IN A ROOM OF SICKNESS. And vainly, vainly-No! a loftier strain, Unsway'd by gusts of earth: something all fill'd Sing me that antique strain which once I deem'd In its grave majesty! I love it now Now it seems fraught with holiest power, to hush That said of old-" Be still !"-Sing me that strain, O Son of Man! In thy last mortal hour 449 [JESSY sings to the Harp Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully! All the deep gloom, The desolation and the abandonment, The dark amaze of death; All upon thee too fell, But the keen pang Wherewith the silver cord Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung; Yes, my Redeemer ! Fond wailing voices call'd thy spirit back: Of that last crowning hour! E'en on thine awful way to victory, And weeping eyes of love Pierced through the folds of death's mysterious veil Mother-tears were mingled In the shadow of the atoning cross; He that on thy bosom, Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain- Met with looks of anguish, All the anguish in thy last meek glance- Oh! therefore unto thee, Which storms have bruised, To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry, To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gaze, Shed on our spirits then The faith and deep submissiveness of thine! Thou that didst weep and die- 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! In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts On their heart's worship pour'd a wealth of love! 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! CATHEDRAL HYMN. High o'er the banners and the crests of earth, Gather'd before their God!-Hark! how the flood Their voice on its high waves!—a mighty burst! Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings Rise like an altar-fire! In solemn joy aspire, Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain! Thanks and implorings-be they not in vain! Father, which art on high! Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear, With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear. Let, then, thy spirit brood Over the multitude Be thou amidst them through that heavenly Guest To win from thee a shower Of healing gifts for every wounded breast. What griefs that make no sign, Father of mercies! here before thee swell! All their dark waters lie To thee reveal'd in each close bosom cell. The sorrow for the dead, From the world's glare, is, in thy sight, set free; Thy minister, to move All the wrung spirit, softening it for thee. 45) And doth not thy dread eye In that most hidden chamber of the heart, Of fearful visions, keeping watch apart? Yes! here before thy throne To thee that terrible unveiling make How dreadful is this place! Fills it too searchingly for mortal sight: 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; The hope-the stay the shield? Be thou, be thou his aid! The haunted caves of self-accusing thought; Be cleft-the seed be sown The song of fountains from the silence brought! So shall thy breath once more Thine own first image-Holiest and Most High! 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; Of joy, man's early dower, Thus, e'en 'midst tears, can fervently adore! Thanks for each gift divine! Blessing and love, O Thou that hearest prayer! 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 Child. There are the aspens, with their silvery leaves Were all one picture! Father. Hast thou heard, my boy, Father. Child. (after a pause.) Dost thou believe it, father? We walk in clearer light, But yet, even now, But come, dear boy! Child. More of the legends which the Father. Know you not Wilt thou know more? Bring then the folding leaf, with dark-brown stains, |