It flooded the crimson twilight It quieted pain and sorrow, It linked all perplexed meanings I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one lost chord divine, Which came from the soul of the Organ, It may be that Death's bright angel It may be that only in Heaven I shall hear that grand Amen. JOHN KEBLE. Born 1792. Died 1866. FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. Instinct pure, or Heaven-taught art? Sweet the lengthening April day, Soft as Memnon's harp at morning, Touched by light, with heavenly warning Your transporting chords ring out. Every leaf in every nook, Every wave in every brook, Chanting with a solemn voice, Minds us of our better choice. Needs no show of mountain hoary, Where the landscape in its glory Give true hearts but earth and sky, See the soft green willow springing Though the rudest hand assail her, But when showers and breezes hail her, For the shades I leave behind, Where the thickest boughs are twining Hardly will they fleet aloof; So they live in modest ways, Trust entire, and ceaseless praise. SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EASTER. O FOR a sculptor's hand, That thou might'st take thy stand, Thy wild hair floating on the eastern breeze, Thy tranced yet open gaze Fixed on the desert haze, As one who deep in heaven some airy pageant sees. In outline dim and vast Their fearful shadows cast The giant forms of empires on their way To ruin one by one They tower and they are gone, Yet in the Prophet's soul the dreams of avarice stay, No sun or star so bright In all the world of light That they should draw to Heaven his downward eye : He sees the angel's sword, Yet low upon the earth his heart and treasure lie.. Lo! from yon argent field, One gentle Star glides down, on earth to dwell. Our eyes may see it glow, And as it mounts again, may track its brightness well. To him it glared afar, A token of wild war, The banner of his Lord's victorious wrath : But close to us it gleams, Its soothing lustre streams Around our home's green walls, and on our church-way path. We in the tents abide Like goodly cedars by the waters spread, While seven red altar-fires Rose up in wavy spires, Where on the mount he watched his sorceries dark and dread. He watched till morning's ray On lake and meadow lay, And willow-shaded streams, that silent sweep Around the bannered lines, Where by their several signs The desert-wearied tribes in sight of Canaan sleep. He watched till knowledge came Upon his soul like flame, Not of those magic fires at random caught: But true prophetic light Flashed o'er him, high and bright, Flashed once, and died away, and left his darkened thought. And can he choose but fear, That when he fain would curse, his powerless tongue Alas! the world he loves Too close around his heart her tangling veil hath flung. Sceptre and Star divine, Who in Thine inmost shrine Hast made us worshippers, O claim Thine own; O teach our love to grow Up to Thy heavenly light, and reap what Thou hast sown. EDWARD, LORD LYTTON. Born 1805. Died 1872. THE DESIRE OF FAME. I DO confess that I have wished to give Do I lament that I have seen the bays Denied my own, not worthier brows above, Do I lament that roseate youth has flown No! for whoever with an earnest soul Strives for some end from this low world afar, Still upward travels, though he miss the goal, And strays but towards a star. Better than fame is still the wish for fame, The wish for Fame is faith in holy things That soothe the life, and shall outlive the tombA reverent listening for some angel wings That cower above the gloom. To gladden earth with beauty, or men's lives To serve with action, or their souls with truth,These are the ends for which the hope survives The ignobler thirsts of youth. No, I lament not, though these leaves may fall If vain for others, not in vain for me, Who builds an altar let him worship there; What needs the crowd? though lone the shrine may be, Not hallowed less the prayer. Enough if haply in the after days, When by the altar sleeps the funeral stone, When causeless Hate can wound its prey no more, Or if yon children, whose young souls of glee Of not all-perished song! Taking some spark to glad the hearth, or light ALEXANDER SMITH. Born 1830. Died 1867. FORGETFULNESS. I HID my face awhile, then cried aloud, His orbs were blind with tears-he could not tell. From a sweet infant's bier; and at the sound He started, shook his head, with quick hand drew His mantle o'er his face, and turned away 'Mong the blue twilight-mists." Sleep did not raise His heavy lids, but in a drowsy voice, Like murmur of a leafy sycamore When bees are swarming in the glimmering leaves, His name is Death: seek him, and he may know.” I cried, "O angel, is there no one else?" Methought, when I awoke, "We have two lives; The one has music and the flying cloud, |