Bent on us with transforming power,
Till we, too, faintly shine.

Sprinkled with His atoning blood
Safely before our God we stand,
As on the rock the Prophet stood,
Beneath His shadowing hand.—

Bless'd eyes, which see the things we see!
And yet this tree of life hath prov'd
To many a soul a poison tree,

Beheld, and not belov'd.

So like an angel's is our bliss,

(Oh! thought to comfort and appal,)

It needs must bring, if us'd amiss,
An angel's hopeless fall.

FOURTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER

TRINITY.

And Jesus answering said, Were there not ten cleansed? but where are the nine? There are not found that returned to give glory to God, save this stranger. St. Luke xvii. 17, 18.

TEN cleans'd, and only one remain!

Who would have thought our nature's stain
Was dyed so foul, so deep in grain?

Even He who reads the heart,

Knows what He gave and what we lost,
Sin's forfeit, and redemption's cost,-
By a short pang of wonder cross'd
Seems at the sight to start:

Yet 'twas not wonder, but His love
Our wavering spirits would reprove,
That heaven-ward seem so free to move
When earth can yield no more:

Then from afar on God we cry;
But should the mist of woe roll by,
Not showers across an April sky
Drift, when the storm is o'er,

Faster than those false drops and few
Fleet from the heart, a worthless dew.
What sadder scene can angels view
Than self-deceiving tears,

Pour'd idly over some dark page
Of earlier life, though pride or rage
The record of to-day engage,

A woe for future years?

Spirits, that round the sick man's bed Watch'd, noting down each prayer he made, Were your unerring roll display'd,

His pride of health to' abase; Or, when soft showers in season fall Answering a famish'd nation's call, Should unseen fingers on the wall Our vows forgotten trace;

How should we gaze in trance of fear!
Yet shines the light as thrilling clear

From heaven upon that scroll severe,

"Ten cleans'd and one remain!"
Nor surer would the blessing prove
Of humbled hearts, that own thy love,
Should choral welcome from above
Visit our senses plain :

Than by Thy placid voice and brow, With healing first, with comfort now, Turn'd upon him, who hastes to bow Before Thee, heart and knee; "Oh! thou, who only would'st be blest, "On thee alone my blessing rest!

"Rise, go thy way in peace, possess'd "For evermore of me."

FIFTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER

TRINITY.

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow. St. Mutt. vi. 28.

SWEET nurslings of the vernal skies,
Bath'd in soft airs, and fed with dew,
What more than magic in you lies,
To fill the heart's fond view?

In childhood's sports, companions gay,
In sorrow, on Life's downward way,
How soothing! in our last decay
Memorials prompt and true.

Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,

As when ye crown'd the sunshine hours
Of happy wanderers there.