O Calvary! on thy memorable height
Extremes are press'd to their extremity!
Zion and Sinai now in thee unite:

The arms of God, and of his enemy,
On thy embattled top claim victory.
On thy brief round, the characters of things,
And fates of this vast universe, we see

In truth's clear hues, as on the golden rings
Of the famed shield were graved the scenes a poet sings.
Calvary! All language told in one full sound,-
Music from God's own voice, hushing the wail
Of penitence, whose tears deluge the ground,-
The soul's best medicine that cannot fail,-
The bold philosophy which rends the veil
From the fair reasons of His government,

Who hangs upon the cross his judgment-scale,
Teaching that love and right with all are blent ;—
Calvary survives when earth's stupendous base is rent.
Yet such were not the stirring thoughts that rush'd,
Resistless, on the mind of Magdalene ;

Else had her sorrows been sublimed and hush'd
In wonder at the glory of the scene.

Again she weeps, and thinks of what hath been ;-
Again the dolours in her spirit wake;

Her eyes keen glancing through their watery sheen, Like stars reflected in the rnffled lake;

And oft her woes again in livelier accents break.

The sad disciples, trooping and breathless, run,
Urged by surprise, and love, and grief, and hope.
Not fleeting heralds, nor the shades that shun

The dawn, could speed more; till, on Calvary's slope
Arrived, they pierce the tomb, whose awful cope
Is burnish'd with unearthly fires, dispread

By the bright messengers, whose touch could ope

Its massy gate; with looks of grace who said,—

And heavenly mien,-" Why seek the living 'mongst the dead?
"The Lord is risen indeed! Come, see the place
Where, in dark voluntary bondage, lay

His sacred corse; sad monument of grace!
But now he goes,- -for ye have heard him say,—
To Galilee :-To meet him bend your way."
With fearful steps, hastening to Salem's towers,
They muse on what hath past;- —a wild array
Of arms adds terror to their stricken powers,-

To whom fain would they urge, "What of the midnight hours?

"Art thou the ruler of the watch? O tell,
In kindness tell, the wonders ye have seen."
"How shall we paint the things ineffable,-

Deeds which have crush'd our firmest strength, I ween?
We gazed upon the night,-such hath not been
For silent beauty,-when tremendous rolls

Were felt beneath, with lightning fires between ;-
The earthquake shook, as it would rend the poles,—
And sulphurous heat now seem'd to melt our inmost souls.
"Awhile o'er all, in terrible suspense,―

This dreadful prelude past,-thick darkness hung.
Then bright were seen the stars. Angels far hence,
And myriads near, their sweetest chantings sung:
At length the wide air to a trumpet rung,
As if some victor king approach'd;-so high,
So musical the note, no earthly tongue

Could tell its thrills as through the soul they fly;
So soft, and yet so strong, it seem'd to shake the sky.

"And now an angel broke the blue of heaven, Far distant as the eye could reach; but soon Was wafted to this earth ;-all driven

The shadows of the night;-the moon Hangs her dark veil in this unusual noon. Now, lighting at the guarded grave, he fills

The air with sweets, as from the realms of June, Genius of flowers! thy fragrance wide instils, Fresh'ning the wearied vales,-gladd'ning the fervid hills.

66

Bright as the flash of storms his countenance show'd,
Yet temper'd by the mildness of the morn;

His graceful robe was whiter than the shroud,

As if from fleece of heaven it had been shorn ;
With dignity serene he moved, upborne
Above the ground by his own radiant wing;

He touch'd the boundary of the tomb; and, torn
Abrupt, it roll'd away with ponderous wing:-

Death groans,-Apollyon shrieks,-till hell's vex'd regions ring."
So spake the trembling guard, whom subtile gold
Had not yet wooed to falsehood's wiles of shame.

But, wend we to the sepulchre. Behold

The lonely Magdalene,—a deathless name,
If constancy of deepest love be fame.

Come, ye fond worshippers of those who die,

And see corruption, mark this heavenlier flame,—

The sweetest thrill celestial worlds supply ;

Gentle, and pure, and kind,-intense, and strong, and high.

She hears a voice, and turns her from the tomb :

"Woman, why weepest thou?

:

Whom dost thou seek ?"

A look more anxious, and a holier bloom,

Pervade her grief-wash'd eye and burning cheek :"If thou have borne him hence, in pity speak! Tell me where lies my loved and loving Lord;

And I-a woe-struck woman, faint and weak-
Will take him far away, and see restored

To rest in such lone grave as my poor bounds afford."
She said, and look'd again upon the ground,

Where late he lay, and angels linger'd still ;-
The voice recalls her," Mary !"—seraph sound!—
Soft accent of her living Lord!-The rill
That calls the thirsty Arab to his fill,-

The rush of sweets, pour'd from the gladsome names

Of" Husband," "Brother," 'scaped from sanguined ill,And life, to him who dreads the appointed flames,Give less of genuine joy than this kind word proclaims. New rapture dances in her veins; her eyes

Stream tears of joy her murder'd Lord to greet.
"Rabboni!" she responds; and, instant, flies
To grasp and worship at his wounded feet,-
Again she hears that voice,-so grave, so sweet,―
"Cling not with fond and covetous delight;

The time is full of swelling joy ;-'tis meet.
My brethren share some part: Go, end their plight;
I do not yet ascend;-thy love shall have its right."'
He said, and vanish'd with sublime deport;

As some calm cloud on high moves, and is gone,
But not through heaven's wide-ranged and gorgeous court
Might one be found she loved so.-He alone
Still stood full-vision'd in her eye,-pass'd on

Still, as if absence were impossible.

Attendant angels, dazzling, had not won Her high regard;-the lowly Master still

She knew, veil'd in Himself,-all Love, all Power, all Skill.

Her stream of mingling passions-for surprise

Fast bound all thought-roll'd back upon the spring;
Yet soon return'd:-And now despondence flies,
As at the dawn the bird of night takes wing.-
"It is the Lord !-pleasure without a sting

I feel, strange joy !-pour'd from some fount of heaven.-
But why, why first to me, triumphant King ?-
The virgin weeps ;-from me all griefs are driven !
O! much ought I to love,-for I have much forgiven!"

LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.

SHE who in pleasure lives is dead;

A bitter life she lives:

To pensive joy thy heart has fled,
The bliss true wisdom gives.

Then fast by life's pure fount abide,
And fearless take thy fill;
If pleasures tempt, the snare deride,
And live in pleasure still.

Sweet is the filial tenderness,

That prompts thy smiles or tears;
A sweeter flower, perchance, may bless
Thy marriageable years.

Yet sweeter, infinitely far,
Thy love to God on high;
Who lit for thee his every star,

Who stoop'd for thee to die.

Thy mother may forget her child,
Ör lover prove unkind;
For, oft beguiling and beguiled,
The world no faith can find.

But never shalt thou rue the day
When Jesus won thy heart;
Eternity shall pass away

Ere he from truth depart.

Thy hallow'd flame is not of earth,

Has no profane alloy ;

The Saviour's love to thine gives birth,

And confidence, and joy.

His love the winter's rage disarms,

Fresh flowers to summer brings;

And paints, with more than nature's charms,
The scenery of things.

Wouldst thou thy love with him might rest?

Behold his blood, his tears!

And let his witness in thy breast

Chase all thy doubts and fears.

WOMAN.

SEE woman, glorious in her charms,
With gems and gold array'd;
One look of pride their power disarms,
Their brightness turns to shade.
Let woman unadorn'd appear,
True beauty yet may shine
From virtue's blush, or smile, or tear,
And make her all divine.

AN EPITHALAMIUM.

THEE, loved companion of my soul,
Maria, beautiful and kind!
In whose soft breast no passions roll
Ungenial with the purest mind:
Thee, choicest blessing of my store,
I take as from the Hand Divine :
Nor might ambition wish for more,
Since every excellence is thine.
Ye angels, guardians of my night,

Witness the hopes these eyes bespoke,
When, fond, I hail'd the dawning light
Which bade me join the gentle yoke:
Not grateful England's festive day,

When George assumed the sovereign line,
Could to the monarch's heart convey
A joy more exquisite than mine.

Let heroes from the well-fought field
Loud boast the meed of all their toil;

The victory of my love shall yield
A fairer and a better spoil:

Can

any of her sex excel

Maria, Virtue's dearest child,

In whom the charms of goodness dwell,
Commanding, eminent, and mild?

No Hymen o'er those rites shall reign,
Where wedded souls to heaven belong;
Nor darts, nor bands, nor torch, shall stain
The lustre of this hallow'd song;