ON THE RESURRECTION.

The REV. EDWARD PERRONET (son of the Rev. Vincent Perronet) was an associate of the Wesleys. He was afterwards employed by Lady Huntingdon, and was subsequently pastor of a dissenting congregation. He died at Canterbury in 1792. This is from his " Occasional Verses, Moral and Social, published for the Instruction and Amusement of the candidly Serious and Religious," London, 1785 (216 pages). A copy of this rare volume, published by a friend of Perronet, without his name, with some written remarks of the former owner, John Gaddsby, on the back of the title-page, is preserved in the library of the British Museum, from which the text was copied by the Editor, May 28, 1869. The hymn there bears the above title. It is full of joyous inspiration, and very popular in America, being far superior to the other poems of the same author. It is often falsely ascribed to Duncan or others, and arbitrarily changed or abridged It was first printed in the Gospel Magazine, in 1780, without signature.

ALL hail the power of Jesu's name!
Let angels prostrate fall;
Bring forth the royal diadem,
To crown him Lord of all!

Let high-born seraphs tune the lyre,
And, as they tune it, fall
Before his face, who tunes their choir,
And crown him Lord of all!

Crown him, ye morning-stars of light,
Who fixed this floating ball;
Now hail the strength of Israel's might,
And crown him Lord of all!

WHO DEEMS THE SAVIOUR DEAD?

FRANCIS DE HAES JANVIER was born in Philadelphia in 1817, and now lives there. He is the author of the **Sleeping Sentinel," published in 1863, and has issued other volumes (1861 and 1866).

WHO deems the Saviour dead?

And yet he bowed his head,

And while in sudden night the sun retired,
And, through thick darkness hurled,
Reeled on the shuddering world,

The mighty Son of God in blood expired.

Expired; but, in the gloom.

And silence of the tomb,

Death's mystery unveiled to mortal sight:
Triumphant o'er his foes,

A Conqueror he rose,

And from the grave commanded life and light!

And shall we count those dead

For whom the Saviour bled,

And died and rose, and lives forevermore?
And were the grief and loss,

The shame and scourge and cross,
Endured in vain by him whom we adore?

And shall his children fear

When that dread hour draws near
Which gives them immortality with God?
Should not our souls rejoice

To hear our Father's voice,

And gladly take the path the Saviour trod?

Through death's deep shadow lies
Our journey to the skies,

And all beyond is light and life and love:

The dead whom we deplore
Have only passed before,

And wait to greet us in the world above.

Then let the summons come
Which calls our spirits home.

From sin and pain and sorrow ever free.
Where weary ones may rest
Upon that Saviour's breast

Whose death revealed our immortality.

FRANCIS DE HAES JANVIER.

TRIUMPH IN CHRIST.

Οὐ γὰρ βλεπεις τοὺς ταράττοντας.
CHRISTIAN! dost thou see them
On the holy ground,
How the troops of Midian

Prowl and prowl around?
Christian! up and smite them,
Counting gain but loss:
Smite them by the merit
Of the Holy Cross !

Christian! dost thou feel them,

How they work within, Striving, tempting, luring, Goading into sin? Christian! never tremble!

Never be down-cast! Smite them by the virtue Of the Lenten Fast!

Christian! dost thou hear them,
How they speak thee fair?
Always fast and vigil?
Always watch and prayer?
Christian! say but boldly:

"While I breathe I pray: Peace shall follow battle,

Night shall end in day.”

"Well I know thy trouble, O my servant true; Thou art very weary,

I was weary too;

But that toil shall make thee,
Some day, all mine own:
But the end of sorrow
Shall be near my throne."

ANDREW of Crete. Translated by JOHN MASON NEALE, 1866.

THE ASCENSION.

BRIGHT portals of the sky,
Embossed with sparkling stars;
Doors of eternity,

With diamantine bars,
Your arras rich uphold:

Loose all your bolts and springs,
Ope wide your leaves of gold,

That in your roofs may come the King of kings.

Scarfed in a rosy cloud,
He doth ascend the air,

Straight doth the moon him shroud
With her resplendent hair;

The next encrystalled light
Submits to him its beams,
And he doth trace the height

Of that fair lamp which flames of beauty

streams.

He towers those golden bounds
He did to sun bequeath;
The higher wandering rounds
Are found his feet beneath:
The milky-way comes near,
Heaven's axle seems to bend

Above each turning sphere,

That, robed in glory, heaven's King may ascend.

O Wellspring of this all!

Thy Father's image vive!

Word, that from nought did call
What is, doth reason live!
The soul's eternal food,
Earth's joy, delight of heaven,
All truth, love, beauty, good,

To thee, to thee, be praises ever given.

What was dismarshalled late,
To this thy noble frame,
And last the prime estate
Hath re-obtained the same,
Is now more perfect seen;
Streams which diverted were

And troubled, stayed unclean

From their first source by thee home-turned

are.

By thee that blemish old,
Of Eden's leprous prince,
Which on his race took hold,
And him exile from thence,
Now put away is far;
With sword in ireful guise,
No cherub more shall bar

Poor man the entrance into paradise.

Now each ethereal gate
To him hath opened been :
And glory's King in state
His palace enters in:

Now come is this high-priest

To the most holy place,

Not without blood addressed,

With glory heaven, the earth to crown with grace.

Stars which all eyes were late,
And did with wonder burn
His name to celebrate,

In flaming tongues their turn;
Their orby crystals move

More active than before,
And entheate from above,

Their sovereign Prince laud, glorify, adore.

The choirs of happy souls
Waked with that music sweet,
Whose descant care controls,
Their Lord in triumph meet:
The spotless spirits of light
His trophies do extol,

And arched in squadrons bright,
Greet their great Victor in his capitol.

O glory of the heaven!

O sole delight of earth,
To thee all power be given,
God's uncreated birth:
Of mankind lover true,
Endurer of his wrong,

Who dost the world renew,

Still be thou our salvation and our song.

From top of Olivet such notes did rise
When man's Redeemer did ascend the skies.
WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

CHRIST'S TRIUMPH AFTER DEATH.

GILES FLETCHER was a clergyman, a brother of Phineas Fletcher the poet, and cousin of John Fletcher the dramatist. He was born in 1588, and died in 1623. The following is extracted from "Christ's Victory and Triumph." Dr. J. M. Neale in his Hymns, chiefly Mediaval, on the Joys and Glories of Paradise" (1866), gives a selection of stanzas from this "Part" of Fletcher's poem, and pronounces them "perhaps the most beautiful original verses, in a strictly religious poem, which the English language possesses. He adds further, "The reader to whom this poem is new, will, I think, allow that nothing more exquisite was ever written" than the sixth, fourteenth, sixteenth, nineteenth, twenty-first, and twenty-second stanzas, as here printed.

"Toss up your heads, ye everlasting gates,
And let the Prince of glory enter in !"
At whose brave volley of sidereal states
The sun to blush and stars grow pale were

seen,

When leaping first from earth he did begin
To climb his angel wings: then open hang
Your crystal doors! so all the chorus sang
Of heavenly birds, as to the stars they nimbly
sprang.

Hark! how the floods clap their applauding

hands.

The pleasant valleys singing for delight;
The wanton mountains dance about the lands,
The while the fields, struck with the heavenly

light,

Set all their flowers a smiling at the sight; The trees laugh with their blossoms, and the sound

Of the triumphant shout of praise, that crowned

The flaming lamb, breaking through heaven hath passage found.

Out leap the antique patriarchs, all in haste, To see the powers of hell in triumph lead, And with small stars a garland intercha`st, Of olive-leaves they bore, to crown his head, That was before with thorns degloried: After them flew the prophets, brightly stoled

In shining lawn, and wimpled manifold, Striking their ivory harps, strung all in chords of gold.

To which the saints victorious carols sung, Ten thousand saints at once; that with the sound

The hollow vaults of heaven for triumph rung: The cherubims their clamors did confound With all the rest, and clapped their wings around:

Down from their thrones the dominations flow,

And at his feet their crowns and sceptres throw,

And all the princely souls fell on their faces low.

And unto these the seas are faithless known,
And unto her, alas, her own is not her own.
Here only shut we Janus' iron gates,
And call the welcome muses to our springs,
And are but pilgrims from our heavenly states
The while the trusty earth sure plenty brings,
And ships through Neptune safely spread
their wings.

Go, blessed island, wander where thou please,
Unto thy God, or men, heaven, lands or seas;
Thou canst not lose thy way, thy king with all
hath peace.

Dear prince! thy subjects' joy, hope of their heirs,

Picture of peace, or breathing image rather; The certain argument of all our prayers,

behind,

But out they rush among the heavenly crowd, Seeking their heaven out of their heaven to

find,

Sounding their silver trumpets out so loud, That the shrill noise broke through the starry cloud,

And all the virgin souls, in pure array,
Came dancing forth, and making joyous play:
So him they lead along into the courts of day.

So him they lead into the courts of day,
Where never war nor wounds abide him more;
But in that house eternal peace doth play,
Acquieting the souls that knew before
Their way to heaven through their own blood
did score,

But now, estranged from all misery,
As far as heaven and earth discoasted lie,
Swelter in quiet waves of immortality!

And if great things by smaller may be guest
So, in the midst of Neptune's angry tide
Our Britain Island, like the weedy nest
Of true halcyon, on the waves doth ride,
And softly sailing scorns the water's pride:
While all the rest, drowned on the continent
And tossed in bloody waves, their wounds
lament,

And stand, to see our peace, as struck with wonderment.

The ship of France religious waves do toss, And Greece itself is now grown barbarous ; Spain's children hardly dare the ocean cross, And Belge's field lies waste and ruinous, That unto those the heavens are envious, And unto them themselves are strangers

grown,

Let peace in endless joys forever bathe her Within thy sacred breast, that at thy birth Brought'st her with thee from heaven, to dwell on earth,

Making our earth a heaven, and paradise of mirth.

Let not my liege misdeem these humble lays
As licked with soft and supple blandishment,
Or spoken to disparagon his praise;
For though pale Cynthia near her brother's

tent

Soon disappears in the white firmament, And gives him back the beams before were his;

Yet when he verges, or is hardly ris,

She the live image of her absent brother is.

Nor let the Prince of peace his beadsman blame,

That with his steward dares his Lord compare,
And heavenly peace with earthly quiet shame:
So pines to lowly plants compared are,
And lightning Phoebus to a little star :
And well I wot, my rhyme, albeit unsmooth,
Ne'er says but what it means, ne'er means

but sooth,

Ne'er harms the good, ne'er good to harmful person doth.

Gaze but upon the house where man embowers; With flowers and rushes paved is his way, Where all the creatures are his servitors; The winds do sweep his chambers every day; And clouds do wash his rooms; the ceiling

gay,

Starred aloft, the gilded knobs embrace:
If such a house God to another gave,
How shine those glittering courts he for him-
self will have?