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Wouldst thou a Poet be?
And would thy dull heart fain Borrow of Israel's minstrelsy
One high enraptur'd strain?
Come here thy soul to tune, Here set thy feeble chant, Here, if at all beneath the moon, Is holy David's haunt.
Art thou a child of tears,
And seems it hard, thy vernal years
And fall the sounds of mirth
Sad on thy lonely heart,
From all the hopes and charms of earth
Untimely call'd to part?
Look here, and hold thy peace:
The Giver of all good
Even from the womb takes no release
From suffering, tears, and blood.
If thou wouldst reap in love,
So life a winter's morn may prove
To a bright endless year.
SECOND SUNDAY AFTER
When the poor and needy seek water, and there is none, and their tongue faileth for thirst, I the Lord will hear them, I the God of Israel will not forsake them. Isaiah xli. 17.
AND wilt Thou hear the fever'd heart
To Thee in silence cry?
And as th' inconstant wildfires dart
Out of the restless eye,
Wilt Thou forgive the wayward thought,
By kindly woes yet half untaught
A Saviour's right, so dearly bought,
That Hope should never die?
Thou wilt for many a languid prayer
Has reach'd Thee from the wild, Since the lorn mother, wandering there, Cast down her fainting child",
Then stole apart to weep and die,
Thou wilt-for Thou art Israel's God,
Is ready yet with Moses' rod,
Out of the dry unfathom'd deep
Of sands, that lie in lifeless sleep,
Save when the scorching whirlwinds heap Their waves in rude alarm.
Those moments of wild wrath are thine
Thine too the drearier hour
When o'er th' horizon's silent line
Fond hopeless fancies cower,
P Hagar. See Gen. xxi. 15.
And on the traveller's listless way
Thou wilt be there, and not forsake,
Into a bright and breezy lake,
The throbbing brow to cool:
Till left awhile with Thee alone
That He, by whom our bright hours shone,
The scent of water far away
Upon the breeze is flung:
The desert pelican to-day
Securely leaves her young,
To journey on a few lone years,
Thy crown in sight is hung.
Thou, who didst sit on Jacob's well
hour of noon",
The languid pulses Thou canst tell,
The nerveless spirit tune.
Thou from whose cross in anguish burst
From darkness, here, and dreariness
Only be Thou at hand, to bless
Is not the pilgrim's toil o'erpaid,
And see we not, up Earth's dark glade,
9 St. John iv. 6.
r St. John xix. 28.