'Tis thus, beguiled with fond desire,
And sick with hope deferred,
The watching Church, with eager ear,
The well-known cry has heard ;—

"He whom you look for is at hand,
Both hope and fear are done!"
No, 'tis not yet,-and still she waits
The still unrisen sun.

Age after

age, in love and faith,

She has with longing eye

Been watching every streak of dawn

In yon perplexing sky.

And shall she now give up her trust,

And turn her eye away,

As if there were no sun for her
No hope of light and day?

She will not, for she knows how sure The promise of her Lord;

She will not, for she knows how true

Is the unchanging word.

The morn shall come; nay He himself,

Brighter than morn's best ray,

Shall come to bid the night depart,
And bring at last the day.

Then shall the weary night-watch cease,
When, counting each lone hour,
She marked the shadows flitting by

The lattice of her tower.

'Twas not in vain she kept the watch When all around her slept;

"Twas not in vain she waited thus, And loved, and longed, and wept.

It dawns at last, the long-loved morn,
It comes, the meeting-day,
And in its joys shall be forgot

The sorrows of delay.

THE BLANK.

ONE flower may fill another's place,
With breath as sweet, with hues as glowing;
One ripple in yon ocean-space

Be lost amid another's flowing.

One star in yon bright azure dome

May vanish from its sparkling cluster, Unmissed, unmourned, and in its room Some rival orb eclipse its lustre.

But who shall fill a brother's room?

Or who shall soothe the bosom's grieving?

Who heal the heart around his tomb

Too faithfully, too fondly cleaving?

Can I supply youth's memories ?

Or speak the words in childhood spoken? Can I re-knit the severed ties,

Replace, retune the chord once broken?

It is not here, it is not now,

That hearts are knit no more to sever; Grief's wrinkles razed from cheek and brow, And life's long blanks filled up for ever.

THE LITTLE FLOCK.

A little flock! So calls He thee,
Who bought thee with his blood;
A little flock, disowned of men,
But owned and loved of God.

A little flock! So calls He thee;
Church of the first-born, hear!
Be not ashamed to own the name;
It is no name of fear.

A little flock! Yes, even so;

A handful among men,

Such is the purpose of thy God;
So willeth He; Amen!

Not

many rich or noble called,

Not many great or wise;

They whom God makes his kings and priests, in human eyes.

Are

poor

Church of the everlasting God,

The Father's gracious choice, Amid the voices of this earth How feeble is thy voice!

Thy words amid the words of earth,
How noiseless and how low!

Amid the hurrying crowds of time,
Thy steps how calm and slow!

But 'mid the wrinkled brows of earth,
Thy brow how free from care;

'Mid the flushed cheeks of riot here,

Thy cheek how pale and fair!