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. Lukei. 28.

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. Lukei. 28.

Oh! Thou who deign’st to sympathiseWith all our frail and fleshly ties,Maker yet Brother dear,Forgive the too presumptuous thought,If, calming wayward grief, I soughtTo gaze on Thee too near.

Yet sure ’twas not presumption, Lord,’Twas Thine own comfortable wordThat made the lesson known:Of all the dearest bonds we prove,Thou countest sons and mothers’ loveMost 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 breastWouldst 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 hereWould deem thy sorrows bought too dearBy 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 loveThat nurtured thee so pure and sweet,Making thy heart a shelter meetFor 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 gleamThy new-born Saviour smiled:—

Ave Maria! thou whose nameAll but adoring love may claim,Yet may we reach thy shrine;For He, thy Son and Saviour, vowsTo crown all lowly lofty browsWith love and joy like thine.

Blessed is the womb that bare Him—blessedThe bosom where His lips were pressed,But rather blessed are theyWho hear His word and keep it well,The living homes where Christ shall dwell,And never pass away.

And the contention was so sharp between them, that they departed asunder one from the other.Actsxv. 30.Compare 2Tim.iv. 11. Take Mark, and bring him with thee: for he is profitable to me for the ministry.

And the contention was so sharp between them, that they departed asunder one from the other.Actsxv. 30.

Compare 2Tim.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 sceneOn holiest happiest thoughts to lean,On Friendship, Kindred, or on Love?Since not Apostles’ hands can claspEach other in so firm a graspBut they shall change and variance prove.

Yet deem not, on such parting sadShall 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 upboreBy Chebar in the fiery blast.So, on their tasks of love and praiseThis saints of God their several waysRight onward speed, yet join at last.

And sometimes e’en beneath the moonThe Saviour gives a gracious boon,When reconcilèd Christians meet,And face to face, and heart to heart,High thoughts of holy love impartIn silence meek, or converse sweet.

Companion of the Saints! ’twas thineTo taste that drop of peace divine,When the great soldier of thy LordCalled thee to take his last farewell,Teaching the Church with joy to tellThe story of your love restored.

O then the glory and the bliss,When all that pained or seemed amissShall 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!

Let the brother of low degree rejoice in that he is exalted: but the rich in that he is made low.St. Jamesi. 9. 10.

Dearis the morning gale of spring,And dear th’ autumnal eve;But few delights can summer bringA Poet’s crown to weave.

Her bowers are mute, her fountains dry,And ever Fancy’s wingSpeed’s from beneath her cloudless skyTo 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 gleamShe plies her weary task,While vainly for some pleasant dreamHer wandering glances ask.—

O shame upon thee, listless heart,So sad a sigh to heave,As if thySaviourhad no partIn thoughts, that make thee grieve.

As if along His lonesome wayHe had not borne for theeSad languors through the summer day,Storms on the wintry sea.

Youth’s lightning flash of joy securePassed 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 knewHow cold and bare what mortals dream,To worlds where all is true.

Then grudge not thou the anguish keenWhich makes thee like thyLord,And learn to quit with eye sereneThy youth’s ideal hoard.

Thy treasured hopes and raptures high—Unmurmuring let them go,Nor grieve the bliss should quickly flyWhichChristdisdained 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 layThat sorrow best relieves;Thankful for all God takes away,Humbled by all He glass.

The sea of consolation, a Levite.Actsiv. 36.

Theworld’s a room of sickness, where each heartKnows 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 toneEnfeebled spirits own,And love to raise the languid eye,When, like an angel’s wing, they feel him fleeting by:—

Feelonly—for in silence gently glidingFain 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 ofJesus; such the loveHe to His chosen taught for His dear widowed Dove.

Warmed underneath the Comforter’s safe wingThey 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 knowThe 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 almsAnd passions onGod’saltar laid.The world to them is closed, and now they shineWith rays of love divine,Through darkest nooks of this dull earthPouring, 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 wayFor mutual love without alloy:Never so blest as when inJesus’ rollThey write some hero-soul,More pleased upon his brightening roadTo wait, than if their own with all his radiance glowed.

O happy spirits, marked by God and manTheir 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 loveYe banquet there above;Yet in your sympathetic heartWe and our earthly griefs may ask and hope a part.

Comfort’s true sons! amid the thoughts of downThat strew your pillow of repose,Sure ’tis one joy to muse, how ye unknownBy 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 keepsThe watch-fire of his midnight prayer,Or issuing thence, the eyes of mourners steepsIn 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 waysTo live in memory here, in Heaven by love and praise.

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.Malachiiv. 5, 6.

Twicein her season of decayThe fallen Church hath felt Elijah’s eyeDart from the wild its piercing ray:Not keener burns, in the chill morning sky,The herald star,Whose torch afarShadows 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 moreFrom Sinai soar,On his celestial errands bound.

But wafted to her glorious placeBy harmless fire, among the ethereal thrones,His spirit with a dear embraceThee the loved harbinger of Jesus owns,Well-pleased to viewHer likeness true,And trace, in thine, her own deep tones.

Deathless himself, he joys with theeTo 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 unbornDidst guide our hope, where Christ should rise.

Now resting from your jealous careFor sinners, such as Eden cannot know,Ye pour for us your mingled prayer,No anxious fear to damp Affection’s glow,Love draws a cloudFrom you to shroudRebellion’s mystery here below.

And since we see, and not afar,The twilight of the great and dreadful day,Why linger, till Elijah’s carStoop from the clouds? Why sheep ye? Rise and pray,Ye heralds sealedIn camp or fieldYour Saviour’s banner to display.

Where is the lore the Baptist taught,The soul unswerving and the fearless tongue?The much-enduring wisdom, soughtBy lonely prayer the haunted rocks among?Who counts it gainHis light should wane,So the whole world to Jesus throng?

Thou Spirit, who the Church didst lendHer 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 arightOur weary souls by earth beguiled.

So glorious let thy Pastors shine,That by their speaking lives the world may learnFirst filial duty, then divine,That sons to parents, all to Thee may turn;And ready proveIn fires of love,At sight of Thee, for aye to burn.

When Herod would have brought him forth, the same night Peter was sleeping.Actsxii. 26.

Thouthrice 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 deepHis slumber on the eve of death?And wherefore smiles he in his sleepAs one who drew celestial breath?

He loves and is beloved again—Can his soul choose but be at rest?Sorrow hath fled away, and PainDares not invade the guarded nest.

He dearly loves, and not alone:For his winged thoughts are soaring highWhere never yet frail heart was knownTo breathe its vain Affection’s sigh.

He loves and weeps—but more than tearsHave sealed Thy welcome and his love—One look lives in him, and endearsCrosses and wrongs where’er he rove:

That gracious chiding look, Thy callTo win him to himself and Thee,Sweetening the sorrow of his fallWhich else were rued too bitterly.

E’en through the veil of sheep it shines,The memory of that kindly glance;—The Angel watching by, divinesAnd spares awhile his blissful trance.

Or haply to his native lakeHis vision wafts him back, to talkWithJesus, 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 hearOf angel song and angel motion,Rising and falling on the earLike waves in Joy’s unbounded ocean.—

His dream is changed—the Tyrant’s voiceCalls 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 lightThat fills up all the ample gloom.

The flame, that in a few short yearsDeep through the chambers of the deadShall 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 windTo 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 followJesusout of sight.

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. Matthewxx. 23.

Sitdown and take thy fill of joyAt 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 nowThou readest all thy Saviour meant,What time His grave yet gentle browIn 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 drinkThe cup that I in tears must steep,Nor from the ’whelming waters shrinkThat 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 weaveFor those next Me in glory placed,

“I give it not by partial love;But in My Father’s book are writWhat 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 TheeI seem to soar in vision bright,With thoughts of coming agony,Stay Thou the too presumptuous flight:Gently along the vale of tearsLead me from Tabor’s sunbright steep,Let me not grudge a few short yearsWith thee t’ward Heaven to walk and weep:

Too happy, on my silent path,If now and then allowed, with TheeWatching 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 allCome see thy place prepared in Heaven.”

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. Johni. 50.

Holdup thy mirror to the sun,And thou shalt need an eagle’s gaze,So perfectly the polished stoneGives back the glory of his rays:

Turn it, and it shall paint as trueThe 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 pageWe see one glorious Image lookAll eyes to dazzle and engage,

The Son of God: and that indeedWe see Him as He is, we know,Since in the same bright glass we readThe very life of things below.—

Eye of God’s word! where’er we turnEver upon us! thy keen gazeCan all the depths of sin discern,Unravel every bosom’s maze:

Who that has felt thy glance of dreadThrill 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 indeedBows down t’ adore the Nazarene.

So did Nathanael, guileless man,At once, not shame-faced or afraid,Owning Him God, who so could scanHis 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 madeTo 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 praiseWhat God’s approving word hath sealed:Enough, if might our feeble laysTake 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 froOn 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 restFresh, 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 foundA way, and fixed his wavering choice,Nearest and dearest ever sound.

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. Lukev. 27, 28.

Yehermits 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 bringsThe 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 gazedOn the wreathed smoke afar,That o’er some town, like mist upraised,Hung hiding sun and star,Then as ye turned your weary eyeTo the green earth and open sky,Were ye not fain to doubt how Faith could dwellAmid that dreary glare, in this world’s citadel?

But Love’s a flower that will not dieFor lack of leafy screen,And Christian Hope can cheer the eyeThat ne’er saw vernal green;Then be ye sure that Love can blessE’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 tideOf human care and crime,With whom the melodies abideOf th’ everlasting chime;Who carry music in their heartThrough 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 restAs 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 heartTransferred, where he shall safe beholdEarth and her idols part;While he beside his endless storeShall sit, and floods unceasing pourOf 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 thinkWhere He vouchsafed to eat,How the Most Holy did not shrinkFrom touch of sinner’s meat;What worldly hearts and hearts impureWent 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 lightOn Mammon’s gloomiest cells,As on some city’s cheerless nightThe tide of sunrise swells,Till tower, and dome, and bridge-way proudAre 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 shineSuch gleams of Paradise,Should not their peace be peace divine,Who day by day ariseTo look on clearer heavens, and scanThe 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!

Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation?Hebrewsi. 14.

Yestars that round the Sun of righteousnessIn glorious order roll,With harps for ever strung, ready to blessGod 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 combineOur 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 nightWhen ye, who used to soarDiverse along all space in fiery flight,Came thronging to adoreYour God new-born, and made a sinner’s child;As if the stars should leaveTheir stations in the far ethereal wild,And round the sun a radiant circle weave.

Nor less your lay of triumph greeted fairOur Champion and your King,In that first strife, whence Satan in despairSunk down on scathèd wing:Abuse He fasted, and alone He fought;But when His toils were o’er,Ye to the sacred Hermit duteous broughtBanquet and hymn, your Eden’s festal store.

Ye too, when lowest in th’ abyss of woeHe plunged to save His sheep,Were leaning from your golden thrones to knowThe secrets of that deep:But clouds were on His sorrow: one aloneHis agonising callSummoned 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 elateTo meet th’ unclouded beamOf 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 globeMust 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 choirPoured, 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 againE’en as He goes; with the same human heart,With the same godlike train.”—Oh! jealous God! how could a sinner dareThink 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 standAlway 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 worldOur 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 seeThy mark upon us still;Then all together rise, and reign with Thee,And all their holy joy o’er contrite hearts fulfil!

Luke, the beloved physician, and Demas, greet you.Colossiansiv. 14.Demas hath forsaken me, having loved this present world . . . Only Luke is with me. 2Timothyiv. 10, 11.

Luke, the beloved physician, and Demas, greet you.Colossiansiv. 14.

Demas hath forsaken me, having loved this present world . . . Only Luke is with me. 2Timothyiv. 10, 11.

Twoclouds before the summer galeIn 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 startsAlong their wild self-chosen maze.

He only, by whose sovereign handE’en sinners for the evil dayWere 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 kneelTill 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 readThe mystery of the wicked heart—Why vainly oft our arrows speedWhen aimed with most unerring art;

While from some rude and powerless armA random shaft in season sentShall 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 saintIn 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 allowFor 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 secureE’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 lendsTo him who wants the martyr’s heart.

But if there be, who follows PaulAs 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 sheepTo tell of the great Shepherd’s love;To learn of mourners while they weepThe 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 gleamThat 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 prolongsHer hymns of high thanksgiving still.

Ah! dearest mother, since too oftThe world yet wins some Demas frailE’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 seeThy true, fond nurslings closer cling,Cling closer to their Lord and thee.

That ye should earnestly contend for the faith which was once delivered unto the saints.St. Jude3.

Seestthou, 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 bringThine household choir, in true accordTheir soothing hymns for her to sing.

Soft on her fluttering heart shall breatheThe fragrance of that genial isle,There she may weave her funeral wreath,And to her own sad music smile.

The Spirit of the dying SonIs there, and fills the holy placeWith records sweet of duties done,Of pardoned foes, and cherished grace.

And as of old by two and twoHis herald saints the Saviour sentTo soften hearts like morning dew,Where he to shine in mercy meant;

So evermore He deems His nameBest honoured and his way prepared,When watching by his altar-flameHe 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 setFor sacred song, Joy’s golden mean.

He loves when some clear soaring mindIs drawn by mutual pietyTo simple souls and unrefined,Who in life’s shadiest covert lie.

Or if perchance a saddened heartThat 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 waySome spirit full of glee, yet taughtTo bear the sight of dull decay,And nurse it with all-pitying thought;

Cheerful as soaring lark, and mildAs evening blackbird’s full-toned lay,When the relenting sun has smiledBright through a whole December day.

These are the tones to brace and cheerThe 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 songComes floating on the mountain air,And bids thee yet be bold and strong—Fancy may die, but Faith is there.

Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees, till we have sealed the servants of our God in their foreheads.Revelationvii. 3.

Whyblow’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 skyHer summer veil, half drawn on high,Of silvery haze, and dark and stillThe 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 pureAnd 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 traceGod’s unseen armies hovering round,We should behold by angels’ graceThe four strong winds of Heaven fast bound,Their downward sweep a moment stayedOn ocean cove and forest glade,Till the last flower of autumn shedHer funeral odours on her dying bed.

So in Thine awful armoury, Lord,The lightnings of the judgment-dayPause yet awhile, in mercy stored,Till willing hearts wear quite awayTheir earthly stains; and spotless shineOn every brow in light divineThe Cross by angel hands impressed,The seal of glory won and pledge of promised

Little they dream, those haughty soulsWhom empires own with bended knee,What lowly fate their own controls,Together linked by Heaven’s decree;—As bloodhounds hush their baying wildTo 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 brightIn 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 meetGathered long since at Jesus’ feet,No world of passions to destroy,Your prayers and struggles o’er, your task all praise and joy.

OGodof 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 allowedTo scale the mount and pierce the cloud,And Faith may feed her eager viewWith wonders Sinai never knew.

Fresh from th’ atoning sacrificeThe world’s Creator bleeding lies.That man, His foe, by whom He bled,May take Him for his daily bread.

O agony of wavering thoughtWhen 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 tellOf 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 SpouseLow at Thy feet renew her vows;Thine own dear promise she would pleadFor us her true though fallen seed.

She pleads by all Thy mercies, toldThy 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 brightEach moment by thine altar’s light,Sees them e’en now: they still abideIn 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 soundOne gentle footstep gliding round,Offering by turns on Jesus’ partThe 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.

Whereis it mothers learn their love?—In every Church a fountain springsO’er which th’ Eternal DoveHovers out softest wings.

What sparkles in that lucid floodIs water, by gross mortals eyed:But seen by Faith, ’tis bloodOut 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 thereEarth’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 gleamUpon the slumbering features glow,When the life-giving streamTouches the tender brow!

Or when the holy cross is signed,And the young soldier duly sworn,With true and fearless mindTo serve the Virgin-born.

But happiest ye, who sealed and blestBack to your arms your treasure take,With Jesus’ mark impressedTo nurse for Jesus’ sake:

To whom—as if in hallowed airYe knelt before some awful shrine—His innocent gestures wearA meaning half divine:

By whom Love’s daily touch is seenIn strengthening form and freshening hue,In the fixed brow serene,The deep yet eager view.—

Who taught thy pure and even breathTo 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 evenSee we our God so nigh.

Sweet one, make haste and know Him too,Thine own adopting Father love,That like thine earliest dewThy dying sweets may prove.

Oh! say not, dream not, heavenly notesTo 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 mindMay learn the sacred air, and allThe harmony unwind.

Was not our Lord a little child,Taught by degrees to pray,By father dear and mother mildInstructed day by day?

And loved He not of Heaven to talkWith children in His sight,To meet them in His daily walk,And to His arms invite?

What though around His throne of fireThe everlasting chantBe wafted from the seraph choirIn glory jubilant?

Yet stoops He, ever pleased to markOur rude essays of love,Faint as the pipe of wakening lark,Heard by some twilight grove:

Yet is He near us, to surveyThese bright and ordered files,Like spring-flowers in their best array,All silence and all smiles.

Save that each little voice in turnSome 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 beneathBut cries of babes, that cannot knowHalf the deep thought they breathe?

In His own words we Christ adore,But angels, as we speak,Higher above our meaning soarThan 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 awayFrom infants’ simple lays?

Theshadow of th’ Almighty’s cloudCalm 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 foldA lodestar to a warrior’s eye.

So should Thy champions, ere this strifeBy 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 beamIn 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 flightShook 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 dewTurning the waste Thy people trod;

Draw, Holy Ghost, Thy seven-fold veilBetween 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 choirBy pastoral hands, toward Thee we drew;

When trembling at this sacred railWe 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 tracedThat blessing dear, that dove-like hand,A sheltering rock in Memory’s waste,O’er-shadowing all the weary land.

Thereis an awe in mortals’ joy,A deep mysterious fearHalf of the heart will still employ,As if we drew too nearTo Eden’s portal, and those firesThat bicker round in wavy spires,Forbidding, to our frail desires,What cost us once so dear.

We cower before th’ heart-searching eyeIn 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 singsA tuned and measured strain.

Ill fare the lay, though soft as dewAnd free as air it fall,That, with Thine altar full in view,Thy votaries would enthrallTo a foul dream, of heathen night,Lifting her torch in Love’s despite,And scaring with base wild-fire lightThe sacred nuptial hall.

Far other strains, far other fires,Our marriage-offering grace;Welcome, all chaste and kind desires,With even matron paceApproaching 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 needTo nurse, on earth, the heavenly seed:Yet comfort in His eye we readFor 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 bringHis Father’s dearest blessing, shedOf old on Isaac’s nuptial bed,Now on the board before ye spreadOf 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 awayFrom the pure shrine, where Christ to-dayWill store each flower, ye duteous lay,For an eternal wreath.

OYouthand Joy, your airy treadToo 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 triedBear 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 SpouseWith piercèd hands and bleeding brows,Whose tears from age to age are shedO’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 glowWith 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 pouredTheir hearts in every contrite word,How have I rather longed to kneelAnd ask of them sweet pardon’s seal;How blessed the heavenly music broughtBy thee to aid my faltering thought!“Peace” ere we kneel, and when we ceaseTo pray, the farewell word is, “Peace.”

I came again: the place was bright“With something of celestial light”—A simple Altar by the bedFor 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 roomWas veiled in sadly-soothing gloom,And ready for her last abodeThe pale form like a lily showed,By Virgin fingers duly spread,And prized for love of summer fled.The light from those soft-smiling eyesHad 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 strainPractised with you at Eden’s door,To be sung on, where Angels soar,With blended voices evermore.

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. Lukevii. 13, 14.

Whosays, the wan autumnal soonBeams with too faint a smileTo 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 downWithin some circling woodland wall,Where bright leaves, reddening ere they fall,Wave gaily o’er the waters brown.

And let some graceful arch be thereWith wreathèd mullions proud,With burnished ivy for its screen,And moss, that glows as fresh and greenAs 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 bierWhence 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 aloneFor 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 calmWe sometimes see alightOn Christian mourners, while they waitIn silence, by some churchyard gate,Their summons to this holy rite.

And such the tones of love, which breakThe stillness of that hour,Quelling th’ embittered spirit’s strife—“The Resurrection and the LifeAm I: believe, and die no more.”

Unchanged that voice—and though not yetThe dead sit up and speak,Answering its call; we gladlier restOur darlings on earth’s quiet breast,And our hearts feel they must not break.

Far better they should sleep awhileWithin the Church’s shade,Nor wake, until new heaven, new earth,Meet for their new immortal birthFor their abiding-place be made,

Than wander back to life, and leanOn our frail love once more.’Tis sweet, as year by year we loseFriends out of sight, in faith to museHow 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 griefHope of new spring and endless home.

Then cheerly to your work againWith hearts new-braced and setTo run, untired, love’s blessèd race.As meet for those, who face to faceOver the grave their Lord have met.

Isthere, in bowers of endless spring,One known from all the seraph bandBy softer voice, by smile and wingMore exquisitely bland!Here let him speed: to-day this hallowed airIs 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 thoughtIs here! what hope and joy and loveAll in one tender bosom brought,For the all-gracious DoveTo brood o’er silently, and form for HeavenEach 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 declareSoft 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 madeA Heaven on earth around this couch where Thou wast laid.

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 decayKeeps 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 clangOut of that silver trump, whose tones of oldForgiveness only told.And who can blame the mother’s fond affright,Who sporting on some giddy heightHer infant sees, and springs with hurried handTo 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 perchanceAre deeper plunged in sorrow’s trance:Your God forgives, but ye no comfort takeTill ye have scourged the sins that in your conscience ache.

Oh, heavy laden soul! kneel down and hearThy penance in calm fear:With thine own lips to sentence all thy sin;Then, by the judge withinAbsolved, in thankful sacrifice to partFor ever with thy sullen heart,Nor on remorseful thoughts to brood, and stainThis glory of the Cross, forgiven and cheereth in vain.

When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee.Isaiahxliii. 2.

Theshower of moonlight falls as still and clearUpon this desert mainAs where sweet flowers some pastoral garden cheerWith fragrance after rain:The wild winds rustle in piping shrouds,As in the quivering trees:Like summer fields, beneath the shadowy cloudsThe 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 warCome 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 relieveSome 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 riseToo high for earth; what mother’s heart could spareTo the cold cheerless deepHer 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 headFast by his father’s grave,—One moment, and the seeds of life shall springOut of the waste abyss,And happy warriors triumph with their KingIn worlds without a sea, unchanging orbs of bliss.

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