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Nay, look again, beside the hearth

The lowly cradle mark,
Where weary with his ten hours' mirth

Sleeps in his own warm ark
A bright-haired babe, with arm uprais'd

As though the slumberous dew Stole o'er him, while in faith he gazed

Upon his guardian true.

Storms may rush in, and crimes and woes

Deform the quiet bower;
They may not mar the deep repose

Of that immortal flower.
Though only broken hearts be found

To watch his cradle by,
No blight is on his slumbers sound,

No touch of harmful eye.

So gently slumberM on the wave

The new-born seer of old, Ordained the chosen tribes to save;

Nor deem'd how darkly roll'd
The waters by his rushy bark,

Perchance e'en now defiled
With infant's blood for Israel's sake,

Blood of some priestly child.

What recks he of his mother's tears,

His sister's boding sigh?
The whispering reeds are all he hears,

And Nile, soft weltering nigh,
Sings him to sleep, but he will wake,

And o'er the haughty flood
Wave his stern rod; and lo! a lake,

A restless sea of blood!

Soon shall a mightier flood thy call

And outstretch'd rod obey;
To right and left the watery wall

From Israel shrinks away.
Such honour wins the faith that gave

Thee, and thy sweetest boon
Of infant charms to the rude wave,

In the third joyous moon.

Hail, chosen type and image true

Of Jesus on the sea!
In slumber and in glory too

Shadow'd of old by Thee—
Save that in calmness thou didst sleep

The summer stream beside; He on a wider wilder deep,

Where boding night-winds sigh'd.

Sigh'd when at eve He laid Him down,

But with a sound like flame
At midnight from the mountain's crown

Upon His slumbers came.
Lo, how they watch, till He awake,

Around His rude low bed;
How wistful count the waves that break

So near His sacred head.

O, faithless! know ye not of old

How in the western bay,
When dark and vast the billows roll'd,

A prophet slumbering lay?
The surges smote the keel as fast

As thunderbolts from heaven,
Himself into the wave he cast,

And hope and life were given.

Behold a mightier far is here;

Nor will He spare to leap,
For the soul's sake He loves so dear,

Into a wilder deep.
E'en now He dreams of Calvary;

Soon will He wake, and say
The words of peace and might: Do ye

His hour in calmness stay.

J. Keble



He stopp'd at last
And a mild look of sacred pity cast
Down on the sinful land where he was sent
T' inflict the tardy punishment.

"Ah ! yet," said he, "yet, stubborn king, repent,

Whilst thus unarm'd I stand, Ere the keen sword of God fill my commanded hand; Suffer but yet thyself and thine to live: Who would, alas! believe That it for man," said he, "So hard to be forgiven should be, And yet for God so easy to forgive!"

Through Egypt's wicked land his march he took, And as he march'd the sacred firstborn strook

Of every womb : none did he spare, None, from the meanest beast to Pharaoh's purple heir.

Whilst health and strength and gladness doth
The festal Hebrew cottages;
The blest destroyer comes not there
To interrupt the sacred cheer:
Upon their doors he read, and understood

God's protection writ in blood;
Well was he skill'd i' the character divine;
And though he pass'd by it in haste,
He bowtt and worshipp'd, as he pass'd,
The mighty mystery through its humble sign.

A. Cowley


From the song of the Manna Gatherers

We beside the wondrous river
In the appointed hour shall stand,

Following, as from Egypt ever,
Thy bright cloud, and outstretch'd hand:

In thy shadow,
We shall rest on Abraham's land.

Not by manna showers at morning
Shall our board be then supplied,

But a strange pale gold adorning
Many a tufted mountain side,

Yearly feed us,
Year by year our murmurings chide.

There, no prophet's touch awaiting,
From each cool deep cavern start

Rills, that since their first creating
Ne'er have ceased to play their part.

Oft we hear them
In our dreams with thirsty heart.

Deeps of blessing are before us:

Only while the desert sky
And the sheltering cloud hang o'er us
Morn by morn obediently,

Glean we manna,
And the song of Moses try.

J. Keble



By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,
In a vale in the land of Moab

There lies a lonely grave.
And no man knows that sepulchre,

And no man saw it e'er,
For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeral

That ever passed on earth;
But no man heard the trampling,

Or saw the train go forth—
Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes back when night is done,
And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Grows into the great sun.

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