I'm going to my own hearth-stone,Bosomed in yon green hills alone,—A secret nook in a pleasant land,Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;Where arches green, the livelong day,Echo the blackbird's roundelay,And vulgar feet have never trodA spot that is sacred to thought and God.
O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;And when I am stretched beneath the pines,Where the evening star so holy shines,I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;For what are they all in their high conceit,When man in the bush with God may meet?
* * * * *
Our God, our help in ages past,Our hope for years to come,Our shelter from the stormy blast,And our eternal home,—
Under the shadow of thy throneThy saints have dwelt secure;Sufficient is thine arm alone,And our defence is sure.
Before the hills in order stood,Or earth received her frame,From everlasting thou art God,To endless years the same.
A thousand ages in thy sightAre like an evening gone;Short as the watch that ends the nightBefore the rising sun.
Time like an ever-rolling streamBears all its sons away;They fly, forgotten, as a dreamDies at the opening day.
Our God, our help in ages past,Our hope for years to come,Be thou our guard while troubles last,And our eternal home.
* * * * *
A mighty fortress is our God,A bulwark never failing;Our helper he amid the floodOf mortal ills prevailing.For still our ancient foeDoth seek to work us woe;His craft and power are great,And, armed with equal hate,On earth is not his equal.
Did we in our own strength confide,Our striving would be losing;Were not the right man on our side,The man of God's own choosing.Dost ask who that may be?Christ Jesus, it is he,Lord Sabaoth his name,From age to age the same,And he must win the battle.
From the German of MARTIN LUTHER.
Translation of FREDERIC HENRY HEDGE.
* * * * *
I love, and have some cause to love, the earth,—She is my Maker's creature, therefore good;She is my mother, for she gave me birth;She is my tender nurse, she gives me food:But what's a creature, Lord, compared with thee?Or what's my mother or my nurse to me?
I love the air,—her dainty sweets refreshMy drooping soul, and to new sweets invite me;Her shrill-mouthed choir sustain me with their flesh,And with their polyphonian notes delight me:But what's the air, or all the sweets that sheCan bless my soul withal, compared to thee?
I love the sea,—she is my fellow-creature,My careful purveyor; she provides me store;She walls me round; she makes my diet greater;She wafts my treasure from a foreign shore:But, Lord of oceans, when compared with thee,What is the ocean or her wealth to me?
To heaven's high city I direct my journey,Whose spangled suburbs entertain mine eye;Mine eye, by contemplation's great attorney,Transcends the crystal pavement of the sky:But what is heaven, great God, compared to thee?Without thy presence, heaven's no heaven to me.
Without thy presence, earth gives no refection;Without thy presence, sea affords no treasure;Without thy presence, air's a rank infection;Without thy presence, heaven's itself no pleasure:If not possessed, if not enjoyed in thee,What's earth, or sea, or air, or heaven to me?
The highest honors that the world can boastAre subjects far too low for my desire;The brightest beams of glory are, at most,But dying sparkles of thy living fire;The loudest flames that earth can kindle beBut nightly glow-worms, if compared to thee.
Without thy presence, wealth is bags of cares;Wisdom but folly; joy, disquiet—sadness;Friendship is treason, and delights are snares;Pleasures but pain, and mirth but pleasing madness;Without thee, Lord, things be not what they be,Nor have their being, when compared with thee.
In having all things, and not thee, what have I?Not having thee, what have my labors got?Let me enjoy but thee, what further crave I?And having thee alone, what have I not?I wish nor sea nor land; nor would I bePossessed of heaven, heaven unpossessed of thee!
* * * * *
I worship thee, sweet will of God!And all thy ways adore;And every day I live, I seemTo love thee more and more.
Thou wert the end, the blessèd ruleOf our Saviour's toils and tears;Thou wert the passion of his heartThose three and thirty years.
And he hath breathed into my soulA special love of thee,A love to lose my will in his,And by that loss be free.
I love to see thee bring to naughtThe plans of wily men;When simple hearts outwit the wise,Oh, thou art loveliest then.
The headstrong world it presses hardUpon the church full oft,And then how easily thou turn'stThe hard ways into soft.
I love to kiss each print where thouHast set thine unseen feet;I cannot fear thee, blessèd will!Thine empire is so sweet.
When obstacles and trials seemLike prison walls to be,I do the little I can do,And leave the rest to thee.
I know not what it is to doubt,My heart is ever gay;I run no risk, for, come what will,Thou always hast thy way.
I have no cares, O blessèd will!For all my cares are thine:I live in triumph, Lord! for thouHast made thy triumphs mine.
And when it seems no chance or changeFrom grief can set me free,Hope finds its strength in helplessness,And gayly waits on thee.
Man's weakness, waiting upon God,Its end can never miss,For men on earth no work can doMore angel-like than this.
Ride on, ride on, triumphantly,Thou glorious will, ride on!Faith's pilgrim sons behind thee takeThe road that thou hast gone.
He always wins who sides with God,To him no chance is lost;God's will is sweetest to him, whenIt triumphs at his cost.
Ill that he blesses is our good,And unblessed good is ill;And all is right that seems most wrong.If it be his sweet will.
* * * * *
Whichever way the wind doth blow,Some heart is glad to have it so;Then blow it east or blow it west,The wind that blows, that wind is best.
My little craft sails not alone:A thousand fleets from every zoneAre out upon a thousand seas;And what for me were favoring breezeMight dash another, with the shockOf doom, upon some hidden rock.
And so I do not dare to prayFor winds to waft me on my way,But leave it to a Higher WillTo stay or speed me; trusting stillThat all is well, and sure that HeWho launched my bark will sail with meThrough storm and calm, and will not fail,Whatever breezes may prevail,To land me, every peril past,Within his sheltering heaven at last.
Then, whatsoever wind doth blow,My heart is glad to have it so;And blow it east or blow it west,The wind that blows, that wind is best.
* * * * *
Thou Grace Divine, encircling all,A soundless, shoreless sea!Wherein at last our souls must fall,O Love of God most free!
When over dizzy heights we go,One soft hand blinds our eyes,The other leads us, safe and slow,O Love of God most wise!
And though we turn us from thy face,And wander wide and long,Thou hold'st us still in thine embrace,O Love of God most strong!
The saddened heart, the restless soul,The toil-worn frame and mind,Alike confess thy sweet control,O Love of God most kind!
But not alone thy care we claim,Our wayward steps to win;We know thee by a dearer name,O Love of God within!
And, filled and quickened by thy breath,Our souls are strong and freeTo rise o'er sin and fear and death,O Love of God, to thee!
* * * * *
Praise to God, immortal praise,For the love that crowns our days—Bounteous source of every joy,Let Thy praise our tongues employ!
For the blessings of the field,For the stores the gardens yield,For the vine's exalted juice,For the generous olive's use;
Flocks that, whiten all the plain,Yellow sheaves of ripened grain,Clouds that drop their fattening dews,Suns that temperate warmth diffuse—
All that Spring, with bounteous hand,Scatters o'er the smiling land;All that liberal Autumn poursFrom her rich o'erflowing stores:
These to Thee, my God, we owe—Source whence all our blessings flow!And for these my soul shall raiseGrateful vows and solemn praise.
Yet should rising whirlwinds tearFrom its stem the ripening ear—Should the fig-tree's blasted shootDrop her green untimely fruit—
Should the vine put forth no more,Nor the olive yield her store—Though the sickening flocks should fall,And the herds desert the stall—
Should Thine altered hand restrainThe early and the latter rain,Blast each opening bud of joy,And the rising year destroy;
Yet to Thee my soul should raiseGrateful vows and solemn praise,And when every blessing's flown,Love Thee—for Thyself alone.
* * * * *
Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,Lead thou me on!The night is dark, and I am far from home,—Lead thou me on!Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to seeThe distant scene,—one step enough for me.
I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thouShouldst lead me on:I loved to choose and see my path, but nowLead thou me on!I loved the garish days, and, spite of fears,Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.
So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it stillWill lead me on;O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, tillThe night is gone;And with the morn those angel faces smileWhich I have loved long since, and lost awhile.
* * * * *
O friends! with whom my feet have trodThe quiet aisles of prayer,Glad witness to your zeal for GodAnd love of man I bear.
I trace your lines of argument;Your logic linked and strongI weigh as one who dreads dissent,And fears a doubt as wrong.
But still my human hands are weakTo hold your iron creeds:Against the words ye bid me speakMy heart within me pleads.
Who fathoms the Eternal Thought?Who talks of scheme and plan?The Lord is God! He needeth notThe poor device of man.
I walk with bare, hushed feet the groundYe tread with boldness shod;I dare not fix with mete and boundThe love and power of God.
Ye praise His justice; even suchHis pitying love I deem:Ye seek a king; I fain would touchThe robe that hath no seam.
Ye see the curse which overbroodsA world of pain and loss:I hear our Lord's beatitudesAnd prayer upon the cross.
More than your schoolmen teach, withinMyself, alas! I know:Too dark ye cannot paint the sin,Too small the merit show.
I bow my forehead to the dust,I veil mine eyes for shame,And urge, in trembling self-distrust,A prayer without a claim.
I see the wrong that round me lies,I feel the guilt within;I hear, with groan and travail-cries,The world confess its sin.
Yet, in the maddening maze of things,And tossed by storm and flood,To one fixed trust my spirit clings;I know that God is good!
Not mine to look where cherubimAnd seraphs may not see,But nothing can be good in HimWhich evil is in me.
The wrong that pains my soul belowI dare not throne above,I know not of His hate,—I knowHis goodness and His love.
I dimly guess from blessings knownOf greater out of sight,And, with the chastened Psalmist, ownHis judgments too are right.
I long for household voices gone,For vanished smiles I long,But God hath led my dear ones on,And He can do no wrong.
I know not what the future hathOf marvel or surprise.Assured alone that life and deathHis mercy underlies.
And if my heart and flesh are weakTo bear an untried pain,The bruisèd reed He will not break,But strengthen and sustain.
No offering of my own I have.Nor works my faith to prove;I can but give the gifts He gave,And plead His love for love.
And so beside the Silent SeaI wait the muffled oar;No harm from Him can come to meOn ocean or on shore.
I know not where His islands liftTheir fronded palms in air;I only know I cannot driftBeyond His love and care.
O brothers! if my faith is vain,If hopes like these betray,Pray for me that my feet may gainThe sure and safer way.
And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seenThy creatures as they be,Forgive me if too close I leanMy human heart on Thee!
* * * * *
Strong Son of God, immortal Love,Whom we, that have not seen thy face,By faith, and faith alone, embrace,Believing where we cannot prove;
Thine are these orbs of light and shade;Thou madest Life in man and brute;Thou madest Death; and lo, thy footIs on the skull which thou hast made.
Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:Thou madest man, he knows not why;He thinks he was not made to die;And thou hast made him: thou art just.
Thou seemest human and divine,The highest, holiest manhood, thou:Our wills are ours, we know not how;Our wills are ours, to make them thine.
Our little systems have their day;They have their day and cease to be:They are but broken lights of thee,And thou, O Lord, art more than they.
We have but faith: we cannot know;For knowledge is of things we see;And yet we trust it comes from thee,A beam in darkness: let it grow.
Let knowledge grow from more to more,But more of reverence in us dwell;That mind and soul, according well,May make one music as before,
But vaster. We are fools and slight;We mock thee when we do not fear:But help thy foolish ones to bear;Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.
Forgive what seemed my sin in me;What seemed my worth since I began;For merit lives from man to man,And not from man, O Lord, to thee.
Forgive my grief for one removed,Thy creature, whom I found so fair.I trust he lives in thee, and thereI find him worthier to be loved.
Forgive these wild and wandering cries,Confusions of a wasted youth;Forgive them where they fail in truth,And in thy wisdom make me wise.
* * * * *
O little town of Bethlehem,How still we see thee lie!Above thy deep and dreamless sleepThe silent stars go by;Yet in thy dark streets shinethThe everlasting Light;The hopes and fears of all the yearsAre met in thee to-night.
For Christ is born of Mary,And, gathered all above.While mortals sleep, the angels keepTheir watch of wondering love.O morning stars, togetherProclaim the holy birth!And praises sing to God the King,And peace to men on earth.
How silently, how silently,The wondrous gift is given!So God imparts to human heartsThe blessings of His heaven.No ear may hear His coming,But in this world of sin,Where meek souls will receive Him still,The dear Christ enters in.
O holy Child of Bethlehem!Descend to us, we pray;Cast out our sin, and enter in,Be born in us to-day.We hear the Christmas angelsThe great glad tidings tell;Oh come to us, abide with us,Our Lord Emmanuel!
* * * * *
It came upon the midnight clear,That glorious song of old,From angels bending near the earthTo touch their harps of gold:"Peace to the earth, good-will to menFrom heaven's all-gracious King!"The world in solemn stillness layTo hear the angels sing.
Still through the cloven skies they come,With peaceful wings unfurled;And still their heavenly music floatsO'er all the weary world:Above its sad and lowly plainsThey bend on heavenly wing,And ever o'er its Babel soundsThe blessèd angels sing.
Yet with the woes of sin and strifeThe world has suffered long;Beneath the angel-strain have rolledTwo thousand years of wrong;And man, at war with man, hears notThe love-song which they bring:O, hush the noise, ye men of strife,And hear the angels sing!
And ye, beneath life's crushing loadWhose forms are bending low;Who toil along the climbing wayWith painful steps and slow,—Look now! for glad and golden hoursCome swiftly on the wing;O, rest beside the weary road,And hear the angels sing.
For lo! the days are hastening on,By prophet-bards foretold,When with the ever-circling yearsComes round the age of gold;When Peace shall over all the earthIts ancient splendors fling,And the whole world send back the songWhich now the angels sing.
* * * * *
"We have seen his star in the east."—MATTHEW ii. 2.
Brightest and best of the sons of the morning,Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid;Star of the East, the horizon adorning,Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.
Cold on his cradle the dew-drops are shining,Low lies his head with the beasts of the stall;Angels adore him in slumber reclining,Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all.
Say, shall we yield him, in costly devotion,Odors of Edom, and offerings divine?Gems of the mountain, and pearls of the ocean,Myrrh from the forest, or gold from the mine?
Vainly we offer each ample oblation,Vainly with gifts would his favor secure;Richer by far is the heart's adoration,Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.
Brightest and best of the sons of the morning,Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid:Star of the East, the horizon adorning,Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.
* * * * *
This is the month, and this the happy morn,Wherein the Son of heaven's eternal king,Of wedded maid and virgin mother born,Our great redemption from above did bring—For so the holy sages once did sing—That He our deadly forfeit should release,And with His Father work us a perpetual peace.
That glorious form, that light unsufferable,And that far-beaming blaze of majestyWherewith He wont at heaven's high council-tableTo sit the midst of Trinal Unity,He laid aside; and here with us to be,Forsook the courts of everlasting day,And chose with us a darksome house of mortal clay.
Say, heavenly muse, shall not thy sacred veinAfford a present to the infant God?Hast thou no verse, no hymn, or solemn strain,To welcome Him to this His new abode—Now while the heaven, by the sun's team untrod,Hath took no print of the approaching light,And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?
See how from far upon the eastern roadThe star-led wizards haste with odors sweet!Oh! run, prevent them with thy humble ode,And lay it lowly at His blessed feet;Have thou the honor first thy Lord to greet,And join thy voice unto the angel choir,From out His secret altar touched with hallowed fire.
It was the winter wildWhile the heaven-born childAll meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies—Nature, in awe to Him,Had doffed her gaudy trim,With her great Master so to sympathize;It was no season then for herTo wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.
Only with speeches fairShe woos the gentle airTo hide her guilty front with innocent snow,And on her naked shame.Pollute with sinful blame,The saintly veil of maiden white to throw—Confounded that her maker's eyesShould look so near upon her foul deformities.
But He, her fears to cease,Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;She, crowned with olive green, came softly slidingDown through the turning sphere,His ready harbinger,With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing;And waving wide her myrtle wand,She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.
Nor war, or battle's sound,Was heard the world around—The idle spear and shield were high up hung;The hookèd chariot stoodUnstained with hostile blood;The trumpet spake not to the armed throng;And kings sat still with awful eye,As if they surely knew their sovereign Lord was by.
But peaceful was the nightWherein the prince of lightHis reign of peace upon the earth began;The winds, with wonder whist,Smoothly the waters kissed,Whispering new joys to the mild ocean,Who now hath quite forgot to rave,While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.
The stars with deep amazeStand fixed in steadfast gaze,Bending one way their precious influence;And will not take their flightFor all the morning light,Or Lucifer that often warned them thence;But in their glimmering orbs did glowUntil their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.
And though the shady gloomHad given day her room,The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,And hid his head for shame,As his inferior flameThe new-enlightened world no more should need;He saw a greater sun appearThan his bright throne or burning axle-tree could bear.
The shepherds on the lawn,Or e'er the point of dawn,Sat simply chatting in a rustic row;Full little thought they thenThat the mighty PanWas kindly come to live with them below;Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.
When such music sweetTheir hearts and ears did greetAs never was by mortal finger strook—Divinely-warbled voiceAnswering the stringed noise,As all their souls in blissful rapture took;The air, such pleasure loath to lose,With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.
Nature, that heard such soundBeneath the hollow roundOf Cynthia's seat the airy region thrilling,Now was almost wonTo think her part was done.And that her reign had here its last fulfilling;She knew such harmony aloneCould hold all heaven and earth in happier union.
At last surrounds their sightA globe of circular light,That with long beams the shamefaced night arrayed;The helmèd cherubimAnd sworded seraphimAre seen in glittering ranks with wings displayed,Harping in loud and solemn choir,With unexpressive notes, to heaven's new-born heir—
Such music as ('tis said)Before was never made,But when of old the sons of morning sung,While the Creator greatHis constellations set,And the well-balanced world on hinges hung,And cast the dark foundations deep,And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.
Ring out, ye crystal spheres!Once bless our human ears,If ye have power to touch our senses so;And let your silver chimeMove in melodious time,And let the bass of heaven's deep organ blow;And with your ninefold harmonyMake up full consort to the angelic symphony.
For if such holy songInwrap our fancy long,Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold;And speckled vanityWill sicken soon and die,And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould;And hell itself will pass away.And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.
Yea, truth and justice thenWill down return to men,Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing,Mercy will sit between,Throned in celestial sheen,With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering;And heaven, as at some festival,Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.
But wisest fate says No—This must not yet be so;The babe yet lies in smiling infancyThat on the bitter crossMust redeem our loss.So both Himself and us to glorify.Yet first to those ye chained in sleepThe wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep,
With such a horrid clangAs on Mount Sinai rang,While the red fire and smould'ring clouds out-brake;The aged earth, aghastWith terror of that blast,Shall from the surface to the centre shake—When, at the world's last session,The dreadful judge in middle air shall spread his throne.
And then at last our blissFull and perfect is—But now begins: for from this happy dayThe old dragon, under groundIn straiter limits bound,Not half so far casts his usurpèd sway,And, wroth to see his kingdom fail,Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
The oracles are dumb:No voice or hideous humRuns through the arched roof in words deceiving;Apollo from his shrineCan no more divine,With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving;No nightly trance, or breathèd spell,Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.
The lonely mountains o'er,And the resounding shore,A voice of weeping heard and loud lament;From haunted spring, and daleEdged with poplar pale,The parting genius is with sighing sent;With flower-inwoven tresses tornThe nymphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn.
In consecrated earth,And on the holy hearth,The lares and lemures moan with midnight plaint;In urns and altars roundA drear and dying soundAffrights the flamens at their service quaint;And the chill marble seems to sweat,While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat.
Peor and BaälimForsake their temples dim,With that twice-battered god of Palestine;And moonèd Ashtaroth,Heaven's queen and mother both.Now sits not girt with tapers' holy shine;The Lybic Hammon shrinks his horn—In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Thammuz mourn.
And sullen Moloch fled,Hath left in shadows dreadHis burning idol all of blackest hue;In vain, with cymbal's ring,They call the grisly king,In dismal dance about the furnace blue;The brutish gods of Nile as fast—Isis and Orus, and the dog Anubis—haste.
Nor is Osiris seenIn Memphian grove or green,Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud,Nor can he be at restWithin his sacred chest—Naught but profoundest hell can be his shroud;In vain, with timbrelled anthems dark.The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark.
He feels from Juda's landThe dreaded infant's hand—The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyne;Nor all the gods besideLonger dare abide—Not Typhon huge, ending in snaky twine;Our babe, to show His God-head true,Can in His swaddling-bands control the damnèd crew.
So, when the sun in bed,Curtained with cloudy red,Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,The flocking shadows paleTroop to the infernal jail—Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave;And the yellow-skirted faysFly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.
But see the virgin blestHath laid her babe to rest—Time is our tedious song should here have ending;Heaven's youngest teemèd starHath fixed her polished car,Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending;And all about the courtly stableBright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.
* * * * *
It was the calm and silent night!Seven hundred years and fifty-threeHad Rome been growing up to might,And now was queen of land and sea.No sound was heard of clashing wars;Peace brooded o'er the hushed domain:Apollo, Pallas, Jove, and MarsHeld undisturbed their ancient reign,In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago.
'Twas in the calm and silent night!The senator of haughty Rome,Impatient, urged his chariot's flight,From lordly revel rolling home;Triumphal arches, gleaming, swellHis breast with thoughts of boundless sway;What recked the Roman what befellA paltry province far away,In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago?
Within that province far awayWent plodding home a weary boor;A streak of light before him lay,Fallen through a half-shut stable-doorAcross his path. He passed—for naughtTold what was going on within;How keen the stars, his only thought;The air how calm and cold and thin,In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago!
Oh, strange indifference! low and highDrowsed over common joys and cares;The earth was still—but knew not why;The world was listening, unawares.How calm a moment may precedeOne that shall thrill the world forever!To that still moment none would heed,Man's doom was linked no more to sever—In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago!
It is the calm and solemn night!A thousand bells ring out, and throwTheir joyous peals abroad, and smiteThe darkness—charmed and holy now!The night that erst no name had worn,To it a happy name is given;For in that stable lay new-born,The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven,In the solemn midnight,Centuries ago!
* * * * *
The Ox he openeth wide the DooreAnd from the Snowe he calls her inne,And he hath seen her smile therefore,Our Ladye without Sinne.Now soone from SleepeA Starre shall leap,And soone arrive both King and Hinde;Amen, Amen:But oh, the place co'd I but finde!
The Ox hath husht his voyce and bentTrewe eyes of Pitty ore the Mow,And on his lovelie Neck, forspent,The Blessed lays her Browe.Around her feetFull Warme and SweeteHis bowerie Breath doth meeklie dwell;Amen, Amen:But sore am I with Vaine Travèl!
The Ox is host in Juda's stall,And Host of more than onelie one.For close she gathereth withalOur Lorde her littel Sonne.Glad Hinde and KingTheir Gyfte may bring,But wo'd to-night my Teares were there,Amen, Amen:Between her Bosom and His hayre!
* * * * *
There's a legend that's told of a gypsy who dweltIn the lands where the pyramids be;And her robe was embroidered with stars, and her beltWith devices right wondrous to see;And she lived in the days when our Lord was a childOn his mother's immaculate breast;When he fled from his foes,—when to Egypt exiled,He went down with Saint Joseph the blest.
This Egyptian held converse with magic, methinks,And the future was given to her gaze;For an obelisk marked her abode, and a sphinxOn her threshold kept vigil always.She was pensive and ever alone, nor was seenIn the haunts of the dissolute crowd;But communed with the ghosts of the Pharaohs, I ween,Or with visitors wrapped in a shroud.
And there came an old man from the desert one day,With a maid on a mule by that road;And a child on her bosom reclined, and the wayLet them straight to the gypsy's abode;And they seemed to have travelled a wearisome path,From thence many, many a league,—From a tyrant's pursuit, from an enemy's wrath,Spent with toil and o'ercome with fatigue.
And the gypsy came forth from her dwelling, and prayedThat the pilgrims would rest them awhile;And she offered her couch to that delicate maid,Who had come many, many a mile.And she fondled the babe with affection's caress,And she begged the old man would repose;"Here the stranger," she said, "ever finds free access,And the wanderer balm for his woes."
Then her guests from the glare of the noonday she ledTo a seat in her grotto so cool;Where she spread them a banquet of fruits, and a shed,With a manger, was found for the mule;With the wine of the palm-tree, with dates newly culled,All the toil of the day she beguiled;And with song in a language mysterious she lulledOn her bosom the wayfaring child.
When the gypsy anon in her Ethiop handTook the infant's diminutive palm,O, 'twas fearful to see how the features she scannedOf the babe in his slumbers so calm!Well she noted each mark and each furrow that crossedO'er the tracings of destiny's line:"WHENCE CAME YE?" she cried, in astonishment lost,"FOR THIS CHILD IS OF LINEAGE DIVINE!"
"From the village of Nazareth," Joseph replied,"Where we dwelt in the land of the Jew,We have fled from a tyrant whose garment is dyedIn the gore of the children he slew:We were told to remain till an angel's commandShould appoint us the hour to return;But till then we inhabit the foreigners' land,And in Egypt we make our sojourn."
"Then ye tarry with me," cried the gypsy in joy,"And ye make of my dwelling your home;Many years have I prayed that the Israelite boy(Blessèd hope of the Gentiles!) would come."And she kissed both the feet of the infant and knelt,And adored him at once; then a smileLit the face of his mother, who cheerfully dweltWith her host on the bank of the Nile.
FRANCIS MAHONY (Father Prout).
* * * * *
Dear Friend! whose presence in the house,Whose gracious word benign,Could once, at Cana's wedding feast,Change water into wine;
Come, visit us! and when dull workGrows weary, line on line,Revive our souls, and let us seeLife's water turned to wine.
Gay mirth shall deepen into joy,Earth's hopes grow half divine,When Jesus visits us, to makeLife's water glow as wine.
The social talk, the evening fire,The homely household shrine,Grow bright with angel visits, whenThe Lord pours out the wine.
For when self-seeking turns to love,Not knowing mine nor thine,The miracle again is wrought,And water turned to wine.JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE.
* * * * *
There were ninety and nine that safely layIn the shelter of the fold;But one was out on the hills away,Far off from the gates of gold,Away on the mountain wild and bare,Away from the tender Shepherd's care.
"Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine:Are they not enough for thee?"But the Shepherd made answer: "'T is of mineHas wandered away from me;And although the road be rough and steepI go to the desert to find my sheep."
But none of the ransomed ever knewHow deep were the waters crossed,Nor how dark was the night that the Lord passed throughEre he found his sheep that was lost.Out in the desert he heard its cry—Sick and helpless, and ready to die.
"Lord, whence are those blood-drops all the way,That mark out the mountain track?""They were shed for one who had gone astrayEre the Shepherd could bring him back.""Lord, whence are thy hands so rent and torn?""They are piercèd to-night by many a thorn."
But all through the mountains, thunder-riven,And up from the rocky steep,There rose a cry to the gate of heaven,"Rejoice! I have found my sheep!"And the angels echoed around the throne,"Rejoice, for the Lord brings back his own!"
* * * * *
De massa ob de sheepfol',Dat guards de sheepfol' bin,Look out in de gloomerin' meadows,Wha'r de long night rain begin—So he call to de hirelin' shepa'd,"Is my sheep, is dey all come in?"Oh den, says de hirelin' shepa'd:"Dey's some, dey's black and thin,And some, dey's po' ol' wedda's;But de res', dey's all brung in.But de res', dey's all brung in."
Den de massa ob de sheepfol',Dat guards de sheepfol' bin,Goes down in the gloomerin' meadows,Wha'r de long night rain begin—So he le' down de ba's ob de sheepfol',Callin' sof', "Come in. Come in."Callin' sof', "Come in. Come in."
Den up t'ro' de gloomerin' meadows,T'ro' de col' night rain and win',And up t'ro' de gloomerin' rain-paf',Wha'r de sleet fa' pie'cin' thin,De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol',Dey all comes gadderin' in.De po' los' sheep ob de sheepfol',Dey all comes gadderin' in.
* * * * *
He saves the sheep, the goats he doth not save.So rang Tertullian's sentence, on the sideOf that unpitying Phrygian Sect which cried:"Him can no fount of fresh forgiveness lave,
Who sins, once washed by the baptismal wave."—So spake the fierce Tertullian. But she sighed,The infant Church! of love she felt the tideStream on her from her Lord's yet recent grave.
And then she smiled; and in the Catacombs,With eye suffused but heart inspired true,On those walls subterranean, where she hid
Her head in ignominy, death, and tombs,She her good Shepherd's hasty image drew—And on his shoulders, not a lamb, a kid.
* * * * *
Two sayings of the Holy Scriptures beatLike pulses in the Church's brow and breast;And by them we find rest in our unrest,And heart-deep in salt tears, do yet entreatGod's fellowship, as if on heavenly seat.The first isJesus wept, whereon is prestFull many a sobbing face that drops its bestAnd sweetest waters on the record sweet:And one is, where the Christ denied and scornedLooked upon Peter. Oh, to render plain,By help of having loved a little and mourned,That look of sovran love and sovran painWhich he who could not sin yet suffered, turnedOn him who could reject but not sustain!
* * * * *
Into the woods my Master went,Clean forspent, forspent.Into the woods my Master came,Forspent with love and shame.But the olives they were not blind to Him;The little gray leaves were kind to Him;The thorn-tree had a mind to HimWhen into the woods He came.
Out of the woods my Master went,And He was well content.Out of the woods my Master came,Content with death and shame.When Death and Shame would woo Him last,From under the trees they drew Him last:'Twas on a tree they slew Him—last,When out of the woods He came.
* * * * *
Stood the afflicted mother weeping,Near the cross her station keepingWhereon hung her Son and Lord;Through whose spirit sympathizing,Sorrowing and agonizing,Also passed the cruel sword.
Oh! how mournful and distressèdWas that favored and most blessèdMother of the only Son,Trembling, grieving, bosom heaving,While perceiving, scarce believing,Pains of that Illustrious One!
Who the man, who, called a brother.Would not weep, saw he Christ's motherIn such deep distress and wild?Who could not sad tribute renderWitnessing that mother tenderAgonizing with her child?
For his people's sins atoning,Him she saw in torments groaning,Given to the scourger's rod;Saw her darling offspring dying,Desolate, forsaken, crying.Yield his spirit up to God.
Make me feel thy sorrow's power,That with thee I tears may shower,Tender mother, fount of love!Make my heart with love unceasingBurn toward Christ the Lord, that pleasingI may be to him above.
Holy mother, this be granted,That the slain one's wounds be plantedFirmly in my heart to bide.Of him wounded, all astounded—Depths unbounded for me sounded—All the pangs with me divide.
Make me weep with thee in union;With the Crucified, communionIn his grief and suffering give;Near the cross, with tears unfailing,I would join thee in thy wailingHere as long as I shall live.
Maid of maidens, all excelling!Be not bitter, me repelling;Make thou me a mourner too;Make me bear about Christ's dying,Share his passion, shame defying;All his wounds in me renew.
Wound for wound be there created;With the cross intoxicatedFor thy Son's dear sake, I pray—May I, fired with pure affection,Virgin, have through thee protectionIn the solemn Judgment Day.
Let me by the cross be warded,By the death of Christ be guarded,Nourished by divine supplies.When the body death hath riven,Grant that to the soul be givenGlories bright of Paradise.
From the Latin of FRA JACOPONE.
Translation of ABRAHAM COLES.
* * * * *
Three women crept at break of dayA-grope along the shadowy wayWhere Joseph's tomb and garden lay.
With blanch of woe each face was white,As the gray Orient's waxing lightBrought back upon their awe-struck sight
The sixth-day scene of anguish. FastThe starkly standing cross they passed,And, breathless, neared the gate at last.
Each on her throbbing bosom boreA burden of such fragrant storeAs never there had lain before.
Spices, the purest, richest, best,That e'er the musky East possessed,From Ind to Araby-the-Blest,
Had they with sorrow-riven heartsSearched all Jerusalem's costliest martsIn quest of,—nards whose pungent arts
Should the dead sepulchre imbueWith vital odors through and through:'T was all their love had leave to do!
Christ did not need their gifts; and yetDid either Mary once regretHer offering? Did Salome fret
Over the unused aloes? Nay!They counted not as waste, that day,What they had brought their Lord. The way
Home seemed the path to heaven. They bare,Thenceforth, about the robes they wareThe clinging perfume everywhere.
So, ministering as erst did these,Go women forth by twos and threes(Unmindful of their morning ease),
Through tragic darkness, murk and dim,Where'er they see the faintest rim,Of promise,—all for sake of him
Who rose from Joseph's tomb. They holdIt just such joy as those of old,To tell the tale the Marys told.
Myrrh-bearers still,—at home, abroad,What paths have holy women trod,Burdened with votive gifts for God,—
Rare gifts whose chiefest worth was pricedBy this one thought, that all sufficed:Their spices had been bruised for Christ!
[Footnote A:Myrophores, a name given to the Marys, in GreekChristian art.]
* * * * *
Saviour, when in dust to TheeLow we bend the adoring knee;When, repentant, to the skiesScarce we lift our weeping eyes,—O, by all Thy pains and woeSuffered once for man below,Bending from Thy throne on high,Hear our solemn litany!
By Thy helpless infant years;By Thy life of want and tears;By Thy days of sore distressIn the savage wilderness;By the dread mysterious hourOf the insulting tempter's power,—Turn, O, turn a favoring eye,Hear our solemn litany!
By the sacred griefs that weptO'er the grave where Lazarus slept;By the boding tears that flowedOver Salem's loved abode;By the anguished sigh that toldTreachery lurked within Thy fold,—From Thy seat above the skyHear our solemn litany!
By Thine hour of dire despair;By Thine agony of prayer;By the cross, the nail, the thorn,Piercing spear, and torturing scorn;By the gloom that veiled the skiesO'er the dreadful sacrifice,—Listen to our humble cry,Hear our solemn litany!
By Thy deep expiring groan;By the sad sepulchral stone;By the vault whose dark abodeHeld in vain the rising God;O, from earth to heaven restored,Mighty, reascended Lord,—Listen, listen to the cryOf our solemn litany!
* * * * *
He might have reared a palace at a word,Who sometimes had not where to lay His head.Time was when He who nourished crowds with bread,Would not one meal unto Himself afford.He healed another's scratch, His own side bled;Side, hands and feet with cruel piercings gored.Twelve legions girded with angelic swordStood at His beck, the scorned and buffeted.Oh, wonderful the wonders left undone!Yet not more wonderful than those He wrought!Oh, self-restraint, surpassing human thought!To have all power, yet be as having none!Oh, self-denying love, that thought aloneFor needs of others, never for its own!
* * * * *
Abide with me! Fast falls the eventide;The darkness deepens: Lord, with me abide!When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,Help of the helpless, O abide with me!
Swift to its close ebbs out life's little day;Earth's joys grow dim; its glories pass away:Change and decay in all around I see;O thou, who changest not, abide with me!
Not a brief glance I beg, a passing word.But as thou dwelt with thy disciples, Lord,Familiar, condescending, patient, free,—Come, not to sojourn, but abide, with me!
Come not in terrors, as the King of kings;But kind and good, with healing in thy wings:Tears for all woes, a heart for every plea;Come, Friend of sinners, and thus bide with me!
Thou on my head in early youth didst smile,And, though rebellious and perverse meanwhile,Thou hast not left me, oft as I left thee:On to the close, O Lord, abide with me!
I need thy presence every passing hour.What but thy grace can foil the Tempter's power?Who like thyself my guide and stay can be?Through cloud and sunshine, O abide with me!
I fear no foe with thee at hand to bless:Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness.Where is death's sting, where, grave, thy victory?I triumph still, if thou abide with me.
Hold thou thy cross before my closing eyes;Shine through the gloom, and point me to the skies:Heaven's morning breaks, and earth's vain shadows flee:In life and death, O Lord, abide with me!
* * * * *
He is gone! beyond the skies,A cloud receives him from our eyes:Gone beyond the highest heightOf mortal gaze or angel's flight:Through the veils of time and space,Passed into the holiest place:All the toil, the sorrow done,All the battle fought and won.
He is gone; and we return,And our hearts within us burn;Olivet no more shall greetWith welcome shout his coming feet:Never shall we track him moreOn Gennesareth's glistening shore:Never in that look or voiceShall Zion's walls again rejoice.
He is gone; and we remainIn this world of sin and pain:In the void which he has left,On this earth of him bereft,We have still his work to do,We can still his path pursue:Seek him both in friend and foe,In ourselves his image show.
He is gone; we heard him say,"Good that I should go away";Gone is that dear form and face,But not gone his present grace;Though himself no more we see,Comfortless we cannot be;No! his Spirit still is ours,Quickening, freshening all our powers.
He is gone; towards their goalWorld and church must onward roll;Far behind we leave the past,Forward are our glances cast;Still his words before us rangeThrough the ages, as they change:Wheresoe'er the truth shall lead,He will give whate'er we need.
He is gone; but we once moreShall behold him as before,In the heaven of heavens the sameAs on earth he went and came.In the many mansions therePlace for us he will prepare:In that world, unseen, unknown,He and we may yet be one.
He is gone; but not in vain,—Wait until he comes again:He is risen, he is not here;Far above this earthly sphere:Evermore in heart and mind,Where our peace in him we find,To our own eternal Friend,Thitherward let us ascend.
* * * * *
Come, O thou Traveller unknown,Whom still I hold, but cannot see;My company before is gone,And I am left alone with thee;With thee all night I mean to stay,And wrestle till the break of day.
I need not tell thee who I am;My sin and misery declare;Thyself hast called me by my name;Look on thy hands, and read it there;But who, I ask thee, who art thou?Tell me thy name, and tell me now.
In vain thou strugglest to get free;I never will unloose my hold:Art thou the Man that died for me?The secret of thy love unfold;Wrestling, I will not let thee goTill I thy name, thy nature know.
Wilt thou not yet to me revealThy new, unutterable name?Tell me, I still beseech thee, tell;To know it now resolved I am;Wrestling, I will not let thee goTill I thy name, thy nature know.
What though my shrinking flesh complainAnd murmur to contend so long?I rise superior to my pain;When I am weak, then am I strong!And when my all of strength shall fail,I shall with the God-man prevail.