Chapter 3

Nor shall dull age, as worldlings say, The heavenward flame annoy: The Saviour cannot pass away, And with Him lives our joy.

Ever the richest, tenderest glow Sets round the autumnal sun— But there sight fails: no heart may know The bliss when life is done.

Such is Thy banquet, dearest Lord; O give us grace, to cast Our lot with Thine, to trust Thy word, And keep our best till last.

Third Sunday after Epiphany.

When Jesus heard it, He marvelled, and said to them that followed, Verily I say unto you, I have not found so great faith, no, not in Israel. _St. Matthew_ viii. 10.

I MARKED a rainbow in the north, What time the wild autumnal sun From his dark veil at noon looked forth, As glorying in his course half done, Flinging soft radiance far and wide Over the dusky heaven and bleak hill-side.

It was a gleam to Memory dear, And as I walk and muse apart, When all seems faithless round and drear, I would revive it in my heart, And watch how light can find its way To regions farthest from the fount of day.

Light flashes in the gloomiest sky, And Music in the dullest plain, For there the lark is soaring high Over her flat and leafless reign, And chanting in so blithe a tone, It shames the weary heart to feel itself alone.

Brighter than rainbow in the north, More cheery than the matin lark, Is the soft gleam of Christian worth, Which on some holy house we mark; Dear to the pastor’s aching heart To think, where’er he looks, such gleam may have a part;

May dwell, unseen by all but Heaven, Like diamond blazing in the mine; For ever, where such grace is given, It fears in open day to shine, Lest the deep stain it owns within Break out, and Faith be shamed by the believer’s sin.

In silence and afar they wait, To find a prayer their Lord may hear: Voice of the poor and desolate, You best may bring it to His ear; Your grateful intercessions rise With more than royal pomp, and pierce the skies.

Happy the soul whose precious cause You in the Sovereign Presence plead— “This is the lover of Thy laws, The friend of Thine in fear and need,” For to the poor Thy mercy lends That solemn style, “Thy nation and Thy friends.”

He too is blest whose outward eye The graceful lines of art may trace, While his free spirit, soaring high, Discerns the glorious from the base; Till out of dust his magic raise A home for prayer and love, and full harmonious praise,

Where far away and high above, In maze on maze the trancèd sight Strays, mindful of that heavenly love Which knows no end in depth or height, While the strong breath of Music seems To waft us ever on, soaring in blissful dreams.

What though in poor and humble guise Thou here didst sojourn, cottage-born? Yet from Thy glory in the skies Our earthly gold Thou dost not scorn. For Love delights to bring her best, And where Love is, that offering evermore is blest.

Love on the Saviour’s dying head Her spikenard drops unblamed may pour, May mount His cross, and wrap Him dead In spices from the golden shore; Risen, may embalm His sacred name With all a Painter’s art, and all a Minstrel’s flame.

Worthless and lost our offerings seem, Drops in the ocean of His praise; But Mercy with her genial beam Is ripening them to pearly blaze, To sparkle in His crown above, Who welcomes here a child’s as there an angel’s love.

Fourth Sunday after Epiphany.

When they saw Him, they besought Him that He would depart out of their coasts. _St. Matthew_ viii. 34.

THEY know the Almighty’s power, Who, wakened by the rushing midnight shower, Watch for the fitful breeze To howl and chafe amid the bending trees, Watch for the still white gleam To bathe the landscape in a fiery stream, Touching the tremulous eye with sense of light Too rapid and too pure for all but angel sight.

They know the Almighty’s love, Who, when the whirlwinds rock the topmost grove, Stand in the shade, and hear The tumult with a deep exulting fear, How, in their fiercest sway, Curbed by some power unseen, they die away, Like a bold steed that owns his rider’s arm, Proud to be checked and soothed by that o’er-mastering chains.

But there are storms within That heave the struggling heart with wilder din, And there is power and love The maniac’s rushing frenzy to reprove, And when he takes his seat, Clothed and in calmness, at his Savour’s feet, Is not the power as strange, the love as blest, As when He said, “Be still,” and ocean sank to rest?

Woe to the wayward heart, That gladlier turns to eye the shuddering start Of Passion in her might, Than marks the silent growth of grace and light;— Pleased in the cheerless tomb To linger, while the morning rays illume Green lake, and cedar tuft, and spicy glade, Shaking their dewy tresses now the storm is laid.

The storm is laid—and now In His meek power He climbs the mountain’s brow, Who bade the waves go sleep, And lashed the vexed fiends to their yawning deep. How on a rock they stand, Who watch His eye, and hold His guiding hand! Not half so fixed, amid her vassal hills, Rises the holy pile that Kedron’s valley fills.

And wilt thou seek again Thy howling waste, thy charnel-house and chain, And with the demons be, Rather than clasp thine own Deliverer’s knee? Sure ’tis no Heaven-bred awe That bids thee from His healing touch withdraw; The world and He are struggling in thine heart, And in thy reckless mood thou bidd’st thy Lord depart.

He, merciful and mild, As erst, beholding, loves His wayward child; When souls of highest birth Waste their impassioned might on dreams of earth, He opens Nature’s book, And on His glorious Gospel bids them look, Till, by such chords as rule the choirs above, Their lawless cries are tuned to hymns of perfect love.

Fifth Sunday after Epiphany.

Behold, the Lord’s hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; neither His ear heavy, that it cannot hear; but your iniquities have separated between you and your God. _Isaiah_ lix. 1, 2.

“WAKE, arm Divine! awake, Eye of the only Wise! Now for Thy glory’s sake, Saviour and God, arise, And may Thine ear, that sealèd seems, In pity mark our mournful themes!”

Thus in her lonely hour Thy Church is fain to cry, As if Thy love and power Were vanished from her sky; Yet God is there, and at His side He triumphs, who for sinners died.

Ah! ’tis the world enthralls The Heaven-betrothèd breast: The traitor Sense recalls The soaring soul from rest. That bitter sigh was all for earth, For glories gone and vanished mirth.

Age would to youth return, Farther from Heaven would be, To feel the wildfire burn, On idolising knee Again to fall, and rob Thy shrine Of hearts, the right of Love Divine.

Lord of this erring flock! Thou whose soft showers distil On ocean waste or rock, Free as on Hermon hill, Do Thou our craven spirits cheer, And shame away the selfish tear.

’Twas silent all and dead Beside the barren sea, Where Philip’s steps were led, Led by a voice from Thee— He rose and went, nor asked Thee why, Nor stayed to heave one faithless sigh:

Upon his lonely way The high-born traveller came, Reading a mournful lay Of “One who bore our shame, Silent Himself, His name untold, And yet His glories were of old.”

To muse what Heaven might mean His wondering brow he raised, And met an eye serene That on him watchful gazed. No Hermit e’er so welcome crossed A child’s lone path in woodland lost.

Now wonder turns to love; The scrolls of sacred lore No darksome mazes prove; The desert tires no more They bathe where holy waters flow, Then on their way rejoicing go.

They part to meet in Heaven; But of the joy they share, Absolving and forgiven, The sweet remembrance bear. Yes—mark him well, ye cold and proud. Bewildered in a heartless crowd,

Starting and turning pale At Rumour’s angry din— No storm can now assail The charm he wears within, Rejoicing still, and doing good, And with the thought of God imbued.

No glare of high estate, No gloom of woe or want, The radiance can abate Where Heaven delights to haunt: Sin only bides the genial ray, And, round the Cross, makes night of day.

Then weep it from thy heart; So mayst thou duly learn The intercessor’s part; Thy prayers and tears may earn For fallen souls some healing breath, Era they have died the Apostate’s death.

Sixth Sunday after Epiphany.

Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when He shall appear, we shall be like Him; for we shall see Him as he is. _St. John_ iii. 2.

THERE are, who darkling and alone, Would wish the weary night were gone, Though dawning morn should only show The secret of their unknown woe: Who pray for sharpest throbs of pain To ease them of doubt’s galling chain: “Only disperse the cloud,” they cry, “And if our fate be death, give light and let us die.”

Unwise I deem them, Lord, unmeet To profit by Thy chastenings sweet, For Thou wouldst have us linger still Upon the verge of good or ill. That on Thy guiding hand unseen Our undivided hearts may lean, And this our frail and foundering bark Glide in the narrow wake of Thy belovèd ark.

’Tis so in war—the champion true Loves victory more when dim in view He sees her glories gild afar The dusky edge of stubborn war, Than if the untrodden bloodless field The harvest of her laurels yield; Let not my bark in calm abide, But win her fearless way against the chafing tide.

’Tis so in love—the faithful heart From her dim vision would not part, When first to her fond gaze is given That purest spot in Fancy’s heaven, For all the gorgeous sky beside, Though pledged her own and sure to abide: Dearer than every past noon-day That twilight gleam to her, though faint and far away.

So have I seen some tender flower Prized above all the vernal bower, Sheltered beneath the coolest shade, Embosomed in the greenest glade, So frail a gem, it scarce may bear The playful touch of evening air; When hardier grown we love it less, And trust it from our sight, not needing our caress.

And wherefore is the sweet spring-tide Worth all the changeful year beside? The last-born babe, why lies its part Deep in the mother’s inmost heart? But that the Lord and Source of love Would have His weakest ever prove Our tenderest care—and most of all Our frail immortal souls, His work and Satan’s thrall.

So be it, Lord; I know it best, Though not as yet this wayward breast Beat quite in answer to Thy voice, Yet surely I have made my choice; I know not yet the promised bliss, Know not if I shall win or miss; So doubting, rather let me die, Than close with aught beside, to last eternally.

What is the Heaven we idly dream? The self-deceiver’s dreary theme, A cloudless sun that softly shines, Bright maidens and unfailing vines, The warrior’s pride, the hunter’s mirth, Poor fragments all of this low earth: Such as in sleep would hardly soothe A soul that once had tasted of immortal Truth.

What is the Heaven our God bestows? No Prophet yet, no Angel knows; Was never yet created eye Could see across Eternity; Not seraph’s wing for ever soaring Can pass the flight of souls adoring, That nearer still and nearer grow To the unapproachèd Lord, once made for them so low.

Unseen, unfelt their earthly growth, And self-accused of sin and sloth, They live and die; their names decay, Their fragrance passes quite away; Like violets in the freezing blast No vernal steam around they cast.— But they shall flourish from the tomb, The breath of God shall wake them into odorous bloom.

Then on the incarnate Saviour’s breast, The fount of sweetness, they shall rest, Their spirits every hour imbued More deeply with His precious blood. But peace—still voice and closèd eye Suit best with hearts beyond the sky, Hearts training in their low abode, Daily to lose themselves in hope to find their God.

Septuagesima Sunday.

The invisible things of Him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made. _Romans_ i. 20.

THERE is a book, who runs may read, Which heavenly truth imparts, And all the lore its scholars need, Pure eyes and Christian hearts.

The works of God above, below, Within us and around, Are pages in that book, to show How God Himself is found.

The glorious sky embracing all Is like the Maker’s love, Wherewith encompassed, great and small In peace and order move.

The Moon above, the Church below, A wondrous race they run, But all their radiance, all their glow, Each borrows of its Sun.

The Savour lends the light and heat That crowns His holy hill; The saints, like stars, around His seat Perform their courses still.

The saints above are stars in heaven— What are the saints on earth? Like tress they stand whom God has given, Our Eden’s happy birth.

Faith is their fixed unswerving root, Hope their unfading flower, Fair deeds of charity their fruit, The glory of their bower.

The dew of heaven is like Thy grace, It steals in silence down; But where it lights, this favoured place By richest fruits is known.

One Name above all glorious names With its ten thousand tongues The everlasting sea proclaims. Echoing angelic songs.

The raging Fire, the roaring Wind, Thy boundless power display; But in the gentler breeze we find Thy Spirit’s viewless way.

Two worlds are ours: ’tis only Sin Forbids us to descry The mystic heaven and earth within, Plain as the sea and sky.

Thou, who hast given me eyes to see And love this sight so fair, Give me a heart to find out Thee, And read Thee everywhere.

Sexagesima Sunday.

So He drove out the man; and He placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life. _Genesis_ iii. 24; compare chap. vi.

FOE of mankind! too bold thy race: Thou runn’st at such a reckless pace, Thine own dire work thou surely wilt confound: ’Twas but one little drop of sin We saw this morning enter in, And lo! at eventide the world is drowned.

See here the fruit of wandering eyes, Of worldly longings to be wise, Of Passion dwelling on forbidden sweets: Ye lawless glances, freely rove; Ruin below and wrath above Are all that now the wildering fancy meets.

Lord, when in some deep garden glade, Of Thee and of myself afraid. From thoughts like these among the bowers I hide, Nearest and loudest then of all I seem to hear the Judge’s call:— “Where art thou, fallen man? come forth, and be thou tried.”

Trembling before Thee as I stand, Where’er I gaze on either hand The sentence is gone forth, the ground is cursed: Yet mingled with the penal shower Some drops of balm in every bower Steal down like April dews, that softest fall and first.

If filial and maternal love Memorial of our guilt must prove, If sinful babes in sorrow must be born, Yet, to assuage her sharpest throes, The faithful mother surely knows, This was the way Thou cam’st to save the world forlorn.

If blessèd wedlock may not bless Without some tinge of bitterness To dash her cup of joy, since Eden lost, Chaining to earth with strong desire Hearts that would highest else aspire, And o’er the tenderer sex usurping ever most;

Yet by the light of Christian lore ’Tis blind Idolatry no more, But a sweet help and pattern of true love, Showing how best the soul may cling To her immortal Spouse and King, How He should rule, and she with full desire approve.

If niggard Earth her treasures hide, To all but labouring hands denied, Lavish of thorns and worthless weeds alone, The doom is half in mercy given, To train us in our way to Heaven, And show our lagging souls how glory must be won.

If on the sinner’s outward frame God hath impressed His mark of blame, And e’en our bodies shrink at touch of light, Yet mercy hath not left us bare: The very weeds we daily wear Are to Faith’s eye a pledge of God’s forgiving might.

And oh! if yet one arrow more, The sharpest of the Almighty’s store, Tremble upon the string—a sinner’s death— Art Thou not by to soothe and save, To lay us gently in the grave, To close the weary eye and hush the parting breath?

Therefore in sight of man bereft The happy garden still was left; The fiery sword that guarded, showed it too; Turning all ways, the world to teach, That though as yet beyond our reach, Still in its place the tree of life and glory grew.

Quinquagesima Sunday.

I do set My bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between Me and the earth. _Genesis_ ix. 13.

SWEET Dove! the softest, steadiest plume, In all the sunbright sky, Brightening in ever-changeful bloom As breezes change on high;—

Sweet Leaf! the pledge of peace and mirth, “Long sought, and lately won,” Blessed increase of reviving Earth, When first it felt the Sun;—

Sweet Rainbow! pride of summer days, High set at Heaven’s command, Though into drear and dusky haze Thou melt on either hand;—

Dear tokens of a pardoning God, We hail ye, one and all, As when our fathers walked abroad, Freed from their twelvemonth’s thrall.

How joyful from the imprisoning ark On the green earth they spring! Not blither, after showers, the lark Mounts up with glistening wing.

So home-bound sailors spring to shore, Two oceans safely past; So happy souls, when life is o’er, Plunge in this empyreal vast.

What wins their first and fondest gaze In all the blissful field, And keeps it through a thousand days? Love face to face revealed:

Love imaged in that cordial look Our Lord in Eden bends On souls that sin and earth forsook In time to die His friends.

And what most welcome and serene Dawns on the Patriarch’s eye, In all the emerging hills so green, In all the brightening sky?

What but the gentle rainbow’s gleam, Soothing the wearied sight, That cannot bear the solar beam, With soft undazzling light?

Lord, if our fathers turned to Thee With such adoring gaze, Wondering frail man Thy light should see Without Thy scorching blaze;

Where is our love, and where our hearts, We who have seen Thy Son, Have tried Thy Spirit’s winning arts, And yet we are not won?

The Son of God in radiance beamed Too bright for us to scan, But we may face the rays that streamed From the mild Son of Man.

There, parted into rainbow hues, In sweet harmonious strife We see celestial love diffuse Its light o’er Jesus’ life.

God, by His bow, vouchsafes to write This truth in Heaven above: As every lovely hue is Light, So every grace is Love.

Ash Wednesday.

When thou fastest, anoint thine head, and wash thy face; that thou appear not unto men to fast, but unto thy Father which is in secret. _St. Matthew_ vi. 17, 18.

“YES—deep within and deeper yet The rankling shaft of conscience hide, Quick let the swelling eye forget The tears that in the heart abide. Calm be the voice, the aspect bold, No shuddering pass o’er lip or brow, For why should Innocence be told The pangs that guilty spirits bow?

“The loving eye that watches thine Close as the air that wraps thee round— Why in thy sorrow should it pine, Since never of thy sin it found? And wherefore should the heathen see What chains of darkness thee enslave, And mocking say, ‘Lo, this is he Who owned a God that could not save’?”

Thus oft the mourner’s wayward heart Tempts him to hide his grief and die, Too feeble for Confession’s smart, Too proud to bear a pitying eye; How sweet, in that dark hour, to fall On bosoms waiting to receive Our sighs, and gently whisper all! They love us—will not God forgive?

Else let us keep our fast within, Till Heaven and we are quite alone, Then let the grief, the shame, the sin, Before the mercy-seat be thrown. Between the porch and altar weep, Unworthy of the holiest place, Yet hoping near the shrine to keep One lowly cell in sight of grace.

Nor fear lest sympathy should fail— Hast thou not seen, in night hours drear, When racking thoughts the heart assail, The glimmering stars by turns appear, And from the eternal house above With silent news of mercy steal? So Angels pause on tasks of love, To look where sorrowing sinners kneel.

Or if no Angel pass that way, He who in secret sees, perchance May bid His own heart-warming ray Toward thee stream with kindlier glance, As when upon His drooping head His Father’s light was poured from Heaven, What time, unsheltered and unfed, Far in the wild His steps were driven.

High thoughts were with Him in that hour, Untold, unspeakable on earth— And who can stay the soaring power Of spirits weaned from worldly mirth, While far beyond the sound of praise With upward eye they float serene, And learn to bear their Saviour’s blaze When Judgment shall undraw the screen?

First Sunday in Lent.

Haste thee, escape thither: for I cannot do any thing till thou be come thither. Therefore the name of the city was called Zoar. _Genesis_ xix. 22.

“ANGEL of wrath! why linger in mid-air, While the devoted city’s cry Louder and louder swells? and canst thou spare, Thy full-charged vial standing by?” Thus, with stern voice, unsparing Justice pleads: He hears her not—with softened gaze His eye is following where sweet Mercy leads, And till she give the sign, his fury stays.

Guided by her, along the mountain road, Far through the twilight of the morn, With hurried footsteps from the accursed abode He sees the holy household borne; Angels, or more, on either hand are nigh, To speed them o’er the tempting plain, Lingering in heart, and with frail sidelong eye Seeking how near they may unharmed remain.