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Thy birthright in the world was pain and grief,

Thy love's return ingratitude and hate;
The limbs thou healedst brought thee no relief,
The eyes thou openedst calmly view'd thy fate :

Thou that wert wont to dwell

In peace, tongue cannot tell,
Nor heart conceive the bliss of thy celestial state.
They dragged thee to the Roman's solemn hall,

Where the proud judge in purple splendour sate;
Thou stoodst a meek and patient criminal,
Thy doom of death from human lips to wait;

Whose throne shall be the world

In final ruin hurl'd,
With all mankind to hear their everlasting fate.
Thou wert alone in that fierce multitude,

When“ Crucify him!” yelled the general shout;
No hand to guard thee mid those insults rude,
Nor lips to bless thee in that frantic rout;

Whose lightest whisper'd word

The Seraphim had heard, And adamantine arms from all the heavens broke out. They bound thy temples with the twisted thorn,

Thy bruised feet went languid on with pain; The blood from all thy flesh with scourges torn, Deepen'd thy robe of mockery's crimson grain ;

Whose native vesture bright

Was the unapproached light,
The sandal of whose foot the rapid hurricane.

They smote thy cheek with many a ruthless palm,

With the cold spear thy shuddering side they pierc'd;
The draught of bitterest gall was all the balm
They gave, t'enhance thy unslaked, burning thirst:

Thou, at whose words of peace

Did pain and anguish cease,
And the long buried dead their bonds of slumber burst.
Low bow'd thy head convulsed, and droop'd in death,

Thy voice sent forth a sad and wailing cry;
Slow struggled from thy breast the parting breath,
And every limb was wrung with agony.

That head, whose veisless blaze

Filld Angels with amaze, When at that voice sprang forth the rolling suns on high. And thou wert laid within the narrow tomb,

Thy clay-cold limbs with shrouding grave clothes bound; The sealed stone confirmed thy mortal doom, Lone watchmen walked thy desert burial ground,

Whom heaven could not contain,

Nor th’immeasurable plain
Of vast Infinity inclose or circle round.
For us, for us, thou didst endure the pain,

And thy meek spirit bow'd itself to shame,
To wash our souls from sin's infecting stain,
T'avert the Father's wrathful vengeance flame;

Thou, that couldst nothing win

By saving worlds from sin,
Nor aught of glory add to thy all glorious name.

LXXV.

Oh ! thou that wilt not break the bruised reed,

Nor heap fresh ashes on the mourner's brow, Nor rend anew the wounds that inly bleed,

The only balm of our afflictions, thou, Teach us to bear thy chastening wrath, O God ! To kiss with quivering lips-still humbly kiss thy rod ! We bless thee, Lord, though far from Judah's land ; Though our worn limbs are black with stripes and

chains; Though for stern foes we till the burning sand;

And reap, for other's joy, the summer plains ; We bless thee, Lord, for thou art gracious still, Even though this last black drop o’erflow our cup of ill! We bless thee for our lost, our beauteous child;

The tears, less bitter, she hath made us weep; The weary hours her graceful sports have 'guiled,

And the dull cares her voice hath sung to sleep! She was the dove of hope to our lorn ark; The only star that made the stranger's sky less dark ! Our dove is fall’n into the spoiler's net;

Rude hands defile her plumes, so chastely white; To the bereaved their one soft star is set,

And all above is sullen, cheerless night! But still we thank thee for our transient bliss, Yet, Lord, to scourge our sins remain’d no way but this?

G

As when our Father to Mount Moriah led

The blessing's heir, his ages hope and joy, Pleased, as he roam'd along with dancing tread,

Chid his slow sire, the fond, officious boy,
And laughed in sport to see the yellow fire
Climb up the turf-built shrine, his destined funeral pyre.
Even thus our joyous child went lightly on;

Bashfully sportive, timorously gay,
Her white foot bounded from the pavement stone

Like some light bird from off the quiv'ring spray; And back she glanced, and smiled, in blameless glee, The cars, and helms, and spears, and mystic dance to see. By thee, O Lord, the gracious voice was sent

That bade the sire his murtherous task forego; When to his home the child of Abraham went

His mother's tears had scarce begun to flow. Alas! and lurks there, in the thicket's shade, The victim to replace our lost, devoted maid ? Lord, even through thee to hope were now too bold;

Yet 'twere to doubt thy mercy to despair.
'Tis anguish, yet 'tis comfort, faint and cold,

To think how sad we are, how blest we were !
To speak of her is wretchedness, and yet
It were a grief more deep and bitterer to forget!
Oh Lord our God! why was she e'er our own?

Why is she not our own-our treasure still ?
We could have pass'd our heavy years alone.

Alas! is this to bow us to thy will?

Ah, even our humblest prayers we make repine,
Nor, prostrate thus on earth, our hearts to thee resign.
Forgive, forgive, even should our full hearts break;

The broken heart thou wilt not, Lord, despise :
Ah ! thou art still too gracious to forsake,

Though thy strong hand so heavily chastise.
Hear all our prayers, hear not our murmurs, Lord;
And though our lips rebel, still make thyself ador’d.

LXXVI.

Sing to the Lord ! let harp, and lute, and voice
Up to the expanding gates of Heaven rejoice,

While the bright martyrs to their rest are borne;
Sing to the Lord! their blood-stained course is run,
And every head its diadem hath won,

Rich as the purple of the summer morn; Sing the triumphant champions of their God, While burn their mounting feet along their sky-ward

road. Sing to the Lord ! for her in beauty's prime Snatch'd from this wintery earth's ungenial clime

In the eternal spring of Paradise to bloom; For her the world display'd its highest treasure, And the airs panted with the songs of pleasure :

Before earth's throne she chose the lowly tomb, The vale of tears with willing footsteps trod, Bearing her cross with thee, incarnate Son of God!

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