Would'st thou the pangs of guilt a.s.suage?

Lo! here an open page, Where heavenly mercy shines as free Written in balm, sad heart, for thee.

Never so fast, in silent April shower, Flushed into green the dry and leafless bower, As Israel's crowned mourner felt The dull hard stone within him melt.

The absolver saw the mighty grief, And hastened with relief;- "The Lord forgives; thou shalt not die:"

'Twas gently spoke, yet heard on high, And all the band of angels, used to sing In heaven, accordant to his raptured string, Who many a month had turned away With veiled eyes, nor owned his lay,

Now spread their wings, and throng around To the glad mournful sound, And welcome, with bright open face, The broken heart to love's embrace.

The rock is smitten, and to future years Springs ever fresh the tide of holy tears And holy music, whispering peace Till time and sin together cease.

There drink: and when ye are at rest, With that free Spirit blest, Who to the contrite can dispense, The princely heart of innocence, If ever, floating from faint earthly lyre, Was wafted to your soul one high desire, By all the trembling hope ye feel, Think on the minstrel as ye kneel:

Think on the shame, that dreadful hour When tears shall have no power, Should his own lay th' accuser prove, Cold while he kindled others' love: And let your prayer for charity arise, That his own heart may hear his melodies, And a true voice to him may cry, "Thy G.o.d forgives-thou shalt not die."

Seventh Sunday after Trinity.

From whence can a man satisfy these men with bread here in the wilderness? _St. Mark_ viii. 4.

GO not away, thou weary soul: Heaven has in store a precious dole Here on Bethsaida's cold and darksome height, Where over rocks and sands arise Proud Sirion in the northern skies, And Tabor's lonely peak, 'twixt thee and noonday light.

And far below, Gennesaret's main Spreads many a mile of liquid plain, (Though all seem gathered in one eager bound,) Then narrowing cleaves you palmy lea, Towards that deep sulphureous sea, Where five proud cities lie, by one dire sentence drowned.

Landscape of fear! yet, weary heart, Thou need'st not in thy gloom depart, Nor fainting turn to seek thy distant home: Sweetly thy sickening throbs are eyed By the kind Saviour at thy side; For healing and for balm e'en now thine hour is come.

No fiery wing is seen to glide, No cates ambrosial are supplied, But one poor fisher's rude and scanty store Is all He asks (and more than needs) Who men and angels daily feeds, And stills the wailing sea-bird on the hungry sh.o.r.e.

The feast is o'er, the guests are gone, And over all that upland lone The breeze of eve sweeps wildly as of old- But far unlike the former dreams, The heart's sweet moonlight softly gleams Upon life's varied view, so joyless erst and cold.

As mountain travellers in the night, When heaven by fits is dark and bright, Pause listening on the silent heath, and hear Nor trampling hoof nor tinkling bell, Then bolder scale the rugged fell, Conscious the more of One, ne'er seen, yet ever near:

So when the tones of rapture gay On the lorn ear, die quite away, The lonely world seems lifted nearer heaven; Seen daily, yet unmarked before, Earth's common paths are strewn all o'er With flowers of pensive hope, the wreath of man forgiven.

The low sweet tones of Nature's lyre No more on listless ears expire, Nor vainly smiles along the shady way The primrose in her vernal nest, Nor unlamented sink to rest Sweet roses one by one, nor autumn leaves decay.

There's not a star the heaven can show, There's not a cottage-hearth below, But feeds with solace kind the willing soul- Men love us, or they need our love; Freely they own, or heedless prove The curse of lawless hearts, the joy of self-control.

Then rouse thee from desponding sleep, Nor by the wayside lingering weep, Nor fear to seek Him farther in the wild, Whose love can turn earth's worst and least Into a conqueror's royal feast: Thou wilt not be untrue, thou shalt not be beguiled.

Eight Sunday after Trinity.

It is the man of G.o.d, who was disobedient unto the word of the Lord.

1 _King_ xiii. 26.

PROPHET of G.o.d, arise and take With thee the words of wrath divine, The scourge of Heaven, to shake O'er yon apostate shrine.

Where Angels down the lucid stair Came hovering to our sainted sires Now, in the twilight, glare The heathen's wizard fires.

Go, with thy voice the altar rend, Scatter the ashes, be the arm, That idols would befriend, Shrunk at thy withering charm.

Then turn thee, for thy time is short, But trace not o'er the former way, Lest idol pleasures court Thy heedless soul astray.

Thou know'st how hard to hurry by, Where on the lonely woodland road Beneath the moonlight sky The festal warblings flowed;

Where maidens to the Queen of Heaven Wove the gay dance round oak or palm, Or breathed their vows at even In hymns as soft as balm.

Or thee, perchance, a darker spell Enthralls: the smooth stones of the flood, By mountain grot or fell, Pollute with infant's blood;

The giant altar on the rock, The cavern whence the timbrel's call Affrights the wandering flock:- Thou long'st to search them all.

Trust not the dangerous path again- O forward step and lingering will!

O loved and warned in vain!

And wilt thou perish still?

Thy message given, thine home in sight, To the forbidden feast return?

Yield to the false delight Thy better soul could spurn?

Alas, my brother! round thy tomb In sorrow kneeling, and in fear, We read the Pastor's doom Who speaks and will not hear.

The grey-haired saint may fail at last, The surest guide a wanderer prove; Death only binds us fast To the bright sh.o.r.e of love.

Ninth Sunday after Trinity.

And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice. 1 _Kings_ xix. 12.

IN troublous days of anguish and rebuke, While sadly round them Israel's children look, And their eyes fail for waiting on their Lord: While underneath each awful arch of green, On every mountain-top, G.o.d's chosen scene, Of pure heart-worship, Baal is adored:

'Tis well, true hearts should for a time retire To holy ground, in quiet to aspire Towards promised regions of serener grace; On h.o.r.eb, with Elijah, let us lie, Where all around on mountain, sand, and sky, G.o.d's chariot wheels have left distinctest trace;

There, if in jealousy and strong disdain We to the sinner's G.o.d of sin complain, Untimely seeking here the peace of Heaven- "It is enough. O Lord! now let me die E'en as my fathers did: for what am I That I should stand where they have vainly striven?"-

Perhaps our G.o.d may of our conscience ask, "What doest thou here frail wanderer from thy task?

Where hast thou left those few sheep in the wild?"

Then should we plead our heart's consuming pain, At sight of ruined altars, prophets slain, And G.o.d's own ark with blood of souls defiled;

He on the rock may bid us stand, and see The outskirts of His march of mystery, His endless warfare with man's wilful heart; First, His great Power He to the sinner shows Lo! at His angry blast the rocks unclose, And to their base the trembling mountains part

Yet the Lord is not here: 'Tis not by Power He will be known-but darker tempests lower; Still, sullen heavings vex the labouring ground: Perhaps His Presence thro' all depth and height, Best of all gems that deck His crown of light, The haughty eye may dazzle and confound.

G.o.d is not in the earthquake; but behold From Sinai's caves are bursting, as of old, The flames of His consuming jealous ire.

Woe to the sinner should stern Justice prove His chosen attribute;-but He in love Hastes to proclaim, "G.o.d is not in the fire."