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And when their wondrous march was o'er,

And they had won their homes,
Where Abraham fed his flock of yore,

Among their fathers' tombs ;-
A land that drinks the rain of heaven at will,
Whose waters kiss the feet of many a vine-clad hill;—

Oft as they watch’d, at thoughtful eve,

A gale from bowers of balm
Sweep o'er the billowy corn, and heave

The tresses of the palm,
Just as the lingering Sun had touch'd with gold,
Far o'er the cedar shade, some tower of giants old ;

It was a fearful joy, I ween,

To trace the Heathen's toil,
The limpid wells, the orchards green

Left ready for the spoil,
The household stores untouch'd, the roses bright
Wreath'd o’er the cottage walls in garlands of delight.

And now another Canaan yields

To thine all-conquering ark ;

Fly from the “old poetic” fields ,

Ye Paynim shadows dark ! Immortal Greece, dear land of glorious lays, Lo! here the “ unknown God” of thy unconscious

praise !

The olive wreath, the ivied wand,

“ The sword in myrtles drest," Each legend of the shadowy strand

Now wakes a vision blest: As little children lisp, and tell of Heaven, So thoughts beyond their thought to those high Bards

were given.

And these are ours: Thy partial grace

The tempting treasure lends:
These relics of a guilty race

Are forfeit to thy friends :
What seem'd an idol hymn, now breathes of Thee,
Tun'd by Faith's ear to some celestial melody.

x Where each old poetic mountain

Inspiration breath'd around. Gray.

There's not a strain to Memory dear',

Nor flower in classic grove,
There's not a sweet note warbled here,

But minds us of thy Love.
O Lord, our Lord, and spoiler of our foes,
There is no light but thine : with Thee all beauty

glows.

FOURTH SUNDAY IN LENT.

Joseph made haste, for his bowels did yearn upon his brother ; and he sought where to weep; and he entered into his chamber, and wept there Gen. xliii. 30.

There stood no inan with them, while Joseph made himself known unto his brethren. Gen. xlv. l.

WHEN Nature tries her finest touch,

Weaving her vernal wreath,
Mark ye, how close she veils her round,
Not to be trac'd by sight or sound,

Nor soil'd by ruder breath?

y See Burns's Works, i. 293. Dr. Currie's edition.

Who ever saw the earliest rose

First

open her sweet breast ? Or, when the summer sun goes down, The first soft star in evening's crown

Light up her gleaming crest ?

Fondly we seek the dawning bloom

On features wan and fair, The gazing eye no change can trace, But look away a little space,

Then turn, and, lo ! 'tis there.

But there's a sweeter flower than e'er

Blush'd on the rosy spray-
A brighter star, a richer bloom
Than e'er did western heaven illume

At close of summer day.

"Tis Love, the last best gift of Heaven;

Love gentle, holy, pure :
But(tenderer than a dove's soft eye,
The searching sun, the open sky,

She never could endure.

Even human Love will shrink from sight

Here in the coarse rude earth : How then should rash intruding glance Break in upon her sacred trance

Who boasts a heavenly birth ?

So still and secret is her growth,

Ever the truest heart,
Where deepest strikes her kindly root
For hope or joy, for flower or fruit,

Least knows its happy part.

God only, and good angels, look

Behind the blissful screen-
As when, triumphant o'er his woes,
The Son of God by moonlight rose,

By all but Heaven unseen :

As when the holy Maid beheld

Her risen Son and Lord : Thought has not colours half so fair That she to paint that hour may dare,

In silence best ador'd.

H н

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