Part 15

This was the view of death taken by the Evangelicals in the eighteenth century. The gospel of the great Revival brought life and immortality to light, robbed death of all its terrors, and made heaven seem, even to young men, far better than earth. The nineteenth century had not the glowing rapture of the earlier time. Moreover, its interest in works of Christian philanthropy, its awakening to the great missionary call, made the life and work of the day infinitely important and interesting. Christian men began to realize that heaven lay beyond the golden glory of the sunset sky, and felt, with those of the older dispensation, that it was a calamity for the sun to go down while it was yet day. Lyte felt with Anne Brontë—

I hoped that with the brave and strong My portioned task might lie.

Lyte’s sorrow was not that he feared to change the earthly for the heavenly, but that he longed to have done enduring work e’er the night fell.

Why do I sigh to find Life’s evening shadows gathering round my way, The keen eye dimming, and the buoyant mind Unhinging day by day?

Is it the natural dread Of that stern lot, which all who live must see? The worm, the clay, the dark and narrow bed,— Have these such awe for me?

Can I not summon pride To fold my decent mantle round my breast, And lay me down at Nature’s Eventide, Calm to my dreamless rest?

As nears my soul the verge Of this dim continent of woe and crime, Shrinks she to hear Eternity’s long surge Break on the shores of Time?

I want not vulgar fame— I seek not to survive in brass or stone; Hearts may not kindle when they hear my name, Nor tears my value own;

But might I leave behind Some blessing for my fellows, some fair trust To guide, to cheer, to elevate my kind, When I was in the dust;

Within my narrow bed Might I not wholly mute or useless be; But hope that they, who trampled o’er my head, Drew still some good from me;

Might verse of mine inspire One virtuous aim, one high resolve impart; Light in one drooping soul a hallowed fire, Or bind one broken heart;—

Death would be sweeter then, More calm my slumber ’neath the silent sod,— Might I thus live to bless my fellow-men, Or glorify my God!

O Thou! whose touch can lend Life to the dead, Thy quickening grace supply, And grant me, swanlike, my last breath to spend In song that may not die!

Was ever faithful prayer more abundantly answered? ‘He asked life of Thee, and Thou gavest it, even length of days for ever and ever.’

Christopher Wordsworth (1807-85), Bishop of Lincoln, nephew of the poet, was of set purpose a writer of hymns for congregational use. He taught that hymns should express the feeling of the Church, and not of the individual worshipper. He thought it ‘inexpressibly shocking’ that ‘Jesu, Lover of my soul’ should be sung in Westminster Abbey, at least, so I understand his reference to ‘a large, mixed congregation in a dissolute part of a populous and irreligious city.’[178] His hymns are objective, and the best—e.g. ‘O day of rest and gladness,’ ‘See the Conqueror mounts in triumph’—are very fine. Bishop Wordsworth did not ‘translate any ancient hymns, but attempted to infuse something of their spirit into’ his own.

The _Holy Year_ was a distinct contribution to the literature of the Anglican Revival. Very inferior in strength and beauty to the _Christian Year_, it was more useful to editors of hymn-books, and it helped to concentrate interest upon the selection of hymns suited to the Church year. Bishop Wordsworth kept closely to the Prayer-book ideal of devotion, and some of his less-known poems are illustrative of its special teaching. A good example is the hymn for the Second Sunday in Advent, which he inscribed, ‘Christ ever coming in Holy Scripture.’

Lord, who didst the Prophets teach To prepare Thy way of old; And by Thine Apostles preach Truths of wisdom manifold;

Teach us to behold Thee, Lord, Present in the sacred page, Living Word in written word Coming thus to every age.

Coming in King David’s Psalms, In Isaiah’s trumpet-call, Coming in St. John’s deep calms, Coming in the fires of Paul.

Coming brightly from afar To the lands with darkness dim, On the Evangelic car Of Thy fourfold cherubim.

Thus, O blessèd Lord, when we On Thy Holy Scriptures look, May we ever worship Thee, Coming in Thy sacred Book.

So, when as a scroll is past Heaven, and earth with all its strife, We may see our names at last Written in the Book of Life.

But the Anglican hymn-writers of the nineteenth century are too many for detailed comment in my fast-failing space. It is a glorious choir, including Joseph Anstice, who had so powerful an influence over Mr. Gladstone in his Oxford days;[179] Dean Alford, Dr. Monsell, Sir H. W. Baker, Dean Stanley, Bishops Mant, How, and Bickersteth, Canon Bright, Godfrey Thring, Canon Ellerton, S. J. Stone, Canon Twells, Laurence Tuttiett, S. Baring-Gould, among the clergy; Mrs. Alexander, Charlotte Elliott, Frances Ridley Havergal, Sir R. Grant, W. Chatterton Dix, among the laity.

Sir Henry Williams Baker (1821-77) wrote the lovely sacramental version of Ps. xxiii.: ‘The King of love my Shepherd is.’ One verse he repeated with his dying breath—

Perverse and foolish oft I strayed, But yet in love He sought me, And on His shoulder gently laid, And home, rejoicing, brought me.

He is one of the simplest and most attractive of hymn-writers, and the inclusion of his hymns in Nonconformist hymnals is a great gain. His greatest service to Anglican hymnody was the editing of _Hymns Ancient and Modern_—a truly epoch-making (or perhaps epoch-marking) book.

While Baker was at work in his Herefordshire vicarage, John Ellerton (1826-93) was writing hymns and essays on hymns in his rural or semi-rural parsonages. Ellerton had a rare gift in writing for special occasions. His great funeral hymn, ‘Now the labourer’s task is o’er,’ has a sombre strength which is full of comfort and trust. ‘Behold us, Lord, a little space’ is an ideal hymn for a week-day service, and ‘In the Name which earth and heaven’ is the grandest of all hymns for the laying of the foundation-stone of a church.[180] Without being a High-Churchman, Ellerton was a thorough-going Anglican, and his poetry has the restraint, the good taste, and the dignity which beseem a great Church.

S. J. Stone (1839-1900), unlike most clerical hymn-writers, was not a country parson, though his best hymns were written before he began his work in East London. But even in its dreary wastes he found the true poetry of life, and some of his obscure parishioners at Haggerston are richly shrined in his memorial verses. I feel all the more moved by the triumphant tones of ‘The Church’s one foundation,’ all the more tenderly impressed by ‘Weary of earth, and laden with my sin,’ when I remember how dear to his heart were the struggling, toiling masses of his dull East London parish. His best hymns are well known, so I quote a sonnet which expresses his love for those who live in the crowded city.

_From Windermere, To the Congregation and Children of St. Paul’s, Haggerston._

Moored by a green isle of Winandermere— Listening the gentlest lapping of the wave On the rock margin, and the blackbirds’ brave Soldierly antiphons, afar and near, And the wind’s whispered evensong—I hear A sound beyond, and sweeter as more grave Than ever paradise of nature gave, Dear to my heart of old, and now more dear: _The roar of London_—the deep undersong, The myriad music of immortal souls High-couraged, much-enduring, midst the long Drear toil and gloom and weariness. It rolls Over me with all power, for in its tone The hearts I love in Christ beat with my own.

Bishop Bickersteth demands mention, not only for his own beautiful hymns, but for his successful editing of the _Hymnal Companion to the Book of Common Prayer_. Edward Bickersteth’s _Christian Psalmody_ was, in its day, one of the best and most catholic hymnals. In the _Hymnal Companion_, his son provided for a later generation the more complete and worthy hymn-book which the growth of hymnody made possible. Of Bishop Bickersteth’s own hymns, a few are amongst those universally accepted. His Communion Hymn, to the regret of many, is absent from the _Methodist Hymn-book_.

’Till He come!’ O let the words Linger on the trembling chords; Let the ‘little while’ between In their golden light be seen; Let us think how heaven and home Lie beyond that ’Till He come.’

When the weary ones we love Enter on their rest above, Seems the earth so poor and vast, All our life joy overcast? Hush, be every murmur dumb; It is only till He come.

Clouds and conflicts round us press; Would we have one sorrow less? All the sharpness of the cross, All that tells the world is loss, Death, and darkness, and the tomb Only whisper, ’Till He come.’

See! the feast of love is spread; Drink the wine, and break the bread: Sweet memorials, till the Lord Call us round His heavenly board, Some from earth, from glory some, Severed only till He come.[181]

This aspect of the Lord’s Supper, the proclamation of the Lord’s death ’till He come,’ must ever be present to the mind of the devout communicant. The hymn—especially in its last verse—is full of the gracious, subdued trustfulness which befits the Christian as he commemorates the Atoning Sacrifice and looks forward to glad, eternal communion with those who have gone before, when once again our Lord Himself shall break the bread and drink the wine with His disciples in the Father’s kingdom.

Dean Stanley (1815-81) was not a poet, though he wrote the best English hymn on the Transfiguration. I mention him here, however, to quote some verses of his stirring national hymn, worthy of a Dean of Westminster. It is of a type that, I think, ought to be represented in our hymnals, and especially those intended for school use. Why should not such hymns as this and Mr. Gill’s ‘Lift thy song among the nations’ stir and consecrate the patriotism of our up-growing girls and boys? Dean Stanley’s hymn is very long. I quote less than half. In the _Westminster Abbey Hymn-book_ it is assigned to the Accession.

Let us with a gladsome mind Praise the Lord, for He is kind! Long our island throne has stood, Planted on the ocean flood; Crowned with rock, and girt with sea, Home and refuge of the free: For His mercies aye endure, Ever faithful, ever sure.

On that island throne have sate Alfred’s goodness, Edward’s state; Princely strength and queenly grace, Lengthened line of royal race: Round that throne have stood of old Seers and statesmen, firm and bold; Burleigh’s wisdom, Hampden’s fire, Chatham’s force in son and sire.

Let us with a gladsome mind Praise the Lord, for He is kind: Him, in homely English tongue, Epic lay and lyric song, Shakespeare’s myriad-minded verse, Milton’s heavenward strains, rehearse: For His mercies aye endure, Ever faithful, ever sure.

Hither in our heathen night Came of yore the gospel light; By the Saviour’s sacred story, ‘Angles’ turned to angels’ glory. Breaking with a gracious hand Ancient error’s subtle band; Opening wide the sacred page, Kindling hope in saint and sage.

Give us homes serene and pure, Settled freedom, laws secure; Truthful lips and minds sincere; Faith and love that cast out fear. Grant that light and life divine Long on England’s shores may shine; Grant that people, Church, and throne May in all good deeds be one.[182]

Of the eighteenth century, Miss Steele and Mrs. Barbauld are almost the only women whose hymns survive to-day. In the nineteenth century, however, there are not a few women whose songs are likely to endure. Charlotte Elliott, Cecil Frances Alexander, Anna Lætitia Waring, have written immortal hymns, and it will be long ere Frances Ridley Havergal is absent from the songs of the Church. It is safe to prophesy that ‘Just as I am,’ ‘There is a green hill far away,’ and ‘Father, I know that all my life,’ will be sung through many generations—as long, indeed, as English Christianity endures.

Charlotte Elliott (1791-1871), who belonged to a famous evangelical Church family, is one of many who learnt in suffering what she taught in song. Her greatest hymn, ‘Just as I am,’ was first published in the _Invalid’s Hymn-book_ (1836), and, without her knowledge, was reprinted and widely circulated. In no other hymn has the sinner’s way to the Saviour been made more plain. Through the penitential self-despair of its earlier verses countless numbers of the weary and heavy-laden have found rest unto their souls, and entered into the joyous confidence of its closing lines. Wordsworth’s daughter, Dora, received the hymn in her last illness, and her husband wrote to the authoress, ‘At least ten times that day she asked me to repeat it to her,’ and every morning she asked for it again till the end came. After her death it formed part of her mother’s ‘daily solitary prayer.’

Miss Elliott is the truest and the best representative of the early evangelical Church hymn-writers. Many of her little-known hymns are very beautiful. I quote two pieces, notwithstanding a breath of Calvinism in them both, for it is a Calvinism that has good Scripture warrant.

‘My soul followeth hard after Thee’ (Ps. lxiii. 8).

I look to Thee, I hope in Thee, I glory in Thy name! I make Thy righteousness my plea, Thou all-atoning Lamb! Methinks even death will welcome be, That I, through death, may pass to Thee.

Thou art my portion, saith my soul, My all in earth or heaven; None but Thyself can make me whole, No name but Thine is given At which the gates of pearl fly wide— The passport of the justified.

I know Thy voice—I strive to keep Thy word within my heart; Though the most worthless of Thy sheep, Still Thou my Shepherd art; Firm as a rock that word shall stand, None, none shall pluck me from Thy hand.

Without repentance are Thy gifts; This thought my hope sustains, In deep distress my soul uplifts, When sin the victory gains; My faith, though weak, shall never fail, Thy prayer shall even for me prevail.

When I Thy glory shall behold, And see Thee face to face, Sheltered in Thy celestial fold, A sinner saved by grace. What will it be Thy love to adore, Assured I shall go out no more?

The following lines are evidently in part suggested by her own great hymn. The text is ‘Into Thine hand I commit my spirit: Thou hast redeemed me, O Lord God of truth’ (Ps. xxxi. 5)—

God of my life! Thy boundless grace Chose, pardoned, and adopted me; My rest, my home, my dwelling-place! Father! I come to Thee.

Jesus, my hope, my rock, my shield! Whose precious blood was shed for me, Into Thy hands my soul I yield; Saviour! I come to Thee.

Spirit of glory and of God! Long hast Thou deigned my Guide to be; Now be Thy comfort sweet bestowed! My God! I come to Thee.

I come to join that countless host Who praise Thy name unceasingly. Blest Father, Son, and Holy Ghost! My God! I come to Thee.

Frances Ridley Havergal (1836-79) was full of the gladness of God’s chosen, and her songs illustrate Faber’s verse—

If our love were but more simple, We should take Him at His word, And our lives would be all sunshine In the sweetness of our Lord.

After her conversion she knew nothing of Wesley’s experience of the ‘howling wilderness’; to her the night was never dark, as it was to Newman, and she was never far from home. Her hymns overflow with exultant faith.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green, Thy sky is ever clear, Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, No winter in thy year.[183]

It would, perhaps, be unsafe to predict that any of Miss Havergal’s hymns will rank among the songs that cannot die, but they will certainly be long loved and sung. Her consecration hymns, especially ‘Lord, speak to me that I may speak,’ are solemn and impressive, and are, perhaps, her best. But her triumphant songs are often very fine, though they are not always well sustained. Her Advent hymn has the triumphant rapture of the soul that goes out to meet her Lord.

Thou art coming, O my Saviour, Thou art coming, O my King, In Thy beauty all-resplendent, In Thy glory all-transcendent; Well may we rejoice and sing; Coming! in the opening east Herald brightness slowly swells; Coming! O my glorious Priest, Hear we not Thy golden bells?

Thou art coming; at Thy table We are witnesses for this; While remembering hearts Thou meetest In communion clearest, sweetest, Earnest of our coming bliss, Showing not Thy death alone, And Thy love exceeding great, But Thy coming and Thy throne, All for which we long and wait.

Cecil Frances Alexander (1823-95) may almost be called the first writer of real children’s hymns. Dr. Watts was not happy in his _Divine and Moral Songs_, and some of Charles Wesley’s most horrible verses are to be found in his _Hymns for Children_. It is true that Watts wrote some simple lyrics which seem to have suited our prim little ancestors, and that Charles Wesley wrote ‘Gentle Jesus, meek and mild,’ but even the manners and beliefs of the devout souls of that time cannot altogether excuse some of his hymns, which must have frightened many a poor little Methodist out of his wits.

Anne and Jane Taylor’s _Hymns for Infant Minds_ are _too_ infantile, though they served their generation well, and led on from Watts to Mrs. Alexander. The Taylors had a happy knack of conveying Scripture history and teaching in simple verse. I do not know a better definition of repentance than—

Repentance is to leave The sins I loved before, And show that I in earnest grieve By doing so no more.

But Mrs. Alexander combines with the winsome simplicity which charms and instructs a little child, the power to speak to the child in the heart of the man. Never has the gospel story been told to children and to child-like souls more attractively than in ‘Once in royal David’s city’ and ‘There is a green hill far away.’ Since our Church hymnals began to include a section for children, Mrs. Alexander has been a large contributor. Even yet, when we have a considerable number of good children’s hymns, there are none better than hers. Of course she wrote other hymns, but these are her glory, her most precious contribution to the hymn-book of the modern Church. ‘Her character,’ says Archbishop Alexander, ‘was based and moulded upon the best teaching of the original Oxford movement,’[184] but she had little sympathy with mere ritualism. Well known and loved as many of her hymns are, her collected _Poems_ include, among the less familiar pieces, much of value and interest. She made for the _Irish Church Hymnal_ a fine translation of the _Breastplate_ of St. Patrick, a hymn which belongs to the Celtic, not to the Roman Church.

I bind unto myself to-day The strong Name of the Trinity, By invocation of the same, The Three in One and One in Three.

I bind unto myself to-day The power of God to hold and lead, His eye to watch, His might to stay, His ear to hearken to my need. The wisdom of my God to teach, His hand to guide, His shield to ward, The word of God to give me speech, His heavenly host to be my guard.

Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before me, Christ beside me, Christ to win me, Christ to comfort and restore me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ in quiet, Christ in danger, Christ in hearts of all that love me, Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.[185]

This hymn is extensively used in Ireland on St. Patrick’s day.

To these hymn-writers we may add the poetesses Christina G. Rossetti and Jean Ingelow. Miss Rossetti wrote very little that is really adapted for use in public worship. There is much, however, to justify the inclusion in a hymn-book of such verses as, ‘None other Lamb, none other Name,’[186] though they are more fitting for private prayer than for social worship. The same is not equally true of Miss Ingelow’s poem, ‘And didst Thou love the race that loved not Thee?’ for the verses usually selected form a true hymn. The last verse is—

Come, lest this heart should, cold and cast away, Die ere the Guest adored she entertain; Lest eyes which never saw Thine earthly day Should miss Thy heavenly reign.[187]

Of laymen I can mention only a few names here. Mr. W. Chatterton Dix has written more good hymns than those known to our hymn-books. Francis Turner Palgrave (1824-97), whose _Treasury of Sacred Song_ is our best anthology, also wrote hymns which, it seems to me, deserve a wider use than they have attained. His best-known hymn, without being of the popular type, is of the class which is appreciated by many in these days of perplexity and unrest.

Thou say’st, ‘Take up thy cross, O man, and follow Me’: The night is black, The feet are slack, Yet we would follow Thee.

But oh, dear Lord, we cry, That we Thy face could see! Thy blessèd face One moment’s space: Then might we follow Thee!

Dim tracts of time divide Those golden days from me; Thy voice comes strange O’er years of change: How can we follow Thee?

Comes faint and far Thy voice From vales of Galilee; The vision fades In ancient shades: How should we follow Thee?

Ah, sense-bound heart and blind! Is naught but what we see? Can time undo What once was true? Can we not follow Thee?

Within our heart of hearts In nearest nearness be: Give Thou the sign: Say, ‘Ye are Mine’; Lead, and we follow Thee.[188]

Other hymns by Professor Palgrave are, ‘O thou not made with hands,’ ‘Star of morn and even,’ ‘Thou that once on mother’s knee.’

I close this section of my lecture with a few verses which have, as far as I know, not yet found a place in any hymnal. They are from a Communion hymn by Mr. Gladstone. They may rightly be included in the hymns of the Anglican Revival.

‘Mr. Gladstone’s mind and heart,’ says Mr. G. W. E. Russell, ‘were already attuned to the new teaching, and prepared to receive it, even though he had not paid much attention to the controversy. It was in 1836 that he wrote his hymn on the Holy Communion.’ Mr. Russell gives the following verses—

Here, where Thine angels overhead Do warn the Tempter’s powers away, And where the bodies of the dead For life and resurrection stay; And many a generation’s prayer Hath perfumed and hath blest the air;

Oh, lead my blindness by the hand, Lead me to Thy familiar Feast, Not here or now to understand, Yet even here and now to taste, How the eternal Word of Heaven On earth in broken bread is given.

We, who this holy precinct round In one adoring circle kneel, May we in one intent be bound, And one serene devotion feel; And grow around Thy sacred shrine Like tendrils of the deathless Vine.

We, who with one blest Food are fed, Into one body may we grow, And one pure life from Thee, the Head, Informing all the members flow; One pulse be felt in every vein, One law of pleasure and of pain.

Oh, let the virtue all divine, The Gift of this true Sabbath morn, Stored in my spirit’s inner shrine, Be purely and be meekly borne; Be husbanded with thrifty care, And sweetened and refreshed with prayer.[189]