And in silent chambers of the dead,

Where the mourner goes with soundless tread; For as the day-beams freely fall,

Pure thoughts of heaven are sent to all.

Mary Howitt.

Now to the sunset

Again hast Thou brought us,
And, seeing the evening
Twilight, we bless Thee,
Praise Thee, adore Thee!

Father Omnipotent!
Son, the Life-giver!

Spirit, the Comforter!
Worthy at all times

Of worship and wonder!

TWENTY-FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER

TRINITY.

THE HURRICANE.

ORD of the Winds! I feel Thee nigh, I know Thy breath in the burning sky; And I wait, with a thrill in every vein, For the coming of the hurricane!

And lo! on the wing of the heavy gales, Through the boundless arch of heaven he sails; Silent, and slow, and terribly strong,

The mighty shadow is borne along,
Like the dark eternity to come;

While the world below, dismay'd and dumb,
Through the calm of the thick hot atmosphere
Looks up at its gloomy folds with fear.

They darken fast-and the golden blaze
Of the sun is quenched in the lurid haze,
And he sends through the shade a funeral ray-
A glare that is neither night nor day,
A beam that touches, with hues of death,
The clouds above and the earth beneath.
To its covert glides the silent bird,

While the hurricane's distant voice is heard,
Uplifted among the mountains round,
And the forests hear and answer the sound.
He is come! he is come! do ye not behold
His ample robes on the wind unroll'd?
Giant of air! we bid thee hail!

How his grey skirts toss in the whirling gale;

How his huge and writhing arms are bent,
To clasp the zone of the firmament,

And fold, at length, in their dark embrace,
From mountain to mountain the visible space.
Darker-still darker! the whirlwinds bear
The dust of the plains to the middle air;
And hark to the crashing, long and loud,
Of the chariot of God in the thunder-cloud!
You may trace its path by the flashes that start
From the rapid wheels where'er they dart,
As the fire-bolts leap to the world below,
And flood the skies with a lurid glow.

What roar is that?-'Tis the rain that breaks
In torrents away from the airy lakes,
Heavily pour'd on the shuddering ground,
And shedding a nameless horror round.

Ah! well-known woods, and mountains, and skies,
With the very clouds ye are lost to my eyes.
I seek ye vainly, and see in your place

The shadowy tempest that sweeps through space,
A whirling ocean that fills the wall

Of the crystal heaven, and buries all;
And I, cut off from the world, remain
Alone with the terrible hurricane.

THE

Bryant.

HE day at last has broken. What a night Hath ushered it! How beautiful in heaven! Though varied with a transitory storm, More beautiful in that variety!

How hideous upon earth! where peace and hope, And love and revel, in an hour were trampled,

Р

By human passions, to a human chaos
Not yet resolved to separate elements.
'Tis warring still! And can the sun so rise,
So bright, so rolling back the clouds into
Vapours more lovely than the unclouded sky
With golden pinnacles, and snowy mountains,
And billows purpler than the ocean's, making
In heaven a glorious mockery of the earth,
So like, we almost deem it permanent;
So fleeting, we can scarcely call it aught
Beyond a vision, 'tis so transiently

Scatter'd along the eternal vault? And yet
It dwells upon the soul, and soothes the soul,
And blends itself into the soul, until

Sunrise and sunset form the haunted epoch

Of sorrow and of love; which they who mark not
Know not the realms where those twin genii
(Who chasten and who purify our hearts
So that we would not change their sweet rebukes
For all the boisterous joys that ever shook
The air with clamour), build the palaces
Where their fond votaries repose and breathe
Briefly; but, in that brief cool calm, inhale
Enough of heaven to enable them to bear
The rest of common, heavy, human hours,
And dream them through in placid sufferance;
Though seemingly employ'd, like all the rest
Of toiling breathers, in allotted tasks

Of pain or pleasure, two names for one feeling,
Which our internal, restless agony

Would vary in the sound, although the sense
Escapes our highest efforts to be happy.

Lord Byron.

TWENTY-FIFTH SUNDAY AFTER

TRINITY.

F solitude hath ever led thy steps
To the wild ocean's echoing shore,
And thou hast linger'd there

Until the sun's broad orb

Seem'd resting on the burnish'd wave,

Thou must have mark'd the lines

Of purple gold that, motionless,
Hang o'er the sinking sphere:

Thou must have mark'd the billowy clouds
Edged with intolerable radiancy

Towering, like rocks of jet,

Crown'd with a diamond wreath.

And yet there is a moment

When the sun's highest point

Peeps, like a star, o'er ocean's western edge,

When those far clouds of feathery gold,
Shaded with deepest purple, gleam

Like islands on a dark blue sea.

Then has thy fancy soared above the earth, And furl'd its wearied wings

Within heaven's fane.

The golden islands

Gleaming in yon flood of light,

The feathery curtains

Stretching o'er the sun's bright couch,

The burnish'd ocean waves

Paving that gorgeous dome. ***

Heaven is as the Book of God before thee set Wherein to read His wond'rous works.