And canst thou, wilt thou leave me thus, mine own beloved one?

And must I seek my widow'd home thus desolate and lone?'

She veiled her mantle round her head, she did not, could not speak,

For ah! how strong is human love, the human heart how weak!

But with clasp'd hands how fervently for strength she seemed to pray,

And fainter grew that passionate grasp, as she soared from earth away.

They floated on, they floated on, that bright and shadowy train,

Their skirts of fleecy splendour swept the blue ethereal plain,

And now and then a band advanced from some far region blest,

Around whom breathed soft airs of peace, an atmosphere of rest.

Methought as messengers they came, to guide with wings of love,

These younger sisters from the earth to their blest home above;

Holy and pure as Angels are, were their resplen

dent eyes,

And full of Heaven's own light they smiled a welcome to the skies.

I saw them meet, I saw them kneel, wrapt in a long embrace,

And as they knelt a glory fell on each uplifted face; Awhile in pure excess of joy they paused with folded wings,

The silence of their rapture told unutterable things.

And onward, onward still they moved towards

the glorious sun,

They drank his rays until they grew like light to look upon;

And methought that could I follow them with pure unshrinking eye,

I soon should see Heaven's golden gates receive them all on high.

But when in vain I sought to pierce those dazzling depths of light,

A dimness and a darkness came across my aching sight,

And all those bright and beauteous things passed from me like a dream,

I was again on earth, and oh! how dark this earth did seem!

Mrs. H. V. Elliot.

LXX.

THE SEA OF GALILEE.

OW pleasant to me thy deep blue wave,
O Sea of Galilee !

For the glorious One who came to save
Hath often stood by thee.

Fair are the lakes in the land I love,
Where the pine and heather grow;
But thou hast loveliness far above
What nature can bestow.

It is not that the wild gazelle

Comes down to drink thy tide;

But He that was pierced to save from hell
Oft wandered by thy side.

It is not that the fig-tree grows,

And palms, in thy soft air;

But that Sharon's fair and bleeding Rose
Once spread her fragrance there.

Graceful around the mountains meet,
Thou calm reposing sea;

But ah! far more! the beautiful feet
Of Jesus walked o'er thee.

Those days are past !-Bethsaida, where?
Chorazin, where art thou?

His tent the wild Arab pitches there,
The wild reeds shade thy brow.

Tell me, ye mouldering fragments, tell,
Was the Saviour's city here?
Lifted to Heaven, has it sunk to hell,
With none to shed a tear?

Ah! would my flock from thee might learn
How days of grace will flee ;

How all an offered Christ who spurn

Shall mourn at last like thee.

And was it beside this very sea
The new-risen Saviour said

Three times to Simon, Lovest thou me?
My lambs and sheep then feed?'

O Saviour! gone to God's right hand,
Yet the same Saviour still,

Graved on thy heart is this lovely strand,
And every fragrant hill.

Oh! give me, Lord, by this sacred wave,
Threefold Thy love divine;

That I may feed, till I find my grave,
Thy flock, both Thine and mine.

McCheyne.*

*Written by the Sea of Galilee, July 16th, 1839.

LXXI.

ST. JOHN.

E hath gone to the place of his rest,
He is safe in the home of his God;
And we who have loved him, forsaken,
oppressed,

Submissive would bow to the rod.

Though his accents can cheer us no more,
His love yet may speak from the grave;
And thus on the broad wing of Faith may we soar
To One who is mighty to save.

Our friend and our father we heard,

On earth, paint the glories of Heaven ;But now the lone Church, like a wandering bird, To the home of the desert is driven. Entranced, on his visions we hung;

Our hearts and our hopes were above;

For the words of Persuasion fell soft from his tongue,

And the soul of his teaching was Love.

In vain the stern Tyrant assailed

With threats of the dungeon or grave— He spoke but the word, and the timid ne'er quailed In pangs that had mastered the brave.

The babe hath endured, while its frame

With the scourge and the torture was torn― The maiden, the mother, in chariots of flame, To glory triumphant were borne.

For what were thy terrors, O Death?

And where was thy triumph, O Grave?

When the vest of pure white, and the conquering wreath,

Were the prize of the scorned and the slave ?

Р

Oh! then to our father was given

To read the bright visions on high;

He gave to our view the full glories of Heaven ;— We heard and we hastened to die!

Some died—they are with thee above-
Some live-they lament for thee now-
But who would recall thee, blest Saint, from the
love

That circles with glory thy brow?

Long, long didst thou linger below,

But the term of thine exile is o'er,

And praises shall mix with the tears that must flow
From the eyes that behold thee no more.

Praise-praise that thy trials are past!
Joy-joy-that thy triumph is won!

The thrones are completed-for thine is the last
Of the twelve that encircle the Son!
O Lord! shall the time not be yet

When Thy Church shall be blessed and free? Thou who canst not forsake, and who wilt not

forget,

Come quickly-or take us to Thee!

Thomas Dale.

A

LXXII.

MARTYRDOM.

|VENGE, O Lord, Thy slaughtered saints, whose bones

Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold:

Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones, Forget not in Thy book record their groans,

Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piedmontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans