“Ah! wherefore gleam those upland slopes so fair? And why, through every woodland arch, Swells yon bright vale, as Eden rich and rare, Where Jordan winds his stately march; If all must be forsaken, ruined all, If God have planted but to burn?— Surely not yet the avenging shower will fall, Though to my home for one last look I turn.” Thus while they waver, surely long ago They had provoked the withering blast, But that the merciful Avengers know Their frailty well, and hold them fast. “Haste, for thy life escape, nor look behind”— Ever in thrilling sounds like these They check the wandering eye, severely kind, Nor let the sinner lose his soul at ease. And when, o’erwearied with the steep ascent, We for a nearer refuge crave, One little spot of ground in mercy lent, One hour of home before the grave, Oft in His pity o’er His children weak, His hand withdraws the penal fire, And where we fondly cling, forbears to wreak Full vengeance, till our hearts are weaned entire. Thus, by the merits of one righteous man, The Church, our Zoar, shall abide, Till she abuse, so sore, her lengthened span, E’en Mercy’s self her face must hide. Then, onward yet a step, thou hard-won soul; Though in the Church thou know thy place, The mountain farther lies—there seek thy goal, There breathe at large, o’erpast thy dangerous race. Sweet is the smile of home; the mutual look When hearts are of each other sure; Sweet all the joys that crowd the household nook, The haunt of all affections pure; Yet in the world e’en these abide, and we Above the world our calling boast; Once gain the mountain-top, and thou art free: Till then, who rest, presume; who turn to look, are lost. Second Sunday in Lent. And when Esau heard the words of his father, he cried with a great and exceeding bitter cry, and said unto his father, Bless me, even me also, O my father. _Genesis_ xxvii. 34. (Compare _Hebrews_ xii. 17. He found no place of repentance, though he sought it carefully with tears.) “AND is there in God’s world so drear a place Where the loud bitter cry is raised in vain? Where tears of penance come too late for grace, As on the uprooted flower the genial rain?” ’Tis even so: the sovereign Lord of souls Stores in the dungeon of His boundless realm Each bolt that o’er the sinner vainly rolls, With gathered wrath the reprobate to whelm. Will the storm hear the sailor’s piteous cry, Taught so mistrust, too late, the tempting wave, When all around he sees but sea and sky, A God in anger, a self-chosen grave? Or will the thorns, that strew intemperance’ bed, Turn with a wish to down? will late remorse Recall the shaft the murderer’s hand has sped, Or from the guiltless bosom turn its course?