IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS.

And vainly, vainly-No! a loftier strain,
A deeper music!-Something that may bear
The spirit upon slow yet mighty wings,

Unsway'd by gusts of earth: something all fill'd
With solemn adoration, tearful prayer.-

Sing me that antique strain which once I deem'd
Almost too sternly simple, too austere

In its grave majesty! I love it now

Now it seems fraught with holiest power, to hush
All billows of the soul, e'en like his voice

That said of old-" Be still !"-Sing me that strain,
"The Saviour's dying hour."

O Son of Man!

In thy last mortal hour

449

[JESSY sings to the Harp

Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully!
All that on us is laid,

All the deep gloom,

The desolation and the abandonment,

The dark amaze of death;

All upon thee too fell,
Redeemer! Son of Man!

But the keen pang

Wherewith the silver cord

Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung;
The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown
Into the quick strong heart;
This, this, the passion and the agony
Of battling love and death,
Surely was not for thee,
Holy one! Son of God!

Yes, my Redeemer !
E'en this cup was thine!

Fond wailing voices call'd thy spirit back:
E'en 'midst the mighty thoughts

Of that last crowning hour!

E'en on thine awful way to victory,
Wildly they call'd thee back!

And weeping eyes of love
Unto thy heart's deep core,

Pierced through the folds of death's mysterious veil
Sufferer! thou Son of Man!

Mother-tears were mingled
With thy costly blood-drops,

In the shadow of the atoning cross;
And the friend, the faithful,

He that on thy bosom,

Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain-
He a pale sad watcher-

Met with looks of anguish,

All the anguish in thy last meek glance-
Dying Son of Man!

Oh! therefore unto thee,
Thou that hast known all woes
Bound in the girdle of mortality!
Thou that wilt lift the reed

Which storms have bruised,

To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry,
And, in that tempest-hour, when love and life
Mysteriously must part,
When tearful eyes
Are passionately bent

To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gaze,
Then, then forsake us not!

Shed on our spirits then

The faith and deep submissiveness of thine!
Thou that didst love,

Thou that didst weep and die-
Thou that didst rise a victor glorified;
Conqueror! thou Son of God!

CATHEDRAL HYMN.

"They dreamt not of a perishable home

Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear

Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here."-Wordswor

A DIM and mighty minster of old time!
A temple shadowy with remembrances
Of the majestic past!-the very light
Streams with a coloring of heroic days

In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle
A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back
To other years;—and the rich fretted roof,
And the wrought coronals of summer leaves,
Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose-
The tenderest image of mortality-

Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts
Cluster like stems in corn sheaves-all these things
Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly,

On their heart's worship pour'd a wealth of love!
Honor be with the dead!- the people kneel
Under the helms of antique chivalry,

And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown,

And 'midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved,

Of warriors on their tombs.-The people kneel

Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewell'd crowns On the flush'd brows of conquerors have been set;

Where the high anthems of old victories

Have made the dust give echoes. Hence, vain thoughts!
Memories of power and pride, which, long ago,
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk
In twilight depths away.-Return, my soul!
The cross recalls thee-Lo! the blessed cross!

CATHEDRAL HYMN.

High o'er the banners and the crests of earth,
Fix'd in its meek and still supremacy!
And lo! the throng of beating human hearts,
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief,
All their full treasures of immortal hope,

Gather'd before their God!-Hark! how the flood
Of the rich organ harmony bears up

Their voice on its high waves!—a mighty burst!
A forest-sounding music! every tone

Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings
From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent:
And the old minster-forest-like itself-
With its long avenues of pillar'd shade,
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not
One tomb unthrill'd by the strong sympathy
Answering the electric notes.-Join, join, my soul!
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness,
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn.

Rise like an altar-fire!

In solemn joy aspire,

Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain!
On thy strong rushing wind
Bear up from humankind

Thanks and implorings-be they not in vain!

Father, which art on high!
Weak is the melody

Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear,
Unless the heart be there,
Winging the words of prayer,

With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear.

Let, then, thy spirit brood

Over the multitude

Be thou amidst them through that heavenly Guest
So shall their cry have power

To win from thee a shower

Of healing gifts for every wounded breast.

What griefs that make no sign,
That ask no aid but thine,

Father of mercies! here before thee swell!
As to the open sky,

All their dark waters lie

To thee reveal'd in each close bosom cell.

The sorrow for the dead,
Mantling its lonely head

From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free;
And the fond aching love,

Thy minister, to move

All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee.

45)

And doth not thy dread eye
Behold the agony

In that most hidden chamber of the heart,
Where darkly sits remorse,
Beside the secret source

Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart?

Yes! here before thy throne
Many-yet each alone-

To thee that terrible unveiling make
And still small whispers clear
Are startling many an ear,
As if a trumpet bade the dead awake

How dreadful is this place!
The glory of thy face

Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight:
Where shall the guilty flee?

Over that far off sea?

What hills, what woods, may shroud him from that light? Not to the cedar shade

Let his vain flight be made;

Nor the old mountains, nor the desert sea;
What, but the cross, can yield

The hope-the stay the shield?
Thence may the Atoner lead him up to Thee?

Be thou, be thou his aid!
O let thy love pervade

The haunted caves of self-accusing thought;
There let the living stone

Be cleft-the seed be sown

The song of fountains from the silence brought!

So shall thy breath once more
Within the soul restore

Thine own first image-Holiest and Most High!
As a clear lake is fill'd

With hues of Heaven instill'd

Down to the depths of its calm purity.

There are,

And if, amidst the throng

Link'd by the ascending song,

whose thoughts in trembling rapture soar;
Thanks, Father! that the power

Of joy, man's early dower,

Thus, e'en 'midst tears, can fervently adore!

Thanks for each gift divine!
Eternal praise be thine,

Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer!
Let the hymn pierce the sky,

And let the tombs reply!

For seed, that waits the harvest-time, is there.

WOOD WALK AND HYMN.

453

WOOD WALK AND HYMN.

"Move along these shades

In gentleness of heart: with gentle hand

Touch-for there is a spirit in the woods."-Wordsworth
FATHER-CHILD.

Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery leaves
Trembling, for ever trembling; though the lime
And chestnut boughs, and those long arching sprays
Of eglantine, hang still, as if the wood

Were all one picture!

Father.

Hast thou heard, my boy,
The peasant's legend of that quivering tree?
Child. No, father; doth he say the fairies dance
Amidst the branches?

Father.
Oh! a cause more deep,
More solemn far, the rustic doth assign
To the strange restlessness of those wan leaves!
The cross he deems, the blessed cross, whereon
The meek Redeemer bow'd his head to death,
Was framed of aspen wood; and since that hour,
Through all its race the pale tree hath sent down
A thrilling consciousness, a secret awe,
Making them tremulous, when not a breeze
Disturbs the airy thistle down, or shakes
The light lines of the shining gossamer.

Child. (after a pause.) Dost thou believe it, father?
Father. Nay, my child,

We walk in clearer light, But yet, even now,
With something of a lingering love, I read
The characters, by that mysterious hour,
Stamp'd on the reverential soul of man
In visionary days; and thence thrown back
On the fair forms of nature. Many a sign
Of the great sacrifice which won us heaven,
The woodman and the mountaineer can trace
On rock, on herb, and flower. And be it so!
They do not wisely that, with hurried hand,
Would pluck these salutary fancies forth
From their strong soil within the peasant's breast,
And scatter them-far, far too fast!-away
As worthless weeds :-Oh! little do we know
When they have soothed, when saved!

But come, dear boy!
My words grow tinged with thought too deep for thee.
Come-let us search for violets.

Child.

More of the legends which the
Amidst the trees and flowers!

Father.

Know you not
woodmen tell

Wilt thou know more?

Bring then the folding leaf, with dark-brown stains,