Oh say, in all the bleak expanse Is there a spot to win your glance, So bright, so dark as this?

A hopeless faith, a homeless race, Yet seeking the most holy place, And owning the true bliss!

Salted with fire they seem, to show How spirits lost in endless woe May undecaying live.

Oh, sickening thought! yet hold it fast Long as this glittering world shall last, Or sin at heart survive.

And hark! amid the flashing fire, Mingling with tones of fear and ire, Soft Mercy's undersong- 'Tis Abraham's G.o.d who speaks so loud, His people's cries have pierced the cloud, He sees, He sees their wrong;

He is come down to break their chain; Though nevermore on Sion's fane His visible ensign wave; 'Tis Sion, wheresoe'er they dwell, Who, with His own true Israel, Shall own Him strong to save.

He shall redeem them one by one, Where'er the world-encircling sun Shall see them meekly kneel: All that He asks on Israel's part, Is only that the captive heart Its woe and burthen feel.

Gentiles! with fixed yet awful eye Turn ye this page of mystery, Nor slight the warning sound: "Put off thy shoes from off thy feet- The place where man his G.o.d shall meet, Be sure, is holy ground."

Palm Sunday.

And He answered and said unto them, I tell you that, if these should hold their peace, the stones would immediately cry out. _St. Luke_ xix. 40.

YE whose hearts are beating high With the pulse of Poesy, Heirs of more than royal race, Framed by Heaven's peculiar grace, G.o.d'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 strength 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 womb 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' harps may ne'er Fail to find fit echoing 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 idol-hymns profane The sacred soul-enthralling strain, (As in this bad world below n.o.blest things find vilest using,) Then, Thy power and mercy show, In vile things n.o.ble 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 untunable the parts, Thou wilt own the minstrelsy If it flow from childlike hearts.

Monday before Easter.

Doubtless Thou art our Father, though Abraham be ignorant of us, and Israel acknowledge us not. _Isaiah_ lxiii. 16.

"FATHER to me thou art and mother dear, And brother too, kind husband of my heart"- So speaks Andromache in boding fear, Ere from her last embrace her hero part- So evermore, by Faith's undying glow, We own the Crucified in weal or woe.

Strange to our ears the church-bells of our home, This fragrance of our old paternal fields May be forgotten; and the time may come When the babe's kiss no sense of pleasure yields E'en to the doting mother: but Thine own Thou never canst forget, nor leave alone.

There are who sigh that no fond heart is theirs, None loves them best-O vain and selfish sigh!

Out of the bosom of His love He spares- The Father spares the Son, for thee to die: For thee He died-for thee He lives again: O'er thee He watches in His boundless reign.

Thou art as much His care, as if beside Nor man nor angel lived in Heaven or earth: Thus sunbeams pour alike their glorious tide To light up worlds, or wake an insect's mirth: They shine and shine with unexhausted store- Thou art thy Saviour's darling-seek no more.

On thee and thine, thy warfare and thine end, E'en in His hour of agony He thought, When, ere the final pang His soul should rend, The ransomed spirits one by one were brought To His mind's eye-two silent nights and days In calmness for His far-seen hour He stays.

Ye vaulted cells, where martyred seers of old Far in the rocky walls of Sion sleep, Green terraces and arched fountains cold, Where lies the cypress shade so still and deep, Dear sacred haunts of glory and of woe, Help us, one hour, to trace His musings high and low:

One heart-enn.o.bling hour! It may not be: The unearthly thoughts have pa.s.sed from earth away, And fast as evening sunbeams from the sea Thy footsteps all in Sion's deep decay Were blotted from the holy ground: yet dear Is every stone of hers; for Thou want surely here.

There is a spot within this sacred dale That felt Thee kneeling-touched Thy prostrate brow: One Angel knows it. O might prayer avail To win that knowledge! sure each holy vow Less quickly from the unstable soul would fade, Offered where Christ in agony was laid.

Might tear of ours once mingle with the blood That from His aching brow by moonlight fell, Over the mournful joy our thoughts would brood, Till they had framed within a guardian spell To chase repining fancies, as they rise, Like birds of evil wing, to mar our sacrifice.

So dreams the heart self-flattering, fondly dreams;- Else wherefore, when the bitter waves o'erflow, Miss we the light, Gethsemane, that streams From thy dear name, where in His page of woe It shines, a pale kind star in winter's sky?

Who vainly reads it there, in vain had seen Him die.

Tuesday before Easter.

They gave Him to drink wine mingled with myrrh: but He received in not. _St. Mark_ xv. 23.

"FILL high the bowl, and spice it well, and pour The dews oblivious: for the Cross is sharp, The Cross is sharp, and He Is tenderer than a lamb.

"He wept by Lazarus' grave-how will He bear This bed of anguish? and His pale weak form Is worn with many a watch Of sorrow and unrest.

"His sweat last night was as great drops of blood, And the sad burthen pressed Him so to earth, The very torturers paused To help Him on His way.

"Fill high the bowl, benumb His aching sense With medicined sleep."-O awful in Thy woe!

The parching thirst of death Is on Thee, and Thou triest

The slumb'rous potion bland, and wilt not drink: Not sullen, nor in scorn, like haughty man With suicidal hand Putting his solace by:

But as at first Thine all-pervading look Saw from Thy Father's bosom to the abyss Measuring in calm presage The infinite descent;

So to the end, though now of mortal pangs Made heir, and emptied of Thy glory, awhile, With unaverted eye Thou meetest all the storm.

Thou wilt feel all, that Thou mayst pity all; And rather wouldst Thou wreathe with strong pain, Than overcloud Thy soul, So clear in agony,

Or lose one glimpse of Heaven before the time O most entire and perfect sacrifice, Renewed in every pulse That on the tedious Cross

Told the long hours of death, as, one by one, The life-strings of that tender heart gave way; E'en sinners, taught by Thee, Look Sorrow in the face,

And bid her freely welcome, unbeguiled By false kind solaces, and spells of earth:- And yet not all unsoothed; For when was Joy so dear,

As the deep calm that breathed, "_Father_, _forgive_,"

Or, "_Be with Me in Paradise to-day_?"

And, though the strife be sore, Yet in His parting breath

Love masters Agony; the soul that seemed Forsaken, feels her present G.o.d again, And in her Father's arms Contented dies away.