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Watch for the still white gleam
To bathe the landscape in a fiery stream,

Touching the tremulous eye with sense of light
Too rapid and too pure for all but angel sight.

They know th’ Almighty's love,
Who, when the whirlwinds rock the topmost grove,

Stand in the shade, and hear
The tumult with a deep exulting fear,

How, in their fiercest sway,
Curb’d by some power unseen, they die away,

Like a bold steed that owns his rider's arm,
Proud to be check'd and sooth'd by that o'er-mastering

charm.

But there are storms within
That heave the struggling heart with wilder din,

And there is power and love
The maniac's rushing frenzy to reprove,

And when he takes his seat,
Cloth'd and in calmness, at his Saviour's feet“,

Is not the power as strange, the love as blest,
As when He said, Be still, and ocean sank to rest ?

a St. Mark v. 15. iv. 39.

Woe to the wayward heart,
That gladlier turns to eye the shuddering start

Of Passion in her might,
Than marks the silent growth of grace and light;-

Pleas'd in the cheerless tomb
To linger, while the morning rays illume

Green lake, and cedar tuft, and spicy glade,
Shaking their dewy tresses now the storm is laid.

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The storm is laid--and now
In his meek power He climbs the mountain's brow,

Who bade the waves go sleep,
And lash'd the vex'd fiends to their yawning deep.

How on a rock they stand,
Who watch his eye, and hold his guiding hand !

Not half so fix’d, amid her vassal hills,
Rises the holy pile that Kedron's valley fills.

And wilt thou seek again
Thy howling waste, thy charnel-house and chain,

And with the demons be,
Rather than clasp thine own Deliverer's knee?

Sure 'tis no heav'n-bred awe That bids thee from his healing touch withdraw,

The world and He are struggling in thine heart, And in thy reckless mood thou bidd'st thy Lord depart.

He, merciful and mild,
As erst, beholding, loves his wayward child;

When souls of highest birth
Waste their impassion'd might on dreams of earth,

He opens Nature's book,
And on his glorious Gospel bids them look,

Till by such chords, as rule the choirs above, Their lawless cries are tun'd to hymns of perfect love.

FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER

EPIPHANY.

Behold, the Lord's hand is not shortened, that it cannot save, neither his ear heavy, that it cannot hear: but your iniquities have separated between

you

and your God. Isaiah lix. 1, 2.

66

WAKE, arm divine ! awake,

“ Eye of the only Wise! “ Now for thy glory's sake,

“ Saviour and God, arise,
66 And

may
thine

that sealed seems,
“ In pity mark our mournful themes !"

ear,

Thus in her lonely hour

Thy Church is fain to cry,
As if thy love and power

Were vanish'd from her sky;
Yet God is there, and at his side
He triumphs, who for sinners died.

Ah ! 'tis the world enthralls

The heaven-betrothed breast :

The traitor Sense recalls

The soaring soul from rest. That bitter sigh was all for earth, For glories gone, and vanish'd mirth.

Age would to youth return,

Farther from heaven would be,
To feel the wildfire burn,

On idolizing knee
Again to fall, and rob thy shrine
Of hearts, the right of love divine.

Lord of this erring flock !

Thou whose soft showers distil
On ocean waste or rock,

Free as on Hermon hill,
Do Thou our craven spirits cheer,
And shame away the selfish tear.

"Twas silent all and dead

Beside the barren sea,

b See Acts viii. 26-40.

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