WUm ■■mm ''''■■" lisliiii warn m FROM THE LIBRARY OF REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D. BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO THE LIBRARY OF PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY £3-3/ m- " JAN 2 1934 ' THE PASSIM BELL, AND OTHER POEMsT UEV. JOHN S. B. MONSELL, LL. D . VICAR OF LOU am, BUBBEY. LONDON: LL AN,) D ALDY, YORK STREET, BNT OAKDKN. i868. Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2012 with funding from Princeton Theological Seminary Library http://archive.org/details/bellotherOOmons TO MY WIFE THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED. PEEFACE. (| HE following poems are offered to the public in the humble hope that they may please and profit those who read them. This is surely not too ambitious an expectation to be entertained by one who has been already kindly received in his efforts to do both. And who, though conscious that his verse falls far short of that high order of Divine Poesy after which his heart aspires, still must sing on to the end for the comfort of his own spirit, and would lose half the enjoyment of his song, if he did not feel that it bore its part, though an inferior one, in the great chorus of joyful praise, which daily glad- dens earth, and deepens even the happiness of Heaven. Surely the smaller birds of the grove are not to refrain from their warblings because they are not nightingales ; and sweet as is their wondrous melody, is it not rare as well as sweet, and are there not long intervals which would be those of v iii PREFA CE. utter silence in our woodlands, if we had not the residue of the year gladdened with less magnificent, though possibly not less truthful song ? Every one, bird or human being, sings simply as his own nature enables him ; the gladness of his heart, the tenderness of his love, the passionate overflowings of his soul, these he cannot restrain ; and while their utterance relieves his own heart, other hearts are helped by such relieving. If he be true to his native note, and simply earnest in his song, he has a right to sing, not merely in the hidden covert of the grove, but by the very highways of life, and let his song be heard by all who care to hear it. With such apology for their appearance the following poems are sent into the world. .The " Passing Bell " is founded on the original beautiful, but, alas, by-gone usage of tolling the church bell at the time of a soul's departure, to ask for the passing spirit the benefit of Christian prayers. The object of this poem is to set forth, not only the spiritual consolations, which may gather round the parting soul when " Prayers ascend To Heav'n in troops at a good man's Passing Bell," but also the reflex good which its monitions may bring to those who, in the midst of the bustle and excitements of life, are thus reminded that death is near. PREFACE. ix Each part of the poem refers to some special temptation, in the midst of which the warning voice is heard, and from the snares of which the yielding soul is to be gently drawn away : — the man of business from his unscrupulous pursuit of gain ; — the domestic man from the snare of a too easy and self-pleasing life ; — the young and giddy, but comparatively pure, from the frivolities and vanities of the world ; — the sinful from his stealthy and ensnaring schemes of wrong and ruin; — the pastor from those habits of refined and literary luxury, which sometimes keep his hands smooth, and his feet back from the rougher ways of life, in which sinners are to be sought and saved. Even though we have lost in these latter days the tender usage of making this bell a blessing to the dying, its voice — still heard in every parish in England, — the announcement of a journey done,— may have on the hearts of the living that wholesome warning influence which this poem fondly gives it. The " Ode to the Nightingales " is a much more real poem than most persons would imagine. No words could describe the sense of loss which has been felt in the unaccountable absence of these sweet birds from their accustomed haunts in the vicarage grounds for the last two years. Half the beauty of each Spring vanished with them. Every word therefore in the Ode is true to the feelings which dictated it, as if it were mourning a deeper loss. May it not be that vanished joys and parted x PREFA CE. pleasures of a far closer kind had so interwoven themselves into the delightsomeness of those songs of the night, that the memories of which we may speak, are but the shadows of other memories we dare not touch upon ? The " Silver Wedding Day " (a name given of old to the twenty-fifth anniversary) is a memorial of domestic happiness erected by the wayside of life, when more than half its journey had been accomplished. If any think it too private a matter for public gaze, let them remember it is a portrait hung up to do justice to the original, and gladden others ; as well as drawn to gratify oneself: — a portrait which he who drew it is not sorry to leave behind him for those who in after-years will reverence it with childlike affection 5 and in which many in our dear domestic land will recognize a strong family likeness, as if it had been sat for in their own happy homes. The lesser poems tell their own tale, this only does the Author claim for all, as, in his esti- mation, their chief value — they are real ; they tell what he feels, not what he merely fancies. Egham Vicarage, Surrey. Easter, 1866. PMKfl I i:\ts. HE PAS! IV. BELL. P*rt I. til. . Tart III. . Pint I. . Part II. M\ L i •• I J7 40 69 78 107 110 Hi' in li.-) 118 119 xii CONTEXTS. Miscellaneous Poems. p age Church Bells 121 Hymn of Love 124 God Save the Queen 126 Translations. Victor Hugo 128 Giovanbatista Strozzi .... .129 Michael Angelo .129 THE PASSING BELL. PART I. ISTKX ! it is the Passing Bell. Lift up thy heart to God and pray. A soul is passing, —who can tell How prayer may help it on its way Where art thou ? In the busy mart, Amid the worshippers of gold ! Tempted to play some subtle part Through pretext but thine own to hold ! Strong in the keenness of thy wit, A giant amid smaller minds, With thy large brain prepared to hit Down to thine ends the weaker kinds ! Thy brow is flushing at the prize ; Thy hand is grasping at the gain ; Thou dost but walk with open eyes : The wilful blind need not complain. Thou wouldst not take, by force or stealth, What is not lawfully thy right ; THE PASSING BELL. But, in the race for pow'r and wealth, No wrong is done by mental might. How poor, though plausible, the plea Which for thyself thou dost prepare, Striving to make thy conscience be Calm as if all were just and fair ! Listen ! there's coming on the breeze A voice to help thee in thy need, And press on thee the juster pleas Which truth, for God, delights to plead. Listen ! it is the Passing Bell ; Some sinner, near his close of day, Asks for thy prayers ; and who can tell How prayer may help him on his way ! Within the closely curtain'd room Which cautious footsteps steal about, From whose deep sympathetic gloom Day with its brightness is shut out; Where hope hath folded up his wings As if all life within wen- still'd; Whose heavy air around thee clings With perfume and with Bickne'ss fill'dj There lies a dying Christian, n< w Drawing— scarce drawing— his last breath, With glazing eye, and pallid brow Damp in the evening dews of death. I\ rl aps some memory of wrong, Rising amid the' parting strife, THE PASSING BELL. Is shaking with convulsions strong The last sands in the glass of life. Before his closing eye appears In crowding visions, fell and fast, Far off, within a depth of years All irrecoverably past, Some day of triumph and of gain, When, strong in intellectual might, Wrong wrested what it would obtain, From the inferior strength of right ; When he, whose name unstain'd and pure His fathers to their sons convey'd, He, who would any pain endure Rather than leave on it a shade ; He, who as juror often sat To judge his fellows gone astray, Pausing, and weighing this and that, Then with calm voice had dared to say— " Guilty," of him who, starving, stole His dying children to maintain, " Not Guilty" he whose meaner soul Robb'd, undetected, with his brain. With clearer, now, though closing eye He sees what he had never seen When life's gay equipage went by, And all the world was fresh and green One hour, within the shade of death With God and conscience, teaches more lhan life, with all its bloom and breath THE PASSING BELL. Of busy years, had taught before. (J what a horror of despair ! Could he undo what he had done ? The anguish of remorse is there. The triumph and the gain are gone. Lift up thy heart in fervent prayer, And help him in his hour of need ; Ask that his Saviour may be there With him to speak, for him to plead ; To hold His Cross before his eyes, And bid him all his tremblings stay On the accomplish'd Sacrifice, Which took the whole world's sins away ; To drop into his heart the grace Which makes man feel he is forgiven ; To show His reconciled face, The only Sun of sunless heav'n ; To speak the words which once He spake To heal his hurt, repair his loss, Who, when remorse his spirit brake, Repentant look'd from CTOSS t.» Cross. Lift up thv heart in prayer, and turn Back from the sin whose deadly pow*r To hurt thv boo] thou wilt discern Most clearly in thy dying hour. And thank thy God for His dear aid, That monitory sound He sent, From sin's seductions to dissuade, And be thy soul's encouragement; THE PASSING BELL. That sound, as of the cock which crew Of old, th' Apostle's heart to move, And from his stricken soul forth drew Tears— tears of penitence and love. Listen ! it is the Passing Bell. Lift up thy heart to God and pray. A soul is passing,— who can tell How prayer may help it on its way ! And help thee, too, in thy dread need, ^Back to the path where thou shouldst be ! With thy whole heart for others plead— Christ with His Father pleads for thee. PART IL piSTEX ! it is the Passing Bell. Illl Lif t up thy heart to God and pray. (OJ^^S A soul is passing,— who can tell How prayer may help it on its way! Where art thou ? In thy happy home ! That world in which around thee move In orbit true, calm lights which come, Through precious eyes, from hearts that love r Thy moon and stars that round thee run, Making soft eves, and glorious nights, 6 THE PASSING BELL. Thyself the centre and the sun, The day of all their dear delights ! Upon the chambers of thine heart Brightly their tender radiance falls, With the deep hue of Nature's art Lighting up mem'ry's pictured walls, Where hang around thee all the dreams That made thy younger years so fair ; Each looking down on that which seems The fulness of its promise there. The day is done — the task complete That gives its zest to eve's repose ; Round the bright bounds of home's retre.\t Its curtain'd fences softly close ; The lire-light flickers on the wall Or dances round the glowing room, Chasing the shadows, as they fall, Into each distant corner's glowm. That pleasant room, so brightly deck'd Willi all that taste and wealth can bring Thine own refinement to reflect And gratify, in every thing! Where love ofarl and antique lore From sunny climes and southern skies Hath gathered, in such varied store, All that around profusely li Marbles and bronzes, with their talcs Of leaning t»>w*r, or lofty dome 5 THE PASSING BELL. \ Gems from the Arno's flow'ry vales, Or relic from Eternal Rome ; The Cross that tells the Martyr's trust, When by the tyrant's sword he died, Grav'n from the marble that his dust Sleeping beneath hath sanctified ; Frescos, upon the ruin'd walls Of buried cities freshly found, Whose vivid colouring recalls Past life 'mid present death around ; The visions of that glorious land By hill and valley, lake and stream, Re-peopled by the sculptor's hand, Immortal in the painter's dream ; Memorials of each well-known place, The haunts of happy bye-gone days, Each with its own inherent grace Relieved through mem'ry's soft'ning haze. They bring the pleasures of the past, To make the present doubly fair ; The light of other days they cast On all that lies around thee there. Imagination owns their pow'r To set the tender fancy free, Loving that sweet but pensive hour, Twilight of Hope and Memory. There, as some dreams begin and end With the same sound which gave them birth, 8 THE PASSING BELL. With thy dav-dreamings softly blend The joy -bells of thy children's mirth, Calling thee far o'er dream-land's bound ; Till, bursting through the drawing-room door, Their precious faces cluster round, And bring thee back to life once more ; Their presence like an atmosphere Of light and perfume, as they move, Pervading home's enchanted sphere, And filling all the room with love. The youngest throned upon thy knee. Some elder ones around thy feet, The elder still with catch and glee Making the air around thee sweet. All, with their love and laughing eyes, Their gentle words, and pretty ways, A brighter world, with sunnier skies, Than ever known in earlier days. And — of it all the glory — she, Whose calmer but intenser light Makes, with its own pure radiancy, All bright things round thee tenfold bright; She who, while watching baby's play, As her soft arm doth round it t\\ ine, Leaves one dear hand to find its way Into that tender grasp of thine ; Her eyes, deep searching through thine own Into the heart', whose throbbings move, Responsive t<> her glance alone, With answ'ring smiles of love for love. THE PASSING BELL. Too happy man ! The silken snare That makes the soul its surest spoil Is woven round thee everywhere, Thou willing captive of the toil ! Its purity and holiness, The tranquil joys that round thee meet, Duties which bind thee not the less Because their bondage is so sweet! Thy household gods the God alone To whom thy heart's adorings rise ! Self for a dearer self foregone Thy only one self-sacrifice! Thou wouldst not have the network riv'n To set thy thralled spirit free; Careless about a higher Heav'n, A lower one contenteth thee. Listen ! for through the outer gloom, Voices of night the air have stirr'd, And, through the closely-curtain'd room, Make their unwelcome accents heard Above the joy-bell chime, that peals Its merry laughter in thine ear, Above her softer voice, who kneels In nil her loveliness so near. Listen ! It is the Passing Bell. A soul is passing, — turn away One moment from th' entrancing spell That binds thee down to earth, and pray : Pray for a dying sinners soul, 3 THE PASSING BELL. That He, Whose love can aid it best, May make the broken-hearted whole, And give the heavy-laden rest. In a rich home, not for away, He lies, whose journey's nearly o'er; Thou know'st it well, 'twas but to-day Thou mad'st enquiry at the door. « Hopelessly ill," was the reply 5 « The vital pow'rs begin to foil." With trembling lip and tearful eye The kind domestic told his talc. The Autumn wind came rushing past And swept the wither'd leaves aside ; Folding thy cloak against the blast, Tensive and homeward thou didst ride 1 That happy home — that flock so fair— Each treasured smile and dear delight Rose instantly before thee there, And thou didst tremble at the sight. Vague shrinking fears! that made the heart Cower before its own conceit, Then suddenly arise, and start To Hy from what it fear'd to meet. With frenzied eye and oatstretch'd arm The momentary prayer was ponrM, « F,»r Thy d.ar Love, from every harm, O, in Thy mercy, Bare them, Lordl" With joy less brimming than of yore, lint yet with deeper, holier love, THE PASSING BELL. This evening thou hast counted o'er The precious things that round thee move. Drawn, gently, closer to thy side, Thy lips on hand or brow imprest, As they unconscious near thee glide Folded an instant to thy breast, Each in its turn is made to feel The tremblings of thy heart-alarms, A something thou canst not conceal, Which starts and agitates, but charms. Thy voice is softer, and thy soul, Touch'd with unwonted tenderness ; While tears which thou canst not control Dim smiles which thou wilt not repress. The hour is gracious, and the time So hallow'd by affections high, That God would have thee by it climb Up nearer to Eternity. Listen ! Though indistinct and dim, A voice is on the evening air, A voice to thee, a voice from Him, Calling thee up to Him in prayer. Listen ! It is the Passing Bell. Lift up thy heart to God and pray. A soul is passing, — who can tell How prayer may help it on its way ! In one small room— where widow'd grief Hath hid itself from memories 2 THE PASSING BELL. Of years too brilliant and too brief, That fill the house— the suff'rer lies, With scarce one vestige of the fate Of that gay craft, so richly stored, Once launch 'd on life, with such a freight Of love and golden hopes on board. No shipmate now within his call, No fragment cast within his reach, The shipwreck'd master of it all Lies dying on the wreck-strewn beach. Fair once for him was life — how fair ! Words could not paint the picture true ; Shadow alone seem'd wanting there To brighten joy's contrasted hue. His heart's first choice — the gentle wife, From boyhood loved, from childhood known, The last and highest prize in life He dared to hope for as his own. And those bright chroniclers of years Of summer sunshine o'er him shed, Whore each dear interval appears Mark'd by a g<>ldcn-clustcr*d hear 1 , He Btood among them, and the light Of all their love was on his brow, And he, in all their beauty bright, Seem'd like a god!— Where are ili«';. now! Like vanish VI pictures, gone; no truce Of their s«»t't beauty,— there alone The gilded frames retain their place, Their purpose and their glory gone. THE PASSING BELL. The stately home, for pomp and ease Made fair as human hands could make, One tender, tasteful eye to please, At priceless cost, for her dear sake ; Its lofty rooms, its pictured walls, Soft carpets, closely curtain'd doors, Deep oriel windows, through which falls Bright sunshine upon silent floors ; Quaint tables strew'd with works of art, Relics from ruin and from shrine, Travel's rich spoils from every part, Choice for their story or design ; In cold and silent state they lie, No signs of daily life are there, No sweet disorder meets the eye, No pressure upon couch or chair, No book half read, no music strewn Upon the open instrument, No work unfinish'd — idly thrown Aside, through some disturb'd intent 5 Nothing displaced; no children's toys Spoiling the order of the room, No light, no breath of home's dear joys In the chill chamber's vault-like gloom. Years have gone by since all the stir And hum of happy life have fled, For ever pass'd away with her Whose home is now among the dead. First, with'ring on the parent stem, Bud after bud dropp'd off and died. 13 i 4 THE PASSING BELL. The fall-blown rose soon followed them, Lying in fragrance by their side. His garden desolate — the bloom Of all its beauty pass'd away — His heart laid buried in the tomb, Why should his weary body stay ? His lonely years are near their close, Day is just dawning on his night, Sad mem'ries soon shall find repose In hope of everlasting light. When life from death's dark shade looks back, How different all the past appears To him, who tries each well-known track Far through the dim and silent years! He sees it all; the lesson taught In Sorrow's school by slow degrees, Now— with its Inst conviction brought Home to his heart— he clearly sees. The Love that led him b}* a way He knew not, sore against his will ; The Love that, changeless, day by day Watches and waits around him still; The Love that crown'd his life with bliss, Making it all one happy dream : The Love that woke him, lesl lie miss Through orer-love the Lore supn The Love that when it bid him part From nil on earth he loved so well, Folded him closer to the heart In which eternal mercies dwell. THE PASSING BELL. 15 He sees it all, and is content 5 The travail of his soul is o'er 5 The weary hours in anguish spent His joy remembereth no more. Daily his cross had grown more light 5 Now, from his shoulder it doth glide, And rises to his dying sight The Cross on which his Saviour died. It was his death in life, to bow His broken heart submissive down : It is his life in death, and now Points through the shadow to the Crown. Listen ! It is his Passing Bell. Lift up thy heart to God and pray. His soul is passing, — who can tell How prayer may help it on its way ! Shrink not from thoughts of death, while life So bright and warm doth round thee shine : The parting hour, the closing strife Sooner or later must be thine. Love all on earth that charms thee so With a whole heart, — 'tis life to love ; But still remember, life below Is but the school of life above. True love to its own height uplifts, To its own level doth restore. Love not the less God's gracious gifts, Love only the Great Giver more. Fold to thine heart, without a fear, l6 THE PASSING BELL. What He bestow M to help and bless : Delight thine eyes without a tear In all their beaming happiness. He gave thein that, by slow degrees, Love earthly heav'nly love should train : When He the work completed sees, May He not take them back again ? Each love's true service, one by one, Design'd to stablish, strengthen, stay, Till angels from the building done Bear the bright scaffolding away. O ! use them all as helps toward Heav'n, Not cords to bind thee down to earth, Foretastes of purer blessings, giv ? n As heirlooms of thy second birth. Gather them round thee— kneel and pray ; Living and dying want thy prayer, The dying on his homeward way, The living in his homespun snaie. Let thy full heart go up on high, Out of thyself, and all that's thin* Till God in His great sympathy Enfold thee in Bis love divine. Thy blessing, and thy tender kiss Press'd to each gentle heart and cheek, Each to their several rooms dismiss. Thy soul ton (.NtT-full to Bpeak. Thou nearer God, they nearer thee, A happier since a holier home, Strengthening in its prosperity THE PASSING BELL. 1? Against dark days which yet may come ; A home which, using wisely well For things Eternal things of Time, Finds not the solemn Passing Bell Make discord with the marriage chime — Parts of a chord whose harmonies Yield to the Master's hand alone, As with attentive ear He tries Note after note, till all are one. PART III. f ISTEN ! It is the Passing Bell. Lift up thy heart to God and pray ^j^-^ib A soul is passing, — who can tell How prayer may help it on its way ! Where art thou ? In the glitt'ring throng Of busy triflers, idly gay, With jest and revel, dance and song, Laughing the hours of life away ! The world around thee fresh and fair ; No dream that thou and it must part, No burden of the lightest care Resting a moment on thy heart ; Life's pulse within thee throbbing high, c 18 THE PASSING BELL. Life's path before thee smooth and bright, No cloud across thy summer sky, No thought that day must end with night ; No purpose past the present hour, Its pleasures only to possess, The fruit forgotten in the flow'r, No higher aim than happiness 5 Thy foot upon the flow'ry path, Thy heart upon the floating breeze ; Its chief delight existence hath If only it hath povv'r to please. Softly the jocund viols sound, Swiftly the measured dances glide In giddy mazes, circling round, Joy and the joyful side by side. Visions of hope, and dreams of love, Bright eyes an 1 forms surpassing fair Their spells enweaving, round thee move And fill with light the perfumed air. No slight, no failure, no mischance Disturbs this night's illusive charm ; The fairest partners of the dance Hang pleased on thy delighted arm. Sweet words of gently whisper'd praise Into thine oar enraptured Bteal j The pridcful pleasure which they raise Thou ffouldst not, if thou couldst, conceal. The incense laid upon its Bhrine Self, half disowning, still receives 5 THE PASSING BELL. lg Affects the homage to decline, Yet wholly in itself believes. With merry clash the cymbals ring, Swiftly beneath the flying bow Thrills into voice each trembling string, Now sharp and clear, now soft and low. In choral harmony reply The breathing flute and mellow horn ; Fleetly the winged hours go by, And flash into the rising morn. One giddy whirl, one gay galop, One last, wild burst of thoughtless glee, Then the long cherish'd dream of hope Becomes a thing of memory. The last kind courtesies are paid, Soft nothings breathed in watchful ears, Lightly the last fare-wells are said, And the bright vision disappears. Freshly upon thy throbbing brow The night-wind plays with purpose kind ; As sigh'd it oft so sighs it now, And soothes thee to a calmer mind. The stillness of the quiet hour, Contrasted with the fev'rish scene Just left, like dew or gentle show'r Falls on the heart, and keeps it green. Thy truer self to thee returns, A higher hope within thee glows, THE PASSING BELL. And after something better yearns Than the world's emptiness bestows. Thy path lies off the beaten road Over an old familiar stile — The way back to thine own abode 'Twill shorten by almost a mile. Leaving the throng of parting guests, Lights glaring, shouts of lacqueys rude, Thy wearied eye with comfort rests Upon the wooded solitude. Deep in its shadows thou dost hide Thyself from all the world around ; "With hasty and excited stride Up the steep pathway thou dost bound. Through tangled copse, the well-worn way Thine undirected steps doth lead, Down where the rippling brooklets stray, And out across the dewy mead. A wicket-gate is reach'd, and yields To touch of thy familiar hand ; Leaving the fresh and open fields Now in a garden thoti dost stand. The breath of flow'rs is OD the air, The gentle night-wind cannot miss To gather sweetness everywhere From woodbine, rose, or clematis. The richer perfumes of the day At sunset had not left it quite, But loved, like happy ghosts, to stay THE PASSING BELL. 21 And haunt those garden grounds by night. Down by the quiet gravel walk That toward the house accustom'd bends, The scene of many a saunt'ring talk With one the dearest of thy friends, Drawn by a secret spell, thy feet Bring thee unconscious to the door, As if thou didst expect to meet There, one who ne'er shall meet thee more. Thy trembling heart and timid eye Rise to that window known so well. 'Tis lighted — shadows flitting by Their tale of inward sorrow tell. With bated breath, and watchful ear, And figure stretching through the gloom With eager strain, intent to hear What passes in the silent room ; How changed from him who lately sped Through the bright world his thoughtless way, Its pleasures shared, its revels led, Himself the gayest of the gay ! Now thy whole soul in one long gaze Up to that lighted window strains. Wond'ring what each one does or says Behind its closely curtain'd panes. The sasb is lower'd, to admit To the sick room the morning air ; No longer shadows past it flit, But the soft murmuring voice of prayer Falls on thine ears,— and to thy grief 22 THE PASSING BELL. Comes like the breathing of a sigh, That gives the struggling heart relief, And comforts, though it know not why. Oh ! what an hour, alone with God To hear His voice, to learn His will Take His rebuke, and kiss the rod, Bow to His judgments, and be still ! Listen ! for from the vale below The Church her people's sorrow shares, Letting her living children know One who is dying asks their prayers. Listen ! It is the Passing Bell. Lift up thy heart to God and pray. A soul is passing,— who can tell How prayer may help it on its way ! There, dying in that chamber, lies The dearest friend thy life hath known ; Mix'd up with all the memories Which are most tenderly thine own. Playmate of childhood— forced to bend, E'en then, to thy superior will— School-fellow ; later, college friend; Affianced brother later still. The corda of life and love entwined Bach to the other closer drew, As daily both, in heart and mind, Into more perfect oneneaa grew. Ardent, and gen'rona to a tank Waa he who dow lit - dying there; THE PASSING BELL. 23 The texture of his being fraught With something wondrous frail and fair 5 Warm and impulsive to all good, Yet not to every purpose true ; The nobler, better things he would, He had not always strength to do ; Leader of others, with the bright Assurance of his trustful soul, And yet not always in the right, Nor strong enough for self-control ; His brow a temple God did bless With glorious thoughts through it to move 5 His heart in all its tenderness A well-spring of unfathonvd love. Great gifts to him their wealth did bring, Fair graces fain would round him wait ; Genius to crown him as a king, And gentleness to make him great. Yet all, alas ! so lightly held In grasp unconscious of their worth, That now the tree, in blossom fell'd, Falls, ere its time of fruit, to earth. No purpose of his life attain'd, No promise of his youth fulfilled ; The fair foundations still remain'd, But he had never strength to build. Spoilt fav'rite of a flattering world — That in its pageant loved to see The bright but giddy thing it whhTd To ruin all so recklessly. 24 THE PASSING BELL, Never again its waves to ride, Or be its sport or plaything more, That world now, with its ebbing tide, Hath left him stranded on the shore. No loathsome sins, no foul disgrace Defiled his soul, or stain'd his name ; A fair and honourable place In the world's roll he still may claim. A loyal son, a brother true, In dealings just, in friendship sure; In manners modest, and — where few Alas ! are not found wanting — pure. But all his life an aimless waste, A pathway plann'd, but never trod ; And all his hopes on self misplaced, With nothing done for man or God. One backward look through life is cast, Where these sad mem'ries crowded lie- As drowning men see all the past In one brief moment ere they die. The door is open, whence he went Who ran to seek the Church's aid ; An instant more, and thou art bent Low in that room's depressing shade, 1I< ad-buried in the death-tOSt In the world's festive garments dress'd. Within the chamber of the dead A Strange and unrelated guest. But yesterday, when thou did>t stand THE PASSING BELL. Beside him in that very place, Holding his parch 'd and fever'd hand, And looking in his pallid face, Thy thoughts and words were far astray, The one on pleasure idly bent, The other fearful to betray What was thy hidden mind's intent. Thy manner more than usual kind, And yet not false, as thou didst feel, But forced, as if there lay behind Something which thou wouldst fain conceal. " He still may linger, still may burn Longer awhile life's flick'ring light, And I to-morrow will return, And cheer with tidings of to-night." Such thy fond flatt'ring thoughts to hide From thine own heart, and from thy friend What will be done, but won't abide Thy poorest effort to defend. Now there he lies, and never more Shall his eye lighten to behold Thy coming; life's short struggle o'er, The fire is quench'd, the hearth is cold. O ! what a tide of troubled thought Over thy prostrate soul sweeps by ! With every wave some treasure brought Out of the deep of memory. Such happy, but such careless hours, Such vanish'd hopes and faded schemes, Such heaps of crnsh'd and wither'd flow'rs 25 6 THE PASSING BELL. All gather^ in a world of dreams! And nothing left from all the years Of spring-tide fresh, and summer fair, But vain regrets and useless tears, And that poor lifeless body there. One wild heart-burst, one fervent vow Laid on the altar of that bed, Then rise, and leave the chamber now To those whose hands compose the dead. Go back to life a better man 5 Thy broken vows to God renew j He who hath grace to will, he can, Through God's good help, have strength to do. Dawn, with its gold and silver streak Of light, along the mountains spread, Shows where the day begins to break Ere evening's glow be wholly fled. Boon, fresh and moist with morning dews, He'll shine in eastern splendour drest, Ere his long train's lasl roseate Inns Quite leave the chambers of the west The small birds their low twitterings breathe Under the ivy-duster'd eaves, And rustling turn to wake beneath Their dewy counterpane of leav< The nightingale his gushing song Pours pensive through the .sleeping gr While all the copses round prolong The tale of bis impastion'd love. prove. THE PASSING BELL. 27 The breaking of another day Is on the cloud-wrapt world below ; Night's shadows, as they flee away, Blush into beauty as they go. The lark is on his upward wing, His song to Heav'n still higher soars ; He cannot help himself but sing, And praise the God whom he adores. Still is the lightly sleeping earth Awaking without stir or sound ; The dews of the young morning's birth, Like last night's jewels, on the ground. Fresh is the gently sighing breeze That, with its pure and perfumed air, Comes whisp'ring through the rustling trees, As if the Lord Himself were there. And God in all — in morning's light Spread the grey mountain tops along, The coming day, the parting night, The stilly silence, and the song ; The balmy air, the glist'ning dew, Shadow and gleam in gentle strife ; The breath we breathe, whose draughts renew The happy consciousness of life ; In rock and mountain, field and tree, In silent vale, and babbling stream, Wrapt and reveal'd in mystery, Music His voice, and Love His theme. Let thy heart open to the bliss He would breathe in through every pore. 2 8 THE PASSING BELL. Live but in Him, thou canst not miss His mercies in their boundless store. This world so fair His hand did make Delightsome for the sons of men 5 Sin-spoilt — His very heart did break Ere He could set it right again. Yet, though so fall'n, primaeval grace Still lingers round the ruin'd shrine 5 Not even sin could quite deface All tokens of the Hand Divine. 'Twill lift us upward nearer Him, 'Twill help toward Heav'n each fond desire- Like ruin'd stairs, time-worn and dim, Which yet suffice to help us higher. Once, we may think, there was a time When, perfect, they were easier trod j And so this world, in its pure prime, Was once an easier way to God. But still 'tis glorious, and the path Even of its fallen beauty lies Open to love, and clear for faith, Step after step into tl Go! take thy till of joy that's pure Out of God's thousand BpiingB 1 if 1 \e. Go ' reat thee on the Rock that's but* Which neither change hot chance can more* Jle v\ ilia Ili^ pro])!.' to be glad ; Sin only can their peace destroy; Hi' never made thee to he Bad THE PASSING BELL. 29 Who gave thee such a heart for joy. ) He calls thee not to cloister'd cell, Though there some safest service find, Ten thousand thousands serve Him well In happy commune with their kind, In social gladness, in the flow Of genial spirits gently bright, In home, Heav'n's truest type below, And blameless in its pure delight ; In intercourse of thought, in all The chequerings of repose and strife, "Which make up, as they rise and fall, Th' excitement and the stir of life 5 In action, passion, every thing That tends to give its temper high, In doing and in suffering, To sanctified humanity — In these, as furnace fires, to prove, • Through daily trial, what we can Do for our God, while skilful Love On life's stern anvil moulds the man. Such is His purpose — yield thy heart To that restoring Hand, which would Make the poor broken thing thou art, Like its first pattern, " very good." God gave His love in priceless store To man in Christ's humanity ; Christ brake the casket, all to pour Its precious ointment upon thee. 3 o THE PASSING BELL. Grudge not the living sacrifice Ufa life fashion'd to His will ; Its own reward within it lies ; But, should He ask for greater still, Break at His feet, if He require, Life's alabaster casket fair ; And every thought and fond desire Pour out in adoration there. Nothing too costly to lay down For Him, whose smile pays every loss ; Could we but see it, there's a crown Hangs, halo-like, round every cross. Love is its own reward, and small His share, whose soul does not believe \ That he who hath it hath the all That God can give, or man receive. PART IV. |3£lSTEN ! It is the Passing Bell. Lift up thy heart to God and pray. -' £ A soul is passing, — who can tell How prayer may help it on its way ! Where art thou? Hoy'ring round the home Of one unfit thy mate to be, Whom thou wouldst tempt from thence to roam And trust her happiness to thee! THE PASSING BELL. < Fair is the cot — though humble — fair In which the envied treasure lies ; Pleasant with all that taste and care Impart of life's amenities. Though low the lot of those who dwell Under that deep-eaved roof of heath : How many things around it tell Of gentle hearts and hands beneath ! The trellis'd vine, the creeping rose That half the lattice pane conceals, Yet, where its peeping blossom blows, The carefulness of taste reveals 5 The threshold stone so white and clean ; The gravel, scarce disturbed by feet Wont to walk carefully between Its boxwood borders trim and neat ; The beds well stock'd in order'd row, Bound round with many a ribbon band Of varied flowers, in gallant show, That tie them back on either hand ; The fruit-trees train'd to bear the weight Of golden Autumn's juicy store, And stretching from the garden gate Up almost to the cottage door ; The bee-hives in that shelter'd nook Above the close -cut grassy glade That slopes down to the hidden brook Singing and dancing in the shade *, The bound'ry-hedge of closest thorn, The work, through many a careful year, 3 2 THE PASSING BELL. Of latest eve and earliest morn, With love's bright wage the heart to cheer; The wicket fresh in spring-tide paint, And perfect in its neat repair ; The summer-house moss-grown and quaint, With its old easy rustic chair; The open book, but just laid down With fluttr'iug leaves upon the seat; The rustle of a silken gown Just heard, with tread of little I As of one startled like a bird From its leaf-hidden place of rest, And flying, at the sound it heard, For shelter to the parent nest Where art thou ? Hov'ring round the home Of one on whom thy heart is set ; Whom thou wouldst tempt from thence to roam And its pure happiness forget ; One all unfit to be thy mate In blood, though HOI in cultured mind, Who, ii' she leave her poor estate To follow thee, leaves peace behind ; Too lowly in the Life-degree Which CUfltom WOUld thy rank assign, Too high in simple purity To mate * itfa heart impure as thine j 'I'lic only child of those whose place Is naughl where haughty lordlinga tread, 'I'h. it poor biit honest, hardy nee THE PASSING BELL. Who earn by toil their daily bread ; Whose lot, though full of crushing cares, Yet, in its very losses, wins The prize of safety from some snares Of wealth's too oft familiar sins. 33 Bright with their changeful sun and shade, Full twenty years are past and gone Since love, as pure as ever made Two hearts in tend'rest union one, Found for itself that pleasant spot, Where life's new journey might begin, And built and made that lowly cot As fair without as dear within. Reelaim'd from the wild moorland waste, The gradual years had seen it grow Into that thing of use and taste Which pleased the passing traveller so ; Which now, in ics completeness, stands Memorial how God's gentle care, With loving hearts and willing hands, Had made it and has kept it fair. One only child their union blest, Centre of all their earthly Round whom alike in toil or Their hearts in ceaseless orbit move. Fart of their being, sight or sense, Or thought, or feeling could not stir D 34 THE PASSING BELL. With separate intelligence, One moment as apart from her. Her years the gradual progress tell In age of every shrub or tree ; Her life was the bright chronicle Of that home's happy history. " Here as a little babe she lay, And with her tiny fingers play'd, Propt with a tuft of new-mown hay, While we that bit of garden made How pleasantly the work was done ! Though broken oft, we can't conceal, With now and then a little run Just to her side a kiss to steal. This flow'ring shrub, with blossoms gay, Beneath whose fragrant shade we sit, It was upon her third birth-day You know, my love, she planted it. Fresh raised from sickness, just to please Her languid life, and lift a load Off our own hearts, that belt of trees We planted to shut out the road, And made this patch of level green Smooth to assist the flying ball, For that bright game which Bhe had seen The children playing at the Hall. {She then was six year- old I know. For, looking all so thin and wan. We took the paddock down below THE PASSING BELL. To feed her sweet-breath'd nurse upon. How often when the day was done Against you both a match I've play'd, And linger'd on, past set of sun, Far into twilight's moon-lit shade ; And felt the half-exhausted store Of strength within me but revive, Though I must rise, I knew, at four, To reach my distant work at five. " That little room, beyond our own, Now ivy-clad and bright with flow'rs, I built it, every stick and stone, With my own hand in leisure hours ; You mind, 'twas first for fresher air Through the close nights of summer-heat, And then to give, with finer care, Her youth a separate retreat. She was just ten when I began The work, and O how fast it sped ! For, ere the year its journey ran, I set up there her little bed. Ah ! mind you not the sweet surprise, How toil-repaying — O how sweet! Which danced in her delighted eyes When first she saw that room complete. " And there— 'twas four years later — there, Just but one curtain'd step apart, I built that little nook for prayer, 35 36 THE PASSING BELL. And secret communings of heart. You well remember, love, the shade Which o'er her brow its softness shed From that day when the Bishop laid His hand in blessing on her head. We saw it both, and communing Of what might help her spirit best, We plann'd for the dear holy thing That quiet nook of Heav'n-ward rest. " 'Twas but to-day I ventured in, I knew she'd to the village gone ; I thought it could not be a sin Its privacy to look upon. Her hymn-book and her Sunday gloves Lay on the little window-seat; And 'neath that picture, which she loves, Of Mary at the Saviour's feet, Fresh flow'rs their gentle homage paid Of mingled beauty and perfume, Gladd'ning with both the tender shade That Boften'd all the sacred room. Upon the prayer-desk lay her book, The leaves were somewhat backward bent From frequent use, — a glance I took — The prayer was one for calm content. And by the book a letter lay. The hand unknown, I Btoop'd net near, But saw, before I lurnM away. The glist'ning of a fresh- fall'n tear. THE PASSING BELL. 3? And O ! " I inly thought, " what need To ask content in such a home ? And O ! what grief, to make it bleed, To such a heart as hers can come ? " Dear love, I've mark'd of late her eye When bent on us, as ever, fond, Yet sometimes wand'ring restlessly Out into dreaminess beyond. And sometimes I a sigh have caught Half breathed, but instantly suppress'd Or laugh'd away, as if she thought We heard it, and would be distress'd. Some change she surely wants, and wo, Ere Autumn clothe the fields in gold, Will take her down beside the sea, And let her other scenes behold. " Thus, as she answ'ring sigh'd or smiled, Whose love made lighter every care, He talk'd, whose heart was in his child, And his whole world around him there. But she— the theme of all their talk And thought — although no words were said, Had heard a step upon the walk, And, startled, from herself she fled. Dreading the drawings of her heart To that near which she dare not stay ; Too weak with all at once to part ; Almost too weak to turn away. 38 THE PASSING BELL. Oft in that wood adown the glen She'd met a stranger friend of late, But never knew him until then Venture so near the garden-gate. Chance-met one evening by the stile, He help'd her o'er the broken way, Then, with low bow and gentle smile, Had a few pleasant things to say. He saw her to the little stream That murmurs 'neath her father's place, And left her with a happy dream Of wilder'd brightness in her face. Too often thence at eve she stole Back to the well-remember'd spot, With pausing step and pensive soul, Plucking the wild " Forget-me-not." And he, as mindful of the scene As she had been, came often there ; And thus there grew up both between Such thoughts as two alone can share. He spake of love with trembling voice, She heard the tale with thrilling ear; Why should not that young heart rejoice In words so natural and dear ? And sometimes, with an OYerflow Of trust, her soul would on him rest ; And thou — though wliv she did not know — Fear vaguely filPd her flutt'ring breast, He call'd himself a gardener's son ; His hands show'd not a trace of toil ; THE PASSING BELL. Small labour had they ever done Their whiteness with the spade to spoil ! On the first eve they met he wore, She knew, a golden signet ring ; Was it by chance that never more She saw the little tell-tale thing ? The very words she so much loved, Refined in thought, and gently said, Too gentle, too refined, but proved An unknown cause of secret dread. None ever met before had shown Such tender def'rence, such respect, Till, taught by such, she'd almost grown Like care in others to expect. And yet the rough, uncomely ways Of one, who, for her slightest smile Would watch by night and work by (lavs. And journey many a weary mile — That honest creature up the hill, Whom she could at her father's meet — llis homage, though uncultured, still Seem'd safer, if not quite so sweet. It was not all, she felt, as bright And pleasant as such things should be ; An under-current of affright Disturb'd that sweet security, Which up from childhood had been hers, As she in years and stature grew j Which nothing outward ever stirs 4 THE PASSING BELL. If all within be clear and true. Why seeks he not their humble place ? Her father's good, her mother's mild ; Why look not frankly in their face And tell them that he loves their child ? "Why is she silent ? Why unheard Her wonted prattle day by day ? Why watching every glance and word Lest they her inmost thoughts betray ? Alas ! she could not see or tell Half of the ills that round her throng ; But this she knew too sadly well, That one dissembled thought was wrong. And thus that stile not lately sought, Where he, at eve, would watch and wait, Had, through her frequent absence, brought His well-known footsteps to her gate. One thought, one impulse, one alarm ! She starts, and, rising from her chair. Flies from herself as if from harm, And hides her in her place of prayer. And where nrt thou, thou man unblest ? Rov'ring, like evil bird of prey, Ready to swoon down on the nest And boar its callow yoong away ! Upon the rery brink of sin, Where, but for one of God's delays, One step, nod the dark plunge within Must leave th'-e wretched all thy days! THE PASSING BELL. 4l Listen ! the voice of God is near ; It pleads and pleads, and will not cease ; Stoop with attentive heart, and hear Its call to purity and peace. There's not a sound that stirs the air, A breath that doth the waters move, But they can hear Him speaking there Who know by heart His voice of Love. Listen ! It is the Passing Bell ! His voice mysterious, still and small ! Which rises on the solemn swell, And whispers in the dying fall. Listen ! It is the Passing Bell. Lift up thy heart to God and pray. A soul is passing, — who can tell How prayer may help it on its way ! Thy friend— if he deserve the name Who hath been no good friend to thee; Whose death of horror, life of shame, Tell their own tales of misery — That bell reminds thee of his fate 5 It toll'd for him a week ago, And as it toll'd—" Too late ! too late !" Sway'd in its boomings to and fro. He died, as he had lived, in sin ; Would not repent, could not repair; And mock'd the promise that would win His passing soul from black despair. The Priest of God above him stood, 42 THE PASSING BELL. And held the Cross before his eyes, And told of Jesu's cleansing blood, Of Christ's atoning sacrifice. He laugh'd both Cross and Christ to scorn. He knew the names, alas ! too well s He wish'd he never had been born, And went with curses down to Hell. Wasted, and wasting all around, His life a poison-tree had been ; Nothing within its influence found Could long be innocent or green. The child of passion, what he saw, Selfish, he craved for, and must have ; His will, his way's unbending law, Deep and devouring as the o-rave. How many a fair and gentle maid. To him confiding all her fate, By him beguiled, by him betray M, Had been by him left desolate ! Worn for a season bright but brief, He flung the withered flow'r away; Not half the gnilt, bat all the grief Eer melancholy penalty. O! could the (Tii.shM and niiifd things, Which seem so unavenged and lone Bare watch'd the death-bed Bufferings Of their destroyer,*- they'd have known How He can punish who would .save, How dreadful the avenging rod, THE PASSING BELL. Which they shall feel who dare to brave The " I will recompense" of God ! And now that Passing Bell ! — it tolls To ask good Christian folk to pray For one of those departing souls Which he in life had led astray. An outcast from her father's home, Thrown on man's inhumanity, The stricken deer at length had come To rest in childhood's shades and die. A kindly friend, who knew her youth, Had taken the poor suff'rer in ; Love did in this no wrong to truth, Loving the sinner, not the sin. That aged friend, with one young heart Pure, fresh, and gentle by her side, Had done a Christian sister's part To her for whom the Saviour died. And that young heart, which day and night Upon her waited, by her knelt, And never thought that taint or blight But rather blessing, round her dwelt, 'Twas she who fled the tempter's snare, Soon after this brief tale began, And, hidden in her place of prayer, Now supplicates the Son of Man. She knows that Bell— for whom it pleads For prayer in death's extremity, And unto Him who intercedes Prays for that soul, herself, and thee. 43 44 THE PASSING BELL. Kneel, sinful man ! without the door Of her who for her tempter prays ; And pray thyself that never more Thy feet may follow wilful ways. Near one so pure it is not meet That thoughts unhallow'd should be found 5 " Put off thy shoes from off thy feet," Thou standest upon holy ground. Think of thy tender mother's knee, Thine infancy's most holy place ; Think of thy sister's purity, Thy father's honest, trustful face. Think of thy younger brothers all, Thyself so god-like in their sight 5 Thy name, for ages, at the Hall Another name for truth and right. Think of her claims who, though unknown, Haply by some young mother's side Is growing up to be thine own Alhanced wife, and gentle bride. Perfect and pure in every part Thou scek'st the holy thing to be ; Give her a body and a heart As pure as those she brings to thee. Her rights with earliest years begin, Nor, even in the grave, the while Are lost; no look, no thought of sin, should e'er her other self defile. But phiefiy think of Him who du d To cleanse thee with His precious Blood, THE PASSING BELL. 45 The Man of Sorrows, crucified To make thee holy, pure, and good. And think of that dear covenant Which makes Him thine so certainly, That thou canst never know a want His fulness will not all supply ; That covenant, which, undented And spotless, binds thy soul to prove How purely God's adopted child May live a life of " Holy Love." Love ! call not that by such a name Which, to our grosser sense confined, The beasts in common with us claim, As one strong instinct of their kind. Sinless in them, for whom no soul Leads with its purer light on high 5 Sinful in us, till Love control And elevate and sanctify. Love is the inbreathed soul of sense, And sense without it vile and low 5 Love is that pure intelligence By which the heart its God doth know. Love is the life of all our years, Their breath, their pulse, their hope, their joy ; Grief cannot quench its light in tears, Pain cannot part, or death destroy. It comes from God ; with bliss it fills The happy hearts and homes of men, And, flowing through a thousand rills, 46 THE PASSING BELL. Then rises up to Heav'n again. But Love, to be that holy thing Which shall through life and death endure, Life's great self-sacrifice must bring, And be, as God Himself is, pure. Its source is in a Broken Heart ; Its stream is from a Wounded Side. Before the worlds were — Love Thou art ! And when the worlds cease — shalt abide. O Love ! most holy, most divine ! Fill earth below as Heav'n above : For they, whose life is fill'd with Thine, Share God's own being — " God is Love." PART V. ISTEN ! It is the Passing Bell. Lift up thy heart to God and pray. U A soul is passing, — who can tell How prayer may help it on its way ' Where art thou ? In the easy chair Whose ivory castors smoothly glide, At thy least impulse, here and there, To reach thy work mi every side! Here, where those pond'rous folios lie Spread oat to yield their ancient lore; There, where to thy familiar eye THE PASSING BELL. 47 There's order in the book-strewn floor • And back to where, each fragment brought As wit or wisdom ma} r command, The gradual pile of builded thought Is growing up beneath thy hand. The pride of early school-boy days, The later gains of mental strife Bright with their wreath of college bays, The gath'rings of maturer life, Around in order duly placed Rest in their graduated tiers, Gay in their garbs of varied taste, The silent friends of all the years ; The fruit of toil, the flash, the fire Of genius, in an instant caught And held in words, to teach, inspire, And rule the worlds with lofty thought ; Friends on whose backs the eye can trace More features of the hidden mind Than, often-times, in many a face Of living, talking men we find. Stillness doth all the room pervade, An air of literary ease, A soften'd intellectual shade The brain to help, the taste to please. Through folded doors no voice is heard, Within, no rude arrangings done, No manuscript or volume stirrd 48 THE PASSING BELL. Save by one cunning hand alone : And yet no slothful dust defiles One spot within its precincts found, Nor rests upon the order'd piles Of books and papers scattered round. Genius may toss itself about, But gentleness, with quiet fall Of female step, goes in and out,— Order'd disorder reigns o'er all. Deep through the oriel window streams, At coming and departing day, That level flood of golden beams AVhere motes, and flies, and fancies play. Through open casements wand'ring airs Come in to tell where last they met, Along the garden's gay parterres, The sweetbriar and the mignonette. Pleasant the calm that rests about That quiet, central parish home, From whence all kindly thoughts go out, While bark all cares converging come* Where dwells God's Priest, Christ's purchased flock By the still waters forth to lead, Or, shelter'd neath the Shad.. win- Rock, In Life's green pasture-fields to feed. Engmnd! 'mid all thy store of wealth, Thy settled rights and equal laws, Whence springs thai tone of moral health THE PASSING BELL. 4g Which rightly wins the world's applause ? Thy Church, with her perpetual grace Of prayers, and psalms, and sabbath bells, Stands blessing, in the Holy Place, The happy land in which she dwells. Her mission from the world above, Her promise of eternal care, Her works of faith, her words of love, Her holy hope, and patient prayer, Her gift of life, and living food That life mysterious to sustain, Guide to the Great Supremely Good, Across the world's wide desert plain. Mystical Body ! in whose Head (Pass'd up into the inner skies, The living first-fruits of the dead,) The dead alive in Christ shall rise. And fair, as that can be whose frame Is out of human frailty wrought, Thy Priesthood, with its reverent claim On chasten'd love and sober thought. God's grace incarnate, Christ-like giv'n, Part of His uncompleted plan ; The awful messenger of Heav'n Sent as a tender-hearted man, With human love, and human ties About his inmost soul entwined, Help'd by his human sympathies To be forbearing to his kind ; 5 o THE PASSING DELL. Safer in holy woman's care 5 Purer where fresh-eoul'd children dwell; Nor fervent less, for work or prayer, Than hooded monk in cloister d cell; Gentle in blood, and gently bred In quiet ways of self-respect 5 Not by the great disquieted, Nor fain the humble to neglect 5 A man of all rank, and of none 5 Of peers the peer, the peasant's friend ; One common link through all to run, Flashing one life from end to end. Such is the English Priest of God, Who, wheresoever duty lead, Through crowded streets, on mountain sod, In joy, in sorrow, or in need, At palace or at cottage-door, With equal right and rank applies 5 Bends not to rich, nor stoops to poor, To fawn upon, or patronise. Thou man of God I thy lot is fair ; From thi world's common dangers free, Yet hast thou need ofwatch and prayer, If thou wouldst pure and perfect be. Snares of their own peculiar kind, Too Bubtile erer to surprise, Shock not, but gently lead thy mind Prom the hard paths where duty lies. Thv books, thy literary 6 THE PASSING BELL. 51 That soft'ning intellectual mood, Whose sickly sensibilities Shrink back where common things intrude ; Deep musings, meditations high, Purer through rapt devotion's aid, Philosophy and poetry, And dreams of what men may be made ; And converse with the mighty dead, So lengthenVl out that Love deplores, Uncared for and unvisited, The living sorrows round our doors : All these, — no fruit of cold neglect, But goodly purpose gone astray, Where jealous care can scarce detect The first divergence of the way, — Leave smooth the hand that should be rough, Driving the plough life's furrows through ; As if it ever were enough To think and feel, and not to do. Love's high resolve and holiest vow The best intentions will not keep ; Torn feet, and wounded hands and brow Were His who found His wand'ring sheep. And wayward wills, and hearts unkind, And malice, of injustice born, And purpose fickle as the wind, And low-bred pride, and high-bred scorn, And self-conceited prejudice That on its own pretention leans, 52 THE PASSING BELL. And party-spirit, not too nice About its motives or its means, And waste of life, and sneers at death, And words as vulgar as profane, And low suspicion's tainted breath, Hinting that godliness is gain, — All must be borne with ; these the stones Of stumbling in the Shepherd's way Who would bring back the wilder'd ones, Gone from the Fold of Christ astray. His books, his ease, his thoughtful hours. His days of study, nights of toil, Quick'ning the intellectual pow'rs, Which rise as sinks the midnight oil ; All — though so genial to his taste, Tending toward such a perfect whole — Must yet be in subservience placed To saving an immortal soul ; The pen laid down 5 the train of thought Found, and with such laborious care Through all its finer threads out-wrought, Left broken in an instant there; The (loop research, the argument Just reaching to ita purpose high, With the whole soul on it intent, Yet broken otVas suddenly ; The booh uncut, the WOrk undone. Just op'ning out to fancy free, — All to sonic cottage door to run At sorrow's summons graciously: THE PASSING BELL. 53 To watch by death's last parting strife, Or meet, in some more kindly mood, Those who in happier hours of life Had studied to be harsh and rude, Their prosy talk, their fretful ways ; Gently forbearing all the while ; Watching what time the Cross to raise ; Skill'd in the craft of Heav'nly guile ; Patient and gentle, apt to teach ; Meekly, through Christ, instructing those Too long beyond their Pastor's reach, Who wilfully themselves oppose. Such is the Christian soldier! pure As Heav'nly love can mortal make ; All hardness ready to endure Without a sigh for Jesus' sake. Thou man of God ! beware, beware, There's hidden danger lurking round, In those great books, that easy chair, This pleasant room, that garden ground ; In the pure, cultivated life, Which seems all duty, yet may be But a fair fence to keep the strife Of a rude world from vexing thee — That world in whose rough pathway lies (Where Love incarnate bleeding trod) The harder but the higher prize Of self and ease laid down for God. He helps thee, for He knows thy need ; 54 THE PASSING BELL. And, where of old an angel came Slow heart and lingering steps to speed, Unconscious, from th' avenging flame, His Church's voice, with frequent call Of day and season, toll and chime, Or prayer, or preaching, does for all What angels did in olden time. Listen ! upon the evening air It calls thee from the old church tow'r, Asking thy presence and thy prayer In some poor Christian's dying hour. Listen ! It is the Passing Bell. Lift up thy heart to God and pray. A soul is passing, — who can tell How prayer may help it on its way ! Who wants thine aid ? With all the fold Thy mind familiar, longs to know For whom that Passing Bell is toll'd, Or young or old, or high or low. Death hath of late with gloomy wing Hung o'er thy flock, — to which sad home, O'er-shadow'd by his hovering, Hath the dark swo<»p of sorrow come? The stately hall, where pomp and pride Long held their undisputed iway, And change and chance alike defied To take one gilded joy away ; Where self to pamper and to please THE PASSING BELL. 55 Seem'd the sole cause why life was giv'n, And the near things of earth and ease Shut out all sight of God and Heav'n 5 Where the cold sneer too often fell, Its slime on holy things to leave,— Weak effort of the infidel To laugh at what his fears believe; Where God's good Word, and prayer, and praise Were all for laugh and song put by, No time through pleasure's nights and days To think upon eternity ;— There o'er its pomp hath fall'n of late The shadow of a coming care : Hath Death now stopp'd at that tall gate And claim'd his right of entrance there ? The broken frame, the pallid cheek', The quiv'ring lip, the anxious eye, For months, as plain as words could speak, Have told the proud man he must die. The fears, once scoff 'd at as absurd, Or drown'd in life's frivolities, Now make themselves distinctly heard In that still chamber where he lies. 'The warning voice, despised of old, Hath now come bidden to his door, And solemn truths have now been told Which would not have been brook'd before. But trembling less in hope than fear, And falt'ring unaccustom'd prayer, He only feels some change is near, 5 6 THE PASSING BELL. But knows not what it is, or where. Alas ! his life was all misspent, Gone, wilder'd, wasted, lived in vain ; But — of thy life how much was lent To win the wand'rer back again ? True, every Sunday in thy place God's Word was spoken full and free, And earnest pleas to seek His face, Press'd upon all repeatedly. But where that love more deep and true, That finer individual care, Watching to find the season due, Seeking occasion everywhere ? Which bore with temper, answer'd not The taunting sneers of pride with pride, But, for the love of him it sought, Laid meaner love of self aside ; Not like a martyr, proudly meek, With kiss more keen than biting word, But offering the other cheek Through love of thy dear smitten Lord. As he who has some selfish aim Watches his time to make it sure, And, so he only win his game, Cares not what insults he endure ; So he whose self in Christ is Inst Can, with a nobly selfish care, Count not for olden- self the cost, So new-self be exalted there Was this thy purpose ? Hast thou sought THE PASSING BELL. 57 Thus to restore lost souls to God ? "Not only teaching as Christ taught, But walking where His footsteps trod ? Thy cunning hand, thy thoughtful brows, Thy feet rough ways too fain to flee, Thy heart with its half utter'd vows, Mark'd with His wounds Who died for thee ! Or, haply, down in yonder vale Where humbler rank hath fix'd its home, And far more seemly ways prevail, Haply, 'tis there that death hath come. Whore modest worth, a quiet life In unpretending goodness spent, Far from the world's disturbing strife, Wearied, lies down with calm content ; Where years of duty find their close, And faith beholds fruition nigh ; And the immortal seeks repose In putting off mortality. From childhood up, to holiness Her gentle life had all been giv'n, Its fair complexion colour'd less With clouds of earth than hues of heaven. The gladness of its morning glow Fresh through long years, — nor pass'd away Where evening's shades descending low Caught the last farewell gleam of day. Baptized in faith, devoutly rear'd 58 THE PASSING BELL. Where duties fence life's narrow ground, Love had so much the path endear'd, She never reach'd its thorny bound j But living from the world remote, And bred in simple country ways, Her trustful heart took little note Of use revived in modern days. The usage of the Church she loved And worshipp'd in from childhood's prime, Her settled faith alone approved ; That was her use of olden time. And so, when later years revived Almost forgotten faith and rule, Old words and ways, which still survived, She traced to some more modern school ; Fearing lest truths of priceless cost, For which the holy martyrs died, Should be in sign and symbol lost, Dropp'd for the shadow in the tide. And thus from the same fear had grown Two different paths for honest minds. Each, through the truth most clearly known) Its separate way divergent linds — Divergent only to the eye, Convergent to one wish'd-for end, The holiness and purity To which all love of truth must tend. But party rose and spoilt it all, Turn'd love to hate, and zeal to pride. THE PASSING BELL. 59 Words must distort, and friends miscall, And make the breach both deep and wide. And she, within its whirlpool caught, Its plaything and its tool became, Though she more honest purpose brought Than party oft can justly claim. Nor wholly hath thy patient love, (The larger love of deeper truth) Lived party's meaner ways above, In the pure confidence of youth. Thy doubts have wrong'd her, cold distrust Forbid thy heart her griefs to share, And thoughts suspicious and unjust Have had too easy entrance there. Hence by her side, through years of pain, Though thou hast often knelt and pray'd, Cold duty brought to her in vain Its decent but ungenial aid. The open heart, th' unguarded tongue, Which mutual trust alone secures, Were not her scanty joys among Simply because they were not yours. Too late, alas ! does conscience feel, (Though all the while it could not sec) How honest but untemper'd zeal Can do a wrong to charity ! Ahis ! if thus her life has lost One gleam in doubt, one joy in woe, Denied her at the trifling cost Of feelings thou couldst nut forego ! 6o THE PASSING BELL. Alas ! if she in death deplores The absence of one help divine Out of the Church's sacred stores, Wanting to her through want of thine | How poor earth's vain and wordy strife When Heav'n's realities are near, How little the disputes of life, Seen in the shade of death' appear ! We think not then of high or low, Of party ranged on either side,' This only do we care to know, Who lived to God-in Christ who died. He who the Church's love doth lack, Though he may seem from day to' day To tread her safe and shelter'd track, Loses his blessing by the way : While he who, on the desert thrown, ^ Never with gentle love doth part, Though he seem wilder'd and alone Still hides his blessing in his heart. Or tolls that bell to ask thy prayers For him who, through long years hath lain, Up that dark flight of garret-stairs, In wretched poverty and pain? The bare cold room with uoisome smells ^ Prom Lengthened want and little care; The stifling atmosphere that tells What squalid misery is there; The damp drear be,], with its sad heap THE PASSING BELL. 6\ Of filthy closely clinging clothes Wrapp'd round that form, which seems to sleep Without the comfort of repose 5 The dying embers in the grate, The crouching watcher stooping low, All objectless and desolate, To catch its last expiring glow 5 Her hopeless discontented moan, The peevish mutt'ring of reply To the sad suff'rer's helpless groan Of almost dying agony ;— How suddenly the lonely room, And the poor wretch that in it lies, Come, with their soul-depressing gloom, Before thy long familiar eyes ! One toll of that remindful Bell ; One passing thought of who ? and where ? One conscience twinge its tale to tell ; And in an instant thou art there. 'Tis years since first thy footsteps sought, With kindly aid, that poor abode, And fresh in fervent duty brought To its sad inmates hope from God. The unfamiliar words were dear, Th' unlook'd-for sympathy was bright, They raised their drooping hearts to hear, And day came dawning on their night. Fair promise for a while they gave, Of all thy wildest wish could ask, 62 THE PASSING BELL. And the fond hope their souls to save, Made light for thee thy heaviest task. But soon the sordid love of self Crept in, and spoilt that promise fair, Watching thy coming for thy pelf, Not for thy teachings and thy prayer Till time at last reveal'd with pain, What long thy love refused to see, The cunning that could make its gain Out of thy kindly charitv. Then droop'd thine interest, fewer thence And far between thy visits rare, And almost only to dispense Of the Church alms their promised share. And often when thy mind was full Of things which thou wouldst teach or know, And often when thy heart was dull And conscience whisper'd " Rise and go," Thy pen or books thou wouldst not leave, Thy brow with rougher work'to soil; Almost persuaded to believe Seeking Buch souls wore useless toil. Too hard on others— those who want What God gave all thy life to thee— Nor of their frailties tolerant A- poor weak man frith man Bhould be: Too faint th." pow'r of Faith to prove, (Their might who hold God's premise true.) The mountains shall arise and move For liiiii u li«. can belie re and do. THE PASSING BELL. 63 Faith can the strength of Heav'n command, No work of love it may not dare ; He who hath God at his right hand, Should never in God's work despair. Go to thy chamber — bow thy knees 5 And lift thy heart to Heav'n, and cry Fur God's good mercy upon these Thy people, in their agony. Each well-known want, each trembling fear, At which their awe-struck hearts grow pale, Tell them to Him to whom they're dear, And Whose true love can never fail : Plead thou their cause, in His great Name Whose Passion pleads the world's release, And dare through Him for them to claim Pardon and penitence and peace. But chiefly bow thy spirit low Down in the dust for thine own fault, The wancTring sheep by thee let go Out on the world, unwept, unsought ; The words unspoken, work undone, The casual care too slightly giv'n, The race of many almost run Without one serious call to Heav'n; Thine easy ways, that let the time For toil and teaching pass in vain, Losing that precious morning prime Which never can return again ; Thy doubting heart, thy flagging zeal, 64 THE PASSING BELL. Thy sickly fear to vex or grieve, Thy question how far Grace can heal Those who do not thy word believe • Thy want of trust in God's own Word, Of waiting on His time and will, Of purpose— let what fears be stirr'd, — Simply to labour and be still. Alas ! how all these memories Come crowding back, and shadowing fall Where, though the world no fault descries, Thy trembling conscience sees it all ! O ! who in later years would dare To stoop beneath the awful load Of souls, entrusted to prepare, In the Great Day, to meet their God ! When Love is fresh, and life is young, Knowing but little, fearing less, And hope and trust are high upstrung In unforecasting fearlessness ; Before we've felt th' embittering Of Disappointment's cruel smart. Or proved that Badly treacherous thing The all-deceiving human heart ; Then we dare all things— Heav'n seems near, [ts path to reach, its heights to scale; N > sin so fearful as t<» fear That work essay'd for God can fail. But when in later years we find How much, in all we dared to do, THE PASSING BELL. We fail, and conscience brings to mind Life to its purposed aim untrue ; The secret taint of self that cling3 To every deed and word and thought. Making our touch of holy things Almost unholy through its fault ; — The human shrinks from the Divine, Trembles before the tale it tells, And, awe-struck, fears the sacred shrine In which th' Eternal Presence dwells. Tis well, unspoilt by such abuse, Young hearts to highest hopes can soar, And give themselves to Him Whose use Makes blinding clay the sight restore. Experience tells what wonder lies In the rough pathway boldly trod, And glories in infirmities Which draw the weak one nearer God. Low at His shrine bow down thy soul ; Cast on His mercy every care When waves of trouble o'er thee roll ; He loves His people's griefs to share. Then rise, with holy strength renew'd, To follow where His voice may call • Self to a nobler self subdued, Jesus alone thine all in all ; Steadfast, the more the world entice, The more Christ's inner pow'r to prove ; Thy life a living sacrifice Of humble Faith, and patient Love. F 65 ODE TO THE NIGHTINGALES, AFTER THEIR UNACCOUNTABLE SILENCE IN THE VICARAGE GROUNDS FOR TWO YEARS. MAY I860. /^^$6^N ODE TO THE NIGHTINGALES. PART I. pIERE are ye gone, Ye blessed songsters of the leafy grove ? Sad and alone, When the bright day is done, I through my garden-grounds untended rove, Wanting the solace of that song Which from above, Like mountain-torrent full and strong, Came rushing, gushing In melodious floods, Through the deep hushing Of the silent woods ; Sweeping my yielding soul along Into those far, fond mem'ries it doth love. Time was ye never fail'd me; night by night I hung, entranced, upon your pure delight, All through the later April and the May. 7° ODE TO When every other voice That makes the earth rejoice, Hush'd into dewy slumber, silent lay, Leaf-hidden, till the breaking of the day, Then would I come Out of my quiet home, Where all were sleeping, or laid down to rest ; And, hov'ring bird-like round that bow'ry nest, Praying down blessings on what I loved best, Would pace each well-known walk, Familiar with the talk And fellowship of a few hours ago ; And, by the sweet infection, falling Into a pleasant, dreamy, dim recalling Of glances and of utterances dear, Would feel as if the blessed things were near, Whose presence is my sunshine all the year, And thoughts of whom are like rich sunset's glow. in. ! then your almost utter'd words, Ye earth-rejoicing, heav'n-sent birds, Came like a voice from God, to move The passion of my soul to love. And, life within me all astir, The heart its own interpreter, 1 heard unutterable things Which mortal lips had never spoken, And drank from the eternal Springs, Forth from the living rook fresh broken THE NIGHTINGALES. 7 l When struck by that Almighty Hand Which can its inner life command. Such wilder'd dreamings ! Bright with golden gleamings Of old remember'd, happy summer days ; Snatches of voices, As when youth rejoices, And merry laughter rings through pleasant ways ; Fragments of years For ever gone Beyond the reach of hopes and fears, Into that far-off land, where lie, Embalm'd in happy memory, Their purest and their brightest parts alone,— Things which can never die, Partakers of th' eternity Of mortal's immortality,— Visions which bring. In their dim, shadowy hovering, The confines of the spirit-world so near To that less real world which men inhabit lure, That they awhile out of themselves do rise Into the purer ether of those upper skies. IV. To such sweet musings, Bright with their confusings Of time and place, upper and lower air, Yet having in them all one meaning there- Just as the glass revolved 72 ODE TO Shows broken lights, resolved Into one picture, perfected and fair : — To such sweet musings of the soul Your song, dear birds ! Your almost utter'd words So gently and so tenderly do lead, And such sweet fancies do within me breed, That I, enamour'd of your soft control, Would gladly be your captive all the night, And leave dull sleep until the morning's light; Taking my rest Of soul and body best In that fond rapture, which doth lift me*quitc Out of my wearied self, through your pure song's delight. v. That song! Which all the copses round prolong Beneath the dewy, many-twinkling sky, With echoes crowding in rich harmony, As if the vaulted chamber made reply. gush Of tuneful melody ! That like a rush I If summer water-falls, went sweeping by ; And then a hush. As if to let the list'ning woods, that lie Entranced around, draw breath ; and with a sigh Utter the dewy fragranee of their joy i • And then that long, low, ling'ring note THE NIGHTINGALES. 73 That thrills and trembles through the mellow throat, Pouring the moan Of its sweet monotone Into the silence of attentive night : — Dear voice of sympathetic love ! Which thus its steadfastness would prove To the fond mate, whose glad employ Lies in the leafy nest of her delight, While soft, soul-soothing strains like rose-leaves round her float. Then, lest his song, Too tender and too touching, should too long Shadow her spirit, and too wholly Enwrap it in the folds of melancholy, He bursts into such wild excess Of overflowing happiness, As if he were intoxicate with joy, And felt that nothing ever could destroy That quiet night, That moon-lit shade, The soft delight That doth pervade The earth, the air, the heav'ns so calm and bright; But, more than all, that nest so lately made, In which their mutual loves and hopes are laid. VI. He sang of Summer ! Summer hov'ring near, On the green threshold of the flow'ry May, 74 ODE TO Of leaves unfolding, buds that just appear Forth-peeping, all impatient of delay, And wond'ring how much longer they must stay Ere ling'ring frosts betake themselves away. He sang of Summer ! Summer in the bloom, The roseate bloom of her imperial pride, Like a fair woman, filling all the room Through which she moved, with beauty and perfume, While every spot she touch'd was glorified ; So filling all the world with the delight Of her pure, fragrant beauty day and night. He sang of Summer ! Summer far away ! Summer in some delicious southern bay, "Where olive shades and orange groves Bend over calm and tideless seas, And where the heart that Summer loves Revels in summer-ecstasies. He sang of Summer ! Summer all the year ! And follow'd round the world, where'er it goes, — lis song perpetual, its perpetual cheer, Its ever-shadowing leaf and blowing rose — With every blessing bounteous Ileav'n bestows, Saw, haply, that of leisure for repose. 1 1.- sang of Bummer ! Bummer nn ith the brood Of their young love around them on the wing. Or learning, in the wood's deep solitude, THE NIGHTINGALES. 75 Note after note, the songs themselves shall sing When they become the minstrels of the Spring 5 Learning in softer climes the tend'rer notes Which sun-glad hearts pour forth from sun-tuned throats. VII. He sang, he sang Till all the woodland round him rang With the sweet tumult of his minstrelsy, That shook its notes together, like the clang Of silver cymbals clashing clear and high ; With dying cadences that would not die, But that, when seeming hush'd and almost mute, By passion's over-throbbing pulse subdued, Breathed forth again, as from some mellow flute, With the pure freshness of a life renew'd ; Breathed forth that song Which, losing not its passion deep and strong, Yet into such pathetic strains As those in which true love complains, (Though all the while exulting in its gains,) Melted away, Until the tender lay Breathed half of comfort, more than half of care ; Soft as summer brooklets flowing, Bubbling over pebbles fair; Murm'ring, rippling, coming, going, Out and in and everywhere; All their fresh'ning love bestowing On the drowsy woodlands there, 76 ODE TO Lying many-tinted, glowing, In the radiant evening air : So soft, so bright, so bubbling, and so pure, Did that long, sighing,sinking, swelling song endure. VIII. Thus wore the night 5 while from its neighb'ring tower The village church-clock told the- midnight hour* And twice and thrice again, with drowsy call, As of some sleepy watchman on his beat Startling the silence of the sleeping street With tones familiar, which unheeded fall, Yet mingle with the frost-work of their dreams; So twice, and thrice again the iron tongue Of night broke in my waking dreams among, "Waking such dreamings, but not waking me, Nor drawing homeward, till the first faint gleams Of morning streak'd the orient ; then the claim Of Nature wearied out, and fain to be Sunk in the sleep of sweet satiety, Compel! (1 me in ; but not to silence, — there That gashing flood of music, still the same, Followed me as 1 bent my knees in prayer, And, morning though it was, ask'd nightly care, Confusing thus the office and the time, Saying my even-song at matin-prime. There, as 1 bow'd my knees t<> Heaven and pray'd, Where the dim night lamp cast its flickering Bhade, THE NIGHTINGALES. 77 That wakeful worshipper was with me too, And, what he could to help me, he did do. IX. He sang, and sang, Till all the little oratory rang With that sweet symphony. That, like an organ, became voice for me, Helping me heav'n-ward with its harmony 5 Till all my prayer, and all my praise Went up by those melodious ways Into the ears Of Him Who, though surrounded by the Cherubim And Seraphim, Who ever raise, Resting not day nor night, their ceaseless hymn, Yet stoops His heart in tenderness, and hears The faintest sigh ; E'en to a sparrow's cry Attentive, through the music of the spheres. 78 ODE TO BART II. f?|SpHY are ye gone ? tffiPwli ^ e ^^ nstre ^ s °f tne merry May ! &MiMM Ye tuneful Minstrels of the wand'ring lay! Why have ye taken your sweet selves away ? Why are ye gone, Leaving me here alone Through songless and through silent woods to stray ? What have I done That ye should seek to right your fancied wrong, By such denial of your gentle song To one whose purest heart's delight Hath been in the familiar cheer Ye brought his woodlands, year by war ? To one who would not even now requite You slight for slight, But rather with his song repay — (Boor though it be Beside your minstrelsy), Past yean of< ifbrt, when ye loved t«» stay Close by his side, and round his home, Like blessed airs from heaven to come. Ye sorrow-soothing Voices of the Night! Ye choral Chimera of the Festal Day ! THE NIGHTINGALES. 79 ii. Never !— my heart can truthfully profess — Through all the years of boyish thoughtlessness, Never could mem'ry, searching, find One ill done to your gentle kind 5 Not even to the humblest of the throng "Which make up that great family of song That haunt our gardens and that fill our groves With their glad voices and perpetual loves. No stone Heartlessly thrown, Simply to claim The merit of a deadly aim ; No wanton shout, To start the hidden warbler out From the deep covert of his noon-tide shade ; No inquisition rudely made, Where fing'ring curiosity, Affecting the philosopher, would pry Into the sacredness and secresy Of homes, to which our own home-love should be Safi '-guard more sure than door or lock or key. No rifled cradle— trusted safe to hold Treasure more precious than uncounted gold — Whose spoils, by the bewailing mother miss'd, Grace now the drawer of some cold naturalist 5 Who took the little living womb, Full of the rip'ning fruits of love, And made of it an empty tomb His classifying schemes to prove, 80 ODE TO A tomb on which, in Love's behalf, Truth might engrave this epitaph, — " In memory of reckless ruin spread, Of the unborn, and the unburied dead." No captive in his gilded cage, Whose wing and song might both be five, Ever, in youth's most thoughtless age, Lost his green woodland joys for me. No mem'ry of such wicked wrong Done to the humblest child of song That ever chirp'd beneath our household eaves, Its self-accusing shadow leaves Across the sunshine of my thankful heart : O ! would that I had done as well my part To God, and all my fellow-men ! I should not then know half the bitter smart Which rankles in my wounded conscience, when I think of all that Love hath done for me, And my unloving infidelity. Nor yet in later years, Wnen thoughtful selfishness Upon the bough of Selfish thoughtlessness, As it> expected, nature] fruit, appears j And a cold calculating care To pamper poor humanity <.r:i-|)s all it can, and grudges any share To others of the gifts that round us lie, THE NIGHTINGALES. 81 When all to take And nothing give In our communion with our kind, For our own sake We only live, Nor others' wants or interests mind ; Careful alone about our own gourd-bower, And careless how with others it may be, Expecting fruit, where we had pluck'd the flow'r, And ever on the self-same tree ; Just as it may our impulse suit, List'ning for song, and seeking fruit, Unmindful how the one must soon be mute Or lose its tender melody, If we exclusively require What of the other Nature yields To cheer, with luscious draughts, the feather'd choir Of all her hills and vales and woods and fields ; — Not even then did my mere likings prove Too strong a passion for my purer love. IV. And true to such intent, my garden lends Freely its comforts to my feather'd friends. Its shade, its quiet, all its flow'ry bloom, Its breezy freshness, and its soft perfume, These we in common share : But other sweets, Hidden within their leafy, cool retreats, g2 ODE TO Rip'ning and redd'ning day by day, Beneath the sun's reflected ray, Their earlier quest, And haply their deserving such things best Give them more plenteously beyond compare - y For they, as owners all in fee, Not as a gift, but as their right, Take cherry, plum, and strawberry, And currant red and black and white ; Leaving in kind the parson's tithe, As good, religious birds should do, Throwing in ditties bright and blithe, As something for the gardener too ; But leaving little else behind for me, Save what of song and plumage hangs on every tree v. And yet, ye blessed birds ! within my grounds Ye know what careless freedom yours has been ; No scaring sights— no sudden startling sounds, To drive you from your coverts cool and green. No bird-lime laid, no ambush set With cruel gun, or crafty net, No artful policy to please The gardener, and preserve my pease, Ever one moment made me prove untrue In deed, or word, or even thought to you. How oft, with eye averted, past the nest Which held her callow young have I gone by, Lest a too curious freedom should molest THE NIGHTINGALES. 83 The brooding mother in her privacy ; Or haply, if she chose some fav'rite walk, How have I left it lest my presence scare ; Or, with light step, and gentle whisp'ring talk Have used it, when some need compell'd me there. Thus all my days, Familiar with your ways And you with mine, Sweetly have we lived together In sunny and in shady weather, Nor each against the other could repine : United by one living chain of love, The highest link of which hangs on above. Then wherefore are ye gone, Ye rulers in the realm of song ! Ye, ye alone Of all the feather 'd throng, Why have ye such unkindness to me done ? Why hold not still your royal court Within the golden shadow of my groves ? Why come not here to make your pleasant sport, And consecrate and sing your happy loves ? Ask all your orchestra if one there be Can lay a charge of grievance against me. VII. Let the dear Redbreast, that in winter comes To get his morning meal of crumbs, g 4 ODE TO Say, if the kindliest soul on earth His need provide not for before her own, If gentler hands, or heart of purer worth Were ever in this world of worthies known Than those which for him care, and which his crumbs have strewn. The Cuckoo, with his flute-like call ; The piping Goldfinch in his tree ; The Lark, that far above them all Sings from his lightsome privacy ; The Thrush, that from his mellow threat So much of your own song doth pour, That some, unskill'd, mistake the note, Or think you sing from the same score ; The Linnet, with his quiv'ring wings, Telling out all his heart believes ; The Swallow, with his twitterings Low in the ivy-cluster'd eaves 3 The wood's sweet swain, the Turtle-dove, That with his soft perpetual coo, (The refrain of his quiet love,) Still turns the woo'd and won to woo ; The Blackbird, with his yellow bill, His tawny legs, and velvet coat, His sometimes melting, sometimes shrill, But always most melodious note; The Rail, that in the dewy grass Nightly doth his u plain Bong" repeal : The cawing Rooks, that homeward pasflj Each to his old ancestral seat : THE NIGHTINGALES. 8$ The Ouzel, from his solitudes Watching his new-found mate's employ, And telling all the peopled woods The secrets of his love and joy ; The Sparrow, with his pilf'ring ways, Upon the house-ridge, that from thence, But for what Holy Scripture says, You'd drive for his impertinence ; — All these, that take the lower parts In the great chorus of your song, Ask them, and from their little hearts They'll say I never did them wrong. VIII. Alas ! I fear Some other cause, Than breaking of the laws Which bind Me to the creatures of your gentle kind, Hath thus deprived me of the spring-tide cheer For which I've watch'd and waited all the ling'ring year. Beside the streams — The little rills that flow Down from the well-spring of Eternal Love, — I have contented me to rest below, Fill'd with the dreams Which, fancy-fed and fashion'd, come and go, Delighting but distracting mortals so, That they for them that Home forget, 86 ODE TO On which their best affections should be set 5 Nor seek, as they should do, " those things which are above :" So pleasant is the music of the stream, With its soft bubbling murmur, ever flowing ; So brilliant is the colouring of the dream In the rich hues of Hope and Mem'ry glowing ! And He, whose tender love And gentle dealing With all His children in this world of care, (The purpose of His discipline revealing,) Lighten its darkness, and its burden share ; Who, from above, Watching each phase of feeling, Meets every need within them everywhere, And to their inmost souls can reach, (If they attentive bend the ear,) AVith subtiler intelligence than speech, Words which, though voiceless, still the heart can hear; He, who, with bloom or fragrance of a flow'r, With song, or flutt'ring pinion of a bird, Grey morning mist, or gleaming sun-set show*r, Rustling of leaves by faintest zephyr Btirr'd, (Tilings which the world, In nil its giddy madness whirl'd Far from its better self, and truest gain, Deems but as trifles valueless and vain,) He, who with these can touch the spring Whence all our fond affections rise, THE NIGHTINGALES. 87 And the long-buried years can bring Back with their living memories, Until the eye, Answ'ring the gentle summons of a sigh, Lightens with joy Which life-long troubles nev^r could destroy 5 Or fills with tears That, more than half a century ago, At the same sight or sound began to flow ; He, ever teaching, ever near, And Giver of all good, whate'er He gives or in His wisdom takes away, Seeing me wrapt too much in earth's delight, Too heedless of, though not forgetting quite, My Maker, and the songs that in the night He gives His children 5— He hath still* Those earthly echoes of His voice, That, with its own sweet utterances fill'd, I may the more in it and Him rejoice, And feel that loss a gain, which ends in such a choice. IX. O ! if one voice on earth no longer heard Awake in me such longings ;— if a bird When it doth sing Can to my heart such tender mem'ries bring, And, when through some estrangement it doth cease, Can, with its silence, so affect my peace $— How dull and dead my inner life must be 88 ODE TO THE NIGHTINGALES. If, through a purer sensibility, With bended ear and lifted looks, I hang not on Thy voice of Love, And, when I miss Thee in life's shady nooks, And unattended by Thy presence move; If, as the hart pants for the water-brooks, So longeth not my soul, O God ! for Thee. O ! in the depths of Thy tranquillity, The image of my pleading Saviour see, And, looking upon that, remember me. And when the things of time and sense, And the poor limited intelligence Which human knowledge brings my soul to guide, When they distract me, and my love divide •— O ! fill me with Thy fulness, Lord ! that so ' In spiritual knowledge I may grow, And with expanding heart Thy secrets prove, Till God's Great Being in me overflow. In human things we know that we may love, In things divine we love that we may know. (L wn Timers track that dimly lav Beyond all present things ; And in Life's pageant take my piace, My part would proudly bear : AD glorious deeds, all gentle grace ming as my sharo : — A tender swain ! a gallant knight ! ' Of chivalry the flow"r ! N ir where the sword maintains the right, And now in lady r s bow'r ; Bold as a lion against wrong, no tearless • as the rushing whirlwind strong, _-entle as a sigh. I ever by my side there moved A form so soft and bright, Soi ' r.lerly beloved, I: seem'd a part of sight ; a'd a part of sight, b nl ItiD more witching art, Was dee^r in my \ rt. I tee the dream of other days . illusive haze h gathers round the past, it, as I saw it then, The glory of my youth, WEDDING DAY. 93 To which I turn'd from living men And rested in as truth ; That fragile form which seem'd to bend In every breeze of life, And yet had inner strength to lend To others in its strife 5 That brow so calm, where quiet thought Had rear'd its holy shrine, And ever in its changes caught Light from a life divine ; Those eyes so soft, I ne'er could prove Them black or brown or blue, Their colour was the hue of love, And that was all I knew ; That mouth, of loving words the door, Of playful smiles the home, Whence naught the gentlest could deplore "Was ever known to come 5 That dark, soft hair, that, like a thought, Shadow'd her holy face, That gave, and in its giving caught, Such depth of tender grace ; That air, so tranquil and so clear, The breath of pure delight, That with its golden atmosphere Enwrapt her form in light ; — I see it all as in the dream That to my boyish heart Became — what first it did but seem — Became of life a part. 94 THE SILVER Full forty years have pass'd away Since by the river's side A fondly dreaming boy I lay From morn till even-tide 5 And change and chance o'er all have been; Youth's visions, one by one, Have faded from the passing scene, Till almost all are gone ; All, save that form of light and love That guardian angel guide, Which, dropping gently from above, Hath settled by my side ; Leaving her visionary sphere To walk through common life, Now known and loved for many a year By the sweet name of wife. Far other than the path I plann'd It was my lot to tread, The guidance of an unseen hand, By ways I knew not, led. Nor wealth, nor rank, nor worldly fame, Nor pride, nor pomp, nor show. Nor mighty deeds, nor glorious name, Were ever mine to know. All, all is changed from that proud look Life did in childhood wear,— My spear into a pruning-hook, My sword into a share, My Bteed into a stuff, my might WEDDING DAY. 95 To be but simply good, My armour into robes of white, My helm into a hood 5 My mission, not to " ladye fair " To do a good knight's part, From danger rescue, and then wear Her colours near my heart ; Nor by her pleasant bower to stay And sun me in her sight, Forget the duties of the day And slumbers of the night ; But to the desolate and sad, Those whom the proud despise 5 To make the lonely mourner glad, And bid the hopeless rise ; To tell of safety for the lost, Of pureness for the vile, A haven for the tempest-tost, For misery a smile ; Beside the sick and sorrowful, The wretched and the poor, To brighten moments all too dull, And help them to endure 5 Amid the busy haunts of men To meet them on life's way, And turn them gently back again From paths where they do stray ; With little show that man can see, And yet with high intent, For Him who gave Himself for me 9 6 THE SILVER To spend and to be spent ; Life's smallest duties growing great Where holy motives move, And glory gilding with its state All that is done for Love ; A rank and name superior giv'n In lieu of every loss, One of the chivalry of Heaven ! A soldier of the Cross ! Such all my alter'^ life hath been, And now *tis nearly o'er ; Changed, but with every changing scene So little to deplore. - Th' unfading hues of living truth To all its changes lent, The end so like my dreams of youth, The way so different. But she, my bright and guiding star, Of whom through all I dream'd, She, as the real, passing far What the ideal seem'd ! O how much dearer when she came On earth to be my guide, And took B form, and bore a name, And BetUed by my side ! Its beauty from that fragile form With dreams did not depart; Far fairer now when, full and warm. I press it to my la -art. WEDDING DA Y. The calm of that untroubled brow, Bright in life's evening gleams, Bending as softly o'er me now As in my boyish dreams ; The sweetness of those eyes, whose hue I now can clearly prove, And yet believe I named it true, When once I call'd it Love ; Those lips, unpractised to complain, Doors of a heart at ease, Which never let forth what could pain, Nor kept back what could please 5 That hair, as sunny and as bright As round her maiden head, With scaice one line of silver light Across its darkness shed ; That quiet air of calm repose, Like evening's golden hour, Which stills, and yet entrances those Who come within its pow'r — All these, which I in youth did see, In age beside me live ; But with a sweet reality Which dream-land could not give 5 And with a deeper, soberer hue, The growth of silent years, Which not from smiles more beauty drew Than from life's tender tears ; Gaining, in what it seem'd to lose Of freshness and of youth, H 97 93 THE SILVER Those mellower tints the years infuse When sorrow teaches truth. My path below is nearly trod, Nor far the time can be When I must render back to God The life He gave to me. O that when I the trust restore I may His grace obtain, Having as little to deplore As reason to complain. For life to me hath ever been With summer sunshine bright, Of all, I would not change one scene That mark'd it, if I might. Though here and there some other lot Than I had wish'd befel, Truth never fail'd, nor love forgot ; All hath been wondrous well. My share of sorrow and distress Hath been in mercy sent, But not one drop of bitterness With all my Buffering blent. I have wept tears of tender grief When joy and I must part, Tears, which have brought their <>>\n relief Back t<> the Btricken heart j And places once so dearly hi I'd Around my happy hearth, A iv racanl now, for ever BtilPd WEDDING DAY. 99 Its once delicious mirth : But yet my soul does not complain, Counting its treasures o'er. Nor would I bring back one again If wishes could restore. Deep in their very loss there lies What death cannot destroy, I would not give my memories For all another's joy. No ! blest beyond what words could say Hath been His gentle care, Who never turn'd His face away Or answer'd not my prayer : Who never kept me back from good, Nor laid upon me ill, But often in His mercy stood Between me and my will. Life is too short to tell His praise, My joy in Him to prove, Whose one long lesson all my days Begins and ends with Love. Rome, loth January, 1864. r: MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. ^^^ MISCELLAISTEOUS POEMS. FAR AWAY. * The Land that is very far off." — Isaiah xxxiii. 17. PON the shore Of evermore We sport like children at their play, And gather shells Where sinks and swells The mighty sea from far away. Upon that beach Nor voice, nor speech Doth things intelligible say, But through our souls A whisper rolls That comes to us from far away Into our ears The voice of years Comes deeper, deeper day by day, 104 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. We stoop to hear, As it draws near, Its awfulness from far away. At what it tells We drop the shells We were so full of yesterday ; And pick no more Upon that shore, But dream of brighter far away. And o'er that tide Far out and wide The yearnings of our souls do stray, We long to go We do not know Where it may be — but far away. The mighty deep Dot!) slowly creep [Jp on the shore where we did play, The xvvy sand, Whete we did stand a moment since, iw< < | far Our play-mates all, Beyond our call, Arc passing hence, as we too may, MY LOVE. Unto that shore Of evermore Beyond the boundless far away. We'll trust the wave And Him to save, Beneath whose feet as marble lay The rolling deep, For He can keep Our souls in that dim far away. The waters roar From shore to shore, He calls us, and we cannot stay, Soon shall we see Eternally The Land that's very far away. 105 MY LOVE. ' I am the Rose of Sharon, the Lily of the valleys/ 1 I am the true ^ me."— St. John xv. 1. sriFlEnY Love is like a rose Whose rich perfume Through all the garden flows, And in His bloom I'll deck myself, when I would glorious bo, Fit to sit down, and feast, my God, with Thee ! io6 MISCELLANEOUS rOEMS. My Love is like a lily In the vale, And when the night is stilly, And the gale Is soft and fresh, He doth upon it move, And comes to me, and, voiceless, whispers— Love. My Love is like a vine, Beneath whose shade This weary heart of mine, In quiet laid, Finds soft repose, and, for its life divine, From juicy clusters drinks immortal wine. Such is my glorious Love ' Divinely fair ! All other loves above Beyond compare : And all my life and soul to Him I owe, He in His tender greatness loves me so. And with Him I will talk, And never tire, And near Him I will walk, And my desire Shall be to Him, and all His Lore to me Shall be the crown of my felicity. O Love divinely sweet! In Thee I live! 'E^ctjcpucrcv 6 lrjaovs* 1 °7 In Thee all blessings meet Which Heav'n can give ; Who wants Thee all wants, though untold his store ; Who has Thee lives to God for evermore. Marseilles, All Saints' Day, 1863. *E.(}aKpU(TEV 6 'Itjcrovg. HOM Thou lovest, Lord, he's sick ;" This they said, and said no more ; — Fear had added — " O, be quick ! " Love had cried — " Restore ! restore !" Faith can only look above, Tell its sorrow, plead His Love. Jesus heard, and linger'd there Two long days in that same place ; Seem'd unheedful of their prayer, Sent no token of His Grace; But, though outwardly unmoved, All the while He linger'd — loved. Then He rose in grief profound, And, with solemn accents slow, His disciples, gather'd round, Thus address'd He : u Let us go, — He we love now slumbers deep, — Go and wake him out of sleep !" 108 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Answerd His disciples back, Sad, though why they could not tell i * Lord, what further doth he lack ? If he sleep he will do well." Then the gentle Saviour said To them plainly — " He is dead." Stately in her frenzied woe Rose up one her Lord to meet, Sorrow-cruslrd, and bended low, Wept the other at His feet. One must something do, or die ; Still the other's agony. " If Thou hadst been here to Spai Lord, my brother had not died.'" " I am glad I was not there," Jesus had before replied. Death would not have dared the strife, Now he trembles before Life. On they went, a weeping t!.: Follow'd Hi- where others Led, And His spirit in Him Btrong Groaned and was troubled : Asking softly, " Where is he ? They replying, " Come and set \ n Drawing near tin- lonely grave, Troubled sore at their distress ; 'Eidatcpvo-ev 6 'Ir/covc. 10 9 Mighty in His power to save, Mightier in His tenderness, God — to wake the dead who slept ; Man— to comfort, — " Jesus wept." " How He loved him !" spake they kind. Yet in doubting wonder say, — " Could not He who heal'd the blind Keep the touch of death away ?" Then, as if in deeper pain, The Great Suff'rer groan'd again. By the silent grave He stands, Praying for His people's sake, Then, with lifted voice, commands From afar the dead to wake ; Heard the soul in its repose, And its sleeping dust arose, Back from life, with falt'ring tread, Groping on through darkness slow, Bound with grave-clothes 5 — Jesus said, " Loose him now, and let him go." Then the multitude adored Jesus the life-giving Lord. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE RAINBOW. EAR happy Land beyond the skies ! When shall my soul thy light behold ? The jewell'd walls that round thee rise, Thy gates of pearl, thy streets of gold! That path of light which upwards bends, Is it my nearest way to home ? That other that to earth descends, Is it down that the angels come ? Are they the fragments of thy walls, That pave it with their gems of light ? Or, where each angel footstep falls, The flow'ra that spring there fresh and brig I think of thee when sorrows lower. Thy sunless light, thy cloudless air, I see thy pathway in the shower, Built by the Hand of Promise there. How many a glorious arch of time 1 1 i crumbled since Jehovah set BQfl Bow amid the clouds sublime, (Jndimm'd, unchanged, unaltered yet! THE RAINBOW. i Though built of cloud and sunshine, still Chance cannot touch, nor ages move That arch, whose base is God's high will. Its crown His deep enduring love. God of the many-colour'd Bow ! Up whose bright steps of promise, Prayer To Thine abode delights to go, Into the Presence Chamber there ; Shine on the clouds of life, and make That Eainbow round about the throne, Love's glory, and for Whose dear sake Thy banish'd are again Thine own. Lift up from earth my drooping heart, Help me to rise to Heav'n and Thee, Piercing the skies to where Thou art And where one day I hope to be ; Love-led along the narrow way, That reacheth to the golden floor, Safe through those gates of pearl, whence they Who enter in go out no more. MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE RAINBOW. HEN God came down, in Eden's shade With sinless man to walk, And of the things His Hand had made To human heart did talk, Swift flew the happy hours of time Upon the wings of thought, The Teacher and His words sublime Enrapturing the taught. But sin prevail'd, till Heav'n's sad tears From earth wept off the stain ; Then through the parting clouds appears His smile of love again, — God's Bow reversed, its arrows thrown In tenderness aside, Now as a Bow of Promise shown Unto the whole world wide \ Its pledge, thai wrath's destructive might Shall never more prevail. Nor heat, nor cold, nor day, nor night, wiiil.- earth endures, Bhall fail. THE RAINBOW. 113 Yet naught can weep, but tears of blood, Sin's stain out of the heart ; Christ's sorrows, like a healing flood, Thus do their saving part. Clothed with a cloud,* His sunlike face Crown'd with a rainbow, He One foot of fire on earth did place, And one upon the sea ; And lifting up His hand to Heav'n, By Him who lives there swore, In voices deep as thunders seven, That Time shall be no more. Eternal God ! when Time shall cease And nations round Thee bow, Look on the rainbow-crown of peace Which binds the Saviour's brow ; The Rainbow round about the Throne, O look upon, and see In it Thy promise to make one The ruin'd world and Thee. And, in our hours of woe and want, To Thy remembrance take Thine everlasting covenant, And save for Jesus' sake. * Rev. x. 1—6. I n 4 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THE CROSS. YSTERIOUS Symbol of a Love Too high, too deep, for man to know, Till God came down on thee to prove Its meaning to the world below. Accursed tree ! planted in strife ! Yet blest to those who round thee kneel, Through mighty Love the Tree of Life ! Whose leaves the dying nations heal ; Whose Fruit — the Bread of Hcav'n — depends For all who seek the Life Divine ; Whose branch its living arms extends Rich with the clusters of The Vine : Whose shadow is the rest of God Till Heav'n its cloudless day restore, Marking the weary path-way trod, Telling of light that's on before. My wearied soul beneath thee laid, Finds light where others shadow Bee, Wond'ring, if such be Love's soft Bhade, What must its glorious sunshine be ! SHECHINAH. 11<5 Wond'ring, yet sighing all the while, " My gain, alas ! my Saviour's loss ! But for my sins Love's gentle smile Had cast no shadow of the Cross." Yet joy comes whisp'ring through my moan, " That shadow seeks the souls that stray !" And through griefs tender undertone This brighter theme will force its way : " To Him whose law thy death requires, To Him whose love thy suff'ring bore, To Him whose life all life inspires, Be glory now and evermore !" SHECHINAH. ".The true Shecliinah is man."— S. Chrysostom. RE AT Maker of the worlds ! yet made Flesh by Thine own obedient will, Whose manhood doth Thy Godhead shade, Whose Godhead doth Thy manhood fill ! Shechinah ! Israel's guide confest ! Before Christ's golden ages ran, Cloud of the Presence ! come to rest Upon Thy tabernacle man ! n6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Sun of the boundless worlds of light ! Gone forth to rule us from afar Before Time was, through parting night Seen as the Bright and Morning Star ; Now fix'd the centre of all love •By truth's immutable deciee, Both hearts and worlds round Thee revolve, The endless years begin with Thee ! THE SACRED FISHERMAN. E gave his fresh young heart t<> God, Nor shrank the cross to bear ; The narrow path of life he trod, With watch, and fast, and prayer. To Him who gave Himself he gave, Not man's imperfect good, But a new heart Christ died t<» Bare, Wash'd in Ili^ precious blood. No labour hard, no Buffering loflB, So only he might prove How cheerfully he bore hii crou For the dear sake of love. THE SACRED FISHERMAN. 117 And at His word, into the deep Launch'd forth his toils to set ; Though many a night, while others sleep, He draws an empty net : Yet, at the bidding of his Lord, He easts that net again, — His strength, the warrant of His word, His prize, the souls of men. And day and night he seeks to win, As sinks and swells life's tide, Out of the troubled depths of sin Souls for which Jesus died ; Until the wish'd-for morn appear, And he, toil-worn, at last Feels that that precious gift is near Which well o'er-pays the past, — The teeming net, which yields at length For labour long and hard, For broken health, and vanish'd strength, More than its full reward. In life's deep waters, o'er its shoals Spread henceforth never more 5 The net is broken, but the souls Are gather'd in to shore. 118 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. LOVE ON ! LOVE ON ! HOVE on ! love on ! ye children of the skies ! Love is the glory of your passing day, God's precious gift, which never, never dies, Though all things else are hasting to decay : O pluck the flow'r and wear it while you may, — Love on ! Love on ! Love on ! love on ! for though the cheek may fade, The lip grow pale, and dim the brightest eye, The fairest form within the tomb be laid, Love is immortal — it can never die, But even in its sadness it will sigh, — Love on ! Love on ! Love on ! love on! the life of life is Love. I teath only is where Love hath enter'd not ; Love with its glory gladdens Heav'n above, And fills on earth each dear, familiar spot With echoes from the heart's reboundings caught, Love on ! Love on ! Love on ! love on ! for in the loving soul, Though sun and moon and stars fade out and die, Love shall live on, when years have ceased to roll MY GRAND-DAUGHTER. 119 And, what it learnt on earth, still sing on high, In its own changeless immortality, — Love on ! Love on ! MY GRAND-DAUGHTER. HO, with her little smiling face, Gives light and joy to every place, And fills it with a gentle grace ? My Mary ! "Who, with her softly murmuring coo, Heard all your smothering kisses through, Wins you her little will to do ? My Mary ! Who in your neck so sweetly tries To hide those darkly roguish eyes, Then lifts them up, and laughs surprise ? My Mary ! Who, high in air with bounding spring, As if she were upon the wing, Leaps in your arms, the pretty thing ? My Mary ! Who to her mother's bosom clings, As if she folded up her wings To listen, while that mother sings ? My Mary ! 120 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Who in her father's arms doth keep Bright vigil, till the dews of sleep Her little silken eyelids steep ? My Mary ! Who lets her tiny fingers close On grandpapa's too tempting nose, Pulls off his spectacles and crows ? My Mary ! Who, with her thumb content, can spare A smile for every human care, And gently takes her little share ? My Mary ! Who in all arms so kindly stays, And kicks and crows, and sweetly plays, And wins all hearts with pretty ways ? My Mary ! Who is our household's joy and pride. And, uf all other babes beside, The dearest in the whole world wide ? My Mary ! May 1864. CHURCH BELLS. CHUECH BELLS. ilHIMING Bells, with changeful sound, Scatter music all around, Tolling, clanging, sinking, swelling, Griefs and joys of home out-telling. When the soul is gladsome, they Make all round seem holiday ; When the spirit droops, they fill, With their music soft and still, All the air around, supplying Utterance for voiceless sighing. 'Tis their bright and blessed part To be voices of the heart, Never seeming to intrude, Ever blending with the mood Of the soul, whate'er its leaning, And interpreting its meaning, Telling out, whate'er it be, Each man's grief and each man's glee. From the church tower, where they dwell, Tolls to prayer the passing bell. When, with dull and solemn tread, Mourners bear to church their dead, Muffled voices sad and low From those bells sob out their woe. 22 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Merry marriage chimes are ringing, Mirth on all sides round them flinging ; From the church door softly glide Happy Bridegroom, blooming Bride ; Young and old around them press, Kindly gaze and fondly bless. By those chimings gently shaken, Hope and Memory awaken ; Youth hath bright and blissful gleamings Of such joy in future dreamings ; While the oldest in the train Think that they are young again. Happy Bells ! the heart rejoices In their dear familiar voices, Loved for all their tender sadness And their full, out-spoken gladness ; Nor the less beloved, when they Call us on the holy day ; Or at other week-day times Bid to prayer with cheerful chimes. They without, their common praise To the great All-giver raise, As within, Ills people share The repose of common prayer. Then each bell's expressive note Seems some scripture-text to quote, Touches here and there our lives, CHURCH BELLS. Buried griefs and joys revives, — Holy influences ! given Hearts to harmonize with heaven ! Kindly Christians ! come and bring Jewel bright, or golden ring, Ornament of silver fair, Something luxury can spare ; When the furnace boils and bubbles Drop them in, and let some troubles ' About selfish hearts, and slow To acknowledge all they owe, (Troubles which we all have felt,) With them in the cauldron melt Sweet the Bells, which thus are blended Out of selfish ways amended, Which their silvery cadence take, From some loss for Jesus' sake, Something with life's habits twined, But for His dear love resign'd, And upon His Church bestow'd, Blessed Bells to give to God. 123 124 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. HYMN OF LOVE. AS SUNG IN THE PARISH ClIURClIES OF WlKDSOB and Egham on the Sunday following the JRoyal Marriage March 10, 1803. " Love is strong as death."— Cant. viii. <3. LOVE Divine and golden ! Mysterious depth and height ! To Thee the world beholden Looks up for life and light. O Love Divine and gentle ! The blesser and the blest ! Beneath Whose care parental, The world lies down in rest ; The fields of earth adore Thee, The forests sing Thy praise. All living things before Thee Their holiest anthems raise ; Thou art the joy of gladness, The Life of life Thou an. The dew of gentle sadness, That, droppeth on the heart. () Love Divine and tender ! Which through our homes doth n HYMN OF LOVE. 125 Veil'd in the soften'd splendour Of holy, household love ; A throne without Thy blessing Were labour without rest 5 And cottages possessing Thy blessedness are blest. The happy homes of England In Thee, O Lord, rejoice 5 Their peace is in Thy presence, Their gladness in Thy voice. Blest be Thy holy pleasure, That all their joys have come, In overflowing measure, To England's central home. God save the Queen ! and cheer her With hope's reviving ray ! May Heav'n's best blessings near her, Watch ever night and day ! God bless the Prince ! and o'er him The Holy Spirit brood, Till he, like one before him, Be " Albert great and good !" 126 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. GOD SAVE THE QUEEN. The birth of a Royal Prince having been telegraphed to Rome on Sunday morning, was announced before the general thanksgiving to the English Congregation, whose fervent many-voiced Amen told out their hearty sympathy and joy. The following lines, written that evening, were sung in a large assembly the next night, and for many a night after, at all English parties. OD save the Queen ! O Lord ! To her Thy strength afford ; Stand Thou between Her and all ills that may Darken her glorious day ; Drive every cloud away, — God save the Queen ! Stablish in Truth her throne, Make all her cares Thine own, Thou ! Who hast been Might of her mighty land, Strength of her sceptred hand, Rock where her glories stand, — God save the Queen ! Wide o'er the wide wide world, England's proud flag, untiuTd, Ever be seen ; GOD SAVE THE QUEEN. 127 Shelter of liberty, Where all mankind may be Happy and safe and free, — God save the Queen ! Though England's sons may roam, Changeless their love of home Ever has been ; Ear from our native shore, Still we but love it more, And with one voice implore — God save our Queen ! Long may her Hoyal race England both guard and grace ; Long may be seen Many a noble shoot Spring from the Royal root, Bearing right royal fruit, — God save the Queen ! What though so late her heart Writhed in the bitter smart Of anguish keen ! Now is that heart beguiled, While round her Children's Child Sorrow grows soft and mild, — God save our Queen ! God save the Royal Boy, Crown all his life with joy, But far between 128 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Him and his future throne, Years upon years roll on, Then, Lord ! Thy will be done !— God save the Queen ! Rome, January 10, 1864. TRANSLATION FROM VICTOR HUGO. HAT does it matter though the life below For mortals prove unequal on the whole, Flying and fading, wheresoever we go ? Have you not still — above it all — your soul ? Your soul, which, into regions pure and clear, Soon by its heav'nly nature shall arise, And bear you for beyond all sorrows her And farther still, beyond all murmuring sighs. Be like a bird, which for Ml instant may Rest on frail boughs, yet all untroubled sings, Nor checks its song t" heed the bending spray, Calm in the quiet consciousness of wings. Borne, Apnl L864. TRANSLATIONS. 129 TRANSLATION, (FROM THE ITALIAN,) OF LINES BY GIOYANBATISTA STROZZI AFFIXED TO TH3 FAMOUS STATUE OF LA NOTTE DI MICHEL AGNOLO IN THE SACRISTY OF SAN LORENZO, FLORENCE. ( IGHT, whom you see in sleep so sweetly sound, Was by an Angel in this marble found. Would you the proof of life within her seek? Awake her if you doubt it, — she will speak ! Michael Angelo's reply in the person of the Statue. Dear to me sleep,— dearer to sleep in stone, Till shame and dark dishonour all are gone. To see not, hear not, — this my happiest boon, Speak gently, lest you waken me too soon. C HIS WICK PRESS : — WlIllIINGHAM AM) \\II,Kl.\s TOOKS COURT, CHAM F.HY LAM