Oh, what availed thee, Herod, this thy guilt, This load of crime that on thy conscience lies? The Lord alone, whose blood thou wouldst have spilt, Now mocks thy malice and thy power de fies. Yes! he alone survived, when all the ground Drank the red torrents of that carnage wild : Though many a childless mother wailed around, The hand of murder spared the Virgin's child! O Jesu, virgin-born! all praise to thee, And to the Father and the Holy Ghost! One God eternal, ever honored be By saints on earth and by the heavenly host! PRUDENTIUS. Translated by JOHN CHANDler. THE INNOCENTS' DAY. "In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning."— MATT. ii. 18. BETHLEHEM, above all cities blest! 'T is ever thus: who Christ would win, THE VOICE OF RAMA. HEARD ye, from Rama's ruined walls, Is it the moan of fettered slave, Is it the wail of Israel's sons, Ah, no, a sorer ill than chains Oh, who shall tell what fearful pangs Bereaved one! I may not chide Weep on! 't will cool that burning brow, But be not thine such grief as theirs Snatched from the world, its sins and snares, Thy infant rests in heaven. GEORGE WASHINGTON DOANE, D. D. 47 CHRIST BETRAYED. MRS. ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH BOTTA was born in Bennington, Vt., and in 1845 published "Leaves from the Diary of a Recluse," which was followed in 1849 by a volume of poems. In 1855 she became the wife of Prof. Vincenzo Botta, of the University of the City of New York (formerly of Turin, Italy), and in 1860 she published a "Handbook of Universal Literature." EIGHTEEN hundred years agone SIR JOHN BOWRING. Hate and anger and disdain, When he trod the Holy Land If to-day thou turn'st aside, In thy luxury and pride, Wrapped within thyself, and blind To the sorrows of thy kind, Thou a faithless watch dost keep, Thou art one of those who sleep: Or, if waking, thou dost see In our fallen struggling race, Slave of ease, or slave of gold, ANNE C. LYNCH BOTTA. THE PASSION. WITH the soldiers, straitly bound, Bleeding wounds he beareth; And each one, with bended knee, Fresher taunts prepareth. They thy mild and tender flesh, To the column bind thee fast, Cruel stripes are tearing, As the streams that flow therefrom Fully are declaring. After passed he through the street, As the morn grew older, And the heavy, bitter cross Bare he on his shoulder: Him, in open sight of men To the wind and cold they bare, Utmost insults framing; Guiltless, on the cross they lift, With transgressors naming, Him, as midmost of the three, Chief of all proclaiming. On the wood his arms are stretched, In like wise his blessed feet As the hands that had so oft Streams of blood are trickling down And renew thy forces; This the medicine that shall cure Calling on thy Father's name Thy last breath was spended; And thy spirit in his hands Gently was commended; With a loud and mighty cry Then thy head was bended, And the work that brought thee down, Of salvation, ended. But by heart and thought of man That is past conceiving, How the virgin mother's soul Inmostly was grieving, When the soldier's bitter lance Of its passage leaving. That blest form could feel no more, 'T was the mother's anguished soul Wherefore, sinner, haste to these Life thou mayest draw therefrom, Cure thou mayest find for sin, Strength to meet temptation, Refuge mayst thou gain against Satan's condemnation. A hymn of the twelfth century. Translated by JOHN MASON NEALE. THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE. Moves the majestic queen of night, All but the children of distress, Whom sleep, though prayed for, will not bless, These leave the couch of restlessness, To breathe the cool, calm air. For those who shun the glare of day There's a composing power, 'Tis a religious hour; for he, O Holy Father, when the light May hope in Christ grow strong and bright, JOHN PIER PONT. JESUS PASSING OVER KEDRON. THOU Soft flowing Kedron, by thy silver stream Our Saviour at midnight, when Cynthia's pale beam Shone bright on the waters, would oftentimes stray, And lose in thy murmurs the toils of the day! How damp were the vapors that fell on his head! How hard was his pillow! how humble his bed! The angels, astonished, grew sad at the sight, And followed their Master with solemn delight! O garden of Olivet, — dear, honored spot! The fame of thy wonders shall ne'er be forgot! The theme most transporting to seraphs above, The triumph of sorrow, the triumph of love! Come, saints, and adore him, come, bow at his feet; Oh, give him the glory, the praise that is meet! Let joyful hosannas unceasing arise, And join the full chorus that gladdens the skies. MARIA DE FLEURY. GETHSEMANE. MATILDA BARBARA BETHAM-EDWARDS, Cousin of Miss Amelia Blandford Edwards, the novelist, was born at Westerfield, Suffolk, England, in 1836, and has contributed to Punch, Fraser's Magazine, and other periodicals LIKE Him, whilst friends and lovers slept, We knew not how the day had run, Our mothers slumbered in the tomb, Not with us was our true helpmeet, Not with us might the friend abide, We were alone. The world was still, Prone on the ground our limbs were spread, But late there broke a little light Then Christ himself said, standing near, M. BETHAM-EDWARDS. THE CRUCIFIXION. This hymn was composed by Dr Hedge for a confirmation service in his church at Bangor, Me., on Good Friday, 1843. In some collections it has been marked “Anonymous.” 'T WAS the day when God's Anointed Nature's fall, and Eden's loss. |