Ah me! that by so frail and feeble threadOur life is holden—that not life alone,But all that life has wonMay in an hour be gathered to the dead;The slow additions that build up the mind,The skill that by temptation we have boughtAnd suffering, and whatever has been taughtBy lengthened years and converse with our kind,That all may cease together—and the treeReared to its height by many a slow degree,And by the dews the sunshine and the showersOf many springs, an instant may lay low,With all its living towers,And all the fruit mature of growth and slow,Which on the trees of wisdom leisurely must grow.
Ah me! that by so frail and feeble threadOur life is holden—that not life alone,But all that life has wonMay in an hour be gathered to the dead;The slow additions that build up the mind,The skill that by temptation we have boughtAnd suffering, and whatever has been taughtBy lengthened years and converse with our kind,That all may cease together—and the treeReared to its height by many a slow degree,And by the dews the sunshine and the showersOf many springs, an instant may lay low,With all its living towers,And all the fruit mature of growth and slow,Which on the trees of wisdom leisurely must grow.
Ah me! that by so frail and feeble threadOur life is holden—that not life alone,But all that life has wonMay in an hour be gathered to the dead;The slow additions that build up the mind,The skill that by temptation we have boughtAnd suffering, and whatever has been taughtBy lengthened years and converse with our kind,That all may cease together—and the treeReared to its height by many a slow degree,And by the dews the sunshine and the showersOf many springs, an instant may lay low,With all its living towers,And all the fruit mature of growth and slow,Which on the trees of wisdom leisurely must grow.
Alas! it is another thing to wail,That when the foremost runners sink and fail,They cannot pass their torch or forward placeTo them that are behind them in their race,But their extinguished torches must be laidTogether with them in the dust of death:That when the wise and the true-hearted fade,So little of themselves they can bequeathTo us, who yet are in the race of life,For labour and for toil, for weariness and strife.
Alas! it is another thing to wail,That when the foremost runners sink and fail,They cannot pass their torch or forward placeTo them that are behind them in their race,But their extinguished torches must be laidTogether with them in the dust of death:That when the wise and the true-hearted fade,So little of themselves they can bequeathTo us, who yet are in the race of life,For labour and for toil, for weariness and strife.
Alas! it is another thing to wail,That when the foremost runners sink and fail,They cannot pass their torch or forward placeTo them that are behind them in their race,But their extinguished torches must be laidTogether with them in the dust of death:That when the wise and the true-hearted fade,So little of themselves they can bequeathTo us, who yet are in the race of life,For labour and for toil, for weariness and strife.
But from behind the veil,Where they are entered who have gone before,A solemn voice arrests my feeble wail—“And has thy life such worthier aims, O man,That thou shouldst grudge to give its little spanTo truth and knowledge, and faith’s holy lore,Because the places for the exerciseOf these may be withdrawn from mortal eyes.Win truth, win goodness—for which man was made,And fear not thou of these to be bereft,Fear not that these shall in the dust be laid,Or in corruption left,Or be the grave-worm’s food.Nothing is left or lost—nothing of good,Or lovely; but whatever its first springsHas drawn from God, returns to him again;That only which ’twere misery to retainIs taken from you, which to keep were loss;Only the scum the refuse and the drossAre borne away unto the grave of things,Meanwhile whatever gifts from heav’n descendThither again have flowed,To the receptacle of all things good,From whom they come and unto whom they tend,Who is the First and Last, the Author and the End.
But from behind the veil,Where they are entered who have gone before,A solemn voice arrests my feeble wail—“And has thy life such worthier aims, O man,That thou shouldst grudge to give its little spanTo truth and knowledge, and faith’s holy lore,Because the places for the exerciseOf these may be withdrawn from mortal eyes.Win truth, win goodness—for which man was made,And fear not thou of these to be bereft,Fear not that these shall in the dust be laid,Or in corruption left,Or be the grave-worm’s food.Nothing is left or lost—nothing of good,Or lovely; but whatever its first springsHas drawn from God, returns to him again;That only which ’twere misery to retainIs taken from you, which to keep were loss;Only the scum the refuse and the drossAre borne away unto the grave of things,Meanwhile whatever gifts from heav’n descendThither again have flowed,To the receptacle of all things good,From whom they come and unto whom they tend,Who is the First and Last, the Author and the End.
But from behind the veil,Where they are entered who have gone before,A solemn voice arrests my feeble wail—“And has thy life such worthier aims, O man,That thou shouldst grudge to give its little spanTo truth and knowledge, and faith’s holy lore,Because the places for the exerciseOf these may be withdrawn from mortal eyes.Win truth, win goodness—for which man was made,And fear not thou of these to be bereft,Fear not that these shall in the dust be laid,Or in corruption left,Or be the grave-worm’s food.Nothing is left or lost—nothing of good,Or lovely; but whatever its first springsHas drawn from God, returns to him again;That only which ’twere misery to retainIs taken from you, which to keep were loss;Only the scum the refuse and the drossAre borne away unto the grave of things,Meanwhile whatever gifts from heav’n descendThither again have flowed,To the receptacle of all things good,From whom they come and unto whom they tend,Who is the First and Last, the Author and the End.
And fear to sorrow with increase of grief,When they who go beforeGo furnished—or because their span was brief,When in the acquist of what is life’s true gage,Truth, knowledge, and that other worthiest lore,They had fulfilled already a long age.For doubt not but that in the worlds aboveThere must be other offices of love,That other tasks and ministries there are,Since it is promised that His servants, thereShall serve him still. Therefore be strong, be strong,Ye that remain, nor fruitlessly revolve,Darkling, the riddles which ye cannot solve,But do the works that unto you belong,Believing that for every mystery,For all the death the darkness and the curseOf this dim universe,Needs a solution full of love must be:And that the way whereby ye may attainNearest to this, is not thro’ broodings vainAnd half-rebellious—questionings of God,But by a patient seeking to fulfilThe purpose of his everlasting will,Treading the way which lowly men have trod.Since it is ever they who are too proudFor this, that are the foremost and most loudTo judge his hidden judgments, these are stillThe most perplexed and mazed at his mysterious will.”
And fear to sorrow with increase of grief,When they who go beforeGo furnished—or because their span was brief,When in the acquist of what is life’s true gage,Truth, knowledge, and that other worthiest lore,They had fulfilled already a long age.For doubt not but that in the worlds aboveThere must be other offices of love,That other tasks and ministries there are,Since it is promised that His servants, thereShall serve him still. Therefore be strong, be strong,Ye that remain, nor fruitlessly revolve,Darkling, the riddles which ye cannot solve,But do the works that unto you belong,Believing that for every mystery,For all the death the darkness and the curseOf this dim universe,Needs a solution full of love must be:And that the way whereby ye may attainNearest to this, is not thro’ broodings vainAnd half-rebellious—questionings of God,But by a patient seeking to fulfilThe purpose of his everlasting will,Treading the way which lowly men have trod.Since it is ever they who are too proudFor this, that are the foremost and most loudTo judge his hidden judgments, these are stillThe most perplexed and mazed at his mysterious will.”
And fear to sorrow with increase of grief,When they who go beforeGo furnished—or because their span was brief,When in the acquist of what is life’s true gage,Truth, knowledge, and that other worthiest lore,They had fulfilled already a long age.For doubt not but that in the worlds aboveThere must be other offices of love,That other tasks and ministries there are,Since it is promised that His servants, thereShall serve him still. Therefore be strong, be strong,Ye that remain, nor fruitlessly revolve,Darkling, the riddles which ye cannot solve,But do the works that unto you belong,Believing that for every mystery,For all the death the darkness and the curseOf this dim universe,Needs a solution full of love must be:And that the way whereby ye may attainNearest to this, is not thro’ broodings vainAnd half-rebellious—questionings of God,But by a patient seeking to fulfilThe purpose of his everlasting will,Treading the way which lowly men have trod.Since it is ever they who are too proudFor this, that are the foremost and most loudTo judge his hidden judgments, these are stillThe most perplexed and mazed at his mysterious will.”
WhenI have sometimes read of precious things,The precious things of earth, which yet are vile,Together heaped into the graves of kings,Or wasted with them on their funeral pile,Steeds arms and costly vestments and the drossWhich men call gold, feeding one ravenous pyre,I have been little moved at all the lossOf all the treasure which fond men admire.But when I hear of some too early doom,Snatching wit wisdom valour grace away,Or our own loss has taught me what the tombMay cover from us, then I feel and sayThat earth has things whereon the grave may feed,And feeding may make poor the world indeed.
WhenI have sometimes read of precious things,The precious things of earth, which yet are vile,Together heaped into the graves of kings,Or wasted with them on their funeral pile,Steeds arms and costly vestments and the drossWhich men call gold, feeding one ravenous pyre,I have been little moved at all the lossOf all the treasure which fond men admire.But when I hear of some too early doom,Snatching wit wisdom valour grace away,Or our own loss has taught me what the tombMay cover from us, then I feel and sayThat earth has things whereon the grave may feed,And feeding may make poor the world indeed.
WhenI have sometimes read of precious things,The precious things of earth, which yet are vile,Together heaped into the graves of kings,Or wasted with them on their funeral pile,Steeds arms and costly vestments and the drossWhich men call gold, feeding one ravenous pyre,I have been little moved at all the lossOf all the treasure which fond men admire.But when I hear of some too early doom,Snatching wit wisdom valour grace away,Or our own loss has taught me what the tombMay cover from us, then I feel and sayThat earth has things whereon the grave may feed,And feeding may make poor the world indeed.
Whatis the greatness of a fallen king?This—that his fall avails not to abateHis spirit to a level with his fate,Or inward fall along with it to bring;That he disdains to stoop his former wing,But keeps in exile and in want the lawOf kingship yet, and counts it scorn to drawComfort indign from any meaner thing.Soul, that art fallen from thine ancient place,Mayest thou in this mean world find nothing great,Nor aught that shall the memories effaceOf that true greatness which was once thine own,As knowing thou must keep thy kingly state,If thou wouldst reascend thy kingly throne.
Whatis the greatness of a fallen king?This—that his fall avails not to abateHis spirit to a level with his fate,Or inward fall along with it to bring;That he disdains to stoop his former wing,But keeps in exile and in want the lawOf kingship yet, and counts it scorn to drawComfort indign from any meaner thing.Soul, that art fallen from thine ancient place,Mayest thou in this mean world find nothing great,Nor aught that shall the memories effaceOf that true greatness which was once thine own,As knowing thou must keep thy kingly state,If thou wouldst reascend thy kingly throne.
Whatis the greatness of a fallen king?This—that his fall avails not to abateHis spirit to a level with his fate,Or inward fall along with it to bring;That he disdains to stoop his former wing,But keeps in exile and in want the lawOf kingship yet, and counts it scorn to drawComfort indign from any meaner thing.Soul, that art fallen from thine ancient place,Mayest thou in this mean world find nothing great,Nor aught that shall the memories effaceOf that true greatness which was once thine own,As knowing thou must keep thy kingly state,If thou wouldst reascend thy kingly throne.
Thestrong in spiritual action need not lookUpon the new-found year as on a scroll,The which their hands lack cunning to unroll,But in it read, as in an open book,All they are seeking—high resolve unshookBy circumstance’s unforeseen control,Successful striving, and whate’er the soulHas recognised for duty, not forsook.But they whom many failures have made tame,Question the future with that reverent fear,Which best their need of heav’nly aid may shew.Will it have purer thought, and loftier aimPursued more loftily? That a man might knowWhat thou wilt bring him, thou advancing year!
Thestrong in spiritual action need not lookUpon the new-found year as on a scroll,The which their hands lack cunning to unroll,But in it read, as in an open book,All they are seeking—high resolve unshookBy circumstance’s unforeseen control,Successful striving, and whate’er the soulHas recognised for duty, not forsook.But they whom many failures have made tame,Question the future with that reverent fear,Which best their need of heav’nly aid may shew.Will it have purer thought, and loftier aimPursued more loftily? That a man might knowWhat thou wilt bring him, thou advancing year!
Thestrong in spiritual action need not lookUpon the new-found year as on a scroll,The which their hands lack cunning to unroll,But in it read, as in an open book,All they are seeking—high resolve unshookBy circumstance’s unforeseen control,Successful striving, and whate’er the soulHas recognised for duty, not forsook.But they whom many failures have made tame,Question the future with that reverent fear,Which best their need of heav’nly aid may shew.Will it have purer thought, and loftier aimPursued more loftily? That a man might knowWhat thou wilt bring him, thou advancing year!
Thygladness makes me thankful every way,To look upon thy gladness makes me glad;While yet in part it well might render sadUs thinking that we too might sport and play,And keep like thee continual holiday,If we retained the things which once we had,If we like happy Neophytes were cladStill in baptismal stoles of white array.And yet the gladness of the innocent childHas not more matter for our thankful gleeThan the dim sorrows of the man defiled;Since both in sealing one blest truth agree—Joy is of God, but heaviness and careOf our own hearts and what has harboured there.
Thygladness makes me thankful every way,To look upon thy gladness makes me glad;While yet in part it well might render sadUs thinking that we too might sport and play,And keep like thee continual holiday,If we retained the things which once we had,If we like happy Neophytes were cladStill in baptismal stoles of white array.And yet the gladness of the innocent childHas not more matter for our thankful gleeThan the dim sorrows of the man defiled;Since both in sealing one blest truth agree—Joy is of God, but heaviness and careOf our own hearts and what has harboured there.
Thygladness makes me thankful every way,To look upon thy gladness makes me glad;While yet in part it well might render sadUs thinking that we too might sport and play,And keep like thee continual holiday,If we retained the things which once we had,If we like happy Neophytes were cladStill in baptismal stoles of white array.And yet the gladness of the innocent childHas not more matter for our thankful gleeThan the dim sorrows of the man defiled;Since both in sealing one blest truth agree—Joy is of God, but heaviness and careOf our own hearts and what has harboured there.
Anopen wound that has been healed anew;A stream dried up, that once again is fedWith waters making green its grassy bed;A tree that withered was, but to the dewPuts forth young leaves and blossoms fresh of hue,Even from the branches which had seemed most dead;A sea which having been disquieted,Now stretches like a mirror calm and blue,—Our hearts to each of these were likened well.But Thou wert the physician and the balm;Thou, Lord, the fountain, whence anew was filledTheir parchèd channel; Thou the dew that fellOn their dead branches; ’twas thy voice that stilledThe storm within—Thou didst command the calm.
Anopen wound that has been healed anew;A stream dried up, that once again is fedWith waters making green its grassy bed;A tree that withered was, but to the dewPuts forth young leaves and blossoms fresh of hue,Even from the branches which had seemed most dead;A sea which having been disquieted,Now stretches like a mirror calm and blue,—Our hearts to each of these were likened well.But Thou wert the physician and the balm;Thou, Lord, the fountain, whence anew was filledTheir parchèd channel; Thou the dew that fellOn their dead branches; ’twas thy voice that stilledThe storm within—Thou didst command the calm.
Anopen wound that has been healed anew;A stream dried up, that once again is fedWith waters making green its grassy bed;A tree that withered was, but to the dewPuts forth young leaves and blossoms fresh of hue,Even from the branches which had seemed most dead;A sea which having been disquieted,Now stretches like a mirror calm and blue,—Our hearts to each of these were likened well.But Thou wert the physician and the balm;Thou, Lord, the fountain, whence anew was filledTheir parchèd channel; Thou the dew that fellOn their dead branches; ’twas thy voice that stilledThe storm within—Thou didst command the calm.
A soundof many waters—now I knowTo what was likened the large utterance sentBy Him who ’mid the golden lampads went:Innumerable streams, above, below,Some seen, some heard alone, with headlong flowCome rushing; some with smooth and sheer descent,Some dashed to foam and whiteness, but all blentInto one mighty music. As I go,The tumult of a boundless gladness fillsMy bosom, and my spirit leaps and sings:Sounds and sights are there of the ancient hills,The eagle’s cry, or when the mountain flingsMists from its brow, but none of all these thingsLike the one voice of multitudinous rills.
A soundof many waters—now I knowTo what was likened the large utterance sentBy Him who ’mid the golden lampads went:Innumerable streams, above, below,Some seen, some heard alone, with headlong flowCome rushing; some with smooth and sheer descent,Some dashed to foam and whiteness, but all blentInto one mighty music. As I go,The tumult of a boundless gladness fillsMy bosom, and my spirit leaps and sings:Sounds and sights are there of the ancient hills,The eagle’s cry, or when the mountain flingsMists from its brow, but none of all these thingsLike the one voice of multitudinous rills.
A soundof many waters—now I knowTo what was likened the large utterance sentBy Him who ’mid the golden lampads went:Innumerable streams, above, below,Some seen, some heard alone, with headlong flowCome rushing; some with smooth and sheer descent,Some dashed to foam and whiteness, but all blentInto one mighty music. As I go,The tumult of a boundless gladness fillsMy bosom, and my spirit leaps and sings:Sounds and sights are there of the ancient hills,The eagle’s cry, or when the mountain flingsMists from its brow, but none of all these thingsLike the one voice of multitudinous rills.
Whatis thy worship but a vain pretence,Spirit of Beauty, and a servile trade,A poor and an unworthy traffic madeWith the most sacred gifts of soul and sense;If they who tend thine altars, gathering thenceNo strength, no purity, may still remainSelfish and dark, and from Life’s sordid stainFind in their ministrations no defence?Thus many times I ask, when aught of meanOr sensual has been brought unto mine ear,Of them whose calling high is to insphereEternal Beauty in forms of human art—Vexed that my soul should ever moved have beenBy that which has such feigning at the heart.
Whatis thy worship but a vain pretence,Spirit of Beauty, and a servile trade,A poor and an unworthy traffic madeWith the most sacred gifts of soul and sense;If they who tend thine altars, gathering thenceNo strength, no purity, may still remainSelfish and dark, and from Life’s sordid stainFind in their ministrations no defence?Thus many times I ask, when aught of meanOr sensual has been brought unto mine ear,Of them whose calling high is to insphereEternal Beauty in forms of human art—Vexed that my soul should ever moved have beenBy that which has such feigning at the heart.
Whatis thy worship but a vain pretence,Spirit of Beauty, and a servile trade,A poor and an unworthy traffic madeWith the most sacred gifts of soul and sense;If they who tend thine altars, gathering thenceNo strength, no purity, may still remainSelfish and dark, and from Life’s sordid stainFind in their ministrations no defence?Thus many times I ask, when aught of meanOr sensual has been brought unto mine ear,Of them whose calling high is to insphereEternal Beauty in forms of human art—Vexed that my soul should ever moved have beenBy that which has such feigning at the heart.
Thoucam’st not to thy place by accident,It is the very place God meant for thee;And shouldst thou there small scope for action see,Do not for this give room to discontent;Nor let the time thou owest to God be spentIn idly dreaming how thou mightest be,In what concerns thy spiritual life, more freeFrom outward hindrance or impediment.For presently this hindrance thou shalt findThat without which all goodness were a taskSo slight, that Virtue never could grow strong:And wouldst thou do one duty to His mind,The Imposer’s—over-burdened thou shalt ask,And own thy need of grace to help, ere long.
Thoucam’st not to thy place by accident,It is the very place God meant for thee;And shouldst thou there small scope for action see,Do not for this give room to discontent;Nor let the time thou owest to God be spentIn idly dreaming how thou mightest be,In what concerns thy spiritual life, more freeFrom outward hindrance or impediment.For presently this hindrance thou shalt findThat without which all goodness were a taskSo slight, that Virtue never could grow strong:And wouldst thou do one duty to His mind,The Imposer’s—over-burdened thou shalt ask,And own thy need of grace to help, ere long.
Thoucam’st not to thy place by accident,It is the very place God meant for thee;And shouldst thou there small scope for action see,Do not for this give room to discontent;Nor let the time thou owest to God be spentIn idly dreaming how thou mightest be,In what concerns thy spiritual life, more freeFrom outward hindrance or impediment.For presently this hindrance thou shalt findThat without which all goodness were a taskSo slight, that Virtue never could grow strong:And wouldst thou do one duty to His mind,The Imposer’s—over-burdened thou shalt ask,And own thy need of grace to help, ere long.
Noharsh transitions Nature knows,No dreary spaces intervene;Her work in silence forward goes,And rather felt than seen.For where the watcher, that with eyeTurned eastward, yet could ever sayWhen the faint glooming in the skyFirst lightened into day?Or maiden, by an opening flowerThat many a summer morn has stood,Could fix upon the very hourIt ceased to be a bud?The rainbow colours mix and blendEach with the other, until noneCan tell where fainter hues had end,And deeper tints begun.But only doth this much appear—That the pale hues are deeper grown;The day has broken bright and clear;The bud is fully blown.Dear child, and happy shalt thou be,If from this hour, with just increaseAll good things shall grow up in thee,By such unmarked degrees.If there shall be no dreary spaceBetween thy present self and past,No dreary miserable placeWith spectral shapes aghast;But the full graces of thy primeShall, in their weak beginnings, beLost in an unremembered timeOf holy infancy.This blessing is the first and best;Yet has not prayer been made in vainFor them, tho’ not so amply blest,The lost and found again.And shouldest thou, alas! forbearTo choose the better, nobler lot,Yet may we not esteem our prayerUnheard or heeded not;If after many a wandering,And many a devious pathway trod;If having known that bitter thing,To leave the Lord thy God,It yet shall be, that thou at last,Altho’ thy noon be lost, returnTo bind life’s eve in union fastTo this, its blessed morn.
Noharsh transitions Nature knows,No dreary spaces intervene;Her work in silence forward goes,And rather felt than seen.For where the watcher, that with eyeTurned eastward, yet could ever sayWhen the faint glooming in the skyFirst lightened into day?Or maiden, by an opening flowerThat many a summer morn has stood,Could fix upon the very hourIt ceased to be a bud?The rainbow colours mix and blendEach with the other, until noneCan tell where fainter hues had end,And deeper tints begun.But only doth this much appear—That the pale hues are deeper grown;The day has broken bright and clear;The bud is fully blown.Dear child, and happy shalt thou be,If from this hour, with just increaseAll good things shall grow up in thee,By such unmarked degrees.If there shall be no dreary spaceBetween thy present self and past,No dreary miserable placeWith spectral shapes aghast;But the full graces of thy primeShall, in their weak beginnings, beLost in an unremembered timeOf holy infancy.This blessing is the first and best;Yet has not prayer been made in vainFor them, tho’ not so amply blest,The lost and found again.And shouldest thou, alas! forbearTo choose the better, nobler lot,Yet may we not esteem our prayerUnheard or heeded not;If after many a wandering,And many a devious pathway trod;If having known that bitter thing,To leave the Lord thy God,It yet shall be, that thou at last,Altho’ thy noon be lost, returnTo bind life’s eve in union fastTo this, its blessed morn.
Noharsh transitions Nature knows,No dreary spaces intervene;Her work in silence forward goes,And rather felt than seen.
For where the watcher, that with eyeTurned eastward, yet could ever sayWhen the faint glooming in the skyFirst lightened into day?
Or maiden, by an opening flowerThat many a summer morn has stood,Could fix upon the very hourIt ceased to be a bud?
The rainbow colours mix and blendEach with the other, until noneCan tell where fainter hues had end,And deeper tints begun.
But only doth this much appear—That the pale hues are deeper grown;The day has broken bright and clear;The bud is fully blown.
Dear child, and happy shalt thou be,If from this hour, with just increaseAll good things shall grow up in thee,By such unmarked degrees.
If there shall be no dreary spaceBetween thy present self and past,No dreary miserable placeWith spectral shapes aghast;
But the full graces of thy primeShall, in their weak beginnings, beLost in an unremembered timeOf holy infancy.
This blessing is the first and best;Yet has not prayer been made in vainFor them, tho’ not so amply blest,The lost and found again.
And shouldest thou, alas! forbearTo choose the better, nobler lot,Yet may we not esteem our prayerUnheard or heeded not;
If after many a wandering,And many a devious pathway trod;If having known that bitter thing,To leave the Lord thy God,
It yet shall be, that thou at last,Altho’ thy noon be lost, returnTo bind life’s eve in union fastTo this, its blessed morn.
Ashe who finds one flower sharp thorns among,Plucks it, and highly prizes, though beforeCareless regard on thousands he has flung,As fair as this or more;
Ashe who finds one flower sharp thorns among,Plucks it, and highly prizes, though beforeCareless regard on thousands he has flung,As fair as this or more;
Ashe who finds one flower sharp thorns among,Plucks it, and highly prizes, though beforeCareless regard on thousands he has flung,As fair as this or more;
Not otherwise perhaps this argumentWon from me, where I found it, such regard,That I esteemed no labour thereon spentAs wearisome or hard.
Not otherwise perhaps this argumentWon from me, where I found it, such regard,That I esteemed no labour thereon spentAs wearisome or hard.
Not otherwise perhaps this argumentWon from me, where I found it, such regard,That I esteemed no labour thereon spentAs wearisome or hard.
In huge and antique volume did it lie,That by two solemn clasps was duly bound,As neither to be opened or laid byBut with due thought profound.
In huge and antique volume did it lie,That by two solemn clasps was duly bound,As neither to be opened or laid byBut with due thought profound.
In huge and antique volume did it lie,That by two solemn clasps was duly bound,As neither to be opened or laid byBut with due thought profound.
There fixèd thought to questions did I lend,Which hover on the bounds of mortal ken,And have perplexed, and will unto the endPerplex the brains of men;
There fixèd thought to questions did I lend,Which hover on the bounds of mortal ken,And have perplexed, and will unto the endPerplex the brains of men;
There fixèd thought to questions did I lend,Which hover on the bounds of mortal ken,And have perplexed, and will unto the endPerplex the brains of men;
Of what is time, and what eternity,Of all that seems and is not—forms of things—Till my tired spirit followed painfullyOn flagging weary wings.
Of what is time, and what eternity,Of all that seems and is not—forms of things—Till my tired spirit followed painfullyOn flagging weary wings.
Of what is time, and what eternity,Of all that seems and is not—forms of things—Till my tired spirit followed painfullyOn flagging weary wings.
So that I welcomed this one resting-place,Pleased as a bird, that when its forces fail,Lights panting in the ocean’s middle spaceUpon a sunny sail.
So that I welcomed this one resting-place,Pleased as a bird, that when its forces fail,Lights panting in the ocean’s middle spaceUpon a sunny sail.
So that I welcomed this one resting-place,Pleased as a bird, that when its forces fail,Lights panting in the ocean’s middle spaceUpon a sunny sail.
And now the grace of fiction, which has powerTo render things impossible believed,And win them with the credence of an hourTo be for truths received—
And now the grace of fiction, which has powerTo render things impossible believed,And win them with the credence of an hourTo be for truths received—
And now the grace of fiction, which has powerTo render things impossible believed,And win them with the credence of an hourTo be for truths received—
That grace must help me, as it only can,Winning such transient credence, while I tellWhat to a cloistered solitary manIn ancient times befel.
That grace must help me, as it only can,Winning such transient credence, while I tellWhat to a cloistered solitary manIn ancient times befel.
That grace must help me, as it only can,Winning such transient credence, while I tellWhat to a cloistered solitary manIn ancient times befel.
Him little might our earthly grandeur feed,Who to the uttermost was vowed to beA follower of his Master’s barest need,In holy poverty.
Him little might our earthly grandeur feed,Who to the uttermost was vowed to beA follower of his Master’s barest need,In holy poverty.
Him little might our earthly grandeur feed,Who to the uttermost was vowed to beA follower of his Master’s barest need,In holy poverty.
Nor might he know the gentle mutual strifeOf home affections, which can more or lessTemper with sweet the bitter of our life,And lighten its distress.
Nor might he know the gentle mutual strifeOf home affections, which can more or lessTemper with sweet the bitter of our life,And lighten its distress.
Nor might he know the gentle mutual strifeOf home affections, which can more or lessTemper with sweet the bitter of our life,And lighten its distress.
Yet we should err to deem that he was leftTo bear alone our being’s lonely weight,Or that his soul was vacant and bereftOf pomp and inward state:
Yet we should err to deem that he was leftTo bear alone our being’s lonely weight,Or that his soul was vacant and bereftOf pomp and inward state:
Yet we should err to deem that he was leftTo bear alone our being’s lonely weight,Or that his soul was vacant and bereftOf pomp and inward state:
Morn, when before the sun his orb unshrouds,Swift as a beacon torch the light has sped,Kindling the dusky summits of the cloudsEach to a fiery red—
Morn, when before the sun his orb unshrouds,Swift as a beacon torch the light has sped,Kindling the dusky summits of the cloudsEach to a fiery red—
Morn, when before the sun his orb unshrouds,Swift as a beacon torch the light has sped,Kindling the dusky summits of the cloudsEach to a fiery red—
The slanted columns of the noonday light,Let down into the bosom of the hills,Or sunset, that with golden vapour brightThe purple mountains fills—
The slanted columns of the noonday light,Let down into the bosom of the hills,Or sunset, that with golden vapour brightThe purple mountains fills—
The slanted columns of the noonday light,Let down into the bosom of the hills,Or sunset, that with golden vapour brightThe purple mountains fills—
These made him say,—if God has so arrayedA fading world that quickly passes by,Such rich provision of delight was madeFor every human eye,
These made him say,—if God has so arrayedA fading world that quickly passes by,Such rich provision of delight was madeFor every human eye,
These made him say,—if God has so arrayedA fading world that quickly passes by,Such rich provision of delight was madeFor every human eye,
What shall the eyes that wait for him survey,Where his own presence gloriously appearsIn worlds that were not founded for a day,But for eternal years?
What shall the eyes that wait for him survey,Where his own presence gloriously appearsIn worlds that were not founded for a day,But for eternal years?
What shall the eyes that wait for him survey,Where his own presence gloriously appearsIn worlds that were not founded for a day,But for eternal years?
And if at seasons this world’s undelightOppressed him, or the hollow at its heart,One glance at those enduring mansions brightMade gloomier thoughts depart;
And if at seasons this world’s undelightOppressed him, or the hollow at its heart,One glance at those enduring mansions brightMade gloomier thoughts depart;
And if at seasons this world’s undelightOppressed him, or the hollow at its heart,One glance at those enduring mansions brightMade gloomier thoughts depart;
Till many times the sweetness of the thoughtOf an eternal country—where it liesRemoved from care and mortal anguish, broughtSweet tears into his eyes.
Till many times the sweetness of the thoughtOf an eternal country—where it liesRemoved from care and mortal anguish, broughtSweet tears into his eyes.
Till many times the sweetness of the thoughtOf an eternal country—where it liesRemoved from care and mortal anguish, broughtSweet tears into his eyes.
Thus, not unsolaced, he longwhile abode,Filling all dreary melancholy time,And empty spaces of the heart with God,And with this hope sublime:
Thus, not unsolaced, he longwhile abode,Filling all dreary melancholy time,And empty spaces of the heart with God,And with this hope sublime:
Thus, not unsolaced, he longwhile abode,Filling all dreary melancholy time,And empty spaces of the heart with God,And with this hope sublime:
Even thus he lived, with little joy or pain,Drawn thro’ the channels by which men receive—Most men receive the things which for the mainMake them rejoice or grieve.
Even thus he lived, with little joy or pain,Drawn thro’ the channels by which men receive—Most men receive the things which for the mainMake them rejoice or grieve.
Even thus he lived, with little joy or pain,Drawn thro’ the channels by which men receive—Most men receive the things which for the mainMake them rejoice or grieve.
But for delight—on spiritual gladness fed,And obvious to temptations of like kind;One such, from out his very gladness bred,It was his lot to find.
But for delight—on spiritual gladness fed,And obvious to temptations of like kind;One such, from out his very gladness bred,It was his lot to find.
But for delight—on spiritual gladness fed,And obvious to temptations of like kind;One such, from out his very gladness bred,It was his lot to find.
When first it came, he lightly put it by,But it returned again to him ere long,And ever having got some new ally,And every time more strong—
When first it came, he lightly put it by,But it returned again to him ere long,And ever having got some new ally,And every time more strong—
When first it came, he lightly put it by,But it returned again to him ere long,And ever having got some new ally,And every time more strong—
A little worm that gnawed the life awayOf a tall plant, the canker of its root,Or like as when, from some small speck, decaySpreads o’er a beauteous fruit.
A little worm that gnawed the life awayOf a tall plant, the canker of its root,Or like as when, from some small speck, decaySpreads o’er a beauteous fruit.
A little worm that gnawed the life awayOf a tall plant, the canker of its root,Or like as when, from some small speck, decaySpreads o’er a beauteous fruit.
For still the doubt came back—can God provideFor the large heart of man what shall not pall,Nor thro’ eternal ages’ endless tideOn tired spirits fall.
For still the doubt came back—can God provideFor the large heart of man what shall not pall,Nor thro’ eternal ages’ endless tideOn tired spirits fall.
For still the doubt came back—can God provideFor the large heart of man what shall not pall,Nor thro’ eternal ages’ endless tideOn tired spirits fall.
Here but one look tow’rd heavèn will repressThe crushing weight of undelightful care;But what were there beyond, if wearinessShould ever enter there?
Here but one look tow’rd heavèn will repressThe crushing weight of undelightful care;But what were there beyond, if wearinessShould ever enter there?
Here but one look tow’rd heavèn will repressThe crushing weight of undelightful care;But what were there beyond, if wearinessShould ever enter there?
Yet do not sweetest things here soonest cloy?Satiety the life of joy would kill,If sweet with bitter, pleasure with annoyWere not attempered still.
Yet do not sweetest things here soonest cloy?Satiety the life of joy would kill,If sweet with bitter, pleasure with annoyWere not attempered still.
Yet do not sweetest things here soonest cloy?Satiety the life of joy would kill,If sweet with bitter, pleasure with annoyWere not attempered still.
This mood endured, till every act of love,Vigils of praise and prayer, and midnight choir,All shadows of the service done above,And which, while his desire,
This mood endured, till every act of love,Vigils of praise and prayer, and midnight choir,All shadows of the service done above,And which, while his desire,
This mood endured, till every act of love,Vigils of praise and prayer, and midnight choir,All shadows of the service done above,And which, while his desire,
And while his hope was heav’nward, he had loved,As helps to disengage him from the chainThat fastens unto earth—all these now provedMost burdensome and vain.
And while his hope was heav’nward, he had loved,As helps to disengage him from the chainThat fastens unto earth—all these now provedMost burdensome and vain.
And while his hope was heav’nward, he had loved,As helps to disengage him from the chainThat fastens unto earth—all these now provedMost burdensome and vain.
What must have been the issue of that moodIt were a thing to fear—but that one day,Upon the limits of an ancient wood,His thoughts him led astray.
What must have been the issue of that moodIt were a thing to fear—but that one day,Upon the limits of an ancient wood,His thoughts him led astray.
What must have been the issue of that moodIt were a thing to fear—but that one day,Upon the limits of an ancient wood,His thoughts him led astray.
Darkling he went, nor once applied his ear,On a loud sea of agitations thrown,Nature’s low tones and harmonies to hear,Heard by the calm alone.
Darkling he went, nor once applied his ear,On a loud sea of agitations thrown,Nature’s low tones and harmonies to hear,Heard by the calm alone.
Darkling he went, nor once applied his ear,On a loud sea of agitations thrown,Nature’s low tones and harmonies to hear,Heard by the calm alone.
The merry chirrup of the grasshopper,Sporting among the roots of withered grass,The dry leaf rustling to the wind’s light stirDid each unnoted pass:
The merry chirrup of the grasshopper,Sporting among the roots of withered grass,The dry leaf rustling to the wind’s light stirDid each unnoted pass:
The merry chirrup of the grasshopper,Sporting among the roots of withered grass,The dry leaf rustling to the wind’s light stirDid each unnoted pass:
He, walking in a trance of selfish care,Not once observed the beauty shed around,The blue above, the music in the air,The flowers upon the ground;
He, walking in a trance of selfish care,Not once observed the beauty shed around,The blue above, the music in the air,The flowers upon the ground;
He, walking in a trance of selfish care,Not once observed the beauty shed around,The blue above, the music in the air,The flowers upon the ground;
Till from the centre of that forest dimCame to him such sweet singing of a bird,As sweet in very truth, then seemed to himThe sweetest ever heard.
Till from the centre of that forest dimCame to him such sweet singing of a bird,As sweet in very truth, then seemed to himThe sweetest ever heard.
Till from the centre of that forest dimCame to him such sweet singing of a bird,As sweet in very truth, then seemed to himThe sweetest ever heard.
That lodestar drew him onward inward still,Deeper than where the village children stray,Deeper than where the woodman’s glittering billLops the large boughs away—
That lodestar drew him onward inward still,Deeper than where the village children stray,Deeper than where the woodman’s glittering billLops the large boughs away—
That lodestar drew him onward inward still,Deeper than where the village children stray,Deeper than where the woodman’s glittering billLops the large boughs away—
Into a central space of glimmering shade,Where hardly might the struggling sunbeams pass,Which a faint lattice-work of light had madeUpon the long lank grass.
Into a central space of glimmering shade,Where hardly might the struggling sunbeams pass,Which a faint lattice-work of light had madeUpon the long lank grass.
Into a central space of glimmering shade,Where hardly might the struggling sunbeams pass,Which a faint lattice-work of light had madeUpon the long lank grass.
He did not sit, but stood and listened there,And to him listening the time seemed not long,While that sweet bird above him filled the airWith its melodious song.
He did not sit, but stood and listened there,And to him listening the time seemed not long,While that sweet bird above him filled the airWith its melodious song.
He did not sit, but stood and listened there,And to him listening the time seemed not long,While that sweet bird above him filled the airWith its melodious song.
He heard not, saw not, felt not aught beside,Through the wide worlds of pleasure and of pain,Save the full flowing and the ample tideOf that celestial strain.
He heard not, saw not, felt not aught beside,Through the wide worlds of pleasure and of pain,Save the full flowing and the ample tideOf that celestial strain.
He heard not, saw not, felt not aught beside,Through the wide worlds of pleasure and of pain,Save the full flowing and the ample tideOf that celestial strain.
As tho’ a bird of Paradise should lightA moment on a twig of this bleak earth,And singing songs of Paradise inviteAll hearts to holy mirth,
As tho’ a bird of Paradise should lightA moment on a twig of this bleak earth,And singing songs of Paradise inviteAll hearts to holy mirth,
As tho’ a bird of Paradise should lightA moment on a twig of this bleak earth,And singing songs of Paradise inviteAll hearts to holy mirth,
And then take wing to Paradise again,Leaving all listening spirits raised aboveThe toil of earth the trouble and the pain,And melted all in love:
And then take wing to Paradise again,Leaving all listening spirits raised aboveThe toil of earth the trouble and the pain,And melted all in love:
And then take wing to Paradise again,Leaving all listening spirits raised aboveThe toil of earth the trouble and the pain,And melted all in love:
Such spiritual might, such power was in the sound,But when it ceased sweet music to unlock,The spell that held him sense and spirit-boundDissolved with a slight shock.
Such spiritual might, such power was in the sound,But when it ceased sweet music to unlock,The spell that held him sense and spirit-boundDissolved with a slight shock.
Such spiritual might, such power was in the sound,But when it ceased sweet music to unlock,The spell that held him sense and spirit-boundDissolved with a slight shock.
All things around were as they were before—The trees and the blue sky, and sunshine bright,Painting the pale and leafstrewn forest-floorWith patches of faint light.
All things around were as they were before—The trees and the blue sky, and sunshine bright,Painting the pale and leafstrewn forest-floorWith patches of faint light.
All things around were as they were before—The trees and the blue sky, and sunshine bright,Painting the pale and leafstrewn forest-floorWith patches of faint light.
But as when music doth no longer thrill,Light shudderings yet along the chords will run,Or the heart vibrates tremulously still,After its prayer be done,
But as when music doth no longer thrill,Light shudderings yet along the chords will run,Or the heart vibrates tremulously still,After its prayer be done,
But as when music doth no longer thrill,Light shudderings yet along the chords will run,Or the heart vibrates tremulously still,After its prayer be done,
So his heart fluttered all the way he went,Listening each moment for the vesper bell;For a long hour he deemed he must have spentIn that untrodden dell.
So his heart fluttered all the way he went,Listening each moment for the vesper bell;For a long hour he deemed he must have spentIn that untrodden dell.
So his heart fluttered all the way he went,Listening each moment for the vesper bell;For a long hour he deemed he must have spentIn that untrodden dell.
And once it seemed that something new or strangeHad passed upon the flowers the trees the ground,Some slight but unintelligible changeOn every thing around:
And once it seemed that something new or strangeHad passed upon the flowers the trees the ground,Some slight but unintelligible changeOn every thing around:
And once it seemed that something new or strangeHad passed upon the flowers the trees the ground,Some slight but unintelligible changeOn every thing around:
Such change, where all things undisturbed remain,As only to the eye of him appears,Who absent long, at length returns again—The silent work of years.
Such change, where all things undisturbed remain,As only to the eye of him appears,Who absent long, at length returns again—The silent work of years.
Such change, where all things undisturbed remain,As only to the eye of him appears,Who absent long, at length returns again—The silent work of years.
And ever grew upon him more and moreFresh marvel—for, unrecognised of all,He stood a stranger at the convent door—New faces filled the hall.
And ever grew upon him more and moreFresh marvel—for, unrecognised of all,He stood a stranger at the convent door—New faces filled the hall.
And ever grew upon him more and moreFresh marvel—for, unrecognised of all,He stood a stranger at the convent door—New faces filled the hall.
Yet was it long ere he received the wholeOf that strange wonder—how, while he had stoodLost in deep gladness of his inmost soul,Far hidden in that wood,
Yet was it long ere he received the wholeOf that strange wonder—how, while he had stoodLost in deep gladness of his inmost soul,Far hidden in that wood,
Yet was it long ere he received the wholeOf that strange wonder—how, while he had stoodLost in deep gladness of his inmost soul,Far hidden in that wood,
A generation had gone down unseenUnder the thin partition which is spread—The thin partition of thin earth—betweenThe living and the dead.
A generation had gone down unseenUnder the thin partition which is spread—The thin partition of thin earth—betweenThe living and the dead.
A generation had gone down unseenUnder the thin partition which is spread—The thin partition of thin earth—betweenThe living and the dead.
Nor did he many days to earth belong,For like a pent-up stream, released again,The years arrested by the strength of song,Came down on him amain;
Nor did he many days to earth belong,For like a pent-up stream, released again,The years arrested by the strength of song,Came down on him amain;
Nor did he many days to earth belong,For like a pent-up stream, released again,The years arrested by the strength of song,Came down on him amain;
Sudden as a dissolving thaw in spring;Gentle as when upon the first warm day,Which sunny April in its train may bring,The snow melts all away.
Sudden as a dissolving thaw in spring;Gentle as when upon the first warm day,Which sunny April in its train may bring,The snow melts all away.
Sudden as a dissolving thaw in spring;Gentle as when upon the first warm day,Which sunny April in its train may bring,The snow melts all away.
They placed him in his former cell, and thereWatched him departing; what few words he saidWere of calm peace and gladness, with one careMingled—one only dread—
They placed him in his former cell, and thereWatched him departing; what few words he saidWere of calm peace and gladness, with one careMingled—one only dread—
They placed him in his former cell, and thereWatched him departing; what few words he saidWere of calm peace and gladness, with one careMingled—one only dread—
Lest an eternity should not sufficeTo take the measure and the breadth and heightOf what there is reserved in Paradise—Its ever-new delight.
Lest an eternity should not sufficeTo take the measure and the breadth and heightOf what there is reserved in Paradise—Its ever-new delight.
Lest an eternity should not sufficeTo take the measure and the breadth and heightOf what there is reserved in Paradise—Its ever-new delight.
LONDON:BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
FOOTNOTES:[1]See Gen. xxvi. 18.[2]Qual es la niñaQue coge las floresSi no tiene amores?Spanish Ballad.[3]Eusebius thus speaks of the Antichristian power:—Τον θεο μαχου ... τας πρας τον Υψιστου τοις αγγελοις παραδοθεισας των εθνων ‘οροθεσιας και συγχειν απειλουντος.[4]Some of the old Litanies specially included these last:—’Pro navigantibus, iter agentibus, in carceribus, in vinculis,in metallis, in exiliis constitutis, precamur Te.[5]See Augustine’s Confessions, B. 9, C. 10.[6]See Garcilasso’s Conquest of Peru.[7]“He [Archbishop Leighton] used often to say, that if he were to choose a place to die in, it should be an inn; it looks like a pilgrim’s going home, to whom this world was all as an inn, and who was weary of the noise and confusion in it. He added that the officious care and tenderness of friends was an entanglement to a dying man, and that the unconcerned attendance of those that could be procured in such a place would give less disturbance, and he obtained what he desired.”—Burnet’s History of his own Time.[8]The poems which follow, from this page to p. 153 inclusive, as also some scattered in other parts of the volume, were written many years ago. I mention this here, and indeed only mention it at all, because some of those that follow are the expression of states of mind, in which I would not now ask others to sympathise, and from which I am thankful myself to have been delivered.
FOOTNOTES:
[1]See Gen. xxvi. 18.
[1]See Gen. xxvi. 18.
[2]Qual es la niñaQue coge las floresSi no tiene amores?Spanish Ballad.
[2]
Qual es la niñaQue coge las floresSi no tiene amores?Spanish Ballad.
Qual es la niñaQue coge las floresSi no tiene amores?Spanish Ballad.
Qual es la niñaQue coge las floresSi no tiene amores?Spanish Ballad.
[3]Eusebius thus speaks of the Antichristian power:—Τον θεο μαχου ... τας πρας τον Υψιστου τοις αγγελοις παραδοθεισας των εθνων ‘οροθεσιας και συγχειν απειλουντος.
[3]Eusebius thus speaks of the Antichristian power:—Τον θεο μαχου ... τας πρας τον Υψιστου τοις αγγελοις παραδοθεισας των εθνων ‘οροθεσιας και συγχειν απειλουντος.
[4]Some of the old Litanies specially included these last:—’Pro navigantibus, iter agentibus, in carceribus, in vinculis,in metallis, in exiliis constitutis, precamur Te.
[4]Some of the old Litanies specially included these last:—’Pro navigantibus, iter agentibus, in carceribus, in vinculis,in metallis, in exiliis constitutis, precamur Te.
[5]See Augustine’s Confessions, B. 9, C. 10.
[5]See Augustine’s Confessions, B. 9, C. 10.
[6]See Garcilasso’s Conquest of Peru.
[6]See Garcilasso’s Conquest of Peru.
[7]“He [Archbishop Leighton] used often to say, that if he were to choose a place to die in, it should be an inn; it looks like a pilgrim’s going home, to whom this world was all as an inn, and who was weary of the noise and confusion in it. He added that the officious care and tenderness of friends was an entanglement to a dying man, and that the unconcerned attendance of those that could be procured in such a place would give less disturbance, and he obtained what he desired.”—Burnet’s History of his own Time.
[7]“He [Archbishop Leighton] used often to say, that if he were to choose a place to die in, it should be an inn; it looks like a pilgrim’s going home, to whom this world was all as an inn, and who was weary of the noise and confusion in it. He added that the officious care and tenderness of friends was an entanglement to a dying man, and that the unconcerned attendance of those that could be procured in such a place would give less disturbance, and he obtained what he desired.”—Burnet’s History of his own Time.
[8]The poems which follow, from this page to p. 153 inclusive, as also some scattered in other parts of the volume, were written many years ago. I mention this here, and indeed only mention it at all, because some of those that follow are the expression of states of mind, in which I would not now ask others to sympathise, and from which I am thankful myself to have been delivered.
[8]The poems which follow, from this page to p. 153 inclusive, as also some scattered in other parts of the volume, were written many years ago. I mention this here, and indeed only mention it at all, because some of those that follow are the expression of states of mind, in which I would not now ask others to sympathise, and from which I am thankful myself to have been delivered.