May dwell, unseen by all but Heaven, Like diamond blazing in the mine; For ever, where such grace is given, It fears in open day to shine, Lest the deep stain it owns within Break out, and Faith be shamed by the believer’s sin. In silence and afar they wait, To find a prayer their Lord may hear: Voice of the poor and desolate, You best may bring it to His ear; Your grateful intercessions rise With more than royal pomp, and pierce the skies. Happy the soul whose precious cause You in the Sovereign Presence plead— “This is the lover of Thy laws, The friend of Thine in fear and need,” For to the poor Thy mercy lends That solemn style, “Thy nation and Thy friends.” He too is blest whose outward eye The graceful lines of art may trace, While his free spirit, soaring high, Discerns the glorious from the base; Till out of dust his magic raise A home for prayer and love, and full harmonious praise, Where far away and high above, In maze on maze the trancèd sight Strays, mindful of that heavenly love Which knows no end in depth or height, While the strong breath of Music seems To waft us ever on, soaring in blissful dreams. What though in poor and humble guise Thou here didst sojourn, cottage-born? Yet from Thy glory in the skies Our earthly gold Thou dost not scorn. For Love delights to bring her best, And where Love is, that offering evermore is blest. Love on the Saviour’s dying head Her spikenard drops unblamed may pour, May mount His cross, and wrap Him dead In spices from the golden shore; Risen, may embalm His sacred name With all a Painter’s art, and all a Minstrel’s flame. Worthless and lost our offerings seem, Drops in the ocean of His praise; But Mercy with her genial beam Is ripening them to pearly blaze, To sparkle in His crown above, Who welcomes here a child’s as there an angel’s love. Fourth Sunday after Epiphany. When they saw Him, they besought Him that He would depart out of their coasts. _St. Matthew_ viii. 34. THEY know the Almighty’s power, Who, wakened by the rushing midnight shower, Watch for the fitful breeze To howl and chafe amid the bending trees, Watch for the still white gleam To bathe the landscape in a fiery stream, Touching the tremulous eye with sense of light Too rapid and too pure for all but angel sight.