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HIS world I deem

But a beautiful dream
Of shadows that are not what they

seem ;
Where visions rise,

Giving dim surmise Of the things which shall meet our waking eyes.

Arm of the Lord,

Creating Word,
Whose glory the filent skies record, -

Where stands Thy name

In scrolls of flame,
On the Firmament's high shadowing frame,-

I gaze o'erhead,

Where Thy hand hath spread
For the waters of Heaven their crystal bed ;

And stored the dew

In its deep of blue, Which the fires of the sun come tempered through.

Soft they shine

Through that pure shrine,
As beneath the veil of Thy flesh divine

Beams forth the light,

Which were else too bright For the feebleness of a sinner's sight.


And such I deem

This world shall seem, When we waken from Life's mysterious dream;

And burst the shell

Where our spirits dwell, In their wondrous ante-natal cell.

I gaze aloof

On the tissued roof, Where time and space are the warp and woof;

Which the King of kings

As a curtain Alings
O'er the dreadfulness of eternal things.

A tapestried tent,

To shade us meant,
From the bare everlasting Firmament;

Whence the blaze of the skies

Comes soft to our eyes, Through a veil of mystical imageries.

But could I fee,

As in truth they be,
The glories of Heaven that encompass me,

I should lightly hold

The tissued fold Of that narvellous curtain of blue and gold.

Soon the whole,

Like a parched fcroll,
Shall before my amazed fight uproll ;

And without a screen,

At one burst be seen,
The Presence wherein I have ever been.

Ah! who shall bear

The blinding glare
Of the Majesty that shall meet us there?

What eyes may gaze

On the unveiled blaze
Of the light-girdled Throne of the Ancient of

Days ?
Chrift us aid!

Himself be our shade,
That in that dread day we be not dismayed !

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JHO hath this book, and reads it not,

Doth God Himself despise ; Who reads, but understandeth not,

His soul in darkness lies.

Who understands, but favours not,

He finds no rest in trouble ; Who favours, but obeys it not,

He hath his judgment double.

But he who reads, doth understand,

Doth savour and obey ;
His foul shall stand at God's right hand

In the great judgment day.

Holy Scripture. –The Temple.



ITHIN this awful volume lies

The mystery of mysteries ;
Happiest they of human race
To whom their God has given grace

To read, to fear, to hope, to pray,
To lift the latch, to force the way ;
And better had they ne'er been born,
Than read to doubt, or read to scorn.




HEN tower'd the palace, then, in awful

ftate, The Temple rear'd its everlasting gate : No workman's steel, no ponderous axes

rung! Like some tall palm the noiseless fabric sprung. Majestic filence!


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