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And when their wondrous march was o'er,
And they had won their homes,
Among their fathers' tombs ;-
Oft as they watch’d, at thoughtful eve,
A gale from bowers of balm
The tresses of the palm,
It was a fearful joy, I ween,
To trace the Heathen's toil,
Left ready for the spoil,
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
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
And these are ours: Thy partial grace
The tempting treasure lends:
Are forfeit to thy friends :
x Where each old poetic mountain
Inspiration breath'd around. Gray.
There's not a strain to Memory dear',
Nor flower in classic grove,
But minds us of thy Love.
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,
Nor soil'd by ruder breath?
y See Burns's Works, i. 293. Dr. Currie's edition.
Who ever saw the earliest rose
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-
At close of summer day.
"Tis Love, the last best gift of Heaven;
Love gentle, holy, pure :
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,
Least knows its happy part.
God only, and good angels, look
Behind the blissful screen-
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.