Borrow their blameless thoughts, their calm

desires;

And Christian matrons seek

Thy spirit mild and meek,

Thy holy wisdom; sons and reverend sires, By love like thine in Christian nurture rear'd, Still bless the mother's looks, the mother's tones revered.

XLV.

But hark! the trump of doom
Peals through, and bursts the tomb!
The living and the dead together throng
Before the eternal throne,

Whereon He sits alone,

Who died upon the cross for human wrong. Mary, the child to whom thy womb gave birth,

Unveil'd in glory stands; sole judge of heaven and earth.

XLVI.

And thee, and us, and all,

That dreadful trump must call,

To hear our several dooms by Him decreed:

In terror of that day

Vain fancy melts away,

E'en Christian faith doth tremble like a reed Sway'd by the wind: we think of Thee no more; Our song is silent now; its music past and o'er.

HYMN FOR EASTER EVE,

APRIL 2, 1836.

I.

ALL is o'er the pain, the sorrow,
Human taunts, and fiendish spite;
Death shall be despoil'd to-morrow
Of the prey he grasps to-night;
Yet once more, to seal his doom,
Christ must sleep within the tomb.

II.

Close and still the cell that holds him, While in brief repose he lies;

Deep the slumber that enfolds him

Veil'd awhile from mortal eyes:

Slumber such as needs must be
After hard-won victory.

III.

Fierce and deadly was the anguish
Which on yonder cross he bore;
How did soul and body languish,

Till the toil of death was o'er.
But that toil, so fierce and dread,
Bruised and crush'd the serpent's head.

IV.

Whither hath his soul departed?

Roams it on some blissful shore,

Where the meek and faithful-hearted,

Vext by this world's hate no more,
Wait, until the trump of doom
Call their bodies from the tomb?

V.

Or, on some benignant mission,
To the imprison'd spirits sent,
Hath he to their dark condition
Gleams of hope and mercy lent-
Souls not wholly lost of old
When o'er earth the deluge roll'd ?*

VI.

Ask no more, the abyss is deeper

E'en than angels' thoughts may scan; Come and watch the heavenly sleeper, Come and do what mortals can, Reverence meet toward Him to prove, Faith and trust and humble love.

VII.

Far away, amidst the regions

Of the bright and balmy east,

Guarded by angelic legions

Till Death's slumber shall have ceased, (How should we its stillness stir ?) Lies the Saviour's sepulchre.

VIII.

Far away-yet thought would wander

(Thought by Faith's sure guidance led), Farther yet to weep and ponder

* 1 Peter, iii. 19, 20.

G

Over that sepulchral bed. Thither let us haste and flee

On the wings of phantasy.

IX.

Haste, from every clime and nation, Fervent youth, and reverend age; Peasant, prince, each rank and station, Haste, and join this pilgrimage; East and west, and south and north, Send your saintliest spirits forth.

X.

Mothers, ere the curtain closes

Round your children's sleep to-night, Tell them how their Lord reposes,

Waiting for to-morrow's light; Teach their dreams to Him to rove, Him who loved them, Him they love.

XI.

Matron grave and blooming maiden, Hoary sage and beardless boy, Hearts with grief and care o'erladen, Hearts brimful of hope and joy, Come and greet, in death's dark hall, Him who felt with, felt for all.

XII.

Men of God, devoutly toiling
This world's fetters to unbind,
Satan of his prey despoiling

In the hearts of human kind;
Let to-night your labours cease,
Give your care-worn spirits peace.

XIII.

Ye who roam o'er seas and mountains,
Messengers of love and light;
Ye who guard Truth's sacred fountains
Weary day and wakeful night;
Men of labour, men of lore,
Give your toils and studies o'er.

XIV.

Dwellers in the woods and valleys,
Ye of meek and lowly breast;
Ye who pent in crowded alleys,
Labour early, late take rest;
Leave the plough, and leave the loom,
Meet us at our Saviour's tomb.

XV.

From your halls of stately beauty,
Sculptured roof and marble floor,
In this work of christian duty
Haste, ye rich, and join the poor.
Mean and noble, bond and free,
Meet in frank equality.

Lo,

his

XVI.

grave the grey rock closes O'er that virgin burial ground; Near it breathe the garden roses, Trees funereal droop around; In whose boughs the small birds rest, And the stock-dove builds her nest.

XVII.

And the moon with floods of splendour Fills the spicy midnight air;