Twenty-Second Sunday after Trinity.

Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him?

_Matthew_ xviii. 21.

WHAT liberty so glad and gay, As where the mountain boy, Reckless of regions far away, A prisoner lives in joy?

The dreary sounds of crowded earth, The cries of camp or town, Never untuned his lonely mirth, Nor drew his visions down.

The snow-clad peaks of rosy light That meet his morning view, The thwarting cliffs that bound his sight, They bound his fancy too.

Two ways alone his roving eye For aye may onward go, Or in the azure deep on high, Or darksome mere below.

O blest restraint! more blessed range!

Too soon the happy child His nook of homely thought will change For life's seducing wild:

Too soon his altered day-dreams show This earth a boundless s.p.a.ce, With sun-bright pleasures to and fro Sporting in joyous race:

While of his narrowing heart each year, Heaven less and less will fill, Less keenly, thorough his grosser ear, The tones of mercy thrill.

It must be so: else wherefore falls The Saviour's voice unheard, While from His pard'ning Cross He calls, "O spare as I have spared?"

By our own n.i.g.g.ard rule we try The hope to suppliants given!

We mete out love, as if our eye Saw to the end of Heaven.

Yes, ransomed sinner! wouldst thou know How often to forgive, How dearly to embrace thy foe, Look where thou hop'st to live;-

When thou hast told those isles of light, And fancied all beyond, Whatever owns, in depth or height, Creation's wondrous bond;

Then in their solemn pageant learn Sweet mercy's praise to see: Their Lord resigned them all, to earn The bliss of pardoning thee.

Twenty-third Sunday after Trinity.

Who shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like unto His glorious body, according to the working whereby He is able even to subdue all things onto Himself. _Philippians_ iii. 21.

RED o'er the forest peers the setting sun, The line of yellow light dies fast away That crowned the eastern copse: and chill and dun Falls on the moor the brief November day.

Now the tired hunter winds a parting note, And Echo hide good-night from every glade; Yet wait awhile, and see the calm heaves float Each to his rest beneath their parent shade.

How like decaying life they seem to glide!

And yet no second spring have they in store, But where they fall, forgotten to abide Is all their portion, and they ask no more.

Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing, A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold, The green buds glisten in the dews of Spring, And all be vernal rapture as of old.

Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie, In all the world of busy life around No thought of them; in all the bounteous sky, No drop, for them, of kindly influence found.

Man's portion is to die and rise again- Yet he complains, while these unmurmuring part With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain, As his when Eden held his virgin heart.

And haply half unblamed his murmuring voice Might sound in Heaven, were all his second life Only the first renewed-the heathen's choice, A round of listless joy and weary strife.

For dreary were this earth, if earth were all, Tho' brightened oft by dear Affection's kiss;- Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall?

But catch a gleam beyond it, and 'tis bliss.

Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart, Whether slow creeping on cold earth, or borne On lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dart O'er wave or field: yet breezes laugh to scorn

Our puny speed, and birds, and clouds in heaven, And fish, living shafts that pierce the main, And stars that shoot through freezing air at even- Who but would follow, might he break his chain?

And thou shalt break it soon; the grovelling worm Shall find his wings, and soar as fast and free As his transfigured Lord with lightning form And snowy vest-such grace He won for thee,

When from the grave He sprang at dawn of morn, And led through boundless air thy conquering road, Leaving a glorious track, where saints, new-born, Might fearless follow to their blest abode.

But first, by many a stern and fiery blast The world's rude furnace must thy blood refine, And many a gale of keenest woe be pa.s.sed, Till every pulse beat true to airs divine,

Till every limb obey the mounting soul, The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given.

He who the stormy heart can so control, The laggard body soon will waft to Heaven.

Twenty-fourth Sunday after Trinity.

The heart knoweth his own bitterness: and a stranger doth not intermeddle with his joy. _Proverbs_ xiv. 10.

WHY should we faint and fear to live alone, Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die, Nor e'en the tenderest heart, and next our own, Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh?

Each in his hidden sphere of joy or woe Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart, Our eyes see all around in gloom or glow- Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart.

And well it is for us our G.o.d should feel Alone our secret throbbings: so our prayer May readier spring to Heaven, nor spend its zeal On cloud-born idols of this lower air.

For if one heart in perfect sympathy Beat with another, answering love for love, Weak mortals, all entranced, on earth would lie, Nor listen for those purer strains above.

Or what if Heaven for once its searching light Lent to some partial eye, disclosing all The rude bad thoughts, that in our bosom's night Wander at large, nor heed Love's gentle thrall?

Who would not shun the dreary uncouth place?

As if, fond leaning where her infant slept, A mother's arm a serpent should embrace: So might we friendless live, and die unwept.

Then keep the softening veil in mercy drawn, Thou who canst love us, thro' Thou read us true; As on the bosom of th' aerial lawn Melts in dim haze each coa.r.s.e ungentle hue.

So too may soothing Hope Thy heave enjoy Sweet visions of long-severed hearts to frame: Though absence may impair, or cares annoy, Some constant mind may draw us still the same.

We in dark dreams are tossing to and fro, Pine with regret, or sicken with despair, The while she bathes us in her own chaste glow, And with our memory wings her own fond prayer.

O bliss of child-like innocence, and love Tried to old age! creative power to win, And raise new worlds, where happy fancies rove, Forgetting quite this grosser world of sin.