A STORMY SUNDAY. THE RHODODENDRONS. "Praise God, for wondering eyes his world of love to see! 1 A STORMY SUNDAY. THE RHODODENDRONS. "What went ye out into the wilderness to see? A reed shaken with the wind? But what went ye out for to see? A prophet? Yea, I say unto you, and more than a prophet." WHAT went ye out to see Where stately Jordan flows by many a palm, Or where Gennesaret's wave Delights the flowers to lave That o'er her western slope breathe airs of balm? All through the summer night Spread their soft breasts, unheeding, to the breeze, Around the sacred hill, Where erst our Saviour watched upon his knees. The Paschal moon above Seems like a saint to rove, Left shining in the world with Christ alone; Below, the lake's still face Sleeps sweetly in the embrace Of mountains terraced high with mossy stone. Here may we sit and dream Over the heavenly theme, Till to our soul the former days return; Where thousands once he fed, The world's incarnate Maker we discern. O cross no more the main, Wandering so wild and vain, To count the reeds that tremble in the wind, Like children gazing round, Who on God's works no seal of Godhead find. Bask not in courtly bower, Or sun-bright hall of power; Pass Babel quick, and seek the Holy Land: Turn with undazzled eye To Bethlehem's glade or Carmel's haunted strand. Or choose thee out a cell In Kedron's storied dell, Beside the springs of Love, that never die; Among the olives kneel, The chill night-blast to feel, And watch the moon that saw thy Master's agony. Then rise at dawn of day, And wind thy thoughtful way, Where rested once the temple's stately shade, The city's northern bound, To th' other holy garden, where the Lord was laid. Who thus alternate see His death and victory, Rising and falling as on angel wings, They, while they seem to roam, Their heart untravelled still adores the King of kings. Or, if at home they stay, In spirit journeying through the glorious land, Not for light Fancy's reed, Nor Honor's purple meed, Nor gifted prophet's lore, nor Science' wondrous wand. But more than prophet, more Than angels can adore With face unveiled, is He they go to seek; Blessed be God, whose grace Shows Him in every place To homeliest hearts of pilgrims pure and meek. These last words, taken from Keble's lesson for the day, I must repeat to myself, as my lesson. It is a stormy Sunday, and I must not venture |