Hear Thy guilty child implore Thee, Oh, who fhall look on Thee and live? MACAULAY. LXXVII. THE LAST DAY. HIS world I deem But a beautiful dream Of fhadows that are not what they feem; Where vifions rife, Giving dim furmise Of the things which fhall meet our waking eyes. Arm of the Lord, Creating Word, Whofe glory the filent fkies record, Where stands Thy name In fcrolls of flame, On the Firmament's high fhadowing frame, Where Thy hand hath spread For the waters of Heaven their crystal bed; And ftored the dew In its deep of blue, Which the fires of the fun come temper'd through. Soft they shine Through that pure shrine, As beneath the veil of Thy flesh divine Which were else too bright For the feebleness of a finner's fight. And fuch I deem This world fhall feem, 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 tiffued roof, Where time and space are the warp and woof; Which the King of kings As a curtain flings O'er the dreadfulness of eternal things. A tapestried tent, To fhade us meant, From the bare everlasting Firmament; Whence the blaze of the skies Comes foft 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, The tiffued fold Of that marvellous curtain of blue and gold. Soon the whole, Like a parched scroll, At one burst be seen, The Prefence 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 fhade, That in that dread day we be not dismayed! WHYTEHEAD. HO hath this book, and reads it not, W Who reads, but understandeth not, Who understands, but favours not, But he who reads, doth underftand, His foul fhall ftand at God's right hand 222 Holy Scripture.-The Temple. II. HOLY SCRIPTURE. ITHIN this awful volume lies To whom their God has given grace WALTER SCOTT. III. THE TEMPLE ON EARTH. HEN tower'd the palace, then, in awful ftate, The Temple rear'd its everlasting gate: rung! Like fome tall palm the noiseless fabric fprung. Majestic filence! BISHOP HEBER. |