Bright are their dreams, because their thoughts are clear, Their memory cheering: but th' earth-stained spright, Whose wakeful musings are of guilt and fear, Must hover nearer earth, and less in light.

Farewell, for her, th' ideal scenes so fair- Yet not farewell her hope, since thou hast deigned, Creator of all hearts! to own and share The woe of what Thou mad'st, and we have stained.

Thou knowst our bitterness-our joys are Thine- No stranger Thou to all our wanderings wild: Nor could we bear to think, how every line Of us, Thy darkened likeness and defiled,

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.

Twenty-fifth Sunday after Trinity.

The h.o.a.ry head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness. _Proverbs_ xvi. 31.

THE bright-haired morn is glowing O'er emerald meadows gay, With many a clear gem strewing The early shepherd's way.

Ye gentle elves, by Fancy seen Stealing away with night To slumber in your leafy screen, Tread more than airy light.

And see what joyous greeting The sun through heaven has shed, Though fast yon shower be fleeting, 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!

The swain's experienced eye From thee takes timely warning, Nor trusts the gorgeous sky.

For well he knows, such dawnings gay Bring noons of storm and shower, And travellers linger on the way Beside the sheltering bower.

E'en so, in hope and trembling Should watchful shepherd view His little lambs a.s.sembling, 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, Yet fearing to be wrong,- In these the Pastor dares delight, A lamb-like, Christ-like throng.

These in Life's distant even Shall shine serenely bright, 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 unquenched on high, Those saintlike brows so h.o.a.ry 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, The sweetest thought the last.

Sunday next before Advent.

Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost. _St.

John_ vi. 12.

WILL G.o.d indeed with fragments bear, s.n.a.t.c.hed late from the decaying year?

Or can the Saviour's blood endear The dregs of a polluted life?

When down th' o'erwhelming current tossed Just ere he sink for ever lost, The sailor's untried arms are crossed In agonizing prayer, will Ocean cease her strife?

Sighs that exhaust but not relieve Heart-rending sighs, O spare to heave A bosom freshly taught to grieve For lavished hours and love misspent!

Now through her round of holy thought The Church our annual steps has brought, But we no holy fire have caught- Back on the gaudy world our wilful eyes were bent.

Too soon th' enn.o.bling carols, poured To hymn the birth-night of the LORD, Which duteous Memory should have stored For thankful echoing all the year- Too soon those airs have pa.s.sed away; Nor long within the heart would stay The silence of CHRIST'S dying day, Profaned by worldly mirth, or scared by worldly fear.

Some strain of hope and victory On Easter wings might lift us high A little while we sought the sky: And when the SPIRIT'S beacon fires On every hill began to blare, Lightening the world with glad amaze, Who but must kindle while they gaze?

But faster than she soars, our earth-bound Fancy tires.

Nor yet for these, nor all the rites, By which our Mother's voice invites Our G.o.d to bless our home delights, And sweeten every secret tear:- The funeral dirge, the marriage vow, The hollowed font where parents bow, And now elate and trembling now To the Redeemer's feet their new-found treasures bear:-

Not for this Pastor's gracious arm Stretched out to bless-a Christian charm To dull the shafts of worldly harm:- Nor, sweetest, holiest, best of all For the dear feast of JESUS dying, Upon that altar ever lying, Where souls with sacred hunger sighing Are called to sit and eat, while angels prostrate fall:-

No, not for each and all of these, Have our frail spirits found their ease.

The gale that stirs the autumnal trees Seems tuned as truly to our hearts As when, twelve weary months ago, 'Twas moaning bleak, so high and low, You would have thought Remorse and Woe Had taught the innocent air their sadly thrilling parts.

Is it, CHRIST'S light is too divine, We dare not hope like Him to shine?

But see, around His dazzling shrine Earths gems the fire of Heaven have caught; Martyrs and saints-each glorious day Dawning in order on our way- Remind us, how our darksome clay May keep th' ethereal warmth our new Creator brought.

These we have scorned, O false and frail!

And now once more th' appalling tale, How love divine may woo and fail, Of our lost year in Heaven is told- What if as far our life were past, Our weeks all numbered to the last, With time and hope behind us cast, And all our work to do with palsied hands and cold?

O watch and pray ere Advent dawn!

For thinner than the subtlest lawn 'Twixt thee and death the veil is drawn.

But Love too late can never glow: The scattered fragments Love can glean Refine the dregs, and yield us clean To regions where one thought serene Breathes sweeter than whole years of sacrifice below.

St. Andrew's Day

He first findeth his own brother Simon, and saith unto him, We have found the Messias . . . And he brought him to Jesus. _St. John_ i.

41, 42.

WHEN brothers part for manhood's race, What gift may most endearing prove To keep fond memory its her place, And certify a brother's love?

'Tis true, bright hours together told, And blissful dreams in secret shared, Serene or solemn, gay or bold, Shall last in fancy unimpaired.

E'en round the death-bed of the good Such dear remembrances will hover, And haunt us with no vexing mood When all the cares of earth are over.

But yet our craving spirits feel, We shall live on, though Fancy die, And seek a surer pledge-a seal Of love to last eternally.

Who art thou, that wouldst grave thy name Thus deeply in a brother's heart?

Look on this saint, and learn to frame Thy love-charm with true Christian art.

First seek thy Saviour out, and dwell Beneath this shadow of His roof, Till thou have scanned His features well, And known Him for the Christ by proof;

Such proof as they are sure to find Who spend with Him their happy days, Clean hands, and a self-ruling mind Ever in tune for love and praise.

Then, potent with the spell of Heaven, Go, and thine erring brother gain, Entice him home to be forgiven, Till he, too, see his Saviour plain.

Or, if before thee in the race, Urge him with thine advancing tread, Till, like twin stars, with even pace, Each lucid course be duly aped.