Morwenstow.

MORWENNA STATIO.

THE Stow, or the place, of St. Morwenna; hence, by abbreviation, Morwenstow.

Μ'

Y Saxon shrine the only ground
Wherein this weary heart hath rest;
What years the birds of God have found
Along thy walls their sacred nest:
The storm, the blast, the tempest shock,
Have beat upon those walls in vain;
She stands, - a daughter of the rock,
The changeless God's eternal fane.

Firm was their faith, the ancient bands,
The wise of heart in wood and stone,
Who reared with stern and trusting hands
These dark gray towers of days unknown:
They filled these aisles with many a thought,
They bade each nook some truth reveal;
The pillared arch its legend brought,

A doctrine came with roof and wall.

Huge, mighty, massive, hard, and strong,

Were the choice stones they lifted then:
The vision of their hope was long,

They knew their God, those faithful men.
They pitched no tent for change or death,
No home to last man's shadowy day;

There! there! the everlasting breath
Would breathe whole centuries away.

See, now, along that pillared aisle

The graven arches, firm and fair:
They bend their shoulders to the toil,
And lift the hollow roof in air.
A sign! beneath the ship we stand,

The inverted vessel's arching side;
Forsaken when the fisher-band

Went forth to sweep a mightier tide.

Pace we the ground! our footsteps tread A cross, - the builder's holiest form; That awful couch where once was shed

—

The blood, with man's forgiveness warm. And here, just where his mighty breast Throbbed the last agony away, They bade the voice of worship rest, And white-robed Levites pause and pray.

Mark! the rich rose of Sharon's bowers
Curves in the paten's mystic mould;
The lily, lady of the flowers,

Her shape must yonder chalice hold.
Types of the mother and the son,

The twain in this dim chancel stand; The badge of Norman banners one,

And one a crest of English land.

How all things glow with life and thought Where'er our faithful fathers trod!

The very ground with speech is fraught,
The air is eloquent of God.

In vain would doubt or mockery hide
The buried echoes of the past;
A voice of strength, a voice of pride,
Here dwells amid the storm and blast.

Still points the tower, and pleads the bell;
The solemn arches breathe in stone;
Window and wall have lips to tell

The mighty faith of days unknown.
Yea, flood and breeze and battle-shock

Shall beat upon this church in vain; She stands, a daughter of the rock, The changeless God's eternal fane.

Robert Stephen Hawker.

THE STORM.

WA

AR mid the ocean and the land! The battle-field Morwenna's strand, Where rock and ridge the bulwark keep, The giant warders of the deep.

They come and shall they not prevail, -
The seething surge, the gathering gale?
They fling their wild flag to the breeze,
The banner of a thousand seas.

They come, they mount, they charge in vain,
Thus far, incalculable main!

No more thine hosts have not o'erthrown
The lichen on the barrier stone.

Have the rocks faith, that thus they stand,
Unmoved, a grim and stately band,
And look, like warriors tried and brave,
Stern, silent, reckless, o'er the wave?

Have the proud billows thought and life,
To feel the glory of the strife,

And trust, one day, in battle bold,

To win the foeman's haughty hold?

Mark where they writhe with pride and shame,
Fierce valor, and the zeal of fame!
Hear how their din of madness raves,
The baffled army of the waves!

Thy way, O God, is in the sea;
Thy paths where awful waters be;
Thy spirit thrills the conscious stone:
O Lord, thy footsteps are not known!

Robert Stephen Hawker.

THE VINE.

НЕА

[EARKEN! there is in old Morwenna's shrine, A lonely sanctuary of the Saxon's days, Reared by the Severn sea for prayer and praise, Amid the carved work of the roof, a vine : Its root is where the eastern sunbeams fall, First in the chancel, then along the wall;

Slowly it travels on, a leafy line,

With here and there a cluster, and anon

More and more grapes, until the growth hath gone
Through arch and aisle. Hearken! and heed the sign.
See at the altar side the steadfast root,
Mark well the branches, count the summer fruit:
So let a meek and faithful heart be thine,
And gather from that tree a parable divine.

Robert Stephen IIawker.

THE WELL OF ST. JOHN.

ON MORWENSTOW GLEBE.

THEY

THEY dreamed not in old Hebron, when the sound
Went through the city, that the promised son
Was born to Zachary, and his name was John,
They little thought that here in this far ground,
Beside the Severn sea, that Hebrew child
Would be a cherished memory of the wild;
Here, where the pulses of the ocean bound
Whole centuries away, while one meek cell,
Built by the fathers o'er a lonely well,

Still breathes the Baptist's sweet remembrance round:
A spring of silent waters with his name,

That from the angel's voice in music came,
Here in the wilderness so faithful found,

It freshens to this day the Levite's grassy mound.

Robert Stephen Hawker.