My "more than brother" thou hast been, for five and twenty

years,

In storm and shine, in grief and joy, alike in smiles and tears;
Our twin-born hearts, so perfectly incorporate in one,
That not the shadow of a thought, e'er marred their unison.

Beside me, in life's highest noon, to hear the bridegroom's voice,
Thy loving nature fondly stood, contented to rejoice;
Nor boon, that ever bounteous Heaven bestowed on me, or mine,
But bore for thee, a keener joy, than if it had been thine.

Thy fingers, at the sacred font, when God my hearth had blessed, Upon my first-born's brow, the dear baptismal sign, impressed; My second-born, thine own in Christ, our loving names to blend, And knit, for life, his father's son, in with his father's friend.

And when our patriarchal White, with apostolic hands, Committed to my trembling trust the Saviour's dread commands, Thy manly form, and saintly face, were at my side againThy voice, a trumpet to my heart, in its sincerc Amen!

Beside thee once again, be mine, accepted priest, to stand, And take, with thee, the pastoral palm, from that dear Shep herd's hand;

As thou hast followed Him, be mine, in love, to follow thee, Nor care, how soon my course be run; so thine, my rest may be.

O beautiful and glorious death! with all thy armour on; While, Stephen-like, thy placid face, out, like an angel's shone. The words of blessing on thy lips, had scarcely ceased to sound,* Before thy gentle soul, with them, its resting place had found.

O pastoral and priestly death! poetic as thy life

A little child to shelter, in Christ's fold, from sin and strife; † Then, by the gate, that opens through the Cross, for such as she, To enter in thyself, with Christ, forevermore to be!

RIVERSIDE, November 10, 1851.

* Unable to rise after the closing collect, he said the benediction on his knees. He died in two hours. A blood vessel was ruptured in his brain.

He had just baptized an infant; and his sermon was addressed to children.

ROBIN REDBREAST.

I have, somewhere, met with an old legend, that a robin, hovering about the Cross, bore off a thorn, from our dear Saviour's crown; and dyed his bosom, with the blood; and, that, from that time, robins have been the friends of man.

SWEET Robin, I have heard them say,
That thou wert there, upon the day,
The Christ was crowned, in cruel scorn;
And bore away, one bleeding thorn:
That, so, the blush, upon thy breast,
In shameful sorrow, was impressed;
And, thence, thy genial sympathy,
With our redeemed humanity.

Sweet Robin, would that I might be,
Bathed, in my Saviour's blood, like thee;
Bear, in my breast, whate'er the loss,
The bleeding blazon of the Cross;
Live, ever, with thy loving mind,
In fellowship, with human kind;
And take my pattern, still, from thee,
In gentleness, and constancy.

RIVERSIDE, Conversion of St. Paul, 1852.

SARAH WALLACE GERMAIN,

DIED AT ST. MARY'S HALL, ON THE EVE OF THE HOLY INNOCENTS, 1852,

IN THE 15TH YEAR OF HER AGE.

"These are they which follow the Lamb, whithersoever He goeth."

WEEP not for her, the dear lamb we have folded,
Safe from the serpent, secure from the bear;
Gone to the source, where her being was moulded,
She recks not of sorrow, and dreams not of care.
Through the green pastures, with skies ever vernal,

By the still waters, her footsteps now rove;
Led by the Shepherd, whose name is Eternal,
Her loveliness lives in the light of His love.

Weep not for her, the dear lamb we have folded, Though sadly we miss her, from out our fond arms; Just when her young life had sweetly unfolded,

And ours seemed renewed, in the light of her charms. Here, for a while she has left us behind her,

To wander and wait, on life's desolate shore; There, through the Cross, we shall certainly find her, And with her, the lambling we folded before.

FRAMED IN THE DOOR WHICH FRONTED MY SICK BED.

IN HOC SIGNO.

WRITTEN WITH MY CROSWELL'S PENCIL.

THAT blessed Cross-I bend mine eyes,

On its atoning sacrifice;

And find forgiveness, from my God,
In its divine, redeeming, blood.

That blessed Cross-I tear my heart,
To make it, of myself a part;
And gain no shelter, from my sin,
Till Christ be crucified, within.

That blessed Cross-I bow my life,
To bear its pain, its load, its strife;
The way that leads me to my God,
The bleeding path my Saviour trod.

That blessed Cross, that blessed Cross,
Welcome, its wounds, its shame, its loss,
My hope, my help, my victory-

My Maker bore that Cross, for me!
NEWARK, October 24, 1852.

THE BAPTISM OF TEARS.

TENTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY, AUGUST 15, 1852.

"They that sow in tears, shall reap in joy."

THE lovely day had passed away,
Its stillness, on the landscape lay;
A summer sunset's lingering rays
Still kept the atmosphere, ablaze;
When, gathered in a darkened room,
Where light just glimmered, through the gloom,
A sorrowing circle, silent sate;
Distressed, but not disconsolate.

But yesterday, and every grace,
That makes of home, a sacred place,
The comforts, and the charms of life,
That blend in Mother, and in Wife;
All that the heart of man holds dear,
Was crowned and consecrated here.
Serene and beautiful, to-day,
Decked for the dead, our darling lay;
Whose eye, whose soul, whose heart, had been
The charm of all this sacred scene;

So calm, so sweet, our blessed dead,
We scarce could deem the spirit fled.
Like infant, tired, that sinks to rest,
At noon, upon its Mother's breast;
Her score of summers scarcely done,
And yet, her crown of victory won.
It is her her charmed room,
This ante-chamber of the tomb;

own,

VOL I.-44

'Her Bible opens, at the day;
The Book, that taught her how to pray,
Her Taylor, Kempis, Keble, lie
Just where she left them, all, to die.

In western window's deep retreat,
A table stands, in order meet,
With linen cloth, and roses white,
And crystal water, pure and bright.
The lingering beams of parting day,
Upon the trembling waters play;

Then stretching through the glimmering gloom,
That fills the still, and sacred room,
Upon our dear one's forehead fall,
Like some celestial coronal;
For sainted Mother, meet array,
To grace her babe's baptismal day.

Upon her fair and pulseless head,
His hand, the kneeling husband laid;
The honoured father bowed him low,
The mother's tears in silence flow,
From sisters, brothers, loved ones, friends,
The hushed and stifled sorrow blends;
One heart, one voice, in faltering flow,
Pours the low litany of woe,
"Thou gavest, Thou hast taken, Lord,
We bless Thy Holy name and Word!"

The surpliced Priest, comes gliding in;
The wave is blessed that saves from sin,
It sparkles on an infant's brow,
The child of grace and glory, now,
The Mother's blessed name is given,
That one may serve for both, in Heaven;
The cross is sealed, the pledge secured,
The heritage of Heaven, ensured;
The Mother's arms, the treasure, take,

With Jesu's mark, impressed, to nurse for Jesu's sake.