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A STORMY SUNDAY.

THE RHODODENDRONS.

“Praise God, for wondering eyes his world of love to see !

Praise God, for thought which wanders always free! . Praise God, for faith, which bends a willing knee, Draws me to him, the while he smiles on me."

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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

O’er the rude sandy lea,
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

Those blossoms red and bright Spread their soft breasts, unheeding, to the breeze,

Like hermits watching still

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;

Till on the grassy bed,

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,

On listless dalliance bound,

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:

From robes of Tyrian dye

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,

With due feet tracing round

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,

Draw daily nearer home, Their heart untravelled still adores the King of kings.

Or, if at home they stay,

Yet are they, day by day,
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

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