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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



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


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



Into a desolate land

White with the drifted snow, Into a weary land

Our truant footsteps go: Yet doth Thy care, O Father,

Ever Thy wanderers keep; Still doth Thy love, O Shepherd,

Follow Thy sheep.

Over the pathless wild

Do I not see Him come? Him who shall bear me back,

Him who shall lead me home?
Listen ! between the storm-gusts

Unto the straining ear,
Comes not the cheering whisper—

"Jesus is near."

Over me He is bending!

Now I can safely rest,
Found at the last, and clinging

Close to the Shepherd's breast:
So let me lie till the fold-bells

Sound on the homeward track, And the rejoicing angels

Welcome us back!

IV. E. Littlewood



Far away, where the tempests play,

Over the lonely seas,
Sail or still, with a steady will,

Onward before the breeze!

Onward yet, till our hearts forget
The loves that we leave behind,
Till the memories dear, that thrill in our ear,
Flow past like the whistling wind!

Let them come, sweet thoughts of home,

And voices we loved of old ;—
What care we, that sail the sea,

Bound for a Land of Gold?

Gems there are which are lovelier far
Than the flash of a maiden's eyes;'

Jewels bright, as the magic light
That purples the evening skies.

Crowns that gleam like a fairy dream

Treasures of price untold;
And we are bound for that charmed ground,

We sail for the Land of Gold!

W. E. Littlewood


THE FOOLISH VIRGINS Late, late, so late! and dark the night, and chill! Late, late, so late! but we can enter still. Too late, too late, ye cannot enter now.

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