Bound upon the accursed tree, By the prayer for them that slew, By the conquest He hath won, By the saints before His throne, THE JUDGMENT. THE chariot! the chariot! its wheels roll on fire, And the heavens with the burden of Godhead are bowed. The glory! the glory! by myriads are poured The hosts of the angels to wait on their Lord; The trumpet! the trumpet! the dead have all heard: So the depths of the stone-covered charnel are stirred : From the sea, from the land, from the south and the north, The vast generations of man are come forth. The judgment! the judgment! the thrones are all set, Where the Lamb and the white-vested Elders are met! O Mercy! O Mercy! look down from above, HENRY KEBLE, A MEMBER of the University of Oxford, is the author of a work entitled The Christian Year, which has been very favourably received by all who can duly appreciate the union of Christian truth and high poetic power which it exhibits. MORNING. HUES of the rich unfolding morn, Thou rustling breeze, so fresh and gay, Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam, Why waste your treasures of delight Oh! timely happy, timely wise, Hearts that with rising morn arise; Eyes that the beam celestial view, Which evermore makes all things new. VOL. II. 14 New every morning is the love New mercies each returning day, New perils past, new sins forgiven, New thoughts of God, new hopes of heaven. Old friends, old scenes will lovelier be, As more of heaven in each we see; Only, O Lord, in thy dear love, AUTUMN. RED o'er the forest peers the setting sun, The line of yellow light dies fast away That crowned the eastern copse; and chill and dun Falls on the moon the brief November day. Now the tired hunter winds a parting note, And Echo bids good night from every glade : Yet wait awhile, and see the calm leaves float, Each to his rest beneath their parent shade. How like decaying life they seem to glide And yet no second spring have they in store; But where they fall, forgotten, to abide, Is all their portion, and they ask no more. Soon o'er their heads blithe April airs shall sing, A thousand wild flowers round them shall unfold; The green buds glisten in the dews of spring, And all be vernal rapture as of old. Unconscious, they in waste oblivion lie ;- Man's portion is to die and rise again, Yet he complains; while these, unmurmuring, part With their sweet lives, as pure from sin and stain As his, when Eden held his virgin heart. And haply half-unblamed, his murmuring voice A round of listless joy and weary strife. For dreary were this earth, if earth were all, Though brightened oft by dear affection's kiss: Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall? But catch a gleam beyond it, and 'tis bliss. Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart : Whether slow creeping on cold earth, or borne On lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dart O'er wave or field, yet breezes laugh to scorn Our puny speed; and birds, and clouds in heaven, And fish, like living shafts that pierce the main, And stars that shoot through freezing air at even, Who but would follow, might he break his chain? And thou shalt break it soon; the grovelling worm As his transfigured Lord, with lightning form When from the grave He sprung at dawn of morn, But first, by many a stern and fiery blast, The world's rude furnace must thy blood refine,— And many a gale of keenest woe be passed, Till every pulse beat time to airs divine, Till every limb obey the mounting soul, The mounting soul the call by Jesus given: He whom the stormy heart can so control, The laggard body soon will waft to heaven. |