Page:The Christian Year 1887.djvu/189

 Breathe, Holy Ghost, Thy freshening gale, Our fevered brow in age to soothe.

And oft as sin and sorrow tire, This hallowed hour do Thou renew, When beckoned up the awful choir By pastoral hands, toward Thee we drew;

When trembling at this sacred rail We hid our eyes and held our breath, Felt Thee how strong, our hearts how frail, And longed to own Thee to the death.

For ever on our souls be traced That blessing dear, that dove-like hand, A sheltering rock in Memory's waste, O'er-shadowing all the weary land.

There is an awe in mortals' joy, A deep mysterious fear Half of the heart will still employ, As if we drew too near To Eden's portal, and those fires That bicker round in wavy spires, Forbidding, to our frail desires, What cost us once so dear.

We cower before th' heart-searching eye In rapture as its pain; E'en wedded Love, till Thou be nigh, Dares not believe her gain: Then in the air she fearless springs, The breath of Heaven beneath her wings, And leaves her woodnote wild, and sings A tuned and measured strain.

Ill fare the lay, though soft as dew And free as air it fall, That, with Thine altar full in view, Thy votaries would enthrall To a foul dream, of heathen night, Lifting her torch in Love's despite, And scaring with base wild-fire light The sacred nuptial hall.