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FIFTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER
Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow. St. Matt. vi. 28.
diteen. SWEET nurslings of the vernal skies,
Bath'd in soft airs, and fed with dew,
To fill the heart's fond view ?
Memorials prompt and true.
Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,
Of happy wanderers there.
Fall'n all beside the world of life,
What passions range and glare !
But cheerful and unchang'd the while
Your first and perfect form ye shew,
In the world's opening glow.
Too high above our human thought ;
And as we gaze, we know.
Ye dwell beside our paths and homes,
Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow,
Your innocent mirth may borrow.
And come again to-morrow.
Ye fearless in your nests abide-
Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise,
Your silent lessons, undescried
By all but lowly eyes :
He taught us how to prize.
Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour,
As when He paus'd and own'd you good; His blessing on earth's primal bower,
Ye felt it all renew d.
Ye fear no vexing mood.
Alas! of thousand bosoms kind,
That daily court you and caress, How few the happy secret find
Of your calm loveliness! “ Live for to-day !; to-morrow's light 6 To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight. “ Go sleep like closing flowers at night,
“ And Heaven thy morn will bless."
1 desire that ye faint not at my tribulations for you, which is your glory. Ephesians iii. 13.
WISH not, dear friends, my pain away
Wish me a wise and thankful heart,
Nor from His lov'd correction start.
The dearest offering He can crave
His portion in our souls to prove,
The only Son of His dear love?
But we, like vex'd unquiet sprights,
Will still be hovering o'er the tomb,
Nor sweetly take a sinner's doom.
In Life's long sickness evermore
Our thoughts are tossing to and fro: We change our posture o'er and o’er,
But cannot rest, nor cheat our woe.
Were it not better to lie still,
Let Him strike home and bless the rod, Never so safe as when our will
Yields undiscern'd by all but God?
Thy precious things, whate'er they be
That haunt and vex thee, heart and brain, Look to the Cross, and thou shalt see
How thou may'st turn them all to gain.
Lovest thou praise ? the Cross is shame :
Or ease ? the Cross is bitter grief: More pangs than tongue or heart can frame
Were suffer'd there without relief.
We of that altar would partake,
But cannot quit the cost—no throne Is ours, to leave for Thy dear sake
We cannot do as Thou hast done.