That ye ST. SIMON AND ST. JUDE. should earnestly contend for f the faith which was once delivered unto the saints. St. Jude 3. SEEST thou, how tearful and alone, And drooping like a wounded dove, The widow'd Church is fain to rove? Who is at hand that loves the Lord"? Make haste and take her home, and bring Thine household choir, in true accord Their soothing hymns for her to sing. Soft on her fluttering heart shall breathe There she may weave her funeral wreath, ξεπαγωνίζεσθαι : "be very anxious for it;"" feel for it as for a friend in jeopardy." 3 St. John xix. 26. Then saith He to the disciple, Behold thy mother : and from that hour that disciple took her to his own home. The Spirit of the dying Son Is there, and fills the holy place With records sweet of duties done, Of pardon'd foes, and cherish'd grace. His herald saints the Saviour sent To soften hearts like morning dew, Where He to shine in mercy meant ; So evermore He deems his name Best honour'd and His way prepar'd, When watching by his altar-flame He sees his servants duly pair'd. He loves when age and youth are met, Fervent old age and youth serene, Their high and low in concord set For sacred song, Joy's golden mean. He loves when some clear soaring mind Is drawn by mutual piety To simple souls and unrefin'd, Who in life's shadiest covert lie. h St. Mark vi, 7. St. Luke x. 1. Or if perchance a sadden'd heart That once was gay and felt the spring, Cons slowly o'er its alter'd part, In sorrow and remorse to sing, Thy gracious care will send that way And nurse it with all pitying thought; Cheerful as soaring lark, and mild As evening blackbird's full-ton'd lay, When the relenting sun has smil'd Bright through a whole December day. These are the tones to brace and cheer The lonely watcher of the fold, When nights are dark, and foemen near, When visions fade and hearts grow cold. How timely then a comrade's song ALL SAINTS' DAY. Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees, till we have sealed the servants of our God in their foreheads. Revelations vii. 3. WHY blow'st thou not, thou wintry wind, Now every leaf is brown and sere, And idly droops, to thee resign'd, The fading chaplet of the year? Her summer veil, half drawn on high, How quiet shews the woodland scene! Each flower and tree, its duty done, Like weary men when Such calm old age is won, age as conscience pure And self-commanding hearts ensure, Waiting their summons to the sky, Content to live, but not afraid to die. Sure if our eyes were purg'd to trace God's unseen armies hovering round, We should behold by angels' grace The four strong winds of Heaven fast bound, Their downward sweep a moment staid On ocean cove and forest glade, Till the last flower of autumn shed Her funeral odours on her dying bed. So in thine awful armoury, Lord, Till willing hearts wear quite away The Cross by angel hands impress'd, The seal of glory won and pledge of promis'd rest. Little they dream, those haughty souls |