I pray not, Lord, that friends may be,
Or kindred, standing by,-

Choice blessing! which I leave to Thee
To grant me or deny.

But let my failing limbs beneath

My Mother's smile recline;

And prayers sustain my labouring breath
From out her sacred shrine.

And let the cross beside my bed
In its dread Presence rest:
And let the absolving words be said,
To ease a laden breast.

Thou, Lord, where'er we lie, canst aid;
But He who taught His own
To live as one, will not upbraid
The dread to die alone.

At Sea, June 22, 1833.

LUCIS CREATOR OPTIME

(VESPERS

SUNDAY)

FATHER of Lights, by whom each day

Is kindled out of night,

Who, when the heavens were made, didst lay
Their rudiments in light;

Thou who didst bind and blend in one

The glistening morn and evening pale,

Hear Thou our plaint, when light is gone,
And lawlessness and strife prevail.

Hear, lest the whelming weight of crime
Wreck us with life in view;

Lest thoughts and schemes of sense and time
Earn us a sinner's due.

So may we knock at Heaven's door,

And strive the immortal prize to win,
Continually and evermore

Guarded without and pure within.

LEAD, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom
Lead Thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from home -
Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see

The distant scene

one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor pray'd that Thou
Shouldst lead me on.

I loved to choose and see my path, but now
Lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on,

O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone;

And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile. At Sea, June 16, 1833.

TWO LYRICS FROM "THE DREAM OF
GERONTIUS"

SOUL

I go before my Judge. Ah!..

ANGEL

Praise to His Name

The eager spirit has darted from my hold,
And, with the intemperate energy of love,
Flies to the dear feet of Emmanuel;

But, ere it reach them, the keen sanctity,
Which with its effluence, like a glory, clothes
And circles round the Crucified, has seized,
And scorch'd, and shrivell'd it; and now it lies
Passive and still before the awful Throne.
O happy, suffering soul! for it is safe,
Consumed, yet quicken'd, by the glance of God.

SOUL

Take me away, and in the lowest deep
There let me be,

And there in hope the lone night-watches keep,
Told out for me.

There, motionless and happy in my pain,
Lone, not forlorn, -

There will I sing my sad perpetual strain,
Until the morn.

There will I sing, and soothe my stricken breast,
Which ne'er can cease

To throb, and pine, and languish, till possest
Of its Sole Peace.

There will I sing my absent Lord and Love:-
Take me away,

That sooner I may rise, and go above,
And see Him in the truth of everlasting day.

ANGEL

Now let the golden prison ope its gates,
Making sweet music, as each fold revolves
Upon its ready hinge. And ye, great powers,
Angels of Purgatory, receive from me
My charge, a precious soul, until the day,
When, from all bond and forfeiture released,
I shall reclaim it for the courts of light.

ANGEL

Softly and gently, dearly-ransom'd soul,
In my most loving arms I now enfold thee,
And, o'er the penal waters, as they roll,

I poise thee, and I lower thee, and hold thee.

And carefully I dip thee in the lake,

And thou, without a sob or a resistance, Dost through the flood thy rapid passage take, Sinking deep, deeper, into the dim distance.

Angels, to whom the willing task is given,

Shall tend, and nurse, and lull thee, as thou liest; And masses on the earth, and prayers in heaven, Shall aid thee at the Throne of the Most Highest.

Farewell, but not for ever! brother dear,

Be brave and patient on thy bed of sorrow; Swiftly shall pass thy night of trial here,

And I will come and wake thee on the morrow. The Oratory, January, 1865.

HOME

Where'er I roam in this fair, English land,
The vision of a temple meets my eyes:
Modest without: within all glorious rise
Its love-enclustered columns, and expand
Their slender arms. Like olive plants they stand
Each answering each in home's soft sympathies.
Sisters and brothers. At the altar sighs
Parental fondness, and with anxious hand
Tenders its offering of young vows and prayers,
The same and not the same. Go where I will
The vision beams! ten thousand shrines all one.
Dear, fertile soil! What foreign culture bears
Such fruit? That I through distant climes may run
My weary round, yet miss thy likeness still!
Oxford, November 16, 1832.