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But where are the sisters who hasten'd to greet
The lowly Redeemer, and sit at His feet?

I tread where the TWELVE in their way-faring trod;
I stand where they stood with the CHOSEN of God—
Where His blessing was heard and His lessons were taught,
Where the blind were restored and the healing was wrought.

Oh, here with His flock the sad Wanderer came-
These hills He toil'd over in grief, are the same-
The founts where He drank by the wayside still flow,
And the same airs are blowing which breathed on His brow!

And throned on her hills sits Jerusalem yet,

But with dust on her forehead, and chains on her feet;
For the crown of her pride to the mocker hath gone,
And the holy Shechinah is dark where it shone.

But wherefore this dream of the earthly abode
Of Humanity clothed in the brightness of God?
Were my spirit but turn'd from the outward and dim,
It could gaze, even now, on the presence of Him!

Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when,
In love and in meekness, He moved among men;
And the voice which breathed peace to the waves of the sea,
In the hush of my spirit would whisper to me!

And what if my feet may not tread where He stood,
Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood,
Nor my eyes see the cross which He bow'd him to bear,
Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer.

Yet loved of the Father, Thy Spirit is near
To the meek, and the lowly, and penitent here;
And the voice of Thy love is the same even now,
As at Bethany's tomb, or on Olivet's brow.

Oh, the outward hath gone!-but in glory and power,
The SPIRIT surviveth the things of an hour;
Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame
On the heart's secret altar is burning the same !


From KEBLE's Christian Year.

YE whose hearts are beating high
With the pulse of Poesy,

Heirs of more than royal race,
Framed by heaven's peculiar grace,
God's own work to do on earth
(If the word be not too bold),
Giving virtue a new birth,

And a life that ne'er grows old

Sovereign masters of all hearts!
Know ye, who hath set your parts?
He who gave you breath to sing,
By whose thoughts ye sweep the string,
He hath chosen you to lead

His hosannas here below;

Mount, and claim your glorious meed;
Linger not with sin and woe.

But if ye should hold your peace,
Deem not that the song would cease-
Angels round His glory-throne,
Stars, His guiding hand that own,
Flowers that grow beneath our feet,

Stones in earth's dark tomb that rest,

High and low in choir shall meet
Ere His name shall be unblest.

Lord, by every minstrel tongue,
Be thy praise so duly sung,
That thine angels' harp may ne'er
Fail to find fit echo here.
We the while of meaner birth,
Who in that divinest spell
Dare not hope to join on earth,
Give us grace to listen well.

But should thankless silence seal
Lips that might half heaven reveal,
Should bards in idle hymns profane
The sacred soul-enthralling strain

(As in this bad world below

Noblest things find vilest using),
These, thy power and mercy show,
In vile things noble breath infusing.
Then waken into sound divine
The very pavement of Thy shrine,
Till we, like heaven's star-sprinkled floor,
Faintly give back what we adore;
Childlike though the voices be,
And untuneable the parts,
Thou wilt own the minstrelsy
If it flows from childlike hearts.


By JAMES HOGG, the Ettrick Shepherd.
DWELLER in heaven, and ruler below!
Fain would I know thee, yet tremble to know!
How can a mortal deem how it may be,

That being cannot be but present with thee?
Is it true that thou saw'st me ere I saw the morn?
Is it true that thou knewest me before I was born?
That nature must live in the light of thine eye?
Such knowledge for me is too great and too high!

That, fly I to noon-day, or fly I to night,
To shroud me in darkness, or bathe me in light,
The light and the darkness to thee are the same,
And still in thy presence of wonder I am!
Should I with the dove to the desert repair,
Or dwell with the eagle in clough of the air;
In the desert afar, on the mountain's wild brink,
From the eye of Omnipotence still I must shrink.
Yes! present for ever! Almighty,-alone,
Great Spirit of Nature, unbounded, unknown!
What mind can embody thy presence divine?
I know not my own being; how can I thine?
Then humbly and low in the dust let me bend,
And adore what on earth I can ne'er comprehend;
The mountains may melt, and the elements flee,
Yet an universe still be rejoicing in thee!


By MOIR (the "Delta," of Blackwood's Magazine), written on the death of his child, who was known in the family by this name of endearment.

AND hast thou sought thy heavenly home,
Our fond, dear boy,

The realms where sorrow dare not come,
Where life is joy?

Pure at thy death as at thy birth,
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth;
Even by its bliss we mete our dearth,
Casa Wappy.

Despair was in our last farewell,
As closed thine eye :

Tears of our anguish may not tell
When thou didst die:

Words may not paint our grief for thee,
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea

Of our unfathom'd agony,

Časa Wappy.

Thou wert a vision of delight,
To bliss us given:

Beauty embodied to our sight,
A type of heaven:

So dear to us, thou wert, thou art
E'en less thine ownself than a part
Of mine and of thy mother's heart,
Casa Wappy!

Thy bright brief day knew no decline,
'Twas cloudless joy:

Sunrise and night alone were thine,
Beloved boy:

This morn beheld thee blithe and gay,
That found thee prostrate in decay,
And ere a third shone, clay was clay,

Casa Wappy!

Gem of our hearth, our household pride,
Earth's undefiled:

Could love have saved, thou hadst not died,
Our dear, sweet child:

Humbly we bow to Fate's decree:
Yet had we hoped that Time should see
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee,

Casa Wappy!
Do what I may, go where I will,

Thou meet'st my sight:
There dost thou glide before me still

A form of light!
I feel thy breath upon my,

I see thee smile--I hear thee speak-
Till oh! my heart is like to break,

Casa Wappy! Methinks thou smilest before me now,

With glance of stealth :
The hair thrown back from thy full brow,

In buoyant health :
I see thine eyes' deep violet light,
Thy dimpled cheek carnation'd bright,
Thy clasping arms so round and white,

Casa Wappy!
The nursery shows thy pictured wall,

Thy bat, thy bow,
Thy cloak and bonnet, club and ball:

But where art thou ?
A corner holds thy empty chair,
The playthings idly scatter'd there,
But speak to us of our despair,

Casa Wappy!
Even to the last thy every word,

To glad, to grieveWas sweet

as sweetest song of bird

On summer's eve:
In outward beauty undecay’d,
Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade,
And like the rainbow thou did'st fade,

Casa Wappy!
We mourn for thee when blind blank night

The chamber fills :
We pine for thee when morn's first light

Reddens the hills :

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