Page:The Christian Year 1887.djvu/150



Nor yet for these, nor all the rites, By which our Mother's voice invites Our GOD to bless our home delights, And sweeten every secret tear:- The funeral dirge, the marriage vow, The hollowed font where parents bow, And now elate and trembling now To the Redeemer's feet their new-found treasures bear:-

Not for this Pastor's gracious arm Stretched out to bless—a Christian charm To dull the shafts of worldly harm:- Nor, sweetest, holiest, best of all For the dear feast of JESUS dying, Upon that altar ever lying, Where souls with sacred hunger sighing Are called to sit and eat, while angels prostrate fall:-

No, not for each and all of these, Have our frail spirits found their ease. The gale that stirs the autumnal trees Seems tuned as truly to our hearts As when, twelve weary months ago, 'Twas moaning bleak, so high and low, You would have thought Remorse and Woe Had taught the innocent air their sadly thrilling parts.

Is it, CHRIST'S light is too divine, We dare not hope like Him to shine? But see, around His dazzling shrine Earths gems the fire of Heaven have caught; Martyrs and saints—each glorious day Dawning in order on our way - Remind us, how our darksome clay May keep th' ethereal warmth our new Creator brought.

These we have scorned, O false and frail! And now once more th' appalling tale, How love divine may woo and fail, Of our lost year in Heaven is told - What if as far our life were past, Our weeks all numbered to the last, With time and hope behind us cast, And all our work to do with palsied hands and cold?