Go, with thy voice the altar rend, Scatter the ashes, be the arm, That idols would befriend, Shrunk at thy withering charm. Then turn thee, for thy time is short, But trace not o’er the former way, Lest idol pleasures court Thy heedless soul astray. Thou know’st how hard to hurry by, Where on the lonely woodland road Beneath the moonlight sky The festal warblings flowed; Where maidens to the Queen of Heaven Wove the gay dance round oak or palm, Or breathed their vows at even In hymns as soft as balm. Or thee, perchance, a darker spell Enthralls: the smooth stones of the flood, By mountain grot or fell, Pollute with infant’s blood; The giant altar on the rock, The cavern whence the timbrel’s call Affrights the wandering flock:— Thou long’st to search them all. Trust not the dangerous path again— O forward step and lingering will! O loved and warned in vain! And wilt thou perish still? Thy message given, thine home in sight, To the forbidden feast return? Yield to the false delight Thy better soul could spurn? Alas, my brother! round thy tomb In sorrow kneeling, and in fear, We read the Pastor’s doom Who speaks and will not hear. The grey-haired saint may fail at last, The surest guide a wanderer prove; Death only binds us fast To the bright shore of love. Ninth Sunday after Trinity. And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire: and after the fire a still small voice. 1 _Kings_ xix. 12. IN troublous days of anguish and rebuke, While sadly round them Israel’s children look, And their eyes fail for waiting on their Lord: While underneath each awful arch of green, On every mountain-top, God’s chosen scene, Of pure heart-worship, Baal is adored: ’Tis well, true hearts should for a time retire To holy ground, in quiet to aspire Towards promised regions of serener grace; On Horeb, with Elijah, let us lie, Where all around on mountain, sand, and sky, God’s chariot wheels have left distinctest trace; There, if in jealousy and strong disdain We to the sinner’s God of sin complain, Untimely seeking here the peace of Heaven— “It is enough. O Lord! now let me die E’en as my fathers did: for what am I That I should stand where they have vainly striven?”— Perhaps our God may of our conscience ask, “What doest thou here frail wanderer from thy task? Where hast thou left those few sheep in the wild?” Then should we plead our heart’s consuming pain, At sight of ruined altars, prophets slain, And God’s own ark with blood of souls defiled;