Appendix Iv.

VERSES BY J. R. HOPE-SCOTT.

FEAST OF THE CIRCUMCISION, 1859 (THE BIRTHDAY OF C. H. S.).

New Year's Day returns again, Does it bring us joy or pain? Does it teach us to rely On the world, or pass it by? Will it be like seasons gone, Or undo what they have done? Shall we trust the future more Than the time we've spent before? Is it hope, or is it fear That attends our new-born year?

Childhood, busy with its toys, Answers, it expects new joys; Youth, untaught by pleasures past, Thinks to find some that will last; Manhood counts its honours o'er, And resolves to gather more; While old age sits idly by, Only hoping not to die.

Thus the world--now, Christian, say What for me means New Year's Day.

New Year's Day is but a name, While our hearts remain the same; All our years are old and few, Christ alone can make them new. Around Him our seasons move, Each made fruitful by His love. Summer's heat and winter's snow May unheeded come and go; What He suffered, what He taught, Makes the year of Christian thought.

Then to know thy gain or loss, From the cradle towards the Cross Follow Him, and on the way Thou wilt find His New Year's Day. Advent, summoning thy heart In His coming to take part, Warned thee of its double kind, Mercy first, but wrath behind; Bade thee hope the Incarnate Word, Bade thee fear the avenging Lord.

Christmas next, with cheerful voice, Called upon thee to rejoice; But, while yet the Blessed Child Sweetly on thy homage smiled, Lo! beside His peaceful bed Stephen laid a martyr's head.

Next a day of joy was won For thee by our dear Saint John; But its sun had scarcely set When the earth with blood was wet: Rachel, weeping for her slain, Would not raise her heart again; And St. Thomas, bowing down, Grasped in death his jewelled crown.

Thus the old year taught thee: say, Thinkest thou that New Year's Day Will these lessons sweep away? Foolish thought! the opening year Claims a sacrifice more dear Than the martyrdom of saints, Or the blood of innocents.

Christ Himself doth now begin, Sinless, to atone for sin; Welcomes suffering for our good, Takes His Saviour's name in blood, And by Circumcision's pain Makes the old year new again.

Then, with Him to keep the Feast, Bring thy dearest and thy best; Common gifts will not suffice To attend His sacrifice. Jesus chose His mother's part, And she brought a pierced heart. But what Christ for many chose, Doth His utmost love disclose; Bid her not unkind to be, But to share that choice with thee. Ask her sufferings, ask yet more, Ask for those thy Saviour bore; Upon earth hath never been Sorrow like His sorrow seen; He exhausted man's distress, Pain, and shame, and loneliness. Ask to feel His thorny crown, Ask to make His wounds thine own; With His mother claim to be Partner in His agony. This obtain, and thou wilt care Little what thy New Years are; There can thee no grief befall Which the Cross did not forestall; Joy in this world there is none Like that which the Cross hath won. Grasp it, and the year begin With no fear, except of sin; Love it, and, in turning o'er All the gifts in hope's bright store, Choose but one--to love it more.

LOW TIDE AT SUNSET ON THE HIGHLAND COAST.

Ye dark wild sands, o'er which th' impatient eye Travels in haste to watch the evening sky, When last I gazed, how nobly heaved your breast, In purple waves and scattered sunbeams drest! Then o'er you shouted many a gallant crew, And in gay bands the sea-fowl circling flew; In your embrace you held the restless tide, And shared awhile great Ocean's power and pride. But now how sad, how dreary is the scene In which so much of life hath lately been! Your barren wastes untraversed by a sail, Your only voice the curlew's distant wail; With rocky limbs and furrowed brow you lie Like some lone corpse by living things passed by; Till Night in mercy spreads her clouded pall, And rising winds mourn at your funeral. Yes, you are changed, but not more changed than he Who lately stood beside that smiling sea; For whom each bark which hastened to the shore Some welcome freight of love or honour bore; Who saw reflected in the peaceful flood His home made happy by the bright and good. Gladly he looked upon you; now, apart, He veils his brow and hides his desolate heart; From him life's joys have quickly ebbed away, Leaving the rocks, the sands, and the declining day. To-morrow's tide again the shore will lave, To-morrow's sun will gild the crested wave; New ships will launch and speed across the main, And the wild sea-fowl ply their sport again; But for the broken-hearted there is none To gather back the spoils which Death hath won. None, did I say? O foolish, impious thought, In one whom God hath made, and Christ hath bought! Thou who dost hold the ocean in Thy hand, And the sun's courses guide by Thy command, Hast Thou no morrow for the darkened soul, No tide returning o'er its sands to roll? Must its deep bays, once emptied of their sea, For ever waste, for ever silent be? Not such Thy counsels--not for this the Cross Stretched its wide arms, and saved a world from loss! When life's great waters are by sorrow dried, Then gush new fountains from Christ's wounded side; The Ark is there to gather in our love, The Spirit, dove-like, o'er the stream to move. Then look again, and mirrored in thy breast Behold the home in which thy dear ones rest; See forms which lately vanished from thy sight, Shine back with crowns, and palms, and robes of light! See richer freights than ever ocean bore Guided by angel pilots to the shore! In faith, in penitence, in hope shall be Thy traffic on that bright and changeless sea.

ON RESUMING HIS PROFESSION.

Mourner, arise! this busy fretful life Calls thee again to share its toils and strife; The pause conceded to thy grief is o'er, And the world's march can stay for thee no more. Then dry thy tears, and with a steadfast mien Resume thy station in the troubled scene; Sad, but resolved, thy wonted vigour prove, Nor let men deem thee weak from sorrowing love. The wakeful bed, the sudden sharp distress, The still recurring void of loneliness; The urgent prayer, the hope, the humble fear, Which seek beyond the grave that soul so dear,-- These yet are thine, but thine to tell no more. Hide, then, from careless hearts thy sad but precious store, And if life's struggle should thy thoughts beguile, Quicken the pulse, and tempt the cheerful smile, Should worldly shadows cross that form unseen, And duty claim a place where grief hath been, Spurn not the balm by toil o'er suffering shed, Nor fear to be disloyal to the dead.

'Twas nature bade thee grieve, and for thy grief The Lord of nature now ordains relief. Like iron molten by the founder's art, To fierce affliction yields the stubborn heart. The fiery blast its ancient form destroys, And bids it flow released from base alloys; But the kind God, who doth the flames control, Wills to re-cast, not to consume, the soul: Hence tempering breezes, hence the lessened pain, That the vexed heart may rest and form again. Then be it so--but, ere that heart grows cold, See that its later be its nobler mould. See that, by pain made new, and purged from dross, It bear, in sharp relief, the image of the Cross.