The Christian Year Part 33

And oft as sin and sorrow tire, This hallowed hour do Thou renew, When beckoned up the awful choir By pastoral hands, toward Thee we drew;

When trembling at this sacred rail We hid our eyes and held our breath, Felt Thee how strong, our hearts how frail, And longed to own Thee to the death.

For ever on our souls be traced That blessing dear, that dove-like hand, A sheltering rock in Memory's waste, O'er-shadowing all the weary land.

Matrimony.

THERE is an awe in mortals' joy, A deep mysterious fear Half of the heart will still employ, As if we drew too near To Eden's portal, and those fires That bicker round in wavy spires, Forbidding, to our frail desires, What cost us once so dear.

We cower before th' heart-searching eye In rapture as its pain; E'en wedded Love, till Thou be nigh, Dares not believe her gain: Then in the air she fearless springs, The breath of Heaven beneath her wings, And leaves her woodnote wild, and sings A tuned and measured strain.

Ill fare the lay, though soft as dew And free as air it fall, That, with Thine altar full in view, Thy votaries would enthrall To a foul dream, of heathen night, Lifting her torch in Love's despite, And scaring with base wild-fire light The sacred nuptial hall.

Far other strains, far other fires, Our marriage-offering grace; Welcome, all chaste and kind desires, With even matron pace Approaching down this hallowed aisle!

Where should ye seek Love's perfect smile, But where your prayers were learned erewhile, In her own native place?

Where, but on His benignest brow, Who waits to bless you here?

Living, he owned no nuptial vow, No bower to Fancy dear: Love's very self-for Him no need To nurse, on earth, the heavenly seed: Yet comfort in His eye we read For bridal joy and fear.

'Tis He who clasps the marriage band, And fits the spousal ring, Then leaves ye kneeling, hand in hand, Out of His stores to bring His Father's dearest blessing, shed Of old on Isaac's nuptial bed, Now on the board before ye spread Of our all-bounteous King.

All blessings of the breast and womb, Of Heaven and earth beneath, Of converse high, and sacred home, Are yours, in life and death.

Only kneel on, nor turn away From the pure shrine, where Christ to-day Will store each flower, ye duteous lay, For an eternal wreath.

Visitation and Communion of the Sick.

O YOUTH and Joy, your airy tread Too lightly springs by Sorrow's bed, Your keen eye-glances are too bright, Too restless for a sick man's sight.

Farewell; for one short life we part: I rather woo the soothing art, Which only souls in sufferings tried Bear to their suffering brethren's side.

Where may we learn that gentle spell?

Mother of Martyrs, thou canst tell!

Thou, who didst watch thy dying Spouse With pierced hands and bleeding brows, Whose tears from age to age are shed O'er sainted sons untimely dead, If e'er we charm a soul in pain, Thine is the key-note of our strain.

How sweet with thee to lift the latch, Where Faith has kept her midnight watch, Smiling on woe: with thee to kneel, Where fixed, as if one prayer could heal, She listens, till her pale eye glow With joy, wild health can never know, And each calm feature, ere we read, Speaks, silently, thy glorious Creed.

Such have I seen: and while they poured Their hearts in every contrite word, How have I rather longed to kneel And ask of them sweet pardon's seal; How blessed the heavenly music brought By thee to aid my faltering thought!

"Peace" ere we kneel, and when we cease To pray, the farewell word is, "Peace."

I came again: the place was bright "With something of celestial light"- A simple Altar by the bed For high Communion meetly spread, Chalice, and plate, and snowy vest.- We ate and drank: then calmly blest, All mourners, one with dying breath, We sate and talked of Jesus' death.

Once more I came: the silent room Was veiled in sadly-soothing gloom, And ready for her last abode The pale form like a lily showed, By Virgin fingers duly spread, And prized for love of summer fled.

The light from those soft-smiling eyes Had fleeted to its parent skies.

O soothe us, haunt us, night and day, Ye gentle Spirits far away, With whom we shared the cup of grace, Then parted; ye to Christ's embrace, We to this lonesome world again, Yet mindful of th' unearthly strain Practised with you at Eden's door, To be sung on, where Angels soar, With blended voices evermore.

Burial of the Dead.

And when the Lord saw her, He had compa.s.sion on her, and said unto her, Weep not. And He came and touched the bier; and they that bare him stood still. And He said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise.-_St. Luke_ vii. 13, 14.

WHO says, the wan autumnal soon Beams with too faint a smile To light up nature's face again, And, though the year be on this wane, With thoughts of spring the heart beguile?

Waft him, thou soft September breeze, And gently lay him down Within some circling woodland wall, Where bright leaves, reddening ere they fall, Wave gaily o'er the waters brown.

And let some graceful arch be there With wreathed mullions proud, With burnished ivy for its screen, And moss, that glows as fresh and green As thought beneath an April cloud.-

Who says the widow's heart must break, The childless mother sink?- A kinder truer voice I hear, Which e'en beside that mournful bier Whence parents' eyes would hopeless shrink,

Bids weep no more-O heart bereft, How strange, to thee, that sound!

A widow o'er her only son, Feeling more bitterly alone For friends that press officious round.

Yet is the voice of comfort heard, For Christ hath touched the bier- The bearers wait with wondering eye, The swelling bosom dares not sigh, But all is still, 'twixt hope and fear.

E'en such an awful soothing calm We sometimes see alight On Christian mourners, while they wait In silence, by some churchyard gate, Their summons to this holy rite.

And such the tones of love, which break The stillness of that hour, Quelling th' embittered spirit's strife- "The Resurrection and the Life Am I: believe, and die no more."

Unchanged that voice-and though not yet The dead sit up and speak, Answering its call; we gladlier rest Our darlings on earth's quiet breast, And our hearts feel they must not break.

Far better they should sleep awhile Within the Church's shade, Nor wake, until new heaven, new earth, Meet for their new immortal birth For their abiding-place be made,

Than wander back to life, and lean On our frail love once more.

'Tis sweet, as year by year we lose Friends out of sight, in faith to muse How grows in Paradise our store.

Then pa.s.s, ye mourners, cheerly on, Through prayer unto the tomb, Still, as ye watch life's falling leaf, Gathering from every loss and grief Hope of new spring and endless home.

Then cheerly to your work again With hearts new-braced and set To run, untired, love's blessed race.

As meet for those, who face to face Over the grave their Lord have met.

Churching of Women.

IS there, in bowers of endless spring, One known from all the seraph band By softer voice, by smile and wing More exquisitely bland!

Here let him speed: to-day this hallowed air Is fragrant with a mother's first and fondest prayer.

Only let Heaven her fire impart, No richer incense breathes on earth: "A spouse with all a daughter's heart,"

Fresh from the perilous birth, To the great Father lifts her pale glad eye, Like a reviving flower when storms are hushed on high.

Oh, what a treasure of sweet thought Is here! what hope and joy and love All in one tender bosom brought, For the all-gracious Dove To brood o'er silently, and form for Heaven Each pa.s.sionate wish and dream to dear affection given.