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And men, at war with men, hear not
The love-song which they bring:

O! hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing!

And ye, beneath life's crushing load

Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way

With painful steps and slow;
Look now! for glad and golden hours

Come swiftly on the wing:
O! rest beside the weary road,

And hear the angels sing!

For lo! the days are hastening on,

By prophet-bards foretold, When with the ever-circling years

Comes round the age of gold; When Peace shall over all the earth

Its ancient splendours fling, And the whole world send back the song

Which now the angels sing.

E. H. Sears


THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM When, marshall'd on the nightly plain,

The glittering hosts bestud the sky; One star alone of all the train

Can fix the sinner's wandering eye.

Hark! hark! to God the chorus breaks
From every host, from every gem;

But one alone the Saviour speaks,
It is the star of Bethlehem.

Once on the raging seas I rode,
The storm was loud, the night was dark,

The ocean yawn'd—and rudely blow'd
The wind that toss'd my foundering bark:

Deep horror then my vitals froze,
Death-struck, I ceased the tide to stem,

When suddenly a star arose,
It was the star of Bethlehem.

It was my guide, my light, my all;

It bade my dark forebodings cease; And through the storm, and danger's thrall,

It led me to the port of peace.

Now safely moor'd, my perils o'er,

I'll sing first in night's diadem, For ever and for evermore,

The star! the star of Bethlehem!

H. Kirke White



How pleasant to me thy deep blue wave,

O sea of Galilee!
For the Glorious One, who came to save,

Has often stood by thee.

Fair are the lakes in the land I love,
Where pine and heather grow;

But thou hast loveliness far above
What Nature can bestow.

It is not that the wild gazelle
Comes down to drink thy tide;

But He that was pierced to save from hell
Oft wander'd by thy side.

It is not that the fig-tree grows,

And palm, in thy soft air;
But that Sharon's fair and bleeding rose

Once spread its fragrance there.

Graceful round thee the mountains meet,

Thou calm, reposing sea;
But ah, far more! the beautiful feet

Of Jesus walk'd o'er thee.

Those days are past—Bethsaida, where?

Chorazin, where art thou?
His tent the wild Arab pitches there,

The wild reeds shade thy brow.

Tell me, ye mould'ring fragments, tell,

Was the Saviour's city here? Lifted to heaven, has it sunk to hell,

With none to shed a tear?

Ah! would my flock from thee might learn

How days of grace will flee;
How all an offer'd Christ who spurn

Shall mourn, at last, like thee.

And was it beside this very sea

The new-risen Saviour said Three times to Simon, " Lovest thou Me?

My lambs and sheep then feed?"

O Saviour! gone to God's right hand!

Yet the same Saviour still, Graved on Thy heart is this lovely strand,

And every fragrant hill.

O give me, Lord, by this sacred wave,

Threefold Thy love divine,
That I may feed, till I find my grace,

Thy flock—both Thine and mine.

R. M. McCheyne



When brothers part for manhood's race,
What gift may most enduring prove

To keep fond memory in her place,
And certify a brother's love?

'Tis true, bright hours together told,
And blissful dreams in secret shar'd,

Serene or solemn, gay or bold,
Shall last in fancy unimpair'd.

E'en round the death-bed of the good
Such dear remembrances will hover,

And haunt us with no vexing mood,
When all the cares of earth are over.

But yet our craving spirits feel
We shall live on, though fancy die,

And seek a surer pledge,—a seal
Of love to last eternally.

Who art thou that wouldst grave thy name
Thus deeply in a brother's heart?

Look on this saint, and learn to frame
Thy love-charm with true Christian art.

First seek thy Saviour out, and dwell
Beneath the shadow of His roof,

Till thou have scann'd His features well,
And known Him for the Christ by proof;

Such proof as they are sure to find
Who spend with Him their happy days,

Clean hands, and a self-ruling mind,
Ever in time for love and praise.

Thus, potent with the spell of Heaven,
Go, and thine erring brother gain;

Entice him home to be forgiven,
Till he, too, see his Saviour plain.

Or, if before thee in the race,

Urge him with thine advancing tread,

Till, like twin stars, with even pace,
Each lucid course be duly sped.

No fading frail memorial give
To soothe his soul when thou art gone,

But wreaths of hope for ay to live,
And thoughts of good together done.

That so, before the judgment seat,
Though changM and glorified each face,

Not unremember'd ye may meet
For endless ages to embrace.

J. Keble

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