Is it, CHRIST’S light is too divine, We dare not hope like Him to shine? But see, around His dazzling shrine Earths gems the fire of Heaven have caught; Martyrs and saints—each glorious day Dawning in order on our way— Remind us, how our darksome clay May keep th’ ethereal warmth our new Creator brought. These we have scorned, O false and frail! And now once more th’ appalling tale, How love divine may woo and fail, Of our lost year in Heaven is told— What if as far our life were past, Our weeks all numbered to the last, With time and hope behind us cast, And all our work to do with palsied hands and cold? O watch and pray ere Advent dawn! For thinner than the subtlest lawn ’Twixt thee and death the veil is drawn. But Love too late can never glow: The scattered fragments Love can glean Refine the dregs, and yield us clean To regions where one thought serene Breathes sweeter than whole years of sacrifice below. St. Andrew’s Day He first findeth his own brother Simon, and saith unto him, We have found the Messias . . . And he brought him to Jesus. _St. John_ i. 41, 42. WHEN brothers part for manhood’s race, What gift may most endearing prove To keep fond memory its her place, And certify a brother’s love? ’Tis true, bright hours together told, And blissful dreams in secret shared, Serene or solemn, gay or bold, Shall last in fancy unimpaired. E’en round the death-bed of the good Such dear remembrances will hover, And haunt us with no vexing mood When all the cares of earth are over. But yet our craving spirits feel, We shall live on, though Fancy die, And seek a surer pledge—a seal Of love to last eternally. Who art thou, that wouldst grave thy name Thus deeply in a brother’s heart? Look on this saint, and learn to frame Thy love-charm with true Christian art. First seek thy Saviour out, and dwell Beneath this shadow of His roof, Till thou have scanned His features well, And known Him for the Christ by proof; Such proof as they are sure to find Who spend with Him their happy days, Clean hands, and a self-ruling mind Ever in tune for love and praise. Then, potent with the spell of Heaven, Go, and thine erring brother gain, Entice him home to be forgiven, Till he, too, see his Saviour plain. Or, if before thee in the race, Urge him with thine advancing tread, Till, like twin stars, with even pace, Each lucid course be duly aped. No fading frail memorial give To soothe his soul when thou art gone, But wreaths of hope for aye to live, And thoughts of good together done.