He watched till knowledge came Upon his soul like flame, Not of those magic fires at random caught : But true Prophetic light Flashed o'er him, high and bright, Flashed once, and died away, and left his darkened thought. And can he choose but fear, Who feels his God so near, That when he fain would curse, his powerless tongue Alas! the world he loves 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 has sown. FIFTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. (The Lilies of the Field.) Sweet nurslings of the vernal skies, Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew, What more than magic in you lies, Relics ye are of Eden's bowers, As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, As when ye crowned the sunshine hours Fall'n all beside the world of life, VOL. IV. But cheerful and unchanged the while Your first and perfect form ye show, The stars of heaven a course are taught Ye dwell beside our paths and homes, They cannot brook our shame to meet- Ye fearless in your nests abide— Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise, Your silent lessons, undescried By all but lowly eyes: For ye could draw th' admiring gaze Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour, As when He paused and owned you good; His blessing on earth's primal bower, Ye felt it all renewed. What care ye now, if winter's storm Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form? Alas! of thousand bosoms kind, That daily court you and caress, How few the happy secret find LI 'Live for to-day! to-morrow's light ALL SAINTS' DAY. Why blow'st thou not, thou wintry wind, How quiet shews the woodland scene! Like weary men when age is won, Sure if our eyes were purged to trace We should behold by angels' grace The four strong winds of Heaven fast bound, Their downward sweep a moment stayed On ocean cove and forest glade, Her funeral odours on her dying bed. So in Thine awful armoury, Lord, Till willing hearts wear quite away Their earthly stains; and spotless shine The Cross by angel hands impressed, The seal of glory won and pledge of promised rest. Little they dream, those haughty souls So Famine waits, and War with greedy eyes, Think ye the spires that glow so bright But sure from many a hidden dell, From many a rural nook unthought of there, Rises for that proud world the saints' prevailing prayer. On Champions blest, in Jesus' name, Short be your strife, your triumph full, Your prayers and struggles o'er, your task all praise and joy. UNITED STATES. [From Lyra Apostolica.] Tyre of the farther West! be thou too warned, Why lies the Cross unhonoured on thy ground Thou bring it to be blessed where Saints and Angels haunt? The holy seed, by Heaven's peculiar grace, Is rooted here and there in thy dark woods; But many a rank weed round it grows apace, And Mammon builds beside thy mighty floods, O'ertopping Nature, braving Nature's God; O while thou yet hast room, fair fruitful land, Ere war and want have stained thy virgin sod, Mark thee a place on high, a glorious stand, Whence Truth her sign may make o'er forest, lake, and strand. Eastward, this hour, perchance thou turn'st thine ear, Blend sounds of Ruin from a land once dear To thee and Heaven. O trying hour for thee! Tyre mocked when Salem fell; where now is Tyre? Heaven was against her. Nations thick as waves, Burst o'er her walls, to Ocean doomed and fire: And now the tideless water idly laves Her towers, and lone sands heap her crowned merchants' graves. [Lyra Innocentium.] Go where the waters fall, Sheer from the mountain's height Mark how a thousand streams in one, One in a thousand on they fare, Now flashing to the sun, Now still as beast in lair. Now round the rock, now mounting o'er, To swell as we survey, |