Firstlings of faith! the murderer's knife The God for whom they gave their life, Though feeble were their days and few, He knows them, whom they never knew, Then weep not o'er thy children's tomb ; The bud is cropt by martyrdom, EPIPHANY. BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us Thine aid; Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid! Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining, Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall; Angels adore Him in slumber reclining, Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all! Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, Vainly we offer each ample oblation : Vainly with gifts would His favour secure : Richer by far is the heart's adoration ; Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us Thine aid ; Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid! FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. NO. I. ABASH'D be all the boast of age! Oh Wisdom, whose unfading power To frame, in nature's earliest hour, Yet didst not Thou disdain awhile To bless Thy mother with a smile, But in Thy Father's own abode, So may our youth adore Thy name! FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. NO. II. By cool Siloam's shady rill How sweet the lily grows! How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon's dewy rose! Lo! such the child whose early feet Is upward drawn to God! By cool Siloam's shady rill The lily must decay; The rose that blooms beneath the hill Must shortly fade away. And soon, too soon, the wintry hour Of man's maturer age Will shake the soul with sorrow's power, O Thou, whose infant feet were found Whose years, with changeless virtue crown'd, Dependent on Thy bounteous breath, In childhood, manhood, age, and death, SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. NO. I. OH hand of bounty, largely spread, By whom our every want is fed, The stream Thy word to nectar dyed, Though now no more on earth we trace SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY, NO. II. INCARNATE Word, who, wont to dwell Oh, when our soul from care is free, Then may we seem, in fancy's ear, So may such joy, chastised and pure, |