The martyr first, whose eagle eye Like Him, with pardon on his tongue He pray'd for them that did the wrong! A glorious band, the chosen few Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew, They met the tyrant's brandish'd steel, The lion's gory mane; They bow'd their necks the death to feel! Who follows in their train? A noble army-men and boys, They climb'd the steep ascent of Heaven, Oh God! to us may grace be given To follow in their train! ST. JOHN THE EVANGELIST'S DAY. OH God! who gav'st Thy servant grace, Amid the storms of life distrest, To look on Thine incarnate face, To see the light that dimly shone, Be ours, O King of Mercy! still And in Thy word, and in Thy will, To hear Thy voice and know Thy love: And when the toils of life are done, INNOCENTS' DAY. OH weep not o'er thy children's tomb! The bud is cropt by martyrdom, The flower in heaven shall blow ! E Firstlings of faith! the murderer's knife The God for whom they gave their life, Though feeble were their days and few, He knows them, whom they never knew, Then weep not o'er thy children's tomb ; The bud is cropt by martyrdom, EPIPHANY. 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! Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining, Low lies His head with the beasts of the stall; Angels adore Him in slumber reclining, Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all! Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, Vainly we offer each ample oblation : Vainly with gifts would His favour secure : Richer by far is the heart's adoration ; Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. 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! FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. NO. I. ABASH'D be all the boast of age! Be hoary learning dumb! Oh Wisdom, whose unfading power To frame, in nature's earliest hour, The land, the sky, the flood: Yet didst not Thou disdain awhile An infant form to wear; To bless Thy mother with a smile, But in Thy Father's own abode, So may our youth adore Thy name! FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY. NO. II. By cool Siloam's shady rill How sweet the lily grows! How sweet the breath beneath the hill Of Sharon's dewy rose! Lo! such the child whose early feet Is upward drawn to God! By cool Siloam's shady rill The lily must decay; The rose that blooms beneath the hill Must shortly fade away. |