SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. No. II. WALTER SCOTT. THE day of wrath! that dreadful day, When, shrivelling like a parched scroll, Oh, on that day, that wrathful day, SEPTUAGESIMA SUNDAY. R. H. THE God of Glory walks His round, "Ye whose young cheeks are rosy bright, 66 Whose hands are strong, whose hearts are clear, Waste not of hope the morning light! Ah fools! why stand ye idle here? Oh, as the griefs ye would assuage That wait on life's declining year, Secure a blessing for your age, And work your Maker's business here! "And ye, whose locks of scanty grey How swiftly fades your worthless day! "One hour remains, there is but one! But many a shriek and many a tear Through endless years the guilt must moan Of moments lost and wasted here!" Oh Thou, by all Thy works ador'd, SEXAGESIMA SUNDAY. R. H. OH GOD! by whom the seed is given; Whose word, like manna shower'd from heaven, Preserve it from the passing feet, And plunderers of the air; The sultry sun's intenser heat, And weeds of worldly care! Though buried deep or thinly strewn, The hope in earthly furrows sown Shall ripen in the sky! QUINQUAGESIMA. No. I. R. H. LORD of Mercy and of might, Jesus, hear and save! Who, when sin's primæval doom Didst not scorn a virgin's womb, Strong Creator, Saviour mild, Throned above celestial things, Soon to come to earth again, |