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 ;"—

"Tis thine our gracious promise, Lord !
Thy saints have prov'd the faithful word,
When Heaven's bright boundless avenue
Far open'd on their eager view,

And homeward to thy Father's throne,
Still lessening, brightening on their sight,
Thy shadowy car went soaring on;

They track'd Thee up th' abyss of light.

Thou bidst rejoice; they dare not mourn,
But to their home in gladness turn,
Their home and God's, that favour'd place,
Where still he shines on Abraham's race,
In prayers and blessings there to wait
Like suppliants at their monarch's gate,
Who bent with bounty rare to aid

The splendours of his crowning day,
Keeps back awhile his largess, made
More welcome for that brief delay:

In doubt they wait, but not unblest;
They doubt not of their Master's rest,
Nor of the gracious will of Heaven—
Who gave his Son, sure all has given—

But in ecstatic awe they muse

What course the genial stream may choose,

And far and wide their fancies rove,

And to their height of wonder strain, What secret miracle of love

Should make their Saviour's going gain.

The days of hope and prayer are past,
The day of comfort dawns at last,
The everlasting gates again

Roll back, and lo! a royal train-
From the far depth of light once more
The floods of glory earth-ward pour:
They part like shower-drops in mid air,
But ne'er so soft fell noon-tide shower,
Nor evening rain-bow gleam'd so fair
To weary swains in parched bower.

Swiftly and straight each tongue of flame Through cloud and breeze unwavering came, And darted to its place of rest

On some meek brow of Jesus blest.

Nor fades it yet, that living gleam,

And still those lambent lightnings stream;