I had not power to ask his name,
Whither he went or whence he came,
Yet there was something in his eye
That won my love, I knew not why.
Once when my scanty meal was spread,
He enter'd; not a word he spake;
Just perishing for want of bread;
I gave him all he bless'd it, brake,
And ate, but gave me part again;
Mine was an angel's portion then,
For while I fed with eager haste,
The crust was manna to my taste.
I spied him where a fountain burst
Clear from the rock;-his strength was gone:
The heedless water mock'd his thirst,
He heard it, saw it, hurrying on;
I ran and raised the sufferer up,
Thrice from the stream he drain'd my cup,
Dipt, and return'd it running o'er;
I drank, and never thirsted more.
'Twas night, the floods were out, it blew
A winter hurricane aloof;
I heard his voice abroad, and flew
To bid him welcome to my roof;
I warm'd, I cloth'd, I cheer'd my guest,
Laid him on my own couch to rest,
Then made the earth my bed, and seem'd
In Eden's garden while I dream'd.
Stript, wounded, beaten, nigh to death,
I found him by the highway-side;
I rous'd his pulse, brought back his breath,
Reviv'd his spirit, and supplied
Wine, oil, refreshment;-he was heal'd;
-I had, myself, a wound conceal'd,
But from that hour forgot the smart,
And peace bound up my broken heart.
In prison I saw him next,-condemn'd
To meet a Traitor's doom at morn:
The tide of lying tongues I stemm'd,
And honour'd him 'midst shame and scorn:
My friendship's utmost zeal to try,
He ask'd,—if I for him would die;
The Flesh was weak, my blood ran chill,
But the free Spirit cried, "I will.”
Then, in a moment, to my view,
The stranger darted from disguise;
The tokens in his hands I knew:
My Saviour stood before mine eyes:
He spake, and my poor name he nam'd-
"Of me thou hast not been asham'd;
"These deeds shall thy memorial be;
"Fear not, thou didst them unto me.'
STANDING on life's utmost verge,
Close by the domain of death,
Listening to the dashing surge
Of mortality beneath:
Who can look with eye serene
Downward on that awful scene?
O it is a fearful thing,
From life's green and joyous height,
Blind, unwing'd, and weak to spring
Into the abyss of night;
Into an abyss whose bound,
Mortal plummet ne'er could sound.
He who dies beneath the wave,
Soon that wave will upward bear;
Did the inexorable grave
E'er release its prisoner,
Loose his fetters, yield its prey?
Say, self-flattering mortal, say!
Answer, Christian! is thy LoRD
Yet a slumberer with the dead?
Thou hast heard his heavenly word,-
Burn'd thy bosom, while he said,
"Though I go, my peace I give;
"Ye shall live, because I live."
THE chariot! the chariot! its wheels roll in fire,
As the Lord cometh down in the pomp of his ire;
Self-moving, it drives on its pathway of cloud,
And the Heavens with the burden of Godhead are
bow'd.
The glory! the glory! around him are pour'd,
The myriads of Angels that wait on the Lord;
And the glorified Saints, and the Martyrs are there,
And all who the palm-wreaths of victory wear.
The trumpet! the trumpet! the dead have all heard!
Lo, the depths of the stone-cover'd monuments stirr'd;
From ocean and earth, from the south pole and north,
Lo, the vast generations of ages come forth!
The judgment! the judgment! the thrones are all set,
Where the Lamb and the white-vested Elders are met;
All flesh is at once in the sight of the Lord,
And the doom of eternity hangs on his word.
Oh mercy! Oh mercy! look down from above,
Redeemer, on us, thy sad children, with love!
When beneath to their darkness the wicked are driven,
May our justified souls find a welcome in Heaven!
H. H. Milman.
THE HOUR OF PRAYER.
CHILD, amidst the flowers at play,
While the red light fades away;
Mother, with thine earnest eye,
Ever following silently;
Father, by the breeze of eve
Call'd thy harvest-work to leave;
Pray! ere yet the dark hours be,
Lift the heart and bend the knee.
Traveller, in the stranger's land,
Far from thine own household band;
Mourner, haunted by the tone
Of a voice from this world gone ;
Captive, in whose narrow cell
Sunshine hath not leave to dwell;
Sailor, on the darkening sea;→→→
Lift the heart and bend the knee!
Warrior, that from battle won
Breathest now at set of sun;
Woman, o'er the lowly slain,
Weeping on his burial plain;
Ye that triumph, ye that sigh,
Kindred by one holy tie!
Heaven's first star alike ye see,—
Lift the heart and bend the knee!
INSCRIPTION UNDER THE PICTURE OF AN AGED
NEGRO-WOMAN.
ART thou a Woman?- -so am I, and all
That woman can be, I have been, or am;
A daughter, sister, consort, mother, widow,
Which e'er of these thou art, O be the friend
Of one who is what thou canst never be !
Look on thyself, thy kindred, home, and country;
Then fall upon thy knees, and cry, "Thank God,
An English woman cannot be A ŠLAVE!”
Art thou a man ?-O! I have known, have lov'd,
And lost, all that to woman man can be;
A father, brother, husband, son, who shar'd
My bliss in freedom and my woe in bondage.
A childless widow now, a friendless slave,
What shall I ask of thee, since I have nought
To lose but life's sad burden; nought to gain
But heaven's repose ?-these are beyond thy power;
Me thou canst neither wrong nor help;-what then?
Go to the bosom of thy family,
Gather thy little children round thy knees,
Gaze on their innocence; their clear full eyes,
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