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To the blood freely flowing of The Lamb life-bestowing This wonder is owing that washes out sin; Thy Love to us lent Him, Thy Love to death sent Him, That man through Thy Love should repent him.
Lord God, Thy Protection, Lord Christ, Thy Affection, Holy Ghost, Thy Direction so govern my heart, That all promptings other than Love's it may smother, As a babe is subdued to its mother.
For that treasure of treasures that all price outmeasures, Pure Faith, on whose pleasures life-giving we feed— Let Kings in their places, let all the earth's races Sing aloud in a crowd of glad faces.
Yea! all mouths shall bless Thee, all hearts shall confess Thee The bounteous Fountain of mercy and love; Each gift we inherit of pure, perfect merit, Dear God, overflows from Thy Spirit.
QUICK, DEATH!
(After Huw Morus)
This room an antechamber is: Beyond—the Hall of Very Bliss! Quick, Death! for underneath thy door I see the glimmering of Heaven's floor.
COUNSEL IN VIEW OF DEATH
(After Elis Wyn, 1671-1734, one of the Welsh Classics)
Leave your land, your goods lay down! Life's green tree shall soon grow brown. Pride of birth and pleasure gay Renounce or they shall own you!
Manly strength and beauty fair, Dear-bought sense, experience rare, Learning ripe, companions fond Yield, lest their bond ensnare you!
Is there then no sure relief, Thou arch-murderer and thief, Death, from thine o'ermastering law— Thy monstrous maw can none shun?
O ye rich, in all your pride Through the ages would ye bide, Wherefore not with Death compound, Ere underground he hide you?
Lusty athlete, light of foot, Death, the Bowman's fell pursuit Challenge! O, the laurels won, If thou but shun his shooting!
Travellers by sea and land On remotest mount or strand, Have ye found one secret spot Where Death is not commanding?
Learned scholar, jurist proud, Lifted god-like o'er the crowd, Can your keenest counsel's aid Dispel Death's shade enshrouding?
Fervent faith, profound repentance, Holy hours of stern self-sentence— These alone can victory bring When Death's dread sting shall wring us.
FROM "THE LAST JUDGMENT"
(After Goronwy Owen, 1728-1769, next to Dafydd ab Gwilym, the greatest poet who sang in the old Welsh metres)
Day of Doom, at thy glooming May Earth be but meet for thee! Day, whose hour of louring Not angels in light foresee! To Christ alone and the Father 'Tis known when thy hosts of might Swift as giants shall gather, Yet stealthy as thieves at night.
Then what woe to the froward, What joy to the just and kind! When the Seraph band comes streaming Christ's gleaming banner behind; Heavenly blue shall its hue be To a myriad marvelling eyes; Save where its heart encrimsons The cross of the sacrifice!
Rocks in that day's black fury Like leaves shall be whirled in the blast; Hoary-headed Eryri Prone to the plough-lands cast! Then shall be roaring and warring And ferment of sea and firth, Ocean, in turmoil upboiling, Confounding each bound of earth. The flow of the Deluge of Noah Were naught by that fell Flood's girth!
Then Heaven's pure self shall offer Her multitudinous eyes, Cruel blinding to suffer, As her sun faints out of the skies; And the bright-faced Moon shall languish And perish in such fierce pain As darkened and shook with anguish All Life, when the Lamb was slain.
A GOOD WIFE
(After the Vicar Pritchard, 1569-1644)
Wise yokel foolish King excelleth; Good name than spikenard sweeter smelleth! What's gold to prudence? Strength to grace? Man's more than goods; God first in place.
What though her dowry be but meagre, Far better wise, God-fearing Igir, Than yonder vain and brainless doll, Helpless her fortune to control.
A wife that's true and kind and sunny Is better than a mint of money; Better than houses, land and gold Or pearls and gems to have and hold.
A ship is she with jewels freighted, Her price beyond all rubies rated, A hundred-virtued amulet To such as her in marriage get.
Gold pillar to a silver socket; The weakling's tower of strength, firm-locked, The very golden crown of life; Grace upon grace—a virtuous wife.
"MARCHOG JESU!"
(Hymn sung at the Investiture of the Prince of Wales, the Welsh words by Pantycelyn, the famous eighteenth-century hymn-writer)
Lord, ride on in triumph glorious, Gird Thy sword upon Thy Thigh! Earth shall own Thy Might Victorious, Death and Hell confounded lie. Yea! before Thine Eye all-seeing, All Thy foes shall fly aghast; Nature's self, through all her being, Tremble at Thy Trampling Past.
Pierce, for Thou alone art able, Pierce our dungeon with Thy day; Shatter all the gates of Babel, Rend her iron bars away! Till, as billows thunder shoreward, All the Ransomed Ones ascend, Into freedom surging forward Without number, without end.
Who are these whose praises pealing From beyond the Morning Star Earthward solemnly are stealing Down the distance faint and far? These are they, the Ever Living, All in glistening garments gone, Palm in hand, with proud Thanksgiving Up before the Great White Throne.
THE DESTRUCTION OF JERUSALEM
(After Eben Fardd, 1802-1863, one of the leading Welsh poets of the nineteenth century)
RACHEL MOURNING
Rachel, ah me! most wretchedly Mourns, meekest, worthiest woman, Her husband dear hurled to his bier By Roman fiends inhuman. Tremulously now murmurs she: "Naught's here but naked horror; Black despond and blind despair, Mad turmoil, murderous terror! Free he rose, his hero blows Gave Rome black cause to rue him; Ten to one, then they run Their poisonous poignards through him. Thus took flight thy tortured sprite, Dear heart, from my fond seeing! Now stars on high in stark dawn die, We too must far be fleeing. Children dear, I thrill with fear To hear your hungry crying! Away, away! one more such day— And we're too weak for flying."
THE BURNING TEMPLE
The savage foes of this lost land of ours Conspire to fire Antonius' shapely towers. Ere long the Temple proud, surpassing all Art's fairest gems, shall unto earth be bowed! Lo! through the lurid gloom the lightning's lash! And hark the unnatural thunder crash and boom! Moriah's marvellous fane is leaning low; With cries of woe her rafters rend in twain; For our Imperial One is brought to naught. Yea, even where most cunningly she was wrought, The fire has cleft its way each coign into, For wood and stone searching her bosom through. Astonishingly high she took the blue, Yet weeping molten dross shall meet the ground— A sight for grief profound to gaze across. Flame follows flame, each like a giant worm, To feast and batten on her beauteous form. Through gold and silver doors they sinuous swarm And crop the carven flowers with gust enorme; Till all is emptiness. Then with hellish shout The embruted Gentiles in exultant rout Into her Holy of Holies profanely press!
One streaming flood of steaming blood— Shudders her sacred pavement!
LOVE DIVINE
(From "Emanuel." After Gwilym Hiraethog, 1802-1880.)
When the angel trumpet sounded. Through the unbounded ether blown, Star on star danced on untiring, Choiring past the Great White Throne; Then as, every globe outglancing, Earth's entrancing orb went by, Love Divine in blushing pleasure Steeped the azure of the sky.
Wisdom, when she saw Earth singled From the bright commingled band, Whispered Mercy: "That green wonder Yonder is thy promised land!" Mercy looked and loved Earth straightway, At Heaven's gateway smiling set. Ah! that glance of tender yearning She is turning earthward yet.
BEHIND THE VEIL
(After Islwyn, 1832-1878, the Welsh Wordsworth)
What say ye, can we charge a master soul With error, when beyond all life's experience Between the cradle and the grave, it rises, Whispering of things unutterable, breaks its bond With outward sense and sinks into itself, As fades a star in space? Hath not that soul A history in itself, a refluent tide Of mystery murmuring out of unplumbed deeps, On distant inaccessible strands, whereon Memory lies dead amid the monstrous wreckage Of jarring worlds? Are yonder stars above As spiritually, magnificently bright As Poesy feigns? May not some slumbering sense, A memory dim of those diviner days, When all the Heavens were yet aglow with God, Transfuse them through and through with glimmering grace And glory? Still the Stars within us shine, And Poesy is but a recollection Of Something greater gone, a presage proud Of Something greater yet to be. What soul But sometimes thrills with hauntings of a world For long forgotten, at a glimpse begotten Once more, then gone again? Imaginations? Nay why not memories of a life than ours A thousand times more blest within us buried So deeply, the divine all-searching breath Of Poesy alone can lure it forth. All hail that hour when God's Redeeming Face Shall so illume our past existences, That through them all man's spirit shall see plain, And to his blessed past relink Life's broken chain.
THE REIGN OF LOVE
(After Ceiriog, to a Welsh Air. Ceiriog, 1832-1887, was the Welsh Burns; his songs to old Welsh Airs are the best of their kind.)
Love that invites, love that delights, From hedgerow lush and leafy heights Is flooding all the air; Their forest harps the breezes strum, The happy brooks their burden hum; There's nothing deaf, there's nothing dumb, But music everywhere!
Above the airy steep Their lyres of gold the angels sweep, Glad holiday with earth to keep Before the Great White Throne. Then, when Heaven and earth and sea Are joining in Love's jubilee; While morning stars make melody, Shall man be mute alone?
Naught that hath birth matches the worth Of Love, in God's own Heaven and Earth, For through His power divine Love opes the golden eye of day, Love guides the pale moon's lonely way, Love lights the glow-worm's glimmering ray Amid the darkling bine.
Heavenly hue and form Above, around, are glowing warm, From His right hand Who rides the storm, Yet paints the lily's cheek. Yea! whereso'er man lifts his eyes To wood or wave or sunset skies, A myriad magic shapes arise Eternal Love to speak.
PLAS GOGERDDAN
(After Ceiriog to a Welsh Air)
"Without thy Sire hast thou returned?" In grief the Princess cried! "Go back!—or from my sight be spurned— To battle by his side. I gave thee birth; but struck to earth I'd sooner see thee lie, Or on thy bier come carried here, Than thus a craven fly!
"Seek yonder hall, and pore on all The portraits of thy race; The courage high that fires each eye Canst thou endure to face?" "I'll bring no blame on thy fair name, Or my forefathers slight! But kiss and bless me, mother dear, Ere I return to fight."
He fought and fell—his stricken corse They bore to her abode; "My son!" she shrieked, in wild remorse; "Forgive me, O! my God!" Then from the wall old voices fall: "Rejoice for such a son! His deed and thine shall deathless shine, Whilst Gwalia's waters run!"
ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT
Ar Hyd y Nos
(After Ceiriog to this Welsh Air)
Fiery day is ever mocking Man's feeble sight; Darkness eve by eve unlocking Heav'n's casket bright; Thence the burdened spirit borrows Strength to meet laborious morrows, Starry peace to soothe his sorrows, All through the night.
Planet after planet sparkling, All through the night, Down on Earth, their sister darkling, Shed faithful light. In our mortal day's declining, May our souls, as calmly shining, Cheer the restless and repining, Till lost in sight.
DAVID OF THE WHITE ROCK
Dafydd y Garreg Wen
(After Ceiriog to this Welsh Air)
"All my powers wither, Death presses me hard; Bear my harp hither!" Sighed David the Bard.
"Thus while life lingers, In one lofty strain O, let my fond fingers Awake it again.
"Last night an angel Cried, 'David, come sound Christ's dear Evangel Death's valley around!'"
Wife and child harkened His harp's solemn swell; Till his eye darkened, And lifeless he fell.
THE HIGH TIDE
(After Elvet Lewis, a contemporary Welsh poet)
A balmy air blows; the waterflags shiver, On, on the Tide flows, on, on, up the river!
To no earth or sky allegiance he oweth; He comes, who knows why? unless the Moon knoweth.
The Tide flows and flows; by hill and by hollow, White rose upon rose, the foam flowers follow.
He spreads broad and full from margent to margent, The wings of the gull are his bannerets argent.
The Tide flows and flows; Atlantic's loud charges Mix in murmurous close with the wash of the barges.
With wondering ear the children cease playing; The voice that they hear, what can it be saying?
Too well they shall know, when amid the wild brattle Of the waters below, they enter life's battle.
The Tide flows apace; the ship that lies idle Trips out with trim grace, like a bride to her bridal.
What hath she in store? shall Fate her boon give her? Or must she no more return to the river?
The flood has gone past! Ah me! one was late for it, And friends cry aghast: "How long must he wait for it?"
Young eyes that to-night are darkened for sorrow Shall hail with delight their dear ship to-morrow.
Amid the sea-wrack the barque, tempest battered, At length staggers back, like a prodigal tattered!
What if she be scarred or scoffers make light of her? Though blemished and marred, how blest is the sight of her!
The Tide flows and flows, far past the grey towers; And whispering goes through the wheat and the flowers.
And now his pulse takes the calm heart of the valley And lifts, till it shakes, the low bough of the sally.
Slow, and more slow is his flow—he has tarried— The blue Ocean's pilgrim, outwearied, miscarried!
Far, far from home, in wandering error, A dim rocky dome beshrouding his mirror.
But hark! a voice thrills the traveller erring; In the heart of the hills its sea-call is stirring:
And home, ever home, to its passionate pleading, One whirl of white foam, with the ebb he is speeding.
"ORA PRO NOBIS"
(After Eifion Win, 1867- . He lies as a poet between Elfed and the "New Bards")
A sudden shower lashes The darkening pane; The voice of the tempest Is lifted again. The centuried oaks To their very roots rock; And crying, for shelter Course cattle and flock. Our Father, forget not The nestless bird now; The snow is so near, And so bare is the bough!
A great flood is flashing Athwart the wide lee; Like a storm-struck encampment, The clouds rend and flee; At the scourge of the storm My cot quakes with affright; Far better the hearth Than the pavement to-night! Our Father, forget not The homeless outcast; So thin is his raiment, So bitter Thy blast!
The foam-flakes are whirling Below on the strand, As white as the pages I turn with my hand; And the curlew afar, From his storm-troubled lair, Laments with the cry Of a soul in despair. Our Father, forget not Our mariners' state; Their ships are so slender, Thy seas are so great.
A FLOWER-SUNDAY LULLABY
(After Eifion Win, the contemporary Welsh poet)
Though the blue slab hides our laddy, Slumber, free of fear! Well we know it, I and daddy, Naught can harm you here. You and all the little sleepers, Their small graves within, Have bright angels for door-keepers. Sleep, Goronwy Wyn!
Ah, too well I now remember, Darling, when you slept, How the children from your chamber Jealously I kept. Now how willingly to wake you I would let them in, If their merry noise could make you Move, Goronwy Wyn!
Sleep, though mother is not near you, In God's garden green! Flower-Sunday gifts we bear you, Lovely to be seen; Six small primroses to show us Summer-time is ours; Though, alas! locked up below us, Lies our flower of flowers.
Sleep! to mother's love what matters Passing time or tide? On my ear your footstep patters, Still my babe you bide. All the others moving, moving, Still disturb my breast; But the dead have done with roving, You alone have rest.
Then, beneath the primrose petals, Sleep, our heart's delight! Darkness o'er us deeply settles; We must say "Good night!" Your new cradle needs no shaking On its quiet floor. Sleep, my child! till you are waking In my arms once more.
THE BALLAD OF THE OLD BACHELOR OF TY'N Y MYNYDD
(After W.J. Gruffydd, 1880- , one of the leading "New Bards")
Strongest swept his sickle through the whin-bush, Straightest down the ridge his furrows sped; Early on the mountain ranged his reapers, Above his mattock late he bowed his head.
Love's celestial rapture once he tasted, Then a cloud of suffering o'er him crept. Out along the uplands, in the dew-fall, He mourned the maid who in the churchyard slept,
With the poor he shared his scanty earnings, To the Lord his laden heart he breathed; On his rustic heart fell two worlds' sunshine, And two worlds' blossoms round his footsteps wreathed.
Much he gloried in Young Gwalia's doings, Yet more dearly loved her early lore, Catching ever from her Triple Harpstrings The far, faint echoes of her ancient shore.
Yestereven he hung up his sickle, Ne'er again to trudge his grey fields o'er, Ne'er again to plough the stony ridges, To sow the home of thorns, alas! no more.
THE QUEEN'S DREAM
(To a Welsh Air of the name)
From the starving City She turned her couch to seek, With pearls of tender pity On her queenly cheek; There in restless slumber She dreamt that she was one Of that most piteous number By distress undone. In among that sullen brood, In homeless want she glided, While in mock solicitude Her fate they thus derided: "Queen, now bear thee queenly, In destiny's despite! If thou wilt starve serenely, We poor wretches might."
But, amid their mocking, "The King, the King!" they cry, And forward they run flocking While He passes by; With the crowd she mixes Her cruel shame to hide; When, O, what wonder fixes The surging human tide? There One stood, with thorn-crown'd head, Hands of supplication, Multiplying mystic bread For her famished nation. "Children thus remember My poor and Me!" He spoke, And in her palace chamber Weeping she awoke.
THE WELSH FISHERMEN
(To the air of "The Song of the Bottle")
Up, up with the anchor, Round, round for the harbour mouth! Wind, boys, and a spanker Racing due south! Where 'ood you be going? How, now can ye hoist your sails? When blossoms be blowing Over Welsh Wales! Dear hearts for the herring, Sure, after the herring, Hot after the herring, Each ship of us sails. Up, up with the anchor, Round, round for the harbour mouth! Wind boys and a spanker, Racing due south.
"Men, when you go rocking, Out under the angry gale, Wives' hearts begin knocking, Lasses turn pale. Oh, why start a-fishing Far, far and across the foam? Give way to our wishing; Stay, stay at home!" "Now, but for King Herring, What 'ood you be wearing, How 'ood you be faring How keep ye warm? Lest loaves should be failing, Lest children for want take harm, Men still will go sailing Out into the storm."
Then men, since it must be, Then men, since it must be so, Christ, Christ shall our trust be, When the winds blow. Once when He was sleeping, "Save Lord!" the disciples cried, "Wild waters are leaping Over the side!" See He has awoken! Hark, hark, He has spoken, "Peace, peace," and in token Down the storm died. Lord God of the billows, Still succour the fishing smack! Give peace to our pillows, Bring our men back!
III. OLD AND NEW TESTAMENT STUDIES
DAVID'S LAMENT OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN
Israel's beauty is slain Here on Gilboa's high places, How are the mighty fallen And tears upon all our faces.
Tell it not now in Gath Or in Askelon's city name it, Lest Philistia's daughters rejoice And with songs of triumph proclaim it.
Let there be no more dew, Gilboa, upon thy mountains! Over thy fields of offerings fair, Holden be all heaven's fountains.
For there the shield of the mighty, Even Saul's shield, to-day, As though he was ne'er the Anointed of God, Is vilely cast away.
Till the foe in his blood lay stricken Or cloven through and through, The bow of Jonathan turned not back, The sword of Saul still slew.
Lovely were they in their lives, In death undivided they lay, They were swifter than mountain eagles, Stronger than lions at bay.
Weep, ye daughters of Israel, Weep over Saul your King, Who clothed you with scarlet and decked you with gold And filled you with every good thing.
How are the mighty fallen, And all their boasts in vain! There on Gilboa's high places, O Jonathan, thou wast slain.
Alas! my brother Jonathan, I am sore distressed for thee; For thou hast been very pleasant, Very pleasant to me.
Beyond the love of woman Was the love that for me you bore. How are the mighty fallen And perished the weapons of war!
THE FIERY FURNACE
Bound into the furnace blazing They have cast the Children Three; But oh! miracle amazing, They arise, unscathed and free; While through paths of fire, to guide them, Paths no other foot has trod— Lo! A Fourth is seen beside them, Shining like the Son of God.
Ah! not ours their saintly measure, Yet 'tis still our heart's desire, That Thou wouldst of Thy good pleasure, Teach us, too, to walk the fire— Living lives of stern denial, Trusty toiler, helpmeet tried, Till grown fit for fiery trial, With our Saviour at our side.
RUTH AND NAOMI
When Judges ruled the tribes of Israel, A cruel famine on the people fell, Till even Bethlehem, the "House of Bread," For meat and drink at last was sore bestead.
Then when they called upon Jehovah's name, This answer to their heart's petition came: "Send forth your strong into the land where Lot The might of Moab and his race begot—
"Your kinsfolk they: there still the streams run quick, Still grass and corn are laughing high and thick." Therefore adventuring forth, the bold and strong Their famished flocks and herds drove each along,
Till Moab's high-set plain and warm, wide valleys Wherefrom clear-watered Arnon westward sallies, Rejoiced they reached: there welcome found and there Release from want, of wealth a goodly share.
With these Elimelech and his precious ones, His wife Naomi and his two brave sons, Mahlon and Chilion, Jordan's shrunken tide Crossed, and at Hesbon stayed and occupied.
And there they prospered for a blessed time Until Elimelech in his lordly prime, Hasting those cattle-spoilers to pursue, The ambuscading sons of Anak slew.
Then Chilion and Mahlon, by the voice Of their good mother guided, made their choice Amongst the maids of Moab for their wives: And so, a ten years' space lived joyful lives.
Till pestilence o'ertook the brothers; naught Of wives' or mothers' care availed them aught, But, blessing both, their sight was quenched in gloom; Three widows wept o'er their untimely tomb.
Then when their days of mourning now were o'er, Fresh tidings came from Jordan's further shore: "Judaea's years of famine now are passed, And joyous plenty crowns her fields at last."
Naomi then outspake: "Dear daughters lone, Yea, dearer for their sakes who now are gone Than if indeed ye were my very own Born children, hearken to Naomi's voice Who of all Moabs' maids made you her choice!
"Good wives and fond, as ever cherished Husband, were ye unto my two sons dead, Diligent weavers of their household wool, True joy-mates when their cup of bliss was full, Kind comforters in sorrow or in pain. Alloy was none, but one to mar life's golden chain.
"No child, dear Orpah, loving Ruth, have ye To suckle or to dance upon your knee, No other sons have I your hearts to woo— Grandchildren can be none from me to you. Therefore, my daughters, O, consider well Since you are young, and fair and so excel In every homecraft, were it not more wise No longer to refuse to turn your eyes Towards the suitors brave who, now your days Of mourning are accomplished, fix their gaze Upon your goings? Verily now 'twere right That you should each a noble Moabite Espouse, till, with another's love accost, Your childless grief in motherhood be lost. And I, why should I tarry longer here To be a burden on you year by year? Kinsfolk and friends have I at Bethlehem Where plenty reigns; I will go back to them—" Then much they both besought her to remain, And yet her purpose neither could restrain; Therefore her goods to gather she began Against the passing of the caravan. But Ruth and Orpah each prepared also Beside her unto Bethlehem to go.
And now the three stand ready, full of tears To quit the haunts of happy married years, The tombs that hid their lost ones. Staunchly then Naomi spoke her purpose once again: "Daughters, turn back, each to her mother's house To take the rest that there her work allows, And in due course a second husband find, Nor be unto the future foolish—blind! Yet take a blessing from the heart of hearts Of your Naomi ere she hence departs."
She blessed them, and with voices lifted up In loud lament the dregs of sorrow's cup They drained together. Orpah, weeping, turned And slowly went, but Ruth with eyes that yearned Into Naomi's, cried aloud in pain: "Thus to forsake thee, urge me not again, Nor to return from following after thee! For where thou goest, I will surely go. And where thou lodgest, will I lodge also! Thy people shall be my people evermore, And thy God only will I now adore! And where thou diest, I will buried be! So may Jehovah strike me with his thunder, If aught but only death our lives shall sunder."
Ruth's lips have sealed that solemn covenant, Then with Naomi hand in hand she went.
But as they slept that night there came to each The selfsame vision, though they ne'er had speech Thereon, till Obed's birth, Ruth's only son And David's grandsire; for they each saw one With Mahlon's aspect seated in the skies, And on his knees a babe with Ruth's own eyes, And by the infant's side one with a face Ruddy and bold, a form of Kingly grace, And in his hand a harp wherefrom he drew Marvellous music while his songs thereto Held hosts of angels hearkening in the blue. Then figures floated o'er him faint and far Up to a Child who rode upon a star, And in the Heavenly wonder of his face, They read the Ransom of the Human Race.
THE LILIES OF THE FIELD AND THE FOWLS OF THE AIR
"Consider the lilies!" He spake as yet spake no man: "Consider the lilies, the lilies of the leas, They toil not, they spin not, like you, tired man and woman, Yet Solomon in his glory was not robed like one of these.
"Consider the lilies! Sure, if your Heavenly Father So clothe the meadow grasses that here flower free of scathe And to-morrow light the oven, now, say, shall he not rather Still of His goodness clothe you, O ye of little faith?
"Consider the fowls of the air, behind your harrows; They plough not, they reap not, nor gather grain away, Yet your Heavenly Father cares for them; then, if he feed the sparrows, Shall He not rather feed you, His children, day by day?"
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN
To find Him they flock, young and old, from their cities, With hearts full of hope: for the tidings had spread: "The proud He rebukes and the poorest He pities, Recovers the leper, upraises the dead."
So the shepherd has left his sheep lone on the mountain, The woodman his axe buried fast in the pine, The maiden her pitcher half-filled at the fountain, The housewife her loom and the fisher his line.
With their babes on their bosoms, their sick on their shoulders, Toilsomely thronging by footpath and ford, Now resting their burthens among the rude boulders, Still they come climbing in search of the Lord.
Until on the Mount, with the morn they have found Him— Christ, the long sought—they have found Him at length, With their sick and their stricken, in faith they flock round Him, As sighing He looks up to Heaven for strength.
He has touched the deaf ears and the blind eyes anointed— And straightway they hear Him and straightway they see; Laid hands on the lame and they leap, supple-jointed, The devils denounced and affrighted they flee.
Yea? for their faith, from each life-long affliction, Yea, for their faith from their sins they are freed, And therefore have earned His divine benediction—
* * * * *
Stretch forth Thy hand, for as sore is our need.
Lord! we are deaf, we are dumb, lost in blindness, Lepers and lame and by demons possessed! Lord, we are dead! of Thine infinite kindness Restore us, redeem! bear us home on Thy breast.
THE SOWER
A Sower went forth to sow, But His seed on the wayside showered; A bird-flock out of the air flashed low And the goodly grain devoured.
A Sower went forth to sow, O'er hid rocks plying his toil; The seed leaped up at the warm sun's glow, But withered for lack of soil.
A Sower went forth to sow, And his seed took steadfast root; But flaming poppies and thorns in row Sprang up and strangled the fruit.
A Sower went forth to sow, And at last his joy he found; For his good seed's generous overflow Sank deep into gracious ground.
Lord, when we look back on our lives, With penitent sighs and tears, Our evil that with Thee strives and strives In Thy parable's truth appears.
As the wayside hard were our hearts, Where Thy good seed lightly lay, For the Devil's flock, as it downward darts, To bruise and to bear away.
Thy winged words falling nigher Sprang up in our souls with haste, But they could not endure temptation's fire And withered and went to waste.
Within us Thy word once more Thou sowest, but—sore beset With worldly weeds—for Thy threshing floor Shall it ever ripen yet?
Yea, Lord, it shall if Thou please, In passionate, patient prayer, To draw the nation upon its knees And fill it with Heavenly care.
And so shall we all arise In the joy of a soul's re-birth To hold a communion with the skies That shall bring down Heaven to earth.
THE PRODIGAL'S RETURN
(From the Scotch Gaelic)
Tedious grew the time to me Within the Courts of Blessing; My secure felicity, For folly I forswore; Vain delusion wrought my woe Till now, in want distressing, I go begging to and fro Upon an alien shore.
In my dear old home of peace, Around my father's table Many a servant sits at ease And eats and drinks his fill; While within a filthy stall With loathsome swine I stable, Sin-defiled and scorned of all To starve on husk and swill.
Ah, how well I mind me Of the happy days gone over! Love was then behind me, Before me, and around; Then, light as air, I leapt, A laughing little rover, Now dull and heavy-stepped I pace this desert ground.
Sin with flattering offers came; Against my Sire rebelling I yielded my good name At the Tempter's easy smile; In fields that were not ours, Brighter blooming, richer smelling, I ravished virgin flowers With a heart full of guile.
'Twas thus an open shame In the sight of all the Noble, Yea! a monster I became, Till my gold ceased to flow, And my fine fair-weather friends Turned their backs upon my trouble. Now an outcast to Earth's ends Under misery I go.
Yet though bitter my disgrace, Than every ill severer Is the thought of the face Of the Sire for whom I long. I shall see Him no more Though to me he now is dearer Than he ever was, before I wrought him such wrong.
And yet ere I die I will journey forth to meet him. Home I will hie, For he yet may be won. For Pardon and Peace My soul will entreat him, "Father, have grace On thy Prodigal Son!"
Could I get near enough To send him a message— I keeping far off— He would not say me nay. In some little nook He would find me a living And let none be driving His shamed son away.
The Penitent arose, His scalding tears blinding him; Hope's ray lit his way As homeward he pressed. Afar off his father's Fond eyes are finding him, And the old man gathers His boy to his breast.
ST. MARY MAGDALEN
They who have loved the most The most have been forgiven, And with the Devil's host Most mightily have striven. And so it was of old With her, once all unclean, Now of the saints white-stoled— Mary, the Magdalen. For though in Satan's power She seemed for ever fast, Her Saviour in one hour Seven devils from her cast.
O'erburthened by the weight Of her black bosom sin, As Christ with Simon sate At meat, she had stolen in. Toward her Lord she drew; She knelt by Him unchid; The latchet of His shoe Her trembling hands undid. Foot-water none was by Nor towel, as was meet, To comfort and to dry His hot way-weary feet; But with her blinding tears She bathes them now instead, And dries them with the hairs Of her abased head.
And so, when Simon looked, And pondered, evil-eyed, No longer Jesus brooked His thought, but thus replied; "Simon, no kiss of peace Thou gav'st me at thy door, No oil, my head to ease, Didst thou upon it pour, Nay, for thy bidden guest So little hast thou cared, His weary feet to rest No bath hadst thou prepared; Yet hath this woman here, By thee with scorn decried, Washed them with many a tear, And with her tresses dried, And given them, from her store Of spikenard, cool relief, And kissed them o'er and o'er In penitential grief. Therefore her joy begins, Her prayer is heard in heaven; Though many are her sins, They all shall be forgiven!" Scant mercy he receives Whose love for God is small; But he whom God forgives The most, loves most of all.
IV. CHURCH FESTIVALS
A CHRISTMAS COMMUNION HYMN
(After the Meditation for Communion on Christmas Day in Eucharistica)
Welcome, thrice blessed day! thrice blessed hour! To hail you, every heart to Heaven is climbing, The while the snow in softly circling shower Draws down to meet them 'mid the joybell's chiming; Like blessed morsels of that manna bread Wherewith of old the Lord His People fed.
Welcome, dear dawn! if now no Angel Song With sudden ravishing acclaim salute thee, Yet everywhere Our Church's white-robed throng Shall to thy first exultancy transmute thee. Peace and Good Will again with holy mirth Proclaiming to the Universal Earth.
Then, too, my soul, forth summoning all thy powers, Thyself from worldly schemes and wishes sunder, To worship and admire this hour of hours That is all miracle and the height of wonder; Infinity itself shrinks to a span, Since God, remaining God, becometh Man.
Here is a mother with no mortal mate! Here is a son that hath no earthly father! A graft, on Adam's stock incorporate, Who yet therefrom no mortal taint can gather! A Babe to whom a new and glorious Star Earth's Wisest Kings for worship draws from far.
All hail! then, sweetest Saviour, thrice all hail! The King of Kings, by David's prophesying; Yet on no royal couch Thy first weak wail Awoke, for in a manger Thou wast lying: Still for that condescension more a King Than having all the whole world's wealth could bring.
Thus with Earth's humblest brothering thy estate, Thus to Earth's mightiest giving meek example, The lowly Thou exaltest to be great, The proud thou teachest on their pride to trample. So, turning poor men rich and rich men poor, For each Thou makest his salvation sure.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL OF THE EPIPHANY
Now who are these who from afar Follow yon solitary star? Whence journey they and what the quest That turns their faces towards the west?
Three Kings are they and Mages three, Who in their camel company, With offerings rich, still onward press, Across the wintry wilderness.
Nine months agone, Isaiah's page They pondered o'er with questioning sage, When underneath their wondering eyes His words were altered in this wise:
"Behold a Virgin hath conceived!" They saw, and marvelled, and believed, And hasted forth upon the morn To greet the King that should be born.
Afar they fared by land and flood, The while they saw, with bounding blood, A star that did all stars exceed In wonder still their footsteps lead.
Until, amid the falling snow, They found the Highest laid most low; His palace but a cattle shed, A manger for His princely bed.
And there they bent with holy joy And hope before the new-born Boy; And opened, at His infant feet, Their royal offerings rich and sweet.
A FOURTEENTH-CENTURY CAROL
When God came down on Earth to dwell, Great cold befell: Yet Mary on the road hath seen A fig-tree green. Said Joseph: "O Mary, let the fruit hang; For thirty good mile we have still to gang, Lest we be late!"
When Mary unto a village door At last did win, She thus bespake the cottager: "Sir, take us in! Since for this young Child's tender sake A pitying heart must surely ache, The night's so cold."
"You're welcome all to my ox-stall!" The good man cried. But in the middle of the night He rose and sighed: "Where are ye now, poor hapless ones? That ye're not frozen to the bones, I marvel much."
Then back into his house he runs From forth the byre— "Rouse up, rouse up, my dearest wife, And light a fire, As fine as ever sent up smoke, Whereat these poor and perishing folk May comfort them."
Mary with joy into the house The Babe has brought, Joseph her just and faithful spouse, His wallet sought. Therefrom he took a kettle small; Some snow the Child therein let fall, And lo 'tis flour!
Thereto the Babe has added ice; 'Tis sugar straight! Now water drops, and, in a trice, 'Tis milk most sweet! The kettle, fast as you could look, They hung upon the kitchen hook A meal to cook.
The godly Joseph carved a spoon From out a brand; To ivory it changed full soon And adamant. When Mary gave the Babe the food, He became Jesus, Son of God. Before their eyes.
EARTH'S EASTER
She the long sought for and sighed for in vain, the enchantress immortal— Spring, in our very despair, out of inviolate air Charioting summons the Eastern gate; the obedient portal Opes, and a vision blest yields to the wondering West.
High on her crystal car she trembles in halycon tissues, Gently with golden curb checking her coursers superb— All her ethereal beauty elate with Love's infinite issues, Whilst this enchantment slips forth from her sibylline lips: "Herb and tree in your kinds, free lives of the mountain and forest, Shoals of the stream and the flood, flights of the welkin and wood, Herd and flock of the field, and ye, whose need is the sorest, Suffering spirits of men, lo! I am with you again. Fear no more for the tyrant hoar as he rushes to battle Armoured in ice, and darts lance after lance at your hearts, Fear not his flaming bolts as they hurtle with horrible rattle Out of the lurid inane fulminant over the plain. Fear not his wizardry white that circles and circles and settles Stealthily hour by hour, feathery flower upon flower, Over the spell-bound sleeper, till last the pitiless petals Darkly in icy death stifle his labouring breath.
"Late upon yon white height the despot his fugitives rallied, Deeming the crest snow-crowned still inaccessibly frowned; Idly, for instant upon him my bright-speared chivalry sallied, Smote and far into the North swept him discomfited forth, Therefore, from root unto hole, from hole into burgeoning branches, Tendril and tassel and cup now let the ichor leap up: Therefore, with flowering drift and with fluttering bloom avalanches, Snowdrop and silver thorn laugh baffled winter to scorn; Primrose, daffodil, cowslip, shine back to my shimmering sandals, Hyacinth host, o'er the green flash your cerulean sheen, Lilac, your perfumed lamps, light, chestnut, your clustering candles, Broom and laburnum, untold torches of tremulous gold! Therefore gold-gather again from the honeyed heath and the bean field, Snatching no instant of ease, bright, multitudinous bees! Therefore, ye butterflies, float and flicker from garden to green field, Flicker and float and stay, settle and sip and away!
"Therefore race it and chase it, ye colts, in the emerald meadow! Round your serious dams frisk, ye fantastical lambs! Therefore, bird unto bird, from the woodland's wavering shadow Pipe and 'plain and protest, flutter together and nest.
"Therefore, ye skylarks, in shivering circle still higher and higher Soar, and the palpitant blue drench with delirious dew. Therefore, nightingale, lost in the leaves, or lone on the brier, Under the magic moon lift your tumultuous tune. Therefore refresh you, faint hearts, take comfort, ye souls sorrow-stricken, Winning from nature relief, courage and counsel in grief, Judging that He, whose handmaid I am, out of death to requicken Year after year His earth into more exquisite birth, Shadows thereby to your souls through what drear and perilous places Into what Paradise blest beacons His searching behest— Even the Heaven of Heavens where fond, long-hungered-for faces Into your own shall shine radiant with rapture divine."
EASTER DAY, 1915
I
The stars die out on Avon's watchful breast, While simple shepherds climb through shadows grey, With beating bosoms up the Wrekin's Crest To see the sun "dance in" an Easter Day Whose dawning consummates three centuries— Since Shakespeare's death and entrance to the skies— Resolved the radiant miracle not to miss Reserved alone to earliest opened eyes. We, too, with faces set towards the East, Our joyful orison offerings yielding up Keep with our risen Lord His Pascal feast From Paten Blest and Consecrated Cup, And give Him thanks Who of all realms of Earth Made England richest by her Shakespeare's birth.
II
"St. George for Merrie England!" let us cry And each a red rose pin upon his breast, Then face the foe with fearless front and eye Through all our frowning leaguer in the West. For not alone his Patron Day it is Wherefrom our noble George hath drawn his name; Three centuries and a half gone by ere this; By Shakespeare's birth it won a second fame. A greater glory is its crown to-day Since at its first and faintest uttered breath A mighty angel rolled the stone away That sealed His tomb Who captive now leads death, And thereby did the great example give. That they who die for others most shall live.
THE ASCENSION
When Christ their Lord, to Heaven upraised, Was wafted from the Apostles' sight, And upwards wistfully they gazed Into the far, blue Infinite, Behold two men in white apparel dressed Who thus bespake them on the mountain crest:
"Why stand ye, men of Galilee, So sadly gazing on the skies? For this same Jesus, whom ye see Caught in the clouds to Paradise, Shall in like manner from the starry height Return again to greet your joyful sight."
Would, O Lord Jesus! thus to hear Thy farewell words we too had met, Among Thine own Disciples dear, Upon the brow of Olivet! Yet are we blest, though of that joy bereaved, Who having seen Thee not, have yet believed.
O, then in each succeeding year When Thine Ascension Day draws round, With hearts so full of holy fear May we within Thy Church be found, That in the spirit we may see Thee rise And bless us with pierced hands from out the skies!
Christ, if our gaze for ever thus Is fixed upon Thy Heavenward way, Death shall but bring to each of us At last his soul's Ascension Day, Till in Thy mercy Thou descend once more And quick and dead to meet Thy coming soar.
WHITSUNTIDE
When Christ from off the mountain crest Before their marvelling eyes, Whilst His disciples still He blessed, Was caught into the skies— The Angels, whose harmonious breath Erstwhile proclaimed His birth, Now hailed Him Victor over Death, Redeemer of the Earth; "Lift up your heads, ye Heavenly Gates!" Rang forth their joyful strain; "For lo! the King of Glory waits To enter you again!"
Thus, heralded, from Heaven to Heaven Magnifical He goes, Until the last of all the seven To greet His coming glows; While He the Eternal long left lone To meet Him doth upstand, Then sets His Son upon the Throne Once more at His right hand. Whereat with one triumphal hymn Majestically blent The Cherubim and Seraphim The Universe have rent. Last, from the splendrous mercy seat, Of Father and of Son, To Earth, their purpose to complete, Descends the Promised One.
Like to a mighty rushing wind He falls, subduing space, To where Christ's chosen with one mind Are gathered in one place. With tongues of flame He lights on each, Whose wonder-working spell Fires them in every human speech Heaven's message forth to tell. The coward brood of doubt and fear And hesitance are fled; Before the quickening Comforter They rise as from the dead. The bolted door is yawning wide, The barred gate backward flung; And forth unarmed and fearless-eyed, They fare their foes among.
HARVEST HYMN
CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS
O ye weeping sons and daughters, Trust the Heavenly Harvest Giver, Cast your bread upon the waters Of His overflowing river; Cast the good seed, nothing doubting That your tears shall turn to praise, Ye shall yet behold it sprouting Heavenward, after many days.
Hope and love, long frost-withholden, Into laughing life upleaping, Blade and ear, from green to golden, Yet shall ripen for your reaping; Till some radiant summer morrow, Wheresoe'er your sickle cleaves, Ye, who sow to-day in sorrow, Shout for joy amid your sheaves.
O then, learn the inmost meaning Of your harvest's rich redundance, Bid the famished ones come gleaning In the fields of your abundance; So in overrunning measure Shall your thankful fellow-men Give you, of their hearts' hid treasure, All your good gifts back again.
Till, ye faithful sons and daughters, God your golden lives deliver, Like the good grain to the waters Of death's overflowing river; Till up-caught amid His sleepers, Heavenly fruit from earthly loam, At the last, His angel reapers On their bosoms bear you home.
V. GOOD AND FAITHFUL SERVANTS
FATHER O'FLYNN
Of priests we can offer a charming variety, Far renowned for larning and piety; Still, I'd advance you, widout impropriety, Father O'Flynn as the flower of them all.
Chorus: Here's a health to you, Father O'Flynn, Slainte and slainte, and slainte agin; Powerfullest preacher, and Tenderest teacher, and Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.
Don't talk of your Provost and Fellows of Trinity, Famous for ever for Greek and Latinity, Dad, and the divels and all at Divinity, Father O'Flynn 'd make hares of them all. Come, I vinture to give you my word, Never the likes of his logic was heard. Down from Mythology Into Thayology, Troth! and Conchology, if he'd the call. Chorus: Here's a health to you, etc.
Och! Father O'Flynn, you've the wonderful way wid you, All the ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you, All the young childer are wild for to play wid you, You've such a way wid you, Father avick! Still, for all you've so gentle a soul, Gad, you've your flock in the grandest conthroul Checkin' the crazy ones, Coaxin' onaisy ones, Liftin' the lazy ones on wid the stick. Chorus: Here's a health to you, etc.
And though quite avoidin' all foolish frivolity, Still at all saisons of innocent jollity, Where was the play-boy could claim an equality At comicality, Father, wid you? Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest, Till this remark set him off wid the rest: "Is it lave gaiety All to the laity? Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?" Chorus: Here's a health to you, etc.
LADY GWENNY
County by county for beauty and bounty Go search! and this pound to a penny, When you've one woman to show us as human And lovely as our Lady Gwenny; For she has the scorn for all scorners, And she has the tear for all mourners, Yet joying with joy, With no crabb'd annoy To pull down her mouth at the corners.
Up with the lark in the pasture you'll meet with her, Songs like his own sweetly trilling, Carrying now for some poor folk a treat with her, Small mouths with lollypops filling: And while, as he stands in a puzzle, She strokes the fierce bull on his muzzle, The calves and the lambs Run deserting their dams In her kind hands their noses to nuzzle.
Now with her maidens a sweet Cymric cadence She leads, just to lighten their sewing; Now at the farm, her food basket on arm, She has set all the cock'rels a-crowing. The turkey-cock strutting and strumming, His bagpipe puts by at her humming, And even the old gander, The fowl-yard's commander, He winks his sly eye at her coming.
Never to wandering minstrel or pondering Poet her castle gate closes: Ever her kindly cheer—ever her praise sincere Falls like the dew on faint roses. And when her Pennillions rhyming She mates to her triple harp's chiming, In her green Gorsedd gown— The half of the town Up the fences to hear her are climbing.
Men in all fashions have pleaded their passions— The scholar, the saint, and the sinner, Pleaded in vain Lady Gwenny to gain,— For only a hero shall win her: And to share his strong work and sweet leisure He'll have no keen chaser of pleasure, But a loving young beauty With a soul set on duty, And a heart full of heaven's hid treasure.
OLD DOCTOR MACK
Ye may tramp the world over from Delhi to Dover, And sail the salt say from Archangel to Arragon; Circumvint back through the whole Zodiack, But to ould Docther Mack ye can't furnish a paragon. Have ye the dropsy, the gout, the autopsy? Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he'll shape yez; No way infarior in skill, but suparior And lineal postarior to ould Aysculapius.
Chorus: He and his wig wid the curls so carroty, Aigle eye and complexion clarety; Here's to his health, Honour and wealth, The king of his kind and the cream of all charity.
How the rich and the poor, to consult for a cure, Crowd on to his door in their carts and their carriages, Showin' their tongues or unlacin' their lungs, For divel wan sympton the docther disparages, Troth an' he'll tumble for high or for humble From his warm feather-bed wid no cross contrariety; Makin' as light of nursin' all night The beggar in rags as the belle of society.
Chorus: He and his wig wid the curls, etc.
And, as if by a meracle, ailments hysterical, Dad, wid one dose of bread pills he can smother, And quench the love sickness wid comical quickness, Prescribin' the right boys and girls to each other. And the sufferin' childer! Your eyes 'twould bewilder, To see the wee craythurs his coat-tails unravellin'— Each of them fast on some treasure at last, Well knowin' ould Mack's just a toy-shop out travellin'.
Chorus: He and his wig wid the curls, etc.
Thin, his doctherin' done, in a rollickin' run Wid the rod or the gun he's the foremost to figure; Be Jupiter Ammon! what jack-snipe or salmon E'er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or trigger! And hark that view-holloa! 'Tis Mack in full follow On black "Faugh-a-ballagh" the country-side sailin'! Och, but you'd think 'twas ould Nimrod in pink, Wid his spurs cryin' chink over park wall and palin'.
Chorus: He and his wig wid the curls so carroty, Aigle eye and complexion clarety. Here's to his health, Honour and wealth, Hip, hip, hooray, wid all hilarity!
Hip, hip, hooray! That's the way! All at once widout disparity! One more cheer for our docther dear, The king of his kind and the cream of all charity, Hip, hip, hooray!
TO THE MEMORY OF JOHN OWEN
HARLECH CHOIRMASTER
Who is this they bear along the street In his coffin through the sunshine sweet? Who is this so many comrades crave, Turn by turn, to carry to the grave?
Who is this for whom the hillward track Glooms with mounting lines of mourners black? Till the Baptists' green old burial-ground Clasps them all within its quiet bound.
Here John Owen we must lay to rest, 'Tis for him our hearts are sore distressed; Since his sister wistfully he eyed, Bowed his head upon her breast and died.
Well and truly at his work he wrought; Every Harlech road to order brought; Then through winter evenings dark and long At the chapel gave his heart to song.
Till before his gesture of command— Till before his hushing voice and hand— Sweeter, fuller strains who could desire Than he charmed from out his Baptist choir.
Many a time the passer-by enchained By their rapture to its close remained, And the churches joyfully agreed Their united choirs his skill should lead.
So in Handel's choruses sublime He would train them for the Christmas time; Mould their measures for the concert hall, Roll their thunders round the Castle wall.
Loving husband, tender father, quick To console the suffering and sick— Christ to follow was his constant aim, Christ's own deacon ere he bore the name.
Widowed wife and children fatherless, Stricken kinsfolk, friends in keen distress— Sorrow swept them all beneath its wave As his coffin sank into the grave.
But his Pastor's fervent voice went forth, Delicately dwelling on his worth, Urging his example, till at last Heavenly comfort o'er our grief he cast.
For his lonely ones we bowed in prayer, Sighed one hymn, and left him lying there, Whispering: "Lord, Thy will be done to-day, Thou didst give him, Thou hast taken away."
SAINT CUTHBERT
When once a winter storm upon the shores of Fife Drave Cuthbert; in despair, one fearful comrade saith: "To land in such a storm is certain loss of life!" "Return," another cried, "by sea is equal death." Then Cuthbert, "Earth and sea against us both are set, But friends, look up, for Heaven lies open to us yet."
ALFRED THE GREAT
A MILLENARY MEMORIAL
"In my life I have striven to live so worthily that at my death I may leave but a memory of good works to those who come after me."
Thus Alfred spake, whose days were beads of prayer Upon the rosary of his royal time, Who let "I do" wait not upon "I dare," Yet both with duty kept in golden chime, Who, great in victory, greater in defeat, Greatest in strenuous peace, still suffering, planned From Ashdown's field to Athelney's lone retreat Upward for aye to lift his little land. Therefore the seed of his most fruitful sowing, A thousand years gone by, on earth and sea, From slender strength to stately empire growing Hath given our isle great continents in fee. For which on Alfred's death-day each true heart Goes out in praise of his immortal part.
SIR SAMUEL FERGUSON
Strong Son of Fergus, with thy latest breath Thou hast lent a joy unto the funeral knell, Welcoming with thy whispered "All is well!" The awful aspect of the Angel Death. As, strong in life, thou couldst not brook to shun The heat and burthen of the fiery day, Fronting defeat with stalwart undismay, And wearing meekly honours stoutly won. Pure lips, pure hands, pure heart were thine, as aye Erin demanded from her bards of old, And, therefore, on thy harpstrings of pure gold Has waked once more her high heroic lay. What shoulders now shall match the mighty fold Of Ossian's mantle? Thou hast passed away.
"MEN, NOT WALLS, MAKE A CITY"
(On the home-coming of the London Regiments after the Boer War)
London Town, hear a ditty, While we crown our comrades true: "Men, not walls, make a City;" Ill befalls when men are few,—
Ill indeed when from his duty Into greed the burgess falls, Every hand on bribe and booty— How shall stand that City's walls?
Never yet upon thine annals Hath been writ such a shame; Never down such crooked channels, London Town, thy commerce came.
On the poor no tyrant burden, Debt secure and sacred trust, Honest gain and generous guerdon, These remain thy record just.
Therefore still through all thy story Loyal will thy train-bands led Forth to feats of patriot glory, Back through streets with bays o'erspread.
Therefore when the trumpet's warning Out again for battle rang, As of old all peril scorning, Forth thy bold young burghers sprang;
Faced the fight, endured the prison, Through the night of doubt and gloom, Till the Empire's star new risen Chased afar the clouds of doom.
Therefore, when their ranks came marching, Home again with flashing feet, Under bays of triumph arching City ways and City Street;
London, lift to God thanksgiving For His Gift that passes all— For thy heroes, dead and living, Who have made thy City Wall.
FIELD-MARSHAL EARL KITCHENER
(June 13, 1916)
A sheet of foam is our great Soldier's shroud Beside the desolate Orkney's groaning caves; And we are desolate and groan aloud To know his body wandering with the waves Who when the thunder-cloud of battle hate Broke o'er us, through it towered, the while he bore Upon his Titan shoulders a world weight Of doubt and danger none had brooked before. For while incredulous friend and foe denied him Such possible prowess, Honour's blast he blew; And lo! as if from out the earth beside him, Army on army into order grew; Till need at last was none for our retreating, And back to Belgium and the front of France We bore, firm gathered for our foe's defeating Against the sounding of the Great Advance.
Few were his friends, yet closely round him clustered, But from five million Britons, who at his call Came uncompelled and round him sternly mustered, The sighs escape, the silent teardrops fall.
And not alone the Motherland is weeping Her great dead Captain but, The Seven Seas o'er, Daughter Dominions sorrow's watch are keeping, For he was theirs as her's in peace and war.
Yea, strong sage Botha, and that stern Cape Raider Whom first he fought then bound with friendship's bond— Each now our own victorious Empire aider— Lament his loss the sounding deeps beyond. And India mourns her mightiest Soldier Warden, Egypt the Sirdar who her desert through
Laid iron lines of vengeance for our Gordon Till on the Madhi he swept, and struck and slew. And France, for whom he fought a youthful gallant, From whose proud breast he drew Fashoda's thorn— France who with England shared his searching talent, France like his second mother stands forlorn.
* * * * *
A man of men was he, the steadfast glances Of whose steel-grey, indomitable eyes So pierced the mind, behind all countenances, Crushed were the sophist's arts, the coward's lies. A man of men but in his greatness lonely— Undaunted in defeat, in conquest calm, For God and Country living and dying only, And winner therefore of the deathless palm.
* * * * *
A truce to tears then. Though his body hath No rest in English earth, his shining soul Still leads his armies up the arduous path He paved for them forthright to Glory's goal.
And we the men and women who remain, Let us to be his other Army burn With such pure fires of sacrificial pain As shall reward our warriors' return.
But now a sudden heavy silence falls On all our streets, half-mast the standard hangs— The hearseless funeral passes to St. Paul's, And out of every steeple the death-bell clangs.
Now sorrowing King and Queen, as midday booms, The hushed Fane enter, while o'er mourners black, Grey soldier, choral white, quick gleams and glooms Of sun and shadow darkle and sparkle back. The prayers of priest and people to heaven's gate win And a choir as of angels welcoming thither our chief— Till a thunder of drums the mighty Dead March beats in And the Last Post lingers, lingers and dies on our grief.
INSCRIPTION FOR A ROLL OF HONOUR IN A PUBLIC SCHOOL
Since to die nobly is Life's act supreme, And since our best and dearest thus have died, Across our cloud of grief a solemn gleam Of joy has struck, and all our tears are dried.
For these men to keep pure their country's fame Against great odds fell fighting to the death, God give us grace who here bear on their name To grow more like them with each proud-drawn breath.
AN EPITAPH
On an Irish Cross in memory of Charles Graves, Bishop of Limerick
To God his steadfast soul, his starry mind To Science, a gracious heart to kin and kind, He living gave. Therefore let each fair bloom Of Faith and Hope breathe balsam o'er his tomb.
AN INTERCESSIONAL ANSWERED
(June 26, 1902)
We thought to speed our earthly King Triumphant on his way Unto his solemn Sacreing Before Thy throne to-day; His royal robes were wrought, prepared His sceptre, orb and crown, And all earth's Princes here repaired To heighten his renown; When, hurtling out of bluest Heaven, Thy bolt upon us fell; Our head is pierced, our heart is riven, Struck dumb the Minster bell. Yet flags still flutter far and wide; The league-long garlands glow, Still London wears her gala pride Above a breast of woe. Lord shall these laughing leaves and flowers Their joyful use forget? Nay, on this stricken realm of ours Have Thou compassion yet.
Long years ago our Edward lay Thus fighting for his breath, Yet to such prayers as now we pray Thou gavest him back from death. Then o'er the tempest of his pain, His cry of perishing thrill, Let Thy right arm go forth again, Thy saving "Peace! be still!" Until to all his strength restored Thy Spirit lead Him down, In solemn state, Almighty Lord, To take from Thee his crown.
VI. PERSONAL AND VARIOUS
LET THERE BE JOY!
(A Christmas carol from the Scotch Gaelic)
This is now the blessed morn, When was born the Virgin's Son, Who from heights of glorious worth, Unto earth His way has won; All the heav'ns grow bright to greet Him, Forth to meet Him, ev'ry one!
All hail! let there be joy! All hail! let there be joy!
Mountains praise, with purple splendour, Plains, with tender tints, the morn; Shout, ye waves, with prophesying Voices crying, "Christ is born! Christ, the Son of heav'n's High King, Therefore sing no more forlorn!"
All hail! let there be joy! All hail! let there be joy!
A HOLIDAY HYMN
He, unto whom the Heavenly Father Hath in His works Himself revealed, Sees with rapt eyes the glory gather O'er hill and forest, flood and field.
He, when the torrent laughs in thunder, Larks soar exulting in the blue, Thrills with the waterfall's glad wonder, Far up to heaven goes singing too;
Wanders, a child among the daisies; Ponders, a poet, all things fair; Wreathes with the rose of dawn his praises, Weaves with eve's passion-flowers his prayer;
Full sure that He who reared the mountain, Made smooth the valley, plumed the height, Holds in clear air the lark and fountain— Shall yet uplift him into light.
SUMMER MORNING'S WALK
'Tis scarcely four by the village clock, The dew is heavy, the air is cool— A mist goes up from the glassy pool, Through the dim field ranges a phantom flock: No sound is heard but the magpie's mock.
Very low is the sun in the sky, It needeth no eagle now to regard him. Is there not one lark left to reward him With the shivering joy of his long, sweet cry, For sad he seemeth, I know not why.
Through the ivied ruins of yonder elm There glides and gazes a sadder face; Spectre Queen of a vanished race— 'Tis the full moon shrunk to a fleeting film, And she lingers for love of her ancient realm.
These are but selfish fancies, I know, Framed to solace a secret grief— Look again—scorning such false relief— Dwarf not Nature to match thy woe— Look again! whence do these fancies flow?
What is the moon but a lamp of fire That God shall relume in His season? the Sun, Like a giant, rejoices his race to run With flaming feet that never tire On the azure path of the starry choir.
The lark has sung ere I left my bed: And hark! far aloft from those ladders of light Many songs, not one only, the morn delight. Then, sad heart, dream not that Nature is dead, But seek from her strength and comfort instead.
SNOW-STAINS
The snow had fallen and fallen from heaven, Unnoticed in the night, As o'er the sleeping sons of God Floated the manna white; And still, though small flowers crystalline Blanched all the earth beneath, Angels with busy hands above Renewed the airy wreath; When, white amid the falling flakes, And fairer far than they, Beside her wintry casement hoar A dying woman lay. "More pure than yonder virgin snow From God comes gently down, I left my happy country home," She sighed, "to seek the town, More foul than yonder drift shall turn, Before the sun is high, Downtrodden and defiled of men, More foul," she wept, "am I."
"Yet, as in midday might confessed, Thy good sun's face of fire Draws the chaste spirit of the snow To meet him from the mire, Lord, from this leprous life in death Lift me, Thy Magdalene, That rapt into Redeeming Light I may once more be clean."
REMEMBRANCE
(To music)
The fairest blooming flower Before the sun must fade; Each leaf that lights the bower Must fall at last decayed! Like these we too must wither, Like these in earth lie low, None answering whence or whither We come, alas! or go.
None answering thee? thou sayest, Nay, mourner, from thy heart, If but in faith thou prayest, The Voice Divine shall start; "I gave and I have taken, If thou wouldst comfort win To cheer thy life forsaken, I knock, O, let me in!
"Thy loved ones have but folden Their earthly garments by, And through Heaven's gateway golden Gone gladly up on high. O, if thou wouldst be worthy To share their joy anon, Cast off, cast off the earthy, And put the heavenly on!"
SANDS OF GOLD
Hope gave into my trembling hands An hour-glass running golden sands, And Love's immortal joys and pains I measured by its glancing grains. But Evil Fortune swooped, alas! Remorseless on the magic glass, And shivered into idle dust The radiant record of my trust.
Long I mated with Despair And craved for Death with ceaseless prayer; Till unto my sick-bed side There stole a Presence angel-eyed.
"If thou wouldst heal thee of thy wound," Her voice to heavenly harps attuned Bespake me, "Let the sovran tide Within this glass thy future guide." Therewith she gave into my hands No hour-glass running golden sands, Only a horologe forlorn Set against a cross of thorn, And cold and stern the current seemed That through its clouded crystal gleamed.
"Immortal one," I cried, "make plain This cure of my consuming pain. Open my eyes to understand, And sift the secrets of this sand, And measure by its joyless grains What yet of life to me remains."
"The sand," she said, "that glimmers grey Within this glass, but yesterday Was dust at Dives' bolted door Shaken by God's suffering poor; Then by blasts of heaven upblown Before the Judge upon His throne To swell the ever-gathering cloud Of witnesses against the proud— The dust of throats that knew no slaking, The dust of brows for ever aching— Dust unto dust with life's last breath Sighed into the urn of Death."
With tears I took that cross of thorn, With tears that horologe forlorn. And all my moments by its dust I measure now with prayerful trust, And though my courage oft turns weak, Fresh comfort from that cross I seek; In wistful hope I yet may wake To find the thorn in blossom break, And from life's shivered glass behold My being's sands ebb forth in gold.
THE MOURNER
When tears, when heavy tears of sharpest sorrow Bathe the lone pillow of the mourner's bed, Whose grief breaks fresh with every breaking morrow For his beloved one dead, If all be not in vain, his passionate prayer Shall like a vapour mount the inviolate blue, To fall transfigured back on his despair In drops of Heavenly dew;
Nor fail him ever but a cloud unceasing Of incense from his soul's hushed altar start, And still return to rise with rich increasing, A well-spring from his heart; Pure fount of peace that freshly overflowing Through other lives shall still run radiant on, Till they, too, reap in joy who wept in sowing, Long after he is gone.
DE PROFUNDIS
Out of the darkness I call; I stretch forth my hands unto Thee. Loose these fetters that foully enthral; To their lock Thou alone hast the key. Low at Thy footstool I fall, Forgive and Thy servant is free!
Folly took hold of my time, On pleasure I perched, to my woe; I was snared in The Evil One's lime And now all his promptings I know. Crimson as blood is my crime. Yet Thou canst wash whiter than snow.
Heaven overhead is one frown; About me the black waters rave; To the deep I go dreadfully down; O pluck my feet out of the grave; Lord! I am sinking, I drown, O save, for Thou only canst save.
IMMORTAL HOPE
Summer hath too short a date Autumn enters, ah! how soon, Scattering with scornful hate All the flowers of June. Nay say not so, Nothing here below But dies To rise Anew with rarer glow.
Now, no skylarks singing soar Sunward, now, beneath the moon Love's own nightingale no more Lifts her magic tune! Nay, say not so, But awhile they go; Their strain Again All heaven shall overflow.
WE HAD A CHILD
We had a child, a little Fairy Prince, Let loose from Elfland for our heart's delight; Ah! was it yesterday or four years since He beamed upon our sight? Four years—and yet it seems but yesterday Since the blue wonder of his baby eyes. Beneath their ebon-fringed canopies, Subdued us to his sway.
Three years—and yet but yestermorn it seems Since first upon his feet he swaying stood, Buoyed bravely up by memory's magic dreams Of elfin hardihood. He stood, the while that long-forgotten lore Lit all his lovely face with frolic glee; And then—O marvel! to his mother's knee Walked the wide nursery floor.
Two years gone by—ah, no! but yesterday Our bright-eyed nursling, swift as we could teach, Forsook the low soft croonings of the fay For broken human speech— Broken, yet to our ears divinelier broken Than sweetest snatches from Heaven's mounting bird— More eloquent than the poet's passionate word Supremely sung or spoken.
But O, our darling in his joyful dance Tottered death-pale beneath the withering north, Into a kinder clime, most blessed chance, We caught him swiftly forth, And there he bloomed again, our fairy boy, Two year-long Aprils through in sun and shower, Wing-footed Mercury of each merry hour, The Genius of our joy.
And evermore we shared his shifting mood Of hide-and-seek with April joy and sorrow, Till not one shadow of solicitude Remained to mar our morrow; Yea, every fear had flown, lest, welladay! The headlong heats or winter's piercing power Should light afresh upon our radiant flower And wither him away.
* * * * *
We had a child, a little fairy child, He kissed us on the lips but yesternight, Yet when he wakened his blue eyes were wild With fevered light. We had a child—what countless ages since, Did he go forth from us with wildered brain, Will he come back and kiss us once again— Our little Fairy Prince?
BY THE BEDSIDE OF A SICK CHILD
O Thou by whose eternal plan Ages arise and roll, Who in Thine image madest man To search him to the soul, If e'er in token of the Cross, With infant arms outspread, Thou sawest Thy Beloved toss In anguish on His bed; Or heardest in the childish cry That pierced the cottage room The voice of Christ in agony Breaking from Calvary's gloom, Give ear! and from Thy Throne above With eyes of mercy mild, Look down, of Thine immortal love, Upon our suffering child.
Though Earth's physicians all in vain Have urged their utmost skill, Yet to our prayers O make it plain That Thou canst succour still; Yea! through the midnight watches drear, And all the weary day, O be Thy Good Physician near Our stricken one to stay; That evermore as we succeed In service at his side, Each office of our darling's need His heavenly hands may guide; Till o'er his tempest bed of pain, His cry of perishing thrill The Saviour's arm go forth again, The Saviour's "Peace! be still."
Too well, O Lord, too well we know How oft upon Thy way Our feet have followed faint and slow, How often turned astray For fleeting pleasures to forsake Thy path of heavenly prayer; We have deserved that Thou shouldst take Our children from our care. Yet, O Good Shepherd, lead us back, Our lamb upon Thy breast, Safely along the narrow track, Across the dangerous crest; Until our aching eyes rejoice At Salem's shining walls, And to our thirsting souls a Voice Of Living Waters calls.
HE HAS COME BACK
Without the wintry sky is overcast, The floods descend, fierce hail and rushing rain, Whilst ever and anon the angry blast Clutches the casement-pane. Within our darling beats an angrier air With piteous outstretched arms and tossing head, Whilst we, bowed low beside his labouring bed, Pour all our hearts in prayer.
Is this the end? The tired little hands Fall by his side, the wild eyes close at last, Breathless he sinks, almost we hear his sands Of being ebbing past; When, O miraculous! he wakes once more, Love glowing in his glance, the while there slips "Mother, dear Mother!" from his trembling lips, "Dear Mother!" o'er and o'er.
He has come back, our little Fairy Child, Back from his wanderings in the dreadful dark, Back o'er the furious surge of fever wild, The lost dove of our ark; Back, slowly back o'er the dire flood's decrease The white wings flutter, only our God knows how, Bearing aloft the blessed olive bough Of His compassionate peace.
SPRING'S SECRETS
As once I paused on poet wing In the green heart of a grove, I met the Spirit of the Spring With her great eyes lit of love.
She took me gently by the hand And whispered in my wondering ear Secrets none may understand, Till she make their meaning clear;
Why the primrose looks so pale, Why the rose is set with thorns; Why the magic nightingale Through the darkness mourns and mourns;
How the angels, as they pass In their vesture pure and white O'er the shadowy garden grass, Touch the lilies into light;
How their hidden hands upbear The fledgling throstle in the air, And lift the lowly lark on high, And hold him singing in the sky;
What human hearts delight her most; The careless child with roses crowned, The mourner, knowing that his lost Shall in the Eternal Spring be found.
THE LORD'S LEISURE
Tarry thou the leisure of the Lord! Ever the wise upon Him wait; Early they sorrow, suffer late, Yet at the last have their reward.
Shall then the very King sublime Keep thee and me in constant thought, Out of the countless names of naught Swept on the surging stream of time?
Ah, but the glorious sun on high, Searching the sea, fold on fold, Gladdens with coronals of gold Each troubled billow heaving by.
Though he remove him for a space, Though gloom resume the sleeping sea, Yet of his beams her dreams shall be, Yet shall his face renew her grace.
Then when sorrow is outpoured, Pain chokes the channels of thy blood, Think upon the sun and the flood, Tarry thou the leisure of the Lord.
SPRING IS NOT DEAD
Snow on the earth, though March is wellnigh over; Ice on the flood; Fingers of frost where late the hawthorn cover Burgeoned with bud. Yet in the drift the patient primrose hiding, Yet in the stream the glittering troutlet gliding, Yet from the root the sap still upward springing, Yet overhead one faithful skylark singing, "Spring is not dead!"
Brows fringed with snow, the furrowed brows of sorrow, Cheeks pale with care: Pulses of pain that throb from night till morrow; Hearts of despair! O, yet take comfort, still your joy approaches, Dark is the hour that on the dawn encroaches, April's own smile shall yet succeed your sighing, April's own voice set every song-bird crying, "Spring is not dead!"
AIM NOT TOO HIGH
(To an Old English air)
Aim not too high at things beyond thy reach Nor give the rein to reckless thought or speech. Is it not better all thy life to bide Lord of thyself than all the earth beside?
Then if high Fortune far from thee take wing, Why shouldst thou envy Counsellor or King? Purple or buckram—wherefore make ado What coat may cover, so the heart be true?
But if at last thou gather wealth at will, Thou best shalt succour those that need it still; Since he who best doth poverty endure, Should prove when rich heart's brother to the poor.
WILD WINE OF NATURE
IN PRAISE OF WATER-DRINKING
(After Duncan Ban McIntyre)
Wild Wine of Nature, honey tasted, Ever streaming, never wasted, From long and long and long ago In limpid, cool, life-giving flow Up-bubbling with its cordial bland Even from the thirsty desert sand— O draught to quench man's thirst upon Far sweeter than the cinnamon! Like babes upon their mother's breast, To Earth our craving lips are pressed For her free gift of matchless price, Pure as it poured in Paradise.
BRIDAL INVOCATION
Jesu, from to-day Guide us on our way, So shall we, no moment wasting, Follow Thee with holy hasting, Led by Thy dear Hand To the Blessed land.
Through despondence dread, Still support our tread; Though our heavy burdens bow us, How to bear them bravely, show us! Such adversity Is but the path to Thee.
When our bosom's grief Clamours for relief, When we share another's sorrow, May we Thy sweet patience borrow, That to our Heavenly Father's Will We may trust each issue still.
Thus our onward way, Order day by day, Though upon rough roads Thou set us, Thy fond care shall ne'er forget us, Till "underneath Death's darkening door; We see the glimmering of Heaven's floor."
THE COMING OF SIR GALAHAD AND A VISION OF THE GRAIL
At the solemn Feast of Pentecost Arthur the King and his chosen Knights Sat, as we sit, in the Court of Camelot side by side at The Table Round. None made music, none held converse, none knew hunger, none were athirst, Each possessed with the same strange longing, each fulfilled with one awful hope; Each of us fearing even to whisper what he felt to his bosom friend, Lest the spell should be snapped in sunder.
Thus we sat awaiting a sign! When, on a sudden, out of the distance blared the bugle that hangs at the gate; Loud the barbican leaped on its hinges; and the hollow porch and the vacant hall And the roof of the long resounding corridor echoed the advent of unknown feet, The feet of a stranger approaching the threshold step by step irresistibly: Till opened yonder door and through it strode to this Table the Virgin Knight— Strode and stood with uplifted vizor.
Fear fell on all, save only the King! Uprose Arthur, unbarred his helmet; shone confessed the countenance chaste. Then, for so the Spirit inspired him, set the youth on the Perilous Seat; Brake as he pressed it a Peal of thunder and paled the firelight, paled the lamps, Such a sudden stream of splendour flooded the Feast with miraculous light; Whilst, O Wonder! round the Table swathed in samite, dazzling bright, Passed the Presence, mystical, shadowy, ghostly gliding—the Holy Grail, Passed, though none could its shape discover, nay, not even the Virgin Knight, Passed, passed with strains seraphic, incense odours, rainbow hues— Passed, passed, and where it entered, suddenly melted out of sight.
ASK WHAT THOU WILT
Thy blood was spilt From death to set us free; Ask what Thou wilt, 'Tis consecrate to Thee! Thy hands and feet For us the nails went through. What is most meet, Bid ours for Thee to do. Ask what Thou wilt.
All round Thy Brows The Throne of Heavenly thought, Divine Wisdom's house— For us the thorns were wrought; Therefore, though dust In balance with Thy pains, Take Thou, in trust, The travail of our brains! Ask what Thou wilt.
Thy Heart of Love With all its human aches, By the spear's proof, Was broken for our sakes; Our hearts, therefore, And all we love and own Are ours no more, But Thine and Thine alone. Ask what Thou wilt.
Though homes be riven, At Thy supreme behest, Yea! the sword driven Through many a mother's breast; Thy blood was spilt From death to set us free; Ask what Thou wilt 'Tis consecrate to Thee. Ask what Thou wilt.
Printed at the Complete Press West Norwood London
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