Or sought the flowers by stream and fount--Alike he walk'd with God. 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, So let us walk!—the night must come We through the darkness must go home, Closed is the path for evermore, THE ROD OF AARON.-THE VOICE OF GOD. 175 THE ROD OF AARON. (Numbers xvii. 8.) WAS it the sigh of the southern gale Brightest and first the young Spring to hail, 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? Did not his heart within him burn, Therefore, 'midst holy stream and bower, Oh! in each wind, each fountain flow, 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 With such sweet leaves o'erspread? THE PENITENT'S OFFERING. Nay, wherefore ask?-since gifts are ours Earth's many troubled founts with showers Of heaven's own balmy dew. Oh! mingled with the cup of grief And every prayer shall win a leaf 177 THE PENITENT'S OFFERING. THOU that with pallid cheek, And eyes in sadness meek, And faded locks that humbly swept the ground, Before the all-healing Son, Did'st 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? A solemn light serene, Bore to thy soul the peace of God at last. VOL. VI. M For thee, their smiles no more Familiar faces wore ; Voices, once kind, had learn'd the stranger's tone: Thy silent spirit's wound?- 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, Of tears, which, not in vain To Him who scorn'd not tears, thy woes confess'd? No, not by these restored Unto thy Father's board, Thy peace, that kindled joy in Heaven, was made; But costlier in his eyes, By that bless'd sacrifice, Thy heart, thy full-deep heart, before Him laid. |