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While his free spirit, soaring high,

Discerns the glorious from the base ; Till out of dust his magic raisey A home for prayer and love, and full harmonious praise,

Where far away and high above,

In maze on maze the tranced sight
Strays, mindful of that heavenly love

Which knows no end in depth or height,
While the strong breath of Music seems
To waft us ever on, soaring in blissful dreams.

What though in poor and humble guise

Thou here didst sojourn, cottage-born ? Yet from thy glory in the skies

Our earthly gold Thou dost not scorn. For Love delights to bring her best, And where Love is, that offering evermore is blest.

Love on the Saviour's dying head

Her spikenard drops unblam'd may pour,

y He hath built us a synagogue.

May mount his cross, and wrap him dead

In spices from the golden shore”;
Risen, may embalm his sacred name
With all a Painter's art, and all a Minstrel's flame.

Worthless and lost our offering seem,

Drops in the ocean of his praise ;
But Mercy with her genial beam,

Is ripening them to pearly blaze,
To sparkle in His crown above,
Who welcomes here a child's as there an angel's love.



When they saw him, they besought him to depart out of their coasts. St. Matthew viïi. 34.

THEY know th’ Almighty's power,
Who, waken’d by the rushing midnight shower,

Watch for the fitful breeze
To howl and chafe amid the bending trees,

2 St. John xii, 7. xix. 30.

Watch for the still white gleam
To bathe the landscape in a fiery stream,

Touching the tremulous eye with sense of light
Too rapid and too pure for all but angel sight.

They know th’ Almighty's love,
Who, when the whirlwinds rock the topmost grove,

Stand in the shade, and hear
The tumult with a deep exulting fear,

How, in their fiercest sway,
Curb’d by some power unseen, they die away,

Like a bold steed that owns his rider's arm,
Proud to be check’d and sooth'd by that o'er-mastering


But there are storms within
That heave the struggling heart with wilder din,

And there is power and love
The maniac's rushing frenzy to reprove,

And when he takes his seat,
Cloth'd and in calmness, at his Saviour's feet",

Is not the power as strange, the love as blest,
As when He said, Be still, and ocean sank to rest ?

a St. Mark v. 15. iv, 39.

Woe to the wayward heart,
That gladlier turns to eye the shuddering start

Of Passion in her might,
Than marks the silent growth of grace and light;-

Pleas'd in the cheerless tomb
To linger, while the morning rays illume

Green lake, and cedar tuft, and spicy glade,
Shaking their dewy tresses now the storm is laid.


The storm is laid--and now
In his meek power, He climbs the mountain's brow,

Who bade the waves go sleep,
And lash'd the vex'd fiends to their yawning deep.

How on a rock they stand,
Who watch his eye, and hold his guiding hand !

Not half so fix'd, amid her vassal hills,
Rises the holy pile that Kedron's valley fills.

And wilt thou seek again
Thy howling waste, thy charnel-house and chain,

And with the demons be,
Rather than clasp thine own Deliverer's knee?

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Sure 'tis no heav'n-bred awe That bids thee from his healing touch withdraw,

The world and He are struggling in thine heart, And in thy reckless mood thou bidd'st thy Lord depart.

He, merciful and mild,
As erst, beholding, loves his wayward child;

When souls of highest birth
Waste their impassion'd might on dreams of earth,

He opens Nature's book,
And on his glorious Gospel bids them look,

Till by such chords, as rule the choirs above, Their lawless cries are tun'd to hymns of perfect love.

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