ON A PICTURE OF CHRIST BEARING THE CROSS.

PAINTED BY VELASQUEZ.1

By the dark stillness brooding in the sky,
Holiest of sufferers! round thy path of woe,
And by the weight of mortal agony

Laid on thy drooping form and pale meek brow,
My heart was awed: the burden of thy pain
Sank on me with a mystery and a chain.

I look'd once more, and, as the virtue shed
Forth from thy robe of old, so fell a ray
Of victory from thy mien! and round thy head,
The halo, melting spirit-like away,

Seem'd of the very soul's bright rising born,
To glorify all sorrow, shame, and scorn.

And upwards, through transparent darkness gleaming, Gazed, in mute reverence, woman's earnest eye, Lit, as a vase whence inward light is streaming,

With quenchless faith, and deep love's fervency; Gathering, like incense round some dim-veil'd shrine, About the Form, so mournfully divine!

1

This picture is in the possession of the Viscount Harberton, Merrion Square, Dublin.

Oh! let thine image, as e'en then it rose,
Live in my soul for ever, calm and clear,
Making itself a temple of repose,

Beyond the breath of human hope or fear!
A holy place, where through all storms may lie
One living beam of day-spring from on high.

COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT.

Could we but keep our spirits to that height,
We might be happy: but this clay will sink
Its spark immortal.

Byron.

RETURN, my thoughts, come home!

Ye wild and wing'd! what do ye o'er the deep? And wherefore thus th' abyss of time o'ersweep, As birds the ocean foam?

Swifter than shooting star

Swifter than glances of the northern light, Upspringing through the purple heaven of night, Hath been your course afar!

Through the bright battle-clime,

Where laurel boughs make dim the Grecian streams,
And reeds are whispering of heroic theme,
By temples of old time:

Through the north's ancient halls,

Where banners thrill'd of yore, where harp-strings rung,
But
grass waves now o'er those that fought and sung-
Hearth-light hath left their walls!

Through forests old and dim,

Where o'er the leaves dread magic seems to brood, And sometimes on the haunted solitude

Rises the pilgrim's hymn:

Or where some fountain lies,

With lotus-cups through orient spice-woods gleaming! There have ye been, ye wanderers! idly dreaming Of man's lost paradise!

Return, my thoughts, return!

Cares wait your presence in life's daily track,
And voices, not of music, call you back-
Harsh voices, cold and stern!

Oh no, return ye not!

Still farther, loftier, let your soarings be!
Go, bring me strength from journeyings bright and free
O'er many a haunted spot.

Go, seek the martyr's grave,

'Midst the old mountains, and the deserts vast; Or, through the ruin'd cities of the past, Follow the wise and brave!

Go, visit cell and shrine!

Where woman hath endured!-through wrong, through scorn,

Uncheer'd by fame, yet silently upborne
By promptings more divine!

Go, shoot the gulf of death!

Track the pure spirit where no chain can bind, Where the heart's boundless love its rest may find, Where the storm sends no breath!

Higher, and yet more high!

Shake off the cumbering chain which earth would lay On your victorious wings-mount, mount!--Your way Is through eternity!

SONNETS,

DEVOTIONAL AND MEMORIAL.

I.

THE SACRED HARP.

How shall the harp of poesy regain

That old victorious tone of prophet-years,
A spell divine o'er guilt's perturbing fears,
And all the hovering shadows of the brain?
Dark evil wings took flight before the strain,
And showers of holy quiet, with its fall,
Sank on the soul:-Oh! who may now recall
The mighty music's consecrated reign?-
Spirit of God! whose glory once o'erhung

A throne, the Ark's dread cherubim between,
So let thy presence brood, though now unseen,
O'er those two powers by whom the harp is strung-
Feeling and Thought!-till the rekindled chords
Give the long-buried tone back to immortal words!
II.

TO A FAMILY BIBLE.

What household thoughts around thee, as their shrine,
Cling reverently!—of anxious looks beguiled,
My mother's eyes, upon thy page divine,

Each day were bent;-her accents, gravely mild,

Breathed out thy lore: whilst I, a dreamy child,
Wander'd on breeze-like fancies oft away,

To some lone tuft of gleaming spring-flowers wild,
Some fresh-discover'd nook for woodland play,
Some secret nest:-yet would the solemn Word
At times, with kindlings of young wonder heard,
Fall on my waken'd spirit, there to be
A seed not lost;- for which, in darker years,
O Book of Heaven! I pour, with grateful tears,
Heart blessings on the holy dead and thee!

III.

REPOSE OF A HOLY FAMILY.

From an Old Italian Picture.

Under a palm tree, by the green old Nile,
Lull'd on his mother's breast, the fair Child lies,
With dove-like breathings, and a tender smile,
Brooding above the slumber of his eyes,
While, through the stillness of the burning skies,
Lo! the dread works of Egypt's buried kings,
Temple and pyramid, beyond him rise,

Regal and still as everlasting things!

Vain pomps! from Him, with that pure flowery cheek,
Soft shadow'd by his mother's drooping head,
A new-born Spirit, mighty, and yet meek,

O'er the whole world like vernal air shall spread! And bid all earthly Grandeurs cast the crown, Before the suffering and the lowly, down.

IV.

PICTURE OF THE INFANT CHRIST WITH FLOWERS.

All the bright hues from eastern garlands glowing, Round the young Child luxuriantly are spread;