Nor noon, nor night; for to the west The heavy sun doth glow; And, like a ship, the lazy mist Is sailing on below; Between the broad sun and the earth It tacketh to and fro. There is no living wind astir; The bat's unholy wing THE STAR OF CALVARY. Threads through the noiseless olive trees, Like some unquiet thing Which playeth in the darkness, when Mount Calvary! Mount Calvary, All sorrowfully still, That mournful tread, it rends the heart The mournful tread of them that crowd There is a cross, not one alone, "Tis even three I count, Like columns on the mossy marge Behold, O Israel! behold, What evil hath he done? It is your King, O Israel! The God-begotten Son! A wreath of thorns, a wreath of thorns! 'Tis veiled in every woe; "Tis fixed on thee, O Israel! His gaze!-how strange to brook; But that there's mercy blended deep In each reproachful look, "Twould search thee, till the very heart Its withered home forsook. To God! to God! how eloquent The cry, as if it grew, By those cold lips unuttered, yet All heartfelt rising through, "Father in heaven! forgive them, for They know not what they do!" Hawthorne. The Burial. Joseph of Arimathea, an honorable counsellor, which also waited for the kingdom of God, came, and went in boldly unto Pilate, and craved the body of Jesus. -ST. MARK XV. 43. Ar length the worst is o'er, and Thou art laid All still and cold beneath yon dreary stone, Around those lips where power and mercy hung, The dull earth o'er Thee and thy foes around, Sleep'st Thou indeed? or is thy spirit fled, Whether in Eden bowers thy welcome voice Or in some drearier scene thine eye controls That, as thy blood won earth, thine agony Might set the shadowy realm from sin and sorrow free. THE BURIAL. Where'er Thou roam'st, one happy soul, we know, Waits on thy triumph-even as all the blest Each on his cross, by Thee we hang a while, Till we have learned to say, ""Tis justly done Soon wilt Thou take us to thy tranquil bower Till thine elect are number'd, and the grave Then on thy bosom borne shall we descend, 207 Earth all refined with bright supernal fires, Tinctured with holy blood, and wing'd with pure desires. O come that day, when in this restless heart Earth shall resign her part, When in the grave with Thee my limbs shall rest, But stay, presumptuous-CHRIST with thee abides He from the stone will wring celestial dew, If but the prisoner's heart be faithful found and true. John Keble. |