And there are souls that seem to dwell Above this earth—so rich a spell Floats round their steps, where’er they move, From hopes fulfilled and mutual love. Such, if on high their thoughts are set, Nor in the stream the source forget, If prompt to quit the bliss they know, Following the Lamb where’er He go, By purest pleasures unbeguiled To idolise or wife or child; Such wedded souls our God shall own For faultless virgins round His throne. Thus everywhere we find our suffering God, And where He trod May set our steps: the Cross on Calvary Uplifted high Beams on the martyr host, a beacon light In open fight. To the still wrestlings of the lonely heart He doth impart The virtue of his midnight agony, When none was nigh, Save God and one good angel, to assuage The tempest’s rage. Mortal! if life smile on thee, and thou find All to thy mind, Think, who did once from Heaven to Hell descend, Thee to befriend: So shalt thou dare forego, at His dear call, Thy best, thine all. “O Father! not My will, but Thine be done”— So spake the Son. Be this our charm, mellowing Earth’s ruder noise Of griefs and joys: That we may cling for ever to Thy breast In perfect rest! Thursday before Easter. As the beginning of thy supplications the commandment came forth, and I am come to shew thee; for thou art greatly beloved: therefore understand the matter, and consider the vision. _Daniel_ ix. 23. “O HOLY mountain of my God, How do thy towers in ruin lie, How art thou riven and strewn abroad, Under the rude and wasteful sky!” ’Twas thus upon his fasting-day The “Man of Loves” was fain to pray, His lattice open toward his darling west, Mourning the ruined home he still must love the best. Oh! for a love like Daniel’s now, To wing to Heaven but one strong prayer For GOD’S new Israel, sunk as low, Yet flourishing to sight as fair, As Sion in her height of pride, With queens for handmaids at her side, With kings her nursing-fathers, thronèd high, And compassed with the world’s too tempting blazonry. ’Tis true, nor winter stays thy growth, Nor torrid summer’s sickly smile; The flashing billows of the south Break not upon so lone an isle, But thou, rich vine, art grafted there, The fruit of death or life to bear, Yielding a surer witness every day, To thine Almighty Author and His steadfast sway.