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For lo! above the western haze

High towers the rainbow arch In solid

span

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,
Still pressing, longing to be right,

Yet fearing to be wrong-
In these the Pastor dares delight,

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,
Those saintlike brows so hoary

Shall wear it in the sky.
No smile is like the smile of death,

When all good musings past
Rise wafted with the parting breath,

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,
Snatch'd late from the decaying year ?
Or can the Saviour's blood endear

The dregs of a polluted life?
When down th' o'erwhelming current tost,
Just ere he sink for ever lost,

The sailor's untried arms are cross'd
In agonizing prayer, will Ocean cease her strife ?

Sighs that exhaust but not relieve,
Heart-rending sighs, O spare to heave
A bosom freshly taught to grieve

For lavish'd hours and love mispent !
Now through her round of holy thought
The Church our annual steps has brought,

But we no holy fire have caught-
Back on the gaudy world our wilful eyes were bent.

Too soon th' ennobling carols, pour’d
To hymn the birth-night of the LORD,
Which duteous Memory should have stor’d

For thankful echoing all the year-
Too soon those airs have pass'd away;
Nor long within the heart would stay

The silence of Christ's dying day,
Profan’d by worldly mirth, or scar'd by worldly fear.

:

Some strain of hope and victory
On Easter wings might lift us high ;
A little while we sought the sky :

And when the SPIRIT's beacon fires
On every hill began to blaze,
Lightening the world with glad amaze;

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,
By which our Mother's voice invites
Our God to bless our home delights,

And sweeten every secret tear :-
The funeral dirge, the marriage vow,
The hallow'd font where parents bow,

And now elate and trembling now To the Redeemer's feet their new-found treasures bear:

Not for the Pastor's gracious arm
Stretch'd out to bless-a Christian charm
To dull the shafts of worldly harm :-

Nor, sweetest, holiest, best of all,
For the dear feast of Jesus dying,
Upon that altar ever lying,

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,
Have our frail spirits found their ease.
The gale that stirs th' autumnal trees

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