land of outcry, mockery, and tears!
Higher than law, a refuge from its fears,
Wast thou, in whom embodied Justice shone.
The smile that gracious broke on thy grand face
Was like the sunrise of a morn serene
Among the mountains, making sweet their awe.
Thou both the gentle and the strong didst draw;
Thee childhood loved, and on thy breast would lean,
As, whence thou cam’st, it knew the lofty place.
To One Threatened with Blindness
Lawrence, what though the world be growing dark,
And twilight cool thy potent day enclose!
The sun, beneath the round earth sunk, still glows
All the night through, sleepless and young and stark.
Oh, be thy spirit faithful as the lark,
More daring: in the midnight of thy woes,
Dart through them, higher than earth’s shadow goes,
Into the Light of which thou art a spark!
Be willing to be blind—that, in thy night,
The Lord may bring his Father to thy door,
And enter in, and feast thy soul with light.
Then shall thou dream of darksome ways no more,
Forget the gloom that round thy windows lies,
And shine, God’s house, all radiant in our eyes.
Say thou, his will be done who is the good!
His will be borne who knoweth how to bear!
Who also in the night had need of prayer,
Both when awoke divinely longing mood,
And when the power of darkness him withstood.
For what is coming take no jot of care:
Behind, before, around thee as the air,
He o’er thee like thy mother’s heart will brood.
And when thou hast wearied thy wings of prayer,
Then fold them, and drop gently to thy nest,
Which is thy faith; and make thy people blest
With what thou bring’st from that ethereal height,
Which whoso looks on thee will straightway share:
He needs no eyes who is a shining light!
To Aubrey de Vere
Ray of the Dawn of Truth, Aubrey de Vere,
Forgive my play fantastic with thy name,
Distilling its true essence by the flame
Which Love ’neath Fancy’s limbeck lighteth clear.
I know not what thy semblance, what thy cheer;
If, as thy spirit, hale thy bodily frame,
Or furthering by failure each high aim;
If green thy leaf, or, like mine, growing sear;
But this I think, that thou wilt, by and by—
Two journeys stoutly, therefore safely trod—
We laying down the staff, and He the rod—
So look on me I shall not need to cry—
“We must be brothers, Aubrey, thou and I:
We mean the same thing—will the will of God!”
General Gordon
Victorious through failure! faithful Lord,
Who for twelve angel legions wouldst not pray
From thine own country of eternal day,
To shield thee from the lanterned traitor horde,
Making thy one rash servant sheathe his sword!—
Our long retarded legions, on their way,
Toiling through sands, and shouldering Nile’s down-sway,
To reach thy soldier, keeping at thy word,
Thou sawest foiled—but glorifiedst him,
Over ten cities giving him thy rule!
We will not mourn a star that grew not dim,
A soldier-child of God gone home from school!
A dregless cup, with life brimmed, he did quaff,
And quaffs it now with Christ’s imperial staff!
Another to the witnesses’ roll-call
Hath answered, “Here I am!” and so stepped out—
With willingness crowned everywhere about,
Not the head only, but the body all,
In one great nimbus of obedient fall,
His heart’s blood dashing in the face of doubt—
Love’s last victorious stand amid the rout!
—Silence is left, and the untasted gall.
No chariot with ramping steeds of fire
The Father sent to fetch his man-child home;
His brother only called, “My Gordon, come!”
And like a dove to heaven he did aspire,
His one wing Death, his other, Heart’s-desire.
—Farewell a while! we climb where thou hast clomb!
Written for One in Sore Pain
Shepherd, on before thy sheep,
Hear thy lamb that bleats behind!
Scarce the track I stumbling keep!
Through my thin fleece blows the wind!
Turn and see me, Son of Man!
Turn and lift thy Father’s child;
Scarce I walk where once I ran:
Carry me—the wind is wild!
Thou art strong—thy strength wilt share;
My poor weight thou wilt not feel;
Weakness made thee strong to bear,
Suffering made thee strong to heal!
I were still a wandering sheep
But for thee, O Shepherd-man!
Following now, I faint, I weep,
Yet I follow as I can!
Shepherd, if I fall and lie
Moaning in the frosty wind,
Yet, I know, I shall not die—
Thou wilt miss me—and wilt find!
Christmas, 1873
Christmas-Days are still in store:—
Will they change—steal faded hither?
Or come fresh as heretofore,
Summering all our winter weather?
Surely they will keep their bloom
All the countless pacing ages:
In the country whence they come
Children only are the sages!
Hither, every hour and year,
Children come to cure our oldness—
Oft, alas, to gather sear
Unbelief, and earthy boldness!
Men they grow and women cold,
Selfish, passionate, and plaining!
Ever faster they grow old:—
On the world, ah, eld is gaining!
Child, whose childhood ne’er departs!
Jesus, with the perfect father!
Drive the age from parents’ hearts;
To thy heart the children gather.
Send thy birth into our souls,
With its grand and tender story.
Hark! the gracious thunder rolls!—
News to men! to God old glory!
Christmas, 1884
Though in my heart no Christmas glee,
Though my song-bird be dumb,
Jesus, it is enough for me
That thou art come.
What though the loved be scattered far,
Few at the board appear,
In thee, O Lord, they gathered are,
And thou art here.
And if our hearts be low with lack,
They are not therefore numb;
Not always will thy day come back—
Thyself will come!
A Song for Christmas
Hark, in the steeple the dull bell swinging
Over the furrows ill ploughed by Death!
Hark the bird-babble, the loud lark singing!
Hark, from the sky, what the prophet saith!
Hark, in the pines, the free Wind, complaining—
Moaning, and murmuring, “Life is bare!”
Hark, in the organ, the caught Wind, outstraining,
Jubilant rise in a soaring prayer!
Toll for the burying, sexton tolling!
Sing for the second birth, angel Lark!
Moan, ye poor Pines, with the Past condoling!
Burst out, brave Organ, and kill the Dark!
Sit on the ground, and immure thy sorrow;
I will give
