There’s not a star the heaven can show,
   There’s not a cottage-hearth below,
But feeds with solace kind the willing soul —
   Men love us, or they need our love;
   Freely they own, or heedless prove
The curse of lawless hearts, the joy of self-control.

   Then rouse thee from desponding sleep,
   Nor by the wayside lingering weep,
Nor fear to seek Him farther in the wild,
   Whose love can turn earth’s worst and least
   Into a conqueror’s royal feast: 
Thou wilt not be untrue, thou shalt not be beguiled.

EIGHT SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY

It is the man of God, who was disobedient unto the word of the
Lord. 1 King xiii. 26.

Prophet of God, arise and take
With thee the words of wrath divine,
   The scourge of Heaven, to shake
   O’er yon apostate shrine.

Where Angels down the lucid stair
Came hovering to our sainted sires
   Now, in the twilight, glare
   The heathen’s wizard fires.

Go, with thy voice the altar rend,
Scatter the ashes, be the arm,
   That idols would befriend,
   Shrunk at thy withering charm.

Then turn thee, for thy time is short,
But trace not o’er the former way,
   Lest idol pleasures court
   Thy heedless soul astray.

Thou know’st how hard to hurry by,
Where on the lonely woodland road
   Beneath the moonlight sky
   The festal warblings flowed;

Where maidens to the Queen of Heaven
Wove the gay dance round oak or palm,
   Or breathed their vows at even
   In hymns as soft as balm.

Or thee, perchance, a darker spell
Enthralls:  the smooth stones of the flood,
   By mountain grot or fell,
   Pollute with infant’s blood;

The giant altar on the rock,
The cavern whence the timbrel’s call
   Affrights the wandering flock:-
   Thou long’st to search them all.

Trust not the dangerous path again —
O forward step and lingering will! 
   O loved and warned in vain! 
   And wilt thou perish still?

Thy message given, thine home in sight,
To the forbidden feast return? 
   Yield to the false delight
   Thy better soul could spurn?

Alas, my brother! round thy tomb
In sorrow kneeling, and in fear,
   We read the Pastor’s doom
   Who speaks and will not hear.

The grey-haired saint may fail at last,
The surest guide a wanderer prove;
   Death only binds us fast
   To the bright shore of love.

NINTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY

And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire:  and after the fire a still small voice. 1 Kings xix. 12.

In troublous days of anguish and rebuke,
While sadly round them Israel’s children look,
   And their eyes fail for waiting on their Lord: 
While underneath each awful arch of green,
On every mountain-top, God’s chosen scene,
   Of pure heart-worship, Baal is adored: