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220 EMMA C. EMBURY.

Ye, to whom a prophet voice is given,
Stirring men, as by a trumpet's call,
Utter forth the oracles of Heaven—
Earth gives back the echoes as they fall:
Rouse the world's great heart, while yet the day
Breaks life's slumber with its blessed ray,
For the Night cometh!

Ye, who in home's narrow circle dwell,
Where Love's flame lights up the household hearth,
Weave the silken bond, and the frame the spell,
Binding heart to heart throughout the earth;
Pleasant toil is yours; the light of day
On nought holier sheds its blessed ray,
Yet the Night cometh!

Diverse through our paths in life may be,
Each is sent some mission to fulfil,
Fellow-workers in the world are we,
While we seek to do our Master's will;
But our doom is labour, while the day
Points us to our task, with blessed ray,
For the Night cometh!

Fellow-workers are we: hour by hour,
Human tools are shaping Heaven's great schemes,
Till we see no limit to man's power,
And reality outstrips old dreams.
Toil and struggle, therefore, work and weep,
In God's acre ye shall calmly sleep,
When the Night cometh!


EMMA C. EMBURY.        221

CHRIST IN THE TEMPEST.

ST. MATTHEW, viii. 24-27.

MIDNIGHT was on the mighty deep,
And darkness filled the boundless sky,
While 'mid the raging wind was heard
The sea-bird's mournful cry;
For tempest clouds were mustering wrath
Across the seaman's trackless path.

It came at length — one fearful gust
Rent from the mast the shivering sail,
And drove the helpless bark along,
The plaything of the gale,
While fearfully the lightning's glare
Fell on the pale brows gathered there.

But there was one o'er whose bright face
Unmarked the livid lightnings flashed;
And on whose stirless, prostrate form
Unfelt the sea-spray dashed;
For 'mid the tempest fierce and wild,
He slumbered like a wearied child.

Oh! who could look upon that face,
And feel the sting of coward fear?
Though hell's fierce demons raged around,
Yet heaven itself was here;
For who that glorious brow could see,
Nor own a present Deity?

With hurried fear they press around
The lowly Saviour's humble bed,
As if his very touch had power
To shield their souls from dread;

19*

Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-28 23:29:55 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 09:40:13 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 08:44:07 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 11:40:39 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2023-06-29 22:09:14