Reginald Heber

With drooping bells of clearest blue Thou didst attract my childish view, Almost resembling The azure butterflies that flew Where on the heath thy blossoms grew So lightly trembling.

Before, beside us, and above The firefly lights his lamp of love.

Then on! then on! where duty leads, My course be onward still.

When Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil.

I see them on their winding way, About their ranks the moonbeams play.

Thou art gone to the grave; but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb.

Beneath our feet and o'er our head Is equal warning given: Beneath us lie the countless dead, Above us is the heaven! Death rides on every passing breeze, And lurks in every flower; Each season has its own disease,

Holy, Holy, Holy! Lord God Almighty! Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee: Holy, Holy, Holy! Merciful and Mighty! God in Three Persons, Blessed Trinity.

The heathen in his blindness Bows down to wood and stone.

What though the spicy breezes Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle; Though every prospect pleases, And only man is vile.

The Son of God goes forth to war, A kingly crown to gain; His blood red banner streams afar: Who follows in His train? Who best can drink his cup of woe, Triumphant over pain,

By cool Siloam's shady rill How sweet the lily grows!

Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid. Star of the east the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid.

No hammers fell, no ponderous axes rung, Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung. Majestic silence.

Failed the bright promise of your early day?

Remember that every guilty compliance with the humors of the world, every sinful indulgence of our own passions, is laying up cares and fears for the hour of darkness; and that the remembrance of ill-spent time will strew our sick-bed with …

Eternity has no gray hairs! The flowers fade, the heart withers, man grows old and dies, the world lies down in the sepulchre of ages, but time writes no wrinkles on the brow of Eternity.

We deny our Lord whenever, like Demas, we through love of this present world forsake the course of duty which Christ has plainly pointed out to us.