The Mourners following the Cross.


At early dawn, the fresh spring dews to greet,
I bid thee haste, else vainly wilt thou crave
An hour in winter. Fast the week-days fleet,

Slow speeds the work : the lingerers who shall save ? Thy task ere Sunday end, thy life before the grave.

Who may

the horror but in dream abide, Breathless to knock, and by the portal wait Where Saints have past behind their glorious Guide, Then feel, not hear, the sad drear word, “ Too late ?" Woe, in that hour, to souls that seek the gate Alone ! but deeper anguish, direr gloom, If to thy bosom clinging, child or mate,

Pupil or friend, the heaven-prepared room, Tardy through thee, should miss, and share the hopeless

doom !



“ Where I am, there shall also my servant be."

O Holy Cross, on thee to hang

At Jesus' side, and feel thee sweet, And taste aright each healing pang, What Saint, what Virgin Martyr e'er was meet !

Two only of His own found grace

death He died to die.
Joyful they rush'd to thine embrace,
While Angel choirs, half envying, waited by.

Joyful they speed :—but how is this?

Why doubt they yet, in Jesus' power To grasp

their crown of hard won bliss ? Well have ye fought ; why faint in Victory's hour? Two brothers' hearts were they, the first

Who shone as stars in JESUS' Hand, For thee in Prayer and Fasting nurs'd, And bearing thee, dread Cross ! from land to land.

And now in wondrous sympathy,

When thou art nearer fain to draw, These who had yearn'd so long for thee Shrink from thy touch, and hide their eyes

for awe.

He who denied-he dares not scale

With forward step thy holy stair.
Best for his giddy heart and frail
In humblest penance to hang downward there.

And he, that saintly Elder meek,

Wont of old time to find and bring Brother or friend with Christ to speak, As worthier to behold the heart-searching King :

Ah little brook'd his lowly heart,

Such glorious crown should him reward.
He sought the way with duteous art
To change his Cross, yet suffer with his Lord.


He sought and found : and now where'er

Saint Andrew's holy Cross we see,
In royal banner blazon'd fair,
Or in dread Cipher, Holiest Name, of thee,

A martyr'd form we may discern,

There bound, there preaching : Image meet
Of One uplifted high, to turn
And draw to Him all hearts in bondage sweet.

And as we gaze may He impart

The grace to bear what He shall send, Yet stay the rash self-pleasing heart, Too forward with His Cross our penal woe to blend.



Holy Places and Things.



“As they went to tell His Disciples, Jesus met them, saying, ' All hail.'”

BEHOLD, athwart our woodland nest,

And down our misty vale,

From his own bright and quiet rest The Sunday sun looks out, and seems to say, “All


True token of that brighter Day,

Which hailed, this matin hour,

The holy women on their way. They sought His Church in love, He met them in His


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