The mighty Sleeper tore

The stone, and cast it away,— When the Soul, its wanderings o'er, Came back to the sacred clay, And said, Arise, it is day!

What word is this, that so fast

Is breaking the dreams of the Jews? The gates of death are past,

They dared not their Lord refuse;
Your exile is over at last,

He is risen, your chains to loose;
This is your Easter news!

What mortal foot might so

Pass to the deathless clime? Old fathers, who sleep below, Deaf to the morning chime,—

This is the fear of your foe,

The sigh of the olden time,
The promised King sublime.

Still from father to son,

As the days went by of old,
The whisper was handed down,
The story of hope was told,
And patriarchs, one by one,

In the word of their God grew bold,
And the evening was tinged with gold.

For the prophets' sainted choir

Passed o'er the world's dark rim,

And sang of the nations' Desire,

And how men mourned for Him;

Haggai's clear-voiced lyre,

Isaiah's battle-hymn,

And mystic Daniel's dream.

It was dawn; and with tear-wet face
Magdalene wept for her Dead,
When lo through the holy place

Strange tidings swiftly sped;

In terror that braved disgrace,

And dared the death on their head,
The Roman sentries fled.

A youth none seemed to know

Sat on the funeral stone; His vesture like the snow,

His face as lightning shone;
He said in accents low,

As Mary made her moan,—
'Your Lord is risen, is gone.'

Away with weeds of dole!

Bring back the shining gold!
Let priest in snow-white stole
Come forth great rites to hold,
And Easter anthems roll

Their echoes glad and bold,
And lights burn as of old!

From the altar is heard a voice,-
Rejoice in the Lord alway!
It bids us all rejoice,

With her in whose breast He lay,

As in the nest of His choice,

When He came to take our clay;
And as we rejoice, let us pray.

O Brothers, prayer is joy,
And joy like this is prayer!
A feast that cannot cloy
With gladness let us share;
Even the baby boy

In the arms of his mother there,
His very best must wear.

But beware how ye keep the Feast!
Ye rich, be frugal and wise;

The day of the Great High Priest
Is a day of sacrifice;

If your board o'erflow, at least
Let its superfluities

Brighten the poor man's eyes.

Far be the noise and din

Of foolish dance and glee, To-day such mirth were sin; Better for God to see

A peaceful heart within,

Such gladness as may be
Laid up in Heaven for thee.

'APPEARED to Simon!' Lord, less moved we read
That Thou to loving Mary didst appear,

And with Thy gracious 'All-hail!' didst draw near
To those who clave to Thee in utmost need.

But Simon! who with coward lips denied

All knowledge of Thee-Thee, his God, his Lord!
And with an oath confirmed the trait'rous word,
Could there be peace for him at Easter-tide?

When the soft stillness of that Paschal morn

Was deepening into noon, didst Thou, the Sun
And splendour of both earth and heavens, come
And shed Thy brightness on his soul forlorn?

So speaks Thy Holy Word; though nought is said
Of Simon's greeting; perchance mute he knelt,
And bathed in tears Thy risen Feet, and felt
That all his hopes rose with Thee from the dead.

'Appeared to Simon!' Lord, my tears drop down
Upon the words, for I too have denied,

Forsaken, grieved Thee; I, who thought to bide
So firm beside Thy Cross, that the bright crown

Woven by Angel-hands for they who best

Have served Thee, might be mine, for ever mine!
And now what hope is left me? yet the line,
'Appeared to Simon,' brings a thought of rest.

VOL. 7.

I ask not for the All-hail,' or the name,
Uttered in token of familiar love,

Only look on me, and that look shall prove
Balm to the deep wounds of my grief and shame.

Thou lookedst on me sinning, and I turned
Straightway to weeping, and went out alone,

Out from Thy Presence, from those eyes that shone With light that through mine inmost being burned.

But hast Thou not another look, a gaze

That heals as well as pierces? so look down, So looking, heal me; from Thy thorny Crown, Draw mine eyes upwards to Thine Easter rays!

F.

MEDIEVAL SEQUENCES AND HYMNS.

No XVI.-FOR SUNDAYS AFTER EASTER.

(Rex Deus, Dei Agne)

O GOD and King, true Lamb of God,
To Thee, the Lion of Juda's tribe,
Who trod'st the Cross' bitter road,
All power and might we now ascribe.

By Thine own Death, a death to sin,
A life to righteousness bestow,
That we the fruit of life may win,
And all Thy glorious wisdom know.

For since Thy Blood hath quenched the ban
Of the cherubic fiery sword,

Thou openest Eden's gate to man,

Source of all healing, gracious Lord.

New light in heaven, new peace on earth,
Dismay in hell's abysmal deep,
While the two-fold baptismal birth*

Of Law and Gospel here we keep.

This is our Passover indeed,

The new is come, the old hath fled;

Rejoice, from leaven unholy freed,

Quickened with Truth's unleavened bread.

The foe are drowned beneath the sea,
The saving blood our lintels bear,
The roasted flesh, one household, we
By night with bitter herbs prepare.

* 1 Cor. x. 2; Rom. vi. 3.

With girded loins, with shoes on feet,
With staff in hand, we take our way;
The Paschal Sacrifice we eat,

In Whom our night is turned to day.

Purge us to-day with hyssop; sanctify
Our bounden service; make it worthier Thee;
Dry up the sea before us, draw therefrom
With Thy strong hook Leviathan our foe.

Then with Thy chalice soothe and cheer us, Lord;
Raise us, O Thou Who drankest by the way
The brook of our deep sins; Victim and Priest
The wine-press treading, join us to Thyself.
O Flower most fragrant of the Virgin Rod,
O Lamp bedewed with the sevenfold oil
Of heavenly grace; fairer than milk or wine,
White as the lily, ruddier than the rose;
Since Thou with counsel of such clemency
Didst condescend to aid our petty world,
And be to us a Prince, Redeemer, born
Thyself all sinless, 'neath the yoke of sin ;-
Therefore, O Lord our Brother, by Thy word
To Abraham's seed, in promise of the just
And final Resurrection, strengthen us,
Immortal King, revive us by Thy Blood,
Who lay in our first parent Adam dead;
Unite our feeble members to Thine own
Of power triumphant; grant us in Thyself
Eternal pastures, O our Passover! Amen.

BERTRAM; OR, THE HEIR OF PENDYNE.

CHAPTER XIX.

A WEEK or two later the glass of the good clergyman's expectations for his poor scholar fell very low indeed. Other engagements had prevented him from visiting the school; and upon resuming his attendance, Mr. White wished rather particularly to speak to him.

'Something has come to Robin, Sir, and perhaps you may be able to discover what it is. He keeps losing place, and always seems ready to cry.'

'I will take the class,' replied the clergyman, and see if I can make him out.'