"Mark them which cause divisions, contrary to the doctrine which ye have learned; and avoid them."
O cruel Charity, soul-killing Love,
Or blindness, false of heart, with speeches fair
And plausive gloss, to fan the popular air
Of Schism and Heresy! yet gently prove,
Nor scorn a wandering brother; while her dove,
Heav'n sends to watch around thee with sweet care,
Her soft parental tendings doth not spare;
And moon to light thee, if thou fail'st to prove
All Christ-like ways of gentleness and
peace,
Holding Truth's hand, and giving no release
To lying Spirits; if Love leave undone,
What Love might offer, thou art no true Son
Of our dear ancient Mother, who doth pray,
Though mourning, for her children gone astray.
Things which abide nearest the fountain spring
Of our affections, cannot bear the light
Of common day, but shrink at ruder sight,
And so decay. Love is a heav'n-born thing,
To live on earth it needs home-cherishing,
Secret and shade. There is a subtle blight
In popular talk, and freer glare of light :
Soil'd is the bloom that was on Virtue's wing,
It cannot be restored. No sooner seen,
Than vanity, with silver fingers cold,
Watches the door, and lets the spoiler in,
To rifle all her treasury. She hath sold
Her diamond arms, and tinsel wears instead,
Shorn the charmed lock when once the charm is
'Tis so on earth; they who have entrance found
Into Kings' presence-chambers, are withdrawn
From sight of them without; and if there dawn
Ought of their fame beyond that sacred bound,
'Tis at their issuing, with high mandates crown'd,
In order from their Sovereign. If their train
Sow blessing, yet how oft for them in vain!
Who first found out, and in what cave profound,
The arts which feed us? who taught praise to own
Melodious wings, and fill'd the breathing gold
With a sweet soul? who were the good of old"?
Most like good angels, sure, they whose sweet lot
It is to bless us, though we know it not;
Like Him in whom we live, Himself unseen, unknown.
a See Mr. Newman's Sermon for St. Andrew's Day.
Yes, He is here, as in Heav'n's highest throne,
But darkly we perceive. The wandering beast,
The wild bird finds its unhous'd, unsown feast,
And knoweth not the Giver. Man hath known,
But knowing often thank'd not. He all one
About us dwells, Fountain of joy and rest.
And all that worketh in the good man's breast,
Is but the struggle more and more to own,
And feel that Presence, dimly here allow'd,
E'en to the eye of Heav'n-cleans'd purity:
So dense the mist this mortal heart doth shroud.
And what but the withdrawing of the cloud
Is death, when, lo, that Presence ever nigh,
And in the heart of hearts the Eternal's eye!
"He saw them toiling in rowing, for the wind was contrary."
Buoy Thou us up, feeble and faint we toil,
And fain would reach the shrine wherein doth dwell
Holiness and Thyself invisible;
Yet, ever and anon, the widening coil
Of refluent waves doth all our efforts foil,
And bear us backward. If we mount the swell,
Another and another yet more fell
Laughs at our struggling, while the dark turmoil
Of ocean is beneath us. Gracious Lord,
Stretch forth Thy hand to hold us, or we sink;
Oh, teach us Thy commandments to adore,
That we may better love Thee, on the brink
Of that o'erwhelming Future, more and more
Learning to lean on Thine Eternal Word!
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