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For lo! above the western haze
High towers the rainbow arch In solid
of purest rays: How stately is its march !
Pride of the dewy morning !
The swain's experienc'd eye From thee takes timely warning,
Nor trusts the gorgeous sky. For well he knows, such dawnings gay
Bring noons of storm and shower, And travellers linger on the way
Beside the sheltering bower.
Even so, in hope and trembling
Should watchful shepherds view His little lambs assembling,
With glance both kind and true; 'Tis not the eye of keenest blaze,
Nor the quick-swelling breast, That soonest thrills at touch of praise
These do not please him best.
But voices low and gentle,
And timid glances shy,
That seem for aid parental
To sue all wistfully,
Yet fearing to be wrong-
A lamb-like, Christ-like throng.
These in Life's distant even
Shall shine serenely bright, As in th' autumnal heaven
Mild rainbow tints at night, When the last shower is stealing down,
And ere they sink to rest, The sun-beams weave a parting crown
For some sweet woodland nest.
The promise of the morrow
Is glorious on that eve, Dear as the holy sorrow
When good men cease to live. When brightening ere it die away
Mounts up their altar flame, Still tending with intenser ray
To Heaven whence first it came.
Say not it dies, that glory,
'Tis caught unquench'd on high,
Shall wear it in the sky.
When all good musings past
The sweetest thought the last.
SUNDAY NEXT BEFORE ADVENT.
Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.
St. John vi. 12.
WILL God indeed with fragments bear,
The dregs of a polluted life?
The sailor's untried arms are cross'd
Sighs that exhaust but not relieve,
For lavish'd hours and love mispent !
But we no holy fire have caught-
Too soon th' ennobling carols, pour’d
For thankful echoing all the year-
The silence of Christ's dying day,
Some strain of hope and victory
And when the SPIRIT's beacon fires
Who but must kindle while they gaze ? But faster than she soars, our earth-bound Fancy tires.
Nor yet for these, nor all the rites,
And sweeten every secret tear :-
And now elate and trembling now To the Redeemer's feet their new-found treasures bear:
Not for the Pastor's gracious arm
Nor, sweetest, holiest, best of all,
Where souls with sacred hunger sighing Are call’d to sit and eat, while angels prostrate fall:
No, not for each and all of these,