Chapter 5

“O HOLY mountain of my God, How do thy towers in ruin lie, How art thou riven and strewn abroad, Under the rude and wasteful sky!” ’Twas thus upon his fasting-day The “Man of Loves” was fain to pray, His lattice open toward his darling west, Mourning the ruined home he still must love the best.

Oh! for a love like Daniel’s now, To wing to Heaven but one strong prayer For GOD’S new Israel, sunk as low, Yet flourishing to sight as fair, As Sion in her height of pride, With queens for handmaids at her side, With kings her nursing-fathers, thronèd high, And compassed with the world’s too tempting blazonry.

’Tis true, nor winter stays thy growth, Nor torrid summer’s sickly smile; The flashing billows of the south Break not upon so lone an isle, But thou, rich vine, art grafted there, The fruit of death or life to bear, Yielding a surer witness every day, To thine Almighty Author and His steadfast sway.

Oh! grief to think, that grapes of gall Should cluster round thine healthiest shoot! God’s herald prove a heartless thrall, Who, if he dared, would fain be mute! E’en such is this bad world we see, Which self-condemned in owning Thee, Yet dares not open farewell of Thee take, For very pride, and her high-boasted Reason’s sake.

What do we then? if far and wide Men kneel to CHRIST, the pure and meek, Yet rage with passion, swell with pride, Have we not still our faith to seek? Nay—but in steadfast humbleness Kneel on to Him, who loves to bless The prayer that waits for him; and trembling strive To keep the lingering flame in thine own breast alive.

Dark frowned the future e’en on him, The loving and belovèd Seer, What time he saw, through shadows dim, The boundary of th’ eternal year; He only of the sons of men Named to be heir of glory then. Else had it bruised too sore his tender heart To see GOD’S ransomed world in wrath and flame depart

Then look no more: or closer watch Thy course in Earth’s bewildering ways, For every glimpse thine eye can catch Of what shall be in those dread days: So when th’ Archangel’s word is spoken, And Death’s deep trance for ever broken, In mercy thou mayst feel the heavenly hand, And in thy lot unharmed before thy Savour stand.

Good Friday.

He is despised and rejected of men. _Isaiah_ liii. 3.

IS it not strange, the darkest hour That ever dawned on sinful earth Should touch the heart with softer power For comfort than an angel’s mirth? That to the Cross the mourner’s eye should turn Sooner than where the stars of Christmas burn?

Sooner than where the Easter sun Shines glorious on yon open grave, And to and fro the tidings run, “Who died to heal, is risen to save?” Sooner than where upon the Saviour’s friends The very Comforter in light and love descends?

Yet so it is: for duly there The bitter herbs of earth are set, Till tempered by the Saviour’s prayer, And with the Saviour’s life-blood wet, They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm, Soft as imprisoned martyr’s deathbed calm.

All turn to sweet—but most of all That bitterest to the lip of pride, When hopes presumptuous fade and fall, Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried, Or Love, the flower that closes up for fear When rude and selfish spirits breathe too near.

Then like a long-forgotten strain Comes sweeping o’er the heart forlorn What sunshine hours had taught in vain Of JESUS suffering shame and scorn, As in all lowly hearts he suffers still, While we triumphant ride and have the world at will.

His piercèd hands in vain would hide His face from rude reproachful gaze, His ears are open to abide The wildest storm the tongue can raise, He who with one rough word, some early day, Their idol world and them shall sweep for aye away.

But we by Fancy may assuage The festering sore by Fancy made, Down in some lonely hermitage Like wounded pilgrims safely laid, Where gentlest breezes whisper souls distressed, That Love yet lives, and Patience shall find rest.

O! shame beyond the bitterest thought That evil spirit ever framed, That sinners know what Jesus wrought, Yet feel their haughty hearts untamed— That souls in refuge, holding by the Cross, Should wince and fret at this world’s little loss.

Lord of my heart, by Thy last cry, Let not Thy blood on earth be spent— Lo, at Thy feet I fainting lie, Mine eyes upon Thy wounds are bent, Upon Thy streaming wounds my weary eyes Wait like the parchèd earth on April skies.

Wash me, and dry these bitter tears, O let my heart no further roam, ’Tis Thine by vows, and hopes, and fears. Long since—O call Thy wanderer home; To that dear home, safe in Thy wounded side, Where only broken hearts their sin and shame may hide.

Easter Eve.

As for thee also, by the blood of thy covenant I have sent forth thy prisoners out of the pit wherein is no water. _Zechariah_ ix. 11.

AT length the worst is o’er, and Thou art laid Deep in Thy darksome bed; All still and cold beneath yon dreary stone Thy sacred form is gone; Around those lips where power and mercy hung, The dews of deaths have clung; The dull earth o’er Thee, and Thy foes around, Thou sleep’st a silent corse, in funeral fetters wound.

Sleep’st Thou indeed? or is Thy spirit fled, At large among the dead? Whether in Eden bowers Thy welcome voice Wake Abraham to rejoice, Or in some drearier scene Thine eye controls The thronging band of souls; That, as Thy blood won earth, Thine agony Might set the shadowy realm from sin and sorrow free.

Where’er Thou roam’st, one happy soul, we know, Seen at Thy side in woe, Waits on Thy triumphs—even as all the blest With him and Thee shall rest. Each on his cross; by Thee we hang a while, Watching Thy patient smile, Till we have learned to say, “’Tis justly done, Only in glory, LORD, Thy sinful servant own.”

Soon wilt Thou take us to Thy tranquil bower To rest one little hour, Till Thine elect are numbered, and the grave Call Thee to come and save: Then on Thy bosom borne shall we descend Again with earth to blend, Earth all refined with bright supernal fires, Tinctured with holy blood, and winged with pure desires.

Meanwhile with every son and saint of Thine Along the glorious line, Sitting by turns beneath Thy sacred feet We’ll hold communion sweet, Know them by look and voice, and thank them all For helping us in thrall, For words of hope, and bright examples given To show through moonless skies that there is light in Heaven.

O come that day, when in this restless heart Earth shall resign her part, When in the grave with Thee my limbs shall rest, My soul with Thee be blest! But stay, presumptuous—CHRIST with Thee abides In the rock’s dreary sides: He from this stone will wring Celestial dew If but this prisoner’s heart he faithful found and true.

When tears are spent, and then art left alone With ghosts of blessings gone, Think thou art taken from the cross, and laid In JESUS’ burial shade; Take Moses’ rod, the rod of prayer, and call Out of the rocky wall The fount of holy blood; and lift on high Thy grovelling soul that feels so desolate and dry.

Prisoner of Hope thou art—look up and sing In hope of promised spring. As in the pit his father’s darling lay Beside the desert way, And knew not how, but knew his GOD would save E’en from that living grave, So, buried with our LORD, we’ll chose our eyes To the decaying world, till Angels bid us rise.

Easter Day.

And as they were afraid, and bowed down their faces to the earth, they said unto them, Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen. _St. Luke_ xxiv. 5, 6.

OH! day of days! shall hearts set free No “minstrel rapture” find for thee? Thou art this Sun of other days, They shine by giving back thy rays:

Enthronèd in thy sovereign sphere, Thou shedd’st thy light on all the year; Sundays by thee more glorious break, An Easter Day in every week:

And week days, following in their train, The fulness of thy blessing gain, Till all, both resting soil employ, Be one Lord’s day of holy joy.

Then wake, my soul, to high desires, And earlier light thine altar fires: The World some hours is on her way, Nor thinks on thee, thou blessèd day:

Or, if she think, it is in scorn: The vernal light of Easter morn To her dark gaze no brighter seems Than Reason’s or the Law’s pale beams.

“Where is your Lord?” she scornful asks: “Where is His hire? we know his tasks; Sons of a King ye boast to be: Let us your crowns and treasures see.”

We in the words of Truth reply, (An angel brought them from this sky,) “Our crown, our treasure is not here, ’Tis stored above the highest sphere:

“Methinks your wisdom guides amiss, To seek on earth a Christian’s bliss; We watch not now the lifeless stone; Our only Lord is risen and gone.”

Yet e’en the lifeless stone is dear For thoughts of Him who late lay here; And the base world, now Christ hath died, Ennobled is and glorified.

No more a charnel-house, to fence The relics of lost innocence, A vault of ruin and decay; Th’ imprisoning stone is rolled away:

’Tis now a cell, where angels use To come and go with heavenly news, And in the ears of mourners say, “Come, see the place where Jesus lay:”

’Tis now a fane, where Love can find Christ everywhere embalmed and shined: Aye gathering up memorials sweet, Where’er she sets her duteous feet.

Oh! joy to Mary first allowed, When roused from weeping o’er His shroud, By His own calm, soul-soothing tone, Breathing her name, as still His own!

Joy to the faithful Three renewed, As their glad errand they pursued! Happy, who so Christ’s word convey, That he may meet them on their way!

So is it still: to holy tears, In lonely hours, Christ risen appears: In social hours, who Christ would see Must turn all tasks to Charity.

Monday in Easter Week.

Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter of persons: but in every nation he that feareth Him, and worketh righteousness, is accepted with Him. _Acts_ x. 34, 35.

GO up and watch the new-born rill Just trickling from its mossy bed, Streaking the heath-clad hill With a bright emerald thread.

Canst thou her bold career foretell, What rocks she shall o’erleap or rend, How far in Ocean’s swell Her freshening billows send?

Perchance that little brook shall flow The bulwark of some mighty realm, Bear navies to and fro With monarchs at their helm.

Or canst thou guess, how far away Some sister nymph, beside her urn Reclining night and day, ’Mid reeds and mountain fern,

Nurses her store, with thine to blend When many a moor and glen are past, Then in the wide sea end Their spotless lives at last?

E’en so, the course of prayer who knows? It springs in silence where it will, Springs out of sight, and flows At first a lonely rill:

But streams shall meet it by and by From thousand sympathetic hearts, Together swelling high Their chant of many parts.

Unheard by all but angel ears The good Cornelius knelt alone, Nor dreamed his prayers and tears Would help a world undone.

The while upon his terraced roof The loved Apostle to his Lord In silent thought aloof For heavenly vision soared.

Far o’er the glowing western main His wistful brow was upward raised, Where, like an angel’s train, The burnished water blazed.

The saint beside the ocean prayed, This soldier in his chosen bower, Where all his eye surveyed Seemed sacred in that hour.

To each unknown his brother’s prayer, Yet brethren true in dearest love Were they—and now they share Fraternal joys above.

There daily through Christ’s open gate They see the Gentile spirits press, Brightening their high estate With dearer happiness.

What civic wreath for comrades saved Shone ever with such deathless gleam, Or when did perils braved So sweet to veterans seem?

Tuesday in Easter Week.

And they departed quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy, and did run to bring His disciples word. _St. Matthew_ xxviii. 8.

TO THE SNOWDROP.

THOU first-born of the year’s delight, Pride of the dewy glade, In vernal green and virgin white, Thy vestal robes, arrayed:

’Tis not because thy drooping form Sinks graceful on its nest, When chilly shades from gathering storm Affright thy tender breast;

Nor for yon river islet wild Beneath the willow spray, Where, like the ringlets of a child, Thou weav’st thy circle gay;

’Tis not for these I love thee dear— Thy shy averted smiles To Fancy bode a joyous year, One of Life’s fairy isles.

They twinkle to the wintry moon, And cheer th’ ungenial day, And tell us, all will glisten soon As green and bright as they.

Is there a heart that loves the spring, Their witness can refuse? Yet mortals doubt, when angels bring From Heaven their Easter news:

When holy maids and matrons speak Of Christ’s forsaken bed, And voices, that forbid to seek The hiving ’mid the dead,

And when they say, “Turn, wandering heart, Thy Lord is ris’n indeed, Let Pleasure go, put Care apart, And to His presence speed;”

We smile in scorn: and yet we know They early sought the tomb, Their hearts, that now so freshly glow, Lost in desponding gloom.

They who have sought, nor hope to find, Wear not so bright a glance: They, who have won their earthly mind, Lees reverently advance.

But where in gentle spirits, fear And joy so duly meet, These sure have seen the angels near, And kissed the Saviour’s feet.

Nor let the Pastor’s thankful eye Their faltering tale disdain, As on their lowly couch they lie, Prisoners of want and pain.

O guide us, when our faithless hearts From Thee would start aloof, Where Patience her sweet skill imparts Beneath some cottage roof:

Revive our dying fires, to burn High as her anthems soar, And of our scholars let us learn Our own forgotten lore.

First Sunday after Easter.

Seemeth it but a small thing unto you, that the God of Israel hath separated you from the congregation of Israel, to bring you near to Himself? _Numbers_ xvi. 9.

FIRST Father of the holy seed, If yet, invoked in hour of need, Thou count me for Thine own Not quite an outcast if I prove, (Thou joy’st in miracles of love), Hear, from Thy mercy-throne!

Upon Thine altar’s horn of gold Help me to lay my trembling hold, Though stained with Christian gore;— The blood of souls by Thee redeemed, But, while I roved or idly dreamed, Lost to be found no more.

For oft, when summer leaves were bright, And every flower was bathed in light, In sunshine moments past, My wilful heart would burst away From where the holy shadow lay, Where heaven my lot had cast.

I thought it scorn with Thee to dwell, A Hermit in a silent cell, While, gaily sweeping by, Wild Fancy blew his bugle strain, And marshalled all his gallant train In the world’s wondering eye.

I would have joined him—but as oft Thy whispered warnings, kind and soft, My better soul confessed. “My servant, let the world alone— Safe on the steps of Jesus’ throne Be tranquil and be blest.”

“Seems it to thee a niggard hand That nearest Heaven has bade thee stand, The ark to touch and bear, With incense of pure heart’s desire To heap the censer’s sacred fire, The snow-white Ephod wear?”

Why should we crave the worldling’s wreath, On whom the Savour deigned to breathe, To whom His keys were given, Who lead the choir where angels meet, With angels’ food our brethren greet, And pour the drink of Heaven?

When sorrow all our heart would ask, We need not shun our daily task, And hide ourselves for calm; The herbs we seek to heal our woe Familiar by our pathway grow, Our common air is balm.

Around each pure domestic shrine Bright flowers of Eden bloom and twine, Our hearths are altars all; The prayers of hungry souls and poor, Like armèd angels at the door, Our unseen foes appal.

Alms all around and hymns within— What evil eye can entrance win Where guards like these abound? If chance some heedless heart should roam, Sure, thought of these will lure it home Ere lost in Folly’s round.

O joys, that sweetest in decay, Fall not, like withered leaves, away, But with the silent breath Of violets drooping one by one, Soon as their fragrant task is done, Are wafted high in death!

Second Sunday after Easter.

He hath said, which heard the words of God, and knew the knowledge of the Most High, which saw the vision of the Almighty, falling into a trance, but having his eyes open: I shall see Him, but not now; I shall behold Him, but not nigh; there shall come a Star out at Jacob, and a Sceptre shall rise out of Israel, and shall smite the corners of Moab, and destroy all the children at Sheth. _Numbers_ xxiv. 16, 17.

O FOR a sculptor’s hand, That thou might’st take thy stand, Thy wild hair floating on the eastern breeze, Thy tranced yet open gaze Fixed on the desert haze, As one who deep in heaven some airy pageant sees.

In outline dim and vast Their fearful shadows cast This giant forms of empires on their way To ruin: one by one They tower and they are gone, Yet in the Prophet’s soul the dreams of avarice stay.

No sun or star so bright In all the world of light That they should draw to Heaven his downward eye: He hears th’ Almighty’s word, He sees the angel’s sword, Yet low upon the earth his heart and treasure lie.

Lo! from you argent field, To him and us revealed, One gentle Star glides down, on earth to dwell. Chained as they are below Our eyes may see it glow, And as it mounts again, may track its brightness well.

To him it glared afar, A token of wild war, The banner of his Lord’s victorious wrath: But close to us it gleams, Its soothing lustre streams Around our home’s green walls, and on our church-way path.

We in the tents abide Which he at distance eyed Like goodly cedars by the waters spread, While seven red altar-fires Rose up in wavy spires, Where on the mount he watched his sorceries dark and dread.

He watched till morning’s ray On lake and meadow lay, And willow-shaded streams that silent sweep Around the bannered lines, Where by their several signs The desert-wearied tribes in sight of Canaan sleep.

He watched till knowledge came Upon his soul like flame, Not of those magic fires at random caught: But true Prophetic light Flashed o’er him, high and bright, Flashed once, and died away, and left his darkened thought.

And can he choose but fear, Who feels his GOD so near, That when he fain would curse, his powerless tongue In blessing only moves?— Alas! the world he loves Too close around his heart her tangling veil hath flung.

Sceptre and Star divine, Who in Thine inmost shrine Hash made us worshippers, O claim Thine own; More than Thy seers we know— O teach our love to grow Up to Thy heavenly light, and reap what Thou hast sown.

Third Sunday after Easter.

A woman when she is in travail hath sorrow, because her hour is come; but as soon as she is delivered of the child, she remembereth no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world. _St. John_ xvi. 21.

WELL may I guess and feel Why Autumn should be sad; But vernal airs should sorrow heal, Spring should be gay and glad: Yet as along this violet bank I rove, The languid sweetness seems to choke my breath, I sit me down beside the hazel grove, And sigh, and half could wish my weariness were death.

Like a bright veering cloud Grey blossoms twinkle there, Warbles around a busy crowd Of larks in purest air. Shame on the heart that dreams of blessings gone, Or wakes the spectral forms of woe and crime, When nature sings of joy and hope alone, Reading her cheerful lesson in her own sweet time.

Nor let the proud heart say, In her self-torturing hour, The travail pangs must have their way, The aching brow must lower. To us long since the glorious Child is born Our throes should be forgot, or only seem Like a sad vision told for joy at morn, For joy that we have waked and found it but a dream.

Mysterious to all thought A mother’s prime of bliss, When to her eager lips is brought Her infant’s thrilling kiss. O never shall it set, the sacred light Which dawns that moment on her tender gaze, In the eternal distance blending bright Her darling’s hope and hers, for love and joy and praise.

No need for her to weep Like Thracian wives of yore, Save when in rapture still and deep Her thankful heart runs o’er. They mourned to trust their treasure on the main, Sure of the storm, unknowing of their guide: Welcome to her the peril and the pain, For well she knows the bonus where they may safely hide.

She joys that one is born Into a world forgiven, Her Father’s household to adorn, And dwell with her in Heaven. So have I seen, in Spring’s bewitching hour, When the glad Earth is offering all her best, Some gentle maid bend o’er a cherished flower, And wish it worthier on a Parent’s heart to rest.

Fourth Sunday after Easter.

Nevertheless I tell you the truth; It is expedient for you that I go away: for if I go not away, the Comforter will not come unto you; but if I depart, I will send Him unto you. _St. John_ xvi 7.

MY Saviour, can it ever be That I should gain by losing Thee? The watchful mother tarries nigh, Though sleep have closed her infant’s eye; For should he wake, and find her gone. She knows she could not bear his moan. But I am weaker than a child, And Thou art more than mother dear; Without Thee Heaven were but a wild; How can I live without Thee here!