The Annunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary.
And the Angel came in unto her, and said, Hail, thou that art highly favoured, the Lord is with thee: blessed art thou among women.
St. Luke i. 28.
Oh! Thou who
deign’st to sympathise
With all our frail and fleshly ties,
Maker yet Brother dear,
Forgive the too presumptuous thought,
If, calming wayward grief, I sought
To gaze on Thee too near.
Yet sure ’twas not presumption, Lord,
’Twas Thine own comfortable word
That made the lesson known:
Of all the dearest bonds we prove,
Thou countest sons and mothers’ love
Most sacred, most Thine own.
When wandering here a little span,
Thou took’st on Thee to rescue man,
Thou had’st no earthly sire:
That wedded love we prize so dear,
As if our heaven and home were here,
It lit in Thee no fire.
On no sweet sister’s faithful breast
Wouldst Thou Thine aching forehead rest,
On no kind brother lean:
But who, O perfect filial heart,
E’er did like Thee a true son’s part,
Endearing, firm, serene?
Thou wept’st, meek maiden, mother
mild,
Thou wept’st upon thy sinless Child,
Thy very heart was riven:
And yet, what mourning matron here
Would deem thy sorrows bought too dear
By all on this side Heaven?
A Son that never did amiss,
That never shamed His Mother’s kiss,
Nor crossed her fondest prayer:
E’en from the tree He deigned to bow,
For her His agonised brow,
Her, His sole earthly care.
Ave Maria! blessèd Maid!
Lily of Eden’s fragrant shade,
Who can express the love
That nurtured thee so pure and sweet,
Making thy heart a shelter meet
For Jesus’ holy dove?
Ave Maria! Mother blest,
To whom, caressing and caressed,
Clings the eternal Child;
Favoured beyond Archangels’ dream,
When first on Thee with tenderest gleam
Thy new-born Saviour smiled:—
Ave Maria! thou whose name
All but adoring love may claim,
Yet may we reach thy shrine;
For He, thy Son and Saviour, vows
To crown all lowly lofty brows
With love and joy like thine.
Blessed is the womb that bare
Him—blessed
The bosom where His lips were pressed,
But rather blessed are they
Who hear His word and keep it well,
The living homes where Christ shall dwell,
And never pass away.
St. Mark’s Day.
And the contention was so sharp between them, that they departed asunder one from the other. Acts xv. 30.
Compare 2 Tim. iv. 11. Take Mark, and bring him with thee: for he is profitable to me for the ministry.
Oh! who shall dare
in this frail scene
On holiest happiest thoughts to lean,
On Friendship, Kindred, or on Love?
Since not Apostles’ hands can clasp
Each other in so firm a grasp
But they shall change and variance prove.
Yet deem not, on such parting sad
Shall dawn no welcome dear and glad:
Divided in their earthly race,
Together at the glorious goal,
Each leading many a rescued soul,
The faithful champions shall embrace.
For e’en as those mysterious Four,
Who the bright whirling wheels upbore
By Chebar in the fiery blast.
So, on their tasks of love and praise
This saints of God their several ways
Right onward speed, yet join at last.
And sometimes e’en beneath the moon
The Saviour gives a gracious boon,
When reconcilèd Christians meet,
And face to face, and heart to heart,
High thoughts of holy love impart
In silence meek, or converse sweet.
Companion of the Saints! ’twas thine
To taste that drop of peace divine,
When the great soldier of thy Lord
Called thee to take his last farewell,
Teaching the Church with joy to tell
The story of your love restored.
O then the glory and the bliss,
When all that pained or seemed amiss
Shall melt with earth and sin away!
When saints beneath their Saviour’s eye,
Filled with each other’s company,
Shall spend in love th’ eternal day!
St. Philip and St. James.
Let the brother of low degree rejoice in that he is exalted: but the rich in that he is made low. St. James i. 9. 10.
Dear is the morning
gale of spring,
And dear th’ autumnal eve;
But few delights can summer bring
A Poet’s crown to weave.
Her bowers are mute, her fountains dry,
And ever Fancy’s wing
Speed’s from beneath her cloudless sky
To autumn or to spring.
Sweet is the infant’s waking smile,
And sweet the old man’s rest—
But middle age by no fond wile,
No soothing calm is blest.
Still in the world’s hot restless
gleam
She plies her weary task,
While vainly for some pleasant dream
Her wandering glances ask.—
O shame upon thee, listless heart,
So sad a sigh to heave,
As if thy Saviour had no part
In thoughts, that make thee grieve.
As if along His lonesome way
He had not borne for thee
Sad languors through the summer day,
Storms on the wintry sea.
Youth’s lightning flash of joy secure
Passed seldom o’er His spright,—
A well of serious thought and pure.
Too deep for earthly light.
No spring was His—no fairy
gleam—
For He by trial knew
How cold and bare what mortals dream,
To worlds where all is true.
Then grudge not thou the anguish keen
Which makes thee like thy Lord,
And learn to quit with eye serene
Thy youth’s ideal hoard.
Thy treasured hopes and raptures high—
Unmurmuring let them go,
Nor grieve the bliss should quickly fly
Which Christ disdained to
know.
Thou shalt have joy in sadness soon;
The pure, calm hope be thine,
Which brightens, like the eastern moon,
As day’s wild lights decline.
Thus souls, by nature pitched too high,
By sufferings plunged too low,
Meet in the Church’s middle sky,
Half way ’twixt joy and woe,
To practise there the soothing lay
That sorrow best relieves;
Thankful for all God takes away,
Humbled by all He glass.
St. Barnabas.
The sea of consolation, a Levite. Acts iv. 36.
The world’s a room of sickness, where
each heart
Knows its own anguish and
unrest;
The truest wisdom there, and noblest art,
Is his, who skills of comfort
best;
Whom by the softest step and gentlest tone
Enfeebled
spirits own,
And love to raise the languid
eye,
When, like an angel’s wing, they feel him fleeting
by:—
Feel only—for in
silence gently gliding
Fain would he shun both ear and
sight,
’Twixt Prayer and watchful Love his heart
dividing,
A nursing-father day and night.
Such were the tender arms, where cradled lay,
In her sweet
natal day,
The Church of Jesus; such the love
He to His chosen taught for His dear widowed Dove.
Warmed underneath the
Comforter’s safe wing
They spread th’ endearing
warmth around:
Mourners, speed here your broken hearts to bring,
Here healing dews and balms
abound:
Here are soft hands that cannot bless in vain,
By trial taught
your pain:
Here loving hearts, that daily
know
The heavenly consolations they on you bestow.
Sweet thoughts are theirs,
that breathe serenest calms,
Of holy offerings timely paid,
Of fire from heaven to bless their votive alms
And passions on God’s altar laid.
The world to them is closed, and now they shine
With rays of
love divine,
Through darkest nooks of this dull
earth
Pouring, in showery times, their glow of “quiet
mirth.”
New hearts before their
Saviour’s feet to lay,
This is their first, their dearest
joy:
Their next from heart to heart to clear the way
For mutual love without alloy:
Never so blest as when in Jesus’ roll
They write some
hero-soul,
More pleased upon his brightening
road
To wait, than if their own with all his radiance glowed.
O happy spirits, marked by
God and man
Their messages of love to bear,
What though long since in Heaven your brows
began,
The genial amarant wreath to
wear,
And in th’ eternal leisure of calm love
Ye banquet there
above;
Yet in your sympathetic heart
We and our earthly griefs may ask and hope a part.
Comfort’s true sons!
amid the thoughts of down
That strew your pillow of
repose,
Sure ’tis one joy to muse, how ye unknown
By sweet remembrance soothe our
woes;
And how the spark ye lit, of heavenly cheer,
Lives in our
embers here,
Where’er the cross is borne
with smiles,
Or lightened secretly by Love’s endearing wiles:
Where’er one Levite in
the temple keeps
The watch-fire of his midnight
prayer,
Or issuing thence, the eyes of mourners steeps
In heavenly balm, fresh gathered
there;
Thus saints, that seem to die in earth’s rude
strife,
Only win double
life:
They have but left our weary
ways
To live in memory here, in Heaven by love and praise.
St. John Baptist’s Day.
Behold, I will send you Elijah the prophet before the coming of the great and dreadful day of the Lord: and he shall turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers. Malachi iv. 5, 6.
Twice in her season of decay
The fallen Church hath felt Elijah’s eye
Dart from the wild its piercing
ray:
Not keener burns, in the chill morning sky,
The herald
star,
Whose torch
afar
Shadows and boding night-birds fly.
Methinks we
need him once again,
That favoured seer—but where shall he be found?
By Cherith’s side we seek in
vain,
In vain on Carmel’s green and lonely mound:
Angels no
more
From Sinai
soar,
On his celestial errands bound.
But wafted
to her glorious place
By harmless fire, among the ethereal thrones,
His spirit with a dear embrace
Thee the loved harbinger of Jesus owns,
Well-pleased to
view
Her likeness
true,
And trace, in thine, her own deep tones.
Deathless
himself, he joys with thee
To commune how a faithful martyr dies,
And in the blest could envy be,
He would behold thy wounds with envious eyes,
Star of our
morn,
Who yet
unborn
Didst guide our hope, where Christ should rise.
Now resting
from your jealous care
For sinners, such as Eden cannot know,
Ye pour for us your mingled
prayer,
No anxious fear to damp Affection’s glow,
Love draws a
cloud
From you to
shroud
Rebellion’s mystery here below.
And since
we see, and not afar,
The twilight of the great and dreadful day,
Why linger, till Elijah’s
car
Stoop from the clouds? Why sheep ye? Rise and
pray,
Ye heralds
sealed
In camp or
field
Your Saviour’s banner to display.
Where is
the lore the Baptist taught,
The soul unswerving and the fearless tongue?
The much-enduring wisdom,
sought
By lonely prayer the haunted rocks among?
Who counts it
gain
His light should
wane,
So the whole world to Jesus throng?
Thou
Spirit, who the Church didst lend
Her eagle wings, to shelter in the wild,
We pray Thee, ere the Judge
descend,
With flames like these, all bright and undefiled,
Her watch-fires
light,
To guide
aright
Our weary souls by earth beguiled.
So glorious
let thy Pastors shine,
That by their speaking lives the world may learn
First filial duty, then divine,
That sons to parents, all to Thee may turn;
And ready
prove
In fires of
love,
At sight of Thee, for aye to burn.
St. Peter’s Day.
When Herod would have brought him forth, the same night Peter was sleeping. Acts xii. 26.
Thou thrice denied,
yet thrice beloved,
Watch by Thine own forgiven friend;
In sharpest perils faithful proved,
Let his soul love Thee to the end.
The prayer is heard—else why so deep
His slumber on the eve of death?
And wherefore smiles he in his sleep
As one who drew celestial breath?
He loves and is beloved again—
Can his soul choose but be at rest?
Sorrow hath fled away, and Pain
Dares not invade the guarded nest.
He dearly loves, and not alone:
For his winged thoughts are soaring high
Where never yet frail heart was known
To breathe its vain Affection’s sigh.
He loves and weeps—but more than tears
Have sealed Thy welcome and his love—
One look lives in him, and endears
Crosses and wrongs where’er he rove:
That gracious chiding look, Thy call
To win him to himself and Thee,
Sweetening the sorrow of his fall
Which else were rued too bitterly.
E’en through the veil of sheep it
shines,
The memory of that kindly glance;—
The Angel watching by, divines
And spares awhile his blissful trance.
Or haply to his native lake
His vision wafts him back, to talk
With Jesus, ere His flight He take,
As in that solemn evening walk,
When to the bosom of His friend,
The Shepherd, He whose name is Good.
Did His dear lambs and sheep commend,
Both bought and nourished with His blood:
Then laid on him th’ inverted tree,
Which firm embraced with heart and arm,
Might cast o’er hope and memory,
O’er life and death, its awful charm.
With brightening heart he bears it on,
His passport through this eternal gates,
To his sweet home—so nearly won,
He seems, as by the door he waits,
The unexpressive notes to hear
Of angel song and angel motion,
Rising and falling on the ear
Like waves in Joy’s unbounded
ocean.—
His dream is changed—the Tyrant’s
voice
Calls to that last of glorious deeds—
But as he rises to rejoice,
Not Herod but an Angel leads.
He dreams he sees a lamp flash bright,
Glancing around his prison room—
But ’tis a gleam of heavenly light
That fills up all the ample gloom.
The flame, that in a few short years
Deep through the chambers of the dead
Shall pierce, and dry the fount of tears,
Is waving o’er his dungeon-bed.
Touched he upstarts—his chains
unbind—
Through darksome vault, up massy stair,
His dizzy, doubting footsteps wind
To freedom and cool moonlight air.
Then all himself, all joy and calm,
Though for a while his hand forego,
Just as it touched, the martyr’s palm,
He turns him to his task below;
The pastoral staff, the keys of Heaven,
To wield a while in grey-haired might,
Then from his cross to spring forgiven,
And follow Jesus out of
sight.
St. James’s Day.
Ye shall drink indeed of My cup, and be baptised with the baptism that I am baptised with: but to sit on My right hand, and on My left, is not Mine to give, but it shall be given to them for whom it is prepared of My Father. St. Matthew xx. 23.
Sit down and take
thy fill of joy
At God’s right hand, a bidden guest,
Drink of the cup that cannot cloy,
Eat of the bread that cannot waste.
O great Apostle! rightly now
Thou readest all thy Saviour meant,
What time His grave yet gentle brow
In sweet reproof on thee was bent.
“Seek ye to sit enthroned by me?
Alas! ye know not what ye ask,
The first in shame and agony,
The lowest in the meanest task—
This can ye be? and came ye drink
The cup that I in tears must steep,
Nor from the ’whelming waters shrink
That o’er Me roll so dark and deep?”
“We can—Thine are we, dearest
Lord,
In glory and in agony,
To do and suffer all Thy word;
Only be Thou for ever nigh.”—
“Then be it so—My cup receive,
And of My woes baptismal taste:
But for the crown, that angels weave
For those next Me in glory placed,
“I give it not by partial love;
But in My Father’s book are writ
What names on earth shall lowliest prove,
That they in Heaven may highest sit.”
Take up the lesson, O my heart;
Thou Lord of meekness, write it there,
Thine own meek self to me impart,
Thy lofty hope, thy lowly prayer.
If ever on the mount with Thee
I seem to soar in vision bright,
With thoughts of coming agony,
Stay Thou the too presumptuous flight:
Gently along the vale of tears
Lead me from Tabor’s sunbright steep,
Let me not grudge a few short years
With thee t’ward Heaven to walk and weep:
Too happy, on my silent path,
If now and then allowed, with Thee
Watching some placid holy death,
Thy secret work of love to see;
But, oh! most happy, should Thy call,
Thy welcome call, at last be given—
“Come where thou long hast storeth thy all
Come see thy place prepared in Heaven.”
St. Bartholomew.
Jesus answered and said unto him, Because I said unto thee, I saw the under the fig-tree, believest thou? Thou shalt see greater things than these. St. John i. 50.
Hold up thy mirror
to the sun,
And thou shalt need an eagle’s gaze,
So perfectly the polished stone
Gives back the glory of his rays:
Turn it, and it shall paint as true
The soft green of the vernal earth,
And each small flower of bashful hue,
That closest hides its lowly birth.
Our mirror is a blessèd book,
Where out from each illumined page
We see one glorious Image look
All eyes to dazzle and engage,
The Son of God: and that indeed
We see Him as He is, we know,
Since in the same bright glass we read
The very life of things below.—
Eye of God’s word! where’er we
turn
Ever upon us! thy keen gaze
Can all the depths of sin discern,
Unravel every bosom’s maze:
Who that has felt thy glance of dread
Thrill through his heart’s remotest cells,
About his path, about his bed,
Can doubt what spirit in thee dwells?
“What word is this? Whence
know’st thou me?”
All wondering cries the humbled heart,
To hear thee that deep mystery,
The knowledge of itself, impart.
The veil is raised; who runs may read,
By its own light the truth is seen,
And soon the Israelite indeed
Bows down t’ adore the Nazarene.
So did Nathanael, guileless man,
At once, not shame-faced or afraid,
Owning Him God, who so could scan
His musings in the lonely shade;
In his own pleasant fig-tree’s shade,
Which by his household fountain grew,
Where at noon-day his prayer he made
To know God better than he knew.
Oh! happy hours of heavenward thought!
How richly crowned! how well improved!
In musing o’er the Law he taught,
In waiting for the Lord he loved.
We must not mar with earthly praise
What God’s approving word hath sealed:
Enough, if might our feeble lays
Take up the promise He revealed;
“The child-like faith, that asks not
sight,
Waits not for wonder or for sign,
Believes, because it loves, aright—
Shall see things greater, things divine.
“Heaven to that gaze shall open wide,
And brightest angels to and fro
On messages of love shall glide
’Twixt God above and Christ below.”
So still the guileless man is blest,
To him all crooked paths are straight,
Him on his way to endless rest
Fresh, ever-growing strengths await.
God’s witnesses, a glorious host,
Compass him daily like a cloud;
Martyrs and seers, the saved and lost,
Mercies and judgments cry aloud.
Yet shall to him the still small voice,
That first into his bosom found
A way, and fixed his wavering choice,
Nearest and dearest ever sound.
St. Matthew.
And after these things He went forth, and saw a publican, named Levi, sitting at the receipt of custom: and He said unto him, Follow Me. And he left all, rose up, and followed Him. St. Luke v. 27, 28.
Ye hermits blest, ye holy maids,
The nearest
Heaven on earth,
Who talk with God in shadowy
glades,
Free from rude
care and mirth;
To whom some viewless teacher
brings
The secret lore of rural
things,
The moral of each fleeting cloud and gale,
The whispers from above, that haunt the twilight vale:
Say, when
in pity ye have gazed
On the wreathed
smoke afar,
That o’er some town, like
mist upraised,
Hung hiding sun
and star,
Then as ye turned your weary
eye
To the green earth and open
sky,
Were ye not fain to doubt how Faith could dwell
Amid that dreary glare, in this world’s citadel?
But
Love’s a flower that will not die
For lack of
leafy screen,
And Christian Hope can cheer the
eye
That ne’er
saw vernal green;
Then be ye sure that Love can
bless
E’en in this crowded
loneliness,
Where ever-moving myriads seem to say,
Go—thou art naught to us, nor we to thee—away!
There are
in this loud stunning tide
Of human care
and crime,
With whom the melodies abide
Of th’
everlasting chime;
Who carry music in their heart
Through dusky lane and wrangling
mart,
Plying their daily task with busier feet,
Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.
How sweet
to them, in such brief rest
As thronging
cares afford,
In thought to wander,
fancy-blest,
To where their
gracious Lord,
In vain, to win proud
Pharisees,
Spake, and was heard by fell
disease—
But not in vain, beside yon breezy lake,
Bade the meek Publican his gainful seat forsake:
At once he
rose, and left his gold;
His treasure and
his heart
Transferred, where he shall safe
behold
Earth and her
idols part;
While he beside his endless
store
Shall sit, and floods unceasing
pour
Of Christ’s true riches o’er all time
and space,
First angel of His Church, first steward of His Grace.
Nor can ye
not delight to think
Where He
vouchsafed to eat,
How the Most Holy did not
shrink
From touch of
sinner’s meat;
What worldly hearts and hearts
impure
Went with Him through the rich
man’s door,
That we might learn of Him lost souls to love,
And view His least and worst with hope to meet above.
These
gracious lines shed Gospel light
On
Mammon’s gloomiest cells,
As on some city’s cheerless
night
The tide of
sunrise swells,
Till tower, and dome, and
bridge-way proud
Are mantled with a golden
cloud,
And to wise hearts this certain hope us given;
“No mist that man may raise, shall hide the eye of
Heaven.”
And oh! if
e’en on Babel shine
Such gleams of
Paradise,
Should not their peace be peace
divine,
Who day by day
arise
To look on clearer heavens, and
scan
The work of God untouch’d by
man?
Shame on us, who about us Babel bear,
And live in Paradise, as if God was not there!
St. Michael and All Angels.
Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation? Hebrews i. 14.
Ye stars that round
the Sun of righteousness
In glorious order roll,
With harps for ever strung, ready to bless
God for each rescued soul,
Ye eagle spirits, that build in light divine,
Oh! think of us to-day,
Faint warblers of this earth, that would combine
Our trembling notes with your accepted lay.
Your amarant wreaths were earned; and homeward
all,
Flush’d with victorious might,
Ye might have sped to keep high festival,
And revel in the light;
But meeting us, weak worldlings, on our way,
Tired ere the fight begun,
Ye turned to help us in th’ unequal fray,
Remembering Whose we were, how dearly won:
Remembering Bethlehem, and that glorious
night
When ye, who used to soar
Diverse along all space in fiery flight,
Came thronging to adore
Your God new-born, and made a sinner’s child;
As if the stars should leave
Their stations in the far ethereal wild,
And round the sun a radiant circle weave.
Nor less your lay of triumph greeted fair
Our Champion and your King,
In that first strife, whence Satan in despair
Sunk down on scathèd wing:
Abuse He fasted, and alone He fought;
But when His toils were o’er,
Ye to the sacred Hermit duteous brought
Banquet and hymn, your Eden’s festal store.
Ye too, when lowest in th’ abyss of
woe
He plunged to save His sheep,
Were leaning from your golden thrones to know
The secrets of that deep:
But clouds were on His sorrow: one alone
His agonising call
Summoned from Heaven, to still that bitterest groan,
And comfort Him, the Comforter of all.
Oh! highest favoured of all Spirits create
(If right of thee we deem),
How didst thou glide on brightening wing elate
To meet th’ unclouded beam
Of Jesus from the couch of darkness rising!
How swelled thine anthem’s sound,
With fear and mightier joy weak hearts surprising,
“Your God is risen, and may not here be found!”
Pass a few days, and this dull darkling
globe
Must yield Him from her sight;—
Brighter and brighter streams His glory-robe,
And He is lost in light.
Then, when through yonder everlasting arch,
Ye in innumerous choir
Poured, heralding Messiah’s conquering march,
Lingered around His skirts two forms of fire:
With us they stayed, high warning to impart;
“The Christ shall come again
E’en as He goes; with the same human heart,
With the same godlike train.”—
Oh! jealous God! how could a sinner dare
Think on that dreadful day,
But that with all Thy wounds Thou wilt be there,
And all our angel friends to bring Thee on Thy way?
Since to Thy little ones is given such
grace,
That they who nearest stand
Alway to God in Heaven, and see His face,
Go forth at His command,
To wait around our path in weal or woe,
As erst upon our King,
Set Thy baptismal seal upon our brow,
And waft us heavenward with enfolding wing:
Grant. Lord, that when around th’
expiring world
Our seraph guardians wait,
While on her death-bed, ere to ruin hurled,
She owns Thee, all too late,
They to their charge may turn, and thankful see
Thy mark upon us still;
Then all together rise, and reign with Thee,
And all their holy joy o’er contrite hearts fulfil!
St. Luke.
Luke, the beloved physician, and Demas, greet you. Colossians iv. 14.
Demas hath forsaken me, having loved this present world . . . Only Luke is with me. 2 Timothy iv. 10, 11.
Two clouds before
the summer gale
In equal race fleet o’er the sky:
Two flowers, when wintry blasts assail,
Together pins, together die.
But two capricious human hearts—
No sage’s rod may track their ways.
No eye pursue their lawless starts
Along their wild self-chosen maze.
He only, by whose sovereign hand
E’en sinners for the evil day
Were made—who rules the world He planned,
Turning our worst His own good way;
He only can the cause reveal,
Why, at the same fond bosom fed,
Taught in the self-same lap to kneel
Till the same prayer were duly said,
Brothers in blood and nurture too,
Aliens in heart so oft should prove;
One lose, the other keep, Heaven’s clue;
One dwell in wrath, and one in love.
He only knows—for He can read
The mystery of the wicked heart—
Why vainly oft our arrows speed
When aimed with most unerring art;
While from some rude and powerless arm
A random shaft in season sent
Shall light upon some lurking harm,
And work some wonder little meant.
Doubt we, how souls so wanton change,
Leaving their own experienced rest?
Need not around the world to range;
One narrow cell may teach us best.
Look in, and see Christ’s chosen saint
In triumph wear his Christ-like chain;
No fear lest he should swerve or faint;
“His life is Christ, his death is
gain.”
Two converts, watching by his side,
Alike his love and greetings share;
Luke the beloved, the sick soul’s guide,
And Demas, named in faltering prayer.
Pass a few years—look in once
more—
The saint is in his bonds again;
Save that his hopes more boldly soar,
He and his lot unchanged remain.
But only Luke is with him now:
Alas! that e’en the martyr’s cell,
Heaven’s very gate, should scope allow
For the false world’s seducing spell.
’Tis sad—but yet ’tis well,
be sure,
We on the sight should muse awhile,
Nor deem our shelter all secure
E’en in the Church’s holiest aisle.
Vainly before the shrine he bends,
Who knows not the true pilgrim’s part:
The martyr’s cell no safety lends
To him who wants the martyr’s heart.
But if there be, who follows Paul
As Paul his Lord, in life and death,
Where’er an aching heart may call,
Ready to speed and take no breath;
Whose joy is, to the wandering sheep
To tell of the great Shepherd’s love;
To learn of mourners while they weep
The music that makes mirth above;
Who makes the Saviour all his theme,
The Gospel all his pride and praise—
Approach: for thou canst feel the gleam
That round the martyr’s death-bed plays:
Thou hast an ear for angels’ songs,
A breath the gospel trump to fill,
And taught by thee the Church prolongs
Her hymns of high thanksgiving still.
Ah! dearest mother, since too oft
The world yet wins some Demas frail
E’en from thine arms, so kind and soft,
May thy tried comforts never fail!
When faithless ones forsake thy wing,
Be it vouchsafed thee still to see
Thy true, fond nurslings closer cling,
Cling closer to their Lord and thee.
St. Simon and St. Jude.
That ye should earnestly contend for the faith which was once delivered unto the saints. St. Jude 3.
Seest thou, how
tearful and alone,
And drooping like a wounded dove,
The Cross in sight, but Jesus gone,
The widowed Church is fain to rove?
Who is at hand that loves the Lord?
Make haste, and take her home, and bring
Thine household choir, in true accord
Their soothing hymns for her to sing.
Soft on her fluttering heart shall breathe
The fragrance of that genial isle,
There she may weave her funeral wreath,
And to her own sad music smile.
The Spirit of the dying Son
Is there, and fills the holy place
With records sweet of duties done,
Of pardoned foes, and cherished grace.
And as of old by two and two
His herald saints the Saviour sent
To soften hearts like morning dew,
Where he to shine in mercy meant;
So evermore He deems His name
Best honoured and his way prepared,
When watching by his altar-flame
He sees His servants duly paired.
He loves when age and youth are met,
Fervent old age and youth serene,
Their high and low in concord set
For sacred song, Joy’s golden mean.
He loves when some clear soaring mind
Is drawn by mutual piety
To simple souls and unrefined,
Who in life’s shadiest covert lie.
Or if perchance a saddened heart
That once was gay and felt the spring,
Cons slowly o’er its altered part,
In sorrow and remorse to sing,
Thy gracious care will send that way
Some spirit full of glee, yet taught
To bear the sight of dull decay,
And nurse it with all-pitying thought;
Cheerful as soaring lark, and mild
As evening blackbird’s full-toned lay,
When the relenting sun has smiled
Bright through a whole December day.
These are the tones to brace and cheer
The lonely watcher of the fold,
When nights are dark, and foeman near,
When visions fade and hearts grow cold.
How timely then a comrade’s song
Comes floating on the mountain air,
And bids thee yet be bold and strong—
Fancy may die, but Faith is there.
All Saints’ Day.
Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees, till we have sealed the servants of our God in their foreheads. Revelation vii. 3.
Why blow’st thou not, thou wintry
wind,
Now every leaf is brown and
sere,
And idly droops, to thee resigned,
The fading chaplet of the year?
Yet wears the pure aërial sky
Her summer veil, half drawn on high,
Of silvery haze, and dark and still
The shadows sleep on every slanting hill.
How quiet shows the woodland
scene!
Each flower and tree, its duty
done,
Reposing in decay serene,
Like weary men when age is won,
Such calm old age as conscience pure
And self-commanding hearts ensure,
Waiting their summons to the sky,
Content to live, but not afraid to die.
Sure if our eyes were purged
to trace
God’s unseen armies hovering
round,
We should behold by angels’ grace
The four strong winds of Heaven
fast bound,
Their downward sweep a moment stayed
On ocean cove and forest glade,
Till the last flower of autumn shed
Her funeral odours on her dying bed.
So in Thine awful armoury,
Lord,
The lightnings of the
judgment-day
Pause yet awhile, in mercy stored,
Till willing hearts wear quite
away
Their earthly stains; and spotless shine
On every brow in light divine
The Cross by angel hands impressed,
The seal of glory won and pledge of promised
Little they dream, those
haughty souls
Whom empires own with bended
knee,
What lowly fate their own controls,
Together linked by Heaven’s
decree;—
As bloodhounds hush their baying wild
To wanton with some fearless child,
So Famine waits, and War with greedy eyes,
Till some repenting heart be ready for the skies.
Think ye the spires that glow
so bright
In front of yonder setting sun,
Stand by their own unshaken might?
No—where th’ upholding
grace is won,
We dare not ask, nor Heaven would tell,
But sure from many a hidden dell,
From many a rural nook unthought of there,
Rises for that proud world the saints’ prevailing
prayer.
On, Champions blest, in
Jesus’ name,
Short be your strife, your triumph
full,
Till every heart have caught your flame,
And, lightened of the
world’s misrule,
Ye soar those elder saints to meet
Gathered long since at Jesus’ feet,
No world of passions to destroy,
Your prayers and struggles o’er, your task all praise and
joy.
Holy Communion.
O God of Mercy, God
of Might,
How should pale sinners bear the sight,
If, as Thy power in surely here,
Thine open glory should appear?
For now Thy people are allowed
To scale the mount and pierce the cloud,
And Faith may feed her eager view
With wonders Sinai never knew.
Fresh from th’ atoning sacrifice
The world’s Creator bleeding lies.
That man, His foe, by whom He bled,
May take Him for his daily bread.
O agony of wavering thought
When sinners first so near are brought!
“It is my Maker—dare I stay?
My Saviour—dare I turn away?”
Thus while the storm is high within
’Twixt love of Christ and fear of sin,
Who can express the soothing charm,
To feel Thy kind upholding arm,
My mother Church? and hear thee tell
Of a world lost, yet loved so well,
That He, by whom the angels live,
His only Son for her would give?
And doubt we yet? Thou call’st
again;
A lower still, a sweeter strain;
A voice from Mercy’s inmost shrine,
This very breath of Love divine.
Whispering it says to each apart,
“Come unto Me, thou trembling heart;”
And we must hope, so sweet the tone,
The precious words are all our own.
Hear them, kind Saviour—hear Thy
Spouse
Low at Thy feet renew her vows;
Thine own dear promise she would plead
For us her true though fallen seed.
She pleads by all Thy mercies, told
Thy chosen witnesses of old,
Love’s heralds sent to man forgiven,
One from the Cross, and one from Heaven.
This, of true penitents the chief,
To the lost spirit brings relief,
Lifting on high th’ adorèd Name:—
“Sinners to save, Christ, Jesus came.”
That, dearest of Thy bosom Friends,
Into the wavering heart descends:—
“What? fallen again? yet cheerful rise.
Thine Intercessor never dies.”
The eye of Faith, that waxes bright
Each moment by thine altar’s light,
Sees them e’en now: they still abide
In mystery kneeling at our side:
And with them every spirit blest,
From realms of triumph or of rest,
From Him who saw creation’s morn,
Of all Thine angels eldest born,
To the poor babe, who died to-day,
Take part in our thanksgiving lay,
Watching the tearful joy and calm,
While sinners taste Thine heavenly balm.
Sweet awful hour! the only sound
One gentle footstep gliding round,
Offering by turns on Jesus’ part
The Cross to every hand and heart.
Refresh us, Lord, to hold it fast;
And when Thy veil is drawn at last,
Let us depart where shadows cease,
With words of blessing and of peace.
Holy Baptism.
Where is it mothers
learn their love?—
In every Church a fountain springs
O’er which th’ Eternal
Dove
Hovers out
softest wings.
What sparkles in that lucid flood
Is water, by gross mortals eyed:
But seen by Faith, ’tis
blood
Out of a dear
Friend’s side.
A few calm words of faith and prayer,
A few bright drops of holy dew,
Shall work a wonder there
Earth’s
charmers never knew.
O happy arms, where cradled lies,
And ready for the Lord’s embrace,
That precious sacrifice,
The darling of
His grace!
Blest eyes, that see the smiling gleam
Upon the slumbering features glow,
When the life-giving stream
Touches the
tender brow!
Or when the holy cross is signed,
And the young soldier duly sworn,
With true and fearless mind
To serve the
Virgin-born.
But happiest ye, who sealed and blest
Back to your arms your treasure take,
With Jesus’ mark
impressed
To nurse for
Jesus’ sake:
To whom—as if in hallowed air
Ye knelt before some awful shrine—
His innocent gestures wear
A meaning half
divine:
By whom Love’s daily touch is seen
In strengthening form and freshening hue,
In the fixed brow serene,
The deep yet
eager view.—
Who taught thy pure and even breath
To come and go with such sweet grace?
Whence thy reposing Faith,
Though in our
frail embrace?
O tender gem, and full of Heaven!
Not in the twilight stars on high,
Not in moist flowers at even
See we our God
so nigh.
Sweet one, make haste and know Him too,
Thine own adopting Father love,
That like thine earliest dew
Thy dying sweets
may prove.
Catechism.
Oh! say not, dream
not, heavenly notes
To childish ears are vain,
That the young mind at random floats,
And cannot reach the strain.
Dim or unheard, the words may fall,
And yet the heaven-taught mind
May learn the sacred air, and all
The harmony unwind.
Was not our Lord a little child,
Taught by degrees to pray,
By father dear and mother mild
Instructed day by day?
And loved He not of Heaven to talk
With children in His sight,
To meet them in His daily walk,
And to His arms invite?
What though around His throne of fire
The everlasting chant
Be wafted from the seraph choir
In glory jubilant?
Yet stoops He, ever pleased to mark
Our rude essays of love,
Faint as the pipe of wakening lark,
Heard by some twilight grove:
Yet is He near us, to survey
These bright and ordered files,
Like spring-flowers in their best array,
All silence and all smiles.
Save that each little voice in turn
Some glorious truth proclaims,
What sages would have died to learn,
Now taught by cottage dames.
And if some tones be false or low,
What are all prayers beneath
But cries of babes, that cannot know
Half the deep thought they breathe?
In His own words we Christ adore,
But angels, as we speak,
Higher above our meaning soar
Than we o’er children weak:
And yet His words mean more than they,
And yet He owns their praise:
Why should we think, He turns away
From infants’ simple lays?
Confirmation.
The shadow of
th’ Almighty’s cloud
Calm on this tents of Israel lay,
While drooping paused twelve banners proud,
Till He arise and lead this way.
Then to the desert breeze unrolled,
Cheerly the waving pennons fly,
Lion or eagle—each bright fold
A lodestar to a warrior’s eye.
So should Thy champions, ere this strife
By holy hands o’ershadowed kneel,
So, fearless for their charmèd life,
Bear, to this end, Thy Spirit’s seal.
Steady and pure as stars that beam
In middle heaven, all mist above,
Seen deepest in this frozen stream:—
Such is their high courageous love.
And soft as pure, and warm as bright,
They brood upon life’s peaceful hour,
As if the Dove that guides their flight
Shook from her plumes a downy shower.
Spirit of might and sweetness too!
Now leading on the wars of God,
Now to green isles of shade and dew
Turning the waste Thy people trod;
Draw, Holy Ghost, Thy seven-fold veil
Between us and the fires of youth;
Breathe, Holy Ghost, Thy freshening gale,
Our fevered brow in age to soothe.
And oft as sin and sorrow tire,
This hallowed hour do Thou renew,
When beckoned up the awful choir
By pastoral hands, toward Thee we drew;
When trembling at this sacred rail
We hid our eyes and held our breath,
Felt Thee how strong, our hearts how frail,
And longed to own Thee to the death.
For ever on our souls be traced
That blessing dear, that dove-like hand,
A sheltering rock in Memory’s waste,
O’er-shadowing all the weary land.
Matrimony.
There is an awe in
mortals’ joy,
A deep mysterious fear
Half of the heart will still employ,
As if we drew too near
To Eden’s portal, and those fires
That bicker round in wavy spires,
Forbidding, to our frail desires,
What cost us once so dear.
We cower before th’ heart-searching
eye
In rapture as its pain;
E’en wedded Love, till Thou be nigh,
Dares not believe her gain:
Then in the air she fearless springs,
The breath of Heaven beneath her wings,
And leaves her woodnote wild, and sings
A tuned and measured strain.
Ill fare the lay, though soft as dew
And free as air it fall,
That, with Thine altar full in view,
Thy votaries would enthrall
To a foul dream, of heathen night,
Lifting her torch in Love’s despite,
And scaring with base wild-fire light
The sacred nuptial hall.
Far other strains, far other fires,
Our marriage-offering grace;
Welcome, all chaste and kind desires,
With even matron pace
Approaching down this hallowed aisle!
Where should ye seek Love’s perfect smile,
But where your prayers were learned erewhile,
In her own native place?
Where, but on His benignest brow,
Who waits to bless you here?
Living, he owned no nuptial vow,
No bower to Fancy dear:
Love’s very self—for Him no need
To nurse, on earth, the heavenly seed:
Yet comfort in His eye we read
For bridal joy and fear.
’Tis He who clasps the marriage band,
And fits the spousal ring,
Then leaves ye kneeling, hand in hand,
Out of His stores to bring
His Father’s dearest blessing, shed
Of old on Isaac’s nuptial bed,
Now on the board before ye spread
Of our all-bounteous King.
All blessings of the breast and womb,
Of Heaven and earth beneath,
Of converse high, and sacred home,
Are yours, in life and death.
Only kneel on, nor turn away
From the pure shrine, where Christ to-day
Will store each flower, ye duteous lay,
For an eternal wreath.
Visitation and Communion of the Sick.
O Youth and Joy,
your airy tread
Too lightly springs by Sorrow’s bed,
Your keen eye-glances are too bright,
Too restless for a sick man’s sight.
Farewell; for one short life we part:
I rather woo the soothing art,
Which only souls in sufferings tried
Bear to their suffering brethren’s side.
Where may we learn that gentle spell?
Mother of Martyrs, thou canst tell!
Thou, who didst watch thy dying Spouse
With piercèd hands and bleeding brows,
Whose tears from age to age are shed
O’er sainted sons untimely dead,
If e’er we charm a soul in pain,
Thine is the key-note of our strain.
How sweet with thee to lift the latch,
Where Faith has kept her midnight watch,
Smiling on woe: with thee to kneel,
Where fixed, as if one prayer could heal,
She listens, till her pale eye glow
With joy, wild health can never know,
And each calm feature, ere we read,
Speaks, silently, thy glorious Creed.
Such have I seen: and while they poured
Their hearts in every contrite word,
How have I rather longed to kneel
And ask of them sweet pardon’s seal;
How blessed the heavenly music brought
By thee to aid my faltering thought!
“Peace” ere we kneel, and when we cease
To pray, the farewell word is, “Peace.”
I came again: the place was bright
“With something of celestial light”—
A simple Altar by the bed
For high Communion meetly spread,
Chalice, and plate, and snowy vest.—
We ate and drank: then calmly blest,
All mourners, one with dying breath,
We sate and talked of Jesus’ death.
Once more I came: the silent room
Was veiled in sadly-soothing gloom,
And ready for her last abode
The pale form like a lily showed,
By Virgin fingers duly spread,
And prized for love of summer fled.
The light from those soft-smiling eyes
Had fleeted to its parent skies.
O soothe us, haunt us, night and day,
Ye gentle Spirits far away,
With whom we shared the cup of grace,
Then parted; ye to Christ’s embrace,
We to this lonesome world again,
Yet mindful of th’ unearthly strain
Practised with you at Eden’s door,
To be sung on, where Angels soar,
With blended voices evermore.
Burial of the Dead.
And when the Lord saw her, He had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not. And He came and touched the bier; and they that bare him stood still. And He said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise.—St. Luke vii. 13, 14.
Who says, the wan
autumnal soon
Beams with too faint a smile
To light up nature’s face again,
And, though the year be on this wane,
With thoughts of spring the heart beguile?
Waft him, thou soft September breeze,
And gently lay him down
Within some circling woodland wall,
Where bright leaves, reddening ere they fall,
Wave gaily o’er the waters brown.
And let some graceful arch be there
With wreathèd mullions proud,
With burnished ivy for its screen,
And moss, that glows as fresh and green
As thought beneath an April cloud.—
Who says the widow’s heart must break,
The childless mother sink?—
A kinder truer voice I hear,
Which e’en beside that mournful bier
Whence parents’ eyes would hopeless
shrink,
Bids weep no more—O heart bereft,
How strange, to thee, that sound!
A widow o’er her only son,
Feeling more bitterly alone
For friends that press officious round.
Yet is the voice of comfort heard,
For Christ hath touched the bier—
The bearers wait with wondering eye,
The swelling bosom dares not sigh,
But all is still, ’twixt hope and fear.
E’en such an awful soothing calm
We sometimes see alight
On Christian mourners, while they wait
In silence, by some churchyard gate,
Their summons to this holy rite.
And such the tones of love, which break
The stillness of that hour,
Quelling th’ embittered spirit’s strife—
“The Resurrection and the Life
Am I: believe, and die no more.”
Unchanged that voice—and though not
yet
The dead sit up and speak,
Answering its call; we gladlier rest
Our darlings on earth’s quiet breast,
And our hearts feel they must not break.
Far better they should sleep awhile
Within the Church’s shade,
Nor wake, until new heaven, new earth,
Meet for their new immortal birth
For their abiding-place be made,
Than wander back to life, and lean
On our frail love once more.
’Tis sweet, as year by year we lose
Friends out of sight, in faith to muse
How grows in Paradise our store.
Then pass, ye mourners, cheerly on,
Through prayer unto the tomb,
Still, as ye watch life’s falling leaf,
Gathering from every loss and grief
Hope of new spring and endless home.
Then cheerly to your work again
With hearts new-braced and set
To run, untired, love’s blessèd race.
As meet for those, who face to face
Over the grave their Lord have met.
Churching of Women.
Is there, in bowers of endless spring,
One known from
all the seraph band
By softer voice, by smile and
wing
More exquisitely bland!
Here let him speed: to-day this hallowed air
Is fragrant with a mother’s first and fondest prayer.
Only let
Heaven her fire impart,
No richer
incense breathes on earth:
“A spouse with all a
daughter’s heart,”
Fresh from the perilous birth,
To the great Father lifts her pale glad eye,
Like a reviving flower when storms are hushed on high.
Oh, what a
treasure of sweet thought
Is here! what
hope and joy and love
All in one tender bosom
brought,
For the all-gracious Dove
To brood o’er silently, and form for Heaven
Each passionate wish and dream to dear affection given.
Her
fluttering heart, too keenly blest,
Would sicken,
but she leans on Thee,
Sees Thee by faith on Mary’s
breast,
And breathes serene and free.
Slight tremblings only of her veil declare
Soft answers duly whispered to each soothing prayer.
We are too
weak, when Thou dost bless,
To bear the
joy—help, Virgin-born!
By Thine own mother’s first
caress,
That waked Thy natal morn!
Help, by the unexpressive smile, that made
A Heaven on earth around this couch where Thou wast laid.
Commination.
The prayers
are o’er: why slumberest thou so long,
Thou voice of
sacred song?
Why swell’st thou not, like
breeze from mountain cave,
High o’er
the echoing nave,
This white-robed priest, as
otherwhile, to guide,
Up to the
Altar’s northern side?—
A mourner’s tale of shame and sad decay
Keeps back our glorious sacrifice to-day:
The
widow’d Spouse of Christ: with ashes crown’d,
Her Christmas
robes unbound,
She lingers in the porch for grief
and fear,
Keeping her
penance drear,—
Oh, is it nought to you? that idly
gay,
Or coldly proud,
ye turn away?
But if her warning tears in vain be spent,
Lo, to her altered eye this Law’s stern fires are lent.
Each awful
curse, that on Mount Ebal rang,
Peals with a
direr clang
Out of that silver trump, whose
tones of old
Forgiveness only
told.
And who can blame the
mother’s fond affright,
Who sporting on
some giddy height
Her infant sees, and springs with hurried hand
To snatch the rover from the dangerous strand?
But surer
than all words the silent spell
(So Grecian
legends tell)
When to her bird, too early
’scaped the nest,
She bares her
tender breast,
Smiling he turns and spreads his
little wing,
There to glide
home, there safely cling.
So yearns our mother o’er each truant son,
So softly falls the lay in fear and wrath begun.
Wayward and
spoiled she knows ye: the keen blast,
That braced her
youth, is past:
The rod of discipline, the robe of
shame—
She bears them
in your name:
Only return and love. But ye
perchance
Are deeper
plunged in sorrow’s trance:
Your God forgives, but ye no comfort take
Till ye have scourged the sins that in your conscience ache.
Oh, heavy
laden soul! kneel down and hear
Thy penance in
calm fear:
With thine own lips to sentence
all thy sin;
Then, by the
judge within
Absolved, in thankful sacrifice to
part
For ever with
thy sullen heart,
Nor on remorseful thoughts to brood, and stain
This glory of the Cross, forgiven and cheereth in vain.
Forms of Prayer to be used at Sea.
When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee. Isaiah xliii. 2.
The shower of
moonlight falls as still and clear
Upon this desert main
As where sweet flowers some pastoral garden cheer
With fragrance after rain:
The wild winds rustle in piping shrouds,
As in the quivering trees:
Like summer fields, beneath the shadowy clouds
The yielding waters darken in the breeze.
Thou too art here with thy soft inland
tones,
Mother of our new birth;
The lonely ocean learns thy orisons,
And loves thy sacred mirth:
When storms are high, or when the fires of war
Come lightening round our
course,
Thou breath’st a note like music from afar,
Tempering rude hearts with calm angelic force.
Far, far away, the homesick seaman’s
hoard,
Thy fragrant tokens live,
Like flower-leaves in a previous volume stored,
To solace and relieve
Some heart too weary of the restless world;
Or like thy Sabbath Cross,
That o’er this brightening billow streams unfurled,
Whatever gale the labouring vessel toss.
Oh, kindly soothing in high Victory’s
hour,
Or when a comrade dies,
In whose sweet presence Sorrow dares not lower,
Nor Expectation rise
Too high for earth; what mother’s heart could spare
To the cold cheerless deep
Her flower and hope? but Thou art with him there,
Pledge of the untired arm and eye that cannot
sleep:
The eye that watches o’er wild
Ocean’s dead,
Each in his coral cave,
Fondly as if the green turf wrapt his head
Fast by his father’s
grave,—
One moment, and the seeds of life shall spring
Out of the waste abyss,
And happy warriors triumph with their King
In worlds without a sea, unchanging orbs of
bliss.