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Yet as along this violet bank I rove,
The languid sweetness seems to choke my breath, I sit me down beside the hazel grove, And sigh, and half could wish my weariness were death.
Like a bright veering cloud
Grey blossoms twinkle there,
Of larks in purest air.
Or wakes the spectral forms of woe and crime, When nature sings of joy and hope alone, Reading her cheerful lesson in her own sweet time.
Nor let the proud heart say,
In her self-torturing hour,
The aching brow must lower.
Our throes should be forgot, or only seem
Mysterious to all thought
A mother's prime of bliss,
When to her eager lips is brought
Her infant's thrilling kiss.
Which dawns that moment on her tender gaze,
No need for her to weep
Like Thracian wives of yore,
Her thankful heart runs o'er.
Sure of the storm, unknowing of their guide: Welcome to her the peril and the pain, For well she knows the home where they may safely
She joys that one is born
Into a world forgiven,
And dwell with her in heaven.
When the glad earth is offering all her best,
FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EASTER.
Nevertheless, I tell you the truth : it is expedient for you
go away : for if I go not away, the Comforter will not come unto you : but if I depart, I will send him unto you. St. John xvi. 7.
My Saviour, can it ever be
And Thou art more than mother dear;
How can I live without Thee here?
“ 'Tis good for you, that I should go,
"Tis thine our gracious promise, Lord !
Still lessening, brightening on their sight, Thy shadowy car went soaring on ;
They track'd Thee up th' abyss of light.
Thou bidst rejoice; they dare not mourn,
The splendours of his crowning day,
More welcome for that brief delay :
In doubt they wait, but not unblest ;
But in ecstatic awe they muse
And to their height of wonder strain,
Should make their Saviour's going gain.
The days of hope and prayer are past,
But ne'er so soft fell noon-tide shower,
To weary swains in parched bower.
Swiftly and straight each tongue of flame