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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 ?
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,
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,
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,
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,
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,
In sunshine moments past,
lot had cast.
I thought it scorn with Thee to dwell,
While, gaily sweeping by,
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,
To whom his keys were given,
And pour the drink of Heaven?
When sorrow all our heart would ask,
And hide ourselves for calm ;
Our common air is balm.
Around each pure domestic shrine