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Peasant, prince, — each rank and station,

Haste, and join this pilgrimage. East and west, and south and north, Send your saintliest spirits forth.

Mothers, ere the curtain closes

Round your children's sleep to-night,
Tell them how their Lord reposes,
Waiting for to-morrow's light;
Teach their dreams to Him to rove,
Him who loved them, Him they love.

Matron grave and blooming maiden,

Hoary sage and beardless boy, Hearts with grief and care o'erladen,

Hearts brimful of hope and joy, Come, and greet in death's dark hall, Him who felt with, felt for all.

Men of God, devoutly toiling

This world's fetters to unbind; Satan of his prey despoiling

In the hearts of human kind; Let, to-night, your labors cease, Give your care-worn spirits peace.

Ye who roam our seas and mountains,

Messengers of love and light;
Ye who guard truth's sacred fountains,

Wear}' day and wakeful night;
Men of labor, men of lore,
Give your toils and studies o'er.

Dwellers in the woods and valleys,
Ye of meek and lowly breast;

Ye who, pent in crowded alleys,

Labor early, late take rest;
Leave the plough, and leave the loom;
Meet us at our Saviour's tomb.

From your halls of stately beauty,

Sculptured roof, and marble floor,
In this work of Christain duty

Haste, ye rich, and join the poor.
Mean and noble, bond and free ,
Meet in frank equality.

Lo, His grave! the grey rock closes

O'er that virgin burial-ground;
Near it breathe the garden roses,

Trees funereal droop around,
In whose boughs the small birds rest,
And the stock-dove builds her nest .

And the morn with floods of splendor

Fills the spicy midnight air;
Tranquil sounds, and voices tender,
Speak of life and gladness there;
Ne'er was living thing, I wot,
Which our Lord regarded not.

Bird, and beast, and insect rover, —

E'en the lilies of the field, Till His gentle life was over,

Heavenly thought to Him could yield.
All that is, to Him did prove,
Food for wisdom, food for love.

But the hearts that bowed before Him
Most of all to Him were dear;

Let such hearts to-night watch o'er Him

Till the day-spring shall appear: —
Then a brighter sun shall rise
Than e'er kindled up the skies.

All night long, with plaintive voicing,

Chant His requiem soft and low; Loftier strains of loud rejoicing

From to-morrow's harps shall flow. "Death and hell at length are slain, Christ hath triumphed, Christ doth reign."

J. Moultrie

j" Xlviii



I GOT me flowers to strew Thy way;
I got me boughs off many a tree:
But Thou wast up by break of day
And brought'st Thy sweets along with Thee.

The sun arising in the East,

Though he give light, and the East perfume;

If they should offer to contest

With Thy arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this,
Though many suns to shine endeavor?
We count three hundred, but we miss:
There is but One, and that One ever.

George Herbert


HE is gone—beyond the skies,
A cloud receives Him from our eyes;
Gone beyond the highest height
Of mortal gaze or angel's flight;
Through the veils of time and space,
Passed into the holiest place;
All the toil, the sorrow done,
All the battle fought and won.

He is gone, — and we return,
And our hearts within us burn;
Olivet no more shall greet,
With welcome shout, His coming feet;
Never shall we thank Him more
On Gennesareth's glist'ning shore,
Never in that look, or voice,
Shall Zion's walls again rejoice.

He is gone, — and we remain
In this world of sin and pain,
In the void which He has left;
On this earth, of Him bereft;
We have still His work to do,
We can still His path pursue,
Seek Him both in friend or foe,
In ourselves His image show.

He is gone, —but we once more
Shall behold Him as before,

In the Heaven of Heavens the same
As on earth He went and came;
In the many mansions there,
Peace for us He will prepare,
In that world, unseen, unknown,
He and we may yet be one.

He is gone, — but not in vain; • Wait, until He comes again;

He is risen, He is not here,
Far above this earthly sphere;
Evermore in heart, and mind,
There our peace in Him we find,
To our own Eternal Friend,
Thitherward let us ascend.

A. P. Stanley


GOD is ascended up on high,
With merry noise of trumpet-sound,
And princely seated in the sky,
Rules over all the world around.

Sing praises then, sing praises loud

Unto our universal King:
He who ascended on a cloud,

To Him all laud and praises sing.

In human flesh and shape He went,
Adorned with His passion's scars;

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