So let our foes rejoice;

We to the Lord, who hears their impious boasts,
Will call for comfort; to the God of Hosts
We will lift up our voice.

Give ear unto our song;

For we are wandering o'er our native land,
As sheep that have no shepherd; and the hand
Of wicked men is strong.

Only to Thee we bow.

Our lips have drained the fury of Thy cup;
And the deep murmurs of our hearts go up
To Heaven for vengeance now.

Avenge,-oh, not our years

Of pain and wrong; the blood of martyrs shed;
The ashes heaped upon the hoary head;
The maiden's silent tears;

The babe's bread torn away;

The harvest blasted by the war-steed's hoof; The red flame wreathing o'er the cottage roof; Judge not for these to-day!

Is not Thine own dread rod

Mocked by the proud, Thy holy Book disdained, Thy name blasphemed, Thy temple courts pro

Break Pharaoh's iron crown;

Bind with new chains their nobles and their

kings;

Wash from Thine house the blood of unclean

things;

And hurl their Dagon down!

Come in Thine own good time!

We will abide: we have not turned from Thee;
Though in a world of grief our portion be,
Of bitter grief and crime.

Be Thou our guard and guide!

Forth from the spoiler's synagogue we go, That we may worship where the torrents flow, And where the whirlwinds ride.

From lonely rocks and caves

We will pour forth our sacrifice of prayer.-
On, brethren, to the mountains! Seek we thero
Safe temples, quiet graves!

(1830.)

STANZAS,

WRITTEN UNDER A PICTURE OF KING'S COLLEGE

CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE.

EXTRACTED FROM AN ALBUM IN DEVONSHIRE.

Most beautiful!-I gaze and gaze
In silence on the glorious pile;
And the glad thoughts of other days
Come thronging back the while.
To me dim Memory makes more dear
The perfect grandeur of the shrine;
But if I stood a stranger here,

The ground were still divine.

Some awe the good and wise have felt,
As reverently their feet have trod
On any spot where man hath knelt.
To commune with his God;
By sacred spring or haunted well,
Beneath the ruined temple's gloom,
Beside the feeble hermit's cell,

Or the false prophet's tomb.

But when was high devotion graced
With lovelier dwelling, loftier throne,
Than here the limner's art hath traced
From the time-honoured stone?

The Spirit here of Worship seems
To hold the soul in willing thrall,
And heavenward hopes and holy dreams
Come at her voiceless call;-

At midnight, when the lonely moon
Looks from a vapour's silvery fold;
At morning, when the sun of June
Crests the high towers with gold;
For every change of hour and form

Makes that fair scene more deeply fair;
And dusk and daybreak, calm and storm,
Are all religion there.

(1880.)

LINES

WRITTEN FOR A BLANK PAGE OF THE KEEPSAKE."

LADY, there's fragrance in your sighs,

And sunlight in your glances;

I never saw such lips and eyes

In pictures or romances;
And Love will readily suppose,

To make you quite enslaving,
That you have taste for verse and prose,
Hot pressed, and line engraving.

And then, you waltz so like a Fay,
That round you envy rankles;
Your partner's head is turned, they say
As surely as his ankles;

And I was taught, in days far gone,
By a most prudent mother,
That in this world of sorrow, one
Good turn deserves another.

I may not win you!-that's a bore!
But yet 'tis sweet to woo you;
And for this cause,-and twenty more,
I send this gay book to you.

If its songs please you,-by this light!
I will not hold it treason

To bid you dream of me to-night,
And dance with me next season.

(1880.)

ANTICIPATION.

"Oн, yes! he is in Parliament;
He's been returning thanks;

You can't conceive the time he's spent
Already on his franks.