4 September: Boreham on Henry Francis Lyte

Singer of a Deathless Song
Many must be reflecting today that September the fourth represents the anniversary of the writing, under poignant circumstances, of one of the most moving hymns ever written. Its birth was followed by the death, two months later, of its author. If it be true, as is affirmed in the inscription that marks the grave of the writer of "Tipperary" that the maker of a nation's songs exercises a deeper influence than the maker of a nation's laws, then Henry Francis Lyte, who gave us "Abide With Me," richly deserves to be held in everlasting remembrance. Brixham, the scene of his triumph, is itself interesting. It was from the rugged cliffs of that pretty blue bay, with its rocky coast and its graceful sweep of crescent beach, that the men of Devon watched the great galleons of the Armada as they made their way into the English Channel in 1588; it was in this selfsame bay that William of Orange landed with his army exactly a century later and made himself King of England. It was in these quiet waters that the Bellerophon, with Napoleon as a prisoner on board, anchored for several days on her way to St. Helena in 1815. And it was on this secluded beach that, on the night on which he closed his ministry, Canon Lyte composed the hymn that is today cherished by all the churches.

Lyte was a cosmopolite. Of English parentage, he was born in Scotland and educated in Ireland. The tiny village of Ednam, near Kelso, not far from the Tweed, holds the extraordinary distinction of having produced three poets of renown—James Thomson, who wrote "Rule Britannia"; Thomas Campbell, who wrote "Ye Mariners of England"; and Henry Lyte, who wrote "Abide With Me." As a boy Henry dreamed of being a doctor and actually became a medical student. But, whilst still in his teens, he passed through a profound religious experience which turned his mind in quite another direction. Of that inner crisis he has told us in his hymn, although, probably because of its personal character, the verse is never included in any of the hymnaries:—

Thou on my head in early youth didst smile,
And, though rebellious and
perverse meanwhile,
Thou has not left me, oft as I left Thee,
On to the
close, O Lord, abide with me.

Following upon this experience, he entered the ministry, and, in 1815, the year of Waterloo, he settled as curate at Wexford in Ireland.

Secret Of Making Short Life Go A Long Way
Lyte was heavily handicapped. A victim of consumption, his lungs were in ruins and had to be incessantly coaxed or scourged into doing their duty. Knowing that his day must be a brief one, he wondered what way he could make it memorable and serviceable. He had always been passionately fond of expressing himself tunefully. The making of melodious verses fascinated him. Would it be possible, he wondered, to employ this of poesy in such a way that his influence would linger on for many years after his brittle body had been laid to rest? The more he thought about it, the more the idea gripped him. He set his daring aspiration to music. Why, he asks, should he shrink from an early death? If only, before dropping into his grave, he could produce something that should live for ages! If, he sings:—

If I might leave
behind

Some blessing for my fellows, some fair trust,
To guide, to cheer, to elevate
my kind

When I am in the dust.

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.

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!

The thought, which at first was but a nebulous and abstract dream, crystallised into a definite purpose, an inflexible resolve; and, every day of his life, he prayed that he might be permitted to realise his lofty ambition. His prayer was magnificently answered.

After preaching his last sermon in the church overlooking the blue bay, he strolled down to the beach in the moonlight. Suddenly, the moon became enveloped in dense clouds and he wondered whether, with him also, life's light might fail. The picturesque setting wove itself in his mind into a set of verses:—

Abide with me! fast falls the eventide;
The darkness deepens; Lord, with me
abide!
When other helpers fail, and comforts flee,
Help of the helpless, O
abide with me!

Hurrying back to his study, he wrote out the stanzas and handed them to a friend. Leaving England the following week, he died at Nice a couple of months later, Henry Manning—afterwards Cardinal—sitting at his bedside to the last. A beautiful marble cross marks his grave on that southern shore.

Distant Echoes Of A Noble Minstrelsy
Dame Clara Butt once made a list of the songs that, in the course of her career, she had found most appealing. She had not the slightest hesitation in putting "Abide With Me" first of all. Nothing that she ever sang, she declared, so moved the hearts of her audiences. Sir Ernest Shackleton once heard her sing it, and, before setting out on his last, and fatal, voyage to the frozen South, he insisted on including among his treasures a gramophone record of Dame Clara's rendering of that song.

Nor was Shackleton alone. When Nurse Edith Cavell was awaiting execution in her cheerless prison-cell in Brussels, Mr. Gahan, the British Consul, called to take a last farewell of her. He and she repeated, very softly and very slowly, the verses of "Abide With Me." When at length the moment of parting came, she clasped his hand and said with a beautiful smile: "We shall meet again; heaven's morning breaks and earth's vain shadows flee!" She then turned away, murmuring to herself under her breath: "In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me!"

F W Boreham

Image: Henry Francis Lyte