To a Lady

Yes,—and all the world around, So those Easter chimings sound: All the Earth is gay and bright, Risen with the Lord to light; Yes,—and yonder sun doth see Many a Christian on his knee, Singing, as he bends to pray, Christ, our Lord, is risen to-day!

Think, my soul, in every land How, in holy aisles, they stand; Christians—who with every tongue, Lauds, and anthems high, have sung; And all night long, pale vigil kept, As Magdalene and Mary wept, With lowly heart, but lifted eye, Gazing raptly on the sky, Blessing there the Paschal moon, And longing, as she pass’d her noon, To see her silver melt away, In all the golden glow of day!

Think of those who watch’d the dawn, Pilgrims, o’er the desert drawn, Round the Sepulchre afar, Where the turban’d Paynims are! Think, who, there, His love to shew, Rose two thousand years ago! Think, how Mary wept to say, They have ta’en my Lord away; Think, when Christ appear’d to her How she call’d Him—gardener: Picture then the fond reply, Mary———and her swimming eye.

Think along the Grecian isles How each dark-eyed lady smiles, As, at incense-hour, she goes, Singing sweetly—Jesus rose! Think of Roman, Goth, and Hun, Praising and adoring One! While, the solid world around, Rises one symphonious sound, From choirs, and bells, and organs blown, Cathedral chaunt, and matins lone, One burst—one loud adoring voice, The Lord is risen—Earth rejoice!

A thousand vintages to-day, The dear Redeemer’s blood display, From Samos’ isle of ruddy vines, To where the Finland chalice shines; And where the Hindu hand hath crush’d The grape that in the jungle blush’d; Or where the Huron’s cluster wild, Is on the altar, undefiled. And grain that hath to harvest grown, Upon a thousand mountains sown, From green Arkansas, to Cathay, Is bless’d for Jesu’s flesh to-day.

And every altar, Greek and Goth, Is cover’d with its snowy cloth; And kneeling Christians, every where, Are fed with sacramental fare. In farthest Ind, I see them bow, The naked shape, the swarthy brow, Where Gunga’s wave, so dark before, Hath borne the northern bishop’s prore; Aye there, ’neath vault and swelling dome, And oh, in my green forest home, All—all are kneeling!—and on high, There’s one communion in the sky: For there all angels, and the dead, Are one, in Him that suffered!

To-day the chimes of England call A nation to the festival; And I can see the glorious light, That makes the minster-window bright, And throws a gorgeous stain, in flood, Upon the blessed bread and blood. I see, beside the altar, stand, The bishop, with the Cup in hand, A solemn light around him shed, And holy hues upon his head! I see the priests in snowy white, And tombs with blazon’d scutcheons dight; I see the people kneeling round; I hear the organ’s host of sound, With angels and archangels high, The Saviour laud and magnify! And I can feel, to worship there, Is living on the mount of prayer!

Oh, utter’d in an humbler tone, The same high service is mine own. And hark again, the bells, the bells! The music, what a tale it tells! It calleth all, and calleth me; Nor vain shall its sweet warning be, For I this morn, through Him that bled, Am doubly risen from the dead; If but my Lord will hear to-day The vows repentant I would pay, And, as once more He gives me breath, Give me to win a holier death, With ministers of mercy round, And pard’ning grace, and prayer’s sweet sound, And sacramental strength to break The bonds of flesh—and then to wake, As now I waken, from a dream, And hail this holy Easter-beam That bids me sing my Saviour’s love, And risen, seek the things above.