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Come near and bless us when we wake,
Ere through the world our way we take:
Till in the ocean of thy love
We lose ourselves in heaven above.

ADVENT SUNDAY.

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Now it is high time to awake out of sleep, for now is our salvation nearer than when we believed. Romans xiji. 11.

AWAKE—again the Gospel-trump is blown-
From year to year it swells with louder tone,

From year to year the signs of wrath

Are gathering round the Judge's path,
Strange words fulfill'd, and mighty works achiev'd,
And truth in all the world both hated and believ'd.

Awake! why linger in the gorgeous town,
Sworn liegemen of the Cross and thorny crown?

Up from your beds of sloth for shame,

Speed to the eastern mount like flame,
Nor wonder, should ye find your King in tears,
Even with the loud Hosanna ringing in his ears.

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Alas! no need to rouse them : long ago
They are gone forth, to swell Messiah's show :

With glittering robes and garlands sweet

They strew the ground beneath his feet : All but your hearts are there— doom'd to prove The arrows wing’d in Heaven for Faith that will not love!

Meanwhile He paces through th' adoring crowd,
Calm as the march of some majestic cloud,

That o'er wild scenes of ocean-war

Holds its still course in heaven afar: Even so, heart-searching Lord, as years roll on, Thou keepest silent watch from thy triumphal throne:

Even so, the world is thronging round to gaze
On the dread vision of the latter days,

Constrain'd to own Thee, but in heart

Prepared to take Barabbas' part: “ Hosanna” now, to-morrow “Crucify,” The changeful burden still of their rude lawless cry.

Yet in that throng of selfish hearts untrue
Thy sad eye rests upon thy faithful few,

Children and childlike souls are there,
Blind Bartimeus' humble prayer,

And Lazarus waken'd from his four days' sleep,
Enduring life again, that Passover to keep.

And fast beside the olive-border'd way
Stands the bless'd home, where Jesus deign’d to stay,

The peaceful home, to Zeal sincere

And heavenly Contemplation dear,
When Martha loy'd to wait with reverence meet,
And wiser Mary linger'd at thy sacred feet.

Still through decaying ages as they glide,
Thou lov'st thy chosen remnant to divide ;

Sprinkled along the waste of years

Full many a soft green isle appears :
Pause where we may upon the desert road,
Some shelter is in sight, some sacred safe abode.

When withering blasts of error swept the sky',
And Love's last flower seem'd fain to droop and die,

How sweet, how lone the ray benign

On shelter'd nooks of Palestine ! Then to his early home did Love repaird, And cheer'd his sickening heart with his own native air.

c Arianism in the fourth century. d See St. Jerome's Works, i. 123. edit. Erasm.

Years roll away : again the tide of crime
Has swept thy footsteps from the favour'd clime.

Where shall the holy Cross find rest ?

On a crown'd monarch's mailed breast : Like some bright angel o'er the darkling scene, Through court and camp he holds his heavenward course

serene.

A fouler vision yet; an age of light,
Light without love, glares on the aching sight :

O who can tell how calm and sweet,

Meek Walton ! shews thy green retreat, When wearied with the tale thy times disclose, The eye first finds thee out in thy secure repose ?

Thus bad and good their several warnings give
Of His approach, whom none may see and live:

Faith's ear, with awful still delight,

Counts them like minute bells at night,
Keeping the heart awake till dawn of morn,
While to her funeral pile this aged world is borne.

But what are heaven's alarms to hearts that cower In wilful slumber, deepening every hour,

e St. Louis in the tenth century.

That draw their curtains closer round,

The nearer swells the trumpet's sound ? Lord, ere our trembling lamps sink down and die, Touch us with chastening hand, and make us feel Thee

nigh.

SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT.

And when these things begin to come to pass, then look up and lift up your heads, for your redemption draweth nigh. St. Luke xxi. 28.

NOT till the freezing blast is still,
Till freely leaps the sparkling rill,
And gales sweep soft from summer skies,
As o'er a sleeping infant's

eyes
A mother's kiss ; ere calls like these,
No sunny gleam awakes the trees,
Nor dare the tender flowerets show
Their bosoms to th' uncertain glow.

Why then, in sad and wintry time,
Her heavens all dark with doubt and crime,
Why lifts the Church her drooping head,
As though her evil hour were fled ?

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