Whence cometh it, or whither it is bound:

And no man hath ascended into heaven,

But he who thence came down, and bore the wound,

And perished, that the World might be forgiven,
The Son of Man in heaven who dwells for aye!
These, in the awe of that most sacred Even,

Like brothers on one mournful embassy,
Came carrying each his tribute to the Dead,
Linen and spice, devout and lovingly.

-Now from the Rood, with melancholy dread,
The sacred temple of his body they
Remove, from which the God had vanished.

With filial care, solicitude, and yea,
With trembling veneration, from that height
They bore it down, all lifeless as it lay.

Then wept the Virgin at the woful rite,
Her heart was broken as with a fresh blow,
The floods o'erflowed, and overwhelmed her quite.

She looked up in his holy aspect, lo,

As men in shipwreck unto heaven uplook,

And spread abroad her hands, and watched him so;

The while the Magdalen, without rebuke,
Knelt and received the Saviour's wounded feet,
And veiled them with the vest;—the while John took

His master on his bosom, with complete
Affection, bore the burthen of his corse
As it descended in its winding-sheet.

Such her excess of sorrow, and its force,
In sorrow like her's if there may be excess,
And more than madness might beget remorse.

Oh, mother-maid! who may thy loss express?
What mother ever had a son like thine?
Than common mothers, oh, canst thou mourn less?
-Lo, they have now his human limbs supine,
Wrapt in the linen mingled with the balm,
And gazed their last upon the most divine.

How beautiful in death is he! how calm

That cold chaste countenance, that seems to smile Even yet! that frame that flourished like the palm,

In stature and in stateliness, a pile

Of exquisite proportion, symmetry,

And

grace, how lovely! Those bland lips, whence guile

Was alien, yet are parted lovelily,

As eloquence still lingered mutely there;

And still that forehead is of dignity!

The brave are beautiful in death, .. and here
Lies on his field of fame the Victor-Chief-
And here shall also be his sepulchre.

Bright—everlasting-be thy fame; though brief
Thy glorious life, thou Warrior of our Faith,
Hero of Peace, and Champion of Belief!

-There was a garden on that hill of death,
Where, in a rock, was newly hewn a tomb,
Whose concave never man had slept beneath.

There, shrouded and embalmed in tender gloom,
Shall rest the long Desire of every land,
The Hope of nations, and the Lord of doom.

Sadly and slowly, from their fatal stand,
(Their pupil arms the Rabbi's faithful bier,)
Thither they bore him, and with gentle hand,
Composed his perfect limbs, and laid him there,
In most magnificent simplicity-

All silent-save the toning of a tear,

The silver cadence of a veiled sigh.

X.

CELINA.*

HALCYON and hallowed be the haunt, oh Son
Of Man; hallowed and halcyon be the haunt
Of thy repose serene, heroick One!

* "The invention of Epitaphs proceeded from the presage or forefeeling of Immortality, implanted in all men naturally, and is referred to the scholars of Linus, the Theban poet, who flourished about the year of the world two thousand seven hundred; who first bewailed this Linus, their master, when he was slain, in doleful verses, then called of him Elina, afterwards Epitaphia, for that they were first sung at burials, afterwards engraved upon the sepulchres."

Weever's Discourse of Funeral Monuments.

-Above the grotto in the garden, chaunt,
Oh Peace! thy pleasant song—a plaintive lay,
Of tone so fine it silence may not daunt.

A perfect man, he walked in thy pure way,
In Wisdom's pensive paths he took delight,
And his Benevolence was like the day.

-And who art thou who pinest in the blight
Of highest hope, and at the iniquity
Of Fortune, murmurest to the silent night?

Art thou more pious or more just than he?
More skilful to instruct or to acquire?

More beautiful and brave? more fair and free?

Holier of soul, and purer of desire?

Ampler in fancy, reason more complete,

To touch the human chords of the heart's lyre?

-If thou art good and great, most good and great Was he who lieth here within the rock,

A perfect man ;—and art thou perfect yet?

Hence! with thy monstrous vanity.. nor shock
The modesty of death. He, without stain,
Was hated, hunted; made a mark and mock;
Tempted, despised, beset, insulted, slain;
Born to privation, and in suffering bred,
In ignominy lived, and died in pain.

Homeless and fatherless, and ill-bested;
Nests have the birds of air, and foxes holes,
He had not where to lay his weary head.

He had no comeliness to charm men's souls,
In him they saw no beauty to desire,
No grace that wins, no virtue that controls.

Scorned and rejected;..in affliction's fire,
Proved meritorious, greatest, bravest, best;
A man of sorrows, manifold and dire.

He opened not his mouth when most opprest,
From prison and from judgement, like a lamb
Led to the slaughter guiltless, yet distrest.

-What is thy petty sorrow or thy shame ?
Thy merit spurned? thy passion or thy pain?
That thou shouldst wring thy hands, lament, exclaim.

What is thy woe to his?--did he complain?
Dumb as a sheep before her shearers he!
Why murmurest thou? be patient, thou profane!

-Wouldst thou have length of days, that thou mayst be Wiser and better? Older far are some

In mind than most in years :-Go, wed to thee

Wisdom and goodness in thy youth and bloom,
And give the green leaf on the tree to God,
The yellow and the withered to the tomb.

-In his sweet prime and vigour, on the road
Of life he was surprised, and rapt away:
Few were the days the Son of Man abode.

HE DID HIS WORK, he never lost a day;
His life is measured by his glory now,
And that shall never perish nor decay.