Yet as along this violet bank I rove, The languid sweetness seems to choke my breath, I sit me down beside the hazel grove, And sigh, and half could wish my weariness were death. Like a bright veering cloud Grey blossoms twinkle there, Of larks in purest air. Shame on the heart that dreams of blessings gone, Or wakes the spectral forms of woe and crime, When nature sings of joy and hope alone, Reading her cheerful lesson in her own sweet time. Nor let the proud heart say, In her self-torturing hour, To us long since the glorious Child is born, Like a sad vision told for joy at morn, For joy that we have wak'd and found it but a dream. Mysterious to all thought A mother's prime of bliss, L When to her eager lips is brought O never shall it set, the sacred light Which dawns that moment on her tender gaze, In the eternal distance blending bright Her darling's hope and hers, for love and joy and praise. No need for her to weep Like Thracian wives of yore, Save when in rapture still and deep Her thankful heart runs o'er. They mourn'd to trust their treasure on the main, Sure of the storm, unknowing of their guide: Welcome to her the peril and the pain, For well she knows the home where they may safely hide. She joys that one is born Into a world forgiven, Her Father's household to adorn, And dwell with her in heaven. So have I seen, in spring's bewitching hour, When the glad earth is offering all her best, Some gentle maid bend o'er a cherish'd flower, And wish it worthier on a Parent's heart to rest. FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EASTER. Nevertheless, I tell you the truth: it is expedient for you that I go away: for if I go not away, the Comforter will not come unto you: but if I depart, I will send him unto you. St. John xvi. 7. MY Saviour, can it ever be And Thou art more than mother dear; ""Tis good for you, that I should go, "Tis thine our gracious promise, Lord ! And homeward to thy Father's throne, They track'd Thee up th' abyss of light. Thou bidst rejoice; they dare not mourn, The splendours of his crowning day, In doubt they wait, but not unblest; But in ecstatic awe they muse What course the genial stream may choose, And far and wide their fancies rove, And to their height of wonder strain, What secret miracle of love Should make their Saviour's going gain. The days of hope and prayer are past, Roll back, and lo! a royal train- Swiftly and straight each tongue of flame Through cloud and breeze unwavering came, And darted to its place of rest On some meek brow of Jesus blest. Nor fades it yet, that living gleam, And still those lambent lightnings stream; |