Courageous keep their ground;

When harsh and wild the trumpet-strain

Of sudden doom by racking pain
Upon their ears shall sound?

CLXXXIV

With God, whose vision pierces through

All paltry surface arts,

Before Whose ken lies bared to view

Our close-shut heart of hearts,

It is not only how we act,

But 'tis the part we should enact

If sorely pressed and tried:

Are these fair tenements, which stand

Secure upon protected land,

So richly carved, so finely gilt,

Are these for wintry weather built?

Will these in storm abide ?

CLXXXV

Abide, and like the lighthouse tower,

That tempests vainly smite,

Shed o'er life's surge, at every hour,

A calm unflick'ring light;

A light, whose clear-seen friendly ray

Ofttimes shall warn and scare away
The swift unconscious bark

From Sin's sharp rocks, whose sunken grave
Close underlying Pleasure's wave,

The pilot fails to mark.

Abide, and boldly choose the Right,
Armed with the sword of prayer,

And show when sudden dangers fright
How much the righteous dare.

Lord, give us strength, for Thy dear sake,
To brave the cross, the sword, the stake;
Or if Thy love shall send

The griefs that on the spirit prey,

The pains that wear the heart away,

The martyrdom of every day,

Grant that with strong and faithful heart

We play like Him the winning part,
Unwav'ring to the end!

LYRICAL POEMS.

INTERLUDES:

I. THE TWO ROBINS.

O-DAY November's concentrated chill
Puts forth her two united arms of power;

The heavy clouds cling closely to the hill; The rising vapours o'er the valley lower.

It is high festival of great King Rain;

And Evening, as her Lord with cloud is crowned, Holds stretched afar her long white feathery train Of trailing fog above the steaming ground.

Some hardy leaves still cling in shrivelled age
To boughs where once they waved in joyous light;
While piled-up heaps proclaim the tempest's rage-
Dead things, the storm will bury soon from sight.

The cheerfulness of mingled shade and light
Is lost in one monotonous grey haze,
No joyous colouring relieves the sight,
No distant peeps release the prisoned gaze.

The bird-choir from its orchestra has fled,

The silence by no twittering is stirred;

While here a mute group crouch with drooping head; The wind's low requiem alone is heard.

Two robins, brilliant in the waning light,
'Mid foliage ornaments that strew the ground,
In quick successive notes, as sweet as bright,
Illume the sombre scene with gems of sound.

With no leaf-canopy above their head,

No bloom-crown'd walls to guard them from the rain, They perch on branches which around them spread,

The blackened rafters of a ruined fane.

Why do these tuneful choristers outpour

Their sweet thanksgiving amid all their woe?

Are they now cognisant there is a store

Of berry bounty for the coming snow?

Do higher instincts tell them from the gloom, Whose wrapping vapours to all Nature cling, There soon will burst forth from the wintry tomb The Resurrection-glories of the Spring?

The parable lies clear before the eye,
Instructive thought to use at once is stirred;
This lesson to myself I will apply,

And learn great teachings from each warbling bird.

Turning from mournful things that are no more, The oft-regarded wrecks of former days,

To brave the present, buoyed by bliss in store, And make my sadness peal forth songs of praise.