mother will not leave her helpless babe, how can Christ's disciples in their weakness endure His absence? Yet it was His own word; and His Apostles proved that so it was, when they had watched His ascension into Heaven, and returned, not daring to mourn for themselves, but rejoicing in His glory, to 'Their home and God's, that favoured place, -namely, the upper room; the first of all Christian churches, which continue to enjoy His blessing, as the favoured place where He is present with the true children of Abraham by faith. There, in prayer, they await His promise; like suppliants, awaiting in security their monarch's largess, reserved to increase the joy of his coronation day. They wait-not doubting of His Rest, nor of His gracious purpose; only as yet scarce understanding what that Gift could mean which is to be so great as to make their Saviour's going, gain.' That waiting time was through life a period on which Mr. Keble loved to dwell in his teaching-the Expectation days, when the greatest of all gifts, the completion of the Divine Work for man, was to come. Solemn, sweet, and lovely are the ensuing verses, in which the Coming and the Work of the Comforter is described; and so simple, that no comment can render them easier. We can scarce refrain from quoting them, but their cadence cannot fail to be in the hearts of all our readers; and it would be presumption to try to paraphrase them. They answer the wistful question at the beginning-they shew what the Blessed Presence of God the Holy Ghost is to the Church; and the last-turning our gaze inward to our own heart-calls from ourselves the witness that even were our Lord in bodily presence among us, as among the Jews of old, we should have no power to believe on Him without the quickening Grace of the Holy Spirit. 'The Spirit must stir the darkling deep, The Dove must settle on the Cross; Else should we all sin on and sleep, With Christ in sight; turning our gain to loss.' If the Lyra Innocentium had Scriptural mottoes connecting the poems with the services, that for to-day's would no doubt be from the Epistle, 'Of His own Will begat He us with the Word of truth, that we should be a kind of first-fruits of His creatures.' The whole of this Cradle Song of the Guardian Angels,' is a 'Morning dream' or vision of the presentation of infant souls, at their Baptism, to their Heavenly Father, each by its own angel keeper, as the true first-fruits of His created beings. 'Ne'er with smile so glad and kind Welcomed God's High Priest of old, Lamb or kid, or first-ripe corn, While the shades from Salem's wall as was the welcome with which our Great High Priest 'embraced each soul in the arms of His mercy,' and assigned its place in the eternal round' of beings doing Him service in Heaven and earth. Was it a mere dream? Nay 'From the Fountain to the Shrine, (To be continued.) THE RESURRECTION. TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN OF MANZONI. HE is risen! But how was death No longer the Holy Head Lies swathed in the linen fine; Is rolled from the empty shrine; As the pilgrim awakes from sleep, And, roused from that slumber deep, A leaf, which the night-winds' sweep So from that rock-hewn door, Where the ponderous marble lay, A youth none seemed to know His face as lightning shone; As Mary made her moan,- Away with weeds of dole! Bring back the shining gold! Their echoes glad and bold, From the altar is heard a voice,— With her in whose breast He lay, As in the nest of His choice, When He came to take our clay; O Brothers, prayer is joy, With gladness let us share; Even the baby boy In the arms of his mother there, But beware how ye keep the Feast! Is a day of sacrifice; If your board o'erflow, at least Let its superfluities Brighten the poor man's eyes. Far be the noise and din Of foolish dance and glee, To-day such mirth were sin; Better for God to see A peaceful heart within, Such gladness as may be 'APPEARED to Simon!' Lord, less moved we read And with Thy gracious 'All-hail!' didst draw near But Simon! who with coward lips denied All knowledge of Thee-Thee, his God, his Lord! When the soft stillness of that Paschal morn So speaks Thy Holy Word; though nought is said 'Appeared to Simon!' Lord, my tears drop down Forsaken, grieved Thee; I, who thought to bide Woven by Angel-hands for they who best Have served Thee, might be mine, for ever mine! VOL. 7. I ask not for the 'All-hail,' or the name, Only look on me, and that look shall prove |