III.

And with him stood the prophet son of fire,
Who mocked at Baal, and his minion's ire,
And, deathless, rode to God in flaming car:
A saintly pair, fit retinue for one

Who came not as a servant, but a SON-
His bloody death foreseeing from afar.

IV.

"Tis of that death that Exodus they speak
High words, and mystic, but the sufferer meek
Doth not reveal the message of the hour,
And the thrice-honour'd servants may not keep
Th' unbroken vigil, but in helpless sleep
Sink, over-master'd by unearthly power.

V.

They would have watch'd, they would have tented

there,

With their Immanuel and the heavenly pair ;

They did but babble, and were in amaze.

The cloud of light becomes their only tent,
And, when the brief relapse to dreams is spent,

The Master only meets their ardent gaze.

VI.

But had no voices burst upon their ear?
Yea, they had listen'd with delight and fear,
And caught the sentence of th' eternal Sire,
Breathing from out the tabernacle dim,
THIS IS MY SON BELOVED, HEAR YE HIM:
'Twas writ for aye upon their hearts in fire.

VII.

Such as our Jesus seem'd, they see him now,

Thus cloth'd in light, where martyrs round him

bow;

Such shall we see him, when he comes in might, With trump angelic, with his cloudy train Of countless spirits; for he comes again, Blest apparition, to our longing sight!

THE GRANDMOTHER.

How striking is the contrast between youth and age. Here is a venerable woman, with a little grandchild reading the Bible to her. Her quiet dignity of manner seems well suited to the solemn truths which we may suppose her to be hearing. Continued sickness and old age, which is itself a long disease, have left their marks on her countenance. Yet it is placid and meek, like that of one who has grown old in the exercises of piety. There are tokens of pain as well as languor in her whole posture, as well as in the expression of her face. The ivory-headed staff, which leans against the table, tells us that the old lady is lame. The little box, placed within her reach, is supplied with favourite lozenges for her racking cough. Good Mrs. Morley-she has not crossed the threshold of her cottage for more than three years.

The house in which she lives is much older than herself-indeed, it is the very one in which she was born, and into which she received her young husband, Kit Morley, the boatswain, sixty years