Leave her to perish in her sin ?
Or will some word of mercy fall
To heal her crush'd and broken heart,
And bid that mortal pain depart?
O, in that temple's solitude,
What speechless joy her bosom thrill'd,
As there before her eyes He stood
And looked on her, so deep defiled;
She fled before Him-O how good
For Him to smile when men reviled.
It is His voice-He speaks: she hears
But half-her soul is full of tears.
"Where are those thine accusers gone
Hath none condemn'd thee?" "O Lord, none,"
She murmurs, sobbing thick and low,
And listens to his sweet reply-
"Neither do I condemn thee, go
And sin no more." Where shall she fly? Pardon'd, forgiven, can she know
Mercy like this beneath the sky? O, but a moment does she doubt
That those sweet words are meant for her;
She lifts her head, her lips do stir,
Yet 'tis no sound that gusheth out,
But from those lone-bewilder'd eyes,
So fondly fix'd, so brightly glowing,
The melodies of Paradise
In music from her soul are flowing,
And now her eyes, no longer dim,
Do
gaze, and feed, and live on him.
O woman! when thy tale is told,
Of sin and sorrow uncontroll'd,
Of life and happiness restored
By Him, thy grieved yet loving Lord;
The hearts that languish in despair
Lest they have sinn'd away their heaven,
May still have hope that love will
spare,
And pray that they may be forgiven.
There is not one but yet may turn;
The God who pardon'd such as thee,
Will never from His mercy spurn
Souls that like thine repentant be.
O may thy story teach the way
To love and pity those who stray;
Our sin perchance may pass thine own;
We all may err, and erring fall.
Thou dost not stand, alas! alone;
Such grief and shame are shared by all;
Yet though by man 't was unforgiven,
Thy sin found mercy still in Heaven.
Near the ancient Jewish cemetery on the Lido, but far removed from any other tomb, and lying close to the barren shores of the Adriatic, whose spray in stormy seasons must be often cast over it, stands a small neglected grave.
Its situation is inexpressibly saddening. The spot seems selected by despair; and yet hope rises above it, for a contrite though broken heart rests there.
Surrounded by hillocks of drifted sea-sand, the little mound covering the nameless dead is edged with a broken row of stunted acacias, incrusted with sea-shells and overgrown with nettles and other weeds— above it stands a small stone cross, with the pathetic inscription,
"Pregate per un Infelice che implora pace e misericordia."
REST thee, poor weary one! thy spirit yearning,
Above the world's wild flood, where all was dark,
Like restless dove, from its vain search returning,
Hath, faint and drooping, found at last the ark.
From thy lone tomb swells forth thy song of anguish,
Such as the poet's hand in sadness brings
From his wild harp, when Hope's sweet pinions languish,
And the soul trembles o'er the thrilling strings.
What flow'ring reed long rested on hath fail'd thee?
What fond familiar friend betray'd thy trust?
What death-wing'd shaft, through Love's sweet shield, assail'd thee,
And left thine idols shatter'd in the dust?
Is there none left to tend the wildling blossom
Upon thy grave,-to drop one kindred tear?
To pluck the noxious weed from that cold bosom
Some heart-throb of another fancied dear?
Peace to thee, weary one! if loved, how lonely!
None tends thy silent rest with trembling hand;
And for the mourner's voiceless grief is only-
A pitying stranger-from a distant land.
MANIFESTATION OF CHRIST TO THE GENTILES.
ANONYMOUS.
WHEN on the midnight of the East,
At the dead moment of repose,
Like hope on misery's darken'd breast,
The planet of salvation rose,
The shepherd leaning o'er his flock,
Started with broad and upward gaze,—
Kneel'd,-while the Star of Bethlehem broke
On music waken'd into praise.
The Arabian sage, to hail our King
With Persia's star-led magi comes;
And all, with reverent homage, bring
Their gifts of gold and odorous gums.
If heathen sages, from afar,
Follow'd, when darkness round them spread, The kindling glories of that star,
And worshipp'd where its radiance led,—
Shall we, for whom that star was hung
In the dark vault of frowning heaven,-
Shall we, for whom that strain was sung,
That song of peace and sin forgiven,—
Shall we, for whom the Saviour bled,
Careless His banquet's blessings see,
Nor heed the parting word that said
"Do this in memory of Me?"
By DANA, an American Poet.
Is this thy prison-house, thy grave, then, Love?
And doth death cancel the great bond that holds
Commingling spirits? Are thoughts that know no bounds,
But, self-inspired, rise upward, searching out
The Eternal Mind--the Father of all thought-
Are they become mere tenants of a tomb ?—
Dwellers in darkness, who the illuminate realms
Of uncreated light have visited and lived ?—
Lived in the dreadful splendour of that throne,
Which One, with gentle hand the veil of flesh
Lifting, that hung 'twixt man and it, reveal'd
In glory?-throne before which, even now,
Our souls, moved by prophetic power, bow down,
Rejoicing, yet at their own natures awed ?-
Souls that Thee know by a mysterious sense,
Thou awful, unseen Presence-are they quench'd,
Or burn they on, hid from our mortal eyes
By that bright day which ends not; as the sun
His robe of light flings round the glittering stars?
And with our frames do perish all our loves? Do those that took their root and put forth buds, And their soft leaves unfolded in the warmth Of mutual hearts, grow up and live in beauty, Then fade and fall, like fair unconscious flowers? Are thoughts and passions that to the tongue give speech, And make it send forth winning harmonies.
That to the cheek do give its living glow,
And vision in the eye the soul intense
With that for which there is no utterance
Are these the body's accidents ?-no more ?-
To live in it, and when that dies, go out
Like the burnt taper's flame?
A voice within us speaks that startling word,
66 Man, thou shalt never die!" Celestial voices
Hymn it unto our souls: according harps,
By angel fingers touch'd when the mild stars
Of morning sang together, sound forth still
The song of our great immortality:
Thick clustering orbs, and this our fair domain, The tall, dark mountains, and the deep-toned seas, Join in this solemn, universal song.
O, listen, ye, our spirits; drink it in
From all the air! 'Tis in the gentle moonlight;
'Tis floating midst day's setting glories; Night,
Wrapp'd in her sable robe, with silent step
Comes to our bed, and breathes it in our ears:
Night, and the dawn, bright day, and thoughtful eve,
All time, all bounds, the limitless expanse,
As one vast mystic instrument, are touch'd
By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords
Quiver with joy in this great jubilee.
The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth
Grow dull and distant, wake their passing souls
To mingle in this heavenly harmony.
PART OF THE NINETEENTH PSALM.
By JAMES WALLIS EASTBURN, an American Poet.
THE glittering heaven's refulgent glow,
And sparkling spheres of golden light,
Jehovah's work and glory show,
By burning day or gentle night.
In silence, through the vast profound,
They move their orbs of fire on high,
Nor speech, nor word, nor answering sound,
Is heard upon the tranquil sky;
Yet to the earth's remotest bar
Their burning glory, all is known,
Their living light has sparkled far,
And on the attentive silence shone.
God, mid their shining legions rears
A tent where burns the radiant sun:
As, like a bridegroom bright appears
The monarch, on his course begun,
From end to end of azure heaven
He holds his fiery path along;
To all his circling heat is given,
His radiance flames the spheres among.
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