Divided thence through every age
Thy rebels, Lord, their warfare wage,
And hoarse and jarring all
Mount up their heaven-assailing cries
To Thy bright watchmen in the skies
From Babel’s shattered wall.
Thrice only since, with blended might
The nations on that haughty height
Have met to scale the Heaven:
Thrice only might a Seraph’s look
A moment’s shade of sadness brook —
Such power to guilt was given.
Now the fierce bear and leopard keen
Are perished as they ne’er had been,
Oblivion is their home:
Ambition’s boldest dream and last
Must melt before the clarion blast
That sounds the dirge of Rome.
Heroes and kings, obey the charm,
Withdraw the proud high-reaching arm,
There is an oath on high:
That ne’er on brow of mortal birth
Shall blend again the crowns of earth,
Nor in according cry
Her many voices mingling own
One tyrant Lord, one idol throne:
But to His triumphs soon
he shall descend, who rules above,
And the pure language of His love,
All tongues of men shall tune.
Nor let Ambition heartless mourn;
When Babel’s very ruins burn,
Her high desires may breathe; —
O’ercome thyself, and thou mayst share
With Christ His Father’s throne, and wear
The world’s imperial wreath.
TUESDAY IN WHITSUN-WEEK
When He putteth forth His own sheep, He goeth before
John x. 4.
(Addressed to Candidates for Ordination.)
“Lord, in Thy field I work all day,
I read, I teach, I warn, I pray,
And yet these wilful wandering sheep
Within Thy fold I cannot keep.
“I journey, yet no step is won —
Alas! the weary course I run!
Like sailors shipwrecked in their dreams,
All powerless and benighted seems.”
What? wearied out with half a life?
Scared with this smooth unbloody strife?
Think where thy coward hopes had flown
Had Heaven held out the martyr’s crown.
How couldst thou hang upon the cross,
To whom a weary hour is loss?
Or how the thorns and scourging brook
Who shrinkest from a scornful look?
Yet ere thy craven spirit faints,
Hear thine own King, the King of Saints;
Though thou wert toiling in the grave,
’Tis He can cheer thee, He can save.
He is th’ eternal mirror bright,
Where Angels view the father’s light,
And yet in Him the simplest swain
May read his homely lesson plain.
Early to quit His home on earth,
And claim His high celestial birth,
Alone with His true Father found
Within the temple’s solemn round:-
Yet in meek duty to abide
For many a year at Mary’s side,
Nor heed, though restless spirits ask,
“What, hath the Christ forgot His task?”
Conscious of Deity within,
To bow before an heir of sin,
With folded arms on humble breast,
By His own servant washed and blest:-