AT MIDNIGHT.

When the Son of Man shall come in His glory, and all the holy Angels with Him, then shall He sit upon the throne of His glory. and before Him shall be gathered all nations.-MATT. XXV.

"Sensus quis horror percutit?"

WHAT is this horror?

The sky is rended,

Christ sits, and all o'er Angels are hurrying,—all is ended!

The trump hath sounded,—

Death's warrant is past,

The dead, surrounded,
Hasten to judgment: 'tis come at last.

At His own right hand
He hath set His own,

Alas, that dark band,

The Shepherd too well His sheep hath known.

By the Judge's side
They are set on high,

Who did poor abide,

And fled to Him here in His poverty.

The Cross shines to view,

In the opening skies,

To Gentile and Jew,

Dreadful or glad to all gazing eyes.

Trembling and sighing

They see Him they wounded,

There is now no dying,

For them whom His look hath aye confounded.

Before that dread day,

When all is over,

While yet we may,

Lord, to ourselves our sins discover.

To Thee, who shalt come

At the end of days

With our endless doom,

To God, Three and One, be endless praise.

AT THE MATTINS AND VESPERS.

As it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment; so Christ was once offered to bear the sins of many; and unto them that look for Him shall He appear the second time without sin unto salvation.-HEB. ix.

"Nobis Olympo redditus."

THOU, who dost build for us on high
A house beyond the crystal sky,
Lead us to Thee above,

With chords of love.

Thou in whom dwelleth every good,
Thyself shalt be the soul's abode,
Waking from life's brief night
To endless light.

Then shall we see Thee as Thou art,

Thy countenance pure, nor fear to part,
To love Thee and adore

If Thou dost love us, leave us not;
But send down from that pure calm spot,

Pledge of adopting love,

That fostering Dove.

Thou who shalt come our Judge to be,

Jesu, the glory be to Thee,

With God and Spirit pure

Aye to endure !

ON WHITSUN-EVE.

AT MIDNIGHT.

Like as the hart desireth the water-brooks; so longeth my soul after Thee, O God.-PSALM xlii.

"O Christe qui noster poli."

O THOU, gone up, our harbinger,
To Heav'n's dread palaces,
Look on us lying helpless here,

And lift us to the skies.

May holy love the stair supply
To those pure joys divine,
Which, undiscern'd by nature's eye,
In Faith's true mirror shine.

Where God doth His tried children own,

And gives Him to the blest,

He, all in all, their toils doth crown,

And is Himself their rest.