Vainly the fowler"s eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly seen against the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Seek"st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?
There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,-- The desert and illimitable air,-- Lone wandering, but not lost.
All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Soon, o"er thy sheltered nest.
Thou"rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.
He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
JERUSALEM, THE GOLDEN.
Jerusalem, the golden!
With milk and honey blest; Beneath thy contemplation Sink heart and voice opprest.
I know not, O I know not What joys await us there; What radiancy of glory, What bliss beyond compare.
They stand, those halls of Zion, All jubilant with song, And bright with many an angel, And all the martyr throng.
The Prince is ever in them, The daylight is serene; The pastures of the blessed Are decked in glorious sheen.
There is the throne of David; And there, from care released, The shout of them that triumph, The song of them that feast.
And they, who with their Leader, Have conquered in the fight, Forever and forever Are clad in robes of white.
ST. BERNARD (translated by John M. Neale).
O MOTHER DEAR, JERUSALEM.
O Mother dear, Jerusalem!
When shall I come to thee?
When shall my sorrows have an end?
Thy joys when shall I see?
O happy harbor of G.o.d"s saints!
O sweet and pleasant soil!
In thee no sorrow can be found, Nor grief, nor care, nor toil.
No murky cloud o"ershadows thee, Nor gloom, nor darksome night; But every soul shines as the sun; For G.o.d Himself gives light.
O my sweet home, Jerusalem!
Thy joys when shall I see?
The King that sitteth on thy throne In His felicity?
Thy gardens and thy goodly walks Continually are green, Where grow such sweet and pleasant flowers As nowhere else are seen.
Right through thy streets, with pleasing sound The living waters flow, And on the banks, on either side, The trees of life do grow.
Those trees each month yield ripened fruit; For evermore they spring, And all the nations of the earth To thee their honors bring.
O Mother dear, Jerusalem!
When shall I come to thee?
When shall my sorrows have an end?
Thy joys when shall I see?
ANONYMOUS.
EVENING.
Abide with me from morn till eve, For without Thee I cannot live: Abide with me when night is nigh, For without Thee I dare not die.
Thou Framer of the light and dark, Steer through the tempest Thine own ark: Amid the howling wintry sea We are in port if we have Thee.
If some poor wandering child of Thine Have spurned, to-day, the voice divine, Now, Lord, the gracious work begin; Let him no more lie down in sin.
Watch by the sick: enrich the poor With blessings from Thy boundless store: Be every mourner"s sleep to-night Like infants" slumbers, pure and light.
Come near and bless us when we wake, Ere through the world our way we take; Till in the ocean of Thy love We lose ourselves in Heaven above.
JOHN KEBLE.
GOOD-NIGHT.
Close now thine eyes, and rest secure; Thy soul is safe enough; thy body sure; He that loves thee, He that keeps And guards thee, never slumbers, never sleeps.
The smiling Conscience in a sleeping breast Has only peace, has only rest: The music and the mirth of kings Are all but very discords, when she sings: Then close thine eyes and rest secure; No sleep so sweet as thine, no rest so sure.
FRANCIS QUARLES.