
 conversation, that it was said to " distil pleasure, 
 knowledge, and virtue on all who shared his friend- 
 ship." Despite his occasional obscurity, and the 
 ruggedness of his measures, his poetry abounds with 
 noble thoughts. We cull a few extracts: — 
 
 Farewell, ye gilded follies, pleasing troubles ; 
 Farewell, ye honored rags, ye glorious bubbles ! 
 Fame's but a hollow echo ; gold, pure clay ; 
 Honor, the darling but of one short day ; 
 Beauty, the eye's idol, but a damasked skin ; 
 State, but a golden prison to live in, 
 And torture free-born minds ; embroidered trains, 
 Merely but pageants for proud-swelling veins ; 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 
 
 And blood allied to greatness, is alone 
 
 Inherited, not purchased, nor our own : 
 
 Fame, honor, beauty, state, train, blood, and birth 
 
 Are but the fading blossoms of the earth. 
 
 Welcome, pure thoughts ; welcome, ye silent groves ; 
 
 These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves : 
 
 Now the winged people of the sky shall sing 
 
 My cheerful anthems to the gladsome spring : 
 
 A prayer-book now shall be my looking-glass, 
 
 In which I will adore sweet virtue's face. 
 
 239 
 
 I love (and have some cause to love) the earth ; 
 She is my Maker s creature, therefore good ; 
 She is my mother, for she gave me birth ; 
 She is my tender nurse, she gave me food ; 
 
 But what's a creature, Lord, compared with Thee ? 
 
 I love the air ; her dainty sweets refresh 
 My drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me ; 
 Her shrill-mouthed choir sustain me with their flesh, 
 And with their polyphonian notes delight me ; 
 But what's the air or all the sweets that she 
 Can bless my soul withal, compared to Thee 
 
 To heaven's high city I direct my journey, 
 Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye : 
 Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney, 
 Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky ; 
 
 But what is heaven, great God, compared to Thee ? 
 
 Without Thy presence heaven's no heaven to me. 
 
 And what's a life ? A weary pilgrimage, 
 Whose glory in one day doth fill the stage 
 With childhood, manhood, and decrepid age. 
 And what's a life ? The flourishing array 
 Of the proud summer meadow, which to-day 
 Wears her green flush, and is, to-morrow, hay. 
 
 ''Enter, right welcome and thrice-honored George 
 Herbert, rector of Bemerton, and minstrel of the 
 
24O EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Church Catholic ! Thou dost, indeed, nobly sustain 
 the illustrious line of succession of England's church 
 worthies. George Herbert, who was not only a fa- 
 vorite with his contemporaries, — Bishop Andrews, 
 Dr. Donne, and Lord Bacon, — but also of his affec- 
 tionate biographer, "honest Izaak Walton," and a 
 host of others in succession, was born in 1593, 
 and died of consumption in 1632, in the meridian 
 of his days. He took orders, was married, and, after 
 a few years, was presented with the living of Bemer- 
 ton, near Salisbury, into which he was inducted in 
 1630, — too short an interval, yet how well improved, 
 albeit his work but half done. This pious parish 
 priest was a spare, gaunt personage, his face long 
 and sharp-featured, and yet his aspect cheerful and 
 "his speech and motion did both declare him a gen- 
 tleman ; for they were all so meek and obliging, that 
 they purchased love and respect from all that knew 
 him. Of a stature inclining towards tallness, his body 
 was very straight, and, so far from being cumbered 
 with too much flesh, he was lean to an extremity." 
 Referring to his priestly office, he quaintly remarks : 
 "I am so proud of His service, that I will always 
 observe and obey and do His will, and always call 
 Him f Jesus, my Master;' and I will always con- 
 temn my birth, or any title or dignity that can be 
 conferred upon me, w r hen I shall compare them with 
 my title of being a priest, and serving at the altar of 
 Jesus, my Master." "And that he did so," continues 
 Walton, "may appear in many parts of his book of 
 Sacred Poems ; especially in that which he calls f The 
 Odour,' in which he seems to rejoice in the thought 
 of that word Jesus, and to say, that the adding these 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 
 
 241 
 
 words, f my Master,' to it, and the often repetition of 
 them, seemed to perfume his mind, and leave an ori- 
 ental fragrance in his very breath." 
 
 This godly man was so passionately fond of music, 
 that he was accustomed, twice a week, to walk to 
 Salisbury Cathedral, to attend divine service; and, 
 on his return, would say "that his time spent in 
 prayer, and cathedral-music, elevated his soul, and 
 was his heaven upon earth." He would often also 
 say, "Religion does not banish mirth, but only mod- 
 erates and sets rules to it." His death was as beauti- 
 ful, peaceful, and, may we not add, picturesque, as 
 his brief life had been. The Sunday preceding his 
 decease, he rose suddenly from his couch, called for 
 one of his instruments, and, having tuned it, played 
 and sung one of his own stanzas : — 
 
 The Sundays of man's life, 
 Threaded together on Time's string, 
 
 Make bracelets to adorn the wife 
 Of the eternal glorious King ; 
 
 On Sundays, heaven's door stands ope ; 
 Blessings are plentiful and rife ; 
 
 More plentiful than hope. 
 
 "Thus," adds his biographer, "he sang on earth 
 such hymns and anthems as the angels and he and 
 Mr. Ferrar now sing in heaven ! " 
 
 " All must to their cold graves ; 
 But the religious actions of the just 
 Smell sweet in death, and blossom in the dust." 
 
 Walton relates an anecdote of one of his walks to 
 Salisbury. When Herbert was some way on his jour- 
 ney, he overtook a poor man, standing by a "poorer 
 
242 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 horse," that had fallen down beneath too ht^vy a 
 burden ; and, seeing the distress of the one, and the 
 suffering of the other, he put off his canonical dress 
 and helped the man to unload, and, afterwards, tc 
 reload the horse. Then giving him money to refresh 
 himself and the animal, he departed, at the same tinr 
 telling him, that, if he loved himself, he should b. 
 merciful to his beast. This incident afforded a subjec 
 to the Royal Academician, Cooper, for an interesting 
 picture. 
 
 The history of his poems is most touching anc? 
 beautiful. In his last sickness, he presented them to 
 a friend, in these words : "Sir, I pray deliver this little 
 book to my dear brother Ferrar, and tell him he shall 
 find in it a picture of the many spiritual conflicts that 
 have passsed betwixt God and my soul, before I could 
 subject mine to the will of Jesus my Master ; in whose 
 service I have now found perfect freedom. Desire him 
 to read it ; and then, if he can think it may turn to the 
 advantage of any poor, dejected soul, let it be made 
 public ; if not, let him burn it, for I, and it, are less 
 than the least of God's mercies." 
 
 Baxter's opinion of Herbert's poems was a high one. 
 "I confess," he says, "that next to the Scripture 
 poems, there are none so savory to me as Mr. 
 George Herbert's, because he speaks to God, like a 
 man that really believeth in God, and whose business 
 in the world is most with God ; heart-work and 
 heaven-work make up his books." 
 
 Willmott, with a loving spirit, adds also a like 
 tribute to his consecrated Muse ; summing up in the 
 words of Walton's quaint eulogy, the reading of which 
 will "still keep those sacred fires burning upon the 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 243 
 
 altar of so pure a heart as shall free it from the anxi- 
 eties of this world, and keep it fixed upon things that 
 are above." 
 
 His sacred melodies are ever instinct with spiritual 
 life and power to the Christian ; while their homely 
 quaintness, strange conceits, and rich arabesque effect 
 no less endear them to the lover of lyrical art. It 
 has been justly remarked that "the divine mind of 
 Herbert was ever tending to seek God everywhere 
 and in every thing ; no writer before him has shown 
 such a love to God, — such a childlike confidence in 
 Him." When recovering from sickness, he sings, — 
 
 And now in age I bud again ; 
 After so many deaths, I live and write ; 
 
 I once more smell the dew and rain, 
 And relish versing. Oh, my only Light ! 
 
 It cannot be, that I am he 
 On whom Thy tempests fell all night ! 
 
 One of his characteristic pieces is entitled "Man's 
 Medley:" — 
 
 In soul, he mounts and flies ; in flesh, he dies ! 
 
 He wears a stuff, whose thread is coarse and round, 
 
 But trimmed with curious lace, 
 
 And should take place 
 
 After the trimming, not the stuff and ground : 
 
 Not that he may not here 
 
 Taste of the cheer ; 
 
 But as buds drink, and straight lift up their head, 
 
 So must he sip, and think of better drink 
 
 He may attain to after he is dead. 
 
 He taught the noble truth that a man is what he is 
 in himself, not what the world may consider him 
 from the accident of birth or circumstances. Hear 
 him again : — 
 
244 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Teach me, my Lord and King ! in all things Thee to see ; 
 
 And what I do in any thing, to do it as for Thee. 
 
 All may of Thee partake, nothing can be so mean, 
 
 But for this tincture (for Thy sake) will not grow bright and clean. 
 
 This is the famous stone, that turneth all to gold ; 
 
 For that which God doth touch and own, cannot for less be told. 
 
 O day most calm, most bright ! 
 The fruit of this, the next world's bud ; 
 
 The endorsement of supreme delight, 
 Writ by a Friend, and with His blood ! 
 
 The couch of Time, care's balm and bay ! 
 The week were dark, but for Thy light : 
 
 Thy torch doth show the way. 
 
 Sundays the pillars are, 
 On which heaven's palace arched lies ; 
 
 The other days fill up the spare 
 And hollow room with vanities. 
 
 They are the fruitful beds and borders 
 Of God's rich garden : that is bare 
 
 Which parts their ranks and orders. 
 
 Thou art a day of mirth ; 
 And where the week-days trail on ground, 
 
 Thy flight is higher, as thy birth. 
 Oh, let me take thee at the bound, 
 
 Leaping with thee from seven to seven, 
 Till that we both, being tossed from earth, 
 
 Fly hand in hand to heaven ! 
 
 In time of service seal up both thine eyes, 
 And send them to thy heart ; that, spying sin, 
 
 They may weep out the stains by them did rise ; 
 Those doors being shut, all by the ear comes in. 
 
 Who marks in church-time others' symmetry, 
 
 Makes all their beauty his deformity. 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 245 
 
 Sweet Peace, where dost thou dwell ? I humbly crave 
 
 Let me once know. 
 I sought thee in a secret cave, 
 
 And asked if peace were there, 
 A hollow wind did seem to answer, " No ! 
 
 Go seek elsewhere." 
 
 I did ; and, going, did a rainbow note : 
 
 Surely, thought I, 
 This is the lace of Peace's coat : 
 
 I will search out the matter. 
 But while I looked, the clouds immediately 
 
 Did break and scatter. 
 
 Then I went to a garden, and did spy 
 
 A gallant flower, 
 The crown imperial. " Sure," said I, 
 
 " Peace at the root must dwell." 
 But when I digged, I saw a worm devour 
 
 What showed so well. 
 
 At length I met a reverent good old man ; 
 
 Whom when for peace 
 I did demand, he thus began : 
 
 " There was a prince of old 
 At Salem dwelt, who lived with good increase 
 
 Of flock and fold." 
 
 Lord, with what care hast Thou begirt us round ! 
 
 Parents first season us ; then schoolmasters 
 Deliver us to laws ; they send us bound 
 
 To rules of reason, holy messengers, 
 
 Pulpits and Sundays, sorrow dogging sin, 
 Afflictions sorted, anguish of all sizes, 
 
 Fine nets and stratagems to catch us in, 
 Bibles laid open, millions of surprises, 
 
 Blessings beforehand, ties of gratefulness, 
 The sound of glory ringing in our ears ; 
 
 Without, our shame ; within, our consciences ; 
 Angels and grace, eternal hopes and fears : 
 
246 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Yet all these fences, and their whole array, 
 One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away. 
 
 Sweet day ! so cool, so calm, so bright, 
 
 The bridal of the earth and sky ; 
 The dews shall weep thy fall to-night ; 
 For thou must die. 
 
 Sweet rose ! whose hue, angry and brave, 
 
 Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye ; 
 Thy root is ever in its grave ; 
 And thou must die. 
 
 Sweet spring ! full of sweet days and roses ; 
 
 A box where sweets compacted lie ; 
 Thy music shows ye have your closes ; 
 And all must die. 
 
 Only a sweet and virtuous soul, 
 
 Like seasoned timber, never gives ; 
 But, though the whole world turn to coal, 
 Then chiefly lives. 
 
 Having a glass of blessings standing by, — 
 Let us (said He) pour on him all we can : 
 Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, 
 
 Contract into a span. 
 
 So strength first made a way ; 
 Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honor, pleasure; 
 When almost all was out, God made a stay, 
 Perceiving that alone, of all His treasure, 
 
 Rest in the bottom lay. 
 
 For if I should (said He) 
 Bestow this jewel also on my creature, 
 He would adore my gifts instead of me, 
 And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature : 
 
 So both should losers be. 
 
 Yet let him keep the rest, 
 But keep them with repining restlessness : 
 Let him be rich and weary, that at least, 
 If goodness lead him not, yet weariness 
 
 May toss him to my breast. 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 247 
 
 "A man must be a giant, like Shakspeare or Milton, 
 to cast off his age's faults. Indeed, no man has more 
 of the ? quips and cranks and wanton wiles' of the 
 poetic spirit of his time than George Herbert, but with 
 this difference from the rest of Dr. Donne's school, 
 that such is the indwelling potency, that it causes 
 even these to shine with a radiance such that we wish 
 them still to burn and not be consumed. We could 
 not bear to part with his most fantastic oddities : they 
 are so interpenetrated with his genius as well as his 
 art." * 
 
 We confess we linger with a loving reverence about 
 this saintly singer; and, in imagination, would seek 
 out and fondly gaze upon the little church that has 
 become hallowed to us by the sweet memories of 
 Herbert and Norris. The name of Norris is now 
 seldom heard, even in the retirement of the scholar ; 
 but Willmott has not ignored him : on the contrary, 
 has devoted a delightful chapter to his memory. 
 Norris was born in 1657, and, in 1691, obtained the 
 living of Bemerton, which he held for twenty years, 
 and died in 171 1, in the fifty -fourth year of his age, 
 having exhausted his strength by intense application 
 and long habits of severe reasoning. On the south 
 side of Bemerton Church, a marble tablet commem- 
 orates his piety and his genius. The words of the 
 epitaph are melancholy, yet appropriate : Bene latuit. 
 " Here he lay, concealed from the pomp and vanity 
 of life ; here he sent up daily, to the gate of heaven, 
 the music of a gentle and contented heart ! The 
 old and tranquil parsonage was, to him, a happy 
 hiding-place." We present one stanza of his poem, 
 
 * England's Antiphon. 
 
248 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 entitled "The Parting," which is remarkably beau- 
 tiful:— 
 
 How fading are the joys we dote upon, 
 Like apparitions seen and gone ; 
 
 But those who soonest take their flight, 
 Are the most exquisite and strong, 
 
 Like angels' visits short and bright ; 
 Mortality's too weak to bear them long. 
 
 "The exquisite comparison of human joys to the 
 visits of angels, after having been engrafted into 
 'The Grave,' of Blair, was transferred by Campbell 
 to the 'Pleasures of Hope,' and has now passed into 
 a poetical proverb ; but the beauty of the image be- 
 longs to Norris." 
 
 Edmund Waller, whose mother was the sister of 
 John Hampden and cousin to Oliver Cromwell, al- 
 though a member of the Parliament, was a royalist 
 at heart ; for, being implicated in a plot on behalf of 
 the king, he was exiled ten years, and fined ten 
 thousand pounds. These beautiful lines were, it is 
 believed, the last he ever penned : — 
 
 The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er, 
 So calm are we when passions are no more ! 
 For then we know how vain it is to boast 
 Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. 
 
 Clouds of affection from our younger eyes 
 Conceal that emptiness which age descries : 
 The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, 
 Lets in new light through chinks that time has made. 
 
 Stronger by weakness, wiser men become 
 As they draw near to their eternal home ; 
 Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, 
 That stand upon the threshold of the new. 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 249 
 
 Izaak Walton, who wielded pen and fishing-rod 
 with equal love and skill, was born at Stafford, in 
 1593. His "Angler" is redolent of sweet country 
 air and wild flowers : it is a prose poem, and, like 
 "The Pilgrim's Progress," must ever live. He died at 
 the ripe age of ninety, in 1683. We owe a large debt 
 of gratitude to Izaak Walton for the portraitures of 
 Donne, Herbert, Hooker, and others, he has sketched 
 so minutely. If we think of him more often by his 
 "Angler," it is because that is the book that comes 
 home to the hearts and bosoms, not of all anglers 
 merely, but of all thinkers. It is a pleasant pastoral, 
 babbling, like the sequestered streams it tells about, 
 very musically, and very ramblingly. 
 
 We cite a prose passage, at random, from his 
 "Angler," which is as good as many a poetical one 
 that passes current, if not much better : — 
 
 " Well, scholar, having now taught you to paint your rod, and we 
 having still a mile to Tottenham High-Cross, I will, as we walk 
 towards it, in the cool shade of this sweet honeysuckle hedge, 
 mention to you some of the thoughts and joys that have possessed 
 my soul since we two met together. That you may also join with 
 me, in thankfulness to the Giver of every good and perfect gift, for 
 our happiness. . . . Every misery that I miss is a new mercy, and 
 therefore let us be thankful. There have been, since we met, others 
 that have met disasters of broken limbs, and many other miseries 
 that threaten human nature ; let us, therefore, rejoice and be thank- 
 ful. We are free from the unsupportable burden of an accusing 
 conscience, — a misery that none can bear ; therefore, let us praise 
 Him for His preventing grace. . . . Let me tell you, scholar, I have 
 a rich neighbor that is always so busy, that he has no leisure to 
 Jaugh ; the whole business of his life is to get money, more money ! 
 Yet it was wisely said by one of great observation : ' That there be 
 as many miseries beyond riches, as on this side of them.' Let 
 us not repine, or so much as think the gifts of God unequally 
 dealt, if we see another abound with riches : we see but the out- 
 
2$0 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 side of the rich man's happiness ; but let us be thankful for health 
 and a competence, and, above all, for a quiet conscience." 
 
 Take another little homily of his : — 
 
 "Affliction is a divine diet, which, though it be not pleasing to 
 mankind, yet Almighty God hath often, very often, imposed it as 
 good though bitter physic to those children whose souls are lean- 
 est unto Him." 
 
 Crashaw, who wrote "Steps to the Temple" — a 
 series of sacred poems — "for Happy Souls to climb 
 Heaven by," wrote also some fine lines on a Prayer- 
 book, which Coleridge thought were among the finest 
 in the realm of sacred song. We annex an extract 
 from the poem, although, fully to appreciate its spirit- 
 ual beauty, it should be read entire. 
 
 It is, in one choice handful, heaven, and all 
 
 Heaven's royal hosts encamped thus small ; 
 
 To prove that true,. schools used to tell, 
 
 A thousand angels in one point can dwell. 
 
 It is love's great artillery, 
 
 Which here contracts itself, and comes to lie, 
 
 Close couched in your white bosom, and from thence, 
 
 As from a snowy fortress of defence, 
 
 Against your ghostly foe to take your part, 
 
 And fortify the hold of your chaste heart. 
 
 It is an armory of light ; 
 
 Let constant use but keep it bright, 
 
 You'll find it yields, 
 To holy hands and humble hearts, 
 
 More swords and shields 
 Than sin hath snares or hell hath darts. 
 , Only be sure 
 
 The hands be pure 
 That hold these weapons, and the eyes 
 
 Those of turtles, chaste and true, 
 Wakeful and wise. 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 25 1 
 
 Dear soul, be strong : 
 
 Mercy will come ere long, 
 And bring her bosom full of blessings, — 
 
 Flowers of never-fading graces ; 
 To make immortal dressings 
 
 For worthy souls, whose wise embraces 
 Store up themselves for Him who is alone 
 The Spouse of virgins, and the Virgin's Son ! 
 
 Here is a beautiful stanza from his " Hymn to the 
 Nativity:" — 
 
 Welcome to our wandering sight ! 
 
 Eternity shut in a span ! 
 Summer in winter, day in night ! 
 
 Heaven in earth, and God in man ! 
 Great Little One, whose glorious birth 
 
 Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to earth. 
 
 Crashaw, who was born, it is believed, in the year 
 of Shakspeare's death, has been compared with Shel- 
 ley and Keats for the music and delicacy of his verse. 
 It has been, indeed, objected to his poetry, that it is 
 too redolent of imagery, and too " fantastically beauti- 
 ful." We present one of his " Divine Epigrams," which 
 is excellent : — 
 
 Two went to pray ? Oh, rather say, 
 One went to brag, the other to pray : 
 One stands up close, and treads on high, 
 Where the other dares not lend his eye : 
 One nearer to God's altar trod, 
 The other to the altar's God. 
 
 Jeremy Taylor, who has been styled our "Shak- 
 speare in Theology," was born in the year 1613. 
 Although his prose is more poetic than his verse, he 
 yet wrote some short lyrics and hymns. Here is his 
 melody for Christmas : — 
 
252 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Awake, my soul, and come away : 
 
 Put on thy best array, 
 
 Lest, if thou longer stay, 
 Thou lose some minutes of so blest a day. 
 
 He that begirt each zone, 
 
 To whom both poles are one, 
 
 Who grasped the zodiac in His hand, 
 
 And made it move or stand, 
 
 Is now, by nature, Man ! 
 
 By stature but a span ; 
 
 Eternity is now grown short ; 
 
 A King is born without a court ; 
 
 The water thirsts, the fountain's dry ; 
 
 And life, being born, made apt to die ! 
 
 He shared the tribulations of his time : fine and im- 
 prisonment fell heavily upon him at various times 
 during the ascendency of the Puritans, against whom 
 he spoke and wrote very strongly. He died 1667. 
 "It is good," are the words of Bishop Taylor, "that 
 we transplant the instruments of fancy into religion ; 
 and, for this reason, music was brought into churches, 
 and comely garments and solemnities, that the wan- 
 dering eye and heart may be bribed, and may so be 
 disposed to cherish a more spiritual affection." 
 
 Love, on the Saviour's dying head, 
 
 Her spikenard drops, unblamed, may pour ; 
 May mount His cross, and wrap Him dead 
 In spices from the golden shore ; 
 Risen, may embalm His sacred name 
 With all a painter's art, and all a minstrel's flame ! * 
 
 He wrote the following nervous lines, entitled " The 
 Offering:" — 
 
 * Christian Year. 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 253 
 
 They gave to Thee 
 
 Myrrh, frankincense, and gold ; 
 But, Lord, with what shall we 
 Present ourselves before Thy majesty, 
 
 Whom Thou redeemedst when we were sold ? 
 We've nothing but ourselves, and scarce that neither, — 
 Vile dirt and clay ; 
 Yet it is soft, and may impression take. 
 Accept it, Lord, and say, this Thou hadst rather ; 
 Stamp it, and on this sordid metal make 
 Thy holy image, and it shall outshine 
 The beauty of the golden mine. Amen. 
 
 How grandly Habington's lines on the Firmament 
 commence ! listen : — 
 
 When I survey the bright celestial sphere 
 
 So rich with jewels hung, that night 
 Doth like an Ethiop bride appear, 
 My soul her wings doth spread, and heavenward flies, 
 The Almighty's mysteries to read 
 In the large volume of the skies ! 
 For the bright firmament shoots forth no flame 
 So silent, but is eloquent 
 In speaking the Creator's name. 
 No unregarded star contracts its light 
 Into so small a character, 
 Removed far from our human sight, 
 But, if we steadfast look, we shall discern 
 
 In it, as in some holy book, 
 How man may heavenly knowledge learn. 
 
 Shirley, the latest of the Elizabethan dramatists, 
 is the author of this grand dirge : — 
 
 The glories of our birth and state 
 Are shadows, not substantial things ; 
 
 There is no armor against fate : 
 Death lays his icy hand on kings ! 
 
254 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Sceptre and crown 
 
 Must tumble down, 
 And in the dust be equal made 
 With the poor crooked scythe and spade. 
 
 The garlands wither on your brow, 
 
 Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; 
 Upon death's purple altar, now, 
 See where the victor-victim bleeds. 
 All heads must come 
 To the cold tomb : 
 Only the actions of the just 
 Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust ! 
 
 The mind that dictated the above incomparable 
 lines could scarcely be insensible to moral excel- 
 lence and religious feeling. The same may be predi- 
 cated of the subjoined, also from his pen : — 
 
 Hark ! how chimes the passing bell ! 
 There's no music to a knell : 
 All the other sounds we hear 
 Flatter, and but cheat the ear. 
 This doth put us still in mind 
 That our flesh must be resigned ; 
 And, a general silence made, 
 The world be muffled in a shade. 
 Orpheus' lute, as poets tell, 
 Was but a moral of this bell. 
 
 We now hail that chief of the tuneful throng, the 
 great and good Milton, whom a brother bard beauti^ 
 fully apostrophizes as one — 
 
 That rode sublime 
 Upon the seraph-wings of Ecstasy, 
 The secret of the abyss to spy ; 
 Who passed the flaming bounds of place and time ; 
 The living Throne, the sapphire blaze, 
 Where angels tremble, while they gaze, 
 He saw ; but, blasted with excess of light, 
 Closed his eyes in endless night ! 
 
EARLY ENGLISH, 
 
 255 
 
 Yes : the first thought that is suggested to us by the 
 magic name of Milton is his wondrous spiritual vision, 
 coupled with his bodily blindness. Yet the Christian 
 philosophy with which he endured the privation of 
 sight, and the dignified strain in which he repelled the 
 foul charge of his assailants, that it was a judgment 
 from heaven for his republican opinions, are beyond 
 all praise. What nobility of mind, and what splen- 
 dor of diction, he discovers in the following eloquent 
 passage : " It is not so wretched to be blind," he says, 
 " as it is not to be capable of enduring blindness. Let 
 me be the most feeble creature alive, as long as that 
 feebleness serves to invigorate the energies of my 
 rational and immortal spirit; as long as, in that ob- 
 scurity in which I am enveloped, the light of the 
 * Divine Presence more clearly shines; and, indeed, 
 in my blindness I enjoy, in no inconsiderable degree, 
 the favor of the Deity, who regards me with more 
 tenderness and compassion in proportion as I am able 
 to behold nothing but Himself. For the Divine Law 
 not only shields me from injury, but almost renders 
 me too sacred to attack, as from the overshadowing 
 of those heavenly wings which seem to have occa- 
 sioned this obscurity." Milton's greatness is seen in 
 the fact that he forgot self: his master-mind sought 
 to look outward and upward. R He is ever soaring 
 towards the region beyond perturbation, — the true 
 condition of soul ; that is, wherein a man shall see 
 things even as God would have him see them. He 
 has no time to droop his pinions, and sit moody, even 
 on the highest pine : the sun is above him ; he must 
 fly upwards." * 
 
 * England's Antiphon. 
 
256 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 At the age of forty-five, he thus writes concerning 
 his blindness, one of his noblest sonnets : — 
 
 When I consider how my light is spent 
 
 Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 
 And that one talent, which is death to hide, 
 
 Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
 
 To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
 My true account, lest He, returning, chide : 
 " Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ? " 
 
 I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent 
 
 That murmur, soon replies : " God doth not need 
 Either man's work, or His own gifts ; who best 
 Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best ; His state 
 
 Is kingly ; thousands at His bidding speed, 
 And post o'er land and ocean without rest ; 
 They also serve who only stand and wait." 
 
 Among Milton's fine lyrics, the following is, per- 
 haps, less familiar to the reader than the preceding 
 extract : — 
 
 Fly, envious Time, till thou run out thy race ; 
 
 Call on the lazy, leaden-stepping hours, 
 
 Whose speed is but the heavy plummet's pace, 
 
 And glut thyself with what thy womb devours, — 
 
 Which is no more than what is false and vain, 
 
 And merely mortal dross ; 
 
 So little is our loss ! 
 
 So little is thy gain ! 
 
 For when as each thing bad thou hast entombed, 
 
 And, last of all, thy greedy self consumed, 
 
 Then long eternity shall greet our bliss 
 
 With an individual kiss, 
 
 And joy shall overtake us as a flood : 
 
 When every thing that is sincerely good, 
 
 And perfectly divine, 
 
 With truth and peace and love, shall ever shine 
 
 About the supreme throne 
 
 Of Him to whose happy-making sight alone 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 
 
 257 
 
 When once our heavenly guided soul shall climb, — 
 
 Then, all this earthly grossness quit, 
 
 Attired with stars, we shall for ever sit 
 
 Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O Time ! 
 
 Milton's passionate love of music inspired some of 
 his grandest outbursts of song. Glimpses of the great 
 poet's life may be seen in the opening passages of 
 certain books of his epic ; the most pathetic of these 
 is the sad but beautifully patient lament on the blind 
 ness of his old age. This, and the sonnets on his 
 blindness, and on the Waldenses, if less grand, are 
 among the most beautiful and touching of his writings. 
 Milton was engaged upon the great epic seven 
 years (1658-1665). The first rough sketches of the 
 poem took the shape of a tragedy, or "mystery," on 
 the " Fall of Man," the manuscripts of which are still 
 extant in the Library of Cambridge University, where 
 also is still to be seen the mulberry-tree planted by 
 the poet when he was a student. He was no less 
 illustrious as a man than as a poet : his character 
 stands out from the men of his age, and indeed of any 
 age, in moral sublimity. The world's liberty owes as 
 much to his mighty pen as to Cromwell's weighty 
 sword. Milton's personal habits were simple and 
 pure, yet majestic and Christian. We can form some 
 idea of the noble man by the following sketch : " He 
 was found in a small chamber, hung with rusty green, 
 sitting in an elbow-chair, and dressed neatly in black ; 
 pale, but not cadaverous ; his hands and feet gouty. 
 In his latter years, he retired every night at nine 
 o'clock, and lay till four in summer, till five in winter ; 
 and, if not disposed then to rise, he had some one to 
 sit at his bedside, and read to him. When he rose, 
 
 17 
 
258 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 he had a chapter of the Hebrew Bible read to him ■, 
 and, with the intervention of breakfast, he studied till 
 twelve. He then dined, took some exercise for an 
 hour, — generally in a chair, in which he used to 
 swing himself, — and afterwards played on the organ, 
 or the bass-viol, and either sang himself, or made his 
 wife sing, who, as he said, had a good voice, but no 
 ear. He then resumed his studies till six, from which 
 hour, till eight, he conversed with those who came to 
 visit him. He finally took a light supper, smoked a 
 pipe of tobacco, and drank a glass of water, after 
 which he retired to rest." * So calmly passed the 
 days of the blind old poet, until, before the completion 
 of his sixty-sixth year, he passed away from earth 
 with scarcely a pang. It was on Sunday, Nov. 8, 
 1674. His ashes repose in the Church of St. Giles, 
 Cripplegate. 
 
 It seems supererogatory, if not absurd, to attempt 
 any tribute to his genius, at this late day, when Ma- 
 caulay has expressed such a beautiful one among his 
 noble historic sketches, where he says: "A mightier 
 poet, tried at once by pain, danger, poverty, obloquy, 
 and blindness, meditated, undisturbed by the obscene 
 tumult which raged all around him, a song so sublime 
 and so lofty, that it would not have misbecome the 
 lips of those ethereal Virtues whom he saw, with that 
 inner eye, which no calamity could darken, flinging 
 down on the jasper pavement their crowns of amaranth 
 and gold." 
 
 Milton's splendid Hymn to the Nativity, written at 
 the early age of twenty-one years, remains unrivalled 
 for its sublimity and classic elegance. Listen to a 
 stanza or two : — 
 
 * Collier's Eng. Lit. 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 259 
 
 No war, or battle's sound, 
 
 Was heard the world around ; 
 The idle spear and shield were high uphung ; 
 
 The hooked chariot stood 
 
 Unstained with hostile blood ; 
 The trumpet spake not to the armed throng ; 
 
 And kings sat still with awful eye 
 As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by ! 
 
 The oracles are dumb, 
 
 No voice or hideous hum 
 Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving ; 
 
 Apollo from his shrine 
 
 Can no more divine, 
 With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving ; 
 
 No nightly trance, or breathed spell, 
 Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. 
 
 The chief of sacred singers, it is known, held the 
 post of Latin Secretary under Cromwell ; at the Res- 
 toration, he was, of course, dismissed. He was now 
 poor and blind ; and, in addition to these trials, Charles 
 II. fined him, and doomed his writings, on Liberty, to 
 be publicly burned. Undaunted, however, by these 
 accumulated afflictions, the great poet produced "Par- 
 adise Lost." After enduring the ills of poverty several 
 years, the king invited him to resume his former post, 
 with all its honors, emoluments, and court favors ; but 
 Milton, well knowing that this honor must involve 
 silence on the question of human liberty, did not 
 hesitate, but, with noble magnanimity, refused the 
 tempting bribe. He preferred the principle of right, 
 although it entailed poverty, to a mean ambition, with 
 the splendors of court patronage. How grandly the 
 heroism of the man with the genius of the poet unite 
 in the " Poet of Paradise " ! 
 
260 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 One of the best, if not the best, of Milton's famous 
 sonnets, is that " On the late Massacre in Piemont : " — 
 
 Avenge, O Lord, Thy slaughtered saints, whose bones 
 
 Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ! 
 
 Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old, 
 When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, 
 Forget not ! in Thy book record their groans, 
 
 Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 
 
 Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled 
 Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 
 
 The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 
 To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow 
 
 O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 
 The triple tyrant ; that from these may grow 
 
 A hundred-fold, who, having learned Thy way, 
 Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 
 
 In his eloquent defence of sacred poetry, Milton 
 declares the proper office of the poet to be " to cele- 
 brate, in glorious and lofty hymns, the throne and 
 equipage of God's almightiness ; and what He works 
 and what He suffers to be wrought with high provi- 
 dence in His Church ; to sing victorious agonies of 
 saints and martyrs, the deeds and triumphs of just 
 and pious nations doing valiantly, through faith, 
 against Christ's enemies; to deplore the general re- 
 lapses of kingdoms and states from justice and God's 
 true worship." Here are his exquisite lines on church 
 music : — 
 
 But let my due feet never fail 
 
 To walk the studious cloisters pale, 
 
 And love the high embowed roof, 
 
 With antique pillars massy proof, 
 
 And storied windows richly dight, 
 
 Casting a dim religious light ; 
 
 There let the pealing organ blow 
 
 To the full-voiced choir below, 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 26l 
 
 In service high, and anthems clear, 
 
 As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 
 
 Dissolve me into ecstasies, 
 
 And bring all heaven before mine eyes. 
 
 We have only space for a few passages from his 
 great epic : the " Hymn to the Creator," like a true 
 picture, loses none of its freshness and richness by 
 reperusaL 
 
 These are Thy glorious works, Parent of good, 
 
 Almighty ! Thine this universal frame, 
 
 Thus wondrous fair ; Thyself how wondrous then ! 
 
 Unspeakable, who sitt'st above these heavens 
 
 To us invisible, or dimly seen 
 
 In these Thy lowest works ; yet these declare 
 
 Thy goodness beyond thought, and power divine. 
 
 Speak, ye who best can tell, ye sons of light, 
 
 Angels ; for ye behold Him, and with songs 
 
 And choral symphonies, day without night, 
 
 Circle His throne rejoicing ; ye in heaven : 
 
 On earth join, all ye creatures, to extol 
 
 Him first, Him last, Him midst, and without end. 
 
 Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, 
 
 If better thou belong not to the dawn, 
 
 Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn 
 
 With thy bright circlet, praise Him in thy sphere, 
 
 While day arises, that sweet hour of prime. 
 
 Thou sun, of this great world both eye and soul, 
 
 Acknowledge Him thy greater ; sound His praise 
 
 In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st, 
 
 And when high noon hast gained, and when thou fall'st 
 
 Ye mists and exhalations, that now rise 
 From hill or steaming lake, dusky or gray, 
 Till the sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold, 
 In honor to the world's Great Author rise ; 
 Whether to deck with clouds the uncolored sky, 
 Or wet the thirsty earth with falling showers, 
 Rising or falling still advance his praise. 
 
262 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 His praise, ye winds that from four quarters blow, 
 Breathe soft or loud ; and wave your tops, ye pines, 
 With every plant, in sign of worship wave. 
 Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow, 
 Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise. 
 
 Now for his majestic chant for "Evening in Para- 
 dise:" — 
 
 Now came still evening on, and twilight gray 
 Had in her sober livery all things clad : 
 Silence accompanied ; for beast and bird, 
 They to their grassy couch, these to their nests, 
 Were slunk ; all but the wakeful nightingale ; 
 She all night long her amorous descant sung ; 
 Silence was pleased : now glowed the firmament 
 With living sapphires ; Hesperus, that led 
 The starry host, rode brightest, till the moon, 
 Rising in clouded majesty, at length, 
 Apparent queen, unveiled her peerless light, 
 And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw ! 
 
 Nor think, though men were none, 
 That heaven would want spectators, God want praise. 
 Millions of spiritual creatures walk the earth 
 Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep. 
 All these with ceaseless praise His works behold, 
 Both day and night. How often from the steep 
 Of echoing hill or thickets have we heard 
 Celestial voices to the midnight air, 
 Sole, or responsive to each other's note, 
 Singing their great Creator ! Oft in bands, 
 While they keep watch, or nightly rounding walk, 
 With heavenly touch of instrumental sounds 
 In full harmonic numbers joined, their songs 
 Divide the night, and lift our thoughts to Heaven. 
 
 Much curious speculation has been entertained con- 
 cerning the origin of Milton's K Paradise Lost." Some 
 have supposed that it was suggested by the "Divine 
 Weekes" of De Bartas ; others, with no more plausi- 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 263 
 
 bility, think to trace it to an earlier source, — that ot 
 Avitus, one of the Fathers of the Church, who was 
 consecrated, in the year 490, Archbishop of Vienna, 
 in Dauphiny ; and who is said to have converted 
 Clovis, king of France, and Sigismund, of Burgundy, 
 to Christianity. He wrote five sacred poems on "The 
 Creation," "The Fall," "The Deluge," &c, and died 
 in a.d. 525. Milton is supposed to have been ac- 
 quainted with these Latin poems, and possibly derived 
 the idea of his epic therefrom. 
 
 There is still another conjecture, — that of the re- 
 nowned Dutch poet, Vondel, an Anabaptist, who was 
 lowly born and without education, but whose genius 
 was most remarkable. His "Lucifer" may be con- 
 sidered the precursor of "Paradise Lost,'' which it 
 anticipated fourteen years. There is no evidence to 
 show, however, that the incomparable Milton kindled 
 his flame at that of his illustrious contemporary. 
 
 We scarcely need refer to his " Sonnet to Cromwell," 
 or to his "II Penseroso," "Comus," "L' Allegro," or to 
 his fine sonnets on "May Morning," to "The Nightin- 
 gale," &c. : they are too well known. 
 
 A clergyman at Hull was stepping into a boat with 
 a young couple, whom he was going to marry. The 
 event took place early in the seventeenth century. The 
 weather was calm, and there w r as the promise of a 
 bright voyage ; but a mysterious premonition of com- 
 ing danger oppressed the good parson's heart, and, 
 throwing his cane on shore as the boat went off, he 
 cried, " Ho, for heaven ! " The shout was prophetic : 
 neither himself, bridegroom, nor bride ever returned. 
 The son of that prophetic pastor lived to give us one 
 of the best boat-songs that ever floated with the sailor 
 
264 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 over the waters, or charmed the dwellers on the land. 
 This son was Andrew Marvell, the friend of Milton. 
 His deep sympathy with the suffering and persecuted 
 for conscience' sake may be seen in his beautiful 
 poem : — 
 
 Where the remote Bermudas ride, 
 In th' ocean's bosom unespied, 
 From a small boat that rowed along, 
 The listening winds received this song. 
 
 What should we do, but sing His praise, 
 That led us through the watery maze, 
 Unto an isle so long unknown, 
 And yet far kinder than our own ? 
 
 Sir Thomas Browne, contemporary with Waller, 
 has given us a fine hymn in his M Religio Medici : " 
 it occurs in the midst of prose, as the prayer every 
 night before he yields to the "death of sleep." Sleep 
 is "so like death," he says, "that I dare not trust it 
 without my prayers, and an half-adieu unto the world, 
 and take my farewell in a colloquy with God." 
 
 The night is come : like to the day, 
 Depart not Thou, great God, away. 
 Let not my sin, black as the night, 
 Eclipse the lustre of Thy light. 
 Keep still in my horizon : to me 
 The sun makes not the day, but Thee. 
 Thou, whose nature cannot sleep, 
 On my temples sentry keep ; 
 Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes 
 Whose eyes are open while mine close : 
 Let no dreams my head infest, 
 But such as Jacob's temples blest. 
 While I do rest, my soul advance : 
 Make my sleep a holy trance, 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 265 
 
 That I may, my rest being wrought, 
 Awake unto some holy thought, 
 And with as active vigor run 
 My course, as doth the nimble sun. 
 Sleep is a death : oh, mal^ me try, 
 By sleeping, what it is to die ! 
 And as gently lay mine head 
 On my grave, as now my bed. 
 Howe'er I rest, great God, let me 
 Awake again, at last with Thee ; 
 And, thus assured, behold, I lie 
 Securely, or to wake or die. 
 
 "This is the dormitive," he continues, "I take to 
 bedward : I need no other laudanum than this to make 
 me sleep ; after which I close mine eyes in security, 
 content to take my leave of the sun, and sleep unto the 
 resurrection." These lines present a remarkable anal- 
 ogy to the celebrated Evening Hymn of Bishop Ken. 
 
 The most sublime and splendid passage from the 
 pen of Dryden, according to Warton, is this : — 
 
 So when of old the Almighty Father sate, 
 
 In council, to redeem our ruined state, 
 
 Millions of millions, at a distance round, 
 
 Silent the sacred consistory crowned, 
 
 To hear what Mercy, mixed with Justice, could propound : 
 
 All prompt, with eager pity, to fulfil * 
 
 The full extent of their Creator's will ! 
 
 But when the stern conditions were declared, 
 
 A mournful whisper through the hosts was heard ; 
 
 And the whole Hierarchy, with heads hung down, 
 
 Submissively declined the ponderous proffered crown. 
 
 Then, not till then, the Eternal Son from high, 
 
 Rose in the strength of all the Deity, — 
 
 Stood forth to accept the terms, and underwent 
 
 A weight which all the frame of Heaven had bent, 
 
 Nor He himself could bear, but as Omnipotent ! 
 
266 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Dryden's exquisite translation of "Veni, Creator 
 Spiritus" is one of the finest compositions in the lan- 
 guage:— 
 
 Creator Spirit^ by whose aid 
 The world's foundations first were laid, 
 Come visit every pious mind ; 
 Come pour thy joys on human kind ; 
 From sin and sorrow set us free, 
 And make Thy temples worthy Thee. 
 
 Plenteous of grace, descend from high, 
 
 Rich in thy sevenfold energy ! 
 
 Thou strength of His almighty hand, 
 
 Whose power does heaven and earth command ! 
 
 Refine and purge our earthly parts ; 
 But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts ! 
 Our frailties help, our vice control, 
 Submit the senses to the soul ; 
 And when rebellious they are grown, 
 Then lay Thy hand, and hold them down. 
 
 Chase from our minds the infernal foe, 
 And peace, the fruit of love, bestow ; 
 And, lest our feet should step astray, 
 Protect and guide us in the way. 
 
 Make us eternal truths receive, 
 And practise all that we believe : 
 « Give us Thyself, that we may see 
 The Father, and the Son, by Thee. 
 
 The opening of his poem, "Religio Laid," written 
 to defend episcopacy against dissent, is solemn and 
 majestic in its flow : — 
 
 Dim as the borrowed beams of moon and stars 
 To lonely, weary, wandering travellers, 
 Is Reason to the Soul : and, as on high 
 Those rolling fires discover but the sky, 
 
EARLY ENGLISH. 267 
 
 Not light us here ; so Reason's glimmering ray 
 
 Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, 
 
 But guide us upward to a better day. 
 
 And as those nightly tapers disappear, 
 
 When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere ; 
 
 So pale grows Reason at Religion's sight : 
 
 So dies, and so dissolves, in supernatural light ! 
 
 Here we close our Evening with the Elizabethan 
 poets, those magnates of the British Muse ; and, as 
 we recede from the Augustan Age of England's poetic 
 glory, let us, with a gentle and loving reverence, 
 thank them in our hearts, for the refined pleasure and 
 exaltation of feeling which their noble numbers have 
 inspired in us. In conning over their glowing and 
 pictorial melodies, we seem to be admitted to the 
 presence-chamber of the mighty spirit host, — those 
 R God-anointed kings of thought," convened from that 
 great age and clime ; and, as we cannot better ex- 
 press our sense of obligation, let us cherish and con- 
 serve, with miser care, the good things they have 
 bequeathed to us. 
 
SEVENTH EVENING. 
 
 LATER ENGLISH. 
 
SEVENTH EVENING. 
 
 LATER ENGLISH. 
 
 if "D LESS the Lord, O my soul ! and all that is within 
 J -^ me bless His holy name ! " Thus sang the Psalm- 
 ist. Thus should we sing too. "We should, with 
 him, issue this, one of the grandest invocations that 
 can be uttered, addressed to one of the noblest au- 
 diences that can be convoked. The Psalmist peals a 
 summons through all the chambers of his being, and 
 calls forth every capacity of his nature, that, one and 
 all, they might join in avast chorus, of which the name 
 of God should be the theme, and the glory of God the 
 end. It seems as though he gathered into some one 
 vast inner chamber his powers of thought and memory 
 and hope and fear and love, and that he gave charge 
 to his soul to be the leader of this choir, yea, to be the 
 very soul to it, breathing life and sense into its melody, 
 to give the key-note to its chants and to rule its song. 
 Yes : as David did, so let us do also. Each man has 
 within his own bosom the materials for a choir, as 
 tuneful as any which ever stood in surpliced array 
 beneath the cathedral's fretted roof; a choir with full, 
 deep, rich voices, whose anthems can swell, whose 
 choruses can peal, upward, upward, upward, far above 
 
272 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 the din and turmoil of the earth, until they float into 
 the presence of God Himself, and mingle, it may be, 
 with the myriad voices of those whose praises are ever 
 heard around the throne."* 
 
 As introductory to our talk about English hymn- 
 writers and their hymns, it may not be inappropriate 
 to premise a few words as to what properly constitutes 
 a hymn. In most of our church collections may be 
 found many sacred poems, many admonitory rhymes 
 or poetical homilies, intermingled with what are really 
 true hymns of praise and adoration. A true hymn is 
 either prayer or praise, — a heart-utterance of praise 
 to the Divine Being, — and not a response from the pew 
 to the pulpit. " Hymns are not meant to be theologi- 
 cal statements," remarks a recent English hymnist, 
 "expositions of doctrine, or enunciations of precepts: 
 they are utterances of the soul in its manifold moods 
 of hope and fear, joy and sorrow, love, wonder, and 
 aspiration. A hymn should not consist of comments 
 on a text, or of remarks on an experience ; but of a 
 central and creative thought, shaping for itself melo- 
 dious utterance, and with every detail subordinated to 
 its clear and harmonious presentation. Herein a true 
 hymn takes rank as a poem. Hymns are utterances 
 of the religious affections, not theological statements or 
 doctrinal expositions. All true hymns have grown out 
 of a deep and true theology."! The "Te Deum" was 
 praised by Luther as a good symbol, not less than as 
 a perfect hymn. While, therefore, hortatory hymns 
 are usually unsuitable for congregational singing, oth- 
 ers, again, are equally unadapted for the use of a 
 mixed audience, because of the use of too great famili- 
 
 * Power on the Psalms. t Gill's Golden Chain of Praise. 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 273 
 
 arity of expression as applied to our Lord ; instances 
 of which are noticeable in some of Watts's pieces in 
 his " Horse Lyricae," and in some of the Moravian 
 hymns. All such addresses should be expressions of 
 "humble love joined with holy fear." 
 
 " Hymns are the exponents of the inmost piety of 
 the Church," observes a glowing and forcible writer;* 
 "they are the crystalline tears, or blossoms of joy, or 
 holy prayers, or incarnated raptures. They are jew- 
 els, which the Church has worn, — the pearls, the 
 diamonds, and precious stones, formed into amulets, 
 more potent against sorrow and sadness than the most 
 famous charms of wizard or magician. Angels sat at 
 the grave's mouth ; and so hymns are the angels that 
 rise up out of our griefs and darkness and dismay." 
 Yes : very many of our most cherished hymns are those 
 which, expressive of the heart-struggles and aspira- 
 tions of Christian life, as well as those of joy and sor- 
 row, hope or fear, have, for the most part, had their 
 birth amid the shadows of the chamber of sorrow. 
 These soul-utterances in song have usually emanated 
 from those who have been taught "the divine art of 
 carrying sorrow and trouble as wonderful food, as an 
 invisible garment that clothed them with strength, 
 as a mysterious joy ; so that they suffered gladly, so 
 that they might see nobler realities than sight could 
 reach." So prolific have been our English hymnists, 
 during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, that, 
 according to a recent authority,! no less than seven 
 hundred names in this department of English poetry 
 have been enumerated. We can, of course, refer only 
 to the most renowned. 
 
 * H. W. Beecher. t Sedgwick. 
 
 18 
 
274 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 When the Reformation dawned on England, the 
 common people did not require much persuasion to 
 induce them to sing hymns in the mother tongue. 
 Congregational singing soon found its way into parish 
 churches and chapels ; for Geneva had set the fashion, 
 where " all the congregation — men, women, and 
 boys — sing together," and the "sweet infection" soon 
 spread over seas. It is remarkable that the Baptists, 
 after the Reformation, were very generally opposed to 
 singing in their congregations : it was not until a score 
 of years or more after, that the practice obtained with 
 them. The Baptist communion was much divided on 
 this question of singing; to such a degree, indeed, as 
 to put both parties out of tune. 
 
 When the Pilgrim Fathers reached the long-wished- 
 for Western world, who would not like to have listened 
 to that united, hearty hymn of thanksgiving, that would 
 put to shame much of our modern psalm-singing, in 
 which the ear, rather than the heart, seems to be most 
 concerned ? During the great revival which took place 
 under Edwards, Whitefield, and others, singing formed 
 a prominent and a most influential part in divine wor- 
 ship ; as it also did in the spiritual crusade of the 
 Wesleys, Doddridge, and others, in England. 
 
 In making our selections, the difficulty that con- 
 fronts us at the outset is, what to indicate, and what 
 to omit, the claimants being so numerous ; and yet the 
 precise information that we seek is by no means of 
 ready access. 
 
 Not seldom do we dare perils and dangers, make 
 long pilgrimages over land and ocean, to gaze upon 
 some sainted shrine, or linger in the precincts of some 
 spot hallowed to us by genius. A kindred interest is 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 275 
 
 awakened by the recital of whatever is associated with 
 those productions of the pen that have won for them- 
 selves our admiration and esteem. This is especially 
 true with respect to our poets and hymn-writers. Who 
 does not feel a deeper interest in perusing those touch- 
 ing stanzas, "God moves in a mysterious way," when 
 he recalls the occasion which produced them, — the 
 dark clouds that overshadowed the gentle spirit of the 
 Christian bard, when those plaintive strains first welled 
 up from his tempest-tossed heart? 
 
 In presenting the results of our researches pertaining 
 to the hymn-writers and their hymns, we would premise 
 that the incidents we shall adduce will, of necessity, 
 be very brief and select. First, then, in the order of 
 time, we meet with the well-known names of Stern- 
 hold and Hopkins. The first-named was an officer in 
 the Court of Henry VIII. , and Hopkins was a clergy- 
 man in Suffolk. Jointly, they were the authors of the 
 first psalter attached to the Book of Common Prayer, 
 which appeared in 1562. This version of the Psalms 
 was, in 1696, superseded by that of Brady and Tate. 
 
 The fine old hymn, "All people that on earth do 
 dwell," which has been often ascribed to Hopkins, is 
 now believed to have been composed by one Kethe, 
 who was an exile with Knox, at Geneva, in 1555. 
 
 Richard Baxter, who was born a.d. 1615, is well 
 known as the author of "The Saint's Everlasting 
 Rest." He wrote poetry, as well as solemn prose, 
 to beguile, doubtless, his sad and solitary hours, which 
 were not few. He was often harassed by threats and 
 fines and imprisonment ; and at length, after a trial 
 before the notorious Jeffries, was condemned, for his 
 " Paraphrase on the New Testament," to pay a fine of 
 
276 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 five hundred marks. Being unable to pay the amount, 
 he was committed to prison. He bore his tribulations 
 with wonderful patience ; and when, during his last 
 sickness, he was asked by a friend how he did, he re- 
 plied, "Almost well." His end was as peaceful as his 
 earthly life had been troublous. His most popular 
 hymn reads, — 
 
 Lord, it belongs not to my care, whether I die or live. 
 
 It is part of a sacred lyric, commencing, — 
 
 My whole though broken heart, O Lord ! from henceforth shall be 
 Thine. 
 
 A contemporary of the forenamed was Mason, the 
 author of the well-known "Treatise on Self-Knowl- 
 edge," who wrote some hymns, like Quarles' and Her- 
 bert's for quaintness, but "luminous with imagery." 
 Take a specimen stanza, from his "Evening Song of 
 Praise:" — 
 
 Man's life's a book of history, 
 The leaves thereof are days, 
 The letters, mercies closely joined, 
 The title is Thy praise. 
 
 John Mason was one of the earlier hymn-writers to 
 whom Dr. Watts was indebted. The lines, 
 
 What shall I render to my God, 
 For all his gifts to me ? 
 
 are to be found identical in both collections. 
 
 Mason, whom Baxter styled " the glory of the Church 
 of England," became, in 1674, rector of Water-Strat- 
 ford, Bucks, where he spent his devoted and useful 
 life; he "finished his course with joy," in 1694. Of 
 his sacred songs, Montgomery says, "The style is a 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 277 
 
 middle tint between the raw coloring of Quarles and 
 the daylight clearness of Watts and the Wesley s." 
 
 Honest John Bunyan's name ought to be mentioned 
 here; for, although a writer of very poor verse, in his 
 prose he was essentially a poet, as his immortal alle- 
 gory attests. He was born twenty years after Milton ; 
 yet, although two men could scarcely be more dissim- 
 ilar as to the outward accidents of life, — the one a 
 profound scholar, the other an uneducated tinker,— 
 yet each has enriched our English literature far 
 beyond the average of writers. 
 
 It is remarkable that John Bunyan, who had to en- 
 dure twelve long years' imprisonment in Bedford jail 
 for preaching the gospel, was the first of the non- 
 conformists to receive a license so to do from the Brit- 
 ish government. It was dated the 9th of May, 1672. 
 Would you not have liked to have seen and heard him, 
 in his rude pulpit, after his release from captivity? 
 
 " When such a man, familiar with the skies, 
 Has filled his urn where the pure waters rise, 
 And once more mingles with us, meaner things, 
 'Tis e'en as if an angel shook his wings." 
 
 Bunyan was eminently a Bible-man, — "the man of 
 one book," and that one the "Book of books," — 
 
 " A book wherein his Saviour's Testament, 
 Written with golden letters, rich and brave, — 
 A work of wondrous grace, and able souls to save." 
 
 Henry Vaughan's sacred verse, although, like Her- 
 bert's, disfigured with the conceits of his time, is yet 
 eminently spiritual, and replete with rare beauty, both 
 of thought and expression. We subjoin a few extracts 
 from his finest poems : — 
 
278 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 I saw Eternity the other night, 
 Like a great ring of pure and endless light, 
 
 All calm as it was bright ; 
 And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years, 
 
 Driven by the spheres, 
 Like a vast shadow moved, in which the world 
 
 And all her train were hurled. 
 
 THE SECOND ADVENT. 
 
 Ah ! what time wilt thou come ? when shall that crie, 
 
 The Bridegroome's Comming ! fill the sky ? 
 
 Shall it in the Evening run 
 
 When our words and works are done ? 
 
 Or will thy all-surprizing light 
 
 Break at midnight, 
 When either sleep, or some dark pleasure 
 Possesseth mad man without measure ? 
 Or shall these early, fragrant hours 
 
 Unlock thy bowres ? 
 And with their blush of light descry 
 Thy locks crowned with eternitie ? 
 
 Professor Longfellow says, "It was in an hour of 
 blessed communion with the souls of the departed that 
 the sweet poet wrote those few lines which have made 
 death lovely. He spoke well who said 'that graves 
 are the footsteps of angels.' " Listen to these fine 
 stanzas : — 
 
 I see them walking in an air of glory, 
 
 Whose light doth trample on my days, — 
 My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, * 
 
 Mere glimmerings and decays. 
 O holy hope, and high humility, 
 
 High as the heavens above ! 
 These are your walks, and you have showed them me, 
 
 To kindle my cold love. 
 Dear, beauteous Death ! the jewel of the just ! 
 
 Shining nowhere but in the dark ! 
 What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 
 
 Could man outlook that mark ! 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 
 
 279 
 
 Vaughan's "Hymn to the Rainbow" is only sur- 
 passed by that of Campbell, who plagiarized from his 
 predecessor : — 
 
 Still young and fine ! but what is still in view 
 We slight as old and soiled, though fresh and new. 
 How bright wert thou, when Shem's admiring eye 
 Thy burnished, flaming arch did first descry ! 
 When Terah, Nahor, Haran, Abram, Lot, — 
 The youthful world's gray fathers in one knot, — 
 Did, with intentive looks, watch every hour 
 For thy new light, and trembled at each shower ! 
 When thou dost shine, darkness looks white and fair, 
 Forms turn to music, clouds to smiles and air ; 
 
 Bright pledge of peace and sunshine ! the sure tie 
 Of thy Lord's, hand, the object of His eye ! 
 When I behold thee, though my light be dim, 
 Distant, and low, I can in thine see Him 
 Who looks upon thee from His glorious throne, 
 And mmds the covenant 'twixt all and One. 
 
 His poem, "The Retreat," bears great analogy, in 
 its mystic philosophy, to Wordsworth's ode on "Im- 
 mortality." Both these poets seem to think that this 
 is not our first stage of existence, — that we are haunt- 
 ed by dim memories of a former state. He enjoyed a 
 tranquil, happy life (1621-1695) at Newton, Wales. 
 Listen to his ghostly counsel : — 
 
 When first thy eyes unvail, give thy soul leave 
 
 To do the like ; our bodies but forerun 
 The spirit's duty ; true hearts spread and heave 
 
 Unto their God, as flowers do to the sun : 
 Give Him thy first thoughts then ; so shalt thou keep 
 Him company all day, and in Him sleep. 
 
 Yet never sleep the sun up ; prayer should 
 
 Dawn with the day ; there are set, awful hours 
 'Twixt heaven and us : the manna was not good 
 
280 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 After sun-rising, for day sullies flowers ; 
 Rise to prevent the sun ; sleep doth sins glut, 
 And heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut. 
 
 Mornings are mysteries ; the first world's youth, 
 
 Man's resurrection, and the future's bud, 
 Shroud in their births ; the crown of life, light, truth, 
 
 Is styled their star ; the stone and hidden food ; 
 These blessings wait upon them, one of which 
 Should move : they make us holy, happy, rich. 
 
 Good Bishop Ken ( 163 7-1711), whose name sug- 
 gests the " Morning and Evening Hymns " and the 
 "Doxology," endured many trials and afflictions "for 
 conscience' sake." After his death and burial, it is 
 recorded that his sorrowing attendants saluted the 
 opening day with the strains of his own Morning 
 Hymn. The doxology, "Praise God, from whom all 
 blessings flow," " is a masterpiece of compression 
 and amplification," says Montgomery; there is, prob- 
 ably, no other stanza in existence that has been so 
 often, and is still, sung by all denominations of Chris- 
 tians. We subjoin his paraphrase on " Charity : " — ■ 
 
 Blest Charity ! the grace long-suffering, kind, 
 Which envies not, has no self-vaunting mind, 
 Is not puffed up, makes no unseemly show, 
 Seeks not her own, to provocation slow, 
 No evil thinks, in no unrighteous choice 
 Takes pleasure, doth in truth rejoice, 
 Hides all things, still believes, and hopes the best, 
 All things endures, averse to all contest. 
 Tongues, knowledge, prophecy, shall sink away 
 At the first glance of beatific ray, — 
 Then charity its element shall gain, 
 And with the God of love eternal reign. 
 
 "In him," it has been beautifully said, "doctrine and 
 life melted harmoniously into each other. Poetry, 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 28 1 
 
 with him, was only a recreation from graver pursuits , 
 but he has bequeathed to us a Morning and Evening 
 Hymn, which will only perish with the religion that 
 inspired them."* An eloquent writer f thus refers to 
 the character of this eminent divine : "We shall hardly 
 find in all ecclesiastical history a greener spot than 
 the later years of this courageous and affectionate 
 pastor; persecuted alternately by both parties, and 
 driven from his station in his declining age ; yet sing- 
 ing on, with unabated cheerfulness, to the last." 
 
 Among the hymns of Addison that have become 
 classic is this : — 
 
 When all Thy mercies, O my God ! my rising soul surveys, 
 Transported with the view, I'm lost in wonder, love, and praise ! 
 Oh, how shall words, with equal warmth, the gratitude declare, 
 That glows within my ravished breast ? But Thou canst read it 
 
 there. 
 Through every period of my life, Thy goodness I'll pursue ; 
 And, after death, in distant worlds, the glorious theme renew. 
 
 Our literature owes much to Addison, for he refined, 
 polished, and purified it more than any writer of his 
 own or perhaps any former age ; even Pope, who 
 was his rival and satirist, admits that " no whiter 
 page than Addison's remains." 
 
 What a noble passage is his K Cato's Soliloquy on 
 the Immortality of the Soul " ! — 
 
 It must be so, — Plato, thou reason'st well, — 
 Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
 This longing after immortality ? 
 Or whence this secret dread and inward horror 
 Of falling into nought ? Why shrinks the soul 
 Back on herself, and startles at destruction ? 
 'Tis the Divinity that stirs within us ; 
 
 * Willmott. t Quarterly Review. 
 
282 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS 
 
 'Tis Heaven itself that points out an hereafter, 
 
 And intimates eternity to man. 
 
 Eternity ! thou pleasing, dreadful thought ! 
 
 Through what variety of untried being, 
 
 Through what new scenes and changes must we pass I 
 
 The soul, secured in her existence, smiles 
 At the drawn dagger, and defies its point. 
 The stars shall fade away, the sun himself 
 Grow dim with age, and nature sink in years ; 
 But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, 
 Unhurt amidst the war of elements, 
 The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds. 
 
 Addison's famous lyric, "The spacious firmament 
 on high," first appeared in the "Spectator" in 171 2, 
 at the close of an article by him, on "The Right Means 
 to strengthen Faith."* His paraphrase on the twenty- 
 third psalm accompanied an essay on " Trust in 
 God," about the same time, when his powers had 
 reached their highest cultivation and development. 
 About this time, also, he wrote his " Traveller's 
 Hymn," consisting of ten stanzas, — of which this 
 is one, — of great beauty: — 
 
 Thy mercy sweetened every soil, 
 
 Made every region please, — 
 The hoary Alpine hills it warmed, 
 
 And smoothed the Tyrrhene seas. 
 
 To praise or criticise Addison would be alike im- 
 modest and superfluous. Tickell's elegy may best 
 speak his tribute : — 
 
 If, pensive, to the rural shades I rove, 
 His form o'ertakes me in the vernal grove ; 
 'Twas there of just and good he reasoned strong, 
 Cleared some great truth, or raised some serious song ; 
 
 * It has been doubted, by some critics, whether Andrew Marvell did not write it 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 283 
 
 There, patient, showed us the wise course to steer, 
 A candid censor, and a friend sincere ; 
 There taught us how to live, and — oh, too high 
 The price of knowledge ! — taught us how to die. 
 
 Some two centuries ago, there was, in the town of 
 Southampton, the son of a deacon of an Independent 
 Church, whose ear for melody suffered something like 
 what a person of sensitive nerve feels at the sound of 
 a file sharpening a saw ; and he complained that the 
 hymnists of his day were sadly out of taste. " Give 
 us something better, young man," was the reply. 
 The young man did it ; and the Church was invited 
 to close its evening service with a new hymn, which 
 commenced, — 
 
 Behold the glories of the Lamb, amidst His Father's throne ; 
 Prepare new honors for His name, and songs before unknown. 
 
 This was Isaac Watts's first hymn. To him is the 
 credit due of creating a people's hymnal ; for he taugh 1 . 
 them to sing, and supplied them with sacred songs. 
 It is true the Wesleys share largely the honor of con- 
 tributing to our hymnology ; and they, in common 
 with Watts, have unquestionably done more to em- 
 balm in the hearts and memories of Christians the 
 great scriptural truths of our faith, than any that had 
 preceded them. Their testimony is an imperishable 
 one, like the truth they lived and sang. 
 
 "He was," says Montgomery, "almost the inventor 
 of hymns in our language, so greatly did he improve 
 upon his few almost forgotten predecessors in the com- 
 position of sacred song." The weakness and suffering 
 of his later years afforded him protracted seasons of 
 retirement, and these he made prolific of profit to the 
 
284 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Christian world in the rich contributions thus con- 
 ferred. As he approached his closing hours, he ex- 
 pressed himself as "waiting God's leave to die," and 
 thus he entered into his rest, Nov. 25, 1748. There 
 is a tradition touching the hymn which begins, "There 
 is a land of pure delight," which connects it with 
 Southampton, and says that it was while "looking 
 out upon the beautiful scenery of the harbor and river, 
 and the green glades of the New Forest on its farther 
 bank, that the idea suggested itself to Dr. Watts, of 
 ' a land of pure delight,' and of f sweet fields beyond 
 the swelling flood, dressed in living green,' as an 
 image of the heavenly Canaan." 
 
 Watts's once famous work was his "Logic," pre- 
 pared primarily for the use of his pupil, the son of Sir 
 John Hartopp, at Stoke Newington. When he at- 
 tained his twenty-fourth year, he preached his first 
 sermon at the Independent "Meeting-house," in Mark 
 Lane, London ; but his frequent attacks of indis- 
 position caused him, after some dozen years, to re- 
 linquish the position. Sir Thomas Abney invited him 
 on a visit to his house, at Theobalds; whither he 
 went to spend a week, and remained for six-and-thirty 
 years, until his death. 
 
 In spite of his acknowledged artistic defects, Watts's 
 hymns are among the very best extant ; and they will 
 continue to form the vehicles of utterance for assem- 
 bled worshippers as well as for Christian retirement. 
 By their quickening and inspiring influence, Congre- 
 gationalism in England and America was rescued, 
 to a great extent, from the formalism that prevailed 
 during the eighteenth century. Watts's hymns have 
 found their way into the Episcopal, and all other 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 285 
 
 orthodox communions. How many of his expressive 
 stanzas recur to us, often involuntarily, with a sana- 
 tive and soothing power ! such as these : — 
 
 Be earth, with all her scenes, withdrawn 
 
 Let noise and vanity be gone : 
 
 In secret silence of the mind 
 
 My heaven, and there my God, I find. 
 
 When I survey the wondrous cross 
 On which the Prince of Glory died ! * 
 
 Death, like a narrow sea, divides 
 This heavenly land from ours. 
 
 We learn, from a recent authority, f that the well- 
 known lines, — 
 
 Before Jehovah's awful throne, 
 
 Ye nations, bow with sacred joy, — 
 
 was written by John Wesley, thus improving Watts's 
 hymn, which began, — 
 
 Nations, attend before His throne, 
 With solemn fear and sacred joy. 
 
 The note-book of a London-City missionary con- 
 tains the narrative of a Jewess, who, seeing part of 
 the hymn, beginning, "Not all the blood of beasts," 
 read it, and became so deeply impressed by its teach- 
 ing, that she was induced to consult diligently her 
 Bible, and soon she discovered in the despised Naza- 
 rene, the true Messiah. In consequence of this, her 
 husband repudiated her, obtained a divorce ; went to 
 India, and married again, and then — died. She suf- 
 fered privation, patiently and cheerfully, like those 
 faithful few at Jerusalem of old. 
 
 * A writer of one of the " Oxford Essays " fixes on this as Watts's finest hymn, 
 t Miller. 
 
286 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 The hymn commencing, "My God, the spring of 
 all my joys," has been pronounced, by critics, one 
 of the very best of its author's numerous Christian 
 lyrics. Another very striking and impressive one is 
 "Absent from flesh! oh, blissful thought!" Watts's 
 
 lines, — 
 
 When I can read my title clear 
 To mansions in the skies, — 
 
 Cowper seems to have adopted, in his poem on 
 "Truth," in the comparison of the condition of the 
 wealthy, sceptical Voltaire, with that of the poor, 
 believing cottager : — 
 
 Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true, — 
 A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew ; 
 And in that charter reads, with sparkling eyes, 
 Her title to a treasure in the skies. 
 
 Doddridge mentions the powerful effect of singing 
 the hymn of Watts, " Give me the wings of faith to 
 rise," after the sermon he had preached, on Hebrews 
 vi. 12. The hymn gave such emphasis to the sermon, 
 that many were too much moved to continue singing 
 it, while most sang it with tears. 
 
 Dr. Watts's version of Psalm cxlvi., "I'll praise my 
 Maker with my breath," has a special interest as being 
 uttered, when very near his end, by John Wesley. 
 From among many who have expressed their sense 
 of indebtedness to the worthy doctor, we may mention 
 the name of the celebrated Colonel Gardiner, whose 
 testimony is strong and decided. In a letter to Dr. 
 Doddridge, he expresses his fear lest the poet should 
 die before he had an opportunity of thanking him ; 
 a fear, however, not realized. This "Poet of the 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 2&7 
 
 Sanctuary," as we have said, wrote many if not most 
 of his inspiring hymns in the chamber of sickness. 
 Although he never married, yet he loved children, 
 and is their friend to this day by his "Divine Songs." 
 The writer has lingered reverently over his tomb, — 
 not far from that of John Bunyan, in the burial-ground 
 of Bunhill Fields, London, — the Camfo Santo of 
 Dissenters. 
 
 Next in the procession of the sacred poets comes 
 the author of "Night Thoughts," — Young, who, from 
 his austere gravity, it is difficult to believe ever was 
 young. His flowers are sometimes intermingled with 
 weeds, — with the golden grain we find oft-times the 
 gaudy and noxious poppy, the hemlock with the vine : 
 all is displayed with a boundless and indiscriminate 
 prodigality. But let us turn to his picture-pages, 
 albeit they have less of bright lights than of shadows. 
 Our first extract is, however, a splendid one : — 
 
 A Deity believed, is joy begun ; 
 
 A Deity adored, is joy advanced ; 
 
 A Deity beloved, is joy matured. 
 
 Each branch of piety delight inspires. 
 
 Faith builds a bridge from this world to the next 
 
 O'er death's dark gulf, and all its horrors hides. 
 
 Praise, the sweet exhalation of our joy, 
 
 That joy exalts, and makes it sweeter still ; 
 
 Prayer ardent opens heaven, lets down a stream 
 
 Of glory on the consecrated hour 
 
 Of man in audience with the Deity I 
 
 At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ; 
 Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; 
 At fifty, chides his infamous delay, 
 Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; 
 In all the magnanimity of thought 
 
288 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Resolves, and re-resolves ; then dies the same ! 
 
 And why ? because he thinks himself immortal. 
 
 All men think all men mortal but themselves : 
 
 Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate 
 
 Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread ; 
 
 But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, 
 
 Soon close ; where passed the shaft, no trace is found, 
 
 As from the wing no scar the sky retains, 
 
 The parted wave no furrow from the keel : 
 
 So dies in human hearts the thought of death ! 
 
 E'en with the tender tear, which nature sheds 
 
 O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave ! 
 
 This fine triplet has often been admired : — 
 
 Talk they of morals ? O Thou bleeding Love ! 
 Thou maker of new morals to mankind ! 
 The grand morality is love of Thee ! 
 
 There are some splendid thoughts in this pas- 
 sage : — 
 
 The chamber where the good man meets his fate, 
 
 Is privileged beyond the common walk 
 
 Of virtuous life, quite on the verge of heaven. 
 
 Here tired dissimulation drops her mask, 
 Here real and apparent are the same. 
 You see the man ; you see his hold on heaven ; 
 Heaven waits not the last moment, owns its friends 
 On this side death, and points them out to men ; 
 To vice, confusion ; and, to virtue, peace ! 
 Whatever farce the boastful hero plays, 
 Virtue alone has majesty in death. 
 
 By a sort of concatenation, we turn from the author 
 of "Night Thoughts" to that of "The Grave." Both 
 are poets of a sombre hue, and yet, as quaint old 
 Fuller used to say, "to smell to a turf of fresh earth 
 is wholesome for the body; no less are thoughts of 
 mortality cordial to the soul. Earth thou art, and 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 289 
 
 unto earth shalt thou return." Robert Blair, and his 
 contemporary Young, although in their poetry melan- 
 cholic, and shrouded with the shadows of death, were 
 yet, in their private life, of cheerful and happy mood 
 enough. Campbell remarks, "Blair maybe a homely 
 and even gloomy poet in the eye of fastidious criticism ; 
 but there is a masculine and pronounced character, 
 even in his gloom and homeliness, that keeps it most 
 distinctly apart from either dulness, or even vulgarity. 
 His style pleases us, like the powerful expression of 
 a countenance without regular beauty." Here is a 
 specimen passage of his Muse : — 
 
 How shocking must thy summons be, O Death ! 
 To him that is at ease in his possession ; 
 Who, counting on long years of pleasure here, 
 Is quite unfurnished for that world to come ! 
 In that dread moment, how the frantic soul 
 Raves round the walls of her clay tenement, 
 Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help, 
 But shrieks in vain ! How wishfully she looks 
 On all she's leaving, now no longer hers ! 
 A little longer, yet a little longer, 
 Oh, might she stay, to wash away her stains, 
 And fit her for her passage ! Mournful sight ! 
 Her very eyes weep blood ; and every groan 
 She heaves is big with horror : but the foe, 
 Like a stanch murd'rer, steady to his purpose, 
 Pursues her close through every lane of life, 
 Nor misses once the track, but presses on ; 
 Till, forced at last to the tremendous verge, 
 At once she sinks to everlasting ruin. 
 
 Pope's celebrated lyric, "Vital spark of heavenly 
 flame," like some other productions of his pen, is an 
 imitation. "The original source of this hymn is sup- 
 posed to be a poem composed by the Emperor Adrian, 
 
 J 9 
 
29O EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 who, dying a.d. 138, thus gave expression to his min- 
 gled doubts and fears. His poem begins thus : — 
 
 Animula vagula blandula, 
 Hospes comesque corporis. 
 
 (" Sweet spirit, ready to depart, guest and companion of the body.") 
 
 It is afterwards found freely rendered in a piece by 
 a poet of some note in his own day, — Thomas Flat- 
 man, of London, — a barrister, poet, and painter. 
 Flatman's poem is called w A Thought of Death ; " 
 and, as he died in the year Pope was born, 1688, 
 and the poems are very similar, there can be little 
 doubt that Pope has imitated his predecessor. From 
 Pope's correspondence, we learn that on Nov. 7, 1712, 
 he sent a letter to Mr. Steele, for insertion in the 
 " Spectator," on the subject of Adrian's last words ; to 
 which Steele responded by asking him to make of 
 them an ode, in two or three stanzas, for music. He 
 replied immediately, saying that he had done as re- 
 quired, and sent the piece."* 
 
 To show how close is the parallel between the poets, 
 we put a stanza of each side by side : — 
 
 Full of sorrow, full of anguish, Vital spark of heavenly flame ! 
 
 Fainting, gasping, trembling, Quit, oh, quit this mortal frame ! 
 
 crying, Trembling, hoping, ling'ring, 
 Panting, groaning, shrinking, Ayi n g> 
 
 dying, — Oh, the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
 
 Methinks I hear some gentle Cease, fond Nature, cease thy 
 
 spirit say, strife, 
 
 " Be not fearful, come away ! " And let me languish into life ! 
 
 It has been urged by critics, that it is inconsistent 
 and inconceivable that a dying man should hold such 
 a soliloquy with his soul, — it is altogether too studied 
 
 * Miller's Our Hymns. 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 29 1 
 
 and rhetorical, too artificial. Although undoubtedly 
 a grand poem, yet it cannot be regarded strictly as a 
 hymn, any more than Toplady's famous production, 
 "Deathless principle! arise," judged by the rule of 
 St. Augustine, who tells us " a hymn must be -praise , 
 — the praise of God, and this in the form of song." 
 Pope's " Universal Prayer " has been considered justly 
 amenable to criticism for its defective theology ; and 
 yet, it cannot be denied, it is to be preferred to the 
 artificial, flamboyant style of his sacred eclogue, "The 
 Messiah." A few short extracts we subjoin : — 
 
 Thou great First Cause, least understood ! who all my sense con- 
 fined 
 To know but this, that Thou art good, and that myself am blind : 
 Yet give me in this dark estate, to see the good from ill ; 
 And binding nature fast in fate, let free the human will. 
 What conscience dictates to be done, or warns me not to do, 
 This, teach me more than hell to shun, that, more than heaven 
 pursue. 
 
 Save me alike from foolish pride, or impious discontent, 
 At aught Thy wisdom has denied, or aught Thy goodness lent 
 Teach me to feel another's woe, to hide the faults I see ; 
 That mercy I to others show, that mercy show to me. 
 
 To Thee, whose temple is all space, whose altar, earth, sea, skies ! 
 One chorus let all beings raise ! all nature's incense rise ! 
 
 Warburton informs us that Pope wrote his "Uni- 
 versal Prayer " to silence the cavils which his " Essay 
 on Man " had elicited ; not thinking, probably, that 
 the " Prayer " itself would subject him to animadver- 
 sions scarcely less formidable. The incongruous and 
 irreverent mingling of the name of a pagan god with 
 that of the Divine Being, in the last line of the first 
 stanza ; the uncouth combination of fate and free-will 
 
292 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED TOETS. 
 
 in the second and third verses, expressed, too, in bad 
 grammar ; and the hyperbole bordering on profanity 
 in the fourth stanza, — are grave defects in a poem 
 otherwise worthy of great critical praise. 
 
 Pope's "Essay on Man" was Bolingbroke in verse, 
 for the mind of the former dwelt under the shadow 
 of the latter. This explains the infidel tendencies of 
 much of his seductive verse. What but the deistical 
 fallacy of the sufficiency of natural religion, as it is 
 called, and the equally sophistical sentiment of a 
 spurious liberality, is in these lines? — 
 
 Slave to no sect, who takes no private road, 
 But looks through nature, up to nature's God ! 
 
 Or, again, how unsound are those lines so often quoted 
 with unthinking approval ! — 
 
 For forms of government let fools contest ; 
 Whate'er is best administered is best. 
 For modes of faith, let senseless zealots fight ; 
 He can't be wrong, whose life is in the right. 
 
 As if the administration of a government did not 
 greatly depend upon its form ; as if the rectitude of 
 life did not depend upon its faith. 
 
 Recalling the pure and almost inspired Muse of 
 Milton, we can scarcely read the seductive lines of the 
 great satirist, with unalloyed pleasure or profit. It 
 has been said that "when Milton lost his eyes, Poetry 
 lost hers." 
 
 Having taken our exceptions to his erratic theology, 
 we gladly accord to him all praise for the masterly 
 passages which follow : — 
 
 O blindness to the future ! kindly given, 
 
 That each may fill the circle marked by heaven. 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 
 
 Hope humbly, then, with trembling pinions soar, 
 Wait the great teacher, Death ; and God adore. 
 What future bliss, He gives not thee to know, 
 But gives that hope to be thy blessing now. 
 Hope springs eternal in the human breast ; 
 Man never is, but always to be blest : 
 The soul, uneasy and confined from home, 
 Rests and expatiates in a life to come. 
 
 293 
 
 What nothing earthly gives, or can destroy, 
 The soul's calm sunshine and the heart-felt joy, 
 Is Virtue's prize. 
 
 Although Pope's style was didactic, — he having 
 left untouched the two higher orders of poetry, the 
 epic and dramatic, — yet in this department he was 
 the master unsurpassed. No other poet, not even 
 Cowper, has combined such powers of reasoning with 
 such splendid decorations of fancy. His works have 
 been more frequently edited than those of any other 
 British poet, except Shakspeare. He does not seem 
 to have been a very lovable character, however, as his 
 caustic satires would lead us to suspect. His person 
 was small and deformed ; and his temper of mind often, 
 also, crooked. His friend, Bishop Atterbury, once 
 referring to his irascibility, described him as "mens 
 curva in corpore curvo." In justice to the poet, how- 
 ever, we ought to cite his noble couplet on his friend : 
 
 How pleasing Atterbury's softer hour ! 
 
 How shined his soul unconquered in the Tower! 
 
 There is a familiar hymn, beginning, — 
 
 Rise, my soul, and stretch thy wings, 
 Thy better portion trace, 
 
 which is often erroneously ascribed to Malan : it is by 
 Robert Seagrave, who deserves honorable mention 
 among hymnists. 
 
294 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 One Byrom, born in 1691, has left several hymns, 
 which are more remarkable for their metaphysics than 
 their melody. We present two of his epigrams : — 
 
 Think, and be careful what thou art within ; 
 For there is sin in the desire of sin : 
 Think, and be thankful, in a different case ; 
 For there is grace in the desire of grace. 
 
 Faith, Hope, and Love were questioned what they thought 
 Of future Glory, which religion taught : 
 Now Faith believed it firmly to be true, 
 And Hope expected so to find it too ; 
 Love answered, smiling with a conscious glow, 
 Believe ? ' ' Expect ? ' I know it to be so ! " 
 
 a l 
 
 One of Thomson's finest bursts of poetic inspira- 
 tion is his " Hymn of the Seasons : " how sublimely it 
 opens ! — 
 
 These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
 Are but the varied God. The rolling year 
 Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing spring 
 Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love. 
 Wide flush the fields ; the softening air is balm ; 
 Echo the mountains round ; the forest smiles ; 
 And every sense and every heart is joy. 
 Then comes Thy glory in the summer months, 
 With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun 
 Shoots full perfection through the swelling year ; 
 And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks ; 
 And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve, 
 By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales. 
 Thy bounty shines in autumn unconfined, 
 And spreads a common feast for all that lives. 
 In winter awful Thou ! with clouds and storms 
 Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest rolled, 
 Majestic darkness ! on the whirlwind's wing 
 Riding sublime, Thou bidst the world adore, 
 And humblest nature with Thy northern blast ! 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 295 
 
 That exquisite poem on Winter, by Thomson, abounds 
 in fine passages : here is one, which is inscribed on his 
 tomb : — 
 
 Father of light and life, Thou God supreme ! 
 Oh, teach me what is good, — teach me Thyself! 
 Save me from folly, vanity, and vice, 
 From every low pursuit ; and feed my soul 
 With knowledge, conscious peace, and virtue pure, 
 Sacred, substantial, never-fading bliss ! 
 
 Thomson's sublime hymn, with which his " Seasons" 
 closes, has been said to concentrate the essential beauty 
 of his epic, as if in " a cloud of fragrance, and by the 
 breath of devotion, it directed it up to heaven." The 
 poet was born, a.d. 1700, at Ednam, in Roxburghshire ; 
 and in that land of picturesque beauty and wild ro- 
 mance he gave the first promise of poetic wealth. He 
 is described as a "fine, fat fellow, not without his 
 errors ; but a loving brother, a fast friend, a sharp and 
 accurate observer of men and things, and gave hope, 
 in his last hours, that he died in the faith." 
 
 A large, sorrow-stricken crowd was gathered around 
 an open grave in the well-known Bunhill-Fields bury- 
 ing-ground, London, in the spring of 1768. The funeral 
 address and prayer being ended, the multitude lifted 
 up their voices and sang, — 
 
 Sons of God by blest adoption, view the dead with steady eyes ; 
 What is sown thus in corruption shall in incorruption rise ; 
 What is sown in death's dishonor shall revive to glory's light ; 
 What is sown in this weak manner shall be raised in matchless 
 might. 
 
 Earthly cavern, to thy keeping we commit our brother's dust : 
 Keep it safely, softly sleeping, till our Lord demand thy trust. 
 Sweetly sleep, dear saint, in Jesus ; thou with us shalt wake from 
 
 death ; 
 Hold he cannot, though he seize us : we his power defy by faith ! 
 
296 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 "The funeral-hymn had been written by the one 
 whose dust was now covered. The grave was closed, 
 and the stone which was laid upon it is still there ; and 
 those who visit the spot should linger awhile, and think 
 of the youthful errors and sins, the dark conflicts, the 
 bitter tears, the spiritual struggles, the sound conver- 
 sion, the consecrated talents, the faithful ministry, and 
 the fresh and fruitful hymns of Joseph Hart. And 
 when they have caught the fragrance of his memory, 
 and hear the songs of those who still thank God for his 
 ministry in the old 'meeting-house' of Jewin Street, 
 they may be ready to chant the soothing and assuring 
 hymn, which arose, in some solemn moments, nearly 
 fifty years ago, from the heart of Milman."* 
 
 Brother, thou art gone before us, and thy saintly soul is flown 
 Where tears are wiped from every eye, and sorrow is unknown : 
 From the burden of the flesh, and from care and fear released, 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. 
 
 Another worthy gentleman, one of Lady Hunting- 
 ton's select friends, was Philip Doddridge, whose win- 
 ning address and gentleness of spirit caused him to be 
 so tenderly beloved by Dr. Watts. He lived for his 
 humble parish of Kebworth, in Northampton, and 
 seems to have been very happy in his seclusion from 
 the din and stir of city life. " I live like a tortoise," 
 he writes, "shut up in its shell, almost always in the 
 same town, the same house, and the same chamber; 
 yet I live like a prince, not indeed in the pomp of 
 greatness, but the pride of liberty, — master of my 
 books, master of my time, and, I hope I may add, 
 master of myself." He wrote, at the suggestion of 
 Dr. Watts, "The Rise and Progress of Religion in 
 
 * Christophers' Hymn-writers. 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 297 
 
 the Soul," which was published in 1745 ; a book that 
 still continues to win trophies to the gospel, not merely 
 among the Wilberforces of our day, but also among 
 the multitudes unknown to earthly fame. In the au- 
 tumn of 1 75 1, Doddridge, at the age of fifty, ceased 
 from his "labors of love," at Lisbon, and his ashes 
 rest in the English burying-ground there. Doddridge 
 deserves our tribute, also, as "the sweet lyrist of God's 
 people." Has he not given voice to the most cherished 
 emotions of the soul? Has he not been with us on our 
 covenant days, and, with exquisite pathos, bid 
 
 The glowing heart rejoice, 
 And tell its raptures all abroad ? 
 
 Should the reader be sceptical as to the controlling 
 influence of a mother's training, his faith might be 
 quickened were he to read the noble testimony of 
 Augustine to his sainted mother, Monica ; or the rec- 
 ords of the heroic mother of Cromwell ; the mother of 
 our own Washington ; or of her who taught her son 
 theology by the rude pictorial process of Dutch tiles. 
 Who can iustly estimate the value of maternal counsel 
 and instruction in the instance of the embryo author 
 of the " Rise and Progress of Religion in the Soul," 
 the " Family Expositor," and the imperishable hymns 
 bequeathed to us by Philip Doddridge? We have, 
 doubtless, thousands of true and exemplary mothers 
 who are equal to their responsibilities ; but who does 
 not see that our modern habits of thought are adverse 
 to their growth and increase? Folly and fashion seem 
 well-nigh to have superseded the reign of the gentler 
 graces and virtues of true womanhood ; leaving us, in- 
 stead, — as illustrative of this age of progress, — a 
 splendid exterior, but no inner life. 
 
290 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 "The North British Review" pronounces Dod- 
 dridge's "Rise and Progress of Religion" the best 
 book of the eighteenth century ; very high praise, 
 when so many great pens were enriching our litera- 
 ture. It has been rendered into the leading languages 
 of Europe. Who can tell how many have ascribed 
 their conversion to its perusal? 
 
 The life-record of Doddridge is a beautiful and in- 
 structive study. His private deportment, as well as 
 his public ministrations, alike evinced the amiability 
 and spiritual culture of this estimable servant of God. 
 With what wonderful devotion to the good of others 
 did he fill up the brief days of his earthly career ! how 
 pure and exalted his aims ! No wonder that the great 
 Robert Hall should declare him to be his prime favorite 
 among divines ; or that his name is to the Church at 
 large as a household word. 
 
 The contributions of Doddridge to our hymnology 
 are numerous, and include many familiar devotional 
 lyrics. Critically judged, they are, for the most part, 
 not distinguished for literary skill, or generally quite 
 equal to the compositions of Dr. Watts, his contem- 
 porary. Doddridge's name will always be honored in 
 connection with the history of the founding of Dissent- 
 ing Colleges. His overtasked and useful life was 
 terminated all too soon for the interests of the good 
 work to which he devoted himself. 
 
 Doddridge's most esteemed hymns include those 
 commencing, "Awake, my soul, stretch every nerve !" 
 "Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell," "Grace, 'tis a 
 charming sound," "Hark ! the glad sound, the Saviour 
 comes!" "Thine earthly Sabbaths, Lord, we love." 
 Doddridge's hymns were often supplementary epito- 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 299 
 
 mizings of his sermons. After he had completed the 
 study of some biblical topic for the pulpit, he would 
 throw the leading thoughts into a few stanzas ; the 
 hymn commencing, "Jesus, I love Thy charming 
 name," was the condensation of his sermon on 1 Pet. 
 ii. 7. Thus, while most of the sermons to which they 
 pertained have disappeared for ever, "these sacred 
 streams, at once beautiful and buoyant, are destined 
 to carry the devout emotions of Doddridge to every 
 shore where His Maker is loved, and where his 
 mother tongue is spoken. If amber is the germ of 
 fossil-trees, fetched up and floated off by the ocean, 
 hymns like these are a spiritual amber." * 
 
 Doddridge's epigram on his family motto, " Dum 
 vivimus vivamus," so highly eulogized by Johnson, is 
 familiar to most readers : — 
 
 " Live while you live," the epicure would say, 
 " And seize the pleasures of the present day." 
 " Live while you live," the sacred preacher cries, 
 " And give to God each moment as it flies." 
 
 Lord, in my life let both united be : 
 
 I live in pleasure while I live to Thee ! 
 
 As a Christian lyrist, Doddridge deserves our 
 grateful regard. One of the best of his hymns, as 
 we have intimated, commences, — 
 
 Ye golden lamps of heaven, farewell, with all your feeble light ; 
 Farewell, thou ever-changing moon, pale empress of the night i 
 And thou, refulgent orb of day, in brighter flames arrayed, 
 My soul, that springs beyond thy sphere, no more demands thy aid. 
 Ye stars are but the shining dust of my divine abode, — 
 The pavement of those heavenly courts, where I shall reign with 
 God! 
 
 Doddridge seems to have enjoyed his religion, — to 
 have made the most of it : his letters to his wife reveal 
 
 * Dr. J. Hamilton. 
 
300 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 this. His faith was, it seems, equivalent to a realiza- 
 tion. He has preserved to us this impressive record 
 (Sept. 13, 1747) : "I must record this day as one of 
 the most blessed of my life. God was pleased to meet 
 me in my secret retirement in the morning, and poured 
 into my soul such a flood of consolation in the exercise 
 of faith and love, as I was hardly able to contain. It 
 would have been a relief to me to have been able even 
 to have uttered strong cries of joy." 
 
 Nor is this an isolated instance. He seems to have 
 enjoyed, in an eminent degree, that "peace of God 
 which passeth all understanding." His waking hours 
 were so frequently employed on devotional themes, 
 that they were sometimes interwoven with the still 
 hours of repose, and mingled with his dreams. His 
 recent biographer * gives an illustration of this, as 
 showing under what impressions he composed a fine 
 hymn, — following a remarkable dream which he had, 
 after a conversation with the Rev. Dr. Clarke, on the 
 state of the soul after death. 
 
 "He dreamed that he was dead, and that his spirit 
 soared away into those deep regions of the infinite, 
 which oftentimes awaken our trembling curiosity. He 
 felt, as he lost sight of this noisy, busy world, how 
 vain and empty are the objects which excite its inhab- 
 itants so much; and, while musing on the theme, and 
 committing himself to the care of the Divine Pilot, as 
 he embarked on the ocean of immensity, and sailed 
 amidst islands of stars, he fancied he was met on the 
 shores of heaven by an angel-guide, who conducted 
 him to a palace which had been assigned for his 
 abode. The dreamer wondered at the place, for it 
 
 * Harsha. 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 3OI 
 
 made him think that heaven was not so unlike earth 
 as the teachings of Scripture had led him to expect ; 
 but he was told that there he was to be gradually pre- 
 pared for unknown glories afterwards to be revealed. 
 In the inner apartment of the palace stood a golden 
 cup, with a grape-vine embossed on it, which he 
 learned was meant to signify the living union of 
 Christ and His people. But as he and his guide 
 were talking, a gentle knock at the door, before 
 him, announced the approach of some one, when, 
 the portals unfolding, revealed the majestic presence 
 of the Redeemer of the Church. The now glorified 
 disciple immediately fell at the feet of his gracious 
 Lord, but was raised with assurances of favor, and of 
 the kind acceptance which had been vouchsafed to all 
 his loving services. Then taking up the cup, and 
 drinking out of it, the Saviour put it in His servant's 
 hands, inviting him to drink, who shrunk from the 
 amazing honor; but was told, ? If thou drink it not, 
 thou hast no part with me.' He was ready to sink 
 under the transport of gratitude and joy which was 
 thus produced, when that condescending One, in con- 
 sideration of his weakness, left him for a while, with 
 the assurance that He would soon return ; directing 
 him, in the mean time, to look and meditate upon the 
 objects that were around ; and lo ! there were pictures 
 hung all about, illustrative of his own pilgrim-life ; 
 scene after scene of trial and deliverance, of conflict 
 and victory, meeting his eyes, and filling his heart 
 with love and wonder. And, as he gazed on them, 
 he thought, — what we often fancy will be the saint's 
 first thought in heaven, — how all the perils of his 
 former life were now for ever over. Exulting in his 
 
302 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 new-found safety, a burst of joy broke the enchant- 
 ment of his celestial dream ; and he awoke again, 
 amidst a flood of tears, to the consciousness that he 
 was in the body still." 
 
 It was under the inspiration of this dream, that he 
 wrote that beautiful hymn : — 
 
 While on the verge of life I stand, 
 And view the scene on either hand, 
 My spirit struggles with its clay, 
 And longs to wing its flight away. 
 
 Come, ye angelic convoys, come, — 
 And lead the willing pilgrim home ; 
 Ye know the way to that bright throne, 
 Source of my joys, and of your own. 
 
 Oh, for a seraph's voice to sing! 
 To fly, as on a cherub's wing ! 
 Performing, with unwearied hands, 
 A present Saviour's high commands. 
 Yet, with these prospects full in sight, 
 I'll wait Thy signal for my flight : 
 And in Thy service here below, 
 Confess that heavenly joys may grow. 
 
 Nor had he to wait long for the full fruition of his 
 desire. 
 
 Doddridge's prose is, we think, even better than 
 his verse. Listen to his good counsel: "Let it be 
 our great care to give up ourselves to the Redeemer, 
 in the bonds of an everlasting covenant. While we 
 are in this world, let it be our growing concern, by 
 the assistance of His grace, to be more and more 
 transformed into His image, and to subserve the 
 purposes of His glory. Let us pass the days of our 
 pilgrimage here, in frequent converse with Him, in 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 303 
 
 continual devotedness to Him, and in the longing ex 
 pectation of that happy hour, which will dismiss us 
 from the labors and sorrows of this mortal state, and 
 raise us to the fullest and brightest visions of that 
 glory, which, even in this distant and imperfect pros- 
 pect, is sufficient to eclipse all the splendors of life. 
 and to disarm all the terrors of death ! " 
 
 It is often said that genius is allied to madness, and 
 we have something like a verification, of the case in 
 the two following instances. The first extract is said 
 to have been composed by a person partially insane, 
 at Cirencester, in 1779 : — 
 
 Could we with ink the ocean fill, 
 
 Were the whole earth of parchment made, 
 Were every single stick a quill, 
 
 Were every man a scribe by trade ; 
 To write the love of God alone, 
 
 Would drain the ocean dry ; 
 Nor would the scroll contain the whole, 
 
 Though stretched from sky to sky. 
 
 The other example is that of Christopher Smart, 
 who lived about the same time (1722-1771), and was 
 constitutionally predisposed to the same malady. On 
 one occasion, when confined in an insane asylum, 
 during a lucid interval, he composed the following 
 remarkable poem on David, consisting of nearly one 
 hundred stanzas. Being deprived of pen and ink, 
 it is said, he was obliged to indent his lines with a 
 key upon the wainscot of his room. 
 
 Sublime invention, ever young, 
 Of vast conception, towering tongue, 
 To God, the eternal theme ; 
 
304 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Notes from your exaltation caught, 
 Unrivalled royalty of thought, 
 O'er meaner thoughts supreme. 
 
 He sang of God, the mighty source 
 Of all things ; that stupendous force 
 
 On which all strength depends ; 
 From whose right arm, beneath whose eyes, 
 All period, power, and enterprise 
 
 Commences, reigns, and ends. 
 
 The world, the clustering spheres, He made, 
 The glorious light, the soothing shade, 
 
 Dale, champaign, grove, and hill ; 
 The multitudinous abyss, 
 Where secrecy remains in bliss, 
 
 And wisdom hides her skill. 
 
 " Tell them I am," Jehovah said 
 To Moses ; while earth heard in dread ; 
 
 And, smitten to the heart, 
 At once above, beneath, around, 
 All Nature, without voice or sound, 
 Replied, " O Lord, Thou art ! " 
 
 We meet, in our poetic rambles, with these sublime 
 lines, addressed to the Deity, written by Boyse, who 
 lived in the early part of the eighteenth century : — 
 
 Exalted Power, invisible, supreme ! 
 
 Thou sovereign, sole, unutterable name ! 
 
 As round Thy throne Thy flaming seraphs stand, 
 
 And touch the golden lyre with trembling hand ; 
 
 Too weak Thy pure effulgence to behold, — 
 
 With their rich plumes their dazzled eyes infold ; 
 
 Transported with the ardors of Thy praise, 
 
 The " Holy, holy, holy ! " anthem raise. 
 
 To them responsive, let creation sing 
 
 Thee, — indivisible, eternal King! 
 
LATER ENGLISH, 
 
 305 
 
 Two of our most popular hymns, commencing ''Sweet 
 the moments, rich in blessing," and "Lord, dismiss us 
 with thy blessing," were written by the Rev. Walter 
 Shirley, of Galway, Ireland. The following is the 
 only hymn known to have been written by Hervey, 
 author of "Meditations among the Tombs :" — 
 
 Since all the downward tracts of time 
 
 God's watchful eye surveys, 
 Oh, who so wise to choose our lot 
 
 And regulate our ways ? 
 
 Since none can doubt His equal love, 
 
 Unmeasurably kind, 
 To His unerring, gracious will 
 
 Be every wish resigned. 
 
 Good when he gives, supremely good ; 
 
 Nor less, when he denies ; 
 Even crosses, from His sovereign hand, 
 
 Are blessings in disguise. 
 
 Byron considered Gray's "Elegy" the corner-stone 
 of his glory, and he is not alone in the estimate of this 
 masterpiece of song. Let us rehearse some of the ma- 
 jestic stanzas : — 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade, 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
 
 Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn, 
 
 The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
 
 The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 The boast of Heraldry, the pomp of Power, 
 And all that Beauty, all that Wealth e'er gave, 
 
 Await alike the inevitable hour : 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 20 
 
306 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, 
 If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
 
 Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 
 
 Can storied urn, or animated bust, 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
 
 Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust, 
 
 Or Flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of Death ? 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, — 
 
 Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, 
 Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 
 The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear : 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 What must the excellence of the finished poem be, 
 from which the author deliberately rejected two such 
 stanzas as these, after they had been once inserted ! — 
 
 Hark, how the sacred calm that breathes around, 
 Bids every fierce, tumultuous passion cease, — 
 
 In still, small accents breathing from the ground 
 A grateful earnest of eternal peace. 
 
 And this, descriptive of the rustic tomb of the village 
 scholar : — 
 
 There scattered oft, the earliest of the year, 
 
 By hands unseen, are showers of violets found : 
 
 The red-breast loves to build and warble there, 
 And little footsteps lightly print the ground. 
 
 Hazlitt considered the "Elegy" "one of the most 
 classical productions ever penned by a refined and 
 thoughtful mind, moralizing on human life." There 
 

 LATER ENGLISH. 307 
 
 are two manuscripts of it in existence : in 1854, tne y 
 were sold at auction, — one, for one hundred pounds; 
 and the other, which contained five additional stanzas, 
 never printed in the published editions, for one hun- 
 dred and thirty pounds. The old tower of Upton 
 Church (Gray's "ivy-mantled tower") is still a mosi 
 picturesque object, although fast falling into decay. 
 The memory of the bard is, however, even more 
 closely associated with another locality, that of Stoke 
 Pogis. It was here he wrote, wandered, and died; 
 and here, too, all that was mortal of him sleeps, un- 
 der "the yew-tree's shade." After recovering from the 
 dazzling fascination of these beautiful stanzas, and on 
 returning to the " Elegy," deliberately to scan its words, 
 we find no intimations of a "life beyond life." This 
 omission and defect, in one of the grandest odes of our 
 English anthology, has tempted an American pen, 
 with much success, to supply, — 
 
 Though they, each tome of human lore unknown, 
 The brilliant path of science never trod, 
 
 The sacred volume claimed their hearts alone, 
 Which taught the way to glory and to God. 
 
 Here they from Truth's eternal fountain drew 
 The pure and gladdening waters, day by day ; 
 
 Learnt, since our days were evil, fleet, and few, 
 To walk in wisdom's bright and peaceful way. 
 
 When life flowed by, and, like an angel, Death 
 Came to release them to the world on high, 
 
 Praise trembled still on each expiring breath, 
 And holy triumph beamed from every eye. 
 
 Then gentle hands their " dust to dust " consign, 
 With quiet tears the simple rites are said, — 
 
 And here they sleep, till, at the trump divine, 
 The earth and ocean render up their dead. 
 
308 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 In good old times, when hymn-books were scarce, 
 it was the custom in many of the dissenting churches 
 for the clerk to read out a line or couplet of a hymn N 
 so that those who were without books might unite in 
 the singing. There is a story told of an officiating 
 minister of a Methodist chapel in Georgia, years ago, 
 who, having left his spectacles at home on one occa- 
 sion, intended to announce to the congregation that 
 the singing would be dispensed with : he arose, and 
 
 said, — 
 
 My eyes are dim, I cannot see ; 
 
 and immediately the chorister commenced singing the 
 words to the tune of " Old Hundred." Surprise and 
 mortification made the clergyman almost speechless ; 
 but he made an effort to stammer out, — 
 
 I meant but an apology. 
 
 This line was taken up by the congregation in the 
 same manner; when the dominie, becoming much 
 excited, exclaimed, — 
 
 Forbear, I pray : my sight is dim. 
 
 But all remonstrance seemed to be vain : the singing 
 
 went on ; while, in accents of despair, he again cried 
 
 out, — 
 
 I do not mean to read a hymn ; 
 
 a declaration so palpable, that at length it had the 
 effect of restraining the ardor, and silencing the vocif- 
 erous singers.* 
 
 We Americans ought to be a musical, psalm-singing 
 people ; for the first press " put up " in Cambridge, in 
 1639, by Stephen Day, was devoted to the printing 
 w The Psalms in Metre : faithfully translated for the 
 
 * W. C Richards. 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 3O9 
 
 use, edification, and comfort of the saints, in public and 
 private, especially in New England." And a worthy- 
 act it was, on the part of the Pilgrim Fathers, that 
 they accorded to that same Stephen Day the grant of 
 " three hundred acres of land, where it may be con- 
 venient without prejudice to any town," as an acknowl- 
 edgment of his good services in the department of 
 psalmody. 
 
 Instances are upon record of discord having occurred 
 between the pulpit and the choir ; but perhaps the least 
 said on this subject, the better. We might mention the 
 case, however, of a strange clergyman, who had been 
 invited lo officiate in a New-England church, in the 
 absence of the pastor. Not being familiar with some 
 of the rules of the choir, he caused them so much 
 offence , that they would not sing. After several efforts, 
 the preacher determined not to be discomfited, and read 
 the verse, — 
 
 " Let those refuse to sing who never knew our God ; 
 But children of the heavenly King may speak their joys abroad." 
 
 This roused the entire congregation, who waited not 
 for the choir to lead them. 
 
 Among our English hymnists, the Wesleys — Charles 
 and John — shine as twin stars, and stars also of the 
 first magnitude. John was educated at Oxford ; and 
 subsequently, impelled by missionary zeal, he went, in 
 company with his brother Charles, in 1735, on a mis- 
 sion to Georgia, to preach to the settlers and Indians. 
 But, though unsuccessful, this mission to America was 
 attended with most important results to the Wesleys, 
 through the spiritual benefits they derived from the 
 Moravian Christians, who sailed with them in the same 
 
3IO EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS 
 
 ship. On his return to England, in 1738, John Wes 
 ley formed, in conjunction with Whitefield and others, 
 the first Methodist society, at the Moravian chapel, in 
 Fetter Lane, London. From that period to the eud of 
 his long and laborious life, he was constantly engaged 
 in going from place to place to preach the gospel. He 
 met with much opposition, and sometimes personal 
 violence ; but this did not deter him from prosecuting 
 his great work. John translated several hymns from 
 the German ; but his brother Charles composed the 
 multitude* of beautiful hymns that bear the name of 
 Wesley. He at least equalled Watts, in the average 
 excellence of his hymns: in these respects, he stands 
 foremost among the priesthood of Christian min- 
 strelsy. 
 
 Though the eighteenth century was rife with scep- 
 tics and doubters, it had also valiant defenders of 
 Christianity. It had "its hearts of faith and tongues 
 of fire." The age of Rousseau and Voltaire was also 
 the age of Whitefield and Wesley, — two names not to 
 be ignored; men who, although they have passed 
 away, yet live in the loving memories of thousands, 
 nay, hundreds of thousands, of persons. With the 
 advent of Methodism came a new and deeper out- 
 burst of sacred song in the Church ; and with it 
 a pentecostal baptism of both its clerical and la} 
 members. Most of the numerous hymns of the Wes- 
 leys are eminently lyrical ; some, however, are fine 
 poems. 
 
 To attempt an enumeration of their finest lyrical 
 productions would be no easy task, where there are so 
 many of varied excellence. The following are beyond 
 
 * Charles Wesley published 4,100 hymns, and left upwards of 2,000 others in manuscript. 
 

 LATER ENGLISH. 311 
 
 the pale of criticism, and need only time to render 
 them classic : it will suffice to mention the first lines 
 of some of the best. 
 
 O Love Divine, how sweet Thou art ! 
 
 Jesus, Lover of my soul ! 
 
 The heavens declare Thy glory, Lord. 
 
 Hark ! the herald angels sing, 
 Glory to the new-born King ! 
 
 or, rather, as the author originally wrote it, — 
 
 Hark! how all the welkin rings, — 
 Glory to the King of kings ! 
 
 All must feel the force and poetry of such lines as 
 
 these : — 
 
 On faith's strong eagle-pinions rise, 
 And force your passage to the skies, 
 And scale the mount of God. 
 
 I want a principle within of jealous, godly fear, 
 
 A sensibility of sin, a pain to feel it near ; 
 
 I want the first approach to feel of pride or fond desire, 
 
 To catch the wandering of my will, and quench the kindling fire. 
 
 From Thee that I no more may part, no more Thy goodness grieve, 
 
 The filial awe, the fleshly heart, the tender conscience give. 
 
 The spot where Charles Wesley composed that fine 
 hymn, 
 
 Lo ! on a narrow neck of land, 
 'Twixt two unbounded seas I stand 
 
 (so eminently suggestive of the grand thought) , was 
 the last projecting point of rock at Land's-End, Corn- 
 wall, stretching out between the Bristol and English 
 Channel. It is really " a narrow neck of land," jutting 
 
312 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 out into the Atlantic. With scarcely a foot-room be- 
 neath you, you have on either side a precipice, with 
 the sea raging and roaring at its base; and, whether 
 you turn to the right hand or the left, your eye meets 
 a vast expanse of ocean. Montgomery says of this 
 hymn: "It is a sublime contemplation, — solemn, col- 
 lected, unimpassioned thought, — but thought occupied 
 with that which is of everlasting import to a dying 
 man standing on the lapse of a moment between two 
 eternities." 
 
 Southey thought Charles Wesley's hymn, "Stand 
 the omnipotent decree," the finest lyric in the English 
 language. 
 
 Were we to indicate two or three others of his most 
 successful hymns, they would include the following : 
 "Light of life, seraphic fire," "Shrinking from the 
 cold hand of Death," and "Love Divine, all loves 
 excelling." 
 
 When Wesley was preaching, on one occasion, in 
 Kelso churchyard, Walter Scott was arrested by his 
 appeals : he lingered and listened, and returned home 
 to ponder the great subject of personal religion. 
 
 About twenty years ago, on a winter's night, a heavy 
 gale set in upon the precipitous, rock-bound coast near 
 the Bristol Channel. A little coasting vessel struggled 
 bravely, but in vain, with the tempest. One dark, 
 fearful headland could not be weathered, — the bark 
 must go ashore. Then came the last desperate effort 
 of the captain and his ship's crew. Their toiling at the 
 oars was soon over, — their boat was swamped. They 
 were supposed to have all sunk together ; for, in the 
 morning, they were found lying side by side upon a 
 reedy rock. On visiting the wreck, and going below 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 313 
 
 to the cabin, there was found lying on the table the 
 captain's hymn-book, opened at the page containing 
 that delightful hymn, — 
 
 Jesus, Lover of my soul ! 
 Let me to Thy bosom fly, — 
 While the nearer waters roll, 
 While the tempest still is high. 
 
 It is stated that the great British statesman, Cobden, 
 left the world with the lines of one of John Wesley's 
 hymns upon his lip. It is one of his translations from 
 the German, and reads thus : — 
 
 Thee will I love, my Joy, my Crown ! 
 Thee will I love, my Lord, my God ! 
 Thee will I love, beneath Thy frown 
 Or smile, Thy sceptre or Thy rod : 
 What though my flesh and heart decay, 
 Thee shall I love in endless day. 
 
 John Wesley wrote one hymn which is supposed to 
 mark some phases of his personal experience. It 
 commences, — 
 
 How happy is the pilgrim's lot ! 
 How free from every anxious thought ! 
 From worldly hope and fear. 
 
 Referring to this hymn, Mr. Christophers relates a 
 remarkable instance of the conversion of a singular 
 character, who lived in the West of England, and to 
 whom the words might fitly be applied. It seemed as 
 if the hymn were made expressly for him, since there 
 was scarcely a day, through his somewhat lengthened 
 life, in which some stanza of it was not on his lips. 
 M Foolish Dick " people called him ; for in early life he 
 was quite unequal to any kind of labor requiring men- 
 tal exercise. But he proved to be susceptible of relig- 
 
314 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 ious impressions, notwithstanding his seeming idiocy. 
 Dick was one morning on his way to the well for water, 
 when an aged Christian, who was leaning over the 
 garden-gate, said, "So you are going to the well for 
 water, Dick." — "Yes, sir." — "Well, Dick, the woman 
 of Samaria found Jesus Christ at the well." — "Did she, 
 sir?" That was enough: a quickening thought had 
 struck into his half-awakened mind ; and when he came 
 to the well, he said to himself, yet loud enough to be 
 heard by his Saviour, "Why should not I find Jesus 
 Christ at the well ? Oh that I could find Him ! Will 
 He come to me?" His prayer was heard; and Dick 
 returned, not only bearing his full pitcher, but also 
 that "well of water springing up into everlasting life." 
 John Wesley, the theologian, every year travelled 
 many thousand miles ; and even on horseback he was 
 at his book, and at the stopping-places was ready with 
 pen and voice. He wrote upon a great variety of 
 subjects, but religion was indeed the predominating 
 one. He was the father of the system of cheap books 
 for the people. From the sale of his publications, he 
 derived the chief means of his great charities. To his 
 honor be it recorded, the amount ascertained to have 
 been given away by him exceeded a hundred thou- 
 sand dollars. Consistently enough might he preach 
 that close and judicious sermon " Money," under the 
 three heads : "gain all you can, save all you can, and 
 give all you can." It is less difficult with many to 
 adopt the first two heads, than the last. At the age 
 of seventy even, he preached in the open air, to 
 thirty thousand persons, so clear and strong was his 
 voice. He must have been a picturesque old man, 
 from the descriptions given of his -personnel^ — with 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 
 
 315 
 
 his clear forehead, white hair, and piercing eye ; even 
 his dress was characteristic, — the perfection of neat- 
 ness and simplicity. He is said to have been the 
 originator of the phrase, "cleanliness is next to god- 
 liness." One book he always carried with him in 
 his journeys, besides the Bible : it was his " Diary." 
 Would we learn what view of life this worthy minis- 
 ter of the gospel took? He tells us on his eighty -sixth 
 birthday : "This day, I enter on my eighty-sixth year ; 
 and what cause have I to praise God, as for a thousand 
 spiritual blessings, so for bodily blessings also. How 
 little have I suffered yet by the rush of numerous 
 years. ... I am not conscious of any decay in 
 writing sermons, which I do as readily, and, I be- 
 lieve, as correctly as ever. To what cause can I 
 impute this, that I am as I am? First, doubtless, to 
 the power of God, fitting me for the work to which 
 I am called, as long as He pleases to continue me 
 therein ; and next, subordinately to this, the prayers 
 of His children. May we not impute it as inferior 
 means : first, to my constant exercise and change of 
 air; second, to my never having lost a night's sleep, 
 sick or well, at land or at sea, since I was born ; 
 third, to my having sleep at command, so that when- 
 ever I feel myself almost worn out, I call it, and it 
 comes day or night; fourth, to my having con- 
 stantly, for about sixty years, risen at four in the 
 morning; fifth, to my constant preaching at five in 
 the morning for above fifty years; sixth, to my 
 having had so little pain in my life, and so little 
 sorrow, or anxious care? Even now, though I find 
 pain daily in my eye, or temple, or arm, yet it is 
 never violent, and seldom lasts many minutes at a 
 
316 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 time. Whether or not this is sent to give me warning 
 that I am shortly to quit this tabernacle, I do not 
 know ; but be it one way, or the other, I have only 
 to say, — 
 
 My remnant of days I spend to His praise, 
 Who died the whole world to redeem ; 
 
 Be they many or few, my days are His due, 
 And they all are devoted to Him ! " 
 
 So it proved, three years afterwards: in 1791, at the 
 age of eighty-eight, he breathed his last, with a hymn 
 of praise on his lips. With the little strength remain- 
 ing, he cried out to his friends watching his departure, 
 "The best of all is, God is with us ; " and could only 
 whisper the first two words of a favorite psalm, "I'll 
 praise, I'll praise," and Wesley's kindly voice was to 
 be heard no more. At the time of his death, more 
 than one hundred thousand persons looked to him as 
 their guide to heaven; since then, that number has 
 become a million. 
 
 Said Southey, half a century ago, "There may 
 come a time when the name of Wesley will be more 
 generally known, and in remoter regions of the globe, 
 than that of Frederick, or of Catharine. For the 
 works of such men survive them, and continue to 
 operate, when nothing remains of worldly ambition 
 but the memory of its vanity and its guilt." That 
 prophecy has already been accomplished ; and " the 
 fragrance of that name grows richer with the lapse of 
 time." Even the minor events and incidents of such a 
 life as that of the greatest evangelist of modern times 
 are replete with interest to us ; and, as these have 
 been garnered up by a loving pen,* we cull a few for 
 our entertainment. 
 
 • Wakeley's Wesley. 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 317 
 
 Many of the clerical celebrities of the past age have 
 furnished no little amusement by their eccentricities : 
 but here is an instance of the comic, concerning a 
 clerk of the Rev. Samuel Wesley, father of his more 
 renowned sons. This clerk was susceptible of a weak 
 point, — vanity : he believed his rector was the greatest 
 man in the parish, if not in the country, and that he 
 himself stood next to him in importance. He took a 
 fancy of wearing Mr. Wesley's cast-off clothes and 
 wigs ; for the latter of which his head was far too 
 small, and the figure he cut in it was ludicrously 
 grotesque. One morning, before church-time, Mr. 
 Wesley said, "John, I shall preach on a particular 
 subject to-day, and shall choose my own psalm, of 
 which I shall give out the first line, and you shall pro- 
 ceed as usual. John was pleased ; and the service 
 went forward, as usual, till they came to the singing, 
 when Mr. W. gave out the following line : — 
 
 " Like to an owl in ivy bush," — 
 
 This was sung, and the following line. John, peering 
 out of the huge canonical wig in which his head was 
 half lost, gave out, with an audible voice, and an 
 appropriate connecting twang, — 
 
 " That rueful thing ami!" 
 
 The whole congregation saw and felt the force of the 
 similitude, and their gravity was turned into irresistible 
 laughter. This same Samuel Wesley is portrayed by 
 his biographers as a most exemplary and noble Chris- 
 tian minister, and one of the most affectionate fathers 
 that ever lived. He was a persevering man also ; 
 struggling with poverty, and bending under the weight 
 
3l8 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 of seventy years, he was endeavoring to bring out 
 his elaborate work, written in Latin, on the book 
 of Job, — a work which occupied his studious hours 
 for a quarter of a century, — when his right hand was 
 stricken with paralysis, and he could no longer hold a 
 pen. In this emergency, his faith and courage did 
 not desert him : he calmly says, "I have already lost 
 one hand in the service, yet, I thank God, non deficit 
 altera; * and I begin to put the other hand to school 
 this day, to learn to write, in order to help its lame 
 brother." 
 
 Not the father of the Wesley s only was noble, but 
 the mother was no less excellent. She was, indeed, 
 justly called "the Mother of Methodism ; " for, during 
 her husband's absence in London, attending conven- 
 tion, Mrs. Wesley held meetings in the parsonage, at 
 which the family and servants attended ; and daily the 
 numbers increased, till the rooms were crowded to 
 excess. These meetings were held, "because she 
 thought the end of the institution of the Sabbath was 
 not fully answered by attending church, unless the 
 intermediate spaces of time were filled up by acts of 
 devotion." Who can tell the influence those meetings 
 of their mother in the parsonage had upon John and 
 Charles in future years? This excellent woman, writ- 
 ing to her son John, says, "Would you judge of the 
 lawfulness or unlawfulness of pleasure, of the inno- 
 cence or malignity of actions? Take this rule : What- 
 ever weakens your reason, impairs the tenderness of 
 your conscience, obscures your sense of God, or takes 
 off the relish of spiritual things ; in short, whatever 
 increases the strength and authority of your body ovei 
 
 * The other does not fail me- 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 319 
 
 your mind, that thing is sin to you, however innocent 
 it may be in itself." Good counsel this for the present 
 day. 
 
 John Wesley's life-story seems to have illustrated the 
 beautiful lines of w Festus " Bailey : — 
 
 " He most lives, 
 
 Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best ; " 
 
 ■ 
 
 for assuredly few human lives were so richly endowed, 
 and so prolific of good to others, as his. His aims 
 and ideas were all on a grand scale ; the world at 
 large was his parish, as he himself once said ; and his 
 audiences were tenfold the extent of most other min- 
 isters of the Cross. As to his bodily presence, he was 
 small ; yet, as to his mental and spiritual power, he 
 was gigantic. The words of a friend, "The Bible 
 knows nothing of a solitary religion : you must find 
 some companions, or make them," seemed to have 
 had a controlling influence upon Wesley's whole after 
 life ; and thence upon the destiny of, maybe, millions 
 of souls. 
 
 Mr. Wesley was, at first, a reader of sermons, and 
 thought he could preach in no other way ; but, for- 
 tunately for his great success, he was compelled by 
 an accident to preach on one occasion extempore. 
 ." It is fifty years since I first preached in this church " 
 (All-hallows Church, London), said Mr. W. : ? 'I re- 
 member it, from a peculiar circumstance that occurred 
 at that time. I came without a sermon ; and, going up 
 into the pulpit-stairs, I hesitated, and returned into the 
 vestry, under much mental confusion and agitation. 
 A woman that was there, noticing this, said, 'Pray, 
 sir, what is the matter with you ? ' I replied, f I have 
 
320 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 not brought a sermon with me.' Putting her hand 
 upon my shoulder, she said, 'Is that all? Cannot 
 you trust God for a sermon ? ' That question had 
 such an effect upon me, that I ascended the pulpit 
 and preached extempore, with great freedom to my- 
 self, and acceptance to the people ; and I have never 
 since taken a written sermon into the pulpit." 
 
 Wesley was earnestly opposed to "screaming" in 
 the pulpit. " Speak with all your heart," he says in 
 his letter to one of his associates, "but with a moderate 
 voice. It was said of our Lord, 'He shall not cry,' — 
 the word means scream. Herein be a follower of me, 
 as I am of Christ." One secret of Mr. Wesley's won- 
 derful power in preaching consisted in its adaptation, 
 directness, simplicity, and earnestness ; characteristics 
 which also distinguish our modern Wesley, — Spur- 
 geon. No wonder Mr. Wesley had fruit from the first 
 sermon he preached on his father's tombstone. One of 
 his hearers, on that occasion, was a gentleman who 
 boasted that he had not been to church in thirty 
 years. The churchyard scene — a man preaching 
 in the midst of graves, and over the dust of his father 
 — led him to attend and hear Mr. Wesley. When 
 the sermon was ended, the gentleman stood as if he 
 was transfixed, looking up to heaven. Mr. Wesle} r 
 inquired of him, "Are you a sinner?" With a tearful 
 eye, quivering lip, and faltering voice, he answered, 
 " Sinner enough ! " and he remained looking up till 
 his friends thrust him into his carriage, and hurried 
 him home. Ten years after, Mr. Wesley saw him, 
 and was agreeably surprised to find him " strong in 
 faith, though feeble in body, and giving glory to 
 God." His first sermon, in the open fields, was 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 32 1 
 
 preached at Kingswood, and from this singularly 
 apposite text, — the rain descending in torrents, as 
 he stood under a sycamore-tree, — " As the rain 
 cometh down and the snow from heaven, and re- 
 turneth not thither, but watereth the earth, and 
 maketh it to bring forth and bud, that it may give 
 seed to the sower and bread to the eater," &c. 
 
 Wesley was methodical, and therefore he accom- 
 plished more than most other men, opportunities being 
 equal. His maxim was, "Always in haste, but never 
 in a hurry." He said, "Leisure and I have taken 
 leave of each other." " Make the most of a short life," 
 was another of his wise saws. Wesley was a great 
 lover of nature : he could find 
 
 " Books in the running brooks, 
 Sermons in stones, and good in every thing." 
 
 On one occasion, he, with some friends, was admir- 
 ing the fine scenery near Chatham, when he exclaimed, 
 " Why should we give the landscape all the praise, and 
 the Author none?" and he sang, and the rest joined 
 in singing, Watts's beautiful hymn, — 
 
 Praise ye the Lord : 'tis good to raise 
 Your hearts and voices in His praise : 
 His nature and His works invite 
 To make this duty our delight. 
 
 John Wesley considered that hymn of his brother, 
 "Come, let us join our friends above," the sweetest he 
 ever wrote. As the shadows of evening were gather- 
 ing around him, he, on one occasion, ascended the 
 pulpit at City-road Chapel, London, and, for some 
 moments looking up to heaven, as if communing with 
 the mighty dead, broke the solemn stillness by giving 
 
 21 
 
32 2 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 out the words of this same hymn. There was another 
 great favorite with him, written also by his brother 
 Charles, called "Wrestling Jacob:" "Come, O Thou 
 Traveller unknown ! " 
 
 Mr. Wesley was on a visiting tour, and, before preach- 
 ing at a certain missionary station, he gave out the 
 words, and as he proceeded his speech began to falter, 
 and tears flowed down his cheeks : the entire audience 
 was deeply affected, sorrowing most of all because they 
 were persuaded that they should see his face no more. 
 That hymn it was, which Watts, with great nobility 
 of spirit, said was worth all the verses which he had 
 ever written. What a fine couplet is this, also from 
 his pen ! — 
 
 The cross, on which He bows His head, 
 Shall lift us to the skies. 
 
 The distinguished Moravian, Peter Boehler, during 
 his visit to England, was not only useful to John Wes- 
 ley, but also to his brother Charles. When he was 
 sick, in London, in 1737, he sent for his friend, who 
 promptly obeyed the summons. On Wesley's recovery, 
 and conversion to the doctrines of faith, his German 
 friend rebuked his disinclination publicly to confess it, 
 by saying, "If you had a thousand tongues, you should 
 publish it with them all." It is said that the composi 
 tion of his well-known hymn, 
 
 Oh for a thousand tongues, to sing 
 My great Redeemer's praise ! 
 
 was written in commemoration of the anniversary of 
 his spiritual birth. 
 
 Handel composed tunes expressly for several of 
 Charles Wesley's hymns : for instance, he set to music 
 those beginning, "Sinners, obey the gospel word," 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 323 
 
 "O Love Divine, how sweet thou art!" and "Rejoice, 
 the Lord is King." 
 
 The musical manuscripts, in Handel's own hand- 
 writing, are preserved in the Library of Cambridge 
 University. Wesley thus refers to the great composer 
 of "The Messiah," in his fine elegy on the death of 
 Dr. Boyce, — as striking his golden harp with angels 
 and archangels before the throne of God : — 
 
 The generous, good, and upright heart, 
 
 That sighed for a celestial lyre, 
 Was tuned on earth, to bear a part 
 
 Symphonious with that warbling choir 
 Where Handel strikes the golden strings, 
 And plaintive angels strike their wings. 
 
 Charles Wesley's last hymn was written the day that 
 he lay silent for some time, " in age and extreme feeble- 
 ness :" he called his wife, and requested her to write 
 the following lines, as he dictated them : — 
 
 In age and feebleness extreme, 
 Who shall a helpless worm redeem ? 
 Jesus, my only hope Thou art, 
 Strength of my failing flesh and heart : 
 Oh, could I catch a smile from Thee, 
 And drop into eternity ! 
 
 Was there ever a better dying song? 
 
 Wilberforce may be classed among the friends of 
 Wesley. They met for the first time at Hannah More's 
 house, Clifton, near Bristol. "I went in 1786 to see 
 Hannah More," says Wilberforce ; "and, when I came 
 into the room, Charles Wesley arose from the table, 
 around which a numerous party sat at tea, and, com- 
 ing forward, he gave me his solemn blessing. I was 
 scarcely ever more affected. Such was the effect of 
 
324 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 his manner and appearance, that it altogether overset 
 me ; and I burst into tears, unable to restrain my- 
 self." * 
 
 One of the most interesting incidents illustrating the 
 power of a hymn, that we have met with, is the follow- 
 ing. The only daughter of an English nobleman, some 
 years ago, although brought up in the lap of luxury 
 and worldly splendor, was led by a series of circum- 
 stances to visit a Methodist Church in London, and 
 shortly afterwards became a devoted Christian. She 
 was the idol of her father ; and it was with deep regret 
 that he noticed the change that had taken place in her 
 views and conduct. He placed at her disposal large 
 sums of money, hoping to induce her to return to the 
 gay life of dissipation and pleasure that her former 
 associates indulged. After failing in all his projects 
 to win her back to worldly vanities, he determined to 
 introduce her into company, under circumstances that 
 would compel her to join in the amusements of the 
 party, or give high offence. It was arranged that, on 
 a festive occasion, several young ladies should each 
 accompany a performance on the piano-forte with a 
 song. The hour arrived, the party assembled, several 
 had performed their pieces ; and all were waiting 
 with eager expectation for our heroine. With wonder 
 ful serenity she took her seat at the instrument, ran 
 her fingers over its keys, and commenced playing, 
 singing, in a sweet air, the words of Charles Wes- 
 ley,— 
 
 No room for mirth or trifling here, 
 For worldly hope, or worldly fear, 
 If life so soon is gone ; 
 
 * Life of Wilberforce. 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 325 
 
 If now the Judge is at the door, 
 And all mankind must stand before 
 The inexorable Throne. 
 
 No matter which my thoughts employ, 
 A moment's misery or joy: 
 
 But, oh, when both shall end, 
 Where shall I find my destined place ? 
 Shall I my everlasting days 
 
 With fiends or angels spend ? 
 
 She rose from her seat: the whole party were sub- 
 dued ; not a word was spoken. Her father wept aloud. 
 One by one the visitors left the house. Soon after- 
 wards, both father and daughter rejoiced together with 
 a new joy. During his union with the Church, he is 
 said to have contributed to benevolent enterprises a 
 sum equal to over half a million of dollars. 
 
 More than half a century ago, when itinerant Meth- 
 odist ministers fared roughly, there occurred in Louis- 
 iana a little incident worth noting, to show the good 
 effect a hymn may sometimes produce. A travelling 
 minister was one evening reduced to the very verge of 
 starvation ; he had spent the preceding night in a 
 swamp, and had taken no food for thirty-six hours, 
 when he reached a plantation. He entered the house, 
 and asked for food and lodging. The mistress of the 
 house, a widow, with several daughters and negroes, 
 refused him. He stood warming himself by the fire 
 a few minutes, and began singing a hymn, com- 
 mencing, — 
 
 Peace, my soul, thou needst not fear : 
 
 The great Provider still is near. 
 
 He sang the whole hymn ; and, when he looked round, 
 they were all in tears. He was forthwith invited to 
 stay a week with them. 
 
326 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 William Williams (1717-1791), at the age of twenty- 
 three, was ordained deacon, and began his ministry at 
 Llanwrtyd, and afterward he became an itinerant 
 Methodist minister, in which capacity he labored for 
 half a century. For the variety and uniform excel- 
 lence of his hymns, he has been styled the "Watts" 
 of Wales. These are his hymns commencing, — 
 
 O'er the gloomy hills of darkness. 
 Guide me, O Thou great Jehovah ! 
 
 The former is especially interesting, as being a noble 
 missionary hymn, composed before the founding of 
 the modern missionary societies. 
 
 John Cennick, whose life has been briefly sketched 
 by Matthew Wilks, was connected with the Moravians, 
 in London ; and he twice visited their community in 
 Germany. To Cennick we are indebted for two of the 
 finest hymns ever written, — "Rise, my soul, and 
 stretch thy wings," and "Lo ! He comes, with clouds 
 descending." The last-named first appeared in a 
 "Collection of Sacred Hymns," 1752. This hymn is 
 undoubtedly suggested by the "Dies Irae." In some 
 church collections, this hymn is attributed to Thomas 
 Olivers. 
 
 Beddome's Collection of Hymns — originally writ- 
 ten for the use of the Baptist Church at Bourton, in 
 Gloucestershire — comprises some which have become 
 universal favorites. Among the number might be 
 instanced the following : " Did Christ o'er sinners 
 weep?" "Faith, 'tis a precious grace," "Let party 
 names no more," and "Witness, ye men and angels 
 now." 
 
 Robert Hall says, in his "Introduction" to these 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 327 
 
 Hymns, "The man of taste will be gratified with the 
 beautiful and original thoughts which many of them 
 exhibit; while the experimental Christian will often 
 perceive the most sweet movements of his soul strik- 
 ingly delineated, and sentiments portrayed which will 
 find their echo in every heart." The esteemed author 
 devoted the whole of his useful life to the church at 
 Bourton, — a pastoral service of more than half a cen- 
 tury. He was born in 171 7, and died 1795. 
 
 Samuel Davies, who lived from 1724 until 1761, was 
 an American by birth. He was licensed to preach, in 
 1745, by the Presbytery of Newcastle, Del. After- 
 wards, he was appointed by the trustees of the College 
 of New Jersey to visit England ; subsequently, he suc- 
 ceeded Jonathan Edwards as president of Princeton 
 College. He wrote a hymn, admirable for its sim- 
 plicity, force, and comprehensiveness, — "Great God 
 of wonders ! all Thy ways." 
 
 Thomas Haweis, chaplain to the Countess of Hun- 
 tingdon (1734-1820), was one of the founders of the 
 London Missionary Society, and author of several im- 
 portant theological works : he wrote also some favorite 
 hymns, as "O Thou from whom all goodness flows," 
 "Enthroned on high, Almighty Lord." 
 
 Haweis wrote above two hundred and fifty hymns ; 
 and in his preface to the collection he complains that, 
 in his day, "the voice of joy and gladness is too com- 
 monly silent, unless in that shameful mode of psalmody, 
 now almost confined to the wretched solo of a parish 
 clerk, or to a few persons huddled together in one cor- 
 ner of the church, who sing to the praise and glory of 
 themselves, for the entertainment, or oftener for the 
 weariness, of the rest of the congregation, — an ab- 
 
328 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 surdity too glaring to be overlooked, and too shocking 
 to be ridiculous." 
 
 Thomas Olivers (1725-1799) was of humble origin, 
 but ultimately became known and honored as "a sweet 
 singer in Israel." He was deprived of both his parents 
 when he was but four years old, and was placed under 
 the protection of a distant relative. At eighteen, he 
 was apprenticed to a shoemaker ; but, owing to his 
 bad conduct, he was compelled to leave the neighbor- 
 hood. At Bristol, where he had gone to carry on his 
 trade, he heard Whitefield preach, and became a Chris- 
 tian. Subsequently, he met with Mr. Wesley, and 
 joined the corps of itinerant Methodist preachers in 
 Cornwall. In his various journeys on horseback, dur- 
 ing twenty-five years, he travelled about one hundred 
 thousand miles ; often meeting with opposition and vio- 
 lence in his good work. 
 
 " During a conference, in Wesley's time, Thomas 
 Olivers, one of the preachers, came down to him, and, 
 unfolding a manuscript, said, 'Look at this: I have 
 rendered it from the Hebrew, giving it, as far as I 
 could, a Christian character; and I have called on 
 Leoni, the Jew, who has given me a synagogue mel- 
 ody to suit it. Here is the tune, and it is to be called 
 "Leoni." 1 read the composition, and it was that well- 
 known, grand imitation of ancient Israel's hymns : — 
 
 * The God of Abraham praise, 
 
 Who reigns enthroned above ; 
 Ancient of everlasting days, 
 And God of love.' " 
 
 The entire hymn consists of twelve stanzas ; and 
 Montgomery says of it, " There is not in our lan- 
 guage a lyric of more majestic style, more elevated 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 
 
 329 
 
 thought, or more glorious imagery : its structure, in- 
 deed, is unattractive ; but, like a stately pile of archi- 
 tecture, severe and simple in design, it strikes less on 
 the first view than after deliberate examination, when 
 its proportions become more graceful, its dimensions 
 expand, and the mind itself grows greater in contem- 
 plating it." This fine hymn is said to have had great 
 influence upon the mind of Henry Martyn, when con- 
 templating his important missionary career. Olivers 
 lived to a good old age : in his earlier years, he 
 preached, but his latter were devoted to authorship. 
 It is remarkable, that, although Olivers and his asso- 
 ciate, Wesley, were in sweetest harmony with their 
 contemporary, Toplady, in their hymnic utterances, 
 yet in their theology they were bitter opponents. Their 
 poetry, who would let die ; their polemics, who would 
 care to retain? It is pleasant, however, to add that 
 they were personal friends. 
 

 EIGHTH EVENING. 
 
 LATER ENGLISH. 
 
 (Continued) 
 
EIGHTH EVENING. 
 
 LATER ENGLISH. 
 
 (Continued?) 
 
 TN the storied and picturesque city of Oxford, might 
 - 1 - have been seen, about a century and a half since, 
 a young man paying his way, as servitor, at Pem- 
 broke College. He shunned his classmates, because 
 they were inclined to "riotous living." He had heard 
 of the young men there, "who lived by rule and 
 method," called Methodists ; and, for more than a 
 year, he yearned to be acquainted with them ; but 
 a sense of his inferior condition kept him back. At 
 length the great object of his desires was effected. 
 A pauper had attempted suicide ; and a person was 
 sent to inform Charles Wesley, that he might visit 
 him, and administer spiritual medicine. The mes- 
 senger was charged not to say who sent her : but, 
 contrary to these orders, she told his name ; and 
 Charles Wesley, who had seen him frequently walk- 
 ing by himself, and heard something of his character, 
 invited him to breakfast the next morning. An intro- 
 duction to this little fellowship soon followed ; and he 
 also, like them, "began to live by rule, and pick up 
 the very fragments of his time, that not a moment of 
 it might be lost." 
 
334 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 This young man was George Whitefield ; and thus 
 has the graphic pen of Wesley's biographer described 
 his first introduction to that little society, whose mem- 
 bers afterwards stamped their influence so broadly on 
 that and subsequent times. 
 
 After leaving Oxford, and taking deacon's orders, 
 he began to preach at Bristol, and to exhibit "that 
 impassioned eloquence which moved and melted both 
 the Old World and the New." Above the average in 
 stature, of a graceful deportment, a musical voice, 
 to these natural endowments he added the convic- 
 tion of the grandeur of his solemn vocation as a mes- 
 senger of God to men. His maxim was to preach, as 
 Apelles painted, for eternity ! Whitefield differed from 
 his associate Wesley, as to some minor doctrinal points ; 
 but they loved each other with true brotherly affec- 
 tion, for their souls glowed with the warm charities of 
 the gospel. After he returned from his third visit to 
 America, he was, in 1749, appointed chaplain to Lady 
 Huntingdon, whose mansion in Park Street, London, 
 was opened for Whitefield's ministry. Lords Chester- 
 field, Bolingbroke, the Marquis of Lothian, and others 
 of the nobility, attended his preaching, — some to profit, 
 and some to reject and scorn. 
 
 The spiritual crusade of Whitefield, Wesley, Watts, 
 Doddridge, and others associated with the Countess 
 of Huntington, formed an important era in the his- 
 tory of Christianity in Great Britain. The earnest 
 preaching, the electric appeals, of these Home-mission- 
 aries of the Cross, kindled anew the dying faith of the 
 churches, and made converts of multitudes who had 
 been hitherto either indifferent or hostile to its claims. 
 Lady Huntingdon's wealth and position naturally gave 
 
LATER ENGLISH, 
 
 335 
 
 to her a controlling influence ; for her fortune of one 
 hundred thousand pounds was, like her life-service, 
 devoted to the good cause. Among her ladyship's 
 intimate friends was a personage small of stature, 
 modest in bearing, but fluent in thought and speech : 
 he was troubled with a feeble body, and was a great 
 lover of solitude, — to such an extent, indeed, that he 
 never married. He has taught us all to sing, from 
 the nursery ditties of our infant days, to the aspirations 
 of Christian manhood, and to the full maturity of age. 
 Need we introduce this remarkable personage by name? 
 Is it not the venerable pastor of the church at Stoke 
 Newington, — Dr. Watts? He was born in the storm- 
 iest days of nonconformity ; and we find him nursed in 
 the arms of his sorrowing mother, on a stone by the 
 prison-walls which confine his father, a " godly man 
 and a deacon," suffering persecution for conscience' 
 sake. 
 
 But we have already held with him our quiet col- 
 loquy. Closely associated with the names of Wesley 
 and Whitefield is that of Lady Huntingdon, at whose 
 house the first Methodist Conference was held, in 
 June, 1744. The celebrated Romaine, when expelled 
 from St. George's, Hanover Square, was invited by 
 the countess to preach at her house. On the death 
 of the earl, in 1746, she had the entire command of 
 her fortune, which she devoted very liberally to re- 
 ligious purposes. She died at her house in Moor- 
 fields, adjoining the chapel, in 1791, at the ripe age 
 of eighty-four years. At the time of her death, there 
 were more than sixty chapels in her "connection." 
 We possess several fine hymns from her pen, includ- 
 ing the following: "Oh, when my righteous Judge 
 
336 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 shall come ! " " We soon shall hear the midnight cry," 
 and "The world can neither give nor take." 
 
 A quaint mixture of wit, sense, and bluntness, with 
 real piet}^ was John Berridge, whose life, although 
 a bachelor, it were a misnomer to call lonely ; " for 
 it was as stirring as a hundred miles' riding, with ten 
 or twelve sermons a week, could make it, and that 
 for a period of nearly five-and-twenty years. At 
 home, his table was ever ready for his hearers, many 
 of whom came from a distance ; his stables open to 
 their horses ; while houses and barns, in every direc- 
 tion, were rented and taken care of for the lay-preachers 
 employed at his expense. The richness and orig- 
 inality of his mind made him an especial favorite ; 
 while his sturdy sticking to his own notions of duty 
 never gave offence to those who understood the depth 
 and singleness of his piety." * 
 
 As a specimen of his earnest style, read the follow- 
 ing extract from his letter of condolence to Lady 
 Huntingdon, on the death of her daughter: — 
 
 She has gone to pay a most blessed visit, and you will see her 
 again, never to part more. Had she crossed the sea, you could 
 have borne it ; but now she has gone to heaven, it is almost intol- 
 erable. Wonderful, strange love is this ! . . . I cannot soothe you, 
 and I must not flatter you. I am glad the dear creature has gone 
 to heaven before you. Lament, if you please ; but glory, glory, 
 glory be to God, says 
 
 John Berridge. 
 
 Daniel Turner (17 10-1798), a Baptist minister at 
 Abington, England, wrote some notable hymns ; 
 among them, that sometimes attributed to Grigg, 
 "Beyond the glittering starry skies." As we have 
 already intimated, Watts and Doddridge often used 
 
 * Knight's Huntingdon, &c. 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 337 
 
 to write hymns as a sequel to their sermons. This 
 curious custom has long since ceased, however. Other 
 clerical eccentricities lingered later, with Swift, Syd- 
 ney Smith, and Roland Hill ; but these are now be- 
 coming forgotten. 
 
 There is a story told of a certain eccentric clergy- 
 man of Cambridge, England, years ago, who, when 
 challenged to preach against intemperance, is said to 
 have improvised the following short sermon, under 
 a wayside tree, on the word " Malt." He commenced 
 by stating that he had chosen a short text, which could 
 not be divided into sentences, there being none; nor 
 into words, there being but one. He therefore divided 
 it into letters ; thus, M is moral, A is allegorical, L is 
 literal, and T is theological. His exposition ran as 
 follows : the moral is to teach you good manners ; 
 therefore, M, my masters, A, all of you, L, leave off, T, 
 tippling. The allegorical is when one thing is spoken 
 of, and another meant. The thing spoken of is malt, 
 which you make, M, your meat, A, your apparel, L, 
 your liberty, and T, your Trust. The literal is, accord- 
 ing to the letters, M, much, A, ale, L, little, T, trust. 
 The theological is, according to the effects it works in 
 some, M, murder; in others, A, adultery; in all, L, 
 looseness of life ; and, in many, T, treachery. Rather 
 a roundabout way of proving that "gin is a snare," 
 as well as all spirituous drinks. But temperance is 
 one of the Christian virtues. It is a remarkable fact 
 that the burden of Biblical instruction is against the 
 use of stimulating drinks. Although St. Paul's advice 
 to take a little wine medicinally is often urged, few are 
 aware how many instances are on record in which 
 wine and all strong drinks are prohibited in the Bible. 
 
338 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 When the Children of Israel were travel-worn and 
 thirsty, Moses smote the rock Horeb ; and water, not 
 wine, rolled in living streams at their feet. When the 
 drunken king spread rich viands and wine before Dan- 
 iel, he refused to drink any thing save water. When 
 Hagar and her child were perishing with thirst, an 
 angel directed them to a well of water in the wilder- 
 ness. When the Gideonites were chosen to go out 
 and meet the hosts of Midian, three hundred cold- 
 water drinkers were the men picked for that special 
 service. Samson, a man of great physical strength, 
 and John the Baptist, the mightiest born of woman, 
 were each commanded to drink neither wine nor strong 
 drink. Now turn we from libations to long sermons. 
 
 Dr. Isaac Barrow once preached so long, that all 
 his congregation dropped off, leaving the sexton and 
 himself alone. The sexton, finding the doctor appar- 
 ently no nearer a conclusion, is reported to have said 
 to him : " Sir, here are the keys ; please to lock up 
 the church, when you get through your discourse!" 
 Long sermons are the bane of the pulpit's power ; but 
 then, sometimes, under short sermons, some people will 
 become drowsy. Prolixity in preaching is an ancient 
 heresy of the priesthood. As if conscious of this weak- 
 ness, the Greek and Latin Fathers used in the pulpit 
 an hour-glass, whose running down might admonish 
 them when to wind up. George Herbert says : "The 
 parson exceeds not an hour in preaching, because all 
 ages have thought that a competency." Thus much on 
 the pulpit : a word more on the pew. Swift, taking the 
 misfortune of Eutychus for his argument, began a ser- 
 mon with : " I have chosen these words with design, 
 if possible, to disturb some part in this audience of 
 half an hour's sleep, for the convenience and exercise 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 339 
 
 thereof, this place at this season of the day is very 
 much celebrated." Then he goes on, in allusion to 
 Eutychus sleeping in the window : " The preachers 
 now in the world, however they may exceed St. Paul 
 in the art of setting men to sleep, do extremely fall 
 short of him in the power of working miracles ; there- 
 fore, hearers are become more cautious, so as to choose 
 more safe and convenient stations and postures for 
 their repose, without hazard of their persons, and 
 upon the whole matter choose rather to trust their 
 destruction to a miracle than their safety." 
 
 The Rev. James Bonnar, of Auchtermuchty, of the 
 Relief Kirk, hit upon a very pleasant means of rousing 
 a drowsy congregation. "It was a very warm day, 
 the church closely packed; the occasion, the Monday 
 following communion. He observed, with some an- 
 noyance, many of the congregation nodding and sleep- 
 ing in their pews whilst he was preaching. He took 
 his measures accordingly, and introduced the word 
 ' hyperbolical ' into his sermon ; but he paused, and 
 said : 'Now, my friends, some of you may not under- 
 stand this word " hyperbolical : " I'll explain it. Suppose 
 that I were to say that this congregation were all asleep 
 in this church at the present time, I would be speaking 
 hyperbolically ; because ' (looking round) ' I don't 
 believe much more than one-half of you are sleeping.' 
 The effect was instantaneous ; and those who were 
 nodding recovered themselves, and nudged their sleep- 
 ing neighbors, and the preacher went on as if nothing 
 had happened." 
 
 In Crabbe's time, it seems people sometimes slept in 
 church ; for he describes the effects of the vehemence 
 of a certain preacher thus : — 
 
340 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 He such sad coil with words of vengeance kept, 
 That our best sleepers startled as they slept ; 
 
 Doubtless, the reader has noticed the name of Steele 
 in our hymnology : we have a few things to mention 
 respecting it. Anne Steele was the daughter of a Bap- 
 tist minister, who, in 1757, had the pastoral charge of 
 a congregation, meeting in the village of Broughton, 
 in Hampshire, on the spot where their fathers had wor- 
 shipped from the time of the Commonwealth.* The 
 good pastor writes in his diary : "1757, Nov. 29. This 
 day, Nanny sent a part of her composition to London, 
 to be printed. I entreat a gracious God, who enabled 
 and stirred her up to such a work, to direct in it, and 
 bless it for the good and comfort of many. ... I pray 
 God to make it useful, and keep her humble." A 
 quaint and beautiful expression of a Christian parent's 
 grateful solicitude and joy. The benediction invoked 
 upon the collection of her spiritual songs seems to 
 have been bountifully bestowed. Who can doubt this, 
 on reading that noble hymn? — 
 
 Jesus, my Lord, in Thy dear name unite 
 
 All things my heart calls great or good or sweet ; 
 
 Divinest springs of wonder and delight, 
 
 In Thee, Thou fairest of ten thousand, meet. 
 
 Here is another of her sweet hymns : — 
 
 Father, whate'er of earthly bliss Thy sovereign will denies, 
 Accepted at Thy throne of grace, let this petition rise : 
 Give me a calm, a thankful heart, from every murmur free ; 
 The blessings of Thy grace impart, and make me live to Thee ; 
 Let the sweet hope that I am Thine, my life and death attend ; 
 Thy presence through my journey shine, and crown my journey's end. 
 
 * There is an incident on record, relating to the predecessor of Mr. Steele, his uncle, who 
 was so popular a preacher, that the parson of the parish reported, at the episcopal visitation, 
 that his parochial province was sadly invaded by the dissenter. " How can I best oppose 
 him? " was his query to Bishop Burnett. " Go home," said the wise diocesan, " and preach 
 better than Henry Steele, and the people will return." 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 34I 
 
 These are the soft, plaintive utterances of one sorely- 
 tried in this earthly life; whose songs, from out the 
 " furnace of affliction," 
 
 " Rose like an exhalation, with the sound 
 Of dulcet symphonies and voices sweet." 
 
 More than a century ago, a young man was im- 
 pressed into the British navy. His mind had already 
 been poisoned by sceptical reading ; and the influences 
 which met him on board a man-o'-war were not adapted 
 to counteract those false views. After a series of sins 
 and sufferings, we find him on the coast of Africa, in 
 the employment of a slave-dealer, reduced to wants 
 which made him a literal representative of the prodigal 
 son. He was a very outcast, ready to perish. Unex- 
 pectedly rescued from this degradation, it was only to 
 encounter the imminent danger of shipwreck. During 
 the terrors of the storm, he had nearly gone overboard, 
 when a friendly hand rescued him ; and shortly after- 
 wards finding, in the ship's cabin, a copy of "Thomas 
 a Kempis," his conscience became awakened, and, like 
 the prodigal, " he arose and came to his Father." This 
 was John Newton. The name of John Newton, as as- 
 sociated with that of Cowper, the poet, suggests to us 
 their joint production, entitled " Olney Hymns." Cow- 
 per's portion consisted of sixty -two, and Newton's two 
 hundred and eighty-six hymns. The " Olney Collec- 
 tion" was published in 1779, before Cowper was known 
 as a poet. Living at Mrs. Unwin's house, which was 
 close to the vicarage, Cowper exchanged visits almost 
 daily with Newton ; and it was during this time, 
 1767-1779, that the Olney hymns were prepared. 
 It was not long, however, after Cowper had com- 
 
342 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 menced his labors, before he was visited with a second 
 attack of insanity, which compelled him to desist from 
 his work. His translations from the mystic poems of 
 Madame Guy on were done at the request of his friend, 
 Rev. Mr. Bull, who succeeded Mr. Newton on his 
 departure for London, his native place. This eminent 
 servant of God (to quote from the epitaph he wrote 
 for himself) was "once an infidel and libertine, a ser- 
 vant of slaves in Africa." He was an only child, and 
 had the misfortune to lose his mother in his seventh 
 year ; a circumstance that at once became a bond of 
 sympathy between these remarkable men. Newton's 
 mother trained up her son carefully, " having it in her 
 heart " that he would be one day engaged in the Chris- 
 tian ministry, — a work to which she had devoted him. 
 Young Newton's father and stepmother did not carry 
 on this good work, but he was "much left to himself, 
 to mingle with idle and wicked boys, and soon learned 
 their ways." 
 
 After some years of seafaring life, and many rough 
 adventures, he was shipwrecked in a terrible storm, as 
 already intimated. " The ship outrode the storm, and the 
 awakened sinner was saved to serve God in the world." 
 In the year 1764, when in his thirty-ninth year, he en- 
 tered upon a regular ministry, having been, by the 
 Earl of Dartmouth, presented to the vicarage of Olney. 
 His prose writings are much esteemed for their experi- 
 mental and evangelical piety; and his "Narrative" is 
 especially interesting, as a minute " record of a series 
 of most remarkable special providences by which his 
 life was spared, just when it seemed about to be taken, 
 and by which his course was diverted into the path of 
 safety, just when its persistency in the downward way 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 343 
 
 seemed inevitable. At the venerable age of eighty- 
 two, Newton "laid down his life and labor together, and 
 fell asleep in Jesus." It is scarcely requisite to indicate 
 even the best of his numerous lyrics. The most popular 
 of his hymns include the following : " How sweet the 
 name of Jesus sounds," "Day of judgment, day of 
 wonders." 
 
 One of the most admirable of Newton's hymns is 
 that on the name of Jesus : some of its stanzas, espe- 
 cially the fifth, possess the terseness and vigor of the 
 old Latin hymns. 
 
 Jesus ! my Shepherd, Husband, Friend, 
 
 My Prophet, Priest, and King, 
 My Lord, my Life, my Way, my End, 
 
 Accept the praise I bring. 
 
 Weak is the effort of my heart, 
 
 And cold my warmest thought ; 
 But when I see Thee as Thou art, 
 
 I'll praise Thee as I ought. 
 
 Till then I would Thy love proclaim 
 
 With every fleeting breath ; 
 And may the music of Thy name 
 
 Refresh my soul in death. 
 
 There was a stricken deer, who had long been 
 panting for the water-brooks, but he had yet found 
 no comfort; till one day, listlessly taking up the New 
 Testament, he opened it at the words, "Whom God 
 hath set forth to be a propitiation, through faith in His 
 blood," &c. ; and peace flowed into his soul like a 
 river. That "stricken deer," need we add, was Wil- 
 liam Cowper. 
 
 Undoubtedly, the most beautiful of Cowper's minor 
 poems is that on his Mother's Picture. It was Cow- 
 per's misfortune to lose his mother before he was six 
 
344 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 years of age. A picture of her was sent to him when 
 he was nearly sixty. At the sight of it, there started 
 up images and recollections and feelings, which had 
 slept for more than half a century. Time and forget- 
 fulness were baffled by a sister-art ; and the work was 
 completed by Poetry, in as touching lines as ever 
 recorded the movements of a poet's memory into the 
 shadowy regions of childhood. 
 
 Oh, that those lips had language ! Life has passed 
 With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
 Those lips are thine : thy own sweet smile I see, — 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me. 
 
 Cowper's deep affection for his mother lasted with 
 him through life. On receipt of her likeness, he wrote 
 to Lady Hesketh, " I had rather possess my mother's 
 picture than the richest jewel in the British crown ; for 
 I loved her with an affection that her death, fifty years 
 since, has not in the least abated." 
 
 Poor, melancholy Cowper was not of choice a bach- 
 elor : his projected union with his cousin was inter- 
 dicted by the father of his choice, Theodora Jane, 
 second daughter of Ashley Cowper. As the attach- 
 ment was mutual, they each suffered deeply this dis- 
 appointment of their wishes. It is supposed to have 
 aggravated his disease. 
 
 Well has it been said, that, " when bodily darkness 
 fell on the footsteps of Milton, he imagined it the over- 
 shadowing of heavenly wings ; and we might ascribe 
 to a like cause the spiritual darkness of poor Cowper's 
 days." The gloomy thought that had taken possession 
 of him was never relinquished ; but often it seemed to 
 fade away into the unreal wretchedness of a distress- 
 ing dream. There is great interest, too, in tracing 
 

 LATER ENGLISH. 345 
 
 how his imagination extracted melody from his mad- 
 ness, — the evil spirit that troubled him charmed to 
 rest by the harpings of his Muse. It did not please 
 Heaven to unweave the tangled meshes of poor Cow- 
 per's brain. The dark delusion of despair hung over 
 his mind to the very verge of his long life of just three- 
 score years and ten." * His last original piece, "The 
 Castaway," is, indeed, under all the circumstances, 
 one of the most affecting ever composed. He had 
 been reading, in "Anson's Voyages," an account of a 
 man lost overboard in a gale. That appalling casualty, 
 which often consigns the sailor to a helpless fate, is 
 told in vivid stanzas, closing with the saddest possible 
 moralizing : — 
 
 No poet wept him ; but the page of narrative sincere, 
 
 That tells his name, his worth, his age, is wet with Anson's tear ; 
 
 And tears, by bards or heroes shed, 
 
 Alike immortalize the dead. 
 I therefore purpose not, or dream descanting on his fate, 
 To give the melancholy theme a more enduring date ; 
 
 But misery still delights to trace 
 
 Its semblance in another's case. 
 No voice Divine the storm allayed, no light propitious shone, 
 When, snatched from all effectual aid, we perished each alone ; 
 
 But I beneath a rougher sea, 
 
 And whelmed in deeper gulfs than he ! 
 
 Very many of Cowper's hymns, like passages in 
 his longer poems, have become "household words." 
 Some of his most remarkable hymns have a his- 
 tory. For example: Cowper "thought it was the 
 Divine will " that he should go to a particular part of 
 the river Ouse, and drown himself; but the driver of 
 the vehicle, missing his way, diverted him from his 
 
 * Henry Reed. 
 
346 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 purpose ; and thereupon were composed those memor- 
 able lines, "God moves in a mysterious way," — com- 
 posed, as Montgomery remarks, "under circumstances 
 of awful interest, — in the twilight of departing rea- 
 son." It was the last hymn he compiled for the 
 "Olney Collection." Among the hymns that will ever 
 live are those pathetic utterances of his so expressive 
 of the conflicts of Christian life; as, "Oh for a closer 
 walk with God ! " and " O Lord, my best desires fulfil ! " 
 The much-admired hymn, " To Jesus, the crown of my 
 hope," was, it is believed, the last hymn Cowper wrote. 
 
 It adds no little to the interest with which we recite 
 some of Cowper's plaintive melodies, when we remem- 
 ber the circumstances that gave them birth. One of 
 his thanksgiving hymns — " How blest Thy creature 
 is, O God ! " — was written, we are informed by his 
 biographer, immediately upon his recovery from his 
 second attack of mental derangement ; and the second 
 strain, in which he poured forth the grateful feelings 
 of his heart, was that beginning, "Far from the 
 world, O Lord ! I flee." 
 
 Cowper — the great Christian poet of England, and, 
 as Willmott justly remarks, pre-eminently the poet of 
 the affections, above any writer in our language — 
 has enriched sacred literature by so many exquisite 
 bursts of poetic inspiration, that it is no easy task to 
 determine which are the best. We must be allowed 
 simply to follow our vagrant fancy in the selection, 
 hoping it will please : — 
 
 The path of sorrow, and that path alone, 
 Leads to the land where sorrow is unknown ! 
 No traveller e'er reached that blest abode, 
 Who found not thorns and briers in his road. 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 347 
 
 Worldlings may dance along the flowery plain, 
 
 Cheered, as they go, by many a sprightly strain ; 
 
 Where nature has her mossy velvet spread, 
 
 With unshod feet, they yet securely tread ; 
 
 Admonished, scorn the caution and the friend, 
 
 Bent on all pleasure, heedless of its end. 
 
 But He, who knew what human hearts would prove, 
 
 How slow to learn the dictates of His love, 
 
 That, hard by nature, and of stubborn will, 
 
 A life of ease would make them harder still, 
 
 In pity to the souls His grace designed 
 
 To rescue from the ruins of mankind, 
 
 Called for a cloud to darken all their years, 
 
 And said, " Go spend them in the vale of tears." 
 
 The Soul, reposing on assured belief, 
 Feels herself happy amidst all her grief; 
 Forgets her labors, as she toils along, 
 Weeps tears of joys, and bursts into a song. 
 
 Beattie (1735-1803), although of humble origin, yet, 
 by his industry and the sterling Christian elements of 
 his character, attained to the professorship of moral 
 philosophy in Marischal College, Aberdeen, when 
 only in his twenty-sixth year. He is best known by 
 his "Minstrel," a poem of great gracefulness of ima- 
 gery and beauty of diction. After a life of Christian 
 usefulness, the poet and philosopher died, it is said, 
 broken-hearted, under the severe pressure of domestic 
 afflictions. Here are three fine stanzas from his "Her- 
 mit." Alluding to the return of spring after the deso- 
 lations of winter, the poet thus points us to the light 
 of Immortality : — 
 
 'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more ; 
 I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you ; 
 For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, 
 Perfumed with fresh fragrance and glittering with dew. 
 
348 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn ; 
 Kind nature the embryo blossom will save, 
 But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn ! 
 Oh, when shall it dawn on the night of the grave ! 
 
 'Twas thus, by the glare of false science betrayed, — 
 
 That leads, to bewilder ; and dazzles, to blind, — 
 
 My thoughts wont to roam, from shade onward to shade, 
 
 Destruction before me, and sorrow behind. 
 
 " Oh, pity, great Father of Light ! " then I cried, 
 
 "Thy creature, who fain would not wander from Thee; 
 
 Lo, humbled in dust, I relinquish my pride : 
 
 From doubt and from darkness Thou only canst free." 
 
 And darkness and doubt are now flying away, 
 
 No longer I roam in conjecture forlorn, 
 
 So breaks on the traveller, faint, and astray, 
 
 The bright and the balmy effulgence of morn. 
 
 See Truth, Love, and Mercy in triumph descending, 
 
 And nature all glowing in Eden's first bloom ! 
 
 On the cold cheek of Death smiles and roses are blending, 
 
 And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb. 
 
 Here is one fine descriptive stanza from his " Min- 
 strel:"— 
 
 But who the melodies of morn can tell ? 
 
 The wild brook babbling down the mountain-side ; 
 
 The lowing herd ; the sheepfold's simple bell ; 
 
 The pipe of early shepherd dim descried 
 
 In the lone valley ; echoing far and wide 
 
 The clamorous horn along the cliffs above ; 
 
 The hollow murmur of the ocean-tide ; 
 
 The hum of bees ; the linnet's lay of love ; 
 
 And the full choir that wakes the universal grove. 
 
 His description of a morning landscape is much 
 admired; especially this famous stanza, which was 
 Dr. Chalmers's great favorite : — 
 
 Oh, how canst thou renounce the boundless store 
 Of charms, which Nature to her votary yields ! 
 
 The warbling woodland, the resounding shore, 
 The pomp of groves, the garniture of fields ; 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 349 
 
 All that the genial ray of morning gilds, 
 And all that echoes to the song of even, — 
 
 All that the mountain's sheltering bosom shields, 
 And all the dread magnificence of heaven, — 
 Oh, how canst thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven ? 
 
 That soul-stirring lyric, by Robinson, of Cambridge, 
 England, — 
 
 Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, 
 Tune my heart to sing Thy grace, — 
 
 has a sad history. Its author — of whom Robert 
 Hall remarked, that he " could say what he pleased, 
 when he pleased, and how he pleased" — was pos- 
 sessed of versatile and popular talents ; but he became 
 the victim of a love of change and eccentricity. By 
 turns, he was Calvinistic, Methodist, Independent, 
 Baptist, and Socinian. 
 
 In our church-books may be found some hymns by 
 Blacklock, a minister of the Church of Scotland, who 
 lived during the latter part of the eighteenth century. 
 He lost his sight in early life ; but such was his facil- 
 ity in composition, that he is said to have dictated his 
 sermons and hymns as fast as they could be written. 
 One of his hymns commences, "Come, O my soul! 
 in sacred lays." The familiar hymn beginning, * O 
 Thou, my soul ! forget no more," acquires especial 
 interest from the fact that it is a translation of the 
 Christian hymn written by a Hindoo, — Khrishna Pal, 
 at Serampore. 
 
 Thomas Green, of Ware, one of our hymn-writers, 
 composed, in 1774, wnen on ly ten years of age, the 
 hymn commencing, "Jesus, and can it ever be?" As 
 a marvel of precocious talent, it takes its place along 
 
350 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS- 
 
 with Milton's psalm (" Let us with a gladsome mind," 
 &c.) written at the age of fifteen. 
 
 Amid the rich slopes and hills of Devonshire, in a 
 sequestered hamlet, stands the quiet parish-church of 
 Broad Hembury ; within whose walls, on the Sabbath- 
 days of a century ago, might have been seen the 
 vicar officiating at the altar of worship, — fervently 
 leading his rustic audience in the service of homily, 
 praise, and prayer. The preacher was Augustus 
 Toplady, who is described as having an " ethereal 
 countenance, and light, immortal form. His voice 
 was music. His vivacity would have caught the lis- 
 tener's eye ; and his soul-filled looks and movements 
 would have interpreted his language, had there not 
 been such commanding solemnity in his tones as made 
 apathy impossible, and such simplicity in his words 
 that to hear was to understand. From easy explana- 
 tions, he advanced to rapid and conclusive arguments, 
 and warmed into importunate exhortations, till con- 
 science began to burn, and feelings to take fire from 
 his own kindled spirit ; and himself and his hearers 
 were together drowned in sympathetic tears." He 
 entered upon his pastoral duties in 1768, and it was in 
 the rural retreat of Broad Hembury that most of his 
 soul-stirring hymns were composed. 
 
 Toplady, when a lad of sixteen, and on a visit to 
 Ireland, had strolled into a barn, where an illiterate 
 layman was preaching, — but preaching reconcilia- 
 tion to God through the death of His Son. The homely 
 sermon took effect; and, from that hour, the gospel 
 guided all the powers of his brilliant and active 
 mind. Toplady became very learned ; and at the 
 early age of thirty-eight years he died, — more widely 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 
 
 351 
 
 read in Fathers and Reformers than most academic 
 dignitaries can boast when their heads are hoary. 
 His splendid and expressive hymns, a rich embodi- 
 ment of religious experience, are his imperishable 
 memorial. During his last illness, he seemed to be 
 in the very vestibule of glory. To a friend's inquiry, 
 he replied, with sparkling eye, "I cannot tell the com- 
 forts I feel in my soul : they are past expression. The 
 consolations of God are so abundant, that he leaves 
 me nothing to pray for : my prayers are all converted 
 into praise. I enjoy a heaven already in my soul." 
 
 This eminent Christian poet and minister has left 
 us, not only many sweet songs of Zion, but a beauti- 
 ful moral lesson by his example, — both in his life 
 and his death. When near his departure from 
 earthly scenes, on being told that his pulse was becom- 
 ing weaker and weaker, he replied : " Why, that is a 
 good sign that my death is fast approaching ; and, 
 blessed be God, I can add, that my heart beats, every 
 day, stronger and stronger for glory." And, after 
 many other beautiful Christian words, when close to 
 his end, bursting into tears of joy, as he said, "It will 
 not be long before God takes me ; for no mortal man 
 can live after the glories which God has manifested 
 to my soul." Thus he died, in the thirty-eighth year 
 of his age. How short a life, and yet how richly 
 freighted with blessing to the world ! 
 
 "Toplady," remarks Montgomery, " evidently kin- 
 dled his poetic torch at that of his contemporary, Charles 
 Wesley. Like Bruce, Kirke White, and McCheyne, 
 Toplady was early called to join the heavenly choirs ; 
 but he has left us the inheritance of his Muse, in some 
 imperishable sacred lyrics." We scarcely need indi- 
 
352 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 cate them : they are familiar as the name of their 
 author, — nay, more so; for example, those almost 
 peerless hymns beginning, "Deathless principle, arise," 
 "Rock of Ages, cleft for me," who will forget? 
 
 This last-named hymn, so justly prized by the 
 Christian Church, was written in 1776, entitled "A 
 Living and Dying Prayer for the holiest Believer in 
 the world." These expressive stanzas gave conso- 
 lation to the late lamented Prince Consort, in his 
 dying hour ; and in how many unrecorded instances 
 they have ministered to the spiritual comfort of 
 others, living and dying, is known only to the Om- 
 niscient. " Dr. Pomeroy relates that a few years ago, 
 when in an Arminian Church, at Constantinople, the 
 people were singing, the language of their hymn was 
 foreign ; but it was evident that the singers were in 
 earnest, and that there was deep feeling in the words 
 of their song. The music was a simple melody : all 
 sang with closed eyes; but, as the strain continued, 
 tears were starting and trickling down many, many a 
 cheek. Dr. Pomeroy would fain have joined in the 
 plaintive, tender, yet glowing hymn."* What were 
 they singing? An Arabic version of." Rock of Ages, 
 cleft for me ! " 
 
 This hymn is supposed to have been the offspring 
 of one of those seasons of depression, which seem, 
 from the revelations of his diary, to have marked the 
 character of his religious life. 
 
 Mr. Gladstone has made a Latin "translation of this 
 great hymn ; it may be found in Schaff's " Christ in 
 Song," — a rich collection of our best sacred poetry. 
 All critics regard Toplady's grand lyric poem, " Death- 
 
 * Christophers. 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 353 
 
 less principle, arise ! " as worthy of the high praise 
 Lady Huntingdon bestowed upon it, when it was first 
 sent to her by the authoi , 
 
 Mrs. Barbauld, who lived from 1743 till 1825, issued 
 her first lyrics during her residence with her father, 
 Dr. Aiken, in a Dissenting Academy, at Warrington. 
 She subsequently became the wife of the Rev. Mr. 
 Barbauld, a French Protestant minister; when she 
 wrote " Early Lessons for Children," " Hymns in 
 Prose," and other pieces. 
 
 Mrs. Barbauld's poetry included among its admirers 
 Charles James Fox ; though not of the highest order, 
 her versification is graceful, musical, and infused with 
 religious fervor. Her "Address to the Deity" is one 
 of her fine poems ; here are the opening lines : — 
 
 I read God's awful name emblazoned high, 
 With golden letters on the illumined sky ; 
 Nor less the mystic characters I see, 
 Wrought in each flower, inscribed on every tree ; 
 In every leaf that trembles to the breeze 
 I hear the voice of God among the trees. 
 
 The closing lines have the solemn cadence of the 
 tolling bell : — 
 
 And when the last, the closing hour draws nigh, 
 And earth recedes before my swimming eye, — 
 When trembling on the doubtful verge of fate 
 I stand, and stretch my view to either state, — 
 Teach me to quit this transitory scene, 
 With resignation and a look serene ; 
 Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, 
 And having lived to Thee, in Thee to die ! 
 
 What heart does not respond to this beautiful 
 23 
 
 prayer? 
 
354 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 If friendless, in a vale of tears I stray, 
 Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my way, 
 Still let my steady soul Thy goodness see, 
 And, with strong confidence, lay hold on Thee : 
 With equal eye, my various lot receive, 
 Resigned to die, or resolute to live ; 
 Prepared to kiss the sceptre, or the rod, 
 While God is seen in all, and all in God. 
 
 Her beautiful lines on the death of the virtuous were 
 singularly applicable to her own tranquil death : — 
 
 Sweet is the scene when Christians die, 
 
 When holy souls retire to rest ; 
 How mildly beams the closing eye ! 
 
 How gently heaves the expiring breast ! 
 
 So fades a summer cloud away ; 
 
 So sinks the gale when storms are o'er ; 
 So gently shuts the eye of day ; 
 
 So dies a wave along the shore. 
 
 Triumphant smiles the victor's brow, 
 Fanned by some guardian angel's wing ; 
 
 O Grave ! where is thy victory now ? 
 And where, insidious Death, thy sting ? 
 
 Both Wordsworth and Rogers much admired this 
 stanza in her poem on Life : — 
 
 Life ! we've been long together, 
 Through pleasant, and through cloudy weather ; 
 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear, — 
 Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear : 
 
 Then steal away, give little warning, 
 Choose thine own time, 
 Say not " Good-night," but in some brighter clime 
 
 Bid me " Good-morning." 
 
 The excellent Hannah More, so well known by her 
 multifarious writings, — educational, moral, and re- 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 355 
 
 hgious, — left at her death ten thousand pounds in 
 legacies to charitable and religious institutions, not to 
 mention her long continued benefactions while living. 
 Although she was never married, she has left some 
 admirable counsel for those who are ; and to all such 
 the lines especially are commended. 
 
 The angry word suppressed, the taunting thought ; 
 Subduing and subdued, the petty strife 
 Which clouds the color of domestic life ; 
 The sober comfort, all the peace which springs 
 From the large aggregate of little things, — 
 On these small cares of daughter, wife or friend, 
 The almost sacred joys of home depend. 
 
 Here are two more extracts from her pen : — 
 
 Here, bliss is short, imperfect, insecure ; 
 
 But total, absolute, and perfect there. 
 
 Here, time's a moment, short our happiest state ; 
 
 There, infinite duration is our date. 
 
 Here, Satan tempts, and troubles e'en the best ; 
 
 There, Satan's power extends not to the blest. 
 
 In a weak simple body, here I dwell ; 
 
 But there I drop this frail and sickly shell. 
 
 Here, my best thoughts are stained with guilt and fear ; 
 
 But love and pardon shall be perfect there. 
 
 Here, my best duties are defiled with sin ; 
 
 There, all is ease without and peace within. 
 
 Here, feeble faith supplies my only light ; 
 
 There, faith and hope are swallowed up in sight. 
 
 Here, love of self my fairest works destroys ; 
 
 There, love of God shall perfect all my joys. 
 
 Here, things, as in a glass, are darkly shown ; 
 
 There, I shall know as clearly as I'm known. 
 
 Frail are the fairest flowers which bloom below ; 
 
 There, freshest palms on roots immortal grow. 
 
 Here, wants and cares perplex my anxious mind ; 
 
 But spirits there a calm fruition find. 
 
35& EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 The soul on earth is an immortal guest, 
 
 Condemned to starve at an unreal feast : 
 
 A spark, which upwards tends by Nature's force ; 
 
 A stream, diverted from its parent source ; 
 
 A drop, dissevered from the boundless sea ; 
 
 A moment, parted from eternity ; 
 
 A pilgrim, panting for the rest to come ; 
 
 An exile, anxious for his native home. 
 
 Among the more distinguished names of the Baptist 
 denomination, that of Dr. Ryland holds an honored 
 place. He was associated with Carey, Fuller, Sut- 
 clifFe, and others, in organizing the Baptist Missionary 
 Society, at Kettering, in 1792. Two years afterwards, 
 he was appointed to the presidency of the Baptist Col- 
 lege, Bristol, and the pastorate at Broadmead Chapel ; 
 which duties he continued to discharge until his death, 
 in 1825. The event was signalized by the high eulo- 
 gium passed upon his character by the two most cele- 
 brated men in the Baptist communion of their time, — 
 John Foster and Robert Hall. Ryland's hymns are 
 not, as a rule, remarkable for poetic fire or finish ; the 
 best known, and perhaps deservedly so, is, " Sovereign 
 Ruler of the skies," which consists of nine stanzas ; and 
 also " O Lord ! I would delight in Thee ! " of which he 
 says, " I recollect deeper feelings of mind in composing 
 this hymn, than perhaps I ever felt in making any 
 other." 
 
 The celebrated Dr. Dwight, of Yale College, came 
 of a noble stock, his excellent mother having been a 
 daughter of Jonathan Edwards. In 1771, he entered 
 upon his duties as tutor in Yale College ; six years 
 later he married, and, in 1783, he became the pastor 
 of the church at Greenfield, Conn., and also conducted 
 an academy with great success. Besides many works 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 
 
 357 
 
 in prose, Dr. Dwight wrote some hymns for the Pres- 
 byterian hymn-book ; among them the well-known 
 lines, "I love Thy kingdom, Lord." 
 
 Sometimes, a verse of a hymn possesses a talismanic 
 charm, and acts as a spell to recall the past. An affect- 
 ing illustration of this is on record, of an incident which 
 occurred during the war in Canada, more than a cen- 
 tury ago. The Indians, then allies with the French, 
 made frequent hostile incursions ; and, on one occasion, 
 they made a descent upon the town of Carlisle, Penn., 
 where a poor German family lived. Here the savages 
 instantly killed the father and son. The mother was for- 
 tunately absent at the time ; but they took two little girls 
 into cruel captivity. After many years, one of these, 
 surviving the hardships of her fate, together with about 
 four hundred other poor captives, was released, at the 
 instance of the English officer, Bouquet, who had 
 achieved a victory over the savages. These poor creat- 
 ures were placed in a line, and the mothers and friends 
 of the town and its suburbs were invited to the inspection, 
 in order that the liberated captives might be identified 
 and taken home. Among the visitors was the mother 
 of the two little captive girls ; but bitter was her disap- 
 pointment when she failed to discover her lost children. 
 On the colonel's inquiring whether she could not re- 
 member something by which they might recognize 
 her, she replied, that she used to sing to them a hymn 
 beginning, — 
 
 Alone, yet not alone am I, 
 
 Though in this solitude so drear ; 
 
 I feel my Saviour always nigh, 
 
 He comes the weary hours to cheer. 
 
 I am with Him, and He with me ; 
 
 Even here, alone I cannot be. 
 
35§ EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 She began to sing the hymn ; but scarcely had she 
 sung the first two lines, when her lost one came rushing 
 from the crowd to her arms, and joined in singing the 
 charmed syllables that so happily restored the loved 
 and lost to each other. 
 
 The following sweet lines are by Crabbe, the " poet 
 of the poor," whose pictures of humble life have charmed 
 so many sympathetic hearts : — 
 
 Pilgrim, burdened with thy sin, come the way to Zion's gate ; 
 There, till Mercy speaks within, knock and weep and watch and 
 
 wait : 
 Knock, He knows the sinner's cry ; weep, He loves the mourner's 
 
 tears ; 
 Watch, for saving grace is nigh ; wait till heavenly grace appears. 
 Hark ! it is the Saviour's voice, "Welcome, pilgrim, to thy rest." 
 Now within the gate rejoice, safe and owned and bought and blest : 
 Safe, from all the lures of vice ; owned, by joys the contrite know ; 
 Bought, by Love, and life the price ; blest, the mighty debt to owe. 
 Holy pilgrim, what for thee in this world can now remain ? 
 Seek that world from which shall flee sorrow, shame, and tears and 
 
 pain : 
 Sorrow shall for ever fly, shame from glory's view retire, 
 Tears be wiped from every eye, pain in endless bliss expire. 
 
 Blake, the painter and poet, has been considered 
 partially insane, from his strange and wild caprice, 
 alike with his pen, as his pencil. Some of his "Songs 
 of Innocence," published in the year 1789, were en- 
 graved, accompanied with his illustrations on copper, 
 by the author. One of these lyrics, on Sympathy, is 
 charming for its touching simplicity ; here are three of 
 the stanzas : — 
 
 Can I see another's woe, 
 And not be in sorrow too ? 
 Can I see another's grief, 
 And not seek for kind relief? 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 359 
 
 And can He, who smiles on all, 
 Hear the wren, with sorrows small, 
 Hear the small bird's grief and care, 
 Hear the woes that infants bear, 
 And not sit beside the nest, 
 Pouring pity in their breast ? 
 And not sit the cradle near, 
 Weeping tear on infant's tear ? 
 
 Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, 
 And thy Maker is not by ; 
 Think not thou canst weep a tear, 
 And thy Maker is not near. 
 
 Very beautiful it seems, at this distance of time and 
 space, to recall the peaceful, almost patriarchal, scenes 
 of old Scottish homes; especially on the Sabbath. 
 With what reverence, loyalty, and love was its due 
 observance regarded ! Scotia's bards have portrayed 
 the beautiful picture, — Burns in his " Cotter's Saturday 
 Night," and Graham in his charming poem on the 
 Sabbath. With the dawn of the holy day, went up 
 the glad orisons of thanksgiving ; and when soft twi- 
 light lingered on the hill-side, or threw its shadows on 
 the peaceful moor, and motley groups might be seen 
 wending their way homeward from the house of their 
 solemnities, pasans of praise burst upon the Sabbath 
 stillness, ever and anon, as the shadows increased. 
 Such sweet Sabbath scenes have passed away, and with 
 them the charm they diffused over the way-worn spirit, 
 which was soothing and refreshing as the fragrant 
 breath of flowers. 
 
 Speaking of the " Cotter's Saturday Night," touching 
 and picturesque as is that beautiful domestic poem, it 
 has been doubted whether it ever taught any person 
 
360 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 to pray. The sentiment of piety, and piety itself, are 
 very distinct things. Sir Walter Scott would some- 
 times take his visitors to an arbor on his lawn, at a 
 certain hour in the evening, to listen to the music of a 
 Covenanter's melody, the cadences of which fell with 
 a strange fascination upon the ear of the great minstrel 
 himself; but it only touched his ear. He and his visit- 
 ors went back to the saloons of Abbotsford, not to raise, 
 with their better skill, the evening hymn of thanks- 
 giving ; but regarded it merely through the medium 
 of a romantic imagination, and it was doubtless soon 
 forgotten amid the mazes of the dance and the music 
 and merriment of fashion's throng. 
 
 Poor Burns, erratic as he was, had some knowl- 
 edge of, and reverence for, a nobler life, as some of 
 his poems indicate. But the poet had many melan- 
 choly hours, as a foil to his gay and giddy ones. 
 "There was a certain part of my life," he says, " that 
 my spirit was broke by repeated losses and disasters, 
 which threatened, and indeed effected, the ruin of my 
 fortune. My body, too, was attacked by that most 
 dreadful distemper, a hypochondria, or confirmed mel- 
 ancholy. In this wretched state, the recollection of 
 which makes me shudder, I hung my harp upon the 
 willow-trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of 
 which I composed the following : " — 
 
 O Thou Great Being ! what Thou art, surpasses me to know ; 
 Yet sure I am that known to Thee are all Thy works below. 
 Thy creature here before Thee stands, all wretched and distrest ; 
 Yet sure those ills that wring his soul, obey Thy high behest. 
 
 But if I must afflicted be, to suit some wise design, 
 
 Then man my soul with firm resolves to bear, and not repine. 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 361 
 
 It is pleasant indeed to think, with Professor Wilson, 
 who, speaking of the closing days of Burns, says that 
 " he died under the a^gis of the Christian faith, and 
 that he had his Bible with him in his lodgings, and 
 he read it almost continually; often, when seated on 
 a bank, from which he had difficulty in rising with- 
 out assistance, for his weakness was extreme, and in 
 his emaciation he was like a ghost. To the last, he 
 loved the sunshine, the grass, and the flowers ; to the 
 last, he had a kind look and word for the passers-by, 
 who all knew it was Burns. His sceptical doubts no 
 longer troubled him, — they had never been more than 
 shadows ; and he had at last the faith of a confiding 
 Christian." 
 
 Burns's prayer, in the prospect of death, is full of 
 touching pathos : — 
 
 O Thou unknown, almighty Cause of all my hope and fear ! 
 In whose dread presence, ere an hour, perhaps I must appear ; 
 If I have wandered in those paths of life I ought to shun, — 
 As something loudly in my breast remonstrates I have done, — 
 
 Where human weakness has come short, or frailty stept aside, 
 
 Do Thou, All Good ! — for such Thou art ! — in shades of darkness 
 
 hide. 
 Where with intention I have erred, no other plea I have, 
 But Thou art good, and Goodness still delighteth to forgive. 
 
 Hear his judgment of charity, — 
 
 Who made the heart, 'tis He alone decidedly can try us ; 
 He knows each chord, its various tone ; each spring, its various 
 
 bias ; 
 Then at the balance let's be mute, we never can adjust it ; 
 What's done we partly may compute, but know not what's resisted. 
 
 Graham, the author of the beautiful poem of "The 
 Sabbath," is said to have written that work, and 
 
362 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 got it published, without his wife knowing any thing 
 about it; and one evening he brought home a copy to 
 her, requesting her to read it. As his name did not 
 appear on its titlepage, she did not dream that h,e had 
 any thing to do with its authorship : accordingly, she 
 read on with evident interest, while the sensitive author 
 paced up and down the room. At length, she broke 
 out in praise of the poem, and, turning to him, said, 
 "Ah, James, if you could but produce a poem like 
 this ! " The disclosure of his secret, it is said, over- 
 whelmed her with surprise and pleasure. 
 
 The setting orb of night her level ray 
 Shed o'er the land, and on the dewy sward 
 The lengthened shadows of the triple cross 
 Were laid far stretched, — when in the east arose, 
 Last of the stars, day's harbinger : no sound 
 Was heard, save of the watching soldier's foot : 
 Within the rock-barred sepulchre, the gloom 
 Of deepest midnight brooded o'er the dead, 
 The Holy One : but, lo ! a radiance faint 
 Began to dawn around His sacred brow : 
 The linen vesture seemed a snowy wreath, 
 Drifted by storms into a mountain cave : 
 Bright and more bright the circling halo beamed 
 Upon that face, clothed in a smile benign, 
 Though yet exanimate. Nor long the reign 
 Of death ; the eyes that wept for human griefs 
 Unclose, and look around with conscious joy. 
 Yes ; with returning life, the first emotion 
 That glowed in Jesus' breast of love, was joy 
 At man's redemption, now complete ; at death 
 Disarmed ; the grave transformed into the couch 
 Of faith ; the resurrection and the life. 
 Majestical He rose : trembled the earth ; 
 The ponderous gate of stone was rolled away ; 
 The keepers fell ; the angel, awe-struck, sunk 
 Into invisibility, while forth 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 363 
 
 The Saviour of the world walked, and stood 
 Before the sepulchre, and viewed the clouds 
 Empurpled glorious by the rising sun. 
 
 Campbell relates a little incident touching Graham's 
 love of singing: he says, "We had agreed to sit up 
 all night, and go together to Arthur's Seat to see the 
 sun rise. We sat, accordingly, all night in his delight- 
 ful parlor, the seat of so many happy remembrances. 
 We then went and saw a beautiful sunrise. I returned 
 home with him, for I was living in his house at the 
 time. He was unreserved in all his devoutest feel- 
 ings before me; and, from the beauty of the morning 
 scenery, and the recent death of his sister, our conver- 
 sation took a serious turn, — on the proofs of infinite 
 benevolence in the creation, and the goodness of God. 
 As I retired to my own bed, I overheard his devotions, 
 — not his prayer, but a hymn which he sang, and with 
 a power and inspiration beyond himself and beyond 
 any thing else." 
 
 It is remarked by an eminent divine, Robertson, 
 that "the mysticism, the obscurity of thought and ex- 
 pression, which belong to Browning, Tennyson, and 
 Wordsworth, is but a protest and witness for the infi- 
 nite in the soul of man." Let us listen to the Muse of 
 the last named. 
 
 It seems almost like profanation to mutilate his mag- 
 nificent "Ode on the Intimations of Immortality," but 
 we have only space for a few lines of it : — 
 
 Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting : 
 The soul that rises with us, our life's star, 
 Hath had elsewhere its setting, 
 
 And cometh from afar. 
 Not in entire forgetfulness, 
 And not in utter nakedness, 
 
364 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 But trailing clouds of glory do we come, 
 
 From God who is our home. 
 Heaven lies about us in our infancy ! 
 Shades of the prison-house begin to close 
 
 Upon the growing boy; 
 But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
 
 He sees it in his joy. 
 The youth, who daily farther from the east 
 
 Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 
 
 And by the vision splendid 
 
 Is on his way attended ; 
 At length the man perceives it die away, 
 And fade into the light of common day. 
 
 O joy ! that in our embers 
 
 Is something that doth live, 
 
 That Nature yet remembers 
 
 What was so fugitive. 
 The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
 Perpetual benediction ; not indeed 
 For that which is most worthy to be blest ; 
 Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
 Of childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
 With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast; 
 Not for these I raise 
 The song of thanks and praise ; 
 
 But for those obstinate questionings 
 
 Of sense and outward things, 
 
 Fallings from us, vanishings ; 
 
 Blank misgivings of a creature 
 
 Moving about in worlds not realized ; 
 
 High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
 
 Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised ; 
 
 But for those first affections, 
 
 Those shadowy recollections, 
 
 Which, be they what they may, 
 Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 
 Are yet a master-light of all our seeing ; 
 
 Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
 Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
 
 Of the eternal silence ; truths that wake, 
 

 LATER ENGLISH. 365 
 
 To perish never ; 
 Which neither listlessness nor mad endeavor, 
 
 Nor man, nor boy, 
 Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
 Can utterly abolish or destroy ! 
 
 His " Ode to Duty" is a fine piece of poetry ; here 
 are two of the stanzas : — 
 
 Stern daughter of the Voice of God, 
 
 O Duty, if that name thou love, 
 Who art a light to guide, a rod 
 
 To check the erring, and reprove ; 
 Thou who art victory and law 
 When empty terrors overawe, 
 From vain temptations dost set free, 
 And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity 
 
 Serene will be our days, and bright, 
 
 And happy will our nature be, 
 When love is an unerring light, 
 
 And joy its own security. 
 And they a blissful course may hold 
 Even now, who, not unwisely bold, 
 Live in the spirit of this creed, 
 Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 
 
 Here is one of his fine hymns : — 
 
 Not seldom, clad in radiant vest, 
 
 Deceitfully goes forth the morn ; 
 Not seldom evening in the west 
 
 Sinks smilingly forsworn. 
 
 The smoothest seas will sometimes prove, 
 
 To the confiding bark, untrue ; 
 And if she trust the stars above, 
 
 They can be treacherous too. 
 
 The umbrageous oak, in pomp outspread, 
 Full oft, when storms the welkin rend, 
 
 Draws lightnings down upon the head 
 It promised to defend. 
 
366 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 But Thou art true, incarnate Lord ! 
 
 Who didst vouchsafe for man to die ; 
 Thy smile is sure, Thy plighted word 
 
 No change can falsify. 
 
 I bent before Thy gracious throne, 
 And asked for peace with suppliant knee ; 
 
 And peace was given, — nor peace alone, 
 But faith and hope and ecstasy ! 
 
 Wordsworth's life was eminently beautiful and poetic. 
 It was in strict accordance with his own idea of what 
 a poet's life should be : it was lived in the very presence 
 of Nature, — Nature in all her glory; and "a holy 
 calm rests over it, like sunshine upon a Sabbath day." 
 We feel that it was true and great, the reflex of a true 
 and great man. It was a life in which the spiritual 
 rather than the material and the practical obtain the 
 ascendency. His quiet, contemplative days glided on 
 like the peaceful lake or river, making its own gentle 
 music as it wends its modest way. Wordsworth, 
 Southey, and Coleridge, — the poetic triad, — from 
 their locality, on the lakes of Cumberland, have been 
 styled the "Lake-poets." Wordsworth's " Ode to Im- 
 mortality " is the most admired of his pieces. He says, 
 " Having to wield some of its elements, when I was 
 impelled to write this poem on the 'Immortality of 
 the Soul,' I took hold of the notion of pre-existence, 
 as having sufficient foundation in humanity for au- 
 thorizing me to make for my purpose the best use of 
 it I could as a poet." 
 
 This note and the poem itself reveal the character 
 of Wordsworth's philosophy, and the secret of his 
 habit of thought. The mystic spiritualism which im- 
 bues his poetry is that which distinguishes him from 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 367 
 
 merely descriptive and didactic poets. w Were this 
 element wanting in him," writes one of his biographers, 
 "we should have a fine reporter of Nature's doings, 
 a fine painter of objective effects, but no creator, no 
 idealist; and therefore, properly speaking, no poet, 
 in the high signification of the term." He, however, 
 was eminently possessed of the spiritual faculty: all 
 nature to him was symbolical. 
 
 Wordsworth seems to have been a very amiable and 
 excellent man. The quiet of his Grasmere life was 
 relieved by frequent excursions in the neighborhood 
 and elsewhere. In 1802, after his visit to France, he 
 was married to Mary Hutchinson, of Penrith, — not a 
 beauty, but one of the most lovable of women. Every 
 one knows the beautiful lines he addressed to her, be- 
 ginning, — 
 
 She was a phantom of delight, 
 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight ; 
 
 and it is pleasant to add that the illusive charm of his 
 first love never died out of his heart. Our philo- 
 sophic poet was a great lover of locomotion ; and, as he 
 studied and composed in the open air, he made good 
 use of his legs, which, however, we are informed, 
 were not so ornamental as useful. De Quincey informs 
 us he had read that Milton's surviving daughter, when 
 she saw the crayon drawing representing the likeness 
 of her father, in Richardson the painter's octavo vol- 
 ume of Milton, burst out in a rapture of passionate 
 admiration, exclaiming, "This is my father! this is 
 my dear father ! " And when De Quincey had pro- 
 cured this book, he saw in this likeness of Milton a 
 perfect portrait of Wordsworth. The poet's domestic 
 
368 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 life was a very felicitous one. In his home there were 
 no jars or discords ; but it seems to have been a temple 
 of the graces and the virtues. Some of his sweetest 
 lyrics date their origin to incidents connected with his 
 home-life. He closed his earthly life on the twenty- 
 third of April, 1850, the birthday and deathday of 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 He has undoubtedly written much poetry that may 
 be thought very prosaic ; yet some of his produc- 
 tions — his " Ode to Immortality," some of his sonnets, 
 and a few of his minor pieces — are unsurpassed, and 
 likely to remain so. As Byron and Moore recede, 
 Milton and Wordsworth will advance in popular re- 
 nown ; and a good sign it is, for it indicates that 
 the moral is asserting its just authority over the sen- 
 suous. 
 
 It was Wordsworth's custom to compose in the 
 open air. His servant once said to a visitor : "This, 
 sir, is my master's library : his study is out of doors." 
 He had a great dislike to writing ; and his sister, or 
 some other member of his family, was always at hand 
 to perform for him the office of amanuensis. 
 
 We must take our leave of Nature's great bard, 
 rehearsing his fine admonitory sonnet : — 
 
 The world is too much with us ; late and soon, 
 Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers. 
 Little we see in Nature that is ours : 
 We have given our hearts away, — a sordid boon ! 
 This sea that bares her bosom to the moon ; 
 The winds that will be howling at all hours, 
 And are up-gathered now, like sleeping flowers, — 
 For this, for every thing, we're out of tune ; 
 It moves us not. Great God ! I'd rather be 
 A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn, 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 369 
 
 So might I, standing on this pleasant lee, 
 Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; 
 Have sight of Proteus coming from the sea, 
 Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 
 
 Montgomery, who was born at Irvine, in Ayrshire, 
 1771, is, from his long residence in Sheffield, often 
 supposed to have been an Englishman. His father 
 was a Moravian missionary, who died at the island of 
 Tobago. Montgomery's first volume of poems was 
 called " The Wanderer of Switzerland, and other 
 Poems ; " but his later productions, including his 
 w Songs of Zion," which have cheered many a Chris- 
 tian heart, are his most characteristic and popular 
 works- 
 
 The beautiful sacred lyrics of Montgomery live 
 not only in our church-books of psalmody, but some 
 are also embalmed in the common heart of Christen- 
 dom. Who does not remember his fine poem, "Oh, 
 where shall rest be found?" And where shall we find 
 a nobler burst of elevated sentiment in song than is 
 to be found in his Advent hymn, "Angels, from the 
 realms of glory"? Others might be referred to in 
 which are passages of a high order of poetry ; as 
 in his noble missionary hymn, commencing, " O 
 Spirit of the living God," and especially the Miltonic 
 stanza : — 
 
 O Spirit of the Lord, prepare 
 All the round earth her God to meet ; 
 
 Breathe Thou abroad, like morning air, 
 Till hearts of stone begin to beat. 
 
 His deep interest in the missionary emprise may 
 
 be seen in his noble psean, " Hark ! the song of 
 
 Jubilee ! " 
 
 24 
 
37° EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 His popular poem, "The Common Lot," consisting 
 of ten stanzas, was written during a country walk in 
 the snow, on his thirty-fourth birthday anniversary. 
 Montgomery's earlier days were troublous and dis- 
 turbed, — little suited to the contemplative habits of a 
 poet. But he was, indeed, more than a poet, he 
 was a philanthropist; and, because of his conscien- 
 tious opposition to slavery, and other then existing 
 abuses, he became the victim of political persecution. 
 In 1797, a volume of his minor poems was published, 
 under the significant title of " Prison Amusements." 
 Religious and benevolent objects found in him an 
 earnest and zealous advocate ; and even his secular 
 poems possessed a religious tendency and aim. If 
 the reader is acquainted with the published memoirs 
 of the poet, he will recall the touching incident of his 
 friend, Dr. Holland, reciting his hymns to him, when 
 advanced in years, and seriously ill. "Read on," he 
 said, "I am glad to hear you : the words recall the feel- 
 ings which first suggested them ; and it is good for me 
 to feel affected and humbled by the terms in which 
 I have endeavored to provide for the expression of 
 similar religious experience in others. As all my 
 hymns embody some portions of the history of the 
 joys or sorrows, the hopes and the fears of this poor 
 heart, so I cannot doubt but that they will be found an 
 acceptable vehicle of expression of the experience of 
 many of my fellow-creatures who may be similarly 
 exercised during the pilgrimage of their Christian 
 life." That beautiful description of Prayer — which, 
 by some strange fatuity, is placed in our Collections 
 among hymns of prayer or praise — is really onl} 
 a descriptive poem. We refer to the well-known 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 37 1 
 
 lines, commencing, " Prayer is the soul's sincere 
 desire." 
 
 His Muse, like Cowper's, has contributed numerous 
 sacred lyrics ; free from dogmas, and being inspired 
 by the religion of love, they are eminently designed 
 to diffuse the love of religion. 
 
 A love of poetry was kindled in Montgomery by 
 hearing Blair's " Grave " read to him in his school- 
 days. From his early school-days, therefore, he may 
 be said to have wooed the Muse. It has been well 
 said that " his history affords a fine example of virtuous 
 and successful perseverance, and of genius devoted to 
 pure and noble ends, — not a feverish, tumultuous, and 
 splendid career, like that of some greater poetical heirs 
 of immortality, but a course ever brightening as it pro- 
 ceeded, — calm, useful, and happy." 
 
 Montgomery's " Stranger and his Friend " has been 
 esteemed one of the most beautiful of his sacred 
 poems : — 
 
 A poor wayfaring Man of grief 
 Hath often crossed me on my way, 
 Who sued so humbly for relief, 
 That I could never answer, " Nay : " 
 I had not power to ask his name, 
 Whither he went, or whence he came ; 
 Yet there was something in his eye 
 That won my love, I knew not why. 
 
 Once, when my scanty meal was spread, 
 He entered, — not a word he spake, — 
 Just perishing for want of bread ; 
 I gave him all : he blessed it, brake, 
 And ate, — but gave me part again. 
 Mine was an angel's portion then ; 
 For, while I fed with eager haste, 
 That crust was manna to my taste. 
 
372 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 I spied him where a fountain burst 
 
 Clear from the rock : his strength was gone ; 
 
 The heedless water mocked his thirst, 
 
 He heard it, saw it hurrying on : 
 
 I ran to raise the sufferer up ; 
 
 Thrice from the stream he drained my cup, 
 
 Dipt, and returned it running o'er ; 
 
 I drank, and never thirsted more. 
 
 'Twas night, — the floods were out, — it blew 
 
 A winter hurricane aloof ; 
 
 I heard his voice abroad, and flew 
 
 To bid him welcoire to my roof: 
 
 I warmed, I clothed, I cheered my guest, 
 
 Laid him on my own couch to rest ; 
 
 Then made the hearth my bed, and seemed 
 
 In Eden's garden while I dreamed. 
 
 Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death, 
 
 I found him by the highway-side ; 
 
 I roused his pulse, brought back his breath, 
 
 Revived his spirit, and supplied 
 
 Wine, oil, refreshment ; he was healed ; 
 
 I had myself a wound concealed ; 
 
 But from that hour forgot the smart, 
 
 And Peace bound up my broken heart 
 
 There are two more exquisite stanzas which close 
 the poem. 
 
 Montgomery's " Death of Adam " has been consid- 
 ered one of his finest poems, alike for its conception, 
 imagery, and language ; but his most popular pieces 
 are those already cited, and his lines "Via Crucis, via 
 Lucis,""Oh, where shall rest be found?" and the 
 beautiful hymn, — 
 
 What are these in bright array, 
 
 This innumerable throng, 
 Round the altar night and day, 
 
 Hymning one triumphant song, — 
 

 LATER ENGLISH. 373 
 
 " Worthy is the Lamb once slain, 
 
 Blessing, honor, glory, power, 
 Wisdom, riches, to obtain 
 
 New dominion every hour" ? 
 These through fiery trials trod ; 
 
 These from great affliction came ; 
 Now before the throne of God, 
 
 Sealed with His almighty name ; 
 Clad in raiment pure and white, 
 
 Victor-palms in every hand, 
 Through their dear Redeemer's might, 
 
 More than conquerors they stand. 
 
 His hymn commencing, " Spirit, leave thy house 
 of clay," was composed during his political persecu- 
 tion in York Castle ; and was occasioned by the death 
 of one of his fellow-prisoners, who, with seven others, 
 had suffered the loss of all worldly goods for con- 
 science' sake. The following simple, touching lines, 
 may not be familiar to the reader, not being included 
 in his collected works : — 
 
 "Father, thy will, not mine, be done," — 
 So prayed on earth Thy suffering Son : 
 
 So, in His name, I pray ; 
 The spirit fails, the flesh is weak, 
 Thy help in agony I seek ; 
 
 Oh, take this cup away ! 
 
 If such be not Thy sovereign will, 
 Thy better purpose then fulfil, 
 
 My wishes I resign ; 
 Into thy hands my soul commend, 
 On Thee for life or death depend ; 
 
 Thy will be done, not mine ! 
 
 Our familiarity with his lines on Night does not 
 lessen their impressive beauty : listen to one or two of 
 the stanzas, — what a hushed feeling of sadness they 
 seem to convey ! — 
 
374 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Night is the time for rest : how sweet, when labors close, 
 To gather round an aching breast the curtain of repose, 
 
 Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head 
 
 Upon our own delightful bed ! 
 
 Night is the time to muse : then from the eye the soul 
 
 Takes flight, and, with expanding views, beyond the starry pole 
 
 Descries, athwart the abyss of night, 
 
 The dawn of uncreated light ! 
 
 Night is the time to pray : our Saviour oft withdrew 
 
 To desert mountains far away ; so will His followers do, — 
 
 Steal from the throng to haunts untrod, 
 
 And hold communion there with God. 
 
 His impressive lines on the Grave, so familiar, are 
 yet ever fresh with the inspiration of the theme : — 
 
 There is a calm for those who weep, 
 A rest for weary pilgrims found ; 
 And while the mouldering ashes sleep 
 Low in the ground, — 
 
 The soul, of origin divine, — 
 God's glorious image freed from cla — 
 In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine, 
 A star of day ! 
 
 The sun is but a spark of fire, 
 A transient meteor in the sky ; 
 The soul, immortal as its Sire, 
 Shall never die ! 
 
 Replete with tender pathos are his lines on the 
 « Death of a Friend : " — 
 
 Friend after friend departs ! who hath not lost a friend ? 
 There is no union here of hearts, that finds not here an end. 
 
 Were this frail world our final rest, 
 
 Living or dying, none were blest. 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 375 
 
 Beyond the flight of Time, beyond the reign of Death, 
 
 There surely is some blessed clime, where Life is not a breath ! 
 
 Nor life's affections, transient fire, 
 
 Whose sparks fly upward and expire. 
 
 There is a world above, where parting is unknown ! 
 A long eternity of love, formed for the good alone : 
 
 And faith beholds the dying here 
 
 Translated to that glorious sphere ! 
 
 Our last selection shall be his Funeral chant : — 
 
 Servant of God, well done ! Rest from thy loved employ ; 
 
 The battle o'er, the victory won, — enter thy Master's joy I 
 
 The cry at midnight came, he started up to hear ; 
 
 A mortal arrow pierced his frame : he. fell, but felt no fear. 
 
 His spirit with a bound left its encumbering clay ; 
 
 His tent, at sunrise, on the ground a darkened ruin lay. 
 
 The above suggests the beautiful tribute to the de- 
 parted, by Anne Steele : — 
 
 Forgive, blest shade, the tributary tear 
 
 That mourns thy exit from a world like this ; 
 Forgive the wish that would have kept thee here, 
 
 And stayed thy progress to the seats of bliss. 
 No more confined by grovelling scenes of night, 
 
 No more a tenant pent in mortal clay ; 
 Now should we rather hail thy glorious flight, 
 
 And trace thy journey to the realms of day ! 
 
 There is a familiar hymn, beginning, "Hail, sover- 
 eign Love ! that first began," originally extending to 
 nine stanzas, which was written by Rev. J. Brewer, 
 a Congregationalist minister, of Rodborough, Eng- 
 land. He subsequently removed to Sheffield, and 
 Birmingham. He died in 1817. 
 
 Coleridge considered the sonnet on "Night and 
 Death," by the Rev. J. Blanco White, — a proselyte 
 
376 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 from Romanism, — the finest and most grandly con- 
 ceived in the language : — 
 
 Mysterious Night ! When our first parents knew 
 
 Thee from report Divine, and heard thy name, 
 
 Did he not tremble for this lovely frame, 
 This glorious canopy of light and blue ? 
 Yet 'neath a curtain of translucent dew, 
 
 Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame, 
 
 Hesperus, with the host of heaven, came, 
 And lo ! Creation widened in man's view. 
 Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed 
 
 Within thy beams, O Sun ! or who could find, 
 Whilst fly and leaf and insect stood revealed, 
 
 That to such countless orbs thou mad'st us blind ? 
 Why do we, then, shun death with anxious strife ? 
 If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life ? 
 
 Coleridge (1772-1834), one of the finest minds Eng- 
 land has produced, has been compared to an unfinished 
 cathedral, — grand in its proportions, but defective, 
 because incomplete. And yet no man of letters since 
 Johnson has perhaps been more admired by his coun- 
 trymen. His scholarship, like his conversation, was 
 great. But for his sad proclivity to the baneful drug 
 that had well-nigh been his ruin, he would have been 
 one of the greatest of England's scholars. True poet 
 as he is, yet most of his subjects do not come within 
 the range of our selections. Here is a striking passage 
 from his poems : — 
 
 In some hour of solemn jubilee 
 The massy gates of paradise are thrown 
 Wide open, and forth come, in fragments wild, 
 Sweet echoes of unearthly melodies, 
 And odors snatched from beds of amaranth, 
 And they that from the crystal river of life 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 377 
 
 
 Sprung up on freshened wing, ambrosial gales ! 
 The favored good man in his lonely walk 
 Perceives them, and his silent spirit drinks 
 Strange bliss, which he shall recognize in heaven. 
 
 His " Hymn on Chamouni " has been called the 
 grandest burst of poetic praise in the language. Listen 
 to the closing lines, thus apostrophizing Mont Blanc : 
 
 Rise, oh, ever rise ! 
 Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth, 
 Thou kingly spirit throned among the hills, 
 Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven ! 
 Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 
 
 His "Youth and Age," like his "Ancient Mariner" 
 and "Genevieve," it is presumed, we all know. 
 
 Hartley Coleridge, the gifted son of a gifted father, 
 was born in 1796, and died in 1849. The following 
 sweetly worded sonnet is his : — 
 
 SHE LOVED MUCH. 
 
 She sat and wept beside His feet. The weight 
 
 Of sin opprest her heart ; for all the blame, 
 
 And the poor malice of the worldly shame, 
 
 To her was past, extinct, and out of date ; 
 
 Only the sin remained, — the leprous state. 
 
 She would be melted by the heat of love, 
 
 By fires far fiercer than are blown to prove 
 
 And purge the silver ore adulterate. 
 
 She sat and wept, and with her untressed hair 
 
 Still wiped the feet she was so blest to touch ; 
 
 And He wiped off the soiling of despair 
 
 From her sweet soul, because she loved so much ! 
 
 I am a sinner, full of doubts and fears ; 
 
 Make me a humble thing of love and tears ! 
 
37& EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 The following is also his : — 
 
 If I have sinned in act, I may repent : 
 
 If I have erred in thought, I may disclaim 
 
 My silent error, and yet feel no shame ; 
 
 But if my soul, big with an ill intent, 
 
 Guilty in will, by fate be innocent, 
 
 Or, being bad, yet murmurs at the curse 
 
 And incapacity of being worse, 
 
 That makes my hungry passion still keep Lent 
 
 In keen experience of a carnival : 
 
 Where, in all worlds, that round the sun revolve 
 
 And shed their influence on this passive ball, 
 
 Abides a power that can my soul absolve ? 
 
 Could any sin survive, and be forgiven, 
 
 One sinful wish would make a hell of heaven. 
 
 Southey wrote these admirable counsels to the 
 afflicted : — 
 
 The wounded heart is prone to entertain 
 
 Presumptuous thoughts, and feelings which arraign 
 
 The appointed course of things ; but what are we, 
 
 Short-sighted creatures of an hour, 
 
 That we should judge ? In part alone we see, 
 
 And this but dimly. He who ordereth all, 
 
 Beholdeth all, at once, and to the end : 
 
 Upon His wisdom and His power, 
 
 His mercy and His boundless love, we rest ; 
 
 And, resting thus in humble faith, we know, 
 
 Whether the present be for weal or woe, 
 
 For us whatever is must needs be best. 
 
 Methinks, if ye would know 
 
 How visitations of calamity 
 
 Affect the pious soul, 'tis shown you here : 
 
 Look yonder at the cloud, which, through the sky 
 
 Sailing along, doth cross in her career 
 
 The rolling moon : I watched it as it came, 
 
 And deemed the deep opaque would blot her beams, 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 379 
 
 But, melting like a wreath of snow, it hangs 
 In folds of wavy silver round, and clothes 
 The orb with richer beauties than her own ; 
 Then, passing, leaves her in her light serene. 
 
 What an impressive prayer is this ! — 
 
 Lord ! who art merciful as well as just, 
 Incline Thine ear to me, a child of dust. 
 Not what I would, O Lord ! I offer Thee, 
 
 Alas ! but what I can. 
 Father Almighty ! who hast made me man, 
 And bade me look to heaven, for Thou art there, — 
 Accept my sacrifice and humble prayer. 
 Four things, which are not in Thy treasury, 
 I lay before Thee, Lord, with this petition : 
 
 My nothingness, my wants, 
 
 My sins, and my contrition. 
 
 Mrs. South ey's touching stanzas on the "Pauper's 
 Death-bed" are very impressive. Here is an ex- 
 tract : — 
 
 Tread softly, — bow the head, in reverent silence bow, — 
 No passing bell doth toll, yet an immortal soul 
 
 Is passing now. 
 Stranger, however great, with lowly reverence bow ; 
 There's one in that poor shed, one by that paltry bed, 
 
 Greater than thou. 
 
 O change, O wondrous change ! burst are the prison-bars, 
 This moment, there so low, so agonized, and now 
 
 Beyond the stars. 
 O change, stupendous change ! there lies the soulless clod : 
 The sun eternal breaks, the new immortal wakes, — 
 
 Wakes with his God ! 
 
 These lines are also from her pen : — 
 
380 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 I weep, but not rebellious tears ; I mourn, but not in hopeless woe ; 
 I droop, but not with doubtful fears ; for whom I've trusted, Him I 
 know. 
 
 Lord, I believe, — assuage my grief, 
 
 And help, oh, help, mine unbelief 
 
 My days of youth and health are o'er, my early friends are dead and 
 
 gone ; 
 And there are times it tries me sore to think I'm left on earth alone ; 
 But then Faith whispers, " 'Tis not so : 
 He will not leave, nor let thee go." 
 
 Campbell's polished and elaborate poems are among 
 the best lyrics in the language ; we refer especially to 
 his "Last Man," "What's Hallowed Ground," "The 
 Rainbow," &c. We have only space to admit portions 
 of his " Last Man " : — 
 
 All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, 
 
 The sun himself must die, 
 Before this mortal shall assume 
 
 Its immortality. 
 I saw a vision in my sleep, 
 That gave my spirit strength to sweep 
 
 Adown the gulf of Time : 
 I saw the last of human mould, 
 That shall creation's death behold, 
 
 As Adam saw her prime. 
 The sun's eye had a sickly glare, 
 
 The earth with age was wan, 
 The skeletons of nations were 
 
 Around that lonely man. 
 Some had expired in fight, the brands 
 Still resting in their bony hands ; 
 
 In plague and famine, some : 
 Earth's cities had no sound nor tread, 
 And ships were drifting with the dead 
 
 To shores where all was dumb. 
 Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, 
 
 With dauntless words and high, 
 That shook the sere leaves from the wood, 
 
 As if a storm passed by, — 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 381 
 
 Saying, " We are twins in death, proud Sun, 
 Thy face is cold, thy race is run, 
 
 'Tis Mercy bids thee go. 
 For thou, ten thousand thousand years, 
 Hast seen the tide of human tears, 
 
 That shall no longer flow. 
 
 E'en I am weary in yon skies 
 
 To watch thy fading fire ; 
 Test of all sumless agonies, 
 
 Behold not me expire. 
 My lips shall speak thy dirge of death ; 
 Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath 
 
 To see thou shalt not boast. 
 The eclipse of nature spreads my pall, 
 The majesty of darkness shall 
 
 Receive my parting ghost. 
 This spirit shall return to Him 
 
 Who gave its heavenly spark ; 
 Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim 
 
 When thou thyself art dark : 
 No : it shall live again, and shine 
 In bliss unknown to beams of thine, 
 
 By Him recalled to breath, 
 Who captive led Captivity, 
 Who robbed the grave of victory, 
 
 And took the scing from death. 
 Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up, 
 
 On nature's awful waste, 
 To drink this last and bitter cup 
 
 Of grief that man shall taste, — 
 Go, tell the night that hides thy face, 
 Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race, 
 
 On earth's sepulchral clod, 
 The darkening universe defy 
 To quench his immortality, 
 
 Or shake his trust in God." 
 
 Campbell's estimate of posthumous fame is strikingly- 
 impressive : he said, "When I think of the existence 
 which shall commence when the stone is laid over my 
 
382 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 head, how can literary fame appear to me, to any one, 
 but as nothing? I believe, when I am gone, justice 
 will be done to me in this way, — that I was a pure 
 writer. It is an inexpressible comfort, at my time of 
 life, to be able to look back, and feel that I have not 
 written one line against religion or virtue." 
 
 There is an impressive sonnet on " Immortality," by 
 our American artist-poet, Washington Allston : — 
 
 To think for aye ! to breathe immortal breath, 
 And know nor hope, nor fear, of ending death ; 
 To see the myriad worlds that round us roll 
 Wax old and perish, while the steadfast soul 
 Stands fresh and moveless in her sphere of thought ; 
 O God omnipotent ! who in me wrought 
 This conscious world, whose ever-growing orb, 
 When the dead Past shall all in time absorb, 
 Will be but as begun, — oh, of Thine own 
 Give of the holy light that veils Thy throne, 
 That darkness be not mine, to take my place 
 Beyond the reach of light, a blot in space ! 
 So may this wondrous life, from sin made free, 
 Reflect Thy love for aye, and to Thy glory be ! 
 
 Some of the sacred lyrics of Moore are exquisite. 
 Here are two or three : — 
 
 As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean, 
 
 Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, 
 So, deep in my soul, the still prayer of devotion, 
 Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee, 
 My God ! silent to Thee ! 
 Pure, warm, silent to Thee. 
 
 As still to the star of its worship, though clouded, 
 
 The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea, 
 So, dark as I roam, in this wintry world shrouded, 
 The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee, 
 My God ! trembling to Thee ! 
 True, fond, trembling to Thee. 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 383 
 
 Oh Thou who dry'st the mourner's tear, 
 
 How dark this world would be, 
 If, when deceived and wounded here, 
 
 We could not fly to Thee ! 
 The friends who in our sunshine live, 
 
 When winter comes, are flown ; 
 And he who has but tears to give, 
 
 Must weep those tears alone ; 
 But Thou wilt heal that broken heart, 
 
 Which, like the plants that throw 
 Their fragrance from the wounded part, 
 
 Breathes sweetness out of woe. 
 When joy no longer soothes or cheers, 
 
 And even the hope that threw 
 A moment's sparkle o'er our tears, 
 
 Is dimmed and vanished too. 
 Oh, who would bear life's stormy doom, 
 
 Did not Thy wing of love 
 Come brightly wafting through the gloom 
 
 One Peace-branch from above ! 
 Then sorrow, touched by Thee, grows bright, 
 
 With more than rapture's ray, 
 As darkness shows us worlds of light 
 
 We never saw by day. 
 
 This world is all a fleeting show, 
 
 For man's illusion given : 
 The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, 
 
 There's nothing true but heaven ! 
 
 And false the light on glory's plume, 
 
 As fading hues of even — 
 And love and hope and beauty's bloom 
 Are blossoms gathered for the tomb : 
 
 There's nothing bright but heaven ! 
 
 & ■-«■*&«■ * ""* *""*"'" • 
 
 Poor wanderers of a stormy day, 
 
 From wave to wave we're driven ; 
 And fancy's flash, and reason's ray, 
 Serve but to light the troubled way : 
 There's nothing: calm but heaven ! 
 
384 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 One of the best of Moore's sacred lyrics is the fol- 
 lowing : — 
 
 The bird let loose in Eastern skies, when hastening fondly home, 
 Ne'er stoops to earth her wing, nor flies where idle warblers roam. 
 But high she shoots through air and light, above all low delay, 
 Where nothing earthly bounds her flight, nor shadow dims her way, 
 So grant me, God, from every care and stain of passion free, 
 Aloft through virtue's purer air to hold my course to Thee ! 
 No sin to cloud, no lure to stay my soul, as home she springs ; 
 Thy sunshine on her joyful way, Thy freedom in her wings ! 
 
 Angel of charity, who, from above, 
 
 Comest to dwell a pilgrim here, 
 Thy voice is music, thy smile is love, 
 
 And Pity's soul is in thy tear. 
 When on the shrine of God were laid 
 
 First-fruits of all most good and fair 
 That ever bloomed in Eden's shade, 
 
 Thine was the holiest offering there. 
 Hope, and her sister, Faith, were given 
 
 But as our guides to yonder sky ; 
 Soon as they reach the verge of Heaven, 
 
 There, lost in perfect bliss, they die. 
 But long as Love, almighty Love, 
 
 Shall on His throne of thrones abide, 
 Thou, Charity, shalt dwell above, 
 
 Smiling for ever by His side. 
 
 Come, ye disconsolate, where'er you languish, 
 
 Come, at God's altar fervently kneel ; 
 Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish, — 
 
 Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot heal. 
 Joy of the desolate, Light of the straying, 
 
 Hope, when all others die, fadeless and pure, 
 Here speaks the Comforter, in God's name saying, 
 
 Earth has no sorrow that Heaven cannot cure. 
 
 The Muse of Moore, like that of Byron, seems too 
 often to have revelled and luxuriated amidst the seduc- 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 385 
 
 tive scenes of vice ; yet when religion does inspire 
 her song, her strains are so sweet that we cannot but 
 regret that her flights had not been more often heaven- 
 ward. Another of his most admired sacred pieces is 
 w Miriam's Song:" — 
 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! 
 Jehovah has triumphed, His people are free ! 
 Sing, for the pride of the tyrant is broken ; 
 
 His chariots, his horsemen, all splendid and brave, — 
 How vain was their boast ! for the Lord hath but spoken, 
 
 And chariots and horsemen are sunk in the wave. 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! 
 Jehovah has triumphed, His people are free ! 
 Praise to the Conqueror, praise to the Lord ! 
 His Word was our arrow, His breath was our sword ! 
 Who shall return to tell Egypt the story 
 
 Of those she sent forth in the hour of her pride ? 
 For the Lord hath looked out from His pillar of glory, 
 
 And all her brave thousands are dashed in the tide. 
 Sound the loud timbrel o'er Egypt's dark sea ! 
 Jehovah has triumphed, His people are free ! 
 
 Scarcely less beautiful is the following, from the 
 same source : — 
 
 Is it not sweet to think, hereafter, 
 When the spirit leaves this sphere, 
 
 Love, with deathless wing, shall waft her 
 To those she long hath mourned for here ? 
 
 Hearts, from which 'twas death to sever ; 
 
 Eyes, this world can ne'er restore, — 
 There, as warm, as bright as ever, 
 
 Shall meet us, and be lost no more. 
 
 Hope still lifts her radiant finger, 
 
 Pointing to the eternal home ; 
 Upon whose portal yet they linger, 
 
 Looking back for us to come. 
 2 5 
 
386 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Horace Smith's "Hymn to the Flowers" is replete 
 with delicate and impressive imagery : let us con over 
 some of the stanzas : — 
 
 Day-stars ! that ope your frownless eyes, to twinkle 
 From rainbow-galaxies of earth's creation, 
 
 And dew-drops on her lonely altars sprinkle, 
 As a libation ! 
 
 Ye matin worshippers ! who, bending lowly 
 
 Before the uprisen sun — God's lidless eye — 
 Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
 Incense on high. 
 
 Ye bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty 
 
 The floor of Nature's temple tessellate, 
 What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
 
 Your forms create ! 
 
 Your voiceless lips, O flowers ! are living preachers : 
 
 Each cup a pulpit, and each leaf a book, 
 Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
 
 From loneliest nook. 
 
 Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary 
 
 For such a world of thought could furnish scope ? 
 
 Each fading calyx a memento mori. 
 Yet fount of Hope ! 
 
 Were I in churchless solitudes remaining, 
 
 Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 
 My soul would find in flowers of God's ordaining 
 
 Priests, sermons, shrines. 
 
 Dear to every section of the Christian Church are 
 the sweet measures of the poet-bishop, Heber, who 
 lived 1783-1826. Some of them are odes, but all are 
 infused with the poetic element to the highest degree. 
 "From Greenland's icy mountains" is an instance in 
 point ; and so is his beautiful " Epiphany Hymn ;" it is 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 387 
 
 an apostrophe to a star, rather than a hymn, — 
 ''Brightest and best of the sons of the morning." The 
 former was written at Hodnet, Shropshire, in 1820, 
 and was sung by his congregation after a sermon ap- 
 pealing to them on behalf of missions. This remark- 
 able hymn explains Heber's devoted course in India, 
 since he could not 
 
 to men benighted 
 The lamp of life deny. 
 
 When sailing to Madras, with a detachment of in- 
 valid troops on board, Bishop Heber acted as their 
 pastor. "I have too little in my situation," said he, 
 "of those pastoral duties, which are as useful to the 
 minister as to his people; and I am delighted at the 
 opportunity thus unexpectedly afforded me." And so, 
 with his Prayer-book in his hand, he went below, from 
 time to time, to minister to the sufferers. 
 
 His exquisite stanzas at a funeral present a remark- 
 able instance of poetic compression, the closing stanza 
 especially : — 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave ! but 'twere vain to deplore thee, 
 When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide ; 
 He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee, 
 And death hath no sting since the Saviour hath died. 
 
 We are all familiar with Byron's brilliant apostrophe 
 to the genius of Henry Kirke White ; yet it will bear 
 repeating, for its intrinsic beauty, and it will best in- 
 troduce a name that claims our admiration and our 
 
 pity. 
 
 Unhappy White ! when life was in its spring. 
 And thy young Muse just waved her joyous wing, 
 The spoiler swept that soaring lyre away, 
 Which else had sounded an immortal lay. 
 
388 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Oh, what a noble heart was here undone, 
 When Science' self destroyed her favorite son ! 
 
 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow, 
 
 And helped to plant the wound that laid thee low ! 
 
 So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain, 
 
 No more through rolling clouds to soar again, 
 
 Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart, 
 
 And winged the shaft that quivered to his heart. 
 
 His excessive studies, pursued too often by the light of 
 the midnight lamp, gave to him high rank in the halls 
 of learning ; although the achievement was purchased 
 by the sacrifice of his life, at the early age of twenty- 
 three years. 
 
 His splendid poem, the "Star of Bethlehem," is des- 
 tined to live in the memories and hearts of all lovers 
 of sacred song : — 
 
 When marshalled on the nightly plain 
 
 The glittering host bestud the sky, 
 One star alone of all the train 
 
 Can fix the sinner's wandering eye : 
 Hark, hark ! to God the chorus breaks, 
 
 From every host, from every gem, 
 But one alone the Saviour speaks, — 
 
 It is the Star of Bethlehem ! 
 
 Once on the raging seas I rode ; 
 
 The storm was loud, the night was dark ; 
 The ocean yawned, and rudely blowed 
 
 The wind that tossed my foundering bark : 
 Deep horror then my vitals froze, 
 
 Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem ; 
 When suddenly a star arose, — 
 
 It was the Star of Bethlehem ! 
 
 It was my guide, my light, my all, 
 
 It bade my dark forebodings cease ; 
 And, through the storm and danger's thrall, 
 
 It led me to the port of peace. 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 389 
 
 Now, safely moored, my perils o'er, 
 
 I'll sing, first in night's diadem, 
 For ever and for evermore, 
 
 The Star, the Star of Bethlehem ! 
 
 There is a hymn, written by Dr. Andrew Reed, 
 commencing, "There is an hour when I must part." 
 This hymn was recited to Dr. Reed, at his own re- 
 quest, when he was approaching his end : after listen- 
 ing to it, he said, "That hymn I wrote at Geneva: it 
 has brought comfort to many,* and now it brings com- 
 fort to me." 
 
 Andrew Reed is a name deservedly honored in the 
 churches ; alike for his eminent services as a philan- 
 thropist, an author, and a successful minister of the 
 gospel. Few men have accomplished so much for the 
 poor and the distressed as he, in the establishment of 
 no less than five great national benevolent institutions 
 in England ; and who shall compute the amount of 
 spiritual benefaction his protracted ministry has con- 
 ferred? He was born in London, 1787, and died in 
 1862. He visited this country, in company with Dr. 
 Matheson, as a deputation from the Congregational 
 Union of England to the Churches in America, in 
 1834 ; and during his stay he received the diploma of 
 D.D. from Yale College. He published several theo- 
 logical works, also the narrative of his official "Visit 
 to the American Churches," and his popular work, 
 "No Fiction." 
 
 Frederika Bremer, the Swedish authoress, is the 
 writer of these vigorous lines : the translation is by 
 Mary Howitt. 
 
 Cheek grow pale, but heart be vigorous ; 
 
 Body fall, but soul have peace ; 
 Welcome, pain, thou searcher rigorous ! 
 
 Slay me, but my faith increase. 
 
39° EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Sin, o'er sense so softly stealing ; 
 
 Doubt, that would my strength impair, — 
 Hence at once from life and feeling ! 
 
 Now my cross I gladly bear. 
 
 Up, my soul ! with clear sedateness 
 
 Read Heaven's law, writ bright and broad; 
 
 Up ! a sacrifice to greatness, 
 Truth, and goodness, — up to God ! 
 
 Up to labor ! from thee shaking 
 
 Off the bonds # of sloth, be brave ! 
 Give thyself to prayer and waking ; 
 
 Toil some fainting soul to save. 
 
 Sir R. Grant, who was British Governor of Bombay, 
 died in 1834. He wrote some impressive and stirring 
 Christian lyrics; amongst them, his "Litany," "Sa- 
 viour ! when in dust to Thee, low we bend the ador- 
 ing knee," "When gathering clouds around I view," 
 and "O Saviour ! whose mercy, severe in its kindness," 
 are great favorites. 
 
 One of the most beautiful of his poems is "The 
 Brooklet:" — 
 
 Sweet brooklet, ever gliding, 
 Now high the mountain riding, 
 The lone vale now dividing, 
 
 Whither away ? 
 " With pilgrim course I flow, 
 Or in summer's scorching glow, 
 Or o'er moonless wastes of snow : 
 
 Nor stop nor stay ; 
 For, oh, by high behest, to a bright abode of rest, 
 In my parent Ocean's breast, 
 
 I hasten away ! " 
 
 Many a dark morass, 
 Many a craggy mass, 
 Thy feeble force must pass ; 
 Yet, yet delay ! 
 
 / 
 
LATER ENGLISH. 391 
 
 " Though the marsh be dire and deep 
 Though the crag be stern and steep, 
 On, on my course must sweep : 
 
 I may not stay ; 
 For, oh, be it east or west, 
 To a home of glorious rest, 
 In the bright sea's boundless breast, 
 
 I hasten away ! " 
 
 The warbling bowers beside thee, 
 The laughing flowers that hide thee, 
 With soft accord they chide thee, — 
 
 Sweet brooklet, stay ! 
 " I taste of the fragrant flowers, 
 I respond to the warbling bowers, 
 And sweetly they charm the hours 
 
 Of my winding way ; 
 But ceaseless still in quest 
 Of that everlasting rest, 
 In my parent's boundless breast, 
 
 I hasten away ! " 
 
 Knowest thou that dread abyss ? 
 Is it a scene of bliss ? 
 Oh, rather cling to this, — 
 
 Sweet brooklet, stay ! 
 " Oh, who shall fitly tell 
 What wonders there may dwell ? 
 That world of mystery well 
 
 Might strike dismay ; 
 But I know 'tis my parent's breast ; 
 There held I must needs be blest ; 
 And with joy to that promised rest, 
 
 I hasten away ! " 
 
 That was a strange crisis in the life-story of the 
 American missionary to Burmah. Two unbelieving 
 friends pursue their travels hither and thither, and, 
 seemingly by the merest accident, cross each other's 
 path, or rather meet, but meet unconsciously, and, 
 
392 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 unknown to each other, occupying adjoining cham- 
 bers, — the one to die, the other to be awakened, by 
 that death, out of his unbelieving reverie, and to seek 
 a better preparation for both living and dying than a 
 sceptical philosophy could give him. This survivor 
 was Judson, whose earnesl piety is sufficiently attested 
 by the devotion of six-and-thirty years of unwearied 
 toil to the salvation of idolatrous Burmah. 
 
 Dr. Judson, the pioneer missionary to the East, was, 
 in company with his first wife and others, sent forth 
 to India by the American Congregationalist Board of 
 Commissioners. On their way, they became Bap- 
 tists ; and, after meeting with much opposition from 
 the East India Company, they at length, to avoid re- 
 shipment to England, sailed from Madras, in a vessel 
 bound to Rangoon. Thus they reached Burmah, 
 where it was found that Providence had a great work 
 for them to do. Their mission was commenced about 
 the year 1815 ; and Judson labored, in connection with 
 the American Baptists, until the breaking out of the 
 Burmese war with the British, in 1824; when Dr. 
 Judson was seized with violence by the natives, cruelly 
 bound, and cast into prison ; and it was not until April, 
 1826, that he was liberated. During his painful incar- 
 ceration, like Paul and Silas, he solaced his prison 
 hours with Christian songs. It was during this period 
 that he composed the paraphrase, "Our Father, God, 
 who art in heaven," which is said to be comprised 
 in fewer words even than the original Greek. He was 
 a scholar and linguist, having translated the Bible into 
 Burmese, and constructed a Burmese and English 
 Dictionary. He died in peace, at sea, on the 19th of 
 April, 1850, aged sixty-two years; his remains being 
 committed to the deep. 
 
NINTH EVENING. 
 
 
 MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 
 
NINTH EVENING. 
 
 MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 
 
 1H) YRON, next in the order of time, blazed, comet* 
 -■-^ like, on the literary hemisphere ; and for his poetic 
 productions received from his publisher not less than 
 fifteen thousand pounds sterling, and a revenue of 
 popular applause. But he was a misanthropic man, 
 — at issue with himself, with his home, and the world 
 at large. As England looked to him, so he looked to 
 her, as his last, sad verses, written at Missolonghi, 
 testify : — 
 
 My days are in the yellow leaf; 
 
 The flowers and fruits of love are gone ; 
 
 The worm, the canker, and the grief 
 Are mine alone ! 
 
 The fire that on my bosom preys 
 
 Is lone, as some volcanic isle. 
 
 Referring to Byron's writings, Professor H. Reed 
 remarks: "Never had our poetry been so profaned. 
 There had been one phase of infidelity with Boling- 
 broke and his disciples, and another with Paine and 
 his crew ; but the most insidious was that which came 
 from the bright, dark fancy of Byron ! " 
 
 Three things, at least, are chargeable against the 
 seductive verse of Byron, — its direct atheistical 
 tendency, its moral depreciation of women, and its 
 
39^ EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 glorifying vice with the attributes of virtue. And yet 
 passages of the highest poetry can be found through- 
 out his writings ; but they have been justly compared 
 to the crown of a volcano, "glistening with brilliant 
 sunshine amid yawning rents of inconceivable dark- 
 ness." 
 
 Byron found a faithful friend in Scott, who, on one 
 occasion, had the moral courage to admonish him 
 against his erratic course. "Would you have me turn 
 Methodist?" said Byron. " No," was the reply: "I 
 cannot conceive of your being a Methodist ; but you 
 might be a catholic Christian." Byron seems to have 
 entertained the sincerest respect for his friend, if not 
 for his counsel. How little Byron knew, when he 
 shrank from what he thought to be Scott's recommen- 
 dation of Methodism, that a Methodist preacher would 
 be honored as more than his equal in true " Hebrew 
 Melodies." And how little Scott thought, when he 
 found himself arrested by Wesley's preaching in Kelso 
 churchyard, that the name of one of Wesley's itinerant 
 companions would stand in the lists of immortality 
 above his own, on the line of Israelitish hymnists. 
 
 An incident in the life of Lord Byron, which oc- 
 curred at Falmouth in the year 1809, brought the poet 
 and a Baptist minister, Mr. Shepherd, unexpectedly 
 together ; who were until then unknown to each other. 
 Upon the poet inquiring if he could be accommodated 
 with some novel, the minister replied, " I have a book 
 here that might interest you, and one that I am sure 
 will not only refine your taste, but do your heart good : 
 it is the Bible." The poet started in astonishment; 
 and soon his gayety of manner was changed into an 
 expression of thoughtful gravity, while his companion 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 397 
 
 gave him some lessons on the Bible, and from the 
 Bible. " I have not the pleasure of knowing your 
 name, sir," said the host, as his visitor rose to depart; 
 "but I pray God to bless you." " Thank you," was 
 his parting reply : " my name is George Lord Byron ; 
 good-by." It was the future poet on his way to Lis- 
 bon ; and who knows how far the quiet minister's 
 lesson "on the Bible and from the Bible" influenced 
 his after thought and feeling, as the author of " He- 
 brew Melodies"? Was it the echo of that worthy man's 
 touching appeal that sometimes in after days, and in 
 other climes, made him "silent and solemn"? — as 
 when he said, in the presence of his friend Shelley : 
 " Here is a little book which somebody has sent me 
 about Christianity, that has made me very uncomfort- 
 able : the reasoning seems to me very strong, the 
 proofs are very staggering. I don't think you can 
 answer it, Shelley: at least, I am sure I can't; and, 
 what is more, I don't wish it."* Alas, that he did 
 not make a better use of his convictions ! But let us 
 turn from the regretful memory of the poet's personal 
 errors to some of his beautiful pictorial utterances. 
 These include " The Destruction of Sennacherib," 
 " Hebrew ' Melodies," "Vision of Belshazzar," in 
 which he has so admirably caught the spirit of the 
 original. 
 
 Byron's "Vision of Belshazzar" is wonderfully pic- 
 torial and brilliant. We need scarcely repeat it, how- 
 ever ; for who has not read it? 
 
 The king was on his throne, the satraps thronged the hall : 
 A thousand bright lamps shone o'er that high festival. 
 A thousand cups of gold, in Judah deemed divine ; 
 Jehovah's vessels hold the godless heathen's wine ! 
 
 * Christophers' Hymns. 
 
398 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 In that same hour and hall, the fingers of a hand 
 Came forth against the wall, and wrote as if on sand ; 
 The fingers of a man, a solitary hand 
 Along the letters ran, and traced them like a wand. 
 The monarch saw and shook, and bade no more rejoice ; 
 All bloodless waxed his look, and tremulous his voice : — 
 " Let the men of lore appear, the wisest of the earth, 
 And expound the words of fear which mar our royal mirth." 
 
 What a grand passage is the following ! — 
 
 Between two worlds life hovers like a star, 
 
 'Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge : 
 How little do we know that which we are ! 
 
 How less what we may be ! The eternal surge 
 Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar 
 
 Our bubbles : as the old burst, new emerge, 
 Lashed from the foam of ages ; while the graves 
 
 Of empires heave but like some passing waves. 
 
 Another of his fine poems is " The Destruction of 
 Sennacherib's Army : " — 
 
 The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold ; 
 And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
 That host with their banners at sunset were seen ; 
 Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
 That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 
 
 And there lay the rider distorted and pale, 
 With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
 The lances uplifted, the trumpets unblown. 
 
 And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, 
 And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal ; 
 And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
 Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord ! 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 399 
 
 How sublime is his apostrophe to the Ocean ! — 
 
 Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin ; his control 
 Stops with the shore ; upon the watery plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
 He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, 
 Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. 
 
 Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form 
 Glasses itself in tempests ; in all time, 
 Calm or convulsed, in breeze or gale or storm, 
 Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
 Dark-heaving ; boundless, endless, and sublime, 
 The image of eternity, the throne 
 Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
 The monsters of the deep are made : each zone 
 Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. 
 
 Keble, the popular author of the " Christian Year," 
 has enriched our sacred literature by his Muse. 
 Although expressly written for the service- of the 
 Episcopal Church, these sacred lyrics have found 
 many admirers among other communions. We cull 
 a few brilliants from his collection : they need no set- 
 ting. 
 
 Why should we faint and fear to live alone, 
 Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die ? 
 
 Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own, 
 Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh ? 
 
 Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe 
 Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart; 
 
 Our eyes see all around, in gloom or glow, 
 
 Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart. 
 
 " The heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger doth not intermeddle with its 
 joy." — Prov, xiv. 10. 
 
400 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies, 
 Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew, 
 
 What more than magic in you lies 
 To fill the heart's fond view ? 
 
 In childhood's sports companions gay, 
 
 In sorrow, on life's downward way, 
 
 How soothing ! in our last decay, 
 Memorials prompt and true. 
 
 Relics ye are of Eden's bowers, 
 
 As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, 
 As when ye crowned the sunshine hours 
 
 Of happy wanderers there. 
 
 His voice is hushed, but his rare and beautiful mel- 
 odies will perpetuate his memory as long as the 
 " service of song " shall minister solace to the sons and 
 daughters of sorrow. It was but recently that he left 
 the ranks of the Church Militant to join the hymnists 
 of the " upper sanctuary ; " and well has it been re- 
 marked, that those who kept him company little 
 thought that he would so soon realize the consoling 
 prophecy of his own verse. 
 
 Then, fainting soul, arise and sing ; 
 Mount, but be sober on the wing : 
 Mount up, for Heaven is won by prayer ; 
 Be sober, for thou art not there. 
 Till death the weary spirit free, 
 Thy God hath said 'tis good for thee 
 To walk by faith, and not by sight : 
 
 Take it on trust a little while ; 
 Soon shalt thou read the mystery right, 
 
 In the full sunshine of His smile ! 
 
 Dean Milman was born in 1791, was educated at 
 Eton and Oxford, in 1821 was appointed to the pro- 
 fessorship of poetry in the University of Oxford, and 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 4OI 
 
 in 1849 became Dean of St. Paul's. His "Fall of 
 Jerusalem " is one of his noted poems. We subjoin 
 two extracts : — 
 
 When God came down from Heaven, the Living God j 
 
 What signs and wonders marked His stately way ? 
 Brake out the winds in music where He trod ? 
 
 Shone o'er the heavens a brighter, softer day ? 
 The dumb began to speak, the blind to see, 
 
 And the lame leaped, and pain and paleness fled ; 
 The mourner's sunken eye grew bright with glee, 
 
 And from the tomb awoke the wondering dead ! 
 When God went back to Heaven, the Living God ! 
 
 Rode He the heavens upon a fiery car ? 
 Waved seraph wings along His glorious road ? 
 
 Stood still to wonder each bright wandering star ? 
 Upon the cross He hung, and bowed His head, 
 
 And prayed for them that smote, and them that curst ; 
 And drop by drop His slow life-blood was shed, 
 
 And His last hour of suffering was His worst ! 
 
 What means yon blaze on high ? 
 
 The empyrean sky, 
 Like the rich veil of some proud fane, is rending ; 
 
 I see the star-paved land 
 
 Where all the angels stand, 
 Even to the highest height in burning rows ascending ; 
 
 Some with their wings dispread, 
 
 And bowed the stately head, 
 As on some mission of God's love departing, 
 Like flames from midnight conflagration starting ; 
 Behold ! the appointed messengers are they, 
 And nearest earth they wait to waft our souls away. 
 
 Hood, although generally known by his sparkling 
 wit and humorous poems, has yet given us some of 
 the most deeply pathetic and impassioned stanzas in 
 the language. He was born in 1798, and died in 
 
 26 
 
402 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 1845. His variously gifted pen touched alike the 
 springs of laughter and of tears. 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 She stood breast-high amid the corn, 
 Clasped by the golden light of morn, 
 Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
 Who many a glowing kiss had won. 
 
 On her cheek an autumn flush 
 Deeply ripened ; such a blush 
 In the midst of brown was born, — 
 Like red poppies grown with corn. 
 
 Round her eyes her tresses fell, 
 Which were blackest none could tell ; 
 But long lashes veiled a light 
 That had else been all too bright ; 
 
 And her hat with shady brim. 
 Made her tressy forehead dim : 
 Thus she stood amid the stooks, 
 Praising God with sweetest looks. 
 
 Sure, I said, Heaven did not mean 
 Where I reap thou should'st but glean ; 
 Lay thy sheaf adown, and come, 
 Share my harvest and my home. 
 
 Here is another exquisite little poem of his : — 
 
 We watched her breathing through the night, her breathing soft 
 
 and low, 
 As in her breast the wave of life kept heaving to and fro. 
 So silently we seemed to speak, so slowly moved about, 
 As we had lent her half our powers to eke her living out. 
 Our very hopes belied our fears, our fears our hopes belied ; 
 We thought her dying when she slept, and sleeping when she died. 
 For when the morn came, dim and sad, and chill with early showers, 
 Her quiet eyelids closed, — she had another morn than ours ! 
 
 Moir (better known as the " Delta " of " Black- 
 wood") was born 1798, and died in 1851. This busy 
 surgeon of Musselburgh found time to cultivate a 
 

 
 MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 4O3 
 
 poetic genius of the first order. He wrote among 
 other poems one remarkable for its touching, pathos 
 and exquisite feeling, entitled " Casa Wappy" (the 
 self-conferred pet-name of an infant son of the poet, 
 snatched away after a brief illness) . Here are a few 
 of the stanzas : — 
 
 And hast thou sought thy heavenly home, our fond, dear boy, — 
 The realms where sorrow dare not come, where life is joy? 
 Pure at thy death, as at thy birth, 
 Thy spirit caught no taint from earth : 
 Even by its bliss we mete our dearth, Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Despair was in our last farewell, as closed thine eye ; 
 Tears of our anguish may not tell when thou didst die ; 
 
 Words may not paint our grief for thee, 
 
 Sighs are but bubbles on the sea. 
 
 Of our unfathomed agony, Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Thou wert a vision of delight to bless us given ; 
 
 Beauty embodied to our sight, a type of heaven ; 
 So dear to us thou wert, thou art 
 Even less thine own self than a part 
 Of mine and of thy mother's heart, Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Thy bright, brief day knew no decline, 'twas cloudless joy ; 
 
 Sunrise and night alone were thine, beloved boy ! 
 This moon beheld thee blithe and gay, 
 That found thee prostrate in decay, 
 And ere a third shone, clay was clay, Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Gem of our hearth, our household pride, earth's undefiled ! 
 
 Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, our dear, sweet child ! 
 Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; 
 Yet had we hoped that time should see 
 Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, Casa Wappy ! 
 
 The nursery shows thy pictured wall, thy bat, thy bow, 
 Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball ; but where art thou ? 
 
4O4 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 A corner holds thine empty chair ; 
 
 Thy playthings idly scattered there, 
 
 But speak to us of our despair, Casa Wappy ! 
 
 Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, in life's spring bloom, 
 Down to the appointed house below, — the silent tomb ! 
 
 But now the green leaves of the tree, 
 
 The cuckoo and the " busy bee," 
 
 Return, but with them bring not thee* Casa Wappy ! 
 
 'Tis so : but can it be (while flowers revive again) 
 Man's doom, in death that we and ours for aye remain ? 
 Oh ! can it be, that o'er the grave 
 The grass renewed should yearly wave, 
 Yet God forget our child to save, — Casa Wappy ? 
 
 It cannot be : for were it so thus man could die, 
 
 Life were a mockery, Thought were woe, and Truth a lie ; 
 
 Heaven were a coinage of the brain, 
 
 Religion frenzy, Virtue vain, 
 
 And all our hopes to meet again Casa Wappy ! 
 
 The late Lord Jeffrey, in writing to Moir, said of 
 his domestic verses : " I cannot resist the impulse 
 of thanking you with all my heart for the deep grati- 
 fication you have afforded me, and the soothing, and 
 I hope bettering, emotions which you have excited. 
 I am sure that what you have written is more genuine 
 pathos than any thing almost I have ever read in verse, 
 and is so tender and true, so sweet and natural, as to 
 make all lower recommendations indifferent." 
 
 Knox, a Scottish poet, who lived from 1789 to 1825, 
 wrote some splendid lyrics, — K verses alive with 
 sacred fire, and breathing of scriptural simplicity and 
 tenderness." The feelings of the young poet's heart, 
 at a particular crisis of his family history, are seen in 
 these lines : — 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 4O5 
 
 Harp of Zion, pure and holy, pride of Judah's eastern land ! 
 May a child of guilt and folly strike thee with a feeble hand ? 
 May I to my bosom take thee, — trembling from the prophet's 
 
 touch, — 
 And, with throbbing heart, awake thee to the strains I love so 
 
 much ? 
 I have loved thy thrilling numbers since the dawn of childhood's 
 
 day ; 
 Since a mother soothed my slumbers with the cadence of thy lay ; 
 Since a little blooming sister clung with transport round my knee, 
 And my glowing spirit blessed her, with a blessing caught from 
 
 thee ! 
 Mother, sister, both are sleeping where no heaving hearts respire, 
 Whilst the eve of age is creeping round the widowed spouse and 
 
 sire. 
 He and his, amid their sorrow, find enjoyment in thy strain ; 
 Harp of Zion, let me borrow comfort from thy chords again ! 
 
 This same Knox was the author of that exquisite 
 poem on " Mortality," which the late President Lincoln 
 so much admired. It begins, — 
 
 Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
 Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
 A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, — 
 He passes from life to his rest in the grave ! 
 
 The hand of the king who the sceptre hath borne, 
 The brow of the priest who the mitre hath worn, 
 The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, 
 Are hidden and lost in the depths of. the grave 1 
 
 The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, . 
 The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, 
 The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, 
 Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust ! 
 
 And the smile and the tear, and the song and the dirge, 
 Still follow each other, like surge upon surge : 
 From the gilded saloon, to the bier and the shroud, — 
 Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
 
406 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 David Gray, a self-taught Scottish peasant, wrote 
 this line sonnet : — 
 
 Why are all fair things at their death the fairest ? 
 
 Beauty the beautifullest in decay ? 
 
 Why doth rich sunset clothe each closing day 
 With ever-new apparelling the rarest ? 
 
 Why are the sweetest melodies all born 
 Of pain and sorrow ? Mourneth not the dove, 
 In the green forest gloom, an absent love ? 
 
 Leaning her breast against the cruel thorn, 
 Doth not the nightingale, poor bird, complain, 
 
 And integrate her uncontrollable woe 
 To such perfection, that to hear is pain ? 
 
 Thus Sorrow and Death — alone realities — 
 Sweeten their ministration, and bestow 
 
 On troublous life a relish for the skies ! 
 
 Listen to Allan Cunningham's beautiful lyric tribute 
 to the Sabbath : — 
 
 Dear is the hallowed morn to me, when village bells awake the day, 
 And, by their sacred minstrelsy, call me from earthly cares away. 
 And dear to me the winged hour, spent in thy hallowed courts, O 
 
 Lord! 
 To feel devotion's soothing power, and catch the manna of Thy 
 
 word. 
 
 Oft when the world, with iron bands, has bound me in its six days' 
 
 chain, 
 This bursts them, like the strong man's hands, and lets my spirit 
 
 loose again. 
 
 Go, man of pleasure, strike the lyre, of Sabbaths broken sing the 
 
 charms ; 
 Ours are the prophet's car of fire, which bears us to a Father's 
 
 arms ! 
 
 The Scottish poet, Pollok, has something of Miltomc 
 grandeur in much of his verse. Here is his delinea- 
 tion of what all would possess, but only few secure. — 
 true happiness : — 
 

 MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 407 
 
 True Happiness had no localities, 
 
 No tones provincial, no peculiar garb. 
 
 Where Duty went, she went, with Justice went, 
 
 And went with Meekness, Charity, and Love. 
 
 Where'er a tear was dried, a wounded heart 
 
 Bound up, a bruised spirit with the dew 
 
 Of sympathy anointed, or a pang 
 
 Of honest suffering soothed, or injury 
 
 Repeated oft, as oft by love forgiven ; 
 
 Where'er an evil passion was subdued, 
 
 Or Virtue's feeble embers fanned ; where'er 
 
 A sin was heartily abjured and left ; 
 
 Where'er a pious act was done, or breathed 
 
 A pious prayer, or wished a pious wish, — 
 
 There was a high and holy place, a spot 
 
 Of sacred light, a most religious fane, 
 
 Where Happiness, descending, sat and smiled. 
 
 Here is a very touching and beautiful description 
 of a dying Christian : — 
 
 The dying eye, — that eye alone was bright, 
 And brighter grew, as nearer death approached ; 
 
 She made a sign 
 To bring her babe ; 'twas brought, and by her placed. 
 She looked upon its face, that neither smiled, 
 Nor wept, nor knew who gazed upon 't, and laid 
 Her hand upon its little breast, and sought 
 For it, with look that seemed to penetrate 
 The heavens, unutterable blessings, — such 
 As God to dying parents only granted, 
 For infants left behind them in the world. 
 " God keep my child," we heard her say, and heard 
 No more : the Angel of the Covenant 
 Was come, and, faithful to His promise, stood 
 Prepared to walk with her through death's dark vale. 
 And now her eyes grew bright and brighter still, — 
 Too bright for ours to look upon, suffused 
 With many tears, — and closed without a cloud ! 
 They set, — as sets the morning star, which goes 
 
408 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Not down behind the darkened west, nor hides 
 Obscured among the tempests of the sky, 
 But melts away into the light of heaven ! 
 
 Pollok, who is known to us by his " Course of Time," 
 was born in 1799, and died in 1827, at the early age 
 of twenty-seven years. His too ardent devotion to 
 study superinduced consumption, which soon laid him 
 low. He had only just completed his great poem and 
 commenced his public ministry, when he was removed 
 to the south of England, for the benefit of his health, 
 where, alas ! he died. In a letter to his brother about 
 this time (1826), he says, "It is with much pleasure 
 that I am now able to tell you that I have finished my 
 poem. Since I wrote to you last, I have written about 
 three thousand five hundred verses ; which is consid- 
 erably more than a hundred every successive day. 
 This, you will see, was extraordinary expedition to 
 be continued so long; and I neither can nor wish 
 to ascribe it to any thing but an extraordinary mani- 
 festation of Divine goodness. Although some nights 
 I was on the border of fever, I rose every morning 
 equally fresh, without one twitch of headache ; and, 
 with all the impatience of a lover, hasted to my study. 
 Towards the end of the tenth book, — for the whole 
 consists of ten books, — where the subject was over- 
 whelmingly great, and where I, indeed, seemed to write 
 from immediate inspiration, I felt the body beginning to 
 give way. ... I am convinced that summer is the best 
 season for great mental exertion ; because the heat 
 promotes the circulation of the blood, the stagnation 
 of which is the great cause of misery to cogitative 
 men. The serenity of mind which I have possessed 
 is astonishing. Exalted on my native mountains, and 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 
 
 409 
 
 writing often on the top of the very highest of them, 
 I proceeded, from day to day, as if I had been in a 
 world in which there was neither sin nor sickness nor 
 poverty." 
 
 Pollok, like Kirke White, adds one more to the list 
 of great minds too early quenched by the excessive 
 ardor of their intellectual pursuits. He has been 
 described as tall, well-proportioned, of a dark com- 
 plexion, " sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," 
 with deep-set eyes, heavy eyebrows, and black, bushy 
 hair. "A smothered light burned in his dark orbs, 
 which flashed with a meteor brilliancy, whenever he 
 spoke with enthusiasm and energy." 
 
 Motherwell, the "melancholy" Scottish bard, who 
 died in 1835, at tne ear ly a ge of thirty-eight, has writ- 
 ten a sweet poem, "The water, the water !" from which 
 we give an extract : — 
 
 The water, the water ! the dear and blessed thing, 
 That all day fed the little flowers, on its banks blossoming : 
 The water, the water ! that murmured in my ear 
 Hymns of a saint-like purity, that angels well might hear ; 
 And whispered in the gates of heaven, 
 How meek a pilgrim had been shriven. 
 
 The water, the water ! the mournful, pensive tone 
 That whispered to my heart, how soon this weary life was done. 
 The water, the water ! that rolled so bright and free, 
 And bade me mark how beautiful was its soul's purity ; 
 And how it glanced to heaven its wave, 
 As, wandering on, it sought its grave ! 
 
 We cull the following poetic flowers from the pen 
 of the late Bishop Doane, of New Jersey: — 
 
 EVENING. 
 
 Softly now the light of day 
 Fades upon my sight away ; 
 Free from care, from labor free, 
 Lord ! I would commune with thee. 
 
4IO EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Thou, whose all-pervading eye 
 
 Naught escapes, without, within, 
 Pardon each infirmity, 
 
 Open fault and secret sin. 
 
 Thou who, sinless, yet hast known 
 
 All of man's infirmity ; 
 Then, from Thy eternal throne, 
 
 Jesus, look with pitying eye ! 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN'S DEATH. 
 
 Lift not thou the wailing voice, 
 
 Weep not, 'tis a Christian dieth, — 
 Up, where blessed saints rejoice, 
 
 Ransomed now, the spirit flieth ; 
 High, in heaven's own light, she dwelleth, 
 Full the song of triumph swelleth ; 
 Freed from earth, and earthly failing, 
 Lift for her no voice of wailing. 
 
 THE BANNER OF THE CROSS. 
 
 Fling out the Banner ! let it float skyward and seaward, high and 
 
 wide ; 
 The sun, that lights its shining folds, the cross on which the Saviour 
 
 died. 
 Fling out the Banner ! angels bend, in anxious silence, o'er the sign, 
 And vainly seek to comprehend the wonder of the Love divine ! 
 Fling out the Banner ! heathen lands shall see, from far, the glorious 
 
 sight, 
 And nations, crowding to be born, baptize their spirits in its light. 
 
 What a beautiful spirit of Christian resignation 
 breathes throughout the last lines composed by Mrs. 
 Hemans ! — the "Sabbath Sonnet," written a few days 
 prior to her decease : — 
 
 How many blessed groups this hour are bending 
 Through England's primrose meadow-paths their way, 
 Towards spire and tower, midst shadowing elms ascending, 
 Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day. 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 4II 
 
 The halls from old heroic ages gray- 
 Pour their fair children forth ; and hamlets low, 
 With whose thick orchard-blooms the soft winds play, 
 Send out their inmates in a happy flow, 
 Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread 
 With them those pathways, — to the feverish bed 
 Of sickness bound ; yet, O my God ! I bless 
 Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled 
 My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled 
 To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness ! 
 
 In less than one month after giving utterance to the 
 above " soul-sonnet," Felicia Hemans passed away ; 
 and her memorial, in St. Ann's Church, Dublin, has 
 inscribed over her mortal remains these fitting stanzas, 
 from her own pen : — 
 
 Calm on the bosom of thy God, 
 
 Fair spirit, rest thee now. 
 Even while with us thy footsteps trod, 
 
 His seal was on thy brow. 
 Dust to its narrow house beneath, 
 
 Soul to its home on high ! 
 They that have seen thy look in death, 
 No more may fear to die. 
 
 This gifted writer excelled as much in her linguistic 
 skill as in her poetical productions ; having rendered 
 into English verse many pieces from eminent Conti- 
 nental writers. Her life, overcharged with cares and 
 privations, and neglected by her natural protector, 
 succumbed, in the unequal strife, in 1835. 
 
 The Rev. W. Crosswell, of Boston, wrote several 
 beautiful sacred lyrics, which, like those of Bishop 
 Coxe, of New York, are exquisitely musical, brilliant, 
 and stirring. Here are some extracts : — 
 
 I saw them in their synagogue, as in their ancient day, 
 And never from my memory the scene shall fade away ; 
 For dazzling on my vision still the latticed galleries shine 
 With Israel's loveliest daughters, in their beauty half divine 
 
412 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 It is the holy Sabbath eve : the solitary light 
 
 Sheds, mingled with the hues of day, a lustre nothing bright; 
 
 On swarthy brow and piercing glance it falls with saddening tinge, 
 
 And dimly gilds the Pharisee's phylacteries and fringe. 
 
 The two-leaved doors slide slow apart before the Eastern screen, 
 
 As rise the Hebrew harmonies, with chanted prayers between ; 
 
 And 'mid the tissued veils disclosed, of many a gorgeous dye, 
 
 Enveloped in their jewelled scarfs the sacred records lie. 
 
 Robed in his sacerdotal vest, a silvery-headed man, 
 
 With voice of solemn cadence, o'er the backward letters ran ; 
 
 And often yet, methinks, I see the glow and power that sate 
 
 Upon his face, as forth he spread the roll immaculate. 
 
 And fervently, that hour, I prayed that from the mighty scroll 
 
 Its light, in burning characters, might break on every soul ; 
 
 That on their hardened hearts the veil might be no longer dark, 
 
 But be for ever rent in twain, like that before the ark ; 
 
 For yet the tenfold film shall fall, O Judah ! from thy sight, 
 
 And every eye be purged to read thy testimonies right, — 
 
 When thou, with all Messiah's signs in Christ distinctly seen, 
 
 Shalt, by Jehovah's nameless name, invoke the Nazarene ! 
 
 Rev. Dr. Crosswell's death was remarkable : while 
 engaged in the public Sabbath afternoon service, at 
 the conclusion of the last collect, instead of rising from 
 his knees, he sank upon the floor, and shortly after- 
 wards expired. 
 
 Among our American poets, we think the late George 
 W. Bethune well deserves a place of honor. What 
 glad sunshine gleams through the following musical 
 stanzas : — 
 
 I love to sing when I am glad, — song is the echo of my gladness : 
 
 I love to sing when I am sad, till song makes sweet my very sad- 
 ness : 
 
 'Tis pleasant time when voices chime to some sweet rhyme in con- 
 cert only ; 
 
 And song to me is company, good company, when I am lonely. 
 
 Whene'er I greet the morning light, my song goes forth in thankful 
 numbers ; 
 
 And 'mid the shadows of the night I sing to me my welcome slum- 
 bers : 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 413 
 
 My heart is stirred by each glad bird whose notes are heard in sum- 
 mer bowers ; 
 
 And song gives birth to friendly mirth around the hearth in wintry 
 hours. 
 
 Man first learned song in Paradise, from the bright angels o'er him 
 singing ; 
 
 And in our home above the skies glad anthems are for ever ringing. 
 
 God lends His ear, well pleased to hear the songs that cheer his 
 children's sorrow; 
 
 Till day shall break, and we shall wake where love will make unfad- 
 ing morrow. 
 
 Then let me sing, while yet I may, like him God loved, — the sweet- 
 toned Psalmist, 
 
 Who found in harp and holy lay the charm that keeps the spirit 
 calmest ; 
 
 For sadly here I need the cheer, while sinful fear with promise 
 blendeth : 
 
 Oh, how I long to join the throng who sing the song that never 
 endeth ! 
 
 On one occasion, when in his pulpit awaiting the 
 arrival of his congregation, he pencilled off on a scrap 
 of paper the lines commencing, " Oh for- the happy 
 hour ! " On the day preceding his death, which took 
 place at Florence, Italy, in 1862, he wrote some affect- 
 ing lines, of which the following are the commence- 
 ment : — 
 
 When time seems short, and death is near, 
 And I am pressed by doubt and fear, 
 And sins, an overflowing tide, 
 Assail my peace on every side, — 
 This thought my refuge still shall be, 
 I know the Saviour died for me ! 
 
 The beauty of the following poem, by Bethune, will 
 be recognized by all who read it : — 
 
414 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 I am alone ; and yet in the still solitude there is a rush 
 
 Around me, as were met a crowd of viewless wings : I hear a gush 
 Of uttered harmonies, — heaven meeting earth, 
 Making it to rejoice with holy mirth. 
 
 Ye winged mysteries, sleeping before my spirit's conscious eye, 
 
 Beckoning me to arise, and go forth from my very self, and fly 
 
 With you far in the unknown, unseen immense 
 
 Of worlds beyond our sphere, — what are ye ? whence ? 
 
 Ye eloquent voices, now soft as breathings of a distant flute, 
 
 Now strong as when rejoices the trumpet in the victory and pursuit : 
 
 Strange are ye, yet familiar, as ye call 
 
 My soul to wake from earth's sense and its thrall. 
 
 I know you now : I see, with more than natural light, ye are the 
 good, 
 
 The wise departed ; ye are come from heaven to claim your brother- 
 hood 
 
 With mortal brother, struggling in the strife 
 
 And chains which once were yours in this sad life. 
 
 Mrs. Barrett Browning's religious poetry abounds 
 with splendid metaphors and high aspirations, ex- 
 pressed with masterly power : in some instances, the 
 language may seem somewhat turgid and obscure, but 
 the soul of true poetry is infused through all. Here 
 are two fine passages : — 
 
 What are we set on earth for ? Say to toil ! 
 
 Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines 
 
 For all the heat o' the sun, till it declines, 
 
 And death's mild curfew shall from work assoil. 
 
 God did anoint thee with His odorous oil 
 
 To wrestle, not to reign ; and He assigns 
 
 All thy tears, ever like pure crystallines, 
 
 Unto thy fellows, working the same soil, 
 
 To wear for amulets. So others shall 
 
 Take patience, labor, to their heart and hand, 
 
 From thy hand and thy heart and thy brave cheer, 
 
 And God's grace fructify through thee to all ! 
 
 The least flower with a brimming cup may stand 
 
 And share its dew-drop with another near. 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 415 
 
 COMFORT. 
 
 Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweet, 
 From out the hallelujahs, sweet and low, 
 Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee so, 
 Who art not missed, by any that entreat. 
 Speak to me as to Mary at Thy feet ; 
 And if no precious gums my hands bestow, 
 Let my tears drop, like amber, while I go 
 In search of Thy divinest voice, complete 
 In humanest affection ; thus, in sooth, 
 To lose the sense of losing ! As a child, 
 Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore, 
 Is sung to, in its stead, by mother's mouth ; 
 Till sinking on her breast, love reconciled, 
 He sleeps the faster that he wept before. 
 
 From a couch of sickness went forth those earnest, 
 scholarly, and artistic poems of Mrs. Barrett Brown- 
 ing, which have won for her such pre-eminent fame. 
 This gifted daughter of genius left our world, after 
 enriching it with many an imperishable tribute of her 
 Muse, in the midsummer of 1861 ; and her "sacred 
 dust " sleeps under the blue sky of that land — 
 
 " Where the poet's lip and the painter's hand 
 Are most divine." 
 
 Whoever of us may hereafter chance to visit Flor- 
 ence will not be likely to forget that poet-shrine in the 
 English burying-ground there ; associating it with her 
 own plaintive and prophetic words, so familiar to us 
 all,— 
 
 And friends, dear friends, when it shall be 
 That this low breath is gone from me, 
 And round my bier ye come to weep, — 
 Let one, most loving of you all, 
 Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall, — 
 1 He giveth His beloved sleep.' " 
 
416 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 We have, however, begun her beautiful poem with 
 the last stanza : let us recite one or two of those pre- 
 ceding : — 
 
 Of all the thoughts of God, that are 
 Borne inward unto souls afar, 
 Along the Psalmist's music deep, 
 Now tell me if there any is, 
 For gift or grace, surpassing this, — 
 "He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 What would we give to our beloved ? 
 The hero's heart to be unmoved, 
 The poet's star-tuned heart to sweep, 
 The Senate's shouts to patriot's vows, 
 The monarch's crown to light the brows, — 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 How afFectingly beautiful are her lines on Cowper's 
 Grave! — too long, however, for insertion here, and 
 too excellent to be marred by abridgment. 
 
 Procter (known by the pseudonym of Barry Corn- 
 wall) was born in 1790. He has published "Dramatic 
 Sketches," and various other volumes of lyrics; some 
 of which exhibit a happy combination of religious feel- 
 ing with poetic skill. For example, the following : — 
 
 We are born ; we laugh ; we weep ; 
 
 We love ; we droop ; we die ; 
 Ah ! wherefore do we laugh or weep ? 
 
 Why do we live or die ? 
 Who knows that secret deep ? 
 
 Alas ! not I. 
 
 Why doth the violet spring 
 
 Unseen by human eye ? 
 Why do the radiant seasons bring 
 
 Sweet thoughts that quickly fly ? 
 Why do our fond hearts cling 
 
 To things that die ? 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 417 
 
 We toil, through pain and wrong ; 
 
 We fight — and fly; 
 We love ; we lose ; and then, ere long, 
 
 Stone-dead we lie. 
 O life ! is all thy song 
 
 " Endure and die " ? 
 
 There is a land immortal, the beautiful of lands ; 
 
 Beside the ancient portal a sentry grimly stands. 
 
 He only can undo it, and open wide the door, 
 
 And mortals who pass through it are mortals never more. 
 
 Their sighs are lost in singing, they're blessed in their tears, 
 Their journey homeward winging, they leave to earth their fears. 
 Death like an angel seemeth, — " We welcome thee," they cry ; 
 Their face with glory beameth, 'tis life with them to die ! * 
 
 Here is a little lyric gem, from the facile and pictu- 
 resque pen of Charles Kingsley : — 
 
 My fairest child, I have no song to give you ; 
 No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray ; 
 Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you, 
 
 For every day : 
 Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever ; 
 Do noble things, not dream them, all day long ; 
 And so make life, death, and that vast forever 
 
 One grand, sweet song ! 
 
 Harriet Winslow List is the author of these beautiful 
 
 lines : — 
 
 Why thus longing, thus for ever sighing, 
 
 For the far-off, unattained, and dim, 
 While the beautiful, all round thee lying, 
 
 Offers up its low, perpetual hymn ? 
 
 Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, 
 All thy restless yearnings it would still ; 
 
 Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching, 
 Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. 
 
 * Flavel beautifully said, " Heaven is epitomized in holiness, and it is the true badge 
 and livery of the heaven-born." 
 
 27 
 
41 8 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses, 
 Not by works that give thee world-renown, 
 
 Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, 
 
 Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. 
 
 Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, 
 
 Every day a rich reward will give ; 
 Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only, 
 
 And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 
 
 The late Adelaide A. Procter, daughter of the well- 
 known poet of that name, has left us some rare Chris- 
 tian lyrics : we quote a few lines from her hymn on 
 Thankfulness : — 
 
 My God, I thank Thee who hast made the earth so bright ; 
 So full of splendor and of joy, beauty and light ; 
 So many glorious things are here, noble and right. 
 I thank Thee, too, that Thou hast made joy to abound ; 
 So many gentle thoughts and deeds circling us round ; 
 That in the darkest spot of earth some love is found. 
 I thank Thee more that all our joy is touched with pain ; 
 That shadows fall on brightest hours ; that thorns remain ; 
 So that earth's bliss may be our guide, and not our chain. 
 For Thou, who knowest, Lord, how soon our weak heart clings, 
 Hast given us joys, tender and true, yet all with wings ; 
 So that we see, gleaming on high, diviner things. 
 
 Here is a little admonitory gem of hers : — 
 
 One by one the sands are flowing, one by one the moments fall ; 
 Some are coming, some are going ; do not strive to grasp them all. 
 One by one thy duties wait thee, — let thy whole strength go to each : 
 Let no future dreams elate thee ; learn thou first what these can 
 teach. 
 
 Every hour that flits so slowly has its task to do or bear ; 
 Luminous the crown, and holy, if thou set each gem with care. 
 Hours are golden links, God's token, reaching heaven ; but one by 
 
 one 
 Take them, lest the chain be broken ere thy pilgrimage be done. 
 
I 
 
 MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 419 
 
 R. M. Milnes (Lord Houghton) has published sev- 
 eral fine pieces; among them, some lines on "The 
 Worth of Hours," — which end as follows : — 
 
 So should we live that every hour 
 May die, as dies the natural flower, — 
 A self-reviving thing of power ; 
 
 That every thought and every deed 
 May hold within itself the seed 
 Of future good and future meed ; 
 
 Esteeming sorrow, whose employ 
 Is to develop, not destroy, 
 Far better than a barren joy. 
 
 In the olden time, the hum of Babel did not reach 
 to the scholar's hermitage. "When all is still and 
 quiet in a man, then will God speak to him, in the cool 
 of the day," is the beautiful remark of Norris, of Be- 
 merton ; " and, in that calm and silence of the passions, 
 the Divine voice will be heard." It would be well for 
 us, of these days of tumult and strange excitement, 
 could we steal away awhile from the thronged thorough- 
 fares of life, at quiet eventide, and muse over the sug- 
 gestive lives and instructive pages of the worthies who 
 have bequeathed to us the wealth of their experience 
 in their Christian melodies. Ben Jonson, inspired by 
 the genius of his age, remarked, " Good men are 
 the stars of the world." One of these stars, Owen 
 Feltham, justly observes, "The acts of our famous 
 predecessors are beacons set upon hills to summon us 
 to the defence of virtue." He says elsewhere, — in one 
 of his letters, late in life, — "I have lived in such a 
 course, as my books have ever been my delight and 
 recreation ; and that which some men call idleness, I 
 will call the sweetest part of my life, — and that is my 
 
420 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 thinking." The movements of the age are somewhat 
 swifter now than then ; yet that is no reason why we 
 should deny ourselves all repose and reflection. 
 
 Fittingly does the laurel-crown adorn the brow of 
 Alfred Tennyson, — a minstrel worthy to be successor 
 to William Wordsworth. Our poet's early days were 
 passed amid the fens of Lincolnshire and Cambridge ; 
 and there, in his earlier poems, he pictured his land- 
 scapes ; but the productions of his maturer years have 
 taken tone and color from the richer scenery around 
 Alum Bay, Carisbrook, and his beautiful home adja- 
 cent, — Farringford, in the Isle of Wight. Within 
 this quiet, rural retreat by the sea, Tennyson lives 
 among his children and his books ; extracting, ever 
 and anon, from his wayside rambles, many an illu- 
 minated and beautiful thought, for the delectation of 
 his readers. His ideal and elegiac poems are well 
 known; indeed, so are his "Locksley Hall," "Idyls 
 of the King," &c. We might easily increase the store, 
 had we space to spare ; but here are a few brilliants 
 from the pictorial pages of Tennyson : — 
 
 More things are wrought by prayer 
 Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice 
 Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 
 For what are men better than sheep or goats, 
 That nourish a blind life within the brain, 
 If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer, 
 Both for themselves and those who call them friend ? 
 For so the whole round earth is every way 
 Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 
 
 VICTORIOUS FAITH. 
 
 I cannot hide that some have striven, 
 Achieving calm, to whom was given 
 The joy that mixes man with heaven ; 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 42 1 
 
 Who, rowing hard against the stream, 
 
 Saw distant gates of Eden gleam, 
 
 And did not dream it was a dream ; 
 
 But heard, by secret transports led, 
 
 Even in the charnels of the dead, 
 
 The murmur of the fountain-head : 
 
 Which did accomplish their desire, 
 
 Bore and forbore, and did not tire, 
 
 Like Stephen, an unquenched fire. 
 
 He heeded not reviling tones, 
 
 Nor sold his heart to idle moans, 
 
 Though cursed and scorned, and hissed, with stones : 
 
 But looking upward, full of grace, 
 
 He prayed, and from a happy place 
 
 God's glory smote him on the face. 
 
 Who that has ever lingered by some rippling brook, 
 in a shady retreat, and listened to its sweet music, does 
 not recall Tennyson's expressive lyric, as liquid in its 
 ripple as the stream it describes? — 
 
 I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, 
 
 And sparkle out among the fern, to bicker down a valley, 
 
 I chatter over stony ways, in little sharps and trebles, 
 
 I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. 
 
 With many a curve my banks I fret, by many a field and fallow, 
 
 And many a fairy foreland set with willow-weed and mallow. 
 
 I chatter, chatter, as I flow to join the brimming river, 
 For men may come and men may go, but I go on for ever. 
 I wind about, and in and out, with here a blossom sailing, 
 And here and there a lusty trout, and here and there a grayling, 
 And here and there a foamy flake upon me, as I travel, 
 With many a silvery waterbreak above the golden gravel, 
 And draw them all along, and flow to join the brimming river, 
 For men may come and men may go, but I go on for ever. 
 
 Bernard Barton, the Quaker poet (1784-1849), de- 
 serves a place among the Christian minstrels, for his 
 many refined and musical lyrics. Some specimen 
 lines follow, from his poem on Human Life : — 
 
422 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 I walked the fields at morning's prime, the grass was ripe for mow- 
 ing; 
 
 The skylark sang his matin chime, and all was brightly glowing. 
 
 "And thus," I cried, "the ardent boy, his pulse with rapture beat- 
 ing, 
 
 Deems life's inheritance a joy, the future proudly greeting." 
 
 I wandered forth at noon : alas ! on earth's maternal bosom 
 
 The scythe had left the withering grass, and stretched the fading 
 blossom. 
 
 And thus, I thought, with many a sigh, the hopes we fondly cher- 
 ish, 
 
 Like flowers, which blossom but to die, seem only born to perish. 
 
 Once more at eve abroad I strayed, through lonely hay-fields 
 musing, 
 
 While every breeze that round me played, rich fragrance was dif- 
 fusing. 
 
 His vigorous lines on " The Sabbath " remind us of 
 George Herbert : — 
 
 Types of eternal rest, fair buds of bliss, 
 
 In heavenly flowers unfolding week by week ; 
 
 The next world's goodness imaged forth in this ; 
 
 Days of whose worth the Christian's heart can speak ! 
 
 Days fixed by God for intercourse with dust, 
 To raise our thoughts and purify our powers ; 
 
 Periods appointed to renew our trust ; 
 A gleam of glory after six days' showers ! 
 
 Foretastes of heaven on earth, pledges of joy 
 Surpassing fancy's flights and fiction's story; 
 
 The preludes of a feast that cannot cloy, 
 
 And the bright out-courts of immortal glory ! 
 
 One of the most industrious and skilful of literary 
 benefactors to our sacred anthology is Sir John Bow- 
 ring. In the department of Letters he has been a 
 laborious worker. Besides various translations from the 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 423 
 
 Russian, Hungarian, Bohemian, and other national 
 poets, he has published " Matins and Vespers," 
 "Hymns," and other works in prose. He was appointed 
 British Governor at Hong Kong, and subsequently 
 to a special mission to Siam ; and in 1859 retired 
 from public service, with distinguished honor and a 
 pension. 
 
 His hymns are much admired ; for example, these : 
 " In the cross of Christ I glory," "Watchman, tell us 
 of the night." 
 
 Bowring's lyrics are charming. Here is one of the 
 choicest : — 
 
 Sweet are the joys of home, and pure as sweet ; for they, 
 
 Like dews of morn and evening, come to wake and close the day. 
 
 The world hath its delights, and its delusions too ; 
 
 But home to calmer bliss invites, more tranquil and more true. 
 
 Life's charities, like light, spread smilingly afar ; 
 
 But stars approached become more bright, and home is life's own 
 
 star. 
 The pilgrim's step in vain seeks Eden's sacred ground ; 
 But in home's holy joys again an Eden may be found. 
 A glance of heaven to see, to none on earth is given ; 
 And yet a happy family is but an earlier heaven ! 
 
 His song on the beauties of creation ends with this 
 choice stanza : — 
 
 And if thy glories here be found 
 Streaming with radiance all around, 
 
 What must the Fount of Glory be ? 
 In Thee we'll hope ; in Thee confide ; 
 Thou mercy's never-ebbing tide ! 
 
 Thou Love's unfathomable sea ! 
 
 Mrs. Craik (better known as Miss Muloch), author 
 of "John Halifax," and numerous other popular works, 
 
424 EVENINGS WTT£ THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 has contributed some exquisite little lyrics to our sacred 
 poetry. We have annexed two examples ; the first 
 is founded upon a Russian proverb, and is entitled 
 "Labor and Rest:" — 
 
 Two hands across the breast, and work is done ; 
 Two pale feet crossed in rest, the race is run ! 
 Two eyes with coin-weights shut, and all tears cease ; 
 Two lips where grief is mute, and wrath at peace : 
 So pray we oftentimes mourning our lot ; 
 God in His kindness answering not ! 
 
 Two hands to work addressed, aye for His praise ; , 
 Two feet that never rest, walking His ways ; 
 Two eyes that look above, still through all tears ; 
 Two lips that speak but love, never more fears : 
 So cry we afterwards, low at our knees, — 
 Pardon those erring prayers ! Father, hear these ! 
 
 MORTALITY. 
 
 Ye dainty mosses, lichens gray, 
 
 Pressed each to each in tender fold, 
 And peacefully thus day by day 
 
 Returning to their mould : 
 Brown leaves, that with aerial grace 
 
 Slip from your branch like birds a- wing, 
 Each having in the appointed place 
 
 Its bud of future spring : 
 If we, God's conscious creatures, knew 
 
 But half your faith in our decay, 
 We should not tremble as we do 
 
 When summoned clay to clay. 
 But with an equal patience sweet, 
 
 We should put off this mortal gear ; 
 In whatsoe'er new form is meet, 
 
 Content to reappear. 
 Knowing each germ of life He gives 
 
 Must have in Him its source and rise ; 
 Being that of His being lives 
 
 May change, but never dies. 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 425 
 
 Ye dead leaves, dropping soft and slow, 
 
 Ye mosses green and lichens fair, 
 Go to your graves, as I will go, 
 
 For God is also there. 
 
 Mrs. Charles, whose accomplished and versatile 
 pen has enriched our sacred literature with so many 
 productions in prose and verse, is the author of these 
 musical and instructive lines : — 
 
 Is thy cruse of comfort failing ? rise and share it with another , 
 And through all the years of famine it shall serve thee and thy 
 
 brother. 
 Love Divine will fill thy storehouse, or thy handful still renew ; 
 Scanty fare for one will often make a royal feast for two. 
 For the heart grows rich in giving ; all its wealth is living grain ; 
 Seeds, which mildew in the garner, scattered, fill with gold the 
 
 plain. 
 Is thy burden hard and heavy ? do thy steps drag wearily ? 
 Help to bear thy brother's burden ; God will bear both it and thee. 
 Numb and weary on the mountains, wouldst thou sleep amidst the 
 
 snow? 
 Chafe that frozen form beside thee, and together both shall glow. 
 Art thou stricken in life's battle ? many wounded round thee moan ; 
 Lavish on their wounds thy balsams, and that balm shall heal thine 
 
 own. 
 Is the heart a well left empty ? None but God its void can fill ; 
 Nothing but a ceaseless Fountain can its ceaseless longings still. 
 Is the heart a living power ? Self-entwined, its strength sinks low ; 
 It can only live in loving, and by serving love will grow. 
 
 Archbishop Trench, whose beautiful translations of 
 mediaeval hymns and other cognate works are so 
 highly esteemed, is the author of the following son- 
 nets : — 
 
 CARPE DIEM ! 
 
 We live not in our moments or our years ; 
 The present we fling from us like the rind 
 Of some sweet future, which we after find 
 
 Bitter to taste, or bind that in with fears, 
 
426 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 And water it beforehand with our tears, — 
 
 Vain tears for that which never may arrive ; 
 
 Meanwhile the joy whereby we ought to live, 
 Neglected, or unheeded, disappears. 
 
 Wiser it were to welcome and make ours 
 Whate'er of good, though small, the present brings, — 
 
 Kind greetings, sunshine, songs of birds, sweet flowers, 
 With a child's pure delight in little things ; 
 
 And of the griefs unborn to rest secure, 
 
 Knowing that mercy ever will endure. 
 
 Lord, what a change within us one short hour 
 Spent in Thy presence will avail to make ! 
 What heavy burdens from our bosoms take ; 
 
 What parched grounds refresh, as with a shower ! 
 
 We kneel, and all around us seems to lower ; 
 We rise, and all the distant and the near 
 Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and clear ! 
 
 We kneel, how weak ! we rise, how full of power ! 
 
 Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this wrong, 
 
 Or others, that we are not always strong ; 
 
 That we are ever overborne with care ; 
 That we should ever weak or heartless be, 
 
 Anxious or troubled, when with us is prayer, 
 
 And joy and strength and courage are with Theel 
 
 Dr. Bonar is a prominent clergyman of the Free 
 Church of Scotland, and author of many beautiful 
 sacred lyrics. His " Hymns of Faith and Hope " 
 comprise some fine Christian lyrics ; many of them 
 familiar to us, such as this ; — 
 
 I was a wandering sheep, I did not love the fold ; 
 
 I did not love my shepherd's voice, I would not be controlled, &c. 
 
 Here are some less familiar, and of great beauty; — 
 
 Beyond the smiling and the weeping I shall be soon : 
 Beyond the waking and the sleeping, 
 Beyond the sowing and the reaping, 
 I shall be soon ! 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 427 
 
 Love, rest, and home, — sweet hope ! 
 Lord, tarry not, but come ! 
 
 Beyond the parting and the meeting I shall be soon : 
 Beyond the farewell and the greeting, 
 Beyond this pulse's fever-beating, 
 
 I shall be soon ! 
 Love, rest, and home, — sweet hope ! 
 Lord, tarry not, but come ! 
 
 Cling to the Crucified ! His death is life to thee, 
 
 Life for eternity ! 
 His pains thy pardon seal ; His stripes thy bruises heal ; 
 His cross proclaims thy peace, bids every sorrow cease ! 
 His blood is all to thee. 
 
 It purges thee from sin, 
 It sets thy spirit free, 
 
 It keeps thy conscience clean. 
 Cling to the Crucified ! 
 
 Far down the ages now, her journey well-nigh done, 
 
 The pilgrim Church pursues her way, in haste to reach the crown. 
 
 The story of the past comes up before her view ; 
 
 How well it seems to suit her still, old, and yet ever new, 
 
 'Tis the same story still of sin and weariness, — 
 
 Of grace and love still flowing down to pardon and to bless. 
 
 'Tis the old sorrow still, the brier and the thorn ; 
 
 And 'tis the same old solace yet, the hope of coming morn. 
 
 'Tis not for man to trifle ! Life is brief, 
 
 And sin is here. 
 Our age is but the falling of a leaf, 
 
 A dropping tear. 
 We have no time to sport away the hours, 
 All must be earnest in a world like ours. 
 
 Not many lives, but only one have we, 
 
 One, only one ; 
 How sacred should that one life ever be, 
 
 That narrow span ! 
 
428 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Day after day filled up with blessed toil, 
 Hour after hour still bringing in new spoil. 
 
 O life below ! how brief and poor and saa ! 
 
 One heavy sigh ! 
 O life above ! how long, how fair and glad ! 
 
 An endless joy ! 
 Oh, to be done with daily dying here ! 
 Oh, to begin the living in yon sphere ! 
 
 The following beautiful hymn for the Sabbath was 
 written by one of England's greatest scholars, Dr. 
 Wordsworth, Canon of Westminster Abbey. " I was 
 with him in the library," says the correspondent 
 who gave it to the press, when he put his arm in 
 mine, saying, ' Come upstairs with me : the ladies are 
 going to sing a hymn to encourage your labor for 
 God's holy day.' We all then sang from manuscript 
 the hymn. I was in raptures with it. It was some 
 days after before I knew it was written by himself." 
 
 O day of rest and gladness, O day of joy and light, 
 O balm of care and sadness, most beautiful, most bright ! 
 On thee the high and lowly, bending before the throne, 
 Sing, Holy, Holy, Holy, to the great Three in One ! 
 
 On thee at the creation the light first had its birth ; 
 On thee for our salvation Christ rose from depths of earth ; 
 On thee our Lord victorious the Spirit sent from heaven, 
 And thus on thee most glorious a triple light was given. 
 
 Thou art a port protected from storms that round us rise ; 
 A garden intersected with streams of Paradise ; 
 Thou art a cooling fountain in life's dry, dreary sand ; 
 From thee, like Pisgah's mountain, we view our promised land. 
 
 Thou art a holy ladder, where angels go and come, 
 Each Sunday finds us gladder, nearer to heaven, our home ; 
 A day of sweet refection thou art, a day of love, 
 A day of resurrection from earth to things above. 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 429 
 
 w Going Out, and Coming In " is the title of an ex- 
 quisite little lyric by Isabella Craig. It is too good 
 to abridge a line of it. 
 
 In that home was joy and sorrow, where an infant first drew breath, 
 While an aged sire was drawing near unto the gate of death ; 
 His feeble pulse was failing, and his eye was growing dim, — 
 He was standing on the threshold, when they brought the babe to 
 
 him: 
 While to murmur forth a blessing on the little one he tried, 
 In his trembling arms he raised it, pressed it to his lips, and — died ! 
 An awful darkness resteth on the path they both begin, 
 Who thus met upon the threshold, — going out, and coming in ! 
 Going out unto the triumph, coming in unto the fight ; 
 Coming in unto the darkness, going out unto the light ! 
 Although the shadow deepened in the moment of eclipse, 
 When he passed through the dread portal, with the blessing on his 
 
 lips; 
 And to him who bravely conquers, as he conquered in the strife, 
 Life is but the way of dying, death is but the gate of life ! 
 Yet awful darkness resteth on the path we all begin, 
 When we meet upon the threshold, — going out, and coming in ! 
 
 It has been beautifully said, w In our world there 
 are two very interesting events of Christian history ; 
 the one is that of the young disciple entering the 
 Church Militant, the other is that of the aged disciple 
 passing away from earth to join the Church Trium- 
 phant." 
 
 This, Miss Isabella Craig has delicately and yet 
 forcibly expressed in the above lines. She took the 
 Crystal Palace prize offered for the best poem on 
 Burns, in 1856. It was the beautiful thought of a 
 recent English hymnist, that " two streams flowed 
 from the threshold of Eden, — the river of life and 
 the fountain of tears ! " 
 
 Here is a striking poem, by Dr. B. H. Kennedy, 
 who is rector of West Felton, England : — 
 
430 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Ask ye what great thing I know 
 That delights and stirs me so ? 
 What the high reward I win ? 
 Whose the name I glory in ? 
 
 Jesus Christ, the Crucified ! 
 
 What is faith's foundation strong ? 
 What awakes my lips to song ? 
 He who bore my sinful load, 
 Purchased for me peace with God, 
 Jesus Christ, the Crucified ! 
 
 Who defeats my fiercest foes ? 
 Who consoles my saddest woes ? 
 Who revives my fainting heart, 
 Healing all its hidden smart ? 
 
 Jesus Christ, the Crucified ! 
 
 Who is life in life to me ? 
 Who the death of death will be ? 
 Who will place me on His right ? 
 With the countless hosts of light? 
 Jesus Christ, the Crucified ! 
 
 Mary Howitt's brilliant "Thoughts of Heaven" need 
 no introduction to secure a welcome : — 
 
 They come as we gaze on the midnight sky, 
 When the star-gemmed vault looks dark and high, 
 And the soul, on the wings of thought sublime, 
 Soars from the dim world, and the bounds of time. 
 Till the mental eye becomes unsealed, 
 And the mystery of being in light revealed. 
 They rise in the Gothic chapel dim, 
 When slowly comes forth the holy hymn, 
 And the organ's rich tones swell full and high, 
 Till the roof peals back the melody. 
 
 Thoughts of heaven ! from his joy beguiled, 
 They come to the bright-eyed, sinless child ; 
 To the man of age in his dim decay, 
 Bringing hope that his youth had borne away ; 
 

 MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 43 1 
 
 To the woe-smit soul in its dark distress, 
 
 As flowers spring up in the wilderness ; 
 
 And in silent chambers of the dead, 
 
 When the mourner goes with soundless tread ; 
 
 For, as the day-beams freely fall, 
 
 Pure thoughts of heaven are sent to all. 
 
 This is a beautiful stanza, the closing one of William 
 Howitt's poem on the Sabbath : — 
 
 O'er the wide world, blest day, thine influence flies ! 
 
 Rest o'er the sufferer spreads her balmy wings ; 
 Love wakes, joy dawns, praise fills the listening skies ; 
 
 The expanding heart from earth's enchantment springs ; 
 Heaven, for one day, withdraws its ancient ban. 
 Unbars its gates, and dwells once more with man ! 
 
 Margaret Mercer is the author of the following ad- 
 mirable lines : — 
 
 Not on a prayerless bed, not on a prayerless bed, 
 Compose thy weary limbs to rest ; 
 For they alone are blest 
 With balmy sleep 
 Whom angels keep ; 
 Nor, though by care oppressed, or anxious sorrow, 
 Or thought in many a coil perplexed for coming morrow, 
 Lay not thy head 
 On prayerless bed. 
 
 Arouse thee, weary soul, nor yield to slumber, 
 
 Till, in communion blest, 
 
 With the elect ye rest, 
 Those souls of countless number ; 
 
 And with them raise 
 
 The note of praise, 
 Reaching from earth to heaven ; 
 Chosen, redeemed, forgiven ! 
 
 So lay thy happy head, 
 
 Prayer-crowned, on blessed bed. 
 
432 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 How little faith we have in the efficacy of prayer ! 
 yet, however faithless we may become in its exercise, 
 there is a reality in its power. Did we remember that 
 in the ratio of our faith is its efficacy, we should cease 
 to wonder that our prayers are sometimes unanswered. 
 The heathen and the worldling do not so regard 
 prayer, in times of extremity ; when their ordinary 
 resources fail them, they, too, resort to prayer. It is 
 said that when the Saxon king, Ethelred, invaded 
 Wales, he observed near the Britons a host of un- 
 armed men. He inquired who they were, and was 
 told that they were monks of Bangor, praying for the 
 success of their countrymen. "Then they have begun 
 the fight against us," he said : w attack them first." 
 
 All who are taught by the Spirit, know that what 
 the air of heaven is to the body, what sunshine is to 
 the eye, what spring is to flowers, herbs, and trees, 
 prayer is to the believing soul. Without it, the soul 
 would sicken and die. 
 
 Here is one of the late Dr. J. M. Neale's splendid 
 poems : — 
 
 The foe behind, the deep before, 
 Our hosts have dared and passed the sea ; 
 And Pharaoh's warriors strew the shore, 
 And Israel's ransomed tribes are free ! 
 Lift up, lift up your voices now, 
 The whole wide world rejoices now ! 
 The Lord hath triumphed gloriously ! 
 The Lord shall reign victoriously ! 
 Happy morrow, turning sorrow into peace and mirth ; 
 Bondage ending, love descending o'er the earth ; 
 Seals assuring, guards securing, watch His earthly prison ; 
 Seals are shattered, guards are scattered, Christ hath risen ! 
 No longer must the mourners weep, 
 
 Nor call departed Christians dead ; 
 For death is hallowed into sleep, 
 And every grave becomes a bed. 
 

 MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 433 
 
 Now once more Eden's door open stands to mortal eyes. 
 For Christ hath risen, and men shall rise. 
 
 It is not exile, rest on high ; it is not sadness, peace from strife ; 
 To fall asleep is not to die, to dwell with Christ is better life. 
 
 Our kindred and friends, who have passed from the 
 domain of Time to the great Eternity, we should ten- 
 derly remember. Because we have been obliged to 
 bury their cherished forms in the darkness and silence 
 of the tomb, we need not cease to enshrine, in our in- 
 most hearts, the sweet memories of their kindly words 
 and deeds, until we, by God's great bounty, rejoin 
 them in the great festival of eternal life. "Very dear 
 were they when with us ; lovingly would we think of 
 them, now they have left us." 
 
 The hymn so familiar to Sunday-school gatherings, 
 "Jesus is mine," was composed by Henry Hope, of 
 Dublin, and first printed in 1852, for private circula- 
 tion, but has since been included in numerous collec- 
 tions. 
 
 Now I have found a friend, — Jesus is mine ; 
 
 His love shall never end, — Jesus is mine. 
 Though earthly joys decrease, 
 Though earthly friendships cease, 
 
 Now I have lasting peace, Jesus is mine. 
 
 Here is another sweet song, engendered in a sick- 
 room, by Jane Crewdson, of Manchester, England, 
 who recently, during protracted illness, beguiled her 
 seclusion by writing numerous beautiful effusions, like 
 the following : — 
 
 I've found a joy in sorrow, a secret balm for pain, 
 A beautiful to-morrow, of sunshine after rain ; 
 I've found a branch of healing near every bitter spring ; 
 A whispered promise stealing o'er every broken string ; 
 28 
 
434 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 I've found a glad hosanna for every woe and wail, 
 A handful of sweet manna when grapes from Eshcol fail ; 
 I've found a " Rock of Ages," when desert wells were dry, 
 And, after weary stages, I've found an Elim nigh, — 
 An Elim, with its coolness, its fountains, and its shade, 
 A blessing in its fulness, when buds of promise fade. 
 O'er tears of soft contrition I've seen a rainbow light, — 
 A glory and fruition, so near, yet out of sight. 
 My Saviour ! Thee possessing, I have the joy, the balm, 
 The healing and the blessing, the sunshine and the psalm ; 
 The promise for the fearful, the Elim for the faint, 
 The rainbow for the tearful, the glory for the saint. 
 
 Charlotte Bronte, the well-known authoress, wrote 
 some remarkable lyrics. We select a stanza or two 
 from her " Twilight Reveries : " — 
 
 The human heart has hidden treasures, 
 
 In secret kept, in silence sealed : 
 The thoughts, the hopes, the dreams, the pleasures, 
 
 Whose charms were broken, if revealed. 
 
 And there are hours of lonely musing, 
 
 Such as at twilight's silence come, 
 When, soft as birds, their pinions closing, 
 
 The heart's best feelings gather home. 
 Then in our souls there seems to languish 
 
 A tender grief that is not woe ; 
 And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish 
 
 Now cause but some mild tears to flow. 
 
 And it can dwell on moonlight glimmer, 
 
 On evening shades and loneliness, 
 And, while the sky grows dim and dimmer, 
 
 Feel no untold and sad distress : 
 Only a deeper impulse given 
 
 By lonely hour and darkened room, 
 To solemn thoughts that soar to heaven, 
 
 Seeking a life and world to come. 
 
 Emily, the sister of Charlotte Bronte, has, m her 
 last poem, these striking lines: — 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 435 
 
 No coward soul is mine, 
 No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere ; 
 
 I see Heaven's glories shine, 
 And faith shines equal, arming me from fear. 
 
 Naught wakens doubt in one 
 Holding so fast by Thine infinity ; 
 
 So surely anchored on \ 
 
 The steadfast rock of immortality ! 
 
 With wide-embracing love 
 Thy spirit animates eternal years, 
 
 Pervades and broods above, 
 Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears. 
 
 Though earth and man were gone, 
 And suns and universes ceased to be, 
 
 And Thou wert left alone, — 
 Every existence would exist in Thee. 
 
 Like the clouded spirit of Cowper, did the othei 
 sister, Anne Bronte, seem to live ; although her closing 
 hours were cheered by light from Heaven. "Her 
 belief to her then did not bring to her dread, as of a 
 stern Judge, but hope, as in a Father and Saviour; 
 and no faltering hope was it, but a sure and steadfast 
 conviction, on which, in the rude passage from time to 
 eternity, she threw the weight of her human weakness, 
 and by which she was enabled to bear what was to be 
 borne, patiently, serenely, victoriously." Very touch- 
 ing is her w Prayer : " — 
 
 My God, (oh, let me call Thee mine, — weak, wretched sinner though 
 I be !) 
 
 My trembling soul would fain be Thine ; my feeble faith stiL clings 
 to Thee ; 
 
 Not only for the past I grieve, — the future fills me with dismay ; 
 
 Unless Thou hasten to relieve, Thy suppliant is a castaway ! 
 
 I cannot say my faith is strong, I dare not hope my love is great, — 
 
 But strength and love to Thee belong ; oh, do not leave me deso- 
 late 1 
 
436 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 I know I owe my all to Thee ; oh. take the heart I cannot give ; 
 Do Thou, my strength, my Saviour be, and inake me to Thy glory 
 live ! 
 
 Her last song on earth ended with these beautiful, 
 trustful words : — 
 
 If Thou shouldst bring me back to life, more humbled I should be ; 
 More wise, more strengthened for the strife, more apt to lean on 
 
 Thee; 
 Should death be standing at the gate, thus should I keep my vow ; 
 But, Lord, whatever be my fate, oh, let me serve Thee now ! 
 
 These lines written, the desk was closed, the pen laid 
 aside for ever. 
 
 The Bronte family were remarkable for their strength 
 of character and genius, as their writings sufficiently 
 prove. These three gifted sisters followed each other, 
 in rapid succession, to the grave. They were, how- 
 ever, sustained, under protracted physical suffering, 
 by the consolations of the Christian faith, and died in 
 peace. 
 
 The magic power of song is the same in all lan- 
 guages and among all peoples. Song is coeval with 
 creation: "the morning stars sang together," and, 
 when the present dispensation shall have ended, the 
 "children of the Resurrection" shall "come to Zion 
 with songs." Moses and Miriam and David and Sol- 
 omon, with the ancient prophets, and the "most favored 
 among women," with the angelic band, sang a Saviour 
 born ; and the Redeemer himself, at the paschal sup- 
 per, with his disciples, sang an hymn. Sacred song 
 has formed a constituent part of Christian worship, 
 throughout the centuries, and will continue such to the 
 end of time. It is also ever the sweet solace of the 
 sick-chamber. 
 
TENTH EVENING. 
 
 MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 
 
 {Continued?) 
 
TENTH EVENING. 
 
 MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 
 
 {Continued.) 
 
 DY its association with some personal incident or 
 "*-^ event, how fondly do we sometimes cherish the 
 memory of an old hymn ! And how doubly dear to us 
 does it become, when it is identified with the history 
 of those we have " loved and lost" ! But not as memen- 
 toes of the past, merely, do these devotional melodies 
 charm us, as with talismanic power : they also tend to 
 elevate and refine the heart, inspiring it with a noble 
 ambition towards a happy, tuneful, Christian life, — 
 a life of inward harmony, thankfulness, and peace. 
 
 "Stand up, stand up for Jesus!" a heart-stirring 
 hymn, was written by Mr. George Duffield, a Presby- 
 terian clergyman of Detroit. It was composed to be 
 sung after a sermon on the death of the Rev. Dudley 
 A. Tyng, whose dying counsel to his ministerial breth- 
 ren was expressed in the above words. 
 
 The Christmas number of the " Household Words," 
 for 1856, contains the "Wreck of the Golden Mary ; " 
 and, although you may not expect it, there you will 
 find a beautiful Christian lyric, commencing, "Hear 
 my prayer, O heavenly Father ! " Both the story and 
 the hymn are the production of Harriet Parr, better 
 
440 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 known to the reading public by her nom de -plume of 
 " Holme Lee ; " and as the incident is germain to our 
 purpose, we may as well give the reader the main 
 points of it. 
 
 The story runs, that the ship "Golden Mary" struck 
 on an iceberg, and the passengers and crew had to 
 take to the boats, in which they remained, suffering 
 great privations, for some days. To beguile the time, 
 they told stories. This hymn was repeated by one 
 Dick Tarrant, a youth who had given himself up to 
 dissipation, on being disappointed in love. Having 
 become a burden to his friends, they had sent him off 
 in the " Golden Mary" to California, to get him out of 
 the wa} T . After telling, in touching terms, some of his 
 experience, he continues, "What can it be that brings 
 all these old things over my mind? There's a child's 
 hymn I and Tom used to say at my mother's knee, 
 when we were little ones, keeps running through my 
 thoughts. It's the stars, maybe ; there was a little 
 window by my bed, that I used to watch them at, — a 
 window in my room at home, in Cheshire ; and if I 
 was ever afraid, as boys will be after reading a good 
 ghost story, I would keep on saying it till I fell asleep." 
 — "That was a good mother of yours, Dick: could 
 you say that hymn now, do you think? Some of us 
 might like to hear it." — "It's as clear in my mind at 
 this minute as if my mother was here listening to me," 
 said Dick; and he repeated, "Hear my prayer, O 
 heavenly Father ! " &c. Well might George Herbert 
 sing, — 
 
 A verse may catch a wandering soul, that flies 
 Profounder tracts, and, by a blest surprise, 
 Convert delight into a sacrifice. 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 44I 
 
 On the border of a little mountain stream, near 
 the village of Munson, Mass., might have been 
 seen, some few years since, a well-worn foot-path 
 leading from an adjacent cottage down among the 
 trees and alders that skirted a babbling brook ; and 
 there, beneath a shelving rock, might have been 
 found a well-used Bible. If those trees had tongues, 
 they might tell of many an heartfelt, earnest prayer, 
 that went up from beneath that shady solitude into the 
 ever-accessible ear of God. The pilgrim whose feet 
 were wont so oft to seek that hallowed retreat, where 
 none but God could hear, loved to linger there, not 
 only to lift up the voice of prayer and praise, but also 
 to consult the Sacred Oracles. A true lover of nature, 
 with a soul alive to the beautiful, and susceptible of 
 its benign and refining influences, she dearly loved 
 this little s}dvan sanctuary. One summer evening, 
 when repairing thither, as she supposed, unnoticed by 
 any human being, some one rudely and irreverently 
 invaded the privacy of her devotions, insultingly re- 
 proaching her for her habit of making this spot an 
 oratory for worship. Returning home, sorely grieved 
 by the wickedness of the assault, she sought relief in 
 prayer, and soon her mind became again composed : 
 and, taking a pen, she wrote, as an impromptu answer 
 to the assailant, that famous hymn, — 
 
 I love to steal awhile away from every earthly care, 
 
 And spend the hour of setting day, in humble, grateful prayer. 
 
 Would you know who this saintly one was ? It was 
 the beloved mother of Mr. S. R. Brown, of Auburn, 
 N.Y., to whom (through the columns of the "Watch- 
 man and Reflector ") we are indebted for these inter- 
 
442 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 esting particulars. We are told that she was self- 
 taught as to human knowledge, but she was evidently 
 no inapt scholar in the school of Christ. This beauti- 
 ful lyric might never have been known to the world, 
 had not Dr. Nettleton discovered its value, and placed 
 it with his " Village Hymns." We shall sing this hymn 
 hereafter, with increased interest, knowing the occa- 
 sion which originated it ; and the authoress will be 
 endeared to us by her many prayers. 
 
 " Many prayers have gone up from that solitary place, 
 not only for herself and her children, but for those 
 that were afar off. Her heart was as broad as the 
 world in its sympathies. Long before there was a 
 foreign missionary organization in this country, she 
 used to send the small sums she could earn or save to 
 the early missionaries in India and South Africa, through 
 a Christian merchant of Philadelphia, whose ships vis- 
 ited those regions. She gladly gave up her only son 
 once to go to China, and again, in her old age, to go 
 to Japan. When she parted with him, in 1859, as she 
 took her seat in a railway carriage, to go a thousand 
 miles west, to find her last home on earth, there was 
 no tear in her eyes, and the only symptom of emotion 
 observable was a slight quiver of her lip as she kissed 
 him good-by. She died in 1861, aged seventy-eight 
 years." 
 
 Faber's beautiful poem, "The Shadow of the Rock," 
 commences with these fine stanzas : — 
 
 The Shadow of the Rock ! Stay, pilgrim, stay ! 
 Night treads upon the heels of day ; 
 There is no other resting-place this way. 
 
 The Rock is near, 
 
 The well is clear : 
 Rest in the Shadow of the Rock ! 
 

 MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 443 
 
 The Shadow of the Rock ! The desert wide 
 Lies round thee like a trackless tide, 
 In waves of sand forlornly multiplied. 
 
 The sun is gone. 
 
 Thou art alone : 
 Rest in the Shadow of the Rock ! 
 
 The Shadow of the Rock ! All come alone ; 
 
 All, ever since the sun hath shone, 
 
 Who travelled by this road have come alone. 
 
 Be of good cheer, 
 
 A home is here : 
 Rest in the Shadow of the Rock ! 
 
 The following noble numbers he entitles "The 
 Heart's Home:" — 
 
 Hark, hark, my soul ! angelic songs are swelling 
 
 O'er earth's green fields, and ocean's wave-beat shore ! 
 How sweet the truth, those blessed strains are telling, 
 
 Of that new life when sin shall be no more ! 
 Darker than night life's shadows fall around us, 
 
 And, like benighted men, we miss our mark ; 
 God hides Himself, and grace has scarcely found us, 
 
 Ere death finds out his victims in the dark. 
 Onward we go, for still we hear them singing, 
 
 " Come, weary souls, for Jesus bids you come ; " 
 And through the dark, its echoes sweetly ringing, 
 
 The music of the gospel leads us home. 
 
 The re-issue, several years ago, by Cardinal Newman, 
 of the " Lyra Apostolica," which the eminent scholar 
 and divine first issued nearly fifty years previously, 
 brings to recollection the circumstances under which it 
 was first prepared. Full of deep dejection, as he was, 
 over the condition of the English Church, and so con- 
 cerned for its future welfare that he felt in his soul that 
 there was urgent necessity for a second Reformation, in 
 company with Richard Hurrell Froude, he made a jour- 
 
444 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 ney to the south of Europe, for the purpose of securing 
 a temporary change of residence, in order that he might 
 quietly reflect on the situation of affairs in his native 
 land. While sojourning in the " Eternal City" the two 
 friends began to write poems, and to forward them to 
 England for publication. (They were subsequently in- 
 cluded in the volume " Lyra Apostolica.") They bor- 
 rowed a copy of Homer, and, on looking it over, selected 
 as a motto the language uttered by Achilles on his 
 return to battle : " You shall know the difference, now 
 that I am back again." Leaving his companion in 
 Rome, Newman departed for Palermo, but was taken 
 ill on the journey. One day his servant found him 
 sitting up in bed weeping, and inquired the cause of 
 his grief. The only reply he returned was, " I have 
 a work to do ; I must go back to England." As soon 
 as he was able to travel he set sail on an orange ves- 
 sel for Marseilles, and it was during the voyage that 
 he wrote — and from the depths of his heart — the 
 lines beginning, — 
 
 Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom, 
 
 Lead Thou me on ! 
 The night is dark, and I am far from home, — 
 
 Lead Thou me on ! 
 Keep Thou my feet ; I do not ask to see 
 The distant scene, — one step enough for me. 
 
 I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou 
 Shouldst lead me on ; 
 
 I loved to choose and see my path, but now- 
 Lead Thou me on ! 
 
 I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
 
 Pride ruled my will : remember not past years. 
 

 MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 445 
 
 So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still 
 
 Will lead me on ; 
 O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 
 
 The night is gone ; 
 And with the morn those angel faces smile 
 Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 
 
 How many noble minds have been first illuminated 
 with light from heaven, in the academies of the Scot- 
 tish metropolis. Among the number was the devout 
 McCheyne, a Christian minister of rare excellence 
 and high mental endowments. He was a pupil of 
 Dr. Chalmers's Divinity Class at the University, and 
 an associate of Dr. H. Bonar. Preaching was his 
 favorite engagement, and he was eminently success- 
 ful in the pulpit. He was born in the year 1813, and 
 died in 1843. We present a fragment from one of his 
 hymns : — 
 
 When this passing world is done, 
 When has sunk yon glaring sun, 
 When we stand with Christ in glory, 
 Looking o'er life's finished story, — 
 Then, Lord, shall I fully know — 
 Not till then — how much I owe ! 
 
 Even on earth, as through a glass 
 Darkly, let Thy glory pass, 
 Make forgiveness feel so sweet, 
 Make Thy Spirit's help so meet ; 
 Even on earth, Lord, make me know 
 Something of how much I owe. 
 
 Another of his hymns is entitled "Jehovah Tsid- 
 kenu," ("The Lord our Righteousness," the watch- 
 word of the Reformers). 
 
446 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 I once was a stranger to grace and to God, 
 I knew not my danger, I felt not my load ; 
 Though friends spoke in rapture of Christ on the tree, 
 Jehovah Tsidkenu was nothing to me. 
 
 Macduff, the Scottish clergyman, and well-known 
 author of the "Words of Jesus," and similar works, 
 wrote this fine hymn : — 
 
 Christ is coming ! let creation bid her groans and travail cease ; 
 Let the glorious proclamation hope restore, and faith increase. 
 
 Maranatha ! Come, thou blessed Prince of Peace ! 
 Earth can now but tell the story of Thy bitter cross and pain ; 
 She shall yet behold Thy glory, when Thou comest back to reign. 
 
 Maranatha ! Let each heart repeat the strain ! 
 
 Long Thy exiles have been pining, far from rest and home and 
 
 Thee ; 
 But in heavenly vesture shining, soon they shall Thy glory see. 
 
 Maranatha ! Haste the joyous jubilee ! 
 With that " blessed hope " before us, let no harp remain unstrung ; 
 Let the mighty advent-chorus onward roll from tongue to tongue, 
 
 Maranatha ! Come, Lord Jesus, quickly come ! 
 
 S. F. Smith, an eminent Baptist minister, of New- 
 ton, Mass., has contributed some excellent hymns, 
 such as " Softly fades the twilight ray," "When thy 
 mortal life is fled," "My country, 'tis of thee," &c. 
 
 We cull from "English Lyrics," by C. L. Ford ; the 
 following verses entitled " Marah : " — 
 
 God sends us bitter, that the sweet, 
 
 By absence known, may sweeter prove, 
 As dark for light, as cold for heat, 
 Brings greater love. 
 
 God sends us bitter, as to show 
 
 He can both sweet and bitter send ; 
 Thus both the might and love we know 
 Of our great Friend. 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 447 
 
 He sends us bitter, that Heaven's sweet, 
 Earth's bitter o'er, may sweeter taste, 
 As Canaan's ground to Israel's feet 
 For that great waste. 
 
 And, lo ! before us in the way 
 
 We view the fountains and the palms, 
 And drink, and pitch our tents, and stay 
 Singing sweet psalms. 
 
 Mrs. J. Luke, of Clifton, Gloucestershire, who 
 edited the " Missionary Repository " for several years, 
 and wrote works for children, &c, is the author 
 of the touching little poem, so familiar to our Sunday- 
 school teachers and scholars : — 
 
 I think, when I read that sweet story of old, 
 
 When Jesus was here among men, 
 How He called little children, as lambs, to His fold, 
 
 I should like to have been with them then. 
 I wish that His hands had been placed on my head, 
 
 That His arm had been thrown around me, 
 And that I might have seen His kind look when He said, 
 
 " Let the little ones come unto me ! " 
 
 The above was composed in the year 1841, in a 
 stage-coach, for a village school, near Poundsford Park. 
 
 E. H. Sears, born in 1810, in Berkshire, Mass., has 
 written several prose works, " Athanasia, or Foregleams 
 of Immortality," &c. ; also several glowing sacred lyr- 
 ics, including those well-known hymns, " It came 
 upon the midnight clear," and " Calm on the listening 
 ear of night." We subjoin the opening stanzas of the 
 first-named : — 
 
 It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, 
 From angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold : 
 " Peace to the earth, good-will to man, from heaven's all-gracious 
 
 King ; " 
 The world in solemn stillness lay to hear the angels sing. 
 
448 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Still through the cloven skies they come, with peaceful wings un- 
 furled ; 
 And still their heavenly music floats o'er all the weary world; 
 Above its sad and lowly plains they bend on heavenly wing, 
 And ever o'er its Babel sounds the blessed angels sing ! 
 
 Thomas Davis, one of the recent English poets, thus 
 sings : — 
 
 Why comes this fragrance on the summer breeze, 
 The blended tribute of ten thousand flowers, 
 
 To me, a frequent wanderer 'mid the trees 
 That form these gay, yet solitary bowers ? 
 
 One answer is around, beneath, above : 
 
 The echo of the voice, that God is love ! 
 
 Why bursts such melody from tree and bush, 
 The overflowing of each songster's heart : 
 
 So filling mine, that it can scarcely hush 
 Awhile to listen, but would take its part ? 
 
 'Tis but one song I hear where'er I rove, 
 
 Though countless be the notes, that God is love ! 
 
 Dr. Monsell, of Winchester, England, is too well 
 known by his volumes of exquisite religious lyrics, to 
 need further introduction : we present the first and last 
 stanzas of his impressive hymn on Gethsemane : — 
 
 Wouldst thou learn the depth of sin, all its bitterness and pain ? 
 What it cost thy God to win sinners to Himself again ? 
 
 Come, poor sinner, come with me, — 
 
 Visit sad Gethsemane ! 
 
 Hate the sin that cost so dear; love the God that loved thee so ; 
 Weep, if thou wilt, but likewise fear to bid that fountain freshly flow 
 
 That gushed so freely once for thee 
 
 In sorrowful Gethsemane ! 
 
 His hymn of Spring allegorized is replete with 
 lyric grace and beauty : — 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 449 
 
 The spring-tide hour brings leaf and flower, with songs of life and 
 
 love; 
 And many a lay wears out the day in many a leafy grove. 
 Bird, flower, and tree seem to agree their choicest gifts to bring ; 
 But this poor heart bears not its part, in it there is no spring. 
 Dews fall apace — the dews of grace — upon this soul of sin ; 
 And love divine delights to shine upon the waste within : 
 Yet, year by year, fruits, flowers, appear, and birds their praises 
 
 sing: 
 But this poor heart bears not its part, its winter has no spring. 
 Lord, let thy love, fresh from above, soft as the south wind blow ; 
 Call forth its bloom, wake its perfume, and bid its spices flow ! 
 
 Bishop A. C. Coxe, of Western New York, has, in 
 his " Christian Ballads," given to the religious world 
 some of the choicest of sacred lyrics. We regret our 
 restricted space forbids our citing more than the follow- 
 ing brief extracts : — 
 
 MATINS. 
 
 The lark is in the sky, and his morning note is pouring : 
 
 He hath a wing to fly, so he's soaring, Christian, soaring ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 There is morning incense flung from the childlike lily flowers ; 
 
 And their fragrant censer swung, make it ours, Christian, ours ! 
 
 And hark ! our Mother's hymn, and the organ-peals we love \ 
 
 They sound like cherubim at their orisons 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. 
 
 The chimes, the chimes of Motherland, of England green and old, 
 That out from fane and ivied tower a thousand years have tolled ; 
 How glorious must their music be as breaks the hallowed day, 
 And calleth with a seraph's voice a nation up to pray ! 
 
 29 
 
450 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Those chimes that tell a thousand tales, sweet tales of olden time ; 
 And ring a thousand memories of vesper and at prime ! 
 At bridal and at burial, for cottager and king ; 
 Those chimes, — those glorious Christian chimes, — how blessedly 
 they ring ! 
 
 Mrs. Lowell's exquisite poem, "The Morning-Glory," 
 is full of tenderness. Listen to some passages from 
 it: — 
 
 We wreathed about our darling's head the morning-glory bright ; 
 Her little face looked out beneath, so full of life and light, 
 So lit as with a sunrise, that we could only say, 
 " She is the morning-glory true, and her poor types are they." 
 
 We used to think how she had come, even as comes the flower, 
 The last and perfect added gift to crown Love's morning hour ; 
 And how in her was imaged forth the love we could not say, 
 As on the little dew-drops round shines back the heart of day. 
 
 The morning-glory's blossoming will soon be coming round ; 
 
 We see the rows of heart-shaped leaves upspringing from the 
 
 ground ; 
 The tender things that winter killed renew again their birth ; 
 But the glory of our morning has passed away from earth ! 
 
 In fitting companionship with the foregoing, we pre- 
 sent some of the fine lines of James Russell Lowell : - 
 
 But all God's angels come to us disguised, — 
 Sorrow and sickness, poverty and death, 
 One after other lift their frowning masks, 
 And we behold the seraph's face beneath, 
 All radiant with the glory and the calm 
 Of having looked upon the front of God. 
 
 God scatters love on every side freely among His children all, 
 And always hearts are lying open wide wherein some grains may 
 fall. 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 45 1 
 
 There is no wind but soweth seeds of a more true and open life, 
 Which burst, unlooked for, into high-souled deeds, with wayside 
 
 beauty rife. 
 We find within these souls of ours some wild germs of a higher 
 
 birth, 
 Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers whose fragrance fills 
 
 the earth. * 
 
 Who is not familiar with Professor Longfellow's 
 beautiful "Psalm of Life"? Its fame has, indeed, 
 reached beyond the limits of the language in which it 
 was composed ; for it has been rendered into many 
 others, and even the Chinese, by a Mandarin ; a copy 
 of which has been sent to the author. 
 
 Life is real ! Life is earnest ! And the grave is not its goal ; 
 " Dust thou art, to dust returnest," was not spoken of the soul. 
 
 Art is long, and Time is fleeting ; and our hearts, though stout and 
 
 brave, 
 Still, like muffled drums, are beating funeral marches to the grave. 
 
 In the world's broad field of battle, in the bivouac of Life, 
 Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! Be a hero in the strife ! 
 
 Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! Let the dead Past bury its 
 
 dead ! 
 Act, — act in the living present, heart within, and God o'erhead ! 
 
 Lives of great men all remind us we can make our lives sublime, 
 And, departing, leave behind us footprints on the sands of time ! 
 
 His " Ladder of St. Augustine " may be styled a 
 homily set to music ; while his "Resignation," "Hymn 
 to Night," " Footsteps of Angels," and a few others, 
 have become classic. So joyous and healthy a spirit 
 inspires the Muse of Longfellow, that it is not sur- 
 prising his works should be among the most popular 
 of the age. Listen to some of his beautiful imagery : — 
 
452 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, 
 Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, 
 
 Our hearts in glad surprise 
 
 To higher levels rise. 
 The tidal wave of deeper souls 
 Into our inmost being rolls, 
 
 And lifts us unawares t 
 
 Out of all meaner cares. 
 
 Let us be patient ! these severe afflictions not from the ground 
 
 arise ; 
 But oftentimes celestial benedictions assume this dark disguise. 
 We see but dimly through the mists and vapors ; amid these earthly 
 
 lamps 
 What seem to us but sad funereal tapers may be heaven's distant 
 
 lamps. 
 
 Longfellow's M Suspiria " is a rare and touching song 
 for the " Christian sleeper : " — 
 
 Take them, O Death ! and bear away whatever thou canst call thy 
 
 own : 
 Thine image, stamped upon this clay, doth give thee that, — but that 
 
 alone ! 
 Take them, O Grave! and let them lie folded upon thy narrow 
 
 shelves, 
 As garments by the soul laid by, and precious only to ourselves. 
 Take them, O great Eternity ! our little life is but a gust, 
 That bends the branches of thy tree, and trails its blossoms in the 
 
 dust! 
 
 " No English poet," writes a recent London review- 
 er,* K has equalled the tenderness and felicity of Long- 
 fellow, in his lyric and descriptive poems. Their pop- 
 ularity is marvellous. What can excel w The Psalm 
 of Life"? It lives in all our memories like music, 
 and is repeated in pulpit, platform, and parliament, 
 with a frequency that does not attend the poetry of any 
 other writer." 
 
 * Dr. Cumming. 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 453 
 
 One of the most remarkable poems of the age is 
 that entitled "Yesterday, To-day, and Forever," by 
 Rev. E. H. Bickersteth, of London. The object of 
 the work, as stated by the author, seems to be to 
 awaken deeper thought about things "unseen and 
 eternal," by combining some of the pictorial teachings 
 of the Divine Word. He says the design of this poem 
 has been laid up in his heart for more than twenty 
 years, while the execution of it has occupied him only 
 about two years. Bold as is the essay to construct an 
 epic, after Milton, and on his subject, he has, in it, 
 according to the English critics, achieved a great suc- 
 cess. We subjoin the closing passage : — 
 
 Such are the many kingdoms of God's realm ; 
 
 And in these boundless provinces of light, 
 
 We, who once suffered with a suffering Lord, 
 
 Reign with Him, in His glory, unto each, 
 
 According to his power and proven love, 
 
 His rule assigned. But Zion is our home ; 
 
 Jerusalem, the City of our God ! 
 
 O happy home ! O happy children here ! 
 
 O blissful mansions of our Father's house ! 
 
 O walks surpassing Eden for delight ! 
 
 Here are the harvests reaped, once sown in tears ; 
 
 Here is the rest by ministry enhanced ; 
 
 Here is the banquet of the wine of heaven j 
 
 Riches of glory incorruptible ; 
 
 Crowns, amaranthine crowns of victory ; 
 
 The voice of harpers harping on their harps ; 
 
 The anthems of the holy cherubim ; 
 
 The crystal river of the spirit's joy ; 
 
 The Bridal palace of the Prince of Peace ; 
 
 The Holiest of Holies ! God is here ! 
 
 The following passage is equally beautiful : — 
 
 Thus Heaven is gathering one by one, in its capacious breast, 
 All that is pure and permanent, and beautiful and blest ; 
 The family is scattered yet, though of one home and heart, 
 Part militant in earthly gloom, in heavenly glory part ; 
 
454 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 But who can tell the rapture, when the circle is complete, 
 And all the children, scattered now, before the Father meet ? 
 One fold, one Shepherd, one employ, one universal home ! 
 " Lo, I come quickly ! " Even so, " Amen, Lord Jesus, come ! " 
 
 One of the selectest and most perfect of our modern 
 hymns, is that commencing, — 
 
 My faith looks up to Thee, 
 Thou Lamb of Calvary, 
 Saviour Divine'! 
 
 It is, as is well known, the production of Dr. Ray 
 Palmer, of New York, who wrote it in 1830. It was 
 not suggested by any particular incident ; but, in the 
 author's own words, "written because it was born in 
 his heart, and demanded expression." He adds, "I 
 gave form to what I felt, by writing, with little effort, 
 the stanzas. I recollect I wrote them with very tender 
 emotion, and ended the last lines with tears." Some 
 two years afterwards, the author met his friend, Dr. 
 Lowell Mason, in Boston, who spoke of his projected 
 new Hymn and Tune Book, and requested a hymn or 
 two for his Collection. The author then gave him a 
 copy of this hymn. Dr. Mason seems to have been 
 gifted with prophetic vision, when he told Dr. Palmer, 
 a few days after he received the hymn, that he would 
 be best known to posterity as its author. 
 
 As originally written, the hymn consisted of six 
 stanzas; the first two are omitted, four only being 
 given in the Church Collections. It has been trans- 
 lated into Arabic, and much used at missionary stations 
 in Turkey. It has not only been translated into Tamil, 
 but into Tahitian, the Marratta, and will doubtless find 
 its way wherever the Bible has penetrated, 
 
 There is a little incident connected with this hymn : 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 455 
 
 it is as follows. During the late insurrection in Syria, 
 early one morning the students of the Protestant 
 Seminary were assembled for worship. Reading the 
 Scriptures and prayer had passed, and they were in 
 the act of singing those lines of this hymn, — 
 
 " When griefs around me spread, 
 Be Thou my Guide," 
 
 when they were disturbed by the sound of firing in 
 the streets, and a number of the savage Druzes rushed 
 into the chapel. 
 
 The following sacred lyric, written by Dr. Ray 
 Palmer expressly for this work, will not fail to be 
 read with great interest. It is entitled "The Rock of 
 
 Ages." 
 
 O Rock of Ages ! since on Thee 
 
 By grace my feet are planted, 
 'Tis mine, in tranquil faith, to see 
 
 The rising storm, undaunted ; 
 When angry billows round me rave, 
 
 And tempests fierce assail me, 
 To thee I cling, the terrors brave, 
 For Thou canst never fail me ; 
 Though rends the globe with earthquake shock, 
 Unmoved Thou stand'st, Eternal Rock! 
 
 Within Thy clefts I love to hide, 
 
 When darkness o'er me closes ; 
 There peace and light serene abide, 
 
 And my stilled heart reposes ; 
 My soul exults to dwell secure, 
 
 Thy strong munitions round her ; 
 She dares to count her triumph sure, 
 
 Nor fears lest hell confound her; 
 Though tumults startle earth and sea, 
 Thou changeless Rock, they shake not Thee ! 
 
 From Thee, O Rock once smitten ! flow 
 
 Life-giving streams for ever ; 
 And whoso doth their sweetness know, 
 
 He henceforth thirsteth never ; 
 
456 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 My lips have touched the crystal tide, 
 
 And feel no more returning 
 The fever, that so long I tried 
 To cool, yet felt still burning ; 
 Ah, wondrous Well-Spring ! brimming o'er 
 With living waters evermore. 
 
 On that dread day when they that sleep 
 
 Shall hear the trumpet sounding, 
 And wake to praise, or wake to weep, 
 
 The judgment-throne surrounding ; 
 When wrapt in all-devouring flame, 
 
 The solid globe is wasting, 
 And what at first from nothing came 
 
 Is back to nothing hasting ; 
 E'en then, my soul shall calmly rest, 
 O Rock of Ages ! on Thy breast. 
 
 It has been beautifully said, that "true religion always 
 leads the graces in her train." It is, indeed, to the 
 Christian's eye alone that intellectual beauty reveals 
 herself without a veil and in all her charms. The 
 worldling resembles the microscope, which magnifies 
 little things, but cannot apprehend great ones ; whereas 
 the Christian, who lives by faith, may be compared to 
 the telescope, bringing near things that to the eye of 
 sense are unseen. Thus " the vision and faculty divine" 
 reveals itself in such gushes of holy song as the fol- 
 lowing : — 
 
 Since o'er Thy footstool here below such radiant gems are strown, 
 Oh, what magnificence must glow, my God, about Thy throne ! 
 So brilliant here these drops of light, — there the full ocean rolls, 
 how bright ! 
 
 If night's blue curtain of the sky, with thousand stars inwrought, 
 Hung like a royal canopy with glittering diamonds fraught, 
 Be, Lord, thy temple's outer veil, what splendor at the shrine must 
 dweU! 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 457 
 
 These brilliant stanzas are doubtless at once recog- 
 nized as from the glowing pen of Dr. Muhlenburg, of 
 New York, whose untiring devotion to the Hospital of 
 St. Luke has endeared his name to the many admirers 
 of his Muse. His most popular hymn, "I would not 
 live alway," was comprised in six eight-line stanzas: 
 this last is not given in our church books : — 
 
 That heavenly music ! hark, sweet in the air 
 The notes of the harpers, how clear ringing there ! 
 And see, soft unfolding those portals of gold, 
 The King all arrayed in His beauty behold ! 
 Oh, give me, oh, give me the wings of a dove, 
 To adore Him, be near Him, enwrapt with His love : 
 I but wait for the summons, I list for the word, 
 Alleluia, Amen, evermore with the Lord ! 
 
 Mr. Bryant's poems are so familiar to us, that it is 
 scarcely necessary to present extracts from them. We 
 venture to give the opening passage of his fine " Forest 
 Hymn:"— ♦ 
 
 The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned 
 
 To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, 
 
 And spread the roof above them ; ere he framed 
 
 The lofty vault, to gather and roll back 
 
 The sound of anthems ; — in the darkling wood, 
 
 Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down, 
 
 And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks 
 
 And supplication. For his simple heart 
 
 Might not resist the sacred influences 
 
 Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, 
 
 And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven 
 
 Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound 
 
 Of the invisible breath that swayed at once 
 
 All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed 
 
 His spirit with the thought of boundless power 
 
 And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why 
 
 Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect 
 
45o EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore 
 
 Only among the crowd, and under roofs 
 
 That our frail hands have raised ? Let me, at least, 
 
 Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, 
 
 Offer one hymn, — thrice happy, if it find 
 
 Acceptance in His ear. 
 
 So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
 The innumerable caravan, which moves 
 To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
 Like one who draws the drapery of his couch 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
 
 Bryant's "Thanatopsis," one of his earliest and best 
 productions, closes with the above solemn strain of 
 stately verse. Washington Irving has the honor of 
 having first introduced Bryant's poetry to the British 
 public, with ^in appreciative estimate of its merit. 
 We now subjoin, in response to this, the opinions of 
 two eminent English critical authorities, of a recent 
 date : — 
 
 " We have not a lyric poet superior to William Cullen 
 Bryant : he is less known to the multitude, but is highly 
 admired by appreciative minds. For terse, compact, 
 and vigorous lines, rich in thought and reason, and in 
 music, he has no living equal." 
 
 "There is no poet more essentially American, 
 whose genius is more especially the product of native 
 thought and culture than Bryant. He is the American 
 Wordsworth ; and his name has done for the rolling 
 prairies and boundless savannahs of that great con- 
 tinent what Wordsworth did for his beloved lake 
 country." 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 459 
 
 E. W. Townsend, a modern poet of England, gives 
 this choice metrical homily : — 
 
 Nothing in this world is dumb, 
 Or silent, if we do but come 
 The very inmost truth anear, 
 And listen with awakened ear. 
 
 Wisdom may we often learn 
 From smallest things : a waving fern, 
 Growing in a shady place, 
 May be a minister of grace. 
 
 In ourselves the music dwells ; 
 From ourselves the music swells ; 
 By ourselves our life is fed 
 With sweet or bitter daily bread. 
 
 These fine stanzas are by the late N. P. Willis : — 
 
 The perfect world by Adam trod 
 Was the first temple built by God ; 
 His fiat laid the corner-stone, 
 And heaved its pillars, one by one. 
 He hung its starry roof on high, — 
 The broad, illimitable sky ; 
 He spread its pavement, green and bright, 
 And curtained it with morning light. 
 The mountains in their places stood, 
 The sea, the sky, and " all was good ; " 
 And when its first pure praises rang, 
 The " morning stars together sang." 
 
 A happy union of beautiful sentiment with the music 
 of verse is seen in this sweet lyric, by the Rev. C. W., 
 Baird, of Rye, N.Y. : — 
 
 In all the scenes of childhood's day 
 That memory paints, as years recede, 
 The beauty of a blessed deed 
 Is last to fade away. 
 
460 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 The guileless love that lasted long, 
 
 The zeal of piety unfeigned, 
 
 The courage of a heart unstained, 
 
 That only feared the wrong ; 
 
 The lingering prayer put up at night, 
 
 Low bending by my mother's knee ; 
 
 The tear of pity, and the glee 
 
 Of innocent delight, — 
 
 These are the memories that she brings, 
 
 Kind guardian of mine earlier days, 
 
 These are the nightly thoughts that raise 
 
 Mine eyes to holier things. 
 
 H. T. Tuckerman, our American poet and essayist, 
 has given us some graceful and expressive stanzas on 
 Palestine, that shrine of sacred story : — 
 
 Oh for a glance at those wild hills, that round Jerusalem arise ! 
 And one sweet evening by the lake that gleams beneath Judea's 
 
 skies ! 
 How anthem-like the wind must sound in meadows of the Holy 
 
 Land, 
 How musical the ripples break upon the Jordan's moonlit strand ! 
 Behold the dew, like angels' tears, upon each thorn is gleaming 
 
 now, 
 Blest emblem of the crown of love there woven for the Sufferer's 
 
 brow ! 
 Who does not sigh to enter Nain, or in Capernaum to dwell, — 
 Inhale the breeze from Galilee, and rest beside Samaria's well ? 
 Who would not stand beneath the spot where Bethlehem's star its 
 
 vigil kept, 
 List to the plash of Siloa's pool, and kiss the ground where Jesus 
 
 wept ? 
 Gethsemane who would not seek, and pluck a lily by the way ? 
 Through Bethany devoutly walk, and on the Mount of Olives pray ? 
 How dear were one repentant night where Mary's tears of love were 
 
 shed! 
 How blest, beside the Saviour's tomb, one hour's communion with 
 
 the dead ! 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 461 
 
 What solemn joy to stand alone on Calvary's celestial height ! 
 Or kneel upon the mountain-slope, once radiant with supernal light ! 
 I cannot throw my staff aside, nor wholly quell the hope divine, 
 That one delight awaits me yet, — a pilgrimage to Palestine. 
 
 Gerald Massey, one of England's renowned self- 
 made poets, who has, through severe difficulties, 
 achieved for himself an honorable position in the lit- 
 erary profession, is known best by his glowing and 
 touching poem of "Babe Christabel," a portion of 
 which is annexed : — 
 
 In this dim world of clouding cares, 
 We rarely know, till wildered eyes 
 See white wings lessening up the skies, 
 The angels with us unawares. 
 
 Our beautiful Bird of light hath fled : 
 
 Awhile she sat with folded wings, 
 
 Sang round us a few hoverings, 
 
 Then straightway into glory sped : 
 
 And white-winged angels nurture her, 
 
 With heaven's white radiance robed and crowned ; 
 
 And all love's purple glory round 
 
 She summers on the Hills of Myrrh. 
 
 Strange glory streams through life's wild rents, 
 
 And through the open door of death, 
 
 We see the Heaven that beckoneth 
 
 To the beloved, going hence. 
 
 God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed ; 
 
 The best fruit loads the broken bough ; 
 
 And on the wounds our sufferings plough, 
 
 Immortal Love sows sovereign seed. 
 
 Hugh Stowell, Canon of Chester, and Dean of Sal- 
 ford, near Manchester, is the author of several works, 
 both in prose and poetry ; and is especially commended 
 to our present notice as the writer of that favorite 
 hymn, — 
 
462 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 From every stormy wind that blows, 
 From every swelling tide of woes, 
 There is a calm, a sure retreat, — 
 'Tis found beneath the mercy-seat. 
 
 That favorite hymn, alike with young and old, 
 "There is a happy land," was composed by Andrew 
 Young, of Edinburgh, who for many years had occu- 
 pied a high position as an instructor of youth. 
 
 The fine hymn, "All hail the power of Jesus' 
 name," first appeared in 1780, and was written by the 
 Rev. E. Perronet, of the English Episcopal Church. 
 This hymn was altered by Mr. Duncan, to whom its 
 authorship has been sometimes erroneously ascribed. 
 
 The subjoined extracts are from the graceful pen of 
 Alice Cary, of New York, whose volumes of sketches, 
 in prose and verse, have been so popular : — 
 
 I cannot plainly see the way, so dark the grave is : but I know 
 If I do truly work and pray, some good will brighten out of woe ; 
 For the same hand that doth unbind the winter winds sends sweet- 
 est showers, 
 And the poor rustic laughs to find his April meadows full of flowers. 
 
 Why should I vainly seek to solve free-will, necessity, the fall ? 
 I feel, — I know, — that God is love, and, knowing this, I know it 
 all. 
 
 Bow, angels, from your glorious state, if e'er on earth you trod, 
 And lead me, through the golden gate of prayer, unto my God. 
 I long to gather from the Word the meaning full and clear, 
 To build unto my gracious Lord a tabernacle here. 
 
 The angels said, God giveth you His love, what more is ours ? 
 Even as the cisterns of the dew o'erflow upon the flowers, 
 His grace descends ; and, as of old, He walks with men apart, 
 Keeping the promise, as foretold, with all the pure in heart 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 463 
 
 Phoebe Cary, of New York, sister of the above, is 
 author of many beautiful sacred lyrics ; this, for ex- 
 ample : — 
 
 One sweetly solemn thought comes to me o'er and o'er, — 
 I'm nearer home to-day than I have ever been before : 
 Nearer my Father's house, where the many mansions be ; 
 Nearer the great white throne, nearer the jasper sea ; 
 Nearer the bound of life, where we lay our burdens down ; 
 Nearer leaving the cross, nearer gaining the crown. 
 
 J. F. Clarke, a clergyman of Boston, was oorn in 
 1810; he wrote several popular works in prose and 
 verse ; amongst the latter, the following terse and 
 vigorous stanzas : — 
 
 Father, to us, Thy children, humbly kneeling, 
 Conscious of weakness, ignorance, sin, and shame, 
 Give such a force of holy thought and feeling, 
 That we may live to glorify Thy holy name ; 
 That we may conquer base desire and passion, 
 That we may rise from selfish thoughts and will, 
 O'ercome the world's allurement, threat, and fashion, 
 Walk humbly, gently, leaning on Thee still. 
 
 Sarah A. Miles, of Brattleboro', Vt., is the author 
 of some hymns. One follows : it is entitled "A Fore- 
 taste of Heaven." 
 
 When on devotion's seraph-wing the spirit soars above, 
 And feels Thy presence, Father, Friend, God of eternal love ! 
 The joys of earth, how swift they fade before that living ray, 
 Which gives to the rapt soul a glimpse of pure and perfect day ! 
 
 One of the sages of the seventeenth century, Arthur 
 Warwick, once said, " Life is but my walk, and heaven 
 my home ; so that, travelling towards so pleasant a 
 destination, the shorter the journey, the sooner the rest." 
 Vainly we essay, meanwhile, to peer into the unre 
 vealed and unattained. 
 
464 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Not from the flowers of earth, not from the stars, 
 Not from the voicing sea may we 
 The secret wrest which bars our knowledge here 
 Of all we hope and all that we may fear — hereafter. 
 
 We watch beside our graves, yet meet no sign 
 
 Of where our dear ones dwell. Ah ! well, 
 
 Even now, your dead and mine may long to speak 
 
 Of raptures it were wiser we should seek — hereafter. 
 
 O hearts we fondly love ! O pallid lips, 
 
 That bore our farewell kiss from this 
 
 To yonder world's eclipse ! Do ye, safe home, 
 
 Smile at your earthly doubts of what would come — hereafter? 
 
 Grand birthright of the soul, naught may despoil ! 
 
 O precious, healing balm, to calm 
 
 Our lives in pain and toil ! God's boon, that we 
 
 Or soon or late shall know what is to be — hereafter ! 
 
 This fine lyric is by a young lawyer of New York, 
 George Cooper, who beguiles his professional studies 
 by such meditative musings as the foregoing. 
 
 Mrs. H. Beecher Stowe is the author of these beauti- 
 ful stanzas, on the words "Abide in me : " — 
 
 That mystic word of Thine, O Sovereign Lord ! 
 
 Is all too pure, too high, too deep for me : 
 Weary of striving, and with longing faint, 
 
 I breathe it back again in prayer to Thee ! 
 Abide in me ! o'ershadow by Thy love 
 
 Each half- formed purpose and dark thought of sin ; 
 Quench, ere it rise, each selfish, low desire, 
 
 And keep my soul, as Thine, calm and divine. 
 
 As some rare perfume in a vase of clay 
 
 Pervades it with a fragrance not its own, — 
 So, when Thou dwellest in a mortal soul, 
 
 All Heaven's own sweetness seems around it thrown. 
 The soul alone, like a neglected harp, 
 
 Grows out of tune, and needs Thy hand divine : 
 Dwell Thou within it, tune and touch its chords, 
 
 Till everv note and string shall answer Thine. 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 465 
 
 She has these fine lines in a poem entitled "The 
 Other World:" — 
 
 It lies around us like a cloud, — a world we do not see ; 
 Yet the sweet closing of an eye may bring us there to be. 
 
 Sweet hearts around us throb and beat, sweet helping hands are 
 
 stirred, 
 And palpitates the veil between with breathings almost heard. 
 
 And in the hush of rest they bring, 'tis easy now to see 
 How lovely, and how sweet a pass, the hour of death may be ; — 
 To close the eye, and close the ear, wrapped in a trance of bliss, 
 And, gently drawn in loving arms, to swoon to that from this. 
 
 We next present some specimen stanzas of our West- 
 ern Muse. The first extract is from a poem by J. H. 
 Perkins ; and the second, by Otway Curry : — 
 
 By earth hemmed in, by earth opprest, 'tis hard to labor, hard to 
 
 pray; 
 And of the week, for prayer and rest, we've but one Sabbath day. 
 But purer spirits walk above, who worship alway ; who are blest 
 With an upspringing might of love, that makes all labor rest. 
 Father ! while here, I would arise in spirit to that realm ; and there 
 Be every act a sacrifice, and every thought a prayer ! 
 
 We strive with earthly imagings to reach and understand 
 The wondrous and the fearful things of an eternal land 
 We talk of amaranthine bowers and living groves of palm, 
 Of starry crowns and fadeless flowers and skies for ever calm. 
 We talk of wings and raiment white, and pillared thrones of gold, 
 And cities built with jewels bright, far in the heavens, of old. 
 Are these things more than fancy's play ? are they, in very deed, 
 The free soul's guerdon, far away, its everlasting meed ? 
 Or shall the spirit, in its flight beyond the stars sublime, 
 See nothing but the radiance white of never-ending time ? 
 Shall things material change again, and wholly be forgot ? 
 And round us only God remain, a universe of thought ? 
 
 10 
 
466 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 We know not well, — we cannot know : our reason's glimmering 
 
 light 
 Can nothing but the darkness show of our surrounding night. 
 But soon the doubt and toil and strife of earth shall all be done, 
 And knowledge of our endless life be in a moment won. 
 
 Whittier, who has been pronounced by an English 
 critic, "the most poetic of our American poets," has 
 embodied some fine thoughts in the following beautiful 
 lines, from a poem entitled " Our Master." 
 
 He cometh not a king to reign ; the world's long hope is dim ; 
 
 The weary centuries watch in vain the clouds of heaven for Him. 
 
 Death comes, life goes ; the asking eye and ear are answerless ; 
 
 The grave is dumb, the hollow sky is sad with silentness. 
 
 The letter fails, and systems fall, and every symbol wanes ; 
 
 The Spirit over brooding all, Eternal Love, remains. 
 
 And not for signs in heaven above or earth below, they look, 
 
 Who know, with John, His smile of love, with Peter, His rebuke 
 
 In joy of inward peace, or sense of sorrow over sin, 
 
 He is His own best evidence, His witness is within. 
 
 No fable old, nor mythic lore, nor dream of bards and seers. 
 
 No dead fact stranded on the shore of the oblivious years ; 
 
 But warm, sweet, tender, even yet a present help is He ; 
 
 And faith has still its Olivet, and love its Galilee. 
 
 The healing of His seamless robe is by our beds of pain ; 
 
 We touch Him, in life's throng and press, and we are whole again. 
 
 Through Him, the first fond prayers are said our lips of childhood 
 
 frame, 
 The last low whispers of our dead are burdened with His name. 
 
 O Love ! O Life ! our faith and sight Thy presence maketh one : 
 As through transfigured clouds of white we trace the noonday sun, 
 So, to our mortal eyes subdued, flesh-veiled, but not concealed, 
 We know in Thee the Fatherhood and Heart of God revealed ! 
 We faintly hear, we dimly see, in differing phrase we pray; 
 But, dim or clear, we own in Thee the Light, the Truth, the 
 Way! 
 
 Alone, O Love ineffable ! Thy saving name is given ; 
 
 To turn aside from Thee is hell ; to walk with Thee is heaven ! 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 467 
 
 Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord, what may Thy service be ? 
 Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word, but simply following Thee ! 
 
 Thy litanies, sweet offices of love and gratitude ; 
 
 Thy sacramental liturgies, the joy of doing good : 
 
 In vain shall waves of incense drift the vaulted nave around, 
 
 In vain the minster-turret lift its brazen weights of sound : 
 
 The heart must ring the Christmas bells, the inward altars raise ; 
 
 Its faith and hope thy canticles, and its obedience praise ! 
 
 From a splendid poem, entitled "The Death of 
 Jacob," by the Rev. William Alexander, M.A. (being 
 the poem to which an " Accessit " was awarded by the 
 judges of the best poem on a sacred subject, in the 
 University of Oxford, June 1, 1857) : — 
 
 I saw the Syrian sunset's meteor-crown 
 
 Hang over Bethel for a little space ; 
 I saw a gentle wandering boy lie down, 
 
 With tears upon his face. 
 
 Sheer up the fathomless, transparent blue, 
 Rose jasper-battlement and crystal wall : 
 
 Rung all the night-air, pierced through and through 
 With harps angelical. 
 
 And a great ladder was set up the while 
 
 From earth to heaven, with angels on each round : 
 
 Barks, that bore precious freight to earth's far isle, 
 Or sailed back homeward bound. 
 
 Ah ! many a time we look on star-lit nights 
 
 Up to the sky, as Jacob did of old, 
 Look longing up to the eternal lights, 
 
 To spell their lines of gold. 
 
 But never more, as to the Hebrew boy, 
 Each on his way, the angels walk abroad ; 
 
 And never more we hear, with awful joy, 
 The audible voice of God. 
 
 Yet to pure eyes the ladder still is set, 
 
 And angel visitants still come and go ; 
 Many bright messengers are moving yet 
 
 From the dark world below. 
 
468 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Thoughts that are red-crossed Faith's outspreading wings ; 
 
 Prayers of the Church aye keeping time and tryst ; 
 Heart-wishes, making bee-like murmurings, 
 
 Their flower the Eucharist ; 
 
 Spirits elect, through suffering rendered meet 
 For those high mansions ; from the nursery door 
 
 Bright babes that climb up with their clay-cold feet, 
 Unto the golden floor. 
 
 These are the messengers, for ever wending 
 
 From earth to heaven, that Faith alone may scan ; 
 
 These are the angels of our God, ascending 
 Upon the Son of man. 
 
 How beautiful are the following stanzas : — 
 
 Rests he now well, whose pilgrim staff and shoon 
 Lie in his tent ; for on the golden street 
 
 They walk, and stumble not, on roads star-strewn, 
 With their unsandalled feet ? 
 
 Rests he not well, who keepeth watch and ward, 
 In sweet possession of the land loved most, 
 
 Till, marshalled by the angel of the Lord, 
 Shall come the Heaven-sent host ? 
 
 Who has not felt in some dear churchyard spot, 
 When evening's pencil shades the pale-gold sky, — 
 
 Here at the closing of my life's calm lot, 
 Here would I love to lie ; 
 
 Here where the poet- thrush so often pours 
 His requiem hidden in green aisles of lime, 
 
 And bloody-red along the sycamores 
 Creepeth the summer time ; 
 
 Where, through the ruined church's broken walls 
 Glimmers all night the vast and solemn sea, 
 
 As through our broken hopes the brightness falls 
 Of our eternity ? 
 
 But, when we die, we rest far, far away, 
 
 Not over us the lime-trees lift their bowers ; 
 
 And the young sycamores their shadows sway 
 O'er graves that are not ours. 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 469 
 
 Yet he is happy, wheresoe'er he lie, 
 
 Round whom the purple calms of Eden spread, 
 
 Who sees his Saviour with the heart's pure eye, — 
 He is the happy dead ! 
 
 Sir Edward Denny, of England, is a writer on 
 prophecy, and author of some excellent hymns on 
 the subject of the Second Advent, and other sacred 
 themes. Here are a few lines from his pen : — 
 
 Sweet was the hour, O Lord ! to Thee, at Sychar's lonely well, 
 When a poor outcast heard Thee, there Thy great salvation tell ! 
 
 There Jacob's erring daughter found those streams unknown before, 
 The water-brooks of life, that made the weary thirst no more ! 
 
 Anna Shipton, whose numerous hymns and devo- 
 tional lyrics have been so widely esteemed, seems to 
 be one of the divine order of suffering humanity, for 
 her sweet music has had its birth in the chamber of 
 sorrow. Listen to her melodious numbers : — 
 
 I heard the wavelet kiss the shore, ere lost within the sea, 
 And the ripple of the silvery tide seemed as a psalm to me : 
 Contented with God's holy will, its feeble voice to raise, 
 To hymn His glory, and be lost, nor thirst for human praise. 
 Lord, make me, like the ocean's voice, obedient to Thy will : 
 Thy purpose work as faithfully, and at Thy word be still. 
 
 I marked the soft dew silently descend o'er plain and hill, 
 
 On each parched herb and drooping flower the heavenly cloud 
 
 distil. 
 As noiseless as the sun's first beams, it vanished with the day ; 
 But the waving fields told where it fell, when the dew had passed 
 
 away. 
 Lord, make me like the gentle dew, that other hearts may prove, 
 E'en through Thy feeblest messenger, Thy ministry of love ! 
 
 I am waiting as the day wanes, waiting 
 The light of the coming dawn to see ; 
 
 As the weary child lies watching for its mother, 
 I am longing, O my Lord Christ, for Thee ! 
 
470 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Down here, the shadow and the sadness, 
 
 The conflict with the foe in fierce array; 
 Up there, the joy of sinless service, 
 Never to pass away ! 
 
 I am waiting in the noontide, waiting 
 A gleam of the promised cloud to see, 
 
 That shall bring to us the brightness of Thy glory; 
 I am longing, O my Lord Christ, for Thee ! 
 
 Down here, the tempter still accusing, 
 And wiles that unwary feet betray ; 
 
 Up there, the smile of my Beloved, 
 Never to pass away ! 
 
 Oh for my home of glory, that death's dark veil enshrouds, 
 It gleams in beauty o'er me, as day dawns from the clouds. 
 Bright are the hopes we borrow from joys that cannot wane ; 
 To-day we weep, to-morrow brings sunshine after rain. 
 
 My soul is often weary, weary of self and sin ; 
 Often the way seems dreary, oft sinking fears within. 
 But while on Jesus gazing, each fiery dart is vain ; 
 My soul alike is praising for sunshine after rain. 
 
 The beautiful Christian lyrics of Miss A. L. Waring, 
 of Neath, Wales, are characterized by pure and ele- 
 vated sentiment and felicitous expression. Her hymns 
 are universally admired for their spiritual beauty and 
 earnest expression of Christian experience. We all 
 remember that favorite hymn, "Father, I know that 
 all my life," &c. Here are two other poems, les<* 
 familiar : — 
 
 Love shall teach us, while on Him we lean, 
 
 That in the certainty of coming bliss, 
 We may be yearning for a world unseen, 
 
 Yet wear our beautiful array in this. 
 Ours be a loyal love for service tried, 
 
 To show, by deeds, and words, and looks that cheer, 
 How He can bless the scene in which He died 
 
 And fill His house with glory even here. 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 47 T 
 
 Some, in their sorrow, may not know 
 
 How near their feet those waters glide, — 
 How peaceful fruits for healing grow, 
 
 And flowers for beauty, by their side : 
 They may not see, with weeping eyes 
 
 Upon the dreary desert bent, 
 How glorious, straight before them, lies 
 
 The Eden of their soul's content. 
 
 "You will excuse me, if I ask you to look out tor 
 the sunlight the Lord sends into your days," said a 
 deep thinker ; and very needful is the precept. We 
 are so apt to note the dark days, rather than those 
 more common days of sunshine. And it is one of the 
 distinguishing characteristics of a Christian, that he 
 abounds in thanksgivings. 
 
 The beautiful hymn, "Jesus, I my cross have 
 taken," the authorship of which has been erroneously 
 attributed to Montgomery, and others, was written by 
 Lyte, in 1833. The concluding stanzas are vigorous 
 and terse : — 
 
 Take, my soul, thy full salvation ! rise o'er sin and fear and care ; 
 
 Joy to find in every station something still to do or bear. 
 
 Think what Spirit dwells within thee, what a Father's smile is 
 
 thine, 
 What a Saviour died to win thee : child of heaven, shouldst thou 
 
 repine ? 
 Haste then on from grace to glory, armed by faith, and winged by 
 
 prayer ; 
 Heaven's eternal day's before thee, God's own hand shall guide 
 
 thee there. 
 Soon shall close thy earthly mission, swift shall pass thy pilgrim 
 
 days ; 
 Hope soon change to full fruition, faith to sight, and prayer to 
 
 praise ! 
 
 Lyte, whose Christian lyrics have become familiar 
 to most readers of sacred verse, was born at Kelso, 
 
472 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 1793 ; and had to struggle hard for the benefit of a lib- 
 eral education. While tending a dying-bed, his heart 
 was quickened into spiritual life : although his arduous 
 and self-denying labors for the sick and bereaved su- 
 perinduced consumption in his own case. After travel- 
 ling some time on the Continent in quest of health, he 
 settled in the quiet little town of Marazion, on the 
 shore of the beautiful bay of Mount St. Michael, in 
 Cornwall. Here he married; and finally fixed his 
 abode at the parish of Brixham, at which place he 
 wrote most of his hymns, so remarkable for their pure 
 Christian sentiment and simplicity of diction. Some 
 of them were written " from under the cloud ; " for 
 example this, — 
 
 My spirit on Thy care, Blest Saviour, I recline ; 
 
 Thou wilt not leave me to despair, for Thou art Love divine ! " 
 
 The autumn of 1847 was approaching, and he must 
 needs take his last journey to the genial south. "They 
 tell me," says he, "that the sea is injurious to me. I 
 hope not ; for I know of no divorce I should more de- 
 precate than from the lordly ocean. From childhood 
 it has been my friend and playmate, and never have I 
 been weary of gazing on its glorious face." He did 
 go, never to return. Before he went, he wished 
 to preach once more to his people. He preached on 
 the " Holy Communion," and it was solemnly signifi- 
 cant to hear him say, " O brethren ! I can speak 
 feelingly, experimentally, on this point ; and I stand 
 here among you seasonably to-day, as alive from the 
 dead, if I may hope to impress it upon you, and 
 induce you to prepare for that solemn hour which 
 must come to all, by a timely acquaintance with, 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 473 
 
 appreciation of, dependence on, the death of Christ ! " 
 This was his last appeal. And for the last time, he 
 dispensed the sacred elements to his sorrowing flock ; 
 and then, exhausted with his effort, he retired with a 
 soul in sweet repose on that Christ whom he had 
 preached with his dying breath ; and, as the evening 
 drew on, he handed to a near and dear relative these 
 undying verses, together with his own adapted music 
 for the hymn, — 
 
 Abide with me ! Fast falls the eventide ; 
 The darkness deepens ; Lord, with me abide ! 
 When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, 
 Help of the helpless, oh, abide with me ! 
 
 Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day ; 
 Earth's joys grow dim ; its glories pass away ; 
 Change and decay in all around, I see ; 
 O Thou who changest not, abide with me ! 
 
 "This was his last hymn upon earth. He reached 
 Nice, and there his spirit entered into rest. He pointed 
 upwards in passing, and murmured softly, * Peace, 
 joy ! ' while his face brightened into smiles, as the 
 shadow of his last cloud melted before the c Light of 
 Life!'"* 
 
 Few indeed, if any, of modern hymns have equalled 
 that true song of the heart, by Sarah F. Adams, of 
 Dorsetshire, England, commencing, "Nearer, my God, 
 to Thee, — nearer to Thee." She was a person of 
 "strong sensibility and deep religious earnestness." 
 She died in 1849, after protracted illness; "almost 
 her last breath," it is stated, "passed away in uncon- 
 scious song." One of her hymns, less familiar to us, 
 begins thus : — 
 
 * Christophers. 
 
474 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 He sendeth sun, He sendeth shower, 
 Alike they're needful for the flower ; 
 And joys and tears alike are sent 
 To give the soul fit nourishment. 
 As comes to me, or cloud or sun, 
 Father, Thy will, not mine, be done ! 
 
 One of the divinest of heart-utterances in song that 
 modern times have bestowed upon us is that world- 
 renowned hymnic prayer, — 
 
 Just as I am, without one plea, 
 But that Thy blood was shed for me, 
 And that Thou bidst me come to Thee, — 
 O Lamb of God, I come ! 
 
 The cherished name of its author, Charlotte Elliott, 
 will not easily be lost to the Church ; for a sympathetic 
 chord has been struck in this beautiful lyric, which 
 must ever quicken into spiritual accord the heart of 
 the Christian. The plaintive melody of the refrain 
 cannot but awaken a responsive echo in every devout 
 soul ; as the sad notes of some lone bird are caught 
 up and repeated amid the stillness of the sylvan soli- 
 tude. This sweet singer is beautifully said to be 
 "a lover of nature, a lover of souls, and a lover of 
 Christ." 
 
 The hymn commencing, " My God, my Father, while 
 I stray," was written in 1834. Another popular hymn 
 of hers begins : — 
 
 My God, is any hour so sweet, from blush of morn to evening star, 
 As that which calls me to Thy feet, — the hour of prayer ? 
 Blest is that tranquil hour of morn, and blest that hour of solemn eve, 
 When, on the wings of prayer upborne, the world I leave. 
 
 One more exquisite lyric from her pen we subjoin : 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 475 
 
 Thou glorious Sun of Righteousness, 
 
 On this day risen to set no more ; 
 Shine on me now to heal and bless, 
 
 With milder beams than e'er before. 
 Shine on thy work of grace within, 
 
 On each celestial blossom there ; 
 Destroy each bitter root of sin, 
 
 And make Thy garden fresh and fair. 
 Shine on Thy pure, eternal word, 
 
 Its mysteries to my soul reveal ; 
 And whether read, remembered, heard, 
 
 Oh, let it quicken, strengthen, heal. 
 Shine on those unseen things displayed 
 
 To faith's illuminated eye ; 
 And let their splendor cast a shade 
 
 On every earthly vanity. 
 
 As ,a fitting counterpart and companion to Miss El- 
 liott's beautiful effusion is that written by Rev. R. S. 
 Cook, of New York : it was sent by the author to 
 Miss Elliott, and has since been incorporated into Sir 
 R. Palmer's Collection. 
 
 Just as thou art, without one trace 
 Of love or joy or inward grace, 
 Or meetness for the heavenly place, — 
 O guilty sinner, come ! 
 
 Burdened with guilt, wouldst thou be blest ? 
 Trust not the world, it gives no rest : 
 I bring relief to hearts oppressed, — 
 O weary sinner, come ! 
 
 Come, leave thy burden at the cross, 
 
 Count all thy gains but empty dross : 
 
 My grace repays all earthly loss, — 
 
 O needy sinner, come ! 
 
 Come, hither bring thy boding fears, 
 Thy aching heart, thy bursting tears, 
 'Tis mercy's voice salutes thine ears, — 
 O trembling sinner, come ! 
 
476 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 There is a Wordsworthian simplicity and touching 
 beauty about the following sweet lyric, that every one 
 will admit on its perusal, while to those who have lost 
 little children it will have a special interest : — 
 
 A little child, six summers old, so thoughtful and so fair, 
 
 There seemed about her pleasant ways a more than childish air, 
 
 Was sitting one sweet summer eve beneath a spreading tree, 
 
 Intent upon an ancient book that lay upon her knee. 
 
 She turned each page with careful hand, and strained her sight to 
 
 see, 
 Until the drowsy shadows slept upon the grassy lea ; 
 Then closed the book, and upward looked, and straight began to 
 
 sing 
 A simple verse of hopeful love, this very childish thing : 
 " While here below, how sweet to know His wondrous love and 
 
 story ; 
 And then, through grace, to see His face, and live with Him in 
 
 glory ! " 
 That little child, one dreary night of winter wind and storm, 
 Was tossing on a weary couch her weak and wasted form ; 
 And in her pain, and in its pause, but clasped her hands in prayer 
 (Strange that we had no thoughts of heaven while hers were only 
 
 there), 
 Until she said : " O mother dear, how sad you seem to be ! 
 Have you forgotten that He said, ' Let children come to me ' ? 
 Dear mother, bring the blessed Book ; come, mother, let us sing." 
 And then again, with faltering tongue, she sung that childish thing : 
 "While here below, how sweet to know His wondrous love and 
 
 story ; 
 And then, through grace, to see His face, and live with Him in 
 
 glory ! " 
 Underneath a spreading tree a narrow mound is seen, 
 Which first was covered by the snow, then blossomed into green . 
 Here first I heard that childish voice that sings on earth no more, 
 In heaven it hath a richer tone, and sweeter than before : 
 "For those who know His love below," so runs the wondrous 
 
 story, 
 " In heaven, through grace, shall see His face, and dwell with Him 
 
 in glory ! " 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 477 
 
 J. H. Abrahall, one of the living English poets, is 
 author of the following : — 
 
 VIA, VERITAS, VITA. 
 
 Hast thou been lured by pleasure gay 
 From the straight heavenward path to stray? 
 Seek Christ! In Him thou find'st the Way I 
 
 Fain wouldst thou, in the pride of youth, 
 The heights of knowledge climb forsooth ? 
 At Christ's feet sit thou ! He is Truth I 
 
 Dost tremble at the soul's stern strife 
 'Mid world with deadly dangers rife ? 
 Let Christ dwell in thee ! He is Life ! 
 
 In reflecting upon the multitudinous array of sacred 
 lyrics that have passed under our review, and which 
 do not afford even an approximate idea of their vast 
 numerical extent, we are amazed at their prodigious 
 numbers.* How much more should we wonder, could 
 we know the yet greater number of those silent ones, 
 the music of whose souls has remained all unsung, 
 and died with them. Dr. O. Wendell Holmes has 
 made this thought the subject of one of the most 
 delicious lyrics in the language. So, gentle reader, 
 if you have not met with it, you shall no longer be 
 deprived of an intellectual pleasure ; and if you have 
 read it, it will bear repeating. Here it is : — 
 
 We count the broken lyres that rest, where the sweet wailing singers 
 
 slumber, 
 But o'er their silent sister's breast the wild flowers who will stoop 
 
 to number ? 
 A few can touch the magic string, and noisy Fame is proud to win 
 
 them: 
 Alas, for those that never sing, and die with all their music in 
 
 them ! 
 
 * Germany alone boasts of having nearly one hundred thousand hymns. 
 
4/8 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Nay, grieve not for the dead alone whose song has told their hearts 1 
 
 sad story, — 
 Weep for the voiceless who have known the cross, without the 
 
 crown of glory ! 
 Not where Leucadian breezes sweep o'er Sappho's memory-haunted 
 
 billow, 
 But where the glistening night-dews weep on nameless sorrow's 
 
 churchyard pillow. 
 O hearts that break and give no sign, save whitening lip and fading 
 
 tresses, 
 Till death pours out his cordial wine, slow-dropped from misery's 
 
 crushing presses, — 
 If singing breath or echoing chord to every hidden pang were 
 
 given, 
 What endless melodies were poured, as sad as earth, as sweet as 
 
 heaven ! 
 
 Endless, indeed, have been those melodies which 
 have made musical the saddened hours of the Past. 
 Like the innumerable sermons and homilies, they 
 prove the inexhaustibility of the Bible ; for the essence 
 of both homilies and hymns is derived therefrom. 
 And, like "the non-inventibility of Christ," — to quote 
 the expressive phrase of Lavater, — this indefea- 
 sible usufruct of the Sacred Oracles proves their 
 Divinity. 
 
 The grand concert of Christian singers rehears- 
 ing to us the many-hued experiences of earthly life, 
 with its conflicts and its cares, its aspirations and 
 its faith and hope, — is the legacy of the Church 
 catholic. Their many-toned voices fall upon the ea,r 
 like sweetest melody, and stir the heart with new 
 singing, and reinforce our faltering faith. The re- 
 sponse of the Church militant seems to awaken the 
 response of the ecstatic harmonies of the Church 
 triumphant. 
 
ELEVENTH EVENING. 
 
 RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH; 
 
 INCLUDING NOTICES OF SOME CELEBRATED HYMNS NOT GIVEN IN THE FIRST EDITION 
 OF THIS WORK. 
 
ELEVENTH EVENING. 
 
 RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 
 
 ~|\ /TORE than a decade of years has passed since we 
 -L*J- closed our silent colloquy with the goodly com- 
 pany of Christian minstrels who had been delighting 
 us with many an — 
 
 Holy chant and choral hymn, — 
 Praise-notes fit for seraphim ; 
 
 and the stream of sacred song has been still flowing on 
 in all its sweetness and music. Some voices have been 
 hushed, some harps unstrung; but others have taken 
 up their tireless theme, and attuned their instruments 
 anew. Although the voices are many, they blend into 
 richest harmony, — portrayirfg in plaintive numbers the 
 conflicts and sorrows, and anon, in exultant strains, the 
 heroic conquests and triumphs, of the Christian life. 
 Nor have the songs of Zion in our day lost any of their 
 inspiration or pristine power. We, indeed, meet with 
 many a quaint quatrain or sweet stanza charged with 
 soothing and inspiring power among these later singers 
 of the Church. The charm that belongs to these gifted 
 utterances is potent to beguile the heart of its sorrow, 
 and to enkindle in the bosom the glow and warmth of a 
 new life. 
 
 3i 
 
482 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 It has been well said, that " it is by faith that poe- 
 try, as well as devotion, soars above this dull earth ; and 
 that through the brightness of its prophetic visions it 
 helps faith to lay hold on the future life." These sacred 
 lyrics may be called heart-utterances; and they find 
 ready response in their delineation of Christian expe- 
 rience. When sorrow-laden, many a time they light up 
 the eye with joy and gladness, or bring tears, as they 
 tell of past hours "which memory uproots with a scent 
 of dead flowers." To how many have these " songs in 
 the night" been found to grow — 
 
 Mellower as earth's hours fly, 
 Blending with the chorus of the saints on high. 
 
 Lowell justly remarks that " Poesy broods over all life, 
 like the calm blue sky, with its motherly, rebuking 
 face. She is the great reformer; and where the love of 
 her is strong and healthy, wickedness and wrong cannot 
 long prevail." In the highest and best sense, she is the 
 handmaid of Devotion. Or, as it has been poetically 
 stated by Tuckerman, " as the falcon launched trustingly 
 heavenward is lost to view, the course of the higher 
 poetry often soars beyond the ken of the multitude ; 
 and as the humble birds carol blithely round our dwell- 
 ings, so the meeker lays of the muse linger tunefully 
 about the heart." 
 
 " Religion," it has been beautifully said, " is the final 
 centre of repose, — the goal to which all things tend; 
 apart from which man is a shadow, his very existence 
 a riddle, and the stupendous scenes of nature which 
 surround him as unmeaning as the leaves which the 
 sibyl scattered to the wind." Napoleon is reported to 
 have uttered a somewhat similar statement, namely: 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 483 
 
 " The nature of Christ's existence is mysterious, I admit; 
 but this mystery meets the wants of men. Reject it, and 
 the world is an inexplicable riddle ; believe it, and the 
 history of our race is satisfactorily explained." 
 
 " Sorrow, rightly applied and improved," it has been 
 said, " clarifies the soul, and reveals to us ourselves." 
 As self-knowledge is a science but seldom pursued in 
 these days, this unwelcome visitant ought to be regarded 
 as a messenger of mercy and a real benefactor. 
 
 Sorrow, touched by Him, grows bright 
 
 With more than rapturous ray, 
 As darkness shows us worlds of light 
 
 We ne'er could see by day. 
 Sorrow will melt the selfish heart 
 
 And subjugate the will, 
 So that we shall, at least in part, 
 
 The " royal law " fulfil. 
 
 " Do not keep the alabaster boxes of your love and 
 tenderness sealed up until your friends are dead. Fill 
 their lives with sweetness. Speak approving, cheering 
 words while their ears can hear them, and while their 
 hearts can be thrilled and made happier by them ; the 
 kind things you mean to say when they are gone, say 
 before they go. The flowers you mean to send for their 
 coffins, send to brighten and sweeten their homes before 
 they leave them." 
 
 " Or let us remember that the Fatherhood of God in- 
 volves the brotherhood of man, and act out the sugges- 
 tion of one of its noblest singers, whose words of counsel 
 are: — 
 
 " ' Make channels for the streams of love 
 Where they may broadly run; 
 And love has overflowing streams 
 To fill them every one. 
 
484 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 For we must share, if we would keep, 
 
 That blessing from above : 
 Ceasing to give, we cease to have, — 
 
 Such is the law of love.' " * 
 
 11 Blest be the tie that binds our hearts in Christian love." 
 
 That beautiful Christian lyric owes its existence to the 
 following incident. Its author, — the Rev. Dr. Faw- 
 cett, of Wainsgate, England, — after having sustained 
 his church relationship for seven years, was invited to 
 visit London and preach for the celebrated Dr. Gill, 
 whose declining health made him desirous of resign- 
 ing his pastoral charge. The visit and preaching of 
 the former gave so much satisfaction to the society, 
 that an earnest and unanimous invitation to him to be- 
 come Dr. Gill's successor was the result. The church 
 at Wainsgate was comparatively small and poor, that 
 at London was large and wealthy ; it was not strange, 
 therefore, that the call should have been accepted. 
 Accordingly, Dr. Fawcett announced the fact to his 
 friends at Wainsgate, preached his farewell sermon, and 
 had his household goods packed for transmission to 
 his new sphere of clerical duty ; when his faithful flock 
 evinced such profound sorrow at the proposed separa- 
 tion, that the worthy pastor, unable to withstand their 
 earnest entreaties, actually abandoned the enterprise, 
 saying, " I will not leave you, but we will still labor 
 for the Lord lovingly together." The generous act of 
 self-denial on his part produced, as might be supposed, 
 such an enthusiastic response from his people as deeply 
 to affect his heart ; and he went home and recorded his 
 emotions in these imperishable lines. The latter days 
 
 * Trench. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 485 
 
 of this excellent man were beclouded with occasional 
 trials and afflictions, and his faith seems to have been 
 sorely tried; as, indeed, some of his hymns indicate, 
 such as the following: — 
 
 O God ! my Helper, ever near, 
 and, 
 
 Thus far my God has led me on. 
 
 Some hymns, like the first referred to, seem to possess 
 a sort of weird power, — invoking, as by incantation, 
 persons and scenes, long since forgotten, to a new life. 
 This old favorite hymn, — " Blest be the tie that binds," 
 — sung by voices that once mingled, it may be, with our 
 own, around the memorial supper of the Lord, but since 
 silent in the tomb, — seems to reanimate the sleepers 
 and bring them once more to our embrace. 
 
 There is another hymn, also a great favorite in social 
 worship, beginning, — 
 
 Lord, I hear of showers of blessings. 
 
 This beautiful utterance of a penitent seeking the 
 Saviour, is answered by a responsive strain from the 
 same pen, — a grateful tribute of praise of the accepted 
 penitent. Elizabeth Codner is the author, whose " Mis- 
 sionary Ship" and "Bible in the Kitchen" are deserv- 
 edly esteemed in England. 
 
 That expressive hymn, the production of Amelia M. 
 Hull, of Marpool Hall, Exmouth, entitled — 
 
 There is life for a look at the Crucified One ! 
 
 was written in i860. It has been introduced into most 
 church collections. Miss Hull has published " Fruit 
 
486 
 
 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 
 from the Tree of Life," and other volumes of religious 
 poetry. 
 
 Christina Rossetti, another of England's Christian 
 poets, and sister of the well-known Pre-Raphaelite artist, 
 is the author of the following little poetic paraphrase : — 
 
 Consider the lilies of the field, whose bloom is brief, — 
 We are as they, — like them we fade away, as doth a leaf ! 
 Consider the sparrows of the air, of small account, — 
 Our God doth view whether they fall or mount, 
 He guards us too. 
 
 Consider the lilies that do neither spin nor toil, 
 Yet are most fair : what profits all this care and all this toil ? 
 Consider the birds, that have no barn, nor harvest-weeks, — 
 God gives them food: much more our Father seeks 
 To do us good ! 
 
 Another of the tuneful sisterhood, Ada Cambridge, of 
 England, has written some fine hymns and litanies. An 
 extract from one of the latter is subjoined : — 
 
 Saviour ! by Thy sweet compassion, so unmeasured, so divine ; 
 By that bitter, bitter Passion, by that crimson Cross of Thine ; 
 By the woes Thy love once tasted in this sin-marred world below; 
 Succor those in tribulation, succor those in sorrow now ! 
 Lord ! Thou hast a holy purpose in each suffering we bear ; 
 In each throe of pain and terror ; in each secret, silent tear ; 
 In the weary days of sickness, famine, want, and loneliness; 
 In our night-time of bereavement, in our soul's Lent-bitterness. 
 All the needful sweet correction of this gentle Hand of Thine ; 
 All Thy wise and careful nurture, all Thy faultless discipline; 
 All to purge the precious metal, till it shall reflect Thy face; 
 All to shape and polish jewels Thine own diadem to grace ! 
 Lord ! we know that we must ever take our cross, and follow Thee 
 All along the narrow pathway, if we would Thy glory see. 
 Then, oh, help us each to bear it, by Thine own hard life of shame; 
 Let us suffer well and meekly, let us glorify Thy name ! 
 
 That beautiful poem, which originally consisted of six 
 stanzas, beginning, — 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 487 
 
 While Thee I seek, protecting Power, 
 
 was written in 1786, by Helen Maria Williams, of Lon- 
 don, who published a " Collection of Poems " and other 
 works. She visited France during the terrible times of 
 Robespierre, and was, indeed, imprisoned for a brief 
 period in the Temple at Paris. The eminent French 
 preacher Coquerel, her nephew, is said to have derived 
 from her his early religious training. 
 
 The late Rev. J. D. Burns, of the Free Church of 
 Scotland, and afterwards of the Presbytery of London, 
 is the author of the following touching lines, so fraught 
 with the spirit of plaintive resignation : — 
 
 I know that trial works for ends too high for sense to trace ; 
 That oft in dark attire He sends some embassy of grace ! 
 May none depart till I have gained the blessing which it bears ; 
 And learn, though late, I entertained an angel unawares ! 
 So shall I bless the hour that sent the mercy of the rod ; 
 And build an altar by the tent where I have met with God ! 
 
 Among the many trophies won to the Truth by the 
 field preaching of Whitefield, was Samuel Medley, of 
 the British navy. A convert to Christianity, he soon 
 became a minister of the Baptist denomination, and 
 wrote some of the songs of Zion. One familiar to us, 
 written by him, begins, — 
 
 Awake, my soul, in joyful lays. 
 
 That sweet consolatory hymn, or funeral chant, com- 
 mencing, — 
 
 Asleep in Jesus ! Blessed sleep ! 
 
 is from the pen of Mrs. Mackay, of Scotland. She 
 wrote the lines in memory of a touching inscription^ 
 
488 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 " Sleeping in Jesus," which she saw in Pennycross 
 Cemetery, Devonshire. 
 
 Another cultivated Christian gentlewoman, Mrs. Mary 
 Lundie Duncan, in the year 1839 wrote some simple 
 lines for the use of her own children, as an evening 
 prayer, without any suspicion that they would become 
 known over the civilized world. The lines be^in, — 
 
 Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me ! 
 
 There is another hymn that, doubtless, has proved 
 a benison to many a burdened heart, and nerved it to 
 a right resolve : we refer to the familiar hymn begin- 
 ning, — 
 
 Come, humble sinner, in whose breast. 
 
 Its author was Edmund Jones, a Welsh Baptist preacher, 
 who lived during the latter half of the eighteenth cen- 
 tury. 
 
 One of the finest, perhaps, of our devotional pieces is 
 that written by the Rev. J. W. Eastburn, who died in 
 New York (the city of his birth), in the year 1829, at 
 the early age of twenty-two years. It is entitled " Ter 
 Sanctus." 
 
 O holy, holy, holy Lord ! Bright in Thy deeds and in Thy name ! 
 Forever be Thy name adored : Thy glories let the world proclaim ! 
 O Jesus ! Lamb once crucified, to take our load of sin away ! 
 Be Thine the hymn that rolls its tide along the realms of upper 
 
 day ! 
 O Holy Spirit from above, in streams of light and glory given, — 
 Thou source of ecstasy and love ! Thy praises ring through earth 
 
 and heaven ! 
 O God Triune ! to Thee we owe our every thought, our every 
 
 song; 
 And ever may Thy praises flow from saint and seraph's burning 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 489 
 
 There is deep pathos as well as spiritual fervor in 
 these lines which follow, from the pen of Dr. Constan- 
 tine Pise, of the Romish Church, New York : — 
 
 Flow on, sweet tears of joy and peace, which none but saintly eyes 
 
 distil: 
 Ah, that these tears might never cease, till love and rapture have 
 
 their fill ! 
 Ah, would this calm and soothing bliss, that tells my heart it is 
 
 forgiven, 
 Might always have a thrill like this, that wafts my spirit into heaven ! 
 
 Thomas Kelly, whose name is familiar to us as a hymn- 
 writer, was an accomplished scholar, the friend of Burke, 
 and an honored member of the Irish Bar. But he soon 
 abandoned the law for the Gospel, and at the early age 
 of twenty-three years was ordained a minister of the 
 Episcopal Church. Subsequently he espoused the 
 " Evangelical party ; " and this led to his secession from 
 that ecclesiastical body, and uniting himself with the 
 " Congregationalists." He then became a zealous and 
 efficient co-operator with Romaine and Rowland Hill. 
 Kelly's hymns are numerous, and are pronounced as 
 eminently evangelical in sentiment, as well as gracefully 
 poetic and skilful in structure. The best known of his 
 hymns are the following : — 
 
 Look, ye saints, the sight is glorious ! 
 In Thy name, O Lord, assembling. 
 We sing the praise of Him, who died ! 
 
 The last-named hymn has elicited the high praise of 
 Sir Roundell Palmer, who thinks it equal, if not superior, 
 to anything that has emanated from the practised pen 
 of Montgomery. 
 
 The Rev. John Burton, the friend and ministerial 
 associate of the renowned Robert Hall, and also a most 
 

 
 490 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 pronounced friend of Sunday schools, when its advocates 
 
 were far less numerous than now, wrote the familiar 
 
 lines : — 
 
 Holy Bible, book Divine ! 
 
 One of the many hymnists who " learned in suffering 
 what they taught in song " was the rarely-gifted but 
 short-lived J. R. Taylor, of Sheffield, England, who 
 wrote, among other Christian lyrics, that favorite of our 
 Sabbath schools, — 
 
 I 'm but a stranger here, heaven is my home ! 
 
 The Rev. Joseph Grigg, of the Presbyterian Church, 
 Walthamstow, England, wrote several admirable hymns, 
 among them those beginning, — 
 
 Behold, a stranger at the door ! 
 Jesus ! and can it ever be, a mortal man ashamed of thee ? 
 
 William Hammond, friend and associate of Cennick 
 the hymnist, and a member of the Moravian faith, was 
 an accomplished classical scholar, wrote some theo- 
 logical works, and also, among others, the hymns com- 
 mencing, — 
 
 Awake, and sing the song of Moses and the Lamb, 
 and, 
 
 Lord, we come before Thee now. 
 
 This last hymn originally comprised eight stanzas of 
 eight lines each. Hammond had some eccentricities, 
 like other sons of genius, and amongst them was his 
 MSS. autobiography in Greek. He lived at Chelsea, 
 London, and died there in 1783. 
 
 That favorite name, so full of poetic and sacred asso- 
 ciations, and which was borne by " the most blessed 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 49 1 
 
 among women," has been the theme of many a loving 
 tribute by the poets. The latest in the order of time 
 that we have seen is the following, which comes to us 
 direct from the pen of the writer, W. B. Maclay, of New 
 York City : — 
 
 Embalmed in Cowper's classic lines, 
 
 In Arctic or in Tropic climes, 
 
 How bright the name of Mary shines ! 
 
 Burns caught the lyre with passion strong, 
 " Mary in Heaven " inspired the song, 
 Whose notes the choral years prolong. 
 
 By rippling lake and meadow green, 
 Byron, thy Mary's home is seen, 
 Though shadowed only in " a dream." 
 
 How soft the airs of evening play 
 O'er storied arch and cloister gray, 
 Kissed by the waves of Genoa's bay, 
 
 When barks at anchor peaceful ride, 
 And not a sound is heard beside 
 " Ave Maria" o'er the tide ! 
 
 Blest name ! endeared as hers who gave 
 Her sorrowing Son the world to save 
 From sin and sorrow and the grave ! 
 
 Michael Bruce, of Edinburgh, who lived only from 
 1746 until 1767, wrote some beautiful poetry, as all who 
 have perused his fine " Elegy on Spring," " Ode to the 
 Cuckoo," and his " Gospel Sonnets " can testify. Like 
 Kirke White, he became an early victim to consump- 
 tion ; and like him, also, he has left behind him proofs 
 of his possession of rare poetic powers. The most 
 popular of his hymns is that commencing, — 
 
 Where high the heavenly temple stands. 
 

 492 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Reverting again to the devotional lyrics of the present 
 day, those of Frances Ridley Havergal take high rank, 
 alike for their poetic beauty, their freshness and religious 
 fervor. Her productions, which have been worthily 
 collected into a volume, remind us sometimes of the 
 muse of Keble and anon of Faber and of Adelaide 
 Procter. One of her finest devotional poems, which, 
 indeed, it may be well said, is of itself sufficient to 
 achieve for its author a reputation, is that founded upon 
 a motto placed under a picture of Christ, in the study 
 of a German divine, " This I did for tkee y what doest 
 thou for Me?" It is said Count Zinzendorf was first 
 taught love to the Saviour by reading this motto. 
 Here is the first stanza of the hymn : — 
 
 I gave My life for thee, My precious blood I shed, 
 
 That thou mightst ransomed be, and quickened from the dead ! 
 
 I gave My life for thee ! 
 
 What hast thou given Me ? 
 
 We subjoin an extract from her poem on " Faith and 
 Reason: " — 
 
 Reason unstrings the harp, to see wherein the music dwells ; 
 Faith pours a hallelujah song, and heavenly rapture swells. 
 While Reason strives to count the drops that lave our narrow strand, 
 Faith launches o'er the mighty deep to seek a better land. 
 One is the foot that slowly treads where darkling mists enshroud; 
 The other is the wing that cleaves each heaven-obscuring cloud. 
 Reason, the eye which sees but that on which its glance is cast; 
 Faith is the thought that blends in one the Future and the Past ! 
 Faith is the bride that stands enrobed in pure and white array ; 
 Reason, the handmaid, who may share the gladness of the day. 
 Faith leads the way, and Reason learns to follow in her train ; 
 Till, step by step, the goal is reached, and death is glorious gain ! 
 
 Many other pieces of similar poetic beauty give a 
 charm to Miss Havergal's V Ministry of Song." Her 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 493 
 
 father has already added celebrity to the name, as his 
 " Lyra Sacra " sufficiently evinces, on both sides of 
 the Atlantic; and the effusions of his gifted daughter 
 will, doubtless, add to it, since they find such general 
 acceptation. 
 
 The hymn beginning, — 
 
 Sweet the moments, rich in blessing, 
 
 was not composed, as sometimes stated, by the Rev. C. 
 Batty, of Yorkshire, but by the Rev. James Allen, one 
 of Lady Huntingdon's chaplains. He was an earnest 
 yet rather eccentric itinerant preacher, and on one occa- 
 sion was set upon by the mob. He went to Scotland, 
 and compiled a collection of hymns, including seventy 
 of his own. He died in 1804. 
 
 There is an impressive hymn that comes to us from 
 the pen of Mrs. Charles Akerman, of Providence, R. I. 
 It begins thus : — 
 
 Nothing but leaves ! The spirit grieves over a wasted life ! 
 
 That hymn, found in most of our church books, com- 
 mencing, — 
 
 Hark ! the voice of love and mercy ! 
 
 was the production of the Rev. J. Evans, of Foleshill, 
 England. He seems to have been an eminent instance 
 of the union of culture, benevolence, and piety. He 
 wrote many other hymns, including that beginning, — 
 
 Come, thou soul-transforming Spirit. 
 
 Dr. S. Stennet, who was a Baptist minister, of Exeter, 
 England, discovered considerable poetic genius, as his 
 hymns prove ; for instance, that one commencing, — 
 
494 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 On Jordan's stormy banks I stand. 
 
 Stennet was a contemporary with Watts, and John 
 Howard the philanthropist, who was a frequent and an 
 appreciative attendant upon his ministry. He was also 
 honored with the personal friendship of his sovereign, 
 George III. 
 
 Dr. Joseph Stennet, the father of the above, was a 
 Baptist minister in London ; and, it might be added, 
 rather a belligerent Baptist, for he wrote some contro- 
 versial prose in defence of his creed, and also a dozen 
 hymns on " Believers' Baptism." He was yet a noble, 
 self-denying defender of the faith ; for he declined prefer- 
 ment on one occasion, although " his family was large 
 and his salary small." He wrote the hymns, — 
 
 Another six days' work is done, 
 and, 
 
 Come, bless the Lord, whose love assigns. 
 
 We now introduce a Scottish lady of Christian culture, 
 who has, under the signature " H. L. L.," published 
 several translations from the German, and a volume of 
 original verses, entitled " Thoughts for the Thoughtful." 
 Her name is Jane Borthwick : one of her more recent con- 
 tributions to our sacred anthology is the following: — 
 
 Times are changing, days are flying, — years are quickly past and 
 gone, — 
 
 While the wildly-mingled murmur of life's busy hum goes on. 
 
 Sounds of tumult, sounds of triumph, marriage chimes, and passing- 
 bell .— 
 
 Yet through all one key-note sounding, — angels' watchword, — " It 
 is well ! " 
 
 We may hear it through the rushing of the midnight tempest's wave ; 
 
 We may hear it through the weeping round the newly-covered 
 grave. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 495 
 
 In the dreary house of mourning, in the darkened room of pain, 
 If we listen meekly, rightly, we may catch that soothing strain ! 
 
 Another of the worthy contributors to our modern 
 hymnology was James Edmeston, an architect of the 
 British metropolis, who died in 1867. One of his most 
 popular hymns is that commencing, — 
 
 Saviour ! breathe an evening blessin 
 
 which was suggested (as we gather from Mr. Miller) by 
 the reading, in Salte's " Travels in Abyssinia," the fol- 
 lowing words : " At night, their short evening hymn, 
 ' Jesus, forgive us ! ' stole through the camp." Mr. Ed- 
 meston published in 1822 about fifty hymns, and subse- 
 quently as many more, besides several other volumes 
 for the London Religious Tract Society. His glowing 
 style may be seen in the following extract from one of 
 his later pieces : — 
 
 Why should I, in vain repining, mourn the clouds that cross my 
 
 way, 
 Since my Saviour's presence shining turns the darkness into day! 
 Earthly honor, earthly treasure, all the warmest passions win, 
 And the silken wings of pleasure only waft us on to sin : 
 But within the vale of sorrow, all with tempests overblown, 
 Purest light and joy we borrow from the face of God alone ! 
 Welcome, then, each darker token ; Mercy sent it from above ! 
 So the heart, subdued, not broken, bends in fear, and melts in love ! 
 
 There is an interesting history connected with a hymn 
 often used in our Christian worship : it is, indeed, a 
 translation made by Joshua Marshman, in 1801, from 
 the original Hindoo, "by the first Christian convert" 
 at Serampore, India, named Krishna Pal. This first 
 trophy of the Truth in far India was baptized in the 
 river Ganges ; and thus, heroically breaking through the 
 

 49$ EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 inexorable law of caste, he became himself a devoted 
 native missionary of the Cross. The hymn will hereafter 
 possess a deeper interest for us from a knowledge of 
 this fact : do you know what hymn it is ? 
 
 O thou, my soul, forget no more, &c. 
 
 Another familiar hymn, commencing, — 
 
 If human kindness meets return, 
 
 was the production of the Rev. G. T. Noel, elder brother 
 of the Rev. Baptist W. Noel, formerly of the Episcopal 
 Church, and afterwards minister of the Baptist denomi- 
 nation in England. 
 
 There is in some of our Sunday-school hymn books, 
 although not suited for the use of children, a hymn 
 beginning, — 
 
 Here we suffer grief and pain, &c. 
 
 The author, Thomas Bilby, was principal of the training- 
 school at Chelsea, London. He wrote the hymn in 
 1832. 
 
 The annexed little poem is from the facile and grace- 
 ful pen of Miss Lillie E. Barr, of New York, whose 
 various poetic contributions to the religious press have 
 won such deservedly high commendation: — 
 
 Eyes that have wept and watched for years, 
 No more shall ye be dimmed by tears ; 
 Your vigil now shall others keep, — 
 'T is only open eyes that weep ! 
 
 Oh, heart ! so good, so true, so brave ! 
 There is no trouble in the grave ; 
 No care, that dreamless sleep to wake ; 
 'T is only beating hearts that break ! 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 497 
 
 Hands crossed so humbly on the breast, — 
 Poor weary hands ! ye now have rest, 
 While Death hath purified your soil ; 
 'T is only living hands that toil. 
 
 Then turned I to the weeping wife, — 
 "Dear Heart! " said I, "this sleep is life ; 
 And its awakening shall be — 
 The birth of Immortality ! " 
 
 There is a very remarkable hymn, — especially remark- 
 able for its grand chorus, — written by Edward Mote, a ( 
 Baptist minister, at Horsham, Sussex. The hymn which 
 begins, — 
 
 My hope is built on nothing less, 
 
 with the fine chorus, — 
 
 On Christ, the solid rock, I stand ! 
 All other ground is sinking sand ! 
 
 the author states, " flowed into his mind one morning, 
 as he was walking up Holborn Hill, London, on his way 
 to business, about fifty years ago. Four verses of the 
 hymn were soon written, and two more on the following 
 Sunday. They were of immediate use in affording 
 comfort to a dying friend." * That fine hymn begin- 
 ning, — 
 
 Come, O my soul, in sacred lays, 
 
 was written by Dr. Blacklock, of Edinburgh, who, al- 
 though deprived of sight, devoted a protracted life to 
 sacred learning and the Christian ministry. It was of 
 him that Burke, in his " Essay on the Sublime," said, 
 " Few men blest with the most perfect sight can describe 
 visual objects with more spirit and justness than this 
 
 * Miller. 
 32 
 
498 
 
 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 blind man." It is remarkable that he wrote an able 
 article on blindness for the " Encyclopaedia Britannica." 
 He died in 1 791, and left a luminous name, though 
 denied the blessing of light himself. 
 The well-known parting-hymn, — 
 
 Lord, dismiss us with Thy blessing, 
 
 was written by the Rev. George Burder, a Congrega- 
 tional minister of London, where he lived from 1752 until 
 1832. He was one of the founders of the Religious 
 Tract Society of London. 
 The hymn commencing, — 
 
 O God of Bethel, by whose hand, 
 
 although in some collections attributed to Logan, has 
 been found to have been written by Philip Doddridge, 
 whose numerous beautiful effusions need hardly be indi- 
 cated, as they are so familiar to us, such as : — 
 
 Jesus ! I love Thy charming name! 
 O happy day that fixed my choice, 
 Let Zion's watchmen all awake, 
 
 and, 
 
 While on the verge of life I stand, 
 
 which last was composed immediately after awaking from 
 his remarkable dream of being in a disembodied state 
 and taken up into heaven. 
 
 There is yet another beautiful Christian lyric, begin- 
 ning,— 
 
 We speak of the realms of the blest, 
 
 which is the production of Elizabeth Mills, of England, 
 and was composed after reading " Brydges's work on 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 499 
 
 the 119th Psalm." The author who descanted so in- 
 spiringly upon " the realms of the blest" soon after 
 left earthly scenes, and has, doubtless, attained to the 
 coveted knowledge of " what it must be to be there ! " 
 That little Sunday-school lyric, — 
 
 To-day the Saviour calls, 
 
 was written by Thomas Hastings, of New York, who 
 was as much of a musician as a poet, as his beautiful 
 tunes and choral melodies sufficiently attest. That fine 
 Resurrection-hymn, beginning, — 
 
 How calm and beautiful the morn that gilds the sacred tomb ! 
 
 is from his pen, and he has enriched our collections with 
 other spiritual songs and hymns of similar beauty. 
 
 There has been some discussion as to the authorship 
 of those fine stanzas commencing, — 
 
 How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord, — 
 
 some with doubtful claim ascribing them to Kirkham, 
 an associate minister with the Wesleys ; while others, 
 with more direct authority, trace them to the pen of 
 George Keith, of Gracechurch Street, London, and a 
 son-in-law of Dr. Gill. It was first printed in 1787. 
 
 There is another cherished name among the priest- 
 hood of song, whose tuneful harp is now, alas ! all un- 
 strung: we refer to the late Dr. Bonar, some of whose 
 numerous heart-songs and refrains will live with the 
 Christian faith that inspired them. We present his part- 
 ing tribute, — his last swan-like song : — 
 
 Still one in life and one in death, one in our hope of rest above ; 
 One in our joy, our trust, our faith, one in each other's faithful 
 love. 
 
500 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Yet must we part, and parting weep ; what else has earth for us in 
 
 store ? 
 Our farewell pangs, how sharp and deep ! Our farewell words, how 
 
 sad and sore ! 
 Yet shall we meet again in peace, to sing the song of festal joy ; 
 Where none shall bid our gladness cease, and none our fellowship 
 
 destroy ; 
 Where none shall beckon us away, nor bid our festival be done : 
 Our meeting-time, the eternal day ! our meeting-place, the eternal 
 
 throne ! 
 There, hand-in-hand, firm-linked at last, and heart to heart enfolded 
 
 all, 
 We'll smile upon the troubled past, and wonder why we wept at all. 
 
 The Christian public is under obligations to Mrs. Eliz- 
 abeth Payson Prentiss for many beautiful and touching 
 poems and hymns ; among them, not the least popular 
 is that commencing, — 
 
 More love to Thee, O Christ ! more love to Thee ! 
 Hear Thou the prayer I make on bended knee. 
 This is my earnest plea, — more love, O Christ, to Thee, 
 More love to Thee ! 
 
 This hymn has been incorporated into many church 
 hymnals. It has also been translated into Arabic, like 
 Ray Palmer's fine hymn, " My Faith looks up to Thee ;" 
 so that two sacred songs of the West are sung in the far 
 East, the very birthplace of Christianity. 
 The following is another of her poems : — 
 
 Complete in Him ! O Lord, I flee laden with this great thought to 
 
 Thee ; 
 With tears and smiles contending, cry, Are words like these for 
 
 such as I ? 
 Complete in Him ! no word of mine is needed, Lord, to perfect 
 
 Thine : 
 Wise Master-builder, let Thy hand fashion the fabric Thou hast 
 
 planned. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 501 
 
 Complete in Him! I nothing bring, — am an imperfect, useless 
 thing ; 
 
 But human eyes shall joy to see what God's dear hand shall add to 
 me. 
 
 Complete in Him ! Oh, longed-for day, when my poor, sinful heart 
 can say, — 
 
 Naught in myself, for ruin meet, in Jesus Christ I stand com- 
 plete ! 
 
 The author of the following poem is the Rev. Thomas 
 Whitehead, of St. John's College, Cambridge. Some of 
 the stanzas are omitted here. 
 
 I gaze aloof, 
 
 On the tissued roof, 
 Where time and space are the warp and woof 
 
 Which the King of kings 
 
 As a curtain flings 
 O'er the dreadfulness of eternal things. 
 
 But could I see, 
 
 As in truth they be, 
 The glories of heaven that encompass me, 
 
 I should lightly hold 
 
 The tissued fold 
 Of that marvellous curtain of blue and gold. 
 
 Soon the whole, 
 
 Like a parched scroll, 
 Shall before my amazed sight uproll ; 
 
 And without a screen, 
 
 At one burst be seen 
 The Presence wherein I have ever been. 
 
 Oh, who shall bear 
 
 The blinding glare 
 Of the majesty that shall meet us there ? 
 
 What eye may gaze 
 
 On the unveiled blaze 
 Of the light-girdled throne of the Ancient of Days ? 
 
502 
 
 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Dr. Norman McLeod, the famous Scotch preacher, 
 wrote a little poem which has been a note of encour- 
 agement to many a troubled soul. We quote a portion 
 of it. 
 
 Courage, brother, do not stumble, 
 
 Though thy path be dark as night ; 
 There 's a star to guide the humble, — 
 "Trust in God and do the right." 
 
 Let the road be rough and dreary, 
 
 And its end far out of sight, 
 Foot it bravely ! strong or weary, 
 
 " Trust in God and do the right" 
 
 Trust no party, sect, or faction ; 
 
 Trust no leaders in the fight : . 
 But in every word and action, 
 
 " Trust in God and do the right." 
 
 Simple rule, and safest guiding, 
 
 Inward peace and inward might, 
 Star upon our path abiding, 
 
 " Trust in God and do the right." 
 
 Some will hate thee, some will love thee ; 
 
 Some will flatter, some will slight : 
 Cease from man, and look above thee ; 
 
 " Trust in God and do the right." 
 
 The two following poetic waifs are worthy a niche in 
 our gallery of gems. 
 
 Oh, if there be an hour that brings 
 The breath of heaven upon its wings, 
 To light the heart, to glad the eye 
 With glimpses of eternity, 
 It is the hour of mild decay, 
 The sunset of the Holy day ! 
 For then to earth a light is given 
 Fresh flowing from the gates of heaven ; 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 503 
 
 And then, on every breeze we hear 
 Angelic voices whispering near, — 
 Through veiling shades glance seraph eyes — 
 One step — and all were Paradise ! 
 
 I wonder if ever a song was sung 
 
 But the singer's heart was sweeter! 
 I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung 
 
 But the thought surpassed the metre ! 
 I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought 
 Till the cold stone echoed his ardent thought ! 
 Or if ever a painter, with light and shade, 
 The dream of his inmost heart portrayed ! 
 
 I wonder if ever a rose was found 
 
 And there might not be a fairer ! 
 Or if ever a glittering gem was ground 
 
 And we dreamed not of a rarer ! 
 Ah ! never on earth shall we find the best ! 
 But it waits for us in the land of rest ; 
 And a perfect thing we shall never behold 
 Till we pass the portal of shining gold. 
 
 From a delightful volume of poems, lyric and devo- 
 tional, published to London recently, entitled " Minor 
 Chords," by Sophia May Eckley, we select the following 
 graceful stanzas : — 
 
 O early dreams ! sweet springtide dreams 
 
 Of childhood's fleeting hours, 
 When through youth's wizard glass we gazed, 
 
 And trod her myrtle bowers. 
 
 O summer dreams ! sweet summer dreams ! 
 
 O hope ! O trust ! O joy ! 
 The faded gleams, the broken links, • 
 
 Leave gold — but with alloy. 
 
 O later days ! gray autumn days ! 
 
 Bring riper fruits for wine ; 
 And as earth's dreams prove only dreams, 
 
 Clear Faith begins to shine. 
 
504 
 
 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 O golden days ! eternal days ! 
 
 The clays that are to come, 
 When glorified we see His face, 
 
 And call His presence, Home ! 
 
 Here follows another poem from the same source : — 
 
 Not day nor night, " not clear nor dark," — 
 Thus sang the Prophet in foreshadowed night, 
 Sang of the Light to fall on Judah's hills, 
 " At evening time it shall be light ! " 
 
 Thus evening falls when death draws near; 
 When life is ebbing, softly folds the night: 
 The dying hear, when all to us is dark, 
 " At evening time it shall be light ! " 
 
 Love then must fold her drooping wings, 
 And veil her face ; for mark how wondrous bright, 
 How passing radiant, is that room of death 
 Which brings the dying Christian light ! 
 
 Dim shadows of the Great Beyond 
 Shroud U3, — for him no more the feud, the fight; 
 Christ's warrior sleeps, while angels round him sing, 
 "At evening time it shall be light ! " 
 
 Oh, glorious prospect, thus to wait, 
 As glooms earth's waning shadows on the sight, 
 Faith's taper light ! Oh, live, the promise wait,— 
 " At evening time it shall be light ! " 
 
 We are permitted to cull the following choice lines 
 from the volume of poems recently published by Dr. H. 
 N. Pierce, Bishop of Arkansas : — 
 
 The heart that suffers, most may sing, 
 All beauty seems of sorrow born : 
 This truth, half seen in life's young morn, 
 
 Stands full and clear at evening. 
 The gems of thought most highly prized 
 Are tears of sorrow crystallized. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 505 
 
 And thus the struggling grief gives birth 
 To forms of beauty all its own, — 
 In tones, in words, in tints, in stone, 
 
 Are its deep yearnings bodied forth, 
 As painting, sculpture, poesy, 
 Or music sets the pent grief free. 
 
 And if thy spirit, loving, kind, 
 Hears aught of music in the chime 
 Of what may seem an idle rhyme ; 
 
 Canst thou here aught of beauty find, — 
 If here gleams out one gemlike thought, 
 Know that it, too, is sorrow-wrought. 
 
 All beauty has in sorrow birth ; 
 Heart-aches inspire the poet's themes, 
 And shape the painter's, sculptor's, dreams: 
 
 Such is the destiny of earth. 
 His beams the heaven-taught genius throws 
 O'er all, and all with radiance glows ! 
 
 The authorship of these fine lines is, we regret to say, 
 unknown to us. 
 
 THE UPLANDS OF GOD. 
 11 Come ye yourselves apart unto a desert place and rest awhile." 
 
 God hath His uplands bleak and bare, 
 
 Where He doth bid us rest awhile, — 
 Crags where we breathe a purer air, 
 Lone peaks that catch the day's first smile ; 
 Earth's hurrying feet are far away: 
 Awe-struck, we wait what God may say. 
 God hath His desert broad and brown, 
 
 A solitude, — a sea of sand, 
 On which He lets Heaven's curtains down, 
 Unknit by His almighty hand. 
 By day a sapphire tent unfolds, — 
 By night, an arc of burning worlds. 
 Here doth He bid us muse and pray 
 Half-uttered, half-forgotten prayers ; 
 
506 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Let thoughts expand, which yesterday 
 Were stifled by the world's rank cares : 
 Behind Creation's throbbing screen 
 Catch movements of the great Unseen. 
 
 The Sabbath sunshine blessed the earth to-day 
 With large, still utterance of a thought divine ; 
 
 For ever freely thus — it seemed to say — 
 
 Doth heavenly love on human darkness shine : 
 
 Oh, bright beyond all suns that wondrous light of Thine ! 
 
 To-night, the Sabbath moonlight with white wings, 
 
 Dove-like, doth brood o'er Earth's dark, fevered breast; 
 
 So God's great calm its gift of healing brings 
 To souls long tossed in sorrowful unrest, 
 And leaves therein the peace that cannot be expressed.* 
 
 A pleasant incident is related of the following hymn, 
 by Dr. Putnam, in the " Singers and Songs of the Liberal 
 Faith." A company of Bostonians, among whom was 
 Mrs. Hill, a daughter of Dr. C. Robbins, were returning 
 from England in a Cunard steamer. An aged Scotch 
 Presbyterian minister was among the passengers, who 
 were singing hymns on deck on a Sabbath evening, 
 when the clergyman said he would show them what he 
 considered the sweetest of hymns. To the glad surprise 
 of the lady referred to, he recited her father's own hymn. 
 It was this : — 
 
 Lo ! the day of rest declineth, 
 
 Gather fast the shades of night ; 
 May the Sun that ever shineth 
 
 Fill our souls with heavenly light. 
 Softly now the dew is falling ; 
 
 Peace o'er all the scene is spread ; 
 On His children, meekly calling, 
 
 Purer influence God will shed. 
 
 * N. Y. Independent. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 507 
 
 While Thine ear of love addressing, 
 Thus our parting hymn we sing, — 
 
 Father, give Thine evening blessing ; 
 Fold us safe beneath Thy wing.* 
 
 We cite the following beautiful lines from a poem 
 by Harriet McEwen Kimball, entitled "The Morning 
 Chamber." 
 
 Fair as the peace that like a river flows, 
 
 Across the room the cloudless moonlight streams : 
 
 Recess and corner dusk, its hallowing beams 
 
 Suffuse with mist-like glimmer of repose. 
 
 So hushed this chamber, and so rapt this tide 
 
 Of visible calm, that blessed visions rise 
 
 Of the great city of peace beyond the skies, — 
 
 Of crystal waters that perpetual glide 
 
 From out the Throne, swift light, descending light, 
 
 Forever and forever, with a sound 
 
 Of inconceivable music, music drowned 
 
 In rain of benediction from the might 
 
 And majesty of One enthroned above, — 
 
 The Light of light, whose name of names is Love ! 
 
 To Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney we are indebted for the 
 following thoughtful and impressive lines, entitled " Sun- 
 light and Starlight." 
 
 God sets some souls in shade, alone ; 
 They have no daylight of their own ; 
 Only in lives of happier ones 
 They see the shine of distant suns. 
 God knows. Content thee with thy night; 
 Thy greater heaven hath grander light. 
 To-day is close ; the hours are small ; 
 Thou sitt'st afar, and hast them all. 
 Lose the less joy, that doth but blind; 
 Reach forth a larger bliss to find. 
 To-day is brief; the inclusive spheres 
 Rain raptures of a thousand years ! 
 
 * Dr. P. Schaffs Library of Poetry. 
 
508 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 The following graceful lines are part of a lyric enti- 
 tled " October Reveries," by Miss Mary K. A. Stone, of 
 Cambridge, Mass. 
 
 Once more the year puts on her robes of praise, 
 And chants her fullest Benedicite, 
 Laying her offering at His throne, whose feet 
 Once made the whole wide earth His holy ground. 
 Upon her brow she wears the seal of peace, 
 Like some saint-life awaiting its translation ; 
 While strange revealings from the bright beyond 
 Shine out upon her calm, still countenance ! 
 When the near autumn of my days shall come, 
 Bringing my soul her latest " harvest-home," 
 O Lord ! be Thou Thyself my rest and crown ! 
 
 The following Thanksgiving lyric is by W. D. Howells. 
 
 Lord, for the erring thought 
 Not into evil wrought ; 
 Lord, for the wicked will 
 Betrayed and baffled still ; 
 For the heart from itself kept, 
 Our thanksgiving accept. 
 For ignorant hopes that were 
 Broken to our blind prayer ; 
 For pain, death, sorrow sent 
 Unto our chastisement ; 
 For all loss of seeming good, 
 Quicken our gratitude. 
 
 Willis Gaylord Clarke, the author of the beautiful 
 lines entitled " Euthanasia," which follow, was long the 
 editor of the w Knickerbocker Magazine," of New York. 
 
 Methinks when on the languid eye 
 
 Life's autumn scenes grow dim ; 
 When evening's shadows veil the sky, 
 
 And pleasure's siren hymn 
 Grows fainter on the tuneless ear, 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 509 
 
 Like echoes from another sphere, 
 
 Or dreams of seraphim, — 
 It were not sad to cast away 
 This dull and cumbrous load of clay. 
 It were not sad to feel the heart 
 
 Grow passionless and cold ; 
 To feel those longings to depart 
 
 That cheered the good of old ; 
 To clasp the faith which looks on high, 
 Which fires the Christian's dying eye, 
 
 And makes the curtain-fold 
 That falls upon his wasting breast, 
 The door that leads to endless rest. 
 It seems not lonely thus to lie 
 
 On that triumphant bed, 
 Till the rapt spirit mounts on high, 
 
 By white-winged seraphs led, — 
 Where glories earth may. never know 
 O'er " many mansions " lingering glow, 
 
 In peerless lustre shed. 
 It were not lonely thus to soar 
 Where sin and sorrow sting no more. 
 
 We give below the graceful lines of Mrs. Margaret E. 
 Sangster's " Vesper Song." The reader is doubtless 
 familiar with her beautiful religious lyrics. 
 
 The clouds of sunset, fold on fold, 
 
 Are purple and tawny, and edged with gold. 
 
 Soft as the silence after a hymn, 
 
 Is the hush that falls as the light grows dim. 
 
 And the phantom feet of the shadows glide 
 
 To the maple tops and the river's tide. 
 
 Not even the thought of a sound is heard, 
 
 Till the dusk is thrilled by a hidden bird 
 
 That suddenly sings, as the light grows dim, 
 
 Its wonderful passionate vesper hymn. 
 
 Sweet as the voice of an angel's call, 
 
 Sent to me from the jasper wall, 
 
 Is the music poured from that tiny throat, 
 
 A message of comfort in every note. 
 
510 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 I know not where in the leafy tree 
 The dear liltle warbler's home may be. 
 There are in this world, where God is King, 
 Some that have nothing to do but sing ; 
 And we who listen have nought to say 
 Concerning their Master's rule and sway, — 
 Only this : it was surely best, 
 Since it taught them strains so full of rest; 
 And showed the path to a lighted ark, 
 Perhaps, to some one lost in the dark. 
 
 The Rev. Dr. B. F. De Costa, of New York, is the 
 author of these stirring and inspiring lines : — 
 
 Kingdom of God ! who would not be 
 In that grand principality 
 A subject, whose far-shining days, 
 Exhaustless,. lapse in songs of praise ? 
 There Love is law, and rules alone 
 Eternal, as the crystal throne 
 Whose beams of clear supernal light 
 With endless day shut out the night; 
 While joy pervades each tranquil breast, 
 Brief toil exchanged for endless rest; 
 Where peaceful banners float unfurled 
 In memory of a conquered world ! 
 Kingdom of God ! who would not be 
 Crowned in that principality ? 
 
 The following poetic " Creed " is by Louise B. Spaul- 
 ding : — 
 
 I hold that He who marks the sparrow's fall 
 Has heed of me, and all that does betide ; 
 
 And that my prayers, if wise, are answered all, 
 If wayward, then, if need be, so denied. 
 
 I hold He measures out my spirit's food, 
 Daily my cup is filled for me to drain ; 
 
 I drink, though bitter, knowing it is good, 
 And thus I thank Him for the cup of pain. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 5 II 
 
 I do believe that every tear that flows — 
 Aye, every heart-wound gotten in the strife — 
 
 Has blessed part in all the spirit grows 
 Of good, to fit it for the higher life. 
 
 • And I believe that pain and grief's fierce smart 
 Are angels ministering in strange disguise, — 
 Are angels tending the sick, feverish heart, 
 To better fit it for the holy skies. 
 
 And so I come to kneel and kiss the rod, 
 
 Knowing the Father's hand inflicts the pain ; 
 
 He will not punish longer than is good, 
 Nor will inflict a single pang in vain. 
 
 Oh, you who sit with tear-blind, doubting eyes, 
 Have faith a little time, believe and wait. 
 
 For on your sorrows you shall mount and rise, 
 
 And so, through them, achieve the Heavenly Gate. 
 
 The annexed poem has such fine, vigorous lines that 
 we cannot, without injury to the production, omit any. 
 The author was Frederick West, who lived in New York 
 some score of years since : — 
 
 Where are the mighty ones of ages past, 
 Who o'er the world their inspiration cast, 
 Whose memories stir our spirits like a blast ? — 
 Where are the dead ? 
 
 Where are old empires- sinews, snapped and gone ? 
 Where is the Persian, Mede, Assyrian ? 
 Where are the kings of Egypt, Babylon ? — 
 Where are the dead ? 
 
 Where are the mighty ones of Greece ? where be 
 The men of Sparta and Thermopylae ? 
 The conquering Macedonian, where is he ? — 
 Where are the dead ? 
 
 Where are Rome's founders ? where her chiefest son, 
 Before whose name the whole known world bowed down, 
 Whose conquering arm chased the retreating sun ? — 
 Where are the dead ? 
 
512 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Where 's the bard-warrior-king of Albion 
 A pattern for earth's sons to emulate, — 
 
 Where 's the bard-warrior-king of Albion's state. — 
 
 The truly, nobly, wisely, goodly great ? — 
 Where are the dead ? 
 
 Where is Gaul's hero, who aspired to be 
 A second Ccesar in his mastery ; 
 
 To whom earth's crowned ones trembling bent the knee? — 
 Where are the dead ? 
 
 Where is Columbia's son, her darling child, 
 Upon whose birth Virtue and Freedom smiled, — 
 The western star, bright, pure, and undefiled ? — 
 Where are the dead ? 
 
 Where are the sons of song, the soul-inspired, 
 The bard of Greece whose muse (of heaven acquired) 
 With admiration ages past has fired, — 
 The classic dead ? 
 
 Where is the fairie minstrel ? and, oh ! where 
 Is that lone bard who dungeon gyves did bear, 
 For his love-song breathed in a princess' ear, — 
 The gentle dead ? 
 
 Where is the poet who in death was crowned, 
 
 Whose clay-cold temples laurel-chaplets bound, 
 
 Mocking the dust, — in life no honor found, — 
 
 The insulted dead? 
 
 Greater than all, — an earthly sun enshrined, — 
 Where is the king of bards ? where shall we find 
 The Swan of Avon r monarch of the mind, — 
 The mighty dead ? 
 
 Did they all die when did their bodies die, 
 Like the brute dead passing forever by ? 
 Then wherefore was their intellect so high, — 
 The mighty dead ? 
 
 Why was it not confined to earthly sphere, 
 To earthly wants ? If it must perish here, 
 Why did they languish for a bliss more dear, — 
 The blessed dead ? 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 513 
 
 All things in nature are proportionate ; 
 Is man alone in an imperfect state, — 
 He who doth all things rule and regulate ? — 
 Then where the dead? 
 
 If here they perished, where their being's germ, — 
 Here were their thoughts', their hopes', their wishes' term, — 
 Why should a giant's strength propel a worm ? — 
 The dead ! the dead ! 
 
 There are no dead ! The forms, indeed, did die, 
 That cased the ethereal beings now on high ; 
 'T is but the outward covering is thrown by : 
 This is the dead ! 
 
 The spirits of the lost, of whom we sing, 
 Have perished not ; they have but taken wing, 
 Changing an earthly for a heavenly spring : 
 These are the dead ! 
 
 Thus is all nature perfect. Harmony 
 Pervades the whole, by His all-wise decree, 
 With whom are those, to vast infinity, 
 We misname dead. 
 
 Saxe Holm (a supposed nom de plume) is the given 
 name of the writer of these striking and impressive lines, 
 M The An°;el of Pain : " — 
 
 't> 
 
 Angel of Pain ! I think thy face 
 Will be, in all the Heavenly place, 
 The sweetest face that I shall see, 
 The swiftest face to smile on me. 
 All other angels faint and tire, — 
 Joy wearies, and forsakes desire ; 
 Hope falters face to face with fate, 
 And dies, because it cannot wait ; 
 And Love cuts short each loving day, 
 Because fond hearts cannot obey 
 The subtlest law which measures bliss 
 By what it is content to miss. 
 But thou, O loving, faithful Pain, — 
 Hated, reproached, rejected, slain, — 
 33 
 
5 14 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Dost only closer cling and bless 
 In sweeter, stronger steadfastness. 
 Dear, patient angel, to thine own 
 Thou comest, and art never known 
 Till late, in some lone, twilight place, 
 The light of thy transfigured face 
 Sudden shines out, and, speechless, they 
 Know they have walked with Christ all day. 
 
 Miss Elizabeth Stuart Phelps is more widely known 
 as a writer of prose than of verse, yet her occasional 
 poems are full of a ripe experience. The little poem 
 " Difference," which we quote in full, is a fine specimen 
 of her peculiar powers. 
 
 Thine the bearing and forbearing 
 
 Through the patient years ; 
 Thine the loving and the moving 
 
 Plea of sacred tears. 
 
 Thine the caring and the wearing 
 
 Of my pain for me ; 
 Thine the sharing and the bearing 
 
 Of my sin on Thee. 
 
 Mine the leaving and the grieving 
 
 Of Thy mournful eyes ; 
 Mine the fretting and forgetting 
 
 Of our blood-bound ties ; 
 
 Mine the plaining and complaining, 
 
 And complaining still ; 
 Mine the fearing and the wearying 
 
 Of Thy tender will. 
 
 Mine the wrecking, Thine the building, 
 
 Of our happiness — 
 My only Saviour, help me make 
 
 The dreadful difference less. 
 
 Eliza Scudder, of Salem, Mass., is the author of the 
 following — 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 515 
 
 VESPER HYMN. 
 
 The day is done, the weary day of thought and toil is past ; 
 Soft falls the twilight cool and gray on the tired earth at last : 
 By wisest teachers wearied, by gentlest friends oppressed, 
 In Thee alone, the soul, outworn, refreshment finds and rest. 
 
 Bend, gracious Spirit, from above, like these o'erarching skies, 
 And to Thy firmament of love lift up these longing eyes ; 
 And, folded by Thy sheltering hand, in refuge still and deep, 
 Let blessed thoughts from Thee descend, as drop the dews of sleep. 
 
 And when refreshed the soul once more puts on new life and power, 
 Oh, let Thine image, Lord, alone gild the first waking hour ! 
 Let that dear Presence dawn and glow, fairer than morn's first ray, 
 And Thy pure radiance overflow the splendor of the day. 
 
 Here follow some stanzas of an anonymous but beauti- 
 fully written Lenten Hymn. 
 
 'Tis Lenten tide for sinful souls ! 
 The barb is in our hearts to-day, — 
 
 Sore crushed with sense of fail and sin: 
 We feebly strive, and faintly pray, 
 
 'Gainst danger near, for grace within. 
 We mourn our pride and passion's stain, — 
 
 The earthly in our hearts enshrined, — 
 The rebel flesh, too oft in vain 
 
 Commanded by the nobler mind ! 
 And all of human curse and care, 
 
 Which lurks life's dangerous paths among, 
 To quench the altar-flame of prayer, 
 
 Or hush the heavenward strain of song ! 
 
 The following graceful and inspiring stanzas, which 
 tend to incite us to diligence and fidelity in the Christian 
 cause, are from the pen of a lady who has written much 
 for our sacred anthology, — Mrs. Anna H. Howard, of 
 Brooklyn, N. Y. 
 
5 l6 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Lo ! what a cloud of witnesses are ever round our way, 
 
 Sweet spirits of departed ones, bright in eternal day ! 
 
 We hear them not, we see them not, but they hear our every 
 
 tone ; 
 No darkness hides us from their eyes, — we cannot be alone. 
 
 Oh, blessed Church triumphant, your sorrows now are o'er; 
 
 Yet with longing eyes ye watch us from that bright and heavenly 
 
 shore. 
 Ye watch around us night and day, and note our every choice ; 
 And when we fail ye grieve for us, and when we win rejoice. 
 
 Sweet ministering spirits, be ever round our way; 
 Draw us with cords invisible, pray for us when we pray. 
 Once ye have trod the weary way, and borne the burden sore ; 
 But now all tears are wiped away, — you'll never suffer more. 
 
 Then faint not, Christian, in the race ; it will not be for long. 
 The hosts of heaven are watching thee ; then in the Lord be 
 
 strong! 
 Throw off the weight that hinders, burst the fetters of thy sin ; 
 And, looking unto Jesus, thou the victory shalt win. 
 
 The alternations and varied phases of religious life 
 are attributable in part to natural temperament or pre- 
 disposition. Some persons are constitutionally of a 
 morbid and gloomy or ascetic nature; others are of a 
 sunny and buoyant temper, and enter into their pursuits 
 with enthusiasm, and live always in the hope of a glad 
 to-morrow. It is great injustice to Christianity for its 
 votaries to wear perpetually the guise of mourning and 
 sadness, since it is the patron of joy and gladness. It 
 is " Good-will to men," as well as " Glory to God." It 
 should be ours evermore to reflect its glad spirit, and 
 scatter the sunshine of its glory on all. 
 
 The three fine stanzas following are from the poetic 
 and practised pen of Prof. William C. Richards, of 
 Chicago. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 517 
 
 TRUE LIFE. 
 
 Life is a struggle all too sharp, we say, 
 
 As, spent from some close strife with want and wrong, 
 
 We miss all sweetness in the airy song 
 That from a thousand throats greets the young day. 
 We wake from murdered sleep, and rise to pray; 
 
 Yet in our prayers our discontent prolong, 
 
 Because our clamorous griefs about us throng, 
 And fright our unobtrusive joys away. 
 
 For these one song of sweet thanksgiving poured — 
 For home and love and health and daily bread — 
 Would with its tones our coward fears strike dead, 
 
 And make a feast upon the scanty board : 
 To prize what we possess, not what we miss, 
 The charm and crown of happy living is. 
 
 THE BLESSED BOND. 
 
 Earth's bonds of love, which death dissolves to dust, 
 Are strong and dear and tender till they break, 
 And, broken, still leave tears for the sweet sake 
 
 Of one whose faultless frailty mocked our trust. 
 
 Thus all earth's fondest ties of friendship must 
 Of mortal doom and mockery yet partake, 
 While homes are dark, and hearts with rending ache, 
 
 Draped in the woe of death's insatiate lust. 
 Were there no ties but these, to live were vain, 
 
 For who would live and love but for a day ! 
 
 Oh, blessed beam, that drives this gloom away 
 With heat divine that welds earth-bonds again ! 
 
 There is a tie nor death nor time can sever, — 
 
 A blessed tie that makes souls one forever ! 
 
 THE DIVINE LEADER. 
 
 When weary tasks and wasting toils are done, 
 And we in human doubt review the day, 
 To take the trend of all our devious way 
 And cast our gain or loss beneath its sun, 
 How often have our hearts fresh courage won, 
 And hope that kept all gloomy shapes at bay, 
 
5l8 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 When at the altar we have come to pray, 
 And prayer in some old hymn of praise begun ! 
 
 Among the strains inspired, if not divine, 
 That bear our quickened thoughts on heavenward wing, 
 Is any one more sweet we pilgrims sing, 
 
 While heaven's ray brightens in the sun's decline, 
 Than that our fathers fed their faith upon, 
 Singing, " Thus far the Lord hath led me on ! " 
 
 The public is indebted to Mrs. Celia Thaxter for many 
 beautiful poems. There is a wholesome lesson in all 
 she writes. From a poem on " Courage " we copy a 
 few verses. 
 
 Because I hold it sinful to despond, 
 
 And will not let the bitterness of life 
 Blind me with burning tears, but look beyond 
 
 Its tumult and its strife ; 
 
 Because I lift my head above the mist, 
 
 Where the sun shines and the broad breezes blow, 
 
 By every ray and every rain-drop kissed 
 That God's love doth bestow, — 
 
 Think you I find no bitterness at all ? 
 
 No burden to be borne, like Christian's pack ? 
 Think you there are no ready tears to fall 
 
 Because I keep them back ? 
 
 Why should I hug life's ills with cold reserve, 
 To curse myself and all who loved me ! Nay ! 
 
 A thousand times more good than I deserve 
 God gives me every day. 
 
 The following beautiful lines were written by the Rev. 
 Theodore Monod, of Paris, when he visited England in 
 1875. They have since been copied into many religious 
 journals, on both sides of the Atlantic. 
 
 Oh the bitter shame and sorrow that a time could ever be 
 When I let the Saviour's pity plead in vain, and proudly answered : 
 " All of self, and none of Thee ! " 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 519 
 
 But He found me, I beheld Him bleeding on the accursed tree, 
 Heard Him pray " Forgive them, Father," and my wistful soul said 
 faintly, — 
 " Some of self, and some of Thee ! " 
 
 Day by day His tender mercy, healing, helping, full and free, 
 Sweet and strong, and ah, so patient, brought me lower, while I 
 whispered, 
 " Less of self, and more of Thee ! " 
 
 Higher than the highest heavens, deeper than the deepest sea, 
 Lord, Thy love at last hath conquered ; grant me now my soul's 
 desire, — 
 " None of self, and all of Thee ! " 
 
 O Thou, blest Spirit of the Pentecost ! 
 
 Deign to descend and dwell within my heart ; 
 
 Unbar its portals, Heaven's sweet peace impart, 
 
 Pour its pure radiance on my earth-dimmed eyes, 
 
 Bid my dull soul to its high raptures rise, 
 
 So that I shall earth's pomps and lures despise, 
 
 And gladly count, for Christ, all else as lost ! 
 
 Miss M. E. Moore, of Alabama, exhibits superior 
 poetic ability, as may be seen in the following selected 
 stanzas from her volume of poems published in 1867. 
 
 Going out to fame and triumph, going out to love and light; 
 Coming in to pain and sorrow, coming in to gloom and night : 
 Going out with joy and gladness, coming in with woe and sin, — 
 Ceaseless stream of restless pilgrims going out and coming in, 
 Through the portals of the homestead, from beneath the blooming 
 
 vine ; 
 To the trumpet-tones of glory, where the bays and laurels twine : 
 From the loving home caresses to the chill voice of the world — 
 Going out with gallant canvas to the summer breeze unfurled. 
 
 t> c 
 
 Going out with hopes of glory, coming in with sorrows dark ; 
 Going out with sails all flying, coming in with mastless bark ! 
 
520 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Restless streams of pilgrims, striving wreaths of fame and love to 
 
 win, 
 From the door-ways of the homestead going out and coming in ! 
 
 The following choice poem was composed by a Scot- 
 tish lady, Carolina, Baroness Nairn, in 1842, when in her 
 seventy-sixth year. 
 
 Would you be young again? So would not I — 
 One tear to memory given, onward I'll hie. 
 Life's dark flood forded o'er, all but at rest on shore, 
 Say, would you plunge once more, with home so nigh? 
 
 If you might, would you now retrace your way ? 
 Wander through stormy wilds, faint and astray? 
 Night's gloomy watches fled, morning all beaming red, 
 Hope's smiles around us shed, heavenward — away ! 
 
 Where, then, are those dear ones, our joy and delight ? 
 Dear, and more dear, though now hidden from sight. 
 Where they rejoice to be, there is the land for me. 
 Fly, time, — fly speedily ! Come, life and light ! 
 
TWELFTH EVENING. 
 
 RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 
 
 (Concluded.} 
 
TWELFTH EVENING. 
 
 RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 
 
 • {Concluded.} 
 
 L^AITH in the unseen has been effectively illustrated 
 ■** by reference to the magnetic needle. Why should 
 a piece of steel, when touched by a magnet, tremble ? Or 
 why should the magnet, when suspended on a pivot, 
 point invariably to the north pole? Who can explain 
 the phenomenon? All we do know is that it is con- 
 trolled or influenced by what is called the magnetic 
 current, or terrestrial magnetism. What constitutes that 
 current, or how it is developed, surpasses our knowledge. 
 There is one thing we do know, however, and that is 
 that everywhere and under all circumstances, except 
 when affected by disturbing influences, the magnetic 
 needle will turn northward. This is a fact never doubted 
 by the mariner ; for while during fair weather he may 
 navigate his ship by sun or star, when the heavens are 
 overcast and the tempest is on, despite the dark storm- 
 clouds that envelop them, he consults his magnet, — 
 his only resource for the guidance of his ship's course : 
 this, his trust in the unseen, — is it ever betrayed? Is not 
 this fact in natural science suggestive of a similar faith 
 
524 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 in the spiritual realm, in the unseen Saviour, — the mag- 
 netic current of prayer, freeing us from the disturbing 
 influences of earth and attracting us heavenward? 
 
 THE MIGNONETTE AND THE OAK.* 
 
 I marked a child, — a pretty child, a gentle blue-eyed thing, — 
 
 She sowed the scented mignonette one sunny day in spring; 
 And while the tiny grains she sowed, 
 The stream of thought thus sweetly flowed : 
 
 " On this dear bed the dew shall fall, and yon bright sun shall 
 shine; 
 
 'Twill spring and grow and blossom then, and it will all be mine ! " 
 And the fair thing laughed in childish glee, 
 To think what a harvest hers should be. 
 
 I saw a man an acorn plant under the hillside bare, — 
 
 No spreading branch, no shading rock, lent friendly shelter there; 
 
 And thus, as o'er the spot he bowed, 
 
 I heard him, — for he thought aloud : 
 " Frail thing ! ere glossy leaf shall grace thy wide and sturdy 
 
 bough, 
 I may be laid among the dead, as low as thou art now ; 
 
 Yet wilt thou rise in rugged strength, 
 
 And crown this barren height at length." 
 
 Each had a hope, — the childish heart looked to a summer's joy ; 
 The manly thought, strong and mature, looks to futurity. 
 
 Each trusts to nature's genial power, — 
 
 He wants a forest ; she, a flower. 
 Who sows the seed of heavenly truth and doubts Almighty 
 
 power ? 
 Will years less surely bring the oak than months the summer flower ? 
 
 Then sow, although no fruit you see : 
 
 God " in due time " will raise the tree. 
 
 The following poem, by Dr. Charles T. Brooks, was 
 suggested by an allusion in the Memoir of the Rev. 
 O. W. B. Peabody : — 
 
 * Rev. J. Hall, D.D., of New York City. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 525 
 
 Golden gleams of noonday fell 
 
 On the pavement of the cell, 
 
 And the monk still lingered there 
 
 In the ecstasy of prayer. 
 
 Fuller floods of glory streamed 
 
 Through the window, and it seemed 
 
 Like an answering glow of love 
 
 From the countenance above. 
 
 On the silence of the cell 
 
 Break the faint tones of a bell. 
 
 'Tis the hour when at the gate 
 
 Crowds of poor and hungry wait, 
 
 Wan and wistful, to be fed 
 
 With the friar of mercy's bread. 
 
 Hark ! that chime of heaven's far bells ! 
 
 On the monk's rapt ear it swells. 
 
 No ! fond, flattering dream, away ! 
 
 Mercy calls ; no longer stay ! 
 
 Whom thou yearnest here to find 
 
 In the musings of thy mind, — 
 
 God and Jesus, lo ! they wait 
 
 Knocking at thy convent gate. 
 
 From his knees the monk arose. 
 
 With full heart and hand he goes : 
 
 At his gate the poor relieves, 
 
 Gives a blessing, and receives ; 
 
 To his cell returned, and there 
 
 Found the angel of his prayer, 
 
 Who with radiant features said, 
 
 " Hadst thou stayed, I must have fled." 
 
 A strong lesson of faith may be found in S. G. Brown- 
 ing's poem, " Amen." We insert a few verses. 
 
 I cannot say, 
 Beneath the pressure of life's cares to-day, 
 
 I joy in these ; 
 
 But I can say 
 That I had rather walk this rugged way, 
 
 If Him it please. 
 
526 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 I do not see 
 Why God should e'en permit some things to be, 
 
 When He is love ; 
 
 But I can see, 
 Though often dimly through the mystery, 
 
 His hand above ! 
 
 I do not look 
 Upon the present, nor in Nature's book, 
 
 To read my fate ; 
 
 But I do look 
 For promised blessings in God's Holy Book ; 
 
 And 1 can wait. 
 
 I may not try 
 To keep the hot tears back ; but hush that sigh, 
 
 " It might have been," 
 
 And try to still 
 Each rising murmur, and to God's sweet will 
 
 Respond " Amen ! " 
 
 The lines following are from a posthumous volume of 
 graceful Poems, by the Rev. E. A. Washburn, D.D. 
 
 Visions of the unseen glory Milton saw in his eclipse, 
 
 Paradise to outward gazers lost, with no apocalypse : 
 
 Holier Christs and veiled Madonnas painted were on Raphael's soul ; 
 
 Melodies he could not utter o'er Beethoven's ear would roll. 
 
 Ever climbs the high Ideal rosy peaked above our eyes ; 
 
 Ever near the Happy Islands, shoreless the horizon flies. 
 
 Not the brimming cups of wisdom may the thirsty spirit slake, 
 
 And the molten gold in pouring will the mould in pieces break. 
 
 Voice within our inmost being calling deep to answering deep ! 
 
 Smiting like the morning sunbeam on the leaden lids of sleep ! 
 
 All our joy is in our future, and our march our only rest : 
 
 Still the True reveals the Truer, still the Good foretells the Best ! 
 
 The following stanzas were, it is said, the production 
 of a converted Brahmin, of the highest caste, named 
 Ellen L. Goveh, who became the adopted daughter of 
 the Rev. W. T. Stone, of Bradford, England. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 527 
 
 In the secret of His presence how my soul delights to hide, 
 Oh, how precious are the lessons which I learn at Jesus' side ! 
 Earthly cares can never vex me, neither trials lay me low ; 
 For when Satan comes to tempt me, to the " secret place " I go. 
 
 When my soul is faint and thirsty, 'neath the shadow of His 
 
 wing 
 There is cool and pleasant shelter, and a fresh and crystal spring ; 
 And my Saviour rests beside me, as we hold communion sweet : 
 If I tried, I could not utter what He says when thus we meet. 
 
 Only this I know : I tell Him all my doubts and griefs and fears ; 
 Oh, how patiently He listens, and my drooping soul He cheers. 
 Do you think He ne'er reproves me ? What a false friend He 
 
 would be 
 If He never told me of the sins which He must surely see. 
 
 Do you think that I could love Him half so well as now I ought 
 If He did not tell me plainly of each sinful word and thought ? 
 No ! He is so very faithful, and that makes me trust Him more ; 
 For I know that He does love me, though He wounds me very sore. 
 
 Would you like to know the sweetness of the secret of the 
 
 Lord? 
 Go and hide beneath His shadow ; this shall then be your reward ; 
 And whene'er you leave the silence of that happy meeting-place, 
 You must mind and bear the image of your Master in your face. 
 
 You will surely lose the blessing and the fulness of your joy 
 
 If you let dark clouds distress you, and your inward peace destroy. 
 
 You may always be abiding, if you will rest at Jesus' side ; 
 
 In the secret of His presence you may every moment hide. 
 
 Eleanor Kirk is the author of the following : — 
 
 A sweeter song than e'er was sung by poet, priest, or sages ; 
 
 A song which through all heaven has rung, adown through all the 
 
 ages; 
 A precious strain of sweet accord, a note of cheer from Christ our 
 
 Lord, — 
 List ! as it vibrates full and free, O grieving heart, — " Come unto 
 
 Me!" 
 
528 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 '■ Come unto Me!" The way's not long, His hands are stretched 
 
 to meet thee ; 
 Now still thy sobbing, list the song which everywhere shall greet 
 
 thee. 
 Here at His feet your burden lay ; why 'neath it bend another day, 
 Since one so loving calls to thee, " O heavy-laden, come to Me." 
 
 The following pathetic stanzas, entitled " Sorrow," 
 are among the anonymous Christian lyrics that merit 
 permanent record. 
 
 Upon my lips she laid her touch divine, 
 And merry speech and careless laughter died ; 
 
 She fixed her melancholy eyes on mine, 
 And would not be denied. 
 
 I saw the west wind loose his cloudlets white, 
 In flocks careering through the April sky ; 
 
 I could not sing, though joy was at its height, — 
 For she stood silent by. 
 
 I watched the lovely evening fade away, — 
 A mist was lightly drawn across the stars. 
 
 She broke my quiet dream ; I heard her say, 
 " Behold your prison-bars ! 
 
 " Earth's shadows shall not satisfy your soul, — ■ 
 This beauty of the world in which you live ; 
 
 The crowning grace that sanctifies the whole, — 
 That, I alone can give." 
 
 I heard, and shrank away from her afraid ; 
 
 But still she held me, and would still abide. 
 Youth's bounding pulses slackened and obeyed 
 
 With slowly ebbing tide. 
 
 " Look thou beyond the evening sky," she said, 
 " Beyond the changing splendors of the day ; 
 
 Accept the pain, the weariness, the dread, — 
 Accept, and bid me stay." 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 529 
 
 I turned, and clasped her close with sudden strength; 
 
 And slowly, sweetly, I became aware 
 Within my arms God's angel stood at length, 
 
 White-robed and calm and fair. 
 
 And now I look beyond the evening star, 
 Beyond the changing splendors of the day, 
 
 Knowing the pain He sends more precious far, 
 More beautiful than they ! 
 
 In the following little poem, Mrs. Julia C. R. Dorr, 
 one of our accomplished American women, has pre- 
 sented a truth which will bring comfort to many a one 
 overburdened with the cares of a work-day life. 
 
 MARTHA. 
 
 Yea, Lord ! — Yet some must serve ! Not all with tranquil heart, 
 Even at thy dear feet, wrapped in devotion sweet, 
 May sit apart ! 
 
 Yea, Lord ! — Yet some must bear the burden of the day, 
 Its labor and its heat, while others at Thy feet 
 May muse and pray ! 
 
 Yea, Lord ! — Yet some must do life's daily task-work ; some 
 Who fain would sing must toil amid earth's dust and moil, 
 While lips are dumb ! 
 
 Yea, Lord ! — Yet man must earn, and woman bake, the bread ; 
 And some must watch and wake early, for others' sake, 
 Who pray instead ! 
 
 Yea, Lord ! — Yet even Thou hast need of earthly care. 
 I bring the bread and wine to Thee, a guest divine — 
 Be this my prayer ! 
 
 Paul H. Hayne, of Charleston, has an established rep- 
 utation as a lyric poet ; annexed is one of his glowing 
 sonnets : — 
 
 The passionate summer's dead, — the sky's aglow 
 With roseate flushes of matured desire ; 
 34 
 
530 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 The winds at eve are musical and low 
 As sweeping chords of a lamenting lyre, 
 Far up among the pillared clouds of fire, 
 
 Whose pomp in grand procession upward grows 
 
 With gorgeous blazonry of funeral shows, 
 To celebrate the summer's past renown. 
 Ah, me ! the heavens look down, 
 
 O'ershadowing beautiful autumnal woods, 
 
 And harvest fields with hoarded increase brown, 
 
 And deep-toned majesty of golden floods, 
 That lift their solemn dirges to the sky 
 To swell the purple pomp that floateth by. 
 
 The year draws near its golden-hearted prime, 
 
 Fulfilled of grandeur rounded into grace ; 
 We seem to hear sweet notes of joyance chime 
 
 From elfin bells through many a greenwood place. 
 The sovereign Summer, robed and garlanded, 
 
 Looks, steeped in verdure, up the enchanted skies ; 
 A crown, sun-woven, round her royal head, 
 
 And love's warm languor in her dreamy eyes. 
 We quaff our fill of beauty, peace, delight ; 
 
 But 'mid the entrancing scene a still voice saith, 
 " If earth, heaven's shadow, shows a face so bright, 
 
 What of God's summer past the straits of death ? " 
 
 The following poem, entitled " Binding Sheaves," is 
 by Mrs. G. Nelson Smith : — 
 
 "Reaper," I asked, "among the golden sheaves, 
 
 Toiling at noon amid the falling leaves, 
 
 What recompense hast thou for all thy toil, 
 
 What tithe of all thy Master's wine and oil ? 
 
 Or dost thou coin thy brow's hot drops to gold, 
 
 Or add to house and land, or flock or fold ?" 
 
 The reaper paused from binding close the grain, 
 
 And said, while shone his smile through labor's stain : 
 
 " I do my Master's work, as He hath taught, 
 
 And work of love with gold was never bought. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 53 1 
 
 He knoweth all of which my life hath need, — 
 His servants reap as they have sown the seed. 
 With all my heart I bind my Master's grain, 
 And love makes sweet my labor and my pain." 
 Then bending low beneath the burning sun, 
 The reaper toiled until the day was done. 
 "Lo! here," I said, "love's largess seemeth more 
 Than cruse of wine or oil that runneth o'er; 
 If work of love such store of wealth doth yield, 
 I too will labor in the Master's field." 
 
 THE OLD HOME. 
 
 " Return, return," the voices cried, 
 " To your old valley, far away ; 
 
 For softly on the river tide 
 
 The tender lights and shadows play ; 
 
 And all the banks are gay with flowers, 
 And all the hills are sweet with thyme ; 
 
 You cannot find such bloom as ours 
 In yon bright foreign clime ! " 
 
 For me, I thought, the olives grow, 
 The sun lies warm upon the vines ; 
 
 And yet I will arise and go 
 
 To that dear valley dim with pines ! 
 
 Old loves are dwelling there, I said, 
 
 Untouched by years of change and pain ; 
 
 Old faiths, that I had counted dead, 
 Shall rise and live again. 
 
 And still " Return, return," they sung, 
 " With us abides eternal calm ; 
 
 In these old fields, where you were young, 
 We cull the heart's-ease and the balm ; 
 
 For us the flocks and herds increase, 
 And children play around our feet ; 
 
 At eve the sun goes down in peace — 
 Return, for rest is sweet." 
 
532 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Then I arose, and crossed the sea, 
 
 And sought that home of younger days : 
 
 No love of old was left to me 
 
 (For love has wings, and seldom stays); 
 
 But there were graves upon the hill, 
 And sunbeams shining on the sod, 
 
 And low winds breathing, " Peace, be still ! 
 Lost things are found in God." * 
 
 The author of the following fine lines is unknown; 
 they are copied from the " London Christian : " — 
 
 Not as a speck revolving through the limitless realms of space, 
 Not as an atom lying in some dim and darksome place, 
 But as myself He knows me, and will keep me throughout the year : 
 My Guide when I grope in darkness, my Strength when I faint 
 with fear. 
 
 Not as a something somewhere, hurrying on through life, 
 
 With sometimes a cry heard faintly as it wearily sinks in the strife; 
 
 Though at times I have almost thought it, and fancied my God was 
 
 afar, 
 He- has risen above my darkness, and lit my night with His star. 
 As myself, and not as another, knowing my voice so well ; 
 Yea, knowing my inmost wishes and the thoughts that I could not 
 
 tell: 
 So holy, I bow before Him, — so good that to none but Him 
 I could tell my deepest longings, and the doubts that are strange 
 
 and dim. 
 From the rainbow throne of glory I see Him bend to me, — 
 I know that the God of ages is working gloriously ; 
 And I hear the great Creator, whose angels are a flame, 
 Say to a child of Adam, " I have called thee by thy name ! " 
 
 Dear pilgrim ! when thy faith is like to fail, 
 Remember Him who lives within the veil ; 
 'Tis one who trod thy thorny path before, 
 Who will not fail thee till thy toils are o'er; 
 Whose voice of love was heard in Galilee, 
 Who now is gently calling, Follow me ! 
 
 * Sarah Doudney. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 533 
 
 Mrs. Lucy Randolph Fleming has voiced a common 
 feeling in her little poem " He Leadeth Me," from which 
 we extract the following verses : — 
 
 By the right way He leadeth, when I go 
 Through the green pastures, where still waters flow ; 
 Where not one note of discord mars life's song, 
 And each glad morning new His mercies throng. 
 
 By the right way He leadeth, when my soul 
 Falters in tempests, where the billows roll; 
 When sun and stars seem fled from out my sky, 
 Choose Thou the way, my Lord, so Thou be nigh. 
 
 The path He leadeth me, through dark or bright; 
 In days of sickness, days of health, He chooses right: 
 For I can only see one step, — no more ; 
 And He whoJeadeth me knows all before. 
 
 Mrs. Herrick Johnson is the writer of the beautiful 
 poem " Faultless," from which we give the opening and 
 closing; stanzas : — 
 
 i fc> 
 
 "Faultless in His glory's presence ! " 
 
 All the soul within me stirred, 
 All my heart reached up to heaven 
 
 At the wonder of that word. 
 
 " Able to present vie faultless ? 
 
 Lord, forgive my doubt," I cried ; 
 " Thou didst once, to loving doubt, show 
 
 Hands and feet and riven side. 
 
 " Oh, for me build up some ladder, 
 Bright with golden round and round, 
 
 That my hope this word may compass, 
 Reaching Faith's high vantage-ground ! " 
 
 " In some heavenly alembic, 
 
 Snowy white from crimson bring ; 
 
 Stamp his name on each, and bear them 
 To the palace of the king." 
 
534 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Oh, what wondrous vision wrapped me ! 
 
 Heaven's gates seemed open wide ; 
 Even /stood clear and faultless, 
 
 Close beneath the pierced side. 
 
 Faultless in His glory's presence ! 
 
 Faultless in that dazzling light ! 
 Christ's own love, majestic, tender, 
 
 Made my crimson snowy white ! 
 
 From "The Canterbury Hymnal" these stanzas come 
 to us; and very truthfully they express the Christian 
 sentiment of faith : — 
 
 We were not with the faithful few 
 Who stood Thy bitter cross around. 
 
 Nor heard Thy prayer for those that slew, 
 Nor felt that earthquake rend the ground : 
 
 We saw no spear-wound pierce Thy side ; 
 
 Yet we believe that Thou hast died. 
 
 No angel's message met our ear 
 On that first glorious Easter-day, — 
 
 " The Lord is risen, He is not here ; 
 Come see the place where Jesus lay! " 
 
 But we believe that Thou didst quell 
 
 The banded powers of death and hell. 
 
 We saw Thee not return on high ; 
 
 And now. our longing sight to bless, 
 No ray of glory from the sky 
 
 Shines clown upon our wilderness ; 
 Yet we believe that Thou art there, 
 And seek Thee, Lord, in praise and prayer. 
 
 The following graceful lyric has been written for this 
 volume by Charles Alex. Nelson, of New York, who is 
 a frequent contributor to our religious and literary 
 journals : — 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 535 
 
 I stood on the shore where the moonlight 
 O'er the shimmering wavelets gleamed ; 
 
 Like a rippling streamlet of silver 
 Or the pathway to heaven it seemed. 
 
 The low laughing voice of the waters, 
 
 Gently kissing the silvery sand, 
 Floated by like the whispers of loved ones 
 
 Echoed back from the heavenly land. 
 
 Entranced I saw not the storm-cloud 
 
 Rolling angrily up from the west, 
 Till the loud rumbling thunder aroused me, 
 
 As the wind smote the sea on its breast. 
 
 The silver stream vanished in darkness ; 
 
 Sobbing billows swept mournfully by ; 
 Deep gloom settled thickly around me, 
 
 Like a pall o'er earth, ocean, and sky. 
 
 The wind lashed the waters in fury ; 
 
 The trembling waves whitened with fear ; 
 But above all the wrack of the tempest 
 
 The moonlight shone steady and clear. 
 
 Each cloud has its silvery lining, 
 
 Though darkly above us it frown ; 
 For upon all our trials and sorrows 
 
 Our Father looks lovingly down. 
 
 The Rev. W. Gladden is the author of these beautiful 
 lines, which he entitles "Ultima Veritas: " — 
 
 In the bitter waves of woe, beaten and tossed about 
 
 By the sullen winds that blow from the desolate shores of doubt, 
 
 Where the anchors that faith has cast are dragging in the gale, 
 
 I am quietly holding fast to the things that cannot fail : 
 
 I know that right is right, that it is not good to He ; 
 
 That love is better than spite, and a neighbor than a spy ; 
 
 I know that passion needs the leash of a sober mind ; 
 
 I know that generous deeds some sure reward will find ; 
 
 That the rulers must obey, that the givers shall increase ; 
 
 That Duty lights the way for the beautiful feet of Peace ; 
 
536 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 In the darkest night of the year, when the stars have all gone 
 
 out, v 
 
 That courage is better than fear, that faith is truer than doubt ; 
 And fierce though the fiends may fight, and long though the angels 
 
 hide, 
 I know that truth and right have the universe on their side ! 
 And that somewhere beyond the stars is a love that is better than 
 
 fate: 
 When the night unlocks her bars. I shall see Him, — and I will 
 
 wait ! 
 
 The lines following, "Lux in Tenebris" are by Dr. 
 Dorus Clarke : — 
 
 Blest Saviour ! if I'm thine, scatter my doubts away, 
 
 And on this darkened soul of mine pour beams of heavenly day. 
 
 Give me some taste of Heaven while in this vale of tears, — 
 
 Some opening gleams and transports of beatific years ; 
 
 Some splendors of Thy throne to gild this dreary land ; 
 
 Some visions of the golden crown, prepared at Thy right hand. 
 
 Some naturalists desiring to obtain some wild-flowers 
 that grew on the side of a dangerous gorge in the Scotch 
 Highlands, offered a boy a liberal sum to descend by a 
 rope, and get them. He looked at the money, thought 
 of the danger, and replied, " / will if my father will hold 
 the rope" With unshrinking nerves, he suffered his 
 father to put the rope about him, lower him into that 
 abyss, and suspend him there while he filled his basket 
 with the coveted flowers. Here is a lesson of filial trust 
 suggested, which we supplement with an appeal in metre 
 by H. N. Fuller : — 
 
 Though the clouds be thickly gathered, 
 
 And obscure each ray of light, 
 Turning Hope's refulgent day-time 
 
 Into Doubt's depressing night, 
 Yet behind the heavy shadows 
 
 Beams the sun of endless day ; 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. ^37 
 
 But that sun will never reach us 
 Till the doubts shall pass away. 
 
 Though the heart be bowed in sorrow, 
 
 Sternest griefs oppress the soul, — 
 Though the tide of trouble bear us 
 
 Where its waters blackest roll, — 
 Yet there is a voice that's waiting, 
 
 Joy and peace to speak to all ; 
 But that voice will never reach us 
 
 Till for it our own shall call. 
 
 Though a sense of grievous sinning 
 
 Crush us by its mighty weight, 
 Though we feel that God has left us 
 
 To our self-appointed fate, 
 Yet His hand is always proffered, 
 , When all other help has flown ; 
 
 But His hand will never reach us 
 
 Till we grasp it with our own. 
 
 " Perhaps nothing proves so certainly how we are 
 related to the unseen world as our prayers. If they 
 be tedious and irksome, cold and tasteless, it is a sure 
 proof that our delight is not in God, and that we love 
 Him chiefly, if not only, in the reason ; that we are liv- 
 ing, if not lives of sense, at least of intellect and imagina- 
 tion, rather than of the will. So long as we are in this 
 state, however much this world may lose its hold upon 
 us, the next has not as yet won our hearts." * 
 
 Robert Hall, referring to the Christian's faith, says : 
 " It appears in its power and glory when it enacts its 
 triumphs over the tomb ; when it takes up its votaries 
 where the world leaves them, and fills the breach with 
 immortal hopes in dying moments." 
 
 M. Carrie More is the author of that favorite poem, 
 " The Shadow of the Cross." Here are some verses : — 
 
 * Dr. Manning. 
 
538 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Have you read the mystic story told in quaint old allegory, 
 
 Of the cross? 
 How its shadow, softly stealing, to all things gives life and healing, 
 
 And the throng 
 Innocent and white-robed sweeping on their way, yet stainless 
 keeping, 
 
 While the song 
 Thrills the shining fruits and flowers nestling in the garden bowers ? 
 
 Precious Cross ! 
 'Tis the shadow of the Cross. 
 
 Then, fellow-pilgrim, lose not heart, 
 
 Though Satan and his hosts assail ; 
 For others well have borne their part 
 
 'Gainst foes as strong, with arm as frail. 
 The world, the flesh, their foes within, . 
 
 They battled long with bated breath ; 
 Full often mourned committed sin, 
 
 Yet fought the fight and kept the faith. 
 
 Oh ! never let the struggle cease, 
 
 While time is left, while life remains ; 
 The end is everlasting peace, 
 
 On Canaan's fair and sinless plains. 
 A glorious throng will surely stand 
 
 Upon Mount Zion, glad and free ; 
 And you may join, at God's right hand, 
 
 The paeans of their victory. 
 
 Sir Aubrey de Vere, whose published poems were so 
 admired by Wordsworth, is the author of this sonnet : — 
 
 Sad is our youth, for it is ever going, 
 
 Crumbling away beneath our very feet ; 
 Sad is our life, for it is ever flowing, 
 
 In current unperceived, because so fleet ; 
 Sad are our hopes, for they were sweet in sowing, 
 
 But tares self-sown have overtopped the wheat ; 
 Sad are our joys, for they were sweet in blowing, 
 
 And still, oh, still their dying breath is sweet. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 539 
 
 And sweet is youth, although it hath bereft us 
 Of that which made our childhood sweeter still ; 
 
 And sweet is middle life, for it hath left us 
 A newer Good to cure the older 111 : 
 
 And sweet are all things, when we learn to prize them 
 
 Not for their sake, but His who grants them or denies them ! 
 
 Ella Wheeler is the author of this excellent poetic 
 homily : — 
 
 If we sit down at set of sun 
 
 And count the things that we have done, 
 And, counting, find one self-denying act, one word 
 
 That eased the heart of him who heard, 
 One glance, most kind, that fell like sunshine where it went, — 
 
 Then we may count this day well-spent. 
 
 But if through all the livelong day 
 We've eased no heart by yea or nay ; if through it all 
 
 We've done no thing that we can trace, 
 
 That brought the sunshine to the face ; 
 No act, most small, that helped some soul, and nothing cost, — 
 
 Then count that day as worse than lost. 
 
 Among the recent writers of religious poetry " Susan 
 Coolidge " (Miss Woolsey) has taken a high place. 
 From one of her most popular poems, " The Last Hour," 
 we quote a few stanzas : — 
 
 If I were told that I must die to-morrow, 
 
 That the next sun 
 Which sinks, should bear me past all fear and sorrow 
 
 For any one, 
 All the fight fought, all the short journey through, 
 
 What should I do ? 
 
 I do not think that I should shrink or falter, 
 
 But just go on, 
 Doing my work, nor change, nor seek to alter 
 
 Aught that is gone ; 
 But rise, and move, and love, and smile, and pray 
 
 For one more day. 
 
540 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 And, lying down at night for a last sleeping, 
 
 Say in that ear 
 Which hearkens ever: " Lord, within Thy keeping, 
 
 How should I fear ? 
 £nd when to-morrow brings Thee nearer still, 
 
 Do Thou Thy will." 
 
 I might not sleep for awe ; but peaceful, tender, 
 
 My soul would lie 
 All the night long ; and when the morning splendor 
 
 Flushed o'er the sky, 
 I think that I could smile, — could calmly say, 
 
 " It is His day." 
 
 Ellice Hopkins is the writer of this remarkable poem, 
 " The Two Worlds : " — 
 
 Two mighty silences, two worlds unseen, 
 
 Over against each other lie ; 
 Forever boundlessly apart have been, 
 Forever nigh. 
 
 In one is God Himself, and angels bright 
 
 Do congregate, and spirits fair ; 
 And lost to sight in depths of mystic light, 
 Our dead dwell there ! 
 
 All things that cannot fade, nor fail, nor die, — 
 Voices beloved and precious things foregone, 
 Float up and up, and in that silence high, 
 With God grow one. 
 
 No barren silence ; nay, but such as over 
 
 Lips that we love, its spell may fling, 
 Where tender words, like nested swallows, hover, 
 Ere they take wing. 
 
 Sometimes from that far land there comes a breeze, 
 
 Soft airs surprise us on our way, 
 A few drops from above ; then on our knees 
 We fall, and pray. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 54I 
 
 And oft on some low crimson coast of cloud 
 
 We deem we see its far-off strand ; 
 Our hearts, like ship-wrecked sailors, cry aloud, 
 " The land, the land ! " 
 
 And side by side, that other world unknown 
 
 Drenched in unbroken silence lies, — 
 World of ourselves, where each one lives alone, 
 And lonely dies. 
 
 With our unuttered griefs, our joys untold, 
 Our multitudinous thoughts' swift throng, 
 We dwell; one silence them and us doth fold 
 All our life long. 
 
 Out of those depths there comes a cry of pain : 
 
 "Ah, pitifully, Lord," it calls, 
 " Behold the sorrows of our hearts ! " and then 
 A silence falls. 
 
 Die down, die down, O thou tormented sea ! 
 
 Suffer my silent world to fill 
 With voices from that land which call to me, 
 "We love thee still! " 
 
 In vain, I hear them not ; but o'er my loss 
 
 Comes an apocalyptic voice, — 
 " There shall be no more sea, and thou canst cross." 
 Rejoice ! Rejoice ! 
 
 Georgiana M. Taylor, of England, is the author of 
 these fine stanzas : — 
 
 Oh, to be nothing, nothing ! only to lie at His feet 
 A broken, emptied vessel, thus for His use made meet: 
 Emptied, that He may fill me as to His service I go : 
 Broken, that so, unhindered, through me His life may flow. 
 
 Oh, to be nothing, nothing ! an arrow hid in His hand, 
 Or a messenger at His gateway, waiting for His command : 
 Only an instrument ready for Him to use at His will ; 
 And should He not require me, willing to wait there still. 
 
542 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Oh, love so free, so boundless, which, lifting me, lays me lower 
 At the footstool of Jesus, my risen Lord, to worship and adore ; 
 Which fills me with deeper longing to have nothing dividing my 
 
 heart : 
 My all given up to Jesus, not keeping back a part. 
 
 "There are flowers which always turn their faces to 
 the sun. The storm may make them droop for a little, 
 but still they point to the source of their life. So should 
 the believer, whether his sky be clear or overcast, ever 
 look toward his God. Who can tell the holy joy which 
 is thus poured into his cup? " 
 
 What then ? For all my sins, His pardoning grace ; 
 For all my wants and woes, His loving-kindness; 
 For darkest shades, the shining of God's face, 
 And Christ's own hand to lead me in my blindness. 
 
 What then ? A shadowy valley, lone and dim, 
 And then a deep and darkly rolling river ; 
 And then a flood of life, a seraph hymn, 
 And God's own smile forever and forever ! 
 
 Here is another rare poetic waif, of unavowed author- 
 ship : — 
 
 Sunlight and shadow play upon the hills, 
 And chase each other on the restless waves, 
 Seeming to follow but their own sweet wills, 
 Yet to the powers above them faithful slaves, 
 Reflecting every changing cloud with ease, 
 Stirred by a leaf, and dancing with the breeze. 
 
 Oh, blessed shadows ! who so kind as you, — 
 So patient, humble, generous, and good ? 
 Obedient to the sun and ever true, 
 Your presence beautifies the roughest road, 
 Lends to the sternest rock a tender grace, 
 And throws a charm upon the meanest place. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 543 
 
 Oh, blessed lights that make the shadows sweet, 
 That make the world so exquisitely fair ! 
 Life is more full when lights and shadows meet, 
 Than in the midnight gloom or noonday glare ; 
 And human hearts have little tenderness 
 Till grief and joy have met in fond caress. 
 
 Another poem expressive of the same absolute belief 
 in God's providence, even though it be a " frowning 
 providence," is entitled " Sometime." Apart from its 
 own intrinsic beauty, the poem possesses an additional 
 interest in the fact that from it was taken the line, — 
 
 " Then be content, poor heart ! " 
 
 which is engraved upon the monument erected by W. W. 
 Corcoran to the memory of John Howard Payne. In 
 this connection J. M. B. McNary made the following 
 statement in one of our daily papers : * — 
 
 " The poem, said to be by an obscure poet, from which the 
 line — 
 
 1 Then be content, poor heart ! ' 
 
 is taken, and so extensively quoted, on the memorial at Malta, 
 is to be found in 'A Gift of Gentians,' by Mrs. May Riley Smith. 
 The poem was famous long years before the author emerged 
 from her self-imposed obscurity. Her poems are in many 
 homes, carrying healing balm to the heart-broken. Nearly fif- 
 teen years ago this poem of hers was quoted by the Rev. Dr. 
 Shipman, of Christ Church, New York, at the close of an im- 
 pressive sermon delivered at Lexington, Kentucky. I was pres- 
 ent ; and so deep an impression was made on me by the reading 
 that after service I asked for the name of the writer. Dr. Ship- 
 man replied that it was Adelaide Procter, but going to his study 
 returned to say he had been mistaken, and gave me the author's 
 name. We both thought it remarkably like Adelaide Procter's 
 
 * N. Y. Tribune. 
 
544 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 1 If Thou Couldst Know.' In time I copied the poem for sor- 
 rowing friends, who by chance, while riding out at Richfield 
 Springs when the author was in the party discovered her iden- 
 tity through mention of the verses. It was characteristic of Mrs. 
 Smith. No applause the world has for her poems can compare 
 to the happiness of her well-ordered and beautiful home ; fame 
 cannot emulate, nor has ambition rewards to compare with the 
 serene content of a life whose outflow is in sympathy with the 
 woes and sorrows which are the common heritage." 
 
 The poem entire is given below. It contains some 
 lines singularly appropriate to Payne's sad and almost 
 sombre career. 
 
 Sometime, when all life's lessons have been learned, 
 
 And sun and stars forevermore have set, 
 The things which our weak judgments here have spurned, 
 
 The things o'er which we grieved with lashes wet, 
 Will flash before us, out of life's dark night, 
 
 As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue ; 
 And we shall see how all God's plans are right, 
 
 And how what seemed reproof was love most true. 
 
 And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh, 
 
 God's plans go on as best for you and me ; 
 How, when we called, He heeded not our cry, 
 
 Because His wisdom to the end could see. 
 And even as wise parents disallow 
 
 Too much of sweet to craving babyhood, 
 So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now 
 
 Life's sweetest things, because it seemeth good. 
 
 And if, sometimes, commingled with life's wine, 
 
 We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink, 
 Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine 
 
 Pours out this potion for our lips to drink ; 
 And if some friend we love is lying low, 
 
 Where human kisses cannot reach his face, 
 Oh. do not blame the loving Father so, 
 
 But. wear your sorrow with obedient grace ! 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 545 
 
 And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath 
 
 Is not the sweetest gift God sends His friend ; 
 And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death 
 
 Conceals the fairest boon His love can send. 
 If we could push ajar the gates of life, 
 
 And stand within and all God's workings see, 
 We could interpret all this doubt and strife, 
 
 And for each mystery could find a key ! 
 
 But not to-day. Then be content, poor heart ! 
 
 God's plans like lilies pure and white unfold. 
 We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart ; 
 
 Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. 
 And if, through patient toil, we reach the land 
 
 Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest, 
 When we shall clearly see and understand 
 
 I think that we will say, " God knew the best ! " 
 
 The following beautiful lines on " The Conversion 
 of Abraham" were written by Mrs. Helen Jackson 
 (" H. H."), whose productions, in elegant verse and in 
 prose, are so highly esteemed. 
 
 At night, upon the silent plain, 
 Knelt Abraham and watched the sky : 
 When the bright evening star arose 
 He lifted up a joyful cry, — 
 " This is the Lord ! This light shall shine 
 To mark the path for me and mine." 
 But suddenly the star's fair face 
 Sank down and left its darkened place. 
 Then Abraham cried in sore dismay, 
 " The Lord is not discovered yet, — 
 I cannot worship gods which set." 
 Then rose the moon, full orbed and clear, 
 And flooded all the plain with light, 
 And Abraham's heart again with joy 
 O'erflowed at the transcendent sight. 
 " This surely is the Lord," he cried ; 
 " That other light was pale beside 
 
 35 
 
546 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 This glorious one." But like the star, 
 The moon in the horizon far 
 Sank low and vanished. Then again 
 Said Abraham, " This cannot be 
 My Lord : I am but lost, astray, 
 Unless one changeless guideth me." 
 Then came, unheralded, the dawn, 
 Rosy and swift from east to west; 
 High rode the great triumphant sun, 
 And Abraham cried, " O last and best 
 And sovereign Light ! now I believe 
 This Lord will change not, nor deceive." 
 Each moment robbed the day's fair grace, — 
 The reddening sun went down apace ; 
 And Abraham, left in rayless night, 
 Cried, " O my people, let us turn 
 And worship now the God who rules 
 These lesser lights, and makes them burn ! " 
 
 Mrs. Margaret J. Preston, of Virginia, one of the 
 leading literary writers of the South, is the author of 
 these stanzas. 
 
 The certainest, surest thing I know, 
 
 Whatever, what else may yet befall, 
 Of blessing or bane, of weal or woe, 
 
 Is the truth that is fatefullest far of all : 
 
 That the Master will knock at my door some night, 
 And there, in the silence hushed and dim, 
 
 Will wait for my coming with lamp alight, 
 To open immediately to Him ! 
 
 I wonder if I at His tap shall spring 
 
 In eagerness up, and cross the floor 
 With rapturous step, and freely fling, 
 
 In the murk of the midnight, wide the door ? 
 
 Or shall I with whitened fear grow dumb 
 The moment I hear the sudden knock, 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 547 
 
 And, startled to think He hath surely come, 
 Shall falter and fail to find the lock ? 
 
 If this is the only thing foretold 
 
 Of all my future, then I pray 
 That, quietly watchful, I may hold 
 
 The key of a golden faith each day 
 
 Fast shut in my grasp, that when I hear 
 His step, be it dawn or midnight dim, 
 
 Straightway may I rise without a fear, 
 And open immediately to Him ! 
 
 In the following glowing stanzas by Dr. Robert Hall 
 Baynes, the English Bishop of Madagascar, we catch 
 somewhat the exaltation of feeling which inspired them. 
 
 Calm lay the city in its double sleep 
 
 Beneath the paschal moon's cold, silvery light, 
 That flung broad shadows o'er the rugged steep 
 Of Olivet that night. 
 
 But soon the calm was broken, and the sound 
 
 Of strains all sweet and plaintive filled the air ; 
 And deep-toned voices echoing all around 
 Made music everywhere. 
 
 The holy rite is o'er, — the blessed sign 
 
 Is given to cheer us in this earthly strife; 
 The brand is broken, and outpoured the wine, — 
 Symbols of better life. 
 
 The bitter cup of .wrath before Him lies ; 
 
 And yet as up the steep they pass along, 
 The mighty Victim to the sacrifice, 
 
 They cheer the way with song. 
 
 We ne'er can know such sorrow as that night 
 
 Pierced to the heart the suffering Son of God ! 
 And every earthly sadness is but light 
 To that dark path He trod. 
 
548 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 And yet how faint and feeble rise our songs ; 
 
 How oft we linger mid the shadows dim ; 
 Nor give the glory that to Him belongs 
 In eucharistic hymn. 
 
 Oh for an echo of that chant of praise ; 
 
 Oh for a voice to sing His mighty love ; 
 Oh for a refrain of the hymns they raise 
 In the bright Home above ! 
 
 Touch Thou our wayward hearts, and let them be 
 
 In stronger faith to Thy glad service given, 
 Till o'er the margin of life's surging sea 
 We sing the songs of Heaven ! 
 
 Mary L. Dickenson, whose contributions to the reli- 
 gious press are well known, is the author of the following : 
 
 The Easter praises may falter, and die with the Easter day; 
 
 The blossoms that brightened the altar, in sweetness may fade 
 
 away ; 
 But after the silence and fading, there lingers, untold and unpriced, 
 Above the changing and shading, the love of the living Christ. 
 For the living Christ is loving, and the loving Christ is alive. 
 His life hidden in us is moving us ever to pray and to strive. 
 Alas ! that e'en in our striving we labor like spirits in prison, 
 Forgetting that Jesus is living, forgetting the Saviour has risen ! 
 We join in the Easter rejoicing, and echo each gladdening strain, 
 While a pitiful minor is voicing our own secret doubting or pain. 
 We weave Him a shroud of our sadness, we cover His smile with 
 
 our gloom, 
 And drive back the angel of gladness who waits at the door of the 
 
 tomb. 
 
 " Christ's sweetest consolations lie behind crosses, 
 and He reserves His best things for those who have the 
 courage to press forward fighting for them. I entreat 
 you to turn your eyes away from self, from man, and 
 look to Christ. Let me assure you, as a fellow-traveller, 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 549 
 
 that I have been on the road, and know it well, and that 
 by and by there won't be such a dust on it. You will 
 meet with hindrances and trials, but will fight quietly 
 through, and no human ears hear the din of battle, nor 
 human eye perceive fainting or halting or fall. May 
 God bless you, and become to you an ever-present, joy- 
 ful reality ! Indeed He will, only wait patiently." * 
 
 These graceful verses, by Harriet Winslow Sewell, are 
 replete with poetic beauty and suggestiveness : — 
 
 Why thus longing, thus forever sighing 
 
 For the far off, unattained, and dim, 
 When the beautiful, all round thee lying, 
 
 Offers up its low, perpetual hymn? 
 
 Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, 
 All thy restless yearnings it would still; 
 
 Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching 
 Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill. 
 
 Not by deeds that gain the world's applauses, 
 Not by works that win thee world-renown, 
 
 Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, 
 
 Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown. 
 
 Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely, 
 
 Every day a rich reward will give ; 
 Thou wilt find by hearty striving, only, 
 
 And truly loving, thou canst truly live. 
 
 " What a mystery is this human life of ours ! How 
 little we know of each other, even in the most intimate 
 relations ! How often, like Joseph, we have to restrain 
 ourselves ! Oh, these secret sorrows, these incommuni- 
 cable joys, these hidden struggles, these inner triumphs, 
 
 * Life of Elizabeth Prentiss. 
 
550 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 — are they not, after all, our true life? And when the 
 painter with the soul of the poet, or the poet with the 
 eye of the painter, or the musician with the sympathetic 
 spirit, expresses for us the thoughts that within us 
 burn, how gratefully do we let our hearts live in the 
 picture, the poem, or the song ! " * 
 
 The familiar hymn, "Just as I am," by Charlotte 
 Elliott, has endeared her name to all Christians. From 
 her heretofore unpublished poems wc take the following 
 exquisite verses : — 
 
 I want that adorning divine 
 Thou only, my God, canst bestow ; 
 I want in these beautiful garments to shine, 
 
 Which distinguish Thy household below. 
 
 Col. iii. 12, 17. 
 
 I want every moment to feel 
 That Thy Spirit resides in my heart, 
 That His power is present to cleanse and to heal, 
 And newness of life to impart. 
 
 Rom. viii. 11, 1. 
 
 I want, oh, I want to attain 
 Some likeness, my Saviour, to Thee ! 
 That longed-for resemblance once more to regain, 
 Thy comeliness put upon me ! 
 
 1 John iii. 2, 3. 
 
 I want to be marked for Thine own, 
 Thy seal on my forehead to wear; 
 To receive that " new name " on the mystic white stone, 
 Which none but Thyself can declare. 
 
 Rev. ii. 17. 
 
 I want so in Thee to abide 
 As to bring forth some fruit to Thy praise ! 
 The branch which Thou prunest, though feeble and dried, 
 May languish, but never decays. 
 
 John xv. 2, 5. 
 * J. Coombs. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 55 I 
 
 I want Thine own hand to unbind 
 Each tie to terrestrial things, 
 Too tenderly cherished, too closely entwined, 
 Where my heart too tenaciously clings. 
 
 1 John ii. 15. 
 
 I want by my aspect serene, 
 My actions and words, to declare 
 That my treasure is placed in a country unseen, 
 That my heart's best affections are there. 
 
 Matt. vi. 19, 21. 
 
 I want, as a traveller, to haste 
 Straight onward, nor pause in my way ; 
 Nor forethought nor anxious contrivance to waste 
 On the tent only pitched for a day. 
 
 Heb. xiii. 5, 6. 
 
 I want — and this sums up my prayer — 
 To glorify Thee till I die ; 
 Then calmly to yield up my soul to Thy care, 
 And breathe out in faith my last sigh. 
 
 Phil. iii. 8, 9. 
 
 The following beautiful " Creed," in measure, by 
 " Marie," is worthy of our study : — 
 
 I believe in God, Creator, Father of all human souls, — • 
 Not a monarch watching Nature while her wondrous plan unfolds, 
 But the father of our spirits and the moulder of our frames, 
 Loving each as one begotten, calling all by separate names, — 
 In the Creator of our spirits I believe. 
 
 I believe the hallowed Jesus loved divinely, suffered much, 
 
 That our God might reach His children with a close and human 
 
 touch ; 
 Drawing us with love so tender up the pathway where He trod, 
 Till we fall like weeping children in the yearning arms of God : 
 In our King, and Priest, and Prophet I believe. 
 
 I believe the Holy Spirit fills the earth from shore to shore, 
 Round about, above, within us, bearing witness evermore ; 
 
552 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Where the Holy Ghost abideth, if He tarry but a night, 
 Even sordid eyes beholding see the wondrous love and light : 
 In the Paraclete of promise I believe. 
 
 I believe the holy angels hover round us all the way, 
 Each commissioned by the Father, — clouds of witnesses are they ; 
 To the throne they bear our sorrows, then return on tireless wing, 
 Bringing to each heart despatches from the palace of our King : 
 In the ministering of angels I believe. 
 
 I believe in life eternal; trees and flowers and drops of rain 
 Live and die, and decomposing live and die and live again. 
 Doubting still what wondrous changes shall complete the perfect 
 
 sphere, 
 Life, I know, is greater, grander than the segment painted here : 
 In the coming life eternal I believe. 
 
 I believe that human loving is a lesson taught above ; 
 I believe the cup of blessing is a willing cup of love. 
 Loving when the flesh is willing is the sweetest drop of bliss; 
 Loving on through pain and evil is diviner still than this: 
 In love, the law of love fulfilling, I believe. , 
 
 ' With the recognition of the nature and of the name 
 of our Lord, the riddle of life's sphinx is read. The 
 problem of human life finds its answer in that great 
 Mystery of godliness who was manifested in the flesh, 
 and who henceforth is the revealed secret of God's 
 government of the w r orld. With Him for our Advocate, 
 the burden of our hopes and fears, our mistakes and 
 our sins, need trouble us no more, neither for this life 
 nor for that which is to come ; for in the day of doom 
 He Himself will be our only and sufficient Answer." * 
 
 Yea, Thou wilt answer for me, righteous Lord : 
 Thine all the merits, mine the great reward; 
 Thine the sharp thorns, and mine the golden crown; 
 Mine the life won, and thine the life laid down. 
 
 * S. S. Times. 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 553 
 
 Christina Rossetti, of London, is the writer of these 
 stanzas : — 
 
 Does the road wind up hill all the way ? 
 
 Yes, to the very end. 
 Will the day's journey take the whole long day ? 
 
 From morn till night, my friend. 
 
 But is there for the night a resting-place ? 
 
 A bed for when the slow dark hours begin. 
 May not the darkness hide it from my face ? 
 
 You cannot miss that inn. 
 
 Shall I meet with other wayfarers at night ? 
 
 Those who have gone before. 
 Then must I knock, or call, when just in sight? 
 
 They will not keep you standing at that door. 
 
 Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak ? 
 
 Of labor you shall find the sum. 
 Will there be beds for me and all who seek ? 
 
 Yea, beds for all who come. 
 
 " Keep the altar of private prayer burning. This is the 
 very life of all piety. The sanctuary and family altar 
 borrow their fires here ; therefore let this burn well. 
 Secret devotion is the very essence, evidence, and ba- 
 rometer of vital and experimental religion." 
 
 " Prayer is not conquering God's reluctance ; it is tak- 
 ing hold of His willingness. He is more willing to give 
 than we are to ask." 
 
 Here is a little homily on the blessing of Work, written 
 by Mrs. M. F. Butts, of New York. 
 
 I did not know thee once ; thou wert to me 
 A cruel master, setting metes and bounds, 
 And hedging me from the sweet pleasure-grounds, 
 
 Set thick with flowers, where I would fain be free. 
 
554 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Among the roses then I did not see, 
 
 With childish eyes, the thorns that since I've found; 
 
 I heard no discord in the music's sound, 
 And fancied life a day of jubilee. 
 Now to thy gates I turn for all my peace. 
 
 Shut safely in with thee, stern, trusty friend, 
 
 I would not wander till my days shall end, 
 And earthly work and earthly sorrow cease; 
 
 And when at last thy harness I unbind, 
 
 Thee in the spirit home I hope to find. 
 
 Mrs. Sarah Henderson Smith, of Lexington, Va., is 
 the author of the graceful and suggestive stanzas that 
 follow : — 
 
 " Up to the light," said the blade of grass; 
 
 " The clods are heavy, and I must pass 
 
 Patiently, gropingly, on my way, 
 
 Till I pierce the darkness and find the day. 
 
 What though an atom in time and space, 
 
 Even an atom may claim its place ; 
 
 And, toiling upward, I fulfil 
 
 All that I know of my Master's will." 
 
 " Up to the light," said the tiny bird, 
 As dawn the depths of the forest stirred, 
 And a joyful song rang out afar 
 Clear and bright as the morning star. 
 "What though an atom in time and space, 
 Even an atom may claim its place ; 
 And, singing heavenward, I fulfil 
 All that I know of my Master's will." 
 
 "Up to the light," said the struggling soul; 
 "The twilight deepens, the shadows roll 
 Fitfully, fearfully over my head, 
 And the spirit within me is cold and dead. 
 Every atom in time and space 
 Claims for itself its destined place, 
 While I, a cumberer, through my days 
 Faint in labor and fail in praise." 
 
RECENT AMERICAN AND ENGLISH. 555 
 
 " How can we bring God nearer to us now, to-day, so that 
 we can feel Him more and be impressed more by Him? 
 By spiritualizing your conceptions and your ideas of 
 Him ; by feeling that He is Spirit, — not a spirit, but 
 Spirit ; for if you say ' a spirit,' you picture a body and 
 a form that the spirit has, just as when you say ' a wind ' 
 you picture a locality where it was blowing ; but if you 
 say simple 'wind,' it may be here, it may be there, it may 
 be everywhere, it may be all-pervading ; so, if instead of 
 saying ' God is a Spirit,' you will say ' God is Spirit/ 
 you make Him an intelligent, affectional atmosphere in 
 the depths of which you stand, and of which you breathe, 
 even as the Bible says, ' In Him we live, and move, and 
 have our being; ' we draw being out of Him, and we 
 never, in all our movings, walk beyond the circumference 
 of Him." 
 
 " One of the hardest lessons of the Christian heart is to 
 believe in the unchanging love of God. I know He loved 
 me long ago, but, oh ! does He love me now? According 
 to my grasp on this love, is my fulfilment of duty." 
 
 Mrs. Elizabeth A. Allen's poetry may doubtless be 
 familiar to the reader, but we cannot refrain from a 
 brief extract from one of her choice poems. 
 
 Full well I know I have more tares than wheat, 
 Brambles than flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves; 
 Wherefore I blush and weep, as at Thy feet 
 I kneel down reverently and repeat, 
 Master ! behold my sheaves ! 
 
 I know these blossoms, clustering heavily 
 With evening dew upon their folded leaves, 
 Can claim no value for utility; 
 Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be 
 The glory of my sheaves. 
 
55^ EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 So do I gather strength and hope anew, 
 For well I know Thy patient love perceives 
 Not what I did, but what I strove to do ; 
 And though the full, ripe ears be sadly few, 
 Thou wilt accept my sheaves. 
 
 We are indebted for these beautiful lines on Peace to 
 the facile and poetic pen of Charles F. Richardson. 
 
 If sin be in the heart, 
 The fairest sky is foul, and sad the summer weather, 
 The eye no longer sees the lambs at play together, 
 The dull ear cannot hear the birds that sing so sweetly, 
 And all the joy of God's good earth is gone completely, — 
 
 If sin be in the heart. 
 
 If peace be in the heart, 
 The wildest winter storm is full of solemn beauty, 
 The midnight lightning-flash but shows the path of duty, 
 Each living creature tells some new and joyous story, 
 The very trees and stones all catch a ray of glory, — 
 
 If peace be in the heart. 
 
 Our tenure upon things terrestrial is but temporary, 
 but our spiritual interests are not to cease with earthly 
 conditions, — they reach to the great Hereafter. 
 
 Gold will leave us at the grave, 
 
 But the wealth of the mind 
 Unto the heavens with us we have. 
 
 Here our desultory gossip as well as our selections 
 ought, and would terminate, were it not for the silent 
 yet eloquent claim of sundry sweet waifs of beauty, 
 whose appeal is irresistible. In our extended pleas- 
 ure-excursions among the various flower-gardens of 
 sacred poesy, we have met with many an unacknowl- 
 edged, modest, wayside blossom, seemingly all too 
 coy to court the society of the rich parterre. Some 
 of these we have culled, and now group together. 
 They are gossamer-like, fragile, but very fair, many- 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 557 
 
 colored, of delicate hue, and of dainty perfume ; and 
 will, we think, form a fitting and fragrant bouquet 
 of memory, with which to close our Collectanea. 
 
 Yet, O Time ! attend my prayer, 
 Though thy cold hand blight my hair, 
 Touch me softly, — spare, oh, spare 
 
 Life's best beauty, love and truth : 
 Let the withering control 
 Of thy years, as on they roll, 
 Spare the freshness of my soul, — 
 
 Spare the fervor of my youth ! 
 
 'Tis not the number of the lines on life's fast filling page, 
 'Tis not the pulse's added throbs, which constitute their age. 
 Some souls are serfs among the free, while others nobly thrive ; 
 They stand just where their fathers stood, — dead, even while they 
 
 live ! 
 Others, all spirit, heart, and sense ; theirs the mysterious power, 
 To live, in thrills of joy or woe, a twelvemonth in an hour ! 
 Seize, then, the minutes as they pass : the woof of life is thought, 
 Warm up the colors, let them glow, by fire or fancy fraught. 
 Live to some purpose ; make thy life a gift of use to thee ! 
 A joy, a good, a golden hope, a heavenly argosy ! 
 
 Up above, the thoughts that know not anguish, 
 Tender care, sweet love for us below, 
 
 Noble pity, free from anxious terror, 
 
 Larger love, without a touch of woe. 
 
 Down below, a sad, mysterious music 
 Wailing through the woods and on the shore. 
 
 Burdened with a grand, majestic secret 
 That keeps sweeping from us evermore. 
 
 Up above, a music that entwineth 
 With eternal threads of golden sound 
 
 The great poem of this strange existence, 
 
 All whose wondrous meaning; hath been found. 
 
558 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Down below, the church, to whose poor window 
 Glory by the autumnal trees is lent, 
 
 And a knot of worshippers in mourning, 
 Missing some one at the sacrament. 
 
 Up above, the burst of Hallelujah, 
 And (without the sacramental mist 
 
 Wrapped around us like a sunlit halo) 
 The great vision of the face of Christ ! 
 
 Oh, rapture too seraphic ! Oh, bliss beyond compare ! 
 
 When our Saviour and His chosen ones break through the glowing 
 
 air, 
 When the groans of marred creation are changed for songs of 
 
 praise, 
 And earth and heaven, in concert sweet, their loud hosannas raise ! 
 
 Full of vows and full of labor, 
 All our days fresh duties bring ; 
 
 First to God. and then our neighbor, 
 Christian life is an earnest thing. 
 
 Onward, ever onward pressing, 
 Yet untried as angel's wing, 
 
 Believing, doing, blest and blessing, 
 Christian life is an earnest thing. 
 
 Thank God,, for other feet that be by ours in life's wayfaring ; 
 For blessed Christian charity, believing, when she cannot see, 
 Suffering her friends' infirmity, enduring and forbearing. 
 
 Yes, I need thee, heavenly city, my low spirit to upbear ; 
 
 Yes, I need thee, earth's enchantments so beguile me with their 
 
 glare : 
 Let me see thee then these fetters break asunder, I am free. 
 Then this pomp no longer chains me, faith hath won the victory ! 
 Heir of glory ! that shall be for thee and me ! 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 559 
 
 Soon where earthly beauty blinds not, no excess of brilliance palls, 
 
 Salem ! city of the holy ! we shall be within thy walls, 
 
 There beside yon crystal river, there, beneath life's wondrous 
 
 tree, — 
 There, with nought to cloud or sever, ever with the Lamb to be ! 
 Heir of glory ! that shall be for thee and me ! 
 
 Pilgrim of earth ! who art journeying to heaven, 
 Heir of eternal life, child of the day ! 
 
 Cared for, watched over, beloved and forgiven, — 
 Art thou discouraged because of the way ? 
 
 Be trustful, be steadfast, whatever betide thee, 
 Only one thing do thou ask of the Lord, — 
 
 Grace to go forward wherever He guide thee, 
 Simply believing the truth of His word. 
 
 Still on thy spirit deep anguish is pressing, 
 Not for the yoke that His wisdom bestows ; 
 
 A heavier burden thy soul is distressing, 
 A heart that is slow in His love to repose. 
 
 Earthliness, coldness, unthankful behavior, — 
 Ah, thou mayst sorrow, but do not despair ; 
 
 Even this grief thou mayst bring to thy Saviour, 
 Cast upon Him e'en this burden and care. 
 
 Bring all thy hardness, His power can subdue it : 
 How full is the promise ! the blessing how free ! 
 
 " Whatsoever ye ask in My name, I will do it ; " 
 " Abide in My love, and be joyful in Me ! " 
 
 Be prayerful ; ask, and thou shalt have strength equal to thy day ; 
 Prayer clasps the Hand that guides the world, — oh, make it then 
 thy stay ; 
 
 Ask largely, and thy God will be 
 
 A kingly giver unto thee. 
 
 Not now, my child, — a little more rough tossing, 
 A little longer on the billows' foam ; 
 
 A few more journeyings in the desert-darkness, 
 And then the sunshine of thy Father's home ! 
 
56O EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 Not now, — for I have wand'rers in the distance, 
 And thou must call them in with patient love ; 
 
 Not now, — for 1 have sheep upon the mountains, 
 And thou must follow them where'er they rove. 
 
 Not now, — for I have loved ones sad and weary ; 
 
 Wilt thou not cheer them with a kindly smile ? 
 Sick ones, who need thee in their lonely sorrow ; 
 
 Wilt thou not tend them yet a little while ? 
 
 Not now, — for wounded hearts are sorely bleeding, 
 And thou must teach those widowed hearts to sing ; 
 
 Not now, — for orphans' tears are thickly falling ; 
 They must be gathered 'neath some sheltering wing. 
 
 Go with the name of Jesus to the dying, 
 
 And speak that name in all its living power ; 
 Why should thy fainting heart grow chill and weary ? 
 
 Canst thou not watch with me one little hour ? 
 One little hour ! and then the glorious crowning, 
 
 The golden harp-strings, and the victor's palm ; 
 One little hour ! and then the Hallelujah ! 
 
 Eternity's long, deep thanksgiving psalm ! 
 
 C. P. 
 
 Life's youngest tides, joy-brimming, flow 
 
 For him who lives above all years, 
 Who all-immortal makes the now, 
 
 And is not taken in Times's arrears : 
 His life's a hymn the seraphim 
 
 Might hark to hear or help to sing : 
 And to his soul the boundless whole 
 
 Its bounty all doth daily bring. 
 
 O Thou true Life of all that live, 
 
 Who dost, unmoved, all motion sway, 
 Who dost the morn and evening give, 
 
 And through its changes guide the day ! 
 Thy light upon our evening pour, 
 
 So may our souls no sunset see, 
 But death to us an open door 
 
 To an eternal morning be ! 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 56 1 
 
 " Why weepest thou ? whom seekest thou ? the living with the 
 
 dead?" 
 Take young spring-flowers and deck thy brow, for life with joy is 
 wed: 
 
 The grave is now the grave no more ! 
 Why fear to pass that bridal-chamber door ? 
 
 I look to Thee in every need, and never look in vain ; 
 I feel thy strong and tender love, and all is well again : 
 
 The thought of Thee is mightier far 
 
 Than sin and pain and sorrow are. 
 
 Discouraged in the work of life, disheartened by its load, 
 Shamed by its failures or its fears, I sink beside the road : 
 
 But let me only think of Thee, 
 
 And then new heart springs up in me. 
 
 Thy calmness bends serene above, my restlessness to still ; 
 Around me flows Thy quickening life, to nerve my faltering will 
 
 Thy presence fills my solitude ; 
 
 Thy providence turns all to good. 
 
 Have you never felt the pleasure of forgiving fraud or wrong, 
 Rippling through your soul like measure sweet of sweetest poet's 
 
 song ? 
 Have you never felt that beauty lies in pain for others borne ? 
 That the sacredness of duty bids you offer love for scorn ? 
 'Tis the Christian, not the Stoic, that best triumphs over pain. 
 
 From lips divine, like healing balm to hearts oppressed and torn, 
 The heavenly consolation fell, " Blessed are they that mourn." 
 Unto the hopes by sorrow crushed a noble faith succeeds ; 
 And life, by trials furrowed, bears the fruit of loving deeds, 
 How rich, how sweet, how full of strength, our human spirits are, 
 Baptized into the sanctities of suffering and of prayer ! 
 
 The flowers live by the tears that fall from the sad face of the skies, 
 And life would have no joys at all, were there no watery eyes. 
 Love thou thy sorrow, grief shall bring its own excuse in after 
 
 years, 
 The rainbow ! — see how fair a thing God hath built up from tears. 
 
 36 
 
562 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS, 
 
 Give words, kind words, to those who err : 
 
 Remorse much needs a comforter. 
 
 Though in temptation's wiles they fall, 
 
 Condemn not : we are sinners all. 
 
 With the sweet charity of speech, 
 
 Give words that heal, and words that teach. 
 
 When we cannot see our way, 
 Let us trust, and still obey : 
 He who bids us forward go 
 Will not fail the way to show. 
 
 Rest, weary soul ! 
 The penalty is borne, the ransom paid, 
 For all thy sins full satisfaction made ; 
 Strive not to do thyself what Christ has done, 
 Claim the free gift, and make the joy thine own : 
 No more by pangs of guilt and fear distrest, 
 
 Rest, sweetly rest! 
 
 A solemn murmur in the soul tells of the world to be, 
 
 As travellers hear the billows roll, before they reach the sea. 
 
 Beyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies, beyond Death's 
 gloomy portal, 
 
 There is a land where beauty never dies, and love becomes immor- 
 tal. 
 
 The city's shining towers we may not see, with our dim, earthly 
 vision ; 
 
 For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key that opes those gates 
 elysian ; 
 
 But sometimes, when adown the western sky the fiery sunset lin- 
 gers, 
 
 Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly, unlocked by unseen fin- 
 gers ; 
 
 And while they stand a moment half-ajar, gleams from the inner 
 glory 
 
 Stream brightly through the azure vault afar, and half reveal the 
 story. 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 563 
 
 O land unknown ! O land of love divine ! Father all-wise, eternal, 
 Guide, guide these wandering, way-worn feet of mine into those pas- 
 tures vernal ! 
 
 See the rivers flowing downward to the sea, 
 Pouring all their treasures bountiful and free ; 
 Yet, to help their giving, hidden springs arise ; 
 Or, if need be, showers feed them from the skies. 
 Watch the princely flowers their rich fragrance spread, 
 Load the air with perfumes, from their beauty shed ; 
 Yet their lavish spending leaves them not in dearth, 
 With fresh life replenished from their mother earth. 
 Give thy heart's best treasures : from fair nature learn j 
 Give thy love, and ask not, wait not a return. 
 And the more thou spendest from thy little store, 
 With a double bounty God will give thee more. 
 
 Voices so many haunt me on my road, 
 
 Oh, tell me, Angel, which the voice of God ? 
 
 " 'Tis that which most relieves thee of thy load." 
 
 Yet to me, Angel, oft it doth appear 
 
 As if His voice were terrible to hear. 
 
 " That is thy own defect, and sin-born fear." 
 
 And oft about me is a voice at eve, 
 That tells me that for ever I shall grieve. 
 " That He hath such a voice, do not believe." 
 
 Yet sometimes, too, at eve, ill voices die, 
 
 And comes a whisper of tranquillity. 
 
 " His voice is speaking in that evening sigh." 
 
 And sometimes round me sweetest murmurs ring, 
 
 " There is a happy end for every thing." 
 
 " That is heaven's chorus, earthward echoing." * 
 
 Why shouldst thou fear the beautiful angel, Death, 
 Who waits thee at the portals of the skies, 
 Ready to kiss away thy struggling breath, 
 Ready with gentle hand to close thine eyes ? 
 
 Household Words. 
 
564 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 How many a tranquil soul has passed away, 
 Fled gladly from fierce pain and pleasures dim, 
 To the eternal splendors of the Day ! 
 And many a troubled heart still calls for him. 
 
 I am weary, my Saviour, of grieving Thy love : 
 
 Oh, when shall I rest in Thy pleasure above ? 
 
 I am weary ; but oh, let me never repine 
 
 While Thy word and Thy love and Thy promise are mine. 
 
 How easy it is to keep sin-free, 
 How hard thy freedom to recall ! 
 For 'tis the heavenly doom that we 
 Forget the heavens from which we fall. 
 What holy lives we all should live, 
 Might we remember joy and pain : 
 Alas, that memory, like a sieve, 
 Should hold the chaff and drop the grain t 
 
 Words are mighty, words are living, — serpents with their venomed 
 
 stings, 
 Or bright angels, crowding round us, with heaven's light upon their 
 
 wings : 
 Every word has its own spirit, true or false, that never dies ; 
 Every word man's lips have uttered lives on record in the skies. 
 
 I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty ; 
 I woke, and found that life was duty. 
 Was my dream, then, a shadowy lie ? 
 Toil on, sad heart, courageously ; 
 And thou shalt find thy dream shall be 
 A noon-day light and truth to thee. 
 
 Call them not dead, — the faithful, whom 
 Green earth closed lately o'er, 
 
 Nor search within the silent tomb 
 For those who " die no more." 
 
 The cold earth hides them from our love, 
 
 But not from His, who pleads above. 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AND AMERICAN. 565 
 
 We saw the momentary cloud, 
 
 The pale eclipse of mind, 
 From earthly sight, that came to shroud 
 
 The deathless ray behind ; 
 A moment more, the shade is gone, — 
 The sun, the spirit, burneth on. 
 
 To die : 'tis but to pass, all free, 
 
 From death's dominion here, 
 To burst the bonds of earth,. and flee 
 
 From every mortal fear ; 
 To plunge within that gulf untried, 
 And stand beyond it, glorified. 
 
 Having thus completed our swift survey of the broad 
 domain of sacred song, we now, gentle reader, offer 
 a valedictory word at parting ; and a kindly word it 
 should be, inspired by the goodly company we have 
 been sharing during this series of pleasant evenings. 
 Very delicious have been these manifold melodies of 
 Christian faith and hope, coming to us athwart the 
 centuries. Our ears have been feasted with their con- 
 cord of sw 7 eet sounds ; and our hearts, — have they not 
 been stirred, and oft-times thrilled, with sympathetic 
 emotion? Have we not felt our souls so refreshed and 
 quickened by their celestial ministrations, — their 
 gushes of holy song, — as to desire not only to enshrine 
 their memory in our inmost hearts, but also — catch- 
 ing the sweet infection of their tuneful experience — 
 to render our own a perpetual hymn of praise ? To be 
 in sympathetic harmony with these heaven-taught sing- 
 ers, we, too, should seek to rehearse the story of the 
 Cross, in like persuasive eloquence of lip and life, that 
 others, nay, that all, may become participants of " the 
 unspeakable Gift." Then may we hope that the great 
 matin-hymn of Christianity, ever fresh as from the lips 
 
566 VITH THE SACRED POE 
 
 of angels on the pk thlehem, shall be echoed 
 
 from every clime of earth, and ascend in one grand 
 choral chant. r.se to the sanctuary of Heaven. 
 
 chant in celestial measure, 
 are to the portals straying, 
 
 But the melodies which have been so 
 
 long regaling r are now to cease; and 
 
 in pa: :ompanionship of these gifted 
 
 sons r fondly to catch the last echoing 
 
 cade r. neir delicious numbers; as we are wont 
 
 to do over the fa: llables of cherished friends. 
 
 For have we not been privileged to share alike in their 
 
 orrowing refrains, then- 
 beau: om and their soul-exulting 
 propheci- have been their bright crea- 
 and ma A their melodious utterances ; but 
 the burden o: ng is interpenetrated by one and 
 the same great theme, — the Cross of Calvary, and the 
 
 . ires in every true human 
 soul. 7 _ central fact of our Christian faith has 
 
 been. ion of the centuries, the 
 
 grand -shrine around which the priesthood of 
 
 ever rendered the homage of their 
 votive e have seen, in the earliest 
 
 ition, by the inspired lips of their 
 
 prophet-bards ; and in the apostolic Church the same 
 me choru dken up in the language of the 
 
MODERN ENGLISH AM) AMERICAN. : '~ 
 
 p: listed Greek: ~kkie .: " : i zgzin :e-e:k:rz in ike 
 :__rk esri : cidences :: ike Li~r.. ::.. s : rr.e " e:;;:::::s. 
 ikrvzgkrz: eke izrse :b ike znedizevzi : r ~es. : k "' r. :: 
 the glorious epoch of the Reformation, when it found 
 heroic utterance in the German ; and lastly, in the rich 
 combinations of our own glorious vernacular. Nor 
 wik ike : : zr.z sublime, ever re : 
 
 :rkc. :r kse iu~k: ::" iis 5 :zi-: zizkerkr.r; rnergy. eikzer 
 v.::k rir: :r rezsz:::. s: kng is k~e skzk izs:. :r ku- 
 z:r kezr:s skzk ::::: nze :: be szddened :y :ke s:z.s 
 and sorrows of earth, or soothed and solaced by the 
 en:rzr.:ir._- vis:::.; ::' :ke rz::zr:ns znd szinky kys :i 
 Kezven. F:r never si: : ■..".:'. k : e :": . _ :~err. v.:.:. : ~:ng 
 rke ryvzkies z::d bezkrzdes :: :kz: - :kz :: kgk: zr.z 
 life, evermore the voice of holy psalm and glad hosan- 
 r.z kzriks :ke kzrry srkrks :: ks redeemed ir_d rek icing 
 multitudes, with an ecstasy of bliss altogether unknown 
 :: :ke denizens : :" ikis s ::::;. 5 :n-5rz.i::en "~: k z :f 
 ours. Wk zlz ~e. :z;z. aspire :: ike zrze nkzikky ;: 
 Cnrisnzn life. — z:ie ve ckerifk zkieky kze :::z rrezs- 
 z ::" k _--.i.e Trzkz enskkned in :ke sz:zez L" rakes. — 
 ie: us n:: hkd in snznk esieenz :.::.. sririrzzl rezzkzngs. 
 cznveved :: zs by kzese bezundk. rznslzn: zs ini: s:ng. 
 
 " God sent His sin g er s upon earth, 
 
 '■'■'.:[:. 5:1:5 ::' 521^:55 ::: ::* — : — *-. 
 
 T z'-- '■'- --'- '-z ---' . v :: . :::l, 
 
 Az:: ::_:: liitzi zi;k :: btivez. ::i.i 
 
 Then, even as a wayside sacrament wul tkese per- 
 snzsive measures zri" e :: zs. zk : n y :ur rkrkm-rzzk. 
 — b::r:z:-niz_: zzd bezuzikiar; : ur dark zzz skady 
 places, — and, as by a divine alchemy, transmuting 
 :ur biueres: s:rr:vs in:: serenes: k; s. 1:: mem:ry 
 be but true to her trust, and, among the choicest of 
 
568 EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS. 
 
 her spoils, as a celestial benison, will be the precious 
 legacy thus bequeathed to us by the gifted and the 
 good, — the priesthood of holy song. Like some 
 saintly evangel will these sweet lyrics oft-times prove 
 their potency, by urging our dull souls, full panoplied 
 for the warfare, — with sandal-shoon and pilgrim-staff, 
 — onward and upward in the divine life; until the end 
 cometh, and we are privileged to exchange the dis- 
 cordant accompaniments of earth for the rapturous 
 harmonies of heaven, where — 
 
 " No groans shall mingle with the songs 
 Which warble from immortal tongues." 
 
INDEX OF NAMES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Abney, Sir T 284 
 
 Abrahall, J. H 477 
 
 Adam of St. Victor 58 
 
 Adams, Mrs. S. F 473 
 
 Addison, J 2S1 
 
 Adolphus, Gustavus . . . 121, 125, 1S1 
 Akerman, Mrs. C. . . * .... 493 
 
 Albert, Prince 172 
 
 Aldana, F. de 206 
 
 Alexander, Rev. W 467 
 
 Allen, Mrs. E. A 555 
 
 . Rev. J 493 
 
 Allston, W 382 
 
 Ambrosian hymnology .... 32, 36 
 Anatolius of Constantinople. ... 27 
 
 Andrew of Crete 27 
 
 Angelo, Michel 200 
 
 Anonymous 502, 505, 515, 52S, 542, S57~S 6 5 
 
 Anselm of Lucca 63 
 
 Apocalypse, the 20 
 
 Arndt, F. M 156 
 
 , Frederick 134 
 
 Arnold, G 130, 135 
 
 Atterbury, Bishop 293 
 
 Augsburg Confession 123 
 
 Augustine, St 33, 291 
 
 Bacon, Lord 225 
 
 Baird, Rev. C. W 4S9 
 
 Barbauld, Mrs 353 
 
 Barr, L. E 49 6 
 
 Barrow, Dr. 1 33 3 
 
 Barton, Bernard 421 
 
 Baxter, Rev. R 275 
 
 Baynes, Dr. R. H 547 
 
 Beattie, J 347 
 
 Bede, the " Venerable" 49 
 
 Beecher, Rev. H. W 14, 18, 272 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Beddome, B 326 
 
 Bernard of Clairvaux 51 
 
 of Cluny 55 
 
 Berridge, J 336 
 
 Bethune, Rev. G. W 412 
 
 Bickersteth, Rev. E. H 453 
 
 Bilby, T 496 
 
 Blacklock, Rev. T 349, 497 
 
 Blair, R 289 
 
 Blake, W 358 
 
 Boehler, P 322 
 
 Bogatzky, C. H 158 
 
 Bohemia, Eliz., queen of 211 
 
 Bonar, Rev. H 426, 499 
 
 Bonnar, Rev. J 339 
 
 Borthwick, J 494 
 
 Bossuet, Rev. J. B 196 
 
 Bowring, Sir J 203,422 
 
 Boyse, J 304 
 
 Brady and Tate 275 
 
 Bremer, Frederika 389 
 
 Breithaupt, J 132 
 
 Brewer, J 375 
 
 Bronte, Charlotte 434 
 
 Brooks, Dr. C. T 524 
 
 Browne, Mrs. Phcebe 441 
 
 , Sir T 264 
 
 Browning, Mrs. E. B 32, 414 
 
 , S. G 525 
 
 Bruce, M 491 
 
 Bryant, W. C 458 
 
 Bunyan, J 277 
 
 Burder, Rev. G 498 
 
 Burnett, Bishop 340 
 
 Burns, Rev. J. D 487 
 
 , Robert 360 
 
 Burton, Rev. J 4S9 
 
 Butts, Mrs. M. F 553 
 
570 
 
 INDEX OF NAMES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Byrom, J 294 
 
 Byron, Lord 395 
 
 Calvin, J 188 
 
 Cambridge, A 486 
 
 Campbell, T 289, 363 
 
 Canada, mission to 191 
 
 Canitz, Baron von 131 
 
 Canterbury Hymnal 534 
 
 Captives to the Indians 357 
 
 Carlyle on Luther 92 
 
 Cary, Alice 462 
 
 , Phcebe 463 
 
 Catholic League, the 122 
 
 Cennick, J 326 
 
 Chalmers, T 348 
 
 Charles, Mrs 425 
 
 Christianity 184 
 
 Clarke, Dr. D 536 
 
 , Rev. J. F 463 
 
 , Willis G 508 
 
 Clement of Alexandria 21 
 
 Codner, E 485 
 
 Coleridge, Hartley 377 
 
 > S. T 99. 376 
 
 Collier, A 258 
 
 Colonna, V 201 
 
 Congregational singing 274 
 
 Cook, Rev. R. S 471; 
 
 Coolidge, Susan (Miss Woolsey) . . 53c, 
 
 Coombs, J 550 
 
 Cooper, G 464 
 
 Cosmas 27 
 
 Council of Constance 87 
 
 of Trent 84 
 
 Cowper, W 341,346 
 
 Coxe, Bishop A. C 449 
 
 Crabbe, Rev. G 358 
 
 Craig, Isabella 429 
 
 Craik, Mrs 423 
 
 Crashaw, R 250 
 
 Crewdson, Jane 433 
 
 Cross, idolatry of the ...... 49 
 
 Crosswell, Rev. W 411 
 
 Cunningham, Allan 406 
 
 Curry, Otway 465 
 
 Dach, Simon 128, 150, 179 
 
 Damascenus, J 29 
 
 Damiani, Cardinal 62 
 
 Dante Alighieri 199 
 
 PAGE 
 
 DAubigne\ Merle 85, 188 
 
 David's Psalms 13 
 
 Davies, S 327 
 
 Davis, J 231 
 
 , T 448 
 
 Day, Stephen 309 
 
 De Costa, Rev. Dr. B. F 510 
 
 Denny, Sir E 469 
 
 De Pontes, Madame 153 
 
 Derzhavin, G. R 206 
 
 De Vere, Sir Aubrey .... viii, 538 
 
 De Wette 137 
 
 Dickenson, Mary L 548 
 
 Dies Irae 68, 70 
 
 Vitae 72 
 
 Diet of Spires, the 91 
 
 Doane, Bishop G. W 409 
 
 Doddridge, Rev. P. . . . 297-302, 498 
 
 Donne, Dr. John 14, 230 
 
 Dorr, Julia C. R 529 
 
 Doudney, Sarah 532 
 
 Dryden, J 265 
 
 Drummond, H 190, 233 
 
 Dwight, Rev. Dr 356 
 
 Duffield, Rev. G 439 
 
 , Rev. Dr. S. W 62 
 
 Duncan, M. L 488 
 
 Early English hymns 219 
 
 Eastburn, Rev J. W 488 
 
 Eckley, Sophia M 503 
 
 Edmeston, J 495 
 
 Essay on Man 292 
 
 Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia . . . 211 
 
 Eiliott, Charlotte 474, 550 
 
 Ephrasm Syrus 23 
 
 Evans, Rev. J 493 
 
 Faber, Rev. F. W 442 
 
 Fawcett, J 484 
 
 Feltham, Owen . « 419 
 
 Fenelon, Archbishop 196 
 
 Flatman, T 290 
 
 Fleming, Mrs. L. R 533 
 
 , Paul 133 
 
 Fletcher, Giles 227 
 
 Foolish Dick 313 
 
 Ford, C. L 446 
 
 Fortunatus, V 47 
 
 Francke, A. H 150 
 
 Franzin, Bishop 182 
 
INDEX OF NAMES. 
 
 571 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Fuller, H. N 536 
 
 , Thomas 227, 288 
 
 Gaussen, M 19, 190 
 
 Gellert, C. F 154 
 
 Geneva, city of 187, 188 
 
 Gerhardt, P 141, 146 
 
 German Hymn-book 140 
 
 Germany, Protestant feuds . . .118, 123 
 
 , Reformation in 87 
 
 Gerson, J 65 
 
 Gervinus on Luther ...... 92 
 
 Gilfillan, Rev. R n 
 
 Gill, Rev. W 272 
 
 Gladden, Rev. W 535 
 
 Gleim, J. W. L 152 
 
 Gloria in excelsis 23 
 
 Goethe, J. W. von 166 
 
 Goveh, Ellen L 526 
 
 Graham, J 361 
 
 Grant, Sir R 390 
 
 Gray, D 406 
 
 Gray's Elegy 305 
 
 Greeley, Horace 17 
 
 Green, T 349 
 
 Greenland, mission to 180 
 
 Gregorian Chant, the ..;... 45 
 
 Gregory of Nazianzum 25 
 
 Grigg, Rev. J 490 
 
 Gustavus Adolphus . . . 121,125,181 
 
 Gutig, J 178 
 
 Guyon, Madame 187, 191 
 
 Habakkuk, book of 13 
 
 Habington, W 253 
 
 Haldane, R. . 188 
 
 Hall, Rev. Dr. J 524 
 
 , Rev. R 33, 349, 537 
 
 Hamilton, Rev. J 19, 299 
 
 Hammond, W. 490 
 
 Handel's Tunes 322 
 
 Hart, J 296 
 
 Hastings, T 499 
 
 Havergal, F. R 492 
 
 Hayne, Paul H 529 
 
 Heber, Bishop 388 
 
 Hebrew Lyrics 12 
 
 Heermann, J 129 
 
 Hemans, Mrs. F 411 
 
 Henrietta, Princess L 108 
 
 Hensser-Schweizer, Mrs. M. . . . 168 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Herbert, George 240 
 
 Hermann, N 108 
 
 Hermannus Contractus 61 
 
 Herrick, R 236 
 
 Heylyn, P 232 
 
 Hilary, St., of Aries 35 
 
 Hildebert of Tours 64 
 
 Hilten, J 87 
 
 Hofel, J „i 
 
 Holland 185 
 
 Holmes, O. W 477 
 
 Hood, T 402 
 
 Hope, H 433 
 
 Hopkins, Ellice 540 
 
 Houghton, Lord 419 
 
 Howard, Mrs. Anna H 515 
 
 Howells, W. D 508 
 
 Howitt, Mary 430 
 
 , William 431 
 
 Hull, A. M 485 
 
 Huntingdon, Lady ....... 334 
 
 Huss, J 87, 100 
 
 Hymnology of Europe 197 
 
 Hymns, English 272 
 
 , their influence .... 126, 357 
 
 Immortality, conscious .... 445 
 
 Independent, N. Y 506 
 
 Indulgences 85 
 
 Irving, Rev. Edward 14 
 
 Isaiah, extract from 13 
 
 Jackson, Mrs. Helen 545 
 
 Jeffrey, Lord 404 
 
 Jerusalem, my happy home .... 76 
 
 Johnson, Mrs. H 533 
 
 Jones, E 488 
 
 Joseph, St., of the Studium . ... 28 
 
 Jude, extract from 19 
 
 Judson, Rev. A 392 
 
 Kamphuyzen, D. R 185, 203 
 
 Keble, J v, 252, 399 
 
 Keith, G 499 
 
 Kelly, T 489 
 
 Ken, Bishop 280 
 
 Kennedy, B. H 429 
 
 Khernvimij, M 210 
 
 Kimball, Harriet McEwen . '. . . 507 
 
 King, Bishop H 237 
 
572 
 
 INDEX OF NAMES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Kingsley, Rev. C 4'7 
 
 Kirk, Eleanor 527 
 
 Klopstock, F. T 166 
 
 Knox, W 404 
 
 Kbrner, C. T 164 
 
 Krishna Pal 349. 495 
 
 Langbecker in 
 
 Lange, P 137 
 
 Lindemann, J 139 
 
 List, H. W 417 
 
 Lomonossov, M. V 210 
 
 London Christian 532 
 
 Longfellow, H. W 278,451 
 
 Lope de Vega 204 
 
 Louis, Emperor 186 
 
 Lowell, J. R 450, 4 Q 2 
 
 , Mrs 450 
 
 Lbwenstern, M. A. von 135 
 
 Lucas, Archbishop 102 
 
 Luke, Mrs. J 447 
 
 Luther, M 88, 92, 98, 104, io5 
 
 Liitzen, battle of 124, 126 
 
 Lyte, Rev. H. F 471 
 
 Lyttleton, Lord {see Steele) .... 375 
 
 Macdonald, Rev. G. . . 236, 247, 255 
 
 Macduff, Rev. Dr 446 
 
 Mackay, Mrs 4S7 
 
 Maclay, W. B 491 
 
 Maerlant, J. van 187 
 
 Mahan, Rev. Dr. . 20 
 
 Malan, Rev. C 190, 193 
 
 Malt, sermon on 337 
 
 Manning, Dr 537 
 
 Manrique, Don J 204 
 
 Maria, Queen of Hungary .... 214 
 
 "Marie" 551 
 
 Marot, Clement 195 
 
 Marpurger 158 
 
 Marvell, A 264 
 
 Mary, Queen of Scots 193 
 
 Mason, Rev. Dr 190, 276 
 
 Massey, Gerald 461 
 
 McCheyne, Rev. Mr 445 
 
 McLeod, Rev. Dr. Norman ... 502 
 
 Mediaeval hymns 43 
 
 Medley, S 487 
 
 Melancthon, P 92 
 
 Mentz Cathedral 186 
 
 Mercer, Margaret 431 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Methodist conference 335 
 
 minister 308, 325 
 
 Michel Angelo 200 
 
 Miles, Mrs. S- A. 463 
 
 Miller, J 99, 290 
 
 Mills, E 498 
 
 Milman, Dean H. H 400 
 
 Milnes, R. M 419 
 
 Milton, J 254 
 
 Moir, D. M 402 
 
 Monod, Rev. Dr 518 
 
 Monsell, Rev. Dr 448 
 
 Montgomery, J 369 
 
 Moore, M. E 519 
 
 , T 383 
 
 Moravian Brethren 102 
 
 More, Mrs. H 354 
 
 , M. C 537 
 
 Mote, E 497 
 
 Mothers, influence of 299 
 
 Motherwell, W 407 
 
 Muhlenburg, Rev. Dr 457 
 
 Muloch, Miss 423 
 
 Nairn, Baroness 520 
 
 Napoleon 1 482 
 
 Navarre, Queen of 194 
 
 Neale, Rev. J. M 432 
 
 Neander, J 112 
 
 , J. A. W 115, 117 
 
 Nelson, C. A 534 
 
 Neumark, G 178 
 
 Newman, Rev. Dr 444 
 
 Newton, Rev. J 341 
 
 Nicene Creed, the 25 
 
 Nicolai, Dr. P 109 
 
 Niebuhr, B. G 184 
 
 Noel, Rev. G T 496 
 
 Norris of Bermerton 247 
 
 Novalis, F. von 169 
 
 Olivers, T 328 
 
 Olney Hymns, the 341 
 
 O mother dear, Jerusalem .... 75 
 
 Oscar, King of Sweden 183 
 
 Oxford, city of 333 
 
 Pal, Krishna 349, 495 
 
 Palmer, Rev. Ray 454 
 
 Parr, Harriet 439 
 
 Peabody, Rev. O. W. B 524 
 
INDEX OF NAMES. 
 
 573 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Perkins, J. H 465 
 
 Perronet, Rev. E 462 
 
 Peter the Hermit 66 
 
 the Venerable 64 
 
 Petofi, S . 213 
 
 Petrarch, F 197 
 
 Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart 514 
 
 Phile, M 32 
 
 Pierce, Dr. H. N 504 
 
 Pise, Dr. C. C 4S9 
 
 Poetry, birthplace of n 
 
 Pollok, R 406, 408 
 
 Pope, A 289 
 
 Porter. Professor 168, 171 
 
 Power, P. B. ■> 272 
 
 Praise, invocation to 271 
 
 Prayer, power of . 432 
 
 Prentiss, Mrs. E. P 500, 549 
 
 Preston, Mrs. M. J 546 
 
 Procter, A. A. ........ 418 
 
 , B. W 416 
 
 Protestant, origin of name .... 91 
 
 union 122 
 
 Prudentius 37 
 
 Psalms, the 14 
 
 Putnam, Rev. Dr 506 
 
 CjUARLES, F 238 
 
 Rabanus Maurus 46, 61 
 
 Raleigh, Sir W 223 
 
 Rambach, J. J 164 
 
 Randolph, A. D. F 476 
 
 , T 231 
 
 Reed, Professor 395 
 
 , Rev. A 389 
 
 Reformation, the 83 
 
 Responsive chanting 34 
 
 Reynolds, Dr 105 
 
 Rhyme-Bible 187 
 
 Richards, Prof. W. C. . . . 308, 516 
 
 Richardson, C. F 556 
 
 Ringwaldt 107 
 
 Robertson, Rev. Dr 363 
 
 Robinson, Rev. Robert 349 
 
 Rock of Ages 352 
 
 Romaine, Rev. W 335 
 
 Rosegarten in 
 
 Rosenkranz, Baron von 178 
 
 Rossetti, Christina 486, 553 
 
 Rothe 149 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Riickert, F 171 
 
 Ryland, Rev. J 356 
 
 Sachs, H 96, 100, 102 
 
 Saint George and dragon 46 
 
 Sandwich-Islands hymn 215 
 
 Sandys, G 232 
 
 Sangster, Mrs. M. E 509 
 
 Savonarola, J 87, 199 
 
 Saxe Holm 513 
 
 Schaff, P. . . 69, 109 
 
 Schiller, J. C. F 157 
 
 Schmolke, B 139 
 
 Scott, Sir W 360 
 
 Scottish Sabbath 359 
 
 Scudder. Eliza 514 
 
 Seagrave, R 293 
 
 Sears, E. H 447 
 
 Sedgwick, D 273 
 
 Seidl 151 
 
 Selnecker, N 101 
 
 Sermon, long 338 
 
 , Saxon 67 
 
 Sewell, Harriet \V 549 
 
 Shakspeare, W 228 
 
 Shepherd, Rev. J 396 
 
 Shipton, Anna 469 
 
 Shirley, J 253 
 
 , Rev. W 305 
 
 Sidney, Sir P 225 
 
 Sleeping in church 338 
 
 Smart, C 303 
 
 Smith, Horace 386 
 
 , Mrs. G. N 530 
 
 , Mrs. M. R 543 
 
 , Mrs. S. H 554 
 
 , S. F 446 
 
 Song, magic of 436 
 
 Southey, Mrs 379 
 
 , R 378 
 
 Southwell, R 224 
 
 Spaulding, Louise B 510 
 
 Spenser, E 221 
 
 Speratus, P 102 
 
 Spitta 169 
 
 Stabat Mater 72 
 
 Staupitz, Dr 89 
 
 Steele, Anne 34°> 375 
 
 , R 290 
 
 Stennet, Dr. J • 494 
 
 , Dr. S 493 
 
574 
 
 INDEX OF NAMES. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Stephen of St. Sabbas 31 
 
 Sternhold and Hopkins 275 
 
 Stoke Pogis Church 307 
 
 Stone, Mary K A 50S 
 
 , Rev. W. T 526 
 
 Stowe, Mrs. H. B 464 
 
 Stowell, H 461 
 
 Sunday School Times 552 
 
 Swedish hymns 1S0 
 
 Swift, Dean 338 
 
 Synesius'of Cyrene 26 
 
 Tasso, T I97 
 
 Tate and Brady 275 
 
 Taylor, Georgiana M 541 
 
 , Isaac 11, 81 
 
 , Jeremy 251 
 
 , J- R 49o 
 
 Te Deum laudamus 32 
 
 Temperance 338 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred 420 
 
 Tersanctus 32 
 
 Tersteegen 159, 161 
 
 Tetzel outwitted 86 
 
 Thaxter, Mrs. Celia 518 
 
 Theoclistus 29 
 
 Theodulph of Orleans 187 
 
 Thirty years' war 122, 127 
 
 Thomas a Kempis 65 
 
 of Celano 68 
 
 Thomson, James 294 
 
 Toplady, A 350 
 
 Townsend, E. W 459 
 
 Trench, Archbishop . 122, 141, 425, 484 
 
 Trotznou 100 
 
 Tuckerman, H. C 482 
 
 , H. T 460 
 
 Turner, D 336 
 
 Uhlakd, L. . 162 
 
 Ulrich, Duke 136 
 
 Uniformity of convent life .... 77 
 
 Universal Prayer, by Pope .... 292 
 
 Vaughan, Henry 277 
 
 Vega, C. Lope de 204 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Veni, Creator Spiritus 46 
 
 Virgin, worship of the 77 
 
 Vittoria Colonna 202 
 
 Vondel, J. van den 185 
 
 Wallenstein 123 
 
 Waller, E 248 
 
 Walton, Izaak 249 
 
 Warburton, Bishop 291 
 
 Waring, Miss A. L 470 
 
 Washburn, Rev. Dr. E. A 526 
 
 Waits, 1 283, 286, 335 
 
 Weiszel J34 
 
 Welthem, L. van 185 
 
 Wesley, C. and J 309, 313 
 
 ' S 3 '7-323 
 
 West, Frederick 511 
 
 Wetzel, F. G 100 
 
 Wheeler, Ella 539 
 
 White, H. K 387 
 
 . Rev. J. B 375 
 
 Whitefield, Rev. G 334,338 
 
 Whitehead, Rev. T 501 
 
 Whitney, Mrs. A. D. T 507 
 
 Whittier, J. G 466 
 
 WicklifTe,J 100 
 
 Williams, H. M 487 
 
 ,W 326 
 
 Willis, N. P 459 
 
 Willmott, Rev. R. A 222, 281 
 
 Wilson, Prof. J 20, 361 
 
 Winkworth, Miss C 98 
 
 Wither, G 234 
 
 Wordsworth, Rev. Dr 428 
 
 ,W 363,366 
 
 Woolsey, Miss (Susan Coolidge) . . 539 
 
 Wotton, Sir H 231,233 
 
 Wreck of " Golden Mary " . . . . 439 
 Wulffer 129 
 
 Young, A 462 
 
 , E 287 
 
 Zehn 147 
 
 Zinzendorf, Count 100, 147 
 
 Zwingli 94, 97 
 
 University Press : John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 
 
Salad for the Solitary and the Social. 
 
 By FREDERICK SAUNDERS, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " EVENINGS WITH THE SACRED POETS," 
 " PASTIME PAPERS,*' ETC. 
 
 POPULAR EDITION. 
 
 Illustrated with 52 Original Designs by Eminent American 
 
 Artists, 
 
 526 PAGES, OCTAVO. 
 
 Cloth binding, handsomely stamped, $2.00 ; the same, with gilt 
 edges, $2.50. 
 
 " A favorite of the thoughtful, the bookish, and the lovers of curious odds and 
 ends. It is an inexhaustible magazine from whence to draw genial intellectual 
 entertainment, and sharp provocatives to wholesome mirth and gayety." — 
 Harpers Magazine, December, 1884. 
 
 " It is emphatically a book to buy." — New-York Times. 
 
 " A volume that may be read and re-read." — New-York World. 
 
 " One of the most delightful series of essays in our language." — Albion. 
 
 " It breathes the fine aroma of the library." — New-York Tribune. 
 
 "A delightful companion for all seasons and for all occasions." — Boston 
 Traveller. 
 
 a There is hardly another book that contains so much good and quotable matter 
 of its kind.'' — New-York Evening Post. 
 
 " It is distinguished not only by its literary excellence and absorbing interest, 
 but by the healthiness of its humor, the purity t)f its morals, and the genuine 
 respect which it shows for religion." — New-York Churchman. 
 
 " A whole library of information, wisdom, and wit. A book for the profound, 
 and also for the superficial. A book for study, and a book for recreation. A book 
 for the young, and a book for the old. An invaluable book for everybody. We 
 say it without reservation, ' Salad for the Solitary and the Social ' ought not to be 
 missed from any library." — St. Chrysostoni's Magazine. 
 
 " One of those entertaining books which ought always to lie within reach. It 
 is full of incident, witticism, wise maxim, and felicitous illustration. The new 
 popular edition just published is very attractive to the eye. and will, doubtless, 
 create a new constituency for itself." — The Christian Union.