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O Saviour! gone to God's right hand!

Yet the same Saviour still, Graved on Thy heart is this lovely strand,

And every fragrant hill.

O give me, Lord, by this sacred wave,

Threefold Thy love divine,
That I may feed, till I find my grace,

Thy flock—both Thine and mine.

R. M. McCheyne

LXXIII

SAINT ANDREW.

When brothers part for manhood's race,
What gift may most enduring prove

To keep fond memory in her place,
And certify a brother's love?

'Tis true, bright hours together told,
And blissful dreams in secret shar'd,

Serene or solemn, gay or bold,
Shall last in fancy unimpair'd.

E'en round the death-bed of the good
Such dear remembrances will hover,

And haunt us with no vexing mood,
When all the cares of earth are over.

But yet our craving spirits feel
We shall live on, though fancy die,

And seek a surer pledge,—a seal
Of love to last eternally.

Who art thou that wouldst grave thy name
Thus deeply in a brother's heart?

Look on this saint, and learn to frame
Thy love-charm with true Christian art.

First seek thy Saviour out, and dwell
Beneath the shadow of His roof,

Till thou have scann'd His features well,
And known Him for the Christ by proof;

Such proof as they are sure to find
Who spend with Him their happy days,

Clean hands, and a self-ruling mind,
Ever in time for love and praise.

Thus, potent with the spell of Heaven,
Go, and thine erring brother gain;

Entice him home to be forgiven,
Till he, too, see his Saviour plain.

Or, if before thee in the race,

Urge him with thine advancing tread,

Till, like twin stars, with even pace,
Each lucid course be duly sped.

No fading frail memorial give
To soothe his soul when thou art gone,

But wreaths of hope for ay to live,
And thoughts of good together done.

That so, before the judgment seat,
Though changM and glorified each face,

Not unremember'd ye may meet
For endless ages to embrace.

J. Keble

LXXIV

LAZARUS

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave,
And home to Mary's house return'd,
Was this demanded—if he yearn'd

To hear her weeping by his grave?

Where wert thou, Brother, those four days?

There lives no record of reply,

Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise.

From every house the neighbours met, The streets were fill'd with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crown'd

The purple brows of Olivet.

Behold a man raised up by Christ!

The rest remaineth unreveal'd;

He told it not; or something seal'd The lips of that Evangelist.

A. Tennyson

LXXV
MARY

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,
Nor other thought her mind admits
But he was dead, and there he sits,

And He that brought him back is there.

Then one deep love doth supersede
All other, when her ardent gaze
Roves from the living brother's face,

And rests upon the .Life indeed.

All subtle thought, all curious fears,
Borne down by gladness so complete,
She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet

With costly spikenard and with tears.

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers,
Whose loves in higher love endure;
What souls possess themselves so pure,

Or is this blessedness like theirs?

A. Tennyson

LXXVI

THE WEDDING FEAST
Courage, O faithful heart;

Steadfast for ever!
In the eternal love

Faltering never:
Courage, O downcast eyes,

Bitter tears shedding;
Hark! how the chimes ring out

Joy for the wedding!

Open the golden doors;

Through the high portal
Let the rich glory stream

Sea-like, immortal!
Open the golden doors

Wide from the centre ;—
Countless the multitude

Hither must enter!

Light up the palace halls,

From roof-tree to basement, Bid the warm festal glow,

Flood every casement: Chant ye the bridal song

Solemn and holy, Waking to Paradise

Souls that lie lowly. Out of old battle-fields

No man remembers; Out of still village yards

And dank charnel-chambers,
Fromtthe chill ocean-graves

Under far waters
And the dear sepulchres

Where sleep the martyrs.

Dives and Lazarus

One with the other;
Peasant and emperor,

Foeman and brother,
Men with long century-lives

Braving death's shadow,
And sweet baby blossoms—fresh

As flower in the meadow :—

Out of the million haunts

Where dead men lie idle, Out of life's thousand ways :—

Call to the bridal: Open the golden doors

Wide from the centre! For they that are ready

To glory shall enter!

W. E. Littlewood

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