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The lawless wish, the unaverted eye,
Are signals to invite him nigh,
Him in some thievish corner of the street
Full often lurking low we trace, When sullen lips our kindly glances meet,
And looks that pastoral eyes should greet, As flowers the morn, fall coldly, as on empty space.
His poisonous whisper hath been there, be sure,
Where childhood's simple courtesies
tasks inure The hearts that by and by against the Church shall
Open their eyes, good Lord, that they may know
Whose edicts they so dearly hold, Making Thy rites a revel and a show,
Where the rude world may come and go, To sit at ease, and judge the Saints and Seers of old.
The stubborn knees with holy trembling smite,
Which bow not at Thine awful Name. Pour from Thine Altar Thine own glorious Light,
Winning the world-enamour'd sight To turn and see which way the healing radiance came.
O may our fallen land, though late, unlearn
Her reckless unbelieving heart,
And in the pure white Robe, discern
O grant us Thy good Angel, evermore
To wait, with unseen scourge in hand,
Write in young hearts Thy reverend lore, Nor be our christen’d babes as Bethel's lawless band.
Perhaps among the wailing matrons there
Was one who to her child had taught The ways of scorn, breathing the poison’d air
Into that bosom fresh and fair Which from her own drew life.—Alas! too well it
Now self-accusing by the drear wood-side
She ranges where th' avengers came,
But he, the Healer and the Guide,
Now from his lips the judgment word hath past,
The lightning from his awful brow : Low on his knees in some bleak cavern cast,
His prayers go up o'er ocean vast For those whom he hath doom'd: he is their Patron
And our Elisha_fails He on the Mount
To plead, His holy ones to pray
The drops from that eternal Fount
Ye fragrant showers, O were it not for you,
How could we breathe the parched air Of the world's freedom, feverish and untrue,
Withering each soft and kindly hue Even in young hearts ? but ye spring-weather cherish
Your influence from afar we own and bless,
When, school-hours past, o'er village green, Or homely garden, bright in its May dress,
Come greetings from a throng and press Of little strangers, prompt as fairies round their queen.
Ever, as up and down our glances go,
In that fair round we may discern
So forest bluebells in a row
And here and there, perchance, one graver found A comrade's roving eye may
school To courtesy forgot :—so in each round
Of duty, here on earth's dull ground, Angels with us rehearse their own majestic Rule.
“ If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple."
(For St. Mark's Day.)
A HOLY home, young Saint, was thine,
Child of a priestly line,
Was vocal with the prayer
Winning their Pastor's life.
A holy home, a mother bold,
Who to the scattered fold
Nor feared the tyrant's might ;-
By those who hearts could see.