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MATTHEW v. 3- 10.
THERE is a dwelling-place above ;
The poor in spirit go :
Its streams of comfort flow.
There is a goodly heritage,
The meek that haven gain :
May feast, nor crave again.
There is a voice to mercy true ;
That voice shall bliss impart :
Shall bless the pure in heart.
There is a name, in heaven bestowed ;
The friends of peace shall know :
Lord! be it mine like them to choose
The means Thy love hath given
Bishop R. Mant. 1831.
n BIRDS from out the east, O birds from out the
west, Have ye found that happy city in all your weary quest? Tell me, tell me, from earth's wandering may the heart
find glad surcease, Can ye show me as an earnest any olive-branch of
peace ? I am weary of life's troubles, of its sin and toil and
care ; I am faithless, crushing in my heart so many a fruitless
Say, doth a dreamy atmosphere that blesséd city crown? Are there couches spread for sleeping softer than the
eider-down? Does the silver sound of waters, falling 'twixt its marble
walls, Hush its solemn silence even into stiller intervals ? Doth the poppy shed its influence there, or doth the
fabled moly With its leafy-laden Lethe lade the eyes with sumber
holy? Do they never wake to sorrow, who, after toilsome
quest, Have entered in that city, the name of which is Rest?
Doth the fancy wile not there for aye? Is the restless
soul's endeavor Hushed in a rhythm of solemn calm, forever and forever? Are human natures satisfied of their intense desire ? Is there no more good beyond to seek, or do they not
aspire ? But weary, weary of the ore within its yellow sun, Do they lie and eat its lotus-leaves and dream life’s toil
is done? O tell me, do they there forget what here hath made
them blest, Nor sigh again for home and friends, in the city named
Bless God, I hear a still small voice, above life's clam
orous din, Saying, Faint not, O weary one, thou yet mayst enter in; That city is prepared for those who well do win the
fight, Who tread the wine-press till its blood hath washed
their garments white, Within it is no darkness, nor any baleful flower Shall there oppress thy weeping eyes with stupefying
power. It lieth calm within the light of God's peace-giving
breast, Its walls are called Salvation, the city's name is Rest!
M Y God, it is not faithlessness
V That makes me say, “How long?” It is not heaviness of heart
That hinders me in song ; 'T is not despair of truth and right,
Nor coward dread of wrong.
But how can I with such a hope
Of glory and of home,
Not wish the time were come,
The Sabbath and the sum !
These years, what ages have they been!
This life, how long it seems! And how can I, in evil days,
Mid unknown hills and streams, But sigh for those of home and heart,
And visit them in dreams?