Christ knows the heights of heav'nly bliss
The depths of earthly woe;
Acquainted well our Jesus is
With all the griefs we know.

Thrice holy Lord! in heav'n they cry,
When Jesu's praise they sing;
On earth they shouted—‘Crucify!’
And mock'd the lowly King.

Alike unmov'd, he bends to wear
Heav'n's praises as his crown;
Unmov'd alike, he stands to bear
On earth his creatures' frown!

Meek as a lamb beneath the knife
Of butchering hands he lay;
And patiently resign'd the life
They could not take away.

I DARED not dream that this dream could come true:
That I was bending over that yellow page
Lit with his words—our boy, our poet, our sage—
And that I touched the parchment, old yet new,
Whereon his fingers once had been. I grew
Strangely afraid, as if some heritage
Of wonder from a distant, holy age
Had suddenly fallen on me, like soft dew.

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever. …” There
I read his lovely line, what time I dipped
Into that hushed and haunted manuscript
That Love and Time have made even lovelier.

I.

How happy was that Age of Old
When Hearts were neither bought, nor sold?
When each unmercenary She
For Love expected nought but Love;
And when the kind protesting He
His Passion by his Faith did prove:
When Friends each other's Words did take,
And Honesty did all their Bargains make!

II.

Then Look for Look, and Kiss for Kiss,
Was all was giv'n her Love, or his ;
Or for Exchange of Hearts was paid,
By the gen'rous youthful Swain,

No hand can move in earth or hell
Against the soul Christ loves,
But as directed by his will,
But as his love approves.

Then let him raise his chast'ning hand,
We bend beneath his rod,
Resign his gifts at his command,
And still adore our God!

Silent be all my anxious sears,
My heart no more repine,
Since Jesus in his bosom wears
The flow'r that once was mine!

I'll love my Lord, and trust his word,
Though he thinks fit to frown;
And bless the hand that holds the sword
Which cuts my comforts down.

They who have loved too well—and been betrayed,
Tried in the fire and utterly dismayed,
Strange, is it not, how they return to Love,
And bare their hearts to his great gleaming blade!

She knew that Love was dying — not so much
When Love's dear eyes were closed and blind to her,
As when, with patient word and tender touch,
Love, day by day, alas! grew kind to her!

OXFORD TUNE.

Saviour of sinners, from thy death
Our spirits draw their heav'nly breath;
Thy dying groans with life abound,
And healing flows from ev'ry wound!

Thy sorrows are a fruitful tree,
Whereon rich blessings grow for me:
Thy spotless life a golden mine,
Where all my brightest treasures shine.

Out of thy fulness we receive
The grace and faith by which we live;
Thy broken body is our food,
The wine we drink is thy rich blood.

Thy righteousness is all our dress,

Rich, Precious Thing! you'll not be mine, it seems,
Because you say, no Wit, but Wealth contemns;
Wherefore, since your Wealth is your Merit, you
Will it on him who loves it most, bestow;
Whilst you the Rich, the Proud, and Covetous,
For your Gallant, True Lover, or your Spouse,
For loving Money more, but less shou'd chuse;
My Rival, the Rich Miser, then refuse,
Since thee he'd ne'r, because a Rich Thing, use;
But you great Fortunes, like your Money too,
Shun Lavish Wits, who wou'd make use of you,
And to the Miser wou'd most freely go;

If Public Spirits, which the Public still
Will serve, altho' against the Public's Will,
Beget, for Public Men, the Public Praise,
Why shou'd they be, all Public Dames Disgrace?
Whilst Men gain (as more Public) much more Fame,
Yet Public Women get more Public Shame,
As more t'oblige all Mankind, is their Aim;
Who shou'd obtain more Kindness, and more Praise,
As Suff'ring, for the Public, more Disgrace;
And why shou'd Men, but for destroying Man
From Mankind, but more Fame, and Honour gain?
Yet you, for your increasing Human-Kind,

BLEST infant of eternity!
Before the day-star learned to move,
In pomp of fire, along his grand career,
Glancing the beamy shafts of light
From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere,
Thou wert alone, oh Love!
Nestling beneath the wings of ancient Night,
Whose horrors seemed to smile in shadowing thee.
No form of beauty soothed thine eye,
As through the dim expanse it wandered wide;
No kindred spirit caught thy sigh,
As o'er the watery waste it lingering died.

Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power,