PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST.-ETC.
With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile,
Brooding above the slumber of his eyes.
While, through the stillness of the burning skies,
Lo! the dread works of Egypt's buried kings,
Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise,
Regal and still as everlasting things!
Vain pomps! from him, with that pure flowery cheek,
Soft shadow'd by his mother's drooping head,
A new-born spirit, mighty, and yet meek,
O'er the whole world like vernal air shall spread! And bid all earthly grandeurs cast the crown, Before the suffering and the lowly, down.
IV.-PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH
FLOWERS.
ALL the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing,
Round the young child luxuriantly are spread;
Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing
In adoration, o'er his cradle shed.
Roses, deep-filled with rich midsummer's red,
Circle his hands; but, in his grave sweet eye,
Thought seems e'en now to wake, and prophecy
Of ruder coronals for that meek head.
And thus it was! a diadem of thorn
Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flowers,
To Him who pour'd forth blessings in soft showers
O'er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn!
And we repine, for whom that cup He took,
O'er blooms that mock'd our hope, o'er idols that forsook!
V.-ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST
AN ECCE HOMO, BY LEONARDO DA VINCI.
I MET that image on a mirthful day
Of youth; and, sinking with a still'd surprise,
The pride of life, before those holy eyes,
In my quick heart died thoughtfully away,
Abash'd to mute confession of a sway,
Awful, though meek; and now, that from the strings
Of my soul's lyre, the tempest's mighty wings
Have struck forth tones which then awaken'd lay;
Now, that around the deep life of my mind,
Affections, deathless as itself, have twined,
Oft does the pale bright vision still float by;
But more divinely sweet, and speaking now
Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow,
Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, humanity!
VI-THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLESSED.
HAPPY were they, the mothers, in whose sight
Ye grew, fair children! hallow'd from that hour
By your Lord's blessing! surely thence a shower
Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light
Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright,
Through all the after years, which saw ye move
Lowly, yet still majestic, in the might,
The conscious glory of the Saviour's love!
And honor'd be all childhood, for the sake
Of that high love! Let reverential care
Watch to behold the immortal spirit wake,
And shield its first bloom from unholy air;
Owning, in each young suppliant glance, the sign
Of claims upon a heritage divine.
VII.-MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES.
"He went up to a mountain apart to pray."
A CHILD 'midst ancient mountains I have stood,
Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest
On high. The spirit of the solitude
Fell solemnly upon my infant breast,
Though then I pray'd not; but deep thoughts have press'd Into my being since it breathed that air,
Nor could I now one moment live the guest
Of such dread scenes, without the springs of prayer
O'erflowing all my soul. No minsters rise
Like them in pure communion with the skies,
Vast, silent, open unto night and day:
So might the o'erburden'd Son of Man have felt,
When, turning where inviolate stillness dwelt,
He sought high mountains, there apart to pray.
VIII. THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.
"Consider the lilies of the field."
FLOWERS! when the Saviour's calm benignant eye
Fell on your gentle beauty-when from you
That heavenly lesson for all hearts he drew,
Eternal, universal, as the sky-
Then, in the bosom of your purity,
A voice He set, as in a temple-shrine,
That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by,
Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine,
And though too oft its low, celestial sound,
By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drown'd,
THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.-ETC.
And the loud steps of vain unlistening Haste,
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hush'd hour,
Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced?
IX. THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.
"And behold the birds of the air."
YE too, the free and fearless Birds of air,
Were charged that hour, on missionary wing,
The same bright lesson o'er the seas to bear,
Heaven-guided wanderers, with the winds of spring
Sing on, before the storm and after, sing!
And call us to your echoing woods away
From worldly cares; and bid our spirits bring
Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay.
So may those blessed vernal strains renew
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true
E'en than the first, within th' awaken'd mind;
While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life,
That knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife,
But hangs upon its God, unconsciously resign'd.
X. THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON.
"And he that was dead sat up and began to speak."
He that was dead rose up and spoke-He spoke!
Was it of that majestic world unknown?
Those words, which first the bier's dread silence broke,
Came they with revelation in each tone?
Were the far cities of the nations gone,
The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep,
For man uncurtain'd by that spirit lone,
Back from their portal summon'd o'er the deep?
Be hush'd, my soul! the veil of darkness lay
Still drawn thy Lord call'd back the voice departed,
To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted,
Not to reveal the mysteries of its way.
Oh! take that lesson home in silent faith,
Fut on submissive strength to meet, not question death!
THE Palm-the Vine-the Cedar-each hath power
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by,
And each quick glistening of the Laurel bower
Wafts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye.
But thou, pale Olive!-in thy branches lie
Far deeper spells than prophet grove of old
Might e'er enshrine:-I could not hear the sigh
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold
One shiver of thy leaves' dim silvery green,
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene
When, in the garden, the Redeemer pray'd-
When pale stars look'd upon his fainting head,
And angels, minist'ring in silent dread,
Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade.
XII. THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION.
ON Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung,
Felt shudderingly at noon :-the land had driven
A Guest divine back to the gates of heaven,
A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung,
All grace, all truth:-and, when to anguish wrung,
From the sharp cross th' enlightening spirit fled,
O'er the forsaken earth a pall of dread
By the great shadow of that death was flung.
O Saviour! O Atoner! thou that fain
Wouldst make thy temple in each human breast,
Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign,
Ne'er may thy presence from its depths depart,
Chased thence by guilt! Oh! turn not thou away
The bright and morning star, my guide to perfect day!
XIII.-PLACES OF WORSHIP
"God is a spirit."
SPIRIT! whose life-sustaining presence fille
Air, ocean, central depths by man untried,
Thou for thy worshippers hast sanctified
All place, all time! The silence of the hills
Breathes veneration:-founts and choral rills
Of thee are murmuring-to its inmost glade
The living forest with thy whisper thrills,
And there is holiness on every shade.
Yet must the thoughtful soul of man invest
With dearer consecration those pure fanes,
Which, sever'd from all sound of earth's unrest,
Hear naught but suppliant or adoring strains
Rise heavenward.-Ne'er may rock or cave possess
Their claim on human hearts to solemn tenderness.
XIV -OLD CHURCH IN AN ENGLISH PARK.*
CROWNING a flowery slope it stood alone
In gracious sanctity. A bright rill wound,
*Fawsley Park, Near Daventry.
A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES.-ETC.
Caressingly, about the holy ground;
And warbled, with a never-dying tone,
Amidst the tombs. A hue of ages gone
Seem'd, from that ivied porch, that solemn gleam
Of tower and cross, pale quivering on the stream,
O'er all th' ancestral woodlands to be thrown,
And something yet more deep. The air was fraught
With noble memories, whispering many a thought
Of England's fathers; loftily serene,
They that had toil'd, watch'd, struggled, to secure,
Within such fabrics, worship free and pure,
Reign'd there, the o'ershadowing spirits of the scene.
XV.-A CHURCH IN NORTH WALES.*
BLESSINGS be round it still! that gleaming fane,
Low in its mountain-glen! old mossy trees
Mellow the sunshine through the untinted pane,
And oft, borne in upon some fitful breeze,
The deep sound of the ever-pealing seas,
Filling the hollows with its anthem-tone,
There meets the voice of psalms!-yet not alone,
For memories lulling to the heart as these,
I bless thee, 'midst thy rocks, grey house of prayer!
But for their sakes who unto thee repair
From the hill-cabins and the ocean-shore.
Oh! may the fisher and the mountaineer,
Words to sustain earth's toiling children hear,
Within thy lowly walls for evermore!
[Louise Schepler was the faithful servant and friend of the pasto Oberlin. The last letter addressed by him to his children for their perusal after his decease, affectingly commemorates her unwearied zeal in visiting and instructing the children of the mountain hamlets, through all seasons, and in all circumstances of difficulty and danger.]
A FEARLESS journeyer o'er the mountain snow
Wert thou, Louise! the sun's decaying light,
Oft, with its latest melancholy glow,
Redden'd thy steep wild way: the starry night
Oft met thee, crossing some lone eagle's height,
Piercing some dark ravine: and many a dell
Knew, through its ancient rock-recesses well,
Thy gentle presence, which hath made them bright
Oft in mid-storms; oh! not with beauty's eye,
Nor the proud glance of genius keenly burning;
No! pilgrim of unwearying charity!
Thy spell was love-the mountain deserts turning
*That of Aber, near Bangor.
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