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Thine infant cries, O Lord,
Thy tears upon the breast,
Must do its stern behest.
Like sacrificial wine
Pour'd on a victim's head Are those few precious drops of thine,
Now first to offering led.
They are the pledge and seal
Of Christ's unswerving faith Given to his Sire, our souls to heal,
Although it cost his death.
They to his church of old,
To each true Jewish heart, In Gospel graces manifold
Communion blest impart.
Now of thy love we deem
As of an ocean vast, Mounting in tides against the stream
Of ages gone and past.
Both theirs and ours Thou art,
As we and they are thine ; Kings, Prophets, Patriarchs—all have part
Along the sacred line.
By blood and water too
God's mark is set on Thee, That in Thee every faithful view
Both covenants might see.
O bond of union, dear
And strong as is Thy grace ! Saints, parted by a thousand year,
May thus in heart embrace.
Is there a mourner true,
Who fallen on faithless days, Sighs for the heart-consoling view
Of those, Heaven deign'd to praise ?
In spirit may'st thou meet
With faithful Abraham here, Whom soon in Eden thou shalt greet
A nursing Father dear.
Wouldst thou a Poet be?
And would thy dull heart fain Borrow of Israel's minstrelsy
One high enraptur'd strain?
Come here thy soul to tune,
Here set thy feeble chant, Here, if at all beneath the moon,
Is holy David's haunt.
Art thou a child of tears,
Cradled in care and woe?
Few vernal joys can shew ?
And fall the sounds of mirth
Sad on thy lonely heart, From all the hopes and charms of earth
Untimely call’d to part ?
Look here, and hold thy peace:
The Giver of all good
From suffering, tears, and blood.
If thou wouldst reap in love,
First sow in holy fear :
To a bright endless year.
SECOND SUNDAY AFTER
When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them. Isaiah xli. 17.
AND wilt Thou hear the fever'd heart
To Thee in silence cry?
Out of the restless eye,
That Hope should never die?
Thou wilt: for many a languid prayer
Has reach'd Thee from the wild, Since the lorn mother, wandering there,
Cast down her fainting child", Then stole apart to weep and die, Nor knew an angel form was nigh To shew soft waters gushing by
And dewy shadows mild.
Thou wilt-for Thou art Israel's God,
And thine unwearied arm Is ready yet with Moses' rod,
The hidden rill to charm Out of the dry unfathom'd deep Of sands, that lie in lifeless sleep, Save when the scorching whirlwinds heap
Their waves in rude alarm.
Those moments of wild wrath are thine
Thine too the drearier hour When o'er th' horizon's silent line
Fond hopeless fancies cower,
P Hagar. See Gen. xxi. 15.