But there are storms within

That heave the struggling heart with wilder din,

And there is power and love
The maniac's rushing frenzy to reprove,

And when he takes his seat,

Cloth'd and in calmness, at his Saviour's feet,
Is not the power as strange, the love as blest,
As when He said, Be still, and ocean sank to rest?

Woe to the wayward heart,

That gladlier turns to eye the shuddering start
Of Passion in her might,

Than marks the silent growth of grace and light;-
Pleas'd in the cheerless tomb

To linger, while the morning rays illume Green lake, and cedar tuft, and spicy glade, Shaking their dewy tresses now the storm is laid.

The storm is laid-and now

In His meek power He climbs the mountain's brow, Who bade the waves go sleep,

And lash'd the vex'd fiends to their yawning deep. How on a rock they stand,

Who watch His eye, and hold His guiding hand! Not half so fix'd, amid her vassal hills,

Rises the holy pile that Kedron's valley fills.

a St. Mark v. 15; iv. 39.

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

And wilt thou seek again

Thy howling waste, thy charnel-house and chain,
And with the demons be,

Rather than clasp thine own Deliverer's knee?
Sure 'tis no Heaven-bred awe

59

That bids thee from His healing touch withdraw; The world and He are struggling in thine heart, And in thy reckless mood thou bidd'st thy Lord depart.

He, merciful and mild,

As erst, beholding, loves His wayward child;
When souls of highest birth

Waste their impassion'd might on dreams of earth,
He opens Nature's book,

And on His glorious Gospel bids them look,

Till by such chords, as rule the choirs above,

Their lawless cries are tun'd to hymns of perfect love.

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.

Thus in her lonely hour

Thy Church is fain to cry,
As if Thy love and power

Were vanish'd from her sky;

Yet God is there, and at His side
He triumphs, Who for sinners died.

Ah! 'tis the world enthralls

The Heaven-betrothed breast:

The traitor Sense recalls

The soaring soul from rest.

FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

That bitter sigh was all for earth,

For glories gone, and vanish'd mirth.

Age would to youth return,

Farther from Heaven would be, To feel the wildfire burn,

On idolizing knee

Again to fall, and rob Thy shrine

Of hearts, the right of love divine.

Lord of this erring flock!

Thou whose soft showers distil

On 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 deadb

Beside the barren sea,
Where Philip's steps were led,

Led by a voice from Thee—

He rose and went, nor ask'd Thee why,
Nor stayed to heave one faithless sigh:

Upon his lonely way

The high-born traveller came,

Reading a mournful lay

Of "One who bore our shame,

b See Acts viii. 26-40.

Isaiah liii. 6-8.

61

"Silent Himself, His name untold, "And yet His glories were of old."

To muse what Heaven might mean
His wondering brow he rais'd,
And met an eye serene

That on him watchful gaz'd.

No Hermit e'er so welcome cross'd

A child's lone path in woodland lost.

Now wonder turns to love;

The scrolls of sacred lore

No darksome mazes prove;

The desert tires no more:

They 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,

Bewilder'd in a heartless crowd,

Starting and turning pale

At Rumour's angry din

No storm can now assail

The charm he wears within,