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'Tis said, of yore some child of pride
Would vaunt him how his empire wide

The bright sun never left.
So in the Name of our dread King
Of incense and pure offering

We never are bereft.
'Tis morning here, 'tis evening there,

And prayer must vary ; But evermore through silent air,

Nor dull nor weary,

From earth, the footstool of His feet,
Mounts to the Lord the savour sweet

Of that which once for all
He gave upon the Cross, and we
Give daily, earth’s release to be

From daily woe and thrall.
Thus to Heaven's Bride, so chaste and sweet,

A voice is granted,
The notes untiring to repeat

In high Heaven chanted.

Then mourn we not with drooping heart,
Though half the globe may seem to part

Our prayers from home and friends.
Our matins meet their even song,
And the dread Offering, all day long,

All prayer, all duty blends.
The Eucharist of God's dear Son,

Like Him undying,
Is mighty, worlds and hearts in one

For ever tying.

Wherefore in solemn cheer we pass (Now that the Church hath turned her glass)

From year to dawning year. All

years to Him are one : and thou, In virtue of thy first dread vow

Signing thyself in fear,
Make haste, dear child, and onward press

To high Communion :-
Thy fragments He will glean, and bless

With perfect union.

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“ If it bear fruit, well : if not, then after that Thou shalt cut it down."

THE duteous sun hath ceased to keep

The vigil of His wondrous birth, Who in few hours, while sinners sleep,

Shall dawn on thankless earth.

The sun is set, the stars begin

Their stations in His watch on high, As once around that Bethlehem inn;

The vesper hour is nigh.

A little maid with eager gaze

Comes hurrying to the House of Prayer, Shaping in heart a wild green maze

Of woodland branches there.

One look,--a cloud comes o'er her dream :

No burnished leaves, so fresh and clear, No berries with their ripe red gleam :

“ There is no Christmas here."

What if that little maiden's Lord,

The awful Child on Mary's knee, Even now take

up the accusing word :“No Christmas here I see.

“Where are the fruits I yearly seek,

As holy seasons pass away, Eyes turned from ill, lips pure and meek,

A heart that strives to pray ?

“Where are the glad and artless smiles,

Like clustering hollies, seen afar At eve along the o'ershaded aisles,

With the first twilight star ?"

Spare, gracious Saviour, me and mine :

Our tardy vows in mercy hear,
While on our watch the cold skies shine

Of the departing year.

Ere we again that glimmering view,

Cleansed be our hearts and lowly laid ; The unfruitful plant do Thou renew,

And all beneath its shade.

By winter frosts and summer heats,

By prunings sharp and waterings mild, Keen airs of Lent, and Easter sweets,

Tame Thou the sour and wild.

And dare we ask for one year more ?

Yea, there is hope : One waits on high To tell our contrite yearnings o'er,

And each adoring sigh.

If He in Heaven repeat our vow,

We copying here His pure dread Will,O dream of joy the withered bough

May blush with fruitage still.

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