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' unearthly thoughts 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 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 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, 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. not. TUESDAY BEFORE EASTER. They gave him to drink wine mingled with myrrh: but he received it 66 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 "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 slumbrous potion bland, and wilt not drink : Putting his solace by : But as at first thine all-pervading look Saw from thy Father's bosom to th' abyss, The infinite descent; So to the end, though now of mortal pangs Made heir, and emptied of thy glory' awhile, Thou meetest all the storm. Thou wilt feel all, that Thou may'st pity all; So clear in agony, Or lose one glimpse of Heaven before the time. O most entire and perfect sacrifice, Renew'd in every pulse That on the tedious Cross Told the long hours of death, as, one by one, Look Sorrow in the face, And bid her freely welcome, unbeguil'd -: By false kind solaces, and spells of earth :- For when was Joy so dear, As the deep calm that breath'd, "Father, forgive," Or, "Be with me in Paradise to-day?” And, though the strife be sore, Yet in His parting breath Love masters agony; the soul that seem'd Contented dies away. WEDNESDAY BEFORE EASTER. Saying, Father, if thou be willing, remove this cup from me: nevertheless, not my will, but thine be done. St. Luke xxii. 42. O LORD my God, do Thou thy holy will— I will not stir, lest I forsake thine arm, And break the charm, Which lulls me, clinging to my Father's breast, |