His bitter groans all nature struck,
His voice the rock in fragments broke;
And sleeping saints their graves forsook ;
While spiteful Jews deride and mock,
And laugh at all his pain.

Suspended between earth and skies,
Behold him trembling as he dies!
O sinners, hear his mournful cries!
O think how sad his pain!

The noon-day sun withdraws his light,
Shock'd and confounded at the sight.
The darkness spreads a horrid night;
All nature shiver'd with affright,

When Christ the Lord was slain.

Hear, heaven and earth, the eternal Son! "Father," he cries, "thy will be done!" He treads the wine-press all alone,

His garments stain'd with blood!

O hear that bitter, bitter cry,
"ELI LAMA SABACHTHANI!"
But when in death he hides his eye,
He soon shall mount above the sky-
The conquering Son of God.

Romans and Jews, a desperate band,
With hearts like steel around him stand,
Shouting, "If strong to save our land,

Come down, thyself make free !"

Pierced by a soldier as he died,
Again long streams flow'd from his side;
And thus my Lord was crucified :
Stern Justice now is satisfied,

Sinners, for you and me.

Behold him on a throne of state,
He fills the mediatorial seat,
While millions, bowing at his feet,
In loud Hosannas tell

How he endured his mortal pains,

And dragg'd even death and hell in chains;
Ye seraphs, raise your highest strains;
Let music fill bright Salem's plains;
He conquers death and hell!

""Tis done, the dreadful debt is paid,
The great atonement now is made;
Sinners, on me your guilt was laid,
For you I spilt my blood.

P P

For you my tender soul did move ;

For you

I left the courts above,

That you the length and breadth might prove,
The height and depth, of sovereign love,,
The unknown love of God."

All glory be to God on high,
Who reigns enthroned above the sky,
Who sent his Son to bleed and die,
Glory to God be given !
While heaven above his praise resounds,
Soon as the soul has burst its bounds,
I hope to sing eternal rounds.

Of flowing love which knows no bounds,
When carried up to heaven.

"Some salutary truth, distill'd
Pure from the pious mind:
Some canticle, or grave, or fill'd
With strains of joy refined:

"Some vision of the limner's art,—
A face, a field, or flower:
Some symbol wisdom to impart,-
A tomb or heaven-struck tower:

"Some oracle Divine, a choice
To suit her youthful prime:

Some prayer to bless her path, the voice
Of Charity sublime.

"With these adorn'd, my faithful page
Shall gratefully proclaim,

Perchance, through some far-distant age,
Your virtue and your name."

FRAGMENT.*

WITH Song, and symphony, and bold acclaim,
While evening smiles, the festive plains resound;
And many a bard receives a deathless fame,

His blushing brows with greenest garlands bound.
The bards an equitable meed have found :—
Yet nobler themes demand their noblest line;
A harp of holier, of sublimer sound

Might tempt the hand can move with free design,

To seize the o'erwhelming strain that rolls through realms Divine. That strain is love, the loftiest of the sky,

The seraph's glow, the archangel's raptured zeal, The generous joy of all who dwell on high,

Shouting in chorus man's eternal weal :

And he who gives the spheres their measured wheel
Strikes the deep notes of universal love,

Leads on those tuneful orbs, whose loud appeal,
When listless man, nor hell, nor heaven can move,
This globe responsive hears, and countless worlds above.
Come, then, ye happy few, whom sacred song
Can move to ecstasies of solemn joy,
Haste from the precincts of the busy throng,

To some lone vale where tumults ne'er annoy,
There let immortal grace your thought employ,
To wound and soothe your sympathy of heart;
Rich is the feeling and without alloy,
Which kindling charities Divine impart,
And Pity's keen delight exalts the pleasing smart.
Oft such as you have cheer'd the venturous theme,
The dread attempt to sound celestial strings;
Thus, not alone some youthful poet's dream

Is cheer'd, but Milton's potent voice that sings
Glad news of ransom from the infernal chain,

The conflicts of the broken heart that springs
On Hope's soft pinions, and the mingling train
Of triumphs and of spoils, that crown Messiah's reign.
To thee I look, Eternal Sun, whose ray
Of infinite intelligence can show

*

The deeps of time, or light the imperial way

To Truth's bright worlds remote, or from below
Direct the wandering thought to fields that grow

This, and the three following pieces, appear to have been intended as parts of a poem on the subject of St. Xavier's Mission, the argument of which was laid out, but the scheme was abandoned many years sinee.

Flowers of unearthly hues, and lovelier far

Than yet in heaven's own Paradise can blow, The mind still mounting, 'bove the scenes that are, To Beauty's self, more bright than shines yon noon-day star. To thee I look, though fearful, yet in hope

Thou wilt not scorn thy suppliant's warm desire; O lead the song straight to its destined scope, Let wisdom teach, let virtue's flame inspire; That with some little spark of heavenly fire, The trembling voice presumptive may record, While emulous responds the sacred lyre, Some deeds of one who bared the mystic sword Of truth Divine through lands usurp'd by hell's dread lord.

MORN.

THE dawn had glimmer'd o'er the wave;
Resplendent from his watery grave

In triumph rose the sun,

The tidings of his joy to tell,

With smiles on mount, and cliff, and dell,
And, slanting through the rocky cell,

His beauteous way

he won.

The sea-mew, circling, nears the land,
The lark's glad wing o'erhangs the strand,
And harmony resounds:

The lion now has lost his ire;
Subdued his eye of generous fire,
He looks, while listing Nature's lyre,
O'er all the happy bounds.

Who knows the tranquil joys of prime,
And blesses not the heavenly time,
The hour that wakes the soul;
Loves not the very name of morn,
The scene which pencill'd dews adorn,
And song that chants, on rapture borne,
The seasons as they roll?

PERSECUTION.

SINKS now the goodliest plant,
Struck by the unfeeling blast;
Its beauteous branches soil'd and rent,

And withering fast.

Well, the Great Husbandman
Will lift them yet on high,
To enjoy, beyond life's wintry span,
A happier sky.

My own dear children, rent,
Loud shrieking, from my arms,
Pierced by the sword, cease now to vent
Their shrill alarms.

Distraction, hence! I know

A better mood than thine;
That soothes my grief, yet bids to flow
These tears of mine.

Time was when this dread scene,
Sanguined with blood so dear,
Me could have moved to sorrow keen,
Vengeance, and fear.

But, O what power is this

That rules my labouring breast, Softens and nerves, gives pain and bliss, Rapture and rest ?

Death speeds the flying hour, Like racer near the goal: Tyrant, I know thy feeble power Dares not the soul.

Yet as I will not fear,

So let me cease to scorn

The cloud where dawns, bright in the rear,
The eternal morn.

O happy, happy day!
My soul, extend thy wing:

Now 'scape this prison-house of clay,
And soar and sing:

To faith new powers are given :
See, streaming on the sight,
The Triune Majesty of heaven
On thrones of light.

There shines our faithful Lord, Prince of the martyr'd host. "Come," he proclaims, (O joyful word!) "To heaven's fair coast."

"COME," suddenly resounds

From all the immortal band :

I come, even now on life's dark bounds,
At thy command.