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'Tis not for these I love thee dear

Thy shy averted smiles To Fancy bode a joyous year,

One of Life’s fairy isles.

They twinkle to the wintry moon,

And cheer th' ungenial day, And tell us, all will glisten soon As green and bright

and bright as they.

Is there a heart, that loves the spring,

Their witness can refuse ?
Yet mortals doubt, when angels bring

From Heaven their Easter news :

When holy maids and matrons speak

Of Christ's forsaken bed, And voices, that forbid to seek

The living mid the dead,

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And when they say, “ Turn wandering heart,

Thy Lord is ris'n indeed, “ Let Pleasure go, put Care apart,

" And to His presence speed;"

We smile in scorn: and yet we know

They early sought the tomb, Their hearts, that now so freshly glow,

Lost in desponding gloom.

They who have sought, nor hope to find,

Wear not so bright a glance : They, who have won their earthly mind,

Less reverently advance.

But where, in gentle spirits, fear

And joy so duly meet,
These sure have seen the angels near,

And kiss'd the Saviour's feet.

Nor let the Pastor's thankful eye

Their faltering tale disdain, As on their lowly couch they lie,

Prisoners of want and pain.

O guide us, when our faithless hearts

From Thee would start aloof, Where Patience her sweet skill imparts

Beneath some cottage roof :

Revive our dying fires, to burn

High as her anthems soar,
And of our scholars let us learn

Our own forgotten lore.

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EASTER.

Seemeth it but a small thing unto you, that the God of Israel hath separated you from the congregation of Israel, to bring you near to Himself? Numbers xvi. 9.

FIRST Father of the holy seed,
If yet, invok'd in hour of need,

Thou count me for thine own,
Not quite an outcast if I prove,
(Thou joy'st in miracles of love)

Hear, from thy mercy-throne !

Upon thine altar's horn of gold
Help me to lay my trembling hold,

Though stain'd with Christian gore ;The blood of souls by Thee redeem'd, But, while I rov'd or idly dream'd,

Lost to be found no more.

For oft, when summer leaves were bright,
And every flower was bath'd in light,

In sunshine moments past,
My wilful heart would burst away
From where the holy shadow lay,
Where Heaven

my

lot had cast.

I thought it scorn with Thee to dwell,
A Hermit in a silent cell,

While, gaily sweeping by,
Wild Fancy blew his bugle strain,
And marshalld all his gallant train

In the world's wondering eye.

I would have join'd him—but as oft Thy whisper'd warnings, kind and soft,

My better soul confess'd. “ My servant, let the world alone“ Safe on the steps of Jesus' throne

“ Be tranquil and be blest.

“ Seems it to thee a niggard hand “ That nearest Heaven has bade thee stand,

" The ark to touch and bear, “With incense of pure heart's desire “ To heap the censer's sacred fire,

“ The snow-white Ephod wear ?"

Why should we crave the worldling's wreath,
On whom the Saviour deign'd to breathe,

To whom his keys were given,
Who lead the choir where angels meet,
With angels' food our brethren greet,

And pour the drink of Heaven?

When sorrow all our heart would ask,
We need not shun our daily task,

And hide ourselves for calm ;
The herbs we seek to heal our woe
Familiar by our pathway grow,

Our common air is balm.

Around each pure domestic shrine
Bright flowers of Eden bloom and twine,

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