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TWENTY-FIRST SUNDAY AFTER
The vision is yet for an appointed time; but at the end it shall speak and not lie : though it tarry, wait for it, because it will surely come, it will not tarry. Habakkuk ii. 3.
THE morning mist is clear'd away,
Yet still the face of heaven is grey,
Faded yet full, a paler green
Skirts soberly the tranquil scene,
Sweet messenger of " calm decay,”
Saluting sorrow as you may,
In thee, and in this quiet mead
The lesson of sweet peace I read, Rather in all to be resign'd than blest.
'Tis a low chant, according well
With the soft solitary knell,
Or by some holy death-bed dear,
Most welcome to the chasten'd ear
O cheerful tender strain! the heart
That duly bears with you its part, Singing so thankful to the dreary blast,
Though gone and spent its joyous prime,
And on the world's autumnal time, 'Mid wither'd hues and sere, its lot be cast.
That is the heart for thoughtful seer,
d Zechariah xiv. 6. It shall come to pass in that day, that tbe night shall not be clear nor dark.
Th'o'erwhelming future as it nearer draws :
His spirit calm’d the storm to meet,
Feeling the rock beneath his feet, And tracing through the cloud th' eternal Cause.
That is the heart for watchman true
Waiting to see what God will do, As o'er the Church the gathering twilight falls:
No more he strains his wistful eye,
If chance the golden hours be nigh, By youthful Hope seen beaming round her walls.
Forc'd from his shadowy paradise,
His thoughts to Heaven the steadier rise : There seek his answer when the world reproves :
Contented in his darkling round,
If only he be faithful found, When from the east th' eternal morning moves.
Note : The expression, " calm decay,” is borrowed from a friend : by whose kind permission the following stanzas are here inserted.
TO THE RED-BREAST.
UNHEARD in summer's flaring ray,
Pour forth thy notes, sweet singer,
The blackbird's song at even tide,
And hers, who gay ascends,
Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him ? St. Matthew xviii, 21.
WHAT liberty so glad and gay,
As where the mountain boy,
A prisoner lives in joy?
The dreary sounds of crowded earth,
The cries of camp or town,
Nor drew his visions down.
The snow-clad peaks of rosy light
That meet his morning view,
They bound his fancy too.