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IX.

THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.

"And behold the birds of the air."

Ye too, the free and fearless Birds of air,

Were charg'd that hour, on missionary wing,

The same bright lesson o'er the seas to bear,
Heaven-guided wanderers with the winds of spring!
Sing on, before the storm and after, sing!
And call us to your echoing woods away
From worldly cares; and bid our spirits bring

Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay.
So may those blessed vernal strains renew
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true

E'en than the first, within th' awaken'd mind; While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life, That knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife,

But hangs upon its God, unconsciously resigned.

X.

THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON.

"And he that was dead sat up and began to speak."

He that was dead rose up and spoke—He spoke !
Was it of that majestic world unknown?

Those words, which first the bier's dread silence broke,
Came they with revelation in each tone?

Were the far cities of the nations gone,

The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep,

For man uncurtain'd by that spirit lone,

Back from their portal summon'd o'er the deep? Be hush'd, my soul! the veil of darkness lay

Still drawn :-thy Lord call'd back the voice departed, To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted, Not to reveal the mysteries of its way.

Oh ! take that lesson home in silent faith,

Put on submissive strength to meet, not question,

death !

XI.

THE OLIVE TREE.

The Palm-the Vine-the Cedar-each hath power
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by,

And each quick glistening of the Laurel bower
Wafts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye.

But thou, pale Olive !—in thy branches lie

Far deeper spells than prophet-grove of old

Might e'er enshrine:-I could not hear thee sigh
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold
One shiver of thy leaves' dim silvery green,
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene
When, in the garden, the Redeemer prayed—
When pale stars looked upon his fainting head,
And angels, minist'ring in silent dread,

Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade.

XII.

THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION.

On Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung,
Felt shudderingly at noon :-the land had driven
A Guest divine back to the gates of Heaven,
A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung,
All grace, all truth:-and, when to anguish wrung,
From the sharp cross th' enlightening spirit fled,
O'er the forsaken earth a pall of dread

By the great shadow of that death was flung.

O Saviour! O Atoner! thou that fain

Wouldst make thy temple in each human breast,
Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign,

Ne'er may thy presence from its depths depart,
Chas'd thence by guilt!

Oh! turn not thou away,

The bright and morning star, my guide to perfect day!

XIII.

PLACES OF WORSHIP.

"God is a Spirit."

Spirit! whose life-sustaining presence fills
Air, ocean, central depths by man untried,
Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified
All place, all time! The silence of the hills
Breathes veneration :-founts and choral rills
Of thee are murmuring:-to its inmost glade
The living forest with thy whisper thrills,
And there is holiness on every shade.

Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest
With dearer consecration those pure fanes,
Which, sever'd from all sound of earth's unrest,
Hear nought but suppliant or adoring strains
Rise heavenward.-Ne'er may rock or cave possess
Their claim on human hearts to solemn tenderness.

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