Didst cast thee down before th' all conquering Son, Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had won!

XV.

MARY MAGDALENE BEARING TIDINGS OF THE
RESURRECTION.

Then was a task of glory all thine own,
Nobler than e'er the still small voice assign'd
To lips in awful music making known

The stormy splendours of some prophet's mind. "Christ is arisen!" by thee, to wake mankind, First from the sepulchre those words were brought! Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind First on its way, with those high tidings fraught"Christ is arisen !"-Thou, thou, the sin enthrall'd, Earth's outcast, Heaven's own ransom'd one, wert call'd

In human hearts to give that rapture birth:

Oh! raised from shame to brightness!-there doth lie The tenderest meaning of His ministry,

Whose undespairing love still own'd the spirit's worth.

THE TWO MONUMENTS.

Oh! blest are they who live and die like "him,”
Loved with such love, and with such sorrow mourn'd!

Wordsworth

BANNERS hung drooping from on high
In a dim cathedral's nave,

Making a gorgeous canopy

O'er a noble, noble grave!

And a marble warrior's form beneath,
With helm and crest array'd,

As on his battle bed of death,
Lay in their crimson shade.

Triumph yet linger'd in his eye,
Ere by the dark night seal'd,
And his head was pillow'd haughtily
On standard and on shield.

And shadowing that proud trophy pile
With the glory of his wing
An eagle sat;-yet seem'd the while
Panting through Heaven to spring.

He sat upon a shiver'd lance,

There by the sculptor bound;

But in the light of his lifted glance
Was that which scorn'd the ground.

And a burning flood of gem-like hues
From a storied window pour'd,
There fell, there centred, to suffuse
The conqueror and his sword.

A flood of hues!—but one rich dye
O'er all supremely spread,
With a purple robe of royalty
Mantling the mighty dead.

Meet was that robe for him whose name

Was a trumpet note in war,
His pathway still the march of fame,
His eye the battle star.

But faintly, tenderly was thrown

From the colour'd light one ray,

Where a low and pale memorial stone
By the couch of glory lay.

Few were the fond words chisell❜d there, Mourning for parted worth;

But the very heart of love and prayer Had given their sweetness forth.

They spoke of one whose life had been
As a hidden streamlet's course,
Bearing on health and joy unseen,
From its clear mountain source:

Whose young pure memory, lying deep 'Midst rock, and wood, and hill,

Dwelt in the homes where poor men sleep,' A soft light meek and still:

Whose gentle voice too early call'd

Unto Music's land away,

Had won for God the earth's enthrall'd,
By words of silvery sway.

These were his victories-yet enroll'd
In no high song of fame,
The pastor of the mountain-fold

Left but to Heaven his name.

To Heaven and to the peasant's hearth,

A blessed household sound

And finding lowly love on earth,
Enough, enough, he found!

Bright and more bright before me gleam'd
That sainted image still;

Till one sweet moonlight memory seem'd
The regal fane to fill.

Oh! how my silent spirit turn'd
From those proud trophies nigh;

How my

full heart within me burn'd

Like Him to live and die!

1 1 Love had he seen in huts where poor men lie.

Wordsworth.

THE COTTAGE GIRL.

A CHILD beside a hamlet's fount at play,
Her fair face laughing at the sunny day;
A gush of waters tremulously bright,
Kindling the air to gladness with their light;
And a soft gloom beyond, of summer trees,
Darkening the turf, and shadow'd o'er by these,
A low, dim, woodland cottage-this was all!
What had the scene for memory to recall
With a fond look of love! What secret spell
With the heart's pictures made its image dwell?

What but the spirit of the joyous child,

That freshly forth o'er stream and verdure smiled,
Casting upon the common things of earth
A brightness, born and gone with infant mirth!

THE BATTLE-FIELD.

I LOOK'D on the field where the battle was spread, When thousands stood forth in their glancing array; And the beam from the steel of the valiant was shed Through the dun-rolling clouds that o'ershadow'd the fray.

I saw the dark forest of lances appear,

As the ears of the harvest unnumber'd they stood, I heard the stern shout as the foemen drew near, Like the storm that lays low the proud pines of the wood.