Soft are her tones ; for He draws nigh,
Who moveth all things quietly :
Yet grave and deep; for to His sight
Heaven's secrets are undazzling light:
Content ; for He on healing wings
The promise of the Father brings :
And Comfort is His name ; yet so

That in His promptings here below
A wistful uncomplaining sadness still
Must deeply blend with Joy's adoring thrill.

As yet we but our vigil hold,
Not yet the Whitsun flowers unfold
Their full bright splendours. In the sky
The third hour's sun must ride full high,
Ere to the holy glorious room
The fires of new-Creation come,
Ere on weak hearts, though willing, fall

The rushing mighty wind, in all
The power of its dread harmony, and win,
Ne'er to die down, true echoes from within.

O loving Spirit, gently lay
Thine arm on ours when we would stray !
Prepare us with Thy warnings sweet,
Us and our little ones, to greet
Thy visitations dread and dear !
Grant us, when holy times are near,
In twilight or of morn or eve,

Thy dove-like whisperings to receive,
And own them kindlier for the plaintive mood,
That breathes of contrite Love, mild Hope, and Joy




“The Promise is unto you and to your children."

ONE the descending Flame,
But many were the tongues of fire ;

From one bright Heaven they came,
But here and there in many a spire,
In many a living line they sped

To rest on each anointed head.
There, as yon stars in clearest deep of night,
The glory-crowns shone out in many-coloured light.

One the dread rushing Wind,
But many were the tones of praise,

Love guiding each to find

in Music's awful maze.

Many the tongues, the theme was one,

The glory of th' Incarnate Son, How He was born, how died, how reigns in Heaven, And how His Spirit now to His new-born is given.

Joined in that choral cry
Were all estates, all tribes of earth :

Only sweet Infancy
Seemed silent in the adoring mirth.
Mothers and maidens there behold

The Maiden Mother : young and old
On Apostolic thrones with joy discern
Both fresh and faded forms, skilld for all hearts to


Widows from Galilee,
Levites are there, and elders sage

Of high and low degree ;
But nought we read of that sweet age
Which in His strong embrace He took,

And sealed it safe, by word and look,
From Earth’s foul dews, and withering airs of Hell :
The Pentecostal chant no infant warblings swell.

Nay, but she worships here,
Whom still the Church in memory sees

(O thought to mothers dear)
Before her Babe on bended knees,
Or rapt, with fond adoring eye,

In her sweet nursing ministry.How in Christ's Anthem fails the children's part, While Mary bears Him throned in her maternal heart?

Hear too that Shepherd's voice,
Whom o'er His lambs the Saviour set

By words of awful choice,
When on the shore His Saints He met.
Blest Peter shows the key of Heaven,

And speaks the grace to infants given: “ Yours is the Promise, and your babes', and all, Whom from all lands afar the Lord our God shall


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