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What now avails that far away

Comes o'er the plain his hastening tread ! Go tell him that he trouble not

The Master more; my child is dead.”

Dead! is all o'er when that is said ?

Are hope, and trust, and comfort, gone ? The servant tells the weeping sire,

And yet the Prophet journeys on.

He stands amid the mourning throng ;

“ Why do ye make this bitter cry? The damsel is not dead, she sleeps,”

They laugh in scorn,—they saw her die.

Yea, but they see not the strong power

For life and death that standeth by, Nor read the awful Godhead veiled

Beneath that meekly patient eye.

Go forth, then, unbelieving throng ;

The three apostles, and the twain Who love so tenderly, alone

Shall see her spirit come again.

Now waken, waken, little maiden,

His foot is on thy chamber-floor, The Lord God of the living cometh

Thine earthly being to restore.

He takes her cold resistless hand :

“Damsel, I say to thee, arise.” Lo, life returns, with mantling flow,

To cheek, and brow, and kindling eyes.

She riseth up, she walketh forth,

Her lip is red, her heart is warm ; He gives her to her mother's kiss,

He gives her to her father's arm.

Surely, we too have hope in sorrow,

Who for our Christian brethren weep; Christ is our Life and Resurrection;

They are not dead, they do but sleep.


THERE was a little lowly upper room

Within the walls of proud Jerusalem,
Where met a few poor men in grief and gloom,

Talking of Him who once had walked with them.

There came a sound as of a rushing wind,

And filled up all the place where they were met, And flaming figures of unwonted kind,

Like tongues of fire, upon each brow were set.

That was the promise of the Father, come

To those who waited, mourning for their Lord ; And the closed lips, that were so dead and dumb,

Are loosed at once to speak His precious Word.

Then all the strangers from afar, who came

From Asian shores, from Europe's fairer strands, From Afric's deserts, wondering heard His name In the dear language of their native lands.

Not now in form distinct of flaming light

Comes that great Spirit on our earth to dwell ; But, like the strong wind whispering at night,

Its mighty impulse is invisible.

Yet, to the lowly and obedient heart,

In gentleness and might its breath shall come, Bidding the Christian choose the better part,

Stirring with thought of his eternal home.

O Lord, ascended! from Thy glory's throne,

On Thy baptized children kneeling lowly, Look down in mercy! we were made Thine own ;

Give our poor hearts Thy Spirit strong and holy.


THERE lies a little lonely isle

Where dark the salt waves run, And Grecian fishers dry their nets

Against the eastern sun;

And, many a hundred years ago,

Within that island fair
There dwelt an exiled Jewish man,

A man of reverend air ;

His eye was bright as setting suns,

His aged form unbent ; The little children following,

He blest them as he went.

That head beloved, at supper-time

Had leant on Jesus' breast ;
That honored hand had taken home

His mother for a guest.

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