116

THE CRUCIFIXION.

What hand, what heart, in guilt imbrued,
Must be the mountain vulture's food!

There stand two victims, gaunt and bare,
Two culprit emblems of despair.

Yet who the Third? The yell of shame

Is frenzied at the sufferer's name.

Hands clench'd, teeth gnash'd, and vestures torn,
The curse, the taunt, the laugh of scorn,
All that the dying hour can sting,

Are round thee now, thou thorn-crown'd king!

Yet cursed and tortured, taunted, spurn'd,
No wrath is for the wrath return'd;
No vengeance flashes from the eye;
The Sufferer calmly waits to die ;
The sceptre-reed, the thorny crown,
Wake on that pallid brow no frown.

At last the word of death is given,
The form is bound, the nails are driven :
Now triumph, Scribe and Pharisee!
Now Roman, bend the mocking knee!
The cross is rear'd. The deed is done,
There stands MESSIAH's earthly throne !

This was the earth's consummate hour,
For this hath blazed the prophet's power;
For this hath swept the conqueror's sword;
Hath ravaged, raised, cast down, restored;

THE CRUCIFIXION.

Persepolis, Rome, Babylon,

For this ye sunk, for this ye

shone.

Yet things to which earth's brightest beam
Were darkness, earth itself a dream,
Foreheads on which shall crowns be laid
Sublime, when sun and stars shall fade;
Worlds upon worlds, eternal things,
Hung on thy anguish, King of kings!

Still from his lip no curse has come,
His lofty eye has look'd no doom!
No earthquake burst, no angel brand;
Curses the black, blaspheming band:
What say those lips by anguish riven?
"God, be my murderers forgiven !"

He dies! in whose high victory
The slayer, Death, himself shall die.
He dies! by whose all-conquering tread
Shall yet be crush'd the serpent's head;
From his proud throne to darkness hurl'd,
The god and tempter of this world.

He dies! Creation's awful Lord,

Jehovah, Christ, Eternal word!

To come in thunder from the skies;
To bid the buried world arise;

The earth his footstool; heaven his throne

Redeemer, may thy will be done!

;

117

ANON.

Birds of Passage.

BIRDS, joyous birds of the wandering wing! Whence is it ye come with the flowers of spring? We come from the shores of the green old Nile, From the land where the roses of Sharon smile, From the palms that wave through the Indian sky, From the myrrh trees of glowing Araby.

"We have swept o'er cities in song renown'dSilent they lie with the deserts round;

We have cross'd proud rivers, whose tide hath roll'd, All dark with the warrior-blood of old;

And each worn wing hath regain'd its home. Under peasant's roof-tree, or monarch's dome."

And what have ye found in the monarch's dome, Since last ye traversed the blue sea's foam?

-"We have found a change, we have found a pall, And a gloom o'ershadowing the banquet's hall, And a mark on the floor as of life-drops spilt,Nought looks the same, save the nest we built."

O joyous birds! it hath still been so;

Through the halls of kings doth the tempest go;

BIRDS OF PASSAGE.

But the huts of the hamlet lie still and deep,
And the hills o'er their quiet a vigil keep,
Say what have ye found in the peasant's cot,
Since last ye parted from that sweet spot?

119

-"A change we have found there, and many a change!

Faces, and footsteps, and all things strange!

Gone are the heads of the silvery hair,

And the

that young

were,

have a brow of care,

And the place is hush'd where the children play'd, Nought looks the same save the nest we made!"

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth,

Birds that o'ersweep it in power and mirth !
Yet through the wastes of the trackless air,
Ye have a Guide, and shall we despair?
Ye over desert and deep have pass'd-
So may we reach our bright home at last!

MRS. HEMANE.

The Offering.

I SEE them fading round me,
The beautiful, the bright,

As the rose-red lights that darken
At the falling of the night.

I had a lute, whose music

Made sweet the summer wind;
But the broken strings have vanish'd,
And no song remains behind.

I had a lovely garden,

Fruits and flowers on every bough; But the frost came too severely— 'Tis decayed and blighted now.

That lute is like my spirits

They have lost their buoyant tone; Crush'd and shatter'd, they've forgotten The glad notes once their own.

And my mind is like that garden-
It has spent its early store;
And, wearied and exhausted,
It has no strength for more.