Around each pure domestic shrine
Bright flowers of Eden bloom and twine,
Our hearths are altars all;
The prayers of hungry souls and poor,
Like armed angels at the door,
Our unseen foes appal.
Alms all around and hymns within -
What evil eye can entrance win
Where guards like these abound?
If chance some heedless heart should roam,
Sure, thought of these will lure it home
Ere lost in Folly's round.
O joys, that sweetest in decay,
Fall not, like withered leaves, away,
But with the silent breath
Of violets drooping one by one,
Soon as their fragrant task is done,
Are wafted high in death!
SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EASTER
He hath said, which heard the words of God, and knew the knowledge
of the Most High, which saw the vision of the Almighty, falling
into a trance, but having his eyes open: I shall see Him, but not
now; I shall behold Him, but not nigh; there shall come a Star out
at Jacob, and a Sceptre shall rise out of Israel, and shall smite
the corners of Moab, and destroy all the children at Sheth.
Numbers xxiv. 16, 17.
O for a sculptor's hand,
That thou might'st take thy stand,
Thy wild hair floating on the eastern breeze,
Thy tranced yet open gaze
Fixed on the desert haze,
As one who deep in heaven some airy pageant sees.
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