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Say not it dies, that glory,
"Tis caught unquench'd on high,
Shall wear it in the sky.
When all good musings past
The sweetest thought the last.
SUNDAY NEXT BEFORE ADVENT.
Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.
St. John vi. 12.
WILL God indeed with fragments bear,
The dregs of a polluted life?
The sailor's untried arms are cross'd
Sighs that exhaust but not relieve,
For lavish'd hours and love mispent !
But we no holy fire have caughtBack on the gaudy world our wilful eyes were bent.
Too soon th' ennobling carols, pour'd
For thankful echoing all the year-
The silence of Christ's dying day, Profan’d by worldly mirth, or scar'd by worldly fear.
Some strain of hope and victory
And when the SPIRIT's beacon fires
Who but must kindle while they gaze? But faster than she soars, our earth-bound Fancy tires.
Nor yet for these, nor all the rites,
And sweeten every secret tear :-
And now elate and trembling now To the Redeemer's feet their new-found treasures bear:
Not for the Pastor's gracious arm
Nor, sweetest, holiest, best of all,
Where souls with sacred hunger sighing Are call’d to sit and eat, while angels prostrate fall:
No, not for each and all of these,
Seems tund as truly to our hearts As when, twelve weary months ago, 'Twas moaning bleak, so high and low,
You would have thought Remorse and Woe Had taught the innocent air their sadly thrilling parts.
Is it, CHRIST's light is too divine,
the fire of heaven have caught ; Martyrs and saints—each glorious day Dawning in order on our way
Remind us, how our darksome clay May keep th'ethereal warmth our new Creator
These we have scorn'd, 0 false and frail !
Of our lost year in heaven is told-
With time and hope behind us cast,
O watch and pray ere Advent dawn!
But Love too late can never glow :
To regions where one thought serene Breathes sweeter than whole years of sacrifice below.