The Angel came full early, but Christ had gone be


Not for Himself, but for His Saints, is burst the

prison door, That penitents who bring Him tears and perfume of

good deeds May for His glory school their eyes, watching His

funeral weeds.

They who have sinn'd, though much they love,-they

who have thrice denied, 'Tis meet that they awhile beneath the garb of glory

hide A shred of Jesus' grave clothes, such robes as hermits

weave ;But Virgin Love needs only to behold, rejoice, believe. Dearest, be thine such portion : yet even so, in still And humble guise draw nigh: such is thy Saviour's

will. Stoop lowly o’er His traces dim, and of His Angels

learn Where face to face He will be met, and for that greet

ing yearn.

Thou know'st He died not for Himself, nor for Him

self arose : Millions of souls were in His Heart, and thee for one

He chose. Upon the palms of His pierc'd Hands engraven was

thy name, He for thy cleansing had prepard His water and His

flame. Sure thou with Him art risen: and now with Him

thou must go forth, And He will lend thy sick soul health, thy strivings,

might and worth. Early with Him thou forth must fare, and ready make

the way

For the descending Paraclete, the third hour of the


He veil'd His awful footsteps, our all-subduing Lord, Until the Blessed Magdalene beheld Him and ador'd. But through the veil the Spouse may see, for her heart

is as His own, That to His Mother or by sight or touch He made

Him known.

And even as from His manger bed He gave her His

first smile, So now, while Seraphs wait, He talks apart with her

awhile; That thou of all the forms, which to thee His image

wear, Might'st own thy parents first, with thy prime of

loving care.

And when that first spring-flower of love is gather'd,

be thou seen Full soon with mourning Peter, and bereaved Mag

dalene, And meet with looks of soothing cheer the women on

their way

To find the Lord, nor from beside his musing comrades

stray. To Emmaus see thou lose not the narrow path ; for

there With open face He tarries, to give thee Angels' fare. Where all His Saints assemble, make haste ere twilight

cease, His Easter blessing to receive, and so lie down in peace.



“O my Dove, that art in the clefts of the Rock,....let me hear thy voice."

WELL fare the Sage, whose dreams of old

every cradle fain enfold
In evening clouds of softest sound,
Slow settling ear and heart around,
Then with the breeze at morning prime
Would mingle some heart-thrilling chime,
Some Dorian movement, bold or grave,

Such as in inmost soul they crave,
Who, when the battles of the Lord are fought,
Shrink from their own frail hearts, else fearing nought.
One of the attendant Spirits kind,
Who float unseen on wave or wind,
Such strains have I desired erewhile,
When haply with half-pitying smile,
Might to another say, “Behold
The dimly eyed and narrow-souled !
He longs for music in the morn,

Nor heeds the lark's unwearied horn.
He finds at eve no soothing lullaby,
Though west winds stir, and whispering pines are nigh.'

O heavenly Wisdom, strong and sweet,
How dost thou tune thy lyre, to meet
The wakening or half-dreaming cares
Of souls whom Love for Joy prepares

How do wild Nature's chords, by thee
Combined in varying melody,
Make tunes for holy times ! e'en now,

From underneath the fragrant bough,
In notes of hopeful warning the fair Dove
Gives token of the approaching morn of love.

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