Ex Libris C. K. OGDEN y n ^^ RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH, D.D. ARCHBISHOP OF DUBLIN COLLECTED AND ARRANGED ANEW tmb Cambribgc MACMILLAN AND CO. 1865 LONDON PRINTED BV SPOTTISWOODE AND CO. NEW-STREET SQUARE CONTENTS. PAGE The Story of Justin Martyr i The Monk and Bird n To a Child Playing 18 A Walk in a Churchyard ....... 19 To , on the day of her Baptism n To my Godchild, on the day of his Baptism .... 23 To an Infant Sleeping 25 To a Friend, entering the Ministry 26 Anti-Gnosticus 28 Love 31 'Rejoice evermore* 34 Sonnet "... 36 Sonnet 36 Sonnet 37 Sonnet 37 Sonnet 38 Sonnet 38 The Herring-fishers of Lochfyne 39 In the Isle of Mull 39 The same 40 At Sea 40 An Evening in France 41 The Descent of the Rhone 44 Lines written at the Village of Passignano, on the Lake of Thrasymene 5 vi Contents. PAGE To England. Written after a visit to Sorrento . . .51 Sorrento 52 Vesuvius, as seen from Capri 53 Vesuvius 53 The same continued 54 On the Perseus and Medusa of Benvenuto Cellini, at Florence 54 Lines written after hearing some beautiful singing in a Con- vent Church at Rome 55 A Visit to Tusculum 57 Gibraltar 59 On a Picture at Madrid, by Murttlo 60 A Legend of Alhambra 61 Sonnet 63 Recollections of Burgos 64 A Legend of Toledo 65 An Incident versified 67 Sonnet 68 On leaving Rome 69 Sonnet 72 Lines suggested by a Picture of the Adoration of the Magians 73 To Silvio Pellico, on reading the Story of his Imprisonment . 76 To the Same 76 Tasso's Dungeon, Ferrara 77 To England. In the Tyrol 77 At Brunecken, in the Tyrol 78 To the Tyrolese 78 A Recollection of the Tyrol 79 Sonnet. In a Pass of Bavaria 79 On a Lady Singing 80 Lines 82 Sonnet 83 Sonnet 83 Sonnet, connected with the foregoing 84 Contents. vii PAGE England 84 The Island of Madeira . . . . . .85 Poland, 1831 85 To Nicholas, Emperor of Russia, on his reported conduct to- wards the Poles . . . . 86 France, 1834 . . . . . . ... .86 Ode to Sleep 87 Sonnet 89 Atlantis 90 Sonnet . . . 92 To a Friend 93 The Constitutional Exiles of i&Y$ 94 To the Same 94 Despondency 95 Sais 96 The Healing of the Waters 97 Sonnet 97 The Kingdom of God 98 'Some murmur when their sky is clear ' . . ' . . -99 On an Early Death . 100 Sabbation 103 To the Evening Star , . 108 Honor Neale . . . . . . . . . . 109 A Century of Couplets 118 Sonnet \ . . 126 A Ballad . . . . . . . . . 127 Xerxes at the Hellespont 128 Before the Convent of Yuste, 1556 130 On a Yew Tree. In Hound Churchyard, Hants . . . 131 To a Robin Red-breast, singing in Winter .... 132 Retribution 133 Evening Hymn . . ' . ' 134 To I3S viii Contents. PAGE To the Same 135 To the Same 136 To the Same 136 To the Same .......... 137 To my Child 137 ' An open -wound which has been healed anew' 1 . . .138 New Year's Eve 138 On the Consecration of a New Churchyard .... 139 'Lord, wliat a change within us one short hour* . . -139 ' A garden so -well watered before morn ' 140 ' When hearts are full of yearning tenderness' , . . 140 ' If we with earnea effort could s ucceed ' 141 The Temptation . , . . . . . . .141 ' When we have failed to cJtasten and restrain' . . . 142 ' He might have built a palace at a word ' . . . .142 ' Ulysses, sailing by the Sirens' isle ' 143 ' Were the sad tablets of our hearts alone' .... 143 'In the mid garden doth a fountain stand' .... 144 St. Chrysostom 144 ' Lord, wear y of a painful way' ...... 145 ' Weep not for broad lands lost' 145 ' 'This did not once so trouble me' 146 ' Lord, many times I am aweary quite' 147 ' If that in sight of God is great' 147 The Day of Death 148 The Law of Love 150 1 A genial -moment of t has given' 151 ' If 'there had anywhere appeared in space' . . . .151 ' Dust to Dust' 152 To a Friend 153 A Passage from St. Augustine 156 To Poetry . . 15? Genoveva 160 Contents. ix PAGE The Stedfast Prince 190 The Cross 213 Orpheus and the Sirens 214 Quatrains 220 ' Oh them of 'dark forebodings drear' 222 The Oil of Mercy 223 The Tree of Life 227 The Tree of Life 229 Paradise 231 The Holy Eucharist 233 The Prodigal . . . . . -*^l^ 2 34 Lines- written on the first tidings of the Cabul Massacres. January, 1842 235 Mooltan 237 The Lorey-Ley 240 Hymn to Ocean 241 Sunset ........... 242 Sonnet on the Review of the Volunteers in Hyde Park by the Queen, 1860 244 Sonnet. At the opening of the International Exhibition, Mayi, 1862 244 The Curse of Corn-hoarders 245 The Corregan 252 The Etrurian King 255 The Prize of Song 256 On the Marriage of the Prince of Wales^ March 10, 1863 . 258 POEMS FROM EASTERN SOURCES. Alexander at the Gates of Paradise 259 From the Persian a<>3 Chidher's Well 264 Life and Death 266 Love 269 x Contents. PAGE The Falcon 270 The Breaker of Idols . . 271 From the Persian ......... 273 The Banished Kings 275 Solomon 278 Ballads of Haroun A I Raschid : I. The Spilt Pearls 979 II. TJte Barmecides 281 in. The Festival 286 The Talents 290 TJte Eastern Narcissus 291 The Seasons : I. Winter .......... 292 II. Spring 293 III. Summer 294 iv. Autumn . 296 ' By Grecian annals it remained untold ' 297 Moses and Jethro 298 Ghazel 300 Proverbs. Turkish and Persian 301 Harmosan 304 Life through Death ......... 306 The World 308 The S^^ppliant .......... 309 The Monk and Sinner 311 ' What, thou askest, is the heaven, and the round earth and the sea?' 313 The Certainties of Faith 314 The Pantheist; or, The Origin of Evil 316 The Righteous of the World 318 Prayer 319 The Falcon's Reward 321 Contents. xi PAGE The Conversion of AbraJiam 324 The True Pilgrim 335 An Eastern Version of the Parable of the Talents . . 327 The Vaseof Honey 328 Eastern Moralities ......... 329 POEMS WRITTEN DURING THE RUSSIAN WAR, 1854, 1855. ' What though yet the spirit slumbers' 1 335 Alma 338 Sonnet * 339 After the Battle 340 Sonnet 342 Balaklava 343 ' Yes, let us own it in confession free ' 344 ' This, or on this' 345 Inkerman, Sunday, November the Fifth, 1854 . . . 346 The Unforgotten 348 On the Breaking off of the Conferences at Vienna, June, 1855 350 To 352 The Return of the Guards, July, 1856 352 ELEGIAC POEMS. To 355 ' What, many times I musing asked, is man' . . . 356 To M 357 ' No mother's eye beside thee wakes to-nighf .... 358 Moravian Hymn 359 ' What was thy life? a pearl cast up awhile' . . . 361 ' I cannot tell -what coming years' 1 362 ' This chest, a homely cabinet, although' .... 364 To 365 Hers was a mother's heart' 372 xii Contents. PAGE To 373 ' Yonder on that wall displayed ' 374 No more 377 ' Men will be light of 'heart and glad '' 377 ' O happy days, O months, O years ' 378 'That name! how of ten every day'' 378 To 379 ' Many times the morning laughs in light ' 380 ' Fair sight are ye, white doves, which refuge sure' . . 380 ' Half unbelieving doth my heart remain ' 381 Sonnet 382 ' Where thou hast touched, O wondrous Death ' 382 ' When its higher faith this heart denies' .... 383 ' Who that a watcher doth remain ' 384 ' If we our debt of holy glee' 385 The lent Jewels 386 ' O Life, O death, O world, O time' 1 387 From the Arabic 388 On the Death of an Infant 389 A Jewish Apologue 390 On Revisiting the Seine 391 ' This winter eve how soft ! how mild !' 392 To 393 ' O friend, it seems when first our lives begin ' . . . 394 THE STORY OF JUSTIN MARTYR. SEE JUSTIN MARTYR'S FIRST DIALOGUE WITH TRYPHO. Sj T T seems to me like yesterday, -L The morning when I took my way On that lone shore in solitude ; For in that miserable mood It was relief to quit the ken And the inquiring looks of men, The looks of love and gentleness, And pity, that would fain express Its only purpose was to know, That, knowing, it might soothe my woe : But when I felt that I was free From searching gaze, it was to me Like ending of a dreary task, Or putting off a cumbrous mask. I wandered forth upon the shore, Wishing this lie of life was o'er ; What was beyond I could not guess, I thought it might be quietness, And now I had no dream of bliss, No thought, no other hope but this, To be at rest ; for all that fed The dream of my proud youth had fled, B The Story of Justin Martyr. My dream of youth that I would be Happy and glorious, wise and free, In mine own right, and keep my state, And would repel the heavy weight, The load that crushed unto the ground The servile multitude around. The purpose of my life had failed, The heavenly heights I would have scaled Seemed more than ever out of sight, Further beyond my feeble flight. The beauty of the universe Was lying on me like a curse ; Only the lone surge at my feet Uttered a soothing murmur sweet, As every broken weary wave Sank gently to a quiet grave, Dying on the bosom of the sea : And death grew beautiful to me, Until it seemed a mother mild, And I like some too happy child A happy child, that tired with play, Through a long summer holiday, Runs to his mother's arms to weep His little weariness asleep. Rest rest all passion that once stirred My heart, had ended in one word My one desire to be at rest, To lay my head on any breast, Where there was hope that I might keep A dreamless and unbroken sleep ; And the lulled Ocean seemed to say, ' With me is quiet come away.' There was a tale which oft had stirred My bosom deeply : you have heard How that the treacherous sea-maid's art With song inveigles the lost heart The Story of Justin Martyr. Of some lone fisher, that has stood For days beside the glimmering flood ; And when has grown upon him there The mystery of earth and air, He cannot find with whom to part The burden lying at his heart ; So when the mermaid bids him come, And summons to her peaceful home, He hears he leaps into the wave, To find a home, and not a grave. It stirred me now ; and sweet seemed death ; The ceasing of this painful breath, The laying down this life of care, The breathing of a purer air Sweet seemed they all a richer thing Death, than whatever life could bring. Anon I said I would not die ; I loathed to live I feared to die So I went forward, till I stood Amid a marble solitude, A ruined town of ancient day. I rested where some steps away From other work of human hand Two solitary pillars stand, Two pillars on a mild hill-side, Like sea-marks of a shrunken tide : Their shafts were by the sea-breeze worn, Beneath them waved the verdant corn ; But a few paces from the crown Of that green summit, farther down, A fallen pillar on the plain, Slow sinking in the earth again, Bedding itself in dark black mould, Lay moveless, where it first had rolled. The Story of Justin Martyr. It once had been a pillar high, And pointing to the starry sky ; But now lay prostrate, its own weight Now serving but to fix its state, To sink it in its earthy bed. I gazed, and to myself I said, 'This pillar lying on the plain The hand of man might raise again, And set it as in former days ; But the falPn spirit who shall raise, What power on earth ? what power in heaven ? ' How quickly was an answer given Unto this voice of my despair ! But now I sat in silence there, I thought upon the vanished time, And my irrevocable prime, My baffled purpose, wasted years, My sin, my misery and my tears Fell thick and fast upon the sands ; I hid my face within my hands, For tears are strange that find their way Under the open eye of day, Under the broad and glorious sun, Full in the heavens, as mine have done, And as upon that day they did, Unnoticed, unrestrained, unchid. How long I might have let them flow Without a check, I do not know, But presently, while yet I kept That attitude of woe, and wept, A strange voice sounded in mine ears ' You cannot wash your heart with tears ! ' I quickly turned, and vexed to be Seen in my spirit's agony, In anger had almost replied. An aged man was at my side ; The Story of Justin Martyr. I think that since my life began, I never saw an older man Than he who stood beside me then, And with mild accents said again : ' You cannot cleanse your heart with tears, Though you should weep as many years As our great Father, when he sat Uncomforted on Ararat This would not help you, and the tear Which does not heal, will scald and sear. What is your sorrow ?' Until now I never had unveiled my woe Not that I shunned sweet sympathies, Man's words, or woman's pitying eyes ; But that I felt they were in vain, And could not help me ; for the pain, The wound which I was doomed to feel, Man gave not, and he could not heaL But in this old mans speech and tone Was something that allured me on ; I told him all I did not hide My sin, my sorrow, or my pride : I told him how, when I began First to verge upward to a man, These thoughts were mine to dwell alone, My spirit on its lordly throne, Hating the vain stir, fierce and loud, The din of the tumultuous crowd ; And how I thought to arm my soul, And stablish it in self-control ; And said I would obey the right, And would be strong in wisdom's might, And bow unto my own heart's law, And keep my heart from speck or flaw, The Story of Justin Martyr. That in its mirror I might find A reflex of the Eternal mind, A glass to give me back the truth And how before me from my youth A phantom ever on the wing, Appearing now, now vanishing, Had flitted, looking out from shrine, From painting, or from work divine Of poet's, or of sculptor's art ; And how I feared it might depart, That beauty which alone could shed Light on my life and then I said, I would beneath its shadow dwell, And would all lovely things compel, All that was beautiful or fair In art or nature, earth or air, To be as ministers to me, To keep me pure, to keep me free From worldly service, from the chain Of custom, and from earthly stain ; And how they kept me for awhile, And did my foolish heart beguile ; Yet all at last did faithless prove, And, late or soon, betrayed my love ; How they had failed me one by one, Till now, my youth yet scarcely done, The heart, which I had thought to steep In hues of beauty, and to keep Its consecrated home and fane, That heart was soiled with many a stain, Which from without and from within Had gathered there, till all was sin, Till now I only drew my breath, I lived but in the hope of death. While my last words were giving place To my heart's anguish, o'er his face Tlie Story of Jtistin Martyr. A shadow of displeasure past, But vanished then again as fast As the breeze-shadow from the brook ; And with soft words and pitying look He gently said ' Ah me, my son, A weary course your life has run ; And yet it need not be in vain, That you have suffered all this pain ; And if my years might make me bold To speak, methinks I could unfold Why in such efforts you could meet But only misery and defeat. Yet deem not of us as at strife, Because you set before your life A purpose and a loftier aim, Than the blind lives of men may claim For the most part or that you sought, By fixed resolve and solemn thought, To lift your being's calm estate Out of the range of time and fate. Glad am I that a thing unseen, A spiritual Presence, this has been Your worship, this your young heart stirred. But yet herein you proudly erred, Here may the source of woe be found, You thought to fling, yourself around, The atmosphere of light and love In which it was your joy to move ; You thought by efforts of your own To take at last each jarring tone Out of your life, till all should meet In one majestic music sweet ; And deemed that in our own heart's ground The root of good was to be found, And that by careful watering And earnest tendance we might bring TJie Story of Justin Martyr. The bud, the blossom, and the fruit To grow and nourish from that root. You deemed we needed nothing more Than skill and courage to explore Deep down enough in our own heart, To where the well-head lay apart, Which must the springs of being feed, And that these fountains did but need The soil that choked them moved away, To bubble in the open day. But, thanks to heaven, it is not so, That root a richer soil doth know Than our poor hearts could e'er supply, That stream is from a source more high From God it camte, to God returns, Not nourished from our scanty urns, But fed from his unfailing river, Which runs and will run on for ever.' When now he came to heavenly things, And spake of them, his spirit had wings, His words seemed not his own, but given. I could have deemed one spake from heaven Of hope and joy, of life and death, And immortality through faith, Of that great change commenced within, The blood that cleanses from all sin, That can. wash out the inward stain, And consecrate the heart again, The voice that clearer and more clear Speaks ever to the purged ear, The gracious influences given In a continued stream from heaven, The balm that can the soul's hurt heal, The Spirit's witness and its seal. TJie Story of Justin Martyr. I listened, for unto mine ear The word which I had longed to hear, Was come at last, the lifeful word Which I had often almost heard In some deep silence of my breast For with a sense of dim unrest That word unborn had often wrought, And struggled in the womb of thought, As from beneath the smothering earth The seed strives upward to a birth : And lo ! it now was born indeed ; Here was the answer to my need. But now we parted, never more To meet upon that lone sea-shore. We have not met on earth again, And scarcely shall ; there doth remain A time, a place where we shall meet, And have the stars beneath our feet. Since then I many times have sought Who this might be, and sometimes thought It must have been an angel sent To be a special instrument And minister of grace to me ; Or deemed again it might be he, Of whom some say he shall not die, Till he have seen with mortal eye The glory of his Lord again : But this is a weak thought and vain. We parted, each upon our way I homeward, where my glad course lay Beside those ruins where I sate On that same morning desolate, With scarcely strength enough to grieve : And now it was a marvellous eve ; io The Story of Justin Martyr. The waters at my feet were bright, And breaking into isles of light : The misty sunset did enfold A thousand floating motes of gold ; The red light seemed to penetrate Through the worn stone, and re-create The old, to glorify anew ; And steeping all things through and through A rich dissolving splendour poured Through rent and fissure, and restored The fall'n, the falling, and decayed, Filling the rifts which time had made, Till the rent masses seemed to meet, The pillar stand upon its feet, And tower and cornice, roof and stair Hung self-upheld in the magic air. Transfigured thus those temples stood Upon the margin of the flood, All glorious as they rose of yore ; There standing, as not ever more They could be harmed by touch of time, But still, as in that perfect prime, Must flourish unremoved and free, Or as they then appeared to me, A newer and more glorious birth, A city of that other earth, That Earth which is to be. The Monk and Bird. 1 1 THE MONK AND BIRD. / AS he who finds one flower sharp thorns among, Plucks it, and highly prizes, though before Careless regard on thousands he has flung, As fair as this or more ; Not otherwise perhaps this argument Won from me, where I found it, such regard, That I esteemed no labour thereon spent As wearisome or hard. In huge and antique volume did it lie, That by two solemn clasps was duly bound, As neither to be opened nor laid by But with due thought profound. There fixed thought to questions did I lend, Which hover on the bounds of mortal ken, And have perplexed, and will unto the end Perplex the brains of men ; Of what is time, and what eternity, Of all that seems and is not forms of things Till my tired spirit followed painfully On flagging weary wings ; So that I welcomed this one resting-place, Pleased as a bird, that, when its forces fail, Lights panting in the ocean's middle space Upon a sunny sail. 12 The Monk and Bird. And now the grace of fiction, which has power To render things impossible believed, And win them with the credence of an hour To be for truths received That grace must help me, as it only can, Winning such transient credence, while I tell What to a cloistered solitary man In distant times befell. Him little might our earthly grandeur feed, Who to the uttermost was vowed to be A follower of his Master's barest need In holy poverty. Nor might he know the gentle mutual strife Of home-affections, which can more or less Temper with sweet the bitter of our life, And lighten its distress. Yet we should err to deem that he was left To bear alone our being's lonely weight, Or that his soul was vacant and bereft Of pomp and inward state : Morn, when before the sun his orb unshrouds, Swift as a beacon torch the light has sped, Kindling the dusky summits of the clouds Each to a fiery red The slanted columns of the noon-day light, Let down into the bosom of the hills, Or sunset, that with golden vapour bright The purple mountains fills The Monk and Bird. 1 3 These made him say, If God has so arrayed A fading world that quickly passes by, Such rich provision of delight has made For every human eye, What shall the eyes that wait for him survey, Where his own presence gloriously appears In worlds that were not founded for a day, But for eternal years ? And if at seasons this world's undelight Oppressed him, or the hollow at its heart, One glance at those enduring mansions bright Made gloomier thoughts depart ; Till many times the sweetness of the thought Of an eternal country where it lies Removed from care and mortal anguish, brought Sweet tears into his eyes. Thus, not unsolaced, he longwhile abode, Filling all dreary melancholy time, And empty spaces of the heart with God, And with this hope sublime : Even thus he lived, with little joy or pain Drawn through the channels by which men receive- Most men receive the tilings which for the main Make them rejoice or grieve. But for delight, on spiritual gladness fed, And obvious to temptations of like kind ; One such, from out his very gladness bred, It was his lot to find. 14 The Monk and Bird. When first it came, he lightly put it by, But it returned again to him ere long, And ever having got some new ally, And every time more strong A little worm that gnawed the life away Of a tall plant, the canker of its root, Or like as when from some small speck decay Spreads o'er a beauteous fruit. For still the doubt came back, Can God provide For the large heart of man what shall not pall, Nor through eternal ages' endless tide On tired spirits fall ? Here but one look tow'rd heaven will oft repress The crushing weight of undelightful care ; But what were there beyond, if weariness Should ever enter there ? Yet do not sweetest things here soonest cloy ? Satiety the life of joy would kill, If sweet with bitter, pleasure with annoy Were not attempered still. This mood endured, till every act of love, Vigils of praise and prayer, and midnight choir, All shadows of the service done above, And which, while his desire, And while his hope was heavenward, he had loved. As helps to disengage him from the chain That fastens unto earth all these now proved Most burdensome and vain. The Monk and Bird. 15 What must have been the issue of that mood It were a thing to fear but that one day, Upon the limits of an ancient wood, His thoughts him led astray. Darkling he went, nor once applied his ear, (On a loud sea of agitations thrown,) Nature's low tones and harmonies to hear, Heard by the calm alone. The merry chirrup of the grasshopper, Sporting among the roots of withered grass, The dry leaf rustling to the wind's light stir, Did each unnoted pass : He, walking in a trance of selfish care, Not once observed the beauty shed around, The blue above, the music in the air, The flowers upon the ground : Till from the centre of that forest dim Came to him such sweet singing of a bird, As, sweet in very truth, then seemed to him The sweetest ever heard. That lodestar drew him onward inward still, Deeper than where the village children stray, Deeper than where the woodman's glittering bill Lops the large boughs away Into a central space of glimmering shade, Where hardly might the straggling sunbeams pass, Which a faint lattice-work of light had made Upon the long lank grass. 1 6 The Monk and Bird. He did not sit, but stood and listened there, And to him listening the time seemed not long, While that sweet bird above him filled the air With its melodious song. He heard not, saw not, felt not aught beside, Through the wide worlds of pleasure and of pain, Save the full flowing and the ample tide Of that celestial strain. As though a bird of Paradise should light A moment on a twig of this bleak earth, And singing songs of Paradise invite All hearts to holy mirth, And then take wing to Paradise again, Leaving all listening spirits raised above The toil of earth, the trouble, and the pain, And melted all in love : Such hidden might, such power was in the sound ; But when it ceased sweet music to unlock, The spell that held him sense and spirit-bound Dissolved with a slight shock. All things around were as they were before The trees, and the blue sky, and sunshine bright, Painting the pale and leafstrewn forest-floor With patches of faint light. But as when music doth no longer thrill, Light shudderings yet along the chords will run, Or the heart vibrates tremulously still, After its prayer be done, The Monk and Bird. 1 7 So his heart fluttered all the way he went, Listening each moment for the vesper bell ; For a long hour he deemed he must have spent In that untrodden dell. And once it seemed that something new or strange Had past upon the flowers, the trees, the ground ; Some slight but unintelligible change On eveiything around : Such change, where all things undisturbed remain, As only to the eye of him appears, Who absent long, at length returns again The silent work of years. And ever grew upon him more and more Fresh marvel for, unrecognized of all, He stood a stranger at the convent door : New faces filled the hall. Yet was it long ere he received the whole Of that strange wonder how, while he had stood Lost in deep gladness of his inmost soul, Far hidden in that wood, Three generations had gone down unseen Under the thin partition that is spread The thin partition of thin earth between The living and the dead. Nor did he many days to earth belong, For like a pent-up stream, released again, The years arrested by the strength of song Came down on him amain ; C 1 8 The Monk and Bird. Sudden as a dissolving thaw in spring ; Gentle as when upon the first warm day, Which sunny April in its train may bring, The snow melts all away. They placed him in his former cell, and there Watched him departing ; what few words he said Were of calm peace and gladness, with one care Mingled one only dread Lest an eternity should not suffice To take the measure and the breadth and height Of what there is reserved in Paradise- Its ever-new delight. TO A CHILD PL A YING. DEAR boy, thy momentary laughter rings Sincerely out, and that spontaneous glee, Seeming to need no hint from outward things, Breaks forth in sudden shoutings, loud and free. From what hid fountains doth thy joyance flow, That borrows nothing from the world around ? Its springs must deeper lie than we can know, A well whose springs lie safely underground. So be it ever and, thou happy boy, When time, that takes these wild delights away, Gives thee a measure of sedater joy, Which, unlike this, shall ever with thee stay ; To a Child Playing. 19 Then may that joy, like this, to outward things Owe nothing, but lie safe beneath the sod. A hidden fountain fed from unseen springs, From the glad-making river of our God. A WALK IN A CHURCHYARD. WE walked within the Churchyard bounds, My little boy and I He laughing, running happy rounds, I pacing mournfully ' Nay, child ! it is not well,' I said, ' Among the graves to shout, To laugh and play among the dead, And make this noisy rout.' A moment to my side he clung, Leaving his merry play, A moment stilled his joyous tongue, Almost as hushed as they ; Then, quite forgetting the command In life's exulting burst Of early glee, let go my hand, Joyous as at the first. And now I did not check him more, For, taught by Nature's face, I had grown wiser than before Even in that moment's space : 2O A Walk in a Churchyard. She spread no funeral pall above That patch of churchyard ground, But the same azure vault of love As hung o'er all around. And white clouds o'er that spot would pass, As freely as elsewhere ; The sunshine on no other grass A richer hue might wear. And formed from out that very mould In which the dead did lie, The daisy with its eye of gold Looked up into the sky. The rook was wheeling overhead, Nor hastened to be gone The small bird did its glad notes shed, Perched on a grey head-stone. And God, I said, would never give This light upon the earth, Nor bid in childhood's heart to live These springs of gushing mirth, If our one wisdom were to mourn, And linger with the dead, To nurse, as wisest, thoughts forlorn Of worm and earthy bed. Oh no, the glory earth puts on, The child's unchecked delight, Both witness to a triumph won (If we but read aright,) A Walk in a Churchyard. 2 1 A triumph won o'er sin and death, From these the Saviour saves ; And, like a happy infant, Faith Can play among the graves. TO , ON THE DAY OF HER BAPTISM. ^ I ^HIS will we name thy better birth-day, child J- Oh born already to a sin-worn world, But now unto a kingdom undefiled, Where over thee love's banner is unfurled. Lo ! on the morning of this holy day I lay aside the weight of human fears, Which I had for thee, and without dismay Look through the avenue of coming years : I see thee passing without mortal harm Through ranks of foes against thy safety met ; I see thee passing, thy defence and charm, The seal of God upon thy forehead set. From this time forth thou often shalt hear say Of what immortal City thou wert given The rights and full immunities to-day, And of the hope laid up for thee in heaven : From this time forward thou shalt not believe That thou art earthly, or" that aught of earth Or aught that hell can threaten, shall receive Power on the children of the second birth. 22 To , on her Baptism. Oh risen out of death into the day Of an immortal life, we bid thee hail, And will not kiss the waterdrops away, The dew that rests upon thy forehead pale. And if the seed of better life lie long, As in a wintry hiddenness and death, Then calling back this day, we will be strong To wait in hope for heaven's reviving breath ; To water, if there should be such sad need, The undiscerned germ with sorrowing tears, To wait until from that undying seed Out of the earth a heavenly plant appears ; The growth and produce of a fairer land, And thence transplanted to a barren soil, It needs the tendance of a careful hand, Of love, that is not weary with long toil : And thou, dear child, whose very helplessness Is as a bond upon us and a claim, Mayest thou have this of us, as we no less Have daily from our Father known the same. To my Godcldld. 23 TO MY GODCHILD, ON THE DAY OF HIS BAPTISM. NO harsh transitions Nature knows, No dreary spaces intervene ; Her work in silence forward goes, And rather felt than seen : For where the watcher, who with eye Turned eastward, yet could ever say When the faint glooming in the sky First lightened into day ? Or maiden, by an opening flower That many a summer morn has stood, Could fix upon the very hour It ceased to be a bud ? The rainbow colours mix and blend Each with the other, until none Can tell where fainter hues had end, And deeper tints begun. But only doth this much appear That the pale hues are deeper grown ; The day has broken bright and clear ; The bud is fully blown. Dear child, and happy shalt thou be, If from this hour with just increase All good things shall grow up in thee, By such unmarked degrees : 24 To my Godchild. If there shall be no dreary space Between thy present self and past, No dreary miserable place With spectral shapes aghast ; But the full graces of thy prime Shall, in their weak beginnings, be Lost in an unremembered time Of holy infancy. This blessing is the first and best ; Yet has not prayer been made in vain For them, though not so amply blest, The lost and found again. And shouldest thou, alas ! forbear To choose the better, nobler lot, Yet may we not esteem our prayer Unheard or heeded not ; If after many a wandering, And many a devious pathway trod, If having known that bitter thing, To leave the Lord thy God ; It yet shall be, that thou at last, Although thy noon be lost, return To bind life's eve in union fast With this, its blessed morn. To an Infant Sleeping. 25 TO AN INFANT SLEETING. OH drinking deep of slumber's holy wine, [be ? Whence may the smile that lights thy countenance We seek in vain the mystery to divine ; For in thy dim unconscious infancy No games as yet, no playfellows are thine, To stir in waking hours such thoughts of glee, As, recollected in thine innocent dream, Might shed across thy face this happy gleam. It may be, though small notice thou canst take, Thou feelest that an atmosphere of love Is ever round thee, sleeping or awake : Thou wakest, and kind faces from above Bend o'er thee ; when thou sleepest, for thy sake All sounds are hushed, and each doth gently move : And this dim consciousness of tender care Has caused thy cheek this light of joy to wear. Or it may be, thoughts deeper than we deem Visit an infant's slumbers : God is near, Angels are talking with them in their dream, Angelic voices whispering sweet and clear : And round them lies that region's holy gleam, But newly left, and light which is not here ; And thus has come that smile upon thy face, At tidings brought thee from thy native place. But whatso'er the causes which beguiled That dimple on thy countenance, it is gone ; Fair is the lake disturbed by ripple mild, But not less fair when ripple it has none : 26 To an Infant Sleeping. And now what deep repose is thine, dear child, What smoothness thy unruffled cheek has won ! Oh ! who that gazed upon thee could forbear The silent breathing of an heart-felt prayer ! TO A FRIEND, ENTERING THE MINISTRY. HIGH thoughts at first, and visions high Are ours of easy victory ; The word we bear seems so divine, So framed for Adam's guilty line, That none, unto ourselves we say, Of all his sinning suffering race Will hear that word, so full of grace, And coldly turn away. But soon a sadder mood comes round ; High hopes have fallen to the ground, And the ambassadors of peace Go weeping, that men will not cease To strive with heaven they inly mourn, That suffering men will not be blest, That weary men refuse to rest, And wanderers to return. Well is it, if has not ensued Another, yet unworthier, mood, When all unfaithful thoughts have way, When we hang down our hands, and say, ' Alas ! ' it is a weary pain To seek with toil and fruitless strife To chafe the numbed limbs into life, That will not live again.' To a Friend. 27 Then if spring odours on the wind Float by, they bring into our mind That it were wiser done, to give Our hearts to nature, and to live For her ; or in the student's bower To search into her hidden things, And seek in books the wondrous springs Of knowledge and of power. Or if we dare not thus draw back, Yet oh ! to shun the crowded track And the rude throng of men ! to dwell In hermitage or lonely cell, Feeding all longings that aspire Like incense heavenward, and with care And lonely vigil nursing there Faith's solitary pyre. Oh ! let not us this thought allow The heat, the dust upon our brow, Signs of the contest, we may wear : Yet thus we shall appear more fair In our Almighty Master's eye, Than if in fear to lose the bloom, Or ruffle the soul's lightest plume, We from the strife should fly. And for the rest, in weariness, In disappointment, or distress, When strength decays, or hope grows dim, We ever may recur to Him, Who has the golden oil divine, Wherewith to feed our failing urns, Who watches every lamp that burns Before his sacred shrine. 28 A nti- Gnosticus, ANTI-GNOSTICUS. WHO, loving leisure and his studious ease, And books, and what of noblest lore they bring, Will not confess that sometimes, called aside To humbler work and less delightful tasks, He has been tempted to exclaim in heart ' How pleasant were it might we only dwell, And ever hold sweet converse undisturbed Thus with the choicest spirits of the world In council, and in letters, and in arms. Easy to live with, always at command, They come at bidding, at our word depart, Friends whose society not ever cloys. Glorious it were by intercourse with these To learn whatever men have thought or done, And travel the great orb of knowledge round. But oh ! how most unwelcome the constraint, How harsh the summons bidding us to pause, And for a season turn from our high toils, From that serener atmosphere come down, And grow perforce acquainted with the woe, The strife, the discord of the actual world, And all the ignoble work beneath the sun.' These were my thoughts and words the other day, And such they oftentimes have been before, When I have turned reluctantly, and left The pleasant labours I had found at home, For ruder and less grateful tasks abroad, Which duty would not suffer to put by. But other feelings occupied my heart, And other words found utterance from my lips, Anti-Gnosticus. 29 When that day's work was finished, and my feet Again turned homeward alteration strange Of feeling, with a better, humbler, mind. For I was thankful now, and not alone That I had been brought under the blue sky, With winds of heaven to blow upon my cheeks, And flowers of earth to smile about my feet, And birds of air to sing within my ears Though that were something, something to exchange Continuous study in a lonely room For the sweet face of nature, sights and sounds Of earth and air, restoring influences Of power to cheer ; yet not for this alone, Nor for this chiefly, but that thus I was Compelled, as by a gentle violence, Not in the pages of dead books alone, Nor merely in the fair page nature shows, But in the living page of human life To look and learn not merely left to spin Fine webs and woofs around me like the worm, Till in mine own coil I had hid myself, And quite shut out the light of common day, And common air by which men breathe and live That being in a world of sin and woe, Of woe that might in some part be assuaged, Of sin that might be lessened in some part, Heaven in its mercy did not suffer me To live and dwell wholly apart from these ; Knowing no more of them than men who live At home in ease, by hearsay know of lands Which the bold pilgrim has with his own eyes Seen, with his own feet trod : and now I felt, It was brought home unto my heart of hearts, That doom is none more pitiable than his, Who has created a heart-solitude, Raised a partition wall to separate 3O A nti- Gnosticus, Between himself and any of his kind ; There was no doom more pitiable than his, Who at safe distance hears life's stormy waves, Which break for ever on a rugged shore, In which are shipwrecked mariners, for their lives Contending some, some momently sucked up, But as a gentle murmur afar off To soothe his sleep, and lull him in his dreams : Who, while he boasts he has been building up A palace for himself, in sooth has. reared What shall be first his prison, then his tomb. And now how different my request and prayer : Give me, I said, give me a heart that beats In all its pulses with the common heart Of humankind, which the same things make glad, The same make sorry ; give me grace enough Even in their first beginnings to detect Endeavours which the proud heart still is making To cut itself from off the common root, To set itself upon a private base, To have wherein to glory of its own, Beside the common glory of the kind ; Each such attempt in all its hateful pride And meanness, give me to detect and loathe. A man, and claiming fellowship with men. I said Oh ! lead me oftentimes to huts Where poor men lie, that I may learn the stuff Which life is made of, its true joys and griefs, What things are daily bringing grief or joy Unto the hearts of millions of my race. Oh ! lead me oft to huts where poor men lie, Not in the hope fantastical to find That Innocence, from palaces exiled, Has taken refuge under sordid roofs ; A nti- Gnosticus. 3 1 But knowing what of evil, what of good Is to be looked for there, and with firm faith, That for the eye made wise by charity, Much good will there as everywhere be found Patience by lengthened suffering not outworn, Promptness to aid in one another's needs, With self-denial, yea, heroic acts, The more heroic, as not knowing themselves For such at all, and there not seldom too Such thankfulness for small things, such content Under the absence of most earthly good, As might rebuke the pining discontent That haunts too often rich men's palaces. These schools of wisdom make me to frequent, That I may learn what is not learned elsewhere ; What is not to be learned by haunting long The shady spaces of philosophy ; Lore which even he will fail of, who beside The streams of heavenly wisdom evermore Is lingering, if he have no purpose there, Except to gather for his own delight The bright and beauteous flowers which there are found. LOVE. O EEMETH not Love at times so occupied O For thee, as though it cared for none beside ? To great and small things Love alike can reach, And cares for each as all, and all as each. Love of my bonds partook, that I might be In turn partaker of its liberty. 32 Love. Love found me in the wilderness, at cost Of painful quests, when I myself had lost. Love on its shoulders joyfully did lay Me, weary with the greatness of my way. Love lit the lamp and swept the house all round,, Till the lost money in the end was found. Love the King's image there would stamp again, Effaced in part, and soiled with rust and stain. 'Twas Love, whose quick and ever-watchful eye The wanderer's first step homeward did espy. From its own wardrobe Love gave word to bring What things I needed shoes, and robe, and ring. Love threatens that it may not strike, and still Unheeded, strikes, that so it may not kill. Love set me up on high ; when I grew vain Of that my height. Love brought me down again. Love often draws good for us from our ill, Skilful to bless us even against our will. The bond-servant of Love alone is free ; All other freedom is but slavery. How far above all price Love's costly wine, Which can the meanest chalice make divine ! Fear this effects, that I do not the ill, Love more that I thereunto have no will. Love. 33 Seeds burst not their dark cells without a throe ; All birth is effort ; shall not Love's be so ? Love weeps, but from its eyes these two things win The largest tears its own, its brother's sin. The sweetness of the trodden camomile Is Love's, which, injured, yields more sweets the while. The heart of Love is with a thousand woes Pierced, which secure indifference never knows. The rose aye wears the silent thorn at heart, And never yet might pain for Love depart. Once o'er this painful earth a man did move, The Man of griefs, because the Man of Love. Hope, Faith, and Love, at God's high altar shine. Lamp triple-branched, and fed with oil divine. Two of these triple-lights shall once grow pale, They burn without, but Love within the veil. Nothing is true but Love, nor aught of worth ; Love is the incense which doth sweeten earth. O merchant at heaven's mart for heavenly ware, Love is the only coin which passes there. The wine of Love can be obtained of none, Save Him who trod the winepress all alone. 34 ' Rejoice evermore' REJOICE EVERMORE? UT how shall we be glad ? We that are journeying through a vale of tears, Encompassed with a thousand woes and fears, How should we not be sad ? Angels, that ever stand Within the presence-chamber, and there raise The never-interrupted hymn of praise, May welcome this command : Or they whose strife is o'er, Who all their weary length of life have trod, As pillars now within the temple' of God, That shall go out no more. But we who wander here, We who are exiled in this gloomy place, Still doomed to water earth's unthankful face With many a bitter tear Bid us lament and mourn, Bid us that we go mourning all the day, And we will find it easy to obey, Of our best things forlorn ; But not that we be glad ; If it be true the mourners are the blest, Oh leave us in a world of sin, unrest, And trouble, to be sad. ' Rejoice evermore' 35 I spake, and thought to weep, For sin and sorrow, suffering and crime, That fill the world, all mine appointed time A settled grief to keep. When lo ! as day from night, As day from out the womb of night forlorn, So from that sorrow was that gladness born, Even in mine own despite. Yet was not that by this Excluded, at the coming of that joy Fled not that grief, nor did that grief destroy The newly-risen bliss : But side by side they flow, Two fountains flowing from one smitten heart, And ofttimes scarcely to be known apart That gladness and that woe ; Two fountains from one source, Or which from two such neighbouring sources run, That aye for him who shall unseal the one, The other flows perforce. And both are sweet and calm, Fair flowers upon the banks of either blow, Both fertilize the soil, and where they flow Shed round them holy balm. SONNET. OUR course is onward, onward into light : What though the darkness gathereth amain, Yet to return or tarry, both are vain. How tarry, when around us is thick night ? Whither return ? what flower yet ever might, In days of gloom and cold and stormy rain, Enclose itself in its green bud again, Hiding from wrath of tempest out of sight ? Courage we travel through a darksome cave ; But still as nearer to the light we draw, Fresh gales will reach us from the upper air, And wholesome dews of heaven our foreheads lave, The darkness lighten more, till full of awe We stand in the open sunshine unaware. SONNET. THOU cam'st not to thy place by accident, It is the very place God meant for thee ; And shouldst thou there small scope for action see, Do not for this give room to discontent ; Nor let the time thou owest to God be spent In idly dreaming how thou mightest be, In what concerns thy spiritual life, more free Frcm outward hindrance or impediment. For presently this hindrance thou shalt find That without which all goodness were a task So slight, that virtue never could grow strong : And wouldst thou do one duty to his mind, The Imposer's over-burdened thou shalt ask, And own thy need of grace to help, ere long. 37 SONNET. WHAT good soever in thy heart or mind Doth yet no higher source nor fountain own Than thine own self, nor bow to other throne, Suspect and fear ; although therein thou find High purpose to go forth and bless thy kind, Or in the awful temple of thy soul To worship what is loveliest, and control The ill within, and by strong laws to bind. Good is of God and none is therefore sure, Which has dared wander from its source away : Laws without sanction will not long endure, Love will grow faint and fainter day by day, And Beauty from the straight path will allure, And weakening first, will afterwards betray. SONNET. A WRETCHED thing it were, to have our heart ** Like a broad highway or a populous street, Where every idle thought has leave to meet, Pause, or pass on as in an open mart ; Or like some road-side pool, which no nice art Has guarded that the cattle may not beat And foul it with a multitude of feet, Till of the heavens it can give back no part. But keep thou thine a holy solitude, For He who would walk there, would walk alone ; He who would drink there, must be first endued With single right to call that stream his own ; Keep thou thine heart, close-fastened, unrevealed, A fenced garden and a fountain sealed. SONNET. WHAT is the greatness of a fallen king ? This that his fall avails not to abate His spirit to a level with his fate, Or inward fall along with it to bring ; That he disdains to stoop his former wing, But keeps in exile and in want the law Of kingship yet, and counts it scorn to draw Comfort indign from any meaner thing. Soul, that art fallen from thine ancient place, Mayest thou in this mean world find nothing great, Nor aught that shall the memories efface Of that true greatness which was once thine own, As knowing thou must keep thy kingly state, If thou wouldst reascend thy kingly throne. SONNET. TO feel that we are homeless exiles here, To listen to the world's discordant tone, As to a private discord of our own, To know that we are fallen from a sphere Of higher being, pure, serene, and clear, Into the darkness of this dim estate This thought may sometimes make us desolate, For this we may shed many a secret tear. But to mistake our dungeon for a throne, Our place of exile for our native land, To hear no discords in the universe, To find no matter over which to groan, This (oh ! that men would rightly understand!) This, seeming better, were indeed far worse. 39 THE HERRING-FISHERS OF LOCHFYNE. DEEM not these fishers idle, though by day You hear the snatches of their lazy song, And see them listlessly the sunlight long Strew the curved beach of this indented bay : So deemed I, till I viewed their trim array Of boats last night, a busy armament, With sails as dark as that Athenian bent Upon his fatal rigging, take their way. Rising betimes, I could not choose but look For their return ; and when along the lake The morning mists were curling, saw them make Homeward, returning toward their quiet nook, With draggled nets down hanging to the tide, Weary, and leaning o'er their vessels' side. IN THE ISLE OF MULL. r I A HE clouds are gathering in their western dome, J- Deep-drenched with sunlight, as a fleece with dew, While I with baffled effort still pursue And track these waters toward their mountain home, In vain though cataract, and mimic foam, And island-spots, round which the streamlet threw Its sister arms, which joyed to meet anew, Have lured me on, and won me still to roam ; Till riow, coy nymph, unseen thy waters pass, Or faintly struggle through the twinkling grass, And I, thy founts unvisited, return, is it that thou art revelling with thy peers ? Or dost thou feed a solitary urn, Else unreplenished, with thy own sad tears ? THE SAME. SWEET Water-nymph, more shy than Arethuse, Why wilt thou hide from me thy green retreat, Where duly thou with silver-sandalled feet, And every Naiad, her green locks profuse, Welcome with dance sad evening, or unloose, To share your revel, an oak-cinctured throng, Oread and Dryad, who the daylight long By rock, or cave, or antique forest, use To shun the wood-god and his rabble bold ? Such comes not now, or who with impious strife Would seek to untenant meadow, stream, and plain Of that indwelling power, which is the life And which sustaineth each ; which poets old As god and goddess thus have loved to feign. A T SEA. THE sea is like a mirror far and near, And ours a prosperous voyage, safe from harms ; Yet may the thought that everlasting arms Are round us and about us, be as dear Now when no sight of danger doth appear, As though our vessel did its blind way urge 'Mid the long weltering of the dreariest surge, Through which a perishing bark did ever steer Lord of the calm and tempest, be it ours, Poor mariners ! to pay due vows to Thee, Though not a cloud on all the horizon lowers Of all our life; for even this way shall we Have greater boldness toward Thee, when indeed The storm is up, and there is earnest need. An Evening in France. 41 AN EVENING IN FRANCE. ONE star is shining in the crimson eve, And the thin texture of the faint blue sky Above is like a veil intensely drawn ; Upon the spirit with a solemn weight The marvel and the mystery of eve Is lying, as all holy thoughts and calm, By the vain stir and tumult of the day Chased far away, come back on tranquil wing, Like doves returning to their noted haunts. It is the solemn even-tide the hour Of holy musings, and to us no less Of sweet refreshment for the bodily frame Than for the spirit, harassed both and worn With a long day of travel ; and methinks It must have been an evening such as this, After a day of toilsome journeyings o'er, When looking out on Tiber, as we now Look out on this fair river flowing by, Together sat the saintly Monica,* And with her, given unto her prayers, that son, The turbid stream of whose tumultuous youth Now first was running clear and bright and smooth ; And solitary sitting in the niche Of a deep window held delightful talk Such as they never could have known before, While a deep chasm, deeper than natural love Could e'er bridge over, lay betwixt their souls Of what must be the glorious life in heaven ; * See Augustine's Confessions, b. 9, c. 10. 42 A 11 Evening in France. And looking forth on meadow, stream, and sky, And on the golden west, that richest glow Of sunset to the uncreated light, Which must invest for ever those bright worlds, Seemed darkness, and the best that earth can give, Its noblest pleasures, they with one consent Counted as vile, nor once to be compared, Oh ! rather say not worthy to be named, With what is to be looked for there ; and thus Leaving behind them all things which are seen, By many a stately stair they did ascend Above the earth and all created things, The sun and starry heavens yea, and above The mind of man, until they did attain Where light no shadow has, and life no death, Where past or future are not, nor can be, But an eternal present, and the Lamb His people feeds from indeficient streams. Then pausing for a moment, to drink in That river of delights, at length they cried, Oh ! to be thus for ever, and to hear Thus in the silence of the lower world, And in the silence of all thoughts that keep Vain stir within, unutterable words, And with the splendour of his majesty, Whose seat is in the middle of the throne, Thus to be fed for ever this must be The beatific vision, the third heaven. What we have for these passing moments known, To know the same for ever this would be That life whereof even now we held debate : When will it be ? oh when ? These things they said, And for a season breathed immortal air, But then perforce returned to earth again, A n Evening in France. 43 To this inferior region, while the air Upon those highest summits is too fine For our long breathing, while we yet have on Our gross investiture of mortal weeds. Yet not for nothing had their spirits flown To those high regions, bringing back at once A reconcilement with the mean things here, And a more earnest longing for what there Of nobler was by partial glimpses thus Seen through the crannies of the prison house. And she, that mother such entire content Possessed her bosom, and her Lord had filled The orb of her desires so round and full, Had answered all her prayers for her lost son With such an overmeasure of his grace, She had no more to ask, and did not know Why she should tarry any longer here, Nor what she did on earth. Thus then she felt, And to these thoughts which overflowed her heart Gave thankful utterance meet ; nor many days After this vision and foretaste of joy, Inherited the substance of the things Which she had seen, and entered into peace. 44 The Descent of the Rhone. THE DESCENT OF THE RHONE. OFTEN when my thought has been Pondering on what sight once seen, Which of all the glorious shows Nature can at will disclose, Once beholden, would supply To the spirit's inward eye Most unfailing treasures, which Would the memory most enrich With its spectacles of power It has seemed no ampler dower Of her sights and solemn shows She to any would disclose Than to them, who night and day, An illimitable way, Should sail down some mighty river, Sailing as to sail for ever. Lo ! my wish is almost won, Broadly flows the stately Rhone ; And we loosen from the shore Our light pinnace, long before The young East in gorgeous state Has unlocked his ruby gate, And our voyage is not done At the sinking of the sun ; But for us the azure Night Feeds her golden flocks with light : All the changeful hues of heaven, Sights and sounds of morn and even, All unto our eyes are given. The Descent of the Rhone. 45 In our view the day is born ; First the stars of lustre shorn, Then o'er heaven faint bloom is spread, And the clouds blush deeper red, Till from them the stream below Catches the same roseate glow ; Lightens the pale east to gold, And the west is with the fold Of the mantle of dim night Scarcely darkened or less bright Till, his way prepared, at length Rising up in golden strength, Tramples the victorious sun The dying stars out, one by one, Fairer scene the opening eye Of the day can scarce descry Fairer sight he looks not on Than the pleasant banks of Rhone ; Where in terraces and ranks, On those undulating banks, Rise by many a hilly stair Sloping tiers of vines, where'er From the steep and stony soil Has been won by careful toil, And with long laborious pains Fenced'against the washing rains, Fenced and anxiously walled round, Some small patch of garden ground. Higher still some place of power, Or a solitary tower, Ruined now, is looking down On the quiet little town In a sheltered glen beneath, Where the smoke's unbroken wreath 46 The Descent of the Rhone. Mounting in the windless air, Rests, dissolving slowly there, O'er the housetops like a cloud, Or a thinnest vaporous shroud. Morn has been, and lo ! how soon Has arrived the middle noon, And the broad sun's rays do rest On some naked mountain's breast, Where alone relieve the eye Massive shadows, as they lie In the hollows motionless ; Still our boat doth onward press : Now a peaceful current wide Bears it on an ample tide, Now the hills retire, and then Their broad fronts advance again, Till the rocks have closed us round, And would seem our course to bound, But anon a path appears, And our vessel onward steers, Darting rapidly between Narrow walls of a ravine. Morn has been and noon and now Evening falls about our prow : 'Mid the clouds that kindling won Light and fire from him, the Sun For a moment's space was lying, Phoenix in his own flames dying ! And a sunken splendour still Burns behind the western hill ; Lo ! the starry troop again Gather on the ethereal plain ; Even now and there were none, And a moment since but one ; The Descent of the Rhone. 47 And anon we lift our head, And all heaven is overspread With a still assembling crowd, With a silent multitude Venus, first and brightest set In the night's pale coronet, Armed Orion's belted pride, And the Seven that by the side Of the Titan nightly weave Dances in the mystic eve, Sisters linked in love and light. 'T were in truth a solemn sight, Were we sailing now as they, Who upon their western way To the isles of spice and gold, Nightly watching, might behold These our constellations dip, And the great sign of the Ship Rise upon the other hand, With the Cross, still seen to stand In the vault of heaven upright, At the middle hour of night Or with them whose keels first prest The huge rivers of the west, Who the first with bold intent Down the Orellana went,* Or a dangerous progress won On the mighty Amazon By whose ocean streams they told Of the warrior-maidens bold But the fancy may not roam ; Thou wilt keep it nearer home, * See Garcilasso's Conquest of Peru. 48 The Descent of the Rhone. Friend, of earthly friends the best, Who on this fair river's breast Sailest with me fleet and fast, As the unremitting blast With a steady breath and strong Urges our light boat along. We this day have found delight In each pleasant sound and sight Of this river bright and fair, And in things which flowing are Like a stream ; yet without blame These my passing song may claim, Or thy hearing may beguile, If we not forget the while, That we are from childhood's morn On a mightier river borne, Which is rolling evermore To a sea without a shore, Life the river, and the sea That we seek eternity. We may sometimes sport and play, And in thought keep holiday, So we ever own a law, Living in habitual awe, And beneath the constant stress Of a solemn thoughtfulness, Weighing whither this life tends, For what high and holy ends It was lent us, whence it flows, And its current whither goes. There is ample matter here For as much of thought and fear As will solemnize our souls Thought of how this river rolls The Descent of the Rhone. 49 Over millions wrecked before They could reach that happy shore, Where we have not anchored yet ; Of the dangers which beset Our own way, of hidden shoal, Waters smoothest where they roll Over point of sunken rock, Treacherous calm, and sudden shock Of the storm, which can assail No boat than ours more weak or frail Matter not alone of sadness, But no less of thankful gladness, That, whichever way we turn, There are steady lights that burn On the shore, and lamps of love In the gloomiest sky above, Which will guide our bark aright Through the darkness of our night Many a fixed unblinking star Unto tnem that wandering are Through this blindly-weltering sea Themes of high and thoughtful glee, When we think we are not left, Of all solaces bereft, Each to hold, companionless, Through a watery wilderness, Unaccompanied our way, As we can ; this I may say, Whatsoever else betide, With thee sitting at my side, And this happy infant sweet, Playing, laughing at my feeL 5