England's Antiphon Part 26

Clouds of affection from our younger eyes _pa.s.sion._ Conceal that emptiness which age descries.

The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light, through c.h.i.n.ks that time has made: Stronger by weakness, wiser men become, As they draw near to their eternal home.

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.

It would be a poor victory where age was the sole conqueror. But I doubt if age ever gains the victory alone. Let Waller, however, have this praise: his song soars with his subject. It is a true praise. There are men who write well until they try the n.o.ble, and then they fare like the falling star, which, when sought where it fell, is, according to an old fancy, discovered a poor jelly.

Sir Thomas Brown, a physician, whose prose writings are as peculiar as they are valuable, was of the same age as Waller. He partakes to a considerable degree of the mysticism which was so much followed in his day, only in his case it influences his literature most--his mode of utterance more than his mode of thought. His _True Christian Morals_ is a very valuable book, notwithstanding the obscurity that sometimes arises in that, as in all his writings, from his fondness for Latin words. The following fine hymn occurs in his _Religio Medici_, in which he gives an account of his opinions. I am not aware of anything else that he has published in verse, though he must probably have written more to be able to write this so well. It occurs in the midst of prose, as the prayer he says every night before he yields to the death of sleep. I follow it with the succeeding sentence of the prose.

The night is come. Like to the day, Depart not thou, great G.o.d, away.

Let not my sins, black as the night, Eclipse the l.u.s.tre of thy light.

Keep still in my horizon, for to me The sun makes not the day but thee.

Thou whose nature cannot sleep, On my temples sentry keep; Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes Whose eyes are open while mine close.

Let no dreams my head infest But such as Jacob's temples blest.

While I do rest, my soul advance; Make my sleep a holy trance, That I may, my rest being wroughtt Awake into some holy thought, And with as active vigour run My course as doth the nimble sun.

Sleep is a death: O make me try By sleeping what it is to die, And as gently lay my head On my grave, as now my bed.

Howe'er I rest, great G.o.d, let me Awake again at least with thee.

And thus a.s.sured, behold I lie Securely, or to wake or die.

These are my drowsy days: in vain I do now wake to sleep again: O come that hour when I shall never Sleep again, but wake for ever.

"This is the dormitive I take to bedward. I need no other laudanum than this to make me sleep; after which I close mine eyes in security, content to take my leave of the sun, and sleep unto the resurrection."

Jeremy Taylor, born in 1613, was the most poetic of English prose-writers: if he had written verse equal to his prose, he would have had a lofty place amongst poets as well as amongst preachers. Taking the opposite side from Milton, than whom he was five years younger, he was, like him, conscientious and consistent, suffering while Milton's cause prospered, and advanced to one of the bishoprics hated of Milton's soul when the scales of England's politics turned in the other direction. Such men, however, are divided only by their intellects. When men say, "I must or I must not, for it is right or it is not right," then are they in reality so bound together, even should they not acknowledge it themselves, that no opposing opinions, no conflicting theories concerning what is or is not right, can really part them. It was not wonderful that a mind like that of Jeremy Taylor, best fitted for worshipping the beauty of holiness, should mourn over the disrupted order of his church, or that a mind like Milton's, best fitted for the law of life, should demand that every part of that order which had ceased to vibrate responsive to every throb of the eternal heart of truth, should fall into the ruin which its death had preceded. The church was hardly dealt with, but the rulers of the church have to bear the blame.

Here are those I judge the best of the bishop's _Festival Hymns_, printed as part of his _Golden Grove_, or _Gide to Devotion_. In the first there is a little confusion of imagery; and in others of them will be found a little obscurity. They bear marks of the careless impatience of rhythm and rhyme of one who though ever bursting into a natural trill of song, sometimes with more rhymes apparently than he intended, would yet rather let his thoughts pour themselves out in that unmeasured chant, that "poetry in solution," which is the natural speech of the prophet-orator.

He is like a full river that must flow, which rejoices in a flood, and rebels against the constraint of mole or conduit. He exults in utterance itself, caring little for the mode, which, however, the law of his indwelling melody guides though never compels. Charmingly diffuse in his prose, his verse ever sounds as if it would overflow the banks of its self-imposed restraints.

THE SECOND HYMN FOR ADVENT; OR, CHRIST'S COMING TO JERUSALEM IN TRIUMPH.

Lord, come away; Why dost thou stay?

Thy road is ready; and thy paths made straight With longing expectation wait The consecration of thy beauteous feet.

Ride on triumphantly: behold we lay Our l.u.s.ts and proud wills in thy way.

Hosanna! welcome to our hearts! Lord, here Thou hast a temple too, and full as dear As that of Sion, and as full of sin: Nothing but thieves and robbers dwell therein.

Enter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor; Crucify them, that they may never more Profane that holy place Where thou hast chose to set thy face.

And then if our stiff tongues shall be Mute in the praises of thy deity, The stones out of the temple-wall Shall cry aloud and call Hosanna! and thy glorious footsteps greet.

HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY; BEING A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THREE SHEPHERDS.

1. Where is this blessed babe That hath made All the world so full of joy And expectation; That glorious boy That crowns each nation With a triumphant wreath of blessedness?

2. Where should he be but in the throng, And among His angel ministers that sing And take wing Just as may echo to his voice, And rejoice, When wing and tongue and all May so procure their happiness?

3. But he hath other waiters now: A poor cow An ox and mule stand and behold, And wonder That a stable should enfold Him that can thunder.

_Chorus_. O what a gracious G.o.d have we!

How good? How great? Even as our misery.

A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS-DAY.

Awake, my soul, and come away; Put on thy best array, Lest if thou longer stay, Thou lose some minutes of so blest a day.

Go run, And bid good-morrow to the sun; Welcome his safe return To Capricorn, And that great morn Wherein a G.o.d was born, Whose story none can tell But he whose every word's a miracle.

To-day Almightiness grew weak; The Word itself was mute, and could not speak.

That Jacob's star which made the sun To dazzle if he durst look on, Now mantled o'er in Bethlehem's night, Borrowed a star to show him light.

He that begirt each zone, To whom both poles are one, Who grasped the zodiac in his hand, And made it move or stand, Is now by nature man, By stature but a span; Eternity is now grown short; A king is born without a court; The water thirsts; the fountain's dry; And life, being born, made apt to die.

_Chorus._ Then let our praises emulate and vie With his humility!

Since he's exiled from skies That we might rise,-- From low estate of men Let's sing him up again!

Each man wind up his heart To bear a part In that angelic choir, and show His glory high, as he was low.

Let's sing towards men goodwill and charity, Peace upon earth, glory to G.o.d on high!

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

THE PRAYER.

My soul doth pant towards thee, My G.o.d, source of eternal life.

Flesh fights with me: Oh end the strife, And part us, that in peace I may Unclay My wearied spirit, and take My flight to thy eternal spring, Where, for his sake Who is my king, I may wash all my tears away, That day.

Thou conqueror of death, Glorious triumpher o'er the grave, Whose holy breath Was spent to save Lost mankind, make me to be styled Thy child, And take me when I die And go unto my dust; my soul Above the sky With saints enrol, That in thy arms, for ever, I May lie.

This last is quite regular, that is, the second stanza is arranged precisely as the first, though such will not appear to be the case without examination: the disposition of the lines, so various in length, is confusing though not confused.

In these poems will be found that love of homeliness which is characteristic of all true poets--and orators too, in as far as they are poets. The meeting of the homely and the grand is heaven. One more.

A PRAYER FOR CHARITY.

Full of mercy, full of love, Look upon us from above; Thou who taught'st the blind man's night To entertain a double light, Thine and the day's--and that thine too: The lame away his crutches threw; The parched crust of leprosy Returned unto its infancy; The dumb amazed was to hear His own unchain'd tongue strike his ear; Thy powerful mercy did even chase The devil from his usurped place, Where thou thyself shouldst dwell, not he: Oh let thy love our pattern be; Let thy mercy teach one brother To forgive and love another; That copying thy mercy here, Thy goodness may hereafter rear Our souls unto thy glory, when Our dust shall cease to be with men. _Amen._

CHAPTER XVI.

HENRY MORE AND RICHARD BAXTER.

Dr. Henry More was born in the year 1614. Chiefly known for his mystical philosophy, which he cultivated in retirement at Cambridge, and taught not only in prose, but in an elaborate, occasionally poetic poem, of somewhere about a thousand Spenserian stanzas, called _A Platonic Song of the Soul_, he has left some smaller poems, from which I shall gather good store for my readers. Whatever may be thought of his theories, they belong at least to the highest order of philosophy; and it will be seen from the poems I give that they must have borne their part in lifting the soul of the man towards a lofty spiritual condition of faith and fearlessness. The mystical philosophy seems to me safe enough in the hands of a poet: with others it may degenerate into dank and dusty materialism.

RESOLUTION.

Where's now the objects of thy fears, Needless sighs, and fruitless tears?