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THE 
 
 B 
 
 5UNDAY DOOK OF rOETRY. 
 
University Press : Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 
 
THE 
 
 SUNDAY Book of Poetry 
 
 SELECTED AND ARKANCED BY 
 
 C. F. ALEXANDER 
 
 AUTHOR OF "hymns FOR LITTLE CHILDREN," ETC. 
 
 C A M V. R T D r. Y. 
 SEVER AND FRANCIS 
 
 I 86 s 
 
.Ar 
 
PREFACE 
 
 'T^HE present volume will, it is hoped, be found 
 -^ to contain a selection of Sacred Poetry, of 
 such a character as can be placed with profit and 
 pleasure in the hands of intelligent children from 
 eight to fourteen years of age, both on Sundays 
 and at other times. 
 
 It may be well for the Compiler to make some 
 remarks upon the principles w^hich have been 
 adopted in the present selection. 
 
 Dr. Johnson has said that "the word Sacred 
 should never be applied but where some refer- 
 ence may be made to a higher Being, or where 
 some duty is exacted, or impHed." The Com- 
 piler beheves she has selected few poems whose 
 insertion may not be justified by this definition, 
 though several perhaps may not be of such a 
 nature as are popularly termed sacred. Those 
 which appear under the division of the Incarnate 
 Word, and of Praise, and Prayer, are of course 
 
vi Preface 
 
 in some cases directly hymns, and in all cases 
 founded upon the great doctrines of the Christian 
 faith, or upon the events of the Redeemer's life. 
 Many of the poems under the head of the Writ- 
 ten Word, and indeed in all the divisions, are of 
 an equally decided religious character. But in 
 illustrating some passages of Holy Scripture, in 
 delineating the various phases and duties of life, 
 in tracing out the hopes and fears which encom- 
 pass death, in picturing the feelings and passions 
 of the human heart, she has freely availed her- 
 self of pieces whose tendency is moral and ele- 
 vating, though the language may not be directly 
 religious. 
 
 The Compiler has selected freely from our 
 English Poets, ancient and modern, and she be- 
 lieves that there is scarcely one of high note w^ho 
 is not represented in the present collection. She 
 hopes that it may be thus, in some sort, a kind 
 of informal introduction to the highest works of 
 Enghsh literature. It might be thought that 
 pieces from writers so diverse as Milton and Ke- 
 ble, Toplady and Crashaw, Heber and Bonar, 
 must necessarily contain heterogeneous doctrine ; 
 but it will be found that these poems, from so 
 many writers of different schools, contain noth- 
 ing which is not in accordance with those great 
 truths of the Gospel of Christ, " which are most 
 
Pi-eface vii 
 
 surely believed among us." It was remarked at 
 the Great Exhibition, that the works of all Chris- 
 tian lands bore a family likeness. Is it strange 
 that a finer and closer family likeness should be 
 found in the works of Christian men and women, 
 hymning the same Incarnate Lord, and contem- 
 plating life, death, and nature, from so many 
 common points of view ? 
 
 It is possible that some persons may consider 
 many of the poems in the present volume too 
 difficult for children of the ages indicated. The 
 Compiler is assured, however, by actual experi- 
 ment, that there is little, if anything, in the entire 
 collection, which is not capable of giving pleasure 
 to such children, if they are of ordinary intelli- 
 gence. A namby-pamby, childish style is most 
 unpleasing to children, especially to boys ; it is 
 surprising how soon they can understand and 
 follow a high order of poetry, (always supposing 
 it is not subtle or metaphysical,) especially when 
 it assumes a narrative form, and has the aid of 
 rhyme. 
 
 The Compiler is, as a general rule, most averse 
 to the practice of garbling or altering poems. A 
 rash collector may work as blindly with a fine 
 poem as a rash restorer with a fine picture ; but 
 the exigencies of children's tastes and capacities, 
 and the necessary limits of the work, have re- 
 
viii Preface 
 
 quired frequent abbreviation. Thus, in selecting 
 from the works of Wordsworth, and the great 
 author of " The Christian Year," she has some- 
 times taken a single thought or picture detached 
 from the context, having to make her choice be- 
 tween this course and the omission of some of 
 the holiest and loveliest lines in English sacred 
 song. Once or twice only she has altered a word, 
 or transposed a line for the sake of connection, 
 or changed into modern language the obsolete 
 expressions of some very old writer. 
 
 The Compiler cannot close her task without 
 the prayer that this volume may in some meas- 
 ure tend to make Sunday a pleasant day to chil- 
 dren. May it help to teach them to praise God 
 the Father, Son, and Spirit ; to contemplate life 
 and death and their own hearts as Christians 
 should ; to understand the spirit of the Bible ; 
 and through this fair creation to look up to Him 
 who is its Creator. 
 
 C. Y. ALEXANDER. 
 
m^ 
 
 ^/Y 
 
 THE 
 
 SUNDAY BOOK OF POETRY 
 
 PI^A YER 
 
 PRAYER is the soul's sincere desire, 
 Uttered, or unexpressed ; 
 The motion of a hidden fire 
 That trembles in the breast. 
 
 Prayer is the burthen of a sigh. 
 
 The falling of a tear, 
 The upward glancing of the eye, 
 
 When none but God is near. 
 
 Prayer is the simplest form of speech 
 
 That infant lips can try ; 
 Prayer the sublimest strains that reach 
 
 The Majesty on high. 
 
 Prayer is the contrite sinner's voice 
 
 Returning from his ways. 
 While angels in their songs rejoice, 
 
 And cry, Behold he prays ! 
 
The Siatday Book of Foeiiy 
 
 Prayer is the Christian's vital breath, 
 
 The Christian's native air ; 
 His watchword at the gates of death ; 
 
 He enters Heaven with prayer. 
 
 The saints, in prayer, appear as one 
 In word, and deed, and mind, 
 
 While with the Father and the Son 
 Sweet fellowship they find. 
 
 Nor prayer is made by man alone, 
 
 The Holy Spirit pleads ; 
 And Jesus, on th' eternal throne, 
 
 For sinners intercedes. 
 
 O Thou, by whom we come to God ! 
 
 The Life, the Truth, the Way ! 
 The path of prayer Thyself hast trod : 
 
 Lord ! teach us how to pray. 
 
 y. Montgomery 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 PSALM CXLVIII 
 
 COME, O come ! with sacred lays, 
 Let us sound th' Almighty's praise 
 Hither, bring in true consent, 
 Heart, and voice, and instrument. 
 Let the orpharion sweet 
 With the harp and viol meet : 
 To your voices tune the lute : 
 Let not tongue nor string be mute : 
 Nor a creature dumb be found, 
 That hath either voice or sound. 
 
 Let such things as do not live. 
 In still music praises give ; 
 Lowly pipe, ye worms that creep 
 On the earth, or in the deep ; 
 Loud aloft your voices strain, 
 Beasts and monsters of the main ; 
 Birds, your warbling treble sing ; 
 Clouds, your peals of thunder ring ; 
 Sun and Moon exalted higher. 
 And you Stars, augment the choir* 
 
 Come, ye sons of human race. 
 In this chorus take your place, 
 And amid this mortal throng, 
 Be ye masters of the song. 
 Angels and celestial powers, 
 Be the noblest tenor yours. 
 Let, in praise of God, the sound 
 Run a never-endinp- round. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 That our holy hymn may be 
 Everlasting, as is He. 
 
 From the earth's vast hollow womb 
 Music's deepest bass shall come, 
 Sea and floods from shore to shore 
 Shall the counter-tenor roar. 
 To this concert, when we sing, . 
 Whistling winds, your descant bring : 
 Which may bear the sound above 
 Where the orb of fire doth move ; 
 And so climb from sphere to sphere, 
 Till our song th' Almighty hear. 
 
 So shall He from Heaven's high tower 
 
 On the earth His blessing shower ; 
 
 All this huge wide orb we see 
 
 Shall one choir, one temple be ; 
 
 There our voices we will rear 
 
 Till we fill it eveiywhere : 
 
 And enforce the fiends that dwell 
 
 In the air, to sink to hell. 
 
 Then, O come ! with sacred lays, 
 
 Let us sound th' Almighty's praise. 
 
 G. Wither 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 III 
 
 HYMN OF PRAISE 
 
 HOLY, holy, holy Lord, 
 God of Hosts ! When heaven and earth 
 Out of darkness, at Thy Word, 
 
 Issued into glorious birth. 
 All Thy works before Thee stood. 
 And Thine eye beheld them good, 
 While they sang with one accord, 
 Holy, holy, holy Lord ! 
 
 Holy, holy, holy ! Thee, 
 
 One Jehovah evermore, 
 Father, Son, and Spirit ! we. 
 
 Dust and ashes, would adore : 
 Lightly by the world esteemed. 
 From that world by Thee redeemed, 
 Sing we here, with glad accord. 
 
 Holy, holy, holy Lord ! 
 
 Holy, holy, holy ! All 
 
 Heaven's triumphant choir shall sing, 
 When the ransomed nations fall 
 
 At the footstool of their King : 
 Then shall saints and seraphim. 
 Hearts and voices, swell one hymn, 
 Round the throne with full accord, 
 
 Holy, holy, holy Lord ! 
 
 J. Montgomery 
 
The Sunday Book of Poet?y 
 
 THE GOODNESS OF GOD 
 
 YES, God is good : in earth and sky, 
 From ocean-depths and spreading wood. 
 Ten thousand voices seem to cry, 
 
 " God made us all, and God is good." 
 
 The sun that keeps his trackless way. 
 And downward pours his golden flood, 
 
 Night's sparkling hosts, all seem to say, 
 In accents clear, that God is good. 
 
 The merry birds prolong the strain. 
 Their song with every spring renewed ; 
 
 And balmy air, and falling rain. 
 
 Each softly whisper, "God is good.*' 
 
 I hear it in the rushing breeze ; 
 
 The hills that have for ages stood, 
 The echoing sky, and roaring seas, 
 
 All swell the chorus, ' ' God is good. " 
 
 Yes, God is good, all Nature says, 
 
 By God's own hand with speech endued ; 
 
 And man, in louder notes of praise. 
 
 Should sing for joy that "God is good." 
 
 For all Thy gifts we bless Thee, Lord, 
 But chiefly for our heavenly food. 
 
 Thy pardoning grace. Thy quickening word ; 
 These prompt our song that " God is good." 
 J. IE Gunny 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 THE GOODNESS OF PROVIDENCE 
 
 THE Lord my pasture shall prepare, 
 And feed me with a shepherd's care ; 
 His presence shall my wants supply, 
 And guard me with a watchful eye ; 
 My noonday walks He shall attend. 
 And all my midnight hours defend. 
 
 When in the sultry glebe I faint, 
 Or on the thirsty mountains pant. 
 To fertile vales, and dewy meads, 
 My weary, wandering steps he leads, 
 Where peaceful rivers, soft and slow. 
 Amid the verdant landscape flow. 
 
 Though in the paths of death I tread, 
 With gloomy horror overspread, 
 My steadfast heart shall fear no ill ; 
 For thou, O Lord, art with me still : 
 Thy friendly crook shall give me aid. 
 And guide me through the dreadful shade. 
 
 Though in a bare and rugged way. 
 Through devious lonely wilds I stray, 
 Thy bounty shall my pains beguile ; 
 The barren wilderness shall smile. 
 With sudden greens, and herbage crowned, 
 And streams shall murmur all around. 
 
 J." Addison 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 VI 
 HYMN TO GOD THE FA THER 
 
 HEAR me, O God ! 
 A broken heart 
 Is my best part : 
 Use still Thy rod, 
 That I may prove 
 Therein Thy love. 
 
 If Thou hadst not 
 
 Been stern to me, 
 
 But left me free, 
 I had forgot 
 
 Myself and Thee. 
 
 For sin 's so sweet. 
 
 As minds ill-bent 
 
 Rarely repent, 
 Until they meet 
 
 Their punishment. 
 
 Ben jfonson 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 VII 
 
 PROVIDENCE 
 
 GOD moves in a mysterious way 
 His wonders to perform ; 
 He plants his footsteps in the sea, 
 And rides upon the storm. 
 
 Deep in unfathomable mines 
 
 Of never-failing skill, 
 He treasures up His bright designs, 
 
 And works his sovereign will. 
 
 Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take. 
 The clouds ye so much dread 
 
 Are big with mercy, and shall break 
 In blessings on your head. 
 
 Judge not the Lord by feeble sense. 
 But trust Him for His grace ; 
 
 Behind a frowning Providence 
 He hides a, smiling face. 
 
 His purposes will ripen fast, 
 
 Unfolding every hour ; 
 The bud may have a bitter taste, 
 
 But sweet will be the flower. 
 
 Blind unbelief is sure to err, 
 And scan His work in vain ; 
 
 God is His own interpreter, 
 And He will make it plain. 
 
 W. Cotvper 
 
The Su7iday Book of Poetry 
 
 THE EMIGRANTS SACRED SONG 
 
 WHERE the remote Bermudas 
 In ocean's bosom mrespied, 
 From a small boat that rowed along, 
 The listening winds received their 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. 
 
 *' Where He the huge sea-monsters racks, 
 That lift the deep upon their backs ; 
 He lands us on a grassy stage, 
 Safe from the storm's and tyrant's rage. 
 
 * ' He gave us this eternal spring 
 Which here enamels everything, 
 And sends the fowls to us in care. 
 On daily visits through the air. 
 
 " He hangs in shades the orange bright. 
 Like golden lamps in a green night, 
 And in these rocks for us did frame 
 A temple where to sound His name. 
 
 "O, let our voice his praise exalt 
 Till it arrive at Heaven's vault, 
 Which then perhaps rebounding may 
 Echo beyond the Mexique bay." 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Thus sang they in the English boat, 
 A lioly and a cheerful note, 
 And all the way, to guide their chime, 
 With falling oars they kept the time. 
 
 A. Mar veil 
 
 THE LOVE OF GOD 
 
 BLEST be Thy love, dear Lord, 
 That taught us this sweet way 
 Only to love Thee for Thyself, 
 And for that love obey. 
 
 O Thou, our soul's chief hope ! 
 We to thy mercy fly ; 
 Where'er we are. Thou canst protect, 
 Whate'er we need, supply. 
 
 Whether we sleep or wake, 
 To Thee we both resign ; 
 By night we see, as well as day, 
 If Thy light on us shine. 
 
 Whether we live, or die, 
 Both we submit to Thee ; 
 In death we live, as well as life, 
 If Thine in death we be. 
 
 y, A list ill 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 X 
 
 GOD THE ONLY COMFORTER 
 
 OTHOU that driest 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 the 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 ! 
 
 O, who could 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 could not see by day. 
 
 T. Moore 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 13 
 
 A PRAYER 
 Imitated froi7i the Persian 
 
 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. 
 
 R. SoiUhcy 
 
 XII 
 
 THY WILL BE DONE 
 
 FATHER, I know that all my life 
 Is portioned out for me. 
 And the changes that are sure to come 
 
 I do not fear to see ; 
 But I ask Thee for a present mind, 
 Intent on pleasing Thee. 
 
 I ask Thee for a thoughtful love. 
 Through constant watching wise, 
 
 To meet the glad with joyful smiles 
 And wipe the weeping eyes : 
 
 And a heart at leisure from itself, 
 To soothe and sympathize. 
 
14 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 I would not have the restless will 
 
 That hurries to and fro ; 
 Seeking for some great thing to do, 
 
 A secret thing to know : 
 I would be treated as a child, 
 
 And guided where I go. 
 
 Wherever in the world I am, 
 
 In whatsoe'er estate, 
 I have a fellowship with hearts 
 
 To keep and cultivate, 
 And a work of lowly love to do. 
 
 From the Lord on whom I wait. 
 
 And if some things I do not ask 
 
 In my cup of blessing be, 
 I would have my spirit filled the more 
 
 With grateful love to Thee ; 
 More careful, not to serve Thee much, 
 
 But to please Thee perfectly. 
 
 There are briars besetting eveiy path. 
 
 That call for patient care ; 
 There is a cross in every lot, 
 
 And an earnest need for prayer ; 
 But a lowly heart that leans on Thee, 
 
 Is happy anywhere. 
 
 In a service which Thy will appoints. 
 There are no bonds for me ; 
 
 For my inmost heart is taught the truth 
 That makes Thy children free ; 
 
 And a life of self-renouncing love 
 Is a life of liberty. 
 
 A. L. Waring 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 15 
 
 XIII 
 
 THE FORCE OF PRAYER 
 
 " T T THAT is good for a bootless bene ? " 
 
 V V With these dark words begins my tale ; 
 And their meaning is, whence can comfort spring 
 When prayer is of no avail ? 
 
 " What is good for a bootless bene ? " 
 
 The falconer to the lady said : 
 And she made answer, "Endless sorrow !" 
 
 For she knew that her son was dead. 
 
 She knew it by the falconer's words. 
 
 And from the look of the falconer's eye ; 
 
 And from the love that was in her soul 
 For her youthful Romilly. 
 
 Young Romilly through Barden Woods 
 
 Is ranging high and low ; 
 And holds a greyhound in a leash 
 
 To let slip upon buck or doe. 
 
 The pair have reached that fearful chasm, 
 
 How tempting to bestride ! 
 For lordly Wharf is there pent in 
 
 With rocks on either side. 
 
 This stri ding-place is called the Strid, 
 
 A name which it took of yore : 
 A thousand years hath it borne that name, 
 
 And shall a thousand more. 
 
1 6 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 And hither is young Romilly come, 
 
 And what may now forbid, 
 That he, perhaps for the hundredth time, 
 
 Shall bound across the Strid ? 
 
 He sprang in glee, — for what cared he 
 
 That the river was strong and the rocks were steep ? 
 But the greyhound in the leash hung back, 
 And checked him in his leap. 
 
 The boy is in the arms of Wharf, 
 
 And strangled by a merciless force ; 
 For never more was young Romilly seen 
 
 Till he rose a lifeless corse. 
 
 Now there is stillness in the vale. 
 
 And long unspeaking sorrow : 
 Wharf shall be to pitying hearts 
 
 A name more sad than Yarrow. 
 
 Long, long in darkness did she sit, 
 
 And her first words were, " Let there be. 
 
 In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, 
 A stately Priory." 
 
 The stately Priory was reared, 
 
 And Wharf, as he rolled along, 
 To matins joined a mournful voice, 
 
 Nor failed at even-song. 
 
 And the Lady prayed in heaviness 
 
 That looked not for relief ! 
 But slowly did her succor come, 
 
 And a patience to her grief. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 17 
 
 O there is never sorrow of heart, 
 
 That shall lack a timely end, 
 If but to God we turn, and ask 
 
 Of Him to be our friend. 
 
 IV. Wordsworth 
 
 XIV 
 THE CHRISTIAN'S PRAYER 
 
 JESUS, my strength, my hope, 
 On Thee I cast my care, 
 With humble confidence look up, 
 And know thou hear'st my prayer. 
 Give me on Thee to wait 
 Till I can all things do, 
 On Thee almighty to create, 
 Almighty to renew ! 
 
 I want a sober mind, 
 
 A self-renouncing will, 
 That tramples down and casts behind 
 
 The baits of pleasing ill : 
 
 A soul inured to pain, 
 
 To hardships, grief, and loss ; 
 Bold to take up, firm to sustain. 
 
 The consecrated cross. 
 
 I want a godly fear, 
 A quick discerning eye. 
 That looks to Thee when sin is near, 
 That sees the tempter fly ; 
 A spirit still prepared. 
 And armed with jealous care, 
 2 
 
i8 The Sunday Book of Pochy 
 
 For ever standing on its guard, 
 And watching unto prayer. 
 
 I want a heart to pray, 
 
 To pray and never cease. 
 Never to murmur at Thy stay, 
 
 Or wish my sufferings less ; 
 
 This blessing, above all. 
 
 Always to pray, I want. 
 Out of" the deep on Thee to call 
 
 And never, never faint. 
 
 I want a true regard, 
 
 A single, steady aim, 
 Unmoved by threatening, or reward, 
 
 To Thee, and Thy great name ; 
 
 A jealous, just concern 
 
 For Thine immortal praise ; 
 A pure desire that all may learn 
 
 And glorify Thy grace. 
 
 I rest upon Thy word ; 
 
 Thy promise is for me ; 
 My succor and salvation, Lord, 
 
 Shall surely come from Thee. 
 
 But let me still abide, 
 
 Nor from Thy hope remove. 
 Till Thou my patient spirit guide 
 
 Into Thy perfect lo^'e ! 
 
 Charles Wesley 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry i( 
 
 XV 
 
 THOUGHTS OF CHRIST 
 
 JESU, the very thought of Thee 
 With sweetness fills the breast ; 
 But sweeter far Thy face to see, 
 And in Thy presence rest. 
 
 No voice can sing, no heart can frame, 
 
 Nor can the memory find, 
 A sweeter sound than Jesu's name. 
 
 The Saviour of mankind. 
 
 O hope of eveiy 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. 
 
 Jesu, our only joy be Thou, 
 
 As Thou our prize wilt be ; 
 In Thee be all our glory now. 
 And through eternity. 
 
 Bernard of Fontaine 
 Translated by E. Casxuall 
 
The Sunday Book of Poct)y 
 
 HYMN 
 
 For the Boatmen as they approach the Rapids by 
 Heidelberg 
 
 JESU ! bless our slender boat, 
 By the current swept along ; 
 Loud its threatenings, — let them not 
 
 Drown the music of a song 
 Breathed Thy mercy to implore, 
 Where these troubled waters roar. 
 
 Saviour, for our warning, seen 
 Bleeding on that precious rood ; 
 
 If, while through the meadows green 
 Gently wound the peaceful flood, 
 
 "We forget Thee, do not Thou 
 
 Disregard thy suppliants now ! 
 
 Hither, like yon ancient tower 
 Watching o'er the river's bed, 
 
 Fling the shadow of Thy power. 
 Else we sleep among the dead ; 
 
 Thou who trod'st the billowy sea, 
 
 Shield us in our jeopardy ! 
 
 Guide our bark among the waves ; 
 
 Through the rocks our passage smooth ; 
 Where the whirlpool frets and raves, 
 
 Let Thy love its anger soothe : 
 All our hope is placed in Thee ; 
 Miserere Domine ! 
 
 W. Wordsuwth 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 XVII 
 
 EVENING HYMN 
 
 SUN of my soul, Thou Saviour dear, 
 It is not night if Thou be near ; 
 O ! may no earth-born cloud arise 
 To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes. 
 
 When the soft dews of kindly sleep 
 My wearied eyelids gently steep, 
 Be my last thought how sweet to rest 
 For ever on my Saviour's breast. 
 
 Abide with me from morn till eve. 
 For without Thee I cannot live ; 
 Abide with me when night is nigh. 
 For without Thee I dare not die. 
 
 If some poor wandering child of Thine 
 Have spurned to-day the voice divine. 
 Now, Lord, the gracious work begin ; 
 Let him no more lie down in sin. 
 
 Watch by the sick, enrich the poor 
 With blessings from Thy boundless store ; 
 Be every mourner's sleep to-night, 
 Like infant's slumbers, pure and light. 
 
 Come near and bless us when we wake. 
 Ere through the world our way we take : 
 Till, in the ocean of Thy love. 
 We lose ourselves in Heaven above. 
 
 John Keble 
 
The Sunday Book of PocUy 
 XVIII 
 
 THE sours LITANY 
 
 IN the hour of trial, 
 Jesus, pray for me ; 
 Lest, by base denial, 
 
 I depart from Thee : 
 When Thou see'st me waver, 
 
 With a look recall. 
 Nor, for fear or favor, 
 Suffer me to fall. 
 
 With its witching pleasures. 
 
 Would this vain world charm ; 
 Or its sordid treasures 
 
 Spread, to work me harm ; 
 Bring to my remembrance 
 
 Sad Gethsemane, 
 Or, in darker semblance, 
 
 Cross-crowned Calvary. 
 
 If with sore affliction 
 
 Thou in love chastise. 
 Pour Thy benediction 
 
 On the sacrifice ; 
 Then upon Thine altar. 
 
 Freely offered up, 
 Though the flesh may falter. 
 
 Faith shall drink the cup. 
 
 When in dust and ashes 
 To the grave I sink. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 23 
 
 While heaven's gloiy flashes 
 
 O'er the shelving brink, 
 On Thy truth relying 
 
 Through the mortal strife, 
 Lord, receive me dying 
 
 To eternal life. 
 
 Anon. 
 
 CLINGING TO GOD 
 
 NEARER, my God, to Thee, 
 Nearer to Thee ! 
 E'en though it be a cross 
 
 That raiseth me ; 
 Still all my song shall be, 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 Nearer to Thee. 
 
 Though like a wanderer. 
 
 The sun gone down, 
 Darkness comes over me, 
 
 My rest a stone ; 
 Yet in my dreams I 'd be 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 
 Nearer to Thee. 
 
 There let my way appear 
 
 Steps unto heaven ; 
 All that Thou sendest me 
 
 In mercy given ; 
 
24 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Angels to beckon me 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 Nearer to Thee. 
 
 Then with my waking thoughts 
 
 Bright with Thy praise, 
 Out of my stony griefs 
 
 Bethels I '11 raise ; 
 So by my woes to be 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 
 Nearer to Thee ! 
 
 And when on joyful wing 
 
 Cleaving the sky. 
 Sun, moon, and stars forgot, 
 
 Upward I fly. 
 Still all my song shall be, 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 
 Nearer to Thee ! 
 
 S. F. Adams 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 25 
 
 A CRY* 
 
 THE way is long and dreary, 
 The path is bleak and bare : 
 Our feet are worn and weaiy, 
 
 But we will not despair. 
 More heavy was Thy burthen, 
 
 More desolate Thy way ; 
 O Lamb of God, who takest 
 The sin of the world away, 
 Have mercy on us ! 
 
 The snows lie thick around us, 
 
 In the dark and gloomy night ; 
 And the tempest wails above us, 
 
 And the stars have hid their light. 
 But blacker was the darkness 
 
 Round Calvary's Cross that day ; 
 O Lamb of God, that takest 
 
 The sin of the world away. 
 Have mercy on us ! 
 
 Our hearts are faint with sorrow, 
 
 Heavy and sad to bear ; 
 For we dread the bitter morrow, 
 
 But we will not despair : 
 Thou knowest all our anguish, 
 
 And Thou wilt bid it cease ; 
 O Lamb of God, who takest 
 
 The sin of the world away, 
 Give us Thy peace ! 
 
 A. A. Procter 
 
26 The Sunday Book of Foci?y 
 
 GRATITUDE TO GOD 
 
 HOW blest Thy creature is, O God, 
 When with a single eye 
 He views the lustre of Thy word, 
 The day-spring from on high. 
 
 Through all the storms that veil the skies, 
 And frown on earthly things, 
 
 The Sun of Righteousness he eyes 
 With healing on His wings. 
 
 Struck by that light, the human heart, 
 
 A barren soil no more, 
 Sends the sweet smell of grace abroad. 
 
 Where serpents lurked before. 
 
 The glorious orb, whose golden beams 
 
 The fruitful year control. 
 Since first, obedient to Thy word. 
 
 He started from the goal, 
 
 Has cheered the nations with the joys 
 
 His orient rays impart ; 
 But, Jesus, 't is Thy light alone 
 
 Can shine upon the heart. 
 
 W. Caivper 
 
The Sunday Book of Poei?y 27 
 
 XXII 
 
 HYJLV TO THE HOL Y SPIRIT 
 
 PRAISE be Thine, most Holy Spirit, 
 Honor to Thy Holy Name ! 
 May we love it, may we fear it ! 
 
 Set in everlasting fame. 
 Honor to Thee, praise, and gloiy, 
 
 Comforter, inspirer, friend ; 
 Till these troubles transitory 
 End in glory without end. 
 
 By Thy hand, in secret working, 
 
 Like a midnight of soft rain, 
 Seeds that lay in silence lurking. 
 
 Spring up green, and grow amain. 
 Roots, which in their dusty bosoms 
 
 Hid an age of golden days 
 Stirring with a cloud of blossoms. 
 
 Clothe their barrenness for Thy praise. 
 
 As an island in a river 
 
 Vexed with endless rave and roar, 
 Keeps an inner silence ever 
 
 On its consecrated shore. 
 Flowered with flowers, and green with grasses : 
 
 So the poor through Thee abide ; 
 Every outer care that passes 
 
 Deepening more the peace inside. 
 
 When our heart is faint Thou warmest, 
 Justifiest our delight ; 
 
28 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Thou our ignorance informest, 
 And our wisdom shapest right ; 
 
 In the hour of doubt and strife, 
 Thou beginnest, and Thou endest, 
 
 All that Christians count of Hfe. 
 
 Thos. Burrid(^e 
 
 LITANY TO THE HOLY SPIRIT 
 
 IN the hour of my distress, 
 When temptations me oppress, 
 And when I my sins confess, 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 
 
 When I lie within my bed, 
 Sick in heart, and sick in head. 
 And with doubts disquieted, 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 
 
 When the house doth sigh, and weep. 
 And tlie world is drowned in sleep. 
 Yet mine eyes the watch do keep. 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 
 
 When God knows I 'm tossed about 
 Either with despair or doubt, 
 Yet before the glass be out. 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 
 
 When the tempter me pursueth 
 With the sins of all my youth. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 29 
 
 And reproves nie for untruth, 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 
 
 When the judgment is revealed 
 And that opened which was sealed. 
 When to Thee I have appealed. 
 
 Sweet Spirit, comfort me. 
 
 R. Herrick 
 
 XXIV 
 
 VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS 
 
 COME, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire, 
 And lighten with celestial fire ; 
 Thou the Anointing Spirit art, 
 Who dost Thy sevenfold gifts impart. 
 Thy blessed unction from above 
 Is comfort, life, and fire of love. 
 Enable with perpetual light 
 The dulness of our blinded sight ; 
 Anoint and cheer our soiled face 
 With the abundance of Thy grace ; 
 Keep far our foes ; give peace at home ; 
 Where Thou art guide, no ill can come. 
 Teach us to know the Father, Son, 
 And Thee of both, to be but One : 
 That, through the ages all along. 
 This may be our endless song : 
 " Praise to Thy eternal merit, 
 " Father, Son, and Holy Spirit !" 
 
 Ordination Service 
 
30 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 XXV 
 
 THE HOLY TRINITY 
 
 HOLY ! Holy ! Holy ! Lord God Almighty ! 
 Early in the mofning our song shall rise to Thee, 
 Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! Merciful and Mighty ! 
 God in Three Persons, Blessed Trinity ! 
 
 Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! all the saints adore Thee, 
 Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy 
 
 sea ; 
 Cherubim and seraphim falling down before Thee, 
 Which wert, and art, and evermore shall be. 
 
 Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! though the darkness hide Thee, 
 Though the eye of sinful man Thy glory may not see, 
 Only Thou art Holy, there is none beside Thee 
 Perfect in Power, in Love, and Purity ! 
 
 Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! Lord God Almighty ! 
 
 All Thy works shall praise Thy Name, in earth, and 
 
 sky, and sea ; 
 Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! Merciful and Mighty, 
 God in Three Persons, Blessed Trinity ! 
 
 Bishop Reginald Heher 
 
The Sunday Book of Poeity 31 
 
 SACRED MUSIC 
 
 TO our high-raised fantasy present 
 That undisturbed song of pure consent. 
 Aye sung before the sapphire-colored throne, 
 To Him that sits thereon, 
 With saintly shout and solemn jubilee ; 
 Where the bright seraphim in burning row. 
 Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow ; 
 And the cherubic host, in thousand choirs. 
 Touch their immortal harps of golden wires. 
 With those just spirits that wear victorious palms, 
 Hymns devout, and holy psalms, 
 Singing everlastingly : 
 That we on earth with undiscording voice. 
 May rightly answer that melodious noise ; 
 As once we did, till disproportioned sin 
 Jarred against Nature's chime, and with harsh din 
 Broke the fair music that all creatures made 
 To their great Lord, whose love their motion swayed 
 In perfect diapason whilst they stood. 
 In first obedience and their state of good. 
 (), may we soon again renew that song 
 And keep in tune with Heaven, till God erelong 
 To His celestial concert us unite 
 To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light ! 
 
 John Milton 
 
32 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 XXVII 
 
 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 
 In service high, and anthem clear, 
 As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 
 Dissolve me into ecstasies 
 And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. 
 
 John Milton 
 
 XXVIII 
 
 EARTH AND HEAVEN 
 
 THE roseate hues of early dawn. 
 The brightness of the day, 
 The crimson of the sunset sky. 
 
 How fast they fade away ! 
 O for the pearly gates of heaven ! 
 
 O for the golden floor ! 
 O for the Sun of Righteousness 
 That setteth nevermore ! 
 
 The highest hopes we cherish here, 
 How fast they tire and faint ! 
 
The Sujiday Book of Foet>y 33 
 
 How many a spot defiles the robe 
 
 That wraps an earthly saint ! 
 O for a heart that never sins ! 
 
 O for a soul washed white ! 
 O for a voice to praise our King, 
 
 Nor weary day or night ! 
 
 Here faith is ours, and heavenly hope, 
 
 And grace to lead us higher : 
 But there are perfectness and peace 
 
 Beyond our best desire. 
 O, by Thy love and anguish, Lord ! 
 
 O, by Thy life laid down ! 
 O, that we fall not from Thy grace, 
 
 Nor cast away our crown ! 
 
 C. F. Alcxando 
 
 EVENING HYMN 
 
 GLORY to Thee, my God, this night, 
 For all the blessings of the light ; 
 Keep me, O keep me. King of kings, 
 Beneath Thine own Almighty wings. 
 
 Forgive me. Lord, for Thy dear Son, 
 The ill that I this day have done ; 
 That with the world, myself, and Thee, 
 I, ere I sleep, at peace may be. 
 
 Teach me to live, that I may dread 
 The grave as little as my bed ; 
 3 
 
34 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Teach me to die, that so I may 
 Rise glorious at the awful day. 
 
 O let my soul on Thee repose ; 
 And may sweet sleep mine eyelids close : 
 Sleep, that shall me more vig'rous make 
 To serve my God when I awake. 
 
 If in the night I sleepless lie, 
 My soul with heavenly thoughts supply ; 
 May no ill dreams disturb my rest, 
 No powers of darkness me molest 
 
 Praise God, from whom all blessings flow, 
 Praise Him, all creatures here below ; 
 Praise Him above, angelic host, 
 Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost ! 
 
 Bishop Thomas Ken 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 35 
 
 II 
 
 THE INCARNATE WORD 
 
 XXX 
 
 THE INCARNATION OF CHRIST 
 
 FOR Thou wert bom of woman ! Thou didst come, 
 O Holiest, to this world of sin and gloom, 
 Not in Thy dread omnipotent array ; 
 
 And not by thunders strewed 
 
 Was Thy tempestuous road ; 
 Nor indignation burned before Thee on Thy way. 
 
 But Thee, a soft and naked child. 
 
 Thy mother undefiled 
 
 In the rude manger laid to rest 
 
 From off her virgin breast. 
 
 The Heavens were not commanded to prepare 
 
 A gorgeous canopy of golden air ; 
 
 Nor stooped their lamps th' enthroned fires on high : 
 
 A single silent star 
 
 Came wandering from afar, 
 Gliding unchecked and calm along the liquid sky, 
 
 The Eastern sages leading on 
 
 As at a kingly throne, 
 
 To lay their gold and odors sweet 
 
 Before Thy infant feet. 
 
 The earth and ocean were not hushed to hear 
 Bright harmony from every stariy sphere ; 
 
36 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Nor at Thy presence broke the voice of song 
 
 From all the chemb choirs 
 
 And seraph's burning lyres 
 Poured through the host of Heaven the charmed 
 clouds along. 
 
 One angel troop the strain began, 
 
 Of all the race of man 
 
 By simple shepherds heard alone, 
 
 That soft Hosanna tone. 
 
 H. H. Milman 
 
 GOD INCARNATE 
 
 THE Holy Son of God most high. 
 For love of Adam's lapsed race, 
 Quit the sweet pleasure of the sky, 
 To bring us to that happy place. 
 
 His robes of light he laid aside. 
 Which did His Majesty adorn, 
 
 And the frail state of mortal tried, 
 In human flesh and figure born. 
 
 The Son of God thus man became, 
 That men the son of God might be, 
 
 And by their second birth regain 
 A likeness to His deity. 
 
 Henry Moore 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 37 
 
 XXXII 
 
 A HYMN ON THE NATIVITY OF MY 
 SA VI OUR 
 
 I SING the birth was bom to-night, 
 The Author both of life and light ; 
 The angels so did sound it. 
 And like the ravished shepherds said, 
 Who saw the light and were afraid, 
 
 Yet searched, and true they found it. 
 
 The Son of God, th' Eternal King, 
 That did us all salvation bring, 
 
 And freed the soul from danger ; 
 He whom the whole world could not take, 
 The Word which heaven and earth did make, 
 
 Was now laid in a manger. 
 
 The Father's wisdom willed it so. 
 The Son's obedience knew no No, 
 
 Both wills were in one stature : 
 And as that wisdom had decreed. 
 The Word was now made flesh indeed. 
 
 And took on Him our nature. 
 
 What comfort by Him do we win. 
 Who made Himself the price of sin. 
 
 To make us heirs of glory ! 
 To see this babe all innocence, 
 A martyr born in our defence : 
 
 Can man forget this story ? 
 
 Ben yojison 
 
38 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 XXXIII 
 
 THE BIRTH OF CHRIST 
 
 THE time draws near the birth of Christ : 
 The moon is hid ; the night is still ; 
 The Christmas bells from hill to hill 
 Answer each other in the mist. 
 
 Four voices of four hamlets round, 
 
 From far and near, on mead and moor. 
 Swell out and fail, as if a door 
 
 Were shut between me and the sound. 
 
 Each voice four changes on the wind. 
 That now dilate and now decrease. 
 Peace and good-will, good-will and peace. 
 
 Peace and good-will, to all mankind. 
 
 Rise, happy morn ! rise, holy morn ! 
 Draw forth the cheerful day from night : 
 O Father ! touch the east, and light 
 
 The light that shone when hope was born. 
 
 A. Tennyson 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 39 
 
 HYMN TO THE NATIVITY 
 
 GLOOMY night embraced the place 
 Where the noble Infant lay ; 
 The Babe looked up and showed His face, — 
 
 In spite of darkness it was day. 
 It was Thy day, sweet, and did rise 
 Not from the east, but from Thy eyes, 
 
 We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest. 
 
 Bright dawn of our eternal day ; 
 We saw Thine eyes break from the east 
 
 And chase the trembling shades away : 
 We saw Thee (and we blessed the sight), 
 We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light. 
 
 Welcome to our wondering 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. 
 
 R. Crashaw 
 
40 TJie Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 XXXV 
 
 LINES 
 
 Suggested by a Pictiire of the Adoratmi of the 
 Magians 
 
 LITTLE pomp or earthly state 
 On the Saviour's way might wait ; 
 Few the homages, and small, 
 That the guilty earth at all 
 Was permitted to accord 
 To her King and hidden Lord. 
 Therefore do we set more store 
 On those few, and prize them more : 
 Dear to us for this account 
 Is the glory of the Mount, 
 When bright beams of light did spring 
 Through the sackcloth covering, 
 Rays of glory found their way 
 Through the garment of decay. 
 With which, as with a cloak, He had 
 His divinest splendor clad ; 
 Dear the precious ointment shed 
 On His feet, and on His head ; 
 And the high-raised hope sublime, 
 And the triumph of the time 
 When through Zion's streets the way 
 Of her peaceful Conqueror lay. 
 Who, fulfilling ancient fame. 
 Meek, and with salvation came. 
 But of all this scanty state 
 That upon His steps might wait. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 41 
 
 Dearest are those Magian Kings 
 With their far-brought offerings. 
 From what region of the morn 
 Are ye come thus travel-worn, 
 With those boxes pearl-embost, 
 Caskets rare, and gifts of cost ? 
 While your swarth attendants wait 
 At the stable's outer gate, 
 And the camels lift their head 
 High above the lowly shed ; 
 Or are seen a long-drawn train 
 Winding down into the plain, 
 From below the light blue line 
 Of the hills in distance fine. 
 
 Dear for your own sake, whence are ye ? 
 
 Dearer for the mystery 
 
 That is round you, — on what skies 
 
 Gazing, saw you first arise 
 
 Through the darkness that clear star 
 
 Which has marshalled you so far, 
 
 Even unto this strawy tent, 
 
 Dancing up the Orient ? 
 
 Shall we name you kings indeed, 
 
 Or is this our idle creed ? 
 
 Kings of Seba, with the gold 
 
 And the incense long foretold ? 
 
 Would the Gentile world by you 
 
 First-fruits pay of tribute due. 
 
 Or have Israel's scattered race. 
 
 From their unknown hiding-place, 
 
 Sent to claim their part and right 
 
 In the Child new-born to-night ? 
 
42 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 But although we may not guess 
 
 Of your lineage, not the less 
 
 We the selfsame gifts would bring 
 
 For a spiritual offering. 
 
 May the frankincense in air 
 
 As it climbs instruct our prayer. 
 
 That it ever upward tend, 
 
 Ever struggle to ascend, 
 
 Leaving earth, yet ere it go 
 
 Fragrance rich diffuse below. 
 
 As the myrrh is bitter sweet. 
 
 So in us may such things meet, 
 
 As unto the mortal taste 
 
 Bitter seeming, yet at last 
 
 Shall to them who try be kno^ni 
 
 To have sweetness of their own, — 
 
 Tears for sin, which sweeter far 
 
 Than the world's mad laughters are ; 
 
 Desires, that in their dying give 
 
 Pain, but die that we may live. 
 
 And the gold from Araby, — 
 
 Fitter symbol who could see 
 
 Of the love which, thrice refined, 
 
 Love to God and to our kind. 
 
 Duly tendered, He will call 
 
 Best pleasing sacrifice of all ? 
 
 Thus so soon as far apart 
 From the proud world, in our heart 
 As in stable dark, defiled. 
 There is born th' Eternal Child, 
 May to Him the spirit's kings 
 Bear their choicest offerings ; 
 
The Swtday Book of Poetry 43 
 
 May the affections, reason, will. 
 Wait upon Him to fulfil 
 His behests, and early pay 
 Homage to His natal day. 
 
 Archbishop Trench 
 
 XXXVI 
 
 THE CHILDHOOD OF CHRIST 
 
 BY cool Siloam's shady rill 
 How sweet the lily grows ; 
 How sweet the breath beneath the hill 
 
 Of Sharon's dewy rose : 
 Lo such the child whose early feet 
 
 The paths of peace have trod ; 
 Whose secret heart with influence sweet 
 Is lifted up to God. 
 
 By cool Siloam's shady rill 
 
 The lily must decay ; 
 The rose that blooms beneath the hill 
 
 Must shortly fade away ; 
 And soon, too soon, the wintry hour 
 
 Of man's maturer age 
 Will shake the soul with sorrow's power, 
 
 And stormy passion's rage. 
 
 O Thou whose infant feet were found 
 
 Within Thy Father's shrine. 
 Whose years with changeless virtue crowned 
 
 Were all alike Divine : 
 
44 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Dependent on Thy bounteous breath, 
 
 We seek Thy grace alone 
 In childhood, manhood, age, and death, 
 
 To keep us still Thine o\^^^. 
 
 Bishop Hcber 
 
 XXXVII 
 
 GLORIES OF THE MESSIAH 
 
 RISE, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise. 
 Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes ! 
 See a long race thy spacious courts adorn ; 
 See future sons and daughters, yet unborn, 
 In crowding ranks on every side arise, 
 Demanding life, impatient for the skies ! 
 See barbarous nations at thy gate attend, 
 Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend ; 
 See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate kings. 
 And heaped with products of Sabean springs ! 
 For thee, Idume's spicy forests blow. 
 And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. 
 See Heaven its sparkling portals wide display, 
 And break upon thee in a flood of day. 
 No more the rising sun shall gild the morn. 
 Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn ; 
 But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays. 
 One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze 
 O'erflow tliy courts : the Light Himself shall shine 
 Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine ! 
 The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, 
 Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away ; 
 But fixed His word. His saving power remains ; 
 Thy realm forever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns. 
 
 A. Pope 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry. 45 
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 CHRIST BETRAYED 
 
 EIGHTEEN hundred years agone 
 Was that deed of darkness done - 
 Was that sacred thorn-crowned head 
 To a shameful death betrayed, 
 And Iscariot's traitor name 
 Blazoned in eternal shame. 
 Thou, disciple of our time, 
 Follower of the faith sublime, 
 Who with high and holy scorn 
 Of that traitorous deed dost burn. 
 Though the years may nevermore 
 To our earth that form restore. 
 The Christ-spirit ever lives — 
 Ever in thy heart He strives. 
 When pale misery mutely calls. 
 When thy brother tempted falls, 
 When thy gentle words may chain 
 Hate, and anger, and disdain, 
 Or Thy loving smile impart 
 Courage to some sinking heart : 
 When within Thy troubled breast 
 Good and evil thoughts contest, 
 Though unconscious thou mayst be, 
 The Christ-spirit strives with thee. 
 
 When He trod the holy land 
 With His small disciple band. 
 And the fated hour had come 
 For that august martyrdom — 
 
46 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 When the man, the human love, 
 And the God within Him strove — 
 As in Gethsemane He wept, 
 They, the faithless watchers, slept : 
 "While for them He wept and prayed, 
 One denied, and one betrayed ! 
 
 If to-day thou turn'st aside, 
 In thy luxury and pride, 
 Wrapped within thyself, and blind 
 To the sorrows of thy kind, 
 Thou a faithless watch dost keep, — 
 Thou art one of those who sleep : 
 Or, if waking, thou dost see 
 Nothing of divinity 
 In our fallen struggling race, — 
 If in them thou see'st no trace 
 Of a glory dimmed, not gone, 
 Of a future to be won. 
 Of a future, hopeful, high. 
 Thou, like Peter, dost deny : 
 But, if seeing, thou believest. 
 If the Evangel thou receivest. 
 Yet, if thou art bound to sin, 
 False to the ideal within. 
 Slave of ease, or slave of gold. 
 Thou the Son of God hast sold. 
 
 A. C. Lynch 
 
 -^|^^a«*- 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 47 
 
 XXXIX 
 
 THE DEATH OF CHRIST 
 
 LORD Jesu, when we stand afar 
 And gaze upon Thy Holy Cross, 
 In love of Thee and scorn of self, 
 O, may we count the world as loss ! 
 
 When we behold Thy bleeding wounds, 
 And the rough way that Thou hast trod, 
 
 Make us to hate the load of sin 
 That lay so heavy on our God. 
 
 O holy Lord ! uplifted high 
 
 With outstretched arms, in mortal woe, 
 Embracing in Thy wondrous love 
 
 The sinful world that lies below : 
 
 Give us an ever-living faith 
 
 To gaze beyond the things we see ; 
 And in the mystery of Thy Death 
 
 Draw us and all men unto Thee ! 
 
 William Walsham Howe 
 
48 77/.? Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 XL 
 GOOD FRIDAY 
 
 BOUND upon th' accursed tree, 
 Faint and bleeding, who is He ? 
 By the eyes so pale and dim, 
 Streaming blood and writhing limb, 
 By the flesh with scourges torn, 
 By the crown of twisted thorn, 
 By the side so deeply pierced, 
 By the baffled burning thirst, 
 By the drooping death-dewed brow 
 Son of Man ! 't is Thou, 't is Thou ! 
 
 Bound upon th' accursed tree, 
 Dread and awful, who is He ? 
 By the sun at noonday pale. 
 Shivering rocks, and rending veil, 
 By earth that trembles at His doom, 
 By yonder saints who burst their tomb. 
 By Eden promised, ere He died, 
 To the felon at His side ; 
 Lord, our suppliant knees we bow. 
 Son of God ! 'tis Thou ! 't is Thou ! 
 
 Bound upon th' accursed tree, 
 Sad, and dying, who is He ? 
 By the last and bitter cry, 
 The ghost given up in agony, 
 By the lifeless body laid 
 In the chamber of the dead. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 49 
 
 By the mourners come to weep 
 Where the bones of Jesus sleep ; 
 Crucified ! we know Thee now ; 
 Son of Man ! 't is Thou ! 't is Thou ! 
 
 Bound upon th' accursed tree, 
 
 Dread and awful, who is He? 
 
 By the prayer for them that slew, — 
 
 " Lord ! they know not what they do ! " 
 
 By the spoiled and empty grave, 
 
 By the souls He died to save. 
 
 By the conquest He hath won, 
 
 By the saints before His throne. 
 
 By the rainbow round His brow. 
 
 Son of God ! 't is Thou ! 't is Thou ! 
 
 Henry Hart Milman 
 
 " THEY CRUCIFIED HIM'' 
 
 OCOME and mourn with me a while 
 O come ye to the Saviour's side ; 
 O come, together let us mourn : 
 Jesus, our Lord, is crucified. 
 
 Have we no tears to shed for Him 
 While soldiers scoff, and Jews deride ? 
 Ah, look how patiently He hangs ; 
 Jesus, our Lord, is crucified. 
 
 How fast His hands and feet are nailed ; 
 His throat with parching thirst is dried ; 
 4 
 
50 The Stmday Book of Poetry 
 
 His failing eyes are dimmed with blood ; 
 Jesus, our Lord, is crucified. 
 
 Seven times He spake, seven words of love ; 
 And all three hours His silence cried 
 For mercy on the souls of men ; 
 Jesus, our Lord, is crucified. 
 
 Come, let us stand beneath the crO^s ; 
 So may the blood from out His side 
 Fall gently on us, drop by drop ; 
 Jesus, our Lord, is crucified. 
 
 A broken heart, a fount of tears, 
 Ask, and they will not be denied ; 
 Lord Jesus, may we love, and weep, 
 Since Thou for us art crucified. 
 
 Frederic W. Faber 
 
The Sjinday Book of Poetry 
 
 XLII 
 
 LITANY TO THE SAVIOUR 
 
 WHEN our heads are bowed with woe, 
 When our bitter tears o'erflow, 
 When we mourn the lost, the dear, 
 Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 
 
 Thou our tlirobbing flesh hast worn. 
 Thou our mortal griefs hast borne. 
 Thou hast shed the human tear, 
 Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 
 
 When the sullen death-bell tolls 
 For our own departing souls ; 
 When our final doom is near, 
 Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 
 
 Thou hast bowed the dying head ; 
 Thou the blood of life hast shed ; 
 Thou hast filled a mortal bier : 
 Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 
 
 When the heart is sad within 
 With the thought of all its sin. 
 When the spirit shrinks with fear, 
 Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 
 
 Thou the shame, the grief hast kno\^Ti, 
 Though the sins were not Thine own ; 
 Thou hast deigned their load to bear, 
 Gracious Son of Mary, hear ! 
 
 Henry Hart Mil man 
 
52 The Sunday Book of Poetiy 
 
 XLIII 
 
 LITANY TO OUR LORD 
 
 SAVIOUR, when in dust to Thee 
 Low we bow th' adoring knee ; 
 When repentant to the skies 
 Scarce we hft our weeping eyes ; 
 O, by all Thy pain and woe 
 Suffered- once for man below, 
 Bending from Thy throne on high, 
 Hear our solemn Litany ! 
 
 By Thy helpless infant years, 
 By Thy life of want and tears, 
 By Thy days of sore distress 
 In the savage wilderness, 
 By the dread mysterious hour 
 Of the insulting tempter's power, 
 Turn, O turn a favoring eye ; 
 Hear our solemn Litany ! 
 
 By the sacred griefs that wept 
 O'er the grave where Lazarus slept ; 
 By the boding tears that flowed 
 Over Salem's loved abode ; 
 By the anguished sigh that told 
 Treacheiy lurked within Thy fold ; 
 From Thy seat above the sky. 
 Hear our solemn Litany ! 
 
 By Thine hour of dire despair, 
 By Thine agony of prayer, 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 53 
 
 By the cross, the nail, the thorn, 
 Piercing spear, and torturing scorn j 
 By the gloom that veiled the skies 
 O'er the dreadful sacrifice ; 
 Listen to our humble cry, 
 Hear our solemn Litany ! 
 
 By Thy deep expiring groan ; 
 By the sad sepulchral stone ; 
 By the vault, whose dark abode 
 Held in vain the rising God ; 
 O from earth to heaven restored. 
 Mighty reascended Lord, 
 Listen, listen to the cry 
 Of our solemn Litany ! 
 
 Si>' R. Grant 
 
 XLIV 
 
 TO THE SAVIOUR 
 
 STAR of morn and even, 
 Sun of Heaven's heaven. 
 Saviour high and dear 
 Towards us turn Thine ear ; 
 Through whate'er may come, 
 Thou canst lead us home. 
 
 Though the gloom be grievous, 
 Those we leant on leave us, 
 Though the coward heart 
 Quit its proper part, 
 Though the Tempter come, 
 Thou wilt lead us home. 
 
54 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Saviour pure and holy, 
 
 Lover of the lowly, 
 Sign us with Thy sign, 
 Take our hands in Thine, 
 Take our hands and come, 
 Lead Thy children home. 
 
 Star of morn and even. 
 Shine on us from Heaven, 
 
 From Thy glory-throne 
 
 Hear Thy veiy own ! 
 
 Lord and Saviour, come, 
 
 Lead us to our home ! 
 
 F. T. Palc^rave 
 
 XLV 
 
 THE CROSS 
 
 WHEN I survey the wondrous cross 
 On which the Prince of Glory died, 
 My richest gain I count but loss, 
 And pour contempt on all my pride. 
 
 Forbid it. Lord, that I should boast. 
 Save in the death of Christ, my God ; 
 
 All the vain things that charm me most, 
 I sacrifice them to His blood. 
 
 See from His head. His hands. His feet. 
 Sorrow and love flow mingled dowai ! 
 
 Did e'er such love and sorrow meet. 
 Or thorns compose so rich a ci^own ? 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 55 
 
 Were the whole realm of nature mine, 
 That were a present far too small ; 
 
 Love so amazing, so divine, 
 
 Demands my soul, my life, my all. 
 
 Isaac Watts 
 
 XLVI 
 
 ROCK OF AGES 
 
 ROCK of Ages, cleft for me. 
 Let me hide myself in Thee ! 
 Let the water and the blood. 
 From Thy riven side which flowed. 
 Be of sin the double cure. 
 Cleanse me from its guilt and power. 
 
 Not the labors of my hands 
 Can fulfil Thy law's demands ; 
 Could my zeal no respite know, 
 Could my tears forever flow. 
 All for sin could not atone ; 
 Thou must save, and Thou alone. 
 
 Nothing in my hand I bring ; 
 Simply to Thy cross I cling ; 
 Naked, come to Thee for dress ; 
 Helpless, look to Thee for grace ; 
 Foul, I to the Fountain fly ; 
 Wash me, Saviour, or I die ! 
 
 While I draw this fleeting breath. 
 When my heartstrings break in death, 
 
56 The Stinday Book of Poetry 
 
 When I soar through tracts unknown, 
 See Thee on Thy judgment-throne ; 
 Rock of Ages, cleft for me. 
 Let me hide myself in Thee ! 
 
 A. M. Toplady 
 
 XLVII 
 
 HYMN FOR EASTER EVE 
 
 ALL is o'er ; — the pain, — the sorrow, 
 Human taunts, and fiendish spite, 
 Death shall be despoiled to-morrow 
 Of the prey he grasps to-night ; 
 Yet, once more to seal His doom, 
 Christ must sleep within the tomb. 
 
 Close and still the cell that holds Him, 
 
 While in brief repose He lies ; 
 Deep the slumber that enfolds Him, 
 Veiled a while from mortal eyes : — 
 Slumber, such as needs must be 
 After hard-won victory. 
 
 Fierce and deadly was the anguish 
 
 Which on yonder cross He bore ; 
 How did soul and body languish, 
 Till the toil of death was o'er ! 
 But that toil, so fierce and dread. 
 Bruised and crushed the serpent's head. 
 
 Whither hath His soul departed? — 
 Roams it on some blissful shore. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 57 
 
 Where the meek and faithful-hearted, 
 Vext by this world's hate no more, 
 Wait until the trump of doom 
 Call their bodies from the tomb? 
 
 Or, on some benignant mission. 
 To the imprisoned spirit sent. 
 Hath He to their dark condition 
 Gleams of hope and mercy lent ? 
 Souls not wholly lost of old 
 When o'er earth the deluge rolled ! 
 
 Ask no more ; — the abyss is deeper 
 
 E'en than angels' thoughts may scan ; 
 Come and watch the Heavenly Sleeper ; 
 Come, and do what mortals can. 
 Reverence meet toward Him to prove, 
 Faith, and trust, and humble love. 
 
 Far away, amidst the regions 
 
 Of the bright and balmy east, 
 Guarded by angelic legions. 
 
 Till death's slumber shall have ceased, 
 (How should we its stillness stir?) 
 Lies the Saviour's sepulchre. 
 
 Far away ; — yet thought would wander 
 (Thought by faith's sure guidance led) 
 Farther yet to weep, and ponder 
 Over that sepulchral bed. 
 Thither let us haste, and flee 
 On the wings of phantasy. 
 
 Haste, from every clime and nation. 
 Fervent youth, and reverent age ; 
 
58 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Peasant, prince, — each rank and station, 
 Haste, and join this pilgrimage. 
 East and west, and south and north, 
 Send your saintHest spirits forth. 
 
 Mothers, ere the curtain closes 
 
 Round your children's sleep to-night. 
 Tell them how their Lord reposes, 
 Waiting for to-morrow's light ; 
 Teach their dreams to Him to rove, 
 Him who loved them, Him they love. 
 
 IVIatron grave and blooming maiden. 
 
 Hoary sage and beardless boy. 
 Hearts with grief and care o'erladen. 
 Hearts brimful of hope and joy. 
 Come, and greet in death's dark hall, 
 Him who felt with, felt for all. 
 
 Men of God, devoutly toiling 
 
 This world's fetters to unbind ; 
 Satan of his prey despoiling 
 In the hearts of human kind ; 
 Let, to-night, your labors cease. 
 Give your care-worn spirits peace. 
 
 Ye who roam our seas and mountains, 
 
 Messengers of love and light ; 
 Ye who guard truth's sacred fountains. 
 Wear}' day and wakeful night ; 
 Men of labor, men of lore, 
 Give your toils and studies o'er. 
 
 Dwellers in the woods and valleys. 
 Ye of meek and lowly breast ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poctiy 59 
 
 Ye who, pent in crowded alleys, 
 Labor early, late take rest ; 
 Leave the plough, and leave the loom ; 
 Meet us at our Saviour's tomb. 
 
 From your halls of stately beauty, 
 
 vSculptured roof, and marble floor. 
 In this work of Christain duty 
 
 Haste, ye rich, and join the poor. 
 Mean and noble, bond and free 
 Meet in frank equality. 
 
 Lo, His grave ! the grey rock closes 
 
 O'er that virgin burial-ground ; 
 Near it breathe the garden roses, 
 Trees funereal droop around. 
 In whose boughs the small birds rest. 
 And the stock-dove builds her nest. 
 
 And the morn with floods of splendor 
 
 Fills the spicy midnight air ; 
 Tranquil sounds, and voices tender. 
 Speak of life and gladness there ; 
 Ne'er was living thing, I wot, 
 "Which our Lord regarded not. 
 
 Bird, and beast, and insect rover, — • 
 
 E'en the lilies of the field. 
 Till His gentle life was over, 
 
 Heavenly thought to Him could yield. 
 All that is, to Him did prove, 
 Food for wisdom, food for love. 
 
 But the hearts that bowed before Him 
 Most of all to Him were dear ; 
 
6o The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Let such hearts to-night watch o'er Him 
 Till the day-spring shall appear : — 
 Then a brighter sun shall rise 
 Than e'er kindled up the skies. 
 
 All night long, with plaintive voicing, 
 
 Chant His requiem soft and low ; 
 Loftier strains of loud rejoicing 
 
 From to-morrow's harps shall flow. 
 *' Death and hell at length are slain, 
 Christ hath triumphed, Christ doth reign." 
 
 J. Moultrie 
 
 XLVIII 
 
 THE RESURRECTION 
 
 I GOT me flowers to strew Thy way ; 
 I got me boughs off many a tree : 
 But Thou wast up by break of day 
 And brought'st Thy sweets along with Thee. 
 
 The sun arising in the East, 
 
 Though he give light, and the East perfume ; 
 
 If they should offer to contest 
 
 With Thy arising, they presume. 
 
 Can there be any day but this. 
 Though many suns to shine endeavor ? 
 We count three hundred, but we miss : 
 There is but One, and that One ever. 
 
 George Herbert 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 6i 
 
 THE ASCENSION 
 
 HE is gone — beyond the skies, 
 A cloud receives Him from our eyes 
 Gone beyond the highest height 
 Of mortal gaze or angel's flight ; 
 Through the veils of time and space, 
 Passed into the holiest place ; 
 All the toil, the sorrow done. 
 All the battle fought and won. 
 
 He is gone, — and we return, 
 And our hearts within us burn ; 
 Olivet no more shall greet, 
 With welcome shout. His coming feet ; 
 Never shall we thank Him more 
 On Gennesareth's glist'ning shore, 
 Never in that look, or voice. 
 Shall Zion's walls again rejoice. 
 
 He is gone, — and we remain 
 In this world of sin and pain, 
 In the void which He has left ; 
 On this earth, of Him bereft ; 
 We have still His work to do, 
 W^e can still His path pursue. 
 Seek Him both in friend or foe, 
 In ourselves His image show. 
 
 He is gone, — but we once more 
 Shall behold Him as before. 
 
62 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 In the Heaven of Heavens the same 
 As on earth He went and came ; 
 In the many mansions there, 
 Peace for us He will prepare, 
 In that world, unseen, unknown, 
 He and we may yet be one. 
 
 He is gone, — but not in vain ; 
 Wait, until He comes again ; 
 He is risen. He is not here. 
 Far above this earthly sphere ; 
 Evermore in heart, and mind. 
 There our peace in Him we find, 
 To our own Eternal Friend, 
 Thitherward let us ascend. 
 
 A. P. Stanley 
 
 CHRIST'S ASCENSION 
 
 GOD is ascended up on high, 
 With merry noise of trumpet-sound, 
 And princely seated in the sky. 
 Rules over all the world around. 
 
 Sing praises then, sing praises loud 
 
 Unto our universal King : 
 He who ascended on a cloud. 
 
 To Him all laud and praises sing. 
 
 In human flesh and shape He went. 
 Adorned with His passion's scars ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 63 
 
 Which in Heaven's sight He did present 
 More glorious than the ghttering stars. 
 
 O happy pledge of pardon sure, 
 
 And of an endless blissful state, 
 Since human nature once made pure. 
 
 For Heaven becomes so fit a mate ! 
 
 Lord, raise our sinking minds therefore. 
 
 Up to our proper country dear ; 
 And purify us evermore, 
 
 To fit us for those regions clear. 
 
 That when He shall return again 
 
 In clouds of glory, as He went, 
 Our souls no foulness may retain. 
 
 But be found pure and innocent. 
 
 And so may mount to His bright hosts 
 
 On eagle wings up to the sky. 
 And be conducted to the courts 
 
 Of everlasting bliss and joy. 
 
 Henry Moore 
 
64 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 CHRIST OUR GOD 
 
 HE, who on earth as man was known, 
 And boi"e our sins and pains, 
 Now, seated on the eternal Throne, 
 The God of Glory reigns. 
 
 His hands the wheels of Nature guide 
 
 With an unerring skill, 
 And countless worlds, extended wide, 
 
 Obey His sovereign will. 
 
 While harps unnumbered sound His praise 
 
 In yonder world above. 
 His saints on earth admire His ways 
 
 And glory in His love. 
 
 His righteousness, to faith revealed, 
 Wrought out for guilty worms, 
 
 Affords a hiding-place and shield 
 From enemies and storms. 
 
 This land through which His pilgrims go. 
 
 Is desolate and dry ; 
 But streams of grace from Him o'erflow, 
 
 Their thirst to satisfy. 
 
 When troubles, like a burning sun, 
 
 Beat hea\-y on their head. 
 To this Almighty Rock they run, 
 
 And find a pleasing shade. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 65 
 
 How glorious He ! how happy they 
 
 In such a glorious Friend ! 
 Whose love secures them all the way, 
 
 And crowns them at the end. 
 
 y. N'eivton 
 
 THE MEDIATOR 
 
 WHERE high the heavenly temple stands, 
 The house of God not made with hands, 
 A great High Priest our nature wears, 
 The Saviour of mankind appears. 
 
 He who for man in mercy stood, 
 And poured on earth His precious blood, 
 Pursues in heaven His plan of grace. 
 The guardian God of human race. 
 
 Though now ascended up on high. 
 He bends on earth a brother's eye. 
 Partaker of the human name, 
 He knows the frailty of our frame. 
 
 Our fellow-sufferer yet retains 
 A fellow-feeling for our pains ; 
 And still remembers in the skies, 
 His tears, and agonies, and cries. 
 
 In every pang that rends the heart 
 The Man of Sorrows had a part ; 
 5 
 
66 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 He sympathises in our grief, 
 And to the sufiferer sends rehef. 
 
 With boldness, therefore, at the throne, 
 Let us make all our sorrows known. 
 And ask the aids of heavenly power. 
 To help us in the evil hour. 
 
 J. Logan 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 67 
 
 III 
 
 THE WRITTEN WORD 
 
 LI 1 1 
 
 THE BIBLE 
 
 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. 
 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. 
 
 jfohn Dry den 
 
 A' 
 
 THE GOSPELS 
 
 ND so the Word had breath, and wrought 
 /~\. With human hands the creed of creeds, 
 
 In loveliness of perfect deeds. 
 More strong than all poetic thought. 
 
 Which he may read that binds the sheaf. 
 Or builds the house, or digs the grave. 
 And those wild eyes that watch the wave 
 
 In roarings round the coral reef. 
 
 A. TeiDiyson 
 
68 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 THE SECOND DAY OF CREATION 
 
 THIS world I deem 
 But a beautiful dream 
 Of shadows that are not what they seem, 
 Where visions rise, 
 Giving dim surmise 
 Of the things that shall meet our waking eyes. 
 
 Arm of the Lord ! 
 
 Creating Word ! 
 Whose gloiy the silent skies record 
 
 Where stands Thy name 
 
 In scrolls of flame 
 On the firmament's high-shadowing frame. 
 
 I gaze o'erhead, 
 
 Where Thy hand hath spread 
 For the waters of Heaven that crystal bed, 
 
 And stored the dew 
 
 In its deeps of blue, 
 Which the fires of the sun come tempered through. 
 
 Soft they shine 
 
 Through that pure shrine, 
 As beneath the veil of Thy flesh divine. 
 
 Beams forth the light 
 
 That were else too bright 
 For the feebleness of a sinner's sight. 
 
 I gaze aloof 
 On the tissued roof. 
 Where time and space are the warp and woof. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 69 
 
 Which the King of kings 
 As a curtain flings 
 O'er the dreadfuhiess of eternal things, — 
 
 A tapestried tent 
 
 To shade us meant 
 From the bare everlasting firmament ; 
 
 Where the blaze of the skies 
 
 Comes soft to our eyes 
 Through a veil of mystical imageries. 
 
 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. 
 
 O ! 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 ? 
 
 Christ us aid ! 
 
 Himself be our shade, 
 That in that dread day we be not dismayed. 
 
 T. Whytchcad 
 
70 The Sunday Book of Fodry 
 
 LVI 
 
 THE THIRD DAY OF CREATION 
 
 THOU spakest, and the waters rolled 
 Back from the earth away, 
 They fled, by Thy strong voice controlled, 
 
 Till Thou didst bid them stay : 
 Then did that rushing, mighty ocean, 
 Like a tame creature cease its motion. 
 Nor dared to pass where'er Thy hand 
 Had fixed its bound of slender sand. 
 
 And freshly risen from out the deep 
 
 The land lay tranquil now 
 Like a new-christened child asleep 
 
 With the dew upon its brow : 
 As when in after time the earth 
 Rose from her second wateiy birth, 
 In pure baptismal garments drest, 
 And calmly waiting to be blest. 
 
 Again Thou spakest, Lord of power, 
 
 And straight the land was seen 
 All clad with tree, and herb, and flower, 
 
 A robe of lustrous green : 
 Like souls, wherein the hidden strength 
 Of their new birth is waked at length. 
 When, robed in holiness, they tell 
 What might did in those waters dwell. 
 
 Lord, o'er the waters of my soul 
 The word of peace be said ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry \ 
 
 Its thoughts and passions bid Thou roll 
 
 Each in its channelled bed ; 
 Till that in peaceful order flowing, 
 They time their glad obedient going 
 To Thy commands, whose voice to-day 
 Bade the tumultuous floods obey. 
 
 For, restless as the moaning sea. 
 
 The wild and wayward will 
 From side to side is wearily 
 
 Changing and tossing still ; 
 But swayed by Thee, 't is like the river 
 That down its green banks flows for ever, 
 And calm and constant tells to all 
 The blessedness of such sweet thrall. 
 
 Then in my heart, Spirit of might, 
 
 Awake the life within. 
 And bid a spring-tide, calm and bright, 
 
 Of holiness begin : 
 So let it lie with Heaven's grace 
 Full shining on its quiet face. 
 Like the young earth in peace profound. 
 Amid the assuaged waters round. 
 
 T. Whytehead 
 
72 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 LVII 
 
 THE SEVENTH DAY OF CREATION 
 
 SABBATH of the saints of old, 
 Day of mysteries manifold ; 
 By the great Creator blest, 
 Type of His eternal rest : 
 I with thoughts of thee would seek 
 To sanctify the closing week 
 
 Resting from His work, the Lord 
 Spake to-day the hallowing word ; 
 And, His wondrous labors done, 
 Now the everlasting Son 
 Gave to heaven and earth the sign 
 Of a wonder more divine. 
 
 Resting from His work to-day. 
 In the tomb the Saviour lay, 
 His sacred form from head to feet 
 Swathed in the winding-sheet, 
 Lying in the rock alone, 
 Hid beneath the sealed stone. 
 
 All the seventh day long I ween 
 Mournful watched the Magdalene, 
 Rising early, resting late. 
 By the sepulchre to wait. 
 In the holy garden glade 
 Where her buried Lord was laid. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 73 
 
 So with Thee till life shall end 
 I would solemn vigil spend ; 
 Let me hew Thee, Lord, a shrine 
 In this rocky heart of mine. 
 Where in pure embalmed cell 
 None but Thou may'st ever dwell. 
 
 Myrrh and spices I will bring. 
 My poor affection's offering, 
 Close the door from sight and sound 
 Of the busy world around, 
 And in patient watch remain 
 Till my Lord appear again. 
 
 Then, the new creation done. 
 Shall be Thy endless rest begun ; 
 Jesu, keep me safe from sin, 
 That I with them may enter in. 
 And danger past, and toil at end. 
 To Thy resting-place ascend. 
 
 T. Whytchcad 
 
74 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 LVIII 
 
 SLEEPING ON THE WATERS 
 
 WHILE snows, even from the mild south-west, 
 Come bhnding o'er all day, 
 What kindUer home, what safer nest 
 
 For flower or fragrant spray, 
 Than underneath some cottage roof, 
 
 Where fires are bright within. 
 
 And fretting cares scowl far aloof. 
 
 And doors are closed on sin ? 
 
 The scarlet tufts so cheerily 
 
 Look out upon the snow. 
 But gayer smiles the maiden eye 
 
 Whose garden care they know. 
 The buds that in that nook are born, 
 
 Through the dark howling day 
 Old Winter's spite they laugh to scorn : — 
 
 Who is so safe as they ? 
 
 Nay, look again, beside the hearth 
 
 The lowly cradle mark. 
 Where, weary with his ten hours' mirth. 
 
 Sleeps in his own warm ark 
 A bright-haired babe, with arm upraised 
 
 As though the slumberous dew 
 Stole o'er him, while in faith he gazed 
 
 Upon his guardian true. 
 
 Storms may rush in, and crimes and woes 
 Deform the quiet bower ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry. 75 
 
 They may not mar the deep repose 
 
 Of that immortal flower. 
 Though only broken hearts be found 
 
 To watch his cradle by, 
 No blight is on his slumbers sound, 
 
 No touch of harmful eye. 
 
 So gently slumbered on the wave 
 
 The new-born seer of old. 
 Ordained the chosen tribes to save ; 
 
 Nor deemed how darkly rolled 
 The waters by his rushy bark. 
 
 Perchance e'en now defiled 
 With infant's blood for Israel's sake, 
 
 Blood of some priestly child. 
 
 What recks he of his mother's tears, 
 
 His sister's boding sigh ? 
 The whispering reeds are all he hears. 
 
 And Nile, soft weltering nigh. 
 Sings him to sleep, but he will wake. 
 
 And o'er the haughty flood 
 Wave his stern rod ; and lo ! a lake, 
 
 A restless sea of blood ! 
 
 Soon shall a mightier flood thy call 
 
 And outstretched rod obey ; 
 To right and left the watery wall 
 
 From Israel shrinks away. 
 Such honor wins the faith that gave 
 
 Thee, and thy sweetest boon 
 Of infant charms to the rude wave, 
 
 In the third joyous moon. 
 
76 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Hail, chosen type and image true 
 
 Of Jesus on the sea ! 
 In slumber and in gloiy too 
 
 Shadowed of old by Thee, — 
 Save that in calmness thou didst sleep 
 
 The summer stream beside ; 
 He on a wider, wilder deep, 
 
 Where boding night-winds sighed. 
 
 Sighed when at eve He laid Him down, 
 
 But with a sound like flame 
 At midnight from the mountain's crown 
 
 Upon His slumbers came. 
 Lo, how they watch, till He awake, 
 
 Around His rude low bed ; 
 How wistful count the waves that break 
 
 So near His sacred head. 
 
 O, faithless ! know ye not of old 
 
 How in the western bay, 
 When dark and vast the billows rolled, 
 
 A prophet slumbering lay ? 
 The surges smote the keel as fast 
 
 As thunderbolts from heaven, 
 Himself into the wave he cast. 
 
 And hope and life were given. 
 
 Behold a mightier far is here ; 
 
 Nor will He spare to leap. 
 For the soul's sake He loves so dear. 
 
 Into a wilder deep. 
 E'en now He dreams of Calvary ; 
 
 Soon will He wake, and say 
 The words of peace and might : Do ye 
 
 His hour in calmness stay. 
 
 J. Kcble 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 77 
 
 , LIX 
 
 THE DESTROYING ANGEL 
 
 HE stopped at last, 
 And a mild look of sacred pity cast 
 Down on the sinful land where he was sent 
 T' inflict the tardy punishment. 
 
 "Ah ! yet," said he, " yet, stubborn king, repent, 
 
 Whilst thus unarmed I stand, 
 Ere the keen sword of God fill my commanded hand ; 
 Suffer but yet thyself and thine to live : 
 Who would, alas ! believe 
 That it for man," said he, 
 " So hard to be forgiven should be, 
 And yet for God so easy to forgive ! " 
 
 Through Egypt's wicked land his march he took, 
 And as he marched the sacred firstborn strook 
 
 Of every womb : none did he spare, 
 None, from the meanest beast to Pharaoh's purple heir. 
 
 Whilst health and strength and gladness doth possess 
 The festal Hebrew cottages ; 
 
 The blest destroyer comes not there 
 
 To interrupt the sacred cheer : 
 Upon their doors he read, and understood 
 
 God's protection writ in blood ; 
 Well was he skilled i' the character divine ; 
 
 And though he passed by it in haste, 
 
 He bowed and worshipped, as he passed, 
 The mighty mystery through its humble sign. 
 
 A. Cozvhy 
 
78 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 LX 
 
 HOPES IN THE WILDERNESS 
 ( Ero??i the so7ig of the Manna Gatherers) 
 
 WE beside the wondrous river 
 In the appointed hour shall stand, 
 Following, as from Egypt ever. 
 
 Thy bright cloud and outstretched hand : 
 
 In Thy shadow, 
 We shall rest on Abraham's land. 
 
 Not by manna showers at morning 
 Shall our board be then supplied. 
 
 But a strange pale gold adorning 
 Many a tufted mountain side, 
 
 Yearly feed us. 
 Year by year our murmurings chide. 
 
 There, no prophet's touch awaiting. 
 From each cool deep cavern start 
 
 Rills, that since their first creating 
 Ne'er have ceased to play their part. 
 
 Oft we hear them 
 In our dreams with thirsty heart. 
 
 Deeps of blessing are before us : 
 
 Only while the desert sky 
 And the sheltering cloud hang o'er us 
 Morn by morn obediently, 
 
 Glean we manna. 
 And the song of Moses tiy. 
 
 y. Keble 
 
The SiDiday Book of Poetry 79 
 
 THE BURIAL OF' MOSES 
 
 BY Nebo's lonely mountain, 
 On this side Jordan's wave, 
 In a vale in the land of Moab 
 
 There lies a lonely grave. 
 And no man knows that sepulchre, 
 
 And no man saw it e'er, 
 For the angels of God upturned the sod, 
 And laid the dead man there. 
 
 That was the grandest funeral 
 
 That ever passed on earth ; 
 But no man heard the trampling. 
 
 Or saw the train go forth — 
 Noiselessly as the daylight 
 
 Comes back when night is done, 
 And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek 
 
 Grows into the great sun. 
 
 Noiselessly as the spring-time 
 
 Her crown of verdure weaves. 
 And all the trees on all the hills 
 
 Open their thousand leaves ; 
 So without sound of music, 
 
 Or voice of them that wept. 
 Silently down from the mountain's crown. 
 
 The great procession swept. 
 
 Perchance the bald old eagle. 
 On gray Beth-Peor's height, 
 
8o The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Out of his lonely eyrie, 
 
 Looked on the wondrous sight ; 
 Perchance the lion stalking, 
 
 Still shuns that hallowed spot, 
 For beast and bird have seen and heard 
 
 That which man knoweth not. 
 
 But when the warrior dieth, 
 
 His comrades in the war, 
 With arms reversed and muffled drum, 
 
 Follow his funeral car ; 
 They show the banners taken, 
 
 They tell his battles won. 
 And after him lead his masterless steed. 
 
 While peals the minute gun. 
 
 Amid the noblest of the land 
 
 We lay the sage to rest. 
 And give the bard an honored place, 
 
 With costly marble drest, 
 In the great minster transept 
 
 Where lights like glories fall. 
 And the organ rings, and the sweet choir sings 
 
 Along the emblazoned wall. 
 
 This was the truest warrior 
 
 That ever buckled sword, 
 This the most gifted poet 
 
 That ever breathed a word ; 
 
 And never earth's philosopher 
 
 Traced with his golden pen, 
 On the deathless page, truths half so sage 
 
 As he wrote down for men. 
 
The Sim Jay Book of Poetry 8i 
 
 And had he not high honor, — 
 
 The hillside for a pall, 
 To lie in state while angels wait 
 
 With stars for tapers tall, 
 And the dark rock-pines like tossing plumes, 
 
 Over his bier to wave. 
 And God's own hand, in that lonely land, 
 
 To lay him in the grave ? 
 
 In that strange grave without a name, 
 
 Whence his uncoffined clay 
 Shall break again, O wondrous thought ! 
 
 Before the judgment day. 
 And stand with gloiy wrapt around 
 
 On the hills he never trod. 
 And speak of the strife that won our life, 
 
 With the Incarnate Son of God. 
 
 O lonely grave in Moab's land ! 
 
 O dark Beth-Peor's hill ! 
 Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 
 
 And teach them to be still. 
 God hath His mysteries of grace. 
 
 Ways that we cannot tell ; 
 He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep 
 
 Of him He loved so well. 
 
 C. F. Alexander 
 
82 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 LXII 
 
 THE CALL OF DA VLD 
 
 LATEST born of Jesse's race, 
 Wonder lights thy bashful face, 
 While the prophet's gifted oil 
 Seals thee for a path of toil. 
 We, thy angels circling round thee 
 Ne'er shall find thee as we found thee, 
 When thy faith first brought us near, 
 In thy lion fight severe. 
 
 Go ! and 'mid thy flocks awhile 
 At thy doom of greatness smile ; 
 Bold to bear God's heaviest load, 
 Dimly guessing of the road, — 
 Rocky road, and scarce ascended 
 Though thy foot be angel-tended ! 
 Double praise thou shalt attain 
 In royal court and battle-plain : 
 Then comes heart-ache, care, distress, 
 Blighted hope, and loneliness, 
 Wounds from friend, and gifts from foe, 
 Dizzied faith, and guilt and woe, 
 Loftiest aims by earth defiled. 
 Gleams of wisdom, sin-beguiled, 
 Sated power's tyrannic mood. 
 Counsels shared with men of blood. 
 
 Strange that guileless face or form, 
 To lavish on the scarring storm ! 
 Yet we take thee in thy blindness. 
 And we harass thee in kindness ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry Zt^ 
 
 Little chary of thy fame, — 
 Dust unborn may bless or blame, — 
 But we mould thee for the root 
 Of man's promised healing fruit. 
 And we mould thee hence to rise 
 As our brother in the skies. 
 
 J. H. N'eivman 
 
 LXIII 
 
 '■'' Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one 
 ofthese.'^ 
 
 WHEN the great Hebrew king did almost strain 
 The wondrous treasures of his wealth and brain, 
 His royal southern guest to entertain ; 
 
 Though she on silver floors did tread. 
 With bright Assyrian carpets on them spread. 
 To hide the metal's poverty ; 
 Though she looked up to roofs of gold, 
 And naught around her could behold 
 But silk and rich embroidery, 
 And Babylonish tapestry, 
 And wealthy Hiram's princely dye ; 
 Though Ophir's starry stones met everywhere her eye ; 
 Though she herself, and her gay host were drest 
 With all the shining glories of the East ; 
 When lavish art her costly work had done, 
 The honor and the prize of bravery 
 Was by the garden from the palace won ; 
 And every rose and lily there did stand 
 Better attired by nature's hand. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Where does the wisdom and the power divine 
 
 In a more bright and sweet reflection shine? 
 
 Where do we finer strokes and colors see 
 
 Of the Creator's real poetry, 
 
 Than when we with attention look 
 Upon the third day's volume of the book ? 
 
 But we despise these His inferior ways, 
 
 Though no less full of miracle and praise : 
 Upon the flowers of heaven we gaze ; 
 
 The stars of earth no wonder in us raise. 
 
 A. Coivley 
 
 LXIV 
 
 NAAMAN'S SERVANT 
 
 " T T 7 HO for the like of me will care ? " 
 V V So whispers many a mournful heart, 
 When in the weary languid air, 
 For grief or scorn we pine apart. 
 
 So haply mused yon little maid. 
 
 From Israel's breezy mountain borne. 
 
 No more to rest in Sabbath shade, 
 Watching the free and waving corn. 
 
 A captive now, and sold, and bought, 
 In the proud Syrian's hall she waits, 
 
 Forgotten — such her moody thought — 
 Even as the worm beneath the gates. 
 
 But One who ne'er forgets is here : 
 He hath a word for thee to speak : 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 85 
 
 O sei-ve Him yet in duteous fear, 
 And to thy Gentile lord be meek. 
 
 So shall the healing Name be kno\vn 
 
 By thee on many a heathen shore, 
 And Naaman on his chariot throne 
 
 Wait humbly by Elisha's door. 
 
 By thee desponding lepers know 
 The sacred water's sevenfold might. 
 
 Then wherefore sink in listless woe ? 
 
 Christ's poor and needy claim your right. 
 
 Your heavenly right to do and bear 
 All for His sake ; nor yield one sigh 
 
 To pining doubt ; nor ask " What care 
 In the wide world for such as I ? " 
 
 J. Keble 
 
86 The Simday Book of PocUy 
 
 LXV 
 
 THE DESTRUCTION OF THE ASSYRIANS 
 
 The Assyrian came clown like the wolf on the fold, 
 And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold, 
 And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea. 
 When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee. 
 
 Like the leaves of the forest, when summer is green, 
 That host with their banners at sunset were seen, 
 Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown. 
 That host on the morrow lay withered and strown. 
 
 For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast, 
 And breathed on the face of the foe as he passed. 
 And the eyes of the sleeper waxed deadly and chill. 
 And their hearts but once heaved, and forever grew still. 
 
 And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide. 
 But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride ; 
 And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
 And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 
 
 And there lay the rider distorted and pale. 
 With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ; 
 And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
 The lances unlifted, the trumpets unblown. 
 
 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. 
 
 Lord Byron 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 87 
 
 HE A VENL V WISDOM 
 
 O HAPPY is the man who hears 
 Instruction's warning voice, 
 And who celestial wisdom makes 
 His early, only choice. 
 
 For she has treasures, greater far 
 
 Than east or west unfold. 
 And her reward is more secure 
 
 Than is the gain of gold. 
 
 In her right hand, she holds to view 
 
 A length of happy years ; 
 And in her left, the prize of fame, 
 
 And honor bright appears. 
 
 She guides the young with innocence, 
 In pleasure's path to tread ; 
 
 A crown of glory she bestows 
 Upon the hoary head. 
 
 According as her labors rise, 
 
 So her rewards increase ; 
 Her ways are ways of pleasantness. 
 
 And all her paths are peace. 
 
 J. Logan 
 
88 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 LXVII 
 
 HABAKKUK'S PRAYER 
 
 Chap. iii. 17, 18. 
 
 YET though the fig-tree should no burden bear, 
 Though vines dekide the promise of the year 
 Yet though the olive should not yield her oil, 
 Nor the parched glebe reward the peasant's toil ; 
 Though the tired ox beneath his labors fall, 
 And herds in millions perish from the stall ! 
 Yet shall my grateful strings 
 Forever praise Thy name, 
 Forever Thee proclaim 
 The everlasting God, the mighty King of kings. 
 
 Broome 
 
 LXVIII 
 
 JOB'S CONFESSION 
 
 THOU canst accomplish all things, Lord of might 
 And every thought is naked to Thy sight. 
 But O, Thy ways are wonderful, and lie 
 Beyond the deepest reach of mortal eye. 
 Oft have I heard of Thine Almighty power, 
 But never saw Thee till this dreadful hour. 
 O'envhelmed with shame, the Lord of life I see. 
 Abhor myself, and give my soul to Thee. 
 Nor shall my weakness tempt Thine anger more ; 
 Man is not made to question, but adore. 
 
 E. YoHJip- 
 
The Sunday Book of Podry 
 
 THE WATERS OF BABYLON- 
 
 BUT on before me swept the moonlit stream 
 That had entranced me with his memories, 
 A thousand battles, and one burst of Psalms — 
 Rolling his waters to the Indian sea 
 Beyond Balsara, and Elana far. 
 Nigh to two thousand miles from Ararat. 
 And his full music took a finer tone, 
 And sang me something of a gentler stream 
 That rolls forever to another shore, 
 Whereof our God Himself is the sole sea, 
 And Christ's dear love the pulsing of the tide. 
 And His sweet Spirit is the breathing wind. 
 Something it chanted, too, of exiled men. 
 On the sad bank of that strange river. Life, 
 Hanging the harp of their deep heart-desires 
 To rest upon the willow of the Cross, 
 And longing for the everlasting hills, 
 Mount Sion, and Jerusalem of God. 
 And then I thought I knelt, and kneeling heard 
 Nothing — save only the long wash of waves, 
 And one sweet Psalm that sobbed for evermore. 
 
 W. Alcxandci 
 
go The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 THE ANGELS' SONG 
 
 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, goodwill to men 
 From Heaven's all-gracious King": 
 The world in solemn stillness lay 
 To hear the angels sing. 
 
 Still through the cloven sky they come 
 
 With peaceful wings unfurled ; 
 And still their heavenly music floats 
 
 O'er all the wear)' world : 
 Above its sad and lowly plains 
 
 They bend on heavenly wing, 
 And ever o'er its Babel sounds 
 
 The blessed angels sing. 
 
 Yet with the woes of sin and strife 
 
 The world has suffered long ; 
 Beneath the angel strain have rolled 
 
 Two thousand years of wrong ; 
 And men, at war with men, hear not 
 
 The love-song which they bring : 
 O ! hush the noise, ye men of strife, 
 
 And hear the angels sing ! 
 
 And ye, beneath life's crushing load 
 Whose forms are bending low. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 91 
 
 Who toil along the climbing way 
 
 With painful steps and slow ; 
 Look now ! for glad and golden hours 
 
 Come swiftly on the wing : 
 O ! rest beside the weary road, 
 
 And hear the angels sing ! 
 
 For lo ! the days are hastening on, 
 
 By prophet-bards foretold, 
 When with the ever-circling years 
 
 Comes round the age of gold ; 
 When Peace shall over all the earth 
 
 Its ancient splendors fling, 
 And the whole world send back the song 
 
 Which now the angels sing. 
 
 E. H. Sears 
 
 LXXI 
 
 THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM 
 
 WHEN, marshalled on the nightly plain. 
 The glittering hosts 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 : 
 
92 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 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. 
 
 Now safely moored, my perils o'er, 
 I'll sing first in night's diadem. 
 
 Forever and forevermore. 
 
 The star ! the star of Bethlehem ! 
 
 H. Kirke White 
 
 THE SEA OF GALILEE 
 
 HOW pleasant to me thy deep blue wave, 
 O sea of Galilee ! 
 For the Glorious One, who came to save. 
 Has often stood by thee. 
 
 Fair are the lakes in the land I love, 
 
 Where pine and heather grow ; 
 But thou hast loveliness far above 
 
 What Nature can bestow. 
 
 It is not that the wild gazelle 
 
 Comes down to drink thy tide ; 
 But He that was pierced to save from hell 
 
 Oft wandered by thy side. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 93 
 
 It is not that the fig-tree grows, 
 
 And pahn, in thy soft air ; 
 But that Sharon's fair and bleeding rose 
 
 Once spread its fragrance there. 
 
 Graceful round thee the mountains meet, 
 
 Thou calm, reposing sea ; 
 But ah, far more ! the beautiful feet 
 
 Of Jesus walked o'er thee. 
 
 Those days are past, — Bethsaida, where ? 
 
 Chorazin, where art thou ? 
 His tent the wild Arab pitches tliere, 
 
 The wild reeds shade thy brow. 
 
 Tell me, ye mouldering fragments, tell, 
 
 Was the Saviour's city here? 
 Lifted to heaven, has it sunk to hell, 
 
 With none to shed a tear ? 
 
 Ah ! would my flock from thee might learn 
 
 How days of grace will flee ; 
 How all an offered Christ who spurn 
 
 Shall mourn, at last, like thee. 
 
 And was it beside this very sea 
 
 The new-risen Saviour said 
 Three times to Simon, "Lovest thou Me? 
 
 My lambs and sheep then feed ? " 
 
 O Saviour ! gone to God's right hand ! 
 
 Yet the same Saviour still, 
 Graved on Thy heart is this lovely strand. 
 
 And eveiy fragrant hill. 
 
94 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 O give me, Lord, by this sacred wave, 
 
 Threefold Thy love divine, 
 That I may feed, till I find my grace. 
 
 Thy flock, — both Thine and mine. 
 
 R. M. McCheyne 
 
 SAINT ANDREW 
 
 WHEN brothers part from manhood's race, 
 What gift may most enduring prove 
 To keep fond memory in her place, 
 And certify a brother's love ? 
 
 'T is true, bright hours together told, 
 And blissful dreams in secret shared. 
 
 Serene or solemn, gay or bold. 
 Shall last in fancy unimpaired. 
 
 E'en round the death-bed of the good 
 Such dear remembrances will hover. 
 
 And haunt us with no vexing mood, 
 When all the cares of earth are over. 
 
 But yet our craving spirits feel 
 
 We shall live on, though fancy die, 
 
 And seek a surer pledge, — a seal 
 Of love to last eternally. 
 
 Who art thou that wouldst grave thy name 
 
 Thus deeply in a brother's heart ? 
 Look on this saint, and learn to frame 
 
 Thy love-charm with true Christian art. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 95 
 
 First seek thy Saviour out, and dwell 
 
 Beneath the shadow of His roof, 
 Till thou have scanned His features well, 
 
 And known Him for the Christ by proof; 
 
 Such proof as they are sure to find 
 
 Who spend with Him their happy days. 
 
 Clean hands, and a self-ruling mind, 
 Ever in time for love and praise. 
 
 Thus, potent with the spell of Heaven, 
 
 Go, and thine erring brother gain ; 
 Entice him home to be forgiven, 
 
 Till he, too, see his Saviour plain. 
 
 Or, if before thee in the race, 
 
 Urge him with thine advancing tread, 
 
 Till, like twin stars, with even pace. 
 Each lucid course be duly sped. 
 
 No fading frail memorial give 
 To soothe his soul when thou art gone, 
 
 But wreaths of hope for ay to live, 
 And thoughts of good together done. 
 
 That so, before the judgment seat. 
 
 Though changed and glorified each face, 
 
 Not unremembered ye may meet 
 For endless ages to embrace. 
 
 J. Keble 
 
96 The Stuiday Book of Poetry 
 
 LAZARUS 
 
 WHEN Lazarus left his charnel-cave, 
 And home to Mary's house returned, 
 Was this demanded, ■ — if he yearned 
 To hear her weeping by his grave ? 
 
 Where wert thou, Brother, those four days? 
 
 There lives no record of reply, 
 
 Wliich telling what it is to die 
 Had surely added praise to praise. 
 
 From every house the neighbors met, 
 The streets were filled with joyful sound, 
 A solemn gladness even crowned 
 
 The purple brows of Olivet. 
 
 Behold a man raised up by Christ ! 
 
 The rest remaineth unrevealed ; 
 
 He told it not ; or something sealed 
 The lips of that Evangelist. 
 
 A. Tennyson 
 
The Sunday Book of Poeby 97 
 
 LXXV 
 MARY 
 
 HER eyes are homes of silent prayer, 
 Nor other thought her mind admits 
 But he was dead, and there he sits, 
 And He that brought him back is there. 
 
 Then one deep love doth supersede 
 All other, when her ardent gaze 
 Roves from the living brother's face, 
 
 And rests upon the Life indeed. 
 
 All subtle thought, all curious fears, 
 Borne down by gladness so complete. 
 She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet 
 
 With costly spikenard and with tears. 
 
 Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers. 
 Whose loves in higher love endure ; 
 What souls possess themselves so pure, 
 
 Or is this blessedness like theirs ? 
 
 A. Tennyson 
 
98 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 LXXVI 
 
 THE WEDDING FEAST 
 
 COURAGE, O faithful heart; 
 Steadfast for ever ! 
 In the eternal love 
 Faltering never : 
 Courage, O downcast eyes, 
 
 Bitter tears shedding ; 
 Hark ! how the chimes ring out 
 Joy for the wedding ! 
 
 Open the golden doors ; 
 
 Through the high portal 
 Let the rich glor)- stream 
 
 Sea-like, immortal ! 
 Open the golden doors 
 
 Wide from the centre ; — 
 Countless the multitude 
 
 Hither must enter ! 
 
 Light up the palace halls, 
 
 From roof-tree to basement, 
 Bid the warm festal glow, 
 
 Flood every casement : 
 Chant ye the bridal song 
 
 Solemn and holy. 
 Waking to Paradise 
 
 Souls tliat lie lowly. 
 
 Out of old battle-fields 
 No man remembers ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 99 
 
 Out of still village yards 
 
 And dank charnel-chambers, 
 From the chill ocean-graves 
 
 Under far waters 
 And the dear sepulchres 
 
 Where sleep the martyrs. 
 
 Dives and Lazarus 
 
 One with the other ; 
 Peasant and emperor, 
 
 P^oeman and brother, 
 Men with long century-lives 
 
 Braving death's shadow. 
 And sweet baby blossoms, — fresh 
 
 As flower in the meadow : — 
 
 Out of the million haunts 
 
 Where dead men lie idle, 
 Out of life's thousand ways : — 
 
 Call to the bridal : 
 Open the golden doors 
 
 Wide from the centre ! 
 For they that are ready 
 
 To glory shall enter ! 
 
 IV. E. Littlewood 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 LXXVII 
 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD 
 
 INTO a desolate land 
 White with the drifted snow, 
 Into a weary land 
 
 Our truant footsteps go : 
 Yet doth Thy care, O Father, 
 Ever Thy wanderers keep ; 
 Still doth Thy love, O Shepherd, 
 Follow Thy sheep. 
 
 Over the pathless wild 
 
 Do I not see Him come ? 
 Him who shall bear me back. 
 
 Him who shall lead me home ? 
 Listen ! between the storm-gusts 
 
 Unto the straining ear. 
 Comes not the cheering whisper, — 
 
 "Jesus is near." 
 
 Over me He is bending ! 
 
 Now I can safely rest, 
 Found at the last, and clinging 
 
 Close to the Shepherd's breast : 
 So let me lie till the fold-bells 
 
 Sound on the homeward track, 
 And the rejoicing angels 
 
 Welcome us back ! 
 
 W. E. Littkwood 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 LXXVIII 
 
 THE TREASURE 
 
 FAR away, where the tempests play, 
 Over the lonely seas, 
 Sail or still, with a steady will, 
 Onward before the breeze ! 
 
 Onward yet, till our hearts forget 
 
 The loves that we leave behind. 
 Till the memories dear, that thrill in our ear, 
 
 Flow past like the whistling wind ! 
 
 Let them come, sweet thoughts of home, 
 
 And voices we loved of old ; — 
 What care we, that sail the sea. 
 
 Bound for a Land of Gold ? 
 
 Gems there are which are lovelier far 
 Than the flash of a maiden's eyes ; 
 
 Jewels bright, as the magic light 
 That purples the evening skies. 
 
 Crowns that gleam like a fairy dream, 
 
 Treasures of price untold : 
 And we are bound for that charmed ground, 
 
 We sail for the Land of Gold ! 
 
 W. E. Littlewood 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 THE FOOLISH VIRGINS 
 
 LATE, late, so late ! and dark the night, and chill ! 
 Late, late, so late ! but we can enter still. 
 Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now. 
 
 No light had we, for that we do repent ; 
 And learning this, the Bridegroom will relent. 
 Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now. 
 
 No light, so late ! and dark and chill the night ! 
 O let us in, that we may find the light ! 
 Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now. 
 
 Have we not heard the Bridegroom is so sweet ? 
 O, let us in, though late, to kiss His feet ! 
 No, no, too late ! ye cannot enter now. 
 
 A. Tennyson 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 103 
 
 LXXX 
 
 " Unto Him zo/io hath loved us'''' 
 
 THERE is no love like the love of Jesus, 
 Never to fade or fall, 
 Till into the fold of the peace of God 
 He has gathered us all ! 
 
 There is no heart like the heart of Jesus 
 
 Filled with a tender lore ; 
 Not a throb or throe our hearts can know 
 
 But He suffered before ! 
 
 There is no eye like the eye of Jesus 
 
 Piercing far away ; 
 Never out of the sight of its tender light 
 
 Can the wanderer stray ! 
 
 There is no voice like the voice of Jesus, 
 
 Ah ! how sweet its chime, 
 Like the musical ring of some rushing spring 
 
 In the summer-time ! 
 
 O might we listen that voice of Jesus, 
 
 O might we never roam, 
 Till our souls should rest, in peace, on His breast. 
 
 In the Heavenly home ! 
 
 W. E. Littlewood 
 
I04 The Sunday Book of Foet>y 
 
 LXXXI 
 ''I aj7t the Way, the Truth, and the Life'' 
 
 COME, my way, my truth, my life : 
 Such a way, as gives us breath : 
 Such a truth, as ends all strife : 
 Such a life, as killeth death. 
 
 Come, my light, my feast, my strength : 
 Such a light, as shows a feast : 
 Such a feast, as mends in length : 
 Such a strength, as makes his guest. 
 
 Come, my joy, my love, my heart : 
 Such a joy as none can move : 
 Such a love, as none can part : 
 Such a heart, as joys in love. 
 
 G. Herbert 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry lo 
 
 LXXXII 
 
 '■^IVe'^ve Jto abiding city here'''' 
 
 WE 've no abiding city here : 
 This may distress the worldling's mind ; 
 But should not cost the saint a tear, 
 Who hopes a better rest to find. 
 
 We 've no abiding city here : 
 
 Sad taith, were this to be our home ! 
 
 But let this thought our spirits cheer ; 
 We seek a city yet to come. 
 
 We 've no abiding city here : 
 
 Then let us live as pilgrims do ! 
 Let not the world our rest appear, 
 
 But let us haste from all below. 
 
 We 've no abiding city here : 
 
 We seek a city out of sight ; 
 Zion its name, the Lord is there, 
 
 It shines with everlasting light ! 
 
 Zion ! Jehovah is her strength ; 
 
 Secure she smiles at all her foes ; 
 And weary travellers at length 
 
 Within her sacred walls repose. 
 
 O ! sweet abode of peace and love. 
 
 Where pilgrims freed from toil are blest ! 
 
 Had I the pinions of a dove, 
 I 'd flee away, and be at rest ! 
 
 T. Kelly 
 
io6 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 'A fountam opened for sin aiid for unclcanness^'' 
 
 THERE is a fountain filled with blood 
 Drawn from Emmanuel's veins ; 
 And sinners, plunged beneath that flood, 
 Lose all their guilty stains. 
 
 The dying thief rejoiced to see 
 
 That fountain in His day ; 
 And there would I, as vile as he, 
 
 Wash all my sins away. 
 
 Dear dying Lamb ! Thy precious Blood 
 
 Shall never lose its power, 
 Till all the ransomed church of God 
 
 Be saved, to sin no more. 
 
 E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream 
 
 Thy flowing wounds supply, 
 Redeeming love has been my theme. 
 
 And shall be till I die. 
 
 Then in a nobler, sweeter song 
 
 I'll sing Thy power to save, 
 When this poor lisping, stammering tongue 
 
 Lies silent in the grave. 
 
 Lord, I believe Thou hast prepared. 
 
 Unworthy though I be, 
 For me a blood-bought free reward, 
 
 A golden harp for me : 
 
The Swiday Book of Poetry 107 
 
 'T is strung and tuned for endless years, 
 
 iVnd formed by power divine, 
 To sound in God the Father's ears. 
 
 No other name but Thine. 
 
 W. Cowper 
 
 LXXXIV 
 
 CHRIST'S CHURCH UNIVERSAL 
 
 •My Name shall be great among the Gentiles'''' 
 
 YES, so it was ere Jesus came ; 
 Alternate then His altar-flame 
 
 Blazed up and died away ; 
 And Silence took her turn with song, 
 And Solitude with the fair throng 
 
 That owned the festal day. 
 For in Earth's daily circuit then 
 
 One only border 
 Reflected to the seraph's ken 
 
 Heaven's light and order. 
 
 But now to the revolving sphere 
 We point, and say, no desert here. 
 
 No waste so dark and lone, 
 But to the hour of sacrifice 
 Comes daily in its turn, and lies 
 
 In light beneath the throne. 
 Each point of time, from morn to eve, 
 
 From eve to morning. 
 The shrine doth from the spouse receive 
 
 Praise and adorning. 
 
 J. Keble 
 
io8 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 LXXXV 
 
 THE MINISTRY OF ANGELS 
 
 AND is there care in Heaven, and is there love 
 In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, 
 That may compassion of their evils move ? 
 
 There is, — else much more wretched were the case 
 Of men than beasts. But O the exceeding grace 
 Of highest God that loves His creatures so, 
 
 And all His works with mercy doth embrace, 
 That blessed Angels He sends to and fro 
 To serve to wicked man, to serv^e His wicked foe. 
 
 How oft do they their silver bowers leave, 
 
 To come to succor us who comfort want ; 
 How oft do they with golden pinions cleave 
 
 The flitting skies like flying pursuivant, 
 
 Against foul fiends to aid us militant. 
 They for us fight, they watch and duly ward. 
 
 And their bright squadrons round about us plant, 
 And all for love, and nothing for reward : 
 
 O, why should heavenly God to man have such 
 regard ? 
 
 E. Spenser 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 109 
 
 LXXXVI 
 
 LITTLE CHRISTEL 
 
 '^ Be ye doers of the IFord, and not hearers only " 
 
 GOING home from the House of God, 
 The flower at her foot, and the sun overhead, 
 Little Christel so thoughtfully trod. 
 Pondering what the preacher had said. 
 
 "Even the youngest, humblest child, 
 Something may do to please the Lord." 
 
 "Now what," thought she, and half sadly smiled, 
 " Can I, so little and poor, afford ? " 
 
 *' Never, never a day should pass 
 
 Without some kindness, kindly shown." 
 
 Little Christel looked down at the grass 
 Rising like incense before the throne. 
 
 " Well, a day is before me now, 
 
 Yet what," thought she, " can I do if I try ? 
 If an angel of God should show me how. 
 
 But silly am I, and the hours they fly." 
 
 Then a lark sprang singing up from the sod, 
 And Christel thought, as he rose to the blue, 
 
 " Perhaps he will carry my prayer to God, 
 
 But who would have thought the little lark 
 knew?" 
 
:o The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 II. 
 Now she entered the village street, 
 
 With book in hand, and face demure, 
 And soon she came, with sober feet. 
 
 To a crying babe at a cottage door. 
 
 The child had a windmill that would not move, 
 It puffed with its round red cheeks in vain, 
 
 One sail stuck fast in a puzzling groove. 
 And baby's breath could not stir it again. 
 
 Poor baby beat the sail, and cried. 
 
 While no one came from the cottage door ; 
 
 But little Christel knelt down by its side. 
 And set the windmill going once more. 
 
 Then babe was pleased, and the little girl 
 
 Was glad when she heard it laugh and crow ; 
 
 Thinking, happy windmill, that has but to whirl, 
 To please the pretty young creature so. 
 
 III. 
 No thought of herself was in her head. 
 
 As she passed out at the end of the street, 
 And came to a rose-tree, tall and red. 
 
 Drooping and faint with the summer heat. 
 
 She ran to a brook that was flowing by ; 
 
 She made of her two hands a nice round cup, 
 And washed the roots of the rose-tree high, 
 
 Till it lifted its languid blossoms up. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 1 1 
 
 "O happy brook ! " thought little Christel, 
 
 ' ' You have done some good this summer's day, 
 
 You have made the flower look fresh and well " ; 
 Then she rose, and went on her way. 
 
 IV. 
 
 But she saw, as she walked by the side of the brook, 
 Some great rough stones that troubled its course, 
 
 And the gurgling water seemed to say, " Look ! 
 I struggle, and tumble, and murmur hoarse ! 
 
 " How these stones obstruct my road ! 
 
 How I wish they were off, and gone ; 
 Then I could flow, as once I flowed, 
 
 Singing in silvery undertone." 
 
 Then little Christel, as light as a bird, 
 
 Put off the shoes from her young white feet ; 
 
 She moves two stones, she comes to the third, 
 The brook already sings, "Thanks to you, 
 
 sweet ! " 
 
 O, then she hears the lark in the skies. 
 
 And thinks, " What is it to God he says?" 
 
 And she stumbles, and falls, and cannot rise, 
 For the water stifles her downward face. 
 
 The little brook flows on, as before. 
 
 The little lark sings with as sweet a sound ; 
 
 The little babe crows at the cottage door ; 
 
 And the red rose blooms, but Christel lies 
 drowned. 
 
[2 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 V. 
 
 Come in softly, this is the room ; 
 
 Is not tliat an innocent face ? 
 Yes, those flowers give a faint perfume, — 
 
 Think child, of Heaven, and the Lord His grace. 
 
 Three at the right, and three at the left, 
 Two at the feet, and two at the head, 
 
 The tapers burn. The friends bereft, 
 
 Have cried till their eyes are swollen and red. 
 
 Who would have thought it when little Christel 
 Pondered on what the preacher had told ? 
 
 But the good wise Cod does all things well, 
 And the fair young creature lies dead and cold. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then a little stream crept into the place, 
 And rippled up to the coffin's side, 
 
 And touched the corpse on its pale round face. 
 And kissed the eyes till they trembled wide : 
 
 Saying, " I am a river of joy from Heaven ; 
 
 You helped the brook, and I help you, 
 I sprinkle your brow with life-drops seven, 
 
 I bathe your eyes with healing dew." 
 
 Then a rose-branch in through the window came, 
 And colored her cheeks and lips with red ; 
 
 "I remember, and Heaven does the same," 
 Was all that the faithful rose-branch said. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 113 
 
 Then a bright small form to her cold neck clung, 
 It breathed on her, till her breast did fill, 
 
 Saying, "I am a cherub fond and young. 
 
 And I saw who breathed on the baby's mill." 
 
 Then little Christel sat up and smiled, 
 
 And said, " Who put these flowers in my hand ? " 
 And rubbed her eyes, poor innocent child ; 
 
 Not being able to understand. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But soon she heard the big bell of the church 
 Give the hour, which made her say, 
 
 "Ah ! I have slept and dreamed in the porch ; 
 It is a very drowsy day. " 
 
 Anon 
 
 LXXXVII 
 
 KING ROBERT OF SICILY 
 
 ROBERT of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 
 And Valmond, Emperor of AUemaine, 
 Apparelled in magnificent attire. 
 With retinue of many a knight and squire. 
 On St. John's eve, at vespers, proudly sat 
 And heard the priests chant the Magnificat 
 And as he listened, o'er and o'er again 
 Repeated, like a burden or refrain, 
 He caught the words, " Deposuit potentes 
 De sede, et exaltavit humiles"; 
 And slowly lifting up his kingly head 
 He to a learned clerk beside him said, 
 8 
 
114 ^^^^ Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 ' ' What mean these words ? " The clerk made answer 
 
 meet, 
 " He has put down the mighty from their seat, 
 And has exahed them of low degree." 
 Thereat King Robert muttered scornfully, 
 '"Tis well that such seditious words are sung 
 Only by priests and in the Latin tongue ; 
 For unto priests and people be it known, 
 There is no power can push me from my throne ! " 
 And leaning back, he yawned and fell asleep, 
 Lulled by the chant monotonous and deep. 
 
 When he awoke, it was already night ; 
 
 The church was empty, and there was no light. 
 
 Save where the lamps, that glimmered few and faint. 
 
 Lighted a little space before some saint. 
 
 He started from his seat and gazed around. 
 
 But saw no living thing and lieard no sound. 
 
 He groped towards the door, but it was locked ; 
 
 He cried aloud, and listened, and then knocked, 
 
 And uttered awful threat'nings and complaints. 
 
 And imprecations upon men and saints. 
 
 The sounds re-echoed from the roof and walls 
 
 As if dead priests were laughing in their stalls ! 
 
 At length the sexton, hearing from without 
 The tumult of the knocking and the shout. 
 And thinking thieves were in the house of prayer. 
 Came with his lantern, asking, " Who is there? " 
 Half choked with rage, King Robert fiercely said, 
 " Open : 'tis I, the King, art thou afraid?" 
 The frightened sexton, muttering, with a curse, 
 " This is some drunken vagabond, or worse ! " 
 Turned the great key and flung the portal wide ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry. 115 
 
 A man rushed by him at a single stride, 
 Haggard, half naked, without hat or cloak, 
 Who neither turned, nor looked at him, nor spoke, 
 But leaped into the blackness of the night, 
 And vanished like a spectre from his sight. 
 
 Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 
 And Valmond, Emperor of Allemaine, 
 Despoiled of his magnificent attire. 
 Bareheaded, breathless, and besprent with mire, 
 With sense of wrong and outrage desperate, 
 Strode on, and thundered at the palace gate, 
 Rushed through the court-yard, thrusting in his rage 
 To right and left each seneschal and page, 
 And hurried up the broad and sounding stair. 
 His white face ghastly in the torches' glare. 
 From hall to hall he passed with breathless speed ; 
 Voices and cries he heard, but did not heed. 
 Until at last he reached the banquet-room. 
 Blazing with light, and breathing with perfume. 
 
 There on the dais sat another king, 
 
 Wearing his robes, his crown, his signet-ring ; 
 
 King Robert's self in features, form, and height, 
 
 But all transfigured with angelic light ! 
 
 It was an Angel ; and his presence there 
 
 With a divine effulgence filled the air, 
 
 An exaltation, piercing the disguise, 
 
 Though none the hidden Angel recognize. 
 
 A moment speechless, motionless, amazed. 
 The throneless monarch on the Angel gazed. 
 Who met his looks of anger and surprise 
 With the divine compassion of his eyes ; 
 
Ii6 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Then said, " Who.art thou ? and why com'st thou here ? ' 
 
 To whicli King Robert answered, \\dth a sneer, 
 
 ' ' I am the King, and come to claim my own 
 
 From an impostor, who usurps my throne." 
 
 And suddenly, at these audacious words, 
 
 Up sprang the angry guests, and drew their swords ; 
 
 The Angel answered, with unruffled brow, 
 
 "Nay, not the King, but the King's Jester, thou 
 
 Henceforth shalt wear the bells and scalloped cape, 
 
 And for thy counsellor shalt lead an ape ; 
 
 Thou shalt obey my servants when they call, 
 
 And wait upon my henchmen in the hall ! " 
 
 Deaf to King Robert's threats and cries and prayers, 
 They thrust him from the hall and down the stairs ; 
 A group of tittering pages ran before. 
 And as they opened wide the folding-door, 
 His heart failed, for he heard, with strange alarms, 
 The boisterous laughter of the men-at-arms, 
 And all the vaulted chamber roar and ring 
 With the mock plaudits of " Long live the King ! " 
 Next morning, waking with the day's first beam. 
 He said within himself, " It was a dream ! " 
 But the straw rustled as he turned his head, 
 There were the cap and bells beside his bed. 
 Around him rose the bare, discolored walls, 
 Close by, the steeds were champing in their stalls, 
 And in the corner, a revolting shape, 
 Shivering and chattering sat the wretched ape. 
 It was no dream ; the world he loved so much 
 Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch ! 
 
 Days came and went ; and now returned again 
 To Sicily the old Saturnian reign ; 
 
The Stmday Book of Poetry 117 
 
 Under the Angel's governance benign 
 
 The happy island danced with corn and wine, 
 
 And deep within the mountain's burning breast 
 
 Enceladus, the giant, was at rest. 
 
 Meanwhile King Robert yielded to his fate, 
 
 Sullen and silent and disconsolate. 
 
 Dressed in the motley garb that Jesters wear, 
 
 With looks bewildered and a vacant stare. 
 
 Close shaven above the ears, as monks are shorn. 
 
 By courtiers mocked, by pages laughed to scorn, 
 
 His only friend the ape, his only food 
 
 What others left, — he still was unsubdued. 
 
 And when the Angel met him on his way. 
 
 And half in earnest, half in jest, would say. 
 
 Sternly, though tenderly, that he might feel 
 
 The velvet scabbard held a sword of steel, 
 
 "Art thou the King ? " the passion of his woe 
 
 Burst from him in resistless overflow. 
 
 And, lifting high his forehead, he would fling 
 
 The haugty answer back, " I am, I am the King." 
 
 Almost three years were ended ; when there came 
 
 Ambassadors of great repute and name 
 
 From Valmond, emperor of Allemaine, 
 
 Unto King Robert, saying that Pope Urbane 
 
 By letter summoned them forthwith to come 
 
 On Holy Thursday to his city of Rome. 
 
 The Angel with great joy received his guests. 
 
 And gave them presents of embroidered vests, 
 
 And velvet mantles with rich ermine lined. 
 
 And rings and jewels of the rarest kind. 
 
 Then he departed with them o'er the sea 
 
 Into the lovely land of Italy, 
 
 Whose loveliness was more resplendent made 
 
1 8 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 By the mere passing of that cavalcade, 
 
 With plumes, and cloaks, and housings, and the stir 
 
 Of jewelled bridle and of golden spur. 
 
 And lo ! among the menials, in mock state, 
 Upon a piebald steed, with shambling gait. 
 His cloak of fox-tails flapping in the wind, 
 The solemn ape demurely perched behind, 
 King Robert rode, making huge merriment 
 In all the country towns through which they went. 
 
 The Pope received them with great pomp, and blare 
 
 Of bannered trumpets, on St. Peter's square. 
 
 Giving his benediction and embrace, 
 
 Fervent, and full of apostolic grace. 
 
 While, with congratulations and with prayers 
 
 He entertained the Angel unawares, 
 
 Robert, the Jester, bursting through the crowd. 
 
 Into their presence rushed, and cried aloud, 
 
 " I am the King ! Look, and behold in me 
 
 Robert, your brother. King of Sicily ! 
 
 This man, who wears my semblance to your eyes. 
 
 Is an impostor in a king's disguise. 
 
 Do you not know me ? does no voice within 
 
 Answer my cry, and say we are akin ? " 
 
 The Pope in silence, but with troubled mien. 
 
 Gazed at the Angel's countenance serene ; 
 
 The Emperor, laughing, said, "It is strange sport 
 
 To keep a madman for thy Fool at court ! " 
 
 And the poor, baffled Jester in disgrace 
 
 Was hustled back among the populace. 
 
 In solemn state the Holy Week went by. 
 And Easter Sunday gleamed upon the sky ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 119 
 
 The presence of the Angel, with its light, 
 
 Before the sun rose, made the city bright, 
 
 And with new fervor filled the hearts of men. 
 
 Who felt that Christ indeed had risen again. 
 
 Even the Jester, on his bed of straw, 
 
 With haggard eyes the unwonted splendor saw. 
 
 He felt within a power unfelt before, 
 
 And, kneeling humbly on his chamber floor. 
 
 He heard the rushing garments of the Lord 
 
 Sweep through the silent air, ascending heavenward. 
 
 And now the visit ending, and once more 
 
 Valmond returning to the Danube shore. 
 
 Homeward the Angel journeyed, and again 
 
 The land was made resplendent with his train, 
 
 Flashing along the towns of Italy 
 
 Unto Salerno, and from there by sea. 
 
 And when once more within Palermo's wall. 
 
 And, seated on the throne in his great hall, 
 
 He heard the Angelus from convent towers, 
 
 As if the better world conversed with ours. 
 
 He beckoned to King Robert to draw nigher. 
 
 And with a gesture bade the rest retire ; 
 
 And when they were alone, the Angel said, 
 
 " Art thou the King ? " Then bowing down his head. 
 
 King Robert crossed both hands upon his breast. 
 
 And meekly answered him : " Thou knowest best ! 
 
 My sins as scarlet are ; let me go hence, 
 
 And in some cloister's school of penitence, 
 
 Across those stones that pave the way to heaven, 
 
 Walk barefoot, till my guilty soul is shriven ! " 
 
 The Angel smiled, and from his radiant face 
 
 A holy light illumined all the place, 
 
 And through the open window, loud and clear. 
 
20 The Sunday Book of Foet/y 
 
 They heard ihe monks chant in the chapel near, 
 
 Above the stir and tumult of the street : 
 
 " He has put down the mighty from their seat, 
 
 And has exalted them of low degree ! " 
 
 And through the chant a second melody 
 
 Rose like the throbbing of a single string : 
 
 " I am an Angel, and thou art the King ! " 
 
 King Robert, who was standing near the throne, 
 Lifted his eyes, and lo ! he was alone ! 
 But all apparelled as in days of old, 
 With ermined mantle and with cloth of gold ; 
 And when his courtiers came, they found him there 
 Kneeling upon the floor, absorbed in silent prayer, 
 
 H. IV. Longfellow 
 
 - LXXXVIII 
 
 CJ7AF/TV 
 
 THEN constant faith and holy hope shall die, 
 One lost in certainty, and one in joy ; 
 Whilst thou, more happy power, fair Charity, 
 Triumphant sister, greatest of the three. 
 Thy office and thy nature still the same. 
 Lasting thy lamp, and unconsumed thy flame, 
 Shalt still survive — 
 
 Shalt stand before the host of Heaven confessed. 
 For ever blessing, and for ever blest. 
 
 Mattheiu Prior 
 
The Sunday Book of Poet}y 12 
 
 LXXXIX 
 
 THE LAST TRUMP 
 
 AS grew the power of sacred lays 
 The spheres began to move, 
 And sung the great Creator's praise 
 
 To all the blessed above : 
 So when the last and dreadful hour 
 This crumbling pageant shall devour, 
 The trumpet shall be heard on high, 
 The dead shall live, the living die, 
 And music shall untune the sky. 
 
 John Dry den 
 
 ^^ And yesus said iinto them, There shall not be left here 
 one stone upon another. . . . Heaven and earth shall 
 pass away. " 
 
 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. We are such stuff 
 As dreams are made of, and our little life 
 Is rounded with a sleep. 
 
 William Shakespeare 
 
The Sunday Book of PocUy 
 
 HOLY SCRIPTURE 
 
 WHO has this Book and reads it not 
 Doth God Himself despise ; 
 Who reads, but understandeth not, 
 His soul in darkness lies. 
 
 Who understands, but savors not, 
 
 He finds no rest in trouble ; 
 Who savors but obeyeth not, 
 
 He hath his judgment double. 
 
 Who reads this book — who understands — 
 
 Doth savor and obey ; 
 His soul shall stand at God's right hand, 
 
 In the great Judgment Day. 
 
 Old Hymn 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 123 
 
 IV 
 LIFE 
 
 XCII 
 
 THE PILGRIMAGE 
 
 GIVE me my scallop-shell of quiet, 
 My stafif of truth to walk upon, 
 My scrip of joy, — immortal diet, — 
 My bottle of salvation ; 
 My gown of gloiy, hope's true gage ; 
 And thus I '11 take my pilgrimage, 
 While my soul, like a quiet palmer, 
 Travelleth toward the land of heaven. 
 
 Sir Walter Raleii^h 
 
 THE HAPPY LIFE 
 
 HOW happy is he born and taught 
 That serveth not another's will ; 
 Whose armor is his honest thought. 
 And simple truth his utmost skill ; 
 
 Whose passions not his masters are, 
 Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
 
 Untied unto the worldly care 
 
 Of public fame, or private breath ; 
 
124 ^^^^ Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Who envies none that chance doth raise, 
 
 Or vice ; who never luiderstood 
 How deepest wounds are given by praise, 
 
 Nor rules of state, but rules of good ; 
 
 Who hath his life from rumors freed, 
 Whose conscience is his strong retreat ; 
 
 Whose state can neither flatterers feed. 
 Nor ruin make oppressors great ; 
 
 Who God doth late and early pray, 
 More of his grace than gifts to lend. 
 
 And entertains the harmless day. 
 With a religious book or friend. 
 
 This man is freed from servile bands 
 
 Of hope to rise, or fear to fall , 
 Lord of himself, though not of lands. 
 
 And having nothing, yet hath all. 
 
 Sir Henry IVotton 
 
 XCIV 
 
 THE GOOD LIFE — LONG LIFE 
 
 IT is not growing like a tree 
 In bulk doth make men better be ; 
 Or standing long an oak three hundred year. 
 To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere ; 
 A lily of a day 
 Is fairer far in May, 
 Although it fall and die that night, 
 It was the plant and flower of light. 
 In small proportions we just beauties see. 
 And in short measures life may perfect be. 
 
 Ben Jonson 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 125 
 
 SIN 
 
 LORD, with what care hast thou begirt us round ! 
 Parents first season us : then schoohnasters 
 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. 
 
 Yet all these fences, and their whole array, 
 One cunning bosom-sin blows quite away. 
 
 G. Herbert 
 
126 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 XCVI 
 
 VIRTUE 
 
 SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright, 
 The bridal of the earth and sky. 
 The dew shall weep thy fall to-night : 
 For thou must die. 
 
 Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, 
 Makes the rash gazer wipe his eye, 
 Thy root is ever in its grave, 
 And thou must die. 
 
 Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, 
 A box where sweets compacted lie. 
 My music shows 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. 
 
 G. Herbert 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 127 
 
 HOLY HABITS 
 
 SLOWLY fashioned, link by link, 
 Slowly waxing strong, 
 Till the spirit never shrink. 
 Save from touch of wrong. 
 
 Holy habits are thy wealth. 
 
 Golden, pleasant chains ; 
 Passing earth's prime blessing — health, 
 
 Endless, priceless gains ; 
 
 Holy habits give thee place 
 
 With the noblest, best. 
 All most Godlike, of thy race, 
 
 And with seraphs blest ; 
 
 Holy habits are thy joy. 
 
 Wisdom's pleasant ways, 
 Yielding good without alloy, 
 
 Lengthening, too, thy days. 
 
 Seek them, Christian, night and morn. 
 
 Seek them noon and even ; 
 Seek them till thy soul be born 
 
 Without stains — in Heaven. 
 
 T Davis 
 
128 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 LITTLE TILINGS 
 
 THE flower is small that decks the field, 
 The bee is small that bends the flower, 
 But flower and bee alike may yield 
 Food for a thoughtful hour. 
 
 Essence and attributes of each 
 
 For ends profound combine ; 
 And all they are, and all they teach. 
 
 Springs from the Mind Divine. 
 
 Is there who scorneth little things ? 
 
 As wisely might he scorn to eat 
 The food that bounteous Autumn brings 
 
 In little grains of wheat. 
 
 Methinks, indeed, that such an one 
 Few pleasures upon earth will find, 
 
 Where wellnigh every good is won 
 From little things combined. 
 
 The lark that in the morning air 
 
 Amid the sunbeams mounts and sings ; 
 
 What lifted her so lightly there ? — 
 Small feathers in her wings. 
 
 What form too, then, the beauteous dyes 
 With which all nature oft is bright, 
 
 Meadows and streams, woods, hills, and skies?- 
 Minutest waves of light. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 129 
 
 And when the earth is sere and sad 
 
 From summer's over fervid reign, 
 How is she in fresh beauty clad ? — 
 
 By litde drops of rain. 
 
 Yea, and the robe that Nature weaves, 
 Whence does it every robe surpass ? — 
 
 From htde flowers, and little leaves, 
 And little blades of grass. 
 
 O sure, who scorneth little things, 
 
 If he were not a thoughtless elf, 
 Far above all that round him springs. 
 
 Would scorn his little self. 
 
 Thomas Davis 
 
 XCIX 
 
 THE LOST DA Y 
 
 LOST ! lost ! lost ! 
 A gem of countless price, 
 Cut from the living rock, 
 
 And graved in Paradise : 
 Set round with three times eight 
 
 Large diamonds, clear and bright, 
 And each with sixty smaller ones. 
 All changeful as the light. 
 
 Lost— ; where the thoughtless throng 
 In Fasliion's mazes wind, 
 
 W^here trilleth folly's song, 
 Leavmg a sting behind. 
 
 9 
 
[30 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Yet to my hand 't was given, 
 
 A golden harp to buy, 
 Such as the white-robed choir attune 
 
 To deathless minstrelsy. 
 
 Lost ! lost ! lost ! 
 
 I feel all search is vain ; 
 That gem of countless cost 
 
 Can ne'er be mine again : 
 I offer no reward, — 
 
 For till these heartstrings sever, 
 I know that Heaven's intrusted gift 
 
 Is reft away for ever. 
 
 But when the sea and land. 
 
 Like burning scroll have fled, 
 I '11 see it in His hand. 
 
 Who judgeth quick and dead ; 
 And when of scathe and loss 
 
 That man can ne'er repair. 
 The dread inquiry meets my soul, 
 
 What shall it answer there ? 
 
 Z. H. Sigoicrney 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 RELIGION NOT ADVERSE TO 
 PLEASURE 
 
 RELIGION does not censure or exclude 
 Unnumbered pleasures harmlessly pursued 
 To study, culture, and with artful toil, 
 To meliorate and tame the stubborn soil ; 
 To give dissimilar, yet fruitful lands. 
 The grain, or herb, or plant, that each demands ; 
 To cherish virtue in an humble state. 
 And share the joys your bounty may create ; 
 To mark the matchless workings of the power 
 That shuts within its seed the future flower : 
 Bids these in elegance of form excel, 
 In color these, and those delight the smell ; 
 Sends Nature forth, the daughter of the skies, 
 To dance on earth and charm all human eyes : 
 To teach the canvas innocent deceit, 
 Or lay the landscape on the snowy sheet, — 
 These, these are arts pursued without a crime. 
 That leave no stain upon the wing of time. 
 
 Cawper 
 
132 The Siuiday Book of Poetry 
 
 CI 
 
 MUTABILITY 
 
 THE sea of Fortune doth not even flow, 
 She draws her favors to the lowest ebb, 
 Her tides have equal times to come and go* 
 
 Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web. 
 No joy so great, but runneth to an end ; 
 No hap so hard, but may in time amend. 
 
 Not always full of leaf, nor always spring ; 
 
 Not endless night, yet not 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. 
 
 R. SoiitJm'cll 
 
 CII 
 
 EARL V RISING AND PR A YER 
 
 WHEN first thine eyes unveil, 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 : these are set awful hours 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 133 
 
 'Twixt Heaven and us ; the manna was not good 
 After sun-rising ; far day sullies flowers : 
 
 Rise to prevent the sun ; sleep doth sins glut, 
 And Heaven's gate opens when the world's is shut. 
 
 Walk with thy fellow creatures : note the hush 
 And whisperings amongst them. Not a spring 
 
 Or leaf but hath his morning hymn ; each bush 
 And oak doth know I Am. — Can'st thou not sing ? 
 
 O leave thy cares and follies ! go this way 
 
 And thou art sure to prosper all the day. 
 
 H. Vauc^han 
 
 cm 
 TO A CHILD 
 
 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 for ever, 
 One grand, sweet song. 
 
 C. Kingsley 
 
134 ^'^^^ Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 CIV 
 
 THE CHRISTIAN'S PROGRESS 
 
 THROUGH sorrow's path, and danger's road. 
 Amid the deepening gloom, 
 We, soldiers of an injured King, 
 Are marching to the tomb. 
 
 There, when the turmoil is no more, 
 
 And all our powers decay, 
 Our cold remains in solitude , 
 
 Shall sleep the years away. 
 
 Our labors done, securely laid 
 
 In this our last retreat, 
 Unheeded, o'er our silent dust 
 
 The storms of life shall beat. 
 
 Yet not thus lifeless, thus inane, 
 
 The vital spark shall lie. 
 For o'er life's wreck that spark shall rise 
 
 To see its kindred sky. 
 
 These ashes too, this little dust, 
 
 Our Father's care shall keep, 
 Till the last angel rise, and break 
 
 The long and dreary sleep. 
 
 There love's soft dew o'er eveiy eye, 
 
 Shall shed its mildest rays. 
 And the long silent dust shall burst 
 
 With shouts of endless praise. 
 
 H. Kirke White 
 
The Sunday Book of Poehy 135 
 
 cv 
 
 THE CHARITIES OF THE POOR 
 
 THERE is a thought so purely blest, 
 That to its use I oft repair, 
 When evil breaks my spirit's rest. 
 
 And pleasure is but varied care, — 
 A thought to gild the stormiest skies, 
 
 To deck with flowers the bleakest moor, — 
 A thought whose home is paradise, — 
 The charities of poor to poor. 
 
 It were not for the rich to blame, 
 
 If they, whom fortune seems to scorn, 
 Should vent their ill-content and shame 
 
 On others less or moi-e forlorn : 
 But, that the veriest needs of life 
 
 Should be dispensed with freer hand. 
 Than all their stores and treasures rife — 
 
 Is not for them to understand. 
 
 To give the stranger's children bread, 
 
 Of your precarious board the spoil, — 
 To watch your helpless neighbor's bed, 
 
 And sleepless meet the morrow's toil; 
 The gifts, not proffered once alone, 
 
 The daily sacrifice of years, — 
 And when all else to give is gone, 
 
 The precious gifts of love and tears. 
 
 Therefore lament not, honest soul ! 
 
 That Providence holds back from thee. 
 
136 The Simday Book of Poetry 
 
 The means thou might'st so well control, — 
 
 The luxuries of charity. 
 Manhood is nobler, as thou art ; 
 
 And should some chance thy coffers fill, 
 How art thou sure to keep thine heart, 
 
 To hold unchanged thy loving will ? 
 
 Wealth, like all other power, is blind, 
 
 And bears a poison in its core, 
 To taint the best, if feeble mind. 
 
 And madden that debased before. 
 It is the battle, not the prize, 
 
 That fills the hero's breast with joy ; 
 And industry the bliss supplies 
 
 Which mere possession might destroy. 
 
 R. M. Millies 
 
 CVI 
 
 SAYING THE RESPONSES 
 
 *' T T 7HAT is the Church, and what am I ? " 
 V V A world to one poor sandy grain, 
 A waste of sea and sky, 
 To one frail drop of rain. 
 
 " What boots one feeble infant tone 
 To the full choir denied, or given, 
 Where millions round the throne 
 Are chanting morn and even ? " 
 
 Nay, the kind watchers hearkening there 
 Distinguish in the deep of song 
 Each little wave, each air. 
 Upon the faltering tongue. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 137 
 
 Each half-note in the great Amen, 
 Even by the utterer's self unheard, 
 They store ; O fail not then 
 To bring thy lowly word. 
 
 J. Keble 
 
 CVII 
 
 SAYiyC THE CREED 
 
 GIVE me a tender spotless child. 
 Rehearsing o'er at eve, or morn. 
 His chant of glory undefiled, 
 
 The creed that with the Church was bom. 
 
 Down be his earnest forehead cast, 
 His slender fingers joined for prayer, 
 
 With half a frown his eye sealed fast. 
 Against the world's intruding glare. 
 
 Who, while his lips so gently move, 
 And all his look is purpose strong. 
 
 Can say what wonders, wrought above, 
 Upon his unstained fancy throng ? 
 
 The world new framed, the Christ new bom. 
 The mother-maid, the cross, and grave, 
 
 The rising sun on Easter mom. 
 
 The fiery tongues sent down to save. 
 
 The gathering Church, the font of life. 
 The saints and mourners kneeling round ; 
 
 The Day to end the body's strife. 
 The Saviour in His people crowned. 
 
138 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 All in majestic march, and even, 
 To the veiled eye by turns appear, 
 
 True to their time as stars in heaven, 
 No morning dreams so still and clear. 
 
 And this is Faith, and thus she wins 
 Her victory day by day rehearsed. 
 
 Seal but thine eye to pleasant sins. 
 
 Love's glorious world will on thee burst. 
 
 y. Keble 
 
 CVIII 
 
 LABOR 
 
 PAUSE not to dream of the future before us : 
 Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us 
 Hark how Creation's deep musical chorus, 
 
 Unintermitting goes up into heaven ! 
 Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing ; 
 Never the little seed stops in its growing ; 
 More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing. 
 Till from its nourishing stem it is riven. 
 
 "Labor is worship ! " the robin is singing : 
 " Labor is w^orship ! " the wild bee is ringing : 
 Listen ! that eloquent music upspringing 
 
 Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. 
 From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower ; 
 From the rough sod blows the soft -breathing flower ; 
 From the small insect the rich coral bower ; 
 
 Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part. 
 
 Labor is life ! — 't is the still water faileth ; 
 Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 139 
 
 Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth ! 
 
 Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. 
 Labor is glory ! — the flying cloud lightens ; 
 Only the waving wing changes and brightens ; 
 Idle hearts only the dark future frightens ; 
 
 Play the sweet keys wouldst thou keep them in tune ! 
 
 Labor is rest — from the sorrows that greet us, 
 Rest from all petty vexations that meet us ; 
 Rest from sin promptings that ever entreat us ; 
 
 Rest from world sirens that lure us to ill. 
 Work — and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow, 
 Work — thou shalt ride over care's coming billow, 
 Lie not down wearied 'neath woe's weeping willow. 
 
 Work with a stout heart and resolute will. 
 
 Labor is health, — lo ! the husbandman reaping. 
 How through his veins goes the life-current leaping ! 
 How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping. 
 
 True as a sunbeam, the swift sickle guides. 
 Labor is wealth, —in the sea the pearl groweth. 
 Rich the Queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth, 
 From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth. 
 
 Temple, and statue, the marble block hides. 
 
 Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round 
 
 thee ; 
 Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee ; 
 Look to yon blue heaven smiling beyond thee ; 
 
 Rest not content in thy darkness — a clod. 
 Work — for some good, be it ever so slowly ; 
 Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly ; 
 Labor — all labor is noble and holy. 
 
 Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. 
 
 F. S. Osgood 
 
[40 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 CIX 
 CHEERFUL GIVING 
 
 CHRIST before thy door is waiting : 
 Rouse thee, slave of earthly gold. 
 Lo, He comes, thy pomp abating, 
 Hungry, thirsty, homeless, cold ; 
 Hungry, by whom saints are fed 
 With the eternal living Bread ; 
 Thirsty, from whose pierced side. 
 Healing waters spring and glide ; 
 Cold and bare He comes, who never 
 
 May put off His robe of light ; 
 
 Homeless, who must dwell for ever 
 
 In the Father's bosom bright. 
 
 Think how new-born saints assembling 
 
 Daily 'neath the shower of fire. 
 To their Lord in hope and trembling, 
 Brought the choice of earth's desire. 
 Never incense cloud so sweet. 
 As before the Apostle's feet, 
 Rose, majestic seer, from thee, 
 Type of royal hearts and free, 
 Son of holiest consolation. 
 
 When thou turned'st thy land to gold. 
 And thy gold to strong salvation. 
 Leaving all, by Christ to hold. 
 
 Type of priest, and monarch, casting 
 All their crowns before the throne. 
 
 And the treasure everlasting 
 
 Heaping in the world unknown. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 141 
 
 Now in gems their relics lie, 
 And their names in blazonry, ' 
 And their forms from storied panes 
 Gleam athwart their own loved fanes, 
 
 Each his several radiance flmging 
 On the sacred altar floor, 
 
 Whether great ones much are bringing, 
 
 Or their mite the mean and poor. 
 
 Bring thine all, thy choicest treasure, 
 
 Heap it high, and hide it deep : 
 Thou shalt win o'erflowing measure, 
 Thou shalt climb where skies are steep. 
 For as heaven's true only light 
 Quickens all those forms so bright, 
 So where bounty never faints. 
 There the Lord is with His saints, 
 Mercy's sweet contagion spreading 
 
 Far and wide from heart to heart ; 
 From His wounds atonement shedding 
 On the blessed widow's part. 
 
 J. Kcble 
 
142 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 CHARITY 
 
 AN ardent spirit dwells with Christian love, 
 The eagle's vigor in the pitying dove ; 
 'T is not enough that we with sorrow sigh, 
 That we the wants of pleading man supply, 
 That we in sympathy with sufferers feel. 
 Nor hear a grief without a wish to heal : 
 Not these suffice, — to sickness, pain, and woe. 
 The Christian spirit loves with aid to go ; 
 Will not be sought, waits not for want to plead, 
 But seeks the duty, — nay, prevents the need : 
 Her utmost aid to eveiy ill applies, 
 And plants relief for coming miseries. 
 
 Crab be 
 
 THE UNREGARDED TOILS OF THE POOR 
 
 ALAS ! what secret tears are shed, 
 What wounded spirits bleed : 
 What loving hearts are sundered, 
 And yet man takes no heed ! 
 
 He goeth in his daily course, 
 
 Made fat with oil and wine, 
 And pitieth not the weary souls 
 
 That in his bondage pine, — 
 That turn for him the mazy wheel. 
 
 That delve for him the mine ! 
 
The. Sunday Book of Poetry 143 
 
 And pitieth not the children small 
 
 In smoky factories dim, 
 That all day long, lean, pale, and faint. 
 
 Do heavy tasks for him ! 
 
 To him they are but as the stones 
 
 Beneath his feet that lie : 
 It entereth not his thoughts that they 
 
 With him claim sympathy : 
 It entereth not his thoughts that God 
 
 Heareth the sufferer's groan. 
 That in His righteous eye their life 
 
 Is precious as his own. 
 
 M. Hcnviit 
 
 SUNDA V 
 
 ODAY most calm, most bright ! 
 The fruit of this, the next world's bud, 
 Th' indorsement 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 touch 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 bed and borders 
 In God's rich garden : that is bare 
 
 Which parts their ranks and orders. 
 
144 ^/^^ Simday Book of Poetry 
 
 The Sundays of man's life, 
 Threaded together on time's string, 
 Make bracelets to adorn the wife 
 Of the eternal, glorious King. 
 On Sunday heaven's gate stands ope ; 
 Blessings are plentiful and rife, 
 
 More plentiful than hope. 
 
 G. Herbert 
 
 CXIII 
 
 THE HOUR OF PR A YER 
 
 CHILD, amidst the flowers at play, 
 While the red light fades away : 
 Mother, with thine earnest eye 
 Ever following silently : 
 Father, by the breeze of eve 
 Called thy harvest- work to leave, — 
 Pray ! ere yet the dark hours be, 
 Lift the heart, and bend the knee. 
 
 Traveller in the stranger's land, 
 Far from thine own household band : 
 Mourner, haunted by the tone 
 Of a voice fi^om this world gone : 
 Captive, in whose narrow cell 
 Sunshine hath not leave to dwell : 
 Sailor, on the darkening sea. 
 Lift the heart, and bend the knee. 
 
 Warrior, that from battle won 
 Breathest now at set of sun ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Foet)y 145 
 
 Woman, o'er the lowly slain, 
 Weeping on his burial plain : 
 Ye that triumph, ye that sigh 
 Kindred by one holy tie, 
 Heaven's first star alike ye see, 
 Lift the heart, and bend the knee. 
 
 F. Hcmans 
 
 CXIV 
 EVENING 
 
 BEHOLD the sun, that seemed but now 
 Enthroned overhead. 
 Beginning to decline below 
 
 The globe whereon we tread ; 
 And he, whom yet we look upon 
 
 With comfort and delight. 
 Will quite depart from hence anon, 
 And leave us to the night. 
 
 Thus time, unheeded, steals away 
 
 The life which nature gave. 
 Thus are our bodies every day 
 
 Declining to the grave : 
 Thus from us all our pleasures fly 
 
 Whereon we set our heart, 
 And then the night of death draws nigh ; 
 
 Thus will they all depart. 
 
 Lord ! though the sun forsake our sight, 
 
 And mortal hopes are vain, 
 Let still Thine everlasting light 
 
 Within our souls remain ! 
 10 
 
146 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 And in the nights of our distress 
 
 Vouchsafe those rays divine 
 Which from the Sun of righteousness 
 
 For ever brightly shine. 
 
 G. Wither 
 
 cxv 
 
 BAPTISMAL HYMN' 
 
 IN token that thou shalt not fear 
 Christ crucified to own, 
 We print the cross upon thee here, 
 And stamp thee His alone. 
 
 In token that thou shalt not blush 
 
 To glory in His name, 
 We blazon here upon thy front 
 
 His glory and His shame. 
 
 In token that thou shalt not flinch 
 Christ's quarrel to maintain, 
 
 But 'neath His banner manfully 
 Firm at thy post remain ; 
 
 In token that thou too shalt tread 
 
 The path He travelled by, 
 Endure the cross, despise the shame, 
 
 And sit thee down on high ; 
 
 Thus outwardly, and visibly, 
 We seal thee for His own : 
 
 And may the brow that wears His cross 
 Hereafter share His crown. 
 
 H. Alford 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 147 
 
 CXVI 
 
 watchman; what of the night? 
 
 SAV, watchman, what of the night? 
 Do the dews of the morning fall ? 
 Have the orient skies a border of light, 
 Like the fringe of a funeral pall ? 
 
 " The night is fast waning on high, 
 
 And soon shall the darkness flee, 
 And the morn shall spread o'er the blushing sky, 
 
 And bright shall its glories be. " 
 
 But, watchman, what of the night, 
 
 When sorrow and pain are mine. 
 And the pleasures of life, so sweet and bright, 
 
 No longer around me shine ? 
 
 " That night of sorrow thy soul 
 
 May surely prepare to meet ; 
 But away shall the clouds of thy heaviness roll, 
 
 And the morning of joy be sweet." 
 
 But, watchman, what of the night 
 
 When the arrow of death is sped, 
 And the grave, which no glimmering star can light, 
 
 Shall be my sleeping bed ? 
 
 " That night is near, and the cheerless tomb 
 
 Shall keep thy body in store, 
 Till the morn of eternity rise on the gloom. 
 
 And night shall be no more." 
 
 Anon. 
 
148 The Stuiday Book of Poetry 
 
 THE MARINER'S HYMN 
 
 LAUNCH thy bark, mariner ! Christian, Heaven 
 speed thee, 
 Let loose the rudder bands ! good angels lead thee ! 
 Set thy sails warily, tempests will come : 
 Steer thy course steadily ! Christian, steer home ! 
 
 Look to the weather bow, breakers are round thee ! 
 Let fall the plummet now, shallows may ground thee ! 
 Reef in the fore-sail there ! hold the helm fast ! 
 So — let the vessel wear ! there swept the blast. 
 
 What of the night, watchman ? what of the night ? 
 " Cloudy — all quiet — no land yet — all's right." 
 Be wakeful, be vigilant, danger may be 
 At an hour when all seems securest to thee. 
 
 How — gains the leak so fast? clear out the hold ! 
 Hoist up thy merchandise, — heave out the gold ! 
 There — let the ingots go ! now the ship rights ; 
 Hurrah ! the harbor's near, — lo the red lights ! 
 
 Slacken not sail yet at inlet or island, 
 Straight for the beacon steer, — straight for the high- 
 land ; 
 Crowd all thy canvas on, cut through the foam, 
 Christian ! cast anchor now : Heaven is thy home ! 
 
 C. Soiithey 
 
T/ie Smiday Book of Poetry 149 
 
 MY PSALM 
 
 I MOURN no more my vanished years 
 Beneath a tender rain, 
 An April rain of smiles and tears, 
 My heart is young again. 
 
 The west winds blow, and singing low, 
 
 I hear the glad streams iiin. 
 The windows of my soul I throw 
 
 Wide open to the sun. 
 
 No longer forward, nor behind, 
 
 I look in hope and fear : 
 But grateful, take the good I find. 
 
 The best of now, and here. 
 
 . I plough no more a desert land 
 
 For harvest, weed and tare ; 
 The manna dropping from God's hand 
 
 Rebukes my painful care. 
 
 I break my pilgrim staff, I lay 
 
 Aside the toiling oar ; 
 The angel sought so far away 
 
 I welcome at my door. 
 
 The airs of spi-ing may never play 
 
 Among the ripening corn. 
 Nor freshness of the flowers of May 
 
 Blow throurrh the autumn morn ; 
 
[50 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look 
 Through fringed lids to heaven, 
 
 And the pale aster in the brook 
 Shall see its image given ; 
 
 The woods shall wear their robes of praise, 
 
 The south wind softly sigh. 
 And sweet calm days in golden haze 
 
 Melt down the amber sky. 
 
 Not less shall manly deed and word 
 
 Rebuke an age of wrong : 
 The graven flowers that wreathe the sword 
 
 Make not the blade less strong. 
 
 Enough that blessings undeserved 
 Have marked my erring track, 
 
 That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved, 
 His chastening turned me back. 
 
 That more and more a Providence 
 
 Of love is understood, 
 Making the springs of time and sense 
 
 Sweet with eternal good. 
 
 That death seems but a covered way, 
 
 Which opens into light. 
 Wherein no blinded child can stray 
 
 Beyond the Father's sight. 
 
 That care and trial seem at last. 
 Through memoiy's sunset air. 
 
 Like mountain ranges overpast 
 In purple distance fair. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 151 
 
 That all the jarring notes of life 
 
 Seem blending in a psalm, 
 And all the angels of its strife 
 
 Slow rounding into calm. 
 
 And so the shadows fall apart, 
 
 And so the west winds play ; 
 And all the windows of my heart 
 
 I open to this day. 
 
 J. G. IVhitticr 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE 
 
 THE seas are quiet when the winds are o'er, 
 So calm are we when passions are no more ! 
 For then we know how vain it was 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. 
 
 Waller 
 
[52 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 cxx 
 
 MY BIRD 
 
 ERE last year's moon had left the sky, 
 A birdling sought my Indian nest, 
 And folded, O ! so lovingly, 
 Its tmy wings upon my breast. 
 
 From morn till evening's purple tinge. 
 In winsome helplessness she lies ; 
 
 Two rose leaves, with a silken fringe, 
 Shut softly on her stariy eyes. 
 
 There 's not in Ind a lovelier bird ; 
 
 Broad earth owns not a happier nest ; 
 O God, Thou hast a fountain stirred. 
 
 Whose waters nevermore shall rest ! 
 
 This beautiful, mysterious thing. 
 This seeming visitant from heaven, 
 
 This bird with the immortal wing. 
 To me, — to me, Thy hand has given. 
 
 The pulse first caught its tiny stroke. 
 The blood its crimson hue, from mine : 
 
 This life, which I have dared invoke, 
 Is parallel henceforth with mine. 
 
 A silent awe is in my room, — 
 I tremble with delicious fear ; 
 
 The future, with its light, and gloom. 
 Time, and eternity are here. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 15^ 
 
 Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise : 
 Hear, O my God ! one earnest prayer ; 
 
 Room for my bird in Paradise, 
 
 And give her angel plumage there ! 
 
 E. yudson 
 
 HE A VEN 
 
 THIS world is all a fleeting show, 
 For man's illusion given : 
 The smiles of joy, the tears of woe 
 Deceitful shine, deceitful flow ; 
 There 's nothing true but Heaven ! 
 
 And false the light on gloiy's plume,. 
 
 As fading hues of even ; 
 And love, and hope, and beauty's bloom, 
 Are blossoms gathered from 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 ! 
 
 T. Moore 
 
154 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 DIFFERENT MINDS 
 
 SOME murmur when their sky is clear 
 And wholly bright to view, 
 If one small speck of dark appear 
 
 In their great heaven of blue : 
 And some with thankful love are filled 
 
 If but one streak of light, 
 One ray of God's good mercy, gild 
 The darkness of their night. 
 
 In palaces are hearts that ask, 
 
 In discontent and pride. 
 Why life is such a dreary task, 
 
 And all good things denied : 
 And hearts in poorest huts admire 
 
 How Love has in their aid 
 (Love that not ever seems to tire) 
 
 Such rich provision made. 
 
 Archbishop Trench 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 155 
 
 CXXIII 
 
 THE RULE OF GOD 
 
 I SAY to thee — Do thou repeat 
 To the first man thou mayest meet 
 In lane, highway, or open street, 
 
 That he and we and all men move 
 
 Under a canopy of love, 
 
 As broad as the blue sky above ; 
 
 That doubt and trouble, fear and pain, 
 And anguish, all are shadows vain, 
 That death itself shall not remain ; 
 
 That weaiy deserts we may tread, 
 A dreary labyrinth may thread, 
 Through dark ways underground be led ; 
 
 Yet, if we will one Guide obey, 
 The dreariest path, the darkest way, 
 Shall issue out in heavenly day ; ' 
 
 And we, on divers shores now cast. 
 Shall meet, our perilous voyage past, 
 All in our Father's house at last. 
 
 And ere thou leave him, say thou this : 
 Yet one word more — They only miss 
 The winning of that perfect bliss, 
 
 Who will not count it true, that love — ■ 
 Blessing, not cursing, — rules above. 
 And that in it we live and move. 
 
156 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 And one thing further make him know : 
 That to believe these things are so, 
 This firm faith never to forego, — 
 
 Despite of all that seems at strife 
 With blessing, all wdth curses rife, — 
 That this is blessing, this is life. 
 
 Archbishop Trench 
 
 WRITTEN IN FRIARS' CARSE HERMIT- 
 AGE, ON NITHSIDE 
 
 THOU whom chance may hither lead, — • 
 Be thou clad in russet weed, 
 Be thou decked in silken stole, 
 Grave these counsels on thy soul. 
 
 Life is but a day at most. 
 Sprung from night, in darkness lost ; 
 Hope not sunshine every hour, 
 Fear not clouds will always lower. 
 
 As thy day grows warm and high. 
 
 Life's meridian flaming nigh. 
 
 Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
 
 Life's proud summits w^ouldst thou scale ? 
 
 Check thy climbing step elate, 
 
 Evils Turk in felon wait : 
 
 Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold, 
 
 Soar around each cliffy hold. 
 
 While cheerful Peace, with linnet song, 
 
 Chants the lowly dells among. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 157 
 
 As the shades of evening close, 
 
 Beckoning thee to long repose, 
 
 As life itself becomes disease, 
 
 Seek the chimney -nook of ease, 
 
 And teach the sportive yomig ones round, 
 
 Saws of experience, wise and sound. 
 
 Say, man's true genuine estimate, 
 
 The grand criterion of his fate. 
 
 Is not. Art thou high or low ? 
 
 Did thy fortune ebb or flow ? 
 
 Did many talents gild thy span. 
 
 Or frugal Nature grudge thee one ? 
 
 Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
 
 As thou thyself must shortly find, 
 
 The smile or frown of awful Heaven 
 
 To Virtue or to Vice is given. 
 
 Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 
 
 There solid self-enjoyment lies ; 
 
 That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 
 
 Lead to be wretched, vile, and base. 
 
 Thus, resigned and quiet, creep 
 
 To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
 
 Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
 
 Night, where dawn shall never break, 
 
 Till future life, future no more. 
 
 To light and joy the good restore. 
 
 To light and joy unknown before, , 
 
 Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! 
 Quod the beadsman of Nithside. 
 
 Robert Burns 
 
158 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN 
 
 NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild ; 
 There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, 
 The village preacher's modest mansion rose. 
 A man he was to all the country dear. 
 And passing rich with forty pounds a year. 
 Remote from towns he ran his godly race. 
 Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place ; 
 Unskilful he to fawn, or look for power, 
 By doctrines fashioned to the vaiying hour ; 
 Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, 
 More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. 
 His house was known to all the vagrant train, — 
 He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain ; 
 The long-remembered beggar was his guest. 
 Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast ; 
 The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, 
 Claimed kindred there, and had his wants allowed : 
 The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay. 
 Sat by his fire, and talked the night away ; 
 Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done, 
 Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won. 
 Pleased with his guests, the good man learnt to glow. 
 And quite forgot their vices in their woe ; 
 Careless their merits or their wants to scan, 
 His pity gave, ere charity began. 
 
 Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, 
 And e'en his failings leaned to virtue's side ; 
 But in his duty prompt, at every call. 
 He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetiy 159 
 
 And as a bird each fond endearment tries 
 To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies, 
 He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, 
 Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 
 Beside the bed where parting life was laid. 
 And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed. 
 The reverend champion stood. At his control, 
 Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul ; 
 Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 
 And his last faltering accents whispered praise. 
 At church, with meek and unaffected grace, 
 His looks adorned the venerable place ; 
 Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway, 
 And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. 
 The service past, around the pious man 
 With ready zeal each honest rustic ran ; 
 E'en children followed with endearing wile, 
 And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. 
 His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed ; 
 Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed : 
 To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given. 
 But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven. 
 As some tall cliff" that lifts its awful form. 
 Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 
 Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread. 
 Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 
 
 O. Goldsmith 
 
l6o The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 cxxvi 
 WILLIAM OF WYKEHAM AND HIS WORKS 
 
 IN the days of our forefatheFS, the gallant days of 
 oldj 
 When Cressy's wondrous tale in Europe's ear was told ; 
 "When the brave and gentle Prince, with his heroic 
 
 peers, 
 Met France, and all her knighthood, in the vineyards 
 
 of Poictiers ; 
 "When captive kings on Edward's state right humbly 
 
 did attend ; 
 When England's chivalry began the gartered knee to 
 
 bend : 
 Then in the foremost place, among the noblest of the 
 
 land, 
 Stood Wykeham, the great Bishop, upon the king's 
 
 right hand. 
 
 But when gracious Edward slept, and Richard wore 
 the crown. 
 
 Forth came good William Wykeham, and meekly 
 knelt him down. 
 
 Then out spake young King Richard: "What boon 
 can Wykeham ask. 
 
 Which can surpass his worth, or our bounty overtask ? 
 
 For art not thou our Chancellor? and where in all the 
 realm 
 
 Is a wiser man, or better, to guide the laboring helm ? 
 
 And thou know'st the holy lore, and the mason's cun- 
 ning skill : 
 
 So speak the word, good Wykeham, for thou shalt 
 have thy wilL" 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry l6i 
 
 " I ask not wealth, nor honor," the Bishop lowly said, 
 "Too much of both thy grandsire's hand heaped on a 
 
 poor monk's head : 
 This world it is a weary load, it presses down my soul ; 
 Fain would I pay my vows, and to heaven restore the 
 
 whole. 
 Grant me that two fair colleges, beneath thy charters 
 
 sure. 
 At Oxford, and at Winchester, forever may endure ; 
 Which Wykeham's hands shall raise upon the grassy sod, 
 In the name of Blessed Mary, and for the love of God. " 
 
 The king he sealed the charters, and Wykeham traced 
 
 the plan, 
 And God, who gave him wisdom, prospered the lowly 
 
 man : 
 So two fair colleges arose, one in calm Oxford's glade, 
 And one, where Itchen sparkles beneath the plane-tree 
 
 shade. 
 There seventy true-born English boys he nourished 
 
 year by year. 
 In the nurture of good learning, and in God's holy fear ; 
 And gave them steadfast laws, and bade them never 
 
 move 
 Without sweet sign of brotherhood, and gentle links 
 
 of love. 
 
 They grew beside his pastoral throne, and kept his 
 
 counsels sage, 
 And the good man rejoiced to bear such fruit in his 
 
 old age : 
 He heard the pealing notes of praise, which mom and 
 
 evening rung 
 Forth from their vaulted chapel, by their clear voices 
 
 sung ; 
 
l62 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 His eye beheld them two by two their comely order 
 keep 
 
 Along the minster's sacred aisles, and up the beech- 
 crowned steep : 
 
 And when he went to his reward they shed the pious 
 tear, 
 
 And sang the hallowed requiem over his saintly bier. 
 
 Then came the dark and evil time, when English blood 
 
 was shed 
 All over fertile England, for the White Rose, or the 
 
 Red'; 
 But still in Wykeham's chapel the notes of praise were 
 
 heard, 
 And still in Wykeham's college they taught the Sacred 
 
 Word ; 
 And in the gray of morning, on every saint's-day still. 
 That black -gowned troop of brothers were winding up 
 
 the hill : 
 There in the hollow trench which the Danish pirate 
 
 made, 
 Or through the broad encampment, the peaceful schol- 
 ars played. 
 
 Trained in such gentle discipline from childhood to 
 their prime. 
 
 Grew mighty men and merciful, in that distracted 
 time. 
 
 Men on whom Wykeham's mantle fell, who stood be- 
 side their king 
 
 E'en in his place, and bore his staff, and the same pas- 
 toral ring ; 
 
 Who taught Heaven-destined monarchs to emulate his 
 deeds 
 
 Upon the banks of Cam, and in Eton's flowery meads ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 163 
 
 Founders of other colleges by Cherwell's lilied side, 
 Who laid their bones with his, when in ripe old age 
 they died. 
 
 And after that, when love grew cold, and Christendom 
 was rent. 
 
 And sinful churches laid them down in ashes to repent ; 
 
 When impious man bore sway, and wasted church, and 
 shrine, 
 
 And cloister, and old abbey, the works of men divine ; 
 
 Though upon all things sacred their robber hands they 
 laid. 
 
 They did not tear from Wykeham's gates the Blessed 
 Mother-maid : 
 
 But still in Wykeham's cloisters fair wisdom did in- 
 crease, 
 
 And then his sons began to learn the golden songs of 
 Greece. 
 
 And all through great Eliza's reign, those days of pomp 
 
 and pride, 
 They kept the laws of Wykeham, and did not swerve 
 
 aside : 
 Still in their vaulted chapel, and in the minster fair. 
 And in their lamp-lit chambers, they said the frequent 
 
 prayer ; 
 And when the Scottish plague-spot ran withering 
 
 through the land. 
 The sons of Wykeham knelt beneath meek Andrew's 
 
 fostering hand. 
 And none of all the faithless who breathed the unhal- 
 lowed vow, 
 Drank of the crystal waters beneath the plane-tree 
 
 bough. 
 
164 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Dread was the hour, but short as dread, w^hen from the 
 guarded down, 
 
 Fierce Cromwell's rebel soldiery kept watch o'er Wyke- 
 ham's town : 
 
 Beneath their pointed cannon all Ttchen's valley lay, 
 
 St. Catharine's breezy side, and the woodlands far 
 away, 
 
 The huge cathedral sleeping in venerable gloom. 
 
 The modest college tower, and the bedesman's Nor- 
 man home. 
 
 They spoiled the graves of valiant men, warrior, and 
 saint, and sage, 
 
 But at the grave of Wykeham good angels quenched 
 their rage. 
 
 Good angels still were there, when the base-hearted son 
 
 Of Charles, the royal martyr, his course of shame did 
 run : 
 
 Then in those cloisters holy Ken strengthened with 
 deeper prayer 
 
 His own and his dear scholar's souls, to what pure 
 souls should dare ; 
 
 Bold to rebuke enthroned sin, with calm undazzled 
 faith, 
 
 Whether amid the pomp of courts, or on the bed of 
 death ; 
 
 Firm against kingly terrors in his free country's cause, 
 
 Faithful to God's anointed against a world's ap- 
 plause. 
 
 Since then, what wars, what tumults, what change has 
 
 Europe seen ! 
 . But never since, in Itchen's vale, has war or tumult 
 been; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 165 
 
 God's mercies have been with us, His favor still has 
 
 blest 
 The memories sweet, and glorious deeds, of the good 
 
 men at rest : 
 The many prayers, the daily praise, the nurture in the 
 
 Word, 
 Have not in vain ascended up before the gracious 
 
 Lord : 
 Nations, and thrones, and reverend laws have melted 
 
 like a dream ; 
 Yet Wykeham's works are green and fresh beside the 
 
 crystal stream. 
 
 Four hundred years and fifty their rolling course have 
 sped 
 
 Since the first serge-clad scholar to Wykeham's feet 
 was led ; 
 
 And still his seventy faithful boys, in these presump- 
 tuous days. 
 
 Learn the old truths, speak the old words, tread in the 
 ancient ways : 
 
 Still for their daily orisons resounds the matin chime ; 
 
 Still linked in bands of brotherhood, St. Catharine's 
 steep they climb ; 
 
 Still to their Sabbath worship they troop by Wyke- 
 ham's tomb ; 
 
 Still in the summer twilight sing their sweet song of 
 home. 
 
 And at th' appointed seasons, when Wykeham's boun- 
 ties claim 
 The full heart's solemn tribute from those who love his 
 
1 66 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Still shall his white-robed children, as age on age rolt. 
 
 by, 
 
 At Oxford, and at Winchester, give thanks to God 
 
 Most High : 
 And amid kings, and martyrs shedding down glorious 
 
 light, 
 While the deep-echoing organ swells to the vaulted 
 
 height, 
 W^ith grateful thoughts o'erflowing at the mercies they 
 
 behold, 
 They shall praise their sainted fathers, the famous men 
 
 of old. 
 
 TRUST IN GOD, AND DO THE RIGHT 
 
 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." 
 
 Perish policy and cunning ! 
 
 Perish all that fears the light ! 
 Whether losing, whether winning, 
 
 "Trust in God, and do the right." 
 
 Trust no party, sect, or faction ; 
 Trust no 'leaders in the fight ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 167 
 
 But in every word and action, 
 
 " Trust in God, and do the right." 
 
 Trust no lovely forms of passion : 
 Fiends may look like angels bright ; 
 
 Trust no custom, school, or fashion, 
 " 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." 
 
 Norman Macleod 
 
1 68 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 V 
 DEATH 
 
 CXXVIII 
 
 MAN'S MORTALITY 
 
 LIKE as the damask rose you see, 
 Or as the blossom on the tree, 
 Or like the dainty flower of May, 
 Or like the morning to the day, 
 Or like the sun, or like the shade, 
 Or like the gourd which Jonas had. 
 E'en such is man ; — whose thread is spun. 
 Drawn out, and cut, and so is done. — 
 The rose withers, the blossom blasteth. 
 The flower fades, the morning hasteth, 
 The sun sets, the shadow flies, 
 The gourd consumes — and man, he dies. 
 Like to the grass that 's newly sprung, 
 Or like a tale that 's new begun, 
 Or like the bird that 's here to-day, 
 Or like the pearled dew of May, 
 Or like an hour, or like a span. 
 Or like the singing of a swan, 
 E'en such is man ; — who lives by breath, 
 Is here, now there, in life, and death. — 
 The grass withers, the tale is ended, 
 The bird is flo\\Ti, the dews ascended. 
 The hour is short, the span not long. 
 The swan 's near death, — man's life is done. 
 
 S. Wastell 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 169 
 
 TO GOD IN HIS SICKNESS 
 
 WHAT though my harp and viol be 
 Both hung upon the willow-tree ? 
 What though my bed be now my grave, 
 And for my house I darkness have ? 
 What though ray healthful days are fled, 
 And I lie numbered with the dead ? 
 Yet I have hope, by Thy great power, 
 To spring — though now a withered flower. 
 
 R. Her rick 
 
 A HAPPY DEATH 
 
 AS precious gums are not for lasting fire. 
 They but perfume the temple and expire ; 
 So was she born, exhaled, and vanished hence, 
 A short sweet odor, of a vast expense. 
 She vanished, we can scarcely say she died ; 
 For but a now did heaven and earth divide ; 
 She passed serenely with a single breath ; 
 This moment perfect health, the next was death. 
 As gentle dreams on waking thoughts pursue ; 
 Or one dream passed, we slide into a new ; 
 So close they follow, such wild order keep. 
 We think ourselves awake, and are. asleep ; 
 So softly death succeeded life in her. 
 She did but dream of Heaven, and she was there. 
 No pains she suffered, nor expired with noise ; 
 Her soul was whispered out with God's still voice. 
 
 John Dry den 
 
170 ^ The Simday Book of Poehy 
 
 cxxxr 
 
 MAGDALEN'S HYMN 
 
 During the Plague 
 
 THE air of death breathes through our souh 
 The dead all round us lie ; 
 By day and night the death-bell tolls, 
 And says, " Prepare to die." 
 
 The face that, in the morning sun, 
 
 We thought so wondrous fair. 
 Hath faded, ere his course was run, 
 
 Beneath its golden hair. 
 
 I see the old man in his grave 
 
 With thin locks silvery -gray ; 
 I see the child's bright tresses wave 
 
 In the cold breath of day. 
 
 The loving ones we loved the best, 
 
 Like music, all are gone ! 
 And the wan moonlight bathes in rest 
 
 Their monumental stone. 
 
 But not, when the death prayer is said. 
 
 The life of life departs ; 
 The body in the grave is laid, 
 
 Its beauty in our hearts. 
 
 At holy midnight, voices sweet 
 
 Like fragrance fill the room. 
 And happy ghosts with noiseless feet 
 
 Come brightening from the tomb. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 171 
 
 We know who sends the visions bright, 
 From whose dear side they came ! — 
 
 We veil our eyes before Thy light, 
 We bless our Saviour's name. 
 
 This frame of dust, this feeble breath. 
 
 The plague may soon destroy ; 
 We think on Thee, and feel in death, 
 
 A deep and awful joy. 
 
 Dim is the light of vanished years 
 
 In the glory yet to come ; 
 O idle grief ! O foolish tears ! 
 
 When Jesus calls us home. 
 
 Like children for some bauble fair 
 
 That weep themselves to rest ; 
 We part with life — awake ! and there 
 
 The jewel in our breast. 
 
 Prof. Wilson 
 
172 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 HOPE IiV DEATH 
 
 MY life 's a shade, my days 
 Apace to death decline ; 
 My Lord is Life, He '11 raise 
 My dust again, e'en mine. 
 Sweet truth to me ! 
 I shall arise, 
 And with these eyes 
 My Saviour see. 
 
 My peaceful grave shall keep 
 My bones till that sweet day ; 
 I wake from my long sleep 
 And leave my bed of clay. 
 Sweet truth to me ! 
 I shall arise. 
 And with these eyes 
 My Saviour see. 
 
 My Lord His angels shall 
 Their golden trumpets sound. 
 At whose most welcome call 
 My grave shall be unbound. 
 Sweet truth to me ! 
 I shall arise. 
 And with these eyes 
 My Saviour see. 
 
 I said sometimes with tears, 
 Ah me ! I'm loath to die ! 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 173 
 
 Lord, silence Thou these fears : 
 My life 's with Thee on high. 
 Sweet truth to me ! 
 I shall arise, 
 And with these eyes 
 My Saviour see. 
 
 What means my trembling heart, 
 To be thus shy of death ? 
 My life and I shan't part. 
 Though I resign my breath. 
 Sweet tmth to me ! 
 I shall arise, 
 And with these eyes 
 My Saviour see. 
 
 Then welcome, harmless grave : 
 By thee to Heaven I '11 go : 
 My Lord His death shall save 
 Me from the flames below, 
 Sweet truth to me ! 
 I shall arise, 
 And with these eyes 
 My Saviour see. 
 
 S. Grossman 
 
174 ^/'^' Stmday Book of Poetry 
 
 CXXXIII 
 
 TO A DYING CHRISTIAN 
 
 HAPPY soul ! thy days are ended, 
 All thy mourning days below j 
 Go, by angel guards attended, 
 
 To the sight of Jesus go ! 
 Waiting to receive thy spirit, 
 
 Lo, the Saviour stands above. 
 Shows the purchase of His merit, 
 Reaches out the crown of love ! 
 
 Struggle through thy latest passion 
 
 To thy dear Redeemer's breast, 
 To His uttermost salvation, 
 
 To His everlasting rest ! 
 For the joy He sets before thee 
 
 Bear a momentaiy pain ; 
 Die, to live the life of glory ; 
 
 Suffer, with thy Lord to reign ! 
 
 Charles Wesley 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 175 
 
 cxxxiv 
 
 A REAL OCCURRENCE IN A CIRCLE OF 
 FRIENDS 
 
 WHICH is the happiest death to die? 
 " O ! " said one, " if I might choose 
 Long at the gate of bliss would I lie, 
 And feast my spirit, ere it fly, 
 With bright celestial views. 
 Mine were a lingering death without pain, 
 A death which all might love to see. 
 And mark how bright and sweet should be 
 The victory I should gain ! 
 
 " Fain would I catch a hymn of love 
 From the angel-harps which ring above : 
 And sing it as my parting breath 
 Quivered and expired in death, — • 
 So that those on earth might hear 
 The harp-notes of another sphere, 
 And mark, when nature faints and dies, 
 What springs of heavenly life arise. 
 And gather from the death they view 
 A ray of hope to light them through, 
 When they shall be departing too." 
 
 " No," said another, "so not I, 
 Sudden as thought is the death I would die ; 
 I would suddenly lay my shackles by, 
 Nor bear a single pang at parting. 
 Nor see the tear of sorrow starting. 
 Nor hear the quivering lips that bless me, 
 Nor feel the hands of love that press me, 
 
[76 The Stmday Book of Poetry 
 
 Nor the frame with mortal terror quaking, 
 Nor the heart where love's soft bands are breaking, 
 So would I die ! 
 
 All bliss, without a pang to cloud it ! 
 
 All joy, without a pain to shroud it ! 
 
 Not slain, but caught up as it were, 
 
 To meet the Saviour in the air ! 
 So would I die ! 
 
 O, how bright 
 
 Were the realms of light. 
 
 Bursting at once upon my sight ! 
 
 Even so 
 
 I long to go. 
 
 These passing hours how sad and slow ! " 
 
 His voice grew faint, and fixed was his eye, 
 As if gazing on visions of ecstasy : 
 The hue of his cheek and lip decayed, 
 Around his mouth a sweet smile played ; — 
 
 They looked, — he was dead ! 
 
 His spirit was fled : 
 Painless and swift as his o\^^l desire. 
 
 The soul undressed 
 
 From her mortal rest 
 And stepped in her car of heavenly fire ; 
 
 And proved how bright 
 
 Were the realms of light. 
 
 Bursting at once upon the sight. 
 
 James Edmeston 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetiy 177 
 
 A DEATH SCENE 
 
 DYING, still slowly dying, 
 As the hours of night rode by, 
 She had lain since the light of sunset 
 
 Was red on the evening sky : 
 Till after the middle watches, 
 As we softly near her trod. 
 When her soul from its prison fetters 
 Was loosed by the hand of God. 
 
 One moment her pale lips trembled 
 
 With the triumph she might not tell, 
 As the sight of the life immortal 
 
 On her spirit's vision fell ; 
 Then the look of rapture faded, 
 
 And the beautiful smile was faint, 
 As that, in some convent picture, 
 
 On the face of a dying saint. 
 
 And we felt in the lonesome midnight, 
 
 As we sat by the silent dead. 
 What a light on the path going downward 
 
 The feet of the righteous shed. 
 Then we thought how, with faith unshrinking, 
 
 ^he came to the Jordan's tide. 
 And, taking the hand of the Saviour, 
 
 Went up on the heavenly side. 
 
 Phccbe Carey 
 
[78 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 CXXXVI 
 
 TFIE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL 
 
 VITAL spark of heavenly flame ! 
 Quit, O quit this mortal frame : 
 Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying, 
 O, the pain, the bliss of dying ! 
 Cease, fond Nature, cease thy strife, 
 And let me languish into life. 
 
 Hark ! they whisper ; Angels say, 
 
 Sister spirit, come away. 
 
 "What is this absorbs me quite ? 
 
 Steals my senses, shuts my sight, 
 Drowns my spirit, draws my breath ? 
 Tell me, my soul, can this be death ? 
 
 The world recedes, it disappears ! 
 Heaven opens on my eyes ! my ears 
 
 With sounds seraphic ring : 
 Lend, lend your wings ! I mount ! I fly ! 
 O grave ! where is thy victory ? 
 
 O death ! where is thy sting ? 
 
 A. Pope 
 
The Sunday Book of Poefiy 1 79 
 
 CXXXVII 
 
 THE REAPER AXD THE FLO I VERS 
 
 THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, 
 And, with his sickle keen. 
 He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, 
 And the flowers that grow between. 
 
 " Shall I have naught that is fair ? " saith he ; 
 
 "Have naught but the bearded grain? 
 Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, 
 
 I will give them all back again." 
 
 He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, 
 
 He kissed their drooping leaves ; 
 It was for the Lord of Paradise 
 
 He bound them in his sheaves. 
 
 " My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," 
 
 The Reaper said, and smiled ; 
 *' Dear tokens of the earth are they. 
 
 Where He was once a child. 
 
 " They shall all bloom in fields of light. 
 
 Transplanted by my care, 
 And saints, upon their garments white, 
 
 These sacred blossoms wear." 
 
 And the mother gave, in tears and pain. 
 
 The flowers she most did love ; 
 She knew she should find them all again 
 
 In the fields of light above. 
 
i8o The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 O, not in cnielty, not in wrath, 
 
 The Reaper came that day ; 
 'T was an angel visited the green earth, 
 
 And took the flowers away. 
 
 H. IF. Longfellozo 
 
 OiV THE DEATH OF A FAIR INFANT 
 
 O FAIREST flower ! no sooner blown but blasted^ 
 Soft silken primrose fading timelessly, 
 Summer's chief honor, if thou hadst outlasted 
 Bleak winter's force that made thy blossom diy ; 
 For he, being amorous of that lovely dye 
 
 Tliat did thy cheek envermeil, sought to kiss, 
 But killed, alas ! and then bewailed his fatal bliss. 
 
 Yet can I not persuade me thou art dead. 
 
 Or that thy corse corrupts in earth's dark womb. 
 
 Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed, 
 
 Hid from the world in a low delved tomb ; 
 
 Could Heaven for pity thee so strictly doom ? 
 
 O no, for something in thy face did shine 
 Above mortality, that showed thou wast divine. 
 
 O ! wert thou of the golden -winged host. 
 
 Who, having clad thyself in human weed. 
 
 To earth from thy prefixed seat didst post. 
 
 And after short abode fly back with speed, 
 
 As if to show what creatures Heaven doth breed ; 
 
 Thereby to set the hearts of men on fire 
 To scorn the sordid world, and unto Heaven aspire ? 
 
The Simday Book of Poetry i8i 
 
 Then thou, the mother of so sweet a child, 
 Her false imagined loss cease to lament, 
 And wisely learn to curb thy sorrows wild ; 
 Think what a present thou to God hast sent, 
 And render Him with patience what He lent : 
 
 This if thou do, He will an offering give, 
 That till the world's last end shall make thy name to 
 live. 
 
 J. Milton 
 
 cxxxix 
 FUNERAL HYMN 
 
 THOU art gone to the grave ! but we will not 
 deplore thee. 
 Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb, 
 The Saviour hath past through its portal before thee. 
 And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the 
 gloom. 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave ! we no longer behold thee. 
 Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side ; 
 But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee. 
 And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died. 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave ! and, its mansion forsaking. 
 Perchance thy weak spirit in doubt lingered long ; 
 But the sunshine of Heaven beamed bright on thy 
 
 waking. 
 And the sound which thou heard'stwas the Seraphim's 
 
 song. 
 
1 82 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave ! but 't were vain to deplore 
 
 thee, 
 When God was thy ransom, thy Guardian, and Guide ; 
 He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee, 
 And death hath no sting, since the Saviour has died. 
 
 Bishop Heber 
 
 THE BURIAL ANTHEM 
 
 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 sin released. 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling. 
 And the weary are at rest. 
 
 The toilsome way thou 'st travelled o'er, 
 
 And borne the heavy load ; 
 But Christ hath taught thy languid feet 
 
 To reach His blest abode ; 
 Thou 'rt sleeping now, like Lazarus, 
 
 Upon his Father's breast, 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, 
 
 And the weary are at rest. 
 
 Sin can never taint thee now, 
 
 Nor doubt thy faith assail, 
 Nor thy meek trust in Jesus Christ 
 
 And the Holy Spirit fail ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 183 
 
 And there thou 'rt sure to meet the good, 
 Whom on earth thou lovedst best, 
 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, 
 And the weary are at rest. 
 
 "Earth to earth," and "dust to dust," 
 
 The solemn Priest hath said ; 
 So we lay the turf above thee now, 
 
 And we seal thy narrow bed : 
 But thy spirit, brother, soars away 
 
 Among the faithful blest, 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, 
 
 And the weaiy are at rest. 
 
 And when the Lord shall summon us 
 
 Whom thou hast left behind. 
 May we, untainted by the world, 
 
 As sure a welcome find ; 
 May each, like thee, depart in peace, 
 
 To be a glorious guest, 
 Where the wicked cease from troubling, 
 
 And the weary are at rest. 
 
 H. H. Milman 
 
184 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 CXLI 
 
 AiV EPITAPH 
 
 RECEIVE him, earth, unto thine harboring shrine 
 In tliy soft tranquil bosom let him rest ; 
 These limbs of man I to thy care consign, 
 And trust the noble fragments to thy breast. 
 
 This house was once the mansion of a soul 
 Brought into life by its Creator's breath ; 
 
 Wisdom did once this living mass control ; 
 
 And Christ was there enshrined, who conquers death. 
 
 Cover this body to thy care consigned ; 
 
 Its Maker shall not leave it in the grave ; 
 But His own lineaments shall bear in mind. 
 
 And shall recall the image which He gave. 
 
 /. Williams, from Pnidoitijis 
 
 CXLII 
 
 FEAR OF DEATH 
 
 O MISERABLE man, 
 Who hath all the world to friend, 
 Yet dares not in prosperity 
 Remember his latter end ! 
 
 But happy man, whate'er 
 His earthly lot may be, 
 W^ho looks on death as the angel 
 That shall set his spirit free, 
 And bear it to his heritage 
 Of immortality. 
 
 R. Soiithcy 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 185 
 
 CXLIII 
 
 ALL SAINTS' DAY 
 The gathering of the Dead 
 
 THE day is cloudy ; it should be so : 
 And the clouds in flocks to the eastward go ; 
 For the world may not see the glory there, 
 Where Christ and His Saints are met in the air» 
 There is a stir among all things round, 
 Like the shock of an earthquake underground. 
 And there is music in the motion, 
 As soft and deep as a summer ocean. 
 All things that sleep awake to-day, 
 For the cross and the crown are won, 
 The winds of spring 
 Sweet songs may bring 
 Through the half- unfolded leaves of May ; 
 But the breeze of spring 
 Hath no such thing 
 As the musical sounds that nm 
 Where the anthem note by God is given. 
 And the martyrs sing, 
 And the angels ring 
 With the cymbals of highest Heaven. 
 In Heaven above, and on earth beneath. 
 
 In the holy place where dead men sleep. 
 In the silent sepulchres of death. 
 
 Where angels over the bodies keep 
 Their cheerful M'atch till the second breath 
 
 Into the Christian dust shall creep, — 
 In heights, and depths, and darkest caves, 
 In the unlit green of the ocean waves, — 
 In fields where battles have been fought, 
 Dungeons where murders have been wrought, — 
 
[86 The' Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 The shock and the thrill of life have run : 
 The reign of the Holy is begun ! 
 There is labor and unquietness 
 In the very sands of the wilderness, 
 
 In the place where rivers ran. 
 Where the simoon blast hath fiercely past 
 
 O'er the midnight caravan. 
 From sea to sea, from shore to shore, 
 Earth travails with her dead once more. 
 In one long, endless, filing crowd. 
 
 Apostles, Martyrs, Saints have gone, 
 Where behind yon screen of cloud 
 
 The Master is upon His throne ! 
 Only we are left alone ! 
 
 Left in this waste and desert place, 
 Far from our natural home ; 
 
 Left to complete our weary race 
 Until His kingdom come. 
 O, my God ! that we could be 
 Among that shining company ! 
 But once a year with solemn hand 
 
 The Church withdraws, the veil, 
 And there we see that other land. 
 
 Far in the distance pale. 
 While good church-bells are loudly ringing 
 
 All on the earth below. 
 And white-robed choirs with angels singing, 
 
 Where stately organs blow : 
 And up and down each holy street 
 Faith hears the tread of viewless feet, 
 Such as in Salem walked, when He 
 Had gotten Himself the victory. 
 So be it ever year by year, 
 Until the Judge himself be here ! 
 
 F. IV. Faber 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 187 
 
 EPITAPH IN WORCESTER CA THEDRAL 
 
 IF Heavenly flowers might bloom unharmed on earth, 
 And gales of Eden still their balm bestow, 
 Thy gentle virtues, rich in purest worth, 
 Might yet have lingered in our vale below ; 
 
 Loved daughter, sister, friend : we saw awhile 
 Thy meek-eyed modesty which loved the shade, 
 
 Thy faithfulness which knew nor change, nor guile. 
 Thy heart like incense on God's altar laid. 
 
 But He whose spirit breathes the air divine, 
 That gives to souls their loveliness and grace. 
 
 Soonest embowers pure faithful hearts like thine 
 In His own Paradise, their blissful place. 
 
 Jo Jut Davison 
 
1 88 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 THE HAPPY DEAD 
 
 "HP IS folly all that can be said, 
 jL By living mortals, of the immortal dead. 
 'T is as if we who stay behind 
 In expectation of the wind, 
 Should pity those who passed this strait before, 
 
 And touch the universal shore. 
 Ah, happy man, who art to sail no more ! 
 
 A. Cozulcy 
 
 EPITAPH UPON HUSBAND AND WIPE 
 
 Who died and %vere buried together 
 
 TO these, whom death again did wed, 
 This grave 's the second marriage bed, 
 For though the hand of fate could force 
 'Twixt soul and body a divorce. 
 It could not sever man and wife. 
 Because they both lived but one life. 
 Peace, good reader, do not weep, 
 Peace, the lovers are asleep ! 
 They (sweet turtles) folded lie. 
 In the last knot love could tie. 
 Let them sleep, let them sleep on. 
 Till this stormy night be gone. 
 And the eternal morrow dawn ; 
 Then the curtains will be drawn, 
 And they wake into a light, 
 Whose day shall never end in night. 
 
 R. Crashaui 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 189 
 
 CXLVII 
 
 ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ADDISON 
 
 WHAT mourner ever felt poetic fires ? 
 Slow comes the verse that real love mspires : 
 Grief miafifected suits but ill with art, 
 Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart. 
 Can I forget the dismal night that gave 
 My soul's best part forever to the grave ! 
 How silent did his old companions tread, 
 By midnight lamps the mansions of the dead ; 
 Through breathing statues, then unheeded things. 
 Through rows of warriors, and through walks of kings ! 
 What awe did the slow solemn knell inspire ; 
 The pealing organ, and the pausing choir ; 
 The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid ; 
 And the last words that dust to dust conveyed ! 
 While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend, 
 Accept these tears, thou dear departed friend. 
 O, gone forever ! take this long adieu ; 
 And sleep in peace next thy loved Montague. 
 Oft let me range the gloomy aisles alone, 
 Sad luxury to vulgar minds unknown. 
 Along the walls, where speaking marbles show 
 What worthies form the hallowed mould below ; 
 Proud names, who once the reins of empire held ; 
 In arms who triumphed ; or in arts excelled ; 
 Chiefs grand with scars, and prodigal of blood ; 
 Stern patriots who for sacred freedom stood. 
 Just men by whom imperial laws were given. 
 And saints who taught, and led the way to heaven. 
 
[QO The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Ne'er to these chambers, where the mighty rest, 
 Since their foundation, came a nobler guest ; 
 Nor e'er was to the bowers of bliss conveyed 
 A fairer spirit, or more welcome shade. 
 
 Tickell 
 
 CXLVIII 
 
 SUSPIRIA 
 
 TAKE them, O Death ! and bear away 
 Whatever thou canst call thine 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 
 
 H. W. Longfellow 
 
The Szinday Book of Poetry 191 
 
 CXLIX 
 
 LADY MARY 
 
 THOU wert fair, Lady IMaiy, 
 As the lily in the sun ; 
 And fairer yet thou mightest be, — • 
 
 Thy youth was but begun : 
 Thine eye was soft and glancing, 
 
 Of the deep bright blue ; 
 And on the heart thy gentle words 
 Fell lighter than the dew. 
 
 They found thee, Lady Mary, 
 
 With thy palms upon thy breast. 
 Even as thou hadst been praying 
 
 At thy hour of rest : 
 The cold pale moon was shining 
 
 On thy cold pale cheek ; 
 And the mom of the Nativity 
 
 Had just begim to break. 
 
 They carved thee, Lady Mary, 
 
 All of pure white stone, 
 With thy palms upon thy breast. 
 
 In the chancel all alone : 
 And I saw thee when the winter moon 
 
 Played on thy marble cheek. 
 When the morn of the Nativity 
 
 Had just begun to break. 
 
 But thou kneelest, Lady Mary, 
 With thy palms upon thy breast, 
 
192 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Among the perfect spirits 
 
 In the land of rest : 
 Thou art even as they took thee 
 
 At thine hour of prayer, 
 Save the glory that is on thee 
 
 From the sun that shineth there. 
 
 We shall see thee, Lady Mary, 
 
 On that shore uiiknown, 
 A pure and happy angel 
 
 In the presence of the Throne ; 
 "We shall see thee when the light Divine 
 
 Plays freshly on thy cheek, 
 And the Resurrection morning 
 
 Hath just begun to break. 
 
 H. Alford 
 
 MY BROTHER'S GRAVE 
 
 BENEATH the chancel's hallowed stone, 
 Exposed to every rustic tread, — 
 To few, save rustic mourners known, — 
 
 My brother, is thy lowlyMoed. 
 Few words upon the rough stone graven 
 
 Thy name, thy birth, thy youth declare, — 
 Thy innocence, thy hopes of Heaven, — 
 
 In simplest phrase recorded there : 
 No scutcheons shine, no banners wave 
 In mockery o'er my brother's grave. 
 The place is silent, — rarely sound 
 Is heard those ancient walls around ; 
 
The Siuiday Book of Poetry 193 
 
 Nor mirthful voice of friends that meet 
 Discoursing in the public street, 
 Nor hum of business, dull and loud, 
 Nor murmur of the passing crowd. 
 Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell 
 From neighboring fort or citadel, — 
 No sound of human toil, or strife, 
 To death's lone dwelling speaks of life ; 
 Nor breaks the silence still and deep. 
 
 Where thou, beneath thy burial stone, 
 Art laid in that unbroken sleep. 
 
 The living eye hath never known. 
 The lonely sexton's footstep falls 
 In dismal echoes on the walls, 
 As slowly pacing through the aisle, 
 
 He sweeps the unholy dust away, 
 And cobwebs, which must not defile 
 
 Those windows on the Sabbath day; 
 And, passing through the central nave, 
 Treads lightly on my brother's grave. 
 
 But when the sweet-toned Sabbath chime. 
 
 Pouring its music on the breeze, 
 Proclaims the well-known holy time 
 
 Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees, — 
 When rustic crowds devoutly meet. 
 
 And lips and hearts to God are given, 
 And souls enjoy oblivion sweet 
 
 Of earthly ills in hope of Heaven ; — 
 What voice of calm and solemn tone 
 Is heard above thy burial stone ? 
 What form in priestly meek array, 
 Beside the altar kneels to pray ? 
 
 13 
 
194 ^^^^ Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 What holy hands are lifted up 
 To bless the sacramental cup ? 
 Full well I know that reverend form ; 
 
 And, if a voice could reach the dead, 
 Those tones would reach thee, though the worm 
 
 My brother made thy heart his bed ; 
 That sire, who thy existence gave, 
 Now stands beside thy lowly grave. 
 
 It is not long since thou wert wont 
 
 Within these sacred walls to kneel ; 
 This altar, that baptismal font. 
 
 These stones which now thy dust conceal, 
 The sweet tones of the Sabbath bell, 
 
 Were holiest objects to thy soul ; 
 On these thy spirit loved to dwell 
 
 Untainted by the world's control. 
 My brother, those were happy days 
 
 When thou and I were children yet ; 
 How fondly memory still surveys 
 
 Those scenes the heart can ne'er forget ! 
 My soul was then, as thine is now, 
 
 Unstained by sin, unstung by pain ; 
 Peace smiled on each unclouded brow, — 
 
 Mine ne'er will be so calm again. 
 How blithely then we hailed the ray 
 Which ushered in the Sabbath day ! 
 How lightly then our footsteps trod 
 Yon pathway to the house of God ! 
 For souls in which no dark offence 
 Hath sullied childhood's innocence, 
 Best meet the pure and hallowed shrine, 
 Which guiltier bosoms own divine. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 195 
 
 I feel not now as then I felt, — 
 
 The sunshine of my heart is o'er ; 
 The spirit now is changed, which dwelt 
 
 Within me in the days before ; 
 But thou wert snatched, my brotlier, hence 
 In all thy guileless innocence. 
 One Sabbath saw thee bend thy knee 
 In reverential piety. 
 For childish faults forgiveness crave, — • 
 The next beamed, brightly on thy grave. 
 The crowd, of which thou late wert one, 
 Now thronged across thy burial stone ; 
 Rude footsteps trampled on the spot 
 Where thou liest mouldering and forgot ; 
 And some few gentler bosoms wept 
 In silence where my brother slept. 
 
 And years have passed, and thou art now 
 
 Forgotten in thy silent tomb ; 
 And cheerful is my mother's brow, 
 
 My father's eye has lost its gloom ; 
 And years have passed, and death has laid 
 
 Another victim at thy side ; 
 With thee he roams, an infant shade, 
 
 But not more pure than thou he died. 
 Blest are ye both ! your ashes rest 
 Beside the spot ye loved the best ; 
 And that dear home which saw your birth 
 O'erlooks you in your bed of earth ; 
 But who can tell what blissful shore 
 Your angel spirits wander o'er ? 
 And who can tell what raptures high 
 Now bless your immortality ? 
 
196 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 My boyish days are nearly gone, 
 
 My breast is not unsullied now ; 
 And worldly cares and woes will soon 
 
 Cut their deep furrows on my brow ; 
 And life will take a darker hue 
 From ills my brother never knew. 
 And I have made me bosom friends, 
 
 And loved, and linked my heart with others 
 But who with mine his spirit blends 
 
 As mine was blended with my brother's ? 
 When years of rapture glided by, 
 
 The spring of life's unclouded weather, 
 Our souls were knit, and thou, and I, 
 
 My brother, grew in love together ; 
 The chain is broke which bound us then, — 
 Where shall I find its like again ? 
 
 J. Moultrie 
 
 A WALK IN A CHURCHYARD 
 
 WE walked within the churchyard bounds, 
 My little boy, and I,— 
 He, laughing, running happy rounds, 
 I, pacing mournfully. 
 
 "Nay, child, it is not well," I said, 
 
 *' Among the graves to shout ; 
 To laugh and play among the dead, 
 
 And make this noisy rout.'' 
 
 A moment to my side he clung, 
 Leaving his merry play, — 
 
The Stniday Book of Foeiry 197 
 
 A moment stilled his joyous tongue, 
 Almost as hushed as they. 
 
 Then, quite forgetting the command, 
 
 In life's exulting burst 
 Of early glee, let go my hand, 
 
 Joyous, as at the first. 
 
 And now I did not check liim more ; 
 
 For, taught by Nature's face, 
 I had grown wiser than before, 
 
 Even in that moment's space. 
 
 She spread no funeral pall above 
 
 That patch of churchyard ground, 
 But the same azure vault of love 
 
 As hung o'er all around. 
 
 And white clouds o'er that spot would pass 
 
 As freely as elsewhere ; 
 The sunshine on no other grass 
 
 A richer hue might wear. 
 
 And, formed from out that very mould 
 
 In which the dead did lie, 
 The daisy with its eye of gold 
 
 Looked up into the sky. 
 
 The rook was wheeling overhead, 
 
 Nor hastened to be gone ; 
 The small bird did its glad notes shed, 
 
 Perched on a gray headstone* 
 
198 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 And God, I said, would never give 
 
 This light upon the earth ; 
 Nor bid in childhood's heart to live. 
 
 These springs or gushing mirth ; 
 
 If our true wisdom were to mourn 
 And linger with the dead, — 
 
 To nurse, as wisest, tlioughts forlorn 
 Of worm, and earthy bed. 
 
 O no, the gloiy earth puts on, 
 The child's unchecked delight, 
 
 Both witness to a triumph won, 
 If we but judge aright. 
 
 A triumph won o'er sin and death : 
 From these the Saviour saves ; 
 
 And like a happy infant. Faith 
 Can play among the graves. 
 
 A rch bish op Trench 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 199 
 
 ON- MY MOTHER'S PICTURE 
 
 Othat those lips had language ! Life has passed 
 With me but roughly since I heard thee last : 
 Those lips are thine, — thine own sweet smile I see, 
 The same that oft in childhood solaced me ; 
 Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
 " Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away ! " 
 The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
 ( Blest be the art that can immortalize, — 
 The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
 To quench it ) here shines on me still the same. 
 Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 
 
 welcome guest, though unexpected here ! 
 Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, 
 Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 
 
 1 will obey, not willingly alone. 
 
 But gladly, as the precept were her own ; 
 And, while that face renews my filial grief, 
 Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, 
 Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 
 A momentary dream, that thou art she. 
 
 My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead, 
 Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed ? 
 Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, 
 Wretch even then, life's journey just begiui ? 
 Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ; 
 Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss, — 
 Ah, that maternal smile ! it answers — Yes. 
 I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, 
 I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 
 
200 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 And, turning from my nursery window, drew 
 
 A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu ! 
 
 But was it such ? — -It was. Where thou art gone 
 
 Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown : 
 
 May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 
 
 The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! 
 
 Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, 
 
 Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. 
 
 What ardently I wished, I long believed, 
 
 And, disappointed still, was still deceived. 
 
 By expectation every day beguiled. 
 
 Dupe oi to-mor)'ow even from a child. 
 
 Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 
 
 Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, 
 
 I learned at last submission to my lot ; 
 
 But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 
 
 Where once we dwelt, our name is heard no more,- 
 Children not thine have trod my nursery floor ; 
 And where the gardener, Robin, day by day, 
 Drew me to school along the public way. 
 Delighted with my bauble coach, and M^rapped 
 In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capped, 
 'T is now become a history little known, 
 That once we called the pastoral house our own. 
 Shortlived possession ! but the record fair. 
 That memoiy keeps of all thy kindness there, 
 Still outlives many a storm that has effaced 
 A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 
 Thy nightly visits to my chamber made. 
 That thou mightst know me safe, and warmly laid : 
 Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, — 
 The biscuit, or confectionaiy plum ; 
 The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed 
 By thy own hand, till fresh they shone, and glowed 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 201 
 
 All this, and more endearing still than all, 
 
 Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall, 
 
 Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, 
 
 That humor interposed too often makes ; 
 
 All this, still legible in memory's page, 
 
 And still to be so to my latest age. 
 
 Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 
 
 Such honors to thee as my numbers may ; 
 
 Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, — 
 
 Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here. 
 
 Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, 
 When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, 
 The violet, the pink, and jessamine, 
 I pricked them into paper with a pin, 
 (And thou wast happier than myself the while, — 
 Would'st softly speak, and stroke my head, and 
 
 smile), — 
 Could those few pleasant days again appear, 
 Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? 
 I would not trust my heart, — the dear delight 
 Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 
 But no, — what here we call our life is such, 
 So little to be loved, and thou so much. 
 That I should ill requite thee to constrain 
 Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 
 
 Thou, — as a gallant bark from Albion's coast, 
 (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed) 
 Shoots into port at some well-havened isle. 
 Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 
 There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 
 Her beauteous form reflected clear below. 
 While airs impregnated with incense play 
 Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; — 
 
202 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 So thou, with sails how swift ! hast reached the shore 
 
 " Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar," 
 
 And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 
 
 Of life, long since has anchored by thy side. 
 
 But me, scarce hoping to obtain that rest, 
 
 Always from port withheld, always distrest, — 
 
 Me, howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, 
 
 Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost, 
 
 And day by day some current's thwarting force 
 
 Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 
 
 Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he ! 
 
 That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 
 
 My boast is not that I deduce my birth 
 
 From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth ; 
 
 But higher far my proud pretensions rise, — 
 
 The son of parents passed into the skies. 
 
 And now, farewell, — Time unrevoked has nm 
 
 His wonted course, yet what I wished is done. 
 
 By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 
 
 I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again ; 
 
 To have renewed the joys that once were mine, 
 
 Without the sin of violating thine ; 
 
 And, while the wings of Fancy still are free. 
 
 And I can view this mimic show of thee, 
 
 Time has but half succeeded in his theft, — 
 
 Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 
 
 W. Cowper 
 
The Sunday Book of Foelry 203 
 
 PRINCE ALBERT 
 
 WE have lost him ; he is gone ! 
 We know him now : all narrow jealousies 
 Are silent ; and we see him as he moved : 
 How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise, 
 With what sublime repression of himself, 
 And in what limits, and how tenderly ; 
 Not swaying to this faction, or to that ; 
 Not making his high place the lawless perch 
 Of winged ambition, nor a vantage ground 
 For pleasure ; but through all this tract of years 
 Wearing the white flower of a blameless life. 
 Before a thousand peering littlenesses, 
 In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, 
 And blackens every blot : for where is he, 
 Who dares foreshadow for an only son 
 A lovelier life, a more unstained, than his ? 
 Or how should England, dreaming of his sons, 
 Hope more for these than some inheritance 
 Of such a life, a heart, a mind as thine. 
 Thou noble Father of her kings to be ! 
 Laborious for her people, and her poor, — 
 Voice in the rich dawn of an ampler day, — 
 Far-sighted summoner of W^ar and Waste 
 To fruitful strifes, and rivalries of peace, — 
 Sweet nature, gilded by the gracious gleam 
 Of letters dear to vScience, dear to Art, 
 Dear to thy land and ours, a Prince indeed. 
 Beyond all titles, and a household name 
 Hereafter, through all time, Albert the Good ! 
 
204 ^^'^ Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Break not, O woman's heart, but still endure ; 
 Break not, for thou art Royal, but endure, 
 Remembering all the beauty of that star 
 Which shone so close beside thee, that ye made 
 One light together, but has past, and leaves 
 The crown a lonely splendor. 
 
 May all love, 
 His love unseen but felt, o'ershadow thee. 
 The love of all thy sons encompass thee. 
 The love of all thy daughters cherish thee. 
 The love of all thy people comfort thee. 
 Till God's love set thee at his side again. 
 
 A. Tennysoji 
 
 CLIV 
 FIRE 
 
 SWEET maiden, for so calm a life 
 Too bitter seemed thy end ; 
 But thou hadst won thee, ere that strife 
 A more than earthly Friend. 
 
 We miss thee in thy place at school. 
 And in thine homeward way, 
 
 Where violets, by the reedy pool 
 Peep out so shyly gay ; 
 
 Where thou, a true and gentle guide, 
 Wouldst lead thy little band, 
 
 With all an elder sister's pride, 
 And rule with heart and hand. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poet>y 205 
 
 And if we miss, O who may speak 
 What thoughts are hoveiung round 
 
 The pallet where thy fresh young cheek 
 Its evening slumber found ? 
 
 How many a tearful, longing look, 
 
 In silence seeks thee yet, 
 Where in its own familiar nook 
 
 Thy fireside chair is set. 
 
 And oft, when little voices dim, 
 
 Are feeling for the note, 
 In chanted prayer, or psalm, or hymn, 
 
 And, wavering, wildly float, 
 
 Comes gushing o'er a sudden thought 
 
 Of her who led the strain. 
 How oft such music home she brought, — 
 
 But ne'er shall bring again. 
 
 O, say not so ! the spring-tide air 
 Is fraught with whisperings sweet ; 
 
 Who knows but heavenly carols there 
 With ours may duly meet ? 
 
 Who knows how near, each holy hour, 
 
 The pure and child-like dead 
 May linger, when in shrine or bower 
 
 The mourner's prayer is said ? 
 
 And He who willed thy tender frame 
 
 (O, stern but sweet decree !) 
 Should wear the martyr's robe of flame,— 
 
 He hath prepared for thee 
 
2o6 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 A garland in that region bright 
 
 Where infant spirits reign, 
 Tinged faintly with such golden light 
 
 As crowns His martyr train. 
 
 Nay, doubt it not : His tokens sure 
 Were round her death-bed shown : 
 
 The wasting pain might not endure, 
 'T was calm ere life had flown ; 
 
 Even as we read of saints of yore : 
 Her heart and voice were free 
 
 To crave one quiet slumber more 
 Upon her mother's knee. 
 
 y. Kcble 
 
 CLV 
 
 FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS 
 
 WHEN the hours of Day are numbered, 
 And the voices of the Night 
 Wake the better soul, that slumbered, 
 To a holy, calm delight ; 
 
 Ere the evening lamps are lighted. 
 And, like phantoms grim and tall, 
 
 Shadows from the fitful fire-light 
 Dance upon the parlor wall ; 
 
 Then the forms of the departed 
 
 Enter at the open door ; 
 The beloved, the true-hearted, 
 
 Come to visit me once more ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 207 
 
 He, tlie young and strong, who cherished 
 
 Noble longings for the strife. 
 By the road-side fell and perished, 
 
 Weary with the march of life! 
 
 They, the holy ones and weakly, 
 
 Who the cross of suffering bore, 
 Folded their pale hands so meekly, 
 
 Spake with us on earth no more ! 
 
 And with them the Being Beauteous, 
 
 Who unto my youth was given, 
 More than all things else to love me, 
 
 And is now a saint in heaven. 
 
 With a slow and noiseless footstep 
 
 Comes that messenger divine. 
 Takes the vacant chair beside me, 
 
 Lays her gentle hand in mine. 
 
 And she sits and gazes at me 
 
 With those deep and tender eyes, 
 Like the stars, so still and saint-like. 
 
 Looking downward from the skies. 
 
 Uttered not, yet comprehended 
 
 Is the spirit's voiceless prayer, 
 Soft rebukes, in blessings ended. 
 
 Breathing from her lips of air. 
 
 O, though oft depressed and lonely, 
 
 All my fears are laid aside, 
 If I but remember only 
 
 Such as these have lived and died ! 
 
 H. W. Longfellow 
 
2o8 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 CLVI 
 
 RESIGN A TION 
 
 THERE is no flock, however watched and tended, 
 But one dead lamb is there ! 
 There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended, 
 But has one vacant chair ! 
 
 The air is full of farewells to the dying 
 
 And mournings for the dead ; 
 The heart of Rachel, for her children ciying. 
 
 Will not be comforted ! 
 
 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 damps. 
 What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers, 
 
 May be heaven's distant lamps. 
 
 There is no Death ! What seems so is transition. 
 
 This life of mortal breath 
 Is but a suburb of the life Elysian, 
 
 Whose portal we call Death. 
 
 She is not dead, — the child of our affection, — ■ 
 
 But gone unto that school 
 Where she no longer needs our poor protection, 
 
 And Christ himself doth rule. 
 
The Simday Book of Poetry 209 
 
 In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 
 
 By guardian angels led, 
 Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 
 
 She lives, whom we call dead. 
 
 Day after day we think what she is doing 
 
 In those bright realms of air ; 
 Year after year, her tender steps pursuing, 
 
 Behold her grown more fair. 
 
 Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 
 
 The bond which nature gives. 
 Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken, 
 
 May reach her where she lives. 
 
 Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 
 
 For when with raptures wild 
 In our embraces we again enfold her, 
 
 She will not be a child ; 
 
 But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion, 
 
 Clothed with celestial grace ; 
 And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 
 
 Shall we behold her face. 
 
 And though at times impetuous with emotion 
 
 And anguish long suppressed. 
 The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 
 
 That cannot be at rest, — 
 
 We will be patient, and assuage the feeling 
 
 We may not wholly stay ; 
 By silence sanctifying, not concealing, 
 The grief that must have way. 
 
 H. W. Longfellffu) 
 14 
 
2IO The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 GENOVEVA 
 
 GENTLY speak, and lightly tread, 
 'T is the chamber of the dead. 
 Now thine earthly course is run, 
 Now thy weary day is done, 
 Genoveva, sainted one ! 
 
 Happy flight thy sprite has taken, 
 From its plumes earth's last dust shaken ; 
 On the earth is passionate weeping, 
 Round thy bier lone vigils keeping, — 
 In the heaven triumphant songs, 
 Welcome of angelic throngs. 
 As thou enterest on that day 
 Which no tears, nor fears allay, 
 No regrets, nor pangs affray. 
 Hemmed not in by yesterday. 
 By to-morrow hemmed not in. 
 Weep not for her, — she doth win 
 What we long for ; oiow is she 
 That which all desire to be. 
 Bear her forth with solemn cheer, 
 Bear her forth on open bier. 
 That the wonder which hath been 
 May of every eye be seen. 
 Wonderful ! that pale worn brow 
 Death hath scarcely sealed, and now 
 All the beauty that she wore 
 -In the youthful years before. 
 All the freshness, and the grace, 
 And the bloom upon her face, 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 2 
 
 Ere that seven-yeared distress 
 In the painful wilderness, 
 Ere that wasting sickness came, 
 Undermining quite her frame, 
 AH come back, — the light, the hue, 
 Tinge her cheek and lip anew : 
 Far from her, O far away. 
 All that is so quick to say, 
 "Man returneth to his clay"; 
 All that to our creeping fear 
 Whispers of corruption near. 
 Seems it as she would illume, 
 With her radiance and her bloom, 
 The dark spaces of the tomb. 
 
 Archbishop Trench 
 
 DEA Til OF A CHRISTIAN' 
 
 CALM on the bosom of thy God, 
 Fair spirit, rest thee now ! 
 E'en while with ours thy footsteps trod 
 His seal was on thy brow. 
 
 Dust, to its narrow house beneath ! 
 
 , Soul, to its place on high ! 
 They, that have seen thy look in death, 
 No more may fear to die. 
 
 Mrs. Hemajis 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 CLIX 
 
 THE CHURCH OF BERN 
 
 The Tomb 
 
 SO rest, forever rest, O Princely Pair ! 
 In your high church, 'mid the still mountain air, 
 Where horn, and hound, and vassals, never come, 
 Only the blessed Saints are smiling dumb 
 From the rich painted windows of the nave 
 On aisle, and transept, and your marble grave ; 
 Where thou, young Prince, shalt never more arise 
 From the fringed mattress where thy Duchess lies. 
 On Autumn mornings, when the bugle sounds. 
 And ride across the drawbridge with thy hounds 
 To hunt the boar in the crisp woods till eve. 
 And thou, O Princess, shalt no more receive, 
 Thou and thy ladies in the hall of state, 
 The jaded hunters with their bloody freight. 
 Coming benighted to the castle gate. 
 
 So sleep, forever sleep, O Marble Pair ! 
 And if ye wake, let it be then, when fair. 
 On the carved western front, a flood of light 
 Streams from the setting sun, and colors bright 
 Prophets, transfigured saints, and martyrs brave, 
 In the vast western window of the nave ; 
 And on the pavement round the tomb there glints 
 A chequer-work of glowing sapphire tints. 
 And amethyst, and ruby ; — then unclose 
 Your eyelids on the stone where ye repose, 
 And from your broidered pillows lift your heads, 
 And rise upon your cold white marble beds, 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 213 
 
 And looking down on the warm rosy tints 
 
 That chequer, at your feet, the ilhimined flints, 
 
 Say — " What is this ? we are in bliss, — forgiven, — 
 
 Behold the pavement of the courts of Heaven ! " — 
 
 Or let it be on Autumn nights, when rain 
 
 Doth rustlingly above your heads complain 
 
 On the smooth leaden roof; and on the walls, 
 
 Shedding her pensive light at intervals. 
 
 The moon through the clerestory windows shines ; 
 
 And the wind washes in the mountain pines. 
 
 Then gazing up through the dim pillars high, 
 
 The foliaged marble forest where ye lie, 
 
 " Hush ! " ye will say — " it is eternity ! 
 
 This is the glimmering verge of Heaven, and these 
 
 The columns of the Heavenly Palaces." 
 
 And in the sweeping of the wind, your ear 
 
 The passage of the Angels' wings will hear. 
 
 And on the lichen-crusted leads above 
 
 The rustle of the eternal rain of Love. 
 
 Mattheiu Arnold 
 
214 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 A 
 
 LONGING FOR HOME 
 
 SONG of a boat: — 
 There was once a boat on a billow : 
 Lightly she rocked to her port remote, 
 And the foam was white in her wake like snow, 
 And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would 
 blow, 
 And bent like a wand of willow. 
 
 I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat 
 
 Went curtseying over the billow ; 
 I marked her course till, a dancing mote, 
 She faded out on the moonlit foam. 
 And I stayed behind in the dear-loved home : 
 And my thoughts all day were about the boat, 
 And my dreams upon the pillow. 
 
 I pray you hear my song of a boat, 
 
 For it is but short : — 
 My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat. 
 
 In river or port. 
 Long I looked out for the lad she bore 
 
 On the open desolate sea. 
 And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore, 
 For he came not back to me. 
 
 A song of a nest : — 
 There was once a nest in a hollow, 
 Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed, 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 215 
 
 Soft and warm, and full to the brim ; 
 Vetches leaned over it, purple and dim, 
 With buttercup buds to follow. 
 
 I pray you hear my song of a nest, 
 
 For it is not long : — 
 You shall never light in a summer quest 
 
 The bushes among, — - 
 Shall never light on a prouder sitter, 
 
 A fairer nestful, nor ever know 
 A softer sound than their tender twitter, 
 That wind-like did come and go. 
 
 I had a nestful once of my own, 
 
 Ah happy, happy I ! 
 Right dearly I loved them : but when they were grown 
 
 They spread out their wings to fly ; — 
 O, one after one they flew away 
 
 Far up to the heavenly blue, 
 To the better country, the upper day. 
 
 And — I wish I was going too. 
 
 I pray you, what is the nest to me, — 
 
 My empty nest ? 
 And what is the shore where I stood to see 
 
 My boat sail down to the west ? 
 Can I call that home where I anchor yet, 
 
 Though my good man has sailed ? 
 Can I call that home where my heart was set 
 
 Now all its hope has failed ? 
 Nay, but the port where my sailor went, 
 
 And the land where my nestlings be ; 
 There is the home where my hopes are sent. 
 
 The only home for me. 
 
 y. Ingeloiv 
 
2i6 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 CLXI 
 
 STRIFE AND PEACE 
 
 THE yellow poplar-leaves came down 
 And like a carpet lay, 
 No waftings were in the sunny air, 
 
 To flutter them away ; 
 And he stepped on blithe and debonair, 
 That warm October day. 
 
 *' The boy," saith he, " hath got his own. 
 
 But sore has been the fight. 
 For ere his life began the strife 
 
 That ceased but yesternight ; 
 For the will," he said, "the kinsfolk read, 
 
 And read it not aright. 
 
 "His cause was argued in the court 
 
 Before his christening day. 
 And counsel was heard, and judge demurred, 
 
 And bitter waxed the fray ; 
 Brother with brother spake no word 
 
 When they met in the way. 
 
 "Against each one did each contend, 
 
 And all against the heir, 
 I would not bend, for I knew the end, — 
 
 I have it for my share, 
 And naught repent, though my best friend 
 
 From henceforth I must spare. 
 
 "Manor, and moor, and farm, and wold. 
 Their greed begrudged him sore, 
 
The Stniday Book of Poetry 217 
 
 And parchments old with passionate hold 
 
 They guarded heretofore ; 
 And they carped at signature and seal, 
 
 But they may carp no more. 
 
 "An old afifront will stir the heart 
 
 Through years of rankling pain, 
 And I feel the fret that urged me yet 
 
 That warfare to maintain ; 
 For an enemy's loss may well be set 
 
 Against an infant's gain. 
 
 " An enemy's loss I go to prove ; 
 
 Laugh out, thou little heir ! 
 Laugh in his face who vowed to chase 
 
 Thee from thy birthright fair ; 
 For I come to set thee in thy place : 
 
 Laugh out, and do not spare." 
 
 A man of strife, in wrathful mood 
 
 He neared the nurse's door ; 
 With poplar-leaves the roof and eaves 
 
 Were thickly scattered o'er, 
 And yellow as they a sunbeam lay 
 
 Along the cottage floor. 
 
 "Sleep on, thou pretty, pretty lamb," 
 
 He hears the fond nurse say ; 
 " And if angels stand at thy right hand, 
 
 As now belike they may. 
 And if angels meet at thy bed's feet, 
 
 I fear them not this day. 
 
 "Come wealth, come want to thee, dear heart, 
 It was all one to me. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 For thy pretty tongue far sweeter rung, 
 
 Than coined gold and fee ; 
 And ever the while thy waking smile 
 
 It was right fair to see. 
 
 " Sleep, pretty bairn, and never know 
 Who grudged and who transgressed ; 
 
 Thee to retain I was full fain, 
 But God He knoweth best ! 
 
 And His peace upon thy brow lies plain 
 As the sunshine on thy breast" 
 
 The man of strife, he enters in. 
 Looks, and his pride doth cease ; 
 
 Anger and sorrow shall be to-morrow. 
 Trouble, and no release ; 
 
 For the babe whose life awoke the strife 
 Hath entered into peace. 
 
 J. Ingdow 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 219 
 
 THE MOTHER'S DEATH 
 
 METHOUGHT I heard a sound, methought it 
 came 
 From my poor mother's room — I softly crept 
 And Hstened ; in the middle of the night 
 I heard her talk with God. — " Thou knowest well 
 That sorrow has been with me like a babe 
 In my great solitude, till I have come 
 To love its smileless face. Thou Love who wrapt 
 Thyself in flesh, and sat awhile disguised 
 At the rude feast of our humanity. 
 And tasted eveiy sweet and bitter there. 
 Then rose, and unsuspected went away : 
 Who loved the humble ones at Bethany ; 
 Who wept o'er Lazarus, and with Thy tears 
 Comforted all the family of grief, 
 In every time, in every far-off land ; — 
 Thou infinite tenderness wilt pardon me 
 If my heart murmured when my lips were still. 
 Our life is noble. Thou hast breathed its air ; 
 Death sweet, for Thou hast died. On Thy way home 
 One night Thou slept'st within the dreadful grave, 
 And took away its fear. O, smile on me ! 
 The world and I have done ; with humble heart 
 I sit down at Thy glorious gates and wait 
 Till death shall lead me in. But chiefly bless 
 My poor boy, left alone in this ill world : 
 I never more may look upon his face. 
 May never hear his voice. Thou know'st him well. 
 For every morning, long before the lark 
 
220 The Sunday Book of Podry 
 
 Sang at Thy shining doors, my prayer arose 
 To crave Thy blessing on his restless youth. 
 It is the evening of my day of life, 
 I have been working from the early dawn, 
 And sore, and weary ; let me go to sleep, — 
 Let me stretch out my limbs, and be at rest 
 In the untroubled silence of the grave." 
 My heart swelled like a man's who, after years 
 Wasted in riot 'neath a tropic sky. 
 Returns, and wandering on a Sabbath eve, 
 Bursts into tears beside a twilight church. 
 Filled with a psalm which he knew long ago 
 When his heart too was pure. 
 
 I ran to her, 
 But she had sunk in swoon, and there I stood 
 Like one too late upon a brink, who sees 
 The water closing over all he loves. 
 I knelt down by the bed. " Come, Margery ! 
 The sea is glittering in the sunny bay. 
 The fishers' nets are drying on the shore, 
 And let us gather silver purple shells 
 For necklaces. You have been in the woods ; 
 Your lips are black with berries. O the boats ! 
 The bonny bonny boats ! List, the fishers sing ! " 
 *' O, mother, mother ! " 
 
 "They have left me here, 
 Upon this dark and lonely, lonely road ; 
 I cannot hear a voice, or touch a hand ; 
 O Father, take me home ! " She sobbed and wept 
 As if she were a little wandered child. 
 Her Father took her home. I stooped to catch 
 Her feeble breath, a change came o'er her look, 
 A flutter in her throat, and all was peace. 
 
 A. Smith 
 
The Sunday Book of Pod/y 22] 
 
 CLXiri 
 
 O.V THE GRA VE OF BISHOP KEN^ A T 
 FR OME, SOMERSE TSHIRE 
 
 LET other thoughts, where'er I roam, 
 Ne'er from my memory cancel 
 The coffin-fashioned tomb at Frome, 
 
 That lies behind the chancel ; 
 A basket-work where bars are bent, 
 
 Iron in place of osier, 
 And shapes above that represent 
 A mitre and a crosier. 
 
 These signs of him that slumbers there 
 
 The dignity betoken ; 
 These iron bars a heart declare 
 
 Hard bent but never broken ; 
 This form portrays how souls like his, 
 
 Their pride and passion quelling, 
 Preferred to earth's high palaces 
 
 This calm and narrow dwelling. 
 
 There with the churchyard's common dust 
 
 He loved his own to mingle ; 
 The faith in which he placed his trust 
 
 Was nothing rare or single : 
 Yet laid he to the sacred wall 
 
 As close as he was able. 
 The blessed crumbs might almost fall 
 
 Upon him from God's table. 
 
 , Who was this father of the Church, 
 So secret in his gloiy ? 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 In vain might antiquarians search 
 
 For record of his story ; 
 But preciously tradition keeps 
 
 The fame of holy men ; 
 So there the Christian smiles or weeps 
 
 For love of Bishop Ken. 
 
 A name his countiy once forsook, 
 
 But now with joy inherits, 
 Confessor in the Church's book, 
 
 And martyr in the Spirit's ! 
 That dared with royal power to cope. 
 
 In peaceful faith persisting, 
 A braver Becket — who could hope 
 
 To conquer unresisting. 
 
 R. M. Milnes 
 
 NEW -YEAR'S EVE 
 
 IF you're waking, call me early, call me early, 
 mother dear. 
 For I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year. 
 It is the last new-year that I shall ever see, 
 Then you may lay me low i' the mould, and think no 
 more of me. 
 
 To-night I saw the sun set : he set and left behind 
 The good old year, the dear old time, and all my 
 
 peace of mind ; 
 And the new-year's coming up, mother, but I shall 
 
 never see 
 The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree. 
 
The Sttnday Book of Poetry 223 
 
 Last May we made a crown of flowers : we had a 
 
 merry day ; 
 Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me 
 
 Queen of May ; 
 And we danced about the maypole, and in the hazel 
 
 copse, 
 Till Charles's wain came out above the tall white 
 
 chimney-tops. 
 
 There 's not a flower on all the hills : the frost is on the 
 
 pane : 
 I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again : 
 I wish the snow would melt, and the sun come out on 
 
 high : 
 I long to see a flower so before the day I die. 
 
 The building rook '11 caw from the windy tall elm-tree. 
 
 And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, 
 
 And the swallow '11 come back again with Summer 
 
 o'er the wave, 
 But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering 
 
 grave. 
 
 Upon the chancel-casement, and upon that grave of 
 
 mine. 
 In the early early morning the Summer sun '11 shine, 
 Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill. 
 When you are warm asleep, mother, and all the world 
 
 is still. 
 
 When the flowers come again, mother, beneath the 
 
 waning light. 
 You '11 never see me more in the long gray fields at 
 
 night ; 
 
224 '^^^^ Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 When from the dry dark wold the Summer airs blow cool 
 On the oat-grass, and the sword-grass, and the bulrush 
 in the pool. 
 
 You '11 bury me, my mother, just beneath the hawthorn 
 
 shade, 
 And you '11 come sometimes and see me where I am 
 
 lowly laid. 
 I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when 
 
 you pass. 
 With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant 
 
 grass. 
 
 I have been wild and wayward, but you '11 forgive me 
 
 now ; 
 You '11 kiss me, my own mother, on my cheek and on 
 
 my brow. 
 Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild. 
 You should not fret for me, mother, you have another 
 
 child. 
 
 If I can I '11 come again, mother, from out my resting- 
 place ; 
 
 Though you '11 not see me, mother, I shall look upon 
 your face ; 
 
 Though I cannot speak a word, I shall hearken what 
 you say. 
 
 And be often, often with you, when you think I 'm far 
 away. 
 
 Good-night, good-night, when I have said. Good- 
 night for evermore. 
 
 And you see me carried out from the threshold of the 
 door ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 225 
 
 Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be grow- 
 ing green : 
 She '11 be a better child to you than I have ever been. 
 
 She '11 find my garden tools upon the granaiy floor : 
 Let her take 'em : they are hers : I shall never garden 
 
 more : 
 But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush 
 
 that I set 
 About the parlor-window, and the box of mignonette. 
 
 Good-night, sweet mother : call me before the day is 
 
 born. 
 All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at mom ; 
 But I would see the sun rise upon the glad new-year, 
 So, if you 're waking, call me, call me early, mother 
 
 dear. 
 
 I THOUGHT to pass away before, and yet alive I am ; 
 And in the fields all round, I hear the bleating of the 
 
 lamb. 
 How sadly, I remember, rose the morning of the year ! 
 To die before the snowdrop came, and now the violet 's 
 
 here. 
 
 O sweet is the new violet, that comes beneath the 
 
 skies. 
 And sweeter is the young lamb's voice to me that 
 
 cannot rise ; 
 And sweet is all the land about, and all the flowers 
 
 that blow. 
 And sweeter far is death than life to me that long to 
 
 go- 
 
 15 
 
226 The Simday Book of Poetry 
 
 It seemed so hard at first, mother, to leave the blessed 
 
 sun, 
 And now it seems as hard to stay, and yet His will, be 
 
 done ! 
 But still I think it can't be long before I find release ; 
 And that good man, the clergyman, has told me words 
 
 of peace. 
 
 O blessings on his kindly voice and on his silver hair ! 
 And blessings on his whole life long, until he meet 
 me there ! 
 
 blessings on his kindly heart and on his silver head ! 
 A thousand times I blest him as he knelt beside my bed. 
 
 He taught me all the mercy, for he showed me all the 
 
 sin ; 
 Now, though my lamp was lighted late, there 's One 
 
 will let me in : 
 Nor would I now be well, mother, again, if that could 
 
 be, 
 For my desire is but to pass to Him that died for me. 
 
 1 did not hear the dog howl, mother, or the death- 
 
 watch beat. 
 
 There came a sweeter token when the night and morn- 
 ing meet ; 
 
 But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in 
 mine. 
 
 And Efifie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. 
 
 All in the wild March-morning, I heard the angels 
 
 call; 
 It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was 
 
 over all : 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 227 
 
 The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to 
 
 roll, 
 And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my 
 
 soul. 
 
 For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie 
 
 dear ; 
 I saw you sitting in the house, and I no longer here. 
 With all my strength I prayed for both, and so I felt 
 
 resigned, 
 And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. 
 
 I thought that it was fancy, and I listened in my bed, 
 And then did something speak to me, — I know not 
 
 what was said ; 
 For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my 
 
 mind, 
 And up the valley came again the music on the wind. 
 
 But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for 
 them : 't is mine. " 
 
 And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a 
 sign. 
 
 And once again it came, and close beside the window- 
 bars. 
 
 Then seemed to go right up to heaven and die among 
 the stars. 
 
 So now I think my time is near ; I trust it is ; I know 
 The blessed music went that way my soul will have to 
 
 go- 
 And for myself, indeed, I care not if I go to-day. 
 But, Effie, you must comfort her when I am past 
 
 away. 
 
228 The Simday Book of Poetry 
 
 O look ! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a 
 
 glow, 
 He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I 
 
 know. 
 And there I move np longer now, and there his light 
 
 may shine, — 
 Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. 
 
 O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day 
 
 is done, 
 The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the 
 
 sun, — 
 Forever and forever with those just souls and true, — 
 And what is life that we should moan ? why make we 
 
 such ado ? 
 
 Forever and forever all in a blessed home, 
 
 And there to wait a little while, till you and Effie 
 
 come, — 
 To lie within the light of God, as I lie upon your 
 
 breast, 
 And the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary 
 
 are at rest. 
 
 A. Te)inyso7z 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 229 
 
 CLXV 
 
 LITTLE WILLIE 
 
 POOR little Willie, 
 With his many pretty wiles : 
 Worlds of wisdom in his look, 
 
 And quaint, quiet smiles ; 
 Hair of amber, touched with 
 Gold of Heaven so brave ; 
 All lying darkly hid 
 In a workhouse grave. 
 
 You remember little Willie, 
 
 Fair and funny fellow ! he 
 Sprang like a lily 
 
 From the dirt of poverty. 
 Poor little Willie ! 
 
 Not a friend was nigh. 
 When from the cold world 
 
 He crouched down to die. 
 
 In the day we wandered foodless. 
 
 Little Willie cried for "bread"; 
 In the night we wandered homeless, 
 
 Little Willie cried for "bed." 
 Parted at the workhouse door, 
 
 Not a word we said ; 
 Ah ! so tired was poor Willie ! 
 
 And so sweetly sleep the dead ! 
 
 'T was in the dead of winter 
 We laid him in the earth ; 
 
230 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 The world brought in the new year 
 
 On a tide of mirth. 
 But, for lost little Willie 
 
 Not a tear we crave ; 
 Cold and hunger cannot wake him 
 
 In his workhouse grave. 
 
 We thought him beautiful, 
 
 Felt it hard to part ; 
 W^e loved him dutiful : 
 
 Down, down, poor heart ! 
 The storms they may beat, 
 
 The winter winds may rave ; 
 Little Willie feels not 
 
 In his workhouse grave. 
 
 No room for little Willie ; 
 
 In the world he had no part ; 
 On him stared the Gorgon-eye 
 
 Through which looks no heart. 
 "Come to me," said Heaven ; 
 
 And if Heaven will save, 
 Little matters though the door 
 
 Be a workhouse grave. 
 
 Gerald Massey 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry "231 
 
 VI 
 
 THE HEART 
 
 CLXVI 
 
 CHRIST TO THE SINNER 
 
 HARK, my soul ! it is the Lord, 
 'Tis thy Saviour, hear His word ; 
 Jesus speaks, and speaks to thee ; 
 " Say, poor sinner, lov'st thou Me? 
 
 " I delivered thee when bound, 
 And, when bleeding, healed thy wound ; 
 Sought thee wandering, set thee right, 
 Turned thy darkness into light. 
 
 "Can a woman's tender care 
 Cease towards the child she bare ? 
 Yes, she may forgetful be. 
 Yet will I remember thee ! 
 
 " Mine is an unchanging love, 
 Higher than the heights above, 
 Deeper than the depths beneath. 
 Free and faithful, strong as death. 
 
 "Thou shalt see my glory soon, 
 When the work of grace is done ; 
 Partner of my throne shalt be ; 
 Say, poor sinner, lov'st thou Me ? " 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Lord, it is my chief complaint, 
 That my love is weak and faint ; 
 Yet I love Thee, and adore ! 
 O ! for grace to love Thee more. 
 
 W, Coxvper 
 
 SUBMISSION 
 
 OLORD ! how happy should we be 
 If we could cast our care on Thee, 
 If we from self could rest ; 
 And feel at heart that One above. 
 In perfect wisdom, perfect love. 
 Is working for the best. 
 
 How far from this our daily life ! 
 Ever disturbed by anxious strife, 
 
 By sudden wild alarms ; 
 O could we but relinquish all 
 Our earthly props, and simply fall 
 
 On Thy almighty arms ! 
 
 Could we but kneel and cast our load. 
 E'en while we pray, upon our God, 
 
 Then rise with lightened cheer. 
 Sure that the Father, who is nigh 
 To still the famished raven's cry. 
 
 Will hear, in that we fear. 
 
 We cannot trust Him as we should. 
 So chafes fall'n nature's restless mood 
 To cast its peace away ; 
 
The Swiday Book of Poetry 233 
 
 Yet birds and flowerets round us preach, 
 All, all the present evil teach 
 Sufficient for the day. 
 
 Lord, make these faithless hearts of ours 
 Such lessons learn from birds and flowers, 
 
 Make them from self to cease ; 
 Leave all things to a Father's will, 
 And taste, before him lying still, 
 
 E'en in affliction peace. 
 
 Child''s Christian Year 
 
 CLXVIII 
 
 THE STRANGER 
 
 BEHOLD ! a Stranger 's at the door ! 
 He gently knocks, has knocked before, 
 Has waited long, is waiting still ; 
 You treat no other friend so ill. 
 
 But will He prove a Friend indeed ? 
 He will ! the veiy Friend you need ! 
 The Man of Nazareth, 't is He, 
 With garments dyed at Calvary. 
 
 If thou art poor, (and poor thou art,) 
 Lo ! He has riches to impart ; 
 Not wealth, in which mean avarice rolls ; 
 O better far ! the wealth of souls ! 
 
 Thou 'rt blind ; He '11 take the scales away, 
 And let in everlasting day ; 
 Naked thou art ; but He shall dress 
 Thy blushing soul in Righteousness. 
 
234 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Art thou a weeper ? Grief shall fly ; 
 For who can weep with Jesus by ? 
 No terror shall thy hopes annoy ; 
 No tear except the tear of joy. 
 
 Admit Him, for the human breast 
 Ne'er entertained so kind a guest : 
 Admit Him, for you can't expel ; 
 Where'er He comes, He comes to dwell. 
 
 Admit Him, ere His anger burn ; 
 His feet departed, ne'er return ! 
 Admit Him, or the hour 's at hand. 
 When at His door denied you '11 stand. 
 
 y. Grigg 
 
 CLXIX 
 
 THE VOICE OF JESUS 
 
 I HEARD the voice of Jesus say, 
 " Come unto Me and rest ; 
 Lay down, thou weaiy one, lay down 
 
 Thy head upon My breast. " 
 I came to Jesus as I was, 
 
 Weaiy, and worn, and sad, 
 
 I found in Him a resting-place, 
 
 And he has made me glad. 
 
 I heard the voice of Jesus say, 
 
 "Behold! I freely give 
 The living water ; thirsty one. 
 
 Stoop down, and drink, and live !" 
 
The Sunday Book of Foelry -235 
 
 I came to Jesus, and I drank 
 
 Of that life-giving stream ; 
 My thirst was quenched, my soul revived, 
 
 And now T live in Him. 
 
 I heard the voice of Jesus say, 
 
 " I am this dark world's light ; 
 Look unto Me, thy morn shall rise, 
 
 And all thy day be bright. " 
 I looked to Jesus, and I found 
 
 In Him my star, my sun ; 
 And in that light of life I '11 walk 
 
 ,Till travelling days are done. 
 
 H. Bonar 
 
 AFFLICTION 
 
 WITHIN this leaf, to every eye 
 So little worth, doth hidden lie 
 Most rare and subtle fragrancy. 
 
 Wouldst thou its secret strength unbind ? 
 Cnish it, and thou shalt perfume find, 
 Sweet as Arabia's spicy wind. 
 
 In this stone, so poor and bare 
 Of shape and lustre, patient care 
 Will find for thee a jewel rare. 
 
 But first must skilful hands essay 
 With file and flint to clear away 
 The film which hides its fire from day. 
 
236 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 This leaf? this stone ? It is thy heart : 
 It must be crushed by pain and smart, 
 It must be cleansed by sorrow's art, — 
 
 Ere it will yield a fragrance sweet, 
 Ere it will shine, a jewel meet 
 To lay before thy dear Lord's feet. 
 
 Bishop Wilberforce 
 
 THE HEARTS 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. 
 
 Far, far away, like bells at evening pealing, 
 The voice of Jesus sounds o'er land and sea, 
 And laden souls by thousands meekly stealing, 
 Kind Shepherd, turn their weary steps to Thee. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 237 
 
 Rest comes at last, though life be long and dreary, 
 The day must dawn, and darksome night be past, 
 All journeys end in welcomes to the weary. 
 And heaven, the heart's true home, will come at last. 
 
 F. IV. Faber 
 
 THE HEARTS LONGING 
 
 O PARADISE ! O Paradise ! 
 Who doth not crave for rest ! 
 Who would not seek the happy land, 
 Where they that loved are blest ? 
 Where loyal hearts and true 
 
 Stand ever in the light, 
 All rapture through and through, 
 In God's most holy sight. 
 
 O Paradise ! O Paradise ! 
 'T is weary waiting here : 
 We long to be where Jesus is. 
 To feel, to see Him near ; 
 Where loyal hearts and true 
 
 Stand ever in the light. 
 All rapture through and through. 
 In God's most holy sight. 
 
 O Paradise ! O Paradise ! 
 We want to sin no more ; 
 We want to be as pure on earth 
 As on thy spotless shore ; 
 Where loyal hearts and true 
 
 Stand ever in the light. 
 All rapture through and through, 
 In God's most holy sight. 
 
 F. IV. Faber 
 
238 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 A PRAYER 
 
 THOU, who dost dwell alone,— 
 Thou, who dost know thine own,- 
 Thou, to whom all are known 
 From the cradle to the grave, — 
 
 Save, O save. 
 From the world's temptations. 
 From tribulations ; 
 From that fierce anguish 
 Wherein we languish ; 
 From that torpor deep 
 Wherein we lie asleep, 
 Heavy as death, cold as the grave ; 
 
 Save, O save. 
 When the soul, growing clearer. 
 Sees God no nearer : 
 When the soul, mounting higher, 
 To God comes no nigher : 
 But the arch-fiend. Pride, 
 Mounts at her side, 
 Foiling her high emprise, 
 Sealing her eagle eyes, 
 And when she fain would soar. 
 Makes idols to adoi'e ; 
 Changing the pure emotion 
 Of her high devotion 
 To a skin-deep sense 
 Of her own eloquence : 
 Strong to deceive, strong to enslave, — 
 Save, O save. 
 
The Simday Book of Poetry 239 
 
 From the ingrained fashion 
 
 Of this earthly nature 
 
 That mars thy creature ; 
 
 From grief that is but passion ; 
 
 From mirth that is but feigning ; 
 
 From tears that bring no heahng ; 
 
 From wild and weak complaining ; 
 Thine old strength revealing, 
 Save, O save. 
 
 P'rom doubt where all is double : 
 
 Where wise men are not strong : 
 
 Where comfort turns to trouble : 
 
 Where just men suffer wrong, — • 
 
 Where sorrow treads on joy : 
 
 Where sweet things soonest cloy : 
 
 Where faiths are built on dust : 
 
 Where Love is half mistrust ; 
 Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea ; 
 O, set us free. 
 
 O, let the false dream fly 
 
 Where our sick souls do lie 
 
 Tossing continually. 
 
 O, where thy voice doth come 
 
 Let all doubts be dumb : 
 
 Let all words be mild : 
 
 All strifes be reconciled : 
 
 All pains beguiled. 
 Light bring no blindness ; 
 Love no unkindness ; 
 Knowledge no riiin ; 
 Fear no undoing. 
 From the cradle to the grave, 
 Save, O save. 
 
 Matthew Arnold 
 
240 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 CHRISTIAN COURAGE 
 
 O SHAME upon thee, listless heart, 
 So sad a sigh to heave ; 
 As if thy Saviour had no part 
 
 In thoughts that make thee grieve. 
 
 As if along His lonesome way 
 
 He had not borne for thee 
 Sad languors through the summer day, 
 
 Storms on the wintry sea. 
 
 Thou shalt have joy in sadness soon ; 
 
 The pure, calm hope be thine. 
 Which brightens, like the eastern mom. 
 
 As day's wild lights decline. 
 
 y. Kdie 
 
The Sunday Book of Podry 241 
 
 CLXXV 
 
 LITTLE SINS 
 
 LOOK westward, pensive little one. 
 How the bright hues together run, 
 Around where late the waning sun 
 
 Sank in his evening cloud. 
 Or eastward turn thee, and admire 
 
 How linger yet the showers of fire, 
 Deep in each fold, high on each spire 
 Of yonder mountain proud. 
 
 Thou seest it not : an envious screen, 
 
 A fluttering leaflet, floats between 
 Thee and that fair mysterious scene, 
 
 A veil too near thine eye. 
 One finger's breadth at hand will mar 
 
 A world of light in Heaven afar, 
 A mote eclipse a glorious star, 
 
 An eyelid hide the sky. 
 
 y. Kcble 
 
 16 
 
242 The Swiday Book of Poetry 
 
 CLXXVI 
 
 LOVE 
 
 THEY sin who tell us love can die. 
 With life all other passions fly, 
 All others are but vanity. 
 In Heaven ambition cannot dwell, 
 Nor avarice in the vaults of hell ; 
 Earthly, these passions are of eartli, 
 They perish where they have their birth -, 
 But love is indestructible. 
 Its holy flame forever burneth. 
 From Heaven it came, to Heaven retunieth ; 
 Too oft on earth a trouVjled giiest, 
 At times deceived, at times opprest, 
 
 It here is tried and purified. 
 Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest ; 
 It soweth here with toil, and care. 
 But the harvest-time of Love is there. 
 O, when a mother meets on high, 
 
 The babe she lost in infancy. 
 Hath she not then for pains, and fears. 
 The days of woe, the watchful night. 
 For all her sorrow, all her tears. 
 An over-payment of delight. 
 
 K. Southey 
 
The Sunday Book of Podry 243 
 
 CLXXVII 
 
 CALM 
 
 CALM me, my God, and keep me calm. 
 Whilst these hot breezes blow ; 
 Be like the night-dew's cooling balm 
 Upon earth's fevered brow ! 
 
 Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, 
 
 Soft resting on Thy breast ; 
 Soothe me with holy hymn and psalm, 
 
 And bid my spirit rest. 
 
 Calm me, my God, and keep me calm, 
 
 Let Thine outstretched wing 
 Be like the shade of Elim's palm 
 
 Beside her desert-spring. 
 
 Yes ; keep me calm, though loud and rude 
 The sounds my ear that greet ; 
 
 Calm in the closet's solitude. 
 Calm in the bustling street ; 
 
 Calm in the hour of buoyant health, 
 
 Calm in my hour of pain ; 
 Calm in my poverty or wealth. 
 
 Calm in my loss or gain ; 
 
 Calm in the sufferance of wrong, 
 Like Him who bore my shame ; 
 
 Calm mid the threat'ning, taunting throng. 
 Who hate Thy holy Name. 
 
244 ^^'"^ Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Calm as the ray of sun or star, 
 
 Which storms assail in vain, 
 Moving unruffled through earth's war 
 
 Th' eternal calm to gain ! 
 
 H. Bonar 
 
 CLXXVIII 
 
 RETIREMENT 
 
 FAR from the world, O Lord, I flee, 
 From strife and tumult far ; 
 From scenes where Satan wages still 
 His most successful war. 
 
 The calm retreat, the silent shade, 
 With prayer and praise agree. 
 
 And seem by Thy sweet bounty made 
 For those who follow Thee. 
 
 There, if Thy spirit touch the soul, 
 
 And grace her mean abode, 
 O, with what peace, and joy, and love, 
 
 She communes with her God ! 
 
 There, like the nightingale, she pours 
 
 Her solitary lays, 
 -Nor asks a witness of her song, 
 
 Nor thirsts for human praise. 
 
 Author and Guardian of my life ; 
 
 Sweet Source of light Divine ; 
 And, all harmonious names in one. 
 
 My Saviour ! Thou art mine ! 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 245 
 
 What thanks I owe Thee, and what love, 
 
 A boundless, endless store. 
 Shall echo through the realms above. 
 
 When time shall be no more. 
 
 W. Cozvper 
 
 CLXXIX 
 
 THE HEART'S SONG 
 
 IN the silent midnight watches. 
 List — thy bosom door ! 
 How it knocketh, knocketh, knocketh, 
 
 Knocketh evermore ! 
 Say not 't is thy pulses beating ; 
 
 'T is thy heart of sin : 
 'T is thy Saviour knocks, and crieth, 
 Rise and let Me in ! 
 
 Death comes down with reckless footstep 
 
 To the hall and hut : 
 Think you Death will stand a-knocking 
 
 Where the door is shut ? 
 Jesus waiteth — waiteth — waiteth ; 
 
 But thy door is fast ! 
 Grieved, away thy Saviour goeth : 
 
 Death breaks in at last. 
 
 Then 't is thine to stand entreating 
 
 Christ to let thee in : 
 At the gate of heaven beating. 
 
 Wailing for thy sin. 
 Nay, alas ! thou foolish virgin. 
 
 Hast thou then forgot, 
 Jesus waited long to know thee. 
 
 But He knows thee not ! 
 
 A. C.Coxe 
 
246 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 CLXXX 
 
 REALITY 
 
 LOVE thy God, and love Him only, 
 And thy breast shall ne'er be lonely ; 
 In that one great Spirit meet 
 All things mighty, grave, and sweet. 
 Vainly strives the soul to mingle 
 With a being of our kind : 
 Vainly hearts with hearts are twined ; 
 For the deepest still is single. 
 An impalpable resistance 
 Holds like natures at a distance. 
 Mortal ! love that Holy One, 
 Or forever dwell alone. 
 
 A. De Vere 
 
 CLXXXI 
 
 LONGING FOR CHRIST 
 
 MY spirit longs for Thee 
 Within my troubled breast, 
 Although I be unworthy 
 Of so Divine a Guest. 
 
 Of so Divine a Guest 
 
 Unworthy though I be, 
 Yet has my heart no rest 
 
 Unless it come from Thee. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 247 
 
 Unless it come from Thee, 
 
 In vain I look around ; 
 In all that I can see 
 
 No rest is to be found. 
 
 No rest is to be found, 
 
 But in thy blessed love. 
 O let my wish be crowned, 
 
 And send it from above ! 
 
 7- By 
 
 roil 
 
 CLXXXII 
 
 LONGING TO BE WITH CHRIST 
 
 LET me be with Thee where Thou art, 
 My Saviour, my eternal Rest ! 
 Then only will this longing heart 
 Be fully and forever blest ! 
 
 Let me be with Thee where Thou art, 
 
 Thy unveiled glory to behold ; 
 Then only will this wandering heart 
 
 Cease to be treacherous, faithless, cold ! 
 
 Let me be with Thee where Thou art, 
 Where spotless saints Thy Name adore ; 
 
 Then only will this sinful heart 
 Be evil and defiled no more ! 
 
 Let me be with Thee where Thou art. 
 Where none can die, and none remove, 
 
 W^here neither death nor life will part 
 Me from Thy presence and Thy love ! 
 
 C. Elliott 
 
248 The Simday Book of Poetry 
 
 CLXXXIII 
 
 THE HAPPY SOUL 
 
 O HAPPY soul, that lives on high, 
 While men lie grovelling here ! 
 His hopes are fixed above the sky, 
 And faith forbids his fear. 
 
 His conscience knows no secret stings ; 
 
 "While peace and joy combine 
 To form a life, whose holy springs 
 
 Are hidden and divine. 
 
 He waits in secret on his God, 
 
 His God in secret sees ; 
 Let earth be all in arms abroad, 
 
 He dwells in heavenly peace. 
 
 His pleasures rise from things unseen, 
 
 Beyond this world and time. 
 Where neither eyes nor ears have been. 
 
 Nor thoughts of sinners climb. 
 
 He wants no pomp, nor royal throne. 
 
 To raise his figure here : 
 Content, and pleased to live unknown, 
 
 Till Christ, his Life, appear. 
 
 He looks to Heaven's eternal hill. 
 
 To meet that glorious day ; 
 And patient waits his Saviour's will. 
 
 To fetch his soul away. 
 
 /. IVatts 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 249 
 
 CLXXXIV 
 
 RESIGN A TION 
 
 IS resignation's lesson hard ? 
 Examine, we shall find 
 That duty gives up little more 
 Than anguish of the mind. 
 
 Grief s most inglorious coward tears 
 From brutal eyes have ran ; 
 
 Smiles, incommunicable smiles, 
 Are radiant marks of man. 
 
 They cast a sudden glory round 
 The illumined human face ; 
 
 And light in sons of honest joy 
 Some beams of Moses' face. 
 
 Resign, and all the load of life 
 That moment you remove ; 
 
 Its heavy tax, ten thousand cares 
 Devolve on One above ; 
 
 Who bids us lay our burden down 
 
 On His Almighty hand ; 
 Softens our duty to relief, 
 
 To blessing, His command. 
 
 For joy what cause ? how every sense 
 
 Is courted from above ! 
 The year around with presents rich, 
 
 The growth of endless love ! 
 
250 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 But most o'erlook the blessings poured, 
 
 Forget the wonders done, 
 And terminate, wrapt up in sense, 
 
 Their prospect at the sun. 
 
 From that, their final point of view. 
 
 From that, their radiant goal. 
 On travel infinite of thought 
 
 Sets out the nobler soul, — 
 
 Broke loose from time's tenacious ties 
 And earth's involving gloom, * 
 
 To range at last its vast domain. 
 And talk with worlds to come. 
 
 Who would not with an heart at ease, 
 
 Bright eye, unclouded brow, 
 Wisdom and goodness at the helm. 
 
 The roughest ocean plough ? 
 
 Thy will is welcome, let it wear 
 
 Its most tremendous form ; 
 Roar waves ! rage winds ! I know that Thou 
 
 Canst save me by a storm. 
 
 For what is resignation ? 't is 
 
 Man's weakness understood ; 
 And wisdom grasping with an hand 
 
 Far stronger, every good. 
 
 E. Yoiuig 
 
The Sunday Book of Poet )y 251 
 
 CLXXXV 
 
 CONSCIENCE 
 
 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 feel no care of coin ; 
 
 Well-doing is my wealth : 
 My mind to me an empire is 
 
 While Grace affordeth health. 
 
 I wrestle not with rage, 
 
 While fury's flame doth bum ; 
 It is in vain to stop the stream, 
 
 Until the tide doth turn. 
 
 But when the flame is out, 
 And ebbing wrath doth end ; 
 
 I turn a late enraged foe 
 Into a quiet friend ; 
 
252 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 And taught with often proof, 
 
 A tempered cahn T find 
 To be most solace to itself, 
 
 Best cure for angiy mind. 
 
 No change of fortune's calms 
 Can cast my comforts down ; 
 
 When fortune smiles, I smile to think 
 How quickly she will frown , 
 
 And when, in froward mood, 
 
 She moved an angiy foe. 
 Small gain I found to let her come, 
 
 Less loss to let her go 
 
 R. SoiitJnvcll 
 
 CLXXXVI 
 
 RE TURN 
 
 RETURN, O wanderer, to thy home ; 
 Thy Father calls for thee : 
 No longer now an exile roam. 
 In guilt and miseiy, 
 Return, return ! 
 
 Return, O wanderer, to thy home ; 
 
 'T is Jesus calls for thee : 
 The Spirit and the Bride say, Come : 
 O now for refuge flee ; 
 
 Return, return ! 
 
 Return, O wanderer, to thy home ; 
 
 'T is madness to delay ; 
 There are no pardons in the tomb, 
 And brief is mercy's day : 
 Return, return ! 
 
 Thos. Hastings 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 253 
 
 CLXXXVII 
 JUST AS I AM 
 
 JUST as I am, without one plea 
 But that Thy Blood was shed for me, 
 And that Thou bidd'st me come to Thee, 
 O Lamb of God, I come ! 
 
 Just as I am, and waiting not 
 To rid my soul of one dark blot, 
 To Thee, whose Blood can cleanse each spot, 
 O Lamb of God, I come ! 
 
 Just as I am, though tossed about 
 With many a conflict, many a doubt. 
 Fightings and fears within, without, 
 O Lamb of God, I come ! 
 
 Just as I am, poor, wretched, blind. 
 Sight, riches, healing of the mind. 
 Yea, all I need, in Thee to find, ^ 
 O Lamb of God, I come ! 
 
 Just as I am. Thou wilt receive. 
 Wilt welcome, pardon, cleanse, relieve ! 
 Because Thy promise I believe, 
 O Lamb of God, I come ! 
 
 Just as I am, (Thy Love unknown 
 Has broken every barrier down,) 
 Now, to be Thine, yea. Thine alone, " 
 O Lamb of God, I come ! 
 
254 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Just as I am, of that free love 
 
 The breadth, length, depth, and height to prove. 
 
 Here for a season, then above, 
 
 O Lamb of God, I come ! 
 
 C. Elliott 
 
 CLXXXVIII 
 
 ABIDE WITH ME 
 
 ABIDE with me ! fast falls the even -tide ; 
 The darkness deepens ; Lord, with me abide ! 
 When other helpers fail, and comforts flee, 
 Help of the helpless, O 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 ; 
 
 Thou, who changest not, abide with me ! 
 
 Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word ; 
 But, as Thou dwell'st with Thy disciples, Lord, 
 Familiar, condescending, patient, free. 
 Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me. 
 
 Come not in terrors, as the King of kings ; 
 But kind and good, with healing in Thy wings ; 
 Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea ; 
 Come, Friend of sirmers, and thus bide with me ! 
 
 1 need Thy Presence eveiy passing hour. 
 
 What but Thy grace can foil the Tempter's power ? 
 Who like Thyself my guide and stay can be ? 
 Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with me ! 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 255 
 
 Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes ; 
 Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies ! 
 Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows 
 
 flee; 
 In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me ! 
 
 H. K Lyte 
 
 REST 
 
 OF all the thoughts of God that are 
 Borne inward unto souls afar, 
 Along the Psalmist's music deep, — 
 Now tell me if that any is, 
 For gift or grace, surpassing this, — 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep ? " 
 
 What would we give to our beloved ? 
 The hero's heart to be unmoved, — 
 
 The poet's star- tuned harp to sweep, — 
 The senate's shout for patriot vows, — 
 The monarch's crown to light the brows ? 
 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 What do we give to our beloved ? 
 A little faith not all unproved, — 
 
 A little dust to ovenveep, — 
 And bitter memories to make 
 The whole earth blasted for our sake ? 
 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 Sleep, soft beloved ! we sometimes say, 
 But have no power to chase away 
 
 Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep 
 
256 The Stcnday Book of Poetry 
 
 But never doleful dream again 
 Shall break the happy slumber, when 
 "He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 O earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
 O men, with wailing in your voices ! 
 
 O delved gold, the wailer's heap ! 
 O strife, O curse that o'er it fall ! 
 God makes a silence through you all, 
 
 And "giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 His dews drop mutely on the hill ; 
 His cloud above it saileth still, 
 
 Though on its slope men toil and reap ! 
 More softly than the dew is shed, 
 Or cloud is floated overhead, 
 
 "He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 Yea ! men may wonder, while they scan 
 A living, thinking, feeling man, 
 
 Sufficient such a rest to keep ; 
 But angels say, — and through the word 
 The motion of their smile is heard, — 
 
 " He giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 For me, my heart that erst did go 
 Most like a tired child at a show, 
 
 Seeing through tears the juggler leap, — 
 Would fain its weary vision close. 
 And childlike on His love repose, 
 
 Who "giveth His beloved sleep." 
 
 And Friends, — dear Friends, - when it shall be 
 That this low breath is gone from me, — 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 257 
 
 When round my bier ye come to weep ; 
 Let one most loving of you all 
 Say, " Not a tear for her must fall, 
 
 ' He giveth His beloved sleep.' " 
 
 E. B. • Browning 
 
 ''SOON— A ND FORE VER " 
 
 SOON and forever ! 
 Such promise our trust, 
 Though ashes to ashes 
 
 And dust unto dust ; 
 Soon — and forever 
 
 Our union shall be 
 Made perfect, our glorious 
 
 Redeemer, in Thee. 
 When the sins and the sorrows 
 
 Of time shall be o'er ; 
 Its pangs and its partings 
 
 Remembered no more ; 
 When life cannot fail. 
 
 And when death cannot sever, 
 Christians with Christ shall be 
 
 Soon — and forever. 
 
 Soon — and forever 
 
 The breaking of day 
 Shall drive all the dark clouds 
 
 Of sorrow away. 
 Soon — and forever 
 
 We '11 see as we 're seen. 
 And learn the deep meaning 
 
 Of things that have been. 
 17 
 
258 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 When fightings without us, 
 
 And fears from within, 
 Shall weary no more 
 
 In the warfare of sin. 
 Where tears, and where fears. 
 
 And where death shall be — never, 
 Christians with Christ shall be 
 
 Soon — and forever. 
 
 Soon — and forever 
 
 The work shall be done. 
 The warfare accomplished. 
 
 The victory won. 
 Soon — and forever 
 
 The soldier lay down 
 His sword for a harp, 
 
 And his cross for a crown. 
 Then droop not in sorrow. 
 
 Despond not in fear, 
 A glorious to-morrow 
 
 Is brightening and near ; 
 When, — blessed reward 
 
 Of each faithful endeavor, 
 Christians with Christ shall be 
 
 Soon — and forever. 
 
 J. S. Monsell 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 259 
 
 cxci 
 PEACE 
 
 MY soul, there is a country, 
 Afar beyond the stars, 
 Where stands a winged sentry 
 
 All skilful in the wars. 
 There, above noise and danger, 
 
 Sweet Peace sits crowned with smiles, 
 And One born in a manger 
 
 Commands the beauteous files. 
 He is thy gracious friend. 
 
 And (O my soul, awake !) 
 Did in pure love descend 
 
 To die here for thy sake. 
 If thou canst get but thither, 
 
 There grows the flower of peace, 
 The Rose that cannot wither, 
 
 Thy fortress, and thy ease. 
 Leave then thy foolish ranges ; 
 
 For none can thee secure, 
 But One who never changes, 
 
 Thy God, thy life, thy cure. 
 
 H. Vaii^haii 
 
26o The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 CXCII 
 
 THY WILL BE DONE 
 
 MY God, my Father, while T stray 
 Far from my home in hfe's rough way, 
 O, teach me from my heart to say — 
 
 " Thy will be done ! " 
 
 Though dark my path, and sad my lot, 
 Let me be still and murmur not ; 
 And breathe the prayer divinely taught — 
 "Thy will be done ! " 
 
 "What though in lonely grief I sigh 
 For friends beloved no longer nigh. 
 Submissive still would I reply- — 
 
 " Thy will be done ! " 
 
 If Thou shouldst call me to resign 
 What most I prize, — it ne'er was mine ; 
 I only yield Thee what was Thine : 
 "Thy will be done!" 
 
 Should pining sickness waste away 
 
 My life in premature decay. 
 
 My Father, — still I '11 strive to say, 
 
 "Thy will be done!" 
 
 If but my fainting heart be blest 
 
 With Thy Spirit for its guest, 
 
 My God, to Thee I leave the rest, — 
 
 " Thy will be done ! " 
 
The Sunday Book of Podty 26] 
 
 Renew my will from day to day, 
 Blend it with Thine, and take away 
 All that now makes it hard to say, 
 
 ' ' Thy will be done ! " 
 
 Then, when on earth I breathe no more 
 The prayer oft mixed with tears before, 
 I '11 sing upon a happier shore, 
 
 "Thy will be done!" 
 C. Elliott 
 
 CONFIDENCE 
 
 THROUGH the love of God, our Saviour, 
 All will be well ; 
 Free and changeless is His favor ; 
 
 All, all is well ! 
 Precious is the Blood that healed us. 
 Perfect is the grace that sealed us. 
 Strong the hand stretched out to shield us ; 
 All must be well ! 
 
 Though we pass through tribulation. 
 
 All will be well ; 
 Ours is such a full salvation, — 
 
 All, all is well ! 
 Happy, still in God confiding. 
 Fruitful, if in Christ abiding, 
 Holy, through the Spirit's guiding ; 
 
 All must be well ! 
 
262 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 We expect a bright to-morrow, 
 
 All will be well ; 
 Faith can sing through days of sorrow, 
 
 All, all is well ! 
 On our Father's love relying, 
 Jesus eveiy need supplying, 
 Or in living, or in dying. 
 
 All must be well ! 
 
 Anon. 
 
 THE CONQUEST OF PRIDE 
 
 I LOOKED with pride on what I 'd done, 
 I counted merits o'er anew, 
 In presence of the burning sun. 
 Which drinks me like a drop of dew. 
 A lofty scorn I dared to shed 
 On human passions, hopes and jars, 
 I — standing on the countless dead, 
 And pitied by the countless stars. 
 
 But mine is now a humbled heart, 
 My lonely pride is weak as tears ; 
 No more I seek to stand apart, 
 A mocker of the roUing years. 
 Imprisoned in this wintry clime, 
 I 've found enough, O Lord, of breath, 
 Enough to plume the feet of time ; 
 Enough to hide the eyes of death. 
 
 A. Smith 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 263 
 
 PRIDE OF REASON- 
 
 IN pride, in reasoning pride our error lies ; 
 All quit their sphere, and rush into the skies. 
 Pride still is aiming at the blest abodes, 
 Men would be angels, angels would be Gods. 
 Aspiring to be Gods, if angels fell, 
 Aspiring to be angels, men rebel ; 
 And who but wishes to invert the laws 
 Of order, sins against th' Eternal cause, 
 
 A. Pope 
 
 cxcvi 
 
 THE CALL 
 
 CHILD of sin and sorrow, 
 Filled with dismay. 
 Wait not for to-morrow, 
 Yield thee to-day ! 
 Heaven bids thee come 
 While yet there 's room : 
 Child of sin and sorrow, 
 Hear, and obey ! 
 
 Child of sin and sorrow, 
 
 Why wilt thou die ? 
 Come, while thou canst borrow 
 
 Help from on high ! 
 
 Grieve not that love 
 
 Which from above, 
 Child of sin and sorrow. 
 
 Would bring thee nigh. 
 
 T. Hastmrjs 
 
264 The Sunday Book of Foet/y 
 
 CXCVII 
 
 PR A YER A T MIDNIGHT 
 
 T 
 
 HE stars shine bright whilf earth is dark ! 
 While all the woods are dumb, 
 How clear those far-off silver chimes 
 From tower and turret come. 
 
 Chilly but sweet, the midnight air : 
 
 And lo ! with every sound, 
 Down from the ivy -leaf a drop 
 
 Falls glittering on the ground. 
 
 'T was night when Christ was born on earth ; 
 
 Night heard his first, faint cry ; 
 While angels carolled round the star 
 
 Of the Epiphany. 
 
 Alas ! and is our love too weak 
 
 To meet him on his way ? 
 To pray for nations in their sleep ? 
 
 For Love then let us pray. 
 
 Pray for the millions slumbering now ; 
 
 The sick who cannot sleep ; 
 O may those sweet sounds waft them thoughts 
 
 As peaceful, and as deep. 
 
 Pray for th' unholy, and the vain : 
 
 O, may that pure-toned bell 
 Disperse the demon powers of air. 
 
 And evil dreams dispel ! 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 265 
 
 And ever let us wing our prayer 
 
 With praise : and ever say, 
 Glory to God who makes the night 
 
 Benignant as the day ! 
 
 A. D. Vere 
 
 THE UNBELIEVER 
 
 BEHOLD yon wretch, by impious passion driven. 
 Believes and trembles while he scoffs at Heaven 
 By weakness strong, and bold through fear alone, 
 He dreads the sneer by shallow coxcombs thrown ; 
 Dauntless pursues the path Spinoza trod ; 
 To man a coward, and a brave to God. 
 
 A. Pope 
 
 cxcix 
 SEEDS OF LIGHT 
 
 GOD scatters love on eveiy side, 
 Freely among his children all, 
 And always hearts are lying open wide 
 Wherein some grains may fall. 
 
 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, 
 
266 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers 
 Whose fragrance fills the earth. 
 
 Within the hearts of all men lie 
 Those promises of wider bliss, 
 Which blossom into hopes that cannot die, 
 In sunny hours like this, 
 
 y. R. Lowell 
 
 ST. AGNES' EVE 
 
 DEEP on the convent-roof the snows 
 Are sparkling to the moon : 
 My breath to heaven like vapor goes : 
 
 May my soul follow soon ! 
 The shadows of the convent-towers 
 
 Slant down the snowy sward, 
 Still creeping with the creeping hours 
 
 That lead me to my Lord : 
 Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 
 
 As are the frosty skies, 
 Or this first snowdrop of the year 
 
 That in my bosom lies. 
 
 As these white robes are soiled and dark. 
 
 To yonder shining ground ; 
 As this pale taper's earthly spark, 
 
 To yonder argent round ; 
 So shows my soul before the Lamb, 
 
 My spirit before Thee, 
 So in mine earthly house I am 
 
 To that I hope to be. 
 
77^1? Sunday Book of Poetry 267 
 
 Break up the heavens, O Lord ! and far, 
 
 Through all yon starlight keen, 
 Draw me, Thy bride, a glittering star 
 
 In raiment white and clean. 
 
 He lifts me to the golden doors ; 
 
 The flashes come and go ; 
 All heaven bursts her stariy floors. 
 
 And strows her lights below. 
 And deepens on and up ; the gates 
 
 Roll back, and far within 
 For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits. 
 
 To make me pure of sin. 
 The sabbaths of Eternity, 
 
 One sabbath deep and wide, — 
 A light upon the shining sea, — 
 
 The Bridegroom with his bride. 
 
 A. Tennyson 
 
268 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 VII 
 
 NATURE 
 
 cci 
 PSALM XIX 
 
 THE spacious firmament on high, 
 With all the blue ethereal sky, 
 And spangled heavens, a shining frame, 
 Their great Original proclaim. 
 The unwearied sun, from day to day, 
 Does his Creator's power display, 
 And publishes to every land 
 The work of an Almighty hand. 
 
 Soon as the evening shades prevail 
 The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
 And nightly to the listening earth 
 Repeats the story of her birth ; 
 Whilst all the stars that round her bum. 
 And all the planets in their turn. 
 Confirm the tidings as they roll. 
 And spread the truth from pole to pole. 
 
 W^hat, though in solemn silence all 
 Move round the dark terrestrial ball ; 
 What, though no real voice or sound 
 Amidst their radiant orbs be found, 
 In reason's ear they all rejoice, 
 And utter forth a glorious voice, 
 Forever singing as they shine, 
 " The hand that made us is Divine." 
 
 Joseph Addison 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 269 
 
 NA TURE 
 
 BEAUTIFUL are the heralds 
 That stand at Nature's door, 
 Crying, "O traveller, enter in, 
 
 And taste the Master's store ! " 
 One or the other always crying, — 
 
 In the voice of the summer hours, 
 In the thunder of the winter storm. 
 Or the song of the fresh spring flowers. 
 
 "Enter," they cry, " to a kingly feast, 
 
 Where all may venture near ; 
 A million beauties for the eye. 
 
 And music for the ear : 
 Only, before thou enterest in, 
 
 Upon the threshold fall. 
 And pay the tribute of thy praise 
 
 " To Him who gives thee all.' " 
 
 So some kneel down and enter 
 
 With reverent step and slow ; 
 And calm airs fraught with precious scent 
 
 Breathe round them as they go : 
 Gently they pass 'mid sight and sound 
 
 And the sunshine round them sleeping, 
 To where the angels, Faith and Love, 
 
 The inner gates are keeping. 
 
 Then backward rolls the wondrous screen 
 That hides the secret place. 
 
270 The Stmday Book of Foet?y 
 
 Where the God of Nature veils Himself 
 In the brighter realms of grace : — 
 
 But they who have not bent the knee 
 Will smile at this my story : 
 
 For, though they enter the temple gates, 
 They know not the inner glory. 
 
 W. E. Littlnvood 
 
 THE GLORY OF GOD IN CREATION 
 
 THOU art, O God ! the life and light 
 Of all this wondrous world we see ; 
 Its glow by day, its smile by night, 
 Are but reflections caught from Thee. 
 Where'er we turn thy glories shine. 
 And all things fair and bright are thine. 
 
 When day, with farewell beam, delays 
 Among the opening clouds of even, 
 And we can almost think we gaze 
 
 Through golden vistas into heaven, — 
 Those hues, that make the sun's decline 
 So soft, so radiant, Lord ! are thine. 
 
 . Wnien night, with wings of starry gloom, 
 O'ershadows all the earth and skies. 
 Like some dark, beauteous bird, whose plume 
 Is sparkling with unnumbered eyes, — 
 That sacred gloom, those fires divine. 
 So grand, so countless, Lord ! are thine. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 27] 
 
 When youthful spring around us breathes, 
 
 Thy Spirit warms her fragrant sigh ; 
 And every flower the summer wreathes 
 Is born beneath that kindHng eye. 
 Whei"e'er we turn Thy glories shine, 
 And all things fair and bright are Thine. 
 
 T. Moore 
 
 NATURE AND HEAVEN 
 
 I PRAISED the earth, in beauty seen 
 With garlands gay of various green ; 
 I praised the sea, whose ample field 
 Shone glorious as a silver shield ; 
 And earth and ocean seemed to say, 
 *' Our beauties are but for a day." 
 
 I praised tlie sun, whose chariot rolled 
 On wheels of amber, and of gold ; 
 I praised the moon, whose softer eye 
 Gleamed sweetly through the summer sky ; 
 And moon, and sun, in answer said, 
 " Our days of light are numbered." 
 
 O God ! O good beyond compare ! 
 If thus Thy meaner works are fair. 
 If thus Thy bounties gild the span 
 Of ruined earth, and sinful man. 
 How glorious must the mansion be, 
 Where Thy redeemed shall dwell with Thee ! 
 
 Bishop Heber 
 
272 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 THE BETTER LAND 
 
 ' T HEAR thee speak of the better land ; 
 JL Thou call'st its children a happy band ; 
 Mother ! O where is that radiant shore, — 
 Shall we not seek it and weep no more ? 
 Is it where the flower of the orange blows, 
 And the fire-flies glance through the myrtle boughs ? " 
 "Not there, not there, my child ! " 
 
 ' Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise, 
 And the date grows ripe under sunny skies, 
 Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas 
 Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze, 
 And strange, bright birds on their starry wings 
 Bear the rich hues of all glorious things ? " 
 
 ' ' Not there, not there, my child ! " 
 
 ■ Is it far away in some region old 
 Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold, — 
 Where the burning rays of the ruby shine, 
 And the diamond lights up the secret mine, 
 And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand, — 
 Is it there, sweet mother, that better land ? " 
 
 " Not there, not there, my child ! 
 
 • Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy ! 
 Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy. 
 Dreams cannot picture a world so fair, — 
 Sorrow and death may not enter there ; 
 Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, 
 For beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb. 
 
 It is there, it is there, my child ! " 
 
 Mrs. Hemans 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 273 
 
 CCVI 
 
 A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION- OF A 
 STAR 
 
 SHE had been told that God made all the stars 
 That twinkled up in heaven, and now she stood 
 Watching the coming of the twilight on, 
 As if it were a new and perfect world. 
 And this was its first eve. She stood alone 
 By the lone window, with the silken lash 
 Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth 
 Half-parted with the new and strange delight 
 Of beauty that she could not comprehend, 
 And had not seen before. The purple folds 
 Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky 
 That looked so still and delicate above, 
 Filled her young heart with gladness ; and the eve 
 Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still 
 Stood looking at the west with that half-smile, 
 As if a pleasant dream were at her heart. 
 Presently, in the edge of the last tint 
 Of sunset, where the blue was melted in 
 To the faint golden mellowness, a star 
 Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight 
 Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands, 
 Her simple thought broke forth expressively, — 
 ' ' Father ! dear father ! God has made a star ! " 
 
 N.P. Willis 
 18 
 
274 '^^^^ Simday Book of Poetry 
 
 CCVII 
 
 HYMN TO THE SEASONS 
 
 WHEN Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the 
 laughing soil, 
 When Summer's balmy showers refresh the mower's 
 
 toil, 
 When Winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the 
 
 flood, 
 In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns its Maker 
 good. 
 
 The birds that wake the morning, and those that love 
 
 the shade ; 
 The winds that sweep the mountain, or lull the drowsy 
 
 glade ; 
 The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his 
 
 way; 
 The moon, and stars, their Maker's name in silent 
 
 pomp display. 
 
 Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the sky, — 
 Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny ? 
 No ; let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease 
 
 to be. 
 Thee, Master, must we always love, and. Saviour, 
 
 honor Thee. 
 
 The flowers of Spring may wither, — the hope of 
 
 Summer fade, — 
 The Autumn droop in Winter, — the birds forsake the 
 
 shade, — 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 275 
 
 The wnd be lulled, — the sun and moon forget their 
 
 old decree, 
 But we in Nature's latest hour, O Lord ! will cling to 
 
 Thee. 
 
 Bishop Hebcr 
 
 CCVIII 
 
 THE LONGEST DAY 
 
 LET us quit the leafy arbor, 
 And the torrent murmuring by ; 
 For the sun is in his harbor, 
 Weary of the open sky. 
 
 Evening now unbinds the fetters 
 Fashioned by the glowing light ; 
 
 All that breathe are thankful debtors 
 To the harbinger of night. 
 
 Yet by some grave thoughts attended 
 Eve renews her calm career ; 
 
 For the day that now is ended, 
 Is the longest of the year. 
 
 Summer ebbs ; each day that follows 
 
 Is a reflux from on high, 
 Tending to the darksome hollows 
 
 "Where the frosts of winter lie. 
 
 He who governs the creation. 
 
 In His providence, assigned 
 Such a gradual declination 
 
 To the life of human kind. 
 
276 The Simday Book of Poetry 
 
 Yet we mark it not ; fruits redden, 
 
 Fresh flowers blow, as flowers have blown, 
 
 And the heart is loth to deaden 
 
 Hopes that she so long hath known. 
 
 Be thou wiser, youthful maiden ! 
 
 And, when thy decline shall come, 
 Let not flowers, or bough fruit-laden. 
 
 Hide the knowledge of thy doom. 
 
 Now, e'en now, ere wrapped in slumber, 
 
 Fix thine eyes upon the sea 
 That absorbs time, space, and number, — 
 
 Look thou to eternity ! 
 
 W. Wordsworth 
 
 CCIX 
 
 BUBBLES UNDER ICE 
 
 HAST thou seen with flash incessant 
 Bubbles gliding under ice. 
 Bodied forth, and evanescent. 
 No one knows by what device ? 
 
 Such are thoughts, — a wind-swept meadow 
 
 Mimicking a troubled sea. 
 Such is life ; and death a shadow 
 
 From the rock Eternity ! 
 
 W. Wordszuorth 
 
The Sunday Book of Poeby 277 
 
 A- MA YIiVG 
 
 YES, surely there 's a love abroad 
 Through eveiy nerve of Nature playing 
 And all between the sky and sod, 
 
 All, all the world has gone a-Maying. 
 
 O, wherefore do I sit and give 
 
 My fancy up to idle playing ? 
 Too well I know the half who live, 
 
 One half the world, is not a-Maying. 
 
 Where are the dwellers of the lanes. 
 
 The alleys of the stifled city ? 
 Where the waste forms whose sad remains 
 
 Woo death to come for very pity ? 
 
 Where they who tend the busy loom, 
 With pallid cheek, and torn apparel ? 
 
 The buds they weave will never bloom, 
 Their staring birds will never carol. 
 
 And where the young of every size 
 
 The factories draw from every by-way ; 
 
 Whose violets are each other's eyes, 
 But dull as by a dusty highway ? 
 
 Whose cotton lilies only grow 
 
 'Mid whirring wheels, or jarring spindles ? 
 Their roses in the hectic glow 
 
 To tell how fast the small life dwindles. 
 
278 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Where are the dusky miners ? — they 
 Who, ever in the earth descending, 
 
 Know well the night before their May 
 Is one which has in life no ending ? 
 
 To them 't is still a joy, I ween, 
 
 To know, while through the darkness going, 
 That o'er their heads the smiling queen 
 
 Stands with her countless garlands glowing. 
 
 O ye who toil in living tombs 
 
 Of light, or dark, no rest receiving. 
 
 Far o'er your heads a May-time blooms, — 
 O then be patient, and believing. 
 
 Be patient ; when earth's winter fails, — 
 
 The weary night, which keeps ye staying, — 
 
 Then through the broad celestial vales 
 Your spirits shall go out a-Maying. 
 
 T. B. Read 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 279 
 
 CCXI 
 
 SUNNY DA YS IN WINTER 
 
 SUMMER is a glorious season, 
 Wai"m, and bright, and pleasant ; 
 But the past is not a reason 
 
 To despise the present : 
 So, while health can climb the mountain, 
 And the log lights up the hall, 
 There are sunny days in winter, after all ! 
 
 Spring, no doubt, hath faded from us, 
 
 Maiden-like in charms ; 
 Summer, too, with all her promise, 
 
 Perished in our arms : 
 But the memory of the vanished 
 
 Whom our hearts recall, 
 Maketh sunny days in winter, after all ! 
 
 True, there 's scarce a flower that bloometh, — 
 
 All the best are dead ; 
 But the wall-flower still perfumeth 
 
 Yonder garden bed ; 
 And the arbutus, pearl-blossomed, 
 
 Hangs its coral ball : 
 There are sunny days in winter, after all ! 
 
 Summer trees are pretty, — very, 
 
 And I love them well ; 
 But this holly's glistening berry 
 
 None of those excel. 
 While the fir can warm the landscape, 
 
28o The S2inday Book of Poetry 
 
 And the ivy clothes the wall, 
 There are sunny days in winter, after all ! 
 
 Sunny hours in every season 
 
 Wait the innocent ; — 
 Those who taste with love and reason 
 
 What their God has sent ; 
 Those who neither soar too highly, 
 
 Nor too lowly fall, 
 Feel the sunny days of winter, after all ! 
 
 Then, although our darling treasures 
 
 Vanish from the heart ; 
 Then, although our once-loved pleasures 
 
 One by one depart ; 
 Though the tomb looms in the distance, 
 And the mourning pall, 
 There is sunshine, and no winter, after all ! 
 
 D. F. Macarthy 
 
 DUTY 
 
 AS the hardy oat is growing, 
 Howsoe'er the wind may blow ; 
 As the untired stream is flowing. 
 
 Whether shines the sun or no : — 
 Thus, though storm-winds rage about it. 
 
 Should the strong plant, Duty, grow, — • 
 Thus, with beauty, or without it. 
 Should the stream of being flow. 
 
 D. F. Macarthy 
 
The Sunday Book of Foet)y 281 
 
 LINES 
 
 THE lights o'er yonder snowy range, 
 Shine yet intense, and tender ; 
 Or, slowly passing, only change 
 From splendor on to splendor. 
 
 Before the dying eyes of day 
 
 Immortal visions wander ; 
 Dreams prescient of a purer ray, 
 
 And morn spread still beyond her. 
 
 Lo ! heavenward now those gleams expire. 
 
 In heavenly melancholy, 
 The barrier-mountain, peak, and spire, 
 
 Relinquishing them slowly. 
 
 Thus shine, O God ! our mortal powers, 
 While grief and joy refine them, — 
 
 And when in death they fade, be ours 
 Thus gently to resign them ! 
 
 A. Be Vere 
 
282 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 SPRING 
 
 ONCE more, through God's high will and grace, 
 Of hours that each its task fulfils. 
 Heart-healing Spring resumes its place 
 The valley through, and scales the hills. 
 
 Who knows not Spring ? who doubts when blows 
 Her breath, that Spring is come indeed ? 
 
 The swallow doubts not ; nor the rose 
 That stirs, but wakes not ; nor the weed. 
 
 Once more the cuckoo's call I hear ; 
 
 I know, in many a glen pi-ofound, 
 The earliest violets of the year 
 
 Rise up like water from the ground. 
 
 The thorn, I know, once more is white ; 
 
 And far down many a forest dale, 
 The anemones in dubious light 
 
 Are trembling like a bridal veil. 
 
 By streams released that surging flow 
 
 From craggy shelf, through sylvan glades. 
 
 The pale narcissus, well I know, 
 
 Smiles hour by hour on greener shades. 
 
 The honeyed cowslip tufts once more 
 The golden slopes ; — with gradual ray 
 
 The primrose stars the rock, and o'er 
 The wood-path strews its milky way. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 283 
 
 I see her not, — I feel her near, 
 
 As charioted in mildest airs 
 She sails through yon empyreal sphere, 
 
 And in her arms and bosom bears 
 
 That urn of flowers, and lustral dews, 
 Whose sacred balm, on all things shed. 
 
 Revives the weak, the old renews, 
 
 And crowns with votive wreaths the dead. 
 A. De Vere 
 
 CCXV 
 
 THANKS FOR A SUMMER'S DAY 
 
 THE time so tranquil is, and clear, 
 That nowhere shall ye find. 
 Save on a high and barren hill, 
 The air of passing wind. 
 
 All trees and simples, great and small. 
 
 That balmy leaf do bear. 
 Than they were painted on a wall. 
 
 No more they move, or stir. 
 
 The ample heaven of fabric sure. 
 
 In clearness doth surpass 
 The crystal and the silver, pure 
 
 As clearest polished glass. 
 
 Bedecked is the sapphire arch 
 
 With streaks of scarlet hue ; 
 And preciously from end to end, 
 
 Damasked white and blue. 
 
284 The Simday Book of Foei/y 
 
 Ca]m is the deep and piirple sea, 
 Yea, smoother than the sand ; 
 
 The waves, that M^eltering wont to be, 
 Are stable like the land. 
 
 The ships becalmed upon the seas, 
 Hang up their sails to dry ; 
 
 The herds, beneath their leafy trees, 
 Amidst the flowers they lie. 
 
 The little busy humming bees, 
 
 That never think to drone. 
 On flowers and flourishes of trees, 
 
 Collect their liquor brown. 
 
 The dove with whistling wings so blue, 
 
 The winds can fast collect. 
 Her purple pens turn many a hue 
 
 Against the sun direct. 
 
 Great is the calm, for everywhere 
 
 The wind is setting down. 
 The smoke goes upright in the air. 
 
 From every tower and town. 
 
 What pleasure then to walk, and see. 
 
 Along a river clear. 
 The perfect form of every tree 
 
 Within the deep appear. 
 
 The bells and circles on the waves. 
 
 From leaping of the trout. 
 The salmon from their holes and caves 
 
 Come gliding in and out. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poct)y 285 
 
 O sure it were a seemly thing, 
 
 While all is still, and calm, 
 The praise of God to pray, and sing, 
 
 With trumpet and with shawm. 
 
 All laborers draw home at even, 
 
 And can to other say, 
 *' Thanks to the gracious God of Heaven, 
 
 Who sent this summer's day, " 
 
 A. Hume* 
 
 ccxvi 
 
 THE TURF SHALL BE MY FRAGRANT 
 SHRLNE 
 
 THE turf shall be my fragrant shrine ; 
 My temple, Lord, that arch of Thine ; 
 My censer's breath the mountain airs, 
 And silent thoughts my only prayers. 
 
 My choir shall be the moonlit waves. 
 When murm'ring homeward to their caves. 
 Or when the stillness of the sea, 
 Ev'n more than music, breathes of Thee. 
 
 I '11 seek by day some glade unknown. 
 All light and silence, like Thy throne ! 
 And the pale stars shall be, at night. 
 The only eyes that watch my rite. 
 
 Thy Heaven, on which 't is bliss to look. 
 Shall be my pure and shining book, 
 
 * A Scotch poet of the middle of the sixteenth century. 
 
286 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Where I shall read, in words of flame, 
 The glories of Thy wondrous name. 
 
 I '11 read Thy anger in the rack 
 
 That clouds awhile the day-beam's track ; 
 
 Thy mercy in the azure hue 
 
 Of sunny brightness breaking through ! 
 
 There 's nothing bright, above, below, 
 From flowers that bloom to stars that glow, 
 But in its light my soul can see 
 Some feature of Thy Deity ! 
 
 There 's nothing dark, below, above, 
 But in its gloom I trace Thy love, 
 And meekly wait that moment when 
 Thy touch shall turn all bright again ! 
 
 T. Moore 
 
 CCXVII 
 
 HARVEST-HOME 
 
 COME, ye thankful people, come, 
 Raise a song of harvest-home ! 
 All is safely gathered in. 
 Ere the winter snows begin ; 
 God, our Maker, doth provide 
 For our wants to be supplied ; 
 Come to God's own temple, come. 
 Raise a song of harvest-home ! 
 
 We ourselves are God's own field, 
 Fruit unto His praise to yield ; 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 287 
 
 Wheat and tares together sown, 
 Unto joy or sorrow gro^vTl ; 
 
 First the blade, and then the ear, 
 Then the full corn shall appear ; 
 Grant, O Harvest- Lord, that we 
 Wholesome grain and pure may be. 
 
 For the Lord our God shall come 
 And shall take His harvest-home ! 
 From His field shall purge away 
 All that doth offend that day ; 
 Give His angels charge at last 
 In the fire the tares to cast, 
 But the fruitful ears to store 
 In His gamer evennore. 
 
 Then thou Church triumphant, come. 
 
 Raise the song of harvest-home ! 
 
 All are safely gathered in. 
 
 Free from sorrow, free from sin ; 
 
 There forever purified. 
 
 In God's garner to abide. 
 
 Come, ten thousand angels, come, 
 
 Raise a glorious harvest-home ! 
 
 H. Alford 
 
288 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 CCXVIII 
 
 JOY TAUGHT BY NATURE 
 
 THE child leans on its parent's breast, 
 Leaves there its cares, and is at rest ; 
 The bird sits singing by his nest, 
 And tells aloud 
 His trust in God, and so is blest 
 
 'Neath every cloud. 
 
 He has no store, he sows no seed ; 
 Yet sings aloud, and doth not heed ; 
 By flowing stream or grassy mead 
 
 He sings to shame 
 Men who forget, in fear of need, 
 
 A Father's name. 
 
 The heart that trusts forever sings, 
 And feels as light as it had wings ; 
 A well of peace within it springs, 
 
 Come good or ill : 
 Whate'er to-day, to-morrow, brings, 
 
 It is His will ! 
 
 /. Williams 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 289 
 
 WAVES AND LEAVES 
 
 WAVES, waves, waves ! 
 Graceful arches lit with night's pale gold, 
 Boom like thunder through the mountains rolled, 
 Hiss, and make their music manifold. 
 Sing and work for God along the strand. 
 
 Leaves, leaves, leaves ! 
 Beautified by Autumn's scorching breath. 
 Ivory skeletons carven fair by death, 
 Float and drift at a sublime command- 
 Thoughts, thoughts, thoughts ! 
 Rolling wave-like on the mind's strange shore. 
 Rustling leaf-like through it evermore, 
 
 O that they might follow God's good Hand ! 
 
 Williani Alexander 
 
 19 
 
290 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 ccxx 
 THE RAINBOW 
 
 TRIUMPHAL arch, that fill'st the sky 
 "When storms prepare to part, 
 I ask not proud philosophy 
 To teach me what thou art. 
 
 Still seem as to my childhood's sight, 
 
 A midway station given, 
 For happy spirits to alight 
 
 Betwixt the earth and heaven. 
 
 Can all that optics teach, unfold 
 
 Thy form to please me so 
 As when I dreamt of gems and gold 
 
 Hid in thy radiant bow ? 
 
 When Science from Creation's face 
 Enchantment's veil withdraws, 
 
 What lovely visions yield their place 
 To cold material laws ! 
 
 And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, 
 
 But words of the Most High, 
 Have told why first thy robe of beams 
 
 Was woven in the sky. 
 
 When o'er the green undeluged earth 
 Heaven's covenant thou didst shine. 
 
 How came the world's gray fathers forth 
 To watch thy sacred sign ! 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 29] 
 
 And when its yellow lustre smiled 
 
 On mountains yet untrod, 
 Each mother held aloft her child, 
 
 To bless the bow of God. 
 
 Methinks thy jubilee to keep 
 
 The first-made anthem rang 
 On earth delivered from the deep, 
 
 And the first poet sang. 
 
 Nor ever shall the Muse's eye 
 
 Unraptured greet thy beam ; 
 Theme of primeval prophecy, 
 
 Be still the poet's theme. 
 
 The earth to thee its incense yields, 
 
 The lark thy welcome sings, 
 When glittering in the freshened fields 
 
 The snowy mushroom springs. 
 
 How glorious is thy girdle cast 
 O'er mountain, tower, and town, 
 
 Or mirrored in the ocean vast, 
 A tliousand fathom down. 
 
 As fresh in yon horizon dark. 
 
 As young thy beauties seem, 
 As when the eagle from the ark 
 
 First sported in thy beam. 
 
 For faithful to its sacred page, 
 
 Heaven still rebuilds thy span, 
 Nor lets the type grow pale with age, 
 
 That first spoke peace to man. 
 
 T. Campbell 
 
292 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 CCXXI 
 
 THE WILD-FOWnS VOICE 
 
 IT chanced upon the meny, merry Christmas eve, 
 I went sighing past the church across the moorland 
 dreaiy, — 
 O, never sin and want and woe this earth will 
 leave, 
 And the bells but mock the wailing sound, they sing 
 so cheery. 
 
 How long, O Lord ! how long, before Thou come 
 again ? 
 Still in cellar, and in garret, and on mountain dreary, 
 The orphans moan, and widows weep, and poor 
 men toil in vain, 
 Till earth is sick of hope deferred, though Christmas 
 bells be cheery. 
 
 Then arose a joyous clamor, from the wild-fowl on 
 the mere. 
 Beneath the stars, across the snow, like clear bells 
 ringing, 
 And a voice within cried, — "Listen ! — Christmas 
 carols even here 
 Though thou be dumb, yet o'er their work the stars 
 and snows are singing. 
 
 "Blind ! — I live, I love, I reign; and all the na- 
 tions through. 
 With the thunder of My judgments even now are ring- 
 ing ; 
 Do thou fulfil thy work, but as yon wild-fowl do. 
 Thou wilt heed no less the wailing, yet hear through it 
 angels singing." 
 
 C. Kijigsley 
 
The Siuiday Book of Poetry 293 
 
 ccxxir 
 ROBIN REDBREAST 
 
 SWEET Robin, I have heard them say, 
 That thou wert there upon the clay. 
 That Christ was crowned in cruel scorn ; 
 And bore away one bleeding thorn. 
 That so, the blush upon thy breast. 
 In shameful sorrow was imprest : 
 And thence thy genial sympathy, 
 With our redeemed humanity. 
 
 Sweet Robin, would that I might be 
 Bathed in my Saviour's blood, like thee ; 
 Bear in my breast, whate'er the loss, 
 The bleeding blazon of the cross ; 
 Live ever, with thy loving mind. 
 In fellowship with human kind ; 
 And take my pattern still from thee. 
 In gentleness and constancy. 
 
 Bishop Doane 
 
294 ^/^^ Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 CCXXIII 
 
 THE SEA-BIRD 
 
 SEA-BIRD ! haunter of the wave, 
 Delighting o'er its crest to hover; 
 Half engulfed where yawns the cave 
 The billow forms in rolling over ; 
 Sea-bird ! seeker of the storm ! 
 
 In its shriek thou dost rejoice ; 
 Sending from thy bosom warm 
 Answer shriller than its voice. 
 
 Bird of nervous winged flight, 
 
 Flashing silvery to the sun, 
 Sporting with the sea-foam white, 
 
 When will thy wild course be done ? 
 Whither tends it? Has the shore 
 
 No alluring haunt for thee ? 
 Nook with tangled vines grown o'er. 
 
 Scented shrub, or leafy tree? 
 
 Is the purple sea-weed rarer 
 
 Than the violet of the spring ? 
 Is the snowy foam-wreath fairer 
 
 Than the apple's blossoming ? 
 Shady grove, and sunny slope, — 
 
 Seek but these, and thou shalt meet 
 Birds not born with storm to cope, 
 
 Hermits of retirement sweet. 
 
 W' here no winds too rudely swell, 
 But in whispers, as they pass, 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 295 
 
 Of the fragrant flow'ret tell, 
 
 Hidden in the tender grass. 
 There the mock-bird sings of love ; 
 
 There the robin builds his nest ; 
 There the gentle-hearted dove, 
 
 Brooding, takes her blissful rest. 
 
 Sea-bird, stay thy rapid flight : 
 
 Gone ! where dark waves foam and dash, 
 Like a lone star on the iiight — 
 
 Far I see his white wing flash. 
 He obeyeth God's behest, 
 
 All their destiny fulfil : 
 Tempests some are born to breast, — 
 
 Some to worship, and be still. 
 
 If I struggle with the storm 
 
 On life's ever-changing sea. 
 Where cold mists enwrap the form, 
 
 My harsh destiny must be. 
 Sea-bird ! thus may I abide 
 
 Cheerful the allotment given, 
 And, rising o'er the ruffled tide, 
 
 Escape, at last, like thee, to heaven ! 
 
 A. M. Wells 
 
296 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 ccxxiv 
 
 THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL 
 
 From the German 
 
 ON the cross the dying Saviour 
 Heavenward lifts his eyehds calm, 
 Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling 
 In His pierced and bleeding palm. 
 
 And by all the world forsaken, 
 
 Sees He how M'ith zealous care 
 At the ruthless nail of iron 
 
 A little bird is striving there. 
 
 Stained with blood and never tiring, 
 With its beak it doth not cease, 
 
 From the cross 't would free the Saviour, 
 Its Creator's Son release. 
 
 And the Saviour speaks in mildness : 
 "Blest be thou of all the good ! 
 
 Bear, as token of this moment, 
 Marks of blood and holy rood ! " 
 
 And that bird is called the crossbill ; 
 
 Covered all with blood so clear, 
 In the groves of pine it singeth 
 
 Songs, like legends, strange to hear. 
 
 H IV. Longfelloxv 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 297 
 
 MY DOVES 
 
 MY little doves have left a nest 
 Upon an Indian tree, 
 Whose leaves fantastic take their rest 
 
 Or motion from the sea : 
 Forever there the sea-winds go 
 With sunlit paces, to and fro. 
 
 The tropic flowers looked up to it, 
 The tropic stars looked down : 
 
 And there my little doves did sit 
 With feathers softly brown, 
 
 And glittering eyes that showed their right 
 
 To general Nature's deep delight. 
 
 And God them taught at every close 
 
 Of water far, and wind 
 And lifted leaf, to interpose 
 
 Their chanting voices kind ; 
 Interpreting that love must be 
 The meaning of the earth and sea. 
 
 My little doves were borne away 
 
 From that glad nest of theirs ; 
 Across an ocean foaming aye, 
 
 And tempest-clouded airs. 
 My little doves ! who lately knew 
 The sky: and wave by warmth and blue ! 
 
 And now within the city prison, 
 In mist and chillness pent, 
 
298 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 With sudden upward look they listen 
 
 For sounds of past content, — 
 For lapse of water, swell of breeze, 
 Or nut-fruit falling from the trees. 
 
 The stir, without the glow of passion, 
 The triumph ot the mart, — 
 
 The gold and silver's dreary clashing 
 With man's metallic heart, — 
 
 The wheeled pomp, the pauper tread, 
 
 These only sounds are heard instead. 
 
 Yet still, as on my human hand 
 Their fearless heads they lean. 
 
 And almost seem to understand 
 What human musings mean, — 
 
 With such a plaintive gaze, their eyne 
 
 Are fastened upwardly to mine. 
 
 Their chant is soft as on the nest 
 
 Beneath the sunny sky. 
 For love that stirred it in their breast 
 
 Remains undyingly. 
 And 'neath the city's shade can keep 
 The well of music clear and deep. 
 
 And love, that keeps the music, fills 
 With pastoral memories ; 
 
 All echoings from out the hills. 
 All droppings from the skies, 
 
 All flowings from the wave, and wind. 
 
 Remembered in their chant I find. 
 
 So teach ye me the wisest part, 
 My little doves ! to move 
 
The Sunday Book of Poct)y 299 
 
 Along the city ways with heart 
 
 Assured by holy love, 
 And vocal with such songs as own 
 A fountain to the world unknown. 
 
 'T was hard to sing by Babel's stream, 
 
 More hard in Babel's street ! 
 But, if the soulless creatures deem 
 
 Their music not unmeet, 
 For sunless walls,— let us begin, 
 Who wear immortal wings within ! 
 
 To me fair memories belortg 
 
 Of scenes that erst did bless ; 
 For no regret — but present song — 
 
 And lasting thankfulness, — 
 And very soon to break away 
 Like types, in purer things than they ! 
 
 I will have hopes that cannot fade, 
 
 For flowers the valley yields ; 
 I will have humble thoughts instead 
 
 Of silent de\vy fields ! 
 My spirit and my God shall be 
 My sea-ward hill, my boundless sea. 
 
 E. B. Broiuning 
 
300 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 TO A SKYLARK 
 
 ETHEREAL minstrel, pilgrim of the sky, 
 Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? 
 Or, while thy wings aspire, are heart and eye 
 Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? 
 Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
 Those quivering wings composed, that music still. 
 
 Leave to the nightingale her shady wood ; 
 
 A privacy of glorious light is thine ; 
 Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 
 
 Of harmony, with instinct more divine ; 
 Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam ; 
 True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. 
 
 William Wordsworth 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 301 
 
 CCXXVII 
 
 TO THE FIRST SWALLOIV 
 
 'nr^ IS not one blossom makes a spring, 
 X Nor yet one swallow makes a summer ; 
 
 But a sweet promise both may bring, 
 
 And thine is sweet, thou glad new comer ! 
 
 Thy twittering voice, thy pinions light. 
 
 That glance, and glide with fleetest motion. 
 
 Unwearied, though but yesternight 
 
 They buoyed thee o'er the wide-spread ocean, — 
 
 A welcome promise bring once more 
 
 Of sparkling waters, waving meadows, 
 And countless things that fleet before 
 
 My spirit's eye in glimmering shadows ; — 
 
 Till gazing on thee wheeling near. 
 
 And hailing thee with joyful bosom, 
 I know not whether is more dear. 
 
 The summer bird, or vernal blossom. 
 
 The blossom brought a promise sweet. 
 Sweet too is thine, thou glad new-comer ! 
 
 And I will joy, though pinions fleet 
 Too ajDtly tell of joys in summer ! 
 
 Too aptly ? — Nay, that word recall : 
 Deem rather it were cause for weeping, 
 
 If pleasant summer days were all. 
 And never came a day of reaping. 
 
302 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Or mark the swift-winged foreigner 
 
 Again ; and check each thought of sadness : 
 
 All here may fade ; it grieves not her : 
 She knows another land of gladness. 
 
 T. Davis 
 
 THE LOSS OF THE FAVORITE 
 
 THE skylark has perceived liis prison door 
 Unclosed ; for liberty the captive tries : 
 Puss eagerly hath watched him from the floor, 
 And in her grasp he flutters, pants, and dies. 
 
 Lucy's own puss, and Lucy's own dear bird. 
 Her fostered favorites both for many a day. 
 
 That which the tender-hearted girl preferred, 
 She, in her fondness, knew not sooth to say. 
 
 For if the skylark's pipe were shrill and strong, 
 And its rich tones the thrilling ear might please, 
 
 Yet pussy well could breathe a fireside song 
 As winning, when she lay on Lucy's knees. 
 
 Both knew her voice, and each alike would seek 
 Her eye, her smile, her fondling touch to gain ; 
 
 How faintly then may words her sorrow speak, 
 When by the one she sees the other slain. 
 
 Come, Lucy, let me diy those tearful eyes ; 
 
 Take thou, dear child, a lesson not unholy, 
 From one whom nature taught to moralize 
 
 Both in his mirth, and in his melancholy. 
 
The Simday Book of Poetry 303 
 
 I will not wai-n thee not to set thine heart 
 
 Too fondly upon perishable things ; 
 In vain the earnest preacher spends his art 
 
 Upon that theme : in vain the poet sings. 
 
 It is our nature's strong necessity. 
 
 And this the soul's unerring instincts tell : 
 
 Therefore I say, let us love worthily, 
 
 Dear child, and then we cannot love too well. 
 
 Better it is all losses to deplore 
 
 Which dutiful affection can sustain, 
 Than that the heart should, in its inmost core, 
 
 Harden without it, and have lived in vain. 
 
 This love which thou hast lavished, and the woe 
 Which makes thy lip now quiver with distress, 
 
 Are but a vent, an innocent o'erflow. 
 
 From the deep springs of female tenderness. 
 
 And something I would teach thee from the grief 
 That thus has filled those gentle eyes with tears, 
 
 The which may be thy sober, sure relief. 
 When sorrow visits thee in after years. 
 
 I ask not whither is the spirit flown 
 
 That lit the eye which there in death is sealed ; 
 Our Father hath not made that mystery known ; 
 
 Needless the knowledge, therefore not revealed. 
 
 But didst thou know in sure and sacred truth, 
 It had a place assigned in yonder skies, 
 
 There, through an endless life of joyous youth. 
 To warble in the bowers of Paradise ; 
 
304 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Lucy, if then the power to thee were given 
 In that cold form its life to re-engage, 
 
 Wouldst thou call back the warbler from its Heaven, 
 To be again the tenant of a cage ? 
 
 Only that thou might'st cherish it again, 
 Wouldst thou the object of thy love recall 
 
 To mortal life, and chance, and change, and pain, 
 And death ; which must be suffered once by all ? 
 
 O no, thou say'st : O, surely not, not so, 
 
 I read the answer which those looks express : 
 
 For pure and true affection, well I know. 
 Leaves in the heart no room for selfishness. 
 
 Such love of all our virtues is the gem ; 
 
 We bring with us th' immortal seed at birth : 
 Of Heaven it is, and heavenly ; woe to them 
 
 W^ho make it wholly earthly, and of earth ! 
 
 What we love perfectly, for its oato sake 
 We love and not our own, being ready thus 
 
 Whate'er self-sacrifice is asked, to make ; 
 That which is best for it, is best for us. 
 
 O Lucy, treasure up that pious thought ! 
 
 It hath a balm for sorrow's deadliest darts ; 
 And with true comfort thou wilt find it fraught, 
 
 If grief should reach thee in thy heart of hearts. 
 
 R. SoiUhey 
 
The Sunday Book of Poet)y 305 
 
 CCXXIX 
 
 LESS OAT FROM NATURE 
 
 WHEN my breast labors with oppressive care, 
 And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear, 
 While all my warring passions are at strife, 
 O, let me listen to the words of life. 
 Raptures deep felt His doctrine did impart, 
 And thus He raised from earth the drooping heart. 
 Think not, when all your scanty stores afford 
 Is spread at once upon the sparing board ; 
 Think not, when worn the homely robe appears, 
 While on the roof the howling tempest bears. 
 What farther shall this feeble life sustain, 
 And what shall clothe these shivering limbs again ? 
 Say, does not life its nourishment exceed ? 
 And the fair body its investing weed ? 
 
 Behold ! and look away your low despair, — 
 See the light tenants of the barren air ; 
 To them nor stores nor granaries belong, 
 Nought but the woodland, and the pleasing song ; 
 Yet your kind Heavenly Father bends His eye 
 On the least wing that flits along the sky. 
 To Him they sing, when Spring renews the plain. 
 To Him they cry in Winter's pinching reign. 
 Nor is their music nor their plaint in vain : 
 He hears the gay, and the distressful call. 
 And with unsparing bounty fills them all. 
 
 Observe the rising lily's snowy grace, 
 Observe the various vegetable race ; 
 20 
 
3o6 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 They neither toil, nor spin, but careless grow, 
 
 Yet see how warm they blush ! how bright they glow ! 
 
 What regal vestments can with them compare ! 
 
 "What king so shining ! or what queen so fair ! 
 
 If, ceaseless, thus the fowls of heaven he feeds, 
 
 If o'er the fields such lurid robes He spreads. 
 
 Will He not care for you, ye faithless ! say. 
 
 Is He unwise ? or are ye less than they ? 
 
 y. Thomson 
 
 THE CHILD TA UGHT FROM NA TURE 
 
 ORICH the tint of earthly gold. 
 And keen the diamond's spark, 
 But the young lamb of Jesu's fold 
 Should other splendors mark. 
 
 To soothe him in th' unquiet night, 
 
 I ask no taper's gleam, 
 But bring him where th' aerial light 
 
 Falls from the moon's soft beam. 
 
 His heart at early morn to store 
 
 With fancies fresh and rare. 
 Count not thy jewels o'er and o'er, 
 
 Show him no mirror's glare. 
 
 But lift him where the eastern heaven 
 
 Glows with the sun unseen. 
 Where the strong wings to morning given 
 
 Brood o'er a world serene. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poefry 307 
 
 Yet, might I choose a time, meseems 
 
 That earliest wistful gaze 
 Were best to meet the softening beams 
 
 Of sunset's glowing maze. 
 
 Wide be the western casement thrown 
 
 At sultry evening's fall, 
 The gorgeous lines be duly shown 
 
 That weave Heaven's wondrous pall. 
 
 Calm be his sleep, whose eyelids close 
 
 Upon so fair a sight : 
 Not gentler mother's music flows 
 
 Her sweetest, best good night. 
 
 y. Keble 
 
 CCXXXI 
 
 GOD'S PRESENCE IN NATURE 
 
 ALMIGHTY Father! . . . 
 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 spi^eads a common feast for all that lives. 
 
3o8 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 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. 
 
 Should fate command me to the furthest verge 
 Of the green earth, to distant barbarous climes. 
 River's unknown to song, where first the sun 
 Gilds Indian mountains, or his setting beam 
 Flames on th' Atlantic isles, 't is nought to me ; 
 Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
 In the void waste, as in the city full ! 
 And where He vital breathes there must be joy. 
 When e'en, at last, the solemn hour shall come, 
 And wing my mystic flight to future worlds, 
 I cheerful will obey ; there with new powers, 
 W^ith rising wonders, sing. I cannot go 
 Where universal love not shines around, 
 Sustaining all yon orbs, and all their suns. 
 From seeming evil still educing good. 
 And better thence again, and better still, 
 In infinite progression. But I lose 
 Myself in Him, in Light ineffable ! 
 Come, then, expressive silence ! muse His praise. 
 
 y. Thomson 
 
The Sitnday Book of Poetry 309 
 
 CCXXXII 
 
 VAGUE HOPES OF NATURE 
 
 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 world to come. 
 Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutored mind 
 Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind ; 
 His soul proud Science never taught to stray 
 Far as the solar walk, or milky way ; 
 Yet simple nature to his hope has given. 
 Behind the cloud-topped hill, an humbler heaven : 
 Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, 
 Some happier island in the wateiy waste, 
 Where slaves once more their native land behold. 
 No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. 
 To be^ contents his natural desire, — 
 He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire ; 
 But thinks, admitted to that equal sky. 
 His faithful dog shall bear him company. 
 
 A. Pope 
 
3IO The Sunday Book of Foetiy 
 
 CCXXXIII 
 
 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. 
 
 FaH'n all beside, — the world of life, 
 
 How is it stained with fear and strife ! 
 
 In reason's world what storms are rife, 
 What passions rage and glare ! 
 
 But cheerful, and unchanged the while, 
 
 Your first and perfect form ye show, 
 
 The same that won Eve's matron smile 
 
 In the world's opening glow. 
 The stars of heaven a coui'se are taught. 
 Too high above our human thought ; — 
 Ye may be found, if ye are sought. 
 And as we gaze, we know. 
 
 Ye dwell beside our paths, and homes. 
 Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poeby 3 1 : 
 
 And guilty man, where'er he roams, 
 Your innocent mirth may borrow. 
 The birds of air before us fleet, 
 They cannot brook our shame to meet, — 
 But we may taste your solace sweet, 
 And come again to-morrow. 
 
 Ye fearless in your nests abide ; 
 
 Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise, 
 Your silent lessons, undescried 
 
 By all but lowly eyes ; 
 For ye could draw th' admiring gaze 
 Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys ; 
 Your order wild, your fragrant maze, 
 
 He taught us how to prize. 
 
 Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour. 
 
 As when He paused, and o\\aied you good. 
 
 His blessing on earth's primal bower, 
 Ye felt it all renewed. 
 
 What care ye now, if winter's storm 
 
 Sweep restless o'er each silken form? 
 
 Christ's blessing at your heart is warm, 
 Ye fear no vexing mood. 
 
 Alas ! of thousand bosoms kind. 
 
 That daily court you, and caress, 
 How few the happy secret find 
 
 Of your calm loveliness ! 
 * ' Live for to-day ! " to-morrow's light 
 To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight. 
 Go, sleep like closing flowers at night, 
 
 And Heaven thy morn will bless. 
 
 J. Keble 
 
312 The Simday Book of Poetry 
 
 CCXXXTV 
 
 THE BEACON 
 
 THE scene was more beautiful far to my eye, 
 Than if day in its pride had arrayed it, 
 The land breeze blew mild, and the azure arched sky 
 Looked pure as the Spirit that made it. 
 
 The murmur rose soft as I silently gazed 
 On the shadou-y waves' playful motion, 
 
 From the dim distant isle till the beacon-fire blazed 
 Like a star in the midst of the ocean. 
 
 No longer the joy of the sailor-boy's breast 
 Was heard in his wildly-breathed numbers ; 
 
 The sea-bird had flown to her wave -girdled nest, 
 The fishennan sunk to his slumbers. 
 
 I sighed as I looked from the hill's gentle slope ; 
 
 All hushed was the billow's commotion ; 
 And I thought that the beacon looked lovely as Hope, 
 
 That star of life's tremulous ocean. 
 
 The time is long past, and the scene is afar, 
 Yet, when my head rests on its pillow. 
 
 Will memoi-y sometimes rekindle the star, 
 That blazed on the breast of the billow. 
 
 In life's closing hour, when the trembling soul flies, 
 And death stills the heart's last emotion, 
 
 O then may the seraph of mercy arise 
 Like a star on eternity's ocean. 
 
 T. Moore 
 
The Sunday Book of Poet)y 313 
 
 ccxxxv 
 STAFFA 
 
 MERRILY, merrily, goes the bark, 
 On a breeze from the northward free, 
 So shoots through the morning sky the lark, 
 
 Or the swan through the summer sea. 
 The shores of Mull on the eastward lay, 
 And Ulva dark, and the Colonsay, 
 And all the group of islets gay 
 
 That guard famed Stafifa round. 
 Then all unknown its columns rose, 
 Where dark and undisturbed repose 
 
 The cormorant had found ; 
 And the shy seal had quiet home. 
 And weltered in that wondrous dome, 
 Where, as to shame the temples decked 
 By skill of earthly architect, 
 Nature herself, it seemed, would raise 
 A minster to her Maker's praise ! 
 Not for a meaner use ascend 
 Her columns, or her arches bend ; 
 Nor of a theme less solemn tells 
 That mighty surge that ebbs and swells, 
 And still, between each awful pause. 
 From the high vault an answer draws, 
 In varied tone prolonged and high, 
 That mocks the organ's melody. 
 Nor doth its entrance front in vain 
 To old lona's holy fane, 
 That Nature's voice might seem to say, 
 " Well hast thou done, frail child of clay ! 
 Thy humble powers that stately shrine 
 Tasked high, and hard, — but witness mine." 
 
 Sir Walter Scott 
 
314 T^i^ Sunday Book of PoeUy 
 
 CCXXXVI 
 
 THE STORM 
 
 THE tempest rages wild, and high 
 The waves lift up their voice, and cry 
 Fierce answers to the angiy sky, — 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 Through the black night, and driving rain, 
 A ship is struggling, all in vain, 
 To live upon tlie stormy main ; — 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 The thunders roar, the lightnings glare, 
 Vain is it now to strive or dare ; 
 A cry goes up of great despair, — 
 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 The stormy voices of the main. 
 The moaning wind, and melting rain 
 Beat on the nurseiy window pane : — 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 Warm curtained was the little bed, 
 Soft pillowed was the little head, 
 "The storm will wake the child," they said 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
 Cowering among his pillows white, 
 He prays, his blue eyes dim Avith fright, 
 " Father, save those at sea to-night ! " 
 Miserere Domine. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 315 
 
 The morning shone, all clear and gay, 
 On a ship at anchor in the bay, 
 And on a little child at play. — 
 
 Gloria tibi Domine ! 
 
 A. A. Procter 
 
 SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOUR- 
 GLASS 
 
 A HANDFUL of red sand, from the hot clime 
 Of Arab deserts brought. 
 Within this glass becomes the spy of Time, 
 The minister of Thought. 
 
 How many weary centuries has it been 
 
 About those deserts blown ! 
 How many strange vicissitudes has seen, 
 
 How many histories known ! 
 
 Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite 
 
 Trampled and passed it o'er, 
 When into Egj'pt from the patriarch's sight 
 
 His favorite son they bore. 
 
 Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare, 
 
 Crushed it beneath their tread ; 
 Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air 
 
 Scattered it as they sped ; 
 
 Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth 
 
 Held close in her caress. 
 Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faith 
 
 Illumed the wilderness ; 
 
3l6 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 Or anchorites beneath Engedi's pahns 
 
 Pacing the Dead Sea beach, 
 And singing slow their old Armenian psalms 
 
 In half-articulate speech ; 
 
 Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate 
 
 With westward steps depart ; 
 Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate, 
 
 And resolute in heart. 
 
 These have passed over it, or may have passed 
 
 Now, in this crystal tower 
 Imprisoned by some curious hand at last, 
 
 It counts the passing hour. 
 
 And, as I gaze, these narrow walls expand ; — 
 
 Before my dreamy eye 
 Stretches tlie desert with its shifting sand, 
 
 Its unimpeded sky. 
 
 And borne aloft by the sustaining blast, 
 
 This little golden thread 
 Dilates into a column high and vast, 
 
 A form of fear and dread. 
 
 And onward, and across the setting sun. 
 
 Across the boundless plain. 
 The column and its broader shadow run, 
 
 Till thought pursues in vain. 
 
 The vision vanishes ! these walls again 
 
 Shut out the lurid sun, 
 Shut out the hot, immeasurable plain ; 
 
 The half-hour's sand is run ! 
 
 11. IV. Longfellow 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 317 
 
 CCXXXVIII 
 
 A SUN DA Y SCENE 
 
 A CHAPEL, like a wild bird's nest, 
 Closely embowered and trimly drest ; 
 And thither yoimg and old repair, 
 This Sabbath-day, for praise and prayer. 
 
 Fast the churchyard fills ; — anon 
 Look again, and they all are gone ; 
 And scarcely have they disappeared 
 Ere the prelusive hymn is heard : — 
 With one consent the people rejoice, 
 Filling the church with a lofty voice ! 
 They sing a service which they feel : 
 For 't is the sunrise now of zeal, — 
 Of a pure faith, the vernal prime, — 
 In great Eliza's golden time. 
 
 A moment ends the fervent din, 
 
 And all is hushed, without and within ; 
 
 For, though the priest, more tranquilly, 
 
 Recites the holy liturgy. 
 
 The only voice which you can hear 
 
 Is the river murmuring near. 
 
 — When soft ! — the dusky trees between. 
 
 And down the path through the open green, 
 
 Where is no living thing to be seen, — 
 
 And through yon gateway, where is found 
 
 Beneath the arch with ivy bound. 
 
 Free entrance to the churchyard ground, — 
 
 Comes gliding in with lovely gleam, 
 
3l8 The Simday Book of Poetry 
 
 Comes gliding in serene and slow, 
 
 Soft and silent as a dream, 
 
 A solitary doe ! 
 
 White she is as lily of June, 
 
 And beauteous as the silver moon 
 
 When out of sight the clouds are driven, 
 
 And she is left alone in heaven ; 
 
 Or like a ship some gentle day, 
 
 In sunshine sailing far away, 
 
 A glittering ship, that hath the plain 
 
 Of ocean for her own domain. 
 
 Beside the ridge of grassy grave 
 
 In quietness she lays her down ; 
 
 Gentle as a weary wave 
 
 Sinks, when the summer breeze hath died, 
 
 Against an anchored vessel's side ; 
 
 Even so, without distress, doth she 
 
 Lie down in peace, and lovingly. 
 
 The day is placid in its going. 
 To a lingering motion bound. 
 Like the crystal stream now flowing 
 W^ith its softest summer sound : 
 So the balmy minutes pass, 
 While this radiant creature lies 
 Couched upon the dewy grass. 
 Pensively, with downcast eyes. 
 — But now again the people raise, 
 With awful cheer a voice of praise ; 
 It is the last, the parting song ; 
 And from the temple forth they throng, 
 And quickly spread themselves abroad. 
 While each pursues his several road. 
 
77/1? Sunday Book of Poetry 319 
 
 But some — a variegated band 
 
 Of middle aged, and old, and young, 
 
 And little children by the hand 
 
 Upon their leading mothers hung, — 
 
 With mute obeisance gladly paid. 
 
 Turn toward the spot, where, full in view, 
 
 The white doe, to her service true, 
 
 Her Sabbath couch hath made. 
 
 " Look, there she is, my child ! draw near ; 
 She fears not, wherefore should we fear ? 
 She means no harm"; but still the boy, 
 To whom the words were softly said, 
 Hung back, and smiled, and blushed for joy. 
 A shamefaced blush of glowing red ! 
 Again the mother whispered low, 
 " Now you have seen the famous doe ; 
 From Rylstone she hath found her way 
 Over the hills this Sabl)ath-day ; 
 Her work, whate'er it be, is done. 
 And she will depart when we are gone ; 
 Thus doth she keep, from year to year. 
 Her Sabbath morning, foul or fair." 
 
 W. Wordrcuorth 
 
320 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 ccxxxix 
 B ROUGH BELLS 
 
 ONE day to Helbeck I had strolled 
 Among the Crossfell hills, 
 And resting in its rocky grove, 
 Sat listening to the rills ; 
 
 The while, to their sweet undersong, 
 
 The birds sang blithe around. 
 And the soft west wind awoke the wood 
 
 To an intermitting sound. 
 
 Louder or fainter, as it rose 
 
 Or died away, was borne 
 The harmony of merry bells 
 
 From Brough that pleasant morn. 
 
 " Why are the merry bells of Brough, 
 
 My friend, so few ? " said I, 
 "They disappoint th' expectant ear 
 
 Which they should gratify. 
 
 "One, two, three, four; one, two, three, four: 
 
 'T is "Still one, two, three, four ; 
 Mellow and silvery are the tones. 
 
 But I wish the bells were more ! " 
 
 " What, art thou critical ? " quoth he ; 
 
 " Eschew that heart's disease 
 That seeketh for displeasure 
 
 Where the intent hath been to please. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 321 
 
 " By those four bells there hangs a tale. 
 
 Which, being told, I guess, 
 Will make thee hear their scanty peal 
 
 With proper thankfulness. 
 
 " Not by the Cliffords were they given, 
 
 Not by the Tufton's line ; 
 Thou hearest in that peal the cmne 
 
 Of old John Brunskill's kine. 
 
 " On Stanemore's side, one summer eve, 
 
 John Brunskill sate to see 
 His herds in yonder Borrodaile 
 
 Come winding up the lea. 
 
 " Behind them, on the lowland's verge. 
 
 In the evening light serene, 
 Brough's silent tower, then newly built 
 
 By Blenkinsop, was seen. 
 
 " Slowly they came in long array, 
 
 With loitering pace at will ; 
 At times a low from them was heard. 
 
 Far off, for all was still. 
 
 "The hills returned that lonely sound 
 
 Upon the tranquil air ; 
 The only sound it was, which then 
 
 Awoke the echoes there. 
 
 " ' Thou hear'st that lordly bull of mine, 
 
 Neighbor,' quoth Brunskill then ; 
 ' How loudly to the hills he crunes, 
 
 That crune to him again ? 
 21 
 
322 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 *' ' Think'st thou, if yon whole herd at once 
 
 Their voices should combine, 
 Were they at Brough, that we might not 
 Hear plainly from this upland spot 
 
 That cruning of the kine ? ' 
 
 " 'That were a cnme, indeed,' replied 
 
 His comrade, ' which, I ween, 
 Might at the Spital well be heard, 
 
 And in all dales between. 
 
 " ' Up Mallerstang to Eden's springs 
 The eastern wind upon its wings 
 
 The mighty voice could bear ; 
 And Appleby would hear the sound 
 
 Methinks, when skies are fair.' 
 
 " 'Then shall the herd,' John Brunskill cried, 
 ' From yon dumb steeple crune. 
 
 And thou, and I, on this hillside 
 Will listen to their tune.' 
 
 " So, while the merry bells of Brough 
 
 For many an age ring on, 
 John Brunskill will remembered be. 
 
 When he is dead and gone ; 
 
 " As one who in his later years. 
 
 Contented with enough, 
 Gave freely what he well could spare 
 
 To buy the bells of Brough. 
 
 "Thus it hath proved : three hundred years 
 Since these have passed away. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 323 
 
 And Brunskill's is a living name 
 Remembered to this day." 
 
 "More pleasure," I returned, "shall I 
 
 From this time forth partake. 
 When I remember Helbeck woods, 
 
 For old John Bnmskiirs sake. 
 
 " He knew how wholesome it would be . 
 
 Among these wild wide fells, 
 And upland vales, to catch at time 
 
 The sound of Christian bells ; 
 
 "What feelings, and what impulses 
 
 That cadence might convey 
 To herdsman, or to shepherd boy, 
 Whiling in indolent employ 
 
 The solitaiy day ; 
 
 "That when his brethren were convened 
 
 To meet for social prayer. 
 He too, admonished by the call, 
 
 In spirit might be there. 
 
 "Or when a glad thanksgiving sound, 
 
 Upon the winds of heaven, 
 Was sent to speak a nation's joy, 
 
 For some great blessing given, — 
 
 " For victory by sea or land, 
 
 And happy peace at length, — 
 Peace by his country's valor won, 
 
 And 'stablished by her strength. 
 
324 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 " When such exultant peals were borne 
 
 Upon the mountain air, 
 The sound should stir his blood, and give 
 
 An English impulse there." 
 
 Such thoughts were in the old man's mind, 
 When he that eve looked down 
 
 From Stanemore's side, on Borrodaile, 
 And on the distant town. 
 
 And had I store of wealth, methinks. 
 
 Another herd of kine, 
 John Brunskill, I would freely give, 
 
 That they may crune with thine. 
 
 R. Sotcthey 
 
77/1? Sunday Book of Poetiy 325 
 
 CCXL 
 
 TO THE WIND IN AN .^OLIAN HARP 
 
 ETHEREAL race, inhabitants of air, 
 Who hymn your God amid the secret grove, 
 Ye unseen beings, to my harp repair, 
 And raise majestic strains, or melt in love. 
 
 Those tender notes, how kindly they upbraid ! 
 With what soft woe they thrill the listener's heart ! 
 Sure from the hand of some unhappy maid. 
 Who died in youth, these sweet complainings part. 
 
 But hark ! that strain was of a graver tone, 
 
 On the deep strings his hand some hermit throws ; 
 
 Or he the sacred Bard who sat alone 
 
 In the drear waste, and wept his people's woes. 
 
 Such was the song which Zion's children sung. 
 When by Euphrates' stream they made their plaint ; 
 And to such sadly solemn tones are strung 
 Angelic harps, to soothe a dying saint. 
 
 Methinks I hear the full celestial choir 
 Thro' heaven's high dome their awful anthem raise ; 
 Now chanting clear, and now they all conspire 
 To swell the lofty hymn from praise to praise. 
 
 Let me, ye wand'ring spirits of the wind, 
 WHio, as wild fancy prompts you, touch the string, 
 Smit with your theme, be in your chorus joined, 
 For till you cease my muse forgets to sing. 
 
 y. TJiomson 
 
32.6 The Sunday Book of Poel>y 
 
 CCXLI 
 
 GOD IN NATURE AND GRACE 
 
 GOD is love ; the heavens tell it 
 Through their glorious orbs of light, 
 In that glad and golden language 
 Speaking to us day and night, 
 
 Their great story, 
 God is love, and God is light. 
 
 And the teeming earth rejoices 
 In that message from above. 
 
 With ten thousand thousand voices 
 Telling back, from hill and grove, 
 
 Her glad story, 
 God is might, and God is love. 
 
 Through these anthems of creation, 
 Struggling up with gentle strife. 
 
 Christian songs of Christ's salvation 
 To the vv^orld, with blessings rife, 
 Tell their story, 
 
 God is love, and God is life. 
 
 Up to Him let each affection 
 
 Duly rise, and round Him move ; 
 Our whole lives one resurrection 
 To the life of life above ; 
 
 Our glad story, 
 God is life, and God is love. 
 
 Anon. 
 
The Sunday Book of Poetry 327 
 
 CCXLII 
 
 THE CREATION 
 
 ALL things bright and beautiful, 
 All creatures, great and small, 
 All things wise and wonderful, 
 The Lord God made them alL 
 
 Each little flower that opens. 
 Each little bird that sings, 
 
 He made their glowing colors, 
 He made their tiny wings ; 
 
 The rich man in his castle. 
 The poor man at his gate, 
 
 God made them, high or lowly. 
 And ordered their estate. 
 
 The purple-headed mountain. 
 
 The river nmning by. 
 The sunset, and the morning 
 
 That brightens up the sky ; 
 
 The cold wind in the winter, 
 The pleasant summer sun, 
 
 The ripe fruits in the garden, — 
 He made them eveiy one. 
 
 The tall trees in the greenwood. 
 The meadows where we play, 
 
 The rushes by the water 
 We gather every day ; — 
 
328 
 
 The Sunday Book of Poetry 
 
 He gave us eyes to see them, 
 
 And lips that we might tell 
 How great is God Almighty 
 
 Who has made all things well ! 
 
 C. F. Alexander 
 
INDEX TO FIRST LINES 
 
 PAGK 
 
 Abide with me ! fast falls the even-tide 254 
 
 A chapel, like a wild bird's nest 317 
 
 A handful of red sand, from the hot clime 315 
 
 Alas ! what secret tears are shed 142 
 
 All is o'er ; — the pain, — the sorrow 56 
 
 All things bright and beautiful 327 
 
 Almighty Father ! . . . . The rolling year 307 
 
 An ardent spirit dwells with Christian love 142 
 
 And is there care in Heaven, and is there love 108 
 
 And so the Word had breath, and wrought 67 
 
 As precious gums are not for lasting fire 169 
 
 As the hardy oat is growing 280 
 
 As grew the power of sacred lays 121 
 
 A song of a boat 214 
 
 Beautiful are the heralds 269 
 
 Behold ! a Stranger 's at the door 233 
 
 Behold the sun, that seemed but now 145 
 
 Behold yon wretch, by impious passion driven 265 
 
 Beneath the chancel's hallowed stone 192 
 
 Blest be Thy love, dear Lord 11 
 
 Bound upon th' accursed tree 48 
 
 Brother, thou art gone before us 182 
 
 But let my due feet never fail 32 
 
 But on before me swept the moonlit stream 89 
 
 By cool Siloam's shady rill 43 
 
 By Nebo's lonely mountain 79 
 
 Calm me, my God, and keep me calm 243 
 
 Calm on the bosom of thy God 211 
 
 Child, amidst the flowers at play 144 
 
330 Index 
 
 Child of sin and sorrow 263 
 
 Christ before thy door is waiting 140 
 
 Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire 29 
 
 Come, my way, my truth, my life 104 
 
 Come, O come ! with sacred lays 3 
 
 Come, ye thankful people, come 286 
 
 Courage, brother, do not stumble 166 
 
 Courage, O faithful heart 98 
 
 Deep on the convent-roof the snows 266 
 
 Dim as the borrowed beams of moon and stars 67 
 
 Dying, still slowly dying 177 
 
 Eighteen hundred years agone 45 
 
 Ere last year's moon had left the sky 152 
 
 Ethereal race, inhabitants of air 325 
 
 Ethereal minstrel, pilgrim of the sky 300 
 
 Far away, where the tempests play loi 
 
 Far from the world, O Lord, I flee 244 
 
 Father, I know that all my life 13 
 
 For Thou wert bom of woman ! Thou didst come ... 35 
 
 Gently speak, and lightly tread 210 
 
 Give me a tender spotless child 137 
 
 Give me my scallop-shell of quiet 123 
 
 Gloomy night embraced the place 39 
 
 Glory to Thee, my God, this night 33 
 
 God is love ; the heavens tell it 326 
 
 God is ascended up on high 62 
 
 God moves in a mysterious way 9 
 
 God scatters love on every side 265 
 
 Going home from the House of God 109 
 
 Happy soul ! thy days are ended 174 
 
 Hark ! hark ! my soul ! angelic songs are swelling .... 236 
 
 Hark, my soul ! it is the Lord 231 
 
 Hast thou seen with flash incessant 276 
 
 Hear me, O God 8 
 
 He is gone — beyond the skies 61 
 
 Her eyes are homes of silent prayer 97 
 
 He stopped at last 77 
 
Index 33 1 
 
 He, who on earth as man was known 64 
 
 Holy, holy, holy Lord S 
 
 Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! Lord God Almighty 30 
 
 Hope springs eternal in the human breast 309 
 
 How blest Thy creature is, O God 26 
 
 How happy is he bom and taught 123 
 
 How pleasant to me thy deep blue wave 92 
 
 If heavenly flowers might bloom unharmed on earth . . . 187 
 
 If you 're waking, call me early, call me early, mother dear . 222 
 
 I got me flowers to strew Thy way 60 
 
 I heard the voice of Jesus say 234 
 
 I hear thee speak of the better land 272 
 
 I looked with pride on what I 'd done 262 
 
 I mourn no more my vanished years 149 
 
 In pride, in reasoning pride our error lies 263 
 
 In the hour of my distress 28 
 
 In the hour of trial 22 
 
 In the silent midnight watches 245 
 
 In the days of our forefathers, the gallant days of old . . . 160 
 
 Into a desolate land 100 
 
 In token that thou shalt not fear 146 
 
 I praised the earth, in beauty seen 271 
 
 I say to thee — Do thou repeat 155 
 
 Is resignation's lesson hard 249 
 
 I sing the birth was bom to-night 37 
 
 It came upon the midnight clear 90 
 
 It chanced upon th^ merry, merry Christmas eve .... 292 
 
 It is not growing like a tree 124 
 
 Jesu ! bless our slender boat 20 
 
 Jesus, my strength, my hope 17 
 
 Jesu, the very thought of Thee 19 
 
 Just as I am, without one plea 253 
 
 Late, late, so late I and dark the night, and chill .... 102 
 
 Latest bom of Jesse's race 82 
 
 Launch thy bark, mariner ! Christian, Heaven speed thee . 148 
 
 Let me be with Thee where Thou art 247 
 
 Let other thoughts, where'er I roam 221 
 
 Let us quit the leafy arbor 275 
 
 Little pomp or earthly state 4° 
 
332 Index 
 
 Like as the damask rose you see i68 
 
 Look westward, pensive little one 241 
 
 Lord Jesu, when we stand afar 47 
 
 Lord, with what care hast thou begirt us round 125 
 
 Lord, who art merciful as well as just 13 
 
 Lost! lost! lost! 129 
 
 Love thy God, and love Him only 246 
 
 Merrily, merrily, goes the bark 313 
 
 Methought I heard a sound, methought it came . . . . 219 
 
 My conscience is my crown 251 
 
 My fairest child, I have no song to give you 133 
 
 My God, my Father, while I stray 260 
 
 My life 's a shade, my days 172 
 
 My little doves have left a nest 297 
 
 My soul, there is a country 259 
 
 My spirit longs for Thee 246 
 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee 23 
 
 Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled . . . . 158 
 
 O come and mourn with me awhile 49 
 
 O day most calm, most bright 143 
 
 O fairest flower ! no sooner blown but blasted 180 
 
 Of all the thoughts of God that are 255 
 
 O happy is the man who hears 87 
 
 O happy soul that lives on high 248 
 
 O Lord ! how happy should we be 232 
 
 O miserable man 184 
 
 Once more, through God's high will and grace 282 
 
 One day to Helbeck I had strolled 320 
 
 On the cross the dying Saviour 296 
 
 O Paradise ! O Paradise ! 237 
 
 O rich the tint of earthly gold 306 
 
 O shame upon thee, listless heart 240 
 
 O that those lips had language ! Life has passed .... 199 
 
 O Thou that driest the mourner's tear 12 
 
 Pause not to dream of the future before us 138 
 
 Poor little Willie 229 
 
 Praise be Tliine, most Holy Spirit 27 
 
 Prayer is the soul's sincere desire i 
 
Index 333 
 
 Receive him, earth, unto thine harboring shrine .... 184 
 
 Religion does not censure or exclude 131 
 
 Return, O wanderer, to thy home 252 
 
 Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise 44 
 
 Robert of Sicily, brother of Pope Urbane 113 
 
 Rock of Ages, cleft for me 55 
 
 Sabbath of the saints of old 72 
 
 Saviour, when in dust to Thee 52 
 
 Say, watchman, what of the night 147 
 
 Sea-bird! haunter of the wave 294 
 
 She had been told that God made all the stars 273 
 
 Slowly fashioned, link by link 127 
 
 Some murmur when their sky is clear 154 
 
 Soon and forever 257 
 
 So rest, forever rest, O Princely Pair 212 
 
 Star of mom and even 53 
 
 Summer is a glorious season 279 
 
 Sun of my soul. Thou Saviour dear 21 
 
 Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright 126 
 
 Sweet maiden, for so calm a life 204 
 
 Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies 310 
 
 Sweet Robin, I have heard them say 293 
 
 Take them, O death ! and bear away 190 
 
 The air of death breathes through our souls 170 
 
 The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold .... 86 
 
 The child leans on its parent's breast 288 
 
 The cloud-capt towers, the gorgeous palaces 121 
 
 The day is cloudy ; it should be so 185 
 
 The flower is small that decks the field 128 
 
 The holy Son of God most high 36 
 
 The lights o'er yonder snowy range 281 
 
 The Lord my pasture shall prepare 7 
 
 The roseate hues of early dawn 32 
 
 The sea of Fortune doth not even flow 132 
 
 The seas are quiet when the winds are o'er 151 
 
 The scene was more beautiful far to my eye 312 
 
 The skylark has perceived his prison door 302 
 
 The spacious firmament on high 268 
 
 The stars shine bright while earth is dark 264 
 
 The time draws near the birth of Christ 38 
 
334 Index 
 
 The time so tranquil is, and dear 283 
 
 The turf shall be my fragrant shrine. 285 
 
 The tempest rages wild, and high 314 
 
 The way is long and dreary 25 
 
 The yellow poplar-leaves came down 216 
 
 Then constant faith and holy hope shall die 120 
 
 There is a fountain filled with blood 106 
 
 There is a Reaper, whose name is Death 179 
 
 There is a thought so purely blest 135 
 
 There is no flock, however watched and tended 208 
 
 There is no love like the love of Jesus 103 
 
 They sin who tell us love can die 242 
 
 This world I deem 68 
 
 This world is all a fleeting show 153 
 
 Thou art gone to the grave ! but we will not deplore thee . i8i 
 
 Thou art, O God ! the life and light 270 
 
 Thou canst accomplish all things. Lord of might .... 88 
 
 Thou spakest, and the waters rolled 70 
 
 Thou wert fair. Lady Mary 191 
 
 Thou, who dost dwell alone 238 
 
 Thou whom chance may hither lead 156 
 
 Through sorrow's path and danger's road 134 
 
 Through the love of God, our Saviour 261 
 
 'T is folly all that can be said 188 
 
 'T is not one blossom makes a spring 301 
 
 To our high-raised fantasy present 31 
 
 To these, whom death again did wed 188 
 
 Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky 290 
 
 Vital spark of heavenly flame 178 
 
 Waves, waves, waves 289 
 
 We beside the wondrous river 78 
 
 We have lost him ; he is gone 203 
 
 We 've no abiding city here 105 
 
 We walked within the churchyard bounds 196 
 
 What is good for a bootless bene 15 
 
 What is the Church, and what am I 136 
 
 What mounier ever felt poetic fires 189 
 
 What though my harp and viol be 169 
 
 When brothers part from manhood's race 94 
 
 When first thine eyes unveil, give thy soul leave .... 132 
 
Index 335 
 
 When I survey the wondrous cross 54 
 
 When Lazarus left his chamel-cave 96 
 
 When, marshalled on the nightly plain gi 
 
 When my breast labors with oppressive care 305 
 
 When our heads are bowed with woe 51 
 
 \Vhen Spring unlocks the flowers 274 
 
 When the great Hebrew king did almost strain 83 
 
 When the hours of Day are numbered 206 
 
 Where high the heavenly temple stands 65 
 
 Where the remote Bemiudas ride 10 
 
 Which is the happiest death to die 175 
 
 While snows even from the mild southwest 74 
 
 Who for the like of me will care 84 
 
 Who has this Book and reads it not 122 
 
 Within this leaf, to every eye 235 
 
 Yes, God is good : in earth and sky 6 
 
 Yes, so it was ere Jesus came 107 
 
 Yes, surely there 's a love abroad 277 
 
 Yet though the fig-tree should no burden bear 88 
 
 Cambridge : Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 
 
SEVER AND FRANCIS 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 Cambridge, Mass. 
 
 Unifomily print- 
 ed in i6mo, with 
 Vignette Titles. 
 
 Bound in Extra Vellum 
 Cloth, Morocco, and 
 Calf, in various styles. 
 
 A BOOK OF GOLDEN DEEDS of all 
 
 Times and all Lands. Gathered and Narrated by the 
 Author of "The Heir of Redclyffe." With a Vignette. 
 Price, $1.75. 
 
 THE JEST-BOOK. The Choicest Anecdotes 
 
 and Sayings. Selected and Arranged by Mark Lemon. 
 With a Vignette by Charles Keene. Price, $ 1.75. 
 
 THE BALLAD BOOK. A Selection of the 
 
 Choicest British Ballads. Edited by William Alling- 
 HAM, Author of "Day and Night Songs," etc. With a 
 Vignette. Price, $ 1.75 
 
 THE SUNDAY BOOK OF POETRY. 
 
 Selected and Arranged by C. F. Alexander, Author of 
 " Hymns for Little Children," &c. With a Vignette. Price, 
 
 S 1.75- 
 
 I 
 
THE 
 
 PILGRIM'S PROGRESS 
 
 FROM THIS WORLD TO THAT WHICH IS TO COME 
 By JOHN BUNYAN 
 
 With Illustrations by Stothard, and Vignette Title, engraved 
 
 by Marsh. i6mo. Vellum Cloth. Price, S 2. 
 
 00. 
 
 " PP^e live in better times : and we are not a fraid to say that, 
 thongh there ivere fnany clever me7i in England diu'ing the 
 latter half of the seventeenth ceiitury, there were only two great 
 creative minds. One 0/ these minds produced the Paradise 
 Lost I the other, the Pilgri}n''s Progress." — Macau lay. 
 
 BOSTON TRAVELLER. 
 "We believe the Pilgrim's Progress to be as original a work as 
 ever was written. It has gone through numerous editions, many 
 of which have appeared in this country ; and this Cambridge 
 edition — which has the merit of coming from the University 
 Press — is incomparably the best of which we can boast. It has 
 the advantage of that combination of modern typographical lu.x- 
 uries and regard for original peculiarities that is now becoming 
 common, and which in this instance is another proof of Bunyan's 
 immense popularity. When an author becomes ornamental as 
 well as useful, his position may be considered secure ; and it is 
 many years since the Pilgrim's Progress became the property of 
 artists, a book on which they could profitably display their skill." 
 
 WORCESTER SPY. 
 " If John Bunyan could have foreseen that his immortal alle- 
 gory would one day come into the world from the University 
 Press, Cambridge, it would have consoled him for many of the 
 trials he encountered on his steep and thorny road to heaven. 
 But he was not a man of great worldly sagacitj' ; as he says in 
 his apology for his book, — 
 
 ' When at first I took my pen in hand 
 Thus for to write, I did not understand 
 That I at all should make a little Book 
 In such a mode.' 
 "The Book is one of the Golden Treasury Series, with a 
 vignette title and illustrations by Stothard, bound in vellum, and 
 exquisitely printed. No books are now published which approach 
 so near to perfection in the art of printing as the books belonging 
 to this elegant series." 
 
 THE PRESBYTERIAN. 
 ' A beautiful and tasteful edition of the 'inimitable dreamer,' 
 a book which can never be multiplied too much, or too richly 
 adorned by the printer's and engraver's arts." 
 
 ST. JOHNS GLOBE. 
 "The 'Pilgrim's Progress' is a production which, whilst it 
 grows mellow with age, never loses its freshness. Nearly two 
 hundred years have elapsed since it was sent forth to the world, 
 but it is as generally read now, and exercises as powerful an influ- 
 ence, as it did when the author first published it." 
 
THE 
 
 BOOK OF PRAISE 
 
 FROM THE BEST ENGLISH HYMN-WRITERS 
 
 SELECTED AND ARRANGED 
 
 By ROUNDELL PALMER 
 
 i6mo. Vellum Cloth. Vignette Title engraved by Marsh. 
 Price, $ 2.00. 
 
 COMMERCIAL ADVERTISER. 
 
 "The volume before us is an attempt to restore and purify the 
 .sacred lyrics of the English language, and to give them without 
 regard to creeds, but only with reference to their poetic e.xcel- 
 lence and their religious purity. It contains the choicest hymns 
 which have been written, gathered from alt sources, whether lay 
 or clerical, and judged only by pure religion and a high poetic 
 standard. In all cases where it is known, the authorship is given. 
 The selections are admirable, the 'arrangement suggestive, and 
 the mechanical adornments of the book, are exquisite. It is 
 enriched with copious and valuable notes and indexes of authors, 
 first lines, and subjects." 
 
 BALTLMORE LUTHERAN OBSERVER. 
 " The Book of Praise is a gem in the book-making line ; 
 printed with exquisite taste and delicacy of design, on tinted 
 paper, illustrated with those dainty devices, half arabesque, half 
 gothic, which give a mellow aroma, as of old books, to the head 
 and tail pieces, and bound even more faultlessly than printed, it 
 lies on one's table like a delicate and graceful flower, or some 
 rare print or rich jewel. Such books are positive pleasures, with- 
 out reference to what is in them, or with only the faint assurance 
 that there is something old and rich in them justifying their 
 external beaufy." 
 
 WESTERN EPISCOPALIAN. 
 
 "It is one of those books, the very expression of whose pretty, 
 winning countenance, if we might so say, with its chaste title and 
 embossing, irresistibly draws one to seek farther and closer ac- 
 quaintance." 
 
 NEW YORK METHODIST. 
 
 "This is in everyway an attractive book. First, it is agreeable 
 to find Sir Roundell Palmer, the British Attorney-General, in- 
 terested in such a work as compiling a book of the most spirited 
 and evangelical hymns in the English language. Then it is 
 agreeable to know that the compiler's taste corresponds so de- 
 cidedly with one's own. And finally, it is pleasant to find the 
 publishers conceiving so worthily of their task, and presenting 
 these sacred lyrics of the Christian Church in so graceful and 
 chaste a form before the public eye." 
 
 HALIFAX PRESBYTERIAN WITNESS. 
 "This is a beautiful collection of the very cream of our Eng- 
 lish Hymns, carefully selected and skilfully arranged." 
 
 3 
 
THE 
 
 CHILDREN'S GARLAND 
 
 FROM THE BEST POETS 
 
 SELECTED AND ARRANGED 
 
 By COVENTRY PATMORE 
 
 i6mo. Red Vellum. Vignette Title engraved by Marsh. 
 Price, $1.75. 
 
 LONDON MORNING POST. 
 "It includes specimens of all the great masters in the art 
 of Poetry, sele6led with the matured judgment of a man con- 
 centrated on obtaining insight into the feelings and tastes of 
 childhood, and desirous to awaken its finest impulses, to cul- 
 tivate its keenest sensibilities." 
 
 CINCINNATI GAZETTE. 
 " The University Press at Cambridge has turned out many 
 wonderful specimens of the art, but in exquisite finish it has 
 never equalled the evidence of its skill which now lies before us. 
 The te.xt, compared with the average specimens of modern books, 
 shines out with as bright a contrast as an Elzevir by the side of 
 one of its dingy and bleared contemporaries. In the quality 
 of its paper, in its vignettes and head-pieces, the size of its 
 pages, in every feature that can gratify the eye, indeed, the 
 ' Garland ' could hardly bear improvement. Similar in its gen- 
 eral getting up to the much-admired Golden Treasury of English 
 Songs and Lyrics, issued by the same publishers a few months 
 since, it excels, we think, in the perfection of various minor 
 details." 
 
 NEW YORK WORLD. 
 
 " It is a beautiful book, — the most beautiful in some respects 
 that has been published for years ; going over a large number of 
 poets and wide range of themes as no*e but a poet could have 
 done. A choice cabinet of precious jewels, or better still, a 
 dainty wreath of blossoms, — 'The Children's Garland.' " 
 
 BOSTON TRANSCRIPT. 
 ** It is in all respects a delicious volume, and will be as great a 
 favorite with the elder as with the younger members of every 
 family into which it penetrates. Some of the best poems in the 
 English language are included in the selections. Paper, printing, 
 and binding, — indeed, all the elements entering into the mechani- 
 cal execution of the book, — offer to the view nothing wherein 
 the most fastidious eye can detect a blemish. " 
 
 SPRINGFIELD REPUBLICAN. 
 
 " It is almost too dainty a book to be touched, and yet it is sure 
 to be well thumbed whenever it falls into the hands of a lover of 
 genuine poetry." 
 
 4 
 
THE 
 
 GOLDEN TREASURY 
 
 OF THE BEST SONGS AND LYRICAL POEMS IN 
 THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE 
 
 SELECTED AND ARRANGED WITH NOTES 
 
 By FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE 
 
 FELLOW OF EXETER COLLEGE OXFORD 
 
 i6mo. Green Vellum. Price, $ 1.75. 
 
 LONDON SPECTATOR. 
 
 "There is no book in the English language which will make a 
 more delightful companion than this We have few criti- 
 cisms to make upon this volume, which must not only be read, 
 but possessed, in order to be adequately valued." 
 
 BOSTON TRANSCRIPT. 
 
 "The volume is indeed worthy to be ranked among those rare 
 volumes of selections which really educate the public taste. 
 Anybody who will read this volume through, 'and thoroughly 
 appreciate its rich contents, may be sure that he has a true sense 
 of the inmost essence of poetry. " 
 
 BOSTON COURIER. 
 
 " It is an exquisite gem of a book in print, paper, and binding. 
 Its intrinsic merits are not less ; for we hold it to be, on the 
 whole, the very best seledlion of poetry, for its size, in the lan- 
 guage. There is not a poem in it which is not of enduring 
 merit." 
 
 NEW YORK INDEPENDENT. 
 
 " Among all the books of this new era of elegance, two 
 
 have been on the whole distin6lly the most beautiful, namely, De 
 Tocqueville's Democracy in America, and the present ' Golden 
 Treasury.' Both are better manufadtured books than England 
 can show ; for although it is true that the materials for both 
 were in part imported, yet the deft touch of American fingers, 
 the keen sight and judgment and 'faculty' of American eye 
 and brain, impart a finish and an altogether (this is much better 
 than to steal ' tout ensemble ' from the wicked Emperor) which 
 John Bull's big, thumby fingers can in no wise attain unto. We 
 recommend attention to the singularly clear and elegant cut 
 of the type, more particularly in the exquisite nonpareil of the 
 notes ; the perfect clearness and evenness of the press-work ; the 
 workmanlike finish and tasteful design of the binding, entirely 
 simple, yet ornamental in the best .sense ; and the sharp delicacy 
 in design and impression of the engraved tail-pieces and head- 
 pieces." 
 
 5 
 
The Golden Treasury Juvenile. 
 DREAM CHILDREN 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF " SEVEN LITTLE PEOPLE AND THEIR 
 FRIENDS." 
 
 Embellished by full-page Illustrations after designs by White, 
 
 with ornamental Initials, illustrating each story. 
 
 i6mo. Vellum Cloth. Price, $ 1.25. 
 
 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW. 
 
 "Its external form, the prettiness of its cover, the clearness of 
 its finely-cut type, the appropriate originality of its initial letters, 
 the excellence of its large illustrations, are only the befitting 
 dress and adornment of stories delightful alike in feeling and in 
 fancy." 
 
 SPRINGFIELD REPUBLICAN. 
 
 " It has an individuality and flavor of its own, is very charm- 
 ing as a work of fancy, and healthful in the tone which breathes 
 through the stories, like fragrance through a grove of pines." 
 
 BOSTON JOURNAL. 
 " It is a book for children ; written not down to them, as some 
 by mistaken opinion are, but up ; so that it will not be found un- 
 interesting to the most thoughtful reader. If any one has a 
 child whom he loves, and in whose genius he particularly delights 
 and hopes, let him buy this book, and in an auspicious hour, 
 perchance when day fades into twilight, let him read one of these 
 stories to him, and he will find out better than from any other 
 critic their value and their meaning." 
 
 CLEVELAND DAILY HERALD. 
 " In the opinion of a jur>' of little critics to whom the book 
 was submitted, and whose decisions have considerable weight 
 with us in matters of juvenile literature. Dream Children is 
 ' one of the very best and nicest ' books of its class, and it occu- 
 pies a place of honor on the children's shelf." 
 
 " Dream Children is as ideal and imaginative as childhood 
 itself. Whoever reads it, no matter of what age, will be morally 
 elevated and refined at beholding the beautiful exposition of 
 what is most lovely in humanity enacted in the world of flowers 
 and animals. The sense of what we read is twofold more affect- 
 ing when we can see our very selves through the thin veil of 
 fable, fairy, and allegory. This is a book which one would de- 
 light in reading to his child, alone, in some quiet, large arm-chair ; 
 or if he had no child, to ma' e him wish that he had ; for it is of 
 that character of excellence to so commend itself, you wish 
 everybody to know and have it." 
 6 
 
A NEW EDITION OF 
 
 DE TOCQUEVILLE'S 
 
 DEMOCRACY IN AMERICA 
 
 Translated by Henry Reeve, Esq. Edited, with 
 Notes, the Translation Revised and in great part 
 Rewritten, and the Additions made to the recent 
 Paris Editions now first translated, by Francis 
 BoWEN, Alford Professor of Moral Philosophy in 
 Hai-vard University. 
 
 Elegantly printed on linen paper, at the University Press. 
 
 Dound in IMaroon Vellum. 2 vols. 
 
 Post 8vo. Price, $ 6.00. 
 
 BOSTON POST. 
 "A new edition of this noble work is before us, carefully 
 edited by Professor Bowen, with brief elucidatory notes from 
 the twelfth edition, and contains the matter which De Tocque- 
 ville then added, and the last edition which he supervised. This 
 matter consists of his Essay on Democracy in Switzerland, his 
 great Speech, predi6ling the French Revolution of 1848, and 
 his eloquent Advertisement, addressed to his countrymen, urging 
 a study of American institutions, as affording the most instruc- 
 tive lessons for the organization and conduct of the new French 
 Republic. These three papers are for the first time translated 
 and printed here, and are valuable additions. To this is added 
 a Memoir of the Author." 
 
 NEW YORK TRIBUNE. 
 "The work is now presented to the American public in a form 
 not unworthy of its high claim as a profound disquisition on the 
 philosophy of republican institutions as exemplified in the United 
 States. It is brought out in the superb typography of the Cam- 
 bridge University Press." 
 
 CINCINNATI DAILY GAZETTE. 
 " For substantial elegance, perfe6lion of paper, faultlessness 
 of typography, and severely simple tastefulness, the Cambridge 
 edition of De Tocqueville has never been equalled on this side 
 of the Atlantic. Indeed, we have seen few or no rivals bearing 
 an English imprint. It is an honor not only to the publishers, 
 but to the book-trade of America." 
 
 NEW YORK TIMES. 
 " In its mechanical execution, this edition approaches what it 
 is so difficult to find in either books or humanity, — perfection." 
 
 BOSTON COURIER. 
 " It IS one of the handsomest and most tasteful books which 
 have ever issued from the American press. The paper, the type, 
 the press-work, the binding, are all of the first quality. The 
 casket is worthy of the gem ; we cannot give it higher praise." 
 
 7 
 
Bowen^s Logic. 
 A TREATISE ON LOGIC, 
 
 OR THE LAWS OF PURE THOUGHT; 
 
 Comprising both the AristoteHc and the Hamiltonian 
 Analyses of Logical Forms. 
 
 By FRANCIS BOWEN, 
 
 ALFORD PROFESSOR OF MORAL PHILOSOPHY IN HARVARD 
 
 UNIVERSITY. 
 
 I2in0. Cloth, $ 2.00. 
 
 THE PUBLISHERS' CIRCULAR. 
 
 "There was great need for just such a book as this. Whate- 
 ly's Logic is too old for the present state of the science, and the 
 great work of Mill deals more with applied and concrete thought 
 than with the abstract laws of pure thought. Professor Bowen's 
 work is fully up to the modern state of the science. It embodies 
 the results reached by Hamilton, Mansel, Thomson, De Morgan, 
 Boole, Mill, and others, who, within the last quarter of a century, 
 have given a new impetus to the study of the laws of thought 
 and the theory of logical forms. The labors of Keiswetter, Fries, 
 Bencke, Dressier, Drobisch, and others among the Germans, 
 have also been placed under contribution. We have thus a man- 
 ual for collegiate study and for the perusal of professional and 
 educated minds, which will initiate them into the most recent 
 investigations. We should very much like to see the work intro- 
 duced into our institutions for advanced instruction." 
 
 THE ROUND TABLE. 
 
 " There has been in our language an open field and a pressing 
 demand for a treatise of the character which Professor Bowen has 
 sought to provide. We are glad that he has been induced to 
 meet this demand. We are glad, also, to find that he has met it 
 so well. A simple inspection of the well-conceived and well- 
 arranged table of contents is sufficient to convince any one who 
 is conversant with the subject, and with other treatises, that the 
 aiuhor has been very judicious in the selection of his leading 
 themes and in the general outline of his subordinate divisions. 
 We can confidently pronounce this work to be scholar- 
 like' and thorough in its character, and most honorable to ^ the 
 distinguished position and reputation of its respected author." 
 NEW-ENGLANDER. 
 
 "The plan of Professor Bowen is more comprehensive than 
 that of any of the works which we have named. The execution 
 is in many respects deserving of high commendation, as we 
 should e.xpect it would be from the well-known ability, thorough- 
 ness, and industry of the author." 
 
 ZION'S HERALD. 
 
 "As it regards definition, clearness, and fulness of statement of 
 the various points which make a complete scientific treatise, we 
 think the author has succeeded in producing a better text-book 
 than any other before the American people." 
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