POEMS OF THE HIGHER LIFE (continued 2)
Reading edition
SIR ROBERT GRANT.
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THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM.
When, marshalled on the nightly plain, The glittering host bestud the sky, One star alone, of all the train, Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.
Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks, From every host, from every gem: But one alone the Saviour speaks, It is the Star of Bethlehem.
Once on the raging seas I rode, The storm was loud, the night was dark, The ocean yawned, and rudely blowed The wind that tossed my foundering bark.
Deep horror then my vitals froze, Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem; When suddenly a star arose,— It was the Star of Bethlehem.
It was my guide, my light, my all, It bade my dark forebodings cease; And through the storm and dangers' thrall It led me to the port of peace.
Now safely moored, my perils o'er, I'll sing, first in night's diadem, Forever and forevermore, The Star!—the Star of Bethlehem!
HENRY KIRKE WHITE.
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LOVE TO CHRIST.
FROM "AN HYMNE OF HEAVENLY LOVE."
With all thy hart, with all thy soule and mind, Thou must him love, and his beheasts embrace; All other loves, with which the world doth blind Weake fancies, and stirre up affections base, Thou must renounce and utterly displace, And give thy selfe unto him full and free, That full and freely gave himselfe to thee.
Then shalt thou feele thy spirit so possest, And ravisht with devouring great desire Of his deare selfe, that shall thy feeble brest Inflame with love, and set thee all on fire With burning zeale, through every part entire, That in no earthly thing thou shalt delight, But in his sweet and amiable sight.
Thenceforth all worlds desire will in thee dye, And all earthes glorie, on which men do gaze, Seeme durt and drosse in thy pure-sighted eye, Compared to that celestiall beauties blaze, Whose glorious beames all fleshly sense doth daze With admiration of their passing light, Blinding the eyes, and lumining the spright.
Then shall thy ravisht soule inspired bee With heavenly thoughts farre above humane skil, And thy bright radiant eyes shall plainely see The idee of his pure glorie present still Before thy face, that all thy spirits shall fill With sweet enragement of celestiall love, Kindled through sight of those faire things above.
EDMUND SPENSER.
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THE WAY, THE TRUTH, AND THE LIFE.
O thou great Friend to all the sons of men, Who once appeared in humblest guise below, Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain, And call thy brethren forth from want and woe,—
We look to thee! thy truth is still the Light Which guides the nations, groping on their way, Stumbling and falling in disastrous night, Yet hoping ever for the perfect day.
Yes; thou art still the Life, thou art the Way The holiest know; Light, Life, the Way of heaven!
And they who dearest hope and deepest pray, Toil by the Light, Life, Way, which thou hast given.
THEODORE PARKER.
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KNOCKING, EVER KNOCKING.
"Behold, I stand at the door, and knock." —REVELATIONS iii. 20.
Knocking, knocking, ever knocking? Who is there? 'T is a pilgrim, strange and kingly, Never such was seen before;— Ah, sweet soul, for such a wonder, Undo the door. No,—that door is hard to open; Hinges rusty, latch is broken; Bid Him go. Wherefore with that knocking dreary Scare the sleep from one so weary? Say Him, no.
Knocking, knocking, ever knocking? What! Still there? O sweet soul, but once behold Him, With the glory-crownèd hair; And those eyes, so strange and tender, Waiting there; Open! Open! Once behold Him, Him so fair.
Ah, that door! Why wilt thou vex me, Coming ever to perplex me? For the key is stiffly rusty, And the bolt is clogged and dusty; Many-fingered ivy vine Seals it fast with twist and twine; Weeds of years and years before Choke the passage of that door.
Knocking! knocking! What? Still knocking? He still there? What's the hour? The night is waning— In my heart a drear complaining, And a chilly, sad unrest. Ah, this knocking! It disturbs me! Scares my sleep with dreams unblest! Give me rest, Rest—ah, rest!
Rest, dear soul, He longs to give thee; Thou hast only dreamed of pleasure, Dreamed of gifts and golden treasure, Dreamed of jewels in thy keeping, Waked to weariness of weeping;— Open to thy soul's one Lover, And thy night of dreams is over,— The true gifts He brings have seeming More than all thy faded dreaming!
Did she open? Doth she? Will she? So, as wondering we behold, Grows the picture to a sign. Pressed upon your soul and mine; For in every breast that liveth Is that strange, mysterious door;— The forsaken and betangled, Ivy-gnarled and weed-bejangled, Dusty, rusty, and forgotten;— There the piercèd hand still knocketh, And with ever patient watching, With the sad eyes true and tender, With the glory-crownèd hair,— Still a God is waiting there.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
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TO-MORROW.
Lord, what am I, that, with unceasing care, Thou didst seek after me,—that Thou didst wait, Wet with unhealthy dews, before my gate, And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? O, strange delusion, that I did not greet Thy blest approach! and, O, to heaven how lost, If my ingratitude's unkindly frost Has chilled the bleeding wounds upon Thy feet! How oft my guardian angel gently cried, "Soul, from thy casement look, and thou shalt see How He persists to knock and wait for thee!" And, O, how often to that voice of sorrow, "To-morrow we will open." I replied! And when the morrow came, I answered still, "To-morrow."
From the Spanish of LOPE DE VEGA.
Translation of H.W. LONGFELLOW.
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I GAVE MY LIFE FOR THEE.
I gave my life for thee, My precious blood I shed That thou mightst ransomed be, And quickened from the dead. I gave my life for thee; What hast thou given for me?
I spent long years for thee In weariness and woe, That an eternity Of joy thou mightest know. I spent long years for thee; Hast thou spent one for me?
My Father's home of light, My rainbow-circled throne, I left, for earthly night, For wanderings sad and lone. I left it all for thee; Hast thou left aught for me?
I suffered much for thee, More than thy tongue may tell Of bitterest agony, To rescue thee from hell. I suffered much for thee; What canst thou bear for me?
And I have brought to thee, Down from my home above, Salvation full and free, My pardon and my love. Great gifts I brought to thee; What hast thou brought to me?
Oh, let thy life be given, Thy years for him be spent, World-fetters all be riven, And joy with suffering blent; I gave myself for thee: Give thou thyself to me!
FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL.
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JESUS SHALL REIGN.
Jesus shall reign where'er the sun Does his successive journeys run,— His kingdom spread from shore to shore, Till moons shall wax and wane no more.
From north to south the princes meet To pay their homage at His feet, While western empires own their Lord, And savage tribes attend His word.
To Him shall endless prayer be made, And endless praises crown His head; His name like sweet perfume shall rise With every morning sacrifice.
People and realms of every tongue Dwell on His love with sweetest song, And infant voices shall proclaim Their early blessings on His name.
ISAAC WATTS.
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MESSIAH.
A SACRED ECLOGUE, IN IMITATION OF VIRGIL'S POLLIO.
Ye nymphs of Solyma! begin the song: To heavenly themes sublimer strains belong. The mossy fountains and the sylvan shades, The dreams of Pindus and th' Aonian maids, Delight no more—O thou my voice inspire Who touched Isaiah's hallowed lips with fire! Rapt into future times, the bard begun: A Virgin shall conceive, a Virgin bear a Son! From Jesse's root behold a branch arise, Whose sacred flower with fragrance fills the skies: Th' ethereal spirit o'er its leaves shall move, And on its top descends the mystic Dove. Ye Heavens! from high the dewy nectar pour, And in soft silence shed the kindly shower! The sick and weak the healing plant shall aid, From storm a shelter, and from heat a shade. All crimes shall cease, and ancient frauds shall fail; Returning Justice lift aloft her scale; Peace o'er the world her olive wand extend, And white-robed Innocence from Heaven descend. Swift fly the years, and rise th' expected morn! Oh spring to light, auspicious Babe, be born! See, Nature hastes her earliest wreaths to bring, With all the incense of the breathing spring: See lofty Lebanon his head advance, See nodding forests on the mountains dance: See spicy clouds from lowly Saron rise, And Carmel's flowery top perfumes the skies! Hark! a glad voice the lonely desert cheers: Prepare the way! a God, a God appears! A God, a God! the vocal hills reply, The rocks proclaim th' approaching Deity. Lo, Earth receives him from the bending skies! Sink down, ye mountains! and ye valleys, rise! With heads declined, ye cedars, homage pay! Be smooth, ye rocks! ye rapid floods, give way! The Saviour comes! by ancient bards foretold: Hear him, ye deaf! and all ye blind, behold! He from thick films shall purge the visual ray, And on the sightless eyeball pour the day: 'Tis he th' obstructed paths of sound shall clear And bid new music charm th' unfolding ear: The dumb shall sing, the lame his crutch forego, And leap exulting like the bounding roe. No sigh, no murmur, the wide world shall hear. From every face he wipes off every tear. In adamantine chains shall Death be bound. And Hell's grim tyrant feel th' eternal wound. As the good shepherd tends his fleecy care, Seeks freshest pasture, and the purest air, Explores the lost, the wandering sheep directs, By day o'ersees them, and by night protects; The tender lambs he raises in his arms, Feeds from his hand, and in his bosom warms: Thus shall mankind his guardian care engage, The promised Father of the future age. No more shall nation against nation rise, Nor ardent warriors meet with hateful eyes, Nor fields with gleaming steel be covered o'er, The brazen trumpets kindle rage no more; But useless lances into scythes shall bend, And the broad falchion in a ploughshare end. Then palaces shall rise; the joyful son Shall finish what his short-lived sire begun; Their vines a shadow to their race shall yield. And the same hand that sowed, shall reap the field. The swain in barren deserts with surprise Sees lilies spring, and sudden verdure rise; And starts, amidst the thirsty wilds, to hear New falls of water murmuring in his ear. On rifted rocks, the dragon's late abodes, The green reed trembles, and the bulrush nods. Waste sandy valleys, once perplexed with thorn, The spiry fir and shapely box adorn: To leafless shrubs the flowery palms succeed, And odorous myrtle to the noisome weed. The lambs with wolves shall graze the verdant mead And boys in flowery bands the tiger lead: The steer and lion at one crib shall meet, And harmless serpents lick the pilgrim's feet. The smiling infant in his hand shall take The crested basilisk and speckled snake, Pleased, the green lustre of the scales survey, And with their forky tongue shall innocently play. Rise, crowned with light, imperial Salem, rise! Exalt thy towery head, and lift thy eyes! See a long race thy spacious courts adorn: See future sons and daughters yet unborn, In crowding ranks on every side arise, Demanding life, impatient for the skies! See barbarous nations at thy gates attend, Walk in thy light, and in thy temple bend! See thy bright altars thronged with prostrate kings, And heaped with products of Sabean springs! For thee Idumè's spicy forests blow, And seeds of gold in Ophir's mountains glow. See Heaven his sparkling portals wide display, And break upon thee in a flood of day! No more the rising Sun shall gild the morn, Nor evening Cynthia fill her silver horn; But lost, dissolved in thy superior rays, One tide of glory, one unclouded blaze O'erflow thy courts: the Light himself shall shine Revealed, and God's eternal day be thine! The seas shall waste, the skies in smoke decay, Rocks fall to dust, and mountains melt away! But fixed his word, his saving power remains; Thy realm for ever lasts, thy own Messiah reigns!
ALEXANDER POPE.
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DIES IRAE.
"That day, a day of wrath, a day of trouble and distress, a day of wasteness and desolation, a day of darkness and gloominess, a day of clouds and thick darkness, a day of the trumpet and alarm against the fenced cities, and against the high towers!"—ZEPHANIAH i. 15, 16.
Day of vengeance, without morrow! Earth shall end in flame and sorrow, As from Saint and Seer we borrow.
Ah! what terror is impending, When the Judge is seen descending, And each secret veil is rending!
To the throne, the trumpet sounding, Through the sepulchres resounding, Summons all, with voice astounding.
Death and Nature, mazed, are quaking, When, the grave's long slumber breaking, Man to judgment is awaking.
On the written Volume's pages, Life is shown in all its stages— Judgment-record of past ages.
Sits the Judge, the raised arraigning, Darkest mysteries explaining, Nothing unavenged remaining.
What shall I then say, unfriended, By no advocate attended, When the just are scarce defended?
King of majesty tremendous, By thy saving grace defend us, Fount of pity, safety send us!
Holy Jesus, meek, forbearing, For my sins the death-crown wearing, Save me, in that day, despairing!
Worn and weary, thou hast sought me; By thy cross and passion bought me— Spare the hope thy labors brought me!
Righteous Judge of retribution, Give, O give me absolution Ere the day of dissolution!
As a guilty culprit groaning, Flushed my face, my errors owning, Hear. O God, Thy suppliant moaning!
Thou to Mary gav'st remission, Heard'st the dying thief's petition, Bad'st me hope in my contrition.
In my prayers no worth discerning, Yet on me Thy favor turning, Save me from that endless burning!
Give me, when Thy sheep confiding Thou art from the goals dividing. On Thy right a place abiding!
When the wicked are rejected, And by bitter flames subjected, Call me forth with Thine elected!
Low in supplication bending. Heart as though with ashes blending; Cure for me when all is ending.
When on that dread day of weeping Guilty man in ashes sleeping Wakes to his adjudication, Save him, God! from condemnation!
From the Latin of THOMAS À CELANO.
Translation of JOHN A. DIX. [A]
[Footnote A: General Dix's first translation of the "Dies Irae" was made in 1863; the revised version (given above) appeared in 1875. Bayard Taylor wrote of the earlier one: "I have … heretofore sought in vain to find an adequate translation. Those which reproduced the spirit neglected the form, and vice versa. There can be no higher praise for yours than to say that it preserves both."]
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MY GOD, I LOVE THEE.
My God, I love thee! not because I hope for heaven thereby; Nor because those who love thee not Must burn eternally.
Thou, O my Jesus, thou didst me Upon the cross embrace! For me didst bear the nails and spear, And manifold disgrace,
And griefs and torments numberless, And sweat of agony, Yea, death itself,—and all for one That was thine enemy.
Then why, O blessed Jesus Christ, Should I not love thee well? Not for the hope of winning heaven, Nor of escaping hell;
Not with the hope of gaining aught, Not seeking a reward; But as thyself hast loved me, O everlasting Lord!
E'en so I love thee, and will love, And in thy praise will sing,— Solely because thou art my God, And my eternal King.
From the Latin of ST. FRANCIS XAVIER.
Translation of EDWARD CASWALL.
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VENT CREATOR SPIRITUS.
[Sometimes attributed to the Emperor Charlemagne. The better opinion, however, inclines to Pope Gregory I., called the Great, as the author, and fixes its origin somewhere in the sixth century.]
Creator Spirit, by whose aid The world's foundations first were laid, Come visit every pious mind. Come pour thy joys on human kind; From sin and sorrow set us free, And make thy temples worthy thee.
O source of uncreated light. The Father's promised Paraclete! Thrice holy fount, thrice holy fire. Our hearts with heavenly love inspire; Come, and thy sacred unction bring, To sanctify us while we sing.
Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in thy seven-fold energy! Thou strength of his almighty hand. Whose power does heaven and earth command! Proceeding Spirit, our defence, Who dost the gifts of tongues dispense, And crown'st thy gift with eloquence!
Refine and purge our earthly parts; But, O, inflame and fire our hearts! Our frailties help, our vice control, Submit the senses to the soul; And when rebellious they are grown, Then lay thy hand and hold 'em down.
Chase from our minds the infernal foe, And peace, the fruit of love, bestow; And, lest our feet should step astray, Protect and guide us on the way.
Make us eternal truths receive, And practise all that we believe; Give us thyself, that we may see The Father and the Son by thee.
Immortal honor, endless fame, Attend the Almighty Father's name; The Saviour Son be glorified, Who for lost man's redemption died; And equal adoration be, Eternal Paraclete, to thee.
From the Latin of ST. GREGORY.
Translation of JOHN DRYDEN.
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VENI SANCTE SPIRITUS.
[Written in the tenth century by Robert II., the gentle son of Hugh Capet. It is often mentioned as second in rank to the Dies Irae.]
Come, Holy Ghost! thou fire divine! From highest heaven on us down shine! Comforter, be thy comfort mine!
Come, Father of the poor, to earth; Come, with thy gifts of precious worth; Come Light of all of mortal birth!
Thou rich in comfort! Ever blest The heart where thou art constant guest, Who giv'st the heavy-laden rest.
Come, thou in whom our toil is sweet, Our shadow in the noonday heat, Before whom mourning flieth fleet.
Bright Sun of Grace! thy sunshine dart On all who cry to thee apart, And fill with gladness every heart.
Whate'er without thy aid is wrought, Or skilful deed, or wisest thought, God counts it vain and merely naught.
O cleanse us that we sin no more. O'er parched souls thy waters pour; Heal the sad heart that acheth sore.
Thy will be ours in all our ways; O melt the frozen with thy rays; Call home the lost in error's maze.
And grant us, Lord, who cry to thee, And hold the Faith in unity, Thy precious gifts of charity;
That we may live in holiness, And find in death our happiness, And dwell with thee in lasting bliss!
From the Latin of KING ROBERT II. OF FRANCE.
Translation of CATHARINE WINKWORTH.
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O FIRE OF GOD, THE COMFORTER.
"O IGNIS SPIRITUS PARACLITI."
O fire of God, the Comforter, O life of all that live, Holy art thou to quicken us, and holy, strength to give: To heal the broken-hearted ones, their sorest wounds to bind, O Spirit of all holiness, O Lover of mankind! O sweetest taste within the breast, O grace upon us poured, That saintly hearts may give again their perfume to the Lord. O purest fountain! we can see, clear mirrored in thy streams, That God brings home the wanderers, that God the lost redeems. O breastplate strong to guard our life, O bond of unity, O dwelling-place of righteousness, save all who trust in thee: Defend those who in dungeon dark are prisoned by the foe, And, for thy will is aye to save, let thou the captives go. O surest way, that through the height and through the lowest deep And through the earth dost pass, and all in firmest union keep; From thee the clouds and ether move, from thee the moisture flows, From thee the waters draw their rills, and earth with verdure glows, And thou dost ever teach the wise, and freely on them pour The inspiration of thy gifts, the gladness of thy lore. All praise to thee, O joy of life, O hope and strength, we raise, Who givest us the prize of light, who art thyself all praise.
From the Latin of ST. HILDEGARDE.
Translation of R.F. LITTLEDALE.
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THE HOLY SPIRIT.
In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When I lie within my bed, Sick at heart, and sick in head, And with doubts discomforted, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the house doth sigh and weep, And the world is drowned in sleep, Yet mine eyes the watch do keep, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the artless doctor sees No one hope but of his fees, And his skill runs on the lees, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When his potion and his pill Has or none or little skill, Meet for nothing but to kill,— Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the passing-bell doth toll, And the Furies, in a shoal, Come to fright a parting soul, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the tapers now burn blue, And the comforters are few, And that number more than true, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the priest his last hath prayed, And I nod to what is said 'Cause my speech is now decayed, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When, God knows, I'm tost about Either with despair or doubt, Yet before the glass be out, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the tempter me pursu'th With the sins of all my youth, And half damns me with untruth, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the dames and hellish cries Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes, And all terrors me surprise, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
When the judgment is revealed, And that opened which was sealed,— When to thee I have appealed, Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
ROBERT HERRICK.
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HOPE OF THE HUMAN HEART.
FROM "ANIMA MUNDI."
God is good. And flight is destined for the callow wing, And the high appetite implies the food, And souls most reach the level whence they spring; O Life of very life! set free our powers, Hasten the travail of the yearning hours.
Thou, to whom old Philosophy bent low, To the wise few mysteriously revealed; Thou, whom each humble Christian worships now, In the poor hamlet and the open field: Once an idea, now Comforter and Friend, Hope of the human heart, descend, descend!