Save when, along the shaded walks,
We hear the watchman's call,
Or the guard's footstep, as he stalks
In moonlight on the wall.
How soft, how holy, is this light!
And hark! a mournful song,
As gentle as these dews of night,
Floats on the air along.
Affection's wish, devotion's prayer,
Are in that holy strain;
'Tis resignation, not despair;
'Tis triumph, though 't is pain.
'T is Jesus and his faithful few, That pour that hymn of love;
O God! may we the
J. KEBLE. CHRISTIAN YEAR.
"Saying, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me; nevertheless, not my will, but thine, be done." - Luke xxii. 42.
O LORD my God, do thou thy holy will!
I will lie still, —
I will not stir, lest I forsake thine arm,
And break the charm
Which lulls me, clinging to my Father's breast,
In perfect rest.
Wild Fancy, peace! thou must not me beguile
With thy false smile:
I know thy flatteries and thy cheating ways;
Be silent, Praise,
Blind guide with siren voice, and blinding all
That hear thy call.
Come, Self-devotion, high and pure,
Thoughts that in thankfulness endure,
Though dearest hopes are faithless found,
And dearest hearts are bursting round.
Come, Resignation, spirit meek,
And let me kiss thy placid cheek,
And read, in thy pale eye serene,
Their blessing who by faith can wean
Their hearts from sense, and learn to love
God only, and the joys above.
They say, who know the life divine,
And upward gaze with eagle eyne,
That by each golden crown on high,
Rich with celestial jewelry,
Which for our Lord's redeemed is set,
There hangs a radiant coronet,
All gemmed with pure and living light,
Too dazzling for a sinner's sight,
Prepared for virgin souls, and them
Who seek the martyr's diadem.
Nor deem, who to that bliss aspire,
Must win their way through blood and fire.
The writhings of a wounded heart
Are fiercer than a foeman's dart.
Oft in Life's stillest shade reclining,
In desolation unrepining,
Without a hope on earth to find
A mirror in an answering mind,
Meek souls there are, who little deem
Their daily strife an angel's theme,
Or that the rod they take so calm
Shall prove in heaven a martyr's palm.
And there are souls that seem to dwell
Above this earth, so rich a spell
Floats round their steps, where'er they move,
From hopes fulfilled and mutual love.
Such, if on high their thoughts are set,
Nor in the stream the source forget,
If prompt to quit the bliss they know,
Following the Lamb where'er he go,
By purest pleasures unbeguiled
To idolize or wife or child,
Such wedded souls our God shall own
For faultless virgins round his throne.
Beams on the martyr host, a beacon light
In open fight.
To the still wrestlings of the lonely heart
He doth impart
The virtue of his midnight agony,
When none was nigh,
Save God and one good angel, to assuage
The tempest's rage.
Mortal! if life smile on thee, and thou find
All to thy mind,
Think, who did once from heaven to hell descend,
Thee to befriend :
So shalt thou dare forego, at his dear call,
Thy best, thine all.
"O Father! not my will, but thine, be done!"So spake the Son.
Be this our charm, mellowing earth's ruder noise,
Of griefs and joys;
That we may cling for ever to thy breast,
In perfect rest!
Two sayings of the Holy Scriptures beat,
Like pulses, in the Church's brow and breast;
And by them we find rest for our unrest,
And, heart-deep in salt tears, do yet entreat
God's fellowship, as if on heavenly seat.
The first is JEsus wept, whereon is prest
Full many a sobbing face that drops its best
And sweetest waters on the record sweet:
And one is where the Christ denied and scorned
LOOKED UPON PETER. Oh, to render plain,
By help of having loved a little, and mourned,
That look of sovran love and sovran pain,
Which He who could not sin, yet suffered, turned
On him who could reject, but not sustain!
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