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SACRED POETRY.

BUTLER'S ANALOGY.

"Though but a partial answer to the question, How we came to be placed in this state?' yet it is a more satisfactory answer to another, which is of real and of the utmost importance to us to have answered-the inquiry, What is our business here?'"-Part I. ch. v.

BUTLER, in lowliness divinely strong,

To whom the mighty key of Faith was given,
And Wisdom took behind the struggling throng,
And shewed afar the golden stair of heaven,
Muffled with clouds! with thee, methinks, I see
The mists recede, and, 'tween the darkness riven,

Uplifted Nature, wed with Piety,

Looking to Him that died. That Spirit blest
Wore unadorn'd golden simplicity

And looks of love, that in my dark unrest
Bade me not seek repose where all is motion,
Nor couch of rest upon the billow's breast.

"Go, talk of rest unto the rolling ocean,
To stars of heav'n, unto the wandering breeze,
And cataract's choral voice of wild devotion!

All motion, all mutation, herbs and trees;
All living, earth and heav'n! And who art thou?
On wheel of rolling summers, while at ease

Thou seest the banks recede behind life's prow,
Beneath thy keel is the great shoreless billow,
Around thy soul is the eternal Now.

Sit not and weep 'neath Exile's shadowing willow,
But gather strength with strength, and light with light,
Nor take wild ocean for thy resting pillow.

"Tis not enough for rest, but on-and write
'Blessed are they that faint not.' Heed not guile
Of Wisdom's folly, nor inquire of Night

Where she hath hid the sun; content awhile
Amid dun shadows, and night's darkling noon,
To walk with the moon's lamp, and hail each smile

From her dim house of clouds, and thou full soon
Shalt come to light of the eternal city,
That needeth neither sun nor wintry moon.

O haste, for Time is on the wing, and Pity
Doth stretch her arms to thee, and holy Love,
And Nature sings aloud her changeful ditty."

That Spirit spoke; methought I looked above;
And then from 'neath my feet, all fearfully,
The world-the big round world-it seem'd to move.

THE ATHANASIAN CREED.

["Shall be sung or said.”—Rubric.]

O WARNING Voice, from truth's eternal shrine
Proceeding, where the seraph ever sings,
Through three-fold arching piles, on sounds divine
And the live thunder of melodious wings,
Rising in adoration. Mother dear,

To thy mysterious breast my spirit clings

Then most when that appalling voice I hear;
There, at the sound of those thy stern alarms,
Hide me, and on the world look back and fear;

For she would tempt me from thy sheltering arms,
And stop thy voice, which baffled Pride disdains,
And the dread sound of never-dying harms :

Vain thought! The o'erwhelming Future yet remains,
Though Ebal and Gerizim's voice be still,

The everlasting Now and penal chains.

And from thy voice hide ourselves as we will,

Death draws aside the screen. Then wherefore flee
With birds of darkness to the caves of ill?

Rather in garb of our deep poverty
Let us stand forth before thee, not to gaze,
But tremble, with the heart's adoring knee,
Full in the light of thy meridian blaze.
Nor leave thou us in the dark mysteries
Of our own hearts to hide, and in the ways
Of our own darkness, lest we, seeming wise,
Shrine thee in shapes of some foul deity,
And in our unbaptized phantasies

Think wickedly that God is such as we,
Some Jove, or Pan, or Ashtaroth unclean.
So may we 'scape thy judgment. Dread the sea

Of glory which enshrouds thee, yet unseen,
And in the path whereon thy light doth burn,
Ere that we pass the inevitable screen,

Well need we walk and fear; to thee we turn
For help, nor on thy glory gaze too bold.
O sternly kind, and kindest when most stern,

Ancient of mothers, in thy barriers old
With them that love thee is best liberty;
Fain would we hide us in thy sheltering fold.

By thee baptized into the Eternal Three,
Blest Arbitress of holiest discipline,

In the world's freedom let me not be free,

But follow mine own will in following thine.
To Christ our Rock with dripping weeds we cling
While ocean roars beneath: and at thy shrine

May Heav'n's own Dove, on Contemplation's wing,
Be o'er us, and mature each holier choice,
And all around thy calmer influence bring.

Then let me ever hear thine awful voice,
Deep warning, deep adoring; while we sing
We tremble, but in trembling we rejoice.

LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS.

"O send out thy light and thy truth, that they may lead me."

"And David was greatly distressed, for the people spake of stoning him; ..
David encouraged himself in the Lord his God."

Their gallant chief, whose spear was dyed
So deep with blood of Judah's foes-
Their friend, their counsellor, their guide,
The partner of their joys and woes-
They seek to stone him! It is well!
This is thy faith, O Israel!

Quailed in that hour his princely heart?

Shrunk from their scowl his dauntless eye?

No-he will do a hero's part:

Till God shall please, he cannot die.

Sorrow may fill his soul, not fear;
His strong Deliverer is near.

but

* "Sacerdos Dei evangelium tenens, et Christi præcepta custodiens, occidi potest, non potest vinci ... Nullus Dei sacerdos sic infirmus est, sic jacens et abjectus, sic im.. becillitate humanæ mediocritatis invalidus, qui non contra hostes et impregnatores Dei divinitus erigatur, cujus non humilitas et infirmitas vigore et robore Domini protegentis animetur. Nostra nihil interest, aut aquo, aut quando perimamur, mortis et sanguinis præmium de Domino recepturi."-Cyprianus ad Cornelium.

Pastor! if e'er thou see thy sheep
Thankless for tenderest guidance prove-
If base ingratitude sink deep,

And trouble all the springs of love-
If scorn, and calumny, and strife
Thy footsteps haunt, and cloud thy life:

Behold him, ere thou dost repine,

Strong in his God, in sight of death.
How sharp his cross, compared with thine!
How weak thy hopes, how cold thy faith!
Mark thy high lesson written here,
And blush for thy unmanly fear.

This spirit comes not from above;

It bears no power thy work to bless.
God hath thee given the spirit of love,
And heavenly strength, and stedfastness.
Th' anointing hand was on thee laid;
Stir up thy gift-be undismayed.

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THE OBJECTION ANSWERED.*

"Thou bearest not the root, but the root thee. . . . be not high-minded, but fear."

They tell me, Lord, if I maintain

Thy priesthood's clear unbroken strain,

It may be cause for pride:

They little know the world within,
Who deem such self-deceiving sin
To Truth was e'er allied.

Can I be proud that I, most base,
Am call'd to stand in that dread place
Where martyrs stood before?
Can I be proud that I, who deem
My worthiest deeds an empty dream,
Should bear the charge they bore?

Can I be proud that I must feed
That church for which my God did bleed,
With weak, unskilful hand?
Proud-a most strict account to yield
In that dread day, when all revealed
Before the Judge shall stand?

Proud that my Master's flock I keep,
To answer for each single sheep,

Watched by grim wolves of hell?
Proud-that with them that love not peace,
Whose wars and fightings never cease,

My harassed soul must dwell?

The above lines were occasioned by an argument employed against the doctrine of the apostolical succession, that it would be a source of pride in the minds of those who maintained it.

May 6, 1837.

June 2, 1836.

Proud-as ambassador to go
Amongst a high rebellious foe

That deem my claims untrue?
Proud-when my heart might sooner sink,
From thy great mission lest I shrink,
Nor give thee glory due?

Proud-of my shame, that such as I
Should stain thy glorious ministry
With many a thought of ill?
That my poor earthy hands should break
The bread of God, that well might quake
Such mysteries to fulfil?

Far sooner, humbled in the dust
With thought of such o'erwhelming trust,
I need to fear thy rod :
Unworthy ever, tenfold more
Unworthier sinner, since I bore
The stewardship of God.

By Babel's streams we sat and wept,
O Sion! when we thought on thee
Our harps upon the willows slept,
And mute was all our minstrelsy.

;

Our tyrant lords a song require,
And melody from hearts in woe:
For heathens who shall tune the lyre,
Or bid God's song for strangers flow?

Sion! when I forgetful prove,

Let my right hand forget her art!
Salem! when thee I cease to love,
Let joy forsake my lips and heart.

Remember, Lord, how Edom's race
Exulted in our mournful day,
And bade our foes, with triumph base,
Low in the dust thy temple lay.

Daughter of Babel! thou in turn,
Wasted with misery, shalt fall;

Th' avenger's hand thy fanes shall burn,
And stain with children's blood thy wall.

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THE HEBREW'S LAMENT.

"How vain are our labours-our treasures how vain;
The glory of Zion returns not again!

In exile we wander through many a land,

Where slaves may despise, and where tyrants command.

VOL. XII.-Oct. 1837.

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