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What griefs that make no sign,

That ask no aid but thine,

Father of Mercies! here before thee swell!

As to the open sky,

All their dark waters lie

To thee revealed, in each close bosom cell.

The sorrow for the dead,

Mantling its lonely head

From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free;

And the fond, aching love,

Thy minister, to move

All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee.

And doth not thy dread eye

Behold the agony

In that most hidden chamber of the heart,

Where darkly sits remorse,

Beside the secret source

Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?

Yes! here before thy throne

Many-yet each alone

To thee that terrible unveiling make;

And still small whispers clear

Are startling many an ear,

As if a trumpet bade the dead awake.

How dreadful is this place!

The glory of thy face

Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight:

Where shall the guilty flee?

Over what far off sea?

What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that

light?

Not to the cedar shade

Let his vain flight be made;

Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea;

Thence

What, but the cross, can yield

The hope-the stay-the shield?

may the Atoner lead him up to Thee!

Be thou, be thou his aid!

Oh! let thy love pervade

The haunted caves of self-accusing thought!

There let the living stone

Be cleft-the seed be sown

The

song

of fountains from the silence brought!

So shall thy breath once more

Within the soul restore

Thine own first image-Holiest and Most High!

As a clear lake is filled

With hues of Heaven, instilled

Down to the depths of its calm purity.

And if, amidst the throng

Linked by the ascending song,

There are, whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar;

Thanks, Father! that the power

Of joy, man's early dower,

Thus, e'en midst tears, can fervently adore!

Thanks for each gift divine!

Eternal praise be thine,

Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer!

Let the hymn pierce the sky,

And let the tombs reply!

For seed, that waits thy harvest-time, is there.

WOOD WALK AND HYMN.

Move along these shades

In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand
Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods.

FATHER-CHILD.

WORDSWORTH.

Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery

leaves

Trembling, for ever trembling! though the lime

And chesnut boughs, and those long arching sprays

Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood

Were all one picture!

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