Making victorious melody ascend

High above sorrow's dirge, befits the tomb Where he that sway'd the nations thus is laidThe crown'd of men?

A lowly, lowly song.

Lowly and solemn be

Thy children's cry to thee,
Father divine!

A hymn of suppliant breath,
Owning that life and death
Alike are thine!

A spirit on its way,

Sceptred the earth to sway,
From thee was sent:

Now call'st thou back thine own-
Hence is that radiance flown-
To earth but lent.

Watching in breathless awe,
The bright head bow'd we saw,
Beneath thy hand!

Fill'd by one hope, one fear,
Now o'er a brother's bier,
Weeping we stand.

How hath he pass'd!—the lord
Of each deep bosom chord,
To meet thy sight,

Unmantled and alone,

On thy bless'd mercy thrown,
O Infinite!

So, from his harvest home,
Must the tired peasant come;
So, in one trust,
Leader and king must yield
The naked soul, reveal'd

To thee, All Just !

The sword of many a fight—
What then shall be its might?
The lofty lay,

That rush'd on eagle wing—
What shall its memory bring?
What hope, what stay?

O Father! in that hour,

When earth all succouring power

Shall disavow;

When spear,

and shield, and crown,

In faintness are cast down

Sustain us, Thou!

By Him who bow'd to take
The death-cup for our sake,
The thorn, the rod;
From whom the last dismay
Was not to pass away-
Aid us, O God!

Tremblers beside the grave,

We call on thee to save.

Father divine!

Hear, hear our suppliant breath,

Keep us, in life and death,
Thine, only thine!

THE PRAYER IN THE WILDERNESS.

SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE OF CORREGIO'S.

In the deep wilderness unseen she pray'd,
The daughter of Jerusalem; alone,

With all the still small whispers of the night,
And with the searching glances of the stars,
And with her God, alone :-she lifted up

Her sweet, sad voice, and, trembling o'er her head, The dark leaves thrill'd with prayer-the tearful

prayer

Of woman's quenchless, yet repentant love.

Father of Spirits, hear!

Look on the inmost heart to thee reveal'd,
Look on the fountain of the burning tear,
Before thy sight in solitude unseal'd!

In

Hear, Father! hear, and aid!

If I have loved too well, if I have shed,
my vain fondness, o'er a mortal head,
Gifts, on thy shrine my God! more fitly laid.

If I have sought to live

But in one light, and made a human eye
The lonely star of mine idolatry,

Thou that art Love! oh, pity and forgive!

Chasten'd and school'd at last,

No more, no more my struggling spirit burns, But fix'd on thee, from that wild worship turnsWhat have I said ?—the deep dream is not past!

Yet hear!-if still I love,

Oh! still too fondly-if, for ever seen,
An earthly image comes, my heart between,
And thy calm glory, Father, throned above.

If still a voice is near,

(E'en while I strive these wanderings to control,) An earthly voice, disquieting my soul

With its deep music, too intensely dear.

O Father! draw to thee

My lost affections back!—the dreaming eyes
Clear from their mist-sustain the heart that dies,
Give the worn soul once more its pinions free!

I must love on, O God!

This bosom must love on!—but let thy breath Touch and make pure the flame that knows not death, Bearing it up to heaven-love's own abode !

Ages and ages past, the wilderness,

With its dark cedars, and the thrilling night,
With her clear stars, and the mysterious winds,
That waft all sound, were conscious of those prayers.
How many such hath woman's bursting heart
Since then, in silence and in darkness breathed,
Like the dim night-flower's odour, up to God!

PRISONERS' EVENING SERVICE.

A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.'

"From their spheres

The stars of human glory are cast down;
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms
Of all the mighty, wither'd and consumed!
Nor is power given to lowliest innocence
Long to protect her own."

WORDSWORTH.

SCENE-Prison of the Luxembourg, in Paris, during the Reign of Terror.

D'AUBIGNE, an aged Royalist-BLANCHE, his daughter, a young girl.

Blanche. What was our doom, my father? In thine arms

I lay unconsciously through that dread hour.
Tell me the sentence ! Could our judges look,
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair?
Was there not mercy, father? Will they not
Restore us to our home?

*The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Source, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her Letters from France, gave rise to this little scene. These two victims had composed a simple hymn, which they every night sung together in a low and restrained voice.