Chapter 4
“Ah! wherefore gleam those upland slopes so fair? And why, through every woodland arch, Swells yon bright vale, as Eden rich and rare, Where Jordan winds his stately march; If all must be forsaken, ruined all, If God have planted but to burn?— Surely not yet the avenging shower will fall, Though to my home for one last look I turn.”
Thus while they waver, surely long ago They had provoked the withering blast, But that the merciful Avengers know Their frailty well, and hold them fast. “Haste, for thy life escape, nor look behind”— Ever in thrilling sounds like these They check the wandering eye, severely kind, Nor let the sinner lose his soul at ease.
And when, o’erwearied with the steep ascent, We for a nearer refuge crave, One little spot of ground in mercy lent, One hour of home before the grave, Oft in His pity o’er His children weak, His hand withdraws the penal fire, And where we fondly cling, forbears to wreak Full vengeance, till our hearts are weaned entire.
Thus, by the merits of one righteous man, The Church, our Zoar, shall abide, Till she abuse, so sore, her lengthened span, E’en Mercy’s self her face must hide. Then, onward yet a step, thou hard-won soul; Though in the Church thou know thy place, The mountain farther lies—there seek thy goal, There breathe at large, o’erpast thy dangerous race.
Sweet is the smile of home; the mutual look When hearts are of each other sure; Sweet all the joys that crowd the household nook, The haunt of all affections pure; Yet in the world e’en these abide, and we Above the world our calling boast; Once gain the mountain-top, and thou art free: Till then, who rest, presume; who turn to look, are lost.
Second Sunday in Lent.
And when Esau heard the words of his father, he cried with a great and exceeding bitter cry, and said unto his father, Bless me, even me also, O my father. _Genesis_ xxvii. 34. (Compare _Hebrews_ xii. 17. He found no place of repentance, though he sought it carefully with tears.)
“AND is there in God’s world so drear a place Where the loud bitter cry is raised in vain? Where tears of penance come too late for grace, As on the uprooted flower the genial rain?”
’Tis even so: the sovereign Lord of souls Stores in the dungeon of His boundless realm Each bolt that o’er the sinner vainly rolls, With gathered wrath the reprobate to whelm.
Will the storm hear the sailor’s piteous cry, Taught so mistrust, too late, the tempting wave, When all around he sees but sea and sky, A God in anger, a self-chosen grave?
Or will the thorns, that strew intemperance’ bed, Turn with a wish to down? will late remorse Recall the shaft the murderer’s hand has sped, Or from the guiltless bosom turn its course?
Then may the unbodied soul in safety fleet Through the dark curtains of the world above, Fresh from the stain of crime; nor fear to meet The God whom here she would not learn to love;
Then is there hope for such as die unblest, That angel wings may waft them to the shore, Nor need the unready virgin strike her breast, Nor wait desponding round the bridegroom’s door.
But where is then the stay of contrite hearts? Of old they leaned on Thy eternal word, But with the sinner’s fear their hope departs, Fast linked as Thy great Name to Thee, O Lord:
That Name, by which Thy faithful oath is past, That we should endless be, for joy or woe:— And if the treasures of Thy wrath could waste, Thy lovers must their promised Heaven forego.
But ask of elder days, earth’s vernal hour, When in familiar talk God’s voice was heard, When at the Patriarch’s call the fiery shower Propitious o’er the turf-built shrine appeared.
Watch by our father Isaac’s pastoral door— The birthright sold, the blessing lost and won; Tell, Heaven has wrath that can relent no more; The Grave, dark deeds that cannot be undone.
We barter life for pottage; sell true bliss For wealth or power, for pleasure or renown; Thus, Esau-like, our Father’s blessing miss, Then wash with fruitless tears our faded crown.
Our faded crown, despised and flung aside, Shall on some brother’s brow immortal bloom; No partial hand the blessing may misguide, No flattering fancy change our Monarch’s doom:
His righteous doom, that meek true-hearted Love The everlasting birthright should receive, The softest dews drop on her from above, The richest green her mountain garland weave:
Her brethren, mightiest, wisest, eldest-born, Bow to her sway, and move at her behest; Isaac’s fond blessing may not fall on scorn, Nor Balaam’s curse on Love, which God hath blest.
Third Sunday in Lent.
When a strong man armed keepeth his place, his goods are in peace; but when a stronger than he shall come upon him, and overcome him, he taketh from him all his armour wherein he trusted, and divideth his spoils. _St. Luke_ xi. 21, 22.
SEE Lucifer like lightning fall, Dashed from his throne of pride; While, answering Thy victorious call, The Saints his spoils divide; This world of Thine, by him usurped too long, Now opening all her stores to heal Thy servants’ wrong.
So when the first-born of Thy foes Dead in the darkness lay, When Thy redeemed at midnight rose And cast their bonds away, The orphaned realm threw wide her gates, and told Into freed Israel’s lap her jewels and her gold.
And when their wondrous march was o’er, And they had won their homes, Where Abraham fed his flock of yore, Among their fathers’ tombs;— A land that drinks the rain of Heaven at will, Whose waters kiss the feet of many a vine-clad hill;—
Oft as they watched, at thoughtful eve, A gale from bowers of balm Sweep o’er the billowy corn, and heave The tresses of the palm, Just as the lingering Sun had touched with gold, Far o’er the cedar shade, some tower of giants old;
It was a fearful joy, I ween, To trace the Heathen’s toil, The limpid wells, the orchards green, Left ready for the spoil, The household stores untouched, the roses bright Wreathed o’er the cottage walls in garlands of delight.
And now another Canaan yields To Thine all-conquering ark:— Fly from the “old poetic” fields, Ye Paynim shadows dark! Immortal Greece, dear land of glorious lays, Lo! here the “unknown God” of thy unconscious praise.
The olive-wreath, the ivied wand, “The sword in myrtles drest,” Each legend of the shadowy strand Now wakes a vision blest; As little children lisp, and tell of Heaven, So thoughts beyond their thought to those high Bards were given.
And these are ours: Thy partial grace The tempting treasure lends: These relies of a guilty race Are forfeit to Thy friends; What seemed an idol hymn, now breathes of Thee, Tuned by Faith’s ear to some celestial melody.
There’s not a strain to Memory dear, Nor flower in classic grove, There’s not a sweet note warbled here, But minds us of Thy Love. O Lord, our Lord, and spoiler of our foes, There is no light but Thine: with Thee all beauty glows.
Fourth Sunday in Lent.
Joseph made haste; for his bowels did yearn upon his brother; and he sought where to weep, and he entered into his chamber and wept there. _Genesis_ xliii. 30.
There stood no man with him, while Joseph made himself known unto his brethren. _Genesis_ xlv. 1.
WHEN Nature tries her finest touch, Weaving her vernal wreath, Mark ye, how close she veils her round, Not to be traced by sight or sound, Nor soiled by ruder breath?
Who ever saw the earliest rose First open her sweet breast? Or, when the summer sun goes down, The first soft star in evening’s crown Light up her gleaming crest?
Fondly we seek the dawning bloom On features wan and fair, The gazing eye no change can trace, But look away a little space, Then turn, and lo! ’tis there.
But there’s a sweeter flower than e’er Blushed on the rosy spray— A brighter star, a richer bloom Than e’er did western heaven illume At close of summer day.
’Tis Love, the last best gift of Heaven; Love gentle, holy, pure; But tenderer than a dove’s soft eye, The searching sun, the open sky, She never could endure.
E’en human Love will shrink from sight Here in the coarse rude earth: How then should rash intruding glance Break in upon _her_ sacred trance Who boasts a heavenly birth?
So still and secret is her growth, Ever the truest heart, Where deepest strikes her kindly root For hope or joy, for flower or fruit, Least knows its happy part.
God only, and good angels, look Behind the blissful screen— As when, triumphant o’er His woes, The Son of God by moonlight rose, By all but Heaven unseen:
As when the holy Maid beheld Her risen Son and Lord: Thought has not colours half so fair That she to paint that hour may dare, In silence best adored.
The gracious Dove, that brought from Heaven The earnest of our bliss, Of many a chosen witness telling, On many a happy vision dwelling, Sings not a note of this.
So, truest image of the Christ, Old Israel’s long-lost son, What time, with sweet forgiving cheer, He called his conscious brethren near, Would weep with them alone.
He could not trust his melting soul But in his Maker’s sight— Then why should gentle hearts and true Bare to the rude world’s withering view Their treasure of delight!
No—let the dainty rose awhile Her bashful fragrance hide— Rend not her silken veil too soon, But leave her, in her own soft noon, To flourish and abide.
Fifth Sunday in Lent.
And Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt. _Exodus_ iii. 3.
THE historic Muse, from age to age, Through many a waste heart-sickening page Hath traced the works of Man: But a celestial call to-day Stays her, like Moses, on her way, The works of God to scan.
Far seen across the sandy wild, Where, like a solitary child, He thoughtless roamed and free, One towering thorn was wrapt in flame— Bright without blaze it went and came: Who would not turn and see?
Along the mountain ledges green The scattered sheep at will may glean The Desert’s spicy stores: The while, with undivided heart, The shepherd talks with God apart, And, as he talks, adores.
Ye too, who tend Christ’s wildering flock, Well may ye gather round the rock That once was Sion’s hill: To watch the fire upon the mount Still blazing, like the solar fount, Yet unconsuming still.
Caught from that blaze by wrath Divine, Lost branches of the once-loved vine, Now withered, spent, and sere, See Israel’s sons, like glowing brands, Tossed wildly o’er a thousand lands For twice a thousand year.
God will not quench nor slay them quite, But lifts them like a beacon-light The apostate Church to scare; Or like pale ghosts that darkling roam, Hovering around their ancient home, But find no refuge there.
Ye blessèd Angels! if of you There be, who love the ways to view Of Kings and Kingdoms here; (And sure, ’tis worth an Angel’s gaze, To see, throughout that dreary maze, God teaching love and fear:)
Oh say, in all the bleak expanse Is there a spot to win your glance, So bright, so dark as this? A hopeless faith, a homeless race, Yet seeking the most holy place, And owning the true bliss!
Salted with fire they seem, to show How spirits lost in endless woe May undecaying live. Oh, sickening thought! yet hold it fast Long as this glittering world shall last, Or sin at heart survive.
And hark! amid the flashing fire, Mingling with tones of fear and ire, Soft Mercy’s undersong— ’Tis Abraham’s God who speaks so loud, His people’s cries have pierced the cloud, He sees, He sees their wrong;
He is come down to break their chain; Though nevermore on Sion’s fane His visible ensign wave; ’Tis Sion, wheresoe’er they dwell, Who, with His own true Israel, Shall own Him strong to save.
He shall redeem them one by one, Where’er the world-encircling sun Shall see them meekly kneel: All that He asks on Israel’s part, Is only that the captive heart Its woe and burthen feel.
Gentiles! with fixed yet awful eye Turn ye this page of mystery, Nor slight the warning sound: “Put off thy shoes from off thy feet— The place where man his God shall meet, Be sure, is holy ground.”
Palm Sunday.
And He answered and said unto them, I tell you that, if these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out. _St. Luke_ xix. 40.
YE whose hearts are beating high With the pulse of Poesy, Heirs of more than royal race, Framed by Heaven’s peculiar grace, God’s own work to do on earth, (If the word be not too bold,) Giving virtue a new birth, And a life that ne’er grows old—
Sovereign masters of all hearts! Know ye, who hath set your parts? He who gave you breath to sing, By whose strength ye sweep the string, He hath chosen you, to lead His Hosannas here below;— Mount, and claim your glorious meed; Linger not with sin and woe.
But if ye should hold your peace, Deem not that the song would cease— Angels round His glory-throne, Stars, His guiding hand that own, Flowers, that grow beneath our feet, Stones in earth’s dark womb that rest, High and low in choir shall meet, Ere His Name shall be unblest.
Lord, by every minstrel tongue Be Thy praise so duly sung, That Thine angels’ harps may ne’er Fail to find fit echoing here: We the while, of meaner birth, Who in that divinest spell Dare not hope to join on earth, Give us grace to listen well.
But should thankless silence seal Lips that might half Heaven reveal, Should bards in idol-hymns profane The sacred soul-enthralling strain, (As in this bad world below Noblest things find vilest using,) Then, Thy power and mercy show, In vile things noble breath infusing;
Then waken into sound divine The very pavement of Thy shrine, Till we, like Heaven’s star-sprinkled floor, Faintly give back what we adore: Childlike though the voices be, And untunable the parts, Thou wilt own the minstrelsy If it flow from childlike hearts.
Monday before Easter.
Doubtless Thou art our Father, though Abraham be ignorant of us, and Israel acknowledge us not. _Isaiah_ lxiii. 16.
“FATHER to me thou art and mother dear, And brother too, kind husband of my heart”— So speaks Andromache in boding fear, Ere from her last embrace her hero part— So evermore, by Faith’s undying glow, We own the Crucified in weal or woe.
Strange to our ears the church-bells of our home, This fragrance of our old paternal fields May be forgotten; and the time may come When the babe’s kiss no sense of pleasure yields E’en to the doting mother: but Thine own Thou never canst forget, nor leave alone.
There are who sigh that no fond heart is theirs, None loves them best—O vain and selfish sigh! Out of the bosom of His love He spares— The Father spares the Son, for thee to die: For thee He died—for thee He lives again: O’er thee He watches in His boundless reign.
Thou art as much His care, as if beside Nor man nor angel lived in Heaven or earth: Thus sunbeams pour alike their glorious tide To light up worlds, or wake an insect’s mirth: They shine and shine with unexhausted store— Thou art thy Saviour’s darling—seek no more.
On thee and thine, thy warfare and thine end, E’en in His hour of agony He thought, When, ere the final pang His soul should rend, The ransomed spirits one by one were brought To His mind’s eye—two silent nights and days In calmness for His far-seen hour He stays.
Ye vaulted cells, where martyred seers of old Far in the rocky walls of Sion sleep, Green terraces and archèd fountains cold, Where lies the cypress shade so still and deep, Dear sacred haunts of glory and of woe, Help us, one hour, to trace His musings high and low:
One heart-ennobling hour! It may not be: The unearthly thoughts have passed from earth away, And fast as evening sunbeams from the sea Thy footsteps all in Sion’s deep decay Were blotted from the holy ground: yet dear Is every stone of hers; for Thou want surely here.
There is a spot within this sacred dale That felt Thee kneeling—touched Thy prostrate brow: One Angel knows it. O might prayer avail To win that knowledge! sure each holy vow Less quickly from the unstable soul would fade, Offered where Christ in agony was laid.
Might tear of ours once mingle with the blood That from His aching brow by moonlight fell, Over the mournful joy our thoughts would brood, Till they had framed within a guardian spell To chase repining fancies, as they rise, Like birds of evil wing, to mar our sacrifice.
So dreams the heart self-flattering, fondly dreams;— Else wherefore, when the bitter waves o’erflow, Miss we the light, Gethsemane, that streams From thy dear name, where in His page of woe It shines, a pale kind star in winter’s sky? Who vainly reads it there, in vain had seen Him die.
Tuesday before Easter.
They gave Him to drink wine mingled with myrrh: but He received in not. _St. Mark_ xv. 23.
“FILL high the bowl, and spice it well, and pour The dews oblivious: for the Cross is sharp, The Cross is sharp, and He Is tenderer than a lamb.
“He wept by Lazarus’ grave—how will He bear This bed of anguish? and His pale weak form Is worn with many a watch Of sorrow and unrest.
“His sweat last night was as great drops of blood, And the sad burthen pressed Him so to earth, The very torturers paused To help Him on His way.
“Fill high the bowl, benumb His aching sense With medicined sleep.”—O awful in Thy woe! The parching thirst of death Is on Thee, and Thou triest
The slumb’rous potion bland, and wilt not drink: Not sullen, nor in scorn, like haughty man With suicidal hand Putting his solace by:
But as at first Thine all-pervading look Saw from Thy Father’s bosom to the abyss Measuring in calm presage The infinite descent;
So to the end, though now of mortal pangs Made heir, and emptied of Thy glory, awhile, With unaverted eye Thou meetest all the storm.
Thou wilt feel all, that Thou mayst pity all; And rather wouldst Thou wreathe with strong pain, Than overcloud Thy soul, So clear in agony,
Or lose one glimpse of Heaven before the time O most entire and perfect sacrifice, Renewed in every pulse That on the tedious Cross
Told the long hours of death, as, one by one, The life-strings of that tender heart gave way; E’en sinners, taught by Thee, Look Sorrow in the face,
And bid her freely welcome, unbeguiled By false kind solaces, and spells of earth:— And yet not all unsoothed; For when was Joy so dear,
As the deep calm that breathed, “_Father_, _forgive_,” Or, “_Be with Me in Paradise to-day_?” And, though the strife be sore, Yet in His parting breath
Love masters Agony; the soul that seemed Forsaken, feels her present God again, And in her Father’s arms Contented dies away.
Wednesday before Easter.
Saying, Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from Me; nevertheless not My will, but Thine, be done. _St. Luke_ xxii. 42.
O LORD my God, do thou Thy holy will— I will lie still— I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm, And break the charm Which lulls me, clinging to my Father’s breast, In perfect rest.
Wild fancy, peace! thou must not me beguile With thy false smile: I know thy flatteries and thy cheating ways; Be silent, Praise, Blind guide with siren voice, and blinding all That hear thy call.
Come, Self-devotion, high and pure, Thoughts that in thankfulness endure, Though dearest hopes are faithless found, And dearest hearts are bursting round. Come, Resignation, spirit meek, And let me kiss thy placid cheek, And read in thy pale eye serene Their blessing, who by faith can wean Their hearts from sense, and learn to love God only, and the joys above.
They say, who know the life divine, And upward gaze with eagle eyne, That by each golden crown on high, Rich with celestial jewelry, Which for our Lord’s redeemed is set, There hangs a radiant coronet, All gemmed with pure and living light, Too dazzling for a sinner’s sight, Prepared for virgin souls, and them Who seek the martyr’s diadem.
Nor deem, who to that bliss aspire, Must win their way through blood and fire. The writhings of a wounded heart Are fiercer than a foeman’s dart. Oft in Life’s stillest shade reclining, In Desolation unrepining, Without a hope on earth to find A mirror in an answering mind, Meek souls there are, who little dream Their daily strife an Angel’s theme, Or that the rod they take so calm Shall prove in Heaven a martyr’s palm.
And there are souls that seem to dwell Above this earth—so rich a spell Floats round their steps, where’er they move, From hopes fulfilled and mutual love. Such, if on high their thoughts are set, Nor in the stream the source forget, If prompt to quit the bliss they know, Following the Lamb where’er He go, By purest pleasures unbeguiled To idolise or wife or child; Such wedded souls our God shall own For faultless virgins round His throne.
Thus everywhere we find our suffering God, And where He trod May set our steps: the Cross on Calvary Uplifted high Beams on the martyr host, a beacon light In open fight.
To the still wrestlings of the lonely heart He doth impart The virtue of his midnight agony, When none was nigh, Save God and one good angel, to assuage The tempest’s rage.
Mortal! if life smile on thee, and thou find All to thy mind, Think, who did once from Heaven to Hell descend, Thee to befriend: So shalt thou dare forego, at His dear call, Thy best, thine all.
“O Father! not My will, but Thine be done”— So spake the Son. Be this our charm, mellowing Earth’s ruder noise Of griefs and joys: That we may cling for ever to Thy breast In perfect rest!
Thursday before Easter.
As the beginning of thy supplications the commandment came forth, and I am come to shew thee; for thou art greatly beloved: therefore understand the matter, and consider the vision. _Daniel_ ix. 23.