Thou know'st our bitterness-our joys are thine"— No stranger Thou to all our wanderings wild: Stands in full sunshine of thy piercing eye, But that thou call'st us Brethren: sweet repose Is in that word-the LORD who dwells on high Knows all, yet loves us better than He knows. b Psalm xxxi. 7. Thou hast known my soul in adversities. TWENTY-FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness. Proverbs xvi. 31. THE bright hair'd morn is glowing O'er emerald meadows gay, The early shepherd's way. To slumber in your leafy screen, And see what joyous greeting The sun through heaven has shed, His beams have faster sped. For lo! above the western haze High towers the rainbow arch In solid span of purest rays: How stately is its march! Pride of the dewy morning! Even so, in hope and trembling With glance both kind and true; 'Tis not the eye of keenest blaze, Nor the quick-swelling breast, That soonest thrills at touch of praise— These do not please him best. But voices low and gentle, And timid glances shy, That seem for aid parental To sue all wistfully, Still pressing, longing to be right, These in Life's distant even As in th' autumnal heaven Mild rainbow tints at night, When the last shower is stealing down, And ere they sink to rest, The sun-beams weave a parting crown For some sweet woodland nest. The promise of the morrow Is glorious on that eve, Dear as the holy sorrow When good men cease to live. When brightening ere it die away Mounts up their altar flame, Still tending with intenser ray To Heaven whence first it came. Say not it dies, that glory, "Tis caught unquench'd on high, Those saintlike brows so hoary Shall wear it in the sky. No smile is like the smile of death, When all good musings past 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? St. John vi. 12. When down th' o'erwhelming current tost, Just ere he sink for ever lost, The sailor's untried arms are cross'd In agonizing prayer, will Ocean cease her strife? |