hand
The flowers thou plantest there,
Which are thy proper care,
O man of God! in meekness and in love,
And waiting for the blissful realms above.”
Alas! for thou must learn,
Thou guileless one! rough is the holy hand;
Runs not the Word of Truth through every land,
A sword to sever, and a fire to burn?
If blessèd Paul had stay’d
In cot or learned shade,
With the priest’s white attire,
And the Saints’ tuneful choir,
Men had not gnash’d their teeth, nor risen to slay,
But thou hadst been a heathen in thy day.
LXXXII
Sacrilege
The Church shone brightly in her youthful days
Ere the world on her smiled;
So now, an outcast, she would pour her rays
Keen, free, and undefiled:
Yet would I not that arm of force were mine,
Which thrusts her from her awful ancient shrine.
’Twas duty bound each convert-king to rear
His Mother from the dust,
And pious was it to enrich, nor fear
Christ for the rest to trust;
And who shall dare make common or unclean
What once has on the Holy Altar been?
Dear brothers!—hence, while ye for ill prepare,
Triumph is still your own;
Blest is a pilgrim Church!—yet shrink to share
The curse of throwing down.
So will we toil in our old place to stand,
Watching, not dreading, the despoiler’s hand.
Ye cannot halve the Gospel of God’s grace;
Men of presumptuous heart! I know you well.
Ye are of those who plan that we should dwell,
Each in his tranquil home and holy place;
Seeing the Word refines all natures rude,
And tames the stirrings of the multitude.
And ye have caught some echoes of its lore,
As heralded amid the joyous choirs;
Ye mark’d it spoke of peace, chastised desires,
Good-will and mercy—and ye heard no more;
But, as for zeal and quick-eyed sanctity,
And the dread depths of grace, ye pass’d them by.
And so ye halve the Truth; for ye in heart,
At best, are doubters whether it be true,
The theme discarding, as unmeet for you,
Statesmen or Sages. O new-compass’d art
Of the ancient Foe!—but what, if it extends
O’er our own camp, and rules amid our friends?
LXXXIV
Declension
When I am sad, I say,
“What boots it me to strive,
And vex my spirit day by day,
Dead memories to revive?
“Alas! what good will come,
Though we our prayer obtain,
To bring old times triumphant home,
And wandering flocks regain?
“Would not our history run
In the same weary round,
And service in meek faith begun,
At length in forms be bound?
“Union would give us strength—
That strength the earth subdue.
And then comes wealth, and pride at length,
And sloth, and prayers untrue.”
Nay, this is worldly-wise;
To reason is a crime,
Since the Lord bade His Church arise,
In the dark ancient time.
He wills that she should shine;
So we her flame must trim
Around His soul-converting Sign,
And leave the rest to Him.
LXXXV
The Age to Come
When I would search the truths that in me burn,
And mould them into rule and argument,
A hundred reasoners cried—“Hast thou to learn
Those dreams are scatter’d now, those fires are spent?”
And, did I mount to simpler thoughts, and try
Some theme of peace, ’twas still the same reply.
Perplex’d, I hoped my heart was pure of guile,
But judged me weak in wit, to disagree;
But now, I see that men are mad awhile,
’Tis the old history—Truth without a home,
Despised and slain, then rising from the tomb.
LXXXVI
External Religion
When first earth’s rulers welcomed home
The Church, their zeal impress’d
Upon the seasons, as they come,
The image of their guest.
Men’s words and works, their hopes and fears,
Henceforth forbid to rove,
Paused, when a Martyr claim’d her tears,
Or Saint inspired her love.
But craving wealth, and feverish power,
Such service now discard;
The loss of one excited hour
A sacrifice too hard!
And e’en about the holiest day,
God’s own in every time,
They doubt and search, lest aught should stay
A cataract of crime.
Where shall this cease? must crosiers fall,
Shrines suffer touch profane,
Till, cast without His vineyard wall,
The Heaven-sent Heir is slain?
LXXXVII
St. Gregory Nazianzen
Peace-loving man, of humble heart and true
What dost thou here?
Fierce is the city’s crowd; the lordly few
Are dull of ear!
Sore pain it was to thee—till thou didst quit
Thy patriarch-throne at length, as though for power unfit.
So works the All-wise! our services dividing
Not as we ask:
For the world’s profit, by our gifts deciding
Our duty-task.
See in king’s courts loth Jeremias plead;
And slow-tongued Moses rule by eloquence of deed!
Yes! thou, bright Angel of the East! didst rear
The Cross divine,
Borne high upon thy liquid accents, where
Men mock’d the Sign;
Till that cold city heard thy battle-cry,
And hearts were stirr’d, and deem’d a Pentecost was nigh.
Thou couldst a people raise, but couldst not rule:—
So, gentle one,
Heaven set thee free—for, ere thy years were full,
Thy work was done;
According thee the lot thou lovedst best,
To muse upon the past—to serve, yet be at rest.
LXXXVIII
The Good Samaritan
Oh that thy creed were sound!9
For thou dost soothe the heart, thou Church of Rome,
By thy unwearied watch and varied round
Of service, in thy Saviour’s holy home.
I cannot walk the city’s sultry streets,
But the wide porch invites to still retreats,
Where passion’s thirst is calm’d, and care’s unthankful gloom.
There, on a foreign shore,
The home-sick solitary finds a friend:
Thoughts, prison’d long for lack of speech, outpour
Their tears; and doubts in resignation end.
I almost fainted from the long delay
That tangles me within this languid bay,
When comes a foe, my wounds with
