Page:The Christian Year 1887.djvu/181



Who is at hand that loves the Lord? Make haste, and take her home, and bring Thine household choir, in true accord Their soothing hymns for her to sing.

Soft on her fluttering heart shall breathe The fragrance of that genial isle, There she may weave her funeral wreath, And to her own sad music smile.

The Spirit of the dying Son Is there, and fills the holy place With records sweet of duties done, Of pardoned foes, and cherished grace.

And as of old by two and two His herald saints the Saviour sent To soften hearts like morning dew, Where he to shine in mercy meant;

So evermore He deems His name Best honoured and his way prepared, When watching by his altar-flame He sees His servants duly paired.

He loves when age and youth are met, Fervent old age and youth serene, Their high and low in concord set For sacred song, Joy's golden mean.

He loves when some clear soaring mind Is drawn by mutual piety To simple souls and unrefined, Who in life's shadiest covert lie.

Or if perchance a saddened heart That once was gay and felt the spring, Cons slowly o'er its altered part, In sorrow and remorse to sing,

Thy gracious care will send that way Some spirit full of glee, yet taught To bear the sight of dull decay, And nurse it with all-pitying thought;

Cheerful as soaring lark, and mild As evening blackbird's full-toned lay, When the relenting sun has smiled Bright through a whole December day.