CXXVII.

"O ye remnant of Judah, go ye not into Egypt."

"O SWEETLY tim'd, as e'er was gentle hand

Of mother prest on weeping infant's brow,

Is every sign that to His fallen land

Th' Almighty sends by prophet mourners now.
The glory from the ark is gone,—
The mystic cuirass gleams no more,
In answer from the Holy One,-

Low lies the temple, wondrous store

Of mercies seal'd with blood each eve and morn; Yet heaven hath tokens for faith's eye forlorn.

"Heaven by my mouth was fain to stay

The pride, that in our evil day

Would fain have struggled in Chaldea's chain :

Nay, kiss the rod; th' Avenger needs must

reign :

And now, though every shrine is still,
Speaks out by me th' unchanging will;

'Seek not to Egypt; there the curse will come; 'But, till the woe be past, round Canaan roam, 'And meekly 'bide your hour beside your ruin'd

PROFANENESS.

CXXVIII.

AUTUMN.

Now is the Autumn of the Tree of Life ;

Its leaves are shed upon the unthankful earth, Which lets them whirl, a prey to the winds' strife, Heartless to store them for the months of dearth, Men close the door, and dress the cheerful hearth, Self-trusting still; and in his comely gear,

Of precept and of rite, a household Baal rear.

But I will out amid the sleet, and view

Each shrivelling stalk and silent-falling leaf; Truth after truth, of choicest scent and hue, Fades, and in fading stirs the Angel's grief, Unanswered here; for she, once pattern chief

Of faith, my Country, now gross-hearted grown, Waits but to burn the stem before her idol's throne.

d.

CXXIX.

SAMUEL.

THOU chosen Judge of Israel's race,

Grown gray in holy toil,

Whose lips are truth's own dwelling-place,
Whose hands no bribe can soil,

And is it thus the tribes of God

Spurn thy meek rule and gifted rod?

Yet where are Dathan's cursed crew?

And where Abiram's seed?

Must Heaven its fires of wrath renew?
Must earth repeat her deed,

And from the nations sweep away,
Who scorn the Prophet's gentle sway?

But no-the flames of holy zeal

Sad pity's tears assuage;

Over his kindling eyes there steal

Tears for God's heritage,

While for the rebel tribes flows forth

The prayer that stems Jehovah's wrath.

*

O Mother of our sinful land,

By kings and saints of yore Called to Britannia's savage strand

From Syria's distant shore,

And do thy wayward children rage
'Gainst the meek sceptre of thine age?

And must each shrine of simple state,
In purer days devote

To holy names yet consecrate,
Where holy voices float,

In dust beneath their feet be trod
Who make the people's voice a god?

Then be it ;-of thy sons the while
Be but the love more warm,
Nor theirs to court the people's smile,

Nor to the age conform.

So for our land their prayers may rise,

And God accept, when men despise.