First Sunday after Easter.

Seemeth it but a small thing unto you, that the God of Israel hath separated you from the congregation of Israel, to bring you near to Himself?Numbersxvi. 9.

FirstFather of the holy seed,If yet, invoked in hour of need,Thou count me for Thine ownNot quite an outcast if I prove,(Thou joy’st in miracles of love),Hear, from Thy mercy-throne!

Upon Thine altar’s horn of goldHelp me to lay my trembling hold,Though stained with Christian gore;—The blood of souls by Thee redeemed,But, while I roved or idly dreamed,Lost to be found no more.

For oft, when summer leaves were bright,And every flower was bathed in light,In sunshine moments past,My wilful heart would burst awayFrom where the holy shadow lay,Where heaven my lot had cast.

I thought it scorn with Thee to dwell,A Hermit in a silent cell,While, gaily sweeping by,Wild Fancy blew his bugle strain,And marshalled all his gallant trainIn the world’s wondering eye.

I would have joined him—but as oftThy whispered warnings, kind and soft,My better soul confessed.“My servant, let the world alone—Safe on the steps of Jesus’ throneBe tranquil and be blest.”

“Seems it to thee a niggard handThat nearest Heaven has bade thee stand,The ark to touch and bear,With incense of pure heart’s desireTo heap the censer’s sacred fire,The snow-white Ephod wear?”

Why should we crave the worldling’s wreath,On whom the Savour deigned to breathe,To whom His keys were given,Who lead the choir where angels meet,With angels’ food our brethren greet,And pour the drink of Heaven?

When sorrow all our heart would ask,We need not shun our daily task,And hide ourselves for calm;The herbs we seek to heal our woeFamiliar by our pathway grow,Our common air is balm.

Around each pure domestic shrineBright flowers of Eden bloom and twine,Our hearths are altars all;The prayers of hungry souls and poor,Like armèd angels at the door,Our unseen foes appal.

Alms all around and hymns within—What evil eye can entrance winWhere guards like these abound?If chance some heedless heart should roam,Sure, thought of these will lure it homeEre lost in Folly’s round.

O joys, that sweetest in decay,Fall not, like withered leaves, away,But with the silent breathOf violets drooping one by one,Soon as their fragrant task is done,Are wafted high in death!

He hath said, which heard the words of God, and knew the knowledge of the Most High, which saw the vision of the Almighty, falling into a trance, but having his eyes open: I shall see Him, but not now; I shall behold Him, but not nigh; there shall come a Star out at Jacob, and a Sceptre shall rise out of Israel, and shall smite the corners of Moab, and destroy all the children at Sheth.Numbersxxiv. 16, 17.

Ofora sculptor’s hand,That thou might’st take thy stand,Thy wild hair floating on the eastern breeze,Thy tranced yet open gazeFixed on the desert haze,As one who deep in heaven some airy pageant sees.

In outline dim and vastTheir fearful shadows castThis giant forms of empires on their wayTo ruin: one by oneThey tower and they are gone,Yet in the Prophet’s soul the dreams of avarice stay.

No sun or star so brightIn all the world of lightThat they should draw to Heaven his downward eye:He hears th’ Almighty’s word,He sees the angel’s sword,Yet low upon the earth his heart and treasure lie.

Lo! from you argent field,To him and us revealed,One gentle Star glides down, on earth to dwell.Chained as they are belowOur eyes may see it glow,And as it mounts again, may track its brightness well.

To him it glared afar,A token of wild war,The banner of his Lord’s victorious wrath:But close to us it gleams,Its soothing lustre streamsAround our home’s green walls, and on our church-way path.

We in the tents abideWhich he at distance eyedLike goodly cedars by the waters spread,While seven red altar-firesRose up in wavy spires,Where on the mount he watched his sorceries dark and dread.

He watched till morning’s rayOn lake and meadow lay,And willow-shaded streams that silent sweepAround the bannered lines,Where by their several signsThe desert-wearied tribes in sight of Canaan sleep.

He watched till knowledge cameUpon his soul like flame,Not of those magic fires at random caught:But true Prophetic lightFlashed o’er him, high and bright,Flashed once, and died away, and left his darkened thought.

And can he choose but fear,Who feels hisGodso near,That when he fain would curse, his powerless tongueIn blessing only moves?—Alas! the world he lovesToo close around his heart her tangling veil hath flung.

Sceptre and Star divine,Who in Thine inmost shrineHash made us worshippers, O claim Thine own;More than Thy seers we know—O teach our love to growUp to Thy heavenly light, and reap what Thou hast sown.

A woman when she is in travail hath sorrow, because her hour is come; but as soon as she is delivered of the child, she remembereth no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world.St. Johnxvi. 21.

Wellmay I guess and feelWhy Autumn should be sad;But vernal airs should sorrow heal,Spring should be gay and glad:Yet as along this violet bank I rove,The languid sweetness seems to choke my breath,I sit me down beside the hazel grove,And sigh, and half could wish my weariness were death.

Like a bright veering cloudGrey blossoms twinkle there,Warbles around a busy crowdOf larks in purest air.Shame on the heart that dreams of blessings gone,Or wakes the spectral forms of woe and crime,When nature sings of joy and hope alone,Reading her cheerful lesson in her own sweet time.

Nor let the proud heart say,In her self-torturing hour,The travail pangs must have their way,The aching brow must lower.To us long since the glorious Child is bornOur throes should be forgot, or only seemLike a sad vision told for joy at morn,For joy that we have waked and found it but a dream.

Mysterious to all thoughtA mother’s prime of bliss,When to her eager lips is broughtHer infant’s thrilling kiss.O never shall it set, the sacred lightWhich dawns that moment on her tender gaze,In the eternal distance blending brightHer darling’s hope and hers, for love and joy and praise.

No need for her to weepLike Thracian wives of yore,Save when in rapture still and deepHer thankful heart runs o’er.They mourned to trust their treasure on the main,Sure of the storm, unknowing of their guide:Welcome to her the peril and the pain,For well she knows the bonus where they may safely hide.

She joys that one is bornInto a world forgiven,Her Father’s household to adorn,And dwell with her in Heaven.So have I seen, in Spring’s bewitching hour,When the glad Earth is offering all her best,Some gentle maid bend o’er a cherished flower,And wish it worthier on a Parent’s heart to rest.

Nevertheless I tell you the truth; It is expedient for you that I go away: for if I go not away, the Comforter will not come unto you; but if I depart, I will send Him unto you.St. Johnxvi 7.

MySaviour, can it ever beThat I should gain by losing Thee?The watchful mother tarries nigh,Though sleep have closed her infant’s eye;For should he wake, and find her gone.She knows she could not bear his moan.But I am weaker than a child,And Thou art more than mother dear;Without Thee Heaven were but a wild;How can I live without Thee here!

“’Tis good for you, that I should go,“You lingering yet awhile below;”—’Tis Thine own gracious promise, Lord!Thy saints have proved the faithful word,When heaven’s bright boundless avenueFar opened on their eager view,And homeward to Thy Father’s throne,Still lessening, brightening on their sight,Thy shadowy car went soaring on;They tracked Thee up th’ abyss of light.

Thou bidd’st rejoice; they dare not mourn,But to their home in gladness turn,Their home and God’s, that favoured place,Where still He shines on Abraham’s race,In prayers and blessings there to waitLike suppliants at their Monarch’s gate,Who bent with bounty rare to aidThe splendours of His crowning day,Keeps back awhile His largess, madeMore welcome for that brief delay:

In doubt they wait, but not unblest;They doubt not of their Master’s rest,Nor of the gracious will of Heaven—Who gave His Son, sure all has given—But in ecstatic awe they museWhat course the genial stream may choose,And far and wide their fancies rove,And to their height of wonder strain,What secret miracle of loveShould make their Saviour’s going gain.

The days of hope and prayer are past,The day of comfort dawns at last,The everlasting gates againRoll back, and, lo! a royal train—From the far depth of light once moreThe floods of glory earthward pour:They part like shower-drops in mid air,But ne’er so soft fell noon-tide shower,Nor evening rainbow gleamed so fairTo weary swains in parchèd bower.

Swiftly and straight each tongue of flameThrough cloud and breeze unwavering came,And darted to its place of restOn some meek brow of Jesus blest.Nor fades it yet, that living gleam,And still those lambent lightnings stream;Where’er the Lord is, there are they;In every heart that gives them room,They light His altar every day,Zeal to inflame, and vice consume.

Soft as the plumes of Jesus’ DoveThey nurse the soul to heavenly love;The struggling spark of good within,Just smothered in the strife of sin,They quicken to a timely glow,The pure flame spreading high and low.Said I, that prayer and hope were o’er?Nay, blessèd Spirit! but by TheeThe Church’s prayer finds wings to soar,The Church’s hope finds eyes to see.

Then, fainting soul, arise and sing;Mount, but be sober on the wing;Mount up, for Heaven is won by prayer,Be sober, for thou art not there;Till Death the weary spirit free,Thy God hath said, ’Tis good for theeTo walk by faith and not by sight:Take it on trust a little while;Soon shalt thou read the mystery rightIn the full sunshine of His smile.

Or if thou yet more knowledge crave,Ask thine own heart, that willing slaveTo all that works thee woe or harmShouldst thou not need some mighty charmTo win thee to thy Saviour’s side,Though He had deigned with thee to bide?The Spirit must stir the darkling deep,The Dove must settle on the Cross,Else we should all sin on or sleepWith Christ in sight, turning our gain to loss.

And the Lord was very angry with Aaron to have destroyed him: and I prayed for Aaron also the same time.Deuteronomyix. 20.

Nowis there solemn pause in earth and heaven;The Conqueror nowHis bonds hath riven,And Angels wonder why He stays below:Yet hath not man his lesson learned,How endless love should be returned.

Deep is the silence as of summer noon,When a soft showerWill trickle soon,A gracious rain, freshening the weary bower—O sweetly then far off is heardThe clear note of some lonely bird.

So let Thy turtle-dove’s sad call ariseIn doubt and fearThrough darkening skies,And pierce, O Lord, Thy justly-sealèd ear,Where on the house-top, all night longShe trills her widowed, faltering song.

Teach her to know and love her hour of prayer,And evermore,As faith grows rare,Unlock her heart, and offer all its storeIn holier love and humbler vows,As suits a lost returning spouse.

Not as at first, but with intenser cry,Upon the mountShe now must lie,Till Thy dear love to blot the sad accountOf her rebellious race be won,Pitying the mother in the son.

But chiefly (for she knows Thee angered worstBy holiest thingsProfaned and curst),Chiefly for Aaron’s seed she spreads her wings,If but one leaf she may from TheeWin of the reconciling tree.

For what shall heal, when holy water banes!Or who may guideO’er desert plainsThy loved yet sinful people wandering wide,If Aaron’s hand unshrinking mouldAn idol form of earthly gold?

Therefore her tears are bitter, and as deepHer boding sigh,As, while men sleep,Sad-hearted mothers heave, that wakeful lie,To muse upon some darling childRoaming in youth’s uncertain wild.

Therefore on fearful dreams her inward sightIs fain to dwell—What lurid lightShall the last darkness of the world dispel,The Mediator in His wrathDescending down the lightning’s path.

Yet, yet awhile, offended Saviour, pause,In act to breakThine outraged laws,O spare Thy rebels for Thine own dear sake;Withdraw Thine hand, nor dash to earthThe covenant of our second birth.

’Tis forfeit like the first—we own it all—Yet for love’s sakeLet it not fall;But at Thy touch let veilèd hearts awake,That nearest to Thine altar lie,Yet least of holy things descry.

Teacher of teachers! Priest of priests! from TheeThe sweet strong prayerMust rise, to freeFirst Levi, then all Israel, from the snare.Thou art our Moses out of sight—Speak for us, or we perish quite.

Why stand ye gazing up into Heaven? this same Jesus, which is taken up from you into Heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen Him go into Heaven.Actsi. 11

Softcloud, that while the breeze of MayChants her glad matins in the leafy arch,Draw’st thy bright veil across the heavenly wayMeet pavement for an angel’s glorious march:

My soul is envious of mine eye,That it should soar and glide with thee so fast,The while my grovelling thoughts half buried lie,Or lawless roam around this earthly waste.

Chains of my heart, avaunt I say—I will arise, and in the strength of lovePursue the bright track ere it fade away,My Saviour’s pathway to His home above.

Sure, when I reach the point where earthMelts into nothing from th’ uncumbered sight,Heaven will o’ercome th’ attraction of my birth.And I shall sink in yonder sea of light:

Till resting by th’ incarnateLord,Once bleeding, now triumphant for my sake,I mark Him, how by seraph hosts adored,He to earth’s lowest cares is still awake.

The sun and every vassal star,All space, beyond the soar of angel wings,Wait on His word: and yet He stays His carFor every sigh a contrite suppliant brings.

He listens to the silent tearFor all the anthems of the boundless sky—And shall our dreams of music bar our earTo His soul-piercing voice for ever nigh?

Nay, gracious Saviour—but as nowOur thoughts have traced Thee to Thy glory-throneSo help us evermore with thee to bowWhere human sorrow breathes her lowly moan.

We must not stand to gaze too long,Though on unfolding Heaven our gaze we bendWhere lost behind the bright angelic throngWe seeChrist’sentering triumph slow ascend.

No fear but we shall soon behold,Faster than now it fades, that gleam revive,When issuing from his cloud of fiery goldOur wasted frames feel the true sun, and live.

Then shall we see Thee as Thou art,For ever fixed in no unfruitful gaze,But such as lifts the new-created heart,Age after age, in worthier love and praise.

As every man hath received the gift, even so minister the same one to another, as good stewards of the manifold grace of God. 1St. Peteriv. 10.

TheEarth that in her genial breastMakes for the down a kindly nest,Where wafted by the warm south-westIt floats at pleasure,Yields, thankful, of her very best,To nurse her treasure:

True to her trust, tree, herb, or reed,She renders for each scattered seed,And to her Lord with duteous heedGives large increase:Thus year by year she works unfeed,And will not cease.

Woe worth these barren hearts of ours,Where Thou hast set celestial flowers,And watered with more balmy showersThan e’er distilledIn Eden, on th’ ambrosial bowers—Yet nought we yield.

Largely Thou givest, gracious Lord,Largely Thy gifts should be restored;Freely Thou givest, and Thy wordIs, “Freely give.”He only, who forgets to hoard,Has learned to live.

Wisely Thou givest—all aroundThine equal rays are resting found,Yet varying so on various groundThey pierce and strike,That not two roseate cups are crownedWith drew alike:

E’en so, in silence, likest Thee,Steals on soft-handed Charity,Tempering her gifts, that seem so free,By time and place,Till not a woe the bleak world see,But finds her grace:

Eyes to the blind, and to the lameFeet, and to sinners wholesome blame,To starving bodies food and flame,By turns she brings;To humbled souls, that sink for shame,Lends heaven-ward wings:

Leads them the way our Saviour went,And shows Love’s treasure yet unspent;As when th’ unclouded heavens were rent.Opening His road,Nor yet His Holy Spirit sentTo our abode.

Ten days th’ eternal doors displayedWere wondering (so th’ Almighty bade)Whom Love enthroned would send, in aidOf souls that mourn,Left orphans in Earth’s dreary shadeAs noon as born.

Open they stand, that prayers in throngsMay rise on high, and holy songs,Such incense as of right belongsTo the true shrine,Where stands the Healer of all wrongsIn light divine;

The golden censer in His hand,He offers hearts from every land,Tied to His own by gentlest bandOf silent Love:About Him wingèd blessings standIn act to move.

A little while, and they shall fleetFrom Heaven to Earth, attendants meetOn the life-giving ParacleteSpeeding His flight,With all that sacred is and sweet,On saints to light.

Apostles, Prophets, Pastors, allShall feel the shower of Mercy fall,And startling at th’ Almighty’s call,Give what He gave,Till their high deeds the world appal,And sinners save.

And suddenly there came a sound from Heaven as of a rushing mighty wind, and it filled all the house where they were sitting. And there appeared unto them cloven tongues like as of fire, and it sat upon each of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost.Actsii. 2–4

WhenGod of old came down from Heaven,In power and wrath He came;Before His feet the clouds were riven,Half darkness and half flame:

Around the trembling mountain’s baseThe prostrate people lay;A day of wrath and not of grace;A dim and dreadful day.

But when he came the second time,He came in power and love,Softer than gale at morning primeHovered His holy Dove.

The fires that rushed on Sinai downIn sudden torrents dread,Now gently light, a glorious crown,On every sainted head.

Like arrows went those lightnings forthWinged with the sinner’s doom,But these, like tongues, o’er all the earthProclaiming life to come:

And as on Israel’s awe-struck earThe voice exceeding loud,The trump, that angels quake to hear,Thrilled from the deep, dark cloud;

So, when the Spirit of our GodCame down His flock to find,A voice from Heaven was heard abroad,A rushing, mighty wind.

Nor doth the outward ear aloneAt that high warning start;Conscience gives back th’ appalling tone;’Tis echoed in the heart.

It fills the Church of God; it fillsThe sinful world around;Only in stubborn hearts and willsNo place for it is found.

To other strains our souls are set:A giddy whirl of sinFills ear and brain, and will not letHeaven’s harmonies come in.

Come Lord, Come Wisdom, Love, and Power,Open our ears to hear;Let us not miss th’ accepted hour;Save, Lord, by Love or Fear.

So the Lord scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth; and they left off to build the city.Genesisxi. 8

Sinceall that is not Heaven must fade,Light be the hand of Ruin laidUpon the home I love:With lulling spell let soft DecaySteal on, and spare the giant sway,The crash of tower and grove.

Far opening down some woodland deepIn their own quiet glade should sleepThe relics dear to thought,And wild-flower wreaths from side to sideTheir waving tracery hang, to hideWhat ruthless Time has wrought.

Such are the visions green and sweetThat o’er the wistful fancy fleetIn Asia’s sea-like plain,Where slowly, round his isles of sand,Euphrates through the lonely landWinds toward the pearly main.

Slumber is there, but not of rest;There her forlorn and weary nestThe famished hawk has found,The wild dog howls at fall of night,The serpent’s rustling coils affrightThe traveller on his round.

What shapeless form, half lost on high,Half seen against the evening sky,Seems like a ghost to glide,And watch, from Babel’s crumbling heap,Where in her shadow, fast asleep,Lies fallen imperial Pride?

With half-closed eye a lion thereIs basking in his noontide lair,Or prowls in twilight gloom.The golden city’s king he seems,Such as in old prophetic dreamsSprang from rough ocean’s womb.

But where are now his eagle wings,That sheltered erst a thousand kings,Hiding the glorious skyFrom half the nations, till they ownNo holier name, no mightier throne?That vision is gone by.

Quenched is the golden statue’s ray,The breath of heaven has blown awayWhat toiling earth had piled,Scattering wise heart and crafty hand,As breezes strew on ocean’s sandThe fabrics of a child.

Divided thence through every ageThy rebels, Lord, their warfare wage,And hoarse and jarring allMount up their heaven-assailing criesTo Thy bright watchmen in the skiesFrom Babel’s shattered wall.

Thrice only since, with blended mightThe nations on that haughty heightHave met to scale the Heaven:Thrice only might a Seraph’s lookA moment’s shade of sadness brook—Such power to guilt was given.

Now the fierce bear and leopard keenAre perished as they ne’er had been,Oblivion is their home:Ambition’s boldest dream and lastMust melt before the clarion blastThat sounds the dirge of Rome.

Heroes and kings, obey the charm,Withdraw the proud high-reaching arm,There is an oath on high:That ne’er on brow of mortal birthShall blend again the crowns of earth,Nor in according cry

Her many voices mingling ownOne tyrant Lord, one idol throne:But to His triumphs soonHeshall descend, who rules above,And the pure language of His love,All tongues of men shall tune.

Nor let Ambition heartless mourn;When Babel’s very ruins burn,Her high desires may breathe;—O’ercome thyself, and thou mayst shareWith Christ His Father’s throne, and wearThe world’s imperial wreath.

When He putteth forth His own sheep, He goeth before them.St. Johnx. 4.(Addressed to Candidates for Ordination.)

When He putteth forth His own sheep, He goeth before them.

St. Johnx. 4.

(Addressed to Candidates for Ordination.)

“Lord, in Thy field I work all day,I read, I teach, I warn, I pray,And yet these wilful wandering sheepWithin Thy fold I cannot keep.

“I journey, yet no step is won—Alas! the weary course I run!Like sailors shipwrecked in their dreams,All powerless and benighted seems.”

What? wearied out with half a life?Scared with this smooth unbloody strife?Think where thy coward hopes had flownHad Heaven held out the martyr’s crown.

How couldst thou hang upon the cross,To whom a weary hour is loss?Or how the thorns and scourging brookWho shrinkest from a scornful look?

Yet ere thy craven spirit faints,Hear thine own King, the King of Saints;Though thou wert toiling in the grave,’Tis He can cheer thee, He can save.

He is th’ eternal mirror bright,Where Angels view theFather’slight,And yet in Him the simplest swainMay read his homely lesson plain.

Early to quit His home on earth,And claim His high celestial birth,Alone with His true Father foundWithin the temple’s solemn round:—

Yet in meek duty to abideFor many a year at Mary’s side,Nor heed, though restless spirits ask,“What, hath the Christ forgot His task?”

Conscious of Deity within,To bow before an heir of sin,With folded arms on humble breast,By His own servant washed and blest:—

Then full of Heaven, the mystic DoveHovering His gracious brow above,To shun the voice and eye of praise,And in the wild His trophies raise:—

With hymns of angels in His ears,Back to His task of woe and tears,Unmurmuring through the world to roamWith not a wish or thought at home:—

All but Himself to heal and save,Till ripened for the cross and grave,He to His Father gently yieldThe breath that our redemption sealed:—

Then to unearthly life arise,Yet not at once to seek the skies,But glide awhile from saint to saint,Lest on our lonely way we faint;

And through the cloud by glimpses showHow bright, in Heaven, the marks will glowOf the true cross, imprinted deepBoth on the Shepherd and the sheep:—

When out of sight, in heart and prayer,Thy chosen people still to bear,And from behind Thy glorious veil,Shed light that cannot change or fail:—

This is Thy pastoral course, OLord,Till we be saved, and Thou adored;—Thy course and ours—but who are theyWho follow on the narrow way?

And yet of Thee from year to yearThe Church’s solemn chant we hear,As from Thy cradle to Thy throneShe swells her high heart-cheering tone.

Listen, ye pure white-robèd souls,Whom in her list she now enrolls,And gird ye for your high emprizeBy these her thrilling minstrelsies.

And wheresoe’er in earth’s wide field,Ye lift, for Him, the red-cross shield,Be this your song, your joy and pride—“Our Champion went before and died.”

If I have told you earthly things, and ye believe not, how shall ye believe if I tell you of heavenly things?St. Johniii. 12

Creator, Saviour, strengthening Guide,Now on Thy mercy’s ocean wideFar out of sight we seem to glide.

Help us, each hour, with steadier eyeTo search the deepening mystery,The wonders of Thy sea and sky.

The blessèd Angels look and longTo praise Thee with a worthier song,And yet our silence does Thee wrong.—

Along the Church’s central spaceThe sacred weeks, with unfelt pace,Hath borne us on from grace to grace.

As travellers on some woodland height,When wintry suns are gleaming bright,Lose in arched glades their tangled sight;—

By glimpses such as dreamers loveThrough her grey veil the leafless groveShows where the distant shadows rove;—

Such trembling joy the soul o’er-awesAs nearer to Thy shrine she draws:—And now before the choir we pause.

The door is closed—but soft and deepAround the awful arches sweep,Such airs as soothe a hermit’s sleep.

From each carved nook and fretted bendCornice and gallery seem to sendTones that with seraphs hymns might blend.

Three solemn parts together twineIn harmony’s mysterious line;Three solemn aisles approach the shrine:

Yet all are One—together all,In thoughts that awe but not appal,Teach the adoring heart to fall.

Within these walls each fluttering guestIs gently lured to one safe nest—Without, ’tis moaning and unrest.

The busy world a thousand waysIs hurrying by, nor ever staysTo catch a note of Thy dear praise.

Why tarries not her chariot wheel,That o’er her with no vain appealOne gust of heavenly song might steal?

Alas! for her Thy opening flowersUnheeded breathe to summer showers,Unheard the music of Thy bowers.

What echoes from the sacred domeThe selfish spirit may o’ercomeThat will not hear of love or home!

The heart that scorned a father’s care,How can it rise in filial prayer?How an all-seeing Guardian bear?

Or how shall envious brethren ownA Brother on the eternal throne,Their Father’s joy, their hops alone?

How shall Thy Spirit’s gracious wileThe sullen brow of gloom beguile,That frowns on sweet Affection’s smile?

Eternal One, Almighty Trine!(Since Thou art ours, and we are Thine,)By all Thy love did once resign,

By all the grace Thy heavens still hide,We pray Thee, keep us at Thy side,Creator, Saviour, strengthening Guide!

So Joshua smote all the country, . . . and all their kings; he left none remaining.Joshuax. 40.

Whereis the land with milk and honey flowing,The promise of our God, our fancy’s theme?Here over shattered walls dank weeds are growing,And blood and fire have run in mingled stream;Like oaks and cedars all aroundThe giant corses strew the ground,And haughty Jericho’s cloud-piercing wallLies where it sank at Joshua’s trumpet call.

These are not scenes for pastoral dance at even,For moonlight rovings in the fragrant glades,Soft slumbers in the open eye of Heaven,And all the listless joy of summer shades.We in the midst of ruins live,Which every hour dread warning give,Nor may our household vine or fig-tree hideThe broken arches of old Canaan’s pride.

Where is the sweet repose of hearts repenting,The deep calm sky, the sunshine of the soul,Now Heaven and earth are to our bliss consenting,And all the Godhead joins to make us whole.The triple crown of mercy nowIs ready for the suppliant’s brow,By the Almighty Three for ever planned,And from behind the cloud held out by Jesus’ hand.

“Now, Christians, hold your own—the land before yeIs open—win your way, and take your rest.”So sounds our war-note; but our path of gloryBy many a cloud is darkened and unblest:And daily as we downward glide,Life’s ebbing stream on either sideShows at each turn some mouldering hope or joy,The Man seems following still the funeral of the Boy.

Open our eyes, Thou Sun of life and gladness,That we may see that glorious world of Thine!It shines for us in vain, while drooping sadnessEnfolds us here like mist: come Power benign,Touch our chilled hearts with vernal smile,Our wintry course do Thou beguile,Nor by the wayside ruins let us mourn,Who have th’ eternal towers for our appointed bourne.

Marvel not, my brethren, if the world hate you. We know that we have passed from death unto life, because we love the brethren. 1St. Johniii. 13, 14.

Theclouds that wrap the setting sunWhen Autumn’s softest gleams are ending,Where all bright hues together runIn sweet confusion blending:—Why, as we watch their floating wreathSeem they the breath of life to breathe?To Fancy’s eye their motions proveThey mantle round the Sun for love.

When up some woodland dale we catchThe many-twinkling smile of ocean,Or with pleased ear bewildered watchHis chime of restless motion;Still as the surging waves retireThey seem to gasp with strong desire,Such signs of love old Ocean gives,We cannot choose but think he lives.

Wouldst thou the life of souls discern?Nor human wisdom nor divineHelps thee by aught beside to learn;Love is life’s only sign.The spring of the regenerate heart,The pulse, the glow of every part,Is the true love of Christ our Lord,As man embraced, as God adored.

But he, whose heart will bound to markThe full bright burst of summer morn,Loves too each little dewy spark,By leaf or flow’ret worn:Cheap forms, and common hues, ’tis true,Through the bright shower-drop’ meet his view;The colouring may be of this earth;The lustre comes of heavenly birth.

E’en so, who loves the Lord aright,No soul of man can worthless find;All will be precious in his sight,Since Christ on all hath shined:But chiefly Christian souls; for they,Though worn and soiled with sinful clay,Are yet, to eyes that see them true,All glistening with baptismal dew.

Then marvel not, if such as baskIn purest light of innocence,Hope against mope, in love’s dear task,Spite of all dark offence.If they who hate the trespass most,Yet, when all other love is lost,Love the poor sinner, marvel not;Christ’s mark outwears the rankest blot.

No distance breaks this tie of blood;Brothers are brothers evermore;Nor wrong, nor wrath of deadliest mood,That magic may o’erpower;Oft, ere the common source be known,The kindred drops will claim their own,And throbbing pulses silentlyMove heart towards heart by sympathy.

So it is with true Christian hearts;Their mutual share in Jesus’ bloodAn everlasting bond impartsOf holiest brotherhood:Oh! might we all our lineage prove,Give and forgive, do good and love,By soft endearments in kind strifeLightening the load of daily life.

There is much need; for not as yetAre we in shelter or repose,The holy house is still besetWith leaguer of stern foes;Wild thoughts within, bad men without,All evil spirits round about,Are banded in unblest device,To spoil Love’s earthly paradise.

Then draw we nearer day by day,Each to his brethren, all to God;Let the world take us as she may,We must not change our road;Not wondering, though in grief, to findThe martyr’s foe still keep her mind;But fixed to hold Love’s banner fast,And by submission win at last.

There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth.St. Lukexv. 10.

Ohatefulspell of Sin! when friends are nigh,To make stern Memory tell her tale unsought,And raise accusing shades of hours gone by,To come between us and all kindly thought!

Chilled at her touch, the self-reproaching soulFlies from the heart and home she dearest loves,To where lone mountains tower, or billows roll,Or to your endless depth, ye solemn groves.

In vain: the averted cheek in loneliest dellIs conscious of a gaze it cannot bear,The leaves that rustle near us seem to tellOur heart’s sad secret to the silent air.

Nor is the dream untrue; for all aroundThe heavens are watching with their thousand eyes,We cannot pass our guardian angel’s bound,Resigned or sullen, he will hear our sighs.

He in the mazes of the budding woodIs near, and mourns to see our thankless glanceDwell coldly, where the fresh green earth is strewedWith the first flowers that lead the vernal dance.

In wasteful bounty showered, they smile unseen,Unseen by man—but what if purer sprightsBy moonlight o’er their dewy bosoms leanTo adore the Father of all gentle lights?

If such there be, O grief and shame to thinkThat sight of thee should overcloud their joy,A new-born soul, just waiting on the brinkOf endless life, yet wrapt in earth’s annoy!

O turn, and be thou turned! the selfish tear,In bitter thoughts of low-born care begun,Let it flow on, but flow refined and clear,The turbid waters brightening as they run.

Let it flow on, till all thine earthly heartIn penitential drops have ebbed away,Then fearless turn where Heaven hath set thy part,Nor shudder at the Eye that saw thee stray.

O lost and found! all gentle souls belowTheir dearest welcome shall prepare, and proveSuch joy o’er thee, as raptured seraphs know,Who learn their lesson at the Throne of Love.

For the earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God. For the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by the reason of Him who hath subjected the same in hope, because the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now.Romansviii 19–22.

Itwas not then a poet’s dream,An idle vaunt of song,Such as beneath the moon’s soft gleamOn vacant fancies throng;

Which bids us see in heaven and earth,In all fair things around,Strong yearnings for a blest new birthWith sinless glories crowned;

Which bids us hear, at each sweet pauseFrom care and want and toil,When dewy eve her curtain drawsOver the day’s turmoil,

In the low chant of wakeful birds,In the deep weltering flood,In whispering leaves, these solemn words—“God made us all for good.”

All true, all faultless, all in tuneCreation’s wondrous choir,Opened in mystic unisonTo last till time expire.

And still it lasts; by day and night,With one consenting voice,All hymn Thy glory, Lord, aright,All worship and rejoice.

Man only mars the sweet accordO’erpowering with “harsh din”The music of Thy works and word,Ill matched with grief and sin.

Sin is with man at morning break,And through the livelong dayDeafens the ear that fain would wakeTo Nature’s simple lay.

But when eve’s silent footfall stealsAlong the eastern sky,And one by one to earth revealsThose purer fires on high,

When one by one each human soundDies on the awful ear,Then Nature’s voice no more is drowned,She speaks, and we must hear.

Then pours she on the Christian heartThat warning still and deep,At which high spirits of old would startE’en from their Pagan sleep.

Just guessing, through their murky blindFew, faint, and baffling sight,Streaks of a brighter heaven behind,A cloudless depth of light.

Such thoughts, the wreck of Paradise,Through many a dreary age,Upbore whate’er of good and wiseYet lived in bard or sage:

They marked what agonizing throesShook the great mother’s womb:But Reason’s spells might not discloseThe gracious birth to come:

Nor could the enchantress Hope forecastGod’s secret love and power;The travail pangs of Earth must lastTill her appointed hour.

The hour that saw from opening heavenRedeeming glory stream,Beyond the summer hues of even,Beyond the mid-day beam.

Thenceforth, to eyes of high desire,The meanest thing below,As with a seraph’s robe of fireInvested, burn and glow:

The rod of Heaven has touched them all,The word from Heaven is spoken:“Rise, shine, and sing, thou captive thrall;Are not thy fetters broken?

“The God Who hallowed thee and blest,Pronouncing thee all good—Hath He not all thy wrongs redrest,And all thy bliss renewed?

“Why mourn’st thou still as one bereft,Now that th’ eternal SonHis blessèd home in Heaven hath leftTo make thee all His own?”

Thou mourn’st because sin lingers stillIn Christ’s new heaven and earth;Because our rebel works and willStain our immortal birth:

Because, as Love and Prayer grow cold,The Saviour hides His face,And worldlings blot the temple’s goldWith uses vile and base.

Hence all thy groans and travail pains,Hence, till thy God return,In Wisdom’s ear thy blithest strains,Oh Nature, seem to mourn.

And Simon answering said unto Him, Master, we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing; nevertheless at Thy word I will let down the net. And when they had this done, they inclosed a great multitude of fishes: and their net brake.St. Lukev. 5, 6.

“The livelong night we’ve toiled in vain,But at Thy gracious wordI will let down the net again:—Do Thou Thy will, O Lord!”

So spake the weary fisher, spentWith bootless darkling toil,Yet on his Master’s bidding bentFor love and not for spoil.

So day by day and week by week,In sad and weary thought,They muse, whom God hath set to seekThe souls His Christ hath bought.

For not upon a tranquil lakeOur pleasant task we ply,Where all along our glistening wakeThe softest moonbeams lie;

Where rippling wave and dashing oarOur midnight chant attend,Or whispering palm-leaves from the shoreWith midnight silence blend.

Sweet thoughts of peace, ye may not last:Too soon some ruder soundCalls us from where ye soar so fastBack to our earthly round.

For wildest storms our ocean sweep:—No anchor but the CrossMight hold: and oft the thankless deepTurns all our toil to loss.

Full many a dreary anxious hourWe watch our nets aloneIn drenching spray, and driving shower,And hear the night-bird’s moan:

At morn we look, and nought is there;Sad dawn of cheerless day!Who then from pining and despairThe sickening heart can stay?

There is a stay—and we are strong;Our Master is at hand,To cheer our solitary song,And guide us to the strand.

In His own time; but yet a whileOur bark at sea must ride;Cast after cast, by force or guileAll waters must be tried:

By blameless guile or gentle force,As when He deigned to teach(The lode-star of our Christian course)Upon this sacred beach.

Should e’er thy wonder-working graceTriumph by our weak arm,Let not our sinful fancy traceAught human in the charm:

To our own nets ne’er bow we down,Lest on the eternal shoreThe angels, while oar draught they own,Reject us evermore:

Or, if for our unworthinessToil, prayer, and watching fail,In disappointment Thou canst bless,So love at heart prevail.

David said unto Nathan, I have sinned against the Lord. And Nathan said unto David, The Lord also hath put away thy sin; thou shalt not die. 2Samuelxii. 13.

Whenbitter thoughts, of conscience born,With sinners wake at morn,When from our restless couch we start,With fevered lips and withered heart,Where is the spell to charm those mists away,And make new morning in that darksome day?One draught of spring’s delicious air,One steadfast thought, thatGodis there.

These are Thy wonders, hourly wrought,Thou Lord of time and thought,Lifting and lowering souls at will,Crowding a world of good or illInto a moment’s vision; e’en as lightMounts o’er a cloudy ridge, and all is bright,From west to east one thrilling rayTurning a wintry world to May.

Would’st thou the pangs of guilt assuage?Lo! here an open page,Where heavenly mercy shines as freeWritten in balm, sad heart, for thee.Never so fast, in silent April shower,Flushed into green the dry and leafless bower,As Israel’s crownèd mourner feltThe dull hard stone within him melt.

The absolver saw the mighty grief,And hastened with relief;—“The Lord forgives; thou shalt not die:”’Twas gently spoke, yet heard on high,And all the band of angels, used to singIn heaven, accordant to his raptured string,Who many a month had turned awayWith veilèd eyes, nor owned his lay,

Now spread their wings, and throng aroundTo the glad mournful sound,And welcome, with bright open face,The broken heart to love’s embrace.The rock is smitten, and to future yearsSprings ever fresh the tide of holy tearsAnd holy music, whispering peaceTill time and sin together cease.

There drink: and when ye are at rest,With that free Spirit blest,Who to the contrite can dispense,The princely heart of innocence,If ever, floating from faint earthly lyre,Was wafted to your soul one high desire,By all the trembling hope ye feel,Think on the minstrel as ye kneel:

Think on the shame, that dreadful hourWhen tears shall have no power,Should his own lay th’ accuser prove,Cold while he kindled others’ love:And let your prayer for charity arise,That his own heart may hear his melodies,And a true voice to him may cry,“ThyGodforgives—thou shalt not die.”

From whence can a man satisfy these men with bread here in the wilderness?St. Markviii. 4.

Gonot away, thou weary soul:Heaven has in store a precious doleHere on Bethsaida’s cold and darksome height,Where over rocks and sands ariseProud Sirion in the northern skies,And Tabor’s lonely peak, ’twixt thee and noonday light.

And far below, Gennesaret’s mainSpreads many a mile of liquid plain,(Though all seem gathered in one eager bound,)Then narrowing cleaves you palmy lea,Towards that deep sulphureous sea,Where five proud cities lie, by one dire sentence drowned.

Landscape of fear! yet, weary heart,Thou need’st not in thy gloom depart,Nor fainting turn to seek thy distant home:Sweetly thy sickening throbs are eyedBy the kind Saviour at thy side;For healing and for balm e’en now thine hour is come.

No fiery wing is seen to glide,No cates ambrosial are supplied,But one poor fisher’s rude and scanty storeIs all He asks (and more than needs)Who men and angels daily feeds,And stills the wailing sea-bird on the hungry shore.

The feast is o’er, the guests are gone,And over all that upland loneThe breeze of eve sweeps wildly as of old—But far unlike the former dreams,The heart’s sweet moonlight softly gleamsUpon life’s varied view, so joyless erst and cold.

As mountain travellers in the night,When heaven by fits is dark and bright,Pause listening on the silent heath, and hearNor trampling hoof nor tinkling bell,Then bolder scale the rugged fell,Conscious the more of One, ne’er seen, yet ever near:

So when the tones of rapture gayOn the lorn ear, die quite away,The lonely world seems lifted nearer heaven;Seen daily, yet unmarked before,Earth’s common paths are strewn all o’erWith flowers of pensive hope, the wreath of man forgiven.

The low sweet tones of Nature’s lyreNo more on listless ears expire,Nor vainly smiles along the shady wayThe primrose in her vernal nest,Nor unlamented sink to restSweet roses one by one, nor autumn leaves decay.

There’s not a star the heaven can show,There’s not a cottage-hearth below,But feeds with solace kind the willing soul—Men love us, or they need our love;Freely they own, or heedless proveThe curse of lawless hearts, the joy of self-control.

Then rouse thee from desponding sleep,Nor by the wayside lingering weep,Nor fear to seek Him farther in the wild,Whose love can turn earth’s worst and leastInto a conqueror’s royal feast:Thou wilt not be untrue, thou shalt not be beguiled.

It is the man of God, who was disobedient unto the word of the Lord. 1Kingxiii. 26.

Prophetof God, arise and takeWith thee the words of wrath divine,The scourge of Heaven, to shakeO’er yon apostate shrine.

Where Angels down the lucid stairCame hovering to our sainted siresNow, in the twilight, glareThe heathen’s wizard fires.

Go, with thy voice the altar rend,Scatter the ashes, be the arm,That idols would befriend,Shrunk at thy withering charm.

Then turn thee, for thy time is short,But trace not o’er the former way,Lest idol pleasures courtThy heedless soul astray.

Thou know’st how hard to hurry by,Where on the lonely woodland roadBeneath the moonlight skyThe festal warblings flowed;

Where maidens to the Queen of HeavenWove the gay dance round oak or palm,Or breathed their vows at evenIn hymns as soft as balm.

Or thee, perchance, a darker spellEnthralls: the smooth stones of the flood,By mountain grot or fell,Pollute with infant’s blood;

The giant altar on the rock,The cavern whence the timbrel’s callAffrights the wandering flock:—Thou long’st to search them all.

Trust not the dangerous path again—O forward step and lingering will!O loved and warned in vain!And wilt thou perish still?

Thy message given, thine home in sight,To the forbidden feast return?Yield to the false delightThy better soul could spurn?

Alas, my brother! round thy tombIn sorrow kneeling, and in fear,We read the Pastor’s doomWho speaks and will not hear.

The grey-haired saint may fail at last,The surest guide a wanderer prove;Death only binds us fastTo the bright shore of love.

And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice. 1Kingsxix. 12.

Introublous days of anguish and rebuke,While sadly round them Israel’s children look,And their eyes fail for waiting on their Lord:While underneath each awful arch of green,On every mountain-top, God’s chosen scene,Of pure heart-worship, Baal is adored:

’Tis well, true hearts should for a time retireTo holy ground, in quiet to aspireTowards promised regions of serener grace;On Horeb, with Elijah, let us lie,Where all around on mountain, sand, and sky,God’s chariot wheels have left distinctest trace;

There, if in jealousy and strong disdainWe to the sinner’s God of sin complain,Untimely seeking here the peace of Heaven—“It is enough. O Lord! now let me dieE’en as my fathers did: for what am IThat I should stand where they have vainly striven?”—

Perhaps our God may of our conscience ask,“What doest thou here frail wanderer from thy task?Where hast thou left those few sheep in the wild?”Then should we plead our heart’s consuming pain,At sight of ruined altars, prophets slain,And God’s own ark with blood of souls defiled;

He on the rock may bid us stand, and seeThe outskirts of His march of mystery,His endless warfare with man’s wilful heart;First, His great Power He to the sinner showsLo! at His angry blast the rocks unclose,And to their base the trembling mountains part

Yet the Lord is not here: ’Tis not by PowerHe will be known—but darker tempests lower;Still, sullen heavings vex the labouring ground:Perhaps His Presence thro’ all depth and height,Best of all gems that deck His crown of light,The haughty eye may dazzle and confound.

God is not in the earthquake; but beholdFrom Sinai’s caves are bursting, as of old,The flames of His consuming jealous ire.Woe to the sinner should stern Justice proveHis chosen attribute;—but He in loveHastes to proclaim, “God is not in the fire.”

The storm is o’er—and hark! a still small voiceSteals on the ear, to say, Jehovah’s choiceIs ever with the soft, meek, tender soul;By soft, meek, tender ways He loves to drawThe sinner, startled by His ways of awe:Here is our Lord, and not where thunders roll.

Back, then, complainer; loath thy life no more,Nor deem thyself upon a desert shore,Because the rocks the nearer prospect close.Yet in fallen Israel are there hearts and eyesThat day by day in prayer like thine arise;Thou know’st them not, but their Creator knows.

Go, to the world return, nor fear to castThy bread upon the waters, sure at lastIn joy to find it after many days.The work be thine, the fruit thy children’s part:Choose to believe, not see: sight tempts the heartFrom sober walking in true Gospel ways.

And when He was come near, He beheld the city, and wept over it.St. Lukexix. 41.

Whydoth my Saviour weepAt sight of Sion’s bowers?Shows it not fair from yonder steep,Her gorgeous crown of towers?Mark well His holy pains:’Tis not in pride or scorn,That Israel’s King with sorrow stainsHis own triumphal morn.

It is not that His soulIs wandering sadly on,In thought how soon at death’s dark goalTheir course will all be run,Who now are shouting roundHosanna to their chief;No thought like this in Him is found,This were a Conquerer’s grief.

Or doth He feel the CrossAlready in His heart,The pain, the shame, the scorn, the loss?Feel e’en His God depart?No: though He knew full wellThe grief that then shall be—The grief that angels cannot tell—Our God in agony.

It is not thus He mourns;Such might be martyr’s tears,When his last lingering look he turnsOn human hopes and fears;But hero ne’er or saintThe secret load might know,With which His spirit waxeth faint;His is a Saviour’s woe.

“If thou had’st known, e’en thou,At least in this thy day,The message of thy peace! but now’Tis passed for aye away:Now foes shall trench thee round,And lay thee even with earth,And dash thy children to the ground,Thy glory and thy mirth.”

And doth the Saviour weepOver His people’s sin,Because we will not let Him keepThe souls He died to win?Ye hearts, that love the Lord,If at this, sight ye burn,See that in thought, in deed, in word,Ye hate what made Him mourn.

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