Is she less wise than leaves of spring,
Or birds that cower with folded wing?
What sees she in this lowering sky
To tempt her meditative eye?

She has a charm, a word of fire,
A pledge of love that cannot tire ;
By tempests, earthquakes, and by wars,
By rushing waves and falling stars,
By every sign her Lord foretold,
She sees the world is waxing old',
And through that last and direst storm
Descries by faith her Saviour's form.

Not surer does each tender gem,
Set in the figtree's polish'd stem,
Foreshew the summer season bland,
Than these dread signs thy mighty hand:
But oh! frail hearts, and spirits dark!

The season's flight unwarn'd we mark,

f 2 Esdras xiv. 10. The world hath lost his youth, and the times begin to wax old.

But miss the Judge behind the door,
For all the light of sacred lore:

Yet is He there: beneath our eaves
Each sound his wakeful ear receives:
Hush, idle words, and thoughts of ill,
Your Lord is listening: peace, be still.
Christ watches by a Christian's hearth,
Be silent, "vain deluding mirth,"
Till in thine alter'd voice be known
Somewhat of Resignation's tone.

But chiefly ye should lift your gaze
Above the world's uncertain haze,
And look with calm unwavering eye
On the bright fields beyond the sky,
Ye, who your Lord's commission bear,
His way of mercy to prepare:
Angels He calls ye: be your strife
To lead on earth an Angel's life.

Think not of rest; though dreams be sweet, Start up, and ply your heaven-ward feet.

g See St. James v. 9.

Is not God's oath upon your head,
Ne'er to sink back on slothful bed,
Never again your loins untie,

Nor let your torches waste and die,
Till, when the shadows thickest fall,
Ye hear your Master's midnight call?

THIRD SUNDAY IN ADVENT.

What went ye out into the wilderness to see? a reed shaken with the wind? But what went ye out for to see? a prophet? yea, I say unto you, and more than a prophet. St. Matt. xi. 7, 8.

WHAT went ye out to see

O'er the rude sandy lea,

Where stately Jordan flows by many a palm,

Or where Gennesaret's wave

Delights the flowers to lave,

That o'er her western slope breathe airs of balm ?

All through the summer night
Those blossoms red and bright"

h Rhododendrons: with which the western bank of the lake is said to

be clothed down to the water's edge.

Spread their soft breasts, unheeding, to the breeze,

Like hermits watching still

Around the sacred hill,

Where erst our Saviour watch'd upon his knees.

The Paschal moon above

Seems like a saint to rove,

Left shining in the world with Christ alone;

Below, the lake's still face

Sleeps sweetly in th' embrace

Of mountains terrass'd high with mossy stone.

Here

may we sit, and dream

Over the heavenly theme,

Till to our soul the former days return;

Till on the grassy bed,

Where thousands once He fed,
The world's incarnate Maker we discern.

O cross no more the main,

Wandering so wild and vain,

To count the reeds that tremble in the wind,

On listless dalliance bound,

Like children gazing round,

Who on God's works no seal of Godhead find:

Bask not in courtly bower,

Or sun-bright hall of power,

Pass Babel quick, and seek the holy land—

From robes of Tyrian die

Turn with undazzled eye

To Bethlehem's glade, or Carmel's haunted strand.

Or choose thee out a cell

In Kedron's storied dell,

Beside the springs of Love, that never die,

Among the olives kneel

The chill night-blast to feel,

And watch the Moon that saw thy Master's agony.

Then rise at dawn of day,

And wind thy thoughtful way,

Where rested once the Temple's stately shade,

With due feet tracing round

The city's northern bound,

To th' other holy garden, where the Lord was laid.

Who thus alternate see

His death and victory,

Rising and falling as on angel wings,

C