But there’s a sweeter flower than e’er
   Blushed on the rosy spray —
A brighter star, a richer bloom
Than e’er did western heaven illume
   At close of summer day.

’Tis Love, the last best gift of Heaven;
   Love gentle, holy, pure;
But tenderer than a dove’s soft eye,
The searching sun, the open sky,
   She never could endure.

E’en human Love will shrink from sight
   Here in the coarse rude earth: 
How then should rash intruding glance
Break in upon her sacred trance
   Who boasts a heavenly birth?

So still and secret is her growth,
   Ever the truest heart,
Where deepest strikes her kindly root
For hope or joy, for flower or fruit,
   Least knows its happy part.

God only, and good angels, look
   Behind the blissful screen —
As when, triumphant o’er His woes,
The Son of God by moonlight rose,
   By all but Heaven unseen: 

As when the holy Maid beheld
   Her risen Son and Lord: 
Thought has not colours half so fair
That she to paint that hour may dare,
   In silence best adored.

The gracious Dove, that brought from Heaven
   The earnest of our bliss,
Of many a chosen witness telling,
On many a happy vision dwelling,
   Sings not a note of this.

So, truest image of the Christ,
   Old Israel’s long-lost son,
What time, with sweet forgiving cheer,
He called his conscious brethren near,
   Would weep with them alone.

He could not trust his melting soul
   But in his Maker’s sight —
Then why should gentle hearts and true
Bare to the rude world’s withering view
   Their treasure of delight!

No—­let the dainty rose awhile
   Her bashful fragrance hide —
Rend not her silken veil too soon,
But leave her, in her own soft noon,
   To flourish and abide.

FIFTH SUNDAY IN LENT

And Moses said, I will now turn aside, and see this great sight, why the bush is not burnt.  Exodus iii. 3.

The historic Muse, from age to age,
Through many a waste heart-sickening page
   Hath traced the works of Man: 
But a celestial call to-day
Stays her, like Moses, on her way,
   The works of God to scan.

Far seen across the sandy wild,
Where, like a solitary child,
   He thoughtless roamed and free,
One towering thorn was wrapt in flame —
Bright without blaze it went and came: 
   Who would not turn and see?

Along the mountain ledges green
The scattered sheep at will may glean
   The Desert’s spicy stores: 
The while, with undivided heart,
The shepherd talks with God apart,
   And, as he talks, adores.

Ye too, who tend Christ’s wildering flock,
Well may ye gather round the rock
   That once was Sion’s hill: 
To watch the fire upon the mount
Still blazing, like the solar fount,
   Yet unconsuming still.