datetime="1832-11-20">November 20, 1832.
Say, who is he in deserts seen,
Or at the twilight hour?
Of garb austere, and dauntless mien,
Measured in speech, in purpose keen,
Calm as in Heaven he had been,
Yet blithe when perils lower.
My Holy Mother made reply,
“Dear child, it is my Priest.
The world has cast me forth, and I
Dwell with wild earth and gusty sky;
He bears to men my mandates high,
And works my sage behest.
“Another day, dear child, and thou
Shalt join his sacred band.
Ah! well I deem, thou shrinkest now
From urgent rule, and severing vow;
Gay hopes flit round, and light thy brow:
Time hath a taming hand!”
Thou to wax fierce
In the cause of the Lord,
To threat and to pierce
With the heavenly sword!
Anger and Zeal,
And the Joy of the brave,
Who bade thee to feel,
Sin’s slave.
The Altar’s pure flame
Consumes as it soars:
Faith meetly may blame,
For it serves and adores.
Thou warnest and smitest!
Yet Christ must atone
For a soul that thou slightest—
Thine own.
XXVII
The Gift of Preserverance
Once, as I brooded o’er my guilty state,
A fever seized me, duties to devise,
To buy me interest in my Saviour’s eyes;
Not that His love I would extenuate,
But scourge and penance, masterful self-hate,
Or gift of cost, served by an artifice
To quell my restless thoughts and envious sighs
And doubts, which fain heaven’s peace would antedate.
Thus as I tossed, He said:—“E’en holiest deeds
Shroud not the soul from God, nor soothe its needs;
Deny thee thine own fears, and wait the end!”
Stern lesson! Let me con it day by day,
And learn to kneel before the Omniscient Ray,
Nor shrink, when Truth’s avenging shafts descend!
XXVIII
The Sign of the Cross
Whene’er across this sinful flesh of mine
I draw the Holy Sign,
All good thoughts stir within me, and renew
Their slumbering strength divine;
Till there springs up a courage high and true
To suffer and to do.
And who shall say, but hateful spirits around,
For their brief hour unbound,
Shudder to see, and wail their overthrow?
While on far heathen ground
Some lonely Saint hails the fresh odour, though
Its source he cannot know.
XXIX
Bondage
O prophet, tell me not of peace,
Or Christ’s all-loving deeds;
Death only can from sin release,
And death to judgment leads.
Thou from thy birth hast set thy face
Towards thy Redeemer Lord;
To tend and deck His holy place,
And note his secret word.
I ne’er shall reach Heaven’s glorious path;
Yet haply tears may stay
The purpose of His instant wrath,
And slake the fiery day.
Then plead for one who cannot pray,
Whose faith is but despair,
Who hates his heart, nor puts away
The sin that rankles there.6
XXX
The Scars of Sin
My smile is bright, my glance is free,
My voice is calm and clear;
Dear friend, I seem a type to thee
Of holy love and fear.
But I am scann’d by eyes unseen,
And these no saint surround;
They mete what is by what has been,
And joy the lost is found.
Erst my good Angel shrank to see
My thoughts and ways of ill;
And now he scarce dare gaze on me,
Scar-seam’d and crippled still.
XXXI
Angelic Guidance
Are these the tracks of some unearthly Friend,
His foot-prints, and his vesture-skirts of light,
Who, as I talk with men, conforms aright
Their sympathetic words, or deeds that blend
With my hid thought;—or stoops him to attend
My doubtful-pleading grief;—or blunts the might
Of ill I see not;—or in dreams of night
Figures the scope, in which what is will end?
Were I Christ’s own, then fitly might I call
That vision real; for to the thoughtful mind
That walks with Him, He half unveils His face;
But, when on earth-stain’d souls such tokens fall,
These dare not claim as theirs what there they find,
Yet, not all hopeless, eye His boundless grace.
XXXII
Substance and Shadow
They do but grope in learning’s pedant round,
Who on the fantasies of sense bestow
An idol substance, bidding us bow low
Before those shades of being which are found,
Stirring or still, on man’s brief trial-ground;
As if such shapes and moods, which come and go,
Had aught of Truth or Life in their poor show,
To sway or judge, and skill to sane or wound.
Son of immortal seed, high-destined Man!
Know thy dread gift—a creature, yet a cause:
Each mind is its own centre, and it draws
Home to itself, and moulds in its thought’s span
All outward things, the vassals of its will,
Aided by Heaven, by earth unthwarted still.
XXXIII
Wanderings
Ere yet I left home’s youthful shrine,
My heart and hope were stored
Where first I caught the rays divine,
And drank the Eternal Word.
I went afar; the world unroll’d
Her many-pictured page;
I stored the marvels which she told,
And trusted to her gage.
Her pleasures quaff’d, I sought awhile
The scenes I prized before;
But parent’s praise and sister’s smile
Stirr’d my cold heart no more.
So ever sear, so ever cloy
Earth’s favours as they fade;
Since Adam lost for one fierce joy
His Eden’s sacred shade.
XXXIV
The Saint and the Hero
O aged Saint! far off I heard
The praises of thy name;—
Thy deed of power, thy prudent word,
Thy zeal’s triumphant flame.
I came and saw; and, having seen,
Weak heart, I drew offence
From thy prompt smile, thy simple mien,
Thy lowly diligence.
The Saint’s is not the Hero’s praise;—
This I have found, and learn
Nor to malign Heaven’s humblest ways,
Nor its least boon to spurn.
