That Name, by which Thy faithful oath is past, That we should endless be, for joy or woe:- And if the treasures of Thy wrath could waste, Thy lovers must their promised Heaven forego.

But ask of elder days, earth's vernal hour, When in familiar talk G.o.d's voice was heard, When at the Patriarch's call the fiery shower Propitious o'er the turf-built shrine appeared.

Watch by our father Isaac's pastoral door- The birthright sold, the blessing lost and won; Tell, Heaven has wrath that can relent no more; The Grave, dark deeds that cannot be undone.

We barter life for pottage; sell true bliss For wealth or power, for pleasure or renown; Thus, Esau-like, our Father's blessing miss, Then wash with fruitless tears our faded crown.

Our faded crown, despised and flung aside, Shall on some brother's brow immortal bloom; No partial hand the blessing may misguide, No flattering fancy change our Monarch's doom:

His righteous doom, that meek true-hearted Love The everlasting birthright should receive, The softest dews drop on her from above, The richest green her mountain garland weave:

Her brethren, mightiest, wisest, eldest-born, Bow to her sway, and move at her behest; Isaac's fond blessing may not fall on scorn, Nor Balaam's curse on Love, which G.o.d hath blest.

Third Sunday in Lent.

When a strong man armed keepeth his place, his goods are in peace; but when a stronger than he shall come upon him, and overcome him, he taketh from him all his armour wherein he trusted, and divideth his spoils. _St. Luke_ xi. 21, 22.

SEE Lucifer like lightning fall, Dashed from his throne of pride; While, answering Thy victorious call, The Saints his spoils divide; This world of Thine, by him usurped too long, Now opening all her stores to heal Thy servants' wrong.

So when the first-born of Thy foes Dead in the darkness lay, When Thy redeemed at midnight rose And cast their bonds away, The orphaned realm threw wide her gates, and told Into freed Israel's lap her jewels and her gold.

And when their wondrous march was o'er, And they had won their homes, Where Abraham fed his flock of yore, Among their fathers' tombs;- A land that drinks the rain of Heaven at will, Whose waters kiss the feet of many a vine-clad hill;-

Oft as they watched, at thoughtful eve, A gale from bowers of balm Sweep o'er the billowy corn, and heave The tresses of the palm, Just as the lingering Sun had touched with gold, Far o'er the cedar shade, some tower of giants old;

It was a fearful joy, I ween, To trace the Heathen's toil, The limpid wells, the orchards green, Left ready for the spoil, The household stores untouched, the roses bright Wreathed o'er the cottage walls in garlands of delight.

And now another Canaan yields To Thine all-conquering ark:- Fly from the "old poetic" fields, Ye Paynim shadows dark!

Immortal Greece, dear land of glorious lays, Lo! here the "unknown G.o.d" of thy unconscious praise.

The olive-wreath, the ivied wand, "The sword in myrtles drest,"

Each legend of the shadowy strand Now wakes a vision blest; As little children lisp, and tell of Heaven, So thoughts beyond their thought to those high Bards were given.

And these are ours: Thy partial grace The tempting treasure lends: These relies of a guilty race Are forfeit to Thy friends; What seemed an idol hymn, now breathes of Thee, Tuned by Faith's ear to some celestial melody.

There's not a strain to Memory dear, Nor flower in cla.s.sic grove, There's not a sweet note warbled here, But minds us of Thy Love.

O Lord, our Lord, and spoiler of our foes, There is no light but Thine: with Thee all beauty glows.

Fourth Sunday in Lent.

Joseph made haste; for his bowels did yearn upon his brother; and he sought where to weep, and he entered into his chamber and wept there.

_Genesis_ xliii. 30.

There stood no man with him, while Joseph made himself known unto his brethren. _Genesis_ xlv. 1.

WHEN Nature tries her finest touch, Weaving her vernal wreath, Mark ye, how close she veils her round, Not to be traced by sight or sound, Nor soiled by ruder breath?

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 s.p.a.ce, Then turn, and lo! 'tis there.

But there's a sweeter flower than e'er Blushed 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.

E'en human Love will shrink from sight Here in the coa.r.s.e 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.

G.o.d only, and good angels, look Behind the blissful screen- As when, triumphant o'er His woes, The Son of G.o.d 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 adored.

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 called 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 burnt. _Exodus_ iii. 3.

THE historic Muse, from age to age, Through many a waste heart-sickening page Hath traced the works of Man: But a celestial call to-day Stays her, like Moses, on her way, The works of G.o.d to scan.

Far seen across the sandy wild, Where, like a solitary child, He thoughtless roamed and free, One towering thorn was wrapt in flame- Bright without blaze it went and came: Who would not turn and see?

Along the mountain ledges green The scattered sheep at will may glean The Desert's spicy stores: The while, with undivided heart, The shepherd talks with G.o.d 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-loved vine, Now withered, spent, and sere, See Israel's sons, like glowing brands, Tossed wildly o'er a thousand lands For twice a thousand year.

G.o.d will not quench nor slay them quite, But lifts them like a beacon-light The apostate Church to scare; Or like pale ghosts that darkling roam, Hovering around their ancient home, But find no refuge there.

Ye blessed Angels! if of you There be, who love the ways to view Of Kings and Kingdoms here; (And sure, 'tis worth an Angel's gaze, To see, throughout that dreary maze, G.o.d teaching love and fear:)