Bright are their dreams, because their thoughts are clear, Their memory cheering: but th’ earth-stained spright, Whose wakeful musings are of guilt and fear, Must hover nearer earth, and less in light. Farewell, for her, th’ ideal scenes so fair— Yet not farewell her hope, since thou hast deigned, Creator of all hearts! to own and share The woe of what Thou mad’st, and we have stained. Thou knowst our bitterness—our joys are Thine— No stranger Thou to all our wanderings wild: Nor could we bear to think, how every line Of us, Thy darkened likeness and defiled, Stands in full sunshine of Thy piercing eye, But that Thou call’st us Brethren: sweet repose Is in that word—the LORD who dwells on high Knows all, yet loves us better than He knows. Twenty-fifth Sunday after Trinity. The hoary head is a crown of glory, if it be found in the way of righteousness. _Proverbs_ xvi. 31. THE bright-haired morn is glowing O’er emerald meadows gay, With many a clear gem strewing The early shepherd’s way. Ye gentle elves, by Fancy seen Stealing away with night To slumber in your leafy screen, Tread more than airy light. And see what joyous greeting The sun through heaven has shed, Though fast yon shower be fleeting, His beams have faster sped. For lo! above the western haze High towers the rainbow arch In solid span of purest rays: How stately is its march! Pride of the dewy morning! The swain’s experienced eye From thee takes timely warning, Nor trusts the gorgeous sky. For well he knows, such dawnings gay Bring noons of storm and shower, And travellers linger on the way Beside the sheltering bower. E’en so, in hope and trembling Should watchful shepherd view His little lambs assembling, With glance both kind and true; ’Tis not the eye of keenest blaze, Nor the quick-swelling breast, That soonest thrills at touch of praise— These do not please him best. But voices low and gentle, And timid glances shy, That seem for aid parental To sue all wistfully, Still pressing, longing to be right, Yet fearing to be wrong,— In these the Pastor dares delight, A lamb-like, Christ-like throng. These in Life’s distant even Shall shine serenely bright, As in th’ autumnal heaven Mild rainbow tints at night, When the last shower is stealing down, And ere they sink to rest, The sun-beams weave a parting crown For some sweet woodland nest. The promise of the morrow Is glorious on that eve, Dear as the holy sorrow When good men cease to live. When brightening ere it die away Mounts up their altar flame, Still tending with intenser ray To Heaven whence first it came.