Chilled at her touch, the self-reproaching soul Flies from the heart and home she dearest loves, To where lone mountains tower, or billows roll, Or to your endless depth, ye solemn groves. In vain: the averted cheek in loneliest dell Is conscious of a gaze it cannot bear, The leaves that rustle near us seem to tell Our heart’s sad secret to the silent air. Nor is the dream untrue; for all around The heavens are watching with their thousand eyes, We cannot pass our guardian angel’s bound, Resigned or sullen, he will hear our sighs. He in the mazes of the budding wood Is near, and mourns to see our thankless glance Dwell coldly, where the fresh green earth is strewed With the first flowers that lead the vernal dance. In wasteful bounty showered, they smile unseen, Unseen by man—but what if purer sprights By moonlight o’er their dewy bosoms lean To adore the Father of all gentle lights? If such there be, O grief and shame to think That sight of thee should overcloud their joy, A new-born soul, just waiting on the brink Of endless life, yet wrapt in earth’s annoy! O turn, and be thou turned! the selfish tear, In bitter thoughts of low-born care begun, Let it flow on, but flow refined and clear, The turbid waters brightening as they run. Let it flow on, till all thine earthly heart In penitential drops have ebbed away, Then fearless turn where Heaven hath set thy part, Nor shudder at the Eye that saw thee stray. O lost and found! all gentle souls below Their dearest welcome shall prepare, and prove Such joy o’er thee, as raptured seraphs know, Who learn their lesson at the Throne of Love. Fourth Sunday after Trinity. For the earnest expectation of the creature waiteth for the manifestation of the sons of God. For the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by the reason of Him who hath subjected the same in hope, because the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain together until now. _Romans_ viii 19–22. IT was not then a poet’s dream, An idle vaunt of song, Such as beneath the moon’s soft gleam On vacant fancies throng; Which bids us see in heaven and earth, In all fair things around, Strong yearnings for a blest new birth With sinless glories crowned; Which bids us hear, at each sweet pause From care and want and toil, When dewy eve her curtain draws Over the day’s turmoil, In the low chant of wakeful birds, In the deep weltering flood, In whispering leaves, these solemn words— “God made us all for good.”