And all the people that came together to that sight, beholding the things which were done, smote their breasts and returned.-ST. LUKE Xxiii. 48.

EREWHILE of music, and ethereal mirth,
Where with the stage of air and earth did ring,
And joyous news of heav'nly Infant's birth,
My muse with angels did divide to sing;

But headlong Joy is ever on the wing,

In wintry solstice like the shorten'd light,

Soon swallowed up in dark and long outliving night.

For now to sorrow must I tune my song,

And set my harp to notes of saddest woe,

Which on our dearest Lord did seize ere long,

Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse than so,
Which he for us did freely undergo:

Most perfect Hero tried in heaviest plight,

Of labors huge and hard, too hard for human wight!

He sovran Priest stooping his regal head,

That dropped with odorous oil down his fair eyes,
Poor fleshy tabernacle entered,

His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies,

THE DIRGE.

Oh what a mask was there, what a disguise!

Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide,

Then lies him meekly down fast by his brethren's side.

These latest scenes confine my roving verse,
To this horizon is my Phoebus bound;
His godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,
And former sufferings otherwise are found;
Loud o'er the rest Cremona's trump doth sound:
Me softer airs befit, and softer strings

Of lute, or viol still, more apt for mournful things.

Befriend me, Night, best patroness of Grief,
Over the pole thy thickest mantle throw,

And work my flatter'd fancy to belief,

That Heav'n and Earth are color'd with my woe:
My sorrows are too dark for day to know:

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The leaves should all be black whereon I write, And letters where my tears have washed a wannish white.

See, see the chariot, and those rushing wheels,
That whirl'd the prophet up at Chebar flood,
My spirit some transporting cherub feels,

To bear me where the tow'rs of Salem stood,
Once glorious tow'rs, now sunk in guiltless blood,
There doth my soul in holy visions sit

In pensive trance, and anguish and ecstatic fit.

Mine eye hath found that sad sepulchral rock,
That was the casket of Heaven's richest store,

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THE DIRGE.

And here through grief my feeble hands up lock,
Yet on the soften'd quarry would I score
My plaining verse as lively as before;

For sure so well instructed are my tears,
That they would fitly fall in order'd characters.

Or should I thence, hurried on viewless wing,
Take up a weeping on the mountains wild,
The gentle neighborhood of grove and spring
Would soon unbosom all their echoes mild,
And I (for grief is easily beguil'd)

Might think th' infection of my sorrows loud

Had got a race of mourners on some pregnant cloud.

John Milton.

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The Women of Jerusalem.

Jesus saith unto her, "Touch me not, for I am not yet ascended to my Father; but go to my brethren, and say unto them, I ascend unto my Father, and your Father; and to my God, and your God.”—St. John xx. 17.

LIKE those pale stars of tempest hours, wliose gleam
Waves calm and constant on the rocking mast,
Such by the Cross doth your bright lingering seem,
Daughters of Zion! faithful to the last!

Ye, through the darkness o'er the wide earth cast
By the death-cloud within the Saviour's eye,

E'en till away the heavenly spirit passed, Stood in the shadow of his agony.

O blessed faith! a guiding lamp, that hour,

Was lit for woman's heart; to her, whose dower

Is all of love and suffering from her birth;

Still hath your act a voice-through fear, through strife, Bidding her bind each tendril of her life,

To that which her deep soul hath proved of holiest worth.

Weeper! to thee how bright a morn was given

After thy long, long vigil of despair,

When that high voice which burial rocks had riven,
Thrilled with immortal tones the silent air!

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THE WOMEN OF JERUSALEM.

Never did clarion's royal blast declare
Such tale of victory to a breathless crowd,

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As the deep sweetness of one word could bear, Into thy heart of hearts, O woman! bowed By strong affection's anguish!-one low word— Mary!"—and all the triumph wrung from death Was thus revealed! and thou that so hadst err'd, So wept and been forgiven, in trembling faith Didst cast thee down before th' all-conquering Son, Awed by the mighty gift thy tears and love had won!

Then was a task of glory all thine own,

Nobler than e'er the still small voice assigned To lips in awful music making known

The stormy splendors of some prophet's mind.
"Christ is arisen!" by thee to wake mankind,
First from the sepulchre those words were brought!
Thou wert to send the mighty rushing wind
First on its way, with those high tidings fraught-
"Christ has arisen!"-Thou, thou, the sin-enthralled,
Earth's outcast, Heaven's own ransom'd one, wert called
In human hearts to give that rapture birth;

Oh! raised from shame to brightness!—there doth lie
The tenderest meaning of His ministry,

Whose undespairing love still own'd the spirit's worth.
Mrs. Hemans.