Lyte’s sorrow was not that he feared to change the earthly for the heavenly, but that he longed to have done enduring work e’er the night fell. Why do I sigh to find Life’s evening shadows gathering round my way, The keen eye dimming, and the buoyant mind Unhinging day by day? Is it the natural dread Of that stern lot, which all who live must see? The worm, the clay, the dark and narrow bed,— Have these such awe for me? Can I not summon pride To fold my decent mantle round my breast, And lay me down at Nature’s Eventide, Calm to my dreamless rest? As nears my soul the verge Of this dim continent of woe and crime, Shrinks she to hear Eternity’s long surge Break on the shores of Time? I want not vulgar fame— I seek not to survive in brass or stone; Hearts may not kindle when they hear my name, Nor tears my value own; But might I leave behind Some blessing for my fellows, some fair trust To guide, to cheer, to elevate my kind, When I was in the dust; Within my narrow bed Might I not wholly mute or useless be; But hope that they, who trampled o’er my head, Drew still some good from me; Might verse of mine inspire One virtuous aim, one high resolve impart; Light in one drooping soul a hallowed fire, Or bind one broken heart;— Death would be sweeter then, More calm my slumber ’neath the silent sod,— Might I thus live to bless my fellow-men, Or glorify my God! O Thou! whose touch can lend Life to the dead, Thy quickening grace supply, And grant me, swanlike, my last breath to spend In song that may not die! Was ever faithful prayer more abundantly answered? ‘He asked life of Thee, and Thou gavest it, even length of days for ever and ever.’ Christopher Wordsworth (1807-85), Bishop of Lincoln, nephew of the poet, was of set purpose a writer of hymns for congregational use. He taught that hymns should express the feeling of the Church, and not of the individual worshipper. He thought it ‘inexpressibly shocking’ that ‘Jesu, Lover of my soul’ should be sung in Westminster Abbey, at least, so I understand his reference to ‘a large, mixed congregation in a dissolute part of a populous and irreligious city.’[178] His hymns are objective, and the best—e.g. ‘O day of rest and gladness,’ ‘See the Conqueror mounts in triumph’—are very fine. Bishop Wordsworth did not ‘translate any ancient hymns, but attempted to infuse something of their spirit into’ his own.