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O then the glory and the bliss,
When all that paind or seem'd amiss

Shall melt with earth and sin away! When saints beneath their Saviour's eye, Fill'd with each other's company,

Shall spend in love th' eternal day.

LXXXIV.

ST. PHILIP AND ST, JAMES.

Let the brother of low degree rejoice in that he is exalted: but the rich, in that he is made low. St. James i. 9, 10.

DEAR is the morning gale of spring,

And dear th' autumnal eve;
But few delights can summer bring

A Poet's crown to weave.

Her bowers are mute, her fountains dry,

And ever Fancy's wing
Speeds from beneath her cloudless sky

To autumn or to spring.

Sweet is the infant's waking smile,

And sweet the old man's rest-
But middle age by no fond wile,

No soothing calm is blest.

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Still in the world's hot restless gleam

She plies her weary task, While vainly for some pleasant dream

Her wandering glances ask.

O shame upon thee, listless heart,

So sad a sigh to heave,
As if thy Saviour had no part

In thoughts, that make thee grieve.

As if along His lonesome way

He had not borne for thee Sad languors through the summer day,

Storms on the wintry sea.

Youth's lightning flash of joy secure

Pass'd seldom o'er His spright,A well of serious thought and pure,

Too deep for earthly light.

No spring was His—no fairy gleam

For He by trial knew How cold and bare what mortals dream,

To worlds where all is true.

Then grudge not thou the anguish keen

Which makes thee like thy LORD, And learn to quit with eye serene

Thy youth's ideal hoard.

Thy treasur'd hopes and raptures high

Unmurmuring let them go, Nor grieve the bliss should quickly fly

Which CHRIST disdain'd to know.

Thou shalt have joy in sadness soon;

The pure, calm hope be thine, Which brightens, like the eastern moon,

As days wild lights decline.

Thus souls, by nature pitch'd too high,

By sufferings plung'd too low, Meet in the Church's middle sky,

Half way 'twixt joy and woe,

To practise there the soothing lay

That sorrow best relieves : Thankful for all God takes away,

Humbled by all He gives.

LXXXV.

ST. BARNABAS.

The Son of consolation, a Levite. Acts iv. 36.

THE world's a room of sickness, where each heart

Knows its own anguish and unrest;
The truest wisdom there, and noblest art,

Is his, who skills of comfort best;
Whom by the softest step and gentlest tone

Enfeebled spirits own,

And love to raise the languid eye, When, like an angel's wing, they feel him fleeting by :

Feel only-for in silence gently gliding

Fain would he shun both ear and sight, 'Twixt Prayer and watchful Love his heart dividing,

A nursing father day and night.

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