39ixE 
 
 UC-NRLF 
 
 B 2 fiST '^Mfi 
 
 P R 
 
 6003 
 
 E18 
 
 F6 
 
 1897 
 
 MAIN 
 
 LIA CADUCA 
 
 ROBERT BEACON 
 
» E R K E L E Y 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA ^ 
 
^^^ /4 - !^ ^ -^ 
 
 /yu-i^^ /£/^ /y£^-A 
 
 c 
 
 ^ /% 
 
FOLIA CADUCA. 
 
 BY 
 ROBERT BEACON, B.A., Lond. 
 
 BOSCOMBE : 
 
 A. SUTTON AND CO., PRINTERS AND STATIONERS. 
 
LOAN STACK 
 
d^^T^^^^ 
 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 The Author of this little collection of Verse is indebted for its 
 present appearance to the kindness of a friend, Mr. H. F. D. 
 Bartlett, who is well-known to many who are likely to peruse it. 
 He does not suppose that it contains much to interest readers, who 
 are unacquainted with himself, than whom none can be readier 
 with destructive criticisms, especially on the earlier and cruder 
 pieces. He hopes also that none will take exception to the incon- 
 gruity of playful pieces like " Farrago" appearing in association with 
 hymns of deep solemnity. It only remains to add that for correction 
 of the proof sheets, as well as several valuable suggestions, the 
 Author is indebted to his friend, Mr. Malcolm Montgomery, M.A., 
 of Trinity College, Dublin. 
 
 Guernsey, August, 1897. R. B. 
 
 451 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2008 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/foliacaducaOObeacrich 
 
INDEX. 
 
 On the Death of Tennyson . . 
 For J. E. M.— I. The Invocation.. 
 
 II. The Song 
 Stanzas on Guernsey . . 
 Farrago 
 On Funs 
 
 Patterdale Hall . . 
 At Derwent Isle 
 Aira Force, Cumberland 
 Penbryn, Brecon 
 Springfield, I. W... 
 Sea Memories 
 Trip to Alderney.. 
 From Freshwater to Alum Bay Jr 
 To my Piano 
 Beethoven .. 
 Beethoven's Music 
 I. — On Browning 
 II .. 
 A Fragment 
 Winter 
 
 Idem Latine Redditum 
 A Dirge for the Year 
 Idem Latine Redditum 
 In Memoriam. — E.E.K. 
 Lines Written in Dejedlion 
 Submission 
 
 I. — Sunset in Winter . . 
 II.— •• What is Man ? " 
 III. — Te Deum Laudamus 
 The Good Shepherd 
 St. Stephen 
 Hymn 
 
 Hymn. St. John xviii. 37 
 Via Crucis 
 A Contrast . . 
 Night.. 
 Prayer 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 .. 
 
 7 
 
 .. 
 
 8 
 
 .. 
 
 9 
 
 .. 
 
 10 
 
 .. 
 
 II 
 
 .. 
 
 13 
 
 .. 
 
 14 
 
 .. 
 
 ^5 
 
 .. 
 
 17 
 
 .. 
 
 18 
 
 .. 
 
 20 
 
 .. 
 
 21 
 
 .. 
 
 23 
 
 .. 
 
 26 
 
 .. 
 
 27 
 
 .. 
 
 28 
 
 • • 
 
 29 
 
 .. 
 
 31 
 
 . .. 
 
 32 
 
 .. 
 
 33 
 
 • • 
 
 34 
 
 .. 
 
 35 
 
 .. 
 
 . 36 
 
 .. 
 
 37 
 
 .. 
 
 40 
 
 .. 
 
 41 
 
 .. 
 
 42 
 
 .. 
 
 43 
 
 
 44 
 
 .. 
 
 45 
 
 .. 
 
 . 46 
 
 .. 
 
 47 
 
 .. 
 
 .. 48 
 
 .. 
 
 49 
 
 .. 
 
 50 
 
 .. 
 
 51 
 
 .. 
 
 52 
 
 .. 
 
 53 
 
ON THE 
 DEATH OF TENNYSON. 
 
 The " high Muse " mourns — for he, who nobly wore 
 
 And added lustre to the]laurel crown 
 
 Through many privileged years, and won renown 
 
 Among earth's foremost bards, will weave no more 
 
 The stately verse from all his affluent store. 
 
 He sang of highest virtue, and his frown 
 
 And censure e'er on evil lighted down, 
 
 Which his true heart did utterly abhor. 
 
 O sweet world-singer, sweet as thou wast strong, 
 
 And sweeter for thy strength, methinks the day 
 
 Is distant, when to equal thee in song 
 
 Another^can arise. If faith decay. 
 
 No art or culture can redress that wrong. 
 
 Make wheat of chaff, though polish'd be the lay. 
 
Sav ^. m. itl* 
 
 I.— THE INVOCATION. 
 
 Many a day has pass'd away 
 Since I wrote my latest rhyme, 
 
 And the shghted Muse may now refuse 
 To inspire another chime. 
 
 But I greatly long to compose a song, 
 That may please a childish ear. 
 
 And therein to blend for my little friend 
 Things simple and sweet to hear. 
 
 Then come, sweet Muse, for I now would choose 
 
 Thy guidance to secure ; 
 I need no proof if thou keep aloof. 
 That my lines will not allure. 
 
 Though there be excuse that might induce 
 
 Thee to shun my lowly page, 
 Yet to have my part in the poet's art. 
 
 Was my wish from my tenderest age. 
 
 I have not the dower of Kingsley's power, 
 Yet spurn me not, sweet Muse ; 
 
 But give the flow and the genial glow, 
 Come, breathe thy kindly dews. 
 
 Come, grant a lay both sweet and gay, — 
 Come, kindly Muse, O hear ! — 
 
 That I may send to my little friend 
 What will please his childish ear. 
 
9 
 
 II.— THE SONG. 
 
 Spring Song — Mother to Child. 
 
 Come, dear my child, to where the early flowers 
 Bedeck the ground with flakes of drifted snow, 
 
 Though winds be rude and chill, the brightening hours 
 Make gay the earth where'er we chance to go. 
 
 Flowerets of springtime, flowerets so bright, 
 
 Ever and ever a source of new delight. 
 
 Snowdrops are sweet, but sweeter in its blooming 
 Peeps forth the violet with purple eye, 
 
 Scenting the air ; and sweet the unassuming 
 And pale primrose that we shall soon descry. 
 
 Flowerets of springtime, flowerets so bright, 
 
 Ever and ever a source of new delight. 
 
 Soon, fringed witn pink and white, the pretty daisies, 
 And cowslips tall that droop their cups of gold. 
 
 All in the sunshine will declare the praises 
 Of God the Lord whose glories are untold. 
 
 Flowerets of springtime, flowerets so bright. 
 
 Ever and ever a source of new delight. 
 
 Jesus it is, who made each lovely flower. 
 For He made all things beautiful below, 
 
 And He will guard my sweet one by His power 
 Till to the fairer land on high we go. 
 
 Flowerets of amaranth, flowerets more bright, 
 
 Ever and ever will bloom for new delight. 
 
lO 
 
 STANZAS ON GUERNSEY. 
 
 (On reading over some early verses in Spenserian Stanza 
 on Guernsey), 
 
 These fragments of Spenserian verse I penn'd, 
 
 When hardly past the springtime of my days, 
 When hfe was dreamier — them I now commend 
 
 To transitory notice — Httle praise 
 They merit, even if the verse displays 
 
 Due rhyming sequence, and true rhythmic flow ; 
 But aye to me were dear the woodland ways, 
 
 And vernal flowers, and winds that softly blow, 
 And sunlit crags and rocks with summer sea below. 
 
 And often in the sequel, as the years 
 
 Have roU'd their rapid flight, I have again 
 Beheld those spots that memory endears, 
 
 And binds up with her in a golden chain — 
 And often still those skies are void of stain, 
 
 Nor less intense the waves of rippling blue ; 
 But some, who then were living, long have lain 
 
 Beneath the dreamless sod, and said adieu 
 To this world's transient glory, and have found the 
 true. 
 
II 
 
 FARRAGO. 
 
 hard is verse-making 
 When your cranium's aching, 
 
 And eyes are too heavy- and weary to read ; 
 
 When dull pain is wearing 
 
 Your nerves with a tearing 
 And tremulous " thrum " that is " trying " indeed. 
 
 Were my brow even coolish, 
 
 It still might be foolish 
 To endeavour to write without ever a thought ; 
 
 Without ever a fancy 
 
 'Twere only by chance a 
 Few feeble rhymes could be possibly wrought. 
 
 Were the fountain Castalian 
 Free to Greek and to alien 
 Just now as it once was to simple and sage, 
 From its sparkle and bi.\bble 
 
 1 might draw a double 
 
 Advantage to profit both forehead and page. 
 
 For those dews that are purest, 
 
 Must be truly the surest 
 And best to relieve the most agonised brow ; 
 
 And a bard's quite appointed 
 
 When he has been anointed 
 With the dews that make verses so readily flow. 
 
 O fountain poetic, 
 
 Lending force energetic 
 To the simple and fanciful children of song, 
 
 With a sacred afflatus 
 
 And the whole apparatus 
 By which poets are raised far above the mad throng. 
 
 But Castalia's distant, 
 If even existent ; 
 In some nearer fountain my brow I must lave ; 
 
12 
 
 And a mean wash-hand-basin, 
 To bathe my pale face in, 
 Must be substitute sad for Apollo's bright wave ! 
 
 And, ah, no invitation - 
 
 May allure inspiration 
 To a poet in straits from Pieria's spring ; 
 
 To be poetaster 
 
 Is but courting disaster, 
 More than measures and words are required to sing. 
 
 Yes, if thoughts be prosaic, 
 
 Let verse be trochaic. 
 Or in anapaests gay let it evenly flow ; 
 
 'Tis but metrical folly, 
 
 All the more melancholy 
 For pretending to be what it is not, you know. 
 
 Oh, that bard is blameless. 
 
 Who, endued with the nameless 
 Ineffable breath and fancy divine. 
 
 Of necessity singeth, 
 
 And from out of him bringeth 
 The jewels of song as from diamond mine. 
 
 Then his rhymes and his measures 
 
 Fit in with the treasures 
 He draws from sweet poesy's versatile store ; 
 
 Men are rapt in attention, 
 
 And hush'd is dissension 
 Till the glad voice of melody quivers no more. 
 
 But now with these verses 
 My head all the worse is, 
 And my quantum of rhymes too seems now to have 
 flown ; 
 Not much for my use is 
 Bestow'd by the Muses, 
 But since poetry fails, I'll try — Eau-de-Cologne ! 
 1882. 
 
13 
 ON PUNS. 
 
 Of puns, I am sick of them, 
 
 We dwell in the thick of them, 
 No more can they be endured ; 
 
 Yet all seems inadequate 
 
 This bane to eradicate — 
 Alas, will it ever be cured ? 
 
 The air, it is faint with them 
 
 (So runs my complaint with them). 
 They are part of the breath we draw ; 
 
 They are made with impunity. 
 
 And few have immunity 
 From this sad and ridiculous flaw. 
 
 E'en those we thought free from them. 
 
 Derive now much glee from them, 
 And indeed, sad to say, they accuse 
 
 With painful persistency 
 
 And strange inconsistency 
 (Since they love them) the one whom the Muse 
 
 Now invests with authority 
 
 To declare the majority 
 Of people are hostile to puns ; 
 
 That now there is urgency — 
 
 So great the emergency — 
 To consign them to Vandals and Huns. 
 
 To say that he started them, 
 
 When he fain would have parted them 
 From himself and all that he knows, 
 
 Is the greatest audacity, 
 
 And sad pertinacity, 
 And gross imbecility shows. 
 
 These rhymes he must terminate. 
 
 Though he fail to exterminate 
 This noxious and troublesome growth ; 
 
 But he tells all society 
 
 He has had a satiety 
 Of such stuff— so he writes, nothing loath. 
 1876. 
 
14 
 
 PATTERDALE HALL. 
 
 Vistas of lordly hills, 
 
 Waves of enchanted blue, 
 Fed by a hundred rippling rills, 
 
 And woods of varied hue. 
 
 And blooming at my feet 
 
 Are terraces of flowers ; 
 What spot could be devised more sweet 
 
 To spend the summer hours ! 
 
 And further from the hall 
 
 The babbling of a brook, 
 And murmur of a waterfall 
 
 From its sequester'd nook. 
 July, 1887. 
 
15 
 
 AT DERWENT ISLE. 
 
 I sit on Derwent's islet green, 
 
 The blue wave ripples at my feet, 
 
 The light leaves rustle, and the scene 
 Is wondrous fair and passing sweet. 
 
 The sunbeams dance upon the blue. 
 And flash like gems in gladsome play ; 
 
 A fairer spot I never knew, 
 Nor worthier of a poet's lay. 
 
 And graceful trees on either hand 
 
 Or crest the waves, or crown the hills ; 
 
 All beauty has this favour'd land, 
 
 Woods, waterfalls and gleaming rills. 
 
 Blencathra and Skiddaw behind, 
 
 Before me Glaramara's brow 
 Against the southern sky defined. 
 
 And radiant in the summer glow. 
 
 A hundred hills surround the lake. 
 Peak beyond peak, rejoicing, free — 
 
 The gentle sound the ripples make 
 Is sweet as music unto me. 
 
 Most lovely mountain-cherish'd mere, 
 
 That bearest many a fairy isle 
 Upon thy bosom far and near, — 
 
 Fair lake, where all things seem to smile ! 
 
 Far on thy southern marge Lodore, 
 
 Famed torrent, falls 'mid wealth of green ; 
 
 I fancy how its waters pour 
 
 In flood, when winter rules the scene ; 
 
i6 
 
 Then think of Southey in due course, 
 And of his gay, fantastic rhymes. 
 
 Which for their marvellous resource 
 Have been admired a thousand times. 
 
 O Lake majestic, fair and sweet, 
 
 That dost the palm of beauty claim. 
 In lowly lay I gladly greet 
 Thy loveliness, and sing thy fame. 
 August 1887. 
 
17 
 
 AIRA FORCE, CUMBERLAND 
 
 (A Fragment). 
 
 Wild waterfall in a wild glen 
 
 With sombre boskage richly grown, 
 
 Secluded from the ways of men, 
 Most sweet, albeit weird and lone. 
 
 And wast thou so in times of eld, 
 When he that own'd Excalibur, 
 
 And all that glorious country held. 
 Bade his good knight without demur 
 
 Fling that all-gHttering sabre low, 
 
 Beneath Ullswater's waves profound — 
 
 Did Aira's melancholy flow 
 
 Mix with the echo of that sound ? 
 
PENBRYN, BRECON. 
 
 Bearing a kindred name, I gaze on the Beacons oi Brecknock, 
 From the green sward of Penbryn, the sweet and delecflable 
 
 homestead ; 
 And, as I scan the heights, so calm and immutably steadfast, 
 Whether 'neath summer suns, or blanch'd with the snows of 
 
 the winter. 
 Hidden in ragged mist, or shining effulgent in splendour. 
 Swiftly uprises the thought, so trite yet so often recurrent — 
 Brief is the life of man, when compared with their lasting 
 
 dominion — 
 E'en the long age of the forest trees appearing but transient ; 
 Briefer the deepening gold of the fitful leaves in their fading. 
 Briefer the blue and purple, the scarlet and white of the flowerets 
 Gracing the lawn of Penbryn, the sweet and delecflable home- 
 stead ; 
 Gay with the musical babel of birds in meadow and coppice. 
 Gay with the sunny smiles and lightsome laughter of children. 
 Laughter lent to the whispering glades and slopes of the 
 
 woodland. 
 Which in its vesture of green from the brow of Penbryn 
 
 dependeth ; 
 Where the varying hues of the oaks and beeches are blended 
 With the feathery larch, with sycamore, maple, and elder, 
 Hornbeam, and ash, and wych-elm, and all the wealth of the 
 
 woodland. 
 Crowning the whole hill-side with leafy profusion and verdure; 
 Whereby windeth a path affording the grateful beholder 
 Exquisite views of headlong groves and murmuring streamlet, 
 As the Honddu pursues its way far down in the valley ; 
 Till the landscape is bounded and closed by the eminent 
 
 mountains. 
 But on the left, lo, stretcheth afar the verdurous upland. 
 Dominating the valley below, where cheerily rippleth 
 Usk with his silver tide 'twixt the peaceable dwellings of 
 
 Brecon, 
 Flowing by ancient homes, and churches, and College of 
 
 Brecon, 
 And all around are the hills in an ever widening circle. 
 
19 
 
 Such is the noble view to be seen from the verdurous upland, 
 Whence the scent of the new-mown hay is deliciously wafted 
 E'en to the lawn of Penbryn, the sweet and delecftable home- 
 stead, 
 While every leaf is stirr'd by the balmy breath of the South- 
 wind, 
 Making music sweet—- not Aeolian harp in the twilight 
 Sweeter may seem, as in lines that profane the hexameter's 
 
 grandeur, 
 Destined to die ere long, like the leaves, I record my im- 
 pressions 
 Of the fair summer days I have spent in a Cambrian home- 
 stead. 
 August nth, 1893. 
 
20 
 
 SPRINGFIELD, I,W. 
 
 'Twas in the month of May, which the poets love and the 
 
 children, 
 When the awaken'd earth is gayest with leaf and with floweret, 
 And with the " beauty of promise," that in the island of Vectis 
 I was a guest for awhile in a beautiful and a sequester'd 
 Home by the sea — wherefore with the aid of the metre of Homer, 
 In our harsher tongue now reft of much of its music. 
 And deform'd and marr'd with many a barbarous license, 
 I shall attempt to describe it, as far as memory serveth ; 
 For the scene was fair to behold from the lawn and the terrace. 
 
 Glimpses of summer sea that girdles t"he " Garden of England," 
 White wings dotting the azure beneath, while above me are 
 
 sailing 
 Clouds of purest white in the upper blue, and^ around me 
 Stretches of rising sward, and aisles of bowery leafage. 
 Where the grass is pied with marguerites, and with the saffron 
 Buttercup blooms, while the paler gold of the graceful 
 
 laburnum 
 Droopeth above 'mid the blossoms pink and white of the 
 
 hawthorn ; 
 Nor the fainter scent do we miss of the delicate lilac. 
 While rhododendron clumps are ablaze in the glory of crimson, 
 Girt with laurel shade, and the pride of the oak and the ash-tree, 
 Dark-hued pine, and larch with its verdurous banners extended, 
 Rising anear the ampler girth of the towering chestnuts. 
 Tossing their blanch'd blossoms of utter white with a central 
 Island of scarlet bloom, as the latest Laureate call'd it — 
 Such with many a shaded path is the pleasaunce of Springfield. 
 May, 1894. 
 
21 
 
 SEA MEMORIES. 
 
 [On the ^^ Alert'' from Sark to Gtiey?isey). 
 
 Fair was the stainless sky, and the winds were low, and the 
 
 waters, 
 Laving the rockbound coast of Saik, the gem of the Channel, 
 Hush'd with the dying day in an almost absolute stillness. 
 When the "Alert" was making her way to the west and to 
 
 Guernsey, 
 Homeward across the placid blue, while, bathed in the splen- 
 dour 
 Of the declining sun, cliff, headland and crag were rejoicing, 
 Boulder and pebbled beach of Sark, the gem of the Channel, 
 Lit by the level rays of the glorious orb of the dayspring — 
 Autelets and Port du Moulin and Brecqhon, " Isle of the 
 
 Traders," 
 Standing out clearly defined in the air so pure and pellucid. 
 Such was the aspect of Sark, which I was regretfully leaving. 
 Fairest of islands fair, that are set in the bay of St. Michael, 
 Sark with its verdant vales and prone and precipitous head- 
 lands. 
 Stretches of upland meadow and lanes of luxuriant leafage. 
 Island of tranquil bays and wild and resonant hollows. 
 Caves of ancient night that teem with crude and fantastic 
 Forms of life in their ghostly depths of desolate twilight ; 
 Where down below swift rushes the tide with angriest foam- 
 ing ; 
 Rushes it thus by the Creux Derrible, on whose grassy 
 
 expansion. 
 Crowning the threatening cliff, we had sat and look'd upon 
 
 Jersey, 
 Lying away to the right like a vision of glory and beauty. 
 Where the protracted Hne of its northern border is rounded 
 
22 
 
 By Grosnez' steep height and the Bay of St. Ouen's,''' with its 
 
 gleaming 
 Sands and azure main far away to the rocks of the Corbiere, 
 Shining white and gold in the dazzling sheen of the sunlight, 
 E'en as the fairer gates of pearl in the City Celestial ; 
 But, as 1 mused, we were speeding along to Sarnia's island. 
 Passing between the rugged islets of Herm and of Jethou, 
 Homes of the wild sea bird, of the wintry storm and the sun- 
 shine. 
 On to the larger isle of my birth and home of my childhood, 
 Wash'd by the sounding surge of the wide and stormy 
 
 Atlantic, 
 Grateful we reach'd the land, and the flight of fancy was 
 ended. 
 
 * Pronounced St. Wan's. 
 
SOME ACCOUNT OF A 
 
 TRIP TO ALDERNEY, 
 
 29TH June, 1896. 
 
 Ere June was o'er, when nature wore 
 
 One morn her brightest smile, 
 We sail'd away for a flying stay 
 
 At fair Aurigny's isle. 
 
 It is the prime of the summer time 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 When the sun's warm rays gild the glowing days, 
 
 And all things seem in tune. 
 
 And the water's hue match'd heaven's true blue 
 
 That morn, unfleck'd with foam ; 
 With a sky so clear no storm could be near ; 
 
 It was just the day to roam. 
 
 We had thought to miss some amount of bliss, 
 
 If we chose at home to stay ; 
 For we ever crave to be on the wave. 
 
 When the breezes lightly play. 
 
 Oh, the mind is free on the wide, wide sea! 
 
 The very air is balm ; 
 There is joy afar from the daily jar 
 
 Of life, and a sweet, sweet calm. 
 
 Unlike a friend, whose love may end, 
 
 Its smiles are e'er renew'd ; 
 And the summer wind is ne'er unkind, 
 
 Its breath is never rude. 
 
24 
 
 So we cross'd the bay on our outward way, 
 
 And we call'd at Swanage first, 
 And fair it gleam'd as the sunshine stream'd 
 
 On meadow, and hill, and hurst. 
 
 For at morn and eve the sunbeams achieve 
 
 The fairest effects of light ; 
 Most the colour doth show, when the sun is low. 
 
 And when day succeedeth night.- 
 
 Then south we steer'd till afar appear'd 
 
 The storied hills of France, 
 Where the famous crag of Cape La Hague 
 
 Crowneth the wide expanse. 
 
 And we came full soon in the afternoon 
 
 To the wild Norman isle, 
 Not without its glory in ancient story, 
 
 And there for a little while 
 
 We saunter'd at will and rambled until 
 
 The hour arrived to leave ; 
 But in my tale I must not fail 
 
 Our landing adventure to weave. 
 
 Not by the aid of a gangway staid 
 
 Did we gain the little isle ; 
 The mode was heroic enough for a Stoic, 
 
 And meet to provoke a smile. 
 
 For we climb'd each rung of a ladder that hung 
 (As it were) 'twixt the boat and our haven. 
 
 And some, though dismay'd, yet to scale it essay'd- 
 They misliked to be thought weak or craven. 
 
 But the peril at last was over and past, 
 
 At half-past four we sail'd, 
 Well pleased to -return to Albion's bourne, 
 
 Which at last we gladly hail'd. 
 
25 
 
 And the sunset blaze with its golden rays 
 
 Made a glory in the west, 
 The pathetic light of approaching night, 
 
 Tender, and sweet, and blest. 
 
 And its broadening sheen o'er the waves was seen, 
 
 While nature look'd divine. 
 As o'er the blue the sunset threw 
 
 A radiance opaline. 
 
 Then near Tilly Whim, when the light grows dim, 
 
 We see the Pharos-flare, 
 Not needed now, while the afterglow 
 
 Of the twilight lingers there. 
 
 Meantime we had come to our pine-clad home. 
 
 And our favour'd trip was ended ; 
 And so is this verse, in which I rehearse 
 
 What is now to my friends commended. 
 
26 
 
 FROM 
 
 FRESHWATER TO ALUM BAY. 
 
 O beauty of the summer day 
 With radiance flooding land and sea, 
 And sunbeams dancing merrily 
 Upon Freshwater's placid bay. 
 
 O beauty of the summer day 
 With sea and sky of vivid blue 
 And greensward dappled with the hue 
 Of fragrant wild thyme, making gay 
 
 The " noble down " that lifts its head 
 Above the elms of Farringford, 
 Whose leafy avenues are stored 
 With memories of the mighty dead. 
 
 O pleasant is the summer day. 
 And pleasant the caressing wind 
 With friends congenial to one's mind 
 Across the Down to Alum Bay. 
 
 July loth, 1897. 
 
^7 
 
 TO MY PIANO. 
 
 O potent with thy soothing sounds to cheer 
 
 My spirit in its weariness, whene'er 
 
 At bidding of the dominant emotion 
 
 (Mine change as much, methinks, as waves of ocean) 
 
 My fingers wander o'er the obedient keys, 
 
 And seek to interpret subtle harmonies 
 
 Of the great Master — or again, as sway'd 
 
 By varying impulse, I invoke the aid 
 
 Of a less daring and impetuous seer. 
 
 And Mendelssohn's sweet dreamings please mine ear 
 
 Or Chopin's wildly-mournful melodies, 
 
 Adorn'd with most fantastic Syncopes, 
 
 Who knew to touch the chords of poignant grief; — 
 
 And then again to Schubert for relief, 
 
 A happier minstrel, grave, majestic, gay 
 
 In turn, and most resembles, so they say, 
 
 Beethoven's manner — nor too much forget 
 
 The Master's great co-equals pass'd away. 
 
 Bach, Haydn, and Mozart, and grander yet 
 
 The might of Handel, though my fancy set 
 
 Less to that stately minstrel's classic themes. 
 
 But still prefers the more romantic dreams. 
 
 And the sublime, incomparable strain. 
 
 That ne'er from mortal may be heard again, 
 
 Of great Beethoven — yet must one be named, 
 
 For whom the highest place is often claimed. 
 
 The weird Titanic strength of Wagner's song, 
 
 Inwrought with rarest melody among 
 
 The most austere aad strangest harmonies, 
 
 Which heard anew inspire a new surprise. 
 
 But I will not the arduous task essay. 
 From which the wisest might with just dismay 
 Shrink back, nor settle the precedence high 
 Of men born under a diviner sky : 
 'Tis simply mine to charm a vacant hour 
 With music's magical prevailing power. 
 
 1882. 
 
28 
 
 BEETHOVEN. 
 
 O poet-minstrel, who hast gauged the springs 
 
 Of human Hfe in all their varied range, 
 
 To whom all joy is known, no sorrow strange, 
 
 That is the heritage of serfs and kings — 
 
 Thou risest often on the rose-tipp'd wings 
 
 Of smiling morn — anon we note a change 
 
 To grief (like hers, who in the Moated Grange 
 
 Sat desolate) subdue thy sadden'd strings. 
 
 But the deep " sense of tears in mortal things " 
 
 (To quote great Maro's line, now made our own 
 
 By Arnold's poet-soul) for ever clings 
 
 To thine immortal music, not alone 
 
 Heard in the dying fall, or funeral chant. 
 
 But all-pervading, mystic, dominant. 
 
29 
 
 BEETHOVEN'S MUSIC. 
 
 On hearing Sonata xvii. 
 
 Sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt — Virgil. 
 
 All life is in it, with an undertone 
 
 Of oft recurring pathos, not alone 
 
 Heard in the dying cadence or the dear 
 
 Refrain of sorrow, falling on the ear, 
 
 (Attuned to such deep meaning) like the balm 
 
 Of Gilead, or some comfortable Psalm 
 
 In Holy Writ, where joy and sadness blend - 
 
 Such sadness as subserves some gracious end — 
 
 All life is in his music, and the pain. 
 
 That underlies this hfe, hath in his strain 
 
 Its own far echo, present in the flow 
 
 Of winsome melodies, as in the glow 
 
 And crash of mighty chords, whene'er he sings 
 
 The deathless deeds of heroes, and on wings, 
 
 The rose-tipp'd wings of morning, mounts to heaven 
 
 (No loftier flight was e'er to minstrel given), 
 
 And, soaring high to greet the smiling day. 
 
 He, like the lark, full-throated chants his lay. 
 
 Yet aye ** the sense of tears in mortal things " 
 
 Pervades his mystic tones with whisperings 
 
 Of infinite compassion, and 'tis heard 
 
 E'en when to joyousness our hearts are stirr'd 
 
 Amid the children's laughter at their play, 
 
 Toying with wild flowers in the month of May, 
 
 And fair as are the flowers, whose petals flame 
 
 With vivid tints of multifarious name — 
 
 Of white and violet and heavenly blue 
 
 And sunny gold and scarlet's gorgeous hue — 
 
 Or when at peaceful eventide we see 
 
 The mellow radiance and the pageantry 
 
30 
 
 Of summer twilight, and the crimson sheen, 
 Refledled in clear rivulets, that between 
 Fields clad with verdure glide — or when we hear 
 The gladsome songs of villagers anear. 
 Tripping it gaily in light-hearted dance. 
 Or m Provence in the fair land of France, 
 Or in the Tyrol, when some festival 
 Cheers life's monotony with grateful call 
 To momentary joyance, and they sing — 
 For life is full of mystery, though the Spring 
 Revive with gracious breath and with the bloom 
 Of daffodil and primrose, gleam with gloom 
 For ever alternating, dark with clear — 
 But all is imaged in thy music, mighty Seer. 
 i8g6. 
 
31 
 I.— ON BROWNING. 
 
 Reading Browning 
 
 Sets me frowning, 
 Subtly deep his meaning lies ; 
 
 And, though purely, 
 
 Too obscurely 
 Oft he writes to make one wise. 
 
 Take " Sordello,"— 
 
 E'en the mellow 
 Grasp of thought may fail to scan 
 
 All the mystery 
 
 Of that history 
 Of *' a city, book or man ! " * 
 
 Yet the poet 
 
 (Ah, we know it), 
 Said, who would might hear that tale; 
 
 And the victim 
 
 Of that dictum 
 Struggles through without avail. 
 
 Then no title 
 
 In recital 
 Telleth what the poem means :— 
 
 " Pippa Passes " — 
 
 P. a lass is ! 
 I had thought of grand ravines, 
 
 And of lonely 
 
 Paths, trod only 
 By the foot of high emprise, 
 
 Where are sparkling 
 
 Rills, or darkling 
 Shadows up the mountains rise. 
 
 No suspicion 
 
 Of a vision 
 Of a maiden, sweet and fair. 
 
 While rejoices, 
 
 As her voice is 
 Pealing, the enchanted air. 
 
 This is said to have been Mrs. Carlyle's experience. 
 
32 
 
 II.— ON BROWNING. 
 
 Yet disguises 
 
 And surprises 
 Such as these are but the mould 
 
 For designing 
 
 And enshrining 
 Verses oft of purest gold ; 
 
 For propounding 
 
 Some deep sounding, 
 May be, in that lonely sea, 
 
 Call'd (so seeming 
 
 To one dreaming) 
 Call'd the human soul — And he 
 
 Spite of crudeness 
 
 Hath such shrewdness, 
 And he hath such insight rare. 
 
 That the dower 
 
 Of this power 
 Makes his reputation fair. 
 
 'Twould be fairer. 
 
 If his rarer 
 Gifts were linked with faultless rhyme ; 
 
 If a plastic, 
 
 More elastic 
 Rhythm had match'd his thoughts sublime 
 
 If his story 
 
 Had the glory 
 And the " form " of Tennyson, 
 
 To whose splendour 
 
 All must render 
 Tribute, while the ages run. 
 
 Yet we read him, 
 
 And we heed him 
 For those tones so high and clear, 
 
 With the magic 
 
 Of some tragic 
 Old Hellenic bard and seer. 
 
33 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 The music sleepeth in each silent string, 
 Of harps Aeolian, till the swift wind blow 
 And wake ethereal sweetness, rivalling 
 All tones that from more earthly sources ilow. 
 
34 
 
 WINTER. 
 
 The pale earth lies in her winding sheet, 
 Sweet summer long has flown, 
 And with leaves all sere of the waning year 
 Red autumn too is gone. 
 
 Lie still, tired earth, and await thy time ; 
 If it be not always May, 
 Yet as brief the doom of thy wintry gloom, 
 There shall come a fairer day. 
 
 Be strong, tired heart, and await thy time ; 
 Thy winter too will end. 
 And the golden rays of brigliter days 
 Thy God to thee will send. 
 
35 
 
 IDEM LATINE REDDITUM. 
 
 Induitur canum velamen pallida terra, 
 
 Aestivique diu prseteriere dies ; 
 Et multa autumnus comitatus fronde caduca 
 
 Versicolor nuper vult celerare fugam. 
 Ne, patiens tellus, requiescere fessa recuses ; 
 
 Non semper florum tempus adesse potest. 
 Sed pariter velox brumalis labitur annus, 
 
 Post tenebras revenit clarior usque dies. 
 Sic quoque solventur perpesso corde dolores, 
 
 Nee dabit aerumnas tempus in omne Deus. 
 
36 
 
 A DIRGE FOR THE YEAR. 
 
 O chant a requiem for the year, 
 
 Its leaves, once green, are dead or sere, 
 
 And, lo, its end approacheth near ! 
 
 December's sun is faint and pale, 
 The sea foam-crested, and the wail 
 Rises and falls of the fitful gale. 
 
 Spent is the light of golden hours, 
 Faded the bloom of vernal flowers. 
 The doom of the year before us lowers. 
 
 Only the other day 'twas spring. 
 Each joyful bird was on the wing. 
 Each poet too made haste to sing. 
 
 But now the minstrel's art is low. 
 
 Illusive fancies come and go, 
 
 The Muse disdains to grant a flow. 
 
 Perhaps that fickle maid hath found 
 A lodgment on some fairer ground 
 To utter her harmonious sound ; 
 
 And hied her to Italian skies, 
 
 'Neath which a smiling landscape lies, 
 
 And sweet as are her melodies. 
 
 But we have known the gracious hue, 
 That sea and sky display to view, 
 Deck'd in the pride of summer blue, 
 
37 
 
 IDEM LATINE REDDITUM. 
 
 Neniam canta, precor, O Camena ; 
 Decidunt frondes modo tarn virentes, 
 Et cito tristis pede jam propinquat 
 Exitus anni. 
 
 Surgit incertus reciditque ventus, 
 Dum mare albescens agitatur undis, 
 Solque pallenti radio renidet 
 Mense Decembri. 
 
 Splendor aestivus periit colorque, 
 Qui fuit quondam redeunte vere 
 Floribus pulchris — tenebrosa nobis 
 Advenit hora. 
 
 Nuper in caelo, memini, sereno 
 Aud''i cantus avium canoros ; 
 Editum est cuj usque simul poetae a- 
 mabile carmen. 
 
 Sed mihi prodest nihil invocanti 
 Musa, me ludunt capiuntque vana 
 Somnia, et spreto numeri negantur 
 Usque decori. 
 
 Forsan aversa variaque mente 
 Cesserit longe, meliusque Diva 
 Viderit litus, quod amore dignum 
 Censeat omni, 
 
 Dulce qua cantet melos, atque sole 
 Gaudeat puro Siculisque campis, 
 Luce qui fulgent, neque dulciora 
 Carmina Musae. 
 
 Sed licet nobis minus aequa terrae 
 Rideat pars, nos placidi colorem 
 Vidimus gratum maris atque caeli 
 Vidimus alti. 
 
38 
 
 When o'er the dancing waves we sped, 
 White cloudlets sailing overhead, 
 What time the roses blossom'd red. 
 
 But now the roses all are gone. 
 The summer past, the harvest done. 
 Now all a dream to muse upon. 
 
 Then chant a requiem for the year, 
 And gather cypress for its bier^ 
 For, lo, its end approacheth near ! 
 
 Meantime we wait till " winter wild " 
 Is past, and spring, ethereal child. 
 Comes back to greet us, sweet and mild. 
 
39 
 
 Turn rubescebat rosa multa, rara 
 Nube per clarum volitante caelum — 
 Quam libens fluctus fragili micantes 
 Nave cucurri ! 
 
 At decor nobis abiit rosarum 
 Laetus, aestatis procul est apricum 
 Tempus, et solum remanet poetae 
 Nominis umbra. 
 
 Neniam canta, precor, O Camena, 
 Sparge ferales feretro cupressos, 
 Nam cito tristis pede jam propinquat 
 Exitus anni. 
 
 Interim dum ver veniat salubre, 
 Horridam pellens hiemem, manemus- 
 Dum polum blandis radiis Apollo 
 Impleat omnem. 
 
40 
 
 IN MEMORIAM E.E.K. 
 
 She is where birthdays are not counted 
 
 By the sad roll of waning years ; 
 She has all pain and grief surmounted 
 
 With their concomitant of tears. 
 
 She is where every earthly burden 
 
 Is lifted from the laden breast, 
 "With Christ," who is her soul's dear guerdon, 
 
 She has begun the sabbath-rest. 
 
 And where the blissful day is shrouded 
 
 By no approach of early night, 
 And where the joy is never clouded 
 
 She waits a morning still more bright ; 
 
 When at the voice of the Archangel 
 The blessed dead again shall rise, 
 
 And we be changed (O sweet evangel !) 
 For glad re-union in the skies. 
 
 There many a flower too early folded. 
 If earth were all, again shall bloom, 
 
 Where all by Jesu's Hand is moulded. 
 No more obnoxious to the tomb. 
 
41 
 
 LINES WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, 
 
 'Tis not as once it seem'd, 
 Although the same bright glow bedeck the sky 
 What time the kindly light of day may die, 
 
 As when my childhood dream'd. 
 
 Then death was but a name, 
 And at some coming day I was to rise 
 To meet the gracious Master with glad eyes, 
 
 To meet His eyes of flame. 
 
 I did not think to lie 
 Within the lap of all-receiving earth. 
 The house ordain'd for all of human birth, 
 
 But to ascend on high. 
 
 But youth's elastic tread 
 Is now exchanged for manhood's graver mood. 
 And often sombre fancies will intrude. 
 
 And not unmix'd with dread. 
 
 And so, though roses bloom 
 And skies are tinged with scarlet as of yore, 
 The light that is on leaf and cloud no more 
 
 Prevails to banish gloom. 
 
 O Father, aid Thy child ; 
 Restore the joy of Thy salvation. Lord ! 
 O shed within the comfort of Thy Word, 
 
 So life shall seem less wild. 
 
4^ 
 
 SUBMISSION. 
 
 When wandering in devious ways, 
 Thy love, O Lord, did still pursue, 
 
 And Thou, the Author of my days 
 Didst draw me to Thyself anew. 
 
 Thine, Saviour, is the faithfulness. 
 The patient grace, O Lord, is Thine, 
 
 Which waiteth this poor heart to bless, 
 And on its doubt and gloom to shine. 
 
 The bliss of earthly gladness born 
 
 With earthly gladness ebbs and flows ; 
 
 The heart of such delights forlorn 
 A double depth of darkness knows. 
 
 The heart that rests on love divine 
 Hath ever an unfailing peace, 
 
 A light that doth the brighter shine. 
 When earthly blandishments decrease. 
 
 O ever gentlier are led 
 
 The feet that tread the heavenly way ; 
 O ever swiftlier is sped 
 
 The soul that waits the perfect day. 
 
 O ever cheerier the gaze 
 
 Directed to the coming day ; 
 O ever sunnier the rays. 
 
 That flash along the heavenly way. 
 
 Then, Lord, to Thy thrice holy Will 
 Give me the grace to gladly bow ; 
 
 Knowing 'tis Thine may I be still, 
 This be for me sufficient now. 
 
 1882. 
 
43 
 
 I.-SUNSET IN WINTER. 
 
 The wintry day is dying, and the pole 
 Of palest azure fleck'd with fleecy cloud ; 
 The frosty air is still, and vapours grey 
 Brood o'er the land and o'er the sleeping sea 
 Beneath the wan, chill sky — save that the west, 
 Flush'd with the fading sunlight, is aflame 
 With crimson, and anear the evening star. 
 Earth's sister, rolling in concentric curve, 
 Venus, the glory of the western sky, 
 Shines with a large effulgence, sweet and mild ; 
 And in the east the giant orb of Jove 
 Flashes to earth his bright opposing beams. 
 Lit with the self-same lustre — these on high 
 All-paramount, until the growing dark 
 Reveal the nearer mysteries of heaven. 
 December, 1893. 
 
44 
 
 II.-" WHAT IS MAN?" 
 
 And yet, though it proclaim the handiwork 
 
 Of the Supreme, this cosmic beauty ne'er 
 
 Can solve a single questioning, or lift 
 
 One sorrow from the breast, or chase the gloom 
 
 That, born of earth's long mystery and pain, 
 
 Darkens the soul — nay rather, as we gaze. 
 
 Instructed in the science of the skies, 
 
 Into yon vast abyss, where countless worlds 
 
 Roll their unmeasured orbits (nor alone 
 
 Jove's star and Cytherea's, spheres that hold 
 
 With our sad earth co-equal company). 
 
 The spirit faints, and " what is man," we cry, 
 
 " That Thou, O Lord, should'st look on such an one " ! 
 
 And spite of coruscating stars, and rays 
 
 Of cloven light, and scarlet and pale gold. 
 
 Kindling the burning west, there is no voice, 
 
 From nature none, to still our constant cry. 
 
45 
 
 III.-TE DEUM LAUDAMUS. 
 
 O Light above the brightness of the sun ! 
 Light of that holy throne, which round about 
 Is compass'd by the flaming Cherubim, 
 Light shining in His blessed Face, Who wore 
 For man a crown of sorrow and of thorn — 
 O mighty Daysman, Mediator kind ! 
 Whose life was forfeit for a guilty world, 
 Whose Voice Divine, alone articulate 
 With mercy and with majesty, proclaims 
 Grace reconciled with justice. Thee we praise — 
 Thee, Sovereign Light, but dimly symbolised 
 In the high splendour of this vernal noon ; 
 Thee, Sovereign Love, known faintly in the fair 
 And tender twilight hues of dying day, 
 Or in the radiance of the rosy dawn. 
 
46 
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 
 
 They know not the voice of strangers ^ — St. John x., 5 
 
 There is no voice like Thine, 
 O Shepherd kind and true, 
 Whose accents, human and divine. 
 Still call Thy sheep anew. 
 
 The stranger's voice is loud, 
 
 And confident his tone ; 
 But, Lord, to Thee our hearts have bow'd. 
 
 To Thee, Whose love is known. 
 
 So when with siren song 
 
 The stranger would allure. 
 Thy steadfast Word shall keep us strong. 
 
 And peaceful and secure. 
 
 For, though a hundred creeds 
 
 Seek favour in our eyes, 
 Yet Thou, Who meetest all our needs. 
 
 Alone canst make us wise. 
 
 Thy story, ever young, 
 Is still as true to-day. 
 As when at dawn the Angels sung, 
 And heralded Thy way. 
 
 O Voice most sweet and clear 
 Above earth's babel cries ; 
 O Voice, which it is life to hear, 
 
 True life, that never dies ! 
 
 Thine own life Thou didst give. 
 Good Shepherd, for the sheep ; 
 And Thou, that they might ever live, 
 Didst sink in waters deep. 
 
 There is no love like Thine, 
 Thou blessed Son of Man ; 
 
 To save the lost was Thy design, 
 
 To save — God's wondrous plan. 
 O may we hear Thy call. 
 And heed each gracious word. 
 
 While low before Thy feet we fall. 
 
 Our Saviour and our Lord ! 
 
47 
 St. STEPHEN. 
 
 He stood, the earliest martyr crown'd, 
 Nor fear'd to face the *' viper brood," 
 And Pharisees' infuriate mood, 
 Who, breathing hate, beset him round. 
 
 Confronting that high Sanhedrin 
 With steadfast and undaunted gaze. 
 He thus rehearsed the former ways 
 Of Israel's faithlessness and sin : 
 
 Jehovah's ways of grace divine, 
 Man's ways of folly and of shame. 
 Who soon forsook His holy name. 
 And to vain idols did decline. 
 
 Awhile they heard, but pictured there 
 Their sin they could not choose but see ; 
 'Twas more to hear such verity, 
 Than Pharisaic pride could bear. 
 
 Cut to the heart, with lawless hand 
 They aim'd at him the murderous stone, 
 On whom the radiant glory shone, • 
 Down-streaming from the sinless land. 
 
 And gnash'd upon him even so, 
 Restrain'd not by that holy glance. 
 Who late had seen his countenance 
 As with angelic beauty glow. 
 
 O blessed Martyr, glory-crown'd, 
 The Master's smile was guerdon fair, 
 And ** an abundant entrance " there, 
 Where wrath of men, nor sin is found ! 
 
48 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 O Lord Jesus, Thou hast worn, 
 Thou, a crown of cruel thorn, 
 But far other crowns are now 
 On Thy many-circled brow. 
 
 Thou hast borne the ribald jeer, 
 And the soldier's ruthless spear, 
 Saviour, pierced Thy sacred side, 
 Calling forth a cleansing tide. 
 
 Son of God, who stoop'd so low, 
 Gladly at Thy feet we bow ; 
 Son of Man, exalted high. 
 Never more for sin to die. 
 
 Lamb of God, pathetic Name, 
 Telling of Thy death of shame ; 
 Lamb of God, the Glorified, — 
 Now we bless, who once denied. 
 
 Lamb of God, when Thou shalt see 
 Of Thy soul's sore agony. 
 Thou wilt then be satisfied. 
 Welcoming Thy glorious Bride. 
 
 Son of God, we then shall gaze 
 On Thy face for endless days ; 
 And our brows shall wear the fame 
 Of Thy great and wondrous Name. 
 
49 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 St. John, xviii. 37. 
 
 King, whose great might wasveil'd, 
 Of patience without end, 
 By obloquy and scorn assail'd. 
 How low didst Thou descend ! 
 
 King of the pierced Hand, 
 King of the thorn-crown'd Brow, 
 Rejected once in Judah's land. 
 Great King above, below. 
 
 King, where the Seraphs fall 
 Before the sapphire throne ; 
 Acclaim Thee, Jesus, Lord of all, 
 The tried and Uving Stone. 
 
 King of the world to be 
 In the millennial day. 
 When all shall own Thy majesty 
 And bow beneath Thy sway. 
 
 King of our hearts e'en now, 
 We love Thee and adore, 
 Our Saviour, Lord and Master Thou, 
 Our Hope for evermore ! 
 
50 
 
 VIA CRUCIS. 
 
 ** The way of the Cross is the way of Light 
 
 Via crucis, via lucis — 
 Ringeth so the true refrain ; 
 Not the glory first nor gladness, 
 But the darkness and the pain. 
 
 Via crucis, via lucis — 
 Even so for Him, Who died, 
 Crown'd with glory and with honour 
 After He was crucified. 
 
 Via crucis, via lucis — 
 First the burden and the shame ; 
 Then the fruit of His sore travail. 
 Who by dying overcame. 
 
 Via crucis, via lucis — 
 From the Cross the glory streams, 
 And the eyes that look to Jesus 
 Brighten in its healing beams. 
 
 Via crucis, via lucis — 
 
 Son of God, Emmanuel, 
 
 For the merits of Thy passion. 
 
 We should surely love Thee well. 
 
 Via crucis, via lucis — 
 Ringeth so the high refrain ; 
 Thou wilt rise, O Star of Morning, 
 And the dark come not again. 
 
51 
 
 A CONTRAST. 
 
 A darkening night, and then a morn serene ; 
 
 A stormy main, and then the crystal sea ; 
 This fading day, and then the pearly sheen 
 
 Of heavenly brightness for eternity. 
 
 Earth's mingled songs, and then the melodies, 
 Glad as in Jesu's presence, that beseem 
 
 The land, where hush'd for aye are sorrow's cries, 
 A bliss that far transcends earth's highest dream. 
 
 A weary wandering, then most easeful rest ; 
 
 Irreverent strife, and then most holy calm. 
 Vouchsafed to sinners saved, so richly blest. 
 
 Exchanging conflict's sword for victory's palm. 
 
 Robes travel-stain'd, but then divinely pure. 
 And bright with radiance the tear-dimm'd eyes, 
 
 And heavenly bliss for earthly vain allure ; 
 The wilderness, and then God's Paradise ! 
 
52 
 
 NIGHT. 
 
 Young night divine crown'd dying day with stars." — Tennyson. 
 
 Brightly the moonbeams play 
 
 Upon the shimmering sea ; 
 The night is fair as day, 
 
 And far more free. 
 
 White cloudlets fleck the sky 
 
 Now gemm'd with burning stars, 
 
 And no discordant cry 
 The silence mars. 
 
 Only the muffled moan 
 
 Of the unresting sea 
 In endless monotone 
 
 Speaks unto me. 
 
 And, while with golden gleams 
 
 The constellations shine, 
 Unquench'd by Cynthia's beams, 
 
 Night is divine. 
 
 Now too each fragrant flower 
 
 Is wet with kindly dews. 
 And this reposeful hour 
 
 Invites to muse. 
 
 It is the hour to pray 
 
 Or holy vigil keep, 
 When with departing day 
 
 The low winds sleep. 
 
53 
 PRAYER. 
 
 Father, we come to Thee 
 In one prevailing Name — 
 
 In His, Whose love must be 
 Our only claim ; 
 
 In Whom Thou art reveal'd, 
 In Whom the dark is clear, 
 
 And secret things unseal'd, 
 And distant near. 
 
 These burning stars are Thine, 
 And Thine this goodly frame, 
 
 Form'd by Thy Hand divine 
 To praise Thy Name. 
 
 But not in starry skies. 
 And not in vernal flowers 
 
 True consolation lies 
 For needs like ours. 
 
 For we are frail and weak. 
 And so we come to Thee ; 
 
 Thy face, O God, we seek 
 On bended knee. 
 
 O guide us with Thine eye ; 
 
 The work of faith fulfil. 
 Until we rest on high 
 
 On Zion's hill. 
 
Fijqi2. 
 
U.C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES 
 
 CDMai3SDEl