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While his free spirit, soaring high,
Discerns the glorious from the base;
Till out of dust his magic raise
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
What though in poor and humble guise
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 shore2;
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.
FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER
When they saw him, they besought him to depart out of their coasts. St. Matthew viii. 34.
THEY know th' Almighty's power,
Who, waken'd by the rushing midnight shower,
To howl and chafe amid the bending trees,
z 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,
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
Than marks the silent growth of grace and light;
Pleas'd in the cheerless tomb
To linger, while the morning rays illume
The storm is laid-and now
In his meek power, He climbs the mountain's brow,
And lash'd the vex'd fiends to their yawning deep.
Who watch his eye, and hold his guiding hand!
Rises the holy pile that Kedron's valley fills.
And wilt thou seek again
Thy howling waste, thy charnel-house and chain,
Rather than clasp thine own Deliverer's knee?
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;
Waste their impassion'd might on dreams of earth,
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.