The Christian Year Part 34

Her fluttering heart, too keenly blest, Would sicken, but she leans on Thee, Sees Thee by faith on Mary's breast, And breathes serene and free.

Slight tremblings only of her veil declare Soft answers duly whispered to each soothing prayer.

We are too weak, when Thou dost bless, To bear the joy-help, Virgin-born!

By Thine own mother's first caress, That waked Thy natal morn!

Help, by the unexpressive smile, that made A Heaven on earth around this couch where Thou wast laid.

Commination.

The prayers are o'er: why slumberest thou so long, Thou voice of sacred song?

Why swell'st thou not, like breeze from mountain cave, High o'er the echoing nave, This white-robed priest, as otherwhile, to guide, Up to the Altar's northern side?- A mourner's tale of shame and sad decay Keeps back our glorious sacrifice to-day:

The widow'd Spouse of Christ: with ashes crown'd, Her Christmas robes unbound, She lingers in the porch for grief and fear, Keeping her penance drear,- Oh, is it nought to you? that idly gay, Or coldly proud, ye turn away?

But if her warning tears in vain be spent, Lo, to her altered eye this Law's stern fires are lent.

Each awful curse, that on Mount Ebal rang, Peals with a direr clang Out of that silver trump, whose tones of old Forgiveness only told.

And who can blame the mother's fond affright, Who sporting on some giddy height Her infant sees, and springs with hurried hand To s.n.a.t.c.h the rover from the dangerous strand?

But surer than all words the silent spell (So Grecian legends tell) When to her bird, too early 'scaped the nest, She bares her tender breast, Smiling he turns and spreads his little wing, There to glide home, there safely cling.

So yearns our mother o'er each truant son, So softly falls the lay in fear and wrath begun.

Wayward and spoiled she knows ye: the keen blast, That braced her youth, is past: The rod of discipline, the robe of shame- She bears them in your name: Only return and love. But ye perchance Are deeper plunged in sorrow's trance: Your G.o.d forgives, but ye no comfort take Till ye have scourged the sins that in your conscience ache.

Oh, heavy laden soul! kneel down and hear Thy penance in calm fear: With thine own lips to sentence all thy sin; Then, by the judge within Absolved, in thankful sacrifice to part For ever with thy sullen heart, Nor on remorseful thoughts to brood, and stain This glory of the Cross, forgiven and cheereth in vain.

Forms of Prayer to be used at Sea.

When thou pa.s.sest through the waters, I will be with thee. _Isaiah_ xliii. 2.

THE shower of moonlight falls as still and clear Upon this desert main As where sweet flowers some pastoral garden cheer With fragrance after rain: The wild winds rustle in piping shrouds, As in the quivering trees: Like summer fields, beneath the shadowy clouds The yielding waters darken in the breeze.

Thou too art here with thy soft inland tones, Mother of our new birth; The lonely ocean learns thy orisons, And loves thy sacred mirth: When storms are high, or when the fires of war Come lightening round our course, Thou breath'st a note like music from afar, Tempering rude hearts with calm angelic force.

Far, far away, the homesick seaman's h.o.a.rd, Thy fragrant tokens live, Like flower-leaves in a previous volume stored, To solace and relieve Some heart too weary of the restless world; Or like thy Sabbath Cross, That o'er this brightening billow streams unfurled, Whatever gale the labouring vessel toss.

Oh, kindly soothing in high Victory's hour, Or when a comrade dies, In whose sweet presence Sorrow dares not lower, Nor Expectation rise Too high for earth; what mother's heart could spare To the cold cheerless deep Her flower and hope? but Thou art with him there, Pledge of the untired arm and eye that cannot sleep:

The eye that watches o'er wild Ocean's dead, Each in his coral cave, Fondly as if the green turf wrapt his head Fast by his father's grave,- One moment, and the seeds of life shall spring Out of the waste abyss, And happy warriors triumph with their King In worlds without a sea, unchanging orbs of bliss.

Gunpowder Treason.

A thou hast testified of Me in Jerusalem, so must thou bear witness also at Rome. _Acts_ xxiii. 11.

BENEATH the burning eastern sky The Cross was raised at morn: The widowed Church to weep stood by, The world, to hate and scorn.

Now, journeying westward, evermore We know the lonely Spouse By the dear mark her Saviour bore Traced on her patient brows.

At Rome she wears it, as of old Upon th' accursed hill: By monarchs clad in gems and gold, She goes a mourner still.

She mourns that tender hearts should bend Before a meaner shrine, And upon Saint or Angel spend The love that should be thine.

By day and night her sorrows fall Where miscreant hands and rude Have stained her pure ethereal pall With many a martyr's blood.

And yearns not her parental heart, To hear _their_ secret sighs, Upon whose doubting way apart Bewildering shadows rise?

Who to her side in peace would cling, But fear to wake, and find What they had deemed her genial wing Was Error's soothing blind.

She treasures up each throbbing prayer: Come, trembler, come and pour Into her bosom all thy care, For she has balm in store.

Her gentle teaching sweetly blends With this clear light of Truth The aerial gleam that Fancy lends To solemn thoughts in youth.-

If thou hast loved, in hours of gloom, To dream the dead are near, And people all the lonely room With guardian spirits dear,

Dream on the soothing dream at will: The lurid mist is o'er, That showed the righteous suffering still Upon th' eternal sh.o.r.e.

If with thy heart the strains accord, That on His altar-throne Highest exalt thy glorious Lord, Yet leave Him most thine own;

Oh, come to our Communion Feast: There present, in the heart As in the hands, th' eternal Priest Will His true self impart.-

Thus, should thy soul misgiving turn Back to the enchanted air, Solace and warning thou mayst learn From all that tempts thee there.

And, oh! by all the pangs and fears Fraternal spirits know, When for an elder's shame the tears Of wakeful anguish flow,

Speak gently of our sister's fall: Who knows but gentle love May win her at our patient call The surer way to prove?

King Charles the Martyr.

This is thankworthy, if a man for conscience toward G.o.d endure grief, suffering wrongfully. 1 _St. Peter_ ii. 19.

PRAISE to our pardoning G.o.d! though silent now The thunders of the deep prophetic sky, Though in our sight no powers of darkness bow Before th' Apostles' glorious company;

The Martyrs' n.o.ble army still is ours, Far in the North our fallen days have seen How in her woe this tenderest spirit towers For Jesus' sake in agony serene.

Praise to our G.o.d! not cottage hearths alone, And shades impervious to the proud world's glare, Such witness yield; a monarch from his throne Springs to his Cross and finds his glory there.

Yes: whereso'er one trace of thee is found, As in the Sacred Land, the shadows fall: With beating hearts we roam the haunted ground, Lone battle-field, or crumbling prison hall.