THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES A MANUAL OF MYSTIC VERSE BEING A CHOICE OF MEDITATIVE AND MYSTIC POEMS MADE AND ANNOTATED BY LOUISE COLLIER WILLCOX NEW YORK E. P. BUTTON &- COMPANY 68 1 FIFTH AVENUE Copyright, 19 10, by Harper & Brothers Copyright, 1917, by E. P. Button & Company All rights reserved ^)rtnted in the Qmted States of Hmerica PR TO WESTMORE WILLCOX. Jr. SS9S73 CONTENTS PAGE Preface xv Thirteenth Century MARY AT the CROSS I I SYKE when I SING 4 winter song 7 a song to the virgin ^ Fifteenth Century shepherd's SONG 9 CAROL OF the VIRGIN lO the king's SON II the virgin's SON 12 the best song i3 a miraculous matter 14 Richard de Castrb prayer of RICHARD DE CASTRE l6 William Dunbar (1450?) on THE nativity OF CHRIST l8 Edmund Spenser (1552) EASTER 21 Sir Walter Raleigh (1552) time's gifts 21 pilgrimage 22 THE LIE 23 Sir John Beaumont (1553) IN desolation 26 Sir Philip Sidney (1554) sonnet 28 CONTENTS Robert Southwell (1561?) page the burning babe 29 new prince, new pompe 30 William Shakespeare (1564) THE waste OF shame $2 THE remedy 32 Thomas Campion (1566?) invocation 33 the man OF life upright 34 Sir Henry Wotton (1568) THE character OF A HAPPY LIFE 35 John Donne (1573) A hymn to god the father 36 to death 37 A HYMNE to CHRIST, AT THE AUTHOR's LAST GOING into germany 38 Phineas Fletcher (1384) AN HYMNE 40 William Drummond (15S5) soul, which TO hell wast thrall 40 world's beauty 41 the last hope 41 Robert Herrick (isgi) AN ode to god 42 HIS letanie, to the holy spirit 43 grace for a child 45 to keep a true lent 46 Henry King (1591) a contemplation upon flowers 47 Francis Quarles (1592) respice finem 48 false world 48 a divine rapture so THE POYL 52 CONTENTS George Herbert (1593) page EASTER S3 THE COLLAR $$ THE PULLEY 55 DISCIPLINE 56 LOVE 57 THE ELIXIR .... 58 MAN • • 59 FRAILTIE ... 62 NATURE .... 63 F. B. P. (poem PUBLISHED 1601) URBS BEATA HIERUSALEM .... ... 64 A. W. (poem PUBLISHED 1602) though late, my heart 68 Seventeenth Century THE heart's CHAMBERS 70 a heavenlie visitor 7 i John Milton (1608) hymn on the morning of christ's nativity . . 72 Jeremy Taylor (1613) THE PRAYER 8l a hymn for christmas-day 82 Richard Crashaw (1613) THE flaming heart 84 Henry More (1614) charity and humility 88 Joseph Beaumont (161 6) the house of the mind 90 Henry Vaughan (1622) childhood . . gi PEACE 03 the retreat 04 the night 05 vii CONTENTS Hbnrv Vauohan ('622) — Continued. page THE WORLD . 07 MAN 100 I walk'd the other day. to spend my hour 102 -the world op light i04 John Drvden (1631) veni creator spirit's i06 Thomas Traherne (1636) WONDER 108 THE APPROACH Ill THE CIRCULATION I 13 DESIRE . . 116 goodness 119 John Norris (1657) THE aspiration 121 Seventeenth Century (1657) the soul wherein GOD DWELLS 123 John Byrom (1692) MY spirit LONGETH FOR THEE 1 24 William Blake (1757) the gates op paradise i 25 the keys of the gates 1 25 the golden string 127 THE LAMB 128 THE TYGER 129 A POISON TREE I30 ON another's SORROW I31 William Wordsworth (1770) the rainbow i32 in early SPRING ... 133 ODE TO duty .... 134 ODE — INTIMATIONS OF IM.MORTALITV FROM KECUL- LBCTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD I36 vjii CONTENTS John Keble (1790) page THE saviour's DARLING I44 Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792) DEATH T47 epilogue to PROMETHEUS UNBOUND I48 William Cullen Bryant (1794) thanatopsis 149 Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803) the sphinx 152 BRAHMA 157 DAYS 158 Richard Chenevix Trench (1807) the kingdom op god 159 not thou, from usI 160 Frederick Tennyson (1807) the glory of nature 161 Alfred Tennyson (1809) wages 163 BROKEN lights 163 last lines 165 crossing the bar 1 66 John Greenleap Whittier (1809) THE waiting 167 invocation 168 Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809) THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS l6g Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1809) consolation 171 the sleep 172 Robert Browning (1812) prospice 174 epilogue 175 rabbi ben ezra 1 76 ix CONTENTS Aubrey de Verb (1814) page MAY CAROLS 1 8s Thomas Tore Lynch (1818) REST 187 modulations 190 Walt Whitman (1819) death carol , . . . . 102 gods 104 chanting the square deific ....... i9s Arthur Hugh Clough (1819) HELP 199 surety 200 George Eliot (1819) "O MAY I JOIN the choir INVISIBLE" 200 Emily Bronte (1819) last lines 20 2 the prisoner 2o4 Dora Greenwell (1821) THE search 206 Matthew Arnold (1822) east LONDON 2o6 the better part 207 stagirius 208 immortality 2io Coventry Patmore (1823) the toys 211 victory in defeat 212 vesica piscis 21S George MacDonald (1824) REST 215 A CHRISTMAS CAROL 2l6 THAT holy thing 217 CONTENTS George Meredith (1828) page MEN AND MAN 2l8 sense and spirit 219 lucifer in starlight 220 a ballad of past meridian 220 the question whither 221 outer and inner 222 Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828) world's worth 224 vain virtues 22s LOST days 226 A superscription 227 the heart of the night 227 Christina Rossetti (1830) old and new year ditties 228 UP-HILL 229 THE WORLD 230 SLEEPING AT LAST 231 T. E. Brown (1830) indwelling 232 Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837) HERTHA 232 Theodore Watts-Dunton NATURA BENIGNA 242 Joaquin Miller (1841) columbus 243 Edward Rowland Sill (1841) A PRAYER 244 " quem metui moritura?" 24s MiNOT J. Savage (1841) MY BIRTH 246 Edward Dowden (1843) seeking god 248 xi CONTENTS Frederick W. H. Mvers (1843) page SUNRISE 249 Gerard Hopkins (1844) THE DEBT 250 the habit op perfection 2$! god's grandeur 252 Robert Bridges (1844) fortitude 2s3 John Vance Cheney (1848) the happiest heart 254 William Ernest Henley (1849) invictus 2s4 Robert Louis Stevenson (1850) IF this were faith 255 Herbert E. Clarke (1852) life and death 2S7 Alice Meynell (1855) meditation 2S8 "l AM the way" 259 "why wilt thou chide?" 260 R. D. B. dominus illuminatio mea 260 William Watson (1858) THE MYSTIC burden 26l H. C. Beeching (1850) PRAYERS 263 Francis Thompson (i860) THE hound OP HEAVEN 264 IN NO STRANGE LAND 271 xii CONTENTS Louise Imogen Guiney (i86i) page the kings 272 deo optimo maximo 274 Lionel Johnson (1864) THE precept of SILENCE 275 MY OWN FATE 27S A BURDEN OF EASTER VIGIL 276 A. E. (George Russell, 1866) IMMORTALITY 277 ANSWER 278 reconciliation 279 Philip Henry Savage (i868) infinity 280 Anne Reeve Aldrich (1866) death and daybreak 280 Frederick Herbert Trench (i8 — ?) A CHARGE 281 PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION In bringing out a second edition of this mystic anthology under a new title, I feel that some explana- tion is required. The original title, A Manual of Spiritual Fortifi- cation, was a stumbling block to many critics and readers. They objected to it on the score of its poly- syllabic words and its length. Under the new title, however, I find that I must explain that I believe that the fortification of the spirit by means of such poems as Henley's Invictus, Trench's A Charge, Louise Imogen Guiney's The Kings, Bridges' Fortitude, is one step in the spirit's ascent toward the mystic con- sciousness. Seven years, the distance between the date of the first and the second editions, is ample time for men- tal growth and there are many changes that I should like to have made. There are omissions among the earlier poems that I only became aware of too late. The kind guidance of Miss Vida Scudder and Mrs. Mount-Stuart (Evelyn Underhill) pointed out sev- eral of these to me. PREFACE TO ' 'E SECOND EDITION There are many ch i^es of feeling as to the .-nore modem poems; nota ■ at the time of the earlier edition, Evelyn Undc I's beautiful volume of verse, Immanence, was not _. et published and so none o^ these could be included. Should this little volume in its present form prove to fill any need of the great sorrowing public of to- day, stretching up yearning hands to some larger and braver vision of the mystic consciousness, a third and corrected edition, more to the author's mind, may yet be made. Louise Collier Willcox. June, 19 1 7. ACKNOWLEDGMENT The demands made in such a work as this upon the generosity of authors and publishers are many, and the editor desires herewith to make grateful acknowledgment of her indebtedness. Her thanks are due to the Houghton Mifflin Company for the poems of Ralph Waldo Emerson, John G. Whit- tier, Oliver Wendell Holmes, E. R. Sill, Miss Louise Imogen Guiney, and one by Mr. John Vance Cheney; to Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons for poems by George Meredith from the volume entitled George Meredith's Poems, and for the poem "If This Were Faith," by Robert Louis Stevenson, from Poems and Ballads; to the Macmillan Company, London, for T. E. Brown's "Indwelling"; to Mr. Watts-Dunton and Messrs. Chatto & Windus for A. C. Swinburne's "Hertha"; to the Rev. Minot J. Savage and Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons for "My Birth," from Poems by M. J. Savage; to the Rev. Minot J. Savage and Messrs. Small, Maynard & Company for Philip Henry Savage's "Infinity"; to Messrs. Longmans, Green & Com- ACKNOWLEDGMElNT pany and Mrs. Myers for F. W. H. Myers's " Sunrise," from Fragments of Prose and Poetry; to Messrs. Smith, Elder & Company and to Mr. Robert Bridges for his poem, "Fortitude"; to Mr. John Vance Cheney for his " Happiest Heart," from the volume entitled Poems; to Mrs. Alice Meynell for the three selections from her Poems and Later Poems; to Mr. Wilfred Meynell for Francis Thomp- son's "Hound of Heaven" and "In No Strange Land"; to the John Lane Company, New York, and to Mr. William Watson for the poem here en- titled "The Mystic Burden," from Odes and Other Poems; to Mr. Thomas B. Mosher and Mr. George Russell for "Answer" and "Immortality," from the Earth-Breath and Other Poem,s; to Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons for Miss Anne Reeve Al- drich's "Death at Daybreak," from Songs About Life, Love, and Death; to Messrs. Methuen & Com- pany, London, the John Lane Company, and Mr. Herbert Trench for "A Charge"; to Messrs. Whitaker and Ray-Wiggin Company, of California, for Joaquin Miller's "Columbus," from Volume I of the six- volume edition of Joaquin Miller's Poems; to Mr. Elkin Mathews, of London, for Lionel Johnson's "Precept of Silence," "A Burden of Easter Vigil," " My Own Fate"; to Messrs. James Clarke & Company for Thomas Toke Lynch 's "Rest" and "Modulations"; to the Rev. Canon H. C. Beeching for his "Prayers"; to the Mac- ACKNOWLEDGMENT millan Company, New York, and Mr. George Russell for "Reconciliation;" from The Divine Vision by A. E.; to Mr. Theodore Watts-Dunton for his sonnet " Natura Benigna." from The Coming of Love; to Mr. Edward Dowden for his poem " Seek- ing God"; to Mrs. Kate Hopkins for the poerris by Gerard Hopkins; to Mr. Horace Traubel for poems by Walt Whitman; to Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons for W. E. Henley's "Invictus"; to Miss Guiney for her poems; to Mr. Bertram Dobell for Thomas Traherne's poems. In closing this list the editor desires to express her sense of the uniform courtesy extended her, and hopes she may not inadvertently have over- looked any acknowledgments or unwittingly tres- passed on any one's rights. A MANUAL OF SPIRITUAL FORTIFICATION A MANUAL OF SPIRITUAL FORTIFICATION MARY AT THE CROSS " Stond well, mother, under rood; Behold thy Son with glade mood; Blythe, mother, mayst thou be." " Son, how shall I blithe stand ? I see Thy feet, I see Thine hand Nailed to the hard tree." "Mother, do way thy wepynde: I thole death for mankind — For My guilt thole I none." "Son, I feel the dede stounde; The sword is at mine hert6 grounde That me byhet Simeon." THIRTEENTH CENTURY "Mother, mercy! let Me die, For Adam out of hell buy, And his kin that is forlore." "Son, what shall me to rede? My pain paineth me to dede: Let me die Thee before!" "Mother, thou rue all of thy bairn; Thou wash away the bloody tern; It doth Me worse than My ded." " Son, how I teres weme ? I see the bloody streames erne From Thine heart to my feet." "Mother, now I may thee seye, Better is that I one deye Than all mankind to helle go." "Son, I see Thy body byswongen, Feet and hands throughout stongen: No wonder though me be woe." "Mother, now I shall thee tell. If I not die, thou goest to hell: I thole death for thine sake." "Son, thou are so meek and mynde, Ne wyt me not, it is my kind That I for Thee this sorrow make. 2 THIRTEENTH CENTURY " Mother, now thou mayst well leren What sorrow have that children beren, What sorrow it is with child6 gon." "Sorrow, y-wis, I can thee tell; But it be the pain of hell, More sorrow wot I none." "Mother, rue of mother-care, For now thou wost of mother-fare. Though thou be clean maiden mon." " Sone, help at alle need Alle those that to me grede. Maiden, wife and full wymmon." "Mother, may I no longer dwell; The time is come I shall to hell; The thridde day I rise upon." " Son, I will with Thee founden; I die, y-wis, for Thine wounden: So sorrowful death nes never none." When He rose, tho fell her sorrow; Her bliss sprung the thridde morrow: Blithe, mother, wert thou tho! Levedy, for that ilk6 bliss. Beseech thy Son of sunn6s lisse: Thou be our shield against our foe. 3 THIRTEENTH CENTURY Blessed be thou, full of bliss, Let us never heaven miss, Through thy sweete Sone's might! Lovered, for that ilke blood, That thou sheddest on the rood, Thou bring us in to heaven's light. Amen. I SYKE WHEN I SING I syke when I sing For sorrow that I see, When I with weeping Behold upon the tree And see Jesu the sweet His herte blood for-lete For the love of me. His woundcs waxen wete, They weepen still and mete Mary, rueth thee. High upon a down, There all folk it see may, A mile from each town, About the mid-day. The rood is up areared; His friends are afear^d, 4 THIRTEENTH CENTURY And clingeth so the clay; The rood stond in stone, Mary stond her on, And saith, Welaway! When I see Thee behold With eyen brighte bo, And Thy body cold — Thy ble waxeth bio, Thou hangest all of blood So high upon the rood Between thieves tuo — Who may syke more ? Mary weepeth sore, And seeth all this woe. The nailes be'th too strong, The smiths are too sly; Thou bleedest all too long; The tree is all too high; The stones be'th all wete! Alas, Jesu, the sweet! For now friend hast thou none, ut Saint John to-mournynde, And Mary wepynde. For pain that Thee is on. 5 THIRTEENTH CENTURY Oft when I syke And makie my moan, Well ill though me like, Wonder is it none, When I see hang high And bitter pains dreye, Jesu, nay lemmonl His woundes sore smart, The spear all to his heart And through his sides gone. Oft when I syke, With care I am through-sought; When I wake I wyke; Of sorrow is all my thought. Alas! men be wood That sweareth by the rood And selleth Him for nought. That bought us out of sin! He bring us to wynne, That hath us dear bought! THIRTEENTH CENTURY WINTER SONG Wynter wakeneth al my care, Nou this leves waxeth bare, Ofte y sike ant mourne sare, When hit cometh in my thoth Of this worldes joie. how hit goth al to noht. Now hit is, ant now hit nys, Also hit ner nere y-wys. That moni mon seith soth hit ys, Al goth bote Godes wille, Alle we shule deye, thah us like ylle. Al that gren me graueth greene, Nou hit faleweth al by-dene; Jhesu, help that hit be sene, Ant shild us from helle: For y not whider y shal, ne hou longe her duelle. A SONG TO THE VIRGIN Of on that is so fayr and bright Velut maris stella, Brighter than the day is light. Parens et puella: 7 THIRTEENTH CENTURY Ic crie to thee, thou see to me, Levedy, preye thi Sone for me, Tarn pia. That ic moie come to thee, Maria. Al this world was for-lore Eva peccatrice, Tyl our Lord was y-bore De te genetrice. With ave it went away Thuster nyth and cometh the day Salutis; The welle springeth ut of thee, Virtutis. Levedy, flour of alle thing, Rosa sine spina, Thu here Jhesu, hevene king. Gratia divina: Of alle thou ber'st the pris, Levedy, quene of paradys Electa: Mayde milde, moder ^5 Effecta. FIFTEENTH CENTURY SHEPHERD'S SONG Tyrle, tyrle, so merrylye the shepperdes begin to blowe. Abowt the fyld thei pyped full right, Even abowt the middes off the nyght; Adown fro me heven thei saw cum a light. Tyrle, tyrle, etc. Off angels ther came a company. With mery songes and melody. The shepperdes anonne gane them aspy. Tyrle, tyrle, etc. Gloria in excelsis, the angels song, And said, who peace was present among, To every man that to the faith would long. Tyrle, tyrle, etc. The shepperdes hyed them to Bethleme, To se that blyssid sons beme; And thor they found that glorious streme. Tyrle, tyrle, etc. Now preye we to that mek chyld, And to His mothere that is so myld, The wich was never defylyd, Tyrle, tyrle, etc. 9 FIFTEENTH CENTURY That we may cum unto His blysse, Where joy shall never mysse, Than may we syng in Paradice; Tyrle, tyrle, etc. I pray yow all that be here, Fore to syng and mak good chare, In the worship off God thys yere. Tyrle, tyrle, etc. CAROL OF THE VIRGIN I sing of a maiden That is makeles; King of all kings To her Son she ches. He came al so still There His mother was. As dew in April That falleth on the grass. He came al so still To His mother's bour. As dew in April That falleth on the flour. FIFTEENTH CENTURY CAROLS He came al so still There His mother lay, As dew in April That falleth on the spray. Mother and maiden Was never none but she; Well may such a lady Goddes mother be. FIFTEENTH CENTURY CAROLS THE KINCx'S SON From a Manuscript at Balliol College, Oxford Mater, ora fil-ium, Ut post hoc exilium Nobis donet gaudium Beatorum omnhim ! Fair maiden, who is this bairn That thou bearest in thine arm? Sir, it is a King^s Son, That in Heaven above doth wone. Mater, ora, etc. FIFTEENTH CENTURY CAROLS Man to father He hath none, But Himself God alone! Of a maiden He would be borne, To save mankind that was forlorn! Mater, ora, etc. Thre Kings brought Him presents, Gold, myrrh, and frankincense To my Son full of might. King of Kings and Lord of right! Mater, ora, etc. Fair maiden, pray for us Unto thy Son, sweet Jesus, That He will send us of His grace In heav/en on high to have a place! Mater, ora, etc. THE VIRGIN'S SON Now sing we, sing we, Gloria tibi domine ! Christ keep us all, as He well can, A soils ortus cardine! For He is both God and man, Qui natus est de virgine! Sing we, etc. 12 FIFTEENTH CENTURY CAROLS As He is Lord both day and night, Venter puellcB baiulat, So is Mary mother of might, Secreta qucs non noverat. Sing we, etc. The holy breast of chastity. Verba concepit filium, So brought before the Trinity, Ut castitatis lilium! Sing we, etc. Between an ox and an ass Enixa est puerpera; In poor clothing clothed He was Qui regnat super cethera! Sing we, etc. THE BEST SONG All this time this song is best: Verbum caro factum est! This night there is a child born That sprang out of Jesse's thorn; We must sing and say thereforn Verbum caro factum, est! 13 FIFTEENTH CENTURY CAROLS Jesus is the child's name, And Mary mild is his dame; All our sorrow shall turn to game, Verbunt caro factum, est! It fell upon high midnight. The stars shone both fair and bright, The angels sang with all their might Verbunt caro jacHtm est! Now kneel we down on our knee, And pray we to the Trinity, Our help, our succour for to be! Verbum caro factum est! A MIRACULOUS MATTER Man, move thy mind and joy this feast, Veritas de terra orta est! As I came by the way I saw a sight seemly to see, Three shepherds ranging in a kay, Upon the field keeping their fee. A star, they said, they did espy, Casting the beams out of the east. And angels making melody Veritas de terra orta est! 14 FIFTEENTH CENTURY CAROLS Upon that sight they were aghast, Saying these words, as I say thee: "To Bethlehem shortly let us haste, And there we shall the truthe seel" The angel said unto them all three, To their comfort or ever he ceased, " Consolamini and merry be, Veritas de terra orta est! " From heaven, out of the highest see, Righteousness hath taken way. With mercy meddled plenteously, And so conceived in a may, Miranda res this is in fay! So saith the prophet in his gest: Now is He born, scripture doth say: Veritas de terra orta est!'' Then passed the shepherds from that place, And followed by the starres beam. That was so bright afore their face, It brought them straight unto Bethlem. So bright it shone, on all the realm Till they came there they would not rest. To Jewry and Jerusalem! Veritas de terra orta est! 15 RICHARD DE CASTRE RICHARD DE CASTRE . PRAYER OF RICHARD DE CASTRE Jesu, Lord, that madist me. And with Thy blessed blood hast bought. Forgive that I have greved Thee With word, with wil, and eek with thought. Jesu, in whom is al my trust, That died upon the rood6 tree, Withdrawe myr herte from fleshly lust, And from al worldly vanyte! Jesu, for Thy woundis smerte On feet and on Thyn handis two, Make me meeke and low of herte. And Thee to love as I should do. Jesu, for Thy bitter wounde That wente to Thine herte roote. For synne that hath myn herte bounde, Thy blessid blood mote be my boote. And Jesu Christ, to Thee I calle, That art God, full of might; Keep me cleane, that I ne falle In deadly sinne neither by day ne night. i6 RICHARD DE CASTRE Jesu, grante me mine asking, Perfect pacience in my disease; And never mote I do that thing That should Thee in ony wise displease. Jesu, that art our heavenly kinge. Soothfast God, and man also, Give me grace of good endinge. And them that I am holden unto. Jesu, for the deadly tearis That Thou sheddest for my gilt, Heare and speede my prayers. And spare me that I be not spilt. Jesu, for them I Thee beseche That wrathen Thee in ony wise, Withhold from them Thine hand of wreclie And let them live in Thy service. Jesu, moost coumfort for to see Of Thy saintis evereachone, Coumfort them that careful been, And help them that ben woo-begone. Jesu, keep them that been goode, Amend them that han grieved Thee, And send them fruytis of earthly foode As each man needith in his degree. 17 WILLIAM DUNBAR Jesu, that art withouten lees, Almighty God in Trynyte, Ceasse these werris and send us pees - With lasting love and charitee. Jesu, that art the ghostly stone Of al Holy Church in middle erthe, Bring Thy foldis and flockis in oon. And rule them rightly with oon herde. Jesu, for Thy blessidful blood Bringe, if Thou wilt, the soulis to bliss Fro whom I have had ony good. And spare them that have done amiss. Amen. WILLIAM DUNBAR ON THE NATIVITY OF CHRIST Rorate cceli desuper! Hevins, distil your balmy schouris. For now is rissen the bricht day ster, Fro the ross Mary, flour of flouris; The cleir Sone, quhom no clud devouris, Surmunting Phebus in the est, Is cumin of His hevinly touris; Et nobis Ptier natus est. WILLIAM DUNBAR Archangellis, angellis, and dompnationis, Tronis, potestatis, and marteiris seir And all ye hevinly operationis, Ster, planeit, firmament, and speir, Fyre, erd, air and watter cleir, To Him gife loving, most and lest. That come in to so meik manier; Et nobis Pvier natus est. Synnaris be glaid, and pennance do. And thank your Maker hairtfully; For He that ye micht nocht come to. To you is cumin full humbly, Your saulis with His blood to by. And louss you of the feindis arrest, And only of His awin mercy; Pro nobis Puer natus est. All clergy do to Him inclyne. And bow unto that barne benyng. And do your obseruance divyne To Him that is of kingis King; Ensence his altar, reid and sing In haly kirk, with mynd degest. Him honouring attour all thing. Qui nobis Puer natus est. Celestial fowl is in the' aer. Sing with your nottis upoun hicht; In firthis and in forrestis fair Be myrthfull now, at all your mycht, 19 WILLIAM DUNBAR For passit is your dully nycht; Aurora hes the cluddis perst, The son is risen with glaidsum lycht, Et nobis Puer natus est. Now spring up flouris fra the rute, Revert you upwart naturaly, In honour of the blissit frute That raiss up fro the ross Mary; Lay out your levis lustely, Fro deid tak lyfe now at the lest In wirschip of that Prince wirthy, Qui nobis Puer natus est. Sing hevin imperiall, most of hicht, P^egions of air mak armony; All fishe in flud and foull of flicht, Be myrthfull and mak melody: All Gloria in excelsis cry, Heaven, erd, se, man, bird, and best, He that is crownit abone the sky Pro nobis Puer natus est. EDMUND SPENSER EDMUND SPENSER EASTER Most glorious Lord of lyfe that on this day, Didst make Thy triumph over death and sin: And having harrowed hell didst bring away Captivity thence captive us to win; This joyous day, deare Lord, with joy begin. And grant that we for whom Thou diddest dye, Being with Thy deare blood clene washt from sin. May live forever in felicity. And that Thy love we weighing worthily. May likewise love Thee for the same againe: And for Thy sake that all like deare didst buy, With love may one another entertayne. So let us love, dear love, like as we ought, Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught. SIR WALTER RALEIGH TIME'S GIFTS Verses found in the Author's Bible in the Gate-House at Westminster Even such is Time, that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Who, in the dark and silent grave, SIR WALTER RALEIGH When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days; But from this earth, this grave, this dust. My God shall raise me up, I trust! PILGRIMAGE Give me my scallop-shell of Quiet, My staff of Faith to walk upon; My scrip of Joy, immortal diet, My bottle of Salvation, My gown of Glory, hope's true gage; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage. Blood must be my body's balmer. No other balm will there be given; Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Travelleth towards the land of heaven; Over the silver mountains, Where spring the nectar fountains: There will I kiss The bowl of bliss; And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill, IMy soul will be a-dry before; But after, it will thirst no more. 22 SIR WALTER RALEIGH THE LIE Go, Soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless arrant: Fear not to touch the best; The truth shall be thy warrant: Go, since I needs must die. And give the world the lie. Say to the court, it glows And shines like rotten wood; Say to the church, it shows What's good, and doth no good: If court and church reply, Then give them both the lie. Tell potentates, they live Acting by others' action; Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by a faction: If potentates reply. Give potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition, That manage the estate. Their purpose is ambition. Their practice only hate: 23 SIR WALTER RALEIGH And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost. Seek nothing but commending: And if they make reply. Then give them all the lie. Tell zeal it wants devotion; Tell love it is but lust; Tell time it is but motion; Tell flesh it is but dust; And wish them not reply. For thou must give the lie. Tell age it daily wasteth; Tell honour how it alters; Tell beauty how she blasteth; Tell favour how it falters: And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie. Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of niceness; Tell wisdom she entangles Herself in over-wiseness : And when they do reply, Straight give them both the lie. 24 SIR WALTER RALEIGH Tell physic of her boldness; Tell skill it is pretension; Tell charity of coldness; Tell law it is contention And as they do reply, So give them still the lie. Tell fortune of her blindness; Tell nature of decay; Tell friendship of unkindness; Tell justice of delay: And if they will reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell arts they have no soundness, But vary by esteeming; Tell schools they want profoundness, And stand too much on seeming: If arts and schools reply. Give arts and schools the lie. Tell faith it's fled the city; Tell how the country erreth; Tell manhood shakes off pity; Tell virtue least preferreth: And if they do reply, Spare not to give the lie. 25 SIR JOHN BEAUMONT So when thou hast, as I Commanded thee, done blabbing — Although to give the lie Deserves no less than stabbing — Stab at thee he that will No stab the soul can kill. SIR JOHN BEAUMONT IN DESOLATION Thou, Who sweetly bend'st my stubborn will, Who send'st Thy stripes to teach and not to kill! Thy chearrful face from me no longer hide; Withdraw these clouds, the scourges of my pride; 1 sinke to hell, if I be lower throwne: I see what man is, being left alone. My substance, which from nothing did begin, Is worse than nothing by the waight of sin: I see my selfe in such a wretched state, As neither thoughts conceive, nor words relate. How great a distance parts us! for in Thee Is endless good, and boundless ill in mee. All creatures prove me abject, but how low Thou onely know'st, and teachest me to know: To paint this basenesse, Nature is too base; This darknesse yields not but to beames of grace. Where shall I then this piercing splendour find ? Or found, how shall it guide me, being blind? 26 SIR JOHN BEAUMONT Grace is a taste of blisse, a glorious gift, Which can the soul to heav'nly comforts lift: It will not shine to me, whose mind is drown'd In sorrowes, and with worldly troubles bound; It will not daigne within that house to dwell. Where drynesse reigns, and proud distractions swell. Perhaps it sought me in those lightsome dayse Of my first fervour, when few winds did raise The waves, and ere they could full strength obtain. Some whispering gale straight charm'd them down again; When all seem'd calme, and yet the virgin's Child On my devotions in His manger smiled; While then I simply walkt, nor heed could take Of Complacence, that slye deceitful snake; When yet I had not dang'rously refus'd So many calls to virtue, nor abus'd The spring of life, which I so oft enjoy'd, Nor made so many good intentions voyd; Deserving thus that grace should quite depart, And dreadfuU hardnesse should possesse my heart: Yet in that state this onely good I found, That fewer spots did then my conscience wound; Though who can censure, whether in those times, The want of feeling seem'd the want of crimes ? If solid vertues dwell not but in paine, I will not wish that golden age againe Because it flow'd with sensible delights Of heavenly things ; God hath created nights 27 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY As well as dayes, to deck the varied globe; Grace comes as oft clad in the dusky robe Of desolation, as in white attire, Which better fits the bright celestiall quire. Some in foul seasons perish through despaire, But more through boldnesse when the days are faire. This then must be the med'cine for my woes, To yield to what my Saviour shall dispose; To glory in my basenesse; to rejoice In mine afflictions; to obey His voice, As well when threatenings my defects reprove As when I cherisht am with words of love; To say to Him in ev'ry time and place, "Withdraw Thy comforts, so Thou leave Thy grace." SIR PHILIP SIDNEY SONNET Leaue me, O Loue, which reachest but to dust; And thou, my mind, aspire to higher things; Grow rich in that which never taketh rust; Whateuer fades, but fading pleasure brings. Draw in thy beames, and humble all thy might To that sweet yoke where lasting freedomes be; Which breakes the clowdes, and opens forth the light, That doth both shine, and giue us sight to see. 28 ROBERT SOUTHWELL O take fast hold; let that light be thy guide In this small course which birth drawes out to death, And thinke how euill becommeth him to slide, Who seeketh heav'n, and comes of heav'nly breath. Then farewell, world, thy vttermost I see: Eternall Loue, maintaine Thy life in me. ROBERT SOUTHWELL THE BURNING BABE As I in hoary Winter's night stood shivering in the snowe, Surpris'd I was with sudden heat, which made my herte to glowe; And lifting up a fearful eye to view what fire was near, A prety Babe all burning bright, did in the ayre appear. Who scorched with excessive heat, such floods of tears did shed. As though His floodes should quench His flames which with His teares were fed; Alas! quoth He, but newly borne, in fiery heats I frye, Yet none approach to warm their herts or feel My fire but I! 29 ROBERT SOUTHWELL My faultles breast the fornace is, the fuel! wound- ing thornes, Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke, the ashes shame and scornes; The fuell Justice layeth on, and Mercy blowes the coales; The metall in this fornace wrought are men's defiled soules, For which, as now on fire I am, to work them to their good. So will I melt into a bath to wash tHem in My blood •. With this He vanisht out of sight and swiftly shronck away. And straight I callM unto mind that it was Christ- mas-daye. NEW PRINCE, NEW POMPE Behold a sely, tender Babe, In freezing winter nighte, In homely manger trembling lies; Alas! a piteous sighte! The inns are full, no man will yelde This little pilgrime bedd; But forced He is with sely beastes In cribb to shroude His headd. 30 ROBERT SOUTHWELL Despise not Him for lyinge there, First what He is enquire; An orient perle is often founde In depth of dirty mire. Waye not His cribbe, His wodden dishe, Nor beastes that by Him feede; Waye not His mother's poore attire Nor Josephe's simple weede. His stable is a Prince's courte, The cribbe His chaire of State; The beastes are parcell of His pompe. The wodden dishe, His plate. The parsons in that poore attire His royal ivery weare; The Prince Himself is come from heaven. This pompe is prised there. With joy approach, O Christian wighte! Do homage to thy Kinge; And highly prise His humble pompe Which He from Heaven doth bringe. 31 WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE THE WASTE OF SHAME Th' expense of Spirit in a waste of shame Is lust in action, and till action, lust Is perjurd, murdrous, bloody, full of blame, Savage, extreame, rude, cruell, not to trust, Enjoyd no sooner but dispised straight. Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated as a swallowed bayt. On purpose layd to make the taker mad. Mad in pursuit and in possession so, Had, having, and in quest to have, extreame; A blisse in proofe and proved a very wo; Before a joy proposed, behind a dream. All this the world well knowes; yet none knowes well To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. THE REMEDY Poore soule the center of my sinfull earth, My sinfull earth these rebbell powers that thee array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth Painting thy outward walls so costlie gay? 32 THOMAS CAMPION Why so large cost having so short a lease, Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall wormes inheritors of this excesse Eat up thy charge? is this thy bodies end? Then soule live thou upon thy servants losse, And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy tearms divine in selling houres of drosse: Within be fed, without be rich no more: So shalt thou feed on death, that feeds on men, And death once dead, ther's no more dying then. THOMAS CAMPION INVOCATION View me, Lord, a work of Thine: Shall I then lie drowned in night ? Might Thy grace in me but shine, I should seem made all of light. But my soul still surfeits so On the poisoned baits of sin, That I strange and ugly grow, All is dark and foul within. Cleanse me, Lord, that I may kneel At Thine altar, pure and white: They that once Thy mercies feel. Gaze no more on earth's delight. 33 THOMAS CAMPION Worldly joys, like shadows, fade When the heavenly light appears; But the covenants Thou hast made, Endless, know nor days nor years. In Thy Word, Lord, is my trust, To Thy mercies fast I fly; Though I am but clay and dust, Yet Thy grace can lift me high. THE MAN OF LIFE UPRIGHT The man of life upright, Whose guiltless heart is free From all dishonest deeds. Or thought of vanity; The man whose silent days In harmless joys are spent, Whom hopes cannot delude Nor sorrow discontent: That man needs neither towers Nor armour for defence. Nor secret vaults to fly From thunder's violence: 34 SIR HENRY WOTTON He only can behold With unaffrighted eyes The horrors of the deep And terrors of the skies. Thus scorning all the cares That fate or fortune brings, He makes the heaven his book, His wisdom heavenly things, Good thoughts his only friends, His wealth a well-spent age, The earth his sober inn And quiet pilgrimage. SIR HENRY WOTTON THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE How happy is he born and taught Who serveth not another's will; Whose armour is his honest thought, And simple truth his utmost skill; Whose passions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the world by care Of publick fame or private breath; 35 JOHN DONNE Who envies none that chance doth raise, Nor vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise, Nor rules of state, but rules of good; Who hath his life from rumours freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great; Who God doth late and early pray More of His grace than gifts to lend; And entertains the harmless day With a religious book or friend. This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise or feare to fall; Lord of himselfe. though not of lands, And having nothing, yet hath all. JOaN DONNE A HYMN TO GOD THE FATHER I Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before ? Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run And do run still, though still I do deplore? When Thou hast done. Thou hast not done; For I have more. 36 JOHN DONNE II Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I have wonne Others to sin, and made my sins their door? Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun A year or two, but wallow'd in a score ? When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done; For I have more. I have a sin of fear, that when I have spun My last thred, I shall perish on the shore; But swear by Thyself, that at my death Thy Son Shall shine as He shines now and heretofore; And, having done that, Thou hast done; I fear no more. TO DEATH Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mightie and dreadful, for thou art not soe; For those, whom thou think'st thou dost over- throw. Dye not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill mee. From rest and sleep, which but thy picture bee, 37 JOHN DONNE Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flowe, And soonest our best men do with thee goe, Rest of their bones, and soules' deliverie. Thou'rt slave to Fate, Chance, Kings, and des- perate men. And dost with poyson, warr, and sicknes dwell, And poppie or charmes can make us sleep as well. And better then thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleepe past, we wake eternally. And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt dye. A HYMNE TO CHRIST, AT THE AUTHOR'S LAST GOING INTO GERMANY In what torne ship soever I embark, That ship shall be my embleme of Thy ark; What sea soever swallow me, that floud Shall be to mee an embleme of Thy blood; Though Thou with clouds of anger doe disguise Thy face, yet through that mask I know those eyes. Which, though they turn away sometimes, They never will despise. 38 JOHN DON NE I sacrifice this island unto Thee, And all whom I love here, and who love mee; When I have put our seas 'twixt them and mee, Put Thou Thy sea betwixt my sinns and Thee. As the tree's sapp doth seek the roote below In winter, in my winter now I go. Where none but Thee, th' eternal root Of true love, I may know. Nor Thou, nor Thy religion, dost controule The amorousness of a harmonious soule; But Thou wouldst have that love Thy selfe: as Thou Art jealous. Lord, so I am jealous now; Thou lovest not, till from loving more Thou free My soule; Who ever gives, takes libertie; Oh, if Thou car'st not whom I love, Alas, Thou lov'st not mee. Seal, then, this bill of my divorce to all, On whom those fainter beames of love did fall; Marry those loves, which in youth scatter' d bee On fame, wit, hopes (false mistresses), to Thee. Churches are best for prayre, that have least light; To see God only, I goe out of sight: And to 'scape stormy days, I choose An everlastinge night. 39 PHINEAS FLETCHER PHINEAS FLETCHER AN HYMNE Drop, drop, slow tears And bathe Those beauteous feet Which brought from heav'n The news and Prince of peace; Cease not, wet eyes. His mercies to intreat; To crie for vengeance Sinne doth never cease r In your deep fiouds Drown all my faults and fears; Nor let His eye See sinne but through my tears. WILLIAM DRUMMOND SOUL, WHICH TO HELL WAST THRALL Soul, which to hell wast thrall. He, He for thine ofifence Did suffer death, who could not die at all. O sovereign excellence! O life of all that lives! Eternal bounty, which all goodness gives! How could Death mount so high ? No wit this point can reach; Faith only doth us teach. For us He died, at all who could not die. 40 WILLIAM DRUMMOND WORLD'S BEAUTY If with such passing beauty, choice delights, The architect of this great round did frame This palace visible, which world we name, Yet silly mansion but of mortal wights; How many wonders, what amazing lights, Must that triumphing seat of glory claim, Which doth transcend all this great All's high heights. Of whose bright sun ours here is but a beam! O blest abode! O happy dwelling-place Where visibly th' Invisible doth reign! Blest people, who do see true beauty's face. With whose dark shadows He but earth doth deign, All joy is but annoy, all concord strife, Match'd with your endless bliss and happy life. THE LAST HOPE Too long I follow 'd have my fond desire. And too long panted on the Ocean streams, Too long refreshment sought amidst the fire. And hunted joys, which to my soul were bleames. 41 ROBERT HERRICK Ah! when I had what most I did admire. And seen of life's deh'ghts the last extremes, I found all but a rose hedg'd with a brier, - An ought, a thought, a show of mocking dreams. Henceforth on Thee, mine only good, I'll think, For only Thou canst grant what I do crave; Thy nail my pen shall be. Thy blood mine ink, Thy winding-sheet my paper, study, grave. And till that soul forth of this body flee. No hope I'll have, but only, only Thee. ROBERT HERRICK AN ODE TO GOD Deer God, If Thy smart Rod Here did not make me sorrie, I sho'd not be With Thine, or Thee, In Thy eternall Glorie. But since Thou didst convince My sinnes, by gently striking; Add still to those First stripes, new blowes, According to Thy liking. 42 ROBERT HERRICK Feare me, Or scourging teare me; That thus from vices driven, I may from Hell Flie up, to dwell With Thee, and Thine in Heaven. HIS LETANIE, TO THE HOLY SPIRIT In the houre of my distresse. When temptations me oppresse, And when I my sins confesse, Sweet Spirit comfort me! When I lie within my bed. Sick in heart and sick in head. And with doubts discomforted. Sweet Spirit comfort me! When the house doth sigh and weep, And the world is drown'd in sleep, Yet mine eyes the watch do keep; Sweet Spirit comfort me! When the artlesse Doctor sees No one hope, but of his Fees, And his skill runs on the lees; Sweet Spirit comfort me! 43 ROBERT HERRICK When his Potion and his Pill, Has, or none, or little skill, Meet for nothing, but to kill; Sweet Spirit comfort me! When the passing-bell doth tole, And the Furies in a shole Come to fright a parting soule; Sweet Spirit comfort me! When the tapers now burne blue, And the comforters are few, And that number more then true; Sweet Spirit comfort me! When the Priest his last hath praid, And I nod to what is said, 'Cause my speech is now decaid; Sweet Spirit comfort me! When (God knowes) I'm tost about. Either with despaire, or doubt; Yet before the glasse be out. Sweet Spirit comfort me! When the Tempter me pursu'th With the sins of all my youth. And halfe damns me with untruth; Sweet Spirit comfort me! 44 ROBERT HERRICK When the flames and helHsh cries Fright mine eares and fright mine eyes, And all terrors me surprise; Sweet Spirit comfort me! When the Judgment is reveal'd And that open'd which was seal'd, When to Thee I have appeal'd; Sweet Spirit comfort me! GRACE FOR A CHILD What God gives, and what we take, 'Tis a gift for Christ His sake: Be the meale of Beanes and Pease, God be thank'd for those, and these; Have we flesh, or have we fish, All are Fragments from His dish. He His Church save, and the King, And our Peace here, like a Spring, Make it ever flourishing. 45 ROBERT HERRICK Here a little child I stand, Heaving up my either hand; Cold as Paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, For a Benizon to fall On our meat, and on us all. Amen. TO KEEP A TRUE LENT Is this a Fast, to keep The Larder leane? And cleane From fat of Veales, and Sheep? Is it to quit the dish Of flesh, yet still To fill The platter high with Fish? Is it to fast an houre, Or ragg'd to go, Or show A down-cast look, and a sowre ? 46 HENRY KING No: 'Tis a Fast, to dole Thy sheaf of wheat, And meat, Unto the hungry Soule. It is to fast from strife, From old debate. And hate; To circumcise thy life. To show a heart grief -rent; To starve thy sin. Not Bin; And that's to keep thy Lent. HENRY KING A CONTEMPLATION UPON FLOWERS Brave flowers — that I could gallant it like you And be as little vain! You come abroad, and make a harmless show, And to your beds of earth again. You are not proud; you know your birth; For your embroider'd garments are from earth. You do obey your months and times, but I Would have it ever Spring: My fate would know no Winter, never die, Nor think of such a thing. 47 FRANCIS QUARLES O that I could my bed of earth but view And smile, and look as cheerfully as you! O teach me to see Death and not to fear, But rather to take truce! How often have I seen you at a bier, And there look fresh and spruce! You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death. FRANCIS QUARLES RESPICE FINEM My soul, sit thou a patient looker on; Judge not the Play before the Play is done: Her Plot has many changes; Every day Speaks a new Scene; the last act crowns the Play. FALSE WORLD False world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lend The least delight: Thy favours cannot gain a Friend, They are so slight: 48 FRANCIS QUARLES Thy morning pleasures make an end To please at night: Poor are the wants that thou supply 'st; And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st With heav'n; fond earth, thou boast'st; false world, thou ly'st. Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales Of endlesse treasure: Thy bounty offers easy sales Of lasting pleasure; Thou ask'st the Conscience what she ails, And swear'st to ease her: There's none can want where thou supply 'st: There's none can give where thou deny'st, Alas, fond world, thou boast'st; false world, thou ly'st. What well advisM eare regards What earth can say? Thy words are gold, but thy rewards Are painted clay: Thy cunning can but pack the cards; Thou canst not play: Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st; If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st; Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st. 49 FRANCIS QUARLES Thy tinsil-bosome seems a mint Of new-coin'd treasure; A Paradise, that has no stint. No change, no measure; A painted cask, but nothing in't. Nor wealth, nor pleasure; Vain earth! that falsely thus comply'st With man; Vain man, that thou rely'st On earth; Vain man, thou doat'st; Vain earth, thou ly'st. What mean dull souls, in this high measure To haberdash In earth's base wares, whose greatest treasure Is drosse and trash ? The height of whose inchaunting pleasure Is but a flash ? Are these the goods that thou supply'st Us mortalls with ? Are these the high'st ? Can these bring cordiall peace ? False world, thou ly'st. A DIVINE RAPTURE Canticles II. i6 Ev'n like two little bank-dividing brooks, That wash the pebbles with their wanton streams. And having rang'd and search'd a thousand nooks, Meet both at length in silver-breasted Thames, 5° FRANCIS QUARLES Where in a greater current they conjoyn: So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine. Ev'n so we met; and after long pursuit, Ev'n so we joined; we both became entire; No need for either to renew a suit, For I was flax, and He was flames of fire: Our firm-united souls did more than twine; So I my Best-beloved's am; so He is mine. If all those glittering monarchs, that command The servile quarters of this earthly ball. Should tender in exchange their shares of land, I would not change my fortunes for them all: Their wealth is but a counter to my coin: The world's but theirs ; but my Beloved's He gives me wealth; I give Him all my vows: I give Him songs; He gives me length of days: With wreaths of grace He crowns my conquering brows; And I His temples with a crown of praise. Which He accepts: an everlasting sign That I my Best-beloved's am; that He is mine. 51 FRANCIS QUARLES THE FOYL 'Tis but a foyl at best, and that's the most Your skill can boast: My slipp'ry footing fail'd me; and you tript Just as I slipt: Me wanton weakness did her self betray With too much play: I was too bold: he never yet stood sure, That stands secure: Who ever trusted to his native strength, But fell at length? The title's craz'd, the tenure is not good, That claims by th' evidence of flesh and blood. Boast not thy skill; the righteous man falls oft, Yet falls but soft : There may be dirt to mire him, but no stones To crush his bones: What if he staggers? Nay, put case he be Foyl'd on his knee ? That very knee will bend to Heaven, and woo For mercy too. The true-bred Gamester ups afresh, and then, Falls to 't agen; Whereas the leaden-hearted coward lies, And yields his conquered life, or craven'd, dies. 52 GEORGE HERBERT GEORGE HERBERT EASTER I got me flours to straw Thy way, I got me boughs ofif many a tree; But Thou wast up by break of day, And brought'st Thy sweets along with Thee. Yet though my flours be lost, they say A hart can never come too late; Teach it to sing Thy praise this day, And then this day my life shall date. THE COLLAR I struck the board, and cry'd, "No more; I will abroad;" What, shall I ever sigh and pine ? My lines and life are free; free as the road, Loose as the winde, as large as store. Shall I be still in suit ? Have I no harvest but a thorn To let me bloud, and not restore What I have lost with cordiall fruit ? Sure there was wine Before my sighs did drie it; there was corn Si GEORGE HERBERT Before my tears did drown it; Is the year onely lost to me ? Have I no bayes to crown it, No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted, All wasted? Not so, my heart; but there is fruit, And thou hast hands. Recover all thy sigh-blown age On double pleasures; leave thy cold dispute Of what is fit and not; forsake thy cage, Thy rope of sands Which pettie thoughts have made; and made to thee Good cable, to enforce and draw, And be thy law, While thou didst wink and wouldst not see. Away! take heed; I will abroad. Call in thy death's-head there, tie up thy fears; He that forbears To suit and serve his need Deserves his load. But as I rav'd and grew more fierce and wilde At every word, Methought I heard one calling, "Childe;" And I reply'd, "My Lord." 54 GEORGE HERBERT THE PULLEY When God at first made man, Having a glasse of blessings standing by; "Let us," said He, " poure on him all we can: Let the world's riches, which dispersed lie, Contract into a span." So strength first made a way; Then beautie flow'd, then wisdome, honour, pleasure : When almost all was out, God made a stay. Perceiving that, alone of all His treasure. Rest in the bottome lay. "For if I should," said He, " Bestow this Jewell also on My creature. He would adore My gifts instead of Me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature. So both should losers be." " Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessnesse : Let him be rich and wearie, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet wearinesse May tosse him to My breast." 55 GEORGE HERBERT DISCIPLINE Throw away Thy rod, Throw away Thy wrath; my God, Take the gentle path. For my heart's desire Unto Thine is bent; 1 aspire To a full consent. Not a word or look I affect to own, But by book, And Thy Book alone. Though I fail, I weep; Though I halt in pace, Yet I creep To the throne of grace. Then let wrath remove. Love will do the deed; For with love Stonie hearts will bleed. 56 GEORGE HERBERT Love is swift of foot; Love's a man of warre And can shoot, And can hit from farre. Who can 'scape his bow ? That which wrought on Thee, Brought Thee low, Needs must work on me. Throw away Thy rod: Though man frailties hath, Thou art God; Throw away Thy wrath. LOVE Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back, Guilty of dust and sin. But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack From my first entrance in, Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning If I lack'd any thing. "A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here:" Love said, "You shall be he." 57 GEORGE HERBERT "I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear, I cannot look on Thee." Love took my hand, and smiling did reply, "Who made the eyes but I?" " Truth, Lord, but I have maiTed them; let my shame Go where it doth deserve." "And know you not," says Love, "Who bore the blame ?" "My dear, then I will serve." "You must sit down," says Love, "and taste My meat." So I did sit and eat. THE ELIXIR Teach me, my God and King In all things Thee to see, And what I do in any thing To do it as for Thee. Not rudely, as a beast, To runne into an action; But still to make Thee prepossest, And give it his perfection. 58 GEORGE HERBERT A man that looks on glasse, On it may stay his eye; Or if he pleaseth, through it passe, And then the heaven espie. All may of Thee partake: Nothing can be so mean Which with his tincture, "for Thy sake," Will not grow bright and clean. A servant with this clause Makes drudgery divine; Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws Makes that and th' action fine. This is the famous stone That turneth all to gold; For that which God doth touch and own Cannot for lesse be told. MAN My God, I heard this day That none doth build a stately habitation But he that means to dwell therein. What house more stately hath there been, Or can be, then is Man ? to whose creation All things are in decay. 59 GEORGE HERBERT For Man is ev'ry thing, And more; he is a tree, yet bears mo' fruit; A beast, yet is, or should be, more: - Reason and speech we onely bring; Parrats may thank us, if they are not inute, They go upon the score. Man is all symmetric. Full of proportions, one limbe to another, And all to all the world besides; Each part may call the farthest brother, For head with foot hath private amitie, And both with moons and tides. Nothing hath got so farre But Man hath caught and kept it as his prey; His eyes dismount the highe.st starre; He is in little all the sphere; Herbs gladly cure our flesh, because that they Finde their acquaintance there. For us the windes do blow. The earth resteth, heav'n moueth, fountains flow; Nothing we see but means our good. As our delight or as our treasure; The whole is either our cupboard of food Or cabinet of pleasure. 60 GEORGE HERBERT The starres have us to bed, Night draws the curtain, which the sunne with- draws; Musick and Hght attend our head. All things unto our flesh are kinde In our descent and being; to our minde In their ascent and cause. Each thing is full of dutie: Waters united are our navigation; Distinguished, our habitation; Below, our drink; above, our meat; Both are our cleanlinesse. Hath one such beautie ? Then how are all things neat! More servants wait on Man Than he'l take notice of: in ev'ry path He treads down that which doth befriend him When sicknesse makes him pale and wan. Oh mightie love! Man is one world, and hath Another to attend him. Since then, my God, Thou hast So brave a palace built, O dwell in it. That it may dwell with Thee at last! Till then afiford us so much wit. That, as the world serves us, we may serve Thee, And both Thy servants be. 6i GEORGE HERBERT FRAILTIE Lord, in my silence how do I despise What upon trust Is styled honour, riches, or fair eyes. But is fair dust! I surname them guilded clay, Deare earth, fine grasse or hay; In all, I think my foot doth ever tread Upon their head. But when I view abroad both regiments, The world's and Thine — Thine clad with simplenesse and sad events; The other fine. Full of glorie and gay weeds. Brave language, braver deeds — That which was dust before doth quickly rise, And prick mine eyes. O, brook not this, lest if what even now My foot did tread AfTront those joyes wherewith Thou didst endow And long since wed My poore soul, ev'n sick of love — It may a Babel prove. Commodious to conquer heav'n and Thee, Planted in me. 62 GEORGE HERBERT NATURE Full of rebellion, I would die, Or fight, or travail, or denie That Thou hast ought to do with me; O, tame my heart; It is Thy highest art To captivate strongholds to Thee. If Thou shalt let this venome lurk, And in suggestions fume and work, My soul will turn to bubbles straight, And thence, by kinde. Vanish into a winde. Making Thy workmanship deceit. O, smooth my rugged heart, and there Engrave Thy rev'rend Law and fear; Or make a new one, since the old Is saplesse grown. And a much fitter stone To hide my dust then Thee to hold. 63 F. B. P. URBS BEATA HIERUSALEM Hierusalem, my happy home! When shall I come to thee? When shall my sorrows have an end ? Thy jo5''s when shall I see ? O happy harbour of the Saints, O sweet and pleasant soil, In thee no sorrow may be found. No grief, no care, no toil! In thee no sickness may be seen, No hurt, no ache, no sore; There is no death, nor ugly deuill, But Life for evermore. No dampish mist is seen in thee. No cold nor darksome night; There every soul shines as the sun; There God Himself gives light. There lust and lucre cannot dwell, There envy bears no sway; There is no hunger, heat, nor cold, But pleasure every way. 64 F. B. P. Hierusalem ! Hierusalem ! God grant I once may see Thy endless joys, and of the same Partaker aye to be. Thy walls are made of precious stones, Thy bulwarks diamonds square. Thy gates are of right orient pearl, Exceeding rich and rare. Thy turrets and thy pinnacles With carbuncles do shine. Thy very streets are paved with gold, Surpassing clear and fine. Thy houses arc of ivory. Thy windows crystal clear, Thy tiles are made of beaten gold — O God, that I were there! Within thy gates no thing can come That is not passing clean: No spider's web, no dirt, no dust. No filth may there be seen. Ah, my sweet home, Hierusalem, Would God I were in thee! Would God my woes were at an end, Thy joys that I might see! 65 B. Thy Saints are crowned with glory great, They see God face to face; They triumph still, they still rejoice, Most happy is their case. We that are her-^; in banishment Continually do moan, We sigh, aad sob, we weep and wail. Perpetually we groan. Our sweet is mixed with bitter gall, Our pleasure is but pain; Our joys scarce last the looking on. Our sorrows still remain. But there they live in such delight, Such pleasure and such play, As that to them a thousand years Doth .seem as yesterday. Thy vineyards and thy orchards are Most 'beautiful and fair. Full furnished with trees and fruit, Exceeding rich and rare. Thy gardens and thy gallant walks Continually are green; There grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen. 66 B. There's nectar and ambrosia made, There's musk and civet sweet, There many a fair and dainty drug Is trodden under feet. There cinnamon, there sugar grows, There nard and balm abound. What tongue can tell or heart receive The joys that there are found? Quite through the streets with silver sound The flood of life doth flow. Upon whose banks on every side The wood of life doth grow. There trees for evermore bear fruit. And evermore do spring; There evermore the angels sit. And evermore do sing. There David stands, with harp in hands As master of the choir, Ten thousand times that man were blest That might this music hear. Our Lady sings Magnificat With tones surpassing sweet. And all the virgins bear their part, Sitting about her feet. 67 A. W. Te Deum doth Saint Ambrose sing, Saint Austin doth the like; Old Simeon and Zachary Have not their songs to seek. There Magdt'lene hath left her moan. And cheerfully doth sing With blessed Saints, whose harmony In every street doth ring. Hierusalem, my happy home! Would God I were in thee! Would God my woes were at an end. Thy joys that I might see! Amen. A. w. THOUGH LATE, MY HEART Though late, my heart, yet turn at last, And shape thy course another way; 'Tis better lose thy labour past Than follow on to sure decay: What though thou long have stray'd awry? In hope of grace for mercy cry. Though weight of sin doth press thee down And keep thee grov'ling on the ground; 68 A. W. Though black Despair, with angry frown, Thy wit and judgment quite confound; Though time and wit have been misspent, Yet grace is left if thou repent. Weep then, my heart, weep still and still, Nay, melt to floods of flowing tears; Send out such shrieks as heav'n may fill And pierce thine angry Judge's ears. And let thy soul, that harbours sin. Bleed streams of blood to drown it in. Then shall thine angry Judge's face To cheerful looks itself apply; Then shall thy soul be fill'd with grace, And fear of death constrain'd to fly. Even so, my God! oh when? how long.? I would, but Sin is too, too strong. I strive to rise, Sin keeps me down; I fly from Sin, Sin follows me. My will doth reach at glory's crown. Weak is my strength, it will not be. See how my fainting soul doth pant; Oh, let Thy strength supply my want. 69 ANONYMOUS THE HEART'S CHAMBERS If I could shut the gate against my thoughts And keep out sorrow from this room within, Or memory could cancel all the notes Of my misdeeds, and I unthink my sin: How free, how clear, how clean my soul should lie Discharged of such a loathsome company! Or were there other rooms without my heart That did not to my conscience join so near, Where I might lodge the thoughts of sin apart That I might not their clam'rous crying hear; What peace, what joy, what ease should I pos- sess, Freed from their horrors that my soul oppress! But, O my Saviour, Who my refuge art. Let Thy dear mercies stand 'twixt them and me, And be the wall to separate my heart, So that I may at length repose me free; That peace, and joy, and rest may be within, And I remain divided from my sin. 70 ANONYMOUS A HEAVENLIE VISITOR Yet if His Majesty our sovereign lord Should of his own accord Friendly himself invite, And say "I'll be your guest to-morrow night," How should we stir ourselves, call and command All hands to work! "Let no man idle stand. "Set me fine Spanish tables in the hall, See they be fitted all; Let there be room to eat, And order taken that there want no meat. See every sconce and candlestick made bright. That without tapers they may give a light. "Look to the presence: are the carpets spread. The dazie o'er the head. The cushions in the chairs. And all the candles lighted on the stairs? Perfume the chambers, and in any case Let each man give attendance in his place." Thus if the king were coming would we do, And 'twere good reason too; For 'tis a duteous thing To show all honour to an earthly king, 71 JOHN MILTON And after all our travail and our cost, So he be pleased, to think no labour lost. But at the coming of the King of Heaven All's set at six and seven: We wallow in our sin, Christ cannot find a chamber in the inn. We entertain Him always like a stranger. And as at first still lodge Him in the manger. JOHN MILTON HYMN ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY It was the Winter wilde. While the Heav'n-born-childe, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature in aw to Him Had doff't her gawdy trim. With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no reason then for her To wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour. Only with speeches fair She woo's the gentle Air To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow, 72 JOHN MILTON And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinfuU blame, The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw, Confounded, that her Makers eyes Should look so neer upon her foul deformities. But He her fears to cease. Sent down the meek-eyd Peace, She crown'd with Olive green, came softly slid- ing Down through the turning sphear His ready Harbinger, With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing, And waving wide her mirtle wand. She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land. No War, or Battails sound Was heard the World around. The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked Chariot stood Unstain'd with hostile blood. The Trumpet spake not to the armed throng, And Kings sate still with awfull eye. As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. But peacefull was the night Wherein the Prince of light His raign of peace upon the earth began: 73 JOHN MILTON The Windes with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kist, Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave. While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. The Stars with deep amaze Stand fixt in stedfast gaze, Bending one way their pretious influence. And will not take their flight For all the morning light. Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; But in their glimmering Orbs did glow. Until their Lord Himself bespake, and bid them go. And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The Sun himself with-held his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame. The new enlightn'd world no more should need: He saw a greater Sun appear Than his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear. The Shepherds on the Lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sate simply chatting in a rustick row; 74 JOHN MILTON Full little thought they than, That the mighty Pan Was kindly com to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortall finger strook, Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise As all their souls in blissful rapture took: The Air such pleasure loth to lose. With thousand echo's still prolongs each heav'nly close. Nature that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat, the Airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was don. And that her raign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all Heav'n and Earth in happier union. At last surrounds their sight A Globe of circular light. That with long beams the shame-fac't night array 'd, 75 JOHN MILTON The helmed Cherubim And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in gUttering ranks with wings displaid, Harping in loud and solemn quire, With unexpressive notes to Heav'ns new - bom Heir. Such musick (as 'tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator Great His constellations set. And the well-ballanc't world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. Ring out ye Crystall sphears, Once bless our human ears, (If ye have power to touch our senses so) And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the Base of Heav'ns deep Organ blow, And with yoiir ninefold harmony Make vip full consort to th' Angelike symphony. For if such holy Song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, 76 JOHN MILTON And speckl'd vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould, And Hell it self will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. Yea Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Th' enameld Arras of the Rain-bow wearing. And Mercy set between, Thron'd in Celestiall sheen. With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steal- ing, And Heav'n as at som festivall, Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall. But wisest Fate sayes no, This must not yet be so, The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both Himself and us to glorifie: Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep, 77 JOHN MILTON With such a horrid clang As on mount Sinai rang .While the red fire, and smouldring clouds out brake : The aged Earth agast With terrour of that blast, Shall from the surface to the center shake; When at the worlds last session, The dreadfuU Judge in middle Air shall spread His throne. And then at last our bliss Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day Th' old Dragon under ground In straiter limits bound. Not half so far casts his usurped sway. And wrath to see his Kingdom fail, Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail. The Oracles are dumm, No voice or hideous humm Runs through the arched roof in'words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine. With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspire's the pale-ey'd Priest from the prophetic cell. 78 JOHN MILTON The lonely mountains o're, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; From haunted spring, and dale Edg'd with poplar pale, The parting Genius is with sighing sent, With flowre-inwov'n tresses torn The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets In consecrated Earth, And on the holy Hearth, The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint. In Urns, and Altars round, A drear, and dying sound AflErights the Flamins at their service quaint; And the chill Marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat. Peor, and Baalim Forsake their Temples dim. With that twise-batter'd god of Palestine, And mooned Ashtaroth, Heav'ns Queen and Mother both. Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine. The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz mourn. 79 JOHN MILTON And sullen Moloch fled, Hath left in shadows dred, His burning Idol all of blackest hue, In vain with Cymbals ring, They call the grisly king, In dismall dance about the furnace blue; The brutish gods of Nile as fast, I sis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast. Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian Grove, or Green, Trampling the unshowr'd Grasse with lowings loud: Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest. Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud, In vain with Timbrel 'd Anthems dark The sable - stoled Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark. He feels from Judo's Land The dredded Infants hand, The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside. Longer dare abide. Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe to shew His Godhead true, Can in His swadling bands controul the damned crew. 80 JEREMY TAYLOR So when the Sun in bed Curtain'd with cloudy red, Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave, The flocking shadows pale. Troop to th' infernall jail. Each fetter'd Ghost slips to his severall grave, And the yellow-skirted Fayes, Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moon- lov'd maze. But see the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious Song should here have ending, Heav'ns youngest teemed Star, Hath fixt her polisht Car, Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp at- tending : And all about the Courtly Stable, Bright-hamest Angels sit in order serviceable. JEREMY TAYLOR THE PRAYER My soul doth pant towards Thee, My God, source of eternal life: Flesh fights with me; Oh, end the strife, 8i JEREMY TAYLOR And part us, that in peace I may Unclay My wearied spirit, and take My flight to Thy eternal spring; Where, for His sake Who is my King, I may wash all my tears away That day. Thou conqueror of Death, Glorious triumpher o're the grave, Whose holy breath Was spent to save Lost mankinde, make me to be stil'd Thy child. And take me when I die And go unto the dust; my soul Above the sky With saints enroll, That in Thy arms, for ever, I May lie. Amen. A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY Awake, my soul, and come away! Put on thy best array; Least if thou longer stay, Thou lose some minutes of so blest a day. 82 JEREMY TAYLOR Goe run, And bid good morrow to the sun: Welcome his safe return To Capricorn; And that great mome Wherein a God was borne, Whose story none can tell But He Whose every word's a miracle. To-day Almightiness grew weak; The Word itself was mute, and could not speak. That Jacob's star Which made the sun To dazzle if he durst look on. Now mantled o're Bethlem's night, Borrowed a star to show Him light. He that begirt each zone. To Whom both poles are one. Who grasped the Zodiac in 's hand, And made it move or stand. If now by nature man, By stature but a span; Etemitie is now grown short; A King is borne without a court; The water thirsts; the fountain's dry; And Life, being borne, made apt to dye. Chorus. Then let our prayers emulate and vie With His humility ^^ Since Hee's exil'd from skeyes That we might rise — 83 RICHARD CRASHAW From low estate of men Let's sing Him up again! Each man winde up 's heart To bear a part In that angeUck quire, and show His glory high as He is low! Let's sing towards men good will and charity, Peace upon Earth, glory to God on high. Hallelujah! Hallelujah! RICHARD CRASHAW THE FLAMING HEART Upon the book and picture of the seraphical Saint Teresa, as she is usually expressed with a Seraphim beside her. Well-meaning readers! you that come as friends, And catch the precious name this piece pretends; Make not too much haste to admire That fair-cheek'd fallacy of fire. That is a seraphim, they say, And this the great Teresia. Readers, be ruled by me; and make Here a well-placed and wise mistake; You must transpose the picture quite. And spell it wrong, to read it right; RICHARD CRASHAW Read him for her, and her for him, And call the Saint the seraphim. Painter, what didst thou understand To put her dart into his hand? See, even the years and size of him Shows this the mother-seraphim. This is the mistress-flame; and duteous he Her happy fire-works, here, comes down to see. O most poor-spirited of men! Had thy cold pencil kiss'd her pen. Thou couldst not so unkindly err To show us this faint shade for her. Why, man, this speaks pure mortal frame; And mocks with female frost Love's manly flame. One would suspect thou mean'st to paint Some weak, inferior, woman-saint. But had thy pale-faced purple took Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright book. Thou wouldst on her have heap'd up all That could be form'd seraphical; Whate'er this youth of fire wears fair, Rosy fingers, radiant hair, Glowing cheeks and glist'ring wings, All those fair and fragrant things, But before all, that fiery dart Had fill'd the hand of this great heart. Do then, as equal right requires: Since his the blushes be, and her's the fires, 8S RICHARD CRASHAW Resume and rectify thy rude design; Undress thy seraphim into mine; Redeem this injury of thy art; Give him the veil, give her the dart. Give him the veil, that he may cover The red cheek of a rivall'd lover; Ashamed that our world now can show Nests of new seraphims here below. Give her the dart, for it is she (Fair youth) shoots both thy shaft and thee; Say, all ye wise and well-pierced hearts That live and die amidst her darts, What is't your tasteful spirits do prove In that rare life of her and Love? Say, and bear witness. Sends she not A seraphim, at every shot? What magazines of immortal arms there shine! Heaven's great artillery in each love-spun line. Give then the dart to her who gives the flame; Give him the veil, who gives the shame. But if it be the frequent fate Of worse faults to be fortunate: If all's prescription; and proud wrong Harkens not to an humble song; For all the gallantry of him. Give me the suffering seraphim. His be the bravery of all those bright things, The glowing cheeks, the glistering wings; 86 RICHARD CRASHAW The rosy hand, the radiant dart; Leave her alone the flaming heart. Leave her that; and thou shalt leave her Not one loose shaft, but Love's whole quiver; For in Love's field was never found A nobler weapon than a wound. Love's passives are his activ'st part, The wounded is the wounding heart. O heart! equal poise of Love's both parts Big alike with wound and darts. Live in these conquering leaves : live all the same ; And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame. Live here, great heart; and love, and die, and kill; And bleed, and wound; and yield and conquer still. Let this immortal life wher'er it comes Walk in a crowd of loves and martyrdoms. Let mystic deaths wait on't: and wise souls be The love-slain witnesses of this life of thee. O sweet incendiary! show here thy art. Upon this carcass of a hard cold heart; Let all thy scattered shafts of light that play Among the leaves of thy large books of day, Combined against this breast at once break in And take away from me myself and sin; This gracious robbery shall thy bounty be. And my best fortunes such fair spoils of me. O thou undaunted daughter of desires! By all thy dower of lights and fires; 87 HENRY MORE By all the eagle in thee, all the dove; By all thy lives and deaths of love; By thy large draughts of intellectual day And by thy thirsts of love, more large than they; By all thy brim-filled bowls of fierce desire, By thy last morning's draught of liquid fire; 1 By the full kingdom of that final kiss That seized thy parting soul, and seal'd thee His; By all the heav'ns thou hast in Him (Fair sister of the seraphim!) By all of Him we have in thee; Leave nothing of myself in me. Let me so read thy life, that I Unto all life of mine may die. HENRY MORE 'i CHARITY AND HUMILITY Far have I clambred in my mind But nought so great as love I find; Deep-searching wit, mount-moving might, Are nought compar'd to that good sprite. Life of delight and soul of bliss! Sure source of lasting happiness! Higher then Heaven! lower then hell! What is thy tent? Where maist thou dwell.? My mansion hight humihty, Heaven's vastest capability. 88 HENRY MORE The further it doth downward tend The higher up it doth ascend; If it go down to utmost nought, It shall return with that it sought. Lord, stretch thy tent in my strait breast; Enlarge it downward, that sure rest May there be pight; for that pure fire Wherewith thou wontest to inspire All self-dead souls. My life is gone. Sad solitude 's my irksome wonne. Cut off from men and all this world. In Lethe's lonesome ditch I'm hurl'd; Nor might nor sight doth aught me move, Nor do I care to be above. O feeble rayes of mentale light! That best be seen in this dark night, What are you? What is any strength If it be not laid in one length With pride or love ? I nought desire But a new life, or quite t' expire. Could I demolish with mine eye Strong towers, stop the fleet stars in skie, Bring down to earth the pale-faced Moon, Or turn black midnight to bright Noon; Though all things were put in my hand. As parch'd, as dry as th' Libyan sand Would be my life, if Charity Were wanting. But Humility 89 JOSEPH BEAUMONT Is more than my poor soul durst crave That lies entomb'd in lowly grave. But if 'twere lawful up to send My voice to Heciven, this should it rend. " Lord, thrust me deeper into dust, That thou maist raise me with the just." JOSEPH BEAUMONT THE HOUSE OF THE MIND Seek no more abroad, say I, House and Home, but turn thine Eye Inward, and observe thy Breast; There alone dwells solid rest. That's a close immured tower Which can mock all hostile power. To thyself a tenant be. And inhabit safe and free. Say not that this house is small, Girt up in a narrow wall; In a cleanly sober mind Heav'n itself full room doth find. Th' infinite Creator can Dwell in it; and may not Man? Here content make thy abode With thyself and with thy God. 90 HENRY VAUGHAN HENRY VAUGHAN CHILDHOOD I cannot reach it; and my striving eye Dazzles at it, as at eternity. Were now that chronicle alive, Those white designs which children drive. And the thoughts of each harmless hour, With their content too in my pow'r, Quick would I make my path ev'n, And by mere playing go to heaven. Why should men love A wolf, more than a lamb or dove? Or choose hell-fire and brimstone streams Before bright stars and God's own beams? Who kisseth thorns will hurt his face, But flowers do both refresh and grace; And sweetly living — fie on men! — Are, when dead, medicinal then; If seeing much should make staid eyes, And long experience should make wise; Since all that age doth teach is ill. Why should I not love childhood still? Why, if I see a rock or shelf. Shall I from thence cast down myself? 91 HENRY VAUGHAN Or by complying with the world, From the same precipice be hurl'd? Those observations are but foul, Which make me wise to lose my soul. And yet the practice worldlings call Business, and weighty action all. Checking the poor child for his play, But gravely cast themselves away. Dear, harmless age! the short, swift span Where weeping Virtue parts with rran; Where love without lust dwells, and bends What way we please without self-ends. An age of mysteries! which he Must live twice that would God's face see; Which angels guard, and with it play, Angels! which foul men drive away. How do I stvidy now, and scan Thee more than e'er I studied man, And only see through a long night Thy edges and thy bordering light! O for thy centre and midday! For sure that is the narrow way! 92 HENRY VAUGHAN PEACE My soul, there is a country Far beyond the stars. Where stands a winged sentry All skilful in the wars: There, above noise and danger, Sweet Peace sits crown 'd with smiles, And One born in a manger Commands the beauteous files. He is thy gracious Friend, And — O my soul awake! — Did in pure love descend, To die here for thy sake. If thou canst get but thither. There grows the flower of Peace, The Rose that cannot wither. Thy fortress, and thy ease. Leave then thy foolish ranges; For none can thee secure, But One, who never changes. Thy God, thy life, thy cure. 93 HENRY VAUGHAN THE RETREAT Happy those early days, when I Shin'd in my angel-infancy! Before I understood this place Appointed for my second race, Or taught my soul to fancy ought But a white, celestial thought; When yet I had not walk'd above A mile or two from my first love, And looking back — at that short space- Could see a glimpse of His bright face; When on some gilded cloud, or flowre, My gazing soul would dwell an hour. And in those weaker glories spy Some shadows of eternity; Before I taught my tongue to wound My conscience with a sinful sound, Or had the black art to dispense A sev'ral sin to ev'ry sense. But felt through all this fleshly dress Bright shoots of everlastingness. O how I long to travel back, And tread again that ancient track! That I might once more reach that plain, Where first I left my glorious train; 94 HENRY VAUGHAN From whence th' inlightened spirit sees That shady City of palm-trees. But ah! my soul with too much stay Is drunk, and staggers in the way! Some men a forward motion love, But I by backward steps would move; And when this dust falls to the urn, In that state I came, return. THE NIGHT John, Cap. 3, Ver. 2 Through that pure virgin shrine. That sacred veil drawn o'er Thy glorious noon, That men might look and live, as glow - worms shine. And face the moon: Wise Nicodemus saw such light As made him know his God by night. Most blest believer he! Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes Thy long-expected healing wings could see When Thou didst rise! And, what can never more be done, Did at midnight speak with the Sun! 95 HENRY VAUGHAN O who will tell me, where He found Thee at that dead and silent hour? What hallow'd solitary ground did bear So rai'^^ a flower; Within whose sacred leaves did lie The fulness of the Deity? No mercy-seat of gold, No dead and dusty cherub, nor carved stone, But His own living works did my Lord hold And lodge alone; Where trees and herbs did watch and peep And wonder, while the Jews did sleep. Dear Night! this world's defeat; The stop to busy fools; Care's check and curb; The day of spirits; my soul's calm retreat Which none disturb! Christ's progress, and His prayer-time; The hours to which high Heaven doth chime. God's silent, searching flight; When my Lord's head is fill'd with dew, and all His locks are wet with the clear drops of Night; His still, soft call; His knocking-time; the soul's dumb watch, When spirits their fair kindred catch. 96 HENRY VAUGHAN Were all my loud, evil days Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark tent, Whose peace but by some angel's wing or voice Is seldom rent; Then I in Heaven all the long year Would keep, and never wander here. But living where the sun Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire Themselves and others, I consent and run To ev'ry mire; And by this world's ill-guiding light, Err more than I can do by night. There is in God — some say — A deep, but dazzling darkness; as men here Say it is late and dusky, because they See not all clear. O for that Night! where I in Him Might live invisible and dim! THE WORLD I saw Eternity the other night, Like a great ring of pure and endless light, All calm, as it was bright; And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years, Driv'n by the spheres 97 HENRY VAUGHAN Like a vast shadow mov'd; in which the world And all her train were hurl'd. The doting lover in his quaintest strain Did there complain; Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights. Wit's sour delights; With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleas- ure. Yet his dear treasure, All scattered lay, while he his eyes did pour Upon a flow'r. The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe. Like a thick midnight-fog, mov'd there so slow, He did not stay, nor go; Condemning thoughts — like sad eclipses — scowl Upon his soul. And clouds of crying witnesses without Pursued him with one shout. Yet digg'd the mole, and lest his ways be found, Work'd under ground. Where he did clutch his prey; but one did see That policy; Churches and altars fed him; perjuries Were gnats and flies; It rained about him blood and tears, but he Drank them as free. HENRY VAUGHAN The fearful miser on a heap of rust Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust His own hands with the dust, Yet would not place one piece above, but lives In fear of thieves. Thousands there were as frantick as himself. And hugged each one his pelf; The downright epicure plac'd heav'n in sense. And scorn'd pretence; While others, slipp'd into a wide excess, Said little less; The weaker sort, slight, trivial wares enslave, Who think them brave; And poor, despised Truth sate counting by Their victory. Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing. And sing, and weep, soar'd up into the ring; But most would use no wing. O fools — said I — thus to prefer dark night Before true light. To live in grots, and caves, and hate the day Because it shews the way; The way, which from this dead and dark abode Leads up to God; A way where you might tread the sun, and be More bright than he! 99 HENRY VAUGHAN But as I did their madness so discuss, One whisper'd thus, "This ring the Bride-groom did for none provide. But fcr His bride." John, Cap. 2, Ver. 16, 17 All that is in tJte world, the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world. And the 2vorld passcth away, and the lusts thereof; but he that doeth the will of God abtdeth for ever. MAN Weighing the steadfastness and state Of some mean things which here below reside, Where birds like watchful clocks, the noiseless date And intercourse of times divide. Where bees at night get home and hive, and fiowres, Early as well as late. Rise with the sun, and set in the same bow'rs; 100 HENRY VAUGHAN I would — said I — my God would give The staidness of these things to man; for these To His divine appointments ever cleave, And no new business breaks their peace; The birds nor sow nor reap, yet sup and dine; The flowres without clothes live, Yet Solomon was never dressed so fine. Man hath still either toys, or care; He hath no root, nor to one place is tied. But ever restless and irregular About this earth doth run and ride. He knows he hath a home, but scarce knows where; He says it is so far, That he hath quite forgot how to go there. He knocks at all doors, strays and roams; Nay, hath not so much wit as some stones have, Which in the darkest nights point to their homes, By some hid sense their Maker gave; Man is the shuttle, to whose winding quest And passage through these looms God order'd motion, but ordain'd no rest. lOI HENRY VAUGHAN I WALK'D THE OTHER DAY, TO SPEND MY HOUR I walk'd the other day, to spend my hour, Into a field, V/here I sometimes had seen the soil to yield A gallant flowre; But Winter now had ruffled all the bowre, And curious store I knew there heretofore. Yet I, whose search lov'd now to peep and peer r th' face of things. Thought with myself, there might be other springs Besides this here; Which, like cold friends, sees us but once a year; And so the flowre Might have some other bowre. Then taking up what I could nearest spy, I digg'd about That place where I had seen him to grow out; And by and by I saw the warm recluse alone to lie, Where fresh and green He lived of us unseen. I02 HENRY VAUGHAN Many a question intricate and rare Did I there strow; But all I could extort was, that he now Did there repair Such losses as befell him in this air, And would ere long Come forth most fair and yoimg. This past, I threw the clothes quite o'er his head! And stung with fear Of my own frailty, dropp'd down many a tear Upon his bed; Then sighing whisper'd, "Happy are the dead! What peace doth now Rock him asleep below!" And yet, how few believe such doctrine springs From a poor root, Which all the Winter sleeps here under foot. And hath no wings To raise it to the truth and light of things; But is still trod By ev'ry wand'ring clod. O Thou! Whose Spirit did at first inflame And warm the dead, And by a sacred incubation fed With life this frame, Which once had neither being, form, nor name; 103 HENRY VAUGHAN Grant I may so Thy steps track here below, That in these masques and shadows I may see Thy sacred way; And by those hid ascents cHmb to that day Which breaks from Thee, Who art in all things, though invisibly; Show me Thy peace, Thy mercy, love, and ease. And from this care, where dreams and sorrows reign. Lead me above. Where light, joy, leisure, and true comforts move Without all pain; There, hid in Thee, show me His life again, At whose dumb urn Thus all the year I mourn! THE WORLD OF LIGHT They are all gone into the world of light. And I alone sit ling'ing here; Their very memory is fair and bright. And my sad thoughts doth clear. 104 HENRY VAUGHAN It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which this hill is dress 'd. After the sun's remove. I see them walking in an air of glory. Whose light doth trample on my days; My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays. O holy Hope! and high Humility! High as the heavens above; These are your walks, and you have show'd them me. To kindle my cold love. Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the just. Shining nowhere, but in the dark; What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust. Could man outlook that mark! He that hath found some fledg'd bird's nest, may know At first sight, if the bird be flown; But what fair well or grove he sings in now, That is to him unknown. And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams Call to the soul when man doth sleep. JOHN DRYDEN So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, And into glory peep. If a star were confin'd into a tomb, Her captive flames must needs bum there; But when the hand that lock'd her up, gives room, She'll shine through all the sphere. O Father of eternal life, and all Created glories under Thee! Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall Into true liberty. Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill My perspective still as they pass: Or else remove me hence unto that hill Where I shall need no glass. JOHN DRYDEN VENI CREATOR SPIRITUS Creator Spirit, by Whose aid The world's foundations first were laid. Come visit every pious mind; Come pour Thy joys on humankind; io6 JOHN DRYDEN From sin and sorrow set us free, And make Thy temples worthy Thee. O source of uncreated light, The Father's promised Paraclete! Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire. Our hearts with heavenly love inspire; Come, and Thy sacred unction bring To sanctify us, while we sing. Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in thy sevenfold energy! Thou strength of His Almighty hand. Whose power does heaven and earth command. Proceeding Spirit, our defence. Who dost the gift of tongues dispense. And crown 'st Thy gift with eloquence. Refine and purge our earthy parts; But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts! Our frailties help, our vice control, Submit the senses to the sovil; And, when rebellious they are grown. Then lay Thy hand, and hold them down Chase from our minds the infernal foe, And peace, the fruit of love, bestow; And, lest our feet should step astray, Protect and guide us in the way. Make us eternal truths receive, And practise all that we believe; Give us Thyself, that we may see The Father, and the Son, by Thee. 107 THOMAS TRAHERNE Immortal honour, endless fame. Attend the Almighty Father's name; The Saviour Son be glorified Who for lost man's redemption died; And equal adoration be, Eternal Paraclete, to Thee. THOMAS TRAHERNE WONDER How like an Angel came I down! How bright are all things here! When first among His works I did appear O how their Glory me did crown! The world resembled his Eternity, In which my sotil did walk; And every thing that I did see Did with me talk. The skies in their magnificence, The lively, lovely air, Oh how divine, how soft, how sweet, how fair! The stars did entertain my sense. And all the works of God, so bright and pure, So rich and great did seem, As if they ever mtist endure In my esteem. io8 THOMAS TRAHERNE A native health and innocence Within my bones did grow, And while my God did all His Glories show, I felt a vigour in my sense That was all Spirit. I within did flow With seas of life, like wine; I nothing in the world did know But 'twas divine. Harsh ragged objects were concealed. Oppressions, tears and cries, Sins, griefs, complaints, dissensions, weeping eyes Were hid, and only things revealed Which heavenly Spirits and the Angels prize. The state of Innocence And bliss, not trades and poverties, Did fill my sense. The streets were paved with golden stones. The boys and girls were mine, Oh how did all their lovely faces shine! The sons of men were holy ones. In joy and beauty they appeared to me, And every thing which here I found, While like an angel I did see. Adorned the ground. 109 THOMAS T R A H E R N E Rich diamond and pearl and gold In every place was seen; Rare splendours, yellow, blue, red, white and green. Mine eyes did everywhere behold. Great Wonders clothed with glory did appear. Amazement was my bliss, That and my wealth was everywhere; No joy to this! Cursed and devised proprieties, With envy, avarice And fraud, those fiends that spoil even Para- dise, Flew from the splendour of mine eyes. And so did hedges, ditches, limits, bounds, I dreamed not aught of those, But wandered over all men's grounds, And found repose. Proprieties themselves were mine. And hedges, ornaments; Walls, boxes, coffers and their rich contents Did not divide my joys, but all combine. Clothes, ribbons, jewels, laces, I esteemed My joys by others worn: For me they all to wear them seemed When I was bom. THOMAS TRAHERNE THE APPROACH That childish thoughts such Joys inspire Doth make my wonder and His glory higher; His Bounty and my Wealth more great; It shows His kingdom and His Work complete, In which there is not anything Not meet to be the Joy of Cherubim. He in our childhood with us walks, And with our thotights Mysteriously he talks; He often visiteth our Minds, But cold acceptance in us ever finds: We send Him often griev'd away; Else would He shew us all His Kingdom's Joy. O Lord I wonder at Thy Love, Which did my Infancy so early move. But more at that which did forbear. And move so long, tho' slighted many a year: But most of all, at least that Thou Thyself shouldst me convert I scarce know how. Thy Gracious Motions oft in vain Assaulted me: my Heart did hard remain Long time: I sent my God away, Grieved much tJiat He could not impart His joy. THOMAS TRAHERNE I careless was, nor did regard The End for which He all those Thoughts pre- pared. But now with New and Open Eyes I see beneath as if above the skies; And as I backward look again, See all His thoughts and mine most clear and plain. He did Approach, He me did woo; I wonder that my God this thing would do. From nothing taken first I was; What wondrous Things His Glory brought to pass! Now in this World I Him behold, And me enveloped in more than gold, In deep Abysses of Delights, In present hidden precious Benefits. Those thoughts His Goodness long before Prepared as precious and Celestial store, With curious art in me inlaid, That Childhood might itself alone be said My Tutor, Teacher, Guide to be. Instructed then even by the Deity, THOMAS TRAHERNE THE CIRCULATION As fair ideas from the sky. Or images of things, Unto a spotless mirror fly, On un perceived wings, And lodging there affect the sense, As if at first they came from thence; While being there, they richly beautify The place they fill, and yet communicate Themselves, reflecting to the seer's eye; Just such is our estate. No praise can we return again, No glory in ourselves possess, But what derived from without we gain, From all the mysteries of blessedness. No man breathes out more vital air Than he before sucked in: Those joys and praises must repair To us, which 'tis a sin To bury in a senseless tomb, An earthly wight must be the Heir Of all those joys the Holy Angels prize, He must a King before a Priest become, And gifts receive or ever sacrifice. 'Tis blindness makes us Dumb. "3 THOMAS TRAHERNE Had we but those celestial eyes, Whereby we could behold the sum Of all His bounties, we should overflow With praises did we but their Causes know. All things to Circulations owe Themselves; by which alone They do exist; They cannot shew A sigh, a word, a groan, A colour or a glimpse of Light, The sparkle of a precious stone, A virtue, or a Smell, a lovely sight, A fruit, a beam, an influence, a tear, But they another's livery must wear, And borrow matter first. Before they can communicate. Whatever's empty is accurst: And this doth shew that we must some es- tate Possess, or never can communicate. A sponge drinks in the water, which Is afterwards exprest. A liberal hand must first be rich: Who blesseth must be blest. The thirsty earth drinks in the rain, The trees suck moisture at their roots, Before the one can lavish herbs again. Before the other can afford us fruits. 114 THOMAS TRAHERNE No tenant can raise com or pay his rent. Nor can even have a Lord, That has no land. No spring can vent. No vessel any wine afford Wherein no liquor's put. No empty purse Can pounds or talents of itself disburse. Flame that ejects its golden beams, Sups up the grosser air; To seas, that pour out their streams In springs, those streams repair; Receiv'd ideas make even dreams. No fancy painteth foul or fair But by the ministry of inward light, That in the spirit cherisheth its sight. The Moon retumeth light, and some men say The very Sun no ray Nor influence could have, did it No foreign aids, no food admit. The Earth no exhalations would afford. Were not its spirits by the Sun restored. All things do first receive, that give: Only 'tis God above. That from and in Himself doth live; Whose all-sufficient love Without original can flow And all the joys and glories shew Which mortal man can take delight to know. "5 THOMAS TRAHERNE He is the primitive eternal spring The endless ocean of each glorious thing. The Soul a vessel is, A spacious boscm to contain All the fair treasures of His bliss, Which run like Rivers from, into the main, And all it doth receive returns again. DESIRE For giving me desire, An eager thirst, a burning ardent fire, A virgin infant flame, A Love with which into the world I came, An inward hidden Heavenly love. Which in my soul did work and move, And ever me inflame With restless longing. Heavenly avarice, That never could be satisfied, That did incessantly a Paradise Unknown suggest, and something undescried Discern, and bear me to it; be Thy Name for ever praised by me. My parched and withered bones Burnt up did seem: My Soul was full of groans: My thoughts extensions were: Like paces, reaches, steps they did appear: ii6 THOMAS TRAHERNE They somewhat hotly did pursue, Knew that they had not all their due, Nor ever quiet were: But made my thirst with hungry, thirsty ground, My heart a deep profound abyss, And every joy and pleasure but a wound, So long as I my Blessedness did miss. O Happiness! A famine burns, And all my life to anguish turns! Where are the silent streams, The living waters and the glorious beams, The sweet reviving bowers, The shady groves, the sweet and curious flow- ers. The spring and trees, the Heavenly days, The fiow'ry meads, and glorious rays. The gold and silver towers? Alas! all these are poor and empty things! Trees, waters, days and shining beams. Fruits, flowers, bowers, shady groves and springs. No joy will yield, no more than silent streams; Those are but dead material toys. And cannot make my Heavenly joys. O Love! Ye Amities, And friendships that appear above the skies! 117 THOMAS TRAHERNE Ye feasts and living pleasures! Ye senses, honours and imperial treasures! Ye bridal joys! ye high delights That satisfy all appetites! Ye sweet affections, and Ye high respects! Whatever joys there be In triumphs, whatsoever stand In amicable sweet society, Whatever pleasures are at His right hand, Ye must before I am Divine, In full propriety be mine. This soaring, sacred thirst, Ambassador of bliss, approached first. Making a place in me That made me apt to prize, and taste, and see. For not the objects, but the sense Of things doth bliss to Souls dispense. And make it, Lord, like Thee. Sense, feeling, taste, complacency, and sight. These are the true and real joys, The living, flowing inward, melting, bright. And Heavenly pleasures; all the rest are toys: All which are founded in Desire, As light in flame and heat in fire. ii8 THOMAS TRAHERNE GOODNESS The bliss of other men is my delight, (When once my principles are right:) And every Soul which inine doth see A treasury. The face of God is goodness unto all, And while He thousands to His throne doth call, While millions bathe in pleasures. And do behold His treasures. The joys of all On mine do fall, And even my infinity doth seem A drop without them of a mean esteem. The light which on ten thousand faces shines. The beams which crown ten thousand vines With Glory, and Delight, appear As if they were Reflected only from them all for me. That I a greater beauty there might see. Thus Stars do beautify The azure canopy: Gilded with rays Ten thousand ways They serve me, while the Sun that on thein shines Adorns those stars and crowns those bleeding vines. 119 THOMAS TRAHERNE Where Goodness is within, the Soul doth reign. Goodness the only Sovereign! Goodness delights alone to see Felicity. And while the Image of His goodness lives In me, whatever He to any gives Is my delight and ends In me, in all my friends: For goodness is The spring of bliss, And 'tis the end of all it gives away And all it gives it ever doth enjoy. His Goodness! Lord, it is His highest Glory! The very Grace of all His story! What other thing can me delight But the blest sight Of His Eternal Goodness? While His love, His burning love the bliss of all doth prove, While it beyond the ends Of Heaven and Earth extends, And multitudes Above the skies. His Glory, Love and Goodness in my sight Is for my pleasure made more infinite. The soft and swelling grapes that on their vines Receive the lively warmth that shines I20 JOHN NORRIS Upon them, ripen there for me: Or drink they be, Or meat. The stars salute my pleased sense With a derived and borrowed influence: But better vines do grow, Far better wines do flow Above, and while The Sun doth smile Upon the Lilies there, and all things warm; Their pleasant odours do my spirit charm. Their rich affections me like precious seas Of nectar and ambrosia please. Their eyes are stars, or more Divine And brighter shine: Their lips are soft and swelling grapes, their tongues A Quire of blessed and harmonious songs. Their bosoms fraught with love Are Heavens all Heavens above; And being Images of God they are The highest joys His Goodness did prepare. JOHN NORRIS THE ASPIRATION How long, great God, how long must I Immur'd in this dark prison lie? Where at the grates and avenues of sense. My soul must watch to have intelligence. JOHN N ORRIS Where but faint gleams of Thee salute my sight, Like doubtful moon-shine in a cloudy night. When shall I leave this magic sphere, And be all mind, all eye, all ear? How cold this clime! And yet my sense Perceives even here Thy influence. Even here Thy strong magnetic charms I feel. And pant and tremble like the amorous steel. To lower good, and beauties less divine, Sometimes my erroneous needle does decline; But yet, — so strong the sympathy, — It turns and points again to Thee. I long to see this excellence Which at such distance strikes my sense. My impatient soul struggles to disengage Her wings from the confinement of her cage. Would'st Thou, great Love, this prisoner once set free. How would she hasten to be link'd with Thee! She'd for no angel's conduct stay. But fiy, and love on all the way. ANONYMOUS THE SOUL WHEREIN GOD DWELLS The soul wherein Gk)d dwells, — What church could holier be? — Becomes a walking-tent Of heavenly majesty. How far from here to Heaven ? Not very far, my friend, A single, hearty step Will all the journey end. Though Christ a thousand times In Bethlehem be bom, If He's not bom in thee, Thy soul is still forlorn. The cross on Golgotha Will never save thy soul, The cross in thine own heart Alone can make thee whole. Hold thou ! where runnest thou ? Know heaven is in thee — Seek'st thou for God elsewhere, His face thou'lt never see. 123 JOHN BYROM O, would thy heart but be A manger for His birth; God would once more become A child upon the earth. Go out, God will go in, Die thou — and let Him live. Be not — and He will be. Wait and He'll all things give. O, shame, a silk-worm works And spins till it can fly, And thou, my soul, wilt still On thine old earth-clod lie? JOHN BYROM MY SPIRIT LONGETH FOR THEE My spirit longeth for Thee, Within my troubled Breast, Altho' I be unworthy Of so Divine a Guest. Of so Divine a Guest Unworthy tho' I be. Yet has my Heart no Rest, Unless it come from Thee. 124 WILLIAM BLAKE Unless it come from Thee, In vain I look around; In all that I can see, No Rest is to be found. No Rest is to be found, But in Thy Blessed Love; O let my Wish be crown 'd. And send It from above! WILLIAM BLAKE THE GATES OF PARADISE Mutual Forgiveness of each Vice, Such are the Gates of Paradise, Against the Accuser's chief desire. Who walked among the Stones of Fire. Jehovah's Finger Wrote The Law: Then Wept, then rose in Zeal and Awe, And the Dead Corpse, from Sinai's heat, Buried beneath His Mercy Seat. O, Christians! Christians! tell me Why You rear it on your Altars high? THE KEYS OF THE GATES The Catterpiller on the Leaf Reminds thee of thy Mother's Grief. My Eternal Man set in Repose, The Female from his darkness rose; 125 WILLIAM BLAKE And She found me beneath a Tree A Mandrake, and in her Veil hid me. Serpent reasonings us entice Of Good and Evil, Virtue and Vice. Doubt Self-Jealous, Watry folly Struggling thro' Earth's Melancholy, Naked in Air, in Shame and Fear, Blind in Fire, with shield and spear. Two horrid reasoning cloven fictions, In Doubt which is Self contradiction, A dark Hermaphrodite I stood, — Rational Truth, Root of Evil and Good. Round me, flew the Flaming Sword; Round her, snowy whirlwinds roar'd. Freezing her Veil, the Mundane Shell. I rent the Veil where the Dead dwell: When weary Man enters his Cave He meets his Saviour in the Grave. Some find a Female Garment there, And some a Male, woven with care; Lest the Sexual Garments sweet Should grow a devouring Winding-sheet. One dies! alas! the Living and Dead! One is slain! and One is fled! In Vain-glory hatcht and nurst. By double Spectres, Self-Accurst. My Son! my Son! thou treatest me But as I have instructed thee. 126 WILLIAM BLAKE On the shadows of the Moon, Climbing through Night's highest noon: In Time's Ocean falHng drown'd: In AgM Ignorance profound, Holy and cold, I clipped the Wings Of all Sublunary Things, And in depths of my Dungeons Closed the Father and the Sons. But when once I did descry The Immortal Man that cannot Die, Through evening shades I haste away To close the Labours of my Day. The Door of Death I open found And the Worm Weaving in the Ground: Thou'rt my Mother, from the Womb; Wife, Sister, Daughter, to the Tomb: Weaving to Dreams the Sexual strife, And weeping over the Web of Life. THE GOLDEN STRING I give you the end of a golden string: Only wind it into a ball, — It will lead you in at Heaven's gate Built in Jerusalem's wall. 127 WILLIAM BLAKE THE LAMB Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life, and bid thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice. Making all the vales rejoice? Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee ? Little Lamb, I'll tell thee: Little Lamb, I'll tell thee: He is called by thy name. For He calls Himself a Lamb. He is meek, and He is mild; He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb. We are call(?d by His name. Little Lamb, God bless thee! Little Lamb. God bless thee! 128 WILLIAM BLAKE THE TYGER Tyger! tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry ? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art. Could twist the sinews of thy heart ? And when thy heart began to beat. What dread hand ? and what dread feet ? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain ? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the Lamb make thee? 129 WILLIAM BLAKE Tyger! tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? A POISON TREE I was angry with my friend: I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I water'd it in fears, Night and morning with my tears; And I sunned it with smiles And with soft deceitful wiles. And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright; And my foe beheld it shine. And he knew that it was mine, And into my garden stole When the night had veil'd the pole: In the morning glad I see My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree. 130 WILLIAM BLAKE ON ANOTHER'S SORROW Can I see another's woe, And not be in sorrow too ? Can I see another's grief, And not seek for kind relief? Can I see a falling tear, And not feel my sorrow's share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd? Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! And can He who smiles on all Hear the wren with sorrows small, Hear the small bird's grief and care. Hear the woes that infants bear, — And not sit beside the nest, Pouring pity in their breast; And not sit the cradle near. Weeping tear on infant's tear; And not sit both night and day, Wiping all our tears away? 131 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH O no! never can it be! Never, never can it be! He doth give His joy to all: He becomes an infant small; He becomes a man of woe; He doth feel the sorrow too. Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, And thy Maker is not by: Think not thou canst weep a tear, And thy Maker is not near. O! He gives to us His joy, That our grief He may destroy; Till our grief is fled and gone He doth sit by us and moan. WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE RAINBOW My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety. 132 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH IN EARLY SPRING I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sat reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind. To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man. Through primrose tufts, in that green bower. The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes. The birds around me hopped and played. Their thoughts I cannot measure: — But the least motion which they made It seemed a thrill of pleasure. The budding twigs spread out their fan To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there. ^33 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man? ODE TO DUTY Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring, and reprove; Thou, who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe; From vain temptations dost set free; And calm'st the weary strife of frail human- ity! There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth: Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot; Who do thy work, and know it not: Oh! if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast. 134 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Serene will be our days and bright, And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security. And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold. Live in the spirit of this creed; Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. I, loving freedom, and untried; No sport of every random gust. Yet being to myself a guide. Too blindly have reposed my trust: And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. Through no distiirbance of my soiil. Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control; But in the quietness of thought: Me this unchartered freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance-desires; My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same. 135 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Stem Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face: Flowers laugh before thee on their beds And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong. To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee: I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour; Oh, let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give; And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live ODE Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood There was a time when meadow, grove and stream, The earth, and every common sight. To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light, The glory and the freshness of a dream. 136 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH It is not now as it hath been of yore; — Turn wheresoe'er I may, By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more. The Rainbow comes and goes. And lovely is the Rose, The Moon doth with delight Look around her when the heavens are bare, Waters on a starry night Are beautiful and fair; The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath past away a glory from the earth. Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song. And while the young lambs botmd As to the tabor's sound, To me alone there came a thought of grief: A timely utterance gave that thought relief, And I again am strong: The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; No more shall grief of mine the season wrong; I hear the Echoes through the mountains throng. The Winds come to me from the fields of sleep. And all the earth is gay; Land and sea Give themselves up to jollity, 137 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH And with the heart of May Doth every Beast keep hoHday; — Thou Child of Joy, Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy Shepherd-boy! Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with yoti in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival. My head hath its coronal, The fullness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. Oh evil day! if I were sullen While Earth herself is adorning, This sweet May-morning, And the Children are culling On every side, In a thousand valleys far and wide. Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm. And the Babe leaps up on his Mother's ami:-— I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! — But there's a Tree, of many, one, A single Field which I have look'd upon, Both of them speak of something that is gone: The Pansy at my feet Doth the same tale repeat: Whither is fled the visionary gleam? Where is it now, the glory and the dream ? 138 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And Cometh from afar: Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close Upon the growing Boy, But He beholds the light, and whence it flows. He sees it in his joy; The Youth, who daily farther from the east Must travel, still is Nature's Priest, And by the vision splendid Is on his way attended; At length the Man perceives it die away. And fade into the light of common day. Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind. And, even with something of a Mother's mind. And no unworthy aim, The homely Nurse doth all she can To make her Foster-child, her Inmate Man, Forget the glories he hath known. And that imperial palace whence he came. 139 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, A six-years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses. With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; A wedding or a festival, A mourning or a funeral; And this hath now his heart, And unto this he frames his song: Then will he fit his tongue To dialogues of business, love, or strife; But it will not be long Ere this be thrown aside. And with new joy and pride The little Actor cons another part; Filling from time to time his "humorous stage" With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, That Life brings with her in her equipage; As if his whole vocation Were endless imitation. Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie Thy Soul's immensity: Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, 140 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted for ever by the eternal mind, — Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest. Which we are toiling all our lives to find. In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; To whom the grave Is but a lonely bed without the sense or sight Of day or the warm light, A place of thought where we in waiting lie; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou pro- voke The years to bring the inevitable yoke. Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife ? Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight. Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! O joy! that in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive! The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed 141 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH For that which is most worthy to be blest — Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast :- Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings; Blank misgivings of a Creature Moving about in worlds not realized, High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty Thing surprised: But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence; truths that wake. To perish never: Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor Man nor Boy, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Can utterly abolish or destroy! Hence in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be. Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 142 WILLIAM WORDSWORTH Which brought us hither, Can in a moment travel thither, And see the Children sport upon the shore, And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. Then sing, ye Birds, sing, sing a joyous song! And let the young Lambs bound As to the tabor's sound! We in thought will join your throng, Ye that pipe and ye that play, Ye that through your hearts to-day Feel the gladness of the May! What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight. Though nothing can bring back the hour Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; We will grieve not, rather find Strength in what remains behind; In the primal sympathy Which having been must ever be; In the soothing thoughts that spring Out of human suffering; In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring the philosophic mind. And O ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Forebode not any severing of our loves! Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; I only have relinquished one delight 143 JOHN KEBLE To live beneath your more habitual sway. I love the Brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; The innocent brightness of a new-born Day Is lovely yet; The Clouds that gather round the setting sun Do take a sober colouring from an eye That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; Another race hath been, and other palms are won. Thanks to the human heart by which we live, Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears. To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. JOHN KEBLE THE SAVIOUR'S DARLING "Father to me Thou art and Mother dear, And Brother too, kind Husband of my heart. " So speaks Andromache in boding fear, Ere from her last embrace her hero part — So evermore, by Faith's undying glow. We own the Crucified in weal or woe. Strange to our ears the church-bells of our home; The fragrance of our old paternal fields May be forgotten; and the time may come When the babe's kiss no sense of pleasure yields 144 JOHN KEBLE E'en to the doting mother; but Thine own Thou never canst forget, nor leave alone. There are who sigh that no fond heart is theirs, None loves them best — O vain and selfish sigh! Out of the bosom of His love He spares — The Father spares the Son, for thee to die: For thee He died — for thee He lives again: O'er thee He watches in His boundless reign. Thou art as much His care, as if beside Nor man nor angel liv'd in Heaven or earth: Thus sunbeams pour alike their glorious tide To light up worlds, or wake an insect's mirth: They shine and shine with unexhausted store — Thou art thy Saviour's darling — seek no more. On thee and thine, thy warfare and thine end, Even in His hour of agony He thought. When, ere the final pang His soul should rend, The ransom'd spirits one by one were brought To His mind's eye — two silent nights and days In calmness for His far-seen hour He stays. Ye vaulted cells, where martyr'd seers of old Far in the rocky walls of Sion sleep, Green terraces and arched fountains cold. Where lies the cypress shade so still and deep, 145 JOHN KEBLE Dear sacred haunts of glory and of woe, Help us, one hour, to trace His musings high and low: One heart-ennobling hour! It may not be: Th' earthly thoughts have pass'd from earth away, And fast as evening sunbeams from the sea Thy footsteps all in Sion's deep decay Were blotted from the holy ground: yet dear Is every stone of hers; for Thou wast surely here. There is a spot within this sacred dale That felt Thee kneeling — touch 'd Thy prostrate brow: One Angel knows it. O might prayer avail To win that knowledge! sure each holy vow Less quickly from th' unstable soul would fade, Offer'd where Christ in agony was laid. Might tear of ours once mingle with the blood That from His aching brow by moonlight fell, Over the mournful joy our thoughts would brood. Till they had fram'd within a guardian spell To chase repining fancies, as they rise. Like birds of evil wing, to mar our sacrifice. So dreams the heart self-flattering, fondly dreams; Else wherefore, when the bitter waves o'erfiow, 146 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Miss we the light, Gethsemane, that streams From thy dear name, where in His page of woe It shines, a pale kind star in winter's sky? Who vainly reads it there, in vain had seen Him die. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY DEATH Death is here and death is there, Death is busy everywhere, All around, within, beneath. Above is death — and we are death. Death has set his mark and seal On all we are and all we feel. On all we know and all we fear, . . . First our pleasures die — and then Our hopes, and then our fears — and when These are dead, the debt is due. Dust claims dust — and we die too. All things that we love and cherish. Like ourselves must fade and perish, Such is our rude mortal lot — Love itself would, did they not. 147 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY EPILOGUE TO PROMETHEUS UNBOUND This is the day, which down the void abysm At the Earth-bom's spell yawns for Heaven's des- potism, And Conquest is dragged captive through the deep: Love, from its awful throne of patient power In the wise heart, from the last giddy hour Of dead endurance, from the slippery, steep, And narrow verge of crag-like agony, springs 'And folds over the world its healing wings. Gentleness, Virtue, Wisdom, and Endurance, These are the seals of that most firm assurance Which bars the pit over Destruction's strength; And if, with infirm hand, Eternity, Mother of many acts and hours, should free The serpent that would clasp her with his length; These are the spells by which to reassume An empire o'er the disentangled doom. To suffer woes which Hope thinks infinite; To forgive wrongs darker than death or night; To defy Power, which seems omnipotent; 148 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT To love, and bear; to hope till Hope creates From its own wreck the thing it contemplates; Neither to change, nor falter, nor repent; This, like thy glory. Titan, is to be Good, great and joyous, beautiful and free; This is alone Life, Joy, Empire, and Victory! WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THANATOPSIS To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language; for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty, and she glides Into his darker musings, with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall. And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart; — Go forth, under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around — ■ Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — Comes a still voice: — 149 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image: Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements. To be a brother to the insensible rock And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings. The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past. All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods — rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 150 WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there; And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glides away, the sons of men — The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid. The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man — Shall one by one be gathered to thy side. By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 151 RALPH WALDO EMERSON So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, which moves To that mysterious realm, where each shall take His chamber in tha silent halls of death, Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. RALPH WALDO EMERSON THE SPHINX The Sphinx is drowsy, Her wings are furled; Her ear is heavy. She broods on the world. " Who'll tell me my secret, The ages have kept ? — I awaited the seer. While they slumbered and slept: "The fate of the man-child The meaning of man; Known fruit of the unknown; Daedalian plan; 152 RALPH WALDO EMERSON Out of sleeping a waking, Out of waking a sleep; Life death overtaking; Deep underneath deep ? "Erect as a sunbeam, Upspringeth the palm; The elephant browses. Undaunted and calm; In beautiful motion The thrush plies his wings: Kind leaves of his covert Your silence he sings. "The waves, unashamed, In difference sweet, Play glad with the breezes, Old playfellows meet; The journeying atoms. Primordial wholes, Firmly draw, firmly drive. By their animate poles. "Sea, earth, air, sound, silence. Plant, quadruped, bird. By one music enchanted. One deity stirred, — Each the other adorning, Accompany still; 153 RALPH WALDO EMERSON Night veileth the morning, The vapour, the hill. "The babe by its mother Lies bathed in joy; Glide its hours uncounted — The sun is its toy; Shines the peace of all being, Without cloud, in its eyes; And the sun of the world In soft miniature lies. "But man crouches and blushes Absconds and conceals; He creepeth and peepeth, He palters and steals; Infirm, melancholy, Jealous glancing around, An oaf, an accomplice. He poisons the ground. " Out spoke the great mother, Beholding his fear; — At the sound of her accents Cold shuddered the sphere: — ' Who has drugged my boy's cup ? Who has mixed my boy's bread ? Who, with sadness and madness ^ Has turned my child's head?* " 154 RALPH WALDO EMERSON I heard a poet answer, Aloud and cheerfully, "Say on, sweet Sphinx! thy dirges Are pleasant songs to me. Deep love lieth under These pictures of time; They fade in the light of Their meaning sublime. "The fiend that man harries Is love of the Best; Yawns the pit of the Dragon, Lit by rays from the Blest. The Lethe of nature Can't trance hiin again, Whose soul sees the perfect. Which his eyes seek in vain. "To vision profounder, Man's spirit must dive; His aye-rolling orbit At no goal will arrive; The heavens that now draw him With sweetness untold, Once found, — for new heavens He spurneth the old. "Pride ruined the angels. Their shame them restores; 155 RALPH WALDO EMERSON Lurks the joy that is sweetest In stings of remorse. Have I a lover Who is noble and free? — I would he were nobler Than to love me. "Eterne alternation Now follows, now flies; And under pain, pleasure, — Under pleasure, pain lies. Love works at the centre, Heart-heaving alway; Forth speed the strong pulses To the borders of day. "Dull Sphinx, Jove keep thy five wits. Thy sight is growing blear: Rue, myrrh, and cummin for the Sphinx- Her muddy eyes to clear!" — The old Sphinx bit her thick lip, — Said, " Who taught thee me to name? I am thy spirit, yoke-fellow. Of thine eye I am eyebeam. "Thou art the unanswered question; Couldst see thy proper eye; Alway it asketh, asketh; And each answer is a lie. 156 RALPH WALDO EMERSON So take thy quest through nature, It through thousand natures ply: Ask on, thou clothed eternity; Time is the false reply." Uprose the merry Sphinx, And crouched no more in stone; She melted into purple cloud, She silvered in the moon; She spired into a yellow flame; She flowered in blossoms red; She flowed into a foaming wave; She stood Monadnoc's head. Through a thousand voices Spoke the universal dame: " Who telleth one of my meanings, Is master of all I am." BRAHMA If the red slayer think he slays, Or if the slain think he is slain. They know not well the subtle ways I keep, and pass, and turn again. Far or forgot to me is near; Shadow and sunlight are the same; 157 RALPH WALDO EMERSON The vanished gods to me appear; And one to me are shame and fame. They reckon il] who leave me out; When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt, And I the hymn the Brahmin sings. The strong gods pine for my abode, And pine in vain the sacred Seven; But thou, meek lover of the good! Find me, and turn thy back on heaven. DAYS Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days, Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and faggots in their hands. To each they offer gifts after his will, Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all. I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp. Forgot my morning wishes, hastily Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day Turned and departed silent. I, too late. Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn. 158 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH THE KINGDOM OF GOD I say to thee, do thou repeat To the first man that thou mayst meet In lane, highway, or open street — That he, and we, and all men, move Under a canopy of love, As broad as the blue sky above: That doubt and trouble, fear and pain And anguish, all are shadows vain; That death itself shall not remain: That weary deserts we may tread, A dreary labyrinth may thread. Through dark ways underground be led : Yet, if we will one Guide obey. The dreariest path, the darkest way, Shall issue out in heavenly day. And we, on divers shores now cast, Shall meet, our perilous voyage past, All in our Father's house at last. 159 RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH And ere thou leave him, say thou this, Yet one word more: they only miss The winning of that final bliss — Who will not count it true that Love, Blessing, not cursing, rules above. And that in it we live and move. And one thing further make him know- That to believe these things are so, This firm faith never to forego — Despite of all which seems at strife With blessing, all with curses rife — That this is blessing, this is life. NOT THOU, FROM US! Not Thou from us, O Lord, but we Withdraw ourselves from Thee. When we are dark and dead. And Thou art covered with a cloud, Hanging before Thee, like a shroud, So that our prayer can find no way. Oh! teach us that we do not say, "Where is Thy brightness fled?" 1 60 FREDERICK TENNYSON But that we search and try What in ourselves has wrought this blame; For Thou remainest still the same, But earth's own vapours earth may fill With darkness and thick clouds, while still The sun is in the sky. FREDERICK TENNYSON THE GLORY OF NATURE If only once the chariot of the Mom Had scattered from its wheels the twilight dun, But once the unimaginable Sun Flashed godlike through perennial clouds forlorn, And shown us Beauty for a moment bom: If only once blind eyes had seen the Spring Waking amid the triumphs of mid-noon; But once had seen the lovely Summer boon Pass by in state like a full-robed king, The waters dance, the woodlands laugh and sing: If only once deaf ears had heard the joy Of the wild birds, or morning breezes blowing, Or silver fountains from their caverns flowing, Or the deep- voiced rivers rolling by; Then night eternal fallen from the sky: i6i FREDERICK TENNYSON If only once weird Time had rent asunder The curtain of the clouds, and shown us Night Climbing into the awful Infinite Those stairs whose steps are worlds, above and under, Glory on glory, wonder upon wonder! If Lightnings lit the Earthquake on his way But once, or thunder spake unto the world". The realm - wide banners of the Wind un- furled ; Earth-prisoned fires broke loose into the day; Or the great seas awoke — then slept for aye! Ah! sure the heart of Man, too strongly tried By Godlike Presences so vast and fair, Withering with dread, or sick with love's despair, Had wept for ever, and to heaven cried. Or, struck with lightnings of delight had died I But he, thovigh heir of Immortality, With mortal dust too feeble for the sight. Draws through a veil God's overwhelming light: Use arms the soul — anon there moveth by A more majestic Angel — and we die! 162 ALFRED TENNYSON ALFRED TENNYSON WAGES Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song, Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea — Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong — Nay but she aim'd not at glory, no lover of glory she; Give her the glory of going on, and still to be. The wages of sin is death: if the wages of Virtue be dust. Would she have heart to endure for the life of the worm and the fly ? She desires no isles of the blest, no quiet seats of the just. To rest in a golden grove, or to bask in a sum- mer sky; Give her the wages of going on, and not to die. BROKEN LIGHTS Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen Thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace. Believing where we cannot prove; 163 ALFRED TENNYSON Thine are these orbs of light and shade; Thou tnadest Life in man and brute; Thou madest Death; and lo, Thy foot Is on the skull which Thou hast made. Thou wilt not leave us in the dust: Thou madest man, he knows not why, He thinks he was not made to die; And Thou hast made him: Thou art just. Thou seemest human and divine, The highest, holiest manhood, Thou: Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them Thine. Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be: They are but broken lights of Thee, And Thou, O Lord, art more than they. We have but faith; we cannot know; For knowledge is of things we see; And yet we trust it comes from Thee, A beam in darkness; let it grow. Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well. May make one music as before, 164 ALFRED TENNYSON But vaster. We are fools and slight; We mock Thee when we do not fear: But help Thy foolish ones to bear; Help Thy vain worlds to bear Thy light. Forgive what seem'd my sin in me; What seem'd my worth since I began; For merit lives from man to man, And not from man, O Lord, to Thee. Forgive my grief for one removed, Thy creature, whom I found so fair. I trust he lives in Thee, and there I find him worthier to be loved. Forgive these wild and wandering cries, Confusions of a wasted youth; Forgive them where they fail in truth, And in Th3'' wisdom make me wise. LAST LINES When the dumb hour, clothed in black. Brings the dreams about my head. Call me not so often back, Silent voices of the dead, 165 ALFRED TENNYSON Toward the lowland ways behind me And the sunlight that is gone! Call me rather, silent voices, Forward to the starry track Glimmering up the heights beyond me On, and always on! CROSSING THE BAR Sunset and evening star. And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea. But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell When I embark; For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar. 1 66 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE WAITING I wait and watch: before my eyes Methinks the night grows thin and gray; I wait and watch the eastern skies To see the golden spears uprise Beneath the oriflamme of day! Like one whose limbs are bound in trance I hear the day-sounds swell and grow, And see across the twilight glance, Troop after troop, in swift advance. The shining ones with plumes of snowf I know the errand of their feet, I know what mighty work is theirs; I can but lift up hands unmeet- The threshing-floors of God to beat. And speed them with unworthy prayers. I will not dream in vain despair The steps of progress wait for me: The puny leverage of a hair The planet's impulse well may spare, A drop of dew the tided sea. 167 JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER The loss, if loss there be, is mine, And yet not mine if understood: For one shall grasp and one resign, One drink life's rue, and one its wine, And God shall make the balance good. O power to do! O baffled will! O prayer and action! ye are one. Who may not strive, may yet fulfil The harder task of standing still. And good but wished with God is done! INVOCATION Through Thy clear spaces, Lord, of old, Formless and void the dead earth rolled; Deaf to Thy heaven's sweet music, blind To the great lights which o'er it shined; No sound, no ray, no warmth, no breath, A dumb despair, a wandering death. To that dark, weltering horror came Thy spirit, like a subtle flame, — A breath of life electrical, Awakening and transforming all, Till beat and thrilled in every part The pulses of a living heart. 1 68 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES Then knew their bounds the land and sea; Then smiled the bloom of mead and tree; From flower to moth, from beast to man, The quick creative impulse ran; And earth, with life from Thee renewed, Was in Thy holy eyesight good. As lost and void, as dark and cold And formless as the earth of old, — A wandering waste of storm and night, Midst spheres of song and realms of light, — A blot upon Thy holy sky, Untouched, unwarned of Thee, am I. O Thou who movest on the deep Of spirits, wake my own from sleep! Its darkness melt, its coldness warm. The lost restore, the ill transform. That flower and fruit henceforth may be Its grateful offering, worthy Thee. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main, — The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 169 OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their stream- ing hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl! Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell. As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed, — Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt ttnsealed! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew. He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door. Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee. Child of the wandering sea. Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn! While on mine ear it rings. Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings: — 170 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea! ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING CONSOLATION All are not taken; there are left behind Living Beloveds, tender looks to bring And make the daylight still a happy thing, And tender voices, to make soft the wind: But if it were not so — if I could find No love in all the world for comforting, Nor any path but hollowly did ring Where "dust to dust" the love from life disjoined, And if, before those sepulchres unmoving I stood alone, (as some forsaken lamb Goes bleating up the moors in weary dearth,) Crying "Where are you, O my loved and loving?" I know a Voice would sound, "Daughter, i am. Can I suffice for heaven and not for earth?" ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING THE SLEEP " He giveth His beloved sleep." — Psalm cxxvii:2. Of all the thotights of God that are Borne inward into souls afar, Along the Psalmist's music deep, Now tell me if that any is, For gift or grace, surpassing this: "He giveth His beloved sleep"? What would we give to our beloved? The hero's heart to be unmoved, The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep. The patriot's voice to teach and rouse, The monarch's crown to light the brows? He giveth His beloved sleep. What do we give to our beloved? A little faith all undisproved, A little dust to overweep, And bitter memories to make The whole world blasted for our sake: He giveth His beloved sleep. 172 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING "Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, Who have no tune to charm away Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep: But never doleful dream again Shall break the happy slumber when He giveth His beloved sleep. O earth so full of dreary noises! O men with wailing in yovir voices! O delved gold, the wallers heap! O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall! God strikes a silence through you all, And giveth His beloved sleep. His dews drop mutely on the hill. His cloud above it saileth still, Though on its slope men sow and reap: More softly than the dew is shed. Or cloud is floated overhead. He giveth His beloved sleep. Ay, men may wonder when they scan A living, thinking, feeling man Confirmed in such a rest to keep; But angels say, and through the word I think their happy smile is heard — "He giveth His beloved sleep." 173 ROBERT BROWNING For me, my heart that erst did go Most like a tired child at a show. That sees through tears the mummers leap, Would now its wearied vision close, Would, childlike, on His love repose, Who giveth His beloved sleep. And friends, dear friends, when it shall be That this low breath is gone from me, And round my bier ye come to weep. Let One, most loving of you all, Say "Not a tear must o'er her fall! He giveth His beloved sleep." ROBERT BROWNING PROSPICE Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat, The mist in my face, When the snows begin, and the blasts denote I am nearing the place. The power of the night, the press of the storm. The post of the Foe; Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, Yet the strong man must go: For the journey is done and the summit attained. And the barriers fall, 174 ROBERT BROWNING Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, The reward of it all. I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, The best and the last! I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore. And bade me creep past, No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers The heroes of old. Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears Of pain, darkness and cold. For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave. The black minute's at end. And the elements' rage, the fiend- voices that rave, Shall dwindle, shall blend. Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, Then a light, then thy breast, O, thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again And with God be the rest. EPILOGUE At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time, When you set your fancies free. Will they pass to where — by death, fools think, imprisoned — Low he lies who once so loved you, whom you loved so, — Pity me ? 175 ROBERT BROWNING Oh to love so, be so loved, yet so mistaken! What had I on earth to do With the slothful, with the mawkish, the unmanly ? Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless, did I drivel — Being — who ? One who never turned his back but marched breast forward. Never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph. Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better. Sleep to wake. No, at noonday in the bustle of man's work-time Greet the unseen with a cheer! Bid him forward , breast and back as either should be, "Strive and thrive!" cry "Speed, — fight on, fare ever There as here!" RABBI BEN EZRA Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made: Our times are in His hand Who saith "A whole I planned. Youth shows but half; trust God; see all nor be afraid!" 176 ROBERT BROWNING Not that, amassing flowers, Youth sighed " Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?" Not that, admiring stars. It yearned "Nor Jove, nor Mars; Mine be some figured flame which blends, tran- scends them all!" Not for such hopes and fears Annulling youth's brief years, Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark! Rather I prize the doubt Low kinds exist without, Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark. Poor vaunt of life indeed. Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast: Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men; Irks care the crop-full bird ? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast ? Rejoice we are allied To That which doth provide And not partake, effect and not receive! A spark disturbs our clod; Nearer we hold of God Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe. 177 ROBERT BROWNING Then, welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go! Be our joys three-parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe! For thence, — a paradox Which comforts while it mocks, — Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to be. And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. What is he but a brute Whose flesh has soul to suit. Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play ? To man, propose this test — Thy body at its best. How far can that project thy soul on its lone way ? Yet gifts should prove their use: I own the Past profuse Of power each side, perfection every turn: Eyes, ears took in their dole. Brain treasured up the whole; Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn"? 178 ROBERT BROWNING Not once beat "Praise be Thine! I see the whole design, I, who saw power, see now love perfect too: Perfect I call Thy plan: Thanks that I was a man! Maker, remake, complete — I trust what Thou shalt do!" For pleasant is this flesh; Our soul, in its rose-mesh Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest; Would we some prize might hold To match those manifold Possessions of the brute — gain most, as we did best ! Let us not always say "Spite of this flesh to-day I strove, made head, gained groundupon the whole!" As the bird wings and sings, Let us cry "All good things Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!" Therefore I summon age To grant youth's heritage, Life's struggle having so far reached its term: Thence shall I pass, approved A man, for aye removed From the developed brute; a god though in the germ. 179 ROBERT BROWNING And I shall thereupon Take rest, ere I be gone Once more on my adventure brave and new: Fearless and unperplexed, When I wage battle next, What weapons to select, what armour to indue. Youth ended, I shall try My gain or loss thereby; Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold: And I shall weigh the same. Give life its praise or blame: Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old. For note, when evening shuts, A certain moment cuts The deed off, calls the glory from the gray: A whisper from the west Shoots — "Add this to the rest. Take it and try its worth : here dies another day." So, still within this life, Though lifted o'er its strife. Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last, "This rage was right i' the main. That acqvqescence vain: The Future I may face now I have proved the Past." i8o ROBERT BROWNING For more is not reserved To man, with soul just nerved To act to-morrow what he learns to-day: Here, work enough to watch The Master work, and catch Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play. , As it was better, youth Should strive, through acts uncouth, Toward making, than repose on aught found made: So, better, age, exempt From strife, should know, than tempt Further. Thou waitedest age: wait death nor be afraid! Enough now, if the Right And Good and Infinite Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own, , With knowledge absolute, Subject to no dispute From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone. Be there, for once and all. Severed great minds from small, Announced to each his station in the Past! ROBERT BROWNING Was I, the world arraigned, Were they, my soul disdained, Right ? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last! Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate, Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; Ten, who in ears and eyes Match me: we all surmise, They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe ? Not on the vulgar mass Called "work," must sentence pass, Things done, that took the eye and had the price ; O'er which, from level stand, The low world laid its hand. Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice : But all, the world's coarse thumb And finger failed to plumb, So passed in making up the main account; All instincts immature. All purposes unsure, That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount: 182 ROBERT BROWNING Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and es- caped ; All I could never be, All men ignored in me, This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped. Ay, note that Potter's wheel. That metaphor! and feel Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay, — Thou, to whom fools propound, When the wine makes its round, "Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!" Fool! All that is, at all, Lasts ever, past recall; Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: What entered into thee. That was, is, and shall be: Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure. He fixed thee mid this dance Of plastic circumstance, 183 ROBERT BROWNING This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest: Machinery just meant To give thy soul its bent. Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently im- pressed. What though the earlier grooves Which ran the laughing loves Aroimd thy base, no longer pause and press? What though, about thy rim, Skull-things in order grim Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress? Look not thou down but up! To uses of a cup, The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal. The new wine's foaming flow. The Master's lips a-glow! Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what need'st thou with earth's wheel? But I need, now as then. Thee, God, who mouldest men; And since, not even while the whirl was worst. Did I, — to the wheel of life With shapes and colors rife. Bound dizzily — mistake my end, to slake Thy .thirst: 184 AUBREY DE VERE So, take and use Thy work: Amend what flaws may lurk. What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim! My times be in Thy hand! Perfect the cup as planned! Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same! AUBREY DE VERE MAY CAROLS Who feels not, when the Spring once more Stepping o'er Winter's grave forlorn With winged feet, retreads the shore Of widowed earth, his bosom burn ? As ordered flower succeeds to flower, And May the ladder of her sweets Ascends, advancing hour by hour From scale to scale, what heart but beats? Some Presence veiled, in fields and groves. That mingles rapture with remorse; Some buried joy beside us moves, And thrills the soul with such discourse i8s AUBREY DE VERE As they, perchance, that wondering pair Who to Emmaus bent their way. Hearing, heard not. Like them our prayer We make — "The night is near us — Stay!" With Paschal chants the churches ring: Their echoes strike along the tombs; The birds their hallelujahs sing; Each flower with floral incense fumes. Our long-lo.st Eden seems restored; As on we move with tearful eyes We feel through all the illumined sward Some upward-working Paradise. Three worlds there are: — the first of Sense- That sensuous earth which round us lies; The next of Faith's Intelligence: The third of Glory in the skies. The first is palpable, but base: The second heavenly, but obscure; The third is starlike in the face — But ah! remote that world as pure! Yet, glancing through our misty clime. Some sparkles from that loftier sphere i86 THOMAS TOKE LYNCH Make way to earth; then most what time The annual spring flowers reappear. Amid the coarser needs of earth All shapes of brightness, what are they But wanderers, exiled from their birth, Or pledges of a happier day? Yea, what is Beauty, judged aright. But some surpassing, transient gleam; Some smile from heaven, in waves of light, Rippling o'er life's distempered dream? Or broken memories of that bliss Which rushed through first-bom Nattxre's blood When He who ever was, and is, Looked down and saw that all was good? THOMAS TOKE LYNCH REST The day is over, The feverish, careful day: Can I recover Strength that has ebbed away? Can ever sleep such freshness give, That I again should wish to live? 187 THOMAS TOKE LYNCH Let me lie down, No more I seek to have A heavenly crown, Give me a quiet grave; Release, and not reward, I ask, — Too hard for me life's heavy task. Now let me rest, Hushed be my striving brain, My beating breast; Let me put off my pain. And feel me sinking, sinking deep Into an abyss of sleep. The morrow's noise. Its aguish hope and fear, Its empty joys. Of these I shall not hear; Call me no more, I cannot come; I'm gone to be at rest, at home. Earth undesired, And not for heaven meet; For one so tired What's left but slumber sweet, Beneath a grassy mound of trees, Or at the bottom of the seas? i88 THOMAS TOKE LYNCH Yet let me have, Once in a thousand years, Thoughts in my grave, To know how free from fears I sleep, and that I there shall lie Through undisturbed eternity. And when I wake, Then let me hear above The birds that make Songs not of human love: Or muffled tones my ear may reach, Of storms that sound from beach to beach. But hark! what word Breathes through this twilight dim? "Rest in the Lord, Wait patiently for Him; Return, O soul, and thou shalt have A better rest than in thy grave." My God, I come; But I was sorely shaken: Art Thou my home ? I thought I was forsaken: I know Thou art a sweeter rest Than earth's soft side or ocean's breast. THOMAS TOKE LYNCH Yet this my cry! — ' ' I ask no more for heaven, Now let me die, For I have vainly striven." I had, but for that word from Thee, Renounced my immortality. Now I return; Return, O Lord, to me; I cannot earn That heaven I'll ask of Thee; But with Thy Peace amid the strife, I still can live in hope of Life. The careful day. The feverish day is over; Strength ebbed away, I lie down to recover; With sleep from Him, I shall be blest. Whose word has brought my sorrows rest. MODULATIONS My God, I love the world, I love it well — Its wonder, and fairness, and delight — More than my tongue can tell; 190 THOMAS TOKE LYNCH And ever in my heart, like morning clouds New earth-loves rise and swell. Lilies I love, and stars, Dewdrops, and the great sea; Colour, and form, and sound, Combining variously; The rush of the wind, and the overhanging vast — Voiceless immensity. Thou world-creator art, World-lover too; In delight didst found the deep, In delight uprear the blue; And with an infinite love and carefulness The wide earth furnish through. My God, I am afraid of Thee, I am afraid — Thou art so silent, and so terrible; And oft I muse upon Thee in the deep night dead. Listening as for a voice that shall my spirit tell. To be of comfort and of courage, for that all is well. Of thoughts uncounted as the stars. Which burn undimm'd from old eternity, Oh, everlasting God! Thy Spirit is a sky — 191 WALT WHITMAN A brighten'd dark, enrounding every world With stillness of serenest majesty: Fit several forms of the same splendour Thou to beholding worlds dost render, In starry wonder of a thousand skies. Beheld by creature-eyes: Who in the glorious part have symbol bright Of the uncomprehended Infinite. But if as the great dark art Thou, unknown. Thou, God reveal'd, art as the sweet noon blue; Soft canopying mercy in the Christ is shown. And the azure of His love Thy face beams through, Looking forth, like the sun, to comfort and to bless, And with beauty overlighting the rough wilderness. WALT WHITMAN DEATH CAROL Come, lovely and soothing Death, Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, ar- riving, In the day, in the night, to all, to each, Sooner or later, delicate Death. 192 WALT WHITMAN Prais'd be the fathomless universe, For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious; And for love, sweet love — But praise! praise! praise ! For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding Death. Dark Mother always gliding near with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest wel- come? Then I chant it for thee — I glorify thee above all; I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. Approach, strong Deliveress! When it is so — when thou hast taken them, I joy- ously sing the dead, Lost in the loving, floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death. From me to thee glad serenades. Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee — adorn- ments and f eastings for thee; And the sights of the open landscape, and the high- spread sky, are fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thought- ful night, 193 WALT WHITMAN The night, in silence, under many a star; The ocean shore, and the husky whispering wave, whose voice I know; And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well- veil 'd Death, And the body gratefully nestling close to thee. Over the tree-tops I float thee a song! Over the rising and sinking waves — over the myr- iad fields, and the prairies wide; Over the dense-pack'd cities all, and the teeming wharves and ways, I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death! GODS Thought of the Infinite— the All! Be thou my God. Lover Divine, and Perfect Comrade! Waiting, content, invisible yet, but certain. Be thou my God. Thou—thou, the Ideal Man! Fair, able, beautiful, content, and loving, Complete in Body, and dilate in Spirit, Be thou my God. 194 WALT WHITMAN O Death — (for Life has served its turn;) Opener and usher to the heavenly mansion! Be thou my God. Aught, aught, of mightiest, best, I see, conceive, or know, (To break the stagnant tie — thee, thee to free, O Soul,) Be thou my God. Or thee. Old Cause, whene'er advancing; All great Ideas, the races' aspirations. All that exalts, releases thee, my Soul! All heroisms, deeds of rapt enthusiasts, Be ye my Gods! Or Time and Space! Or shape of Earth, divine and wondrous! Or shape in I myself — or some fair shape, I, view- ing, worship. Or lustrous orb of Sun, or star by night: Be ye my Gods. CHANTING THE SQUARE DEIFIC Chanting the square deific, out of the One ad- vancing, out of the sides; Out of the old and new — out of the square entirely divine, 195 WALT WHITMAN Solid, four-sided, (all the sides needed) . . . from this side jehovah am I, Old Brahm I, and I Saturnius am; Not Time affects me — I am Time, old, modern as any; Unpersuadable, relentless, executing righteous judgments; As the Earth, the Father, the brown old Kronos, with laws. Aged beyond computation — yet ever new — ever with those mighty laws rolling. Relentless, I forgive no man — whoever sins, dies — I will have that man's life; Therefore, let none expect mercy — Have the sea- sons, gravitation, the appointed days, mercy? —No more have I; But as the seasons, and gravitation — and as all the appointed days, that forgive not, I dispense from this side judgments inexorable, without the least remorse. Consolator most mild, the promis'd one ad- vancing. With gentle hands extended — the mightier God am I, Foretold by prophets and poets, in their most rapt prophecies and poems; From this side, lo! the Lord Christ gazes — lo! Hermes I — lo! mine is Hercules' face; 196 WALT WHITMAN All sorrow, labour, suffering, I, tallying it, absorb in myself; Many times have I been rejected, taunted, put in prison, and crucified — and many times shall be again; All the world have I given up for my dear brothers' and sisters' sake — for the soul's sake; Wending my way through the homes of men, rich or poor, with the kiss of affection; For I am affection — I am the cheer-bringing God, with hope, and all-enclosing Charity; (Conqueror yet — for before me all the armies and soldiers of the earth shall yet bow — and all the weapons of war become impotent:) With indulgent words, as to children — with fresh and sane words, mine only; Young and strong I pass, knowing well I am destin'd myself to an early death: But my Charity has no death — my Wisdom dies not, neither early nor late, And my sweet Love, bequeath'd here and else- where, never dies. Aloof, dissatisfied, plotting revolt, Comrade of criminals, brother of slaves, Crafty, despised, a drudge, ignorant, With sudra face and worn brow, black, but in the depths of my heart, proud as any; 197 WALT WHITMAN Lifted, now and always, against whoever, scorn- ing, assumes to rule me; Morose, full of guile, full of reminiscences, brood- ing, with many wiles, (Though it was thought I was bafifled and dispell'd, and my wiles done — but that will never be;) Defiant, I, satan, still live — still utter words — in new lands duly appearing, (and old ones also;) Permanent here, from my side, warlike, equal with any, real as any, Nor time, nor change, shall ever change me or my words. Santa spirita, breather, life, Beyond the light, lighter than light. Beyond the flames of hell — joyous, leaping easily above hell; Beyond Paradise — perfumed solely with mine own perfume ; Including all life on earth — touching, including God— including Saviour and Satan; Ethereal, pervading all, (for without me, what were all ? what were God ?) Essence of forms — life of the real identities, per- manent, positive, (namely the unseen,) Life of the great round world, the sun and stars, and of man — I, the general Soul, Here the square finishing, the solid, I the most solid, Breathe my breath also through these songs. 198 ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH HELP When the enemy is near thee, Call on us! In our hands we will upbear thee, He shall neither scathe nor scare thee. He shall fly thee and shall fear thee. Call on us! Call when all good friends have left thee, Of all good sights and sounds bereft thee, Call when hope and heart are sinking, When the brain is sick with thinking, Help, O help! When the panic comes upon thee, When necessity seems on thee, Hope and choice have all foregone thee. Fate and force are closing o'er thee. And but one way stands before thee, Call on us! O, and if thou dost not call, Be but faithful, that is all! Go right on, and close behind thee There shall follow still, and find thee, Help, sure help! 199 GEORGE ELIOT SURETY Though to the vilest things beneath the moon For poor Ease' sake I give away my heart, And for the moment's sympathy let part My sight and sense of truth, Thy precious boon, My painful earnings, lost, all lost, as soon. Almost, as gained; and though aside I start, Belie Thee daily, hourly, — still Thou art. Art surely as in heaven the sun at noon; How much so e'er I sin, whate'er I do Of evil, still the sky above is blue. The stars look down in beauty as before: It is enough to walk as best we may. To walk, and, sighing, dream of that blest day When ill we cannot quell shall be no more. GEORGE ELIOT "O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE" Longunt illud tempus, quum non ero, tnagis me movet, quam hoc exiguum. — Cicero, Ad Alt., xii: i8. O may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence: live In pulses stirred to generosity, 200 GEORGE ELIOT In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge man's search To vaster issues. So to live is heaven: To make undying music in the world, Breathing as beauteous order that controls With growing sway the growing life of man. So we inherit that sweet purity For which we struggled, failed, and agonized With widening retrospect that bred despair. Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, A vicious parent shaming still its child Poor anxious penitence, is quick dissolved; Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies. Die in the large and charitable air. And all our rarer, better, truer self, That sobbed religiously in yearning song. That watched to ease the burthen of the world. Laboriously tracing what must be, And what may yet be better — saw within A worthier image for the sanctuary. And shaped it forth before the multitude Divinely human, raising worship so To higher reverence more mixed with love — That better self shall live till human Time Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky EMILY BRONTE Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb Unread forever. This is life to come, Which martyred men have made more glorious For us who strive to follow. May I reach That purest heaven, be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardour, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty — Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, And in diffusion ever more intense. So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world. EMILY BRONTE LAST LINES No coward soul is mine. No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere: I see Heaven's glories shine, And faith shines equal, arming me from fear. O God within my breast. Almighty, ever-present Deity! Life — that in me has rest. As I — undying Life — have power in Thee! EMILY BRONTE Vain are the thousand creeds That move men's hearts: unutterably vain; Worthless as withered weeds, Or idlest froth amid the boundless main, To waken doubt in one Holding so fast by thine infinity; So surely anchored on The steadfast rock of immortality. With wide-embracing love Thy spirit animates eternal years. Pervades and broods above, Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates, and rears. Though earth and man were gone. And suns and universes ceased to be. And Thou were left alone. Every existence would exist in Thee. There is no room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void: Thou — THOU are Being and Breath, And what thou art may never be destroyed. 203 EMILY BRONTE THE PRISONER Still, let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wear Year after year in gloom, and desolate despair; A messenger of Hope comes every night to me, And offers for short life, eternal liberty. He comes with western winds, with evening's wandering airs, With that clear dusk of heaven that brings the thickest stars. Winds take a pensive tone, and stars a tender fire. And visions rise, and change, that kill me with desire. Desire for nothing known in my maturer years, When Joy grew mad with awe, at counting future tears. When, if my spirit's sky was full of flashes warm, I knew not whence they came, from sun or thun- der-storm. But first, a hush of peace — a soundless calm de- scends ; The struggle of distress and fierce impatience ends ; 204 EMILY BRONTE Mute music soothes my breast — unuttered har- mony, That I could never dream, till Earth was lost to me. Then dawns the Invisible; the Unseen its truth reveals, My outward sense is gone, my inward essence feels : Its wings are almost free — its home, its harbour found. Measuring the gulf, it stoops and dares the final bound. Oh! dreadful is the check — intense the agony — When the ear begins to hear, and the eye begins to see; When the pulse begins to throb, the brain to think again ; The soul to feel the flesh, and the flesh to feel the chain. Yet I would lose no sting, would wish no torture less; The more that anguish racks, the earlier it will bless ; And robed in fires of hell, or bright with heavenly shine. If it but herald death, the vision is divine! 205 DORA GREENWELL DORA GREENWELL THE SEARCH Cmlo tegilur qui non habet urnam. In Spring the green leaves shoot, In Spring the blossoms fall, With Summer falls the fruit, The leaves in Autumn fall, Contented from the bough They drop, leaves, blossoms now, And ripen'd fruit; the warm earth takes them all. Thus all things ask for rest, A home above, a home beneath the sod; The siin will seek the west, The bird will seek its nest. The heart another breast Whereon to lean, the spirit seeks its Grod. MATTHEW ARNOLD EAST LONDON 'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green, And the pale weaver, through his windows seen In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited. 206 MATTHEW ARNOLD I met a preacher there I knew, and said: " 111 and o'erwork'd, how fare you in this scene ? " — "Bravely!" said he; "for I of late have been Much cheer'd with thoughts of Christ, the living bread. ' ' O human soul! as long as thou canst so Set up a mark of everlasting light. Above the howling senses' ebb and flow, To cheer thee, and to right thee if thou roam — Not with lost toil thou labourest through the night ! Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st indeed thy home. THE BETTER PART Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man, How angrily thou spurn'st all simpler fare! "Christ," some one says, "was human as we are; No Judge eyes us from Heaven, our sin to scan; " We live no more when we have done our span." " Well, then, for Christ," thou answerest, "who can care ? From sin, which Heaven records not, why forbear? Live we like brutes, our life without a plan!" 207 MATTHEW ARNOLD So answerest thou, but why not rather say — "Hath man no second life? Pitch this one high! Sits there no judge in Heaven, our sin to see? More strictly then, the inward judge obey! Was Christ a man, like us ? Ah ! let us try If we then, too, can be such men as He!" STAGIRIUS Thou, who dost dwell alone — Thou, who dost know thine own- Thou, to whom all are known From the cradle to the grave — Save, oh! save. From the world's temptations, From tribulations. From that fierce anguish Wherein we languish, From that torpor deep Wherein we lie asleep, Heavy as death, cold as the grave, Save, oh! save. When the soul, growing clearer, Sees God no nearer; When the soul, mounting higher. To God comes no nigher; 208 MATTHEW ARNOLD But the arch-fiend Pride Mounts at her side, Foihng her high emprise, Sealing her eagle eyes. And, when she fain would soar, Makes idols to adore. Changing the pure emotion Of her high devotion. To a skin-deep sense Of her own eloquence; Strong to deceive, strong to enslave — Save, oh! save. From the ingrain' d fashion Of this earthly nature That mars Thy creature; From grief that is but passion. From mirth that is but feigning. From tears that bring no healing, From wild and weak complaining, Thine old strength revealing. Save oh! save. From doubt, where all is double; Where wise men are not strong, Where comfort turns to trouble. Where just men suffer wrong; Where sorrow treads on joy, Where sweet things soonest cloy. Where faiths are built on dust, Where love is half mistrust, 209 MATTHEW ARNOLD Hungry, and barren, and sharp as the sea- Oh! set us free. O let the false dream fly Where our sick souls do lie Tossing continually! O where thy voice doth come Let all doubts be dumb, Let all words be mild. All strifes be reconciled. All pains beguiled! Light bring no blindness, Love no unkindness. Knowledge no ruin, Fear no undoing ! From the cradle to the grave. Save, oh! save. IMMORTALITY Foil'd by our fellowmen, depress'd, outworn, We leave the brutal world to take its way, And, Patience! in another life, we say, The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne. And will not, then, the immortal armies scorn The world's poor, routed leavings? or will they. Who fail'd under the heat of this life's day, Support the fervours of the heavenly morn ? COVENTRY PATMORE No, no! the energy of life may be Kept on after the grave, but not begun; And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife, From strength to strength advancing — only he, His soul well-knit, and all his battles won, Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life. COVENTRY PATMORE THE TOYS My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes And moved and spoke in quiet grown-up wise. Having my law the seventh time disobey'd, I struck him, and dismiss'd With hard words and unkiss'd, His Mother, who was patient, being dead. Then, fearing lest his grief should hinder sleep, I visited his bed, But found him slumbering deep. With darken'd eyelids, and their lashes yet From his late sobbing wet. And I, with moan, Kissing away his tears, left others of my own; For, on a table drawn beside his head. He had put, within his reach, A box of counters and a red- vein 'd stone, A piece of glass abraded by the beach COVENTRY PATMORE And six or seven shells, A bottle with bluebells And two French copper coins, ranged there with careful art. To comfort his sad heart. So when that night I pray'd To God, I wept, and said: Ah, when at last we lie with tranced breath, Not vexing Thee in death. And Thou rememberest of what toys We made our joys. How weakly understood, Thy great commanded good, Then, fatherly not less Than I whom Thou hast moulded from the clay, Thou'lt leave Thy wrath, and say, 'I will be sorry for their childishness.' VICTORY IN DEFEAT Ah, God, alas. How soon it came to pass The sweetness melted from thy barbed hook Which I so simply took; And I lay bleeding on the bitter land, Afraid to stir against thy least command. But losing all my pleasant life-blood, whence Force should have been heart's frailty to withstand. COVENTRY PATMORE Life is not life at all without delight, Nor has it any might; And better than the insentient heart and brain Is sharpest pain; And better for the moment seems it to rebel, If the great Master, from his lifted seat, Ne'er whispers to the wearied servant "Well!" Yet what returns of love did I endure, When to be pardon'd seem'd almost more sweet Than aye to have been pure! But day still faded to disastrous night, And thicker darkness changed to feebler light. Until forgiveness, without stint renew'd, Was now no more with loving tears imbued. Vowing no more offence. Not less to thine Unfaithful didst thou cry, "Come back, poor Child; be all as 'twas before." But I, "No, no; I will not promise any more! Yet, when I feel my hour is come to die, And so I am secured of continence. Then may I say, though haply then in vain, 'My only, only Love, O, take me back again.' " Thereafter didst thovi smite So hard that, for a space. Uplifted seem'd Heav'n's everlasting door. And I indeed the darling of thy grace. But, in some dozen changes of the moon, A bitter mockery seem'd thy bitter boon. 213 COVENTRY PATMORE The broken pinion was no longer sore. Again, indeed, I woke Under so dread a stroke That all the strength it left within my heart Was just to ache and turn, and then to turn and ache, And some weak sign of war unceasingly to make. And here I lie, With no one near to mark, Thrusting Hell's phantoms feebly in the dark. And still at point more utterly to die. O God, how long! Put forth indeed Thy powerful right hand, While time is yet. Or never shall I see the blissful land! Thus I : then God, in pleasant speech and strong, (Which soon I shall forget) : "The man who, though his fights be all defeats, Still fights. Enters at last The heavenly Jerusalem's rejoicing streets With glory more, and more triumphant rites Than always-conquering Joshua's, when his blast The frighted walls of Jericho down cast; And, lo, the glad surprise Of peace beyond surmise. More than in common Saints, for ever in his eyes." 214 GEORGE MACDONALD VESICA PISCIS In strenuous hope I wrought, And hope seem'd still betray 'd; Lastly I said, "I have labour'd through the Night, nor yet Have taken aught; But at Thy word I will again cast forth the net!" And, lo, I caught (Oh, quite unlike and quite beyond my thought), Not the quick, shining harvest of the Sea, For food, my wish. But Thee! Then, hiding even in me. As hid was Simon's coin within the fish, Thou sigh'd'st, with joy, "Be dumb. Or speak but of forgotten things to far-oflF times to come." GEORGE MACDONALD REST Who dwelleth in that secret place, Where tumult enters not. Is never cold with terror base. Never with anger hot: 2IS GEORGE MACDONALD For if an evil host should dare His very heart invest, God is his deeper heart, and there He enters in to rest. When mighty sea-winds madly blow, And tear the scattered waves, Peaceful as summer woods, below Lie darkling ocean caves: The wind of words may toss my heart, Bvit what is that to me! 'Tis but a surface storm — Thou art My deep, still, resting sea. A CHRISTMAS CAROL Babe Jesus lay in Mary's lap; The sun shone on His hair; And this is how she saw, mayhap. The crown already there. For she sang: "Sleep on, my little King, Bad Herod dares not come; Before Thee sleeping, holy thing. The wild winds would be dumb. 216 GEORGE MACDONALD "I kiss Thy hands, I kiss Thy feet, My child so long desired; Thy hands shall never be soiled, my sweet; Thy feet shall never be tired. "For Thou art the King of Men, my son; Thy crown I see it plain; And men shall worship Thee, every one. And cry. Glory! Amen!" Babe Jesus opened His eyes so wide! At Mary looked her Lord. And Mary stinted her song and sighed. Babe Jesus said never a word. THAT HOLY THING They all were looking for a king To slay their foes and lift them high; Thou cam'st a little baby thing That made a woman cry. O Son of Man, to right my lot Naught but Thy presence can avail; Yet on the road Thy wheels are not, Nor on the sea Thy sail! 217 GEORGE MEREDITH My how or when Thou wilt not heed, But come down Thine own secret stair, That Thou mayst answer all my need — Yea, every bygone prayer. GEORGE MEREDITH MEN AND MAN Men the Angels eyed; And here they were wild waves, And there as marsh descried. Men the Angels eyed, And liked the picture best Where they were greenly dressed In brotherhood of graves. Man the Angels marked: He led a host through murk, On fearful seas embarked, Man the Angels marked; To think without a nay, That he was good as they. And help him at his work. Man and Angels, ye A sluggish fen shall drain, 218 GEORGE MEREDITH Shall quell a warring sea. Man and Angels, ye, Whom stain of strife befouls, A light to kindle souls Bear radiant in the stain. SENSE AND SPIRIT The senses loving Earth or well or ill. Ravel yet more the riddle of our lot. The mind is in their trammels, and lights not By trimming fear - bred tales ; nor does the will To find in nature things which less may chill An ardour that desires, unknowing what. Till we conceive her living we go distraught. At best but circle-windsails of a mill. Seeing she lives, and of her joy of life Creatively has given us blood and breath For endless war and never wound unhealed, The gloomy Wherefore of our battle-field Solves in the Spirit, wrought of her through strife To read her own and trust her down to death. 219 GEORGE MEREDITH LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT On a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose. Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened, Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose. Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. And now upon his Western wing he leaned, Now his huge bulk o'er Africa careened. Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows. Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars With memory of the old revolt from Awe, He reached a middle height, and at the stars. Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law. A BALLAD OF PAST MERIDIAN Last night returning from my twilight walk I met the grey mist Death, whose eyeless brow Was bent on me, and from his hand of chalk He reached me flowers as from a withered bough: O Death, what bitter nosegays givest thou! GEORGE MEREDITH Death said, I gather, and pursued his way. Another stood by me, a shape in stone. Sword-hacked and iron-stained, with breasts of clay, And metal veins that sometimes fiery shone: O Life, how naked and how hard when known! Life said. As thou hast carved me, such am I. Then memory, like the nightjar on the pine. And sightless hope, a woodlark in night sky. Joined notes of Death and Life till night's decline: Of Death, of Life, those inwound notes are mine. THE QUESTION WHITHER When we have thrown off this old suit, So much in need of mending, To sink among the naked mute, Is that, think you, our ending ? We follow many, more we lead, And you who sadly turf us, Believe not that all living seed Must flower above the surface. Sensation is a gracious gift. But were it cramped to station. The prayer to have it cast adrift. Would spout from all sensation. GEORGE MEREDITH Enough if we have winked to sun, Have sped the plough a season; There is a soul for labour done. Endureth fi;:ed as reason. Then let our trust be firm in Good, Though we be of the fasting; Our questions are a mortal brood, Our work is everlasting. We children of Beneficence, Are in its being sharers. And Whither vainer sounds than Whence, For word with such wavfarers. OUTER AND INNER From twig to twig the spider weaves At noon his webbing fine. So near to mute the zephyrs flute That only leaflets dance. The sun draws out of hazel leaves A smell of woodland wine. I wake a swarm to sudden storm At any step's advance. Along my path is bugloss blue, The star with fruit in moss; GEORGE MEREDITH The foxgloves drop from throat to top A daily lesser bell. The blackest shadow, nurse of dew, Has orange skeins across; And keenly red is one thin thread That flashing seems to swell. My world I note ere fancy comes. Minutest hushed observe: What busy bits of motioned wits Through an tiered mosswork strive. But now so low the stillness hums. My springs of seeing swerve, For half a wink to thrill and think The woods with nymphs alive. I neighbour the invisible So close that my consent Is only asked for spirits masked To leap from trees and flowers. And this because with them I dwell In thought, while calmly bent To read the lines dear Earth designs Shall speak her life on otirs. Accept, she says; it is not hard In woods; but she in towns Repeats, accept; and have we wept. And have we quailed with fears, 223 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI Or shrunk with horrors, sure reward We have whom knowledge crowns; Who see in mould the rose unfold, The soul through blood and tears. DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI WORLD'S WORTH 'Tis of the Father Hilary. He strove, but could not pray; so took The steep-coiled stair, where his feet shook A sad blind echo. Ever up He toiled. 'Twas a .sick sway of air That autumn noon within the stair, As dizzy as a turning cup. His brain benumbed him, void and thin; He shut his eyes and felt it spin; The obscure deafness hemmed him in. He said: "O world, what world for me?" He leaned imto the balcony Where the chime keeps the night and day; It hurt his brain, he could not pray. He had his face upon the stone: Deep 'twixt the narrow shafts, his eye Passed all the roofs to the stark sky, Swept with no wing, with wind alone. 224 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI Close to his feet the sky did shake With wind in pools that the rains make: The ripple set his eyes to ache. He said: "O world, what world for me?" He stood within the mystery Girding God's blessed Eucharist: The organ and the chaunt had ceas'd. The last words paused against his ear Said from the altar: drawn round him The gathering rest was dumb and dim. And now the sacring-bell rang clear And ceased; and all was awe — the breath Of God in man that warranteth The inmost utmost things of faith. He said: "O God, my world in Thee!" VAIN VIRTUES What is the sorriest thing that enters Hell? None of the sins, — but this and that fair deed Which a soul's sin at length could supersede. These yet are virgins, whom death's timely knell Might once have sainted ; whom the fiends compel Together now, in snake - bound shuddering sheaves Of anguish, while the pit's pollution leaves Their refuse maidenhood abominable. 225 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI Night sucks them down, the tribute of the pit, Whose names, half entered in the book of Life, Were God's desire at noon. And as their hair And eyes sink last, the Torturer deigns no whit To gaze, but, yearning, waits his destined wife, The Sin still blithe on earth that sent them there. LOST DAYS The lost days of my life until to-day. What were they, could I see them on the street Lie as they fell ? Would they be ears of wheat Sown once for food but trodden into clay ? Or golden coins squandered and still to pay? Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet? Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat The undying throats of Hell, athirst alway ? I do not see them here; but after death God knows I know the faces I shall see. Each one a murdered self, with low last breath. "I am thyself, — what hast thou done to me?" "And I — and I — thyself," (lo! each one saith,) "And thou thyself to all eternity!" 226 DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI A SUPERSCRIPTION Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been; I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell; Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell Cast up thy Life's foam -fretted feet between; Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my spell Is now a shaken shadow intolerable, Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart One moment through thy soul the soft surprise Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,— Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. THE HEART OF THE NIGHT From child to youth ; from youth to arduous man ; From lethargy to fever of the heart; From faithful life to dream-dowered days apart; From trust to doubt; from doubt to brink of ban; — Thus much of change in one swift cycle ran 227 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI Till now. Alas, the soul! — how soon must she Accept her primal immortality — The flesh resume its dust whence it began? O Lord of work and peace! O Lord of life! O Lord, the awful Lord of will! though late, Even yet renew this soul with duteous breath: That when the peace is garnered in from strife, The work retrieved, the will regenerate. This soul may see thy face, O Lord of death! CHRISTINA ROSSETTI OLD AND NEW YEAR DITTIES Passing away, saith the World, passing away: Chances, beauty, and youth, sapped day by day: Thy life never continueth in one stay. Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grey That hath won neither laurel nor bay? I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May: Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay On my bosom for aye. Then I answered: Yea. Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away: With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play, 228 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI Hearken what the past doth witness and say: Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array, A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay. At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay; Watch thou and pray. Then I answered : Yea. Passing away, saith my God, passing away: Winter passeth after the long delay: New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray , Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven's May. Though I tarry, wait for Me, trust Me, watch and pray: Arise, come away, night is past and lo it is day, My love. My sister. My spouse, thou shalt hear me say. Then I answered: Yea. UP-HILL Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From mom to night, my friend. 229 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot mis.^ that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek? Yea, beds for all who come. THE WORLD By day she woos me, soft, exceeding fair: But all night as the moon so changeth she; Loathsome and foul with hideous leprosy, And subtle serpents gliding in her hair. By day she woos me to the outer air. Ripe fruits, sweet flowers, and full satiety: But through the night a beast she grins at me, A very monster void of love and prayer. By day she stands a lie: by night she stands In all the naked horror of the truth, 230 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI With pushing horns and clawed and clutching hands. Is this a friend indeed; that I should sell My soul to her, give her my life and youth, Till my feet, cloven too, take hold on hell ? SLEEPING AT LAST Sleeping at last, the trouble and tumult over, Sleeping at last, the struggle and horror past, Cold and white, out of sight of friend and of lover. Sleeping at last. No more a tired heart downcast or overcast, No more pangs that wring or shifting fears that hover, Sleeping at last in a dreamless sleep locked fast. Fast asleep. Singing birds in their leafy cover Cannot wake her, nor shake her the gusty blast. Under the purple thyme and the purple clover Sleeping at last. 231 T. E. BROWN T. E. BROWN INDWELLING If thou could 'st empty all thy self of self Like to a shell dishabited, Then might He find thee on the ocean shelf And say — "This is not dead," And fill thee with Himself instead; But thou art all replete with very thou And hast such shrewd activity, That when He comes He says: "This is enow Unto itself; 'twere better let it be, It is so small and full, there is no room for Me. ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE HERTHA I am that which began; Out of me the years roll; Out of me Grod and man; I am equal and Whole; God changes, and man, and the form of them bodily; I am the soul. 232 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE Before ever land was, Before ever the sea, Or soft hair of the grass. Or fair Hmbs of the tree. Or the flesh-coloured fruit of my branches, I was, and thy soul was in me. First life on my sources First drifted and swam; Out of me are the forces That save it or damn; Out of me man and woman, and wild-beast and bird; before God was, I am. Beside or above me Nought is there to go; Love or unlove me, Unknow me or know, I am that which unloves me and loves; I am stricken, and I am the blow. I the mark that is missed And the arrows that miss, I the mouth that is kissed And the breath in the kiss. The search, and the sought, and the seeker, the soul and the body that is. 233 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE I am that thing which blesses My spirit elate; That which caresses With hands uncreate My limbs unbegotten that measure the length of the measure of fate. But what thing dost thou now Looking Godward, to cry "I am I, thou art thou, I am low, thou art high?" I am thou, whom thou seekest to find him; find thou but thyself, thou art L I the grain and the furrow, The plough-cloven clod And the ploughshare drawn thorough. The germ and the sod. The deed and the doer, the seed and the sower, the dust which is God. Hast thou known how I fashioned thee. Child, underground ? Fire that impassioned thee. Iron that bound, Dim changes of water, what thing of all these hast thou known of or found? 234 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE Canst thou say in thine heart Thou hast seen with thine eyes With what cunning of art Thou wast wrought in what wise, By what force of what stuflF thou wast shapen, and shown on my breast to the skies? Who hath given, who hath sold it thee. Knowledge of me? Hath the wilderness told it thee? Hast thou learnt of the sea? Hast thou communed in spirit with night? have the winds taken counsel with thee? Have I set such a star To show light on thy brow That thou sawest from afar What I show to thee now? Have ye spoken as brethren together, the sun and the mountains and thou? What is here, dost thou know it? What was, hast thou known? Prophet nor poet Nor tripod nor throne Nor spirit nor flesh can make answer, but only thy mother alone. 235 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE Mother, not maker, Born, and not made; Though her children forsake her, Allured or afraid, Praying prayers to the God of their fashion, she stirs not for all that have prayed. A creed is a rod. And a crown is of night; But this thing is God, To be man with thy might. To grow straight in the strength of thy spirit, and live out thy life as the light. I am in thee to save thee. As my soul in thee saith, Give thou as I gave thee. Thy life-blood and breath, Green leaves of thy labotir, white flowers of thy thought, and red fruit of thy death. Be the ways of thy giving As mine were to thee; The free life of thy living, Be the gift of it free; Not as servant to lord, nor as master to slave shalt thou give thee to me. 236 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE children of banishment, Souls overcast, Were the lights ye see vanish meant Alway to last. Ye would know not the sun overshining the shad- ows and stars overpast. 1 that saw where ye trod The dim paths of the night Set the shadow called God In your skies to give light; But the morning of manhood is risen, and the shadowless soul is in sight. The tree many-rooted That swells to the sky With frondage red-fruited, The life-tree am I ; In the buds of your lives is the sap of my leaves: ye shall live and not die. But the Gods of your fashion That take and that give. In their pity and passion That scourge and forgive. They are worms that are bred in the bark that falls off: they shall die and not live. 237 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE My own blood is what stanches The wounds in my bark; Stars caught in my branches Make day of the dark, And are worshipped as suns till the sunrise shall tread out their fires as a spark. Where dead ages hide under The live roots of the tree, In my darkness the thunder Make utterance of me; In the clash of my boughs with each other ye hear the waves sound of the sea. That noise is of Time, As his feathers are spread And his feet set to climb Through the boughs overhead, And my foliage rings round him and rustles, and branches are bent with his tread. The storm-winds of ages Blow through me and cease, The war- wind that rages, The spring-wind of peace, Ere the breath of them roughen my tresses, ere one of my blossoms increase. 238 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE All sounds of all changes, All shadows and lights On the world's mountain-ranges And stream-riven heights, Whose tongue is the wind's tongue and language of storm-clouds on earth-shaking nights; All forms of all faces, All works of all hands In unsearchable places Of time^stricken lands, All death and all life, and all reigns and all ruins, drop through me as sands. Though sore be my burden And more than ye know. And growth have no guerdon But only to grow. Yet I fail not of growing for lightnings above me or death worms below. These too have their part in me. As I too in these; Such fire is at heart in me. Such sap is this tree's. Which hath in it all sounds and all secrets of in- finite lands and of seas. 239 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE In the spring-coloured hours When my mind was as May's, There brake forth of me flowers By centuries of days, Strong blossoms with perfume of manhood, shot out from my spirit as rays. And the sound of them springing And smell of their shoots Were as warmth and sweet singing And strength to my roots; And the lives of my children made perfect with freedom of soul were my fruits. I bid you but be; I have need not of prayer; I have need of you free As your mouths of mine air; That my heart may be greater within me, behold- ing the fruits of me fair. More fair than strange fruit is Of faiths ye espouse; In me only the root is That blooms in your boughs; Behold now your God that ye made you, to feed him with faith of your vows. 240 ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE In the darkening and whitening Abysses adored, With dayspring and lightning For lamp and for sword, God thunders in heaven, and his angels are red with the wrath of the Lord. O my sons, O too dutiful Toward Gods not of me. Was not I enough beautiful? Was it hard to be free? For behold, I am with you, am in you and of you; look forth now and see. Lo, winged with world's wonders. With miracles shod. With the fires of his thunders For raiment and rod, God trembles in heaven, and his angels are white with the terror of God. For his twilight is come on him. His anguish is here; And his spirits gaze dumb on him, Grown grey from his fear; And his hour taketh hold on him stricken, the last of his infinite year. Thought made him and breaks him. Truth slays and forgives; 241 THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON But to you, as time takes him, This new thing it gives, Even love, the beloved Republic, that feeds upon freedom and lives. For truth only is living, Truth only is whole, And the love of his giving Man's polestar and pole; Man, pulse of my centre, and fruit of my body, and seed of my soul. One birth of my bosom; One beam of mine eye; One topmost blossom That scales the sky; Man, equal and one with me, man that is made of me, man that is I. THEODORE WATTS-DUNTON NATURA BENIGNA The Promise of the Sunrise What power is this? what witchery wins my feet To peaks so sheer they scorn the cloaking snow. All silent as the emerald gulfs below, Down whose ice-walls the wings of twilight beat ? What thrill of earth and heaven — most wild, most sweet — 242 JOAQUIN MILLER What answering pulse that all the senses know, Comes leaping from the ruddy eastern glow Where, far away, the skies and mountains meet? Mother, 'tis I reborn: I know thee well: That throb I know and all it prophesies, O Mother and Queen, beneath the olden spell Of silence, gazing from thy hills and skies! Dumb Mother, struggling with the years to tell The secret at thy heart through helpless eyes. JOAQUIN MILLER COLUMBUS Behind him lay the great Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules, Before him not the ghost of shores. Before him only shoreless seas, The good mate said: "Now must we pray; For lo, the very stars are gone. Brave Admiral, speak, what shall I say?" "Why, say, Sail on, sail on, and on." The men grew mutinous by day. The men grew ghastly pale and weak; The sad mate thought of home, a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. " What shall I say, brave Admiral, say If we sight naught but seas at dawn ?' 243 EDWARD ROWLAND SILL " Why you shall say, at break of day, Sail on, sail on, sail on, and on." They sailed, they sailed, as winds might blow, Until, at last, the blanched mate said, " Why now not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. The very winds forget their way. For God from these dread seas has gone. Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say — " He said: " Sail on, sail on, and on." They sailed, they sailed. Then spoke the mate: "This mad sea shows its teeth to-night, He curls his lip, he lies in wait. With lifted teeth, as if to bite. Brave Admiral, say but one good word. What shall we do when hope is gone?" The words leaped as a flaming sword, — "Sail on, sail on, sail on, and on." EDWARD ROWLAND SILL A PRAYER O God, our Father, if we had but truth! Lost truth — which Thou perchance Didst let man lose, lest all his wayward youth He waste in song and dance; 244 EDWARD ROWLAND SILL That he might gain, in searching, mightier powers For manlier use in those foreshadowed hours. If blindly groping, he shall oft mistake, And follow twinkling motes Thinking them stars, and the one voice forsake Of Wisdom for the notes Which mocking Beauty utters here and there, Thou surely wilt forgive him, and forbear! O love us, for we love Thee, Maker — God! And would creep near Thy hand, And call Thee, "Father, Father," from the sod Where by our graves we stand. And pray to touch, fearless of scorn or blame. Thy garment's hem, which Truth and Good we name. "QUEM METUI MORITURA ?" What need have I to fear — so soon to die ? Let me work on, not watch and wait in dread: What will it matter, when that I am dead. That they bore hate or love who near me lie ? 'Tis but a lifetime, and the end is nigh At best or worst. Let me lift up my head And firmly, as with inner courage, tread Mine own appointed way, on mandates high. 245 MINOT J. SAVAGE Pain could but bring, from all its evil store, The close of pain: hate's venom could but kill; Repulse, defeat, desertion, could no more. Let me have lived my life, not cowered until The unhindered and unhastened hour was here. So soon — what is there in the world to fear? MINOT J. SAVAGE MY BIRTH I had my birth where stars were born. In the dim aeons of the past: My cradle cosmic forces rocked, And to my first was linked my last. Through boundless space the shuttle flew, To weave the warp and woof of fate: In my begetting were conjoined The infinitely small and great. The outmost star on being's rim, The tiniest sand-grain of the earth, The farthest thrill and nearest stir Were not indifferent to my birth. And when at last the earth swung free, A little planet by the moon, For me the continent arose, For me the ocean roared its tune; 246 MINOT J. SAVAGE For me the forests grew; for me Th' electric force ran to and fro; For me tribes wandered o'er the earth, Kingdoms arose, and cities grew; For me religions waxed and waned; For me the ages garnered store; For me ships traversed every sea; For me the wise ones learned their lore; For me through fire and blood and tears, Man struggled onward up the height, On which, at last, from heaven falls An ever clearer, broader light. The child of all the ages, I, Nursed on th' exhaustless breasts of time; By heroes thrilled, by sages taught. Sung to by bards of every clime. Quintessence of the universe, Distilled at last from God's own heart, In me concentered now abides Of all that is the subtlest part. The produce of the ages past, Heir of the future then, am I: So much am I divine that God Cannot afford to let me die. 247 EDWARD DOWDEN If I should ever cease to be, The farthest star its mate would miss, And, looking after me, would fall Down headlong darkening to th' abyss. For, if aught real that is could cease, If the All-Father ever nods, That day across the heavens would fall Ragnarok, twilight of the gods. EDWARD DOWDEN SEEKING GOD {The Inner Life) I said, "I will find God," and forth I went To seek Him in the clearness of the sky, But over me stood unendurably Only a pitiless sapphire firmament Ringing the world, — ^blank splendour; yet intent Still to find God, "I will go seek,'-' said I, "His way upon the waters," and drew nigh An ocean marge weed-strewn and foam -besprent; And the waves dashed on idle sand and stone. And very vacant was the long, blue sea; But in the evening as I sat alone. My window open to the vanishing day, Dear God ! I could not choose but kneel and pray. And it sufficed that I was found of Thee. FREDERIC W. H. MYERS FREDERIC W. H. MYERS SUNRISE From above us and from under. In the ocean and the thunder, Thoti preludest to the wonder Of the Paradise to be: For a moment we may guess Thee From Thy creatures that confess Thee When the morn and even bless Thee, And Thy smile is on the sea. Then from something seen or heard, Whether forests softly stirred, Or the speaking of a word, Or the singing of a bird, Cares and sorrows cease. For a moment on the soul Falls the rest that maketh whole. Falls the endless peace. O the hush from earth's annoys! O the heavens, O the joys Such as priest and singing-boys Cannot sing or say! There is no more pain and crying, There is no more death and dying. As for sorrow and for sighing, — These shall flee away. 249 GERARD HOPKINS GERARD HOPKINS THE DEBT Thee, God, I come from, to Thee go, All day long I like fountain flow From Thy hand out, swayed about Mote-like in Thy mighty glow. What I know of Thee I bless, As acknowledging Thy stress On my being, and as seeing Something of Thy holiness. Once I turned from Thee and hid. Bound on what Thou hadst forbid; Sow the wind I would; I sinned: I repent of what I did. Bad I am, but yet Thy child. Father, be Thou reconciled. Spare Thou me, since I see With Thy might that Thou art mild. I have life left with me still And Thy purpose to fulfil; Yes, a debt to pay Thee yet: Help me. Sir, and so I will. 250 GERARD HOPKINS THE HABIT OF PERFECTION Elected Silence, sing to me And beat upon my whorled ear. Pipe me to pastures still, and be The music that I care to hear. Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb: It is the shut, the curfew sent From there where all surrenders come Which only makes you eloquent. Be shelled, eyes, with double dark And find the uncreated light; This ruck and reel which you remark Coils, keeps and teases simple sight. Palate, the hutch of tasty lust. Desire not to be rinsed with wine: The can must be so sweet, the crust So fresh that come in fasts divine! Nostrils, your careless breath that spend Upon the stir and keep of pride, What relish shall the censers send Along the sanctuary side! 251 GERARD HOPKINS O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet That want the yield of plushy sward, But you shall walk the golden street, And you unhouse and house the Lord. And, Poverty, be thou the bride And now the marriage feast begun, And lily-coloured clothes provide Your spouse, not laboured-at, nor spun. GOD'S GRANDEUR The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness like the ooze of oil Crushed. Why do men then now not reck His rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod; All is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil; And bears man's smudge, and shares man's smell; the soil Is bare now, nor can foot feel being shod. And for all this, nature is never spent; There lives the dearest freshness deep down things ; 252 ROBERT BRIDGES And though the last lights from the black west went, Oh, morning at the brown brink eastwards springs — Becavise the Holy Ghost over the bent World broods with warm breast, and with, ah, bright wings. ROBERT BRIDGES FORTITUDE Weep not to-day; why should this sadness bei Learn in present fears To o'ermaster those tears That unhindered conquer thee. Think on thy past valour, thy future praise; Up, sad heart, nor faint In ungracious complaint. Or a prayer for better days. Daily thy life shortens, the grave's dark peace Draweth surely nigh. When good-night is good-bye; For the sleeping shall not cease. Fight, to be found fighting: nor far away Deem, nor strange thy doom. Like this sorrow 'twill come, And the day will be to-day. 253 JOHN VANCE CHENEY JOHN VANCE CHENEY THE HAPPIEST HEART Who drives the horses of the sun Shall lord it but a day; Better the lowly deed were done, And kept the humble way. The rust will find the sword of fame, The dust will hide the crown; Ay, none shall nail so high his name Time will not tear it down. The happiest heart that ever beat Was in some qtaiet breast That found the common daylight sweet, And left to Heaven the rest. WILLIAM ERNEST HENLEY INVICTUS Out of the night that covers me. Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. 2 54 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON In the fell clutch of circuinstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate. How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON IF THIS WERE FAITH God, if this were enough, That I see things bare to the buff And up to the buttocks in mire; That I ask nor hope nor hire. Not in the husk. Nor dawn beyond the dusk. Nor life beyond death: God, if this were faith ? Having felt Thy wind in my face Spit sorrow and disgrace, 255 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Having seen Thine evil doom In Golgotha and Khartoum, And the brutes, the work of Thine hands, Fill with injustice lands And stain with blood the sea: If still in my veins the glee Of the black night and the sun And the lost battle, run: If, an adept, The iniquitous lists I still accept With joy, and joy to endure and be withstood, And still to battle and perish for a dream of good : God, if that were enough? If to feel, in the ink of the slough, And the sink of the mire, Veins of glory and fire Run through and transpierce and transpire. And a secret purpose of glory in every part, And the answering glory of battle fill my heart; To thrill with the joy of girded men To go on for ever and fail and go on again. And be mauled to the earth and arise. And contend for the shade of a word and a thing not seen with the eyes: With the half of a broken hope for a pillow at night That somehow the right is the right And the smooth shall bloom from the rough: Lord, if that were enough? 256 HERBERT E. CLARKE HERBERT E. CLARKE LIFE AND DEATH Hold not thy life too dear because of death; Why wilt thoti nought but labour all thy days ? Thou winnest, but shalt never wear the bays, Thou sowest and another gathereth The fruitage. Live thou then as one who saith: / wait a summons, and with prayer and praise And helpful kindness fills the time he stays, And unregretfuUy yields up his breath. Wilt thou pull down thy barns and greater build Because thy life's land laughs one golden sea, From East to West, from North to South fulfilled, With promise of harvest? Nay, for verily Dreaming thy dreams thou findest, stricken and chilled. Thou fool, even now, thy soul required of thee. II Because of death hold not thy life too cheap; Plan for the years — found broad and strong — aim high: Nobly to fail is more than victory Over unworthy foes: mourn not nor weep, One span of life thou hast 'twixt deep and deep. 257 ALICE MEYNELL Be all thy care to fill it gloriously: Live even as if thou knew'st thou couldst not die; This day is short — there will be years for sleep. Therefore work thou while it is called to-day, And let the night of the night's things take care. By those strong souls who leave our earth more fair With their strenuous service unto all for aye. I charge thee work, and let not Death dismay Nor the shadow of death, but greatly hope and dare. ALICE MEYNELL MEDITATION Rorate Casli desuper, et ntibcs pliiant Jiistum. Aperiatur Terra, ei germinet Salvatorem. No sudden thing of glory and fear Was the Lord's coming; but the dear Slow Nature's days followed each other To form the Saviour from His Mother — One of the children of the year. The earth, the rain, received the trust, — The sun and dews, to frame the Just. 258 ALICE MEYNELL He drew His daily life from these, According to His own decrees Who makes man from the fertile dust. Sweet summer and the winter wild, These brought Him forth, the Undefiled. The happy Springs renewed again His daily bread, the growing grain, The food and raiment of the Child. "I AM THE WAY" Thou art the Way. Hadst Thou been nothing but the goal, I cannot say If Thou hadst ever met my soul. I cannot see — I, child of process — if there lies An end for me, Full of repose, full of replies. I'll not reproach The way that goes, my feet that stir. Access, approach. Art Thou, time, way, and wayfarer. 2 59 R. D. B. "WHY WILT THOU CHIDE?" Why wilt thou chide, Who hast attained to be denied? Oh learn, above All price is my refusal, Love. My sacred Nay Was never cheapened by the way. Thy single sorrow crowns thee lord Of an unptirchaseable word. Oh strong, Oh pure! As Yea makes happier loves secure, I vow thee this Unique rejection of a kiss. I guard for thee This jealous, sad monopoly. I seal this honour thine. None dare Hope for a part in thy despair. R. D. B. DOMINUS ILLUMINATIO MEA In the hour of death, after this life's whim. When the heart beats low, and the eyes grow dim, And pain has exhausted every limb — The lover of the Lord shall trust in Him. 260 WILLIAM WATSON When the will has forgotten the lifelong aim, And the mind can only disgrace its fame, And a man is uncertain of his own name — The power of the Lord shall fill this frame. When the last sigh is heaved, and the last tear shed, And the coffin is waiting beside the bed. And the widow and child forsake the dead — The angel of the Lord shall lift this head. For even the purest delight may pall, The power must fail, and the pride must fall, And the love of the dearest friends grow small — But the glory of the Lord is all in all. WILLIAM WATSON THE MYSTIC BURDEN 'Tis from those moods in which Life stands With feet earth-planted, yet with hands Stretched toward visionary lands. Where vapours lift A moment, and aerial strands Gleam through the rift, 261 WILLIAM WATSON The poet wins, in hours benign, At older than the Delphic shrine, Those intimations faint and fine To which belongs Whatever character divine Invests his songs. And could we live more near allied To cloud and mountain, wind and tide. Cast this unmeaning coil aside, And go forth free. The World our goal. Desire our guide, — We then might see Those master moments grow less rare. And oftener feel that nameless air Come rumouring from we know not where; And touch at whiles Fantastic shores, the fringes fair Of fairy isles. And hail the mystic bird that brings News from the inner courts of things, The eternal courier-dove whose wings Are never furled; And hear the bubbling of the springs That feed the world. 262 H. C. BEECHING H. C. BEECHING PRAYERS I God Who created me Nimble and light of limb, In three elements free, To run, to ride, to swim: Not when the sense is dim, But now from the heart of joy, I would remember Him: Take the thanks of a boy. Jesu, King and Lord, Whose are my foes to fight. Gird me with Thy sword. Swift and sharp and bright. Thee would I serve if I might; And conquer if I can, From day-dawn till night. Take the strength of a man. Spirit of Love and Truth, Breathing in grosser clay, The light and flame of youth, Delight of men in the fray, 263 FRANCIS THOMPSON Wisdom in strength's decay; From pain, strife, wrong to be free ? This best gift I pray, Take my spirit to Thee. FRANCIS THOMPSON THE HOUND OF HEAVEN I fled Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears I hid from Him, and under running laugh- ter. Up vistaed hopes I sped; And shot, precipitated Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears. From those strong Feet that followed, followed after. But with unhurrying chase. And unperturbed pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, They beat — and a Voice beat More instant than the Feet— "All things betray thee, who betrayest Me." 264 FRANCIS THOMPSON I pleaded, outlaw-wise, By many a hearted casement, curtained red, Trellised with intertwining charities; (For, though I knew His love Who followed. Yet was I sore adr^ad Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside) But, if one little casement parted wide, The gust of His approach would clash it to. Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pur- sue. Across the margent of the world I fled. And troubled the gold gateways of the stars, Smiting for shelter on their clanged bars; Fretted to dulcet jars And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon. I said to dawn: Be sudden — to eve: Be soon; With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over From this tremendous Lover! Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see! I tempted all His servitors, but to find My own betrayal in their constancy. In faith to Him their fickleness to me, Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit. To all swift things for swiftness did I sue; Clung to the whistling mane of every wind. But whether they swept, smoothly fleet, The long savannahs of the blue; Or whether, thunder-driven. They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven, 265 FRANCIS THOMPSON Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet: — Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pur- sue. Still with unhurrying chase, And unperturbed pace, Deliberate speed, majestic instancy, Came on the following Feet, And a Voice above their beat — "Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me." I sought no more that after which I strayed, In face of man or maid; But still within the little children's eyes Seems something, something that replies, They at least are for me, surely for me! I turned me to them very wistfully; But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair With dawning answers there. Their angel plucked them from me by the hair. "Come then, ye other children. Nature's — share With me" (said I) "your delicate fellowship; Let me greet you lip to lip. Let me twine with you caresses. Wantoning With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses Banqueting 266 FRANCIS THOMPSON With her in her wind-walled palace, Underneath her azured dais, Quaffing, as your taintless way is, From a chalice Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring." So it was done: / in their delicate fellowship was one — Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies. I knew all the swift importings On the wilful face of skies; I knew how the clouds arise Spumed of the wild sea-snortings ; All that's bom or dies Rose and drooped with — made them shapers Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine — With them joyed and was bereaven. I was heavy with the even When she lit her glimmering tapers Round the day's dead sanctities. I laughed in the morning's eyes. I triumphed and I saddened with all weather. Heaven and I wept together, And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine; Against the red throb of its sunset-heart I laid my own to beat. And share commingling heat; But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart. 267 FRANCIS THOMPSON In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek. For ah! we know not what each other says, These things and I; in sound / speak — Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences. Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth; Let her, if she would owe me. Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me The breasts o' her tenderness: Never did any milk of hers once bless My thirsting mouth. Nigh and nigh draws the chase, With unperturbed pace. Deliberate speed, majestic instanc3% And past those noised Feet A Voice comes yet more fleet — - "Lo! naught contents thee, who content 'st not Me." Naked I wait Thy love's uplifted stroke! My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me. And smitten me to my knee; I am defenceless utterly. I slept, methinks, and woke. And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep. In the rash lustihead of my young powers, I shook the pillaring hours FRANCIS THOMPSON And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears, I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years — My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap. My days have crackled and gone up in smoke, Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream. Yea, faileth now even dream The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist; Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist, Are yielding; cords of all too weak account For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed. Ah! is Thy love indeed A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed. Suffering no flowers except its own to mount? Ah ! must — Designer infinite!— Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou canst limn with it? My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust; And now my heart is as a broken fount. Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever From the dank thoughts that shiver Upon the sighful branches of my mind. Such is; what is to be? The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind ? I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds; Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds From the hid battlements of Eternity, 269 FRANCIS THOMPSON Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then Round the half -glimpsed turrets slowly wash again ; But not ere him who summoneth I first have seen, enwound With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned; His name I know, and what his trumpet saith. Whether man's heart or life it be which yields Thee harvest, must Thy harvest fields Be dunged with rotten death? Now of that long pursuit Comes on at hand the bruit; That Voice is round me like a bursting sea: "And is thy earth so marred Shattered in shard on shard? Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me! "Strange, piteous, futile thing! Wherefore should any set thee love apart? Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said), "And human love needs human meriting: How hast thou merited — Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot? Alack, thou knowest not How little worthy of any love thou art! Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee, Save Me, save only Me? 270 FRANCIS THOMPSON All which I took from thee I did but take, Not for thy harms, But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms. All which thy child's mistake Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home: Rise, clasp My hand, and come." Halts by me that footfall : Is my gloom, after all. Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly? "Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest, I am He Whom thou seekest! Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me!" IN NO STRANGE LAND "The Kingdom of God is ivithin you" O world invisible, we view thee, O world intangible, we touch thee, O world unknowable, we know thee, Inapprehensible, we clutch thee! Does the fish soar to find the ocean, The eagle plunge to find the air. That we ask of the stars in motion If they have rumour of thee there? 271 LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY Not where the wheeHng systems darken, And our benumbed conceiving soars; The drift of pinions would we hearken, Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. The angels keep their ancient places; — Turn btit a stone, and start a wing! 'Tis ye, 'tis your estranged faces. That miss the many-splendoured thing. But (when so sad thou canst not sadder), Cry: — and upon thy so sore loss Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder Pitched between heaven and Charing Cross. Yea, in the night, my soul, my daughter. Cry, — clinging heaven by the hems; And lo! Christ walking on the water Not of Genesareth, but Thames. LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY THE KINGS A man said unto his Angel: "My spirits are fallen low. And I cannot carry this battle: O, brother, where might I go ? 272 LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY "The terrible kings are on me With spears that are deadly bright; Against me so from the cradle Do fate and my fathers fight." Then said to the man his Angel: "Thou wavering, witless soul, Back to the ranks! What matter To win or to lose the whole, — "As judged by the little judges Who hearken not well nor see ? Not thus, by the outer issue. The Wise shall interpret thee. "Thy will is the sovereign measure And only event of things: The puniest heart, defying, Were stronger than all these kings. "Though out of the past they gather Mind's Doubt and Bodily Pain And pallid Thirst of the Spirit That is kin to the other twain, "And Grief, in a cloud of banners And ringleted Vain Desires, And Vice, with the spoils upon him Of thee, and thy beaten sires, — 273 LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY "While Kings of eternal evil Yet darken the hills about, Thy part is with broken sabre To rise, on the last redoubt; "To fear not sensible failure, Nor covet the game at all, But fighting, fighting, fighting, Die, driven against the wall." DEO OPTIMO MAXIMO All else for use. One only for desire; Thanksgiving for the good, but thirst for Thee: Up from the best, whereof no man need tire, Impel Thou me. Delight is menace if Thou brood not by, Power a quicksand, Fame a gathering jeer. Oft as the morn (though none of earth deny These three are dear), Wash me of them, that I may be renewed. And wander free amid my freeborn joys: Oh, close my hand upon Beatitude! Not on her toys. 274 LIONEL JOHNSON LIONEL JOHNSON THE PRECEPT OF SILENCE I know you: solitary griefs, Desolate passions, aching hours! I know you: tremulous beliefs. Agonized hopes, and ashen flowers! The winds are sometimes sad to me; The starry spaces, full of fear: Mine is the sorrow on the sea. And mine the sigh of places drear. Some players upon plaintive strings Publish their wistfulness abroad: I have not spoken of these things, Save to one man, and unto God. MY OWN FATE Each in his proper gloom; Each in his dark, just place: The builders of their doom Hide, each his awful face. Not less than saints, are they Heirs of Eternity: 275 LIONEL JOHNSON Perfect, their dreadful way; A deathless company. Lost! lost! fallen and lost! With fierce wrath ever fresh: Each suffers in the ghost The sorrows of the flesh. O miracle of sin! That makes itself an home, So utter black within, Thither Light cannot come! O mighty house of hate! Stablished and guarded so, Love cannot pass the gate, Even to dull its woe! Now, Christ compassionate! Now, bruise me with thy rod: Lest I be mine own fate, And kill the Love of God. A BURDEN OF EASTER VIGIL Awhile meet Doubt and Faith; For either sigheth and saith, That He is dead To-day: the linen cloths cover His head, That hath, at last, whereon to rest; a rocky bed. 276 A. E. Come! for the pangs are done, That overcast the sun, So bright to-day! And moved the Roman soldier: come away! Hath sorrow more to weep? Hath pity more to say? Why wilt thou linger yet? Think on dark Olivet; On Calvary stem: Think, from the happy birth at Bethlehem, To this last woe and passion at Jerusalem! This only can be said: He loved us all; is dead; May rise again. But if He rise notf Over the far main, The sun of glory falls indeed: the stars are plain. A. E. IMMORTALITY We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit's fire; For we can no more than smoke unto the flame return, If our thought has changed to dream, our will unto desire. As smoke we vanish though the fire may bum. 277 A. E. Lights of infinite pity star the grey dusk of our days : Surely here is soul: with it we have eternal breath : In the fire of love we live, or pass by many ways, By unnumbered ways of dream to death. ANSWER The warmth of life is quenched with bitter frost; Upon a lonely road a child limps by Skirting the frozen pools: our way is lost: Our hearts sink utterly. But from the snow-patched moorland chill and drear, Lifting our eyes beyond the spired height, With white - fire lips apart the dawn breathes clear Its soundless hymn of light. Out of the vast the voice of one replies Whose words are clouds and stars and night and day, When for the light the anguished spirit cries Deep in its house of clay. 278 A. E. RECONCILIATION I begin through the grass once again to be bound to the Lord; I can see, through a face that has faded, the face full of rest Of the Earth, of the Mother, my heart with her heart in accord, As I lie 'mid the cool green tresses that mantle her breast I begin with the grass once again to be bound to the Lord. By the hand of a child I am led to the throne of the King For a touch that now fevers me not is forgotten and far. And His infinite sceptred hands that sway us can bring Me in dreams from the laugh of a child to the song of a star. On the laugh of a child I am borne to the joy of the King. 279 PHILIP HENRY SAVAGE PHILIP HE.WKY SAVAGE INFINITY I dare not think that Thou art by, to stand And face omnipotence so near at hand! When I consider Thee, how must I shrink; How must I say, I do not understand, I dare not think! I cannot stand before the thought of Thee, Infinite Fulness of Eternity! So close that all the outlines of the land Are lost, — in the inflowing of Thy sea I cannot stand. I think of Thee, and as the crystal bowl Is broken, and the waters of the soul Go down to death within the crystal sea, I faint and fail when (Thou the perfect whole) I think of Thee. ANNE REEVE ALDRICH DEATH AT DAYBREAK I shall go out when the light comes in — There lie my cast-off form and face; I shall pass Dawn on her way to earth, As I seek for a path through space. FREDERICK HERBERT TRENCH I shall go out when the light comes in; Would I might take one ray with me! It is blackest night between the worlds, And how is a soul to see? FREDERICK HERBERT TRENCH A CHARGE If thou hast squander'd years to grave a gem Commission'd by thy absent Lord, and while 'Tis incomplete, Others will bribe thy needy skill to them — Dismiss them to the street! Shouldst thou at last discover Beauty's grove. At last be panting on the fragrant verge, But in the track. Drunk with divine possession, thou meet Love — Turn, at her bidding, back. When round thy ship in tempest Hell appears, And every spectre mutters up more dire To snatch control And loose to madness thy deep-kennell'd Fears — Then, to the helm, O Soul! 281 FREDERICK HERBERT TRENCH Last: if upon the cold green-mantling sea Thou cling, alone with Truth, to the last spar, Both castaway And one must perish — let it not be he Whom thou art sworn to obey! NOTES Page T. — Mary at the Cross. The spelling of the original manuscript was unsuited to this volume. The text as it is given here was taken from the Percy Society publications and amended by Dr. George Macdonald's version in " England's Antiphon." Thole = hear; byhet ^= toretold; what shal me to retfe = what counsel shall I follow; teres werne ■= turn aside; byswongen = lashed; maiden man = womankind; mon is here used in its generic sense; grede = cry; of sunnes lisse = for sin's release. Page 4. — / syke when I sing. To be found in the publi- cations of the Percy Society, reprinted with in- teresting comment in " England's Antiphon." For, fete = yield up; wtete = suitably; 60 = both; ble = colour; bio = pale; lemmon = love; wyke = weep; wood = ma,A.. Page 7. — Winter Song. This lyric testifies how ancient is the poet's sense of the sorrow of niutability. From time immemorial the poets have grieved that, "Now hit is ant now hit nys," and "Alle we shal dye thah us like ylle." The poem seems to me to have the very golden cadence of the per- fect lyric, and to be as exquisite in its way as Shelley's Mutability or Wordsworth's "She dwelt among the untrodden ways." Nys is a delightful word for non-existent; As hit net nere ywys = as though it never had been. 283 NOTES Page 21. — Easter. No. 68 of the Amoretti. Page 21. — Time's Gifts. These lines were written by Sir Walter Raleigh in prison the night before his exe- cution. They have a twofold interest: the sum- ming -jp of the gifts of time as earth and dust by one of the most richly endowed natures, one of the boldest and most adventurous spirits of the robust English Renaissance; and the expression of a living trust in a further life of greater compensations. Page 22. — Pilgrimage. One of the few poems in this volume I have taken the liberty of cutting. Page 23. — In Desolation. There is both the strength and the sweetness of resignation in this poem. It ex- presses the true mystic's sense of our fragmentary human outlook and uncertain sense of values, as well as his willingness to forego even religious peace if desolation be the basis whence solid virtues spring. The lines reminding us that God has given us nights as well as days, and that grace oftenest visits us clad in dusky robes are of surpassing love- liness. The whole poem, in its poignant emotion and beauty of expression, is comparable to The Collar, by George Herbert. Page 28. — Sonnet. Consciously or unconsciously this strik- ing first line must have inspired Drummond's "O leave that love that reaches but to dust" in Song II. Page 32. — The Waste of Shame. The sonnet shows profound insight if not the mystic vision. It is, at any rate, a sincere facing of facts, and to face facts boldly and react upon them nobly is the very essence of modem religion. Page 32. — The Remedy. The repetition of "My sinful earth" in the second line is copied from the original edition of the sonnets, although it is undoubtedly a 284 NOTES printer's error. It is tantalizing that while we may be able to conjecture what song the syrens sang we can never supply here the completion of Shakespeare's tragic thought. Page 36. — John Donne. It will repay any one interested in religious poetry to own the poems of John Donne if only for the one piece — The Second Anniversary from the Anatomy of the World. The poet is repre- sented here somewhat inadequately, for he plays as important a part as Herbert, Vaughan, Crashaw, and Traheme in our most conspicuous group of English religious poets. Page 40. — William Drummond of Hawthomden is one of the most philosophical and mystical of the poets of this century. He was concerned all his life to effect a marriage between Christian doctrine and Neoplatonic philosophy. Canon Beeching speaks of his religious poems as "more picturesque than devotional," but this judgment can only be ac- cepted by those who feel that religion is, in its essence, at odds with philosophy instead of another face of the same shield. Drummond was a royalist and a churchman through all the disturbances of the Covenanters, but held throughout firmly to the philosopher's temper and the aristocrat's freedom of thought and utterance. Without being a plagiarist he is often reminiscent of his English forerunners, while many of his sonnets and madri- gals are mere adaptations from Petrarch, Marino, Tasso, Guarini, and others. Page so. — A Divine Rapture. Several stanzas are omitted. Page 53. — Easter. There are two distinct versions of this poem. I have culled the better stanza from each. Page S3. — The Collar. Dr. George Macdonald says of this poem: "It is . . . an instance of wonderful art in construction, all the force of the germinal 28s NOTES thought kept in reserve to burst forth at the last." It is a beautiful expression of an experience known to all who have lived in any large communion that lifts us apart from and beyond ourselves. Page 59. — Man. The stately habitations of this poem per- haps inspired Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes's best- known stanza: "Build thee more stately man- sions, O, my soul." Stevenson, too, may have had it in mind when he wrote: "My body that my dungeon is And yet my parks and palaces." That the poem was familiar to him may be de- rived from the likeness of his poem on A Camp to stanza six. Page 64. — Urbs Beata Hierusalem. The extraordinary pic- torial value of this poem and its quaint and glow- ing fancy are enhanced by the romantic tradition that it was written by an obscure prisoner in the tower — one Francis Baker. A new poignancy is given by the knowledge of the writer's immediate environment, not only to the lovely descriptions but to the lines in which he mentions those things which are never to be found in the Holy City. The hymnals and anthologies have unanimously con- curred in omitting the most interesting and charm- ing stanzas, so that it is a matter of difficulty to come at a complete version. I have followed the most authoritative text of the poem, printed at the end of a longer poem, entitled, Mary, the Mother of Christ, 1 60 1. Page 68. — Though Late, my Heart. From Davison's Poetical Rhapsody, 1602, reprinted by N. W. Nichols, 1826, and by Bullen, 1870. Page 70. — The Heart's Chambers. From John Danyel's "Songs for the Lute, Viol and Voice," about 1600. 286 NOTES Page 71. — A Heavenlie Visitor. From Bullen's "More Lyrics from Elizabethan Song-Books." Reprinted there from a Christ Church manuscript. Page 72. — Milton. For the somewhat fantastic spelling here, the persistent theorist and schoolmaster in Milton is solely accountable. It has, however, the merit of indicating the precise scansion and cadence of his verse so long misunderstood. Page 108. — Thomas Traherne. The romantic tale of the dis- covery of a manuscript book of Traherne's poems by Mr. Bertram Dobell, after they had lain hid for more than two centuries, is now too well known to repeat. For those, however, who are unfamiliar with Mr. Dobell's critical introduction to the poems it may be interesting to point out how re- markably Traherne forecasts Wordsworth's Ode on Some Intimations of Immortality, and how he is often like in form as well as in blithe acceptance of man and the world to our own Walt Whitman. Page 108. — Wonder. "The com was orient and immortal wheat, which never should be reaped nor was ever sown. I thought it had stood from everlasting to everlasting. The dust and stones of the street were as precious as gold, the gates were at first the end of the world. The green trees when I saw them first through one of the gates transported and ravished me, their sweetness and unusual beauty made my heart to leap and almost mad with ecstasy, they were such strange and won- derful things. The men! O, what venerable and reverend creatures did the aged seem! Im- mortal cherubims! And young men glittering and sparkling angels, and maids strange, seraphic pieces of life and beauty. Boys and girls tumbling in the streets and playing were moving jewels. I knew not that they were born or should die. But all things abided eternally as they were in their proper places. Eternity was manifest in the 287 NOTES light of the day and something infinite behind everything appeared, which talked with my ex- pectation and moved my desire. The city seemed to stand in Eden and to be built in Heaven. The streets were, mine, the temple was mine, the people were mine, their clothes and gold and silver were mine, as much as their sparkling eyes, fair skins, and ruddy faces. The skies were mine and so were the sun and moon and stars and all the world was mine; and I the only spectator and enjoyer of it." — Centuries oj Meditations. By Thomas Traherne. Century II., If 3. Page 123. — The soul wherein God dwells. I first ran across this little poem in the personal note-book of Miss Irene K. Leache, of Virginia. After giving it a tentative date, diligent search failed to dis- cover the authorship. A decade and a half later I fell quite by chance upon a copy of the" Cherti- binisclter W andersmann ," by Johann Scheffler, that early seventeenth-century mystic who renounced a high place at court, and, under the name of Angelus Silesius, wandered through the country meditating, exhorting, and earning his living by the sale of dice, rosaries, playing-cards, and prayer- books. In the detached quatrains of the " Cherubic Wanderer" I recognized the stanzas of this little poem, though I am still ignorant as to who com- bined these particular lines or made the translation. Page 125. — The Keys of the Gates. This poem goes with Blake's striking designs. The poem and the seventeen beautiful pictures make, as Allan Cun- ningham says, "a sort of devout dream equally wild and lovely." Even without the accompany- ing drawings one may delight in the mystic pantheism of the poem. Page 149. — Thanatopsis The entirely conventional and hor- tatory tone of this poem makes a striking and interesting contrast to the last lines of Shelley's NOTES Epilogue. Conventional and soothing exhorta- tions have their own place in poetry. Bryant reads like a remnant of the early eighteenth cen- tury while Shelley strikes the note of liberty, re- volt, and reconstruction so characteristic of the revolutionary end of the eighteenth century with its touching faith in the perfectibility of man, or of the nineteenth century with its bold iconoclasm and challenge to authority. Page 204. — TJu- Prisoner. The close of a long poem. Page 206. — The Search. "La colombe demande un petit nid bien clos; le cadavre un tombe ; Tame le paradis." Page 215. — Rest. Part IV of Rest in "Organ Songs." Page 216. — .4 Christinas Carol. This and the following little song seem to have recaptured something of the sweetness and simplicity of the very earliest lyrics. Page 217. — That Holy Thing. The idea that the birth of our Lord made a woman cry is against all tradition. The Second Eve, being free from the stain of original sin, is supposed to have brought forth her Son without travail and without pain. Page 231. — Sleeping at Last. These were the poet's last lines, and therefore interesting to compare with Lord Tennyson's Silent Voices and the Epilogue of Rob- ert Browning, one of his last and most character- istic utterances. Page 260. — This poem is said to be by R. D. Blackmore, the author of Lorna Doone, although he never ac- knowledged the authorship. Page 261. — From the poem entitled " To H. D. Traill." Page 271. — In No Strange Land. In the " Selected Poems" of Francis Thompson, Mr. Wilfred Meynell appends 589 NOTES the following note: "This poem (found among his papers when he died) Francis Thompson might yet have worked upon to remove, here a defective rhyme, there an unexpected elision. But no al- tered mind would he have brought to the purport of it; and the prevision of 'Heaven in Earth and God in Man' pervading his earlier published verse, we find here accented by poignantly local and per- sonal allusions. For in these triumphing stanzas we hold in retrospect, as did he, those days and nights of hu:nan dereliction he spent beside London's river, and in the shadow — but all ra- diance to him — of Charing Cross." The acute accent, to mark a sounded syllable, used necessarily in the early English poetry, has been retained throughout in the interests of uniformity. Certain idiosyncrasies of capitalization and spelling in the later poets were retained out of respect for individual prcferetice. INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE A man said unto his Angel 272 Abowt the fyld thei pyped full right 9 Ah, God, alas 212 All are not taken; there are left behind 171 All else for use, One only for desire 274 As fair ideas from the sky 113 As I came by the way 14 As I in hoary Winter's night stood shivering in the snowe 29 At the midnight in the silence of the sleep-time . . . 175 Awake, my soul, and come away 82 Awhile meet Doubt and Faith 276 Babe Jesus lay in Mary's lap 216 Behind him lay the great Azores 243 Behold a sely, tender Babe 30 Brave flowers — that I could gallant it like you ... 47 By day she woos me, soft, exceeding fair 230 Can I see another's woe 131 Chanting the square deific, out of the One advancing, out of the sides 195 Christ keep us all, as He well can 12 Come, lovely and soothing Death 192 Creator Spirit, by Whose aid 106 Daughters of Time, the hypocritic Days 158 Death, be not proud, though some have called thee . 37 Death is here and death is there 147 Deer God, If Thy smart Rod 42 Does the road wind up-hill all the way 229 Drop, drop, slow tears 40 291 INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE Each in his proper gloom . 275 Elected Silence, sing to me 251 Even such is Time, that takes in trust 21 Ev'n like two little bank-dividing brooks 50 Fair maiden, who is this bairn ii False world, thou ly'st: thou canst not lend .... 48 Far have I clamb'red in my mind 88 "Father to me Thou art, and Mother dear" .... 144 Fear death — to feel the fog in my throat 174 Foil'd by our fellowmen, depress'd, outworn . . . . 210 For giving me desire 116 From above us and from under 249 From child to youth; from youth to arduous man . . 227 From twig to twig the spider weaves 222 Full of rebellion, I would die 63 Give me my scallop-shell of Quiet 22 Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song . . . 163 Go, Soul, the body's guest 23 God, if this were enough 255 God Who created me 263 Grow old along with me 176 Happy those early days, when I 94 Here a little child I stand 46 Kevins, distil your balmy shouris 18 Hierusalem, my happy home 64 Hold not thy life too dear because of death 257 How happy is he born and taught 35 How like an Angel came I down 108 How long, great God, how long must I 121 I am that which began 232 I begin through the grass once again to be bound to the Lord 279 I cannot reach it; and my striving eye gi I dare not think that thou art by, to stand 280 I fled Him, down the nights and down the days . . . 264 I give you the end of a golden string 127 I got me flowers to straw thy way S3 292 INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE I had my birth where stars were bom 246 I heard a thousand blended notes 133 I know you: solitary griefs 27s I said "I will find God," and forth I went 248 I saw Eternity the other night 97 I say to thee, do thou repeat 159 I shall go out when the light comes in 280 I sing of a maiden 10 I struck the board and cry'd "No more ...... 53 I syke when I sing 4 I wait and watch: before my eyes 167 I walk'd the other day, to spend my hour 102 I was angry with my friend 130 If I could shut the gate against my thoughts .... 70 If only once the chariot of the mom 161 If the red slayer think he slays 157 If thou could'st empty all thy self of self 232 If thou hast squander'd years to grave a gem .... 281 If with such passing beauty, choice delights 41 In Spring the green leaves shoot 206 In strenuous hope I wrought 215 In the hour of death, after this life's whim 260 In the houre of my distresse 43 In what tome ship soever I embark 38 Is this a Fast, to keep 46 It was the Winter wilde 72 Jesu, Lord, that madist me 16 Last night returning from my twilight walk 220 Leave me, O Love, which reachest but to dust .... 28 Little Lamb, who made thee 128 Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man ... .207 Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been . . . 227 Lord, in my silence how do I despise 62 Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back ... S7 Men the Angels eyed 218 Most glorious Lord of lyfe, that on this day 21 Mutual Forgiveness of each Vice 125 My God, I heard this day 59 293 INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE My God, I love the world 190 My heart leaps up when I behold 132 My little Son, who look'd from thoughtful eyes. . . . 211 My soul doth pant towards Thee 81 My soul, sit thou a patient looker on 48 My soul, there is a country 93 My spirit longeth for thee 124 No coward soul is mine 202 No sudden thing of glory and fear 258 Not Thou from us, O Lord, but we 160 O God, our Father, if we had but truth 244 O may I join the choir invisible 200 O Thou, Who sweetly bend'st my stubborn will ... 26 O, world invisible, we view thee 271 Of all the thoughts of God that are 172 Of on that is so fayr and bright 7 On a starred night Prince Lucifir uprose 220 Out of the night that covers me 254 Passing away, saith the world, passing away . . 228 Poore soule, the center of my sinful! earth ... 32 Rorate coeli desuper 18 Seek no more abroad, say I 90 Sleeping at last, the trouble and tumult over . . . 231 Soul, which to hell wast thrall 40 Stem Daughter of the Voice of God 134 Still, let my tyrants know, I am not doomed to wear . 204 Stond well, mother, under rood i Strong Son of God, immortal Love 163 Sunset and evening star 166 Teach me, my God and King 5S That childish thoughts such Joys inspire in The bliss of other men is my delight iig The Catterpiller on the Leaf 125 The day is over 187 Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame 32 294 INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE The lost days of my life until to-day 226 The man of life upright 34 The senses loving Earth or well or ill 219 The soul wherein God dwells 123 The Sphinx is drowsy 152 The warmth of life is quenched with bitter frost .... 278 The world is rharged with the grandeur of God .... 252 Thee, God, I come from, to Thee go 250 There was a time when meadow, grove and stream. . 136 They all were looking for a king 217 They are all gone into the world of light 104 This is the day, which down the void abysm . . . . 148 This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign 169 This night there is a child bom 13 Thou art the Way 259 Thou, who dost dwell alone 208 Though late, my heart, yet turn at last 68 Though to the vilest things beneath the moon .... 200 Thought of the Infinite — the All 194 Through that pure virgin shrine ... 95 Through Thy clear spaces. Lord, of old . . ... 168 Throw away Thy rod ... 56 'Tis but a foyl at best, and that's the most . ... 52 'Tis from those moods in which Life stands 261 'Tis of the Father Hilary 224 To him who in the love of Nature holds 149 Too long I follow'd have my fond desire 41 'Twas August, and the fierce sun overhead 206 Tyger! Tyger! burning bright 129 View me, Lord, a work of Thine 33 We must pass like smoke or live within the spirit's fire . 277 Weep not to-day: why should this sadness be . . . . 253 Weighing the steadfastness and state 100 Well-meaning readers! you that come as friends ... 84 What God gives, and what we take 45 What is the sorriest thing that enters Hell 225 What need have I to fear— so soon to die ? 245 What power is this? What witchery wins my feet . . 242 When God at first made man 55 295 INDEX OF FIRST LINES PAGE When the dumb hour, clothed in black 165 When the enemy is near thee igo When we have thrown off this old suit 221 Who drives the horses of the sun 254 Who dwelleth in that secret place 215 Who feels not, when the Spring once more 185 Why wilt Thou chide 260 Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun 36 Wynter wakeneth at my care 7 Yet if His Majesty our sovereign lord ... ... 71 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. URL RENEWAL M]v 2 9 1968 '=»» Mf OEC ,-UV^^ ^1 1969 )rm L9-32m-8,'57(,C8680s4)444 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 296 737 o