Where Philip's steps were led, Led by a voice from Thee He rose and went, nor ask'd Thee why, Nor stayed to heave one faithless sigh; Upon his lonely way The high-born traveller came, Of" One who bore our shame, To muse what Heaven might mean 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; c Isaiah liii. 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, The sweet remembrance bear. Yes-mark him well, ye cold and proud, 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 Ere they have died th' Apostate's death. SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER 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 iii. 2, 3. THERE are, who darkling and alone, Who pray for sharpest throbs of pain "And if our fate be death, give light and let us die"." 4 Ἐν δὲ φάει καὶ ὀλέσσον. Unwise I deem them, LORD, unmeet 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. 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 That purest spot in Fancy's heaven, 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 So frail a gem, it scarce may bear And trust it from our sight, not needing our caress. And wherefore is the sweet spring tide 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 |