When Heaven's wise discipline doth make

This earthly journey drear.

Not for this span of life alone,

Which as a blast doth fly,

And like the transient flower of grass,
Just blossom, droop, and die;

But for a being without end,

This vow of love we take;

Grant us, O God! one home at last,

For our Redeemer's sake.-Mrs Sigourney.

Then come the wild weather-come sleet or come snow,

We will stand by each other, however it blow;
Oppression and sickness, and sorrow and pain,
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.

2417. MARTHA OR MARY?

Longfellow.

I CANNOT choose; I should have liked so much
To sit at Jesus' feet,-to feel the touch
Of His kind, gentle hand upon my head
While drinking in the gracious words He said.

And yet to serve Him! oh, divine employ,—
To minister and give the Master joy,
To bathe in coolest springs His weary feet,
And wait upon Him while He sat at meat!
Worship or service,-which? Ah, that is best
To which He calls me, be it toil or rest,-
To labour for Him in life's busy stir,
Or seek His feet a silent worshipper.

So let Him choose for us: we are not strong

To make the choice; perhaps we should go wrong,
Mistaking zeal for service, sinful sloth
For loving worship,—and so fail of both.
Caroline A. Mason.

2418. MARTYR. Death of a
SILENCE! though the flames arise and quiver:
Silence! though the crowd howls on for ever,

Silence! Through this fiery purgatory
God is leading up a soul to glory.

See, the white lips with no moans are trembling,
Hate of foes or plaint of friends' dissembling;
If sighs come-his patient prayers outlive them,
'Lord, these know not what they do. Forgive

them!'

Thirstier still the roaring flames are glowing;
Fainter in his ear the laughter growing;

Brief will last the fierce and fiery trial;
Angel welcomes drown the earth denial.

Now the amorous death-fires, gleaming ruddy,
Clasp him close. Down drops the quivering body,
While through harmless flames ecstatic flying
Shoots the beauteous soul. This, this is dying.

Lo, the opening sky with splendour rifted;
Lo, the palm-branch for his hands uplifted;
Lo, the immortal chariot, cloud-descending,
And its legion'd angels close attending.

Let his poor dust mingle with the embers,
While the crowds sweep on and none remembers:
Saints unnumber'd through the Infinite Glory,
Praising God, recount the martyr's story.

D. M. Muloch Craik

The historic muse,

2419. MARTYRDOM. Nobility of PATRIOTS have toil'd, and in their country's cause Bled nobly, and their deeds, as they deserve, Receive proud recompense. We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. Proud of the treasure, marches with it down To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn, Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass To guard them, and to immortalize her trust: But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, To those who, posted at the shrine of Truth, Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood, Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed, And for a time insure, to his loved land The sweets of liberty and equal laws; But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed In confirmation of the noblest claim

Our claim to feed upon the immortal truth,

To walk with God, to be divinely free,

To soar, and to anticipate the skies.

Yet few remember them. They lived unknown
Till persecution dragg'd them into fame,

And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew-
No marble tells us whither. With their names
No bard embalms and sanctifies his song,
And history, so warm on meaner themes,
Is cold on this.-Cowper.

2420. MARTYRS. Ashes of the

FLUNG to the heedless winds,

Or on the waters cast,

The martyrs' ashes, watch'd,

Shall gather'd be at last; And from that scatter'd dust,

Around us and abroad, Shall spring a plenteous seed Of witnesses for God.

The Father hath received

Their latest living breath;

And vain is Satan's boast

Of victory in their death;
Still, still, though dead, they speak,
And, trumpet-tongued, proclaim
To many a wakening land

The one availing Name.

Martin Luther, tr. by W. J. Fox.

2421. MARTYRS. Christian

THE lion's feet, the lion's lips, are dyed with crim

son gore,

A look of faith, an unbreathed prayer, the martyr's pangs are o'er.

Proud princes and grave senators gazed on that fearful sight,

And even woman seem'd to share the savage crowd's delight;

But what the guilt that on the dead a fate so fearful drew?

A blameless faith was all the crime the Christian

martyr knew:

And where the crimson current flow'd upon that

barren sand,

Up sprung a tree, whose vigorous boughs soon overspread the land;

O'er distant isles its shadow fell, nor knew its roots decay,

E'en when the Roman Cæsar's throne and empire pass'd away.-Hamilton Buchanan.

2422. MARTYRS. Influence of the

WE must behold no object save our country,
And only look on death as beautiful,
So that the sacrifice ascend to heaven,
And draw down freedom on her evermore.
'But if we fail?' They never fail who die

In a great cause! The block may soak their gore;
Their heads may sodden in the sun; their limbs
Be strung to city gates and castle walls;
But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years
Elapse, and others share as dark a doom,
They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts
Which overpower all others, and conduct

2423. MARTYRS: secret of their triumphs.

LET our choir new anthems raise;
Wake the morn with gladness:
God Himself to joy and praise

Turns the martyrs' sadness.
This the day that won their crown,
Open'd heaven's bright portal,
As they laid the mortal down,
And put on the immortal.

Never flinch'd they from the flame,
From the torture never ;
Vain the foeman's sharpest aim,

Satan's best endeavour:

For by faith they saw the land,
Deck'd in all its glory,
Where triumphant now they stand
With the victor's story.

Faith they had that knew not shame,
Love that could not languish ;
And eternal hope o'ercame

Momentary anguish.

He who trod the self-same road,
Death and hell defeated;
Wherefore these their passions show'd,
Calvary repeated.

Up and follow, Christian men!

Press through toil and sorrow!
Spurn the sight of fear, and then,

Oh, the glorious morrow!
Who will venture on the strife?

Who will first begin it?
Who will seize the land of life?

Warriors, up and win it!

St Joseph of the Studium, tr. by J. M. Neale.

Or waves there not around his brow

A wand no human arm may wield, Fraught with a spell no angels know,

His steps to guide, his soul to shield? Thou, Saviour, art his Charmed Bower, His Magic Ring, his Rock, his Tower.-Keble.

2426. MARTYRS: their victory.

THEY seem'd to die on battle-field,

To die with justice, truth, and law;
The bloody corpse, the broken shield,
Were all that senseless folly saw.
But, like Antæus, from the turf,
They sprung refresh'd, to strive again,
Where'er the savage and the serf

Rise to the rank of men.

They seem'd to die by sword and fire,

Their voices hush'd in endless sleep; Well might the noblest cause expire Beneath that mangled, smouldering heap! Yet that wan band, unarm'd, defied

The legions of their pagan foes; And in the truths they testified, From out the ashes rose.

2427. MARY-at the cross.

AT the cross her station keeping,
Stood the mournful Mother weeping,
Where He hung, her Son and Lord;
For her soul, of joy bereaved,
Bow'd with anguish, deeply grieved,
Felt the sharp and piercing sword.
Oh, how sad and sore distressèd
Now was she, that Mother blessèd
Of the sole-begotten One;
Deep the woe of her affliction
When she saw the Crucifixion

Of her ever-glorious Son.
Who, on Christ's dear Mother gazing,
Pierced by anguish so amazing,
Born of woman, would not weep?

Who, on Christ's dear Mother thinking,
Such a cup of sorrow drinking,

Would not share her sorrows deep?

For His people's sins chastised
She beheld her Son despised,

Scourged, and crown'd with thorns entwined;
Saw Him then from judgment taken,
And in death by all forsaken,

Till His Spirit He resign'd.

Jesu, may such deep devotion
Stir in me the same emotion,

Fount of love, Redeemer kind!
That my heart, fresh ardour gaining,
And a purer love attaining,

May with Thee acceptance find.

Tr. from the Latin, by Caswall.

2428. MEDALS.

AMBITION sigh'd: she found it vain to trust
The faithless column and the crumbling bust.
Huge moles, whose shadow stretch'd from shore to
shore,

Their ruins perish'd, and their place no more;
Convinced, she now contracts the vast design,—
All her triumphs sink into a coin.

A narrow orb each crowded conquest keeps ;
Beneath her palm here sad Judæa weeps;
Now scantier limits the proud arch confine,

And scarce are seen the prostrate Nile or Rhine;
A small Euphrates through the piece is roll'd,
And little eagles wave their wings in gold.-Pope.

2429. MEDICINE.

PHYSIC can but mend our crazy state; Patch an old building, not a new create. Dryden. What art so noble as the healing art, When by the sick it plays its godlike part? What more revolting to the good and pure Than physic, which procrastinates the cure? Yet why from science claim her ready balm, While folly gilds tenfold the treacherous palm? Why not test science as you test your food— Examine first and then pronounce it good! Why put a thing whose nature you but guess Into a thing whereof you know still less, Whether you find it help your health or no, Simply because your doctor tells you so?

2430. MEDITATION.

'Tis greatly wise to talk with our past hours,
And ask them what report they bore to heaven,
And how they might have borne more welcome news.
Young.

MEETING

2431. MEETING. Hope of

JOYFUL words-we meet again!

Love's own language, comfort darting Through the souls of friends at parting, Life in Death we meet again.

While we walk this vale of tears,

Compass'd round with care and sorrow, Gloom to-day, and storm to-morrow, 'Meet again,' our bosom cheers.

Far in exile, when we roam,

O'er our last endearments weeping, Lonely vigils silent keeping, 'Meet again' transports us home.

When the weary world is past,

Happy they whose spirits soaring,
Vast eternity exploring,

'Meet again' in heaven at last.-Montgomery.

2432. MEETING. Prophecy of

THOSE We love can never perish;
They at most but disappear,
And their memories we cherish,

While, unseen, we feel them near.
Soon we'll leave the mists and vapours
Which pervade the vale of tears,
And the dimly burning tapers
That but mock our hopes and fears;

Pass within the realms supernal,
Where the seeming is the real,
And the transient, the eternal,
In the loftiest ideal.

There we'll meet the loved departed
When 'life's weary wheels stand still!'
Meet the noble, the true-hearted,

Who life's mission here fulfil.

Friends and lovers, sisters, brothers,

With the thousands we hold dear; Fathers, daughters, sons, and mothers,

Within that celestial sphere.-C. C. Bedell.

2433. MELANCHOLY. Causes of

SWEET recreation barr'd, what doth ensue,
But moody and dull Melancholy
(Kinsman to grim and comfortless Despair),
And at her heels a huge infectious troop
Of pale distemperatures and foes to life.

Shakespeare.

We're not ourselves, When nature, being opprest, commands the mind To suffer with the body.-Shakespeare.

2434. MELANCHOLY. Cure of SOME high or humble enterprise of good

Contemplate, till it shall possess thy mind, Become thy study, pastime, rest, and food,

And kindle in thy heart a flame refined. Pray Heaven with firmness thy whole soul to bind To this thy purpose,-to begin, pursue,

With thoughts all fix'd, and feelings purely kind;
Strength to complete, and with delight review,
And grace to give the praise where all is ever due.
Rouse to some work of high and holy love,

And thou an angel's happiness shalt know;
Shalt bless the earth while in the world above;
The good begun by thee shall onward flow
In many a branching stream, and wider grow;
The seed that, in these few and fleeting hours,

Thy hands, unsparing and unwearied, sow,
Shall deck thy grave with amaranthine flowers,
And yield thee fruits divine in heaven's immortal
bowers.- Wilcox.

2435. MELANCHOLY. Effects of

THIS melancholy flatters, but unmans you;
What is it else but penury of soul,

A lazy frost, a numbness of the mind ?—Dryden.

When the sun sets, shadows that show'd at noon
But small, appear most long and terrible:
So when we think fate hovers o'er our heads,
Our apprehensions shoot beyond all bounds:
Owls, ravens, crickets, seem the watch of death;
Nature's worst vermin scare her godlike sons:
Echoes, the very leavings of a voice,
Grow babbling ghosts, and call us to our graves.
Each mole-hill thought swells to a huge Olympus;
While we, fantastic dreamers, heave and puff
And sweat with our imagination's weight.-Lee.

Melancholy

Sits on me as a cloud along the sky,
Which will not let the sunbeams through, nor yet
Descend in rain, and end; but spreads itself
'Twixt heaven and earth, like envy between man
And man, an everlasting mist.-Byron.

2436. MELANCHOLY: not always an evil. THERE is a mood

(I sing not to the vacant and the young),
There is a kindly mood of melancholy,
That wings the soul, and points her to the skies.
Dyer.

2437. MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. BE it a weakness, it deserves some praise,— We love the play-place of our early days:

MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD

The scene is touching, and the heart is stone That feels not at that sight, and feels at home.

I remember, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn:
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember

The roses red and white,
The violets and lily-cups,

Those flowers made of light! The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday,The tree is growing yet!

I remember, I remember

The fir-trees dark and high

I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky:

It was a childish ignorance;

But now 'tis little joy

Cowper.

To know I'm farther off from heaven Than when I was a boy!-Hood.

Oh joy! that in our embers

Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers

What was so fugitive!

The thought of our past years in me doth breed
Perpetual benediction: not, indeed,

For that which is most worthy to be blest

Delight and liberty, the simple creed

Of childhood, whether busy or at rest,

With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast

Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise;

But for those obstinate questionings

Of sense and outward things,

Fallings from us, vanishings,

Blank misgivings of a creature

Moving about in worlds not realized,

High instincts, before which our mortal nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised—

But for those first affections, Those shadowy recollections, Which, be they what they may, Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, Are yet a master light of all our seeing, Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal silence: truths that wake

Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour,
Nor man nor boy,

Nor all that is at enmity with joy,

Can utterly abolish or destroy!

Hence in a season of calm weather,

Though inland far we be,

Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither-

Can in a moment travel thither,
And see the children sport upon the shore,
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore.
Wordsworth.

Here, while I roved-a heedless boy-
Here, while through paths of peace I ran,
My feet were vex'd with puny snares,
My bosom stung with insect-cares:
But, ah! what light and little things

Are childhood's woes !-they break no rest:
Like dew-drops on the skylark's wings
While slumbering in his grassy nest,
Gone in a moment, when he springs

To meet the morn with open breast,
As o'er the eastern hills her banners glow,
And veil'd in mist the valley sleeps below.
James Montgomery.

Ah me! those joyous days are gone!
I little dreamt, till they were flown,
How fleeting were the hours!
For, lest he break the pleasing spell,
Time bears for youth a muffled bell,
And hides his face in flowers.

Ah! well I mind me of the days,
Still bright in memory's flattering rays,
When all was fair and new;
When knaves were only found in books,
And friends were known by friendly looks,
And love was always true!-John G. Saxe.

2438. MEMORY. Bells of

HARK! the faint bells of the sunken city

Peal once more their wonted evening chime!

From the deep abysses floats a ditty,

Wild and wondrous, of the olden time.

Temples, towers, and domes of many stories
There lie buried in an ocean grave-
Undescried, save when their golden glories
Gleam, at sunset, through the lighted wave.
And the mariner who had seen them glisten,

In whose ears those magic bells do sound,
Night by night bides there to watch and listen,

Though death lurks behind each dark rock round.