Still, still with Thee, when purple morning breaketh,When the bird waketh and the shadows flee;Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight,Dawns the sweet consciousness,I am with Thee!Alone with Thee, amid the mystic shadows,The solemn hush of nature newly born;Alone with Thee in breathless adoration,In the calm dew and freshness of the morn.As in the dawning o'er the waveless oceanThe image of the morning star doth rest,So in this stillness Thou beholdest onlyThine image in the waters of my breast.Still, still with Thee! as to each new-born morningA fresh and solemn splendor still is given,So doth the blessed consciousness, awaking,Breathe, each day, nearness unto Thee and heaven.When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber,Its closing eye looks up to Thee in prayer;Sweet the repose beneath the wings o'ershading,But sweeter still to wake and find Thee there.So shall it be at last, in that bright morningWhen the soul waketh and life's shadows flee;O in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning,Shall rise the glorious thought,I am with Thee!
Still, still with Thee, when purple morning breaketh,When the bird waketh and the shadows flee;Fairer than morning, lovelier than the daylight,Dawns the sweet consciousness,I am with Thee!
Alone with Thee, amid the mystic shadows,The solemn hush of nature newly born;Alone with Thee in breathless adoration,In the calm dew and freshness of the morn.
As in the dawning o'er the waveless oceanThe image of the morning star doth rest,So in this stillness Thou beholdest onlyThine image in the waters of my breast.
Still, still with Thee! as to each new-born morningA fresh and solemn splendor still is given,So doth the blessed consciousness, awaking,Breathe, each day, nearness unto Thee and heaven.
When sinks the soul, subdued by toil, to slumber,Its closing eye looks up to Thee in prayer;Sweet the repose beneath the wings o'ershading,But sweeter still to wake and find Thee there.
So shall it be at last, in that bright morningWhen the soul waketh and life's shadows flee;O in that hour, fairer than daylight dawning,Shall rise the glorious thought,I am with Thee!
Though the hills are cold and snowy,And the wind drives chill to-day,My heart goes back to a spring-time,Far, far in the past away.And I see a quaint old city,Weary and worn and brown,Where the spring and the birds are so early,And the sun in such light goes down.I remember that old-times villa,Where our afternoons went by,Where the suns of March flushed warmly,And spring was in earth and sky.Out of the mouldering city,Mouldering, old, and gray,We sped, with a lightsome heart-thrill,For a sunny, gladsome day,—For a revel of fresh spring verdure,For a race 'mid springing flowers,For a vision of plashing fountains,Of birds and blossoming bowers.There were violet banks in the shadows,Violets white and blue;And a world of bright anemones,That over the terrace grew,—Blue and orange and purple,Rosy and yellow and white,Rising in rainbow bubbles,Streaking the lawns with light.And down from the old stone pine-trees,Those far-off islands of air,The birds are flinging the tidingsOf a joyful revel up there.And now for the grand old fountains,Tossing their silvery spray,Those fountains so quaint and so many,That are leaping and singing all day.Those fountains of strange weird sculpture,With lichens and moss o'ergrown,Are they marble greening in moss-wreaths?Or moss-wreaths whitening to stone?Down many a wild, dim pathwayWe ramble from morning till noon;We linger, unheeding the hours,Till evening comes all too soon.And from out the ilex alleys,Where lengthening shadows play,We look on the dreamy Campagna,All glowing with setting day,—All melting in bands of purple,In swathings and foldings of gold,In ribands of azure and lilac,Like a princely banner unrolled.And the smoke of each distant cottage,And the flash of each villa white,Shines out with an opal glimmer,Like gems in a casket of light.And the dome of old St. Peter'sWith a strange translucence glows,Like a mighty bubble of amethystFloating in waves of rose.In a trance of dreamy vaguenessWe, gazing and yearning, beholdThat city beheld by the prophet,Whose walls were transparent gold.And, dropping all solemn and slowly,To hallow the softening spell,There falls on the dying twilightThe Ave Maria bell.With a mournful, motherly softness,With a weird and weary care,That strange and ancient citySeems calling the nations to prayer.And the words that of old the angelTo the mother of Jesus brought,Rise like a new evangel,To hallow the trance of our thought.With the smoke of the evening incense,Our thoughts are ascending thenTo Mary, the mother of Jesus,To Jesus, the Master of men.O city of prophets and martyrs,O shrines of the sainted dead,When, when shall the living day-springOnce more on your towers be spread?When He who is meek and lowlyShall rule in those lordly halls,And shall stand and feed as a shepherdThe flock which his mercy calls,—O then to those noble churches,To picture and statue and gem,To the pageant of solemn worship,Shall themeaningcome back again.And this strange and ancient city,In that reign of His truth and love,Shallbewhat itseemsin the twilight,The type of that City above.
Though the hills are cold and snowy,And the wind drives chill to-day,My heart goes back to a spring-time,Far, far in the past away.
And I see a quaint old city,Weary and worn and brown,Where the spring and the birds are so early,And the sun in such light goes down.
I remember that old-times villa,Where our afternoons went by,Where the suns of March flushed warmly,And spring was in earth and sky.
Out of the mouldering city,Mouldering, old, and gray,We sped, with a lightsome heart-thrill,For a sunny, gladsome day,—
For a revel of fresh spring verdure,For a race 'mid springing flowers,For a vision of plashing fountains,Of birds and blossoming bowers.
There were violet banks in the shadows,Violets white and blue;And a world of bright anemones,That over the terrace grew,—
Blue and orange and purple,Rosy and yellow and white,Rising in rainbow bubbles,Streaking the lawns with light.
And down from the old stone pine-trees,Those far-off islands of air,The birds are flinging the tidingsOf a joyful revel up there.
And now for the grand old fountains,Tossing their silvery spray,Those fountains so quaint and so many,That are leaping and singing all day.
Those fountains of strange weird sculpture,With lichens and moss o'ergrown,Are they marble greening in moss-wreaths?Or moss-wreaths whitening to stone?
Down many a wild, dim pathwayWe ramble from morning till noon;We linger, unheeding the hours,Till evening comes all too soon.
And from out the ilex alleys,Where lengthening shadows play,We look on the dreamy Campagna,All glowing with setting day,—
All melting in bands of purple,In swathings and foldings of gold,In ribands of azure and lilac,Like a princely banner unrolled.
And the smoke of each distant cottage,And the flash of each villa white,Shines out with an opal glimmer,Like gems in a casket of light.
And the dome of old St. Peter'sWith a strange translucence glows,Like a mighty bubble of amethystFloating in waves of rose.
In a trance of dreamy vaguenessWe, gazing and yearning, beholdThat city beheld by the prophet,Whose walls were transparent gold.
And, dropping all solemn and slowly,To hallow the softening spell,There falls on the dying twilightThe Ave Maria bell.
With a mournful, motherly softness,With a weird and weary care,That strange and ancient citySeems calling the nations to prayer.
And the words that of old the angelTo the mother of Jesus brought,Rise like a new evangel,To hallow the trance of our thought.
With the smoke of the evening incense,Our thoughts are ascending thenTo Mary, the mother of Jesus,To Jesus, the Master of men.
O city of prophets and martyrs,O shrines of the sainted dead,When, when shall the living day-springOnce more on your towers be spread?
When He who is meek and lowlyShall rule in those lordly halls,And shall stand and feed as a shepherdThe flock which his mercy calls,—
O then to those noble churches,To picture and statue and gem,To the pageant of solemn worship,Shall themeaningcome back again.
And this strange and ancient city,In that reign of His truth and love,Shallbewhat itseemsin the twilight,The type of that City above.
Sweet fountains, plashing with a dreamy fall,And mosses green, and tremulous veils of fern,And banks of blowing cyclamen, and stars,Blue as the skies, of myrtle blossoming,The twilight shade of ilex overheadO'erbubbling with sweet song of nightingale,With walks of strange, weird stillness, leading on'Mid sculptured fragments half to green moss gone,Or breaking forth amid the violet leavesWith some white gleam of an old world gone by.Ah! strange, sweet quiet! wilderness of calm,Gardens of dreamy rest, I long to layBeneath your shade the last long sigh, and say,Here is my home, my Lord, thy home and mine;And I, having searched the world with many a tear,At last have found thee and will stray no more.But vainly here I seek the GardenerThat Mary saw. These lovely halls beyond,That airy, sky-like dome, that lofty fane,Is as a palace whence the king is goneAnd taken all the sweetness with himself.Turn again, Jesus, and possess thine own!Come to thy temple once more as of old!Drive forth the money-changers, let it beA house of prayer for nations. Even so,Amen! Amen!
Sweet fountains, plashing with a dreamy fall,And mosses green, and tremulous veils of fern,And banks of blowing cyclamen, and stars,Blue as the skies, of myrtle blossoming,The twilight shade of ilex overheadO'erbubbling with sweet song of nightingale,With walks of strange, weird stillness, leading on'Mid sculptured fragments half to green moss gone,Or breaking forth amid the violet leavesWith some white gleam of an old world gone by.Ah! strange, sweet quiet! wilderness of calm,Gardens of dreamy rest, I long to layBeneath your shade the last long sigh, and say,Here is my home, my Lord, thy home and mine;And I, having searched the world with many a tear,At last have found thee and will stray no more.But vainly here I seek the GardenerThat Mary saw. These lovely halls beyond,That airy, sky-like dome, that lofty fane,Is as a palace whence the king is goneAnd taken all the sweetness with himself.Turn again, Jesus, and possess thine own!Come to thy temple once more as of old!Drive forth the money-changers, let it beA house of prayer for nations. Even so,Amen! Amen!
O fairest mansion of a Father's love,Harmonious! hospitable! with thine armsOutspread to all, thy fountains ever full,And, fair as heaven, thy misty, sky-like domeHung like the firmament with circling sweepAbove the constellated golden lampsThat burn forever round the holy tomb.Most meet art thou to be the Father's house,The house of prayer for nations. Come the timeWhen thou shalt be so! when a liberty,Wide as thine arms, high as thy lofty dome,Shall be proclaimed, by thy loud singing choirs,Like voice of many waters! Then the LordShall come into his temple, and make pureThe sons of Levi; then, as once of old,The blind shall see, the lame leap as an hart,And to the poor the Gospel shall be preached,And Easter's silver-sounding trumpets tell,"The Lord is risen indeed," to die no more.Hasten it in its time. Amen! Amen!
O fairest mansion of a Father's love,Harmonious! hospitable! with thine armsOutspread to all, thy fountains ever full,And, fair as heaven, thy misty, sky-like domeHung like the firmament with circling sweepAbove the constellated golden lampsThat burn forever round the holy tomb.Most meet art thou to be the Father's house,The house of prayer for nations. Come the timeWhen thou shalt be so! when a liberty,Wide as thine arms, high as thy lofty dome,Shall be proclaimed, by thy loud singing choirs,Like voice of many waters! Then the LordShall come into his temple, and make pureThe sons of Levi; then, as once of old,The blind shall see, the lame leap as an hart,And to the poor the Gospel shall be preached,And Easter's silver-sounding trumpets tell,"The Lord is risen indeed," to die no more.Hasten it in its time. Amen! Amen!
Not of the earth that music! all things fade;Vanish the pictured walls! and, one by one,The starry candles silently expire!And now, O Jesus! round that silent crossA moment's pause, a hush as of the grave.Now rises slow a silver mist of sound,And all the heavens break out in drops of grief;A rain of sobbing sweetness, swelling, dying,Voice into voice inweaving with sweet throbs,And fluttering pulses of impassioned moan,—Veiled voices, in whose wailing there is awe,And mysteries of love and agony,A yearning anguish of celestial souls,A shiver as of wings trembling the air,As if God's shining doves, his spotless birds,Wailed with a nightingale's heart-break of grief,In this their starless night, when for our sinsTheir sun, their life, their love, hangs darkly there,Like a slain lamb, bleeding his life away!
Not of the earth that music! all things fade;Vanish the pictured walls! and, one by one,The starry candles silently expire!
And now, O Jesus! round that silent crossA moment's pause, a hush as of the grave.Now rises slow a silver mist of sound,And all the heavens break out in drops of grief;A rain of sobbing sweetness, swelling, dying,Voice into voice inweaving with sweet throbs,And fluttering pulses of impassioned moan,—Veiled voices, in whose wailing there is awe,And mysteries of love and agony,A yearning anguish of celestial souls,A shiver as of wings trembling the air,As if God's shining doves, his spotless birds,Wailed with a nightingale's heart-break of grief,In this their starless night, when for our sinsTheir sun, their life, their love, hangs darkly there,Like a slain lamb, bleeding his life away!
FOOTNOTES:[1]The familiar combination of Rex. Lux, Lex, Dux.[2]M. Lenormant says inThe Magic of the Chaldees: "The more one advances in the understanding of the cuneiform text, the more one sees the necessity of revising the condemnation too prematurely uttered against the Book of Daniel by the German Exegetical School. Without doubt, the use of certain Greek words serves to show that it has passed through the hands of some editor since the time of Alexander. But the substance of it is much more ancient—is imprinted with a perfectly distinct Babylonian tinge, and the picture of life in the court of Nabuchodonosor and his successors has an equal truthfulness which could not have been attained at a later period."[3]Lightfoot, in his notes on Luke iii., maintains this theory, and quotes in support of it three passages from the Jerusalem Talmud, folio 77, 4, where Mary the mother of Jesus is denounced as thedaughter of Heli, and mother of a pretender. The same view is sustained by Paulus, Spanheim, and Lange.[4]These passages are quoted and commented on by Hilgenfeld on theApocalyptic Literature of the Hebrews, and Lücke on theApocalypse of St. John.[5]See 2 Chronicles xxiv. 20, 21."And the spirit of the Lord came upon Zechariah, the son of Jehoida the priest, who stood among the people, and said, Why transgress ye the commandments of the Lord, that ye cannot prosper? Because ye have forsaken the Lord he also hath forsaken you. And they conspired against him and stoned him with stones in the court of the house of the Lord."These two instances, of Abel and Zacharias, cited by our Lord from the very first and very last of the sacred historic books, seemed to cover the whole ground of their history. The variation as to the name of the prophet's father has many theories to account for it, any one of which is satisfactory.[6]According to this legend, Catherine was a noble maiden of Alexandria, distinguished alike by birth, riches, beauty, and the rarest gifts of genius and learning. In the flower of her life she consecrated herself to the service of her Redeemer, and cheerfully suffered for his sake the loss of wealth, friends, and the esteem of the world. Banishment, imprisonment, and torture were in vain tried to shake the constancy of her faith; and at last she was bound upon the torturing-wheel for a cruel death. But the angels descended, so says the story, rent the wheel, and bore her away, through the air, far over the sea, to Mount Sinai, where her body was left to repose, and her soul ascended with them to heaven.
[1]The familiar combination of Rex. Lux, Lex, Dux.
[1]The familiar combination of Rex. Lux, Lex, Dux.
[2]M. Lenormant says inThe Magic of the Chaldees: "The more one advances in the understanding of the cuneiform text, the more one sees the necessity of revising the condemnation too prematurely uttered against the Book of Daniel by the German Exegetical School. Without doubt, the use of certain Greek words serves to show that it has passed through the hands of some editor since the time of Alexander. But the substance of it is much more ancient—is imprinted with a perfectly distinct Babylonian tinge, and the picture of life in the court of Nabuchodonosor and his successors has an equal truthfulness which could not have been attained at a later period."
[2]M. Lenormant says inThe Magic of the Chaldees: "The more one advances in the understanding of the cuneiform text, the more one sees the necessity of revising the condemnation too prematurely uttered against the Book of Daniel by the German Exegetical School. Without doubt, the use of certain Greek words serves to show that it has passed through the hands of some editor since the time of Alexander. But the substance of it is much more ancient—is imprinted with a perfectly distinct Babylonian tinge, and the picture of life in the court of Nabuchodonosor and his successors has an equal truthfulness which could not have been attained at a later period."
[3]Lightfoot, in his notes on Luke iii., maintains this theory, and quotes in support of it three passages from the Jerusalem Talmud, folio 77, 4, where Mary the mother of Jesus is denounced as thedaughter of Heli, and mother of a pretender. The same view is sustained by Paulus, Spanheim, and Lange.
[3]Lightfoot, in his notes on Luke iii., maintains this theory, and quotes in support of it three passages from the Jerusalem Talmud, folio 77, 4, where Mary the mother of Jesus is denounced as thedaughter of Heli, and mother of a pretender. The same view is sustained by Paulus, Spanheim, and Lange.
[4]These passages are quoted and commented on by Hilgenfeld on theApocalyptic Literature of the Hebrews, and Lücke on theApocalypse of St. John.
[4]These passages are quoted and commented on by Hilgenfeld on theApocalyptic Literature of the Hebrews, and Lücke on theApocalypse of St. John.
[5]See 2 Chronicles xxiv. 20, 21."And the spirit of the Lord came upon Zechariah, the son of Jehoida the priest, who stood among the people, and said, Why transgress ye the commandments of the Lord, that ye cannot prosper? Because ye have forsaken the Lord he also hath forsaken you. And they conspired against him and stoned him with stones in the court of the house of the Lord."These two instances, of Abel and Zacharias, cited by our Lord from the very first and very last of the sacred historic books, seemed to cover the whole ground of their history. The variation as to the name of the prophet's father has many theories to account for it, any one of which is satisfactory.
[5]See 2 Chronicles xxiv. 20, 21.
"And the spirit of the Lord came upon Zechariah, the son of Jehoida the priest, who stood among the people, and said, Why transgress ye the commandments of the Lord, that ye cannot prosper? Because ye have forsaken the Lord he also hath forsaken you. And they conspired against him and stoned him with stones in the court of the house of the Lord."
These two instances, of Abel and Zacharias, cited by our Lord from the very first and very last of the sacred historic books, seemed to cover the whole ground of their history. The variation as to the name of the prophet's father has many theories to account for it, any one of which is satisfactory.
[6]According to this legend, Catherine was a noble maiden of Alexandria, distinguished alike by birth, riches, beauty, and the rarest gifts of genius and learning. In the flower of her life she consecrated herself to the service of her Redeemer, and cheerfully suffered for his sake the loss of wealth, friends, and the esteem of the world. Banishment, imprisonment, and torture were in vain tried to shake the constancy of her faith; and at last she was bound upon the torturing-wheel for a cruel death. But the angels descended, so says the story, rent the wheel, and bore her away, through the air, far over the sea, to Mount Sinai, where her body was left to repose, and her soul ascended with them to heaven.
[6]According to this legend, Catherine was a noble maiden of Alexandria, distinguished alike by birth, riches, beauty, and the rarest gifts of genius and learning. In the flower of her life she consecrated herself to the service of her Redeemer, and cheerfully suffered for his sake the loss of wealth, friends, and the esteem of the world. Banishment, imprisonment, and torture were in vain tried to shake the constancy of her faith; and at last she was bound upon the torturing-wheel for a cruel death. But the angels descended, so says the story, rent the wheel, and bore her away, through the air, far over the sea, to Mount Sinai, where her body was left to repose, and her soul ascended with them to heaven.
Transcriber's note:Minor typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed.
Minor typographical and punctuation errors have been corrected without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed.