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—To our high-raised phantasy present
That undisturbed song of pure consent,
Aye sung before the sapphire-colourti throne
To Him that sits thereon,
With saintly shout and solemn jubilee;
Where the bright seraphim in burning row,
Their loud uplifted angel trumpets blow;
And the cherubic host, in thousand choirs,
Touch their immortal harps of golden wires,
With those just spirits that wear victorious palms,
Hymns devout, and holy psalms,
That we on earth with undiscording voice,
May rightly answer that melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion'd sin
Jarr'd against Nature's chime, and with harsh din
Broke the fair music that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion
sway'd In perfect diapason whilst they stood, In first obedience and their state of good. O, may we soon again renew that song And keep in tune with heaven, till God ere long To His celestial concert us unite To live with Him, and sing in endless morn of light!
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloisters pale,
And love the high embowed roof
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight
Casting a dim religious light;
There let the pealing organ blow
To the full-voiced choir below
In service high, and anthem clear,
As may with sweetness, thro' mine ear,
Dissolve me into ecstasies
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.
EARTH AND HEAVEN
The roseate hues of early dawn,
The brightness of the day,
How fast they fade away!
O for the golden floor!
That setteth nevermore!
The highest hopes we cherish here,
How many a spot defiles the robe
O for a heart that never sins!
O for a soul wash'd white!
Nor weary day or night!
Here faith is ours, and heavenly hope,
And grace to lead us higher:
Beyond our best desire.
O, by Thy life laid down!
Nor cast away our crown!
C. F. Alexander
Glory to Thee, my God, this night,
Forgive me, Lord, for Thy dear Son,
Teach me to live, that I may dread
O let my soul on Thee repose;
If in the night I sleepless lie,
Praise God, from whom all blessings flow,
Bishop Thomas Ken
THE INCARNATION OF CHRIST
For Thou wert born of woman! Thou didst come,
And not by thunders strewtt
Was Thy tempestuous road; Nor indignation burn'd before Thee on Thy way.
But Thee, a soft and naked child,
Thy mother undefiled
In the rude manger laid to rest
From off her virgin breast.
The Heavens were not commanded to prepare
A gorgeous canopy of golden air;
Nor stoop'd their lamps th' enthroned fires on high:
A single silent star
Came wand'ring from afar, Gliding uncheck'd and calm along the liquid sky,
The Eastern sages leading on
As at a kingly throne,
To lay their gold and odours sweet
Before Thy infant feet.