Page:The Christian Year 1887.djvu/181

Who is at hand that loves the Lord?
   Make haste, and take her home, and bring
Thine household choir, in true accord
   Their soothing hymns for her to sing.

Soft on her fluttering heart shall breathe
   The fragrance of that genial isle,
There she may weave her funeral wreath,
   And to her own sad music smile.

The Spirit of the dying Son
   Is there, and fills the holy place
With records sweet of duties done,
   Of pardoned foes, and cherished grace.

And as of old by two and two
   His herald saints the Saviour sent
To soften hearts like morning dew,
   Where he to shine in mercy meant;

So evermore He deems His name
   Best honoured and his way prepared,
When watching by his altar-flame
   He sees His servants duly paired.

He loves when age and youth are met,
   Fervent old age and youth serene,
Their high and low in concord set
   For sacred song, Joy's golden mean.

He loves when some clear soaring mind
   Is drawn by mutual piety
To simple souls and unrefined,
   Who in life's shadiest covert lie.

Or if perchance a saddened heart
   That once was gay and felt the spring,
Cons slowly o'er its altered part,
   In sorrow and remorse to sing,

Thy gracious care will send that way
   Some spirit full of glee, yet taught
To bear the sight of dull decay,
   And nurse it with all-pitying thought;

Cheerful as soaring lark, and mild
   As evening blackbird's full-toned lay,
When the relenting sun has smiled
   Bright through a whole December day.