The saint beside the ocean prayed, This soldier in his chosen bower, Where all his eye surveyed Seemed sacred in that hour. To each unknown his brother’s prayer, Yet brethren true in dearest love Were they—and now they share Fraternal joys above. There daily through Christ’s open gate They see the Gentile spirits press, Brightening their high estate With dearer happiness. What civic wreath for comrades saved Shone ever with such deathless gleam, Or when did perils braved So sweet to veterans seem? Tuesday in Easter Week. And they departed quickly from the sepulchre with fear and great joy, and did run to bring His disciples word. _St. Matthew_ xxviii. 8. TO THE SNOWDROP. THOU first-born of the year’s delight, Pride of the dewy glade, In vernal green and virgin white, Thy vestal robes, arrayed: ’Tis not because thy drooping form Sinks graceful on its nest, When chilly shades from gathering storm Affright thy tender breast; Nor for yon river islet wild Beneath the willow spray, Where, like the ringlets of a child, Thou weav’st thy circle gay; ’Tis not for these I love thee dear— Thy shy averted smiles To Fancy bode a joyous year, One of Life’s fairy isles. They twinkle to the wintry moon, And cheer th’ ungenial day, And tell us, all will glisten soon As green and bright as they. Is there a heart that loves the spring, Their witness can refuse? Yet mortals doubt, when angels bring From Heaven their Easter news: When holy maids and matrons speak Of Christ’s forsaken bed, And voices, that forbid to seek The hiving ’mid the dead, And when they say, “Turn, wandering heart, Thy Lord is ris’n indeed, Let Pleasure go, put Care apart, And to His presence speed;” We smile in scorn: and yet we know They early sought the tomb, Their hearts, that now so freshly glow, Lost in desponding gloom. They who have sought, nor hope to find, Wear not so bright a glance: They, who have won their earthly mind, Lees reverently advance. But where in gentle spirits, fear And joy so duly meet, These sure have seen the angels near, And kissed the Saviour’s feet. Nor let the Pastor’s thankful eye Their faltering tale disdain, As on their lowly couch they lie, Prisoners of want and pain. O guide us, when our faithless hearts From Thee would start aloof, Where Patience her sweet skill imparts Beneath some cottage roof: Revive our dying fires, to burn High as her anthems soar, And of our scholars let us learn Our own forgotten lore. First Sunday after Easter.