INVOCATION.
As the tired voyager on stormy seas
Invokes the coming of bright birds from shore,
To waft him tidings, with the gentler breeze,
Of dim, sweet woods that hear no billows roar;
So, from the depth of days, when earth yet wore
Her solemn beauty and primeval dew,
I call you, gracious Forms! Oh, come! restore
Awhile that holy freshness, and renew
Life’s morning dreams. Come with the voice, the lyre,
Daughters of Judah! with the timbrel rise!
Ye of the dark, prophetic, Eastern eyes,
Imperial in their visionary fire;
Oh! steep my soul in that old, glorious time,
When God’s own whisper shook the cedars of your clime!
INVOCATION CONTINUED.
And come, ye faithful! round Messiah seen,
With a soft harmony of tears and light
Streaming through all your spiritual mien—
As in calm clouds of pearly stillness bright,
Showers weave with sunshine, and transpierce their slight
Ethereal cradle. From your heart subdued
All haughty dreams of power had wing’d their flight,
And left high place for martyr fortitude,
True faith, long-suffering love. Come to me, come!
And as the seas, beneath your Master’s tread,
Fell into crystal smoothness, round him spread
Like the clear pavement of his heavenly home;
So, in your presence, let the soul’s great deep
Sink to the gentleness of infant sleep.
THE SONG OF MIRIAM.
A song for Israel’s God! Spear, crest, and helm
Lay by the billows of the old Red Sea,
When Miriam’s voice o’er that sepulchral realm
Sent on the blast a hymn of jubilee.
With her lit eye, and long hair floating free,
Queen-like she stood, and glorious was the strain,
E’en as instinct with the tempestuous glee
Of the dark waters, tossing o’er the slain.
A song for God’s own victory! Oh, thy lays,
Bright poesy! were holy in their birth:
How hath it died, thy seraph-note of praise,
In the bewildering melodies of earth!
Return from troubling, bitter founts—return,
Back to the life-springs of thy native urn!
RUTH.
The plume-like swaying of the auburn corn,
By soft winds to a dreamy motion fann’d,
Still brings me back thine image—O forlorn,
Yet not forsaken Ruth! I see thee stand
Lone, midst the gladness of the harvest-band—
Lone, as a wood-bird on the ocean’s foam
Fall’n in its weariness. Thy fatherland
Smiles far away! yet to the sense of home—
That finest, purest, which can recognise
Home in affection’s glance—for ever true
Beats thy calm heart; and if thy gentle eyes
Gleam tremulous through tears,’tis not to rue
Those words, immortal in their deep love’s tone,
“Thy people and thy God shall be mine own!”
THE VIGIL OF RIZPAH.
“And Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and spread it for her upon the rock, from the beginning of harvest until water dropped upon them out of heaven; and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of the field by night.”—2 Sam. xxi. 10.
Who watches on the mountain with the dead,
Alone before the awfulness of night?—
A seer awaiting the deep spirit’s might?
A warrior guarding some dark pass of dread?
No—a lorn woman! On her drooping head,
Once proudly graceful, heavy beats the rain;
She recks not—living for the unburied slain,
Only to scare the vulture from their bed.
So, night by night, her vigil hath she kept
With the pale stars, and with the dews hath wept:
Oh! surely some bright Presence from above
On those wild rocks the lonely one must aid!
E’en so; a strengthener through all storm and shade,
Th’ unconquerable angel, mightiest Love!
THE REPLY OF THE SHUNAMITE WOMAN.
“And she answered, I dwell among mine own people.”
2 Kings, iv. 13.
“I dwell among mine own,”—oh, happy thou!
Not for the sunny clusters of the vine,
Not for the olives on the mountain’s brow,
Nor the flocks wandering by the flowery line
Of streams, that make the green land where they shine
Laugh to the light of waters—not for these,
Nor the soft shadow of ancestral trees,
Whose kindly whisper floats o’er thee and thine—
Oh! not for these I call thee richly blest,
But for the meekness of thy woman’s breast,
Where that sweet depth of still contentment lies;
And for thy holy, household love, which clings
Unto all ancient and familiar things,
Weaving from each some link for home’s dear charities.
THE ANNUNCIATION.
Lowliest of women, and most glorified!
In thy still beauty sitting calm and lone,
A brightness round thee grew—and by thy side,
Kindling the air, a form ethereal shone,
Solemn, yet breathing gladness. From her throne
A queen had risen with more imperial eye,
A stately prophetess of victory
From her proud lyre had struck a tempest’s tone,
For such high tidings as to thee were brought,
Chosen of heaven! that hour: but thou, oh! thou,
E’en as a flower with gracious rains o’erfraught,
Thy virgin head beneath its crown didst bow,
And take to thy meek breast th’ all-holy word,
And own thyself the handmaid of the Lord.
THE SONG OF THE VIRGIN.
Yet as a sunburst flushing mountain-snow,
Fell the celestial touch of fire ere long
On the pale stillness of thy thoughtful brow,
And thy calm spirit lighten’d into song.
Unconsciously, perchance, yet free and strong
Flow’d the majestic joy of tuneful words,
Which living harps the choirs of heaven among
Might well have link’d with their divinest chords.
Full many a strain, borne far on glory’s blast,
Shall leave, where once its haughty music pass’d,
No more to memory than a reed’s faint sigh;
While thine, O childlike Virgin! through all time
Shall send its fervent breath o’er every clime,
Being of God, and therefore not to die.
THE PENITENT ANOINTING CHRIST’S FEET.
There was a mournfulness in angel eyes,
That saw thee, woman! bright in this world’s train,
Moving to pleasure’s airy melodies,
Thyself the idol of the enchanted strain.
But from thy beauty’s garland, brief and vain,
When one by one the rose-leaves had been torn;
When thy heart’s core had quiver’d to the pain
Through every life-nerve sent by arrowy scorn;
When thou didst kneel to pour sweet odours forth
On the Redeemer’s feet, with many a sigh,
And showering tear-drop, of yet richer worth
Than all those costly balms of Araby;
Then was there joy, a song of joy in heaven,
For thee, the child won back, the penitent forgiven!
MARY AT THE FEET OF CHRIST.
Oh! bless’d beyond all daughters of the earth!
What were the Orient’s thrones to that low seat
Where thy hush’d spirit drew celestial birth,
Mary! meek listener at the Saviour’s feet?
No feverish cares to that divine retreat
Thy woman’s heart of silent worship brought,
But a fresh childhood, heavenly truth to meet
With love, and wonder, and submissive thought.
Oh! for the holy quiet of thy breast,
Midst the world’s eager tones and footsteps flying,
Thou, whose calm soul was like a well-spring, lying
So deep and still in its transparent rest,
That e’en when noontide burns upon the hills,
Some one bright solemn star all its lone mirror fills.
THE SISTERS OF BETHANY AFTER THE DEATH OF LAZARUS.
One grief, one faith, O sisters of the dead!
Was in your bosoms—thou, whose steps, made fleet
By keen hope fluttering in the heart which bled,
Bore thee, as wings, the Lord of Life to greet;
And thou, that duteous in thy still retreat
Didst wait his summons, then with reverent love
Fall weeping at the bless’d Deliverer’s feet,
Whom e’en to heavenly tears thy woe could move.
And which to Him, the All-seeing and All-just,
Was loveliest—that quick zeal, or lowly trust?
Oh! question not, and let no law be given
To those unveilings of its deepest shrine,
By the wrung spirit made in outward sign:
Free service from the heart is all in all to heaven.
THE MEMORIAL OF MARY.
“Verily I say unto you, wheresoever this gospel shall be preached in the whole world, there shall also this that this woman hath done, be told for a memorial of her.”—Matthew, xxvi. 13.—See also John, xii. 3.
Thou hast thy record in the monarch’s hall,
And on the waters of the far mid sea;
And where the mighty mountain-shadows fall,
The Alpine hamlet keeps a thought of thee:
Where’er, beneath some Oriental tree,
The Christian traveller rests—where’er the child
Looks upward from the English mother’s knee,
With earnest eyes in wondering reverence mild,
There art thou known—where’er the Book of light
Bears hope and healing, there, beyond all blight,
Is borne thy memory, and all praise above.
Oh! say what deed so lifted thy sweet name,
Mary! to that pure, silent place of fame?
One lowly offering of exceeding love.
THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM AT THE CROSS.
Like those pale stars of tempest-hours, whose gleam
Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast.
Such by the cross doth your bright lingering seem,
Daughters of Zion! faithful to the last!
Ye, through the darkness o’er the wide earth cast
By the death-cloud within the Saviour’s eye,
E’en till away the heavenly spirit pass’d,
Stood in the shadow of his agony.
O blessed faith! a guiding lamp, that hour
Was lit for woman’s heart! To her, whose dower
Is all of love and suffering from her birth,
Still hath your act a voice—through fear, through strife,
Bidding her bind each tendril of her life
To that which her deep soul hath proved of holiest worth.
MARY MAGDALENE AT THE SEPULCHRE.
Weeper! to thee how bright a morn was given
After thy long, long vigil of despair,
When that high voice which burial-rocks had riven
Thrill’d with immortal tones the silent air!
Never did clarion’s royal blast declare
Such tale of victory to a breathless crowd,
As the deep sweetness of one word could bear
Into thy heart of hearts, O woman! bow’d
By strong affection’s anguish! one low word—
“Mary!” and all the triumph wrung from death
Was thus reveal’d; and thou, that so hadst err’d,
So wept, and been forgiven, in trembling faith
Didst cast thee down before the all-conquering Son,
Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had won!
MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS OF THE RESURRECTION.
Then was a task of glory all thine own,
Nobler than e’er the still, small voice assign’d
To lips in awful music making known
The stormy splendours of some prophet’s mind.
“Christ is arisen!”—by thee, to wake mankind,
First from the sepulchre those words were brought!
Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind
First on its way, with those high tidings fraught—
“Christ is arisen!” Thou, thou, the sin-enthrall’d!
Earth’s outcast, heaven’s own ransom’d one, wert call’d
In human hearts to give that rapture birth:
Oh raised from shame to brightness! there doth lie
The tenderest meaning of His ministry,
Whose undespairing love still own’d the spirit’s worth.