_________________________________________________________________

           Title: The Christian Year
      Creator(s): Keble, John (1792-1866)
     Print Basis: 1827
   CCEL Subjects: All; Classic; Hymns
      LC Call no: BV4832
   LC Subjects:

   Practical theology

   Practical religion. The Christian life

   Works of meditation and devotion
     _________________________________________________________________

THE CHRISTIAN YEAR

   Thoughts in Verse

   FOR THE

SUNDAYS AND HOLIDAYS

   THROUGHOUT THE YEAR

   BY THE

   REV. JOHN KEBLE
     _________________________________________________________________

   In quietness and in confidence shall be your strength.
   ISAIAH XXX.15
     _________________________________________________________________

ADVERTISEMENT.

   Next to a sound rule of faith, there is nothing of so much consequence as a
   sober standard of feeling in matters of practical religion; and it is the
   peculiar happiness of the Church of England to possess, in her authorized
   formularies, an ample and secure provision for both. But in times of much
   leisure and unbounded curiosity, when excitement of every kind is sought
   after with a morbid eagerness, this part of the merit of our Liturgy, is
   likely in some measure to be lost, on many even of its sincere admirers: the
   very tempers which most require such discipline, setting themselves, in
   general, most decidedly against it.

   The object of the present publication will be attained, if any person find
   assistance from it in bringing his own thoughts and feelings into more
   entire unison with those recommended and exemplified in the Prayer Book. The
   work does not furnish a complete series of compositions; being, in many
   parts, rather adapted with more or less propriety to the successive portions
   of the Liturgy, than originally suggested by them. Something has been added
   at the end concerning the several Occasional Services: which constitute,
   from their personal and domestic nature, the most perfect instance of that
   soothing tendency in the Prayer Book, which it is the chief purpose of these
   pages to exhibit.

   MAY 30th, 1827
     _________________________________________________________________

MORNING

   His compassions fail not. They are new every morning. Lament. iii. 22, 23.


   Hues of the rich unfolding morn,

   That, ere the glorious sun be born,


   By some soft touch invisible

   Around his path are taught to swell; —


   Thou rustling breeze so fresh and gay,

   That dancest forth at opening day,

   And brushing by with joyous wing,

   Wakenest each little leaf to sing; —


   Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam,

   By which deep grove and tangled stream

   Pay, for soft rains in season given,

   Their tribute to the genial heaven; —


   Why waste your treasures of delight

   Upon our thankless, joyless sight;

   Who day by day to sin awake,

   Seldom of Heaven and you partake?


   Oh! timely happy, timely wise,

   Hearts that with rising morn arise!

   Eyes that the beam celestial view,

   Which evermore makes all things new! [1]


   New every morning is the love

   Our wakening and uprising prove;

   Through sleep and darkness safely brought,

   Restored to life, and power, and thought.


   New mercies, each returning day,

   Hover around us while we pray;

   New perils past, new sins forgiven,

   New thoughts of God, new hopes of Heaven.


   If on our daily course our mind

   Be set to hallow all we find,

   New treasures still, of countless price,

   God will provide for sacrifice.


   Old friends, old scenes will lovelier be,

   As more of Heaven in each we see:

   Some softening gleam of love and prayer

   Shall dawn on every cross and care.


   As for some dear familiar strain

   Untir’d we ask, and ask again,

   Ever, in its melodious store,

   Finding a spell unheard before;


   Such is the bliss of souls serene,

   When they have sworn, and stedfast mean,

   Counting the cost, in all t’ espy

   Their God, in all themselves deny.


   Oh, could we learn that sacrifice,

   What lights would all around us rise!

   How would our hearts with wisdom talk

   Along Life’s dullest, dreariest walk!


   We need not bid, for cloister’d cell,

   Our neighbour and our work farewell,

   Nor strive to wind ourselves too high

   For sinful man beneath the sky:


   The trivial round, the common task,

   Would furnish all we ought to ask;

   Room to deny ourselves; a road

   To bring us daily nearer God.


   Seek we no more; content with these,

   Let present Rapture, Comfort, Ease,

   As Heaven shall bid them, come and go: —

   The secret this of Rest below.


   Only, O Lord, in Thy dear love

   Fit us for perfect Rest above;

   And help us, this and every day,

   To live more nearly as we pray.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [1] Revelation xxi. 5.
     _________________________________________________________________

EVENING

   Abide with us: for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent. — St.
   Luke xxiv. 29.


   ’Tis gone, that bright and orbed blaze,

   Fast fading from our wistful gaze;

   You mantling cloud has hid from sight

   The last faint pulse of quivering light.


   In darkness and in weariness

   The traveller on his way must press,

   No gleam to watch on tree or tower,

   Whiling away the lonesome hour.


   Sun of my soul! Thou Saviour dear,

   It is not night if Thou be near:

   Oh, may no earth-born cloud arise

   To hide Thee from Thy servant’s eyes!


   When round Thy wondrous works below

   My searching rapturous glance I throw,

   Tracing out Wisdom, Power and Love,

   In earth or sky, in stream or grove; —


   Or by the light Thy words disclose

   Watch Time’s full river as it flows,

   Scanning Thy gracious Providence,

   Where not too deep for mortal sense: —


   When with dear friends sweet talk I hold,

   And all the flowers of life unfold;

   Let not my heart within me burn,

   Except in all I Thee discern.


   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.


   Thou Framer of the light and dark,

   Steer through the tempest Thine own ark:

   Amid the howling wintry sea

   We are in port if we have Thee. [2]


   The Rulers of this Christian land,

   ’Twixt Thee and us ordained to stand, —

   Guide Thou their course, O Lord, aright,

   Let all do all as in Thy sight.


   Oh! by Thine own sad burthen, borne

   So meekly up the hill of scorn,

   Teach Thou Thy Priests their daily cross

   To bear as Thine, nor count it loss!


   If some poor wandering child of Thine

   Have spurn’d 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.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [2] Then they willingly received Him into the ship: and immediately the ship
   was at the land whither they went. St. John vi. 21.
     _________________________________________________________________

ADVENT SUNDAY

   Now it is high time to awake out of sleep: for now is our salvation nearer
   than when we believed. — Romans xiii 11.


   Awake — again the Gospel-trump is blown —

   From year to year it swells with louder tone,

   From year to year the signs of wrath

   Are gathering round the Judge’s path,

   Strange words fulfill’d, and mighty works achiev’d,

   And truth in all the world both hated and believ’d.


   Awake! why linger in the gorgeous town,

   Sworn liegemen of the Cross and thorny crown?

   Up from your beds of sloth for shame,

   Speed to the eastern mount like flame,

   Nor wonder, should ye find your King in tears,

   E’en with the loud Hosanna ringing in His ears.


   Alas! no need to rouse them: long ago

   They are gone forth to swell Messiah’s show:

   With glittering robes and garlands sweet

   They strew the ground beneath His feet:

   All but your hearts are there — O doom’d to prove

   The arrows wing’d in Heaven for Faith that will not love!


   Meanwhile He passes through th’ adoring crowd,

   Calm as the march of some majestic cloud,

   That o’er wild scenes of ocean-war

   Holds its still course in Heaven afar:

   E’en so, heart-searching Lord, as years roll on,

   Thou keepest silent watch from Thy triumphal throne:


   E’en so, the world is thronging round to gaze

   On the dread vision of the latter days,

   Constrain’d to own Thee, but in heart

   Prepar’d to take Barabbas’ part:

   “Hosanna” now, to-morrow “Crucify,”

   The changeful burden still of their rude lawless cry.


   Yet in that throng of selfish hearts untrue

   Thy sad eye rests upon Thy faithful few,

   Children and childlike souls are there,

   Blind Bartimeus’ humble prayer,

   And Lazarus waken’d from his four days’ sleep,

   Enduring life again, that Passover to keep.


   And fast beside the olive-border’d way

   Stands the bless’d home where Jesus deign’d to stay,

   The peaceful home, to Zeal sincere

   And heavenly Contemplation dear,

   Where Martha lov’d to wait with reverence meet,

   And wiser Mary linger’d at Thy sacred feet.


   Still through decaying ages as they glide,

   Thou lov’st Thy chosen remnant to divide;

   Sprinkled along the waste of years

   Full many a soft green isle appears:

   Pause where we may upon the desert road,

   Some shelter is in sight, some sacred safe abode.


   When withering blasts of error swept the sky, [3]

   And Love’s last flower seem’d fain to droop and die,

   How sweet, how lone the ray benign

   On shelter’d nooks of Palestine!

   Then to his early home did Love repair, [4]

   And cheer’d his sickening heart with his own native air.


   Years roll away: again the tide of crime

   Has swept Thy footsteps from the favour’d clime

   Where shall the holy Cross find rest?

   On a crowned monarch’s [5] mailed breast:

   Like some bright angel o’er the darkling scene,

   Through court and camp he holds his heavenward course serene.


   A fouler vision yet; an age of light,

   Light without love, glares on the aching sight:

   Oh, who can tell how calm and sweet,

   Meek Walton, shows thy green retreat,

   When wearied with the tale thy times disclose,

   The eye first finds thee out in thy secure repose?


   Thus bad and good their several warnings give

   Of His approach, whom none may see and live:

   Faith’s ear, with awful still delight,

   Counts them like minute-bells at night.

   Keeping the heart awake till dawn of morn,

   While to her funeral pile this aged world is borne.


   But what are Heaven’s alarms to hearts that cower

   In wilful slumber, deepening every hour,

   That draw their curtains closer round,

   The nearer swells the trumpet’s sound?

   Lord, ere our trembling lamps sink down and die,

   Touch us with chastening hand, and make us feel Thee nigh.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [3] Arianism in the fourth century.

   [4] See St. Jerome’s Works, i. 123, edit. Erasm.

   [5] St. Louis in the thirteenth century.
     _________________________________________________________________

SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT

   And when these things begin to pass, then look up, and lift up your heads;
   for your redemption draweth night. St. Luke xxi. 28.


   Not till the freezing blast is still,

   Till freely leaps the sparkling rill,

   And gales sweep soft from summer skies,

   As o’er a sleeping infant’s eyes

   A mother’s kiss; ere calls like these,

   No sunny gleam awakes the trees,

   Nor dare the tender flowerets show

   Their bosoms to th’ uncertain glow.


   Why then, in sad and wintry time,

   Her heavens all dark with doubt and crime,

   Why lifts the Church her drooping head,

   As though her evil hour were fled?

   Is she less wise than leaves of spring,

   Or birds that cower with folded wing?

   What sees she in this lowering sky

   To tempt her meditative eye?


   She has a charm, a word of fire,

   A pledge of love that cannot tire;

   By tempests, earthquakes, and by wars,

   By rushing waves and falling stars,

   By every sign her Lord foretold,

   She sees the world is waxing old, [6]

   And through that last and direst storm

   Descries by faith her Saviour’s form.


   Not surer does each tender gem,

   Set in the fig-tree’s polish’d stem,

   Foreshow the summer season bland,

   Than these dread signs Thy mighty hand:

   But, oh, frail hearts, and spirits dark!

   The season’s flight unwarn’d we mark,

   But miss the Judge behind the door, [7]

   For all the light of sacred lore:


   Yet is He there; beneath our eaves

   Each sound His wakeful ear receives:

   Hush, idle words, and thoughts of ill,

   Your Lord is listening: peace, be still. [8]

   Christ watches by a Christian’s hearth,

   Be silent, “vain deluding mirth,.”

   Till in thine alter’d voice be known

   Somewhat of Resignation’s tone.


   But chiefly ye should lift your gaze

   Above the world’s uncertain haze,

   And look with calm unwavering eye

   On the bright fields beyond the sky,

   Ye, who your Lord’s commission bear

   His way of mercy to prepare:

   Angels He calls ye: be your strife

   To lead on earth an Angel’s life.


   Think not of rest; though dreams be sweet,

   Start up, and ply your heavenward feet.

   Is not God’s oath upon your head,

   Ne’er to sink back on slothful bed,

   Never again your loans untie,

   Nor let your torches waste and die,

   Till, when the shadows thickest fall,

   Ye hear your Master’s midnight call?
     _________________________________________________________________

   [6] The world hath lost its youth, and the times begin to wax old. 2 Esdras
   xiv. 10.

   [7] See St. James v. 9.

   [8] Iba fabulantur, ut qui sciant Dominum audire, Tertull. Apolog. p. 36
   edit. Higalz.
     _________________________________________________________________

THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT

   What went ye out into the wilderness to see? A reed shaken with the wind?
   . . . But what went ye out for to see? A prophet? yea, I say unto you, and
   more than a prophet. St. Matthew xi. 7, 9.


   What went ye out to see

   O’er the rude sandy lea,

   Where stately Jordan flows by many a palm,

   Or where Gennesaret’s wave

   Delights the flowers to lave,

   That o’er her western slope breathe airs of balm?


   All through the summer night,

   Those blossoms red and bright [9]

   Spread their soft breasts, unheeding, to the breeze,

   Like hermits watching still

   Around the sacred hill,

   Where erst our Saviour watched upon His knees.


   The Paschal moon above

   Seems like a saint to rove,

   Left shining in the world with Christ alone;

   Below, the lake’s still face

   Sleeps sweetly in th’ embrace

   Of mountains terrac’d high with mossy stone.


   Here may we sit, and dream

   Over the heavenly theme,

   Till to our soul the former days return;

   Till on the grassy bed,

   Where thousands once He fed,

   The world’s incarnate Maker we discern.


   O cross no more the main,

   Wandering so will and vain,

   To count the reeds that tremble in the wind,

   On listless dalliance bound,

   Like children gazing round,

   Who on God’s works no seal of Godhead find.


   Bask not in courtly bower,

   Or sun-bright hall of power,

   Pass Babel quick, and seek the holy land —

   From robes of Tyrian dye

   Turn with undazzled eye

   To Bethlehem’s glade, or Carmel’s haunted strand.


   Or choose thee out a cell

   In Kedron’s storied dell,

   Beside the springs of Love, that never die;

   Among the olives kneel

   The chill night-blast to feel,

   And watch the Moon that saw thy Master’s agony.


   Then rise at dawn of day,

   And wind thy thoughtful way,

   Where rested once the Temple’s stately shade,

   With due feet tracing round

   The city’s northern bound,

   To th’ other holy garden, where the Lord was laid.


   Who thus alternate see

   His death and victory,

   Rising and falling as on angel wings,

   They, while they seem to roam,

   Draw daily nearer home,

   Their heart untravell’d still adores the King of kings.


   Or, if at home they stay,

   Yet are they, day by day,

   In spirit journeying through the glorious land,

   Not for light Fancy’s reed,

   Nor Honour’s purple meed,

   Nor gifted Prophet’s lore, nor Science’ wondrous wand.


   But more than Prophet, more

   Than Angels can adore

   With face unveil’d, is He they go to seek:

   Blessed be God, Whose grace

   Shows Him in every place

   To homeliest hearts of pilgrims pure and meek.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [9] Rhododendrons: with which the western bank of the lake is said to be
   clothed down to the water’s edge.
     _________________________________________________________________

FOURTH SUNDAY IN ADVENT

   The eyes of them that see shall not be dim, and the ears of them that hear
   shall hearken. Isaiah xxxii. 3.


   Of the bright things in earth and air

   How little can the heart embrace!

   Soft shades and gleaming lights are there —

   I know it well, but cannot trace.


   Mine eye unworthy seems to read

   One page of Nature’s beauteous book;

   It lies before me, fair outspread —

   I only cast a wishful look.


   I cannot paint to Memory’s eye

   The scene, the glance, I dearest love —

   Unchang’d themselves, in me they die,

   Or faint or false their shadows prove.


   In vain, with dull and tuneless ear,

   I linger by soft Music’s cell,

   And in my heart of hearts would hear

   What to her own she deigns to tell.


   ’Tis misty all, both sight and sound —

   I only know ’tis fair and sweet —

   ’Tis wandering on enchanted ground

   With dizzy brow and tottering feet.


   But patience! there may come a time

   When these dull ears shall scan aright

   Strains that outring Earth’s drowsy chime,

   As Heaven outshines the taper’s light.


   These eyes, that dazzled now and weak,

   At glancing motes in sunshine wink.

   Shall see the King’s [10] full glory break,

   Nor from the blissful vision shrink:


   In fearless love and hope uncloy’d

   For ever on that ocean bright

   Empower’d to gaze; and undestroy’d,

   Deeper and deeper plunge in light.


   Though scarcely now their laggard glance

   Reach to an arrow’s flight, that day

   They shall behold, and not in trance,

   The region “very far away.”


   If Memory sometimes at our spell

   Refuse to speak, or speak amiss,

   We shall not need her where we dwell

   Ever in sight of all our bliss.


   Meanwhile, if over sea or sky

   Some tender lights unnotic’d fleet,

   Or on lov’d features dawn and die,

   Unread, to us, their lesson sweet;


   Yet are there saddening sights around,

   Which Heaven, in mercy, spares us too,

   And we see far in holy ground,

   If duly purg’d our mental view.


   The distant landscape draws not nigh

   For all our gazing; but the soul,

   That upward looks, may still descry

   Nearer, each day, the brightening goal.


   And thou, too curious ear, that fain

   Wouldst thread the maze of Harmony,

   Content thee with one simple strain,

   The lowlier, sure, the worthier thee;


   Till thou art duly train’d, and taught

   The concord sweet of Love divine:

   Then, with that inward Music fraught,

   For ever rise, and sing, and shine.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [10] Thine eyes shall see the King in His beauty: they shall behold the land
   that is very far off. Isaiah xxxiii. 17.
     _________________________________________________________________

CHRISTMAS DAY

   And suddenly there was with the Angel a multitude of the heavenly host,
   praising God. St. Luke ii. 13.


   What sudden blaze of song

   Spreads o’er th’ expanse of Heav’n?

   In waves of light it thrills along,

   Th’ angelic signal given —

   “Glory to God!” from yonder central fire

   Flows out the echoing lay beyond the starry choir;


   Like circles widening round

   Upon a clear blue river,

   Orb after orb, the wondrous sound

   Is echoed on for ever:

   “Glory to God on high, on earth be peace,

   And love towards men of love [11] — salvation and release.”


   Yet stay, before thou dare

   To join that festal throng;

   Listen and mark what gentle air

   First stirr’d the tide of song;

   ’Tis not, “the Saviour born in David’s home,

   To Whom for power and health obedient worlds “should come:” —


   ’Tis not, “the Christ the Lord:”

   With fix’d adoring look

   The choir of Angels caught the word,

   Nor yet their silence broke:

   But when they heard the sign where Christ should be,

   In sudden light they shone and heavenly harmony.


   Wrappéd in His swaddling bands,

   And in His manger laid,

   The Hope and Glory of all lands

   Is come to the world’s aid:

   No peaceful home upon his cradle smil’d,

   Guests rudely went and came, where slept the royal Child.


   But where Thou dwellest, Lord,

   No other thought should be,

   Once duly welcom’d and ador’d,

   How should I part with Thee?

   Bethlehem must lose Thee soon, but Thou wilt grace

   The single heart to be Thy sure abiding-place.


   Thee, on the bosom laid

   Of a pure virgin mind,

   In quiet ever, and in shade,

   Shepherd and sage may find;

   They, who have bowed untaught to Nature’s sway,

   And they, who follow Truth along her star-pav’d way.


   The pastoral spirits first

   Approach Thee, Babe divine,

   For they in lowly thoughts are nurs’d,

   Meet for Thy lowly shrine:

   Sooner than they should miss where Thou dost dwell,

   Angels from Heaven will stoop to guide them to Thy cell.


   Still, as the day comes round

   For Thee to be reveal’d,

   By wakeful shepherds Thou art found,

   Abiding in the field.

   All through the wintry heaven and chill night air,

   In music and in light Thou dawnest on their prayer.


   O faint not ye for fear —

   What though your wandering sheep,

   Reckless of what they see and hear,

   Lie lost in wilful sleep?

   High Heaven in mercy to your sad annoy

   Still greets you with glad tidings of immortal joy.


   Think on th’ eternal home,

   The Saviour left for you;

   Think on the Lord most holy, come

   To dwell with hearts untrue:

   So shall ye tread untir’d His pastoral ways,

   And in the darkness sing your carol of high praise.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [11] I have ventured to adopt the reading of the Vulgate, as being generally
   known through Pergolesi’s beautiful composition, “Gloria in excelsis Deo, et
   in terra pax hominibus bonæ voluntatis.”
     _________________________________________________________________

ST. STEPHEN’S DAY

   He, being full of the Holy Ghost, looked up steadfastly into heaven, and saw
   the glory of God, and Jesus standing on the right hand of God. Acts vii. 55.


   As rays around the source of light

   Stream upward ere he glow in sight,

   And watching by his future flight

   Set the clear heavens on fire;

   So on the King of Martyrs wait

   Three chosen bands, in royal state, [12]

   And all earth owns, of good and great,

   Is gather’d in that choir.


   One presses on, and welcomes death:

   One calmly yields his willing breath,

   Nor slow, nor hurrying, but in faith

   Content to die or live:

   And some, the darlings of their Lord,

   Play smiling with the flame and sword,

   And, ere they speak, to His sure word

   Unconscious witness give.


   Foremost and nearest to His throne,

   By perfect robes of triumph known,

   And likest Him in look and tone,

   The holy Stephen kneels,

   With stedfast gaze, as when the sky

   Flew open to his fainting eye,

   Which, like a fading lamp, flash’d high,

   Seeing what death conceals.


   Well might you guess what vision bright

   Was present to his raptur’d sight,

   E’en as reflected streams of light

   Their solar source betray —

   The glory which our God surrounds,

   The Son of Man, th’ atoning wounds —

   He sees them all; and earth’s dull bounds

   Are melting fast away.


   He sees them all — no other view

   Could stamp the Saviour’s likeness true,

   Or with His love so deep embrue

   Man’s sullen heart and gross —

   “Jesu, do Thou my soul receive:

   Jesu, do Thou my foes forgive;”

   He who would learn that prayer must live

   Under the holy Cross.


   He, though he seem on earth to move,

   Must glide in air like gentle dove,

   From yon unclouded depths above

   Must draw his purer breath;

   Till men behold his angel face

   All radiant with celestial grace, [13]

   Martyr all o’er, and meet to trace

   The lines of Jesus’ death.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [12] Wheatly on the Common Prayer, c.v. sect. iv. 2. “As there are three
   kinds of martyrdom, the first both in will and deed, which is the highest;
   the second in will but not in deed; the third in deed but not in will; so
   the Church commemorates these martyrs in the same order: St. Stephen first,
   who suffered death both in will and deed; St. John the Evangelist next, who
   suffered martyrdom in will but not in deed; the holy Innocents last, who
   suffered in deed but not in will.”

   [13] And all that sat in the council, booking steadfastly on him, saw his
   face as it had been the face of an angel. Acts vi. 15.
     _________________________________________________________________

ST. JOHN’S DAY

   Peter seeing him, saith to Jesus, Lord, and what shall this man do? Jesus
   saith unto him, If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee?
   follow thou Me. St. John xxi. 21, 22.


   “Lord, and what shall this man do?”

   Ask’st thou, Christian, for thy friend?

   If his love for Christ be true,

   Christ hath told thee of his end:

   This is he whom God approves,

   This is he whom Jesus loves.


   Ask not of him more than this,

   Leave it in his Saviour’s breast,

   Whether, early call’d to bliss,

   He in youth shall find his rest,

   Or armed in his station wait

   Till his Lord be at the gate:


   Whether in his lonely course

   (Lonely, not forlorn) he stay,

   Or with Love’s supporting force

   Cheat the toil, and cheer the way:

   Leave it all in His high hand,

   Who doth hearts as streams command. [14]


   Gales from Heaven, if so He will,

   Sweeter melodies can wake

   On the lonely mountain rill

   Than the meeting waters make.

   Who hath the Father and the Son,

   May be left, but not alone.


   Sick or healthful, slave or free,

   Wealthy, or despis’d and poor —

   What is that to him or thee,

   So his love to Christ endure?

   When the shore is won at last,

   Who will count the billows past?


   Only, since our souls will shrink

   At the touch of natural grief,

   When our earthly lov’d ones sink,

   Lend us, Lord, Thy sure relief;

   Patient hearts, their pain to see,

   And Thy grace, to follow Thee.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [14] The king’s heart is in the hand of the Lord, as the rivers of water: He
   turneth it whithersoever He will. Proverbs xxi. 1.
     _________________________________________________________________

THE HOLY INNOCENTS

   These were redeemed from among men, being the firstfruits unto God and to
   the Lamb. Rev. xiv. 4.


   Say, ye celestial guards, who wait

   In Bethlehem, round the Saviour’s palace gate,

   Say, who are these on golden wings,

   That hover o’er the new-born King of kings,

   Their palms and garlands telling plain

   That they are of the glorious martyr-train,

   Next to yourselves ordain’d to praise

   His Name, and brighten as on Him they gaze?


   But where their spoils and trophies? where

   The glorious dint a martyr’s shield should bear?

   How chance no check among them wears

   The deep-worn trace of penitential tears,

   But all is bright and smiling love,

   As if, fresh-borne from Eden’s happy grove,

   They had flown here, their King to see,

   Nor ever had been heirs of dark mortality?


   Ask, and some angel will reply,

   “These, like yourselves, were born to sin and die,

   But ere the poison root was grown,

   God set His seal, and mark’d them for His own.

   Baptis’d its blood for Jesus’ sake,

   Now underneath the Cross their bed they make,

   Not to be scar’d from that sure rest

   By frighten’d mother’s shriek, or warrior’s waving crest.”


   Mindful of these, the firstfruits sweet

   Borne by this suffering Church her Lord to greet;

   Bless’d Jesus ever lov’d to trace

   The “innocent brightness” of an infant’s face.

   He rais’d them in His holy arms,

   He bless’d them from the world and all its harms:

   Heirs though they were of sin and shame,

   He bless’d them in his own and in his Father’s Name.


   Then, as each fond unconscious child

   On th’ everlasting Parent sweetly smil’d

   (Like infants sporting on the shore,

   That tremble not at Ocean’s boundless roar),

   Were they not present to Thy thought,

   All souls, that in their cradles Thou hast bought?

   But chiefly these, who died for Thee,

   That Thou might’st live for them a sadder death to see.


   And next to these, Thy gracious word

   Was as a pledge of benediction stor’d

   For Christian mothers, while they moan

   Their treasur’d hopes, just born, baptis’d, and gone.

   Oh, joy for Rachel’s broken heart!

   She and her babes shall meet no more to part;

   So dear to Christ her pious haste

   To trust them in His arms for ever safe embrac’d.


   She dares not grudge to leave them there,

   Where to behold them was her heart’s first prayer;

   She dares not grieve — but she must weep,

   As her pale placid martyr sinks to sleep,

   Teaching so well and silently

   How at the shepherd’s call the lamb should die:

   How happier far than life the end

   Of souls that infant-like beneath their burthen bend.
     _________________________________________________________________

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS

   So the sun returned ten degrees, by which degrees it was gone down. Isaiah
   xxxviii. 8; compare Josh. x. 13.


   ’Tis true, of old th’ unchanging sun

   His daily course refus’d to run,

   The pale moon hurrying to the west

   Paus’d at a mortal’s call, to aid

   Th’ avenging storm of war, that laid

   Seven guilty realms at once on earth’s defiled breast.


   But can it be, one suppliant tear

   Should stay the ever-moving sphere?

   A sick man’s lowly-breathed sigh,

   When from the world he turns away, [15]

   And hides his weary eyes to pray,

   Should change your mystic dance, ye wanderers of the sky?


   We too, O Lord, would fain command,

   As then, Thy wonder-working hand,

   And backward force the waves of Time,

   That now so swift and silent bear

   Our restless bark from year to year;

   Help us to pause and mourn to Thee our tale of crime.


   Bright hopes, that erst the bosom warm’d,

   And vows, too pure to be perform’d,

   And prayers blown wide by gales of care; —

   These, and such faint half-waking dreams,

   Like stormy lights on mountain streams,

   Wavering and broken all, athwart the conscience glare.


   How shall we ’scape th’ o’erwhelming Past?

   Can spirits broken, joys o’ercast,

   And eyes that never more may smile: —

   Can these th’ avenging bolt delay,

   Or win us back one little day

   The bitterness of death to soften and beguile?


   Father and Lover of our souls!

   Though darkly round Thine anger rolls,

   Thy sunshine smiles beneath the gloom,

   Thou seek’st to warn us, not confound,

   Thy showers would pierce the harden’d ground

   And win it to give out its brightness and perfume.


   Thou smil’st on us in wrath, and we,

   E’en in remorse, would smile on Thee,

   The tears that bathe our offer’d hearts,

   We would not have them stain’d and dim,

   But dropp’d from wings of seraphim,

   All glowing with the light accepted Love imparts.


   Time’s waters will not ebb, nor stay;

   Power cannot change them, but Love may;

   What cannot be, Love counts it done.

   Deep in the heart, her searching view

   Can read where Faith is fix’d and true,

   Through shades of setting life can see Heaven’s work begun.


   O Thou, who keep’st the Key of Love,

   Open Thy fount, eternal Dove,

   And overflow this heart of mine,

   Enlarging as it fills with Thee,

   Till in one blaze of charity

   Care and remorse are lost, like motes in light divine;


   Till as each moment wafts us higher,

   By every gush of pure desire,

   And high-breath’d hope of joys above,

   By every secret sigh we heave,

   Whole years of folly we outlive,

   In His unerring sight, who measures Life by Love.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [15] Then Hezekiah turned his face toward the wall, and prayed unto the
   Lord. Isaiah xxxviii. 2.
     _________________________________________________________________

THE CIRCUMCISION OF CHRIST

   In whom also ye are circumcised with the circumcision made without hands.
   Coloss. ii. 11.


   The year begins with Thee,

   And Thou beginn’st with woe,

   To let the world of sinners see

   That blood for sin must flow.


   Thine infant cries, O Lord,

   Thy tears upon the breast,

   Are not enough — the legal sword

   Must do its stern behest.


   Like sacrificial wine

   Pour’d on a victim’s head

   Are those few precious drops of Thine,

   Now first to offering led.


   They are the pledge and seal

   Of Christ’s unswerving faith

   Given to His Sire, our souls to heal,

   Although it cost His death.


   They to His Church of old,

   To each true Jewish heart,

   In Gospel graces manifold

   Communion blest impart.


   Now of Thy love we deem

   As of an ocean vast,

   Mounting in tides against the stream

   Of ages gone and past.


   Both theirs and ours Thou art,

   As we and they are Thine;

   Kings, Prophets, Patriarchs — all have part

   Along the sacred line.


   By blood and water too

   God’s mark is set on Thee,

   That in Thee every faithful view

   Both covenants might see.


   O bond of union, dear

   And strong as is Thy grace!

   Saints, parted by a thousand year,

   May thus in heart embrace.


   Is there a mourner true,

   Who fallen on faithless days,

   Sighs for the heart-consoling view

   Of those Heaven deign’d to praise?


   In spirit may’st thou meet

   With faithful Abraham here,

   Whom soon in Eden thou shalt greet

   A nursing Father dear.


   Would’st thou a poet be?

   And would thy dull heart fain

   Borrow of Israel’s minstrelsy

   One high enraptured strain?


   Come here thy soul to tune,

   Here set thy feeble chant,

   Here, if at all beneath the moon,

   Is holy David’s haunt.


   Art thou a child of tears,

   Cradled in care and woe?

   And seems it hard, thy vernal years

   Few vernal joys can show?


   And fall the sounds of mirth

   Sad on thy lonely heart,

   From all the hopes and charms of earth

   Untimely call’d to part?


   Look here, and hold thy peace:

   The Giver of all good

   E’en from the womb takes no release

   From suffering, tears, and blood.


   If thou would’st reap in love,

   First sow in holy fear:

   So life a winter’s morn may prove

   To a bright endless year.
     _________________________________________________________________

SECOND SUNDAY AFTER CHRISTMAS

   When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue
   faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of Israel will not
   forsake them. Isaiah xli. 17.


   And wilt thou hear the fever’d heart

   To Thee in silence cry?

   And as th’ inconstant wildfires dart

   Out of the restless eye,

   Wilt thou forgive the wayward though

   By kindly woes yet half untaught

   A Saviours right, so dearly bought,

   That Hope should never die?


   Thou wilt: for many a languid prayer

   Has reach’d Thee from the wild,

   Since the lorn mother, wandering there,

   Cast down her fainting child, [16]

   Then stole apart to weep and die,

   Nor knew an angel form was nigh,

   To show soft waters gushing by,

   And dewy shadows mild.


   Thou wilt — for Thou art Israel’s God,

   And Thine unwearied arm

   Is ready yet with Moses’ rod,

   The hidden rill to charm

   Out of the dry unfathom’d deep

   Of sands, that lie in lifeless sleep,

   Save when the scorching whirlwinds heap

   Their waves in rude alarm.


   These moments of wild wrath are Thine —

   Thine, too, the drearier hour

   When o’er th’ horizon’s silent line

   Fond hopeless fancies cower,

   And on the traveller’s listless way

   Rises and sets th’ unchanging day,

   No cloud in heaven to slake its ray,

   On earth no sheltering bower.


   Thou wilt be there, and not forsake,

   To turn the bitter pool

   Into a bright and breezy lake,

   This throbbing brow to cool:

   Till loft awhile with Thee alone

   The wilful heart be fain to own

   That He, by whom our bright hours shone,

   Our darkness best may rule.


   The scent of water far away

   Upon the breeze is flung;

   The desert pelican to-day

   Securely leaves her young,

   Reproving thankless man, who fears

   To journey on a few lone years,

   Where on the sand Thy step appears,

   Thy crown in sight is hung.


   Thou, who did sit on Jacob’s well

   The weary hour of noon, [17]

   The languid pulses Thou canst tell,

   The nerveless spirit tune.

   Thou from Whose cross in anguish burst

   The cry that owned Thy dying thirst, [18]

   To Thee we turn, our Last and First,

   Our Sun and soothing Moon.


   From darkness, here, and dreariness

   We ask not full repose,

   Only be Thou at hand, to bless

   Our trial hour of woes.

   Is not the pilgrim’s toil o’erpaid

   By the clear rill and palmy shade?

   And see we not, up Earth’s dark glade,

   The gate of Heaven unclose?
     _________________________________________________________________

   [16] Hagar. See Genesis xxi. 15.

   [17] St. John iv. 6.

   [18] St. John xix. 28.
     _________________________________________________________________

THE EPIPHANY

   And lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came
   and stood over where the young Child was. When they saw the star, they
   rejoiced with exceeding great joy. St. Matthew ii. 9, 10.


   Star of the East, how sweet art Thou,

   Seen in life’s early morning sky,

   Ere yet a cloud has dimm’d the brow,

   While yet we gaze with childish eye;


   When father, mother, nursing friend,

   Most dearly lov’d, and loving best,

   First bid us from their arms ascend,

   Pointing to Thee, in Thy sure rest.


   Too soon the glare of earthly day

   Buries, to us, Thy brightness keen,

   And we are left to find our way

   By faith and hope in Thee unseen.


   What matter? if the waymarks sure

   On every side are round us set,

   Soon overleap’d, but not obscure?

   ’Tis ours to mark them or forget.


   What matter? if in calm old age

   Our childhood’s star again arise,

   Crowning our lonely pilgrimage

   With all that cheers a wanderer’s eyes?


   Ne’er may we lose it from our sight,

   Till all our hopes and thoughts are led

   To where it stays its lucid flight

   Over our Saviour’s lowly bed.


   There, swath’d in humblest poverty,

   On Chastity’s meek lap enshrin’d,

   With breathless Reverence waiting by,

   When we our Sovereign Master find,


   Will not the long-forgotten glow

   Of mingled joy and awe return,

   When stars above or flowers below

   First made our infant spirits burn?


   Look on us, Lord, and take our parts

   E’en on Thy throne of purity!

   From these our proud yet grovelling hearts

   Hide not Thy mild forgiving eye.


   Did not the Gentile Church find grace,

   Our mother dear, this favoured day?

   With gold and myrrh she sought Thy face;

   Nor didst Thou turn Thy face away.


   She too, [19] in earlier, purer days,

   Had watched thee gleaming faint and far —

   But wandering in self-chosen ways

   She lost Thee quite, Thou lovely star.


   Yet had her Father’s finger turn’d

   To Thee her first inquiring glance:

   The deeper shame within her burn’d,

   When waken’d from her wilful trance.


   Behold, her wisest throng Thy gate,

   Their richest, sweetest, purest store,

   (Yet own’d too worthless and too late,)

   They lavish on Thy cottage-floor.


   They give their best — O tenfold shame

   On us their fallen progeny,

   Who sacrifice the blind and lame [20] —

   Who will not wake or fast with Thee!
     _________________________________________________________________

   [19] The Patriarchal Church.

   [20] Malachi i. 8.
     _________________________________________________________________

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY

   They shall spring up as among the grass, as willows by the water courses.
   Isaiah xliv. 4.


   Lessons sweet of spring returning,

   Welcome to the thoughtful heart!

   May I call ye sense or learning,

   Instinct pure, or Heaven-taught art?

   Be your title what it may,

   Sweet this lengthening April day,

   While with you the soul is free,

   Ranging wild o’er hill and lea.


   Soft as Memnon’s harp at morning,

   To the inward ear devout,

   Touch’d by light, with heavenly warning

   Your transporting chords ring out.

   Every leaf in every nook,

   Every wave in every brook,

   Chanting with a solemn voice,

   Minds us of our better choice.


   Needs no show of mountain hoary,

   Winding shore or deepening glen,

   Where the landscape in its glory

   Teaches truth to wandering men:

   Give true hearts but earth and sky,

   And some flowers to bloom and die,

   Homely scenes and simple views

   Lowly thoughts may best infuse.


   See the soft green willow springing

   Where the waters gently pass,

   Every way her free arms flinging

   O’er the moist and reedy grass.

   Long ere winter blasts are fled,

   See her tipp’d with vernal red,

   And her kindly flower displayed

   Ere her leaf can cast a shade.


   Though the rudest hand assail her,

   Patiently she droops awhile,

   But when showers and breezes hail her,

   Wears again her willing smile.

   Thus I learn Contentment’s power

   From the slighted willow bower,

   Ready to give thanks and live

   On the least that Heaven may give.


   If, the quiet brooklet leaving,

   Up the stony vale I wind,

   Haply half in fancy grieving

   For the shades I leave behind,

   By the dusty wayside drear,

   Nightingales with joyous cheer

   Sing, my sadness to reprove,

   Gladlier than in cultured grove.


   Where the thickest boughs are twining

   Of the greenest darkest tree,

   There they plunge, the light declining —

   All may hear, but none may see.

   Fearless of the passing hoof,

   Hardly will they fleet aloof;

   So they live in modest ways,

   Trust entire, and ceaseless praise.
     _________________________________________________________________

SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY

   Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine: and when men have well
   drunk, then that which is worse; but thou hast kept the good wine until now.
   St. John ii. 10.


   The heart of childhood is all mirth:

   We frolic to and fro

   As free and blithe, as if on earth

   Were no such thing as woe.


   But if indeed with reckless faith

   We trust the flattering voice,

   Which whispers, “Take thy fill ere death,

   Indulge thee and rejoice;”


   Too surely, every setting day,

   Some lost delight we mourn;

   The flowers all die along our way

   Till we, too, die forlorn.


   Such is the world’s gay garish feast,

   In her first charming bowl

   Infusing all that fires the breast,

   And cheats the unstable soul.


   And still, as loud the revel swells,

   The fever’d pulse beats higher,

   Till the sear’d taste from foulest wells

   Is fain to slake its fire.


   Unlike the feast of heavenly love

   Spread at the Saviour’s word

   For souls that hear His call, and prove

   Meet for His bridal board.


   Why should we fear, youth’s draught of joy

   If pure would sparkle less?

   Why should the cup the sooner cloy,

   Which God hath deign’d to bless?


   For, is it Hope, that thrills so keen

   Along each bounding vein,

   Still whispering glorious things unseen? —

   Faith makes the vision plain.


   The world would kill her soon: but Faith

   Her daring dreams will cherish,

   Speeding her gaze o’er time and death

   To realms where nought can perish.


   Or is it Love, the dear delight

   Of hearts that know no guile,

   That all around see all things bright

   With their own magic smile?


   The silent joy that sinks so deep,

   Of confidence and rest,

   Lull’d in a father’s arms to sleep,

   Clasp’d to a mother’s breast?


   Who, but a Christian, through all life

   That blessing may prolong?

   Who, through the world’s sad day of strife,

   Still chant his morning song?


   Fathers may hate us or forsake,

   God’s foundlings then are we:

   Mother on child no pity take, [21]

   But we shall still have Thee.


   We may look home, and seek in vain

   A fond fraternal heart,

   But Christ hath given His promise plain

   To do a Brother’s part.


   Nor shall dull age, as worldlings say,

   The heavenward flame annoy:

   The Saviour cannot pass away,

   And with Him lives our joy.


   Ever the richest, tenderest glow

   Sets round the autumnal sun —

   But there sight fails: no heart may know

   The bliss when life is done.


   Such is Thy banquet, dearest Lord;

   O give us grace, to cast

   Our lot with Thine, to trust Thy word,

   And keep our best till last.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [21] Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have
   compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I not
   forget thee. Isaiah xlix. 15.
     _________________________________________________________________

THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY

   When Jesus heard it, He marvelled, and said to them that followed, Verily I
   say unto you, I have not found so great faith, no, not in Israel. St.
   Matthew viii. 10.


   I mark’d a rainbow in the north,

   What time the wild autumnal sun

   From his dark veil at noon look’d forth,

   As glorying in his course half done,

   Flinging soft radiance far and wide

   Over the dusky heaven and bleak hill-side.


   It was a gleam to Memory dear,

   And as I walk and muse apart,

   When all seems faithless round and drear,

   I would revive it in my heart,

   And watch how light can find its way

   To regions farthest from the fount of day.


   Light flashes in the gloomiest sky,

   And Music in the dullest plain,

   For there the lark is soaring high

   Over her flat and leafless reign,

   And chanting in so blithe a tone,

   It shames the weary heart to feel itself alone.


   Brighter than rainbow in the north,

   More cheery than the matin lark,

   Is the soft gleam of Christian worth,

   Which on some holy house we mark;

   Dear to the pastor’s aching heart

   To think, where’er he looks, such gleam may have a part;


   May dwell, unseen by all but Heaven,

   Like diamond blazing in the mine;

   For ever, where such grace is given,

   It fears in open day to shine, [22]

   Lest the deep stain it owns within

   Break out, and Faith be sham’d by the believer’s sin.


   In silence and afar they wait,

   To find a prayer their Lord may hear:

   Voice of the poor and desolate,

   You best may bring it to His ear;

   Your grateful intercessions rise

   With more than royal pomp, and pierce the skies.


   Happy the soul whose precious cause

   You in the Sovereign Presence plead —

   “This is the lover of Thy laws, [23]

   The friend of Thine in fear and need,” —

   For to the poor Thy mercy lends

   That solemn style, “Thy nation and Thy friends.”


   He too is blest whose outward eye

   The graceful lines of art may trace,

   While his free spirit, soaring high,

   Discerns the glorious from the base;

   Till out of dust his magic raise [24]

   A home for prayer and love, and full harmonious praise,


   Where far away and high above,

   In maze on maze the tranced sight

   Strays, mindful of that heavenly love

   Which knows no end in depth or height,

   While the strong breath of Music seems

   To waft us ever on, soaring in blissful dreams.


   What though in poor and humble guise

   Thou here didst sojourn, cottage-born?

   Yet from Thy glory in the skies

   Our earthly gold Thou dost not scorn.

   For Love delights to bring her best,

   And where Love is, that offering evermore is blest.


   Love on the Saviour’s dying head

   Her spikenard drops unblam’d may pour,

   May mount His cross, and wrap Him dead

   In spices from the golden shore; [25]

   Risen, may embalm His sacred name

   With all a Painter’s art, and all a Minstrel’s flame.


   Worthless and lost our offerings seem,

   Drops in the ocean of His praise;

   But Mercy with her genial beam

   Is ripening them to pearly blaze,

   To sparkle in His crown above,

   Who welcomes here a child’s as there an angel’s love.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [22] Lord, I am not worthy that Thou shouldest enter under my roof. St. Luke
   vii. 6. “From the first time that the impressions of religion settled deeply
   in his mind, he used great caution to conceal it; not only in obedience to
   the rule given by our Saviour, of fasting, prayer, and giving alm in secret,
   but from a particular distrust he had of himself; for he said, he was afraid
   that he should at some time or other do some enormous thing, which, if he
   were looked on as a very religious man, might cast a reproach on the
   profession of it, and give great disadvantage to impious men to blaspheme
   the name of God.” Burnet’s Life of Hale, in Wordsworth’s Eccl. Biog. vi. 73.

   [23] He loveth our nation. St. Luke vii. 5.

   [24] He hath built us a synagogue. St. Luke vii. 5.

   [25] St. John xii. 7; xix. 30,
     _________________________________________________________________

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY

   When they saw Him, they besought Him that He would depart out of their
   coasts. St. Matthew viii. 34.


   They know the Almighty’s power,

   Who, waken’d by the rushing midnight shower,

   Watch for the fitful breeze

   To howl and chafe amid the bending trees,

   Watch for the still white gleam

   To bathe the landscape in a fiery stream,

   Touching the tremulous eye with sense of light

   Too rapid and too pure for all but angel sight.


   They know the Almighty’s love,

   Who, when the whirlwinds rock the topmost grove,

   Stand in the shade, and hear

   The tumult with a deep exulting fear,

   How, in their fiercest sway,

   Curb’d by some power unseen, they die away,

   Like a bold steed that owns his rider’s arm,

   Proud to be check’d and sooth’d by that o’er-mastering chains.


   But there are storms within

   That heave the struggling heart with wilder din,

   And there is power and love

   The maniac’s rushing frenzy to reprove,

   And when he takes his seat,

   Cloth’d and in calmness, at his Savour’s feet, [26]

   Is not the power as strange, the love as blest,

   As when He said, “Be still,” and ocean sank to rest?


   Woe to the wayward heart,

   That gladlier turns to eye the shuddering start

   Of Passion in her might,

   Than marks the silent growth of grace and light; —

   Pleas’d in the cheerless tomb

   To linger, while the morning rays illume

   Green lake, and cedar tuft, and spicy glade,

   Shaking their dewy tresses now the storm is laid.


   The storm is laid — and now

   In His meek power He climbs the mountain’s brow,

   Who bade the waves go sleep,

   And lash’d the vex’d fiends to their yawning deep.

   How on a rock they stand,

   Who watch His eye, and hold His guiding hand!

   Not half so fix’d, amid her vassal hills,

   Rises the holy pile that Kedron’s valley fills.


   And wilt thou seek again

   Thy howling waste, thy charnel-house and chain,

   And with the demons be,

   Rather than clasp thine own Deliverer’s knee?

   Sure ’tis no Heaven-bred awe

   That bids thee from His healing touch withdraw;

   The world and He are struggling in thine heart,

   And in thy reckless mood thou bidd’st thy Lord depart.


   He, merciful and mild,

   As erst, beholding, loves His wayward child;

   When souls of highest birth

   Waste their impassion’d might on dreams of earth,

   He opens Nature’s book,

   And on His glorious Gospel bids them look,

   Till, by such chords as rule the choirs above,

   Their lawless cries are tun’d to hymns of perfect love.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [26] St. Mark v. 15; iv. 39.
     _________________________________________________________________

FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY

   Behold, the Lord’s hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; neither His
   ear heavy, that it cannot hear; but your iniquities have separated between
   you and your God. Isaiah lix. 1, 2.


   “Wake, arm Divine! awake,

   Eye of the only Wise!

   Now for Thy glory’s sake,

   Saviour and God, arise,

   And may Thine ear, that sealed seems,

   In pity mark our mournful themes!”


   Thus in her lonely hour

   Thy Church is fain to cry,

   As if Thy love and power

   Were vanish’d from her sky;

   Yet God is there, and at His side

   He triumphs, who for sinners died.


   Ah! ’tis the world enthralls

   The Heaven-betrothed breast:

   The traitor Sense recalls

   The soaring soul from rest.

   That bitter sigh was all for earth,

   For glories gone and vanish’d mirth.


   Age would to youth return,

   Farther from Heaven would be,

   To feel the wildfire burn,

   On idolising knee

   Again to fall, and rob Thy shrine

   Of hearts, the right of Love Divine.


   Lord of this erring flock!

   Thou whose soft showers distil

   On ocean waste or rock,

   Free as on Hermon hill,

   Do Thou our craven spirits cheer,

   And shame away the selfish tear.


   ’Twas silent all and dead [27]

   Beside the barren sea,

   Where Philip’s steps were led,

   Led by a voice from Thee —

   He rose and went, nor ask’d Thee why,

   Nor stay’d to heave one faithless sigh:


   Upon his lonely way

   The high-born traveller came,

   Reading a mournful lay

   Of “One who bore our shame, [28]

   Silent Himself, His name untold,

   And yet His glories were of old.”


   To muse what Heaven might mean

   His wondering brow he rais’d,

   And met an eye serene

   That on him watchful gaz’d.

   No Hermit e’er so welcome cross’d

   A child’s lone path in woodland lost.


   Now wonder turns to love;

   The scrolls of sacred lore

   No darksome mazes prove;

   The desert tires no more

   They bathe where holy waters flow,

   Then on their way rejoicing go.


   They part to meet in Heaven;

   But of the joy they share,

   Absolving and forgiven,

   The sweet remembrance bear.

   Yes — mark him well, ye cold and proud.

   Bewilder’d in a heartless crowd,


   Starting and turning pale

   At Rumour’s angry din —

   No storm can now assail

   The charm he wears within,

   Rejoicing still, and doing good,

   And with the thought of God imbu’d.


   No glare of high estate,

   No gloom of woe or want,

   The radiance can abate

   Where Heaven delights to haunt:

   Sin only bides the genial ray,

   And, round the Cross, makes night of day.


   Then weep it from thy heart;

   So mayst thou duly learn

   The intercessor’s part;

   Thy prayers and tears may earn

   For fallen souls some healing breath,

   Era they have died th’ Apostate’s death.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [27] See Acts viii. 26-40.

   [28] Isaiah liii. 6-8.
     _________________________________________________________________

SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY

   Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we
   shall be: but we know that, when He shall appear, we shall be like Him; for
   we shall see Him as he is. 1 St. John iii. 2.


   There are, who darkling and alone,

   Would wish the weary night were gone,

   Though dawning morn should only show

   The secret of their unknown woe:

   Who pray for sharpest throbs of pain

   To ease them of doubt’s galling chain:

   “Only disperse the cloud,” they cry,

   “And if our fate be death, give light and let us die.” [29]


   Unwise I deem them, Lord, unmeet

   To profit by Thy chastenings sweet,

   For Thou wouldst have us linger still

   Upon the verge of good or ill.

   That on Thy guiding hand unseen

   Our undivided hearts may lean,

   And this our frail and foundering bark

   Glide in the narrow wake of Thy beloved ark.


   ’Tis so in war — the champion true

   Loves victory more when dim in view

   He sees her glories gild afar

   The dusky edge of stubborn war,

   Than if th’ untrodden bloodless field

   The harvest of her laurels yield;

   Let not my bark in calm abide,

   But win her fearless way against the chafing tide.


   ’Tis so in love — the faithful heart

   From her dim vision would not part,

   When first to her fond gaze is given

   That purest spot in Fancy’s heaven,

   For all the gorgeous sky beside,

   Though pledg’d her own and sure t’ abide:

   Dearer than every past noon-day

   That twilight gleam to her, though faint and far away.


   So have I seen some tender flower

   Priz’d above all the vernal bower,

   Shelter’d beneath the coolest shade,

   Embosom’d in the greenest glade,

   So frail a gem, it scarce may bear

   The playful touch of evening air;

   When hardier grown we love it less,

   And trust it from our sight, not needing our caress.


   And wherefore is the sweet spring-tide

   Worth all the changeful year beside?

   The last-born babe, why lies its part

   Deep in the mother’s inmost heart?

   But that the Lord and Source of love

   Would have His weakest ever prove

   Our tenderest care — and most of all

   Our frail immortal souls, His work and Satan’s thrall.


   So be it, Lord; I know it best,

   Though not as yet this wayward breast

   Beat quite in answer to Thy voice,

   Yet surely I have made my choice;

   I know not yet the promis’d bliss,

   Know not if I shall win or miss;

   So doubting, rather let me die,

   Than close with aught beside, to last eternally.


   What is the Heaven we idly dream?

   The self-deceiver’s dreary theme,

   A cloudless sun that softly shines,

   Bright maidens and unfailing vines,

   The warrior’s pride, the hunter’s mirth,

   Poor fragments all of this low earth:

   Such as in sleep would hardly soothe

   A soul that once had tasted of immortal Truth.


   What is the Heaven our God bestows?

   No Prophet yet, no Angel knows;

   Was never yet created eye

   Could see across Eternity;

   Not seraph’s wing for ever soaring

   Can pass the flight of souls adoring,

   That nearer still and nearer grow

   To th’ unapproached Lord, once made for them so low.


   Unseen, unfelt their earthly growth,

   And self-accus’d of sin and sloth,

   They live and die; their names decay,

   Their fragrance passes quite away;

   Like violets in the freezing blast

   No vernal steam around they cast. —

   But they shall flourish from the tomb,

   The breath of God shall wake them into odorous bloom.


   Then on th’ incarnate Saviour’s breast,

   The fount of sweetness, they shall rest,

   Their spirits every hour imbu’d

   More deeply with His precious blood.

   But peace — still voice and closed eye

   Suit best with hearts beyond the sky,

   Hearts training in their low abode,

   Daily to lose themselves in hope to find their God.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [29] En de faci xai olesson.
     _________________________________________________________________

SEPTUAGESIMA SUNDAY

   The invisible things of Him from the creation of the world are clearly seen,
   being understood by the things that are made. Romans i. 20.


   There is a book, who runs may read,

   Which heavenly truth imparts,

   And all the lore its scholars need,

   Pure eyes and Christian hearts.


   The works of God above, below,

   Within us and around,

   Are pages in that book, to show

   How God Himself is found.


   The glorious sky embracing all

   Is like the Maker’s love,

   Wherewith encompass’d, great and small

   In peace and order move.


   The Moon above, the Church below,

   A wondrous race they run,

   But all their radiance, all their glow,

   Each borrows of its Sun.


   The Savour lends the light and heat

   That crowns His holy hill;

   The saints, like stars, around His seat

   Perform their courses still. [30]


   The saints above are stars in heaven —

   What are the saints on earth?

   Like tress they stand whom God has given, [31]

   Our Eden’s happy birth.


   Faith is their fix’d unswerving root,

   Hope their unfading flower,

   Fair deeds of charity their fruit,

   The glory of their bower.


   The dew of heaven is like Thy grace, [32]

   It steals in silence down;

   But where it lights, this favour’d place

   By richest fruits is known.


   One Name above all glorious names

   With its ten thousand tongues

   The everlasting sea proclaims.

   Echoing angelic songs.


   The raging Fire, [33] the roaring Wind,

   Thy boundless power display;

   But in the gentler breeze we find

   Thy Spirit’s viewless way. [34]


   Two worlds are ours: ’tis only Sin

   Forbids us to descry

   The mystic heaven and earth within,

   Plain as the sea and sky.


   Thou, who hast given me eyes to see

   And love this sight so fair,

   Give me a heart to find out Thee,

   And read Thee everywhere.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [30] Daniel xii. 3.

   [31] Isaiah lx. 21.

   [32] Psalm lxviii. 9.

   [33] Hebrews xii. 29.

   [34] St. John iii. 8.
     _________________________________________________________________

SEXAGESIMA SUNDAY

   So He drove out the man; and He placed at the east of the garden of Eden
   Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of
   the tree of life. Genesis iii. 24; compare chap. vi.


   Foe of mankind! too bold thy race:

   Thou runn’st at such a reckless pace,

   Thine own dire work thou surely wilt confound:

   ’Twas but one little drop of sin

   We saw this morning enter in,

   And lo! at eventide the world is drown’d.


   See here the fruit of wandering eyes,

   Of worldly longings to be wise,

   Of Passion dwelling on forbidden sweets:

   Ye lawless glances, freely rove;

   Ruin below and wrath above

   Are all that now the wildering fancy meets.


   Lord, when in some deep garden glade,

   Of Thee and of myself afraid.

   From thoughts like these among the bowers I hide,

   Nearest and loudest then of all

   I seem to hear the Judge’s call: —

   “Where art thou, fallen man? come forth, and be thou tried.”


   Trembling before Thee as I stand,

   Where’er I gaze on either hand

   The sentence is gone forth, the ground is curs’d:

   Yet mingled with the penal shower

   Some drops of balm in every bower

   Steal down like April dews, that softest fall and first.


   If filial and maternal love [35]

   Memorial of our guilt must prove,

   If sinful babes in sorrow must be born,

   Yet, to assuage her sharpest throes,

   The faithful mother surely knows,

   This was the way Thou cam’st to save the world forlorn.


   If blessed wedlock may not bless [36]

   Without some tinge of bitterness

   To dash her cup of joy, since Eden lost,

   Chaining to earth with strong desire

   Hearts that would highest else aspire,

   And o’er the tenderer sex usurping ever most;


   Yet by the light of Christian lore

   ’Tis blind Idolatry no more,

   But a sweet help and pattern of true love,

   Showing how best the soul may cling

   To her immortal Spouse and King,

   How He should rule, and she with full desire approve.


   If niggard Earth her treasures hide, [37]

   To all but labouring hands denied,

   Lavish of thorns and worthless weeds alone,

   The doom is half in mercy given,

   To train us in our way to Heaven,

   And show our lagging souls how glory must be won.


   If on the sinner’s outward frame [38]

   God hath impressed His mark of blame,

   And e’en our bodies shrink at touch of light,

   Yet mercy hath not left us bare:

   The very weeds we daily wear [39]

   Are to Faith’s eye a pledge of God’s forgiving might.


   And oh! if yet one arrow more, [40]

   The sharpest of th’ Almighty’s store,

   Tremble upon the string — a sinner’s death —

   Art Thou not by to soothe and save,

   To lay us gently in the grave,

   To close the weary eye and hush the parting breath?


   Therefore in sight of man bereft

   The happy garden still was left;

   The fiery sword that guarded, show’d it too;

   Turning all ways, the world to teach,

   That though as yet beyond our reach,

   Still in its place the tree of life and glory grew.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [35] In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children.

   [36] Thy desie shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee.

   [37] Cursed is the ground for thy sake.

   [38] I was afraid, because I was naked.

   [39] The Lord God made coats of skins, and clothed them.

   [40] Thou shalt surely die.
     _________________________________________________________________

QUINQUAGESIMA SUNDAY

   I do set My bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant
   between Me and the earth. Genesis ix. 13.


   Sweet Dove! the softest, steadiest plume,

   In all the sunbright sky,

   Brightening in ever-changeful bloom

   As breezes change on high; —


   Sweet Leaf! the pledge of peace and mirth,

   “Long sought, and lately won,”

   Bless’d increase of reviving Earth,

   When first it felt the Sun; —


   Sweet Rainbow! pride of summer days,

   High set at Heaven’s command,

   Though into drear and dusky haze

   Thou melt on either hand; —


   Dear tokens of a pardoning God,

   We hail ye, one and all,

   As when our fathers walk’d abroad,

   Freed from their twelvemonth’s thrall.


   How joyful from th’ imprisoning ark

   On the green earth they spring!

   Not blither, after showers, the lark

   Mounts up with glistening wing.


   So home-bound sailors spring to shore,

   Two oceans safely past;

   So happy souls, when life is o’er,

   Plunge in th’ empyreal vast.


   What wins their first and fondest gaze

   In all the blissful field,

   And keeps it through a thousand days?

   Love face to face reveal’d:


   Love imag’d in that cordial look

   Our Lord in Eden bends

   On souls that sin and earth forsook

   In time to die His friends.


   And what most welcome and serene

   Dawns on the Patriarch’s eye,

   In all the emerging hills so green,

   In all the brightening sky?


   What but the gentle rainbow’s gleam,

   Soothing the wearied sight,

   That cannot bear the solar beam,

   With soft undazzling light?


   Lord, if our fathers turn’d to Thee

   With such adoring gaze,

   Wondering frail man Thy light should see

   Without Thy scorching blaze;


   Where is our love, and where our hearts,

   We who have seen Thy Son,

   Have tried Thy Spirit’s winning arts,

   And yet we are not won?


   The Son of God in radiance beam’d

   Too bright for us to scan,

   But we may face the rays that stream’d

   From the mild Son of Man.


   There, parted into rainbow hues,

   In sweet harmonious strife

   We see celestial love diffuse

   Its light o’er Jesus’ life.


   God, by His bow, vouchsafes to write

   This truth in Heaven above:

   As every lovely hue is Light,

   So every grace is Love.
     _________________________________________________________________

ASH WEDNESDAY

   When thou fastest, anoint thine head, and wash thy face; that thou appear
   not unto men to fast, but unto thy Father which is in secret. St. Matthew
   vi. 17, 18.


   “Yes — deep within and deeper yet

   The rankling shaft of conscience hide,

   Quick let the swelling eye forget

   The tears that in the heart abide.

   Calm be the voice, the aspect bold,

   No shuddering pass o’er lip or brow,

   For why should Innocence be told

   The pangs that guilty spirits bow?


   “The loving eye that watches thine

   Close as the air that wraps thee round —

   Why in thy sorrow should it pine,

   Since never of thy sin it found?

   And wherefore should the heathen see [41]

   What chains of darkness thee enslave,

   And mocking say, ‘Lo, this is he

   Who own’d a God that could not save’?”


   Thus oft the mourner’s wayward heart

   Tempts him to hide his grief and die,

   Too feeble for Confession’s smart,

   Too proud to bear a pitying eye;

   How sweet, in that dark hour, to fall

   On bosoms waiting to receive

   Our sighs, and gently whisper all!

   They love us — will not God forgive?


   Else let us keep our fast within,

   Till Heaven and we are quite alone,

   Then let the grief, the shame, the sin,

   Before the mercy-seat be thrown.

   Between the porch and altar weep,

   Unworthy of the holiest place,

   Yet hoping near the shrine to keep

   One lowly cell in sight of grace.


   Nor fear lest sympathy should fail —

   Hast thou not seen, in night hours drear,

   When racking thoughts the heart assail,

   The glimmering stars by turns appear,

   And from the eternal house above

   With silent news of mercy steal?

   So Angels pause on tasks of love,

   To look where sorrowing sinners kneel.


   Or if no Angel pass that way,

   He who in secret sees, perchance

   May bid His own heart-warming ray

   Toward thee stream with kindlier glance,

   As when upon His drooping head

   His Father’s light was pour’d from Heaven,

   What time, unshelter’d and unfed, [42]

   Far in the wild His steps were driven.


   High thoughts were with Him in that hour,

   Untold, unspeakable on earth —

   And who can stay the soaring power

   Of spirits wean’d from worldly mirth,

   While far beyond the sound of praise

   With upward eye they float serene,

   And learn to bear their Saviour’s blaze

   When Judgment shall undraw the screen?
     _________________________________________________________________

   [41] Wherefore should they say among the people, Where is their God? Joel
   ii. 17.

   [42] St. Matthew iv. 1.
     _________________________________________________________________

FIRST SUNDAY IN LENT

   Haste thee, escape thither: for I cannot do any thing till thou be come
   thither. Therefore the name of the city was called Zoar. Genesis xix. 22.


   “Angel of wrath! why linger in mid-air,

   While the devoted city’s cry

   Louder and louder swells? and canst thou spare,

   Thy full charg’d vial standing by?”

   Thus, with stern voice, unsparing Justice pleads:

   He hears her not — with soften’d gaze

   His eye is following where sweet Mercy leads,

   And till she give the sign, his fury stays.


   Guided by her, along the mountain road,

   Far through the twilight of the morn,

   With hurrying footsteps from thé accurs’d abode

   He sees the holy household borne;

   Angels, or more, on either hand are nigh,

   To speed them o’er the tempting plain,

   Lingering in heart, and with frail sidelong eye

   Seeking how near they may unharm’d remain.


   “Ah! wherefore gleam those upland slopes so fair?

   And why, through every woodland arch,

   Swells yon bright vale, as Eden rich and rare,

   Where Jordan winds his stately march;

   If all must be forsaken, ruin’d all,

   If God have planted but to burn? —

   Surely not yet th’ avenging shower will fall,

   Though to my home for one last look I turn.”


   Thus while they waver, surely long ago

   They had provok’d the withering blast,

   But that the merciful Avengers know

   Their frailty well, and hold them fast.

   “Haste, for thy life escape, nor look behind” —

   Ever in thrilling sounds like these

   They check the wandering eye, severely kind,

   Nor let the sinner lose his soul at ease.


   And when, o’erwearied with the steep ascent,

   We for a nearer refuge crave,

   One little spot of ground in mercy lent,

   One hour of home before the grave,

   Oft in His pity o’er His children weak,

   His hand withdraws the penal fire,

   And where we fondly cling, forbears to wreak

   Full vengeance, till our hearts are wean’d entire.


   Thus, by the merits of one righteous man,

   The Church, our Zoar, shall abide,

   Till she abuse, so sore, her lengthen’d span,

   E’en Mercy’s self her face must hide.

   Then, onward yet a step, thou hard-won soul;

   Though in the Church thou know thy place,

   The mountain farther lies — there seek thy goal,

   There breathe at large, o’erpast thy dangerous race.


   Sweet is the smile of home; the mutual look

   When hearts are of each other sure;

   Sweet all the joys that crowd the household nook,

   The haunt of all affections pure;

   Yet in the world e’en these abide, and we

   Above the world our calling boast;

   Once gain the mountain-top, and thou art free:

   Till then, who rest, presume; who turn to look, are lost.
     _________________________________________________________________

SECOND SUNDAY IN LENT

   And when Esau heard the words of his father, he cried with a great and
   exceeding bitter cry, and said unto his father, Bless me, even me also, O my
   father. Genesis xxvii. 34.

   (Compare Hebrews xii. 17. He found no place of repentance, though he sought
   it carefully with tears. [43] )


   “And is there in God’s world so drear a place

   Where the loud bitter cry is rais’d in vain?

   Where tears of penance come too late for grace,

   As on th’ uprooted flower the genial rain?”


   ’Tis even so: the sovereign Lord of souls

   Stores in the dungeon of His boundless realm

   Each bolt that o’er the sinner vainly rolls,

   With gather’d wrath the reprobate to whelm.


   Will the storm hear the sailor’s piteous cry, [44]

   Taught so mistrust, too late, the tempting wave,

   When all around he sees but sea and sky,

   A God in anger, a self-chosen grave?


   Or will the thorns, that strew intemperance’ bed,

   Turn with a wish to down? will late remorse

   Recall the shaft the murderer’s hand has sped,

   Or from the guiltless bosom turn its course?


   Then may the unbodied soul in safety fleet

   Through the dark curtains of the world above,

   Fresh from the stain of crime; nor fear to meet

   The God whom here she would not learn to love;


   Then is there hope for such as die unblest,

   That angel wings may waft them to the shore,

   Nor need th’ unready virgin strike her breast,

   Nor wait desponding round the bridegroom’s door.


   But where is then the stay of contrite hearts?

   Of old they lean’d on Thy eternal word,

   But with the sinner’s fear their hope departs,

   Fast link’d as Thy great Name to Thee, O Lord:


   That Name, by which Thy faithful oath is past,

   That we should endless be, for joy or woe: —

   And if the treasures of Thy wrath could waste,

   Thy lovers must their promis’d Heaven forego.


   But ask of elder days, earth’s vernal hour,

   When in familiar talk God’s voice was heard,

   When at the Patriarch’s call the fiery shower

   Propitious o’er the turf-built shrine appear’d.


   Watch by our father Isaac’s pastoral door —

   The birthright sold, the blessing lost and won;

   Tell, Heaven has wrath that can relent no more;

   The Grave, dark deeds that cannot be undone.


   We barter life for pottage; sell true bliss

   For wealth or power, for pleasure or renown;

   Thus, Esau-like, our Father’s blessing miss,

   Then wash with fruitless tears our faded crown.


   Our faded crown, despis’d and flung aside,

   Shall on some brother’s brow immortal bloom;

   No partial hand the blessing may misguide,

   No flattering fancy change our Monarch’s doom:


   His righteous doom, that meek true-hearted Love

   The everlasting birthright should receive,

   The softest dews drop on her from above, [45]

   The richest green her mountain garland weave:


   Her brethren, mightiest, wisest, eldest-born,

   Bow to her sway, and move at her behest;

   Isaac’s fond blessing may not fall on scorn,

   Nor Balaam’s curse on Love, which God hath blest.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [43] The author earnestly hopes, that nothing in these stanzas will be
   understood to express any opinion as to the general efficacy of what is
   called “a death-bed repentance.” Such questions are best left in the
   merciful obscurity with which Scripture has enveloped them. Esau’s
   probation, as far as his birthright was concerned, was quite over when he
   uttered the cry in the text. His despondency, therefore, is not parallel to
   anything on this side of the grave.

   [44] Compare Bp. Butler’s Analogy, p. 54-64, ed. 1736.

   [45] Genesis xxvii. 27, 28.
     _________________________________________________________________

THIRD SUNDAY IN LENT

   When a strong man armed keepeth his place, his goods are in peace; but when
   a stronger than he shall come upon him, and overcome him, he taketh from him
   all his armour wherein he trusted, and divideth his spoils. St. Luke xi. 21,
   22.


   See Lucifer like lightning fall,

   Dash’d from his throne of pride;

   While, answering Thy victorious call,

   The Saints his spoils divide;

   This world of Thine, by him usurp’d too long,

   Now opening all her stores to heal Thy servants’ wrong.


   So when the first-born of Thy foes

   Dead in the darkness lay,

   When Thy redeem’d at midnight rose

   And cast their bonds away,

   The orphan’d realm threw wide her gates, and told

   Into freed Israel’s lap her jewels and her gold.


   And when their wondrous march was o’er,

   And they had won their homes,

   Where Abraham fed his flock of yore,

   Among their fathers’ tombs; —

   A land that drinks the rain of Heaven at will,

   Whose waters kiss the feet of many a vine-clad hill; —


   Oft as they watch’d, at thoughtful eve,

   A gale from bowers of balm

   Sweep o’er the billowy corn, and heave

   The tresses of the palm,

   Just as the lingering Sun had touch’d with gold,

   Far o’er the cedar shade, some tower of giants old;


   It was a fearful joy, I ween,

   To trace the Heathen’s toil,

   The limpid wells, the orchards green,

   Left ready for the spoil,

   The household stores untouch’d, the roses bright

   Wreath’d o’er the cottage walls in garlands of delight.


   And now another Canaan yields

   To Thine all-conquering ark: —

   Fly from the “old poetic” fields, [46]

   Ye Paynim shadows dark!

   Immortal Greece, dear land of glorious lays,

   Lo! here the “unknown God” of thy unconscious praise.


   The olive-wreath, the ivied wand,

   “The sword in myrtles drest,.”

   Each legend of the shadowy strand

   Now wakes a vision blest;

   As little children lisp, and tell of Heaven,

   So thoughts beyond their thought to those high Bards were given.


   And these are ours: Thy partial grace

   The tempting treasure lends:

   These relies of a guilty race

   Are forfeit to Thy friends;

   What seem’d an idol hymn, now breathes of Thee,

   Tun’d by Faith’s ear to some celestial melody.


   There’s not a strain to Memory dear,

   Nor flower in classic grove,

   There’s not a sweet note warbled here,

   But minds us of Thy Love.

   O Lord, our Lord, and spoiler of our foes,

   There is no light but Thine: with Thee all beauty glows.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [46] Where each old poetic mountain Inspiration breathed around. Gray.
     _________________________________________________________________

FOURTH SUNDAY IN LENT

   Joseph made haste; for his bowels did yearn upon his brother; and he sought
   where to weep, and he entered into his chamber and wept there. Genesis
   xliii. 30.

   There stood no man with him, while Joseph made himself known unto his
   brethren. Genesis xlv. 1.


   When Nature tries her finest touch,

   Weaving her vernal wreath,

   Mark ye, how close she veils her round,

   Not to be trac’d by sight or sound,

   Nor soil’d by ruder breath?


   Who ever saw the earliest rose

   First open her sweet breast?

   Or, when the summer sun goes down,

   The first soft star in evening’s crown

   Light up her gleaming crest?


   Fondly we seek the dawning bloom

   On features wan and fair,

   The gazing eye no change can trace,

   But look away a little space,

   Then turn, and lo! ’tis there.


   But there’s a sweeter flower than e’er

   Blush’d on the rosy spray —

   A brighter star, a richer bloom

   Than e’er did western heaven illume

   At close of summer day.


   ’Tis Love, the last best gift of Heaven;

   Love gentle, holy, pure;

   But tenderer than a dove’s soft eye,

   The searching sun, the open sky,

   She never could endure.


   E’en human Love will shrink from sight

   Here in the coarse rude earth:

   How then should rash intruding glance

   Break in upon her sacred trance

   Who boasts a heavenly birth?


   So still and secret is her growth,

   Ever the truest heart,

   Where deepest strikes her kindly root

   For hope or joy, for flower or fruit,

   Least knows its happy part.


   God only, and good angels, look

   Behind the blissful screen —

   As when, triumphant o’er His woes,

   The Son of God by moonlight rose,

   By all but Heaven unseen:


   As when the holy Maid beheld

   Her risen Son and Lord:

   Thought has not colours half so fair

   That she to paint that hour may dare,

   In silence best ador’d.


   The gracious Dove, that brought from Heaven

   The earnest of our bliss,

   Of many a chosen witness telling,

   On many a happy vision dwelling,

   Sings not a note of this.


   So, truest image of the Christ,

   Old Israel’s long-lost son,

   What time, with sweet forgiving cheer,

   He call’d his conscious brethren near,

   Would weep with them alone.


   He could not trust his melting soul

   But in his Maker’s sight —

   Then why should gentle hearts and true

   Bare to the rude world’s withering view

   Their treasure of delight!


   No — let the dainty rose awhile

   Her bashful fragrance hide —

   Rend not her silken veil too soon,

   But leave her, in her own soft noon,

   To flourish and abide.
     _________________________________________________________________

FIFTH SUNDAY IN LENT

   And Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the
   bush is not burnt. Exodus iii. 3.


   Th’ historic Muse, from age to age,

   Through many a waste heart-sickening page

   Hath trac’d the works of Man:

   But a celestial call to-day

   Stays her, like Moses, on her way,

   The works of God to scan.


   Far seen across the sandy wild,

   Where, like a solitary child,

   He thoughtless roam’d and free,

   One towering [47] thorn was wrapt in flame —

   Bright without blaze it went and came:

   Who would not turn and see?


   Along the mountain ledges green

   The scatter’d sheep at will may glean

   The Desert’s spicy stores:

   The while, with undivided heart,

   The shepherd talks with God apart,

   And, as he talks, adores.


   Ye too, who tend Christ’s wildering flock,

   Well may ye gather round the rock

   That once was Sion’s hill:

   To watch the fire upon the mount

   Still blazing, like the solar fount,

   Yet unconsuming still.


   Caught from that blaze by wrath Divine,

   Lost branches of the once-loved vine,

   Now wither’d, spent, and sere,

   See Israel’s sons, like glowing brands,

   Tost wildly o’er a thousand lands

   For twice a thousand year.


   God will not quench nor slay them quite,

   But lifts them like a beacon-light

   The apostate Church to scare;

   Or like pale ghosts that darkling roam,

   Hovering around their ancient home,

   But find no refuge there.


   Ye blessed Angels! if of you

   There be, who love the ways to view

   Of Kings and Kingdoms here;

   (And sure, ’tis worth an Angel’s gaze,

   To see, throughout that dreary maze,

   God teaching love and fear:)


   Oh say, in all the bleak expanse

   Is there a spot to win your glance,

   So bright, so dark as this?

   A hopeless faith, a homeless race,

   Yet seeking the most holy place,

   And owning the true bliss!


   Salted with fire they seem, [48] to show

   How spirits lost in endless woe

   May undecaying live.

   Oh, sickening thought! yet hold it fast

   Long as this glittering world shall last,

   Or sin at heart survive.


   And hark! amid the flashing fire,

   Mingling with tones of fear and ire,

   Soft Mercy’s undersong —

   ’Tis Abraham’s God who speaks so loud,

   His people’s cries have pierc’d the cloud,

   He sees, He sees their wrong; [49]


   He is come down to break their chain;

   Though nevermore on Sion’s fane

   His visible ensign wave;

   ’Tis Sion, wheresoe’er they dwell,

   Who, with His own true Israel,

   Shall own Him strong to save.


   He shall redeem them one by one,

   Where’er the world-encircling sun

   Shall see them meekly kneel:

   All that He asks on Israel’s part,

   Is only that the captive heart

   Its woe and burthen feel.


   Gentiles! with fix’d yet awful eye

   Turn ye this page of mystery,

   Nor slight the warning sound:

   “Put off thy shoes from off thy feet —

   The place where man his God shall meet,

   Be sure, is holy ground.”
     _________________________________________________________________

   [47] “Seneth:” said to be a sort of Acacia.

   [48] St. Mark ix. 49.

   [49] Exodus iii. 7, 8.
     _________________________________________________________________

PALM SUNDAY

   And He answered and said unto them, I tell you that, if these should hold
   their peace, the stones would immediately cry out. St. Luke xix. 40.


   Ye whose hearts are beating high

   With the pulse of Poesy,

   Heirs of more than royal race,

   Fram’d by Heaven’s peculiar grace,

   God’s own work to do on earth,

   (If the word be not too bold,)

   Giving virtue a new birth,

   And a life that ne’er grows old —


   Sovereign masters of all hearts!

   Know ye, who hath set your parts?

   He who gave you breath to sing,

   By whose strength ye sweep the string,

   He hath chosen you, to lead

   His Hosannas here below; —

   Mount, and claim your glorious meed;

   Linger not with sin and woe.


   But if ye should hold your peace,

   Deem not that the song would cease —

   Angels round His glory-throne,

   Stars, His guiding hand that own,

   Flowers, that grow beneath our feet,

   Stones in earth’s dark womb that rest,

   High and low in choir shall meet,

   Ere His Name shall be unblest.


   Lord, by every minstrel tongue

   Be Thy praise so duly sung,

   That Thine angels’ harps may ne’er

   Fail to find fit echoing here:

   We the while, of meaner birth,

   Who in that divinest spell

   Dare not hope to join on earth,

   Give us grace to listen well.


   But should thankless silence seal

   Lips that might half Heaven reveal,

   Should bards in idol-hymns profane

   The sacred soul-enthralling strain,

   (As in this bad world below

   Noblest things find vilest using,)

   Then, Thy power and mercy show,

   In vile things noble breath infusing;


   Then waken into sound divine

   The very pavement of Thy shrine,

   Till we, like Heaven’s star-sprinkled floor,

   Faintly give back what we adore:

   Childlike though the voices be,

   And untunable the parts,

   Thou wilt own the minstrelsy

   If it flow from childlike hearts.
     _________________________________________________________________

MONDAY BEFORE EASTER

   Doubtless Thou art our Father, though Abraham be ignorant of us, and Israel
   acknowledge us not. Isaiah lxiii. 16.


   “Father to me thou art and mother dear,

   And brother too, kind husband of my heart —

   So speaks Andromache [50] in boding fear,

   Ere from her last embrace her hero part —

   So evermore, by Faith’s undying glow,

   We own the Crucified in weal or woe.


   Strange to our ears the church-bells of our home,

   This fragrance of our old paternal fields

   May be forgotten; and the time may come

   When the babe’s kiss no sense of pleasure yields

   E’en to the doting mother: but Thine own

   Thou never canst forget, nor leave alone.


   There are who sigh that no fond heart is theirs,

   None loves them best — O vain and selfish sigh!

   Out of the bosom of His love He spares —

   The Father spares the Son, for thee to die:

   For thee He died — for thee He lives again:

   O’er thee He watches in His boundless reign.


   Thou art as much His care, as if beside

   Nor man nor angel liv’d in Heaven or earth:

   Thus sunbeams pour alike their glorious tide

   To light up worlds, or wake an insect’s mirth:

   They shine and shine with unexhausted store —

   Thou art thy Saviour’s darling — seek no more.


   On thee and thine, thy warfare and thine end,

   E’en in His hour of agony He thought,

   When, ere the final pang His soul should rend,

   The ransom’d spirits one by one were brought

   To His mind’s eye — two silent nights and days [51]

   In calmness for His far-seen hour He stays.


   Ye vaulted cells, where martyr’d seers of old

   Far in the rocky walls of Sion sleep,

   Green terraces and arched fountains cold,

   Where lies the cypress shade so still and deep,

   Dear sacred haunts of glory and of woe,

   Help us, one hour, to trace His musings high and low:


   One heart-ennobling hour! It may not be:

   Th’ unearthly thoughts have pass’d from earth away,

   And fast as evening sunbeams from the sea

   Thy footsteps all in Sion’s deep decay

   Were blotted from the holy ground: yet dear

   Is every stone of hers; for Thou want surely here.


   There is a spot within this sacred dale

   That felt Thee kneeling — touch’d Thy prostrate brow:

   One Angel knows it. O might prayer avail

   To win that knowledge! sure each holy vow

   Less quickly from the unstable soul would fade,

   Offer’d where Christ in agony was laid.


   Might tear of ours once mingle with the blood

   That from His aching brow by moonlight fell,

   Over the mournful joy our thoughts would brood,

   Till they had fram’d within a guardian spell

   To chase repining fancies, as they rise,

   Like birds of evil wing, to mar our sacrifice.


   So dreams the heart self-flattering, fondly dreams; —

   Else wherefore, when the bitter waves o’erflow,

   Miss we the light, Gethsemane, that streams

   From thy dear name, where in His page of woe

   It shines, a pale kind star in winter’s sky?

   Who vainly reads it there, in vain had seen Him die.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [50] Illiad, vi. 429.

   [51] In Passion week, from Tuesday evening to Thursday evening; during which
   time Scripture seems to be nearly silent concernng our Saviour’s
   proceedings.
     _________________________________________________________________

TUESDAY BEFORE EASTER

   They gave Him to drink wine mingled with myrrh: but He received in not. St.
   Mark xv. 23.


   “Fill high the bowl, and spice it well, and pour

   The dews oblivious: for the Cross is sharp,

   The Cross is sharp, and He

   Is tenderer than a lamb.


   “He wept by Lazarus’ grave — how will He bear

   This bed of anguish? and His pale weak form

   Is worn with many a watch

   Of sorrow and unrest.


   “His sweat last night was as great drops of blood,

   And the sad burthen press’d Him so to earth,

   The very torturers paus’d

   To help Him on His way.


   “Fill high the bowl, benumb His aching sense

   With medicin’d sleep.” — O awful in Thy woe!

   The parching thirst of death

   Is on Thee, and Thou triest


   The slumb’rous potion bland, and wilt not drink:

   Not sullen, nor in scorn, like haughty man

   With suicidal hand

   Putting his solace by:


   But as at first Thine all-pervading look

   Saw from Thy Father’s bosom to the abyss

   Measuring in calm presage

   The infinite descent;


   So to the end, though now of mortal pangs

   Made heir, and emptied of Thy glory, awhile,

   With unaverted eye

   Thou meetest all the storm.


   Thou wilt feel all, that Thou mayst pity all;

   And rather wouldst Thou wreathe with strong pain,

   Than overcloud Thy soul,

   So clear in agony,


   Or lose one glimpse of Heaven before the time

   O most entire and perfect sacrifice,

   Renew’d in every pulse

   That on the tedious Cross


   Told the long hours of death, as, one by one,

   The life-strings of that tender heart gave way;

   E’en sinners, taught by Thee,

   Look Sorrow in the face,


   And bid her freely welcome, unbeguil’d

   By false kind solaces, and spells of earth: —

   And yet not all unsooth’d;

   For when was Joy so dear,


   As the deep calm that breath’d, “Father, forgive,”

   Or, “Be with Me in Paradise to-day?”

   And, though the strife be sore,

   Yet in His parting breath


   Love masters Agony; the soul that seem’d

   Forsaken, feels her present God again,

   And in her Father’s arms

   Contented dies away.
     _________________________________________________________________

WEDNESDAY BEFORE EASTER

   Saying, Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from Me; nevertheless
   not My will, but Thine, be done. St. Luke xxii. 42.


   O Lord my God, do thou Thy holy will —

   I will lie still —

   I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm,

   And break the charm

   Which lulls me, clinging to my Father’s breast,

   In perfect rest.


   Wild fancy, peace! thou must not me beguile

   With thy false smile:

   I know thy flatteries and thy cheating ways;

   Be silent, Praise,

   Blind guide with siren voice, and blinding all

   That hear thy call.


   Come, Self-devotion, high and pure,

   Thoughts that in thankfulness endure,

   Though dearest hopes are faithless found,

   And dearest hearts are bursting round.

   Come, Resignation, spirit meek,

   And let me kiss thy placid cheek,

   And read in thy pale eye serene

   Their blessing, who by faith can wean

   Their hearts from sense, and learn to love

   God only, and the joys above.


   They say, who know the life divine,

   And upward gaze with eagle eyne,

   That by each golden crown on high, [52]

   Rich with celestial jewelry,

   Which for our Lord’s redeemed is set,

   There hangs a radiant coronet,

   All gemmed with pure and living light,

   Too dazzling for a sinner’s sight,

   Prepared for virgin souls, and them

   Who seek the martyr’s diadem.


   Nor deem, who to that bliss aspire,

   Must win their way through blood and fire.

   The writhings of a wounded heart

   Are fiercer than a foeman’s dart.

   Oft in Life’s stillest shade reclining,

   In Desolation unrepining,

   Without a hope on earth to find

   A mirror in an answering mind,

   Meek souls there are, who little dream

   Their daily strife an Angel’s theme,

   Or that the rod they take so calm

   Shall prove in Heaven a martyr’s palm.


   And there are souls that seem to dwell

   Above this earth — so rich a spell

   Floats round their steps, where’er they move,

   From hopes fulfilled and mutual love.

   Such, if on high their thoughts are set,

   Nor in the stream the source forget,

   If prompt to quit the bliss they know,

   Following the Lamb where’er He go,

   By purest pleasures unbeguiled

   To idolise or wife or child;

   Such wedded souls our God shall own

   For faultless virgins round His throne.


   Thus everywhere we find our suffering God,

   And where He trod

   May set our steps: the Cross on Calvary

   Uplifted high

   Beams on the martyr host, a beacon light

   In open fight.


   To the still wrestlings of the lonely heart

   He doth impart

   The virtue of his midnight agony,

   When none was nigh,

   Save God and one good angel, to assuage

   The tempest’s rage.


   Mortal! if life smile on thee, and thou find

   All to thy mind,

   Think, who did once from Heaven to Hell descend,

   Thee to befriend:

   So shalt thou dare forego, at His dear call,

   Thy best, thine all.


   “O Father! not My will, but Thine be done” —

   So spake the Son.

   Be this our charm, mellowing Earth’s ruder noise

   Of griefs and joys:

   That we may cling for ever to Thy breast

   In perfect rest!
     _________________________________________________________________

   [52] . . . .“that little coronet or special reward which God hath prepared
   (extraordinary and besides the great Crown of all faithful souls) for thos
   ‘who have not defiled themselves with women, but follow the (virgin) Lamb
   for ever.’” Bp. Taylor, Holy Living, c. xi. sect. 3
     _________________________________________________________________

THURSDAY BEFORE EASTER

   As the beginning of thy supplications the commandment came forth, and I am
   come to shew thee; for thou art greatly beloved: therefore understand the
   matter, and consider the vision. Daniel ix. 23.


   “O Holy mountain of my God,

   How do thy towers in ruin lie,

   How art thou riven and strewn abroad,

   Under the rude and wasteful sky!”

   ’Twas thus upon his fasting-day

   The “Man of Loves” was fain to pray,

   His lattice [53] open toward his darling west,

   Mourning the ruin’d home he still must love the best.


   Oh! for a love like Daniel’s now,

   To wing to Heaven but one strong prayer

   For God’S new Israel, sunk as low,

   Yet flourishing to sight as fair,

   As Sion in her height of pride,

   With queens for handmaids at her side,

   With kings her nursing-fathers, throned high,

   And compass’d with the world’s too tempting blazonry.


   ’Tis true, nor winter stays thy growth,

   Nor torrid summer’s sickly smile;

   The flashing billows of the south

   Break not upon so lone an isle,

   But thou, rich vine, art grafted there,

   The fruit of death or life to bear,

   Yielding a surer witness every day,

   To thine Almighty Author and His steadfast sway.


   Oh! grief to think, that grapes of gall

   Should cluster round thine healthiest shoot!

   God’s herald prove a heartless thrall,

   Who, if he dar’d, would fain be mute!

   E’en such is this bad world we see,

   Which self-condemned in owning Thee,

   Yet dares not open farewell of Thee take,

   For very pride, and her high-boasted Reason’s sake.


   What do we then? if far and wide

   Men kneel to Christ, the pure and meek,

   Yet rage with passion, swell with pride,

   Have we not still our faith to seek?

   Nay — but in steadfast humbleness

   Kneel on to Him, who loves to bless

   The prayer that waits for him; and trembling strive

   To keep the lingering flame in thine own breast alive.


   Dark frown’d the future e’en on him,

   The loving and beloved Seer,

   What time he saw, through shadows dim,

   The boundary of th’ eternal year;

   He only of the sons of men

   Nam’d to be heir of glory then. [54]

   Else had it bruis’d too sore his tender heart

   To see God’S ransom’d world in wrath and flame depart


   Then look no more: or closer watch

   Thy course in Earth’s bewildering ways,

   For every glimpse thine eye can catch

   Of what shall be in those dread days:

   So when th’ Archangel’s word is spoken,

   And Death’s deep trance for ever broken,

   In mercy thou mayst feel the heavenly hand,

   And in thy lot unharm’d before thy Savour stand. [55]
     _________________________________________________________________

   [53] Daniel vi. 10.

   [54] Daniel xii. 13. See Bp. Kenn’s Sermon on the character of Daniel.

   [55] Thou shalt rest, and stand in thy lot at the end of days. Daniel xii.
   13.
     _________________________________________________________________

GOOD FRIDAY

   He is despised and rejected of men. Isaiah liii. 3.


   Is it not strange, the darkest hour

   That ever dawn’d on sinful earth

   Should touch the heart with softer power

   For comfort than an angel’s mirth?

   That to the Cross the mourner’s eye should turn

   Sooner than where the stars of Christmas burn?


   Sooner than where the Easter sun

   Shines glorious on yon open grave,

   And to and fro the tidings run,

   “Who died to heal, is risen to save?”

   Sooner than where upon the Saviour’s friends

   The very Comforter in light and love descends?


   Yet so it is: for duly there

   The bitter herbs of earth are set,

   Till temper’d by the Saviour’s prayer,

   And with the Saviour’s life-blood wet,

   They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm,

   Soft as imprison’d martyr’s deathbed calm.


   All turn to sweet — but most of all

   That bitterest to the lip of pride,

   When hopes presumptuous fade and fall,

   Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried,

   Or Love, the flower that closes up for fear

   When rude and selfish spirits breathe too near.


   Then like a long-forgotten strain

   Comes sweeping o’er the heart forlorn

   What sunshine hours had taught in vain

   Of Jesus suffering shame and scorn,

   As in all lowly hearts he suffers still,

   While we triumphant ride and have the world at will.


   His pierced hands in vain would hide

   His face from rude reproachful gaze,

   His ears are open to abide

   The wildest storm the tongue can raise,

   He who with one rough word, [56] some early day,

   Their idol world and them shall sweep for aye away.


   But we by Fancy may assuage

   The festering sore by Fancy made,

   Down in some lonely hermitage

   Like wounded pilgrims safely laid,

   Where gentlest breezes whisper souls distress’d,

   That Love yet lives, and Patience shall find rest.


   O! shame beyond the bitterest thought

   That evil spirit ever fram’d,

   That sinners know what Jesus wrought,

   Yet feel their haughty hearts untam’d —

   That souls in refuge, holding by the Cross,

   Should wince and fret at this world’s little loss.


   Lord of my heart, by Thy last cry,

   Let not Thy blood on earth be spent —

   Lo, at Thy feet I fainting lie,

   Mine eyes upon Thy wounds are bent,

   Upon Thy streaming wounds my weary eyes

   Wait like the parched earth on April skies.


   Wash me, and dry these bitter tears,

   O let my heart no further roam,

   ’Tis Thine by vows, and hopes, and fears.

   Long since — O call Thy wanderer home;

   To that dear home, safe in Thy wounded side,

   Where only broken hearts their sin and shame may hide.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [56] Wisdom of Solomon, xii. 9.
     _________________________________________________________________

EASTER EVE

   As for thee also, by the blood of thy covenant I have sent forth thy
   prisoners out of the pit wherein is no water. Zechariah ix. 11.


   At length the worst is o’er, and Thou art laid

   Deep in Thy darksome bed;

   All still and cold beneath yon dreary stone

   Thy sacred form is gone;

   Around those lips where power and mercy hung,

   The dews of deaths have clung;

   The dull earth o’er Thee, and Thy foes around,

   Thou sleep’st a silent corse, in funeral fetters wound.


   Sleep’st Thou indeed? or is Thy spirit fled,

   At large among the dead?

   Whether in Eden bowers Thy welcome voice

   Wake Abraham to rejoice,

   Or in some drearier scene Thine eye controls

   The thronging band of souls;

   That, as Thy blood won earth, Thine agony

   Might set the shadowy realm from sin and sorrow free.


   Where’er Thou roam’st, one happy soul, we know,

   Seen at Thy side in woe, [57]

   Waits on Thy triumphs — even as all the blest

   With him and Thee shall rest.

   Each on his cross; by Thee we hang a while,

   Watching Thy patient smile,

   Till we have learn’d to say, “’Tis justly done,

   Only in glory, Lord, Thy sinful servant own.”


   Soon wilt Thou take us to Thy tranquil bower

   To rest one little hour,

   Till Thine elect are number’d, and the grave

   Call Thee to come and save:

   Then on Thy bosom borne shall we descend

   Again with earth to blend,

   Earth all refin’d with bright supernal fires,

   Tinctur’d with holy blood, and wing’d with pure desires.


   Meanwhile with every son and saint of Thine

   Along the glorious line,

   Sitting by turns beneath Thy sacred feet

   We’ll hold communion sweet,

   Know them by look and voice, and thank them all

   For helping us in thrall,

   For words of hope, and bright examples given

   To show through moonless skies that there is light in Heaven.


   O come that day, when in this restless heart

   Earth shall resign her part,

   When in the grave with Thee my limbs shall rest,

   My soul with Thee be blest!

   But stay, presumptuous — Christ with Thee abides

   In the rock’s dreary sides:

   He from this stone will wring Celestial dew

   If but this prisoner’s heart he faithful found and true.


   When tears are spent, and then art left alone

   With ghosts of blessings gone,

   Think thou art taken from the cross, and laid

   In Jesus’ burial shade;

   Take Moses’ rod, the rod of prayer, and call

   Out of the rocky wall

   The fount of holy blood; and lift on high

   Thy grovelling soul that feels so desolate and dry.


   Prisoner of hope thou art [58] — look up and sing

   In hope of promis’d spring.

   As in the pit his father’s darling lay [59]

   Beside the desert way,

   And knew not how, but knew his GOD would save

   E’en from that living grave,

   So, buried with our Lord, we’ll chose our eyes

   To the decaying world, till Angels bid us rise.
     _________________________________________________________________

   [57] St. Luke xxiii. 43.

   [58] Turn ye to the stronghold, ye prisoners of hope. Zechariah ix. 12.

   [59] They took him, and cast him into a pit: and the pit was empty, there
   was no water in it. Genesis xxxvii. 24.
     _________________________________________________________________

EASTER DAY

   And as they were afraid, and bowed down their faces to the earth, they said
   unto them, Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here, but is
   risen. St. Luke xxiv. 5, 6.


   Oh! day of days! shall hearts set free

   No “minstrel rapture” find for thee?

   Thou art this Sun of other days,

   They shine by giving back thy rays:


   Enthroned in thy sovereign sphere,

   Thou shedd’st thy light on all the year;

   Sundays by thee more glorious break,

   An Easter Day in every week:


   And week days, following in their train,

   The fulness of thy blessing gain,

   Till all, both resting soil employ,

   Be one Lord’s day of holy joy.


   Then wake, my soul, to high desires,

   And earlier light thine altar fires:

   The World some hours is on her way,

   Nor thinks on thee, thou blessed day:


   Or, if she think, it is in scorn:

   The vernal light of Easter morn

   To her dark gaze no brighter seems

   Than Reason’s or the Law’s pale beams.


   “Where is your Lord?” she scornful asks:

   “Where is His hire? we know his tasks;

   Sons of a King ye boast to be:

   Let us your crowns and treasures see.”


   We in the words of Truth reply,

   (An angel brought them from this sky,)

   “Our crown, our treasure is not here,

   ’Tis stor’d above the highest sphere:


   “Methinks your wisdom guides amiss,

   To seek on earth a Christian’s bliss;

   We watch not now the lifeless stone;

   Our only Lord is risen and gone.”


   Yet e’en the lifeless stone is dear

   For thoughts of Him who late lay here;

   And the base world, now Christ hath died,

   Ennobled is and glorified.


   No more a charnel-house, to fence

   The relics of lost innocence,

   A vault of ruin and decay;

   Th’ imprisoning stone is roll’d away:


   ’Tis now a cell, where angels use

   To come and go with heavenly news,

   And in the ears of mourners say,

   “Come, see the place where Jesus lay:”


   ’Tis now a fane, where Love can find

   Christ everywhere embalm’d and shin’d:

   Aye gathering up memorials sweet,

   Where’er she sets her duteous feet.


   Oh! joy to Mary first allow’d,

   When rous’d from weeping o’er His shroud,

   By His own calm, soul-soothing tone,

   Breathing her name, as still His own!


   Joy to the faithful Three renew’d,

   As their glad errand they pursued!

   Happy, who so Christ’s word convey,

   That he may meet them on their way!


   So is it still: to holy tears,

   In lonely hours, Christ risen appears:

   In social hours, who Christ would see

   Must turn all tasks to Charity.
     _________________________________________________________________

MONDAY IN EASTER WEEK

   Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter of persons: but in every
   nation he that feareth Him, and worketh righteousness, is accepted with Him.
   Acts x. 34, 35.


   Go up and watch the new-born rill

   Just trickling from its mossy bed,

   Streaking the heath-clad hill

   With a bright emerald thread.


   Canst thou her bold career foretell,

   What rocks she shall o’erleap or rend,

   How far in Ocean’s swell

   Her freshening billows send?


   Perchance that little brook shall flow

   The bulwark of some mighty realm,

   Bear navies to and fro

   With monarchs at their helm.


   Or canst thou guess, how far away

   Some sister nymph, beside her urn

   Reclining night and day,

   ’Mid reeds and mountain fern,


   Nurses her store, with thine to blend

   When many a moor and glen are past,

   Then in the wide sea end

   Their spotless lives at last?


   E’en so, the course of prayer who knows?

   It springs in silence where it will,

   Springs out of sight, and flows

   At first a lonely rill:


   But streams shall meet it by and by

   From thousand sympathetic hearts,

   Together swelling high

   Their chant of many parts.


   Unheard by all but angel ears

   The good Cornelius knelt alone,

   Nor dream’d his prayers and tears

   Would help a world undone.


   The while upon his terrac’d roof

   The lov’d Apostle to his Lord

   In silent thought aloof

   For heavenly vision soar’d.


   Far o’er the glowing western main

   His wistful brow was upward rais’d,

   Where, like an angel’s train,

   The burnish’d water blaz’d.


   The saint beside the ocean pray’d,

   This soldier in his chosen bower,

   Where all his eye survey’d

   Seem’d sacred in that hour.


   To each unknown his brother’s prayer,

   Yet brethren true in dearest love

   Were they — and now they share

   Fraternal joys above.


   There daily through Christ’s open gate

   They see the Gentile spirits press,

   Brightening their high estate

   With dearer happiness.


   What civic wreath for comrades sav’d

   Shone ever with such deathless gleam,

   Or when did perils brav’d

   So sweet to veterans seem?
     _________________________________________________________________

TUESDAY IN EASTER WEEK

   And they departed quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy, and
   did run to bring His disciples word. St. Matthew xxviii. 8.

  TO THE SNOWDROP.


   Thou first-born of the year’s delight,

   Pride of the dewy glade,

   In vernal green and virgin white,

   Thy vestal robes, array’d:


   ’Tis not because thy drooping form

   Sinks graceful on its nest,

   When chilly shades from gathering storm

   Affright thy tender breast;


   Nor for yon river islet wild

   Beneath the willow spray,

   Where, like the ringlets of a child,

   Thou weav’st thy circle gay;


   ’Tis not for these I love thee dear —

   Thy shy averted smiles

   To Fancy bode a joyous year,

   One of Life’s fairy isles.


   They twinkle to the wintry moon,

   And cheer th’ ungenial day,

   And tell us, all will glisten soon

   As green and bright as they.


   Is there a heart that loves the spring,

   Their witness can refuse?

   Yet mortals doubt, when angels bring

   From Heaven their Easter news:


   When holy maids and matrons speak

   Of Christ’s forsaken bed,

   And voices, that forbid to seek

   The hiving ’mid the dead,


   And when they say, “Turn, wandering heart,

   Thy Lord is ris’n indeed,

   Let Pleasure go, put Care apart,

   And to His presence speed;”


   We smile in scorn: and yet we know

   They early sought the tomb,

   Their hearts, that now so freshly glow,

   Lost in desponding gloom.


   They who have sought, nor hope to find,

   Wear not so bright a glance:

   They, who have won their earthly mind,

   Lees reverently advance.


   But where in gentle spirits, fear

   And joy so duly meet,

   These sure have seen the angels near,

   And kiss’d the Saviour’s feet.


   Nor let the Pastor’s thankful eye

   Their faltering tale disdain,

   As on their lowly couch they lie,

   Prisoners of want and pain.


   O guide us, when our faithless hearts

   From Thee would start aloof,

   Where Patience her sweet skill imparts

   Beneath some cottage roof:


   Revive our dying fires, to burn

   High as her anthems soar,

   And of our scholars let us learn

   Our own forgotten lore.
     _________________________________________________________________

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EASTER

   Seemeth it but a small thing unto you, that the God of Israel hath separated
   you from the congregation of Israel, to bring you near to Himself? Numbers
   xvi. 9.


   First Father of the holy seed,

   If yet, invok’d in hour of need,

   Thou count me for Thine own

   Not quite an outcast if I prove,

   (Thou joy’st in miracles of love),

   Hear, from Thy mercy-throne!


   Upon Thine altar’s horn of gold

   Help me to lay my trembling hold,

   Though stain’d with Christian gore; —

   The blood of souls by Thee redeem’d,

   But, while I rov’d or idly dream’d,

   Lost to be found no more.


   For oft, when summer leaves were bright,

   And every flower was bath’d in light,

   In sunshine moments past,

   My wilful heart would burst away

   From where the holy shadow lay,

   Where heaven my lot had cast.


   I thought it scorn with Thee to dwell,

   A Hermit in a silent cell,

   While, gaily sweeping by,

   Wild Fancy blew his bugle strain,

   And marshall’d all his gallant train

   In the world’s wondering eye.


   I would have join’d him — but as oft

   Thy whisper’d warnings, kind and soft,

   My better soul confess’d.

   “My servant, let the world alone —

   Safe on the steps of Jesus’ throne

   Be tranquil and be blest.”


   “Seems it to thee a niggard hand

   That nearest Heaven has bade thee stand,

   The ark to touch and bear,

   With incense of pure heart’s desire

   To heap the censer’s sacred fire,

   The snow-white Ephod wear?”


   Why should we crave the worldling’s wreath,

   On whom the Savour deign’d to breathe,

   To whom His keys were given,

   Who lead the choir where angels meet,

   With angels’ food our brethren greet,

   And pour the drink of Heaven?


   When sorrow all our heart would ask,

   We need not shun our daily task,

   And hide ourselves for calm;

   The herbs we seek to heal our woe

   Familiar by our pathway grow,

   Our common air is balm.


   Around each pure domestic shrine

   Bright flowers of Eden bloom and twine,

   Our hearths are altars all;

   The prayers of hungry souls and poor,

   Like armed angels at the door,

   Our unseen foes appal.


   Alms all around and hymns within —

   What evil eye can entrance win

   Where guards like these abound?

   If chance some heedless heart should roam,

   Sure, thought of these will lure it home

   Ere lost in Folly’s round.


   O joys, that sweetest in decay,

   Fall not, like wither’d leaves, away,

   But with the silent breath

   Of violets drooping one by one,

   Soon as their fragrant task is done,

   Are wafted high in death!
     _________________________________________________________________

SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EASTER

   He hath said, which heard the words of God, and knew the knowledge of the
   Most High, which saw the vision of the Almighty, falling into a trance, but
   having his eyes open: I shall see Him, but not now; I shall behold Him, but
   not nigh; there shall come a Star out at Jacob, and a Sceptre shall rise out
   of Israel, and shall smite the corners of Moab, and destroy all the children
   at Sheth. Numbers xxiv. 16, 17.


   O for a sculptor’s hand,

   That thou might’st take thy stand,

   Thy wild hair floating on the eastern breeze,

   Thy tranc’d yet open gaze

   Fix’d on the desert haze,

   As one who deep in heaven some airy pageant sees.


   In outline dim and vast

   Their fearful shadows cast

   This giant forms of empires on their way

   To ruin: one by one

   They tower and they are gone,

   Yet in the Prophet’s soul the dreams of avarice stay.


   No sun or star so bright

   In all the world of light

   That they should draw to Heaven his downward eye:

   He hears th’ Almighty’s word,

   He sees the angel’s sword,

   Yet low upon the earth his heart and treasure lie.


   Lo! from you argent field,

   To him and us reveal’d,

   One gentle Star glides down, on earth to dwell.

   Chain’d as they are below

   Our eyes may see it glow,

   And as it mounts again, may track its brightness well.


   To him it glar’d afar,

   A token of wild war,

   The banner of his Lord’s victorious wrath:

   But close to us it gleams,

   Its soothing lustre streams

   Around our home’s green walls, and on our church-way path.


   We in the tents abide

   Which he at distance eyed

   Like goodly cedars by the waters spread,

   While seven red altar-fires

   Rose up in wavy spires,

   Where on the mount he watch’d his sorceries dark and dread.


   He watch’d till morning’s ray

   On lake and meadow lay,

   And willow-shaded streams that silent sweep

   Around the banner’d lines,

   Where by their several signs

   The desert-wearied tribes in sight of Canaan sleep.


   He watch’d till knowledge came

   Upon his soul like flame,

   Not of those magic fires at random caught:

   But true Prophetic light

   Flash’d o’er him, high and bright,

   Flash’d once, and died away, and left his darken’d thought.


   And can he choose but fear,

   Who feels his God so near,

   That when he fain would curse, his powerless tongue

   In blessing only moves? —

   Alas! the world he loves

   Too close around his heart her tangling veil hath flung.


   Sceptre and Star divine,

   Who in Thine inmost shrine

   Hash made us worshippers, O claim Thine own;

   More than Thy seers we know —

   O teach our love to grow

   Up to Thy heavenly light, and reap what Thou hast sown.
     _________________________________________________________________

THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EASTER

   A woman when she is in travail hath sorrow, because her hour is come; but as
   soon as she is delivered of the child, she remembereth no more the anguish,
   for joy that a man is born into the world. St. John xvi. 21.


   Well may I guess and feel

   Why Autumn should be sad;

   But vernal airs should sorrow heal,

   Spring should be gay and glad:

   Yet as along this violet bank I rove,

   The languid sweetness seems to choke my breath,

   I sit me down beside the hazel grove,

   And sigh, and half could wish my weariness were death.


   Like a bright veering cloud

   Grey blossoms twinkle there,

   Warbles around a busy crowd

   Of larks in purest air.

   Shame on the heart that dreams of blessings gone,

   Or wakes the spectral forms of woe and crime,

   When nature sings of joy and hope alone,

   Reading her cheerful lesson in her own sweet time.


   Nor let the proud heart say,

   In her self-torturing hour,

   The travail pangs must have their way,

   The aching brow must lower.

   To us long since the glorious Child is born

   Our throes should be forgot, or only seem

   Like a sad vision told for joy at morn,

   For joy that we have wak’d and found it but a dream.


   Mysterious to all thought

   A mother’s prime of bliss,

   When to her eager lips is brought

   Her infant’s thrilling kiss.

   O never shall it set, the sacred light

   Which dawns that moment on her tender gaze,

   In the eternal distance blending bright

   Her darling’s hope and hers, for love and joy and praise.


   No need for her to weep

   Like Thracian wives of yore,

   Save when in rapture still and deep

   Her thankful heart runs o’er.

   They mourn’d to trust their treasure on the main,

   Sure of the storm, unknowing of their guide:

   Welcome to her the peril and the pain,

   For well she knows the bonus where they may safely hide.


   She joys that one is born

   Into a world forgiven,

   Her Father’s household to adorn,

   And dwell with her in Heaven.

   So have I seen, in Spring’s bewitching hour,

   When the glad Earth is offering all her best,

   Some gentle maid bend o’er a cherish’d flower,

   And wish it worthier on a Parent’s heart to rest.
     _________________________________________________________________

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EASTER

   Nevertheless I tell you the truth; It is expedient for you that I go away:
   for if I go not away, the Comforter will not come unto you; but if I depart,
   I will send Him unto you. St. John xvi. 7.


   My Saviour, can it ever be

   That I should gain by losing Thee?

   The watchful mother tarries nigh,

   Though sleep have closed her infant’s eye;

   For should he wake, and find her gone.

   She knows she could not bear his moan.

   But I am weaker than a child,

   And Thou art more than mother dear;

   Without Thee Heaven were but a wild;

   How can I live without Thee here!


   “’Tis good for you, that I should go,

   You lingering yet awhile below;” —

   ’Tis Thine own gracious promise, Lord!

   Thy saints have prov’d the faithful word,

   When heaven’s bright boundless avenue

   Far open’d on their eager view,

   And homeward to Thy Father’s throne,

   Still lessening, brightening on their sight,

   Thy shadowy car went soaring on;

   They track’d Thee up th’ abyss of light.


   Thou bidd’st rejoice; they dare not mourn,

   But to their home in gladness turn,

   Their home and God’s, that favour’d place,

   Where still He shines on Abraham’s race,

   In prayers and blessings there to wait

   Like suppliants at their Monarch’s gate,

   Who bent with bounty rare to aid

   The splendours of His crowning day,

   Keeps back awhile His largess, made

   More welcome for that brief delay:


   In doubt they wait, but not unblest;

   They doubt not of their Master’s rest,

   Nor of the gracious will of Heaven —

   Who gave His Son, sure all has given —

   But in ecstatic awe they muse

   What course the genial stream may choose,

   And far and wide their fancies rove,

   And to their height of wonder strain,

   What secret miracle of love

   Should make their Saviour’s going gain.


   The days of hope and prayer are past,

   The day of comfort dawns at last,

   The everlasting gates again

   Roll back, and, lo! a royal train —

   From the far depth of light once more

   The floods of glory earthward pour:

   They part like shower-drops in mid air,

   But ne’er so soft fell noon-tide shower,

   Nor ev’ning rainbow gleam’d so fair

   To weary swains in parched bower.


   Swiftly and straight each tongue of flame

   Through cloud and breeze unwavering came,

   And darted to its place of rest

   On some meek brow of Jesus blest.

   Nor fades it yet, that living gleam,

   And still those lambent lightnings stream;

   Where’er the Lord is, there are they;

   In every heart that gives them room,

   They light His altar every day,

   Zeal to inflame, and vice consume.


   Soft as the plumes of Jesus’ Dove

   They nurse the soul to heavenly love;

   The struggling spark of good within,

   Just smother’d in the strife of sin,

   They quicken to a timely glow,

   The pure flame spreading high and low.

   Said I, that prayer and hope were o’er?

   Nay, blessed Spirit! but by Thee

   The Church’s prayer finds wings to soar,

   The Church’s hope finds eyes to see.


   Then, fainting soul, arise and sing;

   Mount, but be sober on the wing;

   Mount up, for Heaven is won by prayer,

   Be sober, for thou art not there;

   Till Death the weary spirit free,

   Thy God hath said, ’Tis good for thee

   To walk by faith and not by sight:

   Take it on trust a little while;

   Soon shalt thou read the mystery right

   In the full sunshine of His smile.


   Or if thou yet more knowledge crave,

   Ask thine own heart, that willing slave

   To all that works thee woe or harm

   Shouldst thou not need some mighty charm

   To win thee to thy Saviour’s side,

   Though He had deign’d with thee to bide?

   The Spirit must stir the darkling deep,

   The Dove must settle on the Cross,

   Else we should all sin on or sleep

   With Christ in sight, turning our gain to loss.
     _________________________________________________________________

FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER EASTER

  ROGATION SUNDAY

   And the Lord was very angry with Aaron to have destroyed him: and I prayed
   for Aaron also the same time. Deuteronomy ix. 20.


   Now is there solemn pause in earth and heaven;

   The Conqueror now

   His bonds hath riven,

   And Angels wonder why He stays below:

   Yet hath not man his lesson learn’d,

   How endless love should be return’d.


   Deep is the silence as of summer noon,

   When a soft shower

   Will trickle soon,

   A gracious rain, freshening the weary bower —

   O sweetly then far off is heard

   The clear note of some lonely bird.


   So let Thy turtle-dove’s sad call arise

   In doubt and fear

   Through darkening skies,

   And pierce, O Lord, Thy justly-sealed ear,

   Where on the house-top, [60] all night long

   She trills her widow’d, faltering song.


   Teach her to know and love her hour of prayer,

   And evermore,

   As faith grows rare,

   Unlock her heart, and offer all its store

   In holier love and humbler vows,

   As suits a lost returning spouse.


   Not as at first, [61] but with intenser cry,

   Upon the mount

   She now must lie,

   Till Thy dear love to blot the sad account

   Of her rebellious race be won,

   Pitying the mother in the son.


   But chiefly (for she knows Thee anger’d worst

   By holiest things

   Profan’d and curst),

   Chiefly for Aaron’s seed she spreads her wings,

   If but one leaf she may from Thee

   Win of the reconciling tree.


   For what shall heal, when holy water banes!

   Or who may guide

   O’er des