By sunny ray, and starry throne,
The wonders of our mighty Lord
To man's attentive heart are known,
Bright as the promise of His word.
THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE.
O'ER Kedron's stream, and Salem's height,
And Olivet's brown steep,
Moves the majestic queen of night,
And throws from heaven her silver light,
And sees the world asleep;
All but the children of distress,
Of sorrow, grief, and care-
Whom sleep, though pray'd for, will not bless;—
These leave the couch of restlessness,
To breathe the cool, calm air.
For those who shun the glare of day,
There's a composing power,
That meets them on their lonely way,
In the still air, the sober ray
Of this religious hour.
'Tis a religious hour;—for He
Who many a grief shall bear,
In his own body on the tree,
Is kneeling in Gethsemane,
In agony and prayer.
O Holy Father, when the light
Of earthly joy grows dim,
May hope in Christ grow strong and bright,
To all who kneel, in sorrow's night,
In trust and prayer like Him.
The following appeared in the Irish Monthly Magazine, from the pen of the Rev. N. B. WHITE, of Enniskillen.
THE sun has set in mist, and faint and dreary,
The pallid moon assumes her sombre sway;
Half hid by circling clouds, with step unweary,
All silently she treads her lonely way;
Night's pall enshrouds the earth, and Ocean's streams
In dark repose reflect the kindred skies;
Then glad I seek the glowing land of dreams,
And there I find the joy that day denies.
For thou art there, Belovèd-sweetly smiling-
And there are forms than thine alone less dear,
I see their gentle looks, my cares beguiling-
I hear those tones I so much loved to hear:
And old familiar faces crowd around-
Oft doth the tomb its denizens restore; Why is it thus?-O hush! nor let one sound Of boding sadness mar this blissful hour!
Do not our spirits mingle? Can it be
An unreal vision? Sure that voice was thine!Thy witching glance was fondly bent on me,
Thy dear, dear hand was gently clasp'd in mine. I felt-even yet I feel-thy silken tresses
Stray o'er my cheek and sweep my conscious brow, Grateful I turn to meet thy calm caresses
I start-I wake—and where, oh! where art thou?
Yet have we parted? No! we could not part,
Though many a weary plain and mountain sever;
For one sweet hope is ours-one joy-one heart,
One heavenly home where we shall dwell for ever!
Our Father sees us one, as morn and even
Our prayers enmingling mount before His throne-
To us, Beloved, then may grace be given
To wait His will--to make that will our own!
GOD might have bade the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,
The oak-tree, and the cedar-tree,
Without a flower at all.
He might have made enough, enough
For every want of ours,
For luxury, medicine, and toil,
And yet have made no flowers.
The ore within the mountain-mine
Requireth none to grow,
Nor doth it need the lotus-flower
To make the river flow.
The clouds might give abundant rain,
The nightly dews might fall,
And the herb that keepeth life in man,
Might yet have drank them all.
Then wherefore, wherefore were they made,
All dyed with rainbow light,
All fashion'd with supremest grace,
Upspringing day and night;-
Springing in valleys green and low,
And on the mountains high,
And in the silent wilderness,
Where no man passeth by?
Our outward life requires them not,
Then wherefore had they birth?
To minister delight to man,
To beautify the earth;
To whisper hope-to comfort man
Whene'er his faith is dim;
For whoso careth for the flowers
Will care much more for Him!
SEVENTEENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.
STATELY thy walls, and holy are the prayers
Which day and night before thine altars rise;
Not statelier, towering o'er her marble stairs,
Flash'd Sion's gilded dome to summer skies,
Not holier, while around him angels bow'd,
From Aaron's censer steam'd the spicy cloud,
Before the mercy-seat. O Mother dear,
Wilt thou forgive thy son one boding sigh?
Forgive, if round thy towers he walk in fear,
And tell thy jewels o'er with jealous eye?
Mindful of that sad vision, which in thought
From Chebar's plains the captive prophet brought
To see lost Sion's shame. 'Twas morning prime,
And like a Queen new-seated on her throne,
God's crowned mountain, as in happier time,
Seem'd to rejoice in sunshine all her own:
So bright, while all in shade around her lay,
Her northern pinnacles had caught th' emerging ray.
The dazzling lines of her majestic roof
Cross'd with as free a span the vault of heaven, As when twelve tribes knelt silently aloof
Ere God His answer to their king had given,
Ere yet upon the new-built altar fell
The glory of the Lord, the Lord of Israel.
All seems the same: but enter in and see
What idol shapes are on the wall portray'd:
And watch their shameless and unholy glee,
Who worship there in Aaron's robes array'd:
Hear Judah's maids the dirge to Thammuz pour,
And mark her chiefs yon orient sun adore.
Yet turn thee, son of man-for worse than these
Thou must behold: thy loathing were but lost
On dead men's crimes, and Jews' idolatries-
Come, learn to tell aright thine own sins' cost,-
And sure their sin as far from equals thine,
As earthly hopes abused are less than hopes divine.
What if within His world, His Church, our Lord
Have enter'd thee, as in some temple gate,
Where, looking round, each glance might thee afford
Some glorious earnest of thine high estate,
And thou, false heart and frail, has turn'd from all
To worship pleasure's shadow on the wall?
If, when the Lord of Glory was in sight,
Thou turn thy back upon that fountain clear, To bow before the "little drop of light,"
Which dim-eyed men call praise and glory here; What dost thou, but adore the sun, and scorn
Him at whose only word both sun and stars were born?
If, while around thee gales from Eden breathe,
Thou hide thine eyes, to make thy peevish moan
Over some broken reed of earth beneath,
Some darling of blind fancy dead and gone,
As wisely mightst thou in Jehovah's fane
Offer thy love and tears to Thammuz slain.
Turn thee from these, or dare not to enquire
Of Him whose name is Jealous, lest in wrath
He hear and answer thine unblest desire:
Far better we should cross His lightning's path
Than be according to our idols heard,
And God should take us at our own vain word.
Thou who hast deign'd the Christian's heart to call
Thy Church and Shrine; whene'er our rebel will
Would in that chosen home of Thine instal
Belial or Mammon, grant us not the ill
We blindly ask; in very love refuse
Whate'er Thou know'st our weakness would abuse.
Or rather help us, Lord, to choose the good,
To pray for nought, to seek to none, but Thee,
Nor by
our daily bread" mean common food,
"From this world's evil set us free;"
Teach us to love, with Christ, our sole true bliss,
Else, though in Christ's own words, we surely pray amiss.
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