On this thyme-enamell'd height
Let me bid the world good-night;
Sacred to my memory be

All the scene that circles thee;
And plant o'er me, in goodwill,
A plain stone cross on Martyrs' Hill.

Appeal.

1840.

Shame on thee, Christian, cold and covetous one!
The laws (I praise them not for this) declare
That ancient, loved, deserted house of prayer
As money's worth a layman landlord's own.

Then use it as thine own; thy mansion there
Beneath the shadow of this ruinous church
Stands new and decorate; thine every shed
And barn is neat and proper; I might search
Thy comfortable farms, and well despair
Of finding dangerous ruin overhead,
And damp unwholesome mildew on the walls:
Arouse thy better self,-restore it; see,
Through thy neglect the holy fabric falls!

Fear, lest that crushing guilt should fall on thee.

Rebuilt.

A. D. 1849.

Ruin!-Ruin now no more,
To the LORD we thus restore
Thine old glories, holy place,
Consecrate again to grace :
Thine old glories shine again,
Sculptured stone, and jewell'd pane;
As a cross upon the hill,

Nave, quire, and aisles are mapp'd out still,
And thy Norman tower on high

Boldly stands against the sky.

Thanks to Him who blesseth us
That the Body riseth thus,—
Thanks to Him!-yet more we need
A resurrection rare indeed,
In this, and us, the Spirit-part
Flaming with a martyr's heart;
In old St. Martha's, thus made new,
Religion's fervour, pure and true:
Send, O send that quickening might,
GOD of love, and life, and light!

Reconsecrated.

MAY 15, 1850.

The dews of Hermon rest upon thee now, Fair saint and martyr! and yet once again Faith, hope and charity, like gracious rain, Fall on thy consecrated virgin brow:

For lo! the LORD is with thee, as of yore,
And dwelleth in these hallow'd walls once more,—
Rather, hath never left them; for He heard

When in thy desolate gates our earnest vow
Rose from this ruin'd altar to His throne,-
And resolutely were thy children stirr'd
Not in thy sad estate, forlorn and lone,

To leave thee prayerless,—but to win The Word,
The living word and sacraments of grace
Back to the echoes of this Holy Place.

Sonnet, for St. Ann's, Alderney,

CONSECRATED, AUGUST 21, 1850.

Arise, O LORD, into thy resting-place,

Thou, and thy strength! Be with thy servants here,— To bless their work in faithfulness come near,

For thine is all the glory, all the grace:

Add then Thy Presence, and in spirit appear

To consecrate this House! Not unto us,

But thanks be giv'n to Thee, that, (as a bride,
Apparell'd well to meet her coming LORD
In virgin garments meekly purified,)

Waiteth for heavenly benediction thus

"St. Ann's of Alderney," to heav'n restored;

may

0 that blessing on her sacred brow
Like Aaron's holy oil of joy be pour'd

Down to her beauteous feet in fulness Now!

A Consecration.

SHALFORD, OCTOBER 29, 1847.

Like some fair Nun, the pious and the chaste,
Shalford, thy new-born temple stands serene,
Modestly deck'd in pure old English taste,
The village beauty of thy tranquil scene;
And we to-day have made religious haste
To see thee wedded to thy heavenly Spouse,
Kneeling in unison of praise and pray'r
To help the offering of thy maiden vows:

Hark! what a thrilling utterance is there, "Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates,"As God's high priest with apostolic care TO HIM this tent of glory consecrates:

Good work! to be remember'd for all time, The seed of mercies endless and sublime. "Come in, thou King of Glory," yea, come in,

Rest here awhile, great Conqueror for good! Bless thou this font to cleanse from Adam's sin, Spread thou this table with celestial food! And, kindled by Thy grace to gratitude, May thousands here eternal treasures win,

As, hither led, from time to time with joy They seek their Father: lo! before mine eyes Visions and promises of good arise,

The tender babe baptized, the stripling boy

Confirm'd for godliness, the maid and youth Wedded in love, the man mature made wise,

The elder taught in righteousness and truth, And each an heir of life before he dies!

A Thousand Lines, etc.

1845.

Sloth.

"A little more sleep, a little more slumber,
A little more folding the hands to sleep,"
For quick-footed dreams, without order or number,
Over my mind are beginning to creep,—
Rare is the happiness thus to be raptured
By your wild whispers, my Fanciful train,
And, like a linnet, be carelessly captured

In the soft nets of my beautiful brain!

Touch not these curtains!—your hand will be tearing
Delicate tissues of thoughts and of things;—
Call me not!-your cruel voice will be scaring
Flocks of young visions on gossamer wings:
Leave me, O leave me, for in your rude presence
Nothing of all my bright world can remain,—
Thou art a blight to this garden of pleasance,
Thou art a blot on my beautiful brain !

Cease your dull lecture on cares and employment,
Let me forget awhile trouble and strife,
Leave me to peace,—let me husband enjoyment,
This is the heart and the marrow of life!