Where Philip's steps were led,

Led by a voice from TheeHe rose and went, nor ask'd Thee why, Nor stayed to heave one faithless sigh ;

Upon his lonely way

The high-born traveller came, Reading a mournful lay

Of “ One who bore our shame', “Silent himself, his name untold,

And yet his glories were of old.”

66

To muse what Heaven might mean

His wandering brow he rais'd,
And met an eye serene

That on him watchful gaz'd.
No Hermit e'er so welcome cross d.
A child's lone path in woodland lost.

Now wonder turns to love ;

The scrolls of sacred lore

No darksome mazes prove;

The desert tires no more :

c Isaiah liji. 6-8.

F

They bathe where holy waters flow,
Then on their way rejoicing go.

They part to meet in heaven ;

But of the joy they share,
Absolving and forgiven,

The sweet remembrance bear.
Yes—mark him well, ye cold and proud,
Bewilder'd in a heartless crowd,

Starting and turning pale
At Rumour's angry

din-
No storm can now assail

The charm he wears within,
Rejoicing still, and doing good,
And with the thought of God imbu’d.

No glare of high estate,

No gloom of woe or want,
The radiance can abate

Where Heaven delights to haunt.
Sin only hides the genial ray,
And, round the Cross, makes night of day.

Then weep it from thy heart;

So may'st thou duly learn
The intercessor's part,

Thy prayers and tears may earn
For fallen souls some healing breath,
Ere they have died th’ Apostate's death.

SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER

EPIPHANY.

Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be : but we know, that, when He shall appear, we shall be like Him, for we shall see Him as He is. 1 St. John iïi. 2, 3.

THERE

are, who darkling and alone,
Would wish the weary night were gone,
Though dawning morn should only shew
The secret of their unknown woe:
Who pray for sharpest throbs of pain
To ease them of doubt's galling chain :

Only disperse the cloud,” they cry, “And if our fate be death, give light and let us dies."

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Unwise I deem them, LORD, unmeet
To profit by thy chastenings sweet,
For thou wouldst have us linger still
Upon the verge of good or ill,
That on thy guiding hand unseen
Our undivided hearts may lean,

And this our frail and foundering bark
Glide in the narrow wake of thy beloved ark.

'Tis so in war—the champion true
Loves victory more, when dim in view
He sees her glories gild afar
The dusky edge of stubborn war,
Than if th' untrodden bloodless field
The harvest of her laurels yield;

Let not my bark in calm abide,
But win her fearless way against the chafing tide.

'Tis so in love the faithful heart
From her dim vision would not part,
When first to her fond gaze is given
That purest spot in Fancy's heaven,
For all the gorgeous sky beside,
Though pledg’d her own and sure t’ abide :

Dearer than every past noon-day That twilight gleam to her, though faint and far away.

So have I seen some tender flower
Priz'd above all the vernal bower,
Shelter'd beneath the coolest shade,
Embosom'd in the greenest glade,
So frail a gem, it scarce may bear
The playful touch of evening air;

When hardier grown we love it less,
And trust it from our sight, not needing our caress.

And wherefore is the sweet spring tide
Worth all the changeful year beside ?
The last-born babe, why lies its part
Deep in the mother's inmost heart ?
But that the Lord and source of love
Would have his weakest ever prove

Our tenderest care—and most of all
Our frail immortal souls, His work and Satan's thrall.

So be it, LORD; I know it best,
Though not as yet this wayward breast
Beat quite in answer to thy voice,
Yet surely I have made my choice ;