Gifts, fairer far than Magian kings, bestowing
In adoration, o'er his cradle shed,

Roses, deep-fill'd with rich midsummer's red,
Circle his hands; but, in his grave sweet eye,
Thought seems e'en now to wake, and prophesy
Of ruder coronals for that meek head.

And hus it was! a diadem of thorn

Earth gave to Him who mantled her with flowers, To him who pour'd forth blessings in soft showers O'er all her paths, a cup of bitter scorn!

And we repine, for whom that cup He took, O'er blooms that mock'd our hope, o'er idols that forsook!

V.

ON A REMEMBERED PICTURE OF CHRIST.

An Ecce Homo, by Leonardo da Vinci.

I met that image on a mirthful day

Of youth; and, sinking with a still'd surprise,
The pride of life, before those holy eyes,
In my quick heart died thoughtfully away,
Abash'd to mute confession of a sway,

Awful, though meek; and now, that from the strings Of my soul's lyre, the tempest's mighty wings Have struck forth tones which then awaken'd lay; Now, that around the deep life of my mind, Affections, deathless as itself, have twined,

Oft does the pale bright vision still float by;
But more divinely sweet, and speaking now
Of One whose pity, throned on that sad brow,

Sounded all depths of love, grief, death, humanity!

VI.

THE CHILDREN WHOM JESUS BLEST.

Happy were they, the mothers, in whose sight
Ye grew, fair children! hallow'd from that hour
By your Lord's blessing! surely thence a shower
Of heavenly beauty, a transmitted light
Hung on your brows and eyelids, meekly bright,
Through all the after years, which saw ye move
Lowly, yet still majestic, in the might,

The conscious glory of the Saviour's love!
And honour'd be all childhood, for the sake
Of that high love! Let reverential care
Watch to behold the immortal spirit wake,
And shield its first bloom from unholy air;
Owning, in each young suppliant glance, the sign
Of claims upon a heritage divine.

VII.

MOUNTAIN SANCTUARIES.

"He went up to a mountain apart to pray."

A child 'midst ancient mountains I have stood, Where the wild falcons make their lordly nest On high. The spirit of the solitude

Fell solemnly upon my infant breast,

Though then I pray'd not; but deep thoughts have press'd

Into my being since it breathed that air, Nor could I now one moment live the guest

Of such dread scenes, without the springs of prayer O'erflowing all my soul. No minsters rise

Like them in pure communion with the skies,
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Vast, silent, open unto night and day;

So might the o'erburden'd Son of man have felt, When, turning where inviolate stillness dwelt, He sought high mountains, there apart to pray.

VIII.

THE LILIES OF THE FIELD.

"Consider the lilies of the field."

Flowers! when the Saviour's calm benignant eye Fell on your gentle beauty-when from you That heavenly lesson from all hearts he drew, Eternal, universal, as the sky

Then, in the bosom of your purity,

A voice He set, as in a temple-shrine,
That life's quick travellers ne'er might pass you by
Unwarn'd of that sweet oracle divine.

And though too oft its low, celestial sound,
By the harsh notes of work-day Care is drown'd,
And the loud steps of vain unlistening Haste,
Yet, the great ocean hath no tone of power
Mightier to reach the soul, in thought's hush'd hour,
Than yours, ye Lilies! chosen thus and graced !

IX.

THE BIRDS OF THE AIR.

"And behold the birds of the air."

:

Ye too, the free and fearless Birds of air,
Were charged that hour, on missionary wing,
The same bright lesson o'er the seas to bear,
Heaven-guided wanderers with the winds of spring!

Sing on, before the storm and after, sing!
And call us to your echoing woods away
From worldly cares; and bid our spirits bring
Faith to imbibe deep wisdom from your lay.
So may those blessed vernal strains renew
Childhood, a childhood yet more pure and true

E'en than the first, within th' awaken'd mind;
While sweetly, joyously, they tell of life,
That knows no doubts, no questionings, no strife,
But hangs upon its God, unconsciously resign'd.

X.

THE RAISING OF THE WIDOW'S SON.

"And he that was dead sat up and began to speak."

He that was dead rose up and spoke-He spoke ! Was it of that majestic world unknown?

Those words, which first the bier's dread silence broke, Came they with revelation in each tone?

Were the far cities of the nations gone,

The solemn halls of consciousness or sleep,

For man uncurtain'd by that spirit lone,

Back from their portal summon'd o'er the deep? Be hush'd, my soul! the veil of darkness lay Still drawn:-thy Lord call'd back the voice departed, To spread his truth, to comfort his weak-hearted, Not to reveal the mysteries of its way.

Oh! take that lesson home in silent faith,

Put on submissive strength to meet, not question death!

XI.

THE OLIVE TREE.

The Palm-the Vine-the Cedar-each hath power
To bid fair Oriental shapes glance by,
And each quick glistening of the Laurel bower
Wafts Grecian images o'er fancy's eye.
But thou, pale Olive!-in thy branches lie
Far deeper spells than prophet-grove of old
Might e'er enshrine:-I could not hear thee sigh
To the wind's faintest whisper, nor behold
One shiver of thy leaves' dim silvery green,
Without high thoughts and solemn, of that scene
When, in the garden, the Redeemer pray'd-
When pale stars look'd upon his fainting head,
And angels, ministering in silent dread,
Trembled, perchance, within thy trembling shade.

XII.

THE DARKNESS OF THE CRUCIFIXION.

On Judah's hills a weight of darkness hung,
Felt shudderingly at noon:—the land had driven
A Guest divine back to the gates of Heaven,
A life, whence all pure founts of healing sprung,
All grace, all truth:—and, when to anguish wrung,
From the sharp cross th' enlightening spirit fled,
O'er the forsaken earth a pall of dread

By the great shadow of that death was flung.
O Saviour! O Atoner! thou that fain
Wouldst make thy temple in each human breast,
Leave not such darkness in my soul to reign,
Ne'er may thy presence from its depths depart,
Chased thence by guilt!-Oh! turn not thou away,
The bright and morning star, my guide to perfect day!