108 CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST. And slumber settled on the deep, And silence on the blast, As when the righteous falls asleep, Thou that didst rule the angry hour, And tame the tempest's mood Oh! send thy spirit forth in power, Thou that didst bow the billow's pride, Speak, speak to passion's raging tide, Speak and say "Peace, be still! ” CHRIST'S AGONY IN THE GARDEN. He knelt the Saviour knelt and pray'd, When but His Father's eye Look'd through the lonely garden's shade, The Lord of all, above, beneath, Was bow'd with sorrow unto death. The sun set in a fearful hour, The skies might well grow dim, When this mortality had power So to o'ershadow Him! That He who gave man's breath might know, He knew them all-the doubt, the strife, The faint, perplexing dread, The mists that hang o'er parting life, 110 CHRIST'S AGONY IN THE GARDEN. It pass'd not-though the stormy wave But there was sent Him from on high And was His mortal hour beset In the dark, narrow way? How, but through Him, that path who trod? * "And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him." St. Luke, xxii. 43. THE SUNBEAM. THOU art no lingerer in monarch's hall, A bearer of hope unto land and sea- Thou art walking the billows, and Ocean smilesThou hast touch'd with glory his thousand islesThou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam, And gladden'd the sailor, like words from home. To the solemn depths of the forest-shades, Thou art streaming on through their green arcades, And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow, Like fire-flies glance to the pools below. I look'd on the mountains-a vapor lay I look'd on the peasant's lowly cot- To the earth's wild places a guest thou art, Thou tak'st through the dim church-aisle thy way, And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day, And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old, Are bath'd in a flood as of burning gold. And thou turnest not from the humblest grave, Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave; Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest, Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast. Sunbeam of summer, oh! what is like thee? The faith, touching all things with hues of Heaven. |