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EPIPHANY.

BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning,
Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid.

Star of the East, the horizon adorning,
Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.

Cold on his cradle the dew drops are shining,
Low lies his head with the beasts of the stall,

Angels adore him in slumber reclining,
Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all.

Say, shall we yield him,in costly devotion,
Odors of Edom and offerings divine

Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean,
Myrrh from the forest or gold from the mine 2

Wainly we offer each ampler oblation ;
Wainly with gifts would his favor secure :

Richer by far is the heart’s adoration;
Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor.

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning,
Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid.

Star of the East, the horizon adorning,
Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

LUKE II.

ABAsHED be all the boast of age,
Be hoary learning dumb,

Expounder of the mystic page,
Behold an infant come.

O Wisdom, whose unfading power
Beside the Eternal stood,

To frame, in nature's earliest hour,
The land, the sky, the flood;

Yet didst not Thou disdain a while
An infant form to wear;

To bless thy mother with a smile,
And lisp thy faltered prayer.

But, in thy Father's own abode,
With Israel’s elders round,

Conversing high with Israel’s God,
Thy chiefest joy was found.

So may our youth adore thy name,
And, Saviour, deign to bless

With fostering grace the timid flame
Of early holiness.

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

By cool Siloam’s shady rill
How sweet the lily grows,

How sweet the breath beneath the hill
Of Sharon’s dewy rose.

Lo, such the child whose early feet
The paths of peace have trod;

Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,
Is upward drawn to God.

By cool Siloam’s shady rill
The lily must decay;
The rose that blooms beneath the hill
Must shortly fade away.
And soon, too soon, the wintry hour
Of man’s maturer age,
Will shake the soul with sorrow's power,
And stormy passion’s rage.
O Thou, whose infant feet were found
Within thy Father’s shrine,
Whose years, with changeless virtue crowned
Were all alike divine,
Dependent on thy bounteous breath,
We seek thy grace alone,
In childhood, manhood, age and death,
To keep us still thine own.

SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

O, hand of bounty, largely spread,
By whom our every want is fed,
Whate'er we touch, or taste, or see,
We owe them all, O Lord, to thee ;
The corn, the oil, the purple wine,
Are all thy gifts, and only thine.

The stream thy word to nectar dyed,
The bread thy blessing multiplied,
The stormy wind, the whelming flood,
That silent at thy mandate stood,
How well they knew thy voice divine,
Whose works they were, and only thine.

Though now no more on earth we trace
Thy footsteps of celestial grace,
Obedient to thy word and will
We seek thy daily mercy still ;
Its blessed beams around us shine,
And thine we are, and only thine.

FOR THE SAME.

INCARNATE Word, who, wont to dwell
In lowly shape and cottage cell, -
Didst not refuse a guest to be
At Cana's poor festivity :

O, when our soul from care is free,
Then, Saviour, may we think on Thee,
And seated at the festal board,
In Fancy's eye behold the Lord.

Then may we seem, in Fancy’s ear,
Thy manna-dropping tongue to hear,
And think,-even now, thy searching gaze
Each secret of our soul surveys!

So may such joy, chastised and pure,
Beyond the bounds of earth endure ;
Nor pleasure in the wounded mind
Shall leave a rankling sting behind.

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