The lawless wish, the unaverted eye,
Are as a taint


the breeze,
To lure foul spirits : haughty brows and high

Are signals to invite him nigh,
Whose onset ever Saints await on bended knees.

Him in some thievish corner of the street

Full often lurking low we trace, When sullen lips our kindly glances meet,

And looks that pastoral eyes should greet, As flowers the morn, fall coldly, as on empty space.

His poisonous whisper hath been there, be sure,

Where childhood's simple courtesies
Are scorn'd: so trains he up his school impure,


tasks inure The hearts that by and by against the Church shall


Open their eyes, good Lord, that they may know

Whose edicts they so dearly hold, Making Thy rites a revel and a show,

Where the rude world may come and go, To sit at ease, and judge the Saints and Seers of old.

The stubborn knees with holy trembling smite,

Which bow not at Thine awful Name. Pour from Thine Altar Thine own glorious Light,

Winning the world-enamour'd sight To turn and see which way the healing radiance came.

O may our fallen land, though late, unlearn

Her reckless unbelieving heart,
And in the Gifts, sweet as from Aaron's urn,

And in the pure white Robe, discern
Signs lingering, faint and few, ere the last Saint


O grant us Thy good Angel, evermore

To wait, with unseen scourge in hand,
On the Church path, and by the low school door.

Write in young hearts Thy reverend lore, Nor be our christen’d babes as Bethel's lawless band.

Perhaps among the wailing matrons there

Was one who to her child had taught The ways of scorn, breathing the poison’d air

Into that bosom fresh and fair Which from her own drew life.—Alas! too well it


Now self-accusing by the drear wood-side

She ranges where th' avengers came,
In dreams of penance wandering wild and wide.

But he, the Healer and the Guide,
To Carmel top is gone, far from our woe and shame.

Now from his lips the judgment word hath past,

The lightning from his awful brow : Low on his knees in some bleak cavern cast,

His prayers go up o'er ocean vast For those whom he hath doom'd: he is their Patron


And our Elisha_fails He on the Mount

To plead, His holy ones to pray
For rebels and profane ?-0 who may count

The drops from that eternal Fount
Of heavenly Intercession, welling night and day?

Ye fragrant showers, O were it not for you,

How could we breathe the parched air Of the world's freedom, feverish and untrue,

Withering each soft and kindly hue Even in young hearts ? but ye spring-weather cherish


Your influence from afar we own and bless,

When, school-hours past, o'er village green, Or homely garden, bright in its May dress,

Come greetings from a throng and press Of little strangers, prompt as fairies round their queen.

Ever, as up and down our glances go,

In that fair round we may discern
A beaming smile and an obeisance low ;-

So forest bluebells in a row
Stoop to the first May wind, sweeping o'er each in


And here and there, perchance, one graver found A comrade's roving eye may

school To courtesy forgot :—so in each round

Of duty, here on earth's dull ground, Angels with us rehearse their own majestic Rule.



“ If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple."

(For St. Mark's Day.)

A HOLY home, young Saint, was thine,

Child of a priestly line,
Bred where the vernal midnight air

Was vocal with the prayer
Of Christians fresh from Paschal meat,
With supplication strong and sweet,
With fast and vigil, in meek strife

Winning their Pastor's life.

A holy home, a mother bold,

Who to the scattered fold
Threw wide her door at dead of night,

Nor feared the tyrant's might ;-
The sister true of him who poured
His treasure at Thy feet, O Lord :
The Son of Comfort named was he

By those who hearts could see.

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