So like an angel's is our bliss

(Oh! thought to comfort and appall) It needs must bring, if us’d amiss,

An angel's hopeless fall.

FOURTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER

TRINITY.

And Jesus answering said, Were there not ten cleansed ? but where are the nine ? There are not found that returned to give glory to God, save this stranger. St. Luke xvii. 17, 18.

TEN cleans'd, and only one remain !
Who would have thought our nature's strain
Was dyed so foul, so deep in grain ?

Even He who reads the heart,
Knows what He gave and what we lost,
Sin's forfeit, and redemption's cost,
By a short pang of wonder cross'd

Seems at the sight to start :

Yet 'twas not wonder, but His love
Our wavering spirits would reprove,

Q

That heaven-ward seem so free to move

When earth can yield no more: Then from afar on God we cry; But should the mist of woe roll by, Not showers across an April sky

Drift, when the storm is o’er,

Faster than those false drops and few
Fleet from the heart, a worthless dew.
What sadder scene can angels view

Than self-deceiving tears,
Pour'd idly over some dark page
Of earlier life, though pride or rage
The record of to-day engage,

A woe for future years ?

Spirits, that wound the sick man's bed Watch’d, noting down each prayer he made, Were your unerring roll display'd,

His pride of health to' abase ; Or, when soft showers in season fall Answering a famish'd nation's call, Should unseen fingers on the wall

Our vows forgotten trace ;

How should we gaze

in trance of fear! Yet shines the light as thrilling clear From heaven

upon
that scroll

severe, 6. Ten cleans'd and one remain !" Nor surer would the blessing prove Of humbled hearts, that own thy love, Should choral welcome from above

Visit our senses plain :

Than by Thy placid voice and brow,
With healing first, with comfort now,
Turn'd upon him, who hastes to bow

Before thee, heart and knee; “Oh! thou, who only would'st be blest, “ On thee alone my blessing rest! “ Rise, go thy way in peace, possess'd

FIFTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER

TRINITY.

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow. St. Matt. vi. 28.

SWEET nurslings of the vernal skies,

Bath'd in soft airs, and fed with dew,
What more than magic in you lies, -

To fill the heart's fond view ?
In childhood's sports, companions gay,
In sorrow, on Life's downward way,
How soothing! in our last decay

Memorials prompt and true.

Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,

As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,
As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours

Of happy wanderers there.

Fall'n all beside the world of life, How is it stain'd with fear and strife! In Reason's world what storms are rife,

What passions range and glare !

ye shew,

But cheerful and unchang'd the while

Your first and perfect form , The same that won Eve's matron smile

In the world's opening glow. The stars of Heaven a course are taught Too high above our human thought ;Ye may be found if ye are sought,

And as we gaze, we know.

Ye dwell beside our paths and homes,

Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow, And guilty man, where'er he roams,

Your innocent mirth may borrow. The birds of air before us fleet, They cannot brook our shame to meetBut we may taste your solace sweet

And come again to-morrow.

Ye fearless in your nests abide

Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise,