Where, glowing with the sight
Of that eternal Light,
The companies of Saints in rapture dwell:
The Majesty Supreme they view,
Throned each in rank and order of precedence due.
The Essential Unity
And Sacred Trinity
In glory everlasting they adore;
Whereto, when death is past,
God bring our souls at last
To worship Him with Angels evermore;
For in Him All His Saints rejoice,
And we with all redeemed raise our triumphant voice.
EVENING HYMN TO THE GOOD SHEPHERD.
WHEN the shades of night are falling,
Let me hear Thee, Shepherd Good;
Let me hear Thee gently calling,
Thee, Who when I oft withstood,
Called again, again entreated,
Told the story oft repeated.
Long I wandered, sad and weary,
Ever seeking self and ease:
But the self-shaped path grew dreary,
For I had not Thee to please:
Thee to follow, Thee for Master,
While the shades of sin fell faster.
Now the stars their light are shedding
Over hamlet, hill, and wold;
Now the chill night-airs are spreading,
Shepherd, call Thy sheep to Fold:
In Thy bosom gently bearing
Weak and faint with tender caring.
As to wand'ring, let me never
Such a guilty heart-thought hide;
But within Thy Fold, for ever
Tended by Thy love, abide:
Thou, Thy sheep fresh pastures showing,
I, the Shepherd's accents knowing.
'Say, Good Shepherd, wilt Thou lead me
Through the dark and storm and night:
To the fields where Thou wilt feed me,
To the happy Fold of Light?'
'Yes!' I hear Thy Voice replying,
Voice of Love, divine, undying!
FOUNDED ON A STORY IN THE BOOK OF MACCABEES.
SHE knelt beside her father's feet,
That Hebrew child with grave dark eyes;
She heard him read the story sweet
Of Abram's willing sacrifice.
The vine-leaves, curled by breeze of eve,
Like her young bosom did not heave ;
The clouds, by sunset's crimson dyed,
Were pale and cold her cheek beside.
She heard of how the patriarch-sire
To Mount Moriah his child conveyed,
How rose the turf-built altar's pyre,
And how thereon the boy was laid.
The listener's eager breath she held,
From out her eyes sad tear-drops welled,
But when she heard of Isaac saved,
In showers of joy her cheeks were laved.
'His child our father Abram gave;'
So spake she, soft, with reverent voice;
'Ah! would the Lord a gift would crave,
That I might shew my willing choice!'
Then laid his hand the father old
Amidst her 'tresses manifold;'
'Nay, give thy heart,' his voice replied,
"The lamb will God Himself provide.'
Years passed; and now,
within a grave Where cedar boughs deep shadows threw,
She stood, a maiden full of love
To all the breath of life that drew.
She gathered lilies gold and white,
With myrtles green and roses bright,
And wove them into chains, to deck
A yearling lamb's unspotted neck.
She gave-nor gave without a sigh-
The firstling from her father's fold,
Which wont within her arms to lie,
In summer's heat and winter's cold.
But when she saw the priestly knife
Destroy her darling's blameless life,
She fixed on Heaven her tearful eyes
For joy to yield her sacrifice.
How could she grudge her playmate fair?
"Twas all her hand could give the Lord,
Whilst Abram gave the blessing's heir,
Nor marred the gift with faltering word.
And firm and sure her simple creed
Stood fixed on Abram's promised Seed;
Since He His blood for her would pour,
How could she grudge Him all her store?
Full many a year hath passed and sped:
How changed was now that maiden's face!
Yet, though the charms of youth were fled,
She wore a matron's holiest grace.
To cheer that matron's loving breast,
With seven brave sons her lot was blest;
All strong to wield the patriot brand,
And fight for God and Israel's land.
There comes a change o'er Judah's realm;
Her sun hath sunk in clouds of night,
Her banner proud rude hands o'erwhelm
Beneath a pagan's lawless might.
In captive thrall that mother stands,
Her sons are bound with hostile bands,
Whilst all their shame with rapture sees
Their tyrant lord, 'Epiphanes.'
But see! with fair dissembling brow
He bids them share his banquet sweet;
To idol-gods they will not bow,
Nor taste the king's polluted meat.
They stood, that calm undaunted seven,
With eyes that sought the aid of Heaven;
Their saintly mother, standing by,
Shed o'er the place a sanctity.
The tyrant's brows are stern and
The tyrant's lips are deadly pale,
A muttered curse they hear him say,
At which the stoutest heart might quail.
Yet still that calm unwavering hand
Can all unmoved before him stand;
They dread alone their mother's grief,
They crave alone for tortures brief.
For tortures brief! It may not be,
A common fate their judge denies,
But one by one the brethren see
How each by turns in anguish dies.-
The mother stood with eyes upraised,
Her parted lips Jehovah paised;
No liquid pearls bedropped her eyes,
She joyed to yield her sacrifice!
She saw fulfilled her father's words,
'The lamb will God Himself provide ;'
In torturing fires and flashing swords,
She saw her dear ones glorified;
But lo! they bind her last-born fair,
With full proud lips and rich dark hair;
Ah! will not God provide a ram,
To save her last, her cherished lamb?
The tyrant bids her venture near,
He speaks of hope and rescue nigh;
For that brave boy she need not fear,
No death of shame her son shall die-
If but her lips, with counsel sage,
Will bid him shun the monarch's rage;
If he but own that monarch's creed,
She shall not see her last one bleed.
There stole a light about her face,
As if her soul conversed with Heaven;
She gave a long and close embrace,
To him, the last of all her seven.
She gave the king a piercing look,
She did not shun his wrath to brook;
She said, 'My son shall hear and live,
For counsel sage my lips will give.'
Yet once again she clasped her son,
She made his lips her forehead press;
And then, her mortal weakness gone,
She rose like some tall prophetess.
She spoke in words too grand and strong,
To blend with lisping feeble song;
She bade him scorn the gods of gold,
And cleave to Israel's faith of old.
And on him still she bends her eye,
While he too shares the martyr's doom;
But when she hears his parting sigh,
Glad thankful smiles her lips illume.
But, oh! the raptured looks she gave,
When bidden to share his martyr-grave;
Full soon her mortal pangs were o'er-
Though cold the stream, yet bright the shore.
For she could see, in shadows dim,
In mystic types a Form portrayed;
The faint and bleeding Form of Him,
On Whom alone our sins were laid.
Oh, shame to us, who count it loss
To bear for Him our daily cross;
When we can read, with opened eyes,
The tale of His dear Sacrifice!
MUSINGS OVER THE CHRISTIAN YEAR
AND LYRA INNOCENTIUM.
To unwind all the harmony of the poems in the Christian Year and Lyra Innocentium, to explain all their difficulties, would be to penetrate into the deepest thoughts of a saint, a poet, a scholar, and a pastor, when stirred by the strongest feelings both of Christian and of man. This, therefore, the ensuing papers do not presume to attempt; but it is possible that there may be a few difficulties in arrangement and allusion that these humble annotations may diminish: and we will therefore try to follow the Sunday poems through one year, leaving the Saints' Days for another.
It is curious to contrast the two poems of this day-the bright terse simplicity and hopefulness of the old man's verse, with the stern trumpet call of the youthful warrior, girding on his armour for the great battle of thirty years.
|