Come Ev’ning, once again, season of peace;
Return, sweet Ev’ning, and continue long!
Methinks I see thee in the streaking west
With matron-step slow-moving, while the night
Treads on thy sweeping train; one hand employ’d
In letting fall the curtain of repose
On bird and beast, the other charg’d for man
With sweet oblivion of the cares of day:
Not sumptuously adorn’d, nor needing aid,
Like homely-featur’d night, of clust’ring gems;
A star or two, just twinkling on thy brow,
Suffices thee; save that the moon is thine
No less than her’s, not worn indeed on high
With ostentatious pageantry, but set
With modest grandeur in thy purple zone,
Resplendent less, but of an ampler round.
Come then, and thou shalt find thy vot’ry calm,
Or make me so. Composure is thy gift.
And we would set over against it that purely pastoral chant:
Now rosy May comes in wi’ flowers
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers;
And now comes in my happy hours,
To wander wi’ my Davie.
Meet me on the warlock knowe,
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie,
There I’ll spend the day wi’ you,
My ain dear dainty Davie.
The crystal waters round us fa’,
The merry birds are lovers a’,
The scented breezes round us blaw,
A wandering wi’ my Davie.
Meet me, &c.
When purple morning starts the hare
To steal upon her early fare,
Then thro’ the dews I will repair,
To meet my faithful Davie.
Meet me, &c.
When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws o’ nature’s rest,
I flee to his arms I lo’e best,
And that’s my ain dear Davie.
Meet me, &c.
There is surely no need to explain how this instinctive attachment to his subject is especially requisite in the sacred poet. If even the description of material objects is found to languish without it, much more will it be looked for when the best and highest of all affections is to be expressed and communicated to others. The nobler and worthier the object, the greater our disappointment to find it approached with anything like languor or constraint.
We must just mention one more quality, which may seem, upon consideration, essential to perfection in this kind: viz. that the feelings the writer expresses should appear to be specimens of his general tone of thought, not sudden bursts and mere flashes of goodness. Wordsworth’s beautiful description of the Stock-dove might not unaptly be applied to him. He should sing
‘of love with silence blending,
Slow to begin, yet never ending,
Of serious faith and inward glee’.
Some may, perhaps, object to this, as a dull and languid strain of sentiment. But before we yield to their censures we would inquire of them what style they consider, themselves, as most appropriate to similar subjects in a kindred art. If grave, simple, sustained melodies—if tones of deep but subdued emotion are what our minds naturally suggest to us upon the mention of sacred music—why should there not be something analogous, a kind of plain chant, in sacred poetry also? fervent, yet sober; awful, but engaging; neither wild and passionate, nor light and airy; but such as we may with submission presume to be the most acceptable offering in its kind, as being indeed the truest expression of the best state of the affections. To many, perhaps to most, men, a tone of more violent emotion may sound at first more attractive. But before we indulge such a preference, we should do well to consider, whether it is quite agreeable to that spirit, which alone can make us worthy readers of sacred poetry. ‘Ἔνθεον ἥ ποιήσις’, it is true; there must be rapture and inspiration, but these will naturally differ in their character as the powers do from whom they proceed. The worshippers of Baal may be rude and frantic in their cries and gestures; but the true Prophet, speaking to or of the true God, is all dignity and calmness.