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EPIPHANY.

No. II.

R. H.

BRIGHTest and best of the sons of the morning!

Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid ! Star of the East, the horizon adorning,

Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid !

Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining,

Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall, Angels adore Him in slumber reclining,

Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all !

Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion,

Odours of Edom and offerings divine ?
Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean,

Myrrh from the forest or gold from the mine?

Vainly we offer each ample oblation;

Vainly with gifts would His favour secure :
Richer by far is the heart's adoration;
Dearer to God are the

prayers

of the poor.

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning!

Dawn on our darkness and lend us thine aid ! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid !

8

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

No. I.

R. H.

Abash'd be all the boast of Age!

Be hoary Learning dumb !
Expounder of the mystic page,

Behold an Infant come!

Oh Wisdom, whose unfading power

Beside th' Eternal stood,
To frame, in nature's earliest hour,

The land, the sky, the flood;

Yet didst not Thou disdain awhile

An infant form to wear;
To bless Thy mother with a smile,

And lisp Thy falter'd prayer.

But, in Thy Father's own abode,

With Israel's elders round,
Conversing high with Israel's God,

Thy chiefest joy was found.

So may our youth adore Thy name !

And, Saviour, deign to bless
With fostering grace the timid flame

Of early holiness!

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

No. II.

R. H.

By cool Siloam's shady rill ·

How sweet the lily grows!
How sweet the breath beneath the hill

Of Sharon's dewy rose !
Lo such the child whose early feet

The paths of peace have trod;
Whose secret heart, with influence sweet,

Is upward drawn to God!
By cool Siloam's shady rill

The lily must decay;
The rose that blooms beneath the hill

Must shortly fade away.
And soon, too soon, the wintry hour

Of man's maturer age
Will shake the soul with sorrow's power,

And stormy passion's rage !
O Thou, whose infant feet were found

Within Thy Father's shrine !
Whose years, with changeless virtue crown'd,

Were all alike Divine :
Dependent on Thy bounteous breath,

We seek Thy grace alone,
In childhood, manhood, age, and death,

To keep us still Thine own!

SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

No. 1.

R. H.

Ou hand of bounty, largely spread,
By whom our every want is fed,
Whate'er we touch, or taste, or see,
We owe them all, oh Lord ! to Thee;
The corn, the oil, the purple wine,
Are all Thy gifts, and only Thine!

The stream Thy word to nectar dyed,
The bread Thy blessing multiplied,
The stormy wind, the whelming flood,
That silent at Thy mandate stood,
How well they knew Thy voice Divine,
Whose works they were, and only Thine !

Though now no more on earth we trace
Thy footsteps of celestial grace,
Obedient to Thy word and will
We seek Thy daily mercy still;
Its blessed beams around us shine,
And Thine we are, and only Thine.

SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.

No. II.

R. H.

INCARNATE WORD, who, wont to dwell
In lowly shape and cottage cell,
Didst not refuse a guest to be,
At Cana's poor festivity:

Oh, when our soul from care is free,
Then, Saviour, may we think on Thee,
And, seated at the festal board,
In fancy's eye behold the Lord.

Then may we seem, in fancy's ear,
Thy manna-dropping tongue to hear
And think,—even now, Thy searching gaze
Each secret of our soul surveys !

So may such joy, chastised and pure,
Beyond the bounds of earth endure;
Nor pleasure in the wounded mind
Shall leave a rankling sting behind !

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