SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE,

TO
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH, ESQ.,

IN TOKEN OF DEEP RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND FERVENT GRATITUDE FOR MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL BENEFIT DERIVED FROM REVERENTIAL COMMUNION WITH THE SPIRIT OF HIS POETRY, THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED BY FELICIA HEMANS.[420]

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

It has been my wish to portray the religious spirit, not alone in its meditative joys and solitary aspirations, (the poetic embodying of which seems to require from the reader a state of mind already separated and exalted,) but likewise in those active influences upon human life, so often called into victorious energy by trial and conflict, though too often also, like the upward-striving flame of a mountain watch-fire, borne down by tempest-showers, or swayed by the current of opposing winds.

I have sought to represent that spirit as penetrating the gloom of the prison and the deathbed, bearing “healing on its wings” to the agony of parting love—strengthening the heart of the wayfarer for “perils in the wilderness”—gladdening the domestic walk through field and woodland—and springing to life in the soul of childhood, along with its earliest rejoicing perceptions of natural beauty.

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

1834.

[420] The long-contemplated collection of Scenes and Hymns of Life was published soon after the two little volumes above alluded to. In her original dedication of this work to Mr Wordsworth, Mrs Hemans had given free scope to the expression of her sentiments, not only of veneration for the poet, but of deep and grateful regard for the friend. From a fear, however, that delicacy on Mr Wordsworth’s part might prevent his wishing to receive, in a public form, a testimonial of so much private feeling from a living individual, the intended letter was suppressed, and its substantial ideas conveyed in the brief inscription which was finally prefixed to the volume. It is now hoped that all such objections to its publication have vanished, and that the revered friend to whom it was addressed will receive it as the heart-tribute of one to whom flattery was unknown—as consecrated by the solemn truth of a voice from the grave.

Intended Dedication of the “Scenes and Hymns of Life,” to William Wordsworth, Esq.

“My dear Sir,

“I earnestly wish that the little volume here inscribed to you, in token of affectionate veneration, were pervaded by more numerous traces of those strengthening and elevating influences which breathe from all your poetry ‘a power to virtue friendly.’ I wish, too, that such a token could more adequately convey my deep sense of gratitude for moral and intellectual benefit long derived from the study of that poetry—for the perpetual fountains of ‘serious faith and inward glee’ which I have never failed to discover amidst its pure and lofty regions—for the fresh green places of refuge which it has offered me in many an hour, when

‘The fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart;’

and when I have found in your thoughts and images such relief as the vision of your ‘Sylvan Wye’ may, at similar times, have afforded to yourself.

“May I be permitted, on the present occasion, to record my unfading recollections of enjoyment from your society—of delight in having heard from your own lips, and amidst your own lovely mountain-land, many of those compositions, the remembrance of which will ever spread over its hills and waters a softer colouring of spiritual beauty? Let me also express to you, as to a dear and most honoured friend, my fervent wishes for your long enjoyment of a widely-extended influence, which cannot but be blessed—of a domestic life, encircling you with yet nearer and deeper sources of happiness; and of those eternal hopes, on whose foundation you have built, as a Christian poet, the noble structure of your works.

“I rely upon your kindness, my dear Sir, for an indulgent reception of my offering, however lowly, since you will feel assured of the sincerity with which it is presented by your ever grateful and affectionate Felicia Hemans.”

THE ENGLISH MARTYRS;

A SCENE OF THE DAYS OF QUEEN MARY.

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

Scene I.—A Prison.

Edith alone.

Edith. Morn once again! Morn in the lone, dim cell,
The cavern of the prisoner’s fever-dream;
And morn on all the green, rejoicing hills,
And the bright waters round the prisoner’s home,
Far, far away! Now wakes the early bird,
That in the lime’s transparent foliage sings,
Close to my cottage-lattice—he awakes,
To stir the young leaves with his gushing soul,
And to call forth rich answers of delight
From voices buried in a thousand trees
Through the dim, starry hours. Now doth the lake
Darken and flash in rapid interchange
Unto the matin breeze; and the blue mist
Rolls, like a furling banner, from the brows
Of the forth-gleaming hills and woods that rise
As if new-born. Bright world! and I am here!
And thou, O thou! the awakening thought of whom
Was more than dayspring, dearer than the sun,
Herbert! the very glance of whose clear eye
Made my soul melt away to one pure fount
Of living, bounding gladness!—where art thou?
My friend! my only and my blessed love!
Herbert, my soul’s companion!
Gomez, a Spanish Priest, enters.
Gom. Daughter, hail!
I bring thee tidings.
Ed. Heaven will aid my soul
Calmly to meet whate’er thy lips announce.
Gom. Nay, lift a song of thanksgiving to heaven,
And bow thy knee down for deliverance won!
Hast thou not pray’d for life? and wouldst thou not
Once more be free!
Ed. Have I not pray’d for life?
I, that am so beloved! that love again
With such a heart of tendrils? Heaven! thou know’st
The gushings of my prayer! And would I not
Once more be free? I that have been a child
Of breezy hills, a playmate of the fawn
In ancient woodlands from mine infancy!
A watcher of the clouds and of the stars,
Beneath the adoring silence of the night;
And a glad wanderer with the happy streams,
Whose laughter fills the mountains! Oh! to hear
Their blessed sounds again!
Gom. Rejoice, rejoice!
Our queen hath pity, maiden! on thy youth;
She wills not thou shouldst perish. I am come
To loose thy bonds.
Ed. And shall I see his face,
And shall I listen to his voice again,
And lay my head upon his faithful breast,
Weeping there in my gladness? Will this be?
Blessings upon thee, father! my quick heart
Hath deem’d thee stern—say, wilt thou not forgive
The wayward child, too long in sunshine rear’d—
Too long unused to chastening? Wilt thou not?
But Herbert, Herbert! Oh, my soul hath rush’d
On a swift gust of sudden joy away,
Forgetting all beside! Speak, father! speak!
Herbert—is he, too, free?
Gom. His freedom lies
In his own choice—a boon like thine.
Ed. Thy words
Fall changed and cold upon my boding heart.
Leave not this dim suspense o’ershadowing me;
Let all be told.
Gom. The monarchs of the earth
Shower not their mighty gifts without a claim
Unto some token of true vassalage,
Some mark of homage.
Ed. Oh! unlike to Him
Who freely pours the joy of sunshine forth,
And the bright, quickening rain, on those who serve
And those who heed Him not!
Gom. (laying a paper before her.) Is it so much
That thine own hand should set the crowning seal
To thy deliverance? Look, thy task is here!
Sign but these words for liberty and life.
Ed. (examining and then throwing it from her.)
Sign but these words! and wherefore saidst thou not
—“Be but a traitor to God’s light within?”
Cruel, oh cruel! thy dark sport hath been
With a young bosom’s hope! Farewell, glad life!
Bright opening path to love and home, farewell!
And thou—now leave me with my God alone!
Gom. Dost thou reject heaven’s mercy?
Ed. Heaven’s! doth heaven
Woo the free spirit for dishonour’d breath
To sell its birthright?—doth heaven set a price
On the clear jewel of unsullied faith,
And the bright calm of conscience? Priest, away!
God hath been with me midst the holiness
Of England’s mountains. Not in sport alone
I trod their heath-flowers; but high thoughts rose up
From the broad shadow of the enduring rocks,
And wander’d with me into solemn glens,
Where my soul felt the beauty of His word.
I have heard voices of immortal truth,
Blent with the everlasting torrent-sounds
That make the deep hills tremble.—Shall I quail?
Shall England’s daughter sink? No! He who there
Spoke to my heart in silence and in storm,
Will not forsake His child!
Gom. (turning from her.) Then perish! lost
In thine own blindness!
Ed. (suddenly throwing herself at his feet.)
Father! hear me yet!
Oh! if the kindly touch of human love
Hath ever warm’d thy breast——
Gom. Away—away!
I know not love.
Ed. Yet hear! if thou hast known
The tender sweetness of a mother’s voice—
If the true vigil of affection’s eye
Hath watch’d thy childhood—if fond tears have e’er
Been shower’d upon thy head—if parting words
E’er pierced thy spirit with their tenderness—
Let me but look upon his face once more,
Let me but say—Farewell, my soul’s beloved!
And I will bless thee still!
Gom. (aside.) Her soul may yield,
Beholding him in fetters; woman’s faith
Will bend to woman’s love.
Thy prayer is heard;
Follow, and I will guide thee to his cell.
Ed. O stormy hour of agony and joy!
But I shall see him—I shall hear his voice!
[They go out.

Scene II.—Another part of the Prison.

Herbert, Edith.

Ed. Herbert! my Herbert! is it thus we meet?
Her. The voice of my own Edith! Can such joy
Light up this place of death! And do I feel
Thy breath of love once more upon my cheek,
And the soft floating of thy gleamy hair,
My blessed Edith? Oh, so pale! so changed!
My flower, my blighted flower! thou that wert made
For the kind fostering of sweet, summer airs,
How hath the storm been with thee? Lay thy head
On this true breast again, my gentle one!
And tell me all.
Ed. Yes! take me to thy heart,
For I am weary, weary! Oh! that heart!
The kind, the brave, the tender!—how my soul
Hath sicken’d in vain yearnings for the balm
Of rest on that warm heart!—full, deep repose!
One draught of dewy stillness after storm!
And God hath pitied me, and I am here—
Yet once before I die.
Her. They cannot slay
One young, and meek, and beautiful as thou,
My broken lily! Surely the long days
Of the dark cell have been enough for thee!
Oh! thou shalt live, and raise thy gracious head
Yet in calm sunshine.
Ed. Herbert! I have cast
The snare of proferr’d mercy from my soul,
This very hour. God to the weak hath given
Victory o’er life and death. The tempter’s price
Hath been rejected—Herbert, I must die.
Her. O Edith! Edith! I, that led thee first
From the old path wherein thy fathers trod—
I, that received it as an angel’s task,
To pour the fresh light on thine ardent soul,
Which drank it as a sunflower—I have been
Thy guide to death.
Ed. To heaven! my guide to heaven,
My noble and my blessed! Oh! look up,
Be strong, rejoice, my Herbert! But for thee,
How could my spirit have sprung up to God
Through the dark cloud which o’er its vision hung,
The night of fear and error?—thy dear hand
First raised that veil, and show’d the glorious world
My heritage beyond. Friend! love, and friend!
It was as if thou gavest me mine own soul
In those bright days! Yes! a new earth and heaven,
And a new sense for all their splendours born—
These were thy gifts; and shall I not rejoice
To die, upholding their immortal worth,
Even for thy sake? Yes! fill’d with nobler life
By thy pure love, made holy to the truth,
Lay me upon the altar of thy God,
The first fruits of thy ministry below—
Thy work, thine own!
Her. My love, my sainted love!
Oh! I can almost yield thee unto heaven;
Earth would but sully thee! Thou must depart,
With the rich crown of thy celestial gifts
Untainted by a breath. And yet, alas!
Edith! what dreams of holy happiness,
Even for this world, were ours!—the low sweet home,
The pastoral dwelling, with its ivied porch,
And lattice gleaming through the leaves—and thou
My life’s companion! Thou, beside my hearth,
Sitting with thy meek eyes, or greeting me
Back from brief absence with thy bounding step,
In the green meadow-path, or by my side
Kneeling—thy calm uplifted face to mine,
In the sweet hush of prayer! And now—oh, now!—
How have we loved—how fervently! how long!
And this to be the close!
Ed. Oh! bear me up
Against the unutterable tenderness
Of earthly love, my God!—in the sick hour
Of dying human hope, forsake me not!
Herbert, my Herbert! even from that sweet home
Where it had been too much of Paradise
To dwell with thee—even thence the oppressor’s hand
Might soon have torn us; or the touch of death
Might one day there have left a widow’d heart,
Pining alone. We will go hence, beloved!
To the bright country where the wicked cease
From troubling, where the spoiler hath no sway;
Where no harsh voice of worldliness disturbs
The Sabbath-peace of love. We will go hence,
Together with our wedded souls, to heaven:
No solitary lingering, no cold void,
No dying of the heart! Our lives have been
Lovely through faithful love, and in our deaths
We will not be divided.
Her. Oh! the peace
Of God is lying far within thine eyes,
Far underneath the mist of human tears
Lighting those blue, still depths, and sinking thence
On my worn heart. Now am I girt with strength,
Now I can bless thee, my true bride for heaven!
Ed. And let me bless thee, Herbert!—in this hour
Let my soul bless thee with prevailing might!
Oh! thou hast loved me nobly! thou didst take
An orphan to thy heart—a thing unprized
And desolate; and thou didst guard her there,
That lone and lowly creature, as a pearl
Of richest price; and thou didst fill her soul
With the high gifts of an immortal wealth.
I bless, I bless thee! Never did thine eye
Look on me but in glistening tenderness,
My gentle Herbert! Never did thy voice
But in affection’s deepest music speak
To thy poor Edith! Never was thy heart
Aught but the kindliest sheltering home to mine,
My faithful, generous Herbert! Woman’s peace
Ne’er on a breast so tender and so true
Reposed before. Alas! thy showering tears
Fall fast upon my cheek—forgive, forgive!
I should not melt thy noble strength away
In such an hour.
Her. Sweet Edith, no! my heart
Will fail no more. God bears me up through thee,
And by thy words, and by thy heavenly light
Shining around thee, through thy very tears,
Will yet sustain me! Let us call on Him!
Let us kneel down, as we have knelt so oft,
Thy pure cheek touching mine, and call on Him,
Th’ all-pitying One, to aid.
[They kneel.
Oh, look on us,
Father above!—in tender mercy look
On us, thy children!—through th’ o’ershadowing cloud
Of sorrow and mortality, send aid—
Save, or we perish! We would pour our lives
Forth as a joyous offering to thy truth;
But we are weak—we, the bruised reeds of earth,
Are sway’d by every gust. Forgive, O God!
The blindness of our passionate desires,
The fainting of our hearts, the lingering thoughts
Which cleave to dust! Forgive the strife; accept
The sacrifice, though dim with mortal tears,
From mortal pangs wrung forth! And if our souls,
In all the fervent dreams, the fond excess,
Of their long-clasping love, have wander’d not,
Holiest! from thee—oh! take them to thyself,
After the fiery trial—take them home
To dwell, in that imperishable bond
Before thee link’d, for ever. Hear!—thro’ Him
Who meekly drank the cup of agony,
Who pass’d through death to victory, hear and save!
Pity us, Father! we are girt with snares:
Father in Heaven! we have no help but thee.
[They rise.
Is thy soul strengthen’d, my beloved one?
O Edith! couldst thou lift up thy sweet voice,
And sing me that old solemn-breathing hymn
We loved in happier days—the strain which tells
Of the dread conflict in the olive shade?

Edith sings.

He knelt, the Saviour knelt and pray’d,
When but his Father’s eye
Look’d through the lonely garden’s shade
On that dread agony;
The Lord of all above, beneath,
Was bow’d with sorrow unto death.
The sun set in a fearful hour,
The stars might well grow dim,
When this mortality had power
So to o’ershadow Him!
That He who gave man’s breath, might know
The very depths of human woe.
He proved them all!—the doubt, the strife,
The faint perplexing dread,
The mists that hang o’er parting life,
All gather’d round his head;
And the Deliverer knelt to pray—
Yet pass’d it not, that cup, away!
It pass’d not—though the stormy wave
Had sunk beneath his tread;
It pass’d not—though to Him the grave
Had yielded up its dead.
But there was sent him from on High
A gift of strength for man to die.
And was the Sinless thus beset
With anguish and dismay?
How may we meet our conflict yet,
In the dark, narrow way?
Through Him—through Him that path who trod.
—Save, or we perish, Son of God!
Hark, hark! the parting signal.
[Prison attendants enter.
Fare thee well!
O thou unutterably loved, farewell!
Let our hearts bow to God!
Her. One last embrace—
On earth the last! We have eternity
For love’s communion yet! Farewell!—farewell!
[She is led out.
’Tis o’er!—the bitterness of death is past!

FLOWERS AND MUSIC IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.

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

Apartment in an English country-house.—Lilian reclining, as sleeping on a couch. Her mother watching beside her. Her sister enters with flowers.

Mother. Hush! lightly tread! Still tranquilly she sleeps,
As when a babe I rock’d her on my heart.
I’ve watch’d, suspending e’en my breath, in fear
To break the heavenly spell. Move silently!
And oh! those flowers! Dear Jessy! bear them hence—
Dost thou forget the passion of quick tears
That shook her trembling frame, when last we brought
The roses to her couch? Dost thou not know
What sudden longings for the woods and hills,
Where once her free steps moved so buoyantly,
These leaves and odours with strange influence wake
In her fast-kindled soul?
Jessy. Oh! she would pine,
Were the wild scents and glowing hues withheld,
Mother! far more than now her spirit yearns
For the blue sky, the singing birds and brooks,
And swell of breathing turf, whose lightsome spring
Their blooms recall.
Lilian, (raising herself.) Is that my Jessy’s voice
It woke me not, sweet mother! I had lain
Silently, visited by waking dreams,
Yet conscious of thy brooding watchfulness,
Long ere I heard the sound. Hath she brought flowers?
Nay, fear not now thy fond child’s waywardness,
My thoughtful mother!—in her chasten’d soul
The passion-colour’d images of life,
Which, with their sudden, startling flush, awoke
So oft those burning tears, have died away;
And night is there—still, solemn, holy night!
With all her stars, and with the gentle tune
Of many fountains, low and musical,
By day unheard.
Mother. And wherefore night, my child?
Thou art a creature all of life and dawn,
And from thy couch of sickness yet shalt rise,
And walk forth with the dayspring.
Lilian. Hope it not!
Dream it no more, my mother!—there are things
Known but to God, and to the parting soul,
Which feels His thrilling summons.
But my words
Too much o’ershadow those kind, loving eyes.
Bring me thy flowers, dear Jessy! Ah! thy step,
Well do I see, hath not alone explored
The garden bowers, but freely visited
Our wilder haunts. This foam-like meadow-sweet
Is from the cool, green, shadowy river-nook,
Where the stream chimes around th’ old mossy stones
With sounds like childhood’s laughter. Is that spot
Lovely as when our glad eyes hail’d it first?
Still doth the golden willow bend, and sweep
The clear brown wave with every passing wind?
And through the shallower waters, where they lie
Dimpling in light, do the vein’d pebbles gleam
Like bedded gems? And the white butterflies,
From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still
Among the poplar-boughs?
Jessy. All, all is there
Which glad midsummer’s wealthiest hours can bring;
All, save the soul of all, thy lightning-smile!
Therefore I stood in sadness midst the leaves,
And caught an under-music of lament
In the stream’s voice. But Nature waits thee still,
And for thy coming piles a fairy throne
Of richest moss.
Lilian. Alas! it may not be!
My soul hath sent her farewell voicelessly
To all these blessed haunts of song and thought;
Yet not the less I love to look on these,
Their dear memorials,—strew them o’er my couch
Till it grow like a forest-bank in spring,
All flush’d with violets and anemones.
Ah! the pale brier-rose! touch’d so tenderly,
As a pure ocean-shell, with faintest red,
Melting away to pearliness! I know
How its long, light festoons o’erarching hung
From the gray rock that rises altar-like,
With its high, waving crown of mountain-ash,
Midst the lone grassy dell. And this rich bough
Of honey’d woodbine tells me of the oak,
Whose deep, midsummer gloom sleeps heavily,
Shedding a verdurous twilight o’er the face
Of the glade’s pool. Methinks I see it now;
I look up through the stirring of its leaves
Unto the intense blue, crystal firmament.
The ringdove’s wing is flitting o’er my head,
Casting at times a silvery shadow down
Midst the large water-lilies. Beautiful!
How beautiful is all this fair, free world
Under God’s open sky!
Mother. Thou art o’erwrought
Once more, my child! The dewy, trembling light
Presaging tears, again is in thine eye.
Oh, hush, dear Lilian! turn thee to repose.
Lilian. Mother! I cannot. In my soul the thoughts
Burn with too subtle and too swift a fire;
Importunately to my lips they throng,
And with their earthly kindred seek to blend
Ere the veil drop between. When I am gone—
(For I must go)—then the remember’d words
Wherein these wild imaginings flow forth,
Will to thy fond heart be as amulets
Held there, with life and love. And weep not thus,
Mother! dear sister!—kindest, gentlest ones!
Be comforted that now I weep no more
For the glad earth and all the golden light
Whence I depart.
No! God hath purified my spirit’s eye,
And in the folds of this consummate rose
I read bright prophecies. I see not there,
Dimly and mournfully, the word “farewell”
On the rich petals traced. No—in soft veins
And characters of beauty, I can read—
“Look up, look heavenward!”
Blessed God of Love!
I thank Thee for these gifts, the precious links
Whereby my spirit unto Thee is drawn!
I thank Thee that the loveliness of earth
Higher than earth can raise me! Are not these
But germs of things unperishing, that bloom
Beside th’ immortal streams? Shall I not find
The lily of the field, the Saviour’s flower,
In the serene and never-moaning air,
And the clear starry light of angel eyes,
A thousand-fold more glorious? Richer far
Will not the violet’s dusky purple glow,
When it hath ne’er been press’d to broken hearts,
A record of lost love?
Mother. My Lilian! thou
Surely in thy bright life hast little known
Of lost things or of changed!
Lilian. Oh! little yet,
For thou hast been my shield! But had it been
My lot on this world’s billows to be thrown
Without thy love, O mother! there are hearts
So perilously fashion’d, that for them
God’s touch alone hath gentleness enough
To waken, and not break, their thrilling strings!—
We will not speak of this!
By what strange spell
Is it, that ever, when I gaze on flowers,
I dream of music? Something in their hues,
All melting into colour’d harmonies,
Wafts a swift thought of interwoven chords,
Of blended singing-tones, that swell and die
In tenderest falls away. Oh, bring thy harp,
Sister! A gentle heaviness at last
Hath touch’d mine eyelids: sing to me, and sleep
Will come again.
Jessy. What wouldst thou hear?—the Italian peasant’s lay,
Which makes the desolate Campagna ring
With “Roma! Roma!” or the madrigal
Warbled on moonlight seas of Sicily?
Or the old ditty left by troubadours
To girls of Languedoc?
Lilian. Oh, no! not these.
Jessy. What then?—the Moorish melody still known
Within the Alhambra city? or those notes
Born of the Alps, which pierce the exile’s heart
Even unto death?
Lilian. No, sister! nor yet these—
Too much of dreamy love, of faint regret,
Of passionately fond remembrance, breathes
In the caressing sweetness of their tones,
For one who dies. They would but woo me back
To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds—
And vainly, vainly. No! a loftier strain,
A deeper music!—something that may bear
The spirit upon slow yet mighty wings,
Unsway’d by gusts of earth; something all fill’d
With solemn adoration, tearful prayer.
Sing me that antique strain which once I deem’d
Almost too sternly simple, too austere
In its grave majesty! I love it now—
Now it seems fraught with holiest power to hush
All billows of the soul, e’en like His voice
That said of old—“Be still!” Sing me that strain,
“The Saviour’s dying hour.”
Jessy sings to the Harp.
O Son of Man!
In thy last mortal hour
Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully!
All that on us is laid,
All the deep gloom,
The desolation and the abandonment,
The dark amaze of death—
All upon thee too fell,
Redeemer! Son of Man!
But the keen pang
Wherewith the silver cord
Of earth’s affection from the soul is wrung;
The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown
Into the quick, strong heart;
This, this—the passion and the agony
Of battling love and death,
Surely was not for thee,
Holy One! Son of God!
Yes, my Redeemer!
E’en this cup was thine!
Fond, wailing voices call’d thy spirit back:
E’en midst the mighty thoughts
Of that last crowning hour—
E’en on thine awful way to victory,
Wildly they call’d thee back!
And weeping eyes of love
Unto thy heart’s deep core
Pierced through the folds of death’s mysterious veil.
Suffer! thou Son of Man!
Mother-tears were mingled
With thy costly blood-drops,
In the shadow of the atoning cross;
And the friend, the faithful,
He that on thy bosom
Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain—
He, a pale sad watcher,
Met with looks of anguish
All the anguish in thy last meek glance—
Dying Son of Man!
Oh! therefore unto thee,
Thou that hast known all woes
Bound in the girdle of mortality!
Thou that wilt lift the reed
Which storms have bruised,
To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry,
And, in that tempest-hour, when love and life
Mysteriously must part,
When tearful eyes
Are passionately bent
To drink earth’s last fond meaning from our gaze,
Then, then forsake us not!
Shed on our spirits then
The faith and deep submissiveness of thine!
Thou that didst love
Thou that didst weep and die—
Thou that didst rise a victor glorified;
Conqueror! thou Son of God!

CATHEDRAL HYMN.