True son of our dear Mother, early taught With her to worship and for her to die, Nursed in her aisles to more than kingly thought, Oft in her solemn hours we dream thee nigh. For thou didst love to trace her daily lore, And where we look for comfort or for calm, Over the self-same lines to bend, and pour Thy heart with hers in some victorious psalm. And well did she thy loyal love repay; When all forsook, her Angels still were nigh, Chained and bereft, and on thy funeral way, Straight to the Cross she turned thy dying eye And yearly now, before the Martyrs’ King, For thee she offers her maternal tears, Calls us, like thee, to His dear feet to cling, And bury in His wounds our earthly fears. The Angels hear, and there is mirth in Heaven, Fit prelude of the joy, when spirits won Like those to patient Faith, shall rise forgiven, And at their Saviour’s knees thy bright example own. The Restoration of the Royal Family. And Barzillai said unto the King, How long have I to live, that I should go up with the King unto Jerusalem? 2 _Samuel_ xix. 34. AS when the Paschal week is o’er, Sleeps in the silent aisles no more The breath of sacred song, But by the rising Saviour’s light Awakened soars in airy flight, Or deepening rolls along; The while round altar, niche, and shrine, The funeral evergreens entwine, And a dark brilliance cast, The brighter for their hues of gloom, Tokens of Him, who through the tomb Into high glory passed: Such were the lights and such the strains. When proudly streamed o’er ocean plains Our own returning Cross; For with that triumph seemed to float Far on the breeze one dirge-like note Of orphanhood and loss. Father and King, oh where art thou? A greener wreath adorns thy brow, And clearer rays surround; O, for one hour of prayer like thine, To plead before th’ all-ruling shrine For Britain lost and found! And he, whose mild persuasive voice Taught us in trials to rejoice, Most like a faithful dove, That by some ruined homestead builds, And pours to the forsaken fields His wonted lay of love: Why comes he not to bear his part, To lift and guide th’ exulting heart?— A hand that cannot spars Lies heavy on his gentle breast: We wish him health; he sighs for rest, And Heaven accepts the prayer. Yes, go in peace, dear placid spright, Ill spared; but would we store aright Thy serious sweet farewell, We need not grudge thee to the skies, Sure after thee in time to rise, With thee for ever dwell. Till then, whene’er with duteous hand, Year after year, my native Land Her royal offering brings, Upon the Altar lays the Crown, And spreads her robes of old renown Before the King of kings.