Verses on Various Occasions by John Henry Newman (ebooks online reader txt) 📕
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Verses on Various Occasions is a collection of poems written by John Henry Newman between 1818 and 1865. This period of Newman’s ecclesiastical career saw his ordination as an Anglican priest in 1825, his involvement in the High Church “Oxford Movement” in the 1830s, his conversion to Roman Catholicism in 1845, and his founding of the Birmingham Oratory, a Catholic religious community, in 1849.
The poems in this collection span a range of Christian subjects, including piety, biblical prophets, Church Fathers, and Newman’s evolving views on the Catholic Church. Some noteworthy inclusions are “The Pillar of the Cloud,” which has been set to music as the hymn “Lead, Kindly Light,” and “The Dream of Gerontius,” which relates a man’s journey into the afterlife, inspired by Dante’s Divine Comedy.
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- Author: John Henry Newman
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Who is the very sun. Nathless, in life,
When I looked forward to my purgatory,
It ever was my solace to believe,
That, ere I plunged amid th’ avenging flame,
I had one sight of Him to strengthen me.
Angel
Nor rash nor vain is that presentiment;
Yes—for one moment thou shalt see thy Lord.
Thus will it be: what time thou art arraigned
Before the dread tribunal, and thy lot
Is cast for ever, should it be to sit
On His right hand among His pure elect,
Then sight, or that which to the soul is sight,
As by a lightning-flash, will come to thee,
And thou shalt see, amid the dark profound,
Whom thy soul loveth, and would fain approach—
One moment; but thou knowest not, my child,
What thou dost ask: that sight of the Most Fair
Will gladden thee, but it will pierce thee too.
Soul
Thou speakest darkly, Angel! and an awe
Falls on me, and a fear lest I be rash.
Angel
There was a mortal, who is now above
In the mid glory: he, when near to die,
Was given communion with the Crucified—
Such, that the Master’s very wounds were stamped
Upon his flesh;35 and, from the agony
Which thrilled through body and soul in that embrace
Learn that the flame of the Everlasting Love
Doth burn ere it transform. …
… Hark to those sounds!
They come of tender beings angelical,
Least and most childlike of the sons of God.
First Choir of Angelicals
Praise to the Holiest in the height,36
And in the depth be praise:
In all His words most wonderful;
Most sure in all His ways!
To us His elder race He gave
To battle and to win,
Without the chastisement of pain,
Without the soil of sin.
The younger son He willed to be
A marvel in his birth:
Spirit and flesh his parents were;
His home was heaven and earth.
The Eternal blessed His child, and armed,
And sent him hence afar,
To serve as champion in the field
Of elemental war.
To be His Viceroy in the world
Of matter, and of sense;
Upon the frontier, towards the foe,
A resolute defence.
Angel
We now have passed the gate, and are within
The House of Judgment; and whereas on earth
Temples and palaces are formed of parts
Costly and rare, but all material,
So in the world of spirits nought is found,
To mould withal and form into a whole,
But what is immaterial; and thus
The smallest portions of this edifice,
Cornice, or frieze, or balustrade, or stair,
The very pavement is made up of life—
Of holy, blessed, and immortal beings,
Who hymn their Maker’s praise continually.
Second Choir of Angelicals
Praise to the Holiest in the height,
And in the depth be praise:
In all His words most wonderful;
Most sure in all His ways!
Woe to thee, man! for he was found
A recreant in the fight;
And lost his heritage of heaven,
And fellowship with light.
Above him now the angry sky,
Around the tempest’s din;
Who once had angels for his friends,
Had but the brutes for kin.
O man! a savage kindred they;
To flee that monster brood
He scaled the seaside cave, and clomb
The giants of the wood.
With now a fear, and now a hope,
With aids which chance supplied,
From youth to eld, from sire to son,
He lived, and toiled, and died.
He dreed37 his penance age by age;
And step by step began
Slowly to doff his savage garb,
And be again a man.
And quickened by the Almighty’s breath,
And chastened by His rod,
And taught by Angel-visitings,
At length he sought his God:
And learned to call upon His name,
And in His faith create
A household and a fatherland,
A city and a state.
Glory to Him who from the mire,
In patient length of days,
Elaborated into life
A people to His praise!
Soul
The sound is like the rushing of the wind—
The Summer wind among the lofty pines;
Swelling and dying, echoing round about,
Now here, now distant, wild and beautiful;
While, scattered from the branches it has stirred,
Descend ecstatic odours.
Third Choir of Angelicals
Praise to the Holiest in the height,
And in the depth be praise:
In all His words most wonderful;
Most sure in all His ways!
The Angels, as beseemingly
To spirit-kind was given,
At once were tried and perfected,
And took their seats in heaven.
For them no twilight or eclipse;
No growth and no decay:
’Twas hopeless, all-ingulfing night,
Or beatific day.
But to the younger race there rose
A hope upon its fall;
And slowly, surely, gracefully,
The morning dawned on all.
And ages, opening out, divide
The precious and the base,
And from the hard and sullen mass,
Mature the heirs of grace.
O man! albeit the quickening ray,
Lit from his second birth,
Makes him at length what once he was,
And heaven grows out of earth;
Yet still between that earth and heaven—
His journey and his goal—
A double agony awaits
His body and his soul.
A double debt he has to pay—
The forfeit of his sins,
The chill of death is past, and now
The penance-fire begins.
Glory to Him, who evermore
By truth and justice reigns;
Who tears the soul from out its case,
And burns away its stains!
Angel
They sing of thy approaching agony,
Which thou so eagerly didst question of:
It is the face of the Incarnate God
Shall smite thee with that keen and subtle pain;
And yet the memory which it leaves will be
A sovereign febrifuge to heal the wound;
And yet withal it will the wound provoke,
And aggravate and widen it the more.
Soul
Thou speakest mysteries; still methinks I know
To disengage the tangle of thy words:
Yet rather would I hear thy angel voice,
Than for myself be thy interpreter.
Angel
When then—if such thy lot—thou seest thy Judge,
The sight of Him will kindle in thy heart,
All tender, gracious, reverential thoughts.
Thou wilt be sick with love, and yearn for Him,
And feel as though thou couldst but pity Him,
That one so sweet should e’er have placed Himself
At disadvantage such, as to be used
So vilely by a being so vile as thee.
There is a pleading in His pensive eyes
Will pierce thee to the quick, and trouble thee.
And thou wilt hate and loathe thyself; for,
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