John Keble. ADVENT SUNDAY. AWAKE!-again the Gospel-trump is blown- Are gathering round the Judge's path: Strange words fulfilled, and mighty works achieved, Awake! why linger in the gorgeous town, Nor wonder, should ye find your King in tears, Alas! no need to rouse them: long ago All but your hearts are there-O doomed to prove Meanwhile He paces through the adoring crowd, Calm as the march of some majestic cloud, That o'er wild scenes of ocean-war Holds its course in heaven afar : Even so, heart-searching Lord, as years roll on, Thou keepest silent watch from thy triumphal throne; Even so, the world is thronging round to gaze The changeful burden still of their rude lawless cry. And Lazarus wakened from his four days' sleep, And fast beside the olive-bordered way The heavenly Contemplation dear, Where Martha loved to wait with reverence meet, Still, through decaying ages as they glide, Full many a soft green isle appears: Pause where we may upon the desert road, Some shelter is in sight, some sacred, safe abode. When withering blasts of error swept the sky, On sheltered nooks of Palestine ! Then to his early home did Love repair, And cheered his sickening heart with his own native air. Years roll away again the tide of crime Has swept thy footsteps from the favoured clime. On a crowned monarch's' mailèd breast: Through court and camp he holds his heavenward course serene. A fouler vision yet; an age of light, Light without love, glares on the aching sight: Meek Walton! shows thy green retreat, THE FLOWERS OF THE FIELD. WEET nurslings of the vernal skies, SWEET Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew, To fill the heart's fond view! Relics ye are of Eden's bowers, As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, 1 St. Louis, in the thirteenth century. Fall'n all beside-the world of life, But cheerful and unchanged the while Your first and perfect form ye show, The stars of heaven a course are taught Ye dwell beside our paths and homes— They cannot brook our shaine to meet- Ye fearless in your nests abide— Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise, Your silent lessons, undescried By all but lowly eyes: For ye could draw the admiring gaze Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour, As when He paused and owned you good; His blessing on earth's primal bower, What care ye now, if winter's storm Alas! of thousand bosoms kind, That daily court you and caress, Richard Monckton Milnes. THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE. WHO is this man whose words have might To lead you from your rest or care, Who speaks as if the earth were right By which he claims this lofty tone? His speech no stronger than your own. He bids you wonder, weep, rejoice, |