I.

And did the holy and the just,
The Sovereign of the skies,
Stoop down to wretchedness and dust,
That guilty worms might rise?

II.

Yes, the Redeemer left his throne,
His radiant throne on high,
(Surprizing mercy! love unknown!)
To suffer, bleed and die.

III.

He took the dying traitor's place,
And suffer'd in his stead;
For man, (O miracle of grace!)
For man the Saviour bled!

IV.

Dear Lord, what heavenly wonders dwell
In thy atoning blood?
By this are sinners snatch'd from hell,

The cottage is here, as of old I remember;
The pathway is worn, as it ever hath been:
On the turf-piled hearth there still lives a bright ember;
But,—where is Maureen?

The same pleasant prospect still shineth before me,—
The river—the mountain—the valley of green,
And Heaven itself (a bright blessing!) is o'er me!
But,—where is Maureen?

Lost! Lost!—Like a dream that hath come and departed,
(Ah, why are the loved and lost ever seen?)
She hath fallen,—hath flown, with a lover false-hearted;
So, mourn for Maureen!

Kill the love that winds around thee,
With its snake-like death-like twine!
Where's the guardian faith that bound thee?
Where are all thy gifts divine?
Where is wisdom? Where is wine?
Where's the sad dark truth of story?
Where the Muse's mighty line?
Where the fame that burned before thee?

What is love, but life deformed
From its grand original aim?
Hero into slave transformed?
Worlds lost at a single game?
Whose the peril — whose the shame,
Should'st thou die in Love's fond slavery?
Rise! Earth's nought without its fame!

What song doth the cricket sing?
What news doth the swallow bring?
What doth laughing boyhood tell?
What calls out the marriage bell?
What say all? — Love and Mirth!
In the air, and in the earth.
Very, very soft and merry
Is the natural song of Earth.

Mark the Morn, when first she springs
Upwards on her golden wings;
Hark, to the soaring soaring lark!
And the echoing forests, — hark!
What say they? — Love and Mirth, &c.

With the leaves the apples wrestle;
In the grass the daisies nestle;

I.

A H ! wretched, vile, ungrateful heart,
That can from Jesus thus depart,
Thus fond of trifles vainly rove,
Forgetful of a Saviour's love!

II.

In vain I charge my thoughts to stay,
And chide each vanity away,
In vain, alas! resolve to bind
This rebel heart, this wandering mind.

III.

Through all resolves, how soon it flies
And mocks the weak, the slender ties!
There's nought beneath a power divine,
That can this roving heart confine.

IV.

Jesus, to thee, I would return,

Time will light a candle at your head,
Time will fold your hands across your breast.
Is it enough, the high and candled bed,
Enough that weary hands are caught in rest?

If it be not enough,
Shadowly lift upon your elbow, rise;
Fling out your arms, demanding for them love;
Demanding wrested beauty, lift your eyes.
Listen into the silences for sound
That made a music of your mind, and for
Your feet demand the sweet warmth of the ground,
For your too quiet hair, the wind once more.

And if it be enough,

Life hath its memories lovely,
That over the heart are blown,
As over the face of the Autumn
The light of the summer flown;
Rising out of the mist so chilling,
That oft life's sky enshrouds,
Like a new moon sweetly filling
Among the twilight clouds.

And among them comes, how often,
Young love's unresting wraith,
To lift lost hope out of ruins
To the gladness of perfect faith;
Drifting out of the past as lightly
As winds of the May-time flow:
And lifting the shadows brightly,
As the daffodil lifts the snow.

Tell me not that thou dost love me,
Though it thrill me with delight:
Thou art, like the stars, above me;
I — the lowly earth, at night.

Hast thou ( thou from kings descended)
Loved the Indian cottage-born;
And shall she, whom Love befriended,
Darken all thy hopeful morn?

Go, — and, for thy father's glory,
Wed the blood that's pure and free:
'Tis enough to gild my story

What thought is folded in thy leaves!
What tender thought, what speechless pain!
I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Thou darling of the April rain.

I hold thy faded lips to mine,
Though scent and azure tint are fled;
O! dry, mute lips, ye are the type
Of something in me cold and dead:

Of something wilted like thy leaves,
Of fragrance flown, of beauty dim;
Yet, for the love of those white hands
That found thee by a river's brim.

That found thee when thy sunny mouth
Was purpled, as with drinking wine:

Laugh not, nor weep; but let thine eyes
Grow soft and dim, (so love should be);
And be thy breathing tender, quick,
And tremulous, whilst I gaze on thee.

And let thy words be few or none;
But murmurs, such as soothe the air
In summer when the day is done,
Be heard, sweet heart, when I am there.

And I — oh! I, in those soft times
When all around is still and sweet,
Will love thee more a thousand times
Than if the world was at thy feet!