Scenes and Hymns of Life, with Other Religious Poems

Title Pages and Contents

SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE.

SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE,

WITH OTHER

RELIGIOUS POEMS.

BY

FELICIA HEMANS.

"How beautiful this dome of sky, And the vast hills, in fluctuation fix'd At thy command, how awful! Shall the soul, Human and rational, report of Thee Even less than these?" Wordsworth.

WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, EDINBURGH; AND T. CADELL, LONDON. MDCCCXXXIV.

TO

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, Esq.

IN TOKEN OF DEEP RESPECT

FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND FERVENT GRATITUDE

FOR MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL BENEFIT

DERIVED FORM REVERENTIAL COMMUNION

WITH THE SPIRIT OF HIS POETRY,

THIS VOLUME

IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY

FELICIA HEMANS.

PREFACE.

I trust I shall not be accused of presumption for the endeavour which I have here made to enlarge, in some degree, the sphere of Religious Poetry, by associating with its themes more of the emotions, the affections, and even the purer imaginative enjoyments of daily life, than may have been hitherto admitted within the hallowed circle.

It has been my wish to portray the religious spirit, not alone in its meditative joys and solitary aspirations, (the poetic embodying of which seems to require from the reader a state of mind already separated and exalted,) but likewise in those active influences upon human life, so often called into victorious energy by trial and conflict, though too often also, like the upward-striving flame of a mountain watch-fire, borne down by tempest showers, or swayed by the current of opposing winds. I have sought to represent that spirit as penetrating the gloom of the prison and the death-bed, bearing "healing on its wings" to the agony of parting love—strengthening the heart of the wayfarer for "perils in the wilderness"—gladdening the domestic walk through field and woodland—and springing to life in the soul of childhood, along with its earliest rejoicing perceptions of natural beauty.

Circumstances not altogether under my own control have, for the present, interfered to prevent the fuller developement of a plan which I yet hope more worthily to mature, and I lay this little volume before the public with that deep sense of deficiency which cannot be more impressively taught to human powers, than by their reverential application to things divine. F. H.

Contents. | Scenes and Hymns of Life.

| |Page

The English Martyrs | 1

Flowers and Music in a Room of Sickness | 19

Cathedral Hymn | 33

Wood Walk and Hymn | 41

Prayer of the Lonely Student | 52

The Traveller's Evening Song | 59

Burial of an Emigrant's Child in the Forests | 63

Easter-Day in a Mountain Church-Yard | 74

The Child Reading the Bible | 82

A Poet's Dying Hymn | 88

The Funeral Day of Sir Walter Scott | 95

The Prayer in the Wilderness | 103

Prisoners' Evening Service | 107

Hymn of the Vaudois Mountaineers in Times of Persecution | 117

The Indian's Revenge | 121

Prayer at Sea after Victory | 134

Evening Song of the Weary | 138

| |Page

The Day of Flowers | 140

Hymn of the Traveller's Household on his Return | 151

A Prayer of Affection | 155

The Painter's Last Work | 157

Mother's Litany by the Sick-Bed of a Child | 165

Night Hymn at Sea | 167

Miscellaneous Poems.

Female Characters of Scripture—a Series of Sonnets—

I. Invocation | 170

II. Invocation Continued | 171

III. The Song of Miriam | 172

IV. Ruth | 173

V. The Vigil of Rizpah | 174

VI. The Reply of the Shunamite Woman | 175

VII. The Annunciation | 176

VIII. The Song of the Virgin | 177

IX. The Penitent Anointing Christ's Feet | 178

X. Mary at the Feet of Christ | 179

XI. The Sisters of Bethany after the Death of Lazarus | 180

XII. The Memorial of Mary | 181

XIII. The Women of Jerusalem at the Cross | 182

XIV. Mary Magdalene at the Sepulchre | 183

XV. Mary Magdalene Bearing Tidings of the Resurrection | 184

|Page

The Two Monuments | 185

The Memory of the Dead | 190

Angel Visits | 193

A Penitent's Return | 197

A Thought of Paradise | 201

Let us Depart | 205

On a Picture of Christ Bearing the Cross | 209

Communings with Thought | 211

Sonnets, Devotional and Memorial—

I. The Sacred Harp | 215

II. To a Family Bible | 216

III. Repose of a Holy Family | 217

IV. Picture of the Infant Christ with Flowers | 218

V. On a Remembered Picture of Christ | 219

VI. The Children whom Jesus blest | 220

VII. Mountain Sanctuaries | 221

VIII. The Lilies of the Field | 222

IX. The Birds of the Air | 223

X. The Raising of the Widow's Son | 224

XI. The Olive Tree | 225

XII. The Darkness of the Crucifixion | 226

XIII. Places of Worship | 227

XIV. Old Church in an English Park | 228

XV. A Church in North Wales | 229

XVI. Louise Schepler | 230

XVII. To the Same | 231

Lines to a Butterfly Resting on a Skull | 232

| |Page

The Palmer | 234

The Water-Lily | 237

Thought from an Italian Poet | 240

Elysium | 241

The English Martyrs

THE ENGLISH MARTYRS.

A SCENE OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY.

Thy face Is all at once spread over with a calm More beautiful than sleep, or mirth, or joy! I am no more disconsolate. Wilson.

Scene in a Prison.

Edith alone.

Edith. Morn once again! Morn in the lone dim cell, The cavern of the prisoner's fever dream, And morn on all the green rejoicing hills, And the bright waters round the prisoner's home,

Far, far away! Now wakes the early bird That in the lime's transparent foliage sings, Close to my cottage lattice—he awakes, To stir the young leaves with his gushing soul, And to call forth rich answers of delight From voices buried in a thousand trees, Through the dim starry hours. Now doth the lake Darken and flash in rapid interchange Unto the matin breeze; and the blue mist Rolls, like a furling banner, from the brows Of the forth-gleaming hills and woods that rise As if new-born. Bright world! and I am here! And thou, O thou! th' awakening thought of whom Was more than dayspring, dearer than the sun, Herbert! the very glance of whose clear eye Made my soul melt away to one pure fount Of living, bounding gladness!—where art thou? My friend! my only and my blessed love! Herbert, my soul's companion!

[Gomez, a Spanish Priest, enters. Gomez. Daughter, hail! I bring thee tidings.

Edith. Heaven will aid my soul Calmly to meet whate'er thy lips announce.

Gomez. Nay, lift a song of thanksgiving to Heaven, And bow thy knee down for deliverance won! Hast thou not pray'd for life? and wouldst thou not Once more be free?

Edith. Have I not pray'd for life? I, that am so belov'd! that love again With such a heart of tendrils? Heaven! thou know'st The gushings of my prayer! And would I not Once more be free? I, that have been a child Of breezy hills, a playmate of the fawn In ancient woodlands from mine infancy! A watcher of the clouds and of the stars, Beneath the adoring silence of the night; And a glad wanderer with the happy streams, Whose laughter fills the mountains! Oh! to hear Their blessed sounds again!

Gomez. Rejoice, rejoice! Our Queen hath pity, maiden, on thy youth; She wills not thou shouldst perish.—I am come To loose thy bonds.

Edith. And shall I see his face, And shall I listen to his voice again, And lay my head upon his faithful breast, Weeping there in my gladness? Will this be?— Blessings upon thee, father! my quick heart Hath deem'd thee stern—say, wilt thou not forgive The wayward child, too long in sunshine rear'd, Too long unus'd to chastening? Wilt thou not?— But, Herbert, Herbert! Oh, my soul hath rush'd On a swift gust of sudden joy away, Forgetting all beside! Speak, father, speak! Herbert—is he too free?

Gomez. His freedom lies In his own choice—a boon like thine.

Edith. Thy words Full changed and cold upon my boding heart.

Leave not this dim suspense o'ershadowing me. Let all be told.

Gomez. The monarchs of the earth Shower not their mighty gifts without a claim Unto some token of true vassalage, Some mark of homage.

Edith. Oh! unlike to Him, Who freely pours the joy of sunshine forth, And the bright quickening rain, on those who serve And those who heed him not!

Gomez, (laying a paper before her.) Is it so much That thine own hand should set the crowning seal To thy deliverance? Look, thy task is here! Sign but these words for liberty and life.

Edith, (examining and then throwing it from her.) Sign but these words! and wherefore saidst thou not, "Be but a traitor to God's light within?"— Cruel, oh, cruel! thy dark sport hath been With a young bosom's hope! Farewell, glad life!

Bright opening path to love and home farewell! And thou—now leave me with my God alone!

Gomez. Dost thou reject Heaven's mercy?

Edith. Heaven's! doth Heaven Woo the free spirit for dishonour'd breath To sell its birthright? doth Heaven set a price On the clear jewel of unsullied faith, And the bright calm of conscience? Priest, away! God hath been with me 'midst the holiness Of England's mountains—not in sport alone I trod their heath-flowers—but high thoughts rose up From the broad shadow of the enduring rocks, And wander'd with me into solemn glens, Where my soul felt the beauty of His word. I have heard voices of immortal truth, Blent with the everlasting torrent-sounds That make the deep hills tremble.—Shall I quail? Shall England's daughter sink?—No! He who there Spoke to my heart in silence and in storm, Will not forsake his child!

Gomez, (turning from her.) Then perish! lost In thine own blindness!

Edith, (suddenly throwing herself at his feet,) Father! hear me yet! Oh! if the kindly touch of human love Hath ever warmed thy breast2

Gomez. Away—away! I know not love.

Edith. Yet hear! if thou hast known The tender sweetness of a mother's voice— If the true vigil of affection's eye Hath watch'd thy childhood—if fond tears have e'er Been shower'd upon thy head—if parting words E'er pierced thy spirit with their tenderness— Let me but look upon his face once more, Let me but say—Farewell, my soul's beloved! And I will bless thee still!

Gomez, (aside.) Her soul may yield, Beholding him in fetters; woman's faith Will bend to woman's love—

Thy prayer is heard; Follow, and I will guide thee to his cell.

Edith. Oh! stormy hour of agony and joy! But I shall see him—I shall hear his voice! [They go out.

SCENE II.

Another Part of the Prison.

Herbert—Edith.

Edith. Herbert, my Herbert! is it thus we meet?

Herbert. The voice of my own Edith! Can such joy Light up this place of death? And do I feel Thy breath of love once more upon my cheek, And the soft floating of thy gleamy hair, My blessed Edith? Oh! so pale! so changed!

My flower, my blighted flower! thou that wert made For the kind fostering of sweet summer airs, How hath the storm been with thee!—Lay thy head On this true breast again, my gentle one! And tell me all.

Edith. Yes, take me to thy heart, For I am weary, weary! Oh! that heart! The kind, the brave, the tender!—how my soul Hath sicken'd in vain yearnings for the balm Of rest on that warm heart!—full, deep repose! One draught of dewy stillness after storm! And God hath pitied me, and I am here— Yet once before I die!

Herbert. They cannot slay One, young and meek, and beautiful as thou! My broken lily! Surely the long days Of the dark cell have been enough for thee! Oh! thou shalt live, and raise thy gracious head Yet in calm sunshine.

Edith. Herbert! I have cast The snare of proffer'd mercy from my soul, This very hour. God to the weak hath given Victory o'er life and death!—The tempter's price Hath been rejected—Herbert, I must die.

Herbert. O Edith! Edith! I, that led thee first From the old path wherein thy fathers trod— I, that received it as an angel's task, To pour the fresh light on thine ardent soul, Which drank it as a sun-flower—I have been Thy guide to death!

Edith. To Heaven! my guide to Heaven, My noble and my blessed! Oh! look up, Be strong, rejoice, my Herbert! But for thee How could my spirit have sprung up to God, Through the dark cloud which o'er its vision hung, The night of fear and error? thy dear hand First raised that veil, and shewed the glorious world My heritage beyond—Friend! love and friend!

It was as if thou gavest me mine own soul In those bright days! Yes! a new earth and heaven, And a new sense for all their splendours born, These were thy gifts! and shall I not rejoice To die, upholding their immortal worth, Even for thy sake? Yes, filled with nobler life By thy pure love, made holy to the truth, Lay me upon the altar of thy God, The first fruits of thy ministry below; Thy work, thine own!

Herbert. My love, my sainted love! Oh ! I can almost yield thee unto heaven; Earth would but sully thee! Thou must depart, With the rich crown of thy celestial gifts Untainted by a breath! And yet, alas! Edith! what dreams of holy happiness, Even for this world, were ours! the low, sweet home— The pastoral dwelling, with its ivied porch, And lattice gleaming through the leaves—and thou, My life's companion!—Thou, beside my hearth,

Sitting with thy meek eyes, or greeting me Back from brief absence with thy bounding step, In the green meadow path, or by my side Kneeling—thy calm uplifted face to mine, In the sweet hush of prayer! and now—oh! now— How have we loved—how fervently, how long! And this to be the close!

Edith. Oh! bear me up Against the unutterable tenderness Of earthly love, my God! in the sick hour Of dying human hope, forsake me not! Herbert, my Herbert! even from that sweet home Where it had been too much of Paradise To dwell with thee—even thence the oppressor's hand Might soon have torn us; or the touch of death Might one day there have left a widowed heart, Pining along. We will go hence, beloved! To the bright country, where the wicked cease From troubling, where the spoiler hath no sway;

Where no harsh voice of worldliness disturbs The Sabbath-peace of love. We will go hence, Together with our wedded souls, to Heaven: No solitary lingering, no cold void, No dying of the heart! Our lives have been Lovely through faithful love, and in our deaths We will not be divided.

Herbert. Oh! the peace Of God is lying far within thine eyes, Far underneath the mist of human tears, Lighting those blue still depths, and sinking thence On my worn heart. Now am I girt with strength, Now I can bless thee, my true bride for Heaven!

Edith. And let me bless thee, Herbert! in this hour Let my soul bless thee with prevailing might! Oh! thou hast loved me nobly! thou didst take An orphan to thy heart, a thing unprized And desolate; and thou didst guard her there, That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl

Of richest price; and thou didst fill her soul With the high gifts of an immortal wealth.— I bless, I bless thee! Never did thine eye Look on me but in glistening tenderness, My gentle Herbert! Never did thy voice But in affection's deepest music speak To thy poor Edith! Never was thy heart Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine, My faithful, generous Herbert! Woman's peace Ne'er on a breast so tender and so true Reposed before.—Alas! thy showering tears Fall fast upon my cheek—forgive, forgive! I should not melt thy noble strength away In such an hour.

Herbert. Sweet Edith, no! my heart Will fail no more; God bears me up through thee, And, by thy words, and by the heavenly light Shining around thee, through thy very tears, Will yet sustain me! Let us call on him! Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft,

Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him, Th' all-pitying One, to aid. [They kneel. O, look on us, Father above! in tender mercy look On us, thy children! through th' o'ershadowing cloud Of sorrow and mortality, send aid, Save or we perish! we would pour our lives Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth, But we are weak—we, the bruised reeds of earth, Are sway'd by every gust. Forgive, O God! The blindness of our passionate desires, The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts, Which cleave to dust! Forgive the strife; accept The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears, From mortal pangs wrung forth! And if our souls, In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess. Of their long-clasping love, have wander'd not. Holiest! from thee; oh! take them to thyself, After the fiery trial, take them home

To dwell, in that imperishable bond Before thee linked, for ever. Hear, through Him Who meekly drank the cup of agony, Who passed through death to victory, hear and save! Pity us, Father! we are girt with snares; Father in Heaven! we have no help but thee. [They rise. Is thy soul strengthened, my beloved one? O Edith! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice, And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn We loved in happier days—the strain which tells Of the dread conflict in the olive shade? [She sings.

He knelt, the Saviour knelt and pray'd, When but his Father's eye Look'd through the lonely garden's shade On that dread agony; The Lord of All above, beneath, Was bow'd with sorrow unto death.

The sun set in a fearful hour, The stars might well grow dim. When this mortality had power So to o'ershadow Him! That He who gave man's breath, might know The very depths of human woe.

He proved them all! the doubt, the strife, The faint perplexing dread, The mists that hang o'er parting life, All gather'd round his head; And the Deliverer knelt to pray— Yet pass'd it not, that cup, away!

It pass'd not—though the stormy wave Had sunk beneath his tread; It pass'd not—though to him the grave Had yielded up its dead. But there was sent him from on high A gift of strength for man to die.

And was the sinless thus beset With anguish and dismay? How may we meet our conflict yet, In the dark narrow way? Thro' Him—thro' Him, that path who trod— Save, or we perish, Son of God!

Hark, hark! the parting signal. [Prison attendants enter. Fare-thee-well! O thou unutterably loved, farewell! Let our hearts bow to God!

Herbert. One last embrace— On earth the last!—We have eternity For love's communion yet!—Farewell—farewell!— [She is led out. 'Tis o'er—the bitterness of death is past!

Flowers and Music in a Room of Sickness

FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.

Once, when I look'd along the laughing earth, Up the blue heavens, and through the middle air, Joyfully ringing with the sky-lark's song, I wept! and thought how sad for one so young To bid farewell to so much happiness. But Christ hath call'd me from this lower world. Delightful though it be. Wilson.

Apartment in an English Country-House.—Lilian reclining, as sleeping on a couch. Her Mother watching beside her. Her Sister enters with flowers.

Mother. Hush, lightly tread! still tranquilly she sleeps, As, when a babe, I rock'd her on my heart.

I've watch'd, suspending e'en my breath, in fear To break the heavenly spell. Move silently! And oh! those flowers! dear Jessy, bear them hence— Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears That shook her trembling frame, when last we brought The roses to her couch? Dost thou not know What sudden longings for the woods and hills, Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly, These leaves and odours with strange influence wake In her fast-kindled soul?

Jessy. Oh! she would pine, Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld, Mother! far more than now her spirit yearns For the blue sky, the singing-birds and brooks, And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome spring Their blooms recall.

Lilian,(raising herself.) Is that my Jessy's voice? It woke me not, sweet mother! I had lain Silently, visited by waking dreams, Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness,

Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought flowers? Nay, fear not now thy fond child's waywardness, My thoughtful mother!—in her chasten'd soul The passion-colour'd images of life, Which, with their sudden startling flush awoke So oft those burning tears, have died away; And night is there—still, solemn, holy night, With all her stars, and with the gentle tune Of many fountains, low and musical, By day unheard.

Mother. And wherefore night, my child? Thou art a creature all of life and dawn, And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise, And walk forth with the day-spring.

Lilian. Hope it not! Dream it no more, my mother!—there are things Known but to God, and to the parting soul, Which feels his thrilling summons. But my words Too much o'ershadow those kind loving eyes.

Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step, Well do I see, hath not alone explored The garden bowers, but freely visited Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet Is from the cool green shadowy river nook, Where the stream chimes around th' old mossy stones With sounds like childhood's laughter. Is that spot Lovely as when our glad eyes hail'd it first? Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep The clear brown wave with every passing wind? And thro' the shallower waters, where they lie Dimpling in light, do the vein'd pebbles gleam Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies, From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still Among the poplar boughs?

Jessy. All, all is there Which glad midsummer's wealthiest hours can bring; All, save the soul of all, thy lightening smile! Therefore I stood in sadness 'midst the leaves, And caught an under-music of lament

In the stream's voice; but Nature waits thee still, And for thy coming piles a fairy throne Of richest moss.

Lilian. Alas! it may not be! My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly, To all these blessed haunts of song and thought; Yet not the less I love to look on these, Their dear memorials;—strew them o'er my couch, Till it grow like a forest bank in spring, All flush'd with violets and anemones. Ah! the pale brier rose! touch'd so tenderly, As a pure ocean shell, with faintest red, Melting away to pearliness!—I know How its long light festoons o'erarching hung From the grey rock, that rises alter-like, With its high waving crown of mountain ash, 'Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough Of honey'd woodbine, tells me of the oak Whose deep midsummer gloom sleeps heavily, Shedding a verdurous twilight o'er the face

Of the glade's pool. Methinks I see it now; I look up through the stirring of its leaves Unto the intense blue crystal firmament. The ring-dove's wing is flitting o'er my head, Casting at times a silvery shadow down 'Midst the large water-lilies. Beautiful! How beautiful is all this fair free world Under God's open sky!

Mother. Thou art o'erwrought Once more, my child! The dewy trembling light Presaging tears, again is in thine eye. O, hush, dear Lilian! turn thee to repose.

Lilian. Mother! I cannot. In my soul the thoughts Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire; Importunately to my lips they throng, And with their earthly kindred seek to blend Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone— (For I must go)—then the remember'd words Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth,

Will to thy fond heart be as amulets Held there with life and love. And weep not thus! Mother! dear sister! kindest, gentlest ones! Be comforted that now I weep no more For the glad earth and all the golden light Whence I depart, No! God hath purified my spirit's eye, And in the folds of this consummate rose I read bright prophecies. I see not there, Dimly and mournfully, the word "farewell" On the rich petals traced: No—in soft veins And characters of beauty, I can read— "Look up, look heavenward!" Blessed God of Love! I thank thee for these gifts, the precious links Whereby my spirit unto thee is drawn! I thank thee that the loveliness of earth Higher than earth can raise me! Are not these But germs of things unperishing, that bloom Beside th' immortal streams? Shall I not find

The lily of the field, the Saviour's flower, In the serene and never-moaning air, And the clear starry light of angel eyes, A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far Will not the violet's dusky purple glow, When it hath ne'er been press'd to broken hearts, A record of lost love?

Mother. My Lillian! thou Surely in thy bright life hast little known Of lost things or of changed!

Lilian. Oh! little yet, For thou hast been my shield! But had it been My lot on this world's billows to be thrown Without thy love—O mother! there are hearts So perilously fashioned, that for them God's touch alone hath gentleness enough To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!— We will not speak of this! By what strange spell Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers,

I dream of music? Something in their hues All melting into colour'd harmonies, Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords, Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die In tenderest falls away.—O, bring thy harp, Sister! a gentle heaviness at last Hath touch'd mine eyelids: sing to me, and sleep Will come again.

Jessy. What wouldst thou hear? Th' Italian Peasant's Lay, Which makes the desolate Campagna ring With "Roma, Roma?" or the Madrigal Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily? Or the old ditty left by Troubadours To girls of Languedoc?

Lilian. Oh, no! not these.

Jessy. What then? the Moorish melody still known Within th' Alhambra city? or those notes Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile's heart

Even unto death?

Lilian. No, sister, nor yet these.— Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret, Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes In the caressing sweetness of their tones, For one who dies:—They would but woo me back To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds— And vainly, vainly—No! a loftier strain, A deeper music!—Something that may bear The spirit up on slow yet mighty wings, Unsway'd by gusts of earth: something, all fill'd With solemn adoration, tearful prayer.— Sing me that antique strain which once I deem'd Almost too sternly simple, too austere In its grave majesty! I love it now— Now it seems fraught with holiest power, to hush All billows of the soul, e'en like His voice That said of old—"Be still!"—Sing me that strain— "The Saviour's dying hour."

[Jessy sings to the Harp.

O Son of Man! In thy last mortal hour Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully! All that on us is laid, All the deep gloom, The desolation and th' abandonment, The dark amaze of death; All upon thee too fell, Redeemer! Son of Man!

But the keen pang Wherewith the silver cord Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung; Th' uptearing of those tendrils which have grown Into the quick strong heart; This, this, the passion and the agony Of battling love and death,

Surely was not for thee, Holy one! Son of God!

Yes, my Redeemer! E’en this cup was thine! Fond wailing voices call'd thy spirit back: E’en 'midst the mighty thoughts Of that last crowning hour; E'en on thine awful way to victory, Wildly they call'd thee back! And weeping eyes of love Unto thy heart's deep core, Pierc'd thro' the folds of death's mysterious veil— Sufferer! thou Son of Man!

Mother-tears were mingled With thy costly blood-drops, In the shadow of th' atoning cross; And the friend, the faithful, He that on thy bosom,

Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain— He, a pale sad watcher— Met with looks of anguish, All the anguish in thy last meek glance— Dying Son of Man!

Oh! therefore unto thee, Thou that hast known all woes Bound in the girdle of mortality! Thou that wilt lift the reed Which storms have bruis'd, To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry, And, in that tempest-hour when love and life Mysteriously must part, When tearful eyes Are passionately bent To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gaze— Then, then forsake us not! Shed on our spirits then The faith and deep submissiveness of thine!

Thou that didst love, Thou that didst weep and die— Thou that didst rise, a victor glorified! Conqueror! thou Son of God!

Cathedral Hymn

CATHEDRAL HYMN.

"They dreamt not of a perishable home Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here." Wordsworth.

A dim and mighty minster of old time! A temple shadowy with remembrances Of the majestic past!—the very light Streams with a colouring of heroic days In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back To other years;—and the rich fretted roof, And the wrought coronals of summer leaves,

Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose— The tenderest image of mortality— Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts Cluster like stems in corn sheaves—all these things Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly, On their heart's worship poured a wealth of love! Honour he with the dead!—The people kneel Under the helms of antique chivalry, And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, And midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved, Of warriors on their tombs.—The people kneel Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewelled crowns On the flushed brows of conquerors have been set; Where the high anthems of old victories Have made the dust give echoes.—Hence, vain thoughts! Memories of power and pride, which, long ago, Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk In twilight depths away.—Return, my soul!