For, is it Hope, that thrills so keen Along each bounding vein, Still whispering glorious things unseen?— Faith makes the vision plain. The world would kill her soon: but Faith Her daring dreams will cherish, Speeding her gaze o’er time and death To realms where nought can perish. Or is it Love, the dear delight Of hearts that know no guile, That all around see all things bright With their own magic smile? The silent joy that sinks so deep, Of confidence and rest, Lulled in a father’s arms to sleep, Clasped to a mother’s breast? Who, but a Christian, through all life That blessing may prolong? Who, through the world’s sad day of strife, Still chant his morning song? Fathers may hate us or forsake, God’s foundlings then are we: Mother on child no pity take, But we shall still have Thee. We may look home, and seek in vain A fond fraternal heart, But Christ hath given His promise plain To do a Brother’s part. Nor shall dull age, as worldlings say, The heavenward flame annoy: The Saviour cannot pass away, And with Him lives our joy. Ever the richest, tenderest glow Sets round the autumnal sun— But there sight fails: no heart may know The bliss when life is done. Such is Thy banquet, dearest Lord; O give us grace, to cast Our lot with Thine, to trust Thy word, And keep our best till last. Third Sunday after Epiphany. When Jesus heard it, He marvelled, and said to them that followed, Verily I say unto you, I have not found so great faith, no, not in Israel. _St. Matthew_ viii. 10. I MARKED a rainbow in the north, What time the wild autumnal sun From his dark veil at noon looked forth, As glorying in his course half done, Flinging soft radiance far and wide Over the dusky heaven and bleak hill-side. It was a gleam to Memory dear, And as I walk and muse apart, When all seems faithless round and drear, I would revive it in my heart, And watch how light can find its way To regions farthest from the fount of day. Light flashes in the gloomiest sky, And Music in the dullest plain, For there the lark is soaring high Over her flat and leafless reign, And chanting in so blithe a tone, It shames the weary heart to feel itself alone. Brighter than rainbow in the north, More cheery than the matin lark, Is the soft gleam of Christian worth, Which on some holy house we mark; Dear to the pastor’s aching heart To think, where’er he looks, such gleam may have a part;