Part 3

My soul grew strong; and up I rose, Oh yes, I have been all night dreaming; But now the ruddy morning glows, And up the golden sun is streaming: I’ll out upon the pebbled path, Mine easy robe about me folding, And see how bright the season hath Put forth fresh flowers, for my beholding. Green Earth is all around reviving, And strong is every living thing; And all is pleasant health, and thriving, In thy sweet season, lovely Spring! Yes, every knoll its wealth unbosoms, And laugheth o’er the winter flown, And see the dead old trunk hath blossoms, And moss is on the cold gray stone.

LXXXIII.

And up the butterfly is springing From out the shroud, that lately wound him; And off on gentle zephyrs winging, How spurneth he the clod that bound him. So our Lord did break his prison, So he wafted to the skies; So my soul, thou too hast risen! So the dead in Christ shall rise.

LXXXIV.

It was the holy Easter-day, And Nature, like an infant lay, When soft its breathing comes and goes, No sound, no stir, but cool repose. A calm soft sleep was in the air, And every breeze, that whisper’d there, Came sweet as from a seraph’s mouth, With odours from the sunny South. And so the garden-walks along I saunter’d pleas’d, and humming song, And knew that Heaven itself above, Did keep with Earth that feast of Love.

LXXXV.

When Christ, our Lord, was born of old, An angel choir his coming told; And from the manger where he lay, All up along the starry way, Were seraphs set, and watchwords given, To pass the story up to Heaven. And so in sooth, they stand as well, Though not to mortals visible, Where’er the Church’s anthems rise, To waft our homage to the skies. Oh then, how blest each festal morn, When Christ arose, when Christ was born, And who but loves thee, Easter-day, Queen of old feasts, so bright, so gay, So dear to every Christian soul, O’er all the Earth, from pole to pole!

LXXXVI.

For Heaven comes down to Earth, in thee, That worship may be harmony. And years on years away have roll’d, But still the Easter chimes are toll’d. From land to land they peal and ring, How Jesu is our Lord and King; And hark! once more—from yonder fane, Outpeal those gushing sounds again, Responsive to the anthem, hurl’d From land to land, around the world.

LXXXVII.

Yes,—the Easter-bells are ringing! Yes,—it is the Easter-day! Hark,—their merry chimes are singing, In their sweet old fashioned way! Listen,—for they seem to say, In their ivied turret swinging, Hear oh Earth, ’tis Easter-day!

1.

Christ is arisen, Joy to thee, mortal! Out of his prison, Forth from its portal! Christ is not sleeping, Seek him no longer; Strong was his keeping; Jesus was stronger!

2.

Christ is arisen, Seek him not here, Lonely his prison, Empty his bier; Vain his entombing, Spices, and lawn; Vain the perfuming: Jesus is gone!

3.

Christ is arisen, Joy to thee, mortal! Empty his prison, Broken its portal: Rising, he giveth His shroud to the sod; Risen,—he liveth, And liveth to God!

LXXXVIII.

Yes,—and all the world around, So those Easter chimings sound: All the Earth is gay and bright, Risen with the Lord to light; Yes,—and yonder sun doth see Many a Christian on his knee, Singing, as he bends to pray, Christ, our Lord, is risen to-day!

LXXXIX.

Think, my soul, in every land How, in holy aisles, they stand; Christians—who with every tongue, Lauds, and anthems high, have sung; And all night long, pale vigil kept, As Magdalene and Mary wept, With lowly heart, but lifted eye, Gazing raptly on the sky, Blessing there the Paschal moon, And longing, as she pass’d her noon, To see her silver melt away, In all the golden glow of day!

XC.

Think of those who watch’d the dawn, Pilgrims, o’er the desert drawn, Round the Sepulchre afar, Where the turban’d Paynims are! Think, who, there, His love to shew, Rose two thousand years ago! Think, how Mary wept to say, They have ta’en my Lord away; Think, when Christ appear’d to her How she call’d Him—gardener: Picture then the fond reply, Mary———and her swimming eye.

XCI.

Think along the Grecian isles How each dark-eyed lady smiles, As, at incense-hour, she goes, Singing sweetly—Jesus rose! Think of Roman, Goth, and Hun, Praising and adoring One! While, the solid world around, Rises one symphonious sound, From choirs, and bells, and organs blown, Cathedral chaunt, and matins lone, One burst—one loud adoring voice, The Lord is risen—Earth rejoice!

XCII.

A thousand vintages to-day, The dear Redeemer’s blood display, From Samos’ isle of ruddy vines, To where the Finland chalice shines; And where the Hindu hand hath crush’d The grape that in the jungle blush’d; Or where the Huron’s cluster wild, Is on the altar, undefiled. And grain that hath to harvest grown, Upon a thousand mountains sown, From green Arkansas, to Cathay, Is bless’d for Jesu’s flesh to-day.

XCIII.

And every altar, Greek and Goth, Is cover’d with its snowy cloth; And kneeling Christians, every where, Are fed with sacramental fare. In farthest Ind, I see them bow, The naked shape, the swarthy brow, Where Gunga’s wave, so dark before, Hath borne the northern bishop’s prore; Aye there, ’neath vault and swelling dome, And oh, in my green forest home, All—all are kneeling!—and on high, There’s one communion in the sky: For there all angels, and the dead, Are one, in Him that suffered!

XCIV.

To-day the chimes of England call A nation to the festival; And I can see the glorious light, That makes the minster-window bright, And throws a gorgeous stain, in flood, Upon the blessed bread and blood. I see, beside the altar, stand, The bishop, with the Cup in hand, A solemn light around him shed, And holy hues upon his head! I see the priests in snowy white, And tombs with blazon’d scutcheons dight; I see the people kneeling round; I hear the organ’s host of sound, With angels and archangels high, The Saviour laud and magnify! And I can feel, to worship there, Is living on the mount of prayer!

XCV.

Oh, utter’d in an humbler tone, The same high service is mine own. And hark again, the bells, the bells! The music, what a tale it tells! It calleth all, and calleth me; Nor vain shall its sweet warning be, For I this morn, through Him that bled, Am doubly risen from the dead; If but my Lord will hear to-day The vows repentant I would pay, And, as once more He gives me breath, Give me to win a holier death, With ministers of mercy round, And pard’ning grace, and prayer’s sweet sound, And sacramental strength to break The bonds of flesh—and then to wake, As now I waken, from a dream, And hail this holy Easter-beam That bids me sing my Saviour’s love, And risen, seek the things above.

L’ENVOI.

Oft my dull hours, poor Song, thou hast deceived, And borne me back to that enchanted dream, In which I made thee. In thee have I weaved More than to shallow eyesight there will seem. And thou hast liv’d, as, in the darling beam Of one bright lady, the cag’d bird doth dwell, Where he that gave it, envies it the gleam Of her admiring smiles. But from her cell Now thou art loos’d, poor Song—thou’lt not be lov’d so well.

NOTES.

All-Saints’ day, as all good Christians should remember, is the first day of November. Halloween, is a sweet Scotticism for its vigil, familiar to the reader of Burns, but which I have grudged to the degrading use which has been made of it, by that unhappy bard.

Instead of the profane rites by which it has been desecrated, I have supposed it observed in Christian homes, by fire-side tales and recollections of the departed, and conversations about the state of Intermediate Repose. Such would be a less unfitting way of preparing for a Festival, in which the Church commemorates her Saints and Martyrs, and all the dead in Christ, as part of her Holy Communion, expecting with her the resurrection of the body, and the final award of the life everlasting.

This Festival is the counterpart of Easter—telling of Death, as Easter does of Resurrection; and as God has given to the latter, the reviving blossom and the sweet Spring-time; so He has set the former in the Autumn, and strewed the sere leaves in our path to Church, as its becoming symbol. And thus the true Catholic always finds himself living in harmony with nature; for the Author of Nature is the Author of his Holy Religion. He has a joy which the world knows not, in beholding all the works of God. They have a place in that system of the universe, of which the Catholic Church is a part; and Niagara, and Mont Blanc, possess for him a ritual character, as really as the Te Deum, in which he sings, “All the earth doth worship thee the Father Everlasting.”

* * * * *

_The warlocks are at their play._ Strophe vii.

Such is one of the familiar superstitions concerning Halloween.

* * * * *

_There is a world, &c._ Strophe ix.

See Ps. 78; 49. Zech. 13; 2. Eph. 6; 12. 1. Tim. 4; 1. And for _Guardian Angels_ see S. Matt. 18; 10, and the service for Michaelmas, in the Prayerbook.

* * * * *

_But one whose soul hath been in Hell._ Strophe x.

The word Hell is here used, as in the Creed, to signify Hades, or the place of departed spirits. I have purposely shunned any imagining of its secret things, whether in the _Paradise_ of the just, or the _Phylace_ of the wicked; and have simply employed some of the revelations of the Apocalypse, in a reverent hint at the employment of the Angels in Heaven. The episode of Ulla and Arah is introduced to illustrate the received doctrine of the recognition of friends in the final abodes of the righteous.

* * * * *

_A pig from Epicurus’ stye._ Strophe xix.

The reader will recognize this truly Horatian, though some what inelegant metaphor, as borrowed from “Porcus de grege Epicuri.”

* * * * *

_And I could see when there above._ Strophe xlv.

This passage was written with Southey’s famous lines in memory, beginning “Oh when a mother meets on high.”

* * * * *

_As God in flesh did once declare._ Strophe lxv.

See the Gospel for the second Sunday in Advent.

* * * * *

_That hath all colours bright._ Strophe lxvi.

A year or so after this was written, I read some of the Dialogues of Plato, and found in the Phædon, (I think,) a passage, which might be supposed to have suggested this whole strophe.

* * * * *

_Such as ye ken through the telescope._ Strophe lxvii.

The appearance here described may be observed through a telescope in an inverted order, when the moon is nearly full and rises about sunset.

* * * * *

_Green Earth is all around reviving._ Strophe lxxxii.

The reader is referred to a sweet description of Easter, in the charming book entitled “Scenes in Our Parish.”

* * * * *

_Christ is arisen._ Strophe lxxxvii.

The famous chorus of the women in Faust, suggested this little ode, which is partly translated from the German of Goethe.

* * * * *

_And risen, seek the things above._ Strophe xcv.

See Epistle for Easter-day, in the Church Service. The moral of all is, in the words of Augustine, “Ibam longe a te in plura sterilia semina dolorum, O tardum gaudium meum!”

LAYS, MEDITATIVE AND DEVOTIONAL.

The lyre my boyhood chose for idle lays, Of its own impulse found a holier strain. _Personne._

TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN FINLEY SMITH, M. A. LATE OF HAMILTON COLLEGE, THESE LAYS, PRESERVED CHIEFLY FOR THE SAKE OF THEIR ASSOCIATIONS WITH HIM, ARE NOW INSCRIBED, IN SAD FULFILLMENT OF A PROMISE MADE WHEN WE WERE BOYS TOGETHER.

A. C. C.

PREFACE.

When the CHRISTIAN BALLADS first appeared, I appended to the book several little poems of a different character, with the announcement that they were selected from a forthcoming volume. Although I afterwards determined not to publish that volume in a collected form, its contents have, to a great extent, found their way into print; and are from time to time reviving, and dying newspaper deaths, sometimes with the loss of limbs, and even parts more vital. I have been induced therefore to collect and arrange them, and, in an unostentatious form, to present them to the public: supposing that my friends will not be unwilling to have these early efforts, in a legitimate shape, and that others will find the volume too unpretending to deserve their censure.

These poems, except a few introduced in place of others destroyed, were written in my early years. They were begun in the Summer of 1836, when I was passing a college vacation under my father’s roof, at Auburn, in Western New York. It was my privilege there to meet the friend, to whose memory I have inscribed them; and to his musical taste, and his frequent suggestion that I should give him words for some of his favorite airs, the production of the songs and hymns in this collection, was chiefly owing. Little did I foresee that they would be published as a tribute to his beloved memory!

As motives of ambition would dictate the suppression of this boyish book, after the favorable reception bestowed by the public, on my later productions, I shall find every anticipation satisfied, if in the opinion of goodnatured critics, these Lays are not unworthy of the years in which they were written.

A. C. C. The Sycamores, Hartford West, August 15, 1843.

LAYS.

GIVE ME THE HOUR.

1.

Give me the hour of day’s decline To muse upon my own, To call from Earth each wish of mine, And dream of Heaven alone; And let nor voice, nor foot intrude Upon my meditative mood, As stretched in lonely cell or bower, I feel the shades, that o’er the lea, Come lengthening till they fall on me And veil my pensive hour.

2.

For I have loved the Eventide, While yet I knew not why; But now, since early friends have died, ’Tis dear as memory. It minds me of their quiet sleep ’Neath many a grassy mound; or deep The floods of far-off seas below! It tells me how my years steal on, How strong and lovely ones have gone, And how we all must go!

3.

My name shall ne’er be writ with those Whose friendships death can end; No grave upon my love can close, No tomb take all my friend; Not only in communion blest, I share their beatific rest, But oft to ev’n mine earthly ken, Their Death seems but a signet set, To love, whose converse passeth yet, All life with worldly men.

4.

To think of names, once daily heard, That now are read in stone, And know each gesture, look, and word, Familiar smile and tone, As all would be, could they but still Give hand and heart with thine to thrill, This is a pure though sad delight! And such is mine, at that sweet hour When wakes the star, and dies the flower, As sunset turns to night.

5.

Thus ye come back, my own dear dead, From Paradise’s door, To fill with feelings hallowed, The world ye blessed before! When we were mates, ye drew with mine, Life’s pictured way, in equal line, Nor dreamed we, ye were near its goal; Where hand-in-hand we thought to be, Ye’ve left a lonely race to me; Ah, shall I run the whole!

* * * * *

HYMN OF THE WREATH.

1.

Ah gentle flowers! Long time enough my life has run, To twine dear thoughts, with every one, That blooms in bowers.

2.

My couch beside, When I am sick,—each flings a scent Of its own story redolent, O’er memory’s tide.

3.

There’s pert heartsease! The boy’s own flower shall still be mine While thoughts of childhood’s auld-lang-syne, My heart can please.

4.

The parlour’s pride, Sweet hyacinth—thy full perfume Reminds of home—the curtained room, And warm fireside.

5.

The primrose lone, I see it ever on its stalk, Flush in my favorite woodland walk Spring’s first full-blown.

6.

And crocus, too, I’ve seen it up on Easter-day; Sweet symbol, from the frozen clay Rising anew!

7.

The coiled woodbine, Brings some fair cottager to sight, That to her lattice, trails aright Its tangled vine.

8.

Rose—red or pale, Yellow or mossy—who shall sing, Thy fragrant memories, queenly thing, Or tell their tale!

9.

Starred jessamine! Thy glory shall adorn my bride’s, With orange-blossoms, wreathed besides Her tresses in!

10.

And by her bower, I’ll plant the falling eardrop’s grace, Whose lady-blossoms hide their face From sun and shower.

11.

And she shall set The lily near, to favour me, And myrtles, and sad rosemary And mignonette.

12.

And I will plant One flower beside—and say to her, I’ve nursed it for my monitor; This thou shalt grant;

13.

In life’s last hour, To tell me of the Crucified, Oh set alone my couch beside The passion-flower.

14.

And on my tomb, Plant deathless amaranth, for I Would rise in immortality, And endless bloom.

* * * * *

STAR THAT HAST.

Hymn to the North Star.

I. 1.

Star that hast thy bright abode In the skies for ever, Like the sleepless eye of God Never resting—never Star of glory—holy star, Chiming in thy sphere Glorious creature, from afar If thou hearest—hear!

I. 2.

Deem not I upon thee call As to God I bow; I before thy Maker fall; I am more than thou! But I’ve pleasant words for thee! And my heart is flowing; Dear is thy sweet light to me, And I love its glowing!

II. 1.

I, with wonder in my soul, See thy ray in heaven, Thinking, thus while ages roll, Still thy light is given. Would I might my story give Deathless star, to thee! Then, as long as earth shall live, Men would think on me.

II. 2.

Stars of earth on thee have gazed, Ever-glorious flame! They have burned away and blazed, Thou art still the same! Thou art ever bright as now, Far above all sorrow; Born for endless ages thou! I must die to-morrow!

III. 1.

Nay, thou ever-watching star, Of the heavenly portal, Long as thy dull ages are, I am more immortal! ’Twas for this I called thy name, Star that dwell’st so high, For the skies shall melt in flame, Even thou shalt die!

III. 2.

Thou shalt perish!—I endure When thy lamp is dim, Dark thy place in ether pure, Hush’d thy sphery hymn! Thou shalt fade: and ne’er be found, Never more, oh, never: I shall live a deathless round, Ever—and for ever.

* * * * *

STANZAS.

1.

She shone upon the bright saloon Mid mirth and music’s sound, Like moonlight, on the glimmering Of tapers dim around, And where she walked, ’twas wonderful How all our hearts she bowed, And how she tamed the manliest, And how she awed the proud.

2.

Some shapes there are, though dear and rare, By grudging Nature given, To teach us here, how beautiful The angels are in heaven; And such was she, the queen of all, The fairest of the fair, The lady of the gentle heart, And soul-subduing air.

* * * * *

CANZONET.

1.

My heart is like the twilight sky For there thou shin’st, its only star; And giv’st me all the radiancy That others worship from afar!

2.

Oh may this twilight be as those That linger o’er the arctic air, Where one mild star, as fable shews, Goes round and round, but sets not there.

3.

For I have known no cheerful day, Till soft this twilight calm was given; Star of my heart—sink ne’er away, Nor seek too soon thy further Heaven!

* * * * *

THOU ART GONE TO THE LAND.

1.

Thou art gone to the land of thy bloom and thy birth, Thou fairest of beings that die: We knew that thy spirit was purer than earth, We knew that thy home was on high; But we loved thee too well not to weep at thy flight, And we said it was hard thou shouldst go: There are angels enough in the regions of light, But whom hast thou left us below?

2.

Ah! well did we fear thou wast budding for Heaven, Though nurst in a climate so cold, And marked as a warning too faithfully given, The wings of thy spirit unfold: And rainbow on rainbow thy pinions displayed, And thy gaze was, in love, on the sky, And we said, ’tis an angel a moment delayed, But plumed, and just ready to fly.

3.

Thou art gone to the land of thy bloom and thy birth, Though here was thy glory begun: Ah! why hast thou left us a desolate earth, Ere half of thy journey was done? Ah! why was thy spirit so eager to fly, And lose the dear shape that it wore? Thou hast left to the grave, what was worthy the sky, For scarce could an angel be more!

* * * * *

SONG.

Written for a Swiss Air.

1.

Weep for the lovely, that are fled, With years their smiles made bright; The lovely that are vanished, Like unreturning light; Like Stars that set and leave no ray, Like Summer’s bloom forgot, From Earth their glory died away, But Earth remembers not.

2.

How still they slumber ’neath the turf, The faded spoil of grief; The sore-tossed pearls of Ocean’s surf, The forest’s withered leaf! Remembered—as a fancy fled, Or as a vanished sound, Where once their light a lustre shed On meaner things around!

3.

Weep for the lovely, sent to bless The world’s unlovely clime, And oft, in all their loveliness To fade before their time; Made often in their guileless years Some soulless mortal’s prey, To feel the waste of secret tears, And all the heart’s decay!

* * * * *

CANZONET.

1.

Love like theirs was never lighted, With a season to be blighted; It was deeper than emotion, Deep as their deep souls’ devotion, Fixed in their fond hearts forever, Like the soul—to perish never.

2.