Not wondering, though in grief, to find THIRD SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner that repenteth. St. Luke xv. 10. O HATEFUL spell of Sin! when friends are nigh, To make stern Memory tell her tale unsought, And raise accusing shades of hours gone by, To come between us and all kindly thought! Chill'd at her touch, the self-reproaching soul In vain the averted cheek in loneliest dell : Is conscious of a gaze it cannot bear, The leaves that rustle near us seem to tell Our heart's sad secret to the silent air. Nor is the dream untrue: for all around The heavens are watching with their thousand eyes, We cannot pass our guardian angel's bound, Resign'd or sullen, he will hear our sighs. He in the mazes of the budding wood Is near, and mourns to see our thankless glance Dwell coldly, where the fresh green earth is strew'd With the first flowers that lead the vernal dance. In wasteful bounty shower'd, they smile unseen, If such there be, O grief and shame to think Of endless life, yet wrapt in earth's annoy ! O turn, and be thou turn'd! the selfish tear, The turbid waters brightening as they run. Let it flow on, till at thine earthly heart O lost and found! all gentle souls below Their dearest welcome shall prepare, and prove Such joy o'er thee, as raptur'd seraphs know, Who learn their lesson at the Throne of Love. FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. For the earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the manifestations of the sons of God: for the creature was made subject to vanitý, not willingly, but by reason of him who hath subjected the same in hope; because the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God: for we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now. Rom. viii. 19-22. IT was not then a poet's dream, An idle vaunt of song, Such as beneath the moon's soft gleam Which bids us see in heaven and earth, Strong yearnings for a blest new birth With sinless glories crown'd; Which bids us hear, at each sweet pause From care and want and toil, When dewy eve her curtain draws In the low chant of wakeful birds, All true, all faultless, all in tune, Creation's wondrous choir Open'd in mystic unison To last till time expire. And still it lasts: by day and night, With one consenting voice, All hymn thy glory, Lord, aright, Man only mars the sweet accord, O'erpowering with “harsh din” The music of thy works and word, Ill match'd with grief and sin. |