XXII.

  A little longer on the earth
    That aged creature's eyes repose
  (Though half their light and all their mirth
    Are gone); and then for ever close.

  She thinks that something done long since
    Ill pleases God:—or why should He
  So long delay to take her hence
    Who waits His will so lovingly?

  Whene'er she hears the church-bells toll
    She lifts her head, though not her eyes,
  With wrinkled hands, but youthful soul,
    Counting her lip-worn rosaries.

  And many times the weight of years
    Falls from her in her waking dreams:
  A child her mother's voice she hears:
    To tend her father's steps she seems.

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  Once more she hears the whispering rains
    On flowers and paths her childhood trod;
  And of things present nought remains
    Save the abiding sense of God.

  Mary! make smooth her downward way!
    Not dearer to the young thou art
  Than her. Make glad her latest May;
    And hold her, dying, on thy heart.

XXIII.

  The hilly region crossed with haste,
    Its last dark ridge discerned no more,
  Bright as the bow that spans a waste
    She stood beside her Cousin's door;

  And spake:—that greeting came from God!
    Filled with the Spirit from on high
  Sublime the aged Mother stood,
    And cried aloud in prophecy,—

  "Soon as thy voice had touched mine ears
    The child in childless age conceived
  Leaped up for joy! Throughout all years
    Blessed the woman who believed."

  Type of Electing Love! 'tis thine
    To speak God's greeting from the skies!
  Thy voice we hear: thy Babe divine
    At once, like John, we recognise.

  Within our hearts the second birth
    Exults, though blind as yet and dumb.
  The child of Grace his hands puts forth,
    And prophesies of things to come.

XXIV.

  Not yet, not yet! the Season sings
    Not of fruition yet, but hope;
  Still holds aloft, like balanced wings,
    Her scales, and lets not either drop.

  The white ash, last year's skeleton,
    Still glares, uncheered by leaf or shoot,
  'Gainst azure heavens, and joy hath none
    In that fresh violet at her foot.

  Yet Nature's virginal suspense
    Is not forgetfulness nor sloth:
  Where'er we wander, soul and sense
    Discern a blindly working growth.

  Her throne once more the daisy takes,
    That white star of our dusky earth;
  And the sky-cloistered lark down-shakes
    Her passion of seraphic mirth.

  Twixt barren hills and clear cold skies
    She weaves, ascending high and higher,
  Songs florid as those traceries
    Which took, of old, their name from fire.

  Sing! thou that need'st no ardent clime
    To sun the sweetness from thy breast;
  And teach us those delights sublime
    Wherein ascetic spirits rest!

XXV.

  When thou wert born the murmuring world
    Boiled on, nor dreamed of things to be,
  From joy to sorrow madly whirled;—
    Despair disguised in revelry.

  A princess thou of David's line;
    The mother of the Prince of Peace;
  That hour no royal pomps were thine:
    The earth alone her boon increase.

  Before thee poured. September rolled
    Down all the vine-clad Syrian slopes
  Her breadths of purple and of gold;
    And birds sang loud from olive tops.

  Perhaps old foes, they knew not why,
    Relented. From a fount long sealed
  Tears rose, perhaps, to Pity's eye:
    Love-harvests crowned the barren field.

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  The respirations of the year.
    At least, grew soft. O'er valleys wide
  Pine-roughened crags again shone clear;
    And the great Temple, far descried,

  To watchers, watching long in vain,
    To patriots grey, in bondage nursed,
  Flashed back their hope—"The Second Fane
    In glory shall surpass the First!"

XXVI.

  The moon, ascending o'er a mass
    Of tangled yew and sable pine,
  What sees she in yon watery glass?
    A tearful countenance divine.

  Far down, the winding hills between,
    A sea of vapour bends for miles,
  Unmoving. Here and there, dim-seen,
    The knolls above it rise like isles.

  The tall rock glimmers, spectre-white;
    The cedar in its sleep is stirred;
  At times the bat divides the night;
    At times the far-off flood is heard.

  Above, that shining blue!—below,
    That shining mist! O, not more pure
  Midwinter's landscape, robed in snow,
    And fringed with frosty garniture.

  The fragrance of the advancing year—
    That, that assures us it is May.
  Ah, tell me! in the heavenlier sphere
    Must all of earth have passed away?

XXVII.

  A dream came to me while the night
    Thinned off before the breath of morn,
  Which filled my soul with such delight
    As hers who clasps a babe new-born.

  I saw—in countenance like a child—
    (Three years methought were hers, no more)
  That maid and mother undefiled
    The Saviour of the world who bore.

  A nun-like veil was o'er her thrown;
    Her locks by fillet-bands made fast,
  Swiftly she climbed the steps of stone;—
    Into the Temple swiftly passed.

  Not once she paused her breath to take;
    Not once cast back a homeward look:—
  As longs the hart his thirst to slake,
    When noontide rages, in the brook,

  So longed that child to live for God;
    So pined, from earth's enthralments free,
  To bathe her wholly in the flood
    Of God's abysmal purity!

  Anna and Joachim from far
    Their eyes on that white vision raised:
  And when, like caverned foam or star
    Cloud-hid, she vanished, still they gazed.

XXVIII.

  Twelve years had passed, and, still a child,
    In brightness of the unblemished face,
  Once more she scaled those steps, and smiled
    On Him who slept in her embrace.

  As in she passed there fell a calm
    Around: each bosom slowly rose
  Like the long branches of the palm
    When under them the south wind blows.

  The scribe forgot his wordy lore;
    The chanted psalm was heard far off;
  Hushed was the clash of golden ore;
    And hushed the Sadducean scoff.

  Type of the Christian Church! 'twas thine
    To offer, first, to God that hour,
  Thy Son—the Sacrifice Divine,
    The Church's everlasting dower!

  Great Priestess! round that aureoled brow
    Which cloud or shadow ne'er had crossed,
  Began there not that hour to grow
    A milder dawn of Pentecost?

XXIX.

  A veil is on the face of Truth:
    She prophesies behind a cloud;
  She ministers, in robes of ruth,
    Nocturnal rites, and disallowed.

  Eleusis hints, but dares not speak;
    The Orphic minstrelsies are dumb;
  Lost are the Sibyl's books, and weak
    Earth's olden faith in Him to come.

  But ah, but ah, that Orient Star!
    On straw-roofed shed and large-eyed kine
  It flashes, guiding from afar
    The Magians to the Child Divine.

  Gold, frankincense, and myrrh they bring—
    Love, Worship, Life severe and hard:
  Well pleased the symbol gifts the King
    Accepts; and Truth is their reward.

  Rejoice, O Sion, for thy night
    Is past: the Lord, thy Light, is born.
  The Gentiles shall behold thy light;
    The kings walk forward in thy morn.

XXX.

  The sunless day is sweeter yet
    Than when the golden sun-showers danced
  On bower new-glazed or rivulet;
    And Spring her banners first advanced.

  By wind unshaken hang in dream
    The wind-flowers o'er their dark green lair;
  And those thin poppy cups that seem
    Not bodied forms, but woven of air.

  Nor bird is heard; nor insect flits.
    A tear-drop glittering on her cheek,
  Composed but shadowed, Nature sits—
    Yon primrose not more staid and meek.

  The light of pensive hope unquenched
    On those pathetic brows and eyes,
  She sits, by silver dew-showers drenched,
    Through which the chill spring-odours rise.

  Was e'er on human countenance shed
    So sweet a sadness? Once: no more.
  Then when his charge the Patriarch led
    Dream-warned to Egypt's distant shore.

  Down on her Infant Mary gazed;
    Her face the angels marked with awe;
  Yet 'neath its dimness, undisplaced,
    Looked forth that smile the Magians saw.

XXXI.

  As, flying Herod, southward went
    That Child and Mother, unamazed,
  Into Egyptian banishment,
    The weeders left their work, and gazed.

  The bright One spake to them and said,
    "When Herod's messengers demand,
  "Passed not the Infant, Herod's dread,—
    "Passed not the Infant through your land?

  "Then shall ye answer make, and say,
    "Behold, since first the corn was green
  "No little Infant passed this way;
    "No little Infant we have seen."

  Earth heard; nor missed the Maid's intent—
    As on the Flower of Eden passed
  With Eden swiftness up she sent
    A sun-browned harvest ripening fast.

  By simplest words and sinless wheat
    The messengers rode back beguiled;
  And by that truthfullest deceit
    Which saved the little new-born Child!

I.

  As every change of April sky
    Is imaged in a placid brook,
  Her meditative memory
    Mirrored His every deed and look.

  As suns through summer ether rolled
     Mature each growth the spring has wrought,
  So Love's strong day-star turned to gold
    Her harvests of quiescent thought.

  Her soul was as a vase, and shone
    Translucent to an inner ray;
  Her Maker's finger wrote thereon
    A mystic Bible new each day.

  Deep Heart! In all His sevenfold might
    The Paraclete with thee abode;
  And, sacramented there in light,
    Bore witness of the things of God.

II.

  Rejoice, O Earth, thy crown is won!
    Rejoice, rejoice, ye heavenly host!
  And thou, the Mother of the Son,
    Rejoice the first; rejoice the most!

  Who captive led captivity—
    From Hades' void circumference
  Who led the Patriarch Band on high,
    There rules, and sends us graces thence.

  Rejoice, glad Earth, o'er winter's grave
    With altars wreathed and clarions blown;
  And thou, the Race Redeemed, outbrave
    The rites of nature with thine own!

  Rejoice, O Mary! thou that long
    Didst lean thy breast upon the sword—
  Sad nightingale, the Spirit's song
    That sang'st all night! He reigns, restored!

  Rejoice! He goes, the Paraclete
    To send! Rejoice! He reigns on high!
  The sword lies broken at thy feet—
    His triumph is thy victory!

III.

  I take this reed—I know the hand
    That wields it must ere long be dust—
  And write, upon the fleeting sand
    Each wind can shake, the words, "I trust."

  And if that sand one day was stone
    And stood in courses near the sky,
  For towers by earthquake overthrown,
    Or mouldering piecemeal, what care I?

  Things earthly perish: life to death
    And death to life in turn succeeds.
  The spirit never perisheth:
    The chrysalis its Psyche breeds.

  True life alone is that which soars
    To Him who triumphed o'er the grave:
  With Him, on life's eternal shores,
    I trust one day a part to have.

  Ah, hark! above the springing corn
    That chime; in every breeze it swells!
  Ye bells that wake the Ascension morn,
    Ye give us back our Paschal bells!

IV.

  O thou that rodest up the skies,
    Thy task fulfilled, on steeds of fire,—
  That somewhere, sealed from mortal eyes,
    Some air immortal dost respire!

  Thou that in heavenly beams enshrined,
    In quiet lulled of soul and flesh,
  With one great thought of God thy mind
    Dost everlastingly refresh!

  Where art thou? age succeeds to age;
    Thou dost not hear their fret and jar:
  With thy celestial hermitage
    Successive winters wage not war.

  Still as a corse with field-flowers strewn
    Thou liest; on God thine eyes are bent:
  And the fire-breathing stars alone
    Look in upon thy cloudy tent.

  Behold, there is a debt to pay!
    Like Enoch, hid thou art on high:
  But both shall back return one day,
    To gaze once more on earth, and die.

V.

  Stronger and steadier every hour
    The pulses of the season's glee,
  As toward her zenith climbs that Power
    Which rules the purple revelry.

  Trees, that from winter's grey eclipse
    Of late but pushed their topmost plume,
  Or felt with green-touched finger-tips
    For spring, their perfect robes assume.

  Like one that reads, not one that spells,
    The unvarying rivulet onward runs:
  And bird to bird, from leafier cells,
    Sends forth more leisurely response.

  Through the gorse covert bounds the deer:—
    The gorse, whose latest splendours won
  Make all the fulgent wolds appear
    Bright as the pastures of the sun.

  A balmier zephyr curls the wave;
    More purple flames o'er ocean dance;
  And the white breaker by the cave
    Falls with more cadenced resonance;

  While, vague no more, the mountains stand
    With quivering line or hazy hue;
  But drawn with finer, firmer hand,
    And settling into deeper blue.

VI.

  Not in Himself the Eternal Word
    Lay hid upon creation's day:
  His Loveliness abroad He poured
    On all the worlds; and pours for aye.

  Not in Himself the Incarnate Son,
    In whom Man's race is born again,
  His glory hides. The victory won,
    He rose to send His "Gifts on Men."

  In sacraments—His dread behests;
    In Providence; in granted prayer;
  Before the time He manifests
    His glory, far as man may bear.

  He shines not from a vault of gloom;
    The horizon vast His splendour paints:
  Both heaven and earth His beams illume;
    His light is glorious in His saints.

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  He shines upon His Church—that Moon
    Who, in the watches of the night,
  Transmits to man the entrusted boon;
    A sister orb of sacred light.

  And thou, pure mirror of His grace!—
    As sun reflected in a sea—
  So, Mary, feeblest eyes the face
    Of Him thou lovest discern in thee.

VII.

  Not for herself does Mary hold
    Among the saints that queenly throne,
  Her seat predestined from of old;
    But for the brethren of her Son.

  Pure thoughts that make to God their quest,
    With her find footing o'er the clouds;
  Like those sea-crossing birds that rest
    A moment on the sighing shrouds.

  In her our hearts, no longer nursed
    On dust, for spiritual beauty yearn;
  From her our instincts, as at first,
    An upward gravitation learn.

  Her distance makes her not remote:
    For in true love's supernal sphere
  No more round self the affections float—
    More near to God, to man more near.

  In her, the weary warfare past,
    The port attained, the exile o'er,
  We see the Church's barque at last
    Close-anchored on the eternal shore!

VIII.

  Eternal Beauty, ere the spheres
    Had rolled from out the gulfs of night,
  Sparkled, through all the unnumbered years,
    Before the Eternal Father's sight.

  Like objects seen by Man in dream,
    Or landscape glassed on morning mist,
  Before His eyes it hung—a gleam
    Flashed from the eternal Thought of Christ.

  It stood the Archetype sublime
    Of that fair world of finite things
  Which, in the bands of Space and Time,
    Creation's glittering verge enrings.

  Star-like within the depths serene
    Of that still vision, Mary, thou
  With Him, thy Son, of God wert seen
    Millenniums ere the lucid brow

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  Of Eye o'er Eden founts had bent,—
    Millenniums ere that second Fair
  With dust the hopes of man had blent,
    And stained the brightness once so fair.

  Elect of Creatures! Man in thee
    Beholds that primal Beauty yet,—
  Sees all that Man was formed to be,—
    Sees all that Man can ne'er forget!

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IX.

  Three worlds there are:—the first of Sense—
    That sensuous earth which round us lies;
  The next of Faith's Intelligence;
    The third of Glory, in the skies.

  The first is palpable, but base;
    The second heavenly, but obscure;
  The third is star-like in the face—
    But ah! remote that world as pure!

  Yet, glancing through our misty clime,
    Some sparkles from that loftier sphere
  Make way to earth;—then most what time
    The annual spring-flowers re-appear.

  Amid the coarser needs of earth
    All shapes of brightness, what are they
  But wanderers, exiled from their birth,
    Or pledges of a happier day?

  Yea, what is Beauty, judged aright,
    But some surpassing, transient gleam;
  Some smile from heaven, in waves of light,
    Rippling o'er life's distempered dream?

  Or broken memories of that bliss
    Which rushed through first-born Nature's blood
  When He who ever was, and is,
    Looked down, and saw that all was good?

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X.

  Alas! not only loveliest eyes,
    And brows with lordliest lustre bright,
  But Nature's self—her woods and skies—
    The credulous heart can cheat or blight.

  And why? Because the sin of man
    Twixt Fair and Good has made divorce;
  And stained, since Evil first began,
    That stream so heavenly at its source.

  O perishable vales and groves!
    Your master was not made for you;
  Ye are but creatures: human loves
    Are to the great Creator due.

  And yet, through Nature's symbols dim,
    There are with keener sight that pierce
  The outward husk, and reach to Him
    Whose garment is the universe.

  For this to earth the Saviour came
    In flesh; in part for this He died;
  That man might have, in soul and frame,
    No faculty unsanctified.

  That Fancy's self—so prompt to lead
    Through paths disastrous or defiled—
  Upon the Tree of Life might feed;
    And Sense with Soul be reconciled.

XI.

  The fancy of an age gone by,
    When Fancy's self to earth declined,
  Still thirsting for Divinity,
    Yet still, through sense, to Godhead blind,

  Poor mimic of that Truth of old,
    The patriarchs' hope—a faith revealed—
  Compressed its God in mortal mould,
    The prisoner of Creation's field.

  Nature and Nature's Lord were one!
    Then countless gods from cloud and stream
  Glanced forth; from sea, and moon, and sun:
    So ran the pantheistic dream.

  And thus the All-Holy, thus the All-True,
    The One Supreme, the Good, the Just,
  Like mist was scattered, lost like dew,
    And vanished in the wayside dust.

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  Mary! through thee the idols fell:
    When He the nations longed for  [Footnote 1] came—
  True God yet Man—with man to dwell,
    The phantoms hid their heads for shame.

  [Footnote 1: "The Desire of the Nations."]

  His place or thine removed, ere long
    The bards would push the sects aside;
  And lifted by the might of song
    Olympus stand re-edified.

XII.

  A broken gleam on wave and flower—
    A music that in utterance dies—
  O Poets, and O Men! what more
    Is all that Beauty which ye prize?

  And ah! how oft Corruption works
    Through that brief Beauty's force or wile!
  How oft a gloom eternal lurks
    Beneath an evanescent smile!

  But thou, serene and smiling light
    Of every grace redeemed from Sense,
  In thee all harmonies unite
    That charm a pure Intelligence.

  Whatever teaches mind or heart
    To God by loveliest types to mount,
  Mary, is thine. Of each true Art
    The parent art thou, and the fount.

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  Those pictures, fair as moon or star,
    The ages dear to Faith brought forth,
  Formed but the illumined calendar
    Of her, that Church which knows thy worth.

  Not less doth Nature teach through thee
    That mystery hid in hues and lines:
  Who loves thee not hath lost the key
    To all her sanctuaries and shrines.

XIII.

  Shine out, O Star, and sing the praise
    Of that unrisen Sun whose glow
  Thus feeds thee with thine earlier rays—
    The secret of thy song we know.

  Thou sing'st that Sun of Righteousness,
    Sole light of this benighted globe,
  Whose beams, reflected, dressed and dress
    His Mother in her shining robe.

  Pale Lily, pearled around with dew,
    Lift high that heaven-illumined vase,
  And sing the glories ever new
    Of her, God's chalice, "full of grace."

  Cerulean Ocean, fringed with white,
    That wear'st her colours evermore,
  In all thy pureness, all thy might,
    Resound her name from shore to shore.

  That fringe of foam, when drops the sun
    To-night, a sanguine stain shall wear:—
  Thus Mary's heart had strength, alone,
    The passion of her Lord to share.

XIV.

  The night through yonder cloudy cleft,
    With many a lingering last regard,
  Withdraws—but slowly—and hath left
    Her mantle on the dewy sward.

  The lawns with silver dews are strewn;
    The winds lie hushed in cave and tree;
  Nor stirs a flower, save one alone
    That bends beneath the earliest bee.

  Peace over all the garden broods;
    Pathetic sweets the thickets throng;
  Like breath the vapour o'er the woods
    Ascends—dim woods without a song:

  Or hangs, a shining, fleece-like mass
    O'er half yon lake that winds afar
  Among the forests, still as glass,
    The mirror of that Morning Star

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  Which, halfway wandering from the sky,
    Amid the rose of morn delays
  And (large and less alternately)
    Bends down a lustrous, tearful gaze.

  Mother and home of spirits blest!
    Bright gate of Heaven and golden bower!
  Thy best of blessings, love and rest,
    Depart not till on earth thou shower!

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XV.

  If sense of Man's unworthiness
    With Nature's blameless looks at strife,
  Should wake with wakening May, and press
    New-born contentment out of life:

  If thoughts of sable breed and blind
    Should stamp upon the springing flower,
  Or blacker memories haunt the mind
    As ravens haunt the ruined tower:—

  O then how sweet in heart to breathe
    Those pure Judean gales once more;
  From Bethlehem's crib to Nazareth
    In heart to tread that Syrian shore!

  To watch that star-like Infant bring
    To one of soul as clear and white
  May-lilies, fresh from Siloa's spring,
    Or Passion-flower with May-dews bright!

  To follow, earlier yet, the feet
    Of her the "hilly land" who trod
  With true love's haste, intent to greet
    That aged saint beloved of God.

  Before her, like a stream let loose,
    The long vale's flowerage, winding, ran:
  Nature resumed her Eden use;
    And Earth was reconciled with Man.

XVI.

  Whate'er is floral on the earth
    To thee, O Flower, of right belongs;
  Whate'er is musical in mirth,
    Whate'er is jubilant in songs.

  Childhood and springtide never cease
    For him thy freshness keeps from stain:
  Dew-drenched for him, like Gideon's fleece,
    The dusty paths of life remain.

  Spirit of Brightness and of Bliss!
    Thou threaten'st none! A sinless lure,
  Thy fragrance and thy gladsomeness
    Draw on to Christ; to Christ secure.

  Hope, Hope is Strength! That joy of thine
    To us is Glory's earliest ray!
  Through Faith's dim air, O star benign,
    Look down, and light our onward way!

XVII.

  I left at morn that blissful shore
    O'er which the fruit-bloom fluttered free;
  And sailed the wildering waters o'er,
    Till sunset streaked with blood the sea.

  My sleep the hoarse sea-thunders broke,
    And sudden chill. Their feet foam-hid,
  Huge cliffs leaned out, through vapour-smoke,
    Like tower, and tomb, and pyramid.

  In the black shadow, ghostly white
    The breaker raced o'er foaming shoals:
  From caverns of eternal night
    Came wailings, as of suffering souls.

  Sudden, through clearing mists, the star
    Of ocean o'er the billow rose:
  Down dropped the elemental war;
    Tormented chaos found repose.

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  Star of the ocean! dear art thou,
    Ah! not to earth and heaven alone:
  The suffering Church, when shines thy brow
    Upon her penance, stays her moan.

  The Holy Souls draw in their breath;
    The sea of anguish rests in peace;
  And, from beyond the gates of death,
    Up swell the anthems of release.

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XVIII.

  Blossom for ever, blossoming Rod!
    Thou did'st not blossom once to die:
  That Life which, issuing forth from God,
    Thy life enkindled, runs not dry.

  Without a root in sin-stained earth,
    'Twas thine to bud Salvation's flower.
  No single soul the Church brings forth
    But blooms from thee and is thy dower.

  Rejoice, O Eve! thy promise waned;
    Transgression nipt thy flower with frost
  But, lo! a mother man hath gained
    Holier than she in Eden lost.

XIX.

  While all the breathless woods aloof
    Lie hush'd in noontide's deep repose,
  That dove, sun-warmed on yonder roof,
    With what a grave content she coos!

  One note for her! Deep streams run smooth
    The ecstatic song of transience tells.
  O what a depth of loving truth
    In thy divine contentment dwells!

  All day, with down-dropt lids, I sat,
    In trance; the present scene forgone.
  When Hesper rose, on Ararat,
    Methought, not English hills, he shone.

  Back to the ark, the waters o'er,
    The primal dove pursued her flight:
  A branch of that blest tree she bore
    Which feeds the Church with holy light.

  I heard her rustling through the air
    With sliding plume—no sound beside,
  Save the sea-sobbings everywhere,
    And sighs of that subsiding tide.

XX.

  She took the timbrel, as the tide
    Rushed, refluent, up the Red Sea shore:
  "The Lord hath triumphed," she cried:
    Her song rang out above the roar

  Of lustral waves that, wall to wall,
    Fell back upon the host abhorred:
  Above the gloomy watery pall,
    As eagles soar, her anthem soared.

  Miriam, rejoice! a mightier far
    Than thou, one day shall sing with thee!
  Who rises, brightening like a star
    Above yon bright baptismal sea?

  That harp which David touched who rears
    Heaven-high above those waters wide?
  The Prophet-Queen! Throughout all years
    She sings the Triumph of the Bride!

XXI.

  As pebbles flung for sport, that leap
    Along the superficial tide,
  But enter not those chambers deep
    Wherein the beds of pearl abide;

  Such those light minds that, grazing, spurn
    The surface text of Sacred Lore,
  Yet ne'er its deeper sense discern,
    Its hails of mystery ne'er explore.

  Ah! not for such the unvalued gems;
    The priceless pearls of Truth they miss:
  Not theirs the starry diadems
    That light God's temple in the abyss!

  Ah! not for such to gaze on her
    That moves through all that empire pale;
  At every shrine doth minister,
    Yet never drops her vestal veil.

  "The letter kills." Make pure thy Will;
    So shalt thou pierce the Text's disguise:
  Till then, revere the veil that still
    Hides truth from truth-affronting eyes.

XXII.

  A sweet exhaustion seems to hold
    In spells of calm the shrouded eve:
  The gorse itself a beamless gold
    Puts forth:—yet nothing seems to grieve.

  The dewy chaplets hang on air;
    The willowy fields are silver-grey;
  Sad odours wander here and there;—
    And yet we feel that it is May.

  Relaxed, and with a broken flow,
    From dripping bowers low carols swell
  In mellower, glassier tones, as though
    They mounted through a bubbling well.

  The crimson orchis scarce sustains
    Upon its drenched and drooping spire
  The burden of the warm soft rains;
    The purple hills grow nigh and nigher.

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  Nature, suspending lovely toils,
    On expectations lovelier broods,
  Listening, with lifted hand, while coils
    The flooded rivulet through the woods.

  She sees, drawn out in vision clear,
    A world with summer radiance drest,
  And all the glories of that year
    Which sleeps within her virgin breast.

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XXIII.

  Still on the gracious work proceeds;—
    The good, great tidings preached anew
  Yearly to green enfranchised meads,
    And fire-topped woodlands flushed with dew.

  Yon cavern's mouth we scarce can see;
    Yon rock in gathering bloom lies meshed;
  And all the wood-anatomy
    In thickening leaves is over-fleshed.

  That hermit oak which frowned so long
    Upon the spring with barren spleen,
  Yields to the holy Siren's song,
    And bends above her goblet green.

  Young maples, late with gold embossed,—
    Lucidities of sun-pierced limes,
  No more surprise us—merged and lost
    Like prelude notes in deepening chimes.

  Disordered beauties and detached
    Demand no more a separate place:
  The abrupt, the startling, the unmatched,
    Submit to graduated grace;

  While upward from the ocean's marge
    The year ascends with statelier tread
  To where the sun his golden targe
    Finds, setting, on yon mountain's head.

XXIV.

  This scheme of worlds, which vast we call,
    Is only vast compared with man:
  Compared with God, the One yet All,
    Its greatness dwindles to a span.

  A Lily with its isles of buds
    Asleep on some unmeasured sea:—
  O God, the starry multitudes,
    What are they more than this to Thee?

  Yet girt by Nature's petty pale
    Each tenant holds the place assigned
  To each in Being's awful scale:—
    The last of creatures leaves behind

  The abyss of nothingness: the first
    Into the abyss of Godhead peers;
  Waiting that vision which shall burst
    In glory on the eternal years.

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  Tower of our Hope! through thee we climb
    Finite creation's topmost stair;
  Through thee from Sion's height sublime
    Towards God we gaze through purer air.

  Infinite distance still divides
    Created from Creative Power;
  But all which intercepts and hides
    Lies dwarfed by that surpassing Tower!

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XXV.

  Who doubts that thou art finite? Who
    Is ignorant that from Godhead's height
  To what is loftiest here below
    The interval is infinite?

  O Mary! with that smile thrice-blest
    Upon their petulance look down;—
  Their dull negation, cold protest—
    Thy smile will melt away their frown!

  Show them thy Son! That hour their heart
    Will beat and burn with love like thine;
  Grow large; and learn from thee that art
    Which communes best with things divine.

  The man who grasps not what is best
    In creaturely existence, he
  Is narrowest in the brain; and least
    Can grasp the thought of Deity.

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XXVI.

  They seek not; or amiss they seek;—
    The cold slight heart and captious brain:—
  To Love alone those instincts speak
    Whose challenge never yet was vain.

  True Gate of Heaven! As light through glass,
    So He who never left the sky
  To this low earth was pleased to pass
    Through thine unstained Virginity.

  Summed up in thee our hearts behold
    The glory of created things:—
  From His, thy Son's, corporeal mould
    Looks forth the eternal King of Kings!

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XXVII.

  A sudden sun-burst in the woods,
    But late sad Winter's palace dim!
  O'er quickening boughs and bursting buds
    Pacific glories shoot and swim.

  As when some heart, grief-darkened long,
    Conclusive joy by force invades—
  So swift the new-born splendours throng;
    Such lustre swallows up the shades.

  The sun we see not; but his fires
    From stem to stem obliquely smite,
  Till all the forest aisle respires
    The golden-tongued and myriad light.

  The caverns blacken as their brows
    With floral fire are fringed; but all
  Yon sombre vault of meeting boughs
    Turns to a golden fleece its pall,

  As o'er it breeze-like music rolls.
    O Spring, thy limit-line is crossed!
  O Earth, some orb of singing Souls
    Brings down to thee thy Pentecost!

XXVIII.

  Clear as those silver trumps of old
    That woke Judea's jubilee;
  Strong as the breeze of morning, rolled
    O'er answering woodlands from the sea,

  That matutinal anthem vast
    Which winds, like sunrise, round the globe,
  Following the sunrise, far and fast,
    And trampling on his fiery robe.

  Once more the Pentecostal torch
    Lights on the courses of the year:
  The "upper chamber" of the Church
    Is thrilled once more with joy and fear.

  Who lifts her brow from out the dust?
    Who fixes on a world restored
  A gaze like Eve's, but more august?
    Who bends it heaven-ward on her Lord?

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  It is the Birthday of the Bride.
    The new begins; the ancient ends:
  From all the gates of Heaven flung wide
    The promised Paraclete descends.

  He who o'er-shadowed Mary once
    O'ershades Humanity to-day;
  And bids her fruitful prove in sons
    Co-heritors with Christ for aye.

XXIX.

  The Form decreed of tree and flower,
    The shape susceptible of life,
  Without the infused vivific Power,
    Were but a slumber or a strife.

  He whom the plastic hand of God
    Himself created out of earth
  Remained a statue and a clod
    Till spirit infused to life gave birth.

  So, till that hour, the Church. In Christ
    Her awful structure, nerve and bone,
  Though built, and shaped, and organised,
    Existed but in skeleton;

  Till down on that predestined frame,
    Complete through all its sacred mould,
  The Pentecostal Spirit came,—
    The self-same Spirit who of old

  Creative o'er the waters moved.
    Thenceforth the Church, made One and Whole,
  Arose in Him, and lived, and loved—
    His Temple she; and He her Soul.

XXX.

  The towered City loves thee well,
    Strong Tower of David's House! In thee
  She hails the unvanquished citadel
    That frowns o'er Error's subject sea.

  With magic might that Tower repels
    A host that breaks where foe is none,—
  No foe but statued Saints in cells
    High-ranged, and smiling in the sun.

  There stands Augustin; Leo there;
    And Bernard, with a maiden face
  Like John's; and, strong at once and fair,
    That Spirit-Pythian, Athanase.

  Upon thy star-surrounded height
    God's angel keepeth watch and ward;
  And sunrise flashes thence ere night
    Hath left dark street and dewy sward.

XXXI.

  What tenderest hand uprears on high
    The standard of Incarnate God?
  Successive portents that deny
    Her Son, who tramples? She who trod

  On Satan erst with starlike scorn!
    Ah! never Alp looked down through mist
  As she, that whiter star of morn,
    Through every cloud that darkens Christ!

  Roll back the centuries:—who were those
    That, age by age, their Lord denied?
  Their seats they set with Mary's foes:—
    They mocked the Mother as the Bride.

  Of such was Arius; and of such
    He whom the Ephesian Sentence felled,   [Footnote 2]
  Her Title triumphed. At the touch   [Footnote 3]
    Of Truth the insurgent rout was quelled.

  [Footnote 2: Nestorius.]

  [Footnote 3: Dei-para.]

  Back, back the hosts of Hell were driven
    As forth that sevenfold thunder rolled:—
  And in the Church's mystic Heaven
    There was great silence as of old.

I.

  In vain thine altars do they heap
    With blooms of violated May
  Who fail the words of Christ to keep;
    Thy Son who love not, nor obey.

  Their songs are as a serpent's hiss;
    Their praise a poniard's poisoned edge;
  Their offering taints, like Judas' kiss,
    Thy shrine; their vows are sacrilege.

  Sadly from such thy countenance turns:
    Thou canst not stretch thy Babe to such
  (Albeit for all thy pity yearns)
    As greet Him with a leper's touch.

  Who loveth thee must love thy Son.
    Weak Love grows strong thy smile beneath:
  But nothing comes from nothing; none
    Can reap Love's harvest out of Death.