Sunday after Ascension Day.
“We beseech thee, leave us not comfortless.”
—Collect for the Day.
Songs in the noon of joyous health
When all around smiles weal, or wealth,
A festive world can often awaken;
But, when our bright-wing'd mercies roam
Far from the bowers of blissful home,—
The famish'd Heart pines all forsaken!
Sorrows, indeed, to us belong;
And more of elegy than song
Befits a race, whose unwept sin
Has grieved the awful God within.
But, hath not Christ a Bride on earth?
And, is there not a spirit-birth?
Or, must no choral anthems rise
By Seraphs wafted through the skies?
Oh, did we more rehearse for heaven,
To whom Redemption's harps are given,—
Prophetic gleams of future joy
Would brighten off each base alloy.
Songless men are, because they bow
Before some earth-god's sceptre now,
And mantle Time with deeper shade
Than providential nights have made.
Nor parentless, nor poor, is he,
Who in God's Father-name can see
The refuge each disciple hath
To shield him, in life's orphan-path.
The Word divine is starr'd with beams
Which radiate our blackest dreams;
Nor can our life confront a grief
On which no promise smiles relief.
But, fruitless prove these hearts of ours,
Like sands beneath the balmy showers:
From heaven and hope beguil'd away,—
They wonder, night subdues their day!
Yet Christ can dawn through woe and care,
Responding to each duteous prayer;
Nor feel we sickness, pang, or sorrow,
When He arrays our bright to-morrow.
