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The gracious Dove, that brought from Heaven The earnest of our bliss, Of many a chosen witness telling, On many a happy vision dwelling, Sings not a note of this.

So, truest image of the Christ, Old Israel's long-lost son, What time, with sweet forgiving cheer, He called his conscious brethren near, Would weep with them alone.

He could not trust his melting soul But in his Maker's sight - Then why should gentle hearts and true Bare to the rude world's withering view Their treasure of delight!

No—let the dainty rose awhile Her bashful fragrance hide - Rend not her silken veil too soon, But leave her, in her own soft noon, To flourish and abide.


 * And Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt. Exodus iii. 3.

The historic Muse, from age to age, Through many a waste heart-sickening page Hath traced the works of Man: But a celestial call to-day Stays her, like Moses, on her way, The works of God to scan.

Far seen across the sandy wild, Where, like a solitary child, He thoughtless roamed and free, One towering thorn was wrapt in flame - Bright without blaze it went and came: Who would not turn and see?

Along the mountain ledges green The scattered sheep at will may glean The Desert's spicy stores: