There are who sigh that no fond heart is theirs, None loves them best-O vain and selfish sigh! Out of the bosom of His love He spares

The Father spares the Son, for thee to die : For thee He died-for thee He lives again : O'er thee He watches in His boundless reign.

Thou art as much His care, as if beside

Nor man nor angel liv'd in heaven or earth : Thus sunbeams pour alike their glorious tide

To light up worlds, or wake an insect's mirth : They shine and shine with unexhausted storeThou art thy Saviour's darling-seek no more.

On thee and thine, thy warfare and thine end,
Even in His hour of agony He thought,
When, ere the final pang His soul should rend,

The ransom'd spirits one by one were brought To his mind's eye-two silent nights and days d In calmness for His far-seen hour He stays.

In Passion week, from Tuesday evening to Thursday evening: during which time Scripture seems to be nearly silent concerning our Saviour's proceedings.

Ye vaulted cells where martyr'd seers of old
Far in the rocky walls of Sion sleep,
Green terraces and arched fountains cold,

Where lies the cypress shade so still and deep, Dear sacred haunts of glory and of woe,

Help us, one hour, to trace His musings high and low:

One heart-ennobling hour! It may not be :
Th'unearthlythoughts have pass'd from earth away,
And fast as evening sunbeams from the sea
Thy footsteps all in Sion's deep decay

Were blotted from the holy ground: yet dear
Is every stone of hers; for Thou wast surely here.

There is a spot within this sacred dale

That felt Thee kneeling-touch'd thy prostrate brow:

One angel knows it. O might prayer avail
To win that knowledge! sure each holy vow
Less quickly from th' unstable soul would fade,
Offer'd where CHRIST in agony was laid.

Might tear of ours once mingle with the blood
That from His aching brow by moonlight fell,

Over the mournful joy our thoughts would brood,
Till they had fram'd within a guardian spell
To chase repining fancies, as they rise,
Like birds of evil wing, to mar our sacrifice.

So dreams the heart self-flattering, fondly dreams;Else wherefore, when the bitter waves o'erflow, Miss we the light, Gethsemane, that streams

From thy dear name, where in His page of woe It shines, a pale kind star in winter's sky? Who vainly reads it there, in vain had seen Him die.

TUESDAY BEFORE EASTER.

They gave him to drink wine mingled with myrrh: but he received it not. St. Mark xv. 23.

"FILL high the bowl, and spice it well, and pour "The dews oblivious: for the Cross is sharp, "The Cross is sharp, and He

"Is tenderer than a lamb.

"He wept by Lazarus' grave-how will He bear "This bed of anguish? and His pale weak form "Is worn with many a watch

"Of sorrow and unrest.

"His sweat last night was as great drops of blood, "And the sad burthen press'd Him so to earth, "The very torturers paus'd

"To help Him on His way,

"Fill high the bowl, benumb His aching sense "With medicin'd sleep.”—O awful in thy woe! The parching thirst of death

Is on Thee, and thou triest

The slumb'rous potion bland, and wilt not drink:
Not sullen, nor in scorn, like haughty man
With suicidal hand

Putting his solace by:

But as at first thine all-pervading look
Saw from thy Father's bosom to th' abyss,
Measuring in calm presage

The infinite descent;

So to the end, though now of mortal pangs
Made heir, and emptied of thy glory' awhile,
With unaverted eye

Thou meetest all the storm.

Thou wilt feel all, that Thou may'st pity all;

And rather would'st Thou wrestle with strong pain, Than overcloud thy soul,

So clear in agony,