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Full text of "Poems and hymns"



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THE LIBRARY 

OF 

THE UNIVERSITY 

OF CALIFORNIA 

LOS ANGELES 



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POEMS AND HYMNS 
BY SAMUEL JOHN STONE 



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1 




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POEMS AND HYMNS 

BY 

SAMUEL JOHN STONE 



WITH A MEMOIR BY 
F. G. ELLERTON, M.A. 

VICAR OF ELLESMERE 



WITH A PORTRAIT 



METHUEN & CO. 

36 ESSEX STREET W.C. 

LONDON 

1903 






CONTENTS 











PAGE 


Memoir . . . . . i 


REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 


Down Stream to London , . • • 77 


Good-bye to Oxford 








82 


In Memoriam, E. B. Browning 








85 


The Bishop of Winchester 








88 


A Sea-side Reverie 








91 


Setting Sail 








95 


The Answer of the Hills 








97 


Lententide 








102 


Coming Holy Week 








105 


Easter Eve 








107 


Trust 








III 


"Where the Shade is" . 








114 


Meditation in a Night of Pain 








116 


LYRICAL POEMS 


The Beautiful Death . . . , . 121 


Christ's Knight 






123 


The Ebb of Tide 






. 124 


The Harvest of Souls 






. 126 


Ishmael's Song 






128 


Lullaby of Life 






130 


The Maiden at the Well 






132 


Holiday Ode to the North- West Wind 






134 


St. Columb of lona 






135 


A Lay of Port-na-Churaich 






149 


A Morning on lona 








151 



VI 



CONTENTS 



NARRATIVE POEMS 



The Knight of Intercession 
Idylls of Deare Childe — 
I. Deare Childe 
II. "Morning Robert" 
The Birdie 
The Gate of Death 



PAGE 

155 

163 
171 
185 

193 



SONNETS 

The One Name 

Four Poets : A Personal History — 
I. Walter Scott 
II. Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

III. Alfred Tennyson 

IV. John Keble 

In Charterhouse Chapel 
To Windsor Cemetery on May Day — 
I. Through the Park 
II. The Cemetery . 
III. The Little Church 
From Windermere 
"The Garden of the Lord"' 
Midnight in London 
The Small-pox in the East End — 
I. Spring and Easter 
II. Holy Communion 
A Sunday Confirmation in an East End Church 
Frederick Arnold 
Sancho : An Old Friend 



202 

203 
204 
205 
206 
207 

209 
210 
211 
212 
213 
214 

215 
216 
217 
2ig 
220 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

The Soliloquy of a Rationalistic Chicken . . . 223 

A Boy's Reverie . . ... 226 

The Reason why Florence was called "The Duchess" . 229 

A Holiday Ditty . . ... 233 

Lines written in a Child's Bible . ... 234 

Finis . . ... 235 



CONTENTS 



Vll 



HYMNS 

" I believe in the Holy Catholic Church, the Communion 

of Saints" 
Battle Hymn for the New Year 
Battle Hymn of Church Defence . 
Hymn for Missions to the Jews 
Hymn for Missions to the Heathen 
The Proto-Martyr of Britain : A Hymn in Memory of 

St. Alban 
Hymn of the Diamond Wedding of the Queen with her 

People 
Hymn for the Lord's Day 
Hymn for Day and Sunday-school Teachers 
Hymns for Church Workers — 

I. " I magnify mine office" . 
H. "In Thee" 
Hymn for Candidates for Ordination 
Holy Communion 
Hymn after Holy Communion 
Hymn after Benediction 
The " Athletes of the Universe " . 
The Beating Down of Satan 
Patience 
The Ascension 
The Perfect Day 
" I believe in the Forgiveness of Sins " 

Index of First Lines 
General Index 



PAGE 

246 
248 

253 
255 
258 

260 
262 
264 
267 
269 
271 

273 

277 

279 
281 

283 

285 
288 



4 



Say, when in pity ye have gazed 

On the wreathed stnoke afar. 
That o'er some tow7i, like f?iist upraised. 

Hung hiditig sun and star. 
Then as ye turned your weary eye 
To the green earth and open sky. 
Were ye not fain to doubt how Faith could dwell 
Amid that dreary glare, in this world's citadel 1 



There are in this loud stunning tide 

Of human care and crime. 
With whom the melodies abide 

Of the ever las tifig chime ; 
Who carry music ift their heart 
Throtigh dusky lane and wrangling mart, 
Flying their daily task with busier feet 
Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat. 

John Keble. 



DEO DANTE DEDI 



A MEMOIR OF 
SAMUEL JOHN STONE 



* 



EARLY DAYS 

1839-1862 



SAMUEL JOHN STONE was bom at Whitmore 
Rectory, in Staffordshire, on St. Mark's Day — 
Keble's birthday — 1839. The first thirteen years of 
his life he spent in the country ; the rest, with the 
exception of his residence at Oxford and a curacy of 
eight years at Windsor, in London, where he worked 
for thirty years in two different parishes — for twenty 
years in St. Paul's, Haggerston, and for ten in All 
Hallows', London Wall, He died in 1900. 

Stone is generally known as the author of The 
Church 's one Foundation and as a religious poet ; 
hardly at all on his other side as a strenuous parish 
priest. When we think of a religious poet, the fancy 
calls up a picture of George Herbert in his tiny 
church at Bemerton, or of John Keble at quiet 
Hursley, or of John Henry Newman coasting along 

B 



2 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

Italian shores. Samuel John Stone, however, was 
not only a poet, but also an East End parson. 

All his childhood was spent in the depths of the 
country, in remote Staffordshire rectories. From the 
time he was five his home was at Colwich, a village 
which lies hard by the water meadows of the Trent 
just below Cannock Chase. Cannock Chase is a wide 
^cretch of rolling moorland, all about the edges of 
which there are little rounded heather -clad hills, 
crowned here and there with a clump of Scotch firs, 
alternating with softly -scooped -out hollows and 
combes, which would very easily conceal a troop of 
men. Where the garment of heather which covers 
these little hills has been torn off, or the hillside has 
been cut open by the hand of man, yellow gravel 
gleams out underneath. Further on this moorland 
country becomes wilder, and then there are collieries, 
while beyond it are the red furnaces of the Black 
Country. 

This was just the sort of scenery to bring out all 
the latent poetry of a romantic lad's nature, and it 
had a very strong influence on Stone, an influence of 
which he has left a record in the poem called The 
Birdie, which gives expression to his boyish love of 
romance. The sloping lawns of the vicarage garden 
at Colwich, the river with its swans and moorhens, 
the little rills and runnels bubbling up in tiny sand 
fountains amongst the hills, were amongst his earliest 
recollections. 



EARLY DAYS 3 

But if the spell of the hills and of the country- 
side helped to call forth in him something of the 
spirit of George Herbert, from the streams he soon 
learned to be, what he remained to the end of his 
life, an ardent votary of Izaak Walton. The sporting 
vein in him, which made him not only Piscator but 
Venator, had plenty of scope for early development. 
As a boy he was " always doing something or other 
with gunpowder or firearms," or climbing dangerous 
trees, or tumbling into the river. He was full of 
pluck, and full to the brim of the love of adventure. 
Even at an early age these qualities were allied with 
the imagination and the idealism of a poetical nature, 
and with a strong strain of religious feeling, which 
came out in childish sermons and verse. 

His father was a learned and pious Evangelical of 
the best type, who had taken honours at Oxford and 
then settled down to quiet work as a country clergy- 
man. He was a Hebrew scholar and a botanist ; 
but what marked him most was, it was said, the 
quiet repose of a mind which rested entirely in God, 
and which seemed in consequence to be always 
stored with beautiful thoughts. Whilst at Whit- 
more he had published a sacred epic in six books, 
and in later days he was the compiler of a hymn- 
book, many of the hymns in which were from his 
own pen. 

His character is very well illustrated by a story 
which his son used to tell of him. When the elder 



4 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

man began his work as vicar of St. Paul's, Haggerston, 
there was an endowment of only £i^ per annum, 
and the heavy expenses of the parish became a great 
and increasing burden upon him. " He kept his 
quietness of mind," says his son, " in steady trust ; 
and when one day," he goes on, " the news came that 
the Ecclesiastical Commissioners would endow the 
living with ;^300 a year and build a vicarage, I well 
remember how he was the only one of us unexcited. 
I came home late in the evening and heard the 
recent news, and went up to his study. There I 
found my father reading his Hebrew Bible in his 
usual calm mood, and he only replied to my excited 
congratulations by saying — with a serenity of feeling 
and expression which made a most profound impres- 
sion upon my mind — something to the effect that the 
Lord always answers prayer and makes good His 
promise to His people in His own good time. And 
so he went on with his reading with the quietude of 
one who, having been sure of the promise, is neither 
amazed nor excited when it is fulfilled." 

The influence of the father's saintly character 
remained strong upon the son all his life through. 
Meantime, as a boy he was encouraged by him to 
give himself to the study of poetry and the cultiva- 
tion of a literary taste, as well as to set his heart 
on all things pure and noble. From his mother, of 
whom it was said that " wherever she was there was 
an atmosphere of the tenderest care and love," he 



EARLY DAYS 5 

inherited that rich store of sympathy which he after- 
wards spent so lavishly in the cure of souls. 

The boy had a sister two years younger than 
himself, who was his constant companion both at 
work and at play. The two children were taught 
Latin by their father, whom they regarded as a very 
storehouse of knowledge, from the fact that he had 
the wisdom to answer, or to try to answer, all the 
puzzling questions of childhood which they brought 
to him, and indeed showed such unfailing readiness 
in doing so, that as they grew older they used to refer 
to him in talking to each other as " the Dictionary." 
The boy had little other formal education until he 
went to the Charterhouse. 

Both he and his sister, however, were passionately 
fond of reading, and together they ranged far and 
wide through the realm of letters. Among their 
favourite books were the Pilgt'im's Progress and the 
Holy War ; they devoured Scott's poetry, and of 
their heroes Mr. Greatheart shared their affections 
with Richard Coeur de Lion and Masterman Ready. 
But it was first Sir Walter Scott, and afterwards 
Mrs. Browning, who lent the glamour which the boy 
longed for to glorify the world he lived in. He 
peopled the Chase with many a flashing pennon and 
many a bonnet and tartan as he went roving over 
it, and he and his sister had privately come to an 
agreement as to the exact corner by the Trent which 
held the Swan's nest among the reeds. 



6 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

They were just the imaginative sort of children 
to find plenty of romance in their own garden. Had 
they not got real York and Lancaster roses in it? 
Were there not Canterbury bells to remind them 
of Chaucer's Pilgrims ? They told in after years 
how they longed for June to come to bring the 
columbines, with the pigeons clustering at the top 
of their stalks, and to let them hurry out before 
breakfast to take the little pointed nightcaps off the 
orange eschscholtzias. 

These country days were destined to be brought 
to an abrupt termination, for when the boy was 
thirteen his father accepted a curacy in a north- 
western suburb of London. It was a doleful change 
from the streams and heaths of Staffordshire. To 
live in an ugly house in the middle of a plain row, 
with a strip of sooty earth at the back, calling itself 
a garden, on which a few dusty laurels struggled 
to exist, was at first a terrible shock ! The feature- 
lessness, the monotony, " the clotted and coagulated 
masses of houses," to use Ruskin's phrase, pressed 
on the lad's spirit like one of Dante's leaden copes. 
" Even a cathedral was not a cathedral." After the 
grace of Lichfield, with her three spires lying always 
reflected in the minster pool, the " storied windows 
richly dight" of her lady chapel, and the warm 
richness of her carved sandstone portals, it is perhaps 
not to be wondered at that St. Paul's seemed a cold 
and lifeless mass. 



EARLY DAYS 7 

St. Paul's Cathedral, as it was in 1852 and for 
some years afterwards, has been described by Canon 
Scott Holland as " a magnificent architectural monu- 
ment waiting in dignified renown for the discovery 
of its activities. Its main bulk," he goes on, "lay 
practically idle, except for special occasions such 
as the festival of the charity children, or on great 
public functions such as the burial of a hero. At 
all other times, over the length and breadth of its 
large area, cold, naked, and unoccupied, mooning 
sightseers roam.ed at large. Its daily services had 
always been hidden away in the choir, behind the 
thick organ screen against which Wren had so 
vehemently protested. There, in seclusion, a tiny 
body of cultivated musicians sang to a sprinkled 
remnant of worshippers. Everything was done on 
the smallest scale, and much was mean and slovenly 
to the last degree." 

Like cathedral, like churches. It is not too much 
to say that the type of service, the standard of 
devotion, the conception of the function of the parish 
church in parochial life throughout a great part of 
London only too faithfully mirrored the ideal which 
was exhibited in the cathedral. It was no more 
than eight years before this that Dean Close, the 
then incumbent of Cheltenham, had declared that 
the " devil was the architect and builder of Gothic 
churches," and only one since Mr. Bennett, of 
St. Paul's, Knightsbridge, had been called upon by 



8 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

Bishop Blomfield to resign his living as a conse- 
quence of the No Popery riots caused by his having 
introduced into his church such unheard-of things 
as a choral service, the eastward position, and an 
altar cross. 

In a word, the waves of the Church revival of the 
middle of the nineteenth century were at this period 
just beginning to flow out from the study and the 
oratory into the street. 

The newly awakened devotional spirit, so largely 
inspired by Keble through the publication of the 
Christian Year in 1827, was being translated into 
active parochial work by Dr. Hook, "the apostle of 
the Church to the great middle class," as Dean 
Church has called him, who was Vicar of Leeds from 
1827 to 1859. The boy who had now come with his 
father and mother from the retirement of a country 
vicarage into the stir of London was destined to 
combine in his lifework both aspects of the revival. 
Like Keble, he grew to be one of the poets of the 
Church ; he became, like Hook, a devoted parish priest. 

Meantime he was sent as a day-boy to the Charter- 
house, still at that time in its original home in the 
City. Charterhouse, with its Poor Brethren and its 
air of venerable seclusion, had a charm which is 
lacking to most public schools. He was as devoted 
to it all his life long as Thackeray was, and all who 
knew him would bear witness to the truth of the 
description of himself in one of his sonnets as 



% 



EARLY DAYS 9 

"Unchanged in this, at least, from boy to man. 
That I am heart and soul Carthusian." 

Thus, when shortly after his leaving school a great 
football match was played between eight of Eton 
and Harrow and seven of " The World," Stone wrote 
to the papers in great pride and glory to inform all 
and sundry that no less than six of " The World's " 
seven were Carthusians. For years he never missed 
the annual Charterhouse dinner, and no haven of 
refuge could have brought him more peace than those 
old walls, to which years afterwards he returned to 
live out the remainder of his days. 

At the Charterhouse he went up the school with 
Sir Richard Jebb, who used, as it is not surprising to 
learn, to be ahead of him in classics, but divided with 
him the honours of the English Poem, the subject 
being The Alhanibra. He was a steady worker who 
always kept his place, but his chief distinction was 
his faculty for verse. Though full of spirits, he seems 
never to have got into school difficulties or scrapes, 
and left with a high character. He used to take his 
friends home with him to Hackney and for boating 
expeditions on the Lea, where he learned to handle 
an oar. He left school with a scholarship in 1858, 
and shortly afterwards won a prize offered by the 
editor of a paper called the Portico for a poem on Sir 
Henry Havelock, himself a Carthusian. He was, in 
fact, while still at school already graduating in verse, 
so that to the tale of Carthusian poets — Crashaw, 



lo MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

Lovelace, Addison, John Wesley — there is now to be 
added the name of Samuel John Stone. 

From Charterhouse he proceeded to Pembroke 
College, Oxford, where he had the rooms in the 
tower just above those of Dr. Johnson. At Pem- 
broke he quickly took to the river, and soon became 
captain of his boat, which he stroked more than once. 
He was also an ardent volunteer, for those were the 
days of the first beginnings of the volunteer move- 
ment. The love of athletics and the patriotic senti- 
ment were both characteristic. Years afterwards in 
London he started a " Pembroke Rowing Club " on 
the Lea, which still flourishes, and till the very end 
of his life he was profoundly stirred by any great 
national event, and found a ready expression in verse 
for the feelings which it excited in him. 

Of all the gifts which Oxford brings, the friend- 
ships which are made there are amongst the most 
precious. Stone was always enthusiastic in his 
friendships, and to those which he had already 
formed at Charterhouse he now soon added fresh 
ones, some of which lasted with unimpaired warmth 
throughout his life. He would often in after years 
recall these friendships of his Oxford boating days by 
quoting the well-known lines in Tennyson's Ulysses : 

" My mariners, 
Souls that have toil'd and wrought and thought with me — 
That ever with a frohc welcome took 
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed 
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old ; 



EARLY DAYS ii 

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil ; 
Death closes all: but something ere the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done. 
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods." 

At Pembroke, Johnson's " nest of singing-birds," 
the college of Beaumont and Shenstone, not to 
speak of Johnson himself or less-known poets, 
Stone's poetical faculty continued to develop. He 
wrote more than once for the Newdigate, which he 
never succeeded in winning, though he was proxime 
accessit in the year after it had been gained by his 
cousin, John Addington Symonds. He was also 
connected with one at least of those fugitive collec- 
tions of verse which appear periodically in Oxford, 
and it was Alma Mater who inspired two of the 
poems in his earliest volume, Down Streajn to London 
and Good-bye to Oxford. They express what a score 
of Oxford poets from Clough and Matthew Arnold 
onwards have expressed, on the one hand the " in- 
effable charm " of the " beautiful city . . . steeped in 
sentiment as she lies, spreading her gardens to the 
moonlight, and whispering from her towers the last 
enchantments of the Middle Age," and on the other 
the "joy of eventful living" which possesses the 
healthy undergraduate in those halcyon years of 
University life. But in the latter of the two poems a 
note is struck which is not always heard in young 
Oxford verse, a note which became the keynote 
of all his words and all his actions, the note of 
intense devotion to his Mother Church. 



12 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

During part of his time at Oxford Stone was 
disturbed to some extent by the Essays mid Reviews 
controversy; but the disturbance was of short dura- 
tion, and before he had taken his degree the ques- 
tionings raised in his mind by the Liberal theology 
had ceased, and he had planted his feet firmly in the 
old paths which Hooker and Ken and Keble had 
trodden, and in those paths he continued to walk 
from that time forth with ever-deepening confidence 
and assurance. 

While he was still at Oxford, in fact, all the 
energies of his ardent and enthusiastic nature were 
gradually being turned into one deep channel, and 
after he went down it was not long before he had 
definitely made up his mind to take Holy Orders, 
He went for a year to a tutorship at High Wycombe, 
and there he received a fresh impress from the per- 
sonality of Bishop Wilberforce, under whose influence 
he had already fallen at Oxford. Wilberforce came 
to hold a confirmation at High Wycombe, of which 
Stone has left an account in a letter to a friend, which 
is one more testimony to the spiritual power shown 
by the Bishop on such occasions. He speaks of the 
Bishop's directness with the candidates, of how he 
bade them keep their eyes on him, as he told them, 
with his marvellous power of narration, of the early 
martyrs, of how they were asked tauntingly, " Do 
you believe in Jesus Christ?" and of how they 
answered, with their faces flashing with joy — " and 



EARLY DAYS 13 

his voice," says Stone, "was a diapason as he said the 
words — ' I do ! I do ! ' " After the answer of the 
candidates the whole congregation were invited to 
kneel in silent prayer for them before the Imposition 
of Hands, and " the whole place and people," he 
writes, " seemed baptized with the Spirit of God." 
After the service was over he spent the rest of the 
day in a long walk with a friend, and from that time 
his most earnest desire was to seek Ordination at the 
hands of the Bishop, who, he wrote, " stands before 
all men, except my father, in my reverence and 
affection." There is no doubt that the impression 
produced by this and other confirmations held by 
Bishop Wilberforce had a very powerful effect in 
shaping Stone's parochial ideals. Confirmation, with 
him, was the great opportunity in a parish priest's 
dealings with his flock, the formation of an intelligent 
and devout body of communicants his highest work. 
His desires saw their fulfilment before many 
months were over. At that time a year at a theo- 
logical college was not yet the common preliminary 
to Ordination which it has since become, and in later 
life Stone used to regret that he had not had the 
advantage of it. He read quietly and steadily by 
himself, and the result was that he was chosen as 
Gospeller when on St. Matthew's Day, 1862, he was 
ordained by Bishop Wilberforce in Lavington Church 
to the curacy of Windsor. 



II 

WINDSOR 

1862-1870 

WINDSOR was a place which exactly suited 
the young man, and appealed to almost 
every part of his nature. The Vicar of Windsor 
was Canon Ellison, well known as the founder of 
the Church of England Temperance Society, which 
first saw the light there a few years later. There 
was a large parish with plenty of work to do, both 
amongst the labouring classes and also amongst 
those in better circumstances. There were good 
Church schools and all sorts of parochial organisa- 
tions. He found pleasant society and a delightful 
country. Past the town flowed the river on which 
he had spent so many hours, and above it the Castle 
reared its stately walls, a perpetual reminder of the 
antiquity of the Throne, to which he was always 
attached with the most passionate loyalty. Such a 
place could not fail to be an inspiration to a man of 
Stone's nature, and during his seven and a half years 
at Windsor he did some of his not least successful 

14 



WINDSOR 15 

pastoral work and wrote many of the best of his 
hymns and poems. 

The centre of his work at Windsor was a little 
mission church in the outlying district of Spital. 
The mission church was the chapel of the cemetery, 
and when he was put in charge of it he found it a 
cold and lifeless place, as even now many of our 
cemetery chapels are wont to be. He set himself 
with his usual vigour to beautify it, and before very 
long succeeded in effecting a complete transformation. 

During the very early days of his work at Windsor 
an incident occurred which may be related here. 
There was a certain idle corner on the way from the 
school to the church which was the favourite resort 
of the rough lads of the place, who used to annoy 
the children on their way to church. One Sunday 
as he went by he saw one of his little girls doubled 
up with pain from a blow given her by a big, hulking 
fellow. All Stone's impulsive chivalry at once caught 
fire. Perhaps he remembered how, under similar 
circumstances, Keats had given a butcher a thrashing. 
At any rate, he strode up to the young rough, and 
not only gave him a piece of his mind, but a sound 
cuff to finish up with. The fellow was so ill-advised 
as to strike him back, whereupon Stone fell upon 
him like an avenging angel, and literally beat him 
black and blue. He said afterwards that he was 
thankful that he had nothing but nature's weapons 
at hand, so much carried away was he by his 



1 6 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

righteous indignation. Fortunately his action was 
endorsed by the lad's parents and also by the police, 
and it had a very salutary effect on the rough 
element in the district, but he was himself the first 
to recognise that his knight-errantry had taken a 
wrong form, and to resolve never again to be judge 
and executioner at the same time. 

Henceforward he found more legitimate means of 
disposing of his superfluous physical energy. " I am 
getting up my strength and muscular condition," he 
writes, "in an apostolic manner — on the water and 
among the fishes." We get a glimpse of him at 
this time on his holiday in the garden of a Sussex 
vicarage, where he was helping his father, who was 
acting as locum tenens there. He was reading for his 
priest's orders, and was keenly interested in the 
Fathers, whose acquaintance he was making for the 
first time. In the hot weather he was to be found 
lying on his back in the orchard, a gun by his side, 
and Jacobson's Apostolic Fathers on his knee. When- 
ever there was a chance of a shot at something, 
" down went the Fathers and up went the gun." 

It would be a very great mistake to suppose that 
Stone was merely what used to be called a "muscular 
Christian." A strong and athletic frame was coupled 
with a highly sensitive and emotional temperament, 
a temperament so responsive and sympathetic that, 
while full of virile force and energy, it had at the 
same time all the tenderness of a woman. Such a 



WINDSOR 17 

nature was bound to feel the stress and strain of 
work, and especially of parochial work, in an unusual 
degree. In later years he paid dearly for it. " You 
have the muscles of a prize-fighter," said Sir William 
Jenner, when he went to consult him, "but," he 
added, "the nerves of a violin." 

It was just these qualities, however, which gave 
Stone his great influence as a parish priest. There is 
evidence that while he was still in his first curacy his 
spiritual powers were considerable. His pastoral 
instincts were from the first quick to assert them- 
selves, and he soon began to have that personal hold 
on those with whom he was brought into contact 
which so remarkably distinguished his work in East 
London. Thirty years afterwards a member of one 
of his Windsor Bible-classes wrote to him recalling 
the class, and testifying to the permanence of his 
teaching. 

In the day-schools he took the greatest delight, 
especially in the infants' school, and he was beloved 
both by children and teachers. He had inherited his 
love of children from his father, to whom he used to 
apply the words of the poem in the Christian Year 
for Innocents' Day, saying that he, like his Master, 

" Ever lov'd to trace 
" The ' innocent brightness ' of an infant's face " 

— words that were as applicable to the son as they 
were to the father. When he left Windsor he spoke 
in his farewell words of "those dear children of the 
c 



1 8 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

schools, whom I love, not least, in the Lord," and 
through all his after work the children had a fore- 
most place in his thoughts and his affections. 

He was fond of telling the story of what he used 
to say was one of the few cases in which he had come 
across a parent who objected to the religious teaching 
in a Church day-school, and of his successful re- 
moving of his scruples. It appears that one morning 
when he was in the schools at Windsor an angry 
father asked to see him, who began to complain that 
his child was taught the Catechism, which he, as a 
Dissenter, objected to his learning. By way of 
answer Stone asked the man if he had ever read the 
Catechism, and on his replying that he had not, per- 
suaded him to take a copy home with him, and to 
come again and give him his opinion about it. In a 
few days the man reappeared, and on being asked 
the result of his studies replied, " Why, sir, I find it 
tells him his duty towards God and his duty towards 
his neighbour. Teach it him, sir, and if he won't 
learn it, you wallop him ! " 

There was another and a most important side 
of his work at Windsor, and this was what he began 
to do there for the Church at large through his 
hymns and sacred poems. Allusion has already 
been made to the manner in which his father fostered 
his boyish love of poetry and to his early enthusiasm 
for Scott and for Mrs. Browning. Later on had 
come the influence of Tennyson, which acted so 



% 



WINDSOR 19 

powerfully on most of the poets of the middle of the 
Victorian era. His inspiration is manifest in a good 
deal of Stone's poetical work. The idealism of the 
Idylls of the King, that epic of the human soul, as 
Tennyson conceived it, took hold of his being, and 
King Arthur, viewed as the embodiment of the soul's 
battle for whatsoever is pure and lovely and of good 
report, became half-canonised in his imagination. 
It was not wholly in jest that he compared his many 
fights at Haggerston with the encroaching School 
Board to Arthur's " nine great battles in the west," 
and his delight was extreme when a friend gave him 
a beautiful little copy, carved in wood, of the noble 
statue of King Arthur from the monument of 
Maximilian I. at Innsbruck. 

Knight-errantry, in fact, had a perpetual fascina- 
tion for him. He was always ready, as we have 
seen, to take up arms on behalf of a child or a 
woman. So too when he wrote one can imagine 
him ready to begin like Keats : — 

" Lo ! I must tell a tale of chivalry; 
For large white plumes are dancing in mine eye." 

But just as the militant instincts in his nature came 
to be subordinated to the pastoral, so in his poetry 
his knight -errant becomes The Knight of Inter- 
cession, and his idylls are not idylls of the camp and 
court but of the country parish. 

There was yet another poetical influence which 
left its mark on Stone's verse, and that was the 



20 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

influence of Keble. As he was thoroughly in accord 
with Keble's ecclesiastical position, the Christian 
Year appealed to him as n:iuch as it could have 
appealed to anyone who belonged to the generation 
after Keble. The best of its poems he would con- 
stantly quote in the pulpit, and in later days he 
probably seldom let a Good Friday pass without 
reciting in the course of his sermon some part of 
the poem for that day. 

It was no doubt the scheme of the Christian Year 
which suggested to Stone the idea of illustrating the 
Apostles' Creed by writing a series of hymns upon 
its several Articles. In his preface to the Christian 
Year Keble had said : — 

" The object of the present publication will be 
attained, if any person find assistance from it in 
bringing his own thoughts and feelings into more 
entire unison with those recommended and ex- 
emplified in the Prayer-book." 

Stone had found that many, especially of the 
cottagers, used the Creed in their private prayers, 
and in the preface to his little book he mentions 
this fact and appeals to the experience of other 
clergy, who, he says, " cannot but feel how this 
excellent use, as also its utterance in public worship, 
is too often accompanied by a very meagre compre- 
hension of the breadth and depth of meaning con- 
tained in each Article of the Confession of Faith. 
Such a feeling," he continues, " first suggested to the 



WINDSOR 21 

author the probable usefulness of a simple and 
attractive explanation of the Creed in the popular 
form of a series of hymns, such as might be sung 
or said in private devotion, at family prayer, or in 
public worship." 

In those days it was the custom to give to a 
collection of sacred verse the name of Lyra. Besides 
the Lyra Apostolica and the Lyra Innocentium, there 
were the Lyra Messianica, the Lyra Eucharistica, 
and others. Stone accordingly called the little book, 
which appeared at Christmas, 1865, by the name of 
Lyra Fideliuni. 

In this small volume, put forth by a curate who 
had only been three years in Holy Orders, were two 
hymns which are now familiar everywhere. The 
ninth Article of the Creed — The Holy Catholic 
Church: The Communion of Saints — was illustrated 
by a hymn upon "The Nature of the Universal 
Church and the Fellowship of the Saints." The 
hymn was The Church's one Foundation. Similarly 
the tenth Article, The Forgiveness of Sins, was illus- 
trated by a hymn upon "The Remission of Sins." 
This was Weary of earth. The other ten hymns, 
although one or two of them are to be found in the 
hymn-books, have never come into general use, nor 
are they likely to do so. Some of them are not 
without considerable merit, but nearly all exhibit the 
faults from which only the best hymns are exempt. 

For, in point of fact, it is one of the rarest things 



22 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

in the world to find a really perfect hymn. A certain 
poise of mind, a certain holy tact, if one may use 
such an expression, is necessary in order to avoid the 
pitfalls which beset the hymn-writer's feet. The 
common criticism which an educated man will make 
upon a hymn is that it is mere doggerel. That is 
no doubt too often the case, but then this criticism 
does not by any means go all the way. It is true 
that one of the first requisites in a hymn is that it 
should be the work of a poet, but it is to be 
remembered that it is not merely as a poem that a 
hymn is to be judged, nor even merely as a religious 
poem. Indeed, one of the faults of many hymns is 
— though it may sound paradoxical to say so — that 
they are too poetical. Sometimes this is seen in an 
excessive quaintness of expression, the quaintness 
of George Herbert or of Christina Rossetti ; some- 
times in the too frequent use of metaphor and simile 
and of words and phrases which, however apt and 
beautiful in themselves, belong too exclusively to the 
domain of poetry. 

This may best be seen by an example. No one 
had more of the true spirit of the hymn-writer than 
Mrs. Alexander. Such hymns as 

" There is a green hill far away " 

or 

"Jesus calls us o'er the tumult" 

have been caught up into the main current of 
hymnody. But being herself a true poet and the 



WINDSOR 23 

wife of a poet, she had the defects of her quahties, 

and sometimes would introduce the special language 

of poetry where we feel at once that a simpler strain 

is needed. Such lines as 

" Give us Thy grace to rise above 
The glare of this world's smelting-fires " 

might be well enough in a religious poem ; they are a 
distinct blot in a hymn. 

There is a quite opposite fault, which chiefly besets 
those hymn-writers whose first aim it is to make the 
hymn a vehicle for teaching the great truths of 
religion. The hymns of such writers tend to become 
so dogmatic as to be nothing else than miniature 
treatises of theology. The Latin hymn-writers, 
having a language at their command which is un- 
equalled in its power of exact and terse expression, 
revelled in this sort of composition ; in the greatest 
of them there are heights of grandeur and depths of 
pathos worthy of Isaiah himself. Unfortunately a 
large part of the numerous Latin hymns in our 
books are spoiled in the course of translation — which 
is indeed an almost impossible process in the case of 
a Latin hymn — so that it is hardly fair to charge 
them with being cold and prosaic. One of the 
greatest of all, the Dies Irae, becomes a shadow only 
of the original, for what Trench calls " the solemn 
effect of the triple rhyme, which has been likened to 
blow following blow of the hammer on the anvil," 
simply cannot be reproduced in English, because we 



24 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

have so few trisyllabic rhymes. Many translators 
have tried it in more or less current versions, and the 
result is of the baldest. Stone was fairly successful 
in his translations from Thomas a Kempis, one of 
which is included in this selection, but in his original 
hymns the truth is that through his anxiety to be 
dogmatic he sometimes lost his inspiration. 

Yet a third fault is conspicuous in — one is almost 
tempted to say — a majority of hymns. That fault is 
an excess of sentiment. Now if there is one thing 
needful in a hymn it is devotional feeling, the accent 
of personal conviction. The writer must be able to 
give the tender colouring of emotion to his theme, 
whatever that theme may be. But religious emotion, 
if not curbed and controlled, may on the one hand 
shoot up into unmeaning ecstasy and on the other 
descend into feeble sentimentality. Beautiful as is 
the Rhythm of St. Bernard, and possibly congruous 
as it may have been to the times and the circum- 
stances in which it was composed, who can doubt 
that it is grotesquely inappropriate to bid a general 
congregation to sing — 

" For thee, O dear, dear country, 
Mine eyes their vigils keep ; 
For very love, beholding 
Thy happy name they weep." 

At the date when Stone began to write, the 
Rhythm had been only recently translated into 
English by Neale, and the different portions of it — 



WINDSOR 25 

Brief life is here our portion, feriisalent the golden, 
For thee, O dear, dear country — were being sung 
everywhere. It is probable that it had a not altogether 
favourable effect upon his hymn-writing. 

But whatever the flaws to be found in some of 
Stone's hymns, their positive merits are very con- 
siderable. Their fire and ardour, their tenderness 
and reality of devotion, are conspicuous. The two 
hymns especially by which he has come to be chiefly 
known as a hymn-writer are worthy representatives 
of the two great types of hymns — The Church'' s one 
Foundation of the objective hymns, the hymns which 
sing of the glory of God and of His great purposes 
for mankind, Weary of earth of those of a subjective 
order, the hymns of personal devotion, in which the 
soul pours itself out before its Maker. Both classes 
have their prototypes in the Psalms, and no better 
praise could be given to these two hymns than to say 
they breathe much of the spirit of the Psalmists. In 
The Church's one Foundation we seem to hear the 
accents of him who wrote — 

" God is in the midst of her, therefore shall she not be re- 
moved : 
God shall help her, and that right early." 

In Weary of earth there is the same cry of self- 
abasement which has its most perfect expression in 
the Miserere. 

It is an interesting fact that Weary of earth, the 
main idea of which was taken from a sermon of 



26 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

Bishop Jeune's, was written wiiile the author was 
suffering from an attack of severe physical pain. 
Like the Aleditation in a Night of Pain, which he 
wrote in the Charterhouse during the constant suffer- 
ing of the last year of his life, it is a testimony to 
the sacramental virtue which pain discloses when it 
visits a religious nature. It ranks with Abide with me, 
d.r\djesu, lover of my soul, as one of those hymns which 
have a vis medicatrix about them, and which are not 
so much for use in the public worship of the Church 
as in the private devotions of her sons and daughters, 
and most especially in her ministrations to the sick, 
the penitent, and the departing. 

" I am personally most thankful," said Stone, 
" about Weary of earth, because of the private testi- 
monies I have had of its use in bringing home to 
individual souls the doctrine of the Atonement. One 
such was to this effect : a poor dying woman told a 
lady who visited her daily that her favourite verse, 
* the lines that comfort me and m.ake me ready and 
happy to go,' was the fourth, beginning — 

'" It is the voice of Jesus that I hear.'" 

It may be added that the comfort which the hymn 
gave to another deathbed brought Stone one of his 
most constant and valued helpers, who, before un- 
known to him, sought him out and became the 
devoted friend of his parish and the supporter of 
every good work in it. 



WINDSOR 27 

The hymn written for the Article, " The Holy 
Catholic Church : the Communion of Saints," was, 
as has already been said. The ClmrcJi's one Founda- 
tion. All the twelve hymns had printed against 
each line a verse of Holy Scripture. A sound 
scriptural groundwork is without doubt an import- 
ant essential in a hymn, and a comparison of the 
texts out of which the first verse of The ChurcJUs 
one Foundation is woven with the verse opposite 
them will show how successfully Stone has em- 
ployed that groundwork in this the most famous of 
his hymns. 

"The Church's one Foundation "Other foundation can no 
Is Jesus Christ her Lord ; man lay than that is laid, which 

is Jesus Christ." 

She is His new creation, " Except a man be born of 

By water and the Word : water and of the Spirit, he 

cannot enter into the Kingdom 
of God." 

From heaven He came and " Even as Christ also loved 

sought her the Church, and gave Himself 

To be His holy Bride, for it, that He might sanctify 

and cleanse it." 

With His own Blood He " The Church of God, which 

bought her, He purchased with His own 

And for her life He died." Blood." 

There were originally two more verses than there 
are at present. The third verse, which ran thus, has 
been omitted — 



28 MEMOIR iW S. J. STONE 

"The Church shall never perish ! 

Her dear Lord to defend, 
To guide, sustain, and cherish, 

Is with her to the end. 
Though there be those who hate her, 

And false sons in her pale, 
Against or foe or traitor 

She ever shall prevail " 

and the last two verses have been thrown into one. 
They were as follows — 

" Yet she on earth hath union 

With God the Three in One, 
And mystic sweet communion 

With those whose rest is won. 
With all her sons and daughters 

Who, by the Master's Hand 
Led through the deathly waters, 

Repose in Eden-land. 

*' O happy ones and holy ! 

Lord, give us grace that we 
Like them, the meek and lowly. 

On high may dwell with Thee : 
There, past the border mountains, 

Where in sweet vales the Bride 
With Thee by living fountains 

For ever shall abide ! " 

The hymn has undoubtedly gained by compres- 
sion. In its altered shape it was included in the first 
Appendix to Hymns A ncient and Modern, which was 
published in 1868, set to Sebastian Wesley's tune 
Aurelia, which was written for it and is now indis- 
solubly connected with it. 



WINDSOR 29 

The Churches one Foundation soon sprang into 
universal notice. It was sung on December 23rd, 
1869, at the enthronement of Bishop Wilberforce at 
Winchester, when the Times, quoting the second and 
third verses, observed that " the words, though drawn 
from one of our oldest collections," had "a singular 
appropriateness to the present occasion." This very 
complimentary error on the part of the Times gives 
the key to the success of the hymn. The hymn said 
what English Church people had been learning for 
some time past to feel about the Church, after genera- 
tions of forgetfulness. Now, when it was said, and 
everybody found themselves singing the words, they 
came home with the force of familiarity, because they 
were recognised as the expression of what had been 
for so long the inarticulate faith of multitudes of 
people, who had only been waiting for a vates sacer 
to put it into language. 

These two hymns are the utterance of Stone's 
dearest and deepest convictions. He was, before all 
things, a devoted Churchman, caring far more for the 
Church than for any party in it, and regarding the 
Church of England with all and more than all the 
reverential filial feeling which he manifested towards 
his parents, his school, and his university. The other 
great characteristic of his religious life was his in- 
tense personal devotion to his Saviour. He would 
constantly quote the passage from Bishop Ken's will 
which has been adopted by Church Bells as its 



30 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

motto : " The Communion of the Church of Eng- 
land as it stands distinguished from all Papal and 
Puritan innovation, and as it adheres to the doctrine 
of the Cross." 

So these two hymns represent the two great 
aspects of the Church — the Church as seen in her 
pastoral relation, in her cure of souls ; and the 
Church as St. Paul and St. John saw her, the 
"Jerusalem which is above . . . the mother of us 
all," " the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down 
from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned 
for her husband." Weary of earth has whispered its 
message of hope and of healing in the ear of many 
a labouring and heavy-laden soul, while the ringing 
lines of The Church's one Foundation have kindled an 
ideal of the Church in ten thousands of hearts all 
over the world. They caused the Bishop of Nelson 
to apostrophise their author in these terms : — 

" Now in the desert, now upon the main, 
In mine and forest, and on citied plain; 
From Lambeth's towers to far New Zealand coast, 
Bard of the Church, thy blast inspires the host." 

The hymn will remain his best visible monument. 

These years at Windsor also saw most of the 
poems written on which Stone's claim must rest 
to be numbered amongst our religious poets. For 
his verse, even when it was not actually sacred verse, 
never strayed far into other fields. A number of the 
poems were directly inspired by incidents in his paro- 



WINDSOR 31 

chial work ; in most of them a religious vein is ap- 
parent. 

Some of his first poems were the Idylls of Deare 
Childe, two of which will be found here. Deare Childe 
itself was suggested by seeing the words on a tomb- 
stone in a country churchyard in Buckinghamshire. 
They would appear to have been copied from a stone 
in Westminster Abbey of two hundred years ago. 
Morning Robert is a Wordsworthian portrait of old 
age. It was taken from life, the subject being an 
old man who was gatekeeper of the cemetery where 
Stone's little mission church was situated. The 
name " Morning Robert " was given him in allusion 
to his fancy for rising every morning in all weathers 
and seating himself beneath an oak tree to see the 
day break. The Knight of Intercession, which served 
as title poem to his first published volume, owed its 
origin in outline to a story of Whyte Melville's, 
which however Stone altered, both " in detail and 
significance." 

In 1866 he won the Oxford Sacred Poem, on 
Sinai, but had the ill-fortune to be subsequently 
disqualified by a technicality which the University 
authorities had overlooked. Lyra Fidelium had been 
warmly received by the press, and Stone's name be- 
came increasingly widely known by occasional poems 
and hymns which saw the light from time to time, 
especially by his clever and humorous Ratiottalistic 
Chicken, which, first published in Home Words, was 



32 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

afterwards printed separately and had an enormous 
sale, being even translated into French under the 
title of Le oussitt Ratiotialiste, His first collected 
volume, The Knight of Intercession, was not published 
until after he had left Windsor, by which time there 
was a large public ready to welcome it, as is proved 
by the fact that he lived to see it go through six or 
seven editions. 

In estimating the worth of a hymn it is necessary, 
as has already been remarked, that the critic should 
remind himself — or, indeed, in some cases inform 
himself — as to what it is wherein the virtues of a 
hymn consist. A hymn is something sui generis, 
a particular form of composition under laws and 
restrictions of its own. But with regard to a 
religious poem the case stands otherwise. That 
must conform to the ordinary standards by which 
all poetry is to be judged, and it will live or die 
according as it does so. No amount of religious 
feeling will ensure a poem's salvation unless it also 
possesses the grace of right poetic inspiration. But 
at the same time it is to be remembered that the 
muse sings in a thousand tones, and that the critic 
may easily condemn a poem because his own sym- 
pathies are too narrow, because the conception which 
he has framed of poetry is not sufficiently catholic. 
And where the catholicity of the ordinary lover of 
poetry is perhaps most apt to fall short is where 
the religious element is in question. Many people 



WINDSOR 33 

appreciate Shakespeare who are blind to the sub- 
limity of the Paradiso ; are alive to the charm of 
Herrick, while they turn a deaf ear to the notes of 
George Herbert and Henry Vaughan ; can quote the 
Dream of Fair Women, but have hardly read the 
Dream of Gerontins. Yet what is this after all but 
to say that religious poetry is only to be appreciated 
by religiously minded people? To these Stone's 
work has appealed from the first, and no doubt, in 
the first instance, because it was religious more than 
because it was poetical. It is from a belief that 
many of his poems still retain their value that the 
present selection is made. It is Time only, that 
incorruptible judge, which can decide whether they 
contain enough of the vital essence of poetry to 
make them classic. 

Twenty-five years later a second volume of poems 
came out under the name of Lays of lona. The 
character of St. Columba and the romance asso- 
ciated with lona had very early taken hold of 
Stone's imagination. The poem St. Columb of lona 
dates from Windsor days. In later life he was more 
and more drawn to the subject and to the place 
itself, for he spent several of his holidays on lona. 
The result was a long poem in the Spenserian metre, 
which he called Lyric of Lona : Past, and To Be. It 
is in seven cantos, divided by songs after the manner 
of Tennyson's Princess. His design was to show 
that " the cradle of one branch of the Catholic 

D 



34  MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

Church is to be identified with the two holy islands 
of lona and Lindisfarne, and with the names of 
St. Columba and St. Aidan and their spiritual sons, 
more than with those of St. Augustine and his 
followers." The poem contains some fine lines and 
images, but still is not altogether a success. Stone 
was no doubt drawn in the first instance to Columba 
by a sense of spiritual affinity. The affectionate 
and impulsive Celtic lad, athletic and ruddy, with 
his curling brown hair and kind grey eyes — for so 
Columba is described to us — with his skill in poetry 
and his love of animals, with a temper originally 
quick and hasty, but chastened and subdued by his 
monastic life until he became a great winner of souls, 
indeed resembled in many ways the subject of this 
memoir. Stone, very characteristically, became so 
carried away by his affection for Columba and so 
enamoured of lona and the Scotic missionaries, that, 
although he tries his hardest to do justice to the 
work of the Roman missionaries, he cannot help 
ascribing almost all that is good and sound in the 
Church of England to the Celtic spirit, which he 
is even able to perceive in the Reformation ! 

This volume also gathered up his later poetical 
writing, including the sonnets and poems which were 
inspired by his work in the East End and the hymns 
which he had written from time to time, some of 
which again were written especially for his people 
at Haggerston, others for special occasions, such as 
the Jubilee of Queen Victoria, 



WINDSOR 35 

During his last long illness at the Charterhouse he 
wrote the beautiful little Meditation in a Night of 
Pain, the last poem which came from his pen. 

Thus the poetic spirit remained unquenched in 
him through all his long years of heavy and anxious 
clerical work, and it contributed in no small measure 
to his spiritual influence. It is now time to give 
some account of what that influence was. 



Ill 

ST. PAUL'S, HAGGERSTON 

1870-1890 

IN 1870 Stone left Windsor for East London, 
which was to be the scene of his work for just 
twenty years. He went to act as curate to his 
father, who was the first vicar of St. Paul's, Hagger- 
ston, a parish carved out of St. Leonard's, Shore- 
ditch, and lying to the north of it. There were no 
well-to-do people there at all. Numbers were em- 
ployed in the City or other parts of London in offices, 
shops, or trades. But a great many more, and these 
the poorest, worked at home ; some at the different 
processes of bootmaking, others at one or another of 
the extraordinary crafts which are carried on in the 
East End. Thus at one time a maker of clay pipes 
and a maker o{ papier-mache dolls' heads lived almost 
next door to each other. The population was about 
7,000, and Stone was fond of saying that you could 
walk right round the parish in sixteen minutes. The 
poorest street of all is marked black in Mr. Booth's 
maps of the poverty of London, black expressing 

36 



ST. PAUL'S, HAGGERSTON 37 

the lowest stratum of all. In this street the popula- 
tion was constantly migratory, and used almost 
entirely to change — in many houses two or three 
times over — in the course of three or four years. 

During his father's incumbency the church, schools, 
and vicarage were built and various kinds of work 
set on foot. The church was the first built by Mr., 
afterwards Sir Arthur Blomfield, and with the school 
and vicarage formed a compact block of buildings. 
Blomfield gave an offering of ^100 — a considerable 
portion of his fee — as the firstfruits of his professional 
earnings, towards the completion of the church, and 
Stone would always refer to this fine act as the 
source of no small part of Blomfield's after success 
as an architect. 

For four years Stone helped his father to carry out 
the organisation of the young parish, the Evangelical 
vicar and the High Church curate working harmoni- 
ously side by side, after which the old man retired to 
the Sussex village of Alfriston, well known for its 
fourteenth-century vicarage (which has since become 
the property of the National Trust), and Stone was 
appointed by Bishop Jackson to succeed him. He 
had two years before this published his volume The 
Knight of Intercession, and in the same year had 
written the hymn for the Thanksgiving for the Prince 
of Wales' recovery, which was sung in St. Paul's 
Cathedral on February 27th, 1872. His name had thus 
become very generally known throughout the country. 



38 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

However, it is not of his poetical but of his paro- 
chial work that we are now to speak. And his work 
as a parish priest was — who but One can say whether 
less or more valuable than his work as a poet? It is 
a common thing to hear expressions of regret when 
a scholar or a man of letters exchanges the student's 
life for active practical work. Lamentations were 
uttered when Lightfoot went to Durham, and so 
deprived the Church of the completion of his com- 
mentary on St. Paul's Epistles. But nobody who 
knows what he did for the diocese of Durham would 
for one moment endorse this feeling. So it may be 
that had Stone lived a quiet country life he might 
have given us other hymns as fine as The Churches 
one Foundation. But nobody who knew anything 
of his work at St. Paul's, Haggerston, would grudge 
the loss to the hymnody of the Church. 

To this work Stone came in the full plenitude of 
his powers. He was just thirty-five, 

" Nel mezzo di cammin di nostra vita," 

in vigorous health and full of high spirits. His 
athletic build and active movements showed the 
vital force which resided in him. He was at this 
time of medium height, he had deep brown eyes set 
in a fresh-coloured face, a firm nose, brown curling 
beard and moustache, with hair of a darker shade, 
brushed back with a sort of decision from a well- 
shaped forehead. There was an air of refinement. 



ST. PAUKS, HAGGERSTON 39 

an indefinable suggestion of cultivation and of Oxford 
about him, which he always preserved in the midst of 
his hardest work in the unloveliest surroundings. 
And there was set upon all this the unmistakable 
stamp of the parish priest. 

The outer man was a true index of the inner. 
Stone was indubitably and unfailingly of the san- 
guine temperament. His vigour of body was matched 
by a vigorous mind. He was obstinate to a fault in 
the pursuit of his objects, and he had an immense 
power of work. He had the sensitiveness and also the 
quickness and impulsiveness of the poet and the self- 
confidence of the idealist. He overflowed naturally 
with love, and his intensely religious mind turned 
that love into two channels, along which it constantly 
ran, the one of perpetual devotion to Christ, the other 
of unfailing attachment to his people. 

His health was robust, until with years of work his 
nerves gradually became worn out. But in his best 
days there was a breeziness and go about him which 
were very infectious. He was full of fun and of 
good stories, and when he started off for a holiday 
was as young as the youngest. Whenever he could 
get a day he would carry off some of his parishioners 
for a fishing excursion, either in the Lea or in more 
distant waters, and for years he kept up an eight on 
the Lea amongst his elder lads. He used, in the days 
before bicycles, to thread the London traffic on a 
tricycle, enjoying the tonic of steering in a crowded 



40 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

thoroughfiire. The vicarage itself bore witness to 

this side of his nature. The drawing-room was full 

of cases of stuffed birds and fishes. For a long time 

he had an old brown Irish retriever, Sancho by name, 

whose declining years he watched over with the most 

tender and assiduous care. When at last his end 

came he was laid to rest in the little piece of garden 

at the back of the vicarage. Stone immortalised his 

memory by the sonnet on p. 220, and by the following 

epitaph : — 

" In the centre of this lawn lies 

SANCHO 

a gentleman in all but humanity ; thoroughbred, 
single in mind, true of heart ; for seventeen years 
the faithful and affectionate friend of his master, 
who loved him, and now for him 'faintly trusts 
the larger Hope ' contained, it may be, in Romans 
viii. 19-21. 

He died April 2b, 1883." 

This he caused to be cut on a stone let into the 
wall of the adjacent school, where the Virginia creeper 
managed; in spite of East End fogs, to throw its 
trailing tendrils over it. 

His main holiday, year after year for forty years, 
was always taken in a most lovely spot in Shrop- 
shire. His friend, the Rev. Donald Carr, was Vicar 
of Woolstaston, a tiny village of some eighty people 
which nestles in a nook on the slopes of the Long 
Mynd hills between Church Stretton and Shrewsbury. 
Lovely as these hills are in summer, in winter they 



ST. PAUL'S, HAGGERSTON 41 

are dangerous travelling. On January 29th, 1865, 
Mr. Carr was caught in a snowstorm when crossing 
them, and spent " a night in the snow " — ^a title which 
he afterwards gave to a little book in which he 
described his adventure. Thither as soon as June 
came in everyone knew that he would betake himself 
for a week or two's trout fishing. Thither, when the 
dusty summer had exhausted the air of the sultry 
Haggerston streets, and exhausted too, for a time, 
the power of the vicar, his parishioners knew that 
he would repair for another week or two's partridge 
shooting. There soon came to be a " Haggerston 
gorse" at Woolstaston, and many long days he spent 
with rod or gun in those happy hunting-grounds 
either alone or with his friends. He writes of one of 
his shooting expeditions that it was " a day to be 
remembered (as the old Romances say) ' right 
joyously.' " 

From these holidays he would return with a tre- 
mendous fund of energy. His power of work was 
enormous. For many years he would write letters 
up to 3.0 a.m. for the late post — until, to the relief 
of his friends, the hour of collection was changed 
to midnight — and would be down to breakfast next 
morning at eight. He would throw himself with 
gusto into a fight, for he certainly did like, perhaps 
because he was a soldier's grandson, 

" To drink delight of battle with [his] peers," 
as much as most men. But it was not only for the 



42 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

joy of fighting : the causes he fought for were very 
dear to him, and he was prepared to make, and made, 
the greatest sacrifices for them, just as his ancestors 
had done for the RoyaHst cause in the days of 
Charles I. The times and the circumstances were 
different, but the chivalrous spirit was still there. 
Again and again he came into conflict with the 
London School Board, one part}' in which made it 
its avowed policy to introduce a system of universal 
board schools. More than once sites were scheduled 
for board schools close to the St. Paul's Schools, and 
when that happened Stone was in a moment off on 
the warpath. Bishops and statesmen would be bom- 
barded with letters, the Education Department and 
the School Board itself would be personally inter- 
viewed, and he would allow no one any rest until the 
matter was decided — and decided time after time in 
his favour. If it came to a decree from the Depart- 
ment that he should make some alteration in the 
schools involving considerable outlay, he would write 
whole sheaves of begging letters, till those who ad- 
dressed his appeals for him would tell how the neigh- 
bouring pillar-boxes were choked with their volume. 
Again and again he staved off the advent of the board 
schools, and managed to keep them at such a distance 
from his own schools as to prevent their draining 
them of their numbers, as the lower fees which their 
access to the rates enabled them to charge would 
very speedily have done. For though in the days 



ST. PAUL'S, HAGGERSTON 43 

before free education some of the better-class parents 
preferred to pay the higher fee at St. Paul's Schools 
for the sake of the Church teaching, and also for the 
sake of the refinement which was to be found there, 
of course the majority wished to send their children 
where they had least to pay. After one such victory 
over the Board, Stone came home in the very highest 
spirits, having picked up on his way home some snipe 
and some Smyrna figs, on which he bade his curates 
— who lived in the vicarage — to regale with him as at 
a bump-supper ! It is not surprising that one of the 
keenest supporters of the Board School system spoke 
of him as "the most tyrannical priest in East London." 
Whenever there was a School Board election he was 
always to the fore with letters to the local papers 
and diligent canvassing of his parish. This vigour 
of character enabled him to keep up his schools 
when many another would have let them go, and 
to succeed in enlarging them until they held eight 
hundred children. This was done by sheer hard 
work in collecting money. 

He also built in the same way in the poorest 
quarter of the parish a beautiful little mission church, 
with a tiny chancel separated from the body of the 
church by a pointed arch of brick with good mouldings, 
behind which a heavy curtain was dropped when the 
place was used for mothers' meetings or for Sunday- 
school — a Sunday-school where the boys would 
come in summer in their shirt sleeves, and the girls 



44 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

were hardly less wild than the boys, so that the task 
of exercising much control over them on the annual 
summer excursion into the country was much like 
trying to lead young leopards on a silken chain. 
This fresh development of work, together with the 
maintenance of that already in existence, meant a 
constant burden of financial anxiety. It is this strain 
which wears out so many of our finest parish priests. 
And in the end it wore Stone out. 

For alongside of all this force and energy there 
was the sensitive poetic temperament, which, just 
because it keenly felt and sympathised, had such 
power to elevate and to inspire. He saw poetry 
everywhere, and carried a poetical atmosphere about 
with him, so that he even managed to create it in his 
East End parish. Like the setting sun, his imagina- 
tion gilded and glorified common things and common 
natures. He brought, just as did his friend Bishop 
How, a breath of the country with him into the East 
End. Bishop How came from his lovely Shropshire 
parish to be Bishop of Bedford in 1879. Haggerston 
was not at first included in the Bishop's special dis- 
trict, as it was later, or we should no doubt have had 
a portrait of Stone from his pen amongst his series of 
sonnets entitled Jkfy Clergy. Bishop How always had 
much of the country atmosphere about him, and it 
came like water in the desert to the dweller in the 
East End. The country, especially in its wilder and 
more romantic aspects, naturally appealed to Stone. 



ST. PAUL'S, HAGGERSTON 45 

He travelled little, and was only once or twice on the 
Continent, but every year he found fresh inspiration 
in the Shropshire hills, for his holidays there were 
not only dedicated to sport but also produced poetry 
as well. London, too, had an unending fascination 
for him, and he would not have wished to live or die 
away from it. He delighted in going through the 
silent streets at night, and especially when there had 
been a sudden fall of snow, which, as yet unmarked 
by wheel or footstep, hid with its " saintly veil of 
maiden white" everything ugly and foul. In his 
later years lona became a sort of fairy isle to him. 
He went there again and again, usually staying in a 
very rough little inn, but later on with the Bishop of 
Argyll and the Isles in the house which he had built 
there. To the little chapel of the house Stone gave 
an altar-cross and candles, and he was made intensely 
happy by being able to celebrate the Eucharist in the 
isle of saints. He rejoiced in the wild scenery, the 
bare rocks and the waves, and grew to be inspired 
with almost a worship for Columba and his work, as 
is to be seen in his last volume of poems, the Lays of 
lona. 

He brought poetry to bear as an educative force in 
his parish. Amongst his workers he found many 
whom he was able to inspire with something of his 
own love for the poets of his choice, for Tennyson 
and the Christian Year and Mrs. Browning. He had 
a great belief in poetry as a valuable instrument of 



46 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

elevation and refinement, especially when united with 
Church teaching, on the refining influence of which 
he would constantly insist. He gave theoretical ex- 
pression to this idea in a paper he once wrote on The 
Connexioft between Poetry and Church Revival, and the 
practical outcome of it was to be seen in many of 
the band of workers which he gathered round him. 
Added to this there were his own hymns and poems, 
which were largely interwoven with his parish work 
and had much influence upon it. Did anyone of note 
in the life of the parish die, he would embalm their 
memory in a sonnet ; did his teachers or his guild 
need a hymn, the vicar wrote it. It is easily seen 
that this was a great source of influence in his parish. 
But his poetical temperament had other issues than 
in writing. It blended with the highest spiritual 
qualities in his nature and gave them a good part 
of their effect upon his people. The result was seen 
in his chivalry, in his idealism, and in his love of 
souls. No one was more ready than he to champion 
the oppressed or to give the fallen a helping hand. 
He would spare neither pains nor time nor money 
in such a cause. Anyone who claimed his help found 
that he gave it with both hands. His generosity was 
amazing ; he was ready to give away all he had, and 
instance after instance might be quoted of the 
pecuniary help he gave to people, some of whom 
had no sort of claim upon him. Cases which others 
dismissed as impossible he was willing to take up ; 



ST. PAUKS, HAGGERSTON 47 

when others had despaired he was the last to aban- 
don hope. His care for women and children was 
one of his most notable characteristics. In a woman 
or a child there was something which irresistibly 
appealed to him. It has been already said how 
specially he loved his infants' school. At Haggers- 
ton, if he visited it near closing time he would beg 
the mistress to keep the children back for a few 
minutes until he got away, for otherwise he knew 
that legs, arms, pockets, and even shoulders would be 
besieged by the little creatures. On one occasion a 
somewhat harsh inspector had visited the infant 
school, and when Stone entered he found the teachers 
reduced to tears and general gloom prevailing. Out 
rushed the vicar, and in a few minutes returned laden 
with two hundred and fifty bags of sweets, which he 
proceeded to distribute amongst the children. Such 
a vicar was obviously irresistible. 

His chivalrous loyalty to his people was warmly 
reciprocated ; it was of a piece with his loyalty to 
his Church, his Queen, and his parents. It was in 
part due to his unquenchable idealism. Idealism 
has, as the world is always forward to point out, a 
weak side, and there were those who were quite 
ready to say that Stone was so blind that he got 
terribly imposed upon. This, no doubt, was some- 
times the case. But if it was, the harm which came 
in some instances from his taking geese for swans 
was very far outweighed by the good which resulted 



48 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

in many others, for Stone had an unique power of 
setting before people an ideal standard. He idealised 
the Church, and he made people see the grandeur 
and beauty of his own conception. He idealised his 
parish, and brought his communicants to feel their 
relation to him and to each other and to their Lord, 
and to realise in practice the meaning of Christian 
brotherhood. But, above all, he had the power of 
seeing the ideal in the most unpromising natures, 
of seeing what by grace they might become, and, 
by imparting to them his own vision, of making 
them rise to heights which they never thought them- 
selves capable of attaining. Where his idealism 
acted on sympathetic natures it acted as the most 
potent stimulus. By appealing to their spiritual 
imaginations, he taught them to glorify the grey 
monotony and dulness of their lives. What he most 
admired in character was the union of strength and 
tenderness. He exhibited this union in his own 
nature, and he called forth the same combination of 
qualities in many others. 

From what has been said it will be sufficiently clear 
that Stone's great power as a parish priest lay in 
dealing with individuals. He had, indeed, a real and 
deep love of souls, and this was the outcome of his 
fervent love of his Master, a love to which he would 
give constant expression in his sermons, as also in his 
hymns and poems. " Who loved me and gave Him- 
self for me" were words which were constantly on 



ST. PAUUS, HAGGERSTON 49 

his lips. A personal love for Christ was what he 
would hold up to his people as the heart and centre 
of a Christian life. It was the centre of his own, 
and it meant for him not only personal devotion to 
a Saviour, but a like devotion to those He came to 
save. His incessant care for an individual was some- 
thing very remarkable. In sickness he would throw 
into his visits all the intensity he possessed, and if 
the sick person were one of his workers he would 
be untiring in his ministrations. In one case where 
one of his teachers was for some time lying between 
life and death he used not only to pay a pastoral 
visit once or twice a day, but would also make a 
point of calling to inquire for a last message between 
one and two o'clock in the morning as he went out 
to post his letters. In fact, for his teachers and 
workers he showed the most solicitous care. He 
would, for instance, remember their birthdays and 
mark them by some small gift. " I know," said one 
of them, " that almost every book or picture I may 
wish to show to a visitor is a present from my vicar." 
In the case of the day-school teachers he would take 
care to tell their successes to parents and visitors, 
and he was always desirous to do everything he 
could to inspire and encourage them in what, with 
all its rewards and advantages, must always remain 
a difficult and monotonous profession. 

His influence over individuals became in Stone's 
hands the chief weapon in his attack on the masses 

E 



50 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

of his large parish. It may be said that, broadly 
speaking, there are two methods of working a parish, 
the method of working from the centre to the 
circumference, or else from the circumference to the 
centre. In some parishes the chief effort will be 
concentrated in gathering a devout band of com- 
municants whose influence shall be as leaven, and 
from amongst whom the workers in the parish and 
the teachers in the schools shall be recruited. In 
others effort will be rather directed towards filling 
the church and the mission rooms by such means 
as open-air services and house-to-house visiting 
combined with popular services and sermons, and 
then to gradually forming out of this general con- 
gregation the inner band of communicants. The 
ideal parish, if such there be, would perfectly com- 
bine both these methods. Every parish priest will 
obviously desire to adopt them both, only one man 
will naturally give himself more, as he feels a greater 
gift for it, to direct evangelistic work, another more 
to the task of instructing and building up the faithful 
and to working through them upon others. Now 
Stone's great strength lay in "confirming the faithful." 
Browning's well-known line — 

"Tis the taught already that profit by teaching" — 

might very well have served as a motto for him. 
Not that he had no influence in reclaiming the 
prodigal — in some cases he had most remarkable 



ST. PAUUS, HAGGERSTON 51 

influence— but his real forte lay in imparting to the 
elder brother of the parable, to him who never had 
strayed from the right way, all the treasures of his 
Father's house. He was, in short, first of all the 
pastor and only after that the evangelist. 

This was seen in his parochial methods and also in 
his teaching. Curates, churchwardens and sidesmen, 
lay readers, day and Sunday-school teachers, and the 
rest of the workers and Church officials he bound to 
himself in the closest possible way. For his curates 
and his day-school teachers there was week by week 
a short devotional service. For the Sunday-school 
teachers there was the same every month. Then 
there was a Church Society and Guild with frequent 
meetings and a rule of Communion. Thus he was 
brought into constant touch with all the communi- 
cants. 

Of his care for the day-school teachers something 
has already been said. They reflected his influence 
in the school. He pledged them to bring unbaptised 
children to Baptism, so that from the infants' school 
upwards the children were in the atmosphere of the 
Church and under the influence of the religious tone 
which pervaded the schools. Thus the schools for 
which he fought so often and so manfully became the 
seed-bed of the Church, and in them many sons 
indeed grew up " as the young plants," many 
daughters became " as the polished corners of the 
temple." When Stone accepted the living he nailed 



52 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

his colours to the mast with respect to the schools. 
" I must tell you plainly," he said to a public meeting 
of parishioners, " if I cannot carry on the schools I 
will not give them up to the School Board, but I will 
give up my charge of the parish. I say most 
solemnly, and I make the vow before God — believing 
that any clergyman who with his eyes open gives up 
his schools to the Board and puts them out of the 
protection of the Church, the one true keeper of the 
Word, the true testifier of the Incarnation, is putting 
an offence in the way of these little ones from coming 
to Christ, and that it were therefore ' better for him 
that a millstone were hanged about his neck and that 
he were cast into the depths of the sea ' — believing 
that I say, May God do so to me, and more also, if I 
give up my schools, or so depart from my interpreta- 
tion of the truth of the Church of Christ." 

The schools were the nursery ground. From them 
he drew the majority of his Confirmation candidates. 
Confirmation was, in Stone's view, the great oppor- 
tunity of the parish priest. Then, if ever, the bias 
was to be given which should direct the whole future 
life. He regarded Confirmation not so much as a 
turning-point — though that it must be in the first 
instance — as a new starting-point, the beginning of 
the communicant life. To his classes he would 
almost literally compel the lads and girls to come in, 
not necessarily, by any means, to be confirmed, but 
in order to be instructed, and very likely after that to 



ST. PAUKS, HAGGERSTON 53 

be put back for another year. The preparation 
lasted at least a couple of months, and each candi- 
date, besides the instruction in class, was most 
carefully dealt with individually. Then, after Con- 
firmation, there were the Guild and Church Society 
ready to receive them. As time went on he saw 
many weddings between members of the Church 
Society — " communicant," as he used to say, " wed- 
ding communicant" — and a new generation of 
children born in the very bosom of the Church, 
beginning, as their parents had done, in the babies' 
room of the infant school. 

All this, it will be said, is to be found in many 
parishes, and it may thankfully be admitted that a 
good deal of it is. But there can be few parishes 
in which so marked a family feeling exists as existed 
in St. Paul's, Haggerston. Stone was exceedingly 
open about himself, and would tell his people many 
intimate details of his life which most men would 
not talk about even to those nearest to them. But 
he meant what he was saying when he called his 
people "my sons" or "my daughters." He always 
regarded them as standing in this spiritual relation to 
himself One little sign of it was his habit of calling 
even quite old people by their Christian names. He 
told his people all about himself and his doings, and 
in return he expected a similar unreserve and open- 
ness on their side, and he got it. Stone was always 
entirely human, and his people, living on the terms 



54 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

which they did with him, thoroughly knew his weak- 
nesses as well as his strength, and they only loved 
him the more for them. In this way there came to 
be established in a very striking form between vicar 
and congregation that beautiful and sacred pastoral 
relationship which every parish priest must desire to 
see existing in his parish. Stone became in a truly 
Pauline sense the father of his people. 

The congregation of St. Paul's, Haggerston, was 
mainly, in fact almost entirely, a congregation of 
communicants, and at the great festivals several 
hundreds would come to the altar. Nothing, per- 
haps, was a better evidence of Stone's influence 
than the two hundred or more who would com- 
municate very early in the morning, before their 
day's work, on Ascension Day. It was a sight not 
to be forgotten. One of the striking features of a 
festival celebration was always the presence of three 
or four blind people, each of whom would be led up 
to the altar and back by a friendly hand. 

It was to a congregation of this kind that Stone 
addressed himself in his sermons. It has been said 
with much truth that each preacher has his own 
particular audience, and will appeal to one particular 
class of hearers. This may not be all the truth, but 
no doubt most preachers cannot get into touch with 
every congregation, and certainly it is only the con- 
gregation which is in perfect sympathy with the 
preacher which will draw out what is best in him. 



ST. PAULAS, HAGGERSTON 55 

This was the case at St. Paul's, Haggerston. Stone 
far preferred talking to his own people to preaching 
elsewhere. He had no desire at all for fame as a 
preacher. His sermons as a general rule were for 
the most part addressed to those who were already 
taught in the Faith. They made for edification 
rather than conversion. Yet, on the other hand, he 
had a great power of drawing people out of luke- 
warm and conventional churchmanship into fervour 
and reality, as, for instance, of inducing elder people 
to offer themselves for Confirmation — a step which 
means so much when it is taken in mature life. And 
on a special occasion, as on Good Friday or at the 
midnight service on New Year's Eve, he knew how 
to appeal with the most telling force to " them that 
are without," and he used to say in reply to those 
who found fault with midnight services as tending to 
unhealthy sensationalism, that it was nearly always the 
case that one at any rate of those who had strayed 
into the church that evening was permanently won. 

His intensity of conviction it was which gave him 
this power, and it was this same intensity which held 
his congregation attentive for sometimes forty or fifty 
minutes. In his exposition of Scripture he had great 
power of drawing out the depths of spiritual mean- 
ing in a passage. Sometimes, indeed, the sermon 
would be merged in a meditation. His poetry 
asserted itself in full force in his preaching, and 
would sometimes move him to great eloquence. But 



56 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

it was usually seen in his choice or presentment of 
a subject. Thus he would frequently take some 
hymn or poem and comment upon it. In a volume of 
his Parochial Sermons, which has been published since 
his death, there is a sermon on "November." In 
another sermon he quaintly compares the company 
of All Saints to a great picture-gallery, admission to 
which is gained by payment of the three coins of 
Faith, Hope, and Love. But he was never merely 
eloquent or merely poetical. Underneath there was 
always burning that flame of personal love for Jesus 
Christ which the dullest hearer could not fail to see 
and feel. 

A word must be said of one branch of work which 
was carried on in connexion with his parish. Stone 
inherited from his father a deep interest in God's 
ancient people, the Jews, and for many years the 
Rev. M. Rosenthal, now Vicar of St. Mark's, White- 
chapel, whose self-denying life-work amongst the 
Jews of East London has come to be generally 
known in the Church of England, was licensed to 
him as his curate. It was a strange sight to see the 
boys' schoolroom filled with a frowsy crowd of un- 
kempt Polish Jews, singing in Yiddish, Lord, I hear 
of showers of blessing : it was a still stranger sight 
to see an adult baptism, when the converts would be 
followed into church by a fierce-eyed, muttering crowd 
of their fellows, who would threaten acts of personal 
violence alike to priests and converts, threats which, 



^Ri 



ST. PAUL'S, HAGGERSTON 57 

happily, they seldom if ever managed to put into 
practice. Strangest and most moving of all it was 
to be present at a choral Hebrew Eucharist, when 
one seemed, as it were, to be hearing the Church 
of Jerusalem in the first days lifting up " their voice 
with one accord" in praise of the Crucified. This 
Jewish work, which had its headquarters at St. Paul's, 
Haggerston — though there were few, if any, Jews 
living within the limits of the parish — made, as might 
be expected, a deep impression upon the parishioners. 

So for twenty years Stone laboured in the East 
End. He refused every offer of work elsewhere, in- 
cluding a colonial bishopric, and every year drew 
him closer to his people, who indeed showed them- 
selves not unworthy of their parish priest. "The 
Church folk of East London," he wrote in the preface 
to his last volume of poems, " are among the noblest 
of the sons and daughters of the Church, not only 
as regards the much endurance and long patience 
of their lives, their sincerity, high-mindedness and 
courage, their freedom from self-indulgence and in- 
dolence on the one hand and from narrowness and 
stolidity on the other . . . but also because of their 
keen and animated interest in all that concerns their 
Mother in Christ, and their consecrated zeal for His 
sake in her service." 

In the case of a man like Stone, whose power lay 
so much in the strong personal ties by which he 
bound his people to him, it may be asked whether, 



58 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

when those ties were relaxed by his leaving the 
parish, the result was not that the congregation was 
dispersed. This is the weak point of some ministries, 
but it was not so at St. Paul's, Ilaggerston. Stone's 
successor, the Rev. H. W. Goodhart, a man of a beau- 
tiful nature though of quite a different type, wrote 
thus after Stone's death, which took place ten years 
after he left the parish : " You may have thought 
that his influence here was not felt so greatly since 
he went from here. Yet, even though he had left, he 
had so influenced the lives of those who came in 
contact with him, that that influence has been handed 
on through them to others, and his name is as much 
known here, I believe, as ever it was." That some 
part of this was due to the influence of Mr. Goodhart 
himself — who also was called early to his rest only a 
few months later — cannot be doubted ; but his words 
are a strong witness to the fact that Stone attached 
people not merely to himself, but also through him- 
self to his Master. 

All this twenty years' work — " work which," wrote 
Temple (then Bishop of London), with that economy of 
commendation which was more eloquent than another 
man's elaborate praise, " few men could have done as 
you have done it " — had left its mark upon him, and 
he was fast breaking down in health, and indeed there 
were threatenings of an utter nervous collapse, when 
in 1890 he was presented by the Lord Chancellor to 
the Rectory of All Hallows', London Wall. 



IV 
ALL HALLOWS', LONDON WALL 

1890-1900 

A LL HALLOWS', London Wall, is a small City 
JL\. church a few hundred yards from Broad Street 
and Liverpool Street stations. It is not a new 
church, but it is a dingy brick building with classic 
tower of the time of George II. The ugliness of 
its exterior is, however, relieved by one or two trees 
which stand in its strip of churchyard, and are as 
refreshing to the eye as the tree immortalised by 
Wordsworth, which happily still stands in Wood 
Street, Cheapside. The church is built on the site 
of a part of London Wall, in the street of that 
name, and its octagonal vestry marks the shape of 
a bastion of the wall. Though the present building 
is only Georgian, there was a church on the same 
site from very early times. 

One of the first things the new rector discovered 
were some most precious churchwardens' accounts, 
which were lying hid in a coffer in the vestry, and 
which were found actually to date back to the reign 

59 



6o MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

of Henry IV. They are written on paper, and the 
writing is usually beautifully clear. They contain 
many interesting details, and amongst much else 
there are references to one " Symon the anker," 
whose cell occupied the site of the present vestry. 
This anchorite was an M.A. of Oxford, a man of 
means, who made many and liberal gifts to the 
church and also left money to it in his will. He was 
the author of A Treatise on the Fruites of Redemp- 
tion, a copy of which is to be found in the British 
Museum. These meditations are most simple and 
spiritual addresses, probably preached during Lent, 
and afterwards printed, as he says, in English, for 
the sake of the ignorant. He tells us that the book 
had been " overseen " and approved by the Bishop of 
London, and he concludes the treatise thus : " If 
there are any," he says, " who have been comforted 
by these simple words — then, let them pray for the 
soul of the wretched Symon, anker of London 
Wall." 

This queer little church, packed away amongst 
huge blocks of offices and warehouses, had fallen 
on evil days. It was dark, musty, and depressing, 
and might well be thought to afford an unanswerable 
argument for those who inveigh against the useless- 
ness of City churches and are loud in their demand 
for their abolition. Indeed, it had only barely escaped 
destruction, and as its demolition had come to be 
regarded as merely a question of time, very few repairs 



ALL HALLO WS\ LONDON WALL 6i 

had been done of late years, and it now presented, 
both without and still more within, an appearance of 
the most sombre and unrelieved gloom. 

The new rector, therefore, had to "solve the 
problem of the City church," and the solutions which 
he attempted are of much interest. The first thing, 
obviously, was to take the interior in hand. This 
he did with his usual thoroughness. A good architect 
was called in, and the church was found to contain 
much of that excellent English Renaissance work 
which, now that we have got rid of the idea that 
everything else than Gothic is profane, is seen to 
lend itself to reverent and artistic treatment. There 
had never been gas in the church, and so the fine 
old spider chandeliers for thirty candles were found, 
when cleaned, to be in excellent condition, and were 
easily adapted for electric light. The three-decker 
pulpit and the high pews were cut down and the 
wood used for panelling all round the church. 
Soft and harmonious colour was introduced, a digni- 
fied altar placed in the little apse with its honey- 
combed ceiling, and the altarpiece, which represents 
the healing of St. Paul's blindness, a good copy 
by Dance of an Italian picture, carefully cleaned and 
restored. Stone spent upon this restoration more 
than a year's income of the living, and not being 
able to depend on private means, was contented to 
live during that time without a home of his own. 

It remained to make the church a spiritual temple 



62 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

in tlic heart of the City. Stone tried to do this in 
three especial ways. 

First of all it was to be a sanctuary, newly beauti- 
fied, warmed, and, when necessary, lighted. Its doors 
stood open all day. It soon came to be visited 
by numbers of people, who would enter the church, 
some for a few moments of quiet prayer, some for 
just a rest, some simply out of curiosity. Few 
people would believe how many drift in from the 
currents of traffic which are always setting through 
the City into such a haven as this. A record was 
kept at All Hallows', and it was found that in one 
year a most surprising number of people had in this 
way visited the church. Whatever the motive which 
drew them thither, the mere fact of such a sanctuary 
being open through the day for passing feet to enter 
goes far to justify the continued existence of a City 
church. 

Then there was the task of making it more really 
a house of prayer than before. The circumstances 
of a City church must be borne in mind. In the 
case of All Hallows' the day population would be, 
perhaps, 10,000, the night population was 150. In 
other words, during the daytime the offices and 
warehouses of which the parish solely consists are 
swarming with life ; at night they are left in the 
charge of a few caretakers. These caretakers, then, 
make up the resident population. But it is to the 
floating day population of the City that the City 



ALL HALLOWS\ LONDON WALL 63 

church has to minister. The City rector must say, 
adapting John Wesley's words, " All the City is my 
parish." This is, of course, recognised nowadays 
on all hands by many vigorous London incumbents, 
and the midday service, with a sermon, either in 
the church or from an outside pulpit, is almost a 
matter of course. 

Stone did not proceed exactly on these lines. He 
first of all restored the weekly and Saints' Day 
Eucharist, and then formed a Litany Guild. The 
members of the guild were communicants whose 
occupation lay in the City. Its objects were ^'Gener- 
ally, the promotion of the habit of occasional prayer, 
beyond ordinary use ; specially, the better observance 
of the rule of the Church as regards the week-day 
use of the Litany." The means by which they were 
to be attained were to be '■'Generally, the habit of 
ejaculatory prayer ; specially, the public or private 
use of the Litany." Before long, between twenty 
and thirty members, almost an equal number of 
either sex, were to be found every Wednesday and 
Friday at Litany in All Hallows'. Others attended 
in other City churches, or said the first part of the 
Litany privately. 

There was yet another use to be found for All 
Hallows', and this a new and very striking one. In 
1898 the Rev. R. S. Gregory, Vicar of Edmonton, 
asked the authorities of the East London Church 
Fund whether they could find him a church, near 



64 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

Liverpool Street and Broad Street stations, which 
the vicar would consent to open early in the morning, 
as a haven of rest for the girls and women living in 
his huge parish, between the hour of their arrival 
from Edmonton and the time when the City work- 
shops and offices in which they were employed were 
opened. These workers come up at a very early 
hour in order to take advantage of the workmen's 
trains, and it was found that they were forced either 
to remain in the waiting-rooms at the stations or to 
wander about the streets. All Hallows', London Wall, 
was obviously the church for the purpose, and Stone 
eagerly threw himself into the scheme. It was de- 
cided to open the church from 6.30 to 8.30 a.m., well 
warmed and lighted, during the winter months. 
Handbills were distributed at the stations and in the 
parish of Edmonton, and on January 9th, 1899, ^^^ 
experiment was begun. The first day nobody ap- 
peared, but next day one came, and the following 
day eight, and in a short time the church was full 
every morning, with an average of a hundred and 
sixty girls and women. 

This new departure naturally attracted a good 
deal of attention, and called forth in some quarters 
a certain amount of criticism. It may be said at 
once that it was in every way a success. During the 
two hours the church was open sacred music was 
played, interspersed sometimes with solos, and at 
7,30 a ten minutes' service was held. Books were 



ALL HALLOWS', LONDON WALL 65 

provided, not only religious books, but books of 
history and the like, bound volumes of magazines, 
and such stories as those of Miss Yonge. Knitting 
and needlework were permitted, but no one was 
allowed to talk, to eat, or to read newspapers. The 
Press soon got to hear of the venture, and the repre- 
sentative of the Westmhister Gazette^ who may be 
taken to be an entirely unbiased witness, reported 
that on the occasion of his visit he found " nearly 
everyone reading or kneeling." There was never any 
cause of complaint on the score of irreverence, and 
when the winter was over the girls themselves 
petitioned that the church should be kept open 
during the summer. The early opening thus became 
an established thing, and it only remained to make 
similar provision for the men. This has been done 
by Stone's successor, who, beginning by providing a 
tent in the little churchyard, was eventually able, 
in 1902, to see it replaced by a permanent building. 
At least one other City church has since followed 
the example set at All Hallows', and has thrown 
open its doors for the same purpose. The words of 
Longfellow's sonnet occur to the mind — 

" Oft have I seen at some cathedral door 

A labourer, pausing in the dust and heat. 
Lay down his burden, and with reverent feet 

Enter, and cross himself, and on the floor 

Kneel to repeat his paternoster o'er ; 

Far off the noises of the world retreat ; 
The loud vociferations of the street 

Become an indistinguishable roar." 

F 



66 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

And one is led to hope that what struck the American 
poet, as it strikes most travellers, as a common feature 
of continental Church life may one day be no less 
common in our own Communion. 

There was no rectory belonging to All Hallows', 
and for the greater part of the time he held the living 
Stone lived on the heights at Clapton, coming down 
every day to spend many hours in the vestry of his 
church in reading and writing and in interviews with 
those who came to him for advice and counsel. 
During the course of his ministry there were many 
at all times who so came. This of course entailed a 
considerable strain, not the least part of which was 
the constant burden of correspondence. With regard 
to this most responsible and difficult part of the 
pastoral office, it may be said that Stone's spiritual 
letters had a thoroughly manly tone, and were per- 
meated with common sense. " Fasting," he wrote on 
one occasion, " in a climate like this means simply 
* away with any redundancy or luxury.' " Much work 
of this kind was done within the walls of the old 
vestry ; and so constantly was he to be found there, 
that his friends used laughingly to speak of him as 
another " Symon the anker." 

Stone had hoped, when he was relieved from his 
heavy labours at Haggerston, that he might be able 
to give himself largely to literary work. But twenty 
years of the " burden and heat of the day " had told 
on him severely, and had much impaired the fresh- 



ALL HALLOWS', LONDON WALL 67 

ness of his powers in this as in other directions. 
This is to be noticed in the second volume of his 
collected poems, the Lays of lona, which he pub- 
lished in 1897, for the most successful portions of 
it consist of the poems and hymns written a good 
many years earlier. The lona poems do not show 
Stone at his best, although he gave an immense 
amount of care and trouble to them, and himself 
regarded them as, he wrote, " the literary effort of 
my life." " Not one page," he goes on, " has been 
written without prayer for the consecration of the 
Holy Ghost." We may recognise the spirit which 
animated the author, while we are obliged to confess 
that seriousness of purpose is not enough to make 
good poetry. In fact, the lona poems are very largely 
spoilt by the excessive amount of pains spent upon 
them. Other literary projects were begun, as, for 
instance, more than one story, but these were aban- 
doned before publication. 

During these years, however, he did much valuable 
hymnological work in connexion with Hymns An- 
cient and Modern. He was for many years on the com- 
mittee of the book, and always took great delight in 
the meetings, and he was at work in making notes 
and suggestions for a new edition almost up to the 
day of his death. 

For Stone was gradually approaching the end of 
his earthly ministry. " Better," said Kingsley, " to 
wear out than to rust out,' and Stone, who, however 



6S MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

unlike him in other ways, was singularly like Kingsley 
in the possession of a strong physique in combination 
with highly-strung nerves, was rapidly wearing out. 
He had been in bad health during 1899, and in the 
autumn of that year the grave symptoms appeared 
of a terrible internal disorder. It was on St. Luke's 
Day that the physicians pronounced that the case 
was incurable, and from that time onwards he lived 
face to face with death. 

Some time before this he had moved from Clapton, 
for he was destined to end his days where his school- 
time had been spent, in his dearly-loved Charter- 
house. By the kindness of the master, he was able 
to rent four vacant sets of rooms amongst the 
" Brethren of noble poverty," as the old men are 
called in the similar foundation of St. Cross, at 
Winchester, and here he settled down in the quaint 
old quadrangle, which might belong to an Oxford 
college, though it is only a few steps removed from 
the roar of the City. He knew that he had before 
him weeks, or it might be months, of patient waiting 
and probably of severe suffering. Bishop Creighton, 
himself beginning to tread the same path of pain, 
wrote to him : "It is a sore trial to have to wait in 
patience, but we ' tarry the Lord's leisure ' in many 
ways." Friends came to see him and found him 
cheerful and uncomplaining, delighting in the oppor- 
tunities for reading which he was enjoying for the 
first time for many years, and ready as ever to give 



ALL HALLOWS', LONDON WALL 69 

out to others. As the fact of his illness came to be 
known, hundreds of letters of sympathy poured in, 
numbers of them from people who were quite 
strangers to him, but who had found help in his 
poems or hymns. 

He did not resign his living, but had the help of 
an old friend, who acted as curate to him, and he was 
able to attend the services every Sunday until the 
end, often to celebrate and even once or twice to 
preach. All through 1900 he kept up his interest in 
life, in spite of frequent and increasing attacks of 
pain. At the beginning of his illness he wrote the 
Meditation in a Night of Pain, on p. 1 1 6, which, al- 
though hitherto unpublished, has already brought 
comfort to many sufferers. As the days went on 
his faith and happiness visibly increased. " Mentally 
and spiritually," he wrote, " I am fond of telling my 
friends that I live in a kind of thankful wonder that 
I should be so encompassed by the goodness of God 
and the lovingkindness of men." One of his oldest 
friends whites : " I saw him repeatedly a short time 
before his death, and should not desire to see a more 
manly and Christian approach to the change. The 
interests of his parish were his main thought, and his 
main desire and delight was to be able to take part 
in the services, especially the Eucharist. The im- 
pression he left on all was most salutary and bene- 
ficial, and showed fully the strength of the influence 
which had been the spring of his life." His humility 



70 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

and his deep sense of penitence struck all those who 
saw him. The hymn which was most constantly on 
his lips was one which he had always loved, Cowper's 
Thej-e is a fou7itain filled witJi blood. 

So for just over a year Samuel John Stone walked 
through the valley of the shadow of death, comforted 
by the rod and the staff of the Good Shepherd, The 
crushing attacks of pain increased, and he was worn 
to a grey shadow of his former self. But still his 
interest in life continued fresh and unbroken ; he 
followed every detail of the South African War ; 
he turned again and again to his favourite poets ; 
he constantly saw his friends, still ministered to his 
people, still kept up his spiritual correspondence, 
still Sunday by Sunday came to All Hallows'. On 
his better days he was able to go about in the City ; 
when he was confined to his rooms he used to delight 
in watching the old pensioners feeding their pigeons or 
pacing about below his windows. One of his Windsor 
people, who had been mission woman at Haggerston, 
and now lived with him as housekeeper, tended him 
devotedly to the end. He was cheered by the friend- 
ship of the Master of the Charterhouse and his wife, 
Dr. and Mrs. Haig Brown, and by the ministrations of 
Bishop Ingram, at that time still Bishop of Stepney. 

One night in the middle of November he was told 
that the morning star was shining with exquisite 
beauty, and, getting up, he looked at it with the 
greatest joy and delight, reciting the words of 



ALL hallows; LONDON WALL 71 

Jephthah's daughter from TJie Dream of Fair 

Women — 

" ' Glory to God,' she sang, and past afar, 

Thridding the sombre boskage of the wood, 
Toward the morning star." 

And he kept repeating the words " Glory to God " at 
intervals, sometimes loud and sometimes low, until 
the end, which came rapidly and peacefully a few 
days later, on Monday, November 19th, 1900. Only 
the day before, which was the Twenty-third Sunday 
after Trinity, he had been to All Hallows' for the last 
time. On the very day of his death he had written 
one or two letters, one of which contained the follow- 
ing words : " Sometimes I am in such pain that I can 
neither write nor dictate ; at others, as now, I am just 
able to write ' with mine own hand.' But whether at 
the worst or the best in a bodily state, you will rejoice 
with me to hear that, spiritually , I am not only in 
patience but in joy of heart and soul." Miss Yonge's 
Heartsease was afterwards found on his table lying 
open at the second chapter, his spectacles upon the 
page. On the table at the other side of his chair, 
within reach of his hand, was his favourite copy of 
Tennyson, well used and full of many notes. The 
summons had come quickly at the last. A few hours 
of unconsciousness, and one more Carthusian had 
answered Adsiim. 

The funeral took place four days later, on Friday, 
November 23rd. The first part of the service was 



72 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

taken at All Hallows' by the Bishop of Stepney. 
Half an hour or more before the service began a 
little bird flew in at one of the windows of the 
church, and in the perfect stillness trilled for a 
moment or two what fancy might deem the fare- 
well dirge of the beasts and birds for the poet and 
lover of nature. It was an incident" which Stone 
himself would have dearly loved. The little church 
was presently crowded with a sorrowful congrega- 
tion, where, besides his relations, old friends and old 
curates, together with numbers from his two London 
parishes, and many others who had felt his influence 
in various ways, were held in the bonds of a common 
and heartfelt grief. The strains of The Church's one 
Foundation rang out, and as the congregation took 
up the words the walls of the little church seemed to 
fall away and the gloom of the November day to 
disperse as they sang of 

"union 
With God the Three in One, 
And mystic sweet communion 
With those whose rest is won." 

Never before, one would suppose, although the 
hymn has been sung by no less than millions of 
Church people in all lands — alike at Lambeth con- 
ferences and in mud-walled African villages, at great 
cathedral festivals and in tiny country churches, by 
Archbishop Benson and a party of working-men in 
his private chapel, and at open-air services in 



ALL HALLOWS\ LOxNDON WALL 73 

the slums — never did it fall on the ear with more 
moving and inspiring meaning than when it was sung 
as his requiem over the coffin which held all that was 
mortal of its author. 

The contrast of feeling was startling on passing 
from the church into the street. It was high noon 
in the City, and the funeral procession came out into 
the midst of the swarming press of hurrying feet. 
The business men remained arrested for a moment 
by the unusual sight, and then the human tide surged 
on as before. 

A little later the mourners met again at Norwood, 
where the service at the graveside was said by one 
of his old curates. The cemetery at Norwood lies, 
as it were, between the country and the town, just 
beyond the roar of London, which had become so 
dear to him, in a spot from which there is a wide 
prospect of the Surrey hills. His grave is marked by 
a tall lona cross. 

We live in an age when life spins on so rapidly 
that the memory of our greatest and our best serves 
soon to grow dim and distant, for 

" Each day brings its petty dust 
Our soon choked souls to fill 
And we forget because we must, 
And not because we will." 

But if the poet, as Horace knew, can escape oblivion 
by his verse, the poet who has written a great hymn 
will live through many generations on the lips of 



74 MEMOIR OF S. J. STONE 

men. Of this immortality the author of The Church's 
one Foundation is secure. Yet it is but a cold immor- 
tality if the poet lives merely as a name and nothing 
more, if his personality is obliterated and the features 
of the man himself are no longer to be discerned. 
In the foregoing pages, then, the writer has attempted 
to preserve, for the generations to come, the features 
not only of the sacred poet, but also of the parish 
priest, of whom at his death his Bishop wrote that, 
"few men in the diocese have lived such useful lives of 
quiet beneficence, or have given more beautiful ex- 
amples of a Christian life." These are the words of 
Bishop Creighton, who, beneath a brilliancy of in- 
tellect which all admired, had a full measure of the 
historian's perception of character, and not only that, 
but also the pastoral eye which is keen to mark the 
beauties and graces of a devout soul. 

So this is the brief record of the life of one whom 
the writer loved, because in him the attractiveness of 
a poetic nature was deepened through the consecra- 
tion given it by the priestly character, and most of 
all because it was impossible not to feel at every 
moment that beneath his cassock a warm human 
heart was always throbbing and beating. 



REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC 
POEMS 



DOWN STREAM TO LONDON 

Written in Temple Gardens, London, 
in memory of March 19-23, 1 86 1. 

The din of the great town is on my ears 
And not the voices of the wood and wave, 
And the lark's warbUng : the pure air and sky, 
With its cloud isles and mountains, is all past ; 
Above me stretches the thick smoke and mist 
That shuts heaven from the city ; and no more 
Beneath me glides the king of silver streams, 
The river of all rivers — yon black flood 
That surges past me now and bears its name 
Is not the Thames I know, the Thames I love. 

Oh for the gleaming river once again, 
That seemed to bear us through a golden age 
In those four days : woods, meadows, hamlets, farms, 
Spires in the vale, and towers upon the hill. 
The great chalk quarries glaring thro' the shade, 
The pleasant lanes and hedgerows, and those homes 
Which seemed the very dwellings of content 
And peace and sunshine — oh for the fresh lawns 
That ran down brightly to the water's edge 
To drink the waves — with freshness never known 

77 



78 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 

In all the glow and glare of other lands. 

Oh for the music of the livelong day, 

The songs of woods and waters, and the lark 

Cleaving his way through the thin air to heaven, 

With that loud carol like a spirit freed 

From chains and darkness. How we sometimes paused 

And let the boat glide at the river's will, 

And how, in the short pause, upon our ears, 

Far in the distance downwards, there would come 

A murmur from the cataract that flowed 

Off from the side-stream — first a low deep hum, 

A very dream of waters ; louder then, 

And still more loud as the swift boat sped on 

Nearer and nearer ; now the full-toned flood 

Drowns with majestic thunder voice and oar 

Till the boat bears us past it ; and the sound 

Throws after us its harmony, and then 

Subsides again into the dream and dies. 

The spirit of the Spring was in the woods, 
And woke within them murmurs that expressed 
A joy of expectation, very low, 
A musing gladness like the voice of one 
Who whispers doubts because he is so sure : 
A prelude to the burst of happy song 
That hails fruition of the promised joy, 
The march of coming Summer through the land. 

Never without our music ! When the woods. 
Left far behind, were lost to ear and eye, 
Or yet below unreached for sight and sound ; 



DOWN STREAM TO LONDON 79 

AVhen trees were rare, or seen far off unheard 
Along the level ; when the waterfalls — 
Melodious visitations far between — 
Were no more with us ; when the lark was down 
Among the furrows, and the rise and fall 
Of that aerial fountain of sweet sound 
Was silent for a season — then perchance 
Would float the chime of bells upon the breeze 
From some old tower, or sound of happy life 
From some bright village, or with distant hum, 
And deepening roll, and palpitating roar, 
Charged down the great fire chariot of the train, 
And passed us like a whirlwind and went by. 
Nor seldom too the boat and we sped on 
With silence on the banks and on the stream 
Save the long swish of oars, the dip, the stroke 
That hurled the troubled water far astern 
In little battling whirlpools, soon at peace ; 
And that was real music in our ears. 
As men that wander upon alien shores 
Hear some loved song of their own land again. 
And feel their blood run quicker : so that sound 
Kept ever stirring pleasant memories 
Of many a bright laborious afternoon 
On the old Isis ; grim experiences 
Of training pulls in eight oars — down the course 
To Iffley, past the lasher, through the lock. 
Then on to Sandford, turn, and home again 
From Iflfliey racing-pace — "lift, lift," and in 
From Saunders' bridge "at 40 ! " Oh the grind 



80 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 

We grumbled at, and loved so for its worth, 

So far above all else for growth of strength 

And moral muscle : then those mighty days 

That brought the Races ; oh the toil, the strife— 

Upon the stream, the rushing regular oars, 

" The music of the many as of one," 

The forward shoot of straightened backs and arms, 

Then the strong lift together ; on the shore 

A shouting frantic crowd— a victory here, 

There a defeat as glorious !— those were days 

Which memory fostered in her safest hold 

And needed Uttle spur to wake again. 

So passed the time— a time that fled on wings 
Too eager for our liking : and at last 
We lost the green fields and the pleasant woods, 
With all their happy voices and glad scenes 
Of beauty and repose. The stream grew dark, 
The light shone fainter through a sky less clear. 
The approaching city tainted wave and air. 
But still we failed not of a fitting close 
To such a voyage. Came a day, our last. 
Which saw us waiting, watching on the shore. 
Among ten thousand eager too as we 
To see the issue— which should bear the palm. 
Our Isis or the Cam, for stalwart sons. 
Broad backs and chests and iron-sinewed arms 
Knit with a resolute courage and strong will 
That shunned not stormy weeks of toil and pains 
To weld their strength with hard-learnt skill, and wm 
The mastery of the waters— aye, and prove 



DOWN STREAM TO LONDON 8i 

In whose veins flowed the truest purest stream 
Of Viking blood and spirit. On they came — 
The throbbing expectation where we stood, 
Far up the course turned every straining eye 
To see who led the way — The dark blue oars ! 
Tis Oxford wins ! — and Cambridge far behind 
Rallied in vain, and the great race was won. 
Be no more said, but that the victor's fame, 
Which pales not set beside the brightest years, 
Sheds lustre on the vanquished, with a grace 
For such a fruitless struggle. But for us 
More than for others 'twas a day indeed 
To be remembered, crowning such a time 
With such a sequel. Now it is all past. 
And all that bright experience of the Thames 
Is but a memory : — but although my eyes, 
In this broad water flowing darkly past, 
See little to recall the clear bright flood 
That bore us down so blithely those four days. 
Yet still it bears thy name, and even here, 
Thou true Pactolus ! heart and voice are fain, 
Despite thy smoky shores and clouded waves, 
To give thee all their little, and heap up 
Full phrase and epithet to speak my love 
And swell thy praise, thou paragon of streams. 
Thou lovely, lordly, mild, majestic Thames ! 



GOOD-BYE TO OXFORD 



"Eheu! fut^aces, Postumc, Postiime, 
Labuntur ;inni." 



Good-bye at last to Oxford ! with full eyes 

I watch the autumn day grow dark and die, 
And see the year put on its saddest guise, 
To sadden this Good-bye. 

This sorrowing rain seems but the tearful grief 

That pride forbids although the heart be fain. 
And that regretful wind seems the relief, 
In utterance, of pain. 

Dim, as I thread the twilight, on my gaze 

The "glorious street" Ues wrapt in misty gloom. 
And in grieved sort like statues of past days 
The old towers darkly loom. 

I hear " Old Tom " announce the dying light, 

The deep hoarse voice that I shall hear no more ; 
Hoarser and deeper seems the note this night 
Than in the days of yore. 

82 



GOOD-BYE TO OXFORD 83 

Good-bye to walls and towers I know so well, 

And love as dearly— most of all to thine^ 
Wherein my lot " in pleasant places " fell, 
Kind Nurse and Mother mine ! 

May Heaven thee prosper ! and good-bye to thee, 

My noble Isis, loved so all these years ; 
Echoes of gallant strife right gloriously 
E'en now ring in mine ears : 

And mingling with them comes a measured strain, 

The tramp and music of a marching band ; 
I fight my bloodless " battles o'er again," 
In arms for father-land. 

"These 'twill be joy to recollect," 'tis said. 

Though with a tinge of sorrow, being gone : 
Oxford, with me the dead past is not dead, 
Though I must needs pass on. 

Should I not love thee ? and for more than these. 
By feasts (ah, sought too waywardly !) of thine 
Where sat the Stagyrite, and Socrates, 
And " Poets poured us wine." 

Aye, and for more ! by all the eager search 

The wisdom-quest of vague perplexed youth : 
By the One Word made sure ; by the One Church 
Known as the Ground of Truth. 

^ Pembroke College. 



84 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 

Good-bye is " God be with thee ! " Even so 

May God thee keep — above all fears I pray — 
Truth's changeless champion, Error's strongest foe, 
Till His own day. 



— •' ^ 



E. B. BROWNING 

OBIIT MDCCCLXI 

Jn /ibcmoriam 

Not, Florence, for the glory of thy skies. 
For those grand mountains, for the golden flow 
Of sweet-voiced Arno through the vale below, 
Not for the Eden land that round thee lies 
With claim for fairest in a land most fair, 
Do men award thee such a crown to wear 

Among the nations. In thee lived and loved 
That Dante whom men call " The Florentine " 
(And spite thine old contempt his fame is thine) ; 
In thee Savonarola died and proved 
His indignation righteous ; and in thee 
Giotto built an immortality : 

These names, nor these alone, do give thy name 
A greater glory e'en than Nature's hand 
In all her large grace to thy Tuscan land, 
Seen through the dark of ages like a flame : 
And now, behold, another Memory throws 
A fair fresh leaf upon thy crowned brows. 

85 



86 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 

Now doubly is our English homage won, 
That thou hast nursed with such a tender care 
An English flower too frail for English air, 
With thy sweet breezes, and thy radiant sun : 
And doubly art thou dear that in thee lies 
All of our greatest poetess that dies. 

Ah ! songless now the full-toned utterance 
That spake the language of such lofty thought 
And passionate feeling to such music wrought, 
What time from Casa Guidi o'er th' expanse 
Of men and minds she gazed on Italy, 
Vexed and upheaving like a troubled sea. 

Lost is the singer that so nobly sang 

God's Truth and Beauty : — closed the wondrous eyes 

That saw so much of heaven beneath the skies : 

Silent the clarion that so sweetly rang : 

And passed the poet from us to that throng 

Where all are poets of diviner song. 

The " Wine of Cyprus " flows for her no more 
Who drinks of better fountains : mysteries, 
Of which she sang in vision, now she sees 
Revealed behind the veil on the far shore. 
In the clear light of that eternal day 
Which after dawning fadeth not away. 



E. B. BROWNING 87 

The " Drama of her Exile " is all done, 

And now with earthly mists no longer dim 

Her eyes are rapt upon those " Seraphim " 

To see whose " wondrous faces " round the throne, 

And hear whose " most sweet music," in past lay 

Our hearts grew solemn as we heard her pray. 

And we who read, " No more vain words be said," 
Seem too to hear the " near Hosannas " roll ; 
And in the bliss that crowns the living soul 
Forget the sorrow brooding o'er the dead : 
Exultant, that the spiritual breath 
Triumphs for ever over pain and death. 



THE BISHOP OF WINCHESTER 



3n ^cmortam 

Another beacon-light blown out above us ; 

Another buoy-bell stilled upon the sea ; 
Another pilot of the hearts that love us 
Passed from our company. 

Blown out, above the coast line frowning grimly ; 

Stilled, o'er the fatal silence of the shoals ; 
Passed, from the few who watch for us undimly 
The Cynosure of souls. 

An hour ago, and how the light was beaming 

O'er iron rocks in smile of tender cheer. 
Or, bravely at our need, a pharos streaming 
O'er surging shocks of fear. 

An hour ago, and as the tide flowed faster, 

And we by dim dread shallows swept along. 
How in our ears full-toned against disaster 
Pealed out the stern sweet song. 

' Bishop Wilberforce, who was killed by a fall from his horse, 

July 19, 1873. [Ed.] 

88 



THE BISHOP OF WINCHESTER 89 

An hour ago, and at the hehii serenely, 

His steadfast eye upon the steadfast Star 
We saw him stand and, lovingly as keenly. 
Steer for the Haven far. 

And now, and in a moment, is all ended ? 

Gloom for the light, and silence for the sound ? 
And by that faithful presence undefended 
Sails on the Homeward-bound ? 

We see, hear, hold him yet ! To our emotion 

Only a change of deeper awe is given ; 
Naught dies upon the spiritual ocean 
That had its life from Heaven. 

Still do we see — not now the changeful splendour 

Lambent or sparkling, leaping through the night — 
But the abiding glow, most deep, most tender, 
A great life's lasting light. 

Still do we hear — not now the silvern laughter 

We loved to catch 'mid many a mightier tone — 
But this — the golden cadence that hereafter 
All memory shall own. 

Still do we hold — not now the presence human, 

Kind, fearless eye, frank hand, and vigorous form — 
But, closer yet, the inner and the true man 
That steered us through the storm ; 



90 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 

To guide us still who loved him ! cheering, warning, 

Past rock and shoal, and through the blinding foam, 
Until the Homeward-bound at the clear morning 
Shall be at last at home. 

Ah, Saint, there are who in the heavenly places, 

After the Vision of the Form Divine, 
Shall greet not one among the blissful faces 
More wistfully than thine ! 



A SEA-SIDE REVERIE 

ON THE PICTURli OF A STILL SEA 

Calm sea : 
One water broad and bright beneath the sun, 
Near and afar, in peace and silence, one ; 
The long shore-shallow with the distant deep, 
One still immensity : 

Infinitude fallen on sleep. 

How bright and beautiful a peace ! 
One fain would listen for the sleeper's breath — 
The giant sleeper, sleeping like a child 
By some sweet mother into rest beguiled — 
For this is calm of slumber, not of death ; 
The mighty pulses only seem to cease ; 
The great heart of the sea, 
Throbbing unheard, invisibly, 
Beats not the less with the resistless power 
Of his fierce anger's most tremendous hour. 
His passions only hide — how soon. 
And whence we know not, there may come 
A cloud across the splendid noon. 
And winds to wake him from this summer swoon ; 

91 



92 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 

And then, no longer dumb, 
Shall his loud tongue tell fearfully and far 
Again the giant girds himself for war ! 

Yet, though this quiet marks no dearth 
Of strength and life — repose but not decay — 
Here lurketh Death ; O great, and strong, and free, 
Death waits to lay his palsying hand on thee ! 
Is it not writ that, on a day 
When sweeter heavens shall smile on purer earth, 
There shall be no more sea ? 
Yea, thou shalt die : 
What matter if thine hour be far or nigh ? 
Lo, not less surely ebbs thy life away 
Than yonder splendour fails from off the land, 
Or thine own dreamy tide is slipping from the strand ! 

Calm Sea : 
Repose how rare, and, as the moments fleet, 
Ever to seem more wonderful and sweet ! 

The little children do not shrink 
To trust their tender steps beyond his brink, 
So faint a ripple rolls he to their feet. 

Only a kiss it seems 
Of one who loves them in the land of dreams. 
Sunny and placid are their childish years : 
Pure pleasure's light, not passion's, in their eyes, 
Calm on the wide depths of their sleeping souls. 
They reck not of such possibilities 
As lie, within my vision, there. 



A SEA-SIDE REVERIE 93 

And make my heart already sick with fears, 
Because already in mine ears 
The wind grows wild, the storm-wave rolls, 

And cries go up in pain, and vows in prayer, 

Mid silences, more dreadful, of despair. 

Uncertain Sea, uncertain Life, 
Of both how fair the calm, how quick the strife ! 

Yet, this side heaven, shall both be dear : 
The " Sea is His " whose are yon depths above. 
And Life is His whose gifts are all of love. 

Away ! thou poor pale Fear, 
O Sea, O Life, for storm or calm we stand 
'Neath the safe keeping of our Father's hand. 

Yet if, O Sea, thou art so dear. 
So dear as this, we cannot spare thee here, 
Shall we not miss thee in the glorious Land ? — 

Nay, for thou pleasest eye and ear. 
Sole image of that longed-for Infinite : 
O image faint and far ! 

So love we as our all of light — 
While here we sojourn — day's majestic star. 
There never to be seen, too dimly bright. 
Nor missed where, born of God, those jasper glories are. 

O Life, despite thine ills, so fair, 
Is this unworthy that we love thee here ? 
O nay, because we hold thee dear 

More gladly will we let thee go, 
For love of thee makes longing to be there, 



94 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 

Beyond thy bounds above, 
Where in immortal fulness we shall know 
The grandeur and the beauty and the love, 
Whereof we had by thee faint foretaste here below. 

O Sea, O Life, 
The pilgrim lingers where he may not dwell. 
Lingers with hopeful heart and loving eyes. 

And with a voice of praise 
For such a grace shed on the weary ways 

That lie between him and the skies ; 
Such grace of calm or grandeur as can tell 
Prophetic stories of that far-off home 
Whereto at last his happy feet shall come. 

So, till his pilgrimage is o'er. 
And till his steps shall cease upon the shore. 
No craven fears his loyal faith shall quell : 
In peace or passion, in repose or strife. 
He loves thee well, O Sea, O Life, he loves thee well ! 



SETTING SAIL 

ON A nCTURE OF THREE CHILDREN ON THE SHORE 

The Spring-tide air was breathing balm 
Upon the waters all the night, 

And scarce they moved when morning calm 
Gave waking soft to slumber light, 

And down the shore came children three 

To launch a mimic argosy. 

Said one — he was a noble boy. 
And at their gallant mock emprise 

Looked keenly, with the glittering joy 
Of dawning purpose in his eyes — 

" Thus will I sail from strand to strand, 

And fight for God and fatherland ! " 

Said one — she was the elder child. 

And older yet in all her ways, 
She was so motherly and mild. 

So meekly wise beyond her days — 
" O'er sea or land I'll never roam, 
While father wants his maid at home." 

95 



96 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 

Then lisped a third — in whose sweet face 
Awoke a wistful dreamy smile, 

Reflection of the loving grace 

Of one whom she had lost awhile — 

" I'll sail away from year to year, 

Until I find my mother dear," 



Full fifty years brought evenfall 
Upon that morning of their life. 

And, scarred with wounds, a seaman tall 
Came slowly homeward from the strife ; 

Long had he served from strand to strand 
The cause of God and fatherland. 

He found a man of ninety years. 

Whose dying eyes were turned to bless 

A maiden old, whose gentle tears 
Fell quicker at that mute caress : 

In death that loving hand and eye 
For him, as ever, still were nigh. 

The third ? She sailed, ah ! long ago, 
And found her mother dear at rest : 

And where ? It is enough to know 
'Twas in an Eden of the blest— 

'Twas far away, beyond the foam, 

She found her mother dear at home. 



THE ANSWER OF THE HILLS 

With 2 St. Peter iii. lo compare Rom. viii. 19-21 

Dear friends among the hills, I sit at home, 
Spending a leisure hour 'twixt toil and toil 
Here in the east of Babylon, and think 
How fair the mornings were a week ago. 
It is, forsooth, September still, but not 
The same September to my eyes and ears ; 
It is not bright, it does not blow ; the eye, 
Dismally peering towards the chimney-tops, 
Sees nothing but a small and sickly sun. 
Fog-stricken ; for so soon the month of mists 
Has sent his haggard herald from the swamps. 
Though he be yet a five weeks' march away, 
To bid us surely look for him ; the ear, 
Amid a medley of suburban sounds, 
Catches not one of nature ; joyfully 
Would it exchange for such a calm as this — 
Doleful and chill as if the air were dead — 
The rush of autumn rains, or that wild roar 
You wot of, such a madness of the winds 
As made one night tremendous, and, alas ! 
Ruined far ofif^ a wonder of the world. 

^ n.M.S. Captain was lost off Cape Finisterre on the night of 
September 7th, 1870. 

H 97 



98 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 

Yet memory holds most dear of all those days 
The calmest ; 'twas a day she will not lose 
Till heart and mind have need no more to search 
The stores of old delight for pleasant food 
Or pastime. Such a day begins below, 
In no faint foretaste, that eternal rest 
Remaining for God's people. Far away 
Seemed the sad world, behind the hills that stood 
Shoulder by shoulder shining in their strength, 
Gigantic warders of a quiet land ; 
Parted for pasture all the vales beneath — 
The long drought over and forgotten — smiled 
With faces fresh and fair, being full at heart 
With gracious rains : the woodland on the slopes 
Looked up with life renewed, rejoicingly, 
As if it stood for praise. For here was peace . 
That was not idle sleep : too real a life, 
Too great a gladness, mingled with the calm 
For slumber ; and the brightness was like song, 
Wide, full, but all too fine for common sound. 
A reverence seemed to temper all the joy, 
And make it worship worthy of that Fane 
Not wrought with hands, whose dome of infinite blue 
O'erarched it all, as peaceful as profound. 
Soothing the soul with vastness ; as it were 
God manifest in awful tenderness 
Over His world. 



THE ANSWER OF THE HILLS 99 

It was the week's first day : 
And 'twixt the hours of morn and evensong 
I lay before those hills, beneath that heaven, 
Among the grasses by the church, and watched 
And felt in all my soul that awfulness 
And beauty of repose. 

One only thought, 
A darkness and a discord, thrust itself 
Into my musing, of that doom of fire 
Which one day shall destroy all earth and heaven. 
But oh, your green hills would not suffer it ! 
There was nor speech nor language, yet my heart, 
As God did give them utterance, could hear 
Their voice interpreting His word. 

But read. 
Thus have I fashioned faintly for your ken 
The form of my complaint and their reply : — 

The shining hills before me lay. 
My musing heart was fain to say, 
" I mourn, ye hills, the stern decree 
""hat saith, ' Ye shall no longer be 

On that dread day 
When heaven and earth shall pass away.' " 

The shining hills made calm reply, 
That fell upon my foolish cry 
Like words that silence, gravely mild, 
The fretful accents of a child : 

" Beneath, on high, 
God's work is good, and shall not die. 



loo REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 

" Though heaven above and earth below 
Shall share the universal woe, 
That doom of fire shall but destroy 
All that not ministers to joy ; 

Yea, even so 
Full life and beauty shall we know. 

" That end true glory shall begin. 
That doom is but the death of sin, 
That night is mother of the morn. 
In travail ere the light is born, 

That woe shall win 
A world that life can reign within. 

" Eternal life ! no bounded lease 
Of hours of pleasure and of peace. 
But joys of service and of rest. 
Of blessing and of being blest. 

That never cease, 
And only change by sweet increase. 

" For, thinkest thou, shall then be dearth 
Of aught of grandeur, beauty, mirth, 
That now makes glad the sons of men ? 
Shall they not see their joys again 

At that dread birth 
Which shall renew the heaven and earth ? 

" Yea, trust that He Who all began 
Hath for the end His perfect plan ; 



THE ANSWER OF THE HILLS loi 

His good gifts are for evermore ! 
Creation that in common bore 

The woful ban, 
Shall fail not of the bliss, of man, 

" God's pity left her to the race 
He would win back into His grace. 
His poet sweet, his prophet true ! 
He shall her youth with man's renew, 

And each tear's trace 
Wipe ever from her glorious face ! 

" Then shall ye see the field, the flood, 

The restful vale, the placid wood. 

All that ye loved in all the land ! 

And we, whose ' strength is His,' shall stand 

As erst we stood, 
As when of old He called us good. 

" Then come ! for supreme joy in woe, 
Last triumph in last overthrow ! 
In all thy grace, in all thy power. 
Come ! O thou sweet tremendous hour, 

Come even so. 
For heaven above and earth below." 



LENTENTIDE 

A MEDITATION 

"Out of the deep." 

Fain is the wakened soul to try 
Her pinions in the golden sky 
Of peace and pardon instantly : 

But they are clogged by thoughts that fill 
Her mind with memories of ill, 
A worldly love, a carnal will, 

And she is forced to sit and weep, 
And watch alone in valleys deep 
The darker shadows onward creep, 

As though to whelm her in a tomb 
Of utter spiritual gloom. 
Foretaste of the eternal gloom. 

" My sin ! " the low despairing sigh ; 
" My sin ! " the exceeding bitter cry, 
Out of those depths is heard on high : 
1 02 



LENTENTIDE 103 

Glad angels hear it where they stand, 
And wait — a ministering band — 
Their Lord's permission and command ; 

It comes — and swiftly, down from heaven 

A light whereby that gloom is riven ! 

A voice of power and peace, " Forgiven ! " 

O blessed voice ! O living light ! 

To wake those silent depths, and smite 

With beams of day the vale of night. 

But, ah ! not yet is peace complete, 
The foemen, fiercer for defeat, 
Strive to regain their ancient seat. 

The world, forsaken, brings again 

Its joys and cares : the Will would fain 

Its realm recover and retain. 

And though that Light still shineth clear 
Through those new shades, and though the ear 
Hears still that Voice it loves to hear 

Speak, as of old, on GaUlee, 

" Peace " : yet, withal, the heart must see. 

And hate its own infirmity : 

And cries, as one who cries for breath, 
Worn and oppressed, " I faint beneath 
The alien body of this death ! " 



I04 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 

'Tis well, for, otherwise than so. 

The soul, disdaining to lie low, 

A deeper depth of ill might know — 

A darker gloom, a gulf more wide. 

Because a self-exalting pride 

Would thrust her further from His side. 

Therefore, the Church, that she may lead 
Her children Homewards, hath decreed 
This Holy Season to their need ; 

Heavenwards, Homewards ! through the dense 
Dark clouds of sorrow, and the sense 
Of present frailty, past offence ; 

Heavenwards, Homewards ! by the road 
The poor in spirit ever trod, 
And tread, in pilgrimage to God. 

Heavenwards, Homewards ! till they win 
That blest inheritance, wherein 
Is no more sorrow, no more sin. 



COMING HOLY WEEK 

" The Master saith, My time is at hand " 
St. Matt. xxvi. i8. 

' The spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak " 
St. Matt. xxvi. 41. 

Soon will the Holy Week be here ; 
It is as if my Lord were near, 
And, half in hope and half in fear, 

I went to meet Him, so to be 

A witness of the agony 

And bitter passion borne for me. 

" In hope " that so my soul may gain 
Harvest of joy from seeds of pain ; 
That, flooding over heart and brain, 

A deeper sense of sinful night 
May drive me closer to the Light 
To read His Love with clearer sight. 

" In fear " lest even while I weep. 
As once of old, forgetful sleep 
Should o'er " the willing spirit " creep 
105 



io6 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 

And I should hear, as heard the Three, 

Those words of chiding sympathy, 

*' Couldst thou not watch one hour with Me ? " 

Be Hope the stronger ! O be Thou, 
Dear Lord, the Guardian of my vow 
To keep my vigil near Thee now : 

Aid my " weak flesh " this holy tide. 

That I, despite or sloth or pride, 

May watch and pray as at Thy side. Amen. 



EASTER EVE 

A NIGHT of silence and of gloom : 
My Master lieth in the tomb — 
Mine was the sin and His the doom ! 



So on this awful eventide, 

My self-trust gone, my wealth of pride 

All spent and lost, I fain would hide. 

And where ? — Lo, on this Eve alone 
I come with contrite prayer and moan 
And lay me down before the Stone. 

All is so still, so deadly still — 
E'en that dread scene upon the Hill 
Scarce shook me with so strong a thrill. 

For Calvary had its jeering crowd, 

My tears were check'd, my love was cow'd. 

My pride took courage 'mid the proud. 

The soldiers sleeping heed me not, 
Their vigil is perforce forgot : 
The world is banish'd from the spot. 
107 



io8 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 

So here I weep — for none are near 
To fill my craven heart with fear 
Of some sharp gibe for every tear. 

And the deep stillness hath a cry 
Reaching my soul, and none are by 
To drown it with their blasphemy. 

It saith, " O ingrate heart, for thee 

The passion in Gethsemane, 

For thee the scourge, the mockery, 

" The scarlet robe, the thorny wreath. 
For thee the load He sank beneath. 
For thee the Cross, the Cry, the Death ! 

" Yea, all for thee ! and having learn'd 
How great that love was, hast thou spurn'd 
The due of gratitude it earn'd ? 

"Thankless and cold ! thy broken vow 
Of love and service asks thee now, 
Here at His tomb, what doest thou ? " — 

Tis true — yet am I fain to come : 

In grief I have no other home 

But near Him, though 'tis near His tomb. 

And as in self-convicted mood 
On mine ingratitude I brood, 
A Voice upon the solitude 



EASTER EVE 109 

Breaks, like a benediction near, 

And through the darkness in mine ear 

Whispers of hope, and not of fear : 

" Yea, all for thee ! and all to save ! 

Forgives He not as He forgave ? 

Died His Love with Him in the grave ? " 

• ••••• 

So on this holy eventide 

I lay me down as at His side, 

And pray to die as He has died : 

That I may rise to meet the strife 
With this dead heart renew'd, and rife 
With impulses of love and life. 

But can it be with one so vain, 
So weak, so fearful of disdain ? — 
" It can be ! by the right of pain, 

" And curse, and cross, and this dark night ! 
Thou shalt endure through all the fight, 
And as thy days shall be thy might. 

" So shalt thou bear His flag unfurled, 

'Mid ghostly foemen overhurl'd. 

In fearless love before the world ! " — 

Then, blessed Master ! only Friend 
Be near, inspire, sustain, defend ; 
In prayer I battle till the end. 



no REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 

Till on this Lenten night forlorn 
There breaks the final Easter morn, 
And the unsetting sun is born, 

So on this blessed eventide, 

Here at Thy tomb, here at Thy side, 

I lift one prayer, Abide, abide ! 

The old sweet prayer so earnestly 
Pray'd one sad eve, and heard of Thee — 
Abide with me, abide with me ! 



TRUST 

' As thy days, so shall thy strength be."— Deut. xxxiii. 25. 
' Trust ye in the Lord for ever : for in the Lord Jehovah is 
everlasting strength." — IsA. xxvi. 4. 

O FELLOW-CHRISTIAN ! whosoe'cr thou art, 

This is for thee and me — 
This wine of Trust, that maketh glad the heart 

In its adversity : 
Drink, therefore, and so bear a braver part ; 

For as thy days, thy strength shall be. 

"Thy days" may be a life-long battle-field, 

A warrior's history, 
Where every weapon Satan's arm can wield 

Shall each be aimed at thee : 
But strive in Trust, and thou shalt never yield ; 

For as thy days, thy strength shall be. 

" Thy days " may be a weary pilgrimage 

Through wastes of poverty ; 
The vulture's hunger and the lean wolf's rage 

Be ever threatening thee : 
Thy childhood joyless, and thy youth like age; 

Yet as thy days, thy strength shall be. 
Ill 



112 REFLECTIVE AND ELEGIAC POEMS 

" Thy days " may be a voyage full of fear 

Over a stormy sea, 
And thou the sleepless helmsman sworn to steer 

The good ship warily — 
The sharp rocks there — the roaring whirlpool here- 

Yet as thy days, thy strength shall be. 

*' Thy days " may be a dull and vacant range, 

A long captivity, 
Naught brightly wonderful or sweetly strange 

To quicken time for thee : 
Less pain or more the only interchange ; 

Yet as thy days, thy strength shall be. 

" Thy days " may be a long experience 

Of much perplexity ; 
The light it longs for, amid clouds so dense, 

Thy mind may scarcely see : 
Then on thy Father cast thy confidence ; 

And as thy days, thy strength shall be. 

O burdened sufferer in a world of woe. 

Thy sorrow's mystery 
Shall pass : believe, and one day thou shalt know: 

Above thine eyes shall see. 
Be not impatient of the veil beloiv ; 

And as thy days, thy strength shall be. 

O wakeful toiler in a world of pain, 
A long rest waiteth thee : 



^rtH 



TRUST 113 

Seek it not here, but bravely lift again 

Tired hand and feeble knee : 
If thou wilt trust, thy Master will sustain. 

And as thy days, thy strength shall be. 

Yea, fellow-Christian ! whosoe'er thou art, 

It is for thee and me, — 
This wine of Trust, that maketh glad the heart 

In all adversity : 
Drink, therefore, and so bear a braver part ; 

For as thy days, thy strength shall be. 

Amen ! until there shall be no more " days," 

Until the shadows flee. 
Until the cloud be lifted from our gaze. 

Until in Certainty 
Trust die, and Faith in Sight, and Prayer in Praise, 

In God's Eternity ! 



WHERE THE SHADE IS 

'« He stands brightly where the shade is, 
With the keys of Death and Hades." 

E. B. Browning's The Fourfold Aspect. 

Where the shade is stands the Lord— 

When the sun of youth has set, 

When each spell is fading fast, 

And the dreamer wakes at last, 

And surprise and pain have met — 

Where the shade is stands the Lord. 

Where the shade is stands the Lord— 
When again and yet again 
Phantom forms of fear or ill 
Crowd against the tottering will, 
And the struggle seems in vain— 
Where the shade is stands the Lord. 

Where the shade is stands the Lord— 
When within the broken home 

All life's bread seems turned to stone : 
Death has come to one alone, 
To the other will not come- 
Where the shade is stands the Lord. 
114 



WHERE THE SHADE IS 115 

Where the shade is stands the Lord — 
When the faint or fighting breath, 
When the drooped or glazing eye, 
Shows the gates of gloom are nigh, 
Opening to the Vale of Death — 
Where that shade is stands the Lord. 

Where the shade was stood the Lord — 
Then life's light won by Life's loss — 
Light that burned the dark away. 
Soft and sweet and strong as day — 
Streamed from His all-conquering Cross — 
Where the shade was stood the Lord. 

Where our shade is, stand, O Lord ! 
Make us see Thee in our night. 

Hear Thy promise through the gloom : 
" Lo, I have the keys of doom, 
O My children of the light ! 
Where your shade is stands your Lord." 



MEDITATION IN A NIGHT OF PAIN 

" Neither shall there be any more pain." 

'Tis peace in pain to know that Pain 

Secured us pain's eternal end ; 
And that the more exceeding gain, 

To which by grace our souls ascend, 
My great Redeemer won for me 
By more exceeding agony. 

'Tis true my pain is still my pain : 

Heavy its hand on thought and prayer 1 

But while that Love to me is plain 
It lays its hand upon despair : 

And soon I know this faint " How long ? " 

For me may quicken into song ; 

Beholding Thee — in what repose. 
By what still streams of Paradise ! 

Beholding memory of Thy woes 
Still in those deep pathetic Eyes : 

Ah me ! what blest exchange for pain, 

If I attain, if I attain ! 

ii6 



MEDITATION IN A NIGHT OF PAIN 117 

Am I too soon in love with death ? 

I know not if 'tis ill or well : 
If ill, then, Master, stay this breath, 

Deny mine ear the passing bell ! 
One thing I ask, since I am Thine, 
Thy Will be done, Thy Will be mine. 

December 2"] th, 1899. 



LYRICAL POEMS 



THE BEAUTIFUL DEATH 

(song of a cavalier's mother) 

He died the beautiful death, 

For the Church and the King : 
Shall his mother shed a single tear, 
While yet so proudly she can hear 

His war-cry ring — 
So fiercely strong, so sweetly clear — 

" For Church and King ! " 

He died the beautiful death, 

My own brave boy : 
And — break though it may in its desolate ruth — 
Thy mother's heart for thy loyal truth 

Hath passionate joy ! 
Dead though thou art in thy strength and youth. 

My glorious boy ! 

He died the beautiful death. 

Last of his race : 
I saw him slain from the castle wall, 
The last and the dearest one left to recall 

His father's face : 
The last and the noblest and fairest of all 

Of the ancient race. 

121 



122 LYRICAL POEMS 

But he died the beautiful death, 
For the Church and the King ! 

And none shall see me shed one tear, 

While yet o'er sorrow my soul can hear 
The war-cry ring — 

So fiercely strong, so sweetly clear — 
" For Church and King ! " 



CHRIST'S KNIGHT 

"The Sword of the Spirit." 

" For an Helmet, the Hope of Salvation." 

'God forbid that I should glory save in the Cross." 

A HELM upon my brow I wear, 

I wield in my right hand a Sword, 
A Banner with device I bear — 
For Christ my Lord. 

Armed with the Spirit, helmed with Hope, 
My great Cross standard wide unfurled, 
I fail not, fear not, though I cope 
With all the world. 

I battle to my latest breath, 

Then not my joys but labours cease. 
And I am borne to life through death, 
Through war to peace. 

The guerdon, then ! O hour most sweet, 

When I shall kneel for my reward 
Before the Face, beside the Feet, 
Of Christ my Lord ! 



123 



THE EBB OF TIDE 

The little maid lay moaning, 

Late at the set of sun ; 
They told him " She is dying 

Now that the day is done ! " 
But, listening by the window, 

He heard the full-toned roar 
Of great waves plunging, plunging, 

All down the silent shore. 
And to the watchers weeping 

" She cannot go ! " he cried, 
" The soul-call never cometh 

At flowing of the tide." 

The little maid ceased moaning, 

And darker grew the night ; 
They cried, " She is not dying. 

She'll see the morning light ! " 
But he heard there by the window 

The plunging waves no more, 
But the waters washing, washing, 

Like a lake upon the shore. 
And he heeded not the watchers. 

As hopefully they cried. 
But said with lips all trembling, 

" It is the Flood of tide." 
124 



THE EBB OF TIDE 125 

The little maid lay sleeping, 

Or ere the night was done ; 
They said, "She will awaken 

To new life with the sun ! " 
But he listened the deep murmur 

The sighing night-wind bore 
Of the waters sobbing, sobbing. 

As they forsook the shore. 
" Now pray the Lord Almighty 

Upon your knees," he cried, 
" Oh, pray Him by His mercy. 

For 'tis the Ebb of tide ! " 

Ah me ! the world is evil, 

And sick with care and sin. 
And, sure, the Lord had mercy, 

Who left her not therein ; 
For with one cry, " O Father ! " 

She woke ere it was day. 
And sighed and smiled ; and, sighing 

And smiling, passed away. 
And, sure, in life more blessed 

Her sweet soul doth abide. 
Where on the Sea of Jasper 

Is never Ebb of tide. 



THE HARVEST OF SOULS 

Gather the Harvest in : 
The fields are white, and long ago ye heard 
Ringing across the world the Master's word — 
Leave not such fruitage to the lord of Sin, 

Gather the Harvest in. 

Gather the Harvest in : 
Souls dying and yet deathless, o'er the lands, 
East, West, North, South, lie ready to your hands ; 
Long since that other did his work begin ; 

Gather the Harvest in. 

Gather the Harvest in : 
Rise early and reap late. Is this a time 
For ease ? Shall he, by every curse and crime, 
Out of your grasp the golden treasure win ? 

Gather the Harvest in. 

Gather the Harvest in : 
Ye know ye live not to yourselves, nor die, 
Then let not this bright hour of work go by : 
To all who know, and do not, there is sin : 
Gather the Harvest in. 
126 



THE HARVEST OF SOULS 127 

Gather the Harvest in : 
Soon shall the mighty Master summon home 
For feast His reapers. Think ye they shall come 
Whose sickles gleam not, and whose sheaves are thin? 

Gather the Harvest in ! 



ISHMAEL'S SONG 

My God hath heard me : I am His : 
The Lord my God is mine : 

And mine are His — in Ishmael 
Is bless'd all Ishmael's line : 

For of my seed for multitude 
Be yonder stars the sign. 

Man's foe for ever — there shall reign 
No King for me but God ! 

Mine is this wild, and mine shall be, 
Sand-tract, oasis-sod : 

Beneath no sceptre shall I kneel 
Except beneath His rod. 

He will ride with me as I ride 
Great Paran's wastes along. 

And give His angel-winds a charge 
To sing His Archer's song ^ 

Of Ishmael evermore the free 
And evermore the strong ! 

^ Gen. xxi. 20. 

128 



ISHMAEUS SONG 129 

All ends of earth, times of all time, 

As here the blessed well, 
As Lahairoi,^ in light and life. 

My right divine shall tell. 
For He the Lord my God is true 

And I am Ishmael ! ^ 

^ Beer-lahai-roi, that is, " the well of him that liveth and seeth me " 
(Gen. xvi. 14). 
2 Ishmael, that is, "God shall hear." 



K 



LULLABY OF LIFE 

Sleep, little flower, whose petals fade and fall 

Over the sunless ground ; 
Ring no more peals of perfume on the air — 

Sleep long and sound. 

Sleep — sleep. 

Sleep, summer wind, whose breathing grows more faint 

As night draws slowly nigh ; 
Cease thy sweet chanting in the cloistral woods 

And seem to die. 

Sleep — sleep. 

Sleep, thou great Ocean, whose wild waters sink 

Under the setting sun ; 
Hush the loud music of thy warring waves 

Till night is done. 

Sleep — sleep. 

Sleep, thou tired heart, whose mountain pulses droop 

Within the valley cold : 
On pains and pleasures, fears and hopes of life, 
T^et go thine hold. 

Sleep — sleep. 
130 



LULLABY OF LIFE 131 

Sleep, for 'tis only sleep, and there shall be 

New life for all, at day ; 
So sleep, sleep all, until the restful night 

Has passed away. 

Sleep — sleep. 



THE MAIDEN AT THE WELL 

At the Well's heart serene and deep 

Sweet waters lie : 

But from their sleep 
The maid will stir them by and by. 

The plunging pail their peace shall break : 

And at the sound 

They shall awake, 
Meeting the summons with a bound : 

Then from the darkness to the light 

Shall be new-born ; 

While in their sight 
Is spread the beauty of the morn. 

Was their repose a blessed thing ? 

P'or bliss or bane 

Shall they up-spring ? 
Is such emotion joy or pain ? 

Deep in the maiden's heart serene 

Sweet waters lie, 

Silent, unseen — 
But one shall stir them by and by ! 
132 



THE MAIDEN AT THE WELL 133 

Love, that has lain in sleepy night, 

Aroused shall sing 

And leap to light, 
As from still Winter leaps the Spring. 

But was the slumber good or ill ? 

Will joy or pain 

The future fill ? 
Is such new knowledge true or vain ? 

True be the knowledge that shall crown 

Her waiting eyes ! 

Cast her not down. 
Saying, " Tis folly to be wise ! " 



HOLIDAY ODE TO THE NORTH-WEST 

WIND 

BY AN EAST-ENDER 

Blow, breeze, from the north and the west, 

Through the clear afternoon ; 
To all that gives solitude zest, 
To the zeal, not the languor, of rest 

Our tired spirits attune. 

Blow, breeze, in the deep of the night. 

Solemn-sweet in our ears, 
God's organ of full-toned delight. 
With thine ebbings and flowings of might. 

Charm our souls from their fears. 

Blow again, potent breeze, with the morn, 

Till, refreshed with thy wine. 
Eyes dim, spirits harassed and worn 
Looking now on past pains with sweet scorn, 

May arise and may shine ! 



134 



ST. COLUMB OF lONA 

A LAY OF THE "FAMILY OF HY"^ 

Iona's hills are lowly, 

Her rocks are bleak and wild, 
Frowns Mull the mighty o'er her 

As at a changeling child ; 
O'er the dividing waters 

She sends no mother's smile : 
No kin the granite giant 

Owns in the darker isle. 

lona sends for pleading 

No suit of tender grace : 
No fee of form majestic, 

No wile of winsome face : — 
No forests make her stately. 

No rivers make her fair, 
She lieth still o'er vale and hill, 

As if in meek despair. 

'■ Family of lona : the community of the island. 
135 



136 LYRICAL POEMS 

Yet hath the Lord from Heaven 

Looked on the lowly isle ; 
His promise shall not tarry, 

The wilderness shall smile, 
And, on these bleak rocks, beautiful 

Shall be their feet who stand — 
The heralds of that Lord of Love 

Who die in Holy Land. 



But long years — half a thousand — 

Have fled in weary line, 
And naught hath waked the silence, 

And none hath seen a sign ; 
By feet that bring no blessing 

lona still is trod ; 
And priests unknown of Sion 

Worship an unknown God.^ 



The ocean winds that sweep her 

Breathe sadness still in tone, 
The ocean voice rolls round her 

As one that maketh moan ; 
For, from the chosen island, 

In tempest or in calm 
Rises in air, for praise or prayer. 

Nor litany nor psalm. 

' The Druids acknowledged only one God. 



ST. COLUMB OF lONA 137 

But now ! the burden changeth, 

Though none the change may know, 
Save those who joy in heaven 

For blessing wrought below ; 
The mournful burden changeth, 

Like weeping into song ; 
Like those who cry, " He cometh ! " 

Who wailed before, " How long ? " 

*Tis on a silent even, 

After the glare of day, 
A frail boat to lona 

Is wending peaceful way ; 
A glow is on the waters, 

A charm is in the air, 
And the blessing Pentecostal ^ 

Seems falling everywhere. 

Long was the weary waiting. 

The desolate day was long, 
But peace has come at sunset. 

Like praise at evensong ! 
Cometh lona's promise. 

In that frail boat on the sea. 
As of old the Hope of a world forlorn. 
The future Church and her Lord, was borne 

On the waves of Galilee ! 

1 It was on the evening before Whitsunday that St. Columba arrived 
first at lona. 



138 LYRICAL POEMS 

A saint and his twelve companions 

Are all the waters bear ; 
They wave no warring standard, 

No battle-arms they bear : 
Christ's Cross their warrior token ; 

His Word the sword they wield ; 
But whose are brand and banner 

So blest on foughten field ? 

St. Columb's name is noble, 

Of kingly line is he ; 
And rich broad lands and vassal bands 

Are his in his own countrie. 
But homage, and wealth, and sceptre, 

He lays right gladly down ; 
Who counts the Cross his glory 

Recks not of fleeting crown ! 

Priests of the old delusion, 

Fear for your ancient reign ! 
A mightier than the Roman 

Here cometh o'er the main : 
Soon shall the Golden Sickle 

Gleam in the oak no more ; 
No more the stones of the cromlech 

Be red with human gore. 



ST. COLUMB OF lONA 139 

The charm of your day is passing, 

A new strange " fire of God " ^ 
Shall wither the worn-out tokens, 

The Amulet and the Rod : 
There shall rise a temple stately 

For every shapeless shrine, 
And a threefold priestly order 

Supplant your triple line ! ^ 

Now be she named Ishona ! 

Now call her Holy Isle ! ^ 
Now may the winds be jocund, 

Now may the waters smile ! 
For proud at the sacred service 

They render the freight they bore, 
As the saints of the great Redeemer 

Stand on the chosen shore. 

He calls his Twelve around him, 

As a chieftain calls his clan. 
For zealous deed in some sore need 

Exhorting every man : 
" Behold," he saith, " the darkness 

Deep o'er the northern land ! 

' The great Druidical festival took place in May, and was called the 
Feast of the "Fire of God," in honour of the sun. 

- There were three orders or grades among the Druids : the Druids 
proper, the Bards, and the Vates. 

^ The Gaelic Ishona signifies Holy Island. 



I40 LYRICAL POEMS 

And ye, the Sons of Morning, 

To shine at the Lord's command ! 

Shine ye forth at His bidding, 
O new, best Hght of souls. 

Till from the chosen kingdom 
The death-shade backward rolls ! 

" Far are ye from the borders 

The feet of Jesus trod, 
Far from the Holy City, 

Far from the Hill of God : 
But the Pentecostal Presence 

Is brooding everywhere, 
And the whole earth is Sion, 

And Jesus reigneth there ! 
To every wind of heaven 

His standard is outfurled. 
His kingdom's only limit 

The kingdoms of the world ! 

" Scatter the ancient shadows, 

Grace of the mystic Trine ! 
O Human tender pity, 

O love and power Divine ! 
Gather the northern peoples, 

Gather them near and far, 
To follow the herald promise 

Of the Western morning star." ^ 

* An expression applied frequently to lona. 



ST. COLUMB OF ION A 141 

The saint fulfils his praying — 

Whose life is as his prayer 
Shall work the work he willeth, 

And safely do and dare : 
The Lord God is his keeper, 

And His strong angels stand 
To watch and ward, to guide and guard 

Ever on either hand. 

King Brude is lord of Pictland : 

Fierce is his heart and hard. 
And fast against the stranger 

His castle gate is barred ; 
But, as the gentle sea-tide 

O'erflows the rugged shore. 
Ere long the saintly spirit 

Winneth the proud heart o'er ! 

Fell is his foemen's malice, 

More fell the Druid's wile ; 
But neither threat may daunt him. 

Nor treachery beguile. 
Through pain, and toil, and vigil 

Ever so passeth he. 
With a steadfast heart through every one. 
As of old through the fire in Babylon 

Did pass the holy Three. 



142 LYRICAL POEMS 

As after hours of tempest, 

Or ere the day be done, 
Pierces the rolling cloud-rack 

The great orb of the sun ; 
And all the broken heaven, 

And the waste world below, 
Is bathed with his tender glory, 

A deeper golden glow ; — 

So to the heathen peoples, 

As after gloom of storm, 
With light of the great evangel 

Stands forth St. Columb's form : 
Outpouring peace on hatred, 

And closing years of strife ; 
Like a visible benediction 

Outbreathing a new life. 

Behold they throng around him ! 

Vassals, and chiefs, and kings ; 
From the poet-lips ^ that scorned him 

His fame and honour rings. 
See how the wild barbarians 

Kneel at his loving word, 
And come, like sheep that have wandered, 

Back to the Shepherd-lord ! 

' The bards, at first his bitterest foes, ultimately became most friendly 
and sang his praises. 



ST. COLUMB OF ION A i43 

Fear is in his rebuking, 

Strength in his clear command, 
But Love in his long forbearing. 

And Blessing beneath his hand : 
Tenderly loosing the burden, 

Yet crushing the pride of sin. 
He bringeth the fierce with the fearful, 

The stern with the gentle, in ! 

Conqueror, true and noble ! 

Not now the wasted lands. 
Not now the riven banner 

And reeking battle brands ! 
But a kingdom torn from Satan, 

And the spoil of souls unpriced. 
Won painfully, laid humbly 

At the feet of the Lord Christ ! 

Won painfully — in vigils. 

In labours night and day, 
Preparing in the desert 

The coming King's highway : 
Laid humbly— with no vaunting. 

But meekly as by one 
Counting his hands not worthy 

To loose the Master's shoon. 



144 LYRICAL POEMS 

See, high in barren places, *' 

Springs hallowed house, or shrine — 
Of unseen spirit-blessing 

The visible fair sign — 
And winds, that breathed the rancour 

Of human hate and wrong, 
Bear now the heavenly incense 

Of morn and even-song. 

Praise to the Lord of harvest ! 

The waste land is a field 
Wherein the sower's labour 

A hundredfold doth yield : 
Seed which the Spirit wafteth 

Far on from clime to clime, 
To be reaped at last by the angels. 

At blessed Harvest-time. 

But he dies — the saintly sower — 

Lo, 'tis the Eve of Morn : ^ 
With joyful praise he seeth 

The garnered wealth of corn ; 
"They shall not lack," he crieth, 

" The children shall be blest. 
Though the long Sabbath calleth 

The father unto rest ! " 



' On the morning of Saturday, the day before he died, he visited the 
granary of the monastery, and gave thanks for the provision for the 
sustenance of those whom he was about to leave. 



ST. COLUMB OF ION A 145 

Now o'er the sacred College 

On the Torr Abb he stands, 
And prophet-benediction 

Falls from his lifted hands : 
" Lo, great shall be thy triumph 

O'er evil overhurled ! 
And thou, the meek and poor, be found 
Chosen and precious, when thy sound 

Is heard in all the world." 



Now, 'tis the hour of vigil — 

The father in his cell 
Hears on the air the call for prayer 

Ring from the midnight bell. 
Long ere the monks have risen 

His feet have passed the door, 
And at the Altar lowly 

He kneeleth on the floor. 



"Where art thou, O my father?" 

One crieth through the gloom : ^ 
But the darkness is as silent 

As the darkness of the tomb. 
With haste they bring the tapers. 

With fear they gather round ; 
But in answer to their crying 

Is neither sign nor sound. 

' Dermid, the monk who was his continual attendant. 
L 



146 LYRICAL POEMS 

Then gently they uplift him, 

And lo ! — a little space — 
An infinite sweet rapture 

Doth lighten in his face ; 
And well they know he seeth 

The heralds of Reward ! 
The guardians of the blessbd, 

The liegemen of the Lord ! 

Yet once he turneth on them 

One last long look of love ; 
One moment, for last blessing, 

They raise his hand above ; 
And then they watch him wildly, 

And then they turn and weep — 
The soul hath passed to Eden, 

The body into sleep. 

lona ! Holy island ! 

Isle of St. Columb's cell ! i 
The very names thou bearest 

Love all thy children well. 
Ringed by thy rainbow waters, 

Crowned by thy peerless skies. 
Where change on change unchanging 

For ever lives and dies : 

' Icolmkill is the form in which this title of the island is still retained. 



ST. COLUMB OF lONA 147 

To us thy thought is dearer 

Than of all lovely lands, 
With all their lordly mountains, 

And all their golden sands. 

What say our seers ? ^ Hereafter 

When storm shall shake the world, 
And in one vast sea-ruin 

Nations are overhurled — 
When Erin lies and Islay 

'Neath the sepulchral wave, 
And of the hundred islands 

Each finds its own sea-grave ; — 
Then, as on rolling billows 

When the tornadoes die. 
Rocks the great Solan calmly 

Where buried navies lie : 
So riding, as God's token. 

Over the waters dark. 
Our Columb's own lona 

Shall be God's second Ark. 

Where'er our steps may wander 

In far-off ways of toil, 
In longing sweet remembrance 

We tread thy sacred soil : 

* These sixteen lines are an amplification of some Gaelic lines quoted 
in Dr. Gordon's lona. 



148 LYRICAL POEMS 

And when the toil is over 

Fain would we fall on sleep, 
Where o'er thy first great Abbot 

Thine ocean breezes sweep ; 
So when the Angel-trumpet 

Heralds the Easter-tide, 
We may behold, as the mighty sound 
Wakens the blessed sleepers round, 

Saint Columb at our side ! 



A LAY OF PORT-NA-CHURAICHi 

Rock and roar, 
Wind and wave, of a west-rolling sea. 

Of a sunset of sea : 
The deep slope of a diamond shore, 

A mosaic of shore : 
And a moss-hidden skeleton lea, 

Lying inward afar 
From sea-gates of precipitous scaur : — 
Like their spell was none other to me, 

Is none other to me ! 

Face and form, 
Port and power, of a ruler of men 

Of a Saul among men : 
Voice like song at the heart of a storm, 

A deep organ of storm : 
Kingly eye as an eagle's in ken, 

^ Port-na-Churaich (the "Haven of the Coracle") is at the south- 
west end of the island. Here St. Columba landed with his twelve 
followers on the eve of Whitsunday, May 12, A.D. 563, and having 
ascended to the point near it, now called "Cairn cul ri Erin" (or 
"Cairn of Farewell to Ireland"), and seeing that his native land was 
not visible, as it had been from Colonsay, the island on which he first 
landed, he decided to make lona the cradle of his Mission. It is in 
this bay that the brilliantly-coloured stones, white and porphyry-coloured 
and, most beautiful of all, translucent green serpentine and the reddest 

felspar, are found. 

149 



I50 LYRICAL POEMS 

Yet an angel might own 
Looking love by the steps of the Throne ; 
Their old glamour is now as was then : 

Even now as was then ! 



Long ago ? 
And ye hear but the roll of the wind, 

Of the wave and the wind, 
But the ebb, or the plunge of the flow. 

Sough of ebb, thunder-flow ? 
And ye see not these wraiths of the mind ? 

And that old Pentecost 
Is a thing of the Far-away lost ? 
And I sing to the deaf and the blind, 

Spirit-deaf, spirit-blind ? 

Ah, no, no ! 
By the winds would a challenge be hurled, 

From the West ^ would be hurled ; 
By the seas, by their many-hued Bow, 

By their opaline Bow — 
That the Banner of Love is unfurled 

Over space without bound : 
That this glamour of vision and sound 
Has won through the gates of the world, 

Of yon world and your world ! 

' The expanse of sea westward from Port-na-Churaich is unbroken 
to that New World where the Episcopal Succession was first received 
through the Catholic Church of Scotland. 



A MORNING ON lONA 

A SONG 

A TENDER mist of amber lawn, 
Aurora's vesture ere the dawn, 
A robe already half-withdrawn 

O'erhung the heaving bay ; 
Just might be seen beneath its pall 
Her bosom's restful rise and fall : 
Just heard from far the breezy call 

That summoned up the day. 

The amber deepened into gold : 
Then softly, slowly, fold by fold. 
The lingering robe away she rolled : 

Then, smiling sleep to scorn, 
To sound of wings the waste along 
That woke the ripples into song, 
A goddess, beautiful and strong. 

Up leapt the living Morn ! 



151 



NARRATIVE POEMS 



THE KNIGHT OF INTERCESSION 



"All things pass away but the Love of God. Suffice it then to say 
that he loved and feared God above all things." — From The Character 
of Bayard, by his " Loyal Serviteur." 



In ancient days, so saith an old Romaunt, 
There lived a knight, brave, rich, and nobly born, 
Withal pure-hearted as a saint, whose love 
His ladye spurned ; not that she loved him not. 
Although she said so, but because she saw 
He put God higher than all human claims 
Of love and reverence. So she bade him go, 
And spurned him for a wicked pride : and he, 
Not caring any more to dwell with men 
In open converse, left his ancient halls 
And things of wealth and state, which men hold dear. 
And rode through many lands for many a day, 
Doing true devoir as a noble knight. 
None knew him, for he lived with visor down ; 
His harness of plain steel revealed no sign 
Of rank or name ; nor bore he in his helm 
Token or favour ; only on his shield 
A dark cross, as of mourning. On he rode ; 
And ever as he wrought a gallant deed. 
And man or maiden asked him, " How may I 

155 



156 NARRATIVE POEMS 

Repay thy service ? " never aught said he 

Save, " Pray for Her ! " and parted, still in quest 

Of fresh occasion, and for guerdon still 

Took nothing ; only came the self-same voice 

From the closed helm in answer : " Pray for Her ! " 

And so the captive freed did pray for Her ; 
The rescued maiden prayed ; the widow prayed, 
With all her wrongs avenged ; the poor and rich, 
Each for the service they received from him, 
Did pray for Her. The little children lost 
In the wild wood, and found by him, and saved 
From wolf or robber, lifting trustful eyes 
Prayed also : and the angels went and came. 
Bearing those prayers, and bringing blessings down. 
And so she prospered much in all her pride. 

The days passed on ; and on the warrior rode — 
The Knight of Intercession : and his deeds 
Made the plain harness famous in the lands ; 
And neither ceased those grateful hearts to pray, 
Nor she to prosper. 

Came a day at last, 
Whereon a certain prince, with all his host, 
Did battle for his kingdom ; and the foe 
Had well-nigh driven back his last essay. 
And won the city. Mothers, sisters, wives, 
Wringing their frantic hands upon the towers. 
Wept for the coming issue, death or shame. 
Then on a sudden rode into the fray 
The nameless knight : the foremost foe drew back 
Before his onset ; then with terrible blows 



THE KNIGHT OF INTERCESSION 157 

He clave a bloody pathway to their chief, 

And bore him down, and slew him, and pressed on 

To win the standard. So the battle changed ; 

The prince and all his warriors took fresh heart, 

And drove their foemen backward toward the sea. 

And overthrew them. When the fight was done, 

The prince with all his nobles came to thank 

The saviour of his kingdom. But he lay 

Wounded upon the standard he had won ; 

A lance was in his breast, and through the helm 

He was sore smitten ; and at last was seen 

Through the raised visor the long-hidden face, 

Sad, pale, and noble. Then the prince burst forth : 

" Sir Knight, what guerdon wilt thou for thine aid ? 

Certes, whatever thou shalt ask is thine, 

E'en to the one half of my realm ! " And so 

The nobles prayed him ; and their ladies came 

And wept their thanks ; and all in that great town — 

The rich and poor, the old and young — came there, 

Beseeching him with tears of joy, that he 

Would name some guerdon. And the knight looked 

round ; 
O'er his pale visage moved a moment's smile — 
Like the last tinge of sunset on a height — 
Tender and holy, moving men to tears ; 
And smiling thus, he murmured, " Pray for Her ! " 
Then with closed eyes he lay a little space, 
And the pale face grew paler, and his head 
Grew heavier on the knees of him whose hands 
Had caught him falling. Yet once more the eyes 



158 NARRATIVE POEMS 

\Vere opened, and the noble head was raised, 
And once more, while his upward wistful gaze 
Sought the far heav'n, he murmured, " Pray for Her ! " 
And in the look and in the prayer he died. 
And in that kingdom never passed a day, 
But prince, knights, nobles, ladies, young and old, 
And rich and poor, at morn and evensong. 
Did evermore henceforward pray for Her. 



Ere long there came unto the ladye's bower 
A nameless messenger. " I come," said he, 
" Ladye, I come from one who loved thee well. 
And whom thou lovest ! " Then the ladye flushed. 
And but he said "who loved" and not "who loves," 
And so awoke a terror in her breast. 
Which still was mindful of the love it spurned. 
She would have straight dismissed him. Still she feigned. 
And dallying with her fear she answered him 
Lightly and falsely : " Comest thou from him, 
The stately earl of yonder proud domain, 
Who bids me make him and his fair broad lands 
Mine own ? " He answered sternly, " Not from him ; 
His heart is narrow, though his lands are broad ! " 
" Perchance thou comest from the courtly knight 
Who wears my glove for crest, my woven scarf 
Across his gilded harness ? " " Not from him ; 
His sword is rusty, though he rides in gold ! " 
" Thou comest then, I wot, from him who rules 
In yonder city, treads his palace floors, 



THE KNIGHT OF LNTERCESSION 159 

And sighs for me ? " He answered, " Not from him ; 
His name is noble, but his soul is mean ! " 

So thrice she questioned, hovering round her fear, 
As one who stays and lingers at a door 
Wistful, yet dreads to enter. So she paused : 
Then with changed voice demanded, "Comest thou — ?" 
But here she sickened, for she felt his eyes 
Looked sadly on her, seeing through her soul. 
Right to the inner trouble, undeceived 
By outward seeming. Then she summoned strength, 
And asked in accents tremulous and low, 
Which grew in force and passion — as a stone. 
Loosed from a hill-side, rolls towards the vale. 
Slowly at first, but gathering power and speed 
Falls wildly—" Comest thou from him, my knight. 
Nameless but famous, unknown but renowned. 
In plain steel armour, with his visor down, 
Yet winning noblest praise in all the lands ; 
Who knew not that I loved him even then 
When I was scornfuUest, whom yet I love, 
Whom I love on for ever ? If from him 
Thou comest, get thee back and tell him all ! 
Go tell him I repent me of my pride ; 
Tell him I wait for him, and spend my heart 
In waiting ; tell him that I never loved 
And never shall love other till I die ! 
Speak ! comest thou from him ? " 

He said, " From him." 
And more the trembling passion of her frame. 
The close-clasped hands, the cheek now red, now pale, 



i6o NARRATIVE POEMS 

And more the pleading hunger of her eyes, 
Than her quick asking, moved him to reply 
Softly, and not in wrath, " I come from him, 
Ladye — from him who cannot come to thee ; 
For now that visor closed is closed no more, 
For men have looked beneath it ; and he sleeps 
In that plain harness, never more to rise 
Till God shall wake him. In a prayer he died, 
That all he saved and served should pray for thee. 
So until death, at morn and evensong, 
True hearts and hands are lifted up for thee. 
That all things of the earth, and all of heaven, 
In all thy goings out and comings in. 
May bless thee always, even to the end. 
Farewell ! so pray a thousand hearts for thee ; 
So shall I pray for ever unto death : 
Farewell ! " 

She heard him speechless to the close, 
And speechless still she saw him pass away : 
" Death," and " Farewell," the last words on his lips. 
And in her ears. Oh, how they rose and fell 
Alternate, like a cadence of despair ! 
Death and Farewell ! Farewell and Death ! in each 
A hopeless issue, speaking not of him 
Who said them, but of him from whom he came — 
Her own true knight, her noble, peerless knight : 
Death and Farewell ! and then it seemed to her 
As though she too must die. 

Her maidens came 
And found her swooning. 



THE KNIGHT OF INTERCESSION i6i 

But she did not die : 
She woke again to hate the thought of Ufe, 
Yet fearing death. She stood as one might stand, 
A pilgrim for whose steps is no return, 
With choice for two ways : one across a wild 
Gloomy and drear, the other through a vale 
With unknown terrors lurking in its depths, 
More drear because unknown. E'en so she looked 
On life and death : the one a darkened path, 
Reft of the sun which might have shone on her ; 
So darkened now, that ever and anon 
Stretching her hopeless hands out in the dark 
Towards that other, " Oh, that I might die ! " 
She cried — still conscious that she dared not die. 

Then was it well for her that late and soon, 
Frqm great and noble, from the small and mean — 
The sad and needy, and the rich and glad — 
From little children and hoar-headed men — 
The voice of intercession ever rose, 
Like incense, unto Him " Who heareth prayer." 
For even while He smote her with a sense 
Of hopelessness and anguish — even then 
He wrought within her unto final good. 
Crushing her pride, He bade her stoop and raise 
That Cross she had refused of lowly fear. 
And love unselfish. 

Then He gave her peace — 
Because her heart had learned to rest on Him — 
His perfect peace : and with rejoicing flight, 
The great good angels of a thousand prayers — 

M 



1 62 NARRATIVE POEMS 

The prayers still rising morn and eve for her — 
Sped downwards at commandment of their King, 
And tended her with constant service ; filled 
Her mind with holy thoughts and pure desires 
And glorious hopes. And so it was that she, 
Who looked on life and death with hate and fear, 
Saw in her life a happy pilgrimage 
On toward a better country, which she sought 
With longing ; and in death that blessed stream, 
Ordained to bear the children of the Lord 
Beyond the shadowy twilight of this world, 
Into the glory of the perfect day. 



DEARE CHILDE 

A PARISH IDYLL 
"Who is the greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven ? " 

A SIMPLE cross, let in the outer wall 
Under the chancel window, and beneath 
A little slab, of marble also, graved 
With these two words, spelt anciently, deare childe. 
These and no more, and yet he lingered here ; 
He who had wandered with me, and had scanned. 
With heedless eyes that cared to rest on none. 
The carven annals on a score of tombs. 
He who had laughed at this, and sneered at that. 
Nor gave elsewhere a reverent word for one, 
Yet lingered here, and lingered on, until 
I moved away to test him ; still he stayed 
And kept his eyes upon the simple cross 
And those two words ; and when I spoke to him 
He moved not. Coming back and touching him, 
I said, " What keeps you ? " As he turned, I saw 
The face was wholly changed, the open brow 
Thrid as with pain or thought, the careless eyes 
Filmed with a mist of tears, and the strong lips 

163 



1 64 NARRATIVE POEMS 

Set closer, as prepared against a sense 

Of quivering weakness. Facing round again 

Upon the little monument, he said, 

" Tell me of him, or her." I thereupon. 

In sudden memory of a bygone day 

And a great loss which dimmed his life awhile. 

Knew why the simple words on one unknown 

Had power to move him by the touch of that 

Which, says the great bard, "makes the whole world kin." 

So without word of wonder I replied : 

"Of her, who underneath the holy sign 

Sleeps there, the record is but that of all 

Who die ere yet the pure baptismal robe 

Is soiled, or stained, or torn in this bad world. 

Yet there are words of hers I know and keep. 

Said in her last hours, little childish words. 

Yet all divine in their simplicity, 

Pure gold, with no touch of the base alloy 

That mars all earthly treasure ; you shall hear : 

I am no miser though it is pure gold ; 

Share it, it shall enrich your soul as mine. 

She was the daughter of a shepherd here. 

And born hard by, there, where you see the smoke 

Rise from the cottage underneath the eaves 

Of that grove-covered hill. He who begot 

And she who bare her were and are to me. 

Of all the flock on whom I tend for God, 

Worthiest of love and honour : poor in truth. 

Save in that wealth which passeth not away ; 

Humble, save in that greatness which alone 



DEARE CHILDE 165 

Is lord of death ; not known within the world, 

But written amid God's chosen saints ; and she, 

This quiet sleeper, was their only child. 

Seven years, that fled like Eden hours, was she 

The sunshine and the music of their home. 

Such blessed sunshine ! in the holy blue 

Of innocent eyes, in the fair, guileless face, 

And myriad glimmers of her golden hair : 

Such music ! in the run of little feet 

That beat the merry pulse of laughing hours, 

And in the loving prattle of the lips 

That framed the simple tale of daily needs. 

Of daily hopes and pleasures, aims and ends. 

So sweetly, or that spake on holy themes 

With all the intuition marvellous, 

The fearless, reverent confidence of those 

Whose angels see the Father's face in Heaven. 

Ah me ! perchance that sunshine was too bright 

For this all-darkening world, too sweet perchance 

That music for the jarring dissonance 

Of sin and sorrow. He who loved her best 

Did what was best, and we that wept His will 

Yet praise Him ; praise Him for the treasure lent, 

For that sweet angel-visit which unawares 

We entertained ; for that deep memory 

Which makes the past of those seven winged years 

An Eden of remembrance ; more than all 

We now have learned to praise Him that again 

Into His blessed keeping, undefiled, 

He took her back, to meet us at ' that day.' 



1 66 NARRATIVE POEMS 

You wonder at my speech of ' us ' and ' we,' 

As though she had two fathers. She had two — 

Him the true, faithful man of whom I spake, 

The shepherd of the flocks on yonder wold, 

And me, the pastor of the sheep of God 

Folded within this vale and on those hills ; 

His child according to the flesh, and mine 

According to the Spirit — mine the arms 

In which she died to sin and lived to God ; 

Mine the priest's hand that traced upon her brow 

The token of her new inheritance, 

Yon sacred sign ; mine, too, the lips that sware 

Her vows of fealty. And from that hour. 

As by an instinct, I, who had no child, 

Gave all the father's heart within my breast 

To her, and she to me a daughter's love ; 

Such love as to the others of her home. 

And reverence withal as unto one 

Nearest, she held it, unto God and Heaven, 

Which coming all so full from one so pure. 

Not seldom smote and pricked a heart that knew 

Its own defilement. 

" So it was, that when 
God's message came that we must render up 
The treasure lent awhile, to me they gave — 
In the wild grief that shook them more than mine, 
Marking the severance of the fleshly bond — 
The task to tell her that the end was nigh. 
I went alone into the little room. 
And using the familiar name she knew, 



DEARE CHILDE 167 

' Dear child,' I said, ' God wants you very soon 
To go to Him. He has a better home 
Above, you know, with angels in His Heaven, 
Where there is perfect peace and no more pain.' 
' Oh, that is good,' she answered, ' no more pain ! 
It hurts me so, and mother cries to see it ; 
But, sir, will she come there, and father too, 
And you ? ' 

" I answered, ' But a little while 
And we will come ; God has not sent for us. 
He calls you first, soon He will send for us, 
And we will come, and you will meet us there, 
And we shall never part, nor grieve, nor die.' 
" ' Am I to die, sir ? ' tremulously she said ; 
And when I could not speak for sudden tears, 
Went on, ' Oh, now I know I am to die. 
Like little Alice at the farm last year, 
Who used to gather flowers and play with me ; 
But she fell ill, and angels came from God 
And took her up, you said, beyond the stars. 
But oh ! they cried so when she went away ! 
Will mother cry, and father if I go, 
And you, sir ? Oh, 'tis sad for you to cry ! 
May I not stay awhile ? ' 

" I answered her, 
* Your father, mother, and I love you, dear ; 
You know it ! ' 

' Oh, I love you so ! ' she said. 
' But there is One who loves you more than all : 
IV/io loves you best ? ' I asked her. Then a smile 



1 68 NARRATIVE POEMS 

Childlike and holy, as I never saw 

On other lips, so human and divine, 

Flowed over all the tender little face, 

And broke in utterance, 'Jesus loves me best, 

Jesus, Who died upon the cross for me ! ' 

" And much it moved me, watching her, to see 
How the sweet head before the Holy Name, 
Despite the languor of its feebleness. 
Essayed the wonted reverence where it lay. 
"Tis Jksus,' I replied, 'Who loves you best, 
That calls you. Will you wait awhile, or go 
Now when He calls you ? ' 

' Now, oh now,' she said. 
And smiled again, and clasped her little hands ; 
' And I shall see His face, and hear His voice. 
And He will come and take me in His arms 
And say your words, " dear child," and bid me rest, 
Making me love Him ever more and more. 
And I shall wait for you, and you will come, 
And mother dear, and father when He sends. 
And He will make us glad and good for ever.' 



" That noon — for it was morning when I spoke — 
There came upon her bitter throes of pain ; 
But naught save sudden spasms of the brow, 
And the shook lips and quicker breath betrayed 
The tribulation of the passing life. 
No wailing or complaint to vex our ears. 
But ever and anon we heard her say, 



DEARE CHILDE 169 

In whispers softly, 'There is no more pain'; 
Or she would murmur, 'Jesus loves me best,' 
And then again would whisper, ' No more pain.' 

" But when the sun was low at eventide, 
The bitter pain had passed, and she lay still, 
Too weak for words, but smiling peacefully 
With eyes that looked upon us with such love, 
Our hearts in battle with the struggling tears 
Were nigh to bursting. Then we knelt and prayed, 
And as we rose the parting sunlight streamed 
With its last glory through the window panes. 
And o'er the dying child. She could not speak, 
But first at us, and after toward the west, 
Looked wistfully. And then the mother said 
Divining, ' She would have you sing the hymn 
You taught her for the sunset every day.' 

" And so we sang the hymn of eventide, 
' Abide with me '; and while we sang, her soul 
Sang with us in that marvellous sweet smile. 
That was like music too divine for sound. 
We sang and darkness deepened, but that smile 
Grew brighter yet, and brighter, till the close, 
' In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me ! ' 
Then, with ' Amen,' was breathed one little sigh, 
And song, and smile, and soul fied up to heaven. 

" Deare Childe ! I think that we thus are more blest 
Than by thy life — we are more near to God : 
That holy sleep in Jesus which thou sleepest 
Has power to lull us also into dreams 
More bright of waters still and pastures green, 



I70 NARRATIVE POEMS 

Where thou art waiting till He bid us come : 
He, the Good Shepherd, Who doth feed His flock, 
Gather the Httle lambs within His arm, 
And gently lead the heavy laden home." 



"MORNING ROBERT'' 

A PARISH IDYLL 

" So ere that day and hour begun 
In which Thyself will be the sun ; 
Thou'lt find me drest, and on my way, 
Watching the break of Thy Great Day." 

H. Vaughan, The Dawning. 

" Until the day dawn." 

There stands a little cottage near the wood 
That lies one side the village church, and crowns 
The long but gentle slope above the vale. 
Wide on the left, descending from the wood, 
Fringed with a low grey wall of ancient stone, 
A grassy park extends, with, here and there. 
Great trees, alone or clustered, till it joins 
The hamlet and the river. 

Many years 
A pensioner of the hall, an old man, lived 
Alone in the lone cottage. Dear to him 
Its narrow walls and weather-beaten thatch. 
And windows quaint and dim. There he was born ; 
There had his mother loved him ; there she died, 

171 



172 NARRATIVE POEMS 

Her hand in his ; there had his father prayed 
His latest prayer of blessing on his head ; 
There, one fair summer morning, he had brought 
From the near church, his pretty sweetheart home ; 
There she had loved him well a happy year ; 
There, with her little babe, he saw her die. 

Awhile the old dear home seemed changed to him, 
Desolate and unlovely, but ere long 
The sense of darkness and of loneliness 
Left it, for it was peopled from the Past, 
And brightened with the Future. There he saw, 
As with shut eyes he sat beside his hearth. 
The old familiar faces come and go, 
And heard their voices at his will ; and there. 
Far better thus alone, in simple prayer 
And study of the Holy Word, he held 
Communion with those dear saints gone before. 
Not lost — and in that quiet commune drew 
His vision of the glory that should be. 

But when his years were many, and his limbs 
Failed at their wonted toil, the good old squire — 
Knowing himself the weight of many years — 
Gave him the cottage for his life, and all 
The little needs his thrift could not supply. 
Supplied with willing hand. 

But though his limbs 
Were feeble, yet his heart had kept its youth, 
And something of its childhood : in his eyes 
It shone so bright, and over all his face — 
Despite the wintry pallor of his age, 



"MORNING ROBERT" 173 

And the deep wrinkles which the tide of life, 
Receding, had left marked on cheek and brow — 
Glowed yet so fresh and cheerly, it belied 
His fourscore years. A simple heart it was, 
Not learn'd in any lore save that of Heaven ; 
Yet, in its order, rare, for he was one 
Whom God had made a poet to Himself; 
Poet, indeed, who "never wrote a verse," 
Yet none the less a poet. He could hear 
Music that did not come to common ears, 
And see, what eyes around him seldom saw. 
An inner life beneath the outer form 
Of Nature : so that, knowing not his gift, 
He marvelled that his fellows gave no heed 
To that which made his life so sweet to him, 
And earth so dear that naught could come amiss. 
Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter, day and night. 
The shade and shine, the light of moon and stars, 
The clouds of rain, or storm, or rolling mist. 
The whirlwind and the zephyr — each and all 
Were ministers of pleasure : every one 
Taught him of God. 

Those years of solitude 
Fed his poetic heart from morn till eve, 
From eve till morn ; and each repeated change 
Made new delight. 

Often, in simple words. 
Glad of an ear that seemed to understand, 
He told me how the Months were all his friends. 
And had their mission to his heart and soul 



X 



174 NARRATIVE POEMS 

With sight or sound ; how, not in Spring alone, 

Or Summer, was their visitation loved, 

But how, not seldom, he would lie awake 

Communing on his bed in peace, and hear 

The tears of dying Summer dash their drops 

Against the thatch, the window, and the door ; 

While from the drench'd woods came the Autumn throes. 

Wild shrieks, and hollow moanings of the winds. 

That rose with power and died away in pain, 

That died in pain and rose again with power, 

The long night through. Or in the Winter days, 

" I love, sir," he would say, "to hear the storm 

Go roaring through the glen and down the vale 

So strong and terrible ; for, as I watch, 

It minds me of the Psalm you preached about 

A while ago — David on Lebanon, 

Hearing the Lord's voice in the thunder-roll 

O'er many waters : how it shook above 

The old, eternal mountains, and below 

The still, waste land, dividing, as it sped, 

The flames of fire ; and how the cedar-trees 

Brake as it smote them, and the forest depths 

Unclosed before it ; but, saith he, the Lord 

Sitteth above the thunder and the flood, 

A King for ever ! and will give His own 

Strength for the storms of life, and afterward 

The blessing of His peace. And so it is 

The end is always peace ; and therefore, sir, 

I love the storm, because the calm at last 

Is sure, and sweeter for it." 



"MORNING ROBERT" 175 

There were none 
In all the scattered hamlet did not know 
Old Robert ; and though there were some to sneer — 
Poor souls ! they only sneered to hide the shame 
Stirred by the pricking judgment in their breasts — 
Because his kindly face changed utterly, 
Stern, sorrowful, before a godless deed 
Or an unholy word ; yet he was loved 
By most, and honoured ; chief of all by those 
The furthest from him in the scale of years ; 
For the child's heart within the aged man 
Yearned upon little children, like his Lord's. 
No hard disciple he to thrust away 
Their clambering feet, and clinging hands, or hush 
Their eager voices ! 'Twas a goodly sight 
To see and hear them on a summer day 
Around him, like some old-world patriarch 
With half a hundred children ; or to watch 
How in God's house, on every Holy-day, 
He, from his wonted station in the aisle, 
Beside a grey stone pillar near to them. 
Joined, in the holy words of prayer and praise, 
His deeper tones with their less tremulous 
Sweet voices, and to note how with a look — 
The old saint, with the little ones of Christ, 
Like somegood shepherd whom the young lambs know — 
He would win back into the ways of prayer 
Wandering eyes and hearts. 

An arbiter 
In many a village difference was he. 



176 NARRATIVE POEMS 

And oracle of counsel in their need 

To all the hamlet ; and, as in the days 

Of oracles each had its wonted shrine 

And station, so old Robert did not lack 

His proper tryst. A mighty old oak-tree 

Within the park, fronting the far-off hills 

That lay beyond the river, made for him. 

Deep-hollowed close above its mossy roots, 

A seat he loved. Here any one who sought 

Would seek him when the sun was high at noon 

Or low at eve ; but always he was there 

At the first break of dawn, and hence it was 

That, with a mingled reverence and jest, 

They called him " Morning Robert," though his day 

Was now far spent towards the eventide ; 

For a strange fancy took him in his age 

Never to miss the sunrise any morn 

The long year round. So, though at noon or eve 

Perchance he wandered elsewhere, never came 

The dawn in summer, autumn, winter, spring. 

But found him underneath the old oak-tree 

In vigil : there he saw the new day born 

Above the hills, in clamour of the winds. 

Or brooding mist, or rushing clouds of rain. 

As in the still sweet air and silver sky. 

I held it dear to see and speak with him 
Not seldom there. The picture as I came 
Was worthy of remembrance — the great tree. 
Knotted and gnarled with nigh a thousand years. 
Yet wearing the new life of the last spring 



"MORNING ROBERT" 177 

Upon its summit greenly — underneath, 
The old man seated, calm in that repose 
Which is not of the world, with that child's look, 
Most happy, blending with the dignity 
Of many years and natural nobleness ; 
His long staff, reaching from him to the ground. 
And on its end close clasped his wrinkled hands, 
And over them the reverend reverent face ; 
The chin just laid upon the hand, the head 
Leant back against the tree, and looking up, 
Like hers, the saint of many tears and prayers — 
Whom Scheffer drew — what time at Ostia 
She sits with him, her son new born to God, 
And communes with him of those future joys 
Unseen, unknown, undreamed of, yet so near 
They brighten o'er her ! 

If he saw me come. 
With honour for my office, and some love 
(I love to think it) for me, he would rise, 
And underneath his lifted hat reveal 
That old man's "crown of glory." We would hold 
That converse then which only they can hold 
Who love one Lord ; and, most of all, we dwelt 
On the near glory of that heavenly day 
For which, in night-time of the evil world, 
God's people keep their vigil evermore. 

And yet, withal, there came to him no sign 
That soon he should go hence, nor did he deem, 
Despite his failing limbs and fourscore years, 
His time was near, until, on one sad eve, 

N 



178 NARRATIVE POEMS 

A little maiden whom he called " Deare Childe," 

Making short sojourn in this pilgrim land, 

Went home — went home, but left the world so dark 

To us who loved her, and, not least, to him 

To whose hoar winter she was like the spring, 

So often that old tree was trysting-place 

Where she would meet him after hours of school, 

With sunbeams in her eyes and on her hair, 

And merry prattle like the morning wind. 

Or low sweet talk, like evening's softer breeze, 

Of God, and heaven, and angels, and that Love 

Which loved us unto death in Holy Land 

Long years ago, and lives to love us still 

Beyond the worlds. — Not till she passed away 

He seemed to lose his vigorous hold on life ; 

But on that eve when, as the sun sank down. 

Her soul arose and spread its wings for flight, 

And left us to the darkness, as I went 

Homeward, grief-stricken, — for I loved the child, 

God knoweth ! — leaning on the garden gate 

I found him watching. With a single look 

He read my wordless answer all too plain. 

Perhaps a man's tears leave a deeper trace — 

Perhaps some strange reflection, lingering still, 

Caught from the deathly presence, told the tale — 

Howbeit, he read it all, and turned away ; 

But such a groan broke from him, I was fain 

To stay him with a hand upon his arm, 

And force one word, " The maiden is not dead, 

But sleepeth." 



"MORNING ROBERT" 179 

Then he turned again and stood 
Before me, silent. Neither spoke awhile, 
And, though my grief was selfish, and I longed 
To be alone with that remembered face. 
That little form of saintly sweet repose, 
And those last words, I might not leave him there. 
So strangely grieved beyond the wont of age, 
The whole frame rocked like some grey tower that feels 
The earth-wave roll beneath it. So we stood ; 
The summer even darkening towards the night, 
The breeze that rose at sunset from the west » 

Now dying wearily in sighs that shook 
Faintly the leaves above us. Then again. 
Touching his hand, I spoke. "Is it too long 
To tarry for the morning, when they meet 
Who parted in the night ? That morning comes 
In God's good time ; when He shall will it comes. 
It will not tarry." Then he raised his head 
Quickly as one who hears, or thinks he hears, 
A summons far away. A little while 
He seemed as one who listened ; then as though 
He heard the voice that called him, " Ah!" he said — 
Musingly, not to me, within himself — 
*' The youngest, now the oldest." Then a change 
Revived the shaken frame, and lit the face. 
Which had been dark, with light so strange and new, 
I marvelled. But my own heart calling me 
Back to myself, I left him with one word 
Of benediction. 



i8o NARRATIVE POEMS 

But, from that day forth, 
There was not one that might not mark a change 
In Robert ; not of weariness, or pain. 
Or that which is the strength of many years, 
" Labour and sorrow " ; rather might be seen 
A brightness, added to the wonted look 
Of peace he wore. He did not seem like one 
Waiting, however, patiently, for that 
Which might be yet far off; but like a man 
Who knows with joy one more swift hour will end 
The long delay. It was, indeed, as though 
Patience with him had had her perfect work, 
And in his soul already had begun 
The full joy of fruition. Yet to none 
He bade farewell. And some there were who said, 
Noting that change which brightened in his face, 
But seeing naught beneath it, " Sure it was 
Robert had got another lease of life, 
And would outlive them all." And others said, 
" They marvelled Robert had so soon forgot 
The little maid he seemed to dote upon." 
But those who knew him better saw the change. 
And only wondered with a kind of awe. 
But me he told in secret he believed 
The time was very near when for his soul 
The blessed dawn should break behind the hills, 
And bring the eternal day. " And yet," he said, 
" I do not know, sir, why I am so sure ; 
No angel told me ; no, nor in a dream 
Have I been warned ; and so I do not say 



"MORNING ROBERT ' i8i 

Openly, I am sure, lest, if it be 

I am mistaken, I should live to hear 

My dear hope jested on — but, sir, I think 

I cannot be mistaken, though no dream 

Or angel has revealed it ; for that night 

On which the little maiden went to God, 

And you, sir, told me, when my heart was sick, 

That when the Lord shall will the morning comes 

And will not tarry, then, I know not how, 

But suddenly my breast was filled with joy, 

As though I heard the footsteps of the Lord 

Coming upon the mountains. " He will come, 

He will not tarry," sounded in my soul ; 

Not faintly, as in whispers, but as though 

A hundred voices said it. Then I thought, 

Surely it is a message sent from God, 

And by His priest He bids me stand prepared 

For His quick coming. Therefore, sir, I wait, 

Believing He is near. Yea, even so. 

Lord Jesus, come ! Amen " 

I looked at him, 
His head bent low in utterance of the prayer, 
The ancient, holy prayer, wherewith is closed 
The great Apocalypse. And " such," I thought, 
" Was he who prayed it on that latest page 
Of inspiration, he, the most beloved 
Where all were loved, yet last to pass away ; 
The old disciple, full of years, and worn 
With many toils, but like a little child 
In confidence and gentleness and love." 



i82 NARUATIVK POEMS 

Summer was young when our "deare childe" was laid 
Under the chancel window, and her grave 
Was still made bright, beneath the little cross, 
With summer blossoms, when, one early morn, 
I passed it by. No purpose led me forth, 
Only a vague desire that I might feel 
The first fresh breathing of the infant morn 
And see its earliest smiling down the hills 
And o'er the stream. I wandered by the wood, 
And passed the lonely cottage. Then, I thought, 
" Robert not yet has left his morning watch, 
And he shall tell me with what joy he saw. 
An hour ago, the sun rise." 

From the wood 
I came behind the tree to where he sat 
Beneath it. Then I thought he was asleep. 
Because he moved not, and his eyes, half-closed, 
Seemed overcast and dim, and when I spoke 
He did not hear me. 

" Robert ! do you sleep ? " 
I said, and bent to touch him. — Then I saw 
Indeed he slept. It was the sleep of him 
Who slept within the cave of Bethany, 
Whom none could wake but Jesus. 

He was dead : 
Dead underneath the dying old oak tree — 
(Its last leaf died that autumn). " O my friend," 
I cried, with tearless bitterness at heart, 
" I came to hear thee speak of light and joy, 
And thou art dead ! " 



"MORNING ROBERT^' i8: 

Shivering with grief, I turned, 
And — lo ! before me glowed the living morn — 
The great unclouded sun above the hills 
Made hills and woods and river beautiful ; 
And overhead, unseen, I just might hear 
A lark that sang to God his matin song 
Of praise for light and joy. 

Again I turned, 
Fronting the sleeping saint, and as my tears 
Fell part in sorrow, part in penitence, 
I knelt beside him with that ancient prayer. 
As I had heard him pray it, " Even so, 
Lord Jesus, come ! Amen." 

Thus did he die. 
That good old man. And for ourselves, indeed. 
It could not be but we must mourn for him. 
We miss him at the solitary tree ; 
We miss his reverent greeting by the way ; 
We miss him in the Church's holy hours 
From that grey pillar, and the altar-rail. 
How many mourn that childless, poor old man ! 
That lonely, unimportant, poor old man ! 
Oh, nay ! — that heir of heaven, that royal saint. 
That brother of the Lord, that king and priest 
To God Almighty ! Yes, and we who mourn 
With love's true sorrow, yet will never say 
" Alas ! " but " Hallelujah ! "—lost to us. 
But found in heavenly places ! He has left 
A vacant niche in earth's cathedral front, 
But in God's Eden, by the crystal stream, 



1 84 NARRATIVE POEMS 

Under the tree of life, a glorious form, 
He fills a glorious place ; his eyes behold 
The Great King in His beauty ; in the glow 
And splendour of that Day, for which he looked 
And longed and waited, now at last he hears 
The chantings of the myriad morning stars 
Of which he caught the echoes, though so far 
Not faintly, here. 

For us, who still are here, 
We follow : if so be, by grace of Christ, 
We also may attain, and hear, like him. 
The Voice of the Beloved, beyond the hills, 
Calling our souls to gather to His light, 
When the day breaks, and shadows flee away. 



THE BIRDIE^ 

From his short slumber in the early morn 

The sick man woke. Beneath the window sill, 

Caged in this alien land, an English lark, 

Making melodious prelude to the light 

Ere the dark shades were driven all away, 

Lightened its exile with the songs of home. 

Strange in that land, alone of all its kind, 

Well was " the Birdie " known for leagues around ; 

Rough men, uncouth in look and speech, would come, 

As those who keep a Sabbath after toil, 

And hush their ribald blasphemies, as though 

They stood in holy presence while it sang ; 

And their wild faces would take back again 

Some looks of childhood and those purer days 

Far off, or ere the branding lust of gold 

Had marred them. 

On this morn the Birdie's note 
Woke from his fevered sleep the dying man. 
He knew the time was near that he must die : 

^ Elihu Burritt tells a story of the intense interest excited among the 
colonists of an Australian settlement by the singing of a lark — a bird 
not indigenous to Australia — kept in a cage outside her window by 
a widow. She had brought it over from England to share her exile, 
and refused all the many offers of purchase made to her. 

185 



1 86 NARRATIVE POEMS 

And, smiling as the broken-hearted smile, 
He said in thought, " This wide Australian land, 
That never gave me welcome to her arms 
Or bade me find a home upon her breast, 
Will open soon her heart and lay me there. 
And suffering none to break my quiet sleep. 
There she will clasp me closely till the end." 

Was it not hard to die so far away 
From all of place and person that he loved ? 
To die alone, not one of all his kin 
To minister the last necessities. 
To fan the burning fever from his brow, 
To cool his hot dry lips, and, more than all. 
To give him tender words and loving looks, 
And make death calm and holy — as a wind 
At even, breathing softly from the west. 
Gladdens the dying sunlight, or as when 
It breathes Hke pity through the autumn woods. 
And the sere leaves like dying hopes float down 
Gently to their decay, not torn by gusts 
Nor whirled away in tempest — even so 
To breathe upon him all the gracious air 
Of reconciling sympathies, and then 
To close at last the sightless eyes, and then 
To shroud the still cold form, and reverently, 
As one who sows immortal seed for God, 
To lay it in the furrow of a grave, 
Waiting His golden harvest, over it. 
Dropping the precious rain of holy tears. 
Not one — and yet how might he call it hard ? 



THE BIRDIE 187 

No other hand than his had cut the bonds 
That bound him to his kin and to his home. 
Nor might he rail against the land he loved 
And longed for far away ; nor stern nor cold 
Had been its motherhood to him her son, 
But kindly, as a mother, she had given 
All liberal gifts to meet a modest need, 
And yet, as one too wise in love to spoil. 
Withheld her treasure from his grasp. But he 
Had heard a siren-call come o'er the waves 
From the great Golden Isle, had seen in dreams 
A glorious spectre clothed in sheen of gold 
That motioned him to follow ; unto whom 
He said, " I follow," and arose and went. 
Went — careless of the dear familiar land, 
Heedless of loving eyes that wept for him, 
Deaf to the tender voices praying him. 
Scornful of duty with her stern reproach, 
" Stay, for thy place is here," — and more than all 
Striving to cover what he could not hide, 
A Form with Arms outstretched to draw him near, 
To deaden that within which would not die, 
Another, " Follow Me, for thou art Mine." 

O'er the long leagues of that sea waste between, 
Cursing the tardy hours that would not fly 
And bring him face to face with all his hope 
Quick as his eager longing, on and on 
The gleaming spectre lured him ; till it stood 
In that far land which seemed another world. 
And bade him come and thrust his greedy hands 



1 88 NARRATIVE POEMS 

Into that treasure-heap. It is a tale 
Oft told, yet not too often. While he grasped 
There came against him surely one by one 
Avenging powers to hinder : pains of toil 
Unwonted, hateful scenes of sin and strife. 
The savage life beneath the burning sun, 
The broken sleep of fear beneath the stars, 
The want of better things than gold, and then 
The robber's cruel hand that made in vain 
Long weary months of labour, then disease. 
And with it none to heal and none to cheer ; 
And so it was that ere a year was gone 
He saw that golden phantom, as a cloud 
Tinted by sunset lapses into gloom. 
Slow darken into grisly hues of death. 

And now it was that memories of home 
And those fond hearts that waited wearily 
Beyond the evermore-dividing seas, 
Came thronging in sweet sadness over him. 
With holy influence from the Source of love 
Moving his soul to prayer. And so the Form 
Which he had sought in vain to see no more 
Looked also down upon his heart in love, 
Not in reproach : he thought those gracious Arms 
Leaned to him from their Cross of pain as though 
To draw him near for blessing ; and a Voice, 
Rich with the eloquence of mercy, seemed 
Ever to fall more clearly on his soul 
" Ere long thou shalt be with Me — thou art Mine." 



THE BIRDIE 189 

And on this early morning as he lay, 
Yet clearer, nearer seemed to fall that Voice, 
" This day thou shalt be with Me," and his soul 
Made answer, " Yea, since Thou forgavest him 
Who died that day, I, though more vile than he. 
Will hope for mercy greater than my sin." 

And as he lay and brighter grew the morn, 
And sweeter sang the Birdie, while a sense 
Of pardon calmed the waters of his soul 
Into a perfect stillness — on their breast 
Came mirrored from the old beloved land 
Scene after scene of other days long dead : 
Came not to trouble but to soothe, and all 
Seemed wrought to real life as by a spell, 
And the spell-worker seemed the Birdie's song. 

Oh sweetly, sweetly rang the joyous note ! 
He thought he was a child again, and stood 
With others, children also, by a stream 
Which, as it were the type of their glad lives, 
Ran, making merry music through the fields, 
Ran, with a rippling welcome and farewell 
To every blossom met and left behind. 
Ran, careless of the solemn mystery 
Of ocean ever nearer day by day. 
So sped he with his fellows by the banks 
And through the meadows, greeting hastily 
All bonny things and bright, and stayed for none, 
Heeding no future save the next hour's play — 
And round and o'er him laughed the frolic wind. 



190 NARRATIVE POEMS 

Oh sweetly, sweetly rang the Birdie's note ! 
And now he was a boy whose eager heart 
Would fain in this the glimmering dawn attain 
Manhood's full day : with visionary eyes 
Blending his future with the glorious past 
He saw no present : all the quiet hills 
About his home were castled heights o^ war, 
And down their placid sides his fancy scanned 
Descending squadrons sweeping to the fray. 
The keen fresh morning breezes woke his soul 
Like battle clarions ; peaceful woodland scenes, 
Through which the simple cotter wound his way. 
He peopled from the noble names of Eld 
With warrior forms : great Arthur, flower of kings. 
True friend and terrible foe, rode there ; and there 
Sir Galahad, who sought the Holy Grail, 
With earnest face and pure ; and here was heard 
Sir Roland's horn : and ever there and here 
Some immemorial deed was wrought again. 
These faces and a thousand else he saw, 
He saw them all and loved them, and he longed 
To follow and be like them ; and the sun 
Shone brightly o'er him, and the blackbird's call 
Came to him like a bugle from the dell. 
And all things seemed so beautiful and true, 
He cried aloud until the echoes rang— 
And round and o'er him swept the rolling wind. 

Oh sweetly, sweetly rang the Birdie's note ! 
And now the scene was changed, and still alone, 
Yet not alone, for there is life in death. 



THE BIRDIE 191 

He stood beside a grave. Not many years 
Had made him older since that day, and yet 
Not one expectant glance in those dim eyes, 
Not one bright gleam upon the stricken face, 
Alas ! not e'en toward Heav'n ; he stands and looks 
A stony look beneath, and bitter words 
Low-voiced with sullen passion made their way : 
" I loved her with a love that made me pure. 
And she is gone ; the truth was in her eyes, 
And they are closed for ever ; her bright hair 
Made chains to bind me to the hope she held 
Of God and angels ; they are loosened chains 
There in the dust. She was my all in all. 
Truth, Honour, Beauty, Purpose, Purity, 
Hope, Joy, Faith, Comfort — all — and she forsooth 
Was needed elsewhere and not left to me. 
And I go forth and care not where I go ! " — 
And round and o'er him sighed the ghostly wind. 

Yet sweetly, sweetly rang the Birdie's note. 
Cloud-like the sin of those remembered words 
Troubled the vision of the dying man. 
A moment — and it sped, for now no more 
Came memories of the past ; a marvellous light 
Such as he knew not, drowning all the morn. 
Flooded his soul, and music wonderful. 
In which the Birdie's warble blent and died, 
Began, rose, swelled and deepened into Heaven 
Louder than loudest thunders, yet more soft 
Than all earth's sweetest silence. Then a form, 
Bright from God's presence hovered down and smiled — 



192 NARRATIVE POEMS 

And yet he knew it — and a voice he knew, 
Attuned to that strange music, flowed to him, 
" Arise, come hence, beloved ! I am sent 
To bring thee, for He calleth thee, and now 
Thine eyes shall see Him — Come." 

Before the day 
Shed its full lustre, one who slept beneath 
Woke with a sudden start, and knew not why, 
But rising quick, and coming half in fear 
Within that chamber, he beheld his face 
Shine with a light which was not of the sun. 
Nor yet of inner life, for he was dead ; 
Dead, yet without, as though there were no death. 
And as its music had been learnt in Heaven, 
Sweeter and sweeter sang the Birdie still. 



THE GATE OF DEATH 

"Grant, O Lord, . . . that through the grave, and gate of death, we 
may pass to our joyful resurrection." — Collect for Easter Eve, 

The watching Church was near her Easter hope; 

The waiting earth was close upon her spring, 
Soft breezes wooed the woodland buds to ope 
And woodland choirs to sing. 

Yet was not Lententide nor winter past, 

Still were the lands of leaf and flower forlorn ; 
And Christian souls kept one more quiet Fast 
Or ere their Festal Morn. 

It was Death's hour : but close are Death and Life : 

The long loud storms had breathed their latest breath; 
In dying is the agony and strife, 

But solemn peace in Death. 

So had the awful Friday passed in pain, 

And souls were calm that had not ceased to grieve, 

Since in their sorrow Hope drew close again, 
Again with Easter Eve. 
o 193 



194 NARRATIVE POEMS 

One lay and waited as the hours went on, 

Watching the shadows deepen round his bed : 
One whose long Lent of life was almost gone, 
And winter well-nigh sped. 

Spring was so near him, and the glorious Feast ; 

And his believing soul in calm foretaste 
E'en in that death-hour from all trouble ceased, 
Nor needed to make haste. 

And one was watching with him, young and fair, 

But fairer than in beauty of her youth, 
By that sweet patience which meets earth's despair. 
Secure of Love and Truth : 

His Love, His Truth, Who cannot change or lie, 
Lover of souls and Lord o'er Death and Hell ; 
Who saith, " In Me all things below, on high. 
For you are always well." 

Her heart was full of tears, and almost rent, 

Well-nigh too full for life, yet her child's will— 
A will not lost but with her Father's blent — 
Lay satisfied and still. 

Husband and wife : so dear, so near, that earth 
Had naught for each without the other good, 
Yet son and daughter by one heavenly Birth, 
Beneath one Fatherhood. 



THE GATE OF DEATH 195 

And heaven is more than earth, and so their love 

Was more than earthly, even as their life — 
In souls so sure of hidden bliss above 
No sorrow grows to strife. 

" My children do not part, and cannot die " : 

Yesterday taught them by the Cross in sight, 
To-day by that dark Sepulchre hard by. 
Morn by its promised light. 

She sat beside him till the night grew deep, 

Her eyes on his, his hand within her hand, 
The perfect peace she saw had power to keep 
Her own heart in command. 

Not much they said : Love unto love can tell 

Its inmost feeling, though of words be none. 
By look, by touch, in thought they commune well. 
Whose heart and soul are one. 

Yet, twice he spoke : once, when as day grew dim. 

And a bell ceased upon the still March air, 
She sang the Church's Psalms and one sweet hymn,^ 
And prayed the Vigil Prayer. 

Then first he said, " ' The Grave and Gate of Death ' 

Are near this Eve : Lord ! let my soul be borne 
Through them to Thee with the first light and breath 
Of Thy victorious Morn. 

^ See Hymns Ancient and Modern^ No. 105. 



196 NARRATIVE POEMS 

" I will ' remain in patient watch ' till day — 

This gloom is holy, for it once was Thine — 
Then, O my Righteousness ! with Thy first ray 
Bid me arise and shine." 

Again was heartfelt silence for an hour ; 

Then one came in, whose voice well-known and dear 
Brought prayer and counsel and the Word of power 
The contrite love to hear. 

Beautiful were his feet. When he was gone 

Light seemed to linger and the calm increase, 
Flowing from those last words, the benison 
Of the eternal peace. 

The hours crept on : till dawn was close, and still 

She watched beside him. Once she thought he slept, 
Nor knew but it was death, and then her will 
Failed in her, and she wept. 

No sound, but tears upon his hand could tell 

Her anguish ; and, with love that could not chide, 
He whispered, " Dearest, even this is well, 
He wept when Lazarus died ; 

" He knows His sheep ; God-Man ; and in His ears 

Your cry is holy ; even Hope can weep : 
'I go,' He said, and went, amidst His tears, 
' To wake him out of sleep.' 



THE GATE OF DEATH 197 

" Like Him you weep — and I — O love, my wife, 
I weep too ! — but our tears do Faith no wrong, 
The heirs together of the grace of life. 
Our parting is not long ; 

*' Yet now we part ; and e'en the ' little while ' 
Seems long to love : but oh ! if life is sweet, 
Sweeter it is to lay it with a smile 
At our dear Master's feet. 

*' My darling, this is all ; speech fails ; stoop low, 

Tenderest face I love so ! — now, before 

Sight, sense, fail also, and I cannot know 

Even you — kiss me once more." 

She kissed him. O how piteously her soul 

Longed to go with him, even while its cry 
Lay hushed in reverence, for its trust was whole 
In its great agony. 

She kneeled, her arms about him, by the bed. 
And watching the dim eye \nd fitful breath, 
Seemed with her still white face beside his head 
A very Bride of Death. 

Slowly the darkness shrouded all the room. 

As the spent fire and watch-light died away ; 
Slowly again came creeping o'er the gloom 
The sense of the new day. 



198 NARRATIVE POEMS 

A low broad window looked toward the East ; 

And as a hand before a taper's gleam 
Glows red, its curtain folds, as dawn increased, 
Veined with rich life did seem. 

His face was from it : but in fear anon 

She saw his spirit saw, by the set eyes, 
The loosened clasp, the gesture as of one 
Preparing to arise ; 

Then one faint sign ; whereat — as if she knew 

Behind it all the Beatific Sight 
Lay veiled — with awful hand she backward drew 
The curtain from the light. 

Blest Light, blest Morning ! beautiful it shone 

Just over the dark hills with orient rays, 
Which, like the summons from a trumpet blown, 
Poured full upon her gaze. 

He slowly turned to look from where he lay : 

Then once or twice, like one most blest, he sighed, 
Then laid his pale hands close as if to pray, 
And, gazing still, he died. 

Christ's Morning ! ceased before it the old law 
That bound in prison-house the yearning soul. 
Which fled to taste the glory that it saw, 
Freed from its long control. 



THE GATE OF DEATH 199 

" Difiiiiiis, Domine ! " — was that the prayer ? — 

" Here have I seen Thy Promise, Risen Lord ; 
Now I depart to find Thy Fulness there, 
According to Thy Word ! " 



And she ? — she waits ; alone but not forlorn. 

And learning more to long as less to grieve, 
Keeps, with an ever brighter hope of morn, 
Her quiet Easter Eve. 



SONNETS 



THE ONE NAME 



" Who is among you that walketh in darkness, and hath no light? 
Let him trust in the Name of the Lord." — Isaiah 1. lo. 



In One Name I have found the all in all. 

It is enough, and It will never fail. 

Here on the height, or there within the vale, 
In this my strength I shall not greatly fall. 
If on the dark hills here thy fears appal, 

O thou mine Enemy ! or there assail 

My fainting heart, yet shall they not prevail. 
For on the Name thou dreadest I will call. 

Oh then rejoice not ! for I shall arise. 
And heavenly light shall stream across the gloom, 
And heavenly music drown the voice of doom. 

And a most blissful prospect cheer mine eyes : 
All from that Name beloved and adored, 
Thy sweet great Name, O Jesus Christ, my Lord. 



202 



FOUR POETS 

A PERSONAL HISTORY 

(1877) 

I 

WALTER SCOTT 

Master-Magician of that breezy Spring 
Ere my first decade died — when life awoke 
Within me of the mystic world, and broke 

In such illuming flashes as still fling 

Light on my soul — in bugle-calls that ring 

Still in mine ears ! thy wand it was whose stroke 
As swift in power as April's on the oak, 

Stirred all my life to rich imagining. 

Oh glamour not of love or ladies' eyes, 

But of the stream, the mountain, and the glen, 
Of war-horse champing, clash of armoured men. 

And song that, like its subject, never dies ! 
Master-Romancer, not supreme to-day. 
Power yet was thine which cannot pass away. 



203 



204 SONNETS 



II 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 

Then with the early summer came the zest 

For food not meet for babes — for old-world lore 
Ere "Pan was dead" ^ — for fervent thought to soar 

Where sang " The Seraphim" ^ — or, in anxious quest, 

To plunge through deep seas at the soul's behest, 
And find with beating heart and bated breath 
How knowledge is by suffering, life by death ^ — 

White Pearls of truth 'neath Ocean's darkling breast. 

Aurora,* from thine hand the summer long 

I drank the " Wine of Cyprus " :^ with thine eyes 
I saw from " out the depths " *"' to the clear skies. 

And heard thy voice sing true the spheric songJ 
More than our "England's Sappho "^ is thy due: 
Earth's Sovereign Poetess, as great as true. 

' TAe Dead Fan, vol. iii., 4th Edition, 1856. 

* Ibid., vol. i. 

■^ See Vision of Poets , Ibid., vol. i. 

^ Aurora Leigh — the title of her most important work. It is in some 
sort autobiographical. 

* See vol. iii., 4th Edition, 1856. 

^ See "De Profundis" in Last Poems, 1862. 

^ See Sonnet, Perplexed Music, vol. ii., 4th Edition, 1856. 

* A title given to the poetess by Edgar A, Poe. 



FOUR POETS 205 



III 

ALFRED TENNYSON 

Ere this, and in the fuller year, there fell 
On mind and soul made ready long ago- 
Receptive ground for such an overflow, 
Nile-like, of grace from mystic hills— a spell 
Of power made sweet by music's miracle, 

That showed stern truth, high duty, steeped i' 

the glow 
Of such fair trust my restless heart below 
Answered far Heaven at last with "All is well.''^ 
I swear, O Poet, by thy "Voices "^ twain. 
By souls that cannot prove and yet believe,^ 
By Love and Duty, by Saint Agnes' Eve, 
By Arthur, Galahad, Gareth, and their train. 
Thou art the Master-Prophet of this age : 
Its sweetest music-maker, surest sage. 

^ See Section cxxvi. in /« Memoriam. 

2 The Two Voices. 

* See Proemion to In Memoriam. 



2o6 SONNETS 



IV 

JOHN KEBLE 

"The richest glow sets round th' autumnal sun":^ 

And so about the later year there grew 1 

A light of holier influence, deeper hue, 
Than that which fell so fresh on life begun, 
Or that the radiant summer ever won, d 

A light which brought, with all things fair and new, 

That spiritual City clear in view 
Where the true life begins " when life is done." ^ 
Priest-Poet, — Phosphor of the Light of Light, 

" Sun of my soul " — still is the singing sweet 

Of those high Poets, beautiful their feet 
Still on the hills which darken toward the night. 

But thy deep voice is tenderest in mine ear. 

Nearest thy saintly presence and most dear. 

^ See Christian Year, 2nd Sunday after Epiphany. 
^ Ibid. 



IN CHARTERHOUSE CHAPEL 

ON founder's day, 1872 



Since I knelt here ten years have slipt away 
And four : and only this to me is strange, 
That only in myself appears a change : 

All else that then was seems the same to-day. 

Here are the antique gownsmen, worn and gray, 
"Codd Colonel" and "Codd Captain," each old face, 
Long passed, seems still to fill its wonted place; 

And there behind me all the young array 
Stands as it stood on that last Lenten morn. 

When here with eyes all dim I sighed farewell, 

And heard each old prayer like a passing bell ! 
Well — of those half-shed tears I think no scorn; 

Unchanged in this at least, from boy to man, 

That I am heart and soul Carthusian. 



207 



208 SONNETS 



II 



I LOVE the Domus. Floreat! though no more 
Shall be beheld again on Founder's day 
Those ancient faces and that young array 

In most pathetic union as of yore, 

Meeting together where they both adore : 
Yet shall it flourish : 'tis a green old tree 
Deep-rooted in dark earth, yet vigorously 

Bidding its young leaves and new branches soar 
And find a rich fresh life and freer course 

Above these misty depths in purer air : 

So to be not less reverend but more fair 
By a departure which is not divorce. 

Sternum floreas, Domus! there and here; 

Be greater there — here evermore as dear. 



TO WINDSOR CEMETERY ON 
MAY-DAY 



THROUGH THE PARK! 

We five went blithely gravewards on May-day. 

Gravewards : but over us all Heaven in smiles 

Broke through the tracery of woodland aisles 
And gothic cloisters green: for all our way, 
As through a Church of Resurrection, lay, 

Under one dome, through pillars, arches, spires; 

Nor did we miss the chant of Easter choirs; 
High in the dome the lark, upon the spray 

Linnet, merle, mavis ; last, one nightingale 
Sang his first anthem purely without fear — 
As sure of welcome in a poet's ear — 

Sang in the sunshine o'er the sylvan pale. 
Then, passing, we fulfilled our quest, and stood 
By the green graves above the choral wood. 



209 



2IO SONNETS 



IT 



THE CEMETERY 



Among the graves : but round us the sweet air, 
Sun-warmed and laden from the Ulac's breath 
With Hving odours, kissed the mounds of death; 
Flowers, diamonding the grasses here and there, 
Stirred to the soft caress, and everywhere 

Was life, and warmth, and beauty, and repose; 
While in the midst the slender steeple rose, 
A Mother's hand toward home, serenely fair. 

Now what thy victory, Grave, or. Death, thy sting 
Unto her children ? — One we met, well known. 
Worn with long winter and aweary grown; 

Summer was mine, and four were in their spring; 
But all were blithe: and in one shadowy spot 
Smiled to our smiling the Forget-me-not. 



TO WINDSOR CEMETERY 211 



III 



THE LITTLE CHURCH 



If I forget thee, O thou lowly Shrine, 
Prefer thee not in Israel, let my voice 
Forget the power of song, no more rejoice 

With reverence in the faculty divine. 

Thine am I by first love, for ever thine. 

Thine by a new-sent Deacon's hopes and fears, 
A Priest's first consecration: by prayers, tears, 

And travail known to God. And thou art mine 
By the true love of souls that cannot die : 

Of some yet on their journey, as of those 

Whose tired forms round thee here awhile repose. 
And wait the last Spring and the open sky. 

Whose welcome, if I fail not by the way, 

I shall not miss on the new earth's May-day. 



FROM WINDERMERE 

TO THE CONGREGATION AND CHILDREN OF 

ST. Paul's, haggerston 

Moored by a green isle of Winandermere — 
Listening the gentlest lapping of the wave 
On the rock margin, and the blackbirds' brave 
Soldierly antiphons, afar and near, 
And the wind's whispered evensong — I hear 
A sound beyond, and sweeter as more grave 
Than ever paradise of nature gave, 
Dear to my heart of old, and now more dear : 
The roar of Londo7i—the deep undersong, 

The myriad music of immortal souls 
High-couraged, much-enduring, 'midst the long 
Drear toil and gloom and weariness. It rolls 
Over me with all power, for in its tone 
The hearts I love in Christ beat with my own. 



212 



u 



THE GARDEN OF THE LORD" 



"The desert shall rejoice and blossom as the rose." — Isaiah xxxv. i. 
(Motio of All Saints', Mission Church of Si. PauCs, Haggerston.) 

"The Lord shall comfort Zion : He will comfort all her waste places : 
and He will make her wilderness like Eden, and her desert like the 
Garden of the Lord. Joy and gladness shall be found therein, thanks- 
giving, and the voice of melody." — Isaiah li. 3. 

The Garden that has been, and is no more ! 
And left the world forlorn of bliss and bloom ; 
Naught but the flaming sword to break the gloom, 

Guarding against all hope the fatal Door. 

The Garden now ! peaceful amid the roar 

Of circling storm — Christ's Church, in face of doom 
Revealing pardon — by the desolate tomb 

Spreading the fruits of life in plenteous store. 

The Garden that shall be ! where none shall know 
Of noise, or gloom, or grave, or curse again • 
But, 'neath th' unsetting Sun and gracious Rain, 

The Rose and Lily evermore shall blow. 

Gardener of souls ! dear Lord, we work for Thee, 
Sure of this beauteous Eden that shall be. 



213 



MIDNIGHT IN LONDON 

(FEBRUARY 24, 1873) 

' ' From many a nook imthought of there 
Rises for that proud world the saints' prevailing prayer." 

Keble. 

" I WILL not spare : within its circling wall 
Are not ten righteous." So descending Hell 
In flakes of fire on shrieking Sodom fell. 

I see descending Heaven on London fall 

To-night, in flakes of snow. No fears appal 
Or eye or ear. Most fairly on the sight 
Lies the great seamless garment of pure white. 

A robe, like Christ's, on London robes it all. 

And all is still, save for the watchman's tread; 
And, at the day's first hour, the voice of time 
Tenderly solemn in a steeple chime. 

Like life's calm promise uttered o'er the dead. 

Such is the scene ; sure, for this wicked city 

Christ's Church hath pleaded well the Eternal pity. 



214 



THE SMALL-POX IN THE EAST END 



SPRING AND EASTER 



The room is dark, and at the door is Death ; 

Sightless, and marred beyond all knowledge, there 
His victims waiting lie : their labouring breath 

Makes the sole sound, and taints the heavy air. 
What comfort? — Ah, my God! who doubt Thy truth, 

And mock our Easter hope, should enter here, 
And see Thy Word in its immortal youth, 

Serene and strong in mastery of fear. 
Without, the changed season smiles and sings. 

For winter's tyranny is overpast: 
Within, is risen with healing in His wings 

The Sun, whose sky no death-clouds overcast : 
There, Spring-tide's promise of regenerate earth ; 
Here, Easter sunshine of the second birth. 



215 



2i6 SONNETS 



II 

HOLY COMMUNION 

A LITTLE while, O Death, a little while. 

Then may'st thou enter in and make an end — 
An end of sorrows — enter with the smile 

Thou usest when thou comest as a friend. 
A little while : for meet it is and right 

That first we feast together— we who stay 
They that be passing— so to part at night 

Foretasting union in the new near day. 
The woful scene, the sickening air, the gloom. 

Mar not this Feast : round this poor Altar-board 
Good angels gather, and account this room 

A Gate of Heaven by Presence of the Lord. 
A little while, O Death ! then set them free 
To find His Face beyond this veil and thee. 



A SUNDAY CONFIRMATION IN AN 
EAST-END CHURCH 



Within, the sounds were all of praise and prayer, 
The old alternate music of the soul, 
Triumphant, tender : now the lofty roll 

Of glad thanksgiving shook the sacred air: 

Now the pathetic voice of need and care 
Wherewith in reverent trust the children cry 
Unto a loving Father here most nigh, 

Albeit not far from each one everywhere. 

Without, the sounds were all of shame and sin : 
The pleasure-seeker's laugh, the drunkard's song, 
The vendor's shout amid a careless throng. 

By turns broke softly on the ears within ; 

And they who heard did more devoutly pray, 
"Lord, arm Thy children for the evil day." 



217 



2i8 SONNETS 



II 



So must it be iviihout, while Time shall be, 
The evil world of revelry and strife, 
Alluring or assailing every life 
Hidden with Christ in God, perpetually 
Shall rave around it like a troubled sea. 
So may it be within ! till Time shall end, 
The holy Church till her dear Lord descend 
Drowning that discord in her harmony : 
Blest harmony of souls that love and long ! 
The deep sweet minor of her lowly prayer 
Rising beyond the world and mingling there 
With the full swell of her majestic song. — 

Child! let thy heart through all the blatant days 
Keep such an inner shrine of prayer and praise. 



FREDERICK ARNOLD 

Dear Arnold, life is less by loss of thee: 

Less full, less jocund. Hours with thee sped by 
On wings of wit, or wealth of sympathy, 

Or talk on truths of height and depth, yet free 

Ever from cant or affectation. We, 

In our stern East-End life, grew bright of eye 
And cheerier at thy comings ! Smile or sigh 

Fitted thy various converse equally, 

Sweet-hearted friend ! Alas, that now no more 
The arm-chair or the pulpit will be filled 
With that kind presence — keen attention thrilled 

By tales of " men and cities," or the lore 

Of those book-depths from which thou knew'st so well 

To mix for mind and heart an cenomel. 



219 



SANCHO: AN OLD FRIEND 

Not sparse of friends the world has been to me 
By grace of God ; sweetness and light to life 
Their love has given ; many a stormy strife, 

Many a pulseless torpor, on my sea, 

Through them — their presence or their memory — 
Have been or stilled or quickened; and to thee 
My Dog, the tribute, as the term, is due. 

My Friend! not least of all dear, near, and true 

These seventeen years — and through the years to be 
Sure in my heart of immortality. 
Must this be all ? F the great Day of the Lord, 

Shall aught that is of good and beauty now 
Be missing ? Shall not each gift be restored ? 
Paul says "the whole creation"— why not thou? 



220 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



THE SOLILOQUY OF A RATIONALISTIC 

CHICKEN 

ON THE PICTURE OF A NEWLY HATCHED CHICKEN CON- 
TEMPLATING THE FRAGMENTS OF ITS NATIVE SHELL 

Most strange ! 
Most queer, — although most excellent a change ! 
Shades of the prison-house, ye disappear ! 
My fettered thoughts have won a wider range, 

And, like my legs, are free ; 
No longer huddled up so pitiably : 
Free now to pry and probe, and peep and peer, 

And make these mysteries out. 
Shall a free-thinking chicken live in doubt ? 
For now in doubt undoubtedly I am : 

This problem's very heavy on my mind. 
And I'm not one to either shirk or sham : 
I won't be blinded, and I won't be blind ! 
Now, let me see ; 
Firsts I would know how did I get in there ? 

Then, where was I of yore? 
Besides, why didn't I get out before ? 



224 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Bless me ! 
Here are three puzzles (out of plenty more) 
Enough to give me pip upon the brain ! 

But let me think again. 
How do I know I ever was inside ? 
Now I reflect, it is, I do maintain, 
Less than my reason, and beneath my pride 

To think that I could dwell 
In such a paltry miserable cell 

As that old shell. 
Of course I couldn't ! How could / have lain, 
Body and beak and feathers, legs and wings, 
And my deep heart's sublime imaginings, 

In there? 

I meet the notion with profound disdain ; 

It's quite incredible ; since I declare 

(And I'm a chicken that you can't deceive) 

What I canU u?idersfand I wojiH believe. 

Where did I come from, then ? Ah ! where, indeed ? 

This is a riddle monstrous hard to read. 

I have it ! Why, of course. 
All things are moulded by some plastic force 
Out of some atoms somewhere up in space, 
Fortuitously concurrent anyhow : — 

There, now ! 
That's plain as is the beak upon my face. 



THE RATIONALISTIC CHICKEN 225 

What's that I hear ? 
My mother cackling at me ! Just her way, 
So prejudiced and ignorant / say ; 
So far behind the wisdom of the day ! 

What's old I canU revere. 
Hark at her. " You're a little fool, my dear. 

That's quite as plain, alack ! 
As is the piece of shell upon your back ! " 
How bigoted ! upon my back, indeed ! 

I don't believe it's there: 
For I can't see it ; and I do declare, 

For all her fond deceivin', 
What I cati^t see I never will believe in! 



A BOY'S REVERIE 

OVER AN OLD PICTURE 

What shall I be ? 

I'd like to be a soldier, strong and tall, 
Like Grandpapa, drawn in the picture here ; 
And be the first to hear the trumpet's call, 
And be the first to scale the castle wall. 

But then, you see, 
The worst of it is this, Mamma, poor dear — 
Just because these brave fighters sometimes fall- 
Won't hear about this soldiering at all ! 

Papa's a clergyman. 
And nobody's one-half as good as he, 
Nor ever was, / think, since time began ; 
No, and I don't believe will ever be: 

I know Mamma thinks so ; 
And that's the reason partly, I dare say, 
She hopes with all her heart her boy some day 
Will lead good people in his father's way. 

And when I tell her " No, 
I want to be a soldier of the Queen," 
She says (and dear old Auntie just the same) 

226 



A BOY'S REVERIE 227 

"That there's a soldier's service nobler far, 

With surer triumph and a grander fame, 

Than any fighting in an earthly war ; 

Great battles that no eye has ever seen 

'Gainst foes more fierce than ever men have been ; 

And that a clergyman does wear a sword 

As captain in the armies of the Lord." 

I think I know what she and Auntie mean, 
And like to hear them tell of it ; but still 
I should so like a sword that I can see, 
Like Grandpapa's, and wield it in my hand. 
Just as he's painted here upon the hill, 
While all the soldiers charge at his command ; 
That's just how I should like to look, so grand ! 

Oh, dear, oh, dear, I don't know what to do ! 
I shouldn't worry, if I only knew ; 
But now it's quite a burden on my mind. 
Because in both directions I'm inclined. 
I'd like to be a good man, like Papa, 
And, best of all, it would so please Mamma, 
But then, I want to fight like Grandpapa. 

I'm in a regular fix : 
Nurse says that I must wait, I'm only six, 
And this time ten years will be time enough 
To make a fuss about what I shall be. 
I don't care what she says, because, you see. 
Every one knows old women talk such stuff. 



228 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

There ! I declare she's calling me again. 
The cross old thing ! — hark at her overhead : 
" Come, Master Johnnie, time you were asleep ! " 

One thing is very plain, 
When I'm a man (oh, how the time does creep ! 
I wish it could be done as soon as said !) 
Unless I choose, I'll tiever go to bed ! 



THE REASON WHY FLORENCE WAS 
CALLED "THE DUCHESS" 

DEDICATED TO F. C. B. AND K. L. B. 

" Not her name, but Florence," such is 
Katie's comment on " the Duchess," 
When she hears your grace's title 
Given you in due requital 
Of an aspect most serenely 
Soft and placid, yet so queenly. 
From your little three-years' stature, 
That one cannot doubt that nature 
Has decreed by certain touches 
To design at least a Duchess ! 

" When and why ? " does Katie ask me, 
Quite resolved to take to task me. 
And to make me give a reason 
For this nominal high treason. 
Ere she will acknowledge duly 
That you are " the Duchess " truly ! 

Listen, Katie, listen other. 
Each and every, sister, brother, 
While I tell you all the history. 
This aristocratic mystery ! 
229 



230 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

On a day you should remember 
In a holiday December, 
While the gale without blew madly, 
And the hearth-side firelight gladly 
Smiled to scorn the winter wailing. 
While we sat around it stilly — 
Elders all but May and Willie— 
On a sudden in came sailing 
(Like a white swan on the waters 
With two dingy cygnet daughters, 
Or like queen through fabled gateway 
Closed in fear behind her straightway, 
'Twixt two griffins, by some charming 
Kept in durance from all harming), 
You, my Florence — a white figure, 
'Twixt two cats, and not much bigger 
Than the beasties you were bearing 
With a baby's easy daring. 
Little fingers could not hold them, 
So the whole arm must enfold them 
(Arms and fingers minus mittens), 
These two taloned tabby kittens ! 
Big as cats, of savage feature. 
Each a grim and gruesome creature. 
Had / touched them, they'd have scratched me 
Or, in will at least, despatched me ; 
Or, if fearful more than frightening. 
Have despatched themselves like lightning 
From my arms' unlovely prison, 
Mewing wild, " I isn't his'n ! " 



THE REASON WHY 231 

But, your Grace ! by all the Graces ! 
There they hung with charmed faces, 
From your wee white arms depending, 
Heads and tails together blending. 
Troubled, doubtless, if not tortured. 
But, as apples hang in orchard. 
There they hung, nor scratched nor bit you, 
Spit nor swore, nor hurt a whit you ! 

Scratched jj^i?^/!, hitj>ou? Just as soon a 
Lion would have bitten Una ! 
Spit or swore a.t you ? Much rather 
They'd have spit at Tim their father, 
Or have sworn at Tib their mother, 
Or have eaten one another, 
Like the cats who at Kilkenny 
Found each other one too many ! 

Ah, my darling ! at this vision, 
'Spite the prosy world's derision, 
I confess, so did it win me, 
The poor poet spirit in me 
Rose and spread its folded pinion. 
With a moment's sweet dominion 
In the regions sunny, airy, 
Of far Eld and farther Faery, 
And in you there passed before me — 
Such a charm and spell was o'er me — 
Those who formed the darUng fancies 
Of our childhood's blithe romances. 



232 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 

Said I so ? Not I ! I tumbled 
Back to earth and merely mumbled, 
" Look, her grace and glamour such is, 

'Tis no baby, but a duchess ! " 

r 

There, my pet, you have the reason 
For this nominal high treason ! 



A HOLIDAY DITTY 

TO MY LITTLE NIECE 

Kate to others, but my Kitty ! 
Dear, my precious, sweet, my pretty. 
It were sorrowfullest pity 
If your singer sent no ditty 
Home to greet you : not a whit he 
Cares for critics : not a bit he 
Loves his leisure, nor can sit he 
Here in field, or home in city. 
Lazy, till, or weak or witty 
Verse of oddest ends has writ he. 
With all rhyme-words that can fit he. 
All the word-marks that can hit he, 
All the song-threads that can knit he : 
No rhyme-rummage will remit he, 
No jing-jangle quest will quit he. 
Till is wrought the wondrous ditty. 
Fond or foolish, weak or witty. 
Spoil of those sky-blue banditti. 
Lovely, loving eyes of Kitty ; 
Yours, my precious, yours my pretty, 
Kate to others, but my Kitty ! 



233 



LINES 

WRITTEN IN A CHILd's BIBLE 

Beautiful truths may lurk in secret signs ; 

A Lovely name lies hid in these plain lines. 

WhAt's in a name ? Ah, much ! in this for thee 

I fiNd the truth of thy soul's history. 

Dear Child, it was, is, may it ever be ! 

I watcH in love and hope, nor cease to pray 

That thE clear dawn may grow to perfect day. 



234 



FINIS 

An end, an end ! What hath an end ? 

The base, the mean, the small: 
These naught can save, these naught defend. 

Doom claims them all. 

Hath life an end ? Life hath an end, 

The creature of to-day ; 
This none may keep, this none defend, 

Meet for decay. 

An end, an end ! What hath no end, 
By right of strength and youth, 

— Which all may hold and all defend ? 
Immortal Truth. 

Hath life an end ? Life hath no end. 

Earth-born, yet born above : 
This man may keep and God defend, 

The life of Love. 



235 



HYMNS 



"I BELIEVE 

IN THE HOLY CATHOLIC CHURCH, 

THE COMMUNION OF SAINTS" 



" The Church of God, which He hath purchased with His own Blood," 

Acts xx. 28. 



The Church's one Foundation 

Is Jesus Christ her Lord : 
She is His new creation 

By water and the Word ; 
From heaven He came and sought her 

To be His holy Bride, 
With His own Blood He bought her, 

And for her life He died. 

Elect from every nation, 

Yet one o'er all the earth. 
Her charter of salvation 

One Lord, one Faith, one Birth ; 
One Holy Name she blesses, 

Partakes one Holy Food, 
And to one Hope she presses, 

With every grace endued. 
239 



240 HYMNS 

Though with a scornful wonder 

Men see her sore opprest, 
By schisms rent asunder, 

By heresies distrest ; 
Yet saints their watch are keeping, 

Their cry goes up, " How long ? " 
And soon the night of weeping 

Shall be the morn of song. 

Mid toil and tribulation, 

And tumult of her war, 
She waits the consummation 

Of peace for evermore ; 
Till with the vision glorious 

Her longing eyes are blest, 
And the great Church victorious 

Shall be the Church at rest. 

Yet she on earth hath union 

With God the Three in One, 
And mystic sweet communion 

With those whose rest is won: 
Oh, happy ones and holy ! 

Lord, give us grace that we 
Like them, the meek and lowly, 

On high may dwell with Thee ! Amen. 



BATTLE HYMN FOR THE NEW YEAR 



"But let us, who are of the day, be sober, putting on the breast- 
plate of faith and love ; and for an helmet, the hope of salvation." 

I Thess. v. 8. 



The old year's long campaign is o'er : 

Behold a new begun ; 
Not yet is closed the Holy War 

Not yet the triumph won : 
Out of his still and deep repose 

We hear the old year say : — 
" Go forth again to meet your foes, 

Ye children of the day ! " 

*' Go forth ! Firm Faith in every heart, 

Bright Hope on every helm, 
Through that shall pierce no fiery dart, 

And this no fear o'erwhelm ! 
Go in the Spirit and the might 

Of Him Who led the way ; 
Close with the legions of the night, 

Ye children of the day ! " 
K 241 



242 



HYMNS 

So forth we go to meet the strife, 

We will not fear nor fly ! 
Love we the holy warrior's life, 

His death we hope to die ! 
We slumber not, that charge in view, 

'• Toil on while toil ye may, 
Then night shall be no night to you. 

Ye children of the day ! " 

Lord God, our Glory, Three in One, 

Thine own sustain, defend ! 
And give, though dim this earthly sun, 

Thy true light to the end ; 
Till morning tread the darkness down. 

And night be swept away. 
And infinite sweet triumph crown 

Thy children of the day ! Amen. 



BATTLE HYMN OF CHURCH DEFENCE 



DEDICATED TO THE "CHURCH SOCIETY" OF ST. PAUL's, 

HAGGERSTON 



"Her foundations are upon the holy hills: the Lord loveth the gates 
of Zion more than all the dwellings of Jacob." — Ps. Ixxxvii. i, 2. 

"God is in the midst of her, therefore shall she not be removed: 
God shall help her, and that right early." — Ps. xlvi. 5. 

" If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her 
cunning." — Ps. cxxxvii. 5. 

» 
Round the Sacred City gather 

Egypt, Edom, Babylon ; 
All the warring hosts of error, 

Sworn against her, are as one : 
Vain the leaguer ! her foundations 

Are upon the holy hills, 
And the love of the Eternal 

All her stately temple fills. 

Get thee, watchman, to the rampart ! 

Gird thee, warrior, with thy sword ! 
And be strong as ye remember 

In your midst is God the Lord : 
Like the night-mists from the valley. 

These shall vanish, one by one, 
Egypt's malice, Edom's envy. 

And the hate of Babylon. 

243 



244 HYMNS 



But be true, ye sons and daughters, 

Lest the peril be within ; 
Watch to prayer, lest in your slumber 

Stealthy foemen enter in ; 
Safe the mother and the children 

If their will and love be strong, 
While their loyal hearts go singing 

Prayer and praise for battle-song. 

Church of God ! if we forget thee, 

Let His blessing fail our hand ; 
When our love shall not prefer thee. 

Let His love forget our land — 
Nay ! our memory shall be steadfast 

Though in storm the mountains shake, 
And our love is love for ever. 

For it is for Jesus' sake. 

Church of Jesus ! His thy Banner 

And thy Banner's awful Sign : 
By His passion and His glory 

Thou art His and He is thine: 
From the Hill of His Redemption 

Flows thy sacramental tide : 
From the Hill of His Ascension 

Flows the grace of God thy Guide. 

Yea: thou Church of God the Spirit ! 

His Society Divine, 
His the living Word thou keepest. 

His thy Apostolic line. 



BATTLE HYMN OF CHURCH DEFENCE 245 

Ancient prayer and song liturgic, 
Creeds that change not to the end, 

As His gift we have received them, 
As His charge we will defend. 

Alleluia, Alleluia, 

To the Father, Spirit, Son, 
In Whose will the Church at warfare 

With the Church at rest is one : 
So to Thee we sing in union, 

God in earth and Heav'n adored, 
Alleluia, Alleluia, 

Holy, Holy, Holy Lord. Amen. 



HYMN FOR MISSIONS TO THE JEWS 

Unchanging God, hear from eternal Heav'n, 
We plead Thy gifts of grace, for ever given, 
Thy call, without repentance, calling still. 
The sure election of Thy sovereign will. 

Out of our faith in Thee, who canst not lie, 
Out of our heart's desire, goes up our cry, 
From hope's sweet vision of the thing to be, 
From love to those who still are loved by Thee. 

Bring Thy beloved back, Thine Israel, 
Thine own elect who from Thy favour fell, 
But not from Thine election ! — Oh forgive. 
Speak but the word, and, lo ! the dead shall live. 

Father of mercies ! these the long-astray, 
These in soul-blindness now the far-away, 
These are not aliens, but Thy sons of yore, 
Oh, by Thy Fatherhood, restore, restore ! 

Breathe on Thy Church, that it may greet the day, 
Stir up her will to toil, and teach, and pray, 
Till Zionward again salvation come. 
And all her outcast children are at home. 

246 



HYMN FOR MISSIONS TO THE JEWS 247 

Triune Jehovah, Thine the grace and power, 
Thine all the work, its past, its future hour, 
O Thou, Who failest not, Thy gifts fulfil. 
And crown the calling of thy changeless will. 

Amen. 



HYMN FOR MISSIONS TO THE 
HEATHEN 

"Come over into Macedonia and help us !" — Acts xvi. 9. 

Through midnight gloom from Macedon 

The cry of myriads as of one, 

The voiceful silence of despair, 

Is eloquent in awful prayer ; 

The soul's exceeding bitter cry, 

*' Come o'er and help us or we die." 

How mournfully it echoes on, 
For half the world is Macedon ! 
These brethren to their brethren call. 
And by the Love which loved them all. 
And by the whole world's Life they cry, 
" O ye that live, behold we die ! " 

By other sounds our ears are won 
Than that which wails from Macedon ; 
The roar of gain is round us rolled, 
Or we unto ourselves are sold, 
And cannot list the alien cry 
" O hear and help us lest we die ! " 
248 



MISSIONS TO THE HEATHEN 249 

Yet with that cry from Macedon 
The very car of Christ rolls on ! 
"I come: who would abide My day, 
In yonder wilds prepare My way ! 
My voice is crying in their cry 
Help ye the dying lest ye die ! " 

O once, for men, of man the Son, 
Yea, Thine the cry from Macedon ! 
Oh by the Kingdom and the Power 
And Glory of Thine advent hour. 
Wake heart and will to hear their cry, 
Help us to help them lest we die ! 

Yet fair the hope that speeds us on 

With psalms of praise for Macedon ! 

Thy blessing given, Thy promise bright. 

Are earnest sweet of morning light. 

Till " Alleluia " be the cry 

Of souls that live and shall not die ! Amen. 



THE PROTO-MARTYR OF BRITAIN: 
A HYMN IN MEMORY OF ST. ALBAN 

DEDICATED TO A. C. S. AND M. S. S. 



" Egregium Albanum foecunda Britannia profert." 

Venantius Fortunatus (Fifth Century). 

" Thus was Alban tried, 
England's first Martyr, whom no threats could shake ; 
Self-offered victim ; for his friend he died, 
And for the Faith." — Wordsworth. 



England, by thine own Saint Alban, 

Put thy Christian heart to school : 
Learn to sacrifice and suffer 

By thy Proto-Martyr's rule. 
Life in Christ is stern and selfless, 

Gentle though it be and bright : 
Life in Christ is dying with Him, 
Though in sweet and living light. 
England, by thine own Saint Alban, 
Put thy Christian heart to school: 
Learn to sacrifice and suffer 
By thy Proto-Martyr's rule. 
250 



IN MEMORY OF ST. ALBAN 251 

Meteor-like athwart the darkness 

Flashes still the Signal Cross ; 
Still like trumpet on the night-wind 

Sounds the summons unto loss ; 
Yet how blessed is the losing 

And how stately is the war: 
And how beautiful the ending 

In the bliss for evermore ! 

See ! thy hero, prudence scorning, 

All for noble pity dares : 
Finds the priest he saved his prophet, 

Meets "an angel unawares ": 
Sits as at the feet of Jesus, 

Soon is to His Laver led: 
Then himself as on an altar 

Offers in his Teacher's stead. 

"I am Christ's: I therefore suffer: 

I am Christ's: I therefore die: 
I am Christ's: so I am happy. 

And my life is His on high " ; — 
Thus he faced the Roman's torture. 

Youth, wealth, honour sacrificed, 
Losing thankfully the whole world 

That he might be found in Christ. 

Primal Hero-Saint and Soldier ! 

Still thy story speeds us on : 
Though, since thou didst bravely witness, 

Twice eight hundred years have gone. 



252 HYMNS 

Lord, Who gavest him to England, 
Grace, like his, to England give — 

Grace to bear Thy cross with gladness, 
Grace to die that we may live. 

England, by thine own Saint Alban, 
Put thy Christian heart to school : 

Learn to sacrifice and suffer 

By thy Proto-Martyr's rule. Amen. 



J 



HYMN OF THE DIAMOND WEDDING OF 
THE OUEEN WITH HER PEOPLE 

"The Diamond Wedding of the Queen with her people." — Times 
Leader, November loth, 1896. 

God of supreme dominion, 

From Whom all power has birth, 
Whose praise on eagle pinion 

O'ersweeps Thine Heav'n and earth: 
We lift one voice before Thee 

From many a land and race, 
And with one heart adore Thee 

For threescore years of grace. 

Here, by the barriers olden 

With front of silver sheen — 
There, from the Islands golden — 

From Orient lands between — 
From isles of beauty sparkling 

The summer seas among — 
From tracts with winter darkling — 

Goes up the choral song. 

These years, in tale excelling 

All years of olden reign. 
Their twofold story telling 

Of blended joy and pain — 
253 



254 HYMNS 



With equal grace upon her. 
Like twain wings of Thy Dove — 

Have crowned the Head we honour: 
Have blessed the Heart we love. 

Comes with prophetic morning, 

With Peace afar and near. 
With Hope our hills adorning. 

This Diamond Marriage Year ! 
And hearts with praise o'erflowing. 

And souls that inly pray, 
Greet Queen and Nation going 

Still on their stately way. 

Praise for Thy long sustaining, 

That held her firm in aim 
Ever to keep unwaning 

Our fair ancestral fame ; 
Praise for the sweet compassion 

Which makes the wide world own 
That Love's divinest fashion 

Is set from England's throne. 

Lord, as her realm lies truly 

'Neath an unsetting sun. 
As earthly meed all duly 

Her stainless life hath won: 
So when at last before Thee 

She lays her kingdom down, 
Christ's One Light be her glory, 

Christ's Merit be her crown. Amen. 



HYMN FOR THE LORD'S DAY 



Eastward, ever eastward, 

Dark or light the way, 
Pressing towards the promise, 

We salute the day. 
O'er the mountains yonder 

Shines the orient gleam, 
Yonder sweetest voices 

Call across the stream. 

Eastward, ever eastward, 
Dark or light the way. 

Pressing towards the promise. 
We salute the day. 

To those border mountains 

Lift we then our eyes : 
Thence our help smiles on us, 

There is set our Prize — 
There, like sound of trumpet, 

Clear, and loud, and long, 
Easter splendour streaming 

Greets our Easter song. 

255 



256 HYMNS 

Flow life's river cheerly — 

Flow it dark and chill — 
O'er its changeful waters 

Constant look we still. 
Clear across them beckons 

The unchanging shore, 
Where the life and beauty 

Are for evermore. 



Saints and angels call us — 

Angels of the height, 
Who at th' Incarnation 

Sang the new-born light : 
Saints gone on before us, 

Past our life forlorn, 
Who in Eden's vigil 

Wait the greater Morn. 

Death of woful winter ! 

Dawn of happy spring ! 
Listen, all the woodlands 

Of the wide world ring ! 
Look, the waste lands blossom 

'Neath the gracious rain. 
And all beauty buried 

Takes its life again ! 



HYMN FOR THE LORD^S DAY 257 

Oh, the end of patience, 

And the dose of strife ! 
Oh, the joy of morning, 

And the gift of Ufe ! 
Oh, the grace, the glory. 

Of the great Reward ! 
Oh, the blessed Vision, 

Jesus Christ our Lord ! 

Eastward, ever eastward, 

Dark or light the way. 
Pressing towards the promise, 

We salute the day. Amen. 



HYMN FOR DAY AND SUNDAY 
SCHOOL TEACHERS 1 

Thou Who hast charged Thine elder sons, 

In Thy great Church's school 
To teach and tend Thy little ones, 

And in wise love to rule : 
Here may they loyal witness bear, 

As those whom Thou hast sent. 
By Love inspired, kept pure by Prayer, 

Made strong by Sacrament. 



And ever here. Lord Christ, be seen 

Standing beneath Thy Rood, 
Stoled in Thy raiment, white and clean, 

A priestly sisterhood ; 
Which in Thy Church's order sure 

May in the dark world shine 
Like her, the wise, the brave, the pure. 

Their own Saint Katharine. 

' Adapted from a hymn written for the Church Trahiing College of 
St. Katharine, Tottenham. 

258 



HYMN FOR SCHOOL TEACHERS 259 

Teacher of teachers, only Guide, 

True learning's only spring, 
O Holy Ghost, with each abide, 

All truth interpreting ; 
From light to light of mind and soul. 

And pure, devoted will. 
Lead on Thy learners to the goal 

Of wisdom's holy hill. 

Lead on, O Lord — Love, Grace, and Might — 

Lead on through toil and prayer ; 
So worship shall make labour light. 

And hope ennoble care ; 
So they adoring while they toil, 

Their guerdon may foresee. 
When at Thy feet they lay the spoil 

Of souls they trained for Thee. Amen. 



HYMNS FOR CHURCH WORKERS 



I MAGNIFY MINE OFFICE" 

Lord Christ, my Master dear, 
Naught have I that is mine ; 

Body and mind and soul, 
All that I am is Thine. 

Mine office is from Thee : 

Not only for mine hour, 
But for Thine own great day, 

And by Thy mighty power. 

Through Thine own Church it comes, 
From Thine Ascension Day, 

By Thine ordaining word 
Which cannot pass away. 

So do I love Thy call ! 

So great and sweet to me 
That word which makes me sure 

That I may speak for Thee 
260 



HYMN FOR CHURCH WORKERS 261 

How poor am I in love, 

In patience, and in power, 
Yet more than I can be 

Is, by that word, my dower ! 

Power, patience, love, are mine. 
From Thee, my Priest on high. 

If I in faith and prayer 
Mine office magnify. 

For, then, I lose myself! 

I know it is not mine ; 
Thereon I see the mark 

Which makes it wholly Thine: 

Thy Cross, Incarnate Lord ! 

The measure of Thy love, 
Of Thy great power below. 

Of Thy full bliss above. Amen. 



II 



"IN THEE" 

DEDICATED TO THE "CHURCH SOCIETY" OF ST, PAUL's, 

HAGGERSTON 

"Christ the Power of God, and the Wisdom of God. ... Of Him 
are ye in Christ Jesus." — i Cor. i. 24 and 30. 

Christ, the Wisdom and the Power! 
From our labour's fleeting hour 
To that timeless age of bliss 
Which shall crown the toil of this, 
Grant that all our life may be 
Hidden and revealed "in Thee." 

That our work may be divine 
Seek we not our own but Thine ; 
Lost to self and found " in Thee," 
Find we sweet Humility, 
Zeal by reverent Love refined, 
True Devotion's single mind. 
262 



HYMN FOR CHURCH WORKERS 263 

So " in Thee " we shall be strong, 
Seem the labour light or long ; 
And, though clouds of self and sin 
Darken round us and within. 
So not dimly shall we see 
Light to lighten all " in Thee." 

Thus " in Thee," O Wisdom, wise, 
May we touch the blinded eyes. 
Turn the steps that vainly roam 
Back to happiness and home. 
And in sacred waters sweet 
Wash Thy young disciples' feet. 

Thus " in Thee," O Power, we go 
Through Thy Church's war below, 
In Thy panoply alway 
Steadfast through the evil day ; 
Troubled ever, not distrest, 
Moving to Thy Church at rest. 

" In Thee " now, and " in Thee " then ! 

Now, and when Thou com'st again ; 

Now at war among Thy foes, 

Then at peace in Thy repose. 

Brother-man and Sovran-Lord 

Thine our Work and our Reward ! Amen, 



HYMN FOR CANDIDATES FOR 
ORDINATION 



" Who is sufficient for these things ? " 
" Even so send I you." 



O MY Lord, most Holy, 

Summonest Thou me. 
Lowliest 'mid the lowly. 

As Thyself to be ? 
" Yea, because I call thee, 

Take thy priestly place, 
Front what may befall thee — 

Hast thou not My grace ? " 

Can I in my weakness 

Stand as in Thy stead ? 
I, in might or meekness, 

Needing to be led ? 
" Yes, for I have sent thee. 

Laid on thee My poiver ; 
Be, by what is lent thee, 

Equal to thine ho7ir*' 

264 



HYMN FOR ORDINATION 265 

How may I be leader, 

Doubting mine own way ? 
Of Thy flock the feeder, 

Oft myself astray? 
" Canst not trust Thy Master 

His elect to keep ? 
Think, Uis thine own Pastor 

Set thee o'er His sheep." 

Lord, who can awaken 

Israel cold and dead, 
Now that Thou art taken 

From Thy Church's head? 
"Z<?, My mantle folds thee 

From My car of fire! 
Mine Ascetision holds thee 

With Me to aspire. 

" Canst thou fear or falter 

Clothed with such a claim ? 
Standing at Mine Altar, 

Blessing m My Name ? 
When Life's path grows steeper, 

Pointing out the Height, 
^Mid the darkness deeper 

Holding out the light." 

O my Master, truly 

Thou hast met my need ! 
They who follow duly 

Duly Thine may lead ; 



266 HYMNS 

Following Thee for ever, 
As Thou wilt and where, 

I, in Thee, will never 
Falter or despair. 

Father, Son, and Spirit, 

'Tis Thy call of grace, 
Thine election's merit 

Seals to me my place: 
Lowest 'mid the lowly, 

Yet I call Thee mine: 
Holy, Holy, Holy, 

Thine, and sent to Thine. Amen. 



HOLY COMMUNION 

Who loved me, and gave Himself for me." — Gal. ii. 20. 

" Remember Me : show forth My Death 

Until Mine Advent be " : 
So of His Altar-Feast He saith 

Who gave Himself for me. 

I will not tremble nor delay, 

Unworthy though I be : 
He will not send my soul away 

Who gave Himself for me. 

For there, when sorrows come to prove 
Where my true joy should be, 

Most sweet the comfort of His Love 
Who gave Himself for me. 

There, too, in calm of holy rest. 

My weary head shall be, 
As if it lay upon His breast 

Who gave Himself for me. 
267 



268 HYMNS 

There seem I ever nearest Home, 
Most sure of bliss to be 

When in His glory He shall come 
Who gave Himself for me. 

O that I ever may abide 

Where only life can be, 
Still close and closer to His side 

Who gave Himself for me ! Amen. 



HYMN AFTER HOLY COMMUNION 

"Ye do show the Lord's Death." — i COR. xi. 26. 
"Jesus said, Somebody hath touched Me ; for I perceive that virtue 
is gone out of Me." — St. Luke viii. 46. 

Now hath been shown, O Lord, Thine Act of Love: 
Shown at Thine Altar here, and shown above. 

Here hath been pleaded, and beyond the skies. 
The perfect yet perpetual Sacrifice. 

Thou hast been with us, and in very deed 
From Thee hath virtue gone for all our need : 

Pardon and Peace and Joy : the making whole. 
The making glad, of every faithful soul. 

How dared we come so close despite our fear ? 
Because we knew the Lord of Love was near. 

Thou earnest — through the midst of many a care. 
The mind's depression or the soul's despair — 

A Presence calm — in awful silence — known. 
By healing touch, to those in need alone. 

269 



270 HYMNS 

Then Thou didst bless us ! Now, O Lord, we pray 
May this Thy Grace grow in us day by day : 

Thy Grace of Meekness, learned beneath Thy Feet, 
Where all things strong with all things lowly meet ; 

Thy Grace of Faith, serene and open-eyed, 
Far-gazing, till it shall be satisfied ; 

Thy Grace of Zeal, in toil or patience sure. 
Keen to press on, or happy to endure ; 

Thy Grace of Love, the purest, noblest, best, 
With eyes on Thee and trustful heart at rest. 

Thy Grace of Joy, for ever fain to sing 

The Praise of Thine Eternal Offering. Amen. 



HYMN AFTER BENEDICTION 

Homeward we pass, in Peace : 
Our Master's message given : 
He sends us on our earthly way 
With words from Heaven. 

The Church's words arc His : 

This " Peace " is said with power ; 
His Blood-bought Blessing is her charge, 
Her children's dower. 



To every faithful soul 

There at the Altar stand 
The Love, Grace, Might, of God Triune, 
With lifted hand. 

Hear tender Mercy's words. 
Ye souls that inly mourn ! 
Receive your Saviour's Sympathy, 
Ye hearts forlorn ! 
271 



272 HYMNS 



Hear Wisdom's word of light, 

All ye who long to find 
The knowledge that can free and fill 
The troubled mind. 

So blest in mind and heart 

Homeward we pass to-day : 
Dear Lord, so may we wend at last 

Our Heavenward way. Amen. 



THE ''ATHLETES OF THE UNIVERSE"^ 



" Destitute, afflicted, tormented : of whom the world was not worthy." 

Heb. xi. 37, 38. 



Their names are names of kings 

Of heavenly line, 
The bliss of earthly things 

Who did resign. 

Chieftains they were, who warr'd 
With sword and shield ; 

Victors for God the Lord 
On foughten field. 

Sad were their days on earth, 
Mid hate and scorn ; 

A life of pleasure's dearth, 
A death forlorn. 

Yet blest that end in woe. 
And those sad days ; 

Only man's blame below — 
Above, God's praise ! 

' An expression used by St. Chrysostom. 
T 273 



274 HYMNS 

A city of great name 
Was built for them, 

Of glorious golden fame — 
Jerusalem. 

Redeemed with precious Blood 
From death and sin, 

Sons of the Triune God, 
They entered in. 

So did the life of pain 

In glory close ; 
Lord God, may we attain 

Their grand repose ! Amen. 



THE BEATING DOWN OF SATAN 



"That it may please Thee. . . finally to beat down Satan under 
our feet." — The Litany. 

"For He must reign till He hath put all enemies under His feet."— 
I Cor. XV. 25. 



Watching early, late, and long. 
Sworn to crown his work of wrone. 
Satan would our doom complete, 
Tread us down beneath his feet. 

Christ against him aid us well ! — 
When fair lures lead on to hell ; 
While the Spring blows free and fresh,- 
LoRD, beat down the lust of flesh. 

When our life in Summer noon, 
Reigning through its roseate June, 
Seems an age that cannot die, — 
Lord, beat down the lust of eye. 

When the golden Autumn throws 
Glory on a proud repose, 
Or adorns a splendid strife, — 
Lord, beat down the pride of life. 
275 



276 HYMNS 

When, with Death, at Winter's night, 
He shall come in Hope's despite. 
And all powers and passions fleet — 
Beat him down beneath our feet. 

Thou, Whose love hath made us free, 

When he claims us finally 

At the dread tribunal seat, — 

Beat him down beneath our feet. Amen. 



PATIENCE 

De Patientia Servanda 
A HYMN OF ST. THOMAS A KEMPIS 

Bear the troubles of thy Hfe 

In the name of Christ thy Lord: 

Less the harm of stormy strife 
Than the easy world's award. 

Many a foe means many a friend ; 

Earthly losing is not loss ; 
Patience has her perfect end, 

And all good flows from the Cross. 

Small thy toil is : short thy life : 
Grand and endless thy reward ! 

Through the sorrow and the strife, 
The confession of thy Lord ! 

Purer gold and clearer glass ! 

By thy pains a nobler man, 
Through the furnace thou wilt pass. 

Bearing all a martyr can. 
277 



278 HYMNS 

So thou wilt be sterner foe, 
So thou wilt be dearer friend ; 

So the Saints thy name will know, 
And Christ own thee at the end. 

Call on Jesus evermore. 

Be His Cross thy sign alway. 

Love the saints gone on before ; 
Ever strive and watch and pray. 

Do the right : the truth declare ! 

Live in hopes that never cease : 
Humbly make thy God thy care, 

So thou shalt find perfect peace. Amen. 



THE ASCENSION 



" He ascended into heaven, and sitteth on the right hand of 
God the Father Almighty." 



On Olivet a little band 
Around their risen Master stand : 
And, after charge and blessing given, 
He passeth from them into Heaven, 

Wistful their eyes, but angels twain 
Cheer them with glorious words: "Again 
One day shall Jesus even so 
Return, as ye have seen Him go." 

Till then in Heaven He doth remain, 
True God, at God's right hand to reign. 
True Man, at human woes to grieve, 
True God, Almighty to relieve. 

For every soul in every need 
He ever lives to intercede. 
Presenting there within the veil 
The Sacrifice that cannot fail. 
279 



28o HYMNS 

Our heavenly great High Priest He stands: 
By pierced Feet, and pierced Hands, 
By thorn-scarr'd Brow and riven Side, 
He pleads for those for whom He died ! 

Whom have we, Lord, in heaven but thee ? 
Like ships safe moored on stormy sea 
Our souls, in peril, with Thee there 
Find anchorage of hope and prayer. 

Set loose from earth, and evermore 
Fast bound to that eternal shore. 
So all our life and love shall be, 
Ascended Master, hid with Thee ! Amen, 



THE PERFECT DAY 

" Until the Day break and the shadows flee away."— Canticles ii. 17. 

Dark is the sky that overhangs my soul, 
The mists are thick that through the valley roll, 
But as I tread I cheer my heart and say, 
When the Day breaks the shadows flee away. 

Unholy phantoms from the deep arise, 
And gather through the gloom before mine eyes ; 
But all shall vanish at the dawning ray — 
When the Day breaks the shadows flee away. 

I bear the lamp my Master gave to me, 
Burning and shining must it ever be, 
And I must tend it till the night decay — 
Till the Day break and shadows flee away. 

He maketh all things good unto His own, 
For them in every darkness light is sown ; 
He will make good the gloom of this my day — 
Till that Day break and shadows flee away. 
T 2 281 



282 HYMNS 

He will be near me in the awful hour 

When the last Foe shall come in blackest power ; 

And He will hear me when at last I pray, 

Let the Day break, the shadows flee away 1 

In Him, my God, my Glory, I will trust : 
Awake and sing, O dweller in the dust ! 
Who shall come, will come, and will not delay — 
His Day will break, those shadows flee away ! 

Amen. 



<'I BELIEVE IN 
THE FORGIVENESS OF SINS" 

" Her sins, which are many, are forgiven, for she loved much." 
St. Luke vii. 47. 

Weary of earth and laden with my sin, 
I look at heaven and long to enter in. 
But there no evil thing may find a home — 
And yet I hear a Voice that bids me " Come." 

So vile I am, how dare I hope to stand 

In the pure glory of that holy land ? 

Before the whiteness of that Throne appear ? — 

Yet there are Hands stretched out to draw me near. 

The while I fain would tread the heavenly way. 

Evil is ever with me day by day — 

Yet on mine ears the gracious tidings fall, 

" Repent, confess, thou shalt be loosed from all." 

It is the voice of Jesus that I hear. 
His are the Hands stretched out to draw me near, 
And His the Blood that can for all atone. 
And set me faultless there before the Throne. 

283 



284 HYMNS 

'Twas He Who found me on the deathly wild, 
And made me heir of heaven, the Father's child, 
And day by day, whereby my soul may live. 
Gives me His grace of pardon, and will give. 

O great Absolver, grant my soul may wear 
The lowliest garb of penitence and prayer. 
That in the Father's courts my glorious dress 
May be the garment of Thy righteousness. 

Yea, Thou wilt answer for me. Righteous Lord : 
Thine all the merits, mine the great reward ; 
Thine the sharp thorns, so mine the golden crown, 
Mine the life won, through Thine the life laid down. 

Naught can I bring, dear Lord, for all I owe, 
Yet let my full heart what it can bestow ; 
Like Mary's gift let my devotion prove. 
Forgiven greatly, how I greatly love. Amen. 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



A helm upon my brow I wear . 

A little while, O Death, a little while 

Among the graves : but round us the sweet air 

An end, an end ! What hath an end ? . 

A night of silence and of gloom 

Another beacon-light blown out above us 

A simple cross, let in the outer wall 

A tender mist of amber lawn . 

At the Well's heart serene and deep 

Bear the troubles of thy life 

Beautiful truths may lurk in secret signs 

Blow, breeze, from the north and the west 

Calm sea .... 
Christ, the Wisdom and the Power ! 

Dark is the sky that overhangs my soul . 
Dear Arnold, life is less by loss of thee . 
Dear friends among the hills, I sit at home 

Eastward, ever eastward 

England, by thine own Saint Alban 

Ere this, and in the fuller year, there fell 

Fain is the wakened soul to try 

From his short slumber in the early morn 

Gather the Harvest in 

God of supreme dominion 

Good-bye at last to Oxford ! with full eyes 

He died the beautiful death 
Homeward we pass, in Peace . 

285 



PAGE 
123 
216 
210 

107 

88 
163 

151 
132 

277 
234 
134 

262 

281 

219 

97 

25s 

250 

205 

102 

185 

126 

253 
82 

121 
271 



286 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



If I forget thee, O thou lowly Shrine 

I love the Domus. Fioreat ! though no more 

In ancient days, so saith un old Romaunt 

In One Name I have found the all in all 

lona's hills are lowly 

" I will not spare : within its circling wall " 

Kate to others, hut my Kitty ! 

Lord Christ, my Master dear 

Master-Magician of that breezy Spring . 
Moored by a green isle of Winandermerc 
Most strange ! . 

My God hath heard me : I am His 

Not, Florence, for the glory of thy skies 
*' Not her name, but Florence," such is . 
Not sparse of friends the world has been to me 
Now hath been shown, O Lord, Thine Act of Lov 

O fellow-Christian ! whosoe'er thou art . 
O my Lord, most Holy 
On Olivet a little band 

" Remember Me : show forth My Death " 

Rock and roar 

Round the Sacred City gather . 

Since I knelt here ten years have slipt away 
Sleep, little flower, whose petals fade and fall 
So must it be without, while Time shall be 
Soon will the Holy Week be here 

The Church's one Foundation 

The din of the great town is on my ears 

The Garden that has been, and is no more ! 

Their names are names of kings 

The little maid lay moaning 

Then with the early summer came the zest 

The old year's long campaign is o'er 

There stands a little cottage near the wood 

" The richest glow sets round th' autumnal sun" 

The room is dark, and at the door is Death 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



287 



The Spring-tide air was breathing balm . 
The watching Church was near her Easter hope 
Thou Who hast charged Thine elder sons 
Through midnight gloom from Macedon 
'Tis peace in pain to know that Pain 

Unchanging GoD, hear from eternal Heav'n 

Watching early, late, and long 

Weary of earth and laden with my sin 

We five went blithely gravewards on May-day 

What shall I be ? . 

Where the shade is stands the Lord 

Within, the sounds were all of praise and prayer 



PAGE 

95 
193 
258 
248 
116 

246 

275 
283 
209 
226 
114 
217 



GENERAL INDEX 



Addison, Joseph, lo 

Aidan, St., 34 

Alban, St., 250 

Alexander, Cecil Frances, 22 

Alfriston, 36 

Alhatnbra, The, 9 

All Hallows', London Wall, i, 58, 

59-74 
Ancient and Modern, Hymns, 28, 

67 
Argyll and the Isles, Bishop of, 

45 

Arnold, Frederick, 219 

Arnold, Matthew, II 

Arthur, King, 19 

A Treatise on the Fruites of Re- 
demption, 60 

Augustine, St., 34 

Aurelia, 28 

Beaumont, Sir John, 1 1 
Bemerton, i 

Bennett, Rev. W. J. E., 7 
Benson, Archbishop, 72 
Bernard of Morlaix, St., 24 
Birdie, The, 2, 185 
Black Country, The, 2 
Blomfield, Bishop, 8 
Blorafield, Sir Arthur, 37 
Booth, Mr. Charles, 36 
Broad Street Station, 59, 64 



Brown, Dr. and Mrs. Haig, 70 
Browning, Elizabeth Barrett, 5, 

18, 45, 85, 204 
Burritt, Elihu, 185 n. 

Cannock Chase, 2, 5 
Carr, Rev. Donald, 40-1 
Charterhouse, The, 5, 8-10, 35, 

68, 207-8 
Chaucer's Pilgrims, 6 
Cheltenham, 7 

Christian Year, The, 17, 20, 45 
Church Bells, 29 
Church, Dean, 8 
Church of England Temperance 

Society, The, 14 
Church Revival, The, 8, 46 
Churches one Foundation, The, i, 

21,25,27-30,38, 72,74,239 
Church Stretton, 40 
Churchwardens' accounts, 59-60 
Clapton, 66, 68 
Close, Dean, 7 
Clough, Arthur Hugh, 11 
Coeur de Lion, Richard, 5 
Columba, St., 33-4, 45, 135, 149 
Colwich, 2 

Confirmation, 13, 52-3, 55 
Cowper, William, 70 
Crashaw, Richard, 9 
Creighton, Bishop, 68, 74 



288 



GENERAL INDEX 



289 



Dance, Nathaniel, 61 

Dante, 6 

Deare Childe, 31, 163 

Dies Irae, The, 23 

Down Stream to London, II, 77 

Dream of Fair Women, A, 33 

Dream of Gerontius, The, 33, 71 

Durham, Diocese of, 38 

East End, The, 36-58, 215-18 
East London, Church folk of, 57 
East London Church Fund, The, 

63 
Edmonton, 63-4 
Ellison, Canon, 5 
Essays and Reviews, 6 

Fasting, 66 

Good-bye to Oxford, 11,82 
Goodhart, Rev. H. W., 58 
Greatheart, Mr., 5 
Gregory, Rev. R. S., 63 

Hackney, 9 
Haggerston Gorse, 41 
Haggerston, St. Paul's, i, 4, 34, 

36-58 
Havelock, Sir Henry, 9 
Heartease, 71 
Henry IV., 60 
Herbert, George, i, 3, 22, 33 
High Wycombe, 12 
Holy War, The, 5 
Home Words, 31 
Hook, Dean, 8 
Hooker, Richard, 12 
Horace, 73 
How, Bishop Walsham, 44 



Hursley, X 

Hymns, 21-5, 32-3 

Hymns Ancient and Modern, 28, 

67 
Hymn-writers, Latin, 23 

Idylls of Deare Childe, 31, 163 
Idylls of the King, The, 19 
Ingram, Bishop, 70, 72 
Innsbruck, 19 

lona, 33-4, 45, 135, 149, 151 
Isaiah, 23 

Jackson, Bishop, 37 

Jacobson's, Bishop, Apostolic 

Fathers, 16 
Jebb, Sir Richard, 9 
Jenner, Sir William, 17 
Jephthah's daughter, 71 
Jesus calls us o'er the tumult, 22 
Jews, Work among the, 56-7 
Johnson, Dr., 10, 11 

Keats, John, 15, 19 
Keble, John, i, 8, 12, 20, 206 
Kempis, St. Thomas a, 24, 277 
Ken, Bishop, 12, 29-30 
Kingsley, Charles, 67-8 
Knight of Intercession, The, 19, 
31. 32, 37, 155 

Lavington, 13 

Lays of lona, 33, 45, 67 

Lea, The River, 9, 10, 39 

Lichfield, 6 

Lightfoot, Bishop, 38 

Lindisfarne, 34 

Litany Guild, 63 

Liverpool Street Station, 59, 64 



290 



GENERAL INDEX 



Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 

Long Mynd hills, The, 40 

Lovelace, Richard, 10 

Lyra Apostolica, 21 

Lyra Eucharistica, 21 

Lyra Fidelitiin, 21, 31 

Lyra Innocentium, 21 

Lyra Messianica, 21 

Lyric of lona : Past, and To Be, 

33 

Masterman Ready, 5 

Maximilian L, 19 

Medilation in a Night of Pain, 

35. 69, "6 

Melville, Whyte, 31 

Miserere, The, 25 

' ' Morning Robert," 31, 171 

National Trust, The, 37 
Newdigate, The, il 
Newman, John Henry, 1 
No Popery riots, 8 
Norwood, 73 

Oxford, 10-12, 82-4 
Oxford Sacred Poem, 31 

Paradiso, The, 33 

Parish, Methods of working a, 50 

Parochial Sermons, S. J. Stone's, 

56 

Pembroke College, Oxford, 10, 

11,83 
Pembroke Rowing Club, 10 
Pilgrim'' s Progress, The, 5 
Poetry, S. J. Stone's, 9, 11, 31-5, 

67, 69 ; as an educative force, 

45-6 



Poor Brethren, The, 8 
Portico, The, 9 
Port-na-Churaich, 149 n. 
Poussin Rationaliste, Le, 32 
Preaching, 54; S. J. Stone's, 55-6 
Princess, The, 33 

Rationalistic Chicken, The Solilo- 
quy of a, 31, 223 
Renaissance work, 61 
Rhythm of St. Bernard, The, 24-5 
Rosenthal, Rev. M., 56 
Rossetti, Christina, 22 
Ruskin, John, 6 

St. Cohitnb of lona, 33, 135 
St. Paul's Cathedral, 6, 7, 37 
St. Paul's, Knightsbridge, 7 
Sancho, 40, 220 
School Board, The London, 19, 

42-3. 52 

Schools, 17-18 

Scott Holland, Canon, 7 

Scott, Sir Walter, 5, 18, 203 

Sermons, 54 ; S. J. Stone's, 55-6 

Shakespeare, 33 

Shenstone, William, il 

Shoreditch, St. Leonard's, 36 

Shrewsbury, 40 

Sinai, 31 

Soliloquy of a Rationalistic 
Chicken, The, 31, 223 

Soutli African War, The, 70 

Spiritual Letters, 66 

Spital, 15 

Stepney, Bishop of, 70, 72 

Stone, Samuel John (iJ. April 25th, 
1839 ; d. November 19th, 
1900) ; birth, I ; childhood. 



GENERAL INDEX 



291 



2 ; early influences, 2, 5, 12, 
8-20 ; school days, 8-10 ; 
wins school poem, 9 ; Oxford 
life, 10-12 ; proxime accessit 
for Newdigate, 11 ; Ordina- 
tion, 13 ; work at Windsor, 
14-35; hymn-writing, 18-30, 
37; poetry, 9, 11, 31-5, 67, 
69 ; wins Oxford Sacred 
Poem, 31 ; work at St. 
Paul's, Haggerston, 36-58 ; 
personal appearance, 38-9 ; 
character and tastes, 39-42, 
44-47 ; care for his day- 
schools, 42-3, 47, 51 ; 
idealism, 46-8 ; as parish 
priest, 48-54 ; as preacher, 
54-6 ; refuses colonial bishop- 
ric, 57 ; work at All Hallows', 
London Wall, 59-74 ; as 
rector of a City church, 61-5 ; 
hymnological work, 67 ; re- 
moves to Charterhouse, 68 ; 
last illness, 68-71 ; death, 
71 ; funeral, 71-3 
Stone, William, 3-5, 17, 36, 37 
Swan's nest among the reeds. The, 

5 
Symon the anker, 60, 66 
Synionds, John Addington, 1 1 

Temple, Archbishop, 58 
Tennyson, Alfred, Lord, 10, 18, 

19- 45. 205 
Thanksgiving for Prince of Wales' 
recovery, 37 



The Birdie, 2, 185 
The Church's one Fotmdation, i, 
21, 25, 27, 30, 38, 72, 74, 

239 

The Knight of Intercession ^ 19, 

31, 32, 37, 155 

There is a fountain filled with 

blood, 70 
There is a green hill far away, 22 
Thomas a Kempis, St., 24, 277 
Times, The, 29 
Trench, Archbishop, 23 
Trent, The River, 5 

Ulysses, 10 

Vaughan, Henry, 33 

Walton, Izaak, 3 

Weary of earth, 21, 25-6, 30, 

283 
Wesley, John, 10, 63 
Wesley, Sebastian, 28 
Westminster Gazette, The, 65 
Whitechapel, St. Mark's, 56 
Whitmore, i, 3 
Wilberforce, Bishop Samuel, 12- 

13, 29, 88 
Windermere, 212 
Windsor, i, 13, i4-35> 7°. 209-11 
Wood Street, Cheapside, 59 
Woolstaston, 40-1 
Wordsworth, William, 59 
Wren, Sir Christopher, 7 

Yonge, Charlotte Mary, 65, 71 



i 



PLYMOUTH 

WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON 

PRINTERS 



A CATALOGUE OF BOOKS 

METHUEN AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS : LONDON 

36 ESSEX STREET 

W.C 



CONTENTS 





PAGE 




PAGE 


GENERAL LITERATURE, . 


. 8-22 


LEADERS OF RELIGION, 


26 


methuen's standard library, 


22 


SOCIAL QUESTIONS OF TO-DAY, . 


27 


HYZANTINE TEXTS, 


23 


UNIVERSITY EXTENSION SERIES, . 


27 


LITTLE LIBRARY, . 


23 


COMMERCIAL SERIES, . 


27 


LITTLE GUIDES, . 


23 


CLASSICAL TRANSLATIONS, . 


28 


LITTLE BIOGRAPHIES, . 


24 


methuen's junior SCHOOL-BOOKS, 28 


LITTLE BLUE BOOKS 


24 


SCHOOL EXAMINATION SERIES, 


28 


ILLUSTRATED POCKET LIBRARY 


OF 


JUNIOR EXAMINATION SERIES, 


28 


PLAIN AND COLOURED BOOKS, 


24 


TEXTBOOKS OF TECHNOLOGY, 


28 


LIBRARY OF DEVOTION, 


25 


FICTION, 


29-37 


WESTMINSTER COMMENTARIES, 


25 


THE FLEUR DE LIS NOVELS, . 


37 


HANDBOOKS OF THEOLOGY, . 


26 


BOOKS FOR BOYS AND GIRLS, 


38 


churchman's LIBRARY, 


^6 


THE NOVELIST 


38 


churchman's BIBLE, . 


26 


methuen's sixpenny LIBRARY, . 


33 



JULY 1903 



A CATALOGUE OF 



Messrs. Methuen's 

PUBLICATIONS 



Part I. — General Literature 



Jacob Abbot, thk beechnut book. 

Edited by E. V. Lucas. Illustr.-vted. 
Demy i6)no. 2S.6J. [Little Blue Books. 

W. F. Adeney, ALA. See Bennett and 

Adeney. 
JEschylUS. AGAMEMNON, CHOEPHO- 

KOE, EUMENIDKS. Tr.-insL-ited by 

Lewis Campiell, LL.D., Kite Professor of 

Greek at St. Andrews. $s. 

[Classical Translations. 
£S0P. FABLES. With 380 Woodcuts by 

Thomas Bewick. Fcaf>. Zvo. 3^-. dd. net. 
[Illustrated Pocket Library. 

W. Harrison Ainsworth. WINDSOR 

CASTLE. With 22 Plates and 87 Wood- 
cuts in the Text by George Cruikshank. 
I'cap, Zvo. 3^. dd. net. 

[Illustrated Pocket Library. 

G. A. Aitken, See Swift. 

William Alexander, D.D., Archbishop of 

Armagh. THOUGHTS AND COUN- 
SELS OF M.ANY YEARS. Selected 
from the writings of Archbishop Alex- 
ander. Square Pott Zvo. 2.S. dd. 

Bishop Andrewes, THE DEVOTIONS OF 

By F. E. Brightman, M.A., of Pusey 
House, 0.\ford. Crown Zvo. 6s. 

Aristophanes. THE frogs. Translated 

into English by F2. W. Huntingford, M.A., 
Professor of Classics in Trinity College, 
Toronto. Crown Zvo. 2J. dd. 

Aristotle. THE NICOMACHEAN 
ETHICS. Edited, with an Introduction 
and Notes, by John Burnet, M.A., Pro- 
fessor of Greek at St. Andrews. Demy Zvo. 
15X. net. 

' We have seldom, if ever, seen an edition 
of any classical author in which what is held 
in common with other commentators is so 
clearly put, and what is original is of such 
value and interest.' — Pilot. 

R. Ashton. THE PEELES AT THE 
CAPIT.VL. Illustrated. Demv idmo. 2J. 
6d. [Little Blue Books. 



J. B. Atkins. THE RELIEF OF LADY- 
SMITH. With 16 Plans and Illustrations. 
Third Edition. Crown Zvo. ds. 

J. B. Atlay. See R. H. Barham. 

Jane Austen. PRinE and PREJU- 
DICE. Edited by E. V. Lucas. Two 
Volumes. Pott Zvo. Each volume, cloth, 
IS. dd. net. ; leather, zs. dd. net. 

[Little Library. 

NORTHANGER ABBEY. Edited by E. 
V. Lucas. Pott Zvo. Cloth, is. dd. net. ; 
leather, 2s. dd. net. [Little Library. 

Constance Bache. BROTHER musi- 
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Walter Bache. With 16 Illustrations. 
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R. S. S. Baden-Powell, Major-General. 
THE DOWNFALL OF PREMPEH. A 
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THE MATABELE CAMPAIGN, 1S96. 
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Graham Balfour. THE LIFE OF 

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. Second 
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net. 

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[Commercial Series. 
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[Commercial Series, 
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[Commercial Series. 



General Literature 



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Elizabeth L, Banks. THE AUTO- 
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' A picture of a strenuous and busy life, 
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[Little Library. 

S. Baring-GOTlld, Author of ' Mehalah,' etc. 
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' A most delightful guide, companion and 
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net; leather, zs 6d. net. [Little Library. 
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LYRA SACRA : A Book of Sacred Verse. 

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R. M. Benson, THE WAY OF HOLI- 
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E R. Bernard, M.A., Canon of Salisbury. 1 
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B. Blaxland, M.A. THE SONG OF 
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J. Harvey Bloom, ma. shake- 

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J E. C. Bodley, Author of ' France.' THE 
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Arnold J. Boger. THE STORY OF 
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[Library of Devotion, 



General Literature 



F C. Boon, R.A. A COMMERCIAL 
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[Commercial Series. 

George Borrow. LAVENGRO. Edited 

by F. HiNDES Gkoome. Tiro l'o/u)iies. 
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ROMANY RYE. With Notes and an Intro- 
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[Little Library. 

J. Ritzema Bos. AGRICULTURAL 

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C. G. Botting, B.A. JUNIOR LATIN 

EXAMINATION PAPERS. Fca/^.8vo._is. 

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0. Browning, M.A. A SHORT HISTORY 
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G. J. Burcb, M.A., F.R.S. a' MANUAL 
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Gelett Burgess. GOOPS and how to 

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Marie Corelli. the passing of the 

GREAT QUEEN : A Tribute to the Noble 
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Rosemary Cotes. dante'S garden. 

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Fiction 



29 



Part II. — Fiction 

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30 



Messrs, Metiiuen's Catalogue 



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Fiction 



31 



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32 



Messrs. Methuen's Catalogue 



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unflagging vigour.' — Globe. 
VENGEANCE IS MINE. Illustrated. 
Crfiwn 8vo. 65. 

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M. C. Balfour, the fall of the 

Sl^ARROW. Cro7vnSvo. bs. 
S. Baring Gould. See page 30. 

Jane Barlow. THE LAND OF THE 

SHAMROCK. Cro7un8va. 6s. 

FROM THE EAST UNTO THE WEST . 

CroivH 87.10. 6s, 

THE FOUNDING OF FORTUNES. 

Cro7vn Svo. 6s. 

' This interesting and delightful book. Its 
author has done nothing better, and it is 
scarcely an exaggeration to say that it 
would be an injustice to Ireland not to read 
it.' — Scotsman. 

See also Fleur de Lis Novels. 

Robert Barr. See page 31. 

J. A. Barry. IN the GREAT DEEP. 

Cnnon 87'0. 6s. 
George Bartram. Author of ' The People of 
Clopton.' THE THIRTEEN EVEN- 
INGS. CroxvnZvo. 6s. 



THE VICTORS. 

'Mr. Barr has a rich sense of humour.' — 
Onlooker. 

' A very convincing study of American 
life in its business and political aspects.' — 

niot. 

' Good writing, illuminating sketches of 
character, and constant variety of scene and 
incident. ' — Times. 



Harold Begbie. THE ADVENTURES OF 
SIR JOHN SPARROW. Cro7vnZvo. 6s. 
' Mr. Begbie often recalls Stevenson's 
manner and makes "Sir John Sparrow" 
most diverting writing. Sir John is inspired 
with the idea that it is his duty to reform 
the world, and launches iiito the vortex of 
faddists. His e.vperiences are traced with 
spacious and Rabelaisian humour. Every 
character has the salience of a type. Enter- 
tainingly and deftly written.' — 

Daily Graphic. 

E. F. Benson, DODO: A Detail of the 

Day. Cro7vn Svo. 6s. 
THE CAPSINA. CrozvnSvo. 6s. 
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Margaret Benson, subject TO 

VANITY. Cro7vnS7'o. 3s. 6d. 

Sir Walter Besant. A five years' 

TRYST, and Other Stories. Cro7vnSvo. 6s. 
Mrs. E. Bland (E. Nesbit). THE RED 
HOUSE. Illustrated. Crou'n Sz'O. 6s. 

C. Stewart Bowles. A STRETCH OFF 

THE LAND. Cro7un Sz'O. 6s. 

Emma Brooke. THE POET'S CHILD. 

Cro7un Zzio. 6s. 
Shan. F. Bullock. THE SQUIREEN. 

Crozun Zvo. 6s. 

J. Bloundelle Burton, Author of 'The 

Clash of Arms.' THE YEAR ONE: A 
Page of the French Revolution. Illus- 
trated. Crown Sz'o. 6s. 
DENOUNCED. Crown Svo. 6s. 
THECLASHOFARMS. CrozvnSvo. 6s. 
ACROSS THE SALT SE.AS. Cro7un Svo. 
6s. 

SERVANTS OF SIN. Crozvn Svo. 6s. 
THE FATE OF VALSEC. Cro7vn Svo. 
6s. 

' The characters are admirably portrayed. 
The book not only arrests and sustains the 
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A BRANDED NAME. Crown Svo. 6s. 

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AdaCambridge, the devastators. 

Crcnvn Zz'O. 6s. 

PATH AND GOAL. CrownSvo. 6s. 



Fiction 



33 



Bernard Capes, Author of 'The Lake of 
Wine.' PLOTS. Crown Zvo. ds. 

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concentrated and quite worthy of the 
author's best work.' — Jlorning Leader. 

Weatherby cnesney. JOHN TOPP : 

PIRATE. Second Edition. Croivn'ivo. i)S. 

THE FOUNDERED GALLEON. 

Crown ?>vo. 6s. 

THE BRANDED PRINCE. Cro7vn Svo. 

6s. 

'Always highly interesting and surpris- 
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' An ingenious, cleverly-contrived story.' — 

Outlook. 

Mrs. W. K. Clifford. A 'WOMAN ALON E. 

Crawn Svo. 3?. 6d. 

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Hugh Clifford. A FREE LANCE OF 
TO-DAY. Crown S7'o. 6s. 

J. Maclaren Cobban, the king OF 

ANDAMAN : A Saviour of Society. 
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WILT THOU HAVE THIS WOMAN? 
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THE ANGEL OF THE COVENANT. 
Crown Sz'O, 6s. 
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market.' A FOOL'S YEAR. Cra7i'n Sva. 6s. 

Julian Corbett. A BUSINESS IN 
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Marie Corelli. See page 28. 
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Stephen Crane. WOUNDS IN the 

RAIN. Crown Svo. 6s. 
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LOCHINVAR. Illustrated. Second 
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THE STANDARD BEARER. Cr. Sva. 6s. 

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PEGGY OF THE BARTONS. Crown 
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A STATE SECRET. Cro7vn Sto. ^s. 6d. 
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LEGATION. Cro7t'n Srv. 6s. 

C. E. Denny. THE ROMANCE OF UP- 
FOLD MANOR. Cro7vn 8vo. 6s. 

Evelyn Dickinson. A vicar'S wife. 

Crown Svo. 6s. 

THE SIN OF ANGELS. Crown Bz'o. 

^s. 6d. 



Harris Dickson. THE BLACK WOLF'S 

breed. Illustrated. Second Edition. 
Croivn Svo. 6s. 
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ROUND THE RED LAMP. Eig-hth 
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Sara Jeannette Duncan (Mrs. Everard 

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THE PATH OF A STAR. Illustrated. 
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C. F. Embree. A HEART OF FLAME. 

Crown Zvo. 6s. 
G. ManviUe Fenn. AN ELECTRIC 
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ELI'S CHILDREN. CrownZvo. 2S.6d. 
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J. H. Findlater. THE GREEN GRAVES 
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' A powerful and vivid story.' — Standard. 

'A beautiful story, sad and strange as 
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' A singularly original, clever, and beauti- 
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A DAUGHTER OF STRIFE. Crown 
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Mary Findlater. over the hills. 

Second Edition. Croiun Zvo. 6s. 

BETTY MUSGRAVE. Second Edition. 

Crown Zvo. 6s. 

A NARROW WAY. Third Edition. 

Crown Zvo. 6s. 
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Zvo. 6s. 
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a Chronicle of the Great Mutiny. Crown 

Zvo. 6s. 
M. E. Francis. MISS ERIN. Second 

Edition. Crown Zvo. 6s. 
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ERBY'S FOLLY. Crozvn Zvo. 6s. 

Mary Gaunt. deadman'S. CrozvnZvo. 

6s. 

THE MOVING FINGER. Crown Zvo. 

3 J. 6d. 

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Dorothea Gerard, Author of ' Lady Baby.' 
the million. Croivn Zvo. 6s. 
THE CONQUEST OF LONDON. 
Second Edition. Crown Zvo. 6s. 



34 



Messrs. Metiiuen's Catalogue 



THE SUPRKMK CRIME. Cr. ?,vo. 6s. 
HOLY MATRIMONY. Second Edition. 
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'The love story which it enshrines is a 
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'Distinctly intcrestina:.' — AthoitFuin. 
THINGS THAT HAVE HAPPENED. 
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K. Murray Gilchrist. WILLOWBRAKE. 

Crown Sr't'. 6s. 

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HOUSE. CrownSvo. 6s. 
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Zvo. 6s. 

THE crow:. OF life. CrownSvo. 6s. 

Ernest Glanville. the kloof bride. 

Crmvn %7'0. 3.t. 6d. 

THE LOST REGIMENT. Crown Sw. 

y. 6d. 

THE DESPATCH RIDER. Crown ivo. 

js. 6d. 

THE INCA'S TREASURE. Illustrated. 

Crojrn Sl'o. y. 6d. 

' No lack of exciting Incident.' — Scots/nan. 

' Most thrilling and exciting.' — 

Glasgow Herald. 

Charles Gleig. HUNTER'S CRUISE. 

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Julien Gordon. MRS. CLYDE. Crown 
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' A clever picture of many phases of 
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Daily Express. 
'Full of vivacity, with many excruciatingly 
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WORLD'S Pl':OPLE. Croivn 8w. 6s. 
S. Gordon. A HANDFUL OF EXOTICS. 

Croivn %"jO. y. 6d. 
C. F. GOSS. THE REDEMPTION OF 
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Crown St'O. 6s. 
E. M'Queen Gray. ELSA. Croivn 8vo. 6s. 
MY STEWARDSHIP. CrownSi'O. ■2.s.6d. 
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' Mr. Hales has a vivid pen, and the 

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Moriiins; Post, 

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6s. 

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' A singularly pleasant story of t h e Tyrol . * — 

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Bol)ert HiChenS, Author of ' Flames, ' 

etc. THE PROPHET OF BERKELEY 

SQUARE. Second Edition. CrownSvo. 

6s. 



' One continuous sparkle. Mr. HIchens 
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'A really powerful book.' — 

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' The story is related with unflagging 
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' " Felix " will undoubtedly add to a con- 
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' Mrs. Craigle is as brilliant as she ever 
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Anthony Hope. Sec page 28. 

I. Hooper. THE SINGER OF MARLY. 

Crozvn Svo. 6s. 
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TEREST. Crown Zz'o. 6s, 
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MR. HORROCKS, PURSER. Crown 

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Crown Zvo. 6s. 

THE SOFT SIDE. Second Edition. 

Crown Bvo. 6s. 

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C. F. Keary. the journalist. 

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' The author writes of the wild, picturesque 
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observation.'— Z?«;/)' Telegraph, 



Fiction 



35 



E. Lynn Linton. THE TRUE HISTORY 

OF JOSHUA DAVIDSON, Christian and 
Communist. Eleventh Edition. Crown 

&7'0. IS. 

Norma Lorimer. MIRRY ANN. Crown 

Bvo. 6s. 

JOSIAH'S WIFE. Crown Sz'a. 6s. 

Cecil Lewis, the machinations 

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Charles K. Lush. THE AUTOCRATS. 

Crown Si'o. 6s. 
Edna Lyall. DERRICK VAUGHAN, 

NOVELIST. ^■2nd thousand. CrownZvo. 

3S. 6d. 

S. Macnaughtan. THE FORTUNE OF 

CHRISTINA MACNAB. Second Edition. 
Crown Z''0. 6s. 

A. MacdoneU. THE STORY OF 

TERESA. Crown Svo. 6s. 

Harold Macgratli. the PUPPET 

CROWN. Illustrated. Crown Zvo. 6s. 
G. Makgill. OUTSIDE AND OVERSEAS. 

Crown Zvo. 6s. 

Lucas Malet. See page 29. 

Mrs. M. E. Mann. OLIVIA'S SUMMER. 

Second Edition. Crown Zvo. 6s. 

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' Full of shrewd insight and quiet humour. 
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' A powerful story.' — Times. 
A LOST ESTATE. A Ne%u Edition. Crown 

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THE PARISH OF FIILBY. A New Edition. 
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Richard Marsh. BOTH SIDES OF THE 

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THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN. 

Crown Zvo. 6s. 

MARVELS AND MYSTERIES. Cro^vn 

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THE TWICKENHAM PEERAGE. 

Second Edition. Cro^vn Zi'O. 6s. 

' It is a long time since my Laronite read 
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A. E. W. Mason, Author of ' The Courtship 
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' A romance of the most delicate ingenuity 
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Helen Mathers, Author of 'Comin' thro' 
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Crown Zvo. 6s, 



'Racy, pointed, and entertaining." — 
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'Honey is a splendid girl." — Daily 
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\.\ vigorously written story, full of clever 
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J. W. MayalL THE CYNIC AND THE 

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L. T. Meade. DRIFT. Cro-wn Zvo. 6s. 

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Allan Monkhouse. love in a life. 

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F, F. MontreSOr, Author of ' Into the High- 
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' Miss Montresor creates her tragedy out 
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Arthur Moore, the knight PUNC- 
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Arthur Morrison. See page 30. 

W. E. Norris. THE CREDIT OF THE 

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Crown Zvo. 6s. 

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THE EMBARRASSING ORPHAN. 

Crozvn Zvo. 6s. 

HIS GRACE. Third Edition. Crown 

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THE DESPOTIC LADY. Cro-.vnSvo. 6s. 

CLARISSA FURIOSA. Cro-wnZvo. 6s. 

GILES INGILBY. Illustrated. Second 

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AN OCTAVE. Second Edition. Crown 

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A DEPLORABLE AFFAIR. Crozvn Zvo. 

3i. 6d. 

JACK'S FATHER. Crozvn Zvo. zs. 6d. 

LORD LEONARD THE LUCKLESS. 

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Alfred Ollivant. OWD bob, THE GREY 

DOG OF KENMUIR. Sixth Edition. 
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'Weird, thrilling, strikingly graphic' — 
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' We admire this book ... It is one to 
read with admiration and to praise with 
enthusiasm.* — Bookman. 



36 



Messrs. Methuen's Catalogue 



' It is a fine, open-air, blood-stirring book, 
to be enjoyed by every man and woman to 
whom a doi; is dit^r.'^Liteyatiiye. 

E. PhiUips Oppenheim. MASTER OF 

ISIEN. Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s. 

Gilbert Parker, Sec page 29. 

James Blythe Patton. niJLI, THE 

DANCER. Crown Sz'o. 6s. 

MaxPemberton. THE FOOTSTEPS OF 
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I CROWN THEE KING. With Illus- 
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'A romance of high adventure, of love and 
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Mrs. F. E. Penny. A FOREST OFFICER. 

Crown "ivo. 6s. 
A MIXED MARRL\GE. Crown 8vo. 6s. 
Eden PhillpOttS. See page 30. 
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ivo. 6s. 

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Bichard Pryce. TEME AND THE 

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THE QUIET MRS. FLEMING. Crown 

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J. RandaL AUNT BETHIA'S BUTTON. 

Crown Zz'O. 6s. 
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Crown Svo. 6s. „ ,, 

Grace Rhys. THE WOOING Ol' 

SHEILA. Second Edition. CrownSvo. 6s. 
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Grace Rbys and Another. THE 

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Edith Rickert. OUT OF the CYPRESS 

SWAMP. Crown Zvo. 6s. 

W. Pett Ridge. LOST property. 

Second Edition. Crown Zvo. 6s. 

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'A simple, delicate bit of work, which 
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the masses has made him, not mad, but 
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SECRETARY TO BAYNE, M.P. Crown 
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W. Clark RusseU. MY DANISH SWEET- 
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W.SatChelL THELANDOFTHELOST. 
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Marshall Saunders. ROSE A CHAR- 
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W. C. Scully. THE WHITE HEC.VTOMP.. 

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BETWEEN SUN AND S.\ND. Crown 
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A VENDETTA OF THE DESERT. 
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THE MASTER OF BEECHWOOD. 
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BARBARA'S MONEY. Second Edition. 
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ANTHEA'S WAY. Croxun Svo. 6s. 
W. F. Shannon. THE MESS DECK. 

Cro7t'n Svo. js. 6d, 

JIM TWELVES. Second Edition. Crown 

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Helen Shipton. THE STRONG GOD 
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R. N. Stephens. A GENTLEMAN 
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E. H. Strain. ELMSLIE'S DRAG-NET. 
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Esm6 Stuart. A WOMAN OF FORTY. 

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Duches3 of Sutherland, one hour 

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Annie Swan. LOVE GROWN COLD. 

Second Edition. Crozun Svo. ss. 
Benjamin Swift. SIREN CITY. Crown 
Svo. 6s. 
SORDON. Crown Svo. 6s. 



Fiction 



37 



R. B. Townshend. LONE pine : A Ro- 
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Mrs. E. W. Trafford-Taunton. SILENT 
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Victor Waite. CROSS TRAILS. Crown 
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H. B. Marriott Watson. THE SKIRTS 

OF HAPPY CHANCE. Illustrated. 

Second Edition. Crown Zvo. 6s. 
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8vo. 2S. 6d. 

THE PLATTNER STORY and Otheks. 

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' Highly successful farce and plenty of 

polished satire." — Daily Mail. 

TALES OF SPACE AND TIME. 

Ci'own Zvo. 6s. 



WHEN THE SLEEPER WAKES. 
Crown Zvo. 6s. 

THE INVISIBLE MAN. Crov.<nZ7'0. 6s. 
LOVE AND MR. LEWISHAM. Cro^vn 
Zvo. 6s. 

Stanley Weyman, Author of ' A Gentleman 
of France." UNDER THE RED ROBE. 
With Illustratious by R. C. Woodville. 
Seventeenth Edition. Crown Zvo. 6s. 

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Mrs. C. N. Williamson, Author of 'The 
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Crown Zz'o. 6s. 

'Full of startling adventures and sen- 
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THE ADVENTURE OF PRINCESS 
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