We in the tents abide Which he at distance eyed, Like goodly cedars by the waters spread, While seven red altar-fires Rose up in wavy spires, Where on the mount he watch'd his sorceries dark and dread. He watch'd till morning's ray And willow-shaded streams, that silent sweep Around the banner'd lines, Where, by their several signs, The desert wearied tribes in sight of Canaan sleep. He watch'd till knowledge came Upon his soul like flame, Not of those magic fires at random caught : But, true prophetic light Flash'd o'er him, high and bright, Flash'd once, and died away, and left his darken'd thought. And can he choose but fear, Who feels his God so near, That when he fain would curse, his powerless tongue In blessing only moves ?— Alas! the world he loves Too close around his heart her tangling veil hath flung. Sceptre and Star divine, Who in thine inmost shrine Hast made us worshippers, O claim thine own; More than thy seers we know— O teach our love to grow Up to thy heavenly light, and reap what thou hast sown. TWENTY-FIRST SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY The morning mist is clear'd away, Yet still the face of heaven is grey, Nor yet th' autumnal breeze has stirr'd the grove, Faded, yet full, a paler green Skirts soberly the tranquil scene, The redbreast warbles round this leafy cove. Sweet messenger of "calm decay," As one still bent to find or make the best, 'Tis a low chant, according well As homeward from some grave belov'd we turn, Or by some holy death-bed dear, Of her whom Heaven is teaching how to mourn. O cheerful tender strain! the heart That duly bears with you its part, Singing so thankful to the dreary blast, Though gone and spent its joyous prime, And on the world's autumnal time, 'Mid wither'd hues and sere, its lot to cast: That is the heart for thoughtful seer, Watching, in trance nor dark nor clear, Th' appalling Future as it nearer draws; His spirit calm'd the storm to meet, Feeling the rock beneath his feet, And tracing through the cloud th' eternal cause. That is the heart for watchman true As o'er the Church the gathering twilight falls : No more he strains his wistful eye, If chance the golden hours be nigh, By youthful Hope seen beaming round her walls. Forc'd from his shadowy paradise, His thoughts to Heaven the steadier rise : There seek his answer when the world reproves : Contented in his darkling round, If only he be faithful found When from the east th' eternal morning moves. J. GIBSON LOCKHART. 1794-1854 LINES When youthful faith hath fled, Sweet modest flowers of Spring, No earthly burst again Of gladness out of gloom But 'tis an old belief That on some solemn shore, Beyond the sphere of grief, Dear friends shall meet once more. Beyond the sphere of time, Of body and of soul. That creed I fain would keep, Unless to waken so. GEORGE DARLEY. 1795-1846 "IT IS NOT BEAUTY I DEMAND It is not beauty I demand, A crystal brow, the moon's despair, Nor the snow's daughter, a white hand, Nor mermaid's yellow pride of hair. Tell me not of your starry eyes, Your lips that seem on roses fed, Your breasts, where Cupid tumbling lies, Nor sleeps for kissing of his bed :— A blooming pair of vermeil cheeks, |