HE WALK'D WITH GOD. Whether, each nightly star to count, The ancient hills he trode, Or sought the flowers by stream and fount- The graver noon of manhood came, One voice was in his heart-the same A shepherd king on eastern plains— And calmly, brightly, that pure life No cloud it knew, no parting strife, He bow'd him not, like all beside, But join'd at once the glorified, So let us walk!—the night must come We through the darkness must go home, Closed is the path for evermore, 191 THE ROD OF AARON. (Numbers xvii. 8.) Was it the sigh of the southern gale Was it the sunshine that woke its flowers Oh, far and deep, and through hidden bowers, No! from the breeze and the living light But it felt in the stillness a secret might, E'en so may that breath, like the vernal air, And all such things as are good and fair, THE VOICE OF GOD. "I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid."— Gen. iii. 10. AMIDST the thrilling leaves, thy voice At evening's fall drew near; Father! and did not man rejoice That blessed sound to hear? THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH. Did not his heart within him burn, Therefore, 'midst holy stream and bower, To veil his conscious head. Oh! in each wind, each fountain flow, Grant me, my God, thy voice to know, 193 THE FOUNTAIN OF MARAH. "And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter. "And the people murmured against Moses, saying, What shall we drink? "And he cried unto the Lord, and the Lord showed him a tree, which when he had cast into the waters, the waters were made sweet."Exodus, xv. 23-25. WHERE is the tree the prophet threw Into the bitter wave? Left it no scion where it grew, The thirsting soul to save? Hath nature lost the hidden power Is there no distant eastern bower Nay, wherefore ask?-since gifts are ours Earth's many troubled founts with showers Oh! mingled with the cup of grief THE PENITENT'S OFFERING. (St. Luke, vii. 37, 38.) THOU that with pallid cheek, And faded locks that humbly swept the ground, Before the all-healing Son, Didst bow thee to the earth, oh, lost and found! When thou would'st bathe his feet With odours richly sweet, And many a shower of woman's burning tear, Brought low the dust to wear, Did he reject thee then, While the sharp scorn of men On thy once bright and stately head was cast? THE PENITENT'S OFFERING. No, from the Saviour's mien, A solemn light serene, Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last. For thee, their smiles no more Familiar faces wore; 195 Voices, once kind, had learn'd the stranger's tone: Who raised thee up, and bound Thy silent spirit's wound?— He, from all guilt the stainless, He alone! But which, oh, erring child! Which of thine offerings won those words of Heaven, Condemn'd of earth to bleed, In music pass'd, "Thy sins are all forgiven?" Was it that perfume fraught With balm and incense brought, From the sweet woods of Araby the bless'd? Of tears, which, not in vain To Him who scorn'd not tears, thy woes confess'd? No, not by these restored Thy peace, that kindlier joy in Heaven, was made; But costlier in his eyes, By that bless'd sacrifice, Thy heart, thy full-deep heart, before Him laid. |