Say not it dies, that glory, ’Tis caught unquenched on high, Those saintlike brows so hoary Shall wear it in the sky. No smile is like the smile of death, When all good musings past Rise wafted with the parting breath, The sweetest thought the last. Sunday next before Advent. Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost. _St. John_ vi. 12. WILL God indeed with fragments bear, Snatched late from the decaying year? Or can the Saviour’s blood endear The dregs of a polluted life? When down th’ o’erwhelming current tossed Just ere he sink for ever lost, The sailor’s untried arms are crossed In agonizing prayer, will Ocean cease her strife? Sighs that exhaust but not relieve Heart-rending sighs, O spare to heave A bosom freshly taught to grieve For lavished hours and love misspent! Now through her round of holy thought The Church our annual steps has brought, But we no holy fire have caught— Back on the gaudy world our wilful eyes were bent. Too soon th’ ennobling carols, poured To hymn the birth-night of the LORD, Which duteous Memory should have stored For thankful echoing all the year— Too soon those airs have passed away; Nor long within the heart would stay The silence of CHRIST’S dying day, Profaned by worldly mirth, or scared by worldly fear. Some strain of hope and victory On Easter wings might lift us high A little while we sought the sky: And when the SPIRIT’S beacon fires On every hill began to blare, Lightening the world with glad amaze, Who but must kindle while they gaze? But faster than she soars, our earth-bound Fancy tires. Nor yet for these, nor all the rites, By which our Mother’s voice invites Our GOD to bless our home delights, And sweeten every secret tear:— The funeral dirge, the marriage vow, The hollowed font where parents bow, And now elate and trembling now To the Redeemer’s feet their new-found treasures bear:— Not for this Pastor’s gracious arm Stretched out to bless—a Christian charm To dull the shafts of worldly harm:— Nor, sweetest, holiest, best of all For the dear feast of JESUS dying, Upon that altar ever lying, Where souls with sacred hunger sighing Are called to sit and eat, while angels prostrate fall:— No, not for each and all of these, Have our frail spirits found their ease. The gale that stirs the autumnal trees Seems tuned as truly to our hearts As when, twelve weary months ago, ’Twas moaning bleak, so high and low, You would have thought Remorse and Woe Had taught the innocent air their sadly thrilling parts.