But high, mysterious, and unknown,
Held converse with itself alone:
And yet the look that could depress
Pride to its native nothingness,
And bid the specious boaster shun
The eye he dared not gaze upon,
Superior love did still reveal;-
Not such as man for man may feel;
No-all was passionless and pure—
That God-like majesty of woe,
Which counts its glory to endure,

And knows nor hope nor fear below,
Nor aught that still to earth can bind,
But love and pity for mankind.
And in his eye a radiance shone-

Oh, how shall mortal dare essay,
On whom no prophet's vest is thrown,
To paint that pure celestial ray?
Mercy, and tenderness, and love,

And all that finite sense can deem Of Him who reigns enthroned above; Light, such as blest Isaiah's dream, When to the awe-struck prophet's eyes God bade the star of Judah riseThere heaven in living lustre glowedThere shone the Saviour-there the God. O ye, to whom the dying Lord

Your sorrows-not his own

vn-deplored;

Thou, on whose guilt the Saviour cast
A look of mercy-'twas his last;
Ye, who beheld when Jesus died,
Say ye-for none can tell beside-
How matchless grace and love divine
In that immortal glance would shine.
And she, too, felt and owned its power
To soothe in that despairing hour;
Her pulse beat quick, and to her heart
A ray of rapture seemed to dart:

The cloud that hung upon her brow
Wore off, and all was comfort now ;-
And why? she thought not on the dead-
Her sight on him was rivetted,

Whose look such peace and glory shed;
So the wan captive, o'er whose cell
No solitary sunbeam fell,

When years and years have lingered by,
Restored to light and liberty,

Fixes his first enraptured gaze

Upon the bright sun's living rays.

Short space He stood-His lifted eyes

To heaven a moment raised-He spoke-
These words the solemn silence broke:
"Young man, I say to thee, arise!"

DALE.

OUR BLESSED SAVIOUR IN THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE.

MATT. xxvi. 36-46.

WREATH of glory circles still his head—

And yet he kneels—and yet he seems to be
Convulsed with more than human agony;

On his pale brow the drops are large and red
As victim's blood at votive altar shed-

His hands are clasped, his eyes are raised in prayer ; —
Alas! and is there strife he cannot bear,

Who calmed the tempest, and who raised the dead?

There is! there is! for now the powers of hell

Are struggling for the mastery;-'tis the hour When Death exerts his last permitted power; When the dread weight of sin, since Adam fell, Is visited on him, who deigned to dwell

A man with men, that he might bear the stroke Of wrath divine, and burst the captive's yoke-But oh, of that dread strife what words can tell?

Those only those-which broke with many a groan
From his full heart-" O Father take away
The cup of vengeance I must drink to-day;
Yet, Father, not my will, but thine be done!"
It could not pass away; for he alone

Was mighty to endure, and strong to save;
Nor would Jehovah leave him in the grave,
Nor would corruption taint his Holy One.

DALE.

THE CRUCIFIXION.

(Imitated from the Italian of Crescembini.)

MATT. XXVii.

ASKED the Heavens, "What foe to God hath done
This unexampled deed?"—The Heavens exclaim,
"'Twas man; and we in horror snatched the sun

From such a spectacle of guilt and shame."

I asked the Sea;-the Sea in fury boiled,

And answered with his voice of storms, "Twas man;
My waves in panic at his crime recoiled,

Disclosed the abyss, and from the centre ran.'

I asked the Earth;-the Earth replied aghast,
"'Twas man; and such strange pangs my bosom rent,
That still I groan and shudder at the past."
To man, gay, smiling, thoughtless man, I went,
And asked him next;-he turned a scornful eye,
Shook his proud head, and deigned me no reply.

MONTGOMERY,

THE CROSS.

HE cross, the cross! oh, bid it rise,
'Mid clouds about it curled,
In bold relief against the skies,

Beheld by all the world;

A sign to myriads far and wide,
On every holy fane-

Meet emblem of the Crucified
For our transgressions slain.

The cross, the cross! With solemn vow
And fervent prayer to bless,
Upon the new born infant's brow
The hallowed seal impress;
A token that in coming years,
All else esteemed but loss,

He will press on through foes and fears,
The soldier of the cross.

The cross, the cross! Upon the heart
O seal the signet well,
An amulet, against each art

And stratagem of hell;

A hope, when other hopes shall cease,
And worth all hopes beside.

The Christian's blessedness and peace,
His joy and only pride!

The cross, the cross! Ye heralds blest,
Who in the saving name

Go forth to lands with sin opprest,
The cross of Christ proclaim!
And so, 'mid idols lifted high,

In truth and love revealed,

It may be seen by every eye,

And stricken souls be healed.

The cross! Dear Church, the world is dark,
And wrapt in shades of night,
Yet, lift but up within thy ark

This source of living light-
This emblem of our heavenly birth
And claim to things divine.

So thou shalt go through all the earth,

And conquer in this sign.

REV. B. D. WINSLOW.

THE LOVE OF THE SAVIOUR.

H! never, never canst thou know

What then for thee the Saviour bore;
The pangs of that mysterious woe
That wrung his frame at every pore;
The weight that pressed upon his brow,
The fever of his bosom's core!

Yes! man for man, perchance, may brave
The horrors of the yawning grave;
And friend for friend, or child for sire,
Undaunted and unmoved expire,
From love, or piety, or pride—
But who can die as Jesus died?
A sweet, but solitary beam,

An emanation from above,

Glimmers o'er life's uncertain dream,-

We hail that beam and call it Love!
But fainter than the star's pale ray
Before the noontide blaze of day,
And lighter than the viewless sand
Beneath the wave that sweeps the strand,
Is all of love that man can know-
All that in angel breasts can glow—
Compared, O Lord of Hosts, with thine-
Eternal-fathomless-divine!

That love, whose praise with quenchless fire,
Inflames the blest seraphic choir;

Where perfect rapture reigns above,
And love is all-for thou art Love!

DALE

THE VOICE OF GOD.

"I heard thy voice in the garden, and I was afraid."

MIDST the trilling leaves, thy voice

At evening's fall drew near:

Father! and did not man rejoice

That blessed sound to hear?