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Yet deem not, on such parting sad
Shall dawn no welcome dear and glad:
Together at the glorious goal,
Each leading many a rescu'd soul,
The faithful champions shall embrace.
For even as those mysterious Four,
So, on their tasks of love and praise
Right onward speed, yet join at last.
And sometimes even beneath the moon
When reconciled Christians meet,
High thoughts of holy love impart
Companion of the Saints! 'twas thine
i Ezekiel i. 9. They turned not when they went-they went every one straight forward.
When the great soldier of thy Lord
O then the glory and the bliss,
Shall melt with earth and sin away!
Shall spend in love th' eternal day!
ST. PHILIP AND ST. JAMES.
Let the brother of low degree rejoice in that he is exalted: but the rich, in that he is made low. St. James i. 9, 10.
DEAR is the morning gale of spring,
And dear th' autumnal eve;
But few delights can summer bring
A Poet's crown to weave.
Her bowers are mute, her fountains dry,
And ever Fancy's wing
Speeds from beneath her cloudless sky
To autumn or to spring.
Sweet is the infant's waking smile,
But middle age by no fond wile,
Still in the world's hot restless gleam
While vainly for some pleasant dream
O shame upon thee, listless heart,
As if thy SAVIOUR had no part
In thoughts, that make thee grieve.
As if along His lonesome way
He had not borne for thee
Sad languors through the summer day,
Storms on the wintry sea.
Youth's lightning flash of joy secure
Pass'd seldom o'er His spright,A well of serious thought and pure, Too deep for earthly light.
No spring was His-no fairy gleam—
How cold and bare what mortals dream,
Then grudge not thou the anguish keen
Thy treasur'd hopes and raptures high— Unmurmuring let them go,
Nor grieve the bliss should quickly fly Which CHRIST disdain'd to know.
Thou shalt have joy in sadness soon; The pure, calm hope be thine, Which brightens, like the eastern moon, As days wild lights decline.
Thus souls, by nature pitch'd too high,
By sufferings plung'd too low, Meet in the Church's middle sky, Half way 'twixt joy and woe,
To practise there the soothing lay
Thankful for all God takes away,
The Son of consolation, a Levite. Acts iv. 36.
THE world's a room of sickness, where each heart
The truest wisdom there, and noblest art,
Whom by the softest step and gentlest tone
Enfeebled spirits own,
And love to raise the languid eye,
When, like an angel's wing, they feel him fleeting by: