The Christian Year | Page 7

times disclose,
The eye first
finds thee out in thy secure repose?

Thus bad and good their several warnings give
Of His approach,
whom none may see and live:
Faith's ear, with awful still delight,
Counts them like minute-bells at
night.
Keeping the heart awake till dawn of morn,
While to her
funeral pile this aged world is borne.
But what are Heaven's alarms to hearts that cower
In wilful slumber,
deepening every hour,
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 pass, then look up, and lift up your
heads; for your redemption draweth night. 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,
No sunny gleam awakes
the trees,
Nor dare the tender flowerets show
Their bosoms to th'
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.
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