Joy to the faithful Three renew'd, So is it still to holy tears, In lonely hours, Christ risen appears: MONDAY IN EASTER WEEK. Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter of persons; but in every nation he that feareth him and worketh righteousness is accepted with him. Acts x. 34, 35. GO up and watch the new-born rill With a bright emerald thread. Canst thou her bold career foretel, What rocks she shall o'erleap or rend, How far in Ocean's swell Her freshening billows send? Perchance that little brook shall flow Bear navies to and fro With monarchs at their helm. Or canst thou guess, how far away Some sister nymph, beside her urn Reclining night and day, Mid reeds and mountain fern, Nurses her store, with thine to blend When many a moor and glen are past, Then in the wide sea end Their spotless lives at last? Even so, the course of prayer who knows? It springs in silence where it will, Springs out of sight, and flows At first a lonely rill : But streams shall meet it by and by From thousand sympathetic hearts, Together swelling high Their chant of many parts. Unheard by all but angel ears The while upon his terrac'd roof In silent thought aloof For heavenly vision soar'd. Far o'er the glowing western main The burnish'd water blaz'd. The saint beside the ocean pray'd, Seem'd sacred in that hour. To each unknown his brother's prayer, Yet brethren true in dearest love Were they and now they share There daily through Christ's open gate They see the Gentile spirits press, Brightening their high estate With dearer happiness. What civic wreath for comrades sav'd Shone ever with such deathless gleam, Or when did perils brav'd So sweet to veterans seem? TUESDAY IN EASTER WEEK. And they departed quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy, and did run to bring His disciples word. St. Matthew xxviii. 8. TO THE SNOW-DROP. THOU first-born of the year's delight, In vernal green and virgin white, 'Tis not because thy drooping form When chilly shades from gathering storm Affright their 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; |