My soul is envious of mine eye,
That it should soar and glide with thee so fast,
   The while my grovelling thoughts half buried lie,
Or lawless roam around this earthly waste.

      Chains of my heart, avaunt I say —
I will arise, and in the strength of love
   Pursue the bright track ere it fade away,
My Saviour’s pathway to His home above.

      Sure, when I reach the point where earth
Melts into nothing from th’ uncumbered sight,
   Heaven will o’ercome th’ attraction of my birth. 
And I shall sink in yonder sea of light: 

      Till resting by th’ incarnate Lord,
Once bleeding, now triumphant for my sake,
   I mark Him, how by seraph hosts adored,
He to earth’s lowest cares is still awake.

      The sun and every vassal star,
All space, beyond the soar of angel wings,
   Wait on His word:  and yet He stays His car
For every sigh a contrite suppliant brings.

      He listens to the silent tear
For all the anthems of the boundless sky —
   And shall our dreams of music bar our ear
To His soul-piercing voice for ever nigh?

      Nay, gracious Saviour—­but as now
Our thoughts have traced Thee to Thy glory-throne
   So help us evermore with thee to bow
Where human sorrow breathes her lowly moan.

      We must not stand to gaze too long,
Though on unfolding Heaven our gaze we bend
   Where lost behind the bright angelic throng
We see Christ’s entering triumph slow ascend.

      No fear but we shall soon behold,
Faster than now it fades, that gleam revive,
   When issuing from his cloud of fiery gold
Our wasted frames feel the true sun, and live.

      Then shall we see Thee as Thou art,
For ever fixed in no unfruitful gaze,
   But such as lifts the new-created heart,
Age after age, in worthier love and praise.

SUNDAY AFTER ASCENSION

As every man hath received the gift, even so minister the same one to another, as good stewards of the manifold grace of God. 1 St. Peter iv. 10.

The Earth that in her genial breast
Makes for the down a kindly nest,
Where wafted by the warm south-west
   It floats at pleasure,
Yields, thankful, of her very best,
   To nurse her treasure: 

True to her trust, tree, herb, or reed,
She renders for each scattered seed,
And to her Lord with duteous heed
   Gives large increase: 
Thus year by year she works unfeed,
   And will not cease.

Woe worth these barren hearts of ours,
Where Thou hast set celestial flowers,
And watered with more balmy showers
   Than e’er distilled
In Eden, on th’ ambrosial bowers —
   Yet nought we yield.

Largely Thou givest, gracious Lord,
Largely Thy gifts should be restored;
Freely Thou givest, and Thy word
   Is, “Freely give.” 
He only, who forgets to hoard,
   Has learned to live.