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113 The warrior from his arméd tent,
The seaman from the tide,
Far as the Sabbath chimes are sent
In Christian nations wide ;
Thousands and tens of thousands bring
Their sorrows to His shrine,
And taste the never-failing spring
Of Jesu's love divine.
If, at an earthly chime, the tread
Of million million feet
Approach, whene'er the Gospel's read
In God's own temple seat,
How blest the sight, from death's dark sleep
To see God's saints arise,
And countless hosts of angels keep
The Sabbath of the skies !
The bird that soars on highest wing,
Builds on the ground her lowly nest;
And she that doth so sweetly sing,
Sings in the shade when all things rest.
In lark and nightingale we see
What honour hath humility.
When Mary chose the better part,
She meekly sat at Jesus' feet;
And Lydia's gently opened heart
Was made for God's own temple meet.
Fairest and best adorned is she
Whose clothing is humility.
The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown,
In deepest adoration bends :
The weight of glory bows him down
Then most when most his soul ascends.
Nearest the throne itself must be
The footstool of humility.
Thus star by star declines,
Till all are passed away,
As morning high and higher shines
pure and perfect day;
Nor sink those stars in empty night,
But hide themselves in heaven's own light.
In the hollow tree in the old grey tower,
The spectral Owl doth dwell :
Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine hour,
But at dusk he's abroad and well.
Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him,
All mock him outright by day;
But at night, when the woods grow still and dim,
The boldest will shrink away.
Oh! when the night falls and roosts the fowl,
Then, then is the reign of the Hornéd Owl.
And the Owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold,
And loveth the wood's deep gloom ;
And with eyes like the shine of the moonstone cold
She awaiteth her ghastly groom.
Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings,
As she wails in her tree so still,
But when her heart heareth his flapping wings,
She hoots out her welcome shrill.
Oh! when the moon shines and dogs do howl,
Then, then is the joy of the Hornéd Owl.
Mourn not for the Owl, nor his gloomy plight:
The Owl hath his share of good, -
If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight,
He is lord in the dark greenwood.
Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate-
They are each unto each a pride ;
Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fate
Hath rent them from all beside.
So when the night falls and dogs do howl,
Sing ho ! for the reign of the Hornéd Owl!
We know not alway
Who are kings by day,
But the king of the night is the bold brown Owl!
-W. B. Procter.
WHEN Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil,
When Summer's balmy showers refresh the mowers' toil,
When Winter binds in frosty chains the fallow and the flood,
In God the earth rejoiceth still, and owns its Maker good.
The birds that wake the morning, and those that love the shade,
The winds that sweep the mountain or lull the drowsy glade,
The sun that from his amber bower rejoiceth on his way,
The moon and stars their Master's name in silent pomp display.
Shall man, the lord of nature, expectant of the sky,
Shall man, alone unthankful, his little praise deny?
No ! let the year forsake his course, the seasons cease to be :
Thee, Master, must we always love, and, Saviour, honour Thee!
The flowers of Spring may wither, the hope of Summer fade, The Autumn droop in Winter, the bird forsake the shade ; The winds be lulled, the sun and moon forget their old decree; But we in nature's latest hour, O Lord, will cling to Thee !