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We in the tents abide
Which he at distance eyed,

Like goodly cedars by the waters spread,
While seven red altar-fires

Rose up in wavy spires,

Where on the mount he watch'd his sorceries dark and dread.

He watch'd till morning's ray On lake and meadow lay, And willow-shaded streams,

that silent

sweep

Around the banner'd lines,

Where, by their several signs, The desert wearied tribes in sight of Canaan

sleep.

He watch'd till knowledge came
Upon his soul like flame,

Not of those magic fires at random caught :
But, true prophetic light

Flash'd o'er him, high and bright,

Flash'd once, and died away, and left his darken'd thought.

And can he choose but fear,

Who feels his God so near,

That when he fain would curse, his power

less tongue

In blessing only moves ?—
Alas! the world he loves

Too close around his heart her tangling veil hath flung.

Sceptre and Star divine,

Who in thine inmost shrine

Hast made us worshippers, O claim thine

own;

More than thy seers we know—
O teach our love to grow

Up to thy heavenly light, and reap what thou hast sown.

TWENTY-FIRST SUNDAY AFTER

TRINITY

The morning mist is clear'd away,
Yet still the face of heaven is grey,

Nor yet th' autumnal breeze has stirr'd the

grove,

Faded, yet full, a paler green

Skirts soberly the tranquil scene, The redbreast warbles round this leafy cove.

Sweet messenger of "calm decay,"
Saluting sorrow as you may,

As one still bent to find or make the best,
In thee, and in this quiet mead
The lesson of sweet peace, I read,
Rather in all to be resign'd than blest.

'Tis a low chant, according well With the soft solitary knell, As homeward from some grave belov'd we

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turn,

Or by some holy death-bed dear, Most welcome to the chasten'd ear Of her whom Heaven is teaching how to

mourn.

O cheerful tender strain! the heart That duly bears with you its part, Singing so thankful to the dreary blast, Though gone and spent its joyous

prime,

And on the world's autumnal time, 'Mid wither'd hues and sere, its lot to cast:

That is the heart for thoughtful seer, Watching, in trance nor dark nor clear, Th' appalling Future as it nearer draws; His spirit calm'd the storm to meet, Feeling the rock beneath his feet, And tracing through the cloud th' eternal

cause.

That is the heart for watchman true
Waiting to see what God will do,

As o'er the Church the gathering twilight

falls:

No more he strains his wistful eye, If chance the golden hours be nigh, By youthful Hope seen beaming round her

walls.

Forc'd from his shadowy paradise,
His thoughts to Heaven the steadier
rise :

There seek his answer when the world

reproves :

Contented in his darkling round,
If only he be faithful found

When from the east th' eternal morning

moves.

J. GIBSON LOCKHART. 1794-1854
LINES

When youthful faith hath fled,
Of loving take thy leave;
Be constant to the dead-

The dead cannot deceive.

Sweet modest flowers of Spring,
How fleet your balmy day!
And man's brief year can bring
No secondary May.

No earthly burst again

Of gladness out of gloom
Fond hope and vision vain,
Ungrateful to the tomb.

But 'tis an old belief

That on some solemn shore,
Beyond the sphere of grief,

Dear friends shall meet once more.

Beyond the sphere of time,
And Sin and Fate's control,
Serene in endless prime
Of body and of soul.

That creed I fain would keep,
That hope I'll not forego,
Eternal be the sleep,

Unless to waken so.

GEORGE DARLEY. 1795-1846

"IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND

It is not beauty I demand,

A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair.

Tell me not of your starry eyes,

Your lips that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed :—

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A blooming pair of vermeil cheeks,

Like Hebe's in her ruddiest hours, A breath that softer music speaks Than summer winds a-wooing flowers.

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