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 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 

 
 PAROCHIAL SKETCHES. 
 
 m VEESE.
 
 PAROCHIAL SKETCHES. 
 
 IN VERSE. 
 
 BY THE REV. 
 
 EOBEET WILSON EVANS, B.D. 
 
 \ICAR OF HEVEKSIiAM, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " THE RECTORY OF VALEHEAD," 
 
 AKD " THE BISHOPRIC OF SOULS." 
 
 Hevtrstam Gburch, from the South East. 
 
 FRANCIS & JOHN RIVINGTON, 
 
 ST. PAUL'S CHURCH YARD, AND WATERLOO PLACE. 
 
 1850.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Some suggestions prompted the author of this 
 work to pursue a train which he had begun in 
 the several introductions to the chapters of his 
 " Ministry of the Body," and so to put together 
 a series of passages, which should illustrate facts 
 or scenes as they occurred in his ministerial 
 course, expressing the religious meditation or 
 devotional feeling which naturally arose out of 
 them. He discovered, however, that for a con- 
 tinuous work of this kind simple prose did not 
 afford a suitable vehicle. Rhythmical prose 
 seemed capable of affording a far more adequate 
 expression, through its regular structure of 
 sentences, and ornate diction. But this form 
 does not appear to have caught the popular ear, 
 which has been as little directed to find its 
 
 a
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 cadence in the Bible, as accustomed to be satis- 
 fied with a diction, which, if it be not too florid 
 for its taste in prose, is far too severe for its 
 notions in poetry. Verse then presented itself, 
 and if the author had written half a century 
 ago, would have been exhibited in the blank 
 form, adapted to Didactic Poetry. But inas- 
 much as his plan was to arrange the subject of 
 each piece under one leading idea, and thus he 
 found that ho would in fact be writing sonnets 
 in prose, he was led to adopt a form, which had 
 the double advantage of the continuousness of 
 Stanzaic arrangement, and of the essential inde- 
 pendence of the Sonnet. 
 
 In order however to ensure all the advantage 
 of the Sonnet, it appeared quite necessary to 
 adopt the rules of the pure Italian model, which 
 Imve therefore been carefully observed, always 
 as to the recurrence of the rhyme, and all but 
 always as to the arrangement of the pauses.
 
 » 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 2'>, line 5, fur shrisks of fear /-cad watchings drear 
 
 22, — 14, for wave read pave 
 
 _ 78_ _ 11, /oj- in strands remote ri-ad by fateful shower 
 _ i()5_ _ 14, /o)- things read throngs 
 
 — 183, — 3, fur stream read sheen 
 
 — 25S», — 4, /o;- labour renr/ tabour
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 No. Page 
 
 I. The Morning 3 
 
 II. The Starting on the Round 21 
 
 III. The Visits in the Morning 37 
 
 IV. The Visits in the Afternoon 73 
 
 V. Evening, after Visiting 97 
 
 VI. The Lecture Night 115 
 
 VII. The Preparation of the Sermon .... 143 
 
 VIII. Sunday 167 
 
 IX. The Service 187 
 
 X. Anniversaries and Seasons 215 
 
 XI. The Holiday 223 
 
 XII. The Banks of Kent 241 
 
 XIII. Conclusion 255
 
 Vie'w from Heversham Vicarage. 
 
 €\\i Blnrning.
 
 I. THE MORNING. 
 I. Inbocation. 
 
 - Captain at God's right hand, dost thou not shine 
 Thence upon ours, in heavenly panoply steelM, 
 As thou didst help thy Stephen, and there wield 
 Thy sword's bright gyre, and lance's dazzling line? 
 May I not deem these aching knees of mine 
 Sore from the chafing 'gainst thy gold-rimm'd 
 
 shield, 
 As I clung to thee through the battle-field, 
 And press'd my steps unequally with thine ? 
 And while life glooms in front, may I not hope 
 That sights, on which I cannot look and live, 
 Are hid behind its broad o'ershadowing cope : 
 That Hell stands ranged in front, and thou dost 
 
 rive 
 Their serried ranks, and through their clefts I 
 My way to victory, and think I strive? [grope 
 
 B
 
 THE MORNING. 
 
 II. 
 
 Kent's briny tide, and Bela's stainless stream 
 Mark out for me with glittering lines the ground 
 O'er wliich I daily press my priestly round, 
 And gather noontide's blaze to evening's gleam. 
 Fresh with the fresh-blown flowers my duties 
 
 teem. 
 Nor casts my heart one longing o'er the bound. 
 Nor cares my ear to catch one outward sound ; 
 Life stirs within : without is idle dream. 
 If news of London's mart, or Granta's lore 
 Arrive, 'tis well, and well if it depart. 
 0, every hour is full of news at home. 
 Like th lone lake in deepmost glen, my heart 
 Takes rivers in, incurious whence they come, 
 Sends rivers forth, and hears them prate no 
 
 more.
 
 THE MORNING. 
 
 III. 
 
 5>tte of tf)e Vitaxa^t. 
 
 Dost gaze on beauty's eye, to watch the vent 
 Through which pure souls their heavenly virtue 
 
 pour ? 
 Then welcome here to Spirit's Temple-door, 
 And gaze around thee to thy heart's content. 
 For, prodigal with every element 
 Of loveliness, here nature opes her store 
 Of hill and dell and wood and sea and shore, 
 Whitbarrow's craggy ledge, bright maze of Kent. 
 Christ's preacher, well at Spirit's portal set, 
 Whence into nature life and beauty flow, 
 With all their fountains' lustrous freshness wet ; 
 Art thou not moved, thy higher post to know, 
 And pour from Spirit's Temple without let 
 Life's streams, to bathe dry hearts with quick- 
 ening glow ? 
 
 B 2
 
 T. THE MORNING. 
 
 IV. 
 
 aSantJoneti prospects. 
 
 Time was when 'twere a happy hfe, methought. 
 To hold deep converse with the learned dead. 
 Where rose the shadowing minster overhead, 
 And echo through long cloisters sank to nought. 
 Christ, Master ! Thou a better way hast taught, 
 And white mid whitest shines thy day which led 
 To converse with the living, and words read 
 From moving lips, and mind from features caught. 
 While rocky scars, where gleams hke Angels 
 
 walk, 
 And dells that lose themselves in purple mist. 
 And becks that o'er their marble pavement 
 
 chime, 
 Lead me to halls and hearths, where I can talk, 
 Or listen, grave or cheerful, as I list. 
 Thus read I men. In sooth, 'twas folly's time.
 
 THE MORNING. 
 
 V. 
 
 JFtutts of pnst Stut»B. 
 
 Spirit of truth, I bless thee. Thou hast led 
 Through ways where heart had never guess'd 
 
 thy aim, 
 So Greece, Rome, Science with exacting claim 
 Urged strait its course. And yet thy purpose sped: 
 For what a treasury in heart and head. 
 Whence comes forth old, another yet the same. 
 And new, with face which none for new can blame. 
 From unsuspected cells thy grace hath fed : 
 And taught with searching stretch the depth 
 
 to reach 
 Of truth's entrusted chest, where ever lie 
 The simplest forms, the poor man's sacred heap. 
 Idlers from open'd lid the rich may teach, 
 But rare as wisdom is simplicity, 
 And vanity aims high, and love delves deep.
 
 THE MORNING. 
 
 VI. 
 
 NOW I reap the Truit of that blest time 
 Won for heart-stirring lore from laggard sleep, 
 While yet the Wain was ploughing bright and 
 
 deep, 
 And morning weeping gems of crystal rime. 
 Fresh as that horn* of unpolluted prime, 
 Then glow'd my heart, and clear as stars that 
 
 keep 
 The polar height where no dim vapours creep. 
 And clear in answer glowM each truth sublime. 
 And when my overwrought spirit needed pause, 
 Rang joyous from its tower the Chapel bell, 
 Fit close to converse with immortal powers. 
 Apt opening to the call of worldly laws. 
 And toil of learned drudgery. well 
 
 1 prized the freedom of those happy hours.
 
 THE MORNING. 9 
 
 VII. 
 
 atJieu to Stutig. 
 
 Adieu ! Ah, who my parting pangs can tell ? 
 Dear Books, loved mates for years, for months, 
 
 for days. 
 And not for life 1 Yes, for hfe long ! still stays. 
 Cherished within my heart's lamp-lustred cell, 
 Your living spirit. There I still compel 
 Bright foi-ms of truth and glory to my gaze, 
 And kneel within your sanctuary ""s blaze. 
 Saints, Fathers, Martyrs, Confessors, farewell ! 
 Dim grows your letter to these fading eyes. 
 Loth grows my mind, for outward stores to 
 
 look, 
 Now that long time hath piled an inward hoard. 
 And duty's call scant holiday supplies 
 To quit man's living talk for thoughtful book. 
 No sight is spared but for your Master's word.
 
 10 I. THE MOR^^ING. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 JHj) ©rtiinatitin tiag. 
 
 Oft I recal that day, when softly fell 
 The seal of Ministry on mine head, and high 
 To quickening Spirit swelled our votive cry, 
 And down came peace more still than tongue 
 
 can tell. 
 Meantime grim Waterloo in maddening mell 
 Was pushing his red ranks, and made reply 
 With roaring cannon to our litany. 
 And Empires gasp*'d their last with horrid yell. 
 Thus, stamp'd with double type of heaven and 
 
 earth. 
 Returns with circling years this sacred day. 
 Bringing me thoughtful sorrow, hopeful mirth. 
 And coming struggles calmly I survey, 
 Who drew in victory's hour my heavenly birth. 
 The mighty Captain cheers and leads the way.
 
 I. THE MORNING. 11 
 
 IX. 
 
 Sunrise at ?^ebcrsf)am. 
 
 "■Up Ministers of glory, wake, arise," 
 
 Shouts the bright sun, first risen to summon all. 
 
 And see ! Bowfell unrols his fleecy pall ; 
 
 Langdale unveils his head, and glorifies ; 
 
 Whitbarrow's beetling pyramid replies 
 
 With mirror'd fire ; and Cartmell's heaven-built 
 
 wall 
 And Arnside's gleaming promontory call 
 On silent Morecamb with awakening cries. 
 And he from rock-bound creek and spreading bay 
 Flinging the blue haze, flashes into light, 
 With here and there a mast, which from the deep 
 Sends landward a clear voice to join life's lay. 
 Which mounts up from each reeking chimney's 
 
 height. 
 i) Christ ! Can ministers of thine now sleep ?
 
 12 I. THE MORNING. 
 
 X. 
 
 i^ising from fiet. 
 
 New art thou, heaven, as o'er thy sunlit field 
 Bright Angels lead morn's train of rosy hue. 
 New art thou, earth, thrice washed in heavenly dew. 
 With newborn flowers, fresh gems of life re- 
 vealed. 
 New heavens, new earth ! ye bear a sense con- 
 cealed 
 Beneath these glowing forms, and preach of new 
 To my glad spirit, waked once more to view 
 The glory wliich from God's own throne ye yield. 
 Glad resuiTection's earnests ! Full and bland 
 Pours your young life into my heart and head, 
 And a new world receives me as I rise. 
 And a new talent falls into my hand. 
 And that clear voice which shall awake the dead 
 Speaks with renew'd commission from the skies.
 
 THE MOBXIXG. 18 
 
 XI. 
 
 Eo'kcm of t^e bap. 
 
 Now Day, in solemn grey with sober pace 
 Thou comest on, with stealthy gleams meanwhile 
 Upon thy cheek, as if ashamed to smile, 
 A stately matron lured into a grace. 
 Thou bearest settled purpose on thy face : 
 From Lyth's lone dell, and Crossthwaite^s deep 
 
 defile 
 Gathering thy garments of blue haze, for toil 
 Thou girdest, and hot hours of strife and race. 
 Stern beauteous housewife, well we recognize 
 By this thy dress, that thou hast task in store. 
 And biddest us with patient forethought rise. 
 And we, with care perplexVl and labour sore. 
 Shall long to hear at length thy evening cries, 
 And see thee close thy chamber's golden door.
 
 14 I. THE MORNING. 
 
 XII. 
 
 ^ragcr for t^e bag. 
 
 Hear, thou chief Shepherd, who shalt pen thy 
 
 sheep [ 
 
 nnor 
 
 •? 
 
 AVhen for thy bell the trump's last blast shall 
 Again my wallet o'er my back I sling, 
 And grasp my crooked staff, aroused from sleep. 
 Thou Son of David, who that child didst keep. 
 And nerve his arm, grant mine with vigorous 
 
 swing 
 
 To quell each monster which helFs hate may bring 
 Upon my pasturing flock with ravage deep. 
 Active in field, and watchful over fold, 
 And welcoming whatever thy hand may deal, 
 Thankful for rain or sun, for woe or weal. 
 So may I keep my post till eve uphold. 
 Type of my refuge, her bright wings of gold, 
 Andnight''strimm''dlampthyspeakingpage reveal.
 
 I. THE MORNING. 15 
 
 XIIl. 
 
 Cokens of foul tofatljcr. 
 
 So mild of eye, plumed as with stainless snow, 
 What can ye be but messengers of peace, ■ 
 As o'er yon bank ye spread a gleamy fleece 
 With your calm troop, Seamews ! But well I 
 
 know 
 You and your signs, and though the thrilling flow 
 Of yonder throstle's boding song should cease, 
 It brought to my despondence small release. 
 Bright ye, sweet he, are equal signs of woe. 
 Strange and yet true, that storms most rude and 
 
 feU 
 Ever the gentlest harbingers should choose. 
 And lull the minds o'er which their fury hangs. 
 E'en now Whitbarrow breathes a muttering yell, 
 And ye feed on, and all like woe, abuse 
 Our senses with delight, then leave to pangs.
 
 16 I. THE MORNING. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 ^^ofe^ns of fair ireatter. 
 
 O WELCOME back from cloud-capp'd fells again, 
 Dear Seamews, glancing from fleet forms of snow 
 The sparkling sunbeam, as now high, now low, 
 Ye wave in varying rings your gladsome train. 
 Your home has peace once more. The boisterous 
 
 main [blow, 
 
 Hath sunk his crest, the South hath ceased to 
 And ye in braiding fringe your troops may show, 
 Like waterlilies, o'er the salty plain. 
 Blest harbingers ! Blue skies, bright suns ye 
 
 bring, 
 And tell of Bowfell, whom ye left in gloom, 
 Answering our dazzling sea with rosy gleam. 
 Ye lift my soul up with you on the wing. 
 And, lo ! beyond the storms of earthly doom, 
 That glassy sea, where saints in glory beam.
 
 I. THE MORNIXG. 17 
 
 XV. 
 
 5)alutatton of tf^t tiag. 
 
 Good morrow to thee, Christ's ambassador. 
 
 SaUiest as one of us in this om* land ? 
 
 Strange speech from thee, strange liabits we 
 
 demand. 
 If thou bring message from a foreign shore. 
 That glorious King, whom thou entreatest for. 
 Hath ever largely charged his legate's hand : 
 Shalt thou not then before our presence stand 
 In robes that beggar all our richest store ? 
 Shall Christ be shown in thee but by thin air 
 Of mortal speech, nor be from every sense 
 Exhaled in fragrant virtue, rich and rare. 
 That men in ecstasy cry out, "What? Whence?" 
 And burn to be as thou, and strive to share, 
 Bright Herald ! in thy glory's quintessence.
 
 18 I. THE MORNING, 
 
 XVI. 
 
 prepare t\)im cge. 
 
 Light of my body, thou hast work to-day : 
 Clear therefore be thy lamp to me, O eye. 
 To strain pure thought from flower, stream, and 
 Is ever easy task, unhurtful play. [sky, 
 
 But from live deed, quick feature, to convey 
 Fit types for thought, and to the mind supply 
 Light white and spotless, in love, hope, and joy, 
 Ah ! who the hardness of the task shall say ( 
 God's Spirit purge thee ! Through thy filmless 
 
 glass 
 So shall no turbid ray of covert sin 
 Into this body's secret chapel pass. 
 Adjust thee therefore. Lo ! thy toils begin, 
 Thought's founts are gushing from the living mass 
 Which closes round, and press to enter in.
 
 m^;^-", 
 
 Heversham, from the South West. 
 
 II. 
 
 €\i Itnrting nn tljr ilmin^.
 
 II. THE STARTING ON THE ROUND. 
 XVII. lilfsolution to start. 
 
 Ceaseless from Morecamb drives the wet south- 
 west, 
 Aloft the rooks are screaming, the green lea 
 Is white with seamews, hill and sky and sea 
 Are one, all clad in one same misty vest. 
 Here is a day, methinks, for home and rest ; 
 Now from long prison may the book be free. 
 And pen along the blackening pages flee. 
 And muniments come forth from secret chest. 
 Yet now twice welcome at the widow's door, 
 Twice welcome at the sufferer's bed were I, 
 When outward gloom must inward grief provoke; 
 Books, pens, and muniments, I throw you by : 
 Shall ye contend it with Christ's sick and poor ? 
 Off, thou loose robe of ease. Come forth, my 
 cloak.
 
 22 II. THE STARTING OX THE ROUND. 
 
 XYIII. 
 E^e Starting. 
 
 I OPE my door. Help, Lord ! True Pilot, steer. 
 I launch a life-boat, where the sea runs high. 
 Tossing in conflict with wild agony, 
 Sighs for heaven''s winds, groans for wave's roar 
 
 I hear : 
 And shipwrecked mariners call in shrieks of fear. 
 These grasp lone rocks, and those from surges cry, 
 And wildly reach as hope comes drifting by. 
 Spare me, blank sights of woe, shrill sounds of 
 
 fear. 
 O thou, good Lord, who with one word of power 
 Didst still the raging Galilean surge 
 And raise thy Peter from the whelming wave. 
 Come, with thy presence fill this perilous hour. 
 That I with fearless heart my charge may urge. 
 And raise one brother from sink's yawning wave.
 
 II. THE STARTING ON THE ROUND. 2 
 
 o 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Cfje Storm. 
 
 The wliirling shower patters on my cloak. 
 Clouds roll before me, clouds pursue behind. 
 And, muffled, my uncertain ways I wind, 
 Threading where least overflowing runnels soak. 
 Such outward ills but inwai'd hfe provoke. 
 Quick as the steam to narrow room confined 
 My spirit turns the wheel of its own mind. 
 Circle on circle, with redoubled stroke. 
 And instiniments, of wliich no hope could dream, 
 Come from the forge, keen-edged and glittering. 
 And ciy aloud in the Lord's name for use. 
 And this world's thoughts ai'e flung Hke vapoury 
 
 stream 
 To the wild winds. Blow on, rude storm. I 
 
 spring 
 All fresh, like water bursting from the sluice. 
 
 c 2
 
 24 II. THE STARTING ON THE ROUND. 
 
 XX. 
 
 Blest Rainbow, which thy heaven-built bridge 
 
 dost fling 
 Across the pasture where no sheep must rove, 
 Which I can gather, from Kent's sandy cove, 
 Arching to Milton's dell, and Farlton's spring ; 
 Thou faithful sign in heaven, witnessing. 
 Since days of whelming wrath, that God is love. 
 How eloquent thou preachest from above. 
 From every colour of thy radiant ring ! 
 Thy red paints faith, which feareth not to 
 
 bleed ; 
 Thy azure, love ; 'mid sorrow's gloom serene. 
 Thy yellow gleams of hope in heaven set : 
 And mingling these shape diligence all green, 
 Joy bright and purple as the violet. 
 Ripe as the ta\\Tiy orange thought and deed.
 
 II. THE STARTING ON THE ROUND. 25 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Fair Sun, that with undeviating plan 
 Keepest thy track, nor ceasest pouring Hght, 
 Cupbearer at God's board to man's dehght : 
 Light clouds, forerunners gUttering in his van : 
 Tall mountains which the circling welkin span, 
 Ministering unto earth from heads all bright 
 In heaven's high secret, though from earthly 
 
 sight 
 Veird 'mid dim folds, which idly hence I scan : 
 Hills, dales, that closely hide and freely ope : 
 Streams, tarns, that, born on earth, exhale to 
 
 heaven : [fruit : 
 
 Trees, flowers, of modest blossom, plenteous 
 Paths, pastures : O ye, give my heart full scope. 
 Your mystic notes ring on through all the seven. 
 And empty all the music of earth's lute.
 
 26 II. THE STARTING ON THE ROUND. 
 
 XXII. 
 Efjc (Counsellor. 
 
 " Lonesome and helpless ! " — Say not so, my 
 
 soul, 
 Nor murmur, though thou have to counsel all. 
 Yet none to counsel thee ; though daily call 
 Renew to flesh and blood a painful dole. 
 Look up, read yon bright heavens as they roll. 
 See Angels, flitting roimd our wheeling ball, 
 Duly their younger brothers'' need forestall. 
 Hast thou not fellows, set from pole to pole ? 
 Look upward still; — whose glance isfix'd on thee. 
 Shot from surrounding glory's centre bright. 
 Sun of the heaven of heavens ? Though rank 
 
 on rank 
 Circle his throne, can they absorb his sight, 
 Or rob thee of one look ? Thy Counsellor see. 
 Quaff" from his radiant smile, rejoice and thank.
 
 II. THE STARTING OX THE ROUXD. 27 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 Sloinness to rcprobc. 
 
 1 BEAR a message of rebuke to-day, 
 
 And much I strive my easy heart to steel, 
 
 And set as flint my features, and reveal 
 
 A spirit in words which none shall dare gainsay. 
 
 But as I go upon my destined way. 
 
 Strong charge, convicting question, stern appeal, 
 
 And all God's thunderbolts which I would deal. 
 
 Melt as thin ice before the morning ray. 
 
 For, Lord, this heart grows warm, as all things 
 
 glow 
 With the glad tokens of thy burning love. 
 The turf that blooms with studs of life below, 
 The sky that arches with heaven op'ed above, 
 And all the mountain's pomp, and valley's show 
 That beam between. Lord ! how shall I re- 
 prove ?
 
 28 TI. THE STARTING ON THE ROUND. 
 
 XXIV. 
 i3e bersatile. 
 
 With babe, with boy, with girl, with youth. 
 
 with maid, 
 Elder and matron, rising, sinking years, [fears, 
 Joy, sorrow, sickness, health, life, death, hopes, 
 In one brief morn my varied part is play'd. 
 To many hearts with many passions sway'd 
 I from my single heart, in smiles or tears, 
 Must give response : for many eyes and ears 
 Deal from one face looks words exactly weighed. 
 Thus daily borne through spirit's crowded space 
 My heart finds all things new, though limbs 
 
 grow old. 
 Leaps to fresh motions, shapes a novel course. 
 Living as Kent's clear stream, which fleetand bold 
 Now cleaves the mountain, clamorous and hoarse, 
 Now crumbles the green vale with silent pace.
 
 II. THE STARTl^TG ON THE ROUND. 29 
 
 XXV. 
 
 iSe not tielicatf. 
 
 To her, in whom seven devils abode had made, 
 Life's risen Lord first showM his body bright 
 In incorruption : nor his piteous sight 
 The festering wound or leprous scale forbade. 
 Wilt then be delicate, and shun afraid 
 Hearths circled by foul raggedness, take flight 
 From loathsome pallets, and the damp close 
 
 night 
 Of cells, where plague his reeking straw hath laid I 
 thou thrice cleansed from sin's thrice damn- 
 ing scent, 
 Fresh from the chamber of thy heavenly Priest. 
 With intercession's incense redolent, 
 Fragrant in hope with incorruption's vest, 
 To proud disgust can thy pure front consent i 
 The squalid hovel knows no surer guest.
 
 30 II. THE STARTING OX THE ROUND. 
 
 XXVI. 
 2MciQi) b)cU tf)g toortis. 
 
 O WORDS ! not from immortal mind alone 
 Immortal are ye sprung, but heaven and earth 
 Receive you, standing witness to your birth. 
 And send you back when many years are flown. 
 Not swallow comes more surely to its own, 
 Nor nightingale renews her last year's mirth. 
 Than ye return, in plenty or in dearth, 
 Changed, yet the same : echo, yet living tone. 
 From weeping hearts where ye have brooded 
 
 long. 
 From bosoms festering with deep offence, 
 From minds that on your promise full have 
 
 fed. 
 To him that sent you ye return, all strong 
 Tn ancient sound, and doubly keen in sense ; 
 Nor will ye take repulse, O things of dread.
 
 II. THE STARTING ON THE ROUND. 81 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Two hearts must meet to-day. All full and 
 
 clear 
 Must flow their secrets forth. Thoughts close 
 
 and deep 
 Must, like the pebble, with free lustre peep 
 Forth from the stainless stream of love sincere. 
 And yet, dear friend, what mystery is here ! 
 What plummet shall the endless reckoning keep 
 Of depths still unrevealVl, where darkling sleep 
 All that to show we shun, to tell we fear ? 
 Two pits we are, worn by the eddying stone 
 In lucid Kent's floored marble. Dark, profound, 
 Lonely in closest link of neighbourhood. 
 Above in common hold we fathom one 
 Of water clear. The rest what line shall sound, 
 And plumb the dim abyss of ill and good ?
 
 32 II. THE STARTING ON THE ROUND. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 JHetiitatton. 
 
 The sailor his fleet bark that would secure, 
 Drifting before brisk wind and flowing flood, 
 Disdains not in deep beds of sand and mud 
 To fix his anchor fast on ocean's floor. 
 So when my eye is wildly toss'd o'er moor 
 And crag and glistening stream and darksome 
 
 wood, 
 And my heart flutters with the ill and good 
 Of thought that surges till I scarce endure : 
 Then fain am I to sink to depths profound. 
 Below this world's upheaving surface far, 
 And, though the thought at best be dark and 
 
 crude. 
 Yet there I strike with bite full oft renew'd. 
 And joy as rising turbid clouds declare ^ 
 
 How deeply and how fast I hold the ground.
 
 II. THE STARTING ON THE BOUND. 33 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Thou, Lord of life, thy daily round didst take 
 Along the lilied field, the mountain's height. 
 And sandy waste, and Jordaifs valley bright, 
 And o''er the tossing Galilean lake : 
 While heavenly virtue, gushing from thee, brake 
 On all that followed, Rock of heahng might, 
 Whose hands showerM forth large gifts of life 
 
 and light, 
 Whose lips with wisdom as none other spake. 
 Grant me, who in thy holy name to-day. 
 And on thy holy errand speed my round, 
 O'er dale, o'er mountain, and o'er dashing ford. 
 To leave some heavenly virtue on my way, 
 That hearts may cry, in joy o'er something 
 
 found, 
 " We met to-day a pixphet of the Lord ! "
 
 Levens Hall. 
 
 III.
 
 III. THE VISITS IN THE MORNING. 
 XXX. arribal on ttie ©vounti. 
 
 House scarcely one besprinkles this green dale 
 Where I have never soothed a sufferer's bed, 
 And pray'd and preach'd to spirits wliich have 
 
 fled 
 To realms unknown beyond this fleshly pale. 
 Half smiles, half tears, the widow bids me hail. 
 From housewife's toil the mother hfts her head. 
 Courting, yet shunning, mention of the dead. 
 The oi-phan clings to me with piteous tale. 
 Haird, shunn'd as bright, dark sign of things 
 
 unseen, 
 Last words, last looks on me imprinted aU, 
 I waini of doom to come, of judgment past. 
 Christ ! 'mid these trials of this dim terrene, 
 Unspotted may I bear thy prophet's pall, 
 And preach with Ups and hfe unto the last.
 
 38 III. THE VISITS 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 C!)e Hoisses in tijf dFlocfe. 
 
 '• He that hath friends hath not a friend."' So 
 
 spoke 
 The Stagyrite, and so my heart complains. 
 As homes I pass, where of all friends remains 
 The most abiding their familiar smoke. 
 Yet death alone the golden tissue broke, 
 For it was strong as everlasting chains 
 Of love in Christ, forged firm in fiery pains. 
 And welded fast with trial's thundering stroke. 
 And as the flesh was stripped by daily waste 
 Through more transparent veil the spirit glowM, 
 And heavenly forms with brighter beam dis- 
 played. 
 1 thought not how time carried, as it flowM, 
 Fresh shreds away, till death in sudden haste 
 Tore the last robe, and left me but a shade.
 
 IN THE MORNING. 39 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 Cl^ougijtis Mott entering. 
 
 Betwixt the quick and dying — Priest, here try 
 Thy heart's full strength, fit representative 
 Of death to sin, and hell for them that live, 
 Of life to Christ, and heaven for them that die. 
 Come, take thy post. But who, good Lord, 
 
 am I, 
 That thou to me such awful charge shouldst 
 
 give, 
 To sift thy living harvest in a sieve. 
 And store the wheat, and leave the chaff to fly ? 
 In either hand a mystic key to bear, 
 With this the door to lock, with that to ope, 
 And point to trembling spirits heaven and hell ? 
 E'en thus, on this dread threshold, I prepare 
 To smite with terror, and to raise with hope. 
 The sick-room opens. Jesu, speed me well !
 
 40 III. THE VISITS 
 
 XXXIII. 
 J^irst ViBit Ki^t (Eonsumptibe <35itl. 
 
 How gay this porchway, clad with blushing 
 
 bloom, 
 And breathing odour in the south wind^s sighs ! 
 Sign once, sad contrast now, of her that lies 
 Stretched on her narrow bed in narrow room. 
 There the last stroke she waits of Imgering doom, 
 And there she daily lives and daily dies, 
 Who once shone forth, the wonder of all eyes, 
 Now flits a lonely ghost above the tomb. 
 " But thou hast faith ?" '' yes ! while light 
 
 and life. 
 Nor mourn I o''er my body's bloom decayM. 
 It teUs me that the Spirit's fruit is set. 
 If rampant sprays of joy have borne the knife. 
 Free room for grafts of heavenly joy is made. 
 I have been bright. I shall be brighter yet."
 
 IN THE MORNING. 41 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 jpixM ViniU S)Pit;ttual (Compang. 
 
 I AM not lonely. No : when thou art gone, 
 Thy cheerful comrades linger still behind. 
 Then stream thy words all fresh upon my 
 
 mind, 
 Pierce each dry nook with sense before un- 
 known. 
 And thus thy spirit freely preaches on, 
 Each sentence with a clearer thought divined. 
 As now no more with voice and eye combined. 
 Mocking attention. I am not alone. 
 Up at this whitened ceiling as I gaze, 
 My only sky, or close my eye's tired lid. 
 Amid a world of glorious forms I fly. 
 Be it or midnight's gloom, or noontide's blaze, 
 My mates are with me, bidden and unhid. 
 So patiently till thy return I lie. 
 
 D 2
 
 42 III. THE VISITS 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 dFirst Vimt Hint on line. 
 
 In that sweet season when the mellowM earth 
 Is loose through every vein with treasured 
 
 shower, 
 The scantiest dew has then unwonted power, 
 And pierces to the depths of genial birth. 
 So texts, that seem but of small weight and worth, 
 Fall on thy spirit ever in meet hour; [flower 
 Word met by treasured word, and truth's bright 
 Is watered at the root, and blossoms forth. 
 yes, that word hath sunk into a bed 
 Full of itself, where faith and knowledge ever 
 Have oped with mellowing virtue every pore : 
 Nor keeps the top till suffering s drought shall 
 
 sever 
 The hard-bound soil, but melts as soon as shed 
 Into congenial heart, and heaven-drawn store.
 
 IN THE MORNING. 43 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 dFtrst Vmt Scriptural Itnotolrtge. 
 
 To hinds, with heedless glance that sweep the 
 
 sky, 
 Few stars 'mid fields of blackened waste appear : 
 There the bright Wain, gem-girt Orion here ; 
 There Sirius, here the Bull with blazing eye. 
 But let the seer his steady ken apply, 
 The dim void fills, and clusters, bursting clear. 
 Powder its outspread lap, till all the sphere 
 Burns with one blaze of God's lit majesty. 
 So hast thou read God's word. Nor need I 
 
 turn 
 Page after page, for what may best amaze 
 The novice heart, with one broad stare content. 
 To thee the volume is one heavenly blaze. 
 Faith, Hope, and Love in constellations burn, 
 Life, Light, and Glory stud the firmament.
 
 44 Tll. THE VISITS 
 
 XXXVII. 
 Aspiration. 
 
 Flushed as the maid that climbs the fell to-day. 
 
 To-morrow as the coffin''d corpse all pale, 
 
 So changest thou, as fitful ills assail 
 
 The founts of life, and drain with sure decay. 
 
 But less with flesh distempered shines the ray 
 
 Of spirit pure, through more pellucid veil 
 
 Of thy calm eyes gleam forth the thoughts 
 
 which scale 
 The walls of God's bright city far away. 
 When with full tide of blood upon thy cheek 
 Rides sanguine hope, and thou hast grasp'd the 
 
 crown, 
 Still art thou patient, penitent, and meek. 
 And when again the shivery chill hath thrown 
 The mounting ardour down (for flesh is weak). 
 Thou still on wings of soaring hope art flown.
 
 IN THE MORNING. 45 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 HfStgnation. 
 
 Primrose and violet and daffodil 
 I bring, first fruits of the new-risen year. 
 O how thy look devours them, and the tear. 
 Checked by a chiding smile, thine eye doth fill. 
 They tell thee long, sweet tales of bubbling rill. 
 Green orchard, mossy lane, haunts loved and dear. 
 Where never more thy curious glance must peer, 
 And blest seem I that daily tread them still. 
 Yet these thou flingest down, in haste to reach 
 Thy book. Thence sprang old thoughts, long 
 
 queird with care. 
 And feelings, deeply buried, lived once more. 
 Fool I, to tempt thee when I came to preach. 
 Yet lilies had their mission. So declare 
 These flowers glory's fadeless crown in store.
 
 46 III. THE VISITS 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 No more thou liftest up the clear Amen, 
 Thy hands no more rise folded o'er thy breast, 
 Thine eyes no more gaze upward, but, depressed, 
 Survey thy pillow with unmeaning ken. 
 As the charged cloud, late heaven's bright deni- 
 zen, 
 Seeks earth for dissolution, and will rest 
 Awhile upon WhitbaiTow's ledgy crest, 
 And launches forth its fiery essence then : 
 So one by one thou utterest each mark 
 Of sinking down into thy native earth. 
 And with each sigh thy spirit's fiery spark 
 Tlu-eatens to quit this form of mortal birth ; 
 And as the body droops, and hour grows dark. 
 Nearer draws on the hour of freedom's mirth.
 
 IN THE MORNING. 47 
 
 XL. 
 
 dFirst Vmt Clje IBeat^. 
 
 Come, let me prop thy head, dear girl, and raise 
 Thy pillow : thou ^^^lt breathe more free, per- 
 chance. 
 Ha ! Now thou breakest thy uneasy trance. 
 And moving lip thy inward prayer bewTays. 
 But why dost turn on me that wistful gaze, 
 As if thou hadst some secret, and wouldst lance 
 Thy spirit into mine with that keen glance ? 
 speak ! Round thy set teeth a sweet smile 
 
 plays. 
 And thou dost move thy hand in earnest sign. 
 squeeze of thankful love, and hope set high ! 
 Canst hear ? Then pray we for thy calm release. 
 " Father of spiiits ! to thy care divine 
 This spirit take." Ha ! glassy is thine eye. 
 Life travels with that sigh. Depart in peace.
 
 48 III. THE VISITS 
 
 XLI. 
 J^irst Vimt. C|)e jFuncral. 
 
 " The Resurrection and the Life am I/"" 
 O how the toUing bell and measured tread 
 And nodding pall respond, " Our friend is dead ! "" 
 Hush, thou incredulous, that mournful sigh. 
 Now, bearers, pause. " The trumpet's voice shall 
 
 cry, 
 And incorruption's royal robe be spread 
 Around this form, life's crown adorn this head." 
 Hear, faithful hearts, in deep Amen reply. 
 Now gently lower down. " thou with whom 
 Do live the spirits of the good and just. 
 Thanks for our parted sister's calm release." 
 Ah ! spare those lingering peeps into the tomb, 
 Nor note with sobs the sound of falling dust. 
 Good seed is sown for harvest. Mourners, 
 
 cease.
 
 IN THE MORNING. 
 
 49 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Where is her grave? Ah ! here the ruthless 
 
 spade 
 Hath turn'd up many a ball from many a tear. 
 Shrinking; and loth we bear her from the bier, 
 Pure soul, into a cell of things decayed. 
 For duly here hath son on sire been laid, 
 And largely from her mourning kindred here 
 Hath flowed woe's tide. But when on one more 
 
 dear [maid ? 
 
 To earth, more loved of heaven, than this bright 
 In many forms ancestral she hath walkVl 
 This earth of old, in many forms been loved. 
 With which this last now mingles in the dust. 
 But never yet in all that flesh hath moved, 
 So pure a spirit, nor so wisely talkM, 
 As she who now hath join'd the good and just.
 
 50 III. THE VISITS 
 
 XLIII. 
 dFirst Vimt C^e iHourner. 
 
 There bursts thy long-check\l silence. Thou 
 couldst bear [tone, 
 
 The Lord's loud trumpet, and the Psalm's deep 
 The Apostle's proof. But all thy heart is gone, 
 When sounds thy friend's familiar voice of prayer. 
 Aye, stirring is the recognition there. 
 Last heard, when last her eyes upon thee shone. 
 And she with smiles and clear Amen made 
 
 known 
 Her earnest of approaching glory's share. 
 And now, when sounds that wonted voice again. 
 She lies before thee, but with no reply. 
 Challenging memory with piercing strain. 
 And, what thou couldst not dream, a sister's tie, 
 Thou findest rended all at once in twain, 
 And hast no more to speak, but only sigh.
 
 IN THE MORNING. 51 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 jFirst Vmt Ci)e O^tabr filleti up. 
 
 O NOW for one last look ! — Burst, envious chest, 
 Yet dost that piteous sight of all forbid, 
 When falling clod would seal that eye's dear 
 
 lid, 
 And dank, dark clay defile that stainless breast. 
 But how significant thou echoest. 
 As if she still would speak our train amid, 
 And pleaded not to be too early hid 
 From eyes so loved, albeit in regions blest. 
 Ah ! now hath vanish''d even this thy screen. 
 Save that the plate just glistens through the 
 
 mould, 
 And the dear name in its dear length is seen. 
 Pause, Sexton : we would yet awhile behold, 
 Ere the last earthly cover intervene, 
 And form and name in one dark gulf be roll'd.
 
 52 III. THE VISITS 
 
 XLV. 
 
 dFirst Vmt €f)e €frabc quittrti. 
 
 " Ashes to ashes, dust to dust."" So end 
 Hours, days, and months which I have spent 
 
 with thee, 
 Seasons of waken'd thought, and bosom free, 
 Times of bright hope, sweet love. Farewell, my 
 
 friend, 
 For art thou less, with whom I would ascend 
 Prayer''s mount, and 'mid its cloudy incense see 
 Our Clirist transfonn'd to heavenly majesty. 
 And with one want two hearts made one M^ould 
 Ah me ! with longing eyes shall I review, [bend. 
 As I to-day my wonted round repair. 
 Thy window, with its curtain clean removed, 
 Sure token of thy flight. How sadly ne\v 
 To pass and not to enter, miss my share 
 Of what I duly prized, and deeply loved.
 
 IN THE MORNING. 53 
 
 XLVI. 
 jFitst Vmt Cijc iHonument. 
 
 Heaven bathes thy monumental stone to-day : 
 Brimful with shapely pools of raindrops shine 
 Its graven letters, and as I incline 
 Mine head askance to catch the slanting ray. 
 The characters in heaven's own light display 
 Thy honourd name, and dazzling glows the line 
 Where birth and death with neighbouring dates 
 
 confine 
 The narrow record of thy earthly way. 
 Smiles print their gentle wreaths on eye and 
 
 heart 
 At this so strange magnificence in thee, 
 Who ever didst so lowly bear thy part. 
 And from the book of life I seem to see 
 Thy name in thrice illumined letters start. 
 And read the dates, last day — eternity.
 
 54 111. THE VISITS 
 
 XLVII. 
 dFirst VmU dFrientisfjips moat in ^icfenfss. 
 
 As flashes the quick hghtning on the sight 
 Of traveller through dark and lonesome ways, 
 And round him in a sudden fit of blaze 
 Shine cheerful mates in house and steepled 
 
 height : [bright, 
 
 So through black triars cloud burst moments 
 Dazzling with light intense bewilder'd gaze, 
 And in the dim last hour, when life decays, 
 I have found and seaFd true friendship. Brief 
 
 delight ! 
 And yet so real, that my heart would deem 
 That I had nursed it from my boyhood's prime, 
 And counted years, not hours, since first I found. 
 O love in Christ ! Thou art no thing of time. 
 With thee an age is in a moment bound, [beam. 
 Nor canst thou die, thou child of heaven's own
 
 IN THE MOKNING. OO 
 
 XLVIII. 
 CIjc Snterbal 6et\neen Vmt^, 
 
 Wan images ! how clear have ye foreshown 
 This face of mine, as it shall look its last ! 
 Hoarse heralds ! how exact have ye forecast 
 This dying voice's agonizing groan ! 
 Life, be thou sumni'd in that one hour alone. 
 Thither let watchful conscience bring the past, 
 There Hope infix the future's anchor fast, 
 Thither each day my thought's strong wing be 
 
 flown. 
 Heart ! now that mournful roof is out of sight, 
 Again this world outspreads its wizard stream, 
 Pour'd round thee from life's multitudinous fount. 
 Skies o'er rude Bowfell laugh in liquid light. 
 Seas around rocky Arnside curl and gleam. 
 Ha ! thou art loitering : back to thy account. 
 
 E
 
 56 III. THE VISITS 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Sfconti Visit Cfie JHagtialenr. 
 
 Thy shame, of sinful hour the hourly test, 
 Thy pride, thine own bright image cast anew, 
 Half in concealment, and yet half in show 
 Thou fondlest this fair infant at thy breast : 
 Oh ! as when groans arise o'er sins confessed 
 Raptured the Angels hear, and run to view 
 The penitential gems which thick bedew 
 Their Father's threshold, and pronounce them 
 
 blest : 
 May he, of thy new self expression bright, 
 Soft as thy broken heart, sweet as the love 
 With which thou lovest him that much forgave, 
 True child of God, his heavenly image prove, 
 And joy o'er thee with heaven's own pure delight, 
 Taught by thyself from him who died to save.
 
 TN THE MORNING. 57 
 
 Heaven bless those lips, dear child, that lisp 
 the name [strong 
 
 First learned by sons of God. Christ make thee 
 In rudiments of thy new country's tongue. 
 And lead to Angels"* speech this seeming game. 
 Dear be to thee our household words, which 
 flame [along. 
 
 From burning breasts heaven's starry ways 
 As Seraphs challenge with unsleeping song. 
 And call in loud response and glad acclaim. 
 So come with perfect speech the perfect heart. 
 And may thy spirit, lovely as thy face, 
 Soaring 'mid spirits of the just and good. 
 And all the hierarchal brotherhood, 
 Before the golden throne take daily place. 
 And daily learning win a higher part. 
 
 E 2
 
 58 in. THE VISITS 
 
 LI. 
 ISettocen Visits, K\)t ruineti (Jtottage. 
 
 O IT is sweet 'mid ruin d piles to trace 
 The plan of antique use, and bygone pride : 
 In pillar'd dimness here the choir was spied, 
 The altar there uprear'd its sculptured grace. 
 But sweeter far the tale of this dear place. 
 Where I myself on priestly rounds have hied, 
 And rites as simple as the house supplied, 
 And seen turn d on me but one lonely face. 
 Here stood the chancel, not without its screen, 
 Even her curtain d bed, whence swelPd the 
 
 tone 
 All softly of our plaintive litany. 
 And here the table's sheeted board was seen. 
 With simplest chalice plainest paten strown. 
 And Christ was present with his two or 
 
 three. !r
 
 IN THE MORNING. 59 
 
 LII. 
 
 Chamber of death, where 'mid the vapours dank 
 Of curtained gloom, I knelt me at the bed. 
 And words were utter'd forth, and tears were 
 
 shed, 
 While fast the o''ercharged bosom rose and sank : 
 Now roofless art thou, and in gusty prank 
 The west wind sweeps thee, and with wagging 
 
 head 
 The merry birds are twittering round, instead 
 Of forms that gazed with speechless sorrow blank. 
 And on this wall with her last sighs bedewM 
 The fern springs freshly from his plastery chink, 
 As if those sacred drops had nursed its seed. 
 Woe, how thy prints the keenest search elude. 
 Give a year''s laugh to nature, and they sink. 
 In soil and heart, beneath her joyous weed.
 
 60 III. THE VISITS 
 
 LIIL 
 
 As festive throngs asunder part, to make 
 The mark for sight, the course for runners clear, 
 So have for thee thy children. None is near : 
 Now therefore haste thy well-markM ground to 
 
 take, 
 Nor ever let thine eye the mark forsake. 
 A little turn, while distant yet shall peer 
 The lofty goal, again may straightly steer, 
 FixM sight, fleet course may still redeem the stake. 
 But when thy feet shall falter, eye shall swim, 
 One devious step may squander time's scant 
 And uncorrected bear thee far aside. [store, 
 Talk not to me then of thy days of yore. 
 Is not thy course nigh spent, thy vision dim ? 
 Why cumljer paths which God hath cleared so 
 
 wide ?
 
 IN THE MOENING. 61 
 
 LIV. 
 
 This table, mocking now with downward leaf 
 My Jane and me, once scarcely could agree 
 With measure of our joyous company, 
 That snatch'd from daily toil a short relief. 
 And now at night, when our hearth's flashes 
 
 brief 
 Strike on it as a mirror, there I see 
 A group of faces betwixt Jane and me. 
 Circling, as wont, our fire. O gladsome grief ! 
 The absent show but well-known curls behind, 
 Or give me half a face. But, oh ! the dead. 
 With faces full they meet me as I gaze, 
 And each one in his wonted place I find. 
 And I count o'er each blessed phantom's 
 
 head. 
 Now blame me if I talk of other days.
 
 62 III. THE VISITS 
 
 LV. 
 
 dFtft^ Vimt ^rager before entering. 
 
 Thou living Word, how blessed is that day, 
 And bright beyond an age of ages rolFd 
 By twice ten thousand happy suns of gold, 
 When down thy sword descends with thundering 
 
 sway. 
 When hearts deep-cloven yield an open way 
 With helpless clamour, as in vain thick fold 
 Of triple brass and adamantine mould. 
 Of thrice-forged steel, presume the blow to stay ! 
 Come down, in plenitude of might come down. 
 Pierce with thy shaft of light this sinner"'s heart, 
 For whom I lift these hands in humble prayer. 
 For hard and thick the scales of sin have grown, 
 Securely they defy my word's weak dart. 
 Up, Lord, put forth thy hand ; come, nor 
 
 spai'e.
 
 IN THE MORNING. 63 
 
 ? 
 
 LVI. 
 dFi(ti) Vmt, ^\\t (ttonbcrsation. 
 
 Yes, wondrous change ! the carrier's tinkhng 
 Grew mute before the coach's Uvely horn, [bell 
 And now the railman's whistle wakes the morn ; 
 And what we next may hear, what sage shall tell? 
 The peat-stack crowns no more the moory fell, 
 The wide black moss smiles green with waving corn, 
 And oats fast quit our dales for hills forlorn. 
 Ploughs, carts, sheep, cows are changed since 
 
 thou couldst spell. 
 So eloquent on these, why silent o'er 
 Past changes of thyself, from straight to bent, 
 From black to grey, from twelve to seventy- 
 three ? 
 And changes due, thy heart's obdurate core, 
 Soften'd by penitence, thy body rent [I see. 
 From soul, then join'd again I Thou art mute.
 
 64 III. THE VISITS 
 
 LVII. 
 dFiftlj Vimt ^f)e <2ripo0tulation. 
 
 So long a man of sin, and still at ease, [think 
 Still wilt thou waive my counsel? Dost thou 
 That God's keen eye hath been upon the wink. 
 His treasuring wrath withheld its just degrees 1 
 '' Our God is mercy." Can such answer please I 
 Mercy and love are ever in one link. 
 And the beloved of God no more can shrink 
 From deeds of love, than from due fruit his trees. 
 Where are thy deeds ? "1 have done harm to 
 
 none." 
 Hast thou done good 1 What is no good but ill ? 
 Press not with such vain pleading. Mourn and 
 
 weep. 
 God loves thee not, for thou no love hast done. 
 Therefore God''s mercy is far from thee still. 
 Up from thine ease. This is a deadly sleep.
 
 IN THE MORNING. 65 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 J^ifti^ Vmt Cije tiatJ (Kijurclj-goer. 
 
 Too busy, still too busy. " God can wait. 
 His is eternity, mine fleeting time." 
 So argues thy hard heart with Sabbath's chime. 
 With crowds devout, and with that thrice-blest 
 
 gate 
 Whence swelling forth glad sounds anticipate 
 Glorified thrones before God's throne sublime, 
 Hymns to the Lamb, unmark'd by eve or 
 
 prime, 
 Rest without sleep, and time without a date. 
 Yet thou that robbest him of time, canst ask 
 Eternity ; and thou that wilt not store, 
 Treasures ; and thou that wilt not labour, hire. 
 Stem judge of folly, take thyself to task ; 
 Strict from weak man his duties to require, 
 O pay thy debt to God, and sin no more.
 
 66 III. THE VISITS %.: 
 
 ft' 
 
 LIX. 
 dFiftJj VmU m)t 512aarnmg. 
 
 Twice hast thou now been laid at that dim door 
 Which never opens, but with thundering din 
 To shut for ay on all that pass therein, 
 And heard with fearful ear the infernal roar. 
 For threefold gates of adamantine core 
 Thrice ribbed with bars of brass were all too thin 
 To block out piercing shrieks of tortured sin. 
 They reached thee. And thou vowedst to sin 
 
 no more. 
 Vow twice forgotten ! Yet in festive shout. 
 So sounds to contrary give mystic birth, 
 Thou catchest echoes of that dreadful rout, 
 And pausest. Then with double charge of mirth 
 Seekest to drown all qualms of fear and doubt, 
 And close, in drunkard's dream, the yawning 
 
 earth.
 
 IN THE MORNING. 67 
 
 LX. 
 
 Shrewd wast thou yesterday, and he who chose 
 
 Thee for adviser better none could find. 
 
 Like guest compelled, yet loth to quit, thy mind 
 
 To-day in fitful flitting comes and goes. 
 
 And evermore in parting open throws, 
 
 Once bound as fast as prudence knows to 
 
 bind. 
 The portal. Issuing curse and words unkind 
 
 The jealous secret of thine house disclose. 
 
 All hours but this thy wisdom could foresee, 
 
 Against all chance but this thy care provide ; 
 
 Within thy purpose all seem'd safe and sure. 
 
 This lay without, for ever push'd by thee 
 
 'Mid the stern things which thou wouldst seek 
 to hide 
 
 Beneath hope's shadowy fold and tempting lure.
 
 68 III. THE VISITS 
 
 LXI. 
 dFifti) Vimu ^tiz I3eatlj=6eti. 
 
 So now thou hast composed that fearful stare. 
 I understand thy meaning. But my heart 
 Is loth to move. It is an awful part 
 For those that never pray'd to plead in prayer. 
 Ha ! thou art faint again. Death will not spare 
 One hour, but with rude gripe exacts the start 
 Of lengthened years, which thou to this world's 
 
 mart 
 Hast given, and hast reaped, alas ! thy share. 
 Again thine eye is open with a look, 
 how imploring ! on me, as if I 
 Chrisfs minister had life and heaven to deal. 
 Gladly what in thy .day thou wouldst not brook, 
 Now thou wouldst bear. Again is closed thine 
 
 eye. 
 Ah ! ear hath ceased to hear, and heart to feel.
 
 IN THE MORNING. 6.9 
 
 LXII. 
 dFifti) Vmt Kfit dFuncral. 
 
 Bareheaded train, with decent unconcern 
 Ye stand, while through my lips this fresh-dug 
 As Ebal and Gerizim, pours the sound [mound, 
 Of blessing gracious, and of cursing stern. 
 " He has had Christian burial." So ye turn 
 Listless away. Stay ; hear the yawning ground 
 Adjure you with that voice once festive found. 
 Now wailing, warning you. hear and learn. 
 Well ! haste to celebrate the funeral feast. 
 To-morrow fresh to rob your God again 
 Of sabbaths, sacraments, vows, alms, and prayer. 
 E'en thus your friend grew rich, and none 
 
 complain 
 Of heaps of gold by artful fraud increased. 
 He robb'd not man. But man can judge, nor 
 
 spare.
 
 70 III. THE VISITS 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Throstle ! I never hear thy first sweet song, 
 Rash rival to the snowdrop''s wintry bloom, 
 But ""mid its mirth I catch some notes of gloom, 
 Such as Oayster's dying swans prolong. 
 Each merry turn, quick jerk, but stamp more 
 
 strong 
 Or my foreboding heart the print of doom. 
 Of fever'd beds, of moan-resounding room, 
 Toird bell, and rattling earth, and wailing throng. 
 Yet God sings in thee, as he sings in all 
 Those hearts where sin hath never cloggM the 
 
 pipe 
 Through which in fulness his pure instinct flows. 
 And thou dost warn that joys too early ripe 
 Too early fade, and spring but to forestall 
 The van, which nought can stay, of coming woes.
 
 Hmcastier Hall. 
 
 IV. 
 
 i\\t Vmb in till? JtftrninDn.
 
 IV. VISITS IN THE AFTERNOON. 
 
 LXIV. iaoontite. 
 
 "Tis blazing noon, and every home hath spread 
 Its table, I can be no welcome guest 
 Where I refuse to sit among the rest, 
 And seem to hunger while themselves are fed. 
 Therefore my steps to other scenes be sped, 
 Where pain hath quencliM the body's craving 
 
 zest. 
 But spirit is with thirst and hunger pressed 
 For living water, and for heavenly bread. 
 O day and feast of Angels, heaven's own mirth. 
 When consolation's brimful cup I bear, 
 To spirits parch'd amid this waste of woes, 
 And talk is talk'd, songs sung, but not of earth. 
 And tuneful with his praise, who gave our 
 
 cheer, 
 With loaf and cup by Jesus blest we close. 
 
 F
 
 IV, THE VISITS 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Sitting tfoton to rest. 
 
 As the tired engineer awhile is fain 
 
 To quit his sooty cell for deck, and seize 
 
 With parclfd lips, open'd wide, the freshening 
 
 breeze, 
 Then hies him to his central toil again, 
 And there resumes his post of weary pain. 
 And there 'mid murky vapours gasps for ease, 
 Viewless to him meanwhile the trackless seas, 
 Through which his lonely bark drives on amain ; 
 So from deep cells of sin, where, 'mid the cry 
 Of anguish'd hearts and penitential woe, 
 Play the deep springs that waft both mine and 
 As we o'er passion's surging ocean go, [me. 
 
 While with rude trial wind and wave run high. 
 Rest I on this green knoll, and breathe more 
 
 free.
 
 IN THE AFTERNOON. 75 
 
 LXVI. 
 livfflecttons on tfjc last Visits. 
 
 Hill, Vale, Light, Life ! ye glimmer through a 
 
 haze ; 
 For still before me flits the mournful gloom, 
 Which curtained round that bed and silent room 
 Where death stared on me with his icy glaze. 
 And long I press mine eyes, and strain my gaze, 
 Ere ye your real shapes to them resume, 
 And flowrets glow with no discoloured bloom. 
 And sunshine beams with undistemper^d rays. 
 Yet 'tis full well that there should drop a screen 
 Betwixt my eye and you, and ye retire 
 Into far realms, and meet my spirit there. 
 For I have been approaching things unseen. 
 And following into deep-secluded quire 
 The parting soul, far as gross flesh could spare. 
 
 F 2
 
 76 IV. THE VISITS 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 Mates of my loneliness, dear furniture, 
 
 Clock, table, settle ! louder, clearer yet 
 
 Ye talk, as grows my struggle to forget 
 
 The things behind, and hope''s bright van secure. 
 
 And with your loudness seems my dream more 
 
 sure 
 Of those who once stood with you, now long set. 
 Like stars in distant seas. With fingers wet 
 Mine eyes I cover from the gleaming lure. 
 Christ, quickener to life and day, why stays 
 Thy servant, at whose exorcism flee 
 These flickering spectres of my gladness past. 
 And stern reality with living blaze 
 Stamps that which is, and that which is to be ? 
 A knock ! 'Tis he ! welcome now at last !
 
 IN THE AFTERNOON. 77 
 
 LXVIII. 
 
 A BED, a board, a tripod, clock, and chair — 
 Poor widow ! simple is thy furniture. 
 A cloak from the rude weather to insure 
 Thy thin black weeds. — Thou hast small dress 
 
 to spare. 
 And yet what soft-clothed herald shall declare 
 God's equal ways as thou ? He keeps thee poor. 
 More dost thou prize the riches which endure. 
 Thou shamest palaces, floutest jewels rare, 
 God's temple, Chrisfs choice gem. When win- 
 ters bite, 
 T find thee at thy hearth with frozen cheek, 
 Or dripp'd with icicle from the chilly spring. 
 Yet dost thou smile, as beaming as the light. 
 And ever hast a cheerful word to speak, 
 As if thou hadst the treasure of a king.
 
 78 IV. THE VISITS 
 
 LXIX. 
 ^ixtff Visit C^e 312aitJoto's ^ons. 
 
 Those lines across my clockcase ? They design 
 Life's tidemarks, as, like wave impelPd on wave, 
 Grew up to them in height my striplings brave ; 
 I see tiieir dear curls now against each line. 
 I drew them as each left this house of mine, 
 And as the first fared well, the rest would 
 
 crave 
 At greener years their envied turn to have. 
 The lowest stands, you see, at four feet nine. 
 As sounds each bell, I think how that same hour 
 Some may have heard, and some have still to 
 
 hear, 
 ScatterM to east and west in strands remote. 
 And as strikes midnight, it is noonday clear 
 To that dear boy that latest left my bower. 
 The tone is silver, night no more is drear.
 
 IN THE AFTERNOON. 79 
 
 LXX. 
 
 Sebentlj Vmt Eije ilatourer out of toorfe. 
 
 Sit at thy flickering hearth, when all afield 
 Thy mates are busy ? What ! no call for thee, 
 For youth so strong, for heart and will so free. 
 For skill so apt rough labour's tools to wield i 
 Meanwhile thy wife ''mid broken sighs hath peeFd 
 The last of her stored roots, and thou dost see 
 Hunger's keen glances round thee, and would'st 
 
 flee [shield ; 
 
 The mute reproach. Wet palms are all thy 
 And they defend not from the fitful moan. 
 Which wounds thee from yon chamber, dark and 
 
 cold, [nights. 
 
 Where thy sick girl confounds the days and 
 And never can familiar face behold. 
 Entombed ev'n now. Earth leaves one hope alone. 
 The pauper's portion, stinted funeral rites.
 
 80 IV. THE VISITS 
 
 LXXL 
 
 Wife, mother, mistress once, and duly set 
 Amid our rural feasts in honour's chair, 
 Now childless widow, houseless servant, bare 
 Of all thy glory, wilt thou murmur yet ? 
 No ! pride then murmur''d, as with noisy fret 
 SwolFn carelessness wore channels deep of care. 
 Sunk is thy fulness now. Sounds faint and 
 
 rare 
 Rise from the stream whose moss is thinly wet. 
 Yet oft thou sickenest at command's high 
 
 tone. 
 And drawest hand from work to wipe thy tears 
 And gaze at forms unseen by other eye : 
 For it speaks household words of other years, 
 Which thy dear husband spake, and not alone 
 Thou heardest : thy dear child was standing by.
 
 IN THE AFTERNOON. 81 
 
 LXXII. 
 
 Prick'd ears, bright eyes, shrewd whine, thy 
 
 dogs declare 
 Their master. Keen thou shearest as a knife, 
 With observation quick, while thought's close 
 
 strife 
 Spares thee but words quite fit, and therefore rare. 
 Books, ancient sages, deep-read equals, are 
 Depths, but without inhabitants : while rife 
 Is all thy loreless shoal with swarming hfe. 
 And I with unmaskM nature notes compare. 
 Poorthough thou be in all which flesh deems wealth, 
 T always quit thee, friend right humbly wise. 
 Richer than ever to my heart's content. 
 There is a royal touch in minds of health. 
 Whose virtue scares all evil phantasies. 
 I bless the hour and day when thou art sent.
 
 82 
 
 IV. THE VISITS 
 
 LXXIII. 
 
 Blessed, kind veteran, be thy hoary head, 
 Bent o'er that Bible, which overhangs thy knees. 
 With what quick instinct thy affections seize 
 The scenes, tlirough which thy by-gone days 
 
 have led. 
 Camps, sieges, battles ! As the leaves are spread, 
 Lo ! Judges, Joshua, Samuel, ope with ease, 
 And oft thou wonderest that Maccabees, 
 So fine a book, should ne'er in church be 
 
 read. 
 Upon thy wall S. Paul, with sword displayed. 
 Stands peer to Wellington, next Hill S. John ; 
 And over all is hung thy sergeant's blade. 
 Daily, as at drum's beat, each call comes on. 
 Prayer, dinner, walk ; and weekly on parade 
 Amid the suppliant ranks thy face I con.
 
 IN THE AFTERNOON. 83 
 
 LXXIV. 
 
 iSlebentf) Vmt ^i)t crus^rt IRailtoapman. 
 
 Poor lad ! an hour ago, the brightest face, 
 The supplest form 'mid all our youth was thine. 
 Ah ! how that iron wheel hath marr'd each line 
 Of shapely strength, and crushed each bloom of 
 
 grace! 
 But at the gate of woe stands mercy ''s place. 
 In thy changed body beams her joyful sign. 
 By which God calls thee to a change divine ; 
 Wake, rise, assert thy birth of heavenly race. 
 Bruise, wound, and sore, from worse to worst 
 
 may go. 
 But the heart bruised by godly sorrow's rod, 
 The spirit wounded by the word's sharp sword. 
 The conscience sore from faithful memory's blow. 
 These fester not, they claim the healing God, 
 Sweet flowers, that strew the advent of thy Lord.
 
 84 IV. THE VISITS 
 
 LXXV. 
 
 iSlfbentlj ViMt ^f\t djangeti i^cception. 
 
 There is a smile, — Ohrisfs minister, full well 
 Thou know'st it, when has past that hour of dread 
 Which thy first presence, like thy Master's, shed 
 On hearts that saw in him dread Lord of hell '. 
 Then looks askance, and sullen lips would tell 
 Welcome most cold. "Depart thou from my bed. 
 Oh in thy face I read me doomM and dead. 
 And in thy voice I hear my passing bell."" 
 Thou spakest. Forth new life shot, sudden 
 beam, [day, 
 
 From death and judgment, as from night bursts 
 See ! in his eyes what tearful lustres stream, 
 Around his lips what thankful dimples play, 
 How mild his voice ! An angel thou dost seem, 
 Trailing life, light, and gladness on thy way. 
 
 1 Luke V. 8 ; viii. 37-
 
 IN THE AFTERNOON. 85 
 
 LXXVI. 
 
 From thy close chamber, once more duly shod, 
 Thou walkest forth, the freshening south to meet, 
 And tools of former toil seem strangely sweet, 
 Pledging thee life again, 'mid scented sod. 
 liright suns henceforth wiU tempt to leave untrod 
 Those paths, which thou to wear with daily 
 
 feet 
 Didst vow, when to thy struggling sole firm 
 
 seat. 
 The miry pit denied, and far seem'd God. 
 " Newness, newness ! " was thy cry, when old 
 Was gone, or chasing thee with scorpiou'd lash. 
 Newness alone could push thee past pursuit. 
 So now each old with newborn vigour quash, 
 Thy spirifs renovated strength unfold, 
 () forward ! Newness is thy attribute.
 
 86 IV. THE VISITS 
 
 LXXVII. 
 iSlebentJjl^^isit. Cije training-time of Sicfeness. 
 
 Not he that wrestled on the Istlimian sand, 
 Not he that ran Olympiads meted stade, 
 And never he that Castor\s gloves displayed, 
 Was £01111^1, as thou, the mastery to command '. 
 Far from a world of sin thy tramer's hand 
 For holy abstinence thy spirit laid. 
 And hourly from the sacred ground forbade 
 Care's haggard troop, and lust's enervate band. 
 He taught thee how to hunger and to thirst. 
 Hard lesson ! when the spirit would be full, 
 And heat and cold of changeful hope to bear. 
 He chose thy diet, that nought dense or dull 
 Might clog thy soul, and heavenly strength im- 
 pair. 
 And place thee in the race behind the first. 
 2 1 Cor. Lx. 24—27.
 
 JN THE AFTERNOON. 87 
 
 LXXVIIL 
 ISlcbentJ^ Visit, Ci)e SiHarning. 
 
 Dark was thy present ; wildly didst thou strain 
 Thine eyeballs to the past, thence with quick 
 
 glance, 
 Appaird at the dread sight, didst look askance. 
 Then to the present, turn for ease again. 
 But thence repulsed once more by growing pain, 
 A fearful look didst venture in advance. 
 Lo ! there hot judgment's bolt upon the lance 
 Drove back in shuddering awe thy troubled brain. 
 Then thou didst flap again around thy ark, 
 Uneasy thence another round begin, 
 And rude repulse at each adventure prove. 
 Now thou hast known the pit, deep, wide, and 
 
 dark, 
 Its fiery vault of wrath, and flood of sin. 
 Wilt thou for this desert thy realms above?
 
 88 IV. THE VISITS 
 
 LXXIX. 
 
 ^iDflftij VimU El)e laralgtic. 
 
 From that fell stroke my swooning memory 
 
 Has ne'er looked up again. But as I cast 
 
 Thought's eye but o'er two sentences, the last 
 
 Has ever faded ere the next I see. 
 
 Wreck formless, gloom oblivious, shut to me 
 
 The many-guested chambers of the past. 
 
 While 1 grow dizzy, in confusion fast 
 
 As hfe's unfolding scenes before me flee. 
 
 How changed from him who down Whitbarrow''s 
 
 slope 
 Would race with the fleet cloud, and felt heart 
 
 tlu'ili 
 When the light billow plumed his heels behind ! 
 A nd how from him who founded manhood''s hope 
 < )n the pasfs moveless rock, and ever still 
 One were the come and comina: to his mind !
 
 IN THE AFTERNOON. 89 
 
 LXXX. 
 
 'Tis with me now, as when a boy I row'd 
 My skiff on Morcamb, and the broken wave 
 To backward looks a restless image gave, 
 Where God's bright heaven in dim confusion 
 
 glow'd. 
 But ever onward smooth as marble flow'd 
 The waters, where that heaven, in pictures 
 
 brave 
 As their undying prototype, would have 
 Its deep and imperturbable abode. 
 So Christ shines to me, broken in the past 
 Amid oblivion's waves of woe and weal : 
 But on the future in calm radiance set. 
 And daily feel I sorrow that so fast 
 The calm is swallowed by the dizzy reel, 
 As I live on, receive, adore, forget. 
 
 G
 
 90 IV. THE VISITS 
 
 LXXXI. 
 
 C^tcteentt Visit Cf)e ©Itr IHan's OTomplamt. 
 
 Time was when faces new brought new dehght : 
 They were this world's fresh flowers, with various 
 Blossoming ever from the lap of earth, [mirth 
 Bright promises of hom's and joys more bright. 
 But now they turn away my aged sight, 
 And close my pining heart. Their daily birth 
 Grows with the growing of my daily dearth, 
 Intrudes unseemly on my antique right. 
 For they are foreign faces which hard time 
 Hath pour'd upon me, they have filPd the land, 
 Around they press me, and above they climb ; 
 AVhere once long-cherishM co-mates stood they 
 
 stand. 
 Usurpers, on low bench and chair sublime, 
 And even their smiles seem wreath'd with stern 
 
 demand.
 
 IN THE AFTERNOON. .91 
 
 LXXXII. 
 
 Cf)irteenti) Visit Keplg to tf)e ©omplaint. 
 
 Murmurer! one face in all thou shouldst dis- 
 cern. 
 For love should lift thee to that glorious place 
 Where Ohrisfs dear countenance with dazzling 
 
 grace 
 Fills heart's broad eye as from exhaustless urn. 
 Ever before thee should that image burn, 
 Settling in bright descent on every face, 
 And give thee converse on thy daily race 
 Thus with thy Saviour"'s look at every turn. 
 So pine not after old, nor turn from new : 
 For all are old as his eternal smile, 
 All fresh as his unfading glory's dew. 
 O happy thou that gazest all the while 
 Where nought can rob thee of the joyous view. 
 Or of loved faces break the radiant file. 
 
 G 2
 
 92 IV. THE VISITS 
 
 LXXXIIL 
 Cijirtccnti) Vmt iSffrrt of draper. 
 
 The mist uprose at mom with fleecy train. 
 Wrapping Whit1)arrow in its reeking fold, 
 And CartmelFs ridge, and BowfelFs rocky hold. 
 It will come down (thou saidst) ere noon in rain. 
 And down ere noon it came, and veiPd again 
 Earth's daily forms, and showers with drops of 
 
 gold 
 Bounded 'mid welcomes on our thirsty mould. 
 And man and bird renewed their joyous strain. 
 So mounts prayer's incense, and earth disappears 
 Amid its spiry clouds that seek heaven's door. 
 Experienced faith awaits with thankful tears. 
 And down in need's lone hour the heavens outpour 
 'Mid earth's veil'd forms their treasure. Faith 
 
 uprears 
 The joyous song, and thankful hearts adore.
 
 IN THE AFTERNOON. 93 
 
 LXXXIV. 
 ^f)f tiiminisfiet 5tcfe Etst 
 
 BowFELL hath lost his latest streak of snow, 
 
 Unspotted in his purple soars Nanbiekl, 
 
 With tints of green rude Scoutscar flouts my 
 
 field, 
 ""Mid tufts of daffodils Kent's waters flow. 
 Sickness ! thou hast received thy summons. Go 
 Away with drooping eye, and blood congeaFd ; 
 And come ye forth, loosed suffferers, long con- 
 
 ceaPd 
 By stifling curtains amid chambers low. 
 Now once again at the domestic hearth 
 I find you, reckless of domestic noise, 
 Or basking at your porchway's trellised door ; 
 Or more adventurous teaching ruddy boys 
 Their sturdy task, or turning up old earth 
 On breezy fells, or on the rushy moor.
 
 A , 
 
 Heverstam, from the South. 
 
 V. 
 
 tFnrning. nftrr itisiting.
 
 V. EVENING, AFTER VISITING. 
 
 LXXXV. Cuming fiacfe on ^ttnxn. 
 
 The last door creaks. Hence homeward once 
 
 again. 
 Oh as I turn my languid face I feel [weal, 
 
 A sudden change. The wind itself breathes 
 And brings from Paradise a fragrant rain, 
 Wafting aside helFs voices, shrieks of pain. 
 Groans of bruised hearts, which nought on earth 
 
 can heal, 
 Moanings of guilt, and floods of tears which steal 
 All day from heart's own blood with wasteful drain. 
 Farewell they for a night. And welcome ye 
 At evening's hands whom I resigned at mom. 
 Bright rivers, hills of gladness, dales of glee ! 
 God's bloom, ye nurture not sin's venomous thorn 
 Within that loveliness, but scatter free 
 A balm divine for hearts by trial shorn.
 
 98 V. EVENING, 
 
 LXXXVI. 
 
 iaeflcctions on l^ttuxn. 
 
 Soul ! I am sick at heart, and faint in head. 
 Hard task is mine, long work of woe, to range 
 The dying 'mid the hving, and to change [bed. 
 Voice, look, with cheerful hearth, and wailing 
 All morning I have preach'd, and pray'd, and read. 
 And talk'd, and smiled, and wept. Is it not 
 
 strange 
 To visit thus at hall, and cot, and grange. 
 Another yet the same, 'mid quick and dead ? 
 be not thus disquieted, my soul. [return 
 
 Change thou must have, if thou wouldst seek 
 To him that sent thee on this hot career. 
 And change brings company. The promised goal 
 Gleams tlu'o' long files of men and deeds. They 
 
 burn 
 The most to win that find the way least clear.
 
 AFTER VISITING. 99 
 
 LXXXVII. 
 
 JKrtitation continueti. 
 
 Laden with earnest change from sick to well, 
 
 With souls commended to my daily prayer, 
 
 With heart's own secret, family affair, 
 
 Slowly I mount the steps of this rude dell. 
 
 Sweet flowers that braid my path, I cannot spell 
 
 Your luring delicacy now, nor spare 
 
 A look from my full mind, wdiile morning's care 
 
 Tolls on its wakeful ear like distant bell. 
 
 For penitential vow, and last adieu, 
 
 And moan of broken heart, and groan of pain 
 
 There sound ; and faces crowd upon my sight 
 
 Imploring, writhing, smiling, sullen, plain 
 
 As this morn show'd them. Therefore vainly 
 
 bright 
 Bloom on, or keep your pride for others view.
 
 100 
 
 V. EVENING. 
 
 LXXXVIII. 
 JEetrttation tnterruptrt. 
 
 Thou startlest me with salutation kind, 
 And chidest with a smile my studious trance, 
 And I forgetful say, " Good morn !" perchance, 
 When thou hast dipt into deep eve, and dined. 
 As bumbling bee in spider''s net confined 
 Breaks thro' the filmy threads with furious dance. 
 So on my meditation dost thou glance, 
 And rend the moody tissue of my mind, 
 (xood neighbour come and gone, where thou hast 
 
 been 
 Thou little guessest, 'mid what best, what worst. 
 What altars, what firesides, what bliss, what care. 
 What links compact of reason thou hast burst. 
 What glowing pictures thou hast come between. 
 Slowly I try thy damage to repair.
 
 AFTER VISITING. 101 
 
 LXXXIX. 
 
 Ci)e i^oofes return ing. 
 
 O'er Scoutscar glooms a cloud ! but as it springs 
 Into ten thousand floating specks it breaks. 
 And now the sky above is dark, and quakes 
 With the wild winnowing of ten thousand wings. 
 The rooks sail home ward. The lone hind that brings 
 His herd to Winster's fount, or swain that takes 
 His bleeting flock around the deepset lakes 
 Of Langdale, ask'd, " Whence come ye, wan- 
 dering things ?" 
 Ask''d at prime dawn. And now at eve I ask, 
 " Whence come ye V And ye answer, '"Whence 
 
 dost thou ? 
 Since we at morning darkened all thy air. 
 Art from full rivers of love's daily task, 
 From aspiration's heaven-kissing brow. 
 From depths of thought, from solitudes of prayer?""
 
 102 V. EVENINU, 
 
 xc. 
 
 dFruits of ifHinistrj). 
 
 This bramble, prank'd at once with fruit and 
 
 flower, 
 Brings me those days of skies so blue and mild. 
 Where the sweet citron on his rocky wild 
 Wreath'd fruit and blossom in one fragrant bower. 
 And these admonish how with varied power 
 Of bud, bloom, fruit, my ministry hath smiled. 
 From the loud school, where learns the artless 
 
 child, [lower. 
 
 To the dim room, where life"'s last prospects 
 And when at eve I turn the page of time. 
 Or pore on God's own leaf, thought, action, full 
 In bloom in fruitage, meet at once my gaze. 
 Thus ever dwells my soul in sunny clime, 
 And mix'd with bloom of promise still I cull 
 In fragrant earnest fruit of coming days.
 
 AFTER VISITING. 103 
 
 XCI. 
 Cirrt at iSbftiing. 
 
 Calm evening, thou hast set me weary down, 
 Like him that hath long curious visits paid 
 To London"'s temples, halls, and marts of trade, 
 Then silent sits, into deep musing thrown. 
 For from God's city am I come, where shone 
 Bright palaces of bliss, and in their shade 
 Guilfs prison, sorrow's hospital were laid, 
 And with the joyous hymn swelFd tortured 
 
 groan. 
 And as with weariness my eyelids wink, 
 I muse on every thing, and fix on nought. 
 Study, farewell ! To-morrow I must think : 
 E'en as the well which daily drain hath wrought 
 Must wait thro' night that clouding sands may 
 
 sink, 
 And purity with freshening morn be brought.
 
 104 V. EVENING, 
 
 XCII. 
 
 Sunset. 
 
 (> GOLDEN sun, thrice from thrice-winding Kent 
 Thou leapest with bright image, and thy Ught 
 Thrice stored in heart will burn thro*' drearv 
 
 night, 
 Till o'er steep Farlton it again be sent. 
 Type of that sun, who on the eve he went 
 His beams of heavenly promise shot so bright', 
 Tliat they may cheer long ages with delight, 
 Till once again he fill our firmament. [wake 
 
 Welcome night-watches then! They will but 
 My consciousness to being more intense 
 Which floats amid bright glory's living lake. 
 And welcome dreams ! The liberated sense 
 Will then cold laggard reason overtake. 
 And scale lighfs citadel o'er matter's fence. 
 » John xiv. 16, 17.
 
 AFTER VISITINt;. 105 
 
 XCIII. 
 
 iSbeninfl cnjoget! at Jijome. 
 
 Now am I idle, as I sit and spell 
 
 The unshelved volume, bent o'er evening fire. 
 
 Or muse all aimless, when my eyelids tire, 
 
 Or join tongued joys of home that round me 
 
 swell. 
 Idle as Heversham thy deep-drain'd well, 
 Which to dipp'd pail hath given its full desire 
 From morn to eve, and echoed with the quire 
 Of neighbours grouped around their tale to tell. 
 But now in still of night from depths unseen 
 With noiseless bubljles fills its daily waste. 
 Storing in solitude on crowds to spend. 
 therefore shall thy living well not haste 
 To fill his cistern and repair his sheen, 
 Fresh for the things which morn again shall send!
 
 106 V. EVENING, 
 
 XOIV. 
 
 iSiaminatton of t\\e Bag spent. 
 
 Strange wast thou, Heversham, when duly read 
 Thy varied map, I tried each day thy ways, 
 And solved at eve's return my morning's maze, 
 And stored for morrow from the sheet outspread. 
 But now well known art thou to sight and tread. 
 On dimmest path, 'mid wildest dell that strays, 
 Or climbs lone steep, I undisturbed can gaze, 
 And calmly gather store for heart and head. 
 For ere I start fresh spirits to explore, 
 I ope the Spirit's book for help and guide. 
 Ah, me ! the mazy errors that I find. 
 When I re-ope that book at eventide. 
 And my day's course compare ! Yet thence my 
 
 mind 
 To-morrow sallies wiser than before.
 
 AFTER VISITING. 107 
 
 xcv. 
 
 £tarligi)t. 
 
 Bright bridge between infinity and space, 
 
 Loud clock betwixt eternity and time, 
 
 Thou host of heaven, that in thy march sul)Hme 
 
 Numberest ten thousand milHons to each pace : 
 
 I leave to calculating seers to trace 
 
 Thy beasts, thy heroes, monsters of each clime. 
 
 And class and number them as beacons prime 
 
 To greedy merchants on their watery race. 
 
 For me, each spangle shines life's burning 
 
 throne 
 To worlds that round it roll in order bright. 
 Yet through its hglit sole note of being send. 
 There spirits think and pray in shapes unknown. 
 Thither from day's tired converse I ascend. 
 And find immortal co-mates for the ni<'ht. 
 
 H
 
 108 V. EVENING, 
 
 XCVI. 
 
 Fieto at Nisi)t» 
 
 Whitbarrow and Orion ! In one sphere 
 Ye will not shine, thou with thy ledgy roof 
 Propped by tall buttresses of marble proof. 
 And thou with star-tipp\l foot, and studded gear. 
 Thou portion of exacting earth, how clear 
 A model of thy whole art thou ! Aloof 
 Thou puttest every scene of starry woof, 
 When thou in all thy glory wouldst appear. 
 But thou, Orion, in thy glory's hem 
 Showest those gleaming cliffs, as heaven will 
 
 show 
 In one with fadeless life this mortal birth. 
 Thou quenchest not with over-dazzling gem : 
 So liberal is thy rule, heaven, and so 
 Intolerant thy tyranny, O earth.
 
 AFTEU VISITING. 109 
 
 XCVII. 
 
 ^i)e Single Star. 
 
 As worm tliro' burst cocoon, e'en so would I 
 Thro"' yon blue loophole of reft clouds intrude 
 On one bright star, whom they as veils seclude, 
 Like Eastern King in loneliness on high. 
 Oh, he is worth all heaven's bright company, 
 As, 'mid the flagons the Lord's board that 
 
 strew'd, 
 The cup of blessing in lone plenitude 
 Shone on the holy feaster's heart and eye. 
 Thou deep and inextinguishable draft ! 
 What things of blessedness, unseen, unknown, 
 Bedew the soul as thy bright urn is quaff'd ! 
 And, zone of light exhausted after zone, 
 She seems to see shooting with liquid shaft 
 The primal fountain from beneath God's throne. 
 
 H 2
 
 110 V. EVENING, 
 
 XCVIII 
 Ci)e Cfjings unseen. 
 
 What veil of darkness shall this world remove, 
 What plunge of thought its glaring face exclude ? 
 Still will it thrust our hearts with jostle rude. 
 Still its rough wall present with angry shove. 
 So, thouQ-h he sit unseen in realms above. 
 Christ fills his Church, wakes heart's dead 
 
 solitude, 
 And on each spirit with hard brunt intrude 
 His grasp of anger, and his clasp of love. 
 And that fast iron hold with which amain 
 Earth grasps us for her own, he turns to bond 
 Of gentle love, or sorrow's galling chain. 
 As childlike will or fro ward heart respond ; 
 Vain is the refuge from the penal pain, 
 And vain the wrench from the embraces fond.
 
 AFTER VISITING. Ill 
 
 XCIX. 
 
 ^IFalUng to ^Itt^, 
 
 As fretful babe will lull itself to sleep 
 
 From very vi^eariness of witless cry : 
 
 So from night-watches long I close mine eye, 
 
 And fall from thought and prayer to slumber 
 
 deep. 
 For to my quick imagination leap 
 Wonders and mercies from the opening sky, 
 And showered gifts around my pathway lie, 
 Like heavenly manna, in a glittering heap. 
 Now shines forth each with clear particular 
 
 ray, 
 Now beams but one, which to another glides. 
 And then all run together fused in one. 
 And now again that burning sun divides. 
 Till 'mid the bright confusion sense is gone, 
 And in my Maker's arms I sink away.
 
 '■-C-' '^'' '\^i 
 
 Whitbarrow Cliffs. 
 
 VI. 
 
 €k Trrtiirp JOiglit.
 
 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 
 C. prepare tfjg ^toxt. 
 
 The milk which shapes in strength yon ruddy child, 
 The patient heifer with discerning care [air 
 
 Hath stored from every flower that drinks the 
 In cultured meadow, or on moorland wild. 
 Then nature hath with cunning art beguiled, 
 Thro' secret tubes of delicacy rare, 
 These elements, and tempered each its share, 
 And sour and rough combine one sweet and mild. 
 So full from learned book, from social man. 
 From word, from world, from God's work. 
 
 silent moor, 
 From noisy town, man's glory, be thou stored. 
 Then thro' mind's thousand ways with studious 
 
 plan 
 Impel, combine, arrange the well-wrought hoard. 
 And deal the word's pure milk unto the poor.
 
 116 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 
 
 CI. 
 
 (Kull ti^oug!)t on tijg toaj). 
 
 A PROPHET on my message, shall I hold 
 Aught else in my bespoken heart to-day, 
 And stop to eat and drink upon the way, 
 As nature shall her dainty feast unfold ? 
 Or shall I not at every sense be told 
 That which I bear, and bidden not to stay, 
 But cast and recast all I have to say, 
 Till I have all my mission's scroll unrolFd ? 
 Therefore downcast I walk, and from such 
 
 looks 
 As needs must guide my way, catch with quick 
 
 glance 
 Figure, analogy, comparison. 
 Thus wrest I sohd truth from fleeting chance, 
 And gather knowledge without help of books, 
 And thus my lesson grows as I pass on.
 
 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 1J7 
 
 CII. 
 
 ©0 tfjrougf) all ^^.^catfjcrs. 
 
 Belted Orion, nightly mate once more, 
 And apt yoke-fellow in my work of light, 
 DeaUng thy glittering dole to orbed sight. 
 While I on heart the heavenly radiance pour ; 
 Happy thou seemest. If the south-west roar, 
 And up from sea-wash\l Arnside drive the night 
 Yeasty and pitchy, none dispute thy right 
 To hide, when wanted most thy glittering store. 
 Yet me my hearers in due course await 
 Thro' cold, and mist, and gloom. And were my 
 
 brow 
 Cerclouded from a bosom woe-begone, 
 And eye bedimm'd from storm of darksome 
 
 fate, 
 Yet to life's travellers must I shine on. 
 But living spirit am I, dull earth art thou.
 
 118 VI. THE LECTURK NIGHT, 
 
 cm. 
 
 Cfie eaalfe at Nigfit. 
 
 Earth, shrouded in still night, thou seemest 
 
 dead, 
 Save that with cautious sole I feel thy ground, 
 Whilst now I hear thy flinty rocks"* rebound, 
 Then splash of water from thy mossy bed. 
 Welcome thy gleam upon this bluffy head ! 
 And yet rude icy flakes with tingling wound 
 Drive on my face, then by its warmth, unbound, 
 Cer my hot cheek a grateful coolness shed. 
 So keenly this brute world's rude accident 
 Cuts saintly hearts, then melts before the 
 
 glow 
 
 That burns from lusty faith's full exercise. 
 And dews of heavenly grace in cool descent 
 Gently upon the throbbing pulses flow. 
 And woe itself a healing bliss supplies.
 
 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 119 
 
 CIV 
 
 I LOVE that season, when Arcturus, gone 
 To other skies, hath swept with him outright 
 Our summer from heaven's floor, and wintry 
 
 night 
 Comes with Orion's dazzHng armour on. 
 Not that it smiles to pleasure's listless son. 
 Bringing him festal ball, and banquet bright : 
 But that it soothes with evenings of delight 
 Hearts, whose hard day that bliss hath fairly 
 
 won. 
 Then do they keep high feast, tho' not of earth : 
 Then thronging guests with silent joy surround 
 My blazing candle, and my bickering hearth : 
 And eat and drink, as calls with joyous sound 
 God's word to Angel's food 'mid worldly dearth. 
 And laps in Paradise one spot of ground.
 
 120 
 
 VI, THE LECTURE NIGHT. 
 
 cv. 
 
 Cf)e Eamp rrsumetf for ^WiinUx, 
 
 Again, my lamp, I gird thee to my breast. 
 And thou dost blaze as stars that give the sign 
 To seasons new. No more the glow-worms 
 
 shine, 
 Nor o'er queneh'd lamps of dew my steps are 
 
 pressed. 
 But the crispbent-grass with its frozen crest 
 Crackles beneath me, and the distant line 
 Of lighted hamlets cries. What bliss were mine, 
 'Mid my forsaken home's indulgent rest. 
 CurtainM with darkness deep, as in an ark 
 Thou shinest. Merrily rock, bush, and stream 
 Flash in thy presence, mates to my lone eyes. 
 While dazzled pewits hail thy blazing mark, 
 And flap against my head with ominous scream, 
 And the wild horse awakes with echoiner cries.
 
 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 121 
 
 CVl. 
 
 Hrribcti at tf)e Station. 
 
 From darkness into light, from solitude 
 To company — change surpassing speech, 
 Though the faint candle scarce avails to reach 
 The beams that on our upraised heads intrude. 
 Bright Temple this ! Though speech be plain, 
 
 guise rude, 
 And minds too softly nursed may start at breach 
 Of rule-drawn courtesy, and censure each 
 Expression and address as harsh and crude. 
 Yes, change indeed, still deepening in delight. 
 As every eye grovi^s fixM, and breath is held, 
 While I from my dear Lord my message give, 
 And tell how from the grave's dark night compelled 
 Into the chamber of his dazzling sight. 
 The Saints, to Angels join'd, with Christ shall 
 
 live.
 
 122 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 
 
 CVII. 
 
 Welcome from Endmoor's height ! ye Uttle reck 
 Of ways unsheltered from the driving sleet. 
 Welcome from Milton s dell ! your heedful feet 
 Have dared the brink of Bela's brawling beck. 
 Doff the wet cloak, untie the dripping neck. 
 O welcome thou, and thou. How blest to meet ! 
 Bitter the night. But God's pure word is 
 
 sweet. 
 May now his grace our gather' d spirits deck ! 
 Yet must we wait for silence. The loud rain, 
 Which chased us here, still beats the rattling 
 
 pane ; 
 Meanwhile with well-dried peat stack up the fire. 
 Does not their bliss that meet in heavenly quire, 
 E'en thus the memory of past ills contain ? 
 O blessed shelter this from shower and mire !
 
 VT. THE LKCTnUE NIGHT. 123 
 
 CVIII. 
 
 K\)t (Kongreflatton. 
 
 Met thus, dear friends, from roads of wintry 
 
 mire, 
 We will not envy the proud minster now, 
 With stately dignitaries, row on row, 
 Rising in order from the surpliced quire. 
 While here, on humble settle next the fire, 
 Answering with ruddy cheeks its ruddy glow. 
 Our children sit : o'er them, with shadow'd 
 
 brow, 
 Our viUage elders in throng'd rows retire. 
 Seen above all our venerable Dean, 
 Grey patriarch of the hamlet, leans his chin, 
 Protruded on his staff of knotted thorn, 
 Reading my face with observation keen, 
 While streams full light upon his features thin. 
 Ah, who such temple and such flock would scorn !
 
 124 VI. THE LECTURE XIGHT. 
 
 CIX. 
 
 Cljc Eccturr. 
 
 O IT doth rouse my heart, all- glorious Lord, 
 When boundmg from beam'd roof, and panell'd 
 
 screen, 
 Wafted o'er faces of imploring mien, 
 Sounds like the rolling surge thy living word. 
 But oh ! it soothes my spirit, when outpoured, 
 Like some fresh spring o'er margin evergreen 
 Bubbling with nurture forth, more heard than 
 
 seen. 
 It munnurs through the lowly cot clay-floor'd. 
 There, where smoke-polisli'd rafters come and go, 
 In fitful flashes from the flickering hearth, 
 And my low notes to darkling corners glide, 
 Though few the faces, and all rude the show. 
 It seems to pierce beyond this dim-lit earth. 
 And echo back from realms of spirit wide.
 
 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 125 
 
 ex. 
 
 Cijc ilfcture lioom. 
 
 See for the cushion''d desk a table spread 
 With snow-white sheet. There the house-bible 
 And as I open flits before mine eyes [lies. 
 
 That leaf which registers the born and dead. 
 From bumish'd brass, an heirloom old, is shed 
 My light : for pulpit, high behind arise 
 Quaint mountings of my elbow chair, which vies 
 With the dark beams that frown emboss'd o'er 
 
 head. 
 Ancestral furniture, and preaching more 
 Than twenty pulpits of our modern day, 
 From generations swept away before. 
 Thus wants our church no monuments, nor stay 
 Our steps for choice of pew. The stone-flagg''d 
 
 floor [pray. 
 
 With benches spread gives room to hear and 
 
 I
 
 126 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 
 
 CXI. 
 
 ^raget for plainness. 
 
 Thou blessest not the ostentatious board, 
 Where meats with costly condiment supply 
 Fastidious hearts, and wines of season high 
 To jaded palates freshening di-aughts aiford. 
 With two small fishes and five loaves, O Lord, 
 Thou didst five thousand followers satisfy. 
 O'er founts of quickening power, which met no 
 
 eye. [pourM. 
 
 Not o'er brute piles of bread thy thanks were 
 therefore come with thine omnipotence, 
 As I from humble store with patient skill 
 My trusted dole of heavenly bread dispense. 
 Come, multiply it manifold to fill 
 These hungered hearts, and nerve the wearied 
 
 sense 
 Of these poor lagging followers of thy will.
 
 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 127 
 
 CXII. 
 
 C^c sclf:^tienial of ^lainnesg. 
 
 To pour the stream of sounding eloquence. 
 Sweeping majestic with the mind's high tide, 
 This asks no sacrifice. The fool takes pride 
 In chafino; with hoarse wave discretion's fence. 
 But freelv to sluice forth that flood immense, 
 Into thin rills our l)rimful strength divide. 
 Which, with a noiseless unseen stream mav 
 
 glide, 
 And quicken untill'd mind and barren sense : 
 So shallow that the dullard sees its bed, 
 So narrow that the child may overleap. 
 So still that it may drench the thirsty soil : 
 So wisely led as in returning coil 
 To soak hard ignorance through with virtue 
 
 deep, 
 This asks a sacrifice from heart and head. 
 
 I 2
 
 128 VI, THE LECTURE NIGHT. 
 
 CXIII. 
 
 I COUNT not heads. " Amen'" in mingled 
 
 strain, 
 Yet not confounded, token fit supplies 
 To miss a presence, or to recognize. 
 One loaf it is, yet clear is every grain. 
 To knowledge of a heart comes next in gain 
 The knowledge of its sound. blissful prize. 
 When deep to deep of inmost spirit cries. 
 And love from lowest depth pours forth all plain. 
 Then feel I one with thee, and thee, and thee : 
 Thee, with thine artless loudness, earnest 
 
 child ; 
 Thee, maid, with whom thy whispers soft agree ; 
 Thee, widow, with thy tone so firmly mild ; 
 Reverent old men, and youths devoutly free. 
 Blest hour of love unfeign^l truth undefiled.
 
 VI, THE LKCTURE NIGHT. 129 
 
 CXIY. 
 
 15ieafeing up from Hecture. 
 
 Again into the darkness. Yet shall home 
 Receive us robed more richly than we went, 
 And ope to us, as heaven to those that lent 
 Their hearts on earth to faith in worlds to come. 
 Therefore again through mist and gloom we 
 
 roam. 
 With tliis short rest on pilgrimage content, 
 Glad in new strength, which once again hath sent 
 Our spirits forth on world's way wearisome. 
 Good night ! Our hearth will glow more bright 
 
 for this. 
 More bright our tapers. For they draw their ray 
 From the same secret fount of light and bliss. 
 And with a seal more sacred, shall we pay 
 To each dear cheek of love night's parting kiss, 
 More hopeful of new gifts with coming day.
 
 ].'»0 VI. THE LECTURE MGHT. 
 
 cxv. 
 
 TiiEE, gate, gill, wall, with sudden flashings 
 
 caiiaht 
 By my bright lamp, as thro'' thick gloom I fare. 
 Are my events to-night, demand my care. 
 And stir with various phases various thought. 
 And now that sign by which my way is 
 
 taught, 
 Glows with bright cross amid the murky air. 
 " To Heversham," amid reflected glare 
 The letters cry, in shadowy carvings wrought. 
 Here end all errors. Best, as last, of signs. 
 Thou only certain ! Well dost thou assume 
 That holy shape, bright guide amid the dark .' 
 Crowning event upon my course of gloom, 
 Deeply my heart thy glowing type divines. 
 Returns thy greeting with congenial spark.
 
 VI . THE LECTURE NIGHT. 131 
 
 CXVI. 
 
 Bela ! yon blackness, where no starry ray 
 Spangles thy stream, is of thy bridge the mark ; 
 And I must shun the light, and choose the dark. 
 If safely I would cross thee on my way. 
 Thou sayest, "False knowledge and false comfort 
 
 play 
 Thus round life's path, and resolution stark 
 Must pass them by, and shun the dangerous 
 
 spark. 
 They lure to depths, to ruin they betray ; 
 But thou on truth's strait road, tho' into night 
 It lead, put forth thy foot in faith unscared. 
 And bless such light as glimmers from above. 
 See how a splash can shiver that false light. 
 Be warned, and saved from harm, from peril spared, 
 Pass on, and bless with thanks the Lord of love."
 
 o 
 
 2 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 
 
 CXVII. 
 m)t Ittgfjts of tf)is ^iil^orlti. 
 
 The whinstack that on lonely Farlton flares 
 With lambent beard, and opes the pitchy pit 
 Of darkness, whence stream, tower, hill, valley 
 
 flit, 
 Then shuts again. Brief range to them he spares. 
 The candle in the pane, betokening cares, 
 Twitch'd hither, thither, in uneasy fit. 
 Seeming at last o'er settled woe to sit, 
 (Perchance o'er death its mocking lustre glares.) 
 The North, deck'd out as for the judgment-day 
 With fiery shapes, which here like blessed souls 
 Shoot up, and there like cursed, are clean put 
 
 out: 
 Lights of this world, to-night around they play, 
 And I by them peruse my inward scrolls 
 Of heavenly thought, unmoved amid their rout.
 
 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 183 
 
 CXVIII. 
 
 d)e laistant ?Ligi)t. 
 
 Light, thy red hue bewrays the sinful hand 
 Which gave thee thy fleet being. Whence dost 
 
 peep ? 
 From Heversliam's near dell, or Storth's far steep, 
 Or cloudy Arnside's still remoter strand I 
 And art thou circled by a smiling band 
 Of household faces, or dost sentry keep 
 Lonesome beside the sick man's broken sleep, 
 
 Or 'mid the reveller's shouting circle stand ? 
 
 How God's light shames thee ! Unmistaken beam 
 
 Moon, stars, in silvery pureness to man's eye : 
 
 They stamp their place distinct on heaven's wide 
 brow, [stream 
 
 Emblems of those bright truths which ever 
 
 With pointed radiance of reality. 
 
 And tell the glorious fountain whence they flow.
 
 134 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 
 
 CXIX. 
 
 Dear Heversham ! With heart how free and 
 
 hght 
 I cross thy misty head ! Though hoarsely blow 
 The wild north-west from BowfelFs crest of snow, 
 And Sirius fail to pierce the murky night, 
 They cannot drown the sound, nor veil the sight, 
 Which it is carrying from rafters low, 
 Where spake God's word to hearts that yearn'd 
 
 to know, 
 And faces glow'd with holy pleasure bright. 
 Such day hath been a life. Such duties, done 
 In lowly faith, and single-hearted love. 
 Arm us against a world of pang and pain. 
 They draw us towards a home where pain is none, 
 Where God's own family in realms above 
 Welcomes each toil-worn brother back again.
 
 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 135 
 
 cxx. 
 
 liftrospfct of ilpcture. 
 
 Thoughts, nestlings of my bosom, which 1 bore 
 Two hours ao-o across this lonesome heath : 
 Doves, plumed with words, and wing'd with 
 
 eager breath, 
 That sent you mounting from my heart's warm 
 
 core : 
 In bright mid-heaven of other hearts ye soar, 
 'Mid glory's starry heights o'er sin and death, 
 Or with a callow offspring underneath 
 Brooding, your meditative murmur pour. 
 Meanwhile fresh passengers in airy flight 
 From shores unknown arrive, and re-arrange 
 Your ancient mansions to their new delight. 
 And thus my bosom teems with heavenly change. 
 Receiving all day long to give at night, 
 Open again at night to thoughts still strange.
 
 136 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 
 
 CXXI. 
 
 (Kompang in our ^^orfe. 
 
 House of this world, that gleamest on mine eye 
 Floor'd with thy marbled mountains, while I 
 
 liail 
 Each star that twinkles as a golden nail 
 Driven deep to fasten thy o''er-roofing sky, 
 Frail type, with all thy strength, of what is 
 
 nio-h ! 
 For flames, which thy proud structure shall assail, 
 Will to our eyes unscaffolded unveil 
 That glorious house where now our toils we ply : 
 While heavenly tinklings from behind thy screen 
 Answer our trowel, and Angelic tone 
 Of voices to our labour's song respond : 
 And silver trumps proclaim a watch unseen, 
 That changes with our watch. O not alone 
 Work we, nor fleshly is our brotherhood''s bond.
 
 VI, THE LECTURE NIGHT. 137 
 
 CXXII. 
 
 When summer from sweet south with laughter 
 Of juicy life breathes fostering, fuU-fed [bright 
 This turf resists our wear of daily tread. 
 Nor deigns a beaten path thro' lonesome night. 
 But when keen winter gnaws with cankering bite. 
 And steps leave traces on the passive dead, 
 Then launch we free upon this wild, nor dread 
 Night\s gloom, but trust the clue of gleaming 
 
 white. 
 So when life freshens with each joyous morn, 
 Still, as experience wears, new foUies start ; 
 Her paths are printed but to disappear. 
 But when sharp trial's wintery hour hath worn 
 The rampant spirit, bruised the rank-grown heart. 
 Then, Christ, thy path thro' this dim world 
 
 shines clear.
 
 138 
 
 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 
 
 CXXIII. 
 
 Ei)t ^im on tijr ?i^ta. 
 
 What radiant sparkle tips yon darksome height? 
 So looks with twinkling glance the setting Lyre, 
 So the cot's taper, so the furze-fed fire. 
 Dim mortal eyes, that fail to read aright ! 
 Will ye confound with earth that heavenly light 
 Which bears of blessed souls a glorious quire 
 In its bright car with wheels that never tire, 
 Mocking our earth with seeming touch each 
 
 niglit ? 
 Or will ye set in heaven that earthly glow 
 Which beams perchance amid a group of sin. 
 And lights to deeds which shun all-seeing day ? 
 Ah, doubtful guides ! how hardly do we win 
 Truth's fast-fix'd goal along your dusky way, 
 And heaven and earth by flashes come and 
 
 go!
 
 VI. THE LECTURE NIGHT. 
 
 139 
 
 CXXIV. 
 
 () GLORIOUS Head, tho' hid from our dim sight 
 Beyond the veil of the last starry ring, 
 With that pure hfe, which thou to us shalt bring 
 From the deep adyt of essential light * : 
 Thou image of the Father, ever-bright. 
 Not clay and iron are thy feet, great King, 
 But every member is a living thing. 
 Instinct with spirit from thy heavenly might. 
 Thouffh clothed with dust of this vile restless 
 Yet duty's motion, as due rounds it fills, [world, 
 Shakes off some portion of that soiling veil : 
 And its indwelling glory shines unfurFd 
 With lustre mild, as glow-worm on these hills 
 O'er which, day's mission closed, I stem night's 
 
 gale. 
 
 * Col. iii. 3, 4.
 
 VII. 
 
 i'^t ^c^rrimrntiiTn nf tljc Irrninn.
 
 VII. THE PREPARATION OF THE 
 SERMON. 
 
 CXXV. Ef}t Ctue aSHigitiom. 
 
 Wisdom there is, as little taught as known 
 
 In haUs of boastful science. Ask and try 
 
 The simple peasant's heart, it will reply 
 
 As the deep well to the descending stone. 
 
 One sentence, with one plash of trenchant tone, 
 
 Will sound unto thy mind from truths which lie 
 
 Below the depth of man''s philosophy, 
 
 Pure as the stream that issues from God's 
 
 throne. 
 And a strange thrill upon thy heart shall creep 
 From things unseen of realms of woe or bliss. 
 For from the waters of the Word, which fill 
 The cells of honest hearts, pm'e, cool, and deep, 
 He answers ; Gain thee wisdom rare as this, 
 And leave earth's founts to bubljle as they 
 
 will. 
 
 K
 
 144 VII. THK PREPARATION 
 
 CXXVI. 
 
 He that would teach man's heart must learn 
 
 his own. 
 Up with thy torch then in that cavern drear, 
 Nor shut thine eyes when hideous forms appear ; 
 By the red flare from fearful darkness thrown, 
 To thee must passion'^s motley brood be known. 
 Dark elves of thought, foul imps of guilty fear. 
 Seen judgmenfs flash, which shows the vast and 
 
 drear. 
 Threatening in hideous ruin tocomedovMi. [grope, 
 Unscared tliro' gloom of conscience thou must 
 Thro' passages of tortuous self must wind, 
 And keep undimm'd thy light, untorn thy clue. 
 So shalt thou learn to sound thy brother's mind. 
 So minister to faith, so help to hope, 
 So teach to shun the false, and seize the true.
 
 OF THE SERMON. 145 
 
 CXXVII. 
 Stutij) reQuitcti for plainness. 
 
 "As poor yet making rich, as having nought. 
 And yet possessing alP." There, Preacher, view 
 Thy high quaUfication, and be true. 
 Take thought, if thou wouldst give thy people 
 
 thought. 
 As man to man his word thy Master brought. 
 While Angels learn'd what Angels never knew ; 
 And upon Godhead's inward stores he drew. 
 When from the lilies of the field he taught. 
 Blest therefore thou, if like, as lief, to him, 
 Thou hast from study long, and thought intense, 
 Fiird, until black with depth, thy spirit's font. 
 And doubly blest if, flowing o'er the brim 
 With clear and shallow rills of common sense, 
 Ft fill thy thirsty flock in ceaseless wont. 
 5 2 Cor. vi. 10. 
 K 2
 
 146 VII. THE PREPARATION 
 
 CXXVIIL 
 (Bxtxtim after plainness. 
 
 Gone is that season, join'd to lost and dead, 
 When I was wont from Severn'^s margent steep, 
 Proud of the diver's nimble art, to leap 
 And cleave the glassy tide with plunging head. 
 Oft would I envy then the senseless lead ; 
 So hard it was to sink, and sunk to keep 
 The buoyant bottom of the impatient deep, 
 And wrench the glistering pebble from his bed. 
 But come that season is, when I must strive 
 With head now grey against that buoyant lore 
 Which fain to realms of lofty thought would 
 
 drive, 
 And reach and keep with clenched grasp the 
 
 floor. 
 Though fathom under fathom I may dive, 
 Where lies truth''s pearl, the wisdom of the poor.
 
 OF THE SERMON. 147 
 
 CXXIX. 
 
 Cf)e tiifficultg of Painitfss. 
 
 Wild seamew, deep thou preachest to my heart, 
 Thus waving thy fleet motion. Now snow-bright 
 Thou skimmest the smooth sea in level flight, 
 Now stoopest to the waters, thence to start 
 Afresh to upper realms with dripping dart. 
 So when to teach my gathered flock I write, 
 And fain would move in sense's clearest light, 
 And simplest truth in homeliest phrase impart.. 
 How hard to keep the upper region clear, 
 Where all my course is seen, each turn is 
 
 plain ! 
 Ah ! down I sink to thought profound and 
 
 dim : 
 Then vex'd remount a level course to steer. 
 Then in the deep I dip my wing again, 
 And then afresh the unbroken surface skim.
 
 148 VII. THK PREPARATION 
 
 cxxx. 
 
 Cijc ^tpaci)ci's Architecture. 
 
 Down with proud pillars, spires, and towers, 
 
 O mind, 
 Down to the dust with height of golden throne, 
 Down with thoughfs sculptured elemental stone, 
 In loftv wisdom's artful frame combined. 
 Come, leave deep lore and curious skill behind. 
 Build thou the poor man's heart, that house 
 
 alone 
 Which thy dear Master from thy hand will own. 
 That thou his servant's destined meed mayst find. 
 O builder of God's Temple, build in love, 
 True to that model which his hand hath given, 
 Nor take away a single line, nor add. 
 Mason of spirit, architect of heaven, 
 Here boast thy taste, here all thy science prove, 
 And sing amid Angelic partners glad.
 
 OF THE SERMON. 149 
 
 CXXXI. 
 
 OTonceal tljg ?tearning. 
 
 Thou wast updrawn from earth, ambitious haze, 
 Tho' thou hast seal'd midheaven, and dost intrude 
 Thy murky form for all we would have view'd, 
 For sun, for Whitbarrow, for Kenfs bright maze. 
 But down again before the sloping rays 
 To native earth thou fallest, and bedew'd 
 With thy bright gems each flower burst forth 
 
 renewM, 
 And each loved shape comes clearer to my gaze. 
 Such is my learning. When it would aspire, 
 Dim meanings mock the poor man's mind, and 
 
 veil 
 The forms familiar to his thoughts and love. 
 But keep it low, and then with brighter fire 
 Each heavenly image glowing bids him hail. 
 Unveil'd in beauty stand the things above.
 
 150 VII. THE PREPARATION 
 
 CXXXII. 
 
 EJaijfu to learn JEan's ?^eart. 
 
 VVouLDST know man's secret heart I Seek not 
 
 thy peer. 
 There jealous forms the inward man invest. 
 Seek rather thou the lowly peasant's breast : 
 Here all shall meet thee undisguised and clear. 
 Spouted from heads of fashion insincere 
 There in trim basins thoughts and feelings rest. 
 Through willing veins of genial nature pressed 
 They stand in pools of sunny brightness here. 
 Hither then bring thy pail, and seek supplies, 
 As for each day thou wouldst thy stores renew. 
 At every cottage thou shalt find this well. 
 See on the threshold childhood's prattling 
 
 crew, 
 Within, their mother longs her tale to tell, 
 Their sire to speak his mind. Draw and be wise.
 
 OF THE SEKMON. 151 
 
 CXXXIII. 
 
 O DELVER thou in LeasgilPs dreary moss, 
 Black peat, black water for thy view, and nought 
 From mate to wake a word, or prompt a thought, 
 Say, will this phrase thy understanding cross ? 
 And in this sentence wilt thou be at loss. 
 Who on the Fell the livelong week hast wrought, 
 PiUng its girth of stony fence, and caught 
 No sound, but what wild winds to thee may 
 
 toss l [word. 
 
 Thus let me prove each sentence, weigh each 
 To every heart in judgment's scale severe. 
 Plain to the rude, yet smooth to the refined. 
 So shaU my message sound in every ear, 
 And child, and youth, and sire, and swain, and 
 
 lord, 
 Shall give me all their heart, and all their mind.
 
 152 VII. THE PREPARATION 
 
 CXXXIV. 
 
 O FOR a spirit to follow to the height 
 
 Where, summ''d and pruned her feathers, mine 
 
 would tower ! 
 O for a heart to share with mine the power 
 Of moulding thought, the show of vision bright ! 
 But lonely as the eagle"'s is my flight, 
 When far away the flock of doves will cower, 
 And, nestling close within their lowly bower, 
 Leave him to sweep at will the realms of light. 
 Ah, Lord ! I hear thee chiding, " Boastful child ! 
 Thou art no eagle flapping at hea vena's bound. 
 But amid doves the dove most meek and mild. 
 The wing most strong for my blest message 
 
 found 
 Flies the most low, and leaves the cloudy wild 
 For quiet mates that nestle on the ground."
 
 OF THE SERMON. 
 
 158 
 
 cxxxv. 
 
 K\)e titscerning Stctoart. 
 
 The crew escaped to lonely rock must share 
 
 Equal with the unequal. Babyhood 
 
 Must munch with wailing cry the strong man's 
 food, 
 
 And toothless age must strive with stubborn fare. 
 
 But thou art where thou hast to spend, not spare; 
 
 And milk and honey, in unfailing flood. 
 
 Wine and strong meat, for child for greybeard 
 
 good, 
 (jrod gives thee in full charge with wakeful care. 
 Therefore 'tis thine, steward, with keen eye 
 To watch each want, and with discerning hand 
 From the piled store the meet supply to draw. 
 Woe, woe to thee, if age or infancy 
 Or rich or poor shall lack their just demand. 
 Too careless thou to keep proportion's law.
 
 154 VII, THE PREPARATION 
 
 OXXXVI. 
 
 Suit <©IK antr Young, 
 
 Yon lad, as fresh in knowledge as in hue, 
 Hath led his hoary grandsire, on whose face 
 In grooves of care experience carves its trace. 
 Now, steward, bring thou forth thine old and 
 
 new. 
 To both those hearts thou must obtain the 
 
 clue. 
 In both thy spirit must usurp a place, 
 Here thro' dilated, there contracted space. 
 And yet thro' all proportion's changes true. 
 Shall Satan's spirit enter, and not thine. 
 Clad, crown'd, anointed prophet as thou art 
 For message into hearts by power divine ? 
 Go, gather round thee listening in each heart 
 Its inmates, utter thy convincing sign, 
 And they will hear thee : — only do thy part.
 
 OF THE SERMON. 155 
 
 CXXXVIl. 
 
 Thou ball compact of thought, for me 'twere 
 
 well 
 That thou shouldst lie till time shall bring my 
 
 soul 
 Leisui'e thy implication to unroll, 
 And into words thy clustered sense to spell. 
 But others seek my breast for wisdom's cell, 
 And stones, not bread, were thy unbroken dole 
 To minds whose narrow vent admits no whole, 
 But part on part in thought exact must tell. 
 Come forth then, and in long-drawn tissue shine 
 Analogy, glow figure's painted woof, 
 Evolve close argument in flowing line : 
 Expand blunt counsel, and relax hard proof. 
 Dense thoughts unravel, knots of lore untwine. 
 drudgery ! Yet 'tis thy flock's behoof.
 
 156 VII. THE PREPARATION 
 
 OXXXVIII. 
 
 Anticipate t^g ^taxtxs. 
 
 From inward tablet on to outward page, 
 As mounting thought impels the ready pen ; 
 In studious pause o"'er truth's sole record then, 
 And then again upon another stage 
 Of exhortation calm, and comment sage ; 
 Then in quick fancy to the inquiring ken 
 Of upturned faces, when hill, dale, and glen 
 Shall send me hearers, childhood, youth, and 
 
 age: 
 Such race I run in writing out my mind, 
 Studious to draw from every fountain clear, 
 Eager to every heart to pierce my way. 
 Ah ! for such harvest who fit hand shall find. 
 Where springs green blade beside the tawny 
 
 ear. 
 And all must have their portion, each his day ?
 
 OF THE SERMON. 157 
 
 CXXXIX. 
 
 ^\it fluent JpiU 
 
 Kent, thou wast but a brook an hour ago, 
 Threading with gleaming maze a waste of sand. 
 Our boys were fording thee, thy boats on land 
 Updrawn were mocking thee with empty show. 
 Now bright in one broad sheet thy waters glow. 
 While mountains far asunder form thy strand ; 
 And stately ships their snowy sails expand, 
 And drifting clouds their long deep shadows 
 
 throw. 
 So oft when I my sacred task have plied, 
 Thought, word flow'd in with tortuous scanty 
 
 stream, 
 And I was throwing down my bootless pen ; 
 Then suddenly with wide expanse of gleam 
 Rush'd in, all full and free, thought's crested tide, 
 And all was life, and light, and motion then.
 
 158 VII. THE PREPARATION 
 
 CXL. 
 
 (Communicate toitf) ot^er iHintis. 
 
 Burst from cloud-capping heaven, which Nan- 
 
 bieWs peak 
 Hath pierced, and calhng from each noisy dell 
 His full-fed helpers in, how proudly swell 
 Kenfs waves, who yesterday went forth so meek ! 
 Yet all his pride is vain, and strength is weak. 
 The tide hath dammM his wave, and bids him 
 
 tell 
 With refluent wave dry cove and vacant cell, 
 And bathe the flowers of long-abandou'd creek. 
 So,if thouwouldst thy breasfs full compass prove, 
 Rmi not with thought at will, but talk and read 
 With other minds, and thus opposed o''erflow. 
 Then spots of mind, which never had thine heed 
 Secrets of heart, recesses of self-love. 
 Pleased thou shalt visit, and shalt joy to know.
 
 OF THE SEKMON. 159 
 
 CXLL 
 
 iEatntain a ?l?ig!j 5tantiarti, 
 
 Martlet, that underneath my eaves hast found, 
 Above the tumult of our household care, 
 Place for thy pendent nest, and nursest there 
 Thy callow brood, with heaven all shining 
 
 round ; 
 Thou sittest to thy patient duty bound. 
 Save when thou salliest forth for nurturing 
 
 fare, 
 With skim and dive along blest fields of air. 
 Disdaining once to touch our sinful ground. 
 I envy thee : so up to the pure height 
 Of heavenly thought, all eartlily cares above. 
 Could I my delegated young sustain : 
 And to their cradle of bright hope and love 
 Bring daily food, that knows no earthly stain , 
 Swept from the fields of heaven, in holy flight
 
 160 V!I. THE PREPARATION 
 
 OXLII. 
 
 He that would know this valley, and combine 
 In one clear plan, cot, fannstead, stream and 
 
 grove. 
 Must view it from Whitbarrow'^s cliffs above. 
 Or gaze from rocky Scoutscar's terrased line. 
 So must thou mount with all that strength of thine. 
 And o'er lone heights of meditation move, 
 Thou who thy flock in paths of heavenly love 
 Wouldst lead, and each true pilgrim's road design. 
 So only canst thou know each tangled way 
 Of man's wild breast ; thoughts, feelings, as they 
 
 start, 
 Read in one view with word, and deed, and look. 
 So clear shalt thou the varied scene survey 
 Of sacred toil, and bring to every part 
 Its proper aid, and speak from God's own book.
 
 OF THE SERMON. 161 
 
 CXLIIT. 
 
 Eearn tije ^mxV$ iSntrance* 
 
 As whilom Persia's heaven-anointed king 
 Round Babylon his wakeful watch would wind, 
 And to her gates his stealthy ear inclined. 
 Like tiger, slowly couching for a spring : 
 Jn faintest sound he grasp^l substantial thing, 
 And drew the city's plan into his mind, 
 By shouts, by song, by buzz, the streets divined. 
 The Temple's square, the theatre's wide ring : 
 So thou, anointed for the pulling down 
 Within our heart tall towers of lust and pride. 
 Strongholds of sin, and demon-peopled town, 
 Must keep close watch to its barr'd gates 
 
 applied, 
 And, gathering every sign as it is shown, 
 Learn all its ways ere thy assault be tried. 
 
 L 2
 
 162 VII. THE PREPARATION 
 
 CXLIV. 
 ^f)t 5taplc of useful IHctiitation. 
 
 "Up with those downcast eyes ! to-day we tell 
 Message in festal pomp, God's heralds drest 
 In crowns of sunny gold, and purple vest, 
 And lace of streams, that glance adown each fell.'" 
 No, mountains ! When the bee would store her 
 
 ceU 
 Most daintily, she shuns the poppy's crest. 
 Nor heeds his scarlet pride, but plies her breast 
 To draw from the meek heather's waxen bell. 
 So now, when I would cull the choicest food 
 Against my Lord's glad day, I pass you by. 
 Gaudy ye are, but scanty is your juice. 
 Blossoms of quiet thought, and holy mood, 
 Though mean, yet nectarous with rich supply 
 From God's engrafted word, these are of use.
 
 OF THE SERMON. 163 
 
 OXLV. 
 
 Befi'ciencg of tije Wessons of ©uttoarti i^ature. 
 
 Mountains, why thus intrude upon my heart 'i 
 Fain would I hide me with Grod's word alone. 
 " Read it in us. His will in us is known." 
 No, no. Ye tell but of the truth a part. 
 In vain in lines of living light ye start. 
 Man's heart is changed since first all true ye 
 
 shone. 
 Ye greet him in a tongue but half his own. 
 Unreal is your speech, and weak your art. 
 I see no sin-spots on your stainless snow, 
 No sorrow 'mid your gleams of laughing cheer, 
 Nor death in your flint-ribbed masses scan. 
 Are ye God's faithful witnesses ? Ah no ! 
 To angels ye may publish full and clear, 
 But ye proclaim but half the truth to man.
 
 HeTOrsbam, from the North East. 
 
 VIII.
 
 VIII. SUNDAY. 
 CXLVI. Rising on Swntiag. 
 
 Methouht I heard a trumpet in my ear. 
 O Lord, thy watch proclaims another round. 
 Again with bounding feet I press the ground, 
 And don for day's long strife my warlike gear. 
 O now the holy summons swell more clear : 
 Life pours from beast and bird a gladder sound, 
 And from Whitbarrow's flinty breast rebound 
 The gathered peals of echo far and near. 
 Loud they proclaim thy resurrection's morn, 
 Ushering a day of ease and calm delight. 
 No march to-day for limbs all tired and worn. 
 No weary foraging, no perilous fight. 
 We rest within the camp, and there adorn 
 Thy glorious tabernacle, Lord of might.
 
 168 VIII. SUNDAY. 
 
 CXLVII. 
 
 Sunrise of 5unl3aB. 
 
 Lord's Day,tliou dost forestall thy priestly right. 
 
 Setting with judgment clear a kingly crown 
 
 On peaks far severM, while between them frown 
 
 More dark the brows of each neglected height. 
 
 And to that crown fresh robes of living light 
 
 Thou addest, flowing prodigally down 
 
 In varied fold, while dazzling rays are tlirown 
 
 From studs of belting crags of crystal white. 
 
 resurrection''s morning, thus we tell 
 
 The monitory omen of thy face, 
 
 And in thy Master''s name we greet thee well. 
 
 Bring with thy newborn light some new-lit grace 
 
 In cheering token, and all fear dispel 
 
 Of crownless head, and unillumined place.
 
 VIII, SUNDAY. 169 
 
 CXLVIII. 
 Suntiaj) ifHorning. 
 
 How calm is this bright morn ! No noisy wheel 
 Sounds from the valley up this lonely hill. 
 The horn of news is mute, the saw is still, 
 The very winds in reverent whisper steal. 
 Lord, what will thy red right arm reveal ? 
 For they, whose hearts have waited on thy will, 
 Look for the noisy storm, dread plague, to fill 
 The void of silence and the cahn of weal. 
 It is the day when thou didst doff thy shroud, 
 And all this silence deep forebodes the storm 
 Of song from every heart before thy throne. 
 Burst forth harp, lute, string, pipe of every 
 
 form, 
 Thunder, ye songs of praise, in deepened tone. 
 Roar seas of glad thanksgiving, roar aloud.
 
 170 VIII, SUNDAY. 
 
 CXLIX. 
 
 C^e I3a|) of OTlearet Fifins. 
 
 O Christ, how fondly thro'' this world's dun veil 
 We think to read thy face ! Let this but shine, 
 We challenge for our cause thy smile's sweet sign. 
 And cry o'er our own will, " Dear Master, hail ! " 
 Meanwhile with anger red or sorrow pale 
 That face may gaze upon our crooked line, 
 And one by one the features dread combine 
 With which thou shalt award guilt's hopeless 
 
 jail. 
 Therefore we pray thee now with tokens clear 
 To bless thine own bright day. Let joyous heart 
 In its sweet smile no disappointment fear. 
 While prayer shall discernment keen impart. 
 And mounting songs of praise that veil shall tear. 
 And we shall see thee, Master, as thou art.
 
 VIII. SUNDAY. 
 
 171 
 
 CL. 
 
 €^e moolts at m^ox'k. 
 
 Good Lord ! it is thy day, and I would draw 
 On all around its types of rest to bring. 
 Ill brooks my jealous soul the faintest string 
 That chimes not with the music of thy law. 
 Yet hark ! the architectural rook's loud caw, 
 As with stick-laden bill and flapping wing 
 He builds his cradle, and adjusts its swing 
 To each wild wind, forecasting every flaw. 
 O yes ! This day thou blessest with that calm 
 Which breathed ere yet noised forth one work 
 of man. 
 
 Unslipp'd lies sin from his arrested palm. 
 
 And these, by Angels orderM, work thy plan, 
 
 Each swoop is worship, and each, note is psalm ; 
 
 All in thy service goes as it began.
 
 172 
 
 VIII. SUNDAY. 
 
 CLI. 
 
 This path, which prints with greener stripe the 
 Of dewy turf along the breezy fell, [floor 
 
 Pierces the wood of yonder rocky dell, [door. 
 Then leaves its charge, good steward, at God's 
 Steep crag, twined boughs, to bearers hindrance 
 For it a blessed privilege compel : [sore, 
 
 Hence no response can come to tolling bell 
 From trains that in long blackening pomp de- 
 plore. 
 But bride and bridegroom lead their festive train 
 Of dazzling white, and sponsors slowly bear 
 The babe to lustral font o'er this green sod. 
 Thus seems it walk unknown to death and pain, 
 Bright path of life and joy 'mid earth's dim care. 
 Type of that brighter way which leads to God !
 
 VIII. SUNDAY, 173 
 
 CLII. 
 C^e ari)urcfjBart(. 
 
 The hamlet thro' green loopholes spied, the 
 
 sound 
 Of measured stroke of anvil, whence vs^ould seem 
 Old life to quicken still with daily dream 
 The hearts which sleep amid this sacred ground : 
 And caught thro' clefts the sea's eternal bound, 
 Bright with heaven's inextinguishable beam, 
 And crags of adamant in shade and gleam 
 Answering with life to light's unwearied round. 
 These well become the spot where we entrust 
 Dear forms to native earth, and swells the strain, 
 " I am the resurrection and the life." 
 Glad answer give they, wi'itten clear and plain, 
 In God's own letters, to our prayer's hard strife, 
 As falls with hollow nuirmur dust on dust.
 
 174 VIII. SUNDAY. 
 
 CLIII. 
 
 O POOR, Pactolus, were thy sands of gold, 
 Though they the Lydian treasures should out- 
 weigh, 
 If half the wealth of one dark clod of clay 
 That underlies this Churchyard's green were 
 For precious particles its veins enfold, [told. 
 Which, bound in glorious tissue in their day. 
 Immortal spirits clothed with bright array. 
 Glittering in wisdom''s form and beauty's mould. 
 So walk with reverence. Thy footsteps tread 
 Upon most precious ore, though dull and still 
 Hidden in dross of worthless dust it lie. 
 And from the furnace of Christ's day of dread 
 Quick it shall run, fair moulds again shall fill 
 To robe the radiant forms that mount the sky.
 
 VIII, SUNDAY. l7o- 
 
 CLIV. 
 Oli^oice of (Kf)urct8arts. 
 
 Why reck we whether 'neath smooth turf we lie, 
 Where rock and wave with shifting colours quick 
 Are gleaming, and tall trees play wanton trick 
 With quivering shadow, and with sunny sky ; 
 Or beneath bare black mould, where, close and 
 
 high, 
 Walls overhang with piles of dusky brick : 
 Or beneath reedy grass, sear, lank, and thick, 
 Where fenny wastes avert the weary eye i 
 Oold reasoning ! Many a stranger here hath 
 
 found 
 His chosen bed of rest. O yes, we crave 
 The sight of things above beneath the ground. 
 We will not lay us pent within the grave, 
 I3ut stretch ourselves, as sleepers on the mound, 
 And in that sleep awake to rock, wood, wave.
 
 176 Vlir, SUNDAY. 
 
 CLV. 
 
 Thou preachest even from thy senseless stone, 
 Ohrist^s servant ! and methinks hov^ fresh and free 
 Canadian wilds are breathing now on thee 
 With perfume of a service nobly done. 
 For thou with feet, and not with heart alone, 
 Didst follow. Cataract, desert, forest, sea, 
 To thee were daily tracts of ministry, [known. 
 And strange thou earnest, whence thou wentest 
 Man of large heart, all gladly for his sake 
 Thou barest, and I feel the crimson stain 
 Of chiding shame when I of weary ache 
 And faltering limb along this turf complain, 
 While becks overflowing form my boisterous lake. 
 And home which sent me forth takes in again. 
 
 " Rev. John Langhome, Missionary in Canada, from the So- 
 ciety for the Propagation of the Gospel, for nearly thii'ty years.
 
 VIII. SUNDAY. 177 
 
 CLVL 
 Cf)c Ollerfe. 
 
 I HAVE a little clerk on yonder tree, 
 A joyous throstle. As each sentence ends 
 At the throng'd grave, a shrill Amen he sends. 
 And notes which ill with slow response agree. 
 For he sings forth with sounds of louder glee 
 As falling earth with solemn accents blends, 
 And rustling ropes awake the groans of friends. 
 Wishing, and yet afraid the last to see. 
 And oft we thought a herald spirit dwelt 
 Within him, and sang forth from realms unseen 
 The welcome given to the arriving soul. 
 And triumph's gladness from his song have 
 
 felt 
 Glance thro' the heart, with shaft as quick as 
 
 keen, 
 Tho"* sin proclaimed in death his conquest whole. 
 
 M
 
 178 VIII. SUNDAY. 
 
 CLVII. 
 
 From tinted panes, with storied forms that glow. 
 From chiseird stones which mind and hand com- 
 bine 
 In Hnes of beauty, knots of quaint design, 
 Man bids God's house its Dweller's glory show. 
 Weak rival, Whitbarrow's cliffs of snow, 
 Where still newbu-ths of form each moment shine. 
 From coursing gleams and shadow's shifting line. 
 Proclaiminof that the Maker maketh now. 
 Yea, God pours forth his glory as the life, 
 Infusing, filling, without stint of rule. 
 And all sings back, inspired unto the brim. 
 While, ever with this world's dead things at strife, 
 Man metes, cuts, joins, with cautious skill of 
 
 school, 
 Happy to wake life's image dull and dim.
 
 VIII. SUNDAY. 179 
 
 CLVIII. 
 
 Cold monument of death stands this tall pile, 
 
 For twenty generations here have stood, 
 
 Each in its day, and stampM on stone and 
 
 wood, 
 Poor wormlike fossils, their peculiar style. 
 And yet of life, for ne'er hath died meanwhile 
 The song of praise, nor fail'd Angelic food. 
 Nor Chi-ist to nourish with his flesh and blood, 
 Nor Grod upon his suppliant's gifts to smile. 
 Therefore each flower'd chapter, sculptured 
 
 scroll. 
 Linking our present meeting to the past, 
 Shouts to our spirit, as its strain is pour'd, 
 " The mercies of the Lord for ever last." 
 So Israel sang upon his house restored ; 
 Shall we not sing on ours erect and whole I 
 
 M 2
 
 180 VITI. SUNDAY 
 
 CLIX. 
 ^f)( Olfiurcf) iafll. 
 
 How deep this stillness ! One low sound were now 
 As spark 'mid thy dry furze, brown Haverbrack, 
 Winning to every ear a ready track, 
 Kindling each heart with its own element's glow. 
 Bell of Chrisfs flock, thou soundest ! high and low, 
 And far and wide thou quickenest, as ring back 
 The notes of clear response which never lack 
 From hill and cliff where Kent's bright waters 
 
 flow. 
 Soft prelude of that trump which shall convene 
 The last assembly, pour thy virtue deep. 
 Thrill through heart's realm with sounds that 
 
 live and mean. 
 So roused at quickening pulse in startled heap 
 The dead shall wake to Christ, and this lone scene 
 Be glad with throngs that joy his day to keep.
 
 VIII. 
 
 SUNDAY. 181 
 
 CLX. 
 ^i)e Summer ©ongresation. 
 
 As o'er yon yellow sands wide-spreading Kent 
 Rolls with the gathering of a hundred rills, 
 Drawn from the treasures of a hundred hills, 
 And all that capping clouds, piled snows have lent : 
 So here in one a hundi-ed tones are blent, 
 In one work join'd a hundred distant wills. 
 And nooks which thro"" long weeks dead silence 
 
 stills 
 Find here for heart and voice a welcome vent. 
 Yon wood hath sent its hidden troop to pray. 
 Yon deU peals vocal here with swell of song 
 Where the lone daw thou heardest yesterday : 
 And where were sweeping clouds with fleeces 
 
 long, 
 To tabernacle spirits (thou wouldst say), 
 Are nurtured lungs, proved here flesh sound and 
 
 strong.
 
 182 VIII. SUNDAY. 
 
 CLXI. 
 
 Cf)e 512ilinter OTcittgregation, 
 
 When Kent's bright tide with summer breezes 
 plays, [flow. 
 
 And nave and aisle with lig-ht-robed throngs o'er- 
 Swells then my heart the fullest ? Empty show ! 
 Lost are the few true lights 'mid borrowed blaze. 
 But when the sun behind dark Farlton stays, 
 And Bowfell 'mid pale skies with plumy snow 
 Smooths his scarr'd front, and Kent's wild cata- 
 racts throw, 
 Echoed from icy moors, a flaky haze : 
 When long-drawn aisles with niggard light grow 
 pale, [come, 
 
 And bared from robes of warmth, not show, have 
 Sung o'er dim highlands, by the screaming gull 
 All the dear faces that ne'er wont to fail, 
 Then gloriously lighted is thy dome. 
 And bright, Lord, thy day. My heart is full
 
 VIII. SUNDAY. 183 
 
 CLXII. 
 (Ciiangeg; in t^c (Confircgatton. 
 
 These sprouting saplings will no longer wait 
 To mask all ancient marks with novel screen : 
 Whitbarrow's snowy cliffs, Kent"'s mazy stream : 
 Are push'd with brisk intrusion from my gate. 
 So in my church, when I have conned of late 
 Each upturned face, rare and more rare are seen 
 The hoary head, sunk eyes, and rigid mien. 
 That flout my ministry with novel date. 
 But growing ranks supply their voided part 
 With flaxen curls, and with unwrinkled brow, 
 On which this hand hath stamped the Spirit's 
 
 seal : 
 And eyes, for which I have informed the heart, 
 Which, having known, gaze eager more to know, 
 Convey to hearts with which my heart can feel.
 
 184 VITI. SUNDAY. 
 
 CLXIIL 
 Cije OTijurc^ on t^e dTell. 
 
 Our fathers built amid the sheltering dale, 
 With porehway fenced from blasts the roomy 
 And with a grove of plmny sycamore, [door, 
 Kept house and fold secm-e from mountain gale. 
 But to God's house they would not care to scale 
 'Mid blast and shower, kneel on a stony floor. 
 And sing amid the whirling tempesfs roar, 
 And o'er its noise with sturdy lungs prevail. 
 Such change of scene seem'd fit for change of 
 
 heart. 
 And God's bright works around in full display 
 Seem'd scene most apt upon his day of love. 
 And inward comfort play'd more lively part 
 Opposed by outward contrast. Do not say 
 They did not set their hearts on things above.
 
 Interior of Hevershara Church. 
 
 IX. 
 
 fire §nm.
 
 IX. THE SERVICE. 
 CLXIV. mtt» ant( Oleremonies. 
 
 Ever in heaven-born spirits there survive 
 
 Beams of that glory whence they drew their birth, 
 
 And 'mid these nether scenes of vulgar earth 
 
 Marks of a nobler country they derive. 
 
 'Mid sounds of daily care they daily strive 
 
 To bring back some of those old notes of mirth, 
 
 Which they have heard within the dazzhng girth 
 
 Of winged Seraphim that sing and live. 
 
 Forms are they which in sight and sound express 
 
 With one bright spark to souls of fire divine 
 
 The blaze of glory where themselves have bow'd. 
 
 Simple and pure, they wear the lightest dress 
 
 That may their airy elements confine. 
 
 And mellow the deep radiance, and not shroud.
 
 188 IX. THE SERVICE. 
 
 CLXV. 
 iKTommunion. 
 
 Pillar ! that to the eternal Father's blaze 
 Turnest thy dazzling sonship, while to man 
 In Adam's flesh thou looniest at om* van, 
 As onward through this wild in march we gaze: 
 Blest screen 'twixt us and those consuming rays 
 Which turn to ashes all whom his dread ban 
 Of curse hath smitten, thou ere worlds began 
 Prepared to shield from wrath, to guide our ways : 
 Christ ! with thy body our beseeching train. 
 As from this earth it mounts to realms above. 
 Ends in thy Father's presence, and amain. 
 As he pours on thee full his floods of love. 
 They flow along our ranks, and one loud strain 
 Eesponds, as thro' our thrilling hearts they move.
 
 IX, THE SERVICE. 189 
 
 CLXVI. 
 
 HBtUti of Communion. 
 
 Ye chide us, motley troop of black and white, 
 Rooks from the wood, and seamews from the bay, 
 As o'er the furrow gleams your plumed array, 
 Tracking the plough which turns your food to 
 
 light. 
 For we, whom to one snowy colour bright 
 Chrisfs blood hath wash'd, deem it offence to stay, 
 If he with heavenly food bestrew our way : 
 No surer signal breaks our band in flight. 
 Yet spread thy food, vain world, and who is 
 
 slack I 
 Heathen and Pharisee can then convene 
 Delving and fluttering josthng white with black. 
 Fowls of the air, Christ's blest examples ! keen 
 Your satire cuts, nor dare we fling it back : 
 Ye launch it forth on us from bosoms clean.
 
 190 IX. THE SERVICE. 
 
 CLXVII. 
 Ki)t Set of (Eommunion. 
 
 As he that 'mid a mighty host is pent 
 Sees neighbours few, and has well known them all, 
 Till chance uplift him o''er them, free and tall, 
 And give imprisoned eyes and heart a vent : 
 Then spreads the circling mass in dim extent, 
 Blackening the welkin with a living wall, 
 Brave brethren, with one common cause and 
 
 call : 
 Shouts of good courage from his heart are sent. 
 So, lifted above this familiar throng. 
 Our heart beholds that host which fills all 
 
 earth. 
 And overflows into the courts above, 
 Circling the throne of light with living girth. 
 Dear brethren of one banner and one song ; 
 We shout to Christ in hymns of faith and love.
 
 IX. THE SERVICE. 191 
 
 CLXVIII. 
 
 preparation for ^ISiorsi^ip. 
 
 Thou everlasting Spirit, fire divine ! 
 Light up this heart's full furnace, to enfold 
 With thy quick flame, while all vile dross is cold, 
 Such ore as hath been heap'd from truth's deep 
 
 mine, 
 So on this day in molten stream shall shine 
 Thoughts of pure silver, feelings of fine gold, 
 And fill thy Liturgy's engraven mould 
 To each embossment of its fair design. 
 So psalm and hymn and litany and creed, 
 Not fiird with empty breath of voice alone, 
 But with heart's substance to due measure 
 
 press'd, 
 Shall with the God of truth not vainly plead. 
 But shall be treasured in that heavenly chest. 
 Where amid jewell'd cells he keeps his own.
 
 192 IX. THE SERVICE. 
 
 OLXIX. 
 
 C^c ^otiilB access. 
 
 Do spirits only meet before thy throne, 
 
 Father of spirits ? No : that glorious seat 
 
 At thy right hand is full, that we may 
 
 greet 
 Flesh of our flesh, bone partner of our bone, 
 First-fruits in heaven's bright sanctuary shown 
 Of these vow'd bodies in which now we meet, 
 And offer upturned looks and voices sweet. 
 Mingling with Angels' raptured praise our 
 
 own. 
 Ragged, rich-robed, child, man, in due array, 
 Each in our talent's livery mark'd and clad, 
 Christ's servants waiting at our order'd post. 
 Using his name whom all our hearts obey, 
 We come before thee with confession sad. 
 And in thanksgivings' mingled triumph boast.
 
 IX. THE SERVICE. 193 
 
 CLXX. 
 
 Cijc dFamilj) Sroup. 
 
 O SWEET procession of domestic throng, 
 Bright ranks unfolding tlirough our portal here, 
 The sweetest harmony of accents clear 
 Bringing to knit our links of holy song : 
 Ye bid us feel that to this place belong 
 Joys of that Paradise, where Angels rear 
 The song on entering souls, and with loud cheer 
 Receive them their immortal ranks among. 
 But, ah ! not there as here, in one glad train, 
 But one by one with long drear interval 
 Of loss on loss that portal shall ye gain : 
 Lorn stragglers, spent with race, and bruised 
 
 with fall. 
 Your gladness bright from fires of purging pain, 
 At your last death-cry be assembled all.
 
 194 rx. THE SERVICE 
 
 CLXXL 
 
 Blest Penitence ! Is it the shelfy rock 
 That lands us from sin's waters, whose smooth 
 Soon hurried into falls of whelming tide, [glide 
 And there amazed we wring each drowned lock, 
 Then upward look and shudder at past shock, 
 Then downward, where the wave with madder 
 Hurls to the pit? Before us rages wide [pride 
 A gulf, whose waves at all escape would mock. 
 Here must vve stay then, stare and moan and die ! 
 Look, look, what downward comes ? a glittering 
 
 line 
 Overhangs these cliffs which jeer us with faint sky. 
 But who shall mount along a thread so fine ? 
 Have faith, cling fast, fear not. why doubt I i 
 For, Christ ! it is thy voice, it is thy sign.
 
 IX. THE SERVICE 195 
 
 CLXXII. 
 Cije absolution. 
 
 Wrung forth from the wave's agony and heat 
 How brightly, spread before the gleamy morn, 
 Like sudden burst of bloom upon the thorn, 
 The raiment dazzles with its whitened sheet ! 
 Yet many a genial influence it must greet 
 From radiant sunshine, and from gales heaven- 
 Ere spot and wrinkle clear away be worn, [born. 
 And thou pronounce its purity complete. 
 So vainly will the penitential flood. 
 And vainly hands in prayer"'s hoarse agony 
 
 wrung. 
 Assure thy conscience of returning good. 
 Ere, in their royal proclamation sung, 
 Christ's words shall reach thy heart, and pour 
 
 his blood 
 Upon those stains which to its folds have clung. 
 
 N
 
 196 IX. THE SERVICE. 
 
 CLXXIII. 
 
 Prayer of the Lord ! seven times an hour my 
 
 heart 
 Shall utter thee, and find thee different still, 
 While grows from strength to strength the 
 
 new-born will, 
 And thoughts of heaven arrive, of earth depart. 
 As gleams across familiar mountains dart, 
 Creating all anew : the nameless hill 
 Bursts forth, known dales retire, and scanty rill. 
 And lowly cot to sunny radiance start : 
 Here shines some spangle new in glory's crown, 
 Fresh themes of praise from depths of silence 
 Blest bread, before untasted, fills my hand ; [swell, 
 And, ah! some trespass, burst from memory's cell, 
 With sudden accusation takes its stand, 
 And help I crave for needs before unknown.
 
 IX, THE SERVICE. 197 
 
 CLXXIV. 
 
 Words of our Creed, that from this suppUant 
 
 crowd 
 Like wave on wave, in murmur deep arise 
 As article to article replies, 
 And faith's overflowing secret bursts aloud : 
 Christ in his robe of flesh ye more enshroud, 
 And draw him nearer to our longing eyes, 
 Traced from the babe that in the manger lies. 
 To kingly state that rides the shining cloud. 
 On as ye peal, the form grows sharp and clear, 
 Our Lord, our God ! We stretch with reverent 
 To handle, with adoring eye to see. [hand 
 
 Lo ! now fuU-forni'd in all his lineaments dear 
 He is amongst us. Stand not, bend the knee. 
 No more his lingering promise we demand. 
 
 N 2
 
 198 IX. THE SERVICE. 
 
 OLXXV. 
 
 'Tis sweet to think how Adam might design 
 Some lost dehghts of Eden to renew, 
 And o''er the uprooted curse of thistles grew 
 The box, the myrtle, shittah-tree and pine. 
 How beaniM his eye to gain from their green 
 
 line 
 Brief glimpses of old bliss, then wept to view 
 Of that lost home an image so untrue 
 As gave not back life's blooming tree divine. 
 E'en so these strains from floor to roof that ring 
 Seem with their holy sweetness to my heart 
 That blessed garden's native song to bring. 
 But, ah ! the echo faint, the jointless part ! 
 From lips polluted, breasts defiled, we sing : 
 Pure innocence is wanting to our art.
 
 IX. 
 
 THE SERVICE. 199 
 
 CLXXVI. 
 (Eoramon draper* 
 
 Amid the Sanctuary's gloom the coal 
 Of flaming sacrifice with fitful glare 
 Probed holy depths, and tokens of God's care 
 Flashed wdth the light of ages on the soul. 
 Now gleam'd the ancestral folds of Aaron's stole, 
 Then the dim adyt's veil as dread as fair ; 
 Now shone the sevenfold lamp with golden glare, 
 Then the well-order'd shewbread's mystic dole. 
 So may our sacrifice of prayer this morn 
 Pierce with its heavenly Ifght each templed 
 
 heart, 
 And from the depths of buried memory 
 Bid the past days of shining mercies start, 
 And thus from us may hearts as yet unborn 
 Receive and see what we now joy to see.
 
 200 IX. THE SERVICE. 
 
 CLXXVII. 
 Cf)e (Icimmantimcnts. 
 
 These holy tables the first reader threw 
 Into pale wonder, as celestial day 
 Shot from the Prophet's face o"'erpowering ray, 
 And the carved letters shone with glory''s dew. 
 Therefore we wisely place them, where one view 
 May gather them to that thrice-blest array 
 Which loaf and cup on Christ's own board 
 
 display ; 
 Then every letter glows with spirit new. 
 then they carve their meaning on our heart : 
 As, " If ye love me, my commandments keep," 
 They cry, and grave with radiant glory's dart. 
 Thus may these heaven-lit letters never sleep. 
 But to om* eyes instinct with spirit start. 
 While we with vows resolve, o'er faihngs weep.
 
 tX. THE SERVICE. 201 
 
 CLXXVIII. 
 ^raget Moxt ^cxmm, 
 
 " Now for a portion of thy sevenfold might, 
 Thou truth and Ufe ! " Thus beats my heart in 
 
 prayer, 
 Chiming with faltering footsteps up the stair 
 Which leads me to the pulpifs fearful height. 
 With thee above me, throned in dazzling light, 
 With these below me, waiting to repair 
 From heahng wells their weekly drain of care, 
 I quiver between terror and delight. 
 Weak flesh, and sinning at this very hour 
 In conscious lack of aptness to my trust. 
 In strains of piteous warning I implore. 
 While strung to my commission's task of 
 
 power 
 1 deal forth thy denouncements stern and just, 
 And bid them turn and weep and sin no 
 
 more.
 
 202 IX. THE SERVICE. 
 
 CLXXIX. 
 
 ^1)0 5121iorfeing of tiit leader. 
 
 As waked by lightning''s flash the starry pole 
 And earth beneath in all its darksome ways, 
 And East and West burst forth in one bright 
 
 blaze ; 
 The traveller walks free, and spies his goal. 
 So one brief prayer, conceived within the soul 
 On the steep brink of action, will upraise 
 A flame of wide-spread brightness to amaze 
 The very heart which holds the burning coal. 
 Not only seen is heaven, but opened too, 
 And my commission gleams as it comes down 
 From hands and nod which gives the Angels 
 
 charge. [tlu-ough 
 
 My heart has lost this world's vain sight, and 
 Clear utterance holds forth the world unknown, 
 And each dim thought shines out distinct and 
 
 large.
 
 IX. THE SERVICE. 203 
 
 CLXXX. 
 
 Cf)f impression. 
 
 Quite hush'd seemed every sound. Now seems 
 
 to fail 
 E'en every breath. And while my lonely strain 
 Comes back to me, as 'mid the dead, again, 
 I feel my cheek with anxious wonder pale. 
 Still is the depth of noon, the mutter''d tale 
 Of bird and insect woos our ear in vain, 
 Till bursts the gunner's volley in the plain. 
 Then suddenly we note the noiseless gale. 
 So peal'd that sentence on the heart, and scared 
 The thoughts to dive into its secret night, 
 And the held breath a crowded passage spared. 
 Now, Preacher, ply thy skill, put forth thy 
 
 might. 
 All turns on what shall follow. 'Tis less hard 
 To win the victory than use aright.
 
 204 IX. THE SERVICE. 
 
 CLXXXI. 
 
 "Now set our table to th' all-glorious East, 
 Whence on approaching face and heart glad sign 
 Of the eternal Dayspring down may shine, 
 And light with Heaven's own lamp om* bloodless 
 
 feast. 
 Now spread the sheet, unspotted and uncreased, 
 Emblem of Olu-ist's true bride. In order'd hne 
 Let patined bread await with chaliced wine 
 Christ's word to have their mystic spirit released. 
 Now call our guests. Empty is aisle and nave : 
 But thro' what issue pour'd the living sea ? 
 For here is landed but one thin spent wave. 
 O Christ ! and shall so rare the gathering be 
 In heaven's bright chancel, when earth's open'd 
 
 grave 
 Shall pour her throngs into eternity ?
 
 IX. THE SERVICE. 205 
 
 CLXXXII. 
 Ef}t Same. 
 
 Each lifeless form that wins in turn thine eye, 
 Bright river, gleamy mountain, shadowy dale. 
 Bidding thee at this holy porchway hail, 
 Uncharged with word proclaims that God is nigh. 
 But peals not from within a louder cry. 
 When Christ's own word hath clad these ele- 
 ments frail 
 Of bread and wine with his own glory's veil 
 To our quick spirits, as they mount on high ! 
 Not to mere sight these harbingers appear, 
 But through whole man, on nature's circhng 
 flood [here!" 
 
 They course, and cry aloud, " The Lord is 
 In every secret cell of flesh and blood 
 Their voice is heard, and mystically clear 
 The present Deity is understood.
 
 206 IX. THE SERVICE. 
 
 CLXXXIII. 
 
 I LAID thy hoary granclsire at the goal, 
 Where grave received from bed. In mid career 
 I joined for one long race thy parents dear, 
 And now thou comest for thy heavenly dole. 
 O thou fresh racer, how my fearful soul 
 Yearns o'er thee, as starts many a buried year 
 To mind in these thy father's features clear, 
 And longs in thee with new events to roll ! 
 E'en now thy struggling limbs demand the race. 
 Fain wouldst thou leap out of my arms with 
 
 cries 
 Of hot impatience, guiltless yet of words. 
 O wait till on the list thy name I place. 
 And wash thee in that laver which supplies 
 Angelic strength, and send thee forth the 
 
 Lord's.
 
 7X. THE SERVICE. 207 
 
 CLXXXIV. 
 
 The aspen waves his head amidst the sky, 
 Answering all rays that glance, all winds that 
 
 blow, 
 While, sheltered in unquivering shade below. 
 Incessant at his root the suckers ply. 
 The maid from the full fountain draws supply, 
 Unconscious of the heights above that glow, 
 And gather from the glittering stores of snow 
 And capping heaven the floods that never die. 
 So ye, dear children, little dream how far 
 Wide of your thoughts, and high that mind 
 
 must soar, 
 And in long conflict of experience war, 
 Whence ye must draw for heaven"'s unfailing 
 Simple as element, and clear as star, [store, 
 And fresh as dews on morning's lap that pour.
 
 208 IX. THE SERVICE. 
 
 CLXXXV. 
 
 awaiting for ©bensong. 
 
 He that on fragrant morn of gleamy June 
 Hath cHmb''d his tangled way from winding 
 
 Kent 
 To grey Yewbarrow^s rocky battlement. 
 And thence surveys his path for afternoon. 
 Sees furious Winster fallen into a swoon, 
 Stiird in his glittering tarn, while dells deep 
 
 rent. 
 And tracks thro"* mossy woods again present 
 His morning joys. He longs to tread them soon. 
 So from this pause of matin praise again 
 We look with yearning hearts to evensong. 
 O for the breath of that inspiring strain ! 
 O for that brotherhood's one-minded throng ! 
 O for those words to heart so deep and plain ! 
 Lord, for thy house how fervently we long !
 
 IX. THE SERVICE. 209 
 
 CLXXXVI. 
 
 Afternoon. 
 
 Day of the Lord, thy very glare makes dim. 
 As with a golden haze it smooths away 
 The edge of horrent cliff, and chasmM bay, 
 And masks of those bleak hills each feature 
 
 grim. 
 Still onward to my heart thy splendours swim ; 
 The Sun of Righteousness there clothes his day 
 With robes of whiter light, whose dazzling ray 
 Melts all to harmony quite full of him. 
 What, though all rugged frown life's distant 
 
 scene. 
 And the long gloomy ridge of earthly woes 
 Here sink in chasms, there rear the icy crest, 
 It cheers us under forms of sweet repose, 
 Softthrough the radianceofthisheavenly screen — 
 Yes, verily this is a day of rest.
 
 210 IX. THE SERVICE. 
 
 CLXXXVIL 
 
 ©bentng. 
 
 The Sun hath wheeFd down Arnside^'s sloping 
 
 height, 
 Clouds like Jehovah''s tent, o"'er Morecamb bay 
 Piled, the last glories of the Sabbath day, 
 Draw our unwilling eyes on parting light. 
 But, glad Sun of Eighteousness, what night 
 Shall quench within our hearts thy new-lit ray ? 
 Burning 'mid evening song, its glories stay 
 With comfort inextinguishably bright. 
 Everlasting Spirit, what a sea 
 Thou rollest in our hearts, those beams to meet. 
 With roused emotion's sound, thought's bicker- 
 ing glance ! 
 O how divinely fair, how heavenly sweet 
 The multitudinous laugh of holy glee 
 That beams and speaks along the quick expanse !
 
 JX. THE SERVICE 211 
 
 CLXXXVIII. 
 
 Day of Sainf s rest, thy calm hath pierced the 
 
 night ! 
 Assuming with meek gUde their due degree 
 The starry hierarchy would choristers be, 
 And close the sun's glad song from loftier height. 
 Crowded glows heaven with congregation bright. 
 Whence hymns of adoration, shouts of glee 
 Come down thro' Spirifs vasty depth to me, 
 Prolonging with far echoes heaven's delight : 
 Lapping the listening soul in blissful trance, 
 Sweet answer to our cry of this day long. 
 Meet music to that elemental dance 
 Which they have footed since their glittering 
 
 throng 
 Leap'd out of Chaos with explosive glance, 
 And God's own word, " Exist ye," led the song. 
 
 o
 
 Levens Bridge. 
 
 X. 
 
 tT'ljr IrnBnns.
 
 X. ANNIVERSARIES AND SEASONS. 
 
 CLXXXIX. Ci)e Saint's IBag. 
 
 As in one room of the ancestral hall 
 The great forefather shows his pictured face, 
 And, as in glory lonely 'mid his race, 
 So lonely ornament upon the wall : 
 And some brave youth amid his sons, from all 
 Retired, dehghts to haunt the sacred place, 
 And gaze and muse, till every featured trace 
 Grows vocal, and cries loud with rousing call : 
 So, blessed Saint, we sever from the year 
 This day to thee, that thou before our eyes 
 Mayest in thy loneliness of faith appear 
 Chrisfs dauntless soldier ! How our hearts 
 
 arise 
 To follow, as thou didst, that Master dear, 
 And share with thee of love untired the prize ,' 
 
 o 2
 
 216 X. ANNIVERSARIES AND SEASONS. 
 
 cxo. 
 
 (Eljristmas Bag. 
 
 Now glossy ivy with its berries swart, 
 Now prickly holly with its clusters red, 
 Entwine with wreaths each pillar s sculptured 
 
 head, 
 And deck its stony flowers with Uving art. 
 O Christ ! in this thy temple they impart 
 A living meaning, when aU else is dead, 
 Bringing to memory what thou hast said. 
 And fresh as they thy faithfulness to heart : 
 " Lo, I am with you till the world shall end." 
 Yes, in mid-winter of our unbelief, 
 Tho' breasts be frozen, and tho' hearts be cold, 
 Thy Church blooms ever green, joys forth to 
 
 send 
 Shoots of eternal fruit, immortal leaf : 
 Thy life stirs in it, glowing sevenfold.
 
 ANNIVERSARIKS AND SEASONS. 217 
 
 CXCI. 
 CtoentB^nintf) of dFefiruarg, 
 
 Again amid the host of roUing days 
 
 Thou numberest to thy troop one follower more. 
 
 Lorn February ! Proud as one in four, 
 
 It calls for flowing cups and festal blaze. 
 
 Yet four times further have our struggling ways 
 
 Been push'd towards doom's inexorable door, 
 
 And four times more portentous on heaven's 
 
 floor 
 Its star the signs of fearful change displays. 
 How shall we keep the feast ? With tears well 
 
 due 
 For fourfold loss, or smiles for fourfold joy, 
 Or mock this gleamy day, and smile tlu"o' tears? 
 O thou that liftest up this sign anew 
 That fourfold we our short reprieve employ, 
 Wake us to fourfold hopes with fourfold fears.
 
 218 X. ANNIVERSARIES AND SEASONS. 
 
 CXCII. 
 Opting. 
 
 Thou givest back to Wliitbarrow his fern, 
 Thou givest back to Hehii his furze of gold, 
 Thou givest back to Levens his leafy fold, 
 Thou givest back to Kent his gull and heron, 
 Prodigal year ! unequal to discern 
 Right hand from left, back to the senseless 
 
 mould 
 Thus giving all again, why dost withhold 
 From living form that life for which we yearn. 
 Nor dry our tears ? Yet thou hast strung afresh 
 My spirit's strength. Time dances back with thee 
 CrownM with a double wreath of joy and bliss. 
 That life, which fails not with this failing flesh, 
 Beats through my soul more warmly, breathes 
 
 more free 
 Amid a world more lovely. Thanks for this.
 
 ANNIVERSARIES AND SEASONS. 219 
 
 CXCIII. 
 Ci)e Summer S)Olstice. 
 
 Sun, by whose setting orb we mete sweet spring. 
 From Morecamb's bay to BowfelFs broken cone 
 Marching o'er Scawfell and rude Coniston, 
 Tall mountain-peaks thy milestones, stately king ! 
 At fullest pride, as wont, thou daily thing. 
 Thou meetest thy dethronement. Months soon 
 
 gone, 
 By each due stage by which they urged thee on, 
 Down to the level sea thy disk will bring. 
 The rocky notch at which each eve I gaze, 
 And mark thy wane, is still a lower spot. 
 Till in the trackless wave is lost all sign. 
 Infectious is thy radiance, and thy lot 
 Pursues thy light to all that drink thy rays. 
 And we and ours but glitter and decline.
 
 
 V 
 
 «s:k::>w 
 
 Sandside . 
 
 XI.
 
 XI. THE HOLIDAY. 
 
 CXCIV. efioict Of Hvamfile. 
 
 It is my holiday. Now where shall fall 
 
 The lines of leisure ? Are not moments sweet 
 
 When huge Whitbarrow's snowy cliffs I mete. 
 
 With upturned eye, and listen to the call 
 
 Of screaming hawk, that like a motionless ball 
 
 Specks the blue patch of sky, which shines to 
 
 greet [my feet 
 
 Strain'd sight o'er these tall crags? Or sliall 
 Vault o'er the rocks where Kenfs vex'd waters 
 
 brawl ? 
 Or with the seamew shall I watch the tide, 
 And flee to rocks before the overtaking waves. 
 Thence moralize upon life's bygone way, 
 And pray that former paths of lust and pride. 
 May thus, beneath the precious flood that saves. 
 Be wash'd out smooth 1 That were a holiday.
 
 224 XI. THE HOLIDAY. 
 
 cxov. 
 
 " Bounds, ho ! Bounds, ho ! Bounds, ho !" 
 
 Dear Raven, spare 
 Thy boding croak. Is it so deep a sin 
 From tasking toil one holiday to win. 
 And snuff short breathings of unwonted air ? 
 "Out of bounds! out of bounds! aye, that you are."" 
 Dear thrush, my lure has been thy merry din, 
 Heard while I roved my parish-bounds within. 
 Why on some twenty steps cry out " Beware !" 
 " What, eh ! what, eh ! Bounds ! bounds ! "" 
 
 Now, dear seamew, 
 Why of a brother-fisherman complain ? 
 Passing my bounds do I on thine intrude ? 
 Pure spirit is the prey which I pursue, 
 My shore is on eternity's vast main. 
 Dear chiders, ye appear too sharp and rude.
 
 XI. THE HOLIDAY. 225 
 
 CXCVI. 
 
 Why fleest to where voice of man is mute, 
 Searching where thrush from brake, and lark 
 
 from sky, 
 And gull from sands shall to thy heart reply ? 
 Why leave the wise creation for the brute ? 
 Friend, had thine ears been Hstening to that lute 
 Which mine have heard, from life's first plaint- 
 ive cry 
 Down through all notes to life's last agony. 
 Thou wouldst not thus fond waywardness impute. 
 To hear a voice without a note of sin, 
 To hear a songster not in tune with death. 
 To hear a strain that sobs not one with woe, 
 But all bursts forth from unmix'd joy within, 
 PourM freely from unpalpitating breath, — 
 This is a gladsome change, and good to know.
 
 226 XI. THE HOLIDAY. 
 
 CXCVII. 
 
 Ci)c titstant Eoton. 
 
 Kendal, how gleams with streaky hnes of grey 
 'Mid the blue depth of mountains thy lone seat, 
 Looking tranquillity, companion meet 
 For hearts that love with crowds in mind to 
 
 pray ! 
 And yet I know that thou art loud to-day 
 And bright with festive pomp through every 
 
 street. 
 And thy ten thousand hearts within thee beat 
 To bells and drums, and shows of long array. 
 O cheat demure, thou dost to distance owe 
 To mellowVl light, soft air that come between, 
 Thy look of peace. Thou art but as the rest. 
 One only city seems and is serene, [of woe, 
 
 Tho** view'd through blackening storm and gloom 
 The everlasting city of the blest.
 
 XI. THE HOLIDAY. 227 
 
 CXCVIII. 
 
 O BOLD Atlantic, yonder shine thy waves, 
 Lashing the dark-blue welkin with their foam, 
 For thy bold riders, far as eye can roam. 
 Opening with yeasty plunge a thousand graves. 
 Here thy still tide no prouder conquest craves 
 Than to overflow the bending tlirift, whose comb 
 Peers brighter, and in silence lave the home 
 Where the lone otters delve their sandy caves. 
 So may you sea of ills, which raves before 
 My spirit's eye, steal in with face of glass. 
 Invade my shrinking steps with harmless play. 
 Thou hast been fain to hush thy boisterous roar 
 Ere Amside's rocky gate would let thee pass. 
 So stand God's church athwart, and smooth the 
 way.
 
 228 
 
 XI. THE HOLIDAY 
 
 CXCIX. 
 
 In winter overflow''d, in summer dry, 
 Prompt when unaskM, and miprepared in need, 
 Pool ! I can trace thee now but by lank weed. 
 And pale-faced grass of which our herds are shy. 
 No glass thou boldest to the gleaming sky. 
 Nor to depicture these bright flowers dost heed. 
 Yet the black storm we plain in thee could 
 
 read. 
 And to bare thorns thy breast made apt reply. 
 
 I could think thou hadst the heart of man. 
 That thou shouldst be so wantonly perverse. 
 And think to take thy pleasure in disgrace. 
 Thou dry and barren, from thee all I can 
 
 1 draw, and dread the idle steward's curse. 
 Then haste away to run anew my race.
 
 XI. 
 
 THE HOLIDAY. 229 
 
 CC. 
 
 Pansies, that with your robe of gold and blue 
 Array this rugged wall, how many lives 
 Sufficed to die, and rear this heap where thrives 
 Your root with meet supply of ram and dew. 
 The moss began. On him the stonecrop grew ; 
 Then your forefathers stored a hundi-ed hives 
 For the fleet bee that ever sings and strives, 
 Then died, and left theii- place enrich'd for you. 
 Thus by just stages from the ambient sky 
 Ye draw your birth. And tliis dark fattening 
 
 mould, 
 That feeds your roots, dropped from the unseen 
 
 wind. 
 E'en thus our daily deeds, which men behold, 
 Draw from the things unseen their meet supply, 
 Trace to immortal spirit, heaven-born mind.
 
 230 Xr. THE HOLIDAY 
 
 CCI. 
 
 C^p S)i)tp in t^e ^ag. 
 
 Ship ! strange thou seemest, and most lonely 
 
 here, 
 KeePd in dry sand, with mast and rigging bare. 
 I thought thee in thy native dock most fair. 
 O'erhung with gloomy warehouse, tier on tier. 
 What bringest for our frugal mountaineer, 
 To help his needs with useful or with rare, 
 That, with the tide's scaled outcast taking share, 
 Within our secret bay thou dost appear? 
 Thou flingest sudden strangeness all around, 
 Hehn and Whitbarrow stand not where they 
 
 were ; 
 In changed relation Bela shines to Kent. 
 Bark then of Galilean Lake be found 
 By my full heart, bringing that preacher there, 
 Whose voice hath ever sudden newness sent.
 
 XI. THE HOLIDAY. 281 
 
 COIL 
 
 Noise of tilt ?^ailtoap. 
 
 Sweet Bela, tuneful Kent ! No more I hear 
 Swelling above the breeze's fitful moan 
 The sobbing of your falls. Would that alone 
 That breeze could visit mine impatient ear ! 
 But with it comes a sound of harshness drear. 
 Which quenches your dear music, as the tone 
 " Come, buy ! come, buy !" o'er prayer's repent- 
 ant groan 
 Rose in Jehovah's temple sharp and clear. 
 'Tis Mammon's voice, as on his iron way 
 He speeds his ministers and drives his wares, 
 Vile rattle of this world's capricious child ! 
 Therefore God's voice is silent night and day, 
 Mute nature's oracles, and boisterous cares 
 Outroar the harmonious founts of wisdom mild.
 
 232 XI. THE HOLIDAY. 
 
 COIII. 
 
 approach of ti^e Cram. 
 
 How still ! I seem to hear my thoughts aloud, 
 As o'er this vale I hang in musing dream. 
 How lone ! Ah me ! CurPd clouds of fleecy 
 
 steam 
 Tangle 'mid wood and down, a moving shroud. 
 The world approaches. Heart ! escape the crowd, 
 And sojourn in the wild where glory's beam 
 Sits upon Israel's ark with dazzling gleam, 
 And holy eyes pursue the marching cloud. 
 Ha ! thou dost call me back with whistle slu"ill, 
 Ark of this bustling world ? What landest here 
 Amid my simple flock, and quiet dells ? 
 Perchance some restless minister of ill, 
 Skill'd in thy luring charms and potent spells, 
 And peace has fled for many a weary year.
 
 XI. 
 
 THE HOLIDAY. 233 
 
 CCIV. 
 
 Aptly dost thou enforce with law severe 
 Thy rule, Rail of iron ! At thy command 
 Hills sink to vales, and vales uprisen stand, 
 And ancient woods before thy steps are clear. 
 Loved streams, loved groves, loved towers dis- 
 appear 
 Behind the screen of thy monotonous band. 
 That pierces gleaming heaven on either hand. 
 
 Shot like a bolt athwart this nether sphere. 
 
 Alone of all man's ways in deed and thought 
 
 Equal art thou, wrought from that earthy clay 
 
 Which gave and shall receive thine architect. 
 
 had his Father's model thus been wrought 
 
 In living spirit, and his equal way 
 
 Spanned earth, scaled heaven, immutably direct. 
 
 p 2
 
 2o4 XI. THE HOLIDAY. 
 
 GOV. 
 C^e Milt 
 
 Mill ! hard workman of life-giving bread, 
 
 1 marvel how at once, a slave to thee, 
 
 This stream foregoes his play of tmnbling glee. 
 And at thy feet in tranquil lake is spread. 
 He waits in writhing pains of toil to shed 
 His giant strength o'er wheel and rolling tree. 
 That spouting forth again, all fresh and free. 
 He catch the tints of heaven upon his head. 
 Yet I have bread to make, tho' not of earth, 
 And, as it strikes me, the wild stream of woe 
 Must lie, received by patience, calm and still. 
 Tliro' heart and reins its searching work must go, 
 Grinding hard thoughts, close feelings, thence in 
 
 mirth 
 To issue forth, for it has done Heaven's will,
 
 XI. 
 
 THE HOLIDAY. 235 
 
 COVI. 
 
 I NEVKR haunt thee, Beckhead, but I crave 
 To speak as thou dost, in clear plenitude 
 Pouring from caverii'd lips, free, yet not rude, 
 Glancing heaven's radiance from thy new-born 
 
 wave. 
 None sees thee dive into this mountain cave, 
 But thou from wide wild tracks of rock and wood 
 Thro' gentle distillation art renewM, 
 And quittest here the womb, and not the grave. 
 Bright type ! may thus each daily incident 
 And thus each daily scene of stream and dell 
 With secret nurture on my heart alight : 
 And thus my speech, of deep-drawn store the vent. 
 Flow clear as truth, and with sweet freshness tell 
 Of thought's calm depth, of heaven's heart- 
 filling height !
 
 236 XI. THE HOLIDAY. 
 
 CCVII. 
 
 E^t matt liock. 
 
 Rock ! dark and stain'd with miry overflow, 
 Dreary thou peerest. Yet now view'd askance 
 The glad sun catchest, and with burning glance 
 Thy planes quick mirrors to his brightness show. 
 At once thou burstest from condition low 
 Into that company which ever dance 
 Behind heaven's sun, as his blest steps advance. 
 Broad dazzling sea, flushed cloud, and gleaming- 
 brow. 
 Small change to that which our dark nature 
 
 owns, 
 When it hath caught the sempiternal ray. 
 Shot from the blazing Sun of Righteousness : 
 And joins the train of sons of endless day. 
 Angelic virtues, bright seraphic thrones, 
 And all that God hath clothed in glory's dress.
 
 XI. THE HOLIDAY. 237 
 
 CCVIII. 
 
 With matted reeds, black clods of peat for 
 strand, [and spray 
 
 A pitch-black tarn ! False stream whose dash 
 From dell to dell hath shaped my morning's way, 
 Does here at last thy glittering promise stand i 
 And yet, tho' there be stones enough at hand, 
 I cast not one at thee. For all I say, 
 And all I do, show brightly as it may. 
 Does it to fairer founts than thine remand ? 
 Upwards when memory ''s echoing stream I trace, 
 Dancing and glittering to my joyous heart. 
 Glooms there at last no disappointment sore. 
 Nor pools of faithless languor close the race, 
 Nor miry sloughs of guilty ease impart 
 A pang of shame? Good stream, I blame no 
 more.
 
 Waterside. 
 
 XII. 
 
 %mkB of Irnt.
 
 XII. THE BANKS OF KENT. 
 
 CCIX. ^ool near Ntncjcrgi^. 
 
 As blaze on spark so flashes mind on sight, 
 And this still pool of Kent awakes the thought 
 Of those stern rocks thro"" which his fount hath 
 
 fought, [bright. 
 
 Of those bare sands o'er which his rest gleams 
 E'en so the man's fix'd features bring to light 
 The child's plump face which, ever as I taught. 
 Wreathed fresh with smiles : to wrinkles deeply 
 
 wrought 
 I trace it on and lose in death's long night. 
 Thus do I know my sheep. Each bears a mark 
 Which other shepherds cannot recognize : 
 And I am Prophet and not Priest alone. 
 For from their past I see their future rise. 
 And I must bring the bright and chase the dark, 
 O anxious heart, to which so much is shown !
 
 242 XII. THE BANKS OF KENT. 
 
 ccx. 
 
 How clear Whitbarrow's precipices show 
 Their li\'ing image in Kent's Hmpid tide ! 
 And yet a witless child may dash its pride 
 In playful malice with a pebble's throw. 
 E'en now the fisher with relentless prow 
 Ploughs with effacing wrinkles far and wide, 
 And in toss'd wreck against the sandy side 
 Roll shiver'd ridge and wood and chffs of 
 
 snow. 
 So lovest thou in bitter jeer to rend 
 The soul's bright image in this frame of flesh, 
 Vile world ! Yet what can all thy spite 
 
 avail ? 
 She sits entlironed above, again all fresh 
 Her bright eternal image forth to send, 
 In other forms, beyond thy paltry pale.
 
 XII. THE BANKS OF KENT. 243 
 
 CCXI. 
 
 Seamew, thou fellow-bather in bright Kent, 
 What freshness seems to come from thee, as 
 
 glow 
 His rippling rings beneath thy form of snow, 
 And loneliness in noiseless stir has vent ! 
 Thou art at play in thine own element, 
 Array'd and plumed that thou mayst gaily go 
 Probing with thy quick eye rich depths below, 
 And all thy hours in thine own sphere are 
 
 spent. 
 But I must doff, and shudder, and delay 
 To plunge into an element all strange ; 
 Faltering, poor Adam's child, on brink of good. 
 Ah ! Angels in that flood of brightness play. 
 And there pursue immortal spirit's food; 
 Unused to sin, they feel no chilly change.
 
 244 XII. THE BANKS OF KENT. 
 
 CCXII. 
 
 U NCLOTHED, and shrinking from the breezy morn 
 
 And dewy marge, I phmge into the night 
 
 Of Kent"'s deep stream, and struggle with his 
 
 might, 
 Until I ride his wave with joyous scorn. 
 Then set on sunny hillock I adorn 
 Calmly with flowing robes of innocent white 
 Limbs strung with freshened strength, and veins 
 
 that smite 
 With throbbino; flush from burst of life new-born. 
 Wliile gleam through crystal drops that blur mine 
 Whitbarrow's fretted pyramids, clothed red [eye 
 With kingly crimson, and loud rings the strain 
 Of lark from sky, of thrush from bush overhead, 
 Of gull from shore. And thus I seem to die 
 Each morn, and thus to rise each morn again.
 
 XII. THE BANKS OF KENT. 245 
 
 COXIII. 
 
 Kent hurries to me from his rocky screen, 
 Kent hurries from me to his gleaming sea, 
 Bridffe of Levens, as I stand on thee, 
 Thou neck of present, two dim worlds between. 
 For here dark pools that flash with lines of sheen, 
 Cliffs plumed with ruddy beech unsear'd oak-tree, 
 Paint in meet hues the motley past to me, 
 Faded in time, in memory still green. 
 There Whitbarrow, half molten into gleam, 
 Stands with rude dam athwart this headlong 
 
 wave. 
 Which threats to pierce his airy substance thro' : 
 And softly warns me of my mounded grave. 
 Which waits not far to bar life's downward 
 
 stream. 
 And promises a ready passage too.
 
 246 XII. THE BANKS OF KENT. 
 
 CCXIV. 
 
 Fair Waterfall, thou art a monument 
 Proclaiming what unfailing tears can do. 
 For o'er a bed of alabaster glow 
 Thy waters, and thou hast inlaid smooth Kent 
 As for thy bath : so firm dost thou cement, 
 Dropping thy petrifying slime, with flow 
 Ceaseless and hueless. On, fair stream, and show 
 Thy heavenly moral, long as shall be sent 
 Thro' Levens' shade one gazer to thy fount. 
 -0 teach him what the penitential tear, 
 Dripp'd from the flinty heart's dark chamber. 
 
 gave 
 To light, when years had told their long account. 
 Thus form'd it its own channel, and fell clear 
 Into the pool, where Christ had stirr'd the 
 
 wave.
 
 XII. THE BANKS OF KENT. 247 
 
 ccxv. 
 
 ^^e dFom in jFrost. 
 
 Though lakes be bound in frost, thou runnest 
 
 free, 
 Bold Kent, and vainly would these chains of ice 
 Nail thee upon thy rocky precipice. 
 Another bound Prometheus. Well is thee ! 
 PillarM in crj^stal shafts the bonds I see 
 Which thou hast flung away, of costly price. 
 Like silver chains, which did of old sufiice 
 To bind the limbs of captive royalty. 
 In freedom's fane the liberated slave 
 Hung up his chains, with pious care made bright. 
 Proud of deliverance : of victory thou. 
 And still thy unquench'd spray, and unbound 
 
 wave, 
 Fresh massand glitter on these monuments throw, 
 'Mid nature's temple, to each offerer's sight.
 
 248 XTI. THE BANKS OF KENT. 
 
 OCXVI. 
 Cljc enti ot our oton W^ilL 
 
 Uprooted tree ! washed from thy native hill 
 O'er Kenfs mad falls ; with shattered bark, torn 
 
 moss, 
 Riven branches, lying this last fall across, 
 Waiting one waft to further ruin still : 
 In thee I read, and with a warning tlirill. 
 The body*'s damage, and the spirit's loss. 
 From fall to fall when raving passions toss 
 Him who would swim life's stream at his own 
 
 will. 
 sight to make heaven's blessed Angels weep, 
 When mangled, hopeless, motionless, he lies, 
 Sti'anded upon the last o'erhanging steep ; 
 Till the wild flood of lust again shall rise, 
 And hurl him down into that caldron'd deep, 
 Which in perdition's endless ocean dies.
 
 XII. THE BANKS OF KENT. 249 
 
 CCXVII. 
 
 Dear Kent ! across a meadow and a stile 
 
 I left thy neighbour, how unlike to thee, 
 
 Yon smooth canal, man's creature, fain to agree 
 
 To all his burdens with a rippling smile ! 
 
 Thou boundest on thy heaven-taught course 
 
 meanwhile, 
 River of God, like all God's children tree, 
 Hymning before him with a thundering glee, 
 Which shakes these darkening woods and deep 
 
 defile. 
 Man dares not lay a burden on thy back, 
 Not his frail body. To white fuiy curPd 
 Thou gapest for him with abysses black. 
 So down he sinks in whelming ruin hurPd. 
 Thou boldest not thy high commission slack. 
 Thou wilt not flatter man, nor serve the world.
 
 250 XII. THE BANKS OF KENT. 
 
 CCXVIII. 
 lEtoliin ?^ooti*0 islantj. 
 
 Isle of the blest ! how madly Kent doth fling 
 His stream to sever thee from either shore, 
 While from thee, wafted o'er his loudest roar, 
 Bursts forth the joyous melody of spring ! 
 For there loud ouzel, thrush, and blackcap sing. 
 Safe where no plunderer can their haunts ex- 
 plore. 
 And hardy stoat and mountain-cat give o'er 
 The .desperate strife across thy watery ring. 
 yes, when smooth as glass around us he 
 Life's waters, then, their noiseless wrinkles 
 
 making. 
 Plunderers of innocence and bliss steal in. 
 Therefore God scoops the falls of agony, 
 With thundering roar of trouble round us shaking, 
 And safe we sing to him amid the din.
 
 XII. THE BANKS OF KENT. 251 
 
 CCXIX. 
 
 From pause to roar, from roar again to pause, 
 So, Kent, from thought to thought I change my 
 
 mood, 
 Conscious, unconscious, as up rock and wood, 
 1 follow thee in step and heart, till Haws 
 Spans with his fern-clad arch the marble jaws 
 That open to engulph thy clamorous flood. 
 Then down to depths of mind scarce understood 
 I plunge with course unchecked by judgment's 
 
 laws. 
 Yet thence again the clearer I emerge. 
 As thou with thy bright face of arrowy green, 
 With meditation's softly swelling surge, 
 Prepared thro' day prescribed and order'd scene 
 Fit and full tide of patient thought to urge, 
 For troubles past more deep and more serene. 
 
 Q 2
 
 252 XII. THE BANKS OF KENT. 
 
 ccxx. 
 
 !Sg=gonc Bags. 
 
 Sweet Ouzel of the waters! years are fled 
 (0 as I count them how my heart will sink !) 
 Since first I heard thee on Melindor's' brink. 
 While in his face the midnight star I read. 
 How sad thy harmony trailing from the dead 
 To this still living ear a clanking link ! 
 So little with dear brothers did I think 
 How soon between us death's deep gulf must 
 
 spread. 
 As thus thy unfrequent song thou pipest clear 
 In dead mid-winter, out of season still, 
 A fragrant immaturity I scent : 
 And grieve and joy o'er those that should be here. 
 And grey hairs floating my steepM eyehds fill. 
 Brown then, as are thy dewy rocks, Kent, 
 
 ' A stream near Dolanog in Montgomeryshire.
 
 Waterfall on the Een-^ 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Cnnrliiainn.
 
 XIII. CONCLUSION. 
 CCXXI. (Companions for Uife. 
 
 Ye speak to me, blest hill, loved stream, dear 
 
 book : 
 Ye speak, but hear not me. And I complain 
 As comes unanswered thus my voice again 
 From cold, shy volume, and from heedless brook. 
 Yet wounds me no regret, that I forsook 
 Haunts of stored minds, that spake and an- 
 swered plain [strain. 
 Strung to my heart's own tune, and long-learnM 
 And echoing to it from thought's inmost nook. 
 Though long my ear to catch th' old harmony 
 Of deep-read converse, and of canvassed lore. 
 And my sight pine for scholar's fellow-eye, 
 They go, have gone : while, fresher than of yore. 
 Ye crowd my daily path, nor change, nor die. 
 Nor in your funeral can my voice deplore.
 
 256 XIII. CONCLUSION. 
 
 CCXXII. 
 dFuture prospects. 
 
 Behind my home a hill to the East arrays 
 
 Stiff ranks of fir. In front stands rocky ledge, 
 
 And onward flash mid many a pointed edge 
 
 Of promontory, Ocean's masted ways. 
 
 And thus my spirit through dim flesh surveys 
 
 Its range behind, before. Let past allege 
 
 My sins with clamorous breath, faith rears a 
 
 hedge 
 Which every blast of withering judgment stays. 
 Frown future, stern as rocks, bright, soft as dew, 
 Forms glisten under hope's all-radiant gleam. 
 And ever as I onward stretch my view 
 The last faint spots of life, amid the stream 
 Of blest eternity receding, show 
 Clear substance, where dark nature finds but 
 
 dream.
 
 XIU. CONCLUSION. 257 
 
 CCXXIII. 
 
 Co mj} MGt\itv (Efjurci), 
 
 Dear Mother Church! though the cold world 
 
 may jeer, 
 Thy favour measuring by its own degree, 
 If I should boast of one faint smile from thee, 
 And rudely bid me answer, "When and where:" 
 Yet in that world of bosoms just and clear. 
 Where flesh is powerless, where thy spirit free. 
 Thou meetest me with all a mother's glee. 
 And words and kisses tell me I am dear. 
 For since mom's rays unsluice my senses' drain, 
 TiU eve close dizzy ear and heavy eye. 
 Thou art my fresh'ning toil, my gladsome pain. 
 And woe were me, if from thy treasury 
 I took one mite, nor paid it back again 
 With usury of service true and high.
 
 258 XIII. CONCLUSION. 
 
 CCXXIV. 
 
 UBisinclination to iDriting. 
 
 Unsated gazer on the evening sky 
 I linger o'er fair forms, and spurn for cold 
 The art that would encrust with rioid mold 
 Those floating hues, and fix them to my eye. 
 More eager still on thoughfs quick imagery, 
 Wliich now my mind, full-stored with new and old. 
 Shoots forth, ^ith form on form and fold on fold. 
 I gaze, and lay my powerless tablets by. 
 Or idly, as the etherial forms condense 
 On the hard edge of matter, I pourtray 
 By snatches, and emboss the arrested band. 
 Thence I return to fill my impatient sense. 
 While tlu'onging fancies brook not art's delay. 
 And faint hath grown my sight, and slow my 
 hand.
 
 XI fl. CONCLUSION. 25.9 
 
 CCXXV. 
 
 Ei)t <©uting. 
 
 'Tis sweet to lie behind overhanging steep, 
 And hear, distrained thro' its thrice-ribbVl wall 
 The essence of the din of Kent's wild fall, 
 With hollow labour lulling heart to sleep. 
 Yet ever and anon to cUmb and peep 
 Into the caldron of his maddening brawl, 
 Scared with the sight and deafen'd with the call 
 Of floods that flash, and shoot with thundering 
 So sweet it is behind the silent bound [leap : 
 Of hills and vales to catch in softenM strain 
 This world's loud news, and spirit-stirring sound. 
 Yet ever and anon quick sight to strain 
 For hasty peep upon its busy ground, 
 And deaf and daz'd find peace at home again.
 
 260 XIII. CONCLUSION. 
 
 CCXXVI. 
 
 Piercing rose Eievolution''s infant cry 
 When I first utter'd mine, and now amain 
 Remounts : but not to sink with the last strain 
 Of my leave-taking lips and parting sigh. 
 Well ! threescore summers is no mean supply 
 Of sunny peace, in which the word's good grain 
 From soil to barn due passage may regain. 
 Why murmur now should clouds o'ercast the 
 So muse I at my lonely post and tell [sky ? 
 
 The silent watches o'er my distant fold. 
 While earth beyond for me is emptiness. 
 Why long I former faces to behold, 
 When daily on my vision new-born press ? 
 Mates, scenes of long-flown years, farewell, farewell. 
 
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