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 sealèd 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 vanished from her sky;
Yet God is there, and at His side
He triumphs, who for sinners died.
Ah! ’tis the world
enthralls
The Heaven-betrothèd
breast:
The traitor Sense recalls
The soaring soul from rest.
That bitter sigh was all for earth,
For glories gone and vanished 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
Beside the barren sea,
Where Philip’s steps were led,
Led by a voice from Thee—
He rose and went, nor asked Thee why,
Nor stayed to heave one faithless sigh:
Upon his lonely way
The high-born traveller came,
Reading a mournful lay
Of “One who bore our
shame,
Silent Himself, His name untold,
And yet His glories were of old.”
To muse what Heaven might
mean
His wondering brow he raised,
And met an eye serene
That on him watchful gazed.
No Hermit e’er so welcome crossed
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.
Bewildered 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 imbued.
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 the Apostate’s death.
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. 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.”
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 belovèd 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 the 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 pledged her own and sure to abide:
Dearer than every past noon-day
That twilight gleam to her, though faint and far away.
So have I seen some tender
flower
Prized above all the vernal bower,
Sheltered beneath the coolest shade,
Embosomed 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 promised 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 the unapproachèd Lord, once made for them so low.
Unseen, unfelt their earthly
growth,
And self-accused 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 the incarnate
Saviour’s breast,
The fount of sweetness, they shall rest,
Their spirits every hour imbued
More deeply with His precious blood.
But peace—still voice and closèd eye
Suit best with hearts beyond the sky,
Hearts training in their low abode,
Daily to lose themselves in hope to find their God.
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 encompassed, 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.
The saints above are stars in heaven—
What are the saints on earth?
Like tress they stand whom God has given,
Our Eden’s happy birth.
Faith is their fixed 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,
It steals in silence down;
But where it lights, this favoured 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, the roaring Wind,
Thy boundless power display;
But in the gentler breeze we find
Thy Spirit’s viewless way.
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.
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 drowned.
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 cursed:
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
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 blessèd wedlock may
not bless
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,
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
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
Are to Faith’s eye a pledge of God’s forgiving
might.
And oh! if yet one arrow
more,
The sharpest of the 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, showed 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.
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,”
Blessed 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 walked abroad,
Freed from their twelvemonth’s thrall.
How joyful from the 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 this 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 revealed:
Love imaged 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 turned 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 beamed
Too bright for us to scan,
But we may face the rays that streamed
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
What chains of darkness thee enslave,
And mocking say, ‘Lo, this is he
Who owned 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 poured from Heaven,
What time, unsheltered and unfed,
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 weaned 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?
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-charged vial standing by?”
Thus, with stern voice, unsparing Justice pleads:
He hears her not—with softened 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 hurried footsteps from the accursed 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 unharmed 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, ruined all,
If God have planted but to burn?—
Surely not yet the avenging shower will fall,
Though to my home for one last look I turn.”
Thus while they waver, surely long ago
They had provoked 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 weaned entire.
Thus, by the merits of one righteous man,
The Church, our Zoar, shall abide,
Till she abuse, so sore, her lengthened 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.)
“And is there
in God’s world so drear a place
Where the loud bitter cry is raised in vain?
Where tears of penance come too late for grace,
As on the 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 gathered wrath the reprobate to whelm.
Will the storm hear the sailor’s piteous
cry,
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 the 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 leaned on Thy eternal word,
But with the sinner’s fear their hope departs,
Fast linked 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 promised 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
appeared.
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, despised 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,
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.
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,
Dashed from his
throne of pride;
While, answering Thy victorious
call,
The Saints his
spoils divide;
This world of Thine, by him usurped 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 redeemed at midnight
rose
And cast their
bonds away,
The orphaned 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
watched, 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 touched 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 untouched, the roses bright
Wreathed 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,
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 seemed an idol hymn, now breathes of Thee,
Tuned 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.
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 traced by sight or sound,
Nor soiled 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
Blushed 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 adored.
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 called 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.
The historic Muse,
from age to age,
Through many a waste heart-sickening page
Hath traced 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 roamed and free,
One towering thorn was wrapt in flame—
Bright without blaze it went and came:
Who would not turn and see?
Along the mountain ledges green
The scattered 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 withered, spent, and sere,
See Israel’s sons, like glowing brands,
Tossed 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 blessèd 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, 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 pierced the cloud,
He sees, He sees their wrong;
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 fixed 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.”
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,
Framed 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 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 lived 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 ransomed spirits one by one were brought
To His mind’s eye—two silent nights and days
In calmness for His far-seen hour He stays.
Ye vaulted cells, where martyred seers of
old
Far in the rocky walls of Sion sleep,
Green terraces and archèd 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:
The unearthly thoughts have passed 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—touched 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,
Offered 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 framed 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.
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 pressed Him so to earth,
The very torturers paused
To help Him on His way.
“Fill high the bowl, benumb His aching
sense
With medicined 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,
Renewed 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, unbeguiled
By false kind solaces, and spells of earth:—
And yet not all unsoothed;
For when was Joy so dear,
As the deep calm that breathed,
“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 seemed
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,
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!
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 open toward his darling west,
Mourning the ruined 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, thronèd
high,
And compassed 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 dared, 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 frowned the future
e’en on him,
The loving and belovèd
Seer,
What time he saw, through shadows dim,
The boundary of th’ eternal
year;
He only of the sons of men
Named to be heir of glory then.
Else had it bruised too sore his tender heart
To see God’s ransomed 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 unharmed before thy Savour stand.
Good Friday.
He is despised and rejected of men. Isaiah liii. 3.
Is
it not strange, the darkest hour
That ever dawned 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 tempered by the Saviour’s prayer,
And with the Saviour’s
life-blood wet,
They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm,
Soft as imprisoned 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 piercèd 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, 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 distressed,
That Love yet lives, and Patience shall find rest.
O! shame beyond the bitterest
thought
That evil spirit ever framed,
That sinners know what Jesus wrought,
Yet feel their haughty hearts
untamed—
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 parchèd 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.
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,
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 learned 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 numbered, and the grave
Call Thee to come and save:
Then on Thy bosom borne shall we descend
Again with earth to blend,
Earth all refined with bright supernal fires,
Tinctured with holy blood, and winged 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—look up and sing
In hope of promised spring.
As in the pit his father’s darling lay
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.
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:
Enthronèd 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 blessèd 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 stored 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 rolled 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 embalmed and shined:
Aye gathering up memorials sweet,
Where’er she sets her duteous feet.
Oh! joy to Mary first allowed,
When roused 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 renewed,
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 dreamed his prayers and
tears
Would help a
world undone.
The while upon his terraced roof
The loved Apostle to his Lord
In silent thought aloof
For heavenly
vision soared.
Far o’er the glowing western main
His wistful brow was upward raised,
Where, like an angel’s
train,
The burnished
water blazed.
The saint beside the ocean prayed,
This soldier in his chosen bower,
Where all his eye surveyed
Seemed 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 saved
Shone ever with such deathless gleam,
Or when did perils braved
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, arrayed:
’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 kissed 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.