FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EASTER. Seemeth it but a small thing unto you, that the God of Israel hath separated you from the congregation of Israel, to bring you near to Himself? Numbers xvi. 9. FIRST Father of the holy seed, Upon thine altar's horn of gold Lost to be found no more. For oft, when summer leaves were bright, And every flower was bath'd in light, In sunshine moments past, My wilful heart would burst away I thought it scorn with Thee to dwell, While, gaily sweeping by, Wild Fancy blew his bugle strain, I would have join'd him—but as oft "My servant, let the world alone "Safe on the steps of Jesus' throne "Be tranquil and be blest. "Seems it to thee a niggard hand "That nearest Heaven has bade thee stand, "The ark to touch and bear, "With incense of pure heart's desire "To heap the censer's sacred fire, "The snow-white Ephod wear?" Why should we crave the worldling's wreath, Who lead the choir where angels meet, When sorrow all our heart would ask, Around each pure domestic shrine Bright flowers of Eden bloom and twine, Our hearths are altars all; The prayers of hungry souls and poor, Like armed angels at the door, Our unseen foes appal. Alms all around and hymns within- Where guards like these abound? If chance some heedless heart should roam, O joys, that sweetest in decay, But with the silent breath Of violets drooping one by one, Soon as their fragrant task is done, SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EASTER. He hath said, which heard the words of God, and knew the knowledge of the Most High, which saw the vision of the Almighty, falling into a trance, but having his eyes open: I shall see him, but not now: I shall behold him, but not nigh: there shall come a Star out of Jacob, and a Sceptre shall rise out of Israel, and shall smite the corners of Moab, and destroy all the children of Sheth. Numbers xxiv. 16, 17. O FOR a sculptor's hand, That thou might'st take thy stand, Thy tranc'd yet open gaze Fix'd on the desert haze, As one who deep in Heaven some airy pageant sees. In outline dim and vast Their fearful shadows cast The giant forms of empires on their way To ruin: one by one They tower and they are gone, Yet in the Prophet's soul the dreams of avarice stay. |