Alone with thee; in that dread strife,
Uphold me through mine agony;
And gently be this dying life
Exchanged for immortality.

Then when the imbodied spirit lands
Where flesh and blood have never trod ;
And in the unveiled presence stands
Of thee, my Saviour and my God,
Be mine eternal portion this,
Since thou wert always here with me;
That I may view thy face in bliss,
And be for evermore with thee.

MONTGOMERY.

MAGDALENE'S HYMN.

FROM "THE CITY OF THE PLAGUE."

The air of death breathes through our souls,

The dead all round us lie;
By day and night the death-bell tolls,
And says, "Prepare to die."

The face that in the morning sun
We thought so wond'rous fair,
Hath faded, ere his course was run,
Beneath its golden hair.

I see the old man in his grave,
With thin locks silvery-grey;
I see the child's bright tresses wave
In the cold breath of clay.

The loving ones we loved the best,
Like music, all are gone!

And the wan moonlight bathes in rest
Their monumental stone.

But not when the death-prayer is said,
The life of life departs;
The body in the grave is laid,
Its beauty in our hearts.

At holy midnight voices sweet,
Like fragrance fill the room:

And happy ghosts with noiseless feet
Come bright'ning from the tomb.
We know who sends the visions bright,
From whose dear side they came !
-We veil our eyes before the light,
We bless our Saviour's name!
This frame of dust, this feeble breath,
The Plague may soon destroy;
We think on Thee, and feel in death,
A deep and awful joy.

Dim is the light of vanish'd years,
In glory yet to come;

O idle grief! O foolish tears!

When Jesus calls us home.

Like children for some bauble fair

That weep themselves to rest ;

We part with life-awake! and there

The jewel in our breast!

THE CRUSADER'S SONG.

Forget the land which gave ye birth,
Forget the womb which bore ye ;
Forget each much loved spot of earth,
Forget each dream of glory.

Forget the friends that by your side
Stood firm as rocks unbroken ;—

Forget the late affianced bride,

And every dear love-token.— Forget the hope that in each breast Glowed like a smouldered ember; But still the Holy Sepulchre, Remember! Oh Remember! Remember all the vows ye've sworn At holy Becket's altar;Remember all the ills ye've borne, And scorn'd to shrink or faulter.

Remember every laurel'd field,

Which saw the crescent waving ;Remember when compell'd to yield, Uncounted numbers braving.

WILSON.

Remember these, remember too
The cause ye strive for ever;
The cross! the Holy Sepulchre !
Forget, forget them never.
By him who in that sepulchre

Was laid in Death's cold keeping ;-
By her who bore, who reared him, her
Who by that Cross sat weeping.
By those whose blood so oft has cried
Revenge for souls unshriven !
By those whose sacred precepts guide
The path to yonder Heaven.
From youth to age, from morn to eve,
From Spring-tide to December;
The Holy Sepulchre of Christ,
Remember! Oh Remember!

HENRY NEELE.

VICTORY.

How gloriously the festive bells resound!
Pealing their gladness thro' the azure night,
As though the triumph of ten thousand hearts
In full-voiced chorus shook the starry air,
And made it joyous music! Now they swell
Aloft, in one tempestuous wave of sound,
Then, faintly die, like war-notes on the wind,
Then on again! with an ecstatic roar,
Thrilling the empire with a brave delight.

England hath laid her sceptre on the deep,
And with her thunder, chased her ocean-foes
Like leaves before the breathing of a blast!
England hath rear'd her banners on the plain
Of battle, Victory waved them, and the world
Again shall echo with her haughty name.
And hence, a stormy rapture shakes the isle ;
Hence the loud music of her hollow fanes,
Whether in cities emulously tower'd

Among the skies, or in lone hamlets seen,-
Still pouring out the language of the land;
With all those pageantries, and fiery pomps

That hang and glitter from her window'd piles,
Emblazed with mottoes and triumphal scenes.

Not one to whom the name of country clings
With spelling fondness, but this hour adores.
The old men feel the sunshine of far youth
Returning, fresh as when the hero glow'd.
The young,-lip, eye, and daring heart, are stirr'd;
Their very blood seems rippled with delight,
So deep the fulness of this warlike joy.
Yea hollow cheeks of Sadness, and the brows
Of Poverty, and lean-faced Want itself,
Forget their nature in a share of fame!

MONTGOMERY'S Satan.

DEATH OF POMPEY.

Not when his golden eagles flew
In sun-bright splendour o'er him,
When he "came, and saw, and overthrew,"
And kings bent down before him,—
Not in his regal hour of pride,
When his navies darken'd Egypt's tide,
To fame and conquest bore him,-
Did ever Pompey's laurel'd brow
To one fond heart seem bright as now!
When a Monarch—ay, almost a God-
Rome's fickle legions crown'd him ;
When nations waited on his nod,

And myriads throng'd around him;
Cornelia sate beside his throne,-
His fame, wealth, honours, all her own,-
Her's the sole chains that bound him,
But never did her lips avow

Such deep devoted love as now!

Forlorn, deserted, and betrayed,
An exile on the wave;

Doom'd of the satraps he had made
Life's paltry boon to crave;

Of wealth, fame, power, even hope bereft,

Scorned by his summer friends and left
No refuge but the grave,-

What raised his soul his fate above?—
What, but Cornelia's changeless love!

She looks upon Pelugium's strand,
Fierce hosts are hurrying there;
And she numbers each succeeding band,
With a wild and troubled air.
Proud ships are dancing in the bay;
"Is it their homage thus they pay,'
She asks, 66 or but a snare,
A dark device of Cæsar's hate,
To seal my royal Pompey's fate?"

A bark comes tilting thro' the spray,
To bear him to the shore;
One kiss-and then away, away!
One word and all is o'er !
Vain her entreaties, vainer now,
The bodings wild that cloud the brow
Her lips may press no more;
Bright prows are stirring in the bay;
The die is cast- -away, away!

A shriek is on the noontide wave,
Despairing loud, and shrill ;-
Oh that her love had power to save
The blood they rush to spill!
It may not be ;-he looks his last;
One moment and the struggle's past,

Even now his heart grows chill ;-
He draws his mantle o'er his eyes,
And as he lived great Pompey dies.

And shouts of triumph rend the air,
From the slaves who mark his fall;
But the voice of Cornelia's deep despair
Is heard above them all!

'Tis the requiem wild of woman's love;
The cry of blood to heaven above;
May vengeance note the call!

And yon dastard traitor's cheeks grow pale At the dooming tones of that fearful wail.