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LIBRARY OF.OONGRESS. 
 
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 DNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 
 

VOICES FROM A BUSY LIFE 
 
 SELECTIONS FROM THE POETICAL WORKS 
 
 OF THE LATE 
 
 EDWARD A. WASHBURN, D.D. 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY 
 
 900 BROADWAY, COR. 20TH STREET 
 
S-j\5'^ 
 
 l']^? 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1883, BY 
 ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY. 
 
 NEW YORK : 
 EDWARD O. JENKINS, ROBERT RUTTER, 
 
 Printer and Stereotyper^ Binder^ 
 
 20 North V/illiam St. 116 & 118 E. 14th St. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 " In everything ye are enriched by hi?n : in all 
 utte?'a7tce" 
 
 Such is the Apostle's description of thaJ faculty 
 of our nature which gives outward expression to the 
 Spiritual element withifi us. To the many friends 
 who never knew this side of his nature, this little 
 book will shew the rare poiuer of poetical utterance 
 which em-iched the nature of the late Dr. Wash- 
 burn. 
 
 Wm. Wilberforce Newton. 
 
 August 23, 1883. 
 
MOTTO FROM DANTE'S PARADISO. 
 
 " Here are descried 
 Those who with modesty themselves confessed 
 Work of his goodness unto whom they owe 
 The high attainments that have made them blest. 
 Whence through enlightening grace, from Heaven 
 
 obtained, 
 And their own merit, tJuy raised their sight so high, 
 A will complete and steadfast they have gained." 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preface 3 
 
 Motto 5 
 
 Thorwaldsen's Christ 9 
 
 The Lost Thought 12 
 
 Requiem 14 
 
 The Fountain of Youth 16 
 
 Twilight on the River 20 
 
 The Minnow 22 
 
 The Cm and the Leper 25 
 
 Pygmalion 27 
 
 Leaves 34 
 
 The Vision of Youth 35 
 
 The Aurora 38 
 
 Love Thou? — The Heart's Answer to 
 
 " Love Not " 41 
 
 Silent Love 43 
 
 The Air-Plant 44 
 
 Song—" Love is Blind " 45 
 
 The Trysting-Tree 48 
 
 The Maiden's Prayer 50 
 
 Song 53 
 
 5 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Portrait 55 
 
 The Banian 57 
 
 Voices of the Sea 60 
 
 The Deserted Convent 62 
 
 Easter on Mount Olivet 66 
 
 A Bunch of Fucus Natans, gathered off 
 
 the Azores 71 
 
 Lines Written in a Volume of Latimer's 
 
 Sermons 73 
 
 Oxford 'Tracts 74 
 
 The Sage of the Pollen 75 
 
 The Freshet 79 
 
 Hungary 83 
 
 The Century Flower 86 
 
 The Burial at Gettysburg 88 
 
 The African Colour-Sergeant 91 
 
 The Battle of the Dead Cid 93 
 
 The Grass-Grown Rampart 98 
 
 Giuseppe Mazzini 100 
 
 1875 102 
 
 CAROLS. 
 
 Ring Out the Bells 109 
 
 Softly the Night is Sleeping 11 1 
 
 Joy to the World 113 
 
 Christ Hath Arisen 115 
 
 Wake To-Day, Ye Gladsome Voices 117 
 
 Spanish Hymn 119 
 
 6 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 TRANSLATIONS OF ANCIENT CHRISTIAN 
 HYMNS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Children in Paradise St. Ephraim. 123 
 
 Lucis Largitor Splendide Hilary. 125 
 
 Beata Nobis Gaudia Hilary 127 
 
 Aurora Lucis Rutilat Ambrose. 129 
 
 Sterna Christi Munera " 130 
 
 O GLi'^s Beata Ccelitum ! Aitgnstin. 132 
 
 Quid, Tyranne ! Quid Minaris... " 135 
 
 Jam Mcesta Quiesce Querela.. .Prz/^<?;z//z/^. 137 
 
 De Cruce Christi Fortimatiis. 139 
 
 NuNTiUM VoBis Fero de Supernis . G^/v^*?;'/. 141 
 
 Veni, Sancte Spiritus Robert of Frajice. 142 
 
 Gravi me Terrore Pulsas . .Petrus Damiajii. 144 
 
 Audi, Tellus, Audi Anonymous. 147 
 
 Cur Mundus Mii.it at .Bernard of Clairvaux. 148 
 Ad Cor Christi— Summi Regis Cor, Aveto. 
 
 Bernard of Clairvaux. 1 52 
 
 In Terris Adhuc Positam Abslard. 156 
 
 Hymni Nocturni Abelard. 1 57 
 
 MUNDI Renovatio Adam of St. Victor. 159 
 
 O Esca Viatorum ! Thomas Aquinas. 160 
 
 RecORDARE Sanct.E CruCIS . . .BonaveJitnra. 161 
 
 Omnis Mundi Cry.at\]-ra.. .Alanus Jpisulanus. 164 
 
 Vita Nostra Plena Bellis, " " 167 
 
 All Angels Thomas a Kcinpis. 165 
 
 Antiphona ad Nocturnos Anonymons. 171 
 
 7 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 St. John Evangelist Anonynnons . 172 
 
 Altitudo, Quid Hic Jaces ? " 175 
 
 Parvum Quando Cerno Deum.. " 177 
 
 Pone Luctum Magdalena ! " 179 
 
 O ! Quanta, Qualia Sunt Illa Sabbata. 
 
 Anonymous. 181 
 
 Ave Rosa Spinis Puncta " 185 
 
 In Natali Domini " 184 
 
 Cum Me Tenent Fallacia Alard. 186 
 
 8 
 
THORWALDSEN'S CHRIST. 
 
 THOUGHTFUL stands the gray-haired 
 sculptor, 
 Silent as the silent stone, 
 From the chaos of the marble 
 
 To the living Godhead grown ; 
 But a gloom is on his forehead, 
 
 Pales the fire within his glance, 
 Till at last the brooding sorrow 
 Breaks in sad, high utterance. 
 
 Holy Art ! thy dreams of beauty 
 
 Carved my cunning hand before ; 
 Still above the earth-born image 
 
 Bodiless my thoughts would soar ; 
 Still the pure, unfound Ideal 
 
 Would ensoul a fairer mould : 
 In this faultless work I perish, 
 
 And Thorwaldsen now is old ! 
 9 
 
THOR WA LD SEN' S CHRIS T. 
 
 Noble artist ! thine the yearning, 
 
 Thine the great, creative word, 
 By the wakeful mind forever 
 
 In its nightly watches heard. 
 For the earthly it is pleasure 
 
 Only earthly end to gain ; 
 For the seeker of the Perfect 
 
 To-be satisfied is pain. 
 
 Visions of the unseen glory 
 
 Milton saw in his eclipse, 
 Paradise to outward gazers 
 
 Lost with no apocalypse : 
 Holier Christs and veiled Madonnas 
 
 Painted were on Raphael's soul ; 
 Melodies he could not utter 
 
 O'er Beethoven's ear would roll. 
 
 Ever climbs the high Ideal 
 
 Rosy peaked above our eyes ; 
 Ever near the Happy Islands, 
 
 Shoreless the horizon flies. 
 Not the brimming cups of wisdom 
 
 May the thirsty spirit slake. 
 And the molten gold in pouring 
 
 Will the mould in pieces break. 
 
 ID 
 
THOR IV A LD SEN' S CHRIS T. 
 
 Voice within our inmost being 
 
 Calling deep to answering deep ! 
 Smiting like the morning sunbeam 
 
 On the leaden lids of sleep ! 
 All our joy is in our Future, 
 
 And our march our only rest : 
 Still the True reveals the Truer, 
 
 Still the Good foretells the Best. 
 
 yamcary, 1850. 
 
THE LOST THOUGHT 
 
 IN the soul's morning, when it stood wide 
 open 
 As heaven gate, whence airs breathed dewy 
 
 laden 
 From rosy buds, and fancies, half-fledged an- 
 gels, 
 
 Around it played ; 
 
 Came there a Thought, still floating as the 
 
 twilight. 
 Folding its gracious wing around me, bearing 
 The mind a happy captive in its fetters 
 Of soaring joy. 
 
 In that strange dream faded the world of 
 
 shadows ; 
 And as the seer, caught in unbodied vision, 
 Heard I a music the heart's lips can never 
 Whisper aloud. 
 
 12 
 
THE LOST THOUGHT. 
 
 What was my Thought ? alas ! I know no 
 
 longer ; 
 Only a trackless wonder, come, unstaying ; 
 Only on memory's shifting sand a foot-print 
 Washed by the wave. 
 
 Only I beckon back a gliding spectre ; 
 Only I hear in the still, windless night-time 
 The eternal murmur of a billow, plashing 
 On far-off shores. 
 
 Return'st thou not, O Thought ! O long-lost 
 
 treasure ! 
 Thou Shalt return, when from this sleep-exist- 
 ence 
 We waken, when the sea of Memory 
 Gives up its dead. 
 January', 1849. 
 
 13 
 
REQUIEM. 
 
 LIGHTLY fall ; fall thou ah ! lightly 
 Over the maiden, kind earth ! 
 Never a burthen hath pressed 
 On the white, joy-loving breast. 
 Fresh with the dew of its birth. 
 
 Vex not her sweet sprite with sighing ; 
 
 Why for the happy one weep ? 
 Staining with envious eyes 
 The pillow of green, where she lies 
 
 Smiling in innocent sleep. 
 
 Bloom, ye first buds of the springtide, 
 
 Over the new-scented bed ; 
 Faery cups, wet from the snow, 
 Violets, nestle ye low. 
 
 Close to the slumbering head. 
 
 There from his flowery chalice 
 Sips still the wild honey-bee ; 
 There the red oriole sings. 
 Shaking the drops from his wings, 
 Piping his matins of glee. 
 14 
 
REQUIEM. 
 
 There in soft dream of the morning 
 
 Leans she with half open ear ; 
 Ripples of sunshine she quaffs, 
 Lists when the meadow-brook laughs, 
 Creeping thro' cool mosses near. 
 
 Blossom and song of the woodland, 
 
 These were the faery child's breath ; 
 She is a song ever staying, 
 She a spring bud undecaying ; 
 
 Thou canst not change her, O death ! 
 September, 1847. 
 
 15 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 
 
 'T^HE Old Year's hour is come. In silence 
 -■- kneeling 
 
 I drink its faint, low breath ; 
 As the fond Roman caught the spirit stealing 
 
 In the last kiss of death. 
 
 O, sister ! latest born of our dear mother, 
 
 Bud that half opened hung 
 Fresh with the morning dews, forgive a brother, 
 
 Whose love would keep thee young. 
 
 I see thee woman, yet I strangely linger 
 
 'Midst those green, roseate days, 
 And fain would stay with a regretful finger 
 
 The blooms that seem decays. 
 
 Yet ah! we may not thwart with weak endeavour 
 
 The happy law that binds 
 With life's swift change the beauty ripened 
 ever 
 
 In flower or blossoming minds. 
 i6 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 
 
 O, sister mine ! I cull from caskets olden 
 
 Of weird, sweet histories, 
 A tale, wherein as in a setting golden 
 
 The pearl of wisdom lies. 
 
 In the long twilight of the dreaming ages, 
 
 Where childlike fancy strayed, 
 A fount of youth — so was the lore of sages — 
 
 In some lone earth-nook played. 
 
 Whoe'er those faery waters should discover, 
 
 Bathing wan face and limb, 
 A lean, dry grey-beard, a sad limping lover, 
 
 New life-blood danced in him. 
 
 When the New World burst on old Europe's 
 vision, 
 
 A boundless dreamland rare, 
 That fount of youth, that hidden well Elysian 
 
 They deemed was bubbling there. 
 
 To that sweet shore, whose flowery wilder- 
 nesses 
 Bloom in its gleeful name, 
 Where summer stays the year with fond caresses, 
 A band of pilgrims came. 
 17 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 
 
 Alas ! in dank savannas, poison-laden, 
 
 Full many a seeker lay ; 
 From weary quest to many a woful maiden 
 
 Came back a gallant grey. 
 
 Yet, sister mine ! that legend was no dreaming ; 
 
 Doubt not 'tis wisest sooth ! 
 Though in no spot of earth, yet ever streaming 
 
 Is that lost well of youth. 
 
 Not in the infant smile, the brow unshaded, 
 
 The play of dimpled cheek, 
 But in a deeper life there dwells unfaded 
 
 The childhood that we seek. 
 
 The soul that wears a freshness all unwasting, 
 
 The heart as warm and free 
 As April buds, not earth's mad revels tasting 
 
 To bring satiety. 
 
 The life that garners, in a world of folly. 
 
 The beautiful and pure, 
 
 This, maiden best beloved ! the childhood holy, 
 
 Whose spring-time shall endure. 
 i8 
 
THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 
 
 In those baptismal waters Christ hath sprinkled, 
 
 Forever bathe thy heart, 
 And He shall keep thee spotless and unwrin- 
 kled. 
 
 As now a child thou art. 
 
 Each thought of joy, each guileless recollection 
 
 Shall linger ever near ; 
 And golden cups of hope and bright affection 
 
 Bloom by that fountain clear. 
 
 Still come thy early days, young birds return- 
 ing, 
 Tho' wanderers from the nest. 
 Still homeward look with instinct of glad yearn- 
 ing 
 Toward the motheV breast. 
 
 O, sister! may the children's angels, waiting 
 
 Before the Father's throne. 
 Watch over thee, new, happier years creating, 
 
 When the dear Past is flown. 
 
 New Year's Eve, 
 
 December 31,1 849 . 
 
 19 
 
TWILIGHT ON THE RIVER. 
 
 SEE soft-footed twilight creep 
 Into the bosom of the stream : 
 Breathless the broad shadows sleep ; 
 
 Yonder oaks, in voiceless dream, 
 Bend as with a fond amaze. 
 While another self they see, 
 Silvery leaf and branching tree. 
 Nodding to their nodding gaze : 
 Only o'er them broods the change 
 Of a slumberous beauty strange. 
 
 Silently the wondrous Past 
 Over the shapes of faded life 
 
 Doth his twilight shadows cast ; 
 All its wind-tossed boughs of strife 
 
 Clear reflected here again. 
 Real as in days gone by, 
 But in softened hues they lie ; 
 
 Painless images of pain ; 
 
 Steeped by that unearthly charm 
 
 In a trance of holy calm. 
 20 
 
TWILIGHT ON THE RIVER. 
 
 O sweet world of memories ! 
 
 Gleaming in the peaceful heart ; 
 Passing time the shadow is, 
 
 Thou our real being art ! 
 Loves and joys, tho' seen no more, 
 
 As the sea nymphs in their cave 
 
 In still deeps beneath the wave 
 Builded on the ocean floor. 
 An unwrinkled, ageless race 
 Have their silent dwelling-place. 
 
 Parker River, Newburyport. 
 October, 1850. 
 
 21 
 
THE MINNOW. 
 
 HAIL to thee, brave voyager ! 
 Sea King of this stormless meer ; 
 Pigmy, madcap water sprite, 
 Shooting left and shooting right 
 As an arrow of the sun ; 
 Brimful of thy gushing fun ; 
 Minnow gay, thou art to me 
 A fresh thought, a laugh of glee. 
 Sleepless, limber, frolic thing ! 
 All thy life a gambolling. 
 All thy rest an endless motion 
 In thy small Pacific Ocean. 
 
 Say, thou tiny fish, hast known 
 Of a world beyond thine own ? 
 Haply legend dim and hoar 
 May have reached thine inland shore, 
 Of the monster ships that sail 
 Broad winged in the howling gale ; 
 
 22 
 
TFIE MINNOW. 
 
 Where the huge Leviathan, 
 Kaiser of the tumbling main, 
 Rides amidst his scaly court ; 
 Where the merry sea gods sport ; 
 And in trail of doomed bark 
 Cruiseth keen the pirate shark. 
 
 But, sweet minnow, what are these 
 Save fond, silly fantasies ? 
 Naught for thee hath breath or being, 
 That transcends thy orb of seeing ; 
 All the unknown and the far 
 Uncreated nothings are : 
 Naught to thee doth lie beyond 
 The horizon of thy pond ; 
 'Tis thy vast omovjxhn]^ 
 Bounded by the dark world sea ; 
 For no deeper lore thou carest. 
 Backward, forward ever farest, 
 Save perchance some hardy band 
 Sail for rumoured new-found land, 
 Or a thrice-adventurous Cook 
 Circumnavigate the brook. 
 Never danger, never din. 
 Save when boy with crooked pin 
 23 
 
THE MINNOW. 
 
 Some young Izaak, all untried, 
 Angles by the water side. 
 Naught thou deem'st, unlearned elf, 
 iBigger than thy simple self ; 
 Thou the centre, thou the heart 
 Of the circling system art ; 
 Life for thee has riddles none ; 
 All is daylight and broad sun ; 
 Yesterday nor unborn morrow- 
 Brings a care nor leaves a sorrow ; 
 Haunted thou by no ideal ; 
 Dwellest only in the real, 
 All untinged with hope or fear ; 
 Happiest in thy corner thou ! 
 Thine Eternity is now, 
 And thy universe is here. 
 
 Laughing sage within the brook ! 
 Better from thee than a book 
 I the hints of wisdom gain ; 
 Many a thought for larger brain, 
 Many a truth within whose span 
 Floats the minnow mind of man. 
 That shall make thy silent stream 
 More musical than Academe. 
 
 February, 1 844. 
 
 24 
 
THE CID AND THE LEPER. 
 
 DAWN o'er castled hill-top glances ; 
 Rides Rodrigo of Bivar, 
 'Midst the gleam of twenty lances, 
 
 Flashing as the morning star : 
 To the shrine of Compostella 
 
 Rides, our Lady's grace to gain ; 
 Gentlest heart 'neath stoutest corslet, 
 Soul of chivalry and Spain ! 
 
 See ! a lothely leper lying 
 
 Whelmed within the miry road : 
 * Help, good Christian men, the dying ; 
 
 Help me for the love of God ! ' 
 Spur the knights with idle jeering. 
 
 But Rodrigo stoopeth low ; 
 And the hapless beggar nearing, 
 
 Lifts him to his saddle bow. 
 
 At the hostel board he seats him, 
 
 Crowned with meats and amber wine ; 
 
 And with kindliest welcome greets him ; 
 
 * Taste, my brother, all is thine ! ' 
 25 
 
THE CID AND THE LEPER. 
 
 Chafing like an angry billow, 
 
 From the hall each lordling fares ; 
 
 But Rodrigo spreads the pillow, 
 And the beggar's bed he shares. 
 
 Sleep thou like a child, pure-hearted ! 
 
 But in holy dead of night. 
 Blew a piercing wind ; he started ! 
 
 Lo ! he saw a form in white ! 
 Lifts it o'er him hands caressing, 
 
 Bends a face with winsome smile ; 
 
 * Take thou saintly Lazarus' blessing ; 
 
 I am he, yon leper vile. 
 
 * When this wind blows on thy shoulder, 
 
 Strike, for God shall wield thine arm ! 
 Bold Tizona's blade, but bolder 
 
 Edged by me with saintly charm. 
 Thine, O Cid, the battle holy. 
 
 Thine the Christian palm and song ; 
 For the gentle heart and lowly 
 
 Is the comrade of the strong ! ' 
 
 Eebruary, 1854. 
 
 26 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 ALL day the enamoured sea claspeth the shore 
 With cestus of bright waves ; the frolic 
 
 winds 
 Toy with the half shut lilies, or they creep 
 Thro' haunts of broken gloom, where m3^rtles 
 
 drop 
 Green twilight at hot noon, white altars gleam, 
 The musk rose swings its censer, and the doves 
 Coo to each other, till the drowsy sun 
 Kisses the forehead of yon blushing hill. 
 Then blooms the star of Love ; by silver beach 
 Dances the chariot of the gracious queen, 
 Swan yoked, with wreaths of merry, laughing 
 
 maids, 
 Flecks on the purple tide : and through the 
 
 groves 
 Jet fountains of high song, and winged feet 
 Flash o'er the pansied floor. 
 
 But far within, 
 
 A forest nook there lies, beneath the brow 
 27 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 Of great Olympus nestled. Noisier sound 
 
 Scares not the slumbering woodland, than the. 
 
 laugh 
 
 Of Lycus, babbling o'er his pebbled bed 
 
 To the lush grasses. There in sleepless grief 
 
 Sits young Pygmalion, glory of the art 
 
 That can ensoul the marble : by his side 
 
 Chisel and ivory hammer, careless flung 
 
 Amidst the ashes. Lit the flickering lamp 
 
 The midnight of his face, as th' altar fire 
 
 Glares on the bleeding victim, while the priest 
 
 Uprears his gilded axe. But there above. 
 
 From yonder pedestal one dazzling beam 
 
 Clove as a faulchion thro' the scattered dark ; 
 
 A marble grace, it stood as if a god 
 
 Envious of eating age, that beauty stayed 
 
 In its full opened flower. From fringed shores 
 
 Looked the still lake of her deep eyes, and fell 
 
 The spray of her light tresses ; rose the breast. 
 
 As winds lift softly a round wave that sinks 
 
 To happy sleep again. Upon her brow 
 
 Sate Guilelessness, knowing no blush of shame, 
 
 Covering with awful robe of the white thought 
 
 That unclothed wonder, as the queen of love 
 
 Crowned upon Ida, yet as Pallas girt 
 28 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 With armour of an unveiled chastity. 
 But voiceless as the stone Pygmalion lay ; 
 And if a moment o'er his haggard cheek 
 Stole a quick glance, anon it died away, 
 Moaning along dry lips, and raged within 
 The torrent of his grief, until it brake 
 In a wild wail of speech. 
 
 O empty close ! 
 Sad outcome of my toils ! for in this soul 
 A dream of beauty, an unearthly shape 
 Fadeless has dwelt, and thro' the stainless 
 
 years, 
 Scorning all low-born love, winged by chaste 
 
 hope, 
 Mother of skill, still on the virgin stone 
 Gladsome I wrought, for still by day and night 
 From the rough block looked an immortal eye. 
 And not in vain. Behold the perfect thought. 
 Behold the unseen beauty, worshipped long 
 In my heart's holy caves. But Art, alas ! 
 What see I, clasp I in these arms but stone ? 
 Not life, not love, but only cold, dull stone ; 
 Nor smiles the eye, nor blushes the red wave 
 Through the white veins, nor answer the dumb 
 
 lips 
 
 29 
 
P YGMALION. 
 
 My burning prayer. O fool ! Pygmalion, fool ! 
 Poor worshipper of marble, to forego 
 All nearer joy, cheating thy youth with dreams, 
 To sink an unblessed phantom at the last 
 Into this stony tomb. Speak, cold, dear mouth ! 
 Send from thy icy lids one beam ! In vain. 
 Yet may the gods have pity. Hear, O queen, 
 Smile on thy Cyprus, bend to my great wo ! 
 By my pure hopes, my toils, my sinless love, 
 Breathe on this stone, or let Pygmalion die. 
 For this his triumph is his crown of grief, 
 And death of life. 
 
 He spake, and wildly now, 
 With a last sigh, as when the gasping wind 
 Pours his full voice and falls, he clasped again 
 That lifeless form, when lo ! he started back 
 Shivering with fearful joy : for in his arms 
 Thrilled the cold stone, and a warm throbbing 
 
 pulse 
 Shot through his own ; now heaved the virgin 
 
 breast. 
 And drooped the head as in a new-born dread 
 Within the trembling hands ; the crimson 
 
 stream 
 Darted at one quick bound from the pale brow 
 30 
 
P YGMALION. 
 
 To the blue veinlets of the tiny feet, 
 As in the north upleaps the wizard light 
 In flashing arrows, then a climbing flame 
 Bathes in one swelling flood the joyless skies. 
 Dumb stood Pygmalion there, dumb marble 
 
 now 
 Before the living stone ; a fresh-made shame 
 Bloomed on his forehead, and those eager eyes, 
 Feasting so late on a chill pleasure, dared 
 Snatch only stealthy looks, then turned away 
 Hiding themselves in depths of his great bliss. 
 And through the night rippled a brook-like 
 
 voice : 
 " Take thou, O worshipper, thy guerdon true ; 
 To him who loves chaste Beauty, do the gods 
 Grant Beauty, Love and Life." The whisper 
 
 ebbed. 
 And as a sunbeam from the pillar sank 
 That living marble into living arms. 
 
 O sculptor of sweet Cyprus ! fadeless type 
 Of the creative soul, thy legend strange 
 Whispers to-day as the Dodona leaves 
 Loosed by a wind divine from speaking boughs. 
 For our fresh budding youth is still a dream 
 31 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 Of the unseen, unearthly Good we carve 
 In the white marble of our thought ; but now 
 Faultless it stands before our longing eyes, 
 We clasp it, and alas ! 'tis cold, hard stone. 
 O riddle of all earnest souls ! O life 
 Seeking the True, the Good, the Beautiful, 
 And finding only falsehood, wanton love, 
 And mocking hope : so cometh weariness 
 Of the first visions, till the sickened heart 
 Sinks in despair, or plunges with the herd 
 Into the pools of earth. This is the curse 
 Of time ; a restless, tossing wave 
 Whereon we sail, as the tired seaman sees 
 A sunny glint far o'er the purple waste, 
 A phantom shore, and straight his fancy builds 
 The long-sought wonder of the Happy Isles, 
 Already smells the musky gums and treads 
 O'er the enamelled mead, but nearer now 
 The golden bank melts in a cruel cloud. 
 Above the endless heaven, and all around 
 The endless sea. 
 
 Yet dream thou on, brave heart ! 
 Thy dream is truth. Let the low-thoughted 
 
 world 
 Call these but idle phantoms. Hath the spring 
 32 
 
PYGMALION. 
 
 For naught her dreams ? within her rathe, 
 
 pale bud 
 There lies the golden summer. Tho' the child 
 Become the man, tho' the young callow brood 
 Of fancy change, yet never the pure mind 
 Loses its holy vision. Give me, then, 
 Thy soul, O sculptor, thine unfainting will ! 
 O deathless youth, with all thy heaven of stars, 
 Unquenched, thro' the deep shaft of memory 
 
 seen 
 At noonday ; all thy rainbow hues of hope 
 Arching the fresh, green earth : ye glens, and 
 
 flowers. 
 And song of the first bluebirds, prattling sweet 
 The child's own thought, to me, to me return ! 
 Make me again a glad, immortal child ! 
 Breathe still the early faith, and 'neath the ice 
 Of doubt or care let the warm hidden springs 
 Keep summer at the heart : give me again 
 The dreams from out the ivory gate, again 
 The happy, holy dreams, that are not sleep, 
 But life's true waking. The Eternal Good 
 Waits on the pure : and still the vision pure 
 The high mind shapes shall to full beauty 
 
 grow, 
 And the white marble to a living soul. 
 33 
 
LEAVES. 
 
 AMIDST the wild, bare mountains, 
 Groweth the sacred tree. 
 Upon whose leaves are written 
 The words of mystery. 
 
 From topmost twig are hanging 
 The broad, green tongues divine ; 
 
 On the young shoot thou spellest 
 The faintly graven line. 
 
 I bring the mystic leaflets, 
 
 In dewy freshness now, 
 Close by love's hallowed temple, 
 
 Plucked from the wondrous bough. 
 
 Each hath the magic letters. 
 
 And meaning manifold 
 From the soft, trembling touches 
 
 To the last writing bold. 
 
 O priestess ! thoughtful priestess ! 
 
 Ask thou of Buddha wise. 
 
 Of past, to come, and present. 
 
 What truth within them lies. 
 October, 1852. 
 
 34 
 
THE VISION OF YOUTH. 
 
 VISION of strange beauty, hovering o'er 
 The charmed eyes of the soul, whom I 
 adore 
 With fixed and passionate gazing evermore. 
 
 Thou floatest still across my floating dream, 
 As o'er the wind-tossed grain a waving gleam 
 Doth now a shadow, now a sunshine seem. 
 
 From childhood's dawn, a wondrous presence 
 
 thou 
 Camest unsought, unknown, in manhood now 
 I gaze on the same form, the holy brow. 
 
 Fair art thou, clearly seen as earthly face. 
 Yet an embodied light, a lustrous grace. 
 Whose features I behold, but can not trace. 
 
 I look upon thee in a silent trance ; 
 And on the river of my spirit dance 
 The golden ripples of thy smiling glance. 
 35 
 
THE VISION OF YOUTH. 
 
 Thou seem'st as one, within whose image 
 
 dwell 
 Dear, life-long memories, I know full well ; 
 Yet can I not unfold thy magic spell. 
 
 Sometime, a lone Chaldean, from afar 
 
 I watch thee on thy throne, a distant star ; 
 
 Then thy near rays within me gliding are. 
 
 In joy's full noontide, at the happy hour. 
 When the whole heart lies open to love's 
 
 power, 
 As lies beneath the sun the open flower, 
 
 Then comest thou ! and my glad soul in quest 
 Of thy fresh dawning goes ; upon thy breast 
 Lean I mine own, and feel that I am blest. 
 
 In the dark season of my mournful mood. 
 When sweeps with grisly wings a spectre brood, 
 Making a midnight of my solitude ; 
 
 Then comest thou ! I see in thy soft eyes 
 A glistening tear, and in thy stealing sighs 
 A whispered voice of consolation lies. 
 
THE VISION OF YOUTH. 
 
 As drops upon the grass the soothing rain, 
 Its still, sweet music, so upon my pain 
 Drops thy dear presence, and I breathe again. 
 
 Art thou of earth or heaven ? O love divine. 
 Only I kneel in faith before thy shrine, 
 Only I know in soul that thou art mine. 
 
 Yet ever and anon I hear a tone : — 
 " O restless heart ! thou shalt not be alone. 
 But thy youth's vision soon shall be thine 
 own." 
 January^ 184 1. 
 
THE AURORA. 
 
 REMEMBEREST thou, sweet love, that 
 dream of wonder 
 We saw, lone watching on the starlit ocean, 
 A Northern morning walking on the bosom 
 Of the soft eventide ? 
 
 Low hung the moon, her bashful brow yet 
 fairer 
 
 Thro' thin, transfigured cloud ; a silver}^ shore- 
 line, 
 
 Strange towers 'mid groves of palm, and 
 vapoury hill-tops; 
 
 Sate on the desert sea. 
 
 Now shot from silent deeps a weird light, play- 
 ing 
 As smile o'er parted lips, with winsome dim- 
 pling 
 Round the warm cheek, then madly leaped 
 and kindled 
 
 The high, o'erarching blue. 
 38 
 
THE AURORA. 
 
 Then throbbed that mighty breast with arrowy 
 pulses, 
 
 Bathed the pale forehead in its flood of crim- 
 son, 
 
 And thro' its blushes glowed the Virgin 
 Pleiads, 
 
 As eyes of dancing glee. 
 
 Mingled were sea and heaven, a twin ocean ; 
 Above, the surging, billowy light ; below it, 
 A wave of flame, rushing and melting ever 
 Into one fond embrace. 
 
 O ! happy vision, gleaming still upon me ! 
 
 The image of my love, in thought's pale night- 
 time 
 
 Struggling to life, in faint and quivering 
 flashes 
 
 From the heart's hidden deeps. 
 
 Then brake its rosy fulness o'er my heaven. 
 And thro' the cloud the holy stars looked 
 
 smiling, 
 And met our kindred souls, a mingling tor- 
 rent 
 
 Of light and billowy joy. 
 39 
 
THE AURORA. 
 
 O ! morn new risen on night ! and shalt thou 
 
 vanish 
 From our young life ? only as that dear vision, 
 Shall passion's flush die in the fuller noontide 
 Of Love's undying peace. 
 N 071 ember, 1S51. 
 
 40 
 
LOVE THOU. 
 
 THE heart's answer TO " LOVE NOT.' 
 
 LOVE thou ! love thou ! for born to love 
 thou art : 
 Its mystic ties entwine this life of ours ; 
 And opens to its smiles the yearning heart, 
 As bends towards the light the darkened 
 flowers. 
 
 Love thou ! love thou ! tho' in the mournful 
 tomb 
 
 The frail, decaying forms of joy may lie ; 
 Yet love eternal is ; the nobler bloom 
 
 Of its fresh spring-time wakens not to die. 
 
 Love thou ! love thou ! tho' poured the lavish 
 tide 
 O'er barren sands, thro' doubt, thro' false- 
 hood cling : 
 Sad, sad the spirit in its fountain dried, 
 But holier, purer grows from suffering. 
 41 
 
LOVE THOU. 
 
 Love thou ! love thou ! O voices sweet that 
 roll, 
 
 An angel music trembling on the breeze' 
 From distant shores, ye whisper to the soul, 
 
 Its perfect peace, its endless melodies. 
 
 November, 185 1. 
 
 42 
 
SILENT LOVE. 
 
 TELL me, what yon bright bird dreameth 
 As he sits, with folded wing, 
 And forgets awhile to sing ? 
 Blessed mood of joy ! meseemeth, 
 Wooed by him sweet Silence is 
 To unfold her harmonies. 
 
 Know you, what the fond flower telleth 
 
 To the dew-drop on her breast ? 
 
 She that in her nook of rest 
 Ever meek and quiet dwelleth : 
 
 Ah ! her loving smiles express 
 
 All her silent happiness. 
 
 Know you, what the low wind sigheth 
 
 To the waters of the rill ? 
 
 Hark ! in murmurs soft and still 
 Now the virgin stream replieth. 
 
 These shall teach me, dear, to woo : 
 
 Silence is my song to you. 
 
 November^ 185 1. 
 
 43 
 
THE AIR-PLANT. 
 
 THERE grows a plant in the sunny dell, 
 Hanging with earthless roots and bare, 
 And drinks, a gay, bright miracle. 
 Its nectared life from out the air. 
 
 My heart a happy air-plant is, 
 
 And on love's balmy breath it feeds ; 
 
 Nor coarser soil, nor sweeter bliss 
 Its pure, unearthly being needs. 
 
 Thy wordless thoughts, thy soft, dear sighs, 
 Thy smiles, distilled in silent showers, 
 
 Quaffing in thirsty joy it lies, 
 
 And spreads its rich, fantastic flowers. 
 
 December, 185 1. 
 
 44 
 
SONG. 
 
 "love is blind." 
 
 WHO speaks that slander old, 
 " Love's eyes are dim " ? — 
 A purblind babbler he ! 
 
 Love laughs at him. 
 Keener than Jove's own bird, 
 
 Who heavenward flies, 
 Mocking the shafts of noon, 
 Are Love's bright eyes. 
 
 He sees the soul beneath 
 
 The shews of pride ; 
 Nor robe, nor jewelled wreath 
 
 The churl can hide : 
 He counts gay fashion's face 
 
 But painted dust ; 
 He scorches with a glance 
 
 The leer of lust. 
 
 He scorns the huckster base 
 Who e'er has sold 
 
 45 
 
SONG. 
 
 Fair woman's virgin grace 
 
 For earthly gold : 
 He dowries him with hate, 
 
 The marriage ring 
 He makes a molten death 
 
 To burn and cling. 
 
 He seeth beauty pure, 
 
 That lowly grows, 
 As o'er the cottage porch 
 
 The briar rose : 
 He sees the throbbing hopes, 
 
 Stirring the breast, 
 As new-born birds that chirp 
 
 In one soft nest. 
 
 More than the cold, shrewd brain, 
 
 Shrivelled in youth. 
 He chooseth childhood's mind 
 
 And heart of truth ; 
 More than the monarch's gem, 
 
 To him are dear 
 The blush of one fond cheek, 
 
 One pearly tear. 
 46 
 
SO.VG. 
 
 Who speaks that slander old, 
 
 " Love's eyes are dim " ? 
 A purblind babbler he ! 
 
 Love laughs at him. 
 
 yufy, 1852. 
 
 47 
 
THE TRYSTING-TREE. 
 
 MERRY is the woodland smile 
 With kiss of balmy May ; 
 With jocund breeze, and jocund bird 
 
 On every dancing spray : 
 But sweeter far thy pleasant song 
 
 Than all the wild birds' glee, 
 And greener are thy budding joys, 
 Thou happy trysting-tree ! 
 
 We stood upon the lonely deck ; 
 
 Above the starry deep. 
 Around the calm, blue ocean lay 
 
 Rocked in a dreamy sleep : 
 The low winds murmured thro' the sail, 
 
 The mast hung o'er the sea : 
 And there beneath its shadows dark 
 
 We had our trysting-tree. 
 
 The low winds sang, the waters sighed ; 
 
 One voice alone I heard, 
 
 A music softer to my ear. 
 
 Of one, half-whispered word : 
 48 
 
THE TRYSTING-TREE. 
 
 I pressed to mine thy throbbing heart, 
 
 I felt it beat with me ; 
 I knew thy love, O maiden dear, 
 
 Beneath the trysting-tree. 
 
 Ah ! blessed tree ! thou bloomest gay 
 
 With summer beauty now ; 
 With fullest leaf, and golden fruit 
 
 Upon the naked bough ; 
 And from the holy shade there steals 
 
 A soul-like melody. 
 As still we stand in joy beneath 
 
 The dear loved trysting-tree. 
 November, 1 85 1. 
 
 49 
 
THE MAIDEN'S PRAYER. 
 
 C 'GUARDIAN Powers, that ever dwell 
 ^ Watchful of this sacred well, 
 Whose bright waters give again 
 Health to sickly heart and brain, 
 Hear a hapless maiden's grief ; 
 Grant, O grant, a swift relief, 
 With your potent spells restore 
 My true love to me once more. 
 
 Once he was the gravest sage ; 
 Ever from his earliest age 
 Might his visage be mistaken 
 For a Leibnitz or a Bacon ; 
 Learning dwelt within his looks, 
 Deep as his old parchment books ; 
 And his trivial conversation 
 Was a long and large oration ; 
 Never from his mouth would fall 
 Sentiment and poor romance ; 
 And for love, he scorned it all ; 
 Only studied us, weak creatures, 
 As gay butterflies or plants, 
 In our scientific features. 
 50 
 
THE MAIDEN'S ERA YEE. 
 
 But a change has o'er him passed 
 Since the eve of Friday last : 
 All day long entranced he walks ; 
 In his sleep most strangely talks ; 
 Now he laughs, and now he sings ; 
 Chatters the absurdest things ; 
 Reads no books, but spends his time 
 Weaving namby-pamby rhyme ; 
 Writes a sentimental sonnet 
 To my shoe-string or my bonnet ; 
 Sits and gazes in my eyes. 
 Now he smiles, and then he sighs ; 
 Kisses me till ne'er a skin 
 Lingers on my features thin : 
 Now, perhaps, — the jealous fool ! — he 
 Asks me if I love him truly ; 
 Like a thunder-cloud he'll mutter, 
 Call me false, deceiving, heartless. 
 If to others I should utter 
 Word or smile with freedom artless ; 
 Then as suddenly he's joll)^. 
 As this moment melancholy ; 
 Calls me darling, rosebud, lily, 
 And a hundred names as silly ; 
 Says the same fond things forever, 
 Tedious as he once was clever ; 
 51 
 
THE MAIDEN'S PRA YER. 
 
 In the coldest winter weather 
 Drags me with him hours together, 
 Gazing at the moon perhaps, 
 With most crazy rhapsodies, 
 While I yawn for loss of naps, 
 Or in speechless torment freeze. 
 Vain my crying or complaining ; 
 I've no patience now remaining ; 
 Every day he seems the more 
 Wild and frantic than before. 
 
 Well-a-day ! what damsel e'er 
 
 Had a harder grief to bear? 
 
 Tell me, gracious spirits, tell. 
 
 Is his case incurable ? 
 
 Must I give him up ? Alack ! 
 
 He might prove a maniac. 
 
 And he's dearest to his Fanny, 
 
 Even tho' a "wee uncanny." 
 
 Should I wed him ? marriage might 
 
 Set his addled senses right, 
 
 And a plain domestic diet 
 
 Make him rational and quiet. 
 
 Grant, O healing spirits, grant 
 
 Pity to your suppliant ; 
 
 With your cooling waves recover 
 
 My forlorn and foolish lover. 
 
 November, 185 1. 52 
 
SONG. 
 
 FLY, winged dreams ! 
 Hover, where the lonely maiden 
 On her couch of sorrow lies, 
 With your sweet love-philters laden, 
 
 Softly charm her sleepless eyes : 
 From the earth of heavy care. 
 
 Lifted on your purple wings, 
 To the world of beauty bear. 
 Of bright imaginings ! 
 
 Fly, winged dreams ! 
 Where the unseen morrow dances 
 
 Far upon the shadowy hills ; 
 Breath of flowers and silvery glances 
 
 Waft to her from distant rills ; 
 Flash upon her unveiled sight 
 
 Visions dimmed too long with tears, 
 Glimpses of the cloudless light, 
 Bliss of coming years ! 
 53 
 
SONG. 
 
 Fly, winged dreams ! 
 Drop into her heart, as falleth 
 
 The dew-drop in the sleeping rose : 
 Whisper, as the spring-time calleth 
 
 To the daisy 'neath the snows ; 
 Bathe her in fresh waves of hope 
 
 From the touch of cankering pain ; 
 Then her smiling eyelids ope 
 To glad life again. 
 Fly, winged dreams ! 
 
 Aprii, 1852. 
 
 54 
 
THE PORTRAIT. 
 
 ^'Ays ^GDypaq)ODv apiare. — Anacreon. 
 
 COME, best painter, draw, I pray thee, 
 Her I love, with lifesome art ; 
 I will give thee her sweet image 
 Pictured on my steadfast heart : 
 
 Paint a brow as sun-bright morning 
 
 Lights the pink of Alpine snow : 
 Paint a cheek as fresh-blown rosebud 
 
 With a blushing heart below ; 
 Paint a mouth, within whose dimples 
 
 Mirth and Love together play. 
 As the bees 'mid honeysuckles. 
 
 Singing thro' the gladsome day. 
 
 Next her eyes ;— thy soul, O painter, 
 Into the cunning pencil send : 
 
 Eyes where every changeful feeling 
 In a sweet confusion blend ; 
 
 55 
 
THE PORT R.il r. 
 
 Let them twinkle now as starlight ; 
 
 Then as still, as clear, as deep, 
 As upon soft Como's bosom 
 
 Twilight shadows love to sleep. 
 
 Next, but why ? I see thy pencil 
 
 From the listless fingers fall ! 
 Yes, 'tis true ! no face, no feature 
 
 Have I given thee, friend, at all : 
 Only the fair, inward image ; 
 
 But, good artist, this is she ; 
 Even this embodied beauty. 
 
 Thought and Joy and Purity. 
 
 Ah ! the wizard Love, dear painter. 
 
 His is skill outrunning thine ; 
 He the fairest earthly likeness 
 
 Changes into soul divine. 
 Put away thy needless pencil, 
 
 I have learned more lifesome art ; 
 Let me keep the picture gleaming 
 
 On the canvas of the heart. 
 July, 1852. 
 
 56 
 
THE BANIAN. 
 
 COME dream awhile v/ith me, sweet maid, 
 Under this giant banian's shade ; 
 
 Look how its stately branches bend. 
 Loving, childlike arms that cling. 
 The mother trunk engarlanding. 
 
 Springing, clasping without end. 
 
 And in a pillared temple blend, 
 
 A grey, cloistered solitude. 
 Barred from eye of envious day. 
 Save some tattling sunbeam stray 
 Through the leafy lattice peep ; 
 
 Ever pale green twilights brood. 
 Low winds whisper in their sleep ; 
 
 And we, hermits of the wood. 
 With the still birds have our nest, 
 Folding our wings in voiceless rest. 
 
 So, fond heart, our life shall be 
 This o'er-archmg banian tree ; 
 57 
 
THE BANIAN. 
 
 Every thought, each holy tie, 
 Dropping its lithe, quick root below, 
 Upward a new-born arm shall grow. 
 Until its branching infancy 
 Blossoms to a sacred grove, 
 A Dodona of green love, 
 Where the heart, a priestess, dwells. 
 And every leaf sings oracles. 
 
 There, within our cool retreat, 
 In life's noontide, dear, we'll lie, 
 
 Listening to the busy feet 
 Of the mad world hurrying by : 
 
 Thought profane, nor carking care 
 Ever vex that charmed air. 
 
 Then, as the long twilight holy 
 Of our old age creepeth slowly. 
 
 We the soul of former years 
 Into our magic ring will call ; 
 Blessed memories, one and all ; 
 
 Loves that grew, baptised in tears, 
 Heart buds wet with healing dews ; 
 Pleasures, that as sunset hues 
 Thro' the kindling branches cast 
 Bars of gold along the past : 
 5^ 
 
THE banian: 
 
 Griefs, that bound our souls in one 
 More than all delights have done ; 
 Till our common life shall seem 
 Fairer than a poet's dream ; 
 And as this banian, ever spring 
 In fresh, green boughs o'ershadowing. 
 July, iZc^i. 
 
 59 
 
VOICES OF THE SEA. 
 
 '"pHOU ever-sounding sea ! 
 
 A What say thy billowy voices 
 To the young heart, that in its strength re 
 
 joices 
 Of faith and hope ? We leap with footsteps 
 
 free, 
 Singing unchecked, exultingly 
 By rock-girt cape, or isles 
 Where deathless summer smiles, 
 From shore to passing shore. 
 Evermore — evermore. 
 
 O mighty, tossing breast ! / 
 
 What to the sad soul weary 
 
 Utters thy voice ? We roam a desert dreary, 
 
 Champing th' eternal chain, nor may we rest 
 
 Bv golden islands of the Blest, 
 
 But round the icy pole 
 
 Again our waters roll. 
 
 With loud, coniplaining roar. 
 
 Evermore — evermore. 
 60 
 
VOICES OF THE SEA. 
 
 What say'st, great Ocean, now, 
 
 When after long years lonely 
 
 The yearning soul finds rest? the storm-winds 
 
 only 
 Can vex the changeful face ; but far below 
 Pure and untroubled waters flow ; 
 As God's heart calm and deep, 
 Lieth mine heart asleep ; 
 His peace soft broodeth o'er, 
 Evermore — evermore. 
 
 Ah ! many-voiced main ! 
 
 Thy mirth or moaning madness 
 
 Are but the spirit's own ; in grief and gladness 
 
 She hears her music floating back again ; 
 
 The hills, the varied woodland strain, 
 
 The heaven gay or pale. 
 
 The winds that laugh or wail, 
 
 The same heart's echo pour 
 
 Evermore — evermore. 
 November, 185 1. 
 
 61 
 
THE DESERTED CONVENT. 
 
 THE stately cliff hangs gazing o'er the wave , 
 The wave sings sadly to the pebbled 
 shore, 
 A sleepless ghost, who wanders by the grave, 
 Low moaning for the years that bloom no 
 more. 
 
 A gaunt, grey ruin bend the convent walls ; 
 
 The giant cactus clasps the tottering stone ; 
 With a wan smile the setting sunbeam falls 
 
 Across the moss-grown walk and cloister 
 lone. 
 
 No more are heard, as in the bygone days, 
 The ringing lauds, the aves of sweet prayer ; 
 
 But fitfully the gust of autumn plays, 
 
 And the shrill sea-bird smites the startled 
 air. 
 
 No more, awaked with chime of gladsome 
 
 morn 
 
 The white -robed priest before the altar 
 
 kneels ; 
 
 62 
 
THE DESERTED CONVENT. 
 
 Nor vesper-bell, on quivering breezes borne, 
 As a soft blessing o'er the ocean steals. 
 
 Yet here, amidst these waste, unpeopled cells 
 Linger unseen pale Thought, and holy Dread ; 
 
 Still in her faded home Devotion dwells. 
 To lift a prayer for the forgotten dead. 
 
 Nor let harsh bigotry with angry eyes 
 
 This mouldering tomb of buried years in- 
 vade ; 
 Or the meek heart of piety despise. 
 
 That whilome bloomed beneath the convent 
 shade. 
 
 Dim was the sun that thro' the cloister stole, 
 The glimmering twilight of a truth divine ; 
 
 Yet burned unquenched the taper of the soul, 
 A flame of love that lit the inner shrine. 
 
 Here foreheads, pale with midnight vigil long. 
 Bent o'er the scroll with Austin's wisdom 
 stored ; 
 And here the incense of sweet Ambrose' song 
 Was evermore from golden censers poured. 
 63 
 
THE DESERTED CONVENT. 
 
 Here rested hearts, once crushed with heavy 
 3^ears, 
 Who chose the palm of toil for earthly ease ; 
 These walls were washed with balm of healing 
 tears, 
 And worn the stony floor with bleeding 
 knees. 
 
 Nor scorn, ye madly daring ones who climb 
 Upward to ice-clad, dizzy peaks of fame, 
 
 These lowly souls, tho' no far-soaring rhyme 
 Utter with trumpet peal their hidden name. 
 
 Not theirs the glistering gems that monarchs 
 wear, 
 The blood-flecked laurel, withering with the 
 strife ; 
 Enough for them the daily cross to bear 
 Along the rugged Golgotha of life. 
 
 Not theirs the pride that decked the lowly man 
 In robes of purple, and a mocking crown ; 
 
 That hurled the thunders of the Vatican, 
 And blasted Caesars with one deadly frown. 
 
 Sweeter the song of yonder tinkling brook, 
 
 Than shouts the torrent in his headlong 
 
 path ; 
 
 64 
 
THE DESERTED CONVENT. 
 
 Happier the daisy in her woodland nook, 
 Than giant oak, scarred by the lightning's 
 wrath. 
 
 Call not their little lot a sluggish dream. 
 If from the well-head in the sheltered glen. 
 
 Its bounty stole in many a winding stream 
 To bless green dales, and cottages of men. 
 
 Ah ! well Religion loves the cloister sweet, 
 And while she fares along the dusty way, 
 
 Seeks oft the mountain-top with noiseless feet. 
 Where with the Master she alone may pray. 
 
 Then let the heart of reverence steal around 
 Each spot where'er a saintly soul has trod ; 
 
 Be mine to kneel upon the hallowed ground, 
 And lay fresh roses on the mouldering sod. 
 Macao, 1852. 
 
 65 
 
EASTER ON MOUNT OLIVET. 
 
 \ T morning twilight, when the dreaming soul 
 ^ *- Gropes in the grey of dim and weird-like 
 
 thought, 
 A sweet voice whispered : " Lo ! the Christ 
 
 hath risen. 
 And walks among the Olives." In glad haste, 
 Still through still city, and adown the street 
 Of Sorrows, crept I to the gate, whose stones 
 Yet weep with Stephen's blood. The bearded 
 
 guard 
 Upturned a half-shut eye ; near broken tomb 
 Shivering, a Jewish leper slept. All slept ; 
 Only the wind moaned thro' the hollow gorge, 
 As of a prophet wailing in his grave. 
 And the leaf quivered on the gnarled bough. 
 Ghostlike beside dry Kedron. Up I clomb. 
 And with me clomb the mists, white-winged, 
 
 swift ; 
 Till, gazing from the brow, lo ! a wild sea, 
 They surged above the rock, above the wall 
 
 Of the lost city ; tomb and topmost tree, 
 66 
 
EASTER ON MOUNT OLIVET. 
 
 Sank sudden, hoary mosque and battlement ; 
 And, as the sailor in the stormy trough 
 Sees earth nor heaven, but crested ocean peaks, 
 Swooping upon him, so stood I alone 
 With the drear hilltop and the swallowing mist. 
 When lo ! this music sang : "A little while, 
 And ye shall see me"; then the shaping cloud 
 Seemed struggling to a smile, a deep, soft eye, 
 And brow thorn-crowned, and from each thorny 
 
 edge 
 Trickled a drop of light. " I am," it said, 
 " One who left heaven, when the Christ arose, 
 Wearing, so love I Him, the face He wore, 
 And in his holy foot-prints aye I walk. 
 Till that He come again ! Behold thou now 
 His coming messenger." Thorough the wall 
 Of cloud, a sword of fire, the sunbeam clove ; 
 It smote the hilltop, the grey olives burned 
 As the red bush of Moses, down the slopes 
 Joyous it leaped, till calm it stayed and bathed 
 In wondrous flood the lone Gethsemane. 
 Before me, as the landscape of a dream. 
 Rose up the gleaming mount, and thro' the 
 
 gorge 
 Out to the hollow waste the surly mist 
 67 
 
EA S TER ON MO UNT OLI VE T. 
 
 Fled, as a baffled monster of the sea 
 Back to his caves. 
 
 In dumb, deep joy 
 I drank the vision, when, " Behold again ! " 
 Heard I the bodiless voice. And lo ! no more 
 The grey, old walls, storm riven, and barren 
 
 hills, 
 But in that mystic light a city of God, 
 Unspeakable, e'en by his golden lips 
 Who saw the Bride of Christ, and in his trance 
 Fell words as flashes from the crystal gates, 
 And sunlit ripples of the River of Life. 
 But mine how dumb ! nor can I know or tell 
 The image of my joy : — a melody 
 Dim whispering to me now, as if I stood 
 Upon a lonely shore, and heard afar 
 Snatches of song still billowing on the breeze 
 Over a moonlit sea : — a towering pile. 
 That crumbles at the touch of after-thought, 
 As in the tropic sunset rise afar. 
 Fair golden palaces 'midst groves of palm. 
 Gleaming and gone : — arched court and pin- 
 nacle 
 Of a vast Temple, where yon Paynim mosque 
 Spurns Sion, and a dome dashing its waves 
 68 
 
EA S TER ON MO UN T OLI VE T. 
 
 Of light o'er walls of light : about it walked 
 Forms wonderful ; one with craggy brow 
 Like Sinai, and a veil half lifted up ; 
 A kingly harper chaunting as he went ; 
 An eye from a dark mantle, gazing keen 
 Into the cloud-rift as a written scroll ; 
 A head, grief-whitened, but a crown it shone 
 Of silvery rays ; gently she leaned on him, 
 Who leaned on the Lord's bosom, and with 
 
 these 
 New, starry groups, as when the watcher sails 
 Toward the Southern Cross, in clusters rich 
 As love had blent their torches, and afar 
 Three vapoury piles, that are the golden dust 
 Of starry worlds. 
 
 Then in my waking dream. 
 Sang I this matin song. Shine, Easter Sun, 
 Risen in thy strength ! O City of my God ! 
 Long tombed in mists of sorrow, from the 
 
 mount 
 Where oft those eyes have wept, those blessed 
 
 knees 
 Have knelt, thy morning breaks. O holy hill, 
 Beloved above all hills that climb to heaven, 
 Tho' loftier peaks look snow-clad on the vales 
 
EA S TER ON MO UN T OLI VE T. 
 
 And greener slopes smile joyous, holy thou 
 With memories undying as His Love, 
 Still walking here ; thou, Kedron, who no more 
 Hearest the ripple of thy wave ; ye trees, 
 Gnarled with grey age, bending your loving 
 
 arms 
 Over the garden, ye shall wear the bloom 
 Of Easter morning on this mount of God. 
 Jerusalem, 1S53. 
 
 70 
 
A BUNCH OF FUCUS NATANS, GATH- 
 ERED OFF THE AZORES. 
 
 pOOR weed, that floatest by 
 -■- A pilgrim o'er the desert of the wave ; 
 A lingering bloom, by nature's withered grave 
 Lifting thy smiling eye ! 
 
 No gardens gave thee birth ; 
 Nor knewest thou the happy, woodland bowers, 
 Where sips the honey-bee, and sleep the flowers 
 
 In the green nests of earth. 
 
 Child of the ocean hoar ! 
 Foam-born, thou drinkest at its mighty breast 
 With all thy hanging roots, and without rest 
 
 It rocks thee evermore. 
 
 With the ship-wafting breeze 
 Thou sail'st a mariner to Western isles. 
 By Afric's sands or where the swart sun smiles 
 
 On the gay Caribees. 
 71 
 
A BUNCH OF FUCUS N A TANS. 
 
 Poor weed ! thy presence tells 
 The mystery of Life ; the murmuring tide 
 Of Being, that thro' every channel wide 
 
 Of shoreless Nature swells. 
 
 In the mute sand it sleeps, 
 The peopled water-drop, in winds that bear 
 Germs to the lonely heath, in swarming air ; 
 
 In the vast caverned deeps. 
 
 Where joyous verdure curls 
 Round coral grots, gleaming beneath the sea ; 
 In fields of light, where budding nebulae 
 
 Ripen to starry worlds. 
 
 And what are we, slight thing ! 
 But kindred weeds, upon the tossing stream 
 Of human life, this vexed, half waking dream, 
 
 Forever wandering ? 
 November, 1 851. 
 
 72 
 
WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF LATI- 
 MER'S SERMONS. 
 
 CHIEFTAINS of England's hero race ! whose 
 life 
 VV"restled for Christ, and in the burning flame 
 Walked unconsumed ! Still have we kept 
 your name ; 
 But where the spirit that shall edge our strife ? 
 Within our halls to-day your armour hangs, 
 The rusted pride of the old battle-field, 
 The empty helm, the sleeping spear and 
 shield ; 
 While ever and anon an echo clangs. 
 As if your stalwart hands the war-note pealed, 
 
 Then dies away, a hollow funeral wail. 
 Dwarfs of a little day ! that heavy tnail. 
 That sword of God our lean arms cannot wield, 
 Only we view, awe-struck, the statue vast. 
 And giant thews of a forgotten Past. 
 January, 1850. 
 
 73 
 
OXFORD TRACTS. 
 
 MEDIEVAL sexton, thou 
 Who would'st in decent grave-clothes 
 dress 
 The modern century, that now 
 Exults in savage nakedness : 
 
 Whether to choose, perplexing case ! 
 
 The sans-culotte who shameless stands ; 
 Or mummy, with his yellow face, 
 
 Wrapt in a hundred swathing bands ? 
 
 Thou fool ! who thinkest truth is cant, 
 
 And piety is gown and stole ; 
 What the irreverent times most want, 
 
 Is not a surplice, but a soul. 
 o. I 
 
 74 
 
THE SAGE OF THE POLLEN. 
 
 IN the fine pollen of a flower, that spread 
 Its petals gay o'er a potato-bed, 
 A wondrous insect had his dwelling. 
 Unknown to barbarous men his fame, 
 But world-embracing was his name, 
 If we their glorious insect records grant, 
 As the all-into-nothing crushing Kant, 
 Spinoza, Fichte, Hegel, Schelling. 
 
 ^ons of animalcule ages. 
 So say their great cosmogonies, chronologies, 
 And paleo-entomologies. 
 Had passed since out of Chaos and old night 
 These mighty races sprang at first to light. 
 High bards and heaven-illumined sages 
 Had borne them onward till the earth 
 Saw now its ripe, consummate birth 
 In this divinest of the wise, 
 This prophet of the grand To-be, 
 In whom transcendent truth should rise, 
 Full-orbed upon the animalculae. 
 75 
 
THE SAGE OF THE POLLEN. 
 
 His early infancy the wonder saw 
 
 Hid in the acorn of his soul ; his babble 
 
 Was Orphic wisdom, of idea, law, 
 
 Of pollen-life, and primal flower-stalk ; 
 
 Far from the empty rabble 
 
 Of insect youths, his walk 
 Amidst all philosophic thoughts sublime ; 
 And now at last in wisdom's perfect prime, 
 
 Pupils as Plato's bees, glad hung 
 
 To sip the honey of his tongue. 
 
 '^^ Listen" — he cried — '' O animalculse ! 
 World-atoms of Infinity ! 
 Listen, for I now rehearse 
 The riddle of the universe. 
 Caught by a few, unconscious seers, 
 Dimly thro' the elder years. 
 Ages long our God-born race 
 Hath swarmed this wondrous dwelling-place, 
 Yet have the}^ grovelled for a season, 
 As if creatures of the dust. 
 Not heirs of the Eternal Reason : 
 Centuries of sloth and rust 
 Despotic priest and dogmatist 
 On childish Bible myth insist ; 
 
THE SAGE OF THE POLLEN. 
 
 Nor science with its timorous oar 
 
 Hath sailed beyond the narrow shore, 
 
 Of mysteries ridiculous 
 
 Still prating, occult truth extolling 
 Above our reason ! mysteries to us ! 
 The incarnate world-souls of the pollen ! • 
 
 Away with faded faiths, away ! 
 
 Upon us beams the perfect day. 
 
 Hath not the insect vision trod 
 
 Thro' all nature, spirit, God ? 
 
 Hath not our science now unfurled 
 
 All the mighty pollen world, 
 
 Cycle with epicycle whirled ? 
 
 Our keen Laplaces and Lagranges 
 
 Mapped heaven in ' mecanique celeste ' 
 
 Our gifted Darwins read the changes, 
 
 Since our race killed off the rest ? 
 
 Now waits the world a wisdom yet 
 
 Beyond what all the sages wit. 
 
 Listen ! I drop the riper fruit : 
 
 The one religion absolute ! 
 All things within the ever-shifting whole 
 Are but the reflex of the Eternal Me ; 
 The one, pervading animalcule soul ; 
 All from that full,' unbottomed fountain roll. 
 And back return as rivers to the sea. 
 11 
 
THE SAGE OF THE POLLEN. 
 
 Through each form the Protean God 
 
 Passes from the primal fire ; 
 
 Still from out the heavy clod, 
 
 Thro' all subtle changes higher, 
 
 In the flowering plant ascends, 
 
 In the man he drops the ape, 
 
 Till at last each grosser shape 
 
 In its perfect Typus ends ; 
 And lo ! revealed the Being true we find. 
 The rational, self-conscious insect mind. 
 
 We are the glorious world-flower ; we 
 
 The essence of Divinity ; 
 
 For us the blooming earth is given, 
 
 For us the ever-circling heaven ; 
 
 Onward through the ages vast 
 
 The animalcule soul has passed ; 
 
 Still pour its golden waves along 
 
 Of art, philosophy, and song. 
 
 Till reason gain its holy sway. 
 
 All myths of folly fade away ; 
 Then shall the coming, full-orbed aeon dawn 
 Upon this pollen universe new-born. 
 And each in ripe development shall be 
 A true, incarnate, insect deity." 
 
 January, 1 8 52. 
 
 1^ 
 
THE FRESHET. 
 
 TITET ! wet! wet! 
 VV Chaos old hath come again, 
 
 And the goodly world's upset ! 
 Moist and dry, earth and sky 
 Tumbled, jumbled all together : 
 Who is clerk now of the weather ? 
 Under whose heavy reign are we ? 
 It is, sure, the demons' reign : 
 Pluto, that jailor old, is napping, 
 And the spirits every one 
 Of shower and mist, of spite and fun 
 Are up and out on a jolly lark : 
 Hear them at the chimney, hark ! 
 With their fists of fiendish rapping. 
 Water ! water ! ghost of Pindar, 
 Could'st thou from this dismal window 
 See yon river's mighty piston 
 O'er the streets its deluge fling, 
 Nevermore thy lyre should sing 
 That absurd ''vdcop apiffrovJ^ 
 79 
 
THE FRESHET. 
 
 Rain ! Rain ! 
 Never was such a wondrous May. 
 Venerable Mythos, say, 
 
 Man of 1672, 
 Twin-born of the Charter Oak, 
 Tell us younger Hartford folk, 
 Hast thou seen so moist a fact 
 As this modern cataract ? 
 
 '!Q 7T07101, ai Oily c» q)lv ! 
 In what world, pray, are we thrown ? 
 Call ye this the temperate zone. 
 
 This incorrigible soaker ? 
 No man, but a wet rag am I ! 
 Body and soul have got the cramp ; 
 Boots and coats and spirits damp ; 
 All the starch o' the world is out ; 
 Not a churchman, high and dry. 
 Not remaining a dry joker : 
 All that were so staunch and stout ; 
 None are left, except the sellers 
 Of Macintoshes and umbrellas. 
 
 Rain ! Rain ! 
 
 Never was such a flood before, 
 
 Since that old sea captain Noah 
 
 Built him a safety boat of gopher ! 
 80 
 
THE FRESHET. 
 
 Watchman, on the state-house vane ! 
 Tell us, tell us what o' the night? 
 
 •' I saw the great Connecticut, 
 Swaggering like a tipsy loafer. 
 Tumbling left, and tumbling right, 
 Through the streets of Hartford town ; 
 Storied house and Irish hut 
 Bobbing up and bobbing down. 
 I saw a porpoise smooth his head 
 On Mrs. Jones' best feather-bed ! 
 I saw a babe in a crib of wicker 
 Floating along like infant Moses ; 
 I saw old topers to their noses 
 Steeped in a most unusual liquor : 
 I saw a thousand salt-bags sink, 
 Overcome with mighty drink : 
 I saw the shad up Market Street 
 
 Swimming each on his own hook ; 
 
 I saw a grocer smiling look, 
 
 As he watered his best old brandy-butt 
 
 With the best old Connecticut ; 
 
 I saw a boy on a chimney-top 
 
 Angling over a fruiterer's shop ; 
 
 I saw a parson take his seat, 
 
 Riding all serene and high, 
 8i 
 
THE FRESHET. 
 
 On a barrel of dry discourses, 
 
 The only things that can stay dry : 
 
 Cats and dogs, and men and horses. 
 
 Pots and kettles, neck and neck. 
 
 Sinking, drinking, struggling, bubbling. 
 
 Soaking, choking, splashing, smashing. 
 
 All the world a floating wreck ! 
 
 Woe is me ! I saw and sate 
 
 On my lonely Ararat ; 
 
 And I cried : the demons rain ! 
 
 Chaos and night are come again." 
 
 May, 1856. 
 
 82 
 
HUNGARY. 
 
 AWAKE, strong heart of an insulted earth ! 
 Where sleeps thy manhood at this fearful 
 hour? 
 A hero nation, writhing at its birth. 
 
 Strangled within the coils of brutal Power ! 
 Ah ! shame ! unpitying Europe stands, 
 With coldest glance and folded hands, 
 While on the bloody field pale Hungary lies ; 
 And see ! alas ! with sadly-lingering eyes, 
 As fade their happy plains away, 
 Afar her hunted chieftains stray. 
 With broken swords and broken prayer, 
 Asking of Moslem hearts in their despair 
 The last, poor boon by Christian men denied, 
 A home, a grave, their war-worn heads to hide. 
 
 Not fallen, O noble land ! tho' now 
 Trampled beneath a despot horde ; 
 
 A conqueror in thy suffering thou ! 
 A holier strife than of the sword ! 
 
HUNGAR Y. 
 
 For thee the stars in their high courses fight : 
 
 For thee the hills, the streams, whose ancient 
 might 
 
 Laughs at man's fetters as it seaward rolls ; 
 
 For thee, the hopes, the aims of deathless souls. 
 Rise, Freedom, from the living Past, 
 With all thy sacred legions vast, 
 From Alpine heights, from stormy coast 
 Of the long ages, see ! they march. 
 
 Hear ye the voice, ye crowned traitors, hear, 
 
 And tremble, for it bodes your judgment-day ! 
 That word, once breathed upon the atmosphere 
 Of living men, shall never pass away. 
 Whispered by some weak lip, now dumb, 
 It echoes thro' the years to come ; 
 Onward it rolls, yet louder, louder wakes 
 The mighty music, till at last it breaks 
 
 In volleying thunders ; wild and deep 
 Tosses the surge o'er cliffs of wrong ; 
 A startled nation in its sleep 
 Listens and knows the stern, prophetic song. 
 The tyrants' death-knell, the last trumpet peal; 
 Lifts its glad head and shakes the avenging 
 steel. 
 
 84 
 
HUNGAR y. 
 
 Joy, patriot chiefs ! for souls so great 
 
 No idle tears to-day we shed ; 
 Ye are no broken tools of Fate ; 
 Rejoice, for Freedom is not dead ! 
 
 A life eternal she within her bears ; 
 
 Hers is no exile, but where'er she fares, 
 
 All climes, all noble spirits are her home. 
 
 And still, tho' far your toil-worn feet may roam, 
 Walks Hungary with uplifted eyes, 
 Still to your hero ears she sings 
 The chaunt of her high destinies ; 
 
 A glorious rest after long wanderings ; 
 
 A nation yet to be ; tho' banished now. 
 
 Wearing her crown upon her queenly brow. 
 
 85 
 
THE CENTURY FLOWER. 
 
 '''T^IS holy night I in slumber pale 
 
 -■- The dreaminof soul of nature lies : 
 Now lifts the flower its mystic veil, 
 
 And flashes morning from its eyes. 
 A hundred years of waning earth ! 
 
 Of frost and sunbeam, blight and bloom ; 
 And man, who saw its infant birth, 
 
 A frailer flower, has sought the tomb. 
 
 A hundred years ! what empires sped 
 
 As eddies on the whirling tide ! 
 Lands ruled beneath Napoleon's tread, 
 
 And greater Goethe sang and died. 
 Yet dumb, in shadowy stillness strange. 
 
 Its fringed eyelids wait the hour ; 
 Till ripening thro' each mighty change. 
 
 It blooms. Time's rich, full-opened flower. 
 
 A hundred years ! the soul of truth 
 Has fettered lain in death-like rest, 
 86 
 
THE CENTURY FLOWER. 
 
 Yet lives a Thought, its budding youth 
 Wrapt in some holy prophet's breast. 
 
 It dawns ! the spell of ages breaks ; 
 Stately it towers o'er barren men, 
 
 A world of perfumed beauty wakes, 
 Then drops its seed, to rise again. 
 
 1848. 
 
 A hundred years ! our fathers lie 
 
 Calm sleeping on the field of toil ; 
 We build, we drive the plowshare by, 
 
 Heedless of aught beneath the soil. 
 Silent thro' day, thro' lingering night 
 
 Still grew the bud : — but see ! the morn ! 
 See ! burst the glorious petals white, 
 
 And Freedom's Century Flower is born. 
 
 April, 1864. 
 
 87 
 
THE BURIAL AT GETTYSBURG. 
 
 A VOICE as of the ocean surge ! 
 I see a mighty nation tread, 
 With banners drooped and funeral dirge 
 
 Within the city of the dead. 
 On yonder slope but yesterday 
 
 Clashed steel with steel, and breast with 
 breast ; 
 And tossed the battle's blood-red spray 
 O'er hosts who now in silence rest. 
 
 Kneel, mother land, in broken prayer, 
 
 To kiss the dear, the holy ground ! 
 See strong men weep like children there. 
 
 Spelling in vain each nameless mound. 
 And far, by Erie's waters deep. 
 
 Or in the solemn woods of Maine, 
 The gray sire dreams in troubled sleep 
 
 Of one who comes not home again. 
 
 Sword of the Lord ! — the bitter cry 
 
 From many a bleeding wound shall start — 
 
THE BURIAL AT GETTYSBURG. 
 
 Rest in thy scabbard, rest ! ah no ! 
 
 False sons have stabbed a mother's heart. 
 As breaks the thunders' gathered roar, 
 
 I hear, I hear a people's cry 
 From stormy cliff and sounding shore — 
 
 No peace, no peace till Treason die. 
 
 No ! by the sacred toils of all 
 
 Who laid with no cement but truth 
 The stones of our Cyclopean wall : 
 
 No ! by the hopes of giant youth ! 
 No ! by the red blood crime hath spilt : 
 
 No ! by this heirdom of the free ! 
 Bare the bright sword ; swear on the hilt, 
 
 These years of wrong no more shall be. 
 
 Chaunt ye not now the requiem sad : 
 
 Lift ye the war-song, clear and high ! 
 Sing, till it stir the sleepers glad, 
 
 Who 'neath these crowded hillocks lie. 
 Sing, mother land ! ye peaks that bloom 
 
 With wreaths of the eternal snow ! 
 Ye primal forests, in whose womb 
 
 Navies of oak and iron grow ! 
 
THE BURIAL AT GETTYSBURG. 
 
 Ye prairies, rich with nobler grains 
 
 Of bearded men, of free-born sons ! 
 And thou, great river, thro' whose veins 
 
 The life-blood of our heroes runs ; 
 More than the yellow Tiber's wave, 
 
 Thy banks shall gleam with deathless fame ; 
 Sing with thy torrents, of the brave. 
 
 Who died to keep a nation's spotless name. 
 
 Dece??iber, 1863. 
 
 90 
 
THE AFRICAN COLOUR-SERGEANT. 
 
 GLARES the volcano-breath ; 
 Pours the red sea of death 
 From Wagner's yawning hold, 
 On the besiegers bold. 
 Twice vain the wild attack, 
 
 Inch by inch, stern and slow. 
 Fights the torn remnant back, 
 Face to the foe. 
 
 Yet free the colours wave. 
 Borne by yon Afric brave. 
 
 Above the storm-blast higher ; 
 
 But ah ! that flashing fire ! 
 He sinks — the banner falls 
 
 From the faint, mangled limb ; 
 And droop to mocking walls 
 The star folds dim ! 
 
 Stay, stay the taunting laugh : 
 See ! now he lifts the staff, 
 91 
 
THE AFRICAN COLOUR-SERGEANT. 
 
 Clenched in his close-shut teeth ; 
 Crawls from red heaps beneath, 
 Crowned with his starr}^ robe, 
 Till he the ranks has found : — 
 " Comrades ! the dear old flag 
 
 ^ Ne'er touched the ground." 
 
 O deed, so pure, so grand, 
 Sidney might clasp thy hand ! 
 O brother ! black thy skin, 
 But white the pearl within ! 
 Man ! who to lift thy race, 
 
 Worthy, thrice worthy art : 
 Clasps thee in warm embrace 
 A nation's heart. 
 December^ 1863. 
 
 92 
 
THE BATTLE OF THE DEAD CID. 
 
 [From the " Cronica del Cid."] 
 
 SILENT sleeps the tented city ; only rings 
 the sentry's tread : 
 Stand I long in frosty starlight, dreaming back 
 
 the stately dead : 
 And I cry with restless longing — Might to-day 
 
 some elder ghost, 
 From the cloudland of the heroes wake to lead 
 
 the bannered host ! 
 Then as clang of answering trumpet, thro' the 
 
 hollow gorge of yore, 
 Comes the legend of the battle, of the dead 
 
 Campeador. 
 Woe the day for thee, Valencia ! Close the 
 
 Moorish pennons fly, 
 As the white -caps of the billows, when the 
 
 storm-wind dashes high : 
 In his gilded mail, King Bucar 'mid his 
 
 swarthy thousands lay. 
 And he laughs, in dreams of triumph, at the 
 
 breaking of the day. 
 93 
 
THE BA TTLE OF THE DEAD CID. 
 
 But no sleep is in the city ; thro' the street 
 
 stole faces white ; 
 At St. Mary's half-lit altar, masses wailed that 
 
 sable night : 
 There were prayers upon the cross-hilt ; women 
 
 knelt in moaning fear, 
 For the Cid, the sword of battle, lay in silence 
 
 on the bier. 
 Then his parting word they whispered, " Tell 
 
 ye none that I am dead. 
 Place me upright in the saddle, wave the ban- 
 ner o'er my head ; 
 Ride ye forth, my brave Bermudez ; ride ye 
 
 dauntless, for I wis 
 I shall win my stoutest battle, God the mor- 
 row, grants me this." 
 In his ivory chair they found him : all in 
 
 silence gazed and feared ; 
 Shot his starry eyes, wide open, from above the 
 
 snowy beard ; 
 Firm his flesh and passing comely, by the 
 
 Soldan's balsam kept ; 
 And the hero smiled as when a victor on the 
 
 bloody field he slept. 
 Then in sendal green they robed him ; on the 
 
 burnished cresses prest ; 
 94 
 
THE BA TTLE OF THE DEAD CTD. 
 
 Rich he shone in blazoned surcoat, and the 
 
 red cross on his breast ; 
 On his head a parchment helmet, cunning 
 
 veined like gleaming steel : 
 God ! a conqueror undying, rose my Cid from 
 
 head to heel ! 
 Joyous danced the ancient banner, joyous 
 
 Bavieca neighed. 
 And the darkling path was lighted by Tizona's 
 
 flashing blade. 
 Silent mount the knights around him ; through 
 
 Valencia's gate they stream ; 
 Silent where the white tents glisten, sweeping 
 
 like a ghastly dream ; 
 Silent as the frost of midnight falls upon the 
 
 flowery brake : 
 Hark the tambour ! hark the terror ! 'tis the 
 
 Cid ! the Cid ! awake ! 
 Vainly leaps the maddened Bucar : vain the 
 
 awe-struck army flies : 
 Thro' the morning mists as sunbeams, smite 
 
 those stern, pursuing eyes ; 
 And beside him, lo ! a chieftain on a snow- 
 white charger came, 
 In his hand a snow-white banner, and a sword 
 
 of scorching flame. 
 95 
 
THE BA TTLE OF THE DEAD CID. 
 
 Santiago ! Santiago ! lo ! the glorious day is 
 
 won ! 
 On the drifting wreck of battle bursts the red, 
 
 exulting sun ! 
 Gold and jewels, tents and corpses : — and afar 
 
 King Bucar's pride, 
 As a flock of screaming sea-gulls, dips below 
 
 the ebbing tide ! 
 
 Lift thy lids to-day, Mount Vernon ! where our 
 
 Greatest rests no more ; 
 But within his marble coffin, starts to hear the 
 
 cannon's roar ; 
 Dreams he of his broken country, dreams he 
 
 in heroic pain : 
 And methinks his voice is calling : — Raise my 
 
 palsied bones again : 
 Plant me upright in the saddle, bare the sword 
 
 within my hand ; 
 Let these ashes lead the battle, to redeem a 
 
 noble land ! 
 O ! my country ! God thro' trial bring the man 
 
 as pure, as strong ! 
 
 O ! blind giant, shorn and fettered by thy little 
 
 masters long ! 
 
 96 
 
THE BA TTLE OF THE DEAD CID. 
 
 Grinding still for greedy factions, groping dim 
 
 thro' years of sleep ; 
 Long enow the lazy currents in thy drowsy 
 
 veinlets creep ; 
 Long enow thine iron manhood eaten hangs 
 
 by selfish rust ; 
 Wake again that mighty spirit ! stand erect 
 
 that hero dust ! 
 For a hundred living pigmies not to-day shall 
 
 victory v/in, 
 As a hero's parchment helmet, with a hero's 
 
 soul within ! 
 
 March, 1864. 
 
 97 
 
THE GRASS-GROWN RAMPART. 
 
 STAND with me on this grassy mound ; 
 A battle-field, a bloody grave ! 
 To-day the nodding harvests wave 
 Their mimic banners o'er the ground. 
 
 See ! in yon trench, whose broken crest 
 Sank 'neath the angry cannon wheel, 
 A troop of conquering daisies steal, 
 
 And on the very summit rest. 
 
 And on this slope, where thickest fell 
 The rain of death that stormy day, 
 I see the laughing children play 
 
 With fragments of a rusty shell. 
 
 Long mused I there. Within my ear 
 Rang thy sad voice, O gentle Lord ! 
 " Not peace, I come to bring a sword ": 
 But now I read their meaning clear. 
 
 No Peace, till Thy cause conquereth ; 
 
 No peace on earth, till Wrong and Right 
 98 
 
THE GRA SS- GR WN RA MP A R T. 
 
 Have wrestled in their mortal fight ; 
 Then peace from war, then life from death ! 
 
 Stand on the battle-field of thought ! 
 A lurid waste, and through the strife 
 Now truth, now error ; a great life 
 
 Torn headlong, vanishing in naught. 
 
 Vain sceptic ! never truth has died ; 
 No Saviour who himself could save. 
 Yet every victim from the grave 
 
 Breaks like the Master glorified. 
 
 Welcome the battle ! Earth-born lies 
 
 Arm still their crowned and mitred powers. 
 Let God take care of peace. Be ours 
 
 The tears of blood, the sacrifice. 
 
 Rest never ! Let mine heart repeat 
 
 Thy cry, brave Arnauld ! " Have I not 
 Eternity to rest in ?" What 
 
 Repose like this, well-learned and sweet ? 
 
 So God sends peace. New harvests bloom 
 Out of our sweat, our pain, our toil, 
 Flowers nestle in the furrowed soil, 
 
 And children play on our green tomb. 
 i86g. p9 
 
GUISEPPE MAZZINI. 
 
 R 
 
 EST, fiery heart, at length ! 
 Roman of elder race, thy life-blood poured 
 For the pure commonweal, thy dying strength 
 Grasping the broken sword ! 
 
 A gre3^-haired dreamer still 
 In a changed world ; grave, proud and passion- 
 ate, 
 Steel eating out its scabbard ; Titan will 
 
 Sternly defying fate. 
 
 Yet in thy visions high, 
 Like all great dreamers, hast thou kept the faith 
 Of virgin youth in God, in liberty 
 
 'Mid dungeon walls or death. 
 
 While foreign gamesters played 
 For thy fair Italy ; and priestly ban 
 Palsied her sons, and a crowned phantom 
 swayed 
 
 The Christian Vatican, 
 
 lOO 
 
GUI SEP PE MAZZINI, 
 
 Thine the unfaltering voice 
 Of Rome's last freeman. Let a conquering 
 
 might 
 Bribe all the gods to silence ; Cato's choice 
 Be with the conquered Right ! 
 
 Thy doom an exile sore, 
 With Dante "climbing up another's stairs," 
 Yet Rome thy Holy Land, Rome evermore 
 The temple of thy prayers. 
 
 Peace, weary heart ! not vain 
 That dream of waiting manhood, withering 
 
 years ; 
 It comes, the fruit of all heroic pain, 
 Of toil and bloody tears. 
 
 Ah yes ! some happier day 
 Shall a fond people bear thine ashes home, 
 To hoard them in its urn, and proudly lay 
 Within a new-born Rome, 
 
 Where ! 'neath the Palatine 
 
 Breaks the primeval city from its graves, 
 
 And its immortals wake to hail the line 
 
 Of sons no longer slaves ! 
 March, 1872. 
 
 lOI 
 
1875. 
 
 TWELVE ! on the midnight silence ' 
 Smites slow the drowsing bell, 
 As if God's hand were tolling 
 The dead world's funeral. 
 
 I sate in my empty study 
 
 And gazed in the flickering fire, 
 
 As from the floor to the ceiling 
 Climb the tall shadows higher. 
 
 And as to the scared Eelshazzar, 
 
 A phantom finger came, 
 And traced on the wall before me 
 
 Figures of cloudy flame. 
 
 Methinks in the changing picture 
 
 Faces I knew appear ; 
 And each in the still procession 
 
 Turns as he passes near. 
 
 I see the Past sweep o'er me, 
 As to the drowning man 
 102 
 
i875- 
 
 The whirling years are gathered 
 Within a moment's span. 
 
 Yes ! 'tis my youth's bright pla3^mates 
 Who laughed in the sunrise rays ; 
 
 Long, long ago they vanished 
 At the parting of the ways. 
 
 Now lo ! as the frost of night-time 
 Shrivels the glancing dew, 
 
 Change they to palsied grey-beards, 
 A lean and ghastly crew ! 
 
 See ! one in childhood singing 
 
 A lark in upper sky, 
 With chains of gold now fettered, 
 
 A slave he totters by. 
 
 Here one, a gay, bold athlete. 
 Crawls on with gouty limb, 
 
 And the coals of wasting passion 
 Glare in those ashes dim. 
 
 And there a dear loved maiden 
 Creeps now a wrinkled crone, 
 
 Thro' her painted mask is looking 
 An eye of soulless stone. 
 103 
 
i875. 
 
 See one, whose skinny fingers 
 Clutch at a laurel crown ; 
 
 In bitter rage he grasps it 
 
 But drop the handfuls brown. 
 
 See ! there that fleshless spectre, 
 Eyes from the sockets gone. 
 
 Wears his bare skull a mitre 
 And flaunts the Bishop's lawn. 
 
 And from his tongue long palsied. 
 As he drones his dreary prayer, 
 
 A slimy snake creeps coiling 
 About his thin, white hair 
 
 What are ye, grisly phantoms, 
 That o'er my memory stream ? 
 
 Where is the thoughtful prophet 
 To read my bodeful dream ? 
 
 What are ye, grisly phantoms ? 
 
 Then as the autumn blast 
 An angry wail came shrieking, 
 
 "Ghosts of the vanished Past.'* 
 
 Then sank that fiery horror 
 
 Within the ashes cold ; 
 104 
 
i875. 
 
 And lo ! on the soft, fair radiance 
 New faces I behold. 
 
 I see the pale-browed scholar, 
 
 Who has worshipped God's own truth^ 
 Brave souls, who had not bartered 
 
 For gold their golden youth. 
 
 I see the meek, true comrades, 
 Who bore the scars of strife ; 
 
 The pinching want, the sorrows, 
 The thankless loads of life. 
 
 Methinks, as in Giotto's pictures 
 Those lights of evening play, 
 
 As a halo of gold and crimson, 
 Around their foreheads grey. 
 
 Methinks in the magic firelight 
 As the youths of old they trod, 
 
 And there was walking with them 
 One like a Son of God. 
 
 And a soft voice murmured o'er me 
 
 Like the Old Year's passing breath, 
 
 "The unseen is eternal ; 
 
 Its years can know no death." 
 105 
 
CAROLS 
 
CHRISTMAS. 
 
 RING out the bells for Christmas ! 
 The happy, happy day ! 
 In winter wild, the Holy Child 
 
 Within the cradle lay ; 
 Oh, wonderful ! the Saviour 
 
 Is in a manger lone ; 
 His palace is a stable, 
 
 And Mary's arms His throne. 
 
 On Bethlehem's quiet hillside. 
 
 In ages long gone by, 
 In angel notes the Glory floats, 
 
 Glory to God on high ! 
 Yet wakes the sun as joyous 
 
 As when the Lord was born. 
 And still He comes to greet you 
 
 On every Christmas morn. 
 
 Where'er His sweet lambs gather 
 
 Within this gentle fold, 
 
 The Saviour dear is waiting near, 
 
 As in the days of old : 
 109 
 
CHRISTMAS, 
 
 In each young heart you see Him 
 
 In every guileless face, 
 You see the Holy Jesus, 
 
 Who grew in truth and grace. 
 
 In many a darksome cottage. 
 
 In many a crowded street, 
 In winter bleak, with shivering cheek 
 
 The homeless child you meet ; 
 Gaze on the pale, wan features. 
 
 The feet with wandering sore. 
 You see the souls He loveth, 
 
 The Christ-child at the door. 
 
 Then sing your gladsome carols. 
 
 And hail the new-born sun ; 
 For Christmas light is passing bright, 
 
 It smiles on every one. 
 Aud feast Christ's little children, 
 
 His poor. His orphan call ; 
 For He who chose the manger. 
 
 He loveth one and all. 
 
 1861. 
 
CHRISTMAS. 
 
 SOFTLY the night is sleeping 
 On Bethlehem's peaceful hill ; 
 Silent the shepherds watching, 
 
 The gentle flocks are still. 
 But, hark ! the wondrous music 
 
 Falls from the opening sky ; 
 Valley and cliff re-echo, 
 
 Glory to God on high ! 
 Glory to God ! it rings again : 
 Peace on the earth, good-will to men ! 
 
 Day in the East is breaking ; 
 
 Day o'er the crimsoned earth ; 
 Now the glad world is waking. 
 
 Glad in the Saviour's birth ! 
 See, where the clear star bendeth 
 
 Above the manger blest ; 
 See, where the infant Jesus 
 
 Smiles upon Mary's breast. 
 Glory to God ! we hear again : 
 Peace on the earth, good-will to men ! 
 Ill 
 
CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Come with the gladsome shepherds, 
 
 Quick hastening from the fold ; 
 Come with the wise men pouring 
 
 Incense and myrrh and gold : 
 Come to Him, poor and lowly, 
 
 Around the cradle throng ; 
 Come with your hearts of sunshine, 
 
 And sing the angels' song. 
 Glory to God ! tell out again : 
 Peace on the earth, good-will to men ! 
 
 Wave ye the wreaths unfading, 
 
 The fir-tree and the pine, 
 Green from the snows of winter. 
 
 To deck the holy shrine ; 
 Bring ye the happy children ! 
 
 For this is Christmas morn ; 
 Jesus, the sinless Infant, 
 
 Jesus, the Lord, is born. 
 
 Glory to God, to God again : 
 
 Peace, peace on earth, good-will to men ! 
 
 1861. 
 
 112 
 
EASTER. 
 
 JOY to the World ! fresh joy 
 Dawns on its second birth ; 
 And with the Risen Lord 
 Rises again the earth ! 
 All things Thy power obey, 
 Victor divine o'er death ! 
 All hail Thy holy day 
 With living breath. 
 
 Now heaven is passing fair ; 
 
 Calmer the restless main ; 
 More softly steals the air 
 
 Over the smiling plain ; 
 Each withered flower awakes 
 
 From winter sleep to bloom, 
 Each gladsome torrent breaks 
 
 Its icy tom.b. 
 
 Life conquers death ! Arise, 
 
 O race of ransomed men ! 
 
 113 
 
1869. 
 
 EASTER. 
 
 Your long-lost Paradise 
 Opens in joy again ; 
 
 See ! where the living Lord 
 Stands at the happy door ; 
 
 The cherubs' flaming sword 
 Guards it no more. 
 
 114 
 
EASTER. 
 
 C^HRIST hath arisen ! 
 ^ Death is no more ! 
 Lo the white-robed ones 
 
 Sit by the door. 
 Dawn, golden morning, 
 
 Scatter the night ! 
 Haste, ye disciples glad, 
 First with the light. 
 
 Break forth in singing, 
 
 O world new-born ! 
 Chaunt the great Easter-tide, 
 
 Christ's holy morn. 
 Chaunt Him, young sunbeams, 
 
 Dancing in mirth ! 
 Chaunt, all ye winds of God 
 
 Coursing the Earth ! 
 
 Chaunt Him, 3^e laughing flowers, 
 Fresh from the sod ; 
 115 
 
i86i. 
 
 RASTER. 
 
 Chaunt Him, wild leaping streams, 
 
 Praising your God ! 
 Break from thy v/inter, 
 
 Sad heart, and sing ! 
 Bud with thy blossoms fair ; 
 
 Christ is thy spring. 
 
 Come where the Lord hath lain, 
 
 Past is the gloom : 
 See the full eye of day 
 
 Smile through the tomb. 
 Hark ! angel voices 
 
 Fall from the skies : . 
 Christ hath arisen, 
 
 Glad heart, arise ! 
 ii6 
 
EASTER CAROL. 
 
 WAKE to-day, ye gladsome voices ! 
 Wake the song that angels sing ; 
 Heaven is bright, and earth rejoices ; 
 Christ is risen, the Lord and King ! 
 Roll away the stone that bound Him ; 
 Lift your heads, ye gates of gloom. 
 See the shining ones around Him ; 
 Morning floods the empty tomb. 
 
 See ! He opes the heavenly city ; 
 
 There the Lamb is all the light ; 
 See the walls of gleaming jasper ; 
 
 There is day that hath no night. 
 There no sickness is nor dying. 
 
 Fadeless flower the blissful years ; 
 There no more of pain or crying, 
 
 God shall wipe away the tears. 
 
 From the throne a crystal river 
 
 Doth through greenest meadows glide ; 
 117 
 
EASTER CAROL. 
 
 'Neath the tree of life forever 
 
 Walks the Lord, His saints beside : 
 
 Ended all their cares, their trials, 
 Robes of spotless white they wear ; 
 
 Ever from their golden vials 
 
 Rise the odours sweet of prayer. 
 
 Now before Him bend they lowly ; 
 
 Now the song of love they pour, 
 Saying, Holy ! Holy ! Holy ! 
 
 Lord and Saviour evermore ! 
 Ring ye out that hymn unending, 
 
 Roll, ye angel tides, along ; 
 Earth to-day with )^ou is blending 
 
 In one wave of joyous song. 
 1862. 
 
 118 
 
SPANISH HYMN. 
 
 [From the Hymnal of the " Iglesia de Jesus." Mexico.] 
 
 WHY leavest Thou Thy sheep, 
 Good shepherd ! 'mid this darkling 
 vale forlorn, 
 In loneliness to weep? 
 And Thou thro' aether borne, 
 Afar to the immortal rest art gone ? 
 
 What can these rapt eyes see 
 On which the beauty of Thy face has shone, 
 
 That shall not joyless be ? 
 
 Who Thy sweet voice has known, 
 To him all else has deaf and tuneless grown. 
 
 Upon these tossing seas 
 Who shall the bridle lay ? whose hand beside 
 
 Stay the mad, angry breeze ? 
 
 If Thou Thy presence hide, 
 What pilot else to the fair haven guide ? 
 119 
 
SPANISH HYMN. 
 
 Ah ! envious cloud, ah ! why 
 Canst thou our short-lived joy so soon betray? 
 
 Ah ! whither wilt thou fly ? 
 
 What wealth thou bear'st away ; 
 How blind, how poor, we who behind thee stay ! 
 
 20 
 
ANCIENT CHRISTIAN HYMNS, 
 
CHILDREN IN PARADISE. 
 
 PRAISE to Thee, O God our Father, 
 From the mouths of babes shall flow 
 Who in greenest fields of heaven 
 As the spotless Lambkins grow. 
 
 By the Spirit's voice aye guided 
 'Neath the trees of life they feed : 
 
 Gabriel, the angel shepherd, 
 Doth the flock forever lead. 
 
 High are they and passing lovely 
 More than saints or virgin host : 
 
 Children of our God the dearest, 
 Nurslings of the Holy Ghost. 
 
 Heavenly playmates, there they mingle 
 
 Happy with the Sons of Light : 
 
 Dwellers of the sinless city. 
 
 Far from this sad world of night. 
 123 
 
CHILDREN IN PAR'ADISE. 
 
 At the blessed Easter's daybreak 
 Newly clad they wake to mirth, 
 
 Now for them their happy freedom 
 Darkened by no stains of earth. 
 
 Short below life's little morning, 
 
 For they live in Eden fair ; 
 Ah ! our old hearts yearn how fondly 
 
 Soon again to find them there. 
 1863. St. Ephraim (Syriac), 
 
 [From the German version of Zwingli, 
 
 124 
 
LUCIS LARGITOR SPLENDIDE. 
 
 ALL-GLORIOUS Giver of the light, 
 In whose unclouded ray, 
 After the shadows of the night, 
 Blooms the new-risen day ! 
 
 Thou art the world's true morning-star, 
 
 Not he, that lesser one, 
 Twinkling a feeble speck afar, 
 
 Pale herald of the sun. 
 
 O brighter than the noontide gleam ; 
 
 Day, sun full-orbed Thou art, 
 Piercing with Thine eternal beam 
 
 The cloisters of the heart. 
 
 Builder of living worlds, draw nigh ! 
 
 Smile of the Father's face ; 
 Our happy souls wide open lie 
 
 To Thy soft-coming grace. 
 
 Filled with Thy Spirit, may we keep 
 
 God's presence aye within ; 
 125 
 
LUCIS LARGITOR SPLENDIDE. 
 
 Nor through these hallowed portals creep 
 The stealthy feet of sin. 
 
 Amidst thick-coming cares, that fill 
 
 The hours of daily time, 
 Our law shall be Thy perfect will, 
 
 Our conscience clear of crime ! 
 
 With virgin shame may the chaste mind 
 Our earth-born passions chain ; 
 
 And in this body, pure enshrined, 
 The Holy Ghost remain. 
 
 Be this glad hope our matin song. 
 
 This, Lord, our sacrifice ! 
 O morning light, through midnight long 
 
 Watch with unsleeping eyes ! 
 
 Hilary. 
 
 1859. 
 
 126 
 
BEATA NOBIS GAUDIA. 
 
 GLADSOME feast ! of all most dear, 
 Circling with the sacred year ; 
 When upon the waiting host 
 Burning fell the Holy Ghost. 
 
 Quivering like a cloven tongue, 
 Heavenly light above them hung ; 
 On their lips a word it came, 
 In their hearts a living flame. 
 
 Now in every voice they spake ; 
 Awed the listening heathen shake ; 
 Theirs no fire of maddening wine, 
 Drank they from the cup divine. 
 
 Mystic truth ! to Israel old, 
 
 In the Paschal symbol told ; 
 
 When the closing Jubilee 
 
 Set the happy bondsmen free. 
 127 
 
BEAT A NOBIS GAUDIA. 
 
 God of boundless Pity, now 
 With a lowly face we bow ; 
 Give Thy Spirit from above, 
 With the largess of Thy love. 
 
 Thou, whose gracious tides could pour 
 
 On those hallowed hearts before ; 
 
 Let our sinful bondage cease, 
 
 Bring our Jubilee of peace. 
 
 Hilary. 
 
 1859. 
 
 128 
 
AURORA LUCIS RUTILAT. 
 
 1\ /rORNING purples now the skies ; 
 ■'"'-'■ Warbles heaven with harmonies ; 
 Earth in jubilee rejoices ; 
 Groaneth hell with angry voices. 
 
 Lo ! awakes th' Almighty King : 
 Death lies bruised and grovelling ; 
 Shaking Hades with His tread, 
 Leads He forth the unfettered dead. 
 
 He in rocky prison barred, 
 Slumbering 'neath the keen-eyed guard, 
 Conqueror from His funeral gate, 
 Marches with triumphal state. 
 
 Loosed the pains of souls below, 
 
 Hushed are all the sighs of woe ; 
 
 And the gleaming angel cries : 
 
 " See the living Lord arise ! " 
 
 St. Ambrose. 
 i860. 
 
 129 
 
STERNA CHRTSTI MUNERA. 
 
 ETERNAL offerings of the Son : 
 Trophies by martyr valor won ; 
 For these the homage of our praise 
 "We yield in our rejoicing lays. 
 
 Kings of the holy churches crowned, 
 Chiefs on her famous battle-ground, 
 Guards in the palace of the King, 
 True stars the world illumining. 
 
 Above the fear of man upborne. 
 Trampling the flesh in noble scorn, 
 A holy death to them was gain 
 The life eternal to obtain. 
 
 Meek sufferers ! in the burning pile, 
 Or torn by savage teeth they smile ; 
 In maddening rage the torturer stands, 
 And brutal weapons arm his hands. 
 130 
 
^ TERN A CHRIS TI M UN ERA . 
 
 Bare hang the mangled limbs, and wide 
 Pours every wound its sacred tide ; 
 Yet all untouched amidst the strife, 
 The grace of an immortal life. 
 
 The faith that fires the saintly still, 
 The yearning hope no doubt can kill, 
 The perfect love of Christ, the Lord, 
 Has triumphed o'er the foeman's sword. 
 
 In them the Father's glory shone ; 
 In them Christ's lowly will is done ; 
 In them exults the Holy Ghost, 
 And smiles with joy the heavenly host. 
 
 Redeemer, grant Thy servants' prayer ; 
 
 Grant us Thy holy cross to bear, 
 
 And in the noble army found. 
 
 With palms of endless life be crowned. 
 
 St. Ambrose. 
 i860. 
 
 131 
 
O! GENS BEATA CGELITUM. 
 
 HAPPY ones of heavenly race ! 
 Bright phalanx of the holy powers ! 
 What overflowing fulness showers 
 Upon you from the Fount of Grace ! 
 The Highest Lord, His solace best 
 Hath given to you, ye spirits blest : 
 Vision of our eternal rest. 
 
 Before the splendour of your light 
 The quivering lamps of heaven pale ; 
 The royal sun himself doth fail, 
 And all the marvels of the night : 
 And if, beyond these feeble eyes 
 More golden suns than ours arise. 
 Dark are they to your upper skies. 
 
 Forms as the crystal, pure of stain. 
 
 Your minds of piercing thought enfold ; 
 
 And as the threads of finest gold, 
 
 Or the red coral every vein ; 
 132 
 
O ! GENS BE A TA CCELITUM. 
 
 Thro' these the gracious life-blood glows, 
 And sweeter far than earthly rose, 
 Or than the dropping balm it flows. 
 
 Ye in the sinless Eden dwell, 
 Wreathing, as pass the eternal hours, 
 Crowns of the many-coloured flowers, 
 Lily and purple daffodil ; 
 One only blossom, opening there. 
 Flings thousand sweets upon the air, 
 As breath of your own spirits rare. 
 
 There doth the Father's table stand, 
 Ever with heavenly banquet graced, 
 And with our God Himself ye feast. 
 Tasting rich dainties from His hand : 
 The river of all sweetness rolls. 
 Ambrosial cates, and nectared bowls ; 
 No thirst, no hunger for your souls. 
 
 What joys that happy palace throng ! 
 What music glad that world inspires ! 
 The harmony of myriad lyres ! 
 All voices, yet one holy song : 
 133 
 
! GEXS BE A TA CXELITUM. 
 
 Breaks in full tide the choral strain ; 
 How sweet, how soft it melts again : 
 Earth echoes that high chant in vain. 
 
 On the unveiled God ye gaze, 
 Seeing His presence face to face ; 
 The bliss that floods the holy place, 
 From His unshadowed glory rays : 
 Eye cannot pierce, tongue cannot tell 
 The life wherein your spirits dwell : 
 To the dull world ineffable. 
 
 St. x\ugustin. 
 1859. 
 
 134 
 
QUID, TYRANNE, QUID MINARIS ? 
 
 WHY, O tyrant Sin ! thy raging ? 
 All thy bitter woes combine, 
 All thy arts of malice waging ; 
 
 Naught are these to love divine. 
 Sweet to me is every torment, 
 Feeble is the power of pain : 
 Love is greater, Love is stronger ; 
 Better death than earthly stain. 
 
 Light the cruel pile around me. 
 
 Smite me with the sharpest sword ; 
 To the cross of anguish bind me, 
 
 Dying with my dying Lord : 
 Sweet to me is every torment, 
 
 Feeble is the power of pain : 
 Love is greater, Love is stronger ; 
 
 Better death than earthly stain. 
 
 Mild, too mild for Thee my trial ! 
 
 Death but once, how brief its stroke ! 
 135 
 
QUID, TYRAXXE. QL'ID MIXARIS? 
 
 Mine life's cross of self-denial, 
 Mine to bear Thy easy yoke. 
 
 Sweet to me is every torment, 
 Feeble is the power of pain ; 
 
 Love is greater, Love is stronger : 
 Better death than earthly stain. 
 
 1S59. St. Augustin, 
 
 136 
 
N 
 
 JAM MCESTA QUIESCE QUERELA. 
 
 O more, ah, no more sad complaining ; 
 Resign these fond pledges to earth : 
 Stay, mothers, the thick-falling tear-drops ; 
 This death is a heavenly birth. 
 
 What mean these still caverns of marble. 
 Fair shrines that the dear ashes keep ? 
 
 How sweetly they tell of the loved ones, 
 Not dead, but soft resting in sleep ! 
 
 What though on the pale, icy forehead. 
 No gleam of the intellect break ? 
 
 A moment it slumbers, till nobler 
 Its pov/ers in their beauty awake. 
 
 Soon, soon, through the motionless body, 
 The warm, loving life-tide shall pour, 
 
 And blushing with joy, shall revisit 
 The home it has dwelt in before. 
 
 These clods, 'neath the hillock reposing, 
 Long wasting in silent decay, 
 137 
 
J A M MCE STA Q UIE SCE Q U ERE LA . 
 
 Shall follow the souls that have loved them, 
 On winged wings soaring away. 
 
 So green from the seed springs the blossom, 
 Long perished, long hid in the mould ; 
 
 And fresh from the turf, it remembers 
 The wide-waving harvests of old. 
 
 Take, Earth, to thy bosom so tender, — 
 Take, nourish this body ; how fair, 
 
 How noble in death ! we surrender 
 These relics of man to thy care. 
 
 This, this was the home of the spirit, 
 Once built by the breath of our God ; 
 
 And here in the light of His wisdom, 
 Christ, Head of the risen, abode. 
 
 Guard well the dear treasure we lend thee : 
 The Maker, the Saviour of men, 
 
 Shall never forget His beloved. 
 But claim His own likeness again. 
 
 Speed on, perfect year, to the morning ; 
 
 God's fulness shall dawn on the just. 
 And thou, open Grave, shall restore us 
 
 This holy, unchangeable dust. 
 
 1859. Prudentius. 
 
 138 
 
DE CRUCE CHRISTI. 
 
 [Crux benedicta nitet, Dominus qu^ carne pependit.] 
 
 BLESSED gleameth the cross, where hung 
 the Incarnate Redeemer, 
 And in His blood is found healing for every 
 
 wound. 
 Meekly in love for our souls the Lamb was 
 
 the innocent victim, 
 And from the wolf's fell jaws the sheep of His 
 
 pasture He draws. 
 Pierced were the holy palms, to rescue the 
 
 world from its ruin. 
 And in His own sad doom, shuts He the gate of 
 
 the tomb. 
 Here that hand with the bloody nails to the 
 
 wood was fastened. 
 Which a Paul from his sin, Peter from death 
 
 could win. 
 Mighty in fruitfulness, O thou Tree so sweet 
 and so noble, 
 
 139 
 
DE CRUCE CHRIST I. 
 
 How do thy branches bear, fresh blooming 
 
 fruit and fair. 
 Breathing thy rich perfume, the dead arise 
 
 from their slumber, 
 And wake to the fairer day, then vanish from 
 
 earth away. 
 Never scorches the summer under thy wide- 
 spreading shadows. 
 Never the noontide light, never the moon by 
 
 night. 
 Beautiful art thou, planted where still waters 
 
 are flowing. 
 Green are thy leafy showers, mingled with 
 
 richest flowers. 
 Clingeth to thee the vine, enwrapt in thy loving 
 
 embraces ; 
 Sweetly from thee doth glide, the blood-red, 
 
 life-giving tide. 
 
 1859. FORTUNATUS. 
 
 140 
 
NUNTIUM VOBIS FERO DE SUPERNIS 
 
 TIDINGS I bear from heaven of joy excel- 
 ling ; 
 Born is the Christ, Lord of this earthly dwell- 
 ing, 
 In Bethlehem, as in vision old foretelling 
 The prophets holy. 
 
 Him hailed the angel choir with joyous singing ; 
 A star declared Him, the wise princes bringing 
 From Eastern lands, their mystic tribute fling- 
 ing 
 
 In worship lowly. 
 
 Incense to God, myrrh for His death of bless- 
 ing, 
 
 Spangles of gold for Him, earth's throne pos- 
 sessing. 
 
 One, yet the Blessed Trinity confessing, 
 Three giving threefold. 
 
 i860. Gregory. 
 
 141 
 
VENI, SANCTE SPIRITUS. 
 
 COME, O Spirit ! Fount of grace ! 
 From Thy heavenly dwelling-place 
 One bright morning beam impart : 
 Come, O Father of the poor ; 
 Come, O Source of bounties sure ; 
 Come, O Sunshine of the heart ! 
 
 Comforter of man the best ! 
 Making the sad soul Thy guest ; 
 
 Sweet refreshing in our fears, 
 In our labour a retreat, 
 Cooling shadow in the heat. 
 
 Solace in our falling tears. 
 
 O ! thrice blessed light divine ! 
 
 Come, the spirit's inmost shrine 
 
 With Thy holy presence fill ; 
 
 Of Thy brooding love bereft, 
 
 Naught to hopeless man is left ; 
 
 Naught is his but evil still. 
 142 
 
VENI, SANCTE SPIRIT US. 
 
 Wash away each earthly stain, 
 Flow o'er this parched waste again, 
 
 Heal the wounds of conscience sore, 
 Bind the stubborn will within, 
 Thaw the icy chains of sin. 
 
 Guide us, that we stray no more. 
 
 Give, to Thy believers give. 
 In Thy holy hope who live. 
 
 All Thy sevenfold dower of love ; 
 Give the sure reward of faith, 
 Give the love that conquers death, 
 Give unfailing joy above. 
 i860. Robert of France. 
 
 143 
 
GRAVI ME TERRORE PULSAS. 
 
 WITH what heavy fear thou smitest 
 At my breast, Life's closing day ! 
 Faints my heart ; my reins are loosened 
 
 Melts my torn and shivering clay ; 
 With foreboding sad that image 
 Doth the troubled mind pourtray. 
 
 Who to pierce that scene of terror 
 
 Can his mortal vision send ? 
 When the narrow race is rounded, 
 
 And the wrestling soul shall rend 
 All the earthly ties that bind it, 
 
 Hasting to its mournful end. 
 
 Dies the sense ; the lips are stiffened ; 
 
 Roll the clouded eyes in vain : 
 Pants the bosom ; hoarse the whisper 
 
 Gasping from the breath of pain : 
 
 Pale the face ; the limbs are palsied, 
 
 Grace nor motion there remain. 
 144 
 
GRA VI ME TERRORE FULSAS. 
 
 See ! as mighty currents parted, 
 
 The unbodied spirits flow : 
 Here the shining powers angelic, 
 
 There the daemon crowd of woe ; 
 Each unto his doom self-chosen, 
 
 With resistless feet shall go. 
 
 All our inmost thoughts, endeavours, 
 Words and deeds before us rise, 
 
 All a marshalled host assembled, 
 Bare to our unwilling eyes. 
 
 Turn we hither, glance we thither, 
 Lo ! the cloud of witnesses. 
 
 Ah ! how doth the gnawing conscience 
 Now the guilty bosom tear ; 
 
 Memory calls each ebbing season 
 With the summons of despair ; 
 
 Saddening sentence ! late repentance 
 Only sighs a fruitless prayer. 
 
 Now the sweet of earth deluding 
 
 Into bitter poison turns ; 
 Now the riot of a moment 
 
 As an endless sorrow burns ; 
 145 
 
GRA VI ME TERRORS FULSAS. 
 
 And in all our fancied greatness 
 Empty nothing it discerns. 
 
 Hear me, Christ ! O King unconquered I 
 Hear Thy hapless suppliant call ! 
 
 In the day of death, that cometh 
 Th}^ stern messenger to all, 
 
 Shield me, that I may not victim 
 To the impious tyrant fall. 
 
 Perish the fell Prince of Darkness ! 
 
 Perish all his hellish pride ! 
 Then Thy ransomed flock, O Shepherd \ 
 
 To the fold of heaven guide, 
 Where in living pastures feeding, 
 They may evermore abide. 
 i860. Petrus Damiani. 
 
 146 
 
i86i. 
 
 AUDI, TELLUS, AUDI. 
 
 HEAR, earth, hear God's decree ; 
 Cave of the mighty sea ; 
 Hear, man, hear every one 
 That dwells beneath the sun. 
 
 It Cometh, it is near ; 
 The day of wrath and fear ; 
 Wo ! for that bitter day ; 
 When fleeth Heaven away ; 
 Gloweth the sun blood red ; 
 The moon no longer burneth ; 
 Morning to blackness turneth ; 
 Earthward the wan stars fall : 
 Upon that day of dread, 
 Woe ! woe ! for sinners all. 
 In guilt and misery, 
 What shall our portion be ? 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 147 
 
CUR MUNDUS MILITAT 
 
 WHY battles all the world 
 For its vain glory, 
 Whose bravest happiness 
 Is transitory ? 
 
 So soon its brittle power 
 A light touch shaketh, 
 
 Even as a vase of clay 
 In pieces breaketh. 
 
 Write words upon the ice 
 And trust their staying, 
 
 Sooner than idle cheats 
 Of earth decaying. 
 
 Flattered with baubles gay, 
 In truth's mask hiding, 
 
 Thy life's a little day 
 Of false confiding. 
 148 
 
CUR iMUNDUS MI LI TAT, 
 
 Better to plant thy trust 
 In wise men's teaching, 
 
 Than for the wretched gauds 
 Of fortune reaching. 
 
 False are its airy dreams, 
 And false its pleasing, 
 
 Its labours and its lusts 
 A hollow leasing. 
 
 Say, where is Solomon, 
 Of wisdom vaunted ; 
 
 And stoutest Samson now, 
 The chief undaunted ? 
 
 Say, where is Absalom, 
 
 Of beauty royal ; 
 And Jonathan, the heart 
 
 To friendship loyal ? 
 
 Where hath the Caesar left 
 His empire splendid ? 
 
 And Dives' banqueting 
 In sorrow ended ? 
 
 Say, where is Tully's voice 
 
 In senates burning? 
 149 
 
CUR MUNDUS MI LI TAT. 
 
 And the wise Stagyrite, 
 Master of learning ? 
 
 Such leaders of renown ; 
 
 Such bygone spaces ; 
 Such stately brows of old, 
 
 Such kingly races ; 
 
 Such potentates of earth, 
 The boast of story ; — 
 
 One flashing of an eye. 
 And gone their glory ! 
 
 How brief a holyday 
 Man's pomp abideth, 
 
 And all his pleasure gay 
 A shadow glideth ! 
 
 Feast of the crawling worm ! 
 
 Dust to dust crumbled ! 
 Drop of the morning dew. 
 
 Be thy pride humbled ! 
 
 Even to-morrow's fate 
 
 Veiled from thy blindness, 
 
 Crowd thou to-day with deeds 
 
 Of loving-kindness. 
 150 
 
i859. 
 
 CUR MUNDUS MI LIT A T. 
 
 This glory of the flesh, 
 
 Which man paradeth, 
 The Holy Book doth call 
 
 A flower that fadeth. 
 
 Even as the shrivelled leaf 
 
 On the wind sweeping, 
 So drops the life of man, 
 
 To darkness creeping. 
 
 Call not thine own, whate'er 
 
 A moment liveth ; 
 The world shall snatch again 
 
 All that it giveth ; 
 
 Ponder the things above ! 
 
 Happy, whose treasure, 
 Garnered in heaven, scorns 
 
 The base world's pleasure. 
 
 Bernard of Clairvaux. 
 
 151 
 
AD COR CHRISTI. 
 
 SUM MI REGIS COR, AVETO. 
 
 HEART of Christ, my King, I greet Thee ! 
 Gladly goes my heart to meet Thee ; 
 To embrace Thee now it burneth, 
 And with eager thirst it yearneth, 
 
 Spirit blest, to talk with Thee. 
 Oh ! what love divine compelling ! 
 With what grief Thy breast was swelling I 
 All Thy soul for us o'erflowing, 
 All Thy life on us bestowing, 
 
 Sinful men from death to free ! 
 
 Oh, that death ! in bitter anguish, 
 Cruel, pitiless to languish ! 
 To the inmost cell it entered, 
 AVhere the life of man was centered, 
 
 GnaAving Thy sweet heart-strings there. 
 For that death which Thou hast tasted, 
 For that form by sorrow wasted. 
 
 Heart to my heart ever nearest, 
 152 
 
AD COR CHRIS 11. 
 
 Kindle in me love the dearest ; 
 This, O Lord, is all my prayer. 
 
 O sweet Heart ! my choicest blessing, 
 Cleanse my heart, its sin confessing ; 
 Hardened in its worldly folly, 
 Make it soft again, and holy, 
 
 Melting all its icy ground. 
 To my heart's core come and quicken 
 Me a sinner, conscience-stricken ; 
 Be Thy grace my soul renewing. 
 All its powers to Thee subduing. 
 
 Languishing with love's sweet wound. 
 
 Open flower, with blossom fairest, 
 As a rose of fragrance rarest ; 
 Knit to Thee mine inmost feeling ; 
 Pierce, then pour the oil of healing ; 
 
 What to love of Thee is pain ? 
 Naught he fears, whom Thy love calleth, 
 No self-sacrifice appalleth ; 
 Love divine can have no measure, 
 Every death to him is pleasure. 
 
 Where such holy love doth reign. 
 153 
 
AD COR CHRISTI. 
 
 Cries my heart with living voices : 
 In Thee, heart of Christ, rejoices ; 
 Draw Thou nigh with gracious motion, 
 Knit it, till in full devotion 
 
 Thou its every power employ. 
 Love be all my life ; no slumber 
 E'er my drowsy thought encumber ; 
 To Thee praying, Thee imploring, 
 Thee aye praising. Thee adoring, 
 
 Thee my sempiternal joy ! 
 
 Heart Rose, in Thy fulness blossom, 
 Shed Thy perfume o'er my bosom ; 
 Be Thy beauty in me growing ; 
 Light the fires forever glov/ing 
 
 On the altar of my heart. 
 Aid me, Thy dear image wearing. 
 E'en Thy wounds, my Jesu, sharing. 
 Till Thy very form I borrow, 
 When my bosom feels Thy sorrow, 
 
 Piercing with its keenest dart. 
 
 To Thy holy heart, oh, take me ! 
 Thy companion, Jesu, make me, 
 154 
 
AD COR CHRISTI. 
 
 In that sorrow joy exceeding, 
 
 In that beauty scarred and bleeding, 
 
 Till my heart be wholly Thine. 
 Rest, my soul ! now naught shall sever ; 
 After Thee it follows ever ; 
 Here its thirst finds glad fulfilling ; 
 Jesu ! be Thou not unwilling, 
 
 Take this loving heart of mine ! 
 
 Bernard of Clairvaux. 
 
 155 
 
IN TERRIS ADHUC POSITAM. 
 
 ON earth awhile, 'mid sufferings tried, 
 Still hears the Church, the holy Bride, 
 Her Lord from heaven, calling with daily cr}^ 
 Bidding her heart ascend to Him on high. 
 
 " Draw me," she answers, " after Thee ; 
 Stretch Thy right hand to succour me : 
 On winged wings Thou soarest to the skies ; 
 Without Thy wings, how can I thither rise ? " 
 
 Ask for the pinions of the dove, 
 
 To hasten to that nest of love ; 
 
 Ask thou the eagle's plumes of tireless might. 
 
 That thou may'st climb to the eternal height. 
 
 Both wings and eyes will He bestow, 
 That thou the sun's unclouded glow 
 With thy undazzled glances may'st behold. 
 And drink the blessedness to man untold. 
 
 Only to winged beings given 
 
 Is that fair home of upper heaven ; 
 
 And there the holy souls find kindred place, 
 
 To whom our God shall grant the wings of 
 
 grace. 
 
 i860. , Abelard. 
 
 156 
 
HYMNI NOCTURNI. 
 
 FRUIT-BEARING trees the earth adorn, 
 And now the heavenly lamps are born. 
 Sun, moon, and stars a living picture glow, 
 Sources of blessing wide to all below. 
 
 This goodly building now, O man ! 
 
 On every side in wonder scan : 
 The realm of heaven confesses it is thine. 
 And for thy service beam these orbs divine. 
 
 He basks him in the wintry rays. 
 
 For whom no kindly hearth may blaze ; 
 
 And for his lantern in the night 
 
 The poor man hath the moon and starry light 
 
 The rich reclines on ivory bed. 
 
 The greensward for the poor is spread ; 
 
 For him the birds their softest carols sing, 
 
 The flowers their breath of sweetest perfume 
 
 fling. 
 
 157 
 
. H ] \Myi NO C T URN I. 
 
 O rich man, at a price too dear 
 Dost thou th)^ tottering palace rear, 
 Painting upon the vaulted ceiling high. 
 False sun, false stars within a mimic sk5^ 
 
 Beneath the true, the heavenly dome, 
 Hath the poor man his beauteous home. 
 On that the Maker with His fingers drew 
 A real sun, and starry torches true. 
 
 Ah ! than man's building nobler far 
 The works of lordly nature are : 
 Created without toil, or earthly gold. 
 Time crumbles not, nor makes them ever old. 
 
 Man only serves the rich man's state ; 
 
 But on the poor the angels wait : 
 
 All tells us how the generous God has given 
 
 To us, His sons, the highest things of heaven. 
 
 Abelard. 
 i860. 
 
 1.8 
 
MUNDI RENOVATIO. 
 
 QEE ! with nature's joyous birth 
 
 ^ Spring a thousand forms of mirth 
 
 From its slumber all the earth 
 
 Rises with the Risen King ; 
 All things know the Maker's sway, 
 Conscious of His holy day 
 
 Come with festal offering. 
 
 Cloudless now the heavens blest, 
 Gentlier heaves the ocean's breast, 
 Softly sinks the wind to rest ; 
 
 Blooming is our valley's face. 
 Green the withered sod awakes, 
 And the ice-bound streamlet breaks. 
 
 Warmed by loving spring's embrace. 
 
 Life o'er death the victory wins ; 
 Man anew the joy begins. 
 Lost how early by his sins : 
 Blissful Eden is restored ; 
 Open flies the welcoming door. 
 And the cherub stern no more 
 
 Waves on high the flaming sword. 
 i860. Adam of St. Victor. 
 
 159 
 
O ESCA VIATORUM! 
 
 FOOD for the wayworn given ! 
 Bread that soft drops from heaven ! 
 Manna the angels eat ! 
 Our hungered spirits feeding, 
 Let not one sick soul needing 
 Lose this immortal sweet. 
 
 O ! spring of love excelling ! 
 Pure wave, forever welling 
 
 From out the Saviour's heart ! 
 Be thou our thirst's allaying ; 
 Thy gift is all our praying ; 
 
 Thou all our fulness art. 
 
 Jesu ! Thy beauty hidden, 
 To our dim eyes forbidden, 
 
 Daily we here adore ; 
 Grant us, Thy face unveiling. 
 In Thine own glorious dwelling 
 
 To see Thee evermore. 
 
 i860. Thomas Aquinas. 
 
 160 
 
RECORDARE SANCT.E CRUCIS. 
 
 pONDER thou the Cross all holy, 
 
 ■•■ Who wilt tread the pathway lowly 
 
 To the perfect joy above : 
 Thou the holy cross aye ponder, 
 And with an uncloying wonder, 
 Drink its mysteries of love. 
 
 When thou toilest, when thou sleepest. 
 When thou smilest, when thou weepest, 
 
 Sad or gladsome if thou art ; 
 In thy coming, in thy going, 
 Whether pain or solace knowing. 
 
 Keep the cross within thy heart. 
 
 In the cross, 'mid burdens aching, 
 Heaviest waves above thee breaking. 
 
 Thine unending comfort find ; 
 Though 'midst cruel foes thou languish, 
 Sweet the cross in every anguish, 
 
 Refuge of the pious mind. 
 i6i 
 
RECORD A RE SANCTM CRUCIS, 
 
 Cross, of Paradise the portal, 
 
 Where have clung the souls immortal, 
 
 Victors in this earthly strife ; 
 Holy cross, the whole world's healing. 
 By it is God's love revealing 
 
 Marvels of eternal light. 
 
 Cross of Christ, the soul's well-being, 
 Light unshadowed for our seeing, 
 
 For the heart its sweetest good ; 
 Cross, the life ail saints indwelling, 
 Storehouse of all gifts excelling. 
 
 Beauty and beatitude. 
 
 Cross, the glass of brave endeavour ; 
 Leader of our triumph ever, 
 
 Hope the faithful to inspire ; 
 Badge of the elect of heaven ; 
 Succour in our trial given ; 
 
 Fulness of the soul's desire. 
 
 Cross, the tree in beauty growing. 
 
 Hallowed by Christ's life-blood flowing, 
 
 Hanging with full-ripened load ; 
 
 Bounty for all spirits bearing, 
 162 
 
RECORDARE SANCT^ CRUCIS. 
 
 An immortal banquet sharing 
 With the blessed sons of God. 
 
 Crucified, oh, make me stronger. 
 While my life is spared me longer, 
 
 Still to know Thy suffering ; 
 With Thee wounded, with Thee dying. 
 To that Form before me lying 
 
 On the holy cross, I cling. 
 
 1859. BONAVENTURA. 
 
 163 
 
OMNIS MUNDI CREATURA. 
 
 SEE in every earth-born creature, 
 As a mirror tells each feature, 
 An illuminated scroll. 
 All our life, and our decaying. 
 All its changeful lot pourtraying ; 
 Truthful image of the soul ! 
 
 In the rose thy painted glory ; 
 Read thou there thy human story, 
 
 Emblem of thy fading pride ! 
 See its bud the daylight drinking, 
 Flowerless its stem is sinking 
 
 With the early eventide. 
 
 With each breath away 'tis breathing. 
 And its beauty pale bequeathing 
 
 In the cradle to the tomb : 
 Old with new in fast embracing, 
 Hoary age is childhood chasing, 
 
 Blight is hiding in its bloom. 
 164 
 
MNJS MUNDI CREA TURA. 
 
 So the spring of life is dawning, 
 Flowering youth at rosy morning 
 
 Opes awhile its petals white : 
 Soon the day with shadow blendeth, 
 And the creeping twilight endeth 
 
 In the funeral pall of night. 
 
 Even its blossom is its wasting, 
 Ever is its beauty hasting 
 
 Toward age, an ebbing wave ; 
 Gem is clay, the flow'ret's splendour 
 Withering grass, and man shall render 
 
 Dust to dust within the grave. 
 
 All his being, his endeavour 
 Pain and ease and want forever 
 
 To one mortal limit flows ; 
 Dark on light, and pain on laughter ; 
 Calm, and stormy ocean after. 
 
 Morn and evening's silent close. 
 
 Early sorrow on us stealing 
 Is decay's sad face revealing ; 
 Toil is but a mimic death ; 
 Every trial its foretelling, 
 165 
 
OMNIS MUNDI CREATURA, 
 
 Every grief the moment knelling, 
 When the brief scene vanisheth. 
 
 Know, O man, the law that Heaven 
 To thy mortal state has given ; 
 
 Thine confess this fading lot ; 
 What thou wast, ere born to sorrow. 
 What to-day, and what to-morrow. 
 
 Know, and ah ! forget it not. 
 
 Mourn the sin that bringeth sadness. 
 Break thy pride, and curb thy madness. 
 
 Cast th)^ lofty looks away : 
 Lord of souls ! our life-course guiding. 
 In Thy narrow path abiding, 
 
 Never may our footsteps stray. 
 
 Alanus Insulanus. 
 i860. 
 
 166 
 
VITA NOSTRA PLENA BELLIS. 
 
 LIFE, O man, is all a battle. 
 Ever 'midst the iron rattle, 
 Ever camped 'mid crafty foes ; 
 Wakes the trumpet sound each morrow ; 
 Crash of arms, and wail of sorrow 
 Breaks on every night's repose. 
 
 Yet by every fear undaunted, 
 In the stormy onset planted. 
 
 Stand I all unshaken still ; 
 Not the wrath of man can wound me, 
 Not the marshalled legions round me, 
 
 Not the bolts of deadliest skill. 
 
 Lo ! in thickest clouds He marches, 
 He who bends from heaven's arches, 
 
 Ruler of the starry throne : 
 He against the foeman shieldeth, 
 He the eternal weapons wieldeth, 
 
 And my battle is His own. 
 167 
 
VITA xYOSTRA FLEX A B ELLIS. 
 
 He the bow, the arrow breaketh, 
 He the mail-clad warrior shaketh 
 
 With His everlasting flame ; 
 Fearless stand I, never flying, 
 All the angry host defying, 
 
 More than conqueror in His name. 
 
 Alanus Insulanus. 
 
 1859. 
 
 168 
 
ALL ANGELS. 
 
 E]^VER stand the Angel throng, 
 ■^ Lauding God in holy song; 
 Gazing on their glorious King, 
 With the heart, the voice, they sing ; 
 Harp-notes flinging, timbrels ringing, 
 Now on golden plumes up-springing, 
 Climbing on the heavenly stair ; 
 Sweet bells blending, white-robed bending 
 Near the highest Trinity ; 
 Holy, Holy, Holy, crying : 
 Flieth sorrow, ceaseth sighing, 
 In that city of the sky. 
 Mingled are all happy voices. 
 One that in their God rejoices ; 
 Love in every mind is burning, 
 In pure vision upward turning 
 To the Eternal One, the Blessed Trine. 
 
 Ail the glowing seraphim 
 169 
 
ALL AXGELS. 
 
 With a heart of fire adore Him ; 
 All the keen-eyed cherubim 
 Veil their faces low before Him ; 
 Awed, the Thrones behold the Majesty 
 Divine. 
 
 Oh, how wonderful that region ! 
 
 Oh, how beautiful that legion ! 
 
 Men with Angels ever bright ! 
 
 Shining city, aye in Thee 
 
 Reigneth full tranquillity, 
 
 In Thy borders peace and light. 
 
 Dwellers of this city fair. 
 
 Garments white of chasteness wear ; 
 
 In one household of sweet love, 
 
 One unbroken circle move. 
 
 Naught of darkness, naught of care. 
 
 Grief, temptation, haunteth there : 
 
 Free from sickness, ever blest. 
 
 Theirs of every good the best. 
 
 Thomas a Kempis. 
 i860. 
 
 170 
 
ANTIPHONA AD NOCTURXOS. 
 
 IN midst of life 
 We are in death ; 
 ■ From whom may succour be, 
 O Lord, save Thee, 
 Whose anger just our sins remembereth ? 
 
 Yet, Holy Lord, 
 Holy and mighty ever, 
 Holy and full of grace, 
 Redeemer of our race, 
 To bitter death do not our souls deliver. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 [Eleventh Century. 
 
 17] 
 
ST. JOHN EVANGELIST. 
 
 [" Verbum Dei, Deo natum."] 
 
 WORD of God, begotten Son, 
 Uncreate, eternal one, 
 Coming from the bliss above, 
 John beheld Him, and revealed. 
 And to mortal minds unsealed, 
 That deep mystery of love. 
 
 'Midst the primal rivers, fed 
 
 From the Truth's own fountain-head 
 
 That quick-leaping spirit flowed ; 
 For the world the nectar gave, 
 Drawn from out the crystal wave, 
 
 Gushing by the throne of God. 
 
 Heaven he trod, undazzled gazed 
 
 Where the true sun's axle blazed ; 
 
 Seer of unearthly things ; 
 
 And the face of God he saw, 
 
 As the seraphs look in awe 
 
 Underneath their shading wings. 
 172 
 
ST. JOHN EVANGELIST. 
 
 Heard he, round the eternal seat, 
 All the Elders chaunting sweet 
 
 The new song to harps divine ; 
 And on earthly city's gold 
 Stamped he with the heavenly mould, 
 
 Signet of the Blessed Trine. 
 
 Bird of God, with boundless flight 
 Soaring from beyond the height 
 
 Of the bard or prophet old ; 
 Truth fulfilled and truth to be, 
 Never purer mystery 
 
 Did a purer tongue unfold. 
 
 In His robe of blood-red dyes, 
 Seen, yet hid from human eyes : 
 
 To His palace Christ withdrew : 
 Heavenly comfort to bestow 
 On His weeping Bride below, 
 
 Lo ! the prophet eagle flew. 
 
 Say, beloved one, how fair 
 Our Beloved is ; declare 
 
 His glad message to His Bride ; 
 173 
 
ST. JOHN EVANGELIST. 
 
 Say what food the angels taste, 
 How the sons of heaven feast 
 In that presence glorified. 
 
 Give us of the living bread, 
 Supper which thy spirit fed, 
 
 Leaning on the Saviour's breast ; 
 That with thee the endless Psalm, 
 Near the throne, before the Lamb, 
 
 We may sing in heaven blest. 
 i860. Anonymous. 
 
 [Thirteenth Century.] 
 174 
 
ALTITUDO, QUID HIC JACKS? 
 
 HEIGHT of heaven, why art Thou lying 
 Cradled in a stable base ? 
 Maker of the starry torches, 
 
 Hides a manger cold Thy face ? 
 Oh, what marvels hast Thou lavished, 
 
 Jesu, upon sinful men ! 
 Exiles from the bliss of Eden, 
 Yet Thy heart hath loved again. 
 
 Might divine becometh weakness ; 
 
 Infinite a babe could be ; 
 In a mortal womb imprisoned, 
 
 Born — behold Eternity ! 
 Oh, what marvels hast Thou lavished, 
 
 Jesu, upon sinful men ! 
 Exiles from the bliss of Eden, 
 
 Yet Thy heart hath loved again. 
 
 Thou with childish lips wast clinging 
 To the stainless Virgin's breast ; 
 175 
 
ALT/TUDO, Q UID HIC J A CE S ? 
 
 Tear-drops from Thine eyes were springing, 
 
 Thou, the joy of heaven blest ! 
 Oh, what marvels hast Thou lavished, 
 
 Jesu, upon sinful men ! 
 Exiles from the bliss of Eden, 
 
 Yet Thy heart hath loved again. 
 1859. Anonymous, 
 
 [Fourteenth Century.] 
 176 
 
PARVUM QUANDO CERNO DEUM. 
 
 WHEN within His mother's arms 
 I the infant God behold, 
 All my heart the vision warms 
 With a blessedness untold. 
 
 Leaps He, mother ! leaps the Boy, 
 Gazing at thy holy breast ! 
 
 Kisses with a smile of joy. 
 Thousand kisses, fondly prest ! 
 
 As upon the stainless skies 
 
 Peaceful hangs the new-born sun. 
 
 So upon thy bosom lies, 
 
 Mother pure, thy Holy One. 
 
 Ah ! how lovely that repose ! 
 
 Mother with the Infant fair, 
 
 Twined as with the tender rose, 
 
 Violet and lily are. 
 177 
 
PARVUM QUANDO CERNO DEUM. 
 
 Many a silent clasp of bliss, 
 Many a look of smiling love, 
 
 As the flowers the meadow kiss, 
 As the starry eyes above. 
 
 Oh ! if one such loving dart. 
 Falling on that mother mild, 
 
 May but fall within my heart. 
 Infant Jesu, Holy Child ! 
 1859. Anonymous. 
 
 [Fourteenth Century. 
 178 
 
PONE LUCTUM MAGDALENA ! 
 
 STILL thy sorrow, Magdalena ! 
 Wipe the tear-drops from thine eyes ; 
 Not at Simon's board thou kneelest, 
 
 Pouring thy repentant sighs : 
 All with thy glad heart rejoices ; 
 All things sing with happy voices : 
 Hallelujah ! 
 
 Laugh with rapture, Magdalena ! 
 
 Be thy drooping forehead bright ; 
 Banished now is every anguish. 
 
 Breaks anew thy morning light ; 
 Christ from death the world hath freed ; 
 He is risen, is risen indeed : 
 Hallelujah ! 
 
 Joy ! exult, O Magdalena ! 
 
 He hath burst the rocky prison ; 
 
 Ended are the days of darkness ; 
 
 Conqueror hath He arisen. 
 179 
 
PONE LUCTUM MAGDALENA, 
 
 Mourn no more the Christ departed ; 
 Run to welcome Him, glad-hearted : 
 Hallelujah ! 
 
 Lift thine eyes, O Magdalena ! 
 
 See ! thy living Master stands ; 
 See His face, as ever, smiling ; 
 
 See those wounds upon His hands, 
 On His feet. His sacred side, — 
 Gems that deck the Glorified : 
 Hallelujah ! 
 
 Live, now live, O Magdalena ! 
 
 Shining is thy new-born day ; 
 Let thy bosom pant with pleasure. 
 
 Death's poor terror flee away ; 
 Far from thee the tears of sadness, 
 Welcome love, and welcome gladness ! 
 
 Hallelujah ! 
 1859. Anonymous. 
 
 [Fourteenth Century.] 
 180 
 
O! QUANTA, QUALIA SUNT ILLA 
 SABBATA. 
 
 HOW great, how beautiful that Sabbath rest, 
 Kept in the court eternal of the blest ! 
 Repose for weary souls ! for brave reward ! 
 For there our All in all shall be the Lord. 
 
 What King ! what holy court ! what palace 
 
 fair ! 
 What peace ! what solace ! what rejoicing 
 
 there ! 
 Ye glorious dwellers ! your own joy reveal, 
 If ye can utter all your spirits feel. 
 
 The true Jerusalem ! that state above ! 
 Whose peace unending is our highest love ; 
 Where longing hope cannot true joy forerun ; 
 Where perfect happiness and hope are one ! 
 
 There shall our sorrowings forever cease, 
 And Sion's lofty songs we sing in peace ; 
 i8i 
 
0! QUAX7 A, QUALIA SUNT ILLA SABBATA, 
 
 Thy happy people, Lord, before Thy face, 
 Pay gracious offerings for Thy gifts of grace. 
 
 There still a Sabbath new on Sabbath rolls, 
 An endless holy day of holy souls. 
 That chant ineffable, rise evermore. 
 Which saints in glory with the angels pour. 
 
 Thither we lift, O God, our waiting eyes ; 
 And see our fatherland in hope arise. 
 Homeward from Babylon we fondly yearn, 
 After long, weary exile to return. 
 i860. Anonymous. 
 
 [Fourteenth Century.] 
 182 
 
AVE ROSA SPINIS PUNCTA. 
 
 HAIL, O Rose, transpierced with thorns, 
 Hail, O thorn the rose adorns ! 
 Not for sin, but for our cure, 
 Didst Thou, Lord, these thorns endure. 
 
 Hail, O Rose, with thorn-prints cloven ! 
 Hail, O thorn, with roses woven ! 
 Grace divine, that passeth knowing. 
 Gifts of life thro' thorn bestowing 
 In the pity of our Lord. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 [Fifteenth Century.] 
 
 ib3 
 
IN NATALI DOMINI. 
 
 ON the birthday of the Lord 
 Angel hosts with one accord 
 Chaunt with joy before the throne ; 
 Glory to one God alone. 
 The Virgin bore the eternal Word : 
 The Virgin bore the Christ adored, 
 The Virgin ever stainless. 
 
 Born is our Emmanuel ; 
 Gabriel did the day foretell ; 
 Prophets hailed the dawning sun, 
 Him, the sole begotten one. 
 The Virgin bore the eternal Word : 
 The Virgin bore the Christ adored. 
 The Virgin ever stainless. 
 
 Lo ! a seraph tells the tale : 
 
 Shepherds glad in hill and dale 
 
 Sing the holy Saviour's birth, 
 
 Sweetest tidings for the earth. 
 184 
 
JN NA TALI DOMINI. 
 
 The Virgin bore the eternal Word : 
 The Virgin bore the Christ adored, 
 The Virgin ever stainless. 
 
 Hail to-day the happy morn, 
 Hail the Son from Mary born, 
 Born of God's o'ershadowing might, 
 God of God and light of light. 
 The Virgin bore the eternal Word : 
 The Virgin bore the Christ adored, 
 The Virgin ever stainless. 
 
 See the Eastern kings adore. 
 Gold and myrrh and incense pour. 
 Bending to the Eternal King, 
 Glory to our God they sing. 
 The Virgin bore the eternal Word : 
 The Virgin bore the Christ adored. 
 The Virgin ever stainless. 
 
 Anonymous. 
 
 [Sixteenth Century. 
 185 
 
CUM ME TENENT FALLACIA. 
 
 WHEN fleeting earth with pleasures vain 
 Hath bound my soul to heav}^ chain, 
 In heaven the angel bright, who keeps 
 His sleepless watch, beholds and weeps. 
 
 But when my sorrowing tears I pour, 
 And all my sins to God deplore, 
 Then smiles with joy the angel fair, 
 Whose heart is touched with all m}" care. 
 
 Away, deceitful world ! away ! 
 Ye shadowy joys, no longer stay ! 
 Come, tears of grief, and ceaseless flow, 
 To wash my sin, to tell my woe. 
 
 O let me not in reckless years, 
 
 Still cause those holy angels tears ; 
 
 But while I mourn with sorrow true, 
 
 Ever those angel smiles renew. 
 
 i860. Alard. 
 
 186 
 

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