Who ever saw the earliest rose

First open her sweet breast? Or, when the summer sun goes down, The first soft star in evening's crown Light up her gleaming crest?

Fondly we seek the dawning bloom
On features wan and fair,—

The gazing eye no change can trace,
But look away a little space,

Then turn, and, lo! 'tis there.

But there's a sweeter flower than e'er

Blush'd on the rosy spray

A brighter star, a richer bloom

Than e'er did western heaven illume
At close of summer day.

'Tis Love, the last best gift of Heaven; Love gentle, holy, pure:

But tenderer than a dove's soft eye,

The searching sun, the open sky,

She never could endure.

Even human Love will shrink from sight

Here in the coarse rude earth:

How then should rash intruding glance

Break in upon her sacred trance

Who boasts a heavenly birth?

So still and secret is her growth,
Ever the truest heart,

Where deepest strikes her kindly root
For hope or joy, for flower or fruit,
Least knows its happy part.

God only, and good angels, look
Behind the blissful screen-

As when, triumphant o'er his woes,
The Son of God by moonlight rose,
By all but Heaven unseen:

As when the holy Maid beheld

Her risen Son and Lord:

Thought has not colours half so fair That she to paint that hour may dare, In silence best ador'd.

The gracious Dove, that brought from Heaven

The earnest of our bliss,

Of many a chosen witness telling,
On many a happy vision dwelling,
Sings not a note of this.

So, truest image of the Christ,

Old Israel's long-lost son,

What time, with sweet forgiving cheer,
He call'd his conscious brethren near,
Would weep with them alone.

He could not trust his melting soul
But in his Maker's sight-

Then why should gentle hearts and true
Bare to the rude world's withering view
Their treasure of delight!

No-let the dainty rose awhile

Her bashful fragrance hide

Rend not her silken veil too soon,
But leave her, in her own soft noon,

To flourish and abide.

FIFTH SUNDAY IN LENT.

And Moses said, I will now turn aside and see this great sight, why the bush is not burned. Exodus iii. 3.

TH' historic Muse, from age to age,

Thro' many a waste heart-sickening page
Hath trac'd the works of Man:

But a celestial call to-day

Stays her, like Moses, on her way,
The works of GOD to scan.

Far seen across the sandy wild,
Where, like a solitary child,

He thoughtless roam'd and free,
One towering thorn' was wrapt in flame—
Bright without blaze it went and came :

Who would not turn and see?

z" Seneh :" said to be a sort of Acacia.

Along the mountain ledges green

The scatter'd sheep at will may gleam

The Desert's spicy stores:

The while, with undivided heart,

The shepherd talks with God apart,
And, as he talks, adores.

Ye too, who tend Christ's wildering flock,
Well may ye gather round the rock
That once was Sion's hill:

To watch the fire upon the mount
Still blazing, like the solar fount,
Yet unconsuming still.

Caught from that blaze by wrath divine,
Lost branches of the once-lov'd vine,
Now wither'd, spent, and sere,

See Israel's sons, like glowing brands,
Tost wildly o'er a thousand lands
For twice a thousand year.

God will not quench nor slay them quite, But lifts them like a beacon light

Th' apostate Church to scare: