child!

O Jesu, virgin-born! all praise to thee,
And to the Father and the Holy Ghost!
One God eternal, ever honored be

By saints on earth and by the heavenly host!
PRUDENTIUS. Translated by
JOHN CHANDLER.

THE INNOCENTS' DAY.

"In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning."- MATT. ii. 18.

BETHLEHEM, above all cities blest!
The incarnate Saviour's earthly rest,
Where in his manger safe he lay,
By angels guarded night and day.
Bethlehem, of cities most forlorn,
Where in the dust sad mothers mourn,
Nor see the heavenly glory shed
On each pale infant's martyred head.

'T is ever thus: who Christ would win,
Must in the school of woe begin ;
And still the nearest to his grace,
Know least of their own glorious place.
JOHN KEBLE.

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Snatched from the world, its sins and snares, Thy infant rests in heaven.

GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE, D. D.

CHRIST BETRAYED.

MRS. ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH BOTTA was born in Bennington, Vt., and in 1845 published "Leaves from the Diary of a Recluse," which was followed in 1849 by a volume of poems. In 1855 she became the wife of Prof. Vincenzo Botta, of the University of the City of New York (formerly of Turin, Italy), and in 1860 she published a "Handbook of Universal Literature."

EIGHTEEN hundred years agone
Was that deed of darkness done,
Was that sacred thorn-crowned head
To a shameful death betrayed,
And Iscariot's traitor name
Blazoned in eternal shame.
Thou, disciple of our time,
Follower of the faith sublime,
Who with high and holy scorn
Of that traitorous deed dost burn,
Though the years may nevermore
To our earth that form restore,
The Christ-spirit ever lives,
Ever in thy heart he strives.
When pale misery mutely calls,
When thy brother tempted falls,
When thy gentle words may chain

SIR JOHN BOWRING.

Hate and anger and disdain,
Or thy loving smile impart
Courage to some sinking heart :
When within thy troubled breast
Good and evil thoughts contest,
Though unconscious thou mayst be,
The Christ-spirit strives with thee.

When he trod the Holy Land
With his small disciple band,
And the fated hour had come
For that august martyrdom,
When the man, the human love,
And the God within him strove,
As in Gethsemane he wept,
They, the faithless watchers, slept:
While for them he wept and prayed,
One denied and one betrayed!

If to-day thou turn'st aside, In thy luxury and pride, Wrapped within thyself, and blind To the sorrows of thy kind, Thou a faithless watch dost keep, Thou art one of those who sleep:

Or, if waking, thou dost see
Nothing of divinity

In our fallen struggling race,
If in them thou see'st no trace
Of a glory dimmed, not gone,
Of a future to be won,
Of a future. hopeful, high,
Thou, like Peter, dost deny :
But, if seeing, thou believest,
If the Evangel thou receivest,
Yet, if thou art bound to sin,
False to the ideal within,
Slave of ease, or slave of gold,
Thou the Son of God hast sold.

ANNE C. LYNCH BOTTA.

THE PASSION.

WITH the soldiers, straitly bound,
Forth the Saviour fareth :
Over all his holy form

Bleeding wounds he beareth;
He a crown of woven thorns,
King of glory, weareth,

And each one, with bended knee,

Fresher taunts prepareth.

They thy mild and tender flesh,
O Redeemer, baring,

To the column bind thee fast,
For the scourge preparing ;
Thus the ransom of our peace

Cruel stripes are tearing,

As the streams that flow therefrom
Fully are declaring.

After passed he through the street,
As the morn grew older,
And the heavy, bitter cross

Bare he on his shoulder:
Thronged the windows and the doors
Many a rude beholder;
But he found no comforter
There, and no upholder.

Him, in open sight of men
Manifestly shaming,

To the wind and cold they bare,

Utmost insults framing; Guiltless, on the cross they lift, With transgressors naming, Him, as midmost of the three,

Chief of all proclaiming.

On the wood his arms are stretched,
And his hands are riven;
Through the tender flesh of Christ
Mighty nails are driven;

In like wise his blessed feet

Are to torture given,

As the hands that had so oft
In our battle striven.

Streams of blood are trickling down
From those holy sources;
Hither! weak and sinful soul!

And renew thy forces;

This the medicine that shall cure
Terrors and remorses;

This the writing that for us
Freedom's deed endorses.

Calling on thy Father's name

Thy last breath was spended; And thy spirit in his hands

Gently was commended; With a loud and mighty cry

Then thy head was bended,

739

And the work that brought thee down, Of salvation, ended.

But by heart and thought of man

That is past conceiving, How the virgin mother's soul

Inmostly was grieving,

When the soldier's bitter lance
That dear side was cleaving;
Cruel mark upon his frame

Of its passage leaving.

That blest form could feel no more,
Whence had life departed;

'T was the mother's anguished soul
'Neath the wound that smarted,
When she marked how through his side
That sharp lance was darted,
And the streams of water thence,
And of blood that started.

Wherefore, sinner, haste to these
Fountains of salvation:

Life thou mayest draw therefrom,
And illumination:

Cure thou mayest find for sin,

Strength to meet temptation, Refuge mayst thou gain against Satan's condemnation.

A hymn of the twelfth century. Translated by JOHN MASON NEALE.

THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE.
O'ER Kedron's stream and Salem's height
And Olivet's brown steep

Moves the majestic queen of night,
And throws from heaven her silver light,
And sees the world asleep; -

All but the children of distress,
Of sorrow, grief, and care,
Whom sleep, though prayed for, will not

bless,

These leave the couch of restlessness,

To breathe the cool, calm air.

For those who shun the glare of day
There's a composing power,
That meets them, on their lonely-way,
In the still air, the sober ray
Of this religious hour.

'Tis a religious hour; for he,
Who many a grief shall bear,
In his own body on the tree,
Is kneeling in Gethsemane,
In agony and prayer.

O Holy Father, when the light
Of earthly joy grows dim,

May hope in Christ grow strong and bright,
To all who kneel, in sorrow's night,
In trust and prayer like him.

JOHN PIERPONT.

JESUS PASSING OVER KEDRON.

THOU Soft flowing Kedron, by thy silver

stream

Our Saviour at midnight, when Cynthia's pale beam

Shone bright on the waters, would oftentimes stray,

And lose in thy murmurs the toils of the day!

How damp were the vapors that fell on his head!

How hard was his pillow! how humble his bed!

The angels, astonished, grew sad at the sight, And followed their Master with solemn delight!

O garden of Olivet, - dear, honored spot! The fame of thy wonders shall ne'er be forgot! The theme most transporting to seraphs above,

The triumph of sorrow, the triumph of love!

Come, saints, and adore him, come, bow at his

feet;

Oh, give him the glory, the praise that is meet! Let joyful hosannas unceasing arise,

And join the full chorus that gladdens the skies.

MARIA DE FLEURY.

GETHSEMANE.

MATILDA BARBARA BETHAM-EDWARDS, cousin of Miss Amelia Blandford Edwards, the novelist, was born at Westerfield, Suffolk, England, in 1836, and has contributed to Punch, Fraser's Magazine, and other periodicals

LIKE Him, whilst friends and lovers slept,
Have we not all heart-broken crept
Into thy shadows once and wept,
Gethsemane ?

We knew not how the day had run,
We only knew that hope was gone,
And fain no more would greet the sun,
Gethsemane!

Our mothers slumbered in the tomb,
Love, though immortal, could not come
To cheer their children in thy gloom,
Gethsemane !

Not with us was our true helpmeet,
Who bore us sons and made life sweet,
And loved us with a love complete,
Gethsemane !

Not with us might the friend abide,
Who, ever trusty, ever tried,
Fought out truth's battle by our side,
Gethsemane !

We were alone. The world was still,
The breath of heaven seemed cold and chill,
We beat our breasts and wept our fill,
Gethsemane !

Prone on the ground our limbs were spread,
We wished it were our dying bed,
Since hope and joy and faith had fled,
Gethsemane !

But late there broke a little light
Into the darkness of the night,
And we were taught to pray aright,
Gethsemane!

Then Christ himself said, standing near,
O fellow-mourners! have no fear,

66

I weep with thee, and God is here." Gethsemane!

M. BETHAM-EDWARDS.

THE CRUCIFIXION.

This hymn was composed by Dr. Hedge for a confirmation service in his church at Bangor, Me, on Good Friday, 1843In some collections it has been marked “Anonymous."

'T WAS the day when God's Anointed
Died for us the death appointed,

Bleeding on the guilty cross;
Day of darkness, day of terror,
Deadly fruit of ancient error,

Nature's fall, and Eden's loss.

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Haste, prepare the bitter chalice! Gentile hate and Jewish malice

Lift the royal victim high, Like the serpent, wonder-gifted, Which the Prophet once uplifted, For a sinful world to die!

Conscious of the deed unholy,
Nature's pulses beat more slowly

And the sun his light denied ;
Darkness wrapped the sacred city,
And the earth with fear and pity
Trembled when the Just One died.

It is finished, Man of sorrows!
From thy cross our nature borrows
Strength to bear and conquer thus.
While exalted there we view thee,
Mighty Sufferer, draw us to thee,
Sufferer victorious!

Not in vain for us uplifted,
Man of sorrows, wonder-gifted!
May that sacred symbol be.
Eminent amid the ages,
Guide of heroes and of sages,

May it guide us still to thee!
Still to thee, whose love unbounded
Sorrow's deep for us hath sounded,
Perfected by conflicts sore.
Glory to thy cross forever!
Star that points our high endeavor
Whither thou hast gone before.
FREDERIC HENRY HEDGE, D. D.

Oh, what sorrow, deep, unbounded,
That maternal bosom wounded,
Once the Saviour's couch of rest!
How she wept to see him languish,
How she trembled for the anguish

Laboring in his guiltless breast!

Who could witness without weeping
Gushing streams of sorrow sweeping
Down the mother's pallid cheek?
Who with bosom unrelenting
Could behold her thus lamenting,
Looking what no tongue could speak?
While such pangs as fiends invented
Still her suffering Son tormented,

Scorn and bruises, stripes and death ;
She beheld him thus expiring,
Human friends for fear retiring,
Whilst in groans he spent his breath!
Matchless mercy, love amazing!
Far above our feeble praising,

Far beyond our humble lays ;
May its influence never vary,
Till my heart, like that of Mary,
Glows with a seraphic blaze.
Gracious Saviour, now in glory,
Be this sad, affecting story

Deeply on my soul imprest!
May the scene of such affliction
Bring the hardest heart conviction,
Melt the most obdurate breast!

SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

Good Friday, 1843.

1818.

THE CRUCIFIXION.

The author of the " Old Oaken Bucket" was born in Scituate, Mass., Jan 13, 1785. He had desires for a liberal education, but was unable to obtain it, and became an apprentice to a printer. He was employed on the Columbian Centinel, in Boston. but occupied his leisure time in writing poetry that was published under the name "Selim." Some of his pieces were collected in a volume in 1818, prefixed to which was a somewhat remarkable preface, in which the trials and troubles of the author up to that time were delineated with the view of encouraging the sale of the book. Little of its contents were of a nature (looking at it from the present time) to encourage the reader to become a buyer, and little that the author wrote has been remembered, excepting the poem mentioned above He died in New York City, Dec. 9. 1842. The following is a free reproduction of the "Stabat Mater Dolorosa," relieved of Mariolatry.

WEEPING Mary, bathed in sorrow,
Lingered near the scene of horror,
Where the dying Saviour hung;
From whose bursting heart arising,
Groans of anguish agonizing

Floated o'er his fevered tongue.

THE CRUCIFIXION.

SUNLIGHT upon Judæa's hills!
And on the waves of Galilee,
On Jordan's stream, and on the rills

That feed the dead and sleeping sea!
Most freshly from the green wood springs
The light breeze on its scented wings;
And gayly quiver in the sun
The cedar tops of Lebanon!

A few more hours, a change hath come!
The sky is dark without a cloud!
The shouts of wrath and joy are dumb,

And proud knees unto earth are bowel
A change is on the hill of Death,
The helmed watchers pant for breath,
And turn with wild and maniac eyes
From the dark scene of sacrifice!
That Sacrifice! the death of him, -
The High and ever Holy One!