Page images
PDF
EPUB

SECOND SUNDAY IN LENT.

Он help us, Lord! each hour of need

Thy heavenly succour give;

Help us in thought, and word, and deed, Each hour on earth we live.

Oh help us, when our spirits bleed
With contrite anguish sore,

And when our hearts are cold and dead,
O help us, Lord, the more.

O help us, through the prayer of faith
More firmly to believe;

For still the more the servant hath,
The more shall he receive.

If strangers to Thy fold we call,
Imploring at Thy feet

The crumbs that from Thy table fall, 'Tis all we dare entreat.

But be it, Lord of Mercy, all,

So Thou wilt grant but this; The crumbs that from Thy table fall Are light, and life, and bliss.

Oh help us, Jesus! from on high,
We know no help but Thee;
Oh! help us so to live and die
As thine in Heaven to be.

SIXTH SUNDAY IN LENT.

RIDE on ride on in majesty!
Hark! all the tribes Hosanna cry!
Thine humble beast pursues his road,
With palms and scatter'd garments strow d!

Ride on ride on in majesty!

In lowly pomp ride on to die!

Oh Christ! Thy triumphs now begin
O'er captive death and conquer'd Sin!

Ride on! ride on in majesty!
The winged squadrons of the sky
Look down with sad and wondering eyes,
To see the approaching sacrifice!

Ride on! ride on in majesty!
Thy last and fiercest strife is nigh;
The father on His sapphire throne
Expects His own anointed Son!

Ride on ride on in majesty!
In lowly pomp ride on to die!
Bow Thy meek head to mortal pain!
Then take, oh God! Thy power, and reign!

GOOD FRIDAY.

BOUND upon th' accursed tree,
Faint and bleeding, who is He?
By the eyes so pale and dim,
Streaming blood and writhing limb,

By the flesh with scourges torn,
By the crown of twisted thorn,
By the side so deeply pierced,
By the baffled burning thirst,
By the drooping death-dew'd brow
Son of Man! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou.

Bound upon th' accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He?
By the sun at noon-day pale,
Shivering rocks, and rending veil,
By earth that trembles at His doom,
By yonder saints who burst their tomb,
By Eden, promised ere He died
To the felon at His side,

Lord! our suppliant knees we bow,
Son of God! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou!

Bound upon th' accursed tree,
Sad and dying, who is He?
By the last and bitter cry
The ghost given up in agony;
By the lifeless body laid
In the chamber of the dead;
By the mourners come to weep
Where the bones of Jesus sleep;
Crucified! we know Thee now;
Son of Man! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou!

Bound upon th' accursed tree,
Dread and awful, who is He?
By the prayer for them that slew,
"Lord! they know not what they do!"
By the spoil'd and empty grave,
By the souls He died to save,
By the conquest He hath won,
By the saints before His throne,
By the rainbow round His brow,
Son of God! 'tis Thou! 'tis Thou.

SIXTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.

LORD! have mercy when we strive
To save through Thee our souls alive!
When the pamper'd flesh is strong,
When the strife is fierce and long;
When our wakening thoughts begin,
First to loathe their cherish'd sin,
And our weary spirits fail,
And our aching brows are pale,
Oh then have mercy! Lord!

Lord! have mercy when we lie On the restless bed, and sigh, Sigh for Death, yet fear it still, From the thought of former ill; When all other hope is gone; When our course is almost done: When the dim advancing gloom Tells us that our hour is come, Oh then have mercy! Lord!

Lord! have mercy when we know First how vain this world below; When the earliest gleam is given Of Thy bright but distant Heaven'

[blocks in formation]

CHARLES WOLFE.

CHARLES WOLFE was born in Dublin, December 14, 1791. His father was a country gentleman, on whose death the family removed to England, and Charles was educated at Winchester and at the University of Dublin, where he graduated in 1814. He took orders, and in 1817 became curate of Ballyclog, county Tyrone, whence he was soon transferred to Donoughmore. He gave the most earnest attention to his clerical duties, and won the hearty love of his parishioners. But he had only been with them three years when his health began to fail, and he was compelled to travel in search of a more congenial climate. He went to England,

|

and to the south of France, and finally returned to Ireland, and died of consumption, at Cork, February 21, 1823.

Wolfe's "Burial of Sir John Moore," which is said to have been suggested by reading Southey's account of it in the "Edinburgh Annual Register," was written in 1817, and somehow found its way into the newspapers anonymously. It attracted immediate attention and excited a good deal of speculation as to its authorship. It was most confidently attributed to Campbell. Wolfe's literary remains, consisting of sermons and poems, with a memoir, were published in 1825.

[blocks in formation]
[blocks in formation]

JOHN KEBLE.

JOHN KEBLE was born at Fairford, Gloucestershire, April 25, 1792. His father was a clergyman, and the boy was educated at home until, at the age of fifteen, he entered Oxford. He was a fine scholar, and gained some of the highest honors of the university, including prizes for Latin and English essays. He took orders in 1816, and became his father's assistant. He published "The Christian Year, or Thoughts in Verse for the Sundays and Holidays throughout the Year," in 1827; some portions of it had been written as early as 1819. Its success was immediate, and it has since passed through innu

merable editions, both in England and America. In 1831 Keble succeeded Milman as Professor of Poetry at Oxford. His father died in 1835, and in the same year the poet married and removed to Hursley. He published a second volume of poems, "Lyra Innocentium," in 1846.

He manifested an intense devotion to the Church, and the Tractarian movement is by some traced to a sermon of his on national apostasy, delivered in 1833. He took an active part in that controversy, and exerted a marked influence. He died at Bournemouth, March 29, 1866.

EVENING.

Abide with us: for it is toward evening, and the day is far spent.-St. Luke xxiv. 29.

'Tis gone, that bright and orbèd blaze,
Fast fading from our wistful gaze;
Yon mantling cloud has hid from sight
The last faint pulse of quivering light.

In darkness and in weariness
The traveller on his way must press,
No gleam to watch on tree or tower,
Whiling away the lonesome hour.

Sun of my soul! Thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if Thou be near:
Oh! may no earth-born cloud arise
To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes.

When round Thy wondrous works below
My searching rapturous glance I throw,
Tracing out Wisdom, Power, and Love,
In earth or sky, in stream or grove;—

Or by the light Thy words disclose
Watch Time's full river as it flows,
Scanning Thy gracious Providence,
Where not too deep for mortal sense;-

When with dear friends sweet talk I hold,
And all the flowers of life unfold;
Let not my heart within me burn,
Except in all I Thee discern.

When the soft dews of kindly sleep My wearied eyelids gently steep,

Be my last thought, how sweet to rest For ever on my Saviour's breast.

Abide with me from morn till eve, For without Thee I cannot live: Abide with me when night is nigh, For without Thee I dare not die.

Thou Framer of the light and dark,
Steer through the tempest Thine own ark:
Amid the howling wintry sea
We are in port if we have Thee.

The rulers of this Christian land,
'Twixt Thee and us ordained to stand,
Guide Thou their course, O Lord, aright,
Let all do all as in Thy sight.

Oh! by Thine own sad burden, borne
So meekly up the hill of scorn,
Teach Thou thy priests their daily cross
To bear as Thine, nor count it loss!

If some poor wandering child of Thine Have spurn'd, to-day, the voice divine, Now, Lord, the gracious work begin; Let him no more lie down in sin.

Watch by the sick: enrich the poor
With blessings from Thy boundless store;
Be every mourner's sleep to-night
Like infant's slumbers, pure and light.

Come near and bless us when we wake,
Ere through the world our way we take;
Till in the ocean of Thy love
We lose ourselves in Heaven above.

« PreviousContinue »