Chapter 2

And thou, too curious ear, that fain Wouldst thread the maze of Harmony, Content thee with one simple strain, The lowlier, sure, the worthier thee;

Till thou art duly trained, and taught The concord sweet of Love divine: Then, with that inward Music fraught, For ever rise, and sing, and shine.

Christmas Day.

And suddenly there was with the Angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God. _St. Luke_ ii. 13.

WHAT sudden blaze of song Spreads o’er th’ expanse of Heaven? In waves of light it thrills along, Th’ angelic signal given— “Glory to God!” from yonder central fire Flows out the echoing lay beyond the starry choir;

Like circles widening round Upon a clear blue river, Orb after orb, the wondrous sound Is echoed on for ever: “Glory to God on high, on earth be peace, And love towards men of love—salvation and release.”

Yet stay, before thou dare To join that festal throng; Listen and mark what gentle air First stirred the tide of song; ’Tis not, “the Saviour born in David’s home, To Whom for power and health obedient worlds should come:”—

’Tis not, “the Christ the Lord:” With fixed adoring look The choir of Angels caught the word, Nor yet their silence broke: But when they heard the sign where Christ should be, In sudden light they shone and heavenly harmony.

Wrapped in His swaddling bands, And in His manger laid, The Hope and Glory of all lands Is come to the world’s aid: No peaceful home upon his cradle smiled, Guests rudely went and came, where slept the royal Child.

But where Thou dwellest, Lord, No other thought should be, Once duly welcomed and adored, How should I part with Thee? Bethlehem must lose Thee soon, but Thou wilt grace The single heart to be Thy sure abiding-place.

Thee, on the bosom laid Of a pure virgin mind, In quiet ever, and in shade, Shepherd and sage may find; They, who have bowed untaught to Nature’s sway, And they, who follow Truth along her star-paved way.

The pastoral spirits first Approach Thee, Babe divine, For they in lowly thoughts are nursed, Meet for Thy lowly shrine: Sooner than they should miss where Thou dost dwell, Angela from Heaven will stoop to guide them to Thy cell.

Still, as the day comes round For Thee to be revealed, By wakeful shepherds Thou art found, Abiding in the field. All through the wintry heaven and chill night air, In music and in light Thou dawnest on their prayer.

O faint not ye for fear— What though your wandering sheep, Reckless of what they see and hear, Lie lost in wilful sleep? High Heaven in mercy to your sad annoy Still greets you with glad tidings of immortal joy.

Think on th’ eternal home, The Saviour left for you; Think on the Lord most holy, come To dwell with hearts untrue: So shall ye tread untired His pastoral ways, And in the darkness sing your carol of high praise.

St. Stephen’s Day.

He, being full of the Holy Ghost, looked up steadfastly into heaven, and saw the glory of God, and Jesus standing on the right hand of God. _Acts_ vii. 55

AS rays around the source of light Stream upward ere he glow in sight, And watching by his future flight Set the clear heavens on fire; So on the King of Martyrs wait Three chosen bands, in royal state, And all earth owns, of good and great, Is gather’d in that choir.

One presses on, and welcomes death: One calmly yields his willing breath, Nor slow, nor hurrying, but in faith Content to die or live: And some, the darlings of their Lord, Play smiling with the flame and sword, And, ere they speak, to His sure word Unconscious witness give.

Foremost and nearest to His throne, By perfect robes of triumph known, And likest Him in look and tone, The holy Stephen kneels, With stedfast gaze, as when the sky Flew open to his fainting eye, Which, like a fading lamp, flash’d high, Seeing what death conceals.

Well might you guess what vision bright Was present to his raptured sight, E’en as reflected streams of light Their solar source betray— The glory which our God surrounds, The Son of Man, the atoning wounds— He sees them all; and earth’s dull bounds Are melting fast away.

He sees them all—no other view Could stamp the Saviour’s likeness true, Or with His love so deep embrue Man’s sullen heart and gross— “Jesus, do Thou my soul receive: Jesu, do Thou my foes forgive;” He who would learn that prayer must live Under the holy Cross.

He, though he seem on earth to move, Must glide in air like gentle dove, From yon unclouded depths above Must draw his purer breath; Till men behold his angel face All radiant with celestial grace, Martyr all o’er, and meet to trace The lines of Jesus’ death.

St. John’s Day.

Peter seeing him, saith to Jesus, Lord, and what shall this man do? Jesus saith unto him, If I will that he tarry till I come, what is that to thee? follow thou Me. _St. John_ xxi. 21, 22.

“LORD, and what shall this man do?” Ask’st thou, Christian, for thy friend? If his love for Christ be true, Christ hath told thee of his end: This is he whom God approves, This is he whom Jesus loves.

Ask not of him more than this, Leave it in his Saviour’s breast, Whether, early called to bliss, He in youth shall find his rest, Or armèd in his station wait Till his Lord be at the gate:

Whether in his lonely course (Lonely, not forlorn) he stay, Or with Love’s supporting force Cheat the toil, and cheer the way: Leave it all in His high hand, Who doth hearts as streams command.

Gales from Heaven, if so He will, Sweeter melodies can wake On the lonely mountain rill Than the meeting waters make. Who hath the Father and the Son, May be left, but not alone.

Sick or healthful, slave or free, Wealthy, or despised and poor— What is that to him or thee, So his love to Christ endure? When the shore is won at last, Who will count the billows past?

Only, since our souls will shrink At the touch of natural grief, When our earthly loved ones sink, Lend us, Lord, Thy sure relief; Patient hearts, their pain to see, And Thy grace, to follow Thee.

The Holy Innocents.

These were redeemed from among men, being the firstfruits unto God and to the Lamb. _Rev._ xiv. 4.

SAY, ye celestial guards, who wait In Bethlehem, round the Saviour’s palace gate, Say, who are these on golden wings, That hover o’er the new-born King of kings, Their palms and garlands telling plain That they are of the glorious martyr-train, Next to yourselves ordained to praise His Name, and brighten as on Him they gaze?

But where their spoils and trophies? where The glorious dint a martyr’s shield should bear? How chance no cheek among them wears The deep-worn trace of penitential tears, But all is bright and smiling love, As if, fresh-borne from Eden’s happy grove, They had flown here, their King to see, Nor ever had been heirs of dark mortality?

Ask, and some angel will reply, “These, like yourselves, were born to sin and die, But ere the poison root was grown, God set His seal, and marked them for His own. Baptised its blood for Jesus’ sake, Now underneath the Cross their bed they make, Not to be scared from that sure rest By frightened mother’s shriek, or warrior’s waving crest.”

Mindful of these, the firstfruits sweet Borne by this suffering Church her Lord to greet; Blessed Jesus ever loved to trace The “innocent brightness” of an infant’s face. He raised them in His holy arms, He blessed them from the world and all its harms: Heirs though they were of sin and shame, He blessed them in his own and in his Father’s Name.

Then, as each fond unconscious child On the everlasting Parent sweetly smiled (Like infants sporting on the shore, That tremble not at Ocean’s boundless roar), Were they not present to Thy thought, All souls, that in their cradles Thou hast bought? But chiefly these, who died for Thee, That Thou might’st live for them a sadder death to see.

And next to these, Thy gracious word Was as a pledge of benediction stored For Christian mothers, while they moan Their treasured hopes, just born, baptised, and gone. Oh, joy for Rachel’s broken heart! She and her babes shall meet no more to part; So dear to Christ her pious haste To trust them in His arms for ever safe embraced.

She dares not grudge to leave them there, Where to behold them was her heart’s first prayer; She dares not grieve—but she must weep, As her pale placid martyr sinks to sleep, Teaching so well and silently How at the shepherd’s call the lamb should die: How happier far than life the end Of souls that infant-like beneath their burthen bend.

First Sunday after Christmas.

So the sun returned ten degrees, by which degrees it was gone down. _Isaiah_ xxxviii. 8; compare _Josh._ x. 13.

’TIS true, of old the unchanging sun His daily course refused to run, The pale moon hurrying to the west Paused at a mortal’s call, to aid The avenging storm of war, that laid Seven guilty realms at once on earth’s defiled breast.

But can it be, one suppliant tear Should stay the ever-moving sphere? A sick man’s lowly-breathèd sigh, When from the world he turns away, And hides his weary eyes to pray, Should change your mystic dance, ye wanderers of the sky?

We too, O Lord, would fain command, As then, Thy wonder-working hand, And backward force the waves of Time, That now so swift and silent bear Our restless bark from year to year; Help us to pause and mourn to Thee our tale of crime.

Bright hopes, that erst the bosom warmed, And vows, too pure to be performed, And prayers blown wide by gales of care;— These, and such faint half-waking dreams, Like stormy lights on mountain streams, Wavering and broken all, athwart the conscience glare.

How shall we ’scape the o’erwhelming Past? Can spirits broken, joys o’ercast, And eyes that never more may smile:— Can these th’ avenging bolt delay, Or win us back one little day The bitterness of death to soften and beguile?

Father and Lover of our souls! Though darkly round Thine anger rolls, Thy sunshine smiles beneath the gloom, Thou seek’st to warn us, not confound, Thy showers would pierce the hardened ground And win it to give out its brightness and perfume.

Thou smil’st on us in wrath, and we, E’en in remorse, would smile on Thee, The tears that bathe our offered hearts, We would not have them stained and dim, But dropped from wings of seraphim, All glowing with the light accepted love imparts.

Time’s waters will not ebb, nor stay; Power cannot change them, but Love may; What cannot be, Love counts it done. Deep in the heart, her searching view Can read where Faith is fixed and true, Through shades of setting life can see Heaven’s work begun.

O Thou, who keep’st the Key of Love, Open Thy fount, eternal Dove, And overflow this heart of mine, Enlarging as it fills with Thee, Till in one blaze of charity Care and remorse are lost, like motes in light divine;

Till as each moment wafts us higher, By every gush of pure desire, And high-breathed hope of joys above, By every secret sigh we heave, Whole years of folly we outlive, In His unerring sight, who measures Life by Love.

The Circumcision of Christ.

In whom also ye are circumcised with the circumcision made without hands. _Coloss._ ii. 11.

THE year begins with Thee, And Thou beginn’st with woe, To let the world of sinners see That blood for sin must flow.

Thine infant cries, O Lord, Thy tears upon the breast, Are not enough—the legal sword Must do its stern behest.

Like sacrificial wine Poured on a victim’s head Are those few precious drops of Thine, Now first to offering led.

They are the pledge and seal Of Christ’s unswerving faith Given to His Sire, our souls to heal, Although it cost His death.

They to His Church of old, To each true Jewish heart, In Gospel graces manifold Communion blest impart.

Now of Thy love we deem As of an ocean vast, Mounting in tides against the stream Of ages gone and past.

Both theirs and ours Thou art, As we and they are Thine; Kings, Prophets, Patriarchs—all have part Along the sacred line.

By blood and water too God’s mark is set on Thee, That in Thee every faithful view Both covenants might see.

O bond of union, dear And strong as is Thy grace! Saints, parted by a thousand year, May thus in heart embrace.

Is there a mourner true, Who fallen on faithless days, Sighs for the heart-consoling view Of those Heaven deigned to praise?

In spirit may’st thou meet With faithful Abraham here, Whom soon in Eden thou shalt greet A nursing Father dear.

Would’st thou a poet be? And would thy dull heart fain Borrow of Israel’s minstrelsy One high enraptured strain?

Come here thy soul to tune, Here set thy feeble chant, Here, if at all beneath the moon, Is holy David’s haunt.

Art thou a child of tears, Cradled in care and woe? And seems it hard, thy vernal years Few vernal joys can show?

And fall the sounds of mirth Sad on thy lonely heart, From all the hopes and charms of earth Untimely called to part?

Look here, and hold thy peace: The Giver of all good E’en from the womb takes no release From suffering, tears, and blood.

If thou would’st reap in love, First sow in holy fear: So life a winter’s morn may prove To a bright endless year.

Second Sunday after Christmas.

When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them. _Isaiah_, xli. 17.

AND wilt thou hear the fevered heart To Thee in silence cry? And as th’ inconstant wildfires dart Out of the restless eye, Wilt thou forgive the wayward though By kindly woes yet half untaught A Saviours right, so dearly bought, That Hope should never die?

Thou wilt: for many a languid prayer Has reached Thee from the wild, Since the lorn mother, wandering there, Cast down her fainting child, Then stole apart to weep and die, Nor knew an angel form was nigh, To show soft waters gushing by, And dewy shadows mild.

Thou wilt—for Thou art Israel’s God, And Thine unwearied arm Is ready yet with Moses’ rod, The hidden rill to charm Out of the dry unfathomed deep Of sands, that lie in lifeless sleep, Save when the scorching whirlwinds heap Their waves in rude alarm.

These moments of wild wrath are Thine— Thine, too, the drearier hour When o’er th’ horizon’s silent line Fond hopeless fancies cower, And on the traveller’s listless way Rises and sets th’ unchanging day, No cloud in heaven to slake its ray, On earth no sheltering bower.

Thou wilt be there, and not forsake, To turn the bitter pool Into a bright and breezy lake, This throbbing brow to cool: Till loft awhile with Thee alone The wilful heart be fain to own That He, by whom our bright hours shone, Our darkness best may rule.

The scent of water far away Upon the breeze is flung; The desert pelican to-day Securely leaves her young, Reproving thankless man, who fears To journey on a few lone years, Where on the sand Thy step appears, Thy crown in sight is hung.

Thou, who did sit on Jacob’s well The weary hour of noon, The languid pulses Thou canst tell, The nerveless spirit tune. Thou from Whose cross in anguish burst The cry that owned Thy dying thirst, To Thee we turn, our Last and First, Our Sun and soothing Moon.

From darkness, here, and dreariness We ask not full repose, Only be Thou at hand, to bless Our trial hour of woes. Is not the pilgrim’s toil o’erpaid By the clear rill and palmy shade? And see we not, up Earth’s dark glade, The gate of Heaven unclose?

The Epiphany.

And lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young Child was. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy. _St. Matthew_ ii. 9, 10.

STAR of the East, how sweet art Thou, Seen in life’s early morning sky, Ere yet a cloud has dimmed the brow, While yet we gaze with childish eye;

When father, mother, nursing friend, Most dearly loved, and loving best, First bid us from their arms ascend, Pointing to Thee, in Thy sure rest.

Too soon the glare of earthly day Buries, to us, Thy brightness keen, And we are left to find our way By faith and hope in Thee unseen.

What matter? if the waymarks sure On every side are round us set, Soon overleaped, but not obscure? ’Tis ours to mark them or forget.

What matter? if in calm old age Our childhood’s star again arise, Crowning our lonely pilgrimage With all that cheers a wanderer’s eyes?

Ne’er may we lose it from our sight, Till all our hopes and thoughts are led To where it stays its lucid flight Over our Saviour’s lowly bed.

There, swathed in humblest poverty, On Chastity’s meek lap enshrined, With breathless Reverence waiting by, When we our Sovereign Master find,

Will not the long-forgotten glow Of mingled joy and awe return, When stars above or flowers below First made our infant spirits burn?

Look on us, Lord, and take our parts E’en on Thy throne of purity! From these our proud yet grovelling hearts Hide not Thy mild forgiving eye.

Did not the Gentile Church find grace, Our mother dear, this favoured day? With gold and myrrh she sought Thy face; Nor didst Thou turn Thy face away.

She too, in earlier, purer days, Had watched thee gleaming faint and far— But wandering in self-chosen ways She lost Thee quite, Thou lovely star.

Yet had her Father’s finger turned To Thee her first inquiring glance: The deeper shame within her burned, When wakened from her wilful trance.

Behold, her wisest throng Thy gate, Their richest, sweetest, purest store, (Yet owned too worthless and too late,) They lavish on Thy cottage-floor.

They give their best—O tenfold shame On us their fallen progeny, Who sacrifice the blind and lame— Who will not wake or fast with Thee!

First Sunday after Epiphany.

They shall spring up as among the grass, as willows by the water courses. _Isaiah_ xliv. 4.

LESSONS sweet of spring returning, Welcome to the thoughtful heart! May I call ye sense or learning, Instinct pure, or Heaven-taught art? Be your title what it may, Sweet this lengthening April day, While with you the soul is free, Ranging wild o’er hill and lea.

Soft as Memnon’s harp at morning, To the inward ear devout, Touched by light, with heavenly warning Your transporting chords ring out. Every leaf in every nook, Every wave in every brook, Chanting with a solemn voice, Minds us of our better choice.

Needs no show of mountain hoary, Winding shore or deepening glen, Where the landscape in its glory Teaches truth to wandering men: Give true hearts but earth and sky, And some flowers to bloom and die, Homely scenes and simple views Lowly thoughts may best infuse.

See the soft green willow springing Where the waters gently pass, Every way her free arms flinging O’er the moist and reedy grass. Long ere winter blasts are fled, See her tipped with vernal red, And her kindly flower displayed Ere her leaf can cast a shade.

Though the rudest hand assail her, Patiently she droops awhile, But when showers and breezes hail her, Wears again her willing smile. Thus I learn Contentment’s power From the slighted willow bower, Ready to give thanks and live On the least that Heaven may give.

If, the quiet brooklet leaving, Up the stony vale I wind, Haply half in fancy grieving For the shades I leave behind, By the dusty wayside drear, Nightingales with joyous cheer Sing, my sadness to reprove, Gladlier than in cultured grove.

Where the thickest boughs are twining Of the greenest darkest tree, There they plunge, the light declining— All may hear, but none may see. Fearless of the passing hoof, Hardly will they fleet aloof; So they live in modest ways, Trust entire, and ceaseless praise.

Second Sunday after Epiphany.

Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine: and when men have well drunk, then that which is worse; but thou hast kept the good wine until now. _St. John_ ii. 10.

THE heart of childhood is all mirth: We frolic to and fro As free and blithe, as if on earth Were no such thing as woe.

But if indeed with reckless faith We trust the flattering voice, Which whispers, “Take thy fill ere death, Indulge thee and rejoice;”

Too surely, every setting day, Some lost delight we mourn; The flowers all die along our way Till we, too, die forlorn.

Such is the world’s gay garish feast, In her first charming bowl Infusing all that fires the breast, And cheats the unstable soul.

And still, as loud the revel swells, The fevered pulse beats higher, Till the seared taste from foulest wells Is fain to slake its fire.

Unlike the feast of heavenly love Spread at the Saviour’s word For souls that hear His call, and prove Meet for His bridal board.

Why should we fear, youth’s draught of joy If pure would sparkle less? Why should the cup the sooner cloy, Which God hath deigned to bless?

For, is it Hope, that thrills so keen Along each bounding vein, Still whispering glorious things unseen?— Faith makes the vision plain.

The world would kill her soon: but Faith Her daring dreams will cherish, Speeding her gaze o’er time and death To realms where nought can perish.

Or is it Love, the dear delight Of hearts that know no guile, That all around see all things bright With their own magic smile?

The silent joy that sinks so deep, Of confidence and rest, Lulled in a father’s arms to sleep, Clasped to a mother’s breast?

Who, but a Christian, through all life That blessing may prolong? Who, through the world’s sad day of strife, Still chant his morning song?

Fathers may hate us or forsake, God’s foundlings then are we: Mother on child no pity take, But we shall still have Thee.

We may look home, and seek in vain A fond fraternal heart, But Christ hath given His promise plain To do a Brother’s part.