10.

WHITSUNDAY.

"The Promise is unto you and to your children'

5.

ONE the descending Flame,

But many were the tongues of fire ;
From one bright Heaven they came,
But here and there in many a spire,
In many a living line they sped

To rest on each anointed head.

There as yon stars in clearest deep of night,

The glory-crowns shone out in many-coloured light.

One the dread rushing Wind,
But many were the tones of praise,
Love guiding each to find

His way in Music's awful maze.

Many the tongues, the theme was one,

The glory of th' Incarnate Son,

How He was born, how died, how reigns in Heaven,
And how His Spirit now to His new-born is given.

Joined in that choral cry

Were all estates, all tribes of earth:

Only sweet Infancy

Seemed silent in the adoring mirth.

Mothers and maidens there behold

The Maiden Mother: young and old

On Apostolic thrones with joy discern

Both fresh and faded forms, skill'd for all hearts to

yearn.

Widows from Galilee,

Levites are there, and elders sage
Of high and low degree,

But nought we read of that sweet age
Which in His strong embrace He took,

And sealed it safe, by word and look,

From Earth's foul dews, and withering airs of Hell:

The Pentecostal chant on infant warblings swell.

Nay, but she worships here,

Whom still the Church in memory sees

(O thought to mothers dear)

Before her Babe on bended knees,

Or rapt, with fond adoring eye,

In her sweet nursing ministry.

How in Christ's Anthem fails the children's part
While Mary bears Him throned in her maternal heart?

Hear too that Shepherd's voice,

Whom o'er His lambs the Saviour set
By words of awful choice,

When on the shore His Saints He met.
Blest Peter shows the key of Heaven,

And speaks the grace to infants given:

"Yours is the Promise, and your babes', and all,

Whom from all lands afar the Lord our God shall

call."

11.

OCTAVES OF FESTIVALS.

"Blessed are the people that know the joyful sound.

EVEN as the close of some grave melody, Hovering and lingering in the moon's still ray, Breathes o'er and o'er, reviving ere they die, The notes that are the soul of the sweet lay, And hearts that own the music, loitering near, Drink the loved cadence with enchanted ear;

So the bright holy days, as one by one
They pass, a glorious week behind them draw.
Nor will their echo cease till they outrun
Their Octave such is heavenly Music's law.
Nor will Faith's ear grow weary of the strain,
But long for the glad note to sound again.

Whether the tones were pastoral, warbled low
On Christmas Eve, but ere the bright sun rise,
From thousand Seraphs in harmonious flow
O'erspreading earth new-born and gladdened skies:
Or in high triumph from beside the tomb
The sudden anthem pierced the Paschal gloom :

Or cloudlike soared the long-drawn melody,
Still upward gliding where the Lord had gone:
Or in all tongues the Pentecostal cry

Rose from all lands in perfect unison :-
For each and all, seven happy nights and days,
The Church untiring holds her note of praise.

For each and all, the eighth mysterious morn
Doth of the first tell o'er the perfect tale.

Lo, from Heaven's deep again the lays are borne
That seem'd for ever past behind the veil.
(For Thy dread Hours, thou awful Trinity,
Are but the Whitsun airs, new set on high.)

'Tis only our dull hearts that tire so soon

Of Christ's repeated call; while they in Heaven, Unwearied basking in the eternal noon,

Still sound the note, by the first Seraph given,