Eleventh Sunday after Trinity.

Is it a time to receive money, and to receive garments, and oliveyards, and vineyards, and sheep, and oxen, and menservants, and maidservants? 2Kingsv. 26.

Isthis a time to plant and build,Add house to house, and field to field,When round our walls the battle lowers,When mines are hid beneath our towers,And watchful foes are stealing roundTo search and spoil the holy ground?

Is this a time for moonlight dreamsOf love and home by mazy streams,For Fancy with her shadowy toys,Aërial hopes and pensive joys,While souls are wandering far and wide,And curses swarm on every side?

No—rather steel thy melting heartTo act the martyr’s sternest part,To watch, with firm unshrinking eye,Thy darling visions as thy die,Till all bright hopes, and hues of day,Have faded into twilight gray.

Yes—let them pass without a sigh,And if the world seem dull and dry,If long and sad thy lonely hours,And winds have rent thy sheltering bowers,Bethink thee what thou art and where,A sinner in a life of care.

The fire of God is soon to fall(Thou know’st it) on this earthly ball;Full many a soul, the price of blood,Marked by th’ Almighty’s hand for good,To utter death that hour shall sweep—And will the saints in Heaven dare weep?

Then in His wrath shallGoduprootThe trees He set, for lack of fruit,And drown in rude tempestuous blazeThe towers His hand had deigned to raise;In silence, ere that storm begin,Count o’er His mercies and thy sin.

Pray only that thine aching heart,From visions vain content to part,Strong for Love’s sake its woe to hideMay cheerful wait the Cross beside,Too happy if, that dreadful day,Thy life be given thee for a prey.

Snatched sudden from th’ avenging rod,Safe in the bosom of thyGod,How wilt thou then look back, and smileOn thoughts that bitterest seemed erewhile,And bless the pangs that made thee seeThis was no world of rest for thee!

And looking up to heaven, He sighed, and saith unto him, Ephphatha, that is, Be opened.St. Markvii. 34.

TheSon of God in doing goodWas fain to look to Heaven and sigh:And shall the heirs of sinful bloodSeek joy unmixed in charity?God will not let Love’s work impartFull solace, lest it steal the heart;Be thou content in tears to sow,Blessing, like Jesus, in thy woe:

He looked to Heaven, and sadly sighed—What saw my gracious Saviour there,“With fear and anguish to divideThe joy of Heaven-accepted prayer?So o’er the bed where Lazarus sleptHe to His Father groaned and wept:What saw He mournful in that grave,Knowing Himself so strong to save?”

O’erwhelming thoughts of pain and griefOver His sinking spirit sweep;—What boots it gathering one lost leafOut of yon sere and withered heap,Where souls and bodies, hopes and joys,All that earth owns or sin destroys,Under the spurning hoof are cast,Or tossing in th’ autumnal blast?

The deaf may hear the Saviour’s voice,The fettered tongue its chain may break;But the deaf heart, the dumb by choice,The laggard soul, that will not wake,The guilt that scorns to be forgiven;—These baffle e’en the spells of Heaven;In thought of these, His brows benignNot e’en in healing cloudless shine.

No eye but His might ever bearTo gaze all down that drear abyss,Because none ever saw so clearThe shore beyond of endless bliss:The giddy waves so restless hurled,The vexed pulse of this feverish world,He views and counts with steady sight,Used to behold the Infinite.

But that in such communion highHe hath a fount of strength within,Sure His meek heart would break and die,O’erburthened by His brethren’s sin;Weak eyes on darkness dare not gaze,It dazzles like the noonday blaze;But He who sees God’s face may brookOn the true face of Sin to look.

What then shall wretched sinners do,When in their last, their hopeless day,Sin, as it is, shall meet their view,God turn His face for aye away?Lord, by Thy sad and earnest eye,When Thou didst look to Heaven and sigh:Thy voice, that with a word could chaseThe dumb, deaf spirit from his place;

As Thou hast touched our ears, and taughtOur tongues to speak Thy praises plain,Quell Thou each thankless godless thoughtThat would make fast our bonds again.From worldly strife, from mirth unblest,Drowning Thy music in the breast,From foul reproach, from thrilling fears,Preserve, good Lord, Thy servants’ ears.

From idle words, that restless throngAnd haunt our hearts when we would pray,From Pride’s false chime, and jarring wrong,Seal Thou my lips, and guard the way:For Thou hast sworn, that every ear,Willing or loth, Thy trump shall hear,And every tongue unchainèd beTo own no hope, no God, but Thee.

And He turned Him onto His disciples, and said privately, Blessed are the eyes which see the things that ye see: for I tell you, that many prophets and kings have desired to see those things which ye see, and have not seen them: and to hear those things which ye hear, and have not heard them.St. Lukex. 23, 24.

OnSinai’s top, in prayer and trance,Full forty nights and forty daysThe Prophet watched for one dear glanceOf thee and of Thy ways:

Fasting he watched and all alone,Wrapt in a still, dark, solid cloud,The curtain of the Holy OneDrawn round him like a shroud:

So, separate from the world, his breastMight duly take and strongly keepThe print of Heaven, to be expressedEre long on Sion’s steep.

There one by one his spirit sawOf things divine the shadows bright,The pageant of God’s perfect law;Yet felt not full delight.

Through gold and gems, a dazzling maze,From veil to veil the vision led,And ended, where unearthly raysFrom o’er the ark were shed.

Yet not that gorgeous place, nor aughtOf human or angelic frame,Could half appease his craving thought;The void was still the same.

“Show me Thy glory, gracious Lord!’Tis Thee,” he cries, “not Thine, I seek.”Na, start not at so bold a wordFrom man, frail worm and weak:

The spark of his first deathless fireYet buoys him up, and high aboveThe holiest creature, dares aspireTo the Creator’s love.

The eye in smiles may wander round,Caught by earth’s shadows as they fleet;But for the soul no help is found,Save Him who made it, meet.

Spite of yourselves, ye witness this,Who blindly self or sense adore;Else wherefore leaving your own blissStill restless ask ye more?

This witness bore the saints of oldWhen highest rapt and favoured most,Still seeking precious things untold,Not in fruition lost.

Canaan was theirs; and in it allThe proudest hope of kings dare claim:Sion was theirs; and at their callFire from Jehovah came.

Yet monarchs walked as pilgrims stillIn their own land, earth’s pride and grace:And seers would mourn on Sion’s hillTheir Lord’s averted face.

Vainly they tried the deeps to soundE’en of their own prophetic thought,When of Christ crucified and crownedHis Spirit in them taught:

But He their aching gaze repressed,Which sought behind the veil to see,For not without us fully blestOr perfect might they be.

The rays of the Almighty’s faceNo sinner’s eye might then receive;Only the meekest man found graceTo see His skirts and live.

But we as in a glass espyThe glory of His countenance,Not in a whirlwind hurrying byThe too presumptuous glance,

But with mild radiance every hour,From our dear Saviour’s face benignBent on us with transforming power,Till we, too, faintly shine.

Sprinkled with His atoning bloodSafely before our God we stand,As on the rock the Prophet stood,Beneath His shadowing hand.—

Blessed eyes, which see the things we see!And yet this tree of life hath provedTo many a soul a poison tree,Beheld, and not beloved.

So like an angel’s is our bliss(Oh! thought to comfort and appal)It needs must bring, if used amiss,An angel’s hopeless fall.

And Jesus answering said, Were there not ten cleansed? but where are the nine? There are not found that returned to give glory to God, save this stranger.St. Lukexvii. 17, 18.

Tencleansed, and only one remain!Who would have thought our nature’s stainWas dyed so foul, so deep in grain?E’en He who reads the heart—Knows what He gave and what we lost,Sin’s forfeit, and redemption’s cost,—By a short pang of wonder crossedSeems at the sight to start:

Yet ’twas not wonder, but His loveOur wavering spirits would reprove,That heavenward seem so free to moveWhen earth can yield no moreThen from afar on God we cry,But should the mist of woe roll by,Not showers across an April skyDrift, when the storm is o’er,

Faster than those false drops and fewFleet from the heart, a worthless dew.What sadder scene can angels viewThan self-deceiving tears,Poured idly over some dark pageOf earlier life, though pride or rage,The record of to-day engage,A woe for future years?

Spirits, that round the sick man’s bedWatched, noting down each prayer he made,Were your unerring roll displayed,His pride of health to abase;Or, when, soft showers in season fallAnswering a famished nation’s call,Should unseen fingers on the wallOur vows forgotten trace:

How should we gaze in trance of fear!Yet shines the light as thrilling clearFrom Heaven upon that scroll severe,“Ten cleansed and one remain!”Nor surer would the blessing proveOf humbled hearts, that own Thy love,Should choral welcome from aboveVisit our senses plain:

Than by Thy placid voice and brow,With healing first, with comfort now,Turned upon him, who hastes to bowBefore Thee, heart and knee;“Oh! thou, who only wouldst be blest,On thee alone My blessing rest!Rise, go thy way in peace, possessedFor evermore of Me.”

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow.St. Matthew, vi. 28.

Sweetnurslings of the vernal skies,Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew,What more than magic in you lies,To fill the heart’s fond view?In childhood’s sports, companions gay,In sorrow, on Life’s downward way,How soothing! in our last decayMemorials prompt and true.

Relics ye are of Eden’s bowers,As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,As when ye crowned the sunshine hoursOf happy wanderers there.Fall’n all beside—the world of life,How is it stained with fear and strife!In Reason’s world what storms are rife,What passions range and glare!

But cheerful and unchanged the whileYour first and perfect form ye show,The same that won Eve’s matron smileIn the world’s opening glow.The stars of heaven a course are taughtToo high above our human thought:Ye may be found if ye are sought,And as we gaze, we know.

Ye dwell beside our paths and homes,Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow,And guilty man where’er he roams,Your innocent mirth may borrow.The birds of air before us fleet,They cannot brook our shame to meet—But we may taste your solace sweetAnd come again to-morrow.

Ye fearless in your nests abide—Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise,Your silent lessons, undescriedBy all but lowly eyes:For ye could draw th’ admiring gazeOf Him who worlds and hearts surveys:Your order wild, your fragrant maze,He taught us how to prize.

Ye felt your Maker’s smile that hour,As when He paused and owned you good;His blessing on earth’s primal bower,Ye felt it all renewed.What care ye now, if winter’s stormSweep ruthless o’er each silken form?Christ’s blessing at your heart is warm,Ye fear no vexing mood.

Alas! of thousand bosoms kind,That daily court you and caress,How few the happy secret findOf your calm loveliness!“Live for to-day! to-morrow’s lightTo-morrow’s cares shall bring to sight,Go sleep like closing flowers at night,And Heaven thy morn will bless.”

I desire that ye faint not at my tribulations for you, which is your glory.Ephesiansiii. 13.

I desire that ye faint not at my tribulations for you, which is your glory.

Ephesiansiii. 13.

Wishnot, dear friends, my pain away—Wish me a wise and thankful heart,WithGod, in all my griefs, to stay,Nor from His loved correction start.

The dearest offering He can craveHis portion in our souls to prove,What is it to the gift He gave,The only Son of His dear love?

But we, like vexed unquiet sprights,Will still be hovering o’er the tomb,Where buried lie our vain delights,Nor sweetly take a sinner’s doom.

In Life’s long sickness evermoreOur thoughts are tossing to and fro:We change our posture o’er and o’er,But cannot rest, nor cheat our woe.

Were it not better to lie still,Let Him strike home and bless the rod,Never so safe as when our willYields undiscerned by all but God?

Thy precious things, whate’er they be,That haunt and vex thee, heart and brain,Look to the Cross and thou shalt seeHow thou mayst turn them all to gain.

Lovest thou praise? the Cross is shame:Or ease? the Cross is bitter grief:More pangs than tongue or heart can frameWere suffered there without relief.

We of that Altar would partake,But cannot quit the cost—no throneIs ours, to leave for Thy dear sake—We cannot do as Thou hast done.

We cannot part with Heaven for Thee—Yet guide us in Thy track of love:Let us gaze on where light should be,Though not a beam the clouds remove.

So wanderers ever fond and trueLook homeward through the evening sky,Without a streak of heaven’s soft blueTo aid Affection’s dreaming eye.

The wanderer seeks his native bower,And we will look and long for Thee,And thank Thee for each trying hour,Wishing, not struggling, to be free.

Every man of the house of Israel that setteth up his idols in his heart, and putteth the stumbling-block of his iniquity before his face, and cometh to the prophet; I the Lord will answer him that cometh according to the multitude of his idols.Ezekielxiv. 4.

Statelythy walls, and holy are the prayersWhich day and night before thine altars rise:Not statelier, towering o’er her marble stairs,Flashed Sion’s gilded dome to summer skies,Not holier, while around him angels bowed,From Aaron’s censer steamed the spicy cloud,

Before the mercy-seat. O Mother dear,Wilt thou forgive thy son one boding sigh?Forgive, if round thy towers he walk in fear,And tell thy jewels o’er with jealous eye?Mindful of that sad vision, which in thoughtFrom Chebar’s plains the captive prophet brought.

To see lost Sion’s shame. ’Twas morning prime,And like a Queen new seated on her throne,God’scrownèd mountain, as in happier time,Seemed to rejoice in sunshine all her own:So bright, while all in shade around her lay,Her northern pinnacles had caught th’ emerging ray.

The dazzling lines of her majestic roofCrossed with as free a span the vault of heaven,As when twelve tribes knelt silently aloofEreGodHis answer to their king had given,Ere yet upon the new-built altar fellThe glory of theLord, the Lord of Israel.

All seems the same: but enter in and seeWhat idol shapes are on the wall portrayed:And watch their shameless and unholy glee,Who worship there in Aaron’s robes arrayed:Hear Judah’s maids the dirge to Thammuz pour,And mark her chiefs yon orient sun adore.

Yet turn thee, son of man—for worse than theseThou must behold: thy loathing were but lostOn dead men’s crimes, and Jews’ idolatries—Come, learn to tell aright thine own sins’ cost,—And sure their sin as far from equals thine,As earthly hopes abused are less than hopes divine.

What if within His world, His Church, ourLordHave entered thee, as in some temple gate,Where, looking round, each glance might thee affordSome glorious earnest of thine high estate,And thou, false heart and frail, hast turned from allTo worship pleasure’s shadow on the wall?

If, when theLordof Glory was in sight,Thou turn thy back upon that fountain clear,To bow before the “little drop of light,”Which dim-eyed men call praise and glory here;What dost thou, but adore the sun, and scornHim at whose only word both sun and stars were born?

If, while around thee gales from Eden breathe,Thou hide thine eyes, to make thy peevish moanOver some broken reed of earth beneath,Some darling of blind fancy dead and gone,As wisely might’st thou inJehovah’sfaneOffer thy love and tears to Thammuz slain.

Turn thee from these, or dare not to inquireOf Him whose name is Jealous, lest in wrathHe hear and answer thine unblest desire:Far better we should cross His lightning’s pathThan be according to our idols beard,And God should take us at our own vain word.

Thou who hast deigned the Christian’s heart to callThy Church and Shrine; whene’er our rebel willWould in that chosen home of Thine instalBelial or Mammon, grant us not the illWe blindly ask; in very love refuseWhate’er Thou knowest our weakness would abuse.

Or rather help us,Lord, to choose the good,To pray for nought, to seek to none, but Thee,Nor by “our daily bread” mean common food,Nor say, “From this world’s evil set us free;”Teach us to love, withChrist, our sole true bliss,Else, though inChrist’sown words, we surely pray amiss.

I will bring you into the wilderness of the people, and there will I plead with you face to face. Like as pleaded with your fathers in the wilderness of the land of Egypt, so will I plead with you, saith the Lord God.Ezekielxx. 35, 36.

Itis so—ope thine eyes, and see—What viewest thou all around?A desert, where iniquityAnd knowledge both abound.

In the waste howling wildernessThe Church is wandering still,Because we would not onward pressWhen close to Sion’s hill.

Back to the world we faithless turned,And far along the wild,With labour lost and sorrow earned,Our steps have been beguiled.

Yet full before us, all the while,The shadowing pillar stays,The living waters brightly smile,The eternal turrets blaze,

Yet Heaven is raining angels’ breadTo be our daily food,And fresh, as when it first was shed,Springs forth theSaviour’sblood.

From every region, race, and speech,Believing myriads throng,Till, far as sin and sorrow reach,Thy grace is spread along;

Till sweetest nature, brightest art,Their votive incense bring,And every voice and every heartOwn Thee their God and King.

All own; but few, alas! will love;Too like the recreant bandThat with Thy patient spirit stroveUpon the Red-sea strand.

O Father of long-suffering grace,Thou who hast sworn to stayPleading with sinners face to faceThrough all their devious way:

How shall we speak to Thee, OLord,Or how in silence lie?Look on us, and we are abhorred,Turn from us, and we die.

Thy guardian fire, Thy guiding cloud,Still let them gild our wall,Nor be our foes and Thine allowedTo see us faint and fall.

Too oft, within this camp of Thine,Rebellions murmurs rise;Sin cannot bear to see Thee shineSo awful to her eyes.

Fain would our lawless hearts escape,And with the heathen be,To worship every monstrous shapeIn fancied darkness free.

Vain thought, that shall not be at all!Refuse we or obey,Our ears have heard the Almighty’s call,We cannot be as they.

We cannot hope the heathen’s doomTo whomGod’sSon is given,Whose eyes have seen beyond the tomb,Who have the key of Heaven.

Weak tremblers on the edge of woe,Yet shrinking from true bliss,Our rest must be “no rest below,”And let our prayer be this:

“Lord, wave again Thy chastening rod,Till every idol throneCrumble to dust, and Thou, OGod,Reign in our hearts alone.

“Bring all our wandering fancies home,For Thou hast every spell,And ’mid the heathen where they roam,Thou knowest,Lord, too well.

“Thou know’st our service sad and hard,Thou know’st us fond and frail;Win us to be loved and sparedWhen all the world shall fail.

“So when at last our weary daysAre well-nigh wasted here,And we can trace Thy wondrous waysIn distance calm and clear,

“When in Thy love and Israel’s sinWe read our story true,We may not, all too late, beginTo wish our hopes were new.

“Long loved, long tried, long spared as they,Unlike in this alone,That, by Thy grace, our hearts shall stayFor evermore Thine own.”

Then Nebuchadnezzar the king was astonished, and rose up in haste, and spake, and said unto his counsellors, Did not we cast three men bound into the midst of the fire? They answered and said unto the king, True, O king. He answered and said, Lo, I see four men loose, walking in the midst of the fire, and they have no hurt; and the form of the fourth is like the Son of God.Danieliii. 24, 25.

WhenPersecution’s torrent blazeWraps the unshrinking Martyr’s head;When fade all earthly flowers and bays,When summer friends are gone and fled,Is he alone in that dark hourWho owns the Lord of love and power?

Or waves there not around his browA wand no human arm may wield,Fraught with a spell no angels know,His steps to guide, his soul to shield?Thou, Saviour, art his Charmèd Bower,His Magic Ring, his Rock, his Tower.

And when the wicked ones beholdThy favourites walking in Thy light,Just as, in fancy triumph bold,They deemed them lost in deadly night,Amazed they cry, “What spell is this,Which turns their sufferings all to bliss?

“How are they free whom we had bound?Upright, whom in the gulf we cast?What wondrous helper have they foundTo screen them from the scorching blast?Three were they—who hath made them four?And sure a form divine he wore,

“E’en like the Son of God.” So criedThe Tyrant, when in one fierce flameThe Martyrs lived, the murderers died:Yet knew he not what angel cameTo make the rushing fire-flood seemLike summer breeze by woodland stream.

He knew not, but there are who know:The Matron, who alone hath stood,When not a prop seemed left below,The first lorn hour of widowhood,Yet cheered and cheering all, the while,With sad but unaffected smile;—

The Father, who his vigil keepsBy the sad couch whence hope hath flown,Watching the eye where reason sleeps,Yet in his heart can mercy own,Still sweetly yielding to the rod,Still loving man, still thankingGod;—

The Christian Pastor, bowed to earthWith thankless toil, and vile esteemed,Still travailing in second birthOf souls that will not be redeemed:Yet stedfast set to do his part,And fearing most his own vain heart;—

These know: on these look long and well,Cleansing thy sight by prayer and faith,And thou shalt know what secret spellPreserves them in their living death:Through sevenfold flames thine eye shall seeThe Saviour walking with His faithful Three.

Hear ye, O mountains, the Lord’s controversy, and ye strong foundations of the earth.Micahvi. 2.

Whereis Thy favoured haunt, eternal Voice,The region of Thy choice,Where, undisturbed by sin and earth, the soulOwns Thy entire control?—’Tis on the mountain’s summit dark and high,When storms are hurrying by:’Tis ’mid the strong foundations of the earth,Where torrents have their birth.

No sounds of worldly toil ascending there,Mar the full burst of prayer;Lone Nature feels that she may freely breathe,And round us and beneathAre heard her sacred tones: the fitful sweepOf winds across the steepThrough withered bents—romantic note and clear,Meet for a hermit’s ear,—

The wheeling kite’s wild solitary cry,And, scarcely heard so high,The dashing waters when the air is stillFrom many a torrent rillThat winds unseen beneath the shaggy fell,Tracked by the blue mist well:Such sounds as make deep silence in the heartFor Thought to do her part.

’Tis then we hear the voice ofGodwithin,Pleading with care and sin:“Child of My love! how have I wearied thee?Why wilt thou err from Me?Have I not brought thee from the house of slaves,Parted the drowning waves,And set My saints before thee in the way,Lest thou shouldst faint or stray?

“What! was the promise made to thee alone?Art thou the excepted one?An heir of glory without grief or pain?O vision false and vain!There lies thy cross; beneath it meekly bow;It fits thy stature now:Who scornful pass it with averted eye,’Twill crush them by-and-by.

“Raise thy repining eyes, and take true measureOf thine eternal treasure;The Father of thy Lord can grudge thee nought,The world for thee was bought;And as this landscape broad—earth, sea, and sky,—All centres in thine eye,So all God does, if rightly understood,Shall work thy final good.”

The vision is yet for an appointed time, but at the end it shall speak, and not lie: though it tarry, wait for it, because it will surely come, it will not tarry.Habakkukii. 3.

Themorning mist is cleared away,Yet still the face of Heaven is grey,Nor yet this autumnal breeze has stirred the grove,Faded yet full, a paler greenSkirts soberly the tranquil scene,The red-breast warbles round this leafy cove.

Sweet messenger of “calm decay,”Saluting sorrow as you may,As one still bent to find or make the best,In thee, and in this quiet mead,The lesson of sweet peace I read,Rather in all to be resigned than blest.

’Tis a low chant, according wellWith the soft solitary knell,As homeward from some grave beloved we turn,Or by some holy death-bed dear,Most welcome to the chastened earOf her whom Heaven is teaching how to mourn.

O cheerful tender strain! the heartThat duly bears with you its part,Singing so thankful to the dreary blast,Though gone and spent its joyous prime,And on the world’s autumnal time,’Mid withered hues and sere, its lot be cast:

That is the heart for thoughtful seer,Watching, in trance nor dark nor clear,Th’ appalling Future as it nearer draws:His spirit calmed the storm to meet,Feeling the rock beneath his feet,And tracing through the cloud th’ eternal Cause.

That is the heart for watchman trueWaiting to see whatGodwill do,As o’er the Church the gathering twilight fallsNo more he strains his wistful eye,If chance the golden hours be nigh,By youthful Hope seen beaming round her walls.

Forced from his shadowy paradise,His thoughts to Heaven the steadier rise:There seek his answer when the world reproves:Contented in his darkling round,If only he be faithful found,When from the east the eternal morning moves.

Note: The expression, “calm delay,” is borrowed from a friend, by whose kind permission the following stanzas are here inserted.

Unheard in summer’s flaring ray,Pour forth thy notes, sweet singer,Wooing the stillness of the autumn day:Bid it a moment linger,Nor flyToo soon from winter’s scowling eye.

The blackbird’s song at even-tide,And hers, who gay ascends,Filling the heavens far and wide,Are sweet. But none so blends,As thine,With calm decay, and peace divine.

Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him?Matthewxviii. 21.

Whatliberty so glad and gay,As where the mountain boy,Reckless of regions far away,A prisoner lives in joy?

The dreary sounds of crowded earth,The cries of camp or town,Never untuned his lonely mirth,Nor drew his visions down.

The snow-clad peaks of rosy lightThat meet his morning view,The thwarting cliffs that bound his sight,They bound his fancy too.

Two ways alone his roving eyeFor aye may onward go,Or in the azure deep on high,Or darksome mere below.

O blest restraint! more blessèd range!Too soon the happy childHis nook of homely thought will changeFor life’s seducing wild:

Too soon his altered day-dreams showThis earth a boundless space,With sun-bright pleasures to and froSporting in joyous race:

While of his narrowing heart each year,Heaven less and less will fill,Less keenly, thorough his grosser ear,The tones of mercy thrill.

It must be so: else wherefore fallsThe Saviour’s voice unheard,While from His pard’ning Cross He calls,“O spare as I have spared?”

By our own niggard rule we tryThe hope to suppliants given!We mete out love, as if our eyeSaw to the end of Heaven.

Yes, ransomed sinner! wouldst thou knowHow often to forgive,How dearly to embrace thy foe,Look where thou hop’st to live;—

When thou hast told those isles of light,And fancied all beyond,Whatever owns, in depth or height,Creation’s wondrous bond;

Then in their solemn pageant learnSweet mercy’s praise to see:Their Lord resigned them all, to earnThe bliss of pardoning thee.

Who shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like unto His glorious body, according to the working whereby He is able even to subdue all things onto Himself.Philippiansiii. 21.

Redo’er the forest peers the setting sun,The line of yellow light dies fast awayThat crowned the eastern copse: and chill and dunFalls on the moor the brief November day.

Now the tired hunter winds a parting note,And Echo hide good-night from every glade;Yet wait awhile, and see the calm heaves floatEach to his rest beneath their parent shade.

How like decaying life they seem to glide!And yet no second spring have they in store,But where they fall, forgotten to abideIs all their portion, and they ask no more.

Soon o’er their heads blithe April airs shall sing,A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold,The green buds glisten in the dews of Spring,And all be vernal rapture as of old.

Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie,In all the world of busy life aroundNo thought of them; in all the bounteous sky,No drop, for them, of kindly influence found.

Man’s portion is to die and rise again—Yet he complains, while these unmurmuring partWith their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain,As his when Eden held his virgin heart.

And haply half unblamed his murmuring voiceMight sound in Heaven, were all his second lifeOnly the first renewed—the heathen’s choice,A round of listless joy and weary strife.

For dreary were this earth, if earth were all,Tho’ brightened oft by dear Affection’s kiss;—Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall?But catch a gleam beyond it, and ’tis bliss.

Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart,Whether slow creeping on cold earth, or borneOn lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dartO’er wave or field: yet breezes laugh to scorn

Our puny speed, and birds, and clouds in heaven,And fish, living shafts that pierce the main,And stars that shoot through freezing air at even—Who but would follow, might he break his chain?

And thou shalt break it soon; the grovelling wormShall find his wings, and soar as fast and freeAs his transfigured Lord with lightning formAnd snowy vest—such grace He won for thee,

When from the grave He sprang at dawn of morn,And led through boundless air thy conquering road,Leaving a glorious track, where saints, new-born,Might fearless follow to their blest abode.

But first, by many a stern and fiery blastThe world’s rude furnace must thy blood refine,And many a gale of keenest woe be passed,Till every pulse beat true to airs divine,

Till every limb obey the mounting soul,The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given.He who the stormy heart can so control,The laggard body soon will waft to Heaven.

The heart knoweth his own bitterness: and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy.Proverbsxiv. 10.

Whyshould we faint and fear to live alone,Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die,Nor e’en the tenderest heart, and next our own,Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh?

Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woeOur hermit spirits dwell, and range apart,Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow—Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart.

And well it is for us ourGodshould feelAlone our secret throbbings: so our prayerMay readier spring to Heaven, nor spend its zealOn cloud-born idols of this lower air.

For if one heart in perfect sympathyBeat with another, answering love for love,Weak mortals, all entranced, on earth would lie,Nor listen for those purer strains above.

Or what if Heaven for once its searching lightLent to some partial eye, disclosing allThe rude bad thoughts, that in our bosom’s nightWander at large, nor heed Love’s gentle thrall?

Who would not shun the dreary uncouth place?As if, fond leaning where her infant slept,A mother’s arm a serpent should embrace:So might we friendless live, and die unwept.

Then keep the softening veil in mercy drawn,Thou who canst love us, thro’ Thou read us true;As on the bosom of th’ aërial lawnMelts in dim haze each coarse ungentle hue.

So too may soothing Hope Thy heave enjoySweet visions of long-severed hearts to frame:Though absence may impair, or cares annoy,Some constant mind may draw us still the same.

We in dark dreams are tossing to and fro,Pine with regret, or sicken with despair,The while she bathes us in her own chaste glow,And with our memory wings her own fond prayer.

O bliss of child-like innocence, and loveTried to old age! creative power to win,And raise new worlds, where happy fancies rove,Forgetting quite this grosser world of sin.

Bright are their dreams, because their thoughts are clear,Their memory cheering: but th’ earth-stained spright,Whose wakeful musings are of guilt and fear,Must hover nearer earth, and less in light.

Farewell, for her, th’ ideal scenes so fair—Yet not farewell her hope, since thou hast deigned,Creator of all hearts! to own and shareThe woe of what Thou mad’st, and we have stained.

Thou knowst our bitterness—our joys are Thine—No stranger Thou to all our wanderings wild:Nor could we bear to think, how every lineOf us, Thy darkened likeness and defiled,

Stands in full sunshine of Thy piercing eye,But that Thou call’st us Brethren: sweet reposeIs in that word—theLordwho dwells on highKnows all, yet loves us better than He knows.

The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness.Proverbsxvi. 31.

Thebright-haired morn is glowingO’er emerald meadows gay,With many a clear gem strewingThe early shepherd’s way.Ye gentle elves, by Fancy seenStealing away with nightTo slumber in your leafy screen,Tread more than airy light.

And see what joyous greetingThe sun through heaven has shed,Though fast yon shower be fleeting,His beams have faster sped.For lo! above the western hazeHigh towers the rainbow archIn solid span of purest rays:How stately is its march!

Pride of the dewy morning!The swain’s experienced eyeFrom thee takes timely warning,Nor trusts the gorgeous sky.For well he knows, such dawnings gayBring noons of storm and shower,And travellers linger on the wayBeside the sheltering bower.

E’en so, in hope and tremblingShould watchful shepherd viewHis little lambs assembling,With glance both kind and true;’Tis not the eye of keenest blaze,Nor the quick-swelling breast,That soonest thrills at touch of praise—These do not please him best.

But voices low and gentle,And timid glances shy,That seem for aid parentalTo sue all wistfully,Still pressing, longing to be right,Yet fearing to be wrong,—In these the Pastor dares delight,A lamb-like, Christ-like throng.

These in Life’s distant evenShall shine serenely bright,As in th’ autumnal heavenMild rainbow tints at night,When the last shower is stealing down,And ere they sink to rest,The sun-beams weave a parting crownFor some sweet woodland nest.

The promise of the morrowIs glorious on that eve,Dear as the holy sorrowWhen good men cease to live.When brightening ere it die awayMounts up their altar flame,Still tending with intenser rayTo Heaven whence first it came.

Say not it dies, that glory,’Tis caught unquenched on high,Those saintlike brows so hoaryShall wear it in the sky.No smile is like the smile of death,When all good musings pastRise wafted with the parting breath,The sweetest thought the last.

Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.St. Johnvi. 12.

WillGod indeed with fragments bear,Snatched late from the decaying year?Or can the Saviour’s blood endearThe dregs of a polluted life?When down th’ o’erwhelming current tossedJust ere he sink for ever lost,The sailor’s untried arms are crossedIn agonizing prayer, will Ocean cease her strife?

Sighs that exhaust but not relieveHeart-rending sighs, O spare to heaveA bosom freshly taught to grieveFor lavished hours and love misspent!Now through her round of holy thoughtThe Church our annual steps has brought,But we no holy fire have caught—Back on the gaudy world our wilful eyes were bent.

Too soon th’ ennobling carols, pouredTo hymn the birth-night of theLord,Which duteous Memory should have storedFor thankful echoing all the year—Too soon those airs have passed away;Nor long within the heart would stayThe silence ofChrist’sdying day,Profaned by worldly mirth, or scared by worldly fear.

Some strain of hope and victoryOn Easter wings might lift us highA little while we sought the sky:And when theSpirit’sbeacon firesOn every hill began to blare,Lightening the world with glad amaze,Who but must kindle while they gaze?But faster than she soars, our earth-bound Fancy tires.

Nor yet for these, nor all the rites,By which our Mother’s voice invitesOurGodto bless our home delights,And sweeten every secret tear:—The funeral dirge, the marriage vow,The hollowed font where parents bow,And now elate and trembling nowTo the Redeemer’s feet their new-found treasures bear:—

Not for this Pastor’s gracious armStretched out to bless—a Christian charmTo dull the shafts of worldly harm:—Nor, sweetest, holiest, best of allFor the dear feast ofJesusdying,Upon that altar ever lying,Where souls with sacred hunger sighingAre called to sit and eat, while angels prostrate fall:—

No, not for each and all of these,Have our frail spirits found their ease.The gale that stirs the autumnal treesSeems tuned as truly to our heartsAs when, twelve weary months ago,’Twas moaning bleak, so high and low,You would have thought Remorse and WoeHad taught the innocent air their sadly thrilling parts.

Is it,Christ’slight is too divine,We dare not hope like Him to shine?But see, around His dazzling shrineEarths gems the fire of Heaven have caught;Martyrs and saints—each glorious dayDawning in order on our way—Remind us, how our darksome clayMay keep th’ ethereal warmth our new Creator brought.

These we have scorned, O false and frail!And now once more th’ appalling tale,How love divine may woo and fail,Of our lost year in Heaven is told—What if as far our life were past,Our weeks all numbered to the last,With time and hope behind us cast,And all our work to do with palsied hands and cold?

O watch and pray ere Advent dawn!For thinner than the subtlest lawn’Twixt thee and death the veil is drawn.But Love too late can never glow:The scattered fragments Love can gleanRefine the dregs, and yield us cleanTo regions where one thought sereneBreathes sweeter than whole years of sacrifice below.

He first findeth his own brother Simon, and saith unto him, We have found the Messias . . . And he brought him to Jesus.St. Johni. 41, 42.

Whenbrothers part for manhood’s race,What gift may most endearing proveTo keep fond memory its her place,And certify a brother’s love?

’Tis true, bright hours together told,And blissful dreams in secret shared,Serene or solemn, gay or bold,Shall last in fancy unimpaired.

E’en round the death-bed of the goodSuch dear remembrances will hover,And haunt us with no vexing moodWhen all the cares of earth are over.

But yet our craving spirits feel,We shall live on, though Fancy die,And seek a surer pledge—a sealOf love to last eternally.

Who art thou, that wouldst grave thy nameThus deeply in a brother’s heart?Look on this saint, and learn to frameThy love-charm with true Christian art.

First seek thy Saviour out, and dwellBeneath this shadow of His roof,Till thou have scanned His features well,And known Him for the Christ by proof;

Such proof as they are sure to findWho spend with Him their happy days,Clean hands, and a self-ruling mindEver in tune for love and praise.

Then, potent with the spell of Heaven,Go, and thine erring brother gain,Entice him home to be forgiven,Till he, too, see his Saviour plain.

Or, if before thee in the race,Urge him with thine advancing tread,Till, like twin stars, with even pace,Each lucid course be duly aped.

No fading frail memorial giveTo soothe his soul when thou art gone,But wreaths of hope for aye to live,And thoughts of good together done.

That so, before the judgment-seat,Though changed and glorified each face,Not unremembered ye may meetFor endless ages to embrace.

Thomas, because thou hast seen Me, thou hast believed; blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.St. Johnxx. 29.

Wewere not by when Jesus came,But round us, far and near,We see His trophies, and His nameIn choral echoes hear.In a fair ground our lot is cast,As in the solemn week that past,While some might doubt, but all adored,Ere the whole widowed Church had seen her risen Lord.

Slowly, as then, His bounteous handThe golden chain unwinds,Drawing to Heaven with gentlest bandWise hearts and loving minds.Love sought Him first—at dawn of mornFrom her sad couch she sprang forlorn,She sought to weep with Thee alone,And saw Thine open grave, and knew that thou wert gone.

Reason and Faith at once set outTo search theSaviour’stomb;Faith faster runs, but waits without,As fearing to presume,Till Reason enter in, and traceChrist’s relics round the holy place—“Here lay His limbs, and here His sacred head,And who was by, to make His new-forsaken bed?”

Both wonder, one believes—but whileThey muse on all at home,No thought can tender Love beguileFrom Jesus’ grave to roam.Weeping she stays till He appear—Her witness first the Church must hear—All joy to souls that can rejoiceWith her at earliest call of His dear gracious voice.

Joy too to those, who love to talkIn secret how He died,Though with sealed eyes awhile they walk,Nor see him at their side:Most like the faithful pair are they,Who once to Emmaus took their way,Half darkling, till their Master shiedHis glory on their souls, made known in breaking bread.

Thus, ever brighter and more bright,On those He came to saveThe Lord of new-created lightDawned gradual from the grave;Till passed th’ enquiring day-light hour,And with closed door in silent bowerThe Church in anxious musing sate,As one who for redemption still had long to wait.

Then, gliding through th’ unopening door,Smooth without step or sound,“Peace to your souls,” He said—no more—They own Him, kneeling round.Eye, ear, and hand, and loving heart,Body and soul in every part,Successive made His witnesses that hour,Cease not in all the world to show His saving power.

Is there, on earth, a spirit frail,Who fears to take their word,Scarce daring, through the twilight pale,To think he sees the Lord?With eyes too tremblingly awakeTo bear with dimness for His sake?Read and confess the Hand DivineThat drew thy likeness here so true in every line.

For all thy rankling doubts so sore,Love thou thy Saviour still,Him for thy Lord and God adore,And ever do His will.Though vexing thoughts may seem to last,Let not thy soul be quite o’ercast;—Soon will He show thee all His wounds, and say,“Long have I known Thy name—know thou My face alway.”

And he fell to the earth, and heard a voice saying unto him, Saul, Saul, why persecutest thou Me? And he said, Who art Thou, Lord? And the Lord said, I am Jesus whom thou persecutest.Actsix. 4, 5.

Themid-day sun, with fiercest glare,Broods o’er the hazy twinkling air:Along the level sandThe palm-tree’s shade unwavering lies,Just as thy towers, Damascus, riseTo greet you wearied band.

The leader of that martial crewSeems bent some mighty deed to do,So steadily he speeds,With lips firm closed and fixèd eye,Like warrior when the fight is night,Nor talk nor landscape heeds.

What sudden blaze is round him poured,As though all Heaven’s refulgent hoardIn one rich glory shone?One moment—and to earth he falls:What voice his inmost heart appalls?—Voice heard by him alone.

For to the rest both words and formSeem lost in lightning and in storm,While Saul, in wakeful trance,Sees deep within that dazzling fieldHis persecuted Lord revealed,With keen yet pitying glance:

And hears time meek upbraiding callAs gently on his spirit fall,As if th’ Almighty SonWere prisoner yet in this dark earth,Nor had proclaimed His royal birth,Nor His great power begun.

“Ah! wherefore persecut’st thou Me?”He heard and saw, and sought to freeHis strained eyes from the sight:But Heaven’s high magic bound it there,Still gazing, though untaught to bearTh’ insufferable light.

“Who art Thou, Lord?” he falters forth:—So shall Sin ask of heaven and earthAt the last awful day.“When did we see Thee suffering nigh,And passed Thee with unheeding eye?Great God of judgment, say!”

Ah! little dream our listless eyesWhat glorious presence they despise,While, in our noon of life,To power or fame we rudely press.—Christ is at hand, to scorn or bless,Christ suffers in our strife.

And though heaven’s gate long since have closed,And our dear Lord in bliss reposed,High above mortal ken,To every ear in every land(Thought meek ears only understand)He speaks as he did then.

“Ah! wherefore persecute ye Me?’Tis hard, ye so in love should beWith your own endless woe.Know, though at God’s right hand I live,I feel each wound ye reckless giveTo the least saint below.

“I in your care My brethren left,Not willing ye should be bereftOf waiting on your Lord.The meanest offering ye can make—A drop of water—for love’s sake,In Heaven, be sure, is stored.”

O by those gentle tones and dear,When thou hast stayed our wild career,Thou only hope of souls,Ne’er let us cast one look behind,But in the thought of Jesus findWhat every thought controls.

As to Thy last Apostle’s heartThy lightning glance did then impartZeal’s never-dying fire,So teach us on Thy shrine to layOur hearts, and let them day by dayIntenser blaze and higher.

And as each mild and winning note(Like pulses that round harp-strings floatWhen the full strain is o’er)Left lingering on his inward earMusic, that taught, as death drew near,Love’s lesson more and more:

So, as we walk our earthly round,Still may the echo of that soundBe in our memory stored“Christians! behold your happy state:Christ is in these, who round you wait;Make much of your dear Lord!”

Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.St. Matthewv. 8.

Bless’dare the pure in heart,For they shall see our God,The secret of the Lord is theirs,Their soul is Christ’s abode.

Might mortal thought presumeTo guess an angel’s lay,Such are the notes that echo throughThe courts of Heaven to-day.

Such the triumphal hymnsOn Sion’s Prince that wait,In high procession passing onTowards His temple-gate.

Give ear, ye kings—bow down,Ye rulers of the earth—This, this is He: your Priest by grace,Your God and King by birth.

No pomp of earthly guardsAttends with sword and spear,And all-defying, dauntless look,Their monarch’s way to clear;

Yet are there more with HimThan all that are with you—The armies of the highest Heaven,All righteous, good, and true.

Spotless their robes and pure,Dipped in the sea of light,That hides the unapproachèd shrineFrom men’s and angels’ sight.

His throne, thy bosom blest,O mother undefiled—That throne, if aught beneath the skies,Beseems the sinless child.

Lost in high thoughts, “whose sonThe wondrous Babe might prove,”Her guileless husband walks beside,Bearing the hallowed dove;

Meet emblem of His vow,Who, on this happy day,His dove-like soul—best sacrifice—Did on God’s altar lay.

But who is he, by yearsBowed, but erect in heart,Whose prayers are struggling with his tears?“Lord, let me now depart.

“Now hath Thy servant seenThy saving health, O Lord;’Tis time that I depart in peace,According to Thy word.”

Yet swells this pomp: one moreComes forth to bless her God;Full fourscore years, meek widow, sheHer heaven-ward way hath troth.

She who to earthly joysSo long had given farewell,Now sees, unlooked for, Heaven on earth,Christ in His Israel.

Wide open from that hourThe temple-gates are set,And still the saints rejoicing thereThe holy Child have met.

Now count His train to-day,Auth who may meet Him, learn:Him child-like sires, meek maidens find,Where pride can nought discern.

Still to the lowly soulHe doth Himself impart,And for His cradle and His throneChooseth the pure in heart.

Wherefore of these men which have companied with us all the time that the Lord Jesus went in and out among us, beginning from the baptism of John, unto the same day that He was taken up from us, must one be ordained to be a witness with us of His resurrection.Actsi. 21, 22.

Whois God’s chosen priest?He, who on Christ stands waiting day and night,Who traceth His holy steps, nor ever ceased,From Jordan banks to Bethphage height:

Who hath learned lowlinessFrom his Lord’s cradle, patience from His Cross;Whom poor men’s eyes and hearts consent to bless;To whom, for Christ, the world is loss;

Who both in agonyHath seen Him and in glory; and in bothOwned Him divine, and yielded, nothing loth,Body and soul, to live and die,

In witness of his Lord,In humble following of his Saviour dear:This is the man to wield th’ unearthly sword,Warring unharmed with sin and fear.

But who can o’er suffice—What mortal—for this more than angels’ task,Winning or losing souls, Thy life-blood’s price?The gift were too divine to ask.

But Thou hast made it sureBy Thy dear promise to thy Church and Bride,That Thou, on earth, wouldst aye with her endure,Till earth to Heaven be purified.

Thou art her only spouse,Whose arm supports her, on Whose faithful breastHer persecuted head she meekly bows,Sure pledge of her eternal rest.

Thou, her unerring guide,Stayest her fainting steps along the wild;Thy merit is on the bowers of lust and pride,That she may pass them undefiled.

Who then, uncalled by Thee,Dare touch Thy spouse, Thy very self below?Or who dare count him summoned worthily,Except Thine hand and seal he show?

Where can Thy seal be found,But on thou chosen seed, from age to ageBy thine anointed heralds duly crowned,As kings and priests Thy war to wage?

Then fearless walk we forth,Yet full of trembling, Messengers of God:Our warrant sure, but doubting of our worth,By our own shame alike and glory awed.

Dread Searcher of the hearts,Thou who didst seal by Thy descending DoveThy servant’s choice, O help us in our parts,Else helpless found, to learn and teach Thy love.

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