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In vain the stern Tyrant affailed
With threats of the dungeon or grave ;He spoke but the word, and the timid ne'er quailed
In pangs that had mastered the brave. The babe hath endured, while its frame
With the scourge and the torture was torn The maiden, the mother, in chariots of flame,
To glory triumphant were borne.
For what were thy terrors, O Death ?
And where was thy triumph, O Grave? When the vest of pure white and the conquering
To read the bright visions on high ;
We heard and we haftened to die.
Some died—they are with thee above;
Some live—they lament for thee now; But who would recall thee, blest Saint, from the
love That circles with glory thy brow? Long, long didst thou linger below,
But the term of thine exile is o'er; And praises shall mix with the tears that must flow
From the eyes that behold thee no more.
Joy-joy-that thy triumph is won !
Of the twelve that encircle the Son!
O Lord! shall the time not be yet
When thy church shall be blessed and free? Thou who canst not forsake, and who will not for
get, Come quickly or take us to Thee!
NELL of departed years,
Thy voice is sweet to me;
From hallowed ground
I hear the sound,
Thou art the voice of Hope,
The music of the spheres,
By fin deceived,
By nature grieved, Still am I nearer heaven than when I first believed.
Thou art the voice of Love,
I hail the sign,
That Love Divine
Thou art the Voice of Life,
A sound which seems to say,
Here grief and pain
Thy steps detain; There, in the image of thy Lord, shalt thou with
WHAT a bright and blessed world
This groaning earth of ours will be, When from its throne the tempter
hurled, Shall leave it all, O Lord, to Thee!
But brighter far that world above,
When we, as we are known, shall know ; And, in the sweet embrace of love,
Reign o'er this ransom'd earth below.
O blessed Lord! with weeping eyes,
That blissful hour we wait to see; While every worm or leaf that dies,
Tells of the curse and calls for Thee.
Come, Saviour, then o'er all below,
Shine brightly from thy throne above ; Bid Heaven and Earth thy glory know, And all creation feel thy love.
Sir E. DENNY.
HE groans of Nature in this nether
Of this tempestuous state of human things,
IS the soft hour of Eve,- the summer's
Hath sunk in smiling loveliness to
His latest beams, fast fading one by one, Wake up a crimson glory in the West ; As if through openings in its portals riven, A gleam of bursting bliss had won its way from
At such an hour as this, the penfive soul,
Entranced in thought, unfolds for flight sublime, Her immaterial wings, and spurning all
The narrow boundaries of space and time, Feels that immortal strength which God has given, And knows her true relationship with Heaven.