W 'R£D fOEMS 
 
 F-46M ^Century 
 
FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D. 
 
 BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 
 
 

 K*-tyLs j c ipz. 
 
 / 
 
I 
 
SACRED POEMS 
 
 OF Ti 
 
 XIXth CENTURY 
 
 THE CHOICE BOOKS 
 
THE CHOICE BOOKS 
 
 OUR VILLAGE 
 
 Mary Russell Mitford 
 
 THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD 
 
 Oliver Goldsmith 
 
 SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY 
 
 Joseph Addison 
 
 THE CROWN OF WILD OLIVE 
 
 John Raskin 
 
 POEMS OF RALPH WALDO 
 EMERSON 
 
 SACRED POEMS OF THE XIX 
 CENTURY Kate A. Wright 
 
 DAINTY POEMS OF THE XIX 
 CENTURY Kate A. Wright 
 
 Other volumes will be announced later 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 Princeton Theological Seminary Library 
 
 http://archive.org/details/sasofninOOwrig 
 

 
 *fc 
 
 John Newman 
 
<gcs* CF ™^ 
 
 SACRED POEM& 15 W34 
 
 OF THEW^ 
 
 NINETEENTH CENTURY 
 
 Selectedijy 
 KATE A. WRIGHT 
 
 Compiler of "Dainty Poems of the XIX Century" 
 "Sweet Notes from Many Voices" etc. 
 
 NEW YORK: DODGE 
 PUBLISHING COMPANY 
 
 220 EAST TWENTY-THIRD ST. 
 
TO THE READER 
 
 WHEN engaged in selecting materials 
 for my " Dainty Poems of the Nine- 
 teenth Century," which consists of 
 secular Poems only, I set aside many which 
 expressed a sincere and elevated religious 
 sentiment in language likely to be acceptable 
 to all readers, irrespective of sect. Friends 
 urged me to complete and publish a collection 
 of them, and the marked success of my book 
 referred to above encouraged me to act on 
 their advice : hence the present volume. 
 
 As in my other collection, I could not in this 
 volume have included so many choice poems, 
 if I had not been favoured by the permission 
 of Authors and Publishers to make extracts 
 from their Copyright works, and the reader 
 will perceive by the beauty of these extracts, 
 how deeply I am indebted to them for this 
 permission, which has given an excellence to 
 the collection, which it otherwise could not have 
 had. The book must be regarded as containing 
 only cabinet specimens of the writings of the 
 different authors, for a fuller enjoyment of which 
 I would refer the reader to their published works. 
 The following is a list of the Authors and 
 Publishers who have so kindly favoured me : — 
 
 Sir Edwin Arnold and Messrs. Longmans, Green & Co. 
 Messrs. Macmillan & Co., for the late Mr. Matthew 
 Arnold. 
 
 7 
 
8 TO THE READER 
 
 Mr. Alfred Austin. 
 
 Mrs. \V. Nicholson for the late Mr. Edward Banks. 
 
 Mr. Arthur Christopher Benson and Mr. John Lane. 
 
 Rev. R. S. Brooke, D.D. 
 
 Rev. R. \V. Buckley, D.D. 
 
 Miss Jane Bushby for the late Mrs. Anne S. Bushbv. 
 
 Messrs. Macmillan for the late Mr. Arthur Hugh Clough. 
 
 Mr. Austin Dobson. 
 
 Mrs. Edward Dowden. 
 
 Professor Edward Dowden. 
 
 Messrs. Blackwood & Sons for the late George Eliot. 
 
 Miss Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler. 
 
 Mr. Norman Gale. 
 
 Mr. Richard le Gallienne. 
 
 Messrs. James Nisbet & Co. for the late Miss Frances 
 
 Ridley Havergal. 
 Mr. Alfred Hayes. 
 
 The late Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes. 
 Rev. John A. Jennings. 
 Miss E. Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake). 
 Messrs. Chatto & Windus for Dr. George MacDonald. 
 B. M. 
 Miss Jane G. Matheson for the late Rev. George 
 
 Matheson, D.D. 
 Mrs. Louise Chandler Moulton, also for the late Mr. 
 
 Philip Bourke Marston. 
 Mr. Gilbert Parker. 
 Sir Noel Paton. 
 
 Major A. W. Pollock for the late Rev. T. B. Pollock. 
 Rev. H. I. D. Ryder and Messrs. M. H. Gill & Son. 
 Mr. Elliot Stock. 
 
 Mr. John Lane for the late Lord de Tabley. 
 Mr. A. C. Trench for the late Archbishop Trench. 
 Mr. Aubrey de Vere. 
 
 Kate A. Wright 
 
SACRED POEMS OF 
 THE XlXth CENTURY 
 
SARAH FLOWER ADAMS 
 
 NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE 
 
 N 
 
 EARER, my God, to Thee, 
 Nearer to Thee ! 
 E'en though it be a cross 
 That raiseth me ; 
 Still all my song would be, 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 Nearer to Thee ! 
 
 Though like the wanderer, 
 
 The sun gone down, 
 Darkness be over me, 
 
 My rest a stone ; 
 Yet in my dreams I'd be 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 
 Nearer to Thee ! 
 
 There let the way appear 
 
 Steps unto Heaven ; 
 All that Thou send'st to me 
 
 In mercy given ; 
 Angels to beckon me 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 
 Nearer to Thee ! 
 
 Then with my waking thoughts 
 Bright with Thy praise, 
 11 
 
12 SACRED POEMS 
 
 Out of my stony griefs 
 
 Bethel 111 raise ; 
 So by my woes to be 
 Nearer, my God, to Thee, 
 
 Nearer to Thee ! 
 
 Or if on joyful wing 
 Cleaving the sky, 
 
 Sun, moon, and stars forgot. 
 Upwards I fly, 
 
 Still all my song shall be. 
 
 Nearer,, my God, to thee, 
 Nearer to Thee ! 
 
SIR EDWIN ARNOLD 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM "THE LIGHT OF 
 THE WORLD" 
 
 i 
 
 T may be this shall hap ! How should I 
 
 know ? 
 Yet do we know, who loved and followed 
 
 Him, 
 Never such hard words fell from those true 
 
 lips, 
 Which would not have the young man call 
 
 Him good, 
 Replying, 4 None is good ! Not one, save God ! * 
 Love's glory — not Love's gore — redeems the 
 
 Worlds ! 
 The gateway of His Kingdom He did shut 
 On them who named His name, but let the 
 
 sick 
 Lie helpless ; and the naked go unclad ; 
 The fatherless uncared for ; prisoners 
 Unvisited ; the woe-begones of earth 
 Unsuccoured ; — vainly dreaming to love God 
 Who did not love their brothers ; those who 
 
 held 
 Talents, and wrapped them in the napkin ; 
 
 churls 
 Who — pardoned of great debts — took by the 
 
 throat 
 A fellow-servant for some little due, 
 And narrowly exacted all ; unkind, 
 
 13 
 
14 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Forgetting the Forgiven But for Faith 
 Which — if it could — would cling ; and — if it 
 
 could — 
 Would comprehend ; and, comprehending not, 
 Stumbled, yet loved and strove, — to that He 
 
 flung 
 The golden doors wide open, crying : * Come, 
 Thrice blessed of my Father ! what ye did, 
 In that sweet secret doing of true heart, 
 Unto the least of these My brethren, ye 
 Have done it unto Me ! ' " 
 
 • * * * * 
 
 " Wherefore, if there live 
 Brothers too low to love, too base to serve, 
 Too evil to forgive ; if aught in Man 
 So abject seem and so to brute allied 
 Nice natures scorn the kinship ; — think that 
 
 Christ 
 Knew also these, and measured these, and 
 
 made 
 His daily sojourn 'midst them ; and was swift 
 To succour them and cheer ; and bore with 
 
 them, 
 Never once holding any lowly soul 
 Less dear to Heaven than high and saintly 
 
 souls, 
 Never conceding once that one stray sheep — 
 Lean, foul, and fleeceless in the thorns of Sin — 
 Should die, unfolded, for the safe flock's sake. 
 Thus, then, weakly I strive to answer thee : 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 15 
 
 Jesus our Lord hath lived and died and lived ; 
 And, now, — in Suns, and Stars, and amplest 
 
 Heaven, 
 When Angels name us they must name Him, 
 
 too, 
 Since He was Man — is Man. And for His sake 
 No more 'tis hard to love what He hath loved, 
 Nor strange to tread, in footmarks of His feet, 
 This path which leads, by love of Man, to 
 
 where — 
 Through Earthly Service rendered, duties 
 
 wrought 
 In meekness, purity, and charity — 
 Always our Helper, He awaits. Awaits 
 To tell what best He knew — the secret deep 
 How the Divine hides in the Undivine, 
 How near to good is evil. Waits to say : 
 
 * Enter ye in, who nursed Me, lying sick, 
 And fed Me, being hungered ; gave Me robes 
 When I was naked, wiped My tears away 
 
 In heavy-hearted days, and pitied Me, 
 
 And helped Me, cast in prison with the thieves ! 
 
 And, when we answer : ' Oh, dear Lord ! but, 
 
 how 
 Saw we Thee sick, or hungered, or unclad, 
 Or sad, or cast in prison ? ' Christ shall say : 
 
 * Inasmuch as ye did it to the least 
 
 Of these My brothers, it was done to Me ! 
 Aye ! 'twas to Me, — and 'twas to God through 
 Me— 
 
16 SACRED POEMS 
 
 Ye gave that cup of water ! I lay sick 
 With him ye succoured ; I was languishing 
 In prison with the broken hearts ye cheered ; 
 That was My nakedness ye covered up 
 Clothing My Poor ; I was the babe ye fed ; 
 I was that widow whom ye visited ; 
 Share My joy now, who helped My Father 
 
 then 
 Enter ye in ! " 
 
MATTHEW ARNOLD 
 
 PROGRESS 
 
 THE Master stood upon the mount, and 
 taught. 
 He saw a fire in His disciples' eyes ; 
 u The old law," they said, M is wholly come to 
 nought, 
 
 Behold the new world rise ! " 
 
 1 Was it," the Lord then said, " with scorn ye 
 
 saw 
 The olcj law observed by Scribes and 
 
 Pharisees ? 
 I say unto you, see ye keep that law 
 More faithfully than these ! 
 
 44 Too hasty heads for ordering worlds, alas ! 
 Think not that I to annul the law have will'd ; 
 No jot, no tittle from the law shall pass, 
 Till all have been fulfiird;' 
 
 So Christ said eighteen hundred years ago. 
 But what then shall be said to those to-day, 
 Who cry aloud to lay the old world low 
 To clear the new world's way? 
 
 1. 
 
 Religious fervours ! ardour misapplied ! 
 Hence, hence," they cry, " ye do but keep man 
 blind ! 
 
 2 17 
 
18 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 But keep him self-immersed, preoccupied, 
 And lame the active mind ! " 
 
 Ah ! from the old world let someone answer 
 
 give : 
 " Scorn ye this world, their tears, their inward 
 
 cares ? 
 I say unto you, see that your souls live 
 A deeper life than theirs ! 
 
 " Say ye : ' The spirit of man has found new 
 
 roads, 
 And we must leave the old faiths and walk 
 
 therein ? ' — 
 Leave then the Cross as ye have left carved 
 
 gods, 
 
 But guard the fire within ! 
 
 " Bright else and fast the stream of life may 
 
 roll, 
 And no man may the other's hurt behold ; 
 Yet each will have one anguish — his own soul 
 Which perishes of cold." 
 
 Here let that voice make end ; then, let a 
 
 strain, 
 From a far lonelier distance, like the wind 
 Be heard, floating through heaven, and fill 
 
 again 
 
 These men's profoundest mind : 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 19 
 
 M Children of men ! the unseen Power, whose 
 
 eye 
 For ever doth accompany mankind, 
 Hath look'd on no religion scornfully 
 That men did ever find. 
 
 M Which has not taught weak wills how much 
 
 they can ? 
 Which has not fall'n on the dry heart like rain ? 
 Which has not cried to sunk, self-weary man : 
 Thou must be born again I 
 
 " Children of men ! not that your age excel 
 In pride of life the ages of your sires, 
 But that ye think clear, feel deep, bear fruit well, 
 The Friend of man desires." 
 
 SELF-DEPENDENCE 
 
 WEARY of myself, and sick of asking 
 What I am, and what I ought to 
 be, 
 At this vessel's prow I stand, which bears me 
 Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea. 
 
 And a iook of passionate desire 
 
 O'er the sea and to the stars I send : 
 
 u Ye who from my childhood up have calm'd me, 
 
 Calm me, ah, compose me to the end i 
 
20 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 M Ah, once more," I cried, " ye stars, ye waters, 
 On my heart your mighty charm renew ; 
 Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you, 
 Feel my soul becoming vast like you ! " 
 
 From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of 
 
 heaven, 
 Over the lit sea's unquiet way, 
 In rustling night-air came the answer : 
 " Wouldst thou be as these are ? Live as they. 
 
 41 Unaffrighted by the silence round them, 
 Undistracted by the sights they see, 
 These demand not that the things without them 
 Yield them love, amusement, sympathy. 
 
 " And with joy the stars perform their shining, 
 And the sea its long moon-silver' d roll ; 
 For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting 
 All the fever of some differing soul. 
 
 " Bounded by themselves, and unregardful 
 In what state God's other works may be, 
 In their own tasks all their powers pouring, 
 These attain the mighty life you see.'' 
 
 O air-born voice ! long since, severely clear, 
 A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear : 
 " Resolve to be thyself ; and know, that he 
 Who finds himself, loses his misery ! " 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 21 
 
 STAGIRIUS 
 
 Stagirius was a young - monk to whom St. Chrysostom 
 addressed three books, and of whom those books give an 
 account. They will be found in the first volume of the 
 Benedictine edition of St. Chrysostom's works. 
 
 THOU, who dost dwell alone — 
 Thou, who dost know thine own — 
 Thou, to whom all are known 
 From the cradle to the grave — 
 
 Save, oh ! save. 
 From the world's temptations, 
 
 From tribulations, 
 From that fierce anguish 
 Wherein we languish, 
 From that torpor deep 
 Wherein we lie asleep, 
 Heavy as death, cold as the grave 
 Save, oh ! save. 
 
 When the soul, growing clearer, 
 
 Sees God no nearer ; 
 When the soul, mounting higher, 
 
 To God comes no nigher ; 
 But the arch-fiend Pride 
 Mounts at her side, 
 Foiling her high emprise, 
 Sealing her eagle eyes, 
 And, when she fain would soar, 
 Makes idols to adore. 
 
22 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Changing the pure emotion 
 Of her high devotion, 
 To a skin-deep sense 
 Of her own eloquence ; 
 Strong to deceive, strong to enslave— 
 Save, oh ! save. 
 
 From the ingrain'd fashion 
 Of this earthly nature 
 That mars thy creature ; 
 From grief that is but passion, 
 From mirth that is but feigning, 
 From tears that bring no healing, 
 From wild and weak complaining, 
 Thine old strength revealing 
 Save, oh ! save. 
 From doubt, where all is double ; 
 Where wise men are not strong, 
 Where comfort turns to trouble, 
 Where just men suffer wrong ; 
 Where sorrow treads on joy, 
 Where sweet things soonest cloy, 
 Where faiths are built on dust, 
 Where love is half mistrust, 
 Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea- 
 Oh ! set us free. 
 
 O let the false dream fly 
 Where our sick souls do lie 
 Tossing continually ! 
 
NLNETEENTH CENTURY 23 
 
 O where thy voice doth come 
 
 Let all doubts be dumb, 
 
 Let all words be mild, 
 
 All strifes be reconciled, 
 
 All pains beguiled ! 
 Light bring no blindness, 
 Love no unkindness, 
 Knowledge no ruin, 
 Fear no undoing ! 
 From the cradle to the grave, 
 
 Save, oh ! save. 
 
 EAST LONDON 
 
 TWAS August, and the fierce sun over- 
 head 
 Smote on the squalid streets of 
 Bethnal Green, 
 And the pale weaver, through his windows 
 
 seen 
 In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited. 
 
 I met a preacher there I knew, and said : 
 " 111 and oerwork'd, how fare you in this 
 
 scene ? n — 
 41 Bravely ! M said he ; u for I of late have been 
 Much cheer' d with thoughts of Christ, the 
 
 living bread." 
 
24 SACRED POEMS 
 
 O human soul ! as long as thou canst so 
 Set up a mark of everlasting light, 
 Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, 
 
 To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam — 
 Not with lost toil thou labourest through the 
 
 night t 
 Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed 
 
 thy home. 
 
 IMMORTALITY 
 
 FOIL'D by our fellow-men, depress'd, 
 outworn, 
 We leave the brutal world to take its 
 way, 
 And, Patience ! in another life, we say, 
 The zvorld shall be thrust dozvn, and xve 
 upborne. 
 
 And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn 
 The world's poor, routed leavings ? or will they, 
 Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day, 
 Support the fervours of the heavenly morn ? 
 
 No, no ! the energy of life may be 
 Kept on after the grave, but not begun ; 
 And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife, 
 
 From strength to strength advancing — only he, 
 His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, 
 Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life. 
 
MRS. C. F. ALEXANDER 
 
 THE CA VE OF MACHPELAH 
 
 "There they buried Abraham, and Sarah his wife, there 
 they buried Isaac and Rebekah his wife, and there I buried 
 Leah." — Gen. xlix. 31. 
 
 CALM is it in the dim cathedral cloister, 
 Where lie the dead all couched in 
 marble rare, 
 Where the shades thicken, and the breath 
 hangs moister 
 Than in the sunlight air : 
 
 Where the chance ray that makes the carved 
 stone whiter, 
 
 Tints with a crimson, or a violet light 
 Some pale old Bishop with his staff and mitre, 
 
 Some stiff crusading knight ! 
 
 Sweet is it where the little graves fling shadows 
 In the green churchyard, on the shaven 
 grass, 
 And a faint cowslip fragrance from the 
 meadows 
 O'er the low wall doth pass ! 
 
 More sweet — more calm in that fair valleys 
 bosom, 
 The burial place in Ephrons pasture ground, 
 
 25 
 
26 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Where the oil-olive shed her snowy blossom, 
 And the red grape was found, 
 
 When the great pastoral prince with love 
 undying 
 Rose up in anguish from the face of 
 death, 
 And weighed the silver shekels for its buying 
 Before the sons of Heth. 
 
 Here, when the measure of his days was num- 
 bered 
 — Days few, and evil in this vale of tears ! — 
 At Sarah's side the faithful Patriarch slum- 
 bered, 
 An old man full of years : 
 
 Here, holy Isaac, meek of heart and gentle, 
 And the fair maid who came to him from 
 far, 
 
 And the sad sire who knew all throes parental, 
 And meek-eyed Leah, are ; 
 
 She rests not here, the beautiful of feature, 
 For whom her Jacob wrought his years 
 twice o'er, 
 And deemed them but as one, for that fair 
 creature, 
 So dear the love he bore ! 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 27 
 
 Nor Israel's son beloved, 1 who brought him 
 sleeping 
 With a long pomp of woe to Canaan's 
 shade, 
 Till all the people wondered at the weeping 
 By the Egyptians made. 
 
 Like roses from the same tree gathered 
 yearly, 
 And flung together in one vase to keep, — 
 Some but not all who loved so well, and 
 dearly, 
 Lie here in quiet sleep. 
 
 What though the Moslem mosque be in the 
 valley, 
 Though faithless hands have sealed the 
 sacred cave, 
 And the red Prophet's children shout " El 
 Allah," 
 Over the Hebrew's grave : 
 
 Yet a day cometh when those white walls 
 shaking 
 
 Shall give again to light the living dead, 
 And Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, re-awaking 
 
 Spring from their rocky bed. 
 
 1 " And the bones of Joseph buried they in Shechem." — 
 Joshua xxiv. 32. 
 
28 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 THE CREATION 
 
 11 Thus the Heavens and the earth were finished, and 
 all the host of them." — Gen. ii. i. 
 
 Y 
 
 OUNG heart, impatient of thy powers, 
 Why wilt thou fret to know 
 
 That knowledge comes with weary hours, 
 And heavy step, and slow? 
 
 That each thing great in its degree 
 
 In toil and care begins, 
 And no perfection here may be 
 
 But that which labour wins? 
 
 Perchance 'twas writ to do thee shame. 
 That He whom angels praise 
 
 Paused o'er His fair creation's frame, 
 And lingered six long days. 
 
 His word at once had hung them there. 
 Planet, and star, and sun ; — 
 
 Perchance to teach thee patient care, 
 He made them one by one. 
 
 Think how the great world silent lay 
 
 A void and formless place, 
 Gods Spirit brooding far away 
 
 Over the water's face, — 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 29 
 
 Till bursting on that darkness wide 
 
 The glorious light had birth, 
 And in her beauty and her pride, 
 
 He made the fair young earth. 
 
 Three days she hung all cold and still, 
 
 Wrappd in that sunless light, 
 No golden lustre on the hill, 
 
 No silver moon at night. 
 
 God made the sun, and in his ray 
 Sprang flowers by stream and meadow, 
 
 On all her heights the sunlight lay, 
 And on her sward, the shadow. — 
 
 The graceful moonbeams touched her sod 
 
 With slanting silver bars, 
 " Shouted for joy the sons of God, 
 
 And sang the morning stars." 
 
 Slowly He wrought, and duly set 
 
 All things above, below ; — 
 Wilt thou, His creature, chide and fret 
 
 If thine advance be slow ? 
 
 Patience, and zeal, and toil He asks — 
 Then let thine heart be strong, 
 
 Nor weary of thy lowly tasks, 
 Because the time is long. 
 
30 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 RAHAB 
 
 " By faith Rahab perished not with them that believed not, 
 when she had received the spies with peace." — Heb. xi. 31. 
 
 R 
 
 ISE up, rise up, O Rahab ; 
 And bind the scarlet thread 
 On the casement of thy chamber, 
 When the battle waxeth red. 
 
 From the double feast of Gilgal, 
 From Jordan's cloven wave, 
 
 They come with sound of trumpet 
 With banner and with glaive. 
 
 Death to the foes of Israel ! 
 
 But joy to thee, and thine, 
 To her who saved the spies of God, 
 
 Who shows the scarlet line ! 
 
 Twas in the time of harvest, 
 
 When the corn lay on the earth, 
 
 That first she bound the signal 
 And bade the spies go forth. 
 
 For a cry came to her spirit 
 From the far Egyptian coasts, 
 
 And a dread was in her bosom 
 Of the Mighty Lord of Hosts. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 31 
 
 And the faith of saints and martyrs 
 Lay brave at her heart's core, 
 
 As some inward pulse were throbbing 
 Of the kingly line she bore. 
 
 As there comes a sudden fragrance 
 In the last long winter's day, 
 
 From the paly silken primrose 
 Or the violet by the way. 
 
 And we pause, and look around us, 
 And we feel through every vein 
 
 That the tender spring is coming 
 And the summer's rosy reign. 
 
 In the twilight of our childhood, 
 When youth's shadows lie before, 
 
 There come thoughts into our bosoms 
 Like the spies to Rahab's door. 
 
 And we scarcely know their value, 
 Or their power for good or ill, 
 
 But we feel they are God's angels, 
 And they seek us at His will. 
 
 And we tremble at their presence, 
 And we blush to let them forth, 
 
 In some word of tender feeling, 
 Or some deed of Christian worth. 
 
32 SACRED POEMS 
 
 Yet those guests perchance may witness 
 
 In that awful battle day, 
 When the foe is on the threshold, 
 
 And the gates of life give way : 
 
 When the soul that seeks for safety. 
 
 Shall behold but one red sign — 
 But the blood-drops of Atonement 
 
 On the cross of Love Divine ! 
 
ALFRED AUSTIN 
 
 IS LIFE WORTH L1VLXG ? 
 
 I 
 
 i 
 
 S life worth living ? Yes, so long 
 
 As Spring revives the year, 
 And hails us with the cuckoo's song, 
 
 To show that she is here ; 
 So long as May of April takes, 
 
 In smiles and tears, farewell, 
 And windflowers dapple all the brakes, 
 
 And primoses the dell ; 
 While children in the woodlands yet 
 
 Adorn their little laps 
 With ladysmock and violet, 
 
 And daisy-chain their caps ; 
 While over orchard daffodils 
 
 Cloud-shadows float and fleet, 
 And ouzel pipes and laverock trills, 
 
 And young lambs buck and bleat ; 
 So long as that which bursts the bud 
 
 And swells and tunes the rill, 
 Makes springtime in the maidens blood, 
 
 Life is worth living still. 
 
 II 
 
 Life's not worth living ! Come with me, 
 Now that, through vanishing veil, 
 
 3 33 
 
34 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Shimmers the dew on lawn and lea, 
 
 And milk foams in the pail ; 
 Now that June's sweltering sunlight bathes 
 
 With sweat the striplings lithe, 
 As fall the long straight-scented swathes 
 
 Oyer the crescent scythe ; 
 Now that the throstle never stops 
 
 His self-sufficing strain, 
 And woodbine-trails festoon the copse. 
 
 And eglantine the lane ; 
 Now rustic labour seems as sweet 
 
 As leisure, and blythe herds 
 Wend homeward with unweary feet, 
 
 Caroling like the birds ; 
 Now all, except the lover's vow, 
 
 And nightingale, is still ; 
 Here, in the twilight hour, allow, 
 
 Life is worth living still. 
 
 Ill 
 
 When Summer, lingering half-forlorn 
 
 On Autumn loves to lean, 
 And fields of slowly yellowing corn 
 
 Are girt by woods still green ; 
 When hazel-nuts wax brown and plump, 
 
 And apples rosy-red, 
 And the owlet hoots from hollow stump, 
 
 And the dormouse makes its bed ; 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 35 
 
 When crammed are all the granary floors. 
 
 And the Hunters moon is bright, 
 And life again is sweet indoors, 
 
 And logs again alight ; 
 Aye, even when the houseless wind 
 
 Waileth through cleft and chink, 
 And in the twilight maids grow kind, 
 
 And jugs are filled and clink ; 
 When children clasp their hands and pray T 
 
 " Be done Thy heavenly will ! n 
 Who doth not lift his voice and say, 
 
 44 Life is worth living still " ? 
 
 IV 
 
 Is life worth living? Yes, so long 
 
 As there is wrong to right, 
 Wail of the weak against the strong, 
 
 Or tyranny to fight ; 
 Long as there lingers gloom to chase, 
 
 Or streaming tear to dry, 
 One kindred woe, one sorrowing face 
 
 That smiles as we draw nigh ; 
 Long as at tale of anguish swells 
 
 The heart, and lids grow wet, 
 And at the sound of Christmas bells 
 
 We pardon and forget ; 
 So long as Faith with Freedom reigns, 
 
 And loyal Hope survives 
 
36 SACRED POEMS 
 
 And gracious Charity remains 
 
 To leaven lowly lives ; 
 While there is one untrodden tract 
 
 For Intellect or Will, 
 And men are free to think and act 
 
 Life is worth living still. 
 
 Not care to live while English homes 
 
 Nestle in English trees, 
 And England's Trident-Sceptre roams 
 
 Her territorial seas ! 
 Not live while English songs are sung 
 
 Wherever blows the wind, 
 And England's laws and England's tongue 
 
 Enfranchise half mankind ! 
 So long as in Pacific main, 
 
 Or on Atlantic strand, 
 Our kin transmit the parent strain, 
 
 And love the Mother-Land ; 
 So long as in this ocean Realm, 
 
 Victoria and her Line 
 Retain the heritage of the helm, 
 
 By loyalty divine ; 
 So long as flashes English steel, 
 
 And English trumpets shrill, 
 He is dead already who doth not feel 
 
 Life is worth living still. 
 
EDWARD BANKS 
 
 ON A GRA VE, NOT OF THIS CENTURY 
 
 u Sacred to the memory of Oliver Barwood, also of Joan 
 his Wife." 
 
 T 
 
 HEY liv'd in a far generation ; 
 
 The stone hath a leaning of age — 
 A lichens matured incrustation 
 
 Has clouded the chisel-wrought page. 
 
 You picture them beings of quaintness, 
 (When drawn to the transient theme), 
 
 But, at best, indecision and faintness 
 Will cover the hues of your dream. 
 
 Ah, what of the once eager musing 
 As Power was added to Youth — 
 
 The Purpose of Life interfusing 
 Simplicity, Hope, and Truth ? 
 
 Ah, what of the Love-dawn's confession ? 
 
 That made their young spirits as light, 
 Thro' magnificent earnest expression, 
 
 As thine in the ball-room to-night : 
 
 And left them entranc'd with emotion, 
 Like delicate mosses that wave 
 
 To the passionate pulse of the ocean, 
 Afar in a luminous cave. 
 
 37 
 
38 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Alas for the wonderful story, 
 
 If such may go down to the dust ! 
 
 That the perfected wealth of its glory 
 Is future, oh courage and trust : 
 
 The chrysalid's transfiguration 
 
 Is never a meaningless law, 
 
 For the work of the God of creation 
 
 Admitteth not failure and flaw. 
 
 (1876.) 
 
 A CAROL FOR CHRISTMAS EVE 
 
 D 
 
 RAPED in frost, the evening deepens; 
 
 Gather, gather round the fire ! 
 We will touch the early presence 
 Of the morn, and then retire. 
 From the massy ivied grandeur 
 Of the grey cathedral, swells 
 Music to the coming morrow, 
 In a peal of happy bells. 
 Sacred hours ! delay no longer, 
 
 Shed the blessing that ye bring, 
 Breathe abroad the love that lightened 
 Round the cradle of the King. 
 
 Long ago, the herald beacon 
 Glimmer'd over Eastern lands, 
 
 And a strange and sudden lustre 
 Lighted up the desert sands ; 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 39 
 
 Men that moved amid the darkness. 
 When they caught the gleam afar, 
 Read the tidings of salvation 
 In the splendour of the star. 
 Sacred hours ! delay no longer, 
 
 Shed the blessing that ye bring, 
 Breathe abroad the love that lighten'd 
 Round the cradle of the King. 
 
 Faintly fell a golden whisper 
 
 Thro' the stillness of the morn, 
 Joyful words of blest assurance, 
 
 " Unto us a child is born : " 
 And a sweet seraphic anthem 
 
 From the vault of heaven came, 
 Voices of unnumber'd angels, 
 Hymning the Almighty's name. 
 Sacred hours ! delay no longer, 
 
 Shed the blessing that ye bring, 
 Breathe abroad the love that lighten'd 
 Round the cradle of the King. 
 
 Time is flowing onward, onward 
 
 In a swift and chilly stream ; 
 Change effaces all we cherish, 
 
 Earth is passing like a dream ; 
 O the great eternal Christmas ! 
 
 O the rapture ! when we meet, 
 Members of a scatter' d household, 
 
 In a circle all complete. 
 
40 SACRED POEMS 
 
 Sacred moments ! cease to linger, 
 Sad and starless is the night, 
 
 Melancholy mists enfold us, 
 We are longing for the light. 
 
ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER 
 BENSON 
 
 EVENSONG 
 
 T 
 
 HRUSH, sing clear, for the spring is 
 
 here : 
 Sing, for the summer is near, is near, 
 
 All day long thou hast plied thy song, 
 Hardly hid from the hurrying throng : 
 
 Now the shade of the trees is laid 
 Down the meadow and up the glade : 
 
 Now when the air grows cool and rare 
 Birds of the cloister fall to prayer : 
 
 Here is the bed of the patient dead, 
 Shoulder by shoulder, head by head. 
 
 Sweet bells swing in the tower, and ring 
 Men to worship before their King. 
 
 See they come as the grave bells hum, 
 Restless voices awhile are dumb : 
 
 More and more on the sacred floor 
 Feet that linger about the door : 
 
 41 
 
42 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Sweet sounds swim through the vaulting dim, 
 Psalm and Canticle, Vesper hymn. 
 
 That is the way that mortals pray : 
 Which is the sweeter ? brown bird, say ! 
 
 Which were best for me ? both are blest ; 
 Sing thy sweetest and leave the rest. 
 
 ONE BY ONE 
 
 o 
 
 NE by one, as evening closes, 
 
 Droop the flowers that drank the 
 sun ; 
 See, they sleep, my weary roses, 
 One by one : 
 
 Never did I bend above you, 
 
 O my flowers, while all was bright ; 
 There is time, I said, to love you 
 Ere the night. 
 
 You were neither watched nor tended, 
 Fevered thoughts were mine instead, 
 Now the weary day is ended ; — 
 You are dead. 
 
 Now I come in dumb disorder, 
 
 Seek and search, in wild regret. 
 If one rose in bed or border 
 Wakens vet. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 43 
 
 Nay, they slumber till the morrow ! 
 Hasten homewards : bar the gate. 
 Through the cold dark hours of sorrow 
 I will wait. 
 
 WHEN PUNCTUAL DAWN 
 
 WHEN punctual dawn came o'er the 
 hiii, 
 In orange veiled and tender blue, 
 Wan in the dark field gleamed the rill, 
 The dusky hedge was gemmed with dew. 
 
 And patient sheep from folded feet 
 Rose one by one, alert for food, 
 And one by one, so small and sweet, 
 The flattened grass-stems stirred and stood. 
 
 And I too rose, and stepping down 
 Drank deep the invigorating air, 
 And scanned the little sleeping town, 
 And thanked my God that I was there. 
 
REV. THOMAS BINNEY 
 
 ETERNAL LIGHT 
 
 E 
 
 TERNAL Light ! eternal Light ! 
 How pure the soul must be, 
 When, placed within Thy searching 
 sight, 
 It shrinks not, but with calm delight, 
 Can live and look on Thee ! 
 
 The spirits that surround Thy throne 
 
 May bear the burning bliss ; 
 But that is surely theirs alone, 
 Since they have never, never known 
 A fallen world like this. 
 
 O ! how shall I, whose native sphere 
 
 Is dark, whose mind is dim, 
 Before the Ineffable appear, 
 And on my naked spirit bear 
 The uncreated beam ? 
 
 There is a way for man to rise 
 
 To that sublime abode : — 
 An offering and a sacrifice, 
 A Holy Spirit's energies, 
 An Advocate with God : — 
 
 44 
 
SACRED POEMS 45 
 
 These, these prepare us for the sight 
 
 Of Holiness above : 
 The sons of ignorance and night 
 May dwell in the Eternal Light 
 
 Through the Eternal Love ! 
 
DR. BONAR 
 
 BE TRUE 
 
 T 
 
 HOU must be true thyself, 
 
 If thou the truth woulclst teach 
 Thy soul must overflow, if thou 
 Another's soul wouldst reach ! 
 It needs the overflow of heart 
 To give the lips full speech. 
 
 Think truly, and thy thoughts 
 Shall the world's famine feed ; 
 
 Speak truly, and each word of thine 
 Shall be a fruitful seed ; 
 
 Live truly, and thy life shall be 
 A great and noble creed. 
 
 46 
 
JANE BORTHWICK 
 
 REST, WEARY SOUL 
 
 REST, weary soul ! 
 The penalty is borne, the ransom paid 
 For all thy sins full satisfaction made; 
 Strive not to do thyself what Christ has 
 
 done, 
 Claim the free gift, and make the joy thine 
 
 own ; 
 No more by pangs of guilt and fear distrest, 
 Rest, sweetly rest ! 
 
 Rest, weary heart, 
 From all thy silent griefs, and secret pain, 
 Thy profitless regrets, and longings vain ; 
 Wisdom and love have ordered all the past, 
 All shall be blessedness and light at last ; 
 Cast off the cares that have so long opprest ; 
 
 Rest, sweetly rest ! 
 
 Rest, weary head ! 
 Lie down to slumber in the peaceful tomb : 
 Light from above has broken through its 
 
 gloom ; 
 Here, in the place where once thy Saviour 
 
 lay, 
 Where He shall wake thee on a future day 
 Like a tired child upon its mother's breast, 
 Rest, sweetly rest ! 
 
 47 
 
48 SACRED POEMS 
 
 Rest, spirit free ! 
 In the green pastures of the heavenly snore, 
 Where sin and sorrow can approach no more, 
 With all the flock by the Good Shepherd fed, 
 Beside the streams of Life eternal led, 
 For ever with thy God and Saviour blest, 
 
 Rest, sweetly rest ! 
 
ANNE BRONTE 
 
 IN MEMORY OF A HAPPY DAY IN 
 FEBRUARY 
 
 B 
 
 LESSED be Thou for all the joy 
 My soul has felt to-day ! 
 Oh, let its memory stay with me, 
 And never pass away ! 
 
 1 was alone, for those I loved 
 Were far away from me ; 
 The sun shone on the withered grass, 
 The wind blew fresh and free. 
 
 Was it the smile of early spring 
 That made my bosom glow ? 
 Tvvas sweet ; but neither sun nor wind 
 Could cheer my spirit so. 
 
 Was it some feeling of delight 
 
 All vague and undefined ? 
 
 No ; 'twas a rapture deep and strong, 
 
 Expanding in the mind. 
 
 Was it a sanguine view of life, 
 
 And all its transient bliss, 
 
 A hope of bright prosperity ? 
 
 Oh, no ! it was not this. 
 
 4 49 
 
50 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 It was a glimpse of truth divine 
 Unto my spirit given, 
 Illumined by a ray of light 
 That shone direct from heaven. 
 
 I felt there was a God on high, 
 By whom all things were made ; 
 I saw His wisdom and His power 
 In all His works displayed. 
 
 But most throughout the moral world, 
 I saw His glory shine ; 
 I saw His wisdom infinite, 
 His mercy all divine. 
 
 Deep secrets of His providence, 
 In darkness long concealed, 
 Unto the vision of my soul 
 Were graciously revealed. 
 
 But while I wondered and adored 
 His Majesty divine, 
 I did not tremble at His power : 
 I felt that God was mine. 
 
 I knew that my Redeemer lived ; 
 I did not fear to die ; 
 Full sure that I should rise again 
 To immortality. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 51 
 
 I longed to view that bliss divine, 
 Which eye hath never seen ; 
 Like Moses, I would see His face 
 Without the veil between. 
 
 THE NARROW WAY 
 
 B 
 
 ELI EVE not those who say 
 The upward path is smooth, 
 Lest thou shouldst stumble in the 
 
 way, 
 And faint before the truth. 
 
 It is the only road 
 
 Unto the realms of joy ; 
 
 But he who seeks that blest abode 
 
 Must all his powers employ. 
 
 Bright hopes and pure delight 
 Upon his course may beam, 
 And there amid the sternest heights, 
 The sweetest flowerets gleam. 
 
 On all her breezes borne, 
 Earth yields no scents like those ; 
 But he that dares not grasp the thorn 
 Should never crave the rose. 
 
52 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Arm — arm thee for the fight ! 
 
 Cast useless loads away ; 
 
 Watch through the darkest hours of night ; 
 
 Toil through the hottest day. 
 
 Crush pride into the dust, 
 Or thou must needs be slack ; 
 And trample down rebellious lust, 
 Or it will hold thee back. 
 
 Seek not thy honour here ; 
 
 Waive pleasure and renown ; 
 
 The world's dread scoff undaunted bear, 
 
 And face its deadliest frown. 
 
 To labour and to love, 
 
 To pardon and endure, 
 
 To lift thy heart to God above, 
 
 And keep thy conscience pure ; 
 
 Be this thy constant aim, 
 
 Thy hope, thy chief delight ; 
 
 What matter who should whisper blame 
 
 Or who should scorn or slight ? 
 
 What matter, if thy God approve, 
 And if, within thy breast, 
 Thou feel the comfort of His love, 
 The earnest of His rest? 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 53 
 
 THE PES1TEST 
 
 I 
 
 MOURN with thee, and yet rejoice 
 That thou shouldst sorrow so ; 
 
 With angel choirs I join my voice 
 To bless the sinner's woe. 
 
 Though friends and kindred turn away, 
 And laugh thy grief to scorn ; 
 
 I hear the great Redeemer say, 
 " Blessed are ye that mourn." 
 
 Hold on thy course, nor deem it strange 
 That earthly cords are riven : 
 
 Man may lament the wondrous change, 
 But M there is joy in heaven ! ' 
 
CHARLOTTE BRONTE 
 
 WINTER STORES 
 
 WE take from life one little share, 
 And say that this shall be 
 A space, redeemed from toil and 
 care, 
 From tears and sadness free. 
 
 And, haply, Death unstrings his bow 
 And Sorrow stands apart, 
 And, for a little while, we know 
 The sunshine of the heart. 
 
 Existence seems a summer eve, 
 Warm, soft, and full of peace, 
 Our free, unfettered feelings give 
 The soul its full release. 
 
 A moment, then, it takes the power 
 To call up thoughts that throw 
 Around that charmed and hallowed hour. 
 This life's divinest glow. 
 
 But Time, though viewlessly it flies, 
 
 And slowly, will not stay ; 
 
 Alike, through clear and clouded skies, 
 
 It cleaves its silent way. 
 
 54 
 
SACRED POEMS 55 
 
 Alike the bitter cup of grief, 
 Alike the draught of bliss, 
 Its progress leaves but moment brief 
 For baffled lips to kiss. 
 
 The sparkling draught is dried away, 
 The hour of rest is gone, 
 And urgent voices, round us, say, 
 " Ho, lingerer, hasten on ! " 
 
 And has the soul, then, only gained, 
 From this brief time of ease, 
 A moments rest, when overstrained, 
 One hurried glimpse of peace ? 
 
 No, while the sun shone kindly o'er us, 
 And flowers bloomed around our feet, 
 While many a bud of joy before us 
 Unclosed its petals sweet, — 
 
 An unseen work within was plying ; 
 Like honey-seeking bee, 
 From flower to flower, unwearied, flying, 
 Laboured one faculty, — 
 
 Thoughtful for winter's future sorrow, 
 Its gloom and scarcity 
 Prescient to-day, of want to-morrow, 
 Toiled quiet Memory. 
 
56 SACRED POEMS 
 
 Tis she that from each transient pleasure 
 Extracts a lasting good ; 
 'Tis she that finds, in summer, treasure 
 To serve for winter's food. 
 
 And when Youth's summer day is vanished, 
 And age brings winter's stress, 
 Her stores with hoarded sweets replenished, 
 Life's evening hours will bless 
 
THE LAST LINES WRITTEN BY 
 EMILY BRONTE 
 
 NO coward soul is mine, 
 No trembler in the world's storm- 
 troubled sphere : 
 I see heaven's glories shine, 
 And faith shines equal, arming me from 
 fear. 
 
 O God within my breast, 
 Almighty, ever-present Deity ! 
 
 Life — that in me has rest, 
 As I — undying Life — have pow er in thee ! 
 
 Vain are the thousand creeds 
 That move men's hearts : unutterably vain ; 
 
 Worthless as withered weeds, 
 Or idlest froth amid the boundless main, 
 
 To waken doubt in one 
 Holding so fast by thine infinity ; 
 
 So surely anchored on 
 The stedfast rock of immortality. 
 
 With wide embracing love 
 Thy spirit animates eternal years, 
 
 Pervades and broods above, 
 Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears. 
 
 67 
 
58 SACRED POEMS 
 
 Though earth and man were gone, 
 And suns and universes cease to be, 
 
 And Thou were left alone, 
 Every existence would exist in Thee. 
 
 There is not room for Death, 
 Nor atom that his might could render void : 
 
 Thou — Thou art Being and Breath, 
 And what Thou art may never be destroyed. 
 
 ; 
 
 UM 
 
REV. R. S. BROOKE, D.D. 
 
 LIGHT AND SHADE 
 
 I WOULD fain enjoy the sunshine, 
 Yet the shadow ever falls, 
 Something dark within, without me, 
 Casts it on my prison walls ; 
 Then I questioned with my spirit, 
 " Wherefore is thy day so dim, 
 When God's light is all around thee, 
 And its source is all in Him?' 
 
 And my spirit maketh answer, 
 
 " Yes God's light is all on earth, 
 Like a river brimming over 
 
 From the fountain of its birth ; 
 Spite of all men's aberrations, 
 
 Scathe and sorrow, shame and strife, 
 Like a sunlit sea it ripples 
 
 Ever up the shores of life." 
 
 Then I answered to my spirit, 
 
 " If God's light indeed be so, 
 Like a fountain in its fulness, 
 
 Like""a sea-tide in its flow ! 
 Then the fault is mine, inherent 
 
 In this dark and heavy clay, 
 Kneaded up throughout my nature, 
 
 Barring thus the light of day ; 
 
 59 
 
60 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Yet the glory, unattainted, 
 
 Rests on all that round us lies, 
 On the lily's silver chalice, 
 
 On the rosebuds crimson dyes, 
 On the green and flashing billow 
 
 Bursting all in balls of light, 
 On the thousand diamond dew-drops 
 
 Weeping for the parted night." 
 
 Then resumed my spirit, " Surely 
 
 These things have their shadows too, 
 Time will dim the lily's lustre, 
 
 Turn to dust the rosebud's hue ; 
 Underneath the bright green billow 
 
 Blanch the million bones of men ; 
 Come and seek the dew at noon-day 
 
 Will you find its sparkle then ? 
 
 Yet God's light is still around us, 
 
 Shining on with temper'd ray, 
 Through the many mists and sorrows 
 
 That obscure His people's way. 
 And, bethink you how the Saviour 
 
 Walked in shadow all His years — 
 Was He not 4 with grief acquainted ' ? 
 
 Was He not a 4 man of tears ' ? ' 
 
 Then I answered to my spirit 
 " If my Master wore the gloom 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 61 
 
 Ere He won the glory, may I 
 
 Humbly then His part assume ; 
 Still through light and shade press onward. 
 
 With a soul serene and tender, 
 Till the golden bells of heaven 
 
 Ring me in to cloudless splendour. 
 
ELIZABETH BARRETT 
 BROWNING 
 
 COMFORT 
 
 SPEAK low to me, my Saviour, low and 
 sweet 
 From out the hallelujahs, sweet and 
 low, 
 Lest I should fear and fall, and miss Thee so 
 Who art not missed by any that entreat. 
 Speak to me as to Mary at Thy feet — 
 And if no precious gums my hands bestow 
 Let my tears drop like amber, while I go 
 In reach of Thy divinest voice complete 
 In humanest affliction — thus, in sooth, 
 To lose the sense of losing ! As a child, 
 Whose song-bird seeks the wood for evermore, 
 \% sung to in its stead by mother's mouth ; 
 Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled, 
 He sleeps the faster that he wept before. 
 
 CHEERFULNESS TAUGHT BY 
 REASON 
 
 I THINK we are too ready with complaint 
 In this fair world of God's. Had we no 
 hope 
 Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope 
 Of yon grey blank of sky, we might be faint 
 
SACRED POEMS 63 
 
 To muse upon eternity's constraint 
 
 Round our aspirant souls. But since the 
 
 scope 
 Must widen early, is it well to droop, 
 For a few days consumed in loss and taint ? 
 O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted, — 
 And, like a cheerful traveller, take the road, 
 Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread 
 Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod 
 To meet the flints ? — At least it may be 
 
 said, 
 "Because the wav is short, I thank Thee, 
 
 God!" 
 
 DISCONTENT 
 
 LIGHT human nature is too lightly tost 
 And ruffled without cause ; complain- 
 ing on — 
 Restless with rest — until, being overthrown, 
 It learneth to lie quiet. Let a frost 
 Or a small wasp have crept to the innermost 
 Of our ripe peach ; or let the wilful sun 
 Shine westward of our window, — straight we 
 
 run 
 A furlong's sigh, as if the world were lost. 
 But what time through the heart and through 
 
 the brain 
 God hath transfixed us, — we, so moved before. 
 
64 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Attain to a calm. Ay, shouldering weights of 
 
 pain, 
 We anchor in deep waters, safe from shore ; 
 And hear, submissive, o'er the stormy main, 
 God's chartered judgments walk for evermore. 
 
 THE SLEEP 
 
 '* He giveth His beloved sleep." — Psalm cxxvli. 2. 
 
 OF all the thoughts of God that are 
 Born inward unto souls afar, 
 Along the Psalmists music deep, 
 Now tell me if that any is, 
 For gift or grace, surpassing this — 
 " He giveth His beloved, sleep w ? 
 
 What would we give to our beloved? — 
 The hero's heart, to be unmoved, 
 The poet's star-tuned harp, to sweep, 
 The patriot's voice, to teach and rouse, 
 The monarch' s crown, to light the brows. — 
 44 He giveth His beloved, sleep." 
 
 What do we give to our beloved ? — 
 A little faith, all undisproved, 
 A little dust, to overweep, 
 And bitter memories, to make 
 The whole earth blasted for our sake. — 
 44 He giveth His beloved, sleep." 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 65 
 
 " Sleep soft, beloved ! '" we sometimes say, 
 But have no tune to charm away 
 Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep : 
 But never doleful dream again 
 Shall break the happy slumber, when 
 ** He giveth His beloved, sleep." 
 
 O earth, so full of dreary noises ! 
 O men, with wailing in your voices ! 
 O delved gold, the wailers heap ! 
 O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall ! 
 God makes a silence through you all, 
 And "giveth His beloved, sleep/' 
 
 His dews drop mutely on the hill, 
 His cloud above it saileth still, 
 Though on its slope men sow and reap. 
 More softly than the dew is shed, 
 Or cloud is floated overhead, 
 4 He giveth His beloved, sleep." 
 
 Yea, men may wonder while they scan 
 A living, thinking, feeling man, 
 Confirmed, in such a rest to keep ; 
 But angels say — and through the word 
 I think their happy smile is heard — 
 "He giveth His beloved, sleep." 
 
 5 
 
66 SACRED POEMS 
 
 For me, my heart that erst did go 
 Most like a tired child at a show, 
 That sees through tears the jugglers leap, — 
 Would now its wearied vision close, 
 Would childlike on His love repose, 
 Who "giveth His beloved, sleep/' 
 
 And, friends, dear friends, — when shall it be 
 That this low breath is gone from me, 
 And round my bier ye come to weep, 
 Let one, most loving of you all, 
 Say, " Not a tear must o'er her fall — 
 He giveth His beloved, sleep." 
 
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 
 
 THANATOPS1S 
 
 TO him who in the love of Nature holds 
 Communion with her visible forms, 
 she speaks 
 A various language ; for his gayer hours 
 She has a voice of gladness, and a smile 
 And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 
 Into his darker musings, with a mild 
 And healing sympathy, that steals away 
 Their sharpness ere he is aware. When 
 
 thoughts 
 Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 
 Over thy spirit, and sad images 
 Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 
 And breathless darkness, and the narrow 
 
 house, 
 Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at 
 
 heart ; — 
 Go forth, under the open sky, and list 
 To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 
 Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
 Comes a still voice : Yet a few days and thee 
 The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
 In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
 Where thy pale form was laid, with many 
 
 tears, 
 
 Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
 
 67 
 
68 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall 
 
 claim 
 Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 
 And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
 Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
 To mix forever with the elements, 
 To be a brother to the insensible rock 
 And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
 Turns with his share, and treads upon. The 
 
 oak 
 Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy 
 
 mould. 
 
 Yet not to thine eternal resting-place 
 Shalt thou retire alone, — nor couldst thou wish 
 Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie 
 
 down 
 With patriarchs of the infant world — with 
 
 kings, 
 The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
 Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
 All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills 
 Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun ; the vales 
 Stretching in pensive quietness between ; 
 The venerable woods ; rivers that move 
 In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
 That make the meadows green ; and, poured 
 
 round all, 
 Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
 Are but the solemn decorations all 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 69 
 
 Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
 The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
 Are shining on the sad abodes of death, 
 Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
 The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
 That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 
 Of morning, traverse Barca's desert sands, 
 Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
 Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, 
 Save his own dashings — yet the dead are 
 
 there : 
 And millions in those solitudes, since first 
 The flight of years began, have laid them 
 
 down 
 In their last sleep ; the dead reign there alone. 
 So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 
 In silence from the living, and no friend 
 Take note of thy departure ? All that breathe 
 Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
 When thou art gone ; the solemn brood of care 
 Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
 His favourite phantom ; yet all these shall 
 
 leave 
 Their mirth and their employments, and shall 
 
 come, 
 And make their bed with thee. As the long 
 
 train 
 Of ages glide away, the sons of men, 
 The youth in life's green spring, and he who 
 
 goes 
 
70 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 In the full strength of years, matron, and maid, 
 And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed 
 
 man, — 
 Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 
 Bv those who in their turn shall follow them. 
 
 So live, that when thy summons comes to 
 
 join 
 The innumerable caravan, which moves 
 To that mysterious realm, where each shall 
 
 take 
 His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
 Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
 Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and 
 
 soothed 
 By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
 Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
 About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 
 
 » BLESSED ARE THEY 
 THAT MOURN" 
 
 o 
 
 H, deem not they are blest alone 
 Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep ; 
 
 The Power who pities man has shown 
 A blessing for the eyes that weep. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 71 
 
 The light of smiles shall fill again 
 The lids that overflow with tears ; 
 
 And weary hours of woe and pain 
 Are promises of happier years. 
 
 There is a day of sunny rest 
 
 For every dark and troubled night ; 
 
 And grief may bide an evening guest, 
 But joy shall come with early light. 
 
 And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, 
 Sheddest the bitter drops of rain, 
 
 Hope that a brighter, happier sphere 
 Will give him to thy arms again. 
 
 Nor let the good man's trust depart, 
 Though life its common gifts deny, 
 
 Though with a pierced and bleeding heart 
 And spurned of men, he goes to die. 
 
 For God hath marked each sorrowing day 
 And numbered every secret tear, 
 
 And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay 
 For all His children suffer here. 
 
REV. R. W. BUCKLEY, D.D. 
 
 TWILIGHT SORROW 
 
 W 
 
 HO may tell how often sorrow 
 Cometh at the close of day ; 
 Sorrow for the sinful record 
 
 Borne by passing time away ; 
 Sorrow for good resolutions 
 
 Broken in the toil of life ; 
 For the Christian's weapons tarnished, 
 
 Blunted in the daily strife ; 
 For the weakly heart's backsliding 
 
 In the journey to its bourne ; 
 For the dulness of the spirit 
 
 Dwelling in its carnal urn. 
 Yet this sorrow bringeth comfort, 
 
 When it bends the contrite knee 
 In an act of heartfelt worship, 
 
 In a deep humility. 
 Then it is the blest forerunner 
 
 Of a grace that steals always, 
 With refreshing to the spirit, 
 
 Changing sighs to songs of praise. 
 Sorrow such as this be ever 
 
 Welcome to this heart of mine, 
 Through such tears a hopeful rainbow 
 
 O'er my future path doth shine ; 
 Minister of heaven's giving, 
 
 Messenger to clear the way, 
 
 72 
 
SACRED POEMS 
 
 Till the love of God descending 
 
 Teaches all my soul to pray. 
 And, in answer, such a measure 
 
 Of His strength divine comes down, 
 That my spirit more than ever 
 
 Strives to win and wear the crown. 
 Godly sorrow, oft come hither 
 
 On the stilly wings of eve, 
 Such a holy joy attends thee 
 
 That it is a bliss to grieve. 
 
 LENT 
 
 LENT marks the Spring : It is the Spring 
 of tears, 
 That primal rain which fell at Eden's 
 gate 
 From our first parents 1 hearts disconsolate, 
 Now wept anew, for that the Cross appears 
 Down the long vista of the forty days ; 
 That while the reverent heart in sad amaze, 
 Upon the Symbol that Faith's hand uprears, 
 
 In lowly hope, and voiceless love doth gaze 
 Until glad victory comes and clothes it round 
 with rays. 
 
 Lent is a wilderness, a lonely place 
 
 To hide our souls in from the giddy throng ; 
 We sit outside of Eden mourning long 
 
74 SACRED POEMS 
 
 Our lost estate, our ancient Fall from Grace ; 
 We sit and weep beside the Cross of shame 
 Alone and wear the days out in self-blame : 
 
 But Jesus turns on us His pitying face. 
 We are His sheep. He calleth us by name, 
 
 And comforts dwell where sorrows erewhile 
 went and came. 
 
THOMAS BURBIDGE 
 
 AT D1V1SE DISPOSAL 
 
 OH, leave thyself to God ! and if, indeed, 
 Tis given thee to perform so vast a 
 task, 
 Think not at all — think not, but kneel and ask. 
 O friend, by thought was never creature freed 
 From any sin, from any mortal need : 
 Be patient ! not by thought canst thou devise 
 What course of life for thee is right and wise ; 
 It will be written up, and thou wilt read. 
 Oft like a sudden pencil of rich light, 
 Piercing the thickest umbrage of the wood, 
 Will shoot, amid our troubles infinite, 
 The spirit's voice ; oft, like the balmy flood 
 Of morn, surprise the universal night 
 With glory, and make all things sweet and 
 good. 
 
 75 
 
ANNE S. BUSHBY 
 
 CHRIST'S INVITATION 
 
 " Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, 
 and I will give you rest." — Matt. xi. 25. 
 
 THIS were a world of darkness, sin, 
 and woe, 
 But for the mercies that from Jesus 
 flow. 
 He hath taught us in life's bitterest hour 
 To trust alike His pity and His pow'r. 
 Mighty to save, and mighty to destroy, 
 How shall we thank Him, that from realms of 
 
 joy, 
 Of unimaginable glory, He 
 Would deign our earth to visit, to make free 
 From Satan's chains our all-degraded race, 
 And bring us promise of redeeming grace ? 
 How shall we thank our Saviour and our 
 
 Lord? 
 By gratefully believing in His word ; 
 By humbly trusting in His proffer' d aid, 
 Casting our cares on Him. Hath He not 
 
 said : 
 " Come unto me, all ye that are oppressed 
 And heavy laden, I will give you rest M ? 
 Our Saviour asks but this : Come unto Him ; 
 Come unto Him with faith ; though eyes be 
 
 dim 
 
 76 
 
SACRED POEMS 77 
 
 With lonely weeping — hearts be broken r 
 
 crush'd 
 Beneath a load of grief — and cheeks be flush'd 
 With shame at former guilt — He can release 
 Fron sin's dark triumph ; He can calm to 
 
 peace 
 The troubled mind, and with a holy light 
 Illume the tearful eye. Shall mortals slight 
 That invitation given by heavenly love ? 
 Shall they reject that message from above ? 
 Let us look to life beyond the grave, 
 And timely fly to Him whose pow'r alone cart 
 
 save ! 
 
ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 
 
 4 O THOU OF LITTLE FAITH" 
 
 IT may be true 
 That while we walk the troublous tossing 
 sea, 
 That when we see the oertopping waves 
 
 advance, 
 And when we feel our feet beneath us sink, 
 There are who walk beside us ; and the cry 
 That rises so spontaneous to the lips, 
 The M Help us or we perish," is not nought, 
 An evanescent spectrum of disease. 
 It may be that indeed and not in fancy, 
 A hand that is not ours upstays our steps, 
 A voice that is not ours commands the waves, 
 Commands the waves and whispers in our 
 
 ear 
 " O thou of little faith, why didst thou doubt ? " 
 At any rate, 
 
 That there are beings above us, I believe, 
 And when we lift up holy hands of prayer, 
 I will not say they will not give us aid. 
 
 78 
 
THOMAS DAVIS 
 
 GOD IS LOVE 
 
 WHY comes this fragrance on the 
 summer breeze, 
 The blended tribute of ten thousand 
 flowers, 
 To me, a frequent wanderer 'mid the trees 
 
 That form these gay, though solitary bowers ? 
 One answer is around, beneath, above ; 
 The echo of the voice, that God is Love ! 
 
 Why bursts such melody from tree and 
 bush, 
 The overflowing of each songster's heart, 
 So filling mine, that it can scarcely hush 
 
 Awhile to listen, but would take its part ? 
 'Tis but one song I hear where'er I rove, 
 Though countless be the notes, that God is 
 Love ! 
 
 Why leaps the streamlet down the mountain's 
 side, 
 
 Hastening so swiftly to the vale beneath, 
 To cheer the shepherd's thirsty flock, or glide 
 
 Where the hot sun has left a faded wreath, 
 Or, rippling, aid the music of the grove? 
 
 Its own glad voice replies, that God is Love ! 
 
 79 
 
80 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 In starry heavens, at the midnight hour, 
 In ever-varying hues at morning's dawn, 
 
 In the fair bow athwart the falling shower, 
 In forest, river, lake, rock, hill, and lawn, 
 
 One truth is written : all conspire to prove, 
 
 What grace of old reveal'd, that God is Love! 
 
 Nor less this pulse of health, far glancing eye. 
 And heart so moved with beauty, perfume, 
 song, 
 
 This spirit, soaring through a gorgeous sky, 
 Or diving ocean's coral caves among, 
 
 Fleeter than darting fish or startled dove ; 
 
 All, all declare the same, that God is Love ! 
 
 Is it a fallen world on which I gaze ? 
 
 Am I as deeply fallen as the rest, 
 Yet joys partaking, past my utmost praise, 
 
 Instead of wandering forlorn, unblest ? 
 It is as if an unseen spirit strove 
 To grave upon my heart, that God is Love ! 
 
 Yet wouldst thou see, my soul, this truth 
 display'd 
 
 In characters which wondering angels read 
 And read, adoring ; go, imploring aid 
 
 To gaze with faith, behold the Saviour bleed! 
 Thy God, in human form ! O, what can prove. 
 If this suffice thee not that God is Love? 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 81 
 
 Cling to His cross ; and let thy ceaseless 
 prayer 
 
 Be, that thy grasp may tail not ! and, ere long, 
 Thou shalt ascend to that fair Temple, where 
 
 In strains ecstatic an innumerous throng 
 Of saints and seraphs, round the Throne above, 
 Proclaim for evermore, that God is Love ! 
 
AUSTIN DOBSON 
 
 BEFORE SEDAN 
 
 " The dead hand clasped a letter." — Special Correspon- 
 dence. 
 
 H 
 
 ERE in this leafy place, 
 
 Quiet he lies, 
 Cold, with his sightless face 
 Turned to the skies ; 
 Tis but another dead ; 
 All you can say is said. 
 
 Carry his body hence, — 
 
 Kings must have slaves ; 
 
 Kings climb to eminence 
 Over men's graves : 
 
 So this man's eye is dim ; — 
 
 Throw the earth over him. 
 
 What was the white you touched, 
 
 There, at his side ? 
 Paper his hand had clutched 
 
 Tight ere he died ; 
 Message or wish, may be ; — 
 Smooth the folds out and see. 
 
 Hardly the worst of us 
 
 Here could have smiled ! — 
 
SACRED POEMS 83 
 
 Only the tremulous 
 
 Words of a child ; — 
 Prattle that has for stops 
 Just a few ruddy drops. 
 
 Look. She is sad to miss, 
 
 Morning and night, 
 His — her dead father's — kiss ; 
 
 Tries to be bright, 
 Good to mamma, and sweet. 
 That is all. M Marguerite." 
 
 Ah, if beside the dead 
 
 Slumbered the pain ! 
 Ah, if the hearts that bled 
 
 Slept with the slain ! 
 If the grief died ; — But no ; — 
 Death will not have it so. 
 
EDWARD DOWDEN 
 
 COMMUNION 
 
 LORD, I have knelt and tried to pray 
 to-night, 
 But Thy love came upon me like a 
 sleep, 
 And all desire died out ; upon the deep 
 Of Thy mere love I lay, each thought in light 
 Dissolving like the sunset clouds, at rest 
 Each tremulous wish, and my strength, weak- 
 ness, sweet 
 As a sick boy with soon o'erwearied feet 
 Finds, yielding him unto his mother's breast 
 To weep for weakness there. I could not pray, 
 But with closed eyes I felt Thy bosom's love 
 Beating toward mine, and then I would not 
 
 move 
 Till of itself the joy should pass away ; 
 At last my heart found voice, — " Take me, O 
 
 Lord, 
 And do with me according to Thy word." 
 
 SEEKING GOD 
 
 I SAID, " I will find God," and forth I went 
 To seek Him in the clearness of the sky 
 But over me stood unendurably 
 Only a pitiless, sapphire firmament 
 
 b4 
 
SACRED POEMS 85 
 
 Ringing the world, — blank splendour ; yet 
 
 intent 
 Still to find God, M I will go seek,^ said I, 
 " His way upon the waters," and drew nigh 
 An ocean marge weed-strewn, and foam- 
 besprent ; 
 And the waves dashed on idle sand and stone 
 And very vacant was the long, blue sea ; 
 But in the evening as I sat alone, 
 My window open to the vanishing day, 
 Dear God ! I could not choose but kneel and 
 
 pray, 
 And it sufficed that I was found of Thee. 
 
DR. DRENNAN 
 
 THE HEA VEX OF HE A VENS CANNOT 
 CONTAIN 
 
 T 
 
 HE Heaven of Heavens cannot contain 
 
 The Universal Lord ; 
 Yet He, in humble hearts, will deign 
 
 To dwell, and be adored. 
 
 Where'er ascends the sacrifice 
 
 Of fervent praise and prayer, 
 Or on the earth, or in the skies, 
 
 The Heaven of God is there. 
 
 His presence there is spread abroad, 
 
 Through realms, through worlds unknown ; 
 
 Who seeks the mercies of his God, 
 Is ever near His throne. 
 
 86 
 
CHARLES DYSON 
 
 o lamp OF urn 
 
 OLA .MP of Life ! that on the bloody C 
 Dost hang, the Beacon of our wan- 
 dering ra' 
 To guide us homeward to our resting-plac . 
 And save our best wealth from eternal loss ! 
 purge my inward sight from earthly drott, 
 That, fix'd upon Thy Cross, or near or far. 
 In all the storms this weary- bark that tos 
 (Whate er be lost in that tempestuous war.) 
 Thee 1 retain, my Compass and my Star ! 
 That, when arrived upon the wish'd-for strand, 
 
 I pass of death th' irrevocable bar. 
 And at the gate of Heaven trembling stand, 
 The everlasting doors may open wide. 
 And give Thee to my sight. God glorified'. 
 
 B7 
 
GEORGE ELIOT 
 
 THE DEATH OF MOSES 
 
 MOSES, who spake with God as with 
 his friend, 
 And ruled his people with the two- 
 fold power 
 Of wisdom that can dare and still be meek, 
 Was writing his last word, the sacred name 
 Unutterable of that Eternal Will 
 Which was and is and evermore shall be. 
 Yet was his task not finished, for the flock 
 Needed its shepherd and the life-taught sage 
 Leaves no successor ; but to chosen men, 
 The rescuers and guides of Israel, 
 A death was given called the Death of Grace, 
 Which freed them from the burden of the flesh 
 But left them rulers of the multitude 
 And loved companions of the lonely. This 
 Was God's last gift to Moses, this the hour 
 When soul must part from self and be but soul. 
 
 God spake to Gabriel, the messenger 
 Of mildest death that draws the parting life 
 Gently, as when a little rosy child 
 Lifts up its lips from off the bowl of milk 
 And so draws forth a curl that dipped its gold 
 In the soft white — Thus Gabriel draws the soul, 
 ' Go bring the soul of Moses unto me ! v 
 
 88 
 
SACRED POEMS 89 
 
 And the awe-stricken angel answered, " Lord, 
 How shall I dare to take his life who lives 
 Sole of his kind, not to be likened once 
 In all the generations of the earth ? " 
 
 Then God called Michael, him of pensive 
 
 brow, 
 Snow-vest and flaming sword, who knows and 
 
 acts : 
 44 Go bring the spirit of Moses unto Me ! ' 1 
 But Michael with such grief as angels feel, 
 Loving the mortals whom they succour, pled : 
 44 Almighty, spare me ; it was I who taught 
 Thy servant Moses ; he is part of me 
 As I of Thy deep secrets, knowing them." 
 
 Then God called Zamael, the terrible, 
 The angel of fierce death, of agony 
 That comes in battle and in pestilence 
 Remorseless, sudden or with lingering throes. 
 And Zamael, his raiment and broad wings 
 Blood-tinctured, the dark lustre of his eyes 
 Shrouding the red, fell like the gathering night 
 Before the prophet. But that radiance 
 Won from the heavenly presence in the mount 
 Gleamed on the prophet's brow and dazzling 
 
 pierced 
 Its conscious opposite : the angel turned 
 His murky gaze aloof and inly said : 
 44 An angel this, deathless to angel's stroke." 
 
90 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 But Moses felt the subtly nearing dark : — 
 44 Who art thou ? and what wilt thou ? ' Zamael 
 
 then : 
 4k 1 am God's reaper ; through the fields of life 
 I gather ripened and unripened souls 
 Both willing and unwilling. And I come 
 Now to reap thee." But Moses cried, 
 Firm as a seer who waits the trusted sign : 
 " Reap thou the fruitless plant and common 
 
 herb — 
 Not him who from the womb was sanctified 
 To teach the law of purity and love.* 1 
 And Zamael baffled from his errand fled. 
 
 But Moses, pausing, in the air serene 
 Heard now that mystic whisper, far yet near, 
 The all-penetrating voice, that said to him, 
 " Moses, the hour is come and thou must die." 
 " Lord, I obey ; but thou rememberest 
 How thou, Ineffable, didst take me once 
 Within thy orb of light untouched by death." 
 Then the voice answered, " Be no more afraid : 
 With me shall be thy death and burial." 
 So Moses waited, ready now to die. 
 
 And the Lord came, invisible as a thought, 
 Three angels gleaming on his secret track, 
 Prince Michael, Zagael, Gabriel, charged to 
 
 guard 
 The soul-forsaken bodv as it fell 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 91 
 
 And bear it to the hidden sepulchre 
 
 Denied for ever to the search of man. 
 
 And the Voice said to Moses : 44 Close thine 
 
 eyes." 
 He closed them. M Lay thine hand upon thine 
 
 heart, 
 And draw thy feet together." He obeyed. 
 And the Lord said, "O spirit! child of mine! 
 A hundred years and twenty thou hast dwelt 
 Within this tabernacle wrought of clay. 
 This is the end : Come forth and flee to heaven." 
 
 But the grieved soul with plaintive pleading 
 
 cried, 
 44 1 love this body with a clinging love : 
 The courage fails me, Lord, to part from it." 
 
 44 O child, come forth ! for thou shalt dwell 
 
 with Me 
 About the immortal throne where seraphs joy 
 In growing vision and in growing love." 
 
 Yet hesitating, fluttering, like the bird 
 With young wing weak and dubious, the soul 
 Stayed. But behold ! upon the death-dewed lips 
 A kiss descended, pure, unspeakable — 
 The bodiless Love without embracing Love 
 That lingered in the body, drew it forth 
 With heavenly strength and carried it to 
 heaven. 
 
92 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 But now beneath the sky the watchers all, 
 Angels that keep the homes of Israel 
 Or on high purpose wander o'er the world 
 Leading the Gentiles, felt a dark eclipse : 
 The greatest ruler among men was gone. 
 And from the westward sea was heard a wail, 
 A dirge as from the isles of Javanim, 
 Crying, "Who now is left upon the earth 
 Like him to teach the right and smite the 
 
 wrong i 
 And from the East, far o'er the Syrian waste, 
 Came slowlier, sadlier, the answering dirge : 
 " No prophet like him lives or shall arise 
 In Israel or the world for evermore." 
 
 But Israel waited, looking toward the mount, 
 Till with the deepening eve the elders came 
 Saying, " His burial is hid with God. 
 We stood far off and saw the angels lift 
 His corpse aloft until they seemed a star 
 That burnt itself away within the sky." 
 
 The people answered with mute orphaned 
 
 gaze 
 Looking for what had vanished evermore. 
 Then through the gloom without them and 
 
 within 
 The spirit's shaping light, mysterious speech, 
 Invisible Will wrought clear in sculptured 
 
 sound, 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 93 
 
 The thought-begotten daughter of the voice, 
 Thrilled on their listening sense : " He has no 
 
 tomb. 
 He dwells not with you dead, but lives as 
 
 Law." 
 
FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER 
 
 MUSIC 
 
 THAT music breathes all through my 
 spirit 
 As the breezes blow through a tree ; 
 And my soul gives light as it quivers, 
 Like moons on a tremulous sea. 
 
 New passions are wakened within me, 
 New passions that have not a name ; 
 
 Dim truths that I knew but as phantoms 
 Stand up clear and bright in the flame : 
 
 And my soul is possessed with yearnings, 
 Which make my life broaden and swell ; 
 
 And I hear strange things that are soundless, 
 And I see the invisible. 
 
 Oh silence that clarion in mercy, — 
 
 For it carries my soul away ; 
 And it whirls my thoughts out beyond me, 
 
 Like the leaves on an autumn day. 
 
 O exquisite tyranny ! silence, — 
 
 My soul slips from under my hand, 
 
 And as if by instinct is fleeing 
 To a dread unvisited land. 
 
 94 
 
SACRED POEMS 95 
 
 Is it sound, or fragrance, or vision ? 
 
 Vocal light wavering down from above? 
 Past prayer and past praise I am floating 
 
 Down the rapids of speechless love. 
 
 I strove, but the sweet sounds have conquered: 
 
 Within me the Past is awake ; 
 The Present is grandly transfigured ; 
 
 The Future is clear as day-break. 
 
 Now Past, Present, Future have mingled 
 A new sort of Present to make ; 
 
 And my life is all disembodied, 
 
 Without time, without space, without break. 
 
 But my soul seems floating for ever 
 
 In an orb of ravishing sounds, 
 Through faint-falling echoes of heavens, 
 
 'Mid beautiful earths without bounds. 
 
 Now sighing, as zephyrs in summer, 
 The concords glide in like a stream, 
 
 With a sound that is almost a silence, 
 Or the soundless sounds in a dream. 
 
 Then oft, when the music is faintest, 
 My soul has a storm in its bowers, 
 
 Like the thunder among the mountains, 
 Like the wind in the abbey towers. 
 
96 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 There are sounds, like flakes of snow falling 
 In their silent and eddying rings ; 
 
 We tremble, — they touch us so lightly, 
 Like the feathers from angels' wings. 
 
 There are pauses of marvellous silence, 
 That are full of significant sound, 
 
 Like music echoing music 
 
 Under water or under ground. 
 
 That clarion again ! through what valleys 
 
 Of deep inward life did it roll, 
 Ere it blew that astonishing trumpet 
 
 Right down in the caves of my soul ? 
 
 My mind is bewildered with echoes, — 
 Not all from the sweet sounds without ! 
 
 But spirits are answering spirits 
 In a beautiful muffled shout. 
 
 Oh cease then, wild horns ! I am fainting ; 
 
 If ye wail so, my heart will break ; 
 Someone speaks to me in your speaking 
 
 In a language I cannot speak. 
 
 Though the sounds ye make are all foreign, 
 How native, how household they are ; 
 
 The tones of old homes mixed with heaven. 
 The dead and the angels, speak there. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 97 
 
 Dear voices that long have been silenced, 
 Come clear from their peaceable land, 
 
 Come toned with unspeakable sweetness 
 From the Presence in which they stand. 
 
 Or is music the inarticulate 
 
 Speech of the angels on earth ? 
 Or the voice of the Undiscovered 
 
 Bringing great truths to the birth ? 
 
 O music ! thou surely art worship ; 
 
 But thou art not like praise or prayer ; 
 And words make better thanksgiving 
 
 Than thy sweet melodies are. 
 
 There is in thee another worship, 
 An outflow of something divine ! 
 
 For the voice of adoring silence, 
 If it could be a voice, were thine. 
 
 Thou art fugitive splendours made vocal, 
 As they glanced from that shining sea 
 
 Where the Vision is visible music, 
 Making music of spirits who see. 
 
 Thou, Lord ! art the Father of music; 
 
 Sweet sounds are a whisper from Thee ; 
 Thou hast made Thy creation all anthems, 
 
 Though it singeth them silentlv. 
 
 7 
 
98 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 But I guess by the stir of this music 
 What raptures in heaven can be. 
 
 Where the sound is Thy marvellous stillness. 
 And the music is light out of Thee. 
 
 COME TO JESUS 
 
 s 
 
 OULS of men ! why will ye scatter 
 Like a crowd of frightened sheep? 
 Foolish hearts ! why will ye wander 
 From a love so true and deep ? 
 
 Was there ever kindest shepherd 
 Half so gentle, half so sweet 
 
 As the Saviour who would have us 
 Come and gather round His feet ? 
 
 It is God : His love looks mighty, 
 But is mightier than it seems ! 
 
 'Tis our Father : and His fondness 
 Goes far out beyond our dreams. 
 
 There's a wideness in Gods mercy, 
 Like the wideness of the sea : 
 
 There's a kindness in His justice, 
 Which is more than libertv. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 99 
 
 There is no place where earths sorrows 
 Are more felt than up in Heaven ; 
 
 There is no place where earth's failings 
 Have such kindly judgment given. 
 
 There is welcome for the sinner, 
 And more graces for the good ; 
 
 There is mercy with the Saviour ; 
 There is healing in His blood. 
 
 There is grace enough for thousands 
 Of new worlds as great as this ; 
 
 There is room for fresh creations 
 In that upper home of bliss. 
 
 For the love of God is broader 
 
 Than the measures of man's mind ; 
 
 And the Heart of the Eternal 
 Is most wonderfully kind. 
 
 But we make His love too narrow 
 
 By false limits of our own ; 
 And we magnify His strictness 
 
 With a zeal He will not own. 
 
 There is plentiful redemption 
 
 In the blood that has been shed ; 
 
 There is joy for all the members 
 In the sorrows of the Head. 
 
100 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 "Tis not all we owe to Jesus ; 
 
 It is something more than all ; 
 Greater good because of evil, 
 
 Larger mercy through the fall. 
 
 Pining souls ! come nearer Jesus, 
 And, oh come, not doubting thus, 
 
 But with faith that trusts more bravely 
 His vast tenderness for us. 
 
 If our love were but more simple, 
 We should take Him at His word ; 
 
 And our lives would be all sunshine 
 In the sweetness of our Lord. 
 
 THE RIGHT MUST WIN 
 
 o 
 
 H it is hard to work for God, 
 
 To rise and take His part 
 Upon this battlefield of earth, 
 And not sometimes lose heart ! 
 
 He hides Himself so wondrously, 
 As though there were no God ; 
 
 He is least seen when all the powers 
 Of ill are most abroad. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 101 
 
 Or He deserts us at the hour 
 
 The fight is all but lost ; 
 And seems to leave us to ourselves 
 
 Just when we need Him most. 
 
 Yes, there is less to try our faith, 
 
 In our mysterious creed, 
 Than in the godless look of earth, 
 
 In these our hours of need. 
 
 Ill masters good ; good seems to change 
 
 To ill with greatest ease ; 
 And, worst of all, the good with good 
 
 Is at cross purposes. 
 
 It is not so, but so it looks ; 
 
 And we lose courage then ; 
 And doubts will come if God hath kept 
 
 His promises to men. 
 
 Ah ! God is other than we think ; 
 
 His ways are far above, 
 Far beyond reason's height, and reached 
 
 Only by child-like love. 
 
 The look, the fashion of God's ways 
 
 Love's lifelong study are ; 
 She can be bold, and guess, and act, 
 
 When reason would not dare. 
 
I 
 
 102 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 She has a prudence of her own ; 
 
 Her step is firm and free ; 
 Yet there is cautious science too 
 
 In her simplicity. 
 
 Workmen of God ! oh lose not heart, 
 
 But learn what God is like ; 
 And in the darkest battlefield 
 
 Thou shalt know where to strike. 
 
 Thrice blest is he to whom is given 
 
 The instinct that can tell 
 That God is on the field when He 
 
 Is most invisible. 
 
 Blest too is he who can divine 
 
 Where real right doth lie, 
 And dares to take the side that seems 
 
 Wrong to man's blindfold eye. 
 
 Then learn to scorn the praise of men, 
 And learn to lose with God ; 
 
 For Jesus won the world through shame, 
 And beckons thee His road. 
 
 God's glory is a wondrous thing, 
 Most strange in all its ways, 
 
 And, of all things on earth, least like 
 What men agree to praise. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 103 
 
 As He can endless glory weave 
 From what men reckon shame, 
 
 In His own world He is content 
 To play a losing game. 
 
 Muse on His justice, downcast soul ! 
 
 Muse and take better heart ; 
 Back with thine angel to the field, 
 
 And bravely do thy part. 
 
 Gods justice is a bed, where we 
 
 Our anxious hearts may lay, 
 And, weary with ourselves, may sleep 
 
 Our discontent away. 
 
 For right is right, since God is God ; 
 
 And right the day must win ; 
 To doubt would be disloyalty, 
 
 To falter would be sin. 
 
ELLEN THORNEYCROFT 
 FOWLER 
 
 LOSS AND GAIN 
 
 I SORROWED that the golden day was 
 dead, 
 Its light no more the countryside adorn- 
 ing ; 
 But whilst I grieved, behold ! — the East grew 
 red 
 
 With morning. 
 
 I sighed that merry Spring was forced to go, 
 And doff the wreaths that did so well 
 become her ; 
 But whilst I murmured at her absence, lo ! 
 'Twas Summer. 
 
 I mourned because the daffodils were killed 
 By burning skies that scorched my early 
 posies ; 
 But whilst for these I pined, mv hands were 
 filled 
 
 With roses. 
 
 Half broken-hearted I bewailed the end 
 Of friendships than which none had once 
 seemed nearer ; 
 But whilst I wept I found a newer friend. 
 And dearer. 
 104 
 
SACRED POEMS 105 
 
 And thus I learned old pleasures are estranged 
 Only that something better may be given ; 
 Until at last we find this earth exchanged 
 For Heaven. 
 
 MEANS AXO ESD 
 
 THE drops of water which have turned 
 the wheel 
 Will ne'er come back to turn the 
 wheel again ; 
 The blossoms which have shed their rosy 
 rain 
 Will nevermore the Spring's sweet promise 
 
 seal. 
 Yet still the miller slowly grinds to meal 
 His goodly stores of golden-tinted grain ; 
 And still the Spring returns to hill and plain. 
 And treads the dust to flowers beneath her 
 
 heel. 
 Fear ye not, therefore, lest the cause ye love 
 Should languish, when your tender toil-worn 
 hands 
 Are crossed in peace beneath the daisied 
 sod ! 
 The Means wax old and perishable prove — 
 The End endures eternally, and stands 
 Above the ages, face to face with God. 
 
106 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 A WISH 
 
 WHEN the world to thee is new, 
 When its dazzling dreams deceive 
 thee, 
 Ere they pass like morning dew — 
 Faith retrieve thee ! 
 
 When the glory fades away, 
 
 When of light the clouds bereave thee, 
 When the shadows mar the day — 
 Hope relieve thee ! 
 
 When despair's destroying breath 
 
 Comes at eventide to grieve thee 
 With the bitterness of death — 
 Love reprieve thee ! 
 
 When the bells at Curfew toll, 
 
 When the lingering sunbeams leave thee, 
 When the night o'erwhelms thy soul — 
 God receive thee ! 
 
 THE BRETON FISHERMEN S PR A YER 
 
 EAR Lord, Thy sea is great — our 
 boats are small !" 
 So cry the fishers of the Northern 
 sea 
 When God's high wind ariseth stormily, 
 Uplifting them before a sudden fall. 
 
 D 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 107 
 
 Thus in distress we also oft-times call 
 When blindly beaten to and fro are we, 
 Far from the haven where we fain would be, 
 While wind-swept seas our melting hearts 
 
 appal. 
 And when for us the waves thereof are still, 
 And we would gladly help those storm- 
 tossed souls 
 Who yet are struggling 'neath the tempest's 
 weight ; 
 Feeling the frailty of all human skill, 
 
 We humbly whisper while the thunder rolls, 
 " Dear Lord, our boats are small — Thy sea is 
 great ! " 
 
 STREAM AND LAKE 
 
 A STREAMLET started, singing sea- 
 war d-ho ! 
 But found across the path its fancy 
 planned 
 A stone which stopped it with the stern 
 
 command, 
 " Thus far and never farther shalt thou go." 
 Then, where the tiny stream was wont to 
 flow, 
 A shining lake appeared with silver strand, 
 Refreshing flower-strewn fields on either 
 hand — 
 Reflecting starry skies and sunset glow. 
 
108 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 So oftentimes we find our progress stayed 
 By stones that bar the steps we fain had trod. 
 Whereat we murmur with a sense of 
 wrong ; 
 Unmindful that by means like this is made 
 That sea of glass where stand the saints of 
 God 
 To sing the new and never-ending song. 
 
 NO ROOM 
 
 STRANGELY the wondrous story doth 
 begin 
 Of that which came to pass on 
 Christmas Day — 
 44 The new-born babe within a manger lay 
 Because there was no room inside the inn/' 
 No room for Him Who came to conquer sin 
 And bid distress and mourning flee away ! 
 So in the stable He was fain to stay 
 Whilst revelry and riot reigned within. 
 And still the same old tale is told again : 
 The world is full of greed and gain and 
 glee, 
 And has no room for God because of 
 them. 
 Lord, though my heart be filled with joy or 
 pain, 
 Grant that it ne'er may find no room for 
 
 Thee, 
 Like that benighted inn at Bethlehem ! 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 109 
 
 WVLFRVNAS HAMPTON 
 
 ( Wolverhampton) 
 
 NOW certain women carved their names 
 in stone 
 That whosoever ran the same might 
 read. 
 Cambridge was founded by Saint Ethel- 
 drede, 
 The holy daughter of an Anglian throne : 
 Saint Frideswide it was made Oxford known 
 By many a generous gift and godly deed : 
 Saint Hilda nobly helped Northumbrian 
 need : 
 When Whitby's abbey to full height had 
 
 grown. 
 Wulfruna likewise chose the better part ; 
 And in the midst of this our Mercian plain 
 A stately minster to God's glory raised, 
 To prove thereafter to the thronging mart 
 That favour is deceitful, beauty vain, 
 But she that fears her Maker shall be 
 praised. 
 
 SUNSHINE AND SHADOW 
 
 ONE sunny day, as on my way I went, 
 And stooped to pluck the flowers I 
 loved so well, 
 I saw that on each bloom o'er which I bent, 
 My shadow fell ; 
 
110 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 But when my wandering glances left the 
 ground 
 And travelled sunwards up the shafts of 
 
 light, 
 
 The shadow fell behind me, and I found 
 That all was bright. 
 
 So when, with earthward gaze, we set our 
 minds 
 On flowers beside life's pathway blooming 
 fair, 
 Whoever stoops to seize their beauties finds 
 
 A shadow there : 
 But if, with eyes uplifted, we are wont 
 To scan the heavenward stair the angels 
 trod, 
 Behind us is the shadow, and in front 
 The light of God. 
 
 IN MEMOR1AM 
 
 James Fraser, Lord Bishop of Manchester 
 
 SO he has gone from us ! has gone for 
 ever, 
 Far, far beyond the reach of earthly 
 fame, 
 And left behind, to be forgotten never, 
 A name. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 111 
 
 We mourn him, but he does not heed our 
 sorrow, 
 Nor mark our hearts with grief for him 
 opprest, 
 For now on him has dawned the grand to- 
 morrow 
 
 Of rest. 
 
 That shining light was his which never paleth. 
 
 But shineth on unto the perfect day ; 
 That charity was his which never faileth 
 For aye. 
 
 Right bravely through the world his way he 
 wended — 
 Life's toils and conflicts now for him are 
 past ; 
 To Sion's Hill the victor has ascended 
 At last. 
 
 Now he has joined that throng of every nation 
 And tribe and kindred, who have fought the 
 fight, 
 And walk with Christ, their Captain of Salva- 
 tion, 
 
 In white. 
 
 He cannot hear the tones of weeping mortals, 
 
 For he is welcomed by the angels' cry : 
 " Lift up your heads, ye everlasting portals, 
 On high ! " 
 
112 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 He cannot heed our bitter lamentation, 
 For — bending low before the Great White 
 Throne — 
 He hears the words of gracious commenda- 
 tion, 
 
 44 Well done ! " 
 
 PURPLE AND GOLD 
 
 THE golden corn and the purple heather 
 In royal state did the land enfold ; 
 And the children laughed in the sunny 
 weather, 
 And clapped their hands at the purple and 
 gold. 
 
 One short month passed, and brought with 
 it the sadness 
 Of Autumn winds and of Autumn rain, 
 And though still the children laughed in 
 their gladness, 
 They looked for the purple and gold in 
 vain. 
 
 I wondered whether their hearts were tender 
 And sad that such beauty had passed away. 
 
 So 1 asked them what had become of the 
 splendour 
 That crowned the country the other day. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 113 
 
 They smiled at my ignorance all unaided, 
 And told me a secret I ought to know — 
 
 How the purple and gold were not lost nor 
 faded, 
 But every year were obliged to go ; 
 
 For the purple and gold of the Summers 
 olden 
 
 Were used to build, as the angels list, 
 A City on high, where the streets are golden, 
 
 And the walls are glowing with amethyst. 
 
 As I heard the children's quaint little story, 
 Methought that it brought a message to 
 all, 
 
 For we all are sighing for faded glory, 
 And longing for pleasures beyond recall. 
 
 But the children should teach us to cease 
 our sighing, 
 And let our lives with fresh hopes be 
 crowned ; 
 There are no such things as losing and 
 dying, 
 For the dead are alive, and the lost are 
 found. 
 
 The joys that we mourn in such deep dejec- 
 tion 
 Were carried away by an angel hand, 
 
 8 
 
114 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 To make more fair in their full perfection 
 Our mansions prepared in the far-off land. 
 
 We shall find them again, all those treasures 
 olden — 
 Not one shall be wanting, not one be 
 missed — 
 In a City on high, where the streets are 
 golden, 
 And the walls are glowing with amethyst. 
 
 "GOLD AND FRANKINCENSE AND 
 MYRRH " 
 
 ONE Christmas Day, in long-forgotten 
 years, 
 A beggar wept exceeding bitter tears ; 
 For, whilst the thronging people went their 
 
 way 
 To God's own house to keep His holy day. 
 To deck with offerings meet the Saviour's 
 
 shrine, 
 And praise with carols sweet the Babe divine. 
 So poor was he, he could not e'en afford 
 The humblest gift wherewith to greet his 
 Lord. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 115 
 
 As, sad at heart, the weary beggar wept, 
 It chanced he fell asleep, and whilst he slept 
 He dreamed there passed before his tear- 
 dimmed eyes 
 Three men in strange and Oriental guise, 
 Who — guided by a bright and wondrous 
 
 star — 
 Had left their Eastern home and travelled far, 
 And still were pressing onwards night and day 
 To reach the manger where the Saviour lay. 
 
 The first — a stately man of noble mien, 
 With wise and thoughtful eye and brow 
 
 serene — 
 Addressed the sleeper thus : " Pure gold I 
 
 bring 
 To sacrifice before the new-born King." 
 Then spake the second — who was young and 
 
 fair : 
 4 A costly gift of frankincense I bear, 
 Distilled from all the sweetest things on earth, 
 And therefore meet to grace a Monarch's 
 
 birth." 
 
 The third — a weary traveller, worn and old — 
 Sighed : " I have neither frankincense nor 
 
 gold ; 
 To me life brings the bitter, not the sweet, 
 And poor indeed I go my King to meet : 
 
116 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 1 ne'er have found pure gold without alloy, 
 Nor yet the frankincense of love and joy ; 
 Still all I have I give Him, and believe 
 That e'en my bitter myrrh he will receive." 
 
 An angel's voice made answer : " Blest are 
 
 they 
 Who dedicate their gold to God, and pray 
 That He thereof will fashion crowns of light 
 To wreathe their brows who well have fought 
 
 the fight. 
 Twice blest are they who bring the costly 
 
 spice 
 Of life's most precious gifts as sacrifice ; 
 For all such incense burnt before the Lord 
 One day a thousandfold shall be restored. 
 
 "Thrice blest are they who — having nought 
 
 at all 
 To offer save the wormwood and the gall — 
 Lay down their sorrows 'neath their Saviour's 
 
 feet ; 
 For He shall change their bitter into sweet, 
 His loving Hand shall wipe away their tears, 
 His gracious Smile dispel their doubts and 
 
 fears ; 
 Eternal joy shall turn their night to day, 
 Whilst grief and sighing swiftly flee away." 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 117 
 
 The beggar wept for joy : " Ah ! now I learn," 
 He cried, M that even I may come in turn 
 To lay my gift before the new-born King, 
 Whose praises all the host of Heaven sing : 
 Some give Him costly gold, and some prefer 
 Sweet frankincense — I nought can bring but 
 
 myrrh ; 
 Yet God my offering will not worthless deem." 
 The beggar woke — and lo ! it was a dream. 
 
 THE HERM11 
 
 SAFE in the shelter of a lonely glen — 
 A refuge which the distant hum of men 
 Could reach but faintly — 
 Untouched by human blame or human praise 
 There dwelt in ancient, half-forgotten days 
 A hermit saintly. 
 
 With rapture was his spirit wont to burn ; 
 Each night of prayer was followed in its turn 
 
 By prayerful morrows : 
 He heeded not, in his exalted life, 
 The sordid cares of men, their paltry strife, 
 
 Their sins and sorrows. 
 
118 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 As he one Christmas-Eve his vigil kept, 
 Whilst Nature 'neath her snowy mantle slept, 
 
 He saw with wonder 
 An angel standing smiling by his side, 
 Whilst Heav'n to hosts seraphic opened wide 
 
 Its gates of thunder. 
 
 In silent awe the hermit bowed his head : 
 44 Fear not, my son," the angel sweetly said 
 
 In accents ringing ; 
 44 Our Christmas carol strive to learn by 
 
 heart, 
 And see if thou art fit to take thy part 
 
 In Heavens singing." 
 
 44 Glory to God ! n bright hosts of seraphs sang, 
 44 Glory to God ! ' the highest Heavens rang, 
 
 44 To God be glory ! " 
 44 Oh, angel ! H cried the hermit, growing bold, 
 44 This can I sing, for all my life has told 
 
 The self-same story." 
 
 The angel smiled — 44 And art thou then as fain 
 To sing the second part of Heaven's strain ? H 
 
 In tones sonorous 
 The white-robed carol-singers chanted then, 
 44 Peace on the earth, and good-will unto 
 men ! — 
 
 So ran the chorus. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 119 
 
 In tearful shame the hermit bowed his head : 
 " I cannot learn the angels' song/' he said, 
 
 44 Nor sing it duly ; 
 To God great glory I have ever given, 
 But yet to save mens souls I have not striven, 
 
 Nor loved them truly." 
 
 The angel answered gently, " Grieve not so ! 
 Two things compose man's duty here below — 
 
 Thou hast the one done ; 
 In this thou hast not been of grace bereft, 
 Yet none the less thou shouldst not then 
 have left 
 
 The other undone." 
 
 " Be comforted ! it is not yet too late ; 
 Ne'er closed to those who knock is Heaven's 
 gate. 
 
 Now do thy duty — 
 Love well thy fellow-creatures, and ere long 
 Thine own shall be the sweet seraphic song 
 
 In all its beauty." 
 
 The hermit straightway left his lonely glen, 
 And lived and worked amongst his fellow-men 
 
 Like holy leaven : 
 At last — the carol learnt — he ceased to roam, 
 And then the angels bore him safely home 
 
 To sing in Heaven. 
 
120 SACRED POEMS 
 
 IMPERFECTIONS 
 
 ONE day I grieved because our greatest 
 gain 
 Grows pale beside the smallest loss 
 we feel ; 
 One hour of wrong can years of right 
 repeal ; 
 One faulty link can spoil the strongest chain ; 
 One little thorn can cause a cruel pain 
 That twice ten thousand roses cannot heal ; 
 One harsh discordant note can straightway 
 steal 
 All harmony from e'en the sweetest strain. 
 To these my doubts there came an answer 
 sure— 
 " God's laws are right if rightly understood ! 
 Man's patent of perfection lies in this, 
 That nought imperfect can his soul endure : 
 The highest natures seek the highest good 
 Till they are perfect as their Father is." 
 
THOMAS FURLONG 
 
 OH ! IF THE ATHEISTS WORDS 
 WERE TRUE 
 
 OH ! if the Atheists' words were true, 
 If those we seek to save 
 Sink — and in sinking from our view 
 Are lost beyond the grave ! 
 If life thus closed — how dark and drear 
 Would this bewildered earth appear, 
 
 Scarce worth the dust it gave, 
 A tract of black sepulchral gloom, 
 One yawning, ever-opening tomb. 
 
 Blest be that strain of high belief, 
 More heaven-like, more sublime, 
 Which says, that they who part in grief, 
 
 Part only for a time ! 
 That far beyond this speck of pain, 
 Far o'er the glooming grave's domain, 
 
 There spreads a brighter clime, 
 Where care and toil, and trouble o'er, 
 Friends meet, and, meeting, weep no more. 
 
 121 
 
NORMAN GALE 
 
 BEFORE SLEEP 
 
 HOW better, Father, could we pray 
 Than thus at end of honest day, 
 Naked at heart, without pretence, 
 Secure in simple excellence, 
 A wife and husband, hand in hand, 
 At prayers among the sleeping band 
 Of angels whom Thy love hath lent 
 To bind our household sacrament ? 
 
 When better, Father, could we ask 
 Thy care than after righteous task, 
 The need well met, the dream refused, 
 The oil not spilled, the clean lamp used ? 
 Two grey-haired children kneel to Thee, 
 In suit for fresh felicity, 
 Whose married worship to Thine ear, 
 Allowed, parental, rises clear. 
 
 Nor wealth, nor place as gifts Divine 
 I ask to fall on sons of mine ; 
 But most of all, a nature sure 
 To share the heart with rich and poor. 
 O give them tears ! O make them feel 
 An inward energy to heal, 
 That never, full of frosty pride, 
 They pass upon the other side. 
 
 122 
 
SACRED POEMS 123 
 
 Behold these children, Father, God, 
 Their strip of life so briefly trod ; 
 Their hearts unshaded by the gloom, 
 Their eyes scarce looking past a bloom. 
 To act as ministers in these 
 Implant such holy qualities 
 That they may march with love unspent, 
 And in Thy discipline content. 
 
 DAWN AND DARK 
 
 G 
 
 OD with His million cares 
 Went to the left or right, 
 Leaving our world ; and the day 
 Grew night. 
 
 Back from a sphere He came 
 
 Over a starry lawn, 
 Looked at our world, and the dark 
 Grew dawn. 
 
 A PRAYER 
 
 T 
 
 END me my birds, and bring again 
 The brotherhood of woodland life, 
 So shall I wear the seasons round, 
 A friend to need, a foe to strife. 
 
124 SACRED POEMS 
 
 Keep me my heritage of lawn, 
 And grant me, Father, till I die 
 
 The fine sincerity of light 
 And luxury of open sky. 
 
 So, learning always, may I find 
 My heaven around me everywhere 
 
 And go in hope from this to Thee, 
 The pupil of Thy country air. 
 
RICHARD LE GALLIENNE 
 
 THE SECOND CRUCIEIXION 
 
 L 
 
 OUD mockers in the roaring street 
 Say Christ is crucified again : 
 Twice pierced His gospel-bringing feet, 
 Twice broken His great heart in vain. 
 
 I hear, and to myself I smile, 
 
 For Christ talks with me all the while. 
 
 No angel now to roll the stone 
 From off His unawaking sleep, 
 
 In vain shall Mary watch alone, 
 In vain the soldiers vigil keep. 
 
 Yet while they deem my Lord is dead 
 My eyes are on His shining head. 
 
 Ah ! never more shall Mary hear 
 That voice exceeding sweet and low 
 
 Within the garden calling clear : 
 Her Lord is gone, and she must go. 
 
 Yet all the while my Lord I meet 
 In every London lane and street. 
 
 Poor Lazarus shall wait in vain, 
 And Bartimaeus still go blind ; 
 The healing hem shall ne'er again 
 
 Be touched by suffering humankind. 
 
 125 
 
126 SACRED POEMS 
 
 Yet all the while I see them rest, 
 The poor and outcast, in His breast. 
 
 No more unto the stubborn heart 
 With gentle knocking shall He plead, 
 
 No more the mystic pity start, 
 
 For Christ twice dead is dead indeed. 
 
 So in the street I hear men say, 
 Yet Christ is with me all the day. 
 
SIR ROBERT GRANT 
 
 WHEN GATHERING CLOUDS 
 
 WHEN gathering clouds around I 
 view, 
 And days are dark and friends are 
 few, 
 On Him I lean, who not in vain 
 Experienced every human pain ; 
 He sees my wants, allays my fears, 
 And counts and treasures up my tears. 
 
 If aught should tempt my soul to stray 
 
 From heavenly wisdom's narrow way ; 
 
 To fly the good I would pursue, 
 
 Or do the sin I would not do ; 
 
 Still He, who felt temptation's power, 
 
 Shall guard me in that dangerous hour. 
 
 If wounded love my bosom swell, 
 Deceived by those I prized too well ; 
 He shall His pitying aid bestow, 
 Who felt on earth severer woe ; 
 At once betrayed, denied, or fled, 
 By those who shared His dailv bread. 
 
 If vexing thoughts within me rise, 
 And, sore dismayed, my spirit dies ; 
 
 127 
 
128 SACRED POEMS 
 
 Still He, who once vouchsafed to bear 
 The sickening anguish of despair, 
 Shall sweetly soothe, shall gently dry, 
 The throbbing heart, the streaming eye. 
 
 When sorrowing o'er some stone I bend, 
 Which covers what was once a friend, 
 And from his voice, his hand, his smile, 
 Divides me for a little while ; 
 Thou, Saviour, mark'st the tears I shed, 
 For Thou didst weep o'er Lazarus dead ! 
 
 And O ! when I have safely past 
 Through every conflict but the last ; 
 Still, still unchanging, watch beside 
 My painful bed, for Thou hast died ! 
 Then point to realms of cloudless day, 
 And wipe the latest tear away ! 
 
FRANCIS RIDLEY HAVERGAL 
 
 JULY ON THE MOUNTAINS 
 
 THERE is sultry gloom on the mountain 
 brow, 
 And a sultry glow beneath. 
 Oh for a breeze from the western sea, 
 Soft and reviving, sweet and free, 
 Over the shadowless hill and lea, 
 Over the barren heath ! 
 
 There are clouds and darkness around God's 
 ways, 
 
 And the noon of life grows hot ; 
 And though His faithfulness standeth fast 
 As the mighty mountains, a shroud is cast 
 Over its glory, solemn and vast, 
 
 Veiling, but changing it not. 
 
 Send a sweet breeze from Thy sea, O Lord, 
 From Thy deep, deep sea of love ; 
 
 Though it lift not the veil from the cloudy 
 height, 
 
 Let the brow grow cool and the footsteps light, 
 
 As it comes with holy and soothing might, 
 Like the wing of a snowy dove. 
 
 129 
 
ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER 
 
 THE CHILD JESUS 
 A Cornish Carol 
 
 WELCOME that star in Judah's sky. 
 That voice o'er Bethlehem's palmy 
 glen : 
 The lamp far sages hailed on high, 
 The tones that thrilled the shepherd men 
 Glory to God in loftiest heaven ! 
 Thus angels smote the echoing chord ; 
 Glad tidings unto man forgiven, 
 Peace from the presence of the Lord ! 
 
 The shepherds sought that birth divine, 
 The Wise Men traced their guided way ; 
 There, by strange light and mystic sign, 
 The God they came to worship lay. 
 A human Babe in beauty smiled, 
 Where lowing oxen round him trod : 
 A maiden clasped her Awful Child, 
 Pure offspring of the breath of God. 
 
 Those voices from on high are mute, 
 The star the Wise Men saw is dim ; 
 But hope still guides the wanderer's foot, 
 And faith renews the angel hymn : 
 Glory to God in loftiest heaven ! 
 Touch with glad hand the ancient chord ; 
 Good tidings unto man forgiven, 
 
 Peace from the presence of the Lord. 
 
 130 
 
ALFRED HAYES 
 
 MY STUDY 
 
 LET others strive for wealth or praise 
 Who care to win ; 
 I count myself full blest, if He, 
 Who made my study fair to see, 
 Grant me but length of quiet days 
 To muse therein. 
 
 Its walls, with peach and cherry clad, 
 
 From yonder wold 
 Unbosomed, seem as if thereon 
 September sunbeams ever shone ; 
 They make the air look warm and glad 
 
 When winds are cold. 
 
 Around its door a clematis 
 
 Her arms doth tie ; 
 Through leafy lattices I view 
 Its endless corridors of blue 
 Curtained with clouds ; its ceiling is 
 
 The marbled sky. 
 
 A verdant carpet smoothly laid 
 
 Doth oft invite 
 
 My silent steps ; thereon the sun 
 
 With silver thread of dew hath spun 
 
 Devices rare — the warp of shade, 
 
 The weft of light. 
 131 
 
132 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Here dwell my chosen books, whose leaves 
 
 With healing breath 
 The ache of discontent assuage, 
 And speak from each illumined page 
 The patience that my soul reprieves 
 
 From inward death ; 
 
 Some perish with a season's wind, 
 
 And some endure ; 
 One robes itself in snow, and one 
 In raiment of the rising sun 
 Bordered with gold ; — in all I find 
 
 God's signature. 
 
 As on my grassy couch I lie, 
 
 From hedge and tree 
 Musicians pipe ; or if the heat 
 Subdue the birds, one crooneth sweet 
 Whose labour is a lullaby, — 
 
 The slumbrous bee. 
 
 The sun my work doth overlook 
 
 With searching light ; 
 The serious moon, the flickering star, 
 My midnight lamp and candle are ; 
 A soul unhardened is the book 
 
 Wherein I write. 
 
 There labouring, my heart is eased 
 Of every care ; 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 133 
 
 Yet often wonderstruck I stand, 
 With earnest gaze but idle hand, 
 Abashed — for God Himself is pleased 
 To labour there. 
 
 Ashamed my faultful task to spell, 
 
 I watch how grows 
 The Master's perfect colour-scheme 
 Of sunset, or His simpler dream 
 Of moonlight, or that miracle 
 
 We name a rose. 
 
 There, in the lap of pure content, 
 
 I still would keep 
 The Sabbath of a soul at rest ; 
 Nor could I wish a close more blest 
 Than there, when life's bright day is spent, 
 
 To fall asleep. 
 
 OS THE MOUNTAIN 
 
 I SCALE the fortress where the winds keep 
 ward 
 O'er health's unrifled hoard ; 
 Each footstep is an ecstasy ; my blood 
 
 Leaps with the sparkling flood 
 Of sunshine from God's crystal chalice poured. 
 Ascending I behold 
 Earth's ancient scroll unfold ; 
 The mountain's naked shoulder screens from 
 view 
 
134 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 The valley of last night's expectant rest, 
 Whose hamlet, as the prospect grew. 
 
 Shrank to a wood-wren's nest. 
 Panting ruth joyful toil at last I stand 
 
 Where taintless breezes range, 
 An infant holding Nature by the hand, 
 A new-born creature, to myself most strange ; 
 
 Exalted to this sovereign height 
 I taste awhile an eagles lone delight ; 
 Then, as I scan 
 The Makers outspread plan, 
 My humbled spirit kneels 
 And uncomplaining feels 
 The insignificance of Man. 
 Around me slumber giant limbs ; below 
 The vapours crawl that curtain me from care ; 
 A stream unseen is heard to flow ; 
 The breast of peace lies bare ; 
 Reposing there, 
 I gaze along the avenues of air 
 To that which seems a sea beyond the sea, 
 The dim horizon of eternity. 
 
 CHRISTMAS CAROL 
 
 T 
 
 WO thousand troubled years 
 Time's weary brow have worn. 
 
 Since that strange star to shepherds told 
 The Prince of Peace was born ; 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 135 
 
 Two thousand years of gloom, 
 
 Of groping toward the light, 
 Of prophets scorned and martyrs slain 
 
 And battle done for right. 
 
 But year by year the bells 
 
 The old glad tidings bring, 
 And men forget their strife, to keep 
 
 The birthday of the King. 
 
 Christ's kingdom yet will come 
 
 And good prevail o'er ill, 
 Though often with a crown of thorns 
 
 We mock the Master still ; 
 
 Yet He will not forsake 
 The world for which He died, 
 
 Till all mankind be gathered home 
 At the great Christmastide. 
 
 THE SILENT HARP 
 
 POOR harp how desolate ! — The loving 
 hand 
 That wind-like wandered o'er thy trem- 
 ulous strings, 
 Culling sweet sheaves of sound or whisper- 
 ings 
 Aeolian, at the Master's mute command 
 
136 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Drops lifeless. In that unresponsive land 
 What music He from earthly sufferings 
 Evoketh and the stress of mortal things, 
 Wistful we seek but may not understand. 
 
 Yonder may dwell continual peace, but here 
 All peace begetteth and is born of strife, 
 And every smile is sister to a tear ; 
 
 Death only can the missing note supply 
 That shall resolve the discord of this life ; 
 Silence alone is perfect harmony. 
 
 T 
 
 THE LAST CRUSADE 
 
 Extract from " The Burial of Saint Louis" 
 
 " rnr^HANKS be to God ! 
 
 And praised be the Father of all life ! 
 
 Who hideth not the radiance of His 
 face 
 
 E'en from His meanest creature, but doth shed 
 
 His bounteous warmth alike on weed and 
 
 flower, 
 
 His bounteous love alike on wretch and king. 
 
 Thine is the first grey glimmer that foretells 
 
 The fresh dominion of ascending Day, 
 
 Ere yet the birds have thrust with dewy wing 
 
 The beaded twigs aside, and shyly chirped 
 
 The half-remembered music of their dreams; 
 
 Thine the first frail anemone that lifts 
 
 A starry head above the mouldering leaves, 
 
 To tell the naked underwood of Spring ; 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 137 
 
 Thine the first sunbeam on the latest snow ; 
 Thine the first laughter of the new-born babe ; 
 And Thine, dear God, the earliest ray of hope 
 That gilds the night and winter of despair. 
 Blest be the silent-growing power of Day, 
 Blest be the slowly-widening dawn of Truth, 
 Blest be the ever-conquering might of Good, 
 And blest the surely-coming reign of Love." 
 
 EXTRACT FROM " THE STORMING 
 OF NAZARETH" 
 
 ONWARD through the shade 
 For half a league they marched, and 
 not a sound 
 Vexed earth's deep slumber, save the measured 
 
 tread 
 Of their own steps, or rustle of the leaves 
 When some bright bird broke from his dewy 
 
 bower, 
 And down the valley with a startled cry 
 Flew to a deeper shelter. But the walls 
 Of riven limestone glimmering to the stars 
 Grew ever wider parted, till they made 
 A sloping circle, like the storm-worn wreck 
 Of some great amphitheatre ; and midway 
 Adown the slope, and nestling to the plain, 
 Asleep beneath the breathing moonlight, lay 
 The village-home of Christ. 
 
438 SACRED POEMS 
 
 O ye, who deem 
 The din of cities better than the hush 
 Of the bare hills, the pomp of painted roofs 
 More glorious than the starry vault of Heaven, 
 The strife of factions sweeter than the song 
 Of woodland birds, the raiment of a king 
 More lovely than the lily, and the roar 
 Of nations greater than the still small voice ; 
 Ponder it well, or e'er your ears grow deaf 
 To God's deep music, that earth's strongest 
 
 soul, 
 Who best hath known to cope with pain, and 
 
 grief, 
 And shame, and sin, Who best hath held His 
 
 way 
 Unflinching through the tempest of the world, 
 Most nobly wrestled with the powers of Hell, 
 And looked most calmly in the face of Death, 
 Drew His vast might, not from the turbid flow 
 Of crowded streets, but those pure influences 
 Which spring from star and bird and wayside 
 
 flower. 
 
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 
 
 THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 
 
 THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets 
 feign, 
 Sails the unshadowed main, — 
 The venturous bark that flings 
 On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
 In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 
 And coral reefs lie bare, 
 Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their 
 streaming hair. 
 
 Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl ; 
 Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 
 And every chambered cell, 
 Where its dim dreaming life was wont to 
 
 dwell, 
 As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 
 Before thee lies revealed, — 
 Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! 
 
 Year after year behold the silent toil 
 That spread his lustrous coil ; 
 Still, as the spiral grew, 
 He left the past years dwelling for the new, 
 Stole with soft step its shining archway 
 through, 
 Built up its idle door, 
 Stretched in his last found home, and knew 
 the old no more. 
 
 139 
 
140 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Thanks for the heavenly message brought 
 by thee, 
 Child of the wandering sea, 
 Cast from her lap, forlorn ! 
 From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
 Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 
 While on mine ear it rings, 
 Through the deep cave of thought I hear a 
 voice that sings : — 
 
 Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 
 As the swift seasons roll ! 
 Leave thy low- vaulted past ! 
 Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
 Shut thee from heaven with a dome more 
 vast, 
 Till thou at length art free, 
 Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting 
 sea ! 
 
 HYMN 
 
 OUR Father ! while our hearts unlearn 
 The creeds that wrong Thy name, 
 Still let our hallowed altars burn 
 With Faith's undying flame ! 
 
 Not by the lightning-gleams of wrath 
 Our souls Thy face shall see, 
 
 The star of Love must light the path 
 That leads to Heaven and Thee. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 141 
 
 Help us to read our Master's will 
 Through every darkening stain 
 
 That clouds His sacred image still, 
 And see Him once again. 
 
 The brother man, the pitying friend, 
 
 Who weeps for human woes, 
 Whose pleading words of pardon blend 
 
 With cries of raging foes. 
 
 If 'mid the gathering storms of doubt, 
 Our hearts grow faint and cold, 
 
 The strength we cannot live without 
 Thy love will not withhold. 
 
 Our prayers accept ; our sins forgive ; 
 
 Our youthful zeal renew ; 
 Shapes for us holier lives to live, 
 
 And nobler work to do ! 
 
LEIGH HUNT 
 
 ABOU BEiV AD HEM 
 
 ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe in- 
 crease !) 
 Awoke one night from a deep dream 
 
 of peace, 
 And saw, within the moonlight in his room, 
 .Making it rich, and like the lily in bloom, 
 An angel writing in a book of gold ; 
 Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem 
 
 bold, 
 And to the presence in the room he said, 
 ** What writest thou ? " — The vision raised its 
 
 head, 
 And with a look made of all sweet accord, 
 Answered, "The names of those who love 
 
 the Lord." 
 u And is mine one ? " said Abou ; " Nay, not 
 
 so, 
 Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low, 
 But cheerily still ; and said, " I pray thee then, 
 Write me as one that loves his fellow-men. w 
 
 The angel wrote and vanished. The next 
 
 night 
 It came again with a great wakening light. 
 And showed the names whom love of God 
 
 had blessed, 
 And lo ! Ben AdhenVs name led all the rest. 
 
 142 
 
REV. JOHN A. JENNINGS 
 
 REST 
 
 W 
 
 ANDERING thro' the city 
 My heart was sick and sore : 
 
 Full of a feverish longing 
 
 I entered an old church door. 
 
 Dark were the aisles and gloomy : 
 Type of my troubled breast. 
 
 Mournful and sad I paced there, 
 Eager to be at rest. 
 
 Sudden the sunshine lighted 
 The arches with golden stream, 
 
 Chasing the darksome shadows 
 With brightly-glancing beam. 
 
 A chord pealed forth from the organ 
 Tender, and soft, and sweet : 
 
 Trembling along the pavement 
 Like the tread of the angels' feet. 
 
 The light as a voice from Heaven, 
 Bid all my care to cease ; 
 
 The chord, as a song of Seraphs, 
 Whispered of Gods own peace. 
 
 143 
 
E. PAULINE JOHNSON 
 
 (TEKAHIONWAKE) 
 CHR1STMAST1DE 
 
 I MAY not go to-night to Bethlehem, 
 Nor follow star-directed ways, nor tread 
 The paths wherein the shepherds walked, 
 that led 
 To Christ, and peace, and Gods good will to 
 men. 
 
 I may not hear the Herald Angels' song 
 Peal through the oriental skies, nor see 
 The wonder of that Heavenly company 
 Announce the King the world had waited long. 
 
 The manger throne I may not kneel before, 
 Or see how man to God is reconciled, 
 Through pure St Mary's purer, holier child : 
 The human Christ these eyes may not adore. 
 
 I may not carry frankincense and myrrh 
 With adoration to the Holy One ; 
 Nor gold have I to give the Perfect Son, 
 To be with those wise kings a worshipper. 
 
 Not mine the joy that Heaven sent to them, 
 For ages since Time swung and locked his 
 
 gates, 
 But 1 may kneel without — the star still waits. 
 To guide me on to holy Bethlehem. 
 
 144 
 
SACRED POEMS 145 
 
 BRIER 
 
 Good Friday 
 
 BECAUSE, dear Christ, your tender, 
 wounded arm 
 Bends back the brier that edges 
 life's long way, 
 That no hurt conies to heart, to soul no harm, 
 I do not feel the thorns so much to-day. 
 
 Because I never knew your care to tire, 
 Your hand to weary guiding me aright, 
 
 Because you walk before and crush the brier, 
 It does not pierce my feet so much to-night. 
 
 Because so often you have hearkened to 
 My selfish prayers, I ask but one thing now, 
 
 That these harsh hands of mine add not unto 
 The crown of thorns upon your bleeding 
 brow. 
 
 PESSEROSO 
 
 SOULLESS is all humanity to me 
 To-night. My keenest longing is to be 
 Alone, alone with God's grey earth that 
 seems 
 Pulse of my pulse and consort of my dreams. 
 
 10 
 
146 SACRED POEMS 
 
 To-night my soul desires no fellowship, 
 
 Or fellow-being ; crave I but to slip 
 
 Thro' space on space, till flesh no more can 
 
 bind, 
 And I may quit for aye my fellow kind. 
 
 Let me but feel athwart my cheek the lash 
 Of whipping wind, but hear the torrent dash 
 Adown the mountain steep, 'twere more my 
 
 choice 
 Than touch of human hand, than human 
 
 voice. 
 
 Let me but wander on the shore night-stilled, 
 Drinking its darkness till my soul is filled ; 
 The breathing of the salt sea on my hair, 
 My outstretched hands but grasping empty 
 air. 
 
 Let me but feel the pulse of Nature's soul 
 Athrob on mine, let seas and thunders roll 
 Oer night and me ; sands whirl ; winds, waters 
 
 beat ; 
 For God's grey earth has no cheap counterfeit. 
 
REV. JOHN KEBLE 
 
 THE TWENTY-FOURTH SUNDAY 
 AFTER TR1MTY 
 
 "The heart knoweth his own bitterness; and a strang-er 
 doth not intermeddle with his joy." — Prov. xiv. 10. 
 
 WHY should we faint and fear to live 
 alone, 
 Since all alone, so Heaven has 
 willed, we die, 
 Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own T 
 Knows half the reasons why we smile and 
 sigh ? 
 
 Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe 
 Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart, 
 
 Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow — 
 Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the 
 heart. 
 
 And well it is for us our God should feel 
 Alone our secret throbbings : so our prayer 
 
 May readier spring to Heaven, nor spend its- 
 zeal 
 On cloud-born idols of this lower air. 
 
 For if one heart in perfect sympathy 
 
 Beat with another, answering love for love. 
 
 Weak mortals, all entranced, on earth would lie, 
 Nor listen for those purer strains above. 
 
 147 
 
148 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Or what if Heaven for once its searching light 
 
 Lent to some partial eye, disclosing all 
 The rude bad thoughts that in our bosom's 
 night 
 Wander at large, nor heed Love's gentle 
 thrall ? 
 
 Who would not shun the dreary uncouth 
 place ? 
 
 As if, fond leaning where her infant slept, 
 A mother's arm a serpent should embrace : 
 
 So might we friendless live, and die unwept. 
 
 Then keep the softening veil in mercy drawn, 
 Thou who canst love us, though Thou read 
 us true ; 
 
 As on the bosom of the aerial lawn 
 
 Melts in dim haze each coarse ungentle hue. 
 
 Thou know' st our bitterness — our joys are 
 Thine ; 
 No stranger Thou to all our wanderings 
 wild : 
 Nor could we bear to think how every line 
 Of us, Thy darkened likeness and defiled, 
 
 Stands in full sunshine of Thy piercing eye, 
 But that Thou call'st us Brethren : sweet 
 repose 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 149 
 
 Is in that word ! the Lord who dwells on high 
 Knows all, yet loves us better than He 
 knows. 
 
 THE FOURTH SUSDAY IN LENT 
 
 "Joseph made haste; for his bowels did yearn upon his 
 brother : and he sought where to weep ; and he entered into 
 his chamber, and wept there." — Gen. xliii. 30. 
 
 11 There stood no man with him, while Joseph made 
 himself known unto his brethren." — Gen. xlv. 1. 
 
 W 
 
 HEN Nature tries her finest touch, 
 
 Weaving her vernal wreath, 
 Mark ye, how close she veils her 
 round, 
 Not to be traced by sight or sound 
 Nor soiled by ruder breath ! 
 
 Who ever saw the earliest rose 
 First open her sweet breast ? 
 Or, when the summer sun goes down, 
 The first soft star in evening's crown 
 Light up her gleaming crest? 
 
 Fondly we seek the dawning bloom 
 On features wan and fair, — 
 
 The gazing eye no change can trace 
 
 But look away a little space, 
 Then turn, and, lo ! 'tis there. 
 
150 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 But there's a sweeter flower than e'er 
 
 Blushed on the rosy spray — 
 A brighter star, a richer bloom 
 Than e'er did western heaven illume 
 
 At close of summer day. 
 
 Tis Love, the last best gift of Heaven ; 
 
 Love gentle, holy, pure : 
 But tenderer than a dove's soft eye, 
 The searching sun, the open sky, 
 
 She never could endure. 
 
 Even human Love will shrink from sight 
 
 Here in the coarse rude earth : 
 How then should rash intruding glance 
 Break in upon her sacred trance 
 Who boasts a heavenly birth ? 
 
 So still and secret is her growth. 
 
 Ever the truest heart. 
 Where deepest strikes her kindly root 
 For hope or joy, for flower or fruit, 
 
 Least knows its happy part. 
 
 God only, and good Angels, look 
 
 Behind the blissful screen — 
 As when, triumphant o'er His woes. 
 The Son of God by moonlight rose, 
 
 Bv all but Heaven unseen : 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 151 
 
 As when the holy Maid beheld 
 
 Her risen Son and Lord : 
 Thought has not colours half so fair 
 That she to paint that hour may dare, 
 
 In silence best adored. 
 
 The gracious Dove, that brought from Heaven 
 
 The earnest of our bliss, 
 Of many a chosen witness telling 
 On many a happy vision dwelling, 
 
 Sings not a note of this. 
 
 So, truest image of the Christ, 
 
 Old Israel's long-lost son, 
 What time, with sweet forgiving cheer. 
 He called his conscious brethren near, 
 
 Would weep with them alone. 
 
 He could not trust his melting soul 
 
 But in his Maker's sight — 
 Then why should gentle hearts and true 
 Bare to the rude world's withering view 
 
 Their treasure of delight ! 
 
 No — let the dainty rose awhile 
 
 Her bashful fragrance hide — 
 Rend not her silken veil too soon, 
 But leave her, in her own soft noon. 
 
 To flourish and abide. 
 
H. W. LONGFELLOW 
 
 THE DAY IS DOSE 
 
 T 
 
 HE day is done and the darkness 
 Falls from the wings of Night, 
 As a feather is wafted downward 
 From an eagle in his flight. 
 
 I see the lights of the village 
 
 Gleam through the rain and the mist, 
 And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, 
 
 That my soul cannot resist : 
 
 A feeling of sadness and longing, 
 
 That is not akin to pain, 
 And resembles sorrow only 
 
 As the mist resembles the rain. 
 
 Come, read to me some poem, 
 Some simple and heartfelt lay. 
 
 That shall soothe this restless feeling, 
 And banish the thoughts of day. 
 
 Not from the grand old masters, 
 Not from the bards sublime, 
 
 Whose distant footsteps echo 
 Through the corridors of Time. 
 
 For, like strains of martial music, 
 Their mighty thoughts suggest 
 
 152 
 
SACRED POEMS 153 
 
 Life's endless toil and endeavour ; 
 And to-night I long for rest. 
 
 Read from some humbler poet, 
 Whose songs gushed from his heart, 
 
 As showers from the clouds of summer 
 Or tears from the eyelids start ; 
 
 Who, through long days of labour, 
 And nights devoid of ease, 
 
 Still heard in his soul the music 
 Of wonderful melodies. 
 
 Such songs have power to quiet 
 The restless pulse of care, 
 
 And come like the benediction 
 That follows after prayer. 
 
 Then read from the treasured volume 
 
 The poem of thy choice, 
 And lend to the rhyme of the poet 
 
 The beauty of thy voice ; 
 
 And the night shall be filled with music, 
 And the cares, that infest the day, 
 
 Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, 
 And as silently steal away. 
 
154 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 THE LEGES D BEAUTIFUL 
 
 "Had'st thou stayed, I must have fled!" 
 That is what the Vision said. 
 
 IN his chamber all alone, 
 Kneeling on the floor of stone, 
 Prayed the monk in deep contrition 
 For his sins of indecision, 
 Prayed for greater self-denial 
 In temptation and in trial ; 
 It was noonday by the dial. 
 And the Monk was all alone. 
 
 Suddenly, as if it lightened, 
 An unwonted splendour brightened 
 All within him and without him 
 In that narrow cell of stone ; 
 And he saw the Blessed Vision 
 Of our Lord, with light Elysian 
 Like a vesture wrapped about him, 
 Like a garment round him thrown. 
 
 Not as crucified and slain, 
 
 Not in agonies of pain, 
 
 Not with bleeding hands and feet 
 
 Did the Monk his Master see ; 
 
 But as in the village street, 
 
 In the house or harvest-field, 
 
 Halt and lame and blind he healed, 
 
 When He walked in Galilee. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 155 
 
 In an attitude imploring, 
 
 Hands upon his bosom crossed, 
 
 Wondering, worshipping, adoring, 
 
 Knelt the Monk in rapture lost. 
 
 Lord, he thought, in heaven that reignest 
 
 Who am I, that thus Thou deignest 
 
 To reveal Thyself to me ? 
 
 Who am I, that from the centre 
 
 Of Thy glory Thou shouldst enter 
 
 This poor cell, my guest to be ? 
 
 Then amid his exaltation, 
 Loud the convent bell appalling, 
 From its belfry calling, calling, 
 Rang through court and corridor 
 With persistent iteration 
 He had never heard before. 
 It was now the appointed hour 
 When alike in shine or shower, 
 Winters cold or summer's heat, 
 To the convent portals came 
 All the blind and halt and lame, 
 All the beggars of the street, 
 For their daily dole of food 
 Dealt them by the brotherhood ■ 
 And their almoner was he 
 Who upon his bended knee, 
 Rapt in silent ecstasy 
 Of divinest self-surrender, 
 Saw the Vision and the Splendour. 
 
156 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Deep distress and hesitation 
 Mingled with his adoration ; 
 Should he go, or should he stay ? 
 Should he leave the poor to wail 
 Hungry at the convent gate, 
 Till the Vision passed away ? 
 Should he slight his radiant guest, 
 Slight his visitant celestial, 
 For a crowd of ragged, bestial 
 Beggars at the convent gate? 
 Would the Vision there remain ? 
 Would the Vision come again ? 
 
 Then a voice within his breast 
 Whispered, audible and clear, 
 As if to the outward ear : 
 " Do thy duty ; that is best ; 
 Leave unto thy Lord the rest ! ,1 
 
 Straightway to his feet he started, 
 And with longing look intent 
 On the Blessed Vision bent, 
 Slowly from his cell departed, 
 Slowly on his errand went. 
 
 At the gate the poor were waiting. 
 Looking through the iron grating, 
 With that terror in the eye 
 That is only seen in those 
 Who amid their wants and woes 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 157 
 
 Hear the sound of doors that close, 
 And of feet that pass them by ; 
 Grown familiar with disfavour, 
 Grown familiar with the savour 
 Of the bread by which men die ! 
 But to-day, they knew not why, 
 Like the gate of Paradise 
 Seemed the convent gate to rise, 
 Like a sacrament divine 
 Seemed to them the bread and wine. 
 In his heart the Monk was praying 
 Thinking of the homeless poor, 
 What they suffer and endure ; 
 What we see not, what we see ; 
 And the inward voice was saying ; 
 "Whatsoever thing thou doest 
 To the least of mine and lowest, 
 That thou doest unto Me ! " 
 
 Unto Me ! but had the Vision 
 Come to him in beggar's clothing, 
 Come a mendicant imploring, 
 Would he then have knelt adoring, 
 Or have listened with derision, 
 And have turned away with loathing? 
 
 Thus his conscience put the question, 
 Full of troublesome suggestion, 
 As at length, with hurried pace, 
 Towards his cell he turned his face, 
 
158 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 And beheld the convent bright 
 With a supernatural light, 
 Like a luminous cloud expanding 
 Over floor and wall and ceiling. 
 
 But he paused with awe-struck feeling 
 At the threshold of his door, 
 For the Vision still was standing 
 As he left it there before, 
 
 When the convent bell appalling, 
 From its belfry calling, calling, 
 Summoned him to feed the poor. 
 Through the long hour intervening 
 It had waited his return, 
 And he felt his bosom burn, 
 Comprehending all the meaning, 
 When the Blessed Vision said, 
 " Had'st thou stayed, I must have fled ! M 
 
 THE TWO ANGELS 
 
 TWO angels, one of Life and one of 
 Death, 
 Passed o'er our village as the morn- 
 ing broke ; 
 The dawn was on their faces, and beneath. 
 The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of 
 smoke. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 159 
 
 Their attitude and aspect were the same, 
 Alike their features and their robes of white ; 
 
 But one was crowned with amaranth, as with 
 flame, 
 And one with asphodels, like flakes of light. 
 
 I saw them pause on their celestial way ; 
 
 Then I, with deep fear and doubt 
 
 oppressed, 
 " Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray 
 
 The place where thy beloved are at rest ! v 
 
 And he who wore the crown of asphodels, 
 Descending, at my door began to knock, 
 
 And my soul sank within me, as in wells 
 The waters sink before an earthquake's 
 shock. 
 
 I recognised the nameless agony, 
 The terror and the tremor and the pain, 
 
 That oft before had filled or haunted me 
 And now returned with threefold strength 
 again. 
 
 The door I opened to my heavenly guest, 
 And listened, for I thought I heard God's 
 voice ; 
 
 And, knowing whatsoe'er He sent was best, 
 Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. 
 
160 SACRED POEMS 
 
 Then with a smile, that filled the house with 
 light, 
 "My errand is not Death, but Life/' he 
 said ; 
 And ere I answered, passing out of sight, 
 On his celestial embassy he sped. 
 
 ? Twas at thy door, O friend ! and not at mine. 
 The angel with the amaranthine wreath. 
 
 Pausing, descended, and with voice divine. 
 Whispered a word that had a sound like 
 Death. 
 
 Then fell upon the house a sudden gloom, 
 
 A shadow on those features fair and thin ; 
 And softly from that hushed and darkened 
 
 room, 
 Two angels issued, where but one went in. 
 
 All is of God ! If He but wave His hand, 
 The mists collect, the rain falls thick and 
 loud, 
 Till, with a smile of light on sea and land, 
 Lo ! He looks back from the departing cloud. 
 
 Angels of Life and Death alike are His ; 
 Without His leave they pass no threshold 
 o'er ; 
 Who then would wish or dare, believing this. 
 Against His messengers to shut the door? 
 
G. R. LOWELL 
 
 SONNET 
 
 I CANNOT think that thou shouldst pass 
 away, 
 Whose life to mine is an eternal law, 
 A piece of nature that can have no flaw, 
 A new and certain sunrise every day ; 
 But, if thou art to be another ray 
 About the Sun of Life, and art to live 
 Free from all of thee that was fugitive, 
 The debt of Love I will more fully pay, 
 Not downcast with the thought of thee so high, 
 But, rather, raised to be a nobler man, 
 And more divine in my humanity, 
 As knowing that the waiting eyes which scan 
 My life, are lighted by a purer being, 
 And ask meek, calm-browed deeds, with it 
 agreeing. 
 
 11 161 
 
HENRY FRANCIS LYTE 
 
 ABIDE WITH ME 
 
 ABIDE with me ! fast falls the even-tide; 
 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 dwell'st 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 mean- 
 while, 
 Thou hast not left me, oft as I left Thee : 
 On to the close, O Lord, abide with me. 
 
 162 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 163 
 
 I need Thy Presence every passing hour : 
 What but Thy grace can foil the tempters 
 
 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 r 
 Where is Death's sting ? where, Grave, thy 
 
 victory' ? 
 I triumph still, if Thou abide with me ! 
 
 Hold then Thy cross before my closing eyesL 
 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 M1SE 
 
 LONG did I toil, and knew no earthly 
 rest ; 
 Far did I rove, and found no certain 
 home ; 
 At last I sought them in His sheltering breast, 
 Who opes His arms, and bids the weary 
 come : 
 
164 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 With Him I found a home, a rest Divine ; 
 And I since then am His, and He is mine. 
 
 Yes ! He is mine ! and nought of earthly things, 
 Not all the charms of pleasure, wealth, or 
 power, 
 
 The fame of heroes, or the pomp of kings, 
 Could tempt me to forego His love an hour. 
 
 Go, worthless world, I cry, with all that's thine! 
 
 Go ! I my Saviour's am, and He is mine. 
 
 The good I have is from His stores supplied ; 
 
 The ill is only what He deems the best ; 
 He for my Friend, I'm rich with nought 
 beside ; 
 
 And poor without Him, though of all possest: 
 Changes may come ; I take, or 1 resign ; 
 Content, while I am His, while He is mine. 
 
 Whate'er may change, in Him no change is 
 seen ; 
 
 A glorious Sun, that wanes not nor declines; 
 Above the clouds and storms He walks serene, 
 
 And sweetly on His people's darkness shines: 
 All may depart ; I fret not, nor repine, 
 While I my Saviour's am, while He is mine. 
 
 He stays me falling, lifts me up when down, 
 Reclaims me wandering, guards from every 
 foe ; 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 165 
 
 Plants on my worthless brow the victor's 
 crown ; 
 Which, in return, before His feet I throw, 
 Grieved that I cannot better grace His shrine, 
 Who deigns to own me His, and He is mine. 
 
 While here, alas ! I know but half His love, 
 But half discern Him, and but half adore ; 
 
 But when I meet Him in the realms above, 
 I hope to love Him better, praise Him more, 
 
 And feel, and tell, amid the choir Divine, 
 
 How fully I am His, and He is mine. 
 
GEORGE MACDONALD 
 
 A DREAM OF THE CROSS 
 
 I 
 
 LAY and dreamed. Three crosses stood 
 
 Amid the gloomy air. 
 Two bore two men — one was the Good ; 
 
 The third rose waiting, bare. 
 
 A Roman soldier, coming by, 
 
 Mistook me for the third ; 
 I lifted up my asking eye 
 
 For Jesus' sign or word. 
 
 I thought He signed that I should yield, 
 
 And give the error way. 
 I held my peace ; no word revealed, 
 
 No gesture uttered nay. 
 
 Against the cross a scaffold stood, 
 Whence easy hands could nail 
 
 The doomed upon that altar-wood, 
 Whose fire burns slow and pale. 
 
 Upon its floor he lifted me ; 
 
 I stood all thoughtful there, 
 Waiting until the deadly tree 
 
 My form for fruit should bear. 
 
 Rose up the waves of fear and doubt, 
 
 Rose up from heart to brain ; 
 
 166 
 
SACRED POEMS 167 
 
 They shut the world of vision out, 
 And thus they cried amain : 
 
 " Ah me ! my hands — the hammer's knock — 
 The nails — the tearing strength ! " 
 
 My soul replied : " Tis but a shock 
 That grows to pain at length." 
 
 44 Ah me ! the awful fight with death ; 
 
 The hours to hang and die ; 
 The thirsting gasp for common breath 
 
 That passes heedless by!" 
 
 My soul replied : " A faintness soon 
 
 Will shroud thee in its fold ; 
 The hours will go, — the fearful noon 
 
 Rise, pass — and thou art cold. 
 
 44 And for thy suffering, what to thee 
 
 Is that ? or care of thine ? 
 Thou living branch upon the tree 
 
 Whose root is the Divine ! 
 
 44 'Tis His to care that thou endure ; 
 
 That pain shall grow or fade ; 
 With bleeding hands hang on thy cure i 
 
 He knows what he hath made." 
 
 And still for all the inward wail, 
 My foot was firmly pressed ; 
 
168 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 For still the fear lest I should fail 
 Was stronger than the rest. 
 
 And thus I stood, until the strife 
 
 The bonds of slumber brake. 
 I felt as I had ruined life, 
 
 Had fled, and come awake 
 
 Yet I was glad, my heart confessed, 
 
 The trial went not on ; 
 Glad, likewise, I had stood the test 
 
 As far as it had gone. 
 
 And yet I fear some recreant thought, 
 
 Which now I all forget, 
 This painful feeling in me wrought 
 
 Of failure, lingering yet. 
 
 And if the dream had had its scope, 
 
 I might have fled the field ; 
 But yet 1 thank Thee for the hope, 
 
 And think I dared not yield. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 AND weep not, though the Beautiful 
 decay 
 Within thy heart, as daily in thine 
 eyes ; 
 Thy heart must have its Autumn, its pale 
 skies, 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 169 
 
 Leading, mayhap, to Winter's cold dismay. 
 Yet doubt not. Beauty doth not pass away ; 
 Her form departs not, though her body dies. 
 Secure beneath the earth the snowdrop lies, 
 Waiting Spring's young resurrection day, 
 Through the kind nurture of the Winter cold. 
 Nor seek thou by vain effort to revive 
 The Summer time, when roses were alive : 
 Do thou thy work — be willing to be old ; 
 Thy sorrow is the husk that doth enfold 
 A gorgeous June for which thou need'st not 
 strive. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 AND should the twilight deepen into 
 night, 
 And sorrow grow to anguish, be thou 
 strong ; 
 Thou art in God and nothing can go wrong 
 That a fresh life-pulse cannot set aright ; 
 That thou dost know the darkness, proves 
 
 the light. 
 Weep if thou wilt, but weep not thou too long ; 
 Or weep and work, for work will lead to song. 
 But search thy heart, if hid from all thy sight 
 There lie no cause for Beauty's slow decay ; 
 If for completeness and diviner youth, 
 And not for very love, thou lov'st the truth ; 
 
170 SACRED POEMS 
 
 If thou hast learned to give thyself away 
 For love's own self, not for thyself, I say : 
 Were God's love less, the world were lost, 
 in sooth. 
 
 SONNET 
 
 AND do not fear to hope. Can poet's 
 brain 
 More than the Father's heart rich 
 good invent ? 
 Each time we smell the autumn's dying 
 
 scent, 
 We know the primrose time will come again ; 
 Not more we hope, nor less would soothe our 
 
 pain. 
 Be bounteous in thy faith, for not mis-spent 
 Is confidence unto the Father lent : 
 Thy need is sown and rooted for His rain. 
 His thoughts are as thine own ; nor are His 
 
 ways 
 Other than thine, but by their loftier sense 
 Of beauty infinite, and love intense. 
 Work on. One day, beyond all thoughts of 
 
 praise, 
 A sunny joy will crown thy head with rays ; 
 Nor other than thy need thy recompense. 
 
REV. GEORGE MATHESON, D.D. 
 
 O LOVE, THAT WILT NOT LET 
 ME GO 
 
 OLOVE, that wilt not let me go, 
 I rest my weary soul in thee : 
 I give Thee back the life I owe, 
 That in Thine ocean depths its flow 
 May richer, fuller be. 
 
 O Light, that followest all my way, 
 
 I yield my flick'ring torch to Thee ; 
 My heart restores its borrow 1 d ray, 
 That in thy sunshines blaze its day 
 May brighter, fairer be. 
 
 Joy, that seekest me thro' pain, 
 
 I cannot close my heart to Thee ; 
 
 1 trace the rainbow thro' the rain, 
 And feel the promise is not vain, 
 
 That morn shall tearless be. 
 
 Cross, that liftest up my head, 
 
 I dare not ask to fly from Thee ; 
 
 1 lay in dust, life's glory dead, 
 
 And from the ground there blossoms red 
 Life that shall endless be. 
 
 171 
 
B. M. 
 
 DESOLA TE 
 
 11 And her husband went with her along weeping behind 
 her to Bahurim. Then said Abner unto him, Go, return. 
 And he returned." x 
 
 WE dwelt together, by the grace of 
 God, 
 Through golden years of sunshine. 
 Day by day 
 In raiment white as snow she walked with me, 
 And daily grew more dear. Oh, sweet to us, 
 Beyond all word or dream, that mutual life 
 Which God had given us richly to enjoy, 
 Its happy labours, — blessed rests between, — 
 Summer and Winter, Spring-time and the joy 
 Of Harvest Home. 
 
 Yet even then, I know 
 That far above, beyond my duller sight, 
 Her hope was centred ; every lovely gift 
 That graced our home on earth, was unto her 
 A shadow and example of the things 
 Prepared in Heaven. Brighter glowed her 
 
 trust, 
 More spiritual and still more fair her hope, 
 As each fresh blessing from our Father's hand 
 Fell softly, crowning us. If thus, she said, 
 Beyond all thought or promise, this brief life 
 
 1 This verse is used only as a motto, and the poem bears 
 no reference to the history of Michal. 
 
 172 
 
SACRED POEMS 173 
 
 Grew dear and wonderful, what must it be 
 To dwell within the City, fair and still 
 Which shall be ours for ever? 
 
 Grief or care 
 Had scarcely touched her — in our sheltered 
 
 home 
 She knew no sorrow ; Peace and Charity 
 Dwelt sweetly where she dwelt, and Joy 
 
 became 
 A frequent guest, and loved to sit with her 
 And make her sing. Yet pitiful she was 
 To all who suffered, measuring loss and woe 
 By the large measure of her own deep heart, 
 And by the vastness of its treasure. Thus 
 Even through joy she knew the secret pang 
 Of sorrow ; and through riches, poverty, 
 And loss by gain. 
 
 And day by day she sought 
 The stricken homes beside whose desolate 
 And silent hearths sat Want, or Pain, or 
 
 Death — 
 Those terrible guests who ask for no man's 
 
 leave, 
 But lift the latch, and enter, and sit down ; — 
 There came she, as an angel, with the cup 
 Of consolation in her tender hand, 
 And ministered, with tears of sympathy, 
 To every mourning spirit. 
 
 Golden years 
 Of service and of hope swept over us 
 
174 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Thus sweetly. Brighter grew our home, more 
 
 dear 
 Our daily life together ; God Himself 
 Shone on us, making all we took in hand 
 To grow and prosper. And as time went by 
 He daily joined our hearts more perfectly, 
 And made us one. 
 
 Until there came a day, — 
 A day to me of heaviness and woe 
 Beyond repair, — when He who thus had 
 
 blessed 
 And bound us to each other, soul to soul, 
 Divided us. He claimed His awful right 
 To put asunder those whom He had joined. 
 His sword is powerful, quick and keen to 
 
 pierce, 
 Dividing even soul and spirit, joints 
 And marrow, living heart and heart entwined 
 In holy wedlock. Who can bid it stay. 
 Or say, " Put up thyself, O Sword of God, 
 Return into thy scabbard, rest, be still, 
 Here is no place for thee " ? How can it rest 
 When God hath given it a charge ? 
 
 It fell 
 Upon a glorious day in harvest-time, — 
 When, under smiling skies, the golden grain 
 Was carried home with singing, — that a word 
 Was brought unto my love ; the King Himself 
 Desired her presence — He would have her 
 
 leave 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 175 
 
 Her home, and all she had, and go to Him. 
 Ah ! oftentimes, in peaceful evening hours, 
 When we together sat, to see the sun 
 Sink smiling toward the sea, my love had 
 
 said, — 
 " How sweet if, by the pitying grace of God, 
 The sun at length upon us both might set, 
 And we together pass into the Dawn 
 Of His Celestial Day ! Oh, hand in hand, 
 To leave the sweetness of our earthly home 
 For one prepared above ; together still 
 To enter by the Gate, to see the King, 
 And with one heart to taste the cup of 
 
 joy 
 
 Which He has mingled." 
 
 This her tender dream 
 Was crossed by Heaven, for she was called 
 
 alone. 
 She heard the message, kissed the token sent, 
 And rose up, pale but smiling, to depart 
 With those who came to seek her. Yet to 
 
 me 
 She stretched her hands, and bade me lead 
 
 her forth 
 A little way upon this journey strange 
 And solemn. " Come with me," she said, " O 
 
 come 
 As far, along that shadowy road, — as far 
 As any step of mortal man may go 
 And yet return." 
 
176 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Then slowly forth we went, 
 Hand locked in hand. We left behind the 
 
 stir 
 Of common sounds, we passed into the waste 
 And solitary space that girdles round 
 Our daily life ; a shadowy path we found. 
 And followed but a little way, when, lo ! 
 Before us suddenly upon the hills, 
 More glorious than the sun, the City shone 
 With open gates of welcome, and I saw 
 The answering brightness on my dear ones 
 
 face, 
 Whilst darkness covered mine. 
 
 The Messengers 
 Sent by the King had lingered, — pitying 
 My speechless grief, — behind us by the way ; 
 But now they came to us, and tenderly 
 Withdrew her little clinging hand from mine, 
 And gently hastened her, the King's command 
 Being urgent. 
 
 Then my love before me went, 
 With glad, swift steps ascending, and bright 
 
 face 
 Set steadfastly toward Jerusalem ; 
 Yet in her joy she still remembered me, 
 And paused and turned, and sought by 
 
 sweetest signs 
 And looks to cheer me, as I, broken, went 
 Behind her weeping. Till the Messengers 
 Drew near again, and touched me, saying low, 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 177 
 
 In heavenly voices, soft with pity, — " Go, 
 Return. Thou mayst not follow, yet uncalled, 
 These happy footsteps to the City gates 
 And to the presence of the King. Behold ! 
 Already she is passing from thy gaze — 
 A bright cloud overshadows her — she goes 
 Into the Glory which no man shall see 
 And live ; and we attend her. Go, return," 
 
 And I returned. To this bare home of mine 
 Where all is changed and dim, and every 
 
 flower 
 Has withered in its place, and every sound 
 Is charged with sorrow, I returned alone 
 And desolate for ever. Nights and days 
 Swept over me ; I saw no sun nor stars, 
 But sat in equal darkness at noon-day, 
 And midnight, for my light was gone from 
 
 me. 
 And strange it seemed to think that far 
 
 away 
 In the Celestial City, where they know 
 No night nor shadow, she in Glory dwelt 
 Whilst darkness covered me. 
 
 Yet light was sown 
 Even for me, around my ruined home, 
 And in a litttle while began to spring : 
 The seed my love had scattered far and free 
 Beside all waters, now returned to me 
 In blessings manifold ; the poor and sad 
 
 12 
 
178 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Whom she had visited and cheered and fed 
 Prayed day and night for me ; until the Love 
 That once had seemed so distant — seated far 
 Above the heavens — came down and dwelt 
 
 with me, 
 Familiar, patient, in this lonely place. 
 
 And I grow patient, too, and am content 
 With bare, still days of Winter, softly lit 
 By memories of golden Summer flown, 
 And hope of perfect Summer yet to come 
 Which shall restore my treasure. Day by 
 
 day 
 I seek to follow her, and everywhere, — 
 In homes of sorrow, in the place of prayer, 
 Or in the wide, white Harvest-field, — I find 
 And kiss her blessed footprints. 
 
 Far behind, 
 Ah ! far behind her, — weeping still at times, 
 Yet comforted, — I press toward the Hills 
 Where, crowned with joy, my love is waiting 
 
 me. 
 On the bright threshold of eternal Peace 
 Mine eyes shall see her standing pure as 
 
 snow 
 And radiant as the dawn, to welcome me. 
 Oh, but to picture that first look, the smile 
 With which she will receive me, makes my 
 
 heart 
 Grow faint with joy and wonder. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 179 
 
 As a child 
 At Home, familiar in the Father's House, 
 She, smiling still, will lead me to His feet, 
 And I, too, shall behold Him face to Face 
 Whom, not having seen, I lore. There shall 
 
 we taste, 
 As with one heart, that cup of infinite joy 
 Which He hath mingled ; for the King shall 
 
 shine 
 Upon us gloriously, and make us one. 
 And in the days that follow — golden days, 
 Celestial still and clear — she shall be mine, — 
 Oh, once again mine own, for ever mine, — 
 Spirit to spirit bound in deathless love 
 Beneath the shadow of the Throne of God. 
 
PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON 
 
 TO-MORROW 
 
 I SAID " To-morrow ! " one bleak, wintry 
 day 
 " To-morrow I will live my life anew," — 
 
 And still " To-morrow ! " while the winter 
 grew 
 To spring, and yet I dallied by the way, 
 And sweet dear Sins still held me in their 
 sway : 
 " To-morrow ! " I said, while summer days 
 
 wore through ; 
 " To-morrow ! M while chill autumn round 
 me drew ; 
 And so my soul remained the sweet Sins' prey. 
 
 So pass the years, and still, perpetually, 
 I cry, " To-morrow will I flee each wile — 
 
 To-morrow, surely, shall my soul stand free, 
 Safe from the syren voices that beguile ! " 
 But death waits by me with a mocking smile, 
 
 And whispers — " Yea ! To-morrow, verily ! ' 
 
 180 
 
SACRED POEMS 181 
 
 AFTER LOVE'S PASSING 
 
 THE awful stillness in two human souls 
 Whence Love has passed away, 
 The dreary night no moon of joy con- 
 trols 
 The undelightful day — 
 
 The cruel coldness where was once Love's 
 heat, 
 
 The darkness where was light, 
 The burning, tearless eyes, the weary feet 
 
 That journey day and night — 
 
 The long, dark way that has no end but one — 
 
 That goal no man may miss — 
 The winds that wail about the sunken sun 
 
 For life's departed bliss — 
 
 The fearful loneliness that comes between 
 Those souls erst one, now twain — 
 
 The passionate memory of what has been ; 
 The unavailing pain — 
 
 The springs that come, but bring no hope of 
 change ; 
 The cheerless, summer hours ; 
 With songs of birds grown old, and harsh, 
 and strange, 
 And scentless, bloomless flowers — 
 
182 SACRED POEMS 
 
 The fruitless autumn, with no garnered corn, 
 
 The dreary, winter weather — 
 The two who walk apart, alone, forlorn, 
 
 Who once kept step together — 
 
 The bitter sense of failure and regret, 
 
 The life without an aim, 
 The unavailing struggle to forget 
 
 The weakness, owned with shame — 
 
 These things make sad the night and sad the 
 day, 
 And hard are they to bear — 
 Yet let those souls whence Love has passed 
 away 
 Though sad, keep pure and fair : 
 
 Ah ! let them say, " Great Love once tarried 
 here, 
 Making his home divine — 
 Though he has passed, yet let us still hold 
 dear 
 The temple and the shrine." 
 
LOUISE CHANDLER MOULTON 
 
 SELFISH PRAYER 
 
 H 
 
 OW we, poor players on Life's little 
 
 stage, 
 Thrust blindly at each other in our 
 
 rage, 
 Quarrel and fret yet rashly dare to pray 
 To God to help us in our selfish way ! 
 
 We think to move Him with our prayer and 
 
 praise 
 To serve our needs — as in the old Greek days 
 Their gods came down and mingled in the 
 
 fight, 
 With mightier arms the flying foe to smite. 
 
 The laughter of those gods pealed down to 
 
 men, 
 For heaven was but earth's upper story, then, 
 Where goddesses about an apple strove, 
 And the high gods fell humanly in love. 
 
 We own a God whose presence fills the sky — 
 Whose sleepless eyes behold the worlds roll 
 
 by- 
 Whose faithful memory numbers one by one 
 The sons of men, and calls them each His 
 
 son. 
 
 183 
 
JOHN HENRY NEWMAN 
 
 LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT 
 
 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 see 
 The distant scene ; one step enough for me. 
 
 I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou 
 
 Shouldst lead me on : 
 I loved to choose and see my path ; but now, 
 
 Lead Thou me on : 
 I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, 
 Pride ruled my will ; remember not past 
 years. 
 
 So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still 
 
 Will lead me on, 
 O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till 
 
 The night is gone, 
 And with the morn those angel faces smile, 
 Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. 
 
 184 
 
ROBERT NICOLL 
 
 A THOUGHT 
 
 Y 
 
 ON sail on the horizon's verge 
 
 Doth like a wandering spirit seem,- 
 A shadow in a sea of light — 
 The passing of a dream. 
 
 A moment more and it is gone ! 
 
 We know not how — we know not where : 
 It came — an instant stayed — and then 
 
 It vanished into air. 
 
 Such are we all : — we sail awhile 
 In joy, on life's fair summer sea : 
 
 A moment — and our bark is gone 
 Into Eternity. 
 
 185 
 
BAPTIST WRIOTHESLEY NOEL 
 
 THERE'S NOT A BIRD 
 
 THERE'S not a bird, with lonely nest 
 In pathless wood or mountain crest, 
 Nor meaner thing, which does not share, 
 O God ! in Thy paternal care ! 
 
 There's not a being now accurst, 
 Who did not taste Thy goodness first ; 
 And every joy the wicked see 
 Received its origin from thee. 
 
 Each barren crag, each desert rude, 
 Holds Thee within its solitude ; 
 And thou dost bless the wanderer there, 
 Who makes his solitary prayer. 
 
 In busy mart and crowded street, 
 No less than in the still retreat, 
 Thou, Lord, art near, our souls to bless 
 With all a parents tenderness ! 
 
 And every moment still doth bring 
 Thy blessings on its loaded wing ; 
 Widely they spread through earth and sky, 
 And last to all eternity ! 
 
 186 
 
SACRED POEMS 187 
 
 Through all creation let Thy Name 
 Be echoed with a glad acclaim ! 
 That let the grateful Churches sing ; 
 With that let heaven for ever ring ! 
 
 And we, where'er our lot is cast, 
 While life and thought and feeling last, 
 Through all our years, in every place, 
 Will bless Thee for Thy boundless grace ! 
 
GILBERT PARKER 
 
 "LITTLE GARA1SE" 
 
 .. 
 
 W 
 
 HERE do the stars grow, little 
 
 Garaine ? 
 The garden of moons, is it far 
 
 awav? 
 
 The orchard of suns, my little Garaine, 
 Will you take us there some day ? " 
 
 " If you shut your eyes," quoth little Garaine, 
 " I will show you the way to go 
 
 To the orchard of suns and the garden of 
 moons 
 And the field where the stars do grow. 
 
 " But you must speak soft," quoth little 
 Garaine, 
 
 "And still must your footsteps be, 
 For a great bear prowls in the field of the stars, 
 
 And the moons they have men to see. 
 
 "And the suns have the Children of Signs 
 to guard, 
 
 And they have no pity at all — 
 You must not stumble, you must not speak, 
 
 When you come to the orchard wall. 
 
 " The gates are locked," quoth little Garaine, 
 
 " But the way I am going to tell ! 
 The key of your heart it will open them all, 
 
 And there's where the darlings dwell ! ' 
 
 188 
 
SIR NOEL PATON 
 
 u TIMOR MORTIS CONTURBA T ME " 
 
 COULD I have sung one Song that 
 should survive 
 The singer's voice, and in my 
 country's heart 
 Find loving echo — evermore a part 
 Of all her sweetest memories ; could I give 
 One great Thought to the People, that should 
 prove 
 The spring of noble action in their hour 
 Of darkness, or control their headlong 
 power 
 With the firm reins of Justice and of Love ; 
 Could I have traced one Form that should 
 express 
 The sacred mystery that underlies 
 All Beauty, and through man's enraptured 
 eyes 
 Teach him how beautiful is Holiness, — 
 I had not feared thee. But to yield my 
 
 breath, 
 Life's Purpose unfulfilled ! — This is thy 
 sting, O Death ! 
 
 189 
 
190 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 NIGHT THOUGHTS 
 
 DARKNESS enfolds me, like the 
 sepulchre 
 Of universal death ; like a great 
 sea — 
 Fathomless, shoreless — the infinity 
 Of silence whelms me ; in my throbbing ear 
 Surging tumultuous, — till I seem to hear 
 The cosmic thunder, as the systems wheel 
 Afar their monstrous orbits, — even to feel 
 The tempest of their waftage. And great fear 
 And tribulation fall upon my heart 
 
 Lest haply man, despite his lofty dream 
 Of spiritual life, be but a part — 
 
 A ripple of the dead, insensate stream 
 Of Force material, for an instant tost 
 Within its vortex — then for ever lost. 
 
 n 
 
 Flitting between the two eternities — 
 Forgotten Hath-been, and unknown To-be — 
 An atom lost in the immensity 
 Of Time and Space into the dark abyss 
 Still groping — peering ; conscious but of this : 
 That I have missed the track ; for track in 
 
 sooth 
 There is, — nor all my dreams of Faith and 
 Truth 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 191 
 
 But ignes fatui — dread hypothesis ! — 
 Of mine own kindling. Yet the unconscious 
 world — 
 Frail atom, too, on the vast surge of Force 
 That buoys the Universe — hath its destined 
 course, 
 Nor therefrom swerves. Am 1 then blindly 
 
 hurled 
 Into the void, to gasp — and perish ? Nay, 
 God guides me also on my perilous way. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL 
 
 1 
 
 IT was the Christmas Eve ; 
 The homeless wind did grieve 
 Around the desolate moorland, 
 blind with snow ; 
 When at my wattle door — 
 Shelter how frail and poor ! 
 I heard the sound of weeping — very low. 
 And peering forth into the wild 
 And dreary night — lo ! on the threshold 
 stood a child. 
 
 His tiny feet were bare, 
 The snow was in his hair, 
 The snow was on his fluttering raggedness. 
 
192 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 "Pity a little one 
 
 Out in the storm alone/' 
 He feebly murmured in his sore distress. 
 Within my arms I gathered him, 
 And bore with soothing words into my 
 
 chamber dim. 
 
 And as I bore him in 
 There came the silvery din 
 Of bells, far-chiming through the fitful blore, 
 And from his pallid brow 
 A sweet light seemed to flow, 
 And from his tattered garment wintry-frore ; 
 While from his eyes a look there came 
 Of love that thrilled like fire through all 
 my trembling frame. 
 
 I laid him on my bed, 
 And water brought and bread — 
 The last scant remnant of my hermit fare, — 
 Whereof he took, and slept ; 
 While by his side I kept 
 Dark vigil,— all my spirit bowed in prayer, 
 Towards the dawning of the morn 
 Whereon our Blessed Lord and Saviour, 
 Christ, was born. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 193 
 
 But, hungered and a-cold 
 Ere half my beads were told 
 The gentle boon of sleep to me was given ; 
 And in a solemn dream 
 I saw the wondrous gleam 
 Of that strange star high in the eastern 
 heaven 
 That led the Magi on their way, 
 What time the King of kings within the 
 manger lay ; 
 
 I saw the angel throng, 
 Heard, too, the heavenly song 
 Beside the shepherds in the fields by night, 
 And eager ran with them 
 To where in Bethlehem 
 We found the Holy Babe in swaddlings white. 
 And kneeling in the sacred place 
 I saw — and wept to see — in His my 
 wanderer's face ! 
 
 But they were tears of bliss, — 
 And bending low to kiss 
 In loving awe the rosy-tender feet — 
 
 The vision passed ; and — strange ! 
 What means this mystic change 
 
 13 
 
194 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Of all that doth my rapt observance meet ? 
 A blazing Yule-log on the hearth 
 Fills my late darksome cell with light and 
 warmth and mirth ! 
 
 8 
 
 Upon my table bare 
 A golden Chalice fair 
 Shone brimmed with wine ; a golden Paten 
 held 
 Bread broken ; a pale Rood 
 Beside them shadowy stood ; 
 And from the piteous wounds the warm blood 
 welled . . . 
 I turned to rouse my sleeping one ; 
 But vacant stood the bed — and I was all 
 alone. 
 
 I sank upon my knees, 
 While once more on the breeze 
 The Christmas bells came sounding joyously ; 
 And on a scroll o'er head 
 Written in light I read 
 The legend : " Thou hast done it unto ME." 
 And I forgot my sins and cares, 
 For then I knew HE had been with me 
 unawares. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 195 
 
 10 
 
 And from that hour to this 
 My fire unquenched is ; 
 By daily use unminished, on the board 
 Still stand the bread and wine ; 
 And this poor cote of mine, 
 Still radiant from the presence of The Lord, 
 Is a rich temple, where I bide 
 Fearless His angel's summons, — His what- 
 e'er betide. 
 
REV. T. B. POLLOCK 
 
 MY FR1EXDS IN PARADISE 
 
 FRIENDS of my childhood, guardians of 
 my youth, 
 Who made my morn of life so bright 
 and fair ; 
 In whom I saw the loveliness of Truth, 
 And learned to love it, loving what ye were ; 
 
 In you the forming of a heavenly hand, 
 The work of God's own Spirit I could see, 
 
 Preparing you for that pure, peaceful land, 
 Where you were going, ah, too soon for me ! 
 
 What can the joy of early days restore ? 
 
 Earth ne'er can be again what earth has 
 been ; 
 You made life what it was to me before, 
 
 And dearness gave to each familiar scene. 
 
 And you are gone ; I miss you day by day, 
 I look around, and for your comfort yearn ; 
 
 But onward I must tread my lonely way, 
 For you will never, never more return. 
 
 Your looks of love that used my heart to cheer 
 
 Shall never beam again from mortal eyes ; 
 
 Your voices speak not now to mourners here, 
 
 But sing with happy saints beyond the skies. 
 
 196 
 
SACRED POEMS 197 
 
 Your fight is o'er, your work is done below, 
 Safe in the waiting land you calmly rest ; 
 
 Still learning ever more and more to know 
 With joy how deep God's chosen ones are 
 blest. 
 
 You cannot come to me, nor could I dare 
 To wish you back in this dark world of pain ; 
 
 But I may go to Paradise, and there, 
 In brighter scenes enjoy your love again. 
 
 A little more of waiting must be mine, 
 
 More work for God to try my faith and love ; 
 
 Then we may meet where you already shine, 
 And live together in the homes above. 
 
 But, have I only thoughts of vanished days, 
 And hopes of meeting in the realms afar ? 
 
 Must I my yearning spirit never raise 
 
 To think upon and love you where you are ? 
 
 The memory of love will not avail 
 The craving of the soul to satisfy ; 
 
 Love must love on, though sight and know- 
 ledge fail, 
 And Faith must quicken it, or Love will die. 
 
 I did not feel, though sorrow bowed my head, 
 As each dear form was laid with kindred 
 clay, 
 
198 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 That out of sight I buried then my dead, 
 That heart and thought must turn from you 
 away. 
 
 It cannot be ; my thoughts, with restless wing, 
 Far, far from earth to follow you will roam ; 
 
 My heart will still its truest offering bring, 
 As when I loved you in my childhoods 
 home. 
 
 Though other friends are dear, they yet are new, 
 And never can be precious as the old ; 
 
 The love that clings so tenderly to you 
 Will not be loosened others to enfold. 
 
 And as I feel with all the joy of those 
 
 Who still can greet me with a friendly hand ; 
 
 I surely may desire the full repose 
 
 Of dearer friends who tread the spirit land. 
 
 Need I drive back the instinct of my heart, 
 This impulse true, that nature makes me feel ? 
 
 Fire from its light and warmth I may not part ; 
 1 cannot love you, and not wish your weal. 
 
 If God can give you more of God's own light, 
 And draw you nearer to the fount of joy, 
 
 I must desire that you may reach the height 
 Where purest rapture may your songs 
 employ. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 199 
 
 But though my lips have uttered not a word, 
 Has not my soul looked up to God in prayer? 
 
 He knows the love by which my heart is 
 stirred, 
 Each longing unexprest that rises there. 
 
 Yes, I have prayed, although I never knew 
 What meaning in my silent yearnings dwelt ; 
 
 And God has listened to the prayers for you 
 That rose unbidden from the love I felt. 
 
 And am I told that, when I bow the knee, 
 And tell my wants to Him who reigns above 
 
 1 may remember many dear to me, 
 
 But must forget the friends whom most I 
 love ? 
 
 Ah, never ! God is kinder far than man, 
 He nowhere tells me of the heartless creed 
 
 Of those who threaten me with fiercest ban 
 If \ should venture for your souls to plead. 
 
 I ask not what you need, I ask not how 
 You may be blessed in answer to my cry ; 
 
 I only know you are imperfect now, 
 
 Though nearer to your full reward than I : 
 
 And He in whom alone we all do live, 
 You in your rest, and I who toil below, 
 
200 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Who hears your pra\ers and mine, will wisely 
 give 
 What most we need that we may perfect 
 grow. 
 
 "SAVIOUR MOST LOVING" 
 
 SAVIOUR most loving, bending before 
 Thee, 
 Sinful and mourning, Thy mercy we 
 crave ; 
 Leave us not hopeless, Lord, we implore Thee, 
 Thou hast redeemed us, O hear and save. 
 
 Fountain, where sinners find ever flowing 
 Streams that wash all their defilement away, 
 
 To those pure waters thankfully going, 
 We would for mercy and cleansing pray. 
 
 Gentle Physician, mortal ills healing, 
 
 Bending in love o'er each sin-stricken soul, 
 
 Come, all Thy care and goodness revealing, 
 Strengthen our weakness and make us 
 whole. 
 
 Shepherd most careful, warn us when stray- 
 ing, 
 Guide us in paths where Thine own feet 
 have trod ; 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 201 
 
 Led by Thy call, Thy dear voice obeying, 
 Bring us in peace to the fold of God. 
 
 Light where the path is shadowed and dreary> 
 Friend of the hearts that in loneliness pine ; 
 
 Help of the poor, and strength of the weary, 
 Where is the love that is like to Thine ? 
 
 Lord, we would follow where Thou dost 
 call us, 
 
 Patient in sorrow and valiant in fight ; 
 May we be true, whatever befall us, 
 
 Journeying on to the land of light. 
 
 There, Lord, with gladness laying before Thee 
 Each heavy cross we have carried so long ; 
 Crowned with Thy blessing, we shall adore 
 Thee 
 Singing for ever the triumph song. 
 
 Amen 
 
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER 
 
 FRIES D SORROW 
 
 D 
 
 O not cheat thy Heart and tell her, 
 Grief will pass away — 
 44 Hope for fairer times in future, 
 And forget to-day." 
 Tell her, if you will, that sorrow 
 
 Need not come in vain ; 
 Tell her that the lesson taught her 
 Far outweighs the pain. 
 
 Cheat her not with the old comfort, 
 
 44 Soon she will forget" — 
 Bitter truth, alas ! but matter 
 
 Rather for regret ; 
 Bid her not "Seek other pleasures, 
 
 Turn to other things" : — 
 Rather nurse her caged sorrow 
 
 Till the captive sings. 
 
 Rather bid her go forth bravely, 
 
 And the stranger greet : 
 Not as foe, with shield and buckler, 
 
 But as dear friends meet ; 
 Bid her with a strong clasp hold her, 
 
 By her dusky wings ; 
 And she'll whisper low and gently 
 
 Blessings that she brings. 
 
 202 
 
SACRED POEMS 203 
 
 THANKFULNESS 
 
 MY God, I thank Thee, Who hast made 
 The earth so bright, 
 So full of splendour and of joy, 
 Beauty and light ; 
 So many glorious things are here, 
 Noble and right. 
 
 I thank Thee, too, that Thou hast made 
 
 Joy to abound ; 
 So many gentle thoughts and deeds 
 
 Circling us round, 
 That in the darkest spot of earth 
 
 Some love is found. 
 
 I thank Thee more that all our joy 
 
 Is touched with pain ; 
 That shadows fall on brightest hours ; 
 
 That thorns remain : 
 So that earth's bliss may be our guide, 
 
 And not our chain. 
 
 I thank Thee, Lord, that Thou hast kept 
 
 The best in store ; 
 We have enough, yet not too much 
 
 To long for more : 
 A yearning for a deeper peace 
 
 Not known before. 
 
204 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 I thank Thee, Lord, that here our souls, 
 
 Though amply blest, 
 Can never find, although they seek, 
 
 A perfect rest ; 
 Nor ever shall, until they lean 
 
 On Jesus' breast. 
 
 PER PACEM AD LUC EM 
 
 I DO not ask, O Lord, that life may be 
 A pleasant road ; 
 I do not ask that Thou wouldst take 
 from me 
 Aught of its load ; 
 
 I do not ask that flowers should always spring 
 
 Beneath my feet ; 
 I know too well the poison and the sting 
 
 Of things too sweet. 
 
 For one thing only, Lord, dear Lord, I plead, 
 
 Lead me aright — 
 Though strength should falter, and though 
 heart should bleed — 
 
 Through Peace to Light. 
 
 I do not ask, O Lord, that Thou shouldst shed 
 
 Full radiance here ; 
 Give but a ray of peace, that I may tread 
 
 Without a fear. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 203 
 
 I do not ask my cross to understand, 
 
 My way to see ; 
 Better in darkness just to feel Thy hand 
 
 And follow Thee. 
 
 Joy is like restless day ; but peace divine 
 
 Like quiet night : 
 Lead me, O Lord, — till perfect Day shall shine, 
 
 Through Peace to Light. 
 
 STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY 
 
 STRIVE, yet I do not promise 
 The prize you dream of to-day 
 Will not fade when you think to 
 grasp it, 
 And melt in your hand away ; 
 But another and holier treasure, 
 
 You would now perchance disdain, 
 Will come when your toil is over, 
 And pay you for all your pain. 
 
 Wait ; yet I do not tell you 
 
 The hour you long for now 
 Will not come with its radiance vanished. 
 
 And a shadow upon its brow ; 
 Yet far through the misty future, 
 
 With a crown of starry light, 
 An hour of joy you know not 
 
 Is swinging her silent flight 
 
206 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Pray ; though the gift you ask for 
 
 May never comfort your fears, 
 May never repay your pleading, 
 
 Yet pray and with hopeful tears ; 
 An answer, not that you long for, 
 
 But diviner, will come one day ; 
 Your eyes are too dim to see it, 
 
 Yet strive, and wait, and pray. 
 
 A FIRST SORROW 
 
 A 
 
 RISE ! this day shall shine 
 
 For evermore, 
 To thee a star divine, 
 On Time's dark shore. 
 
 Till now thy soul has been 
 
 All glad and gay : 
 Bid it awake and look 
 
 At grief to-day ! 
 
 No shade has come between 
 
 Thee and the sun ; 
 Like some long childish dream 
 
 Thy life has run : 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 207 
 
 But now the stream has reached 
 
 A dark, deep sea, 
 And Sorrow, dim and crowned, 
 
 Is waiting thee. 
 
 Each of God's soldiers bears 
 
 A sword divine : 
 Stretch out thy trembling hands 
 
 To-day for thine ! 
 
 To each anointed Priest 
 
 God's summons came : 
 O Soul, He speaks to-day, 
 
 And calls thy name. 
 
 Then with slow, reverent step, 
 
 And beating heart, 
 From out thy joyous days 
 
 Thou must depart. 
 
 And leaving all behind, 
 
 Come forth alone, 
 To join the chosen band 
 
 Around the throne. 
 
 Raise up thine eyes — be strong, 
 
 Nor cast away 
 The crown that God has given 
 
 Thy soul to-day. 
 
208 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 SOWING AND REAPING 
 
 SOW with a generous hand ; 
 Pause not for toil or pain ; 
 Weary not through the heat of sum- 
 mer, 
 Weary not through the cold spring rain ; 
 But wait till the autumn comes 
 For the sheaves of golden grain. 
 
 Scatter the seed and fear not, 
 
 A table will be spread ; 
 What matter if you are too weary 
 
 To eat your hard-earned bread ! 
 Sow, while the earth is broken, 
 
 For the hungry must be fed. 
 
 Sow ; — while the seeds are lying 
 In the warm earths bosom deep, 
 
 And your warm tears fall upon it, — 
 They will stir in their quiet sleep ; 
 
 And the green blades rise the quicker. 
 Perchance, for the tears you weep. 
 
 Then sow ; — for the hours are fleeting, 
 
 And the seed must fall to-day ; 
 And care not what hands shall reap it, 
 
 Or if you shall have passed away 
 Before the waving cornfields 
 
 Shall gladden the sunny day. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 209 
 
 Sow ; and look onward, upward. 
 Where the starry light appears, — 
 
 Where, in spite of the coward's doubting, 
 Or your own heart's trembling fears, 
 
 You shall reap in joy the harvest 
 You have sown to-dav in tears. 
 
 THE PEACE OF GOD 
 
 WE ask for Peace, O Lord ! 
 Thy children ask Thy Peace ; 
 Not what the world calls rest, 
 That toil and care should cease, 
 That through bright sunny hours 
 
 Calm Life should fleet away, 
 And tranquil night should fade 
 In smiling day ; — 
 
 It is not for such Peace that we would 
 pray. 
 
 We ask for Peace, O Lord ! 
 
 Yet not to stand secure, 
 Girt round with iron Pride, 
 
 Contented to endure : 
 Crushing the gentle strings 
 
 That human hearts should know, 
 Untouched by others' joy 
 
 Or others' woe ; — 
 
 Thou, O dear Lord, wilt never teach us so. 
 
 14 
 
210 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 We ask Thy Peace, O Lord ! 
 
 Through storm, and fear, and strife, 
 To light and guide us on, 
 
 Through a long, struggling life : 
 While no success or gain 
 
 Shall cheer the desperate fight, 
 Or nerve, what the world calls 
 
 Our wasted might : — 
 
 Yet pressing through the darkness to the 
 light. 
 
 It is Thine own, O Lord, 
 
 Who toil while others sleep ; 
 Who sow with loving care 
 
 What other hands shall reap. 
 They lean on Thee entranced, 
 
 In calm and perfect rest : 
 Give us that Peace, O Lord, 
 
 Divine and blest, 
 
 Thou keepest for those hearts who love Thee 
 best. 
 
 IF THOU COULDST KNOW 
 
 I THINK if thou couldst know, 
 O soul that will complain 
 What lies concealed below 
 Our burden and our pain ; 
 How just our anguish brings 
 Nearer those longed-for things 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 211 
 
 We seek for now in vain, — 
 I think thou wouldst rejoice, and not com- 
 plain. 
 
 I think if thou couldst see, 
 
 With thy dim mortal sight, 
 How meanings, dark to thee, 
 
 Are shadows hiding light ; 
 Truth's efforts crossed and vexed, 
 Life's purpose all perplexed, — 
 If thou couldst see them right, 
 I think that they would seem all clear and 
 wise, and bright. 
 
 And yet thou canst not know, 
 
 And yet thou canst not see ; 
 Wisdom and sight are slow 
 
 In poor humanity. 
 If thou couldst trust, poor soul, 
 In Him who rules the whole, 
 Thou wouldst find peace and rest : 
 Wisdom and sight are well but Trust is best. 
 
REV. H. I. D. RYDER 
 
 AN1M& F1DEL1UM 
 
 NO brightness of the sky 
 To tell us where they lie ; 
 The winds that winnow by 
 Make no report ; 
 
 Their cradle and their bier 
 The earth, says, "They were here. 
 But now no more appear 
 In their resort." 
 
 Their footprints all around 
 Yet make it holy ground ; 
 The way they went, the sound 
 Has died away. 
 
 The words which they have writ 
 Of pathos or of wit 
 The paper may not quit, 
 But where are they ? 
 
 Ah ! vainly still we ask : 
 It is not nature's task 
 To tear away the mask 
 Where God is hid. 
 
 212 
 
SACRED POEMS 213 
 
 Go bow your troubled face 
 Closer in God's embrace, 
 And let His love displace 
 All fears forbid. 
 
 Your loved ones are not gone, 
 Live but for God alone, 
 And you shall find your own 
 Upon His breast. 
 
 Safe in the inner shrine 
 Within the arms divine ; 
 They are not grown less thine 
 Because more blest. 
 
 DREAM-LOSS 
 
 WHO has not dreamed of lonely 
 wandering 
 Through darkling paths of woods 
 that never end, 
 How there will meet you suddenly a friend 
 To whom if but your lifeless hands might 
 
 cling, 
 Your way would be no more companionless ; 
 But he regards you not, and passes on ; 
 And lo, another, while you turn, is gone 
 Past you not knowing, and the loneliness 
 
214 SACRED POEMS 
 
 Grows deeper, as anon a happy band 
 
 You once were one of pass in converse sweet ; 
 
 The sounds caress you of their accents 
 
 bland, 
 Then die away, mocking your spell-bound 
 
 feet ; 
 Faint image of the loss awaiting one 
 Whose friends are friends of God, whilst he 
 
 is none. 
 
HORACE SMITH 
 
 HYMN OF THE FLOWERS 
 
 DAY Stars ! that ope your frownless 
 eyes to twinkle 
 From rainbow galaxies of Earths 
 creation, 
 And dewdrops on her lonely altars sprinkle 
 As a libation : 
 
 Ye Matin Worshippers ! who, bending lowly 
 Before the uprisen Sun, God's lidless eye, 
 Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy 
 Incense on high : 
 
 Ye bright Mosaics ! that with storied beauty 
 The floor of Nature's temple tesselate : 
 What numerous emblems of instructive duty 
 Your forms create ! 
 
 'Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that 
 
 swingeth 
 And tolls its perfume on the passing air 
 Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
 A call to prayer : 
 
 Not to the domes where crumbling arch and 
 
 column 
 Attest the feebleness of mortal hand, 
 But to that fane most catholic and solemn 
 
 Which God hath plann'd, — 
 
 215 
 
216 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, 
 Whose quenchless lamps the sun and moon 
 
 supply, 
 Its choir the winds and waves, its organ 
 
 thunder, 
 
 Its dome the sky. 
 
 There, as in solitude and shade I wander 
 Through the green aisles or stretch'd upon 
 
 the sod, 
 Awed by the silence, reverently ponder 
 The ways of God, 
 
 Your voiceless lips, O Flowers ! are living 
 
 preachers, 
 Each cup a pulpit and each ieaf a book, 
 Supplying to my fancy numerous teachers 
 From loneliest nook. 
 
 Floral Apostles ! that in dewy splendour 
 
 " Weep without woe and blush without a 
 
 crime " : 
 Oh, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender 
 Your love sublime ! 
 
 " Thou wast not, Solomon ! in all thy glory 
 Array'd," the lilies cry, " in robes like ours : 
 How vain your grandeur ! ah how transitory 
 Are human flowers ! n 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 217 
 
 In the sweet-scented pictures, Heavenly 
 Artist ! 
 
 With which Thou paintest Natures wide- 
 spread hall, 
 
 What a delightful lesson Thou impartest 
 Of love to all ! 
 
 Not useless are ye, Flowers ! though made 
 
 for pleasure ; 
 Blooming o'er field and wave, by day or night, 
 From every source your sanction bids me 
 
 treasure 
 
 Harmless delight. 
 
 Ephemeral Sages ! what instructors hoary 
 For such a world of thought could furnish 
 
 scope ? 
 Each fading calyx a memento mon\ 
 Yet fount of hope ! 
 
 Posthumous Glories ! angel-like collection, 
 Upraised from seed or bulb interrd in earth : 
 Ye are to me a type of resurrection 
 And second birth. 
 
 Were I in churchless solitudes remaining, 
 Far from all voice of teachers or divines, 
 My soul would find in flowers, of God's 
 ordaining, 
 
 Priests, sermons, shrines. 
 
ELLIOT STOCK 
 
 THE IMPRISONED SOUL 
 
 I PASSED along a narrow noisy street, 
 Where, just above the hurrying crowds, 
 there hung 
 A lark encaged, that yet right nobly sung, 
 With quivering wing and ever restless feet, 
 A heaven-born song towards the far-off stars. 
 But, ill expressing all his heart did mean, 
 Impatiently he spurned his patch of green, 
 And beat his swelling breast against the bars. 
 Here, said I, is a spring of worship, pent 
 Within a faithful heart, by sad mischance, 
 That, prisoned close through sordid circum- 
 stance, 
 Must needs well up and find its heavenward 
 
 vent. 
 The heaven-born soul e'en while engaged on 
 
 earth, 
 Oft carols forth in songs of heavenly mirth. 
 
 THE SOULS FREEDOM 
 
 I WANDERED o'er a breezy upland heath, 
 'Mid incense of a myriad flowers in June: 
 Where golden gorse unfolded to the 
 noon, 
 And sloped to where the sea crawled far 
 beneath ; 
 
 21S 
 
SACRED POEMS 219 
 
 Above the undertone of minor birds, 
 The larks held high their revelry of joy, 
 And filled the air with one sublime envoy 
 Of praise, that rose to where the blue engirds 
 The throne ; and, mounting in untiring flight, 
 They seemed to rise and sing, and poise above 
 In thrilling ecstasy of unpent love, 
 Bathed in the balm of God's eternal light. 
 Here, said I, surely is the gate of heaven : 
 And these the new-found songs of souls for 
 given. 
 
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD 
 
 BRAHMA'S ASSWER 
 
 ONCE, when the days were ages. 
 And the old Earth was young, 
 The high Gods and the sages 
 From Nature's golden pages 
 Her open secrets wrung. 
 Each questional each to know 
 Whence came the Heavens above, and whence 
 the Earth below. 
 
 Indra, the endless giver 
 Of every gracious thing 
 The Gods to him deliver, 
 Whose bounty is the river 
 Of which they are the spring, — 
 Indra, with anxious heart, 
 Ventures with Vivochunu where Brahma is 
 apart. 
 
 44 Brahma ! Supremest Being ! 
 By whom the worlds are made, — 
 Where we are blind, all-seeing, — 
 Stable, where we are fleeing, 
 Of Life and Death afraid, — 
 Instruct us, for mankind, 
 What is the body, Brahma ? O Brahma ! 
 
 what the mind ?" 
 
 230 
 
SACRED POEMS 221 
 
 Hearing as though he heard not, 
 So perfect was his rest, 
 So vast the Soul that err'd not, 
 So wise the lips that stirr'd not, — 
 His hand upon his breast 
 He laid, whereat his face 
 Was mirror'd in the river that girt that holy 
 place. 
 
 They question'd each the other 
 What Brahma's answer meant. 
 Said Vivochunu — M Brother ! 
 Through Brahma the Great Mother 
 Hath spoken her intent : 
 Man ends as he began, — 
 The shadow on the water is all there is of 
 Man." 
 
 14 The Earth with woe is cumber'd, 
 And no man understands ; 
 They see their days are number'd 
 By One that never slumber'd 
 Nor stay'd His dreadful hands. 
 I see with Brahma's eyes : 
 The body is the shadow that on the water 
 ies. 
 
 Thus Indra, looking deeper, 
 With Brahma's self possessed. 
 So dry thine eyes, thou weeper ! 
 
222 SACRED POEMS 
 
 And rise again, thou sleeper ! 
 The hand on Brahma's breast 
 Is his divine assent 
 Covering the soul that dies not. This is what 
 Brahma meant. 
 
LORD DE TABLEY 
 
 THE SA1ST ASD THE SUN 
 
 I HEARD a Saint cry to the Sun — " Be dim. 
 Why shouldst thou rule on high with 
 boastful ray, 
 Till fools adore thee as the God of Day, 
 Robbing thy Master's honour due to Him? v 
 But the sun-spirit, thro' each radiant limb 
 Translucent as a living ember coal, 
 Glowed. At the anger of the seraph soul 
 His golden orb trembled from boss to rim. 
 
 Then made he answer as a dove that sings, 
 44 God's glory is my glory, and my praise 
 Only His praising. They, who kneel to me, 
 See thro' the waving of my orient wings 
 A choir of stars with voices like the sea, 
 Singing hosanna in the heavenly ways." 
 
 223 
 
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON 
 
 IMMORTAL LOVE 
 
 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 foot 
 Is on the skull which Thou hast made. 
 
 Thou wilt not leave us in the dust : 
 Thou madest man, he knows not why t 
 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. 
 
 224 
 
SACRED POEMS 225 
 
 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 7 
 But help Thy foolish ones to bear ; 
 
 Help Thy vain worlds to bear Thy light. 
 
 15 
 
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH 
 
 THE KINGDOM OF GOD 
 
 I 
 
 SAY to thee, do thou repeat 
 To the first man thou mayest meet 
 In lane, highway, or open street*— 
 
 That he and we and all men move 
 
 Under a canopy of love 
 
 As broad as the blue sky above ; 
 
 That doubt and trouble, fear and pain 
 And anguish, all are shadows vain, 
 That death itself shall not remain ; 
 
 That weary deserts we may tread, 
 A dreary labyrinth may thread, 
 Through dark ways underground be led ; 
 
 Yet, if we will one Guide obey, 
 The dreariest path, the darkest way 
 Shall issue out in heavenly day ; 
 
 And we, on divers shores now cast, 
 Shall meet, our perilous voyage past, 
 All in our Father's house at last. 
 
 And, ere thou leave him, say thou this. 
 Yet one word more — they only miss 
 The winning of that final bliss 
 
 226 
 
SACRED POEMS 227 
 
 Who will not count it true, that Love, 
 Blessing, not cursing, rules above, 
 And that in it we live and move. 
 
 And one thing further make him know, 
 That to believe these things are so, 
 This firm faith never to forego, 
 
 Despite of all which seems at strife 
 With blessing, all with curses rife, 
 That this is blessing, this is life. 
 
 LORD, MANY TIMES 1 AM AWEARY 
 QUITE 
 
 LORD, many times I am aweary quite 
 Of mine own self, my sin, my 
 vanity — 
 Yet be not Thou, or I am lost outright, 
 Weary of me. 
 
 And hate against myself I often bear, 
 
 And enter with myself in fierce debate : 
 Take Thou my part against myself, nor 
 share 
 
 In that just hate. 
 
228 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Best friends might loathe us, if what things 
 perverse 
 We know of our own selves, they also know : 
 Lord, Holy One ! if Thou who knowest worse 
 Shouldst loathe us too ! 
 
 STRENGTH IN PRAYER 
 
 LORD, what a change within us one 
 short hour 
 Spent in thy presence will prevail to 
 make, 
 What heavy burdens from our bosoms take, 
 What parched grounds refresh, as with a 
 
 shower ! 
 We kneel, and all around us seems to lower ; 
 We rise, and all, the distant and the near, 
 Stands forth in sunny outline, brave and 
 
 clear ; 
 We kneel how weak, we rise how full of 
 
 power. 
 Why, therefore, should we do ourselves this 
 
 wrong, 
 Or others — that we are not always strong, 
 That we are ever overborne with care, 
 That we should ever weak or heartless be, 
 Anxious or troubled, when with us is prayer, 
 And joy and strength and courage are with 
 
 Thee ? 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 229 
 THANKFUL LOVE 
 
 SOME murmur when their sky is clear 
 And wholly bright to view, 
 If one small speck of dark appear 
 In their great heaven of blue : 
 And some with thankful love are filled 
 
 If but one streak of light, 
 One ray of God's good mercy, gild 
 The darkness of their night. 
 
 In palaces are hearts that ask, 
 
 In discontent and pride, 
 Why life is such a dreary task, 
 
 And all good things denied. 
 And hearts in poorest huts admire 
 
 How Love has in their aid, 
 Love that not ever seems to tire, 
 
 Such rich provision made. 
 
AUBREY DE VERE 
 
 THE AGNOSTICS QUESTION 
 
 WHAT art thou, Life ? For some 
 there are that ask, 
 " Is Life worth living ? " Are we 
 
 come to this, 
 Heroic centuries past of bale or bliss, 
 The Poet's song, and Patriot's solemn task ? 
 The Pagan's heart itself was free to bask 
 At least in Nature's joy — the laugh — the kiss — 
 Life ran, a bright wine from an honest cask ; 
 Hope sped her arrow gaily, hit or miss. 
 Sublimer ages followed : Truth was known : 
 Faith ruled. But Love grew weak by slow 
 
 decay : 
 O'er blackening ocean rushed a tempest blind : 
 What wonder if a ship with mast o'erblown 
 Dragged at its side, more slowly drifts this day 
 Than skiffs that ne'er spread canvas to the 
 
 wind? 
 
 4k 
 
 IS LIFE WORTH LIVING?" 
 
 LIFE is a thing worth living to the 
 brave 
 Who fear not Fortune's spite, in 
 Truth who trust ; 
 Whose spirit, not thralled by pride or earth- 
 ward lust, 
 
 230 
 
SACRED POEMS 231 
 
 Stands up while mortal tumults round them 
 
 rave 
 Like Teneriffe above the ocean wave ; 
 Who, mailed in Duty, with divine disgust 
 Recoil from frivolous joys and aims unjust, 
 Nor miss rewards which Reason scorns to 
 
 crave. 
 Life is worth living to those souls of light 
 Who live for others and by gift bestow 
 On them the jubilant beams their own by 
 
 right ; 
 Who, knowing Life's defects, more inly know 
 This Life is not the Temple but the Gate 
 Where men secure of entrance watch and 
 
 wait. 
 An altar I would rear beside the Rhine, 
 And by the Arno, and the Adrian Sea, 
 For there, O Friends beloved, one home had 
 
 we, 
 And thence, O Friends beloved and ever mine, 
 We ranged together. Alp and Apennine 
 Henceforth are rich in household nooks 
 
 to me, 
 Nor wholly solitary can I be 
 Whether the Palm my tent I make, or Pine. 
 How large a portion of earth's populous ball 
 Have you to me endeared ! Therefore less 
 
 keen 
 Sorrow one day shall prove, or Fortune's 
 
 spleen, 
 
232 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Or all the ills that lonely age befall. 
 Ah yes ; — and yet, had I been worthier, all 
 Which was so dear still dearer might have 
 been. 
 
 QUEEN BERTHA'S MATIN SONG 
 
 THE morning star was rising, 
 O'er ocean's tremulous crystal hung ; 
 His bright feet touched the billow, 
 His glance o'er earth he flung ; 
 On the young Queen he played, 
 Yet warm and disarrayed, 
 
 As, leaping lightly from her pillow, 
 The golden harp she swayed. 
 Hide not the clouds among, 
 Brightest star, and fairest ! 
 Until her song those heavens along 
 Between thy wings thou bearest. 
 
 "Thou that on my dreams 
 
 All night long wert beaming, 
 Oer shining leaves and silver streams 
 
 Brighter now art gleaming ; 
 Every fountain hath 
 
 Light thy keen smiles give her ; 
 In every bay-leaf's dewy bath 
 
 Thy soft swift glances quiver." 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 233 
 
 Hide not the clouds among, 
 
 Brightest star and fairest ! 
 Until her song those heavens along 
 
 Between thy wings thou bearest. 
 
 M Heaven doth laugh above, 
 
 Earth below is gay, 
 And souls that walk 'twixt light and love 
 
 Shall walk in joy alway, 
 White as yon lily sweet, 
 
 That springs, while cold airs fan it, 
 A virgin spouse her mate to greet 
 In thee, glad matin Planet ! " 
 Hide not the clouds among 
 Brightest star and fairest ! 
 Until her song those heavens along 
 Between thy wings thou bearest. 
 
 " All the starry hosts 
 
 And all the angelic band 
 At once o'er all the ethereal coasts 
 Leaped forth at God's command ; 
 But surely from afar 
 
 Twas thee men saw on high, 
 When darkness fled before the star 
 Of Christ's Nativity." 
 
 Hide not the clouds among, 
 Brightest star and fairest ! 
 Until her song those heavens along 
 Between thy wings thou bearest. 
 
234 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 "When the earth was made 
 
 Stars and angels sang ; 
 When Christ was in the manger laid 
 
 More loud the anthem rang ; 
 But louder yet those choirs 
 
 The last great morn shall blend 
 Their heavenly songs and heavenly fires, 
 While thou dost last ascend." 
 Hide not the clouds among, 
 Brightest star and fairest ! 
 Until her song those heavens along 
 Between thy wings thou bearest. 
 
 THE QUEEN'S VESPERS 
 
 HALF kneeling yet, and half reclining, 
 She held her harp against her 
 knees : 
 Aloft the roofs were shining 
 
 And sunset touched the trees. 
 From the gold border gleamed like snow 
 Her foot : a crown enriched her brow : 
 Dark gems confined that crimson vest 
 Close-moulded on her neck and breast. 
 
 In silence lay the cloistral court 
 
 And shadows of the convent towers 
 Well ordered now in stately sort 
 Those roval halls and bowers. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 235 
 
 The choral chaunt had just swept by — 
 Bright arms lay quivering yet on high : 
 Thereon the warriors gazed, and then 
 Glanced lightly at the Queen again. 
 
 While from her lip the wild hymn floated 
 
 Such grace in those uplifted eyes 
 And sweet, half absent looks, they noted 
 
 That, surely, through the skies 
 A Spirit, they deemed flew forward ever 
 Above that song's perpetual river. 
 And, smiling from its joyous track 
 Upon her heavenly face looked back. 
 
 THE QUEEN'S VIGIL 
 
 BENEATH and round her queenly bower 
 So tall the garden pageants grew 
 With every breeze each moon-lit 
 flower 
 Was waved the casement through : 
 White in the radiance glanced the fawn ; 
 Flitted the hare from lawn to lawn 
 By close, broad firs, that flecked the sheen, 
 And barred with black and silver green. 
 
 Far off, like mighty cliffs, their shade 
 Over a waste of waves that cast 
 
 The castle walls o'er wood and glade 
 Flung down their darkness vast. 
 
236 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Answering a monarch's joyous call, 
 Far realms were met in festival : 
 There flocked the noble and the fair — 
 The fairest, noblest was not there. 
 
 And yet for her no flowers were blowing ; 
 
 No listening dell or vale profound 
 Enjoyed her breath : for her was flowing 
 
 Nor glassy stream, nor stream of sound : 
 In vain her song the night-bird squandered, 
 The winds that through her chamber wandered 
 And o'er her pillow brushed serene 
 But found the place where she had been ! 
 
 The Moon whose glory swelled with light 
 
 Each lilied slope and laurelled mound 
 With touch more sharp and exquisite 
 
 Defined one rock cross-crowned. 
 Like argent flames or spires of frost 
 Uprose that shape of stone, embossed 
 With breeze-worn sculptures quaint and mild 
 Of Maid and Angel, King and Child. 
 
 There on her knees the Queen was praying : 
 
 On that cold marble leaned her breast ; 
 Prayer after prayer devoutly saying 
 
 With palms together pressed. 
 There for her lord she prayed aloud, 
 Prayed for her people, blind and proud — 
 That Heaven would chase away their night, 
 That God would bathe his heart in light ! 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 237 
 
 THE QUEERS ALMS 
 
 GLAD as that thrill some princely birth 
 With hushed yet rapturous omen 
 gracing 
 The stir as from her palace forth 
 
 The young fair Queen came pacing : 
 But here no pompous guard was set ; 
 
 No flattering concourse flocked around : 
 The poor about her gate were met : 
 The readiest place the poorest found. 
 
 Like youthful angels all alert 
 
 That Queen dispensed her bounteous load ; 
 On those whom keenest fates had hurt 
 
 Her earliest gifts bestowed. 
 Her face the maniac's rage beguiled ; 
 
 She turned her now among the ring 
 And paused, above a poor blind child 
 
 The sweetest of her songs to sing ; 
 
 Kind gifts to some, kind words to more, 
 
 Kind looks to each and all she gave, 
 Which on with them through life they bore 
 
 And down into their grave. 
 Around her feet the children crept 
 
 And kissed the grass those feet had trod ; 
 Sad eyes that many a year had wept 
 
 With tears of gladness gemmed the sod. 
 
238 SACRED POEMS 
 
 The chiming of the convent bells 
 
 Called her at last away to prayer : 
 Farewell she smiled on their farewells — 
 
 And turned ; when, unaware, 
 An old grey man with hands outspread 
 
 She marked low-bent on quivering knee : 
 Over his brow she stooped and said, 
 
 "A kiss is all I have for thee." 
 
REV. JOSEPH BLANCO WHITE 
 
 SIGHT Ai\D DEATH 
 
 MYSTERIOUS Night, when our first 
 parent knew 
 Thee by report Divine, and heard 
 thy name, 
 Did he not tremble for this goodly frame, 
 This glorious canopy of light and blue ? 
 But through a curtain of translucent dew, 
 Hesperus with the host of heaven came, 
 Bathed in the hues of the great setting 
 
 flame, 
 And lo ! Creation broadened to man's view. 
 Who could have guessed such darkness 
 
 lay concealed 
 Within thy beams, O Sun, or who 
 
 divined, 
 When flower, and leaf, and insect lay 
 
 revealed, 
 Thou to such countless worlds hadst 
 
 made us blind? 
 Why should we then shun death with 
 
 anxious strife ? 
 If Light could thus deceive, wherefore 
 not Life ? 
 
 Coleridge wrote of this as "the finest and most grandly 
 conceived sonnet in our language," and Leigh Hunt says : 
 "In point of thought, this sonnet stands supreme, perhaps 
 above all in any language. Nor can we ever ponder it too 
 deeply, or with too thoughtful a reverence." 
 
 239 
 
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 
 
 LA T1TUD1KAR1AMSM 
 
 YET Truth is keenly sought for, and 
 the wind 
 Charged with rich words poured out 
 in thought's defence ; 
 Whether the Church inspire that eloquence, 
 Or a Platonic Piety confined 
 To the sole temple of the inward mind ; 
 And One there is who builds immortal lays, 
 Though doomed to tread in solitary ways, 
 Darkness before and danger's voice behind ; 
 Yet not alone, nor helpless to repel 
 Sad thoughts ; for from above the starry 
 
 sphere 
 Come secrets, whispered nightly to his ear ; 
 And the pure spirit of celestial light 
 Shines through his soul — "that he may see 
 
 and tell 
 Of things invisible to mortal sight." 
 
 240 
 
ANONYMOUS 
 
 THE TH1SKER AND THE DOER 
 
 ONE sits at home, with pale, impassive 
 brow, 
 Bent on the eloquence of lifeless 
 letters ; 
 Noting man's thoughts from Mind's first 
 dawn, till now, 
 When Truth seems, Heaven-inspired, to 
 burst her fetters. 
 
 Another plies the force of stalwart limbs, 
 And keen wit sharpened by the whirl of 
 action ; 
 For midnight lore no studious lamp he trims, 
 Curtain'd and muffled from the world's dis- 
 traction. 
 
 Two destinies — converging to one end, 
 The glorious issue of all human labour ; 
 
 Where in harmonious union softly blend 
 The praise of God, the profit of our neigh- 
 bour. 
 
 Each has his gift— the stamp affix'd at birth, 
 That marks him tor the servant of a 
 Master, 
 The chosen Steward of His realm of Earth, 
 The shepherd watching for a higher Pastor. 
 
 16 241 
 
242 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 Each has his crown — of earthly laurels here, 
 Gather' d and woven by the hand of 
 mortals ; 
 And when the Spirit-City's towers appear, 
 Dropped on his brows by angels at its 
 portals. 
 
 Judge not which serves his mighty Master 
 best, 
 Haply thou mightest be true worth's de- 
 tractor ; 
 For each obeys his Nature's high behest, — 
 The close-pent thinker and the busy actor. 
 
 THE PA TH OF FAITH 
 
 PERCHANCE thou deemest it is hard 
 To have no foresight of thy life, 
 Unwarned, thy doubtful feet to guard 
 From wandering in the paths of strife ; 
 But though thou hast no prescient sense, 
 Thou hast a watching Providence. 
 
 With trustful labour weave the web 
 Of high emprise and noble deed ; 
 
 Heedless if life should flow or ebb, 
 Let bravely doing be thy creed ; 
 
 That Faith will make thee happier far 
 
 Than if thou read'st each glistening star. 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 243 
 
 Should stormy fortune lurk behind 
 
 Thy curtain'd Fate, and darkly loom — 
 
 Thank God thou canst not feel the wind, 
 Nor hear the distant thunder boom ; 
 
 The tempest, with soft breezes blent, 
 
 May, ere it reaches thee, be spent. 
 
 Should brilliant sunshine bursting there 
 Upon thee, sudden and sublime, 
 
 Instant reflection of its glare 
 Might haply blind thee for the time, 
 
 By pouring on thy dazzled sight 
 
 Rays of intolerable light ; 
 
 But Faith will nerve thee for the fight 
 Against misfortune's darkening power ; 
 
 And flood thy road with tempered light, 
 Until thou reach, in Heaven, that hour 
 
 When Prescience shall be thine at will — 
 
 Prescience of good unmixed with ill. 
 
 THE GROWTH OF GOOD 
 
 F 
 
 AR where the smooth Pacific swells, 
 Beneath an arch of blue, 
 Where sky and wave together meet, 
 A coral reeflet grew. 
 
244 SACRED POEMS OF THE 
 
 No mortal eye espied it there, 
 Nor sea-bird poised on high ; 
 
 Lonely it sprang, and lonely grew, 
 The nursling of the sky. 
 
 With soft-caressing touch, the wind 
 In summer round it play'd ; 
 
 And murmuring through its tiny caves, 
 Unceasing music made. 
 
 The ministering wind, so sweet 
 With mountain perfume, brought 
 
 A changeful robe of emerald moss, 
 By fairy fingers wrought. 
 
 Thus day by day, and year by year, 
 
 The little islet grew ; 
 Its food, the flower-dust wafted by ; 
 
 Its drink, the crystal dew. 
 
 By night the lonely stars look'd forth, 
 Each from his watch-tower high, 
 
 And smiled a loving blessing down, 
 Gently and silently. 
 
 And forest birds from distant isles, 
 
 A moment settled there, 
 And from their plumage shook the seeds, 
 
 Then sprang into the air. 
 
 
NINETEENTH CENTURY 245 
 
 The islet grew, and tender plants 
 
 Rose up amidst the dearth — 
 BloonVd, died, and dropt upon the soil, 
 
 Like gifts from Heaven to earth. 
 
 Thus ages passd ; a hundred trees 
 Graced that once barren strand ; 
 
 A hundred ships its produce bore 
 To many a distant land. 
 
 And thus in every human heart 
 
 A germ of good is sown, 
 Whose strivings upwards to the light 
 
 Are seen by God alone. 
 
INDEX OF AUTHORS AND 
 POEjMS 
 
 Adams, Sarah Flower page 
 
 Nearer, my God to Thee . . .11 
 
 Arnold, Sir Edwin 
 
 Extracts from " The Light of the 
 World" 13 
 
 Arnold, Mathew 
 
 Progress 17 
 
 Self-Dependence 19 
 
 Stagirius 21 
 
 East London 23 
 
 Immortality 24 
 
 Alexander, C. F. 
 
 The Cave of Machpelah ... 25 
 
 The Creation 28 
 
 Rahab 30 
 
 Austin, Alfred 
 
 Is Life Worth Living? ... 33 
 
 Banks, Edward 
 
 On a Grave, not of this Century . 37 
 A Carol for Christmas Eve . . 38 
 
 247 
 
248 INDEX 
 
 Benson, Arthur Christopher PAGE 
 
 Evensong 41 
 
 One by One 42 
 
 When Punctual Dawn ... 43 
 
 Binney, Rev. Thomas 
 
 Eternal Light 44 
 
 Bonar, Dr. 
 
 Be True 46 
 
 Borthwick, Jane 
 
 Rest, weary Soul 47 
 
 Bronte, Anne 
 
 In Memory of a Happy Day in 
 
 February 49 
 
 The Narrow Way .... 51 
 
 The Penitent 53 
 
 Bronte, Charlotte 
 
 Winter Stores 34 
 
 Bronte, Emily 
 
 Last Lines 57 
 
 Brooke, Rev. R. S., D.D. 
 
 Light and Shade 59 
 
 
INDEX 249 
 
 Browning, Elizabeth Barrett page 
 
 Comfort 62 
 
 Cheerfulness taught by Reason. . 62 
 
 Discontent 63 
 
 The Sleep 64 
 
 Bryant, William Cullen 
 
 Thanatopsis 67 
 
 M Blessed are they that Mourn " . 70 
 
 Buckley, Rev. R. W., D.D. 
 
 Twilight Sorrow 72 
 
 Lent 73 
 
 Burbidge, Thomas 
 
 At Divine Disposal .... 75 
 
 Bushby, Anne S. 
 
 Christ's Invitation 76 
 
 Clough, Arthur Hugh 
 
 " O thou of little Faith "... . 78 
 
 Davis, Thomas 
 
 God is Love ,79 
 
 Dobson, Austin 
 
 Before Sedan 82 
 
250 INDEX 
 
 Dowden, Professor Edward page 
 
 Seeking God 84 
 
 Communion 84 
 
 Drennan, Dr. 
 
 The Heaven of Heavens cannot con- 
 tain ....... 86 
 
 Dyson, Charles 
 
 O Lamp of Life 87 
 
 Eliot, George 
 
 The Death of Moses . 88 
 
 Faber, Rev. Frederick William 
 
 Music 94 
 
 Come to Jesus 98 
 
 The Right must Win ... 100 
 
 Fowler, Ellen Thorneycroft 
 
 Loss and Gain 104 
 
 Means and End 105 
 
 A Wish 106 
 
 The Breton Fishermen's Prayer . 106 
 Stream and Lake . . . .107 
 
 No Room 108 
 
 Wulfruna's Hampton .... 109 
 Sunshine and Shadow . . .109 
 
INDEX 251 
 
 Fowler, Ellen Thorneycroft — Con- page 
 
 tinucd 
 
 In Memoriam 110 
 
 Purple and Gold 112 
 
 M Gold and Frankincense and 
 Myrrh" . * . . . .114 
 
 The Hermit 117 
 
 Imperfections 119 
 
 Furlong, Thomas 
 
 Oh ! if the Atheist's Words were 
 True 121 
 
 Gale, Norman 
 
 Before Sleep 122 
 
 Dawn and Dark 123 
 
 A Prayer 123 
 
 Gallienne, Richard le 
 
 The Second Crucifixion . . .125 
 
 Grant, Sir Robert 
 
 When Gathering Clouds . . . 127 
 
 Havergal, Frances Ridley 
 
 July on the Mountains . . .129 
 
 Hawker, Robert Stephen 
 
 The Child Jesus 130 
 
252 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Hayes Alfred 
 
 PAGE 
 
 My Study 
 
 . 131 
 
 On the Mountains 
 
 . 133 
 
 Christmas Carol .... 
 
 . 134 
 
 The Silent Harp .... 
 
 . 135 
 
 The Last Crusade 
 
 . 136 
 
 Extract from "The Storming 
 
 of 
 
 Nazareth" 
 
 137 
 
 Holmes, Oliver Wendell 
 
 
 The Chambered Nautilus . 
 
 . 139 
 
 
 , 140 
 
 Hunt, Leigh 
 
 
 Abou Ben Adhem 
 
 . 142 
 
 Jennings, Rev. John A. 
 
 Rest 143 
 
 Johnson, E. Pauline (Tekahionwake) 
 
 Christmastide 144 
 
 Brier 145 
 
 Penseroso 145 
 
 Keble, Rev. John 
 
 The Twenty-fourth Sunday after 
 
 Trinity 147 
 
 The Fourth Sundav in Lent . .149 
 
I 
 
 INDEX 233 
 
 Longfellow, Henry \V. rAGE 
 
 The Day is Done 152 
 
 The Legend Beautiful .... 154 
 The Two Angels 158 
 
 Lowell, J. Russell 
 
 Sonnet 161 
 
 Lyte, Henry Francis 
 
 Abide with Me 162 
 
 He is Mine 163 
 
 MacDonald, George, LL.D. 
 
 A Dream of the Cross . . . 166 
 Three Sonnets from u Within and 
 Without" 168 
 
 Marston, Philip Bourke 
 
 To-morrow 180 
 
 After Love's Passing . . . .180 
 
 Matheson, Rev. George, D.D. 
 
 O Love that wilt not let me go .171 
 
 M., B. 
 
 Desolate 172 
 
254 INDEX 
 
 Moulton, Louise Chandler page 
 
 Selfish Prayer 183 
 
 Newman, John Henry 
 
 Lead, Kindly Light .... 184 
 
 Nicoll, Robert 
 
 A Thought 185 
 
 Noel, Baptist Wriothesley 
 
 There's not a Bird .... 186 
 
 Parker, Gilbert 
 
 Little Garaine 188 
 
 Paton, Sir No£l 
 
 " Timor Mortis Conturbat Me". . 189 
 
 Night Thoughts 190 
 
 A Christmas Carol . . . .191 
 
 Pollock, Rev. T. B. 
 
 My Friends in Paradise 
 
 . 196 
 
 "Saviour most Loving' 1 
 
 . 200 
 
 Procter, Adelaide Anne 
 
 
 Friend Sorrow 
 
 . 202 
 
 My God, 1 thank Thee 
 
 . 203 
 
INDEX 253 
 
 Procter, Adelaide Anne — Continued PAGE 
 Per Paceni ad Lucem .... 204 
 Strive, Wait, and Pray . . . 205 
 
 A First Sorrow 206 
 
 Sowing and Reaping .... 208 
 The Peace of God . .209 
 
 If thou couldst know . . . .210 
 
 Ryder, Rev. H. I. D. 
 
 Animae Fidelium . 
 Dream-Loss . 
 
 212 
 . 213 
 
 Smith, Horace 
 
 Hymn of the Flowers 
 
 . 215 
 
 Stock, Elliot 
 
 The Imprisoned Soul 
 The Soul's Freedom 
 
 . 218 
 . 218 
 
 Stoddard, Richard Henry 
 Brahma's Answer 
 
 . 220 
 
 Tabley, Lord de 
 
 The Saint and the Sun 
 
 . 223 
 
 Tennyson, Alfred, Lord 
 Immortal Love 
 
 . 224 
 
256 
 
 INDEX 
 
 Trench, Richard Chenevix pag e 
 
 The Kingdom of God .... 226 
 
 Lord, many times I am aweary quite 227 
 
 Strength in Prayer .... 228 
 
 Thankful Love 229 
 
 re, Aubrey de 
 
 
 The Agnostic's Question 
 
 . 230 
 
 Is Life Worth Living ? 
 
 . 230 
 
 Queen Bertha's Matin Song 
 
 . 232 
 
 The Queen's Vespers . 
 
 . 234 
 
 The Queen's Vigil 
 
 . 235 
 
 The Queen's Alms 
 
 . 237 
 
 White, Rev. Joseph Blanco 
 Night and Death . 
 
 239 
 
 Wordsworth, William 
 Latitudinarianism . 
 
 240 
 
 Anonymous 
 
 The Thinker and the Doer 
 The Path of Faith 
 The Growth of Good . 
 
 241 
 242 
 243