All Saints' Day

A few bright leaders of her host,
God's glory, and the Church's boast,
She hath set forth, and mark'd by name,
Fair in the lists of holy fame;
To cheer the many with the few,
And show what grace in man can do.

Back from their helms of Hope divine,
Reflected sunbeams flash and shine,
Marking where gallant warriors stand,
With buckler poised, and sword in hand,
First of the martyr army they,
To lead it on at dawn of day.

But as, behind those stars most bright
Which meet us in the front of night,
Myriads on myriads have their place,
Far in the hidden realms of space,
Unseen by man, but to the eye
Of God as bright as those more nigh —

So in His Church have ever been
Thousands, whom none but He hath seen,
Yet in His eye as bright and fair,
As martyrs and apostles were,
Who, tho' their lives seemed still and calm,
Shall wear the Martyr's Crown and Palm.

Here upon earth they were unknown,
But there's a Book before the Throne,
The Book of Life — in which the Lord
Doth all the lives of Saints record;
And, in the day when He cloth ' spare,'
Their names shall be found written there.

O what a close ' communion'-bond
Of fellowship most full and fond
Christ's mystic body doth entwine,
'Together knit' with cords divine,
One life electric thro' them all,
On to the Judgment from the Fall.

One ' family in Heaven and earth,'
Bound by the ties of second birth;
None dead, tho' some their work have done,
Their battle fought, their freedom won;
All in the Lord alive and blest,
Tho' some may toil and some may rest.

Their earthly home a nameless spot,
Unknown, or haply long forgot;
Where, in some mountain-cottage rude,
Or city's crowded solitude,
Their gentle lives did meekly move,
In the still ways of earnest love.

On beds of noisome sickness laid,
In poverty's depressing shade,
Struggling against the world's distress
With un repining gentleness,
Their robes unspotted, tho' the road
Was deep and rough that led to God.

Their simple lives exalted high
By unaffected piety,
Tho' sad and sombre in their hue,
And common-place in all they do,
This colouring of the rainbow take,
That all is done for Jesu's sake.

'Twas ever thus from earliest time,
That God's elect in every clime,
Tho' hidden deep, and unobserved,
Like scatter'd salt, have still preserved
His blessing (lest it turn again,)
To the rebellious sons of men.

And when in solemn judgment state
He holds His court, a throng so great
Shall- rise before th' astonish'd sight,
Bearing their palms, and ' clothed in white;'
'No man could number' those who'll stand,
In that great day at God's right hand.

His scattered treasures He will claim,
So dear He knows them all by name;
When He makes up the precious store,
And counts His ' jewels' o'er and o'er:
Of all that were on earth His care,
Not one shall be found wanting there.

How solemn then this day's return
To all who for some loved one mourn;
It soothes the heart, it sheds a grace
Of glory round that vacant place,
Which ever, on our brightest mood,
Will its dull emptiness intrude.

It speaks of life's unfailing breath,
Where we despondent think of death;
It tells of glory, and of gain,
Where we see loss and dreary pain;
The upper world it doth reveal,
And what we see not makes us feel.

We breathe again the breath of flowers,
That round us bloomed in vanished hours;
We commune with the spirit-band,
Walk with them through the happy -land,
Still hear each old familiar tone,
And feel that they are still our own; —

And closer draw to Christ our head,
Link of the living with the dead;
And, lifting up our hearts on high,
This All-saints' benediction sigh —
'God give us grace to see his face,
'And meet our own in the happy place.'