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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 this 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,
Where still He shines on Abraham's race,'

-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 eren 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,
Abraham's Seed with Abraham's mind,

Offering gifts from field and fold;

Lamb or kid, or first-ripe corn,
Glory of the Paschal Morn!

While the shades from Salem's wall
Deepest on Siloah fall,'

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,
Bear me on, thou trance divine;
Faint not, fade not from my view,
Till I wake and find thee true!'

(To be continued.)



He is risen! But how was death

Forced to give back his prey ?
What blast of conquering breath

Made the dark gates give way?
I swear it, by Him Who saith

That He only liveth alway,
He is risen indeed, to-day!

No longer the Holy Head

Lies swathed in the linen fine;
The stone that guarded the Dead

Is rolled from the empty shrine ;
And the frighted watch have fled.

Like a giant refreshed with wine,
So woke the Lord Divine.

As the pilgrim awakes from sleep,

Far in the forest glade,
And, roused from that slumber deep,

Shakes away from his head
A leaf, which the night-winds' sweep

Had wafted there, and laid,
Withered, and light, and dead;

So from that rock-hewn door,

Where the ponderous marble lay,

The mighty Sleeper tore

The stone, and cast it away,
When the Soul, its wanderings o'er,

Came back to the sacred clay,
And said, Arise, it is day !

What word is this, that so fast

Is breaking the dreams of the Jews? The gates

of death are past,
They dared not their Lord refuse ;
Your exile is over at last,

He is risen, your chains to loose ;
This is your Easter news!

What mortal foot might so

Pass to the deathless clime ? Old fathers, who sleep below,

Deaf to the morning chime,
This is the fear of your foe,

The sigh of the olden time,
The promised King sublime.

Still from father to son,

As the days went by of old, The whisper was handed down,

The story of hope was told,
And patriarchs, one by one,

In the word of their God grew bold,
And the evening was tinged with gold.

For the prophets' sainted choir

Passed o'er the world's dark rim, And sang of the nations' Desire,

And how men mourned for Him;
Haggai's clear-voiced lyre,

Isaiah's battle-hymn,
And mystic Daniel's dream.

It was dawn; and with tear-wet face

Magdalene wept for her Dead, When lo! through the holy place

Strange tidings swiftly sped;
In terror that braved disgrace,

And dared the death on their head,
The Roman sentries fled.

A youth none seemed to know

Sat on the funeral stone; His vesture like the snow,

His face as lightning shone ;
He said in accents low,

As Mary made her moan,-
*Your Lord is risen, is gone.'

Away with weeds of dole!

Bring back the shining gold! Let priest in snow-white stole

Come forth great rites to hold,
And Easter anthems roll

Their echoes glad and bold,
And lights burn as of old !

From the altar is heard a voice,

Rejoice in the Lord alway! It bids us all rejoice,

With her in whose breast He lay, As in the nest of His choice,

When He came to take our clay;
And as we rejoice, let us pray.

O Brothers, prayer is joy,

And joy like this is prayer! A feast that cannot cloy

With gladness let us share;
Even the baby boy

In the arms of his mother there,

best must wear.

But beware how ye keep the Feast !

Ye rich, be frugal and wise;
The day of the Great High Priest

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
Laid up in Heaven for thee.

So blessed on thy head

Shall shine this holy sun;
Woe to thee, if instead,

Thy foolish feet should run
To wander with the dead;

Cling to the Risen One,
Thy Easter is begun.

M. C.


'APPEARED to Simon! Lord, less moved we read

That Thou to loving Mary didst appear,

And with Thy gracious 'All-hail !' didst draw near
To those who clave to Thee in utmost need.

But Simon! who with coward lips denied

All knowledge of Thee-Thee, his God, his Lord !

And with an oath confirmed the trait'rous word,
Could there be peace for him at Easter-tide ?

When the soft stillness of that Paschal morn

Was deepening into noon, didst Thou, the Sun

And splendour of both earth and heavens, come
And shed Thy brightness on his soul forlorn ?

So speaks Thy Holy Word; though nought is said

Of Simon's greeting; perchance mute he knelt,

And bathed in tears Thy risen Feet, and felt
That all his hopes rose with Thee from the dead.

'Appeared to Simon!' Lord, my tears drop down

Upon the words, for I too have denied,

Forsaken, grieved Thee; I, who thought to bide
So firm beside Thy Cross, that the bright crown

Woven by Angel-hands for they who best

Have served Thee, might be mine, for ever mine!

And now what hope is left me? yet the line, 'Appeared to Simon,' brings a thought of rest.

I ask not for the 'All-hail,' or the name,

Uttered in token of familiar love,

Only look on me, and that look shall prove

Balm to the deep wounds of my grief and shame. VOL. 7.


PART 40.

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