ASCENSION DAY. Why stand ye gazing up into Heaven? This same Jesus, which is taken up from you into Heaven, shall so come in like manner as ye have seen Him go into Heaven. Acts i. 11. SOFT cloud, that while the breeze of May Chants her glad matins in the leafy arch, Draw'st thy bright veil across the heavenly way, Meet pavement for an Angel's glorious march: My soul is envious of mine eye, That it should soar and glide with thee so fast, The while my grovelling thoughts half buried lie, Or lawless roam around this earthly waste. Chains of my heart, avaunt I say— I will arise, and in the strength of love Sure, when I reach the point where earth Melts into nothing from th' uncumber'd sight, Heaven will o'ercome th' attraction of my birth, And I shall sink in yonder sea of light: Till resting by th' incarnate LORD, The sun and every vassal star, He listens to the silent tear For all the anthems of the boundless sky- Nay, gracious Saviour-but as now Our thoughts have trac'd Thee to thy glory-throne, So help us evermore with Thee to bow Where human sorrow breathes her lowly moan. We must not stand to gaze too long, Though on unfolding Heaven our gaze we bend, Where lost behind the bright angelic throng We see CHRIST's entering triumph slow ascend. No fear but we shall soon behold, Faster than now it fades, that gleam revive, When issuing from his cloud of fiery gold Our wasted frames feel the true sun, and live. Then shall we see Thee as Thou art, For ever fix'd in no unfruitful gaze, But such as lifts the new-created heart, Age after age, in worthier love and praise. SUNDAY AFTER ASCENSION. As every man hath received the gift, even so minister the same one to another, as good stewards of the manifold grace of God. 1 St. Peter iv. 10. THE Earth that in her genial breast Yields, thankful, of her very best, To nurse her treasure: True to her trust, tree, herb, or reed, Thus year by year she works unfeed, Woe worth these barren hearts of ours, And water'd with more balmy showers, In Eden, on th' ambrosial bowers- Largely Thou givest, gracious Lord, He only, who forgets to hoard, Wisely Thou givest—all around That not two roseate cups are crown'd Even so, in silence, likest Thee, St. Matt. x. 8. |