FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.
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
His blessed home in heaven hath left
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,
And worldlings blot the temple's gold
With uses vile and base.
Hence all thy groans and travail-pains;
Hence, till thy God return,
In Wisdom's ear thy blithest strains,
O Nature, seem to mourn!
IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY.
IS THERE, FOR HONEST POVERTY. - Burns.
Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toil 's obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man 's the gowd for a' that!
What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man, for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, and a' that,
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that!
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
His riband, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that!
A king can mak' a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that;
But an honest man 's aboon his might,
Guid faith he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o' sense and pride o' worth
Are higher ranks than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,—
As come it will for a' that,
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
It's comin' yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that!
THE GREENWOOD SHRIFT.- Blackwood's Magazine.
OUTSTRETCHED beneath the leafy shade
Of Windsor Forest's deepest glade
A dying woman lay;
Three little children round her stood,
And there went up from the greenwood
A woful wail that day.
"O mother!" was the mingled cry,
"O mother! mother! do not die
And leave us all alone."
"My blessed babes!" she tried to say,
But the faint accents died away
In a low sobbing moan.
And then life struggled hard with death,
And fast and strong she drew her breath,
And up she raised her head;
And peering through the deep wood's maze
With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze,
"Will he not come?" she said.
Just then, the parting boughs between,
A little maid's light form was seen,
All breathless with ner speed;
And following close, a man came on
(A portly man to look upon),
Who led a panting steed.
"Mother!" the little maiden cried,
Or e'er she reached the woman's side,
And kissed her clay-cold cheek,
"I have not idled in the town,
But long went wandering up and down,
The minister to seek.
they told me there,
I think they mocked me everywhere;
And when I found his home,
And begged him on my bended knee
To bring his book, and come with me,
Mother! he would not come.
"I told him how you dying lay,
And could not go in peace away
Without the minister;
I begged him, for dear Christ his sake,
But O!-my heart was fit to break, —
Mother! he would not stir.
"So, though my tears were blinding me, I ran back fast as fast could be,
To come again to you;
And here close by this squire I met,
Who asked (so mild!) what made me fret;
And when I told him true,
"I will go with you, child,' he said,
'God sends me to this dying bed.'
Mother, he 's here, hard by."
While thus the little maiden spoke,
The man, his back against an oak,
Looked on with glistening eye.
The bridle on his neck flung free,
With quivering flank and trembling knee,
Pressed close his bonny bay;
A statelier man, a statelier steed,
Never on greensward paced, I rede,
Than those stood there that day.
So while the little maiden spoke
The man, his back against an oak,
Looked on with glistening eye
And folded arms; and in his look,
Something that, like a sermon book,
Preached," All is vanity."
But when the dying woman's face
Turned toward him with a wishful gaze,
He stepped to where she lay ;
And kneeling down, bent over her,
Saying, - "I am a minister,
My sister! let us pray,"
And well, withouten book or stole
(God's words were printed on his soul),
He breathed, as 't were an angel's strain,
The things that unto life pertain,
And death's dark shadows clear.
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