Chapter 9
These know: on these look long and well, Cleansing thy sight by prayer and faith, And thou shalt know what secret spell Preserves them in their living death: Through sevenfold flames thine eye shall see The Saviour walking with His faithful Three.
Twentieth Sunday after Trinity.
Hear ye, O mountains, the Lord’s controversy, and ye strong foundations of the earth. _Micah_ vi. 2.
WHERE is Thy favoured haunt, eternal Voice, The region of Thy choice, Where, undisturbed by sin and earth, the soul Owns Thy entire control?— ’Tis on the mountain’s summit dark and high, When storms are hurrying by: ’Tis ’mid the strong foundations of the earth, Where torrents have their birth.
No sounds of worldly toil ascending there, Mar the full burst of prayer; Lone Nature feels that she may freely breathe, And round us and beneath Are heard her sacred tones: the fitful sweep Of winds across the steep Through withered bents—romantic note and clear, Meet for a hermit’s ear,—
The wheeling kite’s wild solitary cry, And, scarcely heard so high, The dashing waters when the air is still From many a torrent rill That winds unseen beneath the shaggy fell, Tracked by the blue mist well: Such sounds as make deep silence in the heart For Thought to do her part.
’Tis then we hear the voice of GOD within, Pleading with care and sin: “Child of My love! how have I wearied thee? Why wilt thou err from Me? Have I not brought thee from the house of slaves, Parted the drowning waves, And set My saints before thee in the way, Lest thou shouldst faint or stray?
“What! was the promise made to thee alone? Art thou the excepted one? An heir of glory without grief or pain? O vision false and vain! There lies thy cross; beneath it meekly bow; It fits thy stature now: Who scornful pass it with averted eye, ’Twill crush them by-and-by.
“Raise thy repining eyes, and take true measure Of thine eternal treasure; The Father of thy Lord can grudge thee nought, The world for thee was bought; And as this landscape broad—earth, sea, and sky,— All centres in thine eye, So all God does, if rightly understood, Shall work thy final good.”
Twenty-first Sunday after Trinity.
The vision is yet for an appointed time, but at the end it shall speak, and not lie: though it tarry, wait for it, because it will surely come, it will not tarry. _Habakkuk_ ii. 3.
THE morning mist is cleared away, Yet still the face of Heaven is grey, Nor yet this autumnal breeze has stirred the grove, Faded yet full, a paler green Skirts soberly the tranquil scene, The red-breast warbles round this leafy cove.
Sweet messenger of “calm decay,” Saluting sorrow as you may, As one still bent to find or make the best, In thee, and in this quiet mead, The lesson of sweet peace I read, Rather in all to be resigned than blest.
’Tis a low chant, according well With the soft solitary knell, As homeward from some grave beloved we turn, Or by some holy death-bed dear, Most welcome to the chastened ear Of her whom Heaven is teaching how to mourn.
O cheerful tender strain! the heart That duly bears with you its part, Singing so thankful to the dreary blast, Though gone and spent its joyous prime, And on the world’s autumnal time, ’Mid withered hues and sere, its lot be cast:
That is the heart for thoughtful seer, Watching, in trance nor dark nor clear, Th’ appalling Future as it nearer draws: His spirit calmed the storm to meet, Feeling the rock beneath his feet, And tracing through the cloud th’ eternal Cause.
That is the heart for watchman true Waiting to see what GOD will do, As o’er the Church the gathering twilight falls No more he strains his wistful eye, If chance the golden hours be nigh, By youthful Hope seen beaming round her walls.
Forced from his shadowy paradise, His thoughts to Heaven the steadier rise: There seek his answer when the world reproves: Contented in his darkling round, If only he be faithful found, When from the east the eternal morning moves.
_Note_: The expression, “calm delay,” is borrowed from a friend, by whose kind permission the following stanzas are here inserted.
TO THE RED-BREAST.
Unheard in summer’s flaring ray, Pour forth thy notes, sweet singer, Wooing the stillness of the autumn day: Bid it a moment linger, Nor fly Too soon from winter’s scowling eye.
The blackbird’s song at even-tide, And hers, who gay ascends, Filling the heavens far and wide, Are sweet. But none so blends, As thine, With calm decay, and peace divine.
Twenty-Second Sunday after Trinity.
Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? _Matthew_ xviii. 21.
WHAT liberty so glad and gay, As where the mountain boy, Reckless of regions far away, A prisoner lives in joy?
The dreary sounds of crowded earth, The cries of camp or town, Never untuned his lonely mirth, Nor drew his visions down.
The snow-clad peaks of rosy light That meet his morning view, The thwarting cliffs that bound his sight, They bound his fancy too.
Two ways alone his roving eye For aye may onward go, Or in the azure deep on high, Or darksome mere below.
O blest restraint! more blessèd range! Too soon the happy child His nook of homely thought will change For life’s seducing wild:
Too soon his altered day-dreams show This earth a boundless space, With sun-bright pleasures to and fro Sporting in joyous race:
While of his narrowing heart each year, Heaven less and less will fill, Less keenly, thorough his grosser ear, The tones of mercy thrill.
It must be so: else wherefore falls The Saviour’s voice unheard, While from His pard’ning Cross He calls, “O spare as I have spared?”
By our own niggard rule we try The hope to suppliants given! We mete out love, as if our eye Saw to the end of Heaven.
Yes, ransomed sinner! wouldst thou know How often to forgive, How dearly to embrace thy foe, Look where thou hop’st to live;—
When thou hast told those isles of light, And fancied all beyond, Whatever owns, in depth or height, Creation’s wondrous bond;
Then in their solemn pageant learn Sweet mercy’s praise to see: Their Lord resigned them all, to earn The bliss of pardoning thee.
Twenty-third Sunday after Trinity.
Who shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like unto His glorious body, according to the working whereby He is able even to subdue all things onto Himself. _Philippians_ iii. 21.
RED o’er the forest peers the setting sun, The line of yellow light dies fast away That crowned the eastern copse: and chill and dun Falls on the moor the brief November day.
Now the tired hunter winds a parting note, And Echo hide good-night from every glade; Yet wait awhile, and see the calm heaves float Each to his rest beneath their parent shade.
How like decaying life they seem to glide! And yet no second spring have they in store, But where they fall, forgotten to abide Is all their portion, and they ask no more.
Soon o’er their heads blithe April airs shall sing, A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold, The green buds glisten in the dews of Spring, And all be vernal rapture as of old.
Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie, In all the world of busy life around No thought of them; in all the bounteous sky, No drop, for them, of kindly influence found.
Man’s portion is to die and rise again— Yet he complains, while these unmurmuring part With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain, As his when Eden held his virgin heart.
And haply half unblamed his murmuring voice Might sound in Heaven, were all his second life Only the first renewed—the heathen’s choice, A round of listless joy and weary strife.
For dreary were this earth, if earth were all, Tho’ brightened oft by dear Affection’s kiss;— Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall? But catch a gleam beyond it, and ’tis bliss.
Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart, Whether slow creeping on cold earth, or borne On lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dart O’er wave or field: yet breezes laugh to scorn
Our puny speed, and birds, and clouds in heaven, And fish, living shafts that pierce the main, And stars that shoot through freezing air at even— Who but would follow, might he break his chain?
And thou shalt break it soon; the grovelling worm Shall find his wings, and soar as fast and free As his transfigured Lord with lightning form And snowy vest—such grace He won for thee,
When from the grave He sprang at dawn of morn, And led through boundless air thy conquering road, Leaving a glorious track, where saints, new-born, Might fearless follow to their blest abode.
But first, by many a stern and fiery blast The world’s rude furnace must thy blood refine, And many a gale of keenest woe be passed, Till every pulse beat true to airs divine,
Till every limb obey the mounting soul, The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given. He who the stormy heart can so control, The laggard body soon will waft to Heaven.
Twenty-fourth Sunday after Trinity.
The heart knoweth his own bitterness: and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy. _Proverbs_ xiv. 10.
WHY should we faint and fear to live alone, Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die, Nor e’en the tenderest heart, and next our own, Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh?
Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart, Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow— Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart.
And well it is for us our GOD should feel Alone our secret throbbings: so our prayer May readier spring to Heaven, nor spend its zeal On cloud-born idols of this lower air.
For if one heart in perfect sympathy Beat with another, answering love for love, Weak mortals, all entranced, on earth would lie, Nor listen for those purer strains above.
Or what if Heaven for once its searching light Lent to some partial eye, disclosing all The rude bad thoughts, that in our bosom’s night Wander at large, nor heed Love’s gentle thrall?
Who would not shun the dreary uncouth place? As if, fond leaning where her infant slept, A mother’s arm a serpent should embrace: So might we friendless live, and die unwept.
Then keep the softening veil in mercy drawn, Thou who canst love us, thro’ Thou read us true; As on the bosom of th’ aërial lawn Melts in dim haze each coarse ungentle hue.
So too may soothing Hope Thy heave enjoy Sweet visions of long-severed hearts to frame: Though absence may impair, or cares annoy, Some constant mind may draw us still the same.
We in dark dreams are tossing to and fro, Pine with regret, or sicken with despair, The while she bathes us in her own chaste glow, And with our memory wings her own fond prayer.
O bliss of child-like innocence, and love Tried to old age! creative power to win, And raise new worlds, where happy fancies rove, Forgetting quite this grosser world of sin.
Bright are their dreams, because their thoughts are clear, Their memory cheering: but th’ earth-stained spright, Whose wakeful musings are of guilt and fear, Must hover nearer earth, and less in light.
Farewell, for her, th’ ideal scenes so fair— Yet not farewell her hope, since thou hast deigned, Creator of all hearts! to own and share The woe of what Thou mad’st, and we have stained.
Thou knowst our bitterness—our joys are Thine— No stranger Thou to all our wanderings wild: Nor could we bear to think, how every line Of us, Thy darkened likeness and defiled,
Stands in full sunshine of Thy piercing eye, But that Thou call’st us Brethren: sweet repose Is in that word—the LORD who dwells on high Knows all, yet loves us better than He knows.
Twenty-fifth Sunday after Trinity.
The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness. _Proverbs_ xvi. 31.
THE bright-haired morn is glowing O’er emerald meadows gay, With many a clear gem strewing The early shepherd’s way. Ye gentle elves, by Fancy seen Stealing away with night To slumber in your leafy screen, Tread more than airy light.
And see what joyous greeting The sun through heaven has shed, Though fast yon shower be fleeting, His beams have faster sped. For lo! above the western haze High towers the rainbow arch In solid span of purest rays: How stately is its march!
Pride of the dewy morning! The swain’s experienced eye From thee takes timely warning, Nor trusts the gorgeous sky. For well he knows, such dawnings gay Bring noons of storm and shower, And travellers linger on the way Beside the sheltering bower.
E’en so, in hope and trembling Should watchful shepherd view His little lambs assembling, With glance both kind and true; ’Tis not the eye of keenest blaze, Nor the quick-swelling breast, That soonest thrills at touch of praise— These do not please him best.
But voices low and gentle, And timid glances shy, That seem for aid parental To sue all wistfully, Still pressing, longing to be right, Yet fearing to be wrong,— In these the Pastor dares delight, A lamb-like, Christ-like throng.
These in Life’s distant even Shall shine serenely bright, As in th’ autumnal heaven Mild rainbow tints at night, When the last shower is stealing down, And ere they sink to rest, The sun-beams weave a parting crown For some sweet woodland nest.
The promise of the morrow Is glorious on that eve, Dear as the holy sorrow When good men cease to live. When brightening ere it die away Mounts up their altar flame, Still tending with intenser ray To Heaven whence first it came.
Say not it dies, that glory, ’Tis caught unquenched on high, Those saintlike brows so hoary Shall wear it in the sky. No smile is like the smile of death, When all good musings past Rise wafted with the parting breath, The sweetest thought the last.
Sunday next before Advent.
Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost. _St. John_ vi. 12.
WILL God indeed with fragments bear, Snatched late from the decaying year? Or can the Saviour’s blood endear The dregs of a polluted life? When down th’ o’erwhelming current tossed Just ere he sink for ever lost, The sailor’s untried arms are crossed In agonizing prayer, will Ocean cease her strife?
Sighs that exhaust but not relieve Heart-rending sighs, O spare to heave A bosom freshly taught to grieve For lavished hours and love misspent! Now through her round of holy thought The Church our annual steps has brought, But we no holy fire have caught— Back on the gaudy world our wilful eyes were bent.
Too soon th’ ennobling carols, poured To hymn the birth-night of the LORD, Which duteous Memory should have stored For thankful echoing all the year— Too soon those airs have passed away; Nor long within the heart would stay The silence of CHRIST’S dying day, Profaned by worldly mirth, or scared by worldly fear.
Some strain of hope and victory On Easter wings might lift us high A little while we sought the sky: And when the SPIRIT’S beacon fires On every hill began to blare, Lightening the world with glad amaze, Who but must kindle while they gaze? But faster than she soars, our earth-bound Fancy tires.
Nor yet for these, nor all the rites, By which our Mother’s voice invites Our GOD to bless our home delights, And sweeten every secret tear:— The funeral dirge, the marriage vow, The hollowed font where parents bow, And now elate and trembling now To the Redeemer’s feet their new-found treasures bear:—
Not for this Pastor’s gracious arm Stretched out to bless—a Christian charm To dull the shafts of worldly harm:— Nor, sweetest, holiest, best of all For the dear feast of JESUS dying, Upon that altar ever lying, Where souls with sacred hunger sighing Are called to sit and eat, while angels prostrate fall:—
No, not for each and all of these, Have our frail spirits found their ease. The gale that stirs the autumnal trees Seems tuned as truly to our hearts As when, twelve weary months ago, ’Twas moaning bleak, so high and low, You would have thought Remorse and Woe Had taught the innocent air their sadly thrilling parts.
Is it, CHRIST’S light is too divine, We dare not hope like Him to shine? But see, around His dazzling shrine Earths gems the fire of Heaven have caught; Martyrs and saints—each glorious day Dawning in order on our way— Remind us, how our darksome clay May keep th’ ethereal warmth our new Creator brought.
These we have scorned, O false and frail! And now once more th’ appalling tale, How love divine may woo and fail, Of our lost year in Heaven is told— What if as far our life were past, Our weeks all numbered to the last, With time and hope behind us cast, And all our work to do with palsied hands and cold?
O watch and pray ere Advent dawn! For thinner than the subtlest lawn ’Twixt thee and death the veil is drawn. But Love too late can never glow: The scattered fragments Love can glean Refine the dregs, and yield us clean To regions where one thought serene Breathes sweeter than whole years of sacrifice below.
St. Andrew’s Day
He first findeth his own brother Simon, and saith unto him, We have found the Messias . . . And he brought him to Jesus. _St. John_ i. 41, 42.
WHEN brothers part for manhood’s race, What gift may most endearing prove To keep fond memory its her place, And certify a brother’s love?
’Tis true, bright hours together told, And blissful dreams in secret shared, Serene or solemn, gay or bold, Shall last in fancy unimpaired.
E’en round the death-bed of the good Such dear remembrances will hover, And haunt us with no vexing mood When all the cares of earth are over.
But yet our craving spirits feel, We shall live on, though Fancy die, And seek a surer pledge—a seal Of love to last eternally.
Who art thou, that wouldst grave thy name Thus deeply in a brother’s heart? Look on this saint, and learn to frame Thy love-charm with true Christian art.
First seek thy Saviour out, and dwell Beneath this shadow of His roof, Till thou have scanned His features well, And known Him for the Christ by proof;
Such proof as they are sure to find Who spend with Him their happy days, Clean hands, and a self-ruling mind Ever in tune for love and praise.
Then, potent with the spell of Heaven, Go, and thine erring brother gain, Entice him home to be forgiven, Till he, too, see his Saviour plain.
Or, if before thee in the race, Urge him with thine advancing tread, Till, like twin stars, with even pace, Each lucid course be duly aped.
No fading frail memorial give To soothe his soul when thou art gone, But wreaths of hope for aye to live, And thoughts of good together done.
That so, before the judgment-seat, Though changed and glorified each face, Not unremembered ye may meet For endless ages to embrace.
St. Thomas’ Day.
Thomas, because thou hast seen Me, thou hast believed; blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed. _St. John_ xx. 29.
WE were not by when Jesus came, But round us, far and near, We see His trophies, and His name In choral echoes hear. In a fair ground our lot is cast, As in the solemn week that past, While some might doubt, but all adored, Ere the whole widowed Church had seen her risen Lord.
Slowly, as then, His bounteous hand The golden chain unwinds, Drawing to Heaven with gentlest band Wise hearts and loving minds. Love sought Him first—at dawn of morn From her sad couch she sprang forlorn, She sought to weep with Thee alone, And saw Thine open grave, and knew that thou wert gone.
Reason and Faith at once set out To search the SAVIOUR’S tomb; Faith faster runs, but waits without, As fearing to presume, Till Reason enter in, and trace Christ’s relics round the holy place— “Here lay His limbs, and here His sacred head, And who was by, to make His new-forsaken bed?”
Both wonder, one believes—but while They muse on all at home, No thought can tender Love beguile From Jesus’ grave to roam. Weeping she stays till He appear— Her witness first the Church must hear— All joy to souls that can rejoice With her at earliest call of His dear gracious voice.
Joy too to those, who love to talk In secret how He died, Though with sealed eyes awhile they walk, Nor see him at their side: Most like the faithful pair are they, Who once to Emmaus took their way, Half darkling, till their Master shied His glory on their souls, made known in breaking bread.
Thus, ever brighter and more bright, On those He came to save The Lord of new-created light Dawned gradual from the grave; Till passed th’ enquiring day-light hour, And with closed door in silent bower The Church in anxious musing sate, As one who for redemption still had long to wait.
Then, gliding through th’ unopening door, Smooth without step or sound, “Peace to your souls,” He said—no more— They own Him, kneeling round. Eye, ear, and hand, and loving heart, Body and soul in every part, Successive made His witnesses that hour, Cease not in all the world to show His saving power.
Is there, on earth, a spirit frail, Who fears to take their word, Scarce daring, through the twilight pale, To think he sees the Lord? With eyes too tremblingly awake To bear with dimness for His sake? Read and confess the Hand Divine That drew thy likeness here so true in every line.
For all thy rankling doubts so sore, Love thou thy Saviour still, Him for thy Lord and God adore, And ever do His will. Though vexing thoughts may seem to last, Let not thy soul be quite o’ercast;— Soon will He show thee all His wounds, and say, “Long have I known Thy name—know thou My face alway.”
The Conversion of St. Paul.
And he fell to the earth, and heard a voice saying unto him, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou Me? And he said, Who art Thou, Lord? And the Lord said, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest. _Acts_ ix. 4, 5.