VIII. Lessons of Grace.

1.

ISAAC ON MORIAH.

“Abide you here with the ass, and I and the lad will go yonder and worship."

DREAD was the mystery on Moriah's hill:

Low on the ridge the cloud of morning lay: From each dark fold, along each gliding rill, Strange whispers from the mountain met our way.

But we must wait below, and upward gaze,

While toward the mount the father and the son
Pursue their course, soon in that awful haze
To vanish, till the appointed deed be done.

So when the Lord for some parental heart
Prepares a martyr's crown, He calls on high
Father and child, in His still shrine apart

To learn His lore of healing agony.

We may but stay without, and wondering pray;
Unknown to us that deep of love and woe,
The knife in Abraham's hand upraised to slay,
Meek Isaac bound and waiting for the blow.

Weak as the echo of some distant knell,

Borne now and then on breathing winds of eve, Comes to our ear the sound :-"I see full well

The fire and wood; but who the Lamb will give ?"

Fitful and faint, should Angel bless our dream,
The memory now would fleet and now abide.
Such to our hearts the stern sweet form may seem
Of him who said, "The Almighty will provide."

Not even to dwellers on the mystic height,

Not to the Saints, is full enlightening given :
The Cross, they hold by, towers beyond their sight,
On the hill peak opens a deeper heaven.

Yea, though in one were gathered all the woes
That mourners e'er on household altars laid,
Widows' and orphans' tears, untimely throes,

Fears, that the memory of loved souls o'ershade,

What were it all, to match one drop of Thine,

One bitter drop, poured on Thy mountain here In Thine own hour? O joy! that Blood is mine :— For us it flowed, even as for Saint and seer.

Well may we mourn our dull cold heart, and eye
That up the mount of glorious sacrifice

Sees such a little way: yet kneel we nigh:
Turn not away: let prayer in gloom arise.

He who beside His own the cross allows

Of penitential grief;-who to each Saint Calls from His height of woe; His bleeding brows Will meekly droop to hear our breathing faint.

2.

SONG OF THE MANNA-GATHERERS.

"This is the bread which the Lord hath given you to eat."

COMRADES, haste! the tent's tall shading

Lies along the level sand

Far and faint the stars are fading

O'er the gleaming western strand.

Airs of morning

Freshen the bleak burning land.

Haste, or ere the third hour glowing
With its eager thirst prevail

O'er the moist pearls, now bestrowing

Thymy slope and rushy vale,—

Dews celestial,

Left when earthly dews exhale.

Ere the bright good hour be wasted,
Glean, not ravening, nor in sloth:
To your tent bring all untasted ;—
To thy Father, nothing loth,

Bring thy treasure:

Trust thy God, and keep thy troth.

Trust Him: care not for the morrow; Should thine omer overflow,

And some poorer seek to borrow,

Be thy gift nor scant nor slow.

Wouldst thou store it?

Ope thine hand, and let it go.

Trust His daily work of wonder,
Wrought in all His people's sight:
Think on yon high place of thunder,
Think upon the unearthly light
Brought from Sinai,

When the prophet's face grew bright,