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Wouldst thou a Poet be?
And would thy dull heart fain Borrow of Israel's minstrelsy
One high enraptur'd strain?
Come here thy soul to tune,
Here set thy feeble chant, Here, if at all beneath the moon,
Is holy David's haunt.
Art thou a child of tears,
Cradled in care and woe?
Few vernal joys can shew ?
And fall the sounds of mirth
Sad on thy lonely heart, From all the hopes and charms of earth
Untimely call’d to part ?
Look here, and hold thy peace :
The Giver of all good Even from the womb takes no release
From suffering, tears, and blood.
If thou wouldst reap in love,
First sow in holy fear :
To a bright endless year.
SECOND SUNDAY AFTER
When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them. Isaiah xli, 17.
AND wilt Thou hear the fever'd heart
To Thee in silence cry?
Out of the restless eye,
That Hope should never die ?
Thou wilt: for many a languid prayer
Has reach'd Thee from the wild, Since the lorn mother, wandering there,
Cast down her fainting child', Then stole apart to weep and die, Nor knew an angel form was nigh To shew soft waters gushing by
And dewy shadows mild.
Thou wilt-for Thou art Israel's God,
And thine unwearied arm Is ready yet with Moses' rod,
The hidden rill to charm Out of the dry unfathom’d deep Of sands, that lie in lifeless sleep, Save when the scorching whirlwinds heap
Their waves in rude alarm.
Those moments of wild wrath are thine
Thine too the drearier hour When o'er th' horizon's silent line
Fond hopeless fancies cower,
P Hagar. See Gen. xxi. 15.
And on the traveller's listless
way Rises and sets th' unchanging day, No cloud in heaven to slake its ray,
On earth no sheltering bower.
Thou wilt be there, and not forsake,
To turn the bitter pool Into a bright and breezy lake,
The throbbing brow to cool : Till left awhile with Thee alone The wilful heart be fain to own That He, by whom our bright hours shone,
Our darkness best may rule.
The scent of water far
away Upon the breeze is flung: The desert pelican to-day
Securely leaves her young, Reproving thankless man, who fears To journey on a few lone years, Where on the sand thy step appears,
Thy crown in sight is hung.
Thou, who didst sit on Jacob's well
The weary hour of noon",
The nerveless spirit tune.
Our Sun and soothing Moon.
From darkness, here, and dreariness
We ask not full repose, Only be Thou at hand, to bless
Our trial hour of woes. Is not the pilgrim's toil o'erpaid, By the clear rill and palmy, shade? And see we not, up Earth's dark glade,
The gate of Heaven unclose ?
4 St. John iy. 6.
r St. John xix. 28.