Lo, as we wonder and worship, the night of the doubts that conceal Him,
Rolls from the face of the dawn till His rays through the cloud-fissures slope;
Vapours that hid are condensed to the dews of His grace that reveal Him,
And shine with His light on the hills as we mount in the splendour of hope.
AT LAUDS.
’Tis sweet to wake before the dawn,
When all the cocks are crowing,
And from my window on the lawn,
To watch the veil of night withdrawn,
And feel the fresh wind blowing.
The murmur of the falls I hear,
Its night-long vigil keeping;
And softly now, as if in fear
To rouse their neighbours slumbering near,
The trees wake from their sleeping.
Dear Lord, such wondrous thoughts of Thee
My raptured soul are filling,
That, like a bird upon the tree,
With sweet yet wordless minstrelsy
My inmost heart is thrilling.
IN THE CHURCHYARD.
As now my feet are straying
Where all the dead are lying,
O trees, what are ye saying
That sets my soul a-sighing?
Your sound is as the weeping
Of one that dreads the morrow,
Or sob of sad heart sleeping
For fulness of its sorrow.