by morn, rise holy morn,

forth the cheerful day from night: ther! touch the east, and light that shone when Hope was born.'

XXXI.

WHEN Lazarus left his charnel-cave,

And home to Mary's house return'd, Was this demanded-if he yearn'd To hear her weeping by his grave?

'Where wert thou, brother, those four day There lives no record of reply,

Which telling what it is to die

Had surely added praise to praise.

From

every house the neighbours met, The streets were fill'd with joyful sound

A solemn gladness even crown'd The purple brows of Olivet.

Behold a man raised up by Christ!

The rest remaineth unreveal'd;

He told it not; or something seal'd

The lips of that Evangelist.

XXXII.

HER

eyes are homes of silent prayer,
Nor other thought her mind admits

But, he was dead, and there he sits, And he that brought him back is there.

Then one deep love doth supersede

All other, when her ardent gaze
Roves from the living brother's face,

And rests upon the Life indeed.

All subtle thought, all curious fears,

Borne down by gladness so complete,

She bows, she bathes the Saviour's feet

With costly spikenard and with tears.

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure;

What souls possess themselves so pure,

Or is there blessedness like theirs?

XXXIII.

O THOU that after toil and storm

Mayst seem to have reach'd a purer air,
Whose faith has centre everywhere,

Nor cares to fix itself to form,

Leave thou thy sister when she prays,

Her early Heaven, her happy views ;

Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse

A life that leads melodious days.

Her faith thro' form is pure as thine,
Her hands are quicker unto good.

Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood
To which she links a truth divine!

See, thou that countest reason ripe
In holding by the law within,

Thou fail not in a world of sin,

And ev'n for want of such a type.