Our maids more than die.
Up, Lord, with storm and thunder,
Pursue him with his plunder,
And smite his ships in sunder,
Lord God Most High!





THE SONG OF THE WOODS

(To an Irish Air of the same name)


Not only where Thy blessed bells
Peal afar for praise and prayer,
Or where Thy solemn organ swells,
Lord, not only art Thou there.
Thy voice of many waters
From out the ocean comfort speaks,
Thy Presence to a radiant rose
Thrills a thousand virgin peaks.

And here, where in one wondrous woof--
Aisle on aisle and choir on choir--
To rear Thy rarest temple roof,
Pillared oak and pine aspire;
Life-weary here we wander,
When lo! the Saviour's gleaming stole!