Classic and Contemporary Poetry
MY NAME, by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL Poet's Biography First Line: From childish days I never heard Last Line: That noble martyr's name Subject(s): Names | ||||||||
FROM childish days I never heard My own baptismal name; Too small, too slight, too full of glee Aught else but 'Little Fan' to be, The stately 'Frances' not in me Could any fitness claim. Now in the crowded halls of life, May it be mine to bring Some gentle stir of the heated air, Some coolness falling fresh and fair, Like a passing angel's wing. My father's name,oh how I love Its else unwonted look! For his dear sake right dear I hold Each letter, changed, as he has told, Long since from early Saxon mould 'The rising of the brook.' Of music, holiness, and love That name will always tell, While sacred chant and anthem rise, Or mourners live whose deepest sighs To echoes of a Father's will He tuned, or child, or grandchild still On his bright memory dwell. But 'what the R doth represent,' I value and revere; A diamond clasp it seems to be On golden chains enlinking me In loyal love to England's hope, Bulwark 'gainst infidel and Pope, The Church I hold so dear. Three hundred years ago was one Who held with stedfast hand The chalice of the truth of God, And poured its crystal stream abroad Upon the thirsting land. The moderate, the wise, the calm, The learned, brave, and good, A guardian of the sacred ark, A burning light in places dark, For cruel, changeless Rome a mark, Our Bishop RIDLEY stood. The vengeance of that foe nought else But fiery doom could still: Too surely fell the lightning stroke Upon that noble English oak, Whose acorn-memory survives In forest ranks of earnest lives And martyr-souls in will. Rome offered life for faith laid down: Such ransom paid not he! 'As long as breath is in this frame, My Lord and Saviour Christ His name And His known truth I'll not deny:' He said (and raised his head on high), 'God's will be done in me.' He knelt and prayed, and kissed the stake, And blessed his Master's name That he was called his cross to take, And counted worthy for His sake To suffer death and shame. Though fierce the fire and long the pain, The martyr's God was nigh; Till from that awful underglow Of torture terrible and slow, Above the weeping round about, Once more the powerful voice rang out, His Saviour's own last cry. O faithful unto death! the crown Was shining on thy brow, Before the ruddy embers paling, And sobbing after-gusts of wailing Had died away, and left in silence That truest shrine of British Islands, That spot so sacred now! In dear old England shineth yet The candle lit that day; Right clear and strong its flames arise, Undimmed, unchanged, toward the skies, By God's good grace it never dies, A living torch for aye. 'Tis said that while he calmly stood And waited for the flame, He gave each trifle that he had, True relic-treasure, dear and sad, To each who cared to claim. I was not there to ask a share, But reverently for ever wear That noble martyr's name | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MISSISSIPPI by E. ETHELBERT MILLER THE FANTASTIC NAMES OF JAZZ by HAYDEN CARRUTH TV MEN: LAZARUS by ANNE CARSON CLARE OF ASSISI by MADELINE DEFREES TERMINAL LAUGHS by IRVING FELDMAN CONSECRATION HYMN by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL I DID THIS FOR THEE! WHAT HAST THOU DONE FOR ME? by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL A BIRTHDAY GREETING TO MY FATHER, 1860 by FRANCES RIDLEY HAVERGAL |
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