Lord while thy holy servant's lot S. G. Bulfinch. SERMON ON THE MOUNT. "And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain." -Matt. v. 1. 'Tis but the daystar's earliest glance, And wherefore do these bands advance They wait Judea's promised king, Whose arm of power shall set them free; Is this their king? His head is crown'd - His throne the cold, unsheltered ground; He moves with mild, commanding air, They long for one revenging hour The Saviour speaks - and all around Even Nature pauses at the sound, Hear they aright? The humble, poor, For them shall God unbar the door, He points them to the red cloud's wings The rocks and hills the wave and shore The field and forest all are bright, And nature's thousand voices pour 'T is like your God! his gentle rain, His liberal sunshine widely falls Alike upon the desert plain, And yonder city's towering walls. The undeserving of his care, And they whose thoughts are all above, The guilty and the grateful share Be like thy God be like the sun Let willing deeds of love be done 'Behold that straight and upward way The last is like the path to pain; The narrow leads to worlds of joy, Thus long he speaks-and long their eyes. A sudden and a waveless calm. Christian Examiner. "Blessed are they that mourn.". II. Matt. v. 4. WHEN thou art in thy chamber, and thy knee Is bow'd in love to the Omnipotent, And when thy soul before his throne is bent, Ask not for prosperous things; but pray, that he Will purify thee with the chastisement Of earthly wo and trouble, which are sent To fit the high soul for eternity. It is not in the summer tide of life That the heart hoards its treasures: it is when The storm is loud, and the rude hurricane Of sorrow is abroad: when solemn strife, -- Such as may move the souls of constant men Is struggling in our bosoms, it is then The heart collects her stores with wisdom rife. For sadness teaches us the truth of things Which had been hid beneath the crown of flowers Which gladness wears; and the few silent hours Of quiet, heavenward thought which sorrow brings, Are better than a life in pleasure's bowers, Drinking the poisonous chalice which she pours, To quench our heavenlier spirit's murmurings. |