A Vision from the "Drama of Exile."

CHRIST.

THEN in the noon of time, shall one from heaven,
An angel fresh from looking upon God,
Descend before a woman, blessing her
With perfect benediction of pure love,
For all the world in all its elements;
For all the creatures of earth, air, and sea;
For all men in the body and in the soul,
Unto all ends of glory and sanctity.

EVE.

O pale pathetic Christ-I worship thee!

I thank thee for that woman!

CHRIST.

For, at last,

I, wrapping round me your humanity,

Which, being sustained, shall neither break nor burn
Beneath the fire of Godhead, will tread earth

And ransom you and it, and set strong peace
Betwixt you and his creatures. With my pangs

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VISION FROM THE "DRAMA OF EXILE."

I will confront your sins. And since your sins
Have sunken to all nature's heart from yours,
The tears of my clean soul shall follow them,
And set a holy passion to work clear
Absolute consecration. In my brow

Of kingly whiteness shall be crowned anew
Your discrowned human nature.

As I shall be uplifted on a cross

Look on me!

In darkness of eclipse, and anguish dread,
So shall I lift up in my pierced hands—
Not into dark but light-not unto death
But life-beyond the reach of guilt and grief-
The whole creation. Henceforth in my name
Take courage, O thou woman,-man, take hope!
Your graves shall be as smooth as Eden's sward
Beneath the steps of your prospective thoughts;
And one step past them, a new Eden gate
Shall open on a hinge of harmony,

And let you through to mercy.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

CHRIST AND THE TWELVE.

Hymn to the Saviour.

OH! Thou didst die for me, thou Son of God!
By thee the throbbing flesh of man was worn;
Thy naked feet the thorns of sorrow trod,

And tempests beat thy houseless head forlorn.
Thou, that wert wont to stand
Alone on God's right hand,

Before the ages were, the Eternal, eldest born.

Thy birthright in the world was pain and grief,
Thy love's return ingratitude and hate;
The limbs thou healedst brought thee no relief,
The eyes thou openedst calmly view'd thy fate;
Thou that wert wont to dwell

In peace, tongue can not tell,

No Heart conceive the bliss of thy celestial state.

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HYMN TO THE SAVIOUR.

They dragged thee to the Roman's solemn hall,
Where the proud judge in purple splendor sate;
Thou stood'st a meek and patient criminal,

Thy doom of death from human lips to wait;
Whose throne shall be the world

In final ruin hurl'd,

With all mankind to hear their everlasting fate.

Thou wert alone in that fierce multitude,

When "Crucify him!" yelled the general shout;
No hand to guard thee 'mid those insults rude,
Nor lips to bless thee in that frantic rout;
Whose lightest whisper'd word

The Seraphim had heard,

And adamantine arms from all the heavens broke out.

They bound thy temples with the twisted thorn,
Thy bruised feet went languid on with pain;
The blood from all thy flesh with scourges torn,
Deepen'd thy robe of mockery's crimson grain ;
Whose native vesture bright

Was the unapproached light,

The sandal of whose feet the rapid hurricane.

They smote thy cheek with many a ruthless palm,
With the cold spear thy shuddering side they pierced ;

The draught of bitterest gall was all the balm

They gave t' enhance thy unslaked, burning thirst;

HYMN TO THE SAVIOUR.

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Thou, at whose words of peace.

Did pain and anguish cease,

And the long-buried dead their bonds of slumber burst.

Low bow'd thy head convulsed, and droop'd in death,

Thy voice sent forth a sad and wailing cry ;

Slow struggled from thy breast the parting breath,
And every limb was wrung with agony.

That head, whose vail-less blaze

Fill'd angels with amaze,

:

When at that voice sprang forth the rolling suns on high.

And thou wert laid within the narrow tomb,

Thy clay-cold limbs with shrouding grave-clothes bound; The sealed stone confirmed thy mortal doom, Lone watchmen walked thy desert burial ground, Whom heaven could not contain,

Nor th' immeasurable plain

Of vast Infinity enclose our circle round.

For us, for us, thou didst endure the pain,
And thy meek spirit bow'd itself to shame,

To wash our souls from sin's infecting stain,

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T'avert the Father's wrathful vengeance flame;

Thou, that couldst nothing win

By saving worlds from sin,

Nor aught of glory add to thy all-glorious name.

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H. H. Milman.