What though no record carved in stone
Thy holy sleep to men confessed;

What though beneath their tread unknown,
Where Heaven's kind rain might bless thy rest,

'Twas thy last wish thy sleep should be:

An hundred years their course have told,
Still lives thy sainted memory,

Nor yet thy children's love grows cold.

An hundred years thy sun hath set-
A blissful sleep in lowly grace!
But now a rest more glorious yet

That holy treasure shall embrace.

Now shall they deck thy costly shrine,

And kneel, where thou didst kneel, in prayer,

And know, by many a precious sign,

Thy spirit's blest communion there.

Proudly the anthem's swelling strain

Mounts up, from faithful hearts outpoured,
And aisle to aisle rolls back again

The answering shout, "Praise ye the LORD."

Praise ye the LORD-Whose marshalled host
Stand, crowned, in robes of spotless white;
Praise ye the LORD of Him your boast

Be made, the GOD of Love and Light!

Praise Him-Whose Saints at His behest
Their glorious course on earth have sped;
Now in Thy radiant presence rest,

Blest Father of the mighty dead!

IV.

JULY 20.-S. MARGARET, VIRGIN AND MARTYR.

Little more is known of this holy Virgin, than that, boldly confessing the true faith before a Pagan Governor, she suffered Martyrdom at Antioch in Pisidia, towards the end of the third century.

It is the prime of summer, and the earth

Looks up all glorious to the cloudless sky,
As when, amid the songs of heathen mirth,
She was led forth to die-

A Christian Virgin through the crowded street
Of busy Antioch, calmly moving on ;
As if on bridal pomp and splendours meet,
Men's eyes were bent alone.

O blessed maid! to whom such grace was given,
In early years with Martyr's strength endued,
Thy pure pale brow lit by a gleam from heaven,
"Resisting unto blood."

How like a banner in her feeble hold,

Feeble, yet oh! how strong, the Cross is borne ;
What unseen foes, in darkness only bold,
Shrink as from rays of morn,

Scared by the symbol grasped in that weak hand,
The holy shield before the Virgin's breast :-
Thrice happy! whom ere long the Promised Land
Shall greet with endless rest.-

Those ancient records of triumphant faith,

How sternly they our languid hearts reprove!
Where now the spirit constant unto death,
Strong in the might of Love-

The spirit, in its weakness, still by Thee
Upborne till the long weary strife is past,
Through inward conflict, outward agony,
To win its crown at last?

With fainting steps our daily paths we tread,
Though not for us by martyr fires beset,
Each scorching sun, each darkening tempest, dread,
With failing courage met.

Yet ever when we taste the bitter spring
By grief or sin for human lips prepared,
Amid our daily murmurs let us bring
The pangs our brethren shared,

To shame our slumbering faith, that needeth more,
Far more, of their sweet patience; nor can trace
A SAVIOUR near, as 'mid those torments sore,
With His upholding grace.

V.

JULY 22.-S. MARY MAGDALENE.

Whether S. Mary of Magdala be the same as the sinner who anointed the feet of our LORD, and as Mary the sister of Lazarus,

is not certain, nor is it important for us to know. But we may commemorate them as one, and say with the Abbat of old,— "Blessed is she who anointed the feet of JESUS; more blessed she who anointed the LORD's head; but most blessed, who prepared the precious dew for His whole body." Nor must we forget that it was permitted to S. Mary Magdalene, out of whom our LORD had cast seven devils, to be the first witness of His Resurrection. In the first Prayer Book of King Edward VI., a Collect, Epistle, and Gospel were appointed for this day.

O Blessed LORD! in mercy sent
A ransom for the penitent,
Though feeble be the voice we raise,
Thou wilt not scorn a sinner's praise;

Thou, when of old a sinner strove
To win Thy pardon and Thy love,
For that she chose the better part
Didst shed Thy grace upon her heart.

She was a sinner, yet she brake

The box of nard for JESUS' sake;

GOD spake the word when man reproved—
She was a sinner, but she loved!

A sinner, yet she loved to lave

The feet of Him Who came to save,
And wiped them with her flowing hair,
And kissed them oft with tender care.

And when the precious blood was shed,
She brought sweet spices for the dead,
And thought to rest her eyes once more
On Him Who died three days before.

She saw the strange and solemn sight,
Two angels in their robes of light;

She heard the words of joy and fear,

VI.

JULY 26.-S. ANNE, MOTHER OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN

MARY.

The sacred history is silent regarding the Parents of the Blessed Virgin Mary: a very early tradition tells us that their names were Joachim and Anne; it is enough for us to know that such persons existed, in order to preserve their memory. In the mediæval representations on stained glass or otherwise, Š. Anne is usually exhibited as teaching the Blessed Virgin from a book.

The Church in faith holds on her way
In good and evil, while each day
Is adding to the store

Of gems, whose light shall never fade,
And fruits in heavenly garners laid,
Though seen on earth no more.

And as with sad yet hopeful tears
We see the friends of early years

For heavenly harvest sown,-
Then faith, outsoaring earthly sight,
Reflects the hues of heavenly light

On mournful hearts and lone,

These, high above the world's dim air,
The Church in holy hope and prayer
Hath sweetly laid to rest;

And Angels love their watch to keep
O'er hidden forms that calmly sleep
Upon their mother's breast.

O'er some the flowers of memory bloom;
And some are wrapped in deeper gloom,
As mortal sense would deem,-

Whose names from earth have passed away,
And yet perchance with brighter ray
Their crowns of glory gleam.

And thus if Christians, love-beguiled,
Meek Mother of the Virgin Child,

Thine earthly course would know,-
No token now of thee is shown,-

We know not of thy tender years,
Thy joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,
Nor of that happy day,

That bore thee, when thy toil was done,
And Immortality begun,

To homes that ne'er decay.

But though e'en fondest memory fail,
Yet Love hath many a soothing tale
Of thee, sweet Pilgrim, here:
And they whose hearts are pure and meek
Thy tokens round their homes will seek,
And joy to deem thee near.

For whoso on the Eternal One,
The SAVIOUR, Mary's Blessed Son,
In thoughtful love would dwell,-
To them, by hearts harmonious heard,
Each passing sound, each simple word,
Hath many a tale to tell.

These see thee in thy life's glad morn,
While guileless joys are round thee born
At each pure thought of thine,

When age forgot its weariness,
And sorrow turned in joy to bless
Thy form, thy face benign.

And, as when first upon thee smiled,
Thou Mother meek, thy blessed child,
They joy again with thee,

And watch each fresh and wondrous grace,
That decks that pure and heavenly face
Of sinless infancy.

These gladly, as the men of old,
Pictured in storied glass behold
Thy form of tender love,

As thou wast wont thy child to lead
With heavenly lore in every need
To seek for aid above.

And they can tell what joys were thine,
Beholding all her pathway shine

With blessed gifts of heaven,

The soul that dwells with Saints above,

The purity, the hope, the love,

That nought of earth may leaven.