Say not it dies, that glory, "Tis caught unquench'd on high, No smile is like the smile of death, Rise wafted with the parting breath, SUNDAY NEXT BEFORE ADVENT. Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost. WILL God indeed with fragments bear, Snatch'd late from the decaying year? The dregs of a polluted life? When down th' o'erwhelming current tost, Just ere he sink for ever lost, The sailor's untried arms are cross'd St. John vi. 12. In agonizing prayer, will Ocean cease her strife? Sighs that exhaust but not relieve, For lavish'd hours and love mispent! Back on the gaudy world our wilful eyes were bent. Too soon th' ennobling carols, pour'd Too soon those airs have pass'd away; Nor long within the heart would stay The silence of CHRIST's dying day, Profan'd by worldly mirth, or scar'd by worldly fear. Some strain of hope and victory On Easter wings might lift us high; A little while we sought the sky : And when the SPIRIT'S beacon fires On every hill began to blaze, Lightening the world with glad amaze, Who but must kindle while they gaze? But faster than she soars, our earth-bound Fancy tires. Nor yet for these, nor all the rites, And sweeten every secret tear :— And now elate and trembling now To the Redeemer's feet their new-found treasures bear: Not for the Pastor's gracious arm Stretch'd out to bless-a Christian charm To dull the shafts of worldly harm :— Nor, sweetest, holiest, best of all, For the dear feast of JESUS dying, Upon that altar ever lying, Where souls with sacred hunger sighing Are call'd to sit and eat, while angels prostrate fall : No, not for each and all of these, Have our frail spirits found their ease. The gale that stirs th' autumnal trees · Seems tun'd as truly to our hearts As when, twelve weary months ago, 'Twas moaning bleak, so high and low, You would have thought Remorse and Woe Had taught the innocent air their sadly thrilling parts. Is it, CHRIST's light is too divine, We dare not hope like Him to shine? But see, around His dazzling shrine Earth's gems the fire of heaven have caught; Martyrs and saints-each glorious day Dawning in order on our way— Remind us, how our darksome clay May keep th' ethereal warmth our new Creator brought. These we have scorn'd, O false and frail! Of our lost year in heaven is told What if as far our life were past, And all our work to do with palsied hands and cold? O watch and pray ere Advent dawn! For thinner than the subtlest lawn "Twixt thee and death the veil is drawn. But Love too late can never glow : Breathes sweeter than whole years of sacrifice below. |