Fifth Sunday after Epiphany.

Behold, the Lord’s hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; neither His ear heavy, that it cannot hear; but your iniquities have separated between you and your God.Isaiahlix. 1, 2.

“Wake, arm Divine! awake,Eye of the only Wise!Now for Thy glory’s sake,Saviour and God, arise,And may Thine ear, that sealèd seems,In pity mark our mournful themes!”

Thus in her lonely hourThy Church is fain to cry,As if Thy love and powerWere vanished from her sky;Yet God is there, and at His sideHe triumphs, who for sinners died.

Ah! ’tis the world enthrallsThe Heaven-betrothèd breast:The traitor Sense recallsThe soaring soul from rest.That bitter sigh was all for earth,For glories gone and vanished mirth.

Age would to youth return,Farther from Heaven would be,To feel the wildfire burn,On idolising kneeAgain to fall, and rob Thy shrineOf hearts, the right of Love Divine.

Lord of this erring flock!Thou whose soft showers distilOn ocean waste or rock,Free as on Hermon hill,Do Thou our craven spirits cheer,And shame away the selfish tear.

’Twas silent all and deadBeside the barren sea,Where Philip’s steps were led,Led by a voice from Thee—He rose and went, nor asked Thee why,Nor stayed to heave one faithless sigh:

Upon his lonely wayThe high-born traveller came,Reading a mournful layOf “One who bore our shame,Silent Himself, His name untold,And yet His glories were of old.”

To muse what Heaven might meanHis wondering brow he raised,And met an eye sereneThat on him watchful gazed.No Hermit e’er so welcome crossedA child’s lone path in woodland lost.

Now wonder turns to love;The scrolls of sacred loreNo darksome mazes prove;The desert tires no moreThey bathe where holy waters flow,Then on their way rejoicing go.

They part to meet in Heaven;But of the joy they share,Absolving and forgiven,The sweet remembrance bear.Yes—mark him well, ye cold and proud.Bewildered in a heartless crowd,

Starting and turning paleAt Rumour’s angry din—No storm can now assailThe charm he wears within,Rejoicing still, and doing good,And with the thought of God imbued.

No glare of high estate,No gloom of woe or want,The radiance can abateWhere Heaven delights to haunt:Sin only bides the genial ray,And, round the Cross, makes night of day.

Then weep it from thy heart;So mayst thou duly learnThe intercessor’s part;Thy prayers and tears may earnFor fallen souls some healing breath,Era they have died the Apostate’s death.

Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be: but we know that, when He shall appear, we shall be like Him; for we shall see Him as he is.St. Johniii. 2.

Thereare, who darkling and alone,Would wish the weary night were gone,Though dawning morn should only showThe secret of their unknown woe:Who pray for sharpest throbs of painTo ease them of doubt’s galling chain:“Only disperse the cloud,” they cry,“And if our fate be death, give light and let us die.”

Unwise I deem them, Lord, unmeetTo profit by Thy chastenings sweet,For Thou wouldst have us linger stillUpon the verge of good or ill.That on Thy guiding hand unseenOur undivided hearts may lean,And this our frail and foundering barkGlide in the narrow wake of Thy belovèd ark.

’Tis so in war—the champion trueLoves victory more when dim in viewHe sees her glories gild afarThe dusky edge of stubborn war,Than if the untrodden bloodless fieldThe harvest of her laurels yield;Let not my bark in calm abide,But win her fearless way against the chafing tide.

’Tis so in love—the faithful heartFrom her dim vision would not part,When first to her fond gaze is givenThat purest spot in Fancy’s heaven,For all the gorgeous sky beside,Though pledged her own and sure to abide:Dearer than every past noon-dayThat twilight gleam to her, though faint and far away.

So have I seen some tender flowerPrized above all the vernal bower,Sheltered beneath the coolest shade,Embosomed in the greenest glade,So frail a gem, it scarce may bearThe playful touch of evening air;When hardier grown we love it less,And trust it from our sight, not needing our caress.

And wherefore is the sweet spring-tideWorth all the changeful year beside?The last-born babe, why lies its partDeep in the mother’s inmost heart?But that the Lord and Source of loveWould have His weakest ever proveOur tenderest care—and most of allOur frail immortal souls, His work and Satan’s thrall.

So be it, Lord; I know it best,Though not as yet this wayward breastBeat quite in answer to Thy voice,Yet surely I have made my choice;I know not yet the promised bliss,Know not if I shall win or miss;So doubting, rather let me die,Than close with aught beside, to last eternally.

What is the Heaven we idly dream?The self-deceiver’s dreary theme,A cloudless sun that softly shines,Bright maidens and unfailing vines,The warrior’s pride, the hunter’s mirth,Poor fragments all of this low earth:Such as in sleep would hardly sootheA soul that once had tasted of immortal Truth.

What is the Heaven our God bestows?No Prophet yet, no Angel knows;Was never yet created eyeCould see across Eternity;Not seraph’s wing for ever soaringCan pass the flight of souls adoring,That nearer still and nearer growTo the unapproachèd Lord, once made for them so low.

Unseen, unfelt their earthly growth,And self-accused of sin and sloth,They live and die; their names decay,Their fragrance passes quite away;Like violets in the freezing blastNo vernal steam around they cast.—But they shall flourish from the tomb,The breath of God shall wake them into odorous bloom.

Then on the incarnate Saviour’s breast,The fount of sweetness, they shall rest,Their spirits every hour imbuedMore deeply with His precious blood.But peace—still voice and closèd eyeSuit best with hearts beyond the sky,Hearts training in their low abode,Daily to lose themselves in hope to find their God.

The invisible things of Him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made.Romansi. 20.

Thereis a book, who runs may read,Which heavenly truth imparts,And all the lore its scholars need,Pure eyes and Christian hearts.

The works of God above, below,Within us and around,Are pages in that book, to showHow God Himself is found.

The glorious sky embracing allIs like the Maker’s love,Wherewith encompassed, great and smallIn peace and order move.

The Moon above, the Church below,A wondrous race they run,But all their radiance, all their glow,Each borrows of its Sun.

The Savour lends the light and heatThat crowns His holy hill;The saints, like stars, around His seatPerform their courses still.

The saints above are stars in heaven—What are the saints on earth?Like tress they stand whom God has given,Our Eden’s happy birth.

Faith is their fixed unswerving root,Hope their unfading flower,Fair deeds of charity their fruit,The glory of their bower.

The dew of heaven is like Thy grace,It steals in silence down;But where it lights, this favoured placeBy richest fruits is known.

One Name above all glorious namesWith its ten thousand tonguesThe everlasting sea proclaims.Echoing angelic songs.

The raging Fire, the roaring Wind,Thy boundless power display;But in the gentler breeze we findThy Spirit’s viewless way.

Two worlds are ours: ’tis only SinForbids us to descryThe mystic heaven and earth within,Plain as the sea and sky.

Thou, who hast given me eyes to seeAnd love this sight so fair,Give me a heart to find out Thee,And read Thee everywhere.

So He drove out the man; and He placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life.Genesisiii. 24; compare chap. vi.

Foeof mankind! too bold thy race:Thou runn’st at such a reckless pace,Thine own dire work thou surely wilt confound:’Twas but one little drop of sinWe saw this morning enter in,And lo! at eventide the world is drowned.

See here the fruit of wandering eyes,Of worldly longings to be wise,Of Passion dwelling on forbidden sweets:Ye lawless glances, freely rove;Ruin below and wrath aboveAre all that now the wildering fancy meets.

Lord, when in some deep garden glade,Of Thee and of myself afraid.From thoughts like these among the bowers I hide,Nearest and loudest then of allI seem to hear the Judge’s call:—“Where art thou, fallen man? come forth, and be thou tried.”

Trembling before Thee as I stand,Where’er I gaze on either handThe sentence is gone forth, the ground is cursed:Yet mingled with the penal showerSome drops of balm in every bowerSteal down like April dews, that softest fall and first.

If filial and maternal loveMemorial of our guilt must prove,If sinful babes in sorrow must be born,Yet, to assuage her sharpest throes,The faithful mother surely knows,This was the way Thou cam’st to save the world forlorn.

If blessèd wedlock may not blessWithout some tinge of bitternessTo dash her cup of joy, since Eden lost,Chaining to earth with strong desireHearts that would highest else aspire,And o’er the tenderer sex usurping ever most;

Yet by the light of Christian lore’Tis blind Idolatry no more,But a sweet help and pattern of true love,Showing how best the soul may clingTo her immortal Spouse and King,How He should rule, and she with full desire approve.

If niggard Earth her treasures hide,To all but labouring hands denied,Lavish of thorns and worthless weeds alone,The doom is half in mercy given,To train us in our way to Heaven,And show our lagging souls how glory must be won.

If on the sinner’s outward frameGod hath impressed His mark of blame,And e’en our bodies shrink at touch of light,Yet mercy hath not left us bare:The very weeds we daily wearAre to Faith’s eye a pledge of God’s forgiving might.

And oh! if yet one arrow more,The sharpest of the Almighty’s store,Tremble upon the string—a sinner’s death—Art Thou not by to soothe and save,To lay us gently in the grave,To close the weary eye and hush the parting breath?

Therefore in sight of man bereftThe happy garden still was left;The fiery sword that guarded, showed it too;Turning all ways, the world to teach,That though as yet beyond our reach,Still in its place the tree of life and glory grew.

I do set My bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a token of a covenant between Me and the earth.Genesisix. 13.

SweetDove! the softest, steadiest plume,In all the sunbright sky,Brightening in ever-changeful bloomAs breezes change on high;—

Sweet Leaf! the pledge of peace and mirth,“Long sought, and lately won,”Blessed increase of reviving Earth,When first it felt the Sun;—

Sweet Rainbow! pride of summer days,High set at Heaven’s command,Though into drear and dusky hazeThou melt on either hand;—

Dear tokens of a pardoning God,We hail ye, one and all,As when our fathers walked abroad,Freed from their twelvemonth’s thrall.

How joyful from the imprisoning arkOn the green earth they spring!Not blither, after showers, the larkMounts up with glistening wing.

So home-bound sailors spring to shore,Two oceans safely past;So happy souls, when life is o’er,Plunge in this empyreal vast.

What wins their first and fondest gazeIn all the blissful field,And keeps it through a thousand days?Love face to face revealed:

Love imaged in that cordial lookOur Lord in Eden bendsOn souls that sin and earth forsookIn time to die His friends.

And what most welcome and sereneDawns on the Patriarch’s eye,In all the emerging hills so green,In all the brightening sky?

What but the gentle rainbow’s gleam,Soothing the wearied sight,That cannot bear the solar beam,With soft undazzling light?

Lord, if our fathers turned to TheeWith such adoring gaze,Wondering frail man Thy light should seeWithout Thy scorching blaze;

Where is our love, and where our hearts,We who have seen Thy Son,Have tried Thy Spirit’s winning arts,And yet we are not won?

The Son of God in radiance beamedToo bright for us to scan,But we may face the rays that streamedFrom the mild Son of Man.

There, parted into rainbow hues,In sweet harmonious strifeWe see celestial love diffuseIts light o’er Jesus’ life.

God, by His bow, vouchsafes to writeThis truth in Heaven above:As every lovely hue is Light,So every grace is Love.

When thou fastest, anoint thine head, and wash thy face; that thou appear not unto men to fast, but unto thy Father which is in secret.St. Matthewvi. 17, 18.

“Yes—deep within and deeper yetThe rankling shaft of conscience hide,Quick let the swelling eye forgetThe tears that in the heart abide.Calm be the voice, the aspect bold,No shuddering pass o’er lip or brow,For why should Innocence be toldThe pangs that guilty spirits bow?

“The loving eye that watches thineClose as the air that wraps thee round—Why in thy sorrow should it pine,Since never of thy sin it found?And wherefore should the heathen seeWhat chains of darkness thee enslave,And mocking say, ‘Lo, this is heWho owned a God that could not save’?”

Thus oft the mourner’s wayward heartTempts him to hide his grief and die,Too feeble for Confession’s smart,Too proud to bear a pitying eye;How sweet, in that dark hour, to fallOn bosoms waiting to receiveOur sighs, and gently whisper all!They love us—will not God forgive?

Else let us keep our fast within,Till Heaven and we are quite alone,Then let the grief, the shame, the sin,Before the mercy-seat be thrown.Between the porch and altar weep,Unworthy of the holiest place,Yet hoping near the shrine to keepOne lowly cell in sight of grace.

Nor fear lest sympathy should fail—Hast thou not seen, in night hours drear,When racking thoughts the heart assail,The glimmering stars by turns appear,And from the eternal house aboveWith silent news of mercy steal?So Angels pause on tasks of love,To look where sorrowing sinners kneel.

Or if no Angel pass that way,He who in secret sees, perchanceMay bid His own heart-warming rayToward thee stream with kindlier glance,As when upon His drooping headHis Father’s light was poured from Heaven,What time, unsheltered and unfed,Far in the wild His steps were driven.

High thoughts were with Him in that hour,Untold, unspeakable on earth—And who can stay the soaring powerOf spirits weaned from worldly mirth,While far beyond the sound of praiseWith upward eye they float serene,And learn to bear their Saviour’s blazeWhen Judgment shall undraw the screen?

Haste thee, escape thither: for I cannot do any thing till thou be come thither. Therefore the name of the city was called Zoar.Genesisxix. 22.

“Angelof wrath! why linger in mid-air,While the devoted city’s cryLouder and louder swells? and canst thou spare,Thy full-charged vial standing by?”Thus, with stern voice, unsparing Justice pleads:He hears her not—with softened gazeHis eye is following where sweet Mercy leads,And till she give the sign, his fury stays.

Guided by her, along the mountain road,Far through the twilight of the morn,With hurried footsteps from the accursed abodeHe sees the holy household borne;Angels, or more, on either hand are nigh,To speed them o’er the tempting plain,Lingering in heart, and with frail sidelong eyeSeeking how near they may unharmed remain.

“Ah! wherefore gleam those upland slopes so fair?And why, through every woodland arch,Swells yon bright vale, as Eden rich and rare,Where Jordan winds his stately march;If all must be forsaken, ruined all,If God have planted but to burn?—Surely not yet the avenging shower will fall,Though to my home for one last look I turn.”

Thus while they waver, surely long agoThey had provoked the withering blast,But that the merciful Avengers knowTheir frailty well, and hold them fast.“Haste, for thy life escape, nor look behind”—Ever in thrilling sounds like theseThey check the wandering eye, severely kind,Nor let the sinner lose his soul at ease.

And when, o’erwearied with the steep ascent,We for a nearer refuge crave,One little spot of ground in mercy lent,One hour of home before the grave,Oft in His pity o’er His children weak,His hand withdraws the penal fire,And where we fondly cling, forbears to wreakFull vengeance, till our hearts are weaned entire.

Thus, by the merits of one righteous man,The Church, our Zoar, shall abide,Till she abuse, so sore, her lengthened span,E’en Mercy’s self her face must hide.Then, onward yet a step, thou hard-won soul;Though in the Church thou know thy place,The mountain farther lies—there seek thy goal,There breathe at large, o’erpast thy dangerous race.

Sweet is the smile of home; the mutual lookWhen hearts are of each other sure;Sweet all the joys that crowd the household nook,The haunt of all affections pure;Yet in the world e’en these abide, and weAbove the world our calling boast;Once gain the mountain-top, and thou art free:Till then, who rest, presume; who turn to look, are lost.

And when Esau heard the words of his father, he cried with a great and exceeding bitter cry, and said unto his father, Bless me, even me also, O my father.Genesisxxvii. 34. (CompareHebrewsxii. 17. He found no place of repentance, though he sought it carefully with tears.)

“Andis there in God’s world so drear a placeWhere the loud bitter cry is raised in vain?Where tears of penance come too late for grace,As on the uprooted flower the genial rain?”

’Tis even so: the sovereign Lord of soulsStores in the dungeon of His boundless realmEach bolt that o’er the sinner vainly rolls,With gathered wrath the reprobate to whelm.

Will the storm hear the sailor’s piteous cry,Taught so mistrust, too late, the tempting wave,When all around he sees but sea and sky,A God in anger, a self-chosen grave?

Or will the thorns, that strew intemperance’ bed,Turn with a wish to down? will late remorseRecall the shaft the murderer’s hand has sped,Or from the guiltless bosom turn its course?

Then may the unbodied soul in safety fleetThrough the dark curtains of the world above,Fresh from the stain of crime; nor fear to meetThe God whom here she would not learn to love;

Then is there hope for such as die unblest,That angel wings may waft them to the shore,Nor need the unready virgin strike her breast,Nor wait desponding round the bridegroom’s door.

But where is then the stay of contrite hearts?Of old they leaned on Thy eternal word,But with the sinner’s fear their hope departs,Fast linked as Thy great Name to Thee, O Lord:

That Name, by which Thy faithful oath is past,That we should endless be, for joy or woe:—And if the treasures of Thy wrath could waste,Thy lovers must their promised Heaven forego.

But ask of elder days, earth’s vernal hour,When in familiar talk God’s voice was heard,When at the Patriarch’s call the fiery showerPropitious o’er the turf-built shrine appeared.

Watch by our father Isaac’s pastoral door—The birthright sold, the blessing lost and won;Tell, Heaven has wrath that can relent no more;The Grave, dark deeds that cannot be undone.

We barter life for pottage; sell true blissFor wealth or power, for pleasure or renown;Thus, Esau-like, our Father’s blessing miss,Then wash with fruitless tears our faded crown.

Our faded crown, despised and flung aside,Shall on some brother’s brow immortal bloom;No partial hand the blessing may misguide,No flattering fancy change our Monarch’s doom:

His righteous doom, that meek true-hearted LoveThe everlasting birthright should receive,The softest dews drop on her from above,The richest green her mountain garland weave:

Her brethren, mightiest, wisest, eldest-born,Bow to her sway, and move at her behest;Isaac’s fond blessing may not fall on scorn,Nor Balaam’s curse on Love, which God hath blest.

When a strong man armed keepeth his place, his goods are in peace; but when a stronger than he shall come upon him, and overcome him, he taketh from him all his armour wherein he trusted, and divideth his spoils.St. Lukexi. 21, 22.

SeeLucifer like lightning fall,Dashed from his throne of pride;While, answering Thy victorious call,The Saints his spoils divide;This world of Thine, by him usurped too long,Now opening all her stores to heal Thy servants’ wrong.

So when the first-born of Thy foesDead in the darkness lay,When Thy redeemed at midnight roseAnd cast their bonds away,The orphaned realm threw wide her gates, and toldInto freed Israel’s lap her jewels and her gold.

And when their wondrous march was o’er,And they had won their homes,Where Abraham fed his flock of yore,Among their fathers’ tombs;—A land that drinks the rain of Heaven at will,Whose waters kiss the feet of many a vine-clad hill;—

Oft as they watched, at thoughtful eve,A gale from bowers of balmSweep o’er the billowy corn, and heaveThe tresses of the palm,Just as the lingering Sun had touched with gold,Far o’er the cedar shade, some tower of giants old;

It was a fearful joy, I ween,To trace the Heathen’s toil,The limpid wells, the orchards green,Left ready for the spoil,The household stores untouched, the roses brightWreathed o’er the cottage walls in garlands of delight.

And now another Canaan yieldsTo Thine all-conquering ark:—Fly from the “old poetic” fields,Ye Paynim shadows dark!Immortal Greece, dear land of glorious lays,Lo! here the “unknown God” of thy unconscious praise.

The olive-wreath, the ivied wand,“The sword in myrtles drest,”Each legend of the shadowy strandNow wakes a vision blest;As little children lisp, and tell of Heaven,So thoughts beyond their thought to those high Bards were given.

And these are ours: Thy partial graceThe tempting treasure lends:These relies of a guilty raceAre forfeit to Thy friends;What seemed an idol hymn, now breathes of Thee,Tuned by Faith’s ear to some celestial melody.

There’s not a strain to Memory dear,Nor flower in classic grove,There’s not a sweet note warbled here,But minds us of Thy Love.O Lord, our Lord, and spoiler of our foes,There is no light but Thine: with Thee all beauty glows.

Joseph made haste; for his bowels did yearn upon his brother; and he sought where to weep, and he entered into his chamber and wept there.Genesisxliii. 30.There stood no man with him, while Joseph made himself known unto his brethren.Genesisxlv. 1.

Joseph made haste; for his bowels did yearn upon his brother; and he sought where to weep, and he entered into his chamber and wept there.Genesisxliii. 30.

There stood no man with him, while Joseph made himself known unto his brethren.Genesisxlv. 1.

WhenNature tries her finest touch,Weaving her vernal wreath,Mark ye, how close she veils her round,Not to be traced by sight or sound,Nor soiled by ruder breath?

Who ever saw the earliest roseFirst open her sweet breast?Or, when the summer sun goes down,The first soft star in evening’s crownLight up her gleaming crest?

Fondly we seek the dawning bloomOn features wan and fair,The gazing eye no change can trace,But look away a little space,Then turn, and lo! ’tis there.

But there’s a sweeter flower than e’erBlushed on the rosy spray—A brighter star, a richer bloomThan e’er did western heaven illumeAt close of summer day.

’Tis Love, the last best gift of Heaven;Love gentle, holy, pure;But tenderer than a dove’s soft eye,The searching sun, the open sky,She never could endure.

E’en human Love will shrink from sightHere in the coarse rude earth:How then should rash intruding glanceBreak in uponhersacred tranceWho boasts a heavenly birth?

So still and secret is her growth,Ever the truest heart,Where deepest strikes her kindly rootFor hope or joy, for flower or fruit,Least knows its happy part.

God only, and good angels, lookBehind the blissful screen—As when, triumphant o’er His woes,The Son of God by moonlight rose,By all but Heaven unseen:

As when the holy Maid beheldHer risen Son and Lord:Thought has not colours half so fairThat she to paint that hour may dare,In silence best adored.

The gracious Dove, that brought from HeavenThe earnest of our bliss,Of many a chosen witness telling,On many a happy vision dwelling,Sings not a note of this.

So, truest image of the Christ,Old Israel’s long-lost son,What time, with sweet forgiving cheer,He called his conscious brethren near,Would weep with them alone.

He could not trust his melting soulBut in his Maker’s sight—Then why should gentle hearts and trueBare to the rude world’s withering viewTheir treasure of delight!

No—let the dainty rose awhileHer bashful fragrance hide—Rend not her silken veil too soon,But leave her, in her own soft noon,To flourish and abide.

And Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt.Exodusiii. 3.

Thehistoric Muse, from age to age,Through many a waste heart-sickening pageHath traced the works of Man:But a celestial call to-dayStays her, like Moses, on her way,The works of God to scan.

Far seen across the sandy wild,Where, like a solitary child,He thoughtless roamed and free,One towering thorn was wrapt in flame—Bright without blaze it went and came:Who would not turn and see?

Along the mountain ledges greenThe scattered sheep at will may gleanThe Desert’s spicy stores:The while, with undivided heart,The shepherd talks with God apart,And, as he talks, adores.

Ye too, who tend Christ’s wildering flock,Well may ye gather round the rockThat once was Sion’s hill:To watch the fire upon the mountStill blazing, like the solar fount,Yet unconsuming still.

Caught from that blaze by wrath Divine,Lost branches of the once-loved vine,Now withered, spent, and sere,See Israel’s sons, like glowing brands,Tossed wildly o’er a thousand landsFor twice a thousand year.

God will not quench nor slay them quite,But lifts them like a beacon-lightThe apostate Church to scare;Or like pale ghosts that darkling roam,Hovering around their ancient home,But find no refuge there.

Ye blessèd Angels! if of youThere be, who love the ways to viewOf Kings and Kingdoms here;(And sure, ’tis worth an Angel’s gaze,To see, throughout that dreary maze,God teaching love and fear:)

Oh say, in all the bleak expanseIs there a spot to win your glance,So bright, so dark as this?A hopeless faith, a homeless race,Yet seeking the most holy place,And owning the true bliss!

Salted with fire they seem, to showHow spirits lost in endless woeMay undecaying live.Oh, sickening thought! yet hold it fastLong as this glittering world shall last,Or sin at heart survive.

And hark! amid the flashing fire,Mingling with tones of fear and ire,Soft Mercy’s undersong—’Tis Abraham’s God who speaks so loud,His people’s cries have pierced the cloud,He sees, He sees their wrong;

He is come down to break their chain;Though nevermore on Sion’s faneHis visible ensign wave;’Tis Sion, wheresoe’er they dwell,Who, with His own true Israel,Shall own Him strong to save.

He shall redeem them one by one,Where’er the world-encircling sunShall see them meekly kneel:All that He asks on Israel’s part,Is only that the captive heartIts woe and burthen feel.

Gentiles! with fixed yet awful eyeTurn ye this page of mystery,Nor slight the warning sound:“Put off thy shoes from off thy feet—The place where man his God shall meet,Be sure, is holy ground.”

And He answered and said unto them, I tell you that, if these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out.St. Lukexix. 40.

Yewhose hearts are beating highWith the pulse of Poesy,Heirs of more than royal race,Framed by Heaven’s peculiar grace,God’s own work to do on earth,(If the word be not too bold,)Giving virtue a new birth,And a life that ne’er grows old—

Sovereign masters of all hearts!Know ye, who hath set your parts?He who gave you breath to sing,By whose strength ye sweep the string,He hath chosen you, to leadHis Hosannas here below;—Mount, and claim your glorious meed;Linger not with sin and woe.

But if ye should hold your peace,Deem not that the song would cease—Angels round His glory-throne,Stars, His guiding hand that own,Flowers, that grow beneath our feet,Stones in earth’s dark womb that rest,High and low in choir shall meet,Ere His Name shall be unblest.

Lord, by every minstrel tongueBe Thy praise so duly sung,That Thine angels’ harps may ne’erFail to find fit echoing here:We the while, of meaner birth,Who in that divinest spellDare not hope to join on earth,Give us grace to listen well.

But should thankless silence sealLips that might half Heaven reveal,Should bards in idol-hymns profaneThe sacred soul-enthralling strain,(As in this bad world belowNoblest things find vilest using,)Then, Thy power and mercy show,In vile things noble breath infusing;

Then waken into sound divineThe very pavement of Thy shrine,Till we, like Heaven’s star-sprinkled floor,Faintly give back what we adore:Childlike though the voices be,And untunable the parts,Thou wilt own the minstrelsyIf it flow from childlike hearts.

Doubtless Thou art our Father, though Abraham be ignorant of us, and Israel acknowledge us not.Isaiahlxiii. 16.

“Fatherto me thou art and mother dear,And brother too, kind husband of my heart”—So speaks Andromache in boding fear,Ere from her last embrace her hero part—So evermore, by Faith’s undying glow,We own the Crucified in weal or woe.

Strange to our ears the church-bells of our home,This fragrance of our old paternal fieldsMay be forgotten; and the time may comeWhen the babe’s kiss no sense of pleasure yieldsE’en to the doting mother: but Thine ownThou never canst forget, nor leave alone.

There are who sigh that no fond heart is theirs,None loves them best—O vain and selfish sigh!Out of the bosom of His love He spares—The Father spares the Son, for thee to die:For thee He died—for thee He lives again:O’er thee He watches in His boundless reign.

Thou art as much His care, as if besideNor man nor angel lived in Heaven or earth:Thus sunbeams pour alike their glorious tideTo light up worlds, or wake an insect’s mirth:They shine and shine with unexhausted store—Thou art thy Saviour’s darling—seek no more.

On thee and thine, thy warfare and thine end,E’en in His hour of agony He thought,When, ere the final pang His soul should rend,The ransomed spirits one by one were broughtTo His mind’s eye—two silent nights and daysIn calmness for His far-seen hour He stays.

Ye vaulted cells, where martyred seers of oldFar in the rocky walls of Sion sleep,Green terraces and archèd fountains cold,Where lies the cypress shade so still and deep,Dear sacred haunts of glory and of woe,Help us, one hour, to trace His musings high and low:

One heart-ennobling hour! It may not be:The unearthly thoughts have passed from earth away,And fast as evening sunbeams from the seaThy footsteps all in Sion’s deep decayWere blotted from the holy ground: yet dearIs every stone of hers; for Thou want surely here.

There is a spot within this sacred daleThat felt Thee kneeling—touched Thy prostrate brow:One Angel knows it. O might prayer availTo win that knowledge! sure each holy vowLess quickly from the unstable soul would fade,Offered where Christ in agony was laid.

Might tear of ours once mingle with the bloodThat from His aching brow by moonlight fell,Over the mournful joy our thoughts would brood,Till they had framed within a guardian spellTo chase repining fancies, as they rise,Like birds of evil wing, to mar our sacrifice.

So dreams the heart self-flattering, fondly dreams;—Else wherefore, when the bitter waves o’erflow,Miss we the light, Gethsemane, that streamsFrom thy dear name, where in His page of woeIt shines, a pale kind star in winter’s sky?Who vainly reads it there, in vain had seen Him die.

They gave Him to drink wine mingled with myrrh: but He received in not.St. Markxv. 23.

“Fillhigh the bowl, and spice it well, and pourThe dews oblivious: for the Cross is sharp,The Cross is sharp, and HeIs tenderer than a lamb.

“He wept by Lazarus’ grave—how will He bearThis bed of anguish? and His pale weak formIs worn with many a watchOf sorrow and unrest.

“His sweat last night was as great drops of blood,And the sad burthen pressed Him so to earth,The very torturers pausedTo help Him on His way.

“Fill high the bowl, benumb His aching senseWith medicined sleep.”—O awful in Thy woe!The parching thirst of deathIs on Thee, and Thou triest

The slumb’rous potion bland, and wilt not drink:Not sullen, nor in scorn, like haughty manWith suicidal handPutting his solace by:

But as at first Thine all-pervading lookSaw from Thy Father’s bosom to the abyssMeasuring in calm presageThe infinite descent;

So to the end, though now of mortal pangsMade heir, and emptied of Thy glory, awhile,With unaverted eyeThou meetest all the storm.

Thou wilt feel all, that Thou mayst pity all;And rather wouldst Thou wreathe with strong pain,Than overcloud Thy soul,So clear in agony,

Or lose one glimpse of Heaven before the timeO most entire and perfect sacrifice,Renewed in every pulseThat on the tedious Cross

Told the long hours of death, as, one by one,The life-strings of that tender heart gave way;E’en sinners, taught by Thee,Look Sorrow in the face,

And bid her freely welcome, unbeguiledBy false kind solaces, and spells of earth:—And yet not all unsoothed;For when was Joy so dear,

As the deep calm that breathed, “Father,forgive,”Or, “Be with Me in Paradise to-day?”And, though the strife be sore,Yet in His parting breath

Love masters Agony; the soul that seemedForsaken, feels her present God again,And in her Father’s armsContented dies away.

Saying, Father, if Thou be willing, remove this cup from Me; nevertheless not My will, but Thine, be done.St. Lukexxii. 42.

OLordmy God, do thou Thy holy will—I will lie still—I will not stir, lest I forsake Thine arm,And break the charmWhich lulls me, clinging to my Father’s breast,In perfect rest.

Wild fancy, peace! thou must not me beguileWith thy false smile:I know thy flatteries and thy cheating ways;Be silent, Praise,Blind guide with siren voice, and blinding allThat hear thy call.

Come, Self-devotion, high and pure,Thoughts that in thankfulness endure,Though dearest hopes are faithless found,And dearest hearts are bursting round.Come, Resignation, spirit meek,And let me kiss thy placid cheek,And read in thy pale eye sereneTheir blessing, who by faith can weanTheir hearts from sense, and learn to loveGod only, and the joys above.

They say, who know the life divine,And upward gaze with eagle eyne,That by each golden crown on high,Rich with celestial jewelry,Which for our Lord’s redeemed is set,There hangs a radiant coronet,All gemmed with pure and living light,Too dazzling for a sinner’s sight,Prepared for virgin souls, and themWho seek the martyr’s diadem.

Nor deem, who to that bliss aspire,Must win their way through blood and fire.The writhings of a wounded heartAre fiercer than a foeman’s dart.Oft in Life’s stillest shade reclining,In Desolation unrepining,Without a hope on earth to findA mirror in an answering mind,Meek souls there are, who little dreamTheir daily strife an Angel’s theme,Or that the rod they take so calmShall prove in Heaven a martyr’s palm.

And there are souls that seem to dwellAbove this earth—so rich a spellFloats round their steps, where’er they move,From hopes fulfilled and mutual love.Such, if on high their thoughts are set,Nor in the stream the source forget,If prompt to quit the bliss they know,Following the Lamb where’er He go,By purest pleasures unbeguiledTo idolise or wife or child;Such wedded souls our God shall ownFor faultless virgins round His throne.

Thus everywhere we find our suffering God,And where He trodMay set our steps: the Cross on CalvaryUplifted highBeams on the martyr host, a beacon lightIn open fight.

To the still wrestlings of the lonely heartHe doth impartThe virtue of his midnight agony,When none was nigh,Save God and one good angel, to assuageThe tempest’s rage.

Mortal! if life smile on thee, and thou findAll to thy mind,Think, who did once from Heaven to Hell descend,Thee to befriend:So shalt thou dare forego, at His dear call,Thy best, thine all.

“O Father! not My will, but Thine be done”—So spake the Son.Be this our charm, mellowing Earth’s ruder noiseOf griefs and joys:That we may cling for ever to Thy breastIn perfect rest!

As the beginning of thy supplications the commandment came forth, and I am come to shew thee; for thou art greatly beloved: therefore understand the matter, and consider the vision.Danielix. 23.

“OHolymountain of my God,How do thy towers in ruin lie,How art thou riven and strewn abroad,Under the rude and wasteful sky!”’Twas thus upon his fasting-dayThe “Man of Loves” was fain to pray,His lattice open toward his darling west,Mourning the ruined home he still must love the best.

Oh! for a love like Daniel’s now,To wing to Heaven but one strong prayerForGod’snew Israel, sunk as low,Yet flourishing to sight as fair,As Sion in her height of pride,With queens for handmaids at her side,With kings her nursing-fathers, thronèd high,And compassed with the world’s too tempting blazonry.

’Tis true, nor winter stays thy growth,Nor torrid summer’s sickly smile;The flashing billows of the southBreak not upon so lone an isle,But thou, rich vine, art grafted there,The fruit of death or life to bear,Yielding a surer witness every day,To thine Almighty Author and His steadfast sway.

Oh! grief to think, that grapes of gallShould cluster round thine healthiest shoot!God’s herald prove a heartless thrall,Who, if he dared, would fain be mute!E’en such is this bad world we see,Which self-condemned in owning Thee,Yet dares not open farewell of Thee take,For very pride, and her high-boasted Reason’s sake.

What do we then? if far and wideMen kneel toChrist, the pure and meek,Yet rage with passion, swell with pride,Have we not still our faith to seek?Nay—but in steadfast humblenessKneel on to Him, who loves to blessThe prayer that waits for him; and trembling striveTo keep the lingering flame in thine own breast alive.

Dark frowned the future e’en on him,The loving and belovèd Seer,What time he saw, through shadows dim,The boundary of th’ eternal year;He only of the sons of menNamed to be heir of glory then.Else had it bruised too sore his tender heartTo seeGod’sransomed world in wrath and flame depart

Then look no more: or closer watchThy course in Earth’s bewildering ways,For every glimpse thine eye can catchOf what shall be in those dread days:So when th’ Archangel’s word is spoken,And Death’s deep trance for ever broken,In mercy thou mayst feel the heavenly hand,And in thy lot unharmed before thy Savour stand.

He is despised and rejected of men.Isaiahliii. 3.

Isit not strange, the darkest hourThat ever dawned on sinful earthShould touch the heart with softer powerFor comfort than an angel’s mirth?That to the Cross the mourner’s eye should turnSooner than where the stars of Christmas burn?

Sooner than where the Easter sunShines glorious on yon open grave,And to and fro the tidings run,“Who died to heal, is risen to save?”Sooner than where upon the Saviour’s friendsThe very Comforter in light and love descends?

Yet so it is: for duly thereThe bitter herbs of earth are set,Till tempered by the Saviour’s prayer,And with the Saviour’s life-blood wet,They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm,Soft as imprisoned martyr’s deathbed calm.

All turn to sweet—but most of allThat bitterest to the lip of pride,When hopes presumptuous fade and fall,Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried,Or Love, the flower that closes up for fearWhen rude and selfish spirits breathe too near.

Then like a long-forgotten strainComes sweeping o’er the heart forlornWhat sunshine hours had taught in vainOfJesussuffering shame and scorn,As in all lowly hearts he suffers still,While we triumphant ride and have the world at will.

His piercèd hands in vain would hideHis face from rude reproachful gaze,His ears are open to abideThe wildest storm the tongue can raise,He who with one rough word, some early day,Their idol world and them shall sweep for aye away.

But we by Fancy may assuageThe festering sore by Fancy made,Down in some lonely hermitageLike wounded pilgrims safely laid,Where gentlest breezes whisper souls distressed,That Love yet lives, and Patience shall find rest.

O! shame beyond the bitterest thoughtThat evil spirit ever framed,That sinners know what Jesus wrought,Yet feel their haughty hearts untamed—That souls in refuge, holding by the Cross,Should wince and fret at this world’s little loss.

Lord of my heart, by Thy last cry,Let not Thy blood on earth be spent—Lo, at Thy feet I fainting lie,Mine eyes upon Thy wounds are bent,Upon Thy streaming wounds my weary eyesWait like the parchèd earth on April skies.

Wash me, and dry these bitter tears,O let my heart no further roam,’Tis Thine by vows, and hopes, and fears.Long since—O call Thy wanderer home;To that dear home, safe in Thy wounded side,Where only broken hearts their sin and shame may hide.

As for thee also, by the blood of thy covenant I have sent forth thy prisoners out of the pit wherein is no water.Zechariahix. 11.

Atlength the worst is o’er, and Thou art laidDeep in Thy darksome bed;All still and cold beneath yon dreary stoneThy sacred form is gone;Around those lips where power and mercy hung,The dews of deaths have clung;The dull earth o’er Thee, and Thy foes around,Thou sleep’st a silent corse, in funeral fetters wound.

Sleep’st Thou indeed? or is Thy spirit fled,At large among the dead?Whether in Eden bowers Thy welcome voiceWake Abraham to rejoice,Or in some drearier scene Thine eye controlsThe thronging band of souls;That, as Thy blood won earth, Thine agonyMight set the shadowy realm from sin and sorrow free.

Where’er Thou roam’st, one happy soul, we know,Seen at Thy side in woe,Waits on Thy triumphs—even as all the blestWith him and Thee shall rest.Each on his cross; by Thee we hang a while,Watching Thy patient smile,Till we have learned to say, “’Tis justly done,Only in glory,Lord, Thy sinful servant own.”

Soon wilt Thou take us to Thy tranquil bowerTo rest one little hour,Till Thine elect are numbered, and the graveCall Thee to come and save:Then on Thy bosom borne shall we descendAgain with earth to blend,Earth all refined with bright supernal fires,Tinctured with holy blood, and winged with pure desires.

Meanwhile with every son and saint of ThineAlong the glorious line,Sitting by turns beneath Thy sacred feetWe’ll hold communion sweet,Know them by look and voice, and thank them allFor helping us in thrall,For words of hope, and bright examples givenTo show through moonless skies that there is light in Heaven.

O come that day, when in this restless heartEarth shall resign her part,When in the grave with Thee my limbs shall rest,My soul with Thee be blest!But stay, presumptuous—Christwith Thee abidesIn the rock’s dreary sides:He from this stone will wring Celestial dewIf but this prisoner’s heart he faithful found and true.

When tears are spent, and then art left aloneWith ghosts of blessings gone,Think thou art taken from the cross, and laidInJesus’ burial shade;Take Moses’ rod, the rod of prayer, and callOut of the rocky wallThe fount of holy blood; and lift on highThy grovelling soul that feels so desolate and dry.

Prisoner of Hope thou art—look up and singIn hope of promised spring.As in the pit his father’s darling layBeside the desert way,And knew not how, but knew hisGodwould saveE’en from that living grave,So, buried with ourLord, we’ll chose our eyesTo the decaying world, till Angels bid us rise.

And as they were afraid, and bowed down their faces to the earth, they said unto them, Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen.St. Lukexxiv. 5, 6.

Oh! day of days! shall hearts set freeNo “minstrel rapture” find for thee?Thou art this Sun of other days,They shine by giving back thy rays:

Enthronèd in thy sovereign sphere,Thou shedd’st thy light on all the year;Sundays by thee more glorious break,An Easter Day in every week:

And week days, following in their train,The fulness of thy blessing gain,Till all, both resting soil employ,Be one Lord’s day of holy joy.

Then wake, my soul, to high desires,And earlier light thine altar fires:The World some hours is on her way,Nor thinks on thee, thou blessèd day:

Or, if she think, it is in scorn:The vernal light of Easter mornTo her dark gaze no brighter seemsThan Reason’s or the Law’s pale beams.

“Where is your Lord?” she scornful asks:“Where is His hire? we know his tasks;Sons of a King ye boast to be:Let us your crowns and treasures see.”

We in the words of Truth reply,(An angel brought them from this sky,)“Our crown, our treasure is not here,’Tis stored above the highest sphere:

“Methinks your wisdom guides amiss,To seek on earth a Christian’s bliss;We watch not now the lifeless stone;Our only Lord is risen and gone.”

Yet e’en the lifeless stone is dearFor thoughts of Him who late lay here;And the base world, now Christ hath died,Ennobled is and glorified.

No more a charnel-house, to fenceThe relics of lost innocence,A vault of ruin and decay;Th’ imprisoning stone is rolled away:

’Tis now a cell, where angels useTo come and go with heavenly news,And in the ears of mourners say,“Come, see the place where Jesus lay:”

’Tis now a fane, where Love can findChrist everywhere embalmed and shined:Aye gathering up memorials sweet,Where’er she sets her duteous feet.

Oh! joy to Mary first allowed,When roused from weeping o’er His shroud,By His own calm, soul-soothing tone,Breathing her name, as still His own!

Joy to the faithful Three renewed,As their glad errand they pursued!Happy, who so Christ’s word convey,That he may meet them on their way!

So is it still: to holy tears,In lonely hours, Christ risen appears:In social hours, who Christ would seeMust turn all tasks to Charity.

Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter of persons: but in every nation he that feareth Him, and worketh righteousness, is accepted with Him.Actsx. 34, 35.

Goup and watch the new-born rillJust trickling from its mossy bed,Streaking the heath-clad hillWith a bright emerald thread.

Canst thou her bold career foretell,What rocks she shall o’erleap or rend,How far in Ocean’s swellHer freshening billows send?

Perchance that little brook shall flowThe bulwark of some mighty realm,Bear navies to and froWith monarchs at their helm.

Or canst thou guess, how far awaySome sister nymph, beside her urnReclining night and day,’Mid reeds and mountain fern,

Nurses her store, with thine to blendWhen many a moor and glen are past,Then in the wide sea endTheir spotless lives at last?

E’en so, the course of prayer who knows?It springs in silence where it will,Springs out of sight, and flowsAt first a lonely rill:

But streams shall meet it by and byFrom thousand sympathetic hearts,Together swelling highTheir chant of many parts.

Unheard by all but angel earsThe good Cornelius knelt alone,Nor dreamed his prayers and tearsWould help a world undone.

The while upon his terraced roofThe loved Apostle to his LordIn silent thought aloofFor heavenly vision soared.

Far o’er the glowing western mainHis wistful brow was upward raised,Where, like an angel’s train,The burnished water blazed.

The saint beside the ocean prayed,This soldier in his chosen bower,Where all his eye surveyedSeemed sacred in that hour.

To each unknown his brother’s prayer,Yet brethren true in dearest loveWere they—and now they shareFraternal joys above.

There daily through Christ’s open gateThey see the Gentile spirits press,Brightening their high estateWith dearer happiness.

What civic wreath for comrades savedShone ever with such deathless gleam,Or when did perils bravedSo sweet to veterans seem?

And they departed quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy, and did run to bring His disciples word.St. Matthewxxviii. 8.

TO THE SNOWDROP.

Thoufirst-born of the year’s delight,Pride of the dewy glade,In vernal green and virgin white,Thy vestal robes, arrayed:

’Tis not because thy drooping formSinks graceful on its nest,When chilly shades from gathering stormAffright thy tender breast;

Nor for yon river islet wildBeneath the willow spray,Where, like the ringlets of a child,Thou weav’st thy circle gay;

’Tis not for these I love thee dear—Thy shy averted smilesTo Fancy bode a joyous year,One of Life’s fairy isles.

They twinkle to the wintry moon,And cheer th’ ungenial day,And tell us, all will glisten soonAs green and bright as they.

Is there a heart that loves the spring,Their witness can refuse?Yet mortals doubt, when angels bringFrom Heaven their Easter news:

When holy maids and matrons speakOf Christ’s forsaken bed,And voices, that forbid to seekThe hiving ’mid the dead,

And when they say, “Turn, wandering heart,Thy Lord is ris’n indeed,Let Pleasure go, put Care apart,And to His presence speed;”

We smile in scorn: and yet we knowThey early sought the tomb,Their hearts, that now so freshly glow,Lost in desponding gloom.

They who have sought, nor hope to find,Wear not so bright a glance:They, who have won their earthly mind,Lees reverently advance.

But where in gentle spirits, fearAnd joy so duly meet,These sure have seen the angels near,And kissed the Saviour’s feet.

Nor let the Pastor’s thankful eyeTheir faltering tale disdain,As on their lowly couch they lie,Prisoners of want and pain.

O guide us, when our faithless heartsFrom Thee would start aloof,Where Patience her sweet skill impartsBeneath some cottage roof:

Revive our dying fires, to burnHigh as her anthems soar,And of our scholars let us learnOur own forgotten lore.

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