A thou hast testified of Me in Jerusalem, so must thou bear witness also at Rome.Actsxxiii. 11.
A thou hast testified of Me in Jerusalem, so must thou bear witness also at Rome.Actsxxiii. 11.
Beneaththe burning eastern skyThe Cross was raised at morn:The widowed Church to weep stood by,The world, to hate and scorn.
Now, journeying westward, evermoreWe know the lonely SpouseBy the dear mark her Saviour boreTraced on her patient brows.
At Rome she wears it, as of oldUpon th’ accursèd hill:By monarchs clad in gems and gold,She goes a mourner still.
She mourns that tender hearts should bendBefore a meaner shrine,And upon Saint or Angel spendThe love that should be thine.
By day and night her sorrows fallWhere miscreant hands and rudeHave stained her pure ethereal pallWith many a martyr’s blood.
And yearns not her parental heart,To heartheirsecret sighs,Upon whose doubting way apartBewildering shadows rise?
Who to her side in peace would cling,But fear to wake, and findWhat they had deemed her genial wingWas Error’s soothing blind.
She treasures up each throbbing prayer:Come, trembler, come and pourInto her bosom all thy care,For she has balm in store.
Her gentle teaching sweetly blendsWith this clear light of TruthThe aërial gleam that Fancy lendsTo solemn thoughts in youth.—
If thou hast loved, in hours of gloom,To dream the dead are near,And people all the lonely roomWith guardian spirits dear,
Dream on the soothing dream at will:The lurid mist is o’er,That showed the righteous suffering stillUpon th’ eternal shore.
If with thy heart the strains accord,That on His altar-throneHighest exalt thy glorious Lord,Yet leave Him most thine own;
Oh, come to our Communion Feast:There present, in the heartAs in the hands, th’ eternal PriestWill His true self impart.—
Thus, should thy soul misgiving turnBack to the enchanted air,Solace and warning thou mayst learnFrom all that tempts thee there.
And, oh! by all the pangs and fearsFraternal spirits know,When for an elder’s shame the tearsOf wakeful anguish flow,
Speak gently of our sister’s fall:Who knows but gentle loveMay win her at our patient callThe surer way to prove?
This is thankworthy, if a man for conscience toward God endure grief, suffering wrongfully. 1St. Peterii. 19.
This is thankworthy, if a man for conscience toward God endure grief, suffering wrongfully. 1St. Peterii. 19.
Praiseto our pardoning God! though silent nowThe thunders of the deep prophetic sky,Though in our sight no powers of darkness bowBefore th’ Apostles’ glorious company;
The Martyrs’ noble army still is ours,Far in the North our fallen days have seenHow in her woe this tenderest spirit towersFor Jesus’ sake in agony serene.
Praise to our God! not cottage hearths alone,And shades impervious to the proud world’s glare,Such witness yield; a monarch from his throneSprings to his Cross and finds his glory there.
Yes: whereso’er one trace of thee is found,As in the Sacred Land, the shadows fall:With beating hearts we roam the haunted ground,Lone battle-field, or crumbling prison hall.
And there are aching solitary breasts,Whose widowed walk with thought of thee is cheeredOur own, our royal Saint: thy memory restsOn many a prayer, the more for thee endeared.
True son of our dear Mother, early taughtWith her to worship and for her to die,Nursed in her aisles to more than kingly thought,Oft in her solemn hours we dream thee nigh.
For thou didst love to trace her daily lore,And where we look for comfort or for calm,Over the self-same lines to bend, and pourThy heart with hers in some victorious psalm.
And well did she thy loyal love repay;When all forsook, her Angels still were nigh,Chained and bereft, and on thy funeral way,Straight to the Cross she turned thy dying eye
And yearly now, before the Martyrs’ King,For thee she offers her maternal tears,Calls us, like thee, to His dear feet to cling,And bury in His wounds our earthly fears.
The Angels hear, and there is mirth in Heaven,Fit prelude of the joy, when spirits wonLike those to patient Faith, shall rise forgiven,And at their Saviour’s knees thy bright example own.
And Barzillai said unto the King, How long have I to live, that I should go up with the King unto Jerusalem? 2Samuelxix. 34.
And Barzillai said unto the King, How long have I to live, that I should go up with the King unto Jerusalem? 2Samuelxix. 34.
Aswhen the Paschal week is o’er,Sleeps in the silent aisles no moreThe breath of sacred song,But by the rising Saviour’s lightAwakened soars in airy flight,Or deepening rolls along;
The while round altar, niche, and shrine,The funeral evergreens entwine,And a dark brilliance cast,The brighter for their hues of gloom,Tokens of Him, who through the tombInto high glory passed:
Such were the lights and such the strains.When proudly streamed o’er ocean plainsOur own returning Cross;For with that triumph seemed to floatFar on the breeze one dirge-like noteOf orphanhood and loss.
Father and King, oh where art thou?A greener wreath adorns thy brow,And clearer rays surround;O, for one hour of prayer like thine,To plead before th’ all-ruling shrineFor Britain lost and found!
And he, whose mild persuasive voiceTaught us in trials to rejoice,Most like a faithful dove,That by some ruined homestead builds,And pours to the forsaken fieldsHis wonted lay of love:
Why comes he not to bear his part,To lift and guide th’ exulting heart?—A hand that cannot sparsLies heavy on his gentle breast:We wish him health; he sighs for rest,And Heaven accepts the prayer.
Yes, go in peace, dear placid spright,Ill spared; but would we store arightThy serious sweet farewell,We need not grudge thee to the skies,Sure after thee in time to rise,With thee for ever dwell.
Till then, whene’er with duteous hand,Year after year, my native LandHer royal offering brings,Upon the Altar lays the Crown,And spreads her robes of old renownBefore the King of kings.
Be some kind spirit, likest thine,Ever at hand, with airs divineThe wandering heart to seize;Whispering, “How long hast thou to live,That thou should’st Hope or Fancy gaveTo flowers or crowns like these?”
As I was with Moses, so I will be with thee; I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.Joshuai. 5.
As I was with Moses, so I will be with thee; I will not fail thee, nor forsake thee.Joshuai. 5.
Thevoice that from the glory cameTo tell how Moses died unseen,And waken Joshua’s spear of flameTo victory on the mountains green,Its trumpet tones are sounding still,When Kings or Parents pass away,They greet us with a cheering thrillOf power and comfort in decay.
Behind thus soft bright summer cloudThat makes such haste to melt and die,Our wistful gaze is oft allowedA glimpse of the unchanging sky:Let storm and darkness do their worst;For the lost dream the heart may ache,The heart may ache, but may not burst;Heaven will not leave thee nor forsake.
One rock amid the weltering floods,One torch in a tempestuous night,One changeless pine in fading woods:—Such is the thought of Love and Might,True Might and ever-present Love,When death is busy near the throne,Auth Sorrow her keen sting would proveOn Monarchs orphaned and alone.
In that lorn hour and desolate,Who could endure a crown? but He,Who singly bore the world’s sad weight,Is near, to whisper, “Lean on Me:Thy days of toil, thy nights of care,Sad lonely dreams in crowded hall,Darkness within, while pageants glareAround—the Cross supports them all.”
Oh, Promise of undying Love!While Monarchs seek thee for repose,Far in the nameless mountain coveEach pastoral heart thy bounty knows.Ye, who in place of shepherds trueCome trembling to their awful trust,Lo here the fountain to imbueWith strength and hope your feeble dust.
Not upon Kings or Priests aloneThe power of that dear word is spent;It chants to all in softest toneThe lowly lesson of Content:Heaven’s light is poured on high and low;To high and low Heaven’s Angel spake;“Resign thee to thy weal or woe,I ne’er will leave thee nor forsake.”
After this, the congregation shall be desired, secretly in their prayers, to make their humble supplications to God for all these things: for the which prayers there shall be silence kept for a space.After which shall be sung or said by the Bishop (the persons to be ordained Priests all kneeling), “Veni, Creator Spiritus.”Rubric in the Office for Ordering of Priests.
After this, the congregation shall be desired, secretly in their prayers, to make their humble supplications to God for all these things: for the which prayers there shall be silence kept for a space.
After which shall be sung or said by the Bishop (the persons to be ordained Priests all kneeling), “Veni, Creator Spiritus.”Rubric in the Office for Ordering of Priests.
’Twassilence in Thy temple, Lord,When slowly through the hallowed airThe spreading cloud of incense soared,Charged with the breath of Israel’s prayer.
’Twas silence round Thy throne on high,When the last wondrous seal unclosed,And in this portals of the skyThine armies awfully reposed.
And this deep pause, that o’er us nowIs hovering—comes it not of Thee?Is it not like a mother’s vowWhen, with her darling on her knee,
She weighs and numbers o’er and o’erLove’s treasure hid in her fond breast,To cull from that exhaustless storeThe dearest blessing and the best?
And where shall mother’s bosom find,With all its deep love-learnèd skill,A prayer so sweetly to her mind,As, in this sacred hour and still,
Is wafted from the white-robed choir,Ere yet the pure high-breathèd lay,“Come, Holy Ghost, our souls inspire,”Rise floating on its dove-like way.
And when it comes, so deep and clearThe strain, so soft the melting fall,It seems not to th’ entrancèd earLess than Thine own heart-cheering call.
Spirit of Christ—Thine earnest givenThat these our prayers are heard, and they,Who grasp, this hour, the sword of Heaven,Shall feel Thee on their weary way.
Oft as at morn or soothing eveOver the Holy Fount they lean,Their fading garland freshly weave,Or fan them with Thine airs serene.
Spirit of Light and Truth! to TheeWe trust them in that musing hour,Till they, with open heart and free.Teach all Thy word in all its power.
When foemen watch their tents by night,And mists hang wide o’er moor and fell,Spirit of Counsel and of Might,Their pastoral warfare guide Thou well.
And, oh! when worn and tired they sighWith that more fearful war within,When Passion’s storms are loud and high,And brooding o’er remembered sin
The heart dies down—oh, mightiest then,Come ever true, come ever near,And wake their slumbering love again,Spirit of God’s most holy Fear!