Like a bold steed that owns his rider's arm, Proud to be check'd and sooth'd by that o'er-mastering charm. But there are storms within That heave the struggling heart with wilder din, The maniac's rushing frenzy to reprove, Cloth'd and in calmness, at his Saviour's feet, Woe to the wayward heart, That gladlier turns to eye the shuddering start Of Passion in her might, Than marks the silent growth of grace and light;— Pleas'd in the cheerless tomb To linger, while the morning rays illume Green lake, and cedar tuft, and spicy glade, Shaking their dewy tresses now the storm is laid. The storm is laid-and now In his meek power He climbs the mountain's brow, a St. Mark v. 15. iv. 39. Who bade the waves go sleep, And lash'd the vex'd fiends to their yawning deep. How on a rock they stand, Who watch his eye, and hold his guiding hand! Not half so fix'd, amid her vassal hills, Rises the holy pile that Kedron's valley fills. And wilt thou seek again Thy howling waste, thy charnel-house and chain, And with the demons be, Rather than clasp thine own Deliverer's knee? Sure 'tis no heav'n-bred awe That bids thee from his healing touch withdraw; The world and He are struggling in thine heart, And in thy reckless mood thou bidd'st thy Lord depart. He, merciful and mild, As erst, beholding, loves his wayward child; Waste their impassion'd might on dreams of earth, And on his glorious Gospel bids them look, Till by such chords, as rule the choirs above, Their lawless cries are tun'd to hymns of perfect love. FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. Behold, the Lord's hand is not shortened, that it cannot save; neither his ear heavy, that it cannot hear: but your iniquities have separated between you and your God. Isaiah lix. 1, 2. “WAKE, arm divine! awake, "Eye of the only Wise ! "Now for thy glory's sake, "Saviour and God, arise, "And may thine ear, that sealed seems, "In pity mark our mournful themes !" Thus in her lonely hour Thy Church is fain to cry, As if thy love and power Were vanish'd from her sky; Yet God is there, and at his side Ah! 'tis the world enthralls The heaven-betrothed breast: The traitor Sense recalls The soaring soul from rest. That bitter sigh was all for earth, For glories gone, and vanish'd mirth. Age would to youth return, Farther from Heaven would be, To feel the wildfire burn, On idolizing knee Again to fall, and rob thy shrine Lord of this erring flock! Thou whose soft showers distil On ocean waste or rock, Free as on Hermon hill, Do Thou our craven spirits cheer, 'Twas silent all and dead b Beside the barren sea, See Acts viii. 26-40. Where Philip's steps were led, Led by a voice from Thee He rose and went, nor ask'd Thee why, Nor stayed to heave one faithless sigh; Upon his lonely way The high-born traveller came, Of" One who bore our shame, To muse what Heaven might mean His wondering brow he rais'd, And met an eye serene That on him watchful gaz'd. No Hermit e'er so welcome cross'd A child's lone path in woodland lost. Now wonder turns to love; No darksome mazes prove; Isaiah liii. 6-8. |