Ever as earth's wild war-cries heighten,
The Cross upon the brow will brighten,
Till on the very scorner's gaze

Break forth the Heaven-reflecting rays, Strange awful charms the unwilling eye compel On the Saints' Light to dwell.

Yes: strive, thou world, in thy rash tyrant mood, To slake that burning Cross in blood :—

It will but brighter burn,

As martyr's eyes near and more near discern

Where on the Father's right hand burning,
Light upon Light in glory streaming,
The Saviour, felt, not seen in life,

Deigns to be seen in that last strife,

And angels hail, approaching to the shore,
Rays like their own, and more.

Who knows but maiden mild or smiling boy,

Our own entrusted care and joy,

By His electing grace

May with His martyrs find their glorious place?

O hope, for prayer too bold and thrilling,
O bliss, to aid its high fulfilling!

O woe and wrong, O tenfold shame,

To mar or damp the angelic flame!

To draw His soldiers backward from the Cross! Woe and eternal loss!

14.

THE CRADLE GUARDED.

"Whose fan is in his hand, and he will thoroughly purge his floor, and gather his wheat into the garner; but he will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire. As therefore the tares are gathered, and burned in the fire, so shall it be in the end of this world."-St. Matt. iii. 12.-xiii. 40.

THE Lord, th' All-gracious, hides not all His Ire:
Through the dim chinks of this decaying earth
Gleams ever and anon th' unwasted fire
Startling rude eyes, and shaming lawless mir.

Even in the joy of Harvest, see, His Brand
Over the chaff is kindling; sheaves for food
And tares for fire, He binds in equal band.
At vintage time His robes are rolled in bloo.

His Angels and His Saints cry out, How long?
His Little ones, full keenly are they bent
To right the fallen and redress the wrong,
Full eagerly to justice run unsent.

These are Thy tokens, all-redeeming Lord;

Where, but of Thee, learn'd we aright to name
The last dire prison? Thine the distant word

Thine the undying worm, th' unquenched flame.
Therefore Thy duteous Spouse, our Mother dear,
Tuning her love-notes to the Father's voice,
Is fain to breathe grave warnings in deep fear,
And say to Sin, Hell is thine hopeless choice!

The strain Love taught her, she in love repeats;
Call it not hard, if in each holiest hour,

When with unwonted joy her King she greets,

With His own threatenings she would fence His

bower.

Call it not stern, though to her Babes she shew

The smoke aye glaring o'er th' abode of ill;
Though guileless hearts, even in their vernal glow,
Hear now and then her thunders, and are still.

Might the calm smile, that on the infant's brow
So brightly beams, all its deep meaning tell,
Would it not say,
"For Love's sweet sake allow

Fear's chastening Angel here with me to dwell?

Was not the purchase of my quiet bliss
A life-long anguish and a cross of woe?
O! much I fear the mountain-path to miss,

If from my sight I lose the gulph below."

Such lesson learn we by the cradle's side,

Nor other teach dark hills and valleys deep: Where rude rocks fiercest frown, and waters chide, 'Tis but to guard the green mead's lowly sleep.

There is a peak—the raven loves it well,

And all the mists of neighbouring ocean love, Which if you climb, what seem'd a pinnacle

Proves as a wide sea-beach where cormorants rove.

Rocks showered at random, as by giant hands,

Strew the rude terrace :-heedful be his eye, And firm his step, who on the dark edge stands Beneath the cloud, and downward dares espy.

"What seest thou there ?” a thousand feet below, And further on, far as the mists that sweep Around me suffer, dimly trac'd in snow,

Pale forms I see, reclining on the steep.