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And through the mists of passion and of sense,
measures the perennial wheel
Beyond this concave heaven their calm abode,
Power's purple robes, nor Pleasure's flowery lap,
Through all the ascent of things enlarge her view,
By WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, written for the ceremony of the opening of the Crystal Palace at New York, and reported to have been there sung by the Sacred Music Society " with profound effect."
HERE, where all climes their offerings send,-
Before thy presence, Lord, we bend,
And for thy smile and blessing pray.
For thou dost sway the tides of thought,
Of all that human toil has wrought,
And all that human skill has plann'd.
Thou lead'st the restless Power of Mind
And guidest him, wandering, bold but blind,
A Sonnet, by Sir AUBREY DE VERE. Count each affliction, whether light or grave, God's messenger sent down to thee. Do thou With courtesy receive him : rise and bow; And ere his shadow pass thy threshold, crave Permission first his heavenly feet to lave. Then lay before him all thou hast. Allow No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, Or mar thy hospitality; no wave Of mortal tumult to obliterate The soul's marmoreal calmness. Grief should be Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate; Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free; Strong to consume small troubles; to commend Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end.
TWENTY-THIRD SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.
From KEBLE'S Christian Year. “Who shall change our vile body, that it may be fashioned like anto His glorious body, according to the working whereby He is able even to subdue all things unto Himself.”—Philippians iii. 21. RED o'er the forest peers the setting sun,
The line of yellow light dies fast away
Falls on the moor the brief November day.
And Echo bids good-night from every glade; Yet wait awhile and see the calm leaves float
Each to his rest beneath their parent shade. How like decaying life they seem to glide!
And yet no second spring have they in store,
Is all their portion, and they ask no more.
A thousand wild-flowers round them shall unfold,
green buds glisten in the dews of Spring, And all be vernal rapture as of old. Unconscious they in waste oblivion lie,
In all the world of busy life around
No thought of them; in all the bounteous sky
No drop, for them, of kindly influence found. Man's portion is to die and rise again
Yet he complains, while these unmurmuring part
As his when Eden held his virgin heart.
Might sound in heaven, were all his second life
A round of listless joy and weary strife. For dreary were this earth, if earth were all,
Though brighten'd oft by dear Affection's kiss ;Who for the spangles wears the funeral pall ?
But catch a gleam beyond it, and 'tis bliss. Heavy and dull this frame of limbs and heart,
Whether slow-creeping on cold earth, or borne On lofty steed, or loftier prow, we dart
O’er wave or field : yet breezes laugh to scorn Our puny speed, and birds, and clouds in heaven,
And fish, like living shafts that pierce the main, And stars that shoot through freezing air at even
Who but would follow, might he break his chain ? And thou shalt break it soon ; thė groveling worm
Shall find his wings, and soar as fast and free As his transfigured Lord with lightning form And snowy vest-such grace
He won for thee, When from the grave he sprung at dawn of morn,
And led through boundless air thy conquering road, Leaving a glorious track, where saints, new-born,
Might fearless follow to their blest abode. But first, by many a stern and fiery blast
The world's rude furnace must thy blood refine, And many a gale of keenest woe be pass'd,
Till every pulse beat true to airs divine, Till every limb obey the mounting soul,
The mounting soul, the call by Jesus given. He who the stormy heart can so control,
The laggard body soon will waft to Heaven.
THE TRAVELLER'S HYMN OF GRATITUDE.
How are thy servants blest, O Lord !
How sure is their defence ! Eternal wisdom is their guide,
Their help, Omnipotence!
In foreign realms, and lands remote,
Supported by thy care,
And breathed in tainted air.
Thy mercy sweeten'd every soil,
Made every region please ;
And smooth'd the Tyrrhene seas.
How, with affrighted eyes,
In all its horrors rise.
Confusion dwelt in every face,
And fear in every heart :
O’ercame the pilot's art.
Yet then from all my griefs, O Lord,
Thy mercy set me free;
My soul took hold on thee.
For though in dreadful whirls we hung
High on the broken wave,
Nor impotent to save.
Obedient to Thy will:
At Thy command was still.