ADVENT SUNDAY.

Now it is high time to awake out of sleep: for now is our salvation nearer than when we believed.-Romans xiii. 11. AWAKE! again the Gospel-trump is blownFrom year to year it swells with louder tone, From year to year the signs of wrath Are gathering round the Judge's path, Strange words fulfill'd, and mighty works achieved,

And truth in all the world both hated and believed.

Awake! why linger in the gorgeous town,
Sworn liegemen of the Cross and thorny crown?
Up from your beds of sloth for shame,
Speed to the eastern mount like flame,
Nor wonder, should we find our King in tears,
Even with the loud Hosanna ringing in His ears.

Alas! no need to rouse them: long ago
They are gone forth to swell Messiah's show:

With glittering robes and garlands sweet They strew the ground beneath His feet: All but your hearts are there-O doom'd to

prove

The arrows wing'd in Heaven for Faith that will not love!

Even so, the world is thronging round to gaze On the dread vision of the latter days,

Constrain'd to own Thee, but in heart Prepared to take Barabbas' part; "Hosanna" now, to-morrow "Crucify," The changeful burden still of their rude lawless cry.

Yet in that throng of selfish hearts untrue
Thy sad eye rests upon Thy faithful few,

Children and childlike souls are there,
Blind Bartimeus' humble prayer,

And Lazarus waken'd from his four days' sleep,
Enduring life again, that Passover to keep.

And fast beside the olive-border'd way Stands the bless'd home, where Jesus deign'd to stay,

The peaceful home, to Zeal sincere
And heavenly Contemplation dear,
Where Martha lov'd to wait with reverence meet,
And wiser Mary linger'd at Thy sacred feet.

Still through decaying ages as they glide,
Thou lov'st Thy chosen remnant to divide;
Sprinkled along the waste of years
Full many a soft green isle appears:
Pause where we may upon the desert road,
Some shelter is in sight, some sacred safe abode.

When withering blasts of error swept the sky, And Love's last flower seem'd fain to droop and die,

How sweet, how lone the ray benign On shelter'd nooks of Palestine! Then to his early home did Love repair, And cheer'd his sickening heart with his own native air.

Years roll away: again the tide of crime
Has swept Thy footsteps from the favor'd clime
Where shall the holy Cross find rest?

On a crown'd monarch's mailed breast: Like some bright angel o'er the darkling scene, Through court and camp he holds his heaven. ward course serene.

A fouler vision yet; an age of light,
Light without love, glares on the aching sight:
O who can tell how calm and sweet,
Meek Walton! shows thy green retreat,
When wearied with the tale thy times disclose,
The eye first finds thee out in thy secure repose?

Thus bad and good their several warnings give
Of His approach, whom none may see and live:
Faith's ear, with awful still delight,
Counts them like minute-bells at night,
Keeping the heart awake till dawn of morn,
While to her funeral pile this aged world is borne.
But what are Heaven's alarms to hearts that
Cower

In wilful slumber, deepening every hour,

That draw their curtains closer round, The nearer swells the trumpet's sound? Lord, ere our trembling lamps sink down and die, Touch us with chastening hand, and make us feel Thee nigh.

SECOND SUNDAY IN ADVENT.

And when these things begin to come to pass, then look up, and lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh.-St. Luke xxi. 28.

Nor till the freezing blast is still,

Till freely leaps the sparkling rill,

And gales sweep soft from summer skies,

As o'er a sleeping infant's eyes

A mother's kiss; ere calls like these,
No sunny gleam awakes the trees,
Nor dare the tender flowerets show
Their bosoms to th' uncertain glow.

Why then, in sad and wintry time,
Her heavens all dark with doubt and crime,
Why lifts the Church her drooping head,
As though her evil hour were fled?
Is she less wise than leaves of spring,
Or birds that cower with folded wing?
What sees she in this lowering sky
To tempt her meditative eye?

She has a charm, a word of fire,
A pledge of love that cannot tire;
By tempests, earthquakes, and by wars,
By rushing waves and falling stars,
By every sign her Lord foretold,
She sees the world is waxing old,
And through that last and direst storm
Descries by faith her Saviour's form.

Not surer does each tender gem,
Set in the fig-tree's polish'd stem,
Foreshow the summer season bland,
Than these dread signs Thy mighty hand.
But oh! frail hearts, and spirits dark!
The season's flight unwarn'd we mark,
But miss the Judge behind the door,
For all the light of sacred lore:

Yet is He there: beneath our eaves
Each sound His wakeful ear receives:
Hush, idle words, and thoughts of ill,
Your Lord is listening: peace, be still.
Christ watches by a Christian's hearth,
Be silent, "vain deluding mirth,"

Till in Thine alter'd voice be known
Somewhat of Resignation's tone.

But chiefly ye should lift your gaze
Above the world's uncertain haze,
And look with calm unwavering eye
On the bright fields beyond the sky,
Ye, who your Lord's commission bear,
His way of mercy to prepare:
Angels He calls ye: be your strife
To lead on earth an Angel's life.

Think not of rest; though dreams be sweet,
Start up, and ply thy heavenward feet.
Is not God's oath upon your head,
Ne'er to sink back on slothful bed,
Never again your loins untie,
Nor let your torches waste and die,
Till, when the shadows thickest fall,
Ye hear your Master's midnight call?

THE EPIPHANY.

And, lo, the star, which they saw in the east, went before them, till it came and stood over where the young Child was. When they saw the star, they rejoiced with exceeding great joy.-St. Matthew ii. 9, 10.

STAR of the East, how sweet art Thou,
Seen in life's early morning sky,
Ere yet a cloud has dimm'd the brow,
While yet we gaze with childish eye;

When father, mother, nursing friend,

Most dearly loved, and loving best, First bid us from their arms ascend, Pointing to Thee in Thy sure rest. Too soon the glare of earthly day Buries, to us, Thy brightness keen, And we are left to find our way

By faith and hope in Thee unseen.

What matter? if the waymarks sure
On every side are round us set,
Soon overleap'd, but not obscure?

'Tis ours to mark them or forget.

What matter? if in calm old age

Our childhood's star again arise, Crowning our lonely pilgrimage

With all that cheers a wanderer's eyes?

Ne'er may we lose it from our sight,

Till all our hopes and thoughts are led To where it stays its lucid flight

Over our Saviour's lowly bed.

There, swath'd in humblest poverty, On Chastity's meek lap enshrined, With breathless reverence waiting by, When we our sovereign Master find. Will not the long-forgotten glow

Of mingled joy and awe return, When stars above or flowers below First made our infant spirits burn?

Look on us, Lord, and take our parts
Even on Thy throne of purity!
From these our proud yet grovelling hearts
Hide not Thy mild forgiving eye.

Did not the Gentile Church find grace,
Our mother dear, this favor'd day?
With gold and myrrh she sought Thy face,
Nor didst Thou turn Thy face away.

She too, in earlier, purer days,

Had watch'd Thee gleaming faint and far— But wandering in self-chosen ways

She lost Thee quite, Thou lovely star. Yet had her Father's finger turn'd

To Thee her first inquiring glance: The deeper shame within her burn'd, When waken'd from her wilful trance. Behold, her wisest throng Thy gate,

Their richest, sweetest, purest store, (Yet own'd too worthless and too late,) They lavish on Thy cottage-floor.

They give their best-oh, tenfold shame
On us, their fallen progeny,
Who sacrifice the blind and lame-
Who will not wake or fast with Thee!

ASH WEDNESDAY.

When thou fastest, anoint thine head, and wash thy face; that thou appear not unto men to fast, but unto thy Father which is in secret.-St. Matthew vi. 17.

"YES-deep within and deeper yet

"The rankling shaft of conscience hide, "Quick let the swelling eye forget

"The tears that in the heart abide. "Calm be the voice, the aspect bold,

"No shuddering pass o'er lip or brow, "For why should Innocence be told

"The pangs that guilty spirits bow?

"The loving eye that watches thine

"Close as the air that wraps thee round"Why in thy sorrow should it pine, "Since never of thy sin it found? "And wherefore should the heathen see "What chains of darkness thee enslave,

"And mocking say, Lo, this is he

"Who own'd a God that could not save?"

Thus oft the mourner's wayward heart

Tempts him to hide his grief and die, Too feeble for Confession's smart,

Too proud to bear a pitying eye; How sweet, in that dark hour, to fall On bosoms waiting to receive Our sighs, and gently whisper all! They love us-will not God forgive?

Else let us keep our fast within,

Till Heaven and we are quite alone,
Then let the grief, the shame, the sin,
Before the mercy-seat be thrown.
Between the porch and altar weep,
Unworthy of the holiest place,
Yet hoping near the shrine to keep
One lowly cell in sight of grace.

Nor fear lest sympathy should fail

Hast thou not seen, in night-hours drear, When racking thoughts the heart assail,

The glimmering stars by turns appear, And from th' eternal home above

With silent news of mercy steal? So angels pause on tasks of love,

To look where sorrowing sinners, kneel.

Or if no angel pass that way,

He who in secret sees, perchance May bid His own heart-warming ray Toward thee stream with kindlier glance, As when upon His drooping head

His father's light was poured from Heaven, What time, unshelter'd and unfed,

Far in the wild His steps were driven.

High thoughts were with Him in that hour,
Untold, unspeakable on earth-
And who can stay the soaring power

Of spirits wean'd from worldly mirth,
While far beyond the sound of praise
With upward eye they float serene,
And learn to bear their Saviour's blaze
When Judgment shall undraw the screen?

GOOD FRIDAY.

He is despised and rejected of men.-Isaiah liii. 3.
Is it not strange, the darkest hour

That ever dawn'd on sinful earth
Should touch the heart with softer power
For comfort, than an angel's mirth?
That to the Cross the mourner's eye should turn
Sooner than where the stars of Christmas burn?

Sooner than where the Easter sun

Shines glorious on yon open grave, And to and fro the tidings run,

"Who died to heal, is risen to save?" Sooner than where upon the Saviour's friends The very Comforter in light and love descends?

Yet so it is for duly there

The bitter herbs of earth are set,
Till temper'd by the Saviour's prayer,
And with the Saviour's life-blood wet,
They turn to sweetness, and drop holy balm,
Soft as imprison'd martyr's deathbed calm.
VOL. II.-45

All turn to sweet-but most of all That bitterest to the lip of pride, When hopes presumptuous fade and fall, Or Friendship scorns us, duly tried, Or Love the flower that closes up for fear When rude and selfish spirits breathe too neat

Then like a long-forgotten strain

Comes sweeping o'er the heart forlorn What sunshine hours had taught in vain Of JESUS suffering shame and scorn, As in all lowly hearts He suffers still, While we triumphant ride and have the world at will.

His pierced hands in vain would hide
His face from rude reproachful gaze,
His ears are open to abide

The wildest storm the tongue can raise,
He who with one rough word, some early day,
Their idol world and them shall sweep for aye
away.

But we by Fancy may assuage

The festering sore by Fancy made, Down in some lonely hermitage

Like wounded pilgrims safely laid, Where gentlest breezes whisper souls distress'd, That Love yet lives, and Patience shall find rest.

Oh! shame beyond the bitterest thought
That evil spirit ever framed,
That sinners know what Jesus wrought,

Yet feel their haughty hearts untamedThat souls in refuge, holding by the Cross, Should wince and fret at this world's little loss.

Lord of my heart, by Thy last cry,

Let not Thy blood on earth be spentLo, at Thy feet I fainting lie,

Mine eyes upon Thy wounds are bent, Upon Thy streaming wounds my weary eyes Wait like the parched earth on April skies.

Wash me, and dry these bitter tears,

Oh let my heart no further roam, 'Tis Thine by vows, and hopes, and fears, Long since-oh call Thy wanderer home; To that dear home, safe in Thy wounded side, Where only broken hearts their sin and shame may hide.

EASTER DAY.

And as they were afraid, and bowed down their faces to the earth, they said unto them, Why seek ye the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen.-St. Luke xxiv. 5, 6.

OH! day of days! shall hearts set free
No "minstrel rapture" find for thee?
Thou art the Sun of other days,
They shine by giving back thy rays:

Enthroned in thy sovereign sphere

Thou shedd'st thy light on all the year;
Sundays by thee more glorious break,
An Easter Day in every week: