And Lazarus waken'd from his four days' sleep, And fast beside the olive-border'd way Stands the bless'd home, where Jesus deign'd to stay, The peaceful home, to Zeal sincere And heavenly Contemplation dear, When Martha lov'd to wait with reverence meet, And wiser Mary linger'd at thy sacred feet. Still through decaying ages as they glide, green isle appears: Pause where we may upon the desert road, When withering blasts of error swept the sky, On shelter'd nooks of Palestine ! Then to his early home did Love repaira, And cheer'd his sickening heart with his own native air. c Arianism in the fourth century. d See St. Jerome's Works, i. 123. edit. Erasm. Years roll away again the tide of crime On a crown'd monarch's mailed breast: Like some bright angel o'er the darkling scene, Through court and he holds his heavenward course camp serene. A fouler vision yet; an age of light, Light without love, glares on the aching sight: Meek Walton! shews thy green retreat, When wearied with the tale thy times disclose, The first finds thee out in thy secure repose eye Thus bad and good their several warnings give Counts them like minute bells at night, ? Keeping the heart awake till dawn of morn, But what are heaven's alarms to hearts that cower e St. Louis in the tenth century. That draw their curtains closer round, The nearer swells the trumpet's sound? Lord, ere our trembling lamps sink down and die, Touch us with chastening hand, and make us feel Thee nigh. SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT. And when these things begin to come to pass, then look up and lift up your heads, for your redemption draweth nigh. St. Luke xxi. 28. NOT till the freezing blast is still, Till freely leaps the sparkling rill, And gales sweep soft from summer skies, As o'er a sleeping infant's eyes A mother's kiss; ere calls like these, Why then, in sad and wintry time, Her heavens all dark with doubt and crime, Is she less wise than leaves of spring, She has a charm, a word of fire, Descries by faith her Saviour's form. Set in the figtree's polish'd stem, Foreshew the summer season bland, Than these dread signs thy mighty hand: The season's flight unwarn'd we mark, f 2 Esdras xiv. 10. The world hath lost his youth, and the times begin to wax old. fore But miss the Judge behind the door, Yet is He there: beneath our eaves But chiefly ye should lift your gaze Angels He calls ye: be your strife To lead on earth an Angel's life. Think not of rest; though dreams be sweet, Start up, and ply your heaven-ward feet. g See St. James v. 9. |