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No sun or star so bright

In all the world of light

That 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 yon argent field,

To him and us reveal'd,

One gentle star glides down, on earth to dwell.

Chain'd as they are below

Our eyes may see it glow,

And as it mounts again,may track its brightness well.

To him it glar'd afar,

A token of wild war,

The banner of his Lord's victorious wrath :

But close to us it gleams,

Its soothing lustre streams

Around our home's green walls, and on our churchway path.

We in the tents abide

Which he at distance eyed

Like goodly cedars by the waters spread,

While seven red altar-fires

Rose up in wavy spires,

Where on the mount he watch'd his sorceries dark

and dread.

He watch'd till morning's ray

On lake and meadow lay,

And willow-shaded streams, that silent sweep

Around the banner'd lines,

Where by their several signs

The desert-wearied tribes in sight of Canaan sleep.

He watch'd till knowledge came

Upon his soul like flame,

Not of those magic fires at random caught:

But true prophetic light

Flash'd o'er him, high and bright,

Flash'd once, and died away, and left his darken'd thought.

And can he choose but fear,

Who feels his GOD so near,

That when he fain would curse, his powerless tongue

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Too close around his heart her tangling veil hath flung.

Sceptre and Star divine,

Who in thine inmost shrine

Hast made us worshippers, O claim thine own;

More than thy seers we know

O teach our love to grow

Up to thy heavenly light, and reap what Thou hast

sown.

THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EASTER.

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. John xvi. 21.

WELL may I guess and feel

Why 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 cloud

Grey blossoms twinkle there,

Warbles around a busy crowd

Of 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 born,
Our throes should be forgot, or only seem

Like a sad vision told for joy at morn, For joy that we have wak'd and found it but a dream.

Mysterious to all thought

A mother's prime of bliss,
When to her eager lips is brought
Her infant's thrilling kiss.

O never shall it set, the sacred light

Which dawns that moment on her tender gaze, In the eternal distance blending bright

Her darling's hope and hers, for love and joy and praise.

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