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.

16

9.

WHITSUN EVE.

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

WELL fare the Sage, whose dreams of old

Would 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.

Such strains have I desired erewhile,
When, haply with half-pitying smile,
One of the attendant Spirits kind,

Who float unseen on wave or wind,
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.

Soft are her tones; for He draws nigh,
Who moveth all things quietly:

Yet grave and deep; for to His sight
Heaven's secrets are undazzling light:
Content; for He on healing wings
The promise of the Father brings :
And Comfort is His name; yet so
That in His promptings here below
A wistful uncomplaining sadness still
Must deeply blend with Joy's adoring thrill.

As yet we but our vigil hold,

Not yet the Whitsun flowers unfold Their full bright splendours. In the sky The third hour's sun must ride full high, Ere to the holy glorious room

The fires of New-Creation come,

Ere on weak hearts, though willing, fall The rushing mighty wind, in all

The power of its dread harmony, and win,

Ne'er to die down, true echoes from within.

O loving Spirit, gently lay

Thine arm on ours when we would stray!

Prepare us with Thy warnings sweet,

Us and our little ones, to greet

Thy visitations dread and dear!*

Grant us, when holy times are near,

In twilight or of morn or eve,

Thy dove-like whisperings to receive,

And own them kindlier for the plaintive mood,

That breathes of contrite Love, mild Hope, and Joy

subdued.