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O Sun, that cast thy bending light

On the Guest-chamber's simple board, And saw'st the ordering of that rite

Which realised the Bleeding Lord !

Thou Moon, that rose full-horned and spread

Thy gentle, melancholy, beam Over the Saviour's prostrate head,

In Agony, by Kedron's stream !

Ye Stars, that twinkled in your spheres

When Unknown Conflict bled and strove, As if Heaven's face had flowed with tears,—

For what could not Gethsemane move?

Orbs, that did herald on, or mark,

The night when Jesus was betrayed, This Feast ends not till ye are dark,

And all your glorious courses stayed !

For from that night successive bands

Have eat this banquet of the Cross : Saint, pilgrim, martyr, of all lands,

And counted earthly portions loss.

'T is here we still forget our woes

'Mid what far ages saw bequeathed ! The Bread is life! the Cup o'erflows !

As when their Blessing first was breathed ! 'T is manna, which can never cloy,–

'T is Canaan's vine-juice here we quaff: Wine both of God and man the joy,–*

Bread of eternal life the staff!

When we rise up and leave our seat,

Millions shall press and fill our place :
Still shall the poor and needy eat,

And sing, like us, the Founder's grace.

Night saw this earliest Festival!

Since that, what times have sped their flight,-
The Church shall crowd the Banquet-Hall

Till Day's last shade and Nature's night! • Judges ix. 13.— The reference is to the libation of wine on the altar, which was a required and, therefore, an acceptable, service. It “pleased God."


What is that point on high ? a ray or note ?

Brightening and warbling both, a two-fold birth!

Its carol gushes forth a boundless mirth, Ecstatic anthems swell its little throat, While on the yielding air it does but float !

I saw it lately in its mossy cell,

Amid the loneliness of yonder dell,
Where o'er its broodlings then it seemed to doat.

How different now is this far upward flight !

It leaves its home and yearnings far behind,Oh, not those yearnings leaves it! That the sprite

Which, lowly, loving, dwells,-the humble mind, The tender heart,-should easiest soar the height,

And sweetest sing,-might always be divined !


SAINTED Patriarch! Wherefore linger

In a world grown old with thee? Wherefore doth thy withered finger

Seek the strings of prophecy ? Art thou Israel's latest singer?

Strik'st thou dying harmony ?

What 's thy visioned coruscation,

Illapse brooking no control ? 'T is thy People's Consolation

Now illumes thy raptured soul : On this hour turns all Creation,

Here finds Providence its goal!

Haste to Zion's dread recesses,

Pass thy farewell through yon gates ! -He hath reach'd them! There confesses

Him, the Christ, for whom he waits,And the Child-God fondly presses

To a heart which death dilates !

Welcome now the long-wished hour !

Sweet the peace my bosom fills ! Nature yields in every power,

But faith conquers all its ills : Melt the shades which deeply lour !

Sunlit are the morning hills !

“ Pensive Mother! Thine embraces

Round thy Babe once more entwine ! Lo,—though fair with human graces,

Radiant with each charm divine, How vile outrage Envy traces

On Him as its mark and sign !

“ He, who bows for his transgression,

Proves how soon can Jesus raise ! Mirrored is each soul's expression

In the light this Sign displays ! When is poured Love's intercession,

Hate and sorrow turn to praise !

“ Ah, what means this bloody vision

Which o'er these faint lids doth stoop ? This pale, dying, Apparition ?

See His head in horror droop! Yet His grief still finds addition

From a visage in that group

“ Mother mild ! To thee He turneth,

Though upon the Cross He hangs ! Thence thy tear-worn face discerneth,

While transfixed with iron-fangs ! Now thy soul, as sword-pierced, learneth

Fellowship with His strange pangs!"


* Low-rooft beneath the skies !”—Milton.

“ The air of Paradise did fan the House,

And angels officed all !"-Shakspeare.

Of Judah's dwellings many a roof

Shone with a loftier pinnacle ; And foldings of a richer woof

O’er many a couch in splendour fell : But which of all the hearths of man,

And all his palaces, can vie With Thee (since Christ, who heaven doth span,

Bent ’neath it-) Home of Bethany !

Embosomed in Mount Olivet,

It decked those slopes with simple grace ; And, surely, art elaborate

Left there no proud and formal trace:
But lovely bines and tendrils wreathed

Its sides in wild luxuriancy,
While from the uplands incense breathed

Around Thee, Home of Bethany!

What was that Countenance divine,

Where gentlest meekness found its throne ! What was the Voice of power benign

Distilling love's unwearying tone! What was that household, all beloved !

He saw them with discerning eye, Active, and quiet, virtue proved,

Schooled by Thee, Home of Bethany !


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