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To each unknown his brother's prayer, Yet brethren true in dearest love Were they—and now they share
Fraternal joys above.
There daily through Christ's open gate They see the Gentile spirits press, Brightening their high estate
With dearer happiness.
What civic wreath for comrades sav'd Shone ever with such deathless gleam, Or when did perils brav'd
So sweet to veterans seem ?
TUESDAY IN EASTER WEEK.
And they departed quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy, and did run to bring His disciples word. St. Matthew xxviii. 8.
TO THE SNOW-DROP.
THOU first-born of the year's delight,
Pride of the dewy glade,
Thy vestal robes, array'd;
"Tis not because thy drooping form
Sinks graceful on its nest,
Affright their tender breast;
Nor for yon river islet wild
Beneath the willow spray,
Thou weav'st thy circle gay ;
'Tis not for these I love thee dear
Thy shy averted smiles To Fancy bode a joyous year,
One of Life's fairy isles.
They twinkle to the wintry moon,
And cheer th' ungenial day, And tell us, all will glisten soon
As green and bright as they.
Is there a heart, that loves the spring,
Their witness can refuse ?
From Heaven their Easter news :
When holy maids and matrons speak
Of Christ's forsaken bed, And voices, that forbid to seek
The living mid the dead,
And when they say, “ Turn wandering heart,
Thy Lord is ris'n indeed, “ Let Pleasure go, put Care apart,
“ And to His presence speed ;"
We smile in scorn: and yet we know
They early sought the tomb, Their hearts, that now so freshly glow,
Lost in desponding gloom.
They who have sought, nor hope to find,
Wear not so bright a glance: They, who have won their earthly mind,
Less reverently advance.
But where, in gentle spirits, fear
And joy so duly meet,
And kiss'd the Saviour's feet.
Nor let the Pastor's thankful
eye Their faltering tale disdain, As on their lowly couch they lie,
Prisoners of want and pain.
O guide us, when our faithless hearts
From Thee would start aloof, Where Patience her sweet skill imparts
Beneath some cottage roof:
Revive our dying fires, to burn
High as her anthems soar,
Our own forgotten lore.
FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EASTER.
Seemeth it but a small thing unto you, that the God of Israel hath separated you from the congregation of Israel, to bring you near to Himself ? Numbers xvi. 9.
FIRST Father of the holy seed,
Thou count me for thine own,
Hear, from thy mercy-throne !
Upon thine altar's horn of gold