Has the philologist e'er sown the seed
From which springs up to life a virtuous deed?
Has the self-pluming moralist o'erthrown
Idolaters of sense, who faith disown?
But now devotion, fond enthusiasts say,
Diffuses all around a brighter day.
Seeming Religion walks not in this age
With noiseless step; like heralds on a stage
Zealots blow loud the woe-trumpet, then urge
Denunciations, rising surge o'er surge
Against their weaker brethren; through the town
They have, but where's their charity,-renown?
Such fire-enkindling spirits fright the mind,
Destroy the reason, and the judgment blind.
Not such is Keble, Rhedycina's tower
Of strength, but humble as his much-loved flower; *
Whose "Christian year," too fine for spirits dull,
A golden censer is, of odours full;
A heaven-accepted offering, that fumes
With incense the life-giving word illumes.
That Charity we seemingly adore
Has now less influence than she had of
Who with a comprehensive love embrace
Their flock not only, but the human race,
* See his beautiful Stanzas to the Snowdrop in his "Tuesday in Easter
Like messengers from God, who speed their flight
On embassies of good through worlds of light?
While militant against the church and state,
Sects give mouth-honour to the sects they hate!
Destroy that old alliance, and they burn
(Meek men!) each other's doctrines to o'erturn;
The less perceptible the shades may be
Of difference, they the more will disagree!
Where is that zeal for virtue that entire
Circled the soul, an unconsuming fire?
That strength of purpose which, as Jesus still'd
The raging sea, the calm of passions will'd?
Though Science heavenward oft sublimely soars,
And amid worlds discover'd God adores,
Yet her disciples, analysing laws
Of matter, may forget the great First Cause;
Unless humility, a flower once prized,
But in this wiser age a weed despised,
Shall with its pride-subduing virtue quell
Thoughts that are wont around vain hearts to swell.
Who, like the poet-preacher, glows with love
Inbreath'd by the Great Spirit from above,
Who once on sacred heads in tongues of flame
Down from the triune Sun of Glory came,
Illumining with inward light express'd
Thus visibly the synod of the bless'd ?
Here pause: the sand runs down the hour-glass,—
Moments away irrevocably pass.
A little line, 'twixt "shall be" and "has been,"
Scarce on the vast map of existence seen,
Is life—a streak of light soon reinvolved
In darkness—an enigma never solved!
Another year is gone, and down the stream
Of time my little bark is hurried,-gleam
Hope's ever-shifting lights afar. The past
Is nought-the prospect of the future vast
And undefined. What do the wise foresee?-
That all as if it ne'er had been shall be!
What may through intermediate ages rise
We know not; knowledge here no aid supplies.
O pride of human intellect, beyond
His circle vain is the magician's wand!
This world, oft deem'd a paradise, at best
Is but the world—a hell to the oppress'd!
Darken the prospect of the future, man
A care-worn brute is, tyrant-stricken, wan.
Open the pages of the sacred book,
The poor for bliss compensatory look:
Whatever Dives in his full-blown pride
May think of them, for them the Saviour died.
"Indè iter accelerat Turones festinus in urbem,
Quam geminum nitida flumen circumfluit unda,
Hinc Liger, inde Carus, medio sedet inter utrumque
Clara situ, speciosa solo, jucunda fluentis,
Fertilis arboribus, uberrima fruge, superba
Cive, potens clero, populis numerosa, referta
Divitiis, lucis et vitibus undique lucens."
(Francfort, 1596; Phillippide de Guillaume le Breton.)
AGAIN we caught a glimpse of Italy,
And felt the influence of her purple sky;
And scripture-wonders that her Raphael pour'd
On canvass, present miracles, adored;
His life, one scene of glory, quickly past;
Too prodigal of mighty works to last.
In sacred temples of each lesser town,
A wealth of art, elsewhere unknown, is shewn ;
Devotion hallows there what genius paints,
Legends, and gospel-truths, Madonnas, Saints.
Albano, whose sweet thoughts a world embrace
Of fiction, rising to a higher place,
Pourtrays, as if illumin'd from above,
The Incarnate Christ, a Boy-God breathing love;
Beams piety, subliming grace of youth,
Beams the eye-speaking eloquence of truth;
How wonderful the art that thus has given
Expression to the Majesty of Heaven:
The blessed Mother with affection mild,
Awe-mingled, gazes on her holy Child,
Such bodied-forth perfections waken deep
Feelings in man that are not dead, but sleep.
Scenes to mankind of endless interest,
In colours glorious as themselves exprest,
All that on sacred ground has acted been,
The chain uniting heaven to earth, are seen;
And fervency of faith a martyr shews,
As if the painter felt that fervour, glows.
Lavish of pictured poesy that warms
The heart, what church boasts not her sculptured forms?
So true to nature, so divine they kneel,
The living even from marble learn to feel.
By master-spirits wrought, the sons of light
Appear in bodily shapes to human sight:
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