THOU first-born of the year's delight, Pride of the dewy glade, In vernal green and virgin white, Thy vestal robes, arrayed:

'Tis not because thy drooping form Sinks graceful on its nest, When chilly shades from gathering storm Affright thy tender breast;

Nor for yon river islet wild Beneath the willow spray, Where, like the ringlets of a child, Thou weav'st thy circle gay;

'Tis not for these I love thee dear- Thy shy averted smiles To Fancy bode a joyous year, One of Life's fairy isles.

They twinkle to the wintry moon, And cheer th' ungenial day, And tell us, all will glisten soon As green and bright as they.

Is there a heart that loves the spring, Their witness can refuse?

Yet mortals doubt, when angels bring From Heaven their Easter news:

When holy maids and matrons speak Of Christ's forsaken bed, And voices, that forbid to seek The hiving 'mid the dead,

And when they say, "Turn, wandering heart, Thy Lord is ris'n indeed, Let Pleasure go, put Care apart, And to His presence speed;"

We smile in scorn: and yet we know They early sought the tomb, Their hearts, that now so freshly glow, Lost in desponding gloom.

They who have sought, nor hope to find, Wear not so bright a glance: They, who have won their earthly mind, Lees reverently advance.

But where in gentle spirits, fear And joy so duly meet, These sure have seen the angels near, And kissed the Saviour's feet.

Nor let the Pastor's thankful eye Their faltering tale disdain, As on their lowly couch they lie, Prisoners of want and pain.

O guide us, when our faithless hearts From Thee would start aloof, Where Patience her sweet skill imparts Beneath some cottage roof:

Revive our dying fires, to burn High as her anthems soar, And of our scholars let us learn Our own forgotten lore.

First Sunday after Easter.

Seemeth it but a small thing unto you, that the G.o.d of Israel hath separated you from the congregation of Israel, to bring you near to Himself? _Numbers_ xvi. 9.

FIRST Father of the holy seed, If yet, invoked in hour of need, Thou count me for Thine own Not quite an outcast if I prove, (Thou joy'st in miracles of love), Hear, from Thy mercy-throne!

Upon Thine altar's horn of gold Help me to lay my trembling hold, Though stained with Christian gore;- The blood of souls by Thee redeemed, But, while I roved or idly dreamed, Lost to be found no more.

For oft, when summer leaves were bright, And every flower was bathed in light, In sunshine moments past, My wilful heart would burst away From where the holy shadow lay, Where heaven my lot had cast.

I thought it scorn with Thee to dwell, A Hermit in a silent cell, While, gaily sweeping by, Wild Fancy blew his bugle strain, And marshalled all his gallant train In the world's wondering eye.

I would have joined him-but as oft Thy whispered warnings, kind and soft, My better soul confessed.

"My servant, let the world alone- Safe on the steps of Jesus' throne Be tranquil and be blest."

"Seems it to thee a n.i.g.g.ard hand That nearest Heaven has bade thee stand, The ark to touch and bear, With incense of pure heart's desire To heap the censer's sacred fire, The snow-white Ephod wear?"

Why should we crave the worldling's wreath, On whom the Savour deigned to breathe, To whom His keys were given, Who lead the choir where angels meet, With angels' food our brethren greet, And pour the drink of Heaven?

When sorrow all our heart would ask, We need not shun our daily task, And hide ourselves for calm; The herbs we seek to heal our woe Familiar by our pathway grow, Our common air is balm.

Around each pure domestic shrine Bright flowers of Eden bloom and twine, Our hearths are altars all; The prayers of hungry souls and poor, Like armed angels at the door, Our unseen foes appal.

Alms all around and hymns within- What evil eye can entrance win Where guards like these abound?

If chance some heedless heart should roam, Sure, thought of these will lure it home Ere lost in Folly's round.

O joys, that sweetest in decay, Fall not, like withered leaves, away, But with the silent breath Of violets drooping one by one, Soon as their fragrant task is done, Are wafted high in death!

Second Sunday after Easter.

He hath said, which heard the words of G.o.d, and knew the knowledge of the Most High, which saw the vision of the Almighty, falling into a trance, but having his eyes open: I shall see Him, but not now; I shall behold Him, but not nigh; there shall come a Star out at Jacob, and a Sceptre shall rise out of Israel, and shall smite the corners of Moab, and destroy all the children at Sheth. _Numbers_ xxiv. 16, 17.

O FOR a sculptor's hand, That thou might'st take thy stand, Thy wild hair floating on the eastern breeze, Thy tranced yet open gaze Fixed on the desert haze, As one who deep in heaven some airy pageant sees.

In outline dim and vast Their fearful shadows cast This giant forms of empires on their way To ruin: one by one They tower and they are gone, Yet in the Prophet's soul the dreams of avarice stay.

No sun or star so bright In all the world of light That they should draw to Heaven his downward eye: He hears th' Almighty's word, He sees the angel's sword, Yet low upon the earth his heart and treasure lie.

Lo! from you argent field, To him and us revealed, One gentle Star glides down, on earth to dwell.

Chained as they are below Our eyes may see it glow, And as it mounts again, may track its brightness well.

To him it glared afar, A token of wild war, The banner of his Lord's victorious wrath: But close to us it gleams, Its soothing l.u.s.tre streams Around our home's green walls, and on our church-way path.

We in the tents abide Which he at distance eyed Like goodly cedars by the waters spread, While seven red altar-fires Rose up in wavy spires, Where on the mount he watched his sorceries dark and dread.

He watched till morning's ray On lake and meadow lay, And willow-shaded streams that silent sweep Around the bannered lines, Where by their several signs The desert-wearied tribes in sight of Canaan sleep.

He watched till knowledge came Upon his soul like flame, Not of those magic fires at random caught: But true Prophetic light Flashed o'er him, high and bright, Flashed once, and died away, and left his darkened thought.

And can he choose but fear, Who feels his G.o.d so near, That when he fain would curse, his powerless tongue In blessing only moves?- Alas! the world he loves Too close around his heart her tangling veil hath flung.

Sceptre and Star divine, Who in Thine inmost shrine Hash made us worshippers, O claim Thine own; More than Thy seers we know- O teach our love to grow Up to Thy heavenly light, and reap what Thou hast sown.

Third Sunday after Easter.

A woman when she is in travail hath sorrow, because her hour is come; but as soon as she is delivered of the child, she remembereth no more the anguish, for joy that a man is born into the world. _St. John_ xvi. 21.

WELL may I guess and feel Why Autumn should be sad; But vernal airs should sorrow heal, Spring should be gay and glad: 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.