Thrice only since, with blended might The nations on that haughty height Have met to scale the Heaven: Thrice only might a Seraph's look A moment's shade of sadness brook- Such power to guilt was given.

Now the fierce bear and leopard keen Are perished as they ne'er had been, Oblivion is their home: Ambition's boldest dream and last Must melt before the clarion blast That sounds the dirge of Rome.

Heroes and kings, obey the charm, Withdraw the proud high-reaching arm, There is an oath on high: That ne'er on brow of mortal birth Shall blend again the crowns of earth, Nor in according cry

Her many voices mingling own One tyrant Lord, one idol throne: But to His triumphs soon _He_ shall descend, who rules above, And the pure language of His love, All tongues of men shall tune.

Nor let Ambition heartless mourn; When Babel's very ruins burn, Her high desires may breathe;- O'ercome thyself, and thou mayst share With Christ His Father's throne, and wear The world's imperial wreath.

Tuesday in Whitsun-week.

When He putteth forth His own sheep, He goeth before them.

_St. John_ x. 4.

(_Addressed to Candidates for Ordination_.)

"LORD, in Thy field I work all day, I read, I teach, I warn, I pray, And yet these wilful wandering sheep Within Thy fold I cannot keep.

"I journey, yet no step is won- Alas! the weary course I run!

Like sailors shipwrecked in their dreams, All powerless and benighted seems."

What? wearied out with half a life?

Scared with this smooth unb.l.o.o.d.y strife?

Think where thy coward hopes had flown Had Heaven held out the martyr's crown.

How couldst thou hang upon the cross, To whom a weary hour is loss?

Or how the thorns and scourging brook Who shrinkest from a scornful look?

Yet ere thy craven spirit faints, Hear thine own King, the King of Saints; Though thou wert toiling in the grave, 'Tis He can cheer thee, He can save.

He is th' eternal mirror bright, Where Angels view the FATHER'S light, And yet in Him the simplest swain May read his homely lesson plain.

Early to quit His home on earth, And claim His high celestial birth, Alone with His true Father found Within the temple's solemn round:-

Yet in meek duty to abide For many a year at Mary's side, Nor heed, though restless spirits ask, "What, hath the Christ forgot His task?"

Conscious of Deity within, To bow before an heir of sin, With folded arms on humble breast, By His own servant washed and blest:-

Then full of Heaven, the mystic Dove Hovering His gracious brow above, To shun the voice and eye of praise, And in the wild His trophies raise:-

With hymns of angels in His ears, Back to His task of woe and tears, Unmurmuring through the world to roam With not a wish or thought at home:-

All but Himself to heal and save, Till ripened for the cross and grave, He to His Father gently yield The breath that our redemption sealed:-

Then to unearthly life arise, Yet not at once to seek the skies, But glide awhile from saint to saint, Lest on our lonely way we faint;

And through the cloud by glimpses show How bright, in Heaven, the marks will glow Of the true cross, imprinted deep Both on the Shepherd and the sheep:-

When out of sight, in heart and prayer, Thy chosen people still to bear, And from behind Thy glorious veil, Shed light that cannot change or fail:-

This is Thy pastoral course, O LORD, Till we be saved, and Thou adored;- Thy course and ours-but who are they Who follow on the narrow way?

And yet of Thee from year to year The Church's solemn chant we hear, As from Thy cradle to Thy throne She swells her high heart-cheering tone.

Listen, ye pure white-robed souls, Whom in her list she now enrolls, And gird ye for your high emprize By these her thrilling minstrelsies.

And wheresoe'er in earth's wide field, Ye lift, for Him, the red-cross shield, Be this your song, your joy and pride- "Our Champion went before and died."

Trinity Sunday.

If I have told you earthly things, and ye believe not, how shall ye believe if I tell you of heavenly things? _St. John_ iii. 12

CREATOR, Saviour, strengthening Guide, Now on Thy mercy's ocean wide Far out of sight we seem to glide.

Help us, each hour, with steadier eye To search the deepening mystery, The wonders of Thy sea and sky.

The blessed Angels look and long To praise Thee with a worthier song, And yet our silence does Thee wrong.-

Along the Church's central s.p.a.ce The sacred weeks, with unfelt pace, Hath borne us on from grace to grace.

As travellers on some woodland height, When wintry suns are gleaming bright, Lose in arched glades their tangled sight;-

By glimpses such as dreamers love Through her grey veil the leafless grove Shows where the distant shadows rove;-

Such trembling joy the soul o'er-awes As nearer to Thy shrine she draws:- And now before the choir we pause.

The door is closed-but soft and deep Around the awful arches sweep, Such airs as soothe a hermit's sleep.

From each carved nook and fretted bend Cornice and gallery seem to send Tones that with seraphs hymns might blend.

Three solemn parts together twine In harmony's mysterious line; Three solemn aisles approach the shrine:

Yet all are One-together all, In thoughts that awe but not appal, Teach the adoring heart to fall.

Within these walls each fluttering guest Is gently lured to one safe nest- Without, 'tis moaning and unrest.

The busy world a thousand ways Is hurrying by, nor ever stays To catch a note of Thy dear praise.

Why tarries not her chariot wheel, That o'er her with no vain appeal One gust of heavenly song might steal?

Alas! for her Thy opening flowers Unheeded breathe to summer showers, Unheard the music of Thy bowers.