Home Sickness. 125 A holy home, a refuge-bower, For Saints in evil hour, Where child, and slave, and household maid, Of their own joy afraid, As parent's voice familiar own The pastoral Apostolic tone. "Tis heard, and each the race would win To tell the news within. A holy household! yet beware! These home delights, so keen and pure, Ere long, perchance, a sterner sound Will summon: where wilt thou be found? Even holy homes may hearts beguile, And mar God's work a while. 10. ILL TEMPER. "JESUS was casting out a Devil, and it was dumb: and it came to pass, when the Devil was cast out, the dumb spake." NoT often bends the face of heaven and earth A dull and joyless brow On hearts that own meek love and quiet mirth : Slowly and late through leaden skies The hard stern outlines loom around Pine top, and leafless forest bower. And days have been, wild days of stormy wing, When the dark clouds plied each its heavy sling, And air and ocean wrought As erst o'er Noe, hiding all The bright hues of this earthly ball. 4 The traveller on his way Was like a pinnace on the deep, Whirling around as rude waves sweep, So, happy childhood, thine enchanted clime This wild, that sullen: o'er the unlovely prime No softly-brightening trail of morn: Their day, in gloom or tempest born, Lowers on till noon and night : Because the new-born soul made haste Love's christening gift to scorn or waste, Yet burns the sun on high beyond the cloud : The warm winds linger, but to be allowed One flight across the unquiet sky ;— The smile of heaven comes on. So waits the Lord behind the veil, To shed when the dark hour is gone. O ye who feel the dumb deaf spirit's breath As in foul cavern spreading damps of death, Who mark, how wane the lamps of prayer The moody silent one: perchance He at the mighty word and glance With Saints will hear, with Angels sing. But if the frenzy fire blaze out, and cast Wild evil words, such showers as rode the blast If tossing limb and glaring eye The pure calm glory: JESUS there Ill Temper. Hath spent the summer night in prayer : Faint not, if prayer of man find tardy grace But wait untired beneath the mountain's base; Toward thee descend,—the voice of Love The voice of Power command afar The rushings of that ireful war, And heart and tongue for prayer be free. Nay, doubt it not: He gave His signs of yore, Met thee, and led along the sacred floor, Shrank muttering to his penal fire Of all in evil born. Within thee, if thou wilt, be sure That happy hour's strong spells endure, The seal of heaven, not all outworn. K 129 |