THE young ones gathered in from hill and dale,
With holiday delight on every brow:
'Tis passed away; far other thoughts prevail;
For they are taking the baptismal Vow,
Upon their conscious selves; their own lips speak
The solemn promise. Strongest sinews fail,
And many a blooming, many a lovely cheek
Under the holy fear of God turns pale,
While on each head His lawn-robed Servant lays
An apostolic hand, and with prayer seals
The Covenant. The Omnipotent will raise
Their feeble souls; and bear with his regrets,
Who, looking round the fair assemblage, feels
That ere the Sun goes down their childhood sets.
I saw a Mother's eye intensely bent
Upon a Maiden trembling as she knelt;
In and for whom the pious Mother felt
Things that we judge of by a light too faint:
Tell, if ye may, some star-crowned Muse, or Saint!
Tell what rushed in, from what she was relieved—
Then-when her Child the hallowing touch received,
And such vibration to the Mother went
That tears burst forth amain. Did gleams appear?
Opened a vision of that blissful place
Where dwells a sister-child? And was power given
Part of her lost One's glory back to trace
Even to this rite? For thus she knelt, and, ere
The summer-leaf had faded, passed to Heaven.
ON THE SPOT WHERE A CHURCH WAS TO BE ERECTED.
BE this the chosen site;-the virgin sod,
Moistened from age to age by dewy eve,
Shall disappear and grateful earth receive
The corner-stone from hands that build to God.
Yon reverend hawthorns, hardened to the rod
Of winter storms, yet budding cheerfully;
Those forest oaks of Druid memory,
Shall long survive, to shelter the Abode
Of genuine Faith. Where, haply, 'mid this band
Of daisies, shepherds sat of yore and wove
May-garlands, let the holy Altar stand
For kneeling adoration; while—above,
Broods, visibly portrayed, the mystic Dove,
That shall from Blasphemy protect the Land.
OPEN your Gates, ye everlasting Piles!
Types of the Spiritual Church which God hath reared;
Not loath we quit the newly-hallowed sward
And humble altar, 'mid your sumptuous aisles
To kneel-or thrid your intricate defiles—
Or down the nave to pace in motion slow;
Watching with upward eye, the tall tower grow
And mount, at every step, with living wiles
Instinct to rouse the heart and lead the will
By a bright ladder to the world above.
Open your gates, ye monuments of love
Divine! thou, Lincoln, on thy sovereign hill !
Thou, stately York! and ye, whose splendours cheer
Isis and Cam, to patient science dear!
ON THE SABBATH DAY.-COMPOSED DURING HER LAST
How many blessèd groups this hour are bending
Through England's primrose paths their way
Toward spire, and tower, 'midst shadowy elms ascending,
Whence the sweet chimes proclaim the hallowed day.
The Halls, from old heroic ages grey,
Pour their fair children forth; and hamlet low,
With whose thick orchard blooms the soft winds play,
Send out their inmates in a happy flow,
Like a freed vernal stream. I may not tread
With them those pathways,—to the feverish bed
Of sickness bound;-yet, oh, my God! I bless
Thy mercy, that with Sabbath peace hath filled
My chastened heart, and all its throbbings stilled
To one deep calm of lowliest thankfulness.
THE palm, the vine,—the cedar,-each hath power
To bid fair oriental shapes glance by,
And each quick glistening of the laurel bower
Wafts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye:
But thou, pale Olive! in thy branches lie
Far deeper spells than prophet-grove of old
Might e'er enshrine:-I could not hear thee sigh
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold
One shiver of thy leaves' dim silvery green, Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene When, in the Garden, the Redeemer prayedWhen pale stars looked upon His fainting head, And angels ministering in silent dread
Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade.
THE REUNION OF FRIENDS IN HEAVEN.
THERE is a void in torn affection's heart
Which yearns to be supplied; on God's high will
Though it repose submissively, yet still
Of those who bore in its regards a part
The cherished forms it holds, as in a chart
Depicted, hoping He may yet fulfil
Their restitution. Pardon it, if ill
Lurk in that hope, good Father! True Thou art,-
Thou sayest the just shall bliss in fulness prove,
And what Thou sayest, Thy bounty will provide :
And yet, meseems, the blissful souls above,
The sense of earth's sweet charities denied,
Might feel a craving in those realms of love,
By angel hosts and patriarchs unsupplied.
On the dark trees the glaneing moonlight lies;
A cross is gleaming in the silver calm,
Shedding o'er hearts found meet a holier balm ;
Night's viewless piper in the casement plies
His busy task, into wild melodies
Moulding the air, now like the whispering palm,
Moved by the wind, now mounting to a Psalm
Of solemn and strange sound, the music dies.
And thou that holy Cross shalt see again,
And hear those melodies made through the ears
Of silence. What is this that makes me sad?
My Brother, thoughts of thee should make me glad,
Not sorrowful.-I know not how-but when
I think of thee my eye is wet with tears.
|