It flooded the crimson twilight
Like the close of an Angel's Psalm,
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow,
Like love overcoming strife;
It seemed the harmonious echo
From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexed meanings
Into one perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence,
As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly,

That one lost chord divine,

Which came from the soul of the Organ,
And entered into mine.

It may be that Death's bright angel
Will speak in that chord again, -

It may be that only in Heaven

I shall hear that grand Amen.

JOHN KEBLE.

Born 1792. Died 1866.

FIRST SUNDAY AFTER EPIPHANY.
LESSONS Sweet of spring returning,
Welcome to the thoughtful heart!
May I call ye sense or learning,

Instinct pure, or Heaven-taught art?
Be your title what it may,

Sweet the lengthening April day,
While with you the soul is free,
Ranging wild o'er hill and lea.

Soft as Memnon's harp at morning,
To the inward ear devout,

Touched by light, with heavenly warning

Your transporting chords ring out.

Every leaf in every nook,

Every wave in every brook,

Chanting with a solemn voice,

Minds us of our better choice.

Needs no show of mountain hoary,
Winding shore or deepening glen,

Where the landscape in its glory
Teaches truth to wandering men :

Give true hearts but earth and sky,
And some flowers to bloom and die,—
Homely scenes and simple views
Lowly thoughts may best infuse.

See the soft green willow springing
Where the waters gently pass,
Every way her free arms flinging
O'er the moist and reedy grass.
Long ere winter blasts are fled,
See her tipped with vernal red,
And her kindly flower displayed
Ere her leaf can cast a shade.

Though the rudest hand assail her,
Patiently she droops awhile,

But when showers and breezes hail her,
Wears again her willing smile
Thus I learn Contentment's power
From the slighted willow bower,
Ready to give thanks and live
On the least that Heaven may give.
If, the quiet brooklet leaving,
Up the stony vale I wind,
Haply half in fancy grieving

For the shades I leave behind,
By the dusty wayside drear,
Nightingales with joyous cheer
Sing, my sadness to reprove,
Gladlier than in cultured grove.

Where the thickest boughs are twining
Of the greenest darkest tree,
There they plunge, the light declining--
All may hear, but none may see.
Fearless of the passing hoof,

Hardly will they fleet aloof;

So they live in modest ways,

Trust entire, and ceaseless praise.

SECOND SUNDAY AFTER EASTER.

O FOR a sculptor's hand,

That thou might'st take thy stand, Thy wild hair floating on the eastern breeze, Thy tranced yet open gaze

Fixed on the desert haze,

As one who deep in heaven some airy pageant sees.

In outline dim and vast

Their fearful shadows cast

The giant forms of empires on their way

To ruin one by one

They tower and they are gone,

Yet in the Prophet's soul the dreams of avarice stay,

No sun or star so bright

In all the world of light

That they should draw to Heaven his downward eye :
He hears th' Almighty's word,

He sees the angel's sword,

Yet low upon the earth his heart and treasure lie..

Lo! from yon argent field,
To him and us revealed,

One gentle Star glides down, on earth to dwell.
Chained as they are below

Our eyes may see it glow,

And as it mounts again, may track its brightness well.

To him it glared afar,

A token of wild war,

The banner of his Lord's victorious wrath :

But close to us it gleams,

Its soothing lustre streams

Around our home's green walls, and on our church-way path.

We in the tents abide
Which he at distance eyed

Like goodly cedars by the waters spread,

While seven red altar-fires

Rose up in wavy spires,

Where on the mount he watched his sorceries dark and dread.

He watched till morning's ray

On lake and meadow lay,

And willow-shaded streams, that silent sweep

Around the bannered lines,

Where by their several signs

The desert-wearied tribes in sight of Canaan sleep.

He watched till knowledge came

Upon his soul like flame,

Not of those magic fires at random caught:

But true prophetic light

Flashed o'er him, high and bright,

Flashed once, and died away, and left his darkened thought.

And can he choose but fear,
Who feels his God so near,

That when he fain would curse, his powerless tongue
In blessing only moves?-

Alas! the world he loves

Too close around his heart her tangling veil hath flung.

Sceptre and Star divine,

Who in Thine inmost shrine

Hast made us worshippers, O claim Thine own;
More than Thy seers we know—

O teach our love to grow

Up to Thy heavenly light, and reap what Thou hast sown.

EDWARD, LORD LYTTON.

Born 1805. Died 1872.

THE DESIRE OF FAME.

I DO confess that I have wished to give
My land the gift of no ignoble name,
And in that holier air have sought to live,
Sunned with the hope of fame.

Do I lament that I have seen the bays

Denied my own, not worthier brows above,
Foes quick to scoff, and friends afraid to praise,—
More active hate than love?

Do I lament that roseate youth has flown
In the hard labour grudged its niggard meed,
And cull from far and juster lands alone
Few flowers from many a seed?

No! for whoever with an earnest soul

Strives for some end from this low world afar, Still upward travels, though he miss the goal, And strays but towards a star.

Better than fame is still the wish for fame,
The constant training for a glorious strife:
The athlete nurtured for the Olympian Game,
Gains strength at least for life.

The wish for Fame is faith in holy things

That soothe the life, and shall outlive the tombA reverent listening for some angel wings

That cower above the gloom.

To gladden earth with beauty, or men's lives

To serve with action, or their souls with truth,These are the ends for which the hope survives The ignobler thirsts of youth.

No, I lament not, though these leaves may fall
From the sered branches on the desert plain,
Mocked by the idle wings that waft; and all
Life's blooms, its last, in vain!

If vain for others, not in vain for me,

Who builds an altar let him worship there; What needs the crowd? though lone the shrine may be, Not hallowed less the prayer.

Enough if haply in the after days,

When by the altar sleeps the funeral stone,
When gone the mists our human passions raise,
And Truth is seen alone:

When causeless Hate can wound its prey no more,
And fawns its late repentance o'er the dead,
If gentler footsteps from some kindlier shore
Pause by the narrow bed.

Or if yon children, whose young souls of glee
Float to mine ear, the evening gales along,
Recall some echo, in their years to be,

Of not all-perished song!

Taking some spark to glad the hearth, or light
The student lamp, from now neglected fires,—
And one sad memory in the sons requite
What-I forgive the sires.

ALEXANDER SMITH.

Born 1830. Died 1867.

FORGETFULNESS.

I HID my face awhile, then cried aloud,
"No one can give forgetfulness; not one.
No one can tell me who can give it me.
I asked of Joy, as he went laughing past,
Crushing a bunch of grapes against his lips,
And suddenly the light forsook his face,

His orbs were blind with tears-he could not tell.
I asked of Grief, as with red eyes he came

From a sweet infant's bier; and at the sound

He started, shook his head, with quick hand drew His mantle o'er his face, and turned away

'Mong the blue twilight-mists." Sleep did not raise His heavy lids, but in a drowsy voice,

Like murmur of a leafy sycamore

When bees are swarming in the glimmering leaves,
Said, "I've a younger brother, very wise,
Silent and still, who ever dwells alone-

His name is Death: seek him, and he may know.”

I cried, "O angel, is there no one else?"
But Sleep stood silent, and his eyes were closed.

Methought, when I awoke, "We have two lives;
The soul of man is like the rolling world,
One half in day, the other dipt in night,

The one has music and the flying cloud,