'Tis not for these I love thee dear Thy shy averted smiles To Fancy bode a joyous year, They twinkle to the wintry moon, And tell us, all will glisten soon Is there a heart, that loves the spring, Yet mortals doubt, when angels bring From Heaven their Easter news: When holy maids and matrons speak And voices, that forbid to seek And when they say, "Turn wandering heart, 66 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, But where, in gentle spirits, fear And joy so duly meet, These sure have seen the angels near, Nor let the Pastor's thankful eye O guide us, when our faithless hearts 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 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, Thou count me for thine own, Hear, from thy mercy-throne ! Upon thine altar's horn of gold 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 I thought it scorn with Thee to dwell, While, gaily sweeping by, Wild Fancy blew his bugle strain, I would have join'd him-but as oft Thy whisper'd warnings, kind and soft, My better soul confess'd. 66 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, Who lead the choir where angels meet, When sorrow all our heart would ask, And hide ourselves for calm ; Around each pure domestic shrine Bright flowers of Eden bloom and twine, |