Soft as Memnon’s harp at morning, To the inward ear devout, Touched by light, with heavenly warning Your transporting chords ring out. Every leaf in every nook, Every wave in every brook, Chanting with a solemn voice, Minds us of our better choice. Needs no show of mountain hoary, Winding shore or deepening glen, Where the landscape in its glory Teaches truth to wandering men: Give true hearts but earth and sky, And some flowers to bloom and die, Homely scenes and simple views Lowly thoughts may best infuse. See the soft green willow springing Where the waters gently pass, Every way her free arms flinging O’er the moist and reedy grass. Long ere winter blasts are fled, See her tipped with vernal red, And her kindly flower displayed Ere her leaf can cast a shade. Though the rudest hand assail her, Patiently she droops awhile, But when showers and breezes hail her, Wears again her willing smile. Thus I learn Contentment’s power From the slighted willow bower, Ready to give thanks and live On the least that Heaven may give. If, the quiet brooklet leaving, Up the stony vale I wind, Haply half in fancy grieving For the shades I leave behind, By the dusty wayside drear, Nightingales with joyous cheer Sing, my sadness to reprove, Gladlier than in cultured grove. Where the thickest boughs are twining Of the greenest darkest tree, There they plunge, the light declining— All may hear, but none may see. Fearless of the passing hoof, Hardly will they fleet aloof; So they live in modest ways, Trust entire, and ceaseless praise. Second Sunday after Epiphany. Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine: and when men have well drunk, then that which is worse; but thou hast kept the good wine until now. _St. John_ ii. 10. THE heart of childhood is all mirth: We frolic to and fro As free and blithe, as if on earth Were no such thing as woe. But if indeed with reckless faith We trust the flattering voice, Which whispers, “Take thy fill ere death, Indulge thee and rejoice;” Too surely, every setting day, Some lost delight we mourn; The flowers all die along our way Till we, too, die forlorn. Such is the world’s gay garish feast, In her first charming bowl Infusing all that fires the breast, And cheats the unstable soul. And still, as loud the revel swells, The fevered pulse beats higher, Till the seared taste from foulest wells Is fain to slake its fire. Unlike the feast of heavenly love Spread at the Saviour’s word For souls that hear His call, and prove Meet for His bridal board. Why should we fear, youth’s draught of joy If pure would sparkle less? Why should the cup the sooner cloy, Which God hath deigned to bless?