Tranquil sounds and voices tender
Tell of life and gladness there. Ne'er was living thing, I wot, Which our Lord regarded not.
Bird and beast, and insect rover,
E'en the lilies of the field,
Till His gentle life was over,
Heavenly thought to Him could yield;
All that is to Him did prove
Food for wisdom, food for love.
But the hearts that bow'd before Him
Most of all to Him were dear;
Let such hearts to-night watch o'er Him
Till the day-spring shall appear:
Then a brighter sun shall rise
Than e'er kindled up the skies.
All night long, with plaintive voicing,
Chaunt his requiem soft and low;
Loftier strains of loud rejoicing
From to-morrow's harps shall flow: "Death and hell at length are slain,
Christ hath triumph'd, Christ doth reign."
AUTHOR OF THE SCHOOL OF THE HEART,"
WITH no unmoved or irresponsive heart,
Have I, O Alford, listen'd to thy lay,
Thy pure and fervent lay of holy thoughts
And heavenward aspirations, temper'd down
To apprehension of earth's grosser sense
By intermixture sweet of human love
And hymeneal fondness. Under heaven
My thought shapes not a happier lot than thine,
Who, in life's sunny summer, hand in hand
With the dear object of thy earliest love,
Walk'st through this world, at liberty to cull
Whate'er of bright and beautiful it yields
To thy keen instinct of poetic sense;
Therewith to feed the pure religious flame
Which burns upon the altar of thy heart,
And through the inner temple of thy being
Pours a continual gleam of living light,
Irradiating with splendour, not of earth,
Each well proportioned and harmonious part
Of all its rich and graceful architecture.
Yea, blessed is thy lot, for thou enjoy'st
God's three divinest gifts,-love of Himself,
And love domestic, and the inward eye
Of the true poet; while, from earliest youth,
Thy soul hath been so disciplined by use
To wait on duty's call, so taught to wield
Its inborn powers aright, each natural sense
So exercised and strengthen'd to discern
The beautiful and good, and, when discern'd,
To mould them to God's service, that to thee
All things belong; this world, and life and death,
All immaterial and material forms
Of glory and of loveliness; 'tis thine
To extract from all things seen, all things believed,
All things imagined, their essential sweetness,
As none but christian poets, train'd like thee
In sweet experience of earth's richest love,
Know to extract it.
Such, ten years ago,
Might seem to be my lot; for I was then
A youthful poet, even as thou art now,
And, like thee, newly join'd in holy bands
Of fond and fervent wedlock; like thee, too,
Had I then newly utter'd, in God's house,
The vows of an ambassador for Christ,
And with no insincere or base intent,
Albeit but ill prepared for such high task,
And little recking of its weightier cares
And dread responsibilities, assumed
The pastoral name and office. What forbade
But that, like thee, I too should then devote
My mind's expanded energies, my prime
And lustihood of thought to heavenly song,
Hymning, in strains of such poor minstrelsy
As my less gifted spirit might send forth,
The truths thou hymn'st; and from my daily walk
Of ministerial duty gathering food
For meditation calm, and serious thought,
Materials of no vain or aimless verse.
So had I haply, ere my noon of life,
Won some poor niche amid the humbler shrines
Of christian poets, and not only so,
But, e'en by the indulgence of sweet thought
And fond imagination, train'd my soul
For tasks of christian duty, kept it clear
From this world's worst intrusions, tamed it down
More nearly to subjection to the Spirit,
And, while I breathed an atmosphere of peace
And holy joy, still drawn more nigh to heaven,
Meantime constructing, e'en from what supplied
My present comfort and my future hope,
If e'er such hopes were mine, have vanish'd long.
I must not think to have my name enroll'd
Among the names of those who gave to God
Their strength and fervour of poetic thought.
The days are gone, wherein I might have framed
Lays which, outlasting my own span of life,
Should, when my bones were dust, have warm'd
the hearts
Of Christ's true servants: ne'er in after years
Shall my sweet babes associate with the thought
Of their lost parent the fair name of one
Bruited in good men's mouths for rich bequests
Left to the pious and reflective heart,
In tuneful records of his own calm thoughts
And meditative intercourse with heaven.
Nor sage, nor scholar, nor world-weary man,
Who seeks a respite from heart-stifling cares
In Poesy's domain, nor saint devout,
Yearning for pious sympathy, and fain
To vent the feelings of his own full heart
In the rich breathings of religious song,
Shall have recourse to me, or count my lays
Among the pure refreshments of his soul.
My songs will not be sung on winter nights
By cottage hearths, nor elevate the soul
Of sunburnt peasant or pale artizan,
Forgetting their six days of care and toil
In the calm gladness of the sabbath eve,
And leading up their children's thoughts to Heaven
By grave and pious converse, interspersed
With psalms and hymns and spiritual songs,
Making the heart's rich melody to God.
My spirit must not mingle after death
With the free spirit of my native land,
Nor any tones, from these poor chords sent forth,
Linger upon her breezes, and be heard
Faintly, and yet with no discordant sound,
In her full chorus of religious song;
So I shall rest unhonour'd in my grave,
And unremember'd. Be it so.
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