Like goodly cedars by the waters spread,

While seven red altar-fires

Rose up in wavy spires,

Where on the mount he watch'd his sorceries dark and · dread.

He watch'd till morning's ray

On lake and meadow lay,

And willow-shaded streams, that silent sweep

Around the banner'd lines,

Where by their several signs

The desert-wearied tribes in sight of Canaan sleep.

He watch'd till knowledge came

Upon his soul like flame,

Not of those magic fires at random caught :

But true prophetic light

Flash'd o'er him, high and bright,

Flash'd once, and died away, and left his darken'd thought.

And can he choose but fear,

Who feels his GoD so near,

That when he fain would curse, his powerless tongue

In blessing only moves ?

Alas! the world he loves

Too close around his heart her tangling veil hath flung.

Sceptre and Star divine,

Who in thine inmost shrine

Hast made us worshippers, O claim thine own;

More than thy seers we know—

O teach our love to grow

Up to thy heavenly light, and reap what Thou hast

Sown.

THIRD SUNDAY AFTER EASTER.

A woman when she is in travail hath sorrow, because her hour is come: but when she is delivered of the child, she remembereth no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world. St. John xvi. 21.

WELL may I guess and feel

Why Autumn should be sad;
But vernal airs should sorrow heal,

Spring should be gay and glad:

Yet as along this violet bank I rove,

The languid sweetness seems to choke my breath,

I sit me down beside the hazel grove,

And sigh, and half could wish my weariness were death.

Like a bright veering cloud

Grey blossoms twinkle there,
Warbles around a busy crowd

Of larks in purest air.

Shame on the heart that dreams of blessings gone,

Or wakes the spectral forms of woe and crime, When nature sings of joy and hope alone, Reading her cheerful lesson in her own sweet time.

Nor let the proud heart say,

In her self-torturing hour,
The travail pangs must have their way,

The aching brow must lower.

To us long since the glorious Child is born,
Our throes should be forgot, or only seem
Like a sad vision told for joy at morn,

For joy that we have wak'd and found it but a dream.

Mysterious to all thought

A mother's prime of bliss,

L

When to her eager lips is brought
Her infant's thrilling kiss.

O never shall it set, the sacred light

Which dawns that moment on her tender gaze, In the eternal distance blending bright

Her darling's hope and hers, for love and joy and praise.

No need for her to weep

Like Thracian wives of yore,

Save when in rapture still and deep

Her thankful heart runs o'er.

They mourn'd to trust their treasure on the main, Sure of the storm, unknowing of their guide:

Welcome to her the peril and the pain,

For well she knows the home where they may safely hide.

She joys that one is born

Into a world forgiven,

Her Father's household to adorn,

And dwell with her in heaven.

So have I seen, in spring's bewitching hour,

When the glad earth is offering all her best, Some gentle maid bend o'er a cherish'd flower, And wish it worthier on a Parent's heart to rest.

FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER EASTER.

Nevertheless, I tell you the truth: it is expedient for you that I go away : for if I go not away, the Comforter will not come unto you: but if I depart, I will send him unto you. St. John xvi. 7.

MY Saviour, can it ever be
That I should gain by losing Thee?
The watchful mother tarries nigh
Though sleep have clos'd her infant's eye,
For should he wake, and find her gone,
She knows she could not bear his moan.
But I am weaker than a child,

And Thou art more than mother dear;
Without Thee Heaven were but a wild :
How can I live without Thee here?

""Tis good for you, that I should go,
"You lingering yet awhile below ;"-