Temple of beauty-long that day is done;
Thy ark is dust; thy golden cherubim
In the fierce triumphs of the foe are gone:
The shades of ages on thy altars swim.
Yet still a light is there, though wavering dim;
And has its holy lamp been watched in vain?
Or lives it not until the finish'd time,
When He who fix'd, shall break his people's chain,
And Sion be the loved, the crown'd of God again?
He comes, yet with the burning bolt unarm'd;
Pale, pure, prophetic, God of Majesty !
Though thousands, tens of thousands, round him swarm'd,
None durst abide that depth divine of eye;
None durst the waving of his robe draw nigh.
But at his feet was laid the Roman's sword:
There Lazarus knelt to see his King pass by ;
There Jairus, with his age's child adored.
"He comes, the King of kings: Hosanna to the Lord!"
And he taught daily in the temple. And all the people were astonished at his doctrine, and were attentive to hear him.-ST. MARK Xi.; ST. LUKE xix.
How sweetly flow'd the gospel's sound
From lips of gentleness and grace,
When list'ning thousands gather'd round,
And joy and reverence fill'd the place!
From heaven he came of heaven he spoke,
To heaven he led his followers' way;
Dark clouds of gloomy night he broke,
Unveiling an immortal day.
"Come, wanderers, to my Father's home,
Come, all ye weary ones, and rest!”
Yes! sacred Teacher, we will come-
Obey thee,-love thee, and be blest!
Decay, then, tenements of dust!
Pillars of earthly pride, decay!
A nobler mansion waits the just,
And Jesus has prepared the way.
And he took bread, and gave thanks, and brake it, and gave unto them, saying, "This is my body which is given for you: this do in remembrance of me.”—Sr. LUKE Xxii. 19.
BEHOLD that countenance, where grief and love Blend with ineffable benignity,
And deep, unuttered majesty divine.
Whose is that eye which seems to read the heart,
And yet to have shed the tear of mortal woe?
Redeemer is it thine? And is this feast
Thy last on earth? Why do the chosen few,
Admitted to thy parting banquet, stand
As men transfix'd with horror?
The appalling answer, from those lips divine,
"One of you shall betray me."
Who by thy hand was nurtured, heard thy prayers,
Received thy teachings, as the thirsty plant
Turns to the rain of summer? One of these!
Therefore, with deep and deadly paleness droops
The loved disciple, as if life's warm spring
Chilled to the ice of death, at such strange shock
Of unimagined guilt. See, his whole soul
Concentred in his eye, the man who walked
The waves with Jesus, all impetuous prompts
The horror-struck inquiry-"Is it I!
Lord! is it I?" while earnest pressing near,
His brother's lip, in ardent echo, seem
Doubling the fearful thought. With brow upraised,
Andrew absolves his soul of charge so foul;
And springing eager from the table's foot,
Bartholomew bends forward, full of hope,
That by his ear, the Master's awful words
Had been misconstrued. To the side of Christ,
James, in the warmth of cherished friendship, clings,
Yet trembles as the traitor's image steals
Into his throbbing heart; while he, whose hand
In sceptic doubt was soon to probe the wounds
Of him he loved, points upward to invoke
The avenging God. Philip, with startled gaze,
Stands in his crystal singleness of soul,
Attesting innocence-while Matthew's voice,
Repeating fervently the Master's words,
Rouses to agony the listening group,
Who, half incredulous, with terror, seem
To shudder at his accents.
With strong emotion strive, save one false breast
By Mammon seared, which, brooding o'er its gain,
Weighs thirty pieces with the Saviour's blood.
Son of perdition!-dost thou freely breathe
In such pure atmosphere ?-And canst thou hide,
'Neath the cold calmness of that settled brow,
The burden of a deed whose very name
Thus strikes thy brethren pale?
That the strange power of this soul-harrowing scene
Is the slight pencil's witchery?—I would speak
Of him who pour'd such bold conception forth
O'er the dead canvas. But I dare not muse
Now of a mortal's praise. Subdued I stand
In thy sole, sorrowing presence, Son of God-
I feel the breathing of those holy men,
From whom thy gospel, as on angel's wing,
Went out through all the earth. I see how deep
Sin in the soul may lurk, and fain would kneel
Low at thy blessed feet, and trembling ask-
"Lord! is it I?"
For who may tell, what dregs
Do slumber in his breast? Thou, who didst taste
Of man's infirmities, yet bar his sins
From thine unspotted soul, forsake us not
temptations; but so guide our feet,
That our Last Supper in this world may lead
To that immortal banquet by thy side,
Where there is no betrayer.
|