To each unknown his brother's prayer,

Yet brethren true in dearest love

Were they-and now they share
Fraternal joys above.

There daily through Christ's open gate They see the Gentile spirits press, Brightening their high estate With dearer happiness.

What civic wreath for comrades sav'd Shone ever with such deathless gleam, Or when did perils brav'd

So sweet to veterans seem?

TUESDAY IN EASTER WEEK.

And they departed quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy, and did run to bring His disciples word. St. Matthew xxviii. 8.

TO THE SNOW-DROP.

THOU first-born of the year's delight,
Pride of the dewy glade,

In vernal green and virgin white,
Thy vestal robes, array'd;

'Tis not because thy drooping form
Sinks graceful on its nest,

When chilly shades from gathering storm
Affright their tender breast;

Nor for yon river islet wild

Beneath the willow spray,

Where, like the ringlets of a child,

Thou weav'st thy circle gay;

"Tis not for these I love thee dear

Thy shy averted smiles

To Fancy bode a joyous year,
One of Life's fairy isles.

They twinkle to the wintry moon,
And cheer th' ungenial day,

And tell us, all will glisten soon
As green and bright as they.

Is there a heart, that loves the spring,
Their witness can refuse?

Yet mortals doubt, when angels bring
From Heaven their Easter news:

When holy maids and matrons speak

Of Christ's forsaken bed,

And voices, that forbid to seek

The living mid the dead,

And when they say, "Turn wandering heart,

66

Thy Lord is ris'n indeed,

"Let Pleasure go, put Care apart,

"And to His presence speed;"

We smile in scorn: and yet we know

They early sought the tomb, Their hearts, that now so freshly glow, Lost in desponding gloom.

They who have sought, nor hope to find,
Wear not so bright a glance:
They, who have won their earthly mind,
Less reverently advance.

But where, in gentle spirits, fear
And joy so duly meet,

These sure have seen the angels near,
And kiss'd the Saviour's feet.

Nor let the Pastor's thankful eye
Their faltering tale disdain,
As on their lowly couch they lie,
Prisoners of want and pain.

O guide us, when our faithless hearts
From Thee would start aloof,

Where Patience her sweet skill imparts

Beneath some cottage roof:

Revive our dying fires, to burn

High as her anthems soar,

And of our scholars let us learn
Our own forgotten lore.

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EASTER.

Seemeth it but a small thing unto you, that the God of Israel hath separated you from the congregation of Israel, to bring you near to Himself? Numbers xvi. 9.

FIRST Father of the holy seed,
If yet, invok'd in hour of need,

Thou count me for thine own,
Not quite an outcast if I prove,
(Thou joy'st in miracles of love)

Hear, from thy mercy-throne!

Upon thine altar's horn of gold
Help me to lay my trembling hold,