Their searching eyes were fastened on his face; They caught the look which chained them as of old,

Only it wore diviner, loftier grace:
Their glorious risen Master they behold!

And then they knew how strangely all the while

Their spirits burned within them as he talked, Or listened to them with that very smile, Explaining oft the Scriptures while they walked.

They felt reward for all their bitter pain,
When lo, he vanished softly from their sight!
But they could never be so sad again
Who had the memory of that blessed night.
MARTHA PERRY LOWE.

CONSECRATION.

FROM my lips in their defilement,
From my heart in its beguilement,
From my tongue, which speaks not fair,
From my soul, stained everywhere, -
O my Jesus, take my prayer!
Spurn me not, for all it says,
Not for words and not for ways,
Not for shamelessness endued !
Make me brave to speak my mood,
O my Jesus, as I would,

Or teach me (which I rather seek)
What to do and what to speak.

I have sinned more than she
Who, learning where to meet with thee,
And bringing myrrh, the highest priced,
Anointed bravely, from her knee
Thy blessed feet accordingly.

My God, my Lord, my Christ,
As thou saidest not, 66
Depart,"

To that suppliant from her heart,
Scorn me not, O Word, that art
The gentlest one of all words said!
But give thy feet to me instead,
That tenderly I may them kiss,
And clasp them close, and never miss,
With over-dropping tears, as free
And precious as that myrrh could be,
To anoint them bravely from my knee!
Wash me with thy tears! draw nigh me,
That their salt may purify me!
Thou remit my sins, who knowest
All the sinning, to the lowest,
Knowest all my wounds, and seest
All the stripes thyself decreest;
Yea, but knowest all my faith, —

Seest all my force to death,
Hearest all my wailings low
That mine evil should be so.

Nothing hidden but appears
In thy knowledge, O Divine,
O Creator, Saviour mine!

Not a drop of falling tears,
Not a breath of inward moan,
Not a heart-beat which is gone.

From the Greek of ST. JOHN DAMASCENUS. Translated by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, 183.

OUR CHRIST.

IN Christ I feel the heart of God
Throbbing from heaven through earth:
Life stirs again within the clod:
Renewed in beauteous birth,
The soul springs up, a flower of prayer,
Breathing his breath out on the air.

In Christ I touch the hand of God,
From his pure height reached down,
By blessed ways before untrod,
To lift us to our crown;
Victory that only perfect is
Through loving sacrifice, like his.

Holding his hand, my steadied feet
May walk the air, the seas;

On life and death his smile falls sweet, -
Lights up all mysteries:

Stranger nor exile can I be

In new worlds where he leadeth me.

WILLIAM JOSIAH IRONS, one of the successful translators of the " Dies Ira," is Prebendary of St. Paul's Church, London, England. He was born in 1812, and was educated at Oxford. He is the author of many books and pamphlets. WHY art thou weary, O my soul, And why cast down within thee? Though floods of sorrow o'er thee roll, Thy Father's eye hath seen thee: From dangers thus thy life he keeps, From shallow shores to safer deeps The storm is sent to win thee.

All things within, without, around,
Must prove unsatisfying:

And comes there not from all a sound,
The echo of our sighing,

Telling that earth may never be
Our home of immortality,

Or rest for souls undying?

Father, I hear thy warning voice
Midst fears the soul appalling;
No sunny days of earthly joys
Could stay the shadows falling:
Sun-lighted times are types of heaven,
Dark nights to calm the heart are given,
Man to his God recalling.

Lift thyself up, O weary heart,
And claim thy high election :

Strength for thy cross will he impart
Who tasted earth's rejection.

Joint heirs with Christ, on things above,
The joys of God's eternal love,

Must set their own affection.

Lift up thy heart! his Church's chant Tells of the joy before us :

Such bliss as heavenly love can grant
His promises assure us.

Sing all our souls with full accord,
We lift them up to thee, O Lord,
In eucharistic chorus.

WILLIAM JOSIAH IRONS.

JESUS! and shall it ever be,

A mortal man ashamed of thee?
Ashamed of thee, whom angels praise,
Whose glories shine through endless days!

Ashamed of Jesus! sooner far
Let evening blush to own a star;
He sheds the beams of light divine
O'er this benighted soul of mine.

Ashamed of Jesus! just as soon
Let midnight be ashamed of noon;
'T is midnight with my soul, till he,
Bright Morning Star, bid darkness flee.

Ashamed of Jesus! that dear Friend
On whom my hopes of heaven depend!
No; when I blush, be this my shame,
That I no more revere his name.

My Saviour, wilt thou turn away
From such a cry?

My refuge, and wilt thou forget,
And must I die?

Faith trembles; but her glance of light
Has pierced through regions dark as night,
And entered into realms of light.

My Saviour, mid heaven's glorious throng
I see thee there

Pleading with all thy matchless love
And tender care,

Not for the angel-forms around,
But for lost souls in fetters bound,
That they may hear salvation's sound.

My Saviour, thus I find my rest
Alone with thee,
Beneath thy wing I have no fear
Of what may be.

PRAYER TO THE SAVIOUR.
O HOLY Saviour! Friend unseen!
The faint, the weak, on thee may lean :
Help me, throughout life's varying scene,
By faith to cling to thee.

Blest with communion so divine,
Take what thou wilt, shall I repine,
When as the branches to the vine
My soul may cling to thee?

Far from her home, fatigued, opprest,
Here she has found a place of rest;
An exile still, yet not unblest,

While she can cling to thee.

Without a murmur I dismiss
My former dreams of earthly bliss ;
My joy, my recompense be this,

Each hour to cling to thee.
What though the world deceitful prove,
And earthly friends and joys remove;
With patient uncomplaining love

Still would I cling to thee.

Oft, when I seem to tread alone
Some barren waste with thorns o'ergrown,
A voice of love, in gentlest tone,

Whispers, "Still cling to Me."
Though faith and hope awhile be tried,
I ask not, need not aught beside :
How safe, how calm, how satisfied,
The souls that cling to thee!

They fear not life's rough storms to brave,
Since thou art near, and strong to save;
Nor shudder e'en at death's dark wave;
Because they cling to thee.

Blest is my lot, whate'er befall:
What can disturb me, who appall,
While, as my strength, my rock, my all,
Saviour! I cling to thee?

CHARLOTTE ELLIOTT.

THE SAVIOUR.

BEYOND the glittering starry globe,

Far as the eternal hills,

There, in the boundless worlds of light, Our great Redeemer dwells.