John Keble.

ADVENT SUNDAY.

AWAKE!-again the Gospel-trump is blown—

From year to year it swells with louder tone;
From year to year the signs of wrath
Are gathering round the Judge's path:

Strange words fulfilled, and mighty works achieved,
And truth in all the world both hated and believed.

Awake! why linger in the gorgeous town,
Sworn liegemen of the Cross and thorny crown?
Up from your beds of sloth, for shame!
Speed to the eastern mount like flame,
Nor wonder, should ye find your King in tears,
E'en with the loud Hosanna ringing in his ears.

Alas! no need to rouse them: long ago
They are gone forth to swell Messiah's show;
With glittering robes and garlands sweet
They strew the ground beneath his feet:
All but your hearts are there-O doomed to prove

The arrows winged in heaven for faith that will not love!

Meanwhile He paces through the adoring crowd,

Calm as the march of some majestic cloud,

That o'er wild scenes of ocean-war

Holds its course in heaven afar:

Even so, heart-searching Lord, as years roll on,

Thou keepest silent watch from thy triumphal throne;

Even so, the world is thronging round to gaze
On the dread vision of the latter days,

Constrained to own Thec, but in heart
Prepared to take Barabbas' part:
"Hosanna" now, to-morrow "Crucify,"
The changeful burden still of their rude lawless cry.

Yet, in that throng of selfish hearts untrue,
Thy sad eye rests upon thy faithful few;

Children and childlike souls are there,
Blind Bartimeus' humble prayer,

And Lazarus wakened from his four days' sleep,
Enduring life again, that Passover to keep.

And fast beside the olive-bordered way

Stands the blest home where Jesus deigned to stay,
The peaceful home, to Zeal sincere
The heavenly Contemplation dear,

Where Martha loved to wait with reverence meet,
And wiser Mary lingered at thy sacred feet.

Still, through decaying ages as they glide,
Thou lovest thy chosen remnant to divide;
Sprinkled along the waste of
years,
Full many a soft green isle appears:
Pause where we may upon the desert road,
Some shelter is in sight, some sacred, safe abode.

When withering blasts of error swept the sky,

And Love's last flower seemed fain to droop and die,
How sweet, how lone, the ray benign,
On sheltered nooks of Palestine !

Then to his early home did Love repair,

And cheered his sickening heart with his own native air.

Years roll away again the tide of crime

Has swept thy footsteps from the favoured clime.

Where shall the holy Cross find rest?

On a crowned monarch's' mailed breast:

Like some bright angel o'er the darkling scene,

Through court and camp he holds his heavenward course

serene.

A fouler vision yet; an age of light,

Light without love, glares on the aching sight:
Oh, who can tell how calm and sweet,
Meek Walton! shows thy green retreat,
When, wearied with the tale thy times disclose,
The eye first finds thee out in thy secure repose?

THE FLOWERS OF THE FIELD.

SWEE

WEET nurslings of the vernal skies,
Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew,
What more than magic in you lies,

To fill the heart's fond view!
In childhood's sports, companions gay;
In sorrow, on life's downward way,
How soothing! in our last decay

Memorials prompt and true.

Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,

As when ye crowned the sunshine hours

Of happy wanderers there.

1 St. Louis, in the thirteenth century.

Fall'n all beside-the world of life,
How is it stained with fear and strife!
In Reason's world what storms are rife,

What passions range and glare!

But cheerful and unchanged the while
Your first and perfect form ye show,
The first that won Eve's matron smile

In the world's opening glow.

The stars of heaven a course are taught
Too high above our human thought;—
Ye may be found if ye are sought,
And as we gaze, we know.

Ye dwell beside our paths and homes—
Our paths of sin, our homes of sorrow;
And guilty man, where'er he roams,

Your innocent mirth may borrow.
The birds of air before us fleet,
They cannot brook our shame to meet―
But we may taste your solace sweet,
And come again to-morrow.

Ye fearless in your nests abide—
Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise,
Your silent lessons, undescried

By all but lowly eyes:

For ye could draw the admiring gaze
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys;

Your order wild, your fragrant maze,
He taught us how to prize.

Ye felt your Maker's smile that hour,
As when He paused and owned you good;

His blessing on earth's primal bower,
Ye felt it all renewed.

What care ye now, if winter's storm
Sweep ruthless o'er each silken form?
Christ's blessing at your heart is warm-
Ye fear no vexing mood.

Alas! of thousand bosoms kind,

That daily court you and caress, How few the happy secret find

---

Of your calm loveliness!
"Live for to-day! to-morrow's light
To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight;
Go sleep like closing flowers at night,
And Heaven thy morn will bless."

Richard Monckton Milnes.

He bids you wonder, weep, rejoice,
Saying," It is yourselves, not I;

THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE.

WHO

HO is this man whose words have might To lead you from your rest or care, Who speaks as if the earth were right To stop its course and listen there? Where is the symbol of command

By which he claims this lofty tone? His hand is as another's hand

His speech no stronger than your own.