To glowing life with those Arcadian sounds-
And vainly, vainly-No! a loftier strain,
A deeper music!-Something that may bear
The spirit upon slow yet mighty wings,
Unsway'd by gusts of earth: something all fill'd
With solemn adoration, tearful

prayer.Sing me that antique strain which once I deem'd Almost too sternly simple, too austere

In its grave majesty! I love it now

Now it seems fraught with holiest power, to hush All billows of the soul, e'en like his voice

That said of old-"Be still!"-Sing me that strain, "The Saviour's dying hour."

O Son of Man!

[JESSY sings to the Harp.

In thy last mortal hour

Shadows of earth closed round thee fearfully!

All that on us is laid,

All the deep gloom,

The desolation and the abandonment,

The dark amaze of death;

All upon thee too fell,

Redeemer! Son of Man!

Wherewith the silver cord

Of earth's affection from the soul is wrung;
The uptearing of those tendrils which have grown
Into the quick strong heart;

This, this, the passion and the agony
Of battling love and death,

Surely was not for thee,

Holy one! Son of God!

Yes, my Redeemer !
E'en this cup was thine!

Fond wailing voices call'd thy spirit back:
E'en 'midst the mighty thoughts

Of that last crowning hour;
E'en on thine awful way to victory,

Wildly they call'd thee back!

And weeping eyes of love

Unto thy heart's deep core,

Pierced through the folds of death's mysterious veilSufferer! thou Son of Man!

Mother-tears were mingled
With thy costly blood-drops,

In the shadow of the atoning cross;
And the friend, the faithful,

He that on thy bosom,

Thence imbibing heavenly love, had lain-
He a pale sad watcher-

Met with looks of anguish,

All the anguish in thy last meek glance—
Dying Son of Man!

Oh! therefore unto thee,

Thou that hast known all woes

Bound in the girdle of mortality!

Thou that wilt lift the reed

Which storms have bruised,

To thee may sorrow through each conflict cry,

And, in that tempest-hour, when love and life
Mysteriously must part,
When tearful eyes

Are passionately bent

To drink earth's last fond meaning from our gaze,
Then, then forsake us not!
Shed on our spirits then

The faith and deep submissiveness of thine!
Thou that didst love,

Thou that didst weep and die—

Thou that didst rise a victor glorified;
Conqueror! thou Son of God!

CATHEDRAL HYMN.

"They dreamt not of a perishable home
Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear
Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here."

A DIM and mighty minster of old time!
A temple shadowy with remembrances
Of the majestic past!-the very light
Streams with a colouring of heroic days

WORDSWORTH.

In every ray, which leads through arch and aisle
A path of dreamy lustre, wandering back
To other years;—and the rich fretted roof,
And the wrought coronals of summer leaves,
Ivy and vine, and many a sculptured rose-
The tenderest image of mortality—

Binding the slender columns, whose light shafts
Cluster like stems in corn sheaves-all these things

Tell of a race that nobly, fearlessly,

On their heart's worship pour'd a wealth of love! Honour be with the dead!—The people kneel Under the helms of antique chivalry,

And in the crimson gloom from banners thrown, And 'midst the forms, in pale proud slumber carved, Of warriors on their tombs.-The people kneel Where mail-clad chiefs have knelt; where jewell'd

crowns

On the flush'd brows of conquerors have been set; Where the high anthems of old victories

Have made the dust give echoes.-Hence, vain thoughts!

Memories of power and pride, which, long ago,
Like dim processions of a dream, have sunk
In twilight depths away.—Return, my soul!
The cross recalls thee-Lo! the blessed cross!
High o'er the banners and the crests of earth,
Fix'd in its meek and still supremacy!
And lo! the throng of beating human hearts,
With all their secret scrolls of buried grief,
All their full treasures of immortal hope,
Gather'd before their God!-Hark! how the flood
Of the rich organ harmony bears up

Their voice on its high waves !—a mighty burst!
A forest-sounding music! every tone

Which the blasts call forth with their harping wings
From gulfs of tossing foliage there is blent:
And the old minster-forest-like itself-

With its long avenues of pillar'd shade,
Seems quivering all with spirit, as that strain
O'erflows its dim recesses, leaving not

One tomb unthrill'd by the strong sympathy
Answering the electric notes.-Join, join, my soul!
In thine own lowly, trembling consciousness,
And thine own solitude, the glorious hymn.

Rise like an altar-fire!
In solemn joy aspire,

Deepening thy passion still, O choral strain!
On thy strong rushing wind

Bear up from humankind

Thanks and implorings-be they not in vain!

Father, which art on high!

Weak is the melody

Of harp or song to reach thine awful ear,
Unless the heart be there,

Winging the words of prayer,

With its own fervent faith or suppliant fear.

Let, then, thy spirit brood

Over the multitude

Be thou amidst them through that heavenly Guest So shall their cry have power

To win from thee a shower

Of healing gifts for every wounded breast.

What griefs that make no sign,

That ask no aid but thine,

Father of mercies! here before thee swell!
As to the open sky,

All their dark waters lie

To thee reveal'd, in each close bosom cell.