The Christian Year | Page 7

uncertain glow.
Why then, in sad and wintry time,?Her heavens all dark with doubt and crime,?Why lifts the Church her drooping head,?As though her evil hour were fled??Is she less wise than leaves of spring,?Or birds that cower with folded wing??What sees she in this lowering sky?To tempt her meditative eye?
She has a charm, a word of fire,?A pledge of love that cannot tire;?By tempests, earthquakes, and by wars,?By rushing waves and falling stars,?By every sign her Lord foretold,?She sees the world is waxing old,?And through that last and direst storm?Descries by faith her Saviour's form.
Not surer does each tender gem,?Set in the fig-tree's polish'd stem,?Foreshow the summer season bland,?Than these dread signs Thy mighty hand:?But, oh, frail hearts, and spirits dark!?The season's flight unwarn'd we mark,?But miss the Judge behind the door,?For all the light of sacred lore:
Yet is He there; beneath our eaves?Each sound His wakeful ear receives:?Hush, idle words, and thoughts of ill,?Your Lord is listening: peace, be still.?Christ watches by a Christian's hearth,?Be silent, "vain deluding mirth,"?Till in thine alter'd voice be known?Somewhat of Resignation's tone.
But chiefly ye should lift your gaze?Above the world's uncertain haze,?And look with calm unwavering eye?On the bright fields beyond the sky,?Ye, who your Lord's commission bear?His way of mercy to prepare:?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 heavenward feet.?Is not God's oath upon your head,?Ne'er to sink back on slothful bed,?Never again your loans untie,?Nor let your torches waste and die,?Till, when the shadows thickest fall,?Ye hear your Master's midnight call?
THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT
What went ye out into the wilderness to see? A reed shaken with the wind? . . . But what went ye out for to see? A prophet? yea, I say unto you, and more than a prophet. St. Matthew xi. 7, 9.
What went ye out to see?O'er the rude sandy lea,?Where stately Jordan flows by many a palm,
Or where Gennesaret's wave?Delights the flowers to lave,?That o'er her western slope breathe airs of balm.
All through the summer night,?Those blossoms red and bright?Spread their soft breasts, unheeding, to the breeze,
Like hermits watching still?Around the sacred hill,?Where erst our Saviour watched upon His knees.
The Paschal moon above?Seems like a saint to rove,?Left shining in the world with Christ alone;
Below, the lake's still face?Sleeps sweetly in th' embrace?Of mountains terrac'd high with mossy stone.
Here may we sit, and dream?Over the heavenly theme,?Till to our soul the former days return;
Till on the grassy bed,?Where thousands once He fed,?The world's incarnate Maker we discern.
O cross no more the main,?Wandering so will and vain,?To count the reeds that tremble in the wind,
On listless dalliance bound,?Like children gazing round,?Who on God's works no seal of Godhead find.
Bask not in courtly bower,?Or sun-bright hall of power,?Pass Babel quick, and seek the holy land -
From robes of Tyrian dye?Turn with undazzled eye?To Bethlehem's glade, or Carmel's haunted strand.
Or choose thee out a cell?In Kedron's storied dell,?Beside the springs of Love, that never die;
Among the olives kneel?The chill night-blast to feel,?And watch the Moon that saw thy Master's agony.
Then rise at dawn of day,?And wind thy thoughtful way,?Where rested once the Temple's stately shade,
With due feet tracing round?The city's northern bound,?To th' other holy garden, where the Lord was laid.
Who thus alternate see?His death and victory,?Rising and falling as on angel wings,
They, while they seem to roam,?Draw daily nearer home,?Their heart untravell'd still adores the King of kings.
Or, if at home they stay,?Yet are they, day by day,?In spirit journeying through the glorious land,
Not for light Fancy's reed,?Nor Honour's purple meed,?Nor gifted Prophet's lore, nor Science' wondrous wand.
But more than Prophet, more?Than Angels can adore?With face unveiled, is He they go to seek:
Blessed be God, Whose grace?Shows Him in every place?To homeliest hearts of pilgrims pure and meek.
FOURTH SUNDAY IN ADVENT
The eyes of them that see shall not be dim, and the ears of them that hear shall hearken. Isaiah xxxii. 3
Of the bright things in earth and air
How little can the heart embrace!?Soft shades and gleaming lights are there -
I know it well, but cannot trace.
Mine eye unworthy seems to read
One page of Nature's beauteous book;?It lies before me, fair outspread -
I only cast a wishful look.
I cannot paint to Memory's eye
The scene, the glance, I dearest love -?Unchanged themselves, in me they die,
Or faint or false their shadows prove.
In vain, with dull and tuneless ear,
I linger by soft Music's cell,?And in my heart of hearts would hear
What to her own she deigns to tell.
'Tis misty all, both sight and sound -
I only know 'tis fair and sweet -?'Tis wandering on enchanted ground
With dizzy brow and tottering feet.
But patience! there may come a time
When these dull ears shall scan aright?Strains that outring Earth's drowsy chime,
As Heaven outshines the taper's light.
These