Not till the freez­ing blast is still,
Till free­ly leaps the spark­ling rill,
And gales sweep soft from sum­mer skies,
As o’er a sleep­ing in­fant’s eyes
A mo­ther’s kiss; ere calls like these,
No sun­ny gleam awakes the trees,
Nor dare the ten­der flow­er­ets show
Their bo­soms to th’ un­cer­tain glow.

Why then, in sad and win­try time,
Her heav’ns all dark with doubt and crime,
Why lifts the Church her droop­ing head,
As though her ev­il hour were fled?
Is she less wise than leaves of spring,
Or birds that cow­er with fold­ed wing?
What sees she in this low­er­ing sky
To tempt her me­di­ta­tive eye?

She has a charm, a word of fire,
A pledge of love that can­not tire;
By tem­pests, earth­quakes, and by wars,
By rush­ing waves and fall­ing stars,
By ev­ery sign her Lord fore­told,
She sees the world is wax­ing old,
And through that last and dir­est storm
Descries by faith her Sav­ior’s form.

Not sur­er does each ten­der gem,
Set in the fig tree’s pol­ished stem,
Foreshow the sum­mer sea­son bland,
Than these dread signs Thy migh­ty hand:
But, oh! frail hearts, and spir­its dark!
The sea­son’s flight un­warned we mark,
But miss the Judge be­hind the door,
For all the light of sac­red lore:

Yet is He there; be­neath our eaves
Each sound His wake­ful ear re­ceives:
Hush, idle words, and thoughts of ill,
Your Lord is list­en­ing: peace, be still.
Christ watch­es by a Chris­tian’s hearth,
Be si­lent, vain de­lud­ing mirth,
Till in thine al­tered voice be known
Somewhat of re­sig­na­tion’s tone.

But chief­ly ye should lift your gaze
Above the world’s un­cer­tain haze,
And look with calm un­wa­ver­ing eye
On the bright fields be­yond the sky,
Ye, who your Lord’s com­miss­ion bear,
His way of mer­cy to pre­pare:
Angels He calls ye: be your strife
To lead on earth an an­gel’s life.

Think not of rest; though dreams be sweet,
Start up, and ply your heav’n­ward feet.
Is not God’s oath up­on your head,
Ne’er to sink back on sloth­ful bed,
Never again your loins un­tie,
Nor let your torch­es waste and die,
Till, when the sha­dows thick­est fall,
Ye hear your Mas­ter’s mid­night call?