SWEET nurslings of the vernal skies, Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew, What more than magic in you lies, To fill the heart’s fond view? In childhood’s sports, companions gay, In sorrow, on Life’s downward way, How soothing! in our last decay Memorials prompt and true. Relics ye are of Eden’s bowers, As pure, as fragrant, and as fair, As when ye crowned the sunshine hours Of happy wanderers there. Fall’n all beside—the world of life, How is it stained with fear and strife! In Reason’s world what storms are rife, What passions range and glare! But cheerful and unchanged the while Your first and perfect form ye show, The same that won Eve’s matron smile In the world’s opening glow. The stars of heaven a course are taught Too high above our human thought: Ye may be found if ye are sought, And as we gaze, we know. Ye dwell beside our paths and homes, Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow, And guilty man where’er he roams, Your innocent mirth may borrow. The birds of air before us fleet, They cannot brook our shame to meet— But we may taste your solace sweet And come again to-morrow. Ye fearless in your nests abide— Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise, Your silent lessons, undescried By all but lowly eyes: For ye could draw th’ admiring gaze Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys: Your order wild, your fragrant maze, He taught us how to prize. Ye felt your Maker’s smile that hour, As when He paused and owned you good; His blessing on earth’s primal bower, Ye felt it all renewed. What care ye now, if winter’s storm Sweep ruthless o’er each silken form? Christ’s blessing at your heart is warm, Ye fear no vexing mood. Alas! of thousand bosoms kind, That daily court you and caress, How few the happy secret find Of your calm loveliness! “Live for to-day! to-morrow’s light To-morrow’s cares shall bring to sight, Go sleep like closing flowers at night, And Heaven thy morn will bless.” Sixteenth Sunday after Trinity. I desire that ye faint not at my tribulations for you, which is your glory. _Ephesians_ iii. 13. WISH not, dear friends, my pain away— Wish me a wise and thankful heart, With GOD, in all my griefs, to stay, Nor from His loved correction start. The dearest offering He can crave His portion in our souls to prove, What is it to the gift He gave, The only Son of His dear love? But we, like vexed unquiet sprights, Will still be hovering o’er the tomb, Where buried lie our vain delights, Nor sweetly take a sinner’s doom. In Life’s long sickness evermore Our thoughts are tossing to and fro: We change our posture o’er and o’er, But cannot rest, nor cheat our woe.