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Ripe berries from their laden stalk ;
But who, you ask, is this vain man,
FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.
That thou, the camel of life's woe,
BY GRECIAN ANNALS IT REMAINED UNTOLD.
R. C. Trench.
By Grecian annalş it remained untold,
FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY. - Keble.
It was not, then, a poet's dream,
An idle vaunt of song,
On vacant fancies throng,
Which bids us see in heaven and earth,
In all fair things around,
With sinless glories crowned ;
Which bids us hear, at each sweet pause
From care and want and toil, When dewy eve her curtain draws
Over the day's turmoil,
In the low chant of wakeful birds,
In the deep weltering flood, In whispering leaves, these solemn words, –
“God made us all for good."
All true, all faultless, all in tune,
Creation's wondrous choir Opened in mystic unison,
To last till time expire.
And still it lasts : by day and night,
With one consenting voice,
All worship and rejoice!
Man only mars the sweet accord,
O’erpowering with “ harsh din” The music of thy works and word,
Ill matched with grief and sin.
Sin is with man at morning break,
And through the livelong day Deafens the ear that fain would wake
To Nature's simple lay.
But when eve's silent footfall steals
Along the eastern sky,
Those purer fires on high,
FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.
When one by one each human sound
Dies on the awful ear,
She speaks, and we must hear.
she on the Christian heart That warning still and deep, At which high spirits of old would start
E’en from their pagan sleep,
Just guessing, through their murky blind,
Few, faint, and bafting sight, Streaks of a brighter heaven behind
A cloudless depth of light.
Such thoughts, the wreck of Paradise,
Through many a dreary age, Upbore whate’er of good and wise
Yet lived in bard or sage :
They marked what agonizing throes
Shook the great mother's womb; But Reason's spells might not disclose
The gracious birth to come ;
Nor could the enchantress Hope forecast
God's secret love and power;
Till her appointed hour;
The hour that saw from opening heaven
Redeeming glory stream, Beyond the summer hues of even,
Beyond the mid-day beam.
Thenceforth, to eyes of high desire,
The meanest things below, As with a seraph's robe of fire
Invested, burn and glow :
The rod of heaven has touched them all,
The word from heaven is spoken : “ Rise, shine, and sing, thou captive thrall !
Are not thy fetters broken?
“ The God who hallowed thee, and blest,
Pronouncing thee all good, Hath He not all thy wrongs redrest,
And all thy bliss renewed ?
“ Why mourn'st thou still as one bereft,
Now that th' eternal Son
To make thee all his own?'
Thou mourn'st because sin lingers still
In Christ's new heaven and earth ; Because our rebel works and will
Stain our immortal birth;
Because, as Love and Prayer grow cold,
The Saviour hides his face,
With uses vile and base.
Hence all thy groans and travail-pains;
Hence, till thy God return,
O Nature, seem to mourn!