Part V

Listen ! it is the Passing Bell.
Lift up thy heart to God and pray.
A soul is passing, — who can tell
How prayer may help it on its way '

Where art thou ? In the easy chair
Whose ivory castors smoothly glide,
At thy least impulse, here and there,
To reach thy work on every side !

Here, where those pond'rous folios lie
Spread out to yield their ancient lore ;
There, where to thy familiar eye
There's order in the book-strewn floor ;

And back to where, each fragment brought
As wit or wisdom may command,
The gradual pile of builded thought
Is growing up beneath thy hand.

The pride of early school-boy days,
The later gains of mental strife
Bright with their wreath of college bays,
The gath'rings of maturer life,

Around in order duly placed
Rest in their graduated tiers,
Gay in their garbs of varied taste,
The silent friends of all the years ;

The fruit of toil, the flash, the fire
Of genius, in an instant caught
And held in words, to teach, inspire,
And rule the worlds with lofty thought ;

Friends on whose backs the eye can trace
More features of the hidden mind
Than, often-times, in many a face
Of living, talking men we find.

Stillness doth all the room pervade,
An air of literary ease,
A soften'd intellectual shade
The brain to help, the taste to please.

Through folded doors no voice is heard,
Within, no rude arrangings done,
No manuscript or volume stirr'd
Save by one cunning hand alone :

And yet no slothful dust defiles
One spot within its precincts found,
Nor rests upon the order'd piles
Of books and papers scattered round.

Genius may toss itself about,
But gentleness, with quiet fall
Of female step, goes in and out,—
Order'd disorder reigns o'er all.

Deep through the oriel window streams,
At coming and departing day,
That level flood of golden beams
Where motes, and flies, and fancies play.

Through open casements wand'ring airs
Come in to tell where last they met,
Along the garden's gay parterres,
The sweetbriar and the mignonette.

Pleasant the calm that rests about
That quiet, central parish home,
From whence all kindly thoughts go out,
While back all cares converging come ;

Where dwells God's Priest, Christ's purchased flock
By the still waters forth to lead,
Or, shelter'd neath the Shad.. win- Rock,
In Life's green pasture-fields to feed.

England ! 'mid all thy store of wealth,
Thy settled rights and equal laws,
Whence springs that tone of moral health
Which rightly wins the world's applause ?

Thy Church, with her perpetual grace
Of prayers, and psalms, and sabbath bells,
Stands blessing, in the Holy Place,
The happy land in which she dwells.

Her mission from the world above,
Her promise of eternal care,
Her works of faith, her words of love,
Her holy hope, and patient prayer,

Her gift of life, and living food
That life mysterious to sustain,
Guide to the Great Supremely Good,
Across the world's wide desert plain.

Mystical Body ! in whose Head
(Pass'd up into the inner skies,
The living first-fruits of the dead,)
The dead alive in Christ shall rise.

And fair, as that can be whose frame
Is out of human frailty wrought,
Thy Priesthood, with its reverent claim
On chasten'd love and sober thought.

God's grace incarnate, Christ-like giv'n,
Part of His uncompleted plan ;
The awful messenger of Heav'n
Sent as a tender-hearted man,

With human love, and human ties
About his inmost soul entwined,
Help'd by his human sympathies
To be forbearing to his kind ;

Safer in holy woman's care ;
Purer where fresh-soul'd children dwell ;
Nor fervent less, for work or prayer,
Than hooded monk in cloister d cell;

Gentle in blood, and gently bred
In quiet ways of self-respect ;
Not by the great disquieted,
Nor fain the humble to neglect ;

A man of all rank, and of none ;
Of peers the peer, the peasant's friend ;
One common link through all to run,
Flashing one life from end to end.

Such is the English Priest of God,
Who, wheresoever duty lead,
Through crowded streets, on mountain sod,
In joy, in sorrow, or in need,

At palace or at cottage-door,
With equal right and rank applies ;
Bends not to rich, nor stoops to poor,
To fawn upon, or patronise.

Thou man of God ! thy lot is fair ;
From the world's common dangers free,
Yet hast thou need of watch and prayer,
If thou wouldst pure and perfect be.

Snares of their own peculiar kind,
Too subtile ever to surprise,
Shock not, but gently lead thy mind
From the hard paths where duty lies.

Thy books, thy literary ease,
That soft'ning intellectual mood,
Whose sickly sensibilities
Shrink back where common things intrude ;

Deep musings, meditations high,
Purer through rapt devotion's aid,
Philosophy and poetry,
And dreams of what men may be made ;

And converse with the mighty dead,
So lengthen'd out that Love deplores,
Uncared for and unvisited,
The living sorrows round our doors :

All these, — no fruit of cold neglect,
But goodly purpose gone astray,
Where jealous care can scarce detect
The first divergence of the way, —

Leave smooth the hand that should be rough,
Driving the plough life's furrows through ;
As if it ever were enough
To think and feel, and not to do.

Love's high resolve and holiest vow
The best intentions will not keep ;
Torn feet, and wounded hands and brow
Were His who found His wand'ring sheep.

And wayward wills, and hearts unkind,
And malice, of injustice born,
And purpose fickle as the wind,
And low-bred pride, and high-bred scorn,

And self-conceited prejudice
That on its own pretention leans,
And party-spirit, not too nice
About its motives or its means,

And waste of life, and sneers at death,
And words as vulgar as profane,
And low suspicion's tainted breath,
Hinting that godliness is gain, —

All must be borne with ; these the stones
Of stumbling in the Shepherd's way
Who would bring back the wilder'd ones,
Gone from the Fold of Christ astray.

His books, his ease, his thoughtful hours.
His days of study, nights of toil,
Quick'ning the intellectual pow'rs,
Which rise as sinks the midnight oil ;

All — though so genial to his taste,
Tending toward such a perfect whole —
Must yet be in subservience placed
To saving an immortal soul ;

The pen laid down ; the train of thought
Found, and with such laborious care
Through all its finer threads out-wrought,
Left broken in an instant there;

The deep research, the argument
Just reaching to its purpose high,
With the whole soul on it intent,
Yet broken off as suddenly ;

The book uncut, the work undone,
Just op'ning out to fancy free, —
All to some cottage door to run
At sorrow's summons graciously:

To watch by death's last parting strife,
Or meet, in some more kindly mood,
Those who in happier hours of life
Had studied to be harsh and rude,

Their prosy talk, their fretful ways ;
Gently forbearing all the while ;
Watching what time the Cross to raise ;
Skill'd in the craft of Heav'nly guile ;

Patient and gentle, apt to teach ;
Meekly, through Christ, instructing those
Too long beyond their Pastor's reach,
Who wilfully themselves oppose.

Such is the Christian soldier! pure
As Heav'nly love can mortal make ;
All hardness ready to endure
Without a sigh for Jesus' sake.

Thou man of God ! beware, beware,
There's hidden danger lurking round,
In those great books, that easy chair,
This pleasant room, that garden ground ;

In the pure, cultivated life,
Which seems all duty, yet may be
But a fair fence to keep the strife
Of a rude world from vexing thee —

That world in whose rough pathway lies
(Where Love incarnate bleeding trod)
The harder but the higher prize
Of self and ease laid down for God.

He helps thee, for He knows thy need ;
And, where of old an angel came
Slow heart and ling'ring steps to speed,
Unconscious, from th' avenging flame,

His Church's voice, with frequent call
Of day and season, toll and chime,
Or prayer, or preaching, does for all
What angels did in olden time.

Listen ! upon the evening air
It calls thee from the old church tow'r,
Asking thy presence and thy prayer
In some poor Christian's dying hour.

Listen ! It is the Passing Bell.
Lift up thy heart to God and pray.
A soul is passing, — who can tell
How prayer may help it on its way !

Who wants thine aid ? With all the fold
Thy mind familiar, longs to know
For whom that Passing Bell is toll'd,
Or young or old, or high or low.

Death hath of late with gloomy wing
Hung o'er thy flock, — to which sad home,
O'er-shadow'd by his hovering,
Hath the dark swoop of sorrow come ?

The stately hall, where pomp and pride
Long held their undisputed sway,
And change and chance alike defied
To take one gilded joy away ;

Where self to pamper and to please
Seem'd the sole cause why life was giv'n,
And the near things of earth and ease
Shut out all sight of God and Heav'n ;

Where the cold sneer too often fell,
Its slime on holy things to leave,—
Weak effort of the infidel
To laugh at what his fears believe;

Where God's good Word, and prayer, and praise
Were all for laugh and song put by,
No time through pleasure's nights and days
To think upon eternity ;—

There o'er its pomp hath fall'n of late
The shadow of a coming care :
Hath Death now stopp'd at that tall gate
And claim'd his right of entrance there ?

The broken frame, the pallid cheek',
The quiv'ring lip, the anxious eye,
For months, as plain as words could speak,
Have told the proud man he must die.

The fears, once scoff 'd at as absurd,
Or drown'd in life's frivolities,
Now make themselves distinctly heard
In that still chamber where he lies.

'The warning voice, despised of old,
Hath now come bidden to his door,
And solemn truths have now been told
Which would not have been brook'd before.

But trembling less in hope than fear,
And falt'ring unaccustom'd prayer,
He only feels some change is near,
But knows not what it is, or where.

Alas ! his life was all misspent,
Gone, wilder'd, wasted, lived in vain ;
But — of thy life how much was lent
To win the wand'rer back again ?

True, every Sunday in thy place
God's Word was spoken full and free,
And earnest pleas to seek His face,
Press'd upon all repeatedly.

But where that love more deep and true,
That finer individual care,
Watching to find the season due,
Seeking occasion everywhere ?

Which bore with temper, answer'd not
The taunting sneers of pride with pride,
But, for the love of him it sought,
Laid meaner love of self aside ;

Not like a martyr, proudly meek,
With kiss more keen than biting word,
But offering the other cheek
Through love of thy dear smitten Lord.

As he who has some selfish aim
Watches his time to make it sure,
And, so he only win his game,
Cares not what insults he endure ;

So he whose self in Christ is lost
Can, with a nobly selfish care,
Count not for olden- self the cost,
So new-self be exalted there

Was this thy purpose ? Hast thou sought
Thus to restore lost souls to God ?
"Not only teaching as Christ taught,
But walking where His footsteps trod ?

Thy cunning hand, thy thoughtful brows,
Thy feet rough ways too fain to flee,
Thy heart with its half utter'd vows,
Mark'd with His wounds Who died for thee !

Or, haply, down in yonder vale
Where humbler rank hath fix'd its home,
And far more seemly ways prevail,
Haply, 'tis there that death hath come.

Where modest worth, a quiet life
In unpretending goodness spent,
Far from the world's disturbing strife,
Wearied, lies down with calm content ;

Where years of duty find their close,
And faith beholds fruition nigh ;
And the immortal seeks repose
In putting off mortality.

From childhood up, to holiness
Her gentle life had all been giv'n,
Its fair complexion colour'd less
With clouds of earth than hues of heaven.

The gladness of its morning glow
Fresh through long years, — nor pass'd away
Where evening's shades descending low
Caught the last farewell gleam of day.

Baptized in faith, devoutly rear'd
Where duties fence life's narrow ground,
Love had so much the path endear'd,
She never reach'd its thorny bound j

But living from the world remote,
And bred in simple country ways,
Her trustful heart took little note
Of use revived in modern days.

The usage of the Church she loved
And worshipp'd in from childhood's prime,
Her settled faith alone approved ;
That was her use of olden time.

And so, when later years revived
Almost forgotten faith and rule,
Old words and ways, which still survived,
She traced to some more modern school ;

Fearing lest truths of priceless cost,
For which the holy martyrs died,
Should be in sign and symbol lost,
Dropp'd for the shadow in the tide.

And thus from the same fear had grown
Two different paths for honest minds.
Each, through the truth most clearly known)
Its separate way divergent finds —

Divergent only to the eye,
Convergent to one wish'd-for end,
The holiness and purity
To which all love of truth must tend.

But party rose and spoilt it all,
Turn'd love to hate, and zeal to pride.
Words must distort, and friends miscall,
And make the breach both deep and wide.

And she, within its whirlpool caught,
Its plaything and its tool became,
Though she more honest purpose brought
Than party oft can justly claim.

Nor wholly hath thy patient love,
(The larger love of deeper truth)
Lived party's meaner ways above,
In the pure confidence of youth.

Thy doubts have wrong'd her, cold distrust
Forbid thy heart her griefs to share,
And thoughts suspicious and unjust
Have had too easy entrance there.

Hence by her side, through years of pain,
Though thou hast often knelt and pray'd,
Cold duty brought to her in vain
Its decent but ungenial aid.

The open heart, th' unguarded tongue,
Which mutual trust alone secures,
Were not her scanty joys among
Simply because they were not yours.

Too late, alas ! does conscience feel,
(Though all the while it could not see)
How honest but untemper'd zeal
Can do a wrong to charity !

Alas ! if thus her life has lost
One gleam in doubt, one joy in woe,
Denied her at the trifling cost
Of feelings thou couldst not forego !

Alas ! if she in death deplores
The absence of one help divine
Out of the Church's sacred stores,
Wanting to her through want of thine !

How poor earth's vain and wordy strife
When Heav'n's realities are near,
How little the disputes of life,
Seen in the shade of death' appear !

We think not then of high or low,
Of party ranged on either side,'
This only do we care to know,
Who lived to God-in Christ who died.

He who the Church's love doth lack,
Though he may seem from day to' day
To tread her safe and shelter'd track,
Loses his blessing by the way :

While he who, on the desert thrown,
Never with gentle love doth part,
Though he seem wilder'd and alone
Still hides his blessing in his heart.

Or tolls that bell to ask thy prayers
For him who, through long years hath lain,
Up that dark flight of garret-stairs,
In wretched poverty and pain?

The bare cold room with noisome smells
From lengthen'd want and little care ;
The stifling atmosphere that tells
What squalid misery is there;

The damp drear bed, with its sad heap
Of filthy closely clinging clothes
Wrapp'd round that form, which seems to sleep
Without the comfort of repose ;

The dying embers in the grate,
The crouching watcher stooping low,
All objectless and desolate,
To catch its last expiring glow ;

Her hopeless discontented moan,
The peevish mutt'ring of reply
To the sad suff'rer's helpless groan
Of almost dying agony ;—

How suddenly the lonely room,
And the poor wretch that in it lies,
Come, with their soul-depressing gloom,
Before thy long familiar eyes !

One toll of that remindful Bell ;
One passing thought of who ? and where ?
One conscience twinge its tale to tell ;
And in an instant thou art there.

'Tis years since first thy footsteps sought,
With kindly aid, that poor abode,
And fresh in fervent duty brought
To its sad inmates hope from God.

The unfamiliar words were dear,
Th' unlook'd-for sympathy was bright,
They raised their drooping hearts to hear,
And day came dawning on their night.

Fair promise for a while they gave,
Of all thy wildest wish could ask,
And the fond hope their souls to save,
Made light for thee thy heaviest task.

But soon the sordid love of self
Crept in, and spoilt that promise fair,
Watching thy coming for thy pelf,
Not for thy teachings and thy prayer

Till time at last reveal'd with pain,
What long thy love refused to see,
The cunning that could make its gain
Out of thy kindly charity.

Then droop'd thine interest, fewer thence
And far between thy visits rare,
And almost only to dispense
Of the Church alms their promised share.

And often when thy mind was full
Of things which thou wouldst teach or know,
And often when thy heart was dull
And conscience whisper'd " Rise and go,"

Thy pen or books thou wouldst not leave,
Thy brow with rougher work to soil ;
Almost persuaded to believe
Seeking such souls were useless toil.

Too hard on others— those who want
What God gave all thy life to thee—
Nor of their frailties tolerant
As poor weak man with man should be ;

Too faint the pow'r of Faith to prove,
(Their might who hold God's promise true.)
The mountains shall arise and move
For him who can believe and do.

Faith can the strength of Heav'n command,
No work of love it may not dare ;
He who hath God at his right hand,
Should never in God's work despair.

Go to thy chamber — bow thy knees ;
And lift thy heart to Heav'n, and cry
For God's good mercy upon these
Thy people, in their agony.

Each well-known want, each trembling fear,
At which their awe-struck hearts grow pale,
Tell them to Him to whom they're dears
And Whose true love can never fail :

Plead thou their cause, in His great Name
Whose Passion pleads the world's release,
And dare through Him for them to claim
Pardon and penitence and peace.

But chiefly bow thy spirit low
Down in the dust for thine own fault,
The wand'ring sheep by thee let go
Out on the world, unwept, unsought ;

The words unspoken, work undone,
The casual care too slightly giv'n,
The race of many almost run
Without one serious call to Heav'n;

Thine easy ways, that let the time
For toil and teaching pass in vain,
Losing that precious morning prime
Which never can return again ;

Thy doubting heart, thy flagging zeal,
Thy sickly fear to vex or grieve,
Thy question how far Grace can heal
Those who do not thy word believe ;

Thy want of trust in God's own Word,
Of waiting on His time and will,
Of purpose— let what fears be stirr'd, —
Simply to labour and be still.

Alas ! how all these memories
Come crowding back, and shadowing fall
Where, though the world no fault descries,
Thy trembling conscience sees it all !

O ! who in later years would dare
To stoop beneath the awful load
Of souls, entrusted to prepare,
In the Great Day, to meet their God !

When Love is fresh, and life is young,
Knowing but little, fearing less,
And hope and trust are high upstrung
In unforecasting fearlessness ;

Before we've felt th' embittering
Of Disappointment's cruel smart.
Or proved that sadly treach'rous thing
The all-deceiving human heart ;

Then we dare all things— Heav'n seems near,
Its path to reach, its heights to scale ;
No sin so fearful as to fear
That work essay'd for God can fail.

But when in later years we find
How much, in all we dared to do,
We fail, and conscience brings to mind
Life to its purposed aim untrue ;

The secret taint of self that clings
To every deed and word and thought.
Making our touch of holy things
Almost unholy through its fault ; —

The human shrinks from the Divine,
Trembles before the tale it tells,
And, awe-struck, fears the sacred shrine
In which th' Eternal Presence dwells.

Tis well, unspoilt by such abuse,
Young hearts to highest hopes can soar,
And give themselves to Him Whose use
Makes blinding clay the sight restore.

Experience tells what wonder lies
In the rough pathway boldly trod,
And glories in infirmities
Which draw the weak one nearer God.

Low at His shrine bow down thy soul ;
Cast on His mercy every care
When waves of trouble o'er thee roll ;
He loves His people's griefs to share.

Then rise, with holy strength renew'd,
To follow where His voice may call ;
Self to a nobler self subdued,
Jesus alone thine all in all ;

Steadfast, the more the world entice,
The more Christ's inner pow'r to prove ;
Thy life a living sacrifice
Of humble Faith, and patient Love.