Then wake, my soul, to high desires,
And earlier light thine altar fires :
The World some hours is on her way,
Nor thinks on thee, thou blessed day :

Or, if she think, it is in scorn :
The vernal light of Easter morn
To her dark gaze no brighter seems
Than Reason's or the Law's pale beams.

“ Where is your Lord ?" she scornful asks: 66 Where is his hire? we know his tasks; “ Sons of a king ye boast to be ; “ Let us your crowns and treasures see.”

We in the words of Truth reply,
(An angel brought them from the sky,)
“ Our crown, our treasure is not here,
“ 'Tis stored above the highest sphere :

“ Methinks your wisdom guides amiss, " To seek on earth a Christian's bliss ;

We watch not now the lifeless stone; “ Our only Lord is risen and gone."

Yet even the lifeless stone is dear
For thoughts of Him who late lay here ;
And the base world, now Christ hath died,
Ennobled is and glorified.

No more a charnel-house, to fence
The relics of lost innocence,
A vault of ruin and decay ;-
Th' imprisoning stone is rolld away :

"Tis now a cell, where angels use
To come and go with heavenly news,
And in the ears of mourners say,
“ Come see the place where Jesus lay :"

'Tis now a fane, where Love can find Christ every where embalm'd and shrin'd; Aye gathering up memorials sweet, Where'er she sets her duteous feet.

Oh! joy to Mary first allow'd, .
When rous’d from weeping o'er his shroud,
By his own calm, soul-soothing tone,
Breathing her name, as still his own!

K

Joy to the faithful Three renew'd,
As their glad errand they pursued !
Happy, who so Christ's word convey,
That he may meet them on their way!

So is it still: to holy tears,
· In lonely hours, Christ risen appears :
In social hours, who Christ would see,
Must turn all tasks to Charity.

MONDAY IN EASTER WEEK.

Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter of persons ; but in every nation he that feareth him and worketh righteousness is accepted with him. Acts x. 34, 35.

Go
up

and watch the new-born rill
Just trickling from its mossy bed,
Streaking the heath-clad hill

With a bright emerald thread.

Canst thou her bold career foretel,
What rocks she shall o'erleap or rend,
How far in Ocean's swell

Her freshening billows send?

Perchance that little brook shall flow

The bulwark of some mighty realm,
Bear navies to and fro

With monarchs at their helm.

how far away

Or canst thou

guess,
Some sister nymph, beside her urn
Reclining night and day,

Mid reeds and mountain fern;

Nurses her store, with thine to blend When many a moor and glen are past, Then in the wide sea end

Their spotless lives at last ?

Even so, the course of prayer

who knows? It springs in silence where it will, Springs out of sight, and flows

At first a lonely rill :

But streams shall meet it by and by From thousand sympathetic hearts, Together swelling high

Their chant of many parts.

Unheard by all but angel ears
The good Cornelius knelt alone,
Nor dream'd his

prayers

and tears Would help a world undone.

The while upon his terrac'd roof
The lov'd Apostle to his Lord
In silent thought aloof

For heavenly vision soar'd.

Far o'er the glowing western main
His wistful brow was upward rais’d,
Where, like an angel's train,

The burnish'd water blaz’d.

The saint beside the ocean pray'd,
The soldier in his chosen bower,
Where all his eye survey'd

Seem'd sacred in that hour.