Chapter 6

“’Tis good for you, that I should go, “You lingering yet awhile below;”— ’Tis Thine own gracious promise, Lord! Thy saints have proved the faithful word, When heaven’s bright boundless avenue Far opened on their eager view, And homeward to Thy Father’s throne, Still lessening, brightening on their sight, Thy shadowy car went soaring on; They tracked Thee up th’ abyss of light.

Thou bidd’st rejoice; they dare not mourn, But to their home in gladness turn, Their home and God’s, that favoured place, Where still He shines on Abraham’s race, In prayers and blessings there to wait Like suppliants at their Monarch’s gate, Who bent with bounty rare to aid The splendours of His crowning day, Keeps back awhile His largess, made More welcome for that brief delay:

In doubt they wait, but not unblest; They doubt not of their Master’s rest, Nor of the gracious will of Heaven— Who gave His Son, sure all has given— But in ecstatic awe they muse What course the genial stream may choose, And far and wide their fancies rove, And to their height of wonder strain, What secret miracle of love Should make their Saviour’s going gain.

The days of hope and prayer are past, The day of comfort dawns at last, The everlasting gates again Roll back, and, lo! a royal train— From the far depth of light once more The floods of glory earthward pour: They part like shower-drops in mid air, But ne’er so soft fell noon-tide shower, Nor evening rainbow gleamed so fair To weary swains in parchèd bower.

Swiftly and straight each tongue of flame Through cloud and breeze unwavering came, And darted to its place of rest On some meek brow of Jesus blest. Nor fades it yet, that living gleam, And still those lambent lightnings stream; Where’er the Lord is, there are they; In every heart that gives them room, They light His altar every day, Zeal to inflame, and vice consume.

Soft as the plumes of Jesus’ Dove They nurse the soul to heavenly love; The struggling spark of good within, Just smothered in the strife of sin, They quicken to a timely glow, The pure flame spreading high and low. Said I, that prayer and hope were o’er? Nay, blessèd Spirit! but by Thee The Church’s prayer finds wings to soar, The Church’s hope finds eyes to see.

Then, fainting soul, arise and sing; Mount, but be sober on the wing; Mount up, for Heaven is won by prayer, Be sober, for thou art not there; Till Death the weary spirit free, Thy God hath said, ’Tis good for thee To walk by faith and not by sight: Take it on trust a little while; Soon shalt thou read the mystery right In the full sunshine of His smile.

Or if thou yet more knowledge crave, Ask thine own heart, that willing slave To all that works thee woe or harm Shouldst thou not need some mighty charm To win thee to thy Saviour’s side, Though He had deigned with thee to bide? The Spirit must stir the darkling deep, The Dove must settle on the Cross, Else we should all sin on or sleep With Christ in sight, turning our gain to loss.

Fifth Sunday After Easter. ROGATION SUNDAY.

And the Lord was very angry with Aaron to have destroyed him: and I prayed for Aaron also the same time. _Deuteronomy_ ix. 20.

NOW is there solemn pause in earth and heaven; The Conqueror now His bonds hath riven, And Angels wonder why He stays below: Yet hath not man his lesson learned, How endless love should be returned.

Deep is the silence as of summer noon, When a soft shower Will trickle soon, A gracious rain, freshening the weary bower— O sweetly then far off is heard The clear note of some lonely bird.

So let Thy turtle-dove’s sad call arise In doubt and fear Through darkening skies, And pierce, O Lord, Thy justly-sealèd ear, Where on the house-top, all night long She trills her widowed, faltering song.

Teach her to know and love her hour of prayer, And evermore, As faith grows rare, Unlock her heart, and offer all its store In holier love and humbler vows, As suits a lost returning spouse.

Not as at first, but with intenser cry, Upon the mount She now must lie, Till Thy dear love to blot the sad account Of her rebellious race be won, Pitying the mother in the son.

But chiefly (for she knows Thee angered worst By holiest things Profaned and curst), Chiefly for Aaron’s seed she spreads her wings, If but one leaf she may from Thee Win of the reconciling tree.

For what shall heal, when holy water banes! Or who may guide O’er desert plains Thy loved yet sinful people wandering wide, If Aaron’s hand unshrinking mould An idol form of earthly gold?

Therefore her tears are bitter, and as deep Her boding sigh, As, while men sleep, Sad-hearted mothers heave, that wakeful lie, To muse upon some darling child Roaming in youth’s uncertain wild.

Therefore on fearful dreams her inward sight Is fain to dwell— What lurid light Shall the last darkness of the world dispel, The Mediator in His wrath Descending down the lightning’s path.

Yet, yet awhile, offended Saviour, pause, In act to break Thine outraged laws, O spare Thy rebels for Thine own dear sake; Withdraw Thine hand, nor dash to earth The covenant of our second birth.

’Tis forfeit like the first—we own it all— Yet for love’s sake Let it not fall; But at Thy touch let veilèd hearts awake, That nearest to Thine altar lie, Yet least of holy things descry.

Teacher of teachers! Priest of priests! from Thee The sweet strong prayer Must rise, to free First Levi, then all Israel, from the snare. Thou art our Moses out of sight— Speak for us, or we perish quite.

Ascension Day.

Why stand ye gazing up into Heaven? this same Jesus, which is taken up from you into Heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen Him go into Heaven. _Acts_ i. 11

SOFT cloud, that while the breeze of May Chants her glad matins in the leafy arch, Draw’st thy bright veil across the heavenly way Meet pavement for an angel’s glorious march:

My soul is envious of mine eye, That it should soar and glide with thee so fast, The while my grovelling thoughts half buried lie, Or lawless roam around this earthly waste.

Chains of my heart, avaunt I say— I will arise, and in the strength of love Pursue the bright track ere it fade away, My Saviour’s pathway to His home above.

Sure, when I reach the point where earth Melts into nothing from th’ uncumbered sight, Heaven will o’ercome th’ attraction of my birth. And I shall sink in yonder sea of light:

Till resting by th’ incarnate LORD, Once bleeding, now triumphant for my sake, I mark Him, how by seraph hosts adored, He to earth’s lowest cares is still awake.

The sun and every vassal star, All space, beyond the soar of angel wings, Wait on His word: and yet He stays His car For every sigh a contrite suppliant brings.

He listens to the silent tear For all the anthems of the boundless sky— And shall our dreams of music bar our ear To His soul-piercing voice for ever nigh?

Nay, gracious Saviour—but as now Our thoughts have traced Thee to Thy glory-throne So help us evermore with thee to bow Where human sorrow breathes her lowly moan.

We must not stand to gaze too long, Though on unfolding Heaven our gaze we bend Where lost behind the bright angelic throng We see CHRIST’S entering triumph slow ascend.

No fear but we shall soon behold, Faster than now it fades, that gleam revive, When issuing from his cloud of fiery gold Our wasted frames feel the true sun, and live.

Then shall we see Thee as Thou art, For ever fixed in no unfruitful gaze, But such as lifts the new-created heart, Age after age, in worthier love and praise.

Sunday after Ascension.

As every man hath received the gift, even so minister the same one to another, as good stewards of the manifold grace of God. 1 _St. Peter_ iv. 10.

THE Earth that in her genial breast Makes for the down a kindly nest, Where wafted by the warm south-west It floats at pleasure, Yields, thankful, of her very best, To nurse her treasure:

True to her trust, tree, herb, or reed, She renders for each scattered seed, And to her Lord with duteous heed Gives large increase: Thus year by year she works unfeed, And will not cease.

Woe worth these barren hearts of ours, Where Thou hast set celestial flowers, And watered with more balmy showers Than e’er distilled In Eden, on th’ ambrosial bowers— Yet nought we yield.

Largely Thou givest, gracious Lord, Largely Thy gifts should be restored; Freely Thou givest, and Thy word Is, “Freely give.” He only, who forgets to hoard, Has learned to live.

Wisely Thou givest—all around Thine equal rays are resting found, Yet varying so on various ground They pierce and strike, That not two roseate cups are crowned With drew alike:

E’en so, in silence, likest Thee, Steals on soft-handed Charity, Tempering her gifts, that seem so free, By time and place, Till not a woe the bleak world see, But finds her grace:

Eyes to the blind, and to the lame Feet, and to sinners wholesome blame, To starving bodies food and flame, By turns she brings; To humbled souls, that sink for shame, Lends heaven-ward wings:

Leads them the way our Saviour went, And shows Love’s treasure yet unspent; As when th’ unclouded heavens were rent. Opening His road, Nor yet His Holy Spirit sent To our abode.

Ten days th’ eternal doors displayed Were wondering (so th’ Almighty bade) Whom Love enthroned would send, in aid Of souls that mourn, Left orphans in Earth’s dreary shade As noon as born.

Open they stand, that prayers in throngs May rise on high, and holy songs, Such incense as of right belongs To the true shrine, Where stands the Healer of all wrongs In light divine;

The golden censer in His hand, He offers hearts from every land, Tied to His own by gentlest band Of silent Love: About Him wingèd blessings stand In act to move.

A little while, and they shall fleet From Heaven to Earth, attendants meet On the life-giving Paraclete Speeding His flight, With all that sacred is and sweet, On saints to light.

Apostles, Prophets, Pastors, all Shall feel the shower of Mercy fall, And startling at th’ Almighty’s call, Give what He gave, Till their high deeds the world appal, And sinners save.

Whitsunday.

And suddenly there came a sound from Heaven as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting. And there appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost. _Acts_ ii. 2–4

WHEN God of old came down from Heaven, In power and wrath He came; Before His feet the clouds were riven, Half darkness and half flame:

Around the trembling mountain’s base The prostrate people lay; A day of wrath and not of grace; A dim and dreadful day.

But when he came the second time, He came in power and love, Softer than gale at morning prime Hovered His holy Dove.

The fires that rushed on Sinai down In sudden torrents dread, Now gently light, a glorious crown, On every sainted head.

Like arrows went those lightnings forth Winged with the sinner’s doom, But these, like tongues, o’er all the earth Proclaiming life to come:

And as on Israel’s awe-struck ear The voice exceeding loud, The trump, that angels quake to hear, Thrilled from the deep, dark cloud;

So, when the Spirit of our God Came down His flock to find, A voice from Heaven was heard abroad, A rushing, mighty wind.

Nor doth the outward ear alone At that high warning start; Conscience gives back th’ appalling tone; ’Tis echoed in the heart.

It fills the Church of God; it fills The sinful world around; Only in stubborn hearts and wills No place for it is found.

To other strains our souls are set: A giddy whirl of sin Fills ear and brain, and will not let Heaven’s harmonies come in.

Come Lord, Come Wisdom, Love, and Power, Open our ears to hear; Let us not miss th’ accepted hour; Save, Lord, by Love or Fear.

Monday in Whitsun-week.

So the Lord scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth; and they left off to build the city. _Genesis_ xi. 8

SINCE all that is not Heaven must fade, Light be the hand of Ruin laid Upon the home I love: With lulling spell let soft Decay Steal on, and spare the giant sway, The crash of tower and grove.

Far opening down some woodland deep In their own quiet glade should sleep The relics dear to thought, And wild-flower wreaths from side to side Their waving tracery hang, to hide What ruthless Time has wrought.

Such are the visions green and sweet That o’er the wistful fancy fleet In Asia’s sea-like plain, Where slowly, round his isles of sand, Euphrates through the lonely land Winds toward the pearly main.

Slumber is there, but not of rest; There her forlorn and weary nest The famished hawk has found, The wild dog howls at fall of night, The serpent’s rustling coils affright The traveller on his round.

What shapeless form, half lost on high, Half seen against the evening sky, Seems like a ghost to glide, And watch, from Babel’s crumbling heap, Where in her shadow, fast asleep, Lies fallen imperial Pride?

With half-closed eye a lion there Is basking in his noontide lair, Or prowls in twilight gloom. The golden city’s king he seems, Such as in old prophetic dreams Sprang from rough ocean’s womb.

But where are now his eagle wings, That sheltered erst a thousand kings, Hiding the glorious sky From half the nations, till they own No holier name, no mightier throne? That vision is gone by.

Quenched is the golden statue’s ray, The breath of heaven has blown away What toiling earth had piled, Scattering wise heart and crafty hand, As breezes strew on ocean’s sand The fabrics of a child.

Divided thence through every age Thy rebels, Lord, their warfare wage, And hoarse and jarring all Mount up their heaven-assailing cries To Thy bright watchmen in the skies From Babel’s shattered wall.

Thrice only since, with blended might The nations on that haughty height Have met to scale the Heaven: Thrice only might a Seraph’s look A moment’s shade of sadness brook— Such power to guilt was given.

Now the fierce bear and leopard keen Are perished as they ne’er had been, Oblivion is their home: Ambition’s boldest dream and last Must melt before the clarion blast That sounds the dirge of Rome.

Heroes and kings, obey the charm, Withdraw the proud high-reaching arm, There is an oath on high: That ne’er on brow of mortal birth Shall blend again the crowns of earth, Nor in according cry

Her many voices mingling own One tyrant Lord, one idol throne: But to His triumphs soon _He_ shall descend, who rules above, And the pure language of His love, All tongues of men shall tune.

Nor let Ambition heartless mourn; When Babel’s very ruins burn, Her high desires may breathe;— O’ercome thyself, and thou mayst share With Christ His Father’s throne, and wear The world’s imperial wreath.

Tuesday in Whitsun-week.

When He putteth forth His own sheep, He goeth before them.

_St. John_ x. 4.

(_Addressed to Candidates for Ordination_.)

“LORD, in Thy field I work all day, I read, I teach, I warn, I pray, And yet these wilful wandering sheep Within Thy fold I cannot keep.

“I journey, yet no step is won— Alas! the weary course I run! Like sailors shipwrecked in their dreams, All powerless and benighted seems.”

What? wearied out with half a life? Scared with this smooth unbloody strife? Think where thy coward hopes had flown Had Heaven held out the martyr’s crown.

How couldst thou hang upon the cross, To whom a weary hour is loss? Or how the thorns and scourging brook Who shrinkest from a scornful look?

Yet ere thy craven spirit faints, Hear thine own King, the King of Saints; Though thou wert toiling in the grave, ’Tis He can cheer thee, He can save.

He is th’ eternal mirror bright, Where Angels view the FATHER’S light, And yet in Him the simplest swain May read his homely lesson plain.

Early to quit His home on earth, And claim His high celestial birth, Alone with His true Father found Within the temple’s solemn round:—

Yet in meek duty to abide For many a year at Mary’s side, Nor heed, though restless spirits ask, “What, hath the Christ forgot His task?”

Conscious of Deity within, To bow before an heir of sin, With folded arms on humble breast, By His own servant washed and blest:—

Then full of Heaven, the mystic Dove Hovering His gracious brow above, To shun the voice and eye of praise, And in the wild His trophies raise:—

With hymns of angels in His ears, Back to His task of woe and tears, Unmurmuring through the world to roam With not a wish or thought at home:—

All but Himself to heal and save, Till ripened for the cross and grave, He to His Father gently yield The breath that our redemption sealed:—

Then to unearthly life arise, Yet not at once to seek the skies, But glide awhile from saint to saint, Lest on our lonely way we faint;

And through the cloud by glimpses show How bright, in Heaven, the marks will glow Of the true cross, imprinted deep Both on the Shepherd and the sheep:—

When out of sight, in heart and prayer, Thy chosen people still to bear, And from behind Thy glorious veil, Shed light that cannot change or fail:—

This is Thy pastoral course, O LORD, Till we be saved, and Thou adored;— Thy course and ours—but who are they Who follow on the narrow way?

And yet of Thee from year to year The Church’s solemn chant we hear, As from Thy cradle to Thy throne She swells her high heart-cheering tone.

Listen, ye pure white-robèd souls, Whom in her list she now enrolls, And gird ye for your high emprize By these her thrilling minstrelsies.

And wheresoe’er in earth’s wide field, Ye lift, for Him, the red-cross shield, Be this your song, your joy and pride— “Our Champion went before and died.”

Trinity Sunday.

If I have told you earthly things, and ye believe not, how shall ye believe if I tell you of heavenly things? _St. John_ iii. 12

CREATOR, Saviour, strengthening Guide, Now on Thy mercy’s ocean wide Far out of sight we seem to glide.

Help us, each hour, with steadier eye To search the deepening mystery, The wonders of Thy sea and sky.

The blessèd Angels look and long To praise Thee with a worthier song, And yet our silence does Thee wrong.—

Along the Church’s central space The sacred weeks, with unfelt pace, Hath borne us on from grace to grace.

As travellers on some woodland height, When wintry suns are gleaming bright, Lose in arched glades their tangled sight;—

By glimpses such as dreamers love Through her grey veil the leafless grove Shows where the distant shadows rove;—

Such trembling joy the soul o’er-awes As nearer to Thy shrine she draws:— And now before the choir we pause.

The door is closed—but soft and deep Around the awful arches sweep, Such airs as soothe a hermit’s sleep.

From each carved nook and fretted bend Cornice and gallery seem to send Tones that with seraphs hymns might blend.

Three solemn parts together twine In harmony’s mysterious line; Three solemn aisles approach the shrine:

Yet all are One—together all, In thoughts that awe but not appal, Teach the adoring heart to fall.

Within these walls each fluttering guest Is gently lured to one safe nest— Without, ’tis moaning and unrest.

The busy world a thousand ways Is hurrying by, nor ever stays To catch a note of Thy dear praise.

Why tarries not her chariot wheel, That o’er her with no vain appeal One gust of heavenly song might steal?

Alas! for her Thy opening flowers Unheeded breathe to summer showers, Unheard the music of Thy bowers.

What echoes from the sacred dome The selfish spirit may o’ercome That will not hear of love or home!

The heart that scorned a father’s care, How can it rise in filial prayer? How an all-seeing Guardian bear?

Or how shall envious brethren own A Brother on the eternal throne, Their Father’s joy, their hops alone?

How shall Thy Spirit’s gracious wile The sullen brow of gloom beguile, That frowns on sweet Affection’s smile?

Eternal One, Almighty Trine! (Since Thou art ours, and we are Thine,) By all Thy love did once resign,

By all the grace Thy heavens still hide, We pray Thee, keep us at Thy side, Creator, Saviour, strengthening Guide!

First Sunday after Trinity.

So Joshua smote all the country, . . . and all their kings; he left none remaining. _Joshua_ x. 40.

WHERE is the land with milk and honey flowing, The promise of our God, our fancy’s theme? Here over shattered walls dank weeds are growing, And blood and fire have run in mingled stream; Like oaks and cedars all around The giant corses strew the ground, And haughty Jericho’s cloud-piercing wall Lies where it sank at Joshua’s trumpet call.

These are not scenes for pastoral dance at even, For moonlight rovings in the fragrant glades, Soft slumbers in the open eye of Heaven, And all the listless joy of summer shades. We in the midst of ruins live, Which every hour dread warning give, Nor may our household vine or fig-tree hide The broken arches of old Canaan’s pride.

Where is the sweet repose of hearts repenting, The deep calm sky, the sunshine of the soul, Now Heaven and earth are to our bliss consenting, And all the Godhead joins to make us whole. The triple crown of mercy now Is ready for the suppliant’s brow, By the Almighty Three for ever planned, And from behind the cloud held out by Jesus’ hand.

“Now, Christians, hold your own—the land before ye Is open—win your way, and take your rest.” So sounds our war-note; but our path of glory By many a cloud is darkened and unblest: And daily as we downward glide, Life’s ebbing stream on either side Shows at each turn some mouldering hope or joy, The Man seems following still the funeral of the Boy.

Open our eyes, Thou Sun of life and gladness, That we may see that glorious world of Thine! It shines for us in vain, while drooping sadness Enfolds us here like mist: come Power benign, Touch our chilled hearts with vernal smile, Our wintry course do Thou beguile, Nor by the wayside ruins let us mourn, Who have th’ eternal towers for our appointed bourne.

Second Sunday after Trinity.