The following sections of this BookRags Literature Study Guide is offprint from Gale's For Students Series: Presenting Analysis, Context, and Criticism on Commonly Studied Works: Introduction, Author Biography, Plot Summary, Characters, Themes, Style, Historical Context, Critical Overview, Criticism and Critical Essays, Media Adaptations, Topics for Further Study, Compare & Contrast, What Do I Read Next?, For Further Study, and Sources.
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The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Encyclopedia of Popular Fiction: "Social Concerns", "Thematic Overview", "Techniques", "Literary Precedents", "Key Questions", "Related Titles", "Adaptations", "Related Web Sites". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
The following sections, if they exist, are offprint from Beacham's Guide to Literature for Young Adults: "About the Author", "Overview", "Setting", "Literary Qualities", "Social Sensitivity", "Topics for Discussion", "Ideas for Reports and Papers". (c)1994-2005, by Walton Beacham.
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The scribe
the hermit’s song
Crinog
king and hermit
on AENGUS the Culdee
the shaving of Murdoch
on the flightiness of thought
the monk and his white cat
invocations and reflections
A prayer to the virgin
MAELISU’S hymn to the Archangel
Michael
MAELISU’S hymn to the holy
spirit
eve’s lamentation
Alexander the great
the kings who came to Christ
quatrains
charms and invocations
The song of Crede, daughter
of Guare
the deserted home
the mothers’ lament at the
slaughter of the innocents
the keening of Mary
CAOINE
Battle hymn
the song of the woods
the enchanted valley
remember the poor
The odes to the months
the Tercets
hail, glorious Lord!
My burial
the last CYWYDD
the labourer
the elegy on sion Glyn
the Noble’s grave
the bard’s death-bed confession
quick, death!
Counsel in view of death
from “The last judgment”
A good wife
“Marchog Jesu!”
The destruction of Jerusalem
love divine
behind the veil
the reign of love
PLAS GOGERDDAN
all through the night
David of the white rock
the high tide
“Ora pro Nobis”
A flower-Sunday lullaby
the ballad of the old Bachelor
of Ty’n Y Mynydd
the queen’s dream
the Welsh fishermen
David’s lament over Saul
and Jonathan
the fiery furnace
Ruth and Naomi
the lilies of the field and
the fowls of the air
the good physician
the Sower
the Prodigal’s return
st. Mary Magdalen
A Christmas communion hymn
A Christmas carol of the Epiphany
A fourteenth-century carol
earth’s Easter
Easter day, 1915
the ascension
Whitsuntide
Harvest hymn
Father O’FLYNN
Lady Gwenny
old doctor Mack
to the memory of John Owen
saint Cuthbert
Alfred the great
sir Samuel Ferguson
“Men, not walls, make A
city”
Field-Marshal Earl Kitchener
inscription for A roll of Honour
in A public School
an epitaph
an intercessional answered
Let there be joy!
A holiday hymn
summer MORNING’S walk
snow-Stains
remembrance
sands of gold
the mourner
de PROFUNDIS
immortal hope
we had A child
by the bedside of A sick
child
he has come back
SPRING’S secrets
the lord’s leisure
spring is not dead
aim not too high
wild wine of nature
bridal invocation
the coming of sir Galahad
and A vision of the grail
ask what thou wilt
THE ISLE OF THE HAPPY
(From the Early Irish)
Once when Bran, son of Feval, was with his warriors in his royal fort, they suddenly saw a woman in strange raiment upon the floor of the house. No one knew whence she had come or how she had entered, for the ramparts were closed. Then she sang these quatrains of Erin, the Isle of the Happy, to Bran while all the host were listening:
A branch I bear from Evin’s apple-trees
Whose shape agrees with Evin’s
orchard spray;
Yet never could her branches best belauded
Such crystal-gauded bud and
bloom display.
There is a distant Isle, deep sunk in
shadows,
Sea-horses round its meadows
flash and flee;
Full fair the course, white-swelling waves
enfold it,
Four pedestals uphold it o’er
the sea.
White the bronze pillars that this Fairy
Curragh,[A]
The Centuries thorough, glimmering
uphold.
Through all the World the fairest land
of any
Is this whereon the many blooms
unfold.
And in its midst an Ancient Tree forth
flowers,
Whence to the Hours beauteous
birds outchime;
In harmony of song, with fluttering feather,
They hail together each new
birth of Time.
And through the Isle glow all glad shades
of colour,
No hue of dolour mars its
beauty lone.
’Tis Silver Cloud Land that we ever
name it,
And joy and music claim it
for their own.
Not here are cruel guile or loud resentment,
But calm contentment, fresh
and fruitful cheer;
Not here loud force or dissonance distressful,
But music melting blissful
on the ear.
No grief, no gloom, no death, no mortal
sickness,
Nor any weakness our sure
strength can bound;
These are the signs that grace the race
of Evin.
Beneath what other heaven
are they found?
A Hero fair, from out the dawn’s
bright blooming,
Rides forth, illuming level
shore and flood;
The white and seaward plain he sets in
motion,
He stirs the ocean into burning
blood.
A host across the clear blue sea comes
rowing,
Their prowess showing, till
they touch the shore;
Thence seek the Shining Stone where Music’s
measure
Prolongs the pleasure of the
pulsing oar.
It sings a strain to all the host assembled;
That strain untired has trembled
through all time!
It swells with such sweet choruses unnumbered,
Decay and Death have slumbered
since its chime.
Thus happiness with wealth is o’er
us stealing,
And laughter pealing forth
from every hill.
Yea! through the Land of Peace at every
season
Pure Joy and Reason are companions
still.
Through all the lovely Isle’s unchanging
hours
There showers and showers
a stream of silver bright;
A pure white cliff that from the breast
of Evin
Mounts up to Heaven thus assures
her light.
Long ages hence a Wondrous Child and Holy,
Yet in estate most lowly shall
have birth;
Seed of a Woman, yet whose Mate knows
no man
To rule the thousand thousands
of the earth.
His sway is ceaseless; ’twas His
love all-seeing
That Earth’s vast being
wrought with perfect skill.
All worlds are His; for all His kindness
cares;
But woe to all gainsayers
of His Will.
The stainless heavens beneath His Hands
unfolded,
He moulded Man as free of
mortal stain,
And even now Earth’s sin-struck
sons and daughters
His Living Waters can make
whole again.
Not unto all of you is this my message
Of marvellous presage at this
hour revealed.
Let Bran but listen from Earth’s
concourse crowded
Unto the shrouded wisdom there
concealed.
Upon a couch of languor lie not sunken,
Beware lest drunkenness becloud
thy speech!
Put forth, O Bran, across the far, clear
waters.
And Evin’s daughters
haply thou may’st reach.
[Footnote A: Plain or tableland such as the Curragh of Kildare.]
(From the Early Irish)
Carbery
“Cormac, Conn’s grandson,
and son of great Art
Declare to me now from the depths of thy
heart,
With the wise and the foolish,
With strangers
and friends,
The meek and the mulish,
The old and the
young,
With good manners to make
God amends—
How I must govern
my tongue,
And in all things comport
myself purely,
The good and the
wicked among.”
Cormac
“The answer thereto is not difficult
surely.
Be not too wise nor too scatter-brained,
Not too conceited nor too restrained,
Be not too haughty nor yet too meek,
Too tattle-tongued or too loth to speak,
Neither too hard nor yet too weak.
If too wise you appear, folk too much
will claim of you,
If too foolish, they still will be making
fresh game of you,
If too conceited, vexatious they’ll
dub you,
If too unselfish, they only will snub
you,
If too much of a tattler, you ne’er
will be heeded,
If too silent, your company ne’er
will be needed,
If overhard, your pride will be broken
asunder,
If overweak, the folk will trample you
under.”
THE HOUSE OF HOSPITALITY
Carbery
“Cormac, grandson of Conn, what
dues hath a
Chief and an ale-house?”
Said Cormac: “Not hard to tell!
Good behaviour around a good Chief;
Lamps to light for the eye’s relief;
Exerting ourselves for the Company’s
sake,
Seats assigned with no clownish mistake,
Deft and liberal measuring carvers;
Attentive and nimble-handed servers;
Moderation in music and song;
A telling of stories not too long;
The Host, to a bright elation stirred,
Giving each guest a welcoming word.
Silence during the Bard’s reciting—
Each chorus in sweet concent uniting.”
Carbery
“O Cormac, grandson of Conn, say
Cormac
“Into the woods I went a-listening,
I was a gazer when stars were glistening;
Blind when secrets were plain to guess;
A silent one in the wilderness;
I was talkative with the many,
Yet, in the mead-hall, milder than any;
I was stern amid battle cries;
I was gentle towards allies;
I was a doctor unto the sick;
On the feeble I laid no stick.
Not close lest burdensome I should be;
Though wise not given to arrogancy.
I promised little, though lavish of gift;
I was not reckless though I was swift;
Young, I never derided the old;
And never boasted though I was bold;
Of an absent one no ill would I tell;
I would not reproach, though I praised
full well;
I never would ask but ever would give,
For a kingly life I craved to live!”
THE WORST WAY OF PLEADING
Carbery
“O Cormac Mac Art, of Wisdom exceeding,
What is the evilest way of pleading?”
Said Cormac: “Not hard to tell!
Against knowledge contending;
Without proofs, pretending;
In bad language escaping;
A style stiff and scraping;
Speech mean and muttering,
Hair-splitting and stuttering;
Uncertain proofs devising;
Authorities despising;
Scorning custom’s reading;
Confusing all your pleading;
To madness a mob to be leading;
With the shout of a strumpet
Blowing one’s own trumpet.”
“O Cormac Mac Art, of your enemies’
garrison,
Who is the worst for your witty comparison?”
Said Cormac:
“Not hard to tell!
A man with a satirist’s nameless
audacity;
A man with a slave-woman’s shameless
pugnacity;
One with a dirty dog’s careless
up-bound,
The conscience thereto of a ravening hound.
Like a stately noble he answers all speakers
From a memory full as a Chronicle-maker’s,
With the suave behaviour of Abbot or Prior,
Yet the blasphemous tongue of a horse-thief
liar
And he wise as false in every grey hair,
Violent, garrulous, devil-may-care.
When he cries, ‘The case is settled
and over!’
Though you were a saint, I swear you would
swear!”
IRISH TRIADS
(By an unknown Author of the ninth century)
Three signs whereby to mark a man of vice
Are hatred, bitterness, and avarice.
Three graceless sisters in the bond of
unity
Are lightness, flightiness, and importunity.
Three clouds, the most obscuring Wisdom’s
glance,
Forgetfulness, half-knowledge, ignorance.
Three savage sisters sharpening life’s
distress,
Foul Blasphemy, Foul Strife, Foul-mouthedness.
Three services the worst for human hands,
A vile Lord’s, a vile Lady’s,
a vile Land’s.
Three gladnesses that soon give way to
griefs,
A wooer’s, a tale-bearer’s,
and a thief’s.
Three signs of ill-bred folk in every
nation—
A visit lengthened to a visitation,
Staring, and overmuch interrogation.
Three arts that constitute a true physician:
To cure your malady with expedition.
To let no after-consequence remain,
And make his diagnosis without pain.
Three keys that most unlock our secret
thinking
Are love and trustfulness and overdrinking.
Three nurses of hot blood to man’s
undoing—
Excess of pride, of drinking, and of wooing.
Three the receivers are of stolen goods:
A cloak, the cloak of night, the cloak
of woods.
Three unions, each of peace a proved miscarriage,
Confederate feats, joint ploughland, bonds
of marriage.
Three lawful hand-breadths for mankind
about the body be,
From shoes to hose, from ear to hair,
from tunic unto knee.
Three youthful sisters for all eyes to
see,
Beauty, desire, and generosity.
Three excellences of our dress are these—
Elegance, durability, and ease.
Three idiots of a bad guest-house are
these—
A hobbling beldam with a hoicking wheeze,
A brainless tartar of a serving-girl,
For serving-boy a swinish lubber-churl.
Three slender ones whereon the whole earth
swings—
The thin milk stream that in the keeler
sings;
The thin green blade that from the cornfield
springs;
That thin grey thread the housewife’s
shuttle flings.
The three worst welcomes that will turn
a guest-house
For weary wayfarers into a Pest-house—
Within its roof a workman’s hammer
beat;
A bath of scalding water for your feet;
With no assuaging draught, salt food to
eat.
Three finenesses that foulness keep from
sight—
Fine manners in the most misfeatured wight;
Fine shapes of art by servile fingers
moulded;
Fine wisdom from a cripple’s brain
unfolded.
Three fewnesses that better are than plenty:
A fewness of fine words—but
one in twenty;
A fewness of milch cows, when grass is
shrinking;
Fewness of friends when beer is best for
drinking.
Three worst of snares upon a Chieftain’s
way:
Sloth, treachery, and evil counsel they!
Three ruins of a tribe to west or east:
A lying Chief, false Brehon, lustful Priest.
The rudest three of all the sons of earth:
A youngster of an old man making mirth;
A strong man at a sick man poking fun;
A wise man gibing at a foolish one.
Three signs that show a fop: the
comb-track on his hair;
The track of his nice teeth upon his nibbled
fare;
His cane-track on the dust, oft as he
takes the air.
Three sparks that light the fire of love
are these—
Glamour of face, and grace, and speech
of ease.
Three steadinesses of wise womanhood— steady tongue through evil, as through good; A steady chastity, whoso else shall stray; Steady house service, all and every day.
Three sounds of increase: kine that
low,
When milk unto their calves they owe;
The hammer on the anvil’s brow,
The pleasant swishing of the plough.
Three sisters false: I would!
I might! I may!
Three fearful brothers: Hearken!
Hush! and Stay!
Three coffers of a depth unknown
Are his who occupies the throne,
The Church’s, and the privileged
Poet’s own.
Three glories of a gathering free from
strife—
Swift hound, proud steed, and beautiful
young wife.
The world’s three laughing-stocks
(be warned and wiser!)—
An angry man, a jealoused, and a miser.
Three powers advantaging a Chieftain most
Are Peace and Justice and an Armed Host.
ST. PATRICK’S BLESSING ON MUNSTER
(From the Early Irish)
Blessing from the Lord on High
Over Munster fall and lie;
To her sons and daughters all
Choicest blessing still befall;
Fruitful blessing on the soil
That supports her faithful toil.
Blessing full of ruddy health,
Blessing full of every wealth
That her borders furnish forth,
East and west and south and north;
Blessing from the Lord on High
Over Munster fall and lie!
Blessing on her peaks in air,
Blessing on her flagstones bare,
Blessing from her ridges flow
To her grassy glens below!
Blessing from the Lord on High
Over Munster fall and lie!
As the sands upon her shore
Underneath her ships, for store,
Be her hearths, a twinkling host,
Over mountain, plain and coast;
Blessings from the Lord on High
Over Munster fall and lie!
Otherwise called “The Deer’s Cry.” For St. Patrick sang this hymn when the ambuscades were laid against him by King Leary that he might go to Tara to sow the Faith. Then it seemed to those lying in ambush that he and his monks were wild deer with a fawn, even Benen (Benignus) following him.
I invoke, upon
my path
To the King of
Ireland’s rath,
The
Almighty Power of the Trinity;
Through belief
in the Threeness,
Through confession
of the Oneness
Of
the Maker’s Eternal Divinity.
I invoke, on my journey arising,
The power of Christ’s Birth and
Baptizing,
The powers of the hours of His dread Crucifixion,
Of His Death and Abode in
the Tomb,
The power of the hour of His glorious
Resurrection
From out the Gehenna of gloom,
I arise to-day in the strength of the
heaven,
The glory of the sun,
The radiance of the moon,
The splendour of fire and the swiftness
of the levin,
The wind’s flying force,
The depth of the sea,
The earth’s steadfast course,
The rock’s austerity.
I arise on my way,
With God’s Strength for my stay,
God’s Might to protect me,
God’s Wisdom to direct me,
God’s Eye to be my providence,
God’s Ear to take my evidence,
God’s Word my words to order,
God’s Hand to be my warder,
God’s Way to lie before me,
God’s Shield and Buckler o’er
me,
God’s Host Unseen to save me,
From each ambush of the Devil,
From each vice
that would enslave me.
And from all who wish me evil,
Whether far I fare or near.
Alone or in a multitude.
All these Hierarchies and
Powers
I invoke to intervene,
When the adversary lowers
On my path, with
purpose keen
Of vengeance black
and bloody
On my soul and
my body;
I bind these Powers to come
Against druid
counsel dark,
The black craft of Pagandom,
And the false
heresiarch,
The spells of wicked women,
And the wizard’s arts
inhuman,
And every knowledge, old and
fresh,
Corruptive of man’s
soul and flesh.
May Christ, on my way
To Tara to-day,
Shield me from prison,
Shield me from fire,
Drowning or wounding
By enemy’s ire,
So that mighty fruition
May follow my mission.
Christ behind and before me,
Christ beneath me and o’er me,
Christ within and without me,
Christ around and about me,
Christ on my left and Christ on my right,
Christ with me at morn and Christ with
me at night;
Christ in each heart that shall ever take
thought of me,
Christ in each mouth that shall ever speak
aught of me;
Christ in each eye that shall ever on
me fasten,
Christ in each ear that shall ever to
me listen.
I invoke, upon
my path
To the King of
Ireland’s rath,
The
Almighty Power of the Trinity;
Through belief
in the Threeness,
Through confession
of the Oneness
Of
the Maker’s Eternal Divinity.
Christ, Thou Son of God most High,
May thy Holy Angels keep
Watch around us as we lie
In our shining beds asleep.
Time’s hid veil with truth to pierce
Let them teach our dreaming
eyes,
Arch-King of the Universe,
High-Priest of the Mysteries.
May no demon of the air,
May no malice of our foes,
Evil dream or haunting care
Mar our willing, prompt repose!
May our vigils hallowed be
By the tasks we undertake!
May our sleep be fresh and free,
Without let and without break.
ST. COLUMBA’S GREETING TO IRELAND
(An old Irish poem recounting the Saint’s voyage
from Erin to Alba
(Scotland), from which he but once returned)
Delightful to stand on the brow of Ben
Edar,
Before being a speeder on
the white-haired sea!
The dashing of the wave in wild disorder
On its desolate border delightful
to me!
Delightful to stand on the brow of Ben
Edar,
After being a speeder o’er
the white-bosomed sea,
After rowing and rowing in my little curragh!
To the loud shore thorough,
O, Och, Ochonee!
Great is the speed of my little wherry,
As afar from Derry its path
it ploughs;
Heavy my heart out of Erin steering
And nearing Alba of the beetling
brows.
My foot is fast in my chiming curragh,
Tears of sorrow my sad heart
fill.
Who lean not on God are but feeble-minded,
Without His Love we go blinded
still.
There is a grey eye that tears are thronging,
Fixed with longing on Erin’s
shore,
It shall never see o’er the waste
of waters
The sons and daughters of
Erin more.
Its glance goes forth o’er the brine
wave-broken,
Far off from the firm-set,
oaken seat;
Many the tears from that grey eye streaming,
The faint, far gleaming of
Erin to meet.
For indeed my soul is set upon Erin,
And all joys therein from
Linnhe to Lene,
On each pleasant prospect of proud Ultonia,
Mild Momonia and Meath the
green.
In Alba eastward the lean Scot increases,
Frequent the diseases and
murrain in her parts,
Many in her mountains the scanty-skirted
fellows,
Many are the hard and the
jealous hearts.
Many in the West are our Kings and Princes
noble,
Orchards bend double beneath
their fruitage vast;
Sloes upon the thorn-bush shine in blue
abundance,
Oaks in redundance drop the
royal mast.
Melodious are her clerics, melodious Erin’s
birds are,
Gentle her youths’ words
are, her seniors discreet;
Famed far her chieftains—goodlier
are no men—
Very fair her women for espousal
sweet.
’Tis within the West sweet Brendan
is residing,
There Colum MacCriffan is
indeed abiding now;
And ’tis unto the West ruddy Baithir
is repairing
And Adamnan shall be faring
to perform his vow.
Salute them courteously, salute them all
and single,
After them Comgall, Eternity’s
true heir,
Then to the stately Monarch of fair Navan
Up from the haven my greeting
greatly bear.
My blessing, fair youth, and my full benediction
Without one restriction be
bearing to-day—
One half above Erin, one half seven times
over,
And one half above Alba to
hover for aye.
Carry to Erin that full load of blessing,
For sorrow distressing my
heart’s pulses fail,
If Death overtake me, the whole truth
be spoken!
My heart it was broken by
great love for the Gael.
“Gael, Gael,” at that dear
word’s repeating,
Again with glad beating my
heart takes my breast.
Beloved is Cummin of the tresses most
beauteous,
And Cainnech the duteous and
Comgall the Blest.
Were all of Alba mine now to enter,
Mine from the centre and through
to the sea;
I would rather possess in deep-leaved
Derry
The home that was very very
dear to me.
To Derry my love is ever awarded,
For her lawns smooth-swarded,
her pure clear wells,
And the hosts of angels that hover and
hover
Over and over her oak-set
dells.
Indeed and indeed for these joys I love
her,
Pure air is above her, smooth
turf below;
While evermore over each oak-bough leafy
A beautiful bevy of angels
go.
My Derry, my little oak grove of Erin!
My dwelling was therein, my
small dear cell.
Strike him, O Living God out of Heaven,
With Thy red Levin who works
them ill.
Beloved shall Derry and Durrow endure,
Beloved Raphoe of the pure
clear well,
Beloved Drumhome with its sweet acorn
showers,
Beloved the towers of Swords
and Kells!
Beloved too at my heart as any
Art thou Drumcliffe on Culcinne’s
strand,
And over Loch Foyle—’tis
delight to be gazing—
So shapely are her shores
on either hand.
Delightful indeed, is the purple sea’s
glamour,
Where sea-gulls clamour in
white-winged flight,
As you view it afar from Derry beloved,
O the peace of it, the peace
and delight!
(From an Irish Manuscript in the Burgundian Library, Brussels)
Delightful would it be to me
From a rock pinnacle to trace
Continually
The Ocean’s face:
That I might watch the heaving waves
Of noble force
To God the Father chant their staves
Of the earth’s course.
That I might mark its level strand,
To me no lone distress,
That I might hark the sea-bird’s
wondrous band—
Sweet source of happiness.
That I might hear the clamorous billows
thunder
On the rude beach.
That by my blessed church side I might
ponder
Their mighty speech.
Or watch surf-flying gulls the dark shoal
follow
With joyous scream,
Or mighty ocean monsters spout and wallow,
Wonder supreme!
That I might well observe of ebb and flood
All cycles therein;
And that my mystic name might be for good
But “Cul-ri. Erin.”
That gazing toward her on my heart might
fall
A full contrition,
That I might then bewail my evils all,
Though hard the addition;
That I might bless the Lord who all things
orders
For their great good.
The countless hierarchies through Heaven’s
bright borders—
Land, strand, and flood,
That I might search all books and from
their chart
Find my soul’s calm;
Now kneel before the Heaven of my heart,
Now chant a psalm;
Now meditate upon the King of Heaven,
Chief of the Holy Three;
Now ply my work by no compulsion driven.
What greater joy could be?
Now plucking dulse upon the rocky shore,
Now fishing eager on,
Now furnishing food unto the famished
poor;
In hermitage anon:
The guidance of the King of Kings
Has been vouchsafed unto me;
If I keep watch beneath His wings,
No evil shall undo me.
An old Irish poem on the Hill of Alenn recording the disappearance of the Pagan World of Ireland and the triumph of Christianity by the establishment at Kildare of the convent of Brigit, Saint and Princess.
Safe on thy throne,
Triumphing Bride,
Down Liffey’s side,
Far to the coast,
Rule with the host
Under thy care
Over the Children of Mighty Cathair.
God’s hid intents
At every time,
For pure Erin’s clime
All telling surpass.
Liffey’s clear glass
Mirrors thy reign,
But many proud masters have passed from
his plain.
When on his banks
I cast my eyes thorough
The fair, grassy Curragh,
Awe enters my mind
At each wreck that I find
Around me far strown
Of lofty kings’ palaces gaunt, lichen-grown!
Laery was monarch
As far as the Main;
Vast Ailill’s reign!
The Curragh’s green wonder
Still grows the blue under,
The old rulers thereon
One after other to cold death have gone.
Where is Alenn far-famed,
How dear in delights!
Beneath her what Knights
What Princes repose
How feared by her foes
When Crimthan was Chief—
Crimthan of Conquests—now passes
belief!
Proudly the triumph-shout
Rang from his victor lords,
Round their massed shock of swords;
While their foes’ serried, blue
Spears they struck through and through;
Blasts of delight
Blared from their horns over hundreds
in flight.
Blithe, on their anvils
Even-hued, blent
The hammers’ concent;
From the Brugh the bard’s song
Brake sweet and strong;
Proud beauty graced
The field where knights jousted and charioteers
raced.
There in each household
Ran the rich mead;
Steed neighed to steed;
Chains jingled again
Unto Kings among men
Under the blades
Of their five-edged, long, bitter, blood-letting
spear-heads.
There, at each hour,
Harp music o’erflowed;
The wine-galleon rode
The violet sea,
Whence silver showered free,
And gold torques without fail,
From the land of the Gaul to the Land
of the Gael.
To Britain’s far coasts
The renown of those kings
On a meteor’s wings
O’er the waters had flown.
Yea! Alenn’s high throne,
With its masterful lore,
Made sport of the pomp of each palace
before.
But where, oh, where is mighty
Cathair?
Before him or since
No shapelier Prince
Ruled many-hued Erin.
Though round the rath, wherein
They laid him, you cry,
The Champion of Champions can never reply.
Where is Feradach’s
robe,
Where his diadem famed,
Round which, as it flamed,
Plumed ranks deployed?
His blue helm is destroyed,
His shining cloak dust.
Overthrower of kings, in whom now is thy
trust?
Alenn’s worship of auguries
Now is as naught!
None thereof takes thought.
All in vain is each spell
The dark future to tell!
All is vain, when ’tis probed,
And Alenn lies dead of her black arts
disrobed.
Hail, Brigit! whose lands
To-day I behold,
Whither monarchs of old
Came each in his turn.
Thy fame shall outburn
Their mightiest glory;
Thou art over them all, till this Earth
ends its story.
Yea! Thy rule with the
King
Everlasting shall stand,
Apart from the land
Of thy burial-place.
Child of Bresal’s proud race,
O triumphing Bride,[A]
Sit safely enthroned upon Liffey’s
green side.
[Footnote A: Brigit; hence St. Bride’s Bay.]
(From the Early Irish)
Once, when St. Moling was praying in his church, the Devil visited him in purple raiment and distinguished form. On being challenged by the saint, he declared himself to be the Christ, but on Moling’s raising the Gospel to disprove his claim, the Evil One confessed that he was Satan. “Wherefore hast thou come?” asked Moling. “For a blessing,” the Devil replied. “Thou shalt not have it,” said Moling, “for thou deservest it not.” “Well, then,” said the Devil, “bestow the full of a curse on me.” “What good were that to thee?” asked Moling. “The venom and the hurt of the curse will be on the lips from which it will come.” After further parley, the Devil paid this tribute to Moling:
He is pure gold, the sky around the sun,
A silver chalice brimmed with
blessed wine,
An Angel shape, a book of
lore divine,
Whoso obeys in all the Eternal One.
He is a foolish bird that fowlers lime,
A leaking ship in utmost jeopardy,
An empty vessel and a withered
tree,
Who disobeys the Sovereign Sublime.
A fragrant branch with blossoms overrun,
A bounteous bowl with honey
overflowing,
A precious stone, of virtue
past all knowing
Is he who doth the will of God’s
dear Son.
A nut that only emptiness doth fill,
A sink of foulness, a crookt
branch is he
Upon a blossomless crab-apple
tree,
Who doeth not his Heavenly Master’s
will.
Whoso obeys the Son of God and Mary—
He is a sunflash lighting
up the moor,
He is a dais on the Heavenly
Floor,
A pure and very precious reliquary.
A sun heaven-cheering he, in whose warm
beam
The King of Kings takes ever
fresh delight,
He is a temple, noble, blessed,
bright,
A saintly shrine with gems and gold a-gleam.
The altar he, whence bread and wine are
told,
While countless melodies around
are hymned,
A chalice cleansed from God’s
own grapes upbrimmed,
Upon Christ’s garment’s hem
the joyful gold.
(From the Early Irish)
Philip the Apostle holy
At an Aonach[A] once was telling
Of the immortal birds and shapely
Afar in Inis Eidheand dwelling.
East of Africa abiding
They perform a labour pleasant;
Unto earth there comes no colour
That on their pinions is not
present.
Since the fourth Creation morning
When their God from dust outdrew
them,
Not one plume has from them perished,
And not one bird been added
to them.
Seven fair streams with all their channels
Pierce the plains wherethrough
they flutter,
Round whose banks the birds go feeding,
Then soar thanksgiving songs
to utter.
Midnight is their hour apportioned,
When, on magic coursers mounted,
Through the starry skies they circle,
To chants of angel choirs
uncounted.
Of the foremost birds the burthen
Most melodiously unfolded
Tells of all the works of wonder
God wrought before the world
He moulded.
Then a sweet crowd heavenward lifted,
When the nocturn bells are
pealing,
Chants His purposes predestined
Until the Day of Doom’s
revealing.
Next a flock whose thoughts are blessed,
Under twilight’s curls
dim sweeping,
Hymn God’s wondrous words of Judgment
When His Court of Doom is
keeping.
One and forty on a hundred
And a thousand, without lying,
Was their number, joined to virtue,
Put upon each bird-flock flying.
Who these faultless birds should hearken,
Thus their strains of rapture
linking,
For the very transport of it,
Unto death would straight
be sinking.
Pray for us, O mighty Mary!
When earth’s bonds no
more are binding,
That these birds our souls may solace,
In the Land of Philip’s
finding.
[Footnote A: A fair, or open-air assembly.]
THE SCRIBE
(From the Early Irish)
For weariness my hand writes ill,
My small sharp quill runs
rough and slow;
Its slender beak with failing craft
Gives forth its draught of
dark blue flow.
And yet God’s blessed wisdom gleams
And streams beneath my fair
brown palm,
The while quick jets of holly ink
The letters link of prayer
or psalm.
So still my dripping pen is fain
To cross the plain of parchment
white,
Unceasing, at some rich man’s call,
Till wearied all am I to-night.
(See Eriu, vol. I, p. 39, where the Irish text will be found. It dates from the ninth century)
I long, O Son of the living God,
Ancient, eternal King,
For a hidden hut on the wilds untrod,
Where Thy praises I might
sing;
A little, lithe lark of plumage grey
To be singing still beside
it,
Pure waters to wash my sin away,
When Thy Spirit has sanctified
it.
Hard by it a beautiful, whispering wood
Should stretch, upon either
hand,
To nurse the many-voiced fluttering brood
In its shelter green and bland.
Southward, for warmth, should my hermitage
face,
With a runnel across its floor,
In a choice land gifted with every grace,
And good for all manner of
store.
A few true comrades I next would seek
To mingle with me in prayer,
Men of wisdom, submissive, meek;
Their number I now declare,
Four times three and three times four,
For every want expedient,
Sixes two within God’s Church door,
To north and south obedient;
A.D. 900-1000
This poem relates “to one who lived like a sister or spiritual wife with a priest, monk, or hermit, a practice which, while early suppressed and abandoned everywhere else, seems to have survived in the Irish Church till the tenth century.”
Crinog of melodious song,
No longer young, but bashful-eyed,
As when we roved Niall’s Northern
Land,
Hand in hand, or side by side.
Peerless maid, whose looks ran o’er
With the lovely lore of Heaven,
By whom I slept in dreamless joy,
A gentle boy of summers seven.
We dwelt in Banva’s broad domain,
Without one stain of soul
or sense;
While still mine eye flashed forth on
thee
Affection free of all offence.
To meet thy counsel quick and just,
Our faithful trust responsive
springs;
Better thy wisdom’s searching force
Than any smooth discourse
with kings.
In sinless sisterhood with men,
Four times since then, hast
thou been bound,
Yet not one rumour of ill-fame
Against thy name has travelled
round.
At last, their weary wanderings o’er,
To me once more thy footsteps
tend;
The gloom of age makes dark thy face,
Thy life of grace draws near
its end.
O, faultless one and very dear,
Unstinted welcome here is
thine.
Hell’s haunting dread I ne’er
shall feel,
So thou be kneeling at my
side.
Thy blessed fame shall ever bide,
For far and wide thy feet
have trod.
Could we their saintly track pursue,
We yet should view the Living
God.
You leave a pattern and bequest
To all who rest upon the earth—
A life-long lesson to declare
Of earnest prayer the precious
worth.
God grant us peace and joyful love!
And may the countenance of
Heaven’s King
Beam on us when we leave behind
Our bodies blind and withering.
Marvan, brother of King Guare of Connaught, in the seventh century, had renounced the life of a warrior prince for that of a hermit. The King endeavoured to persuade his brother to return to his Court, when the following colloquy took place between them:
Guare
Now Marvan, hermit of the grot,
Why sleep’st thou not
on quilted feathers?
Why on a pitch-pine floor instead
At night make head against
all weathers?
Marvan
I have a shieling in the wood,
None save my God has knowledge
of it,
An ash-tree and a hazelnut
Its two sides shut, great
oak-boughs roof it.
Two heath-clad posts beneath a buckle
Of honeysuckle its frame are
propping,
The woods around its narrow bound
Swine-fattening mast are richly
dropping.
From out my shieling not too small,
Familiar all, fair paths invite
me;
Now, blackbird, from my gable end,
Sweet sable friend, thy notes
delight me.
With joys the stags of Oakridge leap
Into their clear and deep-banked
river,
Far off red Roiny glows with joy,
Muckraw, Moinmoy in sunshine
quiver.
With mighty mane a green-barked yew
Upholds the blue; his fortress
green
An oak uprears against the storms,
Tremendous forms, stupendous
scene.
Mine apple-tree is full of fruit
From crown to root—a
hostel’s store—
My bonny nutful hazel-bush
Leans branching lush against
my door.
A choice, pure spring of cooling draught
Is mine. What prince
has quaffed a rarer?
Around it cresses keen, O King,
Invite the famishing wayfarer.
Tame swine and wild and goat and deer
Assemble here upon its brink,
Yea! even the badger’s brood draw
near
And without fear lie down
to drink.
A peaceful troop of creatures strange,
They hither range from wood
and height,
To meet them slender foxes steal
At vesper peal, O my delight!
These visitants as to a Court
Frequent resort to seek me
out,
Pure water, Brother Guare, are they
The salmon grey, the speckled
trout;
Red rowans, dusky sloes and mast—
O unsurpassed and God-sent
dish—
Blackberries, whortleberries blue,
Red strawberries to my taste
and wish;
Sweet apples, honey of wild bees
And after them of eggs a clutch,
Haws, berries of the juniper;
Who, King, could cast a slur
on such?
A cup with mead of hazelnut
Outside my hut in summer shine,
Or ale with herbs from wood and spring
Are worth, O King, thy costliest
wine.
Bright bluebells o’er my board I
throw—
A lovely show my feast to
spangle—
The rushes’ radiance, oaklets grey,
Brier-tresses gay, sweet,
goodly tangle.
When brilliant summer casts once more
Her cloak of colour o’er
the fields,
Sweet-tasting marjoram, pignut, leek,
To all who seek, her verdure
yields.
Her bright red-breasted little men
Their lovely music then outpour,
The thrush exults, the cuckoos all
Around her call and call once
more.
The bees, earth’s small musicians,
hum,
No longer dumb, in gentle
chorus.
Like echoes faint of that long plaint
The fleeing wild-fowl murmur
o’er us.
The wren, an active songster now,
From off the hazel-bough pipes
shrill,
Woodpeckers flock in multitudes
With beauteous hoods and beating
bill.
With fair white birds, the crane and gull
The fields are full, while
cuckoos cry—
No mournful music! Heath-poults dun
Through russet heather sunward
fly.
The heifers now with loud delight,
Summer bright, salute thy
reign!
Smooth delight for toilsome loss
’Tis now to cross the
fertile plain.
The warblings of the wind that sweep
From branchy wood to beaming
sky,
The river-falls, the swan’s far
note—
Delicious music floating by.
Earth’s bravest band because unhired,
All day, untired make cheer
for me.
In Christ’s own eyes of endless
youth
Can this same truth be said
of thee?
What though in Kingly pleasures now
Beyond all riches thou rejoice,
Content am I my Saviour good
Should on this wood have set
my choice.
Without one hour of war or strife
Through all my life at peace
I fare;
Where better can I keep my tryst
With our Lord Christ, O brother
Guare?
Guare
My glorious Kingship, yea! and all
My Sire’s estates that
fall to me,
My Marvan, I would gladly give,
So I might live my life with
thee.
Author of the Felire AEngusa or Calendar of Church Festivals. He was a Saint, his appellation Culdee [Ceile de] meaning “Servant of God.” He lived at the end of the eighth and beginning of the ninth century.
Delightful here at Disert Bethel,
By cold, pure Nore at peace
to rest,
Where noisy raids have never sullied
The beechen forest’s
virgin vest.
For here the Angel Host would visit
Of yore with AEngus, Oivlen’s
son,
As in his cross-ringed cell he lauded
The One in Three, the Three
in One.
To death he passed upon a Friday,
The day they slew our Blessed
Lord.
Here stands his tomb; unto the Assembly
Of Holy Heaven his soul has
soared.
’Twas in Cloneagh he had his rearing;
’Tis in Cloneagh he
now lies dead,
’Twas in Cloneagh of many crosses
That first his psalms he read.
(From the Early Irish)
(By Muiredach O’Daly, late twelfth century, when he and Cathal More of the Red Hand, King of Connaught, entered the monastic life together.)
Murdoch, whet thy razor’s edge,
Our crowns to pledge to Heaven’s
Ardrigh!
Vow we now our hair fine-tressed
To the Blessed Trinity!
Now my head I shear to Mary;
’Tis a true heart’s
very due.
Shapely, soft-eyed Chieftain now
Shear thy brow to Mary, too!
Seldom on thy head, fair Chief,
Hath a barbing-knife been
plied;
Oft the fairest of Princesses
Combed her tresses at thy
side.
Whensoever we did bathe,
We found no scathe, yourself
and I,
With Brian of the well-curled locks,
From hidden rocks and currents
wry.
And most I mind what once befell
Beside the well of fair Boru—
I swam a race with Ua Chais
The icy flood of Fergus through.
When hand to hand the bank we reached,
Swift foot to foot we stretched
again,
Till Duncan Cairbre, Chief of Chiefs,
Gave us three knives—not
now in vain.
No other blades such temper have;
Then, Murdoch, shave with
easy art!
Whet, Cathal of the Wine Red Hand,
Thy Victor brand, in peaceful
part!
Then our shorn heads from weather wild
Shield, Daughter mild of Joachim!
Preserve us from the sun’s fierce
power,
Mary, soft Flower of Jesse’s
Stem!
(A tenth-century poem. See Eriu, vol. iii, p. 13)
Shame upon my thoughts, O shame!
How they fly in order broken,
Therefore much I fear for blame
When the Trump of Doom has
spoken.
At my psalms, they oft are set
On a path the Fiend must pave
them;
Evermore, with fash and fret,
In God’s sight they
misbehave them.
Through contending crowds they fleet,
Companies of wanton women,
Silent wood or strident street,
Swifter than the breezes skimming.
Now through paths of loveliness,
Now through ranks of shameful
riot,
Onward evermore they press,
Fledged with folly and disquiet.
O’er the Ocean’s sounding
deep
Now they flash like fiery
levin;
Now at one vast bound they leap
Up from earth into the Heaven.
Thus afar and near they roam
On their race of idle folly;
Till at last to reason’s home
They return right melancholy.
Would you bind them wrist to wrist—
Foot to foot the truants shackle,
From your toils away they twist
Into air with giddy cackle.
Crack of whip or edge of steel
Cannot hold them in your keeping;
With the wriggle of an eel
From your grasp they still go leaping.
Never yet was fetter found,
Never lock contrived, to hold
them;
Never dungeon underground,
Moor or mountain keep controlled
them.
Thou whose glance alone makes pure,
Searcher of all hearts and
Saviour,
With Thy Sevenfold Spirit cure
My stray thoughts’ unblessed
behaviour.
God of earth, air, fire and flood,
Rule me, rule me in such measure,
That to my eternal good
I may live to love Thy pleasure.
Christ’s own flock thus may I reach,
At the flash of Death’s
sharp sickle,
Just in deed, of steadfast speech,
Not, as now, infirm and fickle.
(After an eighth- or early ninth-century Irish poem. Text and translation in Thesaurus Palaeohibernicus.)
Pangar, my white cat, and I
Silent ply our special crafts;
Hunting mice his one pursuit,
Mine to shoot keen spirit
shafts.
Rest, I love, all fame beyond,
In the bond of some rare book;
Yet white Pangar from his play
Casts, my way, no jealous
look.
Thus alone within one cell
Safe we dwell—not
dull the tale—
Since his ever favourite sport
Each to court will never fail.
Now a mouse, to swell his spoils,
In his toils he spears with
skill;
Now a meaning deeply thought
I have caught with startled
thrill.
Now his green full-shining gaze
Darts its rays against the
wall;
Now my feebler glances mark
Through the dark bright knowledge
fall.
Leaping up with joyful purr,
In mouse fur his sharp claw
sticks,
Problems difficult and dear,
With my spear I, too, transfix.
Crossing not each other’s will,
Diverse still, yet still allied,
Following each his own lone ends,
Constant friends we here abide.
Pangar, master of his art,
Plays his part in pranksome
youth;
While in age sedate I clear
Shadows from the sphere of
Truth.
A PRAYER TO THE VIRGIN
(Edited by Strachan in Eriu, vol. i, p. 122. Tenth or perhaps ninth century)
Gentle Mary, Noble Maiden,
Hearken to our suppliant pleas!
Shrine God’s only Son was laid in!
Casket of the Mysteries!
Holy Maid, pure Queen of Heaven,
Intercession for us make,
That each hardened heart’s transgression
May be pardoned for Thy sake.
Bent in loving pity o’er us,
Through the Holy Spirit’s power,
Pray the King of Angels for us
In Thy Visitation hour.
Branch of Jesse’s tree whose blossoms
Scent the heavenly hazel wood,
Pray for me for full purgation
Of my bosom’s turpitude.
Mary, crown of splendour glowing,
Dear destroyer of Eve’s ill,
Noble torch of Love far-showing,
Fruitful stock of God’s good will;
Heavenly Virgin, Maid transcendent,
Yea! He willed that Thou shouldst
be
His fair Ark of Life Resplendent,
His pure Queen of Chastity.
Mother of all good, to free me,
Interceding at my side,
Pray Thy First-Born to redeem me,
When the Judgment books are wide;
Star of knowledge, rare and noble,
Tree of many-blossoming sprays,
Lamp to light our night of trouble,
Sun to cheer our weary days;
Ladder to the Heavenly Highway,
Whither every Saint ascends,
Be a safeguard still, till my way
In Thy glorious Kingdom ends!
Covert fair of sweet protection,
Chosen for a Monarch’s rest,
Hostel for nine months’ refection
Of a Noble Infant Guest;
Glorious Heavenly Porch, whereunder,
So the day-star sinks his head,
God’s Own Son—O saving
wonder!
Jesus was incarnated;
For the fair Babe’s sake conceived
In Thy womb and brought to birth,
For the Blest Child’s sake, received
Now as King of Heaven and Earth;
For His Rood’s sake! starker, steeper
Hath no other Cross been set,
For His Tomb’s sake! darker, deeper
There hath been no burial yet;
By His Blessed Resurrection,
When He triumphed o’er the tomb,
By The Church of His affection
’During till the Day of Doom,
Safeguard our unblest behaviour,
Till behind Death’s blinding veil,
Face to face, we see our Saviour.
This our prayer is: Hail! All
Hail!
(By Maelisu ua Brochain, a writer of religious poetry
both in Irish and
Latin who died in 1051. Mael-Isu means “the
tonsured of Jesus.”)
Angel and Saint,
O Michael of the oracles,
O Michael of great miracles,
Bear to the Lord my plaint!
Hear my request!
Ask of the great, forgiving God,
To lift this vast and grievous load
Of sin from off my breast.
Why, Michael, tarry
My fervent prayer with upward wing
Unto the King, the great High King
Of Heaven and Earth, to carry?
Unto my soul
Bring help, bring comfort, yea bring power
To win release, in death’s black
hour,
From sin, distress, and dole.
Till, as devoutly
My fading eyes seek Heaven’s dim
height,
To meet me with thy myriads bright,
Do thou adventure stoutly.
Captain of hosts,
Against earth’s wicked, crooked
clan
To aid me lead thy battle van
And quell their cruel boasts.
Archangel glorious,
Disdain not now thy suppliant urgent,
But over every sin insurgent
Set me at last victorious.
Thou art my choosing!
That with my body, soul, and spirit
Eternal life I may inherit,
Thine aid be not refusing.
In my sore need
O thou of Anti-Christ the slayer,
Triumphant victor, to my prayer
Give heed, O now give heed!
O Holy Spirit, hasten to us!
Move round about us, in us, through us!
All our deadened souls’ desires
Inflame anew with heavenly fires!
Yea! let each heart become a hostel
Of Thy bright Presence Pentecostal,
Whose power from pestilence and slaughter
Shall shield us still by land and water.
From bosom sins, seducing devils,
From Hell with all its hundred evils,
For Jesus’ only sake and merit,
Preserve us, Thou Almighty Spirit!
EVE’S LAMENTATION
(From the Early Irish)
I am Eve, great Adam’s wife,
‘Twas my guilt took Jesus’
life.
Since of Heaven I robbed my race,
On His Cross was my true place.
In His Paradise, God placed me,
Then a wicked choice disgraced me.
At the counsel of the Devil,
My pure hand I stained with evil;
For I put it forth and plucked,
Then the deadly apple sucked.
Long as woman looks on day,
Shall she walk in folly’s way.
Winter’s withering icy woe,
Whelming wave and smothering snow,
Hell to fright and death to grieve—
Had been never, but for Eve!
(From the Early Irish)
Four Sages stood to chant a stave
Above the proud Earth Conqueror’s
grave;
And all their words were words of candour
Above the urn of Alexander.
The first began: “But yesterday,
When all in state the Great King lay,
Myriads around him made their moan,
To-day he lieth all alone!”
“But yesterday,” the second
sang,
“O’er Earth his charger’s
hoof outrang;
To-day its outraged soil instead
Is riding heavy o’er his head!”
“But yesterday,” the third
went on,
“All Earth was swayed by Philip’s
son:
To-day, to shroud his calcined bones,
Seven feet thereof is all he owns!”
“But yesterday, so liberal he,
Silver and gold he scattered free;
To-day,” the last outsighed his
thought,
“His wealth abounds but he is naught!”
Thus sentence gave these Sages four,
Above the buried Emperor;
It was no foolish women’s prate
That held them thus in high debate.
(From the Early Irish)
Three Kings came to the Babe’s abode,
With faces that like bright
moons glowed,
From out the learned Eastern world,
Where o’er wide plains
slow streams are curled.
The three sought out the lovely Child,
On whom, white-blossomed Bethel
smiled,
Three, o’er all knowledge granted
sway,
Three Seers of the Vision
they.
The Promise of the Great All-wise
Was present to their prescient
eyes,
A Vision beckoning from afar,
The Christ Child cradled on
a star;
A lofty star of lucent ray,
It swam before them through
the day,
And when earth’s hues were lost
in night,
It still led on with loving
light.
And still the lucky Royal Three
Went following it full readily;
And still across the firmament
An arch of blessed might it
went.
So rushing radiant, round and soft,
Past every star that paced
aloft,
Right joyously it stayed for them
At last o’er blessed
Bethlehem.
O, then each Monarch of the Three
With worship fell upon his
knee,
And gave, while God he loud extolled,
His frankincense and myrrh
and gold.
They recognised the Babe’s bright
face
And Mary in her Virgin grace.
’Twas thus the Star’s Epiphany
Showed Christ their King to
the Kings three.
HOSPITALITY
Whether my house is dark or bright,
I close it not on any wight,
Lest Thou, hereafter, King of Stars,
Against me close Thy Heavenly bars.
If from a guest who shares thy board
Thy dearest dainty thou shalt hoard,
’Tis not that guest, O never doubt
it,
But Mary’s Son shall do without
it.
Ah, Blackbird, that at last art blest
Because thy nest is on the bough,
No Hermit of the clinking bell,
How soft and well thy notes fall now.
MOLING SANG THIS
With the old when I consort
Jest and sport they straight lay
by;
When with frolic youth I am flung,
Maddest of the young am I.
Sweet little bell, sweet little bell,
Struck long and well upon the wind,
I’d rather tryst with thee to-night
Than any maiden light of mind.
THE CRUCIFIXION
At the first bird’s early crying,
They began Thy Crucifying,
O Thou of face as woeful wan,
As the far-flown winter swan.
Sore the suffering and the shame
Put upon Thy Sacred Frame;
Ah! but sorer the heartache
For Thy stricken Mother’s sake.
Unto Rome wouldst thou attain,
Great the toil is, small the gain,
If the King thou seekest therein
Travel not, with thee, from Erin.
ON A DEAD SCHOLAR
Dead is Lon
Of Kilgarrow,
O great sorrow!
Dead and gone.
Dire the dolour,
Erin, here and past thy border,
Dire the dolour and disorder,
To the schools and to the scholar,
Since our Lon
Is dead and gone.
CHARMS AGAINST SORROW
A charm whereunto grief must yield—
The Charm of Michael with the Shield.
Charms before which all sorrows fail—
The Palm-branch of Christ and Brigit’s
Veil.
The charm Christ set for Himself, when
the Godhead within Him darkened;
And when He cried from the Cross that
His Father no longer hearkened.
When you are bound down by the Cross and
night is blackest before you,
A charm that shall lift off sorrow’s
weight and to joyful hope restore you.
A charm to be said at sunrise when your
hands your heart are crushing,
When the eyes are red with weeping and
the madness of grief outrushing.
A charm with not even a whisper to spare,
But only the silent prayer.
Let us preserve this seed of fire as Christ
preserves us all,
Himself a-watch above the house, Bride
at its middle wall,
Below the Twelve Apostles of highest heavenly
sway,
Guarding and defending it until the dawn
of day.
MORNING WISH
O Jesu! in the morning I cry and call
thee early,
Blest only Son of God on high who purchased
us so dearly.
O guard me in the shelter of Thy most
Holy Cross,
All through the courses of the day keep
me from sin and loss.
Three powers are of the Evil One to curse
mankind;
An Evil Eye, an Evil Tongue, an Evil Mind.
Three words are God’s own breath
and Mary’s to her Son,
For she in heaven had heard them, told
them every one.
The word of Mercy free, the singing word
of Joy,
The binding word of Love He gives us to
employ.
O may the saving might of these three
holy words
On Erin’s men and women light, and
keep them still the Lord’s.
CHARM FOR A PAIN IN THE HEART
“God save you my three brothers!
God save you! Now how far
Have ye on foot to travel, by sun and
moon and star?”
“To Olivet’s own Mount we
fare till we have gotten gold,
Therefrom a cup to fashion the tears of
Christ to hold.”
“So do! And when those Precious
Tears drop down into the bowl
Into thy very heart they’ll fall
and cure thee body and soul.”
My succour from all sinful harms
Be Thou, Almighty Father!
And Mary, who, within her arms
The King of Kings did gather!
And Michael, messenger to earth
From out the Heavenly
City,
The Twelve of Apostolic worth,
And last the Lord of
Pity!
That so my soul, encircled by their care,
Into Heaven’s Golden Halls with
joy may fare!
THE WHITE PATERNOSTER.
On going to sleep, think that it is the sleep of Death and that you may be summoned to the Day of the Mountain of Judgment and say:
I lay me down with God;
May He rest here also,
His Guardian arms around my head,
Christ’s Cross my limbs
below.
Where wouldst, thou lay thee down?
’Twixt Mary and her
Son—
Brigit and her bright mantle,
Colomb and his shield handle,
God and His strong Right Hand.
At morn where wouldst thou rise?
With Patrick to the skies.
THE SONG OF CREDE, DAUGHTER OF GUARE
In the Battle of Aidne, Crede, the daughter of King Guare of Aidne, beheld Dinertach of the HyFidgenti, who had come to the help of Guare with seventeen wounds upon his breast. Then she fell in love with him. He died and was buried in the cemetery of Colman’s Church.
“These are the arrows that murder
sleep,”
At every hour in the night’s black
deep;
Pangs of Love through the long day ache
All for the dead Dinertach’s sake.
Great love of a hero from Roiny’s
plain
Has pierced me through with immortal pain,
Blasted my beauty and left me to blanch,
A riven bloom on a restless branch!
Never was song like Dinertach’s
speech,
But holy strains that to Heaven’s
gate reach.
A front of flame without boast or pride,
Yet a firm, fond mate for a fair maid’s
side.
A growing girl—I was timid
of tongue,
And never trysted with gallants young,
But, since I won on into passionate age,
Fierce love-longings my heart engage.
I have every bounty that life could hold,
With Guare, arch-monarch of Aidne cold,
But fallen away from my haughty folk,
In Irluachair’s field my heart lies
broke.
There is chanting in glorious Aidne’s
meadow
Under St. Colman’s Church’s
shadow;
A hero flame sinks into the tomb—
Dinertach, alas, my love and my doom!
Chaste Christ! that unto my life’s
last breath
I trysted with Sorrow and mate with Death;
At every hour of the night’s black
deep,
These are the arrows that murder sleep!
(An eleventh-century poem)
Keenly cries the blackbird now;
From the bough his nest is
gone.
For his slaughtered mate and young
Still his tongue talks on
and on.
Such, alas! not long ago
Was the woe my heart befell;
Therefore, wherefore thine so grieves
It perceives, O bird, too
well!
Poor heart burnt with grief within
By the sin of that rash band!
Little could they guess thy care,
Crying there, or understand.
From afar at thy clear call
Fluttered all thy new-fledged
brood.
Now thy nest of love lies hid
Down amid the nettles rude.
In one day the herd-boy crew
Careless slew thy fledgelings
fine.
One the fate to thine and thee,
One the fate to me and mine.
As thy mate upon the mead
Chirruped, feeding at thy
side,
Taken in their snaring strands,
At the herd-boy’s hands
she died.
O Thou Framer of our fates,
Not an equal lot have all!
Neighbour’s wife and child are spared,
Ours, as though uncared for,
fall.
Fairy hosts with blasting death
Breathed on mine a breath
abhorred;
Bloodless though their evil ire,
It was direr than the sword.
Woe our wife! and woe our young!
Sorrow-wrung our hearts complain!
Of each fair and faithful one
Tidings none or trace remain!
(Probably a poem of the eleventh century. It is written in Rosg metre, and was first published in The Gaelic Journal, May 1891.)
Then, as the executioner plucked her son from her breast, one of the women said:
“Why are you tearing
Away to his doom
The child of my caring,
The fruit of my womb.
Till nine months were o’er,
His burthen I bore,
Then his pretty lips pressed
The glad milk from my breast,
And my whole heart he filled,
And my whole life he thrilled.
“All my strength dies;
My tongue speechless lies;
Darkened are my eyes;
His breath was the breath of me;
His death is the death of me!”
Then another woman said:
“Tis my own son that from me you wring, I deceived not the King. But slay me, even me, And let my boy be. A mother most hapless, My bosom is sapless. Mine eyes one tearful river, My frame one fearful shiver, My husband sonless ever, And I a sonless wife To live a death in life. O, my son! O, God of Truth! O, my unrewarded youth! O, my birthless sicknesses, Until doom without redress! O, my bosom’s silent nest! O, the heart broke in my breast!”
Then said another woman:
“Murderers, obeying
Herod’s wicked willing,
One ye would be slaying,
Many are ye killing.
Infants would ye smother?
Ruffians ye have rather
Wounded many a father,
Slaughtered many a mother.
Hell’s black jaws your horrid deed
is glutting,
Heaven’s white gate against your
black souls shutting.
“Ye are guilty of the Great Offence!
Ye have spilt the blood of innocence.”
And yet another woman said:
“O Lord Christ come to me!
Nay, no longer tarry!
With my son, home to Thee
My soul quickly carry!
O Mary great, O Mary mild,
Of God’s One Son the
Mother,
What shall I do without my child,
For I have now no other.
For Thy Son’s sake my son they slew,
Those murderers inhuman;
My sense and soul they slaughtered too,
I am but a crazy woman.
Yea! after that most piteous slaughter,
When my babe’s life ran out like
water,
The heart within my bosom hath become
A clot of blood from this day till the
Doom!”
Taken down by Patrick H. Pearse from Mary Clancy of Moycullen, who keened it with great horror in her voice, in a low sobbing recitative.
Mary. “O Peter, O Apostle,
my bright Love, hast thou found him?”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
Peter. “Even now in the
midst of His foemen I found Him.”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
Mary. “Come hither, ye
two Marys, and my bright love be keening.”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
The two Marys. “If
His body be not with us, sure our keene had little
meaning.”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
Mary. “Who is yonder stately
Man on the Tree His passion showing?”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
Christ. “O Mother, thine
own son, can it be thou art not knowing.”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
Mary. “And is that the
little son whom nine months I was bearing?”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
“And is
that the little son in the stall I was caring?
And is that the
little son this Mary’s breast was draining?”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
Christ. “Hush thee, hush thee, Mother, and be not so complaining.”
Mary. “And is this the
very hammer that struck the sharp nails thro’
thee?”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
“And this
the very spear that thy white side pierced and slew
thee?”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
“And is
that the crown of thorns that thy beauteous head is
caging?”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
Christ. “Hush, Mother,
for my sake thy sorrow be assuaging.”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
“For thy
own love’s sake thy cruel sorrow smother!”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
“The women
of my keening are unborn yet, little Mother!”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
“O woman,
why weepest thou my death that leads to pardon?”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
“Happy hundreds,
to-day, shall stray through Paradise Garden.”
“M’ochon
agus m’ochon, O!”
(From the eighteenth-century Irish)
Cold, dark, and dumb lies my boy on his
bed;
Cold, dark, and silent the night dews
are shed;
Hot, swift, and fierce fall my tears for
the dead!
His footprints lay light in the dew of
the dawn
As the straight, slender track of the
young mountain fawn;
But I’ll ne’er again follow
them over the lawn.
His manly cheek blushed with the sun’s
rising ray,
And he shone in his strength like the
sun at midday;
But a cloud of black darkness has hid
him away.
And that black cloud for ever shall cling
to the skies:
And never, ah, never, I’ll see him
arise,
Lost warmth of my bosom, lost light of
my eyes!
BATTLE HYMN
(Written to an old Irish Air)
Above the thunder crashes,
Around the lightning flashes:
Our heads are heaped with ashes
But Thou, God, art nigh!
Thou launchest forth the levin,
The storm by Thee is driven,
Give heed, O Lord, from Heaven,
Hear, hear our cry!
For lo, the Dane defaces
With fire Thy holy places,
He hews Thy priests in pieces,
Our maids more than die.
Up, Lord, with storm and thunder,
Pursue him with his plunder,
And smite his ships in sunder,
Lord God Most High!
(To an Irish Air of the same name)
Not only where Thy blessed bells
Peal afar for praise and prayer,
Or where Thy solemn organ swells,
Lord, not only art Thou there.
Thy voice of many waters
From out the ocean comfort
speaks,
Thy Presence to a radiant rose
Thrills a thousand virgin
peaks.
And here, where in one wondrous woof—
Aisle on aisle and choir on
choir—
To rear Thy rarest temple roof,
Pillared oak and pine aspire;
Life-weary here we wander,
When lo! the Saviour’s
gleaming stole!
’Tis caught unto our craving lips,
Kissed and straightway we
are whole.
(To an Irish Air of the same name)
I will go where lilies blow
Beside the flow of languid
streams,
Within that vale of opal glow,
Where bright-winged dreams flutter to
and fro,
Fain am I its magic peace
to know.
Beware! beware of that valley fair!
All dwellers there to phantoms
turn,
For joys and griefs they have none to
share,
Tho’ ever they yearn life’s
burdens to bear,
Ah! of that valley beware,
beware!
(Founded on an Irish Ballad of the name)
Oh! remember the poor when your fortune
is sure,
And acre to acre you join;
Oh! remember the poor, though but slender
your store
And you ne’er can go
gallant and fine.
Oh! remember the poor when they cry at
your door
In the raging rain and blast;
Call them in! Cheer them up with
the bite and the sup,
Till they leave you their
blessing at last.
The red fox has his lair, and each bird
of the air
With the night settles warm
in his nest,
But the King Who laid down His celestial
crown
For our sakes—He
had nowhere to rest.
Oh! the poor were forgot till their pitiful
lot
He bowed Himself to endure;
If your souls ye would make, for His Heavenly
sake,
Oh! remember, remember the
poor.
THE ODES TO THE MONTHS
(After Aneurin, a sixth-century warrior bard)
Month of Janus, the coom is smoke-fuming;
Weary the wine-bearer; minstrels far roaming;
Lean are the kine; the bees never humming;
Milking-folds void; to the kiln no meat
coming;
Gaunt every steed; no pert sparrows strumming;
Long the night till the dawn; but a glimpse
is the gloaming.
Sapient Cynfelyn, this was thy summing;
“Prudence is Man’s surest
guide, by my dooming.”
* * * * *
Month of Mars; the birds become bolder;
Wounding the wind upon the cape’s
shoulder;
Serene skies delay till the young crops
are older;
Anger burns on, when grief waxes colder;
Every man’s mind some dread may
unsolder;
Each bird wins the may that hath long
been a scolder;
Each seed cleaves the clay, though for
long months amoulder,
Yet the dead still must stay in the tomb,
their strong holder.
* * * * *
Month of Augustus—the beach
is a-spray;
Blithesome the bee and the hive full alway;
Better work than the bow hath the sickle
to-day;
Fuller the stack than the House of the
Play;
The Churl who cares neither to work nor
to pray
Now why should he cumber the earth with
his clay?
Justly St. Breda, the sapient, would say
“As many to evil as good take the
way.”
* * * * *
Month of September—benign planets
shiver;
Serene round the hamlet are ocean and
river;
Not easy for men and for steeds is endeavour;
Trees full of fruit, as of arrows the
quiver.
A Princess was born to us, blessed for
ever,
From slavery’s shackles our land’s
freedom-giver.
Saith St. Berned the Saint, ripe Wisdom’s
mouth ever;
“In sleep shall God nod, Who hath
sworn to deliver?”
Month of October—thin the shade
is showing;
Yellow are the birch-trees; bothies empty
growing;
Full of flesh, bird and fish to the market
going;
Less and less the milk now of cow and
goat is flowing,
Alas! for him who meriteth disgrace by
evil-doing;
Death is better far than extravagance’s
strowing.
Three acts should follow crime, to true
repentance owing—
Fasting and prayer and of alms abundance
glowing.
* * * * *
Month of December—with mud
the shoe bemired;
Heavy the land, the sun in heaven tired;
Bare all the trees, little force now required;
Cheerful the cock; by dark the thief inspired.
Whilst the Twelve Months thus trip in
dance untired,
Round youthful minds Satan still weaves
his fetter.
Justly spake Yscolan, Wisdom’s sage
begetter,
“Than an evil prophecy God is ever
better.”
(After Llywarch Hen, a sixth-century prince and poet)
Set is the snare, the ash clusters glow,
Ducks plash in the pools; breakers whiten
below;
More strong than a hundred is the heart’s
hidden woe.
Long is the night; resounding the shore,
Frequent in crowds a tumultuous roar,
The evil and good disagree evermore.
Long is the night; the hill full of cries;
O’er the tree-tops the wind whistles
and sighs,
Ill nature deceives not the wit of the
wise.
The greening birch saplings asway in the
air
Shall deliver my feet from the enemy’s
snare.
It is ill with a youth thy heart’s
secrets to share.
The saplings of oak in yonder green glade
Shall loosen the snare by an enemy laid.
It is ill to unbosom thy heart to a maid.
The saplings of oak in their full summer
pride
Shall loosen the snare by the enemy tied.
It is ill to a babbler thy heart to confide.
The brambles with berries of purple are
dressed;
In silence the brooding thrush clings
to her nest,
In silence the liar can never take rest.
Rain is without—wet the fern
plume;
White the sea gravel—fierce
the waves spume.
There is no lamp like reason man’s
life to illume.
Rain is without, but the shelter is near;
Yellow the furze, the cow-parsnip is sere,
God in Heaven, how couldst Thou create
cowards here!
(From a twelfth-century Ms., “The Black Book of Carmarthen”)
Hail, all glorious Lord! with holy mirth
May Church and chancel bless Thy good
counsel!
Each chancel and church,
All plains and mountains,
And ye three fountains—
Two above wind,
And one above earth!
May light and darkness bless Thee!
Fine silk, green forest confess Thee!
(After Dafydd ab Gwilym, the most famous Welsh lyrical poet, 1340-1400)
When I die, O, bury me
Within the free young wild
wood;
Little birches, o’er me bent,
Lamenting as my child would!
Let my surplice-shroud be spun
Of sparkling summer clover;
While the great and stately treen
Their rich rood-screen hang
over!
For my bier-cloth blossomed may
Outlay on eight green willows!
Sea-gulls white to bear my pall
Take flight from all the billows.
Summer’s cloister be my church
Of soft leaf-searching whispers,
From whose mossed bench the nightingale
To all the vale chants vespers!
Mellow-toned, the brake amid,
My organ hid be cuckoo!
Paters, seemly hours and psalm
Bird voices calm re-echo!
Mystic masses, sweet addresses,
Blackbird, be thou offering;
Till God His Bard to Paradise
Uplift from sighs and suffering.
(After Dafydd ab Gwilym)
Memories fierce like arrows pierce;
Alone I waste and languish,
And make my cry to God on high
To ease me of mine anguish.
If heroic was my youth,
In truth its powers are over;
With brain dead and force sped,
Love sets at naught the lover!
The Muse from off my lips is thrust,
’Tis long since song
has cheered me;
Gone is Ivor, counsellor just,
And Nest, whose grace upreared
me!
Morfydd, all my world and more,
Lies low in churchyard gravel;
While beneath the burthen frore
Of age alone I travel.
Mute, mute my song’s salute,
When summer’s beauties
thicken;
Cuckoo, nightingale, no art
Of yours my heart can quicken!
Morfydd, not thy haunting kiss
Or voice of bliss can save
me
From the spear of age whose chill
Has quenched the thrill love
gave me.
My ripe grain of heart and brain
The sod sadly streweth;
Its empty chaff with mocking laugh
The wind of death pursueth!
Dig my grave! O, dig it deep
To hide my sleeping body,
So but Christ my spirit keep,
Amen! ab Gwilym’s ready!
(After Iolo Goch, “Iowerlt the Red,” a fourteenth-century bard and son of the Countess of Lincoln)
When the folk of all the Earth,
For the weighing of their worth,
Promised by his Ancient Word,
Freely flock before The Lord—
And His Judgment-seat is set
High on mighty Olivet,
Forthright then shall be the tale
Of the Plougher of the Vale,
If so be his tithes were given
Justly to the King of Heaven;
If he freely shared his store
With the sick or homeless poor—
When his soul is at God’s feet
Rich remembrance it shall meet.
He who turns and tills the sod
Leans by Nature on his God.
Save his plough-beam naught he judgeth,
None he angereth, or grudgeth,
Strives with none, takes none in toils,
Crushes none and none despoils;
Overbeareth not, though strong,
Doth not even a little wrong.
“Suffering here,” he saith,
“is meet,
Else were Heaven not half so sweet.”
Following after goad and plough,
With unruffled breast and brow,
Is to him an hundred-fold
Dearer than, for treasured gold,
Even in King Arthur’s form,
Castles to besiege and storm.
If the labourer were sped,
Where would be Christ’s Wine and
Bread?
Certes but for his supply,
Pope and Emperor must die,
Every wine-free King and just,
Yea! each mortal turn to dust.
Blest indeed is he whose hands
Steer the plough o’er stubborn lands.
How through far-spread broom and heath
Tear his sharp, smooth coulter’s
teeth—
Old-time relic, heron-bill,
Rooting out fresh furrows still,
With a noble, skilful grace
Smoothing all the wild land’s face,
Reaching out a stern, stiff neck
Each resisting root to wreck.
* * * * *
Behind his oxen on his path
Thus he strides the healthy strath,
Chanting many a godly rhyme
To the plough-chain’s silver chime.
All the crafts that ever were
With the Ploughman’s ill compare.
Ploughing, in an artful wise,
Earth’s subduing signifies,
Far as Baptism and Creed,
Far as Christendom hath speed.
By God, who is man’s Master best,
And Mary may the plough be blest.
(By his Father, Lewis Glyn Cothi, 1425-1486)
One wee son, woe worth his sire!
My treasure was and heart’s desire;
But evermore I now must pine,
Mourning for that wee son of mine,
Sick to the heart, day out and in,
Thinking and thinking of Johnny Glynn,
My fairy prince for ever fled,
Leaving life’s Mabinogion dead.
A rosy apple, pebbles white,
And dicky-birds were his delight,
A childish bow with coloured cord,
A little brittle wooden sword.
From bagpipes or the bogy-man
Into his mother’s arms he ran,
There coaxed from her a ball to throw
With his daddy to and fro.
His own sweet songs he’d then be
singing,
Then for a nut with a shout be springing;
Holding my hand he’d trot about
with me,
Coax me now, and now fall out with me,
Now, make it up again, lip to lip,
For a dainty die or a curling chip.
Would God my lovely little lad
A second life, like Lazarus, had!
St. Beuno raised from death at once
St. Winifred and her six nuns;
Would to God the Saint could win
An eighth from death in Johnny Glynn!
Ah, Mary! my merry little knave,
Coffined and covered in the grave!
To think of him beneath the slab
Deals my lone heart a double stab.
Bright dream beyond my own life’s
shore,
Proud purpose of my future’s store,
My hope, my comfort from annoy,
My jewel and my glowing joy,
My nest of shade from out the sun,
My lark, my soaring, singing one,
My golden shaft of faithful love
Shot at the radiant round above,
My intercessor with Heaven’s King,
My boyhood’s second blossoming,
My little, laughing, loving John,
For you I’m sunk in shadow wan!
Good-bye, good-bye, for evermore
My little lively squirrel’s store,
The happy bouncing of his ball,
His carol up and down the hall!
Adieu, my little dancing one,
Adieu, adieu, my son, my son!
(After Sion Cent, 1386-1420, priest of Kentchurch, in Hereford)
Premier Peer but yesterday,
Lone within the tomb to-morrow;
For his silken garments gay,
Grave-clothes in a gravelled
furrow.
No love-making, homage none;
From his mines no golden mintage;
No rich traffic in the sun;
No more purple-purling vintage.
No more usherings out of Hall
By obsequious attendant;
No more part, however small,
In the Pageant’s pomp
resplendent!
Just a perch of churchyard clay
All the soil he now possesses;
Heavily its burthen grey
On his pulseless bosom presses.
(After Huw Morus, 1622-1709, a Welsh Cavalier poet)
Lord, hear my confession of life-long
transgression!
Weak-willed and too filled
with Earth’s follies am I
To reach by the strait way of faith to
Heaven’s gateway,
If Thou light not thither my late way.
From Duty’s hard high road by Beauty’s
soft by-road
To Satan’s, not Thy
road, I wandered away.
Thou hast seen, Father tender, Thou seest
what a slender
Return for Thy Talents I render.
Thy pure Eyes pierced through me and probed
me and knew me,
Not flawless but lawless,
when put to the proof.
In ease or in cumber, day-doings or slumber,
What ills of mine wouldst Thou not number!
From Thy Holy Hand’s Healing, contrition
annealing
And Faith’s oil of healing
grant, Lord, I beseech;
These only can cure me and fresh life
assure me,
These only Thy Peace can procure me!
To the blood freely flowing of The Lamb
life-bestowing
This wonder is owing that
washes out sin;
Thy Love to us lent Him, Thy Love to death
sent Him,
That man through Thy Love should repent
him.
Lord God, Thy Protection, Lord Christ,
Thy Affection,
Holy Ghost, Thy Direction
so govern my heart,
That all promptings other than Love’s
it may smother,
As a babe is subdued to its mother.
For that treasure of treasures that all
price outmeasures,
Pure Faith, on whose pleasures
life-giving we feed—
Let Kings in their places, let all the
earth’s races
Sing aloud in a crowd of glad faces.
Yea! all mouths shall bless Thee, all
hearts shall confess Thee
The bounteous Fountain of
mercy and love;
Each gift we inherit of pure, perfect
merit,
Dear God, overflows from Thy Spirit.
(After Huw Morus)
This room an antechamber is:
Beyond—the Hall of Very Bliss!
Quick, Death! for underneath thy door
I see the glimmering of Heaven’s
floor.
(After Elis Wyn, 1671-1734, one of the Welsh Classics)
Leave your land, your goods lay down!
Life’s green tree shall soon grow
brown.
Pride of birth and pleasure gay
Renounce or they shall own you!
Manly strength and beauty fair,
Dear-bought sense, experience rare,
Learning ripe, companions fond
Yield, lest their bond ensnare you!
Is there then no sure relief,
Thou arch-murderer and thief,
Death, from thine o’ermastering
law—
Thy monstrous maw can none shun?
O ye rich, in all your pride
Through the ages would ye bide,
Wherefore not with Death compound,
Ere underground he hide you?
Lusty athlete, light of foot,
Death, the Bowman’s fell pursuit
Challenge! O, the laurels won,
If thou but shun his shooting!
Travellers by sea and land
On remotest mount or strand,
Have ye found one secret spot
Where Death is not commanding?
Learned scholar, jurist proud,
Lifted god-like o’er the crowd,
Can your keenest counsel’s aid
Dispel Death’s shade enshrouding?
Fervent faith, profound repentance,
Holy hours of stern self-sentence—
These alone can victory bring
When Death’s dread sting shall wring
us.
(After Goronwy Owen, 1728-1769, next to Dafydd ab Gwilym, the greatest poet who sang in the old Welsh metres)
Day of Doom, at thy glooming
May Earth be but meet for
thee!
Day, whose hour of louring
Not angels in light foresee!
To Christ alone and the Father
’Tis known when thy
hosts of might
Swift as giants shall gather,
Yet stealthy as thieves at
night.
Then what woe to the froward,
What joy to the just and kind!
When the Seraph band comes streaming
Christ’s gleaming banner
behind;
Heavenly blue shall its hue be
To a myriad marvelling eyes;
Save where its heart encrimsons
The cross of the sacrifice!
Rocks in that day’s black fury
Like leaves shall be whirled
in the blast;
Hoary-headed Eryri
Prone to the plough-lands
cast!
Then shall be roaring and warring
And ferment of sea and firth,
Ocean, in turmoil upboiling,
Confounding each bound of
earth.
The flow of the Deluge of Noah
Were naught by that fell Flood’s
girth!
Then Heaven’s pure self shall offer
Her multitudinous eyes,
Cruel blinding to suffer,
As her sun faints out of the
skies;
And the bright-faced Moon shall languish
And perish in such fierce
pain
As darkened and shook with anguish
All Life, when the Lamb was
slain.
(After the Vicar Pritchard, 1569-1644)
Wise yokel foolish King excelleth;
Good name than spikenard sweeter smelleth!
What’s gold to prudence? Strength
to grace?
Man’s more than goods; God first
in place.
What though her dowry be but meagre,
Far better wise, God-fearing Igir,
Than yonder vain and brainless doll,
Helpless her fortune to control.
A wife that’s true and kind and
sunny
Is better than a mint of money;
Better than houses, land and gold
Or pearls and gems to have and hold.
A ship is she with jewels freighted,
Her price beyond all rubies rated,
A hundred-virtued amulet
To such as her in marriage get.
Gold pillar to a silver socket;
The weakling’s tower of strength,
firm-locked,
The very golden crown of life;
Grace upon grace—a virtuous
wife.
“Marchog Jesu!”
(Hymn sung at the Investiture of the Prince of Wales,
the Welsh words by
Pantycelyn, the famous eighteenth-century hymn-writer)
Lord, ride on in triumph glorious,
Gird Thy sword upon Thy Thigh!
Earth shall own Thy Might Victorious,
Death and Hell confounded
lie.
Yea! before Thine Eye all-seeing,
All Thy foes shall fly aghast;
Nature’s self, through all her being,
Tremble at Thy Trampling Past.
Pierce, for Thou alone art able,
Pierce our dungeon with Thy
day;
Shatter all the gates of Babel,
Rend her iron bars away!
Till, as billows thunder shoreward,
All the Ransomed Ones ascend,
Into freedom surging forward
Without number, without end.
Who are these whose praises pealing
From beyond the Morning Star
Earthward solemnly are stealing
Down the distance faint and
far?
These are they, the Ever Living,
All in glistening garments
gone,
Palm in hand, with proud Thanksgiving
Up before the Great White
Throne.
(After Eben Fardd, 1802-1863, one of the leading Welsh poets of the nineteenth century)
Rachel, ah me! most wretchedly
Mourns, meekest, worthiest
woman,
Her husband dear hurled to his bier
By Roman fiends inhuman.
Tremulously now murmurs she:
“Naught’s here
but naked horror;
Black despond and blind despair,
Mad turmoil, murderous terror!
Free he rose, his hero blows
Gave Rome black cause to rue
him;
Ten to one, then they run
Their poisonous poignards
through him.
Thus took flight thy tortured sprite,
Dear heart, from my fond seeing!
Now stars on high in stark dawn die,
We too must far be fleeing.
Children dear, I thrill with fear
To hear your hungry crying!
Away, away! one more such day—
And we’re too weak for
flying.”
THE BURNING TEMPLE
The savage foes of this lost land of ours
Conspire to fire Antonius’ shapely
towers.
Ere long the Temple proud, surpassing
all
Art’s fairest gems, shall unto earth
be bowed!
Lo! through the lurid gloom the lightning’s
lash!
And hark the unnatural thunder crash and
boom!
Moriah’s marvellous fane is leaning
low;
With cries of woe her rafters rend in
twain;
For our Imperial One is brought to naught.
Yea, even where most cunningly she was
wrought,
The fire has cleft its way each coign
into,
For wood and stone searching her bosom
through.
Astonishingly high she took the blue,
Yet weeping molten dross shall meet the
ground—
A sight for grief profound to gaze across.
Flame follows flame, each like a giant
worm,
To feast and batten on her beauteous form.
Through gold and silver doors they sinuous
swarm
And crop the carven flowers with gust
enorme;
Till all is emptiness.
Then
with hellish shout
The embruted Gentiles in exultant rout
Into her Holy of Holies profanely press!
One streaming flood of steaming blood—
Shudders her sacred
pavement!
(From “Emanuel.” After Gwilym Hiraethog, 1802-1880.)
When the angel trumpet sounded.
Through the unbounded ether
blown,
Star on star danced on untiring,
Choiring past the Great White
Throne;
Then as, every globe outglancing,
Earth’s entrancing orb
went by,
Love Divine in blushing pleasure
Steeped the azure of the sky.
Wisdom, when she saw Earth singled
From the bright commingled
band,
Whispered Mercy: “That green
wonder
Yonder is thy promised land!”
Mercy looked and loved Earth straightway,
At Heaven’s gateway
smiling set.
Ah! that glance of tender yearning
She is turning earthward yet.
(After Islwyn, 1832-1878, the Welsh Wordsworth)
What say ye, can we charge a master soul
With error, when beyond all life’s
experience
Between the cradle and the grave, it rises,
Whispering of things unutterable, breaks
its bond
With outward sense and sinks into itself,
As fades a star in space? Hath not
that soul
A history in itself, a refluent tide
Of mystery murmuring out of unplumbed
deeps,
On distant inaccessible strands, whereon
Memory lies dead amid the monstrous wreckage
Of jarring worlds? Are yonder stars
above
As spiritually, magnificently bright
As Poesy feigns? May not some slumbering
sense,
A memory dim of those diviner days,
When all the Heavens were yet aglow with
God,
Transfuse them through and through with
glimmering grace
And glory? Still the Stars within
us shine,
And Poesy is but a recollection
Of Something greater gone, a presage proud
Of Something greater yet to be. What
soul
But sometimes thrills with hauntings of
a world
For long forgotten, at a glimpse begotten
Once more, then gone again? Imaginations?
Nay why not memories of a life than ours
A thousand times more blest within us
buried
So deeply, the divine all-searching breath
Of Poesy alone can lure it forth.
All hail that hour when God’s Redeeming
Face
Shall so illume our past existences,
That through them all man’s spirit
shall see plain,
And to his blessed past relink Life’s
broken chain.
(After Ceiriog, to a Welsh Air. Ceiriog, 1832-1887, was the Welsh Burns; his songs to old Welsh Airs are the best of their kind.)
Love that invites, love that delights,
From hedgerow lush and leafy heights
Is flooding all the air;
Their forest harps the breezes strum,
The happy brooks their burden hum;
There’s nothing deaf, there’s
nothing dumb,
But music everywhere!
Above the airy steep
Their lyres of gold the angels sweep,
Glad holiday with earth to keep
Before the Great White Throne.
Then, when Heaven and earth and sea
Are joining in Love’s jubilee;
While morning stars make melody,
Shall man be mute alone?
Naught that hath birth matches the worth
Of Love, in God’s own Heaven and
Earth,
For through His power divine
Love opes the golden eye of day,
Love guides the pale moon’s lonely
way,
Love lights the glow-worm’s glimmering
ray
Amid the darkling bine.
Heavenly hue and form
Above, around, are glowing warm,
From His right hand Who rides the storm,
Yet paints the lily’s
cheek.
Yea! whereso’er man lifts his eyes
To wood or wave or sunset skies,
A myriad magic shapes arise
Eternal Love to speak.
(After Ceiriog to a Welsh Air)
“Without thy Sire hast thou returned?”
In grief the Princess cried!
“Go back!—or from my
sight be spurned—
To battle by his side.
I gave thee birth; but struck to earth
I’d sooner see thee
lie,
Or on thy bier come carried here,
Than thus a craven fly!
“Seek yonder hall, and pore on all
The portraits of thy race;
The courage high that fires each eye
Canst thou endure to face?”
“I’ll bring no blame on thy
fair name,
Or my forefathers slight!
But kiss and bless me, mother dear,
Ere I return to fight.”
He fought and fell—his stricken
corse
They bore to her abode;
“My son!” she shrieked, in
wild remorse;
“Forgive me, O! my God!”
Then from the wall old voices fall:
“Rejoice for such a
son!
His deed and thine shall deathless shine,
Whilst Gwalia’s waters
run!”
Ar Hyd y Nos
(After Ceiriog to this Welsh Air)
Fiery day is ever mocking
Man’s feeble sight;
Darkness eve by eve unlocking
Heav’n’s casket
bright;
Thence the burdened spirit borrows
Strength to meet laborious morrows,
Starry peace to soothe his sorrows,
All through the night.
Planet after planet sparkling,
All through the night,
Down on Earth, their sister darkling,
Shed faithful light.
In our mortal day’s declining,
May our souls, as calmly shining,
Cheer the restless and repining,
Till lost in sight.
Dafydd y Garreg Wen
(After Ceiriog to this Welsh Air)
“All my powers wither,
Death presses me hard;
Bear my harp hither!”
Sighed David the Bard.
“Thus while life lingers,
In one lofty strain
O, let my fond fingers
Awake it again.
“Last night an angel
Cried, ’David, come
sound
Christ’s dear Evangel
Death’s valley around!’”
Wife and child harkened
His harp’s solemn swell;
Till his eye darkened,
And lifeless he fell.
(After Elvet Lewis, a contemporary Welsh poet)
A balmy air blows; the waterflags shiver,
On, on the Tide flows, on, on, up the
river!
To no earth or sky allegiance he oweth;
He comes, who knows why? unless the Moon
knoweth.
The Tide flows and flows; by hill and
by hollow,
White rose upon rose, the foam flowers
follow.
He spreads broad and full from margent
to margent,
The wings of the gull are his bannerets
argent.
The Tide flows and flows; Atlantic’s
loud charges
Mix in murmurous close with the wash of
the barges.
With wondering ear the children cease
playing;
The voice that they hear, what can it
be saying?
Too well they shall know, when amid the
wild brattle
Of the waters below, they enter life’s
battle.
The Tide flows apace; the ship that lies
idle
Trips out with trim grace, like a bride
to her bridal.
What hath she in store? shall Fate her
boon give her?
Or must she no more return to the river?
The flood has gone past! Ah me! one
was late for it,
And friends cry aghast: “How
long must he wait for it?”
Young eyes that to-night are darkened
for sorrow
Shall hail with delight their dear ship
to-morrow.
Amid the sea-wrack the barque, tempest
battered,
At length staggers back, like a prodigal
tattered!
What if she be scarred or scoffers make
light of her?
Though blemished and marred, how blest
is the sight of her!
The Tide flows and flows, far past the
grey towers;
And whispering goes through the wheat
and the flowers.
And now his pulse takes the calm heart
of the valley
And lifts, till it shakes, the low bough
of the sally.
Slow, and more slow is his flow—he
has tarried—
The blue Ocean’s pilgrim, outwearied,
miscarried!
Far, far from home, in wandering error,
A dim rocky dome beshrouding his mirror.
But hark! a voice thrills the traveller
erring;
In the heart of the hills its sea-call
is stirring:
And home, ever home, to its passionate
pleading,
One whirl of white foam, with the ebb
he is speeding.
“ORA PRO NOBIS”
(After Eifion Win, 1867- . He lies as a poet
between Elfed and the “New
Bards”)
A sudden shower lashes
The darkening pane;
The voice of the tempest
Is lifted again.
The centuried oaks
To their very roots rock;
And crying, for shelter
Course cattle and flock.
Our Father, forget not
The nestless bird now;
The snow is so near,
And so bare is the bough!
A great flood is flashing
Athwart the wide lee;
Like a storm-struck encampment,
The clouds rend and flee;
At the scourge of the storm
My cot quakes with affright;
Far better the hearth
Than the pavement to-night!
Our Father, forget not
The homeless outcast;
So thin is his raiment,
So bitter Thy blast!
The foam-flakes are whirling
Below on the strand,
As white as the pages
I turn with my hand;
And the curlew afar,
From his storm-troubled lair,
Laments with the cry
Of a soul in despair.
Our Father, forget not
Our mariners’ state;
Their ships are so slender,
Thy seas are so great.
(After Eifion Win, the contemporary Welsh poet)
Though the blue slab hides our laddy,
Slumber, free of fear!
Well we know it, I and daddy,
Naught can harm you here.
You and all the little sleepers,
Their small graves within,
Have bright angels for door-keepers.
Sleep, Goronwy Wyn!
Ah, too well I now remember,
Darling, when you slept,
How the children from your chamber
Jealously I kept.
Now how willingly to wake you
I would let them in,
If their merry noise could make you
Move, Goronwy Wyn!
Sleep, though mother is not near you,
In God’s garden green!
Flower-Sunday gifts we bear you,
Lovely to be seen;
Six small primroses to show us
Summer-time is ours;
Though, alas! locked up below us,
Lies our flower of flowers.
Sleep! to mother’s love what matters
Passing time or tide?
On my ear your footstep patters,
Still my babe you bide.
All the others moving, moving,
Still disturb my breast;
But the dead have done with roving,
You alone have rest.
Then, beneath the primrose petals,
Sleep, our heart’s delight!
Darkness o’er us deeply settles;
We must say “Good night!”
Your new cradle needs no shaking
On its quiet floor.
Sleep, my child! till you are waking
In my arms once more.
(After W.J. Gruffydd, 1880- , one of the leading “New Bards”)
Strongest swept his sickle through the
whin-bush,
Straightest down the ridge
his furrows sped;
Early on the mountain ranged his reapers,
Above his mattock late he
bowed his head.
Love’s celestial rapture once he
tasted,
Then a cloud of suffering
o’er him crept.
Out along the uplands, in the dew-fall,
He mourned the maid who in
the churchyard slept,
With the poor he shared his scanty earnings,
To the Lord his laden heart
he breathed;
On his rustic heart fell two worlds’
sunshine,
And two worlds’ blossoms
round his footsteps wreathed.
Much he gloried in Young Gwalia’s
doings,
Yet more dearly loved her
early lore,
Catching ever from her Triple Harpstrings
The far, faint echoes of her
ancient shore.
Yestereven he hung up his sickle,
Ne’er again to trudge
his grey fields o’er,
Ne’er again to plough the stony
ridges,
To sow the home of thorns,
alas! no more.
(To a Welsh Air of the name)
From the starving City
She turned her couch to seek,
With pearls of tender pity
On her queenly cheek;
There in restless slumber
She dreamt that she was one
Of that most piteous number
By distress undone.
In among that sullen brood,
In homeless want she glided,
While in mock solicitude
Her fate they thus derided:
“Queen, now bear thee queenly,
In destiny’s despite!
If thou wilt starve serenely,
We poor wretches might.”
But, amid their mocking,
“The King, the King!”
they cry,
And forward they run flocking
While He passes by;
With the crowd she mixes
Her cruel shame to hide;
When, O, what wonder fixes
The surging human tide?
There One stood, with thorn-crown’d
head,
Hands of supplication,
Multiplying mystic bread
For her famished nation.
“Children thus remember
My poor and Me!” He
spoke,
And in her palace chamber
Weeping she awoke.
(To the air of “The Song of the Bottle”)
Up, up with the anchor,
Round, round for the harbour
mouth!
Wind, boys, and a spanker
Racing due south!
Where ’ood you be going?
How, now can ye hoist your
sails?
When blossoms be blowing
Over Welsh Wales!
Dear hearts for the herring,
Sure, after the herring,
Hot after the herring,
Each ship of us sails.
Up, up with the anchor,
Round, round for the harbour
mouth!
Wind boys and a spanker,
Racing due south.
“Men, when you go rocking,
Out under the angry gale,
Wives’ hearts begin knocking,
Lasses turn pale.
Oh, why start a-fishing
Far, far and across the foam?
Give way to our wishing;
Stay, stay at home!”
“Now, but for King Herring,
What ’ood you be wearing,
How ’ood you be faring
How keep ye warm?
Lest loaves should be failing,
Lest children for want take
harm,
Men still will go sailing
Out into the storm.”
Then men, since it must be,
Then men, since it must be
so,
Christ, Christ shall our trust be,
When the winds blow.
Once when He was sleeping,
“Save Lord!” the
disciples cried,
“Wild waters are leaping
Over the side!”
See He has awoken!
Hark, hark, He has spoken,
“Peace, peace,” and in token
Down the storm died.
Lord God of the billows,
Still succour the fishing
smack!
Give peace to our pillows,
Bring our men back!
DAVID’S LAMENT OVER SAUL AND JONATHAN
Israel’s beauty is slain
Here on Gilboa’s high
places,
How are the mighty fallen
And tears upon all our faces.
Tell it not now in Gath
Or in Askelon’s city
name it,
Lest Philistia’s daughters rejoice
And with songs of triumph
proclaim it.
Let there be no more dew,
Gilboa, upon thy mountains!
Over thy fields of offerings fair,
Holden be all heaven’s
fountains.
For there the shield of the mighty,
Even Saul’s shield,
to-day,
As though he was ne’er the Anointed
of God,
Is vilely cast away.
Till the foe in his blood lay stricken
Or cloven through and through,
The bow of Jonathan turned not back,
The sword of Saul still slew.
Lovely were they in their lives,
In death undivided they lay,
They were swifter than mountain eagles,
Stronger than lions at bay.
Weep, ye daughters of Israel,
Weep over Saul your King,
Who clothed you with scarlet and decked
you with gold
And filled you with every
good thing.
How are the mighty fallen,
And all their boasts in vain!
There on Gilboa’s high places,
O Jonathan, thou wast slain.
Alas! my brother Jonathan,
I am sore distressed for thee;
For thou hast been very pleasant,
Very pleasant to me.
Beyond the love of woman
Was the love that for me you
bore.
How are the mighty fallen
And perished the weapons of
war!
Bound into the furnace blazing
They have cast the Children
Three;
But oh! miracle amazing,
They arise, unscathed and
free;
While through paths of fire, to guide
them,
Paths no other foot has trod—
Lo! A Fourth is seen beside them,
Shining like the Son of God.
Ah! not ours their saintly measure,
Yet ’tis still our heart’s
desire,
That Thou wouldst of Thy good pleasure,
Teach us, too, to walk the
fire—
Living lives of stern denial,
Trusty toiler, helpmeet tried,
Till grown fit for fiery trial,
With our Saviour at our side.
RUTH AND NAOMI
When Judges ruled the tribes of Israel,
A cruel famine on the people fell,
Till even Bethlehem, the “House
of Bread,”
For meat and drink at last was sore bestead.
Then when they called upon Jehovah’s
name,
This answer to their heart’s petition
came:
“Send forth your strong into the
land where Lot
The might of Moab and his race begot—
“Your kinsfolk they: there
still the streams run quick,
Still grass and corn are laughing high
and thick.”
Therefore adventuring forth, the bold
and strong
Their famished flocks and herds drove
each along,
Till Moab’s high-set plain and warm,
wide valleys
Wherefrom clear-watered Arnon westward
sallies,
Rejoiced they reached: there welcome
found and there
Release from want, of wealth a goodly
share.
With these Elimelech and his precious
ones,
His wife Naomi and his two brave sons,
Mahlon and Chilion, Jordan’s shrunken
tide
Crossed, and at Hesbon stayed and occupied.
And there they prospered for a blessed
time
Until Elimelech in his lordly prime,
Hasting those cattle-spoilers to pursue,
The ambuscading sons of Anak slew.
Then Chilion and Mahlon, by the voice
Of their good mother guided, made their
choice
Amongst the maids of Moab for their wives:
And so, a ten years’ space lived
joyful lives.
Till pestilence o’ertook the brothers;
naught
Of wives’ or mothers’ care
availed them aught,
But, blessing both, their sight was quenched
in gloom;
Three widows wept o’er their untimely
tomb.
Then when their days of mourning now were
o’er,
Fresh tidings came from Jordan’s
further shore:
“Judaea’s years of famine
now are passed,
And joyous plenty crowns her fields at
last.”
Naomi then outspake: “Dear
daughters lone,
Yea, dearer for their sakes who now are
gone
Than if indeed ye were my very own
Born children, hearken to Naomi’s
voice
Who of all Moabs’ maids made you
her choice!
“Good wives and fond, as ever cherished
Husband, were ye unto my two sons dead,
Diligent weavers of their household wool,
True joy-mates when their cup of bliss
was full,
Kind comforters in sorrow or in pain.
Alloy was none, but one to mar life’s
golden chain.
“No child, dear Orpah, loving Ruth,
have ye
To suckle or to dance upon your knee,
No other sons have I your hearts to woo—
Grandchildren can be none from me to you.
Therefore, my daughters, O, consider well
Since you are young, and fair and so excel
In every homecraft, were it not more wise
No longer to refuse to turn your eyes
Towards the suitors brave who, now your
days
Of mourning are accomplished, fix their
gaze
Upon your goings? Verily now ’twere
right
That you should each a noble Moabite
Espouse, till, with another’s love
accost,
Your childless grief in motherhood be
lost.
And I, why should I tarry longer here
To be a burden on you year by year?
Kinsfolk and friends have I at Bethlehem
Where plenty reigns; I will go back to
them—”
Then much they both besought her to remain,
And yet her purpose neither could restrain;
Therefore her goods to gather she began
Against the passing of the caravan.
But Ruth and Orpah each prepared also
Beside her unto Bethlehem to go.
And now the three stand ready, full of
tears
To quit the haunts of happy married years,
The tombs that hid their lost ones.
Staunchly then
Naomi spoke her purpose once again:
“Daughters, turn back, each to her
mother’s house
To take the rest that there her work allows,
And in due course a second husband find,
Nor be unto the future foolish—blind!
Yet take a blessing from the heart of
hearts
Of your Naomi ere she hence departs.”
She blessed them, and with voices lifted
up
In loud lament the dregs of sorrow’s
cup
They drained together. Orpah, weeping,
turned
And slowly went, but Ruth with eyes that
yearned
Into Naomi’s, cried aloud in pain:
“Thus to forsake thee, urge me not
again,
Nor to return from following after thee!
For where thou goest, I will surely go.
And where thou lodgest, will I lodge also!
Thy people shall be my people evermore,
And thy God only will I now adore!
And where thou diest, I will buried be!
So may Jehovah strike me with his thunder,
If aught but only death our lives shall
sunder.”
Ruth’s lips have sealed that solemn
covenant,
Then with Naomi hand in hand she went.
But as they slept that night there came
to each
The selfsame vision, though they ne’er
had speech
Thereon, till Obed’s birth, Ruth’s
only son
And David’s grandsire; for they
each saw one
With Mahlon’s aspect seated in the
skies,
And on his knees a babe with Ruth’s
own eyes,
And by the infant’s side one with
a face
Ruddy and bold, a form of Kingly grace,
And in his hand a harp wherefrom he drew
Marvellous music while his songs thereto
Held hosts of angels hearkening in the
blue.
Then figures floated o’er him faint
and far
Up to a Child who rode upon a star,
And in the Heavenly wonder of his face,
They read the Ransom of the Human Race.
“Consider the lilies!” He
spake as yet spake no man:
“Consider the lilies,
the lilies of the leas,
They toil not, they spin not, like you,
tired man and woman,
Yet Solomon in his glory was
not robed like one of these.
“Consider the lilies! Sure,
if your Heavenly Father
So clothe the meadow grasses
that here flower free of scathe
And to-morrow light the oven, now, say,
shall he not rather
Still of His goodness clothe
you, O ye of little faith?
“Consider the fowls of the air,
behind your harrows;
They plough not, they reap
not, nor gather grain away,
Yet your Heavenly Father cares for them;
then, if he feed the sparrows,
Shall He not rather feed you,
His children, day by day?”
THE GOOD PHYSICIAN
To find Him they flock, young and old,
from their cities,
With hearts full of hope:
for the tidings had spread:
“The proud He rebukes and the poorest
He pities,
Recovers the leper, upraises
the dead.”
So the shepherd has left his sheep lone
on the mountain,
The woodman his axe buried
fast in the pine,
The maiden her pitcher half-filled at
the fountain,
The housewife her loom and
the fisher his line.
With their babes on their bosoms, their
sick on their shoulders,
Toilsomely thronging by footpath
and ford,
Now resting their burthens among the rude
boulders,
Still they come climbing in
search of the Lord.
Until on the Mount, with the morn they
have found Him—
Christ, the long sought—they
have found Him at length,
With their sick and their stricken, in
faith they flock round Him,
As sighing He looks up to
Heaven for strength.
He has touched the deaf ears and the blind
eyes anointed—
And straightway they hear
Him and straightway they see;
Laid hands on the lame and they leap,
supple-jointed,
The devils denounced and affrighted
they flee.
Yea? for their faith, from each life-long
affliction,
Yea, for their faith from
their sins they are freed,
And therefore have earned His divine benediction—
* * * * *
Stretch forth Thy hand, for as sore is our need.
Lord! we are deaf, we are dumb, lost in
blindness,
Lepers and lame and by demons
possessed!
Lord, we are dead! of Thine infinite kindness
Restore us, redeem! bear us
home on Thy breast.
A Sower went forth to sow,
But His seed on the wayside
showered;
A bird-flock out of the air flashed low
And the goodly grain devoured.
A Sower went forth to sow,
O’er hid rocks plying
his toil;
The seed leaped up at the warm sun’s
glow,
But withered for lack of soil.
A Sower went forth to sow,
And his seed took steadfast
root;
But flaming poppies and thorns in row
Sprang up and strangled the
fruit.
A Sower went forth to sow,
And at last his joy he found;
For his good seed’s generous overflow
Sank deep into gracious ground.
Lord, when we look back on our lives,
With penitent sighs and tears,
Our evil that with Thee strives and strives
In Thy parable’s truth
appears.
As the wayside hard were our hearts,
Where Thy good seed lightly
lay,
For the Devil’s flock, as it downward
darts,
To bruise and to bear away.
Thy winged words falling nigher
Sprang up in our souls with
haste,
But they could not endure temptation’s
fire
And withered and went to waste.
Within us Thy word once more
Thou sowest, but—sore
beset
With worldly weeds—for Thy
threshing floor
Shall it ever ripen yet?
Yea, Lord, it shall if Thou please,
In passionate, patient prayer,
To draw the nation upon its knees
And fill it with Heavenly
care.
And so shall we all arise
In the joy of a soul’s
re-birth
To hold a communion with the skies
That shall bring down Heaven
to earth.
THE PRODIGAL’S RETURN
(From the Scotch Gaelic)
Tedious grew the time to me
Within the Courts of Blessing;
My secure felicity,
For folly I forswore;
Vain delusion wrought my woe
Till now, in want distressing,
I go begging to and fro
Upon an alien shore.
In my dear old home of peace,
Around my father’s table
Many a servant sits at ease
And eats and drinks his fill;
While within a filthy stall
With loathsome swine I stable,
Sin-defiled and scorned of all
To starve on husk and swill.
Ah, how well I mind me
Of the happy days gone over!
Love was then behind me,
Before me, and around;
Then, light as air, I leapt,
A laughing little rover,
Now dull and heavy-stepped
I pace this desert ground.
Sin with flattering offers came;
Against my Sire rebelling
I yielded my good name
At the Tempter’s easy
smile;
In fields that were not ours,
Brighter blooming, richer
smelling,
I ravished virgin flowers
With a heart full of guile.
’Twas thus an open shame
In the sight of all the Noble,
Yea! a monster I became,
Till my gold ceased to flow,
And my fine fair-weather friends
Turned their backs upon my
trouble.
Now an outcast to Earth’s ends
Under misery I go.
Yet though bitter my disgrace,
Than every ill severer
Is the thought of the face
Of the Sire for whom I long.
I shall see Him no more
Though to me he now is dearer
Than he ever was, before
I wrought him such wrong.
And yet ere I die
I will journey forth to meet
him.
Home I will hie,
For he yet may be won.
For Pardon and Peace
My soul will entreat him,
“Father, have grace
On thy Prodigal Son!”
Could I get near enough
To send him a message—
I keeping far off—
He would not say me nay.
In some little nook
He would find me a living
And let none be driving
His shamed son away.
The Penitent arose,
His scalding tears blinding
him;
Hope’s ray lit his way
As homeward he pressed.
Afar off his father’s
Fond eyes are finding him,
And the old man gathers
His boy to his breast.
They who have loved the most
The most have been forgiven,
And with the Devil’s host
Most mightily have striven.
And so it was of old
With her, once all unclean,
Now of the saints white-stoled—
Mary, the Magdalen.
For though in Satan’s power
She seemed for ever fast,
Her Saviour in one hour
Seven devils from her cast.
O’erburthened by the weight
Of her black bosom sin,
As Christ with Simon sate
At meat, she had stolen in.
Toward her Lord she drew;
She knelt by Him unchid;
The latchet of His shoe
Her trembling hands undid.
Foot-water none was by
Nor towel, as was meet,
To comfort and to dry
His hot way-weary feet;
But with her blinding tears
She bathes them now instead,
And dries them with the hairs
Of her abased head.
And so, when Simon looked,
And pondered, evil-eyed,
No longer Jesus brooked
His thought, but thus replied;
“Simon, no kiss of peace
Thou gav’st me at thy
door,
No oil, my head to ease,
Didst thou upon it pour,
Nay, for thy bidden guest
So little hast thou cared,
His weary feet to rest
No bath hadst thou prepared;
Yet hath this woman here,
By thee with scorn decried,
Washed them with many a tear,
And with her tresses dried,
And given them, from her store
Of spikenard, cool relief,
And kissed them o’er and o’er
In penitential grief.
Therefore her joy begins,
Her prayer is heard in heaven;
Though many are her sins,
They all shall be forgiven!”
Scant mercy he receives
Whose love for God is small;
But he whom God forgives
The most, loves most of all.
IV. CHURCH FESTIVALS
(After the Meditation for Communion on Christmas Day in Eucharistica)
Welcome, thrice blessed day! thrice blessed
hour!
To hail you, every heart to
Heaven is climbing,
The while the snow in softly circling
shower
Draws down to meet them ’mid
the joybell’s chiming;
Like blessed morsels of that manna bread
Wherewith of old the Lord His People fed.
Welcome, dear dawn! if now no Angel Song
With sudden ravishing acclaim
salute thee,
Yet everywhere Our Church’s white-robed
throng
Shall to thy first exultancy
transmute thee.
Peace and Good Will again with holy mirth
Proclaiming to the Universal Earth.
Then, too, my soul, forth summoning all
thy powers,
Thyself from worldly schemes
and wishes sunder,
To worship and admire this hour of hours
That is all miracle and the
height of wonder;
Infinity itself shrinks to a span,
Since God, remaining God, becometh Man.
Here is a mother with no mortal mate!
Here is a son that hath no
earthly father!
A graft, on Adam’s stock incorporate,
Who yet therefrom no mortal
taint can gather!
A Babe to whom a new and glorious Star
Earth’s Wisest Kings for worship
draws from far.
All hail! then, sweetest Saviour, thrice
all hail!
The King of Kings, by David’s
prophesying;
Yet on no royal couch Thy first weak wail
Awoke, for in a manger Thou
wast lying:
Still for that condescension more a King
Than having all the whole world’s
wealth could bring.
Thus with Earth’s humblest brothering
thy estate,
Thus to Earth’s mightiest
giving meek example,
The lowly Thou exaltest to be great,
The proud thou teachest on
their pride to trample.
So, turning poor men rich and rich men
poor,
For each Thou makest his salvation sure.
Now who are these who from afar
Follow yon solitary star?
Whence journey they and what the quest
That turns their faces towards the west?
Three Kings are they and Mages three,
Who in their camel company,
With offerings rich, still onward press,
Across the wintry wilderness.
Nine months agone, Isaiah’s page
They pondered o’er with questioning
sage,
When underneath their wondering eyes
His words were altered in this wise:
“Behold a Virgin hath conceived!”
They saw, and marvelled, and believed,
And hasted forth upon the morn
To greet the King that should be born.
Afar they fared by land and flood,
The while they saw, with bounding blood,
A star that did all stars exceed
In wonder still their footsteps lead.
Until, amid the falling snow,
They found the Highest laid most low;
His palace but a cattle shed,
A manger for His princely bed.
And there they bent with holy joy
And hope before the new-born Boy;
And opened, at His infant feet,
Their royal offerings rich and sweet.
A FOURTEENTH-CENTURY CAROL
When God came down on Earth to dwell,
Great cold befell:
Yet Mary on the road hath seen
A fig-tree green.
Said Joseph: “O Mary, let the
fruit hang;
For thirty good mile we have still to
gang,
Lest we be late!”
When Mary unto a village door
At last did win,
She thus bespake the cottager:
“Sir, take
us in!
Since for this young Child’s tender
sake
A pitying heart must surely ache,
The night’s
so cold.”
“You’re welcome all to my
ox-stall!”
The good man cried.
But in the middle of the night
He rose and sighed:
“Where are ye now, poor hapless
ones?
That ye’re not frozen to the bones,
I marvel much.”
Then back into his house he runs
From forth the
byre—
“Rouse up, rouse up, my dearest
wife,
And light a fire,
As fine as ever sent up smoke,
Whereat these poor and perishing folk
May comfort them.”
Mary with joy into the house
The Babe has brought,
Joseph her just and faithful spouse,
His wallet sought.
Therefrom he took a kettle small;
Some snow the Child therein let fall,
And lo ’tis flour!
Thereto the Babe has added ice;
’Tis sugar straight!
Now water drops, and, in a trice,
’Tis milk most sweet!
The kettle, fast as you could look,
They hung upon the kitchen hook
A meal to cook.
The godly Joseph carved a spoon
From out a brand;
To ivory it changed full soon
And adamant.
When Mary gave the Babe the food,
He became Jesus, Son of God.
Before their eyes.
She the long sought for and sighed for
in vain, the enchantress immortal—
Spring, in our very despair, out of inviolate
air
Charioting summons the Eastern gate; the
obedient portal
Opes, and a vision blest yields to the
wondering West.
High on her crystal car she trembles in
halycon tissues,
Gently with golden curb checking her coursers
superb—
All her ethereal beauty elate with Love’s
infinite issues,
Whilst this enchantment slips forth from
her sibylline lips:
“Herb and tree in your kinds, free
lives of the mountain and forest,
Shoals of the stream and the flood, flights
of the welkin and wood,
Herd and flock of the field, and ye, whose
need is the sorest,
Suffering spirits of men, lo! I am
with you again.
Fear no more for the tyrant hoar as he
rushes to battle
Armoured in ice, and darts lance after
lance at your hearts,
Fear not his flaming bolts as they hurtle
with horrible rattle
Out of the lurid inane fulminant over
the plain.
Fear not his wizardry white that circles
and circles and settles
Stealthily hour by hour, feathery flower
upon flower,
Over the spell-bound sleeper, till last
the pitiless petals
Darkly in icy death stifle his labouring
breath.
“Late upon yon white height the
despot his fugitives rallied,
Deeming the crest snow-crowned still inaccessibly
frowned;
Idly, for instant upon him my bright-speared
chivalry sallied,
Smote and far into the North swept him
discomfited forth,
Therefore, from root unto hole, from hole
into burgeoning branches,
Tendril and tassel and cup now let the
ichor leap up:
Therefore, with flowering drift and with
fluttering bloom avalanches,
Snowdrop and silver thorn laugh baffled
winter to scorn;
Primrose, daffodil, cowslip, shine back
to my shimmering sandals,
Hyacinth host, o’er the green flash
your cerulean sheen,
Lilac, your perfumed lamps, light, chestnut,
your clustering candles,
Broom and laburnum, untold torches of
tremulous gold!
Therefore gold-gather again from the honeyed
heath and the bean field,
Snatching no instant of ease, bright,
multitudinous bees!
Therefore, ye butterflies, float and flicker
from garden to green field,
Flicker and float and stay, settle and
sip and away!
“Therefore race it and chase it,
ye colts, in the emerald meadow!
Round your serious dams frisk, ye fantastical
lambs!
Therefore, bird unto bird, from the woodland’s
wavering shadow
Pipe and ’plain and protest, flutter
together and nest.
“Therefore, ye skylarks, in shivering
circle still higher and higher
Soar, and the palpitant blue drench with
delirious dew.
Therefore, nightingale, lost in the leaves,
or lone on the brier,
Under the magic moon lift your tumultuous
tune.
Therefore refresh you, faint hearts, take
comfort, ye souls sorrow-stricken,
Winning from nature relief, courage and
counsel in grief,
Judging that He, whose handmaid I am,
out of death to requicken
Year after year His earth into more exquisite
birth,
Shadows thereby to your souls through
what drear and perilous places
Into what Paradise blest beacons His searching
behest—
Even the Heaven of Heavens where fond,
long-hungered-for faces
Into your own shall shine radiant with
rapture divine.”
EASTER DAY, 1915
I
The stars die out on Avon’s watchful
breast,
While simple shepherds climb
through shadows grey,
With beating bosoms up the Wrekin’s
Crest
To see the sun “dance
in” an Easter Day
Whose dawning consummates three centuries—
Since Shakespeare’s
death and entrance to the skies—
Resolved the radiant miracle not to miss
Reserved alone to earliest
opened eyes.
We, too, with faces set towards the East,
Our joyful orison offerings
yielding up
Keep with our risen Lord His Pascal feast
From Paten Blest and Consecrated
Cup,
And give Him thanks Who of all realms
of Earth
Made England richest by her Shakespeare’s
birth.
II
“St. George for Merrie England!”
let us cry
And each a red rose pin upon
his breast,
Then face the foe with fearless front
and eye
Through all our frowning leaguer
in the West.
For not alone his Patron Day it is
Wherefrom our noble George
hath drawn his name;
Three centuries and a half gone by ere
this;
By Shakespeare’s birth
it won a second fame.
A greater glory is its crown to-day
Since at its first and faintest
uttered breath
A mighty angel rolled the stone away
That sealed His tomb Who captive
now leads death,
And thereby did the great example give.
That they who die for others most shall
live.
When Christ their Lord, to
Heaven upraised,
Was wafted from
the Apostles’ sight,
And upwards wistfully they
gazed
Into the far,
blue Infinite,
Behold two men in white apparel dressed
Who thus bespake them on the mountain
crest:
“Why stand ye, men of
Galilee,
So sadly gazing
on the skies?
For this same Jesus, whom
ye see
Caught in the
clouds to Paradise,
Shall in like manner from the starry height
Return again to greet your joyful sight.”
Would, O Lord Jesus! thus
to hear
Thy farewell words
we too had met,
Among Thine own Disciples
dear,
Upon the brow
of Olivet!
Yet are we blest, though of that joy bereaved,
Who having seen Thee not, have yet believed.
O, then in each succeeding
year
When Thine Ascension
Day draws round,
With hearts so full of holy
fear
May we within
Thy Church be found,
That in the spirit we may see Thee rise
And bless us with pierced hands from out
the skies!
Christ, if our gaze for ever
thus
Is fixed upon
Thy Heavenward way,
Death shall but bring to each
of us
At last his soul’s
Ascension Day,
Till in Thy mercy Thou descend once more
And quick and dead to meet Thy coming
soar.
WHITSUNTIDE
When Christ from off the mountain crest
Before their marvelling eyes,
Whilst His disciples still He blessed,
Was caught into the skies—
The Angels, whose harmonious breath
Erstwhile proclaimed His birth,
Now hailed Him Victor over Death,
Redeemer of the Earth;
“Lift up your heads, ye Heavenly
Gates!”
Rang forth their joyful strain;
“For lo! the King of Glory waits
To enter you again!”
Thus, heralded, from Heaven to Heaven
Magnifical He goes,
Until the last of all the seven
To greet His coming glows;
While He the Eternal long left lone
To meet Him doth upstand,
Then sets His Son upon the Throne
Once more at His right hand.
Whereat with one triumphal hymn
Majestically blent
The Cherubim and Seraphim
The Universe have rent.
Last, from the splendrous mercy seat,
Of Father and of Son,
To Earth, their purpose to complete,
Descends the Promised One.
Like to a mighty rushing wind
He falls, subduing space,
To where Christ’s chosen with one
mind
Are gathered in one place.
With tongues of flame He lights on each,
Whose wonder-working spell
Fires them in every human speech
Heaven’s message forth
to tell.
The coward brood of doubt and fear
And hesitance are fled;
Before the quickening Comforter
They rise as from the dead.
The bolted door is yawning wide,
The barred gate backward flung;
And forth unarmed and fearless-eyed,
They fare their foes among.
CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS
O ye weeping sons and daughters,
Trust the Heavenly Harvest
Giver,
Cast your bread upon the waters
Of His overflowing river;
Cast the good seed, nothing doubting
That your tears shall turn
to praise,
Ye shall yet behold it sprouting
Heavenward, after many days.
Hope and love, long frost-withholden,
Into laughing life upleaping,
Blade and ear, from green to golden,
Yet shall ripen for your reaping;
Till some radiant summer morrow,
Wheresoe’er your sickle
cleaves,
Ye, who sow to-day in sorrow,
Shout for joy amid your sheaves.
O then, learn the inmost meaning
Of your harvest’s rich
redundance,
Bid the famished ones come gleaning
In the fields of your abundance;
So in overrunning measure
Shall your thankful fellow-men
Give you, of their hearts’ hid treasure,
All your good gifts back again.
Till, ye faithful sons and daughters,
God your golden lives deliver,
Like the good grain to the waters
Of death’s overflowing
river;
Till up-caught amid His sleepers,
Heavenly fruit from earthly
loam,
At the last, His angel reapers
On their bosoms bear you home.
FATHER O’FLYNN
Of priests we can offer a charming variety,
Far renowned for larning and piety;
Still, I’d advance you, widout impropriety,
Father O’Flynn as the flower of them all.
Chorus: Here’s
a health to you, Father O’Flynn,
Slainte and slainte, and slainte
agin;
Powerfullest preacher, and
Tenderest teacher, and
Kindliest creature in ould Donegal.
Don’t talk of your Provost
and Fellows of Trinity,
Famous for ever for Greek and Latinity,
Dad, and the divels and all at Divinity,
Father O’Flynn ’d make hares of
them all.
Come, I vinture to give you my word,
Never the likes of his logic was heard.
Down from Mythology
Into Thayology,
Troth! and Conchology, if he’d the call.
Chorus: Here’s a health
to you, etc.
Och! Father O’Flynn, you’ve
the wonderful way wid you,
All the ould sinners are wishful to pray wid you,
All the young childer are wild for to play wid you,
You’ve such a way wid you, Father avick!
Still, for all you’ve so gentle a
soul,
Gad, you’ve your flock in the grandest
conthroul
Checkin’ the crazy ones,
Coaxin’ onaisy ones,
Liftin’ the lazy ones on wid the stick.
Chorus: Here’s a health
to you, etc.
And though quite avoidin’ all
foolish frivolity,
Still at all saisons of innocent jollity,
Where was the play-boy could claim an equality
At comicality, Father, wid you?
Once the Bishop looked grave at your jest,
Till this remark set him off wid the rest:
“Is it lave gaiety
All to the laity?
Cannot the clargy be Irishmen too?”
Chorus: Here’s a health
to you, etc.
County by county for beauty and bounty
Go search! and this pound to a penny,
When you’ve one woman to show us as human
And lovely as our Lady Gwenny;
For she has the scorn for all scorners,
And she has the tear for all mourners,
Yet joying with joy,
With no crabb’d annoy
To pull down her mouth at the corners.
Up with the lark in the pasture you’ll
meet with her,
Songs like his own sweetly
trilling,
Carrying now for some poor folk a treat
with her,
Small mouths with lollypops
filling:
And while, as he stands in a puzzle,
She strokes the fierce bull on his muzzle,
The calves and the lambs
Run deserting their dams
In her kind hands their noses to nuzzle.
Now with her maidens a sweet Cymric cadence
She leads, just to lighten
their sewing;
Now at the farm, her food basket on arm,
She has set all the cock’rels
a-crowing.
The turkey-cock strutting and strumming,
His bagpipe puts by at her humming,
And even the old gander,
The fowl-yard’s commander,
He winks his sly eye at her coming.
Never to wandering minstrel or pondering
Poet her castle gate closes:
Ever her kindly cheer—ever
her praise sincere
Falls like the dew on faint
roses.
And when her Pennillions rhyming
She mates to her triple harp’s chiming,
In her green Gorsedd gown—
The half of the town
Up the fences to hear her are climbing.
Men in all fashions have pleaded their
passions—
The scholar, the saint, and
the sinner,
Pleaded in vain Lady Gwenny to gain,—
For only a hero shall win
her:
And to share his strong work and sweet
leisure
He’ll have no keen chaser of pleasure,
But a loving young beauty
With a soul set on duty,
And a heart full of heaven’s hid
treasure.
OLD DOCTOR MACK
Ye may tramp the world over from
Delhi to Dover,
And sail the salt say from Archangel to Arragon;
Circumvint back through the whole Zodiack,
But to ould Docther Mack ye can’t furnish
a paragon.
Have ye the dropsy, the gout, the autopsy?
Fresh livers and limbs instantaneous he’ll
shape yez;
No way infarior in skill, but suparior
And lineal postarior to ould Aysculapius.
Chorus: He and his wig
wid the curls so carroty,
Aigle eye and complexion clarety;
Here’s to his health,
Honour and wealth,
The king of his kind and the cream
of all charity.
How the rich and the poor, to consult
for a cure,
Crowd on to his door in their carts and their carriages,
Showin’ their tongues or unlacin’ their
lungs,
For divel wan sympton the docther disparages,
Troth an’ he’ll tumble for high or for
humble
From his warm feather-bed wid no cross contrariety;
Makin’ as light of nursin’ all night
The beggar in rags as the belle of society.
Chorus: He and his wig wid the curls, etc.
And, as if by a meracle, ailments hysterical,
Dad, wid one dose of bread
pills he can smother,
And quench the love sickness wid comical
quickness,
Prescribin’ the right
boys and girls to each other.
And the sufferin’ childer!
Your eyes ’twould bewilder,
To see the wee craythurs his
coat-tails unravellin’—
Each of them fast on some treasure at
last,
Well knowin’ ould Mack’s
just a toy-shop out travellin’.
Chorus: He and his wig wid the curls, etc.
Thin, his doctherin’ done,
in a rollickin’ run
Wid the rod or the gun he’s the foremost
to figure;
Be Jupiter Ammon! what jack-snipe or salmon
E’er rose to backgammon his tail-fly or
trigger!
And hark that view-holloa! ’Tis Mack
in full follow
On black “Faugh-a-ballagh” the country-side
sailin’!
Och, but you’d think ’twas ould Nimrod
in pink,
Wid his spurs cryin’ chink over park wall
and palin’.
Chorus: He and his wig
wid the curls so carroty,
Aigle eye and complexion clarety.
Here’s to his health,
Honour and wealth,
Hip, hip, hooray, wid all hilarity!
Hip, hip, hooray!
That’s the way!
All at once widout disparity!
One more cheer for our docther dear,
The king of his kind and the cream
of all charity,
Hip, hip, hooray!
HARLECH CHOIRMASTER
Who is this they bear along the street
In his coffin through the sunshine sweet?
Who is this so many comrades crave,
Turn by turn, to carry to the grave?
Who is this for whom the hillward track
Glooms with mounting lines of mourners
black?
Till the Baptists’ green old burial-ground
Clasps them all within its quiet bound.
Here John Owen we must lay to rest,
’Tis for him our hearts are sore
distressed;
Since his sister wistfully he eyed,
Bowed his head upon her breast and died.
Well and truly at his work he wrought;
Every Harlech road to order brought;
Then through winter evenings dark and
long
At the chapel gave his heart to song.
Till before his gesture of command—
Till before his hushing voice and hand—
Sweeter, fuller strains who could desire
Than he charmed from out his Baptist choir.
Many a time the passer-by enchained
By their rapture to its close remained,
And the churches joyfully agreed
Their united choirs his skill should lead.
So in Handel’s choruses sublime
He would train them for the Christmas
time;
Mould their measures for the concert hall,
Roll their thunders round the Castle wall.
Loving husband, tender father, quick
To console the suffering and sick—
Christ to follow was his constant aim,
Christ’s own deacon ere he bore
the name.
Widowed wife and children fatherless,
Stricken kinsfolk, friends in keen distress—
Sorrow swept them all beneath its wave
As his coffin sank into the grave.
But his Pastor’s fervent voice went
forth,
Delicately dwelling on his worth,
Urging his example, till at last
Heavenly comfort o’er our grief
he cast.
For his lonely ones we bowed in prayer,
Sighed one hymn, and left him lying there,
Whispering: “Lord, Thy will
be done to-day,
Thou didst give him, Thou hast taken away.”
When once a winter storm upon the shores
of Fife
Drave Cuthbert; in despair,
one fearful comrade saith:
“To land in such a storm is certain
loss of life!”
“Return,” another
cried, “by sea is equal death.”
Then Cuthbert, “Earth and sea against
us both are set,
But friends, look up, for Heaven lies
open to us yet.”
ALFRED THE GREAT
“In my life I have striven to live so worthily that at my death I may leave but a memory of good works to those who come after me.”
Thus Alfred spake, whose days were beads
of prayer
Upon the rosary of his royal
time,
Who let “I do” wait not upon
“I dare,”
Yet both with duty kept in
golden chime,
Who, great in victory, greater in defeat,
Greatest in strenuous peace,
still suffering, planned
From Ashdown’s field to Athelney’s
lone retreat
Upward for aye to lift his
little land.
Therefore the seed of his most fruitful
sowing,
A thousand years gone by,
on earth and sea,
From slender strength to stately empire
growing
Hath given our isle great
continents in fee.
For which on Alfred’s death-day
each true heart
Goes out in praise of his
immortal part.
Strong Son of Fergus, with thy latest
breath
Thou hast lent
a joy unto the funeral knell,
Welcoming with
thy whispered “All is well!”
The awful aspect of the Angel Death.
As, strong in life, thou couldst not brook
to shun
The heat and burthen
of the fiery day,
Fronting defeat
with stalwart undismay,
And wearing meekly honours stoutly won.
Pure lips, pure hands, pure heart were
thine, as aye
Erin demanded
from her bards of old,
And, therefore,
on thy harpstrings of pure gold
Has waked once more her high heroic lay.
What shoulders
now shall match the mighty fold
Of Ossian’s mantle? Thou hast
passed away.
“MEN, NOT WALLS, MAKE A CITY”
(On the home-coming of the London Regiments after the Boer War)
London Town, hear a ditty,
While we crown our comrades
true:
“Men, not walls, make a City;”
Ill befalls when men are few,—
Ill indeed when from his duty
Into greed the burgess falls,
Every hand on bribe and booty—
How shall stand that City’s
walls?
Never yet upon thine annals
Hath been writ such a shame;
Never down such crooked channels,
London Town, thy commerce
came.
On the poor no tyrant burden,
Debt secure and sacred trust,
Honest gain and generous guerdon,
These remain thy record just.
Therefore still through all thy story
Loyal will thy train-bands
led
Forth to feats of patriot glory,
Back through streets with
bays o’erspread.
Therefore when the trumpet’s warning
Out again for battle rang,
As of old all peril scorning,
Forth thy bold young burghers
sprang;
Faced the fight, endured the prison,
Through the night of doubt
and gloom,
Till the Empire’s star new risen
Chased afar the clouds of
doom.
Therefore, when their ranks came marching,
Home again with flashing feet,
Under bays of triumph arching
City ways and City Street;
London, lift to God thanksgiving
For His Gift that passes all—
For thy heroes, dead and living,
Who have made thy City Wall.
(June 13, 1916)
A sheet of foam is our great Soldier’s
shroud
Beside the desolate Orkney’s
groaning caves;
And we are desolate and groan aloud
To know his body wandering
with the waves
Who when the thunder-cloud of battle hate
Broke o’er us, through
it towered, the while he bore
Upon his Titan shoulders a world weight
Of doubt and danger none had
brooked before.
For while incredulous friend and foe denied
him
Such possible prowess, Honour’s
blast he blew;
And lo! as if from out the earth beside
him,
Army on army into order grew;
Till need at last was none for our retreating,
And back to Belgium and the
front of France
We bore, firm gathered for our foe’s
defeating
Against the sounding of the
Great Advance.
Few were his friends, yet closely round
him clustered,
But from five million Britons,
who at his call
Came uncompelled and round him sternly
mustered,
The sighs escape, the silent
teardrops fall.
And not alone the Motherland is weeping
Her great dead Captain but,
The Seven Seas o’er,
Daughter Dominions sorrow’s watch
are keeping,
For he was theirs as her’s
in peace and war.
Yea, strong sage Botha, and that stern
Cape Raider
Whom first he fought then
bound with friendship’s bond—
Each now our own victorious Empire aider—
Lament his loss the sounding
deeps beyond.
And India mourns her mightiest Soldier
Warden,
Egypt the Sirdar who her desert
through
Laid iron lines of vengeance for our Gordon
Till on the Madhi he swept,
and struck and slew.
And France, for whom he fought a youthful
gallant,
From whose proud breast he
drew Fashoda’s thorn—
France who with England shared his searching
talent,
France like his second mother
stands forlorn.
* * * * *
A man of men was he, the steadfast glances
Of whose steel-grey, indomitable
eyes
So pierced the mind, behind all countenances,
Crushed were the sophist’s
arts, the coward’s lies.
A man of men but in his greatness lonely—
Undaunted in defeat, in conquest
calm,
For God and Country living and dying only,
And winner therefore of the
deathless palm.
* * * * *
A truce to tears then. Though his
body hath
No rest in English earth,
his shining soul
Still leads his armies up the arduous
path
He paved for them forthright
to Glory’s goal.
And we the men and women who remain,
Let us to be his other Army
burn
With such pure fires of sacrificial pain
As shall reward our warriors’
return.
But now a sudden heavy silence falls
On all our streets, half-mast
the standard hangs—
The hearseless funeral passes to St. Paul’s,
And out of every steeple the
death-bell clangs.
Now sorrowing King and Queen, as midday
booms,
The hushed Fane enter, while
o’er mourners black,
Grey soldier, choral white, quick gleams
and glooms
Of sun and shadow darkle and
sparkle back.
The prayers of priest and people to heaven’s
gate win
And a choir as of angels welcoming
thither our chief—
Till a thunder of drums the mighty Dead
March beats in
And the Last Post lingers,
lingers and dies on our grief.
Since to die nobly is Life’s act
supreme,
And since our best and dearest
thus have died,
Across our cloud of grief a solemn gleam
Of joy has struck, and all
our tears are dried.
For these men to keep pure their country’s
fame
Against great odds fell fighting
to the death,
God give us grace who here bear on their
name
To grow more like them with
each proud-drawn breath.
AN EPITAPH
On an Irish Cross in memory of Charles Graves, Bishop of Limerick
To God his steadfast soul, his starry
mind
To Science, a gracious heart to kin and
kind,
He living gave. Therefore let each
fair bloom
Of Faith and Hope breathe balsam o’er
his tomb.
(June 26, 1902)
We thought to speed our earthly King
Triumphant on his way
Unto his solemn Sacreing
Before Thy throne to-day;
His royal robes were wrought, prepared
His sceptre, orb and crown,
And all earth’s Princes here repaired
To heighten his renown;
When, hurtling out of bluest Heaven,
Thy bolt upon us fell;
Our head is pierced, our heart is riven,
Struck dumb the Minster bell.
Yet flags still flutter far and wide;
The league-long garlands glow,
Still London wears her gala pride
Above a breast of woe.
Lord shall these laughing leaves and flowers
Their joyful use forget?
Nay, on this stricken realm of ours
Have Thou compassion yet.
Long years ago our Edward lay
Thus fighting for his breath,
Yet to such prayers as now we pray
Thou gavest him back from
death.
Then o’er the tempest of his pain,
His cry of perishing thrill,
Let Thy right arm go forth again,
Thy saving “Peace! be
still!”
Until to all his strength restored
Thy Spirit lead Him down,
In solemn state, Almighty Lord,
To take from Thee his crown.
LET THERE BE JOY!
(A Christmas carol from the Scotch Gaelic)
This is now the blessed morn,
When was born the Virgin’s
Son,
Who from heights of glorious worth,
Unto earth His way has won;
All the heav’ns grow bright to greet
Him,
Forth to meet Him, ev’ry one!
All hail! let
there be joy!
All hail! let
there be joy!
Mountains praise, with purple splendour,
Plains, with tender tints,
the morn;
Shout, ye waves, with prophesying
Voices crying, “Christ
is born!
Christ, the Son of heav’n’s
High King,
Therefore sing no more forlorn!”
All hail! let
there be joy!
All hail! let
there be joy!
He, unto whom the Heavenly Father
Hath in His works Himself
revealed,
Sees with rapt eyes the glory gather
O’er hill and forest,
flood and field.
He, when the torrent laughs in thunder,
Larks soar exulting in the
blue,
Thrills with the waterfall’s glad
wonder,
Far up to heaven goes singing
too;
Wanders, a child among the daisies;
Ponders, a poet, all things
fair;
Wreathes with the rose of dawn his praises,
Weaves with eve’s passion-flowers
his prayer;
Full sure that He who reared the mountain,
Made smooth the valley, plumed
the height,
Holds in clear air the lark and fountain—
Shall yet uplift him into
light.
SUMMER MORNING’S WALK
’Tis scarcely four by the village
clock,
The dew is heavy, the air
is cool—
A mist goes up from the glassy
pool,
Through the dim field ranges a phantom
flock:
No sound is heard but the
magpie’s mock.
Very low is the sun in the sky,
It needeth no eagle now to
regard him.
Is there not one lark left
to reward him
With the shivering joy of his long, sweet
cry,
For sad he seemeth, I know not why.
Through the ivied ruins of yonder elm
There glides and gazes a sadder
face;
Spectre Queen of a vanished
race—
’Tis the full moon shrunk to a fleeting
film,
And she lingers for love of her ancient
realm.
These are but selfish fancies, I know,
Framed to solace a secret
grief—
Look again—scorning
such false relief—
Dwarf not Nature to match thy woe—
Look again! whence do these fancies flow?
What is the moon but a lamp of fire
That God shall relume in His
season? the Sun,
Like a giant, rejoices his
race to run
With flaming feet that never tire
On the azure path of the starry choir.
The lark has sung ere I left my bed:
And hark! far aloft from those
ladders of light
Many songs, not one only,
the morn delight.
Then, sad heart, dream not that Nature
is dead,
But seek from her strength and comfort
instead.
The snow had fallen and fallen from heaven,
Unnoticed in the night,
As o’er the sleeping sons of God
Floated the manna white;
And still, though small flowers crystalline
Blanched all the earth beneath,
Angels with busy hands above
Renewed the airy wreath;
When, white amid the falling flakes,
And fairer far than they,
Beside her wintry casement hoar
A dying woman lay.
“More pure than yonder virgin snow
From God comes gently down,
I left my happy country home,”
She sighed, “to seek
the town,
More foul than yonder drift shall turn,
Before the sun is high,
Downtrodden and defiled of men,
More foul,” she wept,
“am I.”
“Yet, as in midday might confessed,
Thy good sun’s face
of fire
Draws the chaste spirit of the snow
To meet him from the mire,
Lord, from this leprous life in death
Lift me, Thy Magdalene,
That rapt into Redeeming Light
I may once more be clean.”
REMEMBRANCE
(To music)
The fairest blooming flower
Before the sun must fade;
Each leaf that lights the bower
Must fall at last decayed!
Like these we too must wither,
Like these in earth lie low,
None answering whence or whither
We come, alas! or go.
None answering thee? thou sayest,
Nay, mourner, from thy heart,
If but in faith thou prayest,
The Voice Divine shall start;
“I gave and I have taken,
If thou wouldst comfort win
To cheer thy life forsaken,
I knock, O, let me in!
“Thy loved ones have but folden
Their earthly garments by,
And through Heaven’s gateway golden
Gone gladly up on high.
O, if thou wouldst be worthy
To share their joy anon,
Cast off, cast off the earthy,
And put the heavenly on!”
Hope gave into my trembling hands
An hour-glass running golden sands,
And Love’s immortal joys and pains
I measured by its glancing grains.
But Evil Fortune swooped, alas!
Remorseless on the magic glass,
And shivered into idle dust
The radiant record of my trust.
Long I mated with Despair
And craved for Death with ceaseless prayer;
Till unto my sick-bed side
There stole a Presence angel-eyed.
“If thou wouldst heal thee of thy
wound,”
Her voice to heavenly harps attuned
Bespake me, “Let the sovran tide
Within this glass thy future guide.”
Therewith she gave into my hands
No hour-glass running golden sands,
Only a horologe forlorn
Set against a cross of thorn,
And cold and stern the current seemed
That through its clouded crystal gleamed.
“Immortal one,” I cried, “make
plain
This cure of my consuming pain.
Open my eyes to understand,
And sift the secrets of this sand,
And measure by its joyless grains
What yet of life to me remains.”
“The sand,” she said, “that
glimmers grey
Within this glass, but yesterday
Was dust at Dives’ bolted door
Shaken by God’s suffering poor;
Then by blasts of heaven upblown
Before the Judge upon His throne
To swell the ever-gathering cloud
Of witnesses against the proud—
The dust of throats that knew no slaking,
The dust of brows for ever aching—
Dust unto dust with life’s last
breath
Sighed into the urn of Death.”
With tears I took that cross of thorn,
With tears that horologe forlorn.
And all my moments by its dust
I measure now with prayerful trust,
And though my courage oft turns weak,
Fresh comfort from that cross I seek;
In wistful hope I yet may wake
To find the thorn in blossom break,
And from life’s shivered glass behold
My being’s sands ebb forth in gold.
THE MOURNER
When tears, when heavy tears of sharpest
sorrow
Bathe the lone pillow of the
mourner’s bed,
Whose grief breaks fresh with every breaking
morrow
For his beloved one dead,
If all be not in vain, his passionate
prayer
Shall like a vapour mount
the inviolate blue,
To fall transfigured back on his despair
In drops of Heavenly dew;
Nor fail him ever but a cloud unceasing
Of incense from his soul’s
hushed altar start,
And still return to rise with rich increasing,
A well-spring from his heart;
Pure fount of peace that freshly overflowing
Through other lives shall
still run radiant on,
Till they, too, reap in joy who wept in
sowing,
Long after he is gone.
Out of the darkness I call;
I stretch forth my hands unto
Thee.
Loose these fetters that foully enthral;
To their lock Thou alone hast
the key.
Low at Thy footstool I fall,
Forgive and Thy servant is
free!
Folly took hold of my time,
On pleasure I perched, to
my woe;
I was snared in The Evil One’s lime
And now all his promptings
I know.
Crimson as blood is my crime.
Yet Thou canst wash whiter
than snow.
Heaven overhead is one frown;
About me the black waters
rave;
To the deep I go dreadfully down;
O pluck my feet out of the
grave;
Lord! I am sinking, I drown,
O save, for Thou only canst
save.
IMMORTAL HOPE
Summer hath too short a date
Autumn enters, ah! how soon,
Scattering with scornful hate
All the flowers of June.
Nay say not so,
Nothing here below
But dies
To rise
Anew with rarer glow.
Now, no skylarks singing soar
Sunward, now, beneath the
moon
Love’s own nightingale no more
Lifts her magic tune!
Nay, say not so,
But awhile they go;
Their strain
Again
All heaven shall overflow.
We had a child, a little Fairy Prince,
Let loose from Elfland for
our heart’s delight;
Ah! was it yesterday or four years since
He beamed upon our sight?
Four years—and yet it seems
but yesterday
Since the blue wonder of his
baby eyes.
Beneath their ebon-fringed canopies,
Subdued us to his sway.
Three years—and yet but yestermorn
it seems
Since first upon his feet
he swaying stood,
Buoyed bravely up by memory’s magic
dreams
Of elfin hardihood.
He stood, the while that long-forgotten
lore
Lit all his lovely face with
frolic glee;
And then—O marvel!
to his mother’s knee
Walked the wide nursery floor.
Two years gone by—ah, no! but
yesterday
Our bright-eyed nursling,
swift as we could teach,
Forsook the low soft croonings of the
fay
For broken human speech—
Broken, yet to our ears divinelier broken
Than sweetest snatches from
Heaven’s mounting bird—
More eloquent than the poet’s
passionate word
Supremely sung or spoken.
But O, our darling in his joyful dance
Tottered death-pale beneath
the withering north,
Into a kinder clime, most blessed chance,
We caught him swiftly forth,
And there he bloomed again, our fairy
boy,
Two year-long Aprils through
in sun and shower,
Wing-footed Mercury of each
merry hour,
The Genius of our joy.
And evermore we shared his shifting mood
Of hide-and-seek with April
joy and sorrow,
Till not one shadow of solicitude
Remained to mar our morrow;
Yea, every fear had flown, lest, welladay!
The headlong heats or winter’s
piercing power
Should light afresh upon our
radiant flower
And wither him away.
* * * * *
We had a child, a little fairy child,
He kissed us on the lips but
yesternight,
Yet when he wakened his blue eyes were
wild
With fevered light.
We had a child—what countless
ages since,
Did he go forth from us with
wildered brain,
Will he come back and kiss
us once again—
Our little Fairy Prince?
BY THE BEDSIDE OF A SICK CHILD
O Thou by whose eternal plan
Ages arise and roll,
Who in Thine image madest man
To search him to the soul,
If e’er in token of the Cross,
With infant arms outspread,
Thou sawest Thy Beloved toss
In anguish on His bed;
Or heardest in the childish cry
That pierced the cottage room
The voice of Christ in agony
Breaking from Calvary’s
gloom,
Give ear! and from Thy Throne above
With eyes of mercy mild,
Look down, of Thine immortal love,
Upon our suffering child.
Though Earth’s physicians all in
vain
Have urged their utmost skill,
Yet to our prayers O make it plain
That Thou canst succour still;
Yea! through the midnight watches drear,
And all the weary day,
O be Thy Good Physician near
Our stricken one to stay;
That evermore as we succeed
In service at his side,
Each office of our darling’s need
His heavenly hands may guide;
Till o’er his tempest bed of pain,
His cry of perishing thrill
The Saviour’s arm go forth again,
The Saviour’s “Peace!
be still.”
Too well, O Lord, too well we know
How oft upon Thy way
Our feet have followed faint and slow,
How often turned astray
For fleeting pleasures to forsake
Thy path of heavenly prayer;
We have deserved that Thou shouldst take
Our children from our care.
Yet, O Good Shepherd, lead us back,
Our lamb upon Thy breast,
Safely along the narrow track,
Across the dangerous crest;
Until our aching eyes rejoice
At Salem’s shining walls,
And to our thirsting souls a Voice
Of Living Waters calls.
Without the wintry sky is overcast,
The floods descend, fierce
hail and rushing rain,
Whilst ever and anon the angry blast
Clutches the casement-pane.
Within our darling beats an angrier air
With piteous outstretched
arms and tossing head,
Whilst we, bowed low beside
his labouring bed,
Pour all our hearts in prayer.
Is this the end? The tired little
hands
Fall by his side, the wild
eyes close at last,
Breathless he sinks, almost we hear his
sands
Of being ebbing past;
When, O miraculous! he wakes once more,
Love glowing in his glance,
the while there slips
“Mother, dear Mother!”
from his trembling lips,
“Dear Mother!” o’er
and o’er.
He has come back, our little Fairy Child,
Back from his wanderings in
the dreadful dark,
Back o’er the furious surge of fever
wild,
The lost dove of our ark;
Back, slowly back o’er the dire
flood’s decrease
The white wings flutter, only
our God knows how,
Bearing aloft the blessed
olive bough
Of His compassionate peace.
SPRING’S SECRETS
As once I paused on poet wing
In the green heart of a grove,
I met the Spirit of the Spring
With her great eyes lit of
love.
She took me gently by the hand
And whispered in my wondering
ear
Secrets none may understand,
Till she make their meaning
clear;
Why the primrose looks so pale,
Why the rose is set with thorns;
Why the magic nightingale
Through the darkness mourns
and mourns;
How the angels, as they pass
In their vesture pure and
white
O’er the shadowy garden grass,
Touch the lilies into light;
How their hidden hands upbear
The fledgling throstle in
the air,
And lift the lowly lark on high,
And hold him singing in the
sky;
What human hearts delight her most;
The careless child with roses
crowned,
The mourner, knowing that his lost
Shall in the Eternal Spring
be found.
Tarry thou the leisure of the Lord!
Ever the wise upon Him wait;
Early they sorrow, suffer
late,
Yet at the last have their reward.
Shall then the very King sublime
Keep thee and me in constant
thought,
Out of the countless names
of naught
Swept on the surging stream of time?
Ah, but the glorious sun on high,
Searching the sea, fold on
fold,
Gladdens with coronals of
gold
Each troubled billow heaving by.
Though he remove him for a space,
Though gloom resume the sleeping
sea,
Yet of his beams her dreams
shall be,
Yet shall his face renew her grace.
Then when sorrow is outpoured,
Pain chokes the channels of
thy blood,
Think upon the sun and the
flood,
Tarry thou the leisure of the Lord.
SPRING IS NOT DEAD
Snow on the earth, though March is wellnigh
over;
Ice on the flood;
Fingers of frost where late the hawthorn
cover
Burgeoned with
bud.
Yet in the drift the patient primrose
hiding,
Yet in the stream the glittering troutlet
gliding,
Yet from the root the sap still upward
springing,
Yet overhead one faithful skylark singing,
“Spring
is not dead!”
Brows fringed with snow, the furrowed
brows of sorrow,
Cheeks pale with
care:
Pulses of pain that throb from night till
morrow;
Hearts of despair!
O, yet take comfort, still your joy approaches,
Dark is the hour that on the dawn encroaches,
April’s own smile shall yet succeed
your sighing,
April’s own voice set every song-bird
crying,
“Spring
is not dead!”
(To an Old English air)
Aim not too high at things beyond thy
reach
Nor give the rein to reckless thought
or speech.
Is it not better all thy life to bide
Lord of thyself than all the earth beside?
Then if high Fortune far from thee take
wing,
Why shouldst thou envy Counsellor or King?
Purple or buckram—wherefore
make ado
What coat may cover, so the heart be true?
But if at last thou gather wealth at will,
Thou best shalt succour those that need
it still;
Since he who best doth poverty endure,
Should prove when rich heart’s brother
to the poor.
IN PRAISE OF WATER-DRINKING
(After Duncan Ban McIntyre)
Wild Wine of Nature, honey tasted,
Ever streaming, never wasted,
From long and long and long ago
In limpid, cool, life-giving flow
Up-bubbling with its cordial bland
Even from the thirsty desert sand—
O draught to quench man’s thirst
upon
Far sweeter than the cinnamon!
Like babes upon their mother’s breast,
To Earth our craving lips are pressed
For her free gift of matchless price,
Pure as it poured in Paradise.
Jesu, from to-day
Guide us on our way,
So shall we, no moment wasting,
Follow Thee with holy hasting,
Led by Thy dear Hand
To the Blessed land.
Through despondence dread,
Still support our tread;
Though our heavy burdens bow us,
How to bear them bravely, show us!
Such adversity
Is but the path to Thee.
When our bosom’s grief
Clamours for relief,
When we share another’s sorrow,
May we Thy sweet patience borrow,
That to our Heavenly Father’s Will
We may trust each issue still.
Thus our onward way,
Order day by day,
Though upon rough roads Thou set us,
Thy fond care shall ne’er forget
us,
Till “underneath Death’s darkening
door;
We see the glimmering of Heaven’s
floor.”
THE COMING OF SIR GALAHAD AND A VISION OF THE GRAIL
At the solemn Feast of Pentecost
Arthur the King and his chosen Knights
Sat, as we sit, in the Court of Camelot side by
side at The Table Round.
None made music, none held converse, none knew hunger,
none were athirst,
Each possessed with the same strange longing, each
fulfilled with one
awful hope;
Each of us fearing even to whisper what he felt
to his bosom friend,
Lest the spell should be snapped in sunder.
Thus
we sat awaiting a sign!
When, on a sudden, out of the distance
blared the bugle that hangs at
the gate;
Loud the barbican leaped on its hinges;
and the hollow porch and the
vacant hall
And the roof of the long resounding corridor
echoed the advent of unknown
feet,
The feet of a stranger approaching the
threshold step by step irresistibly:
Till opened yonder door and through it
strode to this Table the Virgin
Knight—
Strode and stood with uplifted vizor.
Fear
fell on all, save only the King!
Uprose Arthur, unbarred his helmet; shone
confessed the countenance chaste.
Then, for so the Spirit inspired him,
set the youth on the Perilous Seat;
Brake as he pressed it a Peal of thunder
and paled the firelight, paled
the lamps,
Such a sudden stream of splendour flooded
the Feast with miraculous light;
Whilst, O Wonder! round the Table swathed
in samite, dazzling bright,
Passed the Presence, mystical, shadowy,
ghostly gliding—the Holy Grail,
Passed, though none could its shape discover,
nay, not even the Virgin
Knight,
Passed, passed with strains seraphic,
incense odours, rainbow hues—
Passed, passed, and where it entered,
suddenly melted out of sight.
Thy blood was spilt
From death to set us free;
Ask what Thou wilt,
’Tis consecrate to Thee!
Thy hands and feet
For us the nails went through.
What is most meet,
Bid ours for Thee to do.
Ask
what Thou wilt.
All round Thy Brows
The Throne of Heavenly thought,
Divine Wisdom’s house—
For us the thorns were wrought;
Therefore, though dust
In balance with Thy pains,
Take Thou, in trust,
The travail of our brains!
Ask
what Thou wilt.
Thy Heart of Love
With all its human aches,
By the spear’s proof,
Was broken for our sakes;
Our hearts, therefore,
And all we love and own
Are ours no more,
But Thine and Thine alone.
Ask
what Thou wilt.
Though homes be riven,
At Thy supreme behest,
Yea! the sword driven
Through many a mother’s
breast;
Thy blood was spilt
From death to set us free;
Ask what Thou wilt
’Tis consecrate to Thee.
Ask
what Thou wilt.
Printed at the Complete Press
West Norwood
London