Chapter 11

“We can—Thine are we, dearest Lord, In glory and in agony, To do and suffer all Thy word; Only be Thou for ever nigh.”— “Then be it so—My cup receive, And of My woes baptismal taste: But for the crown, that angels weave For those next Me in glory placed,

“I give it not by partial love; But in My Father’s book are writ What names on earth shall lowliest prove, That they in Heaven may highest sit.” Take up the lesson, O my heart; Thou Lord of meekness, write it there, Thine own meek self to me impart, Thy lofty hope, thy lowly prayer.

If ever on the mount with Thee I seem to soar in vision bright, With thoughts of coming agony, Stay Thou the too presumptuous flight: Gently along the vale of tears Lead me from Tabor’s sunbright steep, Let me not grudge a few short years With thee t’ward Heaven to walk and weep:

Too happy, on my silent path, If now and then allowed, with Thee Watching some placid holy death, Thy secret work of love to see; But, oh! most happy, should Thy call, Thy welcome call, at last be given— “Come where thou long hast storeth thy all Come see thy place prepared in Heaven.”

St. Bartholomew.

Jesus answered and said unto him, Because I said unto thee, I saw the under the fig-tree, believest thou? Thou shalt see greater things than these. _St. John_ i. 50.

HOLD up thy mirror to the sun, And thou shalt need an eagle’s gaze, So perfectly the polished stone Gives back the glory of his rays:

Turn it, and it shall paint as true The soft green of the vernal earth, And each small flower of bashful hue, That closest hides its lowly birth.

Our mirror is a blessèd book, Where out from each illumined page We see one glorious Image look All eyes to dazzle and engage,

The Son of God: and that indeed We see Him as He is, we know, Since in the same bright glass we read The very life of things below.—

Eye of God’s word! where’er we turn Ever upon us! thy keen gaze Can all the depths of sin discern, Unravel every bosom’s maze:

Who that has felt thy glance of dread Thrill through his heart’s remotest cells, About his path, about his bed, Can doubt what spirit in thee dwells?

“What word is this? Whence know’st thou me?” All wondering cries the humbled heart, To hear thee that deep mystery, The knowledge of itself, impart.

The veil is raised; who runs may read, By its own light the truth is seen, And soon the Israelite indeed Bows down t’ adore the Nazarene.

So did Nathanael, guileless man, At once, not shame-faced or afraid, Owning Him God, who so could scan His musings in the lonely shade;

In his own pleasant fig-tree’s shade, Which by his household fountain grew, Where at noon-day his prayer he made To know God better than he knew.

Oh! happy hours of heavenward thought! How richly crowned! how well improved! In musing o’er the Law he taught, In waiting for the Lord he loved.

We must not mar with earthly praise What God’s approving word hath sealed: Enough, if might our feeble lays Take up the promise He revealed;

“The child-like faith, that asks not sight, Waits not for wonder or for sign, Believes, because it loves, aright— Shall see things greater, things divine.

“Heaven to that gaze shall open wide, And brightest angels to and fro On messages of love shall glide ’Twixt God above and Christ below.”

So still the guileless man is blest, To him all crooked paths are straight, Him on his way to endless rest Fresh, ever-growing strengths await.

God’s witnesses, a glorious host, Compass him daily like a cloud; Martyrs and seers, the saved and lost, Mercies and judgments cry aloud.

Yet shall to him the still small voice, That first into his bosom found A way, and fixed his wavering choice, Nearest and dearest ever sound.

St. Matthew.

And after these things He went forth, and saw a publican, named Levi, sitting at the receipt of custom: and He said unto him, Follow Me. And he left all, rose up, and followed Him. _St. Luke_ v. 27, 28.

YE hermits blest, ye holy maids, The nearest Heaven on earth, Who talk with God in shadowy glades, Free from rude care and mirth; To whom some viewless teacher brings The secret lore of rural things, The moral of each fleeting cloud and gale, The whispers from above, that haunt the twilight vale:

Say, when in pity ye have gazed On the wreathed smoke afar, That o’er some town, like mist upraised, Hung hiding sun and star, Then as ye turned your weary eye To the green earth and open sky, Were ye not fain to doubt how Faith could dwell Amid that dreary glare, in this world’s citadel?

But Love’s a flower that will not die For lack of leafy screen, And Christian Hope can cheer the eye That ne’er saw vernal green; Then be ye sure that Love can bless E’en in this crowded loneliness, Where ever-moving myriads seem to say, Go—thou art naught to us, nor we to thee—away!

There are in this loud stunning tide Of human care and crime, With whom the melodies abide Of th’ everlasting chime; Who carry music in their heart Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, Plying their daily task with busier feet, Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.

How sweet to them, in such brief rest As thronging cares afford, In thought to wander, fancy-blest, To where their gracious Lord, In vain, to win proud Pharisees, Spake, and was heard by fell disease— But not in vain, beside yon breezy lake, Bade the meek Publican his gainful seat forsake:

At once he rose, and left his gold; His treasure and his heart Transferred, where he shall safe behold Earth and her idols part; While he beside his endless store Shall sit, and floods unceasing pour Of Christ’s true riches o’er all time and space, First angel of His Church, first steward of His Grace.

Nor can ye not delight to think Where He vouchsafed to eat, How the Most Holy did not shrink From touch of sinner’s meat; What worldly hearts and hearts impure Went with Him through the rich man’s door, That we might learn of Him lost souls to love, And view His least and worst with hope to meet above.

These gracious lines shed Gospel light On Mammon’s gloomiest cells, As on some city’s cheerless night The tide of sunrise swells, Till tower, and dome, and bridge-way proud Are mantled with a golden cloud, And to wise hearts this certain hope us given; “No mist that man may raise, shall hide the eye of Heaven.”

And oh! if e’en on Babel shine Such gleams of Paradise, Should not their peace be peace divine, Who day by day arise To look on clearer heavens, and scan The work of God untouch’d by man? Shame on us, who about us Babel bear, And live in Paradise, as if God was not there!

St. Michael and All Angels.

Are they not all ministering spirits, sent forth to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation? _Hebrews_ i. 14.

YE stars that round the Sun of righteousness In glorious order roll, With harps for ever strung, ready to bless God for each rescued soul, Ye eagle spirits, that build in light divine, Oh! think of us to-day, Faint warblers of this earth, that would combine Our trembling notes with your accepted lay.

Your amarant wreaths were earned; and homeward all, Flush’d with victorious might, Ye might have sped to keep high festival, And revel in the light; But meeting us, weak worldlings, on our way, Tired ere the fight begun, Ye turned to help us in th’ unequal fray, Remembering Whose we were, how dearly won:

Remembering Bethlehem, and that glorious night When ye, who used to soar Diverse along all space in fiery flight, Came thronging to adore Your God new-born, and made a sinner’s child; As if the stars should leave Their stations in the far ethereal wild, And round the sun a radiant circle weave.

Nor less your lay of triumph greeted fair Our Champion and your King, In that first strife, whence Satan in despair Sunk down on scathèd wing: Abuse He fasted, and alone He fought; But when His toils were o’er, Ye to the sacred Hermit duteous brought Banquet and hymn, your Eden’s festal store.

Ye too, when lowest in th’ abyss of woe He plunged to save His sheep, Were leaning from your golden thrones to know The secrets of that deep: But clouds were on His sorrow: one alone His agonising call Summoned from Heaven, to still that bitterest groan, And comfort Him, the Comforter of all.

Oh! highest favoured of all Spirits create (If right of thee we deem), How didst thou glide on brightening wing elate To meet th’ unclouded beam Of Jesus from the couch of darkness rising! How swelled thine anthem’s sound, With fear and mightier joy weak hearts surprising, “Your God is risen, and may not here be found!”

Pass a few days, and this dull darkling globe Must yield Him from her sight;— Brighter and brighter streams His glory-robe, And He is lost in light. Then, when through yonder everlasting arch, Ye in innumerous choir Poured, heralding Messiah’s conquering march, Lingered around His skirts two forms of fire:

With us they stayed, high warning to impart; “The Christ shall come again E’en as He goes; with the same human heart, With the same godlike train.”— Oh! jealous God! how could a sinner dare Think on that dreadful day, But that with all Thy wounds Thou wilt be there, And all our angel friends to bring Thee on Thy way?

Since to Thy little ones is given such grace, That they who nearest stand Alway to God in Heaven, and see His face, Go forth at His command, To wait around our path in weal or woe, As erst upon our King, Set Thy baptismal seal upon our brow, And waft us heavenward with enfolding wing:

Grant. Lord, that when around th’ expiring world Our seraph guardians wait, While on her death-bed, ere to ruin hurled, She owns Thee, all too late, They to their charge may turn, and thankful see Thy mark upon us still; Then all together rise, and reign with Thee, And all their holy joy o’er contrite hearts fulfil!

St. Luke.

Luke, the beloved physician, and Demas, greet you. _Colossians_ iv. 14.

Demas hath forsaken me, having loved this present world . . . Only Luke is with me. 2 _Timothy_ iv. 10, 11.

TWO clouds before the summer gale In equal race fleet o’er the sky: Two flowers, when wintry blasts assail, Together pins, together die.

But two capricious human hearts— No sage’s rod may track their ways. No eye pursue their lawless starts Along their wild self-chosen maze.

He only, by whose sovereign hand E’en sinners for the evil day Were made—who rules the world He planned, Turning our worst His own good way;

He only can the cause reveal, Why, at the same fond bosom fed, Taught in the self-same lap to kneel Till the same prayer were duly said,

Brothers in blood and nurture too, Aliens in heart so oft should prove; One lose, the other keep, Heaven’s clue; One dwell in wrath, and one in love.

He only knows—for He can read The mystery of the wicked heart— Why vainly oft our arrows speed When aimed with most unerring art;

While from some rude and powerless arm A random shaft in season sent Shall light upon some lurking harm, And work some wonder little meant.

Doubt we, how souls so wanton change, Leaving their own experienced rest? Need not around the world to range; One narrow cell may teach us best.

Look in, and see Christ’s chosen saint In triumph wear his Christ-like chain; No fear lest he should swerve or faint; “His life is Christ, his death is gain.”

Two converts, watching by his side, Alike his love and greetings share; Luke the beloved, the sick soul’s guide, And Demas, named in faltering prayer.

Pass a few years—look in once more— The saint is in his bonds again; Save that his hopes more boldly soar, He and his lot unchanged remain.

But only Luke is with him now: Alas! that e’en the martyr’s cell, Heaven’s very gate, should scope allow For the false world’s seducing spell.

’Tis sad—but yet ’tis well, be sure, We on the sight should muse awhile, Nor deem our shelter all secure E’en in the Church’s holiest aisle.

Vainly before the shrine he bends, Who knows not the true pilgrim’s part: The martyr’s cell no safety lends To him who wants the martyr’s heart.

But if there be, who follows Paul As Paul his Lord, in life and death, Where’er an aching heart may call, Ready to speed and take no breath;

Whose joy is, to the wandering sheep To tell of the great Shepherd’s love; To learn of mourners while they weep The music that makes mirth above;

Who makes the Saviour all his theme, The Gospel all his pride and praise— Approach: for thou canst feel the gleam That round the martyr’s death-bed plays:

Thou hast an ear for angels’ songs, A breath the gospel trump to fill, And taught by thee the Church prolongs Her hymns of high thanksgiving still.

Ah! dearest mother, since too oft The world yet wins some Demas frail E’en from thine arms, so kind and soft, May thy tried comforts never fail!

When faithless ones forsake thy wing, Be it vouchsafed thee still to see Thy true, fond nurslings closer cling, Cling closer to their Lord and thee.

St. Simon and St. Jude.

That ye should earnestly contend for the faith which was once delivered unto the saints. _St. Jude_ 3.

SEEST thou, how tearful and alone, And drooping like a wounded dove, The Cross in sight, but Jesus gone, The widowed Church is fain to rove?

Who is at hand that loves the Lord? Make haste, and take her home, and bring Thine household choir, in true accord Their soothing hymns for her to sing.

Soft on her fluttering heart shall breathe The fragrance of that genial isle, There she may weave her funeral wreath, And to her own sad music smile.

The Spirit of the dying Son Is there, and fills the holy place With records sweet of duties done, Of pardoned foes, and cherished grace.

And as of old by two and two His herald saints the Saviour sent To soften hearts like morning dew, Where he to shine in mercy meant;

So evermore He deems His name Best honoured and his way prepared, When watching by his altar-flame He sees His servants duly paired.

He loves when age and youth are met, Fervent old age and youth serene, Their high and low in concord set For sacred song, Joy’s golden mean.

He loves when some clear soaring mind Is drawn by mutual piety To simple souls and unrefined, Who in life’s shadiest covert lie.

Or if perchance a saddened heart That once was gay and felt the spring, Cons slowly o’er its altered part, In sorrow and remorse to sing,

Thy gracious care will send that way Some spirit full of glee, yet taught To bear the sight of dull decay, And nurse it with all-pitying thought;

Cheerful as soaring lark, and mild As evening blackbird’s full-toned lay, When the relenting sun has smiled Bright through a whole December day.

These are the tones to brace and cheer The lonely watcher of the fold, When nights are dark, and foeman near, When visions fade and hearts grow cold.

How timely then a comrade’s song Comes floating on the mountain air, And bids thee yet be bold and strong— Fancy may die, but Faith is there.

All Saints’ Day.

Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees, till we have sealed the servants of our God in their foreheads. _Revelation_ vii. 3.

WHY blow’st thou not, thou wintry wind, Now every leaf is brown and sere, And idly droops, to thee resigned, The fading chaplet of the year? Yet wears the pure aërial sky Her summer veil, half drawn on high, Of silvery haze, and dark and still The shadows sleep on every slanting hill.

How quiet shows the woodland scene! Each flower and tree, its duty done, Reposing in decay serene, Like weary men when age is won, Such calm old age as conscience pure And self-commanding hearts ensure, Waiting their summons to the sky, Content to live, but not afraid to die.

Sure if our eyes were purged to trace God’s unseen armies hovering round, We should behold by angels’ grace The four strong winds of Heaven fast bound, Their downward sweep a moment stayed On ocean cove and forest glade, Till the last flower of autumn shed Her funeral odours on her dying bed.

So in Thine awful armoury, Lord, The lightnings of the judgment-day Pause yet awhile, in mercy stored, Till willing hearts wear quite away Their earthly stains; and spotless shine On every brow in light divine The Cross by angel hands impressed, The seal of glory won and pledge of promised

Little they dream, those haughty souls Whom empires own with bended knee, What lowly fate their own controls, Together linked by Heaven’s decree;— As bloodhounds hush their baying wild To wanton with some fearless child, So Famine waits, and War with greedy eyes, Till some repenting heart be ready for the skies.

Think ye the spires that glow so bright In front of yonder setting sun, Stand by their own unshaken might? No—where th’ upholding grace is won, We dare not ask, nor Heaven would tell, But sure from many a hidden dell, From many a rural nook unthought of there, Rises for that proud world the saints’ prevailing prayer.

On, Champions blest, in Jesus’ name, Short be your strife, your triumph full, Till every heart have caught your flame, And, lightened of the world’s misrule, Ye soar those elder saints to meet Gathered long since at Jesus’ feet, No world of passions to destroy, Your prayers and struggles o’er, your task all praise and joy.

Holy Communion.

O GOD of Mercy, God of Might, How should pale sinners bear the sight, If, as Thy power in surely here, Thine open glory should appear?

For now Thy people are allowed To scale the mount and pierce the cloud, And Faith may feed her eager view With wonders Sinai never knew.

Fresh from th’ atoning sacrifice The world’s Creator bleeding lies. That man, His foe, by whom He bled, May take Him for his daily bread.

O agony of wavering thought When sinners first so near are brought! “It is my Maker—dare I stay? My Saviour—dare I turn away?”

Thus while the storm is high within ’Twixt love of Christ and fear of sin, Who can express the soothing charm, To feel Thy kind upholding arm,

My mother Church? and hear thee tell Of a world lost, yet loved so well, That He, by whom the angels live, His only Son for her would give?

And doubt we yet? Thou call’st again; A lower still, a sweeter strain; A voice from Mercy’s inmost shrine, This very breath of Love divine.

Whispering it says to each apart, “Come unto Me, thou trembling heart;” And we must hope, so sweet the tone, The precious words are all our own.

Hear them, kind Saviour—hear Thy Spouse Low at Thy feet renew her vows; Thine own dear promise she would plead For us her true though fallen seed.

She pleads by all Thy mercies, told Thy chosen witnesses of old, Love’s heralds sent to man forgiven, One from the Cross, and one from Heaven.

This, of true penitents the chief, To the lost spirit brings relief, Lifting on high th’ adorèd Name:— “Sinners to save, Christ, Jesus came.”

That, dearest of Thy bosom Friends, Into the wavering heart descends:— “What? fallen again? yet cheerful rise. Thine Intercessor never dies.”

The eye of Faith, that waxes bright Each moment by thine altar’s light, Sees them e’en now: they still abide In mystery kneeling at our side:

And with them every spirit blest, From realms of triumph or of rest, From Him who saw creation’s morn, Of all Thine angels eldest born,

To the poor babe, who died to-day, Take part in our thanksgiving lay, Watching the tearful joy and calm, While sinners taste Thine heavenly balm.

Sweet awful hour! the only sound One gentle footstep gliding round, Offering by turns on Jesus’ part The Cross to every hand and heart.

Refresh us, Lord, to hold it fast; And when Thy veil is drawn at last, Let us depart where shadows cease, With words of blessing and of peace.

Holy Baptism.

WHERE is it mothers learn their love?— In every Church a fountain springs O’er which th’ Eternal Dove Hovers out softest wings.

What sparkles in that lucid flood Is water, by gross mortals eyed: But seen by Faith, ’tis blood Out of a dear Friend’s side.

A few calm words of faith and prayer, A few bright drops of holy dew, Shall work a wonder there Earth’s charmers never knew.

O happy arms, where cradled lies, And ready for the Lord’s embrace, That precious sacrifice, The darling of His grace!

Blest eyes, that see the smiling gleam Upon the slumbering features glow, When the life-giving stream Touches the tender brow!

Or when the holy cross is signed, And the young soldier duly sworn, With true and fearless mind To serve the Virgin-born.

But happiest ye, who sealed and blest Back to your arms your treasure take, With Jesus’ mark impressed To nurse for Jesus’ sake:

To whom—as if in hallowed air Ye knelt before some awful shrine— His innocent gestures wear A meaning half divine:

By whom Love’s daily touch is seen In strengthening form and freshening hue, In the fixed brow serene, The deep yet eager view.—

Who taught thy pure and even breath To come and go with such sweet grace? Whence thy reposing Faith, Though in our frail embrace?

O tender gem, and full of Heaven! Not in the twilight stars on high, Not in moist flowers at even See we our God so nigh.

Sweet one, make haste and know Him too, Thine own adopting Father love, That like thine earliest dew Thy dying sweets may prove.

Catechism.

OH! say not, dream not, heavenly notes To childish ears are vain, That the young mind at random floats, And cannot reach the strain.

Dim or unheard, the words may fall, And yet the heaven-taught mind May learn the sacred air, and all The harmony unwind.